#don’t reckon i’ve drawn myself on here in many years - this is what i really look like!!

[l35213]

them: you better not be doodling gomens sonas when i get home!!

me and @blondish34:

[felassan]

Dragon Age development insights and highlights from Bioware: Stories and Secrets from 25 Years of Game Development

Some really tasty factoids here.

Cut for length.

Dragon Age: Origins

The continent of Thedas was at one point going to be named Pelledia, a name initially floated by James Ohlen

“Qunari” was a temporary name that ended up unintentionally sticking, much like “Thedas”

Mary Kirby wrote the Landsmeet. To this day, nobody understands how it works, except possibly her. If she’s “really really drunk” she can explain how it works. There’s as many words in it as Sten’s entire conversations put together

Concept art for Thedosian art - as in in-world art - draws heavily on Renaissance-era portraiture, the Art Nouveau movement, religious styles and media like stained glass, and favorite pieces from the golden age of illustrations in the early 20th century

Andrastianism in-world (art-wise) is depicted in wildly different methods depending on who in-world made the art in question. “One religion, 3 different lenses”. There’s the Chantry take, the Orlesian take and the Fereldan take; each with its own different interpretations, different mediums and different stories

The stained glass images were drawn by Nick Thornborrow for DAI, to decorate religious spaces in that game “and beyond”

irl Viking art influenced Ferelden

Greek and Italian art influenced Orlais

The book also had other insights into and anecdotes from the development of DAO, but I’ve transcribed them recently as they’re essentially the stories DG has recently been relating on the awesome Summerfall Studios DAO playthrough Twitch streams. (On those streams he provides dev commentary while Liam Esler plays through DA. The ones with DG are currently once every two weeks. Check them out! Here’s a calendar where you can check when the next one is) Instead of repeating myself I’ll just provide the link to the first transcript. From there you can navigate to the subsequent parts. Note these streams are ongoing. At this point I will also point you to a related post which is cliff notes of the Dragon Age chapter in Jason Schreier’s book Blood Sweat and Pixels.

Dragon Age II

DAO had the longest development period in BioWare history. In contrast DA2 had the shortest

Initially DA2 was going to be an expansion to DAO. A few months in EA said “Yeah, expansions like these don’t sell very well, so let’s make it a sequel.” So it suddenly became DA2 and they had to make it even bigger, although they still only had 1.5 years of time in which to do this

Production of DA2 officially lasted only 9 months, and at the time the team was still supporting live content for DAO! They finished development that January after the design team crunched all the way through the holiday period that year. Then it went to cert 9 times

The limited time they had is why the story takes place mostly in and around 1 city, and over 7 years (so it was temporal, rather than over physical distance, because a more expansive world would have taken more irl time to make)

They had no time to review even the main plot. Mike Laidlaw pitched the idea of 3 stories taking place at different points in the PC’s life, tied together by Varric’s recollections of events. DG rolled with this and made 1 presentation on the idea. This presentation was then approved and off they went

As they were writing DG realized that there was going to be no oversight and that everything was going to be a ‘first draft’. “Because nobody had time.” He sat down with the writers and said “Look, here’s the conditions we’re working under. A lot of what we’re putting out is gonna be raw. We’re not going to get the editing we need. We’re not going to get the kind of iteration we need. So I’m going to trust you all to do your best work.”

Looking back, DG has mixed feelings on DA2. “A lot of corners were cut. The public perception was that it was smaller than DAO. That’s a sin on its own.”

Despite this he thinks DA2 has some of the best writing in the series, especially character-wise. The DA2 chars are his favorite

The pace with which production progressed may in some ways have helped. “When we do a lot of revision, we often file away [as in buff off] some of the good writing as well. Somehow DA2′s whirlwind process resulted in some really good writing”

The pace meant chars landed on the writers in various stages of completion. For example Isabela was fairly defined due to appearing in DAO. In contrast Varric at the start was just that single piece of widely-shown concept art

Varric was conceived as a storyteller not a fighter. His skills are talking and bullshitting. Hence the question became, so what does this guy do in combat? The direction was to make him as different as possible to Oghren, so not a warrior. He couldn’t be a dual-wielding rogue in order to differentiate him from Bela. But you can’t really picture this guy with a bow. “For a dwarf, it would probably be a crossbow. We didn’t have crossbows, or we only had crossbows for the darkspawn. And they were part of the models. We didn’t have a separate crossbow that was equip-able by the chars. They had to like, crop one off a darkspawn and remodel it. And that became Bianca” (quote: Mary Kirby)

“Dwarven mages are exceedingly rare.” [???]

If DAO was a classic fantasy painting, DA2 was a screenshot from a Kurosawa film or a northern Renaissance painting. (Here Matt Rhodes was commenting on art style)

John Epler: “In any one of our games, there’s a 95% chance that if you turn the camera away from what it’s looking at, you’ll see all kinds of janky stuff. The moment we know the camera is no longer facing someone, we no longer care what happens to them. We will teleport people around. We will jump people around. We will literally have someone walk off screen and then we will shift them 1000 meters down, because we’re fixing some bug.” John also talked about this camera stuff in a recent charity Twitch stream for Gamers For Groceries. There’s a writeup of that stream here

Designing Kirkwall pushed concept artists to the limits of visual storytelling, because it has a long history that they wanted to be present. It was once the hub of Tevinter’s slave empire, so it needed to look brutal and harsh, but it also then needed to feel reclaimed, evolved, and with elements of contemporary Free Marches culture

The initial plan was for DA titles to be distinguished by subtitles not numbers, so that each experience could stand on its own rather than feel like a sequel or continuation. (My note: New PCs in each entry make sense then when you consider this and other factoids we know like how DA is the story of the world not of any one PC). Later, DA2′s name was made DA2 in a bid to more clearly connect the game to its predecessor. For DAI they returned to the original naming convention. (My note: so I’d reckon they’d be continuing the subtitle naming convention for DA4)

DA2 was initially code-named “Nug Storm”, strictly internally

The Cancelled DA2 Expansion - Exalted March

This was a precursor to DAI

It was meant to bridge the gap between DA2 and DAI

It focused on the fallout from Kirkwall’s explosion, with Cory serving as the villain

Meredith’s red lyrium statue was basically going to infest Kirkwall and it would end up [with what would end up] the red templars taking over Kirkwall and essentially being Cory’s army

To stop him Hawke would have recruited various factions, including Bela’s Felicisima Armada and the Qunari at Estwatch, forcing Hawke to split loyalties and risk relationships in the process

It was meant to bring DA2′s story to an end and end in Varric’s death. DG was very happy with this because all of DA2 is Varric’s tale. The expansion was supposed to start at the moment Cassandra’s interrogation of him ended in the present. “And we finished off the story with Varric having this heroic death.” It tied things up and would have broken many fan hearts, something BioWare writers notoriously enjoy. But between a transition to the new Frostbite engine and the scope of DAI, the decision was made to cancel EM, work any hard-to-lose concepts into DAI, and in the process save Varric’s life. DG has talked about the Varric dying thing before

Concept art for EM explored new areas previously not depicted in the DA universe, with costumes that reflected next steps for familiar chars. Varric was going to war, what would he have worn? With Anders, if he survived DA2, the plan was to present a redeemed Warden

A char that vaguely resembled Sera in DAI was first concepted for EM. This fact was mentioned near this concept art (see the female elf) and this concept art of Bethany with the blond bob

The writers sketched out plans to end it with Hawke having the option to marry their LI. This included alternate ceremonies for party members like Bethany and Sebastian if the player opted not to wed. There was even a wedding dress made for Hawke. This asset made it into DAI (Sera and Cullen’s weddings in Trespasser). The dress can also be seen in DAI during an ambient NPC wedding after completing a chain of war table missions

The destruction of a Chantry was explored in concept art as it might have happened in EM. This idea ended up carrying over to the beginning of DAI. (My note: Lol, the idea that DA2 could have had 2 Chantries being destroyed in it 😆)

World of Thedas

Sheryl Chee and Mary Kirby started with “a disgusting little dish called fluffy mackerel pudding”. In the middle of DAO’s busy dev period one of them (they can’t remember who) found a recipe online for this, scanned in from a 70s cookbook. “I don’t understand why it was fluffy. Why would you want fluffy mackerel pudding?” MK says. “We loved it so much we included it in a DAO codex.”

This led them to create more food for Thedas, full recipes included, like a Fereldan turnip and barley stew from MK and SC’s Starkhaven fish and egg pie. The fish pie became Sebastian’s favorite. “To me it made sense for it to be fish pie because a lot of the Free Marches are on the coast”, SC says, “It was something that was popular in medieval times, so I thought, let’s make a fish pie! I looked at medieval recipes and I concocted a fish pie which I fed to my partner, and he was like ‘This is not terrible’”

For WoT the whole studio was asked to contribute family recipes which might have a place in Thedas. SC adapted these to fit in one Thedosian culture or another, including a beloved banana bread that localization producer Melanie Fleming would regularly bake to keep the DA team motivated. “Melanie’s banana bread got us through Inquisition”

DAI

It says part of DAI takes place in or near the border with Nevarra [???]

This game was aimed to be bigger than DA2 and even DAO in every conceivable way

The first hour had to do a lot of heavy lifting, tying together the events of DAO and DA2 while introducing a new PC, new followers etc in the aftermath of the big attack. DG rewrote it 7 times then Lukas Kristjanson did 2 more passes

DG: “Our problem is always that our endings are so important, but we leave them to last, when we have no time. I kept pushing on DAI: ‘Can we work on the ending now? Can we work on the ending now? Can we do it early on?’ Because I knew exactly what it was going to be. But despite the fact that it kept getting scheduled, whenever the schedule started falling behind, it kept getting pushed back... so, of course, it got left til last again.”

“The reveal of the story’s real antagonist, Solas, a follower until the end, when he betrayed the player”. “Solas’ story remains a main thread in Inquisition’s long-awaited follow-up” [these aren’t DG quotes, just bits of general text]

Over the course of development they had 8 full-time writers and 4 editors working on it. Other writers joined later to help wrangle what ended up being close to 1 million words of dialogue and unspoken text. While many teams moved to a more open concept style of work for DAI, the writers remained tucked away in their own room, a choice DG says was necessary, given how much they talked. All the talking had a purpose ofc as if someone hit a bump or wall in their writing they would open the problem up to the room

As writing on a project like DAI progresses, the writers grow punchier and weirder things make it into the game. This is especially the case towards the end of a project (they get tired, burned out)

Banter and codexes require less ‘buy-in’ (DG has talked about this concept a few times on the Twitch streams) from other designers. DG liked to leave banter for last as a reward because it was fun. Banter begins as lists of topics for 2 followers to discuss. These may progress over time or be one off exchanges. One banter script can balloon to well over 10k words. “The banter was always huge because we were always like, laughing, and really at that point, our fields of fucks were rather barren, so we would just do whatever”

The bog unicorn happened pretty much by accident. It was designed by Matt Rhodes and was one of his fav things to design. They needed horse variations and he had already designed an undead variant which was a bog mummy [bog body]. irl these are preserved in a much different way to traditional mummies. When someone dies in a bog their skin turns black and raisin-like. The examples we know of tend to have bright red hair for whatever reason. It’s a very striking look and MR wanted to do a horse version of this as he thought it’d be neat. 5 mins before the review meeting for it he had a big ‘Aha!’ moment, quickly looked up a rusty old Viking sword, and photoshopped it through its skull like that was how it died. “And I was like, ‘I just made a unicorn. Alright, in it goes!’” It got approved. “So we built the thing. It fit. It told a little story”

With the irl Inquisition longsword, one of the objects they tested its cleaving ability on was a plush version of Leliana’s nug Schmooples

The concept art team explored a wide variety of visuals for the Inquisitor’s signature mark. It needed to look powerful and raw but couldn’t look like a horrific wound. In some cases, as cool as the idea looked on paper, they just weren’t technically feasible, especially as they had to be able to fit on any number of different bodies

Bug report: “Endlessly spawning mounts! At one point during development, Inquisitors could summon a new horse every time they whistled, allowing them to amass a near infinite number of eager steeds that faithfully followed them across Thedas. “You could go charging across levels and they’d all gallop behind you,” Jen Cheverie says, “It was beautiful.” Trotting into town became an epic horse siege as a tidal wave of mounts enveloped the streets. Jen called it her Army of Ponies”

The giants came from DA Week, an internal period when devs can pursue different individual creative projects that in some way benefit DA. They also had a board game from one of these that they were going to put in but they didn’t have time. It’s referenced though. It was dwarven chess

Josie’s outfit is made of gold silk and patterned velvet, with leather at her waist. She carries “an ornate ledger” and she has “an ornamented collar sitting around her neck, finished by a brilliant red ruby, like a drop of Antivan wine in a sunbeam”

Iron Bull’s armor is leather. His loose pantaloons and leather boots give him agility to charge

On DAI in particular, concept artists took special care to make sure costumes would be realistic, at least in a practical ‘this obeys the laws of physics and textiles’ sense. “While on Inquisition, we thought about cosplay from a concept art perspective. Given how incredible a lot of [cosplays] are, I now am not worried about them. In fact in some cases in the future I want to throw them curveballs like, ‘All right, you clever bastards. Let’s see if you can do this!’”

2 geese that nested on the office building and had chicks were named Ganders and Arishonk (it wasn’t known who was the mom or the dad). Other possible names were Carver Honke, Bethany Honke, Urdnot Pecks, Quackwall, Cassandra Pentagoose, the Iron Bill, Shepbird, Garroose, Admiral Quackett, Scout Honking, HChick-47 and Darth Malgoose

Bug report: “The surprising adventures of Ser Noodles!” DAI was the first time the series had a mount feature, meaning this had a lot of bugs. A lot of the teams’ favorite bugs were to do with the mounts. There was a period of time where the Inquisitor’s horse seemed to lose all bone and muscle in its legs. They had a week or so where all quadruped legs were broken. It was a bit noticeable in things like nugs and other small beasties but the horse was insanely obvious. “The first time we summoned the horse [for this] and started running around, the entire QA exploration room just exploded with laughter.” Its legs flapped around like cooked fettucine, leading testers to lovingly nickname it Ser Noodles. At galloping speeds the legs almost looked like helicopter blades, especially when footage was set to classic pieces such as Wagner’s Flight of the Valkyries

For DAI the artists were asked questions like “What would Morrigan wear to a formal ball? Can Cassandra pull off a jaunty hat?”

On DAI storyboarding became the norm. John Epler: “Cinematic design for the longest time was the Wild West. It was ‘here’s a bunch of content, now do it however you want’, which resulted in some successes and some failures.” Storyboarding gave designers a consistent visual blueprint based on ideas from designers, writers and concept artists

Quote from a storyboard by Nick Thornborrow (the Inquisitor going into the party at the end of basegame sequence): “Until Corypheus revealed himself they could not see the single hand behind the chaos. A magister and a darkspawn combined. The ultimate evil. So evil. Eviler than puppy-killers and egg farts combined.”

A general note on concept art:

In the early stages of any project, before the concept artists are aware of any writing, they like to just draw what they think cool story moments could be. It’s not unusual for the team to then be inspired by these and fold them into the game as the project progresses

– From Bioware: Stories and Secrets from 25 Years of Game Development

[valhallanrose]

Canary in a Coal Mine

When Senga Canonach takes the mantle of Baroness, eleven-year-old Catriona receives the first true explanation of what it means to be the oldest of her cousins. 

Some notes: Catriona/Astoria uses both she and they pronouns (she throughout this particular fic), while Avery Maollosa is strictly they/them. Both are nonbinary. 

Edrine (she/they/he), who is only mentioned in this fic, is genderqueer (referred to with they/them pronouns here) and will make a full appearance in the next fic. 

4.3k. I am unsure how to best label this, but for now, Cautionary CW for feelings and imagery of entrapment as a result of particularly controlling parental behavior.  

Fic Title: Canary in a Coal Mine by The Crane Wives

One thousand, two hundred and twelve. 

It was the number of individual pieces in the stained glass window above the stairwell, the one depicting their ancestor, Cliamon - their blade raised high overhead in a moment of triumph in they and their compatriots claiming of the territory that would become home to the Canonach family and all the relatives in between. Cliamon had been a force to be reckoned with, and for all the reading they’d done in their lessons, Catriona adored the stories of such a massive figure they could find such a connection to. 

Catriona also thought Cliamon would laugh at the prospect of one of their descendants waiting like a loyal puppy at the top of the stairs for someone to fetch her. 

Ever since Astor’s death, their mother had grown fearful, the leash tightening so much that Catriona felt she could have choked. Even though his death had been somewhat anticipated, it had left a shadow on Senga Canonach, and left Catriona to deal with the fallout. 

Which was why she was left alone, at the top of the stairs, waiting for someone to pass by that could escort her down. It was her mother’s rule that she were not to walk up or down the stairs alone, so that someone might catch her if she slipped, and it was her mother’s rule that she could never leave the estate without an approved escort. The group of approved escorts was extraordinarily small, even though the majority of the family had volunteered, which left Catriona within the boundaries of Castle Kintyre and the gardens beyond the doors.

She was pulled out of her reverie with the familiar sound of what she knew was a silver-tipped cane on tile, and beamed down at her grandmother as she approached the bottom of the stairs. 

“There you are, granny! Mother said you were coming home for the ceremony, but I was getting worried! When did you get here?"

“Oh, only last night, dear, and I got in late. You were already asleep, or I’d have said hello.” Myrna smiled as she made her way up the steps, surmounting the last and leaning in to press a kiss to Catriona’s brow. “There was some unexpected flooding on the roads through Ardaleith, but they were kind enough to let me stay a few nights at Ironhearth. I actually came with Baronet Avery and the Lady Rima. Little Edrine isn’t feeling well, so they’re home with their governess, but they wanted me to say hello to you. So...hello from Edrine.”

“Oh, I’ll have to ask them to say hi for me, too. Maybe I can write Edie a letter. I’ve always liked them.” Catriona giggled as Myrna straightened her collar, laying it neatly against the soft navy wool of her sweater. 

“Well, they seem to like you, too. I think they’d love a letter. You can even borrow my signet ring for the seal.” Myrna reached down to carefully smooth out the hem of her sweater, then smiled, one hand drifting up to cradle Catriona’s cheek in her palm. “Don’t you look dashing? Did you have any trouble with the kilt?”

“A little, but I think I got it. I poked myself with the pin a few times, though. Does it look okay?”

Her grandmother indicated loosely with a finger, and when they turned obediently in a circle, they were met with a broad smile and a nod from the woman in question. 

“Perfect. Now all you need…” Myrna tutted softly as she dug in her dress pocket, withdrawing a hair comb and offering it to the child. “I’d love to see that pretty face of yours. May I?”

Eagerly, Catriona turned, tracing her fingertips over the comb’s arch - made up of two hands cradling a crowned heart - and, when Myrna was finished twisting her hair up and off the back of her neck, passed it back to her so she could slide the prongs neatly into her hair. 

“There we are. Fit to rub elbows with some nobility, I think.” Myrna offered her hand to the child, which she eagerly took, the other hand resting on the heavy wooden bannister out of habit. “Shall we be off, then? We might be the subject of a search party if your mother doesn’t see us in our seats.”

*     *     *     *     *

The late spring breeze gently ruffled a few loose strands of hair framing Catriona’s face, turning their face toward the carefully trimmed hedges and the beds of colorful blooms in the butterfly garden. Bluebells and thistle, honeysuckle and heather, lavender and primrose, all only a small fragment of the sprays that covered this portion of the estate. 

Sitting through any sort of formal ceremony was painful for a child her age, but what stuck out to her the most was when her mother - in her crisp, emerald suit with the Canonach tartan pinned at her shoulder - lowered herself to one knee, and then the other in the garden gazebo. It made her Aunt Malvina nearly tower over Senga, even though Aunt Malvina was already tall, and made Catriona’s mother seem so small when Malvina raised the diadem before them all and laid it upon Senga’s brow. 

After the ceremony, when the guests followed in Senga’s shadow with raucous cheers and excited chatter toward the banquet hall, Catriona found herself drawn to the gazebo as the garden became comparatively empty. At the center of it was a flat stone, one that they knew had been torn from the earth at Mistwatch, with two indentations right beside one another in the exact place her mother had knelt.

Catriona lowered herself to the ground and smoothed a hand over the stone, her fingers dipping into the imprints and smoothing over the echo of dozens of knees before her mother’s had fallen there. 

In the same spot as Barons and Baronesses and Baronets many times over, her mother had knelt upon the stone, a fragment of Rosinmoor, and accepted the crown from Malvina as if it had been made for her head. 

And in a way, it had, forged in the fires of Ardaleith and delivered by Clan Maollosa upon their arrival the night prior. No two leaders wore the an identical crown, rather, Malvina had given up her own and allowed it to be reforged as an acknowledgement of the new reign to begin. Cliamon had worn no crown - the tradition began with their son, Donacha Carleigh - but their claymore had been passed down through generations, and it had laid in their mother’s hands as she swore to lead Kintyre with the honor and grace of all who had come before her. 

She couldn’t help but wonder how many more would come after her mother. 

Footsteps drew them out of their daze and made them look up - very far up, they realized, until they smiled with recognition and waved at the person in question. 

“Hello, Baronet Maollosa. Am I in your way?”

They chuckled, smoothing a few stray hairs out of their face and lowering themself to sit on the steps of the gazebo. 

“No, you’re alright. And Avery is just fine, remember?” They gently nudged her with their elbow, then extended their hand, cupcake carefully balanced on the small porcelain plate. “Saved you a cupcake. Your grandmother said you might be out here, and they were going fast. You like salted caramel, don’t you?”

Catriona blinked once, twice, hesitantly looking between Avery’s gentle smile and the swirl of frosting adorning the cupcake itself. It looked so unassuming, but...when was the last time she’d eaten something without her mother telling her to wait until someone else could taste her food?

“Granny said it’s okay?” She said after a moment, and Avery nodded, dragging the tip of their pointer finger over their chest twice. 

“Cross my heart. I’d swear on my mother’s grave, but my mother is still alive, so that doesn’t hold very much weight in regard to a promise.”

Catriona couldn’t help but giggle, gingerly accepting the cupcake and starting to peel away the paper wrapping on the outside. “Thank you, Baronet - Avery. Thank you, Avery.”

They scooted forward slightly so they could set their feet on the steps and the plate in their lap, humming softly as they peeled away the paper and swept a finger through the frosting. Beside them, Avery leaned back on their hands, sighing softly as they looked up at the rare cloudless sky. 

“Edrine was all torn up about not coming today.” They mused, and Catriona nodded, making sure to swallow her bite before answering. 

“Granny said they weren’t feeling well, so it’s okay. I don’t mind waiting to see them. Maybe they can visit when they feel better? Granny said next time, she’ll show us how we can set up a fort in the library, so long as we put the books back where they belong if we take them.”

“I think Edrine would like that very much.” Avery ruffled Catriona’s hair lightly, a smile playing at their lips when she huffed and tried to smooth her bangs back out. 

There were a few long beats of pause as Avery watched Catriona, the way she carefully picked at her hair and adjusted it so it looked presentable again. 

They’d always liked her - she was quiet, certainly, but she wasn’t shy. Avery had realized long ago that she chose simply not to speak if she had nothing to say, and if she did, sometimes what came out of her mouth made them bite their hand so hard it left marks for trying not to laugh. 

Really, she’d won Avery over when eight year old Catriona called them a ‘lily-livered arse’ at the dinner table for taking the last sticky toffee pudding. It had made them laugh so hard their chest hurt, and in an attempt to form a truce with the child, offered to split it with her instead. 

It had been a fair offering, it seemed, as they’d never been called such a thing again. 

“You know, I’ve never thanked you before.” They mused, dropping back onto their elbows before lowering themself to lay on the floor of the gazebo. “Edrine doesn’t have any siblings, and their cousins are all quite younger than them, so making a friend their age means the world to them. They look up to you - bloody better than the Griogal boy, don’t tell anyone I said that - and I am happy that they won’t have to walk this path alone.”

Catriona paused, tilting her head as she used the back of her hand to wipe the frosting away from her mouth. “What do you mean?”

