#i drew it without reference tho so what should i have expected

[chromatic-colors]

I got a wacom tablet thingy for christmas, so I’ve been trying to learn to use it right. This is the first actual drawing I’ve done with it. It’s also my first Love Live drawing. I should’ve used a reference............

[leighsartworks216]

Sodomy

Damien x male!DA!reader

IT'S FINALLY COMPLETE Y'ALL GAMIEN IS HERE

I did not proofread this and I'm not going to until I decide to read this again late at night and cringe at all my mistakes

Edit: I fixed some spelling errors and changed a few minor things here and there to make it flow better so it has officially been proofread 👍

Warnings: internalized homophobia, religious trauma, lowkey emotionally abusive parents (only hinted at tho), old timey sodomy laws, googled 20s slang

Word Count: 2915

Slang Reference:

Wise head (wise-head): A smart person

Stuck on: Having a crush on

Masterlist

Oftentimes, Damien missed his old university days. Back then, his responsibilities didn't stretch so far. His parents had been breathing down his neck for so long, expectations as high as a Heaven he never believed he would reach, that university had been his only escape. His parents influenced his career choice, as it was them who pushed him into a politics major. But once his sister left, his eyes were opened, and he distanced himself from their wishes so he would have room to grow into a better person.

He’d also met you during this time.

Somehow, you both just clicked. Where one was, so too was the other. Perhaps it was this closeness that drew out feelings in him that had long been repressed, by his parents, priest, and even himself.

Homosexuality was a sin. At least, that’s what he was raised to believe. Why should you think any different? Sexuality as a whole in this day and age was changing and evolving, but… Sodomy was still a serious crime. If he or you were accused, you’d both be ruined, surely.

Damien was sleeping rough. He hated to admit it, truly, but his mind was focused more on you than his work. How could one attend meetings and prepare speeches when you existed?

As he got ready for the day, his mind began to wander. He kept it under control, for the most part, but then he imagined you fixing his bowtie, smoothing out his lapels, and he had to rush to pick up those few minutes he wasted staring dazed in the mirror. Then, as he was grabbing a mug from his cabinet, his hand had subconsciously begun to grab a second one. He went without coffee that morning.

-

“Damien?”

His head shot up, tearing his attention from the paperwork on his side of the desk to where you were sitting across from him. You’d taken up residence in his office today, using the other side of his desk to file court cases and shuffle folders around. Your brow was furrowed, face laced with concern. A lump formed in his throat as he thought of how cute you looked like that.

“You’ve been staring at that graph for a while now,” you observed. A sly smirk crossed your lips. “Does our mayor need help with his paperwork?”

It was hard not to get used to your teasing after so long. And yet, somehow, even as he rolled his eyes and shuffled papers around, he could feel his heart fluttering against his ribcage and a warmth heating his cheeks. “Of course not, dear district attorney.” The floating feeling inside of him almost died as he saw the large block of text he had flipped to.

Damien cleared his throat and folded his hands on top of his desk, leveling you with a knowing look. “I was simply thinking of breaking for lunch,” he lied. “If you’re still as careless as you used to be, I can almost guarantee you have not even had breakfast yet.” He didn’t mention his own lack of a full breakfast with coffee that morning; you could tell he was preoccupied enough already without him having to admit it.

You chuckled, averting your eyes back to your own work as you slipped papers into different folders. “You know me too well, Dames.”

“An honor and a privilege,” he teased with a self-satisfied grin. The Mayor stood from his desk, grabbing his cane in the process. “How about we go to lunch? Somewhere close by - mayhaps that diner down the road? My treat.”

Your head snapped up. You almost looked afronted at the idea of him paying for your meals. “I couldn’t possibly let you do that, Damien! It’s completely inappropriate and-”

He waved a hand, silencing your protests. “Please, I insist! This is a lunch between friends, not the mayor and district attorney.”

And how could you possibly say no to those pleading eyes of his?

-

“Do you remember that one party we went to where - What was his name? Markus… Lynch? Where he broke a table doing a keg stand?”

Damien chuckled. “Oh, you mean the party you dragged me to because I was, and I quote, ‘working too hard’ on a term paper due the next day.”

You laughed at the memory. You must have forgotten that you did that, as you looked off wistfully into the distance, as though you were searching through dusty files of old memories in your mind. His heart fluttered as he studied the dreamy look on your face.

It was a marvel being able to know you, truly know you. He had seen nearly every side of your beautiful personality, from your overwhelming joy to your lonesome sadness. The set determination in your eyes was ever so familiar from uni. It carried over to your days as a lawyer, and as DA, but he remembered seeing it very clearly when you would work for much too long on an assignment, or when you would tell him he had been working too long and he needed a break. He remembered seeing them as you dragged him to that party, where you laughed and chatted and dragged him over to the poker table almost immediately. (You were always so skilled at cards, he never had a chance to beat you in the first place. Lots of money was lost and gained that night.)

Admittedly, other than the poker, the table mishap, and you dragging him there, the party was rather dull. It wasn’t long after you arrived that you were dragging him outside again, this time to the roof. The two of you laid out on the hard shingles of that frat house and spoke of your dreams, your futures, your aspirations, until the sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon.

Perhaps he didn’t fully realize it yet then, but he believed now, as the orange lights of the diner highlighted your nose and cheekbones, bathed you in their warm light; as the coffee steam from your mug and the steam from his hot chocolate drifted between you; as your eyes shined like those stars. Yes, he knew it now.

He was in love with you.

-

Damien’s brow furrowed as he read over the same paragraph again and again and again. His mind was elsewhere, despite how many times he tried to bring it back down to reality, to business.

Ever since his epiphany at lunch, he couldn’t stop thinking about you. It was never anything indecent or suggestive. Rather, he simply imagined what it would feel like if you caressed his cheek. Or ran your fingers through his hair, freshly washed after a shower. Sometimes he imagined what it would be like to kiss you. He imagined too often that it would be soft, sweet.

He found himself praying more often. His heart ached to be closer to you, to hold you. But guilt ate away at his soul every time it did. It felt wrong to feel this way for another man, especially as he’d never before felt this way about a woman. He asked God questions he’d been asking since he was a child.

If God made humans in his own image, and if he was supposed to love every one of his children, did that mean he loved Damien too? If he had these terribly lovely thoughts about kissing another man, did that mean he was no longer deserving of God’s love, even if said love was supposed to be unconditional? Was he born a sinner? Or did the Devil turn him into one somewhere along the path of life?

He never received any answers, of course.

His only solace was that you had decided to work in your own office as of late. The cases were piling up, it seemed.

With a sigh, he pushed his paperwork aside. He wouldn’t be getting through it anytime soon. Instead, he grabbed a fresh sheet of parchment from his drawer along with a reservoir fountain pen. For a long moment, he just stared at the blank sheet. Then, he began writing.

My dear DA,

Our reminiscing during lunch got me thinking of those old university days - it seems you’ve opened a floodgate that does not wish to be shut just yet. As such, I was wondering if you would like to come to my estate for dinner tonight. You need not reply in such short notice, you simply must show up if you choose to attend.

Best Wishes,

Damien

Before he could overthink what he was doing, he folded the letter into thirds and slipped it into an envelope. With careful care and precision, he proceeded to heat up some wax and pour it at the ‘v’ of the envelope. Once it was cool enough, he pressed the signet ring he wore on his left pinky finger into it. The sigil of his family was left in the red wax. Damien addressed the backside to you and gave it to his secretary, telling her to have it delivered before the end of the day.

And when he sat down again, pulling his paperwork back in front of him, he desperately tried to ignore the sinking feeling of dread pooling in his gut.

-

The chime at the door shocked Damien from his task. He fumbled for a moment, cursing under his breath as he hurriedly finished what he was doing to run to the door. Once he was actually at the door of course, he paused, took a deep breath, and pulled it open.

You were both dressed down. Working in the positions you did, suits were a must, and Damien especially had to look the part of a good, upstanding Mayor (which he was, thank you very much). So, seeing you in such simple clothes again after so long, well, if made his heart stutter.

He greeted you with your name, saying it as though he hadn’t seen you in ages, when it had only been a few days since your face graced him with his presence. “Come on in! I’m, uh, not quite ready,” he admitted through a nervous chuckle.

You laughed good-naturedly as you followed him inside. “It’s okay, Dames, take your time.”

Your presence had an oxymoronic effect on his emotions. On one hand, he was nervous and energetic. Being around you made him antsy, worried he would make the wrong move at any moment in a giant chess game of your friendship. On the other hand, you had a comforting effect on him like no one else, not even Celine. It was like his body didn’t truly know how to act when it was around you.

He left you in the living room, telling you to “Feel free to explore” as he disappeared back into the kitchen. He double-checked that everything was as it should be, running through an ever growing checklist in his mind. He made sure he had sandwiches, grapes, cheese, wine and glasses. He wondered if he should throw in crackers, if he needed to grab a blanket or if it would dampen the familiar experience. He was at war with himself.

Resigned to grabbing a spare blanket from his linens closet, he was stopped abruptly when he was met with you in the doorway. He felt - and perhaps even looked - like a deer in headlights.

You just grinned, lopsided and knowing, like you were trying to bite back a full-blown toothy smile. “A picnic?” It was less of a question than it seemed, especially as you nodded to the basket he’d just finished packing everything into.

He floundered, mouth silently opening and closing. It was truly a spectacular sight to see the Mayor at a loss for words this great. But, after a moment, he straightened up, swallowed the thick lump in his throat, and then cleared his throat. “I- Well, I was hoping we could- I had planned for us to maybe-” He cleared his throat again, nervously running a hand through his hair. He desperately wished he had his cane so that he had something to wring with his hands - an awful nervous habit that he hopelessly wished he could act on. “That night,” he began slowly, ”at the party, we snuck onto the roof to look at the stars and talk instead. I thought it would be… nice. To do something like that again.”

Dark eyes looked to you for approval. You were smiling. He turned away, blushing, playing it off with a scoff. “Stop smiling like that,” he scolded, but it was half-hearted at best. “I know it’s stupid-”

“It’s not stupid!” you cut him off quickly. You made your way to the basket on the counter, and peeked inside. Your smile became less mischievous and more sincere as you saw the care he put into making a nice dinner for the both of you. Not only had he thought through what wine would go best with the cheeses he picked out, the sandwiches he made were your favorite. Honestly, you were amazed he remembered. “It’s very thoughtful of you… It’s sweet.”

He couldn’t possibly hide how red his cheeks and the tips of his ears were now, but he certainly tried. With a nervous ahem, he excused himself to grab a blanket. And if he closed himself in the linen closet for a moment to hide his hands in his face, breathing deeply multiple times to calm his racing heart, you would never know.

-

The stars seemed to shine brighter tonight than he’d ever seen them shine before. They twinkled and winked down on Earth, like they were concealing some secret from all of humanity. After all, what did they really know about space?

Dinner was simple, good. Damien found himself on his second glass of wine before you finished your first in hopes it would settle his nerves. (It didn’t. Instead, it allowed his mind to feel more free to think about you.)

But now all that was left was you, him, the blanket underneath you both, and the stars above.

He was smart enough to choose a section of his roof that faced away from the road, away from the prying eyes who may think that any of this was scandalous. Though, he supposed, it was, on some level. Two men, laying this close to each other… Even if it wasn’t in a sexual sense, if any word of it got out, your reputations, your lives would be ruined forever. He frowned at the thought.

“Okay,” you broke the silence abruptly, turning on your side and propping your head up on your hand. “What has gotten into you lately?”

Damien stared up at you with wide eyes. “Wh-What do you mean?”

“I mean, it’s not like you to reminisce about university. Why now?”

He looked back up at the stars, trying to avoid your interrogative gaze. But, even as he stayed silent, you just kept staring at him, waiting for an answer. He couldn’t avoid it any longer.

Your eyes followed him as he sat up, resting his elbows on his knees. He stared down at the shingles of his roof. He silently prayed that God would forgive him.

“When you brought up uni the other day…” He sighed. His heart was pounding so hard against his ribs. “I realized something. Something I had… repressed for a long while, I think.”

You sat up fully, sitting on your knees and facing him. The stars, no matter how much they twinkled, shined, sparkled, and shimmered, would not pull your attention away from Damien.

His dark eyes, almost too dark to see in the dim light of the moon, finally looked up at you. He opened his mouth, closed it, and swallowed thickly. “I… I love you.” He held his hands out, in a gesture one would use to calm someone down. “A-And I know sodomy is illegal and a sin, and you don’t have to reciprocate anything at all, b-but-!”

Your laughter stunned him silent. He blinked owlishly. You leaned forward and grabbed his hand, pulling it close and pulling him closer in the process. “I knew you weren’t a wise-head but c’mon, Dames, I thought you realized!”

He stammered, trying desperately not to look at your lips. He had to prop himself up with his free hand just to keep himself from falling over into your lap. “Wh- Realized what?”

You chuckled again, softer this time. “I’ve been stuck on you since we first met!”

Unlike him, you weren’t shying away from glancing at his lips. You leaned forward and brushed your nose against his. He practically shuddered in anticipation, his eyes fluttering closed.

“I don’t care about sodomy,” you whispered.

His eyes shot open to look at you. This time, it wasn’t just shock. It was wonder. This whole time, he’d been so worried how you would react to his admission, but you were in the same boat as him all along.

With a jump of his heart, he leaned forward and finally closed the distance. Your lips connected in a passionate crash, desperation from years of pining finally finding a release. Hands found their way to tangle in hair, fingers gripping onto shirts, all in an eager attempt to bring each other closer.

He loved you. And he couldn’t even begin to fathom that you loved him, but you did. The stars dimmed as they witnessed your love finally come to fruition.

[kjmsupremacist]

Ten and Johnny’s friendship turns sexual, but they’re not dating, cuz, you know, Johnny’s not gay. Ten’s in love with him, though, but how can he tell them when they never talk about any of it?

Chapter 3   |   Chapter 1   Chapter 2   Chapter 4   Chapter 5   Chapter 6   Masterlist

Characters: Ten, Johnny; the rest of nct intermittently

Genre: angst, smut (not very sweet smut tho), hurt/comfort, mutual pining

Warnings: homophobia, internalized homophobia, vague references to self harm; it’s just quite heavy

Rating: Mature

Length: 2k

Taglist: @parfaiitjoon​​

It remained awkward for a while, especially after Ten was done promoting the 7th Sense, especially when 127 debuted—without either of them. Johnny was upset about it; how could he not be? But he didn’t really talk to Ten about it like he used to. They still fucked—more, now that neither of them were that busy, but they rarely talked. It was always strained when they did; Ten felt like he was pressing his hands against glass, trying to get Johnny to hear him, all in vain.

And the truth was, they needed each other less and less now. Ten’s Korean was much better; he was close with the other members of the 7th Sense subunit, and didn’t have only Johnny to go to when he wanted to talk about something difficult. Taeyong was a kind and open listener; Jaehyun had nice shoulders to lean on when they were watching a movie; Mark was cute and sweet, and happy to distract Ten whenever he was sad; Doyoung was great for when Ten needed some sense smacked into him. So it was good. So what if he and Johnny were drifting apart? No one ever said it had to be for forever. Ten wouldn’t miss him after a while, right? And it’s not like he didn’t try. Johnny was the one that had made it awkward. Johnny took a step back first. Ten was only following his lead, because he didn’t want to make him uncomfortable.

These sorts of thoughts ran around Ten’s head all day long. Every day, it only got worse. He knew he’d committed himself to things being this way—detached, meaningless—but he was starting to regret it now. And then, Johnny found out he was going to be added to the 127 lineup for their January comeback. Suddenly, it was Johnny who was busy everyday while Ten sat waiting at home. When they did have time to fuck, it was quick and harsh; Ten usually prepped himself just in case, so that Johnny wouldn’t have to wait, so he could get what he wanted and then go to bed.

The night before the music video for Limitless was released, Johnny came back to the dorm even later than usual. Ten wasn’t asleep yet, though he’d kind of been thinking about it, so when the knock came on his door, he sat up and told Johnny to come in.

It was the same as always—a nearly wordless exchange, Ten pressed between Johnny and the sheets. And as he was rocked with each of Johnny’s thrusts, Ten knew what he had to do. The decision was made, sudden and quiet, and once they had both come, and Johnny was gathering his things, ready to leave, Ten drew a breath.

“I don’t think we should keep doing this,” he said softly. “We—we’ll be doing very different things with ourselves. And we don’t really need each other anymore.”

Johnny was silent for a moment, taking his time tying the strings of his sweatpants. And then—“Okay.” He didn’t even turn around. “That’s fine.”

Ten didn’t know what he was expecting, but his heart sank all the same. “Good luck tomorrow,” he forced out.

“Thanks.” And just like that, sudden and quiet, Johnny was gone.

Ten knew he should be relieved. It was over; he could dust his hands of this strange, terrible period of his life and move on. But as much as he knew it had been the right thing to do, he couldn’t help but miss it a little bit. He’d spend all his nights alone now, without even the illusion of comfort and companionship. He’d lost his best friend.

Really, I lost him the second we started this, he admitted to himself as he crawled out of bed to shower. We knew from the start this would end, and end badly.

It was just as lonely as he expected. Johnny didn’t even nod hello when they passed each other in the halls. Luckily, he was usually busy with promotions, so Ten rarely saw him. And soon after promotions ended, Ten was given a solo song to prepare for, so he was too busy to really worry about it. And somehow, months passed without them speaking. Ten threw himself into his work, and hoped Johnny had, too.

And then, one day at practice, Ten didn’t come out of a turn quite right, and he was crumpling to the floor. His knees had always been weak, but apparently he’d pushed them too hard, because he was getting shuttled off to the doctor’s and scheduled for surgery. Once he got over the initial panic that he may never walk again, let alone dance, he settled into a light haze of depression. Recovery was strange and slow, and worst of all, there was little to distract Ten from his feelings.

He wished he still had Johnny, so he could go to him for comfort, so he could pretend to fall asleep on his shoulder during a movie and be carried to bed, cradled in Johnny’s strong arms. He wished he could tell Johnny he was scared, and have Johnny tell him everything would be fine. He’d believe it if it was him.

It wasn’t that Ten was utterly alone. He’d grown close to Taeyong over the last few months. Taeyong, kind and good; always popping his head into Ten’s room to see if he needed anything, always free to give Ten a hug and a smile, always there to listen. And after weeks and weeks of Taeyong’s patience, Ten couldn’t help but open up to him and his gentle, understanding eyes. Taeyong sat with him and pet his hair as he explained how everything happened between him and Johnny, how stupid he had been. And Taeyong just nodded and soothed him, pressed kisses to his forehead and promised it would be okay. And Ten almost believed him. Looking up at him as he stood and bid him goodnight, his pretty eyelashes and sharp jaw, Ten felt his heart thrum in his chest. I could see myself with him, he thought. Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad.

It was hard to even begin thinking about, though. For one, it wasn’t like his feelings for Johnny were going to disappear overnight. Ten hated himself for still being so hung up on him; it’s not like he was the love of his life, right? He was tired of it, and impatient to move on. He mentioned this to Taeyong at one point, that he was so sick of being trapped in his own sadness, that he wished he could just get over it.

