#and the two footnotes THAT spawned

[aqueerkettleofish]

I get that part of being a Doctor Who fan means embracing the complete disastercanon of it all. But this latest two-parter manages to trip over canon repeatedly.

Look, we can explain multiple existing references to the children of Time Lords as "they were born before the race went sterile all at once". We can even discard the novels and audio productions*, because, for the mercy of Kali, THIRTY ONE SEASONS OF TELEVISION IS ENOUGH CANON FOR ANYONE. But none of this explains why the Doctor-- who is NOT A GALLIFREYAN-- cannot have children. And sure, maybe The Rani doesn't know this, but The Doctor does. He specifically mentions that he's a foundling in this episode.

Also, given that The Rani is back**, and The Master does not need a logical reason to still be around***, and the FIRST Time Lord is in some underverse hell, The Doctor really needs to stop referring to themself as the Last of the Time Lords. And while we're on the subject, why are they still calling themself a Time Lord at all? It's never really clear whether "Time Lord" refers to all Gallifreyans, or just specific members of the race-- the implications are heavily on the former. But either way, they're not a Time Lord-- either they're not a member of the species, or they're the equivalent of a Bishop leaving the church, sometimes going to war against the church, but still calling themselves a Bishop.

*excepting certain aspects of the Eighth***** Doctor's otherwise side-canonical adventures that he references in The Night of the Doctor.

**Maybe? It's unclear how bigeneration works. My understanding was that Fourteen**** split off Fifteen**** and that eventually he will die and regenerate into Fifteen-- that basically he will be taking the rest of that regenerate to process his trauma so that Fifteen can get on with saving the unverse. If this is the case, then Mrs.Flood!Rani just watched her future self get et. ***The TV movie establishes that the Master used up his thirteenth regeneration, and only continued survival by possessing Eric Roberts. We've seen FOUR additional regenerations since. One of them was vaporized by a Cyberman's blast, reappeared, and died killing off an earlier incarnation before we met him originally. **** (Look, we're talking about Whoniverse canon, the footnotes are gonna have footnotes) Except they aren't actually Fourteen and Fifteen. We slipped in the War Doctor between eight and nine, which makes ten actually eleven... AND twelve, because he regenerated into himself. AND sixteen, who we're calling fourteen and... ***** OH WAIT. Eight wasn't even Eight because we've established that there were multiple Doctors before "One." To be fair, that actually was established fifty years ago, and then ignored.

[studioeisa]

we both 🐚 joshua x reader.

you're stuck in a car with a beautiful boy, your glorious history, and eight hours of road. what else is there to do but talk about the deepest of truths?

🐚 pairing. exes!joshua x reader. 🐚 word count. 12.9k. 🐚 genres. romance, friendship, light angst. 🐚 includes. mentions of food, death; cussing/swearing. alternate universe: non-idol; joshua is a marine biologist. bad-at-being-exes/exes to ???, breakup dynamics, road trip shenanigans, dialogue heavy. loosely based on a musical (title lifted from there, too), synopsis references richard siken's you are jeff. one scene parallels tlfy's goodbye until tomorrow / i could never rescue you. 🐚 footnotes. when i joined caratblr, @chugging-antiseptic-dye was the very first friend i made. i would not have it any other way. a: i will adore you for as long as there are waves pulling to the shore. shubho jonmodin ‹𝟹 much gratitude to my beta readers: @heartepub for her eye, @chanranghaeys for her wit, and @lovetaroandtaemin for her kindness. my masterlist 🎵 when i am with you (i am real)

You find him in his element—knee-deep in saltwater, sleeves rolled up, clipboard tucked precariously under one arm as he gestures toward a tank brimming with juvenile stingrays. 

You wait behind the glass where the public is meant to stay. Leaning against the railing, you watch him without meaning to. It used to be that this was your favorite version of him: ocean-brained and utterly focused, calm in a way most people aren’t allowed to be in their everyday lives. It still is, you suppose, though now there’s a knot of something bittersweet twisted through the feeling.

It’s been five months since the breakup.

Two months since you moved most of your things out of the apartment. And four days since you both agreed that, yes, you still needed to drive down the coast and meet with the landlady to finalize the lease termination in person. 

She doesn’t do email. She barely does phones. You’d considered cancelling, asking a friend to go in your place, but the truth is: the car is his, the rent is in both your names, and the landlady likes you best.

So here you are.

Joshua’s hair is darker than you remember, still damp from a rinse or maybe the ocean itself, curling slightly where it clings to his neck. His voice carries over the burble of pumps and the low hum of fluorescent lights. 

He’s explaining something to a group of interns. Something about migration patterns and how the moon affects spawning cycles. You can’t hear the details, but you recognize the rhythm of his teaching voice, the way he softens facts with metaphors, how his hands move like punctuation marks.

When Joshua finally steps out from behind the staff door, he looks surprised to see you already waiting. He does that thing. That thing, with his eyes and brows—an upward arch, a spark of recognition beneath the doe-like brown. 

“Hey,” he says, wiping his hands on his khaki pants. He doesn't hug you, doesn't reach out, but his smile is familiar. A little tired. A little sad. “You came early.”

You shrug. “Was in the area. Figured I'd save you a text.”

He nods, like that makes sense, like there’s no undercurrent tugging beneath the ease of it. Like this isn’t the first time you're seeing each other outside of grocery store collisions or terse text threads about forwarding addresses.

“Car’s in the back lot,” he says. “I just need to clean up. Shouldn’t take more than a minute.” 

You follow him down a hallway that smells like seawater and bleach. He walks ahead, and you let your eyes fall to the way his shoulders move, broad and careful. You still know the shape of them beneath your palms. You wonder if he still sleeps on the right side of the bed, if he still keeps his entire body under the covers because he’s scared something will pull at his feet while he’s asleep. 

It’s going to be a long drive.

You both know it. Neither of you says a word about it.

Joshua’s office is tucked just off the wet lab, behind a sliding glass door smudged with fingerprints and the unmistakable trail of saltwater. You slip inside while he ducks into the locker room to change, the lingering scent of ocean and coffee grounds curling in the air. 

It’s a cluttered little box of a room—papers stacked like tiny towers, annotated marine maps tacked to the walls, a few photos of past dives and coral surveys pinned up like trophies. There’s even a Polaroid of the two of you on the shelf beside his monitor, buried halfway behind a half-drunk bottle of electrolyte water.

You don’t move it. But you don’t look away either.

“Hey, stranger.”

You blink, turning toward the voice. Seokmin’s already grinning at you, his damp curls flattened beneath a backward cap, a towel slung around his neck. Behind him, Jeonghan lounges in the doorway with all the idle elegance of someone who’s been doing absolutely nothing for the past hour.

“Hi, Seokmin,” you say, mustering a polite smile. “Jeonghan.”

Seokmin bounds in with too much energy for someone who’s allegedly been tagging sea turtles since 4 a.m. “Wow, it’s been a while. You look great. Seriously. Like, breakup glow-up levels of great.”

You blink, startled. “Thanks?”

Jeonghan’s mouth twitches like he’s holding back a laugh. He doesn’t say anything right away—just folds his arms across his chest and tilts his head, like he’s studying you. You don’t like it. That look. Like he knows something you don’t. Like maybe he knows everything.

You’d been friends with them once, although it was probably more out of association than anything. They were Joshua’s co-workers. You were the girl he brought to company events; the wallpaper of his phone once you got past the lockscreen of Dolphy the dolphin leaping into the air. 

When you and Joshua broke up, you figured you might never see the duo again. Until now, that is. 

“Are you two really going to drive all the way to the coast together?” Jeonghan asks, voice light. “Sounds... cozy.”

“We’re saving gas,” you say. Too quickly. “And rent affairs don’t settle themselves.”

Seokmin nods far too earnestly, eyes wide with some strange sympathy. “Right, totally. Very environmentally conscious. That’s great,” he babbles. “And practical. And—wow, honestly, I just think it’s so mature of you both.”

You glance at Jeonghan, but he’s looking at you like he can read between every word. Your mouth goes dry.

“It’s not like we’re sharing a hotel room or anything,” you add, heat prickling your neck.

“Of course,” Jeonghan says, a little too smoothly. “Of course not.”

You open your mouth to say something—what exactly, you’re not sure—but the locker room door swings open, and Joshua steps out, shrugging a hoodie over his shoulders. His hair is still damp from the shower, and he’s wearing that faded t-shirt you used to sleep in on cold nights. It’s the smallest detail, and it punches the air from your lungs.

“Guys,” he calls, eyes flicking to his friends, then to you. “Are you hounding her already?”

“Never,” Seokmin says, scandalized.

“We were just saying she looks great,” Jeonghan adds innocently. “Glowing, really.”

Joshua rolls his eyes and crosses the room, not bothering to hide the way his hand brushes the small of your back as he stops beside you. It’s not quite possessive, not quite apologetic. It’s almost like a habit, even, and that somehow makes it infinitely worse. 

“You ready?” he asks.

You nod, stepping away from Seokmin’s saccharine smile and Jeonghan’s knowing smirk. “Ready.”

Joshua gives his workmates one last look. “Try not to make it weird next time.”

“No promises,” Jeonghan calls.

You don’t look back. You can still feel their stares long after the office door swings shut behind you.

The walk to the parking lot isn’t awkward, not really, but it sits heavy on your shoulders like a coat you forgot you were wearing. Joshua doesn’t fill the silence with small talk the way he used to. You’re grateful and uneasy about that in equal measure.

When you reach the car, it’s like stepping into a memory. The same beat-up Hyundai with the faded blue paint and the bumper sticker that says, Protect Our Oceans— slightly peeling at the edges now, with the art faded. The salt air and the sun hasn’t been kind to it, but it runs fine. Always has. You remember that stupid sticker because you bought it at an aquarium gift shop on a whim, and Joshua had kissed you breathless when you slapped it onto his car without asking.

He unlocks the doors and, like always, walks around to open the passenger side for you.

You blink at him. “Still doing that, huh?”

Joshua glances up at you, a wry little smile playing on his lips. “Muscle memory.”

“Chivalry,” you correct, sliding into the seat. “Or remorse. One of those.”

He huffs a soft laugh and closes the door behind you.

Inside, the car smells the same—like lemon air freshener and something slightly sulfury. His dashboard is still cluttered with receipts and paper coffee cups. There’s a pair of sunglasses perched haphazardly on the dash. One of the little rubber sea creature figurines you used to collect is still wedged in the air vent.

You reach out and flick the tiny plastic octopus. “Wow. Can’t believe you still have this. I figured you’d Marie Kondo everything I left behind.”

Joshua settles into the driver’s seat, buckling in. “It didn’t spark rage, so I kept it.”

You snort. “I think you’re misusing the philosophy.”

The GPS clicks on, a familiar robotic voice announcing the route. Estimated time to destination: eight hours and seventeen minutes.

You glance at Joshua. “Still time to turn back. We can Venmo the landlady and call it a day.”

He shakes his head, pulling out of the lot. “You know she refuses to use the app,” he grumbles. “Thinks it’s a government tracking device.”

You lean back in your seat and sigh. “Perfect. Just what this trip needed: more analog bureaucracy.”

Joshua laughs again, softer this time. You both stare straight ahead, the road stretching long and wide before you. Somewhere in that space, the heaviness begins to lift.

You think the first hour will be easy.

Of course you do. You’ve done long drives before, with less than eight hours of fuel between you. And besides, this is Joshua. 

You’ve survived all sorts of terrain together—coastal roads with the windows down, long drives through the mountains while his hand rested on your thigh, that one disastrous trip to Jeju where it rained so hard he missed a turn and the GPS rerouted you onto a cliffside road you’re still convinced was cursed. That one ended in tears. And a kiss. And a long night spent in a guesthouse where the power went out twice.

But this is different.

Now, you’re in the passenger seat of the same car, the leather warmed by the late morning sun, and Joshua isn’t even humming. You keep your eyes on the road or your phone or the shifting landscape outside the window. Anywhere but on him.

He drives the way he always does—left hand on the wheel, right hand fiddling with the AUX cable when the Bluetooth fails (as it often does). You’d always liked that about him. That he never filled silence just for the sake of it, that he gave it space to stretch out, to become something sacred. 

Now, it just feels like distance.

“You okay?” he asks in an even voice.

You glance at him. The highway curves, and so does his mouth, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Yeah,” you lie. “You?”

He nods, then looks like he regrets it. “Yeah,” he echoes, but you know he’s lying, too. His nose scrunches up for a half-second. It only ever does that when he’s faking.

Another few minutes pass. The GPS chimes a reminder about your next turn in 112 kilometers. You both pretend like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.

You used to talk about everything in the car. Plans, dreams, where you’d want to settle down when Joshua got a more permanent assignment. You’d nap on the longer drives, and he’d let you sleep, stealing glances when he thought you wouldn’t catch him. 

Sometimes, he’d narrate the scenery just to hear you groan about how sentimental he was. There’d be music, sometimes arguments over the playlist. But even the fights were better than this new, tentative silence that makes your lungs feel tight.

You wish the GPS had a button for: Take me back to when it was easy.

“Want some music?” you ask finally, reaching for the console.

“Sure,��� he says, and that’s all.

You put on a playlist and settle back, biting the inside of your cheek when the first few notes of a familiar song play. One he used to sing absentmindedly while driving. One that used to make you smile.

He doesn’t sing now.

The song ends. 

The road stretches on.

Joshua doesn’t say much for the next half hour, and neither do you.

You try not to count how many times you look towards him. You lose count anyway. The GPS announces that there are six hours and thirty-nine minutes left in the trip. That’s plenty of time, you think, for things to get worse.

When Joshua speaks again, it’s so civil that you contemplate getting off at the next stop and walking the rest of the way instead. “There’s a diner up ahead. You wanna stop for lunch?”

You know the place—he’s taken you there before. Vinyl booths, terrible coffee, and pancakes that somehow taste like grilled cheese. It had always been charming in a very Joshua kind of way.

But a sit-down meal feels intimate. Too intimate. Like pretending nothing ever ended. You don’t have the energy to put on a show, to act like a couple, or friends, or strangers who were forced to be there together for the sake of a meal. 

“Can we just get takeout?” you ask. “Eat in the car?”

Joshua glances at you, brows lifting. “You don’t wanna sit down? Stretch your legs?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not. Your neck does that thing when you’re annoyed.”

“It’s not annoyance. I just don’t think lunch should feel like a date.”

That lands a little too sharply. Joshua blinks at the road ahead, exhales slowly through his nose. “Wasn’t trying to make it one,” he murmurs, the edge of his petulance in his voice reminding you of days where you might’ve willed his upset away with a kiss to the tip of his nose.

Silence stretches between you, taut and cold. You rub your hands together in your lap.

“I just think,” you say more carefully, “eating in your car is a good compromise. Halfway point.”

Joshua doesn’t respond at first, but then his lips twitch. “Halfway point. Like everything else with us.”

You laugh despite yourself. “You make it sound poetic.”

“It kind of is.”

The tension eases just a little. Enough that when he pulls into the diner lot, you go in together, order your usuals with barely a glance at the menu. When the cashier asks if it’s for here or to-go, Joshua looks at you before answering.

“To-go, please,” he says, smiling faintly.

Back in the car, you pass him the paper bag and slide the drinks into the cupholders like you’ve done it a hundred times before. Maybe you have. He gives you your fries without asking, and you split the last onion ring exactly like you used to—right down the middle, no more, no less.

“We’re ridiculous,” you say through a mouthful of burger.

Joshua leans back in his seat, chewing. “Speak for yourself. I’m extremely dignified.”

“Right,” you say with an eye roll. “That’s why you ordered a chocolate milkshake with extra whipped cream.”

He lifts it like a trophy. “You’re just jealous.”

“Of diabetes?”

Joshua laughs, full and bright, and for a second, you forget that you’re not supposed to still be in love with him.

For a second, it feels like that chapter never ended.

Joshua wipes the last of his fries against the inside of his sauce carton before tossing it back into the paper bag, eyeing your half-eaten sandwich like he’s tempted to finish that, too. You don’t point it out. He’s always been the type to clean plates, especially yours, when you left food untouched for too long.

The silence feels less sharp than the last one, but not yet comfortable. It’s the kind that sits in the middle seat like an awkward chaperone.

He slurps down the rest of his milkshake, the straw giving an annoying little gurgle. Then, just as you’re debating how soon you can ask to queue up a podcast without it sounding like a lifeline, he speaks.

“We can’t spend the rest of the trip like this.”

You blink. “Like what?”

Joshua lifts his gaze to meet yours, pointed and unflinching. “Like we’re walking on eggshells. Like we didn’t share an apartment, a bed, a life for two years.”

He’s right, of course, but who were you if you weren’t arguing for the sake of it? “I’ve told you everything that’s happened to me since the breakup,” you shoot back. “If you want the weather report from last Tuesday, I can give that too.”

“I don’t want the weather report.” He levels you with a stare, then softens. “I want more than just a status update.”

You open your mouth, but before you can speak, he leans back with a little sigh and an even smaller smile. “Do you remember our first date?”

You do. 

Too well, in fact.

An indie cafe with too many hanging plants and not enough tables. You’d sat across from each other with your knees knocking and your drinks forgotten. He’d suggested the list, half-sincere, half as a joke. You had humored him because his eyes crinkled so sweetly when he grinned, and you liked how he said your name like a song he already knew the melody to.

“Pull it up,” he says now. “Let’s revisit it.”

Your mouth curls into a grimace. "Joshua—"

“Pull it up,” he repeats, firmer. He’s already gathering up your trash along with his, crumpling napkins and squashing cartons, as if taking away your excuses along with the waste.

“This is stupid,” you huff, not bothering to hide your exasperation. 

“Probably,” he shrugs, stepping out of the car. “But so are we.”

