#i love how they are best friends now i love how everyone embraces their kinship

[jrueships]

the jays first 2k23 together !!

they got his little lip purse 😭

... hm..

well the jays approve !!

the jdub and jaywill from the thunder!!!

[red-jaebyrd]

My Brother’s Keeper

Ric hadn’t set out to make a new friend that day. In fact he hadn’t even expected to see the guy again once he had helped Ric push his busted cab to the side of the road.

Hardly anyone ever went out of their way to help others in Bludhaven. It surprised Ric when this guy, Jason just appeared as if out of nowhere to yell at honking drivers and help Ric get his cab out of the way of traffic. Ric had invited him to The Prodigal for a beer that night as a thank you. He wasn’t sure if Jason would even show up that night, but to his surprise he did.

“So what do you do when you're not swooping in to help complete strangers push their broken down cars out of rush hour traffic?” Ric asked.

Jason laughed. “Little bit of this, little bit of that, mostly free-lance stuff.”

It was a vague answer, but Ric let it slide. Everyone had their secrets, he couldn’t fault a guy he just met to have a few.

“Must be nice. Is it real lucrative?”

“The pay isn’t bad,” Jason shrugged. “I get to set my own hours and carry a gun.”

“Can’t argue with those perks,” Ric chuckled, taking a drink of his beer. “So did you grow up around here?”

“Nah, I grew up in Gotham, what about you?”

Ric tensed at hearing Gotham and gripped the handle of his beer mug tighter. He really hoped Jason wasn’t another one of Wayne’s associates trying to jog his memory and lure him back ‘home’. Maybe he should just play along.

“Same, seems everyone one I’ve run into lately is from Gotham.” Ric challenged.

“Well, to be fair Gotham is a pretty big place,” Jason replied causally. “So what brought you to Bludhaven?”

Ric shrugged allowing the tension to leave his shoulders. “Let’s just say I needed somewhere new to spread my wings.”

“And you chose Bludhaven?” Jason snorted. “Did you lose a bet?”

“Shut up.” Ric laughed, elbowing Jason in the arm. “Don’t knock it. You’re here too. What brought you to the ‘haven’?”

Jason ran a hand through his hair. His brow furrowed in thought before he answered. At first Ric thought that maybe he was prying too much into this guy’s life, or asking too many personal questions.  He couldn’t help it. He liked talking and Jason was the first person besides Bea that was actually interested in talking to him.

“Gotham wasn’t safe for us anymore, so my brothers and I bailed and came here.”

“Looks like you left just in time. I heard a lot of crazy shit with the Bat was happening in Gotham. Wait, did you say ‘brothers’?” Ric’s smiled wistfully.

Jason nodded. “I have four. One was staying with our sister the last time I checked in with him and the other two came here with me.”

Ric had always wondered what it would be like to be part of a big family.  He wondered if he had ever asked his parents for a brother or a sister. If they hadn’t died, would they have had more children? Would he have been a good big brother to them? Wayne did have a younger son, so Ric was technically a big brother, but he couldn’t remember his life with him. When it came to the Waynes, Ric was just a son and brother on paper.

“Where’s the other one? You said four brothers, but only mentioned three of them.”

He watched as Jason scratched along a groove in the wood of the bar, like he was trying to think of the right words to say. Ric’s stomach flipped as he started to speculate that maybe something serious did happen to Jason’s family. Or maybe Ric was just making Jason feel uncomfortable with all his questions. Ric did that sometimes when he got too excited talking to new people. Jason took a swig of his beer before answering Ric’s question.

“Our older brother...” Jason answered, running his fingers along the condensation of his mug. “…he went missing a few months ago. It’s been hard on the family, especially our father and my youngest brother.”

“I’m sorry. I can imagine it’s been difficult for everyone, especially you. It can’t be easy being the one that they depend on.”

Jason shook his head. “No, truthfully it sucks sometimes, but it has its moments. He was– I had a good role model and they’re good kids. They just miss him. I miss him too.”

“Well you got them somewhere safe,” Ric clapped a hand on Jason’s shoulder. “Well…relatively safe. Any leads on his whereabouts?”

“Nothing but dead ends. Deep down I don’t really think he wants to found,” Jason shrugged. “But I’ll keep looking for him. So what about you, any siblings?”

Ric knew a dismissal when he heard it. He didn’t mind the change in subject. He couldn’t blame Jason for not elaborating. It had to be stressful for anyone looking for a missing family member. He assumed this question was bound to make its way onto him.

“No, I’m an only child. My parents died when I was eight.”

“Shit, sorry man. We can talk about something else.”

“It’s fine. You told me about your brother. I can talk about this. I did get taken into a good home, so I shouldn’t really complain,” Ric shrugged.

“But…”

Ric shook his head. “It’s just frustrating to have these people who are supposed to be my ‘family’ constantly telling me how I should be living my life.”

“Oh, I know how that is, trust me. It’s the worst.”

“Right? Why can’t I live my life how I want to? I’m an adult. They’re not even interested in getting to know me,” Ric ranted. “They just want their precious ‘Dick Grayson’ back. It’s my life now not his, let me live it how I want to.”

Shit. He went too far. He could see the look of surprise on Jason’s face. The lull of silence between them stretched and Ric couldn’t form a cohesive thought. Ric’s brain was scrambling for something else to say, anything to say, to fix the mess he just made but nothing was coming. Instead his mind started replaying all recent moments of disappointed people coming and going in his life claiming that they loved him, but not wanting to take the time get to know him.

Ric really hated his brain sometimes and how there was no filter between what he was thinking and what came out of his mouth. He needed to explain himself to Jason fast. Ric knew Jason had to have noticed the gnarly scar on the side of his head. Maybe the scar would give him a free pass at his unfiltered choice of words.

“Sorry, sorry, that uh kinda came out of nowhere. I…uh…had a bit of an accident…” Ric explained, pointing at his scar. “…I got shot a few months ago and well let’s just say my “family” or whatever they want to call themselves, didn’t take to my recovery well.”

“I’m sorry. Sometimes injuries that intense can either bring a family closer together or tear them apart.”

Ric shrugged his shoulders. It had been rough having to relearn how to do everyday tasks like eating, writing his name, and walking. His “family” and friends had been there at every therapy session encouraging him with their words and overall presence. But the worst of it had been their reactions to the news that his memories of them were gone.

“I couldn’t remember them,” Ric admitted, staring at his near empty beer mug.  “They were literal strangers to me the moment I opened my eyes from the coma, and it was something that they wouldn’t accept. In the end their concern for me and my recovery just felt conditional, so I left and came here.”

“Damn. Do they at least check up on you?” Jason asked.

“The old man used to, but I haven’t seen him in a while. A red-headed chick did too, but I told her not to bother anymore. Not if she’s going to keep looking at me searching for ‘him’ to come back. Apparently the other guy they really want was a real ‘Golden boy’, that’s not me.”

Jason snorted.

“What did I say?” Ric quirked a smile.

“Nothing,” Jason smirked, and took a drink of his beer.

“I’m doing just fine on my own. I don’t need them.”

“No you don’t. I know they’re family, but fuck them.” Jason clinked his beer mug against Ric’s.

Oh Ric really liked this guy.

 8888

The next few weeks Ric and Jason met up at The Prodigal for beers. Some nights all they did was talk and drink. Other nights they drank and played pool. Jason became one of Ric’s favorite drinking buddies.

Ric couldn’t legitimately remember ever having a feeling of kinship with anyone like Jason before in his life. It was nice and a bit scary at the same time letting someone new in his life. Still, instead of running away from this newfound friendship, Ric embraced it.

Friendship was a concept Ric wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to again. He didn’t have many friends in Bludhaven, well friends that he remembered. Dick’s old friends wanted nothing to do with him. They kept waiting and pushing for Dick to “come back”. When he finally snapped at them that Dick was gone and never coming back, they stopped visiting him. He did have Bea. She was the only one who had welcomed him with open arms and genuinely wanted to get to know him.

Jason had been the only other person he had run into that also didn’t have some hidden agenda to “bring Dick back”. With Jason there wasn’t any pressure or demand to be anyone other than himself. He could be Ric with no expectations thrust upon him. Jason empathized with Ric’s struggle to find his identity apart from the Waynes.

This was what made hanging out with Jason so easy. The anxiety of having to censor himself, afraid he might say or do something that was so inherently not Dick didn’t exist when he was around Jason. It was such a relief and a weight off Ric’s shoulders to just exist in a space with a friend and be himself.

Once Jason had opened up to Ric, he learned that there was a whole slew of shit that had happened to his friend in just a short amount of time. Aside from his brother going missing, Jason had a serious falling out with his dad that had caused a significant rift between them causing him to take his brothers and leave. However, the most devastating news had to be hearing that Jason’s best friend had been killed while staying at an inpatient rehabilitation facility.

“I wish I had some advice to give you, but something tells me you weren’t looking for any,” Ric said.

“No, not really, just a sympathetic ear, I guess.”

“I’m sorry about your best friend. That really sucks what happened to him.”

“Thanks, man. At least we got to work one last job together before he died. Anyway, that’s enough of my bullshit. What’s up with you? You look like my little brother after seven Red Bulls and 3 hours of sleep.”

Ric sighed. “It’s kind of embarrassing, but I’ve been having these dreams lately of faceless people in weird costumes. In the dream I feel like I know them. I’m ready to say their name but I can’t talk. I wake up and by the time I try to recall the images I can’t remember them.”

“Do you think your memories are trying to come back?” Jason asked.

“I don’t know, maybe?” Ric shrugged.

“But…you don’t want them to come back, do you?”

It felt silly getting so worked up over something like lost memories resurfacing. Ric should be happy that parts of his lost past was trying to get through to him. He should be relieved that the 15 years of lost memories were finally starting to return, but he wasn’t happy or relieved. He was worried.

“What happens to me when I start remembering everything? Will I still be Ric when Dick’s memories come flooding back filling in the gaps? What if I don’t like the things I start to remember? What then?”

Jason turned in his stool to face Ric. “No matter what, you’ll still be Ric. You’ll still be the guy with the busted cab I had to push out of traffic. You’ll still be the guy that kicks my ass playing pool. You’ll still be the guy who insists on buying the first round and listening to all my bullshit. You’ll still be you, just with new memories.

“No matter what happens you are not obligated to go back to your old life or live your life by your old memories. You don’t owe those assholes in Gotham anything.”

Ric nodded allowing Jason’s words to sink in.

“We’ll take it one day at a time,” Jason clapped a hand on Ric’s shoulder. “Next round is on me.”

The anxiety slowly started to ebb away as Ric watched his friend leave their high top table and make his way to the bar to get another round of beers.

Ric couldn’t stop the new memories from coming. They were coming whether he wanted them to or not. And when they did come he was glad to have found such a great friend in Jason. The man was right, no matter what happened, he was not obligated to go back to his old life or live his life by his old memories.

Part 2: Somebody That I Used to Know

[felidaefighter]

What Fate Cannot Burn

[Written before Niki had the news broken to her by the Syndicate; starfate is a platonic soulmate/best friend relationship, coined from @ufuckingpastry and their amazing fics! My wonderful friend and beta-reader @voidofthestars​ also has amazing fics with the term!]

Niki and Fundy don’t want to call themselves starfated, thinking it too cruel with their pasts. But someone has to break the news about Wilbur’s revival to Niki. They have a chat.

     Fate, it seemed, had always been against Niki and Fundy. Perhaps that was why they had always danced around their courtship, never solidifying anything as pale, never calling themselves starfated. The two had grown up together, embraced by the blackstone walls of L’Manberg. They had fought for their freedom and pets together, they had survived famine together-- they had, despite all their hurt, forgiven the traitor who raised them together. They had campaigned together, side by side, sharing ideals and morals and an understanding that they refused to color. They had also watched everything they’d been raised as, the ideals they were taught, had believed with all their heart, crumble with the walls to reveal the harsh truth of what was buried underneath, deeper than the TNT that waited amongst its foundations.

    Manburg did horrible things to its people. One of the worst things it did was destroy the pale courtship of Niki and Fundy. Fundy, coddled yet abandoned, desperate for love with no cornerstones to ground him, stayed loyal to the place that had been promised him, rather than its ideals. Niki fell the opposite way, and had screamed to the sky as the trust for her moonstruck-companion evaporated into the sky with the smoke of the flag she had sewn with her own two hands, with the symbol of everything they had ever fought for. Even the steady, parental hand of Eret could not calm the pain she had felt as she lost the relationship she never dared to name to a tyrant’s command. Eret could never understand. Only those in L’Manberg knew true betrayal. As it had always been.

    After the war, L’Manberg just wasn’t the same. And neither were two of its youngest citizens. Not just for the way that Niki couldn’t so much as look at Fundy without seeing the burning flag, or the way that Fundy couldn’t look at Niki without knowing she truly thought he would be so willing to side with Schlatt. Because Wilbur was dead, and Wilbur had been everything. Wilbur had been the embodiment of L’Manberg, and he had killed it, just as he’d killed himself. Because he was Fundy’s dad and Niki’s friend and he would rather destroy himself and the nation he had built than let them have it. Neither of them really knew who to blame or where to turn. But they didn’t turn to eachother. No matter how much their hearts ached and how they could read one another in a single glance, even now, they turned away. Fate had never been kind to them. They refused to give it one more thing to tear away.

    Even amongst the crowd after Dream had promised annihilation on L’Manberg, they didn’t speak to one another, didn’t make eye contact. And as the next day they watched their home, the place that bore every footprint and memory from their childhood, turn to rubble beneath their feet, they exchanged not a word, but a silent understanding as the two stood together and Niki herself burned the last roots they had to the doomed nation that would never again fail them as it had so many times before. Together they mirrored one of the men who had raised them, and saluted in heavy silence as a final goodbye.

    And with no more roots to hold them to a place they could no longer call home, Niki and Fundy parted. Niki tried to tell herself she didn’t care where Fundy had gone, and in time her moonstruck feelings were buried under the mountains of rage and grief and resentment that had piled on over the years with no true outlet. To Niki’s surprise, she found a companion who shared not just her resentment, but her childhood home-- it seemed that she and Jack shared a quartz-colored heart, so they claimed themselves a duo and started working together. It was nice. It was almost starfated. They shared goals and even acknowledged it as courting.

    But as Niki started to find herself and move on from the endless pain, no longer focusing on the harm of others but on the healing of herself, she found what everyone who seeks a cornerstone relationship eventually finds to be true: When resentment for the same thing is the only thing shared, there can never be true peace or trust or understanding between them-- not when one moves on and the other sits in their pain and anger. After a heartbreaking discussion, Jack and Niki ended their courtship, all the more pained for having known it as such. Niki’s pale heart sang for the loss of Jack, and she found herself missing the quiet understanding that she and Fundy, even at their worst, even angered to the core at one another, had shared. It was a feeling that could not be replaced. She ached for all she had lost, but knew she could not sit in her pain. She moved forward. She found ideals that suited her and were not thrust upon her. She harvested wheat, made flour, made dough. She baked.

-----

    Niki had stopped work on the city for the night, closing the door to her own living space within the cavern walls and sighing. She put a kettle on the stovetop, preparing to relax. Most of her day had been spent acclimating new refugees from other areas of the land into the city, cataloguing how many of the pre-made apartments had been taken and attempting to calculate what would need to go into the expansion. The city and citizens were getting used to one another, so to speak, and Niki was rather proud of how beautiful it all was. The only thing they really needed more of was chunks of ice; caves were kept at such a consistent temperature that any baking or cooking needed an outside interference, since they couldn’t just open a window to cool off their apartment. Niki was so wrapped up in her thoughts about the day that she almost didn’t hear the short, timid knock on her door.

    “Coming! I’m coming!” She called, rushing up to the door. In her defense, she hadn’t exactly been expecting visitors-- she opened the door and stood in minor shock-- especially not this one. “Fundy…?” Niki asked softly, surprise coloring her words. Ears flattened back against his head and fidgeting with his own padded fingers, Fundy stared at the ground, hardly even glancing up at her. “Hey, Niki.” She… she didn’t know what to say. This was the first they’d spoken to one another in what seemed like years. She knew what to do, though. Niki opened the door wider and stepped aside. “Please, Fundy, come in!” Fundy hesitatingly stepped inside-- he finally looked at her, and it was with such a pure expression of feeling lost that it made her almost want to take him into her arms, run her hands through his fur and soothe his aches-- a feeling that startled her, that she hadn’t felt since she broke off her alliance with Jack.

    She couldn’t bring herself to do that, though. It had been too long and there was too much unspoken. Instead, she decided on practicality. “What brings you here, Fundy? Do you need a home? We still have a few apartments that aren’t taken,” Niki said, attempting to anticipate his needs. “Nooo, it’s not that…” Fundy replied, drawing out his words, and Niki gave the fox hybrid a patient smile. He’d always had trouble articulating bad news-- that was okay. She didn’t have anywhere she needed to be for the rest of the night. She gestured to the sofa, and Fundy took a seat, sitting on the edge as if he didn’t belong and might need to bolt at any second. Niki was grateful she’d started making tea; there wound up being just enough for one cup each. She handed one to Fundy and his ears flicked in silent thanks.