“You love him,” Taeyong pointed out. “Of course it takes time.”

“I don’t love him,” Ten lied. “Besides, love doesn’t matter for us, does it?”

“I suppose not,” Taeyong murmured, eyes far away. “Not for a long while, at least.”

“I like him, sure,” Ten acquiesced. “But it’s fine. I’ll get over it.”

“Do you need to, though?” Taeyong said. “Why don’t you talk to him?”

“He’s never really been one for talking,” Ten replied, wry. Taeyong just gave him a look, but he didn’t press.

Late spring bled into early summer this way. Ten still didn’t talk to Johnny; Johnny still didn’t acknowledge Ten’s presence. Ten knew he had to know how close he’d gotten with Taeyong. He hoped he wondered what they were up to. Not that it mattered; they weren’t up to anything. Yet. Until one night, halfway through one of Taeyong’s Japanese animations, when Ten had enough of Taeyong’s awkward fidgeting.

“What is it?” he asked gently. “You seem like you have something on your mind. You always listen to me, so just go for it.”

Taeyong just gave him an almost petulant look. “I don’t know. It almost feels cruel.”

“If it’s that you like Johnny, I won’t be mad. Good luck, though.” Ten said, a little too derisive.

“No, I’m not interested in Johnny,” Taeyong said with a laugh. “Unlike you, I don’t go for the straight ones.”

“Then what?”

“I might be interested in you.”

“Oh.” Ten blinked. “Oh, I see. And what if I was interested in you?”

“Well, I don’t know. What about Johnny?” Taeyong asked. “I won’t be his stand-in.”

“You wouldn’t be a stand-in,” Ten said, rolling his eyes. “I liked Johnny because he was my first real friend here. We were young. But you’re different. I feel safe with you.”

“Why does everybody say that to me?” Taeyong muttered, but he was smiling.

“Is that okay? That I liked him, still like him a little, and I also like you?” Ten fidgeted with his hands. “It’s not like I’m trying to replace him. You feel completely different, and I mean that in the best way possible. Different is good.”

“Yeah, that’s okay,” Taeyong said. “I don’t mind, as long as you’re honest with me.”

“I can do that,” Ten agreed.

Taeyong slept in his bed that night, and it wasn’t until Ten woke the next morning that he realized how much he’d missed having someone next to him like this. And Taeyong was different from Johnny in almost every way, and Ten really liked that. He was small and cute and pretty, and he actually acted like he wanted Ten. He whined and cried so pretty when they fucked, clung like Ten was precious to him. He pressed close to him when he cuddled after, held Ten’s hand when they slept. And it wasn’t necessarily that they were in love, but Ten didn’t mind. It was actually something. When they were separated, Ten knew Taeyong missed him the way Ten missed Taeyong. With Johnny, he’d always had to wonder.

When late summer came around, after 127 finished touring, they both had all the time in the world. While Johnny was spending his time playing video games with Donghyuck, Ten spent his time fucking Taeyong and covering him with kisses. All the days felt warm, bathed in a golden light only shadowed by the bitterness of Johnny’s absence. Because as much as he hated to admit it, Ten still thought of him, still wanted him, still loved him. Some nights, the grief felt almost overwhelming. He wasn’t just mourning a partner; he was mourning a friend. He missed the way they could talk with their eyes; the way one word could make both of them burst out laughing. He longed for the language they had built together. Nobody else knew how to speak it. It didn’t help that now that they all had very limited schedules, Ten saw him all the time.

And if Johnny noticed the hickeys that littered Taeyong’s body, he didn’t say anything, didn’t ask. It wasn’t that Ten was using Taeyong to make him jealous, but in his worst moments, he kind of hoped it still had that effect. But of course, he also didn’t ask. He didn’t say anything at all.

Some nights, Taeyong would catch Ten unraveling himself. He’d take Ten’s face in his soft hands, and say, “Hey, hey, where’d you go?”

“Did I do something wrong?” Ten asked him once. Even he could hear the anguish in his voice. “I feel it, regret, sitting in my stomach. But I don’t know what it’s for. What could I have done?”

“I can’t answer that for you,” Taeyong said, gentle and understanding as ever; good and kind. “But if it’s about Johnny, I don’t think it’s ever too late.”

Ten just shook his head, closing his eyes and drawing Taeyong closer. “It’s far too late,” he murmured. “It’s been far too late for quite some time. There’s nothing left there. I only wish I could let it go.”

“Maybe there’s a good reason you can’t,” Taeyong suggested quietly.

“I can’t imagine what it would be,” Ten said.

Taeyong just huffed and shuffled closer so he could kiss his jaw. “Okay, silly,” he said. “Then just put it away for now. Sleep. You’ll have plenty of time to worry in the morning, and lord knows you’ll use it.”

Despite himself, Ten found himself laughing alongside Taeyong’s tentative giggles. It was nice, but it raised a lump in his throat all the same.

[jacks4eva]

reaction to the lost hero by rick riordan

imma be honest this is a long time coming, okay so here’s the timeline we’re looking at so you understand me. i read lightning thief in middle school, dropped it and read it again in ninth grade. then i read sea of monsters, but never started titan’s curse. then for some reason in 11th grade i bought the second book in heroes of olympus and started to read it and got confused so i started to read titan’s curse and got to when percy took artemis’s place and then dropped it...again. very sad that time considering it was LEGIT THE END SO CLOSE. anyway yesterday i read the whole thing again and the battle of the labrinyth in like 6-8 hours. idk i can’t remember if i started at 10pm or midnight but i finished at 6am. anyways today i read the last olympian, and now i’m starting the lost hero. i thought it’d be funny to do my reactions.

this timeline is just funny because i have read so many books, and yet the most popular ones like percy jackson and harry potter, didn’t wanna finish lol. i still haven’t finished goblet of fire yet i read 100 pages an hour and could probably finish it in a day. anyways.

let the reactions begin

okay i’ve heard of jason but i was not expecting a pov already

woah electrocution

he’s already got a love interest what

he said the coach is 5’0 i now imagine the coach as danny devito i have no choice

piper and leo yes i recognize these names

(i’ve seen a lot of posts about percy jackson okay)

i like leo i don’t like dylan

i love the starwars reference

oh look guys we got popular girls that are racist, can they get their asses beat in this pls

dylan is also racist for smiling-asswipe

we love the cherokee representation

i hate them so much can they please leave

“i had to say something” i like coach hedge is this bad

i hope percy is the storm but i just know i wouldn’t be that lucky

ofc dylan is a racist monster

danny devito never returned :(

PLS TELL ME THESE REINFORCEMENTS ARE PERCY AND ANNABETH

who is the bulky dude

i’m sorry i’m laughing he’s a big scary dude with his head shaved and A RAINBOW TATTOO and his name is butch

oh so that’s why percy isn’t here

okay usually when reading i can form some kind of theory or connection but at this point i literally have no clue what is happening

i just knew as soon as he asked that he had abilities with fire but i was not expecting fire fingers

wow what a first impression “you should be dead”

wait so all i remember from the son of neptune was the beginning had percy alone i think and i’m not sure if he had his memory or maybe not and he was running away from monsters, so is what’s happening to jason similar to that? and WILL PERCY NOT BE FOUND IN THIS BOOK?

“That also was necessary. Long ago, your father gave me your life as a gift to placate my anger. He named you Jason, after my favorite mortal. You belong to me.

“Whoa,” Jason said. “I don’t belong to anyone.”

Now is the time to pay your debt, she said. Find my prison. Free me, or their king will rise from the earth, and I will be destroyed. You will never retrieve your memory.”

... okay theories, um a goat skin cloak was mentioned to have been owned by Zeus’s foster mother and that he owned it so the woman could either be the foster mother or Hera. If it was Hera, it would make sense that Zeus gave his son to placate her anger at his cheating or whatever. They are also trapped in Olympus, so prison would make sense. Hera was brought up a lot too, and according to wiki Hera persuaded Aphrodite to make her son make Medea fall in love with a mortal named Jason, so more than likely the lady is Hera. Their king will rise from earth could be the king from the battle of the labrynth, maybe. Or another king ya know there are so many.

Wait a minute

Something else I know about their names is Jason’s last name...JASON GRACE I thought it sounded familiar, because of Thalia Grace. Hah look at me being correct. That explains the flying and not being burnt by a lightning bolt—oh I’m stupid for not seeing it sooner.

Now just gotta figure out who Piper’s parent is.

Aha so I was right it was Hera.

Chiron not being able to give the information they need is kind of annoying.

Enceladus? So a giant offspring of Gaia, um...no bueno. Not a king tho.

“Child of lightning, beware the earth, The giants’ revenge the seven shall birth, The forge and dove shall break the cage, And death unleash through Hera’s rage.”

Okay theory time, child of lightning is obviously Jason. Beware the Earth...yeah no clue. The giants’ revenge the seven shall birth, the giants are probably the children of Gaia since that one giant was her child and it’s the seven are probably the seven half bloods from the great prophecy. The forge and dove shall break the cage, um maybe Leo is the forge since he’s hephaestus’s child (probably butchered the spelling). Doves are typically associated with aphrodite/venus, so idk about that. Maybe Piper is Venus’s child, I mean her God parent is her mom and it’d be funny since she was judging the other aphrodite kids. Also I assume Hera will kill whoever trapped her or someone involved since she’s so mad. Idk.

Could kill Drew btw.

CALLED IT CALLED IT CALLED IT IM A GENIUSSS

Wait. This woman looks like Hera, her clothes are made of Earth and she said Leo would fight her children trying to wake her. They’re gonna try to wake Gaia, which would make sense that it said stay away from Earth if she’s the Earth Goddess

I like the wolves thing because Romulus and Remus, ya know the twin boys who were raised by wolf and started Rome.

“You are our saving grace, as always. The she-wolf curled her lip, as if she had just made a clever joke”

I mean yeah his last name is grace

“She must really like this Percy guy to search for him so hard, and that made Jason a little envious. Was anyone searching for him right now? What if somebody cared for him that much and was going out of her mind with worry, and he couldn’t even remember his old life?”

so what if Percy’s just chilling at the Roman version of camp halfblood without a clue to who he is? bro.

Imagine reading this and seeing all of things I get right and wrong and wanting to slam your head into a wall.

Okay like idk why Annabeth was freaking out we kind of knew they were siblings, I mean they have the same dad. Unless this is saying they have the same mom or are twins or something. That’d be cool. That’s probably what he’s saying tbh but still, could’ve emphasized it more than “that’s my sister” like dude.

Anyway, they look very different so that’s funny.

King Boreas? uh.

Oo French

Let’s see what I can translate from the very little duolingo I did. Bienvenu, maybe a greeting. Idk which tho. Je suis Piper, I am Piper. Et c’est Jason, fils de Zeus, and this is Jason, son of Zeus. Vous parlez francais? tres bien, you speak french? good. Hey not bad, not shockingly good but considering I did the duolingo lessons 4 years ago, not bad. Vrai? Truth? Yeah I just looked it up.

Danny devito is alive!

“Leo scratched his head. “Well, I dunno about Enchiladas—”

“Enceladus,” Piper corrected.”

Leo is me omfg

DANNY DEVITO IS BACK

Arrows...HUNTERS OF ARTEMIS PLS?

“Leo stepped out next. “You’re catching me, too, Superman. But I ain’t holding your hand.”

this made me laugh ok moving on

Uh fight a sea monster? bro is Jason just Percy 2.0

“Aphrodite’s message was clear: This one needs no improvement.

And Piper agreed.”

I wonder if you can hear me squealing from hundreds or thousands of miles away

Did you miss the fact that he’s thirty feet tall— I DIED

Who slew titan k-what now? So basically yes. Percy 2.0

Okay I recognize the name Hazel, and all I ask is that she is not involved with Jason because Jason and Piper are really freaking cute.

an exchange of leaders, SO THEY DID SWITCH THEM

The way I called it

I WAS RIGHT AHA

anyways. time to read son of neptune

[f-nodragonart]

How do you draw folded bat wings? I tried to look up references but it looks so dark and such a mess that I can't figure out what's going on. All my dragons have their wings sticking out and I want them to relax and fold their wings, but I can't figure it out.

first, know that having a good grasp on wing anatomy is the first step, so I rec checkin out my crash-course on vertebrate wings, if u need it. I’ll try to summarize some of the more relevant points when necessary here, tho

that said, real-life folded bat wings are actually a lot messier than u might expect, as bat bones/joints are SUPER-duper flexible

tho this may also be a consequence of their legs/hips being right there, splayed out where the ends of their fingers fold up, and other body types prolly wouldn’t require that particular zig-zig crinkling of the fingertips

I also doubt that that level of flexibility would even be available in the bones/joints of dragons as large as horses, or even just dogs, though I could be wrong about that

either way, I’ll give you some examples of how I approach folded bat wings in my designs

so here we’ve got a standard folded bat wing. note that the LOWER arm is the most visible portion of the the arm anatomy-- the lower arm pulls up over the upper arm, and the fingers curl up under both arm sections 

the “tightness” of the folding can vary, depending on the look you want. real-life bats obviously have CRAZY flexible wrists, and can tuck their fingers snug up against their arms/bodies all the way down. and I’m sure you could pull the wrist up a lil closer to the shoulder if need be. however, I believe the position as I’ve drawn-- with the lower arm hanging a bit down towards the front of the body, and the fingers loosely tucking in-- could be a perfectly comfortable, relaxed position for folded bat-dragon wings. this is especially considering that bat wings would be located more towards the midline/sides of the torso rather than right up near the spine like birds, meaning gravity would pull on them a bit more easily, possibly lending to this loose pose. BUT that also depends on the exact wing muscle configuration-- wings generally have pretty good ‘locking’ mechanisms when tucked closed, so tighter tucking is a perfectly reasonable possibility

I will note that wings ought not to be tucked up on top of the back. even bird wings located closer to the spine don’t rest their wrists above the shoulders-- the wings still hang to the sides, with the wrists held near the front of the body

I can’t imagine that pulling the wings back constantly is very comfortable, much less a position that affords the wing muscles any rest

tho the elbows would prolly need to be pulled next to or above the hips a bit, so the elbows don’t interfere with hind leg movement

on that note, also notice the anatomical proportions of the wings and how they affect the look of the folded wing. the upper arm of a wing will ALWAYS be shorter than the lower arm, so when they’re folded up, the wrist will stick out in front of the shoulder. usually even in front of the front limb shoulders, depending on the size of the wings (I think I drew these wings a bit small in comparison to body size, but we’ll just pretend this guy ain’t a particularly strong flyer)

the finger proportions are actually very similar to human fingers, in that the sections closest to the wrist are longest/thickest, while the sections closer to the tips are shorter/thinner. this means that when the fingers fold up, the bases will have long sections without joints, while the tips will be able to curl quite tightly, which you may be able to visualize more precisely here

the bend back under the arm at the 3rd joint may, admittedly, be a bit too sharp even by bat standards, so the fingers may still need to follow the line of the body

but I still think the fingers should be able to curl up under the arm just fine, honestly

now, while it’s important to know the underlying structures here, also note that certain parts of the folded wing (like fingertips) simply won’t be visible due to the membrane

and this is where folded wings get tricky-- not only is it hard to keep track of what’s covered up, but also what sections are connected to one another! hopefully the above diagram helps you visualize how the membrane lays over the overall arm structure at least, but being able to follow membrane connections in different positions takes a bit of familiarizing with overall wing anatomy

(also note that for ease of seeing the base anatomy, I’m not adding in most of the membrane wrinkles I usually would. just keep in mind that bat membranes are embedded w/ a lotta lil tendons that help scrunch up the membrane and hold the wings steady)

I will at least point out one particular section of membrane that trips folks up a lot

here, it’s important to remember that the back edge of the membrane (specifically the plagiopatagium section), connecting back onto the body, is ALSO connected to the back of the arm AND the pinkie finger. thus, we must keep in mind the flow of this section of membrane in the folded wing. note that it may very well cover up part of the visible finger(s) (particularly the pinkie) just before they tuck underneath the arm, as I’ve shown above

now, something fun about bat wings is that they’ve got ROTATION in their wrists! so, unlike birds, you can give yourself some freedom in how many of the fingers are visible, when folded up

I WILL say, though, that real-life bats seem to go for the latter folding, more reminiscent of a bird folding their wrist sideways next to their lower arm rather than curling the wrist underneath the lower arm. but, again, bats have way more leeway in wrist flexion, so I think any of these wrist positions are perfectly possible for a bat-winged dragon

and this flexion will also be affected by the kinda palm you give your wings. while many dragon artists give their dragons humanoid palms, real-life bats don’t actually have palms-- the metacarpals that make up our palms are actually the base bones of bat wing fingers. thus, bats just have a tiny connection area of carpals to connect fingers to arm, allowing for a frankly crazy range of flexion. while I’m not sure about how exactly a palm might affect flight, I don’t think they’re necessarily a problem so long as they’re downsized (palms proportionally the size of human palms compared to the arm would be WAY too heavy/thick for flight..) and retrofit for flight in shape (think about oncoming air currents and what parts of the palm would need to be more/less stabilized or aerodynamically shaped)

also note that, if the wing has a thumb and it’s visible, then the front edge membrane (propatagium) is gonna attach to it

like so (depending on the exact position of the thumb, of course)

now, I know some dragon artists like to curl the tips of the fingers up over the elbows, like this

and like, sure, the tips may be visible past the back edge of the membrane, if you go for the finger-tuck where the fingers follow the line of the body. or if the fingertips aren’t typically bat-like, but are stiffer and incapable of comfortably curling up. I’m specifically thinking of designs with faux-feather cartilage, or those with pterosaur-like fans of cartilage fibers across the membrane, leading to more bird-like folding

but idk, this desire to pull the fingertips up over the membrane THAT far seems uncomfortable and unnecessary? like, I really don’t understand why a dragon wouldn’t simply tuck their fingertips up against their body, following underneath the membrane, as a bat does. if anyone wants to argue me this point, I’m willing to hear it out tho

so, I know that was a lot of hyper-specific info, but if you step back for a minute and just take in the overall look of a folded bat wing, it turns out folded bat wings are WAY easier than most ppl realize!

truly, so many people overthink like, where the fingertips end up, or how the membrane overlays the arm. but once you understand how it all fits together, you can condense the look of it into basic shapes like this

and you can add or subtract detail depending on your style, how defined you want the arm to be from the membrane, how wrinkly/detailed you want the membrane, etc.

hope this helps!

-Mod Spiral

[skelemira]

GIVE THE UL SNAS AND ROWAN LORE PLS PLS PLS I NEED THIS

OK FINALLY DONE WITH ART AND ON THE BUS HOME LET'S *DO THIS*

But before I start I should say this is not my characterization, it's actually how my bestest friend @hyacinthlanes characterizes him (she's also the one who drew my pfp btwwwwww I love you Saphhhhhhhh)

Aight so these two motherhuggers are the cutest fRICKING couple you ever will see. So I actually lowkey uh forgot how they met, I don't even think I set it in stone, I think I started writing a oneshot about it and then just straight up didn't finish it lol but I think I'm gonna go with that they meet at Muffet's.