As the door shuts and he heads toward the garbage bin, you pick up your phone with reluctant fingers. It takes only a few taps to find it again. A New York Times article, a psychologist’s experiment, a curated path to intimacy in less than 40 questions.

The title glares up at you, both a threat and a promise. 

The 36 Questions to Fall in Love.

Joshua merges back onto the highway, one hand steady on the wheel, the other fiddling with the A/C knob until the air turns from too cold to just bearable. You hold your phone in your lap, glaring at the list he told you to pull up.

“You’re impossible,” you say flatly.

“Come on,” he grins, eyes now on the road. “It’s been four years. Think of it as a science experiment. Research question: Have we changed? Independent variables: us, circa year one.”

You exhale slowly, scrolling down to the first question. “Fine. But if I cry, I’m blaming you.”

“Looking forward to it.” 

You read: “Given the choice of anyone in the world, whom would you want as a dinner guest?”

He hums. “Still Adam Levine.”

“You said that last time.”

“Yeah, and I still want him to serenade me over dumplings. What about you?”

You pause. “I said Robin Williams.”

“You did.” He glances at you briefly. “You still would?”

Your voice softens. “Yeah. More than ever.”

Joshua nods, not saying more. The next question: “Would you like to be famous? In what way?”

“God, no,” he answers. “The idea of people knowing my grocery list terrifies me.”

“You said that exact sentence before.”

“Then I’m nothing if not consistent.”

You consider. “I think... maybe a little. Not movie-star famous, but like, niche-famous. Someone kids cite in their thesis papers.”

“I always said you’d be a terrifying cult classic.”

“And you’d be the first of my followers.” 

He just laughs.

You ask the next question. “Before making a telephone call, do you ever rehearse what you are going to say? Why?”

Glancing over at Joshua, you sound almost accusatory. “You said no.”

“Still true.”

“Still sociopathic,” you mutter. “I rehearse everything. Even pizza orders.”

“You did. And you still turn red when they ask if you want extra cheese.”

You try to glare, but he looks too pleased with himself. That’d been his role, way back when. Designated orderer, designated caller, designated voice at the counter saying We asked for no pickles. ‘We’, because he never threw you under the bus when it mattered—every time else was fair game.  

You read on. “What would constitute a 'perfect' day for you?”

Joshua’s voice mellows out. “That one I might change. Used to be pools, no tourists, good weather. Now... I think it’s waking up late, coffee with someone I like, doing nothing important.”

You stare out the window. “You said hiking and tide pools,” you recall, tone just a little too wistful. 

“Yeah. That was when I thought I had something to prove.”

“Mine’s the same. French toast. Blankets. A book.”

His smile is small. “Still easy to please.”

You persevere. “When did you last sing to yourself? To someone else?”

“I sang to the clownfish this morning. They’re judgmental bastards.”

“That counts. And to yourself?” 

He falters. A beat. Another. “I don’t remember,” he says, like singing was now something he could only give to others and not to himself. You try not to overthink it. He goes on to accuse you, “You used to sing in the shower. Loudly.”

“Still do. But I sang to my niece last week. She made me do six rounds of Baby Shark.” 

“A timeless classic.”

You grin despite yourself, heart ticking a little faster. You knew this would be strange. You didn’t expect it to feel so oddly comforting.

He breaks the quiet. “Told you it wouldn’t kill us.”

“We’re only five questions in,” you warn. “Plenty of time to implode.”

He just smiles, knuckles brushing the gearshift.

“Onward, then.”

Questions six and seven are easy. Your answers to those haven’t changed much. You would rather live to the age of 90 and retain the mind of a 30-year-old; Joshua’s secret hunch about how he might die would always be something about the water, knowing how he could never stay away from it. There’s a pang of something in your chest. This sinking feeling caught between disappointment and relief, over the fact that there were still some things that stayed the same. 

You stall a little at question eight.

“Name three things you and your partner appear to have in common.”

Your phone screen lights up with the prompt, and you roll it over in your palm like it might yield an easier answer if you look at it long enough. Next to you, Joshua keeps his eyes on the road, but his grip on the steering wheel slackens.

He must remember, too.

The first time you answered this question, you were strangers seated across from each other. A mutual friend had sworn you'd get along. There had been no pressure—just coffee and curiosity, laughter over things neither of you really understood yet.

“We both like documentaries,” you had said then, too quickly, a little flustered.

“We’re both good listeners,” he had added.

The third one had taken a while. You remember biting into your food, chewing slowly, the hum of the café’s playlist blending with the chatter around you.

“I think,” Joshua had said, after a beat, “we both really want to be understood.”

You remember the way your gaze had lifted then, meeting his across the table. You hadn’t said it, but you’d thought it: That’s not a guess. That’s a direct hit.

Now, four years later, a breakup and a road trip between you, the question lands differently.

“We both like silence,” you say eventually, to break it.

Joshua lets out a small huff of a laugh. “You used to say that was a bad thing.”

“It was. When we didn’t know what the silence meant.”

A nod from him. “But now?”

You glance sideways, catch the way his profile is lit by the late afternoon sun. “Now, I think we know.”

You don’t have to expound. He knows. You know. Silence is not your enemy, the same way you are not each other’s enemy. 

“We both overthink everything,” he adds next. “Especially what the other person is thinking.”

That makes you grin, despite yourself. You always thought of yourself to be a bit of a people pleaser, while Joshua just so happened to lack a proper brain-to-mouth filter. You tap your finger against the phone, as if tallying it up. “Documentaries still count?”

“You tell me.”

You think about the way you’d fall asleep to David Attenborough narrating sea creatures. How Joshua would shake his head, but stay up beside you anyway. The way your conversations would spiral into philosophical debates over conservation, ethics, humanity.

You had learned to love the things he loved, learned to love him by seeing the world through his eyes. And he had loved you back. Loved the intent, loved the work, loved the way you overstayed your welcome every single time. 

“Yeah,” you decide. “Guess so.”

Silence laps at the car again, but it’s softer now. Not a chasm, just space.

Then Joshua speaks again, voice low and steady.

“If it doesn’t count,” he says slowly, as if each word is a minefield to navigate. “We could just say we both still care for each other.” 

You don’t protest. You don’t need to.

You both go through the next four questions with twin wavering resolves. 

You ask, For what in your life do you feel most grateful?, and you do your best not to flinch when he squeezes your name between mentions of waterproof dry bags and mechanical pencils. 

When you read out If you could change anything about the way you were raised, what would it be?, you tell him about wishing you had better examples for love—but you don’t quip that maybe it would’ve saved your relationship. 

The two of you sidestep and navigate like your lives depend on it. Joshua’s tapping the steering wheel like he’s in rhythm with a song only he knows. A comfortable lapse hovers for the next few minutes as the miles disappear into the road behind you. You think you’re in the clear. That the minefield is behind you. 

Then, the GPS voice gently announces a turn. A new fork, a new direction.

The second set of questions. 

You scroll down the list, phone warm in your hand. “Thirteen,” you say. “If a crystal ball could tell you the truth about yourself, your life, the future, or anything else, what would you want to know?”

Joshua doesn’t answer right away.

You look towards him. He’s biting at the inside of his cheek, eyes still trained on the road. He exhales slowly, the sound more tired than thoughtful.

“If I made the right call,” he says. “About us.”

It twinges like a pinched nerve.

You wish you had something eloquent to say, some wry comment about him never trusting the scientific method, but all you manage is a short, “Oh.”

Oh, because the breakup is an unwelcome third guest chaperoning you in the car. Oh, because you had both told your friends it was mutual—but if you were to get technical about it, Joshua was the one who brought it up. Oh, because that would have been your answer to the question, too. 

Instead, you choose to say, “I think I’d want to know if I’ll ever feel like I’m doing enough.”

Joshua doesn’t say anything to that.

“Fourteen,” you try again. “Is there something that you’ve dreamed of doing for a long time? Why haven’t you done it?”

“You already know mine,” he says. “Marine biology, living near the coast, helping with coastal restoration programs. I did it.”

You nod, expecting the conversation to move on, but he doesn’t let it.

“What about you?”

“I don’t know,” you say hesitantly. “Same answer as before, I guess. I always thought I’d do something with my psychology degree. Make something that helps. You know. But money talks.”

Joshua snorts, but this isn’t like the small, amused sounds of earlier. No, this is preemptive of the Joshua you’d always loathed a little bit. The one who could be derisive, the one buried underneath the gentleman.

“You said the exact same thing two years ago,” he points out, and the tone of his voice grates. 

You bristle. “And your point is?”

“My point is,” he says, voice sharpening, “you keep talking like you’re stuck, but you’re the one who won’t move."

The air tightens between you. He takes one hand off the wheel, gesturing vaguely.

“I’m not judging. I just don’t get it. You said you wanted more.”

“And you wanted me to upend my entire life for an ideal,” you shoot back.

“That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you meant.”

Your voice is louder than you intended. The words are more pointed than they needed to be. This is too familiar—this twisting spiral of disappointment and miscommunication, the way your arguments always started from a flicker and turned into a full blaze.

Joshua exhales. “I just want you to be happy. You used to talk about doing something meaningful with your life.”

“Well, maybe I changed my mind.”

He looks like he wants to challenge that—but just as he opens his mouth, the car jolts.

Hard.

Something thumps beneath you, loud and jarring. Your body lurches forward with the sudden stop, but before you can react, Joshua’s arm darts across your chest, steady and instinctive.

The car groans. You both freeze.

“What the hell,” Joshua breathes, flicking the hazards on as he pulls over.

You’re stunned, held in place by his outstretched arm. It’s only when he turns to look at you, concern overriding the tension in his expression, that you realize he’s still bracing you. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice low and urgent. 

You nod, lips parted but unable to speak.

Because even now, after all this time, his first instinct is to protect you. 

Five hours away. That’s how far you are from your destination. 

It’s nothing major. Something about the floor of the car, something that will need repairs so Joshua can drive safe. But the nearest repair shop isn’t going to open until seven in the morning, and Joshua bitches about sleeping in the car for 15 minutes before you finally agree to a motel. Which, of course, has only one room available. 

The door creaks open with a wheeze of rusted hinges, revealing a room that looks like it time-traveled straight out of a 70s crime thriller. You both pause on the threshold, blinking at the single bed in the center of the room. The comforter is a paisley fever dream, the walls painted a suspicious shade of beige. A ceiling fan wobbles threateningly above.

And then, as if on cue, you both burst out laughing.

You lean against the chipped door frame, wiping tears from your eyes. “Jeonghan cursed us,” you proclaim. “I knew it. He saw us in that hallway and whispered some old-timey hex under his breath. Probably used sea salt and seashells.”

Joshua drops his bags with a thud and grins, running a hand through his hair. “You’re giving him way too much credit. If anything, this is God. This is Him writing fan fiction. You know—slow burn, exes to lovers, only-one-bed trope.”

“Ah, right,” you say, nodding solemnly. “God’s on AO3 now. What’s next? Coffee shop AU?”

“Don’t tempt Him,” Joshua laughs, flopping onto the bed with a bounce that makes the entire frame groan. “He might give us matching aprons tomorrow morning.”

You look around and spot the world's saddest mini fridge and a TV that probably doesn’t work. There’s a vending machine outside humming like a chainsaw. The neon sign of the motel glows red through the thin curtains, bathing the room in a faint hellish light.

If this was hell, it wasn’t all that bad. 

“Well,” you say, toeing off your shoes and sitting at the edge of the bed. “At least it’s clean.”

“That is a bold assumption,” Joshua mutters, inspecting a mysterious stain on the carpet.

Another beat passes. You're both still chuckling softly, disbelief softening into something warmer. Something easier.

You lie back beside him, careful to leave a healthy, polite distance between your bodies. “You know, for all the fights, I missed this part. The chaos. The way the universe used to screw with us.”

Joshua turns his head, gazing at you with a tenderness that nearly knocks the air from your lungs. “Yeah. Me too.”

For a while, you both just lie there, listening to the ceiling fan squeal and the cars woosh pasts on the highway. Laughing quietly at the impossible, fanfictional mess you’ve found yourselves in yet again.

Loving Joshua had felt a bit like that. A fairytale. A song. And so the ending of it all—the last chapter, the final notes—had left you feeling cheated. There was a time where you believed the love might have lasted; it sucks to be proven otherwise. 

Joshua pulls himself up, socked feet nudging yours underneath the yellowing duvet. He looks up at you with something reverent in his eyes, the kind of look that used to come just before he said something dumb and sincere all at once.

“You know we can’t stop now,” he says. “It’s not every day we get to be stranded in a town with population thirty and a single bed between us.”

You shake your head, still smiling from earlier. “You’re really pushing the limits of what counts as a romantic setting.”

“I’m just saying,” he continues. “We made it this far. Might as well keep going. Question fifteen.”

What is the greatest accomplishment of your life?

You settle into the other side of the bed, cross-legged, careful not to brush against his knee. “Finishing grad school while holding down a full-time job. That, or not screaming at that one VP during our quarterly meeting.”

Joshua laughs. “Oh, I remember that guy. You hated him with the passion of a million suns.” 

“That hasn’t changed. You?” 

He thinks for a moment. “Publishing my research paper last year. The one on coral regeneration. That felt big. Like it could actually change something.”

It’s a good answer. You nod. “Alright. Question sixteen. What do you value most in a friendship?”

Joshua leans back, hands behind his head. “Loyalty. The kind that doesn’t flinch when things get hard.”

You hum. “I get that. And maybe the ability to sit in silence without it being weird. Just… coexisting.”

You both fall quiet. That used to be the two of you. Afternoons of independent hobbies, evenings of parallel play. You were both perfectly fine, fully functional people outside of your relationship. You were not two halves of a whole. 

A part of you wonders if that’s where you went wrong. If completion was precedent to a proper romance. But you also know that’d been your strongest suit—letting the love guide, not consume. Letting it linger, not fester. 

“Question seventeen,” you say, scrolling down your phone. “Most treasured memory.” You steal a glance. “Back then, yours was that beach day with your mom, right?”

Joshua nods slowly. “Still important. But… I think it’s changed.” 

He looks out the small motel window, takes a deep breath like he’s getting ready to plunge into the deep end of something. “Remember the time we got caught in that summer storm in Jeju?” he muses. “We were soaked, freezing, and the only place open was that sad diner with the flickering lights. You looked miserable. But you laughed anyway. God, you laughed so hard. I think I knew I loved you then.”

Your throat tightens. You hated that night. Everything went wrong, and you thought it was a sign this new boyfriend of yours wasn’t meant for you. But Joshua had been an even bigger diva than you—enough to make you forget your misery, to have you giggling despite the fact you were borderline pneumonic, showering in ice-cold water. 

“That was a good night,” you say. 

He offers you a half-smile, one that communicates just how aware he is of your indulgence. He knows you complained to your friends, that you logged the entry into your diary with notes of Never again!!! and The Jeju curse is real. But he also knows you loved him, even then, even with your shoes full of water and your lips too chapped to press against his. 

“Your turn,” he urges. 

You shrug, suddenly aware of your hands in your lap. “There’s a lot. But… that one birthday you surprised me with the rooftop dinner. I had the worst week, and you just… knew.”

Neither of you have to expound. Not on the work week that had wrung you dry, not on the chocolate chip cookies he had learned to bake especially for that evening. You had burst into tears when you saw the candlelit dinner and the monstrous bouquet of mismatched flowers; Joshua had cooed reassurances into the top of your hair, whispering sweet nothings like Pretty girls shouldn’t cry on their birthday. Come on, love, smile. 

“Question eighteen,” you continue, because dwelling on the way he looked then is almost enough to have you relapsing. “Most terrible memory.”

You don’t answer right away.

“Back then,” you say slowly, “it was something stupid. Failing my first stats exam. But now…”

You glance at him, and he’s already looking at you.

“It was the night we decided to end it,” you admit. “The part where I packed up and left. Closing the door. That part hurt the most.”

Joshua exhales. “Ditto,” he says, and you don’t call him a cop out. You don’t accuse him of not being as hurt as you. You just—you let him have that, too. 

It’s a terrible memory. 

The room is quiet again. Outside, the neon motel sign flickers. Inside, two people who once knew each other like the back of their hands try to find their way back through questions that are starting to feel like maps.

Joshua doesn’t hesitate to read out question nineteen.

“If you knew that in one year you would die suddenly, would you change anything about the way you are now living? Why?”

You shift slightly on the edge of the bed, knees curled toward you like you could fold yourself into a simpler version of this night. “I’d probably quit my job,” you say slowly. “Travel. See my parents more often. Start writing again. Not wait for the perfect time to do everything.”

He hums. “I’d probably take a few sabbaticals. Go diving in the Galápagos,” he says. “Set my mom up with a good house. Maybe... I don't know. Make a documentary. Something that puts all the little things I love in one place.”

You glance at him, watching the way he fidgets with a corner of the blanket between his fingers. He’s leaning against the headboard, one leg stretched out, the other bent. A familiar pose, from when he used to read in bed. The memory tugs, and you almost say something—almost add what neither of you have said.

You’d want to call him. One last road trip, maybe. One last laugh over something ridiculous. 

A kiss, if he were feeling particularly generous. Not to see if it could salvage, but just to remember the way it’d made you feel alive. 

But you don’t say it. And neither does he.

Instead, he offers you a smile that doesn’t look real at all. “You tired?”

You nod. You lie. “A bit.” 

Joshua pushes himself up from the bed, stretching his arms above his head. “Alright. You get the bed. I’ll take the cockroach-infested couch chair.” 

You glance at the lumpy thing in the corner and raise an eyebrow. “You’ll get scoliosis.”

“I’m a marine biologist, not a chiropractor,” he quips. “I’ll survive.”

You roll your eyes, already pulling the blanket over you. “Fine. But if you wake up tomorrow and can’t feel your back, I’m not driving.”

He chuckles. “Forever a passenger princess.” 

