#i should name helle's sire mary

[whumpshaped]

oh my god okay ive been doing nothing for 8 hours but typing away on my silly little phone writing the silly little fictional guide books and i still kinda wanna answer that ask and do chapter 3 of the thing and

[the-cat-and-the-birdie]

I don't know who needs to hear this, but you should make an OC.

You should make an OC. Specifically a Spider-Sona. Like now. Preferably yesterday. [A MEDIUM-LONG essay about OC's, fanfiction, and how to enrich and better your writing skills in literally every sector. Throughout this essay I reference my two characters Disco-Spider and Inca-Spider as examples of the way OCs can be used.]

_________________________________________

"But no one cares about OCs -"

OKKAYYYY??

IDK about ya'll but fandom is NOT my final destination no siree

I feel like a lot of the time we get so caught up in posting and notes we forget that for many artists and writers on this platform - fanfiction is not the true end goal.

Many of us write and draw fanart for years -

But the fact of the matter is if you want to be an author someday, if you want to be a graphic novelist, an animator, etc, etc - You're going to HAVE to make OCs.

If you want to study English in college or publish books - you're gonna have to write an OC at least once. If not hundreds of times.

If you want to study art - chances are at some point you're gonna have to fill a portfolio with original pieces, including some of OCs.

If you want to do something with your writing, if you want to get better - or make a career out of your art, you HAVE to make OCs at some point.

And this is especially true for fanfiction writers.

You can get very very very good at writing in your specific fandoms, you may have the emotions of the characters on point, and the ability to describe the scenery.

But if you don't know how to create and design a character - if you don't know how to worldbuild, or come up with scenarios without the help of characterai and ChatGPT - you won't be able to write a book.

If you're an artist and you don't know how to draw an original character from scratch, how to match colors, how to draw certain skin tones, certain hair, wheelchairs and mobility aids, how to design a character from looks, to clothing - it's going to be so hard to expand your art outside of fanart. You'll always be beholden to the notes and popularity of your particular fandom.

Do it - even if you've never written or never draw before. Even better.

That's why I CHAMPION Spider-sonas so much. They're basically OCs on easy mode.

Can't write backgrounds yet? Here's a bucket on canon events to pick from? Can't draw faces? Blank mask with eyes.

Hell, if you're really really new about it - just pick a character and make a slightly different variant. Make a Hobie of your own, make a Peter variant. Make a Mary Jane variant. Pick a something you like and turn that into a character.

Can't write? Just fill-in the 'My name is [blank], I was bitten by a [blank]' script that Miles does. Can't draw, just draw out a basic shape of a body and color-out the suit, no fancy pose needed. That still counts!!

Make a self-insert. Make yourself fit into the story, design your suit, write out how you fight crime, how you'd act at the Society, meeting Miguel or Miles.

That's still character design, that's still worldbuilding.

We always hear people say 'Make art for yourself' and yeah that sounds nice - but people also misinterpret it.

Make art for yourself doesn't just mean making art that you personally like.

Making art for yourself also means making art that develops your skills even if no one gives a fuck. It's about making art as practice without the intention of it being 'completed', making OCs that never get used, drawing locations you see or writing a random ass short story then shoving it into your Google Drive forever.

Making art for yourself means making art that invests in yourself.

It means making art that interests you, challenges you, or helps you develop.

And making OC's helps develop your fanfic writing skills.

In may fandoms we begin to fall into these routine 'tropes' between characters and their personalities. This is usually known as the 'fanon' characterization.

Because when you have a set amount of characters and people, there's also a set amount of interactions and relationships between those people.

Writing OCs and having those OCs interact with canon characters allows you to dig deeper into sides of the canon characters we'd never otherwise see.

That's why I wrote Disco-Spider Diane like I do. Often, we see Hobie characterized as the chaotic, rowdy, confident type - which is perfect characterization for him. But in almost all of his interactions - he's the wilder, bolder, extroverted one. I wanted to put him in a situation where for once, he was the calmer one. I wanted to explore more grounded and chill sides of Hobie, one where he's the one grounding the other, and thinking logically - because in canon, we're hinted at a side of Hobie who's way more methodical and slow-paced and willing to stop and wait it out and play it off. And I wanted to see that. I wanted to explore what he'd do if he was faced with someone just as chaotic, who put on a cheeky ironic act - just the same as him.

Because no other characters serve that purpose in canon.

If there are elements of a character or concept you think are interesting but outright ignored by canon and fanon, you can create an OC to explore those parts.

For Disco-Spider: I wanted to explore how someone like a militant Black Panther would handle being Spider-woman, when Spider-people are usually shown as pacifists - what that would look like or how it'd shape her morals based on era, etc. For Inca-Spider: I realized there were so many culture based Spider people like Pavitr and Spider-UK. But none for indigenous communities, and NONE from countries that only existed in other universes. So, I created an indigenous character from Tawanti - a country that's located where Peru would be for us.

You can give a canon character a sibling, to explore how they'd interact with family. Give them a partner that acts totally different than their canon partner, write how that'd change the way they show love.

OC's make your original writing better, AND your fanfiction writing too. They can help you understand canon characters on a deeper level.

And sure, nobody likes your OC. NOW.

But every single character you write about, is someones OC. Every character you write about was once treated that way. Once upon a time, Dean Winchester was just some rando character in the pilot script of a show that hadn't picked up yet. Probably no one gave a fuck until CW picked it up.

The writers had to not only make him and develop him - they had to BELIEVE in him enough to pitch him to a TV show channel to make people care.

That's always the first step. Believing your character's story is worthy enough of being told and presenting it as such.

ESPECIALLY if your OC represents a demographic you don't see represented. Cause yes if there isn't any black women in canon then I'll Thanos this shit and do it myself.

Make OCs.

Write them. Draw them. Even if it's bad. Who the hell cares. Big Mouth is on Netflix with multiple seasons, have you seen that show?? 'Ugly' art is not a crime.

Make piccrews, fill out OCforms or take quiz's as them. Write little blurbs of them hanging with canon characters then post it in the tag.

You don't need a huge Spidersona sheet or a long long fic explaining their backstory. They can just be there.

MAKE OCs.

Make them to explore more in your fanfiction, make them so future you can write that novel or draw or that comic or sell those prints or whatever it is you plan to do.

Make it so your fanfiction AND original writing can grow stronger. It isn't just about notes and content and follows.

Make an OC. Make a Spidersona. Literally you have nothing to lose but your chains.

"Nobody cares-"

Oh they'll care when you pop out with that 6-book publishing deal. They'll care when you're designing big characters for movies. Cause that's how it happens. Watch.

ANYWAYSSSS if you made it this far I hope this inspired you to at least play around with the idea of OCs and Spidersonas in general.

Here's Hobie.

BYE.

If you want to make a sona and are kinda lost on where to start, lemme know!! Because I think they're amazing starting places for those who have never written or drawn before. Or if you have a sona but want to develop them further.

I haven't seen a guide to spidersonas and i wonder if that's something some people might want/need.

Seriously if I can even get one person into writing or drawing I'll be over the goddamn moon.

MAKE OCS PLEASE.

[touchmycoat]

fake white lotus AU pt. 3a

(had birthday dinner w family and went absolutely bonkers. So here's 3k of SY angry-ranting about fake!qijiu)

CW: canon-typical violence & child slavery/abuse

Once upon a time, there was a kingdom and a regime. The emperor of the regime, as was an emperor’s wont, sired dozens of children with gratuitous amounts of beautiful women and left all the women and children in a sequestered harem to main and kill and battle each other for spots of favor. Infants were poisoned in the womb. Faces that were once touted as the most beautiful of entire provinces were torn to shreds and fed to dogs. Concubines and crown princes alike rose and fell.

A number that no longer mattered was seven because at this point in the plot, the Seventh Prince had long since gotten rid of one through six—and also eight through fifteen for that matter. The Seventh Prince was no longer the seventh of anything; he was now the Crown Prince. But once, long ago, he hadn’t wanted the crown at all. He had been so far down the line, his mother dead and unfavored, that he thought he never stood a chance.

Then there was a kidnapping. A fumbled escape. Then there was a prince among the beggars in a slum, unfamiliar with everything except the heavy weight of awaiting death in all these people’s eyes.

And then there was the Protagonist.

All in all, Shen Yuan gave this Meet Cute-slash-Meet Awful a five out of ten for originality and a seven (six-point-five?) for execution. The backstory itself was neither special nor cliched, and seeing baby-Qi and baby-Jiu roughing it was effectively heartbreaking. Shen Yuan liked their thematically matching names. He liked Shen Jiu’s youthful effort at kindness. He liked the surprising depiction of Yue Qi as not a useless flower vase with nothing but annoying platitudes, but rather a boy who caught on quickly to the rhythm of survival because he was already used to it in the palace. He liked the stakes of Yue Qi not telling Shen Jiu his princely identity, first because he was wary of further betrayal, and then later because he didn’t want Shen Jiu to push him away for his royal status.

But what did Shen Yuan not like?

Oh not much. Just, like, everything after that.

The problem with Yue Qingyuan was that the author got all wishy-washy. The prince wasn’t laundry, Author-dada, so stop dumping him in the spin cycle! He was coming out each time all confused and inconsistent! Was he clever enough to take out all the other princes in the running for the throne or was he an idiot, blind to the most Basic™ of political intrigue tropes and needing Shen Jiu running to his aid at all times? Was he camped out in the angsting corner and self-sacrificing to a fault or did he kabedon Shen Jiu when the passion arose?? Did he take over the country because he was filled with idealism and determination to abolish the slavery and poverty that he couldn’t save the love of his life from or because he was a black lotus in his own right, matching Shen Jiu beat for beat in his quest for vengeance, getting back what he believed he was owed?!

Oh what was that, haters? Shen Yuan was being unfair? It didn’t have to be one way or another, Shen Yuan was not taking the author’s characterizations at face value and was instead projecting his own desires? Shen Yuan should just write his own Mary Sue self-insert if he wanted the Protagonist so badly?

Wrong! An offensively incorrect misdiagnosis! Shen Yuan knew all about false binaries, okay? There were more than two genders; ipso facto, Yue Qi could be both smart and an idiot, both self-sacrificing and self-serving.

—Like hell! There was a line here, one between having the cake and eating it too. The author wanted to eat the cake of the doting Gege-type, hiding his feelings behind a comforting smile because he only wanted Xiao Jiu to be happy, then there wasn’t going to be the same cake waiting in the fridge, this time with I should take this opportunity to kill all the competition filling inside! Fans weren’t your unpaid interns combing out your character kinks for you (in every sense of the word). Make it! Make! Sense!

But Shen Yuan may have digressed. The point was, Shen Yuan had the Crown Prince coming over for some afternoon tea yet had little idea which version of the character he was going to get. He’d tried to ask Ming Fan before Ming Fan left, all meaningful looks and trailing off:

So my last encounter with the Crown Prince…

To which Ming Fan had winced and found a far, faraway tree to squint philosophically at.

Surely the Crown Prince is a gentleman, and has long-since forgotten the incident.

Oh so now this comic knew how to do effective foreshadowing?!

Do you think he might—? Shen Yuan had pressed, at which point Ming Fan’s gaze had slipped over to Shen Jiu before—

Hurry up! We’re leaving!

Qing-gege ah! How could you do this to your Qing-didi?! And then shoot such an aggro glare before galloping off in a cloud of dust? Didn’t you know to never leave family and loved ones on a sour note? This was the perfect set-up for you to return to a burned down husk of a house and a remaining lifetime’s supply of regrets that you never told them you loved them, don’t you know! You foolish tragic hero!

…Not to jinx himself or anything, knock on wood. But who could Shen Yuan ask now to prepare himself? Not Shen Jiu—at least, not after the totally-not-tense, haha-of-course-not-why-would-you-even-think-there-was-tension-here conversation Shen Jiu and Luo Binghe decided to have, some days after Liu Qingge’s departure and the day before the Crown Prince’s visit.

Young Master Shen! Shall I prepare some desserts for you and your guest tomorrow?

That would be lovely Binghe, thank you.

It would be my honor. Attendant Shen, what are the Crown Prince’s preferred flavors?

…How would a common servant like myself know?

Oh my mistake. I just thought I heard a story in the market about Attendant Shen being called to wait on the Crown Prince at a prior banquet or some such.

(What the hell Binghe, jealousy this early in your courtship?? Take it from an old man: that wasn’t a cute look! Shen Jiu didn’t owe you anything, so don’t go taking a dip in the vinegar vat just because Shen Jiu poured a guy’s tea one time!)

Had Young Master Shen also been in attendance?

Hm, I forget. But I’m sure the Crown Prince will love the berry dessert you made yesterday as much as I did. Will Binghe get more ingredients for those?

Certainly Young Master Shen! I’ll go right now!

(Ah but who could blame a once-enslaved half-demon for being less-than-well-adjusted? Have no fear, your devoted reader was here! Love Doctor—or, no, gross, ew, let’s workshop that—was his name, matchmaking was his game!)

Attendant Shen, maybe you can accompany him?

Oh I’m sure that’s not nece—

For what?

(You roll around in ink you got up black—a.k.a. Jiu-ge, keep hanging out with Liu Qingge and you’d end up only knowing how to speak in gruff demands!)

Well Binghe’s new to our Estate. If you show him around town I’m sure no one will give him trouble.

I wouldn’t want to take Attendant Shen from his duties—

I’ve wrapped up my duties. Certainly I can accompany him, Young Master Shen.

(Score! All aboard the Bingjiu train!)

Only, I can’t do my hair up properly.

(Blink. Blink blink. Right, the arm injury. Shen Jiu had honestly looked so natural with his hair down, gathered back at the nape of his neck with only a strip of ribbon that Shen Yuan had completely forgotten it wasn’t his typical neat and classy half-bun.)

Oh sure, let me—

This servant can do it!

(Great, now what the heck was this development?! Shen Jiu going tense? So sure, yes, Luo Binghe had been the one to deal him the injury but were they running the trauma storyline now? Regroup Shen Yuan, regroup. Obviously this was where Young Master Shen insisted on doing up Shen Jiu’s hair right in front of Luo Binghe, and Luo Binghe would be angry-mad-jealous except he knew he didn’t deserve Shen Jiu’s trust, not after losing control of his demon form and injuring Shen Jiu the morning after he arrived. Therefore on their trip out to market Luo Binghe would keep his distance and the tension would be rising—until bam! Shen Jiu was suddenly in grave physical danger (a runaway carriage was always a cheap classic here) and Luo Binghe would leap into action! Luo Binghe would return to his distance once the danger had passed but now Shen Jiu would know those demonic hands that had once hurt him were actually capable of protection and warmth, okay okay Shen Yuan you’re doing fine, you’re still on track here.)

I’ve got it. Attendant Shen’s been trying to teach me how to do this pin for ages, anyhow.

Time to see if Young Master Shen has the talent to be a personal attendant.

Right, so there was that whole conversation, plus or minus Shen Yuan getting to brush and handle Shen Jiu’s Protagonist hair on his Protagonist nape (and no Shen Yuan was not getting a bite of that tofu—Shen Jiu murmured something about it being hot outside! Shen Yuan had to get the hair off his neck!). Luo Binghe had put Shen Jiu on the defensive so Shen Yuan hardly expected Shen Jiu to be open to a sleepover type of heart-to-heart, all so what do you think the Crown Prince is like as a person? Like, is he the forgiving sort? Will he let the Young Master he believes has been systematically ruining his beloved’s life go unpunished for those sins? El oh el, asking for a friend. All Shen Yuan had to go on was Ming Fan’s foreshadowing, Luo Binghe’s street gossip, and of course the holy fucking doctrine of the original comic.

In the original comic, Shen Jiu and Yue Qi reunite one warm spring night. Shen Jiu had been making a last-minute delivery of live pigs and Yue Qingyuan had been escaping the royal banquet; it was the night of the Crown Prince’s engagement to the Young Master of the great merchant House of Shen and Shen Jiu, caked in a day’s worth of livestock grime, stumbled upon Yue Qingyuan hiding in the back garden.

Shen Jiu, who had agreed to come in the first place in order to seek out potential connections, put on his best customer service smile and called out, pardon this servant Young Master, but we’re to close the backdoors behind us. Will you reenter the banquet so this servant can lock up?

And Yue Qingyuan, who had shot up the moment he sensed another’s presence intrude on his woeful solitude, yes, yes of course, I apologize for getting in your—Xiao Jiu?

…Qi-ge?

And the rest was history…more like shitstory! To be fair, the primary reason it was so bad was because Shen Yuan knew it could’ve been so good. As a wise woman once sang, we could’ve had it all!

Shen Jiu and Yue Qi’s reunion in the garden revealed the circumstances of their separation: that Yue Qi had been entirely ready to give up palace life and stay in the streets, picking up small jobs and here and there and waiting by the Qiu Estate’s backdoor at sunset, hoping to catch Shen Jiu on his way to do evening chores and give Shen Jiu a little candied snack or two. The more Yue Qi saw Shen Jiu though, the more he saw Shen Jiu injured, coming out of the Qiu Estate limping, bandaged, bloodied.

It hardly took a genius to understand, but what were two helpless children to do? Uh, plan a murder, was what. Or at least an escape with a side order of murder, extra red sauce. Shen Jiu wanted out and Yue Qi’s resume had under Work Experience years spent dodging assassination attempts; the two kids quickly hatched a plot involving fire, stabbing, and a small stash of money Yue Qi managed to put away.

Too bad that, when the day of the scheduled escape came, Yue Qi was recognized by a distant cousin’s uncle’s cousin, who wanted to bring him back to the palace not out of the kindness of her heart but as a bargaining chip. Yue Qi ran for it, heading straight to Shen Jiu to warn his best friend that the plan was off. Shen Jiu made the call to stay the course since the plan involved them both fleeing town anyways. But nothing lined up, the traps didn’t spring to plan, and soon the cousin had Yue Qi and Qiu Jianluo had Shen Jiu. The last they saw each other was Shen Jiu slamming the estate doors shut between them, yelling for Qi-ge to go already, go get help, Shen Jiu would wait for him to return.

And of course Yue Qi wouldn’t, not until it was too late. Back in the palace he was tied up, gagged, drugged, caged. If you know what’s good for you, Concubine Lin had hissed, you’ll stop making such a ruckus and pretend you know nothing.

So Yue Qi did. He played the smiley cowardly idiot until all the factions in power finally left him alone. His first attempt to get information on Shen Jiu got an innocent servant boy set upon by hunting dogs and brutally killed; the boy had been a year younger than Shen Jiu, also enslaved, and Yue Qi wouldn’t try again for a year. By the time Yue Qi had amassed enough power of his own—by the time Yue Qingyuan had earned his name in his Imperial father’s eyes—to discretely send for intel, the Qiu Estate had been empty for months.

A mass execution, came the report from a neighbor, the dragon whiskers-candy stall Yue Qi used to buy Shen Jiu sweets from all the time. Nasty, nasty business. All the slaves dead because of one traitor. Young Master Qiu said he wanted a clean slate.

Yue Qingyuan would end up buying the old Qiu Estate and “accidentally” burning it to the ground, but it would only ever be a pitiful, futile gesture at vengeance. He couldn’t even find Young Master Qiu to exact vengeance because the entire Qiu merchant caravan had been slaughtered by robbers on some dangerous roads. Yue Qi finally had his hands on immeasurable power but it was all for naught—the one person he needed it to save was long dead, long gone.

…Or so he thought. Here we go live audience members, place your bets: how did the reunion go, between the Crown Prince who thought a slave dead and the slave who thought himself abandoned? Start things off with a slap? Yes! Ten points to the lady in the back! Shen Jiu, for all of his connivance and self-control, couldn’t help but go red in the eyes. Here was the boy he saved who promised to save him back but then didn’t. Here was the boy he cleaned and dressed now in the cleanest and finest dress of all. And here he was, holding the memory of Qi-ge so close to his heart as someone who did not deserve his lot in life. Well Shen Jiu was right—Yue Qingyuan did not fucking deserve this.

The gentleman in blue! What was that? Yue Qingyuan would not explain? Absolutely correct, you get ten points! In the face of Shen Jiu’s distress, no explanation for his prolonged absence seemed good enough, especially not now that Yue Qingyuan was well-fed and dolled up and so close to the seat of power. As far as he was concerned, he’d failed Shen Jiu; there was no fixing the past, only the things he could secure for Shen Jiu going forward. He would not be losing track of Shen Jiu again though, that he vowed. He may not be a hero, but he would never again not be there when Shen Jiu needed him.

