#are dubious at best and so lazy when it comes to learning to read your dog’s body language

[darkwood-sleddog]

Not me being targeted one of those dumb speaking dog button videos and the dog literally stress yawns while performing the behavior. Like okay. What if we just…oh I dunno just throwing this out there…learned to communicate with dogs using our knowledge of their own body language instead of forcing them to use a system that’s for our benefit and our benefit alone?

[lochnessies]

ok here’s a dissection of a post an anon sent me the link to and bc i have the worst time management possible and i completely forgot i had it lol so sorry anon here you go ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

I am constantly thinking about how Edelgard just doesn’t seem designed to appeal to cishet men.

i hate to be the one to break this news to you op but just because a character doesn’t show skin like charlotte fire emblem doesn’t mean she isn’t designed to pander to men. she’s very much designed to pander to the (majority straight male) player base with her ‘uwu i only trust you professor omg did u see that rat? pls don’t look at my painting of you uwu’.

then there’s the whole edelgard c support in japanese where byleth makes reference to having come to her room for ‘yobi’ which is

there’s also the scene where byleth can make an unsolicited comment about edelgard’s breast size. which is… uhh… gross.

edelgard also has cipher cards that go from slightly fanserviceie to full on suggestive

and also her breast armor that my sister relentlessly mocked lol

and here’s a chart from the 3h subreddit about gender/sexually in regards to edelgard and edeleth. it’s extremely straight male. op might have just overlooked this since they probably don’t go on reddit and stay on tumblr (which unlike reddit is mostly female and has a high lgbt demographic).

Like the joke is that Bleagles is the Gay House, but everything about her feels deliberately non-hetero.

i don’t like where this is going…

She’s dressed in sharp outfits covering her upper body, with proportions that don’t seem exaggerated.

so women who cover up must be lgbt because straight women are naturally more revealing? oh y i k e s

Her poise and the way she effortlessly flourishes her axe exhibits an air of coolness. While titties out =/= character of no substance, Edelgard being dressed more modestly suggests that she wasn’t designed with male-centred fanservice in mind.

“titties don’t equal no substance but here’s my post on how she has more substance because she doesn’t show titties” ok

And she still looks absolutely stunning in her more modest attire (like seriously, I haven’t felt the need to return to cosplay in years but I want to do her academy look so bad). 

yes she does. amazing design 10/10. i have a feeling this is the only part i’m going to agree with

Edelgard is intense. She does not mince her words and she is constantly evaluating you. Though she tries, she has a difficult time understanding her peers initially. Early on, she talks about how she would sacrifice herself and others in the name of some greater good. She is terrible at communicating with her peers. She has to be seen as infallible. Her heart has been hardened for years and she assumes she has to stay that way. She also assumes everyone mourns the same way she does - which is why she (kind of insensitively) insists you move on when Jeralt dies. Because to her, grief has to be channeled towards action, or else you’ll get lost in it. This attitude is demonstrated time and time again as she presses on. It can make her come off as cold and unfeeling - but look closer, and she’s anything but.

don’t really have anything to say at this part. it is pretty on the nose though i would slightly disagree with that last sentence a bit. i wouldn’t say she’s as i feeling as hubert is but all of her talks of the war boil down to how she feels and never her victims.

Her story is ultimately about her realizing that to achieve her goals, she needs to let people in and allow herself to want things like cakes and tea parties and lazy days in peace. 

????? what ????? her goals include imperialism, ethnic and religious targeting. her story is about having a set of beliefs and mowing down anybody who stands in her way. that has nothing to do with tea, friends, and lazy days. also am i supposed to be sad that she has to get up everyday and work? i do that and i didn’t start a war and only throw a pity party for myself

The game leaves the player guessing as to how involved the Flame Emperor was in each Part I event, makes you feel hurt by her betrayal, and leaves you with a choice: do you follow the orders of the woman who tried to make you a god without your consent, or a young girl with questionable morals about to throw the world into upheaval?

this isn’t an ideal situation but i think i’m going to stick with the woman who tried to make me a god since i’m not selfish and i know it’s not only my desires and life at stake here. plus the green hair slaps ngl

Choosing her of your own volition (not for completionist reasons) requires the basic ability to sympathize with a woman’s pain. It also requires the player to read beyond her unwavering will and dubious methods to get a sense of how deep that pain goes and how the theme of humanity relates to her differently in each route.

i’m not going to touch this since @nilsh13 made a post on it that i’ll link here. i agree with everything he said so to repeat it would be redundant.

The player must be able to see a young woman’s desperate resolve to change the world so it stops exploiting people and ruining lives. They must be able to accept the fact that women can make the same morally wrong and ambivalent decisions that complicated male characters get to make all the time and still be the one to root for.

literally the same reason i love rhea lol her goddess experiments are dubious at best but her reasons are the same you mentioned. i would say that i like this quality in edelgard too if her ending, while bloody, actually ended in a good outcome for fodlan.

This is not unique to LGBT+ people, but this population is likely to understand why Edelgard feels so strongly about why she has to change the system. 

i understand wanting to change a system, i really do. like edelgard, i’m an opinionated bisexual woman (who’s also physically disabled) so yeah i get it. and change can be good but it can also be terrible. even if the church was the boogeyman edelgard treats it as she still replaces it with her own shit regime. so it’s the same circus just with a new conductor.

I don’t think “Edelgard gets undue criticism because she’s a woman” captures the full picture. An important aspect of her treatment by certain parts of the fandom is that she’s a radical woman.

or maybe she does some pretty fucked up shit and it goes unacknowledged in her own route. and yeah she’s radical but in all the worst ways.

Her hatred of the Church and the Crest system resonates way harder with people who have been hurt by institutions that are deeply engrained in our society. 

and what about people who have been hurt by systems where their ‘merit’ didn’t measure up and they were left behind? what about people from nations that experienced imperialism?

Siding with her means siding against the Church - which, while different from real world religious institutions, still invokes language about “sin” and “punishment.

yeah the ‘sins’ and ‘punishments’ are used in relation to attempted murders which i think everybody can agree is a bad thing that needs to be condemned.

Choosing Edelgard will likely hit different if homophobic and transphobic Christians used that rhetoric against you.

it has literally nothing to do with ‘sins’ and ‘punishments’ in regards to being gay or trans. that’s you projecting. especially since the church has 2 canon gay characters and two coded ones.

like i can understand why having a church condemn you can be uncomfortable but i’m begging you to please look at the context of what’s happening.

I’m willing to go out on a limb and say that the reason F/F Edeleth is the more popular iteration of that ship because most people who would choose to S-support Edelgard are LGBT+ themselves. This is not a revelation. To anyone in the community, it’s fairly obvious. 

i was talking to nilish and he said

so yeah… while there is definitely sapphic femleth shippers out there, there’s still a whole lot of weird fetishizing going on from straight men about edelgard.

Crimson Flower was my first route. I went into the game knowing absolutely nothing. I played it during the last week of 2020 and hoo boy was it cathartic. 

i can tell. this wasn’t supposed to be a dig but it came out that way and i’m not taking it out.

I felt like I was living out a gay revolution power fantasy, where I could truly change systems of oppression while fighting alongside a group of troubled students I’d shaped the lives of.

so a gay revolution power fantasy (cringe) goes hand in hand with imperialism and installing a dictatorship? also the war had nothing to do with sexuality.

Through your unwavering support, Edelgard learns that she needs to be human, that she must listen to her friends, and that she’s allowed to enjoy the world she’s creating.

edelgard gets to learn how to be human all while hunting those who don’t. and she doesn’t listen fo her friends. she doesn’t even trust them. she’s willing to talk to byleth but keep the people who’s been by her side for five years in the dark about everything. and yeah she gets to enjoy her new words since she’s on top. hate to be a commoner under her rule after she burned down my village in her war.

I love this character so much.

clearly. and i honestly don’t care if somebody likes her. i do as well even if my sometimes scathing words can make it seem otherwise.

It has been six months since I first played and I am still analyzing her,

me too. please help me escape i’m losing my mind

because there’s so much depth. Yet so many people fail to see that depth and dismiss her as evil,

i mean, she does some fucked up shit that goes beyond any of the less than desirable actions of the other main characters and does an extremely poor job in trying to make herself seem innocent. i personally don’t think she’s pure evil but i completely understand where the people who say she is are coming from.

because they never had the will to understand complicated women in the first place. 

that’s big talk from somebody who implies that a gay pope is comparable to homophobic and transphobic irl religions and that leads an oppressive regime all because she uses the vague terms of sin and punishments that you have to gay power fantasy your way out of

[vivithefolle]

Not sure if you already talked about this. (I’m pretty sure you have) but someone seemed to notice that when the trio get into fights, Hermione’s always in the right. Even when she’s supposed to be wrong she always seems to be half right. That kind of bothers me. Especially since it’s evident in the whole Scabbers situation.

I have indeed, on Quora, so let’s move yet another answer of mine to Tumblr!

Hermione is seldom wrong in the Harry Potter books. Sometimes she makes mistakes but those mistakes are either completely swept under the rug or downright ignored.

It’s partly due to lazy writing and partly due to Rowling’s own growing bias in favour of her Author Avatar that was fuelled by Steve Kloves, the primary advocate of the Hermione Granger Is The Perfect Girl Ever line of thinking (an utterly ridiculous line of thinking mind you).

Lizo: Steve, Hermione is a character that you have said is one of your favorites. Has that made her easier to write?

Steve: Yeah, I mean, I like writing all three, but I've always loved writing Hermione. Because, I just, one, she's a tremendous character for a lot of reasons for a writer, which also is she can carry exposition in a wonderful way because you just assume she read it in a book. If I need to tell the audience something...

JKR: Absolutely right, I find that all the time in the book, if you need to tell your readers something just put it in her. There are only two characters that you can put it convincingly into their dialogue. One is Hermione, the other is Dumbledore. In both cases you accept, it's plausible that they have, well Dumbledore knows pretty much everything anyway, but that Hermione has read it somewhere. So, she's handy.

Now this, right here, is the exact core of the problem.

Rowling herself admits it: if she wants the readers to have information, she puts Hermione in the scene. Hermione is our primary means of exposition because, like *grits teeth* Sssssteve puts it, it’s easy to assume that she’s read about it somewhere and it makes sense.

That’s all well and good but at first, if you notice, Ron also gave us exposition about the wizarding world, mostly about its culture. He was able to recall the exact year of the Wizarding Confederation that outlawed dragon breeding in Philosopher’s Stone! He explained what were respectively a “Mudblood”, a “Squib”, and Parseltongue, Hermione doing a little exposition about the history of that last one! He was also able to identify Sirius, after being dragged into the Whomping Willow, as an Animagi!

But then Goblet of Fire happens and you can notice the first change that will exponentially grow through the books: instead of Ron, pureblood Ron, born-before-the-end-of-the-war Ron, lived-through-the-aftermath-of-the-war Ron, identifying the Dark Mark, it’s instead Hermione, muggleborn Hermione, lived-as-a-Muggle-for-most-of-her-life Hermione, has-no-idea-about-the-emotional-impact-of-the-Mark Hermione who looks terrified as the Dark Mark shoots into the sky!

And it only will get worse, by the end of the series, Hermione pretty much knows about everything the plot needs her to know, instead of having to work with things she knows but can’t always apply to the situation:

Suddenly has a deep knowledge of Magical Law (in the will of Dumbledore’s chapter, while we had Rufus Scrimgeour who could have provided it to us, or to a lesser extent, Ron could have explained how a wizarding will basically worked)

Is suddenly an expert at finding edible plants and mushrooms. Apparently books are always the goddamn answer in JKR’s world, you can literally learn anything from them

She can decipher all the Tales of Beedle the Bard (may I remind you that they were written in Runes, okay Hermione may have a few years of Ancient Runes education BUT I once tried to translate a 3k+ story I had written for fun, from French to English, which means I knew what the subtleties and intentions were, I knew which turns of phrase I had to preserve so it would make sense in the end, and it still took me two gruelling weeks to get a satisfying result!)

Has suddenly grown a sense of quick-thinking (escaping Xenophilius’ house, using the jinx to make Harry’s face weird-looking) despite it being the only remaining flaw she had at the time (remember when she turned her back on her enemy while he was still conscious just to compliment Harry, and almost died as a result, even though she had been training in the DA to learn how to fight Death Eaters?) Quick-thinking under pressure can be learned, but it takes time and a lot of work to force your brain to override its instinct - and it’s fine because we’re all human and different. But no suddenly Hermione is the Greatest Strategist Evah™ and those silly boys (who actually were the original quick-thinking ones, and one of them was established as the strategist early on) better be grateful for this literal goddess because she protects them from all harm with her superhuman brain.

Somehow knows about Quidditch stuff - she knows about a Snitch’s “memory-touch”. Why should she give all the answers? Why can’t Ron give us this particular tidbit of information?

And then when we come to something Ron actually knows, the damn narration itself goes “woah a book that Ron has read but Hermione hasn’t??? shocking!! incredible!! Ron is not dumb, somebody call the news channel”. But… is that really so surprising? We’ve never seen Hermione read wizarding fiction or even Muggle fiction. We’ve never seen Hermione with anything other than schoolbooks in her hands. Of course Ron has read books she hasn’t read since she doesn’t seem to read fiction at all!

Sorry, bit of a tangent over here.

There are only two characters that you can put it convincingly into their dialogue.

So, that’s one part of the problem: the fact that Rowling, after making Ron our insight into magical culture and Hermione our provider of knowledge, ended up saying “eh whatever I guess Hermione can tell us everything we gotta know because it’s more convenient for me”. Which is a decision that was not based on Hermione’s character, but simply lazy writing. Long story short, it probably went: “Could Ron explain this bit of trivia? Meh, better make Hermione say it cause she’ll have read it in a book. It’s convenient and I won’t need to bother myself with exploring Ron’s characterisation.”

(And thus completely forgetting that Ron could maybe ask his big brothers via owl and provide us with a good heap of extra advanced knowledge - Bill is supposed to have aced his NEWTs after all.)

The other part of the problem is quite simply that Hermione is more often than not, either painted as a victim by the narrative (which makes more people take her side, classic manipulation tactic), or made to be right anytime it’s about a plot point.

Hermione’s mistakes are never explicitly stated, corrected, or even pointed out as being unethical.

Hermione only gets one mistake expressedly pointed out as being a mistake: her misadventure in Polyjuice Potion. The rest of them? Even her crush on Lockhart can’t be counted as a mistake - people get crushes all the time, based solely on physical appearance, it’s not something awful or terrible (Except when it’s Ron who crushes on someone. Ron crushing on someone is absolutely forbidden, and he must be punished with much ridicule and humiliation if he thinks he can get away with not worshipping Hermione like the goddess she is. The nerve of him, really.).

Throughout the books Hermione eventually morphs into Rowling’s Powerful Angel of Vengeance, that punishes the people who dared to do something she disliked - Rita is silenced but at a very ethically dubious price; Marietta gets scarred for life because she was more loyal to her mother than to a bunch of people her friend insisted she hang out with; Umbridge is led to a very, very alarming fate that is never made clear but some people have ideas and they’re not all very kid-friendly; Ron first is “helped” without knowing it because Hermione can’t be bothered to have faith in his capabilities, then when he fails to dutifully reward her for “helping” him, she causes him bodily harm before actively bullying him for not mind-reading her interest in him; causes even more bodily harm to Ron because that’s how feminism works; etc.

Hermione’s mistakes are always justified through the plot itself (which is lazy writing).

Turning into a cat? Only affects her.

The Firebolt? Scabbers? Well, in the end, it was really sent by Sirius Black and Crookshanks really wasn’t the culprit. Therefore all the feelings that were hurt and all the trust lost are irrelevant because Hermione was right all along.

Trying to free the house-elves? Well, it’s the intent that counts, right? And we’re never told enough about house-elf lore to know whether they’re poor brainwashed victims or powerful Penate-like symbiotes who need to serve a wizard to survive?

Kidnapping Rita Skeeter, trapping her and blackmailing her? Rita may be one foul little beetle, but that’s going a bit far, isn’t it? Harry approves? Oh, well, I guess it’s okay then…? A main character can’t have a dubious morality, right?

Manipulating Harry into forming Dumbledore’s Army and forcing him to relive a traumatic event with the same woman she’s kidnapped and blackmail and that she knows he hates? In the end, it all works out for the best and Harry’s hurt feelings don’t matter since it’s all about the greater good.

Using the centaurs to get rid of Umbridge (which poses the highly distressing question of what did the centaurs do to her?), realizing that the centaurs aren’t nice little horsies that are going to gently obey her every orders like good Disney princess’ companions, my goodness could this be an opportunity for character growth - nevermind, here comes Grawp the Giant Ex Machina, saving her arse and protecting Hermione from all that scary possibility of introspection. Thanks, Grawp Ex Machina.

Trying to dissuade a highly stressed-out and irrational Harry from rescuing Sirius by telling him exactly what he needed not to hear, a.k.a. “you have a saving people-thing” which causes Harry to completely go bonkers and go save his godfather without thinking twice? Well she was right after all, it was a trap! Nevermind how mind-boggingly insenstive and inadept at dealing with someone else’s feelings she was being, she was right! That means it wasn’t Hermione’s mistake!… probably. (Geez, I’m sensing a pattern here…)

Endangering Cormac’s life (Confunding him WHILE HE’S ON HIS BROOM) to promote Ron’s success? Oh but that’s so romantic! (Yeaaaah, how romantic to display exactly how much faith you lack in your crush. Top it off with a broken neck and that’s a picture perfect first date!)

Assaulting Ron with magic and causing him even more scars than he already had? But he was being cold with her first, right? And he totally should have known she was asking him out! It’s not like her invitation was even worse than his attempt to ask her out two years earlier! Plus she’s just a teenage girl expressing her emotions, anyone who tries to find fault in this is a disgusting abusive misogynist pig! Ha!

Getting all jealous that Harry is better than her at Potions, then pretending she’s not jealous by claiming that TEH BOOK IS EVIL, HARRY, and giving him the cold shoulder too? But no, she’s right, look, Harry used Sectumsempra and he almost killed Draco, nevermind that he’s very horrified about it! Hermione was right, like she always is!

Hermione Obliviating her parents, which pulls her from the “ethically dubious” zone into the “wow okay I’m pretty sure that this counts as a violation of basic human rights” zone, makes her one of those quirky wizardfolk who have the privilege to control those simple-minded Muggles because it’s for the greater good? But nooo she’s crying about it so it’s obviously very sad and angsty and it shows her devotion to the cause!

Splinching Ron while fleeing from the Ministry? Eeeh, but he’s fine, they’ve got Dittany, he’s good as new!… blood loss? Anaemia? What’s that?

Hermione was wrong about the Deathly Hallows not existing? Um, um, that doesn’t matter, LOOK DOBBY IS DEAD AND HARRY IS BACK TO LOOKING FOR THE HORCRUXES!! Therefore Hermione was right, the Hallows weren’t important for their quest, therefore the Hallows might as well not exist, HERMIONE WAS RIGHT NO REALLY I’VE GOT RECEIPTS -

The books never forget to remind Harry and Ron of their own shortcomings and moments of weakness.

Harry’s wrath and recklessness cost Sirius his life. This is the lesson he has to learn from his entitled behaviour in OotP: actions have consequences, and the greater your responsibility, the greater the cost will be.

Ron’s envy and insecurity lead him astray; they’re used to humiliate, ridicule and torture him throughout the books. They’re supposed to teach him that he’s worth something - but how is he supposed to believe that, when nobody ever tells him he’s worth anything? When nobody ever apologizes to him? When his feelings are taken for granted over and over? When his two friends seem to discard him whenever he does one thing wrong?

Hermione is never punished. Hermione is never said to be wrong, never shown to be wrong, never called out on her behaviour. From Prisoner of Azkaban to mid-Deathly Hallows, she stays exactly the same character. She doesn’t grow up. She doesn’t learn. She doesn’t change. She has virtually no character arc.

The only time, THE ONLY TIME IN SEVEN BOOKS, the only time we have something remotely resembling a call-out of Hermione’s horrible behaviour is with this sole quote in HBP:

Harry was left to ponder in silence the depths to which girls would sink to get revenge.

Note how it’s about “girls” and not Hermione in particular, which implies that any girl would do what Hermione does to Ron. Thanks for the generalization, JKR, but I like to believe I’m actually a decent sort of person that doesn’t resort to petty cruelty and exploits my friends’ insecurities whenever I’m angry with them.

Hermione NEVER has to apologize. Hermione NEVER has to learn from her mistakes because she’s always presented as a victim when she really isn’t. Hermione NEVER develops into something more - she’s emotionally stuck at fourteen years old. Even less than that when you consider that her reaction to Ron’s return in Deathly Hallows is to trash him with her fists - and she was going to get her wand!! The utter psychopathic b- wanted TO THROW BIRDS AT HIM AGAIN!!! - and this reaction is an appropriate one for a four-years old girl, but certainly not for a supposedly “mature” seventeen-years old.

