#better question: why do the lines have to be so rigid. why is romantic and platonic a binary

[kissmefriendly]

*checks notes* Hey lads, how’s that romantic vs platonic love thing coming along? Anyone find out the difference yet?

[greenthena]

Competing Harmonies

I've just been pondering the whole "other people's love lives always seem so much more straight forward than our own." Because, here's my unpopular hot take for this morning--I think Crowley and Aziraphale have doubts about their relationship and its trajectory. I think that deep down, they believe themselves to be incompatible. Like, I get it. Soul mates. Twin flames. They were originally written as a single character. But, my dudes, the ineffable idiots don't know this. That's us as the audience having the luxury of scanning the final pages (or in this case, trusting Neil's narrative in season 3, because we have an omniscient expectation for our stories to be satisfying.)

But our angel and our demon don't get to hear the swelling romantic music when Crowley saves Aziraphale's books--that ambient trigger that tells the audience that we are very much meant to view that scene through an explicitly romantic lens (calm down, Michael.) They don't perceive the camera angles and the lighting curated just so we see them reflecting the yin yang, push pull tension of their interactions, so heavily dripping symbolism its like an ox rib trickling fat down your wrist.

We, as the audience of this love story (and I would never argue that Aziraphale and Crowley need to be in an amatonormative relationship for their love to be real) want to believe that all the hesitation and tension are sexually or romantically charged. But I think there are other layers to be peeled back here. Do you ever wonder if Crowley--Crowley whose closest bond to a material object is to his car, a symbol for freedom and a refusal to be pinned down--isn't deeply uncertain of feeling locked in? Contrast this with Aziraphale and his bookshop, which is canonically dusty, and symbolically perhaps a little stagnant. Or with Aziraphale's wardrobe, which dates back at least 180 years. Aziraphale wants things to be sturdy and stable and consistent. These two aren't exactly birds (angels) of a feather.

Crowley is an active energy: questioning God, rescuing Aziraphale, always slithering with movement. Even the confession itself is active. But once the confession is made, the ball is in Aziraphale's court and Crowley just has to.....to be passive and still and wait for a response. That's why the vulnerability is so freaking raw. He's pushed so far from his comfort zone. And he's willing to do it--desperate to do it, even. But he's not certain of it.

Aziraphale certainly isn't passive, but he's rigid. (Stop. Stop that right now.) Crowley constantly tempts him to be more flexible, to experience the nuance and shading that are available when you can see beyond black and white. But that's frightening within Aziraphale's rigid structure (even if he feels it's right.) So when, in his confession, Crowley offers Aziraphale an option outside the binary, a third choice, Aziraphale is pushed too far. Aziraphale thought he'd figured out a way to make the binary work for him--stay on the good side and make it even better by including Crowley in the process.

Of course Crowley's having none of that coloring within the lines. And Aziraphale can't just jump in the Bentley and abandon stability and security. From the inside, this looks like a profound incompatibility between partners, two people-shaped beings so at odds with one another and the future the other wants. But from the outside, from the audience perspective, it appears very, very different.

So here it is....the reason why it's so easy to see the narrative thread when you take a step back and look at someone else's love life or romantic partners in a story. You can see the whole of it. Like Anathema Device trying to detect Adam's aura. She couldn't do it because she was too close. But back away, and the picture is clear as anything. Crowley and Aziraphale aren't incompatible, they're each the exact counterweight to the other. (I mean, yes, they definitely need to get some serious therapy to work through their goddam issues so they stop triggering each other's capital-T-Trauma responses. But that's another post.) During the confession and the whole book shop scene, they're not asking what the other thinks they're asking. Crowley knows Aziraphale needs stability. He's offering a future with himself as that stability. Aziraphale knows Crowley needs freedom. He's offering Crowley the freedom to exist without the constant threat of being punished by Heaven or Hell. But neither of them can see what the other is offering because of miscommunication and misunderstanding. They're not hearing each other because they're not really listening.

And this is the final point: season 2 is all about miscommunication and misunderstanding. From blatant spelling errors (ugrency, no regerts, give us the angle) to "aim for the mouth but shoot past the ear." It's not a lack of compatibility that's throwing a wrench into Aziraphale and Crowley's little 6000 year dance party, it's a breakdown of communication. And the whole season is a reflection of this interpersonal catastrophe.

Fortunately, I'm in the audience--I get to see with my God's-eye view and trace the narrative thread to a satisfying conclusion. And what I see for the future looks something like this. With mutual trust and understanding--presumably accomplished through honest and vulnerable communication (and therapy, lots and lots of therapy--I'm seeing Muriel somehow involved in this), two very different creatures, drawn together by the dance of the universe, can align their equal and opposite energies to become gravitationally bound to each other. This is Alpha Centauri--two unique and individual stars orbiting one another in perfect balance and holding each other steady in the universe. For this to happen, both stars have to share the responsibilities of pushing and pulling, neither one dominating the other. They exist in in harmony but not in unison, each a unique expression, yet infinitely more beautiful in collaboration with the other.

For this to happen, the ineffable idiots are going to have to learn how to communicate--and communication is more about listening and perspective taking than it is about talking. If they can learn to really listen and see one another's points of view, they'll be able to take a step back, to see the bigger picture and the narrative thread. Maybe they'll even be able to hear the celestial harmonies playing in the background.

[spirallabyrinthpodcast]

 Good morning I am mad! Like y’all said I am extremely appreciative of Cassie providing us this piece of media for free. Which I heard would be made into a physical book, which means she’ll probably get a lot of cash from it, anyway! So some fans should stop using that as an excuse, for it being a mediocre piece of media at best. The writing was great and the artwork was wonderful! But The plot could’ve been thawed out better. First of all, I left with more questions then I started out with. Like could Kit see Rupert? Was Andrew and Arthur aware of Rooper’s existence? If they were, why did Arthur came back to take the statues out of the garden? And many many many more other questions, we should’ve gotten the answers to. Second of all, this Kit and Ty thing is getting exhausting! SOBH is supposed to give us a look into the grove of the TWP team, warming them up to take the Baton from Julian and Emma. Like what COHF and Shadowhunters academy did for are main characters in Dark Artifices, with the wedding ceremony and Tessa teasing the potential, for a new Herondale. But no! They spend most, of what was supposed to be a opportunity for us to know them better, pining after each other! Kit’s character growth seem rough and out of nowhere, he didn’t really solve the kidnapping, Julian did. It leaves me fearful of what would happen when Julian is unable to save the day yet once again! Who is Kit and Ty without their romantic feelings for each other?

I’m in raged about how Ty’s struggle as a Neuro diversion person, living in a unyielding and rigid society, was once again sideline for someone else’s problem! But, I’m not going to further with that line of thought because there has been so many on here who’s been saying the same thing for months and years now! CC never listens! 

To add the cherry on top of the proverbial pie, all the sudden, out of nowhere Jamie ( a character who we never given much thought to) is missing. Can she please tie up the loose ends first! This is so messy! It reminds me of a five-year-old, eating a cupcake, with the cream and cake splattered all over the table, creating a catastrophic catastrophe! At least the five years old is cute😂. A person going missing, on top of everything else on the other hand is not.

Thank you so much for listening to me rant and I’m so sorry about the long paragraph.

Omg, Anon!

First, it needs to be acknowledged that the opening to this ask had us dying (what a mood!) 😂 Bestie, we are with you.

Never feel like you need to apologize for sending a rant <3 we live for rants around here

Here’s a rant in return (as a bitter and salty treat):

On Criticism ...

The bit about it being sold and therefore that argument being moot is interesting, because it was never intended to be sold, and she can’t very well go back and edit it to make it worth the money we fully intend to spend on it at this point. You do have a good point, but at the same time, it is still free content in that purchasing a hard copy won’t provide anyone with anything that isn’t available to them online.

When it comes down to it, the issue is less about whether Cassie is profiting off of SoBH, and more so the fact that she is a published author who opens herself up to criticism through her profession. Her content isn’t ‘safe’ based on the revenue it generates. This was still a very fun project and experience, but it’s okay to criticize. It’s not a personal attack or an attack on her writing/content, which is something that is important for us to understand so that we don’t feel obligated to come up with excuses or defenses for the person behind the writing.

On Questions & No Answers ...

The point about ending with more questions than we started with is probably one of the most frustrating parts honestly. These in-between projects are essentially meant to fill gaps, aka answer questions, and instead we ended up with out-of-place fluff that didn’t exactly fit into canon — yes, we’re still mad and confused about how Arthur and Andrew could have lived in Blackthorn Hall in the canon timeline. Plus, we get no definitive information on Rupert or why he’d be trapped, which makes him being the ghost feel lackluster after the fact. We are Big Mad™.

On the TWP Gang ...

As for Kit, Ty and the passing of the baton, we get you. We’ve been a broken record on the point that the Kit Pain Train™ took way too long of a trip in this project. Kit’s character development wasn’t mingled into the story as well as it should have been, which lands on the fact that his arc in SoBH was tacked on to expand the plot after Chain of Thorns was pushed back.

It wasn’t terrible, but it definitely didn’t get the attention or drift off that it should’ve — which, as you said, could have been achieved if Kit did anything to actually help the Mina situation aside from getting bodied by Mother Hawthorn. He takes initiative, which is something, but to have him be the catalyst for success rather than Julian (or have him work more actively WITH Julian on a plan), would’ve hit much harder in a narrative sense. (There’s at least a lot to look forward to here, though, as we’ll get to see the growth of Kit’s leadership skills etc. from a better vantage point once TWP starts.)

The same goes for Ty and Dru. If Cassie genuinely wanted to have SoBH set up TWP (which is essentially what it did), they should’ve been given more of an active role, as well. Yes, Ty built the ghost sensor and helped with ley lines, but Dru never once interacted with anyone outside of Kit. 

We feel like Ty being neurodivergent/autistic gets sidelined, as well as him as a character, because Cassie doesn’t have the time to do it or him justice. She’d rather push it back for TWP when she can dedicate the proper research and commitment to portray him correctly — honorable but cheap when you still have him lingering in the background. 

On THAT Ending ...

The catastrophic catastrophe of ending on this last installment indeed! This is something we will discuss much more in our episode this week, but it would have been much more satisfying to end this in a way that rounded out Secrets of Blackthorn Hall, rather than create a new loose end for a character whose name had only been mentioned once before throughout the entire story, and whom no one really give two shits about other than Dru (including both the characters and the fandom lol).

It does set up the transition into TWP in a way that might make sense if (a) TWP wasn’t so damn far away, (b) we felt and or understood more about the gravity of that, and (c) Cassie had made mention of him more throughout SoBH.

Fin ...

In case you needed evidence that we live for rants … lol clearly we too have a lot of thoughts on this!! Thank you for giving us the opportunity to go a little insane <3 and we honestly appreciate you sending your rant our way. If you ever have any other thoughts, anon, we’d love to hear them!

Bry & Jules 🧡

[thepenultimateword]

YESSSSSS BIG BAD PART 4 PLS ITS SO GOOD!!!!

Bruh, I honestly feel like I could write a whole book on these two. I thank you kindly for enjoying it so much! It makes my heart all explody😊 🥰

Btw, since there are 4 other Supervillains in this story, (and since this is becoming a little more than a one-time snippet to me) I decided it'll be less confusing if they have names. So Other Supervillain will be known as August Parella from now on. The other three are named Revon Indigo, Belladonna Dirsee, and Elio Grim, but you don't have to worry about them right now.

Part One Part Two Part Three

Supervillain blocked out August Parella’s piercing gaze with a long, slow sip of orange blossom tea. They didn’t need to see him to know that he hadn’t blinked once in the time it took to raise the edge of the teacup to their lips and clink it back in its saucer. He may as well have been holding a knife to their throat.

He couldn’t actually do anything. The Pentacle Truce wouldn’t allow for it, but if Parella ever had a weakness, it was for tough bravado. Even now, he was like a shark someone had suited up in Brioni as a joke, all hungry, toothy smiles and obnoxious sniffing. Indigo would have been suave about it at least, but Parella couldn’t hide his taste for weakness and blood.

“Please,” Supervillain said, “I can have Morgan prepare you a new flavor if this one isn’t to your taste.”

“Nah.” Parella swirled the deep orange liquid a little too carelessly, splotching the white tablecloth with several citrus droplets. “Not much of a tea person.”

“Hm, this isn’t a social visit then?”

“Why can’t it be both?” Parella’s grin stretched wider. Good heavens, Supervillain had thought it once, and they thought it again: you could fit an entire dinner roll in that mouth without the slightest bit of chewing.

The other supervillain rested their ankle on their knee and leaned in closer, taut muscles and hard edges showing through his feigned gentility. A quadratic triangle with his lines and angles measured to rigid perfection.

“There have been whispers. I usually believe anything my people tell me, but for such a personal topic, I preferred a direct source.”

Of course, you do.

Parella’s fixation on Villain wasn’t the only reason Supervillain had selected him as Target #1. The Supervillain had ears and eyes almost everywhere. If he was determined to know something, to own something, there wasn’t much to keep him from getting it. They didn’t need him getting nosy and exposing Supervillain’s flirtation with the truce boundary lines to the others.

“Well, I’m not sure what you want to know, but I’ll certainly try to satisfy your curiosity.”

“Hm.” Parella rested his chin in his hand. “That little bauble, Herokiller. You’re not actually tied up with them, are you?”

Supervillain matched his casual posture, but better. Meeting Parella’s eye-level with a small smile. “We are romantically attached at the moment if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Ah. Then let me take back my earlier language. It just seemed…unlikely.”

Supervillain didn’t have time to ask what he meant before Parella presented them with a new question.

“How’d you meet?”

No lovey-dovey stories. Luckily, this was one part of their relationship Supervillian didn’t mind being truthful about.

“Same as you. They tried to kill me. I think there was a spark. Maybe if you had healing powers you’d have felt it too.”

Parella suddenly frowned. “They got that close?”

Supervillain scoffed. “Close? It was a knife wound. It tickled. What, they didn’t even nick you? I think I’m a little disappointed.”

“My outer eyes saw them before they even breached the gate. I just…waited. And when they found my room…”

Parella stopped.

“Excuse me, you probably don’t want to hear about that, do you?”

It seemed said more out of the sadistic pleasure of wanting Supervillain to imagine, in more exaggerated, gory detail, what had been done than out of real concern.

“I didn’t expect them to get away, I’ll give you that. That materializing power is quite impressive.” They pressed their fingers to their lips with that sick hunger in their wide eyes and habitual smile. They broke out of it suddenly, returning the sharpened gaze to Supervillain. “Better off with you, hm?”

Supervillain found a return smile easily, but something didn’t sit right with them. No matter their excuse, Parella knew this information even without visiting Supervillain. And for as intense as their obsession had been a few weeks ago, they were giving up a little too easily.

The aggressive pound of footsteps pulled them out of their thoughts.

“Hey, Jerkwad!” Villain called seconds before bursting into the parlor. “I’ve been waiting for over half an ho—”

They froze dead in the entryway. All color drained from their face, and for a moment their eyes flicked between both supervillains as if they had just walked in on the kiss of Judas.

“Come, come, Sweetie,” Supervillain said, waving Villain closer. “Don’t be uneasy. Parella is my guest, and all is in the past.”

Villain graced them with a single step. Maybe Supervillain should have been impressed seeing as the villain’s legs seemed desperate to move in the other direction.

“Come now.” Supervillain raised a little out of their seat, caught them by the wrist, moving slowly to give Villain time to prepare for the incoming touch, and pulled them against the arm of their chair. Villain clenched their fists, and the muscles in their forearms corded.

Parella ran his eyes over both of them carefully. “Such a loving address.”

What was he fishing for?

“What can I say? I like ‘em feisty.”

Parella cocked a brow. “I thought you liked them needy and clingy.”

Supervillain forced a laugh, but Parella was more fixed on Villain. He placed both palms flat on the table to rise, leggy body overtaking the smaller criminal by double as he stepped directly in front of them.

“That didn’t heal, huh?” he said, taking Villain gruffly by the face and dragging his thumb down the thin scar line running through their eye. “Did I blind you?”

Villain leaned into Supervillain, but the way they shook their wrist from their hand made it clear they felt caught between a rock and a hard place.

Supervillain rose abruptly and caught Parella by the wrist, squeezing warningly through a cheery voice. “I’d appreciate it if you kept your hands to yourself. After all, Villain isn’t yours to touch.”

Parella smiled. “Of course.” Then to Villain as he pulled away. “How do you put up with such a jealous lover?”

“With a great deal of patience,” Villain mumbled, looking down at the floor.

The other supervillain laughed a little too loudly, then flicked their attention back to Supervillain in an unnaturally quick transition. “I’m having a little party. Food, music, dancing. The whole villainous scene will be there.” He flicked a piece of gold-leafed cardstock from his breast pocket and held it out to Supervillain. “I thought I’d deliver your invitation personally. Bring your ‘romantic attachment.’ Ciao.”