Avery raised a brow, fingers lacing together to rest over their abdomen where they lay. “In regard to the Barony. You and Edrine are in a unique position, being so close in age and both with clear claims to your respective titles. It can be hard to live that life, there’s no doubt about that, but thankfully your mother and I are young enough to give you both plenty of time to find your way before that.”

Catriona stopped mid bite of the treat they had been given, their stomach suddenly heavy and the taste soured in their mouth. 

Her mother had said something like that, once, a hand placed on either of her cheeks and her rings - one a heavy opal from Catriona’s stepfather, the other the Canonach family signet - cold against her skin. 

You’re in a special place, sweet Catriona. One day Kintyre will be at your feet, but you cannot forget the difficulty you will face when it happens. I only hope I can give you enough time to find the way you need to go.

She swallowed slowly, then set the cupcake aside, half finished and suddenly not as appetizing.

“What are you talking about?” 

There were a few beats of pause before Avery sat up straight, a concerned look clear on their face as they turned to look her in the eye. 

“Catriona...honey, has your mother not told you?” They asked gently, and slowly, she shook her head. Avery sighed heavily, raking a hand through their hair before letting their elbows fall to rest on their knees. Catriona shifted, resting her hands on one of Avery’s arms and giving them a pleading look that made them suck in a breath through their teeth. 

“I don’t know, kiddo, I don’t want to upset Senga if she wants to have that talk -”

“I deserve to know.” The child said firmly, even as their eyes began to prickle with tears, even as their lower lip noticeably began to quiver. “It’s my life, too. It’s not fair to keep things from me.”

A part of her knew any child in Rosinmoor would have been delighted to have a life at any of the seven estates, and Catriona wasn’t oblivious to the privilege she had been given. But even if it were gilded in gold, a cage was still a cage, and Castle Kintyre had become hers. She envied her cousins, free to go where they want and do what they please, envied the stories of Rosafearn and longed to explore on her own, but it hadn’t been a part of the hand she had been dealt. 

But maybe...maybe if they knew what frightened their mother so much, they could try and ease her worries, and get a little more freedom in turn. 

At her desperate yet hopeful expression, Avery let out a frustrated sigh, propping their chin in their hands. 

“Your mother should have absolutely told you by now, but that’s a grievance I’ll take up with her. You’re eleven, you’re long since capable of at least understanding.” They grumbled, clearly irate, then straightened, tone softening as they addressed her again. “Catty, what do you know about the line of succession?”

“I know everyone’s names. There were a lot of people before Auntie Malvina.”

“Everyone?”

Catriona nodded eagerly. “Yes, from the family tree book in the library. There’s Cliamon, of course, and then Donacha Carleigh, Muiri Lùtair, Juliet Lùtair, and then -”

“Okay, everyone, I believe you.” Avery held up a hand, an amused look on their face. “Stars, my uncle would have loved you. I couldn’t remember what I had for breakfast when I was your age, let alone the whole family tree. But what I meant was if you know how each leader is chosen?”

She had to pause at that, brows furrowing, trying to recall back to that book - they knew it well, the carefully bound leather and the tattered navy ribbon tucked between the pages - but couldn’t remember anything like that from what they’d read. It was always simply passed from family member to family member, but minimal explanation as to why. 

“I don’t know.” She said eventually, and that sinking feeling grew somewhat heavier. “I thought it was because she just got married, I guess. I know when Aunt Malvina became Baroness, she had just gotten married to Aunt Lorraine, and mother just got married to James, but now that I think about it, I don’t remember if that was the same for great grandma Sorcha…”

Avery nodded slowly, setting a reassuring hand on Catriona’s shoulder and giving it a squeeze. “It makes sense. Don’t stress, Catty, it’s a reasonable conclusion. Would you like me to explain how it works?”

When Catriona nodded, they continued, eyes fixed on a vibrantly colored butterfly bush just beyond where their feet rested. 

“I’m the oldest of three, so the Barony was going to pass to me no matter how many siblings I had. But my uncle, the last Baron, was older than my father, so he was the heir. And before him it was my grandmother, the Baroness, who was the oldest, and then her aunt, and so on and so forth. But the one thing they had in common was that they were each the oldest of their generation of the family, and thus, the crown passed to them.”

Catriona felt as if they could have been sick. 

“Because they were the oldest.” She echoed, oblivious to Avery’s nod, as the realization dawned on them. 

She was the oldest of all their cousins. Sachairi was the same age - eleven - but was a few months younger, born in November to Catriona’s September. That distinction was made clear to Catriona at a young age by their mother, but they never understood why, nor did they particularly care for that exact reason.

Their chest squeezed, and it felt as if they couldn’t breathe, thinking back to all the changes they had witnessed since her mother had been announced as the next Baroness. She had a handful of ladies in waiting, like Malvina, and advisors and guards and never being alone and never leaving the palace without an escort just in case, because it was ‘better to be safe than sorry”. 

Catriona hated that phrase. It was the reminder she received every time she complained about any of her mother’s rules, because mother only wanted her to be as safe as possible, and she would rather be overprotective than risk something happen to her because she wasn’t safe enough. 

But knowing this, now? They felt as if they had no chance of leaving the cage at all. When she was old enough to choose to leave, she’d have to stay, because being the oldest meant you were supposed to be the Baronet. 

“But I know everyone’s name. Malvina wasn’t the oldest, Uncle Ualan was. And Aunt Grace and Cameron are both older than mother, so maybe our family is different? Maybe it doesn’t have to be the oldest, maybe I don’t - I don’t -” Catriona’s chest heaved, and she let out something between a wail and a whimper, making Avery jump as she began to cry. “I don’t want this, Avery, I don’t…”

Quickly, Avery scooped them up, pulling them into a tight embrace and gently rubbing her back to try and soothe her as she sobbed into the starched white collar of their shirt. 

“Okay, okay...Catty, breathe, honey, I need you to breathe for me. Deep breath in, deep breath out, okay?” Look at me.”

Slowly, Catriona looked up, and Avery dug a kerchief from their pocket, offering it to her when she dragged the back of her hand across her cheek. 

“You like your words, right? I have one I want you to remember. Can you do that for me?”

When she nodded, Avery gave her shoulders a squeeze. “Abdicate. It means to renounce, or give something up. I want you to remember that word, because you have a long time before you need to make the choice, but I want you to know that you have the choice - but abdicate is the word we use for saying we don’t want the title. It means you give it up to the next person, and they get to decide what to do. Your uncle Ualan probably abdicated - you’d have to check, but if he's older, it’s what makes sense - and I know your Aunt Grace and Cameron did. And I’m sorry that I had to be the one to tell you this, but you’re right, it is your life, and you deserved to know. I know it’s a lot to take in, but I hope that knowing all the options means you can make the right decision later, when the time comes, because you deserve that much. Okay?” 

She sniffled quietly, rolling her lip between her teeth, the simple white kerchief twisting between her hands as Avery leaned back to get a better look at her face. 

“Do you want to go find your mother?”

“No.” Catriona murmured, their grip almost white knuckled on the kerchief in question. “I don’t want to ruin her day. She’ll get upset.”

The ‘with me’ was unspoken, but Avery seemed to notice, brow creasing as their gaze fell to her tight hands and gently laid a hand over hers to try and ease the tension there. 

“What about your grandmother? I saw Myrna just before I came out, she was speaking with the Lord Consort Griogal, so she shouldn’t be hard to find given he’s wearing something of a peacock blue today -”

“I don’t want to go inside.” Catriona blurted out. “I...I’m sorry, Baronet, I shouldn’t ask you to -”

“Avery.” They squeezed her hand again, this time a little more firmly - not harshly, or painfully, but enough to make her look them in the eye as they gave her a comforting smile. “You’re not asking the Baronet to do anything. You’re asking your friend’s parent for help, and that’s a perfectly acceptable thing to do. Would you like me to ask your grandmother to come outside?” 

The child nodded, and Avery stood up, ruffling her hair gently before they stepped down onto the path again. 

“Stay here, sweetheart, it’ll be easier for her to find you that way. Shouldn’t be long.”

As Avery began the trek back to the great hall, they couldn’t help but glance back, watching Catriona slump against the rails along the gazebo steps and picking up the pace to cross the stones a little quicker. 

*     *     *     *     *

Once Myrna had slipped from the great hall, Avery couldn’t help but drift toward the broad windows overlooking the garden, following the small shape of the older woman until she came within sight of the gazebo and Catriona’s even smaller form leapt up and raced to meet her halfway. Myrna scooped her up and carried her further into the garden - and Avery found themself staring at the point where they disappeared, away from the gazebo and away from the castle to somewhere unknown. They were only broken from their reverie when arms wrapped around their waist, and had it not been such a familiar 

“Hello, darling.” Rima murmured, pressing a kiss to the back of their shoulder and lacing her fingers together over Avery’s abdomen. “You were gone for a while. Did you get lost in the gardens?”

“No, I was talking to Senga’s bairn. She wants Edrine to visit when they feel better.”

“Well, hopefully it’s soon.” Rima hummed softly, pressing her cheek to Avery’s back and giving them a squeeze as the music in the hall shifted to a new melody. “We should probably stop in Rosafearn before we travel home. They’ve got the candies Edie likes in one of the shops down there, it might cheer them up about missing the party.”

When Avery didn’t reply, Rima frowned, slipping around their side and tucking herself under her partner’s arm to get a better look at their face. 

“What’s wrong, Ave? You have that...face.”

Avery chuckled, turning their head to kiss Rima’s temple. “What face? You like my face.”

“I do like your face, but this is the ‘I’m having a crisis and maybe my dear wife can help’ face, and I am the dear wife.” She smiled cheekily as she pinched their side, glancing out the window briefly to see if she could find what they were fixated on and coming up with nothing. “Spill, spouse.”

After a few beats of pause, Avery sighed, leaning their cheek against Rima’s forehead and closing their eyes. “How much do you know about Senga?”

“Not much, she’s a little more than simply closed off. New Baroness, obviously. If you want to know about her, you might have better luck with Myrna or her husband. Or maybe Malvina, if you’re wondering about politics.”

“Mm. I thought so. Perhaps we should invite Myrna to stay with us again. I have questions, but...I’m not sure I should ask Senga, or I might make something worse.”

Rima pulled back slightly, brows furrowing and earrings tinkling as she tilted her head in curiosity. The wordless question made her spouse nod, glancing around to make sure they had no eavesdroppers before they continued. 

“Earlier, when I was talking to Catty...I mentioned that Edrine looks up to them because they’re in the same position. And she had absolutely no idea what I meant, but essentially I explained that I meant because they were both heirs, and she just...completely panicked. I think if I’d gone much further than I did she’d have a full panic attack right there in the garden.”

“She had no idea? We started talking to Edrine about it when they were eight for just that reason, so they weren’t blindsided by it.”

“Not a clue. And the way she reacted when I asked if she wanted her mother, it just…” Avery blew out a frustrated sigh. “Something doesn’t feel right, Rima, and I know it’s not my business, but -”

“If it were Edrine, you’d want someone to look out for them, too. I know.” Rising up on her toes, Rima kissed Avery’s cheek. “Myrna already asked to travel back through Ardaleith with us. Let’s get through the night, and tomorrow, we’ll figure out the next step.”

“Alright…alright.” Avery was quiet for a few moments before they spoke again, warm smile on their face. “What would I do without you?”

“Suffer, more than likely.” Rima lifted a hand as if to inspect her nails, her wedding bands flashing in the low light. “Or at the very least be bored out of your mind at formal functions. Admit it, I’m the life of the party no matter where I go.”

With a laugh, Avery pulled Rima into a tight embrace, ignoring her playful protests and peppering the top of her head with kisses before they set their chin on her head. Their gaze eventually drifted out the window again to the spot where Myrna and Catriona had disappeared, thinking of that white-knuckled grip she had had on the kerchief. 

But she’d be okay. She had Myrna, now, and Avery couldn’t think of anyone the child would want more for comfort considering how close they were. 

Avery just hoped Catriona would be okay long enough for them to do something. 

[immergladsss]

Lead the Way

Summary: (AU- no curses or magic)  Maria’s life has recently turned upside down by her uncle’s sudden engagement. She escapes to the annual masquerade ball, hoping to find some respite from the chaos back home, only to find a bit more than she bargained for.  ---------------------------------------------------

The harmonious sounds of the merry waltz filled the ballroom, guiding couples along the well-rehearsed dance to the ¾ tune. Pirates and queens, phantoms and fairies, you could see them all floating along the dancefloor. All but a few guests found themselves enjoying the lovely masquerade ball. One of the few being Maria.

She stood in the far corner. Her foot tapping to the beat of the music as she scanned the dancers and few young men loitering about. Neither the thin white veil that cascaded down her shoulders, nor the ornate silver mask on her face, did much to hide the scowl she wore. Inspired by the ballet Gisselle, she was dressed in a lovely white grown, very much the picturesque of a beautiful yet tragic bride-to-be—not that many would notice. It seemed all eyes avoided her except for a few side glances from those currently gossiping. It was well into the night and she had not danced a single waltz.

Maria sighed and took another drink of her wine. She couldn't blame them really. Of course she had gained a reputation after what her uncle put her through. Maria shook her head and rubbed her temple. After many years of claiming the irrelevance of love and desire to maintain his manor free of the opposite sex—ramblings she was forced to listen to for many years, mind you—her uncle came home last month and suddenly announced an engagement!

Apparently, this entire time, he had been pinning after an old childhood love, and randomly stumbled upon her, who by chance, had also remained unmarried. They reconnected and now here they were, soon-to-be-married—within a week from today to be exact. Invigorated by the sudden infection of love, and strongly encouraged by Ms. Heliotrope, her uncle now felt it was necessary for his niece to find love as well. As a result, she spent the majority of the past month rejecting suitor after suitor sent over by her uncle.

And now here she was. After scrambling to prepare for her uncle's fiancé's arrival tomorrow, she managed to get permission to attend the yearly masquerade ball. However, her recent rejection of eligible young bachelors preceded her, and now she was left with no one to dance with.

Maria finished her wine and quickly replaced it with another from a passing servant.

"Doubt you'll receive many offers with that face."

Maria jumped. She turned to eye the young man who had appeared beside her. A bowler hat sat atop a messy mane of brown curls that framed a dark set of eyes that seemed to read her too well. He wore a black leather mask that matched his leather trousers and jacket. The only color on him was a red-feathered scarf around his neck.

"Why do you care?" She took another gulp of her drink.

"Hard to enjoy a ball when you're being glowered at."

"I'm not glowering!"

“And I bet you're in a swell mood too,” the man jeered with raised eyebrows. "You're not hard to miss. Reckon everyone here has noticed you. You cast quite the ghostly figure." His fingers skimmed her arm as he grabbed the of her veil and inspected it. "What are you supposed to be? A will-o'-wisp?"

"No!" Maria snatched the veil from his hand. "I'm Myrtha, queen of the Wilis." She bit her lip and looked around them, feeling a pang of guilt. Had she really ruined the ambiance?

"How fitting," he laughed. "Pray tell, what poor sod left you so heart-broken you're here now glaring at all the other happy couples?"

"That's not it at all! On the contrary, it is I who has been forced to reject every soul my uncle's thrown my way! What are you supposed to be anyway? A bandit, highwayman?"

"Close… I'm just here as myself."

"How cryptic," Maria said with a roll of her eyes. She finished her drink and walked away. She could feel the bandit's eyes boring into the back of her head. As she neared her uncle, she stilled.

"I have no idea what I'm to do with her," Sir Benjamin mumbled to the old parson. "I don't want to force a marriage on her, but she's rejected every suitor in sight."

Maria's body grew cold. The blood that drained from her head threatened to send the room spinning, but Maria clenched her fist and steeled herself. So, is that what this was all about? "Uncle," she called, startling Sir Benjamin and the old man. "You were able to wait for true love, why can't I? Don't I have any say in this?"

Those near turned to watch the confrontation, but there wasn't much left to see as Maria stomped away before Sir Benjamin could respond. She brushed past the bandit, missing the concern that crossed his face, or the scrutinizing look he shot at her uncle and the audience around them.

Maria found an empty lounge room. She pulled off her veil as she sat on the sofa, not bothering to turn on the lights. She hated the hot tears that threatened to spill from the corner of her eyes. Though she was happy for her uncle, she wished he had never gotten involved. Now she was bound to be the laughingstock of the valley.

A handkerchief appeared before her eyes. Maria looked up and scowled. "When did you come in?"

"Not long ago. Wouldn't be much of a bandit if I couldn't sneak around. Here, take it."

Maria warily watched him. She shouldn't be here with him, unchaperoned. If they were caught, she would surely be the talk of the town, none of which would improve her already shaky reputation. But in all fairness, should she care? What did propriety ever do for her except force her to sit in a chaperoned room where she had to listen to every potential suitor drawl on for hours and hours about himself and all his accomplishments while she faked politeness. She sighed. Maria removed her mask and took the black handkerchief to dab her tears, missing the brief widening of his eyes.

"Care to explain what that was about?" He sat on the coffee table in front of her. Lazily resting against his outstretched arms.

"You wouldn't understand."

"Try me.”

“Are you now a sage as well?”

“I can be many things.”  

Maria was unamused. “What can you possibly gain from this? Why are you even here?”

 "Sounds like you got a lot to say and I've been told I have a good ear,” he said with a casual shrug. When Maria remained silent, he beckoned her to start, “Go on, I'm listening.”

Maria stared incredulously before finally shaking her head, it's not like she had much to lose. "Where do I start? One day I'm going about my day when out of nowhere, my uncle starts inviting random men to court me. He didn't even warn me! I had to chase away so many of them. And now everyone's saying I'm some pretentious city-girl, it's humiliating.  I hope after tonight he'll finally consider what I want."

"And what is that?"

"Frankly, I'm not sure. I’ve only just returned from finishing school. At the very least some time to figure it out. Perhaps some adventure would be nice. I definitely don't want to make plans that would take me away from home after only just arriving!"

"That sounds reasonable."

"Doubt many would agree. Apparently, I must marry and have many children and settle down as soon as possible."

"My sister remained unpromised for a long time, she seemed happy. Went off on a few adventures herself."

"I wish that could be me," Maria muttered.

“What's stopping you?”

“Well obviously my uncle,” Maria answered as though it was the silliest question she ever heard. "What about you? I don't believe you're from around here."

He shook his head. "I haven't been here for too long… Scouting the area. Getting to know the people."

"For what reasons?" Maria asked. "Hang on, are you truly nefarious?"

"If I told you I was, would you be afraid?" He asked with a teasing smile.

"Hardly," Maria scoffed, "Doubt you have wickedly ulterior motives seeing as you're here chatting away with me instead of talking to the most important people of this town." He gave her a questioning look with the ghost of a smirk.

"Can I have your name?" Maria asked.

"That'll only ruin the spirit of the event."

"Can you remove your mask then?"

He shook his head, a glint of mischief in his eyes.

"Are you afraid of what I might see?"

"No, I'm afraid you'll fall for me."

Maria rolled her eyes. "For all your talk, who's to say it won't be you falling for me."

"Who's to say I haven't already?" He leaned forwards, slightly knocking his knees into hers as he placed his hands on either side of her thighs. Maria's breathing hitched. She felt her cheeks grow warm. His heat was magnifying, and Maria couldn't help but admire his handsome features. Her fingers twitched, wishing to reach out and slip the mask off from his face.

"Would you reject me like all the others? I can promise that with me, you'd be the bride of adventure."

The breath of his whisper ghosted her lips. She felt drawn in, consumed by him. Maria's eyes flickered to his mouth. Was he being serious? She couldn't tell. Before she could make up her mind, he pulled away, leaving her with a bated breath. He was grinning and Maria's heart was racing, mixed with a bit of indignation at having been riled up so easily. She huffed and put her mask and veil back on, suddenly feeling vulnerable.

"We still have time before the night ends. May I have the last dance?"

With a furrowed brow, Maria studied the hand he offered. She hesitantly raised her own and looked into his eyes. They were inviting, darkened by a tempting gaze. She should be wary about him, she just experienced how easily he could sweep her off her feet… but she didn't want to keep her distance. She wanted to know who he was. To see what more he could do.

"Lead the way," she said with a steadying breath as she placed her hand into his, feeling the warmth of his fingers curl around hers.

Out in the ballroom, neither looked away as they took their place amongst the other's and began the dance with a courteous bow. He quickly closed the distance with a strong arm around her waist that pressed her against his body. He guided her, weaving her in between the couples, and spinning them around the room. A few stopped to watch, wondering who was the mysterious man that Maria had not rejected, but the couple didn't notice, completely enraptured with one another. As the clock struck midnight, the song came to a slow end. Still in each other's arms, Maria could feel his rhythmic breathing against her own, sending thrills down her body. She looked into his eyes, marveling at the emotion held within them.

"This is my signal to leave," he said with a soft smile. "Thank you for the dance."

"Will you really not tell me your name?" Maria's hand left his shoulder and traced the outline of his mask. "At least give me that much."

He rested his forehead on hers, drawing nearer to her large and pleading eyes. "Perhaps it's you who is dangerous," he chuckled. With a shake of his head, he relented and leaned in close to her ear. "It's Robin."

"Robin…" Maria whispered. "Will I ever see you again?"

"You'll see soon enough." With that, he pressed a kiss onto the back of her hand and disappeared into the night with one last wink to Maria.

The following day, Sir Benjamin and Ms. Heliotrope apologized over breakfast. They promised to speak with her before doing anything that may affect her life. Though she was content with this response, she was very distracted. Hardly registering the apology or the very near arrival of her uncle's fiancé. While helping a very nervous Sir Benjamin ready the manor for his bride, she remained uncharacteristically silent, only replying simple answers to the various questions thrown her way. Her mind remained occupied by the mysterious man from last night.

Finally, it was the afternoon and Maria waited with her uncle in the parlor. She watched him fidget. He would take a seat, only to spring up immediately at any sound. Maria giggled, "Uncle, it'll be alright."

Sir Benjamin took a deep breath and nodded his head. He began to sit down when a resounding knock came from the door.

"Sir Benjamin," Digweed announced. "Your guests have arrived. Introducing, Loveday De Noir."

Loveday was every bit as beautiful as her uncle described her. She was tall and elegant, with voluminous blond hair styled in a cascading updo. She greeted them with a beaming smile filled with secrets and beautiful blue eyes brimming with mischief. Maria stalled. Loveday's smile and eyes sparked a sense of familiarity within her. It was a look she had seen before.

Digweed cleared his throat, "along with her brother, Robin De Noir."

Maria's heart stopped. She felt a rising heat from her stomach shoot up to her cheeks. With or without the mask, she would recognize him anywhere.

He strutted to her with a roguish smile and bowed. Taking her hand, he placed a lingering kiss on her knuckles that sent a jolt down her arm. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

Maria stood stock still, her mind struggling to comprehend. Robin grinned. "Didn't I warn you'd see me soon enough?" He muttered under his breath.

Maria snapped her mouth shut. She shook herself before dropping into a quick curtsy and mustering a curt reply, "Maria Merryweather. The pleasure is all mine."

His eyes darkened with a knowing desire. "I'll make sure of it," he whispered into her ear before stepping away to stand at her side. "Are you ready for our adventure?"

Maria's heart was racing, she felt excitement course through her body. She knew she had a big storm coming, but she was ready to take it head-on. "I'll match your every step, lead the way."

_____

A/N: I’m tired. Im stressed. Ive been writing science non-stop for 3 weeks straight. I wanted to write something fun and was listening to Rewrite the Stars on repeat. This is what happened. 

[tomhardysteeth]

u wanna say anything for spn ending? Today's their last day of filming

Yeah sure! I love how you worded this ask, it makes me want to give a very serious answer. I’ve been rewatching random episodes the past few days and thinking about how much of my life was shaped by this random lil tv show, both positively and negatively, so here we go. 

I started watching Supernatural during my junior year of college, when I was grappling with being gay and religious, and had a pseudo-girlfriend who was emotionally abusive. I remember I started watching the show because I had been on tumblr for a while and thought, well this is a popular show on tumblr and looks like something I’d enjoy, so I might as well try it. I remember barely paying attention to the first season and thinking it was kind of silly, and I distinctly remember making fun of it right up until the season 1 finale when that truck slammed into the Impala and I said oh.