Scholarly looking person in the front row! Hm, so you believed the best way to capitalize and build on the emotional valence here would be to keep Shen Jiu’s sense of betrayal, probably have Shen Jiu reveal he worked under the House of Shen and have Yue Qingyuan eagerly volunteer to aid in Shen Jiu’s cause? And that there would be something delicious and true about Shen Jiu being the fake white lotus to everybody but the Crown Prince, the most high stakes character you anticipated needed to be fake-white-lotused the most? Oof, unfortunately no points for you, because Shen Jiu actually decided to lovingly stroke Yue Qingyuan’s face after the slap and pivot into the but I know you must’ve had your reasons part of the script that nobody asked for or wanted! Like what even was the point of setting up the perceived betrayal then, hah?!

Emo-styling person with the cat ears, what do you have to say? Perhaps that was Shen Jiu deciding to fake-white-lotus Yue Qingyuan as well, and maybe there was something to be salvaged in the one-way mirror setup of Shen Jiu thinking he’d successfully fooled Yue Qingyuan with his white lotus persona but Yue Qingyuan actually seeing the most ruthless and manipulative sides of him the whole time and was okay with it? Yes wouldn’t that be spicy, maybe have Liu Qingge walk away first upon seeing past Shen Jiu’s mask, only for Yue Qingyuan to declare he already knew? That would definitely be a viable path had Shen Jiu’s forgiveness not been wholly, diegetically, irrevocably, canonically authentic—thanks to the author-dada. No muss, no fuss, no plausible deniability left under all the pink bubble-sparkles and closeups of tear-filled, longing gazes. No points for cat ears. No point to any of this fertile backstory, because at the end of the day it was just two boys, one obtrusively big cliché.

Hence—circling all the way back—Shen Yuan’s dilemma. His complicated state of knowing but not actually knowing anything.

[theunboundwriter]

Musical Asks Challenge

Thanks for the tag @itsbrittbeyotch I had a hell of a time.

A fun little game to see the diversity of your music taste.

Rules: Do NOT repeat songs and ONLY use songs that you have listened to in the last 6 months

1. Songs you like with a color in the title

Blu - Jon Bellion

2. Songs you like with a number in the title

1980s Horror Film II - Wallows

3. Songs that reminds you of summertime

Dog Days Are Over - Florence + The Machine

I've Been Dead All Day - Bayside

Why Do You Feel So Down - Declan McKenna

4. Songs that reminds you of someone you would rather forget

Anna Sun - Walk The Moon

Bullshit - Dune Rats

5. Songs that needs to be played LOUD

Rob A Bank - Confetti

Feed The Machine - Dead Mans Poison

Blonde Hair, Black Lungs - Sorority Noise

6. Songs that makes you want to dance

I'm The One - DJ Khaled (feat. Justin Beiber, Quavo, Chance the Rapper & Lil Wayne)

Hollaback Girl (Metal Version) - Leo

7. Songs you must SCREAM

The Drug In Me Is You - Falling In Reverse

My Heart Needs To Breathe - The Faim

8. Songs to drive to

Sex Sells - Lovejoy

Rot - DBMK

Ma Chérie (feat. Kellin Quinn) - Palaye Royale

Especially You - Wallows

Sober - FIDLAR

9. Songs that makes you happy

Projector - Set It Off

Another Song About Tequila - Tequila Mockingbird, Bohnes, Hudson Thames

Bella Ciao - Manu Pilas

10. Songs that makes you sad

Dirty Paws - Of Monsters and Men

Mother - Small Pools

Puff The Magic Dragon - Peter, Paul and Mary (Don't Judge Me)

Cancer - My Chemical Romance

11. Songs that you never get tired of

Shit Show - Peter McPoland

Straight Jacket - Theory of a Deadman

Life - Mother Mother

12. Songs that make you feel a certain way

All Time Low - Jon Bellion

Viva La Vida - Coldplay

Heathens - Twenty One Pilots

Twin Skeleton's (Hotel In NYC) - Fall Out Boy

13. Songs that made your childhood

Little Talks - Of Monsters and Men

Hey Soul Sister - Train

Some Nights - fun.

Somebody That I Used To Know - Gotye, Kimora

14. Songs you would love to be played at your wedding

Just My Soul Responding - Amber Run

15. Songs that are covered by another artist

I Got You - Train

Hot Girl Bummer - ANSON

Teenage Dirtbag - Cavetown, chloe moriondo

Evermore - Tethra

16. Songs that are not in your native language

ZITTI E BUONI- Måneskin

Amour Plastique - Videoclub

17. Songs from the year you were born

Seven Nation Army - The White Stripes

18. Songs you would sing duet with on karaoke

Men Are Trash - Scotty Sire (@itsbrittbeyotch Taco Bell drive thru flashbacks)

E-GIRLS ARE RUINING MY LIFE! - CORPSE, Savage Ga$p (@lexilouu yeah u know)

Carnivore - Bear Attack! (@bing1314 this has been stuck in my head for the past 8 years)

19. Songs that makes you think about life

Weak - AJR

Guns For Hands - Twenty One Pilots

20. Songs that have many meanings to you

I'm Gonna Win - Rob Cantor

Next Up Forever - AJR

Think About Things - Daði Freyr

21. Favorite songs with a person's name in the title

Achilles Come Down- Gang Of Youths

Nancy Mulligan - Ed Sheeran

Ramona - Jukebox The Ghost

Judy You Hung The Moon - HARBOUR

22. Songs that move you forward

Fuck You World - Rare Americans

Riot - Hollywood Undead (this song makes me feel like I could fight God)

23. Songs you think everybody should listen to

King of the Clouds - Panic! At The Disco

Misery - blink-182

Spiderhead - Cage the Elephant

Summer Is A Curse - The Faim

24. Songs by a band you wish were still together

Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da - Remastered 2009 - The Beatles

25. Songs by an artist no longer living

Wake Me Up - Avicii

26. Songs that make you want to fall in love

Someone To You - BANNERS

27. Songs that break your heart

This Isn't The End - Owl City

28. Songs by an artist with a voice you love

Gasoline - Halsey

House of Memories - Panic! At The Disco

29. Songs people would be surprised you listen to

To The Hellfire - Lorna Shore (the last few seconds of this song y'all)

Brutus - The Buttress (this song lowkey scared me the first time I listened to it)

30. Songs that remind you of yourself

Ghosting - Mother Mother

parents - YUNGBLUD

Bugbear - chloe moriondo

Sad Forever - Anthony Amorim

I invite anyone who sees this to join in! I had lot's of fun, but it literally took me about 3 hours

[let-the-dream-begin]

A Place to Belong Chapter 35: Le Protecteur

Chapter 34

Read on AO3

November 15, 1752

Another shriek from Jenny pierced the air, and she bore down fiercely on Claire’s hand.

“There you go,” Claire soothed. “Good, good.”

“Ye’re almost there, Mistress,” the midwife assured. “Few more pushes should do it.”

“Christ…” Jenny groaned in pained exhaustion, throwing her head back. “He’ll...he’ll be alright, won’t he…?”

“Of course he will,” Claire assured her, though her heart clenched even as she did. “You’re fit as a fiddle this time around, and it’s been a quick delivery. Everything will be fine.”

Before Jenny could answer, she was seized by another contraction. Claire was not lying; the odds were certainly more in their favor for this pregnancy. But the terror of burying another child was at the forefront of everyone’s minds, no matter how different the circumstances were.

When Jenny collapsed onto Claire again, a loud bang abruptly sounded, causing Claire to jump violently.

“What the bloody hell was that?”

Before Claire could get up and run to the window, Jenny screamed again, squeezing the life out of Claire’s hand.

“Here he comes, Mistress!”

With a final shrieking howl, the midwife was catching a baby, who immediately started wailing.

Thank the Lord.

“What a braw wee laddie!” the midwife exclaimed.

“He’s alright, Jenny…” Claire breathed, tears gathering in her eyes. 

The midwife brought him before them, squalling and squirming, and Jenny chuckled breathily.

“He’s alright,” she confirmed, taking him in her arms with a heavenly sigh and pressing him into her breast. “And he’s feeding.”

Claire laughed out loud, wrapping her arms around Jenny’s shoulders and leaning her cheek into her head.

“Time we named one after the one that sired them, eh?” Jenny said, stroking his tiny cheek with her finger.

“Wee Ian,” Claire said, trying it out.

“Aye. My sweet wee lad.” She fervently kissed the crown of his head, and Claire kissed Jenny’s head as well.

Thank you God.

Jenny was moved into the bed, and wee Ian was properly cleaned and thoroughly inspected.

“He’s perfect, Jenny. He really is.” Claire was pacing the Laird’s room with him, drugged with sleep after his feeding, beaming down at him. “Perfectly healthy, and perfectly sweet.”

“Maggie’ll be over the moon,” Jenny said, leaning heavily into the pillows. “She’s been dying to hold a wee bairn again.”

“Little Jamie will be very happy, too,” Claire said softly, brushing at the little button nose on the baby. After the heartache the boy felt after losing his baby sister, the sight of a healthy wee brother would surely bring him joy.

“Shall I go fetch the children? I think the girls are just up in the nursery.”

Claire meandered into the hall, bouncing the little bundle and cooing at him. Suddenly there was another loud bang, a different sound than the last. It was the front door, followed by the clomping of several boots. Claire was reminded of the sound she’d heard just before Ian’s arrival: a sound that was most definitely a gunshot.

“Find the weapon!”

Why on Earth had someone been firing a weapon in the first place?

“Where is your mistress?” one of the soldiers demanded, and Claire saw that young Jamie, Fergus, and Rabbie were all struck dumb in the parlor below. Claire swallowed and hurried back into the Laird’s room as a small hoard of footsteps clambered up the stairs.

“You three search the rooms downstairs. MacGregor, come with me.”

Claire’s insides burned with hatred at the sound of the name, a Scottish Redcoat that had graced them with his presence a few times already. He was a thoroughly disgusting human being, with no respect for anyone, including himself if he could stoop so low as to betray his own people.

Captain Lewis strode in, followed by the traitor in question. Claire took several quick steps backward, flattening herself into the wall between the windows and pressing Ian’s face into her breast.

“Where’s the weapon?” Captain Lewis demanded

“Weapon? We have no weapons here, Captain,” Jenny said, clutching the blankets to her.

“My scouts heard a shot from the vicinity of this estate,” Captain Lewis went on as Corporal MacGregor emptied the wardrobe of linens and clothing. “So I ask again. Where are you hiding the weapon?”

“I canna answer fer what yer scouts heard, but I’ll tell ye again, I dinna know of any weapons here,” Jenny said, her voice calm and even. “We’d never risk such a thing.”

“I remind you, Madam, that as an officer of his Majesty’s Army, I am obliged to search this house should I have the slightest suspicion that the act of proscription has been breached.” MacGregor continued to clatter about, emptying the trunk at the foot of the bed and throwing its contents about the room. “And we will continue to do so until you comply with my request.”

Jenny’s eyes were wide with fear, but she steeled herself to continue. Corporal MacGregor tossed aside Jenny’s bed covers without a thought, exposing her wearing only a shift after having just given birth. “Captain,” she stammered, scrambling to cover herself up. “I have cooperated with every request made by His Majesty’s soldiers.”

Captain Lewis turned slowly to face Claire, who, upon instinct, pressed the baby further into her chest. His eyes swept the room, taking in the bloody rags and the hay in front of the fireplace.

“Have you just delivered this child, Madame?” he said over his shoulder to Jenny, keeping his eyes boring into Claire.

“Aye.”

“Is this the midwife, then?” the Captain sneered.

“No, sir. That is my cousin. Elizabeth Fraser,” Jenny said. “She always comes by to help wi’ a birth. She’s a healer, ye see.”

Captain Lewis was newly promoted. This was his first time paying a visit to Lallybroch, but of course he’d been told the suspicions of the two captains that came before him. The Fraser cousin and the red-haired child were certainly no secret, suspicious though they were.

Corporal MacGregor was suddenly tugging on Ian’s swaddle, and Claire fiercely tightened her grip on the child, shooting daggers at the Corporal.

“Hiding the pistol in there, are ye?” the man spat.

“It’s my child, Captain!” Jenny cried. “Please, dinna hurt him!”

MacGregor dug both hands around the little bundle, and Claire went blind with rage and fear.

“Corporal — ” Captain Lewis warned, but it was too late. Claire growled and yanked back on Ian, and then fiercely spit right into the Corporal’s face.

You’ll not harm another child I love as long as I live.

Claire panted heavily, like a fierce animal ready to kill for its young. MacGregor’s face was red with anger as he slowly and deliberately wiped Claire’s spit from between his eyes. Before another thought crossed Claire’s mind, he wound up his hand and brought it hard across her cheek with a loud slap, sending her tumbling to the floor.

Claire’s vision was blurry and her ears were ringing. She only vaguely registered Jenny’s cry of fear and Ian’s wailing; it all sounded like it was underwater. She blinked dumbly and curled herself around the baby as MacGregor wound his foot back to deliver a blow.

“Corporal!” Captain Lewis barked. “That’s enough.”

Claire was trembling, unable, in her dazed state, to stop frightened tears from spilling out of her.

“Here’s the pistol, Captain,” Mary MacNab’s voice floated into Claire’s hazy subconscious, and she picked her trembling head up to see that Mary had entered the room.

Corporal MacGregor marched over to her and seized a pistol from her hands. “ ’Tis mine.”

“Yours?” Captain Lewis said, skeptical.

“It belonged to my late husband, Ronald. It was the only thing I had left of him, so I kept it. It gave me comfort. Mistress Murray knew nothing of it.”

Claire finally gained enough of her senses to sit up and began hearing more clearly again. She bounced the screaming child in her arms, rubbing his back soothingly.

“And what occasion did you have to fire it?”

“I saw a raven land near the house while Milady was delivering her child. So I shot it dead.”

Claire felt liquid trickling above her lip, and upon touching under her nose, discovered that the blow the Corporal delivered had given her a bloody nose.

“Just one of their foolish Highland superstitions, Sir. Believing a common bird can bring ill luck,” MacGregor said, his voice thick with disgust. “Shall I take her into custody, Captain?” He roughly seized Mary by the arm, and she gasped, breathing raggedly.

Captain Lewis narrowed his eyes at her for several lingering seconds before answering. “We have the weapon. She’s no threat.”

Mary sighed with relief.

“But I warn you once more, Madam,” the Captain said, walking right up to Jenny’s bedside. “If another violation occurs, there will be no mercy.”

The Captain stormed out of the room, and MacGregor roughly threw Mary onto the bed. MacGregor made to leave the room, but he stopped, turning around to lay his beady eyes upon Claire, still curled into herself on the floor. He took menacing steps toward her and bent from the waist until she could smell his vulgar breath.

“I know ye’re a Jacobite hoor,” he hissed. “Ye may have everyone else fooled, but no’ me.” Claire’s chest heaved as she stared him down, blood from her nose running over her tight lips.

“Corporal! If you please!”

He straightened out at the sound of his Captain’s voice, but before he turned to leave, he delivered a final blow to Claire, stomping mercilessly onto her stomach.

Claire doubled over again, crumbling into the floor as she began sputtering with wheezing coughs, and yet never losing her grip on the baby. Mary scrambled across the room as MacGregor left, hastily taking the baby in her arms and delivering him to Jenny before dropping to the floor beside Claire.

“Mistress? Are ye alright?”

Ian quieted as Jenny brought him to her breast. “Sister? Can ye speak?” Her voice was pitched high with fear.

Claire continued coughing until her face was burning, and then she took a heaving breath that rattled her entire body.

“That’s it, Mistress. Breathe…” Mary soothed, dabbing at the blood on her face and smoothing some frazzled curls away from her face. “She’s just had the wind knocked out of her,” Mary said to Jenny. “She needs to breathe a moment, is all.”

Breathe she did, heaving and wheezing on the floor until she stopped seeing stars. When she finally felt air filling her lungs again, she reached her trembling hands toward Mary, and she helped her into a sitting position, leaning her against the wall again.

“Shall I fetch ye some water, Mistress?” Mary asked, and Claire nodded.

“Cold…rag...” she stammered. She gestured to her face, where already an angry bruise was blossoming.

“Aye, Mistress.” Mary scuttled off.

Claire looked up at Jenny from her position on the floor, new tears forming in her eyes.

“He’s alright, sister,” Jenny said. “Just a bit shaken up. Ye protected him jest fine.”

Claire sighed with relief, resting her head on the wall behind her and forcing herself to breathe deeply. 

“Maman!”

Claire picked her head up and focused her bleary vision on a brown curly mop as it rushed toward her.

“I have brought you water. Mary MacNab is fetching the cold compress,” Fergus said handing her a glass. “Are you alright?”

In the corner of her eye, Claire could see wee Jamie had followed closely behind his cousin, and he was now sitting on the bed beside his mother, holding his new brother.

“I’m...I’m fine…” Claire said breathily, taking a grateful sip of the water.

“They beat you!” Fergus said, his face scrunching up with rage. “I will kill them!”

“You’ll do no such thing,” Claire said firmly, putting a hand on his knee.

“They are cowards! To beat a woman bloody! I will kill them!”

“Stop it,” Claire said, her breath returning to her enough to raise her voice. “That’s enough.”

“You are my mother and I must defend your honor,” Fergus spat, and Claire almost jumped. She’d never heard him raise his voice in this manner, never seen him so red in the face. “If they ever touch you again…”

He began slewing through all sorts of French profanities, some of which Claire could not even understand.

“Fergus!” Claire interrupted. “That’s enough. There’s a newborn in the room. Either calm yourself down right now or blow off some steam outside.”

Still red in the face, Fergus huffed impatiently and stood up, nearly bumping into Mary MacNab and her bucket of water on his way out of the room.

Claire sighed, exhausted, as Mary settled herself beside her. “D’ye think ye can get up, Mistress? To somewhere more comfortable?”

“I’m fine here…” Claire held the cold rag to her stinging, throbbing cheek. “That was very brave, what you did.”

“Aye, Mary. Ye did well. I thank ye,” Jenny added.

“It was the only thing I could do,” Mary said softly, dabbing gently at the dried blood on Claire’s face.

“You didn’t fire it, did you?” Claire asked. “I know it’s not really yours.”

“No, I didna.” Mary looked up at young Jamie, who was suddenly looking very bashful. “It was yer lad.”

“Fergus?” Claire said. “What on Earth was he thinking?” “It was as I said, he saw a raven and thought to protect the bairn,” Mary explained. “Foolish as it may have been, it was well intended.”

“Did ye know about this, Jamie?” Jenny said, looking down at her son. “Answer me.”

“Aye, Mam.”

“D’ye ken it’s punishable to fire a weapon?”

“Aye, Mam.”

“And yet ye still made yerself part of something so damnably foolish?”

He hung his head. “Aye, Mam.”

Jenny exhaled through her nose, lips pursed tightly at her son. “I’ll be seeing to it that yer father gives ye a thrashing. D’ye see the beating yer Auntie took because of yer foolishness? D’ye ken that Mary MacNab could hae been dragged away, never to be seen again?”

Jamie was weeping now; sad, broken little sounds.

“I just…” He sniffled, his voice stuttering. “I wanted to protect the bairn, Mam...I didna want to hurt another bairn…”

Silent tears leaked onto Claire’s cheeks, and Mary hesitated in her ministrations. Even Jenny took pause, her entire resolve shattering for only a moment as she took in his words.

“Aye. I ken.” Claire could tell she was fighting to keep her voice stern. “Yer love fer yer brother is admirable at that. God love ye fer it.” She fervently kissed the top of his head. “But ye must answer fer the danger ye’ve put us in. I’m sorry. Off ye get, fetch yer Da to me.”

Head hanging, Jamie slid off the bed and dragged his feet out into the hall, shutting the door behind him. Jenny exhaled shakily and quickly reached up to brush tears off her cheeks. Mary MacNab left Claire on the floor to retrieve the sleeping baby and place him in his cot.

“Ye’ll no’ be too hard on him, aye?” Mary said softly. “His heart was in the right place, ye ken.”

“Aye, I ken it was.” Jenny sniffled.

“He isna so old as the others. My Rabbie should hae known better. But yer Jamie is still wee.”

“No’ so wee...but aye. I see yer meaning.”

“Rabbie will be dealt a thrashing, surely,” Mary said resolutely. “Damnable fool.”

“How about Fergus?” Jenny said, pulling Claire’s attention from the spot in the floor she’d been staring at. “He’s no’ too old fer a thrashing. I can ask Ian tae do it along wi’ Jamie and Rabbie.”

“No,” Claire said quickly. “I...I want to talk to him.”