(Yes, because what separates a child from an adult is the ability to reign in your emotions and not succumb to your impulses. Exactly what Ron did when he left the tent (notice that he had drawn his wand, then he left before he could start hexing Harry), he left to calm himself down. Exactly what Hermione fails to do when Ron returns (she has the impulse to strike him and immediately succumbs to it, which proves to us that The Brightest Witch Of Her Age has all the maturity of a very small child).)

All of that, on top of the awful portrayal in the movies which removes all of Ron’s characteristics to stuff them into Hermione and turns her into some impossible epitome of perfection, eventually contributed to the portrayal of Hermione as the one who is always right and knows everything.

Add to it JKR’s own ridiculous bias (“Ron was quite emotionally immature compared to the other two”, yeah right I don’t see him trying to force freedom onto unwilling creatures or making Harry fly into an irrational rage with mere words but you do you, Jo) and the sexist misconception that “girls are innately more mature than boys”, and you get yourself this apparent behemoth of righteousness that was literally the sole reason why those two silly boys survived everything, and don’t you dare criticize this angel of perfection OR ELSE.

[aaluminiumas]

Die for Me

あなたこそが “ 海賊王 ” に なる男

Lukewarm blood gushed out from the deep wounds. Ripping apart huge chunks of flesh and feeling the solidity of a bone inside, Monet genuinely relished her superiority savoring every note of the harrowing, blood-curdling shriek the woman in her deadly embrace emitted.

That Marine girl was no good at all; her tactics may not be exactly lame or useless, nor did she lack fervor or courage, but she turned out to be too modest and polite to attack – and also feeble. While the Marines claimed to have implemented a variety of brand-new top-notch techniques that would improve fighting skills of nearly any novice, they tended to send weaklings barely able to resist a simple scuffle, let alone serious combat with high ranks such as her or Caesar. This one wasn’t an exception to the rule: though promoted, Tashigi proved her disability to be on the offensive, thus confirming Monet’s expectations and dispelling the illusion of power Smoker had successfully created earlier.

“I adore it when you yell so desperately,” the Harpy muttered nonchalantly in the unctuous voice, her lips smeared with blood. “So I might break your scapula just for fun. My fangs can go through bone like butter. What a lovely day we are having, aren’t we?.. Care to brighten it further?”

Monet’s viselike grip tightened, and a bone cracked; Tashigi’s scream of utter anguish pierced the chaos and turmoil. In a moment, the woman limped in the Harpy’s wings. This last shrill seemed to have deserted her internally, leaving little to no stamina to stand up for herself and resist the throes shooting through her fragile body. The Harpy, though, felt no remorse or contrition. Quite on the contrary, she yielded into the perverse pleasure of being in charge – her well-nurtured sadistic inclinations and proclivities could finally splurge and flourish. Normally, it was Doflamingo whose hatred of the Marines came unwrapped. He was always in command; he was always aware of the potential threat and danger that could strike at any given moment, and now she could defend him from this invasion without an innuendo on his part. He had protected her in the past, bestowed a shelter, and took care of her younger sister—

“Enough.”

A low voice, hardly louder than Tashigi’s shallow breath muffled all the sounds, including explosions and the clash in the distant rooms. A swordsman with cold resolution in the single eye stood there, unmoving, his face serious, yet completely unreadable.

Monet’s fine features contorted in a lopsided smirk, her head withdrawing from Tashigi’s injured shoulder. Spoiled by pride, the swordsman didn’t seem to see a worthy opponent in her. Good for him, she thought. The Marine’s death would be on his hands – after all, he couldn’t compare to one of the best soldiers among the Donquixotes.

“I said enough,” he growled quietly, advancing and raising his katana, the silver eye narrowing. “Didn’t you hear?”

“She shouted too loudly. Should I shut her up?” Monet’s voice remained vaguely flirtatious, her antics jaunty, but the swordsman betrayed no emotion whatsoever. Instead, without a single warning, he pivoted forward, sword at the ready. Prancing at superhuman speed, the man neatly cut her in half – her logia powers weren’t a mere obstacle to him or his blade.

“I’m a Logia, you fool,” Monet spat with a haughty grin, “You think I’m scared?”

That fact alone contributed to her arrogance and hoity-toity attitude. While the majority of the Donquixote Family had to satisfy themselves with commonplace and hackneyed Paramecias, she got lucky – Doflamingo brought in a Logia fruit, the rarest type, and presented it to her. He might have intended to give it to Vergo, who hadn’t joined the number of the fruit-eaters and preferred to use his innate physical force. At any rate, such thoughts barely intruded on her mind: Doflamingo, the Young Master she worshipped, literally made her a gift desired by many. And what a scenery it was: he called in a meeting, ordered his favorite delicacies, thus forcing the whole city to cook for him, and sprawled across his improvised throne. Trebol, giggling under his breath, Diamante with his ever-lasting smirk, the imperturbable Pica, Vergo with the rigorous mien… Well, she was never part of the elite – nor did she plan to climb higher. The seat beside Doflamingo’s feet seemed comfortable enough to occupy – this position turned her into a valuable asset, who caught all the messages and orders intoned in a low, seductive voice. Despite that, the Young Master did not banish her – he remained seated, asking her to tell them all about her first murder – committed with a taste.

Logia powers made the bearer almost invincible, and Monet, a proficient user, trained by the best, especially by Vergo, knew what she was worth.

“I’m a Logia,” the Harpy repeated, the blizzard howling louder. “It doesn’t hurt me.”

“We’ll see,” came the answer.

Not even looking at her, the man grabbed the wounded woman and hurried to the exit, while Monet, absolutely dumbfounded, discovered that she could not get together. What appeared to be a single cut turned out to be a series of swift swishes in the air that slashed her snow-made body in a split second with the power that significantly surpassed her own. The result unfolded in slow motion: the more time went, the more it hurt; paralyzed, she listlessly perused the gashes opening in her skin – the man had inflicted much more damage than she had initially anticipated.

Furious, lacerated by what seemed to be a hundred blades, Monet yelled – and realized that it caused another wound to splay. The flesh got torn apart somewhere in her stomach and sent an impetus to the lungs prompting another incision to dehisce. The blood spurted up and flushed out from her mouth, staining the green shirt. Coughing, gagging, and covering her lips with a defective wing that had also been slit and now painted vermillion, the Harpy leaned over a gigantic machine with a red button on its panel. Half-conscious, she stared at it – it certainly was a way out. If she pushes it, the whole island will go up in flames. Nobody survived, case closed. Nobody discovers the dirty scheme Vergo had initiated in the Marine to abduct kids; nobody learns about the dubious experiments of the ambiguous nature performed by Caesar. Nobody connects Young Master – her Young Master – to the helter-skelter in the lab, nobody–

Her consciousness drifted away; small lacerations proved to be even worse than the deeper ones – blood didn’t stop from dripping, and she couldn’t control the amount she had lost. Falling to the ground, quivering, Monet twitched her wings in a fruitless attempt to maintain balance. It was overkill, anyway, at least she deemed so. Her wounds were fatal; she very well understood that she was a goner – but it was still in her power to prevent future events from happening.

Suddenly, Monet heard the quiet mumbling of a snail. Caesar, concerned about Joker’s supervision and unremitting control (the notion he strongly believed but which wasn’t true to the fact: Doflamingo, after Monet’s infiltration, called every once in a while, just to give the man heebie-jeebies, in case he felt lazy), installed snails everywhere, each equipped with a unique number. Only Joker could have access to them – no one else would be able to call here, the sanctum sanctorum of the lab.

The injured wing reached for the receiver, then twitched and fell. Trembling, the Harpy moaned in agony, choked on the blood, and made a feeble attempt to get up. Didn’t work; her face contorted in pure anguish. Invincible, trained, fortified by a number of experiments conducted under Doflamingo’s supervision, she never expected a failure. Especially a failure like this.

The snail kept grumbling, Monet whimpered; struggling to stand up, the Harpy felt a million needles skewering into her body, avulsing the thinnest and the tiniest blood vessels. She had to be slow not to disturb the veins that still remained intact. Making a superhuman effort, Monet propped herself up, her chest heaving, her wings jittered ever so slightly.  Panting, leaning over the tremendous apparatus towering over her, the Harpy managed to answer the call.

“Monet?” called a low, mellifluous voice coming from a snail. “Monet, do you read?”

“Yes, Young Master,” she mustered her shattered self to respond.

“I do not have the slightest idea what is happening right now,” he drawled pensively, “But it is certainly far from the plan I have drawn up.”

“They– they snatched Caesar.”

Doflamingo paused, pondering over her words. That loudmouth fool, calling himself a genius, failed to kick the teenager’s ass and let himself get captured by a bunch of mere kids playing real pirates. It had been funny to hear that that Strawhat Luffy defeated Sir Crocodile, one of the most feared and infamous warlords; after all, Doflamingo shook hands with the man and knew exactly what his weaknesses were, but Caesar Clown was another thing. First off, he claimed himself to be a brilliant scientist, and, in fact, he had managed to synthesize a drug that made children comparable to giants in force and probably in size. Furthermore, he used his earlier formulae and calculations, retrieved the readouts of the past experiments to create artificial Devil Fruits. So, he clearly was not a complete idiot. However, he employed none of his ingenious tricks to kill the annoying brat on sight when he had the opportunity.  Too bad the factory couldn’t work without his involvement – otherwise, Doflamingo himself would’ve got disposed of Caesar as well.

“Monet,” he finally spoke, his voice dropping down a notch. “You were loyal to me.”

“Till the end, Young Master,” she muttered, her voice not louder than a susurrus of wind.

“Die for me.” He commanded coolly, his eyes staring into space unwinkingly. “Monet, die for me and send this place to hell. Take them all along with you.”

“Yes, Young Master. I will do as you please.”

Her lips, covered with blood and gore, stretched in a gentle smile addressed to no one in particular. He cared about her. He wanted her to perform this last task for him, in the name of his future achievements and accomplishments, and she would not let him down.

She raised her wing, slightly quavering, preparing to hit the red button. Exuding a quiet hum, the Harpy lowered it – and gasped, immediately falling onto the ground with a loud, heavy thump.

“Monet?.. Monet, what’s happened? Monet, can you hear me?..”

She uttered a wheezing sound, and her visage froze in a rictus of death.

[lordoftermites]

THE FOX & THE THORNBUSH

Part 2: made this one a flashback (and probably should do with part 1 as well) since I just finished reading A Visit to the Impossible Lands. We’ll just pretend I knew exactly what I was doing when I wrote it.

Pairing: Roiben x Kaye

Summary: A bit of G-rated fluff between Roiben and Kaye, because these two never have enough of that in their story and they fucking deserve it even if I gotta do it myself.

Part 1 here.

―――――――――

“Oh, come onnnn. Just try it,” Kaye says, nudging the paper cup nearer to his lips. Steam rises in lazy swirls to dissipate into the cool air of the brugh. It smells faintly of a berry Roiben thinks is familiar but can’t place, and even less like the coffee she promises it’s made of. “I mean, you liked the bacon and honey blend last week, and that was absolute garbage. This is the best one so far, I swear.”

Roiben inspects the cup in his hand, at the artwork representing Moon In A Cup—Kaye's coffee shop in the mortal world.

Printed on the side of the vessel is an intricate drawing of a tea cup. Its well is designed to look like the cap of a toadstool—a deep indigo, with silver speckles of varying size. Woven branches of spring-green thorn make up the handle. Inside the cup, on a wave of black coffee, floats a crescent moon. It seems to reflect the light of the hall, like a stolen sliver of moonlight. Just above that, as if drawn to the silver glow, a miniature green-winged moth hovers.

On the corner of the left wing is a letter H, written in a pastel pink flourish: Roiben takes a guess that Kaye must have finally managed to track down and enlist the talents of her favorite comic artist. Indeed, it’s fine work.

Kaye pushes the cup toward him again. “Would you stop looking at it like it might be poison and just take a fucking sip already? It’s going to get cold—and I’m not trying it until you do.”  Somehow, only she can make the avid impatience of a pixie an endearing trait. Roiben suspects he might have a small bias.

Although, her admission to not having tested the brew herself first is rather dubious.

Roiben raises a brow at her, but concedes with a small grin. “I was just admiring the new emblem,” he says, before taking a tentative sip of the still-actually-very-hot contents. It scalds the tip of his tongue, but to his surprise, it really is coffee. It’s light, and there’s a bitter, but pleasant aftertaste—something familiar.

The burnt spot on his tongue is beginning to dull, replaced by a slight tingling sensation that spreads upward. He frowns, contemplating. Kaye is watching him intensely, those moonless eyes of hers glittering with anticipation. She's very near to vibrating herself right off of the arm of his throne.

They’ve made it to her favorite part of the testing: having Roiben guess the flavors—and hidden tricks—of her new concoctions. He grins again: he was incorrect only once, and that had been for the simple fact he hadn’t known, at the time, what a Goo-Goo Cluster was.

“Ah,” he muses softly. “Rowan berry.” He smiles, and Kaye looks positively crestfallen. She huffs, but it’s a brief sulk; try as she might to be a sore loser, she inevitably cheers when Roiben chuckles and pulls her into his lap. He even takes another, longer sip of the coffee, to which her smile becomes full and genuine.

There are few things in his life that can warm the residual frost in his bones, and quite nearly all of them either begin or end with that smile.

He runs a finger across his lips. As he’d thought, it wasn’t just the coffee’s temperature prickling his mouth. While he’s had a brief education of what the berries might do, he’s not, until now, had to put that information to use. “A mortal safeguard from glamours when dried and strung,” Roiben says, “it seems it also contains much of the same dilutional properties when consumed by fey.”

Kaye frowns, so he elaborates, pointing to his mouth: “I can’t feel my tongue.” There’s the lightest slur in words there, a confirmation of mild insensibility.

The usual emerald green of Kaye’s cheeks have washed out to something closer to pistachio. Roiben’s laugh rings through the otherwise-stillness of the brugh, escaping him before he can help it; perhaps the berries offer a maddening effect as well. “And you said it wasn’t poisoned.”

“But... Ravus said!” Kaye exclaims, panicked and snatching the “poisoned” coffee from him. She looks at it as though it is an enemy, a vicious foe that must be slain in earnest. “Ravus said the berries are only poisonous if they’re eaten off the plant. And even then, you won’t like, die or anything—they just cause… stomach problems. He said, and I quote, ‘as long as they’re cooked, they’re one-hundred percent safe to eat.’” She huffs again, the forced air puffing her green cheeks, and sinks back against him with a sullen glare at the cup in her hands. “I was going to run a special—Free Biodegradable Necklace With Each Purchase—y’know, some rowan berries for the mortals that come into the shop.”

Roiben knows all too well the potion-maker would not have given Kaye information with the intent to deceive; for a start, of the meager list Roiben keeps for friends, Ravus has proven himself, far and away, a creature of honor and loyalty—self-exile notwithstanding. Moreover— and more importantly, Ravus now has the greater duty of being a father; no doubt he would be remiss in a few, finer details. Roiben is almost certain he would be, should such a day ever come (though he lingers not long at all on that thought and does not allow himself the further consideration of what touching Impossibility feels like).

He knows, too, that the rowan berry will do no more harm than it already has: as some mortals have adverse reactions to the pollen of flowers, the fey suffer something similar with rowan, with only a more... mystical variant. Should the berries be ingested, the ability to glamour by speech is thoroughly subdued, until the berries are expelled one way or another. Roiben had learned of its effect on their kind years back, when Ravus had been a lone, exiled alchemist beneath a bridge, and Roiben had been naught but a fool in a king’s costume, taking many an ill-advised risk to win an unwinnable war.

He had proffered sanctuary to the exiled fey in the city then—of which that asylum had extended to Ravus and his mortal lover. And now, their small child of clay and air, with her curls of flaming copper, aurelian eyes and horn-tipped ears, carried with her the protection of the Court of Termites in its entirety; from Unseelie borough to Seelie grove, the girl would be safe.

Roiben had not, neither then or now, forced fealty, and not for more than one night and one day had he requested the man’s aid in the plan he had used to thwart Silarial. A faerie sigh, Ravus had called that brief servitude. How on the mark that turn of phrase had been—Roiben is still not so sure he had taken a single breath at all that day.

“Fret not, little fox.” The private moniker brings Kaye’s ink-black eyes back up to him. Her brows are woven together in real worry. Roiben gives his consort a pitying look, and brushes a wild lock of deep-green hair from her face. “It’s…—ah, an allergic reaction, I believe mortals call it?” Kaye exhales a wavered breath of relief, before nodding affirmatively. He kisses her pout and smiles; she tastes of honey chapstick, and a phantom of roasted dandelion tea—his favorite.

“It’s very possible,” he says, taking back the newfound nemesis and holding it out for careful examination, “as it is rarely put to use by our like due to the nature of the thing, Ravus meant it’s only safe for human consumption, and likely did not think you would try it outright on your own monarch.” Roiben winks down at her, but she doesn’t seem to enjoy the joke.

“In any case—”

With a shocked gasp of dissent from Kaye, he grins, tips the cup to stinging lips, and drains it to the dregs.

“You were right: it’s much better than the bacon.”

He smiles at her—or, at least, he hopes he’s smiling. He can’t tell: his mouth has gone entirely numb.

[ibelonginthepast]

okay I need your klance fic recs(i feel like you have really good taste)(i mean your icon is literally THE keith of course you have god tier taste)

okay so the thing is.. that when i say am kinda messed up and disgusting sometimes... and becoming a madwoman... am not over exaggerating or saying it in a funky way.. i actually am getting like that .. and that's how i got into the klance fandom initially. i project through lance and read really langsty fics.. and they are messed messed with like violent nsfw, gore, horror, serious mental health issues etc? so if u want those... i'll only send them if u want?

yeah tho i entered with this thingy that klance is gonna be like my guilty pleasure or some shit but them i inevitably fell in love with some GORGEOUS fanfictions out there and KEITH KOGANE in all shapes sizes genders and ages so lol...

but they aren't flowery. that's just not my taste. Some of them might be "problematic"? it's in quotes because i don't agree with it. it's not going to be problematic in plain ignorant sense like racial issues or blatant sexism or mental abuse.... but they might have like stuff which people dont always agree with like drugs. most of them would have nsfw it's just something that i need to have for feels and that's why i asked if u minded it. some things are like more subjective,, characterizations for example, cause like some people dont think keith is a skirt guy cause he isnt in fashion but i think he is petty and rebellious so he will defo do that? some of them would have like physical fights and stuff.. or keith and lance being mean to each other.. some ugly habits which aren't necessarily condemned like anger or drugs.? but with how i see it, it's not glorified, so i see them as human. i love the raw and ugly in these or idk its just human to me (but some people dont like which is completely valid cause we are all different from different environments and think different and resonate with different stuff.)

wait addition: i think some of them will have sexist themes? which i have complained about a lot before. i dont know why authors feel the need to somehow put women down to show how a mlm relationship without any women is superior or some shit it's annoying as fuck i hate it. i dont think i would have any especially sexist fics here, but there might be some with lowkey themes and bad handling of those issues. some of them mau have that subtext of disgusting heteronormative standards, but in subtext uk like bottom lance having a small waist and being giggly and all in contrast to big bulk keith.

here are some that i had bookmarked... but i may remember some more and then send them to u and or add them here...

a heads up.. i dont remember all of them very well. its been a while and i read fanfictions A LOT so yeah.. incase one slips up here which isnt very good am sorry dont judge me

the bold ones are the ones u should really check out if our taste is similar.

to begin with plain f l u f f,, my first klance bookmark was How Could I Say No? by Padfoots_Pawprint. tws for violence, bullying, injury BUT it's not actually gory or something like that it's just keith being keith and getting hurt and lance helping my boi like he should. it made me feeeeeeeel ksksk

this was one that kinda really touched me,, Wasted youth, Cryptids, and Waterboys by Baea THIS HAS EXPLICIT NSFW in it, the first chapter kicks off with it.. its a good fuck buddies to lovers in my opinion.. i love the writing style, the choice of how it's just a couple entries of random days in their lives. i love keith's characterization.. he is a hobo and a conspiracy nerd.. i love how down for him lance is, very dedicated. i love their growth.. i love how they help each other grow,, and it's so like real and usual day to day and human and down to earth idk how else to express it. this is INCOMPLETE. it's 12 chapters and discontinued as of now,, but it's not a deadly cliffhanger

similar in style and approach to the above. tho i think here is where it gets dubious. Easy, Tiger. by @/WhatTheBodyGraspsNot ... this is INCOMPLETE too and as of now discontinued. this has that sorta murky vibe with it's drug usage, them being teenagers in school and engaging in stuff like this, bad boy keith and all. this has nsfw too. i just remember really liking it and its very raw and unfiltered. tho it's incomplete it's not an open ending for now.

okay so i am restarting this but am upset as fuck that it all got deleted so i am gonna be lazy and not put as much effort as i did.

i have also Crowd Pleaser bookmarked by the same author,, this one's complete and it has some serious issues around gaslighting if i remember correctly... i really liked it then. keith is literally an angel here, i want to kidnap him and marry him literally. the s h w ee t e s t shit ,, and i like how lance gives him all the support and space to get his shit together

Drummer boy by klancekorner,, i think it's similar to the prev one, but lance's pov(which is what i prefer ngl). this authors fanfics are all just wholesome. i had put links to all their fics before, but imma now just say that u should go and check all their fics out. i have them all bookmarked, i must have seen something in them (can't remember what now tho and i cant be bothered to skim through them like last time *rolls eyes*)

War of hearts? idk why honestly, just ik keira has made me gay, and lesbian rejection angst? garrison? yes :) it's incomplete, conveniently left at the point where lance's heart is broken lol

Fuck buddies with benefits. THE NAME IS BAD I KNOW but i just love the idea of a dedicated mess of a keith and lance taking care of him. that's it that's the fic if i remember correctly. oh wait yeah u might think keith is not treating lance right, but i think it's fine if lance is treated a bit stupid. this is a bit too sex driven tho i dont like it but just SLEEPDEPRIVED KEITH TO TAKE CARE OF IMMA SIGN UP (ik this maybe coming off toxic but lol look at me)

Rambling: THIS WAS ME.