    Niki sipped her tea as Fundy stared straight into his. “I wanted to find you because, well, I think… I think you should know.” Niki gave a soft questioning hum, encouraging him to continue. “So… y’know Wil… my dad… your friend… he died…” Niki frowned a little. If it had to do with Wilbur-- her heart ached, and she felt a kinship with Fundy in that moment. She knew. She did. “Yes,” Niki answered quietly, “I know. It’s been-- it’s been a long time since his death. It’s been hard. What happened, Fundy? Has something new come up?” Fundy’s yellow eyes flicked up and met Niki’s own, filled with grief and confusion. His gaze softened, remembering that they had, in fact, been-- almost been. He relaxed a little more into his seat, but he kept his hesitant and uncomfortable expression.

    Foxes don’t like to go in straight lines when they travel, and neither did Fundy like to speak in one. “So… something happened, at the prison, with Wilbur’s ghost… he was there with Tommy… and Dream…” Niki stiffened a little bit at both the names, and decided to hold off on her confusion about a ghost. “Because Dream has this revive book, right? So Dream… he threatened to Tommy to bring Wil back… apparently Sam fucked up…” Niki furrowed her eyebrows, desperately attempting to not become aggravated. It was a lot of non-information. “Fundy, what are you saying right now? What happened?” She asked, needing clarity. Fundy sighed, straightened up, and looked at her with a sudden focus to his gaze. “Dream… Dream brought Wilbur back. Wilbur is alive again. Tommy and Tubbo and Ranboo have all seen him-- I told Phil and I think he might be with him now.” He stared at Niki, tail twitching nervously.

    Niki was frozen. She held her teacup in a strange, mid-sip position, as if time for her had stopped before she took the action. “Wilbur is… back?” She asked, voice shaky in disbelief. “How?” Fundy shrugged helplessly. “I… the revive book, I guess. It’s real-- apparently Dream guinea pig-tested it on Tommy and it’s real. And now Wil is back. He’s alive again. Good ‘ole… Wilbur…” Fundy trailed off as it sank into both of them. Wilbur. God, what had he become? In Pogtopia? The dark ravine where the resistance gathered, the desolation that drove him to destroy his own home and force his father into an assisted suicide. Wilbur, when he had died, was not the man they knew and loved growing up in the safety of L’Manberg’s blackstone walls. Niki set her teacup down and watched it grow cold.

    Screwing together her eyes, Niki took a deep breath to steady herself and made a decision. She picked her teacup back up and took a sip-- it wasn’t yet lukewarm. Fundy, seeing her do so, did the same. “I don’t know how I feel about that,” Niki finally admitted. “Yeah,” Fundy agreed-- there in his voice was the telltale shake of an almost-laugh, done in nervousness, and it dawned on Niki that it was a family trait that he shared with Phil. “Phil will be happy, at least,” She posited, and Fundy agreed. “Yeah. He seemed hopeful. Wil-- he said Wil lied to him about the elections. I don’t really… know what that means.”

    Niki put a hand on Fundy’s shoulder. “Maybe… maybe you aren’t the only one who just wants his dad to be proud of him,” Niki offered with a small, empathetic smile. Fundy let out a very strange noise that was partly a sigh, partly a groan, and partly a sob. “I guess.” But she could tell he knew she was right. “Wilbur is…” Here, Niki tried to piece together her own thoughts. “Wilbur is a very complicated man with very complicated morals and relationships. He was our friend, and he hurt people-- but he was hurting too. I don’t know what death is like. I don’t know what being dead for so long would change him to be like.” Fundy, despite the somber mood, was relaxing a little-- and Niki, to her own surprise, found herself doing the same. He enthusiastically agreed with her description of complexity. It was definitely true.

    Niki took another big, courageous breath. One step at a time. She knew how to do this. “But if there’s anything I’ve learned lately, it’s that we cannot stop living our lives because of something like this. We can’t let ourselves become overwhelmed and paralyzed because of one big emotion. It isn’t good for us. It isn’t good for anyone.” Her grief, the loss of L’Manberg. The rage at Tommy and the feeling of entitlement, that if they just got an apology they could move on-- but not before that, never before that. The ache she felt, that shooting star that almost could have been before Jack sank himself so deep into rage it made him mad that she wasn’t drowning in it too. All of it came pouring out of her in that moment, like an overflowing cup that had finally finally been allowed to spill over. She might have been crying. Fundy’s eyes, too, shimmered with the same pain and understanding.

    “What do we… what do we do, then?” He asked, voice ragged as if he’d been holding back the tears that were now being blinked away for years (he had). “What do we even do? What can we do?” He nearly shouted it, desperation leaking from his voice. Niki sniffled, wiped away her eyes, picked up the empty teacups and brought them into the kitchen. Fundy followed, a familiar feeling to it all. “We can… well…” She set the cups down gently, turning to Fundy. He looked ready to listen to anything, about then. Gods above, the two of them had missed eachother more than they’d ever be able to put into words, huh.

    Suddenly, Niki smiled warmly, and Fundy picked up the nostalgia on her mind. “Do you remember, way back in the old days? When L’Manberg had its walls?” Fundy looked at her inquisitively, but his ears were perking slowly as realization started to find its way into his head. “I remember a lot of things from back then,” He said-- and it was true, they both did. The phrase pale danced around her head, the word starfate itched at her heart. “When I was stressed out,” She recalled, opening cabinets and drawers and handing things to Fundy-- who was arranging things in a specific way, but didn’t seem to realize he was operating on muscle memory or he would’ve known where she was going with it-- “Or when I wanted to create something. I would go down to the docks, because--”

    “Your bakery,” Fundy realized. “I do remember that.” Fundy looked down at his paws, realizing he was mid-measure and, subsequently, losing his place. “Oh god I think I fucked it up,” he muttered under his breath-- and Niki laughed, pleasant and happy. “You were doing fine, Fundy. It’s the last scoop of flour,” she reassured him. As Fundy muttered about the quality of the cake and Niki started measuring the other ingredients, she tried to clarify what she had initially been getting at. “For a long time, I was swallowed with anger,” she explained. “Anger about everything that had happened, because it was so unfair. But it wasn’t anyone’s fault. There was nobody to be angry at. The only person it was hurting was me.” And Jack. Jack’s own anger was hurting him, too. She swallowed down the broken shell of quartz that memory made her feel.

    “So you just… stopped being angry?” Fundy asked, genuinely trying to wrap his mind around it. Niki shook her head. “I don’t think it’s quite like that. I just needed to focus on myself, instead of what others had done. Do what I like and try to think for myself instead of just believing everything everyone else told me to.” What Wilbur had told her. What Wilbur had told them. She shook her head a little to clear her thoughts. L’Manberg had been good, but… it was never perfect. Not the way they were taught it was. “I guess I get what you mean,” Fundy said, and Niki felt enveloped by the sense of understanding that came with being with Fundy. He knew her just as she knew him, and even limited in their words they could communicate to one another what they meant. Even after all this time, it seemed they wouldn’t fall apart that easily, that they were two of the same according to fate.

    “It seems hard, though,” Fundy said, setting a glass bowl on the counter. Niki furrowed her eyebrows again thoughtfully. “It is hard. It’s better than being miserable all the time though.” Fundy jiggled the bowl as Niki poured the mixture, evening it out so it would cook properly. Fundy opened the oven door, and Niki slid the cake in. “I guess I am pretty tired of being miserable,” Fundy agreed with a hesitant chuckle. “That’s the spirit!” Niki exclaimed, grinning at him. Fundy laughed properly this time, three short bursts that sounded from his chest, and grinned back at her. “Hey, if you say so. It’s not much though. It’s really, really not.”

    “Nooo it’s good, it’s a good start! You have to start somewhere, Fundy,” Niki encouraged, and Fundy just shook his head, laughing ever so slightly. “I dunno, I mean… kinda hard to do when I don’t have a home and none of my friends talk to me anymore and Wilbur is suddenly alive again.” Niki looked at him sympathetically. “You could start by doing something that makes you happy. What do you like doing, Fundy?” Fundy stared awkwardly around the kitchen. “...Eating cake,” He offered with a hesitant giggle. Niki giggled in turn. “Well,” Niki said, “Lucky for you, if you stay here for a little bit you can do that pretty soon.”

    “I don’t know what I’m going to do after that,” Fundy said, turmoil in his heart too easily stirred, “But yeah. I’d like that.” He absently started wiping down the counter, old routine still embedded into them both, and Niki stared at him, gaze lingering for a moment. Looking at him now, she could see how his ginger fur didn’t shine the way it used to, how his ears were in a constant flicked-back state of distress. They’d both been uprooted when L’Manberg was destroyed, but it seemed he may have been left far more unmoored than she had. She wanted to groom his fur. She wanted to hold him until his tension was gone and his ears perked up bright and happy. She wanted to get rid of the ache in her chest and the ache in his. She wanted to get rid of the way her heart sang moonlit songs around him, despite it having been years. She wanted-- she wanted him to stay. Just for a little bit.

    Niki started to get out the frosting. “Stay here for a few nights,” she said unprompted, “In the city I mean. While you sort out your thoughts. I know I’ll need to sort out mine too. Maybe--” And here, she hesitated-- “Maybe we can try and sort them out together.” It was an invitation of vulnerability that neither of them had in a long, long time. Fundy stopped what he had been doing to stare at her; Niki vehemently ignored his gaze to continue focusing on the task at hand. He thought for a moment, and she hoped desperately he wasn’t thinking about the implications. “I’d like that,” he finally answered, quiet and truthful. “That would-- yeah. That would be nice.”

    “Well,” Niki said to fill the awkward silence that had sprouted after that, “One thing at a time. First you’re going to help me frost this cake when it’s ready.” Fundy laughed and agreed. And Niki thought about what she’d said to Jack, and what it had really meant. Baking again. Trying to heal despite it all. And she thought about the fox hybrid next to her, who, despite all his troubles, was baking too. L’Manberg was gone forever-- it was never coming back. Even if Wilbur did. And, well. Neither of those things had been quite what they had seemed. Places were gone and people had changed. Some for the better. Some for the worst. Some just… different, in inexplicable, unattainable ways. In ways that couldn’t be reached.

    But Niki was slowly realizing that not everything was gone. Fundy was still here, in her kitchen, baking with her. And in as many ways as she couldn’t figure out how to feel about Wilbur being alive again, she was grateful for one tiny thing about it. That it had brought Fundy to her doorstep. That she could share cake with someone who shared a quartz-colored heart with her. Maybe-- maybe it was fate.

    With the quiet hum of the oven being the only sound in the small apartment, Niki leaned against Fundy’s shoulder, feeling the soft fur of his neck against her cheek and hearing it squish against the fabric of his jacket. Fundy carefully put an arm around her and placed his chin on her head. “Yeah, I missed you too,” He murmured. Niki let out a heaving sigh and let herself sink into the warmth. And they still couldn’t call themselves starfated-- not after everything. Not yet. But for a moment, tucked away in a small apartment, hiding in the rising scent of cake and the warmth of an oven, they could feel it; they could know it. They understood one another. And, just like when they were kids-- for now, that was enough.

[chaseatinydream]

pirate king (46) || atz

At that one word, everything in your mind evaporates.

Gunho?

You don’t know how many times you feel like your brain has been reduced to a weak, steaming pile of mush, but you’re very sure about this, just one more bombshell dropped on you and you might as well just slip into a comatose state for the rest of your life.

You’re familiar with the word, most of all from Yunho’s lips. The lookout speaks of old tales about his brother nearly every day, recalling fond stories about their time in the arena, how their brotherhood blossomed, especially so in the bleakness of the arena. You’re well versed with the tales of how the two of them had looked out for each other, watched each other’s backs, grown up to become comrades and best friends.

In the rigging, you had listened to him recall days of training and fighting as the three of you, you, Yunho and Wooyoung, had worked to raise and adjust the sails together. When the wind was constant and the weather was good, all of you would sit in the ropes and listen to Yunho talk. You had not  much past to speak of and Wooyoung steered clear of speaking about any history of his, thus his tales entertained the two of you greatly and helped to pass the time. You didn’t mind, the lookout was a good speaker, peppering his stories with funny anecdotes and often poor attempts at acting which always brightened your mood.

But behind every happy tale, there had been a lingering sadness in Yunho’s eyes, a pained smile to the end of every story, an unspoken, sad conclusion to what should have been a beautiful chronicle of brotherly kinship.

Gunho’s death had weighed heavily on Yunho’s mind, you know, from the way his eyes sadden minutely every time you bring him up on accident. Yunho prefers remembering the happy, good times with his brother, when the two of them had been together, but the thought of his brother always brings up a single fact that he can never ignore.

He had been too late to save his brother.

It’d been like a bitter pill for Yunho, hard to swallow and even harder to accept but he’s done it already, biting back his tears to face the big, wide world with a positive, cheerful smile. He’s supposed to have moved on already, putting the past behind him as he continues to move forward… but you doubt that he would have expected for his past to be dredged up again once more, upturning everything he had once believed.

Gunho is alive.

It’s as if time stands still for a moment as the once hooded man straightens up to stare at Yunho in surprise, sword nearly falling from his grip from the shock of seeing his older brother after so long. Deep brown meets deep brown as the two of them simply take in the appearance of the other, as if they can’t really believe that fate was kind enough to let them cross paths once again in this lifetime.

You’re almost ecstatic for Yunho, knowing that this must be the most heartwarming reunion that you’ll ever have the luck to witness. A grin pulls widely at your face as you turn to look at Yunho, who’s simply gazing upon his brother in disbelief. Slowly, you see him blink, once, twice, as if trying to prove to himself that this really isn’t a dream, before his jaw clenches and you see a single tear spill over his eyelashes and down to his cheek.

“Gunho… you’re alive?” Yunho chokes out, voice overcome with emotion and the brown haired man looks as if he’s been snapped out of some sort of daze. A blinding, dazzling smile of sheer joy spreads over his face as tears rolls down his own cheeks.

“Brother, I’ve been searching for you so long!”

Hesitantly, Yunho looks over to his captain, who looks just as stunned as everyone else on board is. Then he nods, slowly, and Yunho is stepping forward slowly, as if still in a daze. Gunho throws his longsword to the side in his excitement and runs straight into his brother’s arms, embracing him tightly.

The moment the two of them meet, the entire crew seems to heave a sigh of relief. There is no one on this ship who doesn’t know exactly how dear Gunho was to Yunho, or how much Yunho regrets not being able to save his younger brother from that godforsaken arena. But now, even if it had to be through this terrible meeting with the Royal Navy, Yunho can be reunited with Gunho.

Something warm blooms in your heart as you watch the two of them hug, squeezing the life out of each other.

“I can’t believe you’re alive.” Yunho sobs into his brother’s shoulder, now that you see them side by side, Gunho is shorter than Yunho, more stocky and built as compared to Yunho’s taller and longer stature. Gunho nods, one hand reaching to pat his brother on the back reassuringly as his other reaches to his belt.

And something sinks in your chest.

“I missed you so much.” Gunho rests his head on his brother’s, voice soft and soothing, rocking Yunho back and forth gently as Yunho continues to cry, shaking his head and mumbling incoherent apologies into Gunho’s shirt. “I really do love you… brother.”

What happens next is almost too fast for you to see.

You don’t think anyone could have expected it, really. Not a single person on the ship could have possibly even guessed in the slightest that this was coming. Even though it happened right in front of your eyes, you merely stood there in shock and watched as everything seemed to fall apart in that one split second, unable to move, mind incapable of processing the events that had just happened.

One blink of an eye, the two brothers are embracing.

In the next, Yunho is crumpled on the deck, blood gushing from his side.

For a moment, no one moves.

Incomprehension.

Shock.

Disbelief.

What?

It’s a razor sharp knife, the steel drenched in dark red blood. Your eyes, wide with terror, follow the weapon as Gunho merely raises the blade to his mouth, licking the blood off the knife while he looks upon his brother writhing on the ground with what you can only describe sick, twisted amusement.

“Oh? I didn’t think you’d be on guard enough to react so quickly around me. And here I thought you were glad to see me again, brother.” Gunho merely sighs as if disappointed, shaking his head as his tongue darts out to catch a little smear of blood at the corner of his serene smile. “But then again among of the two of us, you were always the lucky one, weren’t you?”

Yunho chokes in pain, a muffled scream ripping from his throat as he curls into a ball, crimson spilling over his fingers and staining the deck red with his blood.

His brother turns around, facing Commander Kang as your brain tries to understand what has just happened, but it’s failing miserably. “Let’s go, Commander.”

Nothing makes sense to you, you manage to think blankly to yourself, as the world pitches and rolls around you. Absolutely nothing. But one thing you do know, that you’ve been trained to do ever since you stepped onto this ship, is to treat the wounded, and you know that Yunho is going to die if you don’t get to him as fast as possible.

But you’re terrified. Your master isn’t here, he’s in the captain’s cabin, together with Mingi, there is no time for you to call him, and you will be utterly alone. There will be no one to instruct you, to make choices for you, to share the responsibility with you.

