#just similar enough to pass off as a fraud but so very different at the same time

[odysseys-blood]

literally how i feel any time i read this line. absolutely NOT

i think he's a great mirror type character for the mc depending on how much you draw on the default ra-on and their characterization, but more specifically their feeling of inferiority to solomon (which i take for my mc loyal). both the mc and bael are stuck filling in for a role for a king that neither feels they're well equipped for or were even born to hold and the fact that bael's so used to taking the fall that he's automatically ready to do it for you too is just. man. orz

[kojinnie]

Why you should NOT date AOT boys... (2)

I advised you but you still didn’t listen just because your fave was not on the first part. So hereby I present to you, reasons why these boys will only give you headache, part two!

Enjoy my lovelies, and stop hurting yourself with these men!

Regards,

Your ever-so-concerned friend, Kojin.

erwin - zeke - jean - connie

part one here (levi - eren - armin - reiner)

— ERWIN

This is not gonna be easy. You’re dealing with a man who has received multitude of achievements and recognition for being who he is and for doing things his own way, so obviously he is at that point in his life where he’s very comfortable in being who he already is. It’s all for a reason though, for Erwin oozes a certain kind of authority that is justified by his sharp thinking and years of experience. He is a self-made man and his success was the work of nobody but his own doing. So obviously, he has this uncanny self-assurance that is not easy to be dissuaded. He is ”The Man” character you hear about in pop songs and movies, and alike to dating Levi, the idea of being with Erwin gives you a sense of pride, you’ll be the most flattered whenever you hear people look at you with certain kind of acknowledgment, “Oh, that’s the one Erwin chooses.”

If you have problem with your self-esteem or you constantly doubt yourself, being with Erwin –especially when you have an established relationship— can really encourage you, to make you realize that there is a great thing in you, that even someone with the caliber of Erwin Smith can see. However, this may also lead to a bad thing because little by little, whether you realize it or not, your identity will be blurred with the constant presence of Erwin around you, simply because he has that magnificence in him that lures the limelight in, and your name will only be left as a prop to better dress the mannequin. This is a man who hardly ever hears “no” in his life, although he will never be violent or do things against your wish, it feels natural for him to always have a say in whatever you do. From the way you dress, your career trajectory, to decision for everyday chore. You would often feel as if you have no room to grow on your own because everything is decided by Erwin, where your opinion is dismissed. The most infuriating aspect of Erwin is that he will do all the aforementioned in such a sweet way. Caressing your cheek, patting your head softly before condescendingly says things like: “Honey, if you’ve seen what I’ve seen, you’ll understand. So for now, let’s just go with [insert his decision], okay?”

The ideal relationship for you and Erwin is if you have been with him since the get-go, before he made a name for himself. The good thing about Erwin is that he values nurture and he will show the utmost gratitude to whomever stood by him since day one. He will flaunt you, mention your name in every awarding speech, praise your perseverance for staying with him while actively making your own mark in your job. Basically, to survive a healthy and thriving romantic relationship with Erwin, you gotta see the quality in him before all the flashy titles, and you gotta be at similar degree of excellence with him. You gotta have his respect, you gotta make a name for yourself, only then he will listen to you and treat you as equal. So if you are still unsure about yourself, and you need constant reassurance about your role in this world, don’t go for Erwin, it will only exacerbate your self-doubt.

— ZEKE

Good god, this man. Where do I start? Okay, so you’re dealing with someone similar to Erwin, who enjoys a point in his life where his professional excellence has been widely established, he even has attained an almost mythical status. Remember how much the Warriors look up to him, saying things like “The enemies are no match to Zeke”? That’s basically his everyday life, and he has gotten so used to hearing that drilled into his ears for years.

For sure, he has a solid self-assurance; he knows what he wants, he knows how to get it, and anyone’s opinion holds very little value to him. But unlike Erwin, Zeke has grown sick of the compliment and has come to think that people are just licking his ass. This is because he made his success with little to no help from anyone else, and he has seen how differently people treated him back when he was just a nameless guy, compared to now, where he has made a name for himself. This experience, created a contradiction in his personality: One, the confident and self-assured Zeke, where he realizes that he’s smarter than most people, and; Two, the self-doubting Zeke, thinking that he is deemed as smart just because everyone comparable to him is stupid. He fears that it’s only until he meets someone smarter than him, before people finally realize that he’s a fraud. He’s the type to spew seemingly condescending remarks in a very casual way, like whenever someone comes to him in an awe and asks how does he do the things he does, he will just shrug it off and say, “I don’t know why everyone’s making a big deal out of that. It’s so easy.” When actually it’s just him, displaying his incomprehension on what make people think that he’s amazing when he hardly sees it.

Zeke leads a life where he thinks he can do whatever he wants, since he does not have a care in the world for anyone’s opinion and validation. This is because Zeke thinks either they are unworthy of his attention, or any person who has ever shown any interest towards him was only after something for themselves. In his early life, Zeke gets used a lot by people he trusted, and so this resulted in him not believing that someone would come to him and truly care for him with no pretense or hidden motives. The idea that he can be loved unconditionally is incredibly foreign, if not impossible to him. And this is the truth about him that he does not like to admit.

This is a person whose motto is to “enjoy things” because the enjoyment of things keeps him distracted from the disappointment he holds against people. So naturally, he does not like sentimental attachment, let alone committed relationship. What Zeke needs is just someone that he can ring up casually (and only occasionally because he’s always kept up with a lot of his professional endeavors), and spoil him with nearly childish affection. He likes to come home to someone who does not see him as this heroic figure that everybody sees, and rather just a careless kid who collects baseball cards with no active parent figure. He likes the cuddles, the kisses, the strokes, the lazy mornings where you pamper him like a demanding baby, because he never gets to experience such candid loving from his childhood, for he had to fend for himself since very young.

He likes to call you up late at night, with a sulk in his voice, “Baby can I come over…?” for you to act annoyed and reluctantly say yes to him. He likes that. He’s corny like that. But once he’s out the door, don’t expect him to text his whereabout or make your name known to the world, because he cannot afford such dire attachment. He’s as free as the bird, and after all, caging him into a committal relationship only justifies his belief that someone would only love him because they’re after something.

— JEAN

Jean is tenacity personified. He wasn’t born talented or lucky enough to have special heritage runs in his blood, he is flawed with a lot of shortcomings, but what makes him stands out is his capability to persevere in the eyes of adversity. To keep on trying although he does not pass the initial mark, and that’s exactly what makes him special. In dating Jean, you will never run out of things to do or talk about, because Jean will always try to make the best out of every situation with his resourcefulness. It’s very nourishing to see someone make such a big effort for you, and if you lack assurance that someone would go extra miles for you, then seeing Jean breaks his back trying to catch your smile is such a sight that you will cherish for a long time.

However, deep inside, Jean is a very exhausted man. He often feels like he is at the end of his wit trying to make everything works. He is deeply wearied by having to be at his top game every minute to compete, and fears that if his grasp slips even just a little, he will quickly fall behind everyone. This will result in Jean being torn apart between work and you, for he always has the urge to put tenfold effort to match others’ casual effort. So expect a lot of calls unanswered and rescheduled date nights during the weekdays. Although he feels extremely regretful with this condition, he also believes that there is nothing he can do, for he thinks he was born unfortunate and this is the effort he has to make due in order to catch up with the others.

All this unhealthy sense of urgency from always having the need to compete often sends Jean into a state of paranoia. He fears that people may team up against him, or that he’s being left out. It’s really frustrating to see Jean having the need to reply to a stupid meme Eren sends at 4 AM while getting high, just because Jean fears that if he does not reply immediately, he will wake up the next day with people already talking about the things he missed. He is always on guard, and as much as he tries to give in to his relationship with you, sometimes you would feel like his mind is not at home. His mind is out there wondering whether he will ever make a name for himself without being compared to people who exerts considerably less effort than him.

Being with Jean, you gotta understand where his fear lies, and you gotta be very calm when dealing with all of his paranoid urges. Whenever he’s not home because he overworks himself, don’t bombard him with calls and text messages, just give him time and welcome him home with warmth and a sense of ease. Be the person where he puts his hair down after a whole day of gruesome work. Jean needs a lot of validation especially from the person he loves (and he feels guilty towards for seemingly neglecting you over work), all he needs to hear is just “You did well today”, and he would be more than thankful. Make time as well to give him little surprise, to make him realizes that you are the one place he does not need to compete with anyone else for you are his home. When it comes to Jean, it’s about give and take, he doesn’t do well with a diva who demands attention 24/7, nor he does well with someone who is seemingly way over his league, for it will worsen his insecurity.

Point is, Jean is an amazing man, guys, I couldn’t really point out why you should NOT date him, because in fact, you SHOULD date him. Being with him is a learning curve, not only for you but also for him, to understand that in a relationship not only that you gotta love, but also to compromise.

— CONNIE

Connie, oh Connie. We all love Connie, he’s the guy who would complete a picture, a party is a bore without the sight of him, we all just love us some Connie, but often to his expense. People love Connie because he is outgoing, humble, and has this salt-of-the-earth persona, but more often than not, people also use him as a comedic relief, and although at first, he enjoys it because he would like the idea that people look forward to him, sometimes it also takes a toll in him, it makes Connie wonder whether he will ever be fit for bigger purpose other than someone else’s humor.

Connie thrives in being helpful to other people, he believes being of service is his greatest merit and thus he never complains whenever someone asks him to do something, nor does he ever dislike doing things for other people. But often he wonders even after all the great services he has done to other people, why haven’t people seen him as more than just a comedic relief? Why can’t he be the hero of a story, instead of just the people’s favorite side character? This thought lingers a lot in his mind, and if he does not find a way to let it out somehow, this may grow into a bitterness for he feels used.

Make no mistake though, Connie does not yearn to have the limelight on his own, he is content with his position, all he needs is a bit of credit and affirmation that he is as important his other peers. That he is not overlooked nor that he is expendable. Without this, Connie might grow to become resentful of people as he thinks they will only use him to their advantages. He will get easily jealous or at high alert, just because you passingly joke about Jean being handsome with his new haircut. He may go into that rabbit hole of anxiety, waiting until the day when you finally leave him for being mediocre and opt for his more attractive friend.

When this side of him comes out, initially he will be overtly self-deprecating. Masking it as a joke just to fish a reaction from you. If you laugh along, not knowing that it was a test, he will be sure that you are just using him and it won’t be long until you depart for someone with more load than him. Once he sets his mind, he can be quite vindictive to you, casually assuming you of the worst while trying to pass it as a joke. When this side of Connie comes out, the last thing you should do is to get riled up. Connie is not being rational, so you gotta be the adult here unfortunately. You gotta shower him with a lot of affection in the form of services like he’s always do to people around him, and slowly work your way to the topic you are meaning to ask. Connie might be alluding the question for a while, until he finally comes clean that he was jealous and did not know how to properly address this feeling.

Being with Connie comes with the responsibility of making a home for him where finally he gets to be the center attention. He is not a narcissist, so he does not want everything to center around him. All he wanna be is to be seen, in which every effort he has made to the people he loves are being outwardly recognized and thanked for. Little things would really make Connie happy, like posting a lot of photos with him on your social media, or arranging surprise birthday party with his co-workers where he can finally experience what it feels like to be the likes of Eren or Jean.

Thank you guys for all the likes, reblogs and comments - YOU ALL MAKE MY DAY. I was on the verge of being sure that no one would like things I write, but this.. This... (wails in telenovela style). I thank you and I wish you a great week ahead!

Guys for real if you still simp these guys even after this fair warning then I have no choice but to give you a personalized reason on why you should not date your fave AOT characters! 

> [CLOSED] Twisted Match-Up!  Send me three worst traits of yours + your AOT fave character and I’ll make you a short scenario on how shitty your relationship would be with them.  Fire away here!

[joshslater]

End of Shift

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My life is over. I've been playing a high stakes game, and somehow landed on one side of the odds all the time, but my luck was bound to run out sooner or later. I guess I should be happy that it turned out to be later, but it sucks no less. I got sloppy. I was looking through the items near the cashier, as always, trying to mostly use reflective surfaces to see what was going on, as always. I need to be within 15 feet or latency becomes an issue. Some old lady still using the old wallet was buying KokaKola and a pack of Ziffs. This would be easy, as always. I discreetly pressed my watch as she was ready to make the purchase, activating my EM-swiper. I wouldn't take much, a few credits more. She probably wouldn't notice it, or think the store stiffed her, or think she bought two packs of Ziffs and lost one. I'm not stealing to get rich, just to get by.

As the EM-swiper went off a high pitched beeping starts behind me. I barely have time to turn my head enough to see the charging police officer, before he slams me into the side of a KokaKola fridge. Shit, I hadn't done a survey pass through the store as I always do. I could barely register what he was screaming in my ear. "Drop it," I realize, and let go of the magazine. He must have thought I had the EM-swiper in my hand. He told me to put my hands against the wall and performed a pat-down. It's only him, so he must be off duty or not on a real patrol. He empties my pockets on the cashier table. Nothing of value, and certainly not something incriminating. I may not have been fortunate enough to afford academy, but I'm not stupid.

"You are detained under suspicion of committing proximity fraud. Do you understand?" he asks me in that commanding yet bored tone of a laborer having to recite corporate bullshit, only in his case it is in the pretense of justice. "Yes," I answer him. He doesn't have anything on me or he would have arrested me right away. Probably. "Put this on to acknowledge you've read the Citizen Rights Act and agree to an investigation in this matter." He hands me a pair of handcuffs to put on. I hesitate for a second. He is behind me and in the way of the store exit. I can stall for time and tell him to recite the CRA, but that immediately counts against you, as it is your duty to know it. I have no choice but to put them on. It's the latest model. I haven't seen any up close before. Light, thin, all metal, no key hole. Probably opened remotely or only inside a police cell or some shit. I put them on.

"Turn around, pick up your stuff, and exit the store." I do as told, turn around and begin to pick up my stuff and put them back where he took them. It's an older police officer. None of them young, jacked up types. Perhaps he is one of the fair ones. But then I am the criminal, so what good would that do me? There's a small, black duffle bag by his side. So he is on his way home. Perhaps he is tired. Perhaps I can shake him. Have Leo remove the shackles and then stay low for a fucking long time. Or this just doesn't amount to anything more than a slap on the wrist. I walk towards the door, him behind me.

"Nice watch," he says, pointing at my wrist as I reach or the door.

He knows. Unless I can get away now my life is over. All I can think of is the monstrosities the state churn out as punishment. Equal part labor force and sadism. I open the door as little as possible and as soon as I am through I dash down the block. I don't dare look behind me, but I don't hear him in pursuit. Halfway down the block I swerve into the alley that cuts across the building and out on the block on the other side. If I can cross that block and then down south I'm in the park and there are plenty of places to hide there.

My hands are not on fire. This surprises me as I look down on my hands, screaming in pain. There is a high pitched sound coming out of the handcuffs, like capacitors charging, but it is continuous. The pain emanating from my hands is something unlike anything I've ever experienced before. My legs buckle. I know I need to move, somehow, somewhere. It's just so difficult to think of anything but my hands that are not on fire. It would probably be a good idea to not scream my lungs out, but I don't really have a choice in that.

Just as suddenly as it started it stops. I'm still writhing in pain, but my hands are not on fire in a much more comforting way. "The payment proxy is in your watch, is it not?" the policeman asks, standing a few steps away. I'm panting, I realize when I attempt to answer him. Panting and sweaty. I can't manage to speak. I just nod my head.

"The state vs. item RK-220553 finds the defendant guilty to breach of contract with the state, executed by judicial AI 5" he reads off his handheld screen. I'm confused to what just happened. "No trial?" I manage to wheeze out. "You entered into a cooperation contract when you put on the handcuffs, as you are aware of as you claimed to know the Citizens Rights Act. Disobedience at that point allows for immediate trial by AI as long as no forensic work is needed." He sounded like the same bored cop as he was in the store, reciting memorized text for the thousandth time.

I struggle to get up on my feet. Not only am I shaky, but having my hands locked together makes it surprisingly difficult to get up. "You know, this is bad timing," the cop starts. "I was on my way home and don't have all the standard gear. It's supposed to be a swift punishment, for deterrence, but there is really only one thing I can do." Why is he so apologetic? He opens the bag and pulls out a fucking tactical human transformer. I've never even seen one in person before. He turns it on, selects something on the screen, and points the device towards me. "No, I can..."

This time I am on fire, if only so briefly. There is a blinding light, a pulse of heat, and the smell of burnt plastic. As the transient heat subsides it keeps falling colder and colder. I'm naked. All my clothes have been singed from my body. My watch is gone. My shoes are gone. Underwear gone. And, I realize, my hair is gone. The cop keeps punching in selections in the menus of the devices. I manage to get up on my feet. "Stay on the ground," he tells me. Not so much as an order, but as an advice. I sit down again and he trains the device on me.

I don't know how to describe it. It's not pain exactly. There is something about rewriting the code and cellular structure of your body while your brain is engaged that makes it give up in disbelief. "This can't be what's actually happening," it thinks and gives you completely nonsense sensory interpretations. But it also gives up on all other tasks. Time becomes irrelevant. Critical thinking put on hold. When the device stops you are utterly confused for seconds. Possibly by design, but it makes sense that you can't rewire the brain in flight without some glitches.

"I want you to stand up," the cop says in a firm voice. "Who?" I ask, still dazed, just to make sure. "You. Get up on both feet. Take this." He throws an orange bundle to me, and I feebly grasp for it but my one arm yanks the chain to the cuff of the other arm. The bundle brushes by and lands on the ground next to me. He looks disappointed, more at himself for thinking it would work than on me for not catching it.

I look down at my hand and see something orange in my grip, but it is not the orange that interests my but the grip. My arms, thin from lack of food and nimble from grabbing P2 storage modules out of vendor racks. are enormous. Big, well defined muscles with popped veins going up and around them. They look longer than before and even the hands are larger than they used to be. I can see that not only my arms are different. My chest is all lean and strong-looking as well, the legs have these weird lines showing different groups of muscles under the skin, and I can almost bet that the ground is further down than it used to be. Orange! I'm holding something orange in my hand.

"I only have an emergency kit with me, so not very many options for you I'm afraid. If you had come with me I think they would have found some better use for you, but as I said, I didn't have much to chose from beside himbot," the cop said while putting some beat-up looking boots from his bag next to me. He grabs the chain between my cuffs, and both of them pop open instantly, and he folds them up and begins to place them back into the cuff holder in his belt.

There was something he said that was important. Like, really important. I feel cobwebs like I had just been awakened from a deep sleep. "Put on the jock," he tells me, and again I am confused, but of a different kind. It's like I urgently need to know what he means, somehow. "You're holding them in your hand." I again look down at my hand and see the orange piece of cloth, which obviously is what he meant. I flip it around in my hands and finds it to be an orange jockstrap with a generous pouch. Looking down I also see the reason for that, since my dick and balls are large. Much larger than I remember them to be. I don't want to keep him waiting, so as quickly as I can manage, with my balance a bit off, I manage to place one leg in each loop and pull up the jockstrap. It neatly collects everything in front into a large orange ball.

Himbot! That's what he had said. It's like the government robots but human. What was the I and M now again? Wait, those are just mindless sacks of muscles roaming around doing whatever menial task is available.

"Himbot?" I ask him. "Yes, you are a himbot," the cop answered. "Put on the shirt."

I immediately grabbed the orange bundle from the ground I assumed to be the shirt. To my delight I was right and with just a few tries I managed to get it on me. It isn't a real shirt, but one of those without arms, whatever they are called. Quite a lot of skin showed. The shoulders were bare, as were the sides and the nipples unless you positioned the strings just right. Stringers! It's called a stringers, or something close to it. I feel so tired thinking of words.

"And the boots"

I grab one of the boots. There is something missing, but I'm not sure what it is. I has something to do with the small holes, I think. Well, the large hole is missing a foot, so I put one in it. Then I put the other foot in the other boot, and looked at the cop to see if he approved. He looks about the same. Good enough I hope.

"Face me and raise your hands" I comply immediately. He is pointing the large gun at me again. I don't like it, but I must do what he says. He presses a few buttons and then there is a sharp headache.

"Who are you?" "Himbot 220553." "What is your assignment?" "Walk along path 228-red responding to requests." "What types of requests?" "Any type of requests."

[tiramisiyu]

【未定事件簿】  Tears of Themis: Xia Yan Personal Story 4-2 Translation

Translation Masterlist | Xia Yan Masterlist | Video

Chapter 4: 4-1 / 4-2 / 4-4 / 4-5 / 4-6 / 4-7 / 4-9 / 4-10 / 4-11 / 4-12 / 4-13 / 4-14 / 4-16

Xia Yan’s Home

In the days after, Xia Yan and I worked on collecting information on other corrupt detectives as we waited for Sphinx’s investigation results.

Before heading out today, Xia Yan handed something to me.

Xia Yan: Here, I’ve made a copy of the house key for you.

Xia Yan: We’re always going around together, but having a key is still more convenient.

Xia Yan: Actually, I should’ve given you a copy on the day we reunited.

As he spoke, he handed a silver key to me.

I looked at this key that was identical to his and couldn’t help smiling.

MC: How reminiscent. We always had the same key in the past – even the keychain was the same type.

Xia Yan: Yeah, so I specially made two keychains this time. See if you like them!

Smiling, Xia Yan took out two chibi-styled pendants of me and him.

MC: Whoa, they’re so cute!