Last Defense: TW SUICIDE this is literally the langst i have for canon lance

I want something else: bad boy keith can break my limbs and cut my face and i will thank him

A thank you would be nice: keira damn

game-set-match: b a d b o y

I swear to go the devil made me do it: my typically fav trop, hardcore pining lance, literally perfect angsty keith. very similar to the top ones ig? idk also this one is one of my comparatively recent sane bookmarks so that's something. it starts off weird, u think it gon be subtly sexist but it turns out better so hold on

you've got me locked up: i think it's delinquent keith,, its floofy

Dad lance and tattoo artist keith: the name says it

damn while going through my bookmarks i realized that there are a lot of things i never bookmarked? i am pretty sure i loved a lot of long fanfictions, flower shop aus and tattoo artists shit wtf-

wait here's one, it's not complete: Blood jumps in the sun: it's very heavy has a lot of growth and kinda wholesome,, tags and summary will give u an idea what u getting in.

The lessons we learned: can't remember much other than florist keith, sad keith, smart keith, really long, pining

damn i think i have a lot of happy ones i didn't bookmark cause my brain was like u dont deserve the serotonin :( i'll add if i have more)

some actually angsty, detailed nsfw and messy (according to the way u interpret these) ones... lemoninagin.. they have some very detailed and explicit nsfw stuff but i am not there for it. some of it has the kind of angst i like? an actual one that i love and they recently posted and the reason am putting them here is infinitesimal. best friends to lovers and tho usually it's not my cup of tea.. it's a character study, an interpretation of klance in a modern world i dare say,, which is very similar to mine. the thing about them is that i like their characterization a lot, and in no love in this, i like what kind of background stories they give to klance in their aus. i haven't read many by them, so if u want u can check them out.

i just realized i have put some lowkey sad/fucked fics here... i did remove 5 rn... i hope its all good damn why am i doing this i feel like am putting myself naked out there when i recommend my favs

[gothchickwriting]

Sakamakis/Mukamis x Witch! Reader Headcanons

Request: hi 🐻 if the requests are open, can I ask you a headcanon? in particular, how would the sakamaki and mukami react if they discovered that the reader is a powerful witch? sorry for my bad english 😔, if you don't feel like writing this my request you can safely cancel it and I thank you for your attention, honey 💙

Ahhhh! I'm sorry this took so long. Writing Kou and Laito makes me nervous since I feel like I can never do them justice. Enjoy, Babes!

Warning: This contains blood, blood drinking, abuse, dubious consent, smut???, and the Dia-Boys being Dia-Boys.

Sakamaki Household:

You were different than the other sacrificial brides. They can smell it on you. A sweetness rolls off of you in waves and it's your fault for smelling the way you do.

Some surround you and all you can see are sharp teeth at every angle waiting to dig into you. Your heart is thrumming in your ears and you push them. Physically... mentally... spiritually. It's enough to knock the closest ones back and gain some distance before that same energy crackles around your fingertips.

You take a stance, but your back is against the wall. It's as much of a shock to you as it is to them to see some of the objects nearby float. A nearby window has a crack that spiderwebs wickedly along the glass.

The boys are more stunned than hurt. They're vampires. It's going to take more than that to really ward them away. If anything, a power like that makes them crave you even more.

Shu Sakamaki:

He was sure witches had died out centuries ago. They were in limbo within society, not belonging anywhere. Too weak for the demon world and an object of fear for humans who didn't have that sort of power.

And you had a lot of it.

He'll provide you with a tome or two in the form of lounging around a forgotten section of the family library. It would put you on the right track to harnessing your potential.

But if you read your incantations too loud and disrupted his sleep? Expect a moody, grumpy Shu.

But your blood?

It was all worth it for a taste.

You had been studying quietly as you could. The goal you've pored over endlessly this entire week was to make the cushion in front of you float. It seemed to taunt you from its position on the table, undisturbed as much as you've tried. The last cushion you attempted this with exploded into a plume of feathers. You muttered your incantation quietly and you felt that familiar energy spark to life at your fingertips. Much to your glee, the pillow shifted and began to lazily rise. All of your concentration was cut short by the hand that swallowed your wrist.

The cushion, like the one before burst into a flurry of feathers that made a mess of your study area.

"You're loud." It was all Shu said to you before you were yanked down onto his lap. He'd been resting in a chair for a few hours now as you read. What he muttered to you was nothing new. You're bothersome, you're noisy, you're a hopeless little witch, aren't you? After hearing all of it, you wonder why Shu even puts up with you aside from when you take care of him when he's too lazy to do it himself. And then you're reminded why when he bites you.

The blonde's bites are slow and somehow less painful than you think they'd be even though the piercing of your skin seems so loud in your ears. He takes his time. Shu's languid swallows fill the silence of the library along with the puffing of your breath which melts away into coos when the initial pain fades and is replaced by something much better.

You're on a cloud with the distant violins that sing from his headphones.

And then you feel dizzy. "Shu." You tap his chest. "Shu... I-I can't." You stumble over your words, tongue-tied and dazed. He pulls away and laps your wound closed with a slow sweep of his tongue. The rush your blood gives him is amazing and he can feel his power grow with every swallow.

You're the perfect wife for the next Vampire Lord.

Reiji:

His brothers are undeserving of such a powerful witch. They don't have the drive to teach you what you need to know. Mastering magic takes discipline, and if there was anyone within this house who had that quality, it was Reiji.

Unlike Shu's lazy approach, he expects you to study. Reiji provides you with tomes and ingredients and he wants to see the fruits of your labor.

If your spells and incantations aren't precise? You clearly didn't study hard enough. Your hands become intimately familiar with a ruler or his crop for each mistake you make.

His patience and "kindness" has its price and the price is blood.

Your yelp carried throughout Reiji's study when he swatted the back of your hand with the crop that had been held so casually by his side. The chalk in your hand was dropped as you clutched the skin that would no doubt welt within moments. "Honestly." The vampire drawled. You could almost taste the venom behind the word and it made your muscles lock in fear just like when you heard that damn crop whistling through the air. "Must I hold your hand every step of the way?"

You were quick to shake your head. "No, Sir." The term fell from your tongue easily. Reiji gave a hum. Hungry eyes bore into the reddened skin that you so desperately attempted to hide and soothe.

"Then I suggest you finish that sigil and summon a familiar."

And so you did.

Your hand was shakier than it was before and sweat dotted your brow from your concentration. There was no describing the stress about drawing this out to perfection. The room was getting hotter as your swirling patterns began to complete the symbol you so desperately had to finish. And, as fate would have it, your chalk broke from the force you were drawing with.

The candles in your circle died out all at once and the stifling heat faded. Your mouth opened up but you were just so crushed. "I-I can do it again." You scrambled to correct yourself. "I just need more chalk... Sir."

But Reiji wasn't pleased. Not in the slightest. His crop was set on the desk of his study and you could feel how your heart pounded wildly in your chest. Reiji tended to get creative when he was unhappy and scenarios played out in your mind, each was worse than the last.

Psychological torment could be just as satisfying to him as the physical side.

Gloved fingers hooked into the collar of your shirt as he knelt beside you on the carpet. He pulled it down far enough to get at where he wanted. Reiji scared you to death. He could make his bites feel like death or have you gasping out from ecstasy. The vampire bit just below your collarbone and you swore that you felt him graze the bone with the puncture.

You shrieked and foolishly grasped at his button-up, but with the high that your blood gave, he didn't seem to care at the moment. His swallows were purposeful and you couldn't hold back the tears as a burn flooded your body. Just when you began to think that you might actually die, he pulled away.

Fangs that were still a dizzying red were flashed with a sadistic grin as he took in the look on your face. "Go on then. Use the healing incantation I taught you." Reiji stood to collect his crop once more. "I assure you, you'll be using it plenty tonight."

Ayato:

Of course, the one who deserves to drink from a witch is Yours Truly. Don't you agree?

Whether you do or don't, it doesn't matter. Ayato isn't asking for your permission.

He's telling you that you're his blood bag, and you need sate his appetite... Or he knows how to make his feedings hurt.

Do you have a spell for that? No. He didn't think so.

Ayato will drink from you until black spots dance across your vision and you don't have the energy to gather up your magic anymore.

His bites along your neck are sharp and aggressive in his excitement. Ayato doesn't even stop to sip a single drop from the scrapes and small punctures along your skin. "Heh. What a rush." He pulls away to watch the blood leak into your collarbone before dipping in to greedily drink from the small pool he's created.

"Oi. Don't pass out on me." The back of his hand taps your cheek as black spots appear in front of your eyes. "It's your fault for being so damn addicting in the first place." He sneers at you before leaning down to take his fill once more.

Your struggles are weak. You can barely push at his chest physically let alone use any magic to throw him across the room. With each sip, your mind grows fuzzier. He enjoys the fight in you, he's said so. But Ayato isn't one who likes having his meals interrupted.

So Yours Truly found a way around the tricks you have up your sleeve.

He licks over to wounds to close them and finds that you've gone limp. Ayato huffs as he looks over your unconscious form.

"Tch... We didn't even get to the good part."

Laito:

So you're a witch? How exciting.

Laito's never slept with a witch before, but he's sure that he can break you down the same way every mortal woman has.

If not, well, he's going to have to learn and the best way is through practice.

"Pretty Witch", "Witch-Chan"

He teases you the most without a doubt: "I can't help myself from coming back, Pretty Witch. You put a love spell on me, didn't you?"

Did you know that when he makes your eyes start to roll that you both float a bit off the bed? How dirty.

"My poor little witch." The redhead coos as he tucks a few strands of hair behind your ear. He loved that look on your face. Flushed and wanting as you gripped at his jacket. You were as addicted to him as Laito was to you. He chuckled low into the skin of your neck as he teased you. "I didn't think that you could get tired out so easy. Fufu... But I guess that you don't need stamina if you have all of that magic, do you?"

You fell for the taunt, but it wasn't quite what he expected.

Your hand moved to knock that damn hat off of his head before your fingers weaved through the soft tresses of his hair. You fist your hands into it and pull him into a hungry kiss to shut his smug mouth up for a moment. Laito's hands press harder into the wall that he's trapped you against as he gives a soft sound of pleasure and approval into your lips.

Laito can taste the energy that radiated off of you. It was like running his tongue along a battery. And he. Fucking. Loved it. He practically melted when you bit his lip. It was hard enough to split that perfect, pale skin but he still grinned despite the red that dripped down his chin. "Pretty Witch-" His fingers drummed along the inside of your thighs. "You're at your best today. Fufu. Show me how far that can get you." He couldn't stop the giggle as you pulled him in for another bruising kiss.

Kanato:

Out of any of his siblings, he thinks your powers are amusing.

With Kanato, it's sink or swim. It's hard to tell what's on his mind. He'll go from hot to cold in seconds, so it's better to try and stay on his good side.

That spell your mumbling better be nice, or he'll have to sew those pretty lips of yours shut.

You're awfully cute thinking that you outnumber him with that gremlin familiar of yours. What? Didn't you know? He can make Teddy play too.

And you better pray to a deity that's willing to save you if one of your spells go array and Teddy is caught in the fray.

Kanato will burn you like the witch you are.

You don't know why you'd hoped that today would be different. Every day after lunch, Kanato would have a table for you both set. Pastries would be piled beautifully atop their dishes, and Kanato had a knack for pairing the perfect tea with your snacks every time.

At first, you were wary that he'd drug them somehow to make you compliant. Most days you wish he did.

At least you'd have an excuse as to why his bites felt so nice. "Mortal women tend to get angry if they don't feel good, don't they?" But you endured it for your familiar who was seated next to Teddy. You could see it in their eyes. They wanted to help, even if Kanato hurt them until they disappeared to their plane to recover. But you took comfort in your gremlin.

Your familiar was the only good thing in this house. They did their best to pet at your hair when you cried when the reality of your situation hit you hard. They even went so far as to collect little baubles to help you heal and to negate the effects of your anemia.

They didn't deserve to suffer.

Kanato sunk his fangs into your wrist. You couldn't help but shiver. The small vampire shuddered against your skin as he sipped from you as if you were a fine wine instead of a person. You might as well be with how he assured you that your blood was the finest quality.

"Amazing." You barely ignore the blissful heat that radiates from your head to your toes to look at Kanato. He observes the energy that surrounds your wounds once he's pulled away to mend them closed.

You don't know why you hoped today would be different. That Kanato would choose the pastries over you.

Subaru:

Subaru is the most mistrusting of the Sakamaki bunch. His disdain doesn't match his kind gestures. It sends a number of mixed signals.

He'll gift you talismans to prevent his family from sucking your blood, a book filled with wards to draw on your door and windows, and a knife.

The latter is a last resort with these new comforts.

When he visits you, he's likely to accuse you of casting a spell on him. He knew he couldn't trust a witch. What did you do? Make him want to be your guardian? Are you slowly taking his will?

He's hungry and yet all he can do is take his frustrations out on his surroundings.

But there's a small, small part of him that's proud when he sees his gifts at work. He's able to protect one thing in his life.

You must seem like a madwoman with the symbols etched onto every surface of your room. You could even accept those claims. When you see those same protective wards glare at you through the night, you know it's excessive. The talisman on your neck doesn't leave you. Ever.

Even if the brothers threaten to break your skin or bones, you refuse to take it off. It seems to make them dizzy and nauseous. You rush into the kitchen some nights to fill your room with enough food to get by.

You're wise enough to know that it's better to reduce the chances of receiving the ire of vampires by closing yourself off. They feel cheated and you feel victorious.

Your attention is ripped away from your tome and jar of marshmallow fluff by a knock at your door. The only way they can come in is if you open your door. You swallow and set your book and snack on the nightstand.

"Woman, if you don't open this damn door, I'll kick it down."

There wasn't a doubt that Subaru would try and you rush to open it before his thin patience snapped. Your door is opened to reveal your guardian who holds one of the best gifts so far. A dinner tray with a bowl of steaming, homemade soup. His eye isn't on you for long. "Here... I don't want you getting sick from eating that crap all the time." The young man jerks his head towards the marshmallow fluff.

You take the tray with a small 'thank you' before hesitantly taking a step back to give Subaru enough room to enter. He sits with you on your bed as you eat in relative silence. The vampire sits as far away as possible and attempts to give a sly rub to his temple as the talisman begins to work its magic.

Subaru looks deathly pale. You'd say he looked ill if you believed a creature like him could get sick. You take a final bite before setting the tray aside. "I know you're hungry." The vampire stiffens at this.

Slowly, you begin to reach up to unclasp the necklace. "So let me do this for you." Your final line of defense is tucked into the drawer of your nightstand.

"I'll break you." And you didn't doubt his threat at all.

The Mukami Household:

They are likely to whisk you away after receiving orders from "that person". The brothers need to get more powerful if they can ever hope to live up to their expectations. If "that person" says that feeding off of a witch is how they're supposed to accomplish that? Consider it done.

Here is where you can expect your powers and abilities to shine.

Honestly, it might be more about them hoping that you'll somehow "gift" them a power of sorts. Example: If you can see the future through brief visions, they would hope to do that as well after drinking your blood. That must mean you're their witch and it's destiny, right? Your blood chose them.

Ruki:

Like Reiji, he'll expect you to study and hone your skills.

You aren't quite livestock, more like a servant. You're expected to perform your duties as their witch without question or fail.

After all, Ruki could find very creative ways to make sure you remember your place.

Drained and locked in the dungeon will do for the first offense.

But if you perform well? It's the sign of a good master.

... And maybe he'll gain some of those abilities in time?

"Again." The order you received seemed nearly impossible. Sweat dotted your brow from exertion and concentration. There were thirty candles within the dining room and you had to light them all at once.

Ruki didn't doubt your power. Far from it. He simply wanted you to be more precise with your spellcasting. He glanced at you from the pages of his book. You clenched your fist to summon a wind to snuff out the flames. That was the easy part...

Heat spawned at your fingertips as you rubbed your hands together before you let the energy flow forward with a flourish. You swallowed and glanced over to each flickering light... twenty-eight of them.

The halfling snapped his book shut. "Again." You clenched your fist once more and wiped the sweat from your brow, ready for a long night of practice.

Yuma:

You'll definitely have more direction on becoming a green/garden witch with Yuma. He'll teach you everything you need to know. How to grow your plants, care for them, dry and store them away for future potions.

He'll make room in his garden for you and the ingredients for whatever you'll need.

Yuma is very vigilant about your gardening. If you don't have a green thumb, expect to have one after a few weeks of coaching.

He believes that part of your magic could stem from eating good food, so expect him to give you fresh fruits to start your day.

God forbid if you give him an apple. "You tryin' to poison me, Witch?" He'll still eat it with a big grin on his face.

You toiled away on prepping your latest batch of tinctures in the spacious kitchen. The activity was relaxing in itself. It kept your hands busy and creating them was slowly becoming a hobby. You'd nearly finished putting a lid on your third when you felt a rough hand on your hip. The other was busy brushing the hair away from your neck. "Yuma-" You attempted to bat his away. "I'm busy."

Your reasoning didn't give the half-vampire much pause as his nose skimmed along the back of your neck. He bent down far enough to eye your progress before he scoffed. You could feel his grin blooming against your neck. "I'm not seeing anything that can't wait."

It was all Yuma offered you before you felt his fangs pierce the skin of your neck.

His gulps were as greedy as the arm that snaked around you. It was something you were grateful for since you doubted your hold on the countertop could keep you from buckling. He always drank until you were dizzy. Whether he did it out of his own enjoyment or simply because he needed more blood to fuel a vampire his size wasn't clear to you. For all you knew, it could be a mix of both.

Finally, he pulled away and licked at the wound until it closed. You were dizzy, you were flushed, and you doubted you could finish up your tinctures if you tried. "C'mon, Witch." Yuma lifted you up and secured an arm just above your thighs. "We're taking a break."

Kou:

Kou with a witch is the bane of Ruki's existence. The idol always seems more energized after drinking from you.

Expect him to hunt you down and bite you before his shows and maybe even after if his meet and greets with his fans wearing him out. He's almost always sure to flash you that charming smile the girls fawn over when he's finished. As if he didn't just get done draining you.

"You taste so good, Pretty Kitty. You saved the best blood just for me, didn't you?"

Witch? More like a black cat. There's no way around it, no matter how much you insist.

But he's expecting... something. Anything. The rush your blood gives is amazing, but Kou expected to gain some of those neat little abilities of yours.

Don't you know that this is a give and take relationship? He's been so kind to you. The leeway he gives you sickens Ruki to no end.

So maybe... he needs to shorten your leash and remind you why you're here.

The puncturing of your forearm earned a bit of a yelp. You should have been used to fangs piercing into your skin, but Kou sucked at your wounds so hard. He dug into you as if this time would be any different from the last. The sharp pain didn't fade and it took you digging your fingers into the plush couch arm to keep yourself from ripping your arm away and creating nasty gashes.

He might switch from his kind persona to an unforgiving warden if you did. Kou would probably be upset enough to let you simply bleed out for a while before he considered lapping at your wounds to close them.

His desperate suckles died down as the rush of magic seemed to flow through him soul deep. A please hum reverberated against your skin, and if you didn't know better you'd say he was purring. Kou pulled away with a sloppy pop before his tongue swiped over the wounds he had inflicted before they faded away into your skin.

You were lightheaded and the phantom pain still throbbed against your skin, yet there was nothing to show for it aside from the evidence Kou wiped away in front of his vanity.

"Thank you, Pretty Kitty." The blonde chirped like a kid who'd just gotten a treat. "Now, behave yourself until I get back. The show won't be too long." He shot a wink your way before he left his dressing room. He was bouncing with energy as he made his appearance on the stage, and the cheers could be heard from where you'd slumped over on the couch. You were too exhausted to do anything else.

Azusa:

He's intrigued by your powers, and he's as much of a helper as he is a disaster waiting to happen.

Azusa is content with watching you work or helping when he's able.

He's probably the only one who will call you by your name the first time you ask. You're not 'Eve', you're a witch.

Put a lock on your cabinets. He's likely to hold potions and tinctures to examine them in the light, daydreaming about ill effects, and possibly drinking them.

"Y/N... Will these burn me from the inside out? ... Ah.. That would feel wonderful, wouldn't it?"

