#none of the 'i just like Dark Themes in fiction' crowd mean it they just think that if they call their like. fucking

[mirage-coordinator]

post about how censorship is a dangerous thing, and that throwing out “what if a CHILD saw this?” about things you don’t like is parroting conservative rhetoric (because it’s true, some things are going to be uncomfortable, and will make you uncomfortable, but should not be forbidden on the grounds of that discomfort)

it’s some stupid fuckwit covertly arguing that actually, they shouldn’t have to face any criticism for posting their shitty incest fanfic under the guise of a take that any average person would think is perfectly reasonable (they’re idiots who put that shit out in public and are not immune to people pointing out Hey That’s Weird)

[woods2006gal]

Chapter 11 - Bad Things

Dean is riding a high when he arrives back to the motel room that night with Sam. He didn’t know why Addison had chosen not to join the battle of Moondoor to help Charlie keep ahold of her fictional kingdom. He thought that it would have been something right up her alley. Except she didn’t join them. She had chosen to stay back at the motel. None of that mattered at the moment, he was ready to celebrate his hard fought win with her. “Ads,” Dean calls, looking around the room. He tosses the blonde wig he was wearing onto their empty bed. He walks into the bathroom only to find it empty.

“Dean,” Sam calls out. Dean walks out of the bathroom to find his younger brother holding a piece of paper.

Dean grabs it from him to find a note from Addison. Had some stuff to take care of. See you in a few days. Ads.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean,” Dean snaps, pulling out his cell phone. Addison’s name was the top of his recent call log. He selects it and listens as the phone rings. Sam shrugs as he sits down at his computer. He knew exactly what Dean would be asking.

“This is Addison. Leave a message,” Addison’s voice says.

“Addison. Call me. Now,” Dean angrily says. He hangs up and walks over to Sam. “Where the fuck is she?”

Sam pulls up a map. A glowing blue dot was over southern Louisiana. “How’d she get to New Orleans so fast?”

“Fucking Sarah,” Dean mutters. “Killing that bitch is at the top of my to do list now.”

“You mean after you kind a way to kill someone who is immortal,” Sam points outs. He pays no attention to annoyed look that Dean shoots him. “Why do you hate Sarah? Other than the obvious.”

“Because that bitch wants Ads to do that stupid spell to give her powers.”

Sam raises an eyebrow. “Powers like Sarah has?”

“Yes damnit. And no, Ads isn’t doing the fucking spell. I already told her no.”

“When was the last time either of us told Ads not to do something and she did it anyway?”

Dean shakes his head. “Get your crap together,” he angrily says. “We’re going to fucking New Orleans.”

~*~

Addison follows Sarah through the crowded street. After checking into a very expensive hotel not that far from Bourbon Street, the two women had decided to venture out onto the popular street filled with bars. “What exactly are we looking for,” Addison questions, moving around the very drunk college students. “It’s a little early for Mardi Gras.”

Sarah smiles. “A bar with no windows and a red door.”

Addison stops. She motions to a windowless front of a building and a red door. “Like that one,” she amusedly asks

“Exactly. Come on.” 

Sarah walks over to the door and Addison is right on her heels. Sarah opens the door and they walk in to find a very crowded dark bar. The walls were red along with the floor. The furniture was black. Music was pulsating through the crowded. Sarah walks over to the bar. A tall blonde woman wearing all black was behind the bar. The bartender sets to red cocktail napkins down in front of them. “What can I get you,” she asks.

“I have a meeting with Eric,” Sarah replies.

The bartender stares at Sarah. Addison frowns when the bartender glances at her. “I’ll let him know you’re here,” she tells them then walks away.

Addison leans in close to Sarah. “Are we in a fucking vampire bar,” she quietly asks.

“More like vampire themed,” Sarah whispers. “But it just happens to be owned by a vampire.”

“Fuck me.”

A throat clears and they turn to see a tall, very pale blonde man. His hair was short. He had cold crystal blue eyes. “Eric,” Sarah brightly greets. “It’s been a while.”