With that, he turned away the threatening blades of his eyes and showed himself out of the room.

“Creep,” Supervillain growled at the empty entryway.

Villain punctuated the insult with a violent hoick of saliva in that direction.

Supervillain frowned. “Did you just— On my floor?”

Instead of apologizing Villain only said, “Why was he here?”

This villain’s attitude was going to be the death of them.

“He came for a visit; I let him in. One doesn’t turn away people they’re supposed to be on good terms with.” They waved the invitation idly like a fan between their thumb and middle finger. “This actually may be our best chance. You saw how hard it is to get into Parella’s home unnoticed. But if we’re invited in, that solves half our problems. I mean, he’s obviously planning something shady, but we’ll just strike first.”

“Oh yeah, let’s just do that,” Villain said, rolling their eyes. “It’s not like the one Parella already thrashed is the one doing the heavy lifting or anything.”

Supervillain took Villain by the shoulders and steered them into one of the parlor table chairs. Villain scrunched their brow questioningly as they cranked their head back to look up at them.

“What makes Parella so dangerous?” Supervillain said like a teacher at the front of a class.

“His eyes. Obviously.”

“So we take out his eyes. With those out of the way, you’re way stronger than him.”

For two seconds, Villain’s mouth parted and they seemed maybe just a little flattered, but an instant later the moment was gone. “And how am I supposed to do that?”

"Explosions, drugs, dust, bright lights. Pick your poison. How is your etiquette?"

"Does that really matter?"

"It does if you don't want to stick out and blow everything. Why don't we add that to your reflex exercises? Now gym, let's go."

"Where do you think I've been all this time!" Villain raged.

They stormed out ahead of Supervillain, leaving the master criminal to read the invitation date. Only two weeks away. If Villain didn't pull this off, they could both be in trouble.

Part Five

Taglist: @epiclamer @appleejuice @livingforthewhump @sink-the-ship

Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist! Because I fear bothering people, I only add to the taglist when explicitly asked :)

[mossy-rainfrog]

[Image ID: A digital drawing of Martin and Jon in season 1 of the Magnus Archives. Martin is seen out in the archives hallway, through the doorway to Jon’s office. Martin a fat Black man with short coily hair, round glasses, and snake bite lip piercings. He wears a blue sweater over a white collared shirt, and carries a brown satchel with him. Martin is looking over his shoulder with interest as he walks into work, and in a smaller panel to the side, we see Jon watching him with wide eyes. Jon is a thin Persian person with long greying hair tied back in a low bun, and rectangular glasses. He wears a red button down underneath a brown jacket, and is seated at the desk in his office. He stares out at Martin, looking flustered. There are small lines by Martin’s mouth indicating the piercings, and there are exclamation marks by Jon’s head indicating his reaction. End ID.]

I found an old fic in my notes about Martin dressing alt/punk outside of work and accidentally leaving on a small indicator of his usual fashion when he comes into the archives and I just. had to bring it back. Also, because I am still fond of it, please enjoy the aforementioned fic🥰:

Jon is having a difficult morning, to say the least. He had believed that coming into work an entire hour early would provide him with ample time to get a head start on today’s organizing, but that has decidedly not been case. He’s already had to take the statements of two utterly ridiculous liars who could barely keep the grins off of their faces as they recounted their ludicrous tale, and then listen to Elias subsequently dress down his so-called ‘attitude towards patrons’ for nearly half an hour, and suffice it to say, he would really like to get started on something that is actually worth his time.

He dislikes settling down with the more... difficult statements before all of his colleagues arrive, an attempt to keep them from interrupting his recordings to greet him, so once he’s finished his other menial tasks, he finds himself simply sitting and waiting for the ensemble of his assistants to arrive.

Tim and Sasha are the first - entering together as usual after having stopped for coffee on the way in - but Martin is slow to follow, taking nearly another fifteen minutes to arrive. It’s nearly ten past seven at that point, and once Jon hears Martin’s steps coming towards his office, he has half a mind to give the man yet another lecture on punctuality and work ethic. He gets as far enough as bracing his hands on the table to stand up, and then Martin appears in the doorway to his office, and he realizes something strikingly different about his appearance.

That is to say, Jon’s whole world narrows down very suddenly to the little black studs decorating the space underneath his bottom lip.

He’s staring, he knows he is, but Martin is busy looking down the hall for the moment, so Jon doesn’t force himself to tear his eyes away just yet. How long has he had his lip pierced, Jon wonders? Has it been there the whole time he’s known him? Has he only recently gotten it done? How? Why?

It’s hard to imagine Martin - soft, unassuming Martin who is far too large for the amount of space he crams himself into, always slouching, always pulling himself inwards as if he can make himself disappear - dressing in any way other than soft sweaters and slacks, but if Jon’s honest, he’s never actually seen the man outside of work. He has no idea how Martin chooses to dress himself when out from under the Institute’s rigid dress code, and this tiny window he’s been provided with is making him maddeningly curious.

He’s not... he doesn’t have feelings for Martin, aside from a general annoyance, occasionally marked with curiosity. He’s a professional, for God’s sake, not to mention that Martin’s very existence as a given is like a grain of sand in his eye, rubbing and irritating. Now he cuts clean through without even noticing. Jon itches to know more.

“Jon?” Martin’s voice tears him from his thoughts. “Is something wrong?”

Oh, shit. Jon can feel his gaze heat up as if he’s done something horribly wrong - how embarrassing that he can’t even keep a blush off of his face - but he still forces himself to open his mouth and stutter out an excuse. He means to remark on one of Martin’s missing reports, or the fact that he’s coming in nine minutes late, but what ends up leaving his mouth is; “Your lip is pierced.”

Just a sentence, not a question. He thinks he’s positively beet red. Martin freezes, the tips of his ears darkening visibly against his brown skin as his hand shoots to his mouth and his eyes widen.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry, I must have forgotten to take them out,” the poor man looks like he’s about to panic as he whips his gaze around as if to see if anyone else has noticed. “Don’t tell Elias, please, I’ve seen how he gets after Tim for the dress code, and there is no way, I mean no way—”

“Oh, n-no, it’s- I- it’s fine, really,” Jon raises his hands in defense as Martin rambles, for some reason inclined to reassure the man. “I won’t- I’m not- I’m not going to tell him.”

Martin hesitates, wringing his hands, apologies visible on every pore of his face. “I- Thank you. I’ll- I’ll go take it off. Christ, that’s embarrassing.”

“Only if you want,” Jon shrugs, which is definitely not the correct thing for him to say as a boss, and it definitely comes out a little gentler than he intends it to, and Jon is three seconds from screaming if he can’t figure out how to make himself react normally to this. It’s a non-traditional piercing in an academic institute of research; it’s against the rules, however dated they may be, and further than that, there is no reason for it to completely undo his composure the way that it has. He tries to get a hold of himself. “I-I mean, that’s likely for the best.”

Martin is giving him a funny look - probably a response to seeing the whole spectrum of human emotions flash across Jon’s face in a millisecond - but he still nods and says: “Sorry again. Thank you,” and then disappears down the corridor.

Jon immediately buries his face in his hands and sighs.

What is wrong with him? For God’s sake, he’s just seen Martin with a lip piercing, it’s not like he’s witnessed the man undressed. Besides, he works in an archive where he has to read statements about the intricacies of monsters that rip off people’s skin and suchlike every day, he should know how to keep his composure better than this. He should just move on with his day and focus without a problem, just like he does every morning.

Except, his mind keeps wandering back to it; the way the little studs had followed the shape of his mouth, the way they had quirked up when he flashed one of his nervous smiles, the way Jon is still desperately curious about what brought him to get them done, and also what it might feel like to brush a thumb, or perhaps even his lips over them.

Jon sits up so fast his head actually smacks against an open filing cabinet behind him. His mind is too busy reeling to notice the ache that fills his head, and he stares straight ahead with wide eyes and utterly scorching cheeks. Absolutely not. He absolutely did not just think about kissing Martin Blackwood. that was- that would be...

He blinks hard, clears his throat. It doesn’t matter what that was. He’s decidedly not interested in Martin Blackwood romantically, or in any other capacity given his truly ridiculous academic competence and his obnoxious habit of interrupting seemingly every stable thing Jon has in his life. He crushes the feeling down hard, locks it up in a box, stuffs it down under his lowest two ribs, and resolves himself never to open it again.

He is not going to keep thinking about this all day. He has work to do, and if something as simple as a pair of metal studs can distract him this badly, then he needs to make absolutely certain it doesn’t happen again.

He tells himself he’s not disappointed when he sees Martin without the piercings later that day.

[silhouetteofacedar]

Fox Mulder, Closet Romantic Ch. 9: Stubbed Out

Previous Chapter - AO3 - MSR, rated E

Even being a coward takes effort.

Mulder’s been stressed for days, trying to forget his phone conversation with Mark and attempting to hide his agitation from Scully. It’s not going well. He hasn’t successfully kept many secrets from her since they met, and at this point it’s practically impossible. If Mulder acts at all furtive or suspicious, she catches on like a shark smelling blood in the water and circles him until he surrenders.

Maybe she’s deeply perceptive; maybe he’s just not that subtle.

His resolve to keep his mouth shut lasts until Wednesday, just after lunch.

He’s built himself a fortress of stacks of newspapers on the desk, leafing through them with a magnifying glass. Scully’s in the annex, looking at some fibers under the microscope. They’ve got a case, which usually sucks up all his attention, but the phone call from a few days before is still buzzing in his ears.

“Hey, uh, has Mark mentioned the cafe incident?” he asks from across the room.

Scully keeps her eyes on the microscope. “No, he hasn’t, actually. It was hardly an incident,” she adds, switching out the slide. “You need to relax.”

Clearly, she’d picked up on his nervous energy. For once, he wishes Scully could just read his mind. Then I wouldn’t have to figure out how to tell her, Mulder thinks.

There’s no easy way out of this.

“Have you seen him since then?” he asks, trying to sound casual.

Scully huffs out a breath. “We went out last night. Mulder, I’m trying to focus-”

“He called me,” Mulder admits suddenly. “On Sunday.” Whelp, consider the beans spilled, Mark, he thinks. You dick.

Scully looks up at him then, brows furrowed. “He did? Why?”

“First of all, let me make it clear that I wanted nothing to do with any of this,” Mulder says, setting down the newspaper. “He dragged me into it. I wasn’t going to say anything but it’s been pissing me off.”

Scully gets up from the little table and walks over to the desk, perching on the edge of the chair across from him. “Mulder,” she says slowly, “What are you talking about?”

“Mark called me on Sunday night, saying he had some questions for me regarding your character.”

“My character,” Scully echoes, eyes sharp and questioning.

“That’s what he said,” Mulder says, picking up a pencil and rolling it between his fingers nervously. His heart is leaping in his throat. “But what he really wanted to know was if you… um. Sleep around.”

The words land heavily, their weight sending ripples through Mulder’s body.

Scully’s face turns to stone. “Really,” she says tightly. “I don’t see how that is any business of his, or yours,” she adds.

Mulder’s blood pressure has to be at a record high. “He mentioned something about planning for long term, and his daughter. And he thinks we, um.”

Scully crosses her arms, and Mulder’s never seen such an icy, quiet rage. “He thinks we what, Mulder? Tell me exactly what he said.”

Mulder digs the point of the pencil into the desk until the sharpened lead snaps. “He thinks I fucked you,” he says quietly, not looking at her.

“Oh,” she says, louder than he expected. “Well, that’s lovely, Mulder. Did you happen to tell him that it’s not true?”

“I essentially said ‘see you in hell’,” Mulder admits.

“Right,” Scully says, pressing her lips together so hard they turn white. “And you weren’t going to inform me of this because…”

“Because it’s none of my business,” Mulder explains. “I didn’t want to overstep.”

“A first,” Scully says sharply.

“Hey, I learned from last time,” he replies, feeling suddenly defensive. Why am I in trouble here? “You made it pretty clear after Jerse that this is your life, and I’m genuinely trying to honor that. But your boyfriend called me, Scully. I didn’t ask to get dragged into this shit.”

She’s angry now, and he can’t tell if it’s directed at him or Mark. It feels like both. “You didn’t think I might want to know about this, Mulder? You didn’t think to give me a heads-up that the man I’m seeing thinks I’m an easy lay?”

“Whoa, whoa, nobody said that,” Mulder says quickly. “And I’m telling you now because I think you should know I had this conversation with him. I’m sorry I waited but I was unsure how to-”

Scully’s eyes are red, and Mulder stops. “Scully?” he asks quietly.

“He kissed me,” she says hoarsely. She takes a deep breath. “Can’t think why… don’t really want to think why.”

Mulder feels hot and cold all at once.

“It’s funny,” Scully continues, “I-I could tell he wanted more. It was surprising, and not entirely unwelcome, but I stopped it because something felt off.” She emits one small sniff before setting her jaw firmly. “I guess now it makes sense.”

“Scully…” Mulder says softly.

She gets up from the chair. “Thank you for letting me know,” she says woodenly, before returning to the annex and sitting behind the microscope once more.

Well that went perfectly.

-

They barely speak for the rest of the day, buried in their respective piles of research.

At the end of the day Scully packs her briefcase with short, sharp movements, her shoulders rigid. She slips into her coat, and Mulder sees her mouth set in a grim line.

“Scully,” Mulder says quietly.

She shakes her head once, the smallest negative movement. “I have a phone call to make.”

-

He leaves the office about forty minutes later, a parcel of newspapers under his arm; homework he knows he won’t be able to focus on.

He takes the elevator to the fourth floor of the parking garage, and sees Scully standing at the far end of the row of cars, leaning against the cement wall, cigarette in hand. He walks to her and rests his elbows on the wall, looking out at the twilit city.

“How many of those have you gone through?” Mulder asks, peering around her in search of burnt stubs.

She doesn’t answer, just holds the cigarette out to him. He hesitates, then gingerly takes it and raises it to his mouth. There’s smudges of lipstick on the filter, and he’s not a good enough man to ignore the eroticism of it.

“I haven’t smoked since ’89,” Mulder says, exhaling. He passes the cigarette back to her.

“Sorry to break your streak,” she murmurs, taking a puff. He watches the smoke escape her full lips, her angelic face profaned by tobacco and a dishonest man’s kiss.

“You didn’t,” he says softly.

They watch the world rotate below.

“I broke it off,” she says, eyes tracing the skyline. He doesn’t need to ask what she’s referring to, and she doesn’t elaborate.

Mulder shifts his weight awkwardly. “That night we got drunk… you asked if I thought you were settling.”

“Mm,” she hums. “No spark,” she recalls.

He nods. “It didn’t feel right to say at the time, but the answer was yes. You should be with who you want to be with, Scully. Someone who makes you… makes you feel things. Not the guy who seems good on paper.”

“It would have been right to say,” Scully says. “I asked you. I don’t- I don’t know why you’re suddenly hellbent on staying out of my life, Mulder, when I’m asking you to be in it. I appreciate your respecting my privacy and boundaries, don’t get me wrong; it’s a welcome change from past experiences. But I… I need a friend.”

There’s a tightness in his chest at her words. “I guess I’m overcorrecting,” Mulder admits. “You’ve been through so much hell, had so much taken away… I wanted to let you choose for once.”

Scully shakes her head. “This mentality you have of letting me choose isn’t much better,” she says softly. “Someone else still controls the information. You trying to protect me by omission doesn’t give me much more agency, Mulder.” She stubs out the cigarette and turns back to the rows of parked cars. “You of all people should know the most empowering thing you can give someone.” She starts to walk away.

“What’s that?” he asks.

She looks back at him. “The truth.”

[rouiyan]

𝘖𝘍𝘍 𝘐𝘊𝘌 [ 𝘭.𝘫𝘯 ]

⧏ jeno's installment of the keep your cool collective ⧐

synopsis: he likes to think it's romantic how he always finishes your sentences for you. you think it's annoying that he keeps interrupting you.