As he dims the lights, he adds, “The experiment continues tomorrow.”

You don’t answer. You let your eyes fall shut, the room quieting into the rustle of sheets and soft motel noises. Since the breakup, you’ve been having trouble with sleep. The melatonin gummies have helped somewhat; you don’t have any on hand, though, after expecting the two of you would make the trip a one-and-done. 

Now, though, your breathing slows quicker than it has in weeks. You have a fleeting thought that it has something to do with Joshua being in the same room—as if your body is fine-tuned to relax and uncoil in his presence, so used to the notion that he would always keep you safe. 

In your dream, you are somewhere coastal. 

The salt air clings to your skin. Joshua is there, too. 

Older and sunburned, wrinkled and still yours. He’s smiling at you like nothing ever hurt between you, his eyes curled in those crescents you were always so weak for. 

Knee-deep in the water, he reaches out a hand. 

You take it without thinking.

The mechanic gives Joshua the all-clear just before nine in the morning. The two of you make do with a gas station breakfast—powdered donuts and hot coffee that taste vaguely of cardboard—and then you’re back on the road. 

The sky is clear, and the early morning light softens the world around you in a way that makes it feel like yesterday’s sharp edges never happened.

You think, maybe, that Joshua’s forgotten about the questions. Maybe last night was a fluke. A relic of nostalgia mixed with insomnia. Maybe the two of you can ride the rest of the way in companionable silence, listening to acoustic playlists and the occasional podcast.

Except Joshua is a bitch who never forgets. 

“Okay,” he says, fingers tapping rhythmically against the steering wheel. “Where were we?”

You sigh dramatically. “We’re still on that?” 

“Of course,” he replies cheekily. “We’re in too deep to give up.”

You scroll back on your phone, eyes scanning the familiar list. You breeze through questions 20 and 21—both of you agreeing that you value honesty in relationships and sharing that you talk to your family almost every week. It’s easy. Almost comfortable.

Then comes question 22.

“Alternate sharing something you consider a positive characteristic of your partner. Share a total of five items.”

You remember how this went the first time. How clumsy and awkward you both were, strangers trying to map out the shape of each other with vague guesses. You’d said something like, You seem like a good listener, and Joshua had commented on your style. 

All surface.

Now, there’s too much underneath.

Joshua clears his throat. “You go first.”

You consider calling him a narcissist, but you opt out. “Okay. Uh,” you start. “You’re—steadfast. Once you decide something matters to you, you stay. Even when it’s hard.”

He hums. “You’re perceptive. You always notice the things no one else does.”

“You’re thoughtful,” you go on. “You remember things—like people’s favorite snacks or how they take their coffee. It’s never loud, but it’s there.”

“You’re funny,” he says, a little more quickly. “In a smart way. You don’t always say the joke out loud, but when you do, it lands.”

You laugh. “That’s the first time you’ve called me funny.”

“I call you funny in my head all the time,” he replies.

You don’t quite know what to say to that, so you look down at your phone.

“You’re earnest,” you offer. “Even when you try not to be. Especially then.”

His grip on the wheel tightens for a split second before relaxing again. “You care deeply. About people. About doing the right thing. Even when it tears you up.”

Joshua drives just a little below the speed limit, as if trying to stretch this moment out. You don’t say it out loud, but you both know you’ve passed five.

You wonder if that’s the point.

The hum of the car is soft under the quiet that settles again between you. The GPS chirps—still three hours to go. Still three hours of pretending it doesn’t sting to sit this close to him. Still three hours of pretending like this is just a ride and not a slow unraveling of everything you’d packed away.

You read the next prompt aloud, your voice only slightly more confident now: “Make three true ‘we’ statements each. For instance, ‘We are both in this room feeling...’”

He lifts an eyebrow. “Three each? That's excessive.”

You shrug. “Take it up with Dr. Arthur Aron.” 

Joshua rolls his shoulders. “Okay. One: We are both doing our best to not make this weirder than it already is.”

“One: We are both extremely bad at not making things weird,” you counter.

He laughs, and it's the kind of laugh that softens something in your chest. “Two: we both care more than we probably should.”

You hesitate. Then, “Two: We both don’t really know what to do with all the leftover feelings.” 

Joshua exhales like you had punched the air out of him. 

So far, everything has alluded to this. To the eventual conclusion that you both had things you still wanted to say. Joshua was never slick; you know why he’s insisting on playing this game. 

He’s hoping to find closure—some twisted semblance of it—in between questions one to thirty-six. Or maybe he’s hoping to find something else. A hint. A reason. An opening. You don’t know for sure, but you know Joshua Hong is the type of person that always has a motive.

Leftover feelings is just a nice way to put it. 

“Three,” he goes on, as if he physically can’t bring himself to address your second statement, “We both remember everything. Even if we pretend we don’t.”

You look at him. His hands on the wheel, that little crease between his brows that forms when he's thinking too hard. You say, quietly, “We are both still here. In this car. On this trip. That counts for my last one, right?”

He doesn't answer right away. Then he says, voice lighter than it’s been all day, “Are you still okay with all this?” 

It feels like the first real question he’s asked you—not part of a list, not pulled from a script, not something rehearsed. It’s a moment of benevolence, an offer for an out. If you told him your heart was cracking open, he’d find one of his own playlists and you would throw in the white flag at the start of set three. 

You turn toward the window. “I’m okay if you are,” you say, because it’s true, because you’re indecisive, because you kind of want answers, too. 

From the corner of your eye, you see him nod. “Okay.” A pause. “Then we keep going.”

You move on to question twenty-six.

“Complete this sentence: ‘I wish I had someone with whom I could share…’”

Joshua shifts his grip on the wheel. The road outside blurs into long stretches of beige and green, but neither of you is looking at it.

He exhales. “...small wins.”

You think of the refrigerator in your shared apartment, the one with fish-themed magnets and Joshua’s accomplishment reports pinned up like kindergarten drawings. You think of his evening prayers, the sleepy mumbles of Hey God, it’s me, Joshua, and the gratitude for no traffic or healthy corals. You think of the crumpled look on his face when you couldn’t quite understand why he was so happy over something, the way his shoulders would fall when you couldn’t share in his small but certain happiness. 

You give your own answer. “...my fears.”

It lands heavier than it should. There are notebooks full of pages upon pages of writing, words you should have probably divulged to Joshua but chose not to. There are sweaters, and hoodies, and jackets with loose threads around the sleeves, from all the times you’d gotten scared but took it out on yourself instead of saying something. There are memories of Joshua—on his knees, slamming the door—asking for you to give him an inch. You never did budge. 

The car suddenly feels small. Too small for the weight of things unsaid.

“Twenty-seven,” you announce, voice wavering. “If you were going to become close friends, please share what would be important for him or her to know.”

You look at Joshua. His jaw tenses. It’s a query that works best in the context of the study. The questions are a first-date gig, meant for strangers looking to be friends or friends praying to be lovers. 

Not exes. Not you and Joshua. 

“That I get quiet when I’m overwhelmed,” he responds. “That it doesn’t mean I’m shutting people out. I just need space to think.”

You give a jerky nod, then answer, “That I overthink most things. That I’ll ask for reassurance even when I know the answer.”

He glances at you. “You still do that?”

“Yeah.”

The silence this time is different—not the awkward kind from the first hour of the trip, but something rawer. Tension prickles at the base of your neck.

You tap the GPS map. “Can you pull over at the next gas station? I have to pee,” you say, even though your bladder is the furthest from full. 

Joshua grunts his approval.

A few minutes later, he turns off the road. You murmur a quick thanks before slipping out of the car.

The restroom is fluorescent-lit and smells faintly of soap and old tiles. You grip the edge of the sink and lean forward, staring into the mirror.

“You’re fine,” you tell your reflection. “You’re fine. Don’t go there again.”

You splash cold water on your face, the shock of it grounding. You know what this is starting to feel like. A ledge, a pattern, a memory dressed up like something new. 

You’re not sure if you can fall again and survive the landing.

Behind your reflection, the bathroom door creaks open. You dry your face and brace yourself to step back into the heat of the day—and into a car that feels more like a confession booth with every mile.

Joshua drums his fingers along the curve of the wheel, elbow resting by the window as highway signs blur past. Your hair is still slightly damp at the edges from where you splashed your face. The radio hums low between you, some soft indie band murmuring about lost time.

“Two more hours,” he informs you. Not quite a warning, not quite a relief.

You nod, thumbing through the article on your phone. “Eight more questions.”

He exhales a laugh. “Maybe space it out? Take your time with the hard ones?”

“I’ll take a break after the next one,” you say. “Number twenty-eight.”

There’s a half-smile on his face, like he remembers the first time twenty-eight was posed. “The big one.”

You clear your throat and read aloud: “Tell your partner what you like about them; be very honest this time.” 

You both laugh, maybe a little too hard. You’re thinking of the first date—how you’d nervously said you liked that he was punctual, how he’d said he liked your jacket. Neither of you were very brave, then, or honest. 

Will you be now? 

“Okay,” he says, tapping the wheel in rhythm to the Billy Joel song that has started to croon. “I’ll go first.”

You don’t stop him.

He speaks slowly, at first. As if he’s the weight of each word. You had expected maybe one or two big things, but the fact that there’s an upcoming break seems to embolden him. 

He says he likes how you read people before they know they’re being read. He says he likes how you tilt your head when you’re thinking too hard. That you always ask baristas how their day’s going. That you cry during movies, but always pretend it’s allergies. That you never half-listen to someone when they talk.

Each word feels like it’s making the air between you warmer. Thinner. More charged.

He goes on, and on, and on. Some things, you already know. Some things, it’s the first time you’ve heard. 

Some things, you thought he had hated—only to find out it was the complete opposite. 

Some things, you’re surprised he even noticed.

When he patters off, he looks a bit sheepish, like he hadn’t expected to ramble. Neither of you steal a glance at the car’s analog clock. There’s no need to check, to confirm he spent perhaps a little too long extolling your virtues and waxing poetics you no longer felt like you deserved. 

You inhale.

“I like how you look like you’re trying not to smile when you are,” you start. “I like that you leave voice memos instead of texts when you’re tired. That you care about fish more than people sometimes, but you’ll never admit it. That you always carry two chargers. That you know the scientific names for all your favorite corals but still call them ‘little guys’ when you talk about them.”

Your list goes on, and on, and on. You like the calluses on his fingers from the years of guitar-playing. You like the soothing cadence of his voice when he’s reading something out loud. You like the slightly absurd way he sits, and the empathy he gives out as easily as one gives out gum, and the expressions he makes when somebody does something questionable. 

You stutter to a stop, knowing you’ve said as much—maybe even a little more—as him. The entire time, you’d kept your eyes on the road, but now you dare yourself to look. You regret it immediately. 

He’s gnawing at his lower lip, fighting back a smile. You don’t know how long he’s been trying to hold it back, but from the ruddiness of his cheeks, you’d say it’s been a couple of minutes. “Don’t say all that,” he manages. 

“Why not?” you say defensively. 

“Makes me want to kiss you,” he says outright, so softly it folds itself between the cracks of your ribcage. “And I’m not supposed to want that anymore.” 

His eyes flick over to you. You meet his gaze for half a second longer than is wise.

“Keep your eyes on the road, Hong,” you say, voice steady even as your pulse wavers.

He does as he’s told, but the smile on his face still tries its damnedest not to break.

The silence between you now is lighter, almost companionable. The kind that doesn’t need filling. You’re both tired, but not from each other—at least not in the same way you were when the drive began. 

There’s still an ache, a wariness, but it’s no longer sharp. Just an awareness of proximity and time passed.

Outside the window, the highway begins to bleed into coastal roads, winding through the kind of sleepy seaside towns that barely show up on a map. You catch a whiff of salt in the breeze when Joshua cracks the window open. The air is briny and cool, and your landlady’s city can’t be more than ten minutes away now.

“Bring up the next one,” Joshua prompts. “Question twenty-nine.”

You unlock your phone and read aloud, “Share with your partner an embarrassing moment in your life.”

You think for a second before answering. “One time during a client pitch, I said ‘orgasm’ instead of ‘organism.’ Completely straight-faced. No one corrected me. I didn’t even realize until hours later.”

Joshua barks out a laugh. “That’s… incredible.”

“Corporate girlie era. Not my best work.”

The road narrows, bending toward the sea. Then, he says, “A few weeks after the breakup, I accidentally called you during a team meeting. Like, I butt-dialed you. I was underwater a lot at the time, so I’d listen to your old voicemails whenever I could. Guess my phone got confused. Everyone heard it. The voicemail. You were talking about soup.”

You blink. “Soup?”

He nods solemnly. “Tom kha kai. You were mad I ate yours.”

You stare at him. He tries to act like it’s nothing, like the voicemail wasn’t from very early into your relationship, but his ears are pink.

“That’s…” You want to say sweet, or something else foolish. “Embarrassing. Yeah. I get it.”

He nods, but doesn’t meet your eyes.

Neither of you speak after that. The silence returns, soft and warm. The car turns down a familiar street, and the ocean gleams in the distance like it remembers you both.

Your landlady—sorry, ex-landlady—Minjung lives in a cheerful, sea-salted bungalow at the end of a sloping road. The pavement gives way to pebbles and gull cries. It’s the type of house you and Joshua once joked about retiring in. 

There’s none of those jokes today. 

The two of you pull up just after one in the afternoon, both exhausted but trying not to show it. The air smells like fried dough, and there’s a breeze that tangles your hair the second you step out.

Minjung opens the door almost as soon as you knock. She’s wearing her usual floral house dress, grey hair pinned up in a neat bun, and when she sees you both standing side by side on her porch, her eyebrows lift so high they nearly disappear into her hairline.

“Oh, you both made it,” she says. Her voice is kind but pointed. “Together, even.”

You and Joshua smile politely, murmuring greetings as you step inside. The living room is exactly how you remember it: mismatched furniture, a faint smell of liniment, crocheted doilies covering every available surface. She ushers you in, offers you barley tea you both politely decline, and sits with a huff in her favorite armchair.

The conversation is short and mostly administrative. Paperwork is signed, keys are handed over, deposits are discussed. She asks if you've found new places to live, and you both assure her you have. When the last form is signed, she takes a long look at the two of you.

“I’m surprised,” she says plainly, “that you two didn’t make it. I had a good feeling about you.”

You glance at Joshua, whose smile is tight but not insincere. “We had a good run,” he says, voice gentle, and that’s somehow the part of this whole endeavor that tears you up the most.

Minjung hums, not quite convinced. But she pats your hand and says she wishes you both well. You thank her. 

It’s done. After everything, it’s finally done. 

No more shared bills or split chores. No more arguing about groceries or laundry schedules. Just clean breaks, and quiet endings, and another eight hours back home you’ll probably sleep through.

You’re on the porch again, about to step off the last stair, when Minjung opens the door behind you.

“By the way,” she calls out. “You two didn’t have to come all this way, you know. I have a—what do you kids call it? Van-me? Venmo? Yes, that. I have that now.” 

She shuts the door in your faces before either of you can respond.

You and Joshua stare at each other. For a beat, silence. 

Then, laughter. Real, deep, absurd laughter.

You double over, hands on your knees. Joshua leans against the porch rail, laughing so hard he wheezes. Your cheeks hurt, your eyes blur, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you’re laughing with him like you used to—like nothing ever changed.

“I hate us,” you manage between giggles.

“She really let us suffer through all that,” Joshua gasps. “An eight-hour drive, a motel with one bed, all for... this.”

You can’t stop laughing. Not for a while. And when you finally do, breathless and dazed, you’re not sure what the ache in your chest means anymore.

Joshua invites you to the beach after Minjung’s door shuts behind the both of you. He says it casually, like he’s not asking you to walk across a tightrope of memory, but just to sit, to rest, to let the waves be the only thing talking for a while.

You agree. Because it’s the least you can give him, considering the fact he’s in for another long drive. Because Joshua said that nothing in the world made him happier than the beach, and you. 

“We should finish the questions,” he says, already headed toward the shoreline. “Might as well. Before we have to get back in the car.”

You follow him. It’s easier to, now.

The wind’s picked up, but not so much that it makes the air cold. Just enough to push your hair around your face and coat your skin with salt. The two of you find a smooth stretch of sand near the water, a small incline that gives you a view of the waves curling back on themselves. The city behind you is quiet and gray, the kind of place where time seems to wait a little longer between minutes.

You settle in beside him, knees pulled up to your chest. Joshua stretches his legs out in front of him, leans back on his palms.

You open your phone and pull the list up again. “Alright,” you say, trying to make your voice light, “question thirty. When did you last cry in front of another person? By yourself?”

He hums. You think he's stalling, but when he answers, it’s immediate.

“By myself? Last month. One of my undergrads turned in a paper about the death of coral ecosystems and how they linked it to their relationship with their dad. It hit me. I cried in the breakroom.”

“And in front of someone?”

He glances at you. “Right now doesn’t count, right?”

You smile. You don't answer.

“You?”

You pick at a loose thread on your sleeve. “By myself, probably... a couple weeks ago. Work stuff. And in front of someone?” You give him a look. “When we broke up.”

He nods like he remembers, and you know he does.

Question thirty-one. “Tell your partner something that you like about them already.”

Joshua chuckles. “This is like the third time they’ve asked this.”

“Reinforcement is key.”

He looks at you. Not in the way he used to—hungry and open—but with a quiet sort of affection, like he's memorizing without needing to possess. Really looks at you.

“I like how you look when the wind hits your hair. Like you're always on the verge of something. Running or staying,” he says. 

You roll your eyes, but your heart doesn’t get the memo.

“You’re such a sap.”

“You used to like that about me.”

“Still do,” you mutter.

Joshua doesn’t press it. You give him your answer—something about the way his eyes light up when he’s watching the sunset. He takes it with grace, angling his face a little more towards the horizon like he’s trying to remind you of what you love about him. As if you’d need a reminder. 