“It has,” Eric replies, turning his gaze on Addison. She shifts under his gaze. “Lets go some place more private.”

“Lead the way,” Sarah replies, sliding off the bar stool. Eric turns and walks away. Sarah follows after him. Addison frowns but follows them anyway. She wasn’t sure that it was a good idea. She wasn’t even sure why Sarah had asked for her help.

Eric leads them into a backroom. This room was brightly lit. A desk was in the center of the room. He closes the door behind Addison before taking a seat in a tall wingback chair. “How can I help you, Sarah?”

“Metatron,” Sarah answers.

“What about the winged dick?”

“I need to know where he is.”

“And what makes you think I’ll help you?”

Sarah motions to Addison. “It’s been what two hundred years or so since you’ve had blood of the Last Descendant. Well, here she is.”

“No fucking way,” Addison snap, glaring at Sarah.

Eric turns his gaze on Addison. She shifts. Slowly, he stands up and walks around his desk to her. He grabs a fist full of her head and yanks her head to the side to reveal the bite mark on her neck. “Another vampire has had her,” he coldly says.

“What? No. Addison’s never been bite before,” Sarah argues.

Addison shifts. “Benny drank my blood in Purgatory,” she corrects.

Eric frowns. “You have been to Purgatory?”

“Yeah. It’s a shit hole. Almost died.”

“How did you get out?”

“Dean and I were lead out by Benny.”

“Benny Lafitte?”

“Yeah,” Addison answers. “Last that I knew he was in Carencro.” 

Eric lets out a low growl. He covers her mouth with his hand before biting down on her neck. Addison lets out a muffled shout. This was completely different from when Benny had bit her. This was more filled with pain. Eric pulls back and licks up the blood that was slowly flowing from the reopened wound. He grabs a towel off his desk and presses it against Addison’s neck. He steps back and licks his lips. “Last time I saw Metratron, I was in Machu Picchu. It was very crowded when I was there,” he tells Sarah.

Sarah raises an eyebrow. “Peru,” she disbelievingly repeats. “No where specific?”

Addison shifts. “When,” she softly asks.

“Before the fall of the Inca,” Eric replies.

Sarah’s gaze widens. “That was over four hundred years ago!”

Eric shrugs. He slides an arm around Addison’s waist and pulls her against him. “I hope my age does not bother you.”

“I’m married,” Addison snaps.

“Since when are you married,” Sarah questions.

“Apparently Dean and I have been married since 2005,” Addison explains. “Apparently, Dean has known for years and didn’t tell me. I only just learned about it.”

Eric brushes some of Addison’s hair. “No vampire will hurt you. Including Benny.”

“I’m not worried about vampires. You should be worried about my husband.”

“I don’t fear humans.”

“Dean Winchester is her husband,” Sarah states. “And where Dean is Sam Winchester is quick to follow.”

Eric steps back. “You’re connected to the Winchesters?” Addison nods. “Then I’m afraid that this will be our only visit.”

Sarah rolls her eyes and grabs Addison’s arm. “Thanks for your help,” she tells Eric before dragging Addison out of the backroom and the bar. The humidity hits them as they step out onto the busy street. “I wouldn’t have even asked for your help if I had known the last time Eric had seen Metratron was during the sixteenth century.”

“Asked for my help,” Addison disbelievingly repeats. “You offered me up to a vampire! And you didn’t even tell me about your plan!”

Sarah shrugs. “If I had told you, then you wouldn’t have agreed to it.”

Addison shakes her head. “Whatever. I’m going back to the hotel. You head down to Peru and start looking.” Sarah grabs Addison’s arm and the hunter looks at her. She places a hand on Addison’s neck and the vampire wound heals instantly. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Sarah brightly tells her before vanishing. 

~*~

Addison shifts as she sits on the couch. She hadn’t been surprised to see a very upset Dean waiting for her in the hotel suite when she arrived back from having a very late lunch at a restaurant in the French Quarter. “Are you done yelling,” she asks, standing up.