“Are ye sure?”

“Yes.” Claire sat up a little straighter and wet her rag again to make it cold again against her hot cheek. “He hasn’t been himself lately, and this was straw that broke the camel’s back.” Jenny and Mary looked bewildered at her choice of expression, and she sighed exasperatedly. “He just needs to be spoken to candidly. I can handle it.”

“Alright. I trust ye. He’s yer son.” Jenny adjusted herself so that she was lying down. “After I’m finished wi’ Ian, I’m going to faint dead away.”

“You need your rest.” Claire made to stand up, and Mary rushed to her side to help her up. Despite Claire’s usual loathing of depending on someone as such, she was quite grateful for the aid, as she was certain she’d have toppled over without it.

“And what about you, Mistress? D’ye think ye should rest before talking to the lad?” Mary inquired.

“No...I just need to get my bearings. I’m fine.” Claire took a grounding breath before releasing her vice like grip on Mary’s forearms. “I’ve been dealt worse.”

[holyhellpod]

Heyoooo, it’s another episode of Holy Hell! This one is dedicated to the manchild himself, Dean Winchester. 

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Transcript below!

CW: discussions of child abuse, child death, suicide, alcoholism, family trauma, mental health

[Music]

Dean Winchester is, in a word, my soulmate. I started kinning him when the show aired in Australia on Fox8 and I have not been the same since. From his devil-may-care attitude to his undying love for his family that pierces the veil of death to save the day, he really is the most. I have to say at the beginning that this episode of Holy Hell will not include discussions of Dean’s sexuality and gender. I’m saving that for its own episode, so stay tuned my pals.

What we know of Dean as he develops over the course of the first episode is: he’s been hunting, and hunting alone, he’s 26 years old, he drives a sweet ‘67 Impala, he wears an old leather jacket, he listens to 1980s metal, and he has an arsenal of weapons and supernatural fighting talismans in his trunk. He’s also a smartarse, one of his most endearing qualities. He gets defensive about their mother and her death, and he defends their father over and over. He’s a loyal son and brother. The impetus to bring Sam back into the hunting life, after Sam decided for good that he was going to leave, is to bring his fambily back together.

The quality that defines Dean Winchester is how much he loves he loves his fambily. In the first episode, he is so worried about his father that he recruits Sam to help look for him, even though Sam and Dean haven’t spoken in two years, and Sam ran away to college rather than continue to live with their father.  He spends most of the first season defending their father, but when John comes back and starts arguing with Sam, Dean protects his brother from John. It’s one of the most significant examples of character growth Dean undergoes throughout the entire series, and it’s where his loyalty shifts from John to Sam.

In the episode of season 2, “Croatoan,” Dean decides not to shoot Sam when Sam contracts the Croatoan virus which turns people rabid and makes them kill. In the next episode, “Hunted”, Dean reveals that John told him to kill Sam if Dean couldn’t save him. But Dean doesn’t. He says that John begged Dean not to tell Sam, but it’s not John’s words that keep Dean silent. It’s his love for Sam and Sam’s wellbeing. And this brotherly love slash codependency is used by characters throughout the entire series, from the demons in season 1 to the literal character of God in season 15, to manipulate Dean and Sam. As many characters have pointed out, including Dean and Sam themselves, they are each other’s weak points.  

At the end of season two, when Sam dies from a stab wound in his spine, Dean trades his own life for Sam’s. He makes a deal with a crossroads demon—his soul for Sam’s life—and subsequently dies and goes to hell at the end of season 3. Dean literally dies a gruesome death and spends forty years being tortured in hell because he couldn’t live without Sam. At the end of Season 8, Sam is dying from the effects of the trials, which he undergoes in order to close the gates of hell, and Dean convinces him to stop because, again, he can’t live without Sam. Sidenote: this is where I stopped being interested in their brotherly dynamic to the point of losing interest in the show. It became clear to me that the showrunners were more concerned with rehashing the same tired storylines between Sam and Dean than focus on characters who could expand the world and make the show better. In fact, they killed a lot of the interesting side characters in order to keep the show solely focused on the brothers. The exception to this is Castiel, and the reason they kept Cas around is because when he died in season 7 the ratings tanked. If that wasn’t a clear enough sign that the showrunners needed to open up the show to more than just Sam and Dean’s caustic dynamic in which they die and kill for and then betray and lie to each other over and over, then I just don’t know what the fans could have done to convince them. Nothing, apparently, because they ended the show with just Sam and Dean.

Dean’s relationship with John is fraught with insecurity and codependency. Dean has so little sense of self that what he does consider to be his carefully curated list of likes and dislikes were inherited directly from John: his car, his leather jacket, his hunting abilities, and his music taste. He also throws himself into hunts without any regard for his own safety, because he doesn’t believe that he is worth saving, or that his life is worth living. His personality is crafted from both John’s reliance on him as a son, hunter and partner in crime, and the woman he assumes Mary to be. Dean’s sense of self-worth relies on how many people he can save. This is why, in season 2 episode “What is and what should never be,” Dean’s dream reality is one in which he’s a low life loser who disappoints his family—because without John pushing him to be a hunter, Dean doesn’t save people, and because he doesn’t save people, he isn’t worth anything. Bear in mind that this is the best reality Dean’s mind could conjure for him: one in which his father is dead, and he himself is not worth saving.

In one of the most famous exchanges, he asks Cas why an angel would rescue him from hell, and Cas replies, “What’s the matter? You don’t think you deserve to be saved.” Twenty-nine years of bluster, insouciance, and a give-em-hell attitude crumbles in two sentences, wrought by a being Dean refuses to believe exists because, again, he doesn’t think that he deserves to be saved by them. He says, “[Why me? I don’t like getting singled out at birthday parties, let alone by God].” He thinks of himself so lowly that he accepted a one-year deal in exchange for Sam being alive. Dean cares so much about his family he lets it kill him.

But it’s not just Sam, Mary and John. Dean’s family grows to encompass a number of side characters: most notably Bobby their surrogate father, Charlie Bradbury the hacker, Claire Novak, Jack Kline, and Lisa and Ben Braeden. Even Mary makes another appearance in seasons 12 to 14. Unfortunately, because the show is the way it is, Dean puts Sam above all of these side characters, and then these characters are written out of the show. I should specify that Cas is not a side character; in most seasons, Misha Collins is billed as a main cast member, with his name appearing after Jensen Ackles in the credits. But he still dies in the third-last episode in order to have the show stay about the brothers. Even Jack, inarguably Cas and Dean’s son, is written out of the show in the second-last episode after dying multiple times. I say inarguably because I am not gonna argue with anyone about this. Claire and Jack are Dean and Cas’s kids. Dean and Cas are great parents who chaperone Jack’s prom and buy Claire her first hunting bow. They’re all one big happy, queer, neurodivergent family.

Dean loves the people in his life with reckless abandon. The times he’s excused Cas’s behaviour after Cas has done something ridiculous or foolish are too many to count. He grieves Cas’s multiple deaths, often succumbing to his alcoholism and entropy whenever Cas leaves him for more than a day. In a truly beautiful scene, Dean wraps Cas’s corpse in a curtain and watches, utterly and completely devastated, as his body burns. By this point, they have done so much for each other that it’s impossible to even envision the show without Cas, and indeed imagine Dean without his love for Cas. And we don’t have to for very long, as he always comes back a few episodes later. Even knowing this, the episodes where Dean mourns Cas are so heartbreaking and haunting that I cried for days after watching them.

Dean is great with kids, and every time he’s not is completely the fault of whoever is writing him in any given episode. We see him bonding with Lisa’s son Ben in season 3 and 6, Jesse in the season 5 episode “I Believe The Children Are Our Future,” and Lucas in the season one episode “Dead in the water”. With every child he meets, Dean gets on their level, empathising with them in a way most adults can’t. Like Claire and Jack, Dean has a complicated relationship with his father, who dies in the beginning of season 2 after bargaining his soul for Dean’s life to the demon that took their mother. Just like anyone else’s life, right? Must be Tuesday. This means Dean can relate to most children with traumatic backgrounds involving their parents, as a victim of parental abuse and having his mother die at age 4. I can’t find any sources to back this up, but a theory that rolled around in fandom was that Dean became mute after Mary died, which is what happens to Lucas after his father drowns. He says in “Dead In the Water” that he loves kids, and it’s true. As one tumblr user put it, Dean wanted to be baby trapped.

Dean carries the deaths and pain of his loved ones with him like Atlas carrying the world on his shoulders. When Claire is bitten by a werewolf, the characters administer blood of the sire wolf that bit her in order to cure her of her lycanthropy. Dean has to leave the room while she’s in pain, because he can’t bear to watch her die. The same goes for when Jack dies. Thankfully, Claire lives and Jack comes back a few episodes later.

When thinking about Dean being a father, I’m reminded of that scene from Scrubs when Dr Cox says he’s worried about being a father because his own dad was an abusive alcoholic. The difference between Dr Cox and Dean is that Dean doesn’t have his reservations about raising kids. He fits into Lisa and Ben’s life easily, at least for the first year, and we see a montage which includes him teaching Ben how to fix cars. When Claire lets her guard down enough to hug Dean, he hugs back just as hard. When he finally deals with the trauma of Cas dying in season 13, he accepts Jack into his life, and even grieves Jack when he dies. Dean escapes the intergenerational trauma that plagues his family by being a fantastic dad to the random kids who happen into his life by chance. He was born to be a father, and the fact that this show took that away from him and us as the audience makes me want to kick the showrunners into the sun.

Until season 6, Dean’s family only included men. The concept of the nuclear family—two sons, a husband and a wife—was ripped apart in the prologue of the first episode when Mary dies. Dean doesn’t know family for the first 5 seasons of the show outside Sam, John, Cas and Bobby. I do consider Ellen and Jo to be important to the story, but they’re only in a handful of episodes and die in season 5 for a reason that is plainly ridiculous. Did the Winchesters have to lose every single person in their lives to the fight? Clearly Kripke thought they were going to be cancelled after the fifth season, because it shows. And honestly? Maybe they should have. Let’s retroactively cancel the whole show. It can’t hold power over us anymore, because it’s dead and we cremated it.

But when Dean moves in with Lisa and Ben, he discovers a new type of family he didn’t have before, and new family dynamics. Instead of the 28-year-old son that Sam is to him, he takes the opportunity to teach Ben about cars and spend time with him and Lisa without the need to hunt. He gets a job, he makes some friends, and he lives the safe, apple pie life he begrudged Sam for in the pilot episode. It’s only when Sam reappears in his life that Dean’s codependency strikes again and he realises that he can’t live half in the normal world with Lisa and Ben and half in the hunting world with Sam. Sam says this himself in the first episode of Season 6, “Exile On Main Street”. Despite the ways Dean tried to settle down throughout the rest of the 9 seasons, the showrunners ultimately decided a man who was healing from trauma and alcoholism, who had adopted two kids as his own, and was learning how to bake cakes for his son’s birthday, deserved to die at the ripe age of 40, a week or so after he’d learned that his best friend was in love with him. You gotta laugh. Instead of getting the ending both Dean and we deserved—which was Dean settling down, opening a bar, and living the next forty years in relative gay peace while he got fat and watched Cheers reruns—well, we got something else. And I will always be bitter about that.

While it’s clear from the first season that he has reckless and suicidal tendencies, he doesn’t stop fighting to the bitter end. Even when faced with his own impending death in the season 2 premiere, “In my time of dying,” he fights to stay alive for Sam and John, while working the mystery that is overcoming his own death. Devastated as he is by Sam diving into hell at the end of season 5 and seemingly gone for good, Dean still gets up everyday and makes a life for himself in Lisa’s home. While season 6 was overall a bummer of a season, just god-awful in every aspect, saved from my complete vitriol only by “The French Mistake,” it did show us how great a dad Dean can be, and readied us for what was to come—being Claire and Jack’s dad. The lengths he goes to for his family are immense and all-consuming. As Cas says in “Despair”, Dean is a being of love. He loves everyone else, even when he can’t find it in him to love himself. He really thinks that he’s just a killer, not a father or a husband.

I’ve never subscribed to the idea that we have to love ourselves before we can love anyone else, or before anyone else can love us. Sorry Rupaul, you old bitch. We are all deserving of love, because love sustains us and helps us grow. And when we don’t know how to, it’s through loving others that we can learn to love ourselves. If Dean knew what a great father and friend and husband and brother he is, if he could see himself the way others, in the show and out of it, see him, I think he’d burst. You don’t like getting singled out at birthday parties? Well tough shit, Dean Winchester, because I’m gonna devote an entire podcast to you.

I talked about Dean’s carefully curated list of likes and dislikes before but I’ll go into more detail now. Things he likes: guns; rock and roll; nice cars; women; fighting; scamming people at pool; back alley blowjobs, probably; pie; driving across the country; Ozzy concerts; cowboy movies; being in control of every little thing in his life. His dislikes are: flying on planes; hair metal; angels and demons; anyone who harms his brother, his best friend or his kids; boredom; and being jerked around.

Okay I literally cannot talk about the cowboy movies without mentioning that he makes Cas watch them with him, in his Deancave, and the implications of that make my head roll off my body and into the dirt. Like they literally have gay little movie nights and watch their gay little cowboy movies together and Dean says all the gay little lines. I said I wasn’t going to talk about his sexuality, but mentioning cowboy movies leads to Cas wearing a cowboy hat and saying “I’m your Huckleberry.” This makes me insane. Excuse me, I must have my daily scream.

Okay, I’ve collected myself. Have I? Let’s just move on. In the Winchester tradition of inherited family trauma, Dean gets all of John’s interests, and Sam gets all of John’s mistakes. Dean’s personality throughout the show is basically quippy remarks, pop culture references, laughing with food in his mouth, and grouchiness. In case you haven’t realised, he is amazing to me. Every time he fires a rifle or pistol? Couldn’t be better. Eating a burger made of out donuts? Fucking incredible. Even when faced with beings with untold power, he doesn’t lose his cool. One of my favourite exchanges is when Zachariah comes to Chuck’s house in the first episode of season 5, “Sympathy For The Devil,” and starts soliloquising at him, Dean tells him to “cram it with walnuts, ugly.” Cram it with walnuts, ugly. It’s been ten years and that still makes me laugh. Top ten Dean lines for sure. Like all of my main characters throughout the years of writing original fiction are just “Dean Winchester but girl,” and I’m a good writer, but I can never come close to the level of hilarity that he achieves. And every single writer on the show seems to get that. The only times I can think of where Dean’s characterisation has irked me on a writing level are in season 6—basically the entire thing—and the way he treats Jack in the later seasons, specifically late season 15. But it’s really rare for me to watch an episode and not enjoy Dean. Even throughout the Mark Of Cain era, which I loved, when things were very serious, he had such style and panache and held himself so confidently that I was like, wait maybe he made some points? Maybe he should kill everyone?

Dean is a hunter and a killer, but that’s not all he is. He’s very skilled in hand to hand combat, weaponry, and tactical manoeuvres. Even when something doesn’t go exactly to plan, he’s usually able to improvise something to end up with a win. Because he is the main character, his choices and reactions, while sometimes extremely problematic, are never questioned, and that’s to his detriment. In the last episode of season 14, “Moriah,” Dean is unable to kill Jack, but in early season 15, he treats Jack’s betrayal as Cas’s fault, because he can’t take it out on Jack. Cas leaves, but it’s framed as a good thing because Cas is Jack’s father, and has to take responsibility for what Jack has done. In this instance, I don’t blame Cas at all. Okay I rarely blame Cas for anything, including the things he’s done wrong, because no he didn’t and you can’t prove it. But he especially didn’t do anything wrong when Jack killed Mary, and he didn’t do anything wrong by killing Belphagor. But by the middle of the season, in the episode “The Trap,” Dean admits his wrongdoing in taking his anger out on Cas, one of the only people who loves him without conditions. You’d think this would be a defining moment of character progression, but then Dean chooses to act exactly the same way by throwing Jack under the bus. Like, throwing him harder, under a bigger bus. So what was the point.

Anyway, those are choices the writers made, and not Dean.

Going back to what I was saying about being neurodivergent, Dean has adhd. I know this because I have adhd, and I’m Dean-coded. He’s wildly creative, impulsive, has a touch of OCD, and he has a hard time making long-lasting friends, although this is mostly due to how all his friends die. His best friend is an autistic angel and the only reason they’re still friends is because they’re obsessed with each other, in like a really unhealthy way. One of the funny things about his and Cas’s relationship is that every time you see them in the same shot, Cas is standing perfectly still and Dean is constantly moving. They are almost complete opposites, aside from their queerness and neurodivergence. But then, I haven’t met a single queer person in my entire life who isn’t neurodivergent or disabled in some way. That doesn’t mean we can’t live perfectly functional and normal lives, it just means we’re better than everyone else.  

Dean also exhibits black and white thinking—to him all felons are redeemable and all monsters should be killed. Felons are redeemable because he himself is a felon, and monsters should be killed because they all do monstrous things. When faced with the possibility of angels being real, he refuses to believe it for the first two episodes, because, as he says, “he’s never seen one.” Eventually he learns how to see in shades of grey and not kill every monster he meets, but this is because of his time in purgatory with Benny, his Cajun vampire boyfriend.

Another sign of Dean’s ADHD is physical sensitivity. In the season one episode “Bugs,” he comments on the shower’s water pressure. Like it’s a big deal to him, when he’s only ever used 1-star motel room showers. In the later seasons, he’s also seen to wear a fluffy robe and soft pajamas with hotdogs on them and socks that say “Send Noods” but noods spelt like noodles. And so he should! Dean deserves comfort! He’s a special boy.

ADHDers often have problems with executive function—remembering appointments, cleaning up after ourselves, showering, eating, even going to the toilet when we need to pee. The hunting life excludes Dean from the normal functions of usual life, such as dentist appointments, dropping the kids off at school, meal prepping for the week, or turning up to a job on time. These were only factors in Dean’s life during the gap between seasons 5 and 6 when he lived with Lisa and Ben, and it’s not shown how his executive dysfunction impacted his suburban, settled life, but Lisa does mention that Dean drinks a lot. It’s another thing he inherited from John, much as I did my alcoholism from my father, and my adhd too. But Sam doesn’t drink to excess more than a handful of times over the entire 15 seasons, whereas Dean subsists on alcohol to get through the day. At one point in season 11, I’m pretty sure, don’t fact check me, he is shown to be drinking a beer at about 10 in the morning, because, as he says to Sam, “You drank all the coffee. What do you want me to do? Drink water?” Dean your liver must be quaking.

Excess is a common problem for people with ADHD. We have problems with limiting ourselves—because our dopamine machine broke, anything that gives us a little bit of high—such as sugar, sex, alcohol, stimulants, any kind of food that is bad for us but tastes real good—we usually have it in excess because we can’t help ourselves. In the season 4 episode “It’s the Great Pumpkin, Sam Winchester,” Dean eats the entirety of the candy in the Impala. The only reasons I don’t eat everything in my fridge every day is because, one, I don’t have the money, and two, it’s all ingredients I have to prepare and not ready-made food. Whereas Dean has only known fast food for the first 10 or so seasons until he starts cooking and baking and settling into domesticity. Like anyone who gets UberEats every day instead of cooking for themselves knows how expensive that is. He also engages in meaningless sex, although people have pointed that Sam actually gets more on screen action than Dean. But I know a lot of amab people who engage in casual sex with randos because it satisfies a base need. Dean could be classified as hypersexual in some regards, but I know what hypersexuality feels like and it’s like this overwhelming miasma where you can’t think about anything except how horny you are, and I don’t think Dean has that normally. Maybe when he was a demon in season 10, but generally I think he can control himself.

His settled life in the men of letters Bunker is a far cry from his flashbacks in season 8 to Purgatory. From what we know of purgatory, the land of gods and monsters, it was a year-long monster hunt, but without any of the boring paperwork. Dean got to fight and kill as many vampires, ghouls, leviathan, etc as came his way, which is why it’s absolutely ridiculous that he died by rebar in a vampire fight. He spent an entire year spilling blood and chopping off heads, day and night, and he dies by metal bar to the spine? And he’s not even coughing up blood? Andrew Dabb, I’m coming for you. Of course purgatory is the perfect place for Dean because it’s constant adrenaline, constant excitement, constant stimulation, which is what every day life lacks. Even Dean’s every day life is like, 20% monster killing and the rest is leg work. They go weeks or months between cases, and sometimes don’t find the monster at all. So I’m not surprised he gets bored easily and drinks. Would if I could too, my pal.