If Yunho dies...

For a moment, you so desperately just want to stay rooted to the spot in fear. But you do know that every second you think, Yunho’s life drains away little by little, and with a curse, you throw all rational thinking to the wind. Hurrying forward, you tear your outer shirt from your shoulder, kneeling at Yunho’s side as you inspect the wound as fast as possible, trying to remember everything your master has taught you through the haze of panic.

The second you spring into action, your captain moves too, pulling his musket from his belt as he takes aim at Gunho, eyes narrowed with blazing fury.

But Gunho doesn’t seem intimidated in the least, simply smiling amicably and sliding the knife back into the belt as if he hasn’t just stabbed one of your crewmates in the gut in an attempt to kill him. Hongjoong’s fingers tighten on the trigger.

The crew too, begin to stir into movement, raising their weapons to fight, but then one voice cuts through the noise.

“Hongjoong, no!”

Only his true name, shouted so desperately by one of his closest friends, could have any chance of stopping your captain in the blind rage he is in. His green eye is clouded over with pure, undiluted wrath, the usual flames in his gaze fanned to a blazing inferno. Normally, you realise, no one would have a chance against him when he’s like this.

But then, it’s Yunho telling your captain to stop. Yunho, who’s just been stabbed by his long lost brother, one who he had once thought the world of. Yunho, bleeding out and dying next to you.

He can’t bring himself to kill his younger brother.

And because it’s Yunho who tells him to stop, Hongjoong does. But you can see every muscle in his body just screaming to pull the trigger, but he holds steady, the barrel of his musket trained at Gunho’s head.

“Why did you do that?” Hongjoong snaps, his voice somehow ice cold yet burning with rage, every syllable is ringing with fury. Gunho merely shrugs, a cheerful, remorseless grin on his face that honestly is starting to look a little deranged to you.

“Just a little siblings’ spat, captain. Nothing too much to worry about.”

Breathing, you recall, your eyes snapping to Yunho’s face as you check him over. He’s panting, gasping from the pain as his fingers press against his wound, trying to stem the flow of blood. There are tears of agony in his eyes and you start ripping your overshirt into strips, pressing your makeshift padding against Yunho’s wound.

At the pressure, Yunho cries out in agony, the sound tearing at your heartstrings. You try your best to ignore the sound of one of your best friends sobbing right next to your ear, but each cry is so heart wrenching you wish you could just cut off your own ears to stop the heartrending sound. With Yeosang, it was a lot easier to just treat his wounds as he was nearly unconscious from blood loss, but with Yunho writhing around screaming in anguish right next to you as you press down hard on his wound?

No amount of training with San could have prepared you for this.

You glance upwards, seeing Seonghwa drop from the ropes and sprint across the deck to your side, crouching next to you as he takes in his friend’s ashen face. Heart racing in your chest, you take one look at the wound and you know simply stemming the bleeding with your pathetic replacement of actual bandages isn’t going to be enough. Making up your mind as fast as you can, you turn to Seonghwa. “Tell San to get here as fast as he can and grab my healer’s bag from the sickbay.”

The cook doesn’t even bother giving a nod in response, pushing through the crowd on the deck and racing to the cabin. A second later, your master bursts out of the door, face white with horror as he catches sight of Yunho on the ground. Then he’s by your side, checking Yunho’s breathing and pulse as his critical eyes rake across the wound.

“Stab wound, about two and a half inches wide. Serrated on one edge, and deep, but likely to have missed all his vitals organs.” San rattles off as he moves to inspect the wound more carefully. “Pulse is weak, but the blood isn’t pumping out, which means it luckily didn’t hit an artery. But he seems to be in too much pain for a wound this size…”

Then his face turns ashen in realisation and he leans in to sniff the wound, before his eyes widen with horror. You feel your heart drop in your chest at your master’s expression.

“The wound is poisoned.”

Your captain hears San’s words over the din and all of a sudden, you feel every hair stand on the end at the sheer anger that’s rolling off your captain in waves. Hongjoong’s fury almost seems like it’s on the verge of setting the very environment around him ablaze, every survival instinct screaming for you to get up and run away from him as fast as you can.

“Where is the antidote?” Hongjoong snarls, grip tightening on his gun, but your heart sinks at the words. Somehow, deep in you, you can already guess where it is. Gunho merely laughs like a tinkling bell, tilting his head to one side as he grins at your incensed captain with an innocent smile that might just be the most terrifying thing you’ve ever seen.

“Why you got to be so serious about this, captain? The antidote isn’t with me right now.” Gunho sighs, shaking his head as Commander Kang steps towards the rowboat they had come from, followed by the guards. At the bulwarks, he turns to smile at his brother one last time. “I hope you live, brother. It’ll be a lot more fun killing you slowly that way.”

You can’t help but stare at the younger Jeong brother in shock as he simply turns around and steps off the ship, not the least bit concerned about the muskets all trained at his back. Commander Kang eyes all of you coldly from the rowboat.

“Meet us on the Cayman Islands when you’re ready and bring along the four parts of the deal. The antidote will be there. Harm us in any way and the deal is off. I expect to see you there soon, captain.”

With that, they simply lower themselves to the sea, disappearing from your sight.

You now know why they had the audacity to step aboard this ship even though they were so vastly outnumbered. Your captain can’t possibly kill Commander Kang or Gunho. He needs them alive for answers and to save Yunho’s life. And it seems like such a cruel joke, that you and the crew have all been played along like this, like marionettes on a string.

Hongjoong screams in fury, his fingers tightening so hard on the musket that his fingers go white.

Why? What does the Royal Navy want with you?

Two months ago, on the sea witch’s island, you had chosen to give up your memories. Two months ago, you had decided to walk down the path with your crew mates and family instead, leaving your history behind you as you started on this new journey.

But now?

It seems like that elusive past is finally begin to surface, bringing with it all sorts of dangers and darkness that you hadn’t once thought existed.

And you're terrified at what is to come.

[see-arcane]

Regarding Powers of Hope, Love, Indigestion, or Whatever OR The Inheritors After the Fears

I think I’ve touched on this in other posts and a number of stories now, but I think the idea deserves its own Official Rant.

1. The Extinction pops up.

2. The Extinction doesn’t kill off the people or the Fears.

3.  Instead, it does a little tit for tat, and does to the Fears what they inflicted on Jon…

4. A Terrible Change ala Painful Evolution/Alteration into a Form-They-Hate…

5.  …and from the raw matter of their Being, the Extinction creates the Fears’ Inheritors.

6.  Enter: The 14 Joys

 The Joys:

The Slaughter = The Peace: Just what it sounds like. The distillation of tranquility, the calm after storms, the weeping victory and sighing ecstasy of a hard battle won. Radiates camaraderie and kinship. 

Avatars have the old school hippie vibe, mixed with modern, existential meditation tang. Why waste time on hate, guys?  

The Corruption = The Cure: Patron deity of bees, butterflies, ladybugs, fungi, flora, and all the small lives that contribute to grander lives, vaccines, medications—and honey, because why not? 

Avatars are often mistaken for Hozier or Florence Welch, respectively.

The Stranger = The Spectacle: Who the hell is Anonymous? It is here to put on a goddamn show! It is here to create, to perform, to sing, to dance, to write, to paint, to sculpt, to have the world know who it is and love what they do! Bring on the fireworks, the glitter, the dazzle, the raised curtain! 

Avatars are all colors of creatives—from creators, to actors, to musicians, and every other artistic hopeful.

The Buried = The Embrace: A close relative of the Peace, but more focused on rest and catharsis. It is the sweet pressure of a loved one’s arms, the comfort of bed, of couch, of favorite swaddling blanket. Here is dreaming, here is hush, here is safety. 

Avatars are always in comfy clothing, always have your favorite food and drink ready right when you need it, and give hugs that boost endorphins like a shot.  

The End = The Outset: No, there’s no escaping death. But it isn’t the End, mathematically speaking. Living in flesh and blood is a blink compared to the forever(s) waiting on the other side of it. Afterlives of all flavors are waiting, patiently, without bias or menace. It is the beginning of the rest of your existence. 

Avatars have a more guidance counselor air mixed with the old Maiden, Matron, Crone/Fates motif. Not everyone picks the same kind of afterlife or takes the same boat ride with Charon. Options abound.

The Desolation = The Construction: The entity for architects, inventors, builders, bakers, scientists, and every other kind of person who wants to manifest Something That Did Not Exist Before Me. Also big on forest restoration post-lumber industry abuse and bad fires. Also also the embodiment of that one friend who believes that Make Thing, Give Thing is the best love language and cannot be stopped from gifting you artisan masterworks every birthday and holiday. 

Avatars are diehard DIYers.

The Lonely = The Loved: Whether it’s friendship, familial care, or the intimacy of romance, this is the entity that’s all over that sweet, sweet mush. Is absolutely responsible for setting up those tender moments where you become Aware of how grand it is to have This Person/These People in your life, and how grateful they are that they have you in theirs. Also in charge of making those especially heart-melting simultaneous surprise wedding proposals happen. Always happy to see you, no matter what Joy you’re linked to. 

Avatars are social butterflies of the best kind. Tied with the Embrace for best huggers.

The Flesh = The Vigor: Part fitness guru, part jock, part motivational speaker, all bro. This is the Joy of focusing on getting healthy as well as strong, here for body positivity and embracing the equal values of improving yourself out of self-love and not pushing yourself to unhealthy extremes to cater to other people’s biases. Will also be the first in line to help you move heavy furniture. 

Avatars have never been seen outside of gym clothes. And they never will be.

The Web = The Fortune: The best laid plans of spiders and men are all well and good, but they just can’t hold up against pure, blind luck. This is a Joy built on the random, unexpected flashes of gold within life. Car crashes avoided, money spotted on the sidewalk, winning a raffle, a free coffee, meeting a friendly stray, your crush admitting they like you too, landing your dream job, cracking a joke that sends everyone laughing, disasters dodged, a stranger returning the phone you’d lost—all this and a thousand other splashes of good luck are owed to this entity. 

Avatars always know the exact advice to give you when you’re in a jam. Solutions appear the moment they do.

The Vast = The Ascension: This is the entity of both literal dreams of flight—oh, to be a bird! To soar in a plane! To graze stars in a rocket!—and the promise inherent to the exploration of depths in sea and space. Yes, it’s big and unknown—isn’t that the point? To look far, to go far, to learn what the furthest edges of the universe hold? It is an airy, hopeful entity, for dreamers who think of the possibilities in detaching from Earth’s dirt to discover something More. 

Avatars are, naturally, Big Thinkers in the realms of deep sea exploration, flight, and the cosmos.

The Dark = The Secret: To keep things from getting too sugary, we need a patron for the alternative crowds. Bring us your goths, your weirdoes, your punks, your oddballs, your metalheads, your Others and Outsiders. This is the Joy of spooks, of scary-cool aesthetics, of benevolent badasses and friendly monsters. Just because the Fears went all tryhard aggro with the vibe, doesn’t mean the creepy stuff has to be evil. 

Avatars can be summoned in your local Hot Topic, death metal concert, rave, or graveyard. Will accept black nail varnish as a bribe.

The Spiral = The Epiphany: Made of eureka moments and realizations and great, cartwheeling recognition of some until-now-missing Truth. Breaker of creative blocks, destroyer of self-doubt, slayer of maddening, paralyzing worries about what Is and what Isn’t. This entity shoves aside all the mental bullshit and points you straight to What is Real and the Answer to Your Questions. 

Avatars have their shit together 24/7 and have a habit of saying Exactly the Right Thing to snap you out of whatever frustrated funk you’re in. Destroys gaslighters and trolls on sight.

The Hunt = The Guard: Here to protect those who can’t protect themselves, to uplift those who are struggling, and to crush whatever predators come sniffing. An entity that embodies the phrase, ‘Start shit, get hit.’ Always has your back. Also always down to wrestle with the Vigor. (This isn’t part of the entity’s job, just a reflex.) 

Avatars are prone to playing your friend/significant other in a dangerous scenario where some asshole won’t back off. Also fantastic babysitters. Often found teaching self-defense classes.

The Eye = The Muse: Being a know-it-all is fine, but what’s the point if you don’t put all that Knowing to use? Make something? Inspire others? Educate? Here is the patron entity of not simply hoarding Knowledge, but of sharing it, of sparking a drive in those who learn and witness, of seeding passions, of firing up those who are touched by that Inspiration to chase a calling, to write that story, make that art, play that song, do all you can! 

Avatars are found in schools, libraries, museums, planetariums, zoos, theaters—just about everywhere. You’ll know them by how happy they are to be there. Be prepared for the best infodump of your life if you ask them any question.

The Extinction = The Evolution: What, like the Extinction was going to half-ass it? No, all the Fears means all the Fears. And, like the caterpillar becomes the moth, here it is at last. The Wondrous Change. The Improvement. The-Strive-for-Something-Greater. Because there, at the far end of the TMA journey, there must be something sweet in the bittersweet close of the narrative. So far, all the changes have been for the worse. But now? Now, it’s time to change for the better. 

Avatars are chimerical. They never look the same way twice, no matter how many times they help you on the road to making positive changes in your life. All you will recognize of them is their smile—perhaps their eyes—just enough to give you a sense of déjà vu. There and gone, as fleeting as the Present.

[mudwingpropaganda]

Starflight of the NightWings

Ah, the prophecy dragonet who was destined to be a leader because Morrowseer and Battlewinner didn’t have the metaphoric foresight to realize that a child will not be innately prideful and zealous just because of the illusion of control they had. The dragonet that they were willing to kill for despite letting their other NightWing children rot in a volcanic tunnel despite bounties of food being literally right there. Starflight’s heritage overshadows his character. I think his story would be fascinating if Tui didn’t drown us in NightWing content. 

If you want to hear about a good character rather than an over saturated tribe:

Design headcanons

Despite the idea of NightWings being a larger than life, intimidating, all-knowing tribe of dragons with piercing glares that can read your minds and foretell your death...

Starflight is a very small dragonet. There was no promise if he would actually hatch when Farsight laid his egg. Regardless of him growing up on the island, he reaped the consequences of his parents’ health, Farsight and Mastermind very barely leaving the island and Mastermind surrounded himself in dangerous experiments. Starflight has a small frame, but surprisingly still has brighter scales than most of the ashy NightWings on the island. As he matures, I imagine his scales will acquire a more rich, purple hue and his fur will develop more colorful galaxies as he is exposed to brighter night skies along in his life.

He is also a knuckle walker!!! I try to find excuses to find more unique stances for dragons to take... NightWings walk on their knuckles due to the weight they put on their “thumbs.” They are a wyvern-esque species with only four limbs, and their wings curl like that of a bat’s. His talons are also quite splayed. He used to be the only one who could properly fly within their caves, fitting to his name, and sleep among the stalactites if he wanted to avoid the Guardians’ judgmental eyes. 

Generally, he is not as imposing as his tribe is made out to be. Less spikes than promised and stouter build than expected. Generally, he’s not exactly special looking, among his more colorful siblings. And like they said in the book, they always expected he’d get his abilities and his intimidation factor once he matured. Yet he still is as kind and small looking as ever.

Not pictured, but I imagine that the entire front half of his body scorched after surviving the eruption of the NightWing volcano. He uses bandages around his eyes after the explosion less because he’s trying to heal, but more so he’s self conscious of the deep scars he’s retained from them. He retains damage to his wings/arms trying to cover his eyes as Clay pulled him away, through small holes where the embers crisped through. I ought to draw his post-explosion design but... I lack my drawing utensils right now.

Miscellaneous Thoughts

If Starflight were to hatch exposed to the three moons, I believe he would achieve a state of near omnipotence? Or, essentially, total lucidity. He would have been quite lost in the future and almost devoid of his own personal though, as he heard that of everyone around him instead. He would have been a terribly powerful NightWing, in the sense that he could know anything he wanted. But be unable to change fate or peoples’ minds. Instead, lacking that moonlight but getting a sense of that light on the flight to the mountain, he has a quiet, ever burning urge to know everything possible. 

Starflight, for a brief moment, was thrilled to think he had a biological sister. Hoping, as NightWings tend to do, that there would be an immediate kinship, understanding for one another. The sourness and bitter words she spat upon watching over him as he woke up on the island was less than pleasant, and since the events of the book he has been unwilling to go to the Rain Forest, risking running into his biological family and being blamed for not defending their crimes.

Fatespeaker is going to be much more important in my re-interpretation of the series. I won’t go into her character here, but Fatespeaker and Starflight are less romantically inclined to each other and moreso, Fatespeaker, by guiding and helping Starflight at the school, gives her a validating presence with a friend figure that doesn’t curse her name for being so “annoying” or bothersome, like the false DoD. Starflight doesn’t recognize how much his simple “please” and “thank you”’s with every request he asks and every task she fulfills validates her. They’re best friends, outside of the circle of dragons that Starflight has grown up with. 

In the end, Starflight stays away from politics and relationships concerning the queendoms after the war. He has decided that the world is much more than books or scrolls were able to explain, and aims to be an unbiased historian later on in his life, who just so happens to work at Jade Mountain Academy as a librarian. No shame in being a blind NightWing historian. That’s valid.