(btw when I refer to Sans and Papyrus hereforth I mean UL Snas and Paps)

So Paps has a bit of a sweet tooth, nothing major just a bit of a craving for pastries now and then, and he knows Muffet is good about not making her pastries with an ungodly amount of sugar, so he pops by every once in a while. So one time he goes to Muffet's and he sees a new waitress. Now Muffet has *never* hired somebody to help her, so that immediately caught his attention. He noticed that she was a little bit awkward, clearly new to waitressing, and a little bit clumsy every now and then, though she seemed a bit more fearful of Muffet when she made mistakes than he thought was brought on by Muffet being a spider.... Especially because Muffet seemed to be acting extra sweet to the waitress. The waitress eventually got to him, asking for his order before stopping herself and apologizing, introducing herself as Rowan and then asking for his order again.

He brought out all the charm he could, and by the end of the conversation he had even coaxed a giggle out of her. It wasn't even much of a giggle, and she quickly stifled it, but he knew in that moment he would do anything to hear her full blown laugh. (In a completely platonic way, dw there is no jealousy. Though perhaps it might go a different way in an au 👀👀👀)

He went home and Sans noticed he was much more upbeat than normal. Usually when he went to Muffet's he was happy but he would go straight for a 5 mile jog to "burn off the sugar", but this time Paps just went into the kitchen to start prepping for dinner, humming merrily.

Eventually Sans pried it out of Paps about the new waitress and how adorable she was, and you just KNOW Sans is a sucker for adorable things so he decided to pay Muffet a visit (though he would definitely get Grillby's after to "atone").

Yeah so uh it took a couple of weeks for him to get around to going to Muffet's, not that he was dreading it, he just takes his sweet time to do something he says he's gonna do.

He steps one foot into Muffet's and curses under his breath.

Because he sees Rowan tentatively confident, making a joke with Muffet as she wiped down a table, and the ensuing giggle had a burst of magic zip through him, apparently so much that Muffet paused in her laughter, her gaze going to him and raising one eyebrow.

(I really just ended up writing a whole thing huh XDDD)

He saw a glimpse of that confident radiance peeking through the walls that seemed to be slowly crumbling and he became resolved to break them down, if just to see what was hiding behind them.

It started with him trying out various comedy routines as she took his order, anything to hear that giggle again (oh my stars she likes *puns*), and it eventually turned to flirting (her blush is *adorable* and he loves it more than anything) which eventually turned to him asking her out. She said yes <3 (obviously lol) and they started going out.

So obviously my boi Sans has some trauma, we hc him here as asexual, but I mean either way being forced to be in constant heat is gonna have some nasty consequences even if you weren't asexual, plus he feels like in other people's eyes he's been reduced to just sex, plus a lot of other stuff that I'm not going to mention bc that's Saph's territory lol (Btw forgot to mention Rowan is panro-ace like me <3 bc self indulgence XDDD)

So having a girlfriend who is also asexual and doesn't *at all* expect sex or even really want it most of the time if at all and who's basically like a best friend but also romantic is just. Exactly what he needs. Their dates are just the cutest and they both understand the other has trauma so when one has days where the "air is heavy" (basically days where it's hard to move or hard to breathe, like the air is too heavy to move through etc) the other is just there for them. ANYWAY they're too cute your honor

So eventually they move in together, think cottagecore and you've got basically Rowan and Oberon's house, they're adorable and their home is so cozy.

There are so many little moments that are just adorable I can't even think of them all but eventually they get married.

I love. Their wedding okay.

Like have you seen that post of a couple that invited their friends to a party they said was a costume party but it was actually their wedding? Yeah that's them. Except the people know it's a wedding, they just can wear whatever the heck the want, the wackier the better. Their wedding is outdoors and full of shenanigans and laughs and I don't quite remember who I had officiate, it might've been Grillby or my friend's sona, but ik Muffet was the maid of honor.

Tho since they shared so many friends it wasn't really a split situation, the wedding parties were all just kind of mixed together. Rowan was barefoot and it was by the edge of a forest so it was very nature-y (Rowan gardens like a LOT I mentioned it like offhand in the last post).

Super super cute.

Now RANDOM TIDBITS

Sans' favourite food is apple pie. Why? Because Rowan smells like apples. (Or it's her scones bc goshDANG they are good).

Rowan's favourite color is the purple of Sans' eyelights.

Sans (with Papyrus' help) builds Rowan a greenhouse with floating pink magic lights and it's the most romantic fricking place ever.

When their relationship is first starting to get serious, they plant a tree together (a Rowan tree aha). (If/when they have kids, the kids would play underneath that tree).

Sans' favourite colour is the red of Rowan's hair (it looks pink in the picture but it's kind of a pinkish red, like a pink lady apple).

Rowan and Papyrus have such a good relationship with each other man. Like when Paps finds out Rowan is drinking **EVERCLEAR** every night he is like absolutely Not you uncultured swine (affectionate) and so he starts up a Wine Night with her. Every Thursday he brings a new wine for them to try while maybe doing a puzzle or just chatting or baking or something. Together they become wine connoisseurs (bro I spelled that right the first time without autocorrect look at me go)

Ok I'm rambling at this point but uh yes <3 you're also free to ask me random questions about these two if you'd like!!!! Thank you so much for the ask Hyper beloved <333333 literally Saph is like almost the whole reason UL Sans is my husband now lol.

[teaandcrowns]

Cultural Examinations: Water Tribe

The thing that drew me in the most about the Avatar world is the influence of so many different cultures.

To me, it’s more subtle than just throwing a world-wide mix of cultural analogs together (which is also fun, but will yield a completely different story), and that’s something I very much appreciate.

When I approach writing fanfiction within this universe, I try and take as much care inserting and adding details unique to each culture, as inspired by ones that exist on our world—much as the creative team did for the shows themselves.

When writing fanfiction in such a lush world as Avatar, I do my best to take care and put as many cultural details and cues as the show had visually. This means doing research into the cultures that are analogued or used as inspiration for the ones that appear in the show. Though a fanfic can be written without this, I know that the fics I’ve enjoyed reading the most have all had deeper cultural inclusions and references. It gives both the fic itself and the world its set in more weight and breadth, and I consider that if it’s something I deeply enjoy reading, I should do the work to put the same effort and detail into fics that I add, as well. (Also, enjoying doing that doesn’t hurt, either.)

The Water Tribe is not solely based off of Inuit/Arctic Peoples, but also Mongolian. The parkas they wear are very Arctic in inspiration, but the robes resemble the Mongolian deel.

The Water Tribe is very family focused, as are both of these types of cultures. Inuit/Arctic Peoples are not one uniform culture, nor are Mongolians, though there are commonalities held throughout. The Water Tribe is well suited to this type of connected but not uniform culture, as the Tribe itself is split into two main sister tribes, and also I feel that with the expanse of the antarctic region we see in the show, there would certainly have been more than one gathering of tribesmen before the Fire Nation decimated the population.

Aside from their dress, what else can we know, culturally, about the Water Tribe?

We know they are very close-knit with one another—both within blood family and outside blood relatives. We know that at least half of the Water Tribe people, the Northern, are severely patriarchal, and it seems that perhaps the Southern Tribe was to a much lesser degree. They are a seafaring people, comfortable on the ocean and sailing in community-built ships, and they are a people who feel a deep sense of cultural pride and connection to tradition.

With as family oriented as Water Tribesmen are, it’s easy to see smaller clan-like settlements being the norm rather than a crowded city. Despite the appearance of a large city in the Northern Water Tribe, it’s easy to believe that there are settlements outside that city—or at least were, perhaps before smaller clan units retreated to the city for greater defense and survival during the War.

While Sokka exhibited misogynistic views at the beginning of the show, it’s most likely because of his fragmented upbringing rather than the South holding to as fiercely patriarchal ways as the North. Hama, for example, was a combative waterbender, as were plenty of other women waterbenders fighting against the Fire Nation.

This was probably known between the Tribes, which would be the reason Kanna left the North and her arranged marriage to find her own path (and husband) in the South. The fact that the North did not keep in contact or appear to offer any real help to their Southern tribespeople during the Fire Nation attacks (despite the claim that the Northern Water Tribe leader headed both tribes), could also be evidence that the North did not exactly approve of the South’s views. Then again, the lack of help could also be because of the risk across such a great distance to send help, but Water Tribe people have a deep sense of kinship toward one another, even if they never met (see Foggy Swamp Tribesmen Huu, Due, and Tho welcoming Katara as kin). I am of the belief that it’s the disapproval of the more liberal Southern views rather than simple complex and risky logistics.

Both Inuit/Arctic Peoples and Mongolian peoples have the same tribal/clan-like sense of community, and are welcoming into their homes. One of the traditions of the Mongols is a host offering tea—it is so ubiquitous that a host would not think twice about offering tea and the guest would not think to decline. It’s simply good, expected hospitality. 

This reflects nearly directly in the Water Tribe. The Northern Water Tribe hosts a great feast to which of course Aang, Sokka, and Katara are invited; Hama immediately sets about making a personal feast of traditional Water Tribe fare for all the kids without question; and the Foggy Swamp benders share their fires and food with the group as soon as they discover they’re distant kin. Even Bato unquestionably makes Aang an honorary Water Tribe member after Sokka’s Ice Dodging—not because he’s the Avatar, but because he’s a close friend of Sokka and Katara.

On the same token, Katara, Sokka, Hakota, and Bato all express deep sorrow, akin to physical pain, upon the separation of them from family. For Hakota, it’s being separated from his children for so long; for Katara, it’s the loss of her father and her mother, which still affects her years later as keenly as it did when she was eight; for Sokka, it’s mostly the loss of growing into the brotherhood of warrior tribesmen on top of losing their father for years; for Bato, it’s the loss of that same brotherhood, established for years, that he feels most, however temporary it may be.

What seems the most tragic about the Water Tribes, however, is their loss of culture. It is especially so for the Southern Tribe, which by all exhibits seems to have some significant differences from their Northern cousins. Even this is reflective of both Arctic Peoples and Mongolian cultures, though primarily more in the former. A lot if heritage has been lost, by assimilation of other, more dominant cultures—such as post-AtLA when the Northern Tribe sends benders and tribesman to help their sister tribe—and by simple loss of elders and people and their knowledge. It’s a shame that Hama wasn’t able to impart more cultural heritage knowledge to Katara and Sokka before her confrontation with them. With all that, it’s easy to see how people have internal conflict about moving forward after the War is over—is it really okay to make new traditions and technological advances that ultimately have an effect on culture, or should a greater effort be put into relearning and preserving?

This theme of traditional culture versus progress at the (potential) sacrifice of those traditional ways being in conflict in both the world’s nations and in individual characters is a repeated one that I feel is one of the more important themes to the entire series. The Water Tribe still struggles with this even into the story of Legend of Korra, some seventy years after the end of the Hundred Year War.

It doesn’t wholly define the Water Tribe, no, but it does have a hand in defining it. Every culture experiences its own growing pains in the aftermath of the War, and we can see that it’s not something that even a generation and a half has been able to solve.

It’s easy to see both sides of the argument, especially for the Water Tribe. Half their people were lost, it’s time to move on to newer and better things. But at the same time, half their people were lost, they should honor the memory and keep tradition alive, especially when that tradition seems to help preserve the very balance of the world.

I don’t think there’s a true right or wrong answer of one side over the other, but that, as with another integral theme in the show, of balance. With the Water Tribe, being who they are, I feel that so long as they are able to maintain their sense of community and family (blood or extended), they will always be able to adapt with change and make it work to their advantage.

There are, of course, a lot of cultural details that I like to add when I write fic concerning the Water Tribe that are by no means in any kind of canon. What I feel fits and gives greater depth into a world may differ from what another author may decide. I don’t uniformly migrate details over, either—I pick some that I feel would fit with how the Tribe is presented and how it will add to and impact whatever story I am writing. So long as it meets all the criteria—does it honor whichever culture it comes from? Does it fit into the Avatar world? Does it add to and/or impact or deepen the story itself somehow? Does it feel Water Tribe enough?—then it gets added in. Like an artist would do with visual clues that don’t immediately stand out but enhance the scene and world anyway, I believe adding these cultural details achieves the same effect in fanfiction.

[idolish7rabbitchats]

Yuki: 12 SONGS GIFT Rabbit Chat Part 4

Tsumugi: Has everyone returned?

7: I’ve returned!

9: I’m here too.

100: We calmed down and were looking over the log again!

8: We were talking about playing indoors. Like how about playing cards next time.

9: Gaku hates losing so that seems difficult.

10: Old maid is thrilling and fun! Seems like IDOLiSH7 is familiar with indoor games.

3: We often play card games!

2: Or cosplay with Nagi.

6: Someday, I want to remodel a part of the dorm into a photobooth and take professional cosplay photos.

4: Playing karuta seriously is fun too. I made it with Rikkun before. [T’N: Karuta is a traditional Japanese card game that uses hiragana sentences and matching picture cards.]

T:  The karuta was cute huh!

1000: You made it yourself?

4: The “A” is IDOLiSH7. [T/N: IDOLiSH7 romanized from the katakana spelling in Japanese is “aidorisshu sebunn” hence why it would start with “a.”]

1: Yotsuba-san’s often started with something weird.

4: The “ki” was a picture of Kinako. Iori drew it but it was great.

Anesagi: Sounds fun. Maybe TRIGGER should make a karuta one day.

Okazaki: I want to try making one with Re:vale at our agency too!

1000: I see. You can make something if it’s indoors, or more like it would be called craftwork huh.

1000: Is there something Maneko-chan wants to try making herself?

*T: I want to try making accessories by hand!

1000: That sounds fun huh. It would be detailed work, but I would be able to concentrate once I start it.

1000: It became a reference.

T: Thank you!

T: So then, everyone, let’s start it again! From Mitsuki-san please!

3: For me, maybe making sweets? Yuki-san is good at cooking so I want to try making sweets that are difficult to make.

1000: That’s good. Being taught by Mitsuki-kun sounds fun.

3: [Smiling Kinako Stamp]

4: Cool! Call me for eating those!

7: If Tamaki’s going so am I!

9: Wait, Riku.

5: Tamaki-kun, you can’t do that to your senpai...

1000: It’s fine. I’m better at making it than eating.

T: It’s wonderful that it seems like it’ll be a fun meeting! Mitsuki-san, thank you! Next is Sougo-san please!

5: This might be impudent, but I want to learn how to play the guitar.

5: If you’re not opposed, if you could show me at the studio...

1000: Oh, sure. We could spend many hours at the studio when we like music.

5: Thank you!

1000: I’m looking forward to being able to have a session with Sougo-kun.

T: Sougo-san, thank you! Next is Nagi-san, how about it?

6: A Kokona marathon of course. I’ll pause occasionally to explain the best scenes.

1000: There’s commentary huh. So having fun like watching pro wrestling?

6: No. Learn it as teaching materials. From that day, you will obtain irreplaceable happiness.

1000: A study meeting huh. Then to use what I learned, I would play Kokona-chan’s role when it becomes a live action.

6: WHAT?

6: WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY?

T: Nagi-san, thank you! Next is Kujou-san please!

9: I can’t really imagine myself in my senpai’s house so, I would teach you the face massage I learned recently.

1000: Tenn-kun does it. It feels good so I’d fall asleep.

9: You would. When I did it for Gaku and Ryuu, they both fell asleep.

10: You noticed it huh! Sorry, I thought it was bad but it just felt so good I couldn’t help dozing off…!

1000: My expectations rose.

2: Even if people are talking, you’ll sleep if you want to.

T: Kujou-san, thank you! Next is Riku-san please!

7: I want to do something like board games! There’s been a lot of interesting ones coming out lately.

1000: Board games huh. I can only imagine something like backgammon.

7: Basically it’s backgammon but you can become president, become a fighter and fight with the devil, and become a detective and capture the criminal!

1000: Heeh, sounds interesting.

7: Let’s play together! If you become a detective, please act like the detective from “Mission”!

6: There’s no match if you tell the other person what role you’re playing in that game is there?

T: Everyone always seems to be having fun doing it huh! Riku-san, thank you!

T: Next is Iori-san please!

1: I want to ask you many things. I want to interview Yuki-san about your thoughts and experiences.

1000: An interview from a highschool boy huh. Okay. I’ll teach you a lot.

1: Um, it’s an interview about music and industry...

1000: Let’s get sidetracked together sometime.

T: Iori-san, thank you! Last is Tamaki-san please!

4: If we’re playing at home then a video game! I’m good at racing games so I’ll teach Yuki-rin.

1000: I have a driver’s license. I think I’m stronger than you tho.

4: I’m stronger. Yuki-rin has never avoided bombs or slipped on a banana right?

1000: True.

100: You’re satisfied with that answer lololololol

1000: I would react without stunts like Momo. I’ve come to look forward to it.

T: Tamaki-san, thank you!

T: That’s it! Thank you everyone!

1000: Thanks. It was fun.

100: Yuki, happy birthday!

1000: Thanks.

7: Yuki-san, Happy Birthday!

8: HAPPY BIRTHDAY, Yuki-san.

10000: Work hard on the solo live.

1000: I’ll work hard.

1000: The next day is Christmas huh. I’ll become everyone’s Santa Clause.

V2:

Y: Is there something Maneko-chan wants to try making herself?

T: I want to try decorating my smartphone!

Y: For a smartphone, wouldn’t you hate it if it became heavier…? But, that’s very girly.

Y: It became a reference.

V3:

Y: Is there something Maneko-chan wants to try making herself?

T: I want to try making a herbarium!

Y: It’s the one with flowers or plants inside of a bottle right. You don’t have to water it, so it’s nice to keep in the room.

Y: It became a reference.

[irrevocably-delicious]

Omg reading that long-ass list of voltron moments yoy rebloged gave me a cringe-worthy throwback of the beginings of the fandom. But the most awkward one was the 'dirty laundry' phase, like idk why but everybody spoke of that fic; and even tho i've read a lot of popular ones i've never read that one in particular. Did you read it? why was there so much discourse about it? Some loved it and some hated it with passion, idk it was confusing

OH GOD.

Do I dare…. after all these years do I dare… express…. my Dirty Laundry feelings?

Do I touch this long forgotten cornerstone of the Klance fandom?

The answer of course is YES.

So to answer your first question: YES I ABSOLUTELY READ IT AND ABSOLUTELY WAITED IN EXCITEMENT FOR UPDATES.

The thing about Dirty Laundry is…. it’s really a basic fic. Not bad! Not fantastic. There’s nothing new about it at all. It’s your classic fake dating fic where someone has to bring a date home to their family but UH OH, some of the family is homophobic! It has all the plot beats you would expect. It’s fine. It’s fun! It’s nice. Like most multi-chaptered fics, I think it goes for too long and could cut out some unnecessary stuff, but it’s perfectly nice.

HOWEVER, the reason it got so HUGE was just… well timing really. 

THE RISE

We were a brand new fandom. A brand new ship. We needed content, but these characters were still so new to us. We had no idea where the show was going or even much of how the characters were characterised (go back to season 1. Keith does and says fuck all). So when people were looking for some content to enjoy: lo and behold a fake dating fic! Oh thank god that’s pretty safe! We know what to expect from that, right? Everyone loves fake dating fics!