✧ ice hockey player!lee jeno x (fem.) tutor!reader ✧ college au

✧ genres : fluff, angst, slightly suggestive ✧ word count : 4.4k ✧ disclaimers : mentions of sexual activities, swearing

✧ author’s note — same universe as my puck in your goal which does not need to be read first but can be. also, hi @crownily i did it :)

let's just say jeno sucks at school and that the one thing he doesn't suck at is hockey, ice hockey. and let's just say that you're his tutor, strictly for tutoring purposes. yet, here you find yourself at his doorstep at 3:47 in the morning, or so your phone says.

he opens up to see you clad dressed down, different from the neat tee and skirt he's so used to. to be completely honest, jeno has never felt anything towards you and even he himself finds that hard to believe since you're everything he could ever ask for in a girl. pretty and cute, snappy but sweet, the most perfect curve of lips and above all, you're an intellectual. he finds it attractive but he isn't attracted to you, per se.

jeno wished he would though, especially now that he's suffering from what he called you here for in the first place: an extreme case of breakup.

one hand leaning your weight on the doorframe, the right of your shit rides up. jeno bites down on his lip, retracting his eyes to your face. "let me get this straight, you called me here, at this time of night, to get me to help you with what exactly?" so what if he thought fucking you would be a good way to keep his mind off things? too bad he didn't think any further than that. the words come to his as he speaks, "i just thought that- that...you- you would be awake at this time! because you know- you like to study…did i interrupt anything?"

donning a dreary expression, you nod in clarification, "yeah, you interrupted my studying."

"right, okay, i'll let you get back to that," he turns in haste as if to close the door behind him but you catch it with your heel, a scowl making its way across your face at what you were about to say, "forget it, jen, i'm already here. what do you need help with?" you stare into his back, his widening eyes unbeknownst to you. he turns again, now deliberate in motion, just to give him as much time to get his bearings together. lifting one shoulder in suggestion, and truthfully confusion, his voice is a pitch higher when he responds, "...studying?"

and that's how he finds himself staring into the crack between the wall and the far end of his desk, your figure hovering above him but not in the way he'd planned for, planned poorly for. jeno is on edge and frankly, he feels incredibly bad because he doesn't understand anything that comes from your mouth and the words you jot down on his paper before him all seem to collide and blur into each other. that's when he realizes he's started crying.

and that's when you're rendered speechless as the boy sits there, the little tracks running down his face wetting the paper you were teaching off of. "jeno, oh my god. fuck, you good?" you don't want to come off as prying so you avoid the whole 'why' notion but you're not that socially inept to miss that he didn't call you here at such an ungodly hour of morning just to get some unpaid tutor hours in and he certainly isn't crying because he doesn't understand shit. 

a hand of his is sifting through his hair while another rubs harshly down the side of his face. "i don't think you should- i'm just gonna go get you some tissues, i'll- i'll go get that." you turn on your heel and navigate your way from his room to the kitchen you'd passed on the way in. it's dark and you know he has roommates, you were less than willing to make your presence known. to your dismay, the kitchen was currently being occupied by a man whom you've yet to identify, being only two steps in when you stop in your tracks. 

he identifies you first, "y/n, what are you doing here?" and you pick up from the voice that it's donghyuck. your foot hits a cabinet before your eyes get a chance to adjust to the lighting, "fuck, yeah i'm here with jeno, well i'm not- not like that, we're just studying."

"just studying?" there's no way to see it but you swear the cock of his brows is apparent as it would be at day. you hum in response, fingers trying to make out the paper towel dispenser you were sure you caught a glimpse of on the way in. "so you're saying," he pulls out his phone and the light that emits from the screen is enough to guide you in the right direction before he shoves is back in his pocket. "that you booked a tutoring session with him at 4:19 a.m.?"

tearing one, then two, from the dispenser, you distractedly let a disbelieving, "yup," past your lips. hyuck scrutinizes you in the dark and his next words nearly shock you out of your skin, "is he fucking you because he just got dumped? is that why?"

you swivel at lightning speed, "he what?" hand over his mouth, donghyuck seems genuinely apologetic, though you wouldn't put it past him if he was not, "shit, you didn't know?" folding the paper towels two times over in your hands, you gingerly across the room to where the boy is seated, "i mean, i know that he didn't call me here just to study but that's legitimately what we ended up doing." he doesn't answer for awhile so you follow up with a question, "you think he wants to fuck me?"

hyuck looks you straight in the eye, "yeah, yeah i do." it hangs unsaid in the air between the two of you, but it's within both of your knowledge that jeno only wanted you here for sexual relief from his frustrations, that whatever else could be denoted by the deed was simply inapplicable for this situation. you shake your head of the thoughts, "so, what are you doing up this early?" you know that there is a weary and weeping jeno you have to get back to but you also know that your presence is somewhat unwelcome there, uncomfortable even, while he wades in his fit of tears.

hyuck replies with a heavy tone, "he gave me some things to think about too."

and you jump to conclusions all too quickly, "he wants to fuck you too?"

"god, y/n, no."

a weak laugh lining your demeanor after the last of the interaction, you reenter jeno's room to find him sprawled wide, his back to the bed. "hey," you preface as you round upon his bed, setting the paper towels on his nightstand. it seemed his tears had run their race and his eyes were now staring lethargically into the ceiling. perching yourself on the edge, you reach to place a hand atop one of his, giving two reassuring squeezes. "need anything?"

only now does jeno seem to take note of your arrival, his eyes hooded eyes flit to you for half a second before resolutely tugging you by the hand you had clasped within his. "what-" your breath is stolen from you as your back hits his chest. jeno drapes his arms across you front, "jeno, what-"

"i need a pillow, that's what i need."

you blink, trying to make sense of your thoughts, "did you ask me here to fuck you numb?" his body goes rigid underneath yours and you're right to assume that you've pinpointed the answer. "i'm right, huh?" eyeing downwards, his fingers are fiddling for you to see. after a few moments laid in bated breath, he lets weakly, "sorry about that, it's not gonna happen."

"yeah no shit," is said dulcetly despite the denotation. you feel his chuckles reverberate beneath you. "i'm really sorry, i swear i don't think of you that way." a smile upon your own face, you turn in his arms to place an expression to his voice. propping your head up on your folded arms, your arms atop his chest, you peer into his eyes sincerely. there is much that needs to be said, the reasonings behind his unexpected breakdown and the closeness you suddenly feel with still have to be addressed. but at this hour in the morning, you can't bring yourself to. 

instead you query, "should i stay the night?" he peers into your eyes with equal sincerity when he responds, "it's already early morning, you'd probably be off better sleeping here." giving a soft nod and a few moments to rearrange your thoughts, you perk up again just as he's about to fall asleep. he isn't annoyed in the slightest, rather he smiles at that, your voice, "do you have practice tomorrow?"

it's his turn to give a nod in response. "wanna come watch?" your arms move around his chest, encasing him like how he's encased you. hiding your smile in the front of his sweatshirt, your voice comes out muffled, "i'd love to but i'm a bit busy, jen. next time, maybe."

at your response, it's the first time that jeno feels, acknowledges, that his heart drops, even though it's in the slightest. there's an image of you in the stands, your textbooks in your lap and glasses sliding down the bridge of your nose. the image moves as he moves cross the rink and you look up when he passes by, eyes bright and a small smile and thumbs up in encouragement. from then on, it's that image that's plastered in his mind every time he thinks of you, that one self-conjured image. 

jeno feels his heart drop even more when he awakes to an empty bed. he finds that the text that you've sent in departure isn't nearly enough to repair his spirits, he wishes you were there instead.

practice sucks ass the next day and the day after that, he doesn't pay it any mind, knowing more than well enough how renjun whispers of the news of his breakup among the members. he doesn't hold it against him though, after all, his ex is his teammate's best friend. jeno thinks it hurts the most when his ex shows up at the next game, the one he'd invited you to when you'd crossed paths on campus a few days ago. he finds himself in a weird predicament between trying to forget about a girl and chasing after another one. he can't tell if he really likes you or if he just needs a rebound.

today, jeno decides it's the latter because he's fuming the entire game at how hyuck would send winks in her direction, how he would skate up to the edge of the rink to converse with her during their breaks. jeno hates how she's moved on all too easily and he feels and urge to prove that he can do the same. he wants to prove to himself.

he's let almost every goal in by the time the buzzer signals the end of the final round. the coach reprimands him because at this point, he might as well be from the opposing team. the helmet is off in a split second, he showers for the briefest of moments, only allowing the water to slosh across his body one time before he's patting himself dry. jeno slips the towel from his shoulder throws on a hoodie in its stead. he's out the locker room in bare minutes where he comes face to face with you. you, with the little sheepish, apologetic smile on your face. you, who'd just arrived from your shift at the local cat adoption center, late for the game but in just time for him. you, the only person he's been aching to see the whole day. but even now, he's unsure of exactly why. 

"y/n, hey," he's by your side in an instant, hesitant in his actions but words tumbling out nonetheless, "you came. late, but...you came."

you meet him in the middle, hands coming up to your aid and waving nonsensically as you speak, "i'm so sorry, my shift was extended and i forgot to tell my boss beforehan-"

"it's fine, i'm just glad you're here." he readjusts the bag onto his shoulders in a nervous fit. he barely manages to make eye contact with you and he wonders when he started to feel this way about you or, again, the desire for a rebound, his need for a taste of vengeance is willing him to act this way. jeno shrugs off the thought and fills the silence with an offer, "so do you wanna go...do something together?" 

jeno should know by now. the little sparkle that glints in your eyes and the way his stomach upturns itself in response. he should know by now how much you like him too. hyuck exits the locker rooms in that instant, he greets you in passing as he joins a girl up ahead. you turn back to jeno, momentarily distracted, only to find his gaze hardened and fixed on the girl. a sickening feeling erupts within you as you begin to piece one and one to make two. 

he turns back to you and you avoid his gaze. the shift in your countenance jolts him as much as his had jolted you. you lick your lips before looking back up at him, your own eyes guarded. he wishes he knew why. "jeno, i'm gonna have to rain check. i just- i thought of something- something came up. i have to go."

you're stalking away from him before he can even process it. he's lucky that his strides are long because he catches your wrist right before you get to the exit, "y/n," he tugs gently so that you turn to him but he's caught off guard even more when he sees the tears that have begun to form in your eyes. "why are you like this all of a sudden? what happened?"

you shake your head at him, hurriedly swallowing the sobs before you can embarrass yourself even further, "nothing, jeno. i just realized something." you stare down at his wrist expectantly but he only clutches it tighter, "then, what did you realize?"

he lets go of your wrist now and you feel like your heart couldn't get any heavier as you answer, "i realized that i'm just a fill-in until you get over her." jeno sucks in a breath as he watched the words leave your mouth, as he watches you turn and leave, and he hears more tears bubble from your frame, the sounds receding the farther you walk from him. for some reason, it's only when you tell him so that he understands that he feels the exact opposite.

it's only when you shove it in his face, your own face scrunched up in tears, that he's only going after you as a rebound, when he sees his feelings for what they really are. honest, jeno finds it hard to believe that he's never felt anything towards you since you're everything he could ever ask for in a girl. pretty and cute, snappy but sweet, the most perfect curve of lips and above all, you're an intellectual. he finds it attractive, he finds you attractive. fuck it, he likes you.

fortunately for him and unfortunately for you, your next tutoring session was scheduled for just a few days after, just enough time for him to get his act together and enough for you to cool your head enough sift through the thirty or so voice mails he'd left you. most of them seem to contain the same rueful, repentant tone, though a few seem to be displaying his slow spiral into self-deprecation. you're pretty sure the last is a mistake, a butt dial maybe.

jeno's not proficient with the knife, definitely not with how he's cutting the pears right now. he thinks he would've been better off bringing bananas but that would've seemed too insincere, wouldn't it? his thoughts are jumbling and sludging against one another when a finger of his slips and the fine edge of the knife is pressed on a knuckle. "fuck," he swears, his other hand already reaching over to the sink to run the cut under cold water. the sting is piercing and he looks away from the cut to the clock overhead. "double fuck," he mutters this time. the last thing he needs right now is you thinking that he stood you up. 

with steadfast athleticism, he finishes off the last of the pears with one hand. he's sure you'd laugh at the whole debacle if you were there though he's thankful you're not. jeno faces the fear that he sucks at everything except ice hockey, and he's barely getting by these days. he only ever feels confident on the rink with his stick in hand, crouched low so his eyes were level with the ice. he's never felt that much control over anything else, much less confessing to a girl and trying, somehow, to show that she was of much more worth than what he'd made it seem like. 

the library is a ten minute walk from his house, a three minute sprint. yes, he had sprinted. 

he knows for a fact that pears were the right way to go when you let the tiniest of smiles adorn your face at the sight of him setting the tupperware in front of you. you check your expression back into taut impassivity before he can indulge in his victory any longer. he knows you're not half as mad as you present yourself to be but that doesn't mean he'd take his mistakes lightly and go about this sleazily. jeno needs your trust. 

you resist the urge to reach over and flip over the hair that stood upright on the wrong side of his head. reverting your eyes onto the computer screen before you, "let's get started." not a half hour into your session, you're spaced out, eyes zoned onto the way jeno spins his pen between his fingers. maybe it's the lack of sleep that's getting to you.

"y/n? you good?"

you swallow thickly, removing your gaze from his hands, from him, from his paper, from anything that has to do with him. you notice how your chair has inched closer to his, or his to yours, you notice the finger-wide distance between you and him. shivers are sent down your spine. "let's take a break, is that fine?" jeno, from beside you, yawns and for a brief second you think he's about to pull the stretch and hand around shoulder trick. you blush unknowingly. 

jeno speaks before you can ask to resume the session, "can i say something?"

"is it work related?" you give your best efforts at keeping your voice level and head turned somewhat in his direction. in your peripheries, he cocks his head to the right, "...no, but we're on break." almost letting a huff escape your complexion, you relent, "fine then, shoot," figuring he would say it anyways.

"i want you to come to our next game."

you're lucky you had the whole scenario thought through, at least something can be harvested from your late nights spent tossing and turning, "i don't think i can-"

"y/n, i haven't even told you when."

"okay fine," you wrinkle your nose in distaste and hand out the truth for him to see, or hear, "i just don't want to." jeno is doing his best, he really is, but he knows that you've heard all that he has to say, if not once, then twenty-nine times over. the last one was a mistake. "did you get my voicemails?"

sighing, you chance a glance at him to see that he isn't the slightest bit annoyed, face drawn into a frown of sorts. you'll never admit that even just the sight could soften your set mindset. consideration replays in your irises when you answer the yes or no question with a decisive nod.

"then i'm sure you understand why i want you to come."

jeno lets you drive him home that day, he'd be the last to complain. the ride is silent from start to finish until right when he's about to close the passenger door, the car parked in front of his shared house. an, "i'll think about it," is what he's left to brew over for the next week or so as he stares that the text, read and unreplied, that he'd sent to remind you of the day and time of the game. he's anxious but it's only to that extent.

it's becoming more and more evident that jeno is loosing his touch on ice. he hates that the only thing he can attribute it to is his dwindling love life. he finds that the enforcer is atypically rough today but he's glad that his role at the goal requires the least interaction and footwork. he'd promised his coach that he would be more wary of his surroundings but he can't help the occasional glance at the rink entrance every once in awhile. what he doesn't understand is that his definition of 'once in awhile' marks at around every thirty seconds.

the last round is the most painful, undoubtedly, because it's as if his defeat is being dragged on and on, as if the giant timer above the rink is ticking to the heartbeat of a dead man. 

jeno can is aware that he's breathing. he's aware but he has to double check when the entrance doors open for the last time that game and you've arrived. you're standing by the doorway, apprehensive, but jeno can't get it past his head that you've arrived, that you're here. he'd have gotten decked in the face had you not motioned your head in the direction of the fast approaching puck and the burly man behind it.

he blocks the shot and every shot after. there's no need to wonder why.

the buzzer rings in his head so quick that he thinks time runs on his emotions rather than the clock. his helmet is often in seconds and he's making his way at supersonic speeds to the part of the rail where you're stood. the glass fogs with his breath as he tries to get his words across. 'i'll be quick,' he mouths. 

you count two minutes until he's off ice. jeno hasn't bothered to shower, he lacks the patience for it. he sits you down on the lowest of the bleachers, closest to the rink. standing over you, he finds that he has so much to say, so many things he wants to let you know, all the feelings he's ever bottled up for the girl so obviously made for him.

he's never had much of a way with words but he thinks that the romance movies hyuck's made him watch over the years give a pretty good overview of what to say in situations like these, "i'd cross the world for you." you snort back at him, nose crinkling in distaste at his choice of words and poking fun at him with your own, "rink, jeno. you mean you'd cross the rink for me."

"y/n, i'm tryna do something here," he whines, the pout on display mimicking his displeased but light-hearted implications. you're equally as amused, "oh yeah? what are you tryna do?"

"i'm tryna," he takes your two arms in his and wraps them around his middle. you instinctively fist the fabric of his blue jersey at the back, "jeno, what are you-" you stop when a hand of his own comes to trace the lines of your face softly. maybe he can't find the words but surely he could show you. if he could just…"you keep interrupting me, jeno."

drawn from his resolution, he's snappy when he retorts, "i think as your boyfriend i ought to have that privilege."