Eventually, Starflight and Fatespeaker establish a dragon “Braille.” They recognize how many dragons also suffer from blindness and their lives are frequently threatened in a world where dragons behave like wild animals, so sight is QUITE important. Starflight especially takes in those kids and helps them learn, as he picked up Survival tactics from Tamarin, who’s been afflicted with blindness her whole life, yet got by absolutely find in the Rain Forest.

LGBT+ headcanons

Rare as it is, I do headcanon Starflight as straight! But he’s also a trans man! His parents correctly guessed his agab, since he hatched on the continent rather than the volcanic island. He wasn’t quite well received when attempting to come out to the Guardians. But his siblings unconditionally loved and supported him to the point where he was comfortable embracing his identity. He was eternally self conscious in front of the NightWings when they captured him due to afab NightWings having longer chest fur than amab NightWings. In the end, he’s confident with his identity and prideful of his gender. The only issue he tends to grow smitten with every girl he meets. He and Tsunami share the “I am falling in love with everyone I see” genes. 

[hexalt]

Schitt’s Creek and the Transformative Power of Love

I first watched the pilot for Schitt’s Creek in the early part of 2019 and found it...eccentric. Not really funny, the characters weren’t speaking to me (except for Stevie (Emily Hampshire), whom I felt a kinship with), and the story seemed odd. I decided this show just wasn’t for me, and I had given it my best shot. Many months later, one of my best friends was posting about it frequently. Since we have the same taste, I thought maybe it was just the pilot. Maybe I should give it another shot. Maybe this time I’ll actually like it. So I started it from the pilot again, and I kept watching even if I wasn’t thoroughly entertained. I soon grew to love the two black sheep and having characters you understand always makes things easier.

What I didn’t realize when I started the show was that the characters were each more than they seem, they weren’t meant to be shallow jokes of themselves and their personas. The way they acted was often a façade hiding their insecurities of not being good enough in a variety of ways. The only other show that I’ve seen with a somewhat similar premise is Arrested Development, but there the characters are supposed to be absolutely ignorant, privileged assholes with no redeeming qualities.

I didn’t realize each season is better than the last, an astounding and rare feat in television. The quality of each season improves as the show quickly finds its footing by discarding early storylines that didn’t really work and letting the characters slowly becoming more grounded and open. This family that was once so distant that the parents didn’t even know their daughter’s middle name eventually develop genuine relationships for the first time with each other and other people.

Schitt’s Creek, co-created by father and son, Eugene (American Pie, Best in Show) and Dan Levy, wanted us to ultimately empathize with these characters, even if the remnants of their wealth can make them profoundly delusional and hilarious a lot of the time. Before writing the show, they created timelines going back to their characters’ elementary school years, detailing everything from where they worked to what they wore.

The fashion on the show is distinct and the best dressed I’ve seen in any show (and most films). Dan is huge into fashion and personally selects a lot of pieces worn in the show (some of David’s clothes are even from his own wardrobe). Instead of constantly telling the audience that this family used to be rich, we are reminded of it through Moira’s wall of wigs and couture black and white ensembles, David’s patterned black sweaters and low crotch pants, Alexis’s bohemian dresses and headbands, and Johnny’s array of business suits. When they enter any room in town, they are clearly fish out of water.

Schitt’s Creek centers on the Roses, a once-disgustingly wealthy family who lose their fortune and are forced to move to the only asset they have left: a small town named Schitt’s Creek that Johnny Rose (Eugene Levy) bought as a joke for his son, David (Dan Levy). So dilapidated is Schitt's Creek and so destitute are the Roses, they don't even have a house of their own; instead they are forced to live in a motel with two connecting rooms, forgoing all the luxury they had become accustomed to and, more terrifyingly, are now physically closer than ever.

While at first the family is horrified at the prospect of living in such a small town with townies, they eventually embrace the weirdness of the town, and it makes them grow in unexpected ways. Johnny was once the owner of the second-largest video rental store in the country and retains his businessman-like self through and through, but he also began the show more uppity. While he is often the most reasonable of the Roses, he often sees himself as above others in town and gets into awkward situations because of it. Over the course of the show he ends up developing a friendship with the town mayor to whom he initially had yelled “get the fuck out!” While he’s always devoted to his wife, he wasn’t so keen on his children, but being forced to live together makes him take a larger interest in their lives and become a better father.

Alexis (Annie Murphy) is the quintessential “dumb blonde” socialite who’s had a Schitt-ton of relationships with powerful men, making stories of her past highly entertaining, often illegal, and frequently frightening. She clearly grew up way too fast, never having had proper adult supervision. She’s reliant on men, and all she can think about in season one is trying to date cute guys. In the following seasons, she realizes it’s time to start growing up and gets her high school and Associate’s Degree to start her own PR business. She becomes a more enlightened version of herself, still deeply kind but also willing to put the happiness of others above her own. The Alexis who previously couldn’t see beyond her own nose becomes independent and more selfless.

David’s had hundreds of flings with people of all genders, but they seem to be replete with abuse, manipulation, and a lack of care for his being. This is unsurprising when we see how he hides his insecurity behind sarcasm and sometimes downplays things he doesn’t like to fit in. He fears showing kindness to anyone because others haven’t always been so kind to him. Early on, he has a panic attack and comes to the realization that he’s “really lonely here,” but he’s been lonely for a lot longer than that. What he doesn’t expect is to make his first best friend or find his soon-to-be husband in this backwater town. In the process, he learns to shed some of his armor.

Moira (Catherine O’Hara) was once on a soap opera, Sunrise Bay, and retains the melodrama in her day-to-day life and demeanor. She is constantly trying to become what she believes is a star: someone who acts in film, someone who everyone mourns when they die, someone who people will just pay one sliver of attention to. She’s desperately trying to cling to the spotlight, but in “Life is a Cabaret,” she finds what I believe will be her place come this final season. Rather than trying to constantly soak up attention, she gives Stevie the starring role in the town’s production of Cabaret (which Moira comes to direct) because getting that role was a “gift that once jolted [her] out of [her] little podunk routine.” From the wings of the stage, as Stevie slowly builds into “Maybe This Time” with such breathtaking passion and joy after starting off unsure and quiet, Moira is shocked at what she was able to bring out of Stevie. She’s finally realizing that her place isn’t center stage but in bringing out the best in others and helping them find their place in the world.

Stevie Budd begins as the desk clerk of the Schitt’s Creek motel until her great-aunt passes away, and she inherits the motel. From there she has to decide whether she’s ready to grow up and take over the family business, and she’s terrified. Johnny soon teams up with her in the business, renovating the motel and renaming it after both of them, so she sees the Roses aren’t going to abandon her. She is part of the Rose’s found family. Her and David are similar in their bluntness and sarcasm, but Stevie is insecure about never making it out of the town, never being more than a motel desk clerk, never having a long-term romantic relationship. She worries while everyone moves on with their lives, she’s “watching it all happen from behind the desk.”

Dan describes creating Schitt’s Creek as “writing a world that examines the transformational effects of love when the threat of hate and intolerance has been removed from the equation.” While homophobia is often front and center in any media depicting LGBT characters, Schitt’s Creek doesn’t give it as much thought. Where small towns are usually seen as ripe for homophobia, transphobia, and other discrimination, Schitt’s Creek doesn’t fall prey to this trope. Instead, this small town is bursting with love.

Dan purposely made David pansexual (it’s also the only show I’ve seen use the word) to challenge the viewer’s biases and push the boundaries of what it means to be masculine and feminine. David’s parents and others in the town never discuss it as anything strange or bad, it’s something he simply is and as common as the sky being blue. When David tells Stevie about his sexuality (“I like the wine, not the label”), she’s a bit surprised at first because she thought he was gay, but ultimately she doesn’t care.

This doesn’t mean the show never discusses what homophobia can be like, but it comes at it from a different lens.

For example, in “Meet the Parents,” David decides to throw a surprise birthday party for his boyfriend, Patrick Brewer (Noah Reid). What David doesn’t realize is Patrick hasn’t come out to his parents yet, they think David is solely his business partner. He tells David, “I know my parents are good people, I just...can’t shake this fear that there is a small chance that this could change everything.” David himself is prepared for homophobia from Patrick’s parents, but when they tell him they don’t care about that, just that he was hiding such an important part of himself from them, David who’s been trying to stay strong through it all wipes a tear.

“When I found myself in a position to tell stories on a global scale, I seized the opportunity to make a television show that might, in its own way, offer some support, encouragement and love to those who might not have it in their homes or in their schools or in their day to day lives. It’s a place where acceptance incubates joy and creates a clarity that allows people to see themselves and each other more deeply. It’s fiction, yes. But I’ve always been told to lead by example and this felt like a good place to start.”

— Dan Levy

I would be remiss to not touch on the comedic style of the show. This is a comedy that relies heavily on the physicality of its actors. Their facial expressions, accents and tonality, their limp wrists, each create uniquely funny characters with mannerisms unlike any I’ve seen. The cast brought nuance to the characters, when they could have easily fallen into vapid stereotypes.

As season 6 premiered on January 7, Schitt’s Creek is not done yet, and I can’t wait to see how its final season concludes. The characters are all happier now that they are achieving dreams they may not have known they had, they have fulfilling relationships with family and friends, and they all have grown into better people. Schitt’s Creek truly was their saving grace.

*

I’m in a TV group where we wrote essays on our favorite shows of the 2010s, so here is mine on Schitt’s Creek.

[artificialqueens]

Taste of a Poison Paradise, Chapter 2 (Multi) - Joley

Chapter Summary: Jackie embraces her truth, Crystal and Gigi are deeply in the ‘idiots’ stage of ‘idiots to lovers’, Brooke Lynn and Vanessa take new steps in their relationship, and Priyanka continues her affair with Lemon.

ao3 link

When Lemon entered the dressing room, the other girls looked up, but looked a bit confused. “Jan didn’t come in with you?” Gigi asked.

“Jan didn’t even come home with me last night. She told me and Pri to go on without her. My guess is she pulled a Vanjie and went home with the hot business woman,” Lemon shrugged as she took her seat.

“Hey, don’t drag my name into it,” Vanessa huffed, though she supposed she couldn’t be that mad with that being her claim to fame. She was the first of the girls to date a client, and up until now, she had assumed she would be the only one.

Jan arrived a bit later, only about five minutes late, but took her seat as if nothing was out of the ordinary. “Hey y’all, did I miss anything good?”

The girls giggled. “I don’t think anything here is as good as what you been getting,” Vanessa teased. “You have Brooke’s friend speaking French between your legs all night or what?”

A broad grin spread across Jan’s lips. “Oh, that’s only the start,” she replied. “God, you guys, I couldn’t even walk right this morning. She ruined me – I don’t think I can have sex with anyone else after her.”

“You bottoms are so dramatic,” Gigi remarked, looking at Jan through her reflection in the mirror.

“You’re just jealous you don’t have a bottom to ruin,” Jan retorted as she took her seat.

“One in particular,” Jaida chimed in.

Gigi rolled her eyes, wondering why she bothered saying anything in the first place. It’s not like Jaida or the other girls were wrong – her crush on Crystal was common knowledge among the dancers. She couldn’t help herself – when she had started working there, Crystal was the first to see through her stoic, standoffish front, something that took the average person weeks. The two of them bonded right away.

But To her dismay, Crystal had a girlfriend when her crush first developed. Though even when that relationship ended, she still did her best to use that as an excuse for not saying anything.

“I don’t see why you can’t talk to her. It’s been two months, it wouldn’t be a rebound,” Lemon offered.

“You’re technically correct,” Gigi conceded, “but it’s complicated, we’ve developed such a friendship in that time…”

“Bitch, that is the oldest excuse in the fucking book,” Vanessa retorted as she coated her brunette locks in a layer of hairspray. “Oh, we can’t date, it’ll ruin our friendship,” she mocked in a ‘white’ voice, “such a cop-out.”

Gigi frowned, strumming her nails against the vanity table. “Doesn’t make it untrue…”

Before Vanessa could reply, Jackie was at the door. She led Crystal, Priyanka, and Kameron in, then took a deep breath. “Ladies, I wanted you all in here because I have something to tell you.”

The girls looked at each other, murmuring with confusion and concern. Was something happening to the club? Were they in trouble? But they quickly quieted down and redirected their attention redirected to Jackie, urging her to continue.

Jackie took a deep breath. “Alright, I suspect this might not be the biggest surprise to you, but this is still difficult for me to say because, you know, it’s something I haven’t really said in my whole thirty-five years.” She pressed her lips into a line and swallowed thickly, doing her best to keep it together. “I’ve always felt a strong kinship with you guys, and deep down, I’ve always known it’s… it’s because I’m gay.”

The girls didn’t give Jackie time to brace herself for their reaction. Within seconds they surrounded her, hugging her tight. Sure, they had suspected it for a long time. Some of them had assumed Jackie was out but simply never mentioned it. But regardless of what they’d previously thought, all that mattered now was giving Jackie their complete, unbridled support.

And Jackie couldn’t do anything but sob. It was a sob of relief, of joy, but also of exhaustion – she had carried that weight on her chest for far too long and her lungs were desperate for the air of freedom. She knew this would only be the first time she came out, and she didn’t know when the next would be, but at least she knew she had a group of girls she could be safe with.

“That’s okay, sweetie. Let it out,” Jan soothed as she rubbed her back. “We’re all so proud of you.”

“The first time is always the hardest,” Jaida agreed. “You don’t gotta go tell everyone, just embracing it for yourself is enough.”

Jackie looked up at Jaida, opening her mouth to speak, only for her throat to run dry. Instead, she wiped her eyes and took a deep breath. “Thanks, you guys. You have no idea how much I appreciate it.”

When the group hug ended, everyone relaxed into their usual spots. “Alright, ladies,” Jackie prompted, “let’s have a great shift.”

As Crystal and Priyanka returned to the bar, they were still processing their bosses’ confession. “I’m fucking proud of Jackie,” Priyanka was saying. “I almost peed myself when I came out to y’all.”

“Weren’t you already sleeping with Lemon when you came out to us?” Crystal asked as she continued getting her station ready.

Despite a tinge of embarrassment, Priyanka laughed. “Only like, three times,” she defended. Even though she hadn’t been out when she started working there, she had quickly found out that Lemon had no idea how not to be out, nor did she know how to be subtle. Priyanka had realized she had to choose between staying closeted at work and pursuing her budding affair, and the choice was obvious to her.

“Three more than some of us,” Crystal murmured under her breath.

Priyanka scoffed. “Bitch, if you’re still carrying a torch for Gigi, why don’t you fucking tell her already? It’s not the world’s biggest secret, you know. We all figured it out,” she said, then paused for a moment, “well, except her.”

“Therein lies the problem,” she lamented. “It’d be easier if I knew that she only saw us as friends, then I could let it go. But there’s always this… underlying sexual tension between us. I don’t know. I’m confused.”

“Underlying sexual tension?” Priyanka’s brows rose. “She’s the only one of the girls that doesn’t put her bra back on when she comes to get a drink from you… well, neither does Vanjie, sometimes, but the bitch is just forgetful.”

Crystal chuckled softly. “Either that or she’s swinging by the security booth. Did you hear her tell Jaida she was gonna broach the ‘open relationship’ subject with Brooke, like, soon?”

“No, but I think it’s a good idea. Nip it in the bud before things get messy, huh?”

“Why, because it’s too late for you?”

Priyanka opened her mouth to speak, then pressed her lips together. “I… yeah, pretty much. I’ve accepted my life’s chaos, though.”

——

When Brooke Lynn wasn’t visiting the club as a client, she was often there as both a supportive girlfriend and pseudo-manager for Vanessa. She held herself in a confident, professional way that allowed her to walk right through the front door and into the back where the dressing room was without anyone looking twice, let alone question it.

Vanessa looked up when Brooke walked in and smiled, ignoring the way her chest tightened. “Hey, boo,” she greeted, getting up to give her a quick hug and kiss. “I’m glad you’re here, I been meaning to talk to you.”

“Oh, good,” Brooke nodded as she sat in one of the empty chairs. “I wanted to talk to you too. Do you want to go first?”

Normally, Vanessa would’ve automatically jumped on the opportunity to go first. But her nerves were still twisting up her insides and she figured she could calm herself down while her girlfriend spoke. “No, it’s fine, go ahead.”

“Well, I’ve been thinking about it, and all things considered…” she took a deep breath, “I think it would be a good idea for you to move in with me.”

“Yeah!” Vanessa’s nerves were instantly replaced with excitement – she loved the idea of getting to move in with Brooke, they had gotten so close despite their relatively short relationship. She was there most of the time anyway, and it made her own apartment look like a prison cell in comparison. And it didn’t hurt that she wouldn’t have to deal with rent or a landlord anymore. “I love you, B, I think that’s a great idea.”

Brooke brightened up. “Really? Awesome, we can get started on that whenever, really. Most of your stuff is at my place or here anyway. What did you want to tell me?”