I reached out to take the Xia Yan-modeled pendant, but Xia Yan simultaneously handed me the one modeled after me.

MC: ???

Xia Yan: …

Xia Yan looked at me as I reached out for his pendant, looking somewhat hesitant.

Xia Yan: Uh, mine doesn’t really suit you.

MC: …

⊳ How does it not suit me? ⊳ I want yours

MC: How does it not suit me? I’ll definitely treasure it well, is that not fine?

 ⊳ How does it not suit me? ⊳ I want yours

MC: But I want this one… can’t I?

--

Xia Yan: That’s not what I mean.

Xia Yan: It’s just that you’ll be carrying the keychain at all times, so other people will see it easily…

MC: I don’t mind others seeing… or do you mean that you don’t want others to see?

Xia Yan: How could that be!

Xia Yan: I mean, if you want this keychain, I need to modify it.

MC: Modify? But I feel like this already looks great.

Xia Yan: Not its exterior. I need to add some functions to it.

Xia Yan: Actually, aside from being a keychain, this pendant is also an alarm.

Xia Yan pulled down the keychain based on me, and an alarm quickly resounded throughout the room.

After the display, he fixed the keychain based on me back onto the keychain.

Xia Yan: The decibel count from the alarm on this one is higher than typical alarms, and its battery endurance is also longer. Plus, it’s more durable – it’s water- and fire-resistant for a short period of time.

Xia Yan: I thought that you would want the one based on you, so I only installed an alarm onto that one.

Xia Yan: If you want “me”, I need to make some slight modifications.

MC: Okay, then I’ll leave it up to you, Great Detective Xia!

Xia Yan quickly started working on modifying the keychain alarm.

Right after he had just finished, Sphinx called.

--

Sphinx gave an overview of his investigations for the past several days in the call for us.

According to his investigation, he noticed someone that he suspected to have relations to “Oedipus”.

Xia Yan: You mean that Oedipus might have to do with this “Bedo Loan Company”?

Sphinx: Indeed. For the past few days, I’ve been investigating all the corrupt detectives, including Meng Qishan.

Sphinx: I noticed that Oedipus only had relations of benefit with corrupt detectives after a certain period in time.

Xia Yan: What period in time?

Sphinx: After I faced off with corrupt detective Qian Yi.

Note: What a name… this “Qian Yi” guy’s name literally means Money Benefit (钱益)

Xia Yan: Qian Yi? I don’t think there’s this guy listed among the resigned detectives of Stellis…

Xia Yan looked at me.

Not long ago, Xia Yan organized a list of all the Stellis detectives who had resigned in the past three years, in our search for Sphinx. However, Qian Yi was not among them.

Sphinx: I’m afraid that this is because, not long after my face-off with Qian Yi… he died.

MC: He died?!

Xia Yan: …

Sphinx: According to the police’s death report, Qian Yi died due to cardiac failure, and it was one week after I cut off communication with him.

Sphinx: Right after, Meng Qishan and other corrupt detectives were found and lured by Oedipus to find out about my plan.

Xia Yan: The timeline is indeed quite suspicious.

Sphinx: So, I went to Qian Yi’s house to investigate.

Sphinx: I noticed the same Trojan Horse virus on his computer that was in Tian Xin’s, as well as similar indications of large amounts of data being wiped.

MC: If so, Qian Yi and Oedipus really do have some sort of relationship between them.

MC: Right, Sphinx. Why did you seek out Qian Yi back then?

Sphinx: Qian Yi was a detective in name, but his actions indicated that he was more like an information broker.

Sphinx: He was skilled at using various methods to obtain different kinds of information, to sell them.

Sphinx: Sometimes, he would also use the information he had for extortion and blackmail.

Sphinx: Either he’d directly demand money, or he’d coerce the other party to agree to his requirements.

Sphinx: But his death is likely unrelated to what I found out about him.

Sphinx: I’ve verified with the victims who were harassed by Qian Yi. Up till now, none of them have received any more harassment.

MC: Is that so…

Xia Yan: If it has nothing to do with the victims back then, then the point of suspicion probably has to do with Qian Yi himself.

Xia Yan: As an information broker, his social relations would have been very complicated.

Xia Yan: I’m guessing that Qian Yi might have gotten certain information on Oedipus back then, provoking Oedipus.

Xia Yan: And due to the intersection in timelines, Oedipus thought that you, who was investigating Qian Yi, had already gotten or had a high probably of having gotten information on him.

Xia Yan: Which is why he had to find you, no matter what.

Sphinx: That’s what I was also thinking.

Sphinx: I’ve already investigated the people related to Qian Yi anew. Accept the document I’m sending.

Sphinx soon sent over a document. Xia Yan opened it on the computer.

According to Sphinx’s investigations, Qian Yi had considerably frequent business partnerships with Bedo Loan Company.

Xia Yan: Wait, I remember now. Isn’t “Bedo Loans” that trap loan company that was on the news a few months ago?

The so-called “trap loans” were a sort of criminal act that falsely used the title of “private lending” to commit fraud.

First, the victim would be induced to sign a loan agreement with a low borrowing threshold. After, they would use both gentle and forceful methods to defraud the victim of their money.

Sphinx: Yes. Qian Yi secretly tailed the debtors in these trap loans.

Sphinx: And Bedo Loan Company would violently coerce the debtors when they were unable to repay the money, using the private information Qian Yi had provided to threaten the victims.

MC: That case has already ended. If Qian Yi hadn’t gotten into an accident, he probably would’ve also been convicted, right?

Sphinx: Evidence was insufficient. Qian Yi is proficient with legal clauses and making use of legal loopholes, so he made himself seem completely innocent.

Xia Yan: …

MC: …

Sphinx: Aside from that, I found a person related with Qian Yi. Search up “Ji Xiaoyu”.

Xia Yan searched up this name according to Sphinx’s instructions and soon found a video recording.

--

[Flashback]

Stellis Suburbs

Caution tape surrounded the riverside grass. A woman’s remains, pixelated in the video, were lying on the grass, with blood mottling the area all around.

A rumble of whispers came from the crowd around, saying things like “I heard it was a car accident” and “What a pity, she was so young”.

Young Girl: Sister… sister – sister!!!

A girl hysterically cried “sister”, throwing herself on the body on the ground.

The police forcefully pulled at that girl, trying to persuade her.

Police: Miss, we understand how you feel… but please calm down. We need to do on-scene investigations.

After several minutes of wildly trying to pull out of the police’s grasp, that girl finally slid down to the ground without energy, sobbing bitterly.

Young Girl: It’s all because of me… It’s all because of me that my big sister died…

Lying prostrate, she sobbed for a good while, then suddenly straightened and grabbed onto the uniform of the police officer in front of her.

Young Girl: No, it’s also because of them! They’re all murderers! I beg you, please catch all of them!

She grabbed onto the hem of the police’s uniform, begging piteously, her sobs soundless.

[Flashback end]

--

It was obvious that the video was taken by a bystander – the camera was shaky and the image wasn’t clear enough, but the girl’s weeping made me feel irrepressibly sorrowful.

Sphinx: This girl is Ji Xiaoyu. The deceased is her older sister, Ji Xiaoqing.

As he spoke, he transferred the Ji sisters’ information to us.

The year that the older sister Ji Xiaoqing tested into university, their parents passed due to an accident. Ji Xiaoqing worked as she studied in university, all the meanwhile taking care of her little sister Ji Xiaoyu like a mother.

When little sister Ji Xiaoyu tested into university, she started working as she studied as well, trying to lighten the load on her older sister.

The two sisters had always had a good relationship, until Ji Xiaoyu entered second year, when she fell into the trap of a trap loan due to a desire to buy things.

Sphinx: After the death of older sister Ji Xiaoqing, Ji Xiaoyu came clean to the police about owing money in a trap loan, and thus being harassed and threatened by Bedo Loan Company and Qian Yi multiple times.

Sphinx: At the beginning, she did not dare tell the police or her older sister out of fear of the company. Instead, she desperately worked to return the money, but the amount owed kept growing.

Sphinx: After, Bedo Loan Company faked a court verdict, forcibly seizing the real estate that the sisters’ parents had left behind.

Sphinx: Only then did Ji Xiaoyu’s older sister, Ji Xiaoqing, find out about the full truth.

Sphinx: Ever since then, Ji Xiaoqing became absentminded for a long time and even dropped her job.

Sphinx: The police performed an autopsy on Ji Xiaoqing and noticed that the alcohol concentration in her blood severely exceeded safety standards.

MC: So Ji Xiaoqing might have been using alcohol to forget her woes, then came to the mountain road while drunk and got into the car accident…

Sphinx: That was the police’s conclusion.

As Sphinx spoke, Xia Yan searched up the aftermath reports on this traffic accident case.

Due to issues with the surveillance equipment on that road, no information could be found on the vehicle that caused the accident. The police were currently still offering rewards for anyone who provided information.

And according to Qi Xiaoyu’s accusation, the police filed the case and investigated Qian Yi and Bedo Loan Company.

Bedo Loan Company was shut down for investigation, but due to insufficient evidence, Qian Yi was released after many days of fruitless police investigation.

Xia Yan: One week after Qian Yi’s release, he died unexpectedly due to cardiac arrest.

Sphinx: At the beginning the police suspected that this had to do with Ji Xiaoyu, because she was extremely furious due to the release of Qian Yu and lost control of her emotions.

Sphinx: Though the police investigated this after and found that this was not because of Ji Xiaoyu, I noticed a violation ticket related to Ji Xiaoyu.

Sphinx sent the violation ticket over.

Xia Yan: Illegal carrying of restricted blades… the date of the violation ticket is one day before Qian Yi’s death.

Sphinx: Indeed. I did a little investigating.

Sphinx: The police who gave Ji Xiaoyu the violation ticket was the one who dealt with her sister’s car accident. He sympathized with Ji Xiaoyu greatly and feared that she would take extremes.

Sphinx: So he always secretly kept an eye on Ji Xiaoyu. The day Ji Xiaoyu bought the restricted blade, he noticed.

Sphinx: As a police officer, he had to give Ji Xiaoyu a violation ticket, but he paid the penalty fine himself, and did his best to persuade Ji Xiaoyu after.

Sphinx: When Ji Xiaoyu was suspected of being related to Qian Yi’s death, this police officer testified for her, saying that Ji Xiaoyu did not have the time to commit the crime.

Xia Yan: Even if Ji Xiaoyu has nothing to do with Qian Yi’s death, if she was following him back then, she might have noticed clues.

MC: Then let’s go find Ji Xiaoyu to get an understanding of the situation.

[meltalks]

my experience with addy / hiqey

i’ve contemplated posting my history with addy/hiqey for awhile now. my friends have encouraged me to do so, but due to her stance in the rpc i was always far too scared to do so. with all that is coming to light with her recently, not only is a huge weight off my shoulders as far as comfortably roleplaying as my escape, but knowing i’m not alone. my story with addy dates back to about september 2018. i do warn you this will be long, and i’ll try to include enough details to make it make sense while not dragging things on and on. this includes both my personal relationship with addy, as well as my experience with her in groups one where she she was an admin, and groups where i was an admin. as well as i believe we coadmined one together. i’ve put screenshots where i could, but some of this dates back to 2018 and i just don’t have access to those texts/rp accounts anymore.

a huge huge shout out to @bumkeyz for starting this avalanche, and for also supporting me one on one along with all my friends to feel safe enough to come forward. i’ll put all of my story under a read more. 

i’m going to start this by saying, my name is mel/melanie. you may have heard of me because back when addy was on rpslayed she wasn’t a big fan of me for awhile. predominantly my group the cape(?) the main isn’t up anymore so i can’t remember the exact @. i’m 21 years old, i will be 22 this month. i am married & i have a 3 year old daughter. this is information i don’t normally tell people i’m married / have a child, because well, i just feel a little judged. not because anything anyone has specifically done or said, but my own anxieties worried that people will think it’s weird to be married with a child and still in twitter rp. but it is important to my story with addy, which is why i’m letting everyone know right off the bat. 

i met addy in a group called producers. this group is from september 2018, so i’m not able to access anything right now, but am digging. i played (feel free to clown me) a g-eazy character named pierce. addy played a carlson young who’s name i can’t quite recall, and a gracie abrams named lolly. lolly & pierce became friends first & at some point we exchanged phone numbers. lolly & pierce flirted a lot, pierce was a player yada yada. eventually she ended up getting a different ship on lolly & pushed her carlson young onto pierce. pierce had a different love interest & didn’t end up going for her. this should’ve been the first negative sign/red flag. when pierce didn’t get with her character, she got very short & snarky ic and ooc. i believe both of her characters blocked me ic. even though pierce had made no ic promises to either to not be with someone else. we still maintained some level of friendship, but she was extremely weird about when i mentioned my ship. our friendship ended for a few months because of an incident that started ic between me and another character. the mun who played this character and i had bonded ooc over having been pregnant, we talked somewhat often about her dealings with her pregnancy. so i felt close enough/friendly enough with this mun that when something happened with her character & another character ic i dm’ed her to see if she was ok .long story short it went bad. i texted addy and told her that. i explained that i felt as if this mun & i were close and it was like dm’ing a friend. she held onto the fact that i shouldn’t have messaged her. when i didn’t immediately conform to her thought she kicked me out of the group. i was literally devastated. i loved that group, that character, my ship; all of it. she blocked me. though this story is 2 paragraphs long, it’s minor in the grand scheme of things. after this she smeared me on rpslayed for months until our paths crossed again in a group called glitches/glitch? we decided to squash our beef. this was december 2019.

in december 2019 we became friends again. honestly, i wish we never crossed paths. we got very close right away. she started telling me about a bad friendship she had, with someone we mutually knew from producers who i will not name since it’s not my place to put their name in this, and gained my sympathy. so much so that i ended a friendship with that person based solely on accusations that addy had told me. this is something that i can now realize i did wrong. i literally cussed this person out on the phone, solely based off things addy told me. i didn’t listen to someone who had been my friend for months, who defended me and picked me up when addy was tearing me down on rpslayed. i turned my back because addy convinced me to. she made this person seem awful. and again, i’m not naming them, but they know exactly who they are. and when thy do read this, i’m sorry.

now this is where things get out of hand. addy & i begun an intimate relationship. this is very personal, and i know some may pass judgment. but my husband was cool with it. addy also began talking to my husband, they texted. we had a groupchat. not to get into details about the relationship, but it was romantic. i am going to try and organize my thoughts. into themes.

money

this relationship lasted from about january ish to april romantically. i became addy’s crutch. she began going through personal issues with her family. and i started sending her money. to be frank i don’t remember how it started. i helped her with a job search, supporting her through these tough things that were going on. the money started casually i suppose. it was $10 for lunch. $25 for nails. but then it got worse. i bought her a phone. and slowly she grew more entitled to my money. asking for it. demanding it. guilting me when i didn’t give it. i lied to her and told her i lost my credit card and turned it off, but the guilt i had i told her that i could turn it on when she needed it. in screenshots i will post below she guilted me because i was sick and fell asleep before turning my card on. whether what she’s saying occured is true or not, it was just one example of how she made me feel. at one point she had my credit card on her uber, and charged nearly $400 of ubers on my credit card that i didn’t know about. she claimed it was an accident, because i let her put my card on her account under the agreement that she would turn it off. we had an agreement of what she would pay me back, some things that i got her were gifts and i didn’t want/need back. other things it was always an agreement she would pay me back. however whenever i would mention sending me a payment she had an excuse. one time even guilting me by reminding me how much better i have it than she does. all in all i spent / sent upwards of $2500/$3000 on her. only about $1500/$1800 i wanted back. i never saw a dime back, she never made good on her promises. at some point i gave up on asking.

ETA: as far as the uber situation goes, she did apologize and state that it was never on purpose when i found out that there was nearly $500 in charges. she said she thought she was charging her moms card. this shows a photo of 1 page of a 5 page statement of all the transactions put on my card by her in one month. there are only 6 of these transactions that were me. all of the ubers and venmo were her. i didn’t make her take off my card, which in hindsight was obviously a very bad decision. i just didn’t want to leave her stranded without ways to get home/where she needed to be. 

this is her demanding money. this was in the summer. at this point i was so manipulated by her/scared of her/scared of losing her that i didn’t know how to say no. in this instance i deflected with a picture of my child. screen shot.

in the screenshots here, this is where i fell asleep. i was on vacation and got extremely dehydrated in the sun. i literally felt so sick and she made me feel guilty for falling asleep. X X X 

this screenshot shows one of the times i actually asked her when she would repay me. at this point my credit card was nearly maxed out from ubers and sending her money. i was anxious about it and she made me feel bad for asking because her situation was worse than mine. this was the same day she asked me for $250 for a down payment on her car. X asking for money. X making me feel bad for asking when she’s gonna pay.

literally to this day im still in credit card debt because of this. yes i make good money, yes my husband does too. but credit card debt is hard and everyone knows it. i do fine for myself, but i don’t have hundreds extra to pay this down. 

also, i cannot locate the bank screenshot. but as recent as this february, six months since she spoke to me, she still had my card on her uber and usted it again. i can’t find the screenshot of the actual of the bank transaction because i’ve completely had to close that account for fraud and transfer my balance to a new card. but here is a screenshot from february 12 where i tell my friends i caught her doing it. X .

manipulation in groups/related to groups

orbis. i ran a group called orbis, it was a reality show group. addy was one of my friends who really wanted me to open it. all of my groups i’ve adminned i’m the lead. i just always take on that roll so i do get very busy with them on top of my real life. i work full time and i’m a mom so i spread myself thin.she made me feel really guilty for this, saying i wasn’t giving her enough time, she wasn’t anyones dog. so i posted my unfollow. then she told me i was stupid for doing that. so i deleted my unfollow. then she said that me deleting my unfollow showed that i didn’t really care how she felt. screens. X X

lumeer. very similar situation to above. only this time i left the group completely for about 3 weeks. i called my coadmin crying about what she was doing to me, sent her the psds and templates for grpahics and left fully, though i helped them out if issues arose/they needed anything. 

impulse. this was recently and this got brought to the tags. im going to copy & paste what i sent to bumkeyz as far as the story goes for what happened.

“ what happened in impulse is only one of several examples of addy being awful in groups i've adminned. this goes back to our friendship but specifically here's what happened in impulse. addy played a character named briar, the other characters involved were as mentioned in other posts loki & khalil (fai fc). one of he first days of the group khalil hooked up with both loki & briar. when the "updates" account posted about loki & khalil's hook up (we posted any and all plot drops that were sent in, it was a reality show so we consistently updated what the cameras caught), briar got upset on main. addy then messaged khalil's mun ooc and asked for the plot to be erased. essentially because she didn't like that khalil had hooked up with both her and another girl in the same day/same manor. as odd of a request as i was the khalil mun agreed to wipe it & asked that if there was anything that ever came up again that made addy uncomfortable to please not hesitate to dm. addy then softblocked khalil. which is strange. why soft block with briar's reason to dislike khalil has been wiped? that night addy posted on her personal tumblr hiqey "i forgot all fai khadra fcs are weirdos" or soemthing along that line. the khalil mun reasonably got uncomfortable with that, but was softblocked & didn't tell the main. they just ignored it since their characters weren't interacting now. for the next few days addy continued to shade khalil and loki on main, despite any ic reason for disliking them being wiped. loki then approached briar IN CHARACTER asking what was wrong/why she was shading/why they didn't like her. i don't know all the details of that conversation, but i know it ended with loki saying she was going to block briar & briar saying that was fine. bear in mind the admins had no idea any of this was happening at this point. addy then dmed the main, playing victim. after more shading of khalil, khalil's mun decided to block briar as well. addy despite wiping this plot and having 0 ic communication with khalil continued to shade the characters ic. so addy dmed the main playing innocent. asking for us to have them unblock, saying she had no idea why they blocked or what she did. as admins we had no idea why either, figured it was something ic so we dmed both muns. khalil's mun agreed after some hestiation, and asked if they had to follow her and i said no. they didn't elaborate. loki's mun however refused, & i'm glad she did because she told us what was going on. of course once we were told everyting we didn't make her unblock. up until we told addy that we were not going to make those muns unblock her, she was extremely sweet to us. she praised us on her rpt. said she loved the group. fed the main compliments. but when she didn't get her way out of us, and was essentially told on, she started causing issues on the timeline with different characters. she sent us a dm on the main telling us to "learn how to handle your group melanie" and deactivated before i could get a chance to reply. “

what i didn’t tell bumkeyz is that deejay/rpslayed played khalil. another example of addy’s manipulation is that when she saw deejay getting anons she followed deejay and texted her after several months of no communication, starting to tell her side of the story and play innocent -- not knowing that deejay was the person who was behind khalil the entire time. she made khalil out to be the bad guy, not knowing that it was deejay. after finding out deejay and i were friends, when deejay posted on rpslayed for people to follow me shortly after trying to get deejay on her side, addy blocked us both (again). 

manipulation between friends (?)

i don’t really know a great way to title this, but this is similar to the situation i mentioned with the unnamed person above -- how addy made me think that person was the worst so i would stop being friends with them. this is a few more examples of that.

the entire time i was friends with addy, she told me that deejay hated me. she told me that deejay was convinced that i was this person who tried to get her kicked out of a group. she told me that she did her very best to convince deejay that it wasn’t true, but no matter what she did deejay just hated me. nearly a year later deejay and i cross paths in a group. we started talking ooc and i mentioned this. i asked her why she thought that was me. we found out that basically, while addy was telling me she was trying to convince deejay it wasn’t me, she was telling deejay that it was me. she would also tell me personal information about deejay that i had no business knowing, whether it be real life information or just telling me the groups deejay adminned when she knew deejay didn’t want anyone knowing. 

i have found out recently that addy has recently been telling people a lie about when she came to visit me. on one evening when she visited me in june of 2019, we went to my friend’s house. we both drank, and smoked. i am someone who neither drinks nor smokes, and i got a very bad mix from it. my anxiety sky rocketed. i was crying on my friends couch practically paralyzed. i didn’t want to move. i felt sick. i felt scared. my friends were going to drive us back to my house and shortly before we were about to walk out addy said she needed to go to the hospital. my friend’s boyfriend drove her there, and when he came back they took me home. this night is very blurry for me. i remember barely being able to see straight, my friend helped me walk to and from the car. addy has told her friends that i refused to pick her up from the hospital that night, and i’ve now heard this from two of her close friends. when in reality, i was so far gone that not only was i sick and scared, but i couldn’t see straight. i had absolutely no ability to be behind a wheel. i’m not surprised she twisted this against me.

i provided a few people screenshots where addy was telling me to block them/trying to convince me that they were awful and hurting me. at the same time that addy was telling me this, she was doing the opposite to them -- to keep us apart. i believe this is some sort of power. always wanting to be everyones number one.

i don’t have a lot of screenshots for this, so i won’t go into much detail, but i can say on more than one occasion, or more than five or ten she told me who to and not to be friends with. told me to block people who had been our friends who were no longer friends with her. 

flat out manipulation.

i don’t want to go back through my texts too much honestly. it’s still a sore spot. it still sucks and it still hurts. but i think anyone and everyone involved with addy at some point or another has similar stories about the way she treats her friends. there were points where i begged. begged and begged her not to leave me. i can’t even count how many times she blocked and unblocked me. how many times she made me feel the worst and then came back. she came back because she knw i was there. and that my generosity was practically endless. i couldn’t say no to her, frankly i can’t say no to anyone. if anyone dmed me today and said hey i need $15 for a ride home. i’d probably send it. that’s just how i am. addy completely had me wrapped around her finger. to the point that i left friends who were good to me. i left my own groups i worked hard on. i nearly ended my engagement (which cannot be entirely blamed on her, but the relationship she and i had was built off lots of manipulation). i know that i could go find 100 screenshots and texts of her manipulating me but honest i just don’t want to do that to myself again. she has made me out to be the villain to anyone she can. i have had 2 different people tell me that she told them i say the n word, which is the furthest thing from the truth. i fear the things she’s said about me to people. if she can 100% make something up, what can she twist from actual arguments or issues we had? 

i know this sounds like a lot of rambling for nothing. but for nearly two years i’ve lived in fear in the rpc of addy. less so when we were friends. i’ve feared telling my side because i felt invalid. frankly even as i type this im scared. scared she’s already convinced everyone i’m awful and no one will read this or care. i just am thankful that this finally came to light. i am glad that i won’t feel scared anymore. roleplay is my one place to be free. as a mother, a full time worker, i don’t have a lot of time for hobby’s and frankly i don’t have a lot of them. i don’t draw, or read. i like to write. and i’m just thankful this can finally be lifted off me.