"boyfriend? since when did you-"

"i just did," he revels in the idea that you think him to be smooth with words when in reality the 'boyfriend' was a slip up, a mirror of his daydreams. he's over the moon that it worked out in his favor. while he fixates on just how much he feels for you, you're playfully annoyed at a whole other, "stop fucking interrupting me, jen-"

"i love you."

you blink up at him. well shit. a lot of things are happening and you lack the brain cells to process them. there's only one thing you can think to do, only one think that you're thinking about, have been thinking about, will still be thinking about. 

he may be the one to steal words right from your mouth but beyond that he's oblivious, you think. the smile still plays on his lips when he follows up, "is it okay to interrupt you if i say something like tha-"

you press a smile of your own onto his lips, cutting his words effectively. a hand of yours moves up to the curve of his neck to bring him down further, the angle at which he is kissing giving him all the advantage he needs to deepen it. when you part, you aren't surprised to see how half your body is leaning on the row of seats behind you and that jeno's entire body is sprawled on yours, supported by a knee on one side of you. 

you like your lips as you feel his breath hot on yours. "how's it feel now?"

shaking his head, jeno presses his temple to yours so that the only thing you can see is him, just him. "interrupt me any day, will you?"

copyright © 2020 rouiyan all rights reserved.

✧ end note — wrote this up in approx. three hours. lee jeno is so rude for interrupting all my other wips (that are also mostly for him). i hope you enjoyed because i did, i freaking love writing for him <3

[yandere-daydreams]

requests are open!!! what about a soft yandere fairy with a darling that accidentally wanders into their forest and won't let them leave? thank u sm!

I’ve never been able to resist a classic Yandere!Fae who can’t seem to understand why their lovely little Darling won’t give them a name and volunteer their free will without a struggle. It’s nice to be soft for a change, too, if only for the dialogue.

Title: Creation and Control.

TW: Imprisonment and Mind-Control.

~

You chose not to dance, tonight.

It wasn’t because you had anything better to do. The fae could hunt, they could harvest and maintain their make-shift homes and do whatever they wished once the sun slipped low in the sky, but as a human, a guest who’d been forced to overstay their welcome, you could only choose between joining one of the swirling, ever-growing circles or not doing so. For whatever reason, you’d picked the latter, taking a seat on a fallen tree-trunk and watching as strangers without names laughed and smiled and sobbed, some of them unfamiliar, and others prisoners like yourself, unable to leave because of magic or fate or in your case, a golden elixir you hadn’t known better than to drink. A goblet of it sat at your feet, now, but you didn’t pay it any mind. If only for the sake of protecting your pride.

Despite this, your attention dropped to the grail as a familiar figure started to approach, heavy footsteps muffled by the soft glass of the clearing. You didn’t have to greet him or be greeted in return, not when there was only one person who dared to speak to you.  Who bothered to speak to you, really. It wasn’t like a conversation with someone else’s personal pet would draw much interest, not from a group that had already seen so many of your kind come and go.

You only looked up when a long, lean hand came to rest on your shoulder, pressing down for a moment before you gave in, tilting your head back and letting your eyes meet the swirls of green and gold just beginning to pry into you. Durin, although that was more of a title than a name. The warden to your prison of trees and mushrooms and enchanting, unnerving smiles.

He spoke first. He always did. You were an object to be addressed, here, rather than one expected to speak out of turn. “My dear,” He started, already sliding a thin wooden comb in your waiting hand. “Indulge me and I promise, you won’t be pestered again until sunrise.”

You didn’t need further instruction. You pulled your legs onto the trunk and Durin lowered himself into the space they’d once occupied, soon sitting outstretched in front of you. It was a mind-numbing activity, braiding a head of long, pale hair into whatever dizzying pattern its owner requested, but you had plenty of practice, both from the task you were currently performing and the less patient stallions you used to care for on your family’s farm. You wondered if anyone took up to responsibility, now that you weren’t there to carry it out. You wondered if anyone even noticed you were gone. “It’s not difficult,” You mumbled, running your comb through a series of non-existent knots. “You could learn to do this yourself, if you wanted to. It’d be faster than coming to me.”

“I could, hypothetically, but I’m afraid we monsters don’t share your talents.” He paused, letting out a pleased hum as your blunt nails scraped idly against his scalp. “Hunting braids, perhaps, but nothing so…” He trailed off, rolling two fingers in a vague, arbitrary gesture. “Nothing so pointless. The Gods blessed us with many things, but alas, no one thought to add ‘creation’ to that list.”

Your response was delayed. You’d heard of their curse before, in tales of the suffering that was said to accompany any slight endeavor into turning one thing into another, but you’d never quite believed it. You supposed it was fitting, though. Durin didn’t seem like the kind of refined soul who would dwell in the sparsely decorated cave he called a home for any reason less than necessity. “I hardly think brushing your own hair would incur divine wrath.”

“If you can break one rule, you’re bound to break the rest. I wouldn’t be reduced to a pile of smoldering ash, but I doubt the consequences would be pleasant,” He explained, twisting to his side just enough to see you without disturbing the three tangled trails you were desperately trying to guide to an agreeable meeting point. “Are you trying to say you don’t enjoy my company, love?”

You didn’t answer him. With a particularly harsh tug to the strand you were holding, you forced him to wince, freeing you from his gaze with minimal effort. “And that’s why I’m here?” You asked, the words more a declaration of grudging recognition than a real question. “To braid your hair and tend to your every need, because you’re so tragically unable to?”

At that, he seemed to take offense, leaning back and into your lap, spoiling your progress as carelessly as he’d demanded it. You could see his face, like this, an expression of defined lines and pointed ears and traits that weren’t quite not uncanny. You might’ve said there was a hint of a collar bone beneath his loose tunic, but there could be no hints, not with Durin. He was the romantic interpretation of a man, something that got so close to being a perfect replica, but whose creator was too fond of embellishments to truly design something real. You could accept that you’d once thought of him as human, but you couldn’t forgive yourself for holding onto that belief for so long. Others in his entourage their otherness more obvious, decorating themselves with horns and hooves and whatever they liked, and while Durin was less apparent, he made no attempt to hide his wrongness. His grin, suddenly full of pointed, predatory teeth, was enough to prove that.

“You’re here because I want you to be.” He never looked away, never blinked, and abruptly, it occurred to you that he might not have to. “You’re here because I saw a young, vulnerable human wandering through my territory, following the calls of members of my court, and I decided to take pity on what should’ve been the main course of our next feast. And, because I’ve come to care for you despite your doubt, you will remain here. Allowing you to dote on me is just another privilege I’m kind enough to provide.”

It wasn’t the first time you’d had this conversation. It wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last, and you knew that. As well as you knew the color of the sky and the time of day, you knew that. You knew it, and yet, you found yourself frowning, stiffening, gritting your teeth as you resisted the urge to shove him away. “If you were kind, you would let me go. You know I don’t want to be here.”

His smile wavered, then dropped. “I don’t think I like your tone.”

“I don’t think I like being a hostage.” You didn’t try to stop yourself, pushing him off of your lap and fleeing from your informal, ruined haven. You had to force yourself to breathe, to inahle and exhale and make yourself calm down, but even that did little to calm your temper, only making you feel more like a child attempting to express their discontent. “You trapped me here. You took me someplace I don’t wish to be, and now, I can’t leave. How is that kind? How are you guiltless--”

“(Y/n).”

It was a silent command. You could feel it, something vile forcing its way into your veins and solidifying, rendering you speechless and paralyzed as Durin shook his head, letting out a ragged sigh before he bothered to raise a hand, gesturing for you to come to him. You didn’t have a choice, your movements rigid and your thoughts barely your own, but your body was quick to obey him, to stumble its way to its captor and fall into his lap the moment he expressed his desire for you to do so. His control faded as his arms wrapped around you, but Durin didn’t act to reinstate it, only reaching behind him and pushing something small and solid into your palm.

The comb. Sleek and wooden and so, so awful. You were tempted to cry, if only in frustration.

But, you didn’t try to resist.

Instead, you choked down your complaints and began working where you left off, attempting to ignore the contented, toothy smile now pressing into your skin.

[gascon-en-exil]

Two chapters into the new Triangle Strategy demo:

There are four difficulty modes that can be shifted between at any time outside of battle; two of them are explicitly intended for players primarily interested in story, which is completely fine with me. Unless a game's difficulty is intended to be an active storytelling element - which I don't see it being here - I see no reason why story-heavy games shouldn't offer what might be called a visual novel mode.

The enemies of the first chapter are bandits, making FE fans feel right at home from the start.

Battles progress at a quicker pace, and with that and faster load times and map navigation this demo doesn't slog as much as the first. I have noticed that it still sometimes returns to the world map between story cutscenes, but it's less tedious now.

Conviction appears to be much more prominent now. It's not just NPCs asking Serenoa questions with three answers; I've seen the scales icon pop up at the end of battles and even once when I was walking around exploring. I haven't yet gotten to Chapter 3 which features this demo's voting scene and split path (a much less dramatic one than the one in the first demo from later in the game - you're essentially choosing which of the other two nations you want to explore more), but with conviction being affected so frequently and with even the question prompts not all being immediately obvious which is which I'd imagine that rigging the system to get certain outcomes will be quite difficult without a guide.

Also, hooray for Serenoa not being a silent protagonist, and having his dialogue options and general demeanor reflect some actual personality. Granted as protagonists go he's on the blander end, but that doesn't stand out as much in this particular cast.

When it comes to the literal speaking however I remain mixed about TS's full voice acting. Serenoa himself sounds a little better this time around, but between the script's archaic language and the artificial pauses between lines as the sprites go through the corresponding motions the voice work can't help but feel stilted on the whole. Of note is a lengthy scene in Chapter 2 where a VA (who I'm 90% sure is the VA for Ferdinand from Three Houses) has to exposit some fairly weighty material while sounding increasingly drunk. Playing (coherently) drunk is hard enough in live action, and he does his best with what's there, but it doesn't all hold together very well with this kind of presentation.

A small thematic high point: Serenoa and Frederica are set to wed as part of an arranged marriage, and I applaud the game for neither presenting this as an evil imposition nor for immediately laying on the ship tease between the two to make the situation more palatably romantic. Sometimes people end up together for reasons that have nothing to do with love...although based on an earlier trailer I suspect that the conviction system will impact what becomes of their relationship. As long as TS avoids a consistent moral binary there, and elsewhere, I should be fine with it.

This demo only teases at the weapon upgrade and class promotion systems. The former is more fluid but doesn't seem to get interesting until later, while the later is a strict three-tier system with each character having their own class. Given my issues with reclassing in modern FE, I have no trouble with a tactics game going for a more rigid approach.

If there's any homoerotic subtext in this game I haven't found it yet, although I've still got a good bit of the demo left to check out. Octopath Traveler didn't really impress me on that score, so my expectations are low.

At this stage I genuinely couldn't tell you if Gustadolph is going to end up as the unquestioned main villain, because there's just so much going on...and an unusually large number of NPC character portraits that look Obviously Evil.

[teddytdr]

The Stranger

Warnings: NSFW, mentions of abuse.

Word count: 3223

This is my first Elriel fic, so be indulgent with me please! 

I would love to write more, let me know if you have any requests! I’m open to ANYTHING and EVERYTHING so feel free to let loose with the suggestions ;)

( However, I draw the line at Gwynriel and Elucien)

“ I think I’m falling in love with you.”

“Don’t.” He snapped lowly.

The rain was pounding against the window in his living room, the sound matching the one of my heart nearly beating out of my chest. I knew he would say that. Stupid me for hoping otherwise, even predictability couldn’t help ease the pain that crept over my insides. Stupid, Stupid, Stupid. Why couldn’t I keep my fucking mouth shut.

Closing my eyes as I wait for this perfect bubble to burst, the memories surge through me.

I met him two weeks ago, and it felt like I’d known him forever. As cliché as it may sound, it’s the truth. As soon as i’d looked into his hazel eyes, everything seemed to click. Like an answer to a question I never wanted to ask. It felt like something inside me went taut, stretching towards him, trying to reach him. I thought he felt it too, from the look of realization that swept across his beautiful face and the way his lips twitched upward as he retracted his hands from my waist, leaving me so cold. 

“I’m sorry, are you okay?” He whispered, searching my eyes for the answer. 

I stood there frozen, staring at him in confusion. Oh! Because he ran into me and almost sent me crashing to the ground. Right! Shaking the thoughts from my head, “Yes! I’m fine. You should watch where you’re going.” I snapped back, lifting an eyebrow. 

Gaping at me, his gaze searing, “I was looking.”, like it was a fact I was too slow to comprehend. 

Oh! This man had some fucking nerve. This inhumanly gorgeous man had some fucking nerve. 

I scowled at him in response, my fingers twitching on his strong arms. 

He glared back, brows creasing as his eyes dropped to my lips and lingered there, “I feel like I know you, have we met before?”, his voice as incredulous as i’m sure he felt.

God his voice sounded like the night itself, so sensuous and velvety. Never in my life has a stranger left such a mark on me. 

But that was the thing, since the moment we crashed into each other, it felt like I could finally breath again. Like a piece I didn’t know was missing has finally made it’s way back to me. This stranger that didn’t feel like a stranger at all. I suddenly realized we were still standing close enough that I could actually taste him if only I dared.

Lost in my daydreams, I didn’t realize what was happening until his lips grazed mine ever so softly. His kiss, somewhere between a brush and a breath, tasted like promises long forgotten, like souls awakening upon recognition of their  mate. This kiss, his kiss, is nothing like I’ve ever thought a stranger could make me feel. It felt like my insides had been set ablaze and I was falling into him again, wanting to melt into him. 

I brought my hands to the nape of his neck and pulled him closer, crashing his chest to mine. He sighed into my mouth and I opened delicately to slide my tongue against his lower lip, asking for entry, asking for more. 

Groaning at the invitation, he let me in and our tongues finally met. Bolts of lightning ran down my spine as his silken tongue traced the roof of my mouth. His arms came to wrap around me, lifting me slightly off the ground. 

Realization slapped me so hard, making me pull away from this mind-numbing kiss. I’ve never been kissed this way! Also, I’d never kiss a stranger! I must’ve lost my fucking mind. Opening my eyes hesitantly, I find his already on me, blazing hazel on my brown. 

“I think you should come home with me.” He purrs, holding me tighter than he was seconds ago. 

What? Fuck me. What am I doing? I can’t. I really want to.

My heart is pounding so hard, I think he can hear it. I’m insane, this is insane. I know this, and I still- 

“Yes!”, the answer leaved me before I could even form the thought. 

Smiling knowingly, he eased me back to the ground, tucked my hair behind my ear, grabbed my hand and brought me to his place.

What happened after that foolish, life-alteringly dangerous decision was the best two weeks of my life. We spent every waking hour together, tangled up in each other, sitting in front of the TV or eating the food we cooked. Basically, we were joined at the hip. Every second I spent with him, talking to him, made me want to drown in him. Even more so than I already was. 

We spoke about our lives, our fears, our regrets, our hopes. He told me about his fucked up childhood and how it left him with scars that ran deeper than the ones on his hands, a story I can’t even let myself think about because it brings tears to my eyes and makes my heart break for him. I told him things about myself that I never even told my sisters. I shared the story of my engagement to a psychotic, abusive ex-fiancé and how it left me in pieces. I was completely enraptured in this man. This seemingly perfect man. 

But I learned things about him without him having to tell me any of them. For instance, how he often hid his hands from me without even realizing it, how he smiled every time I smiled, or laughed when I laughed -even if we were laughing about two completely different things. How he stared at me like he was scared to find me gone if he looked away for just one second, or how his hands shook when they came in contact with my skin. Even how he always asked for permission before touching me, even just to wipe chocolate from the corners of my mouth, because I always having been a messy eater. These subtleties scream romantic to me, even if telling him so would earn me and incredulous scoff. So I kept it to myself, close to my heart and protected it fiercely.

The fact was, I was falling hard and fast for him. The thrill of it was both paralyzing and intoxicating. A feeling I was afraid to admit i’ve never experienced before, especially with the monster I was supposed to marry. 

This beautiful man has both ruined and saved my life, and he still has no inkling. 

Coming back to reality, “Well that’s too damn bad!” I say, waving my arms around in despair. I am so fucking scared of returning to my sorry existence, these past weeks have been the best of my life and I can’t even fathom going back to how I was before him. I am so fucking petrified of losing this bubble we lost ourselves in, but it’s better to ruin it myself before I get hurt again. 

“This isn’t normal. You think I don’t know that this is just a dream? That we are in a perfect bubble, and that a reality-check is going to burst it soon enough?” I continue, my heart is beating so loud I’m afraid he can hear it from across the room. 

“This is a fling. This is a fantasy. It’s not meant to last”, my voice rising higher and shaking in barely concealed terror, “Is it?” 