Vanessa deflated a bit, reconsidering the whole idea. Of course she was still attracted to Kameron and didn’t plan on throwing out the ‘open relationship’ idea entirely. The timing, however, felt off. Inappropriate. Cold, even. “You know what? It ain’t nothing important, it can wait.”

“Are you sure? If something’s wrong, you can tell me, I want to know.”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Vanessa looked her in the eye so Brooke could tell she was being honest. “It just isn’t worth bringing up right now, I’d rather focus on this moving gig.”

Although Brooke wasn’t entirely convinced, she decided to let it go for the time being. “Alright. I’m gonna go grab a drink and let you finish getting ready,” she got up and kissed her cheek before heading back into the main room.

Vanessa ran her fingers through her hair and exhaled deeply. She looked at herself in the mirror and sighed. “Well, that got fucked up,” she muttered.

“You good, girl?” Lemon asked as she took her usual seat. “Usually you have a smug grin on when Brooke leaves the dressing room. The open relationship thing didn’t go over well?”

“It didn’t go at all,” she answered. “I was gonna, but then she asked me to move in with her… and I fucking love her, of course I wanna take that next step. But I couldn’t just jump from there to that just ‘cause I can’t stop thinking about getting fucked by Kameron.”

Lemon nodded and listened, fixing her hair and makeup in the mirror as well. “I mean, I can’t exactly be a moral compass here, but I get your concern. You guys haven’t done anything yet, have you?”

“Nothin’, just some flirting and shit. All hands-free. And mouths-free,” she confirmed. “You know I’d never wanna do something to hurt Brooke. Been on the other side of it before, shit sucks.”

“You guys love each other,” Lemon reassured. “I’m sure you’ve built up the trust to have that sort of honest conversation.” Under her breath, she added “must be nice.”

Vanessa didn’t catch it. “Guess you’re right, it’ll work out eventually,” she decided.

“Atta girl,” Lemon patted her shoulder as she got up. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got my nightly home wrecking to do.”

Vanessa looked up as Lemon left, only to make eye contact with Brooke, who was standing in the doorway with a glass in each hand. “How long you been standing there?” she asked hesitantly.

Brooke walked in and sat in the same chair she’d been in before, setting one glass on the counter and holding onto the other one. “So… Kameron, huh? Can’t say I’m surprised. She’s beautiful and you do have a type.”

She furrowed her brows, unsure of how to process Brooke’s reaction. “You’re not mad? You don’t even look pissed or nothing.”

“Well, no offense babe, but with your line of work, I’ve already wrapped my head around the idea of having to share you. Sure, it’s a little different comparing clients to someone you’re actually interested in, but I can’t fathom it being that bad,” she explained. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll pick up a cute little side piece while you two are going at it.”

Even with the explanation, Vanessa was still perplexed. But she was getting her way, so she supposed she couldn’t really complain. “You still want me to move in though, right?”

“Of course I do,” Brooke answered without hesitation. “This doesn’t change how I feel about you or about us. We’ll try the open thing out, see how we feel, and take it from there.”

Vanessa finally allowed herself to relax. “Alright, yeah, sounds good to me.”

“Good,” Brooke hummed and finished her drink off. “I’ll see you later,” she said, giving Vanessa a kiss before she left again. But this time, instead of going back into the main room, she went out the back door. She fished a cigarette and lighter out of her purse and lit it, then leaned against the wall as she took a drag.

“Thought you were trying to quit,” Gigi remarked. She had been outside for a few minutes, wrapped in a long, black robe with a lit joint held between two fingers.

Brooke exhaled, smoke blowing through her mouth. “Well, I just gave my girlfriend permission to fuck the security guard, so I’m having a cheat day.”

Gigi furrowed her brows as she took another drag. “Kameron? Why’d you do that then?”

“Because I love her and trust her but at the same time, I’d rather know what she’s up to instead of her lusting after another woman behind my back. Also we’re moving in together. It’s been an eventful night. So… open relationship it is.”

“Look at it this way, you’ll probably be fucking more once you live together, maybe it’ll wear her out,” Gigi offered.

Brooke laughed softly. “That isn’t as reassuring as you think it is, Geege.”

“At least you’re getting some.”

“No progress with Crystal, I take it?” Brooke asked, then dropped her spent cigarette on the ground and put it out with her shoe.

Gigi shook her head. “And with this gig plus school, I haven’t had time to find some distraction sex. You know how it is, right? When your brain gets stuck on something and the only way to dislodge it is by railing a pretty girl?”

“Yes, I remember being twenty-two. First time I got my heart broken by a straight girl,” she recalled. She looked at Gigi with a fond smile. She saw a lot of herself in the dancer, felt something of a kindred spirit. “Let me get a hit of that, wanna see why Vanjie loves that shit so much.”

Gigi covered her mouth with her free hand to giggle. “Sure, go nuts,” she said and passed the joint to her. She lingered close to Brooke, watching her curiously.

Brooke took a drag the same way she would off a cigarette. While it felt the same physically, she did prefer the way the weed made her feel. “Hm, yeah, I get it,” she said as she passed it back to Gigi. But as she did, there was a moment where their eyes met, where their shared loneliness, with sex on their minds. They started to lean closer, their lips parting…

“Nope,” they said in unison, pulling back and laughing.

——

Once the club had closed for the night, Lemon was sitting up on the bar while Priyanka was cleaning up. “You coming home with me tonight, Pri?” she asked, batting her lashes and swinging her legs.

“Can’t,” Priyanka sighed. “I promised Mark I’d watch some stupid fucking documentary with him when I got home,” she rolled her eyes.

“Who cares about him?” Lemon whined. “We haven’t had sex in like, almost two whole days. I’m literally dying.”

Priyanka finished her task then came around the bar, trapping Lemon between her arms as she held onto the bar. “You are the neediest bitch I have ever met. You know that, right?” Despite her ‘scolding’, she started kissing Lemon’s neck.

And of course, Lemon was happy with any small victory. “I think you like it, though. I think you get off on being needed, on knowing that I’m thinking of you when I need to be sexy on stage.”

“Do you really?” Priyanka asked. “Do you think about how good I fuck you while your shaking your ass for a crowd?” she asked, moving one of her hands between Lemon’s thighs. “Let it get you all worked up and let them think you’re just really into your job?”

Lemon’s legs instantly spread when Priyanka’s hand slipped between her thighs. Even though she didn’t like feeding Priyanka’s ego, she couldn’t pretend the dirty talk didn’t affect her. “Mm, of course I do, easy when no one makes me come like you do.”

“Good girl,” Priyanka praised, then rewarded her by slipping two fingers inside of Lemon’s panties, then slowly easing them into her pussy one after the other. “Look at you, already wet. You really were just thinking about getting fucked, weren’t you?”

“Fuck…” Lemon breathed out, bucking against Priyanka’s fingers, trying to writhe in time with her thrusts. “I was, couldn’t help it.”

Priyanka smirked, kissing up Lemon’s neck, then along her jaw and the shell of her ear. “My needy little whore,” she cooed as she fucked her harder and faster.

Considering most of their coworkers hadn’t left either, Lemon did make an attempt to stay quiet. She bit down on her lip, just whimpering as she rocked against her fingers.

But Priyanka didn’t make it easy on her. He curled and twisted her fingers, knowing every which way to make Lemon squirm and whine. She kept it up, fucking Lemon through her orgasm and even a bit after that. She then eased her fingers out and pressed a kiss to her lips. “Think you’ll make it through the night now, you insufferable baby?”

Lemon rolled her eyes. “I think I’ll survive,” she giggled as she hopped down from the bar. “I’m gonna go get changed, I’ll see you tomorrow.” She wrapped her arms around Priyanka’s waist, gazing up at her and stealing another kiss before leaving.

“You better wipe that bar down thoroughly,” Crystal remarked when she returned from the kitchen.

Priyanka groaned. “Ah, fuck, forgot you were here.”

She shrugged. “Didn’t wanna interrupt. But seriously, clean that shit up.”

[aleatoryalarmalligator]

What My Thoughts On Morrissey Today

In response to my writing idea someone gave me I picked this.

So basically, Morrissey’s nationalism in recent years has gotten in the way of me being able to appreciate much that he comes out with. This is wild because a few short years ago, I stood up for Morrissey and actually still feel very moved by a portion of his music. It got me through some really rough patches in my twenties.

I realize he’s human and has faults and I don’t know him completely but just eh, living in Portland and having seen the stuff going on I’m kind of not in the place in my life right now where I want to even try to dissect him. It’s not just a fact that he’s wrong, but that it seems altogether very much in rejection of the things that made his music so special. It was difficult for me to come to terms with it or fully make sense of why someone who’s unashamed expression of witty despair in the 80’s and 90’s, someone who was outcasted from the overall closed mindedness lower working class post ww2 world of northern England, unafraid to be gay and completely the antithesis of some Tory ideal could be bought by some tired nationalist agenda. It’s even more difficult to realize where his alegianced lie in a world that is starting to reject democracy, embrace anti intellectualism in the guise of some form of selective politically motivated skeptism, and I see the world move farther and farther into fascism.

Margaret Thatcher attacked The Smiths. Morrissey was taken in for questioning more than once out of fear for what he represented. Morrissey and The Smiths has some subversive element that really did threaten the establishment and cultural norms, in a way that I feel was a little more multidimensional than even a lot of bands in the English punk scene. I guess for me, even though I grew up in the Inland northwest of the US, I felt there was a lot of parallels in common. I too detest a culture based around animal consumption, was really not a part of the world I grew up in and didn’t want to work in the factories, I liked art and music and nobody around me was really into that stuff.

I still like the Smiths and most of Morrisseys old music. I read his autobiography. I know he is a dramatic self involved individual but I did feel that up till somewhat recently his heart was in the right place and he just liked to be controversial, which is somewhat true still, but now I think there was more to it, some nationalistic self preservation instinct kicking in. Its actually more prevelant than I even realized and I honestly think it’s getting the best of anyone with money or power, even those who once stood for something counter culture. It’s hard to think of him as racist in the traditional sense with his adoration for Latin America, but he might just be so self involved that his popularity in those regions gave him a bias. He probably separates the racism from the nationalism, blindly not wanting to see how the two concepts are quite inseparable. Falling right into it.

Him saying “everyone prefers their own race”, is kind of wild to me. I genuinely even try to entertain this as a possibility like a philosophical thought experiment or a deep dive of some kind into my own subconscious part of me I am avoiding somehow, and it’s not true for me or a lot of people. Who the fuck is he to say who prefers who, and how backwards and dehumanizing. It’s pretty repulsive, and being he is bisexual and felt the discrimination of homophobia growing up, I’m inclined to think he’s not able to see that he’s become the enemy he once represented the antithesis of.

The guy I’ve kinda been with is Mexican. I totally love him. I look into people’s eyes and I talk to and open up to people and if I connect with them I connect with them. Not like I’m trying to play the I gotta friend who is this or that as some kind of example of much, or that I don’t see color or some faulty implication, but I have been in situations where I’m the only white person at a party and I prefer them because they are my friends and I love them, and the idea of classifying who I prefer is to imply that the white race should be my main concern as they are the same as me and therefore superior and they aren’t. There is nothing inherently special to me or a kinship felt with other white people for either their appearance or cultural background. It’s nice to compare notes of pop culture but a lot of stuff people go through is universal. I don’t take too much issue with multiculturalism. My white skin is meaningless to me. I can’t imagine being so inept as a person that the color of my skin actually defines my identity rather than my autonomy or ideas or relationships and what I stand for and my ability to appreciate and connect with other people.

What gets me is that in his support of the far right is not even in line with his hatred of police, or the hatred he had a few years ago. I mean, he has always gone on and on about police brutality, he’s been harassed by them on multiple occasions. He shows them on giant projectors at his shows. Police are a very important staple for fascism and nationalism, and he is now on their side after all this time? What changed? The lost young man he once was in 1981 feels very very different from who he has become and piecing together that transformation has been something I’ve been trying to do for awhile. I try to embrace both but they seem like similar but different people at odds with one another, like an uncle and nephew.

Here is what I imagine happened, and I could be wrong about that but I was a Morrissey fangirl for quite awhile. I literally had his signed autograph above my bed with dried flowers around it like a shrine for a few years, and got a grasp of Morrisseys personality in some ways.

To start off, Morrissey is a very poetic and sharp guy but he’s very miopic about his interests and has always had the tendency to see the world in a black and white framework. This in and of itself is not necessarily bad, but it’s the core framework of who he is as a person. When he was young it was very much more a reflection of his hatred for authoritarianism and deceitful people and phony artists. It’s not bad and it contributed to his music and lyrics and became the thing he was loved/hated for. The way he goes about it really has always been the double edged sword of his charm and vileness all in one and something people have mocked time and time again. He likes to be the guy in the corner that looks fine and smug and believes he sees the virtues/dispicable attributes of everyone in the room and there have been times in his life where he was, and though he won’t ever attack anyone face to face he’s quick to speak his mind about it.

Morrissey is also a very vain person. It’s subtle but he is very singular on certain aesthetics. At times it made him brilliant and poetic and a visionary. The Smiths album covers are beautiful. His look is both elegant and absurd in its grasp for purity. It also makes him seem like a twat and a pretentious prince. The fact that he seems to be these two things at once is what gave him that kind of controversial star quality at times.

Those are just two natural traits he has always been obvious with. And he struggled with it and focused on his passions and dealt with depression in the 80’s. Then fame happened and the smiths ended. He kept to himself more or less in the 80’s and 90’s aside from his disdain for Margaret Thatcher, but he kinda lost his mind a bit when his drummer took him to court in the nineties. Right or wrong he fought for two years and lost a good chunk of his money from The Smiths and when that happened he kind of was forced to start again. He lost his home. He developed that early personalized sense of self preservation and victimhood. I think he lost faith in many of his more naive ideals when he was younger. When you read his autobiography and know what happened it’s like he had to step out of his old life and into something else.

Then, he’s always been a vegetarian superiority type. I liked that he calls it as he sees it but because of his need to black and white think everything he came off as deluded and smug. I mean, to be fair you can’t seem to win with people who want to eat meat and I agreed with a portion of his message, but he never questioned himself. He’s not good at that, or doesn’t appear to be. My personal interpretation of him was to agree with part of it and give him the cred for being not afraid to be a dick and say it, but to see also that he was so dramatic and self absorbed about it to also laugh at him and the way he said it.

Now to go into fascism and why it grew on Morrissey. I see the world as kind of falling into polarization and flux because of the failures of neoliberalism. It’s a long political explanation, but essentially the systems that are in place do not provide answers to a lot of catestrophic issues. Democracy, though the best thing we have, is flawed. I really like philosophy and have studied this and the various arguments that are made, and I don’t have the answer either but fuck if I will ever side with nazis.

People are seaking solace in new ideas that are actually quite old, namely socialism and fascism that provide answers that democracy fails to. Capitalism eats itself and created monopolies and unfair wealth distribution, technology is making human labor obsolete and therefore not a stable means to base our economic system on, those with wealth are hoarding it and trying to separate themselves from the world they helped ruin. We are destroying the planet, running out of natural resources, many of our leaders in the last three or for decades have been flawed, there isn’t a universal safety net for things like natural disasters and pandemics and there are still places stripped of their natural resources where human slavery is prevalent and children starve to death. Neoliberalism has promised some great answer but has actually been the contributor to this entire mess.

We are seeing the beginning of the end now, and I am sure Morrissey isn’t going to waste that without putting himself in the victim shoes, the white traditional quintessentially Englishman of wit, who sees his beautiful world he grew up in disappearing in multiculturalism and seeing himself and the culture of old England as a dying breed, that needs to be preserved at any cost. He probably was on the fence about it for some time, weighing out his disdain for authoritarianism, having a bougouis experience with the seemingly left leaning media that he never managed to win over and called him out for his every misstep. I bet he had a friend who opened him up to the idea that we don’t know about who changed his mind. I bet cuts in taxes for the rich helped him preserve his wealth that he definitely feels entitled to after losing the first portion of it in the court case. He’s rich, famous and old and often times that leads to being quite out of touch, even to the best intellectuals. He lost his mother who was dear to him and I can imagine, even though it’s not political, it created a deep sense of emptiness and dis ease. Nationalism often times gives people a sense of security and identity and purpose. And the idea of having an unpopular opinion excited him just as it always has, gave him the opportunity to be the smug poet in the corner of the party, and he sold out. Hard. And he’s probably proud of it.

He’s irrelevant now. Honestly his latest album wasn’t good, and I like later Morrissey. He doesn’t have the same energy. I just feel like he’s grasping at something that he never fully ever had. What’s weird to me is that I’m writing about him like this when honestly, I could also easily write about how beautiful and meaningful the Smiths and Morrissey has been to me. I can’t explain how it cut through the extreme isolation I’ve been in, not to mention how the Smiths really changed music for the better. There’s always going to be a part of me that wants to defend him. I’m not saying we cancel him. I kinda think he canceled himself. I’m not going to try to not enjoy the smiths or morrissey when I hear him, and I will still hear it and enjoy it but I’m not ever going to spend my own money on filling his pockets. I still nostalgically enjoy the person he was a very long time ago and what he used to represent. I realize at the end of the day he’s just a flawed person. But also fuck fascism, and fuck Morrissey for caving into it.