What's more concerning are the runes he's taken an interest in lately. He insists he can help. He's seen tattoos of these symbols floating around. Azusa doesn't think they're deep enough to do those women much good. They've barely scraped the surface of your potential. 

So he'll help you by carving them into you until he's sure you feel those markings within your very marrow. And maybe, just maybe, you'll be happy enough to carve him up just like he's shown you?

You hesitantly grasped at the bouquet of roses that Azusa held out for you. "Oh... Thank you." The scent from them was so strong that you took a moment to enjoy it. A weak smile found its way to your lips. "This is very sweet of you, Azusa."

He simply hummed before his hands grasped yours in a tender gesture, trapping them around the bouquet.

"...I wanted to make you happy." Your blood ran cold. You had a sinking feeling even before he began to squeeze your hands. "I thought if I helped... you'd forgive me." Instinct made you jerk your hands within the vice-like hold he gripped them in. He thought you hated him for being so nice. Just like his brothers.

"Azusa! Please!" It was enough to draw a sob from you. "Stop."

His hands fell away and you dropped the roses altogether. Tincture ingredients or not... they weren't worth suffering over. Your palms were bloody and they shook from the pain. Azusa gripped your wrist and began to suck on the red that bathed your fingers.

"Hey... Y/N... you'll love me lots if I help... won't you?"

[thenugking]

Grand Academy For Future Villains II: Attack of the Sequel, Chapter 0: Prologue. A commentary for Three.

Like Maedryn in this chapter, I am also back on my bullshit.

General CW for the whole thing: parental abuse, internalised dehumanisation as a trauma response. Three’s not doing well. They’re doing worse than usual in this specific chapter.

Game 1

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9

Alternatively, read on Google Docs here

***

That would explain the swarms of clones, you think dimly through the haze of the flashback, but not why they're me….

No. You hadn't been a mindless copy at all. You had been disappointingly independent, an individual in your own right, so instead of simply recycling you as perhaps she should have, Maedryn had raised you like her own child. Of course, you were still intended as a tool to carry out her grand designs; what kind of villain would she have been if she had simply loved and cherished you?

Professor Cerebrist had wanted your mother's replication technology for himself. When you, the living prototype of your mother's early research, showed up in his freshman Evil Genius 101 class, he saw his opportunity. In your first year at the Academy, you found yourself as the battleground in the war between your mother and her mentor. Even though it never came down to a fight between you, your loyalties were tested.

In the chaos of the battle between the rebel faculty, the attacking heroes, and the beleaguered Grand Academy administration, you'd called on your mother for help, and she'd come through. She'd defeated the Professor and taken his place.

Clearly your mother has finally perfected her replication technology and taken the place of her former mentor. But if she already has everything she wanted…why has she unleashed swarms of mindless yous upon the Academy?

It’s… not a great start to Three’s sophomore year. They weren’t looking forward to having their mother on campus in the first place, but they'd hoped she would wait at least a little while before getting back on her bullshit. (Not that that’s a phrase they’d ever use, having only heard it in the context of Scorpius informing them that ze’s very sadly back on zir bullshit, before throwing a box of scorpions at them and running off before Three could ask what ze was talking about. But Maedryn is, unfortunately, very much back on her bullshit here.)

They don’t know what she’s doing with the clones, but right now, that’s not as big of a concern as the fact that the clones are here at all. Looking like Three. And making person-like screams. And probably getting their outfits and hair messy. In public. Three is… somewhat disgruntled that after all the effort they’ve put in to turning themself into a tool, erasing any displays of personhood and imperfection, Maedryn would simply create some new tools that don’t bother with any of that at all. But which still let other people see Three as a messy, screaming person.

The very noticeable, very public appearance isn’t helpful for Three’s desire to remain unnoticed and not draw attention to themself, either. It’s an interesting paradox; they can blend into the janitorial staff perfectly, but they stick out as The Student Who Looks Like All The Clone Janitors. There’s a similar thing going on with their name, actually. They like having a name that suggests a lack of personhood, but it does have the unfortunate side effect of having people consider it  odd, unique and even memorable.

...That first explanatory paragraph up there is spot-on Three characterisation though. 

#"But what an impressive job you've done of it! I'm so proud you're my mother!"

She looks at you critically. "A bit grovelly, but appropriate; it was and you should be."

Three’s probably not quite this grovelly. Apart from disliking the exuberance of the exclamation marks, they’ve had nineteen years to learn to measure quite how much grovelling Maedryn likes. But a little grovelling in this situation is only appropriate, particularly when they’re not certain exactly what she might have read from their thoughts on the flashback gun.

"Some of you may remember," says the Head, in ponderous tones, "the attempted establishment of a second and rival school on our campus last year, calling itself the Polytechnic Institute for Antagonism and Moral Complexity. This institution is hereby forcibly dissolved, thanks to the clone armies contributed by our loyal faculty. There is but one school on this campus, and it will tolerate no challenge, share no power, and show no mercy!"

The judgment of the remnant of the ill-fated Polytechnic Institute for Antagonism and Moral Complexity is summary, arbitrary, and surprisingly creative. The fates of the rebel faculty, announced and executed by DarkBoard, range from "Probation, with Extra Probes" for Professor Ulik, to "Dismissal Before Expiration of Contract" for the senior Professor Dethclot, to "Disciplinary Suspension" for the ringleader, Professor Mortwain. This last didn't sound so bad, until you see that it involves being suspended in a vat of clear Jell-O and set on the plinth in the courtyard as a warning to traitors.

The rebel students are all expelled, which is to say they are one by one dropped through a trapdoor in the floor. Presumably it ends up somewhere in the dungeons, but the geography of the Grand Academy is dubious at the best of times, and you figure they're lucky if they end up somewhere with a breathable atmosphere and not floating in the void.

Three thought they’d long grown out of feeling sorry and disappointed for idealists who tried to act against their mother. Of course, they hadn’t known Maedryn had cared about the Polytechnic Institute for Antagonism and Moral Complexity, but on reflection, they don’t know why they ever expected the School Head to have any more mercy than Maedryn had. It’s unexpected and unpleasant, having these feelings come up again, and there’s a deeper despair they’re not sure they remember feeling before.

They could have been part of the Professor Mortwain’s Institute. They’d thought before this that they should have been. It was only cowardness that stopped them. But they’ve known all along that going against authority never ends well. This just shows they were right. This just proves any ideas they had about standing for their own beliefs in future were foolish and naive, and they knew better than Mortwain and Ulik and Phil and everyone else in the firing line now. So why do they still feel like they should be standing there with them?

"That," the School Head tells the surviving students and staff, "was a Refreshing Display of School Spirit."

It casts its gaze about the hall. Then those eyes land directly on you. "Are there any remaining students in this body," it says, "that we should know about, that participated in activities unbecoming the Grand Academy for Future Villains?"

You scan the hall, trying to find someone to betray. Not Rathna, you were known to be enemies. Not Miriel the Bloodshrike, you actually like her. Not Aurion either, the Head is known to favor him.

There. Leaning back in his chair, you spot the perfect mark. Phil, a casual friend from last year. Permanent upperclassman, villainous slacker, and known supporter of the rebel college, insofar as he could be bothered to support anything at all. 

The Head's baleful gaze has not left you. It's waiting.

Seriously, why am I being told I’m enemies with Rathna now? And that I like Miriel? Anyway, Three doesn’t particularly want to betray anyone. Certainly not Aurion, their Not Best Friend, or Rathna, who they get along well with, and turning on anyone from the Shadow Council could be dangerous. But with the Head looking right at them, betraying someone else might be the only way to keep themself safe. A few months ago, they wouldn’t have hesitated before giving Phil up; they’d thought he was too lazy and useless to deserve a place here anyway. Then he’d beaten them, and shown a commitment to his cause Three wished they could have, and inspired them to do better. Which obviously, in the end, was a bad decision on Phil’s part and got neither of them anywhere.

#Say nothing and hope no one notices.

You can't bear to betray him. However, your mother—despite the effort of controlling all the replicas in the room—notices your hesitation, and intervenes. Phil isn't any help. He doesn't put up a fight, doesn't even really seem to notice what's happening until he's hauled off to the trapdoor by two of your blank-faced replicas.

You think you hear him call your name. "What are you—" You shift guiltily in your seat, but he's addressing the clones.

Did he even notice that they weren't you? Did he even care that there were suddenly swarms of you when last year there'd been only one? Hurtful. He deserves whatever he's going to get. Or so you tell yourself as the trapdoor closes with a final clang.

Three doesn’t really feel hurt (at least not by Phil). After all, why shouldn’t he think the clones are controlled by them? Or that Three’s at least part of the dissolution of the Polytechnic Institute for Antagonism and Moral Complexity? They were working with the School Head to stop it last year, and they’re sitting with Maedryn now. And they never thanked him for what he did. And they never apologised.

Three doesn’t have many thoughts on the rest of the announcements, mostly because they’re dissociating during them. Which is fine. That stops them having feelings, and tools don’t have feelings. None of the Probably Much More Useful Than Three Is clones have feelings. Does Maedryn even need them for anything now she has the clones?

It’s not going to be a good year for Three.

[official-transsexual]

Hey, do you have some relevant sources that disprove brain sex handy? I saw some cowards reblogging a thing that had 30 separate links to brain sex studies, and I was looking to close their case

So, first of all, I want to clear up a misconception I see a lot- I’m not actually interested in “debunking brain sex” in general. I mean, neuroscientists are still trying to figure out how they should even define brain sex, never mind having anything concrete to prove or disprove its existence. My concerns with brain sex research have to do with the way truscum & other groups (mis)use studies on this subject to support claims that are not in evidence, generally because those claims are outside the scope of what those studies were capable of measuring. For truscum, these claims tend to be that 1) brain sex research proves that real trans people are born with brains that don’t match our bodies and that 2) this proves that all trans people experience dysphoria, which I’ve seen justified in turn with the claim that 3) having a “male brain” or “female brain” necessarily means having ~the~ neurological body map associated with that sex.

Second, before jumping in to debunk lists like that, I always recommend that you take a moment and ask yourself who you’re debunking it for. Whose mind are you hoping to change? If it’s the creator of the list, you might as well save your energy. On the other hand, if your aim is to help readers who haven’t learned how to read a study judge the validity of sources that are presented to them, you only really need to get far enough through the list to cast doubt on that posts’ trustworthiness ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Now, on to debunking truscum claims about brain sex!

I have a couple of general sources in my FAQ, and I recommend looking into neuroplasticity research (here’s a paper that might be useful) but when it comes to lists like the one you’re talking about, the best refutations often come from within the papers themselves.

I know there’s a doc floating around that goes through a list of sources truscum like to link one by one & explains why they don’t support the claims truscum are making, but I don’t have the link on-hand, and honestly this feels like a good excuse to go over how I read studies to test for truscum claims about how brain sex relates to dysphoria. What I’m going to describe is basically an adapted version of how I did my first read-through of studies I was thinking of using while writing papers as a university student. Keep in mind, this only applies to studies; editorials/opinion pieces by experts in the field need to be approached differently.

Don’t even bother with news articles, non-academic media is notoriously bad at presenting brain sex research accurately. Make sure you’re looking at the full-text version of the paper (you can check for access to the journal through your school or a local library, search for a copy on google scholar, email the author asking if they’d be able to send you a copy to help with your own research, or download it from sci-hub if need be), & look at the scope and limitations of the study. If something feels off about the paper, run it through google scholar and check the “cited by” for red flags like critical responses, or a high rate of endorsements from dubious sources. Don’t worry too much about the names of specific molecules/structures/processes on your first read, even if you’re familiar with the jargon; you can get into that later, but right now you just want to know 1) who was included in the study, 2) what they were looking for, 3) what they *actually* found, 4) what they *think* it might mean, and 5) the limitations of the study.

If the answer to 1 is just cis people, the paper is *probably* not relevant. Again, not arguing against the concept of brain sex in general, just the claim(s) that brain sex research proves that trans people all experience dysphoria because of neurological maps. If you can’t figure out any point of relevance at all, you might just want to skip to point 5.

If the study actually includes trans people, look at how they selected the sample. These papers are generally more relevant, but they can’t necessarily be said to be a representative sample of trans people. Studies that don’t include non-dysphoric trans people are not evidence to draw conclusions about that group.

Once you’ve confirmed that a paper is in some way relevant to the subject of trans neurotypes, start looking at points 2 to 4. I can’t even count how many times I’ve seen someone cite a study claiming it proves a point, only to read the paper itself and see that the authors were actually suggesting a potential area of future study, or even just explaining their starting hypotheses. Some authors will lay these points out neatly, but for the ones who bury “maybes” in paragraphs of jargon, it helps to take notes.

The 5th and final point here is checking the limitations. I put this one at the end of the list because of how most published studies tend to be structured, but it’s probably the most important point on this list. If a research paper doesn’t describe any limitations of the study, that’s a huge red flag.

When researchers describe the limitations of these studies, they almost always include some kind of caveat that the data collected is not sufficient draw causal conclusions about specific gender-related experiences, sometimes combined with calls for further research.These are mostly aimed at people who would use those studies to back gendered stereotypes about things like language or spatial thinking, but they also apply to assumptions that commonly feature in truscum arguments such as “why dysphoria occurs” and “how neurological body maps form.”

In addition to the authors’ stated limitations, there’s other things you might be able to double check. Is there any indication that size measurements were controlled for variations in body mass? Does it seem like they’re testing a single data set for multiple hypotheses, and if so, do they talk about correcting for the increased risk of sampling error? How much overlap is there between results from all of the groups observed?

Going through these 5 points won’t necessarily tell you if a study is *good* or not, but it should give you a pretty good indicator of if it’s being seriously misused- and if it was linked to you as part of a long list, you’re probably more familiar with it at this point than the person who sent it, and you should be able to take these points and use them to explain why the listed studies fail to support the claims that they’re being cited to back.

Now, you might be sitting there going “okay but that seems like a lot of work,” but that’s the point of these lists- not to provide accurate information, but to make fully disproving their claims into an overwhelming task that takes exponentially more time and energy than they spent digging for links. It’s a lazy version of a Gish Gallop, so again, think very carefully about how much time is actually worth putting into responding to individual lists.

Anyway, this got extremely long and only barely answered your question but hopefully it’s useful? 😅

[howlsmovinglibrary]

which couple is better i.e. has the ideal framework of a good and healthy relationship: a) howl and sophie or b) rhys and feyre and why?

What an interesting question which - when being asked of me, Howlsmovinglibrary, known detractor of SJM - seems to have an obvious answer. 

Anon, my suspicious mind is almost worried that it’s trying to trick me into something. But I am bored at work, so let me indulge!

Which couple is better: obviously Howl and Sophie. Again, suspicion brain is leading me to believe that the question might be trying to point out that their relationship is far from perfect, ie. Based on bickering, Sophie judging Howl heavily, etc. etc. It isn’t perfect. I wouldn’t hold it as ideal at all. But it is my preferred pairing.

 Why?

Their arguments are mostly based in Sophie’s misjudgements regarding Howl, which are based in the narrative she’s written about him, not what he has actually done. She assumes he’s a hearteater and so makes him a suit that makes him more attractive to women, she assumes he’s seducing her sister’s because he can’t imagine he’d like her, she remains old and unattractive to him because that’s what she believes she is, etc. She performs the role of his housekeeper because she thinks this is all women are good for as that’s the knowledge she’s inherited, while being a witch more powerful than him the whole time. They enter into a relationship once she’s realised that this is wrong, meeting as equals.

Howl and Sophie call out each other when they’re wrong and (most importantly) the other person listens and improves. Sophie and Howl bring out the best in each other. Howl might be a lazy entitled phd student who Sophie gives purpose to but also Sophie’s flaws and prejudices are counteracted by Howl. When they are married, we see in The House of Many Ways that they continue to have problems because their (realistically flawed) personalities clash, but also because neither of them will take the others bullshit and let them lapse into bad habits. Like Sophie is ever going to give Howl a free pass for being a jerk!

Their relationship is based on Sophie’s agency. There’s academic discourse/post on tumblr somewhere about how Sophie uses her crone persona to enjoy the freedom to define herself outside of the male gaze. Unfortunately Feyre is never allowed this, as a lot of her empowerment comes from her sexuality and the male gaze. Ergo, for Feyre, who you love/are attractive to is part of what defines your agency, which I personally don’t find a healthy basis for a relationship although that’s a personal judgement. Sophie has decided who she is separate from her love of Howl in her crone persona: her decision to drop the spell is a decision to engage in a romantic relationship.

Even better, Howl has already decided he loves her by this point (based on her personality) but he doesn’t act on it until he has visible proof she consents! Meanwhile, Rhys realises he’s mated to Feyre, a girl who he doesn’t know but somehow loves with a scarily irresistible force, doesn’t tell her and instead leads her to be subject to forces she isn’t given the opportunity to understand and process, then engages in date rape and sexual contact under extremely dubious consent!

I do not uphold Howl and Sophie as a perfect relationship but I think it’s written with realistic expectations – that is, that people come to each other flawed and learn and grow together. 

Honestly, thinking this through, maybe Feyre and Rhys have the “ideal framework” because it’s a fantasy one that SJM has written into being: the mating bond, where everyone finds their perfect partner (of the opposite gender, obivously) and after the sex they inevitably need to have they love each other so much that they ignore all flaws regardless of the consequences it has for themselves, family, and friends. 

But that’s brings me back to ‘good and healthy’. The mating bond is tell rather than show. SJM *tells* us that their love is perfect because it has to be, her magic fantasy world has made it that way. But it’s not a love I find particularly loving, or even sexy. I don’t find Rhys’ actions attractive or loving, particularly in his alpha possessiveness and violence (which will always squick me out in any romance I read, not limited to SJM). It essentialises certain behaviours and provides a get out clause for anything that makes you uncomfortable about your partner. It feels to me, kind of like a prison.

For me, I’ll always prefer Howl and Sophie because love is shown rather than told, with no magic bond to handwave the flaws. They have to work on becoming better people together, which sounds like my ideal love, because I’m not beautiful or perfect (yet!)

[dbhilluminate]

DBH: Illuminate- Hit and Run (part 1)

Characters: Connor-50 / Z, Dennis, Nick, Kate, Connor-51 / RK, Axl  Word Count: 2,598

Axl spots a trine of RK800's entering Detroit on a bus inbound from Belle Isle- Kate moves to tail them with the intention of finding out why they're there, but is spotted by Connor's doppelganger and forced to do something she regrets in order to escape.

( Chapter Art by triple_jays_art , Co-authored by grayorca15)

Previous Chapter

• Chapter Index • Characters •

--------

November 12th, 2038 - 12:54 PM

By the end of the journey, Dennis almost wished their special travel privileges had been revoked. Standing at the back of the bus might have been degrading for models of their ( dubious ) stature- compared to that, sitting wedged into an armchair-style seat wasn’t any more pleasant, but it was useless to rue any of it at this point, like insisting on taking the window seat in spite of irrelevant comfort. HIs partner squinted and placed a hand on the glass to see further out the window in anticipation of what their first glimpse of Detroit would entail. Thus far, the rolling expanses of countryside —field after field of unharvested late-season corn— had yet to give way to congested metropolitan sprawl. Nick sighed and turned back to him in disappointment. "How much longer? Why is it so far? I didn't know it would take so long."

Such questions were unsuspicious to the rest of the tour bus’ human group, but exhausting to have to answer ten times over. Instead of responding with his usual weariness, Dennis skimmed ahead to the next news article on his tablet, slouched down in his seat with his elbows bowed and his ankle crossed over one knee. He cut enough of a surly image he hadn’t been bothered by other passengers looking for small talk, though his covert attire helped throw off suspicion. In his Michigan State Wolverines hoodie, blue jeans, and ski cap crammed down over his brow, Dennis looked like just another laze about young adult catching the bus back to the city. He’d even left the laces of his boots untied to better help sell the idea. With every lazy turn the bus made they swayed one way, then the other. Dennis ran through a few possible responses before he opted for a casual nudge of his toe against his partner’s knee. This might have been a bearable arrangement, if only he would quit fidgeting every five minutes.

“You lookin’ for a distraction, or you want the same answer I’ve been givin’ you the last five hours?” Nick knocked his knee against his in rebuttal as he continued to look out the window, then turned and leaned back toward him, eyes wide under an old Detroit Tigers ball cap. "I'm just curious! It's been so long since we’ve been home… how much longer ‘till we get there?" The tablet in Dennis’ hands updated in real-time: a few mentions of road accidents that had waylaid everyday commuters at several junctions along I-75, interrupted his reading with a few annoying pop-up banners that he swiped away after reading. “An hour, provided the traffic doesn’t logjam between here and there,” he replied, then paused to take a sideways glance at his partner’s leg jittering up and down like a piston. Dennis recalled that had been their third’s plan to eat up the few hundred miles between Dayton and Detroit, but four hours in, Nick had recharged all he could will himself to. Now he was brimming with nervous energy he couldn’t work off, as always. Good plan, bad result. “What happened to sleeping your way back?” Nick reached to fuss with one of the arms of his windbreaker jacket and fidgeted in his seat. His leg stopped for a moment. "I tried that, but I'm not- tired anymore. We're going so slow… Too slow. Can't they go any faster? When will we actually be in the city?" “Soon enough,” Dennis replied, and dialed back the exasperation in his tone to spare them both the aggravation. Whether or not the delays could be helped didn’t stop Nick from whining about it anyway. There was no sense in getting annoyed.