[ancientstone]

Alright so AU where Geralt doesn’t realise he’s been given a decoy Ciri

Perhaps Geralt goes to fetch Roach, maybe someone stops him to mention the ballads they’ve heard or some guard decides to question why he’s there, either way, he doesn’t notice the hidden passage in the palace, and therefore, not half an hour later, leaves Cintra not with Ciri sat scared under a cloak on his horse, but this girl:

In my head I’ve taken to calling her Alice, so that’s her name now.

Full name: Alice Cavannah of Cintra

Calanthe needs a child who can pass as Pavetta’s daughter, and it just so happens that currently staying in the palace for the banquet set to take place that night is a nobleman and his family - in particular, a nobleman who is on the wrong side of Calanthe’s temper, has been trying to redeem himself for years and gain a better position in court, and has a daughter roughly Ciri’s age.

For her parents, the decision wasn’t hard, mainly because her Father, who she is almost completely distant to, declared that she would go. In comparison, Alice is far closer to her Mother, but that doesn’t stop anything as her Mother goes along with whatever her husband says, merely absently nodding her consent as if being asked if she would like fish for dinner.

Alice also has an older brother, one who would be knighted not a few hours later (the knighting scene in episode one), and sending off their daughter in place of Ciri and having a son knighted in Cintra firmly puts their family name in Calanthe’s good books, much to their delight.

It also helps that Alice had a similar schooling to Ciri, and knows of the local nobles, lords, and ladies. If they tried to play off a peasant girl, their ploy would be blown within minutes.

“You’ll be back soon, I’m sure.” Calanthe promises breezily as she digs through Ciri’s wardrobe to find a dress for her to wear, to give her a more princess-like appearance. “Once all this nonsense with Nilfgaard has blown over, the Witcher will bring you right back.”

“Yes, your majesty.” Alice whispered, squeezing her hands together tightly to try and save off crying.

She’s told to quickly says her goodbyes, and then gets a cloak dumped over her head to avoid prying eyes who could call out the fraud. The Witcher, who she is told is named Geralt of Rivia, the Butcher of Blaviken, helps her onto a horse, and slowly they leave the city, Alice glancing back to see if her parents are watching. They’re not.

Her brother is, though. He waves at her from a window. She hesitantly waves back.

So, they head out, a tense silence between them. Alice is scared stiff, mainly because she’s never heard much about Witchers, being in Cintra most of her life. She knows Calanthe hates them, and doesn’t entrust this Witcher to look after her granddaughter, so tries to be as quiet as possible, less she angers the man with two very sharp-looking swords. 

Alice is also terrified that Geralt is going to figure out that she isn’t Ciri, and, not being a princess, will be killed for it. Her parents are unlikely to avenge her death (gods, her death might even be good for them - sacrificing their only daughter in the name of the Queen is sure to get them higher titles), so it wouldn’t matter if he did.

She spends the time nibbling her lip, a habit her Mother is always scolding her for, and praying to any God willing to listen to the thoughts in her head that she sees this out alive.

Geralt, meanwhile, is having a Panic™

What do you say to a princess? How does Ciri expect to be treated? Will she mind camping, or will he have to get inn rooms every night? Does he have enough coin for that? They gave him a bag of her belongings, does she have a bedroll, blankets, more suitable clothes for travel, better shoes? Is it rude to ask? 

The only other princesses he’s ever met either stabbed him in the gut or tried to eat his organs. Ciri probably won’t do that. He hopes. Then again, if she’s Calanthe’s blood, maybe he’ll be dead by morning.

Should he take her to Kaer Morhen? Or will the Nilfgaardian threat blow over before they get there? Is it better for them to head to the Blue Mountains or should they just hide out in the forests somewhere and wait and see?

Whatever he decides, the one thing he does know for sure is that this girl is completely petrified.

“It will be okay, Princess.” Geralt says roughly, as awkward as anything. “No harm is going to come to you.”

Her eyes are huge as she stammers, “T-Thank you, Witcher.”

“Call me Geralt.”

She flinches, squeaking, “Thank you, Geralt.”

Fuck, Geralt thinks.

They don’t come to any inns as dusk begins to fall, so Geralt tries to find the cleanest spot he can among the trees for them to make camp. He helps her down, and she shies away from his offered hand as if expecting to be hit before eventually taking it, and then sets about making camp.

Turns out, the palace didn’t think to give her anything practical, surprising for the granddaughter of the Lioness. The bag is mostly dresses, shoes only suitable for palace floors, and a hairbrush and a few toiletries.

He goes to swear, and then reminds himself not in front of the Princess.

“We might have to get you some new clothes.” He says, and she jumps at the sound. “We want to hide from Nilfgaard and anyone else who may try and find you. That will be easier if you dress plainly.”

What Geralt expects, he doesn’t know, a bit of a tantrum, perhaps? Something about how a lady of her status can’t go around in cheap fabrics like a commoner? Tears?

He doesn’t expect the girl to bite her lip, nod, and then hunch her shoulders around herself, trying to look as small as possible, swamped in her cloak and eyes to the floor.

The night is spent almost entirely silent. He goes out and hunts, gutting and skinning the hares away from camp so he doesn’t spook her, and then cooks a pretty bland stew that the Princess seems to force down out of politeness than a real hunger. He then gives her his bedroll, something she’s hesitant to do until he reassures her that he can go without sleeping, and meditates most of the night, listening for threats and the sound of her breathing. 

She cries at one point, trying to stifle her sniffles in her hands.

Over the next two days they move fast and far, not talking to anyone and putting as much distance between Cintra and them as possible. Slowly, as if she realises that Geralt is not going to eat her alive, the Princess begins to relax. That doesn’t exactly make her chatty by any means, or any less stiff and jumpy, but in their brief, stilted conversations, she seems less worried that he will bite her face off. A small improvement, but an improvement nonetheless.

Surprisingly, it’s Roach that brings them together.

Ciri takes to the mare straight away, and voluntary begins brushing her down each night, muttering soft things that she thinks Geralt can’t hear into the horse’s ears.

“She doesn’t tolerate most people.” He says as he builds a fire, pausing to observe them.

The Princess ducks her head. “O-Oh.”

“It means she likes you.”

“Oh!” For a split second, her face brightens, and she spins on her heel to gently pet Roach’s nose. “I like her too. What’s her name?”

“Roach.”

The Princess turns towards him, her face not quite disgruntled, but showing more emotion than she has so far. “Like the fish?”

“Hm.” Geralt nods.

“Why did you name your horse after a fish?”

“My brother named his horse Scorpion.”

“Is it...A Witcher thing?”

“Not reall-” Geralt stops, thinking about it. “Actually, I suppose it is.”

The Princess turns before he can see her expression, but he thinks she may be giggling. A lump forms in his throat, and he swallows it down.

Meanwhile, with Alice, she can’t decide if this is fun (she gets to explore the countryside, see other places, have a horse, camp, get dirty) or most frightening thing she’s ever done (she’s pretending to be the Princess of Cintra, if she messes up, the Lioness with solely blame her, not to mention punish her family. There’s so much on her shoulders that at random moments all she wants to do is weep)

Geralt doesn’t seem as frightening as he first appeared, and he’s actually been really nice, not asking complicated questions she doesn’t know the answer to (does he already know about Cirilla’s life? Her favourite foods? Her favourite song? She doesn’t, and dreads saying something that could contradict what he already knows) and keeping his distance.

He also named his horse after a fish.

On the morning of the second day, they camp outside a town, Geralt wanting to wait until most of the main morning traffic has passed before entering. To pass the time, she carefully twists braids into Roach’s mane (who preens under the attention), watching out the corner of her eye as Geralt goes over sword practice.

In a brief moment of boldness, Alice asks, “Is it...Hard, to use a sword like that?”

Geralt pauses, glancing towards her. “In a way, like most skills it becomes easier over time.”

“My-” Alice nearly outs herself by saying brother, quickly redirecting, “Grandmother uses a lot of swords.”

“Yes. Did she ever teach you?”

Oh Gods!

“My...My Mother didn’t let me. Said it’d make me brutish.” The news of Pavetta’s death was widespread, when it happened. She can recall her parents talking about it for years afterwards. “When she died, my Grandmother kept her wish.”

Geralt’s expression does several different things, and the longer the bout of silence draws on the closer Alice finds herself huddling against Roach, as if asking the horse to hold her up.

Stupid! She chastises mentally. That’s the Lioness! Of course she taught Ciri! And you just insulted her daughter! Wait until the Queen finds out about that!

Finally, Geralt grunts, something he seems to do regularly, before easing his stance, relaxing his shoulders. “Would you...Like to learn?”

Alice blinks.”M-Me?”

“Being able to defend yourself is one of the most important skills you can have, and I’m sure your Mother would prefer you alive and wielding a blade than dead and weaponless.”

The Lioness is going to be fuming by the time she gets back.

Still, somehow, Alice finds herself nodding , and Geralt hums, putting down his sword and pulling out a smaller dagger. “Come here.”

She does, and he places the dagger into her hand, adjusting her grip and inching her fingers into the correct positions. It’s heavy, surprisingly so, and Geralt carefully puts his hand around her wrist.

“Ideally we’d do this with one made of wood, but I only have this, so we won’t do much just to be safe, but I can show you how to hold a blade, and how to use it in a pinch.”

“Okay.”

“It’s not a toy.” He says sternly, meeting her eyes. “Don’t swing it wildly, don’t touch the edge, and when in doubt, drop it and step back, understand?”

“I do.”

He hums again, pleased, and then carefully starts the lesson.

Alice, surprisingly, finds herself enjoying it. She can see what her brother saw in it when he was younger and still in training. There’s something about learning the different stances, the hand positions, the control, that feels good, right, almost like the beginnings of a new hobby.

Her favourite hobby is still needlework, though. Alice adores a night by the fireplace carefully stitching away.

They keep on going until lunch, which is when they stop to eat (a little to her disappointment), and then head into town, Geralt dropping a handful of coins into her palm and pointing out a shop.

“Go buy yourself a few set of clothes, ones good enough for a winter outside. Don’t go with fashions, go with practicality. I’ll be outside.”

“Okay, I understand.”

The fabrics on offer are cheap, bland, and all variations of dim green or brown, however, with a little help from the shopkeeper, Alice is able to find some items which work. She switches into one of her new purchases, pulling on a new pair of boots, before heading back outside.

She keeps the dress she’d been wearing, though. It belongs to a Princess, and the Queen may be angry if she loses it. Alice gently tucks it into her bag.

“Good.” Geralt nods his approval and Alice finds herself smiling shyly, before they turn to leave.

It is as they walk away, following the road northwards, that they catch wind of a conversation by another set of travelers passing by, on their way south.

For a split second, Alice freezes, before whipping around so fast that her head spins dizzy. Her eyes follow them, and her vision mists with fear-struck tears as her jaw drops low in horror.

Beside her, Geralt goes as still as a statue, his skin pale.

Cinta has fallen.

......

Anyway, this is getting super long so I may have to come up with a part two, but I’ll leave this here for now

Oh, and I’m totally naming this the Double Trouble AU

[shima-draws]

OKAY OKAY SO I had this idea that’s similar to Reverse Falls—except everyone’s personalities/roles are swapped, so for example Stan takes the place of Ford and ends up in the portal, and Ford takes the place of Stan and is stuck trying to get him back for thirty years. Mabel and Dipper swap, as do Soos and Wendy, and Gideon and Pacifica, Candy and Grenda, etc.

They’re the same people with the same likes/dislikes and talents, but their personalities are all switched around!! So while Dipper is still mega fascinated by science and mysteries and stuff, he’s very outgoing and energetic and silly, while Mabel is more reserved and very shy about her creative passions—which leads to her being the one to find the journals, and take interest in them because they’re quirky and entertaining—and written by Stan :’) Dipper has a million different sweater vests, and Mabel has buttons and pins all over her clothes!

I see Ford and Stan’s story playing out as like, Ford was the one born with six fingers but it never bothered him much, and he was a very energetic personality as a kid, leading him and Stan into tons of trouble. Meanwhile Stan has always had self confidence issues, and he always took people calling him the “lesser twin” to heart, despite Ford encouraging him not to. Stan always had an interest in the mysterious, as well as Ford, but Stan’s fascination of it stemmed from his own anxiety issues, and found that he could relate a lot to the weird and unusual (because really, a lot of them were like him, labeled as weird and dumb because of his “mental” issues)

Rest is under the cut because it got LONG lol

This all came to a head during high school when Stan started writing fiction;; and really GOOD fiction at that. He couldn’t outwardly express himself and his interest in the supernatural, but he could do that through fiction, which made everything so much easier for him since he has social anxiety! And he found he was really talented at it. Which leads to a great big story writing contest, and the principal telling Stan that if he wins he can get a scholarship and go to college for writing. (The principal also says Ford is going places, too, but the things Stan can do will get him far, while Ford will always be stuck with the more…disapproving of careers. Assuming writers are a big hit, and scientists are just seen as frauds and losers.) Stan gets REALLY excited about this, which bums Ford out a lot because he wanted to do the treasure hunting thing and search for anomalies together, but Stan protests saying this is his passion and he’s finally being given an opportunity to do something good and worthwhile with his life.

The night before the contest, Ford sneaks in to the library where all the entries are set up, and accidentally mixes Stan’s story up with someone else’s—the pages get all intermixed and weird, and he quickly leaves before he can fix it because he’s about to get caught by night security (but he THINKS he got the pages in order when he in fact did not). The next day the judges read Stan’s story and say it makes no sense, it’s all out of context and the writing is all over the place and sloppy—so Stan loses. Of course he realizes that something must have happened, and after seeing a pen that belongs to Ford on the floor, he realizes what Ford has done. Which results in their enormous fight, and Ford is the one to be thrown out of the house.

Ford still manages to make it into college anyway, despite being homeless for a time, and starts studying hard. It’s not…a good college, at all, and he gets roughed up a lot and teased by frat boys, and struggles endlessly to make ends meet financially, and battles with intense depression. But he manages, somehow :’)

Stan, on the other hand, is so torn up about Ford leaving that he is essentially writers blocked—and he can’t write anything of any worth for a LONG time. Eventually he’s forced to get a low paying job in Glass Shard, wondering where it all went wrong, and missing Ford fiercely but still too upset to reach out. (He’s sure Ford is doing fine on his own, anyway.)

Eventually Stan manages to catch the attention of a publishing company along the way, and gets enough money to finally move out and continue his work! Which leads him to Gravity Falls, a place rumored for being weird, so Stan goes there to get inspiration for his writing, and starts a new life.

Ford, meanwhile, has graduated from college, but with a degree from such a shitty place he’s turned down for many job offers. He essentially starts traveling around the country, trying and failing to get noticed, and things start getting really tight for him moneywise, and people start chasing him down to repay his college debt. Yeah. It’s bad lol

Stan decides to call up an old friend of his that he encountered working part of the industry, Susan!! Susan happily comes up to Gravity Falls to act as an “editor” of some sorts for Stan’s latest in-progress novel. Stan also starts keeping a record of all the weird things he sees in Gravity Falls in a journal—and as time passes, the more he gets involved, and the more crazy he gets about discovering the source of all the weirdness there…which leads to him discovering a cave full of symbols and eventually ends up summoning Time Baby (yes, he and Bill are swapped in this!). Time Baby tells Stan that he’s brilliant, that he can bring all of his stories to life and live out his wildest fantasies if they work together. And so, Time Baby helps Stan in order to build a portal—but not a DIMENSIONAL portal, no. A TIME portal. Because I see Time Baby wanting to extend his rule to every time period possible in this AU, but being limited by time laws and possibly a revolutionized force trying to stop him. If he gets access to a time portal he can spread his influence farther, and attempt to take over all timelines, the past, the present, and the future. And Stan, who in this AU hadn’t grown up knowing when someone was trying to con him, falls for Time Baby’s flattery EASILY, and starts building the portal with his instructions. Susan also helps, being a mechanic alongside an editor. But unfortunately, an accident during testing gave Susan a glimpse into the future, where she witnessed the horrifying truth of Time Baby’s rule. She quit the project and decided to leave Stan on his own, who realizes Time Baby’s lies and started to lose his mind as he attempted to protect himself against the overlord’s influence. Which leads to him calling up Ford!!

Ford, who is currently barely scraping by, drops everything to go see Stan in Gravity Falls, in an excited attempt to reconcile. Of course Stan is driven by paranoia and anxiety at this point, so he snaps at Ford, demands him to hide his journals, and this results in their enormous brawl. Ford gets burned, they accidentally activate the portal, and Stan falls in—to be sent to an apocalyptic future.

Unfortunately without Stan’s other journals Ford has no IDEA how the portal works. And seeing as Stan worked with a being from a future with extreme technological advancements, even with his genius he can’t figure it out right away, and especially without the other journals to help. So, as Ford struggles to bring the portal back online, he decides to take over the Shack and transform it into a science museum of some sorts. Being as outgoing as he is, Ford’s able to draw people in with his friendly personality and contagious energy, which earns him enough money to keep the Shack running. He fakes his own death (mostly to escape the mountain of debt he’s in—I know, Ford isn’t the type, but he really didn’t want people sniffing around after all he’d been through, and paying back loans is the last thing on his mind, especially since he’s avoided it already and is labeled as a criminal anyway), opens the Mystery Shack, which is home to tons of crazy inventions and neat science factoids and tours, and thirty long years pass as he struggles to work the portal again. (He tries tons of different complicated things, but nothing works. He gets very frustrated with it sometimes.)

Eventually, the summer of 2012 arrives and with it comes Dipper and Mabel! And you know, things play out pretty similarly to how the original GF universe did. Bill is an interdimensional demon who keeps track of people dimension hopping (which Mabel and Dipper inevitably end up doing once they get their hands on a space tape), Gideon is filthy rich, Pacifica is a fake psychic who has an interest in Dipper, Wendy is the girl who fixes up the Shack, Soos is the guy always slacking off and being cool (and the thought of Mabel having a crush on him is. WEIRD but consider it being like, teen Soos or smth. Soos but COOL. He could pull it off), Fiddleford is a cheeky waiter at the diner—you get the point lol.

Anyway I am dubbing this AU as UPSIDE-DOWN FALLS! (I apologize if anyone else has ever had a similar idea, but it just popped into my head and I couldn’t disregard it man;;)

Also I feel that Ford and Stan might eventually go traveling the dimensions, or a mishap occurs and they get separated or something—and Ford runs into the regular GF verse Stan, and he has a great fondness for him because they’re practically the same. (Stan won’t admit it but he really likes Upside-Down Ford too.)