I remember sitting in the dining hall between classes, hiding in a corner with my pink headphones and my laptop, watching one episode after the other, completely consumed by it. My personal life was a mess at the time and I was angry and sad and frustrated, but I could forget about everything for a little while when I watched spn. I remember falling in love with Dean Winchester, season 3, when Sam gave him the amulet. 

Because I had already spent a lot of time on tumblr, I knew about Castiel. I couldn’t wait to get to season 4, the anticipation killed me. I didn’t really have a choice in shipping destiel, I literally shipped it before I even watched a single episode of the show lol. My first time watching seasons 4 and 5, I remember how mad I would feel every time the opening credits scrolled at the bottom of the screen and Misha Collins wasn’t listed. I cared about almost nothing but Dean and Cas interacting with each other. I was totally enamored by them, by their potential. At some point I got over that and watched the show because I liked the show, but boy did my heart and brain break for destiel. 

I broke up with my abusive girlfriend. I started coming out to more people, including people involved in the Christian campus ministry I was heavily involved in, and it was very very hard. It was 2013. The first episode of Supernatural I watched live was the episode where Dean turns into a fucking dog. 

I don’t remember when I started reading fanfic, and I had no idea how to read fanfic. A friend invited me to ao3, what is ao3? I didn’t know. I used my email address as my username. I read Twist and Shout and Pie Without Plot and other very popular fics that I knew about because everybody knew about them. I vividly remember the first fics I read because I was 21 years old and had never had an orgasm in my life and believed sex was sinful and so when the sex scenes in fics turned me on, I felt guilty about it. 

I quickly got over that and started writing explicit destiel fanfic. 

I still had no idea what I was doing. I know the very first fic I ever wrote was a mess, I’ve completely erased all traces of it, but other than that I began posting with abandon. Pretty much everything I’ve ever written for spn is still on tumblr and/or ao3. I was running a Hannibal blog at the time and started posting more Supernatural content than Hannibal content, so I created a sideblog, @deancasheadcanons​, and things very quickly got out of hand after that.

I was depressed, I was confused, I was spending my last couple years of college trying to figure out my sexuality, trying to hold onto a religion that was rejecting who I was becoming, trying to find my identity while picking a career path and being sad and being pulled in a hundred different directions. Sometimes I was working three jobs at once, on top of 17-credit-hour semesters. I was getting a degree in a field I did not care about, and I spent every class reading and writing fanfic, scrolling through tumblr, making internet friends, letting my life be consumed by Supernatural. I projected myself completely onto Dean Winchester and partially onto Castiel and did not even realize it. 

I started dressing like Dean, and my sister and brother-in-law noticed and assumed I was gay. They were extremely unsubtle in their attempts at getting me to come out by pointing out the flannel and army jackets, and I did not have it in me to admit to them that I was dressing like a fictional character, but I DID tell them I was bisexual. 

I went to therapy every week during my senior year of college, and I was embarrassed about how often I talked about my “internet life,” as I called it. I remember having the arbitrary goal of getting 1,000 kudos on a fanfic, and I remember the day it happened for the first time and I remember going to therapy that week and saying that I didn’t feel any different, that I thought getting attention for my writing would make me feel better, somehow, but I still felt the same, and my therapist asked me if I would still be writing if I was the only one who got anything out of it and I said yes. But I was still obsessed with writing things that were meaningful, and despite the fact that I would receive 10 negative/mean anons per day, I never turned anon off because I desperately wanted people to tell me that my writing meant something to them, that it mattered to them. I was fighting with myself every day over my sexuality and my identity and my purpose, and I put all of that on the shoulders of Dean and Cas. 

There was also chubby!dean. I had lived my entire life with this inexplicable thing, this shame that I knew I could not share, that I knew I would just have to suffer with for my whole life, and then I joined the spn fandom and found that there were others like me, others that had a fetish and had similar experiences as I did and were drawn to Dean Winchester because there’s no other character that could make eating and gaining weight be as enticing as he makes it (in fanfic). For the first time in my life I had a community of people that I could relate to about a thing that I never thought I would ever be able to talk about with anyone in my life. I don’t remember if I consciously chose to start posting publicly about it, but at some point I did, and I started writing kink fic, but I was still so uncomfortable with myself and so scared of the things I felt, and I tried so hard to temper myself and not offend anyone and not go “too far” and not be too weird and I was so sexually repressed and pent up and full of guilt and shame, and so now when I go back and reread some of the stuff I wrote it feels like reopening an old wound and letting myself bleed out. 

I was constantly comparing myself to others and wondering why I wasn’t getting as much attention as so-and-so, and I always made excuses about how maybe my writing was too weird and I was too much and maybe I just wasn’t good enough and I hated myself and wanted to delete everything I ever wrote, but also I’m awesome and receive a lot of attention and get a lot of good feedback but maybe that means I’m just a narcissist! I acted like an asshole online and justified it by saying it wasn’t really me, that I could be someone totally different on tumblr than the person I was in “real life,” but in hindsight, now when I think back on my early 20s, I cannot separate what I was doing in “real life” from what I was doing in the spn fandom. I shared so much of myself with the spn fandom without even recognizing that that’s what I was doing. 

And I made mistakes, god I made mistakes, and I tried to be so careful about everything I said but I was also presenting a certain version of myself to the spn fandom so that people would like me (for instance: running a destiel blog and trying my best to hide the fact that I also ship wincest) and still I got in trouble constantly, and I grew bitter and mean because you can only receive the “when are you posting the next chapter?” comment so many times before you want to bang your head into a wall. I became defensive and unkind, afraid to check my inbox because it was a nightmare, and yet unable to turn off anon because, like I said, I desperately needed that feedback, I needed people to tell me that they felt what I felt, that they understood what I was writing and why I was writing it.

I expected Supernatural to give me everything I needed. I fantasized about Dean Winchester being canonically bisexual because I thought it would confirm something in me, that it would somehow make my life a little bit easier. I didn’t want to watch other shows that could maybe help me, I wanted Supernatural to do things for me that it had never promised and would never deliver, and it’s because I was defined by it for so many years. Now that I’m back on tumblr, I’ve been going back through some of my old posts on deancasheadcanons and it’s like reading a stranger’s words. Even so, I find myself telling people “I was deancasheadcanons” instead of “I ran a sideblog called deancasheadcanons” because it really was such a huge part of my identity. What’s wild is that every time I’ve tried to explain it to someone in real life, they just look at me like I’m not making any sense. 

It was easy to stop watching Supernatural. I didn’t have cable, and I had been driving to my dad and stepmom’s house each week and watching it on their tv after they had gone to bed. I was in a new relationship with a woman I nearly married, I was back in school for a new career, I was working full time and absolutely did not have time to continue writing fanfic as prolifically as I had done for so many years. I finally reached a breaking point in 2017 and haven’t watched any new episodes since then (I don’t remember the last episode I saw). But now, as I rewatch some old episodes, it is easy to feel the way I felt the first time I watched the show. It’s easy to see why this campy little heartfelt show was a lifeline during my formative adult years.

So it turns out I have never reckoned with any of this, have never written it down, hence the 2k jumble of words you see here. And it’s like, I know that a lot of this may seem silly, trivial, especially for a show that in itself is not very serious, but as it comes to an end I have to reflect on it as a person who put so much of my heart, my creativity, my pain and my floundering identity into it. I am somewhat embarrassed and wish I could respond to this ask with a joke instead, but we’re in a pandemic and I live alone and have had way too much time to think and reflect and become a lot more self-aware, and part of that reflection has definitely been about my time in the spn fandom. I remember thinking the show was never going to end, yet here we are at the end and I felt compelled to type all this out with a desire to, I don’t know, get some closure? Convince myself that I was a whole person, that I wasn’t just a faceless URL posting destiel fics into the void, that my real life was not at all disparate from the time I spent online? In any case, I’ll always think fondly of the time I devoted to Supernatural, and I’ll take the good and the bad and everything in between. Thanks for the nice ask, anon, apparently I needed to get some things off my chest.  

[correspondencearchive]

2. Natalia Nakazawa & Nazanin Noroozi

Natalia Nakazawa and Nazanin Noroozi discuss their use of archives and photographs, creating hybrid narratives, cultural transmission, and the formation of personal and cultural memories.

Natalia Nakazawa, Obtrait I, Jacquard woven textile, 71 x 53 inches, 2015, Photo credit: Jeanette May

Natalia Nakazawa: First off, Naz, how are you doing? There has been so much going on - it is far too easy to forget we have bodies. We have families, we have things we need to do, and we need to take care of ourselves. As they say, put the oxygen mask on first, and then help others. Can you maybe start by just telling us what your day looks like? What are you doing to take care of yourself?

Nazanin Noroozi: I’m doing ok. I have to balance my day job and my studio time. My day job is working in high-end interior design firms in which our clients spend millions and millions of $$$ on luxury goods. It is very interesting to look at the wage gap especially considering the pandemic. When someone can spend 40k on a coffee table for their vacation house, and you hear all the issues with the stimulus checks etc, it makes you wonder about our value system and how our society functions.

As for self-care, I guess just like any other artist, I buy tons of art supplies that I may or may not need! I just bought a heavy-duty industrial paper cutter that can cut a really thick stack of paper! I needed it! I really don't have room for it, but I bought it! So that is my method of self-care! Treat myself to things that I like but may be problematic in the future. ;)

Natalia: I recently re-watched Stephanie Syjuco’s Art21 feature online where she talks about having to actively decide to become a citizen of the US, despite having come to this country at the age of 3. One of the poignant points she brings up is how we are all reckoning right now with what it means to be “American”. She also brings up the iconic photo taken by Dorothea Lange  of a large sign reading “I am an American” put up by a Japanese American in Oakland right after the declaration of internment - thinking about how citizenship can be given or taken away. This all feels very relevant right now. What do you think about these questions? How do you use archives and photos of our past to engage in these issues of belonging, citizenship, and the precarity of it all?

Nazanin: What I try to do with archives is to question them as modes of cultural transmission and historical memory. I think many artists deal with archives in a more clinical and objective manner, whereas I like to add my own agency to these found photographs. When one looks at a family album or found footage, one is already looking at fragmented narratives. You never know a whole story when you look at your friend’s old family albums. I truly embrace this fragmented, broken narrative and try to make it my own. I also constantly move back and forth between still and moving images, printmaking and painting, experimental films and artist books. So there is this hybridity in the nature of found footage itself that I try to activate in my work. In these works handmade cinema is used as a medium to re-create an already broken narrative told by others, sometimes complete strangers to tell stories about trauma and displacement. That is what fascinates me about archives. The fact that you can recreate your story and make a new fictional alt-reality.

Nazanin Noroozi, Self Portrait

Natalia: But who is to say these if fictional alt-realities are less important or less serious than purely “art historical” narratives? One of the things that I am exploring in my work is giving space for slippages in memory, rearranging of timelines to accommodate a lived experience. What happens when we look at collections - even museum collections - with the same warmth, tenderness, and care that we would an old friend? What possibilities are dislodged there? What benefit is there to towing the status quo - which is built on white supremacy, stolen artifacts, and other types of lying, exclusion and dubious authoritative storytelling? Also, there are so many family histories that often become reified - being told and retold with certainty over and over again. How do we claim agency from that oppressive knowledge? The things we tell ourselves about our families may not be “true” so what do we risk by revisiting our archives and re-telling those histories through our current eyes? When we re-examine the history - we may discover new ways of seeing and being with ourselves.

Nazanin: I like to think of photographs as sites of refuge. When you look at a photograph of a kid’s birthday from many years ago, you know for fact that this joyous moment is long gone. These mundane moments that bring you “happiness” and security won't last. It’s like “all that is solid melts into air”. In a larger picture, isn't everything in life fragile and fleeting and there is absolutely no certainty in life?  For example, look at how Covid has changed our “normal everyday” life. A simple birthday party for your kid was unimaginable for months. In “Purl” and “Elite 1984”  I mix these mundane moments with images of flood, natural disasters and other forces of nature to talk about fragile states of being and ideas of home. I digitally and manually manipulate footages of a stormy Caspain Sea, Mount Damavand or a glacier melt to ask my questions about failure or resistance, you know? I let the images tell me the new narrative, both visually and thematically.  

Something I find really interesting in your work is how you re-create these alt-realities by actively and physically engaging your audience into participating in your work, like your textile maps - called Our Stories of Migration? Do you have any fear that they may tell a story you don't like? Or take your work to a place that you didn't anticipate? How do you deal with an open-ended artwork that is finished but it needs an audience to be complete?

Natalia Nakazawa, Our Stories of Migration, Jaquard woven textiles, hand embroidery, shisha mirrors, beetle wings, beads, yarn, 36 x 16 feet, 2020, Photo credit: Vanessa Albury

Natalia: I am always stunned by the generosity of the people I meet - those who dive in and share their own histories - and I think it points to a universal need of ours to share and connect. There is always potential to create intimacy - even within the walls of large institutions, such as schools or museums - when our own lives are placed at the center with care and concern. I’ve never heard a story that didn’t make me pause and grant me more space for contemplating the complexity of being a human on this planet. We have all kinds of mechanisms for memory - archives, written diaries, photos, paintings, objects - but at the end of the day they are nothing without our active participation. Quite literally they are meaningless unless they are being interacted with. That has been the entry point for me, as an artist and educator. How do we take all of these things that exist in the material world and make sense out of them? What does the process of “making sense” do to the way we live TODAY? Or, perhaps, how we envision the future? It is almost like a yoga practice, a stretching of the mind, a flexibility to think backwards and forwards - that lends us more space to consider the present.

Nazanin: Yeah! I think you really are on point here! I think we really can't understand our existence without retelling the history and recreating new realities.

Nazanin Noroozi, The Rip Tide

Natalia: Thank you, Nazanin! Anything coming up for you that you want to mention?

Nazanin: Yes, I am actually doing a really amazing residency at Westbeth for a year. This is an incredible opportunity as I get to live in the Village for one year and have a live-work space in such an amazing place. Westbeth is home to many wonderful artists!

Natalia Nakazawa, History has failed us...but no matter, Jacquard textiles, laser cut Arches watercolor paper, vinyl, jewels, concentrated watercolor and acrylic on wood panel, 40 x 90 inches, 2019, Photo credit: Jeanette May

Natalia Nakazawa is a Queens-based interdisciplinary artist working across the mediums of painting, textiles, and social practice. Utilizing strategies drawn from a range of experiences in the fields of education, arts administration, and community activism, Natalia negotiates spaces between institutions and individuals, often inviting participation and collective imagining. Natalia received her MFA in studio practice from California College of the Arts, a MSEd from Queens College, and a BFA in painting from the Rhode Island School of Design. She has recently presented work at the Arlington Arts Center (Washington, DC), Transmitter Gallery (Brooklyn, NY), Wassaic Project (Wassaic, NY), Museum of Arts and Design (New York, NY), and The Metropolitan Museum of Art (New York, NY). Natalia was an artist in residence at MASS MoCA, SPACE on Ryder Farm, The Children’s Museum of Manhattan, Wassaic Project, and Triangle Arts.

www.natalianakazawa.com @nakazawastudio

Nazanin Noroozi is a multimedia artist incorporating moving images, printmaking and alternative photography processes to reflect on notions of collective memory, displacement and fragility. Noroozi’s work has been widely exhibited in both Iran and the United States, including the Immigrant Artist Biennial, Noyes Museum of Art, NY Live Arts, Prizm Art Fair, and Columbia University. She is the recipient of awards and fellowships from the Artistic Freedom Initiative, Elizabeth Foundation for the Arts, NYFA IAP 2018, Mass MoCA Residency, North Adams, MA and Saltonstall Foundation for the Arts Residency, NY. She is an editor at large of Kaarnamaa, a Journal of Art History and Criticism. Noroozi completed her MFA in painting and drawing from Pratt Institute. Her works have been featured in various publications and media including BBC News Persian, Elephant Magazine, Financial Times, and Brooklyn Rail.

www.nazaninnoroozi.net @nazaninnoroozi

[dishonoredrpg]

Congratulations, REY! You’ve been accepted for the role of THE HERMIT with the faceclaim of LUCY BOYNTON. History loves a revolutionary, and there’s no doubt in my mind that this sentiment will extend to Marceline. I could feel her desperation to be part of something bigger than herself -- maybe even larger than her father’s ambitions -- they practically leapt right off the page. I felt for her in her loss, ached for her in her need for revenge, empathized with the pain and appreciated her determination to change things for the better. The Hermit has the potential to be small-scale, but you’ve taken her far beyond that, and I cannot wait to see what Marceline does on the dashboard! 

Please review the CHECKLIST and send your blog in within 24 hours.

OOC

NAME: Rey PRONOUNS: She/Her AGE: 25+ TIMEZONE, ACTIVITY LEVEL: PST. Because I am currently working from home, I would say on a scale of 1 to 10, I am a 7. I try to log on at least once a day. ANYTHING ELSE?: Just how much wood could a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood!

IN CHARACTER

SKELETON: The Hermit NAME: Marceline Ash Pelagius FACECLAIM: 1. Lucy Boyton 2. Lindsey Morgan AGE: 22

DETAILS: I’ve chosen the Hermit because she reminds me so much of the French republican youths that got involved after the French Revolution (as most famously depicted in Les Misérables) and I’d love to dig into the historical parallels. Like Enjorlas, Marceline is born into wealth, but she sheds herself of this reputation and becomes a bleeding heart for the revolution.  (Also like Enjorlas, she’s a “charming young (wo)man who is also capable of being terrible.”)

Revolutions rarely begin with noble aims, even if the outcome might not suggest so. For Marceline, revolution begins with vengeance. Her attempts to get closer to the Fool and the guards of the city in order to avenge her father’s death opens her eyes to the social and political inequalities of the kingdom. What was once simply about revenge is now about so much more. She’s a woman who knows she wants to kill a king, but her reasons for deciding to do so only keep growing with time. Before long, she begins to assume her father’s radical political beliefs: tear down the monarchy and replace it with a republic. I find myself drawn to dedicated characters with unyielding drives - especially ones whose moral compass seems so set but will in actuality change at the shift of a tide in order justify their end goals.

Marceline is very much  a person to be reckoned with. Her fight becomes a fight against her own grief, her unknown magic and the monolith of monarchy. Each of these seem to be an immovable object, but she is the unstoppable force that beats against them. The Hermit tarot card can signify someone who is taking too much time for self reflection or too little. In the case of Marceline, she is someone who thinks she knows herself well enough to simply act; she is so set on her path that true self-reflection is something she doesn’t spend enough time on.

BACKGROUND:

You know this is not a rebellion, you know it’s a revolution.

You are born of a noble house, the only child, last of your name. Your mother is revered in court as the Keeper of Coins. She has a mind for finances and business, though you inherit the steel of her spine and the cut of her jib more than anything else. If you trace her lineage far back enough you’ll see that before nobility came piracy and maybe that’s why she’s always been so good with gold. She’s a smart woman with a sharp eye that upholds her family’s reputation by being someone that can sniff out a poor deal or a tampered book with ease. She’s never really sailed the seas, but you can see that she misses it. And thus, so do you. Most of your lullabies are sea shanties and you take your first steps along the banks of Tyr’s Tear. You cannot remember a time when you didn’t know how to swim. Your mother, for some hidden reason, knows how to fight and she is the one to teach you how to use a sword. ‘A cutlass’ she clarifies the first time you call it something else. ‘There’s language used correctly and then there’s language used beautifully.’

Meanwhile, your father is hopelessly bound to the land. More specifically, he is hopelessly bound to his books. He is an academic that is fortunate enough to be born into nobility. His father lived a long life as a trusted advisor to Octavius Valmont. A former educator at the Bard’s College, the birth of you brings about a new chapter to your father's life causing him to leave the college and spend most of his days in Tyrholm writing, reading, and discussing matters of political science. How he wooed your mother you’ll never know, but because of them you’ll never doubt what love is. If you had to guess though, your father enchanted your mother because no one used language more beautifully than him.

Your father has a secret though. When you are four years old, you learn that you’ve inherited it. The two of you are Inferi magi.

The fastest way to someone’s heart is through conspiracy and you and your father are bound by this secret you share. He’s spent his whole life hiding this, and he teaches you to do the same. You hate being anything other than outspoken, anything other than untruthful about what you think and who you are, and the only anchor is you know how much he hates it too. The two of you hold tight to something the world hates and work to make it a gift more than a curse. This is what connects you to your father. Inferi magic is destructive, but your father shows you that sometimes that is the way of life. He tells you about the pine-trees that depend on heat to crack open their seeds. He talks about entire forests that are born from the ash of forest fires. Sometimes, in order to make something stronger, you must burn it down; sometimes, in order to make something last forever, you must destroy it. You know the story of the wolves and the snakes, he’s told you it over and over again to lull you to sleep, but he tells you it again now. Political structures -  you are five so you say ‘what’ and he replaces the phrase ‘political structures’ with the words ‘Kingdoms, like Tyrholm’ and you say ‘oh, okay’ - Kingdoms, like Tyrholm, get better, continue surviving, by being torn down and rebuilt. Just like the wolves and the snakes.

‘Let me teach you little one, how revolutions begin.’ He tells you instead of bedtime stories.

Your father believes in revolution, in a way that is before his time. He wants to dismantle the monarchy and in its stead assemble a republic government. His political ideology stands stark amongst the beliefs of this world and you are young enough to be enraptured by the optimism of it. Your mother, far better at playing society’s game than your father is, tells him not to speak so loudly about such things when you are not in your home.

And it is a nice home. For all of your father’s gripes against King, it seems the current system has given you and your family everything you need. You have all the flourishes that come with wealth: a respectable reputation, a lavish upbringing, a thorough education. You’re a lady and the dresses and the etiquette and the social gatherings don’t let you forget it. In many ways you are like your father, you debate and you discuss and think deeply on things with little regard to how that reflects on your station in life. Your mother is the opposite. She teaches you how to lie and survive within the status quo.

You are ten when your father begins writing pamphlets - ‘purely educational,’ he defends - about what a republic is. At least once a month he meets with a handful of like-minded people who are interested in discussing such things and their conversations often go late into the night. They sit tucked away and hidden in the back of a low-lit tavern - and you know these things because you are wily enough to try and follow him one night. Your father catches you and drags you back to the manor by the scruff of your neck like some stray kitten. Your mother is furious - at the both of you.

You are sent to bed without any supper and your father sleeps in the library that evening.

So goes your life. You become your mother’s apprentice as the Keeper of Coins and she makes it worth your while by teaching you to spar in the evenings. Your footwork improves more quickly than your mathematics, but you’re not too bad at either. Your life as a lady blooms. More lessons, more competitions. You find love, a first love, so you don’t understand that there can be different kinds, and even sour kinds. All you’ve ever witnessed is the warmth between your parents, even in their bickering, and so the most naive parts of you believe this to be true of all love.

This routine is almost enough to make you forget about the plights of the kingdom and that you live in a gilded cage.

Your father gets bolder in his commitment to a radical political movement. You’re 15 when you start staying up late to help him proofread the pamphlet he writes. The two of you start taking camping trips to the Volkun Forest, so that you may discuss such things freely amongst the trees. Out here, if the wrong word slips out or if a little bit of magic pushes through your fingertips, there is no one to pass judgment. Out here is freedom.

You take these trips and your father returns, only to lock himself in his study for the next three days. Sometimes you’ll press your ear to the door when the house is quiet and hear nothing more than the quick and furious scratching of a quill across parchment. Not too long after there will be fresh sheets of radical ideas floating through the city.

When you are 17, the fabric of your world is ripped apart at the seams. Your father’s ideas are labeled as treason and the King’s Guard ambushes you in the middle of the Volkun forest. They run your father through with a broadsword more times than necessary to kill him and he is left in a bloody, bloody heap. You manage to survive by playing dead. It’s a decision you replay over and over and over again. The anger over it lingers for years. You should have leaped to your feet and fought, and instead - you chose a coward’s route.

You dig a grave for your father using only your hands and still, somehow, you manage the return home.