I see the words hit home as his body goes rigid and his nostrils flare. We stand like this, separated by a few feet, breathing heavily, for what feels like eternity. Frozen in time, the scalding ice creeping up my bones is burning every hope and dream I foolishly believed up until this moment. And still, I can’t leave. I don’t want to go, my very being is screaming at me to stay right here.

He takes a step closer, then stops, like a hunter trying to corner an unpredictable beast. From this close, I can see his tightly leashed rage, his fists are clenched at his sides, knuckles paper-white, his eyes so bleak, so emotionless. I’ve never seen him like this, this vision so at odds with the patient and quiet man I’ve come to know. 

“You think this isn’t real?” He asks in utter disbelief. 

I can only stare at him, my pulse ringing in my ears as I wait for the rejection. 

“You think this isn’t real?” He screams, body shaking so much I worry he might be nearing a stroke. 

Fuck, I definitely should’ve kept my mouth shut.

Moving closer to him, I search his eyes for any sign of feeling as I lash out, “It’s not real, isn’t that what you’re-“

“Don’t.” He interrupts me viciously, his face is taut, his mouth etched into a deep snarl. He comes to stand directly in front of me, his chest heaving, throat bobbing and eyes searching my face for something.

“Don’t assume you know what I mean. Not about this.” gesturing between us, like there’s something visible, tangible, in the space separating our bodies.

He’s so close, I can practically taste his harsh words before they fall out of his lips, “Don’t you dare assume what I feel.” Seeing the doubt in my eyes, he continues before I can even think of opening my mouth to retort. 

“I don’t know what this is. I don’t understand how it’s possible that I’m already so attached to you, I can barely stand the separation when you go to the bathroom. That I can barely breathe when our eyes meet. That you already feel so familiar, like I’ve finally found the missing piece. That I can’t imagine ever being apart from you. That waking up with you is by far what I cherish the most. That seeing you smile takes my breath away. That touching you is like an answer to a question I never thought I so desperately wanted to ask.” His breathless words skitter across my senses like shadows. 

I can’t even breathe as I let him continue. 

“How is it possible that we know so little about each other, yet you know more about me than even my friends do? How is it possible that looking at you crying right now, makes me want to rip my own heart out? How is is possible that I’m fucking terrified of losing you after knowing you for only two weeks?” He looks at me with such agony and hope, silver lining his exquisite eyes, that the sheer intensity of it makes my insides clench.

I didn’t realize I was crying. Raising a shaking hand to my cheek, I wipe away a tear.     

“I don’t know. This hurts so much.“, shuddering as the pain rakes over my soul, I try to look at him but my vision is blurry. “I shouldn’t have said anything, I’ll leave.” I whisper weakly, turning to move away from him.

I barely make it a step back before I feel a warm hand wrap around my wrist, pulling me back to him. 

His voice hoarse, “Don’t. Don’t leave.” His hands gripping my wrists tightly.

I look up, seeing how we are, our chests touching on every inhale. “I don’t want you to go. Please.” 

The pain in his eyes nearly brings me to my knees, but instead, I cover my face with my hands and let the tears fall freely, my head dropping to his chest as he brings a hand to my hair, stroking it soothingly. 

I brought this upon myself the moment I decided to come home with him, and further proved my stupidity when I let the fantasy of him sink itself so deep in me. 

Its talons shattering all the walls and defences of my mind, crawling down my spine and breaking a path between my ribs, then making itself comfortable in the shadow of what was once my heart. It’s very essence flowing through my blood and secretly mending every festering wound. It’s ethos plucking every memory of bruising slaps, bone-breaking punches, and terror-inducing threats from my soul and replacing them with warm scarred hands, comforting hazel eyes, sweet smiling lips and hopefully honest words. Replacing them with him, this too perfect stranger that changed everything in so little time.

I drop my hands from my face and fix my stare on his chest, the sound of his voice pulling me from my innermost revelations, “I’m sorry. I was so scared this whole time. I was just scared that our perfect bubble would burst and I didn’t want it to. I don’t ever want it to. I was scared about how quickly I fell in-

My shocked gasp seemed to cut him off, making him realize the enormity of what he was about to admit. Looking at me with surprise and something else I can’t bring myself to decipher but feel in my every bone. 

“Say it.” I order him softly, not breaking eye contact, I bring my hand up to trace his full lips with my fingers.

With an understanding smirk gracing his sinful mouth “I’m in love with you.” 

The air leaves my lungs as I crash my lips onto his in answer.

Moaning at the touch, he brings a hand to the nape of my neck, titling my head to better taste me. I think I could die from the pleasure his kiss brings me. The way he kisses me makes my heart stop every time he does it. He kisses me like it’s the last time he ever will, and that is the best feeling in the world.

Our tongues dancing together makes me whimper with need for him. I don’t think I could ever tire of kissing him. I don’t ever want to stop kissing him.

Growling in approval at the sound, he lifts me up so I can wrap my legs around him, bringing our cores together. 

Before I can even make sense of what’s happening, he sits me on the counter and steps into the space between my thighs, pulling me flush against every inch of his hard body. 

I want to fuse my everything to his everything. I want our bodies so close, that we cannot tell where we end and where we begin. I want our souls melting and reshaping into an ever-glowing one.

Raw desire riding me, I slip my hands through his soft midnight black hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan.

“What are you doing to me?” I whine as his mouth moves to my neck, sucking and nipping lightly. His hands glide across my back before settling on my hips and digging his fingers into my flesh, enough to undoubtedly leave lovely bruises. Something I never thought I’d be able to accept again, but with him, i’m ready. With him, I know I am safe, because he would never hurt me. 

We are a tangle of moans and groans, grinding against each other, and I am fucking trembling with need for this man to completely ravish me. 

Pulling his head back, I find half-lidded eyes locked on mine, a look of utter adoration and lust swimming in his green-flecked hazels. Biting my lip at the intensity of his gaze, I run a hand along his neck, grazing my nails against his skin as I go down his shoulder, then his chest and all the way down to his erection, cupping him through his sweatpants. This earns me a gentle thrust and-

Startled, I look at him, and ask the question that had not once crossed my mind since I met him, maybe because some part of me felt like I already knew the answer.

“What is your name?”, I whisper, grinning sheepishly at the astounded look on his face.

Realization and need grace his features as his eyes flutter and he breathes, “Azriel.” 

And the sound of his name is like a key that finally fits in the lock, unleashing my very soul. 

His name is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard. 

Azriel Azriel Azriel, my soul seems to sing.

I smile stupidly at him before taking his face in my hands, “I love you, Azriel.” and it feels like I can finally breathe again. He smiles at me, and I swear I’ve never seen anything so bright, it could light even the darkest corners of my mind. Certainty blossoming in my heart, I’ve no doubt that someday it will.

Mouth parting on a silent moan, “And what is your name?” Azriel purrs against my neck, grinding his hardness into the junction of my thighs. I throw my head back, gasping loudly as the feeling of his cock makes liquid warmth pool from my center. 

“Elain, I’m Elain.” I groan as I rub myself against his pulsating arousal, not being able to stop myself from seeking any contact to help ease the need. I’m already on edge, and nothing has even happened yet. The power he has over me drives me insane. Just a look from him and i’m already drenched for him. Just a taste and I want more, so, so much more. And I know I have the same effect on him.

Moaning at my name, Azriel runs his teeth along my jaw and bites on my earlobe before moving on to my neck and breathing me in deeply, like the scent of me is pure ecstasy and he can’t get enough. 

I swear I am about to lose it. I am bursting at the seams with want for him. All I can see is him, all I can smell is him. The gloriously arousing essence of him, night-chilled mist and cedar. 

Sensing my need, Azriel wraps his arms around me and walks us to his bedroom, running his hands all over my body, like he can’t touch enough of me at once.

“Elain, my Elain.” he mumbles repeatedly to himself, like a prayer to the gods. 

The sound of my name from his lips makes me drag my nails down his muscular back and grind harder on his velvet-wrapped steel, eliciting an animalistic growl from him. 

Gods, I want him unleashed. I want his cock so deep in my mouth that it brings tears to eyes. I want him to fuck me so thoroughly and passionately that just thinking about it makes me wet. 

“I need you so bad, Azriel”, I whimper as he deposits me on the edge of the bed, and kneels on the floor. Something inside me liquefies at the sight of him on his knees for me, making me completely soaked. Reading the need in my eyes, he smirks, trailing his fingers up my calves, to my thighs, gripping them hard. 

Never breaking eye contact, he spreads me apart, baring me completely to his ravenous tongue, and moans at the sight of my desire for him. 

“I’m going to devour you now.” he growls, before lowering his mouth to my throbbing cunt.

[vampish-glamour]

first, i want to say that i hope this doesn’t come off angry. i just don’t see a lot of people with your views and i have some questions and thoughts. also, if only for clarity’s sake, i’d like to ask that you humor me with the existence of an ace spectrum.

i’m not sure why you’d think it’s beneficial for asexuality to have one rigid definition (and it seems that may most closely fit with “aro-ace”), and if someone doesn’t fit it exactly, you think they should simply fuck off with the label? A million different people go through life, discover, and think of themselves in a million different ways.

There are a few caveats in different manifestations of asexuality that can describe the different ways people fit idk, as an example very low attraction, because once you start just sticking with more allo-aligned labels, people will start having certain expectations of you, and if you can’t perform that, well, where does that leave a person? Like, in any instance regarding being with a person, you’d likely have to explain yourself, your low sex drive, attraction, interest in the act itself, or what-have-you anyway, but in my own exp, it seems more legitimate and comfortable to have a term rather than word spaghetti with no root.

I just cannot see how theoretically cutting out language that’s already extant and already has comprehensible explanations for any other party concerned could help anyone. And forgive me if that’s not your intent, but claiming asexuals and asexuality are a monolith that can only be a certain way as opposed to existing on a spectrum makes it seem that way. It seems to do more othering and dividing than unifying, and to me, when weighing the similarities and differences between people who are on the ace-spectrum vs. not, it doesn’t make much sense to group people who don’t exactly fit a perfect void of attraction with people who regularly, actively seek out and have sex. There’s space in between two extremes, imo.

To be clear, too: asexuality is an umbrella term for people that use subidentity, I’m not trying to contradict myself by creating the perception that ace subidentities are themselves divisive. That and I think it’s a little late in the game to start caring about how messy and ever-expanding the English language is lol (and that being a purist about it can get dangerous, if that’s a concern). hope ur havin a good one, and thanks if you actually read✌️

Hi! Thank you for first clarifying that you don’t want this to come off as angry, since it’s really hard to tell sometimes through text on a screen.

Just a preface I’m adding after writing this; I used “you”/“your” a lot, and I mean it as a general “you”, not you as in anon.

Right off the bat, I can humour you with the existence of the ace spectrum in the form of the allo spectrum. Asexual means no attraction. You can’t have a spectrum of having no attraction. Allosexual apparently means having attraction, and that you can absolutely have a spectrum of.

I always use the number line example. Think of a number line between 0 and 10, 0 being asexual and 10 being hyper sexual (not a sexuality, but the best opposite to asexual I can think of atm). Why would everything in the middle be considered asexual, when asexual is 0? I would consider everything in the middle varying degrees of attraction. Even if you’re at a 1, you still experience attraction, and aren’t at 0. Therefore you aren’t asexual. This is because “no attraction” is a much more rigidly defined thing than “attraction”.

You can do the same thing with homosexual/heterosexual and bisexual. Say that 0 is either homosexual or heterosexual, and 10 is bisexual. Since homo/hetero are the more rigidly defined sexualities here (exclusively attracted to the same/opposite sex, while bisexual is attracted to both sexes), you’re not homosexual or heterosexual unless you’re at 0. However, even if you’re at a one because you experience more attraction towards one sex than the other, but still like both, you’d be bisexual.

Point is, you can’t have a “spectrum” of something that’s at zero. You can’t have a spectrum of feeling nothing, or a spectrum of exclusively being attracted to a certain sex. But you can have a spectrum of how much attraction you feel/allosexuality, or a spectrum of bisexuality.

The reason I think asexuality needs to be rigidly defined is because words mean things. What’s the point of having asexual as a label if it can mean whatever fits the individual? We don’t see this with heterosexuality. Nobody is trying to define heterosexuality as having a fluid and flexible meaning. How ridiculous does it sound to say;

“I’m on the hetspec! I experience attraction to the opposite sex, but I also experience attraction to the same sex sometimes so that means I’m demiheterosexual or gray-het”.

Ridiculous, right? So why are we doing the exact same thing with asexuality by saying “I experience some attraction, so I’m on the ace spectrum and I’m demisexual, gray ace, etc.”?

So yes, if somebody experiences attraction, they should absolutely fuck off from the asexual label instead of changing its meaning to fit them. I would say the same thing about a homosexuality spectrum or a heterosexuality spectrum. Yes, everyone has different life experiences and all that, but that doesn’t mean they need to be calling themselves something they’re not.

For the expectations issue, you’d likely have to have that conversation with a partner anyways. I think that most people don’t have a clue what half of these labels mean, so saying “I’m gray ace” will mean nothing to them, and you’ll end up having to go “that means that I...”. So why not just start there? Once again, just because this is an experience people have doesn’t mean they need to change a label to suit them.

It’s not really cutting out language, it’s moreso trying to return the language to what it was before a bunch of people changed the meaning to suit their own needs. I raise you the question; do you think I’m claiming all homosexuals are a monolith by saying “homosexual means exclusive attraction to the same sex, and if you don’t fit that definition you’re not homosexual”? Or by saying “homosexuality doesn’t exist on a a spectrum, you’re either gay or you’re not”? Because that’s exactly what I’m doing with asexuality, I’m saying that it means no attraction whatsoever, and if you don’t fit that definition, the label isn’t for you.

Why is it so important for people to be able to force themselves into a label that doesn’t fit? Why is it better to take away the meaning of a word until it practically has no meaning, than to establish a specific meaning so the word can properly describe something? I don’t think it’s dividing at all to preserve the meanings of words to prevent them from becoming utterly meaningless.

Would you say that it doesn’t make sense to group together people with a perfectly 50/50 split attraction to men and women, with people with say a 10/90 split? Because both of those are just as bisexual as the other. Unless you’d rather call the 10/90 demihomosexual or demiheterosexual, we can apply the same logic to allosexuality. If you experience attraction, even if it’s just a little bit compared to somebody who experiences ten times more than you do, you’re still allosexual. You are not asexual unless your attraction is zero. In the same way that you are not homosexual unless your attraction to the opposite sex is at zero.

I have a hard time explaining myself and I feel like my points may be all over the place.

So here’s a summary:

The asexual spectrum exists, but it’s actually the allosexual spectrum. This is because you cannot have a spectrum of feeling no attraction, but you can have a spectrum of feeling attraction

Sexuality needs to be rigidly defined to hold weight and meaning. Otherwise you’re throwing around words that mean nothing. When somebody says they’re asexual, do they mean they experience no attraction whatsoever, neither romantic or sexual, or do they mean they only feel sexual attraction towards people they form a bond with? We don’t know. When you widen the definition of a word so broadly, it ultimately becomes meaningless.

Homosexuality does not exist on a spectrum of some attraction to the same sex, some to the opposite sex, and heterosexuality does not either. We recognize that as bisexuality. So why should asexuality exist on a spectrum of experiencing varying degrees of attraction, but not always zero, when that should logically be recognized as allosexual?

There is no reason for people to need to change the meaning of a word to suit their needs. If the word doesn’t fit, it doesn’t fit.

I hope that sort of explains my reasoning! I have a hard time properly getting my thoughts into words, so I’m worried that it makes perfect sense to me in my head but the words I’m writing don’t communicate my thoughts. If that’s the case, I’m hoping the summary helps. 😄

[ahsokasshoto]

Names and Faces

Star Wars: The Bad Batch fanfiction

No romantic relationships;  Omega, Hunter, Wrecker, Tech, Echo, 99, Nala Se

1999 words (I really couldn’t have just added one more, could I?)

Ao3

Summary: Imagine growing up on Kamino, dysphoric for a face that you see reflected back at you not only in the mirror but in everyone around you. Imagine what it would mean to be finally be seen as different, knowing that people were finally seeing you as you saw yourself.

Omega deals with growing up trans on Kamino, and how to later tell her newfound family this important piece of her identity and history.

TW: non-graphic violence between the first and second breaks, and mentions of/hinting toward dysphoria throughout

It was an okay face, she supposed. If she looked at it from a certain angle. And squinted a bit. The jaw was too set and square; nose too wide and flat; hair too rigid. But the eyes….the eyes were good. She had to learn to like this face. She was stuck with it.

“The hell are you looking at, Question Mark?”