[juleswolverton-hyde]

Not by the Moon | 01

Genre: Smut, Romance, Strangers to Lovers, Drama, Tragedy, Werewolf AU, Supernatural AU, Bookshop AU

Pairing: Bookshop keeper!/Werewolf!JB x Reader

Warnings: Mild swearing, allusion to anxiety

Summary: Every story has a purpose or goal it is dedicated to, their authors at times going to great lengths to see the project they once started to completion. Nevertheless, the things the writers swore on to see their latest art piece to completion are static.

Unchanging.

None of them swore by the Moon nor Love because they can solely genuinely swear on all that changes like themselves.

And yet, a wolf in love foolishly swore by the moon.

That is when Time truly started ticking.

Next chapter

Masterlist

There is nothing quite like visiting a bookshop on a rainy autumn day, walking the pavements that will soon deepen in their shade of grey as the scarlet and burnt orange leaves will be decorated with tiny watery crystals. The fierce wind preludes to the sorrow of the gloomy clouds overhead, the chill creeping beneath the navy trenchcoat cooling the little skin bared by a simple ink black V-neck shirt. Caffeinated bordeaux sneakers hasten their step when leaving the district ruled by busy city life and entering the artisans district on the east side of town, where the boroughs are ruled by artists, individual shops, cafés and independent bookstores that each have their own vibe.

For a while now, a specific one has yet to be visited, intending to drop by ever since that long walk that lead through many a cobblestone street lined with brownstone houses and not a single business anywhere in sight. Except for Paper Souls, a hidden gem tucked away at the edge of the area where homes and commerce just meet and have resulted in a small store disguised as a proper worker’s house. As can be judged from the window display, the shop sells both well-known titles alongside more obscure ones, bound in editions fresh from the press and those having lived a ready life on someone’s shelves.

A second before the first tears of the heavens fall and make their presence known by ticking against the window, the bookstore is entered with a low sigh of delight. Nothing comes remotely close to the distinct scent of books, this specific combination of mustiness and ink laced with the fragrance of the weather outside and perfumes of customers. Or, in this case, solely the owner’s.

Here and there, a rumour about the man ruling the paper kingdom has been picked up and it is safe to say not all have been positive. A subject that has been frequently touched upon, oft causing more of a stir than the overall intimidating attitude, are the differently coloured eyes. One brown like hazelnuts at the end of the year and the other as blue as the ocean far outside the harbour.

The ones belonging to long blonde locks with dark roots looking up from the current read behind the counter and which are briefly met with a polite nod and casual greeting. At least one aspect of the groundless gossip is true because the disgruntled stoicism on the handsome face acknowledging the professional meaningless acquaintance silently makes the heart race and constricts the throat. It awakens the need to run and hide somewhere among the chestnut shelves, become a character in a tale so as to vanish and thus avoid upsetting the clerk by merely being present. Which might be the biggest problem, considering today’s goal of staying inside and spend it as is habitually done.

Don’t be silly. Just find a book and settle down somewhere to read a few pages. As long as you’re quiet, nothing’s gonna happen.

Thus, mayhaps repeating the self-chastisement once or twice, the creaking worn floorboards are walked upon as ghostlike as possible though every step makes the Body cringe due to the loudness disturbing the silence. 

And him.

The young man whose gaze is momentarily met before fleeing to the vintage couch in an incline with a gorgeous Penguin hardcover copy of William Blake’s Songs of Innocence and Experience, which has been found in the poetry section across from the counter. Breath was held while standing on the tips of the toes while reaching for the thin volume on one of the highest shelves, hoping to not attract attention and refusing to use one of the nearby dark-wooden stools to climb atop because such acrobatics would likely not sit well with the person causing the hairs at the back of the neck to stand on edge.

A sigh of relief cannot be helped when loosening the buttons of the trenchcoat and tossing it over the arm rest before snuggling up in the corner of the sofa. Finally a moment devoid of stress, a chance to be carried off by the works of a beloved poet and artist embodying the truth of childhood and adulthood.

But being brought back all too soon from criticism on the corrupt Catholic Church by the oppressive presence of loose ripped jeans which are perceived just above the edge of the mustard cover. Despite being barely able to gather the courage to look away from the page, lashes nevertheless look up to hands tucked into denim pockets and non-matching irises peering down. Curiously, though it is also alarming, the gaze from above is awkward as if unsettled by the mere presence of a well-meaning bookworm which confirms the assumption about being a nuisance.

Although, the paradoxically misplaced inquiry spoken in a husky voice undermines the deduction. The lowering of broad shoulders does too, allowing personal defenses to waver a bit in the pursuit of kindness. ‘’How do you like your coffee?’’

Bewildered yet finding no clear reason for the kind question in the stoicism of two-toned locks, the simple reflex of asking for a repeat is acted upon with a sheepish tongue that does not know what to make of the situation. ‘’Sorry, what?’’

‘’Coffee. How do you drink yours?’’ A gruff slightly chubby thumb points toward the door, the glass decorated with autumnal tears. ‘’It might be raining, but I still need caffeine. Figured I might as well buy you something too. So, what should I get?’’

What do I do? Do I accept the offer? I mean, he offered it, but declining would still be polite. Then again, it’s free coffee.

‘’Oh, uhm, that’s very sweet of you.’’ The bundle is put down in the lap, flabbergasted shy hands tucked between the thighs while trying to stay as small as possible. It is a silly instinct, but the closeness of the intimidating bookshop clerk calls for it. Moreover, the deep slightly hoarse tone that sounds both as if still recovering from something and being exhausted with the world does not make matters better. 

However, albeit for a split second that is not credible enough, little will-o-the-wisps illuminate the entrancing wildness of an ocean and hazelnut forest as a quicksilver smile flashes over roseate lips. A beautiful fleeting sight which might never have arisen from the solemnity resting like a mask on the youth’s face.

A daydream.

Indeed, surely that is what it must have been. What other reason could there be to show a sign of being pleased with someone who does not feel particularly welcome and at ease in this paper kingdom?

Led astray by the unfocused train of thought, distracted by what may or may not have been witnessed, the actual answer comes out on a mumble. All the while boldly looking back, wondering. ‘’An iced vanilla latte... would be nice.’’

Acknowledging the order with a mere low rumble similar to a wolf’s, the clerk sets off on a caffeinated journey and leaves an affected soul behind. 

While still being highly uncomfortable with the lad’s presence, the thought of what just happened and the offer of a drink that was not in the slightest reluctant imprints a warm impression on a racing heart. Yet, before any ungrounded fantasies arise, the poetry bundle is quickly picked up again and later exchanged for a thick volume of Keats’s poetry that has been picked up in a rush to seemingly have never moved from the leather couch. To not leave a single trace of chaos which might trigger the wrath of the bookshop keeper and perhaps end up in being drenched by cold coffee. 

All the fear is evidently in vain because, when being once again engrossed by poetry, the ghost of a touch over the cheekbone breaks the spell. As if awakening from a dream, the suggestion of the outstretched cold drink passes unnoticed. Instead, it is replaced by a look at ripped jeans beneath a loose tartan blazer, resulting in the novel discovery of a little gem embedded in the right nostril. 

The rattle of ice entrapped in plastic fully awakens the senses as well as the sharp rustle of a paper bag bearing the logo shaped like an apple out of which a bite has been taken. ‘’Here. It’s on me. Don’t think anything of it, I just don’t want you to get dehydrated or hungry.’’

‘’Right.’’ With trembling hands expecting to have the food carelessly thrown into the lap and drink pushed into the palm, the surprising meal is accepted. Without the slightest sign of pushing. ‘’Still, thanks.’’

Once again, a beastly grunt is all that is received in return before checkered trainers retreat to the front of the establishment. Strangely, they soon return with the current read which was enjoyed behind the counter alongside the cold brew that was picked up to battle the fatigue that noticeably laces demeanour. Because, when sinking back into the sofa after having been gestured at to scoot over and haphazardly making room, lashes flutter shut for longer than a mere blink. Notwithstanding, they are awake enough to notice the shift in reading. ‘’Keats?’’

‘’Uh, yes. He’s one of my favorites alongside Blake, Donne and, on occasion, Wordsworth.’’ Personal enthusiasm takes over when mentioning the last poet with whom there is a love-hate relationship, erasing any anguish at being close to the keeper of the kingdom and thus making it possible to ignore the few centimeters of space between bodies. ‘’Even though he’s basically a fraud by turning his sister’s experiences into poetry. It makes one wonder whether he had any talent to come up with something himself. Now, I do believe some of his works are genuinely his, but not all. Sorry, I’ll- I’ll shut up.’’

Questioning chestnut and water reintroduce the silence disturbed by autumnal rain accompanied by howling winds, stretching out over the empty streets. Nobody likes a blathering fool, least of all the stoic who surprisingly has decided to join one’s company. 

Or, so was the original thought that is now nullified by a sliver of a smile and something inaudible smokily mumbled beneath breath. There is no courage to inquire about what was said nor ask for a reason for being evidently entertained, simply rapidly picking up the volume again to resume reading with an overheated, ashamed mind.

Here and there, however, sneaky peeks are thrown in the direction of bleached locks thoroughly enjoying Dante’s Inferno, a work that has been on the to-be-read list for the longest time and somehow has never been crossed off.

Come on, you can do it. Ask him how it is, whether he likes Dante. Don’t be a marshmallow. Okay, one, two... fuck.

‘’How’s Keats?’’ Beating the barely daring tongue to it, the young man interrupts the hardly focused enjoyment of poetry that maybe lasted about fifteen minutes.

‘’Good.’’ More wants to be added to the opinion, but cannot be shaped nor voiced due to the bafflement at seeing sincere interest pierce through an unwavering expression. On the other hand, another unnameable sentiment underlines attitude too, floating ever so slightly beneath the surface. 

‘’You haven’t touched your food.’’ Lips slightly pout when glancing at the paper bag that rests on the trenchcoat that had hastily been draped over the other arm rest when bleached locks sat down, colourful irises dimming. 

Worry.

Why does it affect him? What does it matter if I eat or not?

To hopefully grant a bit of reassurance, an absent-minded promise is made before diving back into the misery of a nightingale. ‘’I’ll eat in a bit. Just one more poem.’’

As fast as lightning, the volume flies from hapless palms and the scent of books mingled with musky mint suddenly leans over to grab the purchased treat, fingertips pressing against the side of the thigh. Every muscle tenses up at the new form of intimacy, inwardly praying for the tartan blazer to return to his place as soon as possible. ‘’No, it’s already two o’clock and I’m sure you had breakfast early. You should eat. Where’s your coffee?’’

A trembling finger points to the untouched iced vanilla latte on the floor, put just in front of the sofa. Hands rise even higher when the bookshop keeper’s heartbeat and heated broad chest can be temporarily felt when slightly chubby digits lean over to grab the plastic cup. ‘’I’m not…’’

‘’What?’’ Clearly not understanding the need to keep looking away, unsteadily focusing on the sides of the nearest bookshelf, the question comes out agitated as the retrieved items are pushed forward, unmistakably intended to be taken. The shift in behaviour is as little comprehensible as the likely appearance of warm rosy cheeks going paired with a fist pressing on the lips, tongue-tied.

Mentally chastising oneself for the awkward display, courage is forcibly gathered to face the puzzled grumpy young man and answer with a whisper. ‘’I’m not comfortable eating in public.’’

‘’We’re not in public.’’

‘’Or with people I don’t know.’’

This revelation is clearly unexpected, eyes widening when reluctantly elaborating on an irrational fear with folded hands tucked between the thighs. For a second, there is nothing but an uncomfortable hush in which the worst outcome is vividly painted in the mind. Fortunately and oddly, it is broken as the stoic’s attitude shifts to something that has not been witnessed before and which goes against any rumour floating around town. 

A gentle smile plays around the corners of the mouth as the tense grip on the food and drink loosens, gently putting the rustling bag in the lap and a warm palm grabbing one hand to place the lukewarm cup in it. ‘’There. I’m Jaebeom, JB for short. Now, can you please eat something? And I promise I won’t judge you.’’

‘’Shouldn’t- Shouldn’t you eat something too? You look like you could use some energy.’’ Up close, the fatigue has become visibly noticeable outside the moment of sitting down and closing eyes for a little bit longer than would suffice for a blink. Affected by the niceness of the gentle acquaintance and thoughtfulness, the croissant in the bag is torn in half to offer a part to the current company. ‘’How about we share this?’’

‘’You don’t have to.’’ A low breathy chuckle rolls forth at the gesture, strangely elating the heart and stirring up a storm of butterflies in the stomach. Again, the same unintelligible phrase that was muttered under breath earlier seems to be repeated.

A penny for your thoughts. What did you say?

Putting aside curiosity to not prematurely cross any boundaries of politeness, what wants to be asked is suppressed and reformed into a request for sharing. After all, the lack of energy outlined by vague dark circles beneath non-matching irises is truly a cause for concern. ‘’Please? I don’t have that big of an appetite.’’

With a resigning sigh, the offer is accepted. Much to the strange delight of the soul who still is not entirely trusting of the bookshop keeper yet already has the mental defenses down a little bit more than before. ‘’Alright, if you insist.’’

What follows is an absolutely adorable though also surprising scenario as the pastry is enjoyed in one bite, the food disappearing without any trouble. Nibbling on the other half, staring cannot be helped as a sip of coldbrew is enjoyed to wash the treat down. However, the unintended impolite mannerism, of course, cannot pass under the radar. Hence is why dark brows furrow in puzzlement when remarking upon being a point of attention. ‘’What?’’

‘’Nothing. You just…’’ a moment is taken to try and find the right word yet failing to think of one which accurately describes the eating manner, ‘’you just wolfed that down.’’

‘’Sorry if it makes you uncomfortable. I can be a bit, well, unmannered at times.’’ The gaze focusing on the iced black coffee adds to the sorrowful side profile, unwillingly nostalgic, but unapproachable for comfort. ‘’I try not to be. I’m trying to, no, never mind.’’ Another sip. ‘’Forget it. Just eat and stay as long as you like.’’

‘’Jaebeom?’’ In a reflex, after swiftly wiping fatty fingertips on the coarse paper napkin, the bookshop keeper is grabbed by the sleeve as he tries to move away. Alarmed by the sudden bold move, non-matching irises briefly flare with an odd mixture of fear and annoyance before seemingly realizing something and thus calming down. All this goes hidden behind a badly enacted tolerating low hum. ‘’Can you, I mean, only if you don’t mind, could you... could you stay here? For a little while? At least sit down for a few more minutes. I promise I won’t stare as I did and actually read.’’

‘’You want me to... stay?’’ Dark brows furrow in a strange confusion, uncomprehending of the normal request. Although, perhaps it is not so casual seeing as it needs to be thought about. ‘’Stay? Here?’’

‘’If you don’t mind? I’m sorry if I freaked you out, I really didn’t mean to.’’

‘’You didn’t. I should be the one apologizing for being so distant.’’

‘’I don’t blame you. You barely know me.’’

‘’I don’t know you.’’ The observation hits hard, the sternness of the reply crucifying the heart and constricting the throat. How odd a fact should have this result. Withal, the misplaced hurt is a little soothed by the promise that follows. ‘’I’ll stay. But I’ll be closing in about two hours.’’

And thus, for one hour and a half, the paper kingdom falls quiet. Solely the tinkering tears of heaven decorating the glass of the windows, howling winds stirring the richly warm leaves into dance and occasional wandering lonely umbrella break the silence. Inside, the only noise to disrupt the hush is the turn of a page or sniffle that may or may not prelude to a cold. 

However, all tranquil beauty knows an end for Time always runs out. Henceforth, it is at half past four that a light tap goes paired with the barely audible comment “you have to go”. Likely due to the aftermath of being pulled from a world of poetic Nature into gloomy Reality, there is a wrong perception of Jaebeom’s voice. Surely, the sorrowful reluctance is imagined.

As you said, you don’t know me.

The mere thought pains Body and Soul when grabbing the navy trenchcoat off of the faux leather arm rest, stepping towards the bookshelf where Keats was found and the exit afterwards. No chance of wandering a little longer between the books is given, the clerk following closely behind and unconsciously guiding feet towards the entrance.

‘’Y/N? Will you, uh…’’ Restless trembling palms hover in the air like two bent paws failing to illustrate something, a rosy flush spread over the cheeks, ‘’Can I put your jacket on? I mean, let me help you put your jacket on. That’s how you say it, right?’’

With an affirming hum, big palms with slightly chubby digits are allowed to help dress into the piece of clothing.

Glide over the side of the neck when collecting hair to make it flow over the collar instead of being tucked beneath it, leaving a trail of goosebumps and sharpening breath. 

All the while maintaining eye contact, both our faces distorting with timidity. It is then that glances are haphazardly thrown around the empty store to avoid each other for a second wherein composure is hopefully found. 

And it would appear that the buff tall blonde youth is the first to do so, speech matter-of-factly when voicing an unspoken suggestion while holding on to the upper arms. ‘’I haven’t even asked your name.’’

Bashfully, the answer is uttered in a proper vis-á-vis with entrancing two-toned irises though the urge to bolt out the door remains. Nevertheless, the rapid loss of contact is disliked, JB realizing how the intimacy might come across when glancing at the fingertips digging into fabric, almost begging to stay. ‘’It’s Y/N.’’

The instinct to flee is lessened by the step forward thoughtfully repeating the name, carefully feeling out the syllables as if comprehending a siren’s song. ‘’I had a good time, Y/N.’’

‘’Me too.’’ It is true because, despite the distance that was endeavoured to be closed with food, reading and shallow conversation, the time spent together was actually quite enjoyable. Notwithstanding, too much of the clerk remains unknown to say whether all has been out of politeness or if any sincere trust has been shown.

‘’Even though you’re still scared of me?’’

‘’I’m not!’’ A sigh rolls off the tongue at the sight of a smug grin on roseate lips knowing better than to lie about genuine sentiments. ‘You’re just... just kinda intimidating.’

‘’Kinda? To me it seems like a whole lot more than ‘just kinda’. You almost seem eager to go even though you were hesitating earlier.’’ Bright hazelnut and the summer sea are overcast by lonely grief putting on the airs of suppressed rage, painfully re-establishing and enhancing the distance that was briefly shortened with a step backwards. ‘’To get away from me. Make up your mind.’’

‘’Yes, I’m intimidated by you. A lot.’’ The renewed cold emptiness is warily bridged, planning out the words to say to not make matters worse. ‘’And, to be honest, I don’t want to go. Still, it’s because you intimidate me I might seem uneasy and glad to go, but I can assure you I’m not. I really had a good time. We might not have talked a lot, but I still had a splendid afternoon. With you. And for that, I’m grateful. I’m sorry I confuse you, make you feel awkward because of my behaviour.’’

The waterfall of a confession catches the bookshop keeper off guard, but also manages to make tense broad shoulders lower their defenses as colourful eyes calm down. Digits rise from the pockets of loose ripped jeans to envelop the upper arms once more, this time rubbing them reassuringly and let the personal walls crumble too. ‘You don’t have to be afraid of me nor apologize. Look, we’ll talk about this another time. For now, you have to go and I have to close the shop. Get home safely and don’t catch a cold.’

‘’You too.’’ 

‘’Don’t worry. I won’t.’’

With a last nod and gentle smile relieved at the prospect of good health, warm palms are stepped away from.

The watery autumn chill cools the heat from being seen off by blonde locks.

I couldn’t get sick even if I wanted to.

When the enchanting scent of summer citrus, autumnal blackberries and juicy peaches has faded, the two volumes that were touched by it are picked from the shelves without a clear understanding of why. Neither is there a sense of comprehension when it comes to the sheer curiosity about what it is that the adorable shy doe so likes about these specific poets. Notwithstanding, both books are picked up and put on the counter alongside the current read to take upstairs after sweeping and properly closing the shop.

Which does not take long, soon after already stumbling up the metal stairs to the apartment above the establishment with a famished stomach and tense muscles, watching the oppressive concrete clouds slightly give way to the lilac dusk before heading inside. Fortunately, dinner has been prepared in advance so the various side dishes solely need to be warmed up in the microwave just like the rice in the cooker. The hair dye job, however, will have to wait until tomorrow. That is, if it is remembered like the face of the local historian who seems awfully fascinated by the affliction distorting identity.

Shedding off the weight of the day, clothes are removed and tossed on the couch to be replaced by the bathrobe that was put there in the morning after yet another long night filled with amnesia. Afterwards, bare feet trod to the kitchen to retrieve the cold dishes from the refrigerator and put them in the microwave to heat up. 

It’s getting late, but at least there’s still some time to read. Funny how my last thought is of you.

Just as the melancholic thought arises over a big bowl of bibimbap accompanied by William Blake’s Songs of Innocence and Experience, the screen of the phone on the counter lights up after a brief buzz. When getting up to check, the message appears to be from the supernatural scholar.

“Good luck tonight. I’ll be at your place around 7. Hopefully, you’ll be yourself again. If not, I’ll wait outside. Jinyoung.”

As always, the text is signed with the young man’s name to help ease the recovery of ever-fading memory. Even after living around three years among humans again, the ability to recall actual names alongside how to enact civilized behaviour remains hard.

And becomes more difficult with every passing day.

For now, I want to try. I want to speak to you at least one more time and explain myself. Part ways on good terms, let you know what I am.