I mean, at the end of the day the hardest part is that I made him a part of my identity and I just had to stop doing that in a simplistic way. I tossed out a morrissey shirt I had (it’s was a cheesy shirt anyway), and I found new genres of music and while I still love the smiths it’s not like I can’t do without them every day. I break down and listen to them sometimes. I know the songs so well. I listen to Xiu Xiu which is a modern day similar equivalent in some ways but is absolutely better and the singer Jamie Stewart is fucking gold.

[amarabliss]

Oaths and Hearts - 19 (Ignis Scientia/Reader)

You fell through a rift into the fade fighting the demons you swore to protect your world from. When you popped out you were no longer in the lands of Ferelden instead trapped in Insomnia. The gracious king allowed you to say recognizing power when he saw it. One thing led to another and now you were part of the procession of the prince to his wedding years later. Before the final battle, after years of fighting, losses, and love…your friend…your king…Noctis has asked you to change it all…

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11  Part 12  Part 13 Part 14 Part 15 Part 16  Part 17  Part 18

Ignis ran a hand through his hair as he adjusted his tie as he walked through the busy halls of the Citadel. He had just ended a meeting with the agricultural committee and it looked like the next year’s budget was going to be spent well.

He pulled out his phone unlocking it easily with one hand and smiled seeing a picture you had sent him or Ulric smiling up at the camera. He was almost a year old now. He stopped in the hallway looking out the window at the city.

The streets were busy with life. The decimation of the city was still evident, but it did not stop the progression. Noctis had done so well in restoring order and opening up relations with Altissa and Tenebrae. Most of the populace had returned when the other countries began sending in their aid and soon everything began falling into place.

“One year…” He let out a sigh as he went back to the text sending a reply.

I – I’m not sure when I’ll be home tonight. Noct has asked for a meeting this afternoon.

Y/N – Take your time, we’ll be here when you get home.

He smiled as he read it before he sent – How lucky am I to have such a patient wife.

Y/N – Love you too <3

You had been so wonderful. Helping where you could, raising Ulric, and all while doing it with a smile. Everyone told him how lucky he was, and he was inclined to tell them that he knew full well. He adjusted the finely braided bracelet around his wrist before he stepped into the royal throne room.

He looked up the great steps seeing Gladio, Prompto, and Cor standing before the king and queen. They all looked back at him as he entered, worried expressions planted on their faces. He slowed down as Noct stood up, “What has happened?”

Noct took Luna’s hand and they both descended down the steps, “Ignis…we have some…”

“Some what?” He took his place in between Gladio and Prompto. The very air was electrified with tension and felt as if it could ignite at any given moment.

Luna reached over touching Noct’s arm giving him a sad smile, “Ignis it has come to our attention…that I cannot have children…”

Ignis felt his heart sinking knowing how much Noct wanted kids, “What?”

“The Starscourge…” Noct licked his lips looking at Luna with an immense amount out pain, “while Luna has been gifted the ability to save people from it…being around it has…it has had toll…”

“…I…I’m so sorry…” Ignis took a step forward looking at them.

“That’s not why we’re here…” Noct looked back to him a serious expression coming to his eyes, “Without being able to produce an heir…then line of Lucis would end with me. But it has been brought to my attention that this is not true…”

Ignis felt the men around him shift, “I’m not following…”

Noct stepped down the stairs walking up to him, “There’s another who can take the throne and already has an heir.”

Ignis stared at him for a long time before he began shaking his head, “Noct…that’s not possible…”

As Noct looked over to Cor he began to speak, “Ignis…it’s the truth. Regis was your biological father.”

Ignis looked at him, “No…”

“Yes…” Cor held out a folder to him, “Aulea…she wasn’t conceiving…so a tradition was called upon…”

Ignis took the folder can began scanning through it. Everything was there. Everything matched up. He felt his throat tighten as he tried to speak, “…w-why…it doesn’t matter. Noctis is king…”

“Yes, for a time…” Cor stepped toward him, “but we need a king who will remain…”

“And he will!” Ignis raised his voice before looking at Noctis, “There are other ways, you don’t need to abandon the throne!”

“Ignis…” Noct shook his head, “I’m not abandoning the throne…I’m ensuring it.”

“…I don’t want it.” Ignis took a step back from him, “I am not a king…I was not…raised…”

“Iggy…” He looked at Gladio who seemed disturbed by this news as well, “you’ve been doing everything for Noct even before we left…you know how to do the job.”

“That doesn’t make me worthy of the throne. Noctis is the Chosen King…” Ignis growled back at him.

“But he fulfilled his duty…” Prompto spoke quietly, “He delivered the land from the darkness…he took the ring and stopped Niflheim from destroying the land…”

“Ignis…” Noctis stepped forward grabbing him by the shoulders. His eyes watered before he smiled a little, “brother…”

Ignis stared at him as this kindling of kinship burned inside of him before he whispered, “…I don’t have the king’s power…”

“We’ll figure that out…” Noct looked at him with the smallest glimmer of happiness showing in his sad eyes.

“We will need to address this…soon…” Cor spoke up looking at them all, “We’ll need to handle it carefully, but honestly.”

“Honest…” Ignis looked at him with a sharpness that could cut, “You speak of honesty now…”

“Iggy…” Gladio frowned watching his friend turn practically running from the hall. The shield conflicted on where to be…began to follow him…

“Gladio…” He stopped looking at Noct, “let him go…”

Ignis ran. Like he’d never ran before…He startled people on the streets as he dove through the crowds. His lungs burned as heavy thoughts began pushing deep into the recesses of his mind.

He’d been lied to his whole life. Called a Scientia…but really a Lucis…

Suddenly all the talks with King Regis became different. Especially the last time he spoke with him…

“Your majesty…” He bowed before Regis in the royal gardens, “You wished to speak with me.”

“Yes…please….” Regis waved his hand to the seat across from him, “How are you doing? I hope Noctis isn’t keeping you too busy.”

“It’s nothing I can’t handle.” Ignis smiled at him as he reached for the tea pot, pouring out two cups, “Sugar?”

“You have made my tea hundreds of times…” Regis smiled at him, “You know I like it just as you like yours…”

“I do, yes.” Ignis smiled at him, “Though I suppose how we prepare our tea is not what you wished to speak to me about, is it?”

“No…” Regis sighed a little before he spoke again, “In all the years that I have taken council with you about my son…I want you to know how much I’ve cherished the time. You are a bright individual…”

“Thank you, your majesty. It is an honor to serve the royal family.” Ignis raised his cup up taking a sip.

“Ignis…” Regis looked at him his mouth opening slightly as he searched for words, “I…I hope you know that I wish the best happiness for you. I hope you find everything you want in life…”

Ignis titled his head a little as his eyes brightened with a smile looking past the king, “I believe I am on the right path to achieve everything I desire.”

Regis followed his gaze where it landed on Y/N walking beside a Glaive. You smiled when you saw them both raising a hand waving. Regis smiled nodding toward you before looking back to Ignis, “She is a fine prize.”

“I would never think that I could win her.” Ignis returned his attention to the king, “She isn’t something to achieve…she’s…”

“Someone to share it with.” Regis smile grew as Ignis nodded, “I’m glad to see you are wise…most men my age never figure that part of relationships out.”

The whole time Regis knew…he knew he was his son and he said nothing…yet he was always there offering him advice. Guiding him on the path to here…Noct was supposed to be a final sacrifice…and that meant…

He burst through the door to their home. His chest heaving up and down he strode into the large apartment stopping when he saw you standing near the window holding Ulric as you pointed at a bird on the balcony railing. He felt a peace wash over him as he watched you…

You must have caught his reflection in the window because you turned looking at him with concern, “Ignis…what’s wrong?”

He walked over chest still rising and falling rapidly. He took Ulric from your kissing his head before he pulled you in tightly. He didn’t speak he just held onto the both of you letting the calmness of his family wash over him.

“Ignis…did you run here?” You finally asked him looking at his face with concern before you reached up touching his cheek, “Your face is on fire…”

“I ran…yes…” He spoke softly leaning into your cool touch.

“What happened?” You frowned eyes pooling with protectiveness.

“In a moment…” He kissed your forehead, “Please…just give me this moment…”

You fell back into his embrace before he felt you wrap your arms around him. He didn’t know what was going to happen…but he knew that these moments…these rare few moments were what was going to get him through it.

[schmergo]

Richard III has been such an important play for me for a long time now, and it's hard to explain why because I'm not sure that even I fully understand why.

I always thought the character himself was fascinating from a pretty young age: as someone who tended to play character roles who were scary, funny, or weird-looking, the idea of a LEADING ROLE who was all three was pretty appealing. As someone who had never really felt comfortable in my own skin unless I was playing someone else, there was a bit of kinship there. But I was intimidated by the history and the play surrounding him. I became newly intrigued when Richard III's skeleton was discovered and read up on the find, but I didn't really fall in love with the play until I saw a production at the Folger Shakespeare Library.

The Folger's Richard had a limp, yes, but his main problem seemed to be a form of body dysmorphia, seeing his body as what held him back from his goals when nobody looking at him would see anything akin to the deformities typically associated with stage portrayals of Richard III. Something about his vicious self-hatred motivating his hatred toward others somehow made Richard both more pitiable and more terrifying: more real, more accessible. It was a performance in which the focus was not on prosthetics or mobility apparatuses to help an actor physically 'transform' into an 'othered' depiction of physical disability, but on the internal experience of feeling trapped in the limitations of one's body.

I couldn't get this character out of my head, and I asked my co-director if we could consider doing it for our fourth annual zero-budget Shakespeare show. Though she was skeptical at first of its accessibility, we read it together and she agreed that it would be a good fit.

After we decided to do the show and I started researching and preparing all of the pre-production materials, something happened to me. Maybe it was the long hours on my feet working at a preschool, with a lot of repetitive strain on my back and shoulders. Maybe it was the unusually cold and snowy weather preventing the students from playing outside and me from seeing much sunlight for months on end. Maybe it was just stress. But something triggered a terrible flare-up of a mild connective tissue disorder that I have always had but that had gone undiagnosed until that year.

I was in constant dull pain, my joints felt unbelievably weak and loose, and the slightest action injured them. I felt like I was made of glass, that things that should be normal hurt and I didn't know why. I couldn't sleep because I couldn't find a comfortable place to lie down. I had no energy and couldn't enjoy the things I normally did. Looking at a picture of myself doing a cartwheel only a few months before made me cry because I couldn't even imagine or remember what it was like to be able to do that. The hardest part was not knowing why this was happening to me or whether it would ever end-- if every day was the best I'd ever feel again in my life, that I would continue to deteriorate at that rate and quickly lose my ability to do things that I had once taken for granted.

But I still had to do my very physical preschool job, and I still had to go about daily life, and I never felt like a got a moment's rest because even trying to relax was taxing on me-- sitting or lying down too long left me achy and stiff. I just had to keep pushing through. The thing that helped me find a way to focus all of my anger and frustration with myself and my body? Working on Richard III and letting his self-hatred absorb my own. Looking at this miserable guy, who gave up everything for the crown and still wasn't happy, who either pushed away or killed everyone who had ever cared about him, I saw the worst consequences of stewing in that kind of self-pity and lack of regard for self-care. I threw myself into researching everything about this man that I could.

The real Richard had severe scoliosis, which was plainly evident from his skeleton, but would have hardly been noticeable when he was fully dressed. Historians and scientists have determined that history's Richard would have been a fully capable warrior who would not have walked with a limp.... but he would have lived in chronic pain. While he could have fought well on horseback, he was more limited on foot because his twisted ribcage would have constricted his lungs and made it difficult for him to catch his breath. Having experienced many losses and a lot of stress toward the end of his life, Richard's skeletal remains show that he began drinking extremely heavily by the end of his life.

Dealing with all of that in addition to chronic pain sounds unbelievably stressful. Shakespeare's Richard never seems to rest, constantly flitting from one task to the next as though if he stopped, he'd never be able to get back up again. An irritable, impatient mess by the second half of the play, it was suddenly incredibly easy for me to picture why.

Richard's skeleton shows that he was killed by a mob of soldiers, but his corpse also suffered significant post-mortem injuries, including one that went through his butt that was probably just meant as an act of humiliation. The dead king's body was stripped, slung over a horse, and paraded through the streets. A decomposing, grievously injured, stiff corpse that continued to be mutilated by crowds as this gory procession made its way through the streets? No wonder rumors spread that Richard was a misshapen monster. His body must have been disturbing to behold.

It can be strange, when you're in pain but you don't look like it, when there is no bruise or scar or mark. You start to imagine yourself as a sort of shambling, decomposing zombie, a body falling apart at the seams. It's easy to picture yourself as what Richard became in the popular imagination.

The thing is.... I got better. Maybe it was getting more sunlight, or getting rid of some of my stress, or switching jobs to something less physical. I still have a connective tissue disorder, but it's something much less present and distracting in my daily life. My fears of continuing to worsen did not come true, and yes, I can do cartwheels again. And as I was gradually feeling stronger and more energetic and happier (though slightly nervous about how long this would last), we moved into rehearsals for Richard III with ITC.

I was amazed and gratified to see with how much enthusiasm and humor the actors embraced this play. I don't know if my own passion had anything to do with that-- it's a darn good piece of theatre-- but bringing that dark bogeyman of folk history to life onstage was the best possible thing for me. I was unbelievably proud of the actors and how they approached their roles-- and I was so happy to share this passion with everyone else.

After the show ended, King Richard didn't leave me. I wrote a musical parody of "Wicked" based on the play. I wrote an entire novel-length story for National Novel-Writing Month based on Shakespeare's Henry VI part III and Richard III, called "DISCONTENT." I saw several new productions of the play. Richard even appears as a ghost in several nightmares in my sequel to DISCONTENT, his legacy haunting the young Henry VIII the same way it haunts me.

What do I do with this character who's taken up residence in my brain, this reminder of how not to handle pain and self-consciousness, this strange combination of historical figure, literary character, and imaginary frienemy that I created in my own directing and writing and self-reflection?

Well, this Saturday, one of my best friends and I will be directing a staged reading of it at a local library. It's totally free, the cast is incredible, and I hope you'll come. There are aspects of this play that feel eerily relevant in most troubled times in a nation's life, but then there are aspects that are unsettlingly personal. I hope people will like it, though I don't expect anyone to like it as much as I do. I am so, so grateful for this opportunity.

[thevampsupdate]

What is The Future of Men?

Yesterday at The Festival of New Masculinity, a brilliant panel discussed a current time of flux for men, and what positive things may lie ahead.

“You wouldn’t have got an event like this, with all these people on a Sunday night, two or three years ago, there’s just no way…”

No way at all, but now things are indeed changing. James Scroggs, the Chair of Trustees of CALM, was right to marvel and we can scarcely believe how these events at The Festival of New Masculinity are going. One, just how well attended they are, but also the level of honesty and spirit of emotional sharing that is emanating from the stages and being reciprocated by the audiences. Discussions around masculinity and male mental health are vital topics which are now truly beginning to take hold all around the world, and no matter what side you’re on in some of these discussions, the fact we’re even talking about them means deconstructions of what it means to be a man are occurring and help is becoming more likely for the men who need it.

At the Hoxton Square Bar & Kitchen last night such ideas were discussed in depth by a panel of James McVey from The Vamps, presenter and musician George Shelley, Deputy CEO of the Diana Award, Alex Holmes, and CALM’s James Scroggs, The event was hosted by author Poorna Bell, who guided the group through conversations on how masculinity is changing, what people can do to help men in crisis, and the new ways in which boys are now being taught at schools. You can read some highlights from the discussion below, and you’ll probably agree with us in hoping that the future of men is exhibited by the fine people up on that stage.

Thanks to the panel, and the audience, and everyone who made it happen, particularly the SuperCulture folk, Freedom Brewery, and our partners, new grooming range SEB MAN, who’s messaging around ‘undefinable’ men are exemplary for the way brands should be working. Thanks all x

On the way masculinity is changing

George Shelley: “I still feel like men today have to follow stereotypes. Provide, protect and procreate – that’s men’s To Do list. I grew up in an all-female household, where I went to bed with a hug and had all this open love. Yet I go to my Dad’s now, and he’s a single parent, bring up four little boys, and I’m seeing my Dad being both the dominant female and  the male – it’s interesting seeing how my dad is in their lives, and how he has evolved.

James Scroggs: “I look back at my childhood in a good middle-class family but where there was a divide between my father, who was the stoic provider. He had a pretty horrid childhood from what I can work out, but he wouldn’t talk about it, it was an unmentionable part of his life – he decided he wanted to be the hunter-provider, the classic male stereotype. But on the other hand there was a massive matriarchal presence from my mother. And I look at the world now and think all those things are getting really nicely jumbled up. Matriarchy is shifting, and I think the patriarchy is being broken down bit by bit and the world is beginning to work out that actually both can play a fundamental part in how we live. I have a 13 year-old boy and I cannot wait for him to be at the age where he starts to redefine what power structures look like, what earnings look like, what role he has to play with a male or female partner, because I think it’s all up for grabs. And I think a session like this is a real sign of that.”