“No,” Dean snaps, grabbing her arm. She shrugs his grip off of her. “What the fuck were you thinking?”

“I had stuff to do, Dean. Last time I checked you took off all the time to do stuff and not tell me.”

“That was different.”

“How was that any different?”

“That was before.”

“Before what?”

“Before us,” Dean shouts. He runs a hand through his hair.

Addison steps closer to him. “You’re upset that I didn’t tell you. That I just left,” she states.

Dean glares at her. “Everything is different now, Ads. You had me scared out of my fucking mind.”

“Dean, I’m sorry,” Addison softly tells him. “Sarah called and said she needed help. She just needed someone to back her up.”

“Addison, please do not do the spell.”

“Dean—”

“Addison, I am asking you to not do the spell.”

Addison nods. “Okay. Okay. I won’t do the spell.” Dean walks over to her and tightly embraces her. She wraps her arms around him. He presses a soft kiss to the side of her head. 

[hansensgirl]

push it to the limit.

summary. | As he watches you ogle the man who would pop champagne moments before touching heaven, he puts his foot on the gas pedal and his hand on one of the levers, ready to push it to the limit. Maybe this time, you’ll finally notice him.

warnings. | Non/Dubcon, watersports, obsessive behaviour, coercion, bribery, dark themes, drinking (champagne), hate fucking, unprotected sex, rough sex, public sex, dumbification, degradation, dirty talk, humiliation, breeding kink, choking, allusions to anal, reader is really rude (so is Niki), *sexism/misogyny/paying for sex (see a/n), and more. 18+, MINORS DNI.

word count. | 8.4k

pairings. | Dark!Niki Lauda x Reader, James Hunt x Reader (it’s one-sided).

author’s note. | please enjoy, and please don’t forget to reblog! if you take ANY inspiration from my fics (i’ll know, trust me) and you don’t give credit, you will be blocked and i’ll let others know. *he talks about paying you for sex as a way to degrade you, it’s brief and in german! it does not reflect anything about me or my blog. we are pro-sex work here! it’s just fiction.

“Look! There he is!” a small voice tells you, pointing somewhere with a great distance. You’re not sure how he manages to spot his favourite racer from so far. Among the sea of heads, your younger brother sits on your shoulders. You can feel him touching you down to your bones, and you try to ignore the pain just for him. “You sure? You said that five times before, y’know,” you denote, and you hear the six-year-old groan. “Yes, I’m sure! Look, he’s drinking that nasty stuff like always,” he adds, and you realize he’s talking about James’s signature champagne.

“It’s not nasty,” you mumble under your breath, remembering the way the pleasant liquid felt and tasted against your tongue. Sticky gold is what you’d describe it as, and you recall how it stained your skin. Shaky hands are bound to tremor even more under pressure, and your friend is an absolute clutz. It’s no wonder she made such a mess, as it is one of her best traits. But a particular pair of hands that seemed to have Midas’s touch cleaned you up, and you still to this day wish you were awake to thank them. You have many regrets, but that’s just a small one.

“Can we go closer to the fence? I want to try and talk to him,” your brother politely requests, and you let out a heavy sigh. Your mouth is pressed in a line, and you begin to shift your feet. You’ve got boots made of suede, a brown colour that always seems to go best with your all-black outfits. There’s a matching jacket on you as well, and it has fur on the cuffs and collar.

“What’s the marvel of watching it in person rather than watching it on television? Out here, we struggle so much, and you can barely even watch them properly. On the television, well, you see it all, and you can be as comfortable as you want,” you wonder out loud, and the child holds onto you tightly. He squeezes your head tightly, and the ribbon in your hair begins to fall in your face. It’s white silk, with a lovely hem to it. You save it for these races your sibling always wants to go to. Your other coloured ones are left for daily excursions, and sometimes a good party, too.