A smile cannot be helped at the sight of the bowl next to the mustard poetry bundle, vividly re-imagining how it was held by small hands on the faux leather sofa this afternoon. 

How those same tiny digits tore off half of the croissant without hesitation and offered it to an animal, nibbling adorably on theirs while endeavouring to put on a human act and failing due to the hunger always preceding hell.

But a fantasy never lasts.

Time never stops. 

It solely ticks.

Runs out.

Hopefully, I’ll remember you.

And the moon cannot be sworn by for She cannot stay away nor remain the same. 

That night, the name of the bookish fawn is the last powerful word to recall before losing a grip on the world in the cold dark illuminated by artificial light. 

Naked and shackled beneath the concrete ground.

Hoping for a memory. 

Y/N.

[anexplanationofunfortunateevents]

if the GOP could win for real, they would do a lot less cheating

Something you have to understand about recent American history is that the Republican party lost its shit in the 1960s. There are always plenty of reasons for decades-long historical trends, but arguably the core one is that Lyndon Johnson’s administration made a bunch of human rights advances known collectively as the Great Society, the cornerstone of which was a sincere and substantive effort to address the unfinished business of Reconstruction with the Civil Rights Act and the Voting Rights Act.

Racist white people who didn’t want to share democracy with everyone else became reliable Republican voters, but they’re nowhere near enough to win an election on their own. Republicans realized that their ideology is a miserable death cult that can’t win a fair fight. They could have gotten better ideas, but instead, they started sabotaging democracy.

I am not here to overwhelm you with a list of all the American right wing’s assaults on democracy. But there is a relatively narrow subset which forms a pattern that has become increasingly urgent: times Republicans have abused, usurped, or radically and unilaterally bastardized the power of American government in order to limit voters’ ability to hold them accountable in free and fair elections.

Because it only includes events backed up by reliable and freely available sources, it necessarily only includes the times times they were ham-fisted or sloppy enough to get caught. It has over two dozen entries and is almost certainly incomplete.

1968: Richard Nixon sabotages peace talks to end the Vietnam War because anger over the war is a winning campaign issue for him. Johnson catches him and calls him out, but doesn’t tell the public. Nixon wins and takes office.

1972: Nixon’s re-election campaign, the Committee to Re-Elect the President (or CREEP, because these people are fucking Bond villains) goes on a crime spree which includes multiple break-ins at Democratic National Committee headquarters in the Watergate Hotel.

1992: President George H.W. Bush asks British Prime Minister John Major’s government to dig through official archives for anything compromising on his rival Governor Bill Clinton from Clinton’s time at Oxford University.

1992: A political appointee at the Bush State Department has Governor Clinton’s passport files searched for potentially embarrassing information.

1992: Bush’s Attorney General William Barr pressures federal prosecutors in Arkansas to make some public movement on a white collar crime case tangentially associated with Governor Clinton.

2000: The Florida state board of elections does a racist voter purge, targeting largely Democratic communities of color.

2000: A mob, mostly Republican congressional aides, force election officials in Palm Beach County to shut down its recount.

2000: Five Supreme Court justices appointed by Republican presidents shut down the Florida recount in an unsigned opinion so specious and nakedly partisan that it irreparably damages the legitimacy of not only the Bush presidency but the Supreme Court itself.

2004: Republican election administrators in Florida attempt another racist voter purge, only abandoning it when they get caught.

2006: The Bush administration leans on federal prosecutors to influence the midterm elections with bogus investigations into Democratic politicians and prosecutions of non-existent “voter fraud” cases. After Republicans lose the midterms, several attorneys who resisted the pressure are fired.

2010: Five Supreme Court justices appointed by Republicans, in an existential fiat, reclassify money as speech, opening the floodgates to swamp every level of politics with dark money.

2013: The same five Republican Supreme Court justices gut the Voting Rights Act, specifically and explicitly because it has been relatively effective in preventing racist voter suppression.

2010s: Republicans in various state legislatures pass a bunch of laws to suppress the ability of voters to hold them accountable.

2016: Associates of Trump consigliere Rudy Giuliani loudly and unprofessionally conduct numerous bullshit investigations into Democratic presidential nominee Hillary Clinton. They successfully pressure FBI director James Comey – himself a veteran of the corrupt and politicized Bush Justice Department – into several improper and decisive actions against Clinton.

2016: Donald Trump conspires with Russian intelligence and business interests to sabotage his opponent in a presidential election.

2016: Republican Senate majority leader Mitch McConnell blackmails the Obama administration out of explaining the Russian government’s sabotage of the presidential election, leaving state boards of elections and the general public vulnerable to the assault.

2017-18: The Republican administration sits on evidence that Russian military hackers have penetrated state voting equipment.

2018: Republican Georgia secretary of state Brian Kemp insists on overseeing the election in which he is running for governor. He squeaks out a “win” after purging thousands of voters, arbitrarily closing or refusing to equip polling places, and baselessly accusing his Democratic opponent of trying to hack the election.

2018: A Republican congressional campaign in North Carolina hires operatives to defraud local senior citizens who were attempting to cast absentee ballots.

2018: Republicans lose the governorships in Wisconsin and Michigan, but keep control of the state legislatures due to gross gerrymandering. Before the new governors can be sworn in, they cram through laws stripping power from the incoming Democratic governors.

2019: Trump administration officials try to warp the data which will be collected in the 2020 census in a way that will enable future gerrymandering by undercounting largely Democratic constituencies. When they get caught and stopped, they try to justify themselves by lying to the federal courts.

2019: Donald Trump privately tries to extort the president of Ukraine into announcing bullshit investigations into prominent Democrats during the 2020 election.

2019: Donald Trump publicly pressures the government of China into opening bullshit investigations into prominent Democrats during the 2020 election.

2019: All but one House Republican opposes impeaching Trump for his extortion of Ukraine – until that one guy is pushed out of the party. Therefore, no House Republicans vote to impeach Trump.

2020: With one exception, every Republican in the Senate validates Trump’s attempts to rig the 2020 election by voting to acquit him.

2020: Republicans dig in their heels and refuse to take easy and obvious steps to keep voters safe from COVID-19 at the polls.

This is just the list of things that I could remember off the top of my head and could find receipts for with relative ease. It doesn’t include things that are plausible but unproven, like the allegations that Reagan’s 1980 campaign staff tried to repeat Nixon’s first stunt by working to prolong the Iran hostage crisis because it was a winning campaign issue for him. It doesn’t include dirty, bigoted campaigns that you might call awful but lawful, like the racist “Willie Horton” ad campaign in 1988 or the repulsive homophobic ballot initiatives that were engineered to bolster George W. Bush’s 2004 reelection campaign. It doesn’t include the wide array of brutalizations of a constitutional small-d democratic system which aren’t specifically and concretely about elections – everything from eroding the credibility of scientists, experts, and reporters to packing the courts with proto-fascist hacks to lying the American people into war in Iraq.

It really doesn’t matter whether or not I think Republicans win elections legitimately. It’s extremely important that Republicans do not believe they can win elections legitimately.

Now think for a second about their cherished “voter fraud” trope. All this time, Republicans have been screeching that SOMEONE was out there trying to steal elections FROM THEM. It is absolutely correct to focus on and be upset about the racist history and intent of this particular conspiracy theory. I would simply argue that white supremacism is not the only unforgivable aspect of this nonsense trope. The other is the way those claims make it impossible to deal with actual threats against legitimate elections.

This is similar to what psychologists call projection, or the tactic domestic violence experts refer to as DARVO. It is not unrelated to “swiftboating” or the phenomenon students of genocide refer to as the “accusation in a mirror.” It is the axiom small children cite when they say “he who smelt it, dealt it.”

I don’t know the ONE WEIRD TRICK to make it not work. I just know that it – maddeningly – does work, not least on the Very Serious Experts whose ONE FUCKING JOB it is to know better.

So I’m sorry to disappoint if you were expecting a “many bad people on all sides” disclaimer about who does political dirty tricks, but “both sides” is not operative, no matter how desperate the hot-take-industrial-complex is to make fetch happen. It hasn’t been operative for twenty-five years, and it’s really not operative for the next six months. You can bury yourself deep in literature about asymmetric polarization, but you don’t have to do all that to understand what’s important here. Democrats support democracy and want to stop the plague, Republicans support the plague and want to stop democracy, and you should be extremely skeptical of anyone who claims not to know the difference.

[princeindisguise]

The Heirs of Auradon

Every story ever told really happened, but they didn’t happen the way they’ve been told.

This story is about the children of famous fairy tale/Disney heroes and villains, primarily (at least for now) the children of Belle and Adam from Beauty and the Beast, Maleficent from Sleeping Beauty, the Evil Queen from Snow White, Jafar from Aladdin, and Cruella de Vil from One Hundred and One Dalmatians. The idea and some of the events come in part from Disney’s Descendants movies, but mostly from Droo216’s incredible Descendants AU. 

Writing this was a lot harder than I thought. I’ve never written any sort of fanfiction before and I feel kind of awkward when I write in English since it’s my second language. It’s been a lot of fun though. So anyway, here’s the prologue.

Prologue

This story begins with a fourteen-year-old prince who becomes a beast at night. Sleeping is hard for him, no matter how he tries, so he escapes into the dreamlike rooms of the castle instead. Best of all is the enormous library. The transformations every night at sundown burns on his skin and has made it sore and sensitive, and the long, rough fur irritates his eyes, nose, and mouth. He wouldn’t mind any of it, if it wasn’t for the mirrors. He cannot stand the way he looks. That is not what a prince looks like, he thinks. And even true love can’t save me.

He doesn’t care what his kind, intelligent mother, or his father, who shares his experience, has to say. He is a fraud, and he knows it. His father could be cured, but he himself will never be anything but a monster. He is desperate for stories about people like him, but he’s never found any. Asking his parents about it isn’t something he dares to do. 

One night, in early spring, he sees something unfamiliar floating through the dark sky. It catches his attention and he puts the book he’s been reading back on the shelf. He is not mistaken – it is a dragon. It’s rising higher, still staying close to the castle. He follows it, rushing up the stairs, looking out a window whenever he passes one, and he doesn’t realize he’s been on the way to the west wing until he finds himself there.

A couple of years earlier he was there with his father. His father showed him the stalk of the enchanted rose, still floating an inch above the tabletop, surrounded by dried petals of dark pink. The rose, although dead, is still very valuable, his father told him. It holds a magic similar to the one that cured Rapunzel’s mother so long ago, and gave Rapunzel’s hair its golden color and healing powers.

He stops a couple of feet away from the balcony. There’s no dragon out there anymore – but there’s a girl. A girl is standing on the railing of the balcony, about to take a jump and step inside the castle. Her eyes are black, so is her hair, and her high cheekbones reminds him of something. She doesn’t quite look human. In fact, she looks like the dragon in some way, although he cannot say why.

None of them knows what to do. They are merely staring at each other. He wants to hide, because he thinks she’s looking at him like that because his beast form is scaring or disgusting her. Then, she says:

“What are you?” She doesn’t sound scared nor disgusted, only curious.

For some reason, it feels like a compliment. He takes a few steps towards her, slowly, as if not to scare her off.

“I don’t know, exactly,” he says.

She jumps down from the railing, landing on the marble floor of the balcony.

“What’s your name?” he asks her.

To his surprise, she doesn’t hesitate.

“Nefaria. Yours?”

“I’m… prince Beau.” Even though he is a prince, he immediately regrets calling himself one.

“Oh.” Suddenly, there’s no curiosity in her face anymore. “Your father is the beast.”

He doesn’t know if he wants to defend his father or himself, he just hears himself saying:

“My father is Adam, king of Rosencourt and high king of Auradon. He is not a beast, and neither am I.”

She smiles. She must be about his age, maybe even younger, but the look in her eyes makes her appear older. 

“I see. And you’re going to call him now, I suppose, and make him punish me for intruding?”

As he hears her saying this, he realizes why she’s there.

“I won’t. In fact, I’ll give you the rose petals. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

“Why would you do that?”

“Well, I want you to do something for me in return.”

“What?”

“Talk to me. Just for a while.”

 They talk. They talk about childhood memories, their experiences with different kinds of magic, and about their parents. He is quite sure she isn’t honest about everything, but he likes listening to her. When she tells him what her life is like, he somehow knows she’s telling the truth. He is appalled with what she has to put up with.

“That’s not how it should be,” he says.

“No one can make it better.”

“I can. I can give you everything you want. No one would ever do anything to you, or I’ll make sure they regret it.”

She smiles, and he’s proud, until she stops smiling.

“That sounds like something a villain would say.”

He swallows. He hesitates. She can feel it. She doesn’t say anything, making room for his words. It probably takes a full minute before he’s ready. When he is, he says:

“I am a villain.”

She snorts. He feels ashamed.

“What do you mean?” she says. “Of course you’re not.”

Rage is rising inside of him. It’s been waiting a long time.

“Isn’t it obvious? Look at me.”

She looks at him, head to toe, raising her eyebrows slightly. She smiles, then shrugs. As if he’s tried to impress her and hasn’t succeeded.

“I’ve seen worse.”

He hasn’t noticed the feathery sunlight moving further and further into the room. As soon as the light touches him, he will change back.

She says she has to go. To his relief, she doesn’t ask for the rose petals. 

“When can we meet again?” he asks her. 

“We can’t,” she replies.

He isn’t fast enough. In one or two seconds, she has jumped off the balcony. He runs after her, his arm still stretched out as if he could stop her fall. But when he reaches the railing and looks down, he can’t see her. A strange, in some way melodious roar makes him look up, and there’s the dragon again. A dragon in purple and black, moving its wings slowly over the soft winds, light from the rising sun melting over the scales.

It’s her, he thinks. The thought is like a whisper; he doesn’t dare believing it. As he’s thinking this, he is changing back to his human form, shrinking from the size of a beast to the size of a boy, suddenly feeling the morning chill when he loses his fur. He hardly notices. His thoughts whisper: She’s the dragon.

It’s her, he thinks. She’s the one. The one who is like me.

She’s flying into the fog surrounding The Isle of the Lost. Soon she’s devoured by it, having completely disappeared. He has never thought of the isle as a place where people live. It has always been there, somewhat visible behind the fog, but to him, it’s never really been anything but a painting.

That’s where she lives, he thinks. One day I will be king. When I am king, I can do whatever I want.

For the first time in his life, he is not only weighed down by the responsibility. For the first time, he thinks about all the power he is about to possess.

When I am king, Nefaria, he thinks. Then I will see you again.

[arcticdementor]

Oscar Wilde supposedly said George Bernard Shaw "has no enemies, but is intensely disliked by his friends". Socialist blogger Freddie DeBoer is the opposite: few allies, but deeply respected by his enemies. I disagree with him about everything, so naturally I am a big fan of his work - which meant I was happy to read his latest book, The Cult Of Smart.

DeBoer starts with the standard narrative of The Failing State Of American Education. Students aren't learning. The country is falling behind. Only tough no-excuses policies, standardization, and innovative reforms like charter schools can save it, as shown by their stellar performance improving test scores and graduation rates.

He argues that every word of it is a lie. American education isn't getting worse by absolute standards: students match or outperform their peers from 20 or 50 years ago. It's not getting worse by international standards: America's PISA rankings are mediocre, but the country has always scored near the bottom of international rankings, even back in the 50s and 60s when we were kicking Soviet ass and landing men on the moon. Race and gender gaps are stable or decreasing. American education is doing much as it's always done - about as well as possible, given the crushing poverty, single parent-families, violence, and racism holding back the kids it's charged with shepherding to adulthood.

…

For decades, politicians of both parties have thought of education as "the great leveller" and the key to solving poverty. If people are stuck in boring McJobs, it's because they're not well-educated enough to be surgeons and rocket scientists. Give them the education they need, and they can join the knowledge economy and rise into the upper-middle class. For lack of any better politically-palatable way to solve poverty, this has kind of become a totem: get better schools, and all those unemployed Appalachian coal miners can move to Silicon Valley and start tech companies. But you can't do that. Not everyone is intellectually capable of doing a high-paying knowledge economy job. Schools can change your intellectual potential a limited amount. Ending child hunger, removing lead from the environment, and similar humanitarian programs can do a little more, but only a little. In the end, a lot of people aren't going to make it.

So what can you do? DeBoer doesn't think there's an answer within the existing system. Instead, we need to dismantle meritocracy.

DeBoer is skeptical of "equality of opportunity". Even if you solve racism, sexism, poverty, and many other things that DeBoer repeatedly reminds us have not been solved, you'll just get people succeeding or failing based on natural talent. DeBoer agrees conservatives can be satisfied with this, but thinks leftists shouldn't be. Natural talent is just as unearned as class, race, or any other unfair advantage.

One one level, the titular Cult Of Smart is just the belief that enough education can solve any problem. But more fundamentally it's also the troubling belief that after we jettison unfair theories of superiority based on skin color, sex, and whatever else, we're finally left with what really determines your value as a human being - how smart you are. DeBoer recalls hearing an immigrant mother proudly describe her older kid's achievements in math, science, etc, "and then her younger son ran by, and she said, offhand, 'This one, he is maybe not so smart.'" DeBoer was originally shocked to hear someone describe her own son that way, then realized that he wouldn't have thought twice if she'd dismissed him as unathletic, or bad at music. Intelligence is considered such a basic measure of human worth that to dismiss someone as unintelligent seems like consigning them into the outer darkness. So DeBoer describes how early readers of his book were scandalized by the insistence on genetic differences in intelligence - isn't this denying the equality of Man, declaring some people inherently superior to others? Only if you conflate intelligence with worth, which DeBoer argues our society does constantly. It starts with parents buying Baby Einstein tapes and trying to send their kids to the best preschool, continues through the "meat grinder" of the college admissions process when everyone knows that whoever gets into Harvard is better than whoever gets into State U, and continues when the meritocracy rewards the straight-A Harvard student with a high-paying powerful job and the high school dropout with drudgery or unemployment. Even the phrase "high school dropout" has an aura of personal failure about it, in a way totally absent from "kid who always lost at Little League".

DeBoer isn't convinced this is an honest mistake. He draws attention to a sort of meta-class-war - a war among class warriors over whether the true enemy is the top 1% (this is the majority position) or the top 20% (this is DeBoer's position; if you've read Staying Classy, you'll immediately recognize this disagreement as the same one that divided the Church and UR models of class). The 1% are the Buffetts and Bezoses of the world; the 20% are the "managerial" class of well-off urban professionals, bureaucrats, creative types, and other mandarins. Opposition to the 20% is usually right-coded; describe them as "woke coastal elites who dominate academia and the media", and the Trump campaign ad almost writes itself. But some Marxists flirt with it too; the book references Elizabeth Currid-Halkett's Theory Of The Aspirational Class, and you can hear echoes of this every time Twitter socialists criticize "Vox liberals" or something. Access to the 20% is gated by college degree, and their legitimizing myth is that their education makes them more qualified and humane than the rest of us. DeBoer thinks the deification of school-achievement-compatible intelligence as highest good serves their class interest; "equality of opportunity" means we should ignore all other human distinctions in favor of the one that our ruling class happens to excel at.

So maybe equality of opportunity is a stupid goal. DeBoer argues for equality of results. This is a pretty extreme demand, but he's a Marxist and he means what he says. He wants a world where smart people and dull people have equally comfortable lives, and where intelligence can take its rightful place as one of many virtues which are nice to have but not the sole measure of your worth.

…

I'm Freddie's ideological enemy, which means I have to respect him. And there's a lot to like about this book. I think its two major theses - that intelligence is mostly innate, and that this is incompatible with equating it to human value - are true, important, and poorly appreciated by the general population. I tried to make a somewhat similar argument in my Parable Of The Talents, which DeBoer graciously quotes in his introduction. Some of the book's peripheral theses - that a lot of education science is based on fraud, that US schools are not declining in quality, etc - are also true, fascinating, and worth spreading. Overall, I think this book does more good than harm.

It's also rambling, self-contradictory in places, and contains a lot of arguments I think are misguided or bizarre.

…

At the time, I noted that meritocracy has nothing to do with this. The intuition behind meritocracy is: if your life depends on a difficult surgery, would you prefer the hospital hire a surgeon who aced medical school, or a surgeon who had to complete remedial training to barely scrape by with a C-? If you prefer the former, you’re a meritocrat with respect to surgeons. Generalize a little, and you have the argument for being a meritocrat everywhere else.

The above does away with any notions of "desert", but I worry it's still accepting too many of DeBoer's assumptions. A better description might be: Your life depends on a difficult surgery. You can hire whatever surgeon you want to perform it. You are willing to pay more money for a surgeon who aced medical school than for a surgeon who failed it. So higher intelligence leads to more money.

This not only does away with "desert", but also with reified Society deciding who should prosper. More meritorious surgeons get richer not because "Society" has selected them to get rich as a reward for virtue, but because individuals pursuing their incentives prefer, all else equal, not to die of botched surgeries. Meritocracy isn't an -ocracy like democracy or autocracy, where people in wigs sit down to frame a constitution and decide how things should work. It's a dubious abstraction over the fact that people prefer to have jobs done well rather than poorly, and use their financial and social clout to make this happen.

…

I think DeBoer would argue he's not against improving schools. He just thinks all attempts to do it so far have been crooks and liars pillaging the commons, so much so that we need a moratorium on this kind of thing until we can figure out what's going on. But I'm worried that his arguments against existing school reform are in some cases kind of weak.