Dennis glanced back and around at their company, most of whom were either asleep or too engrossed with their mobile electronics to notice, and made one slight tug at the ski cap. His LED dimmed beneath it, but he needn’t chance someone noticing the faint glow. As he opened the wireless communication channel between them, he reverted back to their usual banter: Don’t whine so much, you’ll draw attention to us. Their press coverage was still minimal as of yet, and most photos tended to consist of only one of their three faces. The odds they’d be outed were minimal, but it was still attention they didn’t need. And you know Zero could use the recharge. Nick twisted around and directed a too-obvious glance at their dozing primary seated a few rows back on the opposite side of the aisle. The RK800 (formerly known as “Connor”) faked a nap, head tilted back against the cushy headrest with a smart-looking cap pulled down over his eyes. Okay, okay, fine… I'll stay quiet, the anxious Android agreed as he settled back into his seat, then propped his chin up in the palm of his hand as he frowned at the floor You’re fussing more than the three-year-old in Row E. Dennis nodded to illustrate his point, directed a raised brow to the child in question, and rubbed at his eyes. I know you don’t like long rides anywhere. But you know why we’re being recalled, right? He had explained it. Whether or not Nick had been listening was another matter entirely. His partner leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms as he re-accessed the data, and remained quiet just long enough to formulate an answer. Yes… we're going back to Detroit to- uhm… help with something.

Nick never had possessed the longest attention span of their trio… Capacity for learning meant human mannerisms could easily sneak their way into all the machine-like tics that came with being an android, but they still needed to be tempered. Dennis shut his eyes before the urge to roll them got the better of him. Even if it was the perfect moment to indulge one, he refrained from exhibiting any deviant-centric behaviors, lest he give Amanda another reason to add a new tally his behavioral report. Yes. We’re going to help determine where Illuminate has been operating. Zero’s redundancy twin is a whisker away from rooting out their base of operations, and he could use some backup closing the net. The long and the short of it, as described by Amanda, wasn’t that their time around the Midwest had been a complete waste, but now that they were in the know about Zero’s “other half”, it stood to reason that they’d been sent out of the city to keep from overlapping on DCPD cases. Her patronizing reassurance did nothing to calm the faux bubbling of anxiety in Dennis’ lines, however; in fact, it had done the opposite by seeding the suspicion of irrelevance. He was simply better than Nick at concealing what he felt, as much as he wasn’t supposed to.

Nick bypassed the information that they were being sent to help uncover the largest connection that would help them prevent a deviancy uprising, and immediately went for the acknowledgment of Zero's twin. Instead of skeptical, he was genuinely earnest to embrace the notion of a lost ‘relative’. The prospect didn’t scare him at all. Oh, yes, I knew that. I can't wait to meet him! I wonder if they look different... you know, so we can tell them apart? I wouldn’t want to confuse one for the other. Dennis scoffed and twitched his crossed-over ankle to purge some of the subdued restless energy. That’s hardly our biggest concern. This isn’t a social call, it’s for the good of the mission. He may not have always liked being the anchor of their group, but someone had to be. I know, I'm just excited. The wait is making me anxious… Nick trailed off as he took a hopeless look out the window again, then realized what he should have said and turned back to Dennis. A-and to get started on the mission, of course.

With a slow, careless blink and a small sigh, Dennis cleared the news article he was no longer one-hundred percent focused on reading, just as a green mileage sign flashed by. Toledo, Monroe… then Detroit- all potential deviancy hotspots. Depending on what kind of network Illuminate had established, they could have connections everywhere. Thirteen months was a long time for roots to spread. Even if they had only been dispatched to try and round up stragglers, sending three deviant hunters after an un-quantifiable number of deviant Androids across several States was a slapdash attempt at containing the phenomenon, at best. Deviants were as varied and widespread as the humans they took after. Dennis doubted he and his partners would have been able to see so much of the Midwest any other way, though. Mission parameters raised no red flags against lingering on a rooftop a few minutes longer than necessary to watch the sunrise over a foggy Lake Eerie, or peer through a fence to appreciate the teamwork of two dozen grade-schoolers playing a round of baseball after class- or study the diligence with which a monarch butterfly moved from one milkweed plant to the next, carrying out its natural function as a pollinator against all odds, natural or otherwise. That instance in particular, Dennis remembered having to stop and remind Nick it was time to leave. The garage in the middle of that bough harbored no deviants, just a wild assortment of insects. He would have been successful, too, if the damn butterfly hadn’t thought to land on his partner’s wrist. Nick had gone completely still as soon as it landed, letting out a breathy gasp and donning a wide-eyed stare. " Look, Dennis, look- wait, don't come close, you'll scare it off! ” Which was how the presumed in-out inspection job turned into a thirty-minute ordeal of tagging along after a ziggy little monarch. Even after flitting away, its new fan put his android abilities to use, sprinting after and tracking it like a fox chasing a hare. Dennis had followed only to ensure no harm befell their third, while Zero went alone to determine the deviant’s next most likely hiding place. They returned to find Zero standing idle outside the tool shed, while a recovery team from the nearest Cyberlife depot tazed and loaded the exposed fugitive up for transport. That had been three months ago- now here they were on the cusp of winter, headed back to Detroit to take part in a far more important manhunt. Colder temperatures were already leaving flecks of frost on the Greyhound’s curvy windows. It was strangely foreboding. But there wouldn’t be any butterflies this time, or so he’d hoped.

November 12th, 2038 - 03:37 PM

The Rosa Parks terminal wasn’t the first stop their bus made within the city limits. On the off chance they had been noted by prying eyes between Dayton and Detroit, they had been instructed to disembark at random. This counted as such. They didn’t need to step off as a group, but months on the road together only served to reinforce the invisible tethers- where Zero went, Nick and Dennis would follow. If he asked them to wait, they would. If he ordered them not to speak to anyone, they wouldn’t. Anyone who wasn’t law enforcement or related to an active case weren’t to be extensively interacted with- Which was why the moment two parka-wearing children darted out of the crowd and tripped Zero up was so unexpected. Z’s nostrils flared as he barely sidestepped quickly enough to get out of their way, and a hand shot out to brace himself against the side of the idling bus. “Sorry, mister!” Amidst more carefree giggles, they wove back into the crowd, right back to their parents’ sides. After being cooped up on a bus for god only knows how long, it wasn’t any surprise a kid’s first instinct would be to run amok at the first opportunity. With his disguise intact and his cover no worse for wear, Zero returned his focus to locating the subspace storage compartments running the length of the vehicle and entered the six-digit code Cyberlife had forwarded. A panel slid back to reveal a black gym bag, right where they said it would be. All that remained now was to get to Central Station.

They could have summoned a taxi, but with the chill of winter rolling in on the heels of November (cool and breezy, tempered with city smog), it wasn’t unbearable. In contrast to the stuffy interior of a tour bus, one might even call it refreshing; besides, it would do them good to walk, to stave off freezing joints. They had an itinerary, but not an expected time of arrival. Hiking the last leg of the journey to the station didn’t go against any pre-existing orders, and it would give them time to acclimate to their urban surroundings. Zero shouldered the bag by pulling the bandoleer-style strap over his head, then grabbed the brim of his cap and gave it a firm downward tug. Underneath, his LED flickered and spun up. Would you two mind walking from here on? Nick looked around at their new surroundings and nodded absent-mindedly, not at all realizing that he looked like a star-struck tourist in a less-than star-studded city. Oblivious to this as ever, he straightened up and focused with a gleeful smile. Yeah, I’d like that! Just look how nice it is. The bus ride was so long… and the station isn't that far. ‘Nice’, Dennis scoffed over the line as he cinched up his for-show knapsack and led the way out of the boarding area under the iconic inverted-umbrella, funnel-shaped tensile canopy. They kept at least an arm’s reach from each other as they wove into the crowd, but stayed within each others’ line-of-sight. Sticking close together was the best possible formation if they wanted to avoid being sidetracked. Don’t go getting too used to it, Nick. You said the same thing about Chicago, before that breeze almost knocked you off the DuSable. I didn't know it would be so strong, Nick protested in defense, sounding half-embarrassed by the mention of the event. It was as close to an infamous public screw up as they had yet known. The smile dropped. I know now, I won't do that again. At least not when it's windy. Just stay away from the river, you should be fine. Detroit only has one.

That she did. Wide and noticeable as it was, an expanse of sky and sea was all that separated the states from Canada. But beyond that to the southeast, past the assortment of towers and the even-further faraway silhouette of Windsor, a lattice-covered spire shaped like a speartip pierced the horizon as if it were threading a needle through the clouds. Zero had glimpsed it as the bus rode the elevated interstate. Now, his brown eyes subconsciously scanned the urban skyline for it as it crossed his mind once more, as if he owed it at least one fervent glance for being the closest thing to ‘home’ most androids knew.  Even if it said place wasn’t for him, there was the illusion of disdain in looking at it. Knowing what he did about their excommunication from its shadow, he wasn’t in any hurry to lay eyes on CyberLife Tower again. Why should it feel familiar, or welcoming, when they hadn’t even had enough time to get attached to the sight of it? The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth, but before he could let it fester, he turned and fell into step with the other two.

[thesinglesjukebox]

ARIANA GRANDE, MILEY CYRUS & LANA DEL REY - DON'T CALL ME ANGEL

[3.69]

"Independent Women Part III: No Throttle"...

Josh Buck: Absolutely not. [2]

Katie Gill: "Don't Call Me Angel" is a fun piece of movie credits music. There's nothing special here, but it's a jam of a song that would fit perfectly well in the already established oeuvre of middle-of-the-road yet totally serviceable movie tie-in songs. Two of the singers know exactly what sort of song they're in and give it the sultry, radio-friendly, sexy spin the song needs. The third is Lana Del Rey and her inclusion BAFFLES me. This is so far out of her wheelhouse that it's hilarious. Seriously, was Selena Gomez busy or something? The music video for Demi Lovato's "Confident" was practically an audition piece for this type of thing, why the heck isn't she here? [6]

Thomas Inskeep: Ariana does some Grande karaoke, Miley sounds like she'd rather be singing "I Love Rock 'n' Roll," and Lana teleports in to do another take on her breathy schtick (and brings the song to a screeching halt in the process) -- nothing about this, apart from (I imagine) someone's discussion of market share, makes any sense. There's no cohesion here. There's barely even a song. [2]

Wayne Weizhen Zhang: So, so, so cringeworthy. Ariana, Miley and Lana sound like reality music TV contestants who were forced to make a song together one week, couldn't get on the same page and ran out of time to rehearse, but had to release something anyways. Ariana is awkward and lonely on the hook, like she's waiting for help that never comes; Miley comes out of nowhere with a cloying shouted verse; and Lana is off in another world mumbling incomprehensible nonsense. Even the backing track has a nervous manic energy. If you want a good song about Charli(e)'s angels, just listen to this instead. [3]

Michael Hong: In high school, I worked on a group project where the only times we met up were when we decided upon a topic and to actually present the whole piece. Rather expectedly, the whole thing fell apart rather quickly and it was a completely embarrassing experience. "Don't Call Me Angel," gives off the same vibe, like Ariana Grande, Miley Cyrus, and Lana Del Rey were each given only the title and asked to write something vaguely empowering for women. Each artist sounds like they wrote for a different track and made absolutely no effort to meld styles, instead forcing the producers to try and mash the entire thing together. Even the chorus buries Miley and Lana completely beneath Ariana, perhaps rather wisely as I can't see the group's vocal tones meshing together very well. "Don't Call Me Angel" survives only through the one thing my group never had, natural charisma. [3]

Alex Clifton: How did Ari, Miley and Lana end up in this? I guess it echoes the three Charlie's Angels but this trio doesn't make sense. I can see how individual duets would've worked; Ari and Lana could've done something slow and spacy, Ari and Miley taking a more upbeat route, Lana and Miley singing something retro. This, sadly, doesn't play to anyone's strengths and just ends up being overproduced mush with a decent riff. If I had to pick any artist who could make this song make sense, it would be Rihanna, and the music video would be her in thirteen different outfits kicking ass. [3]

Joshua Copperman: I didn't realize how dated the Max Martin sound was until hearing "Don't Call Me Angel." Pop music is now either created with substance(s) or has substance thrust upon it. Meanwhile, the lyrics are clunkier than ever, "you know we fly/but don't call me angel" no longer endearing melodic math but shallow feminist lip service at a time when "if you feel like a girl/then you real like a girl" can sneak onto a major label record. It's the first time I can't listen to a Martin production without thinking of this unexpectedly poignant stand-up segment about Martin and Cosmopolitan. When the tropical house is so bland, further lyrics stick out more; Miley's pre-chorus ("Do I really need to say it/Do I need to say it again") is lazy, and Ari's vampire metaphors are just baffling. Lana comes out strongest, someone who seldom charts but has more cultural relevance than the former and is much hipper than the latter. Her verse is classy when Ari is unmemorable and Miley cribs from a Rihanna album reject from four years ago. "Angel", though, feels like a reject from 2013, when Miley was in her imperial phase and Ari was just breaking out from Nickelodeon -- in fact, it probably would have had Rihanna instead of Lana at that time. But no matter what trio, one thing is clear: with this lemon, you cannot make Marmalade. [3]

Katherine St Asaph: Remember, "Independent Women Part I" stopped the otherwise great song dead on the bridge to announce it was commissioned for CHARLIE'S AAAAAAANGELS, so "Don't Call Me Angel" earns points already for not doing that. It keeps its product placement to outside context, namely the fact that the song exists despite the three artists having little in common besides having stanbases and sniping at critics. The disparate styles can work together -- see the "Lady Marmalade" remake, unfairly maligned except by a few -- but here there are only anti-synergies. Miley's verse can't decide if she wants to be the track's Mya or the Pink (probably the better idea), but its bluntness also best fits the backing track. Ariana's sighed, harmonized "angel" is a great millennial R&B hook, but one that outside of an R&B song is starved for air. Lana's bridge, though a complete non-sequitur and only empowering if you squint, is also the most sonically charged thing she's done in ages; if there isn't a reason Lana Del Rey hasn't worked with Max Martin beyond "Lust for Life" (I suspect that there is), that wouldn't be the worst career direction. Everyone's part diminishes everyone else's, the exact opposite of what you need from an event single or a Charlie's Angels shine-theory ad. [5]

Jacob Sujin Kuppermann: Every big pop collab feels a little unnecessary -- pop stars work based on the idea that they're the center of the universe, and collaborations by their very nature make that seem silly. But this sounds really, really unnecessary. Two artists coming off career highs (and one coming off of "Cattitude") should at least drive some head-to-head comparison, but none of the three credited artists interact in any meaningful way. It's the Batman V. Superman of pop music -- conflict and chemistry built mostly on reputation rather than action, with nothing to defend unless you're an unabashed stan. [2]

Joshua Lu: In which Lana Del Rey learns that her reward for releasing her magnum opus is the opportunity to limp through a thank u, next reject. Ariana Grande and Miley Cyrus's voices already feel unbalanced, but Lana's mushy croons are so inapposite that they grind the song to a halt. [3]

Scott Mildenhall: It rattles along satisfyingly, but this never leaves the marks that the intermittent brass punctuation seems to signify. None of that is aided by how Del Rey, unbending in her lack of persona, has to be deployed in the manner of a guest rapper, wheeled on and off through a side door. The inability to sound at home with her collaborators in the way they do with each other is one thing, but the inability to sound anything other than lifeless in the face of them is another, and that's the precise opposite of what's called for. [6]

Will Adams: As out of place as she may seem on paper, Lana's bridge is the only point where the song becomes interesting: the key dips even more minor, and the arrangement has tangible cinematic sweep. The rest is a cluttered shamble of an Ariana Grande album cut, with her and Cyrus trading off lines with all the dubious empowerment of a Barb Wire quote. [4]

Jackie Powell: All right folks get ready for a sports metaphor, because it's coming. Ariana Grande is a bit of a ball hog on this track. What she doesn't seem to understand is if you are going to lead your team, you've got to provide the proper assist to each of your teammates. To me, saving Del Rey until the two-minute mark supports the idea that these "angels" aren't really meant to work together. I thought the purpose of this was to present a team of strong women looking to take on the world via a song that preaches empowerment for this new wave of both feminism and Charlie's Angels films. Where a point guard should pass the ball and set up her teammates on the wings (no pun intended) and under the rim, Grande instead takes all of the shots. When the mic is pointed toward Cyrus after Grande's opening hook, though, she shoots with simultaneous finesse and power, letting her head voice mix well with the potent sound in her chest. If I was reviewing the visual made to accompany "Don't Call Me Angel," Hannah Lux Davis' treatment would receive a [10]. Grande, Cyrus and Del Rey all exude a mystique, ooze sex and expel power. For a Charlie's Angels theme song, that's right on the money. But what confuses me lyrically is how the hook clearly communicates the theme, even nodding to Destiny's Child, but the verses, bar maybe Cyrus', are underwhelming. The clock-tower cowbell loop that runs through and through grabs my attention, but I think Kristen Stewart could write better poetry. [6]

[Read and comment on The Singles Jukebox]

[monsieur-de-paris]

List of Faults

Tagged by Stolen from: @magicalshe​ Tagging: whoever wants ^-^

Bold what applies to your character.   Italics for somewhat  / sometimes.

Absent-minded - Preoccupied to the extent of being unaware of one’s immediate surroundings. Abstracted, daydreaming, inattentive, oblivious, forgetful.

Abusive - Characterized by improper infliction of physical or psychological maltreatment towards another. ( later in life, he eventually changes though )

Addict - One who is addicted to a compulsive activity. Examples: gambling, drugs, sex.

Aimless - Devoid of direction or purpose.

Alcoholic - A person who drinks alcoholic substances habitually and to excess.

Anxious - Full of mental distress or uneasiness because of fear of danger or misfortune; greatly worried; solicitous.

Arrogant - Having or displaying a sense of overbearing self-worth or self-importance. Inclined to social exclusiveness and who rebuff the advances of people considered inferior. Snobbish.

Audacious - Recklessly bold in defiance of convention, propriety, law, or the like; insolent; braze, disobedient.

Bad Habit - A revolting personal habit. Examples: picks nose, spits tobacco, drools, bad body odour.

Bigmouth - A loud-mouthed or gossipy person.

Bigot - One who is strongly partial to one’s own group, religion, race, or politics and is intolerant of those who differ.

Blunt - Characterized by directness in manner or speech; without subtlety or evasion. Frank, callous, insensitive, brusque.

Bold - In a bad sense, too forward; taking undue liberties; over assuming or confident; lacking proper modesty or restraint; rude; impudent. Abrupt, brazen, cheeky, brassy, audacious.

Callous - They are hardened to emotions, rarely showing any form of it in expression. Unfeeling. Cold. ( later in life, but it passes )

Childish - Marked by or indicating a lack of maturity; puerile. (in earlier years )

Complex - An exaggerated or obsessive concern or fear.

Cruel - Mean to anyone or anything, without care or regard to consequences and feelings.

Cursed - A person who has befallen a prayer for evil or misfortune, placed under a spell, or borne into an evil circumstance, and suffers for it. Damned. (not literally)

Dependent - Unable to exist, sustain oneself, or act appropriately or normally without the assistance or direction of another. 

Deranged - Mentally decayed. Insane. Crazy. Mad. Psychotic.

Dishonest – Given to or using fraud, cheating; deceitful, deceptive, crooked, underhanded.

Disloyal - Lacking loyalty. Unfaithful, perfidious, traitorous, treasonable

Disorder - An ailment that affects the function of mind or body. (malignant narcissist, former kleptomaniac, obsessive-compulsive ) See the Mental Disorder List.

Disturbed - Showing some or a few signs or symptoms of mental or emotional illness. Confused, disordered, neurotic, troubled. ( only for a while after his son dies )

Dubious - Fraught with uncertainty or doubt. Undecided, doubtful, unsure.

Dyslexic - Affected by dyslexia, a learning disorder marked by impairment of the ability to recognize and comprehend written words.

Egotistical - Characteristic of those having an inflated idea of their own importance. Boastful, pompous.

Envious - Showing extreme cupidity; painfully desirous of another’s advantages; covetous, jealous.

Erratic - Deviating from the customary course in conduct or opinion; eccentric: erratic behaviour. Eccentric, bizarre, outlandish, strange.

Fanatical - Fanatic outlook or behaviour especially as exhibited by excessive enthusiasm, unreasoning zeal, or wild and extravagant notions on some subject.

Fickle – Erratic, changeable, unstable - especially with regard to affections or attachments; capricious.

Fierce - Marked by extreme intensity of emotions or convictions; inclined to react violently; fervid.

Finicky - Excessively particular or fastidious; difficult to please; fussy. Too much concerned with detail. Meticulous, fastidious, choosy, critical, picky, prissy, pernickety.