The author writes well enough! It updates pretty regularly! It was really just a perfect storm of “This will do.”

So people read it. And because there was very little to recommend, people suggested it to others. People talked about it, blogged about it, held it up as the BE ALL END ALL klance fic, which of course drew others in. There were memes, fan art like crazy! People would just post on here “IT UPDATED!” and you knew what they were talking about. Some of the first BIG FANDOM blogs also talked about it a lot, so in turn all of their followers wanted to know what this THING was! I’ll be really up front about this, I followed klanced REALLY EARLY and she talked about it a decent amount. I ended up reading it because I just wanted to know what this crazy 16 year old was yelling about all the time.

 However after everyone was raving about it, new readers inevitably picked it up and ended up being a bit disappointed. Then some of the later chapters were posted.

THE FALL

As I said, Dirty Laundry is very basic. I don’t mean that in a degrading way, I just mean that in an “It is what it is” way. It’s a fake dating fic. You know the plot now. The author’s writing style is fine. Nothing fancy. Good grammar. Direct and to the point. Perfectly apt to tell the story. So with so many people raving about it, I think there was a surge of negativity from people going “It’s not even that good. Why does this have the highest rating?” and that’s not really fair. Like could you say it’s overrated? Yeah. But it never claimed to be anything grander than what it is. The fandom put these expectations on the fic, it’s not the writer’s fault. She’s just a kid writing a fake dating fic. She’s not trying to write Schindler’s list or anything.

Though what probably started the wave of discourse was the introduction of an Autistic character and some of the stereotypical portrayals of Lance’s family.

I’m gonna start with the character with ASD because that’s the thing I can actually talk about with some knowledge and experience. Bear with me… I haven’t touched this fic in a VERY long time, but I vividly recall the OUTRAGE when this character was introduced. People called her an offensive stereotype and incorrect portrayal. A token character tossed in without any care for the sake of extra kudos. I heard all this BEFORE I read the chapter, so I expected the worst… when I went to read it… it was really not any of those things. It wasn’t great! Hardly nuanced or anything, but the character seemed very textbook. Like the author had opened a journal on “What is Autism?” and was reciting it through this character. ASD is really difficult I think to write for because it actually presents itself in different ways. So when there were people claiming “I’m autistic and I don’t do that!” that’s not really fair, because your experience is not the same as others. It felt like people had a problem with how the character spoke? And I think that’s actually more from a young author not knowing how to write kid dialogue than not knowing how to write an autistic character. Writing kids is… fucking hard.

It was especially saddening to hear that the author introduced this character in honour of a very good friend of hers, who’s sibling(?) has ASD and she wanted to represent them. This representation was not the most poetic, but it came from good intentions and I felt was not hurtful. I don’t have ASD, so I don’t want to speak for others, and I realise this was not the case for everyone. 

But the other big issue was the portrayal of Lance’s Mexican family. People felt that his Mexican family being homophobic was a stereotype. There’s a reference to throwing a chancla, Lance knows how to salsa, he and his siblings blast Gasolina in the car. A lot of people felt that these were stereotypes bordering on racist, though you also had hispanic people coming forward and saying “This feels like my family”. It was a very aggressive conversation, with people labelling the author as racist and problematic. Do I think the author was problematic? Yeah, but I don’t think that makes her a terrible person. I think that just means she was ignorant and still learning about these things. Probably a few comments and a bit of guidance would have been all that was necessary in educating her about these issues. 

But that’s not how things went. 

FINAL RESULT AND WORDS

I want to make it clear, that out of all the horrible, bat-shit crazy things this fandom has done, NOTHING has disgusted me more than how Gibslythe (the author) was treated. I have never witnessed this fandom so voraciously and aggressively turn on a single individual. The whiplash from PRAISE to ABHORENT CONDEMNATION of Dirty Laundry was reeling. The introduction of the autistic character and singing Gasolina were very close (same chapter?) And that was the breaking point for a lot of people. The author was threatened, yelled at, called terrible names, and this thing that she had created, which had been so beloved and praised, was now being spat on by the very people who had lifted it up just days prior. I can’t imagine what she went through. I don’t want to. 

While I agree worst things have happened (oh god the Josh Keaton nonsense guys, that was a low point), this has always really stuck out to me as the most disgusting, because Gibslythe was just some kid who started writing a klance fic. She was just some kid. And I’ve never quite gotten over what she must have felt when the tides suddenly shifted. Some 17 year old should not be held to such high standards. Dirty Laundry should not be held to such high expectations. 

So the fic actually went on a hiatus. And the author was pretty candid with her feelings and how she wanted to either delete the whole thing, or never update again. But… amazingly…she finished it. To my absolute shock. And I believe it’s still largely unedited, because as previously stated, people did come out and say “No, I’m hispanic and I fucking love Gasolina and sing it with my family all the time.”. And I feel like it takes some serious balls to finish something that has probably become so tainted for you. 

Do I Recommend It?

Dirty Laundry’s history is vastly more interesting than the fic itself. It’s completion is almost a miracle and everyone has an opinion on it. So what do I think?? 

¯\_(ツ)_/¯ It’s alright. 

[phroyd]

It is incredibly frightening how these people utilize all their power of thought in a reductionistic process limited by one old book, the Bible. These folks have never evolved! - Phroyd

Clay Crum opened his Bible to Exodus Chapter 20 and read verse 14 one more time.

“Thou shalt not commit adultery,” it said.

He prayed about what he was going to do. He was the pastor of First Baptist Church in the town of Luverne, Ala., which meant he was the moral leader of a congregation that overwhelmingly supported a president who was an alleged adulterer. For the past six weeks, Crum had been preaching a series of sermons on the Ten Commandments, and now it was time for number seven.

It was summer, and all over the Bible Belt, support for President Trump was rising among voters who had traditionally proclaimed the importance of Christian character in leaders and warned of the slippery slope of moral compromise. In Crenshaw County, where Luverne is located, Trump had won 72 percent of the vote. Recent national polls showed the president’s approval among white evangelical Christians at a high of 77 percent. One survey indicated that his support among Southern Baptists was even higher, surpassing 80 percent, and these were the people arriving on Sunday morning to hear what their pastor had to say.

By 10:30 a.m., the street alongside First Baptist was full of slant-parked cars, and the 80 percenters were walking across the green lawn in the sun, up the stairs, past the four freshly painted white columns and into the church.

“Good to see you this morning,” Crum said, shaking hands as the regulars took their usual places in the wooden pews, and soon, he walked up to the pulpit and opened his King James.

“Today we’re going to be looking at the Seventh Commandment,” Crum began. “Exodus 20:14, the Seventh Commandment, simply says, ‘Thou shalt not commit adultery.’ ”

The people settled in. There was the sound of hard candy unwrapping and thin pages of Bibles turning.

The presidency of Donald Trump has created unavoidable moral dilemmas not just for the members of First Baptist in Luverne but for a distinct subset of Christians who are overwhelmingly white, overwhelmingly evangelical and more uniformly pro-Trump than any other part of the American electorate.

In poll after poll, they have said that Trump has kept his promises to appoint conservative Supreme Court justices, fight for religious liberty, adopt pro-life policies and deliver on other issues that are high priorities for them.

At the same time, many have acknowledged the awkwardness of being both self-proclaimed followers of Jesus and the No. 1 champions of a president whose character has been defined not just by alleged infidelity but accusations of sexual harassment, advancing conspiracy theories popular with white supremacists, using language that swaths of Americans find racist, routinely spreading falsehoods and an array of casual cruelties and immoderate behaviors that amount to a roll call of the seven deadly sins.

The predicament has led to all kinds of reactions within the evangelical community, from a gathering of pastors in Illinois described as a “call to self-reflection,” to prayer meetings with Trump in Washington, to hours of cable news reckoning in which Southern Baptists have taken the lead.

The megachurch pastor Robert Jeffress has declared that Trump is “on the right side of God” and that “evangelicals know they are not compromising their beliefs in order to support this great president.” Franklin Graham, son of the evangelist Billy Graham, said the only explanation for Trump being in the White House was that “God put him there.”

A few leaders have publicly dissented from such views, aware of the Southern Baptist history of whiffing on the big moral questions of the day — such as during the civil rights era, when most pastors either defended segregation or remained silent. The president of the Southern Baptist Convention’s ethics commission, Russell Moore, asked whether Christians were “really ready to trade unity with our black and brown brothers and sisters for this angry politician?” One prominent black pastor, Lawrence Ware, left the denomination altogether, writing that the widespread reluctance to criticize Trump on racial issues revealed a “deep commitment to white supremacy.” The new president of the Southern Baptist Convention, J.D. Greear, said church culture had “grown too comfortable with power and the dangers that power brings.”

But all those discussions were taking place far from the rank-and-file. The Southern Baptists who filled the pews every Sunday were making their own moral calculations about Trump in the privacy of a thousand church sanctuaries in cities and towns such as Luverne, population 2,700, an hour south of the state capital of Montgomery.

It was a place where it was hard to drive a mile in any direction without passing some church or sign about the wages of sin, where conversations about politics happened in nodding circles before Sunday school, or at the Chicken Shack after, and few people paid attention to some national Southern Baptist leader.

What mattered in Luverne was the redbrick church with the tall white steeple that hovered over the tidy green lawns and gardens of town. First Baptist was situated along Luverne’s main street, next to the post office and across from the county courthouse, a civic position that had always conferred on its pastors a moral authority now vested in Clay Crum.

“A fine Christian man,” was how the mayor referred to him.

“He just makes everybody feel like he loves ’em,” said a member of First Baptist.

And the members of First Baptist loved their pastor back. They had hired him in July 2015, a month after Trump began campaigning for president and courting evangelicals by declaring that Christianity is “under siege” and “the Bible is the best.” A church committee had sifted through dozens of résumés from Florida and Missouri and as far away as Michigan and out of all of them they had picked Crum, a former truck driver from right down the road in Georgiana.

“As Southern Baptists in this small town, we want our leader to believe like we do,” said Terry Drew, who had chaired the search committee, and three years later, Crum was meeting their highest expectations of what a good Southern Baptist pastor should be.

He kept up with the prayer list. He did all his visits, the nursing homes and the shut-ins. He wore a lapel pin in the shape of two tiny baby feet as a reminder of what he saw as the pure evil of abortion. And when Sunday morning came, he delivered his sermons straight out of an open Bible, no notes, and it wasn’t unusual for him to cry.

“He is just really sincere,” said Jewell Killough, who had been a member of First Baptist for four decades, and as Crum stood at the front of the congregation now and looked out, hers was one of the faces looking back.

She always sat in the center row, fifth pew from the front, right in line with the pulpit. Jewell Killough was 82, and as Crum had gone through the first six commandments Sunday after Sunday, she had not yet heard anything to dissuade her from believing that Trump was being used by God to save America.

“Oh, I feel like the Lord heard our prayers and gave us a second chance before the end times,” she had said a few days before, when she was working at the food pantry of the Alabama Crenshaw Baptist Association.

It was a low-brick house where the Baptists kept stacks of pamphlets about abstaining from premarital sex, alcohol, smoking and other behaviors they felt corrupted Christian character, which was not something Jewell worried about with Trump.

“I think they are trying to frame him,” she said, referring to the unflattering stories about the president.

By “they,” she meant liberals and others she believed were not only trying to undermine Trump’s agenda, but God’s agenda for America, which she believed was engaged in a great spiritual contest between good and evil, God and Satan, the saved and the unsaved, for whom God had prepared two places.

There was Heaven: “Most say it’s gonna be 15,000 miles wide and that high,” Jewell said. “We don’t know whether when it comes down how far it will come, if it’s gonna come all the way or if there will be stairs. We don’t know that. But it’s gonna be suitable to each person. You know that old song, ‘Lord, build me a cabin in the corner of Gloryland?’ See, that’s not right. It’s not gonna be you have a cabin over here and I have one over there. It’s gonna be suitable to each person. So, whatever makes me happy. I like birds. So outside my window, there will be birds.”

And there was Hell: “Each person is gonna be on an islandlike place, and fire all around it. And they’re gonna be in complete darkness, and over time, your eyes will go. And worms’ll eat on you. It’s a terrible place, the way the Bible describes it.”

It was a binary world, not just for Jewell Killough but for everyone sitting inside the sanctuary of First Baptist Church, who prayed all the time about how to navigate it.

There were Brett and Misty Green, who sat a few rows behind Jewell, and said that besides reading the Bible or listening to Pastor Crum, prayer was the only way to sort out what was godly and what was satanic.

“Satan is the master magician,” said Misty, 32, a federal court worker.

“The father of lies,” said Brett, 33, a land surveyor, who was sitting with his wife and his Bible one evening in the church’s fellowship hall, a large beige room with accordion partitions that separated the men’s and ladies’ Sunday school classes.

“That’s why we have the Holy Spirit,” Brett said, explaining it was “like a gut feeling” that told him what to do in morally confusing situations, which had included the election, when the spirit had told him to vote for Trump, even though something the president allegedly said since then had given Brett pause. It was when Trump was discussing immigration, and reportedly asked, “Why are we having all these people from shithole countries coming here?”

“Jesus Christ was born in Nazareth, and Nazareth was a shithole at that time,” Brett said. “Someone might say, ‘How could anything good come out of a place like that?’ Well, Jesus came out of a place like that.”

Other things bothered Misty. Crum had preached a few Sundays before about the Third Commandment — “Thou shalt not take the Lord’s name in vain” — but as Misty saw it, Trump belittled God and all of God’s creation when he called people names like “loser” and “stupid.”

“A lot of his actions I don’t agree with,” Misty said. “But we are not to judge.”

What a good Christian was supposed to do was pray for God to work on Trump, who was after all pro-life, and pro-Israel, and pro-all the positions they felt a Christian nation should be taking. And if they were somehow wrong about Trump, said Misty, “in the end it doesn’t really matter.”

“A true Christian doesn’t have to worry about that,” said Brett, explaining what any good Southern Baptist heard at church every Sunday, which was that Jesus had died on the cross to wash away their sins, defeat death and provide them with eternal life in heaven.

“I think about it all the time, what it’s gonna be like,” she said.

“I know we’ll have new bodies,” said Brett. “We’ll be like Christ, it says.”

There was Jack Jones, who sat behind the pulpit in the choir, and was chairman of the deacons, the church leaders who tried to set a Christian example by mowing lawns for the homebound, building front door ramps for the elderly and maintaining standards in their own ranks.

“We stick strictly to the Bible that a divorced man is not able to be a deacon,” said Jack, who said it was uncomfortable being such a Bible stickler and supporting a president alleged to have committed adultery with a porn star.

“It’s difficult, that’s for sure,” he said, sitting with his wife in the church basement.

The way he and Linda had come to think of it, Trump was no worse than a long list of other American presidents from the Founding Fathers on.

“George Washington had a mistress,” Linda said. “Thomas Jefferson did, too. Roosevelt had a mistress with him when he died. Eisenhower. Kennedy.”

“None of ’em are lily white,” said Jack.

What was important was not the character of the president but his positions, they said, and one mattered more than all the others.

“Abortion,” said Linda, whose eyes teared up when she talked about it.

Trump was against it. It didn’t matter that two decades ago he had declared himself to be “very pro-choice.” He was now saying “every life totally matters,” appointing antiabortion judges and adopting so many antiabortion policies that one group called him “the most pro-life president in history.”

It was the one political issue on which First Baptist had taken a stand, a sin one member described as “straight from the pits of Hell,” and which Crum had called out when he preached on “Thou shalt not kill” the Sunday before, reminding the congregation about the meaning of his tiny lapel pin. “It’s the size of a baby’s feet at ten weeks,” he had said.

There was Terry Drew, who sat in the seventh pew on the left side, who knew and agreed with Trump’s position, and knew that supporting him involved a blatant moral compromise.

“I hate it,” he said. “My wife and I talk about it all the time. We rationalize the immoral things away. We don’t like it, but we look at the alternative, and think it could be worse than this.”

The only way to understand how a Christian like him could support a man who boasted about grabbing women’s crotches, Terry said, was to understand how he felt about the person Trump was still constantly bringing up in his speeches and who loomed large in Terry’s thoughts: Hillary Clinton, whom Terry saw as “sinister” and “evil” and “I’d say, of Satan.”

“She hates me,” Terry said, sitting in Crum’s office one day. “She has contempt for people like me, and Clay, and people who love God and believe in the Second Amendment. I think if she had her way it would be a dangerous country for the likes of me.”

As he saw it, there was the issue of Trump’s character, and there was the issue of Terry’s own extinction, and the choice was clear.

“He’s going to stick to me,” Terry said.

So many members of First Baptist saw it that way.

There was Jan Carter, who sat in the 10th pew center, who said that supporting Trump was the only moral thing to do.

“You can say righteously I do not support him because of his moral character but you are washing your hands of what is happening in this country,” she said, explaining that in her view America was slipping toward “a civil war on our shores.”

There was her friend Suzette, who sat in the fifth pew on the right side, and who said Trump might be abrasive “but we need abrasive right now.”

And there was Sheila Butler, who sat on the sixth pew on the right side, who said “we’re moving toward the annihilation of Christians.”

She was 67, a Sunday school teacher who said this was the only way to understand how Christians like her supported Trump.

“Obama was acting at the behest of the Islamic nation,” she began one afternoon when she was getting her nails done with her friend Linda. She was referring to allegations that President Barack Obama is a Muslim, not a Christian — allegations that are false. “He carried a Koran and it was not for literary purposes. If you look at it, the number of Christians is decreasing, the number of Muslims has grown. We allowed them to come in.”

“Obama woke a sleeping nation,” said Linda.

“He woke a sleeping Christian nation,” Sheila corrected.

Linda nodded. It wasn’t just Muslims that posed a threat, she said, but all kinds of immigrants coming into the country.

“Unpapered people,” Sheila said, adding that she had seen them in the county emergency room and they got treated before her. “And then the Americans are not served.”

Love thy neighbor, she said, meant “love thy American neighbor.”

Welcome the stranger, she said, meant the “legal immigrant stranger.”

“The Bible says, ‘If you do this to the least of these, you do it to me,’ ” Sheila said, quoting Jesus. “But the least of these are Americans, not the ones crossing the border.”

To her, this was a moral threat far greater than any character flaw Trump might have, as was what she called “the racial divide,” which she believed was getting worse. The evidence was all the black people protesting about the police, and all the talk about the legacy of slavery, which Sheila never believed was as bad as people said it was. “Slaves were valued,” she said. “They got housing. They got fed. They got medical care.”

She was suspicious of what she saw as the constant agitation of blacks against whites, the taking down of Confederate memorials and the raising of others, such as the new memorial to the victims of lynching, just up the highway in Montgomery.

“I think they are promoting violence,” Sheila said, thinking about the 800 weathered, steel monoliths hanging from a roof to evoke the lynchings, one for each American county where the violence was carried out, including Crenshaw County, where a man named Jesse Thornton was lynched in 1940 in downtown Luverne.

“How do you think a young black man would feel looking at that?” Linda asked. “Wouldn’t you feel a sickness in your stomach?”