James McVey: “When I was 14 or 15 and started making music, I was slightly strange, I had long hair, a pierced nose, and I didn’t really fit into a certain group. I had friends but when I started writing openly emotional songs about girls it wasn’t received particularly well. I grew up in an area of Dorset where it was all about rugby and football, and I liked football, but I liked girls more! But I’d sing about girls and was ostracised for that – people didn’t understand why a 15 year old boy was being openly emotional rather than playing rugby. Now, it’s not so much of an issue. There’s millions of kids on YouTube talking about how they feel – there’s been a shift. As a man I don’t’ feel ashamed as my emotions anymore. In the last 10 or 15 years there’s been a big change.”

Alex: “You spend 11,000 hours of your life at school so it’s a huge amount of time that affects the person you are today. For me, I was mixed race – still am – and gay, and in my classrooms I’d hear the word gay used in a really negative way. ‘My homework’s gay’ or ‘My Xbox was gay last night’. But for the one kid in that class who wasn’t sure of themselves and wasn’t sure if they can talk about their true selves, that’s really damaging.

The old school teachers I used to have, weren’t able to broach these subjects, but we’re going into schools now and kids and teachers are championing it, talking about their feelings, talking about LGBT issues, and I think that’s really powerful because when I was at school I was seen to be different, and I didn’t figure out who I was for a long time. But now I see kids helping each other talk about who they are and accept that that thing that makes them different I actually a strength in disguise.

I think because you’re seeing more of that in the mainstream, and the biggest brands in the world are embracing that, so I think things are really positive, and are changing.

Where there could be more room for improvement is in some of the media that the younger generation consume, because we’re only just at the point where the BBC has appointed an LGBT correspondent and we’re not quite seeing enough diversity, and you have the likes of Piers Morgan who aren’t enabling people to see the other side, and what it means to be young.”

ON MYTHS ABOUT BEING A MAN

James McVey: “I’m 25 but up to the age of 12, the idols I looked up to were soldiers. I wanted to be a soldier, soldiers were cool – why were these role models for our generation? Basically, a lot of boys were taught to suppress how you feel. Actually going into the jungle for me was when I truly let go of everything. It’s strange that show, what you see on screen is very different to how you experience it. When you’re with 10 strangers for 3 weeks there’s a lot of soul searching and I realised after that I let all my walls down. I maybe cried twice in my life before that but I cried every day for 3 weeks there. It was only after I embraced my emotions that I figured out who I was as a person, and to have that revelation at 25 was big for me. It made me realise the difference between the role models I had and the role models future generations are going to have, which will be more rounded.”

George: “Being in a female dominated environment I was always a crier and throughout my career I’ve cried a lot. People have said, ‘Oh man up, stop being a baby, stop being a girl…” I hear my dad sometimes say that to his kids, ‘stop being a girl’ which is really bad because you’re putting them in a box that you have to be in as a boy.

There’s intelligence and then there’s emotional intelligence, where you can figure out what’s going on inside you. We need to be teaching kids that it’s ok to feel, it’s ok to have emotions and communicate it. And I think that’s what’s missing. Kids don’t really understand what they’re feeling and how to communicate their emotions so it just stays in and it gets suppressed. Then it can come out destructively later in life.”

WHAT CAN WE DO TO HELP MEN WITH THEIR MENTAL HEALTH ISSUES?

George: “My dad left home when I was two and a half, and I felt it hard to talk to him – it wasn’t until he had a motorbike accident and losing my sister Harriet, that it changed. My brothers are seeing my dad now speak openly and honestly about this, and it’s really powerful to see that. He’s teaching them not to be embarrassed about who they are. And it’s sweet for my brothers to see a dad isn’t just at work, he does laundry, cooks, cleans the toilet – he has flourished in the last 2 years.”

James Scroggs: “If a woman’s having a tough time in the office she’ll be surrounded by a group of people, who she maybe doesn’t know very well, but there’ll be a kinship, as they try to solve her issues or whatever she’s going through, whereas if a guy in the workplace is found in tears at his desk the chances are HR will be escorting him from the building.

I think that’s changing fundamentally right now. We’re engaged with lots of big and small businesses who are trying to change that culturally in their business.

For men it’s not just about speaking out and opening up because there’s a lot of men who are resistant to that, and being that kind of emotional person. But having a network of people who are going to surround you and help you with the issues that are going to get you to the point of mental distress and crisis, is absolutely fundamental. Since the mental health revolution, which we’re still in, we’re now in a moment where men are realising that if they send each other a text a couple of times a week, it just gives people a chance to offload. And I think that level of male counsel is really powerful. And palpable at the moment. It’s very real and it wasn’t here a few years ago.”

James McVey: “I’m in a band and have been for 8 years and we were very lucky that our first song went to number two and we sold out our first 4 tours – it was up and up. But then that levelled off for me and I realised I got quite lonely. It sounds bizarre, when I was touring the world with 3 of my best mates – and I was in a position where any thought that it wasn’t amazing was seen as, ‘Oh what’s he on about, he’s a celebrity, everything must be great’ and showing any sign of weakness or that I wasn’t enjoying it wasn’t an option.

Since meeting Kirstie things have changed – we’re now engaged and she’s been there for years for me, and I’m able to share my experiences with someone. Before meeting Kirstie I  was doing all these things with the guys and it was great but I couldn’t say to them, ‘I’m not really enjoying this,’ That was really really tough.

Nothing against the fans but when every day your life is on a screen, and you’re jetlagged, and under constant pressure, being in that position really affected me.

I grew up quite a shy boy who was catapulted into this world of The Vamps, which I’m eternally grateful for, but we went from a small town in Dorset to selling out The 02. You can’t predict how it feels until you’re there and obviously it’s really amazing, but having someone there when you are struggling like Kirstie really helped.

A lot of us guys suppress how we’re feeling and even a slight bit of unloading is really helpful. I nearly left the band a couple of years ago. I’d been hiding my emotions for ages and it took a step to get through it, which was Kirstie saying, speak to the boys, speak to Brad the singer about it. I was scared to say anything to him, but I think opening the door to other people really helped me as a man. To succeed in that and embrace that it’s fine to feel a bit shit sometimes, and knowing I have that support network around me is really really important. Kirstie has a group chat where she’s talking to her mates every day but most men don’t have that. I’m not saying we should have that, but it’s good to every now and then have a chat with your mate and ask how they’re doing…A lot of us guys are scared to fail, and having someone there to talk you through it so important.”

Poorna: “From my experiences of trying to help the men in my life, especially my late husband, there is a point at which you can’t help them because that is their own relationship with how quickly or easily they can access their own emotions – however it’s just about being there and a lack of judgment and just being the person who they can talk to about their stuff. As a woman I would love to say I could come up with the perfect response that would emancipate a man from the shackles that are holding him back, but that’s not how it works. I’ve been brought up with the same stuff, and I’ve learned to hard way that you have to just go out for dinner or a drink, put the flag up and say I’m here if you want to talk.  They may not take you up on that straight away, but they might further down the line.”

James Scroggs: “I’m a massive believer in active listening. Which isn’t saying much but is about providing a space for someone to start unloading. The other thing is the average person in distress doesn’t need sympathy they need empathy. Empathy is a practical thing where you help them or put them with people who can help them. Particularly with men, you need to deconstruct it. We have a motto at CALM, which is that suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem. Because the average man gets to a point where there’s no solution, and actually suicide for a certain type of man feels deeply rational. Yet if you can deconstruct some of the rational problems that have got them to that point, it all goes away quite quickly. And so I think active listening, rationality and showing empathy are really important.”

The Festival of New Masculinity is running throughout February and March.

[betweensceneswriter]

Island Hopper-Chapter 16: Reunited (and it Feels So Good)

Can’t we just get those kids back together again?

Island Hopper (Jimjeran Book 2) Table of Contents

The Whole Thing on AO3 Claire is a nurse in the Peace Corps; Jamie is a teacher at the local school.

Previously on Island Hopper: Chapter 15-Hugs & Kisses The days are blending together, and it still feels like Claire is a million miles from home.

The boat trip to Arno felt like the longest one yet.  We hoisted anchor at 4:30 pm because it was around 100 miles from Airik, the southernmost island in Maloelap, to the dock in Arno Arno. Dougal told me that to his best estimate, it would take us a little more than three and a half hours to reach Arno.

I spent a large part of those hours pacing the deck.  I couldn’t eat a bite of dinner with my stomach tied up in knots.  Every time I strolled by John, this time playing some sort of strategy board game, he would smile compassionately at me.

Dougal had said that Jamie wasn’t on the radio at the typical call time of 7 pm.  He’d left a message with Angus and Rupert to let Jamie know I’d be arriving in just a few more hours, but it was the weekend and there were no guarantees that he would have gotten the message.

I felt nauseated.

It was fully dark by the time the ship’s floodlights shone on the rough cement dock and the crew leapt into action getting the boat moored to the dock and the gangplank lowered.

I scanned the dock quickly, but everyone waiting for the ship had dark skin and dark eyes.

I tried not to be disappointed.  After all, I still had to work on Monday.  I was going to see Jamie tomorrow evening. Twenty-four hours wouldn’t kill me, no matter how upset I felt.

I meandered over to the crate that was serving as a game table, plopped down on the chair next to it, and helped John begin to gather the game pieces and put them into a plastic bag.

“He’s not here,” I said quietly.

“He will come, Claire,” John reassured me as he stood up from his chair.  “As soon as he knows you’re on the same island as him, Jamie will come.”

I bit my lip trying to distract myself, then looked up expecting to share a sympathetic sigh with John.  Instead I saw John look over my head and his face light up.  I knew, just from watching him, that my husband had arrived. I didn’t turn; I watched Jamie’s approach on John’s countenance.

Handsome as John was, he transformed before my eyes.  He stood up straighter, his shoulders back, his chest out. His eyes brightened.  His pupils dilated.  He smiled.

Am I that obvious too? I wondered.  Joe had talked about me getting my sparkle back.  For the first time I began to realize the source of that sparkle.  It wasn’t Arno, as much as I loved the place and the people.  It was Jamie. Being with him and being loved by him made me more alive. Would that fade with time? I wondered.

“John,” said a deep voice.  Two warm hands slid over my shoulders, and he was behind me.

“Jamie,” I squeaked, and suddenly the longing and ache and loneliness of the past seven days, everything I’d been pushing down and distracting myself from burst to the surface.  I stood up, turned, threw my arms around him, buried my face in his chest, and started sobbing.

“Mo chridhe,” he whispered. “I’m here.  Don’t cry.” He held me gently, unable to caress me as he usually would, but feeling his arms around me was enough.

I was mortified when I pulled myself away from him, but I could tell from the tender look on his face that I wasn’t the only one deeply affected by our reunion.

I turned to John.  “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I’d respond like that.” I met his eyes and my heart broke for him.  I don’t know that I’d ever seen heartache so visibly etched on a person’s face.  The kinship and compassion I felt towards John led me to release my grip on Jamie, who reached out to shake John’s hand.

“Iiokwe, Jimjeran,” Jamie smiled, his words the embrace John needed.

Very good friend, Sharbella had explained the day Jamie had called me Jimjeran.  A friend for all of life.

via GIPHY

“Come,” Jamie said, smiling at John.  “I asked them to prepare refreshments for us and Dougal at the hotel.  You must join us.  It’s been far too long since we’ve talked.”

And then he smiled down at me.  “As for you, wee one, I willna let you out of my sight.” He bent and whispered in my ear. “Truly. I have a sub for tomorrow, and a hotel room for tonight. I will not be going home until you come with me.”

“Shall I get my suitcase, then?” I asked.

“No’ without me, ye aren’t,” Jamie stated with certainty.  “I can help ye, anyway.”

Little caring what anyone thought, I took his hand and led him up the stairs to my cabin.

He was gripping my hand tighter as we climbed, and I realized that neither of us planned to just retrieve my suitcase.  After I unlocked the door and went inside, Jamie closed the door behind us and lunged for me the same instant as I leapt for him.  An awkward few moments of desperate kissing and I was sitting on my high berth, Jamie between my knees, his arms around me.

“God, I’ve missed ye, Claire,” he groaned.  He slowed down his kisses and took my face between his hands, gazing at me and repeatedly pressing his lips to mine, then to my cheeks and forehead. “It was like the sun was gone out of my life without you around.”

“I ached without you here to touch me,” I said.  “I even hugged your uncle, I was so desperate.”

Jamie laughed and crushed me to his chest.  Then with a deep sigh he admitted, “I don’t think I could ever hug you tight enough to satisfy myself.  I canna wait to lie wi’ you, to be inside you, Claire.  My body wants me to ravish ye right here, but it wouldna be right.”

I felt the same desire to make love with him, as satisfied as my heart was to just see him.  

“Just hold me then,” I requested.  He stepped even closer and embraced me as I put my arms around him and leaned my cheek against his chest.  For a minute we paused, simply breathing in unison, letting our hearts rest and reunite.

“They’ll notice if we’re gone too long,” Jamie said reluctantly. With his arms around me he lifted me down from the bed, took me by the hand I offered him, and grabbed my suitcase.

I stopped at the door and turned back to look at him.  Several sun-bleached curls flopped over eyes that looked at me adoringly.  At his expression, my stomach leapt. “Oh, Jamie,” I sighed. “I’m so glad to be home.”

In the hotel dining room there were drinks and fresh fruit, cold coconut rice and tuna.  After days of still air I felt cooler with the ceiling fans slowly turning above us. I was grateful for the fresh fruit but avoided the rice and fish.  After days of Majel food, I was feeling seriously ready for some Italian or Mexican.

To eat without the ship surging beneath me was a relief, though it was taking me a while to get my “land legs” back.  What I was immensely aware of was Jamie’s hand on my thigh, subtly stroking me with his fingers.  As we all talked, occasionally he would turn and look at me, smile and squeeze my leg. While being completely immersed in the conversation with Dougal and John, at the same time he made me constantly aware of his desire for me and that his attention was on me.

John had a look of aching longing on his face, of wistful desire when Jamie was talking to me or Dougal, and absolute pleasure when Jamie’s attention was on him. His eyes and smile spoke volumes about the depths of affection and admiration he felt.

Eventually, Dougal stood up from the table.  “I believe I’ll go back to the field ship now.  Are you coming now or later, Mr. Kilmeej?”

John looked from me to Jamie and back.  “I will be along soon.”

The three of us stood from the table and walked out onto the patio that faced the lagoon.

“It is so lovely to see you, John.  I’m grateful you are well,” Jamie said, sneaking an arm around my waist now that we were outside.

“It had been too long, friend. And we must stay in contact and speak again,” John responded.

“I canna thank ye enough for letting me know the ship was arriving here tonight,” Jamie said as he squeezed me. I turned to look up at his face.  

“It wasn’t Rupert and Angus that told you?” I asked,

“Nah,” Jamie responded. “John radioed several days back, to let me know you would be coming here directly, not by way of Majuro.  If Dougal called on the radio today, it was too late.  I was already in Arno, Arno by 7 this evening.”

“John…” I said, once again touched by his sweetness.

“You have been such a good friend to me,” Jamie said, reaching his hand out earnestly to shake John’s.  “You were there for me when I was grieving the loss of my father.”

John smiled.  “And I will always be there for you if you need me… And for your wife as well.  If she needs to be rescued… If she needs a hug. Or a kiss.” His eyes twinkled as he grinned at me teasingly.

Jamie looked back and forth between the two of us in confusion. I could tell I’d have a little explaining to do.

John sighed and continued. “But I know the two of you have been apart for the longest time yet in your short marriage, and I can see on your faces that you want to be alone.”

I blushed but looking over at Jamie saw that his face was red as well.

“I canna deny it,” Jamie said, shaking his head with a wry smile. “And as embarrassed as I may be that I cannot conceal the way I feel, I may beg your compassion and ask to make our farewells.  I promise that we will speak again before you leave.”

I reached out my hand to pat John’s arm in farewell, and he bent to my ear.  “Love him well for me,” he whispered.  My heart broke for him, and my eyes instantly teared up.

“You and I have the strangest relationship,” I whispered back to him.  “And I will.”

John walked away deflated and watching him killed me. He felt everything I was feeling, but he had to say goodnight.  And I was going to take my husband very thoroughly to bed.

“What was that?” Jamie asked as he guided us toward the iar, concerned to see the tears in my eyes.

“We both love you,” I said, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. “And he was a true friend to me on this trip.”

Jamie stopped and turned, watching John walk away toward the dock. “I love him, too,” he said.  “But I can tell it hurts him that friendship is all that I can give him.”  He sighed deeply, then turned back to me.  “As for you, now, I have a key for a beachside bungalow with a lovely queen-sized bed.  Come with me?”

 ***

     Jamie shut the door behind him, turned, and looked at me shyly.  “When you’ve just been married a month, a week feels like an eternity.  You almost seem a stranger.”