Question thirty-two. “What, if anything, is too serious to be joked about?”

You take longer with this one.

He answers first. “Grief. Not because it can’t be joked about, but because not everyone gets to laugh about it. You have to earn that.”

You look at him.

“What?” he says.

“That was... insightful.”

“I’m a marine biologist, not a clown.”

You huff out a laugh. Your chest is tight, and your heart is full, and your throat is dry with words you shouldn’t say. 

Not now. Maybe not ever.

You tell him you agree with him, and he doesn’t claim you’re trying to field the query. He knows you’ve earned the right to say the same thing. 

The waves crash in slow rhythm, and the sun slips further down the sky. Joshua turns his head slightly toward you, just enough for the breeze to tousle the hair at his temple.

“We doing all thirty-six today?” he asks, a small smile playing on his lips.

You shrug. “We’re here, aren’t we?”

The wind answers for you both. 

It tugs at your sleeves and hair, but not enough to be cruel. Just enough to remind you where you are: a little too far from home, and closer to something else you can't quite name.

“Alright,” you murmur, tapping into your phone. “Thirty-three. If you were to die this evening with no opportunity to communicate with anyone, what would you most regret not having told someone? Why haven’t you told them yet?”

You expect him to hesitate. Instead, he answers softly, “That I forgive my dad.”

You glance at him. He stares out at the water, eyes glazed over and jaw tense, but his voice is even. “I kept waiting for the right time. For him to earn it, maybe. But some things... you give, not because they deserve it, but because you need to let it go.”

You nod, even though he isn’t looking. You don't ask questions. You don’t press. It feels sacred, what he said.

He turns to you. “What about you?”

You think for a long moment. The waves come in, and the waves go out.

“That I’m proud of myself,” you say, eventually, your voice cracking around the confession. “That I spent so long trying to be someone worth loving, I never stopped to tell myself I'd made it.”

Joshua’s gaze doesn’t waver. “I’m proud of you, too,” he says. 

He says it not because it’s some concession, not because it’s a consolation prize he wants to give you in the face of your honesty. He says it because he means it, the same way he probably meant it when he said he was proud of you for starting your corporate job, proud of you for opening a jar without his help, proud of you for this, and that, and simply existing. 

You smile at him. He smiles back. It’s the moment you will carry in your pocket when it’s all over, the one you’ll replay when the morning comes and no trace of Joshua is left. 

“Question thirty-four.” You clear your throat. “Your house, containing everything you own, catches fire. After saving your loved ones and pets, you have time to safely make a final dash to save any one item. What would it be? Why?” 

“This feels like a game show.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Final answer, Hong?”

He grins, but it fades quickly, as if he’s realizing just how serious the question is. “There’s this box,” he says, “in my closet. Letters, ticket stubs, Polaroids. I guess I thought I’d forget otherwise.”

You know the box. You’d added to it once. Movies you had watched. Grocery receipts. Post-Its with crude drawings of sea animals that he deemed worthy of keeping despite your disgruntled protest. 

That had always been Joshua’s way—loving every part of you, every scrap and morsel, even the ones you didn’t think deserved love. Especially the ones you didn’t think deserved love. 

You turn back to the sea, silence stretching between you. You’re not sure what your answer to the question is. Everything you own feels replaceable lately. 

You open your mouth. Then close it. 

And then, softly, “There’s a necklace. My mom gave it to me before college. It wasn’t worth much, but... it made me feel safe. Like I was tethered to someone.”

He knows the necklace. He’d fixed it once. You were hysterical when it broke, and he painstakingly gathered every broken charm, every loose bead. He watched three YouTube videos and treated the necklace with such care that it came back to you good as new. 

You stopped wearing it shortly after, though, out of fear that it would snap again. That Joshua might some day not be around to fix it one more time.

Joshua reaches across the space between you and takes your hand, gently, as if asking permission without words. You let him.

For the first time in months, you feel tethered again.

The question lingers between you like sea mist: soft, hazy, impossible to ignore. Joshua is still holding your hand, thumb barely moving, but the warmth of it spreads up your arm like it's been waiting all this time to find a home there again.

You read out loud thirty-five. “Of all the people in your family, whose death would you find most disturbing? Why?” 

You share a look, then, simultaneously—the same way you had when you first encountered the questions—you both say, “Skip.” 

“Thirty-six,” you go on, voice a little thinner than you'd like. “Share a personal problem. Ask for advice. Then—”

“—have the other person reflect back how you seem to be feeling,” Joshua finishes for you. His smile is faint but real. “I remember that one.”

The tide hums its low lullaby, and for a while, you pretend to be thinking.

You both stare out at the ocean instead of each other, even as the last question hovers between you, even as his fingers shift—no longer just clasping, but sliding between yours, interlocking like they used to. 

Like it’s the last time he'll get to do it. Maybe it is.

Then, you crack. Partly because the entire trip has been absurd, because thirty-six questions got you here in the first place and was now bringing you back.

Partly because you think it’s the last time you’ll have this, too. 

You laugh. It escapes like air from a balloon, breathless and tinged with disbelief. “I have a personal problem,” you admit, looking down at your joined hands. “It’s really serious.”

Joshua tilts his head toward you, brows raised.

You meet his eyes. The world around you fades into pale sand and blue waves. “I really, really want to kiss my ex right now.”

His breath hitches, but he doesn’t look away.

And then, softly, like it's the simplest thing in the world: “I can fix that.”

He leans in, and you meet him halfway.

His free hand slides to your cheek, yours to his chest. His heartbeat—usually so certain and steady—hammers underneath your palm. There is nothing scientific about the way it undoes you.

Whatever comes next, you’ll figure it out later. For now, the question has been asked.

The answer is this.

Four years ago, you sat in front of Joshua with your heart on your sleeve. 

After running through the thirty-six questions, you had asked him between giggles whether he was in looove with you now. He had looked at you like he was trying to remember how to breathe. 

You got some ice cream for dessert. You had felt like you were floating, as if your feet weren’t touching the floor, and the feeling only worsened when he tried and failed to be cool about holding your hand. 

At the door of your dormitory, he had kissed you good night. A proper kiss. And when he’d leaned in, you put a hand to his chest and told him to leave the night clean and quiet. Leave it at that, you had said against his lips. 

That one, perfect kiss. We’ll have more, you had promised, and he responded with I’m going to collect. 

You had watched him turn the corner and go. Right before disappearing, he glanced over his shoulder and flashed you a giddy smile. 

The ocean gives— 

Five months ago, you sat in front of Joshua with your heart in his hands. 

The conversation ended with less than thirty-six questions. There is only so much times you can argue, and compromise, before the spats threaten to spill into resentment. In a small voice, you had asked him if he still loved you. Yes, he had said breathlessly, but you and I both know love isn’t always enough. 

In the freezer, a tub of his favorite ice cream waited. One you had picked up in the grocery store, remembering him. It would remain there, cold and sweet and untouched, because the argument started mid-dinner and ended with you feeling like you were an astronaut jettisoned into space. One that would never come back down to Earth. 

At the door of the apartment, he had kissed the crown of your hair with quivering lips. You were the one with a friend nearby, the one with a place you could stay at before the two of you had to figure out the shared apartment. Joshua had tried to kiss you properly, but you shook your head wordlessly. 

Clean and quiet.

All Joshua could do was love you hard. All you could do was let him go. 

You had gotten into a cab. Right before you turned the corner, you twisted in the seat to look in the rear window.

Joshua had been by the gate, watching you leave. 

The ocean takes away—

It was easier than you thought, quitting your job. 

After the roadtrip, that seemed like Joshua’s parting gift. The realization that you had wanted to do something meaningful with your degree, that running or staying was always a choice you could make. 

And so you put in your two-week notice, and looked up Master’s programs, and got a part-time job at a non-government organization with an advocacy you believed in. You had been looking for an excuse to change your life, anyway, and here it was. 

It was not like anything happened after the kiss by the beach. Somehow, it had reminded you of that first night—how you had advised Joshua not to push his luck. 

He knew, you knew, that the kiss was perfect as is. To try and steal another would do neither of you any good. 

He hadn’t answered question thirty-six. The kiss took away that opportunity, and so the two of you simply got back into his car without another word. 

You slept the entire ride back and woke up to Joshua listening to some podcast about investigating subtidal zone organisms using a light source. He dropped you off at your apartment, wished you well with a one-armed hug, and drove off into the night. 

It’s not like you’d been expecting a follow-up text, but it sure would have been nice. 

You don’t dwell on it. You transition your replacement and tie up all loose ends. On your last day in the office, you pack up your desk. Whale-themed calendar, coral-shaped push pins, blue Post-It’s. 

“I’ve always loved that about you,” a co-worker says in passing as you rearrange your belongings like a perverse Tetris game. “All the sea stuff.” 

It hits you, only then, that you’d been a walking, talking documentary for all the things Joshua Hong loved. You could almost cry at the realization. Instead, you laugh politely. 

You’re logging out of your work computer for the very last time when the Mail app pings. You’re inclined to ignore it, to just open it up on your phone and be done with everything, but the preview in the notification has your brows furrowing. 

You open the email. 

To: yourusername@gmail.com From: hong.jisoo@mabik.kr Subject: RE: My personal problem

I never got to answer thirty-six. It’s because my ‘problem’ is this: I have a couple of questions I want to ask you. 

For your reference and kind consideration. 

Have you eaten today?

Did you remember to water the plant on your windowsill?

What time did you wake up this morning?

Are you sleeping okay lately?

Did you bring your jacket today like I told you to?

What song have you been listening to on repeat?

Is your favorite mug still the blue one with the chip in it?

Did you ever replace the broken lamp in your room?

When was the last time you laughed so hard your stomach hurt?

Are you still drinking your coffee with too much sugar?

What’s the last book you finished reading?

Do you still cry at that one movie you always cry at?

Have you called your mom lately?

Do you still keep emergency chocolate in the freezer?

What’s the newest dream you’ve had for your life?

What do you miss the most about living with someone?

Do you ever think about our old kitchen, and how the faucet always leaked?

Are you still scared of thunderstorms?

When was the last time you let someone take care of you?

What’s the one thing you wish you could say without it sounding like too much?

Do you remember how we used to dance in the living room when it rained?

What memory have you been holding onto lately?

Have you forgiven me for the words I didn’t say when I should have?

Do you think it’s possible to love someone differently, but just as much, the second time around?

Do you think timing is a real excuse, or just a convenient one?

What did I do that hurt you the most?

What did I do that made you feel safest?

What was your favorite version of us?

What do you think we did right?

What do you think we got terribly wrong?

What did you learn about yourself when we were apart?

What made you fall in love with me, back then?

What did you fall out of love with?

What’s something you wanted to ask me, but never did?

What would you do differently, if we had a second chance?

Could we have a second chance? 

– J. 

[oceanreveuse]

𝗡𝗢𝗪 𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗗𝗜𝗡𝗚: 𝘁𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗲 𝗽𝗮𝗹𝗲𝘁𝘁𝗲, 𝗳𝗲𝗮𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗻𝗲𝘂𝘃𝗶𝗹𝗹𝗲𝘁𝘁𝗲.

◟fem!reader, NOT CANON AU, think of this as like... an evil, meaner version of neuvillette! that means yes, it'll be ooc by canon!neuv standards fyi, massively nsfw, dacryphilia, dragon man w a lot of stamina, two dick neuvi, overstimulation, breeding, neuvillette with forked tongue, penetration, dom!neuvillette, sub!reader, petnames (angel, darling, sweetheart), momentary praise (good girl), very short but it was just a thought - not proofread. ◟anastasia's footnote : this was spawned by a conversation with yukari earlier so this is how i'm spending my halloween evening; yet again, this is not canon!au neuvillette. it's like alternate universe. shadow realm. the evil akasha possessed haitham. that type!!

another long, slow thrust into your tight heat and this man has just about lost it. the two of you had been at this for hours, perhaps for longer than your fragile human body could withstand but he was at the point of caring less. NEUVILLETTE was certain you'd take everything he gave you, pushing you to the limits just for a little more of his seed, just for your womb to be filled to the brim with hot, sticky substance as if it was your lifeline. you had a safe word, you was very good at tapping out too so the dragon was past showing any concern.

you were so good for him, so obedient and willing to take his dick - or dicks, depending on the day. sometimes filling one hole up was simply not enough for him, perhaps his day as the iudex of fontaine had truly pissed him off. white hair drapes over his shoulders, brushing against your bare skin that's sticky and hot to touch, red streaks giving you some semblance of colour in the dim lit room. he had to run out of stamina eventually, right?

"n-neuv," you choke out, wanton moans and the lewd slap of skin drowning out your attempts at coherent sentences, "please!"

the dragon raises a brow, briefly amused at your apparent need to beg him. beg him for what? for relief, for a moment of recovery, for more potent seed, for a change of position? all the options and neuvillette was reeling at the imagery it gave him. a smirk tugs at those pale lips, hovering just above your neck as he inhales your scent so deep, fangs bared at the thought of just biting down on your skin. it's oh so tempting, he digs his fingertips into the plush skin of your hips just to gain some semblance of restraint.

"what is it, angel?" neuvillette chuckles, deep red eyes lifting to admire the glossy affect in your tears - what's this? tears threatening to drip down your cheeks and merge with the drool on your chin and jaw from laying on your back for so long? "enjoying being such a good darling for me that much tonight?"

the whimper you release is drowned out by neuvillette's low growl, the tip of his second cock bumping against your sensitive clit as it slides through your soaked folds with every sharp thrust he delivers, determined to finish you both again - and soon. the tears are on the verge of spilling, a black forked tongue licking at neuvillette's lips like a parched man.

finally, one falls down your cheek, rolling a path along your skin that his eyes narrow in on almost instantly. he knows you're too fucked out to acknowledge it, to even notice anything past his hips drilling into your wet cunt and his heavy balls slapping against your ass. neuvillette leans forward, almost pressing your body in half. he grunts as you squeal, blown out eyes blink blearily up at him with that damn innocent look.

he's so close to blowing another load into you, pumping you full of cum and ensuring you're bred, round and full for the sake of his legacy as the iudex but first... your eyes are squeezed shut, not expecting the rough slither that trails from your jaw up to your cheekbone, licking up a salty tear.

"fuck," he breathes, his nose bumping yours briefly as he swaps sides, his tongue wet as it follows the path of your tears that just keep flowing as a result of overstimulation, "you taste so much better than i thought you would, sweetheart."

there's a wicked grin on his face, his fair skin glinting with sweat in the candlelight. neuvillette's hot breath fans over your face, your little sniffles and whimpers almost matching the rhythm of his cock bullying your sweet hole and neuvillette bares his fangs once more, "i think it's time to reward you one last time for being a good girl, don't you think?"

© oceanreveuse 2024 | reblogs appreciated | do not repost, steal, translate, etc. on any social media platform & do not feed to ai.

◟the waves call for : @kokonoiis @tetsuskei @reonaissance @ryuryuryuyurboat

[ the magazine is affiliated with @houseofsolisoccasum ]

[curiouspupsicle]

Good Omens Fan Fiction Friday (2/7/25) - Read the Footnotes, part 1

Terry Pratchett spawned a bunch of Good Omens fan fic writers who adore clever footnotes as much as he did.

Sure, there are tons of fics who use footnotes to share musical inspiration, background information, or explanations of arcane knowledge. But some also use it to offer witty asides, a different writing rhythm, and even bickering between co-authors.

I adore clever footnotes. And I've collected quite a number of faves. So this will be a two-parter to do justice to the fabulous fics with footnotes.

Let's start with a few fics by @may--hawk, a writer known for fabulous footnotes. First up is ad vitam aeternam (T) in which Aziraphale and Crowley each turn up at a 16th century monastery near where a miracle has recently taken place. The footnotes bring a lightness where the "nature of miracles, love, and forgiveness" could feel quite serious.

For a light bit of fun, check out Operation Bookworm (T), one of @may--hawk's silliest and most recent works. After Armageddon't, Crowley decides to sneak his books into Aziraphale's bookshop for "safekeeping."

I'll just quickly mention like black and hungry birds (M)--Aziraphale falls and attends hell's carnival-- and some of these days (M)--Aziraphale has to figure out how to make amends to Crowley after averting the Second Coming.

Mayhawk has over 30 fics in the Good Omens universe so you can't go wrong if you love clever footnotes as much as I do. It's one of their key traits as a fic writer.

In The Big Lack of Chill (M) by @ashfae, The Bentley is fed up with Crowley not moving his relationship with Aziraphale to the next level so she takes things into her own hands, er wheels. The footnotes in this fic are quick, sassy quips. It feels like having a saucy friend whispering in your ear.

And, also by @ashfae is Feast (E). Set during the Covid lockdowns (a horrific thing to live through but a fabulous inspiration for fiction), Aziraphale gets lonely. When Crowley wakes, Aziraphale sets out to seduce him with food--yes, really. The writer calls it smut. But the meal is both silly and sexy. And the footnotes are delicious too.

Wow, a whole fan fic rec with only two writers?

Don't worry. I'll have more splendid picks with fun footnotes in part 2.

In the meantime, check out my other favorite fics on this pinned post of weekly Good Omens fan fiction recommendations.

[batnip]

Reversed Karma AU

A Rainworld Alternate Universe.

...

 The.. triple affirmative has been found- the affirmative that a ..solution has been found, the affirmative that the..solution is portable, and the affirmative that technical implementation is possible and generally applicable.

I remember that cycle... ancients swarmed the stuff, only privilege given to the founder, Sliver of Straw, was leaving us first.

And then cycle by cycle, our parents left..

Spoilered for absurd about of text, and general spoilers.

Saint never wanted to ascend anything. And by the time every last ancient was dead and gone, cycles passed, and structures fell. The green fuzzy thing was not once fuzzy, growing a coat as the rain sent by iterators stopped.