“I think it would only make you have more violent feelings — feelings of revenge,” said Sheila.

It reminded her of a time when she was a girl in Montgomery, when the now-famous civil rights march from Selma was heading to town and her parents, fearing violence, had sent her to the country to stay with relatives.

“It’s almost like we’re going to live that Rosa Parks time again,” she said, referring to the civil rights activist. “It was just a scary time, having lived through it.”

She thought an all-out race war was now in the realm of possibility. And that was where she had feared things were heading, right up until election night, when she and Linda and everyone they knew were praying for God to save them. And God sent them Donald Trump.

“I believe God put him there,” Sheila said. “He put a sinner in there.”

God was using Trump just like he had used the Apostle Paul, she said.

“Paul had murdered Christians and he went on to minister to many, many people,” Sheila said. “I think he’s being molded by God for the role. I think he’s the right man for the right time. It’s about the survival of the Christian nation.”

“We are in mortal danger,” Linda said.

“We are in a religious war,” Sheila said.

Linda nodded.

“We may have to fight and die for our faith,” Sheila said. “I hope it doesn’t come to that, but if it does, we will.”

She rubbed her sore knee, which was caked with an analgesic.

“In heaven, I won’t have any pain,” Sheila said.

“No tears,” said Linda.

“I think it’ll be beautiful — I love plants, and I think it’ll be like walking in a beautiful garden,” said Sheila.

“Have you ever been out at night and looked at the stars?” said Linda. “That’s the floor of heaven, and heaven is going to be so much more beautiful than the floor.”

“I’m going to be in my kitchen,” Sheila said, imagining heaven would have one. “I think it’s going to be beautiful to see all the appliances.”

It was hard to know what a good Christian should do in the meantime, Sheila said, and that was why Clay Crum was so important. He had been inspiring her with sermons all summer, including the Sunday before Memorial Day, when he had everybody stand up and not only pledge allegiance to the American flag but to the Christian flag and the Bible.

“I see Clay as my leader,” Sheila said. “Clay just knows what we need on any given day.”

He had gotten through “Thou shalt not kill” the Sunday before. It was not easy. There were veterans in the congregation. Crum had to explain how God could command people not to kill in one part of the Bible, yet demand a massacre in another.

“God does not want you to kill on your terms, he wants you to kill on his terms,” he had concluded in his sermon. “So let’s promote Jesus in life. Let’s not kill. Unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

Now he sat in his office, where there was a metal cross on the wall and three Bibles on his desk and prayed about what the Lord wanted him to say.

“Thou shalt not commit adultery,” he read again.

“How can I get people to see the whole picture?” he asked himself.

What was the whole picture?

There had been a time before he became a pastor when Crum saw things differently. He saw the pastor of his childhood church stealing money, and as he got older, he saw deacons having affairs, Christians behaving in hateful ways and finally he came to see it all as a big sham.

“I thought it was very hypocritical,” he said. “That they pretend. That it’s all a show.”

He gave up on church. He started drinking some and went a little wild, dabbling in world religions and having his own thoughts about the meaning of life until one day when he was listening to Christian radio on a truck haul. He remembered the preacher talking about salvation and suddenly feeling unsure of his own.

“So I just prayed to the Lord while I was driving,” he said. “I want to be sure.”

The next Sunday, he began attending a Southern Baptist church near Luverne, where he was asked one Wednesday night to step in for the absent pastor and deliver a prayer.

He had just gotten off work. His back hurt. His feet hurt. He was exhausted and as he began to pray, something came over him. He started crying and begging God to forgive him for his rebellion, and by the end of it, Clay Crum had found a new profession. He felt God was telling him to go into the ministry, and 10 years later, here he was, the pastor of First Baptist church who had gotten to where he could discern the voice of God all the time.

“It’s not an audible voice,” Crum said. “We all have a million thoughts that come in our head every day. You got to know which are from God.”

He was sure that it had been the voice of God that told him to preach on the Ten Commandments. It would be a series on “the seriousness of morality,” Crum decided, because to him, the biggest problem in society was that “people do not want to own the wrong they do.”

“They want to excuse their actions by explaining them away,” he said. “They want to talk generally: ‘I know I’m a sinner.’ Well, what is the sin?”

And it was the same voice of God that had led Crum to vote the same way most of his congregation had voted in one of the most morally confusing elections of his lifetime.

“A crossroads time,” Crum called it.

He did not feel great about voting for Trump, who had called the holy communion wafer “my little cracker,” who had said his “favorite book” was the Bible, that his favorite biblical teaching was “an eye for an eye,” and who had courted evangelical Christians by saying, “I love them. They love me.”

“It’s a hard thing to reconcile,” Crum said. “I really do struggle with it.”

He knew what the Bible had to say about Trump’s behavior.

“You’re committing adultery, that’s sinful. You’re being sexually abusive to women, that’s wrong. Any of those things. You can go on and on,” Crum said. “All those things are immoral.”

He thought about whether Trump could do anything that might require the moral leader of Luverne to abandon his support, or criticize the president publicly.

“There are times when Christians have to stand up,” said Crum.

The dilemma was that Trump was an immoral person doing what Crum considered to be moral things. The conservative judges. The antiabortion policies. And something else even more important to a small Southern Baptist congregation worried about their own annihilation.

“It encouraged them that we do still have some political power in this country,” said Crum.

When he prayed about it, that was what the voice of God had told him. The voice reminded Crum that God always had a hand in elections. The voice told him that God used all kinds of people to do his will.

“Nebuchadnezzar,” Crum said, citing the pagan king of Babylon who was advised by godly men to tear down an old corrupt order. “Even sometimes bad leaders are used by God.”

He had wondered at times about the idea that God had chosen Trump, and the opposite, the possibility that God had nothing to do with Trump at all. He wondered about it again now, his Bible bookmarked to the 14th verse of Exodus Chapter 20 for the sermon.

“It’s a hard thing to reconcile,” he said. “I think ultimately God allowed him to become president for reasons we don’t fully know yet.”

Sunday came, and the followers of Donald Trump took their usual seats in the sanctuary.

“Hey, sugarfoot,” Sheila Butler said to one of her Sunday school ladies.

“Morning,” Crum said, welcoming the regulars.

They settled into the seafoam-green cushions along the wooden pews, some of which also had back cushions to make them more comfortable. They opened old Bibles bookmarked with birthday cards and photos of grandchildren, and after they all sang “I was sinking deep into sin, far from the peaceful shore,” Crum walked up to the podium to deliver the sermon God had told him to deliver.

“What is adultery?” Crum began.

Jewell Killough was listening.

“Adultery, simply stated, is a breach of commitment,” Crum said. “When one person turns their back on a commitment that they made and seeks out something else to fulfill themselves.”

He talked about the dangers of temporary satisfaction, of looking at “anything unclean,” and in the choir behind him, Jack Jones nodded. He talked about other kinds of adultery, such as “hardheartedness” and avoiding personal responsibility.

“See, we don’t want to look at ourselves,” Crum said. “We don’t want to say, ‘I’m part of the problem.’”

Someone in the congregation coughed. Someone unwrapped a caramel candy.

“The purpose of the commandment is so we can see the sin, so we can repent of the sin and then fully experience the complete grace of god,” he said. “But only when we admit it. Only when we repent of it. And only when we return to him by faith.”

He was at the end of his sermon. If he was going to say anything about Trump, or presidents, or politicians, or how having a Christian character was important for the leader of the United States, now was the time. His Bible was open. He was preaching without notes.

He looked out at all the faces of people who felt threatened and despised in a changing America, who thought Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton were sent by Satan to destroy them, and that Donald Trump was sent by God to protect them, and who could always count on Clay Crum to remind them of what they all believed to be the true meaning of Jesus Christ — that he died to forgive all of their sins, to save them from death and secure their salvation in a place that was 15,000 miles wide, full of gardens, appliances, and a floor of stars.

Not now, he decided. Not yet. He closed his Bible. He had one last thing to say to them before the sermon was over.

“Let us pray.”

“Amen,” someone in the congregation said.

Phroyd

[newgeht]

Leur Amour S'épanouit

Chapter 2

Summary: Only so many things could stand in the way of Sting and Rogue's destined path. At this point, it was just Yukino, but Rogue couldn't let her go. Was it because of shame or stubbornness? Characters: Sting Eucliffe, Rogue Cheney, Erza Scarlet, Makaroc Dreyar, OC Rating: T Words:  6,575 FFnet | AO3

It was an ongoing cycle of boring meeting after boring meeting with no end in sight. This conference made Sting discover one of his worse nightmares and he was living it every single day. He just wished for the next two days to be over and take that sucky train back to Azura with Rogue. The thought of the shadow dragon slayer twisted his whole body, in a ways equally pleasant and painful. The brooding man was always in his thoughts creeping in at the most unexpected of moments, moments such as this.

Some old guy from Toad Stool was speaking about reward increases. Which was followed by a heavy argument from a couple of the larger guilds. Who made him guild master again? Rogue would be so much more suited for the job but he was in another large meeting room.

He kept his eyes down on his paper, gripping his pen as he doodled on the margin. Small swirls and lightning bolts were drawn onto the piece of parchment, maybe he should become an artist instead of a mage. He would be the best at it, hell, he would he the best at anything he tried. Becoming more determined he scribbled some more on his paper, his tongue poking out at bit from his deep concentration. The black ink spread around his meaningless notes, he didn't understand economics so they were of no importance to him.

His ears perked up from a familiar voice, cerulean eyes looking up on the form of the newest head chairman, Makarov. A small portrait of him would be nice; Sting quickly drew a body and gave him his infamous scruffy hair. To top it all off, he drew a large comediacly large bulbous nose. When he looked back up at the small old man, the noses didn't seem completely right but at least he tried.

An abnormally large mallet slammed down on his paper, Sting sitting up as straight as a board. His pen went flying overhead as he saluted the councilmen in front of him. “Yes sir!” His voice a higher pitch than normal as he looked over the small stout man, that was Makarov. The tiny man had become the senior chair in the magic council after the events of Tartaros due to his title of wizard saint. The Magic Council also needed someone they could trust, so Makarov was really the only option. In his stead, Erza Scarlet became the next guild master not his grandson. It was a shock to most but a welcome surprise, the red head truly deserved the honour.

“Hehe,” the old man chuckled, “you seem to be writing down some excellent notes, Master Eucliffe. Would you like to share some of those…” Makarov’s attention turned to the paper, a grin almost larger than his face appearing. “Wonderful diagrams with us.”

All eyes in the room turned to face the young guild master, his whole body heating up with embarrassment. “Well you see uhhh…” Sting grabbed the stack of papers and held them at a inauspicious length from his body and looked over them, speaking in a louder tone than normal so everyone could hear. “This diagram is not really complete yet,” a knowing grin came from Makarov, “I will present it when I'm done.” The blond rubbed the back of his neck, beaming a small smile to the circled table of guild masters.

“I see,” the old man was really out for blood. “We will chat about this later then young man, I would love to see your ideas.” Makarov still stood on the white table, waddling as he continued his previous speech.

“Of course,” Sting grumbled but Makarov was too far away to hear. Not like it would have mattered if he disagreed, that perverted old man would find him if he tried to give him the slip.  

After the meeting was over, Sting lounged around until the other masters left. This took a longer amount of time than he thought as everyone had to chit-chat. Didn't they all have time to go out for drinks after all the meetings were done?

He sat up on the table, looking over the packet he had received. Most of its contents were lost to him, when would a mage ever have the time to learn the fundamentals of running a business (also known as keeping the guild afloat) and then managing money; he felt as if they expected too much of him. Sting had trouble with these concepts, he knew once he got back to the hotel room the packets he had received today would go straight to Rogue. His partner always knew how to explain things in a way that he would understand.

Sting grew giddy as he thought of seeing Rogue again, even when the man was not in the best of moods. Just the presence of the shadow slayer lifted his soul to new heights, he never understood how Rogue didn't see it. He had always needed the ruby eyed man in his life.

Sting chewed on his inner lip, older couple shuffling out of the conference room. Shifting in his seat, it appeared as if Fairy Tail’s previous guild master had left too -leaving him all alone. How rude.

“Sting, my child.” Makarov’s voice was calling him and Sting turned to see the old man in front of him. It was odd that he not only referred to him as a child but as his own.

The young guild master smiled at his elder, looking down at his figure. He always forgot how small he was in person. “Heya, Makarov. What did ya need?”

Makarov's mustache twitched as he eyed Sting, his hand enlarging to pat the dragon slayer on the back. In a teasing voice, “I just wanted to let you know those ‘diagrams’ you drew were stellar but maybe you should pay more attention. That would be a nice change for once.”

Denying his accusation, the blond shook his head feverishly. “Sir, I was paying attention the whole time! Those uhm… diagrams were just my understanding of the presentation.”

A smug grin appeared on Makarov’s face as he held Sting’s interpretation of how he looked up to his face. “I think I look quite nice, though the nose could have some better work. Hehe.”

“How did you get those,” Sting exclaimed, swiping the documents from his hand. This made Sting admit to his folly, “Alright, fine. I wasn't paying attention but I did for the first part.”

The elderly man chuckled, holding his hand to his chest. “You're so easy to poke at. I didn't come here to scold you but it was just too easy.” His laughter was a clacking cackle which was refreshing to the youthful laughter he typically heard in his own guild. “I just came here to say you're doing a wonderful job with Sabertooth. I'm glad my children have such wonderful shitty demons.” The old man’s brows drooped sullenly at the last words, Tartarus not a good memory for anyone. “You really lead a good group of mages.”

The blond was taken back by the councilman’s statement, he felt a surge of honor well up in his chest. The great Makarov was complimenting him, out of all the more experienced guild masters here. “It's nothin’, old man. It's my newfound duty to protect my friends and guildmates, nobody is gonna stop me even if it's a bunch of lame demons. That's why we went to get our lady.”

At the mention of the lady the wizard saint perked up. “How is Minerva doing these days?”

Sting was unsure of how to answer without revealing too much private information. He stumbled over his words, “Well… she is fine but still coping. She's become a much better person since…”

Makarov seemed satisfied with this answer and pulled his mustache between his fingers, rolling the tip between his thumb and forefinger. “I hope she's having an easy time on the path of light, keep an eye on her. The darkness will try to snatch her right back up.” With this cryptic statement, Makarov made his leave.

Following the motion of him, the dragon slayer left the empty conference room. The word's deeper meaning utterly lost to Sting, making his head hurt as he pondered on the old man’s small speech. Minerva had made great progress in the time since Tatarus, even becoming an idol to the younger mages in Sabertooth. Surely nothing bad would happen anytime soon. And if there was the chance of any evil awakenings, Sabertooth would put a halt to it -they always did.

Makarov was waddling down the hallway and stopped in his tracks, looking back at Sting. “I hope to see you at the party later tonight.” The stout old man turned and kept going, his wishes were more like a command.

Like hell Sting was going to go to some party with a bunch of old geezers. All they did was talk about politics, and he didn’t understand a lick of it. But if Makarov expected to see him there, then he had to go.

Pushing through the large doors of Era, the greatest star of all was reigning high in the sky. Its great radiant beams granting Sting a highly needed boost of energy. The small pamphlet given to them on Monday held all the dates, times, and information on the meeting the guild masters and their chosen representative would be attending. Pulling the beat up paper from his pocket, Rogue had just started a meeting. He grimaced at the fact, Sting was hoping to buy them a nice lunch.

Walking down the concrete steps a breeze pushed the familiar scent of strawberries his way, a small tinge of iron mixed in. His nose was now leading him toward the intoxicating scent, an armour clad woman sternly speaking to someone. Red hair flowed gracefully with the breeze, turning in small rivulets along the gentle slope of her back. The scarlet color accentuated by the metallic plates adorning her torso.

Sting was always attracted to the color red, it’s beauty held the most bittersweet of feelings. Erza’s hair reminded him of Rogue’s own ruby orbs and he grit his teeth as he thought fondly of the shadow dragon slayer. He really hoped they would be able to have dinner together later.

Taking his eyes off the scarlet beauty, he made his way down the steps; hoping to avoid Fairy Tail’s guild master -his stomach was in much dire need of attention.

The blond licked his lips at the thought of all the possible food choices within Era’s central market place, he was going to have a great time there. Moving his arms behind his head, a spine-tingling cool hand caught his forearm. Sting groaned internally, he really thought he managed to avoid Erza.

“Sting,” the woman’s voice in her always mildly serious tone. He didn’t really think there was anything important to discuss, but the red head always seemed fixated on the most minute and meticulous of details. “It’s nice to see you today. I find it surprising you didn’t stop by to greet me.”

Sting pulled his arm from her armoured hand, awkwardly chuckling as he rubbed the back of his head. Could he really think of a plausible excuse for the great Titania. “Well uhhh… You seemed kinda busy back there. I didn’t want ta bother ya, ya know?”

The requip mage’s arms crossed over her stomach, giving the blond a hard cold stare. The two had been fond of each other since he was Natsu’s ex-boyfriend, but he could never get used to the judgemental stares she would give.

The blond continued to babble under her stare, “Plus, I was just going to get some food. My stomach is literally eating itself.”

Her brown eyes lit up and she grabbed his wrist, beginning to drag him off  the marketplace. “What a good suggestion, Sting. Getting lunch together is such a marvelous idea.”

He could practically feel the sweat starting to form at the tops of his eyebrows, as he was dragged along by his fellow guild master. This situation was something he had never expected out of today but maybe he could get her to pay for the food. It would be a win-win for the both of them.

Shortly after paying (as in, Erza payed for it all) and waiting for the food to be made, the guild master duo found themselves sitting at a small dining table. The marketplace was vibrant and full of various oddities of all kinds of wonders,as was to be expected of Fiore’s magic capital. New magic technologies were on display in the crowded booths, every seller trying to catch the attention of those walking by. This did distract Erza and himself on multiple occasions -who didn’t want a ring that changed color by your mood? Though he could see the stars in Erza’s eyes whenever they passed a weapon’s booth. Unlike the blond, she proved quite resistant to the charm of all the shiny new toys.

The metal chair was certainly not inviting as he settled into it, the seat’s rusty exterior scratching his arms. He had a large tray of food, stacked sky high; compared to Erza who only had a small piece of strawberry cake. Sting had never seen the red head with anything other than the sweet pastry in front of her -did she ever eat anything else?

Like a pig, he began to dig into his platter of food shoving the street food down into his mouth. It was oh so satisfying to feel his belly fill up with the tasty foods. Crumbs and inedible debris flew about, shoveling his food down into his mouth nonstop . He was sure Erza was speaking but his focus was entirely on the platter of dwindling food in front of him. Sting’s throat bubbled up, placing his hand on his stomach in content -satisfaction and comfort now enveloping him. Opening his mouth, he emitted a loud burp everyone around the two looking at them in disgust or amusement.

Sting wiped his face off with a napkin, completely unashamed of his bad manners. Erza’s plate was barely touched, only a small bite taken from the spongy yellow cake. “Say ‘excuse you’, Sting. You would think a guild master would set a better example.” She sent a playful look his way, but her tone was serious as always.

Sheepishly he blushed, finally noticing the stares the two were getting. “Yeah… ‘Scuse me,” he interrupted himself by laughing, “The food was just too good.”