DeBoer does make things hard for himself by focusing on two of the most successful charter school experiments. If he'd been a little less honest, he could have passed over these and instead mentioned the many charter schools that fail, or just sort of plod onward doing about as well as public schools do. I think the closest thing to a consensus right now is that most charter schools do about the same as public schools for white/advantaged students, and slightly better than public schools for minority/disadvantaged students. But DeBoer very virtuously thinks it's important to confront his opponents' strongest cases, so these are the ones I'll focus on here.

…

These are good points, and I would accept them from anyone other than DeBoer, who will go on to say in a few chapters that the solution to our education issues is a Marxist revolution that overthrows capitalism and dispenses with the very concept of economic value. If he's willing to accept a massive overhaul of everything, that's failed every time it's tried, why not accept a much smaller overhaul-of-everything, that's succeeded at least once? There are plenty of billionaires willing to pour fortunes into reforming various cities - DeBoer will go on to criticize them as deluded do-gooders a few chapters later. If billions of dollars plus a serious commitment to ground-up reform are what we need, let's just spend billions of dollars and have a serious commitment to ground-up reform! If more hurricanes is what it takes to fix education, I'm willing to do my part by leaving my air conditioner on 'high' all the time.

…

DeBoer spends several impassioned sections explaining how opposed he is to scientific racism, and arguing that the belief that individual-level IQ differences are partly genetic doesn't imply a belief that group-level IQ differences are partly genetic. Some reviewers of this book are still suspicious, wondering if he might be hiding his real position. I can assure you he is not. Seriously, he talks about how much he hates belief in genetic group-level IQ differences about thirty times per page. Also, sometimes when I write posts about race, he sends me angry emails ranting about how much he hates that some people believe in genetic group-level IQ differences - totally private emails nobody else will ever see. I have no reason to doubt that his hatred of this is as deep as he claims.

But I understand why some reviewers aren't convinced. This book can't stop tripping over itself when it tries to discuss these topics. DeBoer grants X, he grants X -> Y, then goes on ten-page rants about how absolutely loathsome and abominable anyone who believes Y is.

Remember, one of the theses of this book is that individual differences in intelligence are mostly genetic. But DeBoer spends only a little time citing the studies that prove this is true. He (correctly) decides that most of his readers will object not on the scientific ground that they haven't seen enough studies, but on the moral ground that this seems to challenge the basic equality of humankind. He (correctly) points out that this is balderdash, that innate differences in intelligence don't imply differences in moral value, any more than innate differences in height or athletic ability or anything like that imply differences in moral value. His goal is not just to convince you about the science, but to convince you that you can believe the science and still be an okay person who respects everyone and wants them to be happy.

He could have written a chapter about race that reinforced this message. He could have reviewed studies about whether racial differences in intelligence are genetic or environmental, come to some conclusion or not, but emphasized that it doesn't matter, and even if it's 100% genetic it has no bearing at all on the need for racial equality and racial justice, that one race having a slightly higher IQ than another doesn't make them "superior" any more than Pygmies' genetic short stature makes them "inferior".

Instead he - well, I'm not really sure what he's doing. He starts by says racial differences must be environmental. Then he says that studies have shown that racial IQ gaps are not due to differences in income/poverty, because the gaps remain even after controlling for these. But, he says, there could be other environmental factors aside from poverty that cause racial IQ gaps. After tossing out some possibilities, he concludes that he doesn't really need to be able to identify a plausible mechanism, because "white supremacy touches on so many aspects of American life that it's irresponsible to believe we have adequately controlled for it", no matter how many studies we do or how many confounders we eliminate. His argument, as far as I can tell, is that it's always possible that racial IQ differences are environmental, therefore they must be environmental. Then he goes on to, at great length, denounce as loathsome and villainous anyone who might suspect these gaps of being genetic. Such people are "noxious", "bigoted", "ugly", "pseudoscientific" "bad people" who peddle "propaganda" to "advance their racist and sexist agenda". (But tell us what you really think!)

…

This is far enough from my field that I would usually defer to expert consensus, but all the studies I can find which try to assess expert consensus seem crazy. A while ago, I freaked out upon finding a study that seemed to show most expert scientists in the field agreed with Murray's thesis in 1987 - about three times as many said the gap was due to a combination of genetics and environment as said it was just environment. Then I freaked out again when I found another study (here is the most recent version, from 2020) showing basically the same thing (about four times as many say it’s a combination of genetics and environment compared to just environment). I can't find any expert surveys giving the expected result that they all agree this is dumb and definitely 100% environment and we can move on (I'd be very relieved if anybody could find those, or if they could explain why the ones I found were fake studies or fake experts or a biased sample, or explain how I'm misreading them or that they otherwise shouldn't be trusted. If you have thoughts on this, please send me an email). I've vacillated back and forth on how to think about this question so many times, and right now my personal probability estimate is "I am still freaking out about this, go away go away go away". And I understand I have at least two potentially irresolveable biases on this question: one, I'm a white person in a country with a long history of promoting white supremacy; and two, if I lean in favor then everyone will hate me, and use it as a bludgeon against anyone I have ever associated with, and I will die alone in a ditch and maybe deserve it. So the best I can do is try to route around this issue when considering important questions. This is sometimes hard, but the basic principle is that I'm far less sure of any of it than I am sure that all human beings are morally equal and deserve to have a good life and get treated with respect regardless of academic achievement.

…

That last sentence about the basic principle is the thesis of The Cult Of Smart, so it would have been a reasonable position for DeBoer to take too. DeBoer doesn't take it. He acknowledges the existence of expert scientists who believe the differences are genetic (he names Linda Gottfredson in particular), but only to condemn them as morally flawed for asserting this.

But this is exactly the worldview he is, at this very moment, trying to write a book arguing against! His thesis is that mainstream voices say there can't be genetic differences in intelligence among individuals, because that would make some people fundamentally inferior to others, which is morally repugnant - but those voices are wrong, because differences in intelligence don't affect moral equality. Then he adds that mainstream voices say there can't be genetic differences in intelligence among ethnic groups, because that would make some groups fundamentally inferior to others, which is morally repugnant - and those voices are right; we must deny the differences lest we accept the morally repugnant thing.

Normally I would cut DeBoer some slack and assume this was some kind of Straussian manuever he needed to do to get the book published, or to prevent giving ammunition to bad people. But no, he has definitely believed this for years, consistently, even while being willing to offend basically anybody about basically anything else at any time. So I'm convinced this is his true belief. I'm just not sure how he squares it with the rest of his book.

…

"Smart" equivocates over two concepts - high-IQ and successful-at-formal-education. These concepts are related; in general, high-IQ people get better grades, graduate from better colleges, etc. But they're not exactly the same.

There is a cult of successful-at-formal-education. Society obsesses over how important formal education is, how it can do anything, how it's going to save the world. If you get gold stars on your homework, become the teacher's pet, earn good grades in high school, and get into an Ivy League, the world will love you for it.

But the opposite is true of high-IQ. Society obsessively denies that IQ can possibly matter. Admit to being a member of Mensa, and you'll get a fusillade of "IQ is just a number!" and "people who care about their IQ are just overcompensating for never succeeding at anything real!" and "IQ doesn't matter, what about emotional IQ or grit or whatever else, huh? Bet you didn't think of that!" Science writers and Psychology Today columnists vomit out a steady stream of bizarre attempts to deny the statistical validity of IQ.

These are two sides of the same phenomenon. Some people are smarter than others as adults, and the more you deny innate ability, the more weight you have to put on education. Society wants to put a lot of weight on formal education, and compensates by denying innate ability a lot. DeBoer is aware of this and his book argues against it adeptly.

Still, I worry that the title - The Cult Of Smart - might lead people to think there is a cult surrounding intelligence, when exactly the opposite is true. But I guess The Cult Of Successful At Formal Education sounds less snappy, so whatever.

…

I try to review books in an unbiased way, without letting myself succumb to fits of emotion. So be warned: I'm going to fail with this one. I am going to get angry and write whole sentences in capital letters. This is one of the most enraging passages I've ever read.

School is child prison. It's forcing kids to spend their childhood - a happy time! a time of natural curiosity and exploration and wonder - sitting in un-air-conditioned blocky buildings, cramped into identical desks, listening to someone drone on about the difference between alliteration and assonance, desperate to even be able to fidget but knowing that if they do their teacher will yell at them, and maybe they'll get a detention that extends their sentence even longer without parole. The anti-psychiatric-abuse community has invented the "Burrito Test" - if a place won't let you microwave a burrito without asking permission, it's an institution. Doesn't matter if the name is "Center For Flourishing" or whatever and the aides are social workers in street clothes instead of nurses in scrubs - if it doesn't pass the Burrito Test, it's an institution. There is no way school will let you microwave a burrito without permission. THEY WILL NOT EVEN LET YOU GO TO THE BATHROOM WITHOUT PERMISSION. YOU HAVE TO RAISE YOUR HAND AND ASK YOUR TEACHER FOR SOMETHING CALLED "THE BATHROOM PASS" IN FRONT OF YOUR ENTIRE CLASS, AND IF SHE DOESN'T LIKE YOU, SHE CAN JUST SAY NO.

I don't like actual prisons, the ones for criminals, but I will say this for them - people keep them around because they honestly believe they prevent crime. If someone found proof-positive that prisons didn't prevent any crimes at all, but still suggested that we should keep sending people there, because it means we'd have "fewer middle-aged people on the streets" and "fewer adults forced to go home to empty apartments and houses", then MAYBE YOU WOULD START TO UNDERSTAND HOW I FEEL ABOUT SENDING PEOPLE TO SCHOOL FOR THE SAME REASON.

I sometimes sit in on child psychiatrists' case conferences, and I want to scream at them. There's the kid who locks herself in the bathroom every morning so her parents can't drag her to child prison, and her parents stand outside the bathroom door to yell at her for hours until she finally gives in and goes, and everyone is trying to medicate her or figure out how to remove the bathroom locks, and THEY ARE SOLVING THE WRONG PROBLEM. There are all the kids who had bedwetting or awful depression or constant panic attacks, and then as soon as the coronavirus caused the child prisons to shut down the kids mysteriously became instantly better. I have heard stories of kids bullied to the point where it would be unfair not to call it torture, and the child prisons respond according to Procedures which look very good on paper and hit all the right We-Are-Taking-This-Seriously buzzwords but somehow never result in the kids not being tortured every day, and if the kids' parents were to stop bringing them to child prison every day to get tortured anew the cops would haul those parents to jail, and sometimes the only solution is the parents to switch them to the charter schools THAT FREDDIE DEBOER WANTS TO SHUT DOWN.

I see people on Twitter and Reddit post their stories from child prison, all of which they treat like it's perfectly normal. The district that wanted to save money, so it banned teachers from turning the heat above 50 degrees in the depths of winter. The district that decided running was an unsafe activity, and so any child who ran or jumped or played other-than-sedately during recess would get sent to detention - yeah, that's fine, let's just make all our children spent the first 18 years of their life somewhere they're not allowed to run, that'll be totally normal child development. You might object that they can run at home, but of course teachers assign three hours of homework a day despite ample evidence that homework does not help learning. Preventing children from having any free time, or the ability to do any of the things they want to do seems to just be an end in itself. Every single doctor and psychologist in the world has pointed out that children and teens naturally follow a different sleep pattern than adults, probably closer to 12 PM to 9 AM than the average adult's 10 - 7. Child prisons usually start around 7 or 8 AM, meaning any child who shows up on time is necessarily sleep-deprived in ways that probably harm their health and development.

School forces children to be confined in an uninhabitable environment, restrained from moving, and psychologically tortured in a state of profound sleep deprivation, under pain of imprisoning their parents if they refuse. The only possible justification for this is that it achieves some kind of vital social benefit like eliminating poverty. If it doesn't, you might as well replace it with something less traumatizing, like child labor. The kid will still have to spend eight hours of their day toiling in a terrible environment, but at least they’ll get some pocket money! At least their boss can't tell them to keep working off the clock under the guise of "homework"! I have worked as a medical resident, widely considered one of the most horrifying and abusive jobs it is possible to take in a First World country. I can say with absolute confidence that I would gladly do another four years of residency if the only alternative was another four years of high school.

If I have children, I hope to be able to homeschool them. But if I can't homeschool them, I am incredibly grateful that the option exists to send them to a charter school that might not have all of these problems. I'm not as impressed with Montessori schools as some of my friends are, but at least as far as I can tell they let kids wander around free-range, and don't make them use bathroom passes. DeBoer not only wants to keep the whole prison-cum-meat-grinder alive and running, even after having proven it has no utility, he also wants to shut the only possible escape my future children will ever get unless I'm rich enough to quit work and care for them full time.

When I try to keep a cooler head about all of this, I understand that Freddie DeBoer doesn't want this. He is not a fan of freezing-cold classrooms or sleep deprivation or bullying or bathroom passes. In fact, he will probably blame all of these on the "neoliberal reformers" (although I went to school before most of the neoliberal reforms started, and I saw it all). He will say that his own utopian schooling system has none of this stuff. In fact, he does say that. He sketches what a future Marxist school system might look like, and it looks pretty much like a Montessori school looks now. That just makes it really weird that he wants to shut down all the schools that resemble his ideal today (or make them only available to the wealthy) in favor of forcing kids into schools about as different from it as it's possible for anything to be.

I am so, so tired of socialists who admit that the current system is a helltopian torturescape, then argue that we must prevent anyone from ever being able to escape it. Who promise that once the last alternative is closed off, once the last nice green place where a few people manage to hold off the miseries of the world is crushed, why then the helltopian torturescape will become a lovely utopia full of rainbows and unicorns. If you can make your system less miserable, make your system less miserable! Do it before forcing everyone else to participate in it under pain of imprisonment if they refuse! Forcing everyone to participate in your system and then making your system something other than a meat-grinder that takes in happy children and spits out dead-eyed traumatized eighteen-year-olds who have written 10,000 pages on symbolism in To Kill A Mockingbird and had zero normal happy experiences - is doing things super, super backwards!

[kojinnie]

AOT Characters’ Modern Jobs Headcanon; The Vets Edition!

The jobs that The Vets would have in modern!au, their workplace antics and their back story. There might be some inaccuracies when describing the job as obviously I don’t work at these industries to know its intricacies. Most of the jobs are office jobs. Enjoyyyy!

My Masterlist .::. Pt. II: Zeke Yeager’s Modern Jobs Headcanon   

Most recent work: Dream Me Home (Before Shiganshina) | reader x erwin smith

A/N: I really need to finish a presentation deck due tonight for an early morning meeting tomorrow but of course, this comes first hahaha 

erwin!

A/N: Basically lawyer!erwin is the way to go, innit?

He's in his 40s, so he may have a settled career

He came from a white-collar, middle-class family. So he wasn’t silverspoon-fed, but his parents had enough money to put him through good school

Got a scholarship to go to one of the nation’s finest law schools

Kept it lowkey in college’s social circle, graduated with summa cum laude, developed a strong academic relation with his professor, and got recommended for an internship at top law firm at the capital city

Starting his career as a corporate lawyer, but then built his expertise as white-collar crime attorney

In his early 30s, he represented a union suing against conglomerate corporation in a big case that had national coverage, from then on he began to know his calling

Expanding his portfolio and became well-known for defending workers, consumers and civilians against corporate fraud scheme

Currently doing a lot of pro-bono cases for deprived victims of big corporate fraud. You would see him frequently gracing your local newspaper we love us some socialist king

On the side, he often writes for law journal and fills in as guest professor at local universities for summer courses

Established his own law firm with some of his partners, specializing in white collar crime and labor & employment law

He’s damn accomplished, but never really had any time for self-indulgence. Even after he becomes a household name in the country, with tens of attorneys working under him, his employees would still see him working on New Year’s Eve

He was always attentive to his employees, though. Although he has a very strict, borderline no-life work ethics, he never forces his employees to follow his habit, in fact he despises when his employees works on holidays and can be seen blaming himself for it a bit of a hypocrite but thats ok

He still takes metro to work. He prefers a very lowkey, ordinary lifestyle because he fears if he shows any knack for indulgence, he will be susceptible to gratification from potential enemies or crooked politicians

Definitely a sight to see at the workplace, for he's tall and always oozes a sense of authority in the way he speaks and carries himself generally

His emotional intelligence is top-notch, you would never meet someone who is able to be very objective and calculating, while being kind and compassionate at the same time

His fellow attorneys put a lot for respect for him, and hundreds of applicants come to his considerably small firm every week, because a lot of aspiring attorney find him inspiring to work with

He wasn’t oblivious to his shiny reputation, but he’s trying his hardest to not let the compliments get to his head. Sometimes he doesn’t give himself enough credit for it

Was approached by one of the political party’s committee to run for local senate, but turned it down

basically he’s perfect if you like a man who’s never home for christmas

Hange!

A/N: Ok ok, I really wanna see Paleontologist!Hange because it has always been my fave dream job, but I want Hange to be out and about with people so here it is

Hange is the type to be incredibly good at one thing, that she will dedicate her whole life for that pursuit, but will be awfully oblivious to a whole lot of things (not intentional of course, they just have a very limited attention span) (they wouldn’t know who kanye west is or what tiktok is)

Like Erwin, they came from a middle-class family. While Erwin’s parents might have been teachers, accountants or other common profession, Hange came from a family of academician and researchers

Hange studied Human Geography at uni, but later found passion specifically in its relation to industrialization and urban development

Hange aims to advocate for a better living condition for workforce, and nearby inhabitants of industrialized city detroit would be a beautiful city if only they let hange designed it

Hange is a professor at university, where they also led a non-profit research think-thank that also serves as pressure group for better government policy.

The university that Hange teaches in, is also the uni where Erwin teaches in summer. They’re close-knitted colleagues as they share similar passion. Erwin relies on Hange a lot for some intellectual insights to help his cases  

Hange is relentless in their cause, you may find Hange everywhere! From street protest to a hearing in the government court. They are passionate and will do anything for the cause they believe in

Hange was once hired by the government as an independent consultant for a new housing project, but left because they grew to be frustrated by the government’s bureaucracy and their outward reluctance to follow Hange's recommendation

Hange spends a lot of time overseas, consulting and advocating development in newly industrialized countries

On Hange’s birthday, her fellow researchers surprised them with a ‘pampering day’ where they took them to an optometrist because Hange had been complaining about their eyesight for a YEAR that gave them a lot of migraines, but was always either too busy or too lazy to go

Hange never really considers themselves as working, because they enjoy their job very much. Hange likes to spend months observing a community, talking to people for hours, and trying their best in understanding their problem

Out of so many great qualities that Hange has as a researcher that meets different set of people everyday, prejudice or preconceived judgment is completely absent in Hange’s demeanor and perspective

Hange doesn’t get a lot of free-time, even if they do, they’d wander around the city to do a little observation. But when the weather’s bad and they’re stuck at home with their pet lizard, they would logged into Quora to answer random internet questions

They’re an avid writer for National Geographic, and one time Hange won a pitch to make a documentary about an industrial city project they were working on

After the docu-series got broadcasted, Hange gained a small but passionate and loyal fans on the internet. You could even find a subreddit dedicated for Hange’s works

for real I want to be Hange. I want to have that kind of passion in life

levi!

A/N: I spent a lot of times thinking about Levi’s job in modern!au. Because here’s the thing, either we adopt his unfortunate childhood into its modern!au equivalent, or let’s just recreate his whole upbringing. But I think his personality stems from a specific things he experienced during childhood, so let’s not dismiss that.

Levi came from a struggling working class family. I reckon his parents might have had worked multiple jobs to sustain their living expense. Unfortunately they both passed away when Levi was very little, and left little to no inheritance

Levi’s parents were not close to their extended family, so when they died, Levi was admitted to the system and had to brace several foster families who didn’t really pay attention to him

Little Levi had come to realize that life’s all about survival and so he had been able to fend on for himself since very young age, he never asked for things

His uncle, Kenny, finally won custody over Levi when he was in elementary. Kenny made money from small-scale racketeering here and there. Levi never asked what he did for living, as long as he got food to eat and tuition paid off

Kenny was emotionally absent, but he loved spending time with the oddly quiet little child, teaching him a lot of crafts, from carpentering to how to flay pig’s skin

Levi didn’t really care about getting into college, and thought that he’d probably end up working for his uncle, so he put his bare minimum throughout school, although he was really good with numbers, especially in math, accounting and finance

One time in high school, Levi’s teacher asked him to sign up for the olympiad team, Levi turned it down because he thought that was a rich kid thing

He didn’t even apply for college, and worked odd jobs after high school. Probably working as cashiers or assistant to retail shop’s owner for couple of years, enough for him to afford a cheap studio apartment on his own

One of his bosses came to acknowledge Levi’s talent, and trusted him to handle the company’s accounting

By sheer luck, the company hit it big, and Levi found himself running the day-to-day accounting of mid-sized business with over 300 employees

He made good money already without a college degree, but with a new-found confidence Levi applied for uni, where he chose to study accounting (of course)

Although he was confident with his skills, he understood he needed to widen his horizon and network -- thus uni

Levi was one of the oldest members of his cohort in uni, but graduated with highest distinction

After graduating, with his skills and experience, it wasn’t hard for Levi to score a job at top accounting firm

There, he discovered an interest for forensic accounting, where through audits, analysis and investigation, he basically finds out if a company is doing fraud and embezzlement or not

This is where he came to know and get acquainted with Erwin and Hange (yippie they’re together again)

The firm he works for was assigned to investigate the finances of a troublesome company that had been sued by its workers for a jeopardizing working condition. Erwin was on the case, and Levi helped him with evidences for legal proceeding.