Fixated - In psychoanalytic theory, a strong attachment to a person or thing, especially such an attachment formed in childhood or infancy and manifested in immature or neurotic behaviour that persists throughout life. Fetish, quirk, obsession, infatuation.

Flirt -To make playfully romantic or sexual overtures; behaviour intended to arouse sexual interest. Minx. Tease.

Gluttonous - Given to excess in consumption of especially food or drink. Voracious, ravenous, wolfish, piggish, insatiable.

Gruff - Brusque or stern in manner or appearance. Crusty, rough, surly. ( later in life )

Gullible - Will believe any information given, regardless of how valid or truthful it is, easily deceived or duped. ( earlier in life )

Hard - A person who is difficult to deal with, manage, control, overcome, or understand. Hard emotions, hard hearted.

Hedonistic - Pursuit of or devotion to pleasure, especially to the pleasures of the senses. ( it’s more of a phase )

Hoity-toity - Given to flights of fancy; capricious; frivolous. Prone to giddy behaviour, flighty.

Humourless - The inability to find humour in things, and most certainly in themselves.

Hypocritical - One who is always contradicting their own beliefs, actions or sayings. A person who professes beliefs and opinions for others that he does not hold. Being a hypocrite.

Idealist - One whose conduct is influenced by ideals that often conflict with practical considerations. One who is unrealistic and impractical, guided more by ideals than by practical considerations.

Idiotic - Marked by a lack of intelligence or care; foolish or careless.

Ignorant - Lacking knowledge or information as to a particular subject or fact. Showing or arising from a lack of education or knowledge.

Illiterate - Unable to read and write.

Immature - Emotionally undeveloped; juvenile; childish.

Impatient - Unable to wait patiently or tolerate delay; restless. Unable to endure irritation or opposition; intolerant.

Impious - Lacking piety and reverence for a god/gods and their followers.

Impish - Naughtily or annoyingly playful.

Incompetent - Unable to execute tasks, no matter how the size or difficulty.

Indecisive - Characterized by lack of decision and firmness, especially under pressure.

Indifferent - The trait of lacking enthusiasm for or interest in things generally, remaining calm and seeming not to care; a casual lack of concern. Having or showing little or no interest in anything; languid; spiritless.

Infamy - Having an extremely bad reputation, public reproach, or strong condemnation as the result of a shameful, criminal, or outrageous act that affects how others view them.

Intolerant - Unwilling to tolerate difference of opinion and narrow-minded about cherished opinions.

Judgmental - Inclined to make and form judgements, especially moral or personal ones, based on one’s own opinions or impressions towards others/practices/groups/religions based on appearance, reputation, occupation, etc.

Klutz - Clumsy. Blunderer.

Lazy - Resistant to work or exertion; disposed to idleness.

Lewd - Inclined to, characterized by, or inciting to lust or lechery; lascivious. Obscene or indecent, as language or songs; salacious.

Liar - Compulsively and purposefully tells false truths more often than not. A person who has lied or who lies repeatedly.

Lustful - Driven by lust; preoccupied with or exhibiting lustful desires.

Masochist - The deriving of sexual gratification, or the tendency to derive sexual gratification, from being physically or emotionally abused. A willingness or tendency to subject oneself to unpleasant or trying experiences. ( later in life; it’s more of a coping mechanism because of his abusive upbringing I guess, pain is probably the feeling he knows best thanks to his grandmother <.< )

Meddlesome - Intrusive in a meddling or offensive manner, given to meddling; interfering. ( later in life, mostly to Marie)

Meek - Evidencing little spirit or courage; overly submissive or compliant; humble in spirit or manner; suggesting retiring mildness or even cowed submissiveness.

Megalomaniac - A psycho pathological condition characterized by delusional fantasies of wealth, power, or omnipotence.

Naïve - Lacking worldly experience and understanding, simple and guileless; showing or characterized by a lack of sophistication and critical judgement. 

Nervous - Easily agitated or distressed; high-strung or jumpy.

Non-violent - Abstaining from the use of violence.

Nosey - Given to prying into the affairs of others; snoopy. Offensively curious or inquisitive.

Obsessive - An unhealthy and compulsive preoccupation with something or someone.

Oppressor - A person of authority who subjects others to undue pressures, to keep down by severe and unjust use of force or authority.

Overambitious - Having a strong excessive desire for success or achievement.

Overconfident - Excessively confident; presumptuous.

Overemotional - Excessively or abnormally emotional. Sensitive about themselves and others, more so than the average person.

Overprotective - To protect too much; coddle. ( He’d literally destroy your life if he believes it’s for the best for you lol )

Overzealous - Marked by excessive enthusiasm for and intense devotion to a cause or idea.

Pacifist - Opposition to war or violence as a means of resolving disputes. 

Paranoid - Exhibiting or characterized by extreme and irrational fear or distrust of others.

Peevish - Expressing fretfulness and discontent, or unjustifiable dissatisfaction. Cantankerous, cross, ill-tempered, testy, captious, discontented, crotchety, cranky, ornery.

Perfectionist - A propensity for being displeased with anything that is not perfect or does not meet extremely high standards.

Pessimist - A tendency to stress the negative or unfavorable or to take the gloomiest possible view.

Pest - One that pesters or annoys, with or without realizing it. Nuisance. Annoying. Nag.

Phobic – They have a severe form of fear when it comes to this one thing. Examples: Dark, Spiders, Cats

Practical - Level-headed, efficient, and unspeculative. No-nonsense.

Predictable - Easily seen through and assessable, where almost anyone can predict reactions and actions of said person by having met or known them even for a short time.

Proud - Filled with or showing excessive self-esteem and will often shirk help from others for the sake of pride.

Rebellious - Defying or resisting some established authority, government, or tradition; insubordinate; inclined to rebel.

Reckless - Heedless. Headstrong. Foolhardy. Unthinking boldness, wild carelessness and disregard for consequences.

Remorseless - Without remorse; merciless; pitiless; relentless.

Rigorous - Rigidly accurate; allowing no deviation from a standard; demanding strict attention to rules and procedures.

Sadist - The deriving of gratification or the tendency to derive gratification from inflicting pain or emotional abuse on others. Deriving of pleasure, or the tendency to derive pleasure, from cruelty.

Sadomasochist - Both sadist and masochist combined.

Sarcastic - A subtle form of mockery in which an intended meaning is conveyed obliquely.

Skeptic - One who instinctively or habitually doubts, questions, or disagrees with assertions or generally accepted conclusions.

Seducer - To lead others astray, as from duty, rectitude, or the like; corrupt. To attempt to lead or draw someone away, as from principles, faith, or allegiance.

Selfish - Concerned chiefly or only with oneself.

Self-Martyr - One who purposely makes a great show of suffering in order to arouse sympathy from others, as a form of manipulation, and always for a selfish cause or reason.

Self-righteous - Piously sure of one’s own righteousness; moralistic. Exhibiting pious self-assurance. Holier-than-thou, sanctimonious.

Senile - Showing a decline or deterioration of physical strength or mental functioning, esp. short-term memory and alertness, as a result of old age or disease.

Shallow - Lacking depth of intellect or knowledge; concerned only with what is obvious.

Smart Ass - Thinks they know it all, and in some ways they may, but they can be greatly annoying and difficult to deal with at times, especially in arguments.

Soft-hearted - Having softness or tenderness of heart that can lead them into trouble; susceptible of pity or other kindly affection. They cannot resist helping someone they see in trouble, suffering or in need, and often don’t think of the repercussions or situation before doing so.

Solemn - Deeply earnest, serious, and sober.

Spineless - Lacking courage. Cowardly, wimp, lily-livered, gutless.

Spiteful - Showing malicious ill will and a desire to hurt; motivated by spite; vindictive person who will look for occasions for resentment. Vengeful.

Spoiled - Treated with excessive indulgence and pampering from earliest childhood, and has no notion of hard work, self-care or money management; coddled, pampered. Having the character or disposition harmed by pampering or over-solicitous attention.

Squeamish - Excessively fastidious and easily disgusted.

Stubborn - Unreasonably, often perversely unyielding; bull-headed. Firmly resolved or determined; resolute.

Superstitious - An irrational belief arising from ignorance or fear from an irrational belief that an object, action, or circumstance not logically related to a course of events influences its outcome.

Tactless - Lacking or showing a lack of what is fitting and considerate in dealing with others.

Temperamental - Moody, irritable, or sensitive. Excitable, volatile, emotional.

Theatrical - Having a flair for over dramatizing situations, doing things in a ‘big way’ and love to be ‘centre stage’.

Timid -Tends to be shy and/or quiet, shrinking away from offering opinions or from strangers and newcomers, fearing confrontations and violence.

Tongue-tied - Speechless or confused in expression, as from shyness, embarrassment, or astonishment.

Troublemaker - Someone who deliberately stirs up trouble, intentionally or unintentionally.

Unlucky - Marked by or causing misfortune; ill-fated. Destined for misfortune; doomed.

Unpredictable - Difficult to foretell or foresee, their actions are so chaotic it’s impossible to know what they are going to do next.

Untrustworthy - Not worthy of trust or belief. Backstabber.

Vain - Holding or characterized by an unduly high opinion of their physical appearance. Lovers of themselves. Conceited, egotistic, narcissistic.

Weak-willed - Lacking willpower, strength of will to carry out one’s decisions, wishes, or plans. Easily swayed.

Withdrawn - Not friendly or Sociable. Aloof.

Zealous - A fanatic.

[minttoy]

all that we lost

CHAPTER THREE

Summary: Five years since the war has passed. Five years since she joined the Dragon Guard. Five years since she saw either of the princes. One of them is a King now. Rayla doesn’t consider herself blessed. How could she lose so much of herself and gain nothing back? The war has come and gone, and still she’s counting her losses. Amidst this fractured peace, she returns to Katolis to make up for lost time.

Pairings: Callum/Rayla

Genre: Romance/Angst

Click here to read on FF.net.

Click here to read on AO3.

For Chapter 1:

Chapter 1 (FF.net)

Chapter 1 (AO3)

A violin plays a joyful and melodious tune in the background.

Streets lined with vendors, music, dancing and games with stuffed prizes. Concession stands catering foods from around the world are found at every corner. Wherever she looks, there’s a joyous atmosphere, reminiscent of the celebrations that took place at war’s end.

They’re standing at the castle entrance. Callum has taken it upon himself to entertain a curious group of kids with an assortment of ‘magic tricks’, the irony being it’s real magic, and they’re not tricks. Rayla watches with wry amusement from the side.

“Again! Again!”

She offers him silent pity as the children start another round pleas to see the trick for the tenth time.

Callum smiles tightly. “Alright, but this is the last time.”

He kneels to the ground, using the bottle of bubbles that has the kids so enthralled to blow another set. Drawing the sky rune in front of him, he whispers the incantation and a small gust of wind sends the droplets gliding and dancing in the air. The kids run in a flurry, trying to pop the most soapy water blobs before they soar too high.

The gust of air magic catches the hem of her pants. For the festival, she’s opted for loose human clothing. If it weren’t for her horns or markings, maybe she could pass off as one of them. 

When she looks up again, Callum is doing his best to wave off the kids, promising them another show sometime later. There’s a wave of disappointment, but one kid pulls out a kazoo from his party bag and sputters out noise as he darts off in the street. The others eventually follow and Rayla eyes one girl in particular.

“Hey, little one. Be careful. You might trip and fall with your shoes untied,” Rayla calls out to the small girl that reminds of her of a younger Ellis.

The girl looks down to see that her boot laces have come undone and then she sort of waddles towards the elf. Rayla drops to her knees, levelling herself with the child. “I know you’re eager to join the others, but do you want to know what’s not fun? Getting hurt,” she says, tying her boot laces and then doubling it for extra measure.

Once finished, Rayla notices she’s been glancing between her non-human features, from the top of her head down to her fingers. The small girl soon erupts in a smile, having finally decided. “Miss, I like your hair!”

Rayla smiles the compliment. “Thanks. You can run along now.”

“See you later!” And then she bounces off towards the other kids with energy like the sun, reminding Rayla that kids are freer than anything in the world.

She rises to stand and dusts off her trousers. Behind her, she hears the faint sound of sketching. Charcoal on thick parchment paper. She glances up to catch Callum drafting something in his book. Something he wants to remember. She watches idly from where she is, studying the small ritual and fixed concentration in his eyes as he shades and fills the lines. Callum is so handsome still, and his boyish charm has aged well. 

He soon finishes with the drawing, notices her staring and then tilts his head.

She looks away and waves off his silent inquiry. “It’s nothing.”

He arches a brow, but she walks over to him and peers down at his sketch from his side. Back then, he’d always let her appreciate his works, scrutinize them even.

In the book, he’s drawn the busy streets before them, the banners hanging across the rooftops, the food stands, the assortment of flags, a few passerby. She marvels at his talent, even as she’s seen him do it hundreds of times. He could draw in his sleep if he wanted.

“Figured I should remember this day somehow,” he starts.

She nods, because that’s how he remembers. Callum always draws people, places and memories that are important to him. She saw them firsthand, back when those pages were mostly of his mother.

“By any chance, do you still use that…book?” he asks, keeping his voice low.

She’s lost at first, but clues in afterwards. Of course. Her own book, littered with lists it would confuse anybody with no context. He’d given her the first one she ever used.

“I do.”

He doesn’t avert his gaze, instead searches her eyes for understanding. “You…still get nightmares every night?”

She shakes her head. “Not every night. It’s better now.”

They’re silent for a brief moment, but only because it’s a topic to be discussed later. He finally averts his gaze, closing his book and slinging it over his shoulder. He motions her forward, suggesting they go for a walk and the two walk in step.

“You know, I think sky has always been my favourite class of magic,” he strikes up conversation, shifting the tone.

Rayla looks ahead of her, careful to maneuver around passerby. The streets are littered with folks now, but she has no doubt it will be busier later today. “Sky, huh? Why is that?”

He hums noncommittally. “I don’t know exactly. I just find myself using it the most. Maybe I’m biased, since it was the first Arcanum I learned.”

“Well, you’re also good at it,” she says as a matter of fact.

Callum beckons her to cross the street and she keeps close when they pass through a horde of vendors and their moving carts. People stare and steal curious glances. She sticks out in human garbs and it doesn’t help they’re a tall pair walking amongst a crowd. For a second, they glaze over her form or peek at her horns, but sometimes they look over at Callum with a glint of familiarity. He has no crown or regal showing, so maybe he’s not the prince they have in mind.

She almost wants to take his hand.

Make a statement. Somehow show the world that humans and elves can get along. Remove the judgment in their eyes and make peace. She knows he’d go along with it too, even squeeze her hand in steady reassurance, because he believes it too, but instead, she keeps her arms crossed in front of her.

“So is this what humans do when there’s no war?” she pipes up, shifting her thoughts.

He casts a lazy inspection to a particularly loud group across the street selling tickets for a show. “I guess so? I mean, after the treaties were signed, we threw a festival much like this one and the town settled down quietly ever since.”

She tilts her head at him. “And you?”

He looks down to the ground, hands in his pockets. “I sort of became a…diplomat?” He seems to think the title sounds silly out loud, so he quickly waves it off. “It’s fancier than it sounds. Basically, I go back and forth between towns, attend all kinds of meetings, negotiate trade, arrange foreign affairs, deal with disturbances at the breach, make big speeches…it’s not that bad, not so complicated.”

She snorts. “It sounds complicated.”

His lips tug to a small smile. “When I’m here, I like to teach at the school.”

Rayla marvels at the thought. “I had no idea you kept so busy.” She reflects on what she’s done in her last five years. “Is being a diplomat still frustrating as you once said?”

He chuckles. “So you did read my letters.”

“Of course I did,” she says, surprising him with blunt honesty.

They settle for brief silence, letting the sounds of the festival fill the space. When she hears him exhale, she looks up again.

“It’s gotten better, or easier, I should say,” he starts. “It’s a lot of work getting people to agree with each other, but I shouldn’t complain so much. I mean, I get to travel the world and see all kinds of things, right?”

“And attend a lot of festivals?”

He smiles. “Yeah. That too.”

Callum looks at her and there’s a thoughtfulness in his eyes. He’s preoccupied with something beyond this mindless conversation, but she knows him very well and it’s only a matter of time until he comes out with it.

“What’s on your mind?” she presses.

A sighs escapes his lips and he submits to it. “There’s room for one more, you know,” he starts. This time, he doesn’t play it too serious, not like he did five years ago, and she’s thankful for it. “You could still come with me. I’m sure everyone would be interested to hear your side of the story.”

Back then, these had been her choices. Join him or join the Guard, and after three days spent holed up in deep thought and rumination, she left him and chose the latter.

Rayla casts a dubious look. “Everyone? Really?”

“Well, maybe not everyone,” he amends. “Most people. The good ones will listen, at least.”

Her mouth tilts up in a small smile. “I hope you’re not trying to convince me to quit my job.”

Callum shakes his head, laughs it off quietly. “Nah. It’s just something for you to consider. My point is you’re always welcome here. I just wanted you to know that.”

She smiles again, but it fades quick as regret comes back to sting her. A blank expression shapes her features again. “Umm, can I be honest for a second?”

“What is it?”

“It’s about your letters.” Rayla sighs as she runs a hand over her face. “I’m just…sorry I didn’t write back.”

He turns to her, and she finds no resentment or malice there. “It’s okay.”

For a while, they sit at the square, listen to the band play folksy tunes, watch townies perform traditional dances. Rayla taps her foot loosely to the beat, reminded of the ceremonies and traditions held in her hometown.

Afterwards, they join the lineup to enter the town raffle. The prizes sit on the back table, courtesy of King Ezran himself. Baskets of foods, houseware, kitchenware, boxes of wine, stacks of books and smaller gifts stacked neatly. Callum needs neither of these things and Rayla can’t bring back any of the gifts with her on horseback. She think it’s reason enough to opt out of the raffle, but everyone is doing it so they toss their ballots anyway. 

They catch the noontime showing for the play re-enacting a dramatized version of the war’s end. She snorts at the interpretation of Azymondias, a name half the performers can barely pronounce. He breathes thunder and has sharp teeth, but years ago he was never as menacing as the play suggests.

Later, Callum somehow convinces her to try her hand in the archery tournament.

She’s not here to gloat, but he pushes for it. Maybe he’s improved over the years and thinks he can best her. Curious, she says nothing of it and motions for him to take his turn.

His first shot misses the bullseye by four markers, the second lands on the outermost ring and his third is the best, just one ring short. He’s not ecstatic with the results, but she gives him some credit. Back then, he could barely figure out the mechanics of the weapon.

“Pretty impressive,” she says as she accepts the bow from him.

Callum smirks. “I’m more curious about you, to be honest.”

He’s not the only one, it seems, as her eyes drift to the crowd. More onlookers have come to watch since they arrived. Families and cliques and tourists watch with wary anticipation. Even the brawny man supervising this tournament ignores the rest of the matchups to eye her with some suspicion. There are no other elves amongst this crowd, let alone this festival. She’s the only one with horns.

The matter is paltry.

Rayla eyes her target, sets her arrow and pulls back the string, releasing it with a deftness taught to her as an assassin, but honed in the Guard. With no moving targets and harsh fogs, she knocks the easy bullseye, and behind her there are gasps of surprise. She wastes no time, lifts the second arrow and launches it with more speed. It lands beside the first, just edged into the middle ring. Her third attempt goes awry, her concentration snapped when the large man in her periphery coughs loud into his mouth and her arrow goes straight into a hay bale behind the target.

She lowers her bow and briefly acknowledges the crowd before spying the burly man a look. Even some of the townsfolk have the decency to quietly applaud.

Raylat tips her head at him. “Is there a problem?”

He ignores the question entirely, getting up from his stool to yank out her arrows. “Sharp shooter, aren’t you?”

She shrugs. “Lots of practice.”

He raises a brow. “Are you trained in combat too? The art of the blades? Magic, even?”

Her expression sours a bit. “Does it matter?”

“You tell me,” he answers vaguely. He follows up with a half-snort, half-chuckle before snorting in ridicule. “Here we are, throwing all kinds of festivals and parties, thinking the war is over. Meanwhile, everyone living across the border act like it’s not.”

She doesn’t twitch. Her face is wooden. She silently hands him back the bow when he comes to get it. At his size, she guesses maybe he’s a retired guard. He speaks like a hard-bitten man, not necessarily contemptuous. Perhaps he served under the liege of King Harrow, now hardened having failed to protect his principal. Maybe he was there that fateful night and he’s seen firsthand what she’s capable of.

She stops herself from overthinking and swallows uncomfortably. “Umm, thanks for letting me play.”

He scoffs. “You can thank the prince.”

Rayla turns around, finding Callum in the corner speaking with a family across the fence. She stays nearby and tries to shake off the slight, but she’ll need something strong to forget that happened. Idly her gaze falls to the other matchups, where archery is done in good fun, but she knows when she returns to her post things will be different.

She hears clapping from her side, flushes with mild embarrassment as Callum walks over.