The rage in your mother’s eyes when you tell her complements your deep sorrow. She dries your tears and you dry hers, but both of you agree that no one else will see you cry. Your magic burns in you that night, so hot and unknown that you throw yourself into the river to temper the flames that lick your blood. Your lack of training has never been more apparent than now. At such times you’d ask your father what was happening to you and even if he told you that he didn’t know, the shared loneliness made it bearable. He is not here now, and you must weather this alone.

Your mother doesn’t speak for 13 days. At first you think she will never speak again, you have heard of those that die of heartbreak, but you soon realize that she is scheming.

“I know what we will do.” She says on the thirteenth day and you nearly drop the sword you are polishing.

A plan forms. Together, the two of you plot. How do you kill the men that struck down your father? How do you kill a king? It’s decided that you will join the guard. You abandon your engagement. Like that, you abandon your life. Your reputation is ruined and your mother barely scrapes by.

You move out of the familial manor, out of safety for your mother. She’ll still write you letters and you will still visit to sleep in your childhood bedroom, but the two of you agree to keep these instances to once in a blue moon. You move to Lowtown. You know that one of the men you want six-feet under is the Captain of the Guard.

When you first ask to enlist, they think you are pranking them, trying to pull the wool over their eyes because some noble has dared you. When you don’t leave though, that’s when they grow from disbelief to skepticism. ‘Why?’ You are asked. ‘Because I dream of a better world.’ Of course you’re met with laughter. You, however, refuse to lie. You stay steadfast in your plot. You wait for their amusement to die down before challenging the man nearest to you to a spar - if he wins you’ll leave and never bother them again.

That evening, you bring your cutlass and you win your way into the Guard.

After all is said and done you hear a stray spectating guard say to another, ‘She fights like a pirate.’

No one can stop you once you are a woman decided. You spend the next few years putting your head down and doing the work. You become the youngest lieutenant the Guard has ever seen. You are not intimidated by this, you swallow it easily with the knowledge that you are here with a higher calling. The truth has a tendency to make things harsh and unwelcoming, and yet it is the very thing that makes the men here listen to you. They look at you and see someone unwavering in their honesty, merciless with their virtue. It earns you a level of respect that most lieutenants spend their whole lives scrounging for. The world may not be fair, but you intend to make it so. That is seen and that is respected. They listen to you, but more importantly, they trust you. You make it clear that you’ll take an arrow for any of them, parry whatever blow comes their way. When a man is struck down in the field, you’re one of the first to volunteer to tell their family. They start letting you do this by default, your stoic demeanor and steady nature prove to be the exact temperament needed to weather a storm of their family’s sadness. Every time you do this - every time you confront a freshly widowed bride, a newly motherless son - you promise to take care of them. You won’t let their death be in vain, you say. You find yourself caring for all these families as much as you care for your mother. In this way your family grows, and it no longer feels like you are last of your name.

All of this goes without mention of the elephant in the room. Your job puts you in painful proximity to the Fool, one of the men that killed your father. However, these days it seems you’re on the same team in more ways than one. Together you lead the Guard, together you declare you’ll fight in the same revolution. You seek forgiveness within yourself, but your heart finds it hard to go back on a judgment once it has passed. You know that striking him down would be a poor move on your part tactically, that it would scatter the men, that it would lead to a different kind of revolt. You don’t want to tear your new household in two just. So you take his name to that list of names you intend to make your way through and shift it to the bottom. That night you begin a new list, one of additional grievances to call upon that specifically the Fool is responsible for and you decide that you will savor and remember these grievances when the day of his death finally comes.

You’re intense, you ache for revenge, you age for revolution. Those that would think less of you for the latter are nowhere nearby; they’re far off in some ivory tower. Those that surround you are bolstered by it. Each breath is spent on the growing rebellion, each action is dedicated to felling an empire and an unjust king. You are a flame that keeps your friends warm, you are a fire that chases your foes into action.

Living amongst the Guard has taken you out of luxury, out of a life of nobility, and placed you in the thick of a growing revolt. Each citizen of Lowtown comes with their own history, of a life earned through hard work and skill, and you realize that a monarchy is bullshit. Power to the people, you think.

It’s difficult to remember the girl who existed before your father died. But try and you remember. You’ve still got your family crest, it reminds you of the sea. A mutt wanders onto your path one patrol of the Volkun forest and you swear it looks part wolf. You take him in. Two weeks from now he’ll chase after a snake on your hunting trail and even you will say “Oh come on” at the heavy handed metaphor life has thrown your way. In these ways, the world continues to remind you of who you are.

And then, only on quiet lonely nights do you let your mind wander, galloping through the memories back to the day your father was butchered before you. You clawed your way back to the city, clawed your way back to your mother. You’ve defied death once and so hell nor heaven scares you anymore. Buried deep within all your noble intentions is an undeniable truth: you have your revolution, you have your decided aims for a republic, but you would put it all on the line, just to get back at the men who killed your father. You pray to the wolves and snakes you will become a better person.

You are not a revolter, you tell yourself, you are a revolutionary.  

PLOT IDEAS:

Marceline doesn’t believe in kings. As the revolution grows, there are plenty that want to replace this king with a new one. Who will take Septimus’ place? The Emperor, the Chariot, the World? None. Marceline thinks that’s just trading out one cage for another. As mentioned: down with the monarchy, up with a republic! Marceline believes in the ideals of a republic, the same ideals her father believed in, and she wants to work to stoke that fire in the same way he did. It might be a moment before she returns to distributing pamphlets or standing on soapboxes, but natural rights and equality for all citizens of Tyrholm is something that she is determined to fight for. She will try to convince every revolter she comes by of her radical ideas and even when they turn her away, she’ll find a way to stay. She’s always been a woman bad at understanding the word no. I’d like her to try and convince as many people as she can and I think this has the potential to be an interesting plot. Not everyone is going to agree with her and I’m sure it’ll cook up a new batch of allies and enemies. Her father wrote and distributed pamphlets against the king and in favor of a whole new political structure, and Marceline would like to get this radical political movement going again through these handouts. However, Marceline is not the same wordsmith her father was. She’ll do it, if she has to, but I would love for her to find that person to help her write a new round of Enlightenment principles with. In general though, Marceline will be at the forefront for a push for a republic. It’s an ideology that she’s willing to die for. In the long run maybe this even causes a schism in the revolution between those that want another king and those who want something else entirely. TEMPERANCE: Marceline breaks off the engagement, returns the ring that is given to her, leaves without a word. Marceline knows she loves the revolution more, but still her love for Temperance lingers. From where she’s standing, it seems as if her former fiancee has had no trouble moving on and so Marceline is doing her best to drown herself in work and other people. If she could pick one person to convert in favor of her ideal vision for the future, it would be her. But the more Marceline stays with the Guard, the more she sees that Temperance is blind to her own privilege. She wishes Temperance could see things her way. If Marceline ever had to pick between the revolution or Temperance, she would do her best to try and save both. Marceline has left the life of nobility behind, but I would love to see the life of nobility try and drag her back in through her undeniable love for this for this woman. THE FOOL: Until a new republic is built, Marceline still has to live in this monarchy, and there is plenty to do here. There’s her own vendetta, for Marceline will do anything that’s necessary to track down and kill the men that killed her father. Fool kills Dad. Hermit kills Fool. That easy, right? Wrong! Things are already messy as is because both she and the Fool are revolters and thus technically on the same side in more ways than one. Because of this, Marceline needs to find cleverer ways to retaliate against him. Their relationship is a complex one as she is always quick to undermine him, but still sees him as her co-partner in leading the Guard. For a girl who believes in keeping a judgement once it is passed, I want to push the boundaries of her decided vendetta. As she lies in wait, I imagine Marceline trying to be close to anyone that the Fool knows. I’d also love her feelings for him to grow and for her to have to wake up every morning and have to conscientiously decide that she wants to kill this man. I want the Fool to make her change as a person so that by the end of this she’s either consumed by hate for this man or consumed by love - no in between.   THE MOON: The Moon is possibly the only friend Marceline has outside of the Guard.  Every time Marceline ventures Volkun forest, she brings back something new for her botanist friend. There’s a comfort she feels with this one - one she hasn’t felt since her father was around. Something tells her it’s magic, but Marceline knows the dangers of asking about such things. Still, she will do everything to maintain a friendship with the Moon, as she is one of the few people around whom she is utterly at peace. I see them growing close because of the revolution, and I can see them growing even closer if they ever choose to tell each other about their magic. Ever since the death of her father, Marceline has completely turned away from the magical side of herself, but that does not mean the magical side of her does not exist. I see her magic being a grab bag of abilities that she has absolutely no control over. (And per admin discussion, I have some ideas on this.) She feels utterly lost, but Marceline does everything she can to avoid letting anyone know about this side of her. (She always tells the truth, except in this instance.) There’s probably less than a handful of people that know and while I would like this number to slowly grow, I imagine the Moon would be the first. Ultimately, I would like Marceline to come to terms with her magic and see how it influences her thoughts on the war and the revolution. Eventually she’s going to come to understand that her magic might be able to help her take down the king. She might even like to try and travel to Hypatos sometime to seek out mentors. Maybe this is somewhere she and the Moon journey together. Marceline is willing to train up anyone who wants to learn how to fight, be they part of the Guard or not. If you’re part of the revolution, or even if you take no particular side, she thinks you have a right to be able to defend yourself. Just expect to eventually get an earful about some radical political ideologies. Marceline hates pirates and bandits. She cannot stand either of them, especially when they terrorize her Guard. She wants to make a statement to show that the Guard won’t turn a blind eye to being messed with. She’s willing to offer both groups a shot at joining them against the king, but if they refuse, she won’t hesitate to go against them for the men they’ve harmed. In the meantime, any pirates or bandits should steer clear of her as she won’t go easy on them. Marceline sees every single guard as a member of her family and when a guard dies she makes a commitment to look out for that guard’s family. I don’t want this to be easy for her. I’d love to try and throw her up against her own moral compass while trying to stay true to a promise she’s made.

CHARACTER DEATH: Totally cool with you killing my character. My character’s dog however, needs to live forever.

WRITING SAMPLE

There are those that shared his beliefs that come knocking at their door to share their condolences. Marceline and her mother had vowed not to show their tears to the public so Marceline’s mother greets the guests with solemn eyes and a quiet nod of thanks. Marceline doesn’t even make it out of her room. Her father’s death is still too fresh, too heavy on her heart and it’s difficult to be confronted with the fact that someone the world keeps turning.

Marceline is coming up on three days without sleep. Her throat is sore, her eyes are raw, and they are both nothing compared to the dead thing in her chest. She tries to sleep, but etched onto the underside of her eyelids are the faces of four men that she will never forget. She knows grief is nonlinear, but she wishes it would leave for a while and return later when she feels a little stronger. Finally, utterly exhausted, her body gives up on her and she falls into a restless sleep.

There’s a full tangerine moon in the sky and Marceline wakes up in delirious pain. She finds herself on the floor, covers still tangled around her legs. She’s rolled off her own bed. She is still herself though - and that’s what matters. She can see through the haze of pain her hands, her fingernails, the bits of dirt underneath them.

What is this pain? It’s her magic, she thinks, or maybe it’s her grief. She’s buried this part of herself so often, that she forgets about it until it makes itself known. It pulses in her blood with such unpleasantness that she cries out for her father before remembering he is too far to hear her.

She doesn’t want to do any of this without him.

The pain licks up and down her spine. She can feel this Inferi magic coursing through her blood, taking her immense sadness and twisting it. This is in no ways normal, but each time she’s had to face it she’s always had her father.

Marceline kicks with trembling legs at the covers still wrapped like mummy bandages around her body. She crawls to the chair at her desk and grips at the chair leg with her sweaty hand. The wood begins to glow red - at least she thinks it does -  and she knows she is going to set it on fire if she doesn’t move it. She grabs higher, pulls herself up, grabs the curved back of the chair until her feet are flat against the wood floor.

Marceline takes a shaky step, then another, and then she stumbles with the inertia of pain out the door of her bedroom. She nearly collapses as soon as she reaches the bannister of the stair. Her torso hits the wood and the impact blows another wave of fire all through her, knees crippling - she catches herself before she hits the ground but the world spins around her.

She is going to die. She is going to die. She is going to die.

And whatever it is inside her is going to kill and destroy everything in this house. How did she ever think she was going to survive in this word three days without her father?

She must though, she must.

Another wave of pain throws her to the floor. She curls into herself; her sadness magnifies and triples tenfold. Like a wave it washes over her, and then recedes. Here, she will die here -

And then Marceline gets up.

Only this time, it is her magic rising from inside her. It surges through her, hardening the muscles in her legs. She slaps a bloody hand on the counter and straightens up. She breathes hard: in and out, in and out, in and out. As her eyes close, she hears - she swears - the steady beating of wings, as it reminds her swelling heart to keep beating.

She crunches her way out of the hallway, down the stairs, and then out into the garden where the moon hangs low. It is watching her, she feels it. Its light pours over her bloody form with every step she takes. At first she steps slowly, she eases her toes into the cool grass. But then faster, steps more steady, and then even faster, until she is running away from her family’s manor, towards the river, as though she could flee from her sadness.

But she is fleeing towards the moon.

Her magic gives her strength and gives her pain. It roars in her chest now, harmonizing with her grief. She hates it, she hates it so much, hates how it makes her hide, hates how it’s always been a mirror of her emotions.

She remembers her father and how he could look at a burning thing and see the growth that will come after. She’s never going to see him again and there are precisely four men to blame. She can’t stop her tears as she splashes to the banks of the river and falls to her knees inside the reflection of the full moon, which dances on the surface of the water. Her hands press into the sand. She fists the rocks and shells. She is probably going to die. And she should fight it still, but her magic is the only part of her father that is still left.

She doesn’t want him to be gone, and it’s the last thought she has before it feels like she goes up in flames.

Marceline falls forward into the river.

The next morning, she wakes to the sound of the water, as it kisses at her toes and her ankles. Slowly, Marceline blinks her eyes open to the sunlight appearing over the river. The pain is over. Her body felt peaceful and brand new. Three days of mourning and now - rebirth. She feels like she’s just shed her own exoskeleton. She’s done it all on her own too.

A raven picks at the hem of her blouse and forces her to sit up to shoo it away. Tyrholm is still here. She is still here. She breathes in like she needs to remember what it is like to have her lungs expand. Both her magic and her grief, she thinks, are strange, strange things.

EXTRA

A few extra headcanons: While growing up Marcline’s mother would temporarily stay in Noble quarters at Castle Tyrholm. Marceline and her father lived in the Pelagius manor in Hightown. After her husband’s death, Marceline’s mother moved out of the Noble quarters and returned to the manor. Her mother is still Keeper of Coin for the king. Marceline lives in Lowtown but makes sure to visit her mother in Hightown at least once a month. She writes letters often. One does not simply become the youngest lieutenant of the Guard without being a skilled swordsman. Thanks to her noble upbringing, she’s had access to top tier mentors and tutors. What Marceline lacks in size and sheer strength, she makes up in swiftness and cunning. In fact, Marceline’s noble upbringing has left her with a handful of random skills that she is never sure she will use again. She’ll spend most of her evenings these days in the Barracks playing cards or drinking with the Guard. They are her pack. Marceline is slowly starting to pick up where her father left off with his pamphlets. Marceline has a mutt that is probably part wolf... no one really knows. But his name is Little Wolf. He’s her hunting dog (and possibly her best friend.) He follows her around plenty while she is on patrol. He loves members of the Guard and hates the aristocracy.

A few stray musings: Look, I’m not saying she wants to inspire the French Revolution of this world. But... yes okay that’s exactly what she wants. Big Enjorlas from ‘Les Mis’ vibes. Mixed in with some Hamilton. There’s a touch of Isabella from Shakespeare’s ‘Measure for Measure’ thrown in there as well. “So men say that I’m intense or I’m insane.” Most likely to yell “Wake Up Sheeple!!” in the middle of a crowded ball. Bisexual AF.  

[shadowphoenixrider]

(I wrote more Katla/Kabu stuff because why the hell not. Sometime after this fic here. Katla is 26 years old.)

“Alright Sirfetch’d, finish it off! Brick Break!” Katla cried.

The Wild Duck Pokemon uttered a loud cry, charging into the fray. His Snorlax opponent swung out an arm to stop him, only for Sirfetch’d to parry the blow with his leek shield, accompanying sword glowing bright white.

“Sir-fetch’d!” He slashed the sword up and into Snorlax’s immense belly, causing the Sleeping Pokemon to utter a deep, defeated moan, tottering back before crumpling to the floor with a loud thud.

“And you win again...” Hop groaned, returning his Pokemon back to its Pokeball as their impromptu crowd erupted into applause.

“Yup.” Katla smiled, giving her Sirfetch’d an affectionate pat on the head before she too returned him to his ball. “But you don’t do too bad for yourself, Hop. Get your Pokemon rested up, and you’ll be ready to take on Gordie straight away.”

The younger man brightened, scratching the back of his head.

“You really think so, mate?”

“Sure!” The young woman nodded, slipping her hands into her hoodie pockets. “You gave me a good fight, and I’ve only just come out of there. So you’ll be just fine. Go for it!”

“Alright!” Hop grinned widely, already on the move again. “Look out Gordie, here I come!”

Sonia chuckled, shaking her head as the young trainer bounded away.

“Seems like he finally shook off that gloom.” She commented. “I’m glad - Leon’d worry if Hop wasn’t feeling alright.”

“Yeah.” Katla nodded, hiding her scowl. One of these days I’m going to give Bede what he deserves. “I worry too. Kid’s a ball of sunshine. If I can keep him blazing bright as long as I can, I will.”

“Sure.” Sonia nodded, curling her orange hair around her finger. “You wouldn’t want your rival to be down in the dumps, after all.” The trainer was about to retort it had more to do with the fact he was her friend when the researcher continued: “Anyway, I’m planning to look into things in the Slumbering Weald a little more. See ya!”

Katla waved her goodbye, noticing that the crowd that had mostly dispersed now the action was over, chattering excitedly about the two Gym Challengers, and who they were supporting in the upcoming matches. The trainer hadn’t expected a history lesson to have resulted in a Pokemon battle, but when Hop was raring to go, there was little that could dissuade him. At least everything was still as they found it.

She was about to make her own way towards the Pokemon Centre when she glimpsed a familiar black and red coat, just visible behind one of the ancient stone columns. Her heart skipped a beat, and the trainer wandered idly over, pretending to just pass by.

“Hey stranger,” she said, glancing at the older man out of the corner of her eye. “Shall we find somewhere a little quieter?”

“Lead on.” His soft, deep voice replied, his smile clear within.

The pair walked away from the Hero’s Bath, making their way through Circhester’s numerous winding streets until they found an empty patch of land on the edge of town, a copse of snow-laden trees guarding them from curious eyes.

“I did not expect to find you and Hop having a Pokemon battle in the middle of the Hero’s Bath.” Kabu commented, a warm smile on his lips. “Especially so soon after your stupendous battle with Gordie.”

Katla blushed, chuckling shyly.

“O-Oh well, it wasn’t anything special, just a nice tough fight, went through all the motions...”

“Perhaps, but I'm very glad I had the good fortune to be in the crowd.” Kabu replied. “To witness the bond between you and your Pokemon is a privilege, whichever side of the field I’m on.”

“Aw, thanks.” Her face was burning up now, despite the chill in the air. “But you’re definitely flattering me now.”

“Nonsense.” His smile widened, twinkling in his eyes. “I am merely giving a masterful trainer the honours she deserves.”

“Stooop!” Katla giggled, waving a hand at him. “I’m not toast, don’t butter me up like this!”

The Gym Leader chuckled, making her heart skip its next beat and Murkrow feet crinkle in the corners of his eyes.

“You’re fun to tease, Katla,” he said, something soft to his tone that made her heart do a somersault, another in the series of gymnastics it was apparently performing.

“Don’t tell me the only reason you were watching us fight was to torment me later.” She replied, trying to salvage some composure from the situation.

“In truth, I was hoping to cross paths with you again.” Kabu said. “It was lucky coincidence that I happened to notice your sparring with Hop.” His smile widened. “More so that we now have this fleeting time to ourselves.”

“Yeah.” The young woman nodded, glancing around them. Aside from the occasional soft whisper of wind through the trees, the snow absorbed all sound, cloaking the pair with silence. “It’s nice. Just wish it was warmer.”

“Yes. I like to think I have adapted to Galar’s fickle weather patterns, but I have never managed to insulate myself from the cold, especially here.” The Gym Leader commented, creases appearing between his eyebrows. “You’re not too cold, are you Katla? We can find somewhere warmer if you need-”

“Oh no no!” She replied hurriedly, pulling her hoodie a little tighter around herself. “I’m alright, thanks Kabu. I just...I’m not really a fan of chilly places either. The only place I went to that had an Ice type gym that wasn’t freezing cold was Mahogany Town in Johto, and even that place had a chill in the air.” Katla gave a lopsided smile. “I guess that’s why I don’t tend to have many Ice type Pokemon. Prefer the heat over the cold.”

“Perhaps.” Kabu’s concerned frown remained for a moment, before he opened his arm out to her. “Regardless, if you are cold, come a little closer. I’m told I run hot.”

Katla hesitated for a moment, glancing behind her. Yet, safe in the knowledge that no-one would see them at a cursory glance, she took his offer, moving to stand at his side. To her surprise, he curled his arm around her, pulling her close into his body. Katla felt herself warm up, but she didn’t think it was just from Kabu’s heat.

There was a pause.

“Better?” He asked softly.

“Yeah. Thank you.” She shifted slightly closer, noting how nicely her body fit against his.

Another brief moment of silence passed between them before Kabu spoke again.

“You’ll be leaving for Spikemuth tomorrow, I presume?”

Katla nodded.

“Yeah. Hopefully it’s a little warmer than this place.”

“Once you pass through the icy stretch of Circhester Bay, you will be pleased to find it warms up again.” Kabu smiled. “Unlike the other towns and cities you have been to, however, it lacks a Power Spot.”

“Oh, so no Dynamaxing, then.” The trainer lifted a shoulder, smirking. “No skin off my back - pretty much back to basics for me.”

The Man of Fire’s smile was amused.

“Of course. Then Piers should pose little challenge for you.”

“Oh no, the last time I was that confident was against Opal, and, well, we know how well that went.” Katla replied, glancing away. “Besides, considering he’s just behind Raihan in rankings without access to a Power Spot, that probably means he’s a force to be reckoned with.”

She swore she saw Kabu’s silver eyes sparkle.

“Very perceptive. Now I see another facet in what makes you such a skilled trainer and Gym Challenger.”

Katla blushed.

“C’mon Kabu, we’ve been over this! Stop buttering me up.” As the older man chuckled, a thought suddenly occurred to her. “Wait. I don’t remember a Piers. He wasn’t at the opening ceremony, was he?”

“You’re correct, he wasn’t.” Kabu sighed. “Piers is very...independent. He and Chairman Rose have clashed numerous times. Piers cares deeply for the future of Spikemuth, and he blames the town’s misfortunes on its lack of a Power Spot.” The Gym Leader shook his head. “Whilst he prefers to keep to himself, it is clear to see the issue troubles him deeply. I only wish I could offer him answers for his problems.”

“I can understand why he’d probably not want to go to the opening ceremony, then.” Katla commented. “What does he specialise in?”

“Dark types.” The older man replied.

“Huh.” The younger woman hummed. “Reminds me of a guy I met in Alola. Kinda abrasive and aloof, but deep down you knew he really gave a shit.”

For a moment, she let images swim up from her memory - red eyes; glowing in the dark, a smirk; full of promise, his face between- and then she quickly pushed them down again, blinking hard and hoping that she wasn’t blushing. Again.

She glanced back up at Kabu, who was looking down at her thoughtfully, his eyes glazed as his gaze was turned inwards. His face didn’t betray his thoughts, however, when he resurfaced.

“Yes. Indeed...” A small smile pulled at his lips. “I don’t suppose I need to ask you if you've ever fought Dark types before, do I?”

“No.” Katla replied. “I’ve fought them before, and the Alola guy was specialised in them, so I know what they’re like in the hands of a master.” And weren’t those hands masterful- she quickly squelched that thought by adding: “Trouble. Very troublesome. I was lucky to beat him. Which is why I’m not gonna get drawn in to thinking I’ve already got this.” She stuffed her hands into her hoodie pockets. “Like I said, learned my lesson the last time.”