“Excuse me!” you loudly call out, and other women cast you nasty glares. You’ve seen those same looks one too many times, and you don’t pay any mind to them. If they truly care about their spots, they’d stand up and fight for them. But they’re just like babies with a piece of candy in their tiny fists. Maybe a jellybean, or perhaps even a pack of those oh so enjoyable Sour Patch Kids. “Why do you like only him?” you ask, raising both your eyebrows as you get closer to the fence. “I like James and Niki!” he exclaims loudly, and you loop your fingers between the holes of the fence.

“Niki? As in Niki Lauda? That arrogant, Austrian asshole?” you question in shock, not minding your foul language at all. “Yes! The guy that Dad hates. He’s cool, and he’s fast,” he explains, rolling his eyes. “Honestly? There’s nothing cool about him. He’s just… fast. James is the cool one,” you argue, and you can hear him groaning. “You like James Hunt because he looked at you that one time,” he snaps back in annoyance, and you sigh dreamily in remembrance. “Exactly! Now I need to look for Niki, I wanna say hi to him!” your brother exclaims, and your eyes scan the entrance area for Niki Lauda.

“Don’t just say hi to him; ask him for an autograph! We can sell it to one of his fans afterwards. They’re always dying for anything of his,” you propose, and your brother simply ignores the swindling ways that you’ve inherited from your grandfather since you were a kid. It’s the reason why you tend to find purses with deep pockets and smooth zippers that don’t pinch on the inner fabric. You reach into your bag, and you grab a marker that you’ve always got with you.

The crowd gets louder and louder, almost as if you’ve got headphones on your head and you want to turn down the volume, but you keep hitting the wrong button. A woman shrieks in your left ear, and a man whoops in the other. More bodies press against you, and with the marker in between two of your digits, you hope that you don’t return home with billions of bruises. On the big screen, recaps from the previous races are being played. It’s win after win, all on behalf of Niki Lauda and his incredible luck that doesn’t seem to have any end.

You’re finally able to make out what people are screaming; the curly-haired man’s name. “Niki! I love you!” they all shout, and you wonder if any of them like James. It seems like you haven’t found your people, and maybe just for today, you’re the odd one out. “Seems like you’re not the only one that has Niki amongst their favourites,” you grumble, and your brother lets out a giggle. A few moments later, he sits up far more proper on your shoulders. The hand with the marker in it grabs onto one of his legs, and you make sure he doesn’t fall down and ends up being the true loser of this race.

“Niki! I’m your biggest fan!” he shouts at the top of his lungs, using his full voice and then some. You look over to the entrance, and you spot the brooding Austrian wrapped in red walking out with a deep frown on his face. You fight the urge to roll your eyes, but your brother doesn’t care about your deep annoyance towards his idol. Niki shoots a look over to where you’re both standing, and your brother waves his arms from side to side, trying to get the racer’s attention. Even if he doesn’t, you have a feeling that Niki will be more displeased than anything.

It only makes sense, as he always acts that way with his fans though they’re the only people who appreciate him.

His nose is upturned, and he tries to pinpoint your brother and his powerful screams. High-pitched yet so loud, it’s no wonder why his tantrums are the root for almost all household headaches. “He’s looking over here,” you tell him, and your brother nods. “Yeah, because of me! He’s going to come, and I’m going to meet him!” he squeals, somehow connecting none existent dots to fuel a form of hope that dwindles inside him. You can be mean, but you’re not cruel. So you won’t be a realist, and you’ll let the youth on your shoulders believe what he wants to think.

“And when you meet him, ask him to sign something,” you advise, not letting go of your chance to make a few hundred dollars. He doesn’t say anything, but you know he’s pondering whether or not he should do it. “Niki! I love you!” the woman next to you screams as if she’s using every bit of her energy to get him to notice her. Your head already starts to ache just a bit, and you wish you brought some form of a pain killer. Niki saunters over to the fence, and for some reason, you don’t feel proper behind the fence.