The jeering voice shook her out of her thoughts and she winced. She’d been daydreaming in the middle of the cafeteria while staring directly at another clone. Again. He stepped towards her, brows knit together in a familiar fury. A group of clones stood behind him, backing him up. “I asked you a question, Question Mark,” he hissed, using the snide nickname some of the clones had branded her with. She was always disappearing for tests or riding the heels of Nala Se. No one quite knew what to make of her. To them, she was a big question mark.

She stood and looked into that face, her face, reflected back at her. She tried to keep hers neutral as she said sternly, “That’s not my name.”

**

The other clone smirked. “Well, what is it then, Question Mark?” He took another step toward her, those copper-colored eyes still menacingly afire. “Or is that just another question mark for us, too?”

Fortunately for Omega, those questions would have to wait as the cafeteria was suddenly abuzz with excitement. One of the clone troupes was back from a mission. “It’s the weird ones,” Omega heard another clone whisper. “Aren’t they called the Bad Batch?” another clone responded. “Don’t you mean the sad batch?” the clone who had jeered at Omega scoffed. But at least he was distracted for now, and Omega hurriedly made for the exit when she saw him.

It was that face, the one she’d seen countless times on countless people, but it wasn’t the same. His hair fell over it, and the dark ink of the skull pattern caught the bright Kaminoan light, making it look all the more shadowed. And with him were three other clones, each with equally unique faces: one with thin, hollowed cheeks and a crosshair tattooed over his eye; one which stood taller than the others, a twisting scar spread around one whitened eye; and one wearing high-tech goggles, face buried in a datapad. She’d never seen anything like these clones before.

The one with the skull tattoo turned on his way to a table and caught her eye. He gave her a small smile and nod before turning back to sit with his team. Omega could not stop her heart from fluttering.

"Who were those clones, Nala Se?"

Nala Se blinked slowly at her. "To which clones are you referring?"

"The ones who didn't look like clones. Big guy, one with goggles, one with grey hair and the one with the skull on his face."

"Those are the clones of experimental unit 99."

"Experiments?" Omega looked down at the cold machinery which poked and prodded her skin. "What kind of experiments?"

Nala Se moved some sensors, made some notes. "Nothing that concerns you."

Omega was not deterred. "Why do they look like that? Because of the experiments?"

Nala Se paused, all but sighing as she turned to look into Omega's wide, curious eyes.

"Yes. Aberrations in their DNA enhanced traits desirable in soldiers. We further enhanced those traits manually."

"Wow." Omega leaned back. "What can they do?"

"Enough questions for now, cadet. Just relax."

Usually, the sensations of the metal sensors on her skin brought on a dysphoric discomfort that would stay with her, sometimes for days after an examination like this. But today, her mind was far away, imagining the face she'd have if she could be different like Experimental Unit 99.Omega was still lost in thought as she made her way back to her bunk. It was late, and she hoped the other clone cadets would all be asleep. But her hopes fell when she heard heavy footfalls behind her.

"Well, well, well," sneered a familiar voice. It was the cadet from earlier, his crew still lurking behind him. "If it isn't the big old question mark. What are you doing out so late? Huh?"

Omega could feel his hot breath in her face. She glared at him. "None of your business."

But the other clone merely smirked. "I saw you looking at that sad batch clone earlier. You know what I think? I think you're defective," he said, jabbing a finger at her chest, "just like them. That's why they have to do so many tests on you." He tugged at her shirt. "Why don't you show us, Question Mark?" He lifted her shirt up and punched her in the gut. It knocked the wind out of her and she fell to her knees. She had barely time to throw her arms up over her face before a foot was coming at her head. The other cadets stood by and laughed. One may have even added some kicks of his own; there were so many, she couldn't tell, and she began to grow faint and dizzy. Finally, one of them said, "I hear footsteps. We'd better get out of here!"

They took off running in the opposite direction of the approaching footsteps. They were moving too quickly to be Kaminoan. She dared not look up as they grew closer.

"Are you alright?" said a soft-spoken voice, filled with genuine concern. She'd never heard that kind of voice on Kamino, not even from Nala Se. She risked a tiny peek, and found herself looking up at another clone unlike any she'd seen. His body was slightly hunched, his face wrinkled, but he looked at Omega with some of the kindest eyes she'd seen on Kamino.

"I...I think so," she winced, struggling to sit up. The clone reached out and offered a steadying hand, which she accepted. "Ow," she winced again, feeling a sharp pain in her ribs. She hoped they weren't broken; that would be difficult to hide from Nala Se.

“I’m 99,” the clone said kindly. Omega perked up. “Like Experimental Unit 99?” she asked brightly. 99 chuckled. “The Bad Batch,” he said fondly. “They had to go through this too, you know. At least, before Wrecker got too big to scare everybody off.”

She looked up at 99, wide-eyed. “Really?”

“Not all regs are like that, though. I’ve known some good ones. It’ll get better.” He smiled at her, but she still looked dismayed.

“I don’t know. I’m different, too. I don’t look like it, but I….I feel it.”

99 gently helped Omega to her feet. “Well, if you ever need someone to talk to about it, come and find me. I’d better get back to work, though. What’s your name, by the way?”

Omega smiled, and took a breath. The last letter. The last she’d ever be considered a question mark. Once the name passed her lips, there would be no going back. But she was ready.

“Omega,” she said proudly. “My name is Omega.”

**

99 had been right; things did get better once she told Nala Se she was transgender. “Most intriguing,” was all the Kaminoan woman had said, blinking those huge, taciturn eyes. She had begun production and administration of puberty blockers shortly after that.

Omega continued to meet with 99 through her transition, and the two became fast friends. She especially loved hearing his stories about the Bad Batch. The attack by the Separatists on Kamino was a devastating blow. She attended 99’s funeral ceremony, along with several regs. She looked over them all. Most did look pretty regular, but she noticed a couple, one with a hand painted on his armor and one with a tattoo of a five on his head. They must be more experienced troopers to have such marks. 99 had been right, Omega thought. Not all regs were bad if they could pay their respects to him.

People still treated Omega differently, but what no one realized was that every snide remark about her hair or her soft features or her clothing was a point of pride and power for her. They were finally seeing her as she saw herself.

And the next time the Bad Batch saw her, she could look back at them with a face as same but different as theirs.

**

"Tech, how's it going with that datapad?" Hunter said in a low voice. He, Tech, Wrecker, Echo, and Omega wandered the surface of Bracca, searching for a particular piece of machinery.

Something caught Omega's eye: a shock of color stuck out against the rusty brown all around them. She knelt down for a closer look. It was a small flower, delicate purple petals reaching through the junk for a chance at sunlight. It was beautiful.

"Nothing yet. The latent charges in the rest of the machinery here must be skewing my tech as much as your senses, Hunter." Tech shook his head. "My screen is like a big, blank question mark." The words jolted Omega out of her reverie. Her mind was suddenly thrust back to Kamino, when those words were slugged at her as much as fists were. Her chest grew tight and her heart began to pound.

“Omega?” Hunter heard her panting as much as he sensed her panic and was at her side in a moment. “Omega, what is it? What’s wrong?”

Her thoughts were racing; it was difficult to focus. “I....I just….” Big, splotchy tears began to spill. Everyone had stopped now to look at her, concern lining each of their faces. “Question mark. That’s what people used to call me, back on Kamino. Before….before I….” She couldn’t finish before choking out a sob. She turned away from them and ran back in the direction of the ship. Hunter made to follow, but Echo placed a hand on his shoulder. “Give her some space. If she wants to tell us, she will.”

The crew arrived back at the ship some time later to find Omega waiting for them. She looked at them solemnly, almost sheepishly. “I’m sorry I ran off back there,” she said quietly.

“That’s alright, Omega. Is everything okay?” Hunter asked gently.

Omega took a deep breath. “When I was first growing up on Kamino, I knew that I felt different, but I didn’t look any different from everyone else. I didn’t want to be a soldier. I didn’t want to be like them at all. I’d be taken away for tests a lot, and no one knew what to make of me. I was just a big question mark to them.”

She looked down at her hands. “Now when people see how different I look, it makes me happy. Because they’re seeing me as I am. A girl. I’m transgender,” she finished, and risked a glance up at the group. The members of the Bad Batch were all beaming at her with immeasurable pride.

"Wow," Wrecker whispered, his good eye wide and sparkling with admiration.

"Thank you for telling us, Omega," Hunter said earnestly, kneeling down to look her in the eye.

"We are so lucky to have you," Tech piped from behind Hunter.

"Absolutely. You may not have wanted to be a soldier, but you're brave and strong as one," Echo said.

"But way prettier!" Wrecker added, and they all laughed.

"Thank you guys," Omega said finally, wiping the tears from her eyes. "No one's ever understood me like you have. I couldn't ask for a better family."

"Me neither," Hunter replied.

"Here, here!" Tech agreed.

Wrecker couldn't take it anymore. "Oh, bring it in!" he cried and he wrapped his arms around Tech and Echo and sandwiched Hunter and Omega between them in a group hug. Omega’s heart swelled to know that she finally had a place and a family to which she belonged. Where she could be free to be exactly who she was meant to be.

[fictionadventurer]

Father Brown Reread: The Absence of Mr. Glass

The consulting-rooms of Dr Orion Hood, the eminent criminologist and specialist in certain moral disorders, lay along the sea-front at Scarborough, in a series of very large and well-lighted french windows, which showed the North Sea like one endless outer wall of blue-green marble.

I like how the first and second collections both start with a story focusing on a professional detective who’s not Father Brown.

True to form, we’ve got a color word in the first sentence. And not only that--a hypenated color word! You don’t get much more Chesterton than that.

Everything about him and his room indicated something at once rigid and restless, like that great northern sea by which (on pure principles of hygiene) he had built his home. Fate, being in a funny mood, pushed the door open and introduced into those long, strict, sea-flanked apartments one who was perhaps the most startling opposite of them and their master.

Highlighting this because “Fate, being in a funny mood” is a great phrase.

But also because I love when the stories contrast Father Brown’s clumsy, homely shabbiness with characters who look more distinguished and accomplished.

"My name is Brown. Pray excuse me. I've come about that business of the MacNabs. I have heard, you often help people out of such troubles. Pray excuse me if I am wrong."

It’s odd that Father Brown is consulting another detective on this. He doesn’t seem the sort to seek out other help. He usually just winds up on the scene of the crime by accident.

It seems like he should have the confidence to solve the mystery himself.

It seems like the more natural way to bring Hood into the story would be to have the girl approach Dr. Hood and Father Brown just to be at the house for priest reasons before figuring out the mystery.

But maybe Father Brown’s stumped from lack of evidence and doesn’t have the time for an investigation. (Actually paying attention to his priestly duties for once?)

After all, it’s only luck that the crisis that gives them an excuse to investigate the apartment happens two minutes later.

And of course, the whole point of the story is getting this Holmes detective to the same crime scene as Father Brown to contrast their methods, so it doesn’t much matter how he gets there.

And there is a lot of fun in seeing shabby little Father Brown in this professional detective’s immaculate study.

"Oh, this is of the greatest importance," broke in the little man called Brown. "Why, her mother won't let them get engaged." And he leaned back in his chair in radiant rationality.

It’s not a full-fledged Father Brown story unless the mystery is centered on a romance, is it?

A stock Chesterton exchange: foolish-looking character says simple, silly-sounding statement as if it’s the most sensible thing in the world, before being forced to elaborate by a confused listener.

This story gives us Father Brown at his most silly-seeming. Here he’s not just unassuming and sheltered; he seems like one of Chesterton’s holy fools. He hasn’t looked this simple-minded since “The Blue Cross”

"Mr Brown," he said gravely, "it is quite fourteen and a half years since I was personally asked to test a personal problem: then it was the case of an attempt to poison the French President at a Lord Mayor's Banquet.  It is now, I understand, a question of whether some friend of yours called Maggie is a suitable fiancee for some friend of hers called Todhunter.  Well, Mr Brown, I am a sportsman. I will take it on.  I will give the MacNab family my best advice, as good as I gave the French Republic and the King of England--no, better: fourteen years better.  I have nothing else to do this afternoon. Tell me your story."

Sure, he’s a condescending ass, but I can’t help liking this guy. He’s got a good heart and a good sense of humor.

I kind of wish he’d have showed up in at least one or two other stories (preferably with a better end than Valentine).

The little clergyman called Brown thanked him with unquestionable warmth, but still with a queer kind of simplicity. It was rather as if he were thanking a stranger in a smoking-room for some trouble in passing the matches, than as if he were (as he was) practically thanking the Curator of Kew Gardens for coming with him into a field to find a four-leaved clover.

I like this metaphor very much.

Brown is still very, very much the simple little curate of “The Blue Cross”. But with the bumpkin traits turned up to eleven.

I’m very curious about Dr. Hood’s past cases, and how he achieved such renown.

"I told you my name was Brown; well, that's the fact, and I'm the priest of the little Catholic Church I dare say you've seen beyond those straggly streets, where the town ends towards the north.

Yet another parish! How many is this? This seems like the most distant, rural parish that Father Brown has yet had.

And Father Brown’s actually doing some work at it!

He seems to have quite a pocketful of money, but nobody knows what his trade is.  Mrs MacNab, therefore (being of a pessimistic turn), is quite sure it is something dreadful, and probably connected with dynamite. The dynamite must be of a shy and noiseless sort, for the poor fellow only shuts himself up for several hours of the day and studies something behind a locked door.  He declares his privacy is temporary and justified, and promises to explain before the wedding.  

Doesn’t the landlady have a key to the door of her own lodger? Can’t she just demand to look?

British people, I tell you.

Unless the daughter is preventing her from looking, out of respect for her beloved.

And, you know, he does promise to explain, so it’d be rude to just barge in.

So why bother consulting the great detective in the first place? If Todhunter’s really on the up-and-up, he’ll explain eventually, they’ll get engaged, and all will be well.

he is tirelessly kind with the younger children, and can keep them amused for a day on end

Given Todhunter’s chosen profession, this makes perfect sense.

You see, therefore, how this sealed door of Todhunter's is treated as the gate of all the fancies and monstrosities of the 'Thousand and One Nights'.

Another Father Brown mystery built upon a fairy tale atmosphere.

To the scientific eye all human history is a series of collective movements, destructions or migrations, like the massacre of flies in winter or the return of birds in spring. Now the root fact in all history is Race. Race produces religion; Race produces legal and ethical wars. There is no stronger case than that of the wild, unworldly and perishing stock which we commonly call the Celts, of whom your friends the MacNabs are specimens. Small, swarthy, and of this dreamy and drifting blood, they accept easily the superstitious explanation of any incidents, just as they still accept (you will excuse me for saying) that superstitious explanation of all incidents which you and your Church represent.

A lot of the most racist characters in Chesterton are the most educated, scientific and progressive.

Granted, Chesterton does a lot of stereotyping along national lines himself. But usually it’s not with the idea that these differences are bad things. And certainly not with the idea that race is the cause of all war.

the door opened on a young girl, decently dressed but disordered and red-hot with haste. She had sea-blown blonde hair,

Is this the first blonde female love interest in these stories?

They were quarrelling—about money, I think��for I heard James say again and again, 'That's right, Mr Glass,' or 'No, Mr Glass,' and then, 'Two or three, Mr Glass.'

Given the eventual explanation of what’s really happening here, wouldn’t she have heard some other noises (possibly crashing noises?) alongside this?

"I do not think this young lady is so Celtic as I had supposed. As I have nothing else to do, I will put on my hat and stroll down town with you."

Wow, you were really just going to disbelieve her because of her nationality, weren’t you?

Playing-cards lay littered across the table or fluttered about the floor as if a game had been interrupted. Two wine glasses stood ready for wine on a side-table, but a third lay smashed in a star of crystal upon the carpet. A few feet from it lay what looked like a long knife or short sword, straight, but with an ornamental and pictured handle, its dull blade just caught a grey glint from the dreary window behind, which showed the black trees against the leaden level of the sea. Towards the opposite corner of the room was rolled a gentleman's silk top hat, as if it had just been knocked off his head; so much so, indeed, that one almost looked to see it still rolling. And in the corner behind it, thrown like a sack of potatoes, but corded like a railway trunk, lay Mr James Todhunter, with a scarf across his mouth, and six or seven ropes knotted round his elbows and ankles. His brown eyes were alive and shifted alertly.

The clues are laid out very nicely here.

This is one of the most Romantic (in the literary sense of the term) crime scenes in all of fiction. Every clue is as picturesque as possible.

"How to explain the absence of Mr Glass and the presence of Mr Glass's hat? For Mr Glass is not a careless man with his clothes. That hat is of a stylish shape and systematically brushed and burnished, though not very new. An old dandy, I should think." "But, good heavens!" called out Miss MacNab, "aren't you going to untie the man first?"

This entire segment is so funny. I laugh every time one of his long-winded deductions is interrupted by the common-sense demand to untie the man.