“Amazing as always,” he says, and her cheeks are noticeably pink now. “To be honest, I kind of underestimated you back there. I thought you were a swords-only type of warrior and maybe I could best you with my mediocrity, but I was wrong. Well, lesson learned.”

She sneaks a glance to the brusque man, unable to help herself. He’s still looking her way, curious of her relations with Callum. “Thanks,” she says absently.

“Is everything okay?”

Her mind reels back to what Callum said before. About how the war should have ended. What could have been done to end the persistent prejudice and bigotry. Suddenly, she stands to block Callum’s view of the archery tournament. “Everything’s fine.”

But she knows that face. Filled with question, concern and disbelief – he sees right through her. After years of separation, maybe he no longer feels obligated to act on it.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he tips his head towards the streets and she sighs in relief.

In truth, she hadn’t anticipated spending the day with him. She’d resolved to watching a few festivities from a rooftop and then spending the rest of the day in the forest. Instead, Callum takes her to the bakery for the afternoon. This place is famed for their jelly tarts, but today they’ve cooked up all kinds of delicacies, treats and pastries she’s never seen. All pretty and glittered with extraneous icing and sugar dust. Ezran would love it.

Rayla looks up from the glass counter and eyes Callum at the register. He’s on friendly terms with the baker behind the counter and they exchange smiles as the older man hands him a box of sweets.

She walks over curious. When she tries to get a peek, he just hands her the box. Inside is a dozen of bare cookies. A concoction of butter, sugar and flour mixed together and baked to golden perfection. Plainer than anything displayed in the counters.

Out of age-old connections, the baker lets them head into the back kitchen. Callum goes straight for the piping bags with a strange child-like eagerness.

“Something you probably don’t know, when Ezran and I were kids, we always snuck in here,” he says, making a frosting bag with a tip for her with leftover icing. She takes it with hesitation, having never done this before.

“You two would sneak in here? What kind of castle lets their princes do that?” she asks idly, trying to figure out the bag.

“Well, the guards were always busy doing something else, or guarding someone else. And the bakers would let us sample the treats so it was well-worth it,” he explains, chuckling at himself. “Back then, the palace was always…tense, and sometimes we needed a break. Things never really settled after my Mom died.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.”

He waves a hand. “Don’t feel so bad. That was years ago, and now this place holds good memories. Ezran got his jelly tarts and for me, the bakers were always nice enough to let me try my hand at decorating. I always looked forward to that the most.” 

It makes sense, she thinks, because Callum always had a knack for art. She watches his demonstration on how to write with frosting, outlining a neat ‘R’ for Rayla on one of the cookies.

She tries to frost the primal moon next. It comes out as a sloppy oval. She doesn’t even try attempting the smaller details and moves on. She figures she should try something easier, but the next cookie she pipes out too much on the first squeeze and the most she can salvage out of it is a blob. She sprinkles chocolate bits to cover it up before deciding she has no affinity for the art and instead, leans on the counter to watch Callum instead.

She marvels at his concentration and studies the way his brows furrow when he connects his lines. He makes anything from snowflakes, trees and precise swirls that look like roses. On the last cookie, he sneaks a glance at her pair of sprinkled blobs before tracing the moon rune himself with more care and attention than she will ever obtain.

He slides it over to her and she thinks there’s a hint of smugness on his face.

“Well, you win this one,” she says, standing straight and glancing over the array of frosted cookies.

“I had no idea we were competing.” His smirk is still smug. “Does that make us even?”

She snorts. “Well, I’m not sure how much your cookie decoration skills would help you in a fight. I think I could still knock you down.”

He raises a brow. “What if I use magic?”

Rayla tilts her head in interest. “Is that a challenge?”

His smirk disappears and he hesitates, considering it over. “Err, you know what? I take it back. I already underestimated you once today. I’m not looking to embarrass myself again.”

She smiles and before they know it, they run into a silence. Eventually they would run out of things to talk about. She’s not going to recount the days they spent apart or their days spent in war. Unfortunately, there’s hardly anything in between.

The silence is interrupted and she’s glad for it. The baker walks in at the right time, beckoning Callum over. She makes a quick guess, like a small game, and she’s right on track when after their quick exchange, Callum looks over apologetically.

Peering over at the storefront, she catches a couple of guards whispering to each other. They’re looking for him. Her guess is he’s needed elsewhere, maybe due for some big hero speech.

“You go on ahead. I’ll catch up with you later,” she says for him.

He nods. “There’s going to be a dinner celebration at the castle later,” he brings up. “I’ll see you then?”

She sends him off with a nod. When he’s gone, she packs up their snacks to go, not missing that the baker has chosen to stay nearby. She shoots him a second-glance over her shoulder in acknowledgement.

“You’re a friend of the prince, huh?” the old man pipes up. “What’s your name, lassie?”

She turns around, finds the baker appraising her. “Rayla.”

“You’re in good hands, you know,” he says for some reason.

“Why do you say that?”

He shrugs loosely. “The prince. He doesn’t judge. I mean, I don’t either – you’re welcome anytime here – but it’s different with him.”

Rayla raises a brow, unsure if that made anything clear.

He motions vaguely in her direction. “I’m guessing he met you through work?”

She hums noncommittally. “Not quite.”

“Well, I think he kind of likes you. I’m no expert, but I’ve known the kid his whole life,” he starts. She’s starting to wonder if this is some cautionary warning. “But hey, if you don’t like him back, that’s okay. Just – let him down easy. Rumour has it he had his heart broken by an elf a few years back.”

“Oh,” she says. “How…unfortunate.”

The man is only protecting him, it seems.

“I’m not worried. He’s got plenty of years ahead,” he says before sauntering towards the work table where a lump of dough waits to be kneaded. “It’s nice to meet you, Rayla. I hope to see more of your kind around.”

[vmheadquarters]

Happy Birthday @spookykinney!

For your birthday, surfer-Logan and FBI-Veronica are teaming up in this delightful remake of Point Break as told by our very own @cheshirecatstrut! We hope you have a great birthday and that you enjoy this first chapter of Taking the Drop.

It’s not like Veronica thought, while fighting tooth-and-nail to win a job at the FBI, that a law enforcement career would be glamorous. She assumed ‘high-risk’ and ‘life-consuming’ went without saying… but jumped in with both feet because everyone assumed she’d fail. Throughout those years she waged battles with a stacked system, though, to earn her gun and badge—she never once imagined the work would be BORING.

She’s currently reading email nine-thousand-three of more than forty-six thousand, however, so she can catalog contents to make a searchable database; and the sheer tedium has her reconsidering her position. Because sure, she MIGHT find the smoking gun in this stash, and put an international fraudster behind bars. But since right now she’s transcribing vet bills for a Pomeranian’s impacted anal glands, she has her doubts.

Voices filter back to her small and grimy cubicle, her reward for graduating Cum Laude from Columbia Law; she perks up as she hears the words, “…see if an agent’s available.” Since she’s fresh out of the Academy, and most junior on staff, Agent in Charge of Random Bullshit is usually her.

Approaching footsteps bolster this theory, so Veronica pitches her gum, straightens her somewhat-wilted blazer. Turns expectantly towards the entrance, alert-and-professional expression in place, just as Logan Echolls lounges against the frame.

He looks GOOD, she thinks illogically, even as she wilts like her sport coat. Tanned and buff and fifty times healthier than he should, considering those six years of tabloid-chronicled hedonism since she dumped him. He’s in old jeans and flip-flops, his ‘Live Fast, Die Young’ t-shirt both worn and snug; faint sun-wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepen when he notes her disappointment. Darla from reception waves and OH-MY-GOD’s behind him as he says, “Why am I not surprised you turned a felony kidnapping investigation into a job?”

“Why am I not surprised you’re still wasting your potential at the beach?” She gestures up-and-down at his ensemble. “And what on Earth are you doing in the San Diego field office, Logan? Are you planning to make another romantic drunken speech? Maybe you saw a joke flyer advertising kegs, and the metal detectors failed to deter you?”

“You wound me, Veronica,” he says, clearly not wounded, as she shoos away Darla. “You know full well I’m always the host. Like I’d deign to turn up at some random loser’s party.”

She snorts, and his grin faintly manifests. “Tragically, though, there’s a distinct lack of revelry and booze at this locale, so how about I cut to the chase? Can I interest you in a theory regarding bank robberies?”

Her eyes widen and she sits back, gesturing towards the uncomfortable guest chair. He unfolds from his lean and slouches into it, stretching out his long legs and making the cube feel minuscule.

“Now what would a boy like you know about felony theft?” She taps her lower lip while he crosses his arms, entertained. “I’m guessing very little, unless you learned on a film set—but I’ll admit you’ve disappointed me before.”

“I’m talking, specifically, about high-yield local jobs—the ones you guys have bungled like Keystone Cops for three years?” He bobs his brows, tone ever-so-slightly-patronizing. “The robbers wear Ninja Turtle masks, and collect massive hauls with a crew of four?”

“I may have heard a mention,” V says, with irony, because this case is the local Holy Grail. “As has every cable-news watcher in America.”

“Any lovers of partisan coverage realized yet the jobs only take place in the summer?”

She rolls her eyes. “Give us a little credit. We’re the FBI over here, not credulous guest stars on Scooby Doo.”

“And has it further occurred to you,” he leans forward intently, elbows on knees, “that these are the prime surfing months in So-Cal? For the rest of the year, surfers travel to the best waves…which costs more than people other than me can afford.”

He’s close enough now for her to smell his cologne, the sun-baked scent of his skin. Her voice, when she speaks, is husky. “Logan, what have you heard?”

Shrugging, he reclines against the wall, satisfied he’s piqued her curiosity. “Rumors,” he says, with a hand wave. “Nothing substantial. You know how it goes, when we reprobates toast marshmallows and gossip. High-denomination bills are turning up among locals, lately…and I’m the only guy who hasn’t spent his trust fund.”

“Rumors,” she repeats flatly, disappointment washing over her. Decides he looks and smells too lickable for pointless conversation to continue. “Well if that’s all you’ve got, no need to prolong the awkwardness. Thanks for stopping by--we’ll look into your allegations and touch base if necessary. Appreciate the good citizenship, blah-blah, God bless America.”

She finger-waves, and he stares for a moment, disbelief fading into cynicism. “Fine,” he says at last, pushing up out of the chair. “Your loss. I’ve had fun exchanging insults again, Veronica—it’s been a while since my last creative tongue-lashing. Good luck with the glamorous new career. Oh, and…excellent choice, reverting to shorter hair. There’ll be less to tear out when ignoring my clue gets you nowhere.”

He winks and strides away. She runs a palm self-consciously along one side of her sleek bob, and watches his back muscles shift as he goes.

XXXXX

Veronica submits a form detailing the interaction, per procedure, then tries to re-focus on the mind-numbing emails. The memory of Logan’s disappointed expression nags…but what did he expect, showing up out of the blue with no evidence? She WANTED to believe him; just like she wanted, once upon a time, to have faith he’d give up reckless self-endangerment. But leaping without looking is Logan’s thing--and the best way to protect him is to NOT inquire into crimes of his nearest and dearest.

She’s a professional, though, and the bigwigs want their database yesterday. So she dutifully enters emails till it’s eleven and she’s wiped. V then drags herself home to run on the treadmill, eat a frozen dinner, and feel both sad and glad she’s got no hungry dog waiting.

When her alarm goes off (too early) the next morning, she staggers into the kitchen to grab a bottled coffee; slumps half-awake at the breakfast table to chug. Mac’s gone for the day, probably practicing Tai Chi in the park, but the San Diego Union-Tribune’s on the table, neatly folded to show the front page. Veronica’s bleary gaze passes over it…then swings back, focuses. She grabs it in both hands, cursing.

The headline reads, ‘Wild in the Banks? Surf Wax Found at Multiple Robbery Sites, Source Claims’. The article beneath, written by some pompous windbag named Julian Grac, details the theory Logan laid out yesterday…along with several bits of evidence she’s sure were kept from the press.

“That asshole talked to the PAPER,” she mutters, crumpling newsprint in her fists. “When I kicked him to the curb, I should have kicked HARDER!”

Her rage sustains her all the way through her shower and commute. But when she gets inside the forbidding white-stone-blue-glass building, and finds a summons from Agent Morris waiting? Anger gives way to foreboding.

Morris still holds a teeny-tiny grudge about the whole getting-outsmarted-IN-RE-Duncan thing. And continues to view Veronica with unreasonable suspicion--which is troublesome because right now she’s V’s boss.

Her fearless leader’s planted on the desktop when Veronica enters, legs crossed casually, arms folded. The ‘lazy housecat, circling’ routine Morris uses to intimidate is getting old; so V goes full can-do chipper in response. “You asked to see me, ma’am?”

“Mars, am I right in assuming we work for the same department?” Morris arches one eyebrow, and Veronica has to bite her tongue to contain sarcasm. “It’s not something I hallucinated, due to lack of sleep from investigating bank heists?”

“Last time I checked, ma’am,” V replies breezily. “Unless there was a re-org this morning while I was stuck in traffic.”

“And when a potential witness for said case appears in said department…” Morris pauses, for dramatic effect, Veronica assumes. “Shouldn’t the interviewing agent, who’s incidentally my subordinate, notify me ASAP?”

“I passed the information up the chain as per FBI rules,” Veronica says. “And you must have received it, or I wouldn’t be standing here.”

“Yes, but if you had walked Mr...” Morris consults a sheet of paper on the desk by her hip, “Echolls upstairs personally, instead of sending him on his way and writing a bare-bones report, I would’ve received the information YESTERDAY. BEFORE he ran to the paper, and spilled critical intel to perps. I might’ve even convinced him silence is golden, since you didn’t find it worthwhile to try. Here’s a hint—fake sympathy and charm work wonders.”

Veronica finds this claim dubious, but all she says is, “Ma’am, he was passing along rumors. He didn’t give names or offer proof. And I doubt he’s a witness to anything but his own moral decline.”

“Be that as it may,” Morris says. “He HAS made the acquaintance of this pain-in-my-ass Julian Grac. Who somehow knows about the beeswax residue at six of nine robbery sites--the chemical composition of which matches a well-known surf product. Mr. Zog’s Sex Wax, to be precise. Bubblegum scent.”

Veronica contains an eye-roll. “A detail which was kept out of the press.”

“Right.” Morris levers herself up to standing. “My question is, HOW does Grac know? Did he learn this tidbit from Echolls? And if so, where’d Echolls hear?”

“Logan parties a lot.” Veronica shrugs, hoping she comes off unaffected. “And snoops. Probably he stumbled into the wrong crowd and overheard a conversation. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Yes, I was interested to learn you and Echolls share a history.” Morris consults the paper again; Veronica wonders whether it’s a car-wash receipt or actual research. “He was your boyfriend after Duncan Kane fled the country, correct? It’s great you didn’t disappear him, too, because we can use that relationship to get close to his sources.”

“Logan Echolls isn’t big on being used,” Veronica says, lightly. “You might not find him accommodating.”

Morris sighs. “Look, Mars, we’ve been praying for a break on this case for years. And, as I’m sure you’ll be shocked to learn, none of our agents surf. He does, though—Echolls—I understand he’s pretty good. He also trusts you enough to hand you dirt on guys he knows. It might be…” she trails a finger along the edge of her desk, slants V a sly look, “…advantageous to your career to demonstrate team loyalty, Mars. Convince the guy to be our confidential informant. Get an introduction to some surfers, find out who’s flashing mystery cash. His social circle’s no doubt heard about your turbulent former romance. He could help us infiltrate the locals-only crowd, none of whom like talking to Feds.”

“But if I go undercover,” Veronica tries to conceal her mounting excitement, “who will log the last thirty-thousand Sanderson emails?”

“Let me put it this way, Mars.” Morris smirks. “If you DON’T go undercover? I got a server in today from Atlanta containing another hundred-k.”

“You know I’m a professional, ma’am.” Veronica folds her hands behind her back to conceal the involuntary fist. “Whatever my task may be, I’ll work hard to exceed expectations.”

“So you say.” Morris lays the paper, gently, down. “I’d rather you prove ‘my task’ means ‘anything the FBI asks’. Not ‘whatever I feel is right, even if it’s against the law’.”

Veronica nods, giving away nothing. Morris contemplates her in silence. “We’re working on an alternate post-Hearst background for you,” her boss continues, after a tense thirty seconds. “You’ll have it by the end of the day. I’ve also called in a favor from the owner of Neptune’s Net, a local surf hangout—congratulations, you’re waiting tables. You’ve got a month to produce actionable evidence, plus I want weekly reports, in person. And Mars…from now on, don’t leave ANYTHING out.”

“I would NEVER.” Veronica presses a palm to her heart. Morris narrows her eyes, then waves a dismissive hand.

XXXXX

Once back at her desk, V pulls up tools that make Prying Eyez look like a toy and researches Logan. Within two minutes she’s got a list of his petty crimes, including one drunk-and-disorderly sophomore year and two expunged charges…destruction of a police vehicle, and assault of Mercer Hayes. But since junior year at Hearst, Logan’s flown under the radar. He earned a political science degree, with honors, followed by a Masters in English from YALE; and then…he bought a house in San Diego by the water, and a dog from the SPCA. She copies down the innocuous address, cracks her knuckles and considers.

High-tech’s getting her nowhere, so Veronica decides to Google; finds a ‘What happened to Logan Echolls?’ article which reveals precisely nothing. Next she turns her attention to Julian Grac, which at least has the benefit of novelty. It yields links to crime stories in the Union-Tribune, and an article about ‘ten great authors you’ve never read’.

Frowning, she clicks through, only to realize it’s name confusion. But the phrase ‘a writer who prefers obscurity’ catches her attention, so she speed-reads the autobiography of one Julien Gracq; a turn-of-the-century novelist who rejected awards, refused to do book tours, and lived as a hermit. His masterpiece, ‘Chateau D’Argol’, was about a rich man whose best friend brings a poor girl into their social circle. After which the girl seduces, then ruins, them both.

At this point Veronica throws her pencil holder across the room. Because this is EXACTLY the kind of pseudonym Logan Echolls would adopt, and smirk about regularly, knowing few had the insight to penetrate his ruse.

She doesn’t need to use the search tools on Grac, at this point; but doing so reveals his paychecks languish in a shell account. Suspicions confirmed, she picks up the phone. Adopts the sugariest Southern accent she can muster, just because, and spins a tale to the Trib’s receptionist about the tip of a lifetime for ‘Monsieur Grac’. The voicemail box she’s transferred to boasts an inspirational quote (‘All news, as it is called, is gossip, and they who edit it are old women over tea’), recited in a drawl she recognizes. She hangs up, high on triumph, and decides a long-distance chewing-out won’t serve.

XXXXX

Veronica leans against a lamp post across the street to wait; within half an hour, Logan bounces out of the brown skyscraper housing the Union-Tribune. He loosens his tie as he walks, laughingly calling goodbyes to co-workers. He’s in designer flat-front slacks and a white oxford, hair mussed like he’s been running his hands through it--his impersonation of clean-cut and trustworthy is so cute she has to grit her teeth not to smile.

The street is packed with cabs, so it takes him a minute to notice her. When he does, he pulls a theatrical double-take before jaywalking, hands in pockets, smiling wryly.

“So,” she says, as soon as he clears the road, “Can I interest YOU in a theory about people who lie to FBI agents?”

“I didn’t lie, per se,” he counters, rocking back on his heels as his grin grows Grinch-like. “I just wore my weekend clothes and kept my mouth shut. The Veronica Mars Express Train to Paranoia-ville did the rest.”

“This is a serious federal investigation, Logan,” she chides, folding her arms. “Bringing evidence to the authorities isn’t a game for personal amusement.”

“What, exactly, are you mad about?” He lifts his brows. “That I gave you a hint instead of handing over story notes? That I failed to shout my job history from the rooftops? Or maybe you’re just pissed I’m not an alcoholic loser, since it makes you ditching me seem…selfish?”

“I could’ve had you subpoena’d and interrogated under oath,” she says, faux-thoughtfully. “But browbeating you in person seemed much more fun.”

He laughs. “THERE’s the Veronica who ran afoul of the Russian mob. So what convinced you my theory was worth pursuing, sugarplum? Not my charm, surely. Some fact in the article your colleagues missed, perhaps?”

“Like I’d discuss cases with a reporter,” she scoffs. “Why’d you go with ‘robberies only happen in summer’ when you had physical evidence in reserve?”

“Like I’d reveal my sources.” He grins. “Gosh, Veronica, seems like we’re at an impasse.”

“My supervisor wants to use your connections.” She goes sardonic in response to his glee. “I’d ask if you have experience undercover…”

“…But you know first-hand my skills are professional-grade?”

She narrows her eyes. He cocks his head, amusement warring with calculation. “If I help you, what do I get?” he asks.

“First crack at the story immediately following arrests,” she says. “With our full cooperation. And any information you gather solo you can use…unless, of course, it’s classified.”

He removes car keys from his pocket; stares, considering, into the distance as he flips them around one finger. Returns his gaze to hers and locks on, Logan-style. “I assume my role is to introduce you to suspicious surfers? Since I further assume you won’t let me handle this and report back?”

“You know what they say about assumptions,” she says, by way of answer. “Of course, you’re an ass already, so maybe you don’t care.”