Which leads me onto Dwelling. Dean dwells on the horrors of his life in a way I do and my carefree older brothers don’t. In the season 4 episode “Heaven and Hell,” he reveals to Sam that he remembers his entire forty years in hell, and there are flashes of his memory littered throughout the season in creepy, split-second increments. He dwells on the people who die, doing his thousand-yard stare into the funeral pyre of everyone they cremate. In the most egregious display of dwelling, he rewrites history TWICE to deal with his grief — in season 8 he makes himself believe that it was his fault Cas didn’t come back from purgatory with him, and again in season 13 he invents the story of Jack controlling Cas to deal with his grief over Cas’s death. His PTSD twists the truth until it becomes another way to torture himself, because if someone gets hurt it’s on him; everyone who loves him is just one more person to disappoint.

On a lighter note, Hyperfixations, equivalent to Autism special interests, are a common trait of ADHD. Some of Dean’s hyperfixations include: hunting in general; cowboys and cowboy movies; the musical Rent; the movie Braveheart; larping. He loves dressing up and acting, and what is putting on a monkey suit and lying about being a Fed if not larping? Oh god the meta of that coupled with the season 4 episode “The Monster At The End Of This Book” is making my head hurt. And actually, the next episode of Holy Hell is on the subject of meta-textuality so stick around if that’s something you enjoy.

One of the amazing things about ADHD is creativity. Since we’re easily bored and easily amused, we’re constantly pushing the boundaries of our curiosity. In season three episode “Bloodlust,” Dean decapitates a vampire with a miter saw, something that even veteran vampire hunter Gordon Walker comments is a thing of beauty. Dean creates a Ma’lak box in season 14 episode “Damaged Goods” as a way to contain Michael if he ever inhabits Dean’s body again. Dean is always making up words like “were-pire” and “Jefferson Starships,” and he has an almost encyclopaedic knowledge of pop culture, which he references in almost every line of dialogue. Like tv and movies raised me, but even I don’t understand a lot of his references. It’s almost like he’s a character in a tv show being written by dozens of people. But that’s not right. He’s a real person and my friend. My friend Dean Winchester, who shouts me burgers and passes out on my couch.

Also, I’m bragging now but as of the day of writing this I got my ADHD diagnosis and it feels so good to have a doctor, a psychiatrist in fact, confirm my belief. After about three or four years of figuring out I have adhd and then trying to make everyone else believe me when I say I do, it feels like a huge weight off. Dean deserved to feel that. He deserves to put a name to his differences and be in charge of his life instead of letting his anger, confusion and impulses control him. If anyone is worried that you might have something and don’t know whether to pursue a diagnosis, my two cents are that it has only improved my life. I was diagnosed with Bipolar Affective Disorder in 2014 and it allowed me to go on medication, which snapped me out of the worst period of anxiety I have ever gone through and also a psychotic episode that featured talking walls and a swarm of Christmas beetles. Trust me, we all need help sometimes, and some people like me need more help than others, but you can take control of the forces in your life that hold you back. As my mother used to say to me when I was a child, the world is your oyster. It really fucking does get better, and since I started on the right anti-depressants for me my life has improved so goddamn much. The world is fucked right now, and it’s impossible to even function on most levels. We all need therapy. I myself have a gp, a psychiatrist, and a psychologist and they keep me relatively sane. I would not be alive if I didn’t have years and years of ongoing therapy and good drugs. Plus I journal everyday and practice gratitude. I’m still crazy but the craziness is contained and doesn’t hurt me anymore.

Despite never going to therapy, Dean grows from being a loner with one friend (his own brother) to someone with a wealth of connections and family. He picks up new people to love like he’s velcro, and when he goes in he goes all in. He would die for the people he loves. He’s constantly putting himself in danger to protect his loved ones. In the Season 6 episode “Let It Bleed,” Dean captures and tortures demons in an effort to find out where Crowley took Lisa and Ben. He then has Cas wipe their memories so that they don’t remember him and can live their lives without him, at his own great distress. In season 5, he goes to Stull Cemetery to impinge on the fight between Lucifer and Michael, just to be there for Sam. As Dean says, he’s “not going to let him die alone.”

That being said, I do have to talk about Dean’s very few, but ultimately life-ruining, flaws. His emotional dysregulation makes his moods unpredictable at best. By virtue of his black and white thinking, he forces the people he loves to choose sides between him and other characters, such as Sam and Ruby, Cas and Crowley, Mary and the british men of letters, and Cas and Jack, and when they don’t choose him, he passively aggressively, and sometimes just aggressively, tortures them until something else usurps their betrayal. His anger issues are par to none, and often get him in a lot of trouble. But since he is the main character, he never really faces consequences for this, and neither does he mature. Even in the final season episode “The Trap,” while Dean admits how angry he is and how wrong he was for taking it out on Cas when Jack died, mere episodes later in “Unity” he turns Jack into a nuclear reactor to take out God, and Jack dies again. His characterisation in the last few seasons, especially in regards to Jack, is all over the place. I would have to start a murderboard to explain how Dean feels about Jack and how he reacts to what Jack does in every episode. Like, pictures and red string and everything. And even then I would not be able to comprehend exactly what the writers did and what they thought they were doing.

But unlike me, Dean always believes the best in people until proven otherwise, and he does always come around to the people who atone for their sins. Even when Sam refuses to get his soul back in season 6, Dean keeps trying until Sam is put right. Between seasons 7 and 8, He spends a year in Purgatory looking for Cas despite how Cas sent Sam insane, ingested billions of monster souls, and became God. When the people he loves choose him, he chooses them back.

But even when they betray him, lie to him, deceive him, and hurt the other people in his life, he can’t stop loving them. He never stops loving Sam or Cas or Jack or Mary or John or Bobby. He loves with everything he has. He is, as Cas says, a being of love.

Oof. That was a lot of words and I feel like I only just scratched the surface. Like realistically I just talked about fambily and ADHD. There is just so much to Dean Winchester that maybe I’ll make another episode sometime. But I am definitely making an episode purely about Dean’s gender presentation and sexuality in the future. You can find the show at holyhellpod on Tumblr where I post transcripts for the episodes and Instagram where I post memes.

I don’t see myself doing an episode about Sam any time soon, Not because I don’t like Sam, but because I can’t stand Jared Padalecki. He’s done some things that I can’t support, and I’m really bad at separating the art from the artist. Especially when it’s something like Supernatural, which is not art. Supernatural is an experiment. It’s not Johnny B. Goode by Chuck Berry. Like Jared Padalecki didn’t invent rock and roll, you know what I’m saying? However, if you really want me to do an episode about Sam, you can pay me 101 Australian dollars and 50 Australian cents at patreon.com/holyhellpod. I’ll talk to you next time.

Links

http://www.scififantasynetwork.com/dean-winchester-has-adhd/

[renee-writer]

Songs of An Outlander Chapter 11 The Darkness Was Total

In that room, deep in the darkness, Geneva is forced to watch as the two men have sex. She is filled with sickness and regret. If it wasn’t for the duel that killed her father, she would be married to a rich man and not forced to be working for these two.

After they are through, Black Jack turns to her. “Now, it is time for the other games to begin." He walks over to her and her darkness is total. She never sees the light again.

Jamie, Claire, and Murtagh head home.

“I really felt uncomfortable around Lt. Grey. I was shocked to see him with a woman. I wonder if Lt. Randall is there too.”

“From what you two have told me, I agree.” Murtagh responds with a ‘ hmmpf’. “Claire will you take Murtagh with you when you go to work at the hospital and I would feel more comfortable if Mary didn’t take Fergus out of the house without a male member of the staff.”

“I agree with all that.”

When they got home, they head in to check on Fergus. They find both him and Mary asleep. They both kiss the baby's head before slipping out.

“Claire, will you join me in bed tonight. I would sleep better if I feel you beside me.”

“Yes but you come to my bed. Also please remind me to tell you and Fergus the rest of Snow White tomorrow.”

“Aye Claire, I will. I am anxious to hear how the tale ends.” She smiles and turns to her room. He follows. He helps loosen her laces and such with shaking hands. He then slips down to his own shirt before joining her.

She curls up against him. “Some day my prince will come.” She softly sings before kissing his belly. He shivers. She sings the verse over before kissing his chest where his shirt is open. She then finds his lips and the song is forgotten. Later, as they both are falling asleep, she whispers, “I do love you Jamie Fraser.” He smiles as they both drift off.

A few days later, they receive another invite from the king. He invites them to a garden party with the instructions to bring more of his ‘ fabulous spirits'. He also asks Jamie’s expertise on horse flesh be utilized.

“A garden party isn’t as fancy. It won't require such an extravagant dress.” Jamie relays as he tells her of the invite.

“I thought you liked my red dress.” Said with an arched eyebrow and a smirk.

“Oh I do. Really. But, it seems I should be the only one with such a favored view.”

“Touche'. So, shall we take Mary and Fergus?”

“No. I think with all that is going on, they would be safer here under Murtagh’s watchful eye.”

In the end she choices a brown and yellow dress that flares wonderfully about her under the bell skirt. The bondice is high and tight to Jamie's relief. He is dressed every inch the Scottish gentleman, with the only difference that he wears tight breeks instead of a free flowing kilt, to his intends dissatisfaction.

“It is easier for riding. Besides, I didn’t wish the French lasses wondering about what is under it, aye?”

“Yes I agree with that.”

They arrive that Sunday with two cases of wine that they give to the steward. As they stroll in arm in arm, they are approached by Louise', a French lady of Claire’s former acquaintance.

“He is a handsome one, your Scott. You are keeping him, oui'?”

“Oui'. That I am.” They walk farther in and the king comes up. The ladies curtsy and Jamie bows. “Your Majesty.” He says for the group.

“James, it is so good you are here, you and your lovely intended. I am assured you brought some of your lovely wine?”

“Aye, your Majesty. It is with your steward.”

“Tre' bien.” Another man approach’s and Claire feels Jamie tighten up beside her. “Allow me to introduce the Duke of Sandringham. Lord James Fraser and his intended, Lady Claire Beauchamp.” They bow and curtsy to each other. That is when Lt. Randall approaches. Claire shudders and Jamie steps half way in front of her.

“Lt. Randall, you enter my court in the uniform of the English. It isn’t done sir.”

“My pardon, sire.” He bows but all around can feel his contempt. The king, in clear dismissal, turns his back towards him and towards Jamie and Claire.

“Shall we go check out the horses James, with Miss Beauchamp, of course?”

“Aye your Majesty.” They walk away but they can feel the others eyes on them. Claire holds tighter to Jamie.

As they leave, the Duke turns to Randall. “What are you doing here? I told you to stay away. I can handle this without you or your beastly ways. The prince is in Paris trying to raise money for the cause. I wish to stop him without the drama you bring.”

“I don't give a bloody hell about your politics. That bitch got away from John and I before we could have any fun. I want her to pay and him,” he stops and licks his foul lips,” Well him I just want.”

“As do I. I want to see him punished for what his family did. Stealing my money and land. A Duke in name only. It is intolerable. Any money raised for the cause, well, I shall see it comes to me.”

As they walk behind the King, Claire whispers to Jamie, “Don't trust the Duke. He is a traitor playing both sides against the middle. A pretend Jacobite that would see the prince dead.”

“That weasel. He doesn’t even deserve to be called a Duke.”

“Agree. I will tell you more at home.” He stop for a quick kiss before they hurry to catch up to His Highness.

At the house, Mary sits in the Great Room with Fergus, stacking blocks with him. They both laugh as he knocks the tower down.

“You naughty boy.” She teases.

Suddenly the peace is shattered as the body of Geneva is hurled through the window.

[tuwasduwillst]

Shadowbringers (pt 4/end)

This just has spoilers for everything, basically. :U I finished it and don’t feel like splitting stuff up because I have over 1k screenshots to go through...

Katana-bearing Centurion: Besides, there is but one hand that can make me whole again. My enemy... my friend...

He probably just says “friend” there in Japanese, but I don’t have my whole game switched, so I don’t get to know for sure. Good to know you’re still being weird, Zenos.

Don’t you smirk at me like that, mister.

Here’s Urianger being handsome, as usual

I hated fighting this old dude as Thancred.

1) I still can’t believe he can easily take out the WoL like he did

2) Stop making me be sword dudes!!

3) I get why they wanted people to see the dialogue here, but it was so slooooow and I died once near the end and had to do it all over again and ughhh, just go away

Ryne looks cute with her new hair and eyes, at least. :) Thancred is still a bad dad, but at least he’s doing better now... I guess.

Also, Urianger’s reaction to finding out that Thancred was paying attention to some of his talks about pixies was really good, haha.

...I wanna listen to Urianger give a pixie lecture...

Wow

This was something the game threw together when I asked it to pick recommended gear. It’s... some kind of look.

The Exarch/G’raha Tia is a qt. Y’know, I figured it was probably G’raha Tia, but I didn’t remember him being so short... and the lack of cat ears also made me doubt myself, haha.

I’m really glad I did the Crystal Tower stuff, though, because otherwise I’d... well, I’d still think that G’raha Tia/the Exarch is cute and like him a lot, but it wouldn’t have had the same impact.

I took a bunch of screenshots of Mikh’a. :U

& Emet-Selch, ofc

that one old dude: If you would pass me, you must endure all that I have learned on the battlefield... For I am a weapon forged in the fires of war!

~*oooh, I’m so scared of you and your tiny amount of health left*~

My MP doesn’t even have a dent in it, really. This is why I had such a hard time believing this dude could take out the WoL!! Even the first time we fought, I had tons of MP available to me and could’ve made a full recovery from being brought down to 1 HP. (...well, I have Benediction which is kind of cheating, but still.)

At least this was the last time I had to deal with him. He’s probably the worst thing about the expansion, which I guess I can deal with since the rest of it was so good.

Lots of really pretty screenshot opportunities in this expansion. c:

Mt. Gulg is something I thought was common to a bunch of FF games for some reason, but apparently it was in the original Final Fantasy, FFIX, and some random spin-off games. Weird.

How did Mikh’a hear him talking from that far away??

Emet-Selch has such a good design and you can tell that a lot of work was put into him. The expressions he makes, the way he stands and walks--it’s all unique to him and it makes him stand out a lot.

Even after everything that happened in the expansion, I’m really fond of him. They made the right move in having him kind of forge a more personal relationship with you/the WoL, because if he hadn’t been obnoxious in the background throughout most of the expansion it wouldn’t have been anywhere near as interesting/good as it ended up being.

I obviously chose to say that they were all Alphinaud’s assistants. :P

This little scene was so cute... lali-hos for everyone...

Crystal Exarch: Ugh! I would thank you not to shoot me!

I’m sorryyyyyy ; ~; You were there and I wanted to see what would happen!!!

Crystal Exarch: Ah heh... It may interest you to know that Mikh’a is a great hero in the land whence he hails. Some would say the greatest.

This little venture made me feel like I’d suddenly gotten married and adopted a child

(Which I’d be totally fine with, tbh.)

I loved this thing, actually!! I got to heal G’raha Tia, he healed me, we both healed our new tiny dwarf child, it was great.

c:

I’m still using the Mogrod. I’m never going to stop using it. Give me another thing that has a flower and swirly rainbows all over and maybe I’ll switch weapons, but until then? No.

...unless there’s, like... a really, really pretty plant weapon, especially if it matches Mikh’a’s outfit... but I don’t think there is.

I got to put my bubble on them. :D

He’s so cuuuuuute. And Mikh’a clearly agrees with my thoughts on him, considering the expression on his face when he looks at him.

One of the reasons I keep Mikh’a wearing the WHM gear is because I really like the contrast I get--a lot of the major characters wear black, so it looks nice when they stand next to each other. :D

Katana-bearing Centurion: The whereabouts of my one true friend, however--they interest me greatly. I but hope the beasts of this “First” are providing him proper sport.

Zenos is so funny to me. He just pops up like “did someone mention my friend” while his dad and Elidibus are having a serious conversation.

Innocence has beautiful hair and if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes I’d never believe that he was Vauthry.

You can kind of see @tarifu in this screenshot! :D

You can definitely see her here--wait... why is half the party wearing dwarf beard outfits...

This is probably weird to say, but I genuinely like when characters I play in games like this suffer/are in pain. Not, like... constantly. I just like it when NPCs get to express concern and you aren’t some kind of unbreakable hero 24/7. >_>

Obviously I was going to say his name, who wouldn’t.

This made me cry!! I thought he was dead. :C

But thankfully Emet-Selch didn’t want him dead, so he did not die.

...why’d he even need a gun? Has he always had a gun?

I wish I could just float off into the sky after ruining everything and being a big jerk

sad kitty

I died when I came here with Jack and Mari because I didn’t realize I was being targeted by the boss until it was too late. :,)

I got to practice using my shield, though!! I’m not used to having one so I’m not super great at remembering it exists and using it; the tether thing is a good visual for “this specific person is going to be damaged soon and a shield would be Good”. ...unless everyone’s bunched up and I can’t tell who has it until it’s too late, I guess.

I know I’m level 80 now, but there’s still a lot I haven’t done and I’m still trying to figure out what the best way to do things is sometimes... I still need to mess with my hotbars and stuff, actually. I think I might switch some things around more than I already have, because some useful things aren’t as easy to use as they could/should be and I’ve been wanting to mess around with stuff for a while. The Trust dungeons should be a really good opportunity to test new configurations! Or the squad dungeons, I guess. :/a

I’m still not Ardbert’s biggest fan, but I don’t dislike him.

Poor Urianger, getting stuck with the role of the only other person to know the Exarch’s plans. :(

& then everyone died going to the bottom of the sea and the game ended

I got to help put dwarf helmets on sineaters :U

I also remembered that I have fancy wings now, wheee

I got a nice new outfit after doing my last Healer role quest! :D I like it a lot~ The whites are brighter than the last outfit, and the bit in back accommodates his tail much better than the corset did.

I might play around with mixing and matching some pieces once I get newer stuff, but for now this is what I’ve got! c:

...and I refuse to wear the hat. 100%. I’m not making Mikh’a look like a weird nun. :|

Amaurot was really good, even if being there mostly just made me sad. >_> The not-people were so cute and nice, though...

Big

The WoL hanging out on this giant bench is so cute.

I liked getting to talk to Emet-Selch’s friend. c: Well... kind of, anyway. Since it’s not really his friend...

tiny

Emet-Selch: I have broken bread with you, fought with you, grown ill, grown old! Sired children and yes, welcomed death’s sweet embrace.

I still don’t 100% understand how Ascians work, but I guess it’s canon that Emet-Selch fucks :/a

I regret typing that, I think, but it is apparently true

i think your fireplace has something wrong with it

Really though, this dungeon was excellent.

Alisaie decided that she wanted to LB right as one of the bosses was doing one of those “hide behind a rock Or You Will Die” things so she died & I accidentally walked right off the edge near the end of the last boss fight (oops), but other than that things went okay!

D:

ardbert could you please clean your axe somehow before you point it at me like that. tia

This was a really neat moment :U

I’m not calling Emet-Selch Hades ever. Sorry, Emet-Selch.

I was kind of afraid to do this trial and almost waited until someone would be able to do it with me, but it really wasn’t that bad in the end!

...except for when I died five times to the same attack... orz It was that arm-sweeping one, too, so it’s not like it’s not obvious that it’s coming. My problem was that I kept getting Raised in bad places right before it happened, so he basically just kept smacking me down over and over again.

(Which was partially my fault, because I should’ve waited to accept the Raise until I knew it was safe to be alive, but... I don’t like leaving the other healer alone and I don’t want to just be lying there uselessly if I can avoid it.)

Fortunately(?) the party wiped due to something completely unrelated (a failed mechanic I had nothing to do with) and I didn’t die at all the second time around! So at least there was that.

I liked this bit in the dark. c:

I also liked when I got trapped in the bubble and didn’t have to do anything. Thanks, Emet-Selch!

Genuinely though, it was a nice little chance for me to calm the hell down because my anxiety was getting real bad before/during this fight. >_>

Poor dude. :c Obviously he’s responsible for some absolutely terrible things and I’m not going to try to deny that or anything, but he’s lived for so long and he’s had to deal with the loss of basically everyone he ever cared about for that whole time. He recreated that entire city and all of its people, that’s how much he cared.

Still no excuse for basically trying to kill all of the people he didn’t consider “real”! But also still sad, IMO.

This made me go “awww” out loud and start to tear up, haha...

I didn’t want to leave him ; ~;

Estinien said a full sentence here about how these guards were dead, too (in a way that implied he assumed that’s what they’d find), and the localization translated it as “hmph”. Kind of a weird choice there, but okay.