Erza nodded her head, placing her fork down beside her cake. Her gaze turned to him, her brown eyes narrowing, “I see, but I need to discuss some things with you concerning your guild.”

Sting let out a groan in response, this whole week he had been talking about Sabertooth. Couldn’t he just take a break from boasting about how amazing they were? The scarlet-haired woman responded by swatting his hand. “Ouch! What was that for?!” He exclaimed, rubbing his now pink hand.

“Sometimes you’re as disrespectful as Natsu,” he could tell Erza regretted the words as soon as they tumbled out of her mouth. The dragon slayer’s name burned his heart, he never wanted to be compared to his ex ever again. “Please forgive-”

The blond held his hand up, “No need, Erza. I was out of line and you are a woman who demands respect from her audience, ya know. I can give that ta ya, just forgive me for being so… childish.” Another word that put him down. He rubbed his hands against his legs, trying to get away from his typical behaviors.

Mocha eyes softened, the air settling into a much more mellow atmosphere. A pleased glint crossed those same eyes and she took another bite of her glorified strawberry cake. “You are very surprising sometimes. It’s very admirable to say that of yourself, Sting. I can see why those in Sabertooth look up to you so fondly. You’re a great leader, when you really want to.”

A smile was latched onto his face from her compliment. Another chuckle slipped from his lips, taking kindly to the guild master sitting in front of him. “Thanks, Erza. I have made a great effort to be better for the guild’s sake -we have come a long way.”

It really had been, it had been a real struggle to break from the reputation they had previously attained. The were seen as bullies, the unconquerable king of the hill (until Fairy Tail had regained its status), and the new example for all newly formed guilds of the time. Cruelty and viciousness had swept through the guilds in Fiore because of this imaginary competition of being the best, although it had never existed in the first place. There was no such thing as “the best”, every guild had its pros and cons. Sabertooth having many negatives but it was perfectly balanced out by the positives, and he assumed that of any other guild.

He started the reformation by kicking members who were stuck in the past or who had a current criminal reputation. Sting welcomed them to come back once they had found the light, but he had a larger group to care for. Then their funds were tidied up and placed in fair order for renovation. He was so proud of the job he did with the guild hall. His last revision was the roles everyone had played in the guild, everyone was equal now and free to do as they choose (as long as it was legal).

A smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth, as she mindlessly toying with the piece of cake. A true predator always played with its prey, Sting grinned at the thought. “Aside from your occasional mistakes in good choices, Sabertooth is just as good as Fairy Tail. I’m glad to call you guys our companions.” They had always been as good as the fairies, or so he liked to think.  

His grin turned into a goofy smile, all of it was directed toward the requip mage. She lightly blushed from his smile, it was cute to see the somber mage somewhat flustered for once. The pink tinge of her cheeks suited her features, if he hadn’t been so gay, Erza would have been exactly the type of woman he would want. Too bad she was engaged to Jellal, they were made in the stars.

Speaking of those bright, glittery, and wonderful balls of fire, he knew Rogue loved to go stargazing. Maybe he would take the brooding friend out later, they had avoided each other since the train ride to Era. Only seeing one another during meetings and back at the hotel room; having exchanged a couple words between one another but hadn't really said anything to one another.

Leaning back in his chair, he pushed the shadow mage from his head. Deciding the beratement of flattery was unusual from the woman, he poked at her a bit. “Erza, are ya complimenting me for some other reason? I mean, I appreciate it an’ all but-”

Her back straightened up, surprise evident on her face. Cutting the blond off, she blurted out, “Why do you think so?”

With his contagious grin widening imperceptibly, he shifted forward and wiggled his nose. Erza shifted in her seat, looking a bit squeamish and he prodded at her more, taking a small whiff of the air. “I can smell that you’re hiding something, “ Sting cood.

But Erza had an iron will, not giving into his teasing so easily. “Dragon slayers can’t smell things like that.” She certainly wasn’t wrong, but Sting knew that the woman wasn’t typically so generous.

Now he bared his ivory canines, nearing her piece of cake with his mouth open. The red head looked so conflicted as he closed in on her piece of strawberry cake, slowly prying her fork from her fingers. “Tell me, Erza or your cake will suffer!” In his great exclamation, he flicked his tongue over the vanilla frosting.

He should have known better than to mess with the Great Titania’s cherished food. In an instant, her fork was pressed against his throat and she hoisted him up by the collar of his shirt; brown eyes filled with a burning fire, protecting the delicacy she loved so much. “You play too much, Sting. My cake’s honour will not be diminished by your vile tongue!”

“Heh…” Sting was in awe of Erza, no wonder why Natsu had called her a monster. He liked the flared spark she had shown him and he carefully wrapped his hand around her wrist. “I’ve learned my lesson, Erza! I will never touch the holy grail ever again!” He over exaggerated his words, slowly pulling the fork from his throat -he didn’t want to see how much damage she could truly do with it.

Sting slumped back onto the the table grateful that Erza didn't injure him with a fork. He was sure she could do it anytime she'd like. After the scarlet haired monster released her hold on him. With a small huff, she returned to her seat, “This treat is not for someone of the likes of you.” Erza pursed her lips, stabbing her fork down into the fluffy piece of cake and shoved the rest of the piece into her mouth.

The blond’s jaw dropped, astonished by the guild master’s gesture. She continued, speaking while chewing. “I would have rather savored this piece, but you insisted on getting into business,” she gave him a hard look, “This involves Sorcerer Weekly.”

Ah, yes. That magazine had been up to no good as of late. They had gone from the most reputable source for mage gossip (not that gossip was ever any good, but it was once truthful), to scummy reporters and paparazzi. Every issue was full of blatant lies about the lives of guild mages, new magics, The Council, and mages between those in the guilds. He was curious to know why Erza wanted to talk about it, Fairy Tail and Sabertooth weren’t involved with them as much anymore.

“What about them?” Sure he was interested but his tone conveyed his disinterest in the topic.

Erza sighed and pulled a small piece of paper from her magical storage. “As you may know, Lucy worked as an editor and reporter for them a couple years ago. She ran into Jason recently and he gave her this.” Carefully she slid the paper across the table, seeming scared to touch it. “It’s an article that’s going into the next issue.”

Plucking the paper up, his eyes started to lazily skim across the words. It started out with the details of Rogue and Yukino’s relationship (which he really didn’t care for). Then it took a turn, talking about the scandalous affair between the two top women of Sabertooth -Yukino and Minerva. This was the answer to his prayers, but could Sorcerer Weekly really be telling the truth? They could have written about him and Rogue for Christ's sake. Just because they were friends didn’t mean they were fucking.

He held the paper to his face for another moment, peering at Erza. “What the hell is this?” Then he slammed it back onto the table with a disgusted flick of his wrist. If this was true, Rogue would be hurt deeply.

Her ironclad hand quickly swiped the paper back up, shoving it into her magical storage space. “I’m not usually one to get into gossip,” she paused, deciding her words very carefully, “but this definitely won’t be good for Sabertooth; whether it’s true or not.”

Sting could feel his lips curl in disgust. This could not be true in the slightest of capacities. “Erza, Yukino would never do this to Rogue. This article, is more like a shit stain. I can’t believe they would try to tear Sabertooth apart from with something like this.” His voice was filled with spite, there was no way in hell he would let something like this be published.

“Right.” Erza’s eyes flashed with regret, “I didn’t mean to insinuate anything, it’s just that this… article would boost Sorcerer Weekly’s name in the media again. And if this were to coincide with their upcoming ball, then they would get so much coverage.”

She was right. Their name had been going down ever since their first mistake -the engagement of Lyon and Meredy. Those two were never together to begin with, but the reporters believed anything that was fed to them. This announcement hurt Lyon’s relationship with Juvia, and things had been going downhill ever since. Something about two top mages -Minerva and Yukino- would not only boost their sales but put them in the spotlight once again.

But the dance was a completely different story, if this paper were was to be published before then, there would be absolutely no reason for Sabertooth to show. There would be too many questions, suspicions and judgements. They certainly didn’t need any doubt when it concerned the private lives of his guild mates. The way his mages held themselves in their personal lives, there was always going to be misgivings in life but this would put their own reputation at stake.

Sting leaned back in his chair and let out a deep sigh. He didn’t want this to affect anything but he had to face the facts. If this story was already in the works then there was no way it wouldn���t be published. “Once I get back to Azura, I’ll make sure to talk to Lucy about this. I’m going to make sure this doesn’t make the front page.”

With that said, he stood and left. There would be no other discussion about what had fallen into his hands. It was his duty to protect Rogue, and Sting wasn’t going to take any chances when it came to his heart.

Shit was going to hit the fan soon if he didn’t stop this. Maybe he could let Rogue know without telling him directly.

Rogue was assured by his best friend countless times that they didn’t have to dress for this party, yet everywhere he looked was a nice cocktail dress or a buttoned up dress shirt with slacks. Holding his glass, he nudged Sting, “I think the right phrase to use right now is ‘I told you so.’”

The blond scoffed and lifted his hands in exasperation, “That old man said it was a party. How was I supposed ta know that all these old geezers would play dress up?”

Rogue took a lengthy sip from his glass, disinterested in Sting’s whining. “We are in Era, Sting. Everything here is always held to the highest standards, so naturally, this would be turned into a cocktail party of sorts.”

“Your head is too small to hold that big of a brain. You should be guild master instead, ya know.” Rogue rolled his eyes, the first couple  times Sting suggested that he should take his place as Guild Master was a good confidence booster but now it was just annoying. Though being in the holy dragon slayer’s presence was always calming to him.

Rogue was about to comment on Sting’s remark, but a woman with billowing green hair came sauntering up to the both of them. Her face was plastered with the latest makeup brands, an unruly blend of colors and foundation. He never knew if she trying to pose as a drag queen, but her blending and eyebrows were always so horrible. She was known to everyone as Sorcerer Weekly’s hottest new reporter (hot as in still in progress), Lulu Nimby. A name as ridiculous as the woman standing in front of him.

“I thought reporters weren’t allowed into prestigious establishments,” Rogue said rather sarcastically, unhappy to see her.

Overly large pink nails pulled a pass from her bra, waving it in front of him. “As always, I have a pass, Rogue Cheney. I just have a few questions for you and your partner.” Lulu’s shrill voice mockingly emphasized the last word, a pen and notepad appearing in her hand.

Sting beat him to the punch, “Get outta here. If we were interested in answering questions we woulda’ve come right to Sorcerer Weekly.” His blue eyes flashed with dislike and hesitance, that was certainly odd.

“Oh, please,” she dragged out, those same pink acrylics flashing in the dim lighting. “I only have a single question. It won’t take long, I swear on it.”

Even though it was only once question - and seriously, how bad could that be? Sting interjected once again. “Nope! We aren’t accepting any questions at the moment. I'll only repeat myself once, get outta here Nimby.” Sting’s over-protectiveness was catching Rogue off-guard.

As nicely as possible, Rogue nudged Sting.. “I can take a question, but there won’t be any follow-ups. You better make this one question count. Knowing you, I can tell you came prepared with far too many.”

A pleased smile formed on her lips as she flipped through her pink notepad. “No, it’s ok, I really did just have one question.” Her eyes lit up with a mischievous deviance once she stopped flipping through the pad. “I just wanted to know how your anniversary with Yukino went. I assume you two went out before you came to Era with Sting.”

Sting looked at Rogue, his gaze sending an unsettling feeling down his spine. “Ya really don’t have ta answer this. You know they’re just going to make it something more than it is.”

The blond wasn’t wrong, but it would look worse if he didn’t answer. Rogue completely downed the rest of his drink, the question making a jab at his heart. Setting the glass down, he answered truthfully. “We didn’t do anything, our train ride was scheduled midday. I did make her some breakfast, even if I failed miserably.”

His comment gained a fit of giggles from the green haired reporter, her pen scribbling away at the small pad. “Uh huh… Anything else you want to let me know? Like morning time loving, or the gift you bought her?” Lulu sounded like she was on top of the world with the information she just gained.

“No follow-up questions,” the shadow slayer completely dismissed her. Rogue really wasn’t interested in what was to come from this, and he took another glass of champagne from a passing server. “I’m sure you have other people to interrogate.”

Her red contacts masked her disapproval, and she frowned. “Be like that then, I guess I do have other people to get the scoop on.” Her ridiculous heels clacked crudely, hardly blending in with the crowd as she walked away.

“I think we should leave…” Glancing over Sting, the dark haired mage could tell he was anxious about something.

Rogue nodded, making his way toward the bar’s doors. “It is getting very stuffy, I think I’m going to take a breather. You look like you could do with some fresh air too.”

Sting nodded and quickly pushed through the doors, the cool November air enveloping the duo almost immediately. The night was far from being young, the bright street lamps lighting their way to the hotel. Era was slumbering, those still awake emitting soft snores from the beast of a city. Walking along the cobblestone path, small puddles of water whispered to the sky and called for a greater fulfillment. Large gray clouds forming over the city, hiding the jewels of the sky. Not one bright diamond shining beyond those dull walls. He wished they would bring him another form of comfort, the darkness filling his thoughts with doubt.

He followed Sting, but soon realized that they were not on track to their assumed destination. He was leading them somewhere far from their hotel room. The blond was a good distance ahead of him, his feet eagerly yearning for a place that wasn’t made of stone. “Sting…” He quietly called, setting his pace faster.

The orange rays of the burning street lamp tinted his hair a melodramatic yellow, Sting huffing as he stood still. Rogue, brushed his hand against the man’s shoulder grazing the small tendrils of hair on the back of his neck. He could feel the blond shudder, shakily intaking a small breath.

In a soft tone Rogue spoke again, “Are you ok? You seem to be going for more than a walk.” It was always common for Sting to go for a stroll in order to get his frustrations out but this was much more than usual.

The smallest inclination of Sting’s head was his agreement. “I’m fine. I’m just taking you ta this place I found earlier this week.” His voice wasn’t lively, it had taken on the toll of recent events.

“Alright.” His blue satin gloved hand was open, Rogue’s own hand itching to fill the emptiness. He reached out, but Sting began to walk again. “Where are you taking us then?”

“You’ll see,” now Sting held a small amount of playfulness in his tone.

Rogue was surprised when he was led beyond the streets of Era. The serenity of the surrounding forest filled him with a calmness, the leafy boughs singing soft melodies with the accompanying winds. Enchanted with a dark green shine, small june bugs lighting their path up a lofty hill. On top the sky had opened up, the stars shining down on them. Brightly they twinkled, welcoming the duo in  their holy presence. Sting smiled just as wide as those sparkling jewels, his expression more beautiful than anything Rogue had seen before.

The said man turned and gestured to the grass, “You wanna sit for a bit? I had a feeling that you might like it up here.” The stars reminded him of Yukino, but he pushed her from his thoughts.

Tugging the small string situated around his neck, his cape came undone. Rogue laid the fabric on the grass and sat upon it, patting the space next to him for Sting. “You’re like a magnet to these types of places.” Rogue chuckled, warmth spreading through his side as Sting plopped down.

“Nah, I think I just have the knack for finding beautiful places, things too. The shinier the better.” They both were now laughing, the air warming up too. Sting nudged Rogue, his finger pointing to the sky. “Like those stars, I think you call that one the little dipper.”

He shook his head, “No that’s the big dipper. You see how the smaller spoon is under it?” Rogue used his hand to point out the two constellations (the only two he could identify). He had amassed knowledge galore, but his interest had never lain in the stars -only the one next to him.

In awe, Sting grinned and pointed at another set of jumbled fragments of white jewels. “Ya know what that one is then? It kinda looks like a man.”

Rogue couldn’t really see anything, blaming his inactive imagination . It was rude to point at people, but if it looked like a man… He believed Yukino mentioned him once. “I think you may be talking about Hercules.” The only Greek hero to be put in the night sky, as legend had it. Someday he wished to be recognized in such a way.

Sting brushed against him as he sat back, head tilted up to the embroidered firmament. His blue eyes closed, a small hum of delight coming from his throat. Those same stars illuminating his tanned skin, making him glow. An ethereal being in his presence, someone so far from his touch but so close.

“You ever take Yukino to a place like this? I bet she would love it.”

The words rolled off his tongue so casually, the atmosphere seeming to heat up, a small burn rising in Rogue. The shadow slayer shifted to give them some much needed space, the stars dimming from the question.

“No, I don’t believe so. We went to a museum once…” He took Yukino wherever they wanted to go, she didn’t ever mention sitting under the stars. Maybe he should have asked, she really would have loved this. He grimaced and shoved his hands into his lap, the itch growing greater.

That same gloved hand taunting him by being placed so close to his leg. The tanned skin then flashed to a much more slim and pale hand, one he knew so well. Those hands had touched him in the most affectionate and sensual ways possible, there was no way he could betray them. But when he looked up at the stars, he felt a tug he had never felt before. Something that assured him of different possibilities.

All their luminescence was cascading onto Sting, feeding into him as a great spotlight. Sting coated in the cheerful cries that hailed from the large sky, a lackadaisical smile swiped across his mouth. He was basking in their light much as Rogue was from their absence.

Beautiful…

A serene expression a mask until those blue eyes bored into his own. Sting grinned and waved his hand in front of Rogue’s face. “Cat got your tongue? You started to stare off into space all the sudden.”

Caught in the act, his cheeks were buzzing to life and he shook his head. “Sorry, you just made me think of Yukino.” No, it was the two of them but this wasn’t the time to complicate the situation. The train ride was a rollercoaster of emotions, he couldn’t face those feelings again right now.

Sting’s face went unreadable, and Rogue internally cringed. The blond turned away in deep thought, still bathing in the night’s light. “Ya ever believe people could be written in the stars?”

Every internal alarm was set off, Rogue’s entire being frazzled by his inquiry. Sting wasn’t so articulate, but he knew exactly what the holy slayer meant. Looking back up to the sky, the burnette dwelled on the question. He was never much of a romantic, so he never thought of such stereotypical ideas. It was mind-boggling that it was presented to him in the first place, Yukino never mentioned anything like this before.

Now the cat really had his tongue. “Uhm… In this magic filled world, maybe.” His answer was broad, but he didn’t want Sting to get the wrong idea.

“I think it’s a yes or no question, Rogue.”

He was foolish to think Sting would take what was originally given. He always pushed for more and that was one thing he loved about him. Desire, passion, a fire that was always burning… things that were lost to him and Yukino.

“There is a possibility…” Who was he kidding? “Actually, I believe it can be true.” Rogue smiled, his body surging with a happiness he never had known.

Sting had the same look on his face, love sweeping down from it’s high position. The two had fallen from those glittering jewels from above, this he knew to be true.

“Someday people will see the two of us up there.” Sting proclaimed, standing with those same stars by his sides.

Rogue nodded, a pleasant silence accompanying them as they meandered their way through the streets of Era. Coming to the consoling darkness of their once empty hotel room. The night was dark and light, much as the magics contained within the two mages.

[nosunlite]

ap top 25 list: 2k17, a month late

The AP “Audio Popularity” Poll was Ben’s way to get us all to make a list and talk about our favorite songs of the month, back when we were all living in the same house. He describes it here. I have since cut back to doing it every year, with the ever shifting goal of defining “audio popularity” and “favorite” and “best”. 