It’s the way he carries himself with the highest of heads, a sort of confidence dragging with his every step. He knows he can do anything right now, and everybody except you would love him for it. He could make an entire turn and not greet his fans, and they’ll laugh it off. You’ve witnessed his haughtiness, and there’s no doubt inside you that you’ll see it again. “Niki! Good luck on the race!” a person says, and the rest of the crowd laughs at them.

“Dude, he doesn’t need your luck,” someone next to them says before elbowing the poor fan’s ribs. You can hear them wince in pain before they start to scream at the racer once again. Niki raises his hands up to his chest, almost as if he’s surrendering to something. That bratty smirk of his is replaced by a cheerful smile, and while everyone adores it, you see right through the façade. “Hello, everyone!” he greets, and you already want to roll your eyes until they fall back into your skull.

Niki stands right in front of you, and you try to look somewhere other than his face. Your view darts wildly until you finally settle on looking at the exceptionally boring asphalt underneath your feet. The screaming quiets down, and you wonder if everything is okay. “Uhm, Mr. Niki Lauda? I love you! I’m such a big fan! I watch all of your races, and I try to go to them all! Can I have an autograph?” your brother gleefully expresses, and you snap your head up at his words.

Much to your dismay, you lock gazes with the man you hate most in this entire stadium. His eyes are rather dull, yet they’ve got a sort of darkness in them that makes you feel just a tad bit uneasy. Both begrudgingly and excitedly, you hand the marker to your brother, who, in turn, gives it to his idol. Niki takes it gratefully, and he raises his least dominant hand. The other fans try to reach for it, for him. But he ignores them, and he gives a high-five to your brother.

You can’t hear the sound of their palms meeting because the displeasure of the crowd drowns it all out. “What do you want me to write it on?” Niki questions, taking the cap off of the marker. “Uhm, my shirt?” he offers, stretching the red fabric towards the elder. You observe as the racer awkwardly signs his name on your brother’s clothing, and you know that your Mother is going to be more than angry. Your Father, on the other hand, will be filled with pride and excitement.

“Thank you so much!” the child squeals, and Niki simply waves his hand as if it was no big deal to him. But you know that deep down inside, he was probably a bit annoyed. “Do you want an autograph, Miss?” Niki asks, and you take note of how his demeanour has changed. His features are softer, and his eyes seem to be lit up. “Oh, uh, no, thank you. I’m waiting for James. I love him a lot,” you tell him, pushing your shoulders back in confidence. The people around you let out gasps, and they follow their sounds up with whispers that aren’t so hushed.

Niki’s face drops, and you give him your fakest smile. He stares at you, almost as if he wants to lash out and scream. Maybe even call you a name or two. “That’s alright,” he assures after a while, and you have the urge to say something snarky. He hands the marker back to your brother, who is too busy being in awe of his favourite racer to listen to you being on your worst behaviour. Niki walks off, but this time, his stride lacks his boldness. “He’s so cool!” your brother squeals, staring at the Sharpie. You sigh, knowing that you two will constantly butt heads over Niki.

“Well, I beg to disagree.”

“Niki! Is everything okay?” one of the mechanics asks, and the star nods his head mindlessly. Instead of pressing him for some sort of answer, he leaves Niki alone to mull all by himself. There is not one person who dares to talk to him before the race unless it has to do with the car or the competition itself. It’s out of pure fear because nobody likes to face the Austrian’s wrath. From screaming way too loudly to piercing, uncomfortable stares, he never knows how to properly communicate with others.

He gazes at you from just a few mere metres away. His eyes are like ice, and he hopes you can feel the coldness from where you are. He really fucking hopes you do. You’ve got that sultry look to you, and it’s not cast towards him. No, it isn’t at all, and it irks him all the way to his bones. You ogle James fucking Hunt. Of all the other inferior racers there, you choose to admire James, and Niki hates you both for that. At every single race, he’s seen you show up to, you never look at him.

You don’t acknowledge him at all. It doesn't just hurt his ego; it also breaks his heart. Your preference and love for the Englishman injure those butterflies inside Niki’s stomach, and yet they still continue to flutter. The funniest, most ironic part of everything