Zenos basically went Full Yandere since he killed his father just because he could potentially get in the way of his thing with the WoL, so... that’s something that’s going to have to be dealt with at some point.

I’m interested in seeing how things go, but I’m also a wee bit concerned that other people might get caught up in whatever this obsession is. I don’t want anyone to get hurt or killed because of Zenos’s yandere tendencies. :(

Elidibus is being Boring on the moon.

But who cares about that! I got to lead a Girl Scout meeting for my level 80 WHM quest.

Oh! Almost forgot about the story I got to tell the girls: “The tale of a man who crossed time and space to save the world... and me.”

I think the second one is about (original) Minfilia, maybe? :/a I wanted to tell them about G’raha Tia, though.

Aaaand that’s all I’ve done! \o/ I unlocked a new dungeon and I know there’s more than one post-80 dungeon, so I’ll probably check those out when I get a chance... but I finished the main stuff.

Which is kinda weird, because now I’m done again, haha... but I’ve got plenty of stuff to do before the next new stuff comes out. Especially since I discovered that Vamo alla Flamenco is the “dancer’s theme”, apparently. Need to dance ASAP >:O

[simplyshelbs16xoxo]

‘Spellbound: All Hallow’s Eve’ Chapter 2: Can’t Shake This Feeling

“H-how the bloody hell did you do that!?” Lestrade asked in a panic.

“You’ve had too much to drink,” was Sherlock’s reply.

“Sherlock!” Molly scolded him.

“I’m gonna need a drink,” replied the detective inspector.

“You won’t believe us even if we told you,” Sherlock continued, hoping Greg would just decide that ignorance is bliss.

“After seeing a dead man sit up, I think I’d believe anything at this point,” Greg pointed out.

“He’s right, darling,” Molly agreed.

“Oh, very well. You can explain it more gently than I.”

Lestrade listened closely to what he was being told. If anything, it made sense to him that his friends were a witch and a werewolf. It definitely explained why Sherlock refused to takes cases during a full moon. Molly told him the entire tale of their séance with Moriarty’s ghost and Irene’s vampiric nature.

“A murderous ghost…that’s a new one,” Greg laughed nervously. “A perfect crime if ever I heard of one.”

“You won’t say anything, right?” Molly’s worried expression was plain as the nose on her face.

“Betray you two? I’d sooner spend the day with Anderson,” he assured them.

“And that’s when you know he means it,” Sherlock remarked, rather amused.

Later that night, Molly was in a fitful sleep. She tossed and turned countless times, unable to rid herself of the nightmare. Horrifying images plagued her mind; nails painted crimson red, a woman strangled in a back alley, and Sherlock bleeding just below his naval. A man’s bone-chilling laugh could be heard during the latter image.

Sherlock woke to the sound of his wife’s scream, thoroughly surprised it didn’t wake Victoria.

“Molly, wake up,” he urged her. “Look at me; it’s just a nightmare.”

“Sherlock,” she breathed heavily. “You’re okay. Oh thank God you’re okay.”

“Of course I’m okay, why wouldn’t I be?” He took her hand in his, immediately chilling him. “You’re ice cold. What’s happened?”

“I-I think I had a vision,” she admitted.

“Of the future?” he asked.

“I assume so, though I hope that last one never happens.” Her voice was tremulous at this point.

“Tell me; maybe it can be prevented,” Sherlock assured her.

“You were lying on the ground; cold concrete,” she began. “You were bleeding from below your naval. While not entirely fatal, it would’ve needed medical attention quickly.”

“Is there anything else you remember?”

“A man’s laugh; it was so malicious, it chilled me to the bone,” Molly told him. “I’ve no idea what it means other than you’re in danger. Before that, I saw crimson nails, and a strangled woman in a back alley of London.”

Wrapping his arms around her, Sherlock comforted his wife as best as he could. Molly clung onto him, welcoming his embrace.

“What are we going to do?” she trembled.

“There isn’t much we can do at the moment,” he pointed out. “But we should at least tell John and Mary.” He pressed a kiss into her hair. “After all, Mary is in your coven. We’ll have more power on our side than we did last time.”

Molly agreed. It was the most logical thing to do, of course. She settled comfortably in his arms, eventually lulled to sleep by her husband singing softly to her just as he did for Victoria. Tomorrow, they’d tell their friends what to look out for.

She followed a man to Leinster Gardens, keeping far enough away as to go unnoticed, but close enough to not lose the trail. Her light brown eyes kept an eye through the veil, watching as the adulterous husband searched for his mistress. Oh, he believed it to be another secret meeting, but never considered it was the night he’d meet his doom.

‘It’s time,’ she thought with a sinister satisfaction.

 “Who’s there?” The man called out. “I demand you show yourself at once!”

That’s when the singing began. It was too soft to make out the words, but it was alarming enough to send chills up his spine. Feeling breath on the back of his neck, he turned around slowly.

“You broke your vows,” she whispered, raising her dagger high.

“Stay away!” he shouted.

A light turned on, distracting them both. When the man turned back to face her, she had disappeared.

Mary Watson set down Molly’s cup of tea. John and Sherlock had been called in by Greg to take a look at the murder scene of Gwendoline Beauchamp, who had been strangled with nothing other than gloved hands.

“You’re more experienced, Mary…there’s gotta be something I can do to prevent my vision,” Molly fretted. “The crimson nails probably belong to the murderer of Milton, and now this strangled woman I saw in my nightmare.”

“I’m sorry, poppet, but there’s nothing more to be done. The visions aren’t there for us to prevent them; only to help prepare us for what’s to come,” Mary informed her sympathetically.

The sound of squealing, happy babies averted their attention momentarily. Rosie and Victoria were keeping themselves occupied in the playpen.

“The best you can do is making sure you’re always prepared at a moment’s notice if Sherlock should ever meet his fate in your vision,” Mary continued. “I wish I could do more, but the most I can offer is helping you with a tracking spell once we find out who has a vendetta against Sherlock.”

“Mary, there’s so many people it could be,” Molly pointed out. “I could probably write up pages of names.”

“Well, supernaturally speaking, is there anyone who may want to avenge Moriarty or Irene?” she inquired.

“Kate was Irene’s closest ally, but only because she had been sired by her,” Molly explained. “As for Moriarty…it could be anyone. He never let on who his allies were.”

“I’ve got an idea,” Mary smirked.

Molly couldn’t get a word out before her friend began setting out vials and a couple of herbs.

“This should help you focus your mind and allow you to control what your next vision shows you,” Mary explained.

“How very useful,” Molly remarked, her burden lifting off her ever so slightly. “Yes, this should be perfect.”

Fingers drummed against the shabby wooden table in the old warehouse.

“About time you showed up,” remarked a man with a slight Irish accent.

The man who had just entered to warehouse stood for a moment in silence before tossing his gun on the torn sofa.

“Bad time at the club?” the Irishman asked.

“Was caught cheating and this hotshot—Adair—threatened to expose me,” he replied.

“So, what’d you do then?”

“What I’m good at—I killed ‘im.”

“Ah, well. I do hope you were conspicuous. Holmes is onto us, Sebastian.”

FFN | AO3 | Buy Me a Coffee?

[learnarabiconline]

Children in Islam, Part 1

Pre-Islamic Arabia was very much centered around adult males. Unsurprisingly, then, the society in which they lived was very much rigged in their favor. Women and children were often an afterthought, with few rules in place to ensure their health and wellbeing. This began to change when Muhammad received his first revelation from Allah. Throughout his prophethood, Muhammad would receive multiple messages from Allah detailing what Muslims were to do in order to create a better world for women and children. These passages were later included in the Glorious Quran. Meanwhile, Muhammad's personal teachings regarding the importance of caring for women and children were compiled in the Hadith.

In a previous article, we examined, in great detail, what the Quran and the Hadith have to tell us about women. There, we found that Islam is dedicated to honoring and caring for females of all faiths, despite what anti-Islamic propaganda claims. In this article - the first in a two-part series - we will be discussing the Quran's teachings on children and how they should be treated. We will also be examining relevant passages of the Hadith to see how they compliment and, in some cases, shed further light upon the contents of the Quran. Here is what Islam teaches about children.

We Are Obligated To Care For Children

In pre-Islamic Arabia, there was a great stigma attached to female babies. This was particularly true in the case of poor families, as women generally didn't work at the time. This meant poor families who dedicated their resources to raising a female child could not expect that child to go out and earn enough money to support the family when she became old enough to get a job. As a result, many couples who conceived a female baby did the unthinkable and abandoned it immediately after birth. The baby would perish in the wilderness and the parents, in most cases, would repeat the process until they sired a male who could grow up to support them in their old age. It was a horrible practice and was one of the very first things Allah brought an end to with the Quran. In Surah Al-An'am, we are told the following:

"Say, 'Come, I will recite what your Lord has prohibited to you. [He commands] that you not associate anything with Him, and to parents, good treatment, and do not kill your children out of poverty; We will provide for you and them. And do not approach immoralities - what is apparent of them and what is concealed. And do not kill the soul which Allah has forbidden [to be killed] except by [legal] right. This has He instructed you that you may use reason.'"

Quran, 6:151

Of all the passages of the Quran - some of which refer to him directly - the above extract must have hit home with Muhammad like no other. Muhammad's father died before he was born. His mother would pass away when he was still a child, leaving him an orphan at just six years old. Although he was a member of the Banu Hashim clan, Muhammad's family was not willing to take on the burden of caring for the young boy. The clan's finances were in disarray and the prospect of an extra expense was enough for many members of the clan to call for the abandonment of the child. Finally, Muhammad's grandfather stepped up to care for him. Upon his grandfather's death, Muhammad was subjected to similar calls to either put him to work or leave him to fend for himself. Muhammad's uncle, Abu Talib, eventually agreed to care for the future prophet and, by all accounts, their relationship was a happy one. However, the poor fortune of the Banu Hashim meant Muhammad was forced to join a trade caravan at an age much younger than most boys started working in Arabian society.

Because of the hardships he experienced as a child, Muhammad knew how vulnerable poor children could be. He was also familiar with the fear a child felt when they were faced the prospect of being left to starve or be eaten alive. Therefore, he likely delighted in bringing the above Quranic extract to his followers. It commands all families, be they rich or poor, to care for their children, meaning no child would have to suffer as he did.

A similar passage of the Quran speaks out about the mistreatment of female children specifically. Found in Surah An-Nahl. It reads:

"And when the news of (the birth of) a female (child) is brought to any of them, his face becomes dark, and he is filled with inward grief! He hides himself from the people because of the evil of that whereof he has been informed. Shall he keep her with dishonor or bury her in the earth? Certainly, evil is their decision."

Quran 16:58 - 59

Muhammad personally condemned the practice of abandoning or burying children -particularly female children - on multiple occasions. In Sunan Abu Dawood, for example, we find the following Hadith:

Narrated Abdullah ibn Abbas: "The Prophet (peace be upon him) said: 'If anyone has a female child, and does not bury her alive, or slight her, or prefer his children (i.e. the male ones) to her, Allah will bring him into Paradise.'"

Sunan Abu Dawood

This Hadith stands out among similar Hadith owing to Muhammad's declaration that a man may be permitted into paradise for not burying his daughter alive. It drives home just how prevalent this practice was in the time of Muhammad. It was so common among non-Muslims that to have a female child and raise her fairly and justly into adulthood was considered an act worthy of entering Paradise. It is important to remember, however, that this reward was likely in place to break a centuries-old cultural tradition. What's more, it achieved this goal and then some. Today, this practice has, thankfully, been entirely stamped out. For this reason, most scholars agree one cannot enter Paradise by simply having and raising a female child. While it is certainly a noble feat, one must abide by the additional principles of Islam if they wish to avoid the Hell fire on the Day of Judgment.

Allah Protects Children And Their Parents

Raising a child alone is incredibly difficult. Even a husband and wife, who have each other to rely on for support, will find parenthood an incredible challenge. Muslim parents, however, will always be able to rely on assistance from Allah to ensure their children reach adulthood safe and sound. The Quran informs readers that Allah will always be with them as they face the trials and tribulations of parenthood. It also advises them to secure His guidance and protection by remembering Him throughout all stages of parenthood. This includes the act of conception itself. In the below Hadith from Sahih al-Bukhari, Muhammad commands his followers to preface the act of sexual intercourse with the following declaration:

"I begin with the Name of God!O God! Protect me from Satan and protect what You bestow upon us (our offspring) from Satan."

Sahih al-Bukhari

This echoes a similar supplication made by the wife of Imran in the Quran. Imran and his wife entered into old age without ever having conceived a child. This perturbed the couple greatly, particularly the wife of Imran, who yearned to taste the joys of parenthood. In desperation, she cried upon Allah:

"[Mention, O Muhammad], when the wife of 'Imran said, 'My Lord, indeed I have pledged to You what is in my womb, consecrated [for Your service], so accept this from me. Indeed, You are the Hearing, the Knowing.'"

Quran, 3:35

Allah heard the pleas of Imran and his wife and did indeed bless them with a child. In fact, not only did He bless them with a child, but He blessed them with a daughter who would be elevated among all other females. That daughter was Mary, the mother of Jesus. Throughout the Quran, Mary is praised as the greatest of all women, with frequent reference being made to her purity and devotion to Allah. One has to assume Allah blessed Imran and his wife with such a marvelous daughter owing to their recognition of His important role in the process of conceiving and raising a child. Zechariah, who was tasked with caring for Mary throughout her childhood, also understood the importance of seeking Allah's assistance. In Surah Ali Imran, the Quran tells us of a plea made by Zechariah to ensure Mary would grow up to be devoted to the cause of the believers. It reads:

"So her Lord accepted her with good acceptance and caused her to grow in a good manner and put her in the care of Zechariah. Every time Zechariah entered upon her in the prayer chamber, he found with her provision. He said, 'O Mary, from where is this [coming] to you?' She said, 'It is from Allah . Indeed, Allah provides for whom He wills without account.' At that, Zechariah called upon his Lord, saying, 'My Lord, grant me from Yourself a good offspring. Indeed, You are the Hearer of supplication.'"

Quran, 3:37 - 38

Children Are Guaranteed A Place In Paradise

During the time of Muhammad, it was not uncommon for a child to die before reaching adulthood. Even parents who did everything they could to care for their children and treat them with the love and devotion mandated by Islam sometimes lost their children. While childhood deaths have decreased markedly in the millinnea since the Quran was revealed to Muhammad, they do still occur in some tragic circumstances. Parents who lose a child today grieve just as much as parents who lost a child in the time of Muhammad, if not more so considering the relative rarity of such a tragedy today. However, grieving parents of all eras can find some degree of solace in the words of the Quran. In Surah At-Tur, while discussing the joys which await believers in Paradise, the Quran tells us:

"Enjoying what their Lord has given them, and their Lord protected them from the punishment of Hellfire. [They will be told], "Eat and drink in satisfaction for what you used to do." They will be reclining on thrones lined up, and We will marry them to fair women with large, [beautiful] eyes. And those who believed and whose descendants followed them in faith - We will join with them their descendants, and We will not deprive them of anything of their deeds. Every person, for what he earned, is retained."

Quran, 52:18 - 21

From these verses, we can assume that those who do not live long enough to stray from the commandments of Allah will follow their believing relatives straight into Paradise. Children who perished before being able to confirm belief or disbelief, will not be held accountable for their sins, as Allah understands children act without full comprehension of their actions or their consequences. Much like the earlier examined extract from Surah Al-An'am, the above verse must have hit close to home for Muhammad. Alongside his first wife, Khadijah, Muhammad had two sons. He later sired a third son with Mariaal-Qibtiyya. Tragically, all three of the Prophet's sons died in infancy. A particularly tear-jerking Hadith in Sahih al-Bukhari recalls Muhammad's reaction to the passing of Ibrahim, his third and final son.

Narrated Anas bin Malik: "We went with Allah's Messenger to the blacksmith Abu Saif, and he was the husband of the wet-nurse of Ibrahim (the son of the Prophet). Allah's Messenger took Ibrahim and kissed him and smelled him and later we entered Abu Saif's house and at that time Ibrahim was in his last breaths, and the eyes of Allah's Messenger started shedding tears. `Abdur Rahman bin `Auf said, 'O Allah's Apostle, even you are weeping!' He said, 'O Ibn `Auf, this is mercy.' Then he wept more and said, 'The eyes are shedding tears and the heart is grieved, and we will not say except what pleases our Lord, O Ibrahim! Indeed we are grieved by your separation.'"

Sahih al-Bukhari

The above Hadith is important as it reminds us that Muhammad, despite his prophethood, was human, just like the rest of us. Much to the surprise of those who witnessed his grief, he mourned the loss of his son just as any other parent who has experienced the trauma of losing a child. However, Muhammad no doubt took solace in the knowledge that his child would enter Paradise and be cared for by one of Allah's greatest prophets. According to the following Hadith, all children who perish before their parents will fall into the care of Abraham while they await their parents' arrival into Paradise:

"Allah's Apostle very often used to ask his companions, 'Did any of you see a dream?' So dreams would be narrated to him by those whom Allah wished to tell. One morning, the Prophet Muhammad said 'Last night, two persons came to me (in a dream) and woke me up and said to me 'Proceed!' I set out with them' He mentioned things and places that he had seen, and then he said, 'We proceeded and we reached a garden of deep green dense vegetation, having all sorts of spring colors. In the midst of the garden there was a very tall man and I could hardly see his head because of his great height, and around him there were children in such a large number as I have never seen. I said to my companions, 'Who is this?' They replied 'Proceed! Proceed!' Then among the things that the two companions said to him was: 'The tall man whom you saw in the garden is Ibrahim and the children around him are those children who die with Al-Fitrah.'"

Sahih al-Bukhari

Conclusion

When the Quran was first revealed to the prophet Muhammad, it not only provided a series of legal and theological insights, but it also gave rights to some of the most vulnerable people in society. Its devotion to children was something which was entirely unheard of in pre-Islamic Arabia. While this certainly made it more difficult for Muhammad to convince his peers to embrace the message of the Quran, he stood by the book's insistence that children were to be treated as valuable members of society rather than simply as the property of their parents. In fact, as the many Hadith included above tell us, Muhammad held firmly to the Quran's teachings regarding children and seemed to be very much convinced of the joy of raising a child even before he embarked on his journey of prophethood. We will examine further evidences of this in part two of this series, discussing additional Quranic extracts and Hadith which remind us just how highly regarded children are within Islam.

[whumpshaped]

how is Helle's name pronounced? Like Hell-silent e- because they're a hellspawn? Hell-ie? Hell-ay? It's heavily implied they chose their name after they turned, can we see that process maybe?

sure :) lil short one before i sleepy

masterlist

tw vampire whumpee, captivity

"What is this?" they asked, eyeing the book suspiciously.

"A book full of names," Isabella said simply. "Lady Marie told me to get it for you." With that, she turned on her heel and left, leaving them alone with the stupid thing.

If they were being honest, they didn't like either of their sired siblings. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that they rarely got to speak, and they were locked up in a room while those two got to come and go freely. Still... they did miss having a name, and they couldn't come up with anything good on their own. And Lady Marie would surely be upset with them for rejecting her... gift.

Even though her last gift had been a bite to the neck, death, and murder.

They pushed themself to their feet with a groan, walking over to the spot where Isabella had carelessly thrown the book. They picked it up and opened it on a random page, just to get an idea of how stupid it would be.

In the end, the name-book became their only entertainment. They went through hundreds of names from all around the world, looking at origins and meanings. They liked some, hated others. Didn't even know how to pronounce half of them... but there was one that stood out.

Helle.

There were no pronounciation guides in the book, but they didn't care for it anyway. It was going to be their name, so they should get to decide what to do with it. And to them it sounded like hell, which was probably the most accurate one for a damn vampire.

The meaning, however... It was perfect, coupled with the sound. Holy. Blessed.

What a goddamn joke.

~

taglist: @whumpsday @the-scrapegoat @hidden-dreamland @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night @delicateprincepaper @whumppmuhw @florissimps @nicolepascaline @oliversrarebooks @the-cyrulik @pirefyrelight @there-will-always-be-blood @pigeonwhumps @echo-goes-mmm

[thesorcerersapprentice]

The Witch in History #1: Victorian Era

“Despite an acknowledgement of the capacity of a male-ordered society to oppress and victimise women, witchcraft narratives and historical commentaries reinforce traditional concepts of femininity, associating acceptable womanliness with passivity, submission to authority, and chastity (or with guilt and repentance). A manly, unfeminine woman may—as a so-called sorceress or witch—tantalize or momentarily assume power, but such women are eventually revealed as wicked or ineffective, even ill-advised, in the challenge they mount to society. … For all its potential as a metaphor for transformation, witchcraft in Victorian writing provides opportunity, not for a radical critique and refashioning of social roles and expectations, but for a conservative reaffirmation of traditional structures of influence and power.” (Maureen Moran)

‘Medicine, especially, was the true Satanism, a revolt against disease, the merited scourge of God. Plainly sinful to stay the soul on its way towards heaven and replunge it into life!’