“I should warn you, a lot of our high-school classmates have stuck around.” He holds his tie down with one palm as a breeze shifts it sideways. “This may suck for you, but you’ll have to pretend we’ve reconciled.”

She nods, and he extends the non-key-containing hand. “Give me your phone.”

V shouldn’t violate protocol; but Logan’s trustworthy, within limits, so she types in the code and does. He enters his number in the contacts and gives it back. “There’s a party tonight at Black’s Beach—should be locals-only, very exclusive. Text me an address, I’ll pick you up at eight. Oh, and dress like a surf bunny, even if doing so offends your sensibilities. Not all these people are stupid, you’ll need to blend.”

“Gee, I was hoping you’d refuse to cooperate,” she says wistfully, pocketing her cell. “Then do something worse than jaywalking, then flee, so I could knock you down and cuff you.”

“Maybe later, if you’re REALLY nice,” he says, leaning confidentially towards her ear. Then walks off, whistling, while she tries to purge the image from her brain.

XXXXX

Veronica’s sitting on the porch of her rented condo when Logan pulls up at 7:55—in a dusty black vintage Range Rover, not the shiny orange Porsche she envisioned. She considers, as she stands, whether she also makes too many assumptions. But his appreciative whistle while he opens her door is distracting.

“Guess it slipped my mind how much you love playing dress-up,” he murmurs. She doesn’t miss the quick once-over he gives her as he releases the brake. “You look great, Veronica, love the sarong. And friendship bracelets are a nice touch.”

“This is actually a tablecloth.” She strokes the fringed white linen, embroidered with red roses, she tied over one hip so she’d feel less naked in her green bikini. “I favor a no-nonsense black wardrobe these days, because Cup ‘o Soup stains don’t show.”

“Wise,” he says, and clears his throat. He’s in linen too, a short-sleeved, half-buttoned summer shirt over cargo shorts; she notes with amusement the shark’s tooth necklace has reappeared. “I figured we’d start at the top of the food chain and work our way down, since most surf crews around here are big on punching but short on brains. Brains being a prerequisite for smoothly-planned bank jobs.”

“Sounds fair,” she agrees, watching his arm muscles shift as he changes gears. “This party is where we’ll find apex predators?”

“Black’s has the most challenging waves in the area—ten, twelve footers courtesy of an offshore trench. It takes stamina to swim out and ride, so this spot attracts real athletes…the ranked surfers that compete on TV. And Zen masters, who just want to be one with the ocean.”

She makes a face, and he says, serious, “It’s not a joking matter to these people, Veronica. They don’t welcome posers in their midst. I vividly recall you disapproving of fistfights and vandalism, so be warned; the elite surfing community makes me, way back when, look like a piker. Crews are similar to those biker gangs you inexplicably love, although these are black sheep from MIDDLE-class homes--plus more ethnically diverse. This particular group is Mother Nature mystical in a way you’ll loathe and mock; so expect pot and hallucinogens, free love interspersed with showdowns. Stick close to me or you’ll be propositioned…and whipping out a taser would break your cover.”

“Understood.” She studies his face, surprised to see concern there. Gentles her tone in response. “I’ve gone undercover before, Logan. And agents are extensively trained in hand-to-hand combat. I can handle myself in a fight now.”

“Like you couldn’t before?” A smile plays across his lips; a street lamp illuminates his face as they pass beneath, then he’s cast again in shadow. He turns into a parking lot at the edge of a cliff and kills the engine. “I’m not worried about your moxie, Veronica. I just don’t want you to mouth off and find yourself surrounded. Out here, surfers make the rules.”

“I have full faith in your ability to fight dirty defending me,” she says softly. He laughs, gaze tracing her face, and she’s reminded of previous evenings with him in a parked car.

“Nice to see some things don’t change,” he murmurs, then climbs out to help her down. His hands linger on her waist as he lifts her from the seat, skin-to-skin.

They pass, in the moonlight, a brown sign that reads ‘stairway unstable due to rains’. He walks behind her down a narrow path with a rotting rail, hand on her shoulder like he’ll catch her if she falls. It’s nice, this unwavering focus, his concern for her well-being despite angry words. She used to take it for granted, the way she drew male eyes. But she’s grown up, post-Hearst; and she realizes now most men don’t pay attention as completely as Logan did.

At the base of the cliff, past a saucer-shaped observation tower, a bonfire sends smoke spiraling into the sky; loud music blasts, Dick Dale with the bass maxed. Seventy-ish people cluster near the crackling flames--on either side, a ribbon of sand stretches off into the dark. The water looks black, boasting military-formation-regular waves, and the rock wall at her back is smooth, forbidding.

The crowd’s uninhibited as advertised, drinking and making out, smoking and laughing. A few guys dance in a circle with much hilarity, like they’re having some Lord of the Flies moment or praying for rain. A knot of humanity encircles loose boulders at what’s clearly the party’s center.

It’s obvious Logan’s no stranger, despite his current respectability. He greets people with grins and backslaps, jerks of his chin, less unaffected than he seemed addressing work colleagues. Almost, he slides back into his high-school persona—the 09’er general who dictated popularity, who slashed tires and started shit when his judgments were questioned. But there’s a watchful tension to the set of his shoulders, and he glances left frequently to make sure she’s beside him. That, more than words, convinces her there’s danger.

They take an indirect path to the cluster by the boulders; Logan accepts a shot en route, which he tosses back, unhesitating. Cracking his neck, he meditatively surveys the throng, then coughs to get her attention as a gap opens.

“Guy holding court at the center,” he murmurs, indicating a ropily-buff Asian man with longish hair and ratty swim trunks. “That’s Bodie Chang, he was a year ahead of us at Neptune High. You remember?”

Veronica nods, watching Bodie gesture lazily from his semi-reclined position. Watching the crowd guffaw when he speaks, soak up his every word. “He’s come a long way since I interviewed him for the school paper. I remember Chang being shy.”

“He’s one of the top twenty-five surfers in the world, now.” Logan shoulders aside a drunk dude-bro to attain the inner sanctum. “In this place, he’s King.”

She opens her mouth to reply; but Dick Casablancas erupts from a log like the Ghost of Shitty Memories past, and drapes a wasted arm around her partner-in-crime. “Lo-GAN!” he shouts, like Logan’s not next to him. “Mr. Echolls in the house, now the party can START!”

“Enticing ladies again with the scents of puke and Jagermeister, I see.” Logan shoves Dick off, not without affection. “I thought you weren’t coming tonight, dude. Something about college cheerleaders and a hot tub?”

“They had emergency PRACTICE.” Dick accompanies a raspberry with a thumbs-down. “Seriously, how much do you need to rehearse waving pom-poms? It’s not like anybody looks at the props. Hey, who’s the wahine?” He squints, attempting focus. “Nice boobs, looks sort of familiar. Maybe I’ve seen her in a por…oh, holy SHIT! Dude, why the FUCK did you bring V…”

“Hey ECHOLLS!” a voice calls, mercifully drowning out Dick’s fit. Logan spreads a palm across V’s back to steer her--towards Bodie Chang, his summoner, and the makeshift royal throne. The King of Black’sBeach looks them both over impassively. “Thought you were too busy for our modest shindigs these days, man.”

Logan shrugs, nonchalant, but shakes the proffered hand. “You know how it goes,” he says, easily. ”All that money to spend, all those waves to ride. Plus too much temptation here to drink to excess. My body’s a fine-tuned machine.”

“I can respect that,” Bodie says, with a faint smile that reminds Veronica forcefully of Agent Morris. “Looks like maybe you’ve had other distractions lately, too. Who’s your date?”

“This,” Logan says, pairing a smile with a warning glance, “Is Veronica Mars.”

Then he snakes an arm unexpectedly around her waist. His hand finds the gap in her makeshift sarong, cups her hip; he pulls her flush against his side and adds, “My girlfriend.”

[cassandra-acton]

ORIGINS & FAMILY:

Name: Cassandra Alice Acton.

Nickname: Cassie, Cass.

Birthday: November 8th.

Age: 33.

Gender: Female.

Place of Birth: Oxford, Oxfordshire, United Kingdom.

Places Lived Since: London, United Kingdom.

Current Residence: Tower Hamlets, London, United Kingdom.

Nationality: British.

Parents: Michael and Anita Acton (née Redgrave)

Grandparents: Edward Acton (grandfather, paternal, deceased) Renske van Ardenne (grandmother, paternal) Harold Redgrave (grandfather, maternal, deceased)  Hélène de Broglie (grandmother, maternal, deceased)

Aunts & Uncles: Kathleen Acton-Fortescue (aunt, paternal) Charlotte, Georgina Redgrave (aunts, maternal) Lambert Redgrave (uncle, maternal)

Number of Siblings: One older sister, Elizabeth Acton.

Relationship With Family: Poor is an understatement. It's gotten to the point where she no longer communicates with her parents at all. Cassie’s mother is—and always has been—an emotionally abusive bully, and even though her father never treated her badly, he also never intervened. It’s hard to see past. Cassie spent much of her childhood thinking she was the problem; that she’d done something to warrant her mother being so obvious about not wanting her. That’s changed now, but the hurt hasn’t gone. Cassie still carries a lot of emotional baggage from her uprettpbringing. Has a lot of self-hate, self-doubt, and averseness to trusting people/letting them close to her. It’s easier to keep people at a distance than to feel the hurt of not being good enough for them too. Elizabeth was never treated in the way she was. She’s the golden child. When Cassie was very young, that wasn’t a problem; she looked up to Elizabeth like she was a hero, and worshipped the ground she walked on, much in the same way she did her mother. But then, as she got older, Anita made sure Cassie knew it. Got enjoyment from pitting them against each other. It absolutely decimated the relationship. Not only did it leave her bitter, but absolutely stripped her of the protective big sister she loved and needed. They still talk, but they aren’t close at all. Elizabeth understands why Cassie feels about their mother. Elizabeth can see everything she’s done. Cassie, on the other hand, still feels like she has to prove she’s better than Elizabeth because her mother always told her she would never come close. That’s enough to make her look like more of an enemy than family.

Happiest Memory: When Harrison proposed to her, without a doubt. That was easily the best day of her life. I’ll write about it someday. Getting her internship at Goldman is definitely second, though.

Childhood Trauma: I mean the parents definitely fucked her up for life, so there’s that.

PHYSICAL:

Height: 5'4”

Weight: 120lbs.

Build: Slim but very fit.

Hair Color: Blonde.

Usual Hair Style: Whilst working she almost always wears her hair up in a ponytail, but she’s not really a fan, and would much rather it down and free-flowing. Keeps it just a little longer than shoulder length because of her dislike of short hair. Is too lazy to style it beyond neatness unless she’s going somewhere.

Eye Color: Blue.

Glasses? Contacts?: Neither.

Style of Dress/Typical Outfit(s): For work: neat, formal, and inexpensive. Lots of form-fitting skirts, blazers and blouses in blacks, whites and nudes. Out of work: a fuck load of jeans. Baggy jumpers, chunky-knit cardigans and quirky shirts. Picks up a lot of her stuff from charity shops because who has time for fucking shopping. I don’t think she’s really the designer type despite having more than enough money to live that kind of lifestyle.

Typical Style of Shoes: Cassie is never without heels in her day-to-day, even at the weekend. Prefers bright colours and eye-catching designs to contrast with her typically monochrome outfits during work. Will happily wear killer heels even when dressed down because they look just as good with jeans. Shoes are about the only part of her outfits she ever spends a decent amount of money on.

Jewellery? Tattoos? Piercings?: The only piece of jewellery she constantly wears is her engagement ring, which she has on a chain around her neck. That being said, she is a big lover of rings in general, and is always sporting a solid combination of regular and midi. She has four tattoos. ‘Hip to be Square’ in tiny font on the inside of her right wrist, Gaff’s unicorn on her left hip, Harrison’s birthday on her left shoulder blade, and a matching tattoo she got with her friend, Jessica, back in school, on her right forearm. Each got a hand from The Creation of Adam. As for piercings, she has her left ear pierced twice, her right five times (one daith), as well as her navel.

Scars: A thin scar that cuts through her right eyebrow; a result of a drunken night out in university during which one of her friends fell down the stairs, and dragged Cassie with her. She actually rather likes it. Also has several scars on her torso from being shot in her apartment by Russian nationalists. You can read the self para here. 

Unique Mannerisms/Physical Habits: When she’s stressed, she has to play with her hair; pulling it, twisting it, whatever. It’s about the only good indicator she’s about to rip your face off because she will do that shit with a smile. She’s also a bugger for biting at her nails, so she purposely gets gel extensions to stop herself doing it.

Athleticism: Very high. Cassandra naturally has a lot of energy, and so expends a lot of it keeping fit. Rowed competitively for LSE, and still competes regularly with many of the girls from her old crews, as well as having joined a new rowing club. She also plays a lot of rugby, though never competitively. Loves running and endurance, and almost always competes in the Tough Mudder when it’s nearby, as well as taking part in the London marathon annually (something she and Harrison made a tradition of doing together.) Also gets involved with a lot of charity races.

Health Problems/Illnesses: I think she’s battled serious depression for a long time, though she’s far too proud to ever get it officially diagnosed. Cassie also has both polycystic ovaries and endometriosis, which is a miserable combination. They come with their own sets of issues that she has to battle with, the worst of which is the mental hurdle of her possible infertility.

INTELLECT:

Level of Education: MSc in Economics and Management from LSE. Cassie finds studying relaxing, however, and often self-teaches about subjects of interest in her free time. Currently, she is working on a course in Arab Finance.

Languages Spoken: English natively, Dutch fluently, thanks to her grandmother. French and Mandarin intermediate. It determined to take up learning Arabic at a later date.

Level of Self-Esteem: Very low. Her mother drummed the idea that she’s worthless into her so convcingly, moving past it is very difficult. It’s why she aggressively overcompensates with an arrogant attitude. Partly to convince herself that she’s making progress, but mostly to convince others that nothing’s wrong at all.

Gifts/Talents: Surprisingly, she’s actually a good violinist. It’s about the only thing she has to thank her mother for. Cassie also has a solid talent for being able to manipulate others. Wrapping people around her finger has got her far in life.

Mathematical?: Absolutely. Cassie loves numbers. Math was always her favourite subject at school, and easily the one she was best at.

Makes Decisions Based Mostly On Emotions, or On Logic?: Usually, emotions, though she tends to berate herself afterward, because she knows—especially given the career she has now chosen to pursue—that she needs to learn to be more logical.

Life Philosophy: Someone else is happy with less than what you have.

Religious Stance: Was raised Anglican, but isn’t particularly religious. I think she likes the idea of God more than she actually believes it.

Cautious or Daring?: Daring. Naturally, she’s a spontaneous person, and I don’t think being cautious really lends to that.

Most Sensitive About/Vulnerable To: Being told she’s not good enough. Being criticised when it comes to her work. Being compared to her sister. People bringing up what happened to Harrison. Terrorism in general.

Optimist or Pessimist?: In between, leaning slightly toward the pessimistic side.

Extrovert or Introvert?: Extrovert.

RELATIONSHIPS:

Current Relationship Status: In a very secret relationship with Silas Agreste.

Sexual Orientation: Heterosexual.

Past Relationships: Before Adam, the only person she’d ever been in a real relationship with was Harrison. They on-off dated their whole young lives. They briefly broke up when he joined the army and she went to university because they were worried about ‘distance’ but wound up missing each other too much for it to be a permanent thing. Dated one guy briefly, Matt, a few years after his death, but it scared her so much it took her a long time to try again. The break up with Adam was complicated because neither of them wanted it. His party made him pick between leadership and her, and whilst he was content to choose Cassie, she was terrified he’d end up resenting her for it down the line. It was her that finally convinced him to go for it, and it might be one of the most difficult decisions she’s ever made.

Primary Reason For Being Broken Up With: None.

Primary Reasons For Breaking Up With People: Not having moved on.

Ever Cheated?: Physically? No. Emotionally? During her relationship with Adam, it’s safe to say that’s dubious ground. 

Been Cheated On: Not to her knowledge. Adam was still sleeping with Spencer’s ex-wife, Evelyn, when they first started dating, but it doesn’t really count given that they weren’t officially together at that point. 

Level of Sexual Experience: Cassie’s slept with four people in her life, so limited-ish. Harrison, Matt, Silas, and Adam.

Story of First Kiss: They were ten. His name was Richard and she honestly only kissed him because all of the other girls wanted to. Bragging rights.

Story of Loss of Virginity: The first time she and Harrison tried, they’d attempted to make it a ‘romantic evening’ that wound up being so awkward, they couldn’t stop laughing. Eventually, it happened spontaneously at a school social after party he’d come home from Oxford to meet her at.

A Social Person?: Absolutely. Even though she needs some time to herself every now and again to process all the shit that’s going on in her life, she couldn’t go any extended time without her friends. Being lonely terrifies her, so Cassie has to be in a pretty bad place to cut herself of from people.

Most Comfortable Around: Cassie feels truly comfortable around few people, but Jessica, Nora and Spencer top the list. Jasper, too. They are the people she couldn’t be without. Her old friends at Goldman are still like family to her, too, so they get an honourable mention. Cassie is comfortable around others like Alexis, but would probably still be hesitant to share some things with them. 

Oldest Friend: Jessica Mirzoyan: a friend she grew up with in Oxford, who followed the exact same path in life as Cassie. They both moved to London and studied at LSE. The only difference is Jessica works for J.P. Morgan. She can’t remember a time in her life when Jessica wasn’t in it, they’ve known each other for so long. Jess is the sister Elizabeth could’ve been.

How Does She Think Others Perceive Her?: Cassie has an incredibly skewed view of what people think of her. She automatically assumes people think the worst. Look at her like she’s not good enough, just like her mother always did. I think that’s why she keeps most people at arm’s length, because she’s so scared of letting someone in only for them to wind up criticizing her.

How Do Others Actually Perceive Her?: Depends who you ask. Amongst the public, she’s very popular for her honesty. Amongst her colleagues back at Goldman, she’s respected as a professional cutthroat. As for her critics, they probably just see her as a stuck up bitch riding on the back of her sister’s success.

SECRETS:

Life Goals: To help as many people through her political and charitable work as possible. That’s really all she cares about. Personal goals seem fairly irrelevant to her right now, given everything that’s happened.

Dreams: To be happy again would be rather nice. Having children is also incredibly important to her, but not something she thinks about often because of her circumstances. Losing the man she wanted to have a family with was bad enough, but so was the fact they tried for so long with no results. I think she wonders whether it just isn’t meant to be for her, which is sad. That’s definitely one she buries.

Greatest Fears: Polystyrene and spiders. Why do either of those things exist?

Most Ashamed Of: How bitter losing Harrison has made her. How she still hasn’t been able to get over the anger and the hurt it left her with. How she knows she should be ashamed about how her relationship with Silas started (an affair with a married man) but isn’t. 

Secret Hobbies: Cassie kind of loves to knit. It’s a good stress reliever when she’s too tired to go running. Not that she’d admit to it, mind you. She’s also not very good. All she can make are the really simple scarves.

Crimes Committed (Was she caught? Charged?): None.

DETAILS/QUIRKS:

Night Owl or Early Bird?: Night owl. Begrudges being alive in the mornings and has to go for a run to wake herself up, or will possibly murder people.

Light or Heavy Sleeper?: Heavy sleeper.

Favorite Animal: Hedgehog.

Favorite Foods: Steak. Cheese and crackers. Orange jelly.

Least Favorite Food: Avocado.

Favorite Book: American Psycho – Bret Easton Ellis.

Least Favorite Book: The Great Gatsby – F. Scott Fitzgerald.

Favorite Movie: Gladiator. Blade Runner. 

Least Favorite Movie: Shitty horrors in general.

Favorite Song: Mr. Roboto – Styx. If you play that to her, she doesn’t just sing along, she fucking performs it, okay. (Honourable mentions for The Boys Are Back In Town – Thin Lizzy, and What Is Love – Haddaway.)

Favorite Sport: Rugby Union. Cassie can get shouty about rugby and is a very dedicated Saracens fan. Also a loyal supporter of the English team, and Danny Care’s ultimate fangirl. 

Coffee or Tea?: Tea.

Crunchy or Smooth Peanut Butter?: Neither, thank you. That stuff is nasty.

Type of Car She Drives: A dark green Mini Cooper.

Lefty or Righty?: Lefty.

Favorite Color: Pink. 

Cusser?: Pretty badly, although she does well to hold her tongue in public most of the time. Cassie has had a few slip-ups that made the headlines, though. Luckily the general opinion was that it made her seem more normal/relatable, and it went down well with voters, if not her critics.

Smoker? Drinker? Drug User?: Never used drugs. Occasionally smokes if she’s incredibly stressed and has been drinking, but otherwise, she finds it kind of gross. Drinks fairly regularly. More so lately.

Biggest Regret: Letting her parents fuck her up so badly. Cassie wishes that she hadn’t taken it so much to heart, now that she knows better.

Pets: The love of her life, Brody the Corgi. More recently, she got him a little sister, Sarah. Also her hedgehog Éclair.