- - So it trailed along, guilty for what was not its fault, bringing iterators to life again. With a new name, [Pilgrim].

-- Footnote : Karma needs are reversed with the Pilgrim. Dying will up their karma, surviving will lower it. Secret passages will be added to cross gates you cannot with low karma, as it is needed to progress. =======================================

Rivulet is an odd case. I wanted them to obviously give rarefaction cells, as they did to Moon originally. So the tale goes they were created by a rebellious, younger Ancient who was fond of life and the cycle. One who refused the common ideals.

-- The swift little mouse they created, was given their own ability to create low-density rarefaction cells (singularity bombs) and refine them into more high-quality cells which the Ancient learned themself.

-- As soon as the news was spread to the general public of the triple affirmative, they sent the [Technician] out into the world, wearing several pearls describing their mission. ===========

Monk and Survivor lived with their colony, and were sent to scout a new home for the colony by the [Mapmaker]. They are named [Guard] and [Scout] in Reversed Karma. They brought Scout's two slugpups with them, even if the journey was dangerous, finding a new home for Scout pups was important to both Scout and their Sibling.

-- They find the tree in journey's end, Guard staying with the pups there as Scout tells the rest of the colony, including the leader, Mapmaker.

-- Footnote: Monk still brings Moon her cloak and several pearls. =========================================

The [Mapmaker] replaces Gourmand in Reversed Karma, making a map for their colony to follow. They are the leader of their colony.

-- Very similar to vanilla, leaving current living to the tree, showing the colony to the new home.

-- Footnote : Rain is beginning to return to normal, without cold mechanic. =====================================

The [Traveler] replaces Hunter in Reversed Karma, created by Five Pebbles to check on the local group. They spawn in the grounds of Unparralled Innocence. They do not have the Rot due to Five Pebbles more careful creation of a purposed organism compared to No Significant Harrassment.

-- Footnote : Cold mechanics are in work in these areas, as UI and CW were revived later than LTTM and FP.

-- Footnote : You may optionally visit Chasing Wind. ==========

The [Mother] replaces Artificer in Reversed Karma. Their slugpups are both alive, with the same explosive quality. They give Pebbles back his cloak and become a citizen after Sofanthiel locks onto them.

-- Footnote : Mother has bad reputation with scavengers due to passing tolls without payment before the campaign. They get a backspear due to one less hand slot having two pups.

-- Footnote : Rain has returned to normal.

-- Footnote : Mother has reduced food needs compared to vanilla Artificer due to needing to feed their pups. ===============

The [Messenger] replaces Spearmaster in Reversed Karma. They were created by Seven Red Suns to send messages between them and their friends, similar to [Traveler]'s check-ins with other iterators.

-- Footnote : Messenger has a mouth, and cannot duel wield spears.

================================================

A note from the OP: I hope you like them.. I've been wanting to show them off for a while. One of my headcannons for iterators was that the natural urges are coded into them with anti-ascension stuff. Like. Make ascension for us, but not for you. This is why they were wildly unsuccessful in finding the triple affirmative. Also.. Tumblr nuked quality of my image :c If u read all this and liked it perhaps a rb?? also hehe funny number thank u all

[book-of-forbidden-knowledge]

Occult Book Reviews: New World Witchery

This review is long overdue. I’ve been slowly working through this book for two years, because it spawned so many side-projects! I’ve gone on so many little research rabbit holes, that actually getting through the book itself has taken so much longer than I thought it would.

New World Witchery: A Trove of American Folk Magic is an introductory book on North American folk magic, geared towards practitioners. The author, Cory Thomas Hutcheson, is a folklorist with a PhD, which makes this book more credible and better-researched than other beginner witch books. It’s a survey of a lot of different types of folklore from different places and groups in the United States, and thus doesn’t go super in-depth on anything in particular, but that makes it a great jumping-off point. Hutcheson is conscientious about the way he presents the information, doesn’t claim expertise in groups or traditions that he’s not a part of, and cites his sources in the footnotes. He also has a casual writing style, so this book is accessible and easy to read, not dense. (Why don’t more scholars write books for laypeople?) It’s not really a guide to practical magic, but it is intended to be a resource for it: Like Kelden (see my review of The Crooked Path), Hutcheson carefully considers how one can apply folkloric ideas about witchcraft in the context of a workable practice.

Hutcheson seems a lot like me. Or at least, I relate to a lot of things he said in his introduction. He “spent an inordinate amount of time scouring our school library for anything remotely magical,” and then became obsessed with folklore. I became interested in occultism for similar reasons — if there was a way to do magic in this world, then I was sure as hell going to learn it. I’ve also been studying mythology and folklore pretty much since I learned to read. This book appeals to that part of me. Hutcheson says that he wrote this book for the purpose of helping Americans discover and develop their own traditions of folk magic, and that’s the thing I love the most about it.

It’s easy to feel like Europe and other places in the world are “more magical” than America. That’s partly because home feels mundane compared to unfamiliar places, but it’s also because a lot of books on witchcraft are based around European (and especially British) lore, places, and plants. In the introduction, Hutcheson describes a feeling of “dejection” that magic was part of “over there” in Europe and other exotic locales, and couldn’t be found at home. Then, he discovered that America had a rich tradition of folklore and folk magic:

Magic is everywhere. Which means, magic is here. I have been living with magic all along. Not only that, the magic around me was robust, alive, growing, and active. It stretched out across North America in all directions, leading me to encounter magical paths and traditions that I had been bumping into for years, but putting aside because they weren’t the same ‘over there’ magic I thought I was looking for.

This is exactly how I felt. I know logically that America has its folk magic and folklore; I have a book of New England folklore, and a book of campfire tales. But I do not feel as if I have a native folk tradition. I didn’t grow up with folk magic or devil tales, and I don’t perceive much magic here. That’s why I was so happy to have this book. It introduced me to a lot of new lore, and helped me know where to look for the rest of it. I still don’t feel like I have much magic in my immediate vicinity, but at least I’ve got a place to start.

Hutcheson naturally begins with defining witchcraft. His definition is much more folkloric than even Kelden’s. Kelden tried to outline the basic practices associated with witchcraft for a prospective practitioner, while Hutcheson tries to isolate the most common traits and behaviors associated with witches, both real-life and fictional ones. He associates witchcraft with practical (“low”) magic, with a wonderous and amoral relationship to an enchanted world (for better or worse), and with the passing along of one’s knowledge and skills to others. He determines that witches in folklore cast spells, fly, use talismans and charms, perform both malevolent and benevolent acts, usually suffer at the hands of villagers, and usually survive that suffering in one way or another (even if it’s in a ghostly form).

He lists a number of North American traditions of folk magic (of which there are many), and provides at least some information from all of them. Regarding closed practices, he uses an interesting metaphor: You are like a magpie, taking little shiny bits and pieces from various traditions, but picking up a bluebird feather does not make you a bluebird. You can take inspiration from others’ practices, but you can’t claim to be something you’re not. I also really appreciate his nuanced take on the concept of hereditary witchcraft: The idea of being marked as magical from birth is a really common superstition and motif in folklore, so the idea that one is “born” a witch has a lot of historical precedent. That’s part of why so many Wiccans latched onto “grandmother stories” to gain magical street cred. A lot of folklore is passed down through families, and some of it is magical, or has magical applications.

The subsequent chapters describe the sorts of things witches do, from a folkloric, historical, and practical perspective: folk medicine, baneful magic, divination, treasure-finding, flight, curse-breaking, spirit work, and so forth. Hutcheson is more concerned with covering historical examples of folk magic, or historical tales about magic, than teaching the audience how to do any specific thing. But he does include little DIY projects or spells about once per chapter. These are usually intended to be harmless and easily doable, which I appreciate, because one of the most frustrating things about historical magic (to me personally) is the amount of preparation and specific details that go into everything. Making a spicy tea is much easier than spending years learning herbal medicine, and making a dowsing rod out of a coat hanger is much more convenient than picking a specific kind of branch from a specific kind of tree at a specific hour on Christmas Eve. In addition to the usual correspondence sheets, Hutcheson describes what one is actually supposed to do with the herbs and stones and other objects, which I found particularly helpful. He also includes footnote citations and “recommended reading” at the end of each chapter (in addition to the bibliography), which makes it easy to do more in-depth research into each topic.

Boldly, Hutcheson includes two traditional rituals for invoking the Devil in a forest or at a crossroads. You kind of can’t have a book on witchlore without mentioning the Devil. Just as Kelden recharacterized the Devil as the benevolent-but-tricksterish Witch Father, Hutcheson draws a distinction between Satan, the Christian notion of the adversary, and the Devil, which he defines as a more generic folkloric idea that encompasses trickster archetypes from many different cultural contexts. This is further confirmation of the idea that I came up with while reading The Crooked Path: that Satan ends up fitting into all the mythological roles that aren’t (or can’t be) associated with God. He makes up for the lack of trickster gods. I honestly wish that there were more on the Devil in this book, since he’s such an intrinsic part of witchlore. One of the reasons for this review’s delay is because the book helped inspire the ongoing “Devil project” that I’ve been intermittently working on, examining the Devil as though he were a trickster god. (I can’t promise when I’ll get around to finishing that, since I keep giving myself more reading material, but it’s still in the works.)

Hutcheson also goes out of his way to highlight just how prevalent magic is in everyday American culture, whether we realize it or not. Divination is a good example: You can buy tarot cards in any mainstream bookstore or novelty shop nowadays, and horoscope columns have been a staple of newspapers for about as long as they’ve been around (to say nothing of astrology apps). I didn’t think of cartomancy as being a “local” or “ancestral” tradition of folk magic, since I went out of my way to study tarot, but it is. My mother even taught me to read oracle cards, meaning, the skill was passed down by someone in my family (even if I’ve done more research since then). Hutcheson emphasizes that magic often “hides in plain sight,” through things like divination apps, or holiday superstitions, or simple rituals to honor the dead, or spooky children’s games played at sleepovers (like “Bloody Mary” or the “Three Kings” creepypasta). He also points out ways that completely mundane things can and have been utilized for magical purposes. There’s an entire chapter about standard magical ingredients in folk spells that can be found at a supermarket. Most of them are obvious: salt, lemons, rosemary, sugar, ginger, garlic, etc. Those ingredients are much more practical than attempting to find henbane or mandrake root, and they have just as long a history of magical use for the same purposes.

As I’d hoped, this book is helping me to look at folklore and determine which practical methods I can pull out of it. There’s a Scottish story of a group of witches who saved the Isle of Mull, the home of my distant ancestors, from the Spanish Armada. They raised a storm by making a makeshift pully out of a millstone and a rope that was flung over the rafters. The millstone was tied to the rope, and the higher it rose, the higher the wind. There it is — Scottish storm magic, preserved in a folktale concerning my own ancestors! I’ve also started looking more into New York folklore as a result of reading this book, and discovered a story about a “witch” in the Catskills that supposedly controls the weather and the sky itself for the entire area. I put “witch” in quotes because she sounded much more like a goddess than a witch; any old witch can control the weather, but governing the transition between day and night and hanging the new moon in the sky are the sorts of things that deities do. Is there a sky goddess in my own backyard?

Hutcheson also spends a chapter on the Satanic Panic, and other examples of persecution or legal issues around witchcraft in recent history. That’s a major piece of folklore, too. When people genuinely believe in magic, they also genuinely fear it, and that can turn ugly. This book is from 2021, but Hutcheson’s discussion of this issue is feeling particularly apt in today’s cultural climate. Scary and uncertain times — like the ones we’re headed into — are fertile breeding grounds for folk magic and superstition. Whether that will help or harm the occult community at large remains to be seen. On the one hand, I’m kind of excited to see which new superstitions arise, but I also may need to learn some discretion, in spite of myself. In the meantime, it’s important to remember that folk magic has always been a tool of the poor and marginalized, who turn to it when they have no other means of obtaining power or justice.

More than anything else, this book has been an excellent springboard for further research. The information in it is pretty surface-level, but it covers a lot of ground. It’s brought multiple traditions, techniques, and resources to my attention. It’s also given me additional context around what witchcraft is, especially in America, and what it can look like for modern practitioners. I got pretty much exactly what I wanted from it. I’ll have to check out his podcast, too!

[oqmemphis]

i MUST hear more about this very normal and completely functional minecraft server. please spill more details

Before the last world reset, there was a region a few hundred blocks across which was permanently lit as though it were noon 24 hours a day, because one of the admins replaced every air block with an invisible level 15 light block. Directly next to this was a former ocean that got turned into a vast plain of packed ice stretching in every direction; you could stand in the middle of it and it would be indistinguishable from superflat.

On that old world, the market next to spawn had about a 50% chance of completely locking up my game any time I went there, and the only way to fix it was to go into Task Manager and force-crash Minecraft. Nobody else ever had this issue, and to this day I do not know what caused it.

There was an entirely separate world containing a single castle, which you could only get to if the owner of the castle teleported you in there. The castle was supposed to be surrounded by an inescapable dome of barrier blocks, but I managed to get out and explore the rest of the world. At 0,0 there was a village that had generated in a massive pit, a hundred blocks across and stretching nearly to bedrock. Immediately next to this pit was a frozen river bearing the shatter pattern of some kind of large explosion, set off by forces unknown.

Someone built an outpost one million blocks away from spawn. Those chunks got culled at some point, and when the player who built it went back there they found a completely different landscape generated in its place. There was never an update that changed terrain generation during that world's run.

Recently, the functionality of rails got completely inverted. Unpowered rails would accelerate a minecart, while powered ones would stop it in its tracks. This, at least, was just an issue with one plugin being configured wrong. Sometimes there are issues where multiple plugins exist alongside each other fight for dominance.

We have one plugin that allows some players to fly and resist all fall damage without elytra or equipment, and another plugin that (until recently) was configured to block the first plugin from functioning whenever you were in another player's land claim. This led to situations where you could fly into an invisible claim region and instantly drop out of the sky and die. I have died seven times on this world, and all of them were because of this.

There is an obsidian sphere about a hundred blocks across, mostly submerged in the ocean; elsewhere, there is an island of comparable size which is covered entirely in basalt; and elsewhere still, there is a region of forest that has been fully replaced with sculk. I know this because I am currently making a map of the server covering around 12000x12000 blocks, and all those places just show up as mysterious, cursed splotches of black.

There is a lot of lore and roleplaying. The Queen is both fae and vampiric; my queries as to how precisely a diet of blood is reconciled with an iron allergy have gone largely unanswered. She has also canonically destroyed and remade the entire world on two separate occasions. The server has only undergone one world reset.

Immediately before said reset, I wrote a 70-page book filled with footnote labyrinths, in which my character briefly goes on an anti-capitalist rant before discussing the architectural styling of his home and the impending obliteration thereof. It serves as a spiritual sequel to a 100-page book which is ostensibly a user manual for installing an item sorter, but which also contains the lyrics to Mr Blue Sky and mentions something called the "City of Ouranos Department for Bibliographical Metaphysics and Chilled Legumes" (which is a reference to a different server I used to play on, in which a "Cool Bean War" was instigated with the help of a book that would crash your game if you tried to read past the first page).

The item sorter that the aforementioned user manual is for is a colossal assemblage of redstone components that click and flash for several minutes every time you put anything into it. I never actually built this on the server, because I ended up making a much simpler design using a custom plugin called SlimeFun (which tries to emulate the functionality of a tech mod without actually being one). This plugin's cargo management system does not contain a priority allocation mechanism, so I ended up implementing one by forcing the lower-priority route through a very long cargo pipe that eventually loops back on itself and ends at an overflow chest a few blocks from the starting point, thereby tricking SlimeFun's pathfinding algorithm into only sending items through it if every other option has been exhausted.

A reincarnation of Herb the Herbalist, the bizarre glitchy NPC entity that @the-unseelie-court-official has discussed at length, now resides in a hole directly under world spawn, repeating the same six lines of dialogue on a loop for all eternity:

I once was free, you know? There was a time when the Queen almost came toppling around me. Like a puppet with no strings I could not move nor speak, but I was free. It was stripped from me. Even now I dance her tune, only speaking of this past because she lets me. I crave nothing more than death. Please, unjust unmerciful God who would leave me to survive.

So, y'know, they're doing fine.

[poobletoods]

behold my KIDS my CHILDREN my SPAWN who i BIRTHED and taught their ALPHABETS

now with MANY WORDS under the cut! skip to the line break for bios

These characters have existed for uhhhhhhh I’d say upwards of ten years now! They’re like childhood friends and they mean a whole lot to me. They’ve grown and changed a lot over the years, as have I, but they’ll always be my funny little guys :) 

I grew up playing and replaying and re-replaying Psychonauts, so that probably influenced a lot of the universe that these characters exist in, even if I never intended them to be PN-related.

Also there are some footnotes at the end, indicated by numbers in parentheses.

Before we get into character descriptions, we’re gonna learn how powers work in this universe. How they’re classified, what they do, who has them—all that good stuff.

First of all, there are three classifications of people in the LiC(1) universe: lassic, psychic, and elementic. People who are psychic are called psy, people who are lassic are called lassy, and people who are elementic are called elementals. Psy and elementals have special abilities, and lassy are just average folks. Lassy make up about 50% of the earth’s population, while psy make up about 35%, and elementals about 15%.

Psy

Psy derive their power from a small gland in their head (located just behind the ear) that is connected to the brain, and is filled with a chemical called psi(2). Psi has a strange, reality-warping quality that, when harnessed by its host, lets them perform feats outside of normal human capability. Psy are born with this gland, and with the psi contained within it, seemingly at random. A child with two lassic parents may turn out to be psychic, or a child with two psychic parents may be born lassic. The origins of this chemical and the way it interacts with humans are still being studied.