By chance, Erwin introduced Levi to Hange. At first, Levi would find Hange annoying and overtly energized, but after learning the things they have done, Levi grew to appreciate Hange’s passion (and secretly wants to have more of his positive outlook)

Levi is fucking good his job. In short amount of time, he could get a really ideal position in the office. He was almost foolproof, finding even the tiniest bit of discrepancy in his audit. He’d get assigned to the big league case/project.

Although really good at his job, he’s not a social person, especially in his office. He couldn’t understand the lavish lifestyle that finance and banking people often lead. He will only show up to office party if it is really necessary for him to show up (usually to receive some kind of informal awards for, again, being so fucking good) 

He leads a no-bullshit attitude at the office, largely because of his background. He is a self-made man, and is not easy to impress by some young executives from posh school that talk bigger than they can chew

His cold, seemingly dismissive attitude gained him a reputation of being scary, when actually he is very considerate

One of the things he enjoys doing is to actually teach, he really likes when a new kid at the office come to him with none of that pretentious, big talk, and really asks for his guidance. He would love to teach you a thing or two

He would frequently check on his mentee, just to keep up with their development

And he doesn’t take credit too. When his mentee makes a milestone, he believes it’s 100% your work

If you’re his mentee, he probably doesn’t give a crap about your personal life, so don’t expect him to make small talk about that (and don’t ask him about his personal life either). But he really cares about your skill and career development

Same with Erwin, he leads a very ordinary lifestyle. He doesn’t go out often and would rather reading detective novel with his cat on the couch

He likes to spend Sunday at Uncle Kenny’s house, because he finds himself worried about the old man very often. They became close as Levi grew

Overall, Levi is a really kind and caring person if you know how not to push his button

[abybweisse]

Victoria and John, a contract (part one)

I’m pretty much convinced that not only is John Brown not human (demon or angel would be my best guess), but he has made a contract with Queen Victoria.

We’ve talked about the Albert hand puppet quite a bit, and I truly do believe it serves the same purpose as what Sebastian offered to our earl in ch138 — make the contractor feel as though a dead loved-one has returned.

Our earl didn’t fall for such an offer, but I think Victoria found it all too tempting to pass up. Sure, she still dresses in the black of mourning, talks about Albert in past-tense, and then breaks down crying. However, as soon as the puppet appears, she genuinely behaves as though she thinks Albert is there with her.

This is not simply a puppet; it’s a mind control device, a powerful tool to manipulate her feelings, thoughts, and actions. Sometimes John even uses that deadpan Albert voice to give her ideas and plans of action... not just words of encouragement... as if they are coming from Albert himself. We could simply see it as a parody of real life, since Queen Victoria claimed John Brown was a medium who allowed her to communicate with her dead husband, but I think it’s something way more sinister in the Kuroverse.

However, ch21 shows us, right off the bat, that whatever charm/power John has over her with the puppet, it’s not perfect. As I pointed out above, sometimes she realizes Albert is dead and gone. Historically, Victoria stopped making such frequent public appearances after Albert’s death because of her deep mourning. Here, it’s because John/“Albert” suggests she stay home and out of the public’s eye. John realizes her behavior when she’s upset about Albert, as well as her reaction to the puppet, must take a toll on her reputation. If this says anything about the rest of the contract terms, it’s a poorly-made contract.

But, what else would be in the contract, and what might have been left out? I want to look at the wishes and terms spelled out in ch138 for a possible framework, since a contract between John and Victoria would likely parallel the contract between Sebastian and our earl.

I don’t think it’s simply for Albert’s “return”, since there should be some finiteness to fulfilling the contract. Perhaps it’s to make her think Albert has returned for the remainder of her natural lifespan, and then — upon her deathbed — John gets his “payment”, whether it be her soul or something else. Or it could be until she has achieved some other goal. Or John didn’t make it clear the contract had to have a distinct end and couldn’t be extended.... More on that later.

If there is another wish for John to fulfill? That’s a bit harder to guess. Some specified level of power and influence? Some achievement for the legacy she leaves behind? Revenge against some foe (real or imagined)? 🤷🏻‍♀️ Ch138 might actually give us clues to Victoria’s desires, and not just the one about Albert.

Victoria had been queen since she was 18, she married her beloved around the same time, and she lives in luxury. But her reign saw the new expansion into foreign lands, the wealth raked in by controlling serval industries abroad, and the exotic goods and other treasures that this brought to her and to the British markets... for those who could afford them. Ch21 might essentially confirm this, since John (while being stepped on by the horse) starts listing off her achievements since she’s been queen. The increased power and reach of the nation, her influences on fashion and popular culture, etc. Maybe we should be getting the idea that these grand merits, like creating the “empire where the sun never sets”, are actually achievements made possible only because of John, just like our earl’s successes are largely due to Sebastian’s abilities. It does read similar to ch2’s initial assessment of our earl’s business successes. It also makes sense when paired with Undertaker saying he doesn’t like her, won’t accept “the queen’s coin”, and complains how she sits in comfort and safety while others do her dirty work. Maybe all of her accomplishments are not her own.... More on that later, too! 😏

Some guesses for what might have been included... and left out... of the terms. Let’s go with three wishes, just like our earl was offered. Looking at ch138, we see this about our earl’s first wish:

Wish 1. Speaking the truth.

John must be able to lie to her, simply because she might not have been thinking clearly enough at the time to demand otherwise. Sebastian acted like our earl’s demand to always speak the truth is somewhat of a novelty; he was taken by surprise. We know John can lie to her because he does so every time he says Albert is there with her. That entire wish about Albert is fulfilled by lies.

Wish 2. Obeying orders.

Sebastian is being particularly sneaky here to put an extra condition on the terms... after the terms had been agreed upon. This gives him the ability to not follow every order he is given, unless “I command you” is stated. And to accomplish assigned tasks without following very specified ways of doing so. That’s how he was able to “interrogate” Beast for information about the signet ring... instead of going to the two places our earl told him to go. And he was able to say he completed the task, without admitting he never went there... and without lying, because of how he got our earl to rephrase his questions.

John likely has to pretend he’s a normal human, but also like Sebastian, he’s going to pull off some weird shit that’s definitely not normal for humans... and witnesses will just have to remain willingly ignorant to the oddities... much like Finny realizing he had brought Sebastian iris bulbs, not plants full-grown and in bloom.

Sebastian also makes it clear there need to be limits to the contract terms; there cannot be extensions or alterations to the contract terms by way of orders.

How about with Victoria and John? It seems to me that John must have a lot of leeway, when it comes to obeying orders — how he accomplishes them... if he really obeys at all. He might even be able to obey orders in a way that doesn’t always achieve the queen’s desired results... if he doesn’t want to. It’s difficult to see how this part of the contract works (or fails), since we don’t see much of what they say and do.

What we do see, however, is Victoria making hints about what she wants... and sometimes we see John taking note of it. It makes me feel as though the terms could be as vague as “fulfill my desires” or “make my wishes come true”. If so, we run into the issue of contract limitations again. Where does that end? John really might have accidentally made an open-ended contract....

Sebastian is smart to state that he will not accept orders to give more wishes, extend the contract, or make further changes to the terms. Yes, he is trying to take advantage of the kid, but the kid is also hoping to take advantage of the demon. Each one wants as much as they can get from the contract, just like Sebastian says is to be expected. Which brings us to the third wish.

Wish 3. Protection and no betrayal.

Sebastian threw in the “no betrayal” part as a freebie, since it’s a personal policy of his to not make multiple contracts. He specifies this is a fourth wish that he’s allowing only because it’s an automatic, to him. Our earl set aside the offer to be kept safe from illness; he didn’t think the asthma would return. Besides... imagine how this story would have gone if our earl was stuck inside Sebastian’s body? Very differently, indeed. Entirely different.

I see a setup here for John to be one of those greedy, gluttonous sorts. Charles Grey would be in awe? 😆 I have no idea what sorts of protections John might have offered Victoria, or what she might have agreed to. However, I suspect that 1) the terms might be changeable, so we could later see John do weird things to protect her and 2) John might have another contract with someone else, so betrayal is quite possible. I’d even say it’s likely. With the terms of the contract as loose as I suspect, John could be like Ash/Angela without even changing names, appearances, or personalities.

TL/DR: If John Brown is a demon or angel in a contract with Victoria:

One goal or wish is to make her think Albert has returned.

Other goals seem to be about her achievements and influence as queen. (However, it might even include the crown itself and her marriage.)

He can lie to her, since he lies every time he says Albert is there.

He has to make her wishes come true, but he has a lot of wiggle room on how to accomplish that. And the wishes might not be properly limited.

He probably has to protect her as she achieves whatever goals she has set.

However, he might betray her. Particularly if he’s stuck in a contract that has no well-defined end (other than her natural death).

It’s pretty wild to think about, but it’s entirely possible that Queen Victoria (in the Kuroverse) is a fraud of some kind. What if she made the contract when she was young... and the crown, her beloved husband, her life of luxury... are all just wishes being granted for her? Considering that:

Her birth year is around the time Undertaker rebels and tries to destroy the reaper organization’s HQ... ohh? 🤔

She ascends to the throne the year that Molly G. dies. Her coronation takes place the following year. Hmm. 🧐

And she was, historically, quite attracted to Albert and pursud him to be her husband. As queen, she had to propose to him. Sure, his feelings were mutual IRL, but... maybe not in the Kuroverse? Uh. 🤨

More to come later!

[sexyenquirer]

Copper and Silver

Author: kiranatrix For: missmomentss Pairing/Characters: Beyond Birthday/L Lawliet Rating/warnings: M; mild smut Prompt: L/B mild smut Author’s notes: The prompt wasn’t very specific so I let my imagination wander. I didn’t want this to be the usual kind of L/B fic, so there’s no prison breakout or kidnapping or jam. This is a Magician AU that takes place in Paris in the late 1800s or early 1900s, where L is a famed illusionist and B is…an imposter. Or maybe it’s the reverse. ‘Copper and silver’ is the name of a magic trick, using coins.

—–

There had always been two types of magic in the world. One was quite real, but elusive, and more of a curse than a blessing on those who could channel it. The other was the magic of mankind– the sleight of hand or memory trick, the careful distraction and well-placed mirror. It was the business of the famed illusionist Lazarus, also (un)known as L Lawliet, that no one in his audience should ever know the difference. 

He’d been selling out his shows across Europe for nearly a decade, and from the Thames to the Danube, just the name of Lazarus invoked an aura of mystery and awe. He’d been invited to most of the major courts to amuse the nobility of the continent despite his own very humble birth. Not that anyone knew anything true about his origins; L’s backstory as the exiled bastard son of a Russian prince was his most carefully cultivated illusion. 

The vast majority of people who came to see him desperately wanted to believe in real magic to dull the edge of life’s mundane reality. This made them easy to fool with clever devices of his own invention. A lemon tree that seemed to grow from a seed before their eyes, sawing someone in half who was then put back together again unharmed, submerging himself in chains underwater only to escape at the last dramatic moment. Although each of his tricks did in fact have an explanation rooted in reality, competitors, skeptics, and scientists had all attempted to parse out the mechanisms to explain his illusions and all had left disappointed.  

L had not always believed in ‘real’ magic himself, but he’d never needed to. There’d never been any odd phenomenon he couldn’t eventually provide with a reasonable explanation. He considered himself a man of science and rationality, not someone who was willing to suspend disbelief for the sake of entertainment. He knew he was brilliant, and no one could be a better skeptic than he was of his own performances. Thus, his performances were inscrutable perfection start to end, each trick a thread for the audience to weave their own pretty blindfold with. 

But it took the eyes of a fake magician to know the real thing when he saw it, down a rainy street in Paris the afternoon before a show. He’d forgotten his umbrella, as usual, and had been darting from one sheltered overhang to another on his way back to his hotel when he saw a curious hand-painted board pointing down an oil lamp-lit alleyway. It was nearly as tall as he was, and upon it was was crudely scrawled:

    ~HAVE YOUR MISFORTUNES TOLD BY LAZARUS~

For one silver franc, the Incredible Lazarus will answer the following:

Your real and true name! (Great for orphans or just anyone who forgot!)

The day you will die! (Get your affairs in order!)

Whether anyone in a picture lives or is deceased, as well as their name! (Like deadbeat parents, runaway spouses, or people lost at sea!)

If you need a bath! (Free of charge!)

Guaranteed to be 100% accurate and true or twice your money back! (proof required)

Usually, L would roll his eyes at low-brow hucksters like this and be on his way, but this time was different. This time, someone had purloined his good name and was using it for cheap tricks! Anger and irritation bubbled up in him as he spied the queue to get into a door in the alley, but it was matched with a good dose of curiosity, too. Who in their right mind would so brazenly advertise these services when everyone knew the REAL Lazarus was in town and performing just down the street? The easy thing to do would be to announce at his own show later that this was just a fraud, an imitator, or simply ignore it altogether as the price of fame. 

No, L needed to see this for himself, confront the man. He walked towards the door, ignoring the line-up and grabbing a newspaper out someone’s hand to use as a makeshift umbrella. 

“Oi! I was reading that!” The man glared at L in surprise. 

“I’ll return it shortly.”

“Wha, sopping wet?!” The man pointed to the back of the queue. “And the line starts back–” He cut off abruptly to catch something L tossed his way, gaping down at a gold coin. He tested it with his teeth, piping down after that. 

When L got to the front of the line he announced, “Time for everyone to go home. This man is a fraud and not the true Lazarus. I am.” 

“We’ve been waiting an hour or more! Prove it!” The rest of the people chanted ‘Prove it! Prove it’ until L held up a finger and suddenly, the rain stopped. Amid their awed silence, he deftly folded the wet newspaper into an origami crane which he perched on his hand. He blew on it and it caught fire, the flame changing from white to blue as it floated away down the alley. The crowd parted to let it pass and then broke into an uproar of clapping and cheers as it exploded into a burst of sparks in the shape of an L. 

“How’d he do that?!”

“He MUST be the real Lazarus!” 

L slouched forward slightly in an approximation of a bow. What had seemed like magic to them was nothing more than noticing a break in the clouds and improvising, and a bit of phosphorus dust artfully sprinkled from his ring onto the wet paper. “Now, if you’ll all check your pockets, I believe you’ll find tickets to my show tonight. I invite you all as my guests.” It wasn’t really in his nature to give things away for free, or to be so polite, but he’d learned when being the showman Lazarus versus L Lawliet would get him his way the quickest.

The man who’d had his newspaper snatched hung back a moment as the others meandered away, smiling and excited. He thumbed at the closed door behind L, “Another coin and I’ll give that fraud a thrashin’ for ya.”

“No.” L turned and opened the door, stepping aside quickly as a woman in tears bustled past him. 

From further inside came the call, “Well, you asked!” followed by some soft cackling. “Next!”

L pressed a thumb to his bottom lip as he brushed aside a ratty tasseled curtain, his already large pupils widening to near blackness to adjust to the flickering candlelight. The darkness partially hid the ramshackle state of the room, and exotic-looking but cheap carpets were flung around to hide the rest. When he approached a table set in the middle of the room, L had to check that he wasn’t looking into a mirror. But no, his mirror image was seated and grinning like the cat that had caught the canary. 

“There’s not going to be anyone else.” L climbed into the opposite chair, perching in it as he was his habit when he wasn’t performing. “I sent them away.” He quickly scrutinized the man, looking for flaws in the disguise. They were approximately the same age, mid-20s, of similar built and features, although artful makeup and posture must be contributing to the effect. 

“Well, well, well…” Beyond Birthday gracefully moved into the same crouching position, mimicking each of L’s movements with precision but allowing his eyes to flick briefly above L’s head. “That was a very rude thing to do, don’t you think? I guess they all got soggy for nothing.”

“Stealing a person’s name and pretending to be them is what strikes me as rude.” L tilted his head, frowning when the imposter did the same. 

“A man’s gotta eat.” Beyond’s grin didn’t falter as he modulated his voice closer to L’s timbre and pitch. “And I wasn’t stealing it so much as…borrowing it. I suppose you can have it back now.” He had what he wanted– L’s presence and undivided attention at last. 

“I don’t appreciate it being stolen OR borrowed.” L squinted in the darkness, both unnerved and impressed by the exactness of this imitation. Fraud or not, this mysterious man had real skill in makeup and impersonation. “Who are you really?” 

“Why I’m Lazarus of course! Didn’t you read the sign?” Beyond laughed at the annoyed look on L’s face, finally breaking his mimicry and lounging back in his patched armchair with a sigh, one leg thrown over the side. He stared for a moment then said with a flourish, “I’m a fan.” He twirled his fingers and produced a silver franc, letting it flip over his knuckles like the flow of water. “A performer like yourself, although not quite so famous. I’ve wanted to meet you for some time.” He tossed the coin high into the air, but it didn’t come down again.

“And now that you have, will you kindly get lost?” Even as L said the words, he wasn’t sure he meant them. Something about this man was fascinating. And where did that damned coin go? He looked up at the ceiling and saw nothing, and the man’s hands were both empty. “Cheap parlor trick. Open your mouth.” He didn’t want to admit he hadn’t seen the sleight of hand, even if he knew the coin must be there. 

Beyond extended his tongue, revealing the coin sitting right on it. He spat it into a box containing a few more coins. “Very good. But of course I doubt I could stump the real Lazarus.” 

The way those words were spoken sounded like a challenge to L, and he’d been here before. Countless other illusionists and street magicians had challenged him and become laughingstocks. “No, I doubt very much that you could.” 

“Hmmm.” Beyond leaned forward, elbows on the table as he stared. “Would you give me the chance to try?” He kept his eyes on L but swiped his hand over the flames of the candelabra beside them, appearing to transfer one flame to his finger where it burned a moment before he blew it out. 

“You dipped your nail in oil. It didn’t burn long enough to blacken it.” L raised an eyebrow when Beyond chuckled and nodded. “I hope you have better tricks than that.” He sincerely did hope that, because this was already more amusing than he’d expected, although his deadpan expression didn’t show it. 

“Oh, I do. Such wonders as you’ve never seen before.” Beyond snapped his fingers, his nail aflame again, and he transferred the fire back to the dormant candle. “If I can’t stump you, I’ll ‘get lost’ and you’ll never hear from me again. Does that suit you? A little wager between magicians.” 

“A wager?” L smiled for the first time since coming into this dismal hovel. “Just so you know, no one’s ever been able to stump me. I’ve seen it all.” He worried his lip with his thumb, unconsciously leaning forward, betraying his interest and excitement at a game. “Debunked them all and taken their tricks, improved them for my own.”

“You can’t take my tricks.” Beyond knew that for a fact. He was unique among all humans, if he was even human, in his abilities. “But I’d love to see you try.” 

He traced his long fingernails over the battered table, watching L’s thumb brush back and forth across slightly parted lips and wishing to touch them. Yes, he was a ‘fan’ of Lazarus, but it was so much more than that. An obsession, a yearning to be Lazarus. It was so unfair that he, someone with real supernatural powers, should always be in the shadow of just a clever illusionist. Beyond had been L’s actual shadow for years, never making himself known as he followed in the wake of show after show. Trying to make enough money for cheap flophouses and tickets for every performance, hiding in the back of the balcony but watching with eyes where distance didn’t matter. And when there hadn’t been money, he’d stolen. When people had tried to hurt or rob him, he’d killed. Beyond had given everything for this one moment. 

“You seem quite confident. In that case, what do you get if you manage to stump me?” L had zero expectations that anything like that could ever happen, but he wanted to be aware of the game’s rules.

Beyond pulled a deck of cards from his jacket and shuffled them in one hand, focusing on keeping his breathing slow and even as he held L’s gaze. Softly, “To be your apprentice.” 

“My apprentice?” L laughed, letting his hands rest on top of his crouching knees. “Everyone knows I take no apprentices. I have no desire to train amateurs or tell my secrets.” 

Beyond purred, “But do you desire to hear them? I can tell you secrets even you don’t know about yourself. Or ones you’ve desperately kept hidden from others.”

L was past being intrigued now, he was hooked. It didn’t help that the man’s languorous, cat-like body language was so very seductive, his gaze so intense. It was rare for L to find anyone with as much self-confidence as he had, and this man had a natural bravado that L had to work for on stage. In fact, the longer L looked, the more differences he noticed between them. The soft swell of muscles hidden beneath clothing slightly too large, hair of a silkier texture, eyes that were a pale blue instead of his own grey. He swallowed when his scrutiny was rewarded with a smirk. “I agree to your wager. But first, tell me your name.” 

Beyond wet his lips and whispered, “No. But I’ll tell you yours.” He glanced down at the coin box seriously. “Pay the fee.”

L stared unblinking, unbelieving, but pulled out the same trick ‘gold’ coin he’d given the man in the street and taken back furtively. 

When L tried to put it in the box, Beyond covered it with his hand. “No copper. The real thing.”

L’s eyes narrowed and he pulled his hand back, pocketing the trick coin and reluctantly flipping a real silver one into the box with a soft clink. He sighed, “So?” 

Beyond smiled looked above L’s head once more, not that he hadn’t read these words a thousand times already. “L Lawliet. Although the pronunciation eludes me. Do you say it in the French way, mon cher?” He smiled and sounded it out a few ways, giving up with a little shrug.

L felt like his heart had stopped beating from the shock of what he’d heard. His mouth was agape, fingers digging into the fabric of his pants. “How….” Absolutely no one knew his real name. He’d spent a small fortune to find it out himself, buried at the bottom of the rubble of the London workhouse for orphans he’d grown up in. His birth certificate, locked in a well-hidden safe at his house in Surrey, was the only document in existence with that name printed. That safe hadn’t been opened in 10 years.