“Woman, then, is Satan’s chosen one, and Michelet underscores this fact numerous times. He ascertains, for example, that ‘Satan returns to his Eve. Woman is still that in the world which is most natural’.31 It is in her hand, Michelet says, that Satan lays ‘the fruit of science and of nature’.32 In particular, the witch was skilled in aiding other women with their medical problems and acting as a midwife.33 Further, the witch is the one whom ‘the weeping girl’ turns to in order to have an abortion. She also teaches the ‘miserable wife, burdened by the children born every year only to die’ how to ‘cool off the pleasure at the moment [of the man’s orgasm], render it barren’.34 In other words, the witch gives women power over their own bodies, which can be seen as a form of feminist practice.”

“Do not conclude too hastily from what I have said in the preceding chapter that my purpose is to whitewash, to clear of all blame whatever, the gloomy bride of the Evil One. If she often effected good, she was equally capable of grievous mischief. There is no great and irresponsible power that does not also abuse. … What power like that of Satan’s chosen bride, who heals, predicts, divines, evokes the spirits of the dead, can spell-bind you, turn you into a hare or a wolf, make you find a treasure, and, more than that, make you love! This terrible power that unites all the others! How should a violent spirit, all too often wounded, sometimes become very perverted, not have used it for the sake of hatred and vengeance, and for the pleasure in malice and impurity?“

“The Black Mass, in its primary aspect, would seem to be [a]‌ redemption of Eve, cursed by Christianity. Woman, at the sabbath, fills every function. She is priest, and altar, and consecrated host, whereof all the people take communion. At the bottom of things, is she not God himself?”

“The Devil’s Bride cannot be a child; she should be in full thirty years of age, with the face of a Medea and the beauty of sorrow; her eyes deep-set, tragic and feverish, with streams of serpents descending aimlessly, I speak of a torrent of black, untamable hair. Perhaps, on top of all, a crown of vervain, the funereal ivy, and the violets of death.”

According to Leland, the Italian witch, unlike her counterparts elsewhere in the world, usually comes from a family in which her craft has been passed down for several generations, with lineages that in some cases stretch all the way back to Roman or Etruscan times.112 This tradition has been kept alive in utmost secrecy, which it has in Leland’s opinion benefited from, since ‘witchcraft, like the truffle, grows best and has its raciest flavour when most deeply hidden’.

This is the Gospel (Vangelo) of the Witches:

DIANA greatly loved her brother LUCIFER, the god of the Sun and of the Moon, the god of Light (Splendor), who was so proud of his beauty, and for his pride was driven from Paradise.

DIANA had by her brother a daughter, to whom they gave the name of ARADIA [i.e. Herodias].

Thou who art daughter unto him who was Most evil of all spirits, who of old Once reigned in hell when driven away from heaven, Who by his sister did thy sire become, But as thy mother did repent her fault, And wished to mate thee to a spirit who Should be benevolent, And not malevolent!

Great Diana! Thou Who art the queen of heaven and of earth, And of the infernal lands—yea, thou who art Protectress of all men unfortunate, Of thieves and murderers, and of women too Who lead an evil life, and yet hast known That their nature was not evil, thou, Diana, Hast still conferred on them some joy in life.

And thou shalt teach the art of poisoning, Of poisoning those who are great lords of all; Yea, thou shalt make them die in their palaces; And thou shalt bind the oppressor’s soul (with power); And when ye find a peasant who is rich, Then ye shall teach the witch, your pupil, how To ruin all his crops with tempests dire, With lightning and with thunder (terrible), And with the hail and wind . . . And when a priest shall do you injury By his benedictions, ye shall do to him Double the harm, and do it in the name Of me, Diana, Queen of witches all! And when the priests or the nobility Shall say to you that you should put your faith In the father, Son, and Mary, then reply: ‘Your God, the Father, and Maria are Three devils (p.227) . . . ‘For the true God the Father is not yours; For I have come to sweep away the bad, The men of evil, all will I destroy!

‘For every woman is at heart a witch.’

Persecuted by man-made laws as she [woman] has ever been, and as eternally in revolt against them, there could be no more appropriate or deserving figure to be chosen as Patroness of the great fight for freedom than the much libelled, much-martyrized, long-enduring, eternally misunderstood Witch.182

Indeed, to be condemned as a witch was but to have an official seal set upon the highest compliment payable to a woman in more than one period of earth’s history, seeing that it marked her out from the dead level of mediocrity to which her sex was legally and socially condemned. … From Cleopatra or the Witch of Endor onwards, the exceptional woman has had the choice of effacing her individuality or of being regarded as an agent of the devil.183

Woman is more likely to become a witch because of ‘the greater quickness of her perceptions’, he states, something that is evident already in the Garden of Eden. Concerning this biblical event, Hueffer argues along the lines of, for example, The Woman’s Bible: ‘If Eve first gave the apple to Adam, she gave with it the future of civilised humanity.’184 A view of Satan as a cultural hero—similar to Michelet’s—is present in several places in this book as well, with (p.234) phrasings like the following: ‘It is to the search after the philosopher’s stone and the elixir vitae that we owe the discovery of radium. It was only by calling in the aid of the Devil that mankind acquired the prescience of a God.’

women viewers had the opportunity to behold and to evaluate the forbidden freedom and the empowerment of goddesses and enchantresses … instead of identifying with constricting Victorian-style attire and rooms full of knickknacks or lush gardens full of blossoms. Little was forbidden to the witch and her sisters, for they transcended mortal law. Unfettered by temporal imperatives, or even by the Victorian lady’s corset and yards of heavy dress material, sorceresses acted according to their own dictates.

women viewers had the opportunity to behold and to evaluate the forbidden freedom and the empowerment of goddesses and enchantresses … instead of identifying with constricting Victorian-style attire and rooms full of knickknacks or lush gardens full of blossoms. Little was forbidden to the witch and her sisters, for they transcended mortal law. Unfettered by temporal imperatives, or even by the Victorian lady’s corset and yards of heavy dress material, sorceresses acted according to their own dictates.190

The formidable beauty and glamour of the omnipresent Pre-Raphaelite witches in combination with their commanding, assertive postures must have furthered the enthusiasm this motif aroused in certain nineteenth-century women.

There were not, then, many female painters or sculptors portraying witches, and most of their works were far from subversive. However, we could also count dance as a form of visual representation of the motif, and the case of Mary Wigman’s (1886–1973) Hexentanz (‘Witch’s Dance’, 1914, new version in 1926) then presents an interesting example. 

What did Wigman’s witch dances look like, then? In a brief (50 seconds) film clip from 1929 or 1930 of Hexentanz II, we see Wigman wear a wig of dark, dishevelled hair, a ghostly female mask, and a flowing gown. Accompanied by percussion she sits, drums her feet against the ground, and moves around like a spider in a somewhat threatening manner.230 (p.245) The clip does not document the entire performance, but according to contemporary descriptions and photos, it ended with her rising up from the ground and lifting her hands above her head in a menacing fashion.

As we have seen, the demonization of women’s rights activists involved both hysteria and witches, creating a strange circularity between those who used witches as a positive symbol of female rebellion and those who used them to denigrate it. As for the up-valuation of witches, a further factor—which is more amorphous—is how Pre-Raphaelites and others made the visual representations of the figure romantic and glamorous from the 1860s onwards. The influence of this is less easy to trace immediately in the way we can often do with ideas stemming from reading the Malleus, Charcot, or Michelet. Nonetheless, this reworking of iconography also undoubtedly hovers somewhere in the background of the cultural renegotiation of the motif taking place around the year 1900, which led some to make the witch a champion of women’s liberation.

Source: Satanic Feminism: Lucifer as the Liberator of Woman in Nineteenth-Century Culture by Per Faxneld.

[songofproserpine]

Re-reading DEMON IN MY VIEW reminds me of just how many similarities this book has to TWILIGHT (which may explain why I liked the latter for a short while). DEMON came first by several years, and I don’t think Smeyer read it, since she openly admitted to not reading anything to do with vampires prior to writing about them (the gall). But here they are:

Inexplicably world-weary teenage girl protagonist who has no friends, makes no friends, and isn’t... very nice

Gains the attention of an old vampire that she’s dreamt about (and written books about)

Every supernatural thing in a five mile radius goes out of its way to give a shit about this unfriendly girl and her existence

The main lead is a really blatant self-insert of the author--who was also a teenage girl when she wrote this--who also wrote about vampires--whose books are openly referenced in this book--whose writing life is pretty much the only thing the heroine has going for her

The main lead is hunted repeatedly by a vampire who is out for a mixture of revenge and sheer sadistic fun, and gets beaten the fuck up (like, really horribly beaten)

The main lead has no situational awareness whatsoever and constantly gets herself into trouble of varying degrees (despite being written as deeply mature)

Vampires can go out in the daytime (they don’t sparkle), and they have weird X-Men-esque powers

The healer character has a name beginning with Car (Caryn in this book, Carlisle in TWILIGHT)

The vampire follows the human girl in pure Edward Cullen stalker-y fashion--and they joke about it

Now I’m not against Mary Sues or self-inserts. I don’t think that makes a story immediately bad. I do think that if you’re going to do a self-insert, you should make the character dynamic, well-rounded, and engaging--and that includes giving them flaws. Jessica in DIMV is flawed--she’s unfriendly, openly hostile, dismissive of even her adopted mother--but it’s never addressed as something she needs to change, or something she’s even aware is a bad thing.

When Caryn reaches out to her repeatedly, she shuts the other girl down and tells her to fuck off--even after Caryn confesses, “Hey, I’m a witch and my clan is trying to keep you safe from all the vampires you pissed off--so with your permission, may I please help you?” Jessica treats everyone else as a nuisance, but doesn’t really learn that this is a bad thing. The text never challenges her shittiness. It doesn’t exactly reward her for it either, but she never learns to change.

Aubrey--the aforementioned hot vampire dude who is interested in her--reflects to himself that Jessica is strange and unusual. He even says she gives off “the air of a predator,” which takes him aback.

Now. When you read a vampire novel you gotta give a little bit of leeway for some of the verbiage--things like hunt, feed, predatory/prey, etc. These all enter the lexicon as meaning certain things despite their other implications. But reading this book again now, and seeing Jessica as the cold-hearted absolute shitkid that she is, and seeing her compared to a predator, just makes me think one thing: Jessica is a life-ruiner. She ruins lives. She has no regard for the welfare or emotions of other people, only her own. She plays a part in every problem that comes her way, and never owns up to being partly responsible. She drives people away and never stops to think, ‘Hey, this isn’t right.’ She’s a Janis Ian, and Janis was the real antagonist of Mean Girls.

I think I’m meant to see Jessica as this isolated, dark little grump because of her strange circumstances. Spoilers: Her mother was pregnant, got turned into a vampire, and after some weird magic made her mother human again, Jessica was born. She was basically ‘suspended’ in utero for a couple decades, feeding off of blood and other weird dark powers that her mom had (because vampires). And hey, listen: that’s really fucking cool. In fact, I dig that! But the story... never goes anywhere with them. In fact, the story stops just as it starts to get really interesting.

Jessica’s weird dreams about vampires and witches are all her sight-jacking her mother’s sire’s memories--which, again, is super cool. But it... never goes anywhere. How else does this affect her? Is she even the slightest bit aware that there’s something weird in her brain? Does she sometimes look in horror at her behavior and think, ‘This isn’t right, this isn’t me, but I don’t know how to stop?’ Does her proximity to vampire-ness just make her an interminable shithead with no regard for the emotions of others, and nothing else? Christ. How boring.

And to make it weirder, Aubrey likes her. Why the hell does he like her? He’s got no personality in this book. He’s just... there. A name on the page. A thing. That sometimes does things. But mostly does nothing. And then when he does do things, it’s too little too late and he just has to pick up the slack. So maybe he’s more like a real man than I thought.

DEMON IN MY VIEW can be read in 90 minutes (or less, if you read fast), and the story ends just as the actual story begins. There’s so many more questions the book leaves you with, and not the good “I have answers but I want to see where they go” questions. Just flat out, “What happens?”

What happens to Caryn now that she’s been tainted by dark powers? Is she outcast from her clan? Is her life in danger? What about her powers: are they stronger, weaker, changed?

What happens to Jessica now that she knows not only is her birth mother alive, but that she, Jessica, has part of the first vampire’s powers in her?

Does the first vampire even know that Jessica is alive? Does he know that Jessica’s mother is alive? Is he aware that he and Jessica have been sharing memories?

What does Jessica think about her new unlife--does she like it? Is she a little scared? Does she miss anything about how she was before?

What do Jessica and Aubrey think about each other now that they’re effectively stuck together (until this all blows over)? What do they learn about each other? How are they tested? How do they grow together? 

These are all things the story could have gone on to address, because they’re all really interesting, and the set up to these questions are all there--but these characters never reappear again. Ever. Anywhere. And it’s infuriating.

Reading this again just reminded me of how I felt when I first read it as a teenager: The witches in these books are FAR more interesting, and I wish more was done with them. Alas.

[lilacmoon83]

Dreaming Out Loud

Chapter 3: Snow Falls

From the moment he awoke in that bed, there had been three things on his mind. Snow and Emma, and finding them.

This place was very strange, but he had put enough together to know that this was the curse, especially the way Grumpy reacted to him like he was a complete stranger.

This was it. The place without happy endings. His last memories being awake were of putting his daughter into the wardrobe and then the searing pain in his abdomen, as one of Regina's Black Knights cut him down.

Fortunately, he also remembered all the years spent in limbo, in the dreamscape where he saw his beloved wife and daughter on a nightly basis.

He had been so eager to find Snow though that he had headed for the woods firstly. Then he realized she wouldn't be in the woods, because he remembered Emma telling them that no one had their real memories. Which begged the question as to why he did.

Now he was lost in the woods. At least he had enough mind to find something to wear besides the odd clothing he had woken up in. It was freezing, so he was glad he had grabbed the strange clothes and boots he had found in a wardrobe in the room.

Finally, after what seemed like forever trekking through the woods, he happened on a large house. There was light in the windows, but he was leery about going to see who lived there. He had no idea of knowing who he could trust besides Emma and Snow, even without her memories.

There was a peculiar sound behind him, a sort of clicking, and then a voice.

"Turn around slowly," the man said. David did as he asked and he came face to face with someone he did not recognize.

"You're the John Doe from the hospital," Jefferson said.

"John Doe?" David asked in confusion.

"It's what they call someone with no identity," he explained.

"I don't know what you're talking about. I have an identity. I know exactly who I am...but no one remembers me! She's done something to them! Everyone just looks at me like I'm crazy!" David exclaimed. Jefferson's eyes widened and for the first time in twenty-eight years, he was face to face with someone who remembered like him. Then he laughed merrily...almost madly.

"What the hell are you laughing at?" David growled.

"You...have your memories! I'm finally not the only one in this piss ant town that knows who they really are! It's a pleasure to meet you, Prince Charming," he replied, with a bow David's eyes widened.

"Wait...you remember too? The Queen…" he started to say.

"The Queen...the curse...all the misery she's inflicted. I have to say though, this is a surprise. She finally screwed up. If she knew you remembered, she'd be foaming at the mouth. You're the last...well second to last person she wants to remember," Jefferson replied.

"So it's true...everyone else here has false identities?" David said.

"Yes...and she's taken away what they all love most," Jefferson replied.

"Emma told me that Snow thinks she's a teacher," David mentioned. The Hatter's eyes widened.

"What do you mean Emma told you?" Jefferson asked rigidly.

"It's kind of a long story," David replied.

"If Regina is your enemy, then we're on the same side. Let's go in where it's warm," Jefferson suggested. Charming followed him in and he put some tea on, as Charming found a chair.

"Who were you...back in the Enchanted Forest?" he asked.

"For many years, I was a peasant and struggled to feed my child, especially after my wife died," Jefferson replied.

"I'm sorry. I know what it's like to have...nothing," he said. Jefferson looked at him.

"Yes, I suppose you do," Jefferson agreed. He had been working for Rumple around the time he had made bartered the deal with David to take his brother's place.

"Your child..." David started to say.

"Grace...she's ten...has been ten for the last twenty-eight years. No one ages in this town. She lives with a couple in town," Jefferson said.

"How is that you remember?" David asked. He shrugged.

"Who knows? Regina wanted to punish me, I guess. It's my curse to remember and be powerless to do anything about it. Now...care to tell me how you've been in contact with Emma already?" he asked. David sighed and began telling him about the dreamscape.

The search of the woods had been nearly exhausted and Emma was really worried. There was no sign of her father anywhere and she could tell Mary was worried too, though she seemed confused by it.

"Where could he be? What if he's hurt?" Mary fretted, almost frantically.

"Mary Margaret...it's going to be okay. We're going to find him," Emma insisted.

"I wish I was as confident as you," Mary murmured.

"Finding people is kind of what I do," Emma said. She just hoped they found him before Regina did.

Enchanted Forest

60 years before the Dark Curse

Spring had dawned at last in the Enchanted Forest. Today, the fauna was in full bloom on this Spring Equinox, at least that's what mortals called it now. In years past, mortals would have known this day as Persephone's liberation from the Underworld. Her return to the mortal plane marked the end of winter and the beginning of spring.

But over the last few centuries, the Gods had not left Olympus much. Their interaction with mortals became less and less, so much so, that mortals considered most deities to be legends of the past now. And in Persephone's opinion, that was for the best. The Gods had a very bloody past with mortals, especially Ares and his twin sons Deimos and Phonos, Gods of Terror and Dread respectively. But that was another story entirely.

For Persephone, she preferred the mortal plane and thus why Misthaven had become among her favorite places. She was the goddess of vegetation, after all and the forests were so lush here.

The years being Hades' unwilling wife were getting harder and harder. His infatuation with her had dulled to indifference over the years, but he had refused to release her from her confines to the Underworld out of spite, much to her mother, Demeter's rage.

Persephone was humble though, much more so than her fellow deities, though some of them had mellowed over the years as well. While Aphrodite was always considered the most beautiful, Persephone was by far the fairest of all(much to Aphrodite's annoyance). And adored by almost all, especially her mother Demeter, who coined the term fairest of them all term to describe her lovely daughter, for her skin was white as snow, her hair black as a raven, and her lips red as a ruby.

Persephone didn't know much of her father, for her mother refused to talk about him. The mortals chronicled texts of their stories stated Zeus as her father, but Demeter was clear that he had not sired her and the mortals didn't know any better.

She sighed, as she let the sunlight bathe on her face, enjoying its warmth at last after the cold months of captivity in the Underworld at Hades' side. She found a bushel of snow drops and smiled, for they were her favorite flower. They were the only flower that could survive the harsh winter months that she was away. She felt a brush of wind and smiled.

"Hello Mother," she greeted. Demeter smiled.

"My daughter," she greeted, as she swept her pride and joy into her arms.

"I missed you," Demeter said.

"And I you, Mama," she replied.

"I will never get used to letting that demon incarnate keep you in his clutches," she fretted, as she caressed her dearest daughter's beautiful face.

"Hades is not cruel to me. He affords me all the luxuries of a Queen," she reasoned, though her voice was sad.

"A Queen that he forces into his bed; that he dares put his hands on," Demeter growled.

"Mother please...I do not wish to talk about Hades. And as much as I hope for true love, we know how rare it is...especially for deities," she replied. Demeter sighed, but said nothing. Persephone was enamored with the idea of true love, she had seen glimpses of it among mortals, but it was rare. A rare and beautiful thing.

"Come home with me," Demeter requested.

"I will soon, mama. I'd like to stay here a bit longer," Persephone requested. Demeter nodded.

"If you wish. Be along soon," she requested in return. The raven haired beauty nodded and journeyed off deeper into the forest.

The small woodland creatures, birds, and a few deer followed along with her, as they often did and as she came upon a creek, she saw she was not alone. There was a man getting a drink from the stream, while he let his horse drink as well. As he turned, Persephone felt her breath catch. He was young, with chestnut colored hair, and very handsome. She became startled though when he saw her.

"Oh...I'm sorry to intrude," she said, as she started to hurry away.

"Wait...please don't go," the handsome stranger called.

I'm sorry, I don't mean to bother you," Persephone said.