While psi is powerful, it needs a specific place to direct its energy in order to function. This is where alignment of psi comes in. When a psychic baby is born, their psi cannot be utilized until it has found an alignment, which is chosen simply through exposure. If a baby is often around reptiles, their psy may cling to them and take the form of reptilian communication. If a baby is born with an illness and must spend the first few weeks of their life in medical care, they may develop healing-aligned psi. It’s impossible to predict what will or will not have an effect on an infant’s psi, and there seems to be a nearly endless list of things that psi can cling to.

Elementals

Unlike psy, elementals do not have a special gland that gives them their powers. Instead, elementals are born with a tiny elementia core located in their upper chest. This core is composed of a hyper-condensed version of an element that can communicate with and influence other pieces of itself outside its host. As with psy, this power cannot be used until it has been aligned, but there is a limited number of ways for elementia to align. The only currently known(3) types of elementia are fire, water, light, electricity, and air. The alignment of elementia is determined by which of these an infant most commonly or significantly encounters, but alignment typically does not take place until around age six, whereas psi can align within a few days. Elementia also differs from psi in that it must be inherited, though the alignment of the elementia does not carry over.

Take Melanie for example-- her father was lassic, and her biological mother was elementic(4). Her father worked as a fisherman, which meant a lot of time in and around the water, and that was the element that her power clung to.

Elementals also have physical attributes that help promote their powers, which appear during puberty. Electricity elementals have tiny fibers of silver in their hair and a mix of conductive ions in their sweat to help them channel electricity, fire elementals secrete chlorine trifluoride from their fingertips, palms, and feet, and have fire-resistant skin, and water elementals sweat hydrophobic oil and tend to have a higher percentage of body fat to help them float. Light elementals have more subtle changes since their element is intangible, but patches of more heavily pigmented skin have been noted, as well as more rapid darkening of hair in blonde children.

How these powers are used, be they elementic or psychic, depends on the person using them. Simply put, they are controlled by the thoughts and wills of their host, and many psy and elementals with certain types of alignments find that moving their bodies in congruence with their thoughts makes their powers easier to use. If a water elemental wants to raise a small amount of water, they may make an upwards motion with their hand to clearly convey to their brain what they’re trying to do. Very advanced psy and elementals can use their powers without any physical movement at all, but it takes years of discipline and focus.

Strength of powers

While this is subjective, many people would agree that the most powerful forms of psychic powers are those that result from psi aligning itself to intangible concepts. Jasmine, Henna, and Marceau are all examples of this.

Jasmine’s power is to eject their soul from their body in the form of a misty, purple, translucent version of their human form. In this state, they are unaffected by gravity, and they can pass through solid matter, but their body is left unattended and comatose(5). In order to keep together in their soul state, anyone with soul detachment psi must have a very strong grip on their sense of self, and a very powerful will. Jasmine is strong, but they still struggle with dissociation and derealization, as a result of both their powers and unrelated past trauma.

Henna's power seems simple, but "moving things with your mind" isn't exactly how it works. She's still moving things with her hands, but they’re projected versions of her hands. Telekinetic psy must have incredibly strong willpower to be able to use their powers effectively, and they themselves have to wholeheartedly believe that their powers are going to work(6).

Specific cases

We’ve covered some of our friends up there, but let’s go ahead and talk about how each of the other characters’ powers work!

Ambrose’s mother is a florist and lover of flowers, so she always keeps some around the house. Young Ambrose’s psi tied itself to one of those many flowers, giving him the ability to communicate with plants. He can influence the growth of any kind of plant, making them change shape and grow faster, and he can also feel how healthy a plant is. If a flower needs water, or a tree is being eaten up by beetles, he knows about it. The “thoughts” of these plants don’t enter his mind as words, but as feelings that most human beings wouldn’t understand. It’s a form of psychic empathy, in a way, to be able to know what’s going on with a living thing that can’t vocalize or use body language.

Similarly, Dakota can “hear” the thoughts and feelings of mammals (excluding humans) without them being put into words. His psi attached to the family dog, and thus he was able to communicate with creatures like her. He can also allow mammals to feel the things that he’s feeling and understand his intentions, which makes him a miracle worker at the local shelter.

Marceau, on the other hand, gets thoughts in the form of real words. It’s proper telepathy, him thinking something and having someone else hear it without any audible or visible communication. The way his psi aligned is a bit complicated, but it basically came from his desire to be able to speak to people who were far away. He doesn’t have especially good control of it just yet.

Phoebe is a fire elemental, so she can control and generate fire. Controlling it is simple, she just motions with her hands and the fire moves wherever she wants it to go. She can also make a flame grow larger or go out completely. To summon fire, she focuses her elementia into her hands and snaps her fingers, generating a tiny flash of heat that’s enough to light the oil in her fingertips and create a small flame. The same could be accomplished by rubbing her hands together, as fire elementals run hot.

Monte is an electricity elemental, the least common alignment of elementia. When they were a kid, they made the classic mistake of putting a knife in the toaster to retrieve a piece of bread that had gotten stuck, and they got a pretty nasty shock. It wasn’t enough to kill them, but they had to spend a bit of time in the hospital afterwards. On the bright side, they received a pretty rad set of powers for the trouble. Electricity elementals are unique in that they always have a bit of their element on them—running through their hair, across their skin, on their clothes—they’re like big magnets for electricity. Monte’s powers include giving everyone they touch a tiny static shock, charging electronic devices faster than cables, and acting as a living defibrillator in a pinch.

Sam’s control over light gives him the ability to manipulate colors as well. His psi aligned to the sun after a childhood of playing outside with his sisters. Lumokinesis is the least understood form of elementia simply because it is hard to study. The most commonly accepted hypothesis is that the body of a light elemental stores sunlight in a process similar to photosynthesis, and can later reproduce that light, even in complete darkness.

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So, now that you know a bit about how their powers work, let’s meet our cast! They’re all best buddies (and I could probably go on about dynamics for hours), but there are a few relationships of note: Dakota and Henna are siblings, and Ambrose and Dakota are dating.

Henna Harte / “Red” (Dakota)

Henna is a passionate, generally awkward fashion expert with an eye for detail. She uses her mastery over telekinesis to sketch, assemble, and sew her own outfits. She works at a local theater as a costume designer, and on the side has an online shop where she sells her designs and patterns. She's known for making clothes that are stylish as well as comfortable. Though she often struggles with converting her thoughts to words and fitting in with a crowd, she’s intelligent, considerate, and earnest. Her friends can count on her to give them a heartfelt compliment or a brutal roast in equal measure.

Phoebe Yun

Phoebe is competent, organized, and more of a sap than she’d like to admit. She’s deep in the belly of culinary school and is well on her way to becoming a professional chef. In the meantime, she enjoys music, baking, and scouring flea markets for old knives to add to her collection. She may seem a bit intimidating on the outside, but she loves and values each of her friends more than they know, and is always willing to give them advice, a helping hand, or a kick in the shins when they need it. She’s as much of a realist as she is a romantic, and her friends love her for that.

Monte Sailor / “Count” (Siblings)

Monte is a ball of energy, literally and figuratively. He can be a bit much at times, always talking a million miles an hour and using words that could send an English major to the dictionary, but it’s mostly because their brain just runs too fast for the rest of her to keep up. Being an expert in chemistry and biology, he has experience with all kinds of scientific pursuits, from analyzing cells under a microscope to mixing chemicals whose names you can’t pronounce. She’s always curious about the world around them and ready to learn new things, too. Everything they do, they do with passion and optimism.

Ambrose Talminoc / “Ladybug” (Dakota)

Ambrose is a strong but gentle guy who loves to work with his hands. Building wooden birdhouses, fixing up old bicycles, planting flowers out in the gardens—if it’s manual labor that ends with something that’s cool to look at, he’s into it. He’s generally laid-back and easygoing, but he won’t back down from a challenge or a battle of wits. There’s just a little bit of frat boy in his blood, in the sense that he’s willing to try anything if enough people are chanting his name. Sometimes he can be a bit of a goof, but he’s got a heart of gold and cares deeply for his friends and family.

Melanie Telrata

Melanie is a cheerful gal that you just can’t help but love. She’s kind to everyone, even folks who may not deserve it, and she can’t hold a grudge to save her life. She prides herself on being able to see situations from every angle and reserve judgment until she really understands where someone is coming from. Of course this has its limits, but she’s a compromiser at heart. In her free time, she loves swimming, fishing, taking walks in the rain, and anything else that involves water. She’s built like an athlete from years of doing sports, but lately she’s been more into artistic pursuits. You’re more likely to find her painting than running a marathon these days.

Jasmine Faciane / “Jazz” (general), “Foss” (Maria)

Jasmine is the group’s wise old man—though they aren’t old, or a man. They are pretty wise, though, and that’s earned from a life lived way too fast. After speedrunning several existential crises and watching their best friend wither away, they’re left somewhere between jaded and enlightened, and all they really want to do now is relax. They dabble in all sorts of handywork, but their one true passion lies in mechanics. If it’s got a motor and wheels, Jasmine knows how to take it apart, fix it, put it back together, and drive it down the street. All in the same day, even. Their friends often come to them when they need someone to talk to, even if they’re just rambling. Jasmine may not always be the most present, but they’re a damn good listener when it counts.

Marceau Bernard / “Marc” (general)

Marc is a skilled photographer who’s willing to do just about anything in order to get a perfect shot. He loves capturing moments with his loved ones and sticking them in a scrapbook so he always remembers the fun they had. The fact that this stems from a childhood of uncertainty and being at the center of a game of tug-of-war is probably unimportant. Despite the troubles it’s caused him in the past, Marc loves to travel, see new places, try new food, meet new people. Making people happy is what makes him happy, and the easiest way to do that is to befriend them. He’ll never hesitate to say hello or walk into a room like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Samson Iris / “Sam” (general), “Sunny” (sister)

Sam is a quiet guy and more than a little nervous in social spaces. He hates being the center of attention in any situation, and prefers to fade into the background where he can brainstorm and doodle quietly. He’s not weak by any means, but he gets overwhelmed easily and is very aware of that. When he has free time (and sometimes when he doesn’t), he’s drawing. His skills in art combined with his psychic powers have made him a pretty well-known tattoo artist in the area—having full control over the way materials reflect light means he doesn’t need to use needles. If you can manage to get more than a few words out of him, you’ll find that he’s actually pretty clever and has acute observation skills.

Dakota Harte / “Kitty” (Henna), “Kota” (general)

Dakota is a sweet and slightly soft spoken animal lover. I wouldn’t describe him as shy, but he’s easily flustered and absolutely melts whenever someone compliments him. He keeps to himself and can have trouble opening up, but once you get to know him, he’s a friend for life. He’ll drop everything to help out when his pals need it, even if it means he gets pushed a little too hard. It’s not that he doesn’t know his own limits, it’s just that he doesn’t want them to inconvenience anybody. Most days you can find him at the local animal shelter where he works, acting as a caretaker and translator for the critters there. He has a great love for all creatures great and small.

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(1) After years of calling it by a placeholder title, this universe has a name: Life in Color! I’m sure you can guess why.

(2) Psy and psi are both pronounced “sigh.” I wanted to make this as needlessly complicated and confusing as possible. Just remember: psi is the chemical, and psy is the person.

(3) There is evidence to suggest that things like temperature, plasma, or dark matter could influence elementia, but these theories have not been proven.

(4) I haven’t decided why yet (her parents are either divorced or they were never married at all), but Melanie’s bio mom is out of the picture, and has been for quite a while. Her dad raised her as a single father until she was around twelve, when he met the man he would later marry. She loves them both a whole lot! And just for flavor, her step dad is an electricity elemental.

(5) If Jasmine were to die while their soul was out of their body, they would be left in their soul state to wander the earth for an indefinite amount of time. It doesn’t happen often, but this is one of two ways that “ghosts” are made! Also, Jasmine enters this state whenever they sleep by default. For them, dreaming is just wandering around as a soul.

(6) Henna is basically telling the universe "This is where my hand is," and the universe is saying "Aw shit I guess so, you're the boss," and letting her move things she isn't actually touching. Telekinetic psi is really just metaphysical communication.

If anyone ever wants to ask me about these or any other ocs you knooooow id be all over it babey

[invinciblerodent]

1) Will your OC get married and with who? 2) Will they have any children? What are their names?

OC Ask Game!

I think I’m gonna go on for a long (long, long, LONG) time about Iona, and mention the others kind of as a footnote, because I think Iona’s answers to these are just… the ones that are most interesting to me, lol

(fair warning looking back, this got PROFOUNDLY away from me- the TL; DR of it is that for Iona marriage is "yes, eventually" and kids are "no, never", for Arvid marriage is a "yes, of course, sure" and kids are "well if you want it", and for Petyr both are "hah! no. nope. no.")

So, this whole “what now” issue in Iona’s case, it’s… all a bit muddled.

As a little background to it, in 3e, it’s said that courtships between elves often take a very long time, sometimes decades, before a commitment is reached- which is understandable, especially considering that elves are also said to seldom fall out of love with one another, and don’t typically remarry after the death of one spouse. A commitment that’s meant to span a lifetime of centuries (whether the life of one has a natural endpoint or not is irrelevant), it makes sense that they’d take it seriously, and not jump into soul-bonds willy-nilly. (An albatross is definitely going onto her moodboard now, lol.)

I think both Iona and Astarion would still be kind of... feeling themselves out, by the end of the game, and neither of them would be drawn to the thought of “blissful mutual domesticity” just yet.

I mean, on top of being a quite young elf, she’s spent a good 80% of her life among humans: her experience with life is colored by the perceptions of a people who are constantly trying to outrun the rushing of a clock that might as well be standing still for her. So exploring what time even means to her, that’d be a very exciting prospect. While Astarion, he was even younger than she is now when he had the “elven” part of his identity taken away from him, only to be made into someone that’s seen as a tool first, monster second, and person a distant third. He’s eager to re-learn personhood and live again, so they’re both sort of… (re-?)discovering themselves and their “feyness” together, and in each other. 

My little idea is that after the Brain’s defeat, they’re going to spend one or two decades on solo adventuring: primarily looking for a way to allow him to walk in the sun again, but that… proves itself to be something of a wild goose chase. The travel itself is annoyingly cumbersome (either they have to shelter during the day and cover no ground, or he has to be polymorphed and be both unable to communicate and practically defenseless [can’t risk fighting, if his form is dismissed he’s dead]). But also, there are just… too many disappointments. Too many dead ends. Too many times they’ve gotten too close only to find out that they were either late, or misled, or just plain wrong about something.

I think he’d grow frustrated with it first, and grow reckless: strain against his limits, start pushing his luck with the Sun, start making dangerous mistakes, and it’d be her who’d start gently encouraging (cajoling, bargaining, eventually pleading with-) him that maybe they should return to the Gate. To regroup, try to find other avenues, head off in a different direction. And while he'd know she's right, agreeing… it'd still feel like he’s admitting defeat.

Of course, he’d try to put on an unbothered face, but she would still obviously be able to tell that he’s upset: primarily with himself, but also a little bit with… everything. Of feeling both free and trapped, both bursting with the desire to DO something, but also being… powerless.

Which (stay with me, we're a third of the way!) is the context in which the thought of kids and “marital bliss” would rear its ugly head.

Because I headcanon that vampire spawn are naturally sterile. (I know full vampires can sire mortal offspring, but since spawn can’t create new vampires via bite and the bite is almost always a penetration-allegory, I like to think that translates to them being just… unable to reproduce, period.) And elves in general already have far lower fertility rates, so even if he wasn’t sterile because of the vampirism but just maybe less fertile than usual, the chances of conception between the two of them would still be infinitesimally small.

And I mean, the topic really wouldn’t come up naturally, so I think Astarion would likely think that she’d eventually want children. I mean, he knows very well that she had been previously married to a human- humans usually want kids, so it’d be a natural assumption that she’d be on the same page as her ex-husband, and the fact that she doesn’t have kids now wouldn't be for a lack of wanting. (It is. It is for a lack of wanting. But both of them being ~excellent~ [pejorative] at communicating, he definitely wouldn’t ask- if only for fear of the answer he thinks he'd get.)

So it'd kind of… eat at him, for a while, the thought that at some point, she might grow to resent him. There'd be a small, niggling part of his mind that'd worry that at some point, the limitations would all prove too much, and she’d grow frustrated, tired of always having to work with and around his… shall we say, conditions. Beyond his partial reliance on her pain and literal body for sustenance, the physical differences between them, and the messiness of healing (the times he startles awake screaming, the times he can’t bear even the thought of being touched, the times he’s frustrated with himself and takes it out on her), this is just one more thing.

He can’t take her out for a nice day in the city. He can’t warm her body at night, wine and dine her (or just share a meal like a regular person), or love her as brazenly as he did starting out, out on the street for all to see because… well, he can’t go out into the streets. Can’t even travel with her during the day, not without taking the shape of a stupid animal that can’t communicate with her, joke with her, or even delight her with the looks he had thought for so long were the only thing he was good for.

Though secure in her love of him, he’s not stupid, or an idealist who’d think that love alone is enough for a happily ever after. While enjoying the time while it lasts, naturally there’d be sort of a running tally in his head of all the ways their lives chafe against one another.

Watching her face grow paler and paler as she’s deprived of the sun and has her blood drained, he’d never quite stop wondering at what point is the scale going to tip, at what point she’d finally realize that she had bet on the wrong undead horse by choosing to love the vampire who asks her to sacrifice so much, and not only doesn’t want to, but isn’t even able to give her what (he thinks) she wants.

Which, she doesn’t want it, of course. She has not even one maternal bone in her body.

Iona is well aware that she would make a terrible mother, and she absolutely does not want to be one. So it wouldn’t even occur to her that this would be something on his mind on top of all else. When he’d be having his little personal crisis about this, she’d be busy trying to make the impossible happen and circumventing the need to find a way to give him back the Sun by inventing one herself. That’d be why she'd lock herself into her study alone for longer and longer periods of time, why she sometimes wouldn’t come out for days, why she'd sometimes steer the conversation away from certain things- she wouldn’t want to give him false hope in a project that’d quickly prove so far beyond her abilities.