“Of course.” Kabu nodded. “Yet forewarned is forearmed.” His smile widened. “I have every faith that you will do well against Piers, Katla. I look forward to seeing your match.”

“T-Thanks.” The young woman couldn’t help but smile shyly, her face flushing. “It means a lot to hear you say that. I’ll do my best.”

The Gym Leader nodded again, satisfied, and a brief silence settled around them, like the snow that was beginning to fall.

“Guess you’ve got stuff to be getting back to as well.” Katla said, looking up at him.

“Yes. I will be taking a taxi back to Motostoke this evening to resume my duties. There are still trainers attempting my Gym Challenge, though it will not be long before their window of opportunity will close.” His silver eyes slid over to meet hers, a smile pulling at his lips. “I don’t think it will be long before at least two trainers will qualify for the Semifinals.”

The trainer arched an eyebrow at him.

“Putting the cart before the Mudbray a little there, Kabu. I’ve gotta beat Piers and Raihan. Either one could put an end to it.”

“Perhaps.” Kabu turned to face her properly, reaching out to gently take her hands. “But I have faith you can do it. I see the spark in your eyes, Katla. You have a burning flame that cannot be extinguished. I sensed it when I first met you, and felt it in our battle. I am sure you will make it through to the Semifinals.”

‘The Ever-Burning Man of Fire’ seemed an appropriate moniker for the Hoenn Gym Leader, with the way his touch seemed to cause Katla’s face and heart to heat up, the latter skipping a beat. His smile was as warm as his hands, and for a moment, they remained like this, Katla wondering how fate had brought her to this point in time.

And then Kabu leaned closer, paused, before he tentatively pressed a kiss to her lips. It only took a second, maybe just two, but the heat it caused, rippling out from the Galar trainer’s heart, seemed to sharpen every sense she possessed as if Katla had awoken from the deepest, most restful slumber she’d ever had.

She blinked Rowlet-ishly up at him, noticing the older man’s sheepish expression - despite his bold move, a blush was beginning to darken across his cheeks, and he glanced away.

Suddenly his scarf poked its head up, peering up at him with an inquisitive: ‘Si?’ Kabu’s blush darkened, and he chuckled at his little companion’s confusion, Katla unable to resist giggling too.

“It’s alright, little one,” he said softly, stroking the Radiator Pokemon’s flat head with his finger. “Be at peace.” The Sizzlipede’s eyes closed, and it trilled with pleasure before returning to its duty around Kabu’s neck, the young woman wondering if her blood was made of magma, the amount of warmth she could feel leaking from her heart.

“Looks like you took your friend by surprise.” Katla spoke, and almost kicked herself for trying to make light of the situation. He smiled shyly, an expression she never thought she’d ever see on the older man’s face.

“Yes. And several others.” He cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure. “I...I apologise, Katla. That was...foolish of me.”

“No no, it wasn’t.” She shook her head, stepping closer. “You surprised me, sure, but, but it wasn’t unwelcome.” If she kept blushing like this, her face was going to get stuck this way. “I liked it.”

The trainer had to admit it was amusing to see his composure slip out of his fingertips again, his blush creeping across his face.

“Oh? Are you sure? I don’t want to- you mustn’t feel like you should accept my advances because-”

“Kabu.” It was Katla’s turn to grasp his hands, squeezing them between her own. “It’s fine. If I didn’t want it, you would know.” A pause, deciding not to provide the example. “I promise, I will let you know if we start going too fast or too far. I know this might be the first relationship I’ve ever been in, but I’m twenty six - I’ve been around long enough to know what I want and who I want it with.”

Her blue eyes met Kabu’s grey, the older man watching her intently. “Trust me, please?”

“I do.” He nodded. “I’m just-” A pause. “Forgive me, Katla. I worry.”

“I know.” She squeezed his hands again. “It works both ways, though. If you feel uncomfortable, or like I’m the one going too fast or too far, you let me know too, okay?”

“Of course. Of course.” He replied, giving her hands an answering, if more tentative squeeze. Another pause, before a shy smile graced his lips. “For this being your first relationship, you show considerable wisdom.”

“Heh, I’ve just been working from what I picked up from various places.” Katla chuckled weakly. “I’m pretty sure I’ve still got a lot to learn.”

“As have I.” Kabu smiled, giving her hands one last squeeze before he pulled away. “Anyway, I fear I have taken up more than enough of your time, Katla. My apologies.”

“It’s fine, Kabu. I’m more worried that I’ve been the one taking up your time, with you being a Gym Leader and everything.” A half-smile pulled at her lips. “But, before you go...”

As the Hoenn man gave her a quizzical look, Katla leaned up and pressed her own kiss to his lips, unable to hide her smile as he blinked widely, his blush starting to reappear on his cheeks.

“...Oh.” He uttered quietly, lifting a hand as if to touch an imprint she left behind.

“I, I better go.” Katla said, stepping away. “I-It’s been nice chatting with you, Kabu. We’ll talk again sometime soon, yeah?”

“Oh, yes, of course.” The Gym Leader replied. “Safe travels, Katla. Best of luck for Piers.”

“Safe journey back to Motostoke!” She waved, before turning to walk back into Circhester, trying restrain the excited skip in her step.

---

“Siiizz?” Kabu had been watching the young woman leave when his Sizzlipede called to him again, having uncurled just enough to give him a Look, one that he couldn’t quite identify.

Despite the cold snow settling over his bench coat and into his hair, his face felt as hot as his Pokemon’s belly scales, and Kabu swore his lips were still tingling from Katla’s kiss. He managed a lopsided smile at his companion.

“It’s, it’s fine, little one,” he said, again, although he found his gaze drifting back to where the trainer had gone. “She’s just...a very special friend.”

The Radiator Pokemon did not look convinced this time, tilting its head and quivering its fiery moustache. Kabu sighed softly.

“Perhaps...Perhaps a bit more than that.” He admitted.

[yeet-or-be-hawed]

OC Interview: Fletcher

Name: “Fletcher.”

Are you single: “By choice, yes.”

Are you happy: she shrugged, “guess you could say that.”

Are you angry:  “probably angry more often than I am happy if’n I’m bein’ honest.”

Are your parents married: “died married, I’m sure. They died when I was real young, but from what I remember they seemed happy together.”

Nine facts

Birthplace: “A small town at the base of the Appalachian mountains, Far East of here.”

Hair colour: she twirled a strand around her finger, “brownish-red?” She chuckled. “In the summer it tends to lighten up to a redder tone but for now we’ll just say brown.”

Eye colour: “Blue.”

Birth date: “July 5, 1874.”

Mood: “right now?” She rubbed her neck and sighed. “Right now I’m tired, tired and sore. Runnin’ those delivery wagons for Cripps ain’t always the easiest. We ran a pretty long run today, even had to deal with a coupla carpetbaggers on the way. Now I’m just ready for a hot meal and a soft bed.”

Gender: “Female.”

Summer or winter: “I keep on the move pretty consistently, and I tend to agree with warm weather the best so we’ll say summer.”

Morning or afternoon: “Morning. Sleeping in ain’t an option when skins make your livin’. Even on the occasional morning I don’t have to hunt or help Cripps ‘round camp Im still up around dawn.”  

Eight things about your love life

Are you in love: “I...was.”

Do you believe in love at first sight? “I believe some people are drawn to you more than others, and I believe in infatuation at first sight- but love is patient and takes work. So no, guess not.”

Who ended your last relationship: She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “Neither of us ended it, per say. She came between me and a nasty group a bounty hunters.” She spat on the ground, her expression hardened. “So you know what happened next.”

Have you ever broken someone’s heart: “Oh, I’m sure I have. I don’t stick around one place long enough to form actual relationships-it’s for the best.”

Are you afraid of commitment: She sighed, “sure are gettin’ grilled tonight huh?” She laughed weakly. She tried to ignore the heat in her ears, her attention focused on her boots. “Guess you could say that. After Sable passed I... I can’t put myself- or anyone else for that matter- through that again. I loved that girl more than myself and she just-“ she exhaled and closed her eyes. “Sorry, back to the question. The commitment ain’t as scary as the inevitable, so I tend to avoid both.” She paused, then cleared her throat. “Next question?”

Have you hugged someone in the last week: She sat in thought for a moment, “No, I don’t believe I have.”

Have you ever had a secret admirer: “Well, if I knew bout ‘em how would they be secret?”

Have you ever broken your own heart: “Course I have, more times than I can count. I learned a long time ago about what happens when someone like me allows themselves to love and it ain’t pretty. There’s been a feller here, a lady there and we’ll get...cozy but I never stay long, it’s for the best.”

Four preferences

Smile or eyes: “Eyes. You can hide a lot behind a smile, but the eyes are honest.”

Shorter or taller: She shrugged. “I’ll take ‘em any size.”

Intelligence or Attention: “A younger me would’ve told you attention, but intelligence is a rare trait round these parts. I may not be very intelligent myself, but it makes for good conversation.”

Hook up or relationship: “Hook ups. Just cus I swore off relationships don’t mean a girl ain’t got needs. I usually hit up the saloons first thing in a new town- check out the working gals, get a feel of the men, and have a drink of course. Hook ups keep everybody safe, so it’s the only option.”

Six Choices

Love or lust: “Workin’ off that last question, lust.” She looked up at the sky, “it would be nice to let myself love again but,” she shrugged again. “What can ya do?”

Lemonade or ice tea: “Lemonade.”

Cats or dogs: “Dogs I reckon, I ain’t been too successful in keep in’ a cat round camp. They tend to run off or...worse.”

A few best friends or regular friends: “a hand full of best friends, but I only got a coupla friends anyways.”

Wild night out or romantic night in: “I’m always down for a wild night out, just know I tend to get a bit rowdy when I drink, so be prepared to throw some fists or rob a stage.”

Day or night: “Day time is reserved for work, so night time is really the only time for me to get some me time, ya know? Everything is so much quieter, more peaceful. It’s nice to look up at the night sky and be able to hear yourself think.”

Four have you evers

Been caught sneaking out: She let out a hardy laugh, “course I have! Most commonly being caught gettin’ outta bed after a one night stand, or caught tryna sneak outta camp while Cripps works me like a dog, even got caught sneakin’ out the back window of a bank!”

Fallen down/up stairs: “Both directions, both intoxicated.”

Wanted someone/something so bad it hurt: she only nodded and took a swig of her flask. All this talk of love and wanting was unearthing a lot of buried feelings.

Wanted to disappear: “Course I have, haven’t we all?” She took another swig of moonshine from her flask. “This life ain’t easy, it does somethin’ to the mind. Sometimes I feel incredibly lonely in a bar full of people, it’s strange. Maybe it’s just me.”

Friends

Do you secretly hate one of your friends: “Course not, if I hated them we wouldn’t be friends.”

Do you consider all of your friends good friends: “You mean all three friends?” She barked a short laugh. “Sure.”

Who is your best friend? She smiled, “Sadie Adler, ain’t never had a friend quite like her. She’s loyal, and loves fiercely. I don’t get to see the Adlers as often as I like, they live far up North in a small cabin out past Colter. I make time for them when I can, the hunting up near there is fine but the winters are brutal- cain’t get my horse up there between October and March.”

Who knows everything about you: “Honestly? As often as we’re at each other’s throats I’d say Cripps. The old man has grown on me, even though I’d never admit it he’s become a good friend.”

Do you and your family get along: “Well, ma and pa died when I was real young and I never had siblings. Met a cousin bout ten years back, last I heard she was runnin’ shine in the Appalachian mountains. We got similar dispositions so I don’t hear from her, she leads a dangerous life so I try and tell myself she doesn’t write because she’s busy, not because she’s dead.”

Would you say you have messed up life: “Messed up? Guess that depends on your definition of messed up. This is all I’ve ever known, so it’s normal to me. Every now and again I’ll open up to someone at the bar or between pillow talk and they just...they give me the saddest looks. Maybe some people would say my life is messed up, but it’s just another day to me.”

Have you ever ran away from home: “When my folks died some of the locals tried to get me to stay at an orphanage, ran away from there. Too many rules, too many people.”

Have you ever got kicked out: “Sure, I been kicked outta bars plenty a times. I try to keep better standards at hotels, I enjoy a soft pillow and a blanket.”

[weepylucifer]

Let’s Go in the Garden - Ch. 3

Peter wants validation, David wants his boyfriend and Nightingale probably just wants a drink at this point.

I felt weird just leaving that situation as it was and going off to Bev’s, but there didn’t seem to be anything else for me to do, and it was nearing evening, and I did confirm I was going to be there for dinner. Besides, if anything else weird happened, I was sure Molly could hold down the fort.

I told Beverley the whole story, and she was... well, she was entertained, I guess, but I could tell something was bothering her. I sat down with her on the couch, tucked her feet into my lap and started to rub her ankles - she didn’t deal with much in the way of morning sickness, and she wasn’t showing yet, but apparently her feet were swelling like mad and it drove her to distraction - but that didn’t seem to be it.

“There’s two of them now,” she said when I asked. “That’s weird. We only ever dealt with Nightingale, and he was the only one left, and it was okay, and you’re fine, but...”

“Hey, thanks,” I said.

“You know what I mean. You’re not like the Nightingale, and you know I mean that as a compliment. But this other guy, his boyfriend or whatever... he’s going to be very Old Folly, isn’t he?”

I thought that over. I tried to remember what I’d been told about Mellenby before, the few scraps I’d gotten in passing from Nightingale and Hugh Oswald, and how that measured up against my first impression of him. It was inconclusive; there was just very little information. “Can’t tell yet.”

Beverley rested her head on my chest. “Ty won’t be too happy.”

I kept my thoughts on that to myself.

-----

I was woken in the morning by my phone ringing. Bev turned over in bed with an annoyed grumble and swatted her hand in my direction in an entreaty to do something about the noise, so I picked it up. It was the Folly - not Nightingale, who had recently taken to actually using his cellphone for convenience’s sake, but the Folly’s landline. This got me slightly worried, so I answered it.

“Yeah?”

I was treated to complete silence on the other end. There wasn’t even the sound of breath, or if there was, it was very quiet.

My worry mounted, because why would anyone pick up the Folly’s ancient bakelite phone, dial my number and then stand there in silence? Who did that sort of thing?

Then I tried, “Molly?”

There was a small scraping sound, like someone was tapping a fingernail against the receiver.

“Molly, what’s up?”

Tap, tap. If she was trying to morse her concerns, she wasn’t doing a great job.

Beverley had woken up properly by now, and peeked out from under the blanket giving me a look of confusion.

“Do you want me to... should I come over?”

Tap, tap. Tap. It seemed to grow in urgency.

“What’s happening, have they burnt the house down?”

Scratch. Scratch.

“I’ll be on my way... I guess.”

-----

The Folly was still standing when I arrived there, but something was very much amiss. Foxglove was waiting for me by the back door, and she gave me a silent, deeply troubled look that boded ill as she gestured for me to go upstairs. I headed for the breakfast room - surely Molly would have prepared a whole spread, and I hadn’t eaten anything yet, and I reckoned I was sure to run into Nightingale there.

The tension in the room was so thick you could have cut it with a knife.

Mellenby’s eyes were red-rimmed, his face blotchy. Apart from that, he cleaned up pretty well, I noted: cleaned and parted at the side, his hair was curly, surprisingly so for a white guy. He was wearing a rather ancient dark blue suit that he’d probably left behind here before going off to war and all the rest; many rooms within the Folly had simply been sealed off with their former owners’ possessions all still inside, as if they might come back and use them again. That suit hung a little loosely on him; I suspected he’d lost weight in the war and never gained it back, having spent the last seventy-odd years in a magical stasis. He was tucking into his breakfast with good appetite, but sneaking furtive glances at Nightingale. Nightingale was staring resolutely in the opposite direction. Molly was serving them coffee in the most passive-aggressive manner I had ever seen her serve anything, and I’ve been on the receiving end of Molly’s ire a couple times.

It’s not my relationship drama, I decided. No need to get involved. I simply plonked myself down across from them and grabbed a piece of toast. “Morning.”

“Ah.” Nightingale looked up in a masterful imitation of someone just now noticing the other people in the room with them. “Good morning, Peter. You’re here early.”

“Couldn’t pass up Molly’s breakfast, sir.” Just then, Molly happened to swish by behind him, so I gave her a grin. She repaid me with an arched eyebrow and a perfectly normal cup of hot coffee for my trouble. It felt sort of good to be the only one present on Molly’s good side for once, especially as Mellenby winced after one sip of his coffee and even Nightingale frowned after trying it.

“Very mature, Molly,” he said. “What even did I do?”

Molly glared at him, and then towards the carpet covering most of the floor.

“Oh, really? Because I burnt one tiny hole into the Axminster? No one but us ever sees that rug.”

“Molly probably puts a lot of work into maintaining the carpets,” Mellenby said quietly. “Especially since there’s no other staff here now. Let’s try not to drag her into this.”

Nightingale picked up the Telegraph and rustled it pointedly. “Oh, now he’s the gentleman.”

Mellenby’s eyes narrowed. “What are you implying, Thomas?”

“Can any of you pass the scrambled eggs?” I asked, still not getting involved.

Their hands bumped together as they both tried to reach for the plate first. (I steadfastly refused to roll my eyes.) Mellenby’s cuff hiked up a bit and I could catch a glimpse at a kind of cast-iron wristlet he now wore. I’d seen this before on Varvara. Did this technology really come from the Nazis?

He must have seen me looking, because he fiddled with it. “...Just wish you’d take this off me, is all,” he said sullenly.

“Not until the lab results are in.” Feigning perfect calm with only middling success, Nightingale picked up his pen and turned to the crossword. He took another sip of his coffee and for a second looked like he’d bitten on a lemon.

“Okay, I’ll bite,” I said, looking up from my eggs. “What is Molly pissed about, sir?”

“It’s nothing,” Nightingale said. “Events... may have transpired and I might have dropped some ash off a cigarette and lightly singed the carpet in the reading room last night, is all.”

I risked a half-grin. “Events?”

He shot me a look communicating he had seen and interpreted my facial expression and just so’s I knew, he resented the implication.

“There was a... somewhat heated discussion,” Mellenby cut in. (Meaning they’d been fighting rather than fucking.)

“Heated is not quite the word I’d use,” Nightingale said.

“Not quite? Thomas, it’s a miracle your voice isn’t hoarse this morning.”

“Enough of that.” Nightingale tapped his pen against the newspaper - he still hadn’t gotten started on the crossword yet. “Peter, when you’re done I’d like you to head downstairs and get some practice in while we wait for Abdul to call.”

I nodded and hummed something affirmative around a mouthful of food. Across the table, Mellenby’s face lit up.

“Oh, may I be of assistance?” he asked. “I always wanted-”

“No.” Nightingale lowered the paper. “I would rather read your exhaustive treatise on quantum theory - or whatever it was called - again than permit you to interfere with Peter’s studies in any manner.”

There was a second of quiet as we all digested that statement. Even Molly, who had been about to leave the room with some of the empty plates, stopped and stood in apprehension of what was to come, her shoulders rigid and drawn up almost to her ears.

Then Mellenby muttered, “I thought you liked that study.”

At last, Nightingale began filling in his bloody crossword. “No, it was dead boring.”

“It was my life’s work anyhow,” Mellenby said quietly. “Even if you never understood it.”

“And we both know where your life’s work led us.” Nightingale tossed the paper down onto the tabletop, where it landed with a thwack. “Your dangerous nonsense must not be encouraged, and I will especially not allow it to distract Peter.”

I wasn’t really loving being discussed in such a way, like I wasn’t right there at the breakfast table with them. It felt like being five again. But honestly, I would only get mad about that later. Right that moment, I was way too busy staring at them in rapt attention as they argued.

“Please, Thomas, don’t!” Mellenby got out of his seat looking hurt, looking slighted, and I knew he was going to cry again. “How can you say these things! You never used to... what happened to you? What happened to the man I fell in love with?”

I genuinely couldn’t believe what I was witnessing. Reader, holy fuck.

Nightingale also rose to his feet. “That was a hundred years ago, David. A lot has happened since then, some of which you even had the good grace to be present for. I was in a war, for starters, you might remember it.”

“Oh, I might remember it?” Up to this point, Mellenby had seemed soft, and sad, and apologetic. Now I could see he was getting peeved. “I came home from said war three weeks ago, and I slept for a while, and now here you are telling me a new century has dawned. I did not experience the eighty years since then, I have not had the luxury of time to heal all wounds.”

Nightingale’s eyes widened. His fist met the table, making me flinch and all the dishes rattle. “The luxury?” he asked. “The fucking luxury?!”

I had never heard him raise his voice like that outside of active combat. It broadsided me, but not as much as the f-bomb.

I got up and quickly downed the rest of my normal coffee, even if it was too hot and I singed by tongue a little. “I’ll be at the firing range, yeah? If you need me.” Then I made my escape, right past Molly, whom I tried to give a supportive and encouraging smile. I don’t think they heard me at all. I was halfway down the hallway when the first china dish shattered.

-----

Nightingale joined me at the firing range later, as I was just getting done chucking a few fireballs at my least favorite target. I don’t mean to brag, but I was pretty happy with how they were coming along in terms of speed and strength. Against a tank, my chances were probably still slim, but I was certain I was getting there. When I say ‘joined me’ I mean I ducked aside as Nightingale pulverized a few targets with uncharacteristic aggression. Soon we’d have to get new ones again.

“You’re making progress,” he said, and internally I preened a bit at the rare compliment.

“Thank you, sir,” I replied in a sufficiently casual and manly voice. “You just got done breaking dishes up there?”

He sighed. “I didn’t mean to break a cup. I’ll have to apologize to Molly later, and about the carpet as well while I’m at it. He’s right, we shouldn’t drag her into this, she’s done more than enough for us.”

I didn’t have to ask who he was. “Is it... wrong that I kind of do want to talk to him about his quantum theories?”

Nightingale gave me an impressive scowl. “When your apprenticeship ends,” he said, “you’re free to experiment in any way you see fit, even, I suppose, with David’s nonsense. But as long as I have a say in it, I would encourage you to master the correct use of the formae before you go on tweaking them and utilizing them for all sorts of frivolities. We must become familiar with the function of a thing before we can take it apart. Even David always used to hold to that.”

I nodded. I hadn’t really been expecting much else. “But what if he knows something that would be immediately useful? In a tight spot, I mean, or for a case.”

Nightingale looked at me, a little too wide-eyed. “I should hope not,” he said. “David ended up devoting most of his... inventiveness to the war effort. Not only would I empathically loathe to equip you with any of the nasty little spells he came up with, and dearly hope you wouldn’t find yourself in a situation fit to use them, but you would not enjoy possession or knowledge of them. Besides, it has been quiet.”

It was true, it had been rather quiet since Lesley had left me handcuffed to Martin Chorley’s corpse. She hadn’t been in contact lately, and she proved all but impossible to find. She might have left town, there was no way to tell. Besides, would I want to use a ‘nasty little spell’ on Lesley May? I’d rather not be faced with that choice, and I reckoned Nightingale knew that.

“We’re talking some sort of... battle magic,” I guessed.

“Close-combat practice, is what we said.” Nightingale crossed his arms, as if having to shield himself against a sudden cold. “Battle magic makes it sound so... heroic. I wouldn’t have you romanticize it, yes, it was mostly ways to kill. Multiple targets at a broader scope. Single targets at wider ranges, snipers and the such. At close range, quickly and painlessly, slowly while causing pain. The works. Many of these creations were volatile and messy, tenth-order or higher disasters. Nothing I’d want any apprentice of mine to learn.”

I frowned. I found I really, really didn’t want to think on ‘slowly while causing pain’. “A tenth-order spell on a battlefield? Who does that?”

“I,” Nightingale said simply. It wasn’t to showcase his talent. His voice was hollow, his eyes far-off and dull, looking back at something not here, something I was fairly glad I wasn’t seeing. “David was lucky to have me on hand.”

“Were you together through the whole of it?”

“Well, most of it. We did what we could to ensure we’d stay together, and command knew we made an effective team.”

I decided what the hell, I’d just go for it. I was curious. Mellenby had just been chucked into my life, no one had deigned to explain anything to me, and I wanted information. “You guys were in love love, huh?”