Now, surely it is obvious that there are the three chief marks of the kind of man who is blackmailed. And surely it is equally obvious that the faded finery, the profligate habits, and the shrill irritation of Mr Glass are the unmistakable marks of the kind of man who blackmails him. We have the two typical figures of a tragedy of hush money:

So much of the Holmesian deduction process relies on stereotypes, doesn’t it? Sure, Holmes doesn’t label people in “types” quite this way, but it relies on using the evidence to reach the most stereotypical conclusion without factoring in the random possibilities of life. (The suspect might have ink on his hands, but it doesn’t mean he’s a clerk). It’s fun that this story calls out that conceit.

"No; I think these ropes will do very well till your friends the police bring the handcuffs."

Okay, so there’s a sensible explanation for why Hood ignores their cries to untie Todhunter. But it doesn’t make the previous exchanges any less funny to read.

"But the ropes?" inquired the priest, whose eyes had remained open with a rather vacant admiration.

It’s interesting that Father Brown’s actually buying into this. My memory had him being more skeptical of the deductions, but he’s admiring the chain of logic being built here.

It’s kind of a nice change from the usual Chesterton tack of the mouthpiece character disdaining every scientific explanation.

It was not the blank curiosity of his first innocence. It was rather that creative curiosity which comes when a man has the beginnings of an idea. "Say it again, please," he said in a simple, bothered manner; "do you mean that Todhunter can tie himself up all alone and untie himself all alone?" "That is what I mean," said the doctor. "Jerusalem!" ejaculated Brown suddenly, "I wonder if it could possibly be that!"

And we’re off! I always love the moment when Father Brown puts everything together, and it’s especially satisfying here, after he’s spent the whole story sitting back and letting another man do all the detective work.

"His eyes do look queer," cried the young woman, strongly moved. "You brutes; I believe it's hurting him!" "Not that, I think," said Dr Hood; "the eyes have certainly a singular expression. But I should interpret those transverse wrinkles as expressing rather such slight psychological abnormality—" "Oh, bosh!" cried Father Brown: "can't you see he's laughing?"

Each sentence gives a vivid picture of the three different personalities here. The tender-hearted young woman. The too-practical man of science. And the brash common sense of Father Brown.

He shuffled about the room, looking at one object after another with what seemed to be a vacant stare, and then invariably bursting into an equally vacant laugh, a highly irritating process for those who had to watch it.

Irritating to watch, I’m sure, but very amusing to imagine.

"But a hatter," protested Hood, "can get money out of his stock of new hats. What could Todhunter get out of this one old hat?" "Rabbits," replied Father Brown promptly.

I love the hat conversation and these lines in particular.

He was also practising the trick of a release from ropes, like the Davenport Brothers

According to Wikipedia, the Davenport Brothers were an American magician act that toured England in the 1860s. They built on the Spiritualism craze and claimed all their tricks were done by spirit power. There isn’t much about what their tricks wer, (besides a couple of escape tricks and spirit cabinet things). Most of the Wikipedia article is about the many times their tricks were debunked. (Naturally, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle refused to believe they were frauds).

But the mere fact of an idler in a top hat having once looked in at his back window, and been driven away by him with great indignation, was enough to set us all on a wrong track of romance, and make us imagine his whole life overshadowed by the silk-hatted spectre of Mr Glass."

This isn’t so much a debunking of the Holmesian deduction methods as a case study proving why logical deductions have to be built upon sound premises. One mistake at the beginning can send you in a completely false direction.

"You are certainly a very ingenious person," he said; "it could not have been done better in a book.

I love when the characters get meta.

This is a very snide remark in context, but of course Father Brown proves himself.

Mr Brown broke into a rather childish giggle. "Well, that," he said, "that's the silliest part of the whole silly story. When our juggling friend here threw up the three glasses in turn, he counted them aloud as he caught them, and also commented aloud when he failed to catch them. What he really said was: 'One, two and three—missed a glass one, two—missed a glass.' And so on."

I can’t explain how deeply I love that the entire mystery is built on a pun. This one section is the reason this is one of my favorite Father Brown stories.

This drives home the idea that mysteries and jokes are the same types of story. They both require laying out information that’s put together into a surprising conclusion.

There was a second of stillness in the room, and then everyone with one accord burst out laughing.  As they did so the figure in the corner complacently uncoiled all the ropes and let them fall with a flourish.  Then, advancing into the middle of the room with a bow, he produced from his pocket a big bill printed in blue and red, which announced that ZALADIN, the World's Greatest Conjurer, Contortionist, Ventriloquist and Human Kangaroo would be ready with an entirely new series of Tricks at the Empire Pavilion, Scarborough, on Monday next at eight o'clock precisely.

I grew up on cheesy sitcoms. I’m a sucker for the “everyone laughs” ending.

If Todhunter’s willing to admit the truth here, he could have saved himself a lot of trouble by just admitting the truth right away. (I don’t buy the “he keeps it secret to keep his tricks secret” explanation. You can tell people you’d a magician without giving away everything about your act).

Does Mrs. MacNab let them get married? Now she knows he has a harmless vocation, but it’s not exactly a stable one. Would she let her daughter marry a guy so flighty that he can’t even settle on a coherent focus for his own stage show?

Given that the story ends here, we’re supposed to assume that she does. I guess he must be a successful performer--part of her mistrust came from the fact that he had too much money. So he and Maggie should have a comfortable life together.

I’m glad. He seems like a nice young man.

[voxofthevoid]

Taking It Up The Ass Isn’t Character Growth - A Rant

So, in response to an ask a while back, I said I had a rant brewing on fandom and sex positions, and well, a lot of you wanted to see it, so here you go. You literally asked for it.

Disclaimer: This is going to talk a lot about top/bottom roles in slash fic and fandom attitude towards them and is heavily filtered through the lens of my own tastes and experiences with fandom. I’d also like to be upfront that I am 100% in favor of people writing whatever fictional content they want, and it’s not what fandom does with characters that bothers me but rather how that translates into attitudes towards real, live people. Also, this is the essay version of a slow burn AU because I regurgitate my entire fandom history before getting to the point. Beware.

I discovered fan-fiction around a decade ago, had no clue what the hell it was, got hooked and dived deeper. I started participating in fandom circa 2013, and I was fairly young and also completely inexperienced both sexually and romantically. The fandom in question was Hannibal and my ship of choice was Hannibal/Will. It was/is a very chill fandom in general, but we had our drama. And chief among the contentious topics was—you guessed it—the top/bottom debate. I can’t actually remember any other topic that was discussed and argued for so ardently in that fandom, at least in those days. Even after I drifted away, I came across a few posts on the matter.

Generally, you had two camps—people who supported strict roles and those who were in favor of switching*. And because we’re a society plagued by illogical assumptions, the strict role camp mostly had people who thought Mr. Big Bad Cannibal in the Fancy Suits wouldn’t take it up the ass because he’s older, more experienced, more mentally stable, and of course, more ‘dominant’ in personality. Yes, that sentence is chock full of problematic shit. I am aware. Lots of people were aware and argued strongly against attributing top/bottom roles to personality. I don’t remember anyone arguing as enthusiastically for Top Will, but those voices were also there. But the general idea was that assigning strict top/bottom roles to a male/male couple was casting them in a heterosexual mold and thus, the progressive option was to make them switch. Strict roles also garnered comparisons to “yaoi” and uke/seme stereotypes, which was of course bad and fetishizing and we, the Western media fans, of course had to do better. Stealth racism is fun to untangle.

Anyway, I lapped up the woke juice. Partly because I was a baby queer from Buttfuck Nowhere, Asia, who had zero exposure to LGBT+ communities and what queer folks did with each other. Partly because it was the stance taken by most of my favorite writers so it seemed like a good position to emulate.

Emulate it I did. Most discussions I had about this happened in private with the handful of close friends I had in fandom. Where it really showed was in my writing. I made sure to write switching—maybe not in every fic, but then I alternated between fics. Thing is though, I did have a preference. I liked Top Will. I created and consumed a ton of Top Hannibal, and sometimes it was okay, sometimes it was not, but I couldn’t pinpoint why it made me uncomfortable. Back then, I thought I was a cis questioning/bi girl and once again, the impression I got was that not being MLM, having a preference was automatic fetishization. So I tried my best to justify my preferences, to my friends at least. I think what I said was that fandom was skewed towards Top Hannibal, and I liked the opposite because I’m a contrary fuck. Which I am, to be fair, but this was just me desperately trying to figure shit out without being offensive.

That’s the line I touted all the way until 2018, which was when I fucked off to grad school in A City, finally freed of Buttfuck Nowhere and able to actually date. At this point, I was settled in my sexuality (girls only) and questioning my gender (non-binary or trans guy). I had also tentatively figured out during undergrad that I’m an exclusive top and a Dom. Actual attempts at dating cemented that, yes, those are my preferences, about as flexible as a steel rod. Cue motherfucking epiphany over my fanfic tastes.

And see, over these years, I was engaging intermittently with fandom. I dutifully wrote switch couples. I also continued to have rigid tastes and continued to explain it away as being a contrary fuck—to be fair, until Steve/Bucky, my preference did seem to be the opposite of the larger fandom preference. But correlation, as we know, isn’t causation. Until Steve/Bucky, I continued to write versatile couples because I honestly didn’t have the guts to just say I liked it just one way. I do now but even then, I feel compelled to add that it’s because I want to see my own taste reflected in fic, so I write/read the character I relate to as a top, it's not that deep etc. Would I be as forthright if I didn’t have that reason? Would I have such strict preferences in fic if I didn’t have strict preferences IRL? The latter’s a mystery, but the former isn’t—I wouldn’t be because fandom is still entrenched in the same ideas that got me to this point to begin with.

In every fandom I’ve been in, I’ve seen some version of this debate go around. Sometimes, it’s one party saying “why would you write Character X as a bottom, he’s so Reason A” and a reblog chain that insults the OP and/or extols the virtues of switching. Sometimes, it’s a general-ish message that says they don’t understand why people have strict preferences when we all know real gay couples switch. Sometimes, it’s blanket statements that accuse anyone with preferences of fetishizing. Sometimes, it’s the same reasoning that gets you “Character Y is a top because of Reason B” transposed on versatile couples except this takes the form of “they switch because they’re equals.”

Ya’ll, I’m fucking tired.

I have long since lost count of the number of stories I’ve seen where an exclusive top learning bottom and liking it is character growth. Where a character who prefers to bottom taking a turn on top is empowering.

Isolated, these are fine. But I’ve seen enough of such stories that it’s distinctly discomfiting and a major squick. Sometimes a trigger, if I'm too immersed in the story. I’m not going to try and burn an author at the stake because they pissed me off. I am just going to close that window and quietly handle my shit. People can write whatever they want. But this one theme hits too close to home, as you can see from this 1.6k rant.

My friend (also my ex-girlfriend) and I had an all-out bitching session about this the other day. Both of us are kinky fuckers who have rigid, complementary roles we prefer and we have both had our grueling days of struggling to reconcile our sexual tastes with our ideologies precisely because of how these things are frowned upon in conservative and progressive circles. Seeing that in fandom, of all places, is both insulting and exhausting. Topping and bottoming aren’t personality traits. Neither is D/s. It’s sexual preference and power play. It really does not have to be that deep. I am not exorcising childhood trauma using the bodies of women. My partners, former and current, have not been brainwashed by the patriarchy. We will not become better, more complete individuals once I magically stop being a stone top and my partners embrace the joys of a strap-on.

I have, with my own two eyes, seen someone say that in a really committed relationship, of course the couple will switch.

Bullshit.

It’s transparent bullshit. This does not get attributed to cisgender M/F couples. Even when the automatic assumptions of woman = bottom and man = top get addressed, switching isn't presented as the default. No one’s saying “oh, if you really love your husband, you’ll peg him”. I do know butch/femme sapphic couples get their own share of shit. Because it’s all heteronormativity, right? Can’t have any other reason for top/bottom roles.

You have two extremes with “so who’s the woman” on one end and “it’s woke only if they switch” on the other, and as far as I’m concerned, they’re equally damaging. There shouldn’t be a pressure, however subtle, to conform your taste in fiction to some arbitrary idea of progressiveness. People are going to like whatever they want anyway; all this does is create an atmosphere where those likes can’t always be freely expressed without a lot of mental gymnastics. We’re seeing so many versions of this in the pushback against so-called problematic content, but smaller, subtler versions exist too.

Fictional characters aren’t real. They can be whatever you want them to be. And yes, other people will often want them to be the exact opposite of your ideas, but that’s just how things work. Meanwhile, the people behind these usernames? They’re real. No one should be throwing real people under the bus to ‘protect’ characters that don’t exist. Hannibal Lecter doesn’t care whether he gets fucked or dismembered in Author B’s fanfiction, but the discourse that surrounds the dick up his ass? That does affect flesh and blood people.

I am not claiming that this is the only attitude in fandom. Middlegrounds do exist. Plenty of people abide by fic and let fic and there are folks who pipe up to say not every RL queer couple switches. But it’s often the extremes that reach most people. That was certainly my experience, and I’m not the only one.

I don’t really know how to end this post. It is 100% a rant and one that’s been building up for a while. Bottom line is that people’s sexual behavior varies wildly and whenever you attack sexual tastes in fanfic by saying it’s unrealistic - or worse because let’s be real, that’s a very tame word choice - please remember that there’s likely someone out there who practices it.

* I’m using switch and versatile synonymously in this post. It’s mostly concerned with top/bottom debates. A lot of what I’m saying is also echoed in portrayals of and discussions surrounding D/s dynamics, but I’m not addressing that as much for now.  

[finnofamerica]

Jealous - Thranduil x Reader

Summary: Thranduil is known to be a jealous king. How will he react when his son pretends to court the one he loves with the intent of making him jealous. 

Word Count: 1108

Date Posted: 04.29.2020

Note: A very special thanks goes to @gaia-writes-stuff​ for looking this over and helping me revise this. I really was a little over my head with writing Thrandy for the first time. Thank you so much again for helping me with this, I really appriciate it. 

|| Masterlist || Requested by @queenofmankind​

Thranduil was a jealous king. He liked what was his and he didn’t like anyone else to touch it. So imagine his surprise to find an elf maiden that he wanted to share his kingdom with. 

Thranduil was busy in his office when he was informed that there were urgent matters that he must attend to. 

“My Lord Thranduil, I am Y/n,” You bowed respectfully, “Lord Elrond sent me to help with trading between Imladris and Greenwood The Great.” 

Then there you were, sent from Imladris of all places, though it wasn’t uncommon for Lord Elrond to send people on matters that he was too busy to handle himself. Thranduil approached you graceful and slow, like a lioness stalking her dinner. 

“They don’t call it Greenwood anymore.” He spoke finally. If you were any sort of sensible elf you’d be afraid of him. However, his movements, his power, and his commanding tone did nothing to scare you. You held fast into your position and looked the Elf King in the eyes. 

“Perhaps not.” You mused, “But this forest was once a great place, and it can be again if you’re brave enough to try.” 

“You question my bravery?” He rose a brow at you. 

“Do you question your own, My Lord?” You returned his verbal volley. Just like tennis, the elves of Thranduil’s guard watched with interest. Very few were brave enough - or stupid enough - to stand up to Thranduil in such a way. He was a jealous, possessive king, to challenge him was to challenge his kingdom. “Do you question the bravery or ability of your own men?” 

You were challenging him. Thranduil stood rigid, oh he liked you. No one, not even his own son, was brave enough to stand against him like that - not since, well not since his late wife who had died in battle. 

“Very well then. You’re here about trading, tell me, what are your concerns?” He moved back to sit on his throne. He was interested in studying this brave stupid elf. 

It was long days that you worked with Thranduil over the matters of trading between your two communities and the kingdoms that surrounded. It was long days that were spent drowning in work, idle flirting, and subtle seduction. Thranduil would never admit that after you’d long gone to bed, he’d think of new problems to propose in hopes that you’d stay longer and not have to return to Elrond. He was not quick to love, so why should this be any different. 

. . . 

“Y/n,” Legolas joined you at the table where you were puzzling out a better trade deal with the dwarves of Erebor and the men of Dale. “It seems my father will not be joining you today, he sent me in his place.” 

“He is a king,” You smiled, “He has other more important matters to attend to, I’m sure.” 

But the King’s negligence didn’t end there. His meetings with you ceased though he watched you from afar, and he’d begun to blow you off when you sought him out. You began to feel worse by the day. You’d really began to think you were growing on the grumpy king, making progress. You were actually beginning to love the king, even if his humor was dry. 

“It doesn’t make any sense to me Legolas,” You confided in your new friend. 

“I really don’t want to hear about your romantic inclination toward my father.” Legolas grimaced. Legolas wasn’t unaware of his father’s feelings for you, it simply wasn’t like Thranduil to hide away from people. Then you smiled a smile that Legolas didn’t like, not one bit. 