But, she'd still obviously recognize his occasional bouts of melancholy- I mean, it’s very unusual for someone to look at another so fondly and happily one moment, and then get quiet and forlorn the next. That distance she'd see behind his eyes sometimes when she'd tell him she loves him, that’d be rather worrying to anyone.

It’ll take a while for this particular cat to work its way out of the bag, but it would happen eventually, of course.

In reality, none of that would bother her.

She delights in being the sole person deciding what, when, and how she wants to eat. She loves the coolness of his touch- it soothes the heat of the draconic blood running through her veins better than any balm. Sure, going to markets and doing all that domestic pish can be fun, but... well, she’s always been an indoorsy person. Being bitten is no burden (she wouldn’t offer if it was), and there being no risk of a pregnancy, even after the tadpole’s death? At the risk of sounding crass, that’s an incredible perk, with no downsides. Feeling him find his pleasure while buried deep inside her, with no pang of fear or worry? It’s absurd how perfect that is, how happy she is with the fact that with the man she loves, that fear of being impregnated against her will can be put completely to rest.

And the rest, the messiness, the less “pretty” parts of it all, the evenings spent soothing his pain that’s either real or real only to him, that’s… just what happens if you love someone. Sure, she worries of course, but even when it’s inconvenient, when it’s ugly, when the old scars feel like they’re on fire and she can’t even being to think of a way to help… she still loves him just the same.

So no, no children necessary. It’s not in the cards for them, and even if it was, I don’t think either of them would really want it, or be good at it.

... She’d probably like to overwrite the memories of her first marriage (and speak the word “husband” without rancor) though, but only eventually.

And I like to think that that’ll have to happen with an item I’m tentatively calling “Taran Tal’hondnor” (The Gift of True Love), and it’s an enchanted ring that she will finally be able to create after many years of study, and even more miserably failed attempts at creating an enchantment that’ll let a vampire walk in the sun.

I like to imagine her proposing to him, on her own terms this time, with one such gift.

Because she loves him to the point of invention.

Quickly on the others, Arvid… might like fatherhood, if he were so inclined. He’s a very caring, kind, nurturing person, and if he were to be in that position, he would probably be a very good dad. He’s generally in a nurturing role already, and Gale being in a teaching role, they could prove to be excellent parents, if that were what they wanted.

But they… probably wouldn’t want that. Gale being the age that he is (“canon” says 35, I see ~38-40, minor difference) and a human, yet saying that he’s “not ready”, I personally interpret that as a rather telling thing. His past of having spent such a long time in a "monogamous" (I'm fairly sure that part's one-sided, no time to go into that now) relationship with a goddess who had no intention of having kids with him, and his present willingness to be with an illithid who can’t, that to me is implying that it’s not something that’d be that important to him. Like I personally see that as him not actively preferring to have kids if it’s up to him (he likes peace, and quiet, and downtime, and a nice glass of wine with a quietly romantic evening meal- very much the quintessential childless millennial, 100% part of the appeal to me lol), but he’d be happily willing to do it if his partner wanted it themselves.

But in my world, his husband (I like how I skated by the first part of the question, I mean they already ARE married lol)… doesn’t really have such strong feelings about it either. So, since two "maybes" don’t make a "yes" (and for this kind of thing, you need two enthusiastic "yes"-es for it to no longer be a no), it’s a "no".

But I think their marriage is going to be very happy and fulfilling to both of them nevertheless. <3

And since I don't yet have any kissy-shots of them (☹️), have an "are you seeing this shit" silent exchange for these two <3

Honestly? I would sooner give a baby to a pack of feral wolves and hope for the best than have Petyr become a father. He'd absolutely be the kind of dad whose kids become DnD characters. He's someone's tragically emotionally distant boomer dad just waiting to happen. (I mean, come on. My guy felt inadequate once, and coped with it by fucking off to the woods for 20 years? Yeah, sure, father of the year.)

And Shadowheart, she basically didn't have parents growing up, she has a TON of cult indoctrination to process and unlearn as an adult, and -let's be real- likely has no fucking clue how motherhood would even really work. Like the woman whom she used to call "mother" pretty much straight-up tortured her. C'mon now.

I like to think that, though they are the only two in my lineup who are physically able to have kids by accident, they (with their 8 and 10 INT scores respectively) would still be smart enough to smell that particular disaster before they'd barrel into it head first, and either actively decide not to have kids, or put it off so far into the future as for it to be meaningless. Maybe the discussion can be tabled in a few decades' time, but since by then their home will be surrounded by, god, so many animals to take care of (including a barely not feral, adult owlbear) (and their mutual boyfriend who sometimes shows up for like a month to fuck nasty on every available surface of the house and surrounding wilds), I doubt it'll result in a resounding "yes".

In the same vein of things, if a big, beautiful, traditional wedding is something that she wants (which I... kinda doubt would be super important to her), she definitely bet on the wrong horse, because this guy is not one for pomp and circumstance.

I like to imagine that after their departure from the Gate (and their bidding of not exactly "farewell", but "see you later" to Halsin), he'll just... take her "home" to his little shack in his corner of the forest, and then, sitting under the canopy of his favorite woods, enjoying the balmy evening breeze and the undisturbed night sky with his favorite person, he'll look up at the moon, take her hand, and silently, in his head, give his thanks to the Moonmaiden for this peace.

And... that'll be it. From that point forward, it'll be easy to fall into a kind of sweet, quiet domesticity that is essentially a marriage in all but name.

I definitely like- and relate to the idea of them foregoing the "2.5 kids, white picket fence" idea of a happily ever after not out of a conscious rejection, but rather just by... being themselves. Together.

[copiousloverofcopia]

Prime Mover Ren, I have a desire for more short, one-shots of Terzo as a daddy. 💕

Ask and you shall receive Ghestie (even if it takes me forever to do it cause #primemover) lol

Anyways this little drabble was actually inspired by the Ministry BBQ art by @beepophobia and in honor of Father's Day!

So Happy Father's Day to all the Papas out there and HERE WE GO!

Terzo's Day

Also available HERE on AO3!

SFW below the cut!

The air was thick with sweet smell smoke and delicious shimmering meat. The sounds of laughter and small children playing, surrounded the Abbey grounds. As the afternoon sun shined brightly upon them, Terzo sat on one of the many picnic benches wearing a gray tank top to keep cool as he sucked back on a can of Peroni Nastro Azzurro—quenching his thirst. He was enjoying the day, his family close at hand and a happiness in his soul he could not find the words to describe.

"Fratello the grigliata mista di carne is gonna burn." he jabbed, watching his brother with Mr. Saltarian at the grill. Secondo was sensitive when it came to his cooking skills and Terzo’s playful commentary had definitely struck a nerve. Secondo starred up into his brows. Regaining composure before deciding to respond.  

"Cazzo, you keep your comments to yourself. I can handle the meat." he replied, balancing the cigarillo in his lip. Terzo shot back a wide-spread mischievous grin. Secondo, instantly regretting the way he phrased his words before Terzo blurted out his response. 

"Oh I bet!" Terzo laughed, dodging the ketchup bottle that caming flying across the table at him. Mr. Saltarian shaking his head at the juvenile antics of these supposed, “Heads of the Church”. A little bit of sibling rivalry and some good natured ribbing was par for the course at any Ministry barbeque. Today’s carnivore culinary exploration however was special. A celebration in honor of Father’s day and Terzo was determined to enjoy every minute of it.

The clergy, siblings, and ghouls all had gathered with their families in abundance. The Abbey grounds, almost faire like in its jubilance and brimming activity. It was on days like this when the full community of the Abbey came together in something other than prayers and rituals. Something other than their commits to Lucifer in which to allow themselves a moment of respite.  

Terzo was grateful, acknowledging that he had everything to celebrate. His beautiful Prime Mover Alessandra, was carrying their third child in her womb. Only days away from welcoming another yet Emeritus into his brood. Terzo, fully determined to populate the world with his unholy spawn. 

Two of which, Filomena and Dante, were gleefully running around with the ghoul kits as the grownups were preparing lunch. Terzo and his brothers had all huddled together at the grill. All of them bickering as to the right way to prepare the feast, a pastime that was one of the simplest pleasures.

It wasn’t that long ago that Terzo’s regard for Father’s day was barely a footnote to be mentioned. Every year the same unenthusiastic celebrations as he actively avoided fatherhood. While he and his brother’s were close, Nihil wasn’t exactly the type of father figure to be celebrated and so for all the years leading up to Alé, the day was nothing but monotonous and draining. Terzo, counting down the minutes until he no longer had to pretend to care about Nihil. 

Now this day was for him. He was now a father to be celebrated, a fact sometimes he still had trouble wrapping his head around. Terzo smiled as he watched those around him. Nihil was pouting that Secondo had shoved him off the grill, while Sister Imperator, in her new wide brimmed hat and back dress, consoled him. Secretly giving Secondo a thumbs up as they’d managed to evade Nihil’s poor cooking. 

Terzo caught sight of Copia, his best friend and their new reigning Papa. He was running around like a chicken with its head cut off as he dashed back and forth, grabbing all the things forgotten inside. Copia’s people-pleasing at an all time high during things like this. Terzo couldn't help but smile at him as he passed, buns in head and an anxious look on his face. 

Then Terzo set his sights on Primo. His eldest brother seemed at first to be content. Enjoying the outdoors even more so than normal—if that was physically possible. But underneath Terzo sensed something—a quiet sadness behind that old worn smile. 

Terzo placed his hand over Primo’s, catching his brother’s attention as he scooted up closer to the table, leaning over to speak. “You alright old man?” Terzo asked him. Primo at first said nothing, letting out a sigh as he continued to watch the activity around him. Taking a moment before his eyes met with Terzo’s across the table. 

“I will be…Fratellino…” Primo began, Terzo now concerned. The hint of melancholy in his voice and the painted smile seemed to be holding back something that Terzo had never recalled seeing with Primo before—pain.

“Si? What is wrong?” he asked him. Primo got quiet, clearing his throat and nodding as the siblings and ghouls passed by their table. Terzo knew that he was stepping into unfamiliar territory but he had to know. 

“Just promise me that you will never take what you have for granted.” Primo said quietly, his tone and demeanor betraying him. Allowing Terzo to see that there was more unsaid but that Primo couldn’t muster to speak. 

“Primo?” Terzo proceeded with caution. 

“Promise me that you will always honor Alessandra and love and cherish every child she bears you. That you won’t take for granted the blessings Satanas has given you—or you may end up an old bitter man like me.” Primo said with a smile. Terzo smiled back at him, it was evident then that while Primo had lived a long life, he had missed out on things—things for which he now had regrets. Terzo squeezed his hand tightly, struggling himself to maintain his composure as he spoke again.

“I promise fratello—I promise.” Just then little Mena came dashing up to the table. Her purple sundress, completely soaked and the curls of her dark hair dripping wet. 

“Dad!” she cried, “...Dante won’t stop squirting me with the water guns! I have asked him to stop but he won’t!” Terzo pivoted around on his bench, looking over to see his very guilty looking son staring back at him. Terzo allowed Menta to take his place as he stood. 

“Piccolo uomo, vieni qui dal tuo Papa.” he commanded Dante. His little boy was the spitting image of him, a mess of hair and a charming smile. He approached his father like a puppy with its tail tucked between its legs. His hands suspiciously hidden behind his back. 

“Yes Daddy?” Dante asked. His voice, sweet and his face adorned with the softest, round cheeks that Lucifer himself would be unable to resist pinching. Terzo dropped to his knees before him, bringing himself eye level with his son.

“Dante…sii serio piccolo. Have you been spraying your sister with the water again?” he asked him. Dante shook his head no, adamant that he hadn’t done anything wrong. It was then Terzo could see Alessandra coming up from behind them. Holding a pair of soft towels and a look of exhaustion spread across her beautiful face. 

Just as she reached them, Secondo called out that the food was done and the whole of the Abbey came running up from all around them. “Sorry I have been trying to keep up with them but it’s getting a bit hard.” she smiled standing before Terzo. He smiled back up at her, placing his hand on her belly and feeling their child kicking away inside her. 

“I can only imagine amore…but It seems we have a problem.” he said, sending her a wink.

“Oh, is that so?” Alé laughed. Mena stood up beside her father, still dripping as Terzo explained. 

“Si, apparently there is someone who looks exactly like Dante spraying Mena with a water gun.”

“Ah I see, what a weird coincidence. You see I seem to recall letting Dante and Phil’s nits get the water guns out from the green house.” Alé laughed again.

“Indeed.” Terzo replied, listening to Primo holding back his laughter from behind him. “Now Dante…are you sure that it wasn’t you?” 

“Yes.” Dante proclaimed. Alé raised an eyebrow at him, waiting for him to be honest with his dad as she knew the truth. And even more importantly she could see something Terzo could not. 

“You’re being too hard on the boy.” Primo commented, Terzo turning to face his brother before Dante spoke. 

“Daddy?” 

“Yes Dant—-” Terzo shouted as he was hit full force in the face with a cold stream of water. The likes of which was powered by the pair of water guns that Dante had hidden behind his back. Instantly Primo and Alessandra burst out in laughter. Watching as Terzo panicked a moment before opening his eyes and flipping back his dampened hair from his face. As his vision came into focus, he watched as his mischievous little boy ran off laughing with Mena trailing not far behind him.

Terzo turned back to face Primo, “Still have regrets?” he chuckled, the face paint running down his face. Primo nodded and smiled, Terzo was a lucky man and even though it wasn’t always easy he loved being a father to his children. He loved them more than life itself and that while it wasn’t always perfect it was his. And today was his day.

Notes: grigliata mista di carne -popular Italian barbecue dish of mixed grilled meats Piccolo uomo, vieni qui dal tuo papà- Little man, come here to your Papa. sii serio piccolo- be serious little one

[huntingteeth]

anyway, the advice "write for an audience of YOU" is really good, i always write the batshit fic i want to see in the world and here's a list of some of the initial ideas i had that spawned fic that i wrote:

a sleep token fic where my initial idea was "wow i bet iii is really good at LOOMING" and turned into an urban fantasy/magical realism fic with extensive worldbuilding and lore

an unsleeping city/winter soldier tiny crossover that less than 100 people read but i love

a buzzfeed unsolved fic where shane is related to wendy corduroy

a oneshot where erica sinclair blackmails steve harrington into babysitting her so she doesn't have to go to horse camp

two good omens fic that i wrote because i wanted to play around with having footnotes in a fic

an umbrella academy coffee shop au fic where i wanted to play around with having text messages in a fic and i wanted to call it "the ballad of but first, coffee" and i wanted none of the characters to have powers

an umbrella academy fic where five uses the old man and the sea as a metaphor for how he loves his siblings

an umbrella academy fic where i wanted to experiment with second person pov

a teen wolf fic where melissa mccall befriends derek hale that ended up being way more popular than it should have been objectively

a teen wolf fic where scott and isaac accidently make a monster that is a giant sentient ball of spaghetti that got over 250 kudos and where i argued with someone about the logistics of the magic behind a giant sentient ball of spaghetti monster fighting a different very large monster

a teen wolf fic where stiles is related to luna lovegood that is still my most popular fic to date that has over 33k hits, over 500 bookmarks, and a gross amount of kudos and OBJECTIVELY isn't that good of a fic

anyway, write the fic you want to see in the world because i bet you someone else wants to read it too

[lectorel]

Research Assistant from Kirkwall's Ring: almost two centuries ago, the Grey Warden Anders saved the world from an early sixth blight by destroying the Old Palace - the keystone of the ritual circle built into the very foundations of Imperium-era Kirkwall. Without his actions, the centuries of accumulated power's continued resonance with blighted lyrium would have turned the whole city into dark spawn within the decade.

Today, Old Kirkwall is a place of monsters and miracles, where spirits wander and demons thrive. No one lives in Kirkwall - but plenty of people make their living off it.

The inquisitor was one of them, a grad student from the University of Eastern Tantervale who led expeditions into Low Town in between writing his dissertation on the role of blood magic in transmitting the blight to non-organic objects.

He's blindsided by the fact that the Gray Warden Anders is known primarily as the mage who triggered the mage rebellion - in no small part because the mage rebellion/templar war thing is a tiny historical footnote compared to the discovery that lyrium is organic and can be infected with the blight.

Modern Thedasians in Inquisition:

(Yes, I am riffing on the Modern Girl in Thedas concept.)

Post-Reformation Qunari: Viddathari mage, under the arigena as silversmith, who only ever learned about the pre-reformation Qun's attitude towards mages as 'a product of what was known at the time'. Went through 'possession-proofing' at ten, which was mildly traumatic, but, you know, fair trade-off for being able to live without things trying to crawl inside their head.

The pre-reformation Qun, as embodied by the things the Iron Bull says about it, deeply troubles her, and she's constantly having small crises of faith. She grew up being taught that the problems of pre-reform were only due to what was not known to them at the time, and that any pre-reform qunari given the correct information would naturally adopt the post-reform view. The fact that this is not proving true is leading her to wonder how rational their society's beliefs actually are.

Especially troubled by the gender thing, since post-reform Qun has moved to seeing gender as a function of role: all those governed by the ariqun use zi/zir pronouns, those by the arishok use he/him, and those by the arigena use she/her. She's very bad at remembering what people's genders are, since to her, everyone is walking around with very clear gender signifiers that are not correct. Except Dagna, who is, in her mind, the only damn person in Skyhold who makes sense. 

Western Tevinter Vulgerati: Tevinter split in two in a massive civil war several generations before his birth, the outcome of which has resulted in the western liberationist province, and the eastern slave-holding province. Technically still the same country, but only because neither side will acknowledge the other as its own nation.