     “I missed you,” I said, walking into his arms.  “I missed this.”  I inhaled and let out a quiet sigh as I smelled his familiar scent.  “God, if I never smell copra again it will be too soon.”  I sniffed him again, moving my nose toward his underarm.

     Jamie laughed.  “You’re tickling me.  Whatever are you doing?”

     “I’ve missed your smell,” I said, tugging at the hem of his tee shirt.  He removed his shirt, the corners of his lips quirking up.

     I whimpered at the sight of him.  “Jamie, you’re so beautiful,” I said, coming close to run my hands over his chest, down his sides, and across his abdomen.

     I was hungry for him, reaching up to kiss him, pushing him backward until his calves hit the bed.

     “Take them off,” I ordered him, nodding towards his shorts, which he obediently removed, his eyes twinkling.  With that, I pushed him into a sitting position, stepped back, and as he watched, I untied my wrap dress, letting it fall from my shoulders.

     He reached for me to pull me toward him, but instead I knelt in front of him.

     “I don’t need…” he insisted, but I shook my head.

     “I do,” I said.  “I need to make you feel good.  I’ve missed feeling this power.”

     I tried not to dwell on comparisons, pushing them to the back of my mind.  When I was with Frank I’d occasionally give him oral on special occasions or when he asked me.  But he rarely reciprocated, and then only when I was freshly showered, so it made me feel used.

     Jamie, on the contrary, got joy out of making me squeal and adored my response to him; grinning, self-satisfied, when I blinked my eyes in dazed wonder afterwards.  And I had come to enjoy it, too, the feel of soft skin on my lips and tongue, feeling him harden in response to me, the sounds he made.  I felt like a magician working a spell on him.

     “Enough,” he groaned.  “You don’t get all the fun.”  He pulled me up until I was standing in front of him, which put me at exactly the right height for him to bury his face between my breasts, which he did with a contented hum.

     He reached around to unfasten my bra as I eagerly pushed down my panties and then stood again in front of him.  Jamie kissed my breasts as he ran one hand up my inner thigh and caressed me with his other hand, eventually circling his arm around my waist until he had his large hand situated firmly at the small of my back.

     He made a sound—almost a hungry growl—as the hand that had been stroking my thigh explored farther northward.

     “Christ, Claire,” he groaned, just as I demanded, “Now, Jamie.”  He met my eyes and I nodded in affirmation.

     He lifted me, laid me down, and entered me in one fluid motion.

     I wasn’t usually one who could come just from intercourse but with the length of time since we’d been together and my level of sexual frustration, it was enough.

     “Oh Jamie!” I cried out, startling him momentarily.  He relaxed almost as quickly, kissed me with a grin, and began again to move within me, faster and firmer until he stiffened with his own release.

     “Oh, God, I’ve missed that,” he said, after he’d caught his breath and rolled off of me, lying flat on his back.  I turned to see the adorable crinkle around his eyes and his broad smile.

     “But,” he said, rolling to his elbows to kiss me firmly.  “I’ve missed you even more.”

     “Good save,” I giggled, stroking his cheek with my hand.

      “So,” I mused, once we were lying together in the darkness ready to sleep.  “If you had to choose to never see me again or never make love to me again, which would you choose?”

     He was silent for a moment, and then said, “I could be a monk, if you were at the nunnery next door.”

     “Really?” I asked skeptically.

     “Aye,” he answered, his hand creeping over my bare hip.  “But, I would expect you to leave your window open, and I would be a Very. Naughty. Monk.” he said, punctuating his statement with kisses.

     I laughed.  Then pulling his arm over my side, I curled up in my happy place and slept.   

On to Chapter 17: Hopping to Guam

[leigh-kelly]

The Sharp Knife of a Short Life

[liquorisce]

The Golden Girl

Pairing : Jughead x Betty, Veronica x Archie, Riverdale

Rating : T

Summary : The mailman, Principal Weatherbee, The head of the Serpents, The boy next door, The Heiress of the Lodge Industries… Everybody loves Betty Cooper. 

A/N : So I’m back! After forever! With another fic! About a new pairing! SURPRISE SURPRISE.  

Everybody loves Betty Cooper.

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 They're like Romeo and Juliet, society clawing at them from every side, destiny dragging them asunder, but she's got her arms around Jughead's neck and he's looking at her like the moon sees the sun, desperate and never enough, savouring the briefest moments in the light, and there's an undeniable pang in his heart that shocks him and maybe even reaches Veronica. "… Archiekins?"

The girl in his arms is beautiful, like the darkness that calls out to the wandering soul, and it enthrals him, keeps him entranced and his grip on Ronnie's waist tightens, but he wonders, just a stray thought in his head when he glances over at the blonde who grew up beside him - what it would be like to embrace the light.

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 He's got the jacket around his shoulders, the comfort of the snakes around him, they're here to celebrate what he's dreamed of his whole life - his dad reforming his ways. He was proud of this, his Serpent-hood, the Whyte Wyrm, the community that they had together.

But when he sees her, tousled blond hair, wild and beautiful, spilling over her bare shoulders, shimmying across the pole, deep green eyes probing, seeking him out, telling him things he hadn't even allowed himself to imagine…

… And why not? For a second the possibilities of this life flash before his eyes. They could have this, they could have this, together - He knows Betty, he knows she loves him and -

- He looks up at her and it is disgust - at himself? - that reminds him that this is Betty Cooper, and Betty Cooper deserves more than a life in the snake pit.  

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Issues, she called it. 'Deep - seated issues' that she could never possibly explain to the pure, big-hearted Archie Andrews. Those three words fell off his lips so easily, so contentedly, like he was blissfully unaware of the weight he had attached to them, the weight that was now crushing her heart.

.

They're seated in the school common room, Kevin with his ridiculous Santa hat and overbearing Christmas cheer, and it's Betty's turn to open her present.

It's like her smile goes on forever as she holds it - and Veronica's certain that the tiny package houses no Dior fragrance - and she chuckles softly glancing over at Archie, "… I think I know who picked my name based on these wrapping skills."

She watches the way they look at each other, cheesy, bright smiles glaringly obvious to everyone present as Betty shows off the record that they listened to when they were 5, their presence in each other's past stamped and inerasable. And Veronica knows that it's futile, that the more she lets herself think about this, the more she'll know that she doesn't even stand a chance.

It just makes the weight in her chest hurt even more.

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.

 He meets her at Pop's, not by invitation but by chance. He's typing away at his computer, so many, many things to write about, and he doesn't ask her what he's doing and certainly doesn't try to be sociable in any way.

But she sits next to him, regardless. There are fries on the table and a milkshake she's delicately sipping. He is quite capable of working, undisturbed, whatever storm may brew right beside him and he's definitely not going to let the presence of a brooding raven-haired River Vixen distract him.

Besides, Jughead Jones has his own issues to brood over.

And he'd be damned if he ever admitted he felt anything at all like kinship with Veronica Lodge but right now, the air was thick with the same kind of anguish that reeked of the people whom he knew too well.

 So, he glances at her, once, maybe twice, the second time with questions in his eyes.

 "… Oh, stop," she snaps, but it's not really the sharp lash that ever hits out at you if you dare cross the Lodge beauty, but more of a tired imperative. "If you want to ask me what's going on, then just ask me, Jones. There's no need to stare creepily at me about this."

 It was a weak attack at his character that was easily ignored, so he proceeds. "Well. If you need me to ask." Because he was pretty sure, two more minutes and without him saying anything, Veronica would have started her tale without any prompting on his part. "What happened?"

 She takes a fry in between two perfectly manicured fingers. Twists it around, breaks off the tiniest portion and puts in her mouth. "… when I first came into town, I met Archie and Betty here, in this diner, looking like they were on a date." 

 She pauses, glances at him to gauge his reaction, but Jughead keeps it blank. He's an expert now, what with the years of schooling his emotions on the phenomenon that is Archie and Betty. "I was attracted to him. Since that very moment," she lets out a short laugh, bitter. "… I didn't even try to hide it."

 "But when I mentioned it in school the next day, Kevin was quick to educate me about one of the vital truths of this town. You know what he said, Jughead?"

 Jughead's not a fan of interactive role play games, and he's not going to play best girlfriend and ask her what she wants to hear, but Veronica is Veronica and she doesn't need him to.

 ' "You don't know? Archie and Betty are endgame," he said, like it was this unshakeable fact, that should've been obvious to any pair of eyes. And you know what the worst part is Jughead?"

 He doesn't, he really doesn't, doesn't know what could be worse than sitting here listening to his fears vocalised by his girlfriend's - he has no right to call her that anymore, it’s habit, desire, a gaping hole in his chest that she used to fit perfectly - best friend.

 "I knew, Jughead. I think I always knew. I knew that I loved Archie and that he may not have known it then, but he'd end up in love with Betty, and that I'd have no place in this messed up love triangle. But I still," her voice breaks off at this point, and she struggles to keep her tears in check, herself in place, because she can't be seen here, having a breakdown in Pop's with Forsythe P Jones the Third.

 But he knows what she's going to say. She still hoped. And really, how different is it from his own pathetic situation, when all he ever really was just an outsider? To this town, to their relationship, to Betty Cooper?

 "… I can't even hate her," she says, shakily, moments later after she's calmed down, slightly, "… How does one hate Betty Cooper?"

 Jughead's mouth quirks up in a small smile as he remembers a little version of himself, his best friend and the blonde girl next door, as he tried to convey his frustration with the amount of time she was taking up with Archie. But then she showed up, freshly baked cookies in one hand, her other stuck out towards him in a mark of friendship, and sat between them while they played video games. “… You don’t.” He shakes his head as he says softly, "Everyone loves Betty Cooper."

.

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 He opens the car door for her, makes a show of his out of the ordinary chivalry and she laughs, maybe even blushes a little bit. "Thanks, Arch," she says, a little shy but beaming, a bright, warm smile.

 “… I’ve missed this,” he says, before he even processes the fact that he’s speaking out loud, before he’s even sure if it’s just her smile that he’s talking about or something else, as she locks arms with him in an age-old gesture of familiarity.

 “… We’ve had a crazy time, lately.” She says this lightly, reassuringly, a manner of reinforcing that the crazy was not the state of only her head.

 “… What I did last night,” he starts, “… I didn’t mean to,” -

 -  “I kissed you back, Archie,” she whispers, shrugging, because there was no reason why she did what did, but at that moment, she gave into the idea of cosmos, and kissed the boy she had thought she’d marry. But there were no fireworks, or hasty realizations, it hadn’t felt like anything, and…  

 They slip into a booth, and order their milkshakes one chocolate and one vanilla, and for a minute, it feels like time has been rewound, and it’s just a red-haired boy and the girl next door and all is as it’s supposed to be.

 But she takes a sip of her milkshake, and he looks at her, sitting across him, and all he can think of, is how vacant this booth feels, how quiet, how tasteless his favorite milkshake has become, without the girl who walked into this diner that one night, and turned his life upside down.

 Pop brings her the hamburger that she ordered, and she takes a bite, and feels her appetite vanish. It’s strange, Archie thinks, because Betty usually just sticks to fries.

 Their eyes meet and she opens her mouth to make small talk, to ask him if he wants some, but nothing comes out, and she's looking at Archie Andrews and his ginger hair, the boy she thought she'd meet at the altar someday, but the gears in her brain are stuck, where there's a boy with a beanie, and his arm loosely draped around her shoulder.

 “… I just don’t understand,” she says, her voice breaking towards the end, “I don’t understand what I did wrong.”

 - Fin -

[the-penalty-box]

Wasteland Wonderland

Every now and then, I run into a place that crawls under my skin more than others.  Maybe there’s a point to its existence, culture, or character that I feel a kinship with, some defining element that I can’t resist.  Trite and tired though it might be, there’s truth in saying that “one man’s trash is another’s treasure,” particularly if the so-called trashy parts are embraced as not flaws, but features. 

I ended up in Las Vegas by chance, to be honest.  The city was chosen by another party for another purpose, but I went happily when asked and I elected to explore.  The more I observed beforehand, the more the world seemed to possess a dramatic split in attitudes toward the place - one either hated the noise and neon of a tourist trap, or loved the historic hedonism of a city where anonymity allowed for some interesting things.  Maybe for some, it was a bit of both - a love of Vegas proper, so long as the technically unincorporated Strip was left off the menu. Personally, it’s hard for me to complain.  The projected philosophy here would appear to be rooted in a stubborn pursuit of pleasure in spite of everything, an outlook that matches my own only too well.  I have long been of the opinion that we’re all here to die, that we ought to make the most of what we have and love it, even as we let it go.  Las Vegas, for me, embodies those ideas and turns them into a tangible catharsis.

The geography and climate help to augment this perception.  People from all over the world convene in the middle of nowhere for a perpetual party.  Neon lights and borrowed landmarks rise from the arid expanse of the Mojave Desert in sudden, clean lines - dry lake beds and dust storms be damned - an ostentatious, inorganic middle finger to the forces of nature. Thematically, it’s an oasis waiting for an apocalypse and living accordingly. For one thing, more than almost anywhere I’ve been, this is a place that truly does not sleep.  Many businesses and restaurants close at the expected hours, but the general modus operandi elsewhere is one without last calls or closing times - nothing to kick you out or cut you off.  If you'd like to keep going until sunrise (or mid-morning, or the next afternoon, or until you just fall over dead), you’re allowed and encouraged.

There’s also an unselfconscious openness in the body language of just about everyone, thanks no doubt to the vast quantity of diverse visitors and interesting nightlife venues.  Jeans, sandals, and fanny packs occupy the same elevators as sleek suits and cocktail dresses.   Lovers of every orientation make out publicly on the sidewalks, palms going slack around open containers while they forget everything in their periphery.  Makeup too loud and skirts too short for anywhere else are just ornamentation on another person  - nothing to stir judgment or condescension.  There is no shame in it, no reason to wonder why so many people come here (yes, in my opinion, even if they only begin by dealing with the Strip). As honest as it is about its vices, there’s a mysterious quality to Vegas too - an amorphous surrealism that might suck you in even without the influence of certain substances.  I call it the “perfect void” sensation, a feeling of having fallen off the map without care or consequence, like dying without being dead, simply subject to whatever strange experiences might find you.  You need only be open and curious, and maybe a little appreciative of your good luck.

Of course, the extremes of such surreal circumstance may vary.  Decades prior, one could look from their hotel windows to watch mushroom clouds blossoming skyward from the nearby nuclear test site.  A handful of weekends ago, I woke to a state of lockdown in my tower owing to a standoff with a shooter on the Strip in our immediate proximity.  With news of one fatality, the event lasted hours before the suspect surrendered and the surrounding premises reopened.  (I was later told the Chicago Cubs were holed up in the neighboring Cosmo, the prominent edifice seen here on the left.)  In the meantime, I waited and watched and snapped cell phone pics of the empty streets and police barricades below. The previous night?  A guy wearing a pig mask robbed a Rolex store in the Bellagio - with a few accomplices and a sledgehammer.  My boyfriend and I were out at the time, searching for food and entertainment along the same block, when we passed a SWAT team on foot.  In later hearing what had transpired, we dubbed the incident “Oceans Pork.”

Let’s not forget, the Raiders’ move has been made official.  Though we’ve continually encountered fan celebrations (amidst numerous ESPN live setups), I’m also happy to report a solid contingent of people decked out in Golden Knights gear, eager to support the incoming NHL team.  I’m not sure what I anticipated, but Vegas is wonderfully strange and surprising; why shouldn’t hockey flourish in the desert, along with everything else in this nonsensical paradise? And you’ll make friends in the desert, oh, yes - people who transition from total stranger to perfect co-conspirator over the course of an evening.  Maybe it’s the happy hours that start at 2:00 PM or 2:00 AM, the discovery of alcohol cheaper than water in a place so dependently fueled by Lake Mead.  In my case, we were indulging ourselves on a private bus for a likewise private occasion when it become all too clear that our evening couldn’t end with the planned meal ahead. There was a blur of arcade games, of fountains, of a roller coaster ride at midnight.  For whatever reason, I became team captain, guiding our moves and proposing spur-of-the-moment solutions with regard to whatever we got up to next.  The tower, then, was probably my fault; we eventually holed up with too much liquid ammunition and too much fun and a complete lack of certainty that I’ll ever know what happened to my beloved jacket.

I’m new, I know that.  I’m a traveler who sometimes attaches heavily to places that have had nothing to do with me prior to the moment.  Still, I wander around enough that first impressions make a difference to me, and I can say without hesitation that, personally, Las Vegas was one of the most immediately friendly cities I’ve encountered.  So warm, so flirtatious, and so without a damn to give that I can’t help but fall a little in love. After all, I was born on the edge of the desert, taken away too soon and raised in the northern U.S., a neighbor to Canada instead of the canyons.  I’m not ungrateful (that’s how all things hockey happened, no doubt), but every time I come back here, something in my chest aches.

A lot of our lives are owed to luck, and much of our challenges due to chance.  In a world where none of us are getting out alive, I can’t help but think it’s best that we enjoy what we can. Las Vegas, I look forward to getting to know more of you. To everyone else?  Have fun.  Be yourself at the loudest volume.