Nightingale huffed. “Quite. How would you like to try a new forma?”

It was a blatant attempt at distraction. A part of me wanted to fall for it. “How did that work?” I asked anyway.

“Clandestinely.” Nightingale rolled up his sleeves. “Why don’t we step over into the lab?”

We had just about gotten around to that when Molly appeared in the doorway, handing Nightingale his phone. If she still held a grudge about a broken cup, she didn’t show it, but she maybe handed the phone over a bit more coolly than usual.

“Oh, it must be Abdul with the test results. Thank you, Molly.” Nightingale answered the phone. What ensued was one of these situations where I stood there listening to Nightingale’s side of the conversation and entertained myself by mentally trying to fill in the gaps on Walid’s end. Which wasn’t all that easy, because Nightingale mostly said “Yes” and “Hm” and “No, that’s perfectly alright with me”.

“Well, the results are in,” he told me after he’d hung up. “They’re about what you’d expect.”

“So... he’s a completely normal human person?” I ventured.

Nightingale nodded. “Still, we should visit the cemetary, to make sure.”

It’s like you don’t want it to actually be him, I thought. What’s with that? I didn’t say it out loud. One does not simply psychoanalyze one’s boss. What I ended up asking was, “I thought the signare check was already foolproof?”

“To the best of our knowledge, it is,” Nightingale admitted. “But I’d like to tie up all loose ends here.” He sighed and leaned against one of the desks, and for a moment he looked... well, he never looks his age, but he looked weary, for a second. “Is that reasonable?” he asked. “I like to think I’m comporting myself reasonably, generally. But when it comes to this situation, I have my doubts.”

I opted for what I thought was safest. “That’s for you to judge, sir.”

“I appreciate your genuine insight, Peter,” Nightingale said. And sure, he looked past me at the ceiling as he said it, but it still totally counted.

I guess I must have looked or sounded surprised when I replied, “Do you, sir?” because he gave me a peculiar glance and said, “Yes, of course. You’ve had some very sound ideas while I’ve had you here. Your efforts are bringing the Folly into the modern world in a way I could never have executed and would never have thought to. Surely you must know that.”

“Sir,” I said neutrally.

“Oh, come now,” Nightingale insisted. “I must have told you that at some point.”

I cleared my throat. “Usually you say I’m easily distracted and accident-prone.” I grinned and tried to make it sound like a little inside joke between us, light-hearted banter, nothing serious. Nothing I was taking seriously. It probably came out wrong, and I felt silly about it.

Nightingale fiddled with his collar, looking almost a bit sheepish. “I have perhaps not been the most forthcoming in terms of positive feedback.”

He didn’t have to say it, but I knew he wasn’t a natural teacher. He hadn’t wanted to be, and it didn’t come easily to him. But he’d been - he was - the only one for the job. It really wasn’t worth dwelling on. “Here’s some honest insight, sir,” I said, “maybe the magical handcuffs are a bit much.”

“I don’t think they are,” Nightingale said. So much for incorporating my opinions. “We should not have a fully trained practitioner with David’s creativity and expertise running around unchecked whom we cannot fully trust.”

“Can we not fully trust your boyfriend, sir?” I asked straight out, and Nightingale shook his head.

“He’s not my... he was that. It was a while ago.”

“Then what is he?”

Nightingale took a second to mull that over. “He’s... his status is pending,” he said. “Now, I believe I was about to show you a new forma, so please focus.”

[mossyrossaliceinterviews]

Thao Nguyen Doesn’t Stay Down

Oct 8, 2020

By Mossy Ross

 Photo Credit: Shane McCauley

When I first listened to the title track off Thao & the Get Down Stay Down’s fifth album, Temple, I immediately hit repeat. After I finished listening to it the second time, I hit repeat again. And then again. And then again. I had a teenage urge to learn all the lyrics, so I could sing along at the top of my voice while cruising down the road. The song describes the pain of losing a home to war, an experience many of us haven’t lived through in America, and yet I still felt a deep personal connection with the song’s powerful message. Perhaps because this country is currently facing such extreme civil unrest, so the thought of experiencing war firsthand is increasingly becoming more real. But the song also touches on the turmoil we can sometimes feel in our own family lives as well. Thao Nguyen seems to be a master at crafting albums that exquisitely make complicated and painful matters a bit easier to bear.

Thao recently won a Sunny Award by CBS Sunday Morning (my most favorite of all morning shows) for the music video to her song “Phenom.” Not only is the video wildly creative and entertaining, it conveys an intergenerational rage that’s finally being collectively realized. It’s the rage of someone who has discovered it’s okay to feel sick of constantly being at the bottom of the ladder, and the message should strike fear in the hearts of corrupt politicians everywhere.

As if a timeless and timely new album and an award winning music video weren’t enough, I was triply astounded after watching the documentary Nobody Dies (available to stream Sat., Oct. 10), which follows Thao on a journey with her mom to Vietnam. The trip was Thao’s first visit to Vietnam, and her mom’s first time back since fleeing the country in 1973. It was a chance for Thao to see her mother in an environment where she wasn’t defined by being a refugee, as she often is in America. In both the documentary and the album, Thao paints a picture we don’t often see in American popular culture: the perspective of a child whose parents have lived through and escaped war.

Mossy: I watched your documentary, and it was such a beautiful tribute to your mom. Is there anything about your mother’s life and experiences that really stand out for you, that you think Americans could learn from?

TN: When I wrote Temple, it was because I wanted to offer a different narrative and rendering of someone who experienced war, and the idea of what a refugee is. And obviously in recent years, maybe throughout American history, how refugees have been reduced and the narrative that has been relayed. I think it’s really important to remember that there’s a distinction between an immigrant and a refugee. And also that someone is not just defined by this war that happened to them and their country. I think that’s why Temple was so important for me. I really wanted to capture my mom’s life before, after, and during; and just help enrich that community. I was raised in Virginia, and growing up, it was so stark the way people treated (refugees). I think that parents that are refugees or immigrants witness a lot of incredibly unfortunate encounters, where their dignity is dismissed. You watch your parents be dehumanized in either casual ways, or really serious ways. So this was one of my efforts to address and make peace with that.

Mossy: When I was watching your documentary I found myself smiling. And then I got to the story about your dad and I just started bawling. What parallels do you see between your father and the patriarchy at large?

TN: That’s an interesting question. My record before this one was about my dad. It’s called A Man Alive, and it’s just about our nonexistent relationship and all the bullshit. But what I started to understand when I was making that record, was just a facet of what it is to be emasculated in American society. And what that means for the families of the men who are emasculated. And I think that you see that a lot, especially in immigrant and refugee homes. And others, I mean, I’m only speaking from my experience. But what does a man do to assert power when he feels as though he’s denied power in society? I think it becomes a really personal and intimate, familial problem. And you know, it helps me understand his experience and what unresolved trauma that basically debilitates him, and renders him an irresponsible, reckless person. Patriarchy in general…I do think so much of it is people not knowing how to grapple with the expectations of masculinity. I could go on. (Laughs) I’ll just say it’s so detrimental in every direction, because if you’re not masculine enough, you will pay and then someone else will pay. And if you feel as though you’re  not respected enough, then the ways that men feel pressured to illicit that respect in our society is so deadly.

Mossy: You said in the documentary that when you went back to Vietnam, it helped you understand your dad’s temperament. That you understood it…but you didn’t. It’s like saying, “I do understand where you’re coming from and I empathize, but I don’t accept how you’re treating me because of it.” Which I feel is kind of where true healing from trauma can begin. How else do you deal with trauma?

TN: Well there have been different waves of awareness and lack of awareness of what I needed to be doing. I mean, I’ve done the typical things like drinking. (Laughs) I think touring helped. I’ve spent the majority of my adult life on tour, and it’s a refuge. But it also allows you to not deal with anything for a really long time. You could go your whole life without dealing with things. Of course, songwriting and making music. And really wanting to go there lyrically by being more specific with lyrics. Okay, and then therapy. But as far as music is concerned, I think it’s been really helpful to have these songs and talk about them, even under the auspice of promotion. But it’s also just connecting with people and talking about the songs. These levels of vulnerability make for a lot more humane experience. When we play live shows , if people get a chance, they’ll come up and tell me what a song has meant. And it really is so heartening and gratifying, and part of the healing.

Mossy: So you’re saying drinking didn’t work?!

TN: (Laughs) I still do it, so I’m not saying it doesn’t. Just don’t go crazy!

Photo Credit: Shane McCauley

Mossy: You have such a wonderful vocabulary, so I’m guessing you like to read. Who are you favorite authors?

TN: Thanks for saying that. Writing and reading favorite authors are how I prepare the albums and the songs. And when I’m writing songs, I never listen to music, and I only read. But I love, oh man, I grew up reading Toni Morrison and her way with language and the vivid pictures she paints and the way she renders people. Grace Paley is another writer who’s style I love. Marilynne Robinson. George Saunders. I typically am drawn to contemporary literature. And now there’s a lot of reading to be done to learn about how America has become what it is. And to that end, Octavia Butler and James Baldwin really influenced the writing of this record.

Mossy: So you’re like Kurt Cobain over here, writing songs inspired by literature.

TN: (Laughs) I wish I had a cool sweater.

Mossy: Ah, he had the best sweaters.

TN: He had the best sweaters.

Mossy: I saw on your Instagram that you support women prisoners and Critical Resistance. Why are you specifically interested in these causes?

TN: With the California Coalition of Women Prisoners, I’ve been involved with them since 2013. Originally it was because a housemate of mine was an amazing organizer, and has been with them for years. And I was home from tour for awhile and he asked me to join this advocacy group, where we went in to prisons and visited, and we were part of a legal advocacy team. So the album, We the Common is entirely about and in tribute to these people who live inside, and this organization.

Mossy: Do you need to have a law degree to do that? I wanna do that!

TN: (Laughs) You totally can! No you don’t have to have a law degree. So the people like my friend…they don’t officially have a law degree. They just know so much about the system, because they’re constantly trying to help people figure out their parole, and how to get their face back in front of a judge. So we went in conjunction with a lawyer. We were just a team that was basically working with a pro-bono lawyer.

Mossy: You mentioned connection and live performance in your documentary. How do you think the musical performance landscape is going to change since the pandemic?

TN: I don’t know what’s going to happen to the venues as they exist now. I don’t know what kind of modifications or concessions they’ll have to make. So I do think that there will be more unconventional and nontraditional venues that come up by the time we’re ready for crowds to gather. And I think there will be more multi-use spaces and art institutions and contemporary art museums. More of those kind of hybrid events. I don’t know what’s going to happen in the rock clubs. It’s so sad. But I do think that we were barreling towards a reckoning. And I liken the music industry to the restaurant industry in a lot of ways…how thin the margin is for survival. And I think people will play smaller shows, because they can happen more quickly. And I think there’s going to be a lot more direct to fan engagement. And those who have a preexisting fan base will lean more into those fans, and be less concerned with expanding.

Mossy: It’s almost like what’s happening in the music industry is symbolic of what needs to happen everywhere. More localizing and community building.

TN: Totally. And I think Bandcamp is going to take an even stronger role as leaders of a more ethical model. I think what’s happening right now with streaming services is, ah, (laughs) unbearable.

Keep up with Thao’s music and the organizations she supports on Instagram at @thaogetstaydown Stream the documentary Nobody Dies this Saturday at https://www.youtube.com/user/thaomusic

[bryonysimcox]

Cutting, calling, sticking, sitting, subtitling: Week 15, Spain

With future certainty and concrete plans nowhere in sight, this week’s blog post is in praise of the mundane. Seven days of everyday life.

When prepping for this blog entry, I started panicking. What’s the overarching message? The big-picture mood of the week or the lesson I’ve learnt? Well this week, there isn’t one. It’s been seven days of everyday life and I reckon that’s worth celebrating too.

We’ve been pitching for some exciting work this week.

I can’t talk about the specifics, but it’s heartening to be actually planning and quoting for real-life projects that could bring in real-life money and real-life experience. We pretty much work on Broaden as a full-time venture anyway (regardless of if it makes us money), so when prospective clients reach out to Broaden to ask us to do more of what we love, then that’s a bonus.

I guess that’s the beauty of filmmaking, it’s so broad and its potential is so great that it can be valuable for a whole lot of people. I also think in the coming ‘new normal’ as countries, cities and communities come to adapt life around Covid-19, that the role of video and online streaming will shift, and perhaps become a more central element in our lives.

I’ve also been working away at editing the video we started filming last week about Economics for a more just and equitable world. It’s starting to take shape, though there is a lot of refinement needed (I’ve cut 150 minutes down to 30 minutes but still have a fair way to go!). Working on this video is also bringing about a newfound challenge of how we make videos like this visually stimulating, when they predominantly feature digital interviews and we can’t film footage out and about due to lockdown. It’s forcing us to get more creative with motion graphics, which is no bad thing.

In what is the culmination of a longstanding project, we also interviewed Rich Evans about The Foundations in New South Wales this week.

‘The Foundations’ is a truly extraordinary project/place in Portland, a tiny town about two-hours inland from Sydney. I first discovered the project when I worked in Australia, and the company I worked for, RobertsDay, was involved in a masterplanning process. Portland was established around a cementworks which went on to not only be the driving economic force behind the town, but also the backbone of the community. It was a source of civic pride (cement from Portland famously went to Sydney amid the building boom, coining it the phrase ‘The Town That Built Sydney’), and also helped establish social infrastructure like the swimming pool that is still a celebrated destination in the little town today. Sadly, as the cementworks decreased in scale and eventually closed in the nineties, it had a huge impact on the town.

(images) Scenes from January 2019 when we started filming at The Foundations, Portland NSW.

Back at RobertsDay, I had the pleasure of working on the masterplan and placemaking work for the next chapter of the cementworks, and I immediately fell in love with the place. Not only was it this incredible place of industrial heritage, but the owners actually wanted to transform the site into something really special - a tourist destination, an asset to the community, and a revitalised part of the town. From its current state - fenced-off, closed, and perhaps even an eyesore, the owners wanted to introduce artwork, markets, community gardens, museum collections, fishing and camping, weddings, concerts and a whole host of other things.

It was obvious that there was a story about The Foundations that deserved to be told, and so in January 2019 George and I spent a weekend there, filming local residents, business owners, and the wonderful Rich Evans, ‘Chief Reactivation Officer’ from The Foundations. This was before we’d even launched Broaden, but we were passionate to use filmmaking to document the transformation that was taking place there. However, over the course of 2019, other things took centre stage in our lives and we never got around to editing the final film.

And so, in lockdown here in Spain, we decided it was finally time to close off this story. Just this week,we called Rich over Zoom and asked him all about how things have progressed since we last visited Portland. Rich is a larger-than-life character who had so much good stuff to report (an artist in residence, growing market attendee numbers, new custom-designed public furniture, and the renovation of a central historic building which involved the removal of 1000s of bees!).

In a strange way, I’d originally thought of this hiatus as a weakness for our film, but it now has added another facet to the story: giving Rich a chance to reflect on progress at The Foundations and show viewers how much is possible in the space of a year.

Making collages serves as respite for the mind.

I return to my collage practice as a meditative practice, and a restorative one too. It’s something I do when I want to clear my mind, and use a different part of my brain from the video-editing-zoom-calling-analytical-planning side of my brain.

That said, the last few paper collages I’ve made have felt like a bit of struggle, and I’ve felt rather uninspired. The collages are never meant to be a forced thing, but instead something visceral and playful, but in recent times they’d stopped being that.

Until this week! This week, inspired to make a collage for my mum’s birthday, I started getting my boxes of magazines and compiled sheets out, stuck my ‘Making Collage’ playlist on, and somehow just found my groove. Shapes and forms shouted out to me, and I was more preoccupied with the mood of the pieces than perfection and precision. I was drawn to more ambiguous textures and the way that they could be layered, and what started as one collage ended up being a series of three (the other two of which I’ll later publish this week).

(image) The collage I made for my mum’s birthday, ‘Flirtatious Textures’.

Whilst I’ve feel as though I’ve found my swing with collage-making again (and have been also considering embarking on some critical writing about my creative process using academic texts for reference), this week I had a piece rejected. I’d made it to enter into a competition, and when the rejection email landed in my inbox this week, the usual heart-racing pangs of inadequacy entered my mind. Not only had I lost money on the entry fee, but my work was ‘unwanted’. I’ve spent some time facing those demons these last couple of days and reminding myself that I make my work for ME.

So if that’s the cutting and sticking, and the zoom interviews were the calling, what’s the sitting and subtitling this week’s post refers to?

We’ve been doing a lot of sitting. Sitting and staring, sitting and watching the sun set, sitting and reading books, sitting and checking Instagram, sitting and feeling guilt for sitting, sitting and swatting mosquitoes away (it’s rather hot all of a sudden), sitting and eating crisps, sitting and calling friends, sitting and laughing, smiling, frowning, thinking.

(images, left to right) Everyday scenes from the cottage, cutting and sticking, and a lot of sitting (as demonstrated by George!)

It feels totally bonkers that as we face a global health pandemic, all I’m drawn to do (or able to do) is sit. And George and I have certainly discussed the guilt, lack of motivation, boredom and soul-searching that’s grown (and comes along with sitting!) in recent weeks. I’m not sure if there’s some grand benefit to all this sitting, but it has called for the enjoyment of many a good book, and also a good phonecall.

One of the most joyful moments (spent sitting!) this week was surely the video call I had for my Granny’s 80th birthday, between my mum, my brother, my aunt and my Granny herself. There were laughs and cheers, ridiculous filters used and lots of talk of birthday booze and plentiful cake. But after the call, there were also moments of reflection and of gratitude; that we are able to celebrate together (albeit digitally) for the momentous milestone that is my wonderful Granny’s eightieth birthday, as she sits alone in her house in Scotland, is a blessing. Of course, I would have loved to have seen her in person, but I am so bloody grateful that we can connect to her even if just through the airwaves.

Birthdays in May seem to be a common occurrence in my family, and this week saw my Mum’s birthday too. Again, there was a sense of loss that unsurprisingly, I couldn’t be with her due to coronavirus (a fact made worse by the fact I don’t think I’ve been with my Mum on her birthday for about five years), but we were also able to chat and videocall. And I was also able to go back through my photos, reflecting on wonderful times shared across the years.

(images, left to right) Looking back at memories with mum - as a child in a sling, on our trip to Sri Lanka in 2018, and at the exhibition opening of ‘Talking Sense’ where one of her sculptures was displayed at the Portico Library last year.

Access to computers and the internet, free time to sit and chill, and family who are safe and sound is not a privilege everyone shares. And I am so aware of that.

I continue to think of the inequalities this pandemic is highlighting, and the gaps it is widening. Access to the fundamental elements for a just and equitable life are basic human rights, and yet as BBC newsnight’s Emily Maitlis reminded us, 'The disease is not a great leveller'. If while I’m sitting this week, I can at least read, watch, learn and share ideas about how we can tackle these gaping inequalities, my sitting was perhaps not in vain.

As our fifteenth week on the road drew to a close, and looked ever less like life actually ‘on the road’, I decided to take on the task of subtitling The Hundred Miler.

Initially, the only motivation to create comprehensive subtitles for Broaden’s thirty minute documentary was so that we could enter foreign film fests. And even then, we’d have had it professionally subtitled if we weren’t looking for ways to save money!

And so I naively embarked on what was to become a two-day odyssey involving Artificial Intelligence transcript detection, manually correcting the script, learning about timecodes, downloading .srt files and working to integrate them with YouTube.

The long and short of it is that The Hundred Miler (which also hit a whopping 100,000 views this week) now has complete ‘closed caption’ subtitles which you can use and enjoy on YouTube! But more than that, through conversations with others I realised the importance of subtitles from an accessibility perspective, as a critical tool to help deaf and hard-of-hearing people, as well as those for whom English isn’t their mother tongue. It was a refreshing reminder that we exclude people without meaning to, but that we can also actively include them if we take certain measures.

So that’s it, Week 15 in all its mundane glory. To those of you who are still here, reading my reflections on these strange and tumultuous times, thank you. Maybe this week you’ve been cutting, calling, sticking, sitting and subtitling too, and for that, I salute you. 

[mrsjaycaycapz]

I think this has been the most creative I’ve been all social distancing! I’ve been mostly in my bed in PJs taking three online classes, get a certificate for public health, finished my internship and trying to keep up communication with friends. Coloring and reading has been my safe haven. My goal is to read 100 books this year. 

I at first was hesitant doing this “books as outfits” challenge, but when my friend send me the challenge and thought of me, I felt very touched and inspired to combine my love for Filipinx literature and what I think is good fashion taste LOL. Most importantly I hope people are inspired to read these powerful stories AND to purchase some of the clothing and accessories I’ve added onto here, each picture has an article of Filipino hand-made accessories or clothing (support local). I never really saw myself as “fashionable” but my friend Mory has always pointed out that she likes my style. Maybe I just don’t think about it a lot since I try not to shop clothing because it’s too much money LOL. 

Lumad coloring book- A project by Salupongan InternationalLumad refer to the indigenous peoples of Mindanao which accounts for 61% of the indigenous peoples in the Philippines. Like the indigenous minorities across the world, they continue to suffer from poverty and landlessness. The impacts of extractive industries and climate change challenge their survival.This project aims to raise awareness about the lumads whose life and ardent struggle are beautifully expressed in the patterns woven on their clothing and jewelry, etched on their knives and wooden carvings, and whose brave defense of their land and life have inspired the images in this coloring book.The proceeds of this project will be wholly dedicated to the education of lumad children who yearn to be able to read and write, save their community schools and strive for the survival of their people.

Everlasting Nora - An uplifting young reader debut about perseverance against all odds, Marie Miranda Cruz's debut Everlasting Nora follows the story of a young girl living in the real-life shantytown inside the Philippines' Manila North Cemetery.After a family tragedy results in the loss of both father and home, 12-year-old Nora lives with her mother in Manila's North Cemetery, which is the largest shantytown of its kind in the Philippines today.When her mother disappears mysteriously one day, Nora is left alone.With help from her best friend Jojo and the support of his kindhearted grandmother, Nora embarks on a journey riddled with danger in order to find her mom. Along the way she also rediscovers the compassion of the human spirit, the resilience of her community, and everlasting hope in the most unexpected places.

Patron Saints of Nothing -A powerful coming-of-age story about grief, guilt, and the risks a Filipino-American teenager takes to uncover the truth about his cousin’s murder. Jay Reguero plans to spend the last semester of his senior year playing video games before heading to the University of Michigan in the fall. But when he discovers that his Filipino cousin Jun was murdered as part of President Duterte’s war on drugs, and no one in the family wants to talk about what happened, Jay travels to the Philippines to find out the real story. Hoping to uncover more about Jun and the events that led to his death, Jay is forced to reckon with the many sides of his cousin before he can face the whole horrible truth — and the part he played in it. As gripping as it is lyrical, Patron Saints of Nothing is a page-turning portrayal of the struggle to reconcile faith, family, and immigrant identity.

Magdalena - Cecilia Manguerra Brainard's second novel, Magdalena, presents the stories of three generations of women in the Philippines against the backdrops of the Philippine American War, World War II, and the Vietnam War, but Cecilia doesn't spoon-feed extensively-drawn out narratives about the horrors of war. She relies instead on offering intimate personal profiles of individual characters. The novel has received favorable reviews from critics and academics, and it has been reprinted by the University of Santo Tomas Publishing House.

Kalinga Dinayaw Necklace

 Vinta Butterfly sleeves top is no longer avaialble but please take a look at Vinta’s clothing, all hand-made/woven in the PH. 

Up-cycled bracelet and necklace 

Pink Earrings Currently out of stock but check out their store anyways 

[walkerduchess]

A Game of Hearts - Prologue: Promised (The Royal Romance AU)

Pairing: Drake x MC [Liam x MC]

Notes: I feel I must introduce myself since I don’t really post much original content here. So... hi! This is the prologue to a The Royal Romance fic series situated in an post-apocalyptic AU. This is the first fanfiction I’ve ever written and English is not my native language so I’m a bit scared! It’s big, so I had to make it a series. Usually I just make stories in my mind and work on them there but this one wouldn’t get out and I just had to get the details out, so I beggined to write it down. At first I felt apprehensive because I don’t really have many followers and honestly I have no clue if anyone would be interested in a post-apocalyptic story. Regardless, it’s been fun to write it and I figured if one person reads and enjoys it then it’s worth sharing! So if you do read it, I would really like to know what you think!