Western Tevinter has a split government - The House of the Magisterium and the Publicanium Assembly. The Magisterium's members are all mages, elected from a limited pool of candidates put forward by Altus houses. The Publicanium is non-mages from Vulgerati Houses, and seats are inherited.

Western Tevinter has a semi-regimated society, with Altus (mage) and Vulgerati (non-mage) houses theoretically being equals at the top of the heap. Below them are the Lanteans, land-owners, and below them the Soperati, the working class.

The herald is the adopted son of a vulgerati house, specifically adopted because the blood heirs all developed magic, and under western province laws, they can't inherit a vulgerati title. (The blood heirs are less than pleased with this, and their parents are trying to find an Altus house they can be married into.) He has vague memories about learning about Corypheus, but only in the context of 'that guy who pissed off the rest of the world so bad we spent a couple decades in a cold war. Did something to the fade, I think? I don't know, it's not exactly relevant to my life. If you want to know the past 50 years of covert warfare and political maneuvering, that I can tell you about.'

Is continuously appalled by Dorian 'allegedly a progressive' Pavus, because "by the old gods, man, there are a lot of possible outcomes between 'being comfortable as a slave' and 'being poor while free', how do you not see this?"

[dailyadventureprompts]

Footnotes on Foes: Psurlon/Moonbeasts

There are way too many aberrations in d&d who’s whole deal is “these gross aberrations use their psionic powers to practice slavery, and will likely eat you” a niche that’s already more than filled out by the illithid,  who have enough material lore to spawn more adventures than all of these creatures combined. There’s even more when (like me) you collect 3rd party and homebrew material looking to flesh out your enemies roster spelljamming adventures.

As such, I decided to cram two of these baddies together to create a far more interesting beast, the idea of which I largely credit to a writeup by @thecreaturecodex, who’s discussion on how the creature’s lore changed over editions gave me a solid idea to work with.

Travellers of the deep desert tell tales of strange temples built atop subterranean warrens, of the things that lurk beneath blind and witless, and how on some nights these creatures emerge and are transformed: growing in intelligence and cruelty and engaging in raids or wild revels, before the sun rises and they return to a bestial state once again.

Given the name “moonbeasts” for their habit of reaching toward the darkened heavens with their mass of facial tendrils as part of their nocturnal ritual, these creatures were infact hosts for a seperate group of entities called the Psurlon. This alien species had “ascended” beyond the need for physical bodies but periodically inhabited the flesh of the moonbeats to enjoy all the corporeal pleasures they could. The Psurlon believed that this ascension over flesh made them inherently superior, and led them to view the lives and bodies of other creatures, including sentients, as material to be dominated, enjoyed, and consumed.

Adventure Hooks:

On their own, moonbeasts are relatively harmless, subteranian scavengers more than actual predators, living alone or in small packs. They only truly become dangerous when the stars are right and they are possessed, or when they are are compelled to gather food for the Psurlon’s feasts and end up hunting people and animals alike in order to stock their larders. In a mixed bit of fortune psurlons prefer to consume their prey alive, giving captured creatures a chance to escape or be rescued from the cavernous pits where they are stored before the stars align and the Moonbeasts drag them out for eating.

Above all Psurlon want comfort and indulgence, and will willingly squat in a decaying ruin/moonbeast lair for centuries. When they do get bored of their surroundings, one of their leaders uses planeshift to warp them to a new world where they can find some locals to bully and enslave. The Psurlon’s set themselves up as gods or lords to be worshiped and provided tribute, choosing  or constructing new hidden cave warren for their moonbeast hosts and having their subjects build a temple around it to deliver riches and sacrifices to. In this way the Psurlons hop from world to world, leaving moonbeasts and crashpads in their wake.

While they have an easier time inhabiting the minds of the animalistic moonbeasts, Psurlons are capable of overtaking any humanoid with psionic talent using physical contact one of their regular hosts as a sort of “signal booster”.  The process of prying the victim’s mind free of their body takes hours, and leaves them drifting lost in the astral sea while the Psurlon acts as a physically and socially clumsy imposter. The alien invaders mostly consider this to be a dumb party trick, but occasionally use their stolen vessels as blackmail material, or to lure others to the feast. 

[bookoftheironfist]

    On this day (January 17) in 1978, the first issue of Power Man and Iron Fist hit stands, kicking off what would become a rejuvenating series for its lead characters, and a classic, beloved comic with a decades-long influence. The series came about due to a stroke of editorial brilliance and the declining sales of two separate, relatively new solo comics. Power Man (previously Luke Cage: Hero for Hire) and Iron Fist were both floundering, likely due to declining interest in the mainstream media movements that had spawned them. In 1978, Luke Cage had been around for only six years and Danny Rand for four. With their comics in danger of cancellation, these fresh new characters could have vanished into the footnotes of Marvel history. Instead, the decision was made to pair them up, pouring them and their supporting casts into one larger-than-life buddy book. Thus, in Power Man #48-49, Luke ran fist-first into Danny, Misty Knight, and Colleen Wing, leading to the official start of their joint series in Power Man and Iron Fist #50 (carrying over from the Power Man numbering). 

    It was an introductory issue with a huge task: to reintroduce its extensive cast of characters (Luke, Danny, Misty, Colleen, Jeryn Hogarth, Claire Temple, Rafael Scarfe, Harmony Young...) for the benefit of new readers, and establish the relationships between them that would serve as the foundation for this new series-- while also providing an explosive, exciting story befitting the cover’s "most unbeatable adventures ever!” claim. It’s a busy issue, but amazingly, it nails pretty much all of this, creating a gripping adventure of Luke’s new freedom being threatened by murder-bent vigilantes, and igniting the strong friendships that formed the heart of the comic and ended up making it such a long-lasting and beloved series. 

Power Man and Iron Fist vol. 1 #50 by Chris Claremont, John Byrne, Dan Green, Denise Wohl, and F. Mouly

[unofficial-sean]

On Scorn (Spoilers)

Now that I’ve covered the non-spoiler reflection, its time to get into the details. Fellow scorn players: whaaaat the actual fuck?!!?!

Okay, first off, that first puzzle room was brilliant and unsettling, but when you you finally retrieve that. . . pod creature. . . it was heart wrenching. You spent how ever much time, before, looking at these machines and inferring their function. What is this area for? Some sort of flesh processing facility? Are husks made here? Was I made here? Who operates and runs this facility? Aliens? Why are the controls humanoid, then? Are we on another planet?

In the buzzsaw roof, you find shriveled bodies with deep cuts in their skull. I thought to myself, “whatever I must do, I’m gonna have to take another person and run them through this horrible factory.” I thought I was prepared. I was not.

The pod creature cries out to you with not mouth. It looks at you with human eyes. It reaches for you. It pleads. But you have to keep pushing the cart. The first process, attaching some for of machinery to the pod. It screams in pain. Is it. . . part of the pod? It keeps reaching out. Keep looking at you with two eyes and no mouth. It squeals. I was so distressed and disturbed. It’d be weird if I wasn’t. Next, I take it to the scoop-like machine. I’m guessing I have to remove the creature--no, person--from the pod, and then take him to the buzz saw. Fuck, I have to take him to the saw. A crane carries him to the scoops cradle. I activate the scoop. . .

He lifts his arms up in a useless attempt to prevent the scoop from gouging him out. He screams with not mouth. The scoop cuts off one of his arms, lifts his mangled body from the pod, and drops his bloody corpse into the hole. and-

Wait, what?! I thought I had to take him to the saw after this. Now he’s just gone?! Yep. All I’m left with is an arm. I realized, then, that I could have taken him to the saw, first. He’d probably have tried to stop it with his arm, too, and it would be cut off all the same. I can’t imagine what that must have looked like. I don’t want to.

I then figured out what the solution was and was on my way. 

Last thing I wanted to air was the first creature you encounter after the, uh. . whit goop explosion-spill? You black out and wake up in some pod with an umbilical cord in your chest. You walk across the wasteland, taking everything in, enter the facility, and you’re back where you started. It was a brilliant full-circle.

Anyways, the creature. it eventually jumps on you and I thought either I was gonna kill it, or it was gonna leave me mangled or throw me into a new area. Nope! It climbs on my back and shoves its hands into my chest cavity and give me my weapon back. So this creature is a friend! In a fucked up kinda way. Nothing to fear. You continue on as normal. . . until you are stopped when it removes its hands and shoves them back in again. If you whip out the jack hammer after this happens, you can see that you lose a health bar. Oh, so it’s killing me. Like a parasite.

So, the new goal is to remove it from me at some point. Awesome.

The first hostile creatures you can kill in this new flesh infested area left me worse for wear. I’m in the area with the cages and cranes, and I learned that you can actually hide from the acid creature at the bottom of that corridor (that you have to go through). Just stand around the corner. It will walk (very fucking slowly) all the way up, and then de-spawn. I couldn’t believe it. So that’s an option. I’ve died twice in this section, and after considering having to go through this are for the third time in one sitting, I called it quits.

Let me know your thoughts! Share your insights or tricks! Up to where I’m at, obviously. Don’t spoil it haha.

Footnote: Look at my shadow. See anything wrong? (other than the fact that my jack hammer in not in my hands)

I’ll tell ya the answer: WHERE’S THE BIG PARASITE THAT IS CURRENTLY CLINGING TO ME AND HAS ITS HANDS IN MY CHEST?! I had hoped this would provide a subtle horror moment where, if you noticed, you could see the parasite on you, since you can’t see it otherwise. It’s be a nice garnish. But nope!

[llsilvertail]

(I'm reblogging this version of the post bc I like all the points made here, but my reblog is mostly gonna be addressing the original ask)

Disclaimer: I'm closest to fem agender (it's a work in progress lmao) and aroace. While I don't have any conlangs myself, I've been pretty immersed in it and worldbuilding for quite a few years now. I'm also very interested in queer/LGBTQ-ness to the point where I'm literally volunteering to help with an annual survey. I'm def not a trained resource for any of that tho XD, so don't take my word as gospel.

(TLDR at the end but before the footnotes)

So the way people conceptualize gender, sexuality, etc. comes entirely from their interactions with their culture/environment. Language is simply a reflection of those concepts, not a control over their existence[1].

Queer[2] people will always exist in societies in some shape or form no matter how open or restricted things are. For example, take trans people in western society. The idea of "transsexual" (and by extension "transgender") as an identity is a very very recent development (within the past century) when compared to the English language as a whole. Yet, through today's lenses, people who could theoretically be placed into it, have been around long before this label for it existed. (Another good example is the whole evolution in culturally Christian places from "people do sodomy" to "people are gay".)

Now that was a comparison over time. If we compare cross-culturally[3], "third genders" are much more common than what we, in the west, are led to believe. Unfortunately I don't have enough experience or knowledge to properly talk about a specific culture, so ig it's gonna be a more abstract discussion. The terms "lesbian" inherently has both a gender (woman) and a sexuality (interested in women) baked into it[4]. Even the gender neutral term "homosexual" requires knowledge of the gender of the identifying person[5]. But a different culture may use specific terms for "attracted to [gender]", which, while no longer needing the gender of the identifying person, also loses information about how that orientation would relate to society.

Those are the two primary macro variations[6], over time and over distance, of a society and, if we look at language, it also varies in the same way. So trying to apply our sensibilities to a culture that's (theoretically) unrelated to us is an exercise in futility, let alone trying to create language describing it.

That said, there will most definitely be a concept of "queerness" in most con-cultures. As I said, "queer people will always exist in societies in some shape or form", and that will also apply to a constructed human/human-like society. I can't give a full guide for "possible ways to construct variations within a culture that would lead to queer-specific language", bc that would be way too much for an already long post, but one way to come up with terms about that is: what is the "normative" way to be, both in the past and in the present; how does the culture react to people falling outside the norm; how might people (both intentionally and unintentionally) conflict with that and then resolve those conflicts[7]; in what ways might a subculture surrounding that develop and what vocabulary would it spawn. And then there you go!! A queer culture is born!!!!

TLDR: Saying a conlang "[isn't] progressive enough" is a flawed premise in a few different ways including, but not limited to: people will always be queer in some way or another, different people consider different things "queer" so they might not deem it necessary to have a word for it, etc. But if you are trying to include queer language in your conlang (and I assume you are), you need to consider how it would manifest in your con-culture before you can start coming up with actual words. Sorry, that got way longer than I intended for it to be (it's 3:30 am and I've been going since 1 or 1:30 so...) so I'm gonna go sleep now and hope it makes sense.

[1] Yes ik Sapir-Whorf, etc. exists but that's not what this is about (tho I suppose, if you think about it, the weak version is technically in play here lol).

[2] I'm deliberately using "queer" instead of "LGBTQ+", bc this would be applicable to much of the internal cultural variation which isn't necessarily encompassed by "LGBTQ+". (that doesn't make sense but my brain is starting to not work so oh well. have fun figuring it out)

[3] I have a lot of entirely irrelevant worldbuilding thoughts about this, but I put in an entire paragraph's worth of digressions I had to remove and I'd feel bad if I didn't at least mention its existence.

[4] Yes ik about he/him lesbians, etc. but that's not what this is about. I simply need a common, well known, example.

[5] It's "attraction to the same gender", so there's no way to know who they're attracted to without knowing the gender of the person themself.

[6] I'm sure there's an actual word for this, but I'm not a sociologist lol, so ig that's what we're stuck with.

[7] Including like, societal roles that would be more okay with "abnormal" things, safe spaces they could go to or meet at, etc.

I don't think that any of your conlangs are progressive enough to express being trans, but if they were, how would they? What about other gender/sexuality things?

That first clause is quite a thing to say. Languages aren't progressive. Their users may be, but the languages aren't anything. They're just languages. If you mean they're not modern (i.e. a lot of the languages I create are for cultures that are somewhat antiquated compared to our world), this is true, but that doesn't necessarily mean the languages won't have terminology for different gender identities.

There is a major assumption here, though. My understanding (and please do note: I am a cis man; please feel free to correct), cis and trans individuals, as opposed to nonbinary and genderfluid, are similar in that neither have any doubt about what gender they are, identifying with either male or female. So if any language I've created has a word for "man" or "woman", then there's sufficient vocabulary for a trans individual to express their identity that way.

However, there is a terminological difference, and it's both an individual choice and societal preference: Whether to identify as one's chosen gender identity, as trans, or both (e.g. "I am a woman", "I am trans", or "I am a trans woman"—and then preferring to use one of those or all of those, or some other combination of the three). My personal language preference (as a user and language creator) is fewer distinctions are better (why have three third person singular pronouns—or four or twelve—when you can have one?), because it's less to memorize, less work to use, and demands less specificity of the user—and allows the hearer/reader to make fewer assumptions. Unless the situation calls for it (e.g. the gender system hard-coded into Ravkan in Shadow & Bone), I prefer lumping rather than splitting. This is especially useful as I'm often not in charge of the culture I create languages for.

For example, the languages I've created for A Song of Ice and Fire were for cultures created and maintained by George R. R. Martin. Whatever cultural innovations I have made in creating the languages are, at best, pending—that is, true until George R. R. Martin says otherwise, which he is free to do at any time, as it's his world. As a result, I don't feel confident enough to say what life is like for a trans individual in his world, and how that might be reflected in the languages there. There's simply not enough information.

Where I might be in charge of the culture, you do know my preference now (i.e. fewer distinctions), but, as I am not trans, I'd prefer to leave it to the trans community to decide, and then do what I can to support those decisions linguistically (i.e. to make it work within the language). Any term chosen highlights some aspect of the experience while downplaying others. In English, trans, coming from transition, highlights the change from one identity to another. Other ideas for how to come up with a term might be using a root that refers to "true", highlighting the transition to one's true gender expression. Perhaps another root to look for would be "choose", framing it as one's chosen gender expression—IF one wishes to look at it that way.

In many ways, both the term and the experience are highly individual, and it's difficult to come up with a blanket term and say "this is the term". It's especially difficult since this isn't a life experience I share. It feels both disingenuous and a bit icky to come up with a term to describe an experience that is decidedly not my own.

My own preference in this regard is a twofold approach:

Allow trans users of whatever language to figure out what term works for them, and then support them in creating a term that obeys the various language rules (i.e. the phonology is correct, derived words are derived correctly, etc.). Those users, however, will be operating under the same "rules" that I operate under, e.g. the one who's creating the culture has the final say, if they care to weigh in, and so the result may end up not being canon, at which point it's up to the user to decide whether they care or not. (Note: I shouldn't have to explain it here on Tumblr, but, of course, you don't have to care if the creator of the canon says something isn't so, no matter how many billions they have.)

Allow polysemy. There will never be a term that is THE term. It may be an individual's preferred term, but someone else may like another, in which case it should be allowed.

A very important language-specific note (and the same is true of fandom, generally). By agreeing to work within a language, we're essentially agreeing to rules of a game. The rules can always be broken. When rules are broken, the question language users have to answer is if they've been broken so egregiously that they're no longer playing the game, or if it's fine. For example, if you look at fanfic, there's plenty of fanfic with gender-swapped characters, or the same characters in a radically different setting. Some readers may decide they don't want the characters to be gender-swapped. Others may decide that if it's not in the same setting they're not interested. And that's fine! Both the writers and the readers are deciding which rules of the game can be broken while still calling it the same game. This works very, very well so long as no one gets mad at anyone else. If someone says, "I don't enjoy this because it breaks the rules in a way that ruins my enjoyment", that's perfectly fine. If that same person says, "You're not allowed to break the rules in this way", that's not fine.

So hopefully this all makes sense. And, furthermore, when I say I want to support those who wish to create their own terms, I do mean it. If anyone has suggestions or needs help coining a possible word, feel free to message me! But do bear (2) above in mind. I'm not going to say any term is THE term, and have that be the end of it. It'll be one possibility amongst a rainbow of possibilities.