This year’s list, 5 years after Ben’s death, my main goal is to identify 25 awesome tracks that I’d love to talk to Ben about. They are my favorite 25 songs of the year, a focus on new discoveries (tho a few songs from last year’s list show up), songs that I surely would’ve dubbed for Ben back in the day.

25. the rats: the rats’ revenge

60’s punk rager - an era we did not ever go deep into, but now it’s time to eat up those Back from the Grave comps.

24. fluf: stuffed animal

Not their typical noise-grunge, which Ben yeah loved (he lived Sub Pop inexplicably into the 2010s), but a Sebadoh-esque minimal gem.

23. LNZ: blondehairdown

The most quoted song of 2k17 for me. Ben was always into weird local rappers no matter where he was. Sharing this internet-destroying monstrosity with him would be a conversation for thee ages!

22. new kingdom: terror mad visionary

tom waits as MC sounds like a thing ben would love or hate (he rejected lots of undie rappers for their not slamming hard enough) but this stuff is so pirate-vocalled that i’d love to have asked him what was going on here.

21. octa#grape: dirigibles

The most soul-junk of galaxalag’s new group, spinning all sortsa weird beats into their calm noise.

20. wovenhand: golden blossom

16 hp was a shared favorite, and i’d love to go thru these new DEE albums with ben.

19. slim cessna’s auto club: commandment 3

Seeing these guys live was a total revival that was up Ben’s alley. Dwight Pentecost  and his doubleneck guitar with hologram switching from Sacred Heart to Marian Immaculate Heart. Munly looking like a straight up ghoul man, gathering us into a circle, and chiding me for screaming the lyrics too loud. Slim just hamming it up preacher style. Rebecca wielding all sortsa kitchen sinks and keeping it together. They encored to “Commandment 3” in a karaoke choreograph line dance. One of the few shows I’ve seen that really produced a spectacle within a minimalist framework.

18. kleenex girl wonder: dont wait up

An alternative bee-thousand.

17. puff pieces: competition

The local DC stuff always seems to be ahead of the rest.

16. arroyo deathmatch: swimming the witch

They acoustic thrash their folk without guitars and just uke! This one sprays rap tropes and references all over the Crassy gender politics. Joyous bleakness!

15. the out_circuit: come out shooting

A wonderful sequel to our favorite Frodus “Year of the Hex.”

14. ramshackle glory: punk is the worst form of music, except for all the others

Anarcho politics and emotions, what drew me into punk.

13. a fistful of dynamite: smoke it, like a cigarette

More acoustic thrash folk with an even worse vocalist. “Write my own favorite songs/ write my own singalongs...you think this is bad? Well it just gets more rough!”. The world’s worst snare sound. Charmed!

12. shellac: riding bikes

He was an albini fan, and we would definitely have spent time jamming his new ones. And what an epic this one is.

11. bradley hathaway: the world is screaming

I could see ben finding it utterly pretentious, but bradley straddles that line of being so serious but also so reckless, so honest and so charming to me. His new album is the best, riotous blasphemy as prayer, but this one does the post rock building ben taught me to dig.

10. lou barlow: try 2 b

Our indie legend put out a great one (years olde already?), oh well, it slams lo-fi.

9. the beakers: 4 steps towards a cultural revolution

Ben downplays a lot of thee weird punk, but weird punk from his beloved Seattle scene? He’d dig! This out Ubus David Thomas. Ultra.

8. ps eliot: the cyborg

Reminds me of so much of the stuff on the ktru tapes, but this struck me very hard this year.

7. lifter puller: mission viejo

Most of their weird stuff has more to discuss, i guess, with the spoken stories and nonsense arrangements, but this is just an indie rock emotion block of thee highest order.

6. defiance, ohio: calling old friends

A classic campfire singalong.

5. henry thomas: when the train comes along

Not Thomas’ most canonical or comp’d performance, but such a stomper. Ben got me into old timey music and the last cd’s he ripped from me were the pseudo-old-timey boxset from Fonotone.

4. ballydowse: sails

An albini-produced christian-anarcho celtic folk/punk group relying prominently on tuvan throat singing. And yet it took me til 2k17 to find it. Ben used to be after a Crashdog CD at Family Bookstore, but this stuff would’ve taken it to a whole nother level. The best band you don’t know!

3. snail mail: static buzz

Woulda been a ktru darling. Local bmore rock girl makes it big - new album gonna be on Matadork.

2. mike knott: double

We always ignored the mike knott stuff, but this year has been all about rediscovering the blonde vinyl roster, and that dip goes deep. This song is an undeniable one, whether live at Cornerstone or with the *gasp* secular Aunty Bettys playing it.

1. showbread: matthias replaces judas

This raw rock was the first new rekkerd i listened to after we found out ben had died, but a song that has only emerged more recently as a post-Pedro emotional cleansing monster. Ben loved “Every New Day” with the Reese Roper vocals, he’d love this too. & it’s the best song ever, so he’d better...

honorable mentions:

Blackbird Raum - Last Legs // Acoustic thrash folk! He’d be thrilled to see Wacko-Hed’s genre is alive ‘n’ well...

Double Dagger - The Lie / The Truth // Righteous at the drive-ining.

City of Caterpillar - A Little Change Could Go a Long Ways // One of the bands that indoctrinated me into punk rock seeing them live - i put off listening to their cd until recently. Ben would talk about how NoU did it better, I’m sure!

William Elliot Whitmore - cold and dead // Ugly blues voice on this Americana death tinged guy.

Pogues - If I Should Fall From Grace of God / Fairytale of New York // We never talked about the Pogues. They hit most of the sweetspots for me emotionally and aesthetically. Ben loved Cordelia’s Dad, and this is their Dad.

Model Engine - Reeperbahn // Ah a CCM classic - I knew we had to listen to Black Eyed Sceva, but unsure how much play this one ever got in the CCM era.

Lift to Experience - to guard and to guide // They post rocked the map to Texas. I remember expecting to find this in the used CD store when I visited Ben at Rice. Now it’s been reissued and is weirder packaged and sounding than ever - really woulda liked to listen to this with him.

Flesh Eaters - Pray till You Sweat // Richard Hell in Violent Femmes skin godsend

EZT - Central Control // Some sorta Neil Young smog. Who knows.

close:

mike knott - rocket and a bomb; one way streets - we all love peanut butter; 3 mile pilot - house is loss; i hate myself - urban barbie, keep reaching for those stars; fistful of dynamite - tribute to castellana; arroyo deathmatch - as an instrument, all the best matadors are fascists, casting into the void; azealia banks - 212; lifter puller - star wars hips, plymouth rock, math is money, 4dix; ramshackle glory - face the void, eulogy for an adolescence shattered against elliot st. pavement; kleenex girl wonder - tendency right foot forward, the sound of paul, why i write such good songs; new kingdom - kicking like bruce lee; slim cessna - commandment 7, hold my head, he roger williams; aunt bettys - speeder mode; shellac - dude incredible; snail mail - thinning; 2 whole Fountainsun and Aesop Rock lps...

[the-grey-hunt]

I PRESENT...CASTLE WHITESTONE! Open these in a new tab for the full effect - the files are real big and you can zoom in and read everything. There are also captions clarifying which floor is which.

Based/somewhat traced from the picture of the castle in the Tal’Dorei campaign guide, I have created a vague idea of what the inside of the castle might look like (post-Briarwoods), because I am like this. If you like this and wanna ask me about any other details, shoot me an ask! I’d love to talk about this more. This is also free for anyone to borrow as a reference for a story or whatever, should the need arise.

More details below the cut, because a lot of thought went into this!

So, this is mostly going to be me explaining various details that were too long to write in as notes on the actual map. There’s a lot, including details taken from various actual medieval castles that I wouldn’t expect people to know, so let the explainin’ commence!

first things first: the first floor! The gardens/lawn contained within the lesser wall (as in, the wall not surrounding the castle itself) were traced from the picture that was in the campaign guide, so idk really what’s going on out there. I did, however, identify a specific portion as the family graveyard, because there probably is one and it seemed like a suspiciously enclosed section.

The gardens exist as partly ornamental and partly functional; I’ve also added a greenhouse on the northeast wall, because it seems reasonable that one might have been built at some point (possibly with Keyleth’s help). The guard tower directly above is where the guards that watch the castle/Cassandra stay, bc there’s a lot of them. As all the towers along both the main and lesser walls are manned at all times, I figure there’s a lot of guards working at the castle. Coupled with domestic staff, Percy and Cassandra probably employ a decent chunk of Whitestone’s population.

As for the guards: the rooms aren’t super big on either floor, but the guards probably do share; each room houses one day shift and one night shift guard, so neither of them are there at the same time, allowing this to work out better. The guards in the tower generally are the wall-watchers; any that guard Cassandra or the other inhabitants would live in the Keep (the bigass tower within the castle itself, helpfully labeled). I say Cassandra specifically, because figures like Percy of Vex who are important enough to be guarded probably don’t need guards to defend them.

All the towers are equipped for defense, so any non-residential rooms and the west/south towers probably mostly have some ammo (arrows, crossbow bolts) lying around, as well as other necessities for defense. Noted in the key: ALL the staircases go counterclockwise, because assuming right-handedness in most guards, that makes it easier for a defending force to swing a sword, and harder for the invaders who are presumably trying to go up.

If you’re wondering why the interior of the towers are shaped Like That: I looked up medieval castle layouts and saw a map with towers shaped like that. it makes sense to have SUPER thick walls and tiny window openings when you’re trying to shoot at other people from a place where you don’t want them to be able to get in. You can probably Google it yourself and see where I took my inspiration from.

Speaking of the walls: the lesser wall around the garden is only one story tall, as are the towers (but all towers are a little higher than the level of the walkway along the top of the walls, by about six or seven feet). The walls have crenellated battlements (u know, when the edge looks all blocky like Minecraft), and the towers have the same. Both the Keep and the guard tower are big enough that there are roofed rooms on the top of each, circled by a larger walkway. I’ve made a note that each has a flag flying, though the Keep’s roof flies the primary flag with the de Rolo crest.

The Keep has a lot of unlabeled rooms, mostly because a LOT of those rooms are just standing ready should they need to be occupied. The Keep is the last bastion of defense should the castle be invaded, and so there needs to be space for EVERYONE in the castle to retreat and live there for however long a siege may last. There’s just the one door, and as few windows as possible. The disarming room on the first floor is where everyone would remove their weapons when entering. This is also why Cassandra’s room, as well as the old master bedroom and Julius de Rolo’s room are in there: it’s the best-guarded place in the entire castle.

(Percy’s master bedroom is not in there because he can’t bring himself to take his parent’s room; also, the Briarwoods took it over, and he doesn’t want to sleep in their bed either).

Percy and Vex’s master bedroom also can only be accessed through a solar, which is like a little room to chill in. It’s essentially where they might entertain guests in a casual setting without inviting them into their bedroom.

There are a lot of disused rooms (the other de Rolo bedrooms on the second and third floors are purposefully undisturbed), mostly because nobody’s had a reason to use them yet. I tried to label most things, but on the first and third floors especially there’s just some pointless rich people rooms that nobody’s bothered to clean up for use.

Also, there are servant’s quarters within the actual castle itself! The Victorian ideal was to have servants completely separate from the actual house, but this castle is super compact and they’ve got to live somewhere. It’s more convenient this way, making them closer to the people they’re meant to be helping. Additionally, the kitchen area just off the great hall connects to a bunch of fun areas like a pantry and larder: essentials for any castle. They actually do need to be separate, because they serve different functions. Just below in the basement there’s also an icebox, which was a Ye Olde refrigerator. It would be packed with ice and snow in the winter so thickly that it wouldn’t melt until the next winter, at which point it would be refreshed. The cellar area is mostly for storage, but it also leads to Percy’s workshop, safe behind a VERY thick door. It’s under the kitchen because who’s going to notice a weird bit of extra heat wafting up in a room with like three different huge cooking hearths?

The interior courtyard is my attempt to make the castle a little more realistic. Actual castles were mostly just wide walled-in courtyards with a keep and some buildings running through them; Whitestone is, as I said, super compact and unusual for a castle. The cliffs surrounding it make a moat superfluous, but I had to add in a gatehouse at the main gate as well. As far as realism goes, there’s no skylight or anything in the courtyard or great hall, and not a ton of windows (ESPECIALLY not on the first floor, and not at all on any of the towers’ first floors). Anywhere in castle Whitestone is going to be relatively dimly lit, usually with torches or candles. The space in between windows is covered with whatever paintings or tapestries weren’t destroyed by the Briarwoods/were recovered from wherever they were shoved into storage.

Three floors is probably an unrealistic height for a great hall, but if matt mercer can say the west tower is EIGHTY FEET TALLER THAN THE ROOF (making it, roughly, ten stories tall, a height i have reduced by half for my own purposes and also to make it less COMPLETELY RIDICULOUS) then I can make a super rad soaring ceiling for the great hall.

The great hall is one of two rooms that is actually SUPER well lit, the other being Pelor’s chapel (because sun god, duh). Both of them have very tall, probably stained-glass windows just to be Fancy as Fuck™. If you can’t be extra with the architecture of your own castle, then what’s the point? I did put a balcony in the great hall on the third floor just to make it more interesting, tho.

You may be wondering why some of the rooms are only accessible if you go through other rooms. Sometimes That’s Just The Way Things Are. It was very common in older buildings, especially going back hundreds or even thousands of years in human history. A building briefly suspected to be the Labyrinth of Crete (where the Minotaur was supposedly held) is actually just a castle with like, one or two hallways total.

Also, fun fact: the long row of guest rooms near the west tower on the second floor is where the gang was staying when Hotis ambushed Vax! I have no recollection of the precise layout of the battlemap for that, and some of the layout was wonky (EIGHTY FEET DOWN TO THE ROOF, MATT? EIGHTY FEET?), but I’ve done my best to make it reasonable. Similarly, I drew the dungeon as accurately as I could remember it without tracking down the exact episode where they’re given a map.

[anoutlandishfanfic]

Jamie’s POV of Chapter Six: Tuesday’s Chid.

I posted Chapter Six on Mother’s Day and I just realized I finished Jamie’s POV right in time for Father’s Day! I totally planned that.

A QUICK SIDE NOTE BEFORE YOU READ The residents of Beauly, with a few token exceptions, don’t speak English. I’ve gone back and forth about how to write this chapter and how to portray that. Mrs Gordon, the midwife, speaks to Jamie in Gaelic. I didn’t write her dialog in a way that it sounds (looks?) like she has a Scottish accent because she isn’t speaking English. I thought about italicizing what would be in Gaelic, but that kind of conflicts with my formatting style and using bold just looks like she’s shouting all the time to me. This is something I’m sure I’ll develop more as we spend time in the 1540s with the Frasers… for right now, this is what we got.

You can catch up on previous chapters of this AU here.

Mid-day, November 22nd, 1543; Beauly, Scotland. Jamie.

“I made a nice broth for your wife, Jamie, lad.” Beauly’s cook and resident mother hen, as well as one of the midwives, handed me a tray brimming with food. “Any day now, aye?”

I accepted it and smiled warmly, thanking her. “Your spoil us, Mrs Gordon and, aye, the bairn could come any day. Sooner rather than later if his parents have any say in the matter.”

“You don’t,” she chortled, shooing me out of her kitchens.

My bringing meals to share in our rooms had become a necessity after a close call on one of the stone staircases last month. Fortunately, I had been there to steady Claire before she actually fell, but it was enough to scare us both into a change of routine. Mrs Gordon had heartily approved and leapt at the opportunity to dote on my heavily expectant wife.

Knocking soft enough as to not wake Claire should she be asleep, but loud enough to be heard should she be awake, I eased my way into our rooms.

I noticed bed held an occupant as I quietly set the tray on the table. Claire hadn’t been sleeping well of late and I had hoped she would be able to rest while I was away. I turned to see a mass of wild curls emerge from the bedclothes, telling me she was awake but possibly not fully alert.

“Oh good, I’m glad ye were able to sleep for a time, mo nighean donn. Mrs Gordon made ye a tasty broth an’ a fresh batch of bannocks to go wi’ it. She asked of ye, wonderin’ how ye fare wi’ the bairn so near. Lady Janet too, tho I dinna ken wha’ she was about. I didna like the gleam in her eye.” I shook my head, thinking of the Laird’s often devious wife.

I had witnessed Lady Janet stir up trouble on many occasions, with only a word or a single expression.The woman was not to be trusted.

A muffled response came from the bed, something that sounded like “good morning,” as Claire’s arms reached over her head in a slow stretch. She shifted in her burrow, making her look very much like bear coming out of hibernation. She stared at me, blinking slowly, her brows drawn together in confusion. “Are you within the castle today?”

The bairn made waking fully a cumbersome affair for Claire, as was the way with everything she did at present, and seeing my wife in such a state never ceased to make me smile. I had learned the hard way that she didn’t find the humor in her struggle to wake, so I turned from the bed and began to dish up our meal in order to enjoy the moment.

“Nae, back to the stables wi’ me as soon as we’re done eatin’.”

My conscience twinged.

What if she needed me and I didn’t get the message in time? I tried to shove the thought aside, calling to mind Claire’s words when I voiced the very question.

It’s not like foaling, Jamie, it usually takes a while.

Once again, I had assumed this part of human reproduction to be something similar to what I had experienced in the stables. Also, bairns, unlike foals, did not come feet first on principle, although Claire told me Jenny’s wee Maggie had.

A rustle from the bed brought me back to the present and I asked, “Shall I bring ye anything special from the kitchens for dinner?”

Claire responded with a deep sigh, then added, “I really wish you wouldn’t.”

This gave me pause.

“No’ hungry?” I turned and studied her more closely. Something was off, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on what it was. “Ye should eat somethin’, mo nighean donn, or the bairn will complain, aye?”

She didn’t look at me. Her eyes darted about the room, desperate to land on anything besides my face as she whispered, “I don’t think he’ll complain, he seems to be packing his bags at the moment.”

Packing his bags? He can’t exactly go anywhere.

A dhia, he isn’t going, he’s coming.

“Sh-should I fetch the midwife?” I asked around a quickly constricting throat.

Claire visibly flinched and slid deeper into the covers, shouting “No!”

I couldn’t stand being this far from her. Crossing the room in two bounds, I collapsed onto the floor beside the bed. Her eyes were scrunched shut, her brows bunched together in fear.

Please, my soul offered up in silent petition to my God, that she might be safe in the hours to come.

“Tha mi duilich,” I whispered as I tucked a stray curl behind her ear.

That they might be safe, she and the bairn.

Claire relaxed slightly at my touch, her hand catching mine. “I think I’m having contractions,” her eyes opened slightly, cloudy with self doubt, “but I’m not really sure.”

Leaning close, I asked “Wha’ can I do?”

“Will you hold me?” Her chin quivered with the request, tears threatening. .

I took the greatest care as I crawled into the bed beside her, easing myself beneath the covers. My arm slipped around her as I drew closer. I didn’t want to disturb the position she was in, knowing how difficult it was for her to find a comfortable one. Gently curving my body around hers, I placed a kiss just behind her ear.