“Ah! Are you stumped then?” Beyond eyed him greedily, breath coming quicker. He didn’t even need to declare he was right. He’d never been wrong, even when people tried to insist he was. The truth was always written on their faces. 

“No! You…you must have hired a private investigator.” L’s brow knitted, because that didn’t make sense and he knew it. “Someone in London told you. ”

“Does it look like I have the funds to hire an investigator, Mr. Lawliet?” Beyond gestured around at the bleak surroundings. “But if you remain unconvinced….show me a picture of someone. I’ll tell you their name as well, and if they live.” Telling L the day he would die was something else he could do, but what a morbid way to start a partnership. Plus, L had plenty of life left and no reason to believe him. Inclining his head to the box, “Pay the fee.”

L let out a shaky breath and reached into his coat to produce a cheap locket. His mother had given it to him at the workhouse before she’d died of pneumonia, and it contained pictures of his parents. He pried it open and laid it on the table, flipping another silver coin into the box. “Tell me about them.”

Beyond pulled the locket across the table and stared at the pictures of the man and woman inside. These were no Russian nobles, no princes. They were plain, simply-dressed folk who looked older than their probable years and had no death dates above their heads. “Martha Briggs, maiden name. Henry Lawliet. Both deceased.” He lifted his eyes to L’s as he slid the locket back. “Sorry if that wasn’t what you wanted to hear.” His fingers briefly brushed L’s and lingered before pulling away. “Your parents.”

“Yes.” L picked up the locket in pinched fingers and carefully put it back in his jacket. He’d never known his mother’s maiden name but all the rest was correct, although he had no idea how. He went quiet as he considered what to do. It was a first, being unable to discern the trick, and all the possible scenarios that cycled through his mind were dismissed just as fast. Only one actual explanation remained but he was loathe to say it. How could it be that? 

“Have I won then, Mr. Lawliet?” Beyond wasn’t sneering or gloating, but soft and sincere. He knew that all L had to do was refuse to keep his promise and all of this, everything he’d done to be in this room, would have been for nothing. 

A long silence passed between them as they stared at one another across the table. “You have real magic.” L couldn’t keep the puzzlement off his face. He’d spent his whole life creating the illusion of magic in opulent ballrooms and the parlors of royalty, and had he finally found it buried in a rat hole? It was ironic and tragic that no one could tell the difference but him, but Lazarus. Who was the real fraud?

Beyond’s face crumpled, “Is that your answer then? Real magic?” No no no! This wasn’t how it was supposed to go! He’d never believed that a skeptic like L, who knew so many tricks and manmade artifices, would choose the most improbable answer. Unfortunately, it was also correct. 

“Yes. That is my answer.” 

Beyond made an angry, frustrated sound and leaped up from his chair but stopped in his tracks, floundering. He wanted to run but where would he go? The majority of his adolescence and adulthood had been focused on L, following L, trying to get close to L and failing. Now that he finally had his chance, he’d failed. He turned away and clutched his hair, whispering, “Correct. You win. I’ll leave Paris tonight and you’ll never hear from me again.” 

L hummed to himself, uncurling from his crouch and slowly stepped closer to the distraught man. “Are you joking?” He touched the man’s shoulder, gently turning him around so they faced each other. “Do you think I’d walk away from real magic? You’re a unicorn.” L smiled and brushed the man’s cheek, fingers trailing along his jaw. He’d never touched anything magical before and it thrilled him. “A unicorn that had to pretend to be a horse pretending to be a unicorn. But I can see it.”  

The black kohl around Beyond’s eyes used to approximate L’s eyebags was smeared and running down his face, his blue eyes brighter for his tears. He gazed back at L in amazement, finally sniffling and giving him a little smile. “So does that make you a horse?” He leaned into L’s touch, eyes lidding and not entirely sure he wasn’t hallucinating now. “Or maybe just an ass.” Beyond’s eyes flew open as he realized what he’d said, but L was just laughing and nodding. “S-sorry, my mouth can run away with me and—”

“I’ve been called worse.” L’s fingertips traced along the man’s mouth, his heart hammering for a different reason. He wanted to know this magic, this man, and felt an electricity between them that only two of a kind could. “But I can’t call you ‘unicorn.’ What’s your name?” 

“Beyond.” He whispered it reverently, closing his eyes and taking the chance to kiss L’s fingers at his lips. What did he have to lose now? His ‘trick’ was exposed. “Beyond Birthday. It’s a stupid name.” 

L’s hand threaded into Beyond’s hair and the noise he was rewarded with made him shiver, made his pants uncomfortably tight. Was this feeling some kind of magic too? He’d never felt such a powerful attraction. “It’s a name that would look perfect next to mine on a poster.” Lazarus and Beyond….it had a certain ring to it. But you shouldn’t hide yourself under all this makeup.” He tentatively pressed closer, bending to kiss Beyond’s neck which tilted for him instinctively. “Hmm, we could work that into some good tricks, couldn’t we?” He pressed his hips against Beyond, smiling as he felt the man’s body jerk at the realization, the feeling. “Like swapping out coins, but…us.”

Beyond inhaled audibly, wrapping his arms around L’s body as he melted into this perfect dream. His idol, his everything, wanted him too? Accepted him? “But…” He quickly shrugged off his jacket when he felt L’s fingers start to unbutton his shirt. “…you said you don’t take apprentices.” He mentally cursed himself for not just shutting up. Why couldn’t he just enjoy this and not ruin everything?

L raised his head, “True, I don’t.” Before the stricken look on Beyond’s face could sink in, he added, “But I’d take a partner.” The voracious kiss that followed made L stumble back against the table edge with a grin, hidden pockets spilling their contents as their clothes were hastily pulled away. A trick wand clattered to the floor and bloomed into a rose, a crystal box of fireflies sprung open and let its luminescent prisoners flit about the room blinking.

“You have no idea how long I’ve waited for you.” Beyond kissed him deeply again, lifting L onto the table. His hands caressed L’s body like he was afraid the man might break open too, releasing doubts and regrets, second thoughts. “Years I’ve waited to talk to you.” Beyond made magic for others, magic never happened for him. But those doubts didn’t come even when L did open for him, parting his legs and wrapping them around his waist.

L laid back against the table to gaze up at Beyond, amazed that he’d ever thought they looked alike now that they were naked and the makeup had been largely kissed and rubbed away. “I’ve waited all my life for magic.” He smiled and pulled Beyond closer, finally really understanding what his audience had been paying to see. It wasn’t just entertainment or amusement or distraction from their lives. It was hope that even if what was in front of them was only a horse, there might be a unicorn out there somewhere. “The real thing.”

[mittensmorgul]

I’m rewatching 13.15, A Most Holy Man, right now, and... and I remember when it first aired. The reaction was largely “meh,” or “the noir format doesn’t really do it for me and the episode was kinda boring overall.” It’s possibly the s13 episode I have the least amount of posts for on my blog. It was largely skimmed over as mostly irrelevant, with the only takeaway being:

A. They got the macguffin they needed to progress the A plot by the end of the episode

and

2. They really should’ve cut that scene of Dean going on about how he’d kill everyone who tried to steal his car...

But... this was a Dabb episode. I wrote this post back in May, but I think it merits an additional look now:

https://mittensmorgul.tumblr.com/post/184946657745/so-im-still-out-ahead-of-the-tnt-loop-but-i

Because this single episode functions as a microcosm of their entire lives, at least thematically, if not in a 1:1 fashion. I mean, it is just a 42 minute episode. There were only so many twists and layers they could reasonably shove in, and the Rule Of Three is a convenient metric for demonstrating the pattern in narrative shorthand that invites us to consider the unspoken “etc. etc. ad nauseum” ourselves.

I’d go into the entire structure of the episode, but I’m hoping that just explaining the outcome-- after reading the post I linked above-- everyone will be able to see the parallel itself without me having to write 5k words on the subject today. :P

Let’s start with the exchange at the end of the episode that prompted this realization. Because it’s a bit of chicanery:

FATHER LUCCA: I think I got shot. [DEAN lifts up FATHER LUCCA’s shirt to see only a little blood.] DEAN: Looks like he just grazed you. A few more inches to the left and, uh... FATHER LUCCA: It’s a miracle. [SAM and DEAN, with FATHER LUCCA behind them, search the warehouse and find GREENSTREET still hiding.] GREENSTREET: I didn’t know this would happen. I… I’ll give you anything you want, huh? DEAN: The blood, where is it? GREENSTREET: It, uh… doesn’t exist. SAM: You… what? Wait a second. You told us– GREENSTREET: Exactly what you wanted to hear. It was just a bit of… DEAN: Chicanery? GREENSTREET: Exactly. DEAN: Well… chicane this. [DEAN punches GREENSTREET to the ground.] ACT FIVE EXTERIOR – WAREHOUSE – NIGHT [There are police cars outside the warehouse. A policeman leads GREENSTREET to a car and sits him inside.] GREENSTREET: No, no, no, no. Wait. Don’t – you – you – you’ve made a mistake.

For a refresher, Greenstreet was the author of this entire bit of chicanery. For a while, it appeared as if it was actually each of the other people involved:

Margaret Astor, the first person we meet, and also the one APPARENTLY holding all the cards when they walk into the final deal, who ends up backstabbed (well shot in the back anyway, close enough) by her own assistant

she sent them to Greenstreet, who introduced the term “chicanery” to the narrative, which I’m gonna focus on next, because despite all his plotting, his narrative didn’t end the way he wanted (he’s getting hauled off to jail, but heck, at least he didn’t end up dead like most of the rest of these conspirators...)

Greenstreet sent them to Scarpatti, with the partially true information that he’d been the one to have the artifact stolen in the first place, only to learn that it had been stolen from his man in turn...

(and remember, the skull isn’t actually what Sam and Dean need... it’s the currency they believed they needed in order to trade for what they DO actually need... it’s a bit of a chicane... which I’ll get to... sorry for this meandering on the way to the conclusion, but this little side journey is 100% relevant... you’ll see what I mean in a minute)

While investigating Scarpatti’s side-detour, they end up having to investigate a murder, and inadvertently stumble over Father Lucca Camilleri... but Sam and Dean have no idea that they’re now traveling through this episode with the thing THEY actually need. But rather than just... take what they need because that fact hasn’t been revealed to them yet, or even continue to pursue the currency they believe they need to trade for the elusive thing they need, they selflessly choose to do the morally right thing despite believing that in doing so they are forfeiting their chance to get the macguffin they need.

Ain’t it just Winchesters vs The Cosmos on a microscopic level?

Because one thing I’ve learned about Dabb as showrunner is that his absolute favorite thing is gleefully pointing back at canon and explicitly clarifying things. It’s not always obvious, he tends to be incredibly subtle, but if you’re looking for it, it’s impossible not to see in pretty much all of his writing. He LOVES messing with prior perception, and making us work for the satisfying moment where all the pieces fall into place.

Chicanery and the chicane. THAT ITSELF IS A CLARIFICATION. From vague to specific. Because “a chicane” is a very different thing than “chicanery.” And it’s all a bit of a winding deception.

For reference, the definitions of these two very different words:

chi·can·er·y /SHəˈkān(ə)rē/ noun, the use of trickery to achieve a political, financial, or legal purpose. "an underhanded person who schemes corruption and political chicanery behind closed doors" synonyms: trickery, deception, deceit, deceitfulness, duplicity, dishonesty, unscrupulousness, underhandedness, subterfuge, fraud, fraudulence, legerdemain, sophistry, sharp practice, skulduggery, swindling, cheating, duping, hoodwinking

and

chicane (/ʃɪˈkeɪn/) noun, a serpentine curve in a road, added by design rather than dictated by geography. Chicanes add extra turns and are used both in motor racing and on roads and streets to slow traffic for safety.

What the definition of “chicane” doesn’t provide is that in auto racing, a chicane isn’t seen as a “safety” measure, but an obstacle. If you’ve ever watched road racing, the chicane is where a lot of drivers wipe out. It’s a choke point where everyone HAS to slow down, but when you’re RACING each other, the objective is to remain out in front, you know? Jockeying for position, trying to get through the obstacle as quickly as possible to get back to direct racing toward the finish line. So while a chicane literally slows the racing by design, forcing drivers to adapt to the physical reality of safely navigate through the pinch point while not wrecking themselves, they need to maintain absolute focus to retain their position, as well. It’s not about slowing down for safety but about finding the balance point between “safely navigating through without wrecking myself or being wrecked by the other cars trying to achieve the same objective I am” and “but we’re still racing and I can’t let anyone pass me so I’m still gonna push it as fast as I can while still conforming to the laws of known physics.” It’s... difficult.

THREE TIMES in this episode, they use the word “chicanery” before Dean clarifies it to “chicane.” For reference, out of the other 306 episodes of this show that exist at the time of writing this post, they’ve used “chicanery” a grand total of ZERO other times. Seems significant, yes?

In the same way the show has frequently used Wizard Of Oz imagery to convey these same points, with the reminder in the end of the “you had the power inside you all along” sort of themes, this episode takes it one step further. Which... logical considering the nature of the spiral narrative, that when it comes around again, the circumstances aren’t exactly the same. Think of it in terms of that racetrack with the chicane.

In the case of the plot of this episode, a similar comparison can be drawn to The DaVinci Code, since through most of the wild goose chase running through all the games and puzzles, the guy is literally traveling with the object he seeks. It just doesn’t become obvious, like with Dorothy and her Ruby Slippers, until they’ve worked their way through all the puzzles and subterfuge along the way. As Dean says in Scoobynatural when Sam points out that if he knows how the episode ends, why don’t they just get to the point already, and Dean replies “Because sometimes it’s about the journey.” Rather intuitive meta observation about the point of the narrative structure, yes?

Back to our road race analogy now, after passing through the chicane chicane. Every lap, the drivers are driving through the same essential course. The shape of the road doesn’t change in the most fundamental way. The same parts are still paved, the walls around the edges don’t move, etc. But each time they drive around, other conditions vary. Their tires wear down so their traction changes. Heck, the drivers themselves are wearing out physically and mentally. Maybe a dude’s just thirsty or has an itch on his nose or just has to pee real bad. Maybe the wind speed or direction has changed. Maybe the sun has moved so different turns become more tricky with a glare in their eyes. Their engines are slowly shifting as wear and tear of operating at a high performance level alters performance. Their brakes might be wearing down. They may be in need of more fuel and are driving more conservatively, or may have just gotten new fuel or new tires or made some other alteration to their car that shifts not only their ability to go faster, but changes how they handle corners, etc. But there’s also the factor of all the OTHER cars driving around them. Maybe they’ve hit the chicane all by themselves because they’re out ahead of the pack (or trailing far behind it). Maybe they’re clustered tightly together with other drivers. Maybe there was a wreck that altered the road surface... cleaning up fuel/oil spills, sand or dirt having “spilled” out onto the road surface, maybe a slight drizzle started making it more slippery, or even random trash has blown from the stands into the road, or debris from a wreck-in-progress hampers their progress. There are SO MANY FACTORS at play that make each lap around the course an entirely different experience, you know?

Same with the spiral narrative. The major landmarks might be similar, but everything else is new.

And the moment Dean says “chicane this” and punches the author of this series of events in the face, that’s basically 14.20, yes?

They’re tired, and they’re on the last lap, and they’ve been through this chicane so many times now. And they’ve just been told that after every lap, Chuck refused to wave the checkered flag. They kept reaching the finish line over and over, only to discover it was also the starting line and the race was still going. And each time through Chuck’s big chicane, he’d deliberately change those variables, so the more experience they gained on the track, there’d always be a bit of new debris to navigate, a new difficulty level added.

And now in 14.20, it’s like they finally caught him in the act of throwing thumbtacks down on the road, you know? They caught him at his tricks.

And like, to use a favorite metaphor of Dabb’s, it’s like the roadrunner and the coyote. Only the roadrunner had always known all along that the coyote was laying traps for him and always found the most hilarious ways to foil the coyote’s plans and turn it back around on him. It took them 14 seasons for TFW to finally pull a roadrunner.

This has always been Dabb’s ending, because it’s actually the story he has been telling all along. The spiral’s broken, and instead of continuing lap after lap with no end in sight, they’ve finally realized they can just... stop driving in carefully paved loops and drive in a direct line to the finish.

(and maybe the only way to make it to the finish is to pave their own road around all of Chuck’s chicanery... it’s gonna be some heavy lifting and some rough off-roading, but it’s the only way to get off the track to victory lane)

(apologies, this is the sort of place my brain goes when Mr. Mittens is watching nascar at Road America in the background... but it’s super apt, and full disclosure, I started writing this about an hour before he turned the tv on. I was already on this road course >.>)

[absoloutenonsense]

i’ve been daydreaming a lot recently about cooking with my Nonina. It’s something we used to talk about; not extensively or anything, but more times than not, when I’d go to visit her she’d be cooking something. Sometimes, if it was around Christmas, she’d be baking something. 

One time, I went over and she was making dough for these cookies. And, like most Italian grandmothers, she said she didn’t really have a recipe, she just knew when it was ready. She rolled out the dough and cut them into these long strips, lamenting the fact that none of her children wanted to learn how to cook from her. 

“Well, your mother,” she said. “But...”

But. But it was around that time that my mother had stolen her identity, to pretend to be her to get into the hospital. Maybe because she was broke or maybe because she didn’t have insurance or maybe because she couldn’t use her own ID because she was wanted for similar fraud already. 

It’s been more than three years since I’ve spoken to my mother. Or it had been, until she accosted me when I was leaving Nonina’s. Yelling at me. Screaming about how disrespectful I was, how uncaring I was given that my grandmother was dying. Chasing me out to the car, standing in the door so I couldn’t close it, slamming it in my face with a glare that could melt rubber. It probably would if rubber was as empathetic as humans are. 

It was the biggest breakdown I’d had in awhile. A full-blown panic attack, worse than the day my dad and I fought because of the 2016 election. I can still picture the glare, nearly 3 months later, but not as clearly as I can picture the apathy on her face when she admitted straight out that she stole my identity at 23. Or the guilt when she thought I knew that she said she deserved the money I had spent years working more than I did (I didn’t - I found out later) at 21. Or the resigned indignance when I said I was going to live with my dad after she stole $2k from my bank account when I was 17. Or the passive-aggressive anger when I was 15 and bought her a dress in the wrong size for her birthday or 13 when I wrote a story to try and make her feel better (but made her feel worse) or 12 when she told me that my dad had cheated on her some years ago or 11 when I made a comment about her acting different when she took those pain pills. 

My mom used to love to cook too, and bake. Our relationship was on the mend when I was just 23, before I saw my credit score tanked and just knew it was her, even before she admitted it. It was getting better and we used to talk about baking all the time. My younger brother loves to bake too (only red cake with pink icing or cookies with 3x the amount of chocolate chips and M&Ms the recipe calls for). 

Nonina just passed away this afternoon. I wish I’d known her better. I wish the fear of being scolded and yelled at for not coming to see her (even though I live halfway across the country) didn’t keep me from wanting to see her. I wish the anxiety I had over being ambushed by my mom didn’t keep me from wanting to see her. I wish she was more comfortable in the world, and in another universe maybe she came to spend the weekend with me. 

In another universe maybe we talked constantly. Maybe about baking, but maybe about other things too. Like what her ultimate dream was in life, or what she missed most about single-life, or how she really felt about raising two children in her seventies because her youngest son’s wife doesn’t want them. In another universe maybe she took me back to Italy, and taught me what it’s like to make sauce with ingredients from your own backyard or walking to a little market. Maybe she introduced me to music she loved and maybe we danced together and maybe it helped us understand each other a little more. 

In this universe I didn’t know my grandmother very well. I do know that when something made her happy her smile took up her whole face. And when something made her laugh, she’d bring her hand to her face, like maybe it was too loud a sound. And she wanted the best for her children, and felt deeply unappreciated by everyone around her. And she got drunk off of two sips of wine and likes her coffee with as much cream and sugar as I do and wouldn’t contemplate pot as a way to control her pain because she thought it made you go crazy. I know that she liked going to the casino and betting money, just for the fun of it. And I’m not sure if she ever sat still long enough to watch and entire movie, but it wouldn’t surprise me if she didn’t. 

I know that Nonina was kind. Not always, not to everyone, and especially not to herself, but she was. It was in her hands as she plated you something to eat or combed through your hair or patted your arm. She was disappointed in me a lot, but I like to think that she was probably proud of me, at least a little, too. Proud that I was passionate in what I loved. Proud that I care for my brothers with my whole being. Proud that I did well in school and maybe even proud that I moved away, even if it wasn’t something she could acknowledge. Because moving away is abandoning people, but it’s not. I hope my other universe self can tell her other universe self that. 

In this universe, when I watched my grandmother cut the dough and show me how to pinch it, we didn’t talk about my mom, but we were both thinking of her, I think. I’m mostly resigned to that; that the memories of my mom are always going to be tied to the memories of Nonina because they were as alike as they were different. 

I don’t know how to make those cookies. I don’t even know what they were. But i really loved that time with her, pinching little bow patterns into the dough to make something nice. 

I don’t really have a point to this. I don’t have an ending. I just thought I had more time, I thought I had until this weekend at least. I’ve been crying all day and didn’t have therapy this week and have to bartend this weekend, and now I have to go to a funeral. I still don’t have the tools. I still don’t know how to deal with this. And I’m just sad. I’m really really sad.