I do not own these characters, they belong to Pixelberry.

Summary: Decades after the only survivors of the end of the world started building a new realm, a young princess has to deal with the role assigned to her by her ancestors.

Word Count: 2912

Prologue: Promised

The ten year old is restless in her seat as the voice of her tutor fades into background noise. Her eyes are desperately searching for anything interesting enough to catch her attention. Not that she doesn’t care for history lessons, but she has too many of them. And this specific one - about the prophecy that came with the end of the world - she swears she could lecture it herself for the numerous times she heard it ever since she was born.

"Your Highness." She fidgets with the strings in the waist of her dress when she notices a pause in her tutor's voice and realizes he is addressing her.

"Yes?"

"Have you been paying attention?"

She’s annoyed by his question, but replies politely as she knows she should. "Yes Mr. Frederick."

“Then I suppose you wouldn’t mind repeating what you learned today for Dominic here.” The tutor motions to the teenage servant who just walked in the room with a jar of water for them. The boy’s eyes widen and his cheeks turn pink, but finally he approaches the table and gives the girl a smile. She knows Dom, he is funny and always lets her get away with whatever unadvised activity she conducts within the castle. The girl returns the smile and is about to complain about how Dom already knows the history - who doesn't? -, but right before any words can come out, the older man interrupts, looking at the door “But unfortunately I believe it will have to wait.”

The girl looks across the room. It is sort of empty, with only one bigger table, the tutor’s chair opposed by two other chairs, one on which she is seated. The walls, as well as the floor and ceiling, are stone-gray and filled with maps and notes, some of them relics from the world of before. At the door stands her governess, a lady the girl reckons to be something between 40 and 50 years old, announcing she came to escort her to her chambers to get ready for her sword lesson.

“Why do I have to go anyway? Liam doesn’t go.”

“Prince William has private sword lessons”, Mr. Frederick corrects her.

“Why though?” She insists, getting up from her seat.

“Because he is a prince”

“Well I’m a princess.”

“No. You are the crown princess of Cordonia. And the Promised Princess of the Last Prophecy. It’s other people’s duty to keep you safe, not the other way around. Even so, it is important that you know how to defend yourself as well, during these days of war.”

“I thought the prophecy said that the Promised Princess would bring salvation and peace.” she defies. She can recite the prophecy by heart. She knows every word. She has to, after all. But there are so many things she still doesn’t understand, the words aren’t clear about anything. She doesn’t understand how the council of holders determined that she was the Promised Princess, or that peace will come from and for the North kingdom out of the four kingdoms built after the resurgence. Well, three, now that the East kingdom celebrated its allegiance to the North, originating the united kingdom of Cordonia. She doesn’t even understand why they are at war for so many years now.

The tutor scowls at her “You are much too young to comprehend all things.” With that, the man closes with a thump the book in front of him, as well as the subject.

She actually adores her sword lessons, out of so many lessons she has since young age - archery, history, diplomacy, engineering, physic. Although she is best at engineering, she prefers her sword lessons solely because she can be with friends there. She thought about telling them the truth, who she really is, her real name, several times, but her mother reminds her everyday how important it is that it remains a secret, for her safety. As she follows the governess  through the halls of the old castle, her mind drifts back to her first day of sword lessons.

"I know, I know. I'm Elia and not Sophie."

Queen Aurora gives her a stern look, but the princess knows her mother is just worried about her. With no cause, she thinks. Her mother is always loving and concerned, differently from her father, the King, who is always strict and distant. "And what if they ask you who you are?"

"I'm Bert and Max's cousin."

The older woman raises her eyebrows, as if waiting for more.

"On our mom's side. I know all this, mother!" Her tone is pleading for the questioning to end so she can join Max, her real cousin on their father side, to go to her lesson.

“Good.” The woman gives her a smile. “Go, then.” With that, the girl smiles before running out of her chambers.

Young Lord Maxwell is already waiting for her by the castle doors. He is her age, about her size and has his usual playful smile on. He is Sophie's best friend, she knows him since forever and they always have fun together. They often get in trouble together too. Sophie runs to him but as soon as she opens her mouth to speak, she hears a voice from beside her cousin.

"Shall we go?"

It’s her other cousin. Maxwell's brother, Bertrand. He is about four years older than Sophie and Max, and used to play with them, but not anymore. He says he doesn’t have time for children’s affairs. ‘Utterly boring’, is how Sophie would define him. He was assigned to take both the children to their lesson in the yard just some blocks outside the castle limits, so they don’t have to get a car to get there. 

Sophie doesn’t get to leave Stormholt Castle when it can be avoided, so she takes in the view surrownding the pathway to the yard. She notices the big metal fences outlining the way and how the grass outside of them looks different, brown and too short. She considers asking the reason for such contrast, but decides it’s better to stay quiet until she gets to the lesson. It’s not like anybody explains anything to her.

Once there, Bert mutters some sort of farewell and disappears. Sophie is excited to finally be around some more kids. There are about a dozen of them, each one with different patterns drawn on their faces, all holding their training swords and waiting for the master, a man sitting in front of them, to begin the lesson. All around the yard there are guards securing the location for the class.

“You’re new”, a freckled girl approaches her. Her hair is red and she looks so beautiful, Sophie thinks. For a moment she wishes that she, too, had red hair, for she has never seen it before. Three other girls stand behind her, as if an audience for wherever she goes.

“What are you looking at?” The girl asks.

“Nothing.” The scolding tone from the girl is enough to make Sophie annoyed by her, so she just walks past her and her followers to stand beside some other girls.

“Hi” she says, hoping they are more pleasant.

“Hi”, a slim girl with dark brown hair answers. “What’s your name?”

“Elia”, she is prepared for that question. “And yours?”

“My name is Hana, this is Kiara and this is Penny”, Hana motions to the other two with her hand.

“So who are your parents?” Kiara asks.

“Kiara!” Hana exclaims with wide eyes. “Quit the rudeness with the new girl”.

“What? We’re all holders here, everybody knows that. Well… almost all of us are.” She gives a quick glance to the direction where Max is chatting with a boy she doesn’t recognize.

“My mother is Max’s mom’s sister.” Sophie tells her rehearsed lie.

“You’re Max’s cousin?” Penny jumps in the conversation, with a sudden interest.

“Yes… why?”

“Oh, he’s just… funny, I think.” Penny’s cheeks get pink.

“Well, children”, their conversation is cut short by the loud voice of the master, “Get in your positions, the lesson is starting.”

Sophie walks back to stand next to Max, who is excitedly holding his sword up.

“Hey Soph- Elia! You’re gonna love this.”

Sophie gives him a warning look. He knows better than to screw this up by revealing who she is to anyone.

-

She indeed loved the lesson and was congratulated by the master afterwards. The red haired scowled at it, it is clear that she is one of the very bests amongst them.

The princess starts making her way towards Max, who is again with the same dark haired boy from earlier, talking beneath the shadow of a undergrown tree, the only surviving tree in that yard. However, the red haired gets to them quicker, along some other kids.

“When are you going back to cleaning the grounds and leave the fighting for the real holders?”

“Stop pretending you’re one of us, settler!”

As she approaches, Sophie hears some kids speaking down on the unknown boy. He looks angrily at the ground and Max tries to pull him away. She furrows her brows, wondering why they’re being so pointlessly cruel.

“Hey!”, she shouts. “Stop this absurdity at once!” Her voice is full of authority and she realizes she sounded just like her governess when she catches the princess in some wrongdoing.

“Seems like the new girl thinks she’s in command”, one of the kids says.

The girl with the red hair frowns at her and stands in front of her. “Who do you think you are?”

Oh, if she could only tell her… “My name is Elia. And you are…?”

“I don’t need to tell you anything… Elia.” Her judgmental eyes scan the new girl head to toe as she pronounces her name.

The princess looks at the other kids that were also being mean to the boy, “What has he ever done to you?”

“Are you another prince’s settler protegee to be in his side too?”, The girl asks with a disgusted look.

Sophie had never been disrespected like that, nor had she ever seen anyone be humiliated for apparently no cause.

“Are you really so miserable that you need to belittle others so you can feel superior? Because I thought I heard you claim your nobility.” Sophie knows how to be mean, too. She can see that the girl was not expecting her answer by the shock in her face. “Didn’t really catch your name” the princess adds.

Then, finally Max is able to elaborate words “Don’t waste your time with Liv.” He starts pulling his cousin and the boy to a corner of the yard.

The red haired glares at him. “It’s Olivia”, she states, anger in her eyes.

Walking away behind Max and the dark haired boy, Sophie looks back to shoot Olivia a smirk and mischievous eyes “I’ll call you Liv.”

When they distance themselves enough, the unknown boy finally says something. “I didn’t need your help there.” Sophie raises her eyebrows.

“Come on Drake, don’t need to be ungrateful with her.” Max speaks up.

Sophie is finally able to give the boy a proper look. He’s a little taller than Max, slightly tanned skin, just like hers, and his dark hair falls messily upon his face, almost touching his eyes. His eyes are a dark shade of brown, not caramel like hers or blue like Max’s.

“Are all the kids in this class unpleasant, Max?”

“I’m sorry, Drake is not very good at making new friends.”, Max states.

Drake looks even more peeved than he was before. “I’m not.... it’s just… thank you.” He looks defeated, although he can’t hide a small smile “It was enjoyable to see Olivia put in her place.”

“Wasn’t that hard, was it... Drake?” She speaks his name with a smirk and a newfound curiosity. “Why were those kids talking about you being a prince’s protegee?”

That evening, Sophie sits in her bed, with a book in front of her. She is inside her chambers waiting for the right moment to sneak out. Her parents won’t let her out during open events, they say it is far too dangerous. It’s been a couple of years since she discovered the secret passageway behind the fireplace in her chambers, so she can come and go without the guard outside her door noticing she left.

Once she’s out, the girl silently occupies her usual spying spot. She looks down at all the people that came for the festivities but her eyes are searching for one in particular.

She spots him with his back against one of the walls of the front hall, and a man, which she recognizes as his father, speaking to him in what seems to her quite a rispid tone.

The girl gets up quickly and makes her way to the kitchens, where she knows the servants will be busy enough with all the food for the guests to notice her petite figure sneaking out of the castle through the back doors. She makes her way around the castle and stops right outside the main hall’s front window to leave her message there, and runs towards the side gardens.

When Liam notices the small horse-shaped piece on the window in the front of the main hall, he feels conflicted. He really doesn’t want people wondering where he is. Yet, when he catches himself, he’s already standing by the window, chess piece in hand. It’s not like he’d been able to ever tell her ‘no’. He wonders how someone ever could. As he slips through the doors he feels a little embarrassed to be giving in to some plotting of a ten year old. Not that he’s much older, but two years made a big difference at their age. He really doesn’t feel like she is younger when he’s with her, though. Actually, sometimes she would have him lost in the midst of so many ideas and other times he would be unable to understand her or read the expression in her eyes. He doesn’t know if tonight will make any difference in that matter, but it’s been a while since he had come to Stormholt Castle, and he doesn’t know when he’ll return.

Sophie finds Max already in the maze and feels a little jealous. She wonders what would be like to be able to be seen at festivities and roam around the castle freely during open events or meetings.

“Finally” Max speaks. “Did you manage to tell him?”

“Of course.” she states, matter-of-factly. “I don’t know if he’ll come though” The girl answers, slightly disappointed. She doesn’t say it out loud, but she hopes Liam will show up. She wants him to be her friend, not because he is a prince, not for the reasons the other girls her age brag about when they get to meet him in some formal gathering or festivity. She yearns to be close to someone who will understand her. She wants his friendship because he is the Chosen Prince of the Last Prophecy. They are in this together, they have to be. She is going to marry him after all.

“Hey” Liam’s voice startles her.

Turning around, she smiles “Thought you weren’t coming.”

“I’m here.” He sounds serious, as he always does. She wonders if he ever had fun. Or maybe she’s not like a proper princess should be. Maybe that’s why she feels uneasy with Liam, like she can't just say what she wants to say or he won’t approve of her. However, he gives her a smile and hands her the chess piece.

She extends her hand and takes it back “So you got my message right.”

“Yeah. Why are you the knight anyway?”

“Because I don’t like following a straight line.” She smirks.

Her answer manages to get a chuckle out ou Liam, so she felels good about it. “Of course not. Would you care to tell me why am I the rook then? I hope it’s not because I’m dull”

“You’re not dull, you’re just… steady, I think.” She doesn’t really know how to explain her choice.

Liam furrows his brows “I guess that’s… better than dull.”

“What?” Max interrupts “He gets to be the rook? Why am I only a pawn?”

“Oh Max…” the princess giggles “you should feel lucky you are my pawn.” Liam joins her and they both laugh.  

“Are we going to play something or just stand here in the dark while you make fun of me?” Max inquiries.

“Yeah, why is it so dark here?” Liam asks, looking up at the big lamps that rise above around the gardens, turned off.

“Something about the generator.” Sophie shrugs “Someone is going up there in the morning to fix it, I suppose. It’s a separate generator from the castle, that’s why there are lights there.”

“Well then…” Max begins, impatiently.

“Have you any ideas, Liam?” Sophie interjects.

“Um… I used to play maze tag with Drake all the time back at Thorngate Castle”

Sophie smiles at the idea, but somehow she feels it would be more fun if Drake was there too. “Why don’t you ever bring Drake to these open events?”

“I would, but he never wants to. He says he can’t endure being around so many holders.”

“Heh” Max giggles “That is what Drake always says.”

She feels slightly disappointed, but then what is she thinking? She only sneaks out to see Max and Liam because they already know who she is. It is too risky for other kids, the ones who know her as Elia, to see her here, in her home.

Her parents spare no efforts to make sure other holders or settlers who aren’t servants or guards at Stormholt Castle don’t know who she is. People outside their small circle of trust cannot acknowledge what Princess Sapphire Aurelia looks like. Not during the war, and not until she is old enough to be able to fulfill the prophecy. That’s why it comes as a surprise to all of them when, twelve years later, she disappears.

[themarchblessing]

ENFRENTAR LOS ECHOS

SABRINA

Leaning back against the wall of the bathroom floor I clutched my head in both hands panting heavily. I’ve been having the worst case of morning sickness telling me everything I already know. After that trip to Vegas I started to notice little changes in my body that I didn’t put much thought into at first. By me being so dismissive of these new changes I now have an idea of the direction I’m headed in.

“Stupid..so stupid..” I muttered to myself. I glanced around my bathroom stopping at the beautiful white roses in the vase pushed into the corner. I love every flower arrangement that comes to my office and the house. Even after everything that happened Corey hasn’t given up on me. Just thinking of him forced my hand in front of my face where I sighed at this beautiful ring in my finger. I can’t take this off. I tried to the night of the party after everyone left. I sat in my tub with a whole bottle of wine just staring at it. The arguments I made with myself in my head went on for two hours but the effort to take this ring off was pointless.

This man really does love me something serious. I’ve accepted the news that my best friend and new found fiancé is Izaiah’s father. The truth is always hard to outrun and this is one truth that is too emotionally draining to deny. Getting up off the floor I closed the toilet lid and once again brushed my teeth and washed my face. So far this morning I’ve thrown up twice yet I’ve eaten nothing. But I know in my right mind that this sickness has nothing to do with food consumption. Once I finished cleaning myself up I looked at myself in the mirror clutching the sides of my glass bowl sink.

Dressed in only a flannel I pulled the sides apart turning my body from side to side. There it is. That little bump that I experienced so many years ago is back on my body. I’m still in denial of course. I can’t bring myself to say the words aloud. Running my hands over my abdomen I slowly traced the rounded shape protruding from my semi petite figure, feeling myself about to cry. “Sé que estás ahí..” I whispered dropping my hands and dreadfully going to my closet to find something to wear.

It’s time for me to stop wallowing and put my big girl pants on. It’s also time I get out of the house and get some fresh air. In five minutes I pieced together the simplest outfit. A white long sleeve shirt, a random hoodie, black joggers and a pair of the most comfortable sneakers I own today. My all black Yeezy’s. Moving to the bathroom again I played around with my hair choosing to not bother with it any further. I’m in no sort of rush at the same time I really need to get out of this house. I need to see him. As I went back into my room and rounded up my chapstick, my credit card, some loose cash and change I reflected on my last month alone.

I pretty much turned into a hermit crab during this time. When Corey first admitted that he hijacked my first pregnancy I was dumbfounded. The anger inside of pushed me to hurt him like he hurt me by not telling me that information sooner. So I cut all ties with him. I’ve ignored every phone call, text, email, voicemail, etc from him alone. He held onto the truth about his relation to Izaiah for three months and never once brought it up. We’ve spent countless time together since we started messing around so him saying there wasn’t a right time to tell me was a lame excuse. The news has settled with me very well now. I’m content knowing that Julian has no reason to be in our lives any longer. He’s now just a part of the past. I’m also content knowing that Corey and Izaiah have formed their own special bond this year. I don’t think he’s a coward. His actions were just cowardice because of how he went about the situation.

I left home without bothering to eat as I have nothing that will keep my nausea at bay. Off instinct I grabbed my car keys but I think I’ll take the train today to Brooklyn. Catching a cab was easy. I gave the driver my destination, settling back into the seat, cupping my little belly not knowing how I’m gonna tell Corey my own piece of shocking news. The buildings, street vendors, random people, and numerous pigeons made me emotional. Everything makes me reflect on my feelings and my life. I miss my daddy so much during times like these. All I want is to be held by my father and listen to him talk for hours. Hell, being wrapped up in my mother’s arms would be just as nice.

The cab stopped so I paid the driver, remaining mute as I exited the car and walked underground to catch this train in time. I found a good seat and thankfully not many people were riding this morning. On the outside I look blah and on the inside I feel the very same way. The ride to Brooklyn went by quickly leaving me little time to fall asleep. In no hurry I got off the train and walked the remainder of the way to Corey’s building. The city is slow moving along with everyone and everything in it. Society is a true reflection of how I’m feeling on the inside. I feel like I’ve drawn myself into my own thoughts too greatly.

I made it to Corey’s building seeing a valet guy walking toward his post to scan whatever was on the podium. He looked up to see me walking and rerouted himself to open the main door for me. I gave him a soft smile as a nonverbal ‘thank you’. Upon entering the lobby I could smell the clean scent of pine sol somehow putting my stomach at ease. The scent is so calming I stopped and took a seat just to enjoy this smell for a bit longer. After I had enough I continued my journey upstairs. The elevator was empty making me happy to be alone. Pressing his floor number I leaned against the wall taking deep, slow breaths. My mind traveled back in time to the first time I met Corey. As a little girl I thought he was the cutest thing I’d ever seen.

It was his eyes and his kindness that drew me in. I’d grown up around too many mean ass boys so to find another kid my age who was genuinely kind all around blew me away. He invited me to his house that very same day and introduced me to his parents as his new best friend. His mother laughed and so did I. I just kept thinking how funny it was to be labeled this strange boy’s new bff when we had just met. But I went with it and every day since aside from my move back to Cali, Corey has been there for me. He was and still is a force to be reckoned with. My love for him stems so deep that those who don’t know us will never understand the history we share. In many ways I think of him as my first love because of how often he was there for me when I needed him even just as my friend. He was in my life before Ravyn so his meaning to my life and the woman I am today is too complex to share in one conversation.

The elevator doors opened with me stepping out onto the freshly waxed tile floor. That same clean smell is on his floor putting another smile on my face. Shoving my hands into the pockets of my sweatshirt I dragged myself down to suite 317, knocking on his door as soft as I could. I backed up and used the opposite wall for support waiting to see his face. It’s been a good minute and I know the second I lay eyes on him I’m gonna lose it. I stared at his door for a few minutes and then I saw him. Just as I said minutes earlier I lost it. I didn’t make a sound though. My free flowing tears rolled down my cheeks while I remained silent.

He didn’t speak at first. He just stood in the doorway breathing heavily dressed in pants that matched mine. His socks are from this little store we stopped at in Vegas. They’re red and blue. His favorite colors as a child. When he stepped into the hallway and reached for me I cried harder, covering my face as he engulfed me in such a warm and loving embrace. A hug from him is something I’ve missed dearly. And he smells good. He smells like my baby. My oldest baby. I uncovered my face and wrapped my arms around his shirtless body getting lost in every flashback my mind brought forward.

Even in front of him I can’t think of how to start any sort of conversation. I just want to be held.

“I’m sorry.” He muttered, gently cupping the back of my head and squeezing my shoulder that was being held by his hand. “I’m so sorry.” He repeated, kissing the crown of my head. Nodding in silence I inhaled his scent, rubbing my fingers against his back longing to feel more of his skin on mine. Sex is what I also miss. I have never felt so safe in the arms of any past lover and going this long without that type of security has crippled me. “Come inside.” He sniffled, leading me in.

The faint traces of weed, Izaiah’s body wash, and a third item I can’t put my finger on filled my nose making me shake a little. A breeze hitting the back of my neck gave me chills. I removed the ponytail from my hair letting it go whichever it pleased. It’s been quite some time since I’ve been here. I feel like a stranger.

“Is he sleeping?” I spoke in a low and soft tone turning around to face him.

He nodded, pointing to his bedroom where I began to walk toward. I stood in the doorway watching our son sleep on the same side that I used to when I spent countless nights here. Seeing him so comfortable here even without me bringing him here made me laugh faintly.

“Ravyn?” I asked feeling Corey standing right behind me. His hand ran over my hair easily, bringing me the same comfort as his hugs do.

“Yeah, she brought him by a few days ago. Are you okay?” He quizzed, not ending his play session in my mess of curls and waves.

Turning to my right I looked up to him from an angle disagreeing with his question. “No.” I sighed. “I’m sorry I cut you off and for keeping you away from him. I shouldn’t have done that.” I nodded surely. “That wasn’t fair. Regardless of what happened I should have never kept him from you.” Exhaling briefly I turned around going to sit on the couch. Corey sat next to me, throwing an arm behind me head. The act opened the door for me to lean on him if I wanted and I did. Being under him filled my insides with butterflies.

“I understand why you did. It hurt me but I never faulted you for it.” He laid a hand on my thigh, caressing the area with care.

“How are you?” I asked this time wanting him to know that I’ve been concerned about his well-being.

“Better now.” He replied. We sat in silence for a while lost in our own thoughts. Rain began to fall to my surprise setting a mellow mood in the air. “Zay told me you’ve been sick.” His words made me remember that it is I who has to come clean this time.

Sitting up to see his face full on I nawed on my bottom lip feeling my hands shake. The words won’t come out but I need them too. A deep rooted piece of me is scared he won’t react the way I need for him too. I recall the way he responded the first time when I told him I wanted to have a baby via sperm donor and he kind of flipped out on me. This time is much different though and I can’t keep this from him much longer. “I’m pregnant..” I said feeling a burden lift off of me.

“I know. I figured that out while he and I were talking the day she dropped him off..” He chuckled softly and deeply. When I locked eyes with him I did the same.

Again silence loomed over us. “Can I see?” He wondered with full blown curiosity. I could smell it. I could feel it in my bones that he wants physical proof.

Rising to my feet I emptied my pockets getting my things beside him. Next I grabbed the hem of my sweatshirt and pulled it up over my head, my hair moving about in different ways. Throwing the jacket over the couch I tucked my hair behind my ears as he sat forward. His hands were on my hips guiding me in between his legs. My heart raced in my chest as Corey lifted up my shirt. I held onto it as he lowered the waistband of my pants to get a full view.

“This is crazy.” He gasped peering up at me for a quick second. I watched as he dragged his fingers all over my bump in total fascination. My face shifted from anxious to happy. Again my senses are in overdrive and my brain assumes he’s happy. Or at least he’s not upset.

“Corey if you don’t want to go through this with me I understand.” I broke my silence just as he hit me with a smirk.