I’m here, mo chridhe, my touch whispered.

I drew slow circles with my thumb on the back of her hand until her shoulders lost their rigidity. Slowly, I felt all of the tension leave her body as her breath evened out in sleep. My hands drifted to the swell of her abdomen.

Soon, I would hold my child in my arms.

What would he look like? Would he favor me or his mother?

The thought brought a smile to my face as one bairn looked much like another to me. I knew Claire held a much different opinion of the wee creatures and often commented on their unique features.

We had been referring to the bairn as a “him” since we knew he existed, and, while my heart hoped he would be a son to carry on my name and lineage, I knew without a doubt I would love a daughter just as much… maybe more.

A daughter who had her mother’s amber eyes, unruly hair, and untamable spirit.

Yes, I thought as I buried my face in Claire’s hair, maybe more.

…

Dusk.

It seemed like Claire’s pains were growing closer together, but she wouldn’t let me keep track with my father’s pocket watch. Not yet, she’d told me, it would drive her crazy. I felt completely useless just sitting here waiting for something to happen.

“You’re pacing, Jamie,” Claire’s voice interrupted my tumultuous thoughts.

I turned to find her laughing at me without actually laughing out loud. It was a great skill of hers. I tried to think of what I had done or said to set her off this time, but came up blank.

“I suppose tha’ I am,” a sheepish grin spread across my face. Whatever it was, I’d do it again, just to see her smile. “Am I botherin’ ye? Should I pace in the other room?”

Her eyes narrowed as the smile disappeared, “If you so much as touch that door handle, James Fraser…”

“I willna.” I raised my hands in mock surrender before I placed them reassuringly on her shoulders.

Claire’s focus faded away and her brows furrowed in an expression I was becoming to know well: another pain was starting. She seemed to need something different with each one. My gentle touch with the last, a massage with the one before, and I couldn’t even get close to her with the one before that.

I hadn’t the foggiest idea what it would be this time.

“Promise?” Her voice shook.

“Aye, I promise,” I slid my hands down her arms and entwined my fingers in hers. “I promise I willna leave until ye tell me to an the midwife will have to tear me awa’ from yer side even then.”

“No,” She tried to move away from me, but I held fast. “I need you to stay with me the whole time.”

She didn’t mean while the bairn was coming in earnest, right? I had heard tales from other husbands and from what they said, I would be the last person on earth Claire would want to see.

“Ye willna want me here when–” I tried to explain but she cut me off and practically shook me as she tried to make her point.

“I can’t do this alone, Jamie! Not again!” Her eyes were wide with fear, plunging a knife straight into my heart. Not again. I hadn’t been there for the birth of our first child and we had lost her, our precious Faith. “I can’t – I won’t – do this without you. Please don’t ask me to, Jamie!”

I kissed her, my lips stemming her flow of words with the assurance of my presence. “If that is what ye wish, mo chridhe,” I murmured, “nothing on this earth or hell below will move me.”

…

Around midnight.

Claire’s hands gripped the back of the room’s only chair, her knuckles turning white as she tried to breathe normally. The air came and went from her mouth in short puffs and I thought she might tip over if she didn’t take a deep breath soon.

“How long was that?” She asked thru gritted teeth.

The pains were noticeably closer together now, and I checked the pocket watch. Half past eleven. “Ten minutes since the last one.”

Claire groaned; whether it was out of pain or frustration, I didn’t know. I moved to stand behind her, running my thumbs over the taut muscles.

She melted into me, murmuring, “Right there.”

We stood this way, swaying together, for a good moment or two before she rounded on me, face contorted in pain. Claire buried her face on my chest and dug her fingers into my upper arms.

A dhia, she was strong.

“Jesus H Roosevelt Fucking Christ, this bloody hurts,” she spat.

Placing a kiss atop her head, I supported her as she leaned further into me. “I’m sending for the midwife after this one is done, mo nighean donn.”

Her head moved against me, telling me she agreed.

I let out a sigh of relief as I remembered that wee Michael MacNeil was sleeping in the passageway outside the door just for that purpose.

I would not have made it to Mrs Gordon’s rooms behind the kitchens and back in less than ten minutes, even in the daylight and her expecting me. Now that it was well after dark and she’d be asleep? No. I knew I wouldn’t want to leave Claire alone for that long and had assigned the task to my favorite stable lad.

My eyes slid shut, my nose still buried in her hair.

We swayed back and forth as the vice-grip of her contraction eased. The motion reminded me of our bairn’s cradle, which sat waiting in the corner. A lullaby my mother used to sing, one that Jenny had used with her own bairns, slowly came back to me. I sang it to Claire, to our unborn child, until her movements slowed and stopped all together.

“Jamie?” her voice was breathless, but regaining the strength that was truly Claire.

“Mhmm?”

“I love you,” She tilted her head up to look at me, a smile playing on her lips, “but you are a terrible singer.”

…

Claire was between pains and had wanted to rest for a bit on the bed. I silently rejoiced for the opportunity to lay down. I wasn’t about to say it, but I thought the whole ordeal was just about as hard on me as it was her. I couldn’t stand to see her in pain like this and not be able to do something.

My inability to spare her from this, something that I had caused, was slowly sucking the strength from me like a leech. If I could take her pain upon myself and fight this battle for her, I would do it without a moment’s hesitation. But I couldn’t. I lay beside her utterly powerless against the ebbing and flowing of her womb’s tides.

Claire was asleep now, in the shallow slumber that was all her body would allow in the minutes between contractions. Her face was utterly serene as I lay beside her, my nose inches from hers. I thought we must be near the end of all of this. Something had to happen soon or I wasn’t sure how Claire would manage.

She had started to contradict her wishes with the last pains, almost as if she didn’t know herself what she wanted. She’d ask me to be close, but when I tried to touch her she growled at me. She’d say didn’t want me near her, but when I gave her space she dissolved into a puddle of tears.

It seemed couldn’t do anything right in my wife’s eyes.

A knock sounded at the door, signalling the arrival of the midwife, and Claire jolted awake.

“Jamie, don’t leave me,” she said in complete panic. Her pupils were dilated wide in the dim room and it only added to her look of sheer terror.

“Shh, mo chridhe, I willna,” whispered in her ear, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze and trying to will her back into the peace she had just moments before, “but I do have to let her in, aye?”

She set her jaw firmly, “No, you don’t. I know how this works. We can do it. I don’t want that woman touching me or my baby.”

A shudder ran thru me as I realized she was completely serious. “I have nae doubt ye could do it, Sassenach, but dinna ken tha’ I can.”

My stomach dropped at the thought of delivering a bairn, let alone my bairn and by myself.

“You’ve delivered foals before. It’s not terribly different.” Claire pulled me closer, wrapping her arms tightly around my neck.

Giving minor assistance to a laboring horse and delivering my child solo were far from the same thing and I told her as much.

Before she could reply, another knock sounded and we could hear Mrs Gordon call out in Gaelic, “‘Tis me, Mrs Gordon, Jamie lad. May I come in?”

The fact that Claire could hold only the simplest of conversations in the language and Mrs Gordon couldn’t speak a word of English or French hit me like a bolt of lightning. How much of the midwife’s instructions would she understand when she was in considerable pain and scared out of her mind?

I could do something. I could help Claire.

I planted a kiss on Claire’s forehead and somehow got her to let go of me. There was a spring in my step as I crossed the room, for I now had something to do that would maybe ease Claire’s pain: I could translate.

A midwife’s job was to help women give birth, aye?

Then it stood to reason that by helping the midwife, I was helping Claire.

…

“This is all happening as it should, aye?” I asked Mrs Gordon a bit uneasily.

“Yes, lad.” She gave me a smile and a reassuring pat on the arm. “Things tend to take a while with the first bairn.” I flinched and she immediately apologized.

“I’m sorry, Jamie. We remember the ones we lost as we hold tight to the ones we have, aye?”

Claire’s anxious voice asked from behind me, “What did she say, Jamie?”

Covering Mrs Gordan’s weathered hand in mine, I patted it in understanding and turned to my wife, “She says all is well.”

“Maybe somewhere in there, but not the last part,” she responded with a cold look to the midwife, seeing right thru my attempt to smooth things over.

“She spoke wi’out thinking, mo nighean donn. Dinna hold it against her,” I said gently.

Her face fell as she whispered, “Faith.”

“Aye, ‘twas her we were speaking of,” I kissed Claire gently between her brows. “I gave ye my promise, and I still ken it to be true, this time will be different.”

…

About 4:00am

I wasn’t sure, but I thought we were wearing a pathway into the floor. We made the same loop again and again as Claire’s pains continued to grow closer and closer together. She clung fiercely to my right arm to steady herself as we slowly moved about the room

Without warning, she came to a sudden halt. A sort of breathless gasp escaped her lips as I heard something drip onto the floor. Claire pulled up the hem of her shift, muttering, “Damn, here we go.”

I looked down to see a small puddle growing between her feet. Quickly stepping out of the liquid’s path, I commented wryly, “Ye havena used tha’ one in a while, Sassenach.”

Fuck, as usual, had been her curse of choice in the last few hours.

Mrs Gordon shuffled over to us, commenting on the color and quantity of Claire’s waters. While this wasn’t exactly the same in foaling, I had a vague idea that this was a good sign and patted Claire reassuringly on the shoulder.

Another pain seemed to overtake Claire on the heels of the last and she pulled me towards her, groaning as she buried her face in my chest. Claire had two fistfuls of my sark that she was making good use of. Her forehead pressed against my sternum, almost as if she were headbutting me.

I wouldn’t blame her. I had gotten her into all of this, after all. It would only seem fitting that she use me in such a way

I ran my hands up and down her back, remembering how she had liked a gentle massage with some of her other pains. “I ken, a ghraidh, I’ve got ye,” I whispered soothingly in her ear.

She stiffened and before I realized what she was aiming for, she had a firm grasp of my clipeachd. I let out an undignified yelp and quickly pulled away from her.

“Smart lass.” Mrs Gordon cackled as she moved about the room, “She knows what she’s about. I’m surprised she’s waited this long to do that to you.”

I stared down at my wife in mute astonishment as the creases of pain started to smooth across her brow and a small smile began to form. Not risking another go at this, I held her away from me at arm’s length. She couldn’t reach me, but I could reach her.

“What was that?” She asked, slightly panting as she tried to catch her breath.

“She says she’s surprised ye havena done tha’ wi’ every pain,” I translated.

Mrs Gordon was still grinning as she arranged her necessary items for the fourth time on the table and I wondered how much trouble the two of them could get into if they spoke the same language.

Claire’s voice pulled me back to her, “You hadn’t said anything stupid enough to warrant it before now.”

All I had said was ‘I ken’ and ‘I’ve got ye!’ I’d reassured her many times with the second phrase, so I assumed she had taken offense to the first… I suppose I didn’t really know what she was going thru.

“You are the first husband I’ve ever had attend his bairn’s birth.” The midwife turned to me, hand on her hip as she looked me up and down. Her eyes were filled with amusement and satisfaction. “You must be quite the lover if she wants you here, being she knows well ‘tis your lovemaking that got her into this mess. I’m impressed, most men run for the heather at the first opportunity. A master ironmonger himself couldn’t have made a created a stronger set than yours.”

She winked at me and added, “Very impressed indeed, Jamie lad.”

I was still trying to decide whether I should ignore her comment or reply when Claire half laughed, half groaned. Looking down, I found the corners of her lips tugging upwards thru her pain.

“You have to tell me what she said to make you blush like a schoolgirl.”

Rubbing the back of my neck in embarrassment, I gave her the rough idea of what Mrs Gordon had said. A full smile broke out across Claire’s face as leaned into me. “She’s right about one thing,” she whispered, copying how I rolled my ‘r’s. “You are a verra good lover, indeed.”

I smiled ruefully, wrapping my arms around her. She loved to mimic my burr and I loved to hear her try it.

“But,” she paused, her eyes soft, “It’s your heart of gold that’s keeping you here.”

She pulled my lips to hers in a kiss warm with affection, one that spoke of the emotions and desires we weren’t able to put into words.

…

Around 6:00 am

I gently lifted Claire onto the bed, my heart breaking as I watched her desperately search for a comfortable position. Her brow was permanently furrowed now, the lines of pain never really relaxing between contractions. She became more and more agitated by the second, prompting me to perch beside her on the mattress.

“Please,” Claire looked to me as she grabbed hold of my arm, “Sit behind me.”

Carefully and slowly, I inched my way between her and the pillows. I backed up against the headboard to give me as much room behind her to adjust in as possible, then slid my arms about her. She melted into me immediately as her body touched mine.

“I’m here, mo chridhe.”

She nodded, her eyelids lowering as she concentrated on what her body was telling her.

I looked up as Mrs Gordon slid nimbly onto the bed. She lifted the hem of Claire’s shift up and placed a calm, reassuring hand on her thigh as she, presumably, checked how things were going. “You’re doing wonderful, lass.”

A small measure of relief washed thru me as I heard the words.

This woman had brought half of Beauly into the world. If she said things were going well, then I had no reason to doubt her. I gently placed my hand atop the swell of the bairn to tell Claire the woman’s words when another pain began to build. I felt the muscles of Claire’s abdomen contract, astonishing me with the strength and force of it.

Her eyes flew open and she pressed her shoulders into me. “I don’t want to do this, Jamie!” she cried.

I met Mrs Gordon’s gaze and she smiled, assuring me that all was well.

“Aye, a graidh, I ken ye dinna,” I crooned in her ear as I helped her shift into a more comfortable position, “but ye must. The bairn will be here soon.”

Her voice was unlike I had ever heard it, so completely overwhelmed in her pain and fear. “No!” she insisted.

I carefully turned her in my arms until she could see me. She looked past me, fixated on a spot behind my head on the wall. I lifted my hand to her cheek and gently brushed away her tears as I lowered my lips to hers. “We’ll do this together, aye?” I whispered, “I’ll be yer strength when ye need me.”

Her lips quivered as she replied, “I always need you.”

…

“I can’t push anymore, Jamie,” Claire whimpered in my arms, “I think he’s stuck.”

Claire had responded with the strength of ten men to her body’s urge to push again and again. The midwife praised her with every effort and so, in turn, had I, but she was quickly becoming discouraged.

“No, mo nighean donn, the bairn is big but the midwife says he is almost here.” I murmured, “All is well.”

“I want to be done. I just want to hold my baby, Jamie,” Claire begged as she lifted her hand to my cheek.

I took hold of it, kissing it gently, then moved it lower to show her the miracle that I could now begin to see. Brushing her fingertips against the small bulge that was starting to emerge, I whispered. “He will be here soon, mo chridhe.”

A low, guttural sound came from Claire as she started to bear down once more.

“That’s the way, lass,” Mrs Gordon encouraged as she took hold of Claire’s feet, eyes fixated between my wife’s legs. Claire dug her fingers into my thighs, tipping her head back as she let out a sound that made the very blood within me run cold.

I relayed the midwife’s instructions with half a brain, translating to the best of my abilities as I realized that was my child’s head exiting my wife’s body.

“Well done, verra well done!” I praised as slowly, but steadily, the bairn’s head was born. “Jest one more an’ he’ll be here, mo ghraidh.”

…

The midwife beamed as she announced “You have a beautiful daughter!”

“She’s a lass, Claire,” I whispered, finding it hard to breathe as Mrs Gordon placed the her in Claire’s outstretched arms.

The bairn out another lusty wail as she told us just what she thought of being born.

“Shh, love.” Claire crooned, “Mama’s here.”

I have a daughter.

My hand shook as stroked my bairn’s cheek for the very first time, “Oh God, Claire, she’s beautiful.”

[dance-with-the-diaval]

Hi! I'm sorry to bother you. I was wondering if you could tell me what brand the red and black shirt in your Devil Wears Prada AU is from? Whatever information you have would be so helpful! I really like it and love the concept in general ^_^

No problem at all! Unfortunately I couldn’t track down the original source of the shirt or it’s exact couture brand :/ I’m so glad you liked the idea tho :3 I wasn’t exactly sure where I was going with that AU but I totally saw Parnasse filling in the role of Miranda Priestly and Jehan hired as a personal assistant with questionable fashion tastes. 

At least thats how it started.Now I’m thinking that the both of them left the magazine company for their own reasons.-Montparnasse focused his time on his own brand name now that he doesn’t have to worry about editing. For references his signature style is basically what you see in G-Dragon’s collaborations with Vogue and Elle - a dark palette, tight, textured, ‘look at me’ aesthetic. - Aside from his main line he is also known for his small collection of elaborate haute couture gowns. They’re just a pet project so there’s only a handful of completed designs - with the wedding dress of one Euphrasie Pontmercy being the most famous.- Jehan took what they learned from their time with Montparnasse and began to create their own designs and as it turns out, they seem to have found their calling. - The signature look of their newly established brand was inspired by their own personal style, with just a bit more cohesiveness. They drew inspiration largely from bohemian fashion and the art nouveau movement of the 19th century. See Anna Sui’s Spring 2015 designs for reference. - The designer them self is an interesting topic for press due to their gender fluidity and complete disregard for traditional masculine/feminine approaches to fashion.- Now this is the part where I’m going to incorporate Elise’s (@just-french-me-up) idea’s into this AU because YES TO EVERYTHING YOU SAID >.> Anyways…- It was Jehan’s unconventional styles that caught the people’s eyes and suddenly their brand completely blows up within a week. Their designs become the latest trend and already retailers are contacting them to carry their label in stores or otherwise churning out knock-offs.- The trend only comes to Montparnasse’s attention when Eponine of all people visits him wearing one of Jehan’s dresses. Like, What the fuck are you wearing Ep???- One awkward phone call and impromptu coffee break later (Cause their studios are literally only a block away from each other - they only realised this now and it’s been more than a year since they last spoke or saw one other?) Montparnasse is surprised if not more than a bit flattered by Jehan’s story of how he had been the inspiration for them to pursue their own original brand.- This does not change the fact that Montparnasse still hates the trend. It is absolute garbage. That should not go with this and the clashes are too great to be overlooked. Not too mention all of the prints, the colours, the silhouettes go completely against his own aesthetic and personal ideals.- The contradicting styles dominate the market for a good few seasons, everyone seems to be sporting either Prouvaire or Montparnasse.- The coffee breaks somehow become a regular thing. Then it becomes lunch breaks. Then dinner breaks. Somewhere along the line they start to consider each meeting a ‘date’ without saying so to the other. The UST and unspoken feelings reach a point where even their friends call them out on it.- Their relationship progresses from simply acquaintances, maybe even friends in the same industry, to Montparnasse crashing on Jehan’s studio couch at 3 in the morning because he still values his beauty and Jehan insists on finishing an entire garment in one sitting. - It’s difficult to hate Jehan,  they’re just so resolute, adorable and lovely that they could probably get away with murder easier than Montparnasse himself can.-In Elise’s words, Montparnasse falls in love with the person behind the trend while still hating the trend with all he has.- We can’t have everything, can we?Wow, this went on longer than I expected I’m so sorry >< But yeah that’s pretty much it for The Devil’s Dandy Wears Prada AU