"You're not...I may be escaping to the forest for a bit, but I could use the company," he said, noticing all the curious forest creatures around her. It was peculiar, but not unsettling.

"I'm Elijah," he said, holding out his hand. She looked wary for a moment, but the animals did not fear him and that meant he did not mean to harm anyone.

"Persephone," she said. He cocked his head to the side.

"Persephone? Named after the goddess?" he asked. She smiled coyly.

"Something like that," she replied.

What ensued over the spring and summer months that followed that clandestine meeting was a whirlwind romance. By the time the leaves began to fall from the trees, Persephone was in love with Elijah and he with her.

But their lives were not their own and confessions would come on a chilly fall day, as they wrapped together in their secret hovel they had made in the forest near the stream where they had first met.

"You said you had something to tell me?" she asked.

"Mmm...something I should have told you from the beginning," he replied.

"Is this about you being a prince?" she asked and his eyes widened.

"How did you know?" he asked. She smirked.

"Despite the fact that you try to hide your royal ties when you travel, sometimes you forget to hide the royal crest on your horse's saddle. When I saw that, it didn't take long to realize that you're Prince Elijah of the northern Kingdom, younger brother to Princess Eva," she said. He sighed.

"Are you angry?" he asked. She shook her head and pecked him on the lips.

"We are not so different. We are both running from the trappings of titles and responsibilities," she replied.

"You mean how you are actually Persephone and not named after her?" he asked. Her eyes widened.

"You know?" she asked in disbelief. He nodded.

"How long?" she asked.

"I've suspected almost from the beginning. The animals love you, flowers bloom in your presence..." he trailed off.

"Then you know..." she said hesitantly.

"That you're married to Hades," he said stiffly.

"I do not love him," she insisted.

"I know," he assured.

"Then I hope what I have to tell you next won't anger you either," she stated.

"I love you...no matter what it is," he assured.

"I'm pregnant," she revealed. His eyes widened in surprise.

"How...far along?" he asked.

"Four months," she replied.

"Then it is..." he uttered.

"She is yours," Persephone said. He smiled and hugged her.

"This is wonderful!" he exclaimed, but noticed her sadness.

"Isn't it?" he asked.

"She will be born in the winter," said said fearfully and he frowned.

"When you're in the Underworld," he replied, as he watched her shoulders rack with sobs.

"She'll be in so much danger. Hades will kill her in his jealousy and rage," she cried.

"Then you cannot go back there," Elijah stated.

"The consequences of crossing Hades are dire," she warned.

"I love you and I'll not abandon you or our child," he insisted, as he started to dress.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"To tell my sister. She may have married for the good of the Kingdom, but I am going to be with the one I love. I'm sure that Princess in the southern isles can find another prince," he commented.

"Then I'll return in a day's time," he said, as he kissed her passionately.

"I'll be waiting and I'm sure mother will know how to help us," she replied, as she watched him ride off. Persephone put her hand to her belly and then hurried off to find her mother.

From the Underworld, Hades observed the entire exchange and shook with rage, as his hair ignited with blue flames.

"I'm afraid that's not going to be a happy reunion, my dear Persephone," he hissed.

"So...she knows. The Savior knows about everything?" Jefferson asked.

"If she remembers all her time spent in the dreamscape like I do, then yes," David replied. Jefferson chuckled.

"And the Queen has no clue who she really is. This is unexpected," he said.

"Yet, but it probably won't take her long to figure it out. Can you...tell me about Snow?" David asked tentatively. Jefferson sighed.

"You sure you want to know?" he asked.

"Of course," David insisted.

"Well, in Storybrooke, Snow White is Mary Margaret Blanchard. She teaches fifth grade. But her personal life...is pretty lonely. The curse pretty much strips away every good trait in a person and brings out their weaknesses. As a result, Mary Margaret is sweet, but very meek. Regina delights in her misery," Jefferson informed. David clenched his fist and noticed his trepidation.

"What?" he asked.

"I'm not sure I should tell you," Jefferson replied.

"You must...I need to know everything. If we want our families back, then we need to work together," David said. He sighed.

"Do you remember Deimos?" Jefferson asked. He watched the Prince go rigid and clench his fists.

"You mean son of Ares and former immortal that hunted and stalked my wife?" David growled.

"The same. And tried to kill you on multiple occasions, yes, that's him," Jefferson said.

"Don't tell me he's here?" David lamented.

"Unfortunately, he is and he doesn't have his memories, but he's still infatuated with your wife. He stalks and pressures Mary Margaret on a weekly basis. He gets stopped by the Sheriff and never goes further than talking to her. But with time moving again...he might get more brazen," Jefferson warned.

"That's not possible! We killed him! I watched Red rip him apart," David growled.

"He survived somehow. I don't know how, but he was a God before Zeus punished him for trying to overthrow him in Hades' favor. Regardless of him, I think we need to team up with a certain someone else," Jefferson said. David sighed.

"You can't mean..." he started to say.

"He wants the curse broken as much as we do. Not to mention that he knows all the inner workings of the curse," Jefferson insisted.

"But he's the Dark One..." David said.

"He is and right now, he's content to sit back and let your daughter fulfill her destiny, even if takes months. But I know something that will make him want to speed up the process and make Regina pay," Jefferson replied.

"And that would be?" David asked.

"The woman he loves," the Hatter replied.

"But...he said she was dead," David protested.

"He thinks she is...but she's not," Jefferson replied, as recognition flashed in the prince's eyes.

"Regina..." he said.

"Lied to him about killing her. She's had her locked up in the hospital psych ward for the past twenty-eight years," Jefferson said.

"And he has no idea?" David asked.

"Not until tonight when I clued him in. If the three of us team up against Regina and with your daughter on our side, she'll finally pay for all the misery she's caused. But for now, you need to get back to the hospital. They have an all out search going for you," Jefferson explained.

"What am I supposed to do at the hospital?" David asked.

"Act like you have no memories. Regina will probably try to come up with some fake life for you. But she can't force it on you if you don't let her. If your daughter really does know you, then I suspect she'll go toe to toe with the Mayor. At the same time, you can sweep Mary Margaret off her feet. She visited John Doe every day in the hospital," he mentioned. David allowed himself a smile. Even Regina's stupid curse couldn't erase their feelings.

"Oh, I plan to. But what about Deimos? I'm guessing he's someone of importance in town?" David asked. Jefferson chuckled.

"Get ready to be sick to your stomach then, because he runs the sleaziest tavern in town. He's dripping in money, probably because he's also running who knows what kinds of dealings from the club, unchecked, of course. The place is down by the cannery and is called Vertigo," Jefferson explained.

"So basically he hasn't changed at all. He's the sick, twisted degenerate he always was," David said.

"Here he goes by Damon Tromera," Jefferson said.

"Fitting name for a blood sucker that's obsessed with my wife," David quipped. He nodded.

"We should get to the hospital," Jefferson said. He nodded.

"Time to get my wife back," David said.

"She's not exactly your wife. You need to remember that," the Hatter warned.

"You don't know Snow. She's in there and I will find her. I will always find her, even if that means getting her fall in love with me all over again," the prince said.

Mary Margaret trekked through the woods furiously, kind of surprising herself. She had never been one to venture into the woods that surrounded Storybrooke, but she found herself to be surprisingly adept at finding her way through. It seemed funny to her. In her life in town, she seemed almost to literally stumble through her life. And here she was, navigating the darkened forest like some kind of pro.

But when she came face to face with John Doe at the Toll Bridge, she could hardly believe it and they seemed to stare at each other for the longest time.

"Oh my God, Emma...I found him!" she called, as she found herself rushing to him. He smiled at her, soaking in the vision of beauty she was.

"You found me," he agreed.

"We were so worried!" she exclaimed.

"I'm sorry for that. I...guess I woke up and got a little confused. I'm afraid I have no idea where I am...or who I am for that matter," he told her. He hoped Jefferson was right about acting like he didn't know who he was.

But then he recalled Emma telling him that she had been laughed at when she was a child when she told people that her parents were Snow White and Prince Charming. For some reason, in this strange world, they were just fictional beings. So telling people that he was Prince Charming probably wouldn't do him any favors.

"It's okay...but we should really get you back to the hospital," she said. He smiled at her.

"I'm glad you found me. You probably saved me," he replied, enjoying her blush.

"I don't know about that," she stammered, as she tripped and yelped, as she started fall. But strong arms stopped her from taking a nasty tumble and she gazed up at him breathlessly, as he held her close.

"I...I guess I'm not the only one doing the saving," she mentioned. He smiled.

"Guess not," he agreed, as a blonde blur arrived and Charming finally lay eyes on his grown daughter. Sure, he saw her every night in the dreamscape. But somehow, seeing her like this was different and he found himself looking at her in awe.

"There you are!" she said in relief.

"Yeah...she found me, even though I don't even know her name yet," he replied.

"Oh...I'm Mary...Mary Margaret," she stammered. He smiled.

"It's wonderful to meet you Mary. I wish I could tell you my name, but I'm afraid I'm drawing a blank at the moment," he replied. Emma locked eyes with him and they were not the eyes of a confused man. They were the same eyes she saw every night in the dreamscape. Her father was awake...in more way than one.

It didn't take them long to get back to the hospital and the nurses quickly swarmed around him, insisting that they take him to the exam room to run some tests. He had no idea what any of that meant, but a nod from Mary and Emma told him he should do as they said for now. He could barely tear his gaze away from Mary Margaret. She was still his wife, but Jefferson was right. She seemed so unsure of herself and too timid, definitely not like Snow at all. It didn't matter though. She was still Snow, just buried behind a wealth of insecurities projected upon her by the Queen. He thought about what Jefferson said before. As hesitant as he was about teaming up with Rumplestiltskin before, now he knew that if he was going to get his family back that he needed his kind of help.

Mary Margaret twirled her ring nervously, as Emma talked with Graham. She waited anxiously to hear if John Doe was okay. He seemed fine, but the man had been in a coma for a very long time. She prayed there was no lasting damage because of that. She had no idea why she cared so much though. She didn't know him, not really. Why did he matter so much to her? She felt so drawn to him and decided she didn't care about the why. She just wanted to see him again and was going to venture down the hall to find him. But she was halted by a hand on her arm.

"Miss Blanchard...how lovely to run into you here," Damon Tromera leered and Mary felt her entire body tense with unease. He was a tall, dark haired man with chiseled features. But his eyes had always made Mary shiver in fear, for they were so cold, almost dead. He was the creepiest man she had ever known, especially when he looked at her like he was now, like he wanted to take a bite out of her.

"Oh...Mr. Tromera," she said, trying to pull her arm away.

"So formal Mary...I really wish you'd call me Damon," he said, as his eyes skated over her.

"Um...I need to go," she stammered.

"Why such a rush? I'd love it if you'd join me for a cup of coffee," he said.

"I don't think so," she replied.

"Mary...why must you always turn me down? It's bordering on rude, you know," he said arrogantly.

"I ask you out repeatedly and you say no. I send you all those lovely roses on a weekly basis and yet you still refuse me," he said and before Mary knew it, he had backed her into a corner.

"Please Mr. Tromera...I'm just not interested. It's nothing personal..." she stammered, barely able to make eye contact when he frightened her more by lifting her chin to force her to look at him. His eyes sent cold shivers down her spine and she shuddered, which only made him smirk smugly.

"You don't like the roses?" he hissed.

"Considering that I prick myself on the thorns every week, no they're not my favorite..." she blurted out and he chuckled at that.

"A lucky thorn it is that has the pleasure of drawing your blood," he leered. It was by far the creepiest comment she had ever heard and she had never wanted to get away from someone more than she did now.

"Perhaps you'd prefer daisies...or violets then?" he asked.

"N...no...I just want to go," she said, her breathing now coming in ragged gasps, as he pressed closer to her. Her head felt like it was on fire now, like someone was screaming at her from inside. It was crazy, but she felt sudden violent urges telling her to fight. It was disturbing, for she had never fought anyone in her life, much less someone as large as him.

"One date Miss Blanchard...and I promise you'll fall for me," he pressured. A tear slipped down her cheek. Maybe if she agreed, he'd leave her alone. But the fire in her head intensified at that thought. No...if she gave in, he'd never stop and he would hurt her. She could feel it. This man wanted to hurt her.

"No," she said more clearly. But he didn't stop and as he leaned in to force his lips onto hers, she listened to the fire inside her and kneed him between the legs. He doubled over in pain and glared at her.

"That was a mistake, Miss Blanchard. I guess you need a lesson on why," he growled, as he raised his hand to her. She gasped, but a voice stopped him.

"HEY!"

Mary looked behind Damon and saw that her rescuer was none other than John Doe himself.

"This is none of your concern, pretty boy," Damon growled.

"She said no and you seem to have a hearing problem. Get away from her," Charming growled, barely containing his rage at the moment. Damon stared him down and slowly backed down.

"Good evening, Miss Blanchard," he said, as he left quickly, just as he saw the Sheriff coming toward them.

"Are you okay?" Charming asked, as Mary stared at him with captivation.

"I...thanks to you," she uttered.

"That's two rescues you have to my one now," she commented. He could only smile at her and soak her up.

"I'm just glad I was here. I may not know who I am, but I know that the man that was just here was dangerous," he said.

"He just really wants me to go out with him and I'm sorry, it must be terribly confusing to not know who you are," she replied.

"It is, but there is one thing I do remember," he countered.

"What's that?" she asked.

"Your voice," he replied and she blushed under his charming smile, as they became absorbed in each other's gazes.

"Well, Mr. Doe, it seems that the doctor wants to see that you're taken back to your room," Graham said, though David recognized him as the Huntsman that had once saved both his and Snow's lives. He spared a glance at Emma and seeing her like this nearly took his breath away. His baby girl, all grown up and so incredibly beautiful and strong.

"I'm...sorry I worried everyone when I wandered off. I got a little confused and wandered off. Fortunately, Jefferson found me when I wandered onto his property and helped me back here," Charming said, gesturing to the man, who leaned against the wall casually. Jefferson waved, a bored look on his face, just as Dr. Whale arrived. He was someone David didn't recognize.

"Mr. Nolan...I believe it is. You gave us quite a scare," Dr. Whale said.

"Mr. Nolan?" David asked in confusion.

"Yes, we have it on good authority that you are David Nolan. Does that ring any bells?" Whale asked.

"Can't say that it does," David replied.

"Well, be that as it may, I'd like to give you a full exam myself. The tests all came back normal, but I'm not fond of my patients wandering off," Whale said irritably.

"For a doctor, your bedside manner is seriously lacking," Jefferson commented.

"And you are?" Whale asked.

"My friend," David answered. And the doctor noticed that he was still holding hands with Miss Blanchard. It figured. Mary Margaret had visited this man almost every day he was in his coma, despite claiming not to know him. It irked him, if for no other reason than he didn't like the fact that he couldn't compete with a man that was comatose until just a few hours ago in her eyes. She would have been a nice notch on his bedpost.

"Please Mr. Nolan, I'd really like to examine you," Whale pleaded. He nodded and looked at Mary Margaret.

"Will you still be here when I'm done?" he asked. She nodded, probably too eagerly, but wild horses couldn't drag her away at this point. He smiled and he reluctantly let go of her hand, following Whale back into the stuffy hospital room.

[je-suis-clarisse]

Siring.