“Whatever you’re thinking, I want no part of it.” Legolas protested. 

“Let’s make the king jealous.” You wiggled your eyebrows. 

“No. Why don’t you just tell him how you feel?” 

“You know well enough that he’ll never go for it. He needs to feel threatened to take what he wants.” 

“And if it doesn’t work?” 

“Then I’ll finish my work here and return to Imladris and Lord Elrond.” You reasoned. 

“Fine, but only because I don’t want to lose my friend.” 

“Thank you!” You pulled him into a hug in your excitement. 

From then on Legolas was attached to your hip, you went everywhere together, knowing that Thranduil had his eyes on you from the moment you’d first met. 

The thought of you falling for Legolas disturbed Thranduil. He hated it. He wanted you more than anything, and he didn’t want to lose you to his son. He was a king! He’d be slain in battle before he let Legolas stake a claim on something he wanted. Thranduil attended to his duties, though his thoughts were never far from you, plagued with jealousy. 

He never thought for a moment that you’d be walking through his kingdom with a courting braid in your hair that wasn’t his. Thranduil lost it, while he loved his son more than life, he couldn’t risk the torment of watching you day in and day out with his son. In love with someone who wasn’t him. 

You were working in the quiet of your designated office when Thranduil stormed in. You jumped from your chair in shock. Thranduil’s icy glare holding you steadfast in your place. You couldn’t help but step back as he approached you. 

“What is this?” He hissed, pulling the braid from behind your ear and into your line of sight. 

“That is a courtship braid.” 

“To my son.” His expression darkened and, for the first time since meeting the Elf-king, you might actually be afraid of him. “You walk these halls, Temptress, and you seduce my son right underneath my nose. Tell me, do you love him?” 

You grinned. “Not in the slightest.” 

“Then you waste him.” He growled, “You waste yourself.” 

“You’re jealous.” You reached up and pulled the braid from his finger and began to unravel it. Thranduil watched you carefully, eyes full of suspicion. “Face it, My Lord, my plan worked.” 

“What plan. Do not tell me you intend to marry my son for my kingdom.” 

“No. I intended to make you jealous, and even I can see that it worked.” 

“I am not jealous.” He leaned in, forcing you back against the wall. 

“You are. You’re a jealous king and you know it. You want what’s yours so badly,”  You challenged, tilting your head up to fully meet his eyes. You could feel his breath on your lips, fast and heavy from adrenaline and anger. “Then take it.” 

He crashed his lips to yours hungrily, needy. He intended to claim you undeniably. 

“You will be mine.” He breathed when he pulled away, lips brushing yours with every word. 

“You promise?” You smirked. 

Thranduil certainly did like you. He knew that he’d fallen and fallen hard for you. You loved your jealous king.

[buildmeafairytale]

Female Reader x Female Harpy

Just finished up this request for @featherynutcase​ for a harpy soulmate AU. Hope you guys like it! 

The Rushing Isles had come by the name quite honestly - a thought you often had when trying to make your way through the docks. Taking a shortcut through the markets always seemed like a good idea, but yet here you are, trying to convince the old women of the port city that you do not need to be set up with their nephews from the neighboring isles. 

Truthfully, the idea of their nephews had become a bit less repulsive with time. Most of the people you’ve grown up with have seen their soulmate’s footprints, shining like a prism and beckoning them to their other halves long ago. You have not been so lucky. You’ve seen prints, shining and glowing like all the stories say, but you wouldn’t exactly call them feet. Claws would be a much better description. That never deterred you, and on the rare occasions that you saw the prints you would follow them, only to be disappointed when they would abruptly end. 

“I wonder how appalled the old women would be if I asked if they had any handsome nieces who were single, instead?” you mumble under your breath. 

You dodge your way out of the crowd and make your way down the sand worn steps that bring you closer to the beach partially hidden by tall rock structures. This has always been one of your favorite hide-aways; whether you were brushed aside by other children for being more plump, or being relentlessly questioned by your family about your apparent lack of a soulmate, this spot is always a comfort. You had brought a bag full of snacks and other things to keep you occupied, and were fully prepared to spend the better part of the day on the beach. 

That was the plan,at least, until you saw the claw marks in the sand. 

The same thing happens every time you manage to catch a glimpse of the claw prints. 

Your heart starts racing, your palms get sweaty, and no matter how many times you have been disappointed, (this time would make thirty-two attempts at following the marks, but who’s counting) you are unable to stop yourself from thinking ‘this is it, I will finally get to meet them’. 

You follow the prints, your fast walk slowly building into the crescendo of a sprint, your white dress flowing behind you. You round the corner of a boulder and are at the face of a shallow cave with the waves lapping at the mouth of it. The prints had not stopped yet, and you had your head down, concentrating on them. So concentrated on the luminous prints, in fact, that you almost ran right into the one who made them. Had it not been for their shocked gasp and the shuffling noise they made, you would have collided with them. You looked up, and your deep brown eyes met their shining amber ones. Your feet were rooted to the spot, and your mouth opened and closed a few times, no sound escaping you.

She was gorgeous, ethereal, otherworldly. You could know every word in your language and then some and still not be able to express how beautiful you found her. She was a harpy, you had grown up hearing stories of the winged creatures that lived on the highest peaks of the island, making their homes above the clouds. None had ever expressed how lovely they were with their brown wings and feathers lining parts of their body. You see their claws, the claws that had left the prints leading you to them. They were sharp and deadly, but delicate in their danger. Around her claws, the prismatic light that signified one's soulmate was concentrated. 

The silence was broken by a pained squawk emitted from your soulmate. Her wings flapping as she shuffled back, putting more distance between the two of you. She heaved out a sob, and started to wail. 

“No! No, no this wasn’t supposed to happen, you weren’t supposed to see me! Oh my winds, this wasn’t supposed to happen. Leave, and forget you ever saw me here Nuccia!” She refused to look at you, and you started forward as if to offer her comfort. 

“What do you mean I wasn’t-how do you know my name?” You asked her, suddenly shocked. “You knew! You had seen me before and knew? And you didn’t think to introduce yourself? I have looked for you for so long, and you knew this and continued to be purposefully elusive to me?” You could not, try as you might, keep the anger out of your voice. She was obviously distressed, but now so were you. Tears of hurt and anger filled your eyes. Your whole life you have been too much for so many people, have felt out of place and unwanted. You were too plump, or too dark, or too opinionated. Now here you were, in front of the one being on this planet that you were made to love and be loved by, and she didn’t want you.

Her eyes widened and she whimpered, her flustered form looking for an escape the cave denied to her. You grew determined, and placed yourself even more in front of the entrance. Fine, she didn’t want you. But that didn’t mean you were going to leave without some answers, she owed you that much, soulmate or not. Your hands came to rest on your hips, and you measured at her. 

“Well, go on then. If you’re going to reject me or tell me how you never wanted me, go ahead. An explanation on why you haven’t earlier also seems warranted, hmm?” You ask, trying to convey an attitude of indifference you didn’t particularly have. 

The harpy looked horrified at this, scrambling even more. Sounds left her that had you wanting to cover your ears, horrible squawks that had no business coming from the one you wished to hold. She folded in on herself, her winged arms coming to shield the majority of her face and upper body from you. This pulled at your heartstrings, and a bit of your resolve crumbled away. You were torn between approaching her or letting her calm herself; while you were trying to decide a course of action, she pulled her winds away and managed to draw in a deep, shuddering breath. Her words spilled out quickly, as if she could not bear to keep them contained any longer. 

“I wasn’t going to reject you, I wanted to avoid you rejecting me. I wanted to be human before I introduced myself. This is all wrong! It wasn’t supposed to be this way!” Her voice cracked, volume rising again. 

“You wanted to be human? Why on earth would you do that?” You could not keep the confusion out of your voice.

“You’re human and I’m a giant bird! You’re so lovely and I just wanted you to like me. I was supposed to meet a witch to help me change, but they said it’s a lost cause and I’ll never be human. I was here moping when you found me.” Her gaze was cast down, claws tracing shapes in the sand. 

You walked over to her, holding her face in your hands. 

“You are my soulmate,” you said, vehemently, “You are you for a reason, and you, like this, are the other half of me. Don’t you dare think you have to change to be worthy of me.” Your hands come to rest at your sides, and you take a step back. You try not to let her awed expression distract you from what you have to say. “I have been trying so hard to find you, and every single time I saw your prints abruptly end, I felt less and less worthy. I felt as though the universe was playing a trick on me. But instead, you were hiding. It is a relief knowing that it wasn’t because you didn’t want me, though. I can only be so upset at you for this, now that I am finally in your presence.” You let her process her thoughts, seeing that she is still shocked and anxious by this turn of events. A part of you wanted to comfort her, assure her that she is the most beautiful creature you had ever seen, while another part of you wanted her to comfort you, instead; to take you in her arms and tell you that she was mistaken for hiding from you, that she would never reject you. 

“You aren’t...afraid of me, Nuccia?” She softly inquired, peeking up from her feathered lashes.

“That's all you got from all that? Why on earth would I be afraid of the most beautiful person I’ve ever had the privilege of laying my eyes on? And again, you call me by name but have not yet graced me with yours.” You reply to her, equally amused and exasperated with her. 

“Oh-I’m sorry, dear one. My name Enora. You think I’m beautiful?” She whispers, a taloned hand coming up to caress your cheeks. 

“As dramatic as you are beautiful, it looks like. My, my, it looks like I’ll have my hands full, good thing I have two,” you tease, gazing up at her, suddenly giddy with affection. You might have still been upset with her, and you will have to 

talk it out with her later, but you aren’t going to let that sully your first real meeting. 

You manage to calm her a bit, and knock her out of the stupor she seems to be in. You enjoy how red her face and chest get while you flirt with her, the effect you have going to your head. 

“It seems I picked the perfect day for a beach day then,” you say, showing her the picnic basket you had dropped upon seeing her. You pull out the small finger foods and wine you had brought, setting up a beach blanket by the mouth of the cave. Maybe she would stay, and you could drink wine and watch the sunset together. Your heart beat faster at this thought, already allowing these romantic notions to float about in your head. You settle onto the blanket, hoping she would sit with you and not fly off now that you aren’t blocking the exit.

What is likely only a minute feels like an eternity, but Enora settles next to you, her spine rigid and legs crossed. You offer her some food, many things she admits she has not tried before. You watch her try the new things that you provided, and something about taking care of her in this way feels very right. Her feathers brush against you, tickling your skin. The two of you spend the day getting to know each other better. She stays for the sunset, much to your delight. You felt clingy, and did not want to part ways with her. But, the sun was going down and you figured it was time to get back home, and Enora was getting antsy, informing you her family would start looking for her. 

“Will you...come back?” she asks, her eyes wide, and a clawed finger gliding down your arm. Now that she has winded down and started to understand you want her, she has been flirting, her own version of being coy. You were soaking up the attention, and she continued. “I would very much like to see you again, dear one. I have a lot of making up to do, after all.” Her claw comes to your chin, turning your face to hers. 

“You’re done running from me then?” You tease her, inching your face closer to her’s.

“Yes dear one, I swear it,” her breath is ghosting across your lips, and all you can hear is blood rushing in your ears. Your hand comes up to the back of her neck, and you close the gap, gently brushing your lips against hers. A sweet trilling noise escapes her, and you smile into it. All too soon it ends, and you agree to keep meeting in the same spot. 

You show up the next day and head into the cave. You peek around the corner, and you see Enora, pacing. That is not all you see; there are blankets and pillows arranged like a nest, flowers, and a bottle of wine set out.The nest is near the mouth of the cave, the perfect spot to be sheltered from any winds but a good view of the ocean and coming sunset. She still hasn’t spotted you, and she heads towards the nest, fluffing and rearranging the blankets to her liking. You come up behind her, and trace your fingertips down her spine, greeting her with an airy “Hello” as she jumps. She smiles at you, her spine straightening and her hands clasped behind her back. She greets you and clears her throat, looking nervously from you to the nest. 

“You surprised me dear one, I was not expecting you quite yet. I hope this does not seem too forward, but nest making is a large step in harpy courting and something I wished to do for you.” She announced this so nervously, but if it was a large step for her you could see why. You assure her it looks beautiful, and you can’t wait to try it. You see her blush, and you decide to keep laying on the compliments, running your hands over the blankets and telling her how good of a job she has done. The more you go on, the redder her face seems to become, much to your delight. When you slip your sandals off and crawl into the nest, the same awe struck look takes over her face from the day prior. She follows you in, and brings your hand to her face. 

“You have no idea what seeing you in here does to me, do you?” She asks, and you run your fingertips over her lips, fascinated at the way her breath catches when you do this. 

“I think I could guess. It’s probably similar to my feeling knowing you went to all this trouble for me.” You reply to her, once again feeling trapped in her eyes. The two of you share another kiss, the trills and sweet noises leaving her only encouraging you. Her claws ghost across your neck and send a chill down your spine. She leans you back into the nest, wings opening above you and closing you in. She is trembling above you, and you can see tears in her eyes when you part.

“No sweetheart, none of that now. What’s wrong?” you ask her, heart clenching. 

“I was a fool, I waited so long for nothing, and we could have been here years ago!” she sniffles, angry at herself and her actions. 

“Hush darling, we’re here now aren’t we?” You coo at her, running your hands through her hair.  You have known her for such a short time, yet she already holds your heart in her hands. One of your legs comes up around her waist, pulling her close again. Enora quickly gets lost in your kisses again, and you feel some of her stress melt away under your hands. 

This goes on, the two of you sharing stolen moments together and heated kisses in the cave. You both incorporate some of your own courting customs, so far your favorite of which is when she does an aerial dance for you. She tells you that harpies usually do it together, but she happily tweaked it and you were impressed all the same. The next day you showed her a popular island dance, and you swayed together to the sound of the waves outside. 

One day you are on your way to the cave, dinner in tow, when you spot not one, but two harpies on the beach near the mouth of your cave. Neither of them are your harpy, however, and you grow anxious hoping Enora is alright. She did not speak of how other harpies would feel about her soulmate being human, but you were hoping you weren’t about to run into trouble. You get closer and the harpies spot you, both taking off and quickly landing in front of you. They circle you and you feel like prey, one behind you and one in front. They are both larger than Enora, and male. If you had to guess you would say they are twins, but you are hardly able to concentrate on their looks. No matter what species you are, having two large men circling you is nerve inducing. 

“So you’re our little Ennies’s mate, huh?” The first asks, his voice deep.

“You aren’t very tall, she must have her hands full protecting you.” The second observes, making his way around you. 

“She’s been coming home all starry eyed and happy, haven’t seen that in her in years.” One tuts at you, and you feel pride swell in your chest amidst the confusion. 

“We had to come follow her, find out where our little sister was sneakin’ off to so much.” The other interjects. 

You’re overwhelmed, but relief floods through you. These are Enora’s brothers, and you doubt they would do anything to you. You’re just getting a very intense shovel talk, it seems. You start to interject yourself into the talking, going to introduce yourself, when an outraged squawk fills the air and Enora and another smaller harpy land. 

“What on earth are you doing? You used Glaucus to distract me to come here and try to intimidate her! And I’m not your baby sister, I’m five years older than you two!” She reprimands them, walking up to them both and grabbing them by the ears. “Now, go home to mother before she starts to worry where you went. And do not follow me here again!”

“Aw Ennie, but you’re smaller than us so you’re our little sister.” The twin pouts on their faces at being reprimanded are adorable, and now you can see it. You stifle a giggle, and spot the youngest harpy, Glaucus, looking ashamed. 

“Yeah, just wanted to make sure she’s good enough for our little sister,” the other twin echos, being pulled down to her level by the ear. She walks them away from you, and you hear them yell that it was nice to meet you. You return the sentiment, a smile on your face, and wave to them as they leave. Glaucus takes off before Enora comes back, shouting a goodbye. 

She walks back to you, her eyes aflame. She grabs your hands, and starts to apologize. “I’m so sorry dear one, they can be quite intense. Are you alright? I’m so embarrassed.” You giggle, and assure her that you’re fine. 

“They’re just looking out for you, I’m not mad. I was a bit intimidated at first but they seem nice! Don’t be too harsh on them, love.” You kiss her cheek, and pull her into your nest, and Enora abruptly stops grumbling about her brothers. She looks at you, her eyes wide and lips parted.

“Do you? Love me, I mean.” She asks, whispering. Your face gets red and you realize what you’ve said. It’s true though, you love her.

“Yes, I do.” You whisper back, throat tight with emotion. 

“I love you too Nuccia. I have for so long, you amazing creature.” She pulls you onto her lap, your thighs bracketing her underneath you. You have never felt so at home as you do in the arms of your soulmate.