“Don’t give me that lame ass ultimatum like I’m that nigga. I want to be here for you. I’m going to be here for you a hundred and ten percent. I still want this if you do..” he said softly grabbing my left hand and holding up in the air between him and I. “My feelings haven’t changed baby. Not even a little. I still want to make us work. You, me, Izaiah and this little one.” I grinned from ear to ear as well as shedding a few tears watching Corey coat my baby bump in kisses. The act made me tingle and it sparked an arousal.

Getting turned on by such an innocent act wasn’t in my plans but the slightest bit of intimacy flipped that switch inside of me.

“Is this turning you on?” Corey chortled airily, sliding his hands up the back of my shirt.

“Yes..” I moaned a little too loud. Typical Corey he gave me what I wanted without having to ask. I focused on his touch, his kisses and kept an ear out for Izaiah. His affection shifted from my stomach to the sides of my hips. I kicked off my shoes using both heels since I forgot to do so when I first came in. Dragging my toes along the carpet I tipped my head back making eye contact with the grey colored ceiling.

“Hold on.” He hesitantly uttered, halting his movements.

“No don’t stop. He’s still asleep. He hasn’t even moved.” I plead shooting my head back down locking eyes with him. That cocky ass smirk had me so wet it’s not even funny. I watched as he loosened the strings on my pants tugging on them eagerly. Air hit my bare skin as he stuffed his face in between my legs. “Mm yes..my god.” I groaned keeping my voice down. Crushing my bottom lip with my top row of teeth I dropped my head forward and then backward.

Even though I’m standing versus sitting or laying on my back the sensation is all the same. My back then touched bases with solid material. I looked up to see Corey coming out of his room with a key in his hand. He locked the door from the outside, coming back to join me on the couch. Eagerly yet with no quick movements he discarded my pants and my socks setting them on the table. Sucking on my inner lip I gathered all of hair and fanned it out behind me.

“You still want this? Do you still want me?” He inquired. Corey tucked his fingers inside the sides of my panties, tugging and pulling until they were no longer in the way.

“Yeah.” I breathed tucking my hands under my head patiently awaiting our reconciliation after a month apart. I spread my legs enough to let him fit perfectly in between them. He lowered his body on top of mine, motioned for me to sit up. My shirt and bra came off next leaving me fully naked and hornier than I can fathom. I haven’t gone to see my doctor or even taken a pregnancy test to confirm my thoughts but I know I am. There’s also no doubt in my mind that Corey is the father. The first time at Brian’s party opened a whole new can of worms for my sex drive. That night also brought us as close together as anyone could imagine. Before this month long drought we had always made time for sex. Anytime we were alone or anytime we were together we made time for us.

Biting my thumb nail I gave Corey all of my attention loving the way he teased me. According to past partners I’m notorious for being a major tease. The chase gives me a rush. And there’s no other greater feeling of joy being toyed with by the one you love.

“Corey I love you.” I blurted out tickling his lower back with my toes. That reconnection of his tongue against my slippery folds feels amazing. He licked me up and down from my clit to my ass making me squirm from pleasure. “Que se siente tan bien..” gasping lowly I took in a deep breath sinking into the couch.

“And I love you too.” He told me with confidence. He pushed my legs further apart getting down to business. Throwing my head down I put an arch in my back rotating my pelvis against his face. His tongue curved in various directions inside me sending me over the edge already. It’s still early on in our makeup session but I’m ready to explode now.

“Yo también te extrañé. Seguir haciendo eso, que se.” Turning my head up to watch him again I raised one of my legs pushing his head down further. Having a man that’s good to me in so many ways is indescribable. He’s sweet, caring beyond measure, thoughtful, nurturing, protective, funny as hell and a damn good lover. “Mierda, mierda, mierda.” Panting quietly I very quickly glanced at his bedroom door listening closely to any possible movement. None. Izaiah’s still out cold.

“Focus on me.” He ordered scaring me a bit. I didn’t know he was watching me. I obeyed like a good girl not wanting to upset him. Before I could get me next sentence out he enclosed his mouth around my clit sucking on it ravishingly. Two fingers in my pussy turning tricks like I’ve never seen before and the tip of his thumb in my ass. Can you say life changing?!

Mouthing a string of expletives I rode his face wanting more and more. “Ooh I’m gonna cum.” Shaking and squirming to adjust myself Corey slapped me on the ass and dug his nails into the very spot he hit.

“Not I until I tell you to.” He ordered once again. Wetting my lips I sat up a bit and threw one leg over the back of the couch.

“Babe I can’t hold it,” I cried out swirling my hips in a circular motion. I screwed myself with that move but it feels so good. I looked down to see him backing away and sitting up and scooting down to the floor. He used his foot to push the table back, taking his sweats off. He took my hand to help me stand, positioning me just over his face. Pushing my hair back by the bunch I felt my own residue drip down the side of my leg.

“Come here,” he motioned. My entire body relaxed and shivered as he went right back to licking and sucking on my lady parts. Needing more support I held onto the couch whining slow enough to hold back on being the first one to tap out. Knowing me I probably will anyhow. “That’s my girl. Work for it baby.” He groaned, taking my waist hostage. He helped me, encouraged me to dance and ride his face anyway I pleaded.

Parting my lips I flipped my hair to one side changing up my speed. Groaning and biting down on my fist I used my free hand to touch my abdomen. I can’t wait to see our baby grow so I can stare at my belly in bliss that our family is expanding. Having more kids after Izaiah never crossed my mind as a solid yes or no. My mom has asked  me a few times would I have more once I settled down with a good man but my answer was always the same. Now that I’m pretty sure that I will be having another baby I’m so anxious to see what my mom has to say. I know she’ll be proud that I got pregnant the right way. She too, like Corey at first, didn’t agree with my method but eventually she came around.

“Sí..ahí mismo papi. Hazme venir.” I moaned itching to do something with my hands. Bringing one to my mouth I coated my fingers in spit going down to touch myself. “I love you so much..” I moaned not able to stop the tears. Slowing it down to let him guide me in ways he likes, I snuck a glance at him too pleasing himself.

His slippery tongue is so wonderful to me I don’t think I can ever spill details in conversation with my girls. “Baby,” I called out to him in despair. “I really can’t hold it anymore.” I shook all over with pleasure and passion seconds from going against his words.

“Don’t do it Sabrina, don’t you fucking dare.” Corey warned shaking his face from side to side. The slaps he sent to my ass were mildly painful but so satisfying.

Sucking my teeth that I can’t get what I want I listened again. Five more minutes of unbelievable oral and this time I would have to just say fuck his rule. “Jesus Corey please let me cum. Por favor, permítanme venir..” I begged. I felt Corey get out from under me when I turned to see him kneeling behind me I knew I was in trouble.

“I said no.” He laughed darkly, going right back in for more. He devoured my ass sloppily, using only his hands to play with my pussy which is oozing with cum without me having any control over that. “Quieres más?” He asked sending my vibrations all through me.

“Sí, papí quiero más...quiero más.” I nodded in excitement. Corey halted all his movements, took me by the hand and assisted me to my feet. My legs trembled as I followed him to what I initially pegged to be his bedroom. But in fact he showed me a secret entryway to his ensure. The bathroom door closed behind us as he pointed for me to go into the shower. Still I did what I was told. The sound of the water resembled rain. I stepped in and left the door cracked moving under the water taking care of my hair first.

Corey’s hands touched my shoulders massaging them wonderfully. I groaned and moaned from his touch loving every second of this make up session.

“You had enough yet?” Corey spoke in my ear, trailing his hands down my frame ending their journey at my waistline.

“No.” I shook my head laying my hands on top of his.

“Do you think we should talk to him together? You know about everything that has happened and where this is going?” He asked seriously, turning me around.

“Yeah I think we need to. I’m more than positive he has an idea and I know he figured out what that fight was about when he talked to you the day you left. But I think a formal conversation is needed. What did he say to you?” Running my hands over his hair I guided him back to sit down. I sat his lap ushering him to get back to rubbing my shoulders.

“He flat out asked me if old boy was his dad and I was honest and said no. I had already kept the truth from you I couldn’t do it again to him. He’s been addressing as me as dad in a few ways since he got here. I think he’s comfortable with it now.” The smile that crept up on his face touched me deeply. “I like that he calls me dad. It makes me feel good.”

Izaiah feeling comfortable enough to address Corey as who he is will make that talk a bit easier. He already knows the truth but he needs a backstory. I’m still not ready to have that talk with him about how he got here because I don’t feel now is the right time. He’s only seven and I don’t want to fill his head with the knowledge on sperm donors and the specifics of my pregnancy journey before and during. I can wait until he’s older to talk about that.

“We are telling him about the baby right?” Corey asked, gliding his hands down my back.

“Of course. Might as well get it all out in the open. I do the best I can to always be honest with Zay. I really do and you being you I know you’ll always be real with him too. I’m no worried so much about you.” Corey and I had a deep conversation of our own getting our skeletons out of the closet. I apologize once again for sleeping with Julian and not telling him once we became an item. He apologized to me for his arrest and CPS temporarily taking Zay away. After we our talk we got back to making up for lost time. The man wore out! I’m now staring at my mess of hair wondering what I should do with it.

“Mommy?” I heard Zay say from nearby. Turning to the doorway between Corey’s bathroom and bedroom, hugging the wall. He looks so sleepy.

“You okay baby?” I asked backing away from the counter. I walked over to Zay and led him over to the bed. Sitting down first I scooped him up and placed him on my lap.

“My head hurts. I think I have a migraine.” He huffed deeply.

Chuckling at his quick self diagnosis I curled my legs up sitting Zay in the center. Fixing his clothes I studied the small details of him now seeing how much like Corey he truly is. I can’t believe I never noticed these similarities sooner and dios mio I can't believe this.

“Where does it hurt?” I spoke in a soft tone stopping him from scratching his forehead. Running my fingers over the area I gently massaged his scalp with the pads of my fingers.

He pointed to his temples, visibly relaxing the longer I attempted to help relieve some of his pain.

“How did you sleep?” Hearing noise in the kitchen I glanced over at the door.

“Good. Dad’s bed is really comfortable.” He mumbled, reaching out to fiddle with the three buttons on my shirt.

“Yeah I like his bed more than mine.” I agreed seeing Corey walk in with his phone in his hand. “Everything okay?” I quizzed meeting this wandering eyes. His focus bounced off of a number of places in the room. He looked to me last with his face settling to a much calmer state.

“Yeah. Trying to get a hold of Brian and my pops. I got a lot of missed calls, unread texts and voicemails I’ve ignored.” He said standing on the side of the bed opening the top drawer to his bedside table. A dry laugh came from me as I just remembered that I’ve ignored just about every phone call. The only person I spoke to over the phone was my mother because I have to and I wanted to. With her health issues and her being alone out in Cali I have to make sure she’s alright. “Wanna do it now?” He muttered quietly setting his phone down and sitting behind me.

I watched him stretch out and use a pillow to support his head.

“We can.” I nodded.

“What’s going on?” Izaiah’s skepticism never ceases to amaze me. Nothing gets by this little boy.

“Your dad and I have some stuff to talk you about regarding our family and the changes that will take place in the future. For starters, there’s our relationship.” I started. I reached behind me to touch any part of Corey to let Zay know who I was referring to. He just stared at me, focused and listening. “I’m not sure when but daddy and I are planning on getting married. And I know you know what a wedding is.”

“Two people who kiss after saying ‘I do’.” He uttered, playing with his socks.

Corey and I laughed at his blunt definition. “Yeah pretty much.” I confirmed.

“And the other thing is that you’re gonna be a big brother. We’re gonna have another baby sometime this year. Are you okay with that?” Corey cut in.

“Two babies?” Zay asked with one eyebrow arched and wrinkles in his forehead.

“No just one new baby. So it’s gonna be me, your mom, you, and your brother or sister.” Corey sat up and wrapped his body around mine. I melted against his chest and shut my eyes momentarily feeling safe and serene.  

“When is he or she going to come out?” He continued to press.

“We don’t know yet. Mommy has to go to the doctor to find that out. You got anything you want to ask?” Corey laid his face against my neck engulfing me in his arms. His hands hovered over my little bump.

“Are we gonna live together or do we have to switch houses everyday? I don’t think that’s a good idea if mommy has a baby in there.” Izaiah rubbed his little hand over my stomach protectively.

“Um..” I paused looking at Corey from an angle. “We haven’t talked about that yet but you’re right about going back and forth between here and our house. But until we figure out a solid place for us all to be together, we’re gonna have to make do. That means, when daddy comes to pick you up from school you’ll probably come back here but you’ll be at the house at night time.” I explained already thinking of what to do about our living situation.

“More than likely Zay I’ll be at the house until we can work this out. I don’t want have you guys going back and forth. But we’ll figure something out, don’t you worry about that. Isn’t that right mommy?” Corey quickly pecked the side of my face making me giggle.

“Yes and when we do get this sorted out you’ll be the first to know. You wanna see?” Lifting my shirt up under my chest I leaned back some so Zay could have a full view of his new siblings home.

“The baby is in your tummy?” He gasped quietly, perching up on his knees touching and squeezing my skin. My bump is small but it’s noticeable considering I got back into shape after Zay was born.

“Not quite. But he or she is in there. The baby is in my uterus which is the part of a woman’s body that houses the baby until they’re ready to come out. This little bump will get much bigger over time, you’ll see.” Tucking my hair behind my ear I too joined in on his rubbing session.

“A uterus?” He pronounced funny. “What an odd name.” Zay took things a step further and kissed my abdomen making me begin to cry. Everything makes me emotional these days. I hope this doesn’t last the entire pregnancy. Corey got a call from his dad and he got ripped two new assholes. His mom and dad were both so angry with him for how long he’s ignored them that I felt bad and started crying. Obviously. I wanted to jump in and save him but he handled the situation well.

He’s such a gentle hearted man but he’s not one to play with in the same token. He’s my ideal definition of my dream man. Zay stuck around with me for while in the bedroom helping me fold some of Corey’s laundry, we watched a movie on Netflix, and eventually I fell asleep. When I woke up I heard the boys in the kitchen having a blast. I’ve been laying in bed for the last fifteen minutes trying to get up but I can’t find the strength.

Blowing out a sharp breath I pushed the covers back and began getting out of bed. My body broke out in chills and when I looked at why I was wearing I laughed at the little clothing I bared. Walking into his closet I flipped the lights on looking for a T-shirt and some of his shorts on to put on since my clothes are in the machine.

Slipping into the smallest shirt Corey owns I then found some of his sweats and socks to match. I left the room altogether to go see what these boys are up to. I made my entry instantly smiling at them goofing around. Zay was sitting on the counter in just his pajama pants, eating something I couldn’t see. Corey was doing the same thing showing Zay some interesting on his iPad.

“¿Qué están haciendo ustedes chicos?” I announced earning the attention of them both.

“Watching a movie. How did you sleep?” Zay asked clutching what I now see is pizza. I took in the scent of mushroom and chuckled quietly to myself. Corey is forever trying to get everyone he knows on board with having mushroom on their damn pizza. He couldn’t get me on that train but clearly he worked some magic to get our little boy on it.

“I slept okay. Whatcha watching?” Going around the island I leaned into Zay resting my head against him not putting all of my weight on his body.

“The Green Lantern. Your mom called while you’re asleep. I told her I’d have you call her back.” Corey said standing up straight. He handed Zay the iPad and roped me into his embraced.

Breathing calmly I wrapped my arms around him. “What did she say?” I sniffled feeling slightly light headed.

“Not a whole lot. She wanted to know if you were alright and that she got your package, whatever that is.” He shrugged kissed my forehead. Swallowing that familiar taste I closed my eyes briefly counting to ten. I got my breathing under control but then then nausea came. Very calmly did I excuse myself heading straight for the bathroom.

I made it to the toilet just in time to throw up straight stomach acid. The feeling burned my throat so badly I started coughing and dry heaving. Not wanting either one of the boys to see this I flushed the toilet with more vomit coming out of me. This nausea is a pain in the ass! It never fails to creep up on me. This is the first time I’ve gotten sick in the evening and now I know I need to go get this pregnancy confirmed ASAP.

My hair being gathered and secured out of my face told me I was no longer alone. I used my body to shield the toilet itself feeling weak and tired.

“This fucking sucks..” I moaned closing my eyes. Corey rubbed my back in large, slow, gentle circles warming me through the shirt.

“I’m taking you to the doctor tomorrow after Zay goes to school.” Corey stated sternly. Nodding in agreement I spit out the horrible taste in my mouth and flushed the toilet one last time. I sat still for a minute letting my body settle before standing up.

“What if this is a false alarm?” I asked fearing the worst.

“Don’t think like that. But if that’s the case, I’ll get you pregnant for real and I won’t miss.” He joked. Softly punching his chest I brushed my teeth in a lazy manner. Corey made me get back in bed and then he got dressed. I would ask where he’s going but I don’t have the energy. When he left the room and came back with Zay full dressed too that’s when I had some inspiration to speak up.

“Where are you going?” I sniffled hanging over the edge of the bed with my cheek squished against the pillow.

“Get you something to ease your nausea and something to eat that won’t upset you. Zay get my keys and wallet.” He said disappearing into his closet. Izaiah did as he was told meeting his papa by the bed. There are no words that can explain how beautiful it is to understand why Zay and Corey have such a strong connection. They’ve always made me smile when they spend quality time together in front of me and even away from me. But now I get fully enjoy my son and his father bond.

“We’ll be back baby. Stay in bed please and just relax.” Corey fitted his hat on his head to his liking, bending down to kiss my cheek and forehead. “I love you B.” He mumbled, swiping my scar.

“Hurry back. I love you too.” Silently begging for one more kiss I got what I wanted and Zay was next in line to comfort me.

“Stay in bed mommy. I mean it.” He scolded, kissing my nose and squeezing my exposed cheek.

Chuckling at his goofy behind I gave him my love watching the leave me alone. Since they’re out for the time being I figured I’d call my mom back. I’ve got a lot to tell her and I’m wondering how she’ll take it all. But there’s only one way to find out.

[letthehatersbark]

hello~ can you still remember your wanna one mbti typing post? may i ask if you guessed their type based on the cognitive functions? if yes, can you elaborate? thanks in advance!

Hi!  I actually forgot I made that post. (From WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 30, 2017!)

I just found some notes I made on it at the time.  Yes I definitely use the cognitive functions for all my typings (most of which can now be seen at @theunit-mbti ) so here we go:

Jisung:  ESTJ

Jisung is one of the people I am the least certain of, actually.  On my original notes, I actually crossed out ESTJ and put ESFP, which is different other than being on the Te-Fi axis.  I’m pretty sure that Jisung uses Te, because he definitely thinks out loud and uses external methods to process his thoughts.  I think he has Fi because he cares about individuals on a personal level and in order to understand them links them back to his own struggles, etc.  I reckoned he was a sensor rather than an intuitor but in the end decided he possibly showed more Se than Si, but I’m still not sure.

Sungwoon:  ESTP

Cheeky, fun, manipulative Ti-Fe axis, but also that Ti-Fe ExTP thing of caring HUGELY what other people think of him while at the same time wishing that he didn’t.  Don’t think his lines of thought are tangential enough to be an ENTP.  

Minhyun:  ISTJ (or ISFJ)

Similar to Jin from BTS - they really always reminded me of each other, right from BTS’ debut.  Feels like he has surpressed and controlled Ne.  Concerned with order, and tidiness, to the extent that he will group-tidy (strong, boss-like Te).  Happy to lead, in a systematic fashion.  A somewhat “boring” intellectual.  Not as exciting as some of the other members (Si/Te) but quite clear-cut and to the point (Te).  However, has a sensor’s understanding of what is situationally appropriate.

Seongwu:  ENTP

I have seen Seongwu typed as an “annoying ESFJ” recently, which is interesting because an ESFJ has the same functions as an ENTP but in a different order.  I get this, because he always wants to please people and amuse them, which shows strong Fe.  But he is also more manipulative of a crowd’s engagement (Ti-Fe) than an ESFJ would be, where a manipulative ESFJ would simply manipulate emotions.  Hmm not sure that makes sense but he’s definitely an extrovert with strong Ne and Fe.

Jaehwan:  ISFJ

I wrote ISFJ/ENFP in my notes.  Not really sure which because they are two of the types I know really well from being an ISFJ myself and having lots of ENFP friends.  He would be in my friendship group tbh, but because I can recognise qualities from him that link with both myself and my ENFP friends, I’m not very adept at picking out from that what he is.  His messiness might indicate more ENFP than ISFJ though.  (But the ENFP nature of wanting to be good to your friends and make them happy makes him fine with adapting and improving e.g. when Minhyun wants him to.)  Also think he may show more signs of Fi now than Fe.  His Ne use is obvious.

Daniel:  ESFP

Since that post I’ve seen Daniel described by others as “a boring/generic ESFP”.  He is quite a textbook ESFP, in fact, perhaps the most ESFP-ish ESFP in the whole of the kpop world that i can think of at the moment.  He reacts quickly, he enjoys fun things, he sleeps easily (no nagging Ne thoughts) he is self-motivated, he can put haters behind him and move on with his life.  I think he’s quite a healthy ESFP tbh (unlike someone like EXO’s Baekhyun or Myname’s Seyong).

Jihoon: INFP

I feel like I’ve written up a summary about Jihoon before but I can’t find it.

He’s an interesting one who I’m kind of intrigued by.  He’s introverted.  He is weird and “random” in certain situations and moments (Ne).  But he is SET on his dream and by God he was DETERMINED (Fi).  He was the only one who I felt in the competition on PD101 S02 was actually aiming as hard as he could for first place (Te:  “I outworked you all!!”).  But I ditched the idea of ISTJ, although I guess he could be.  It might depend on his enneagram, which I’m just trying to get to grips with.  He’s darty, jumpy, unexpected, and cute though, which I link with Ne.  I really like him for more than just his looks.

Woojin: ISFP

I don’t know any ISFPs in real life (I think // that I’m close to) so this is always a bit of a hard one to explain.  Definitely an introvert, slightly slower than an ESFP might be, but still ready to react to any situation and go with it (Se).    Hmm.  Kind of hard to tell what’s going on in his mind (Fi).  All the Se stereotypes like being a good dancer/performer lol.  The “Se-stare” is definitely in use as well.

I also considered INTP for him, but I think ISFP fits better.

Jinyoung:  INFJ

Most people type him as INFJ, INFP, or ISFJ.  On my notes, I have him written as INFJ/ISFJ.  He says too many direct and plain statements for me to think INFP anymore, and was actually starting to consider ISTJ.  I think he’s also a bit colder than most INFPs are (not that he’s cold exactly, but he’s not overflowing with need for companionship;  he’s more independent than the average INFP from my experience).  I thought he had Ni because has has that sort of ability to pull a conclusion out of nowhere.  But then again, a lot of his statements are drawn directly from factual information which he’s just relaying at a particularly profound point in time.  I thought he had Fe because he was particularly good at listening to what other people thought was a good idea and fitting in with them.  He also cares what people think about him which can come across in his vain moments.  I’m not sure about him really, probably even less sure than Jisung.  I’d need to study him again.  I originally thought I got that “INFJ vibe” from him but almost a year later and suddenly I’m not so sure.

Daehwi:  ESFJ

This was the easiest one.  I usually have no trouble spotting ESFJs and he stood out to me immediately.  His mother-hen like nature (Fe), in spite of being a youngling.  His panic in situations where people aren’t getting along (Fe).  He seems more Si-like than Ni-like and definitely prefers to deal with the real (Si) rather than the abstract (N).  Very attached to his mother, almost protective (Fe).

Guanlin:  ISTP

Almost another mystery but sigificantly comparable to Jungkook.  I wrote INTP/ISTP/ISFJ on my notes for Guanlin, which is roughly what I originally thought for Jungkook.  ISTPs are also difficult for me to type because I’m not friends with any IRL, much like ISFPs.  However, I think Guanlin uses low Fe, because he responds to other’s emotions more significantly than his own immediate ones;  he can have kind of emotionally delayed reactions;  he can be quite analytical, suggesting Ti; and I’m sure he has Se over Ne.  He can read situations very well considering his slight language barrier.

Ok so none of these are definite or set in stone!  The ones I’m most sure of, however, are Daniel and Daehwi.  I hope this helped, and thank you for the question.  More discussion on the topic welcomed!