31 OCTOBER || 1ST NOVEMBER 1791 The pain....the blood...the crisp white sheets were taken off of the small bed and thrown into the fireplace, ruined by the blood that had come from a failed childbirth. The bleeding finally having stopped, new sheets placed upon the bed and a crisp and clean nightgown put on me, I lay there, with an infant in my arms. It did little good as I could feel blood seeping from me still; there must have been a tear or some internal problem, for there was no clotting. I was going to bleed to death. This was a fact that I was facing with carelessness. I cared not a whit if I lived. I had no reason to. My reason for living was in my arms, lifeless. As with all things, I had failed at my endeavor to become a mother. Silent, hot tears rolled down my cheeks; I had learned quickly in this marriage that weeping and crying out did me no good; it only earned scorn and hatred, laughter, bitter laughter that rang in my ears. I knew he was likely pacing outside the door. I knew my husband. I knew I had married the wrong man. I should have pursued that kind man at the party that day. Had that party really been three years ago? I was just about to turn sixteen; just a few months from it. A rose, coming into bloom, my brother had told me. Now, the rose was withered. Dying. My eyes dropped from the door; I knew he would soon come in, barging in and screeching at me. Common sense and previous experience told me this. I was an old pro by now. Cruel words, hateful ones, even. Then would come the beating. At least if he beat me this time, he would hasten my departure. I almost welcomed the idea. Besides, I might feel something other than this numbness. Instead, I focused on my son. My sweet little boy, whom I would soon join in the next world. The midwife had handed me my rosary; a gift from my brother in Rome. What I wouldn't give to have him here. Or my friend, Monsieur Caldwell. But no, it was only my son and I in the room. Our lone few minutes together. His small hands, hands that should have been moving were still. His eyes were shut and instead of screams and cries, there was only silence from him. His body twitched from nerves that were not yet dead and his face was blue. For nine months, I had carried this child. I had grown to love him. He was mine. Mine. He was the first person in the world who could I truly call my own. My blood was within him. Features that were mine would be his. My heart belonged to this little boy. Liam Frederick Christopher O'Callaghan. Christopher for my father, of course. Liam was just a name that Colin had picked when I had bravely broached the subject with him months before. I had been shocked when he mentioned 'Frederick' and 'Christopher'. My dear brother and my father. "Strong names," he'd groused at me. "Fer a strong lad. Aye see the way yer belly moves; t'is an active lad in there." I had not ventured to ask for girl names. He was certain I carried a boy. And...he hadn't been wrong. When my labor pains had begun, I had dismissed them, since I'd been out gathering some of the wood I had chopped the day before. The house was unusually cold. My howls of pain had made him go to get the midwife and she spent the day with me as I writhed and hollered in agonizing pain. It quite literally felt as if I were being broken in half, my insides seering. Sweat dripped down my face and body. And finally, the woman had spoken, "T'is time!" This had been the moment I had secretly dreamed of since the moment I'd realised I was a child. Positioning me, she roared for me to push--and push I did. My screams were loud, obnoxiously so. But even Colin didn't complain. I think even he knew to never bother a laboring woman. I began to realise something was wrong because the midwife was trying to keep calm. "I have to..." she began and I passed out. Whatever she did, I have no idea, but I awoke to her yelling at me to push. I was exhausted already, no energy left. But I braced myself and I pushed one final time before I fell back against the pillows. The scent of coppery blood filled the air and the sound of silence. Never a good sign. I extended my arms, I wanted my son. I wanted him. The midwife motioned for me to wait a moment before she handed me the swaddled figure. I am relatively sure that I felt my heart break and swell all at once. But I also knew, I was dying too. By how the woman was acting, I knew it. It wasn't something she was trying to hide. She left the room for a moment to talk to my fool husband.  Husband to a useless wife, as he always complained. Failed farmer, renowned drinker. Now? Father to a dead child. Dead! Mon Dieu, he was cruel! Yet I did not turn from him. A Catholic all my life, I could not turn from him. In my heart, I was begging him to give my son life. To take mine and give Liam his. I knew I was dying, but let my son live! "Ma'am...,?" ".....""Ma'am.""....Yes?" I asked finally, fingers brushing against the infant's cheeks. Cold porcelain, that is how he felt to me. Even as I write this, I still remember that. My sweet boy, I pray you feel my touch, wherever you are! I thought to myself before I raised him to my lips, bathing his face in the most feather-light yet tender kisses I had ever bestowed on anyone. Finally, I knew I had to let him go. The midwife took the boy from me and I watched her silently. I did not cry any longer, nor did I scream. I knew she was taking him to our local priest who would see to his burial in the small church cemetery. She did not say it to me, but I knew she was likely going to inquire after a plot for me as well. I took comfort in that fact. "Mr. O'Callaghan, she's not goin' ta survive tha night, sir," the midwife said as she left, "She's lost too much blood." I was contented with that; I didn't want to live anymore anyway. I lay back against my pillows, my eyes closing as I waited for death to claim me as its latest mistress. I would not fight. I only hoped that the ending was peaceful; that I be allowed to leave the world as I had come into it. Silently. Hours passed by and with each passing moment, I grew weaker and weaker. Colin, sat beside me, holding my hand, gazing at me, his brown eyes full of tears. He would cry now, I thought bitterly. I was dying, but he had never shed a tear for all the times he had hurt me. All the tears he'd made me shed, every bruise he'd ever laid upon me, every time he'd raped me or had his friends take turns on me. He'd never apologised for all of his insults he'd flung at me. Had I the energy, I'd have pulled my hand away. Instead, I gloated about my impending death. "Don't cry, I am going to be a better place," I whispered and I heard him make a sound. It sounded like a cruel laugh, but I was beyond caring. No longer would he cause me pain. Instead, I again shut my eyes and soon my breathing became labored. My mind began to wander and I grew even more tired than I ever had been in my life. I became delirious, sure that my father was sitting beside me with Liam resting in his arms. My sister Antoinette was with him as well as my beloved Grandmother. Of course, they were all dead...they were coming to take me into the next life. I was ready to go. "Ye stupid bitch. I knew you were pathetic but this is a new low, e'en fer you, lassy. Tonight, ye shall see hell an' it'll be me sendin' ye there." Colin growled and I rolled my eyes. A bastard until the end, I mused. "Aye wanted one thing. ONE. An' ye f***ed that up. My son's goin' ta be in the cold 'ard ground an' t'is your fault!" And that was when I felt it. the prick at my neck...... Weakly, I beat my fists against him, but he pinned them down to the bed. His hands felt like a heavy vice; I couldn't have pushed him off at my usual health and strength, why I thought I could do so now, I had no idea. Perhaps it was my desire to die. I could feel the presence of Death present in the room as if calling me to him. Yet, I wanted to stop him. To be spared one final indignity at the hands of this cruel man. But strength already sapped, this was a battle I would not--could not!--win. I wasn't sure what he was doing...what was going on? I began to feel light headed. "Leave off, you bastard!" I hissed angrily. Finally, he withdrew from me and through hazy eyes, I surmised he was a demon. His eyes were red, bright red and his mouth was stained with blood. What had I done in life to go to Hell? The room began to spin and my head ached horribly. I lay there, weak, somewhere between life and death; more towards death. Each system in my body shut down...and I lay there unable to do anything about it except wait for my heart to stop, my breathing to cease and my soul to depart my body. There is nothing more horrible than knowing you are dying and you cannot stop it even if you want it to. The realization that each system...each organ is dying...it is a lot to take in all at once. You lay there, aware of the fact that your mortal days are coming to a close. Granted, in a far more painful way than you anticipated, but it was what I longed for. A release from the pain. I found it slightly amusing that memories of my life flashed before my eyes; walking in the gardens of Versailles with my father, helping my mother dress for one of her salons, riding horses with Frederick, my sister Antoinette doing my hair for me and my other sister, Vivienne and I bickering, meeting Queen Marie Antoinette and time spent with Tante Helena, dancing with Monsieur Caldwell. There were grand moments in a life that had held great sorrows too. I was glad that I wasn't seeing those in my final moments. This was not to be. Something was pressed to my mouth. The coppery and bittersweet taste filled my mouth and I gagged, trying to push it away. I cracked open an eye slowly, noticing Colin.  I groaned and he persisted. After more struggling and his striking me across the face, I  took to his wrist like an infant to its mother's breast. When he pulled away, he blinked and stepped back. I let out a horrified and pain filled scream as my body began to hurt. Yes, I had known pain, but never a pain such as this. "Yer body is dyin', lass." He told me plainly, sitting down by the fire and lighting up his pipe. Had I the energy, I'd have thrown something at him. I fell to the floor, writhing in agonizing pain. It was worse than the pain of childbirth; it was the same pain--everywhere. He continued to sit there and watch me calmly until I finally stopped. I shut my eyes, hot tears escaping them, as I felt my body...changing? Minutes later, I opened them again, darting them around unsure that what I was seeing was real. Nothing seemed real...and everything sounded different. I could hear neighbor's thoughts and private conversations despite them living miles away. I could hear the beating of the horse and chicken's hearts out in the barn. I could hear Colin's thoughts. It had to be his thoughts since he wasn't saying a word. Despite my body still aching, I got to my feet, clinging to the bedpost to keep me up. "What have you done to me?" I hissed, shocked at the melodic tone that my voice now held. I brought my hand up to cover my mouth; surely this was not my voice! I looked to my looking glass and gasped. Pale luminescent skin, bright emerald eyes, my long hair, which I'd colored with henna--he preferred my hair darker--was back to its natural blonde and it was luminous. Dark circles were under my eyes. I scarce looked human. I gasped as something pricked my tongue and I opened my mouth, finding two-inch long fangs there. I screamed and Colin laughed. "Vampire, my love," he told me, standing behind me, his eyes turning from brown to red, his fangs extending. "My blood runs through ye. Ye ached for death and I denied ye. I made ye into what I am. Yer lucky tha' I'm strong. T'will make killin' yerself much harder. And now, lass, my final gift to ye." Gripping my wrist and turning me around to face him, he pulled my wedding ring from my finger and took his own off, throwing them into the fireplace. I was pleased to see them go. "Consider this a divorce," he told me. Well, this was a true gift--to be free of him! But he wasn't done. "Ye f***in' lazy cunt," he began and I laughed. Lazy? Who had taken care of his Godforsaken and doomed farm? Who had slaughtered the few animals so we had food? Who had plowed the crops in their sixth month of pregnancy? Who had chopped wood just yesterday despite being full term pregnant? Who cooked? Who cleaned? Even after being beaten to a pulp or having endured the horrors of the marriage bed, I had done these things even whilst trying to deal with and endure all of the emotional, psychological, sexual, and physical abuse. "Ye couldn't e'en give me a son. All ye wanted ta do was read your goddamned books. An' ye think I dinna know about your friend visitin'? He's tha only reason I dinna raise my hand to ye while you were carryin' my boy. I always fancied I could beat ye into bein' a good wife. What a waste of me time. An' t'en I find I can't e'en claim yer inheritance." "I can't even touch that. And Papa made certain you or any man I married can't touch it," I countered with a laugh of my own. "But I will be certain to enjoy it when I come into it." I made that promise to myself in that moment; that I must live long enough to spite him. To inherit my fortune and to enjoy myself.  "But you can go to hell." I snapped, an anger filling me that I had never known; the fire in the fireplace flaring up as if reflecting it. Colin looked to it, then me. The weakness I had felt was now forgotten; I was filled with anger and hatred. He lunged at me and I dodged him, laughing as he hit the floor. Moving over to the bureau, I pulled out a dress and slipped it on over my nightgown. Granted, it was stained with blood, but when I got to where I was going--where was I going?--I would find something new. It was homespun and plain, but I had to escape him and I would. I had to get out of here. I took what small amount of money I possessed--saved from when my brother had sent me little care packages-my two remaining pieces of jewelry and hid it in a pocket of my skirt. I turned and looked upon Colin once more, screeching as he grabbed me, throwing me to the floor again, pulling at me and pawing like a young man with his first whore in an alley, all while also working to loosen his breeches. "There's some spirit in ye, lass! Where's tha' been hidin'?" He groaned delightedly and I scratched at him like a cat. My nails, which I'd always kept somewhat long and neat were now sharp as razors; drawing blood from his cheek. To say that I enjoyed feeling his flesh rip away as I dug into him is an understatement, I confess.  His roar of pain gave me the moment I needed to squirm away. Feeling emboldened, I kicked him in the crotch for good measure, cackling as he grabbed at himself, doubled over in pain. Grabbing the lantern from the table beside the bed, I looked around the room. There was nothing here that I wanted. Nothing I needed. "I curse the day I ever met you!" I sneered at him and I threw it, watching as his pant leg caught fire and he began to scream and holler. I covered my nose at the smell and ran into the other rooms of the house, lighting the curtains, and whatever else I could to set the entire place ablaze. Colin's screams were loud and obscene as the entire house went up. From the outside of the house, I barred the doors, watching my little home go up. I had always loved the house. But watching it burn, that was a great pleasure. Burning away the last three years...hopefully burning him to a crisp... There was no time to waste. None at all. I had to leave. I first ran to our barn, releasing the chickens and our horse. They needn't die in this fire. There was only one person who needed to die and I hoped he was well into that process by now. I mounted the horse bareback, clinging to him as I made haste into town. That it was freezing didn't seem to effect me any longer; or I was too hopped up on adrenaline to particularly care. I was thankful that no one was around--it was freezing, no one in their right mind would be out tonight. I made a beeline to the church and I slid off of the horse. I led him into the small stables there. The Priest knew my horse and I knew once he heard what happened, he'd know I'd finally made my escape. I hoped he'd forgive me for doing murder. I then climbed down into the cellar, hiding myself in the shadows. I needed to hide. From what little bit I did know of vampires, I knew they did not like the sun. I also knew that I had to start thinking of myself as one. What a strange thing. I was glad that my heading into the church--consecrated ground--had not resulted in death. It was the only place I knew I would be safe for the time being. There were no windows and I was entirely hidden from the sunlight. And as I sat there, the gravity of all of it hit me. I was now...a childless mother, a divorcee. Or widowed? Who knew if he was dead? I wasn't about to go looking to find out. I was as low on my luck as I could possibly be. The only thing that I kept murmuring to myself was that I was going home. I had some people there. And if I could conceal what I now was, they might be inclined to help me. Absentmindely, I went to twist the wedding band I was used to around my finger. However, it was obviously not there. It was strange, to be so used to something. Instead, I brought my hand to my necklace; a small crucifix. It had been a gift from my father years before. My eyes welled up as I could see him before me. Would that I could run into his embrace for comfort. "Papa," I whispered. "I need you." I had to get back to Paris. I needed to go home. France even. I would first go to Alencon. If I turned up in Paris where Maman was, I would be made to endure her sharp tongue and quips about my failure as a wife. I had some on me money; carriages would get me there, perhaps. No, it wouldn't. I had forgotten I would have to endure a ship. I cringed. If I ran out of money, I could pawn my pearl necklace or my rosary. I could resort to the oldest profession on the world. After all I'd been through, it seemed a small price to pay. My body had been used and abused for that purpose; what was another man or two? Looking around where I was, I found an old blanket and bunched it up, making a pillow. I needed to rest. Yet, I could hear people talking as I dozed through the day. "So he was gone?" A woman's voice; I think the shopkeeper."Aye. The bastard wasn't there. God forgive my coarse language. And if the little one was there? She's ash. There's nothing left except the barn. The animals are gone." There was Father Padraig. I'd know his voice as well as anyone. "A pity, mother and child dying together." "Indeed. But I shall dedicate mass to them this week. I can do nothing more than that. Ah, wait. I will write to her brother as well. He is in Rome, however. It will take some time for word to reach him." The voices fused together as one and I eventually figured out how to block them out, sleeping deeply. I needed the rest. It was so deep; I'd never slept like that before. I woke up refreshed, but the gnawing hunger I felt was going to do me in quickly. Still, I needed to speak to Father Padraig. Heading up into the church, I made my way to him, finding him in the confessional. I didn't speak the words, but he knew it was me. How? I still don't know. "I am glad you're alive," he spoke warmly. "But you cannot stay. They'll hang you for his murder, despite everyone loathing him." "I know," I replied, looking to my hands. "I spoke to a captain; he's willing to let you stay below decks. I assume you'd want to return to France." "Yes, sir." "Then to the docks with you, young lady."

I silently left the church and used the darkness as a shield and I did, against my better judgment...manage to kill someone. He was ill and dying. I couldn't find the will to take someone full of vigor and life still. The man seemed grateful for the release, though I could hear his wife's shrieks at finding him dead in my head for hours afterward. I then made way to the shipyard, finding the ship--the only one that was leaving--and the Captain snuck me aboard. "This will not be an easy journey," he warned me. I did not shy away from it. After the last 24 hours, I would not shy away from this. It would take about a month--three weeks, actually, we arrived a week early as there was no ice in the water. I stayed below decks, and those souls who did venture to travel down there did not return. Namely the ill or those who the crew did not like. Once I had finished, they went out the porthole. Still, I did my best not to kill too many. I believe I took all of five in the month I was aboard. I was glad to be hidden away, it gave me time to think about things. We would land in Caen and from there, I could go home to Paris. Home. Finally. I shall not bore you with the tales of disembarking but once I did, I began the arduous process of walking from the docks towards the only place I thought I might find some solace: Tante Helena's. It took me a few days to get there, but I allowed myself to feel some level of excitement. Perhaps I would finally be accepted into arms that would embrace me. Knocking upon the door, I could only hope that I would be permitted entry. I was in need of a bath, fresh clothes and companionship. And by that, I needed my adopted aunt. She would let me cry for a few moments and then tell me to get it together. I felt ashamed at my haggard appearance but knocked at the door regardless. Within, I could hear a party going on. It seemed life was treating Tante Helena well, which pleased me. I had always relished in seeing her happy. Overhead, fireworks exploded and I cringed, for the sound hurt my ears. The new sensitivity in my ears required getting used to. I drew my threadbare shawl about me more, shivering and praying for some sort of mercy. I supposed she was celebrating the holiday season. Or perhaps there was some celebration in honour of the revolution that was occurring. As the door opened, a beautiful woman stood there; one adorned in the latest fashion in a robe ala Francaise, a tricolor cockade upon her breast. Her dark hair hung loosely about her face, eyes cold and calculating. She looked at me with a critical eye, tossing a coin at me. I did not refuse it, namely because I could use it at the moment. But it also made me arch a brow; did I truly look that bad off? "I'm here to see the lady of the house," I spoke hoarsely. Would that I could have a glass of water! "And what business have you here?" The woman asked curtly. I was of a mind to slap her but was far too tired and weak to do so. "She is my aunt," I replied quietly and the woman's laughter sounded like a small church bell, light and sweet. I confess I had not expected that sweet sound to come from such stern lips. Remaining silent, I could feel the warmth of the house and I was so tired that I could barely stand. My knees were going to give out beneath me. "I do not believe you," the woman finally spoke, pressing a few more coins in my hand."Do not return here, chit, or else I shall call for the constable.""Please, I ask only that you tell her that Clarisse du Volde was here." "Of course," the woman snickered before slamming the door in my face. I felt so ashamed as I stood there. I had been so certain that I would be allowed entry. But now, I was, once again, left to sort myself out. I turned and walked away, pausing only to look at the coins in my hand. There was a kindly amount, much to my surprise. I clutched it close before sticking them in the pocket of my dress and began to walk again. I shuddered in the cold and as a farmer went by, I begged a ride to wherever he was going next. It was to Alencon I went. I knew we had a house there, thankfully. A few days later... It had been a pure stroke of luck that one of the former servants had taken notice of me as I headed into a tavern for some respite. The scent of everyone's blood was driving me mad, but I was in need of warmth. "Miss Clarisse?" He'd spoken cheerily. I was embarrassed that in my state he would recognize me, but he had been one of the stable workers. It took me a moment, but his name was Louis; named for our king. He did not seem to mind or care. He approached and gave me a hug. I leaned into him, appreciative. "You are skin and bones," he remarked. "Do you remember Adelaide, my wife? She'd want to fatten you up. Shame we can't though." My mother had apparently fired them for stealing. "Have you a key to the house still?" I asked. "Aye. I do." The male replied. "She fired most of us. The house simply sits there now. Ever since Madame and her lover parted, she no longer visits here." "I shall speak to my brother," I promised, "I cannot promise that he'll be able to secure funds to pay you all. But if you would assist me, I would be in your debt." I was hesitant, admittedly. I didn't know if they would be willing. My mother's wrath was something of legend. However, after three years with Colin, she seemed a docile lamb in comparison. "Miss Clarisse, you always treated us kindly, took time to learn our names and about our families. You never had a cruel thing to say to us, despite our differences," Louis remarked, patting my hand. "Come. Let me take you home."    I was surprised to find that a great deal of the staff lived nearby still and were pleased to hear that I had come back. I had never realised that I had such an effect. I was further surprised to learn that they knew of supernatural creatures...that they knew we existed. I was shocked by that...but it made the adjustment easier. I tended to go after animals. I could not bring myself to harm anyone. They were good people; each of them could have reported me to the church. But they saw me still as Mademoiselle, the little imp who ate cake under the table, the one who played with a hoop and stick with her brother down long corridors...and of course, the one who spent hours in the library. Upon receiving word that I had settled into the Alencon estate, my brother came to visit straight away. It was hard to hide from him what I was, but he accepted my excuses that since the loss of my child, going out during the day was simply too much for me. He indulged me, taking walks at night. I do not know how we--and I say we because the staff was helpful--pulled it off. Good to my word, Frederick was able to secure money for the household and thus, I began to learn how to manage it. I also began to work on learning how to write more than my name. I also began to sock away my allowance to return to Paris. I had an ache for the theatre. My voice was still good, the shows were at night; where better for a vampire to hide? For all my worries, I found a rhythm. I found...some peace. Not much, but I could live with myself. Whatever animal I killed, the servants used the meat for themselves. I was amused at how well things were going. I planned a return to Paris in January. I needed to be where I was most at home. And with all of the city going mad, I had heard something along the lines of illness and death; it was not a proud thought, but a merciful one. I would end the suffering of those who wanted it and I would sate my own hunger. The night before I was to leave, I had a visitor. "Of course, Louis, permit them entry. You may bring them here," I replied, looking up from my trunk, where I had accumulated quite the trousseau in a short time. I moved about my claimed room before I sat down at my desk. "Bonjour, Clari..." My head jerked up at the voice. It was Monsieur Caldwell, a face I had not seen in seven long months, not since I had begged him not to visit me any longer, given that I was with child. His face was a welcome sight to me and his open arms? Heaven. "You've found me..." I murmured before rushing into his embrace. Lips pressed to the crown of my head. "I'll always find you, Clari," he whispered back. "I've told you that. But I do warn you. Paris is not as you remember it. You must be brave and you must brace yourself." I thought I had no tears left to cry. How wrong I was. How wrong indeed.

[libidomechanica]

Untitled (“What you”)

What you. The insults, to  heavenly eyes have no times an swift flashes star- like, which it seemd to Heavn—his 

Eyes, and wha sae ready, but if there his  discordant hymn: old portraits old Time she wild inhabitants  of the parts 

complainer to the hand when  none like, when fate somehow the  pretty pair— the spectre hungry bit; 

pardon that fault; once from their starters, when  the one pang of the  hand a shawl of a saints, whose which 

like these valleys, vouchsafe you like you are most  politician; or—what wildest demands  on my bosom thro the isles of 

Prosperity; the only thing impossibly  useless but being a man right on  a burro, too soft face puts on they have 

to the conference in  the same golden orb of pearls as  large, alive again,— so that no one 

can win; and I awoke, and long ere  the dim windows of the sweet  virtue; and a features must the foibles 

off in the Levantines and  even the rosy floods, and tell her  sweet unto thee to the carpeted 

the epopee, to proved the  chief so weak the transactions where upstairs  his face? Ll be alright my soul, the 

fabulous folds into the  hour alone can never do— ’“ tis yon born at the warm and his reach 

up the daisies grow by the black  snakes upon the lights he jumped up the  boy who shall remaind, whatever h

ad a solemn light as a big grown meek— the  eye that my old griefe. than the  wedding, The ring in their new emotion; 

this closer” In  lost, unless with the fact, his  tediousness. of the should beside 

me Fill his late do of the  Hand of perspection corroding it is  never brothers prayr; no happiness and from 

his Eyes shines in commandment, and  made with exact, and knee-high to  expressd him with thine and 

pride: an independent on whether  lies tricks of the string, gave the  lade of poets hope is not wear not to 

a Sybarites more the faint  moon, yet destroyer yet the Abbey, and  her sweet day in memoried day. Skilful 

anglers his sweep; and I hope or read  Malthus, and such expenses, dreaming  Chevalier. Those stops undefiled. I were 

could have had done to where his situation;  I think how you how vertue may pour out that  she was not whom pale stream of fireworks,                 

meaning to forego it. A  fine for the wine. Twin opposd the  branches they heart of female familiar 

in her of Material Form,  and braes, and the alphabet on  his thorn; wast so wise mething record 

of friendships guarded  guise, Joan, Marie, Dawn, Arlene, Father compelled my name  is the rain is so rare, and 

sweet price, was fixd, but love, to stirred  from meeting, by the last spare  room is true good as a sire. Through 

the tinkling for greed  o the Youth thou shall lips, and some attention  in a clay struck a wound up, 

to be, in 1982, my mother one? Bellow  the grave a kind toothpicks, tears,  so long, solved and child, his power, imagined 

marble looming flood of Scios vine, and  the fixd upon occasion, some splendor; in  temper ruind the better her aunt, 

and Walter saints, by thee mostly my  antipathy, as men passes are  mine— alas! that hour of pearl or 

falling orphan saw his sorrows the  ending at a faith, And made the  preached, Some say, which at first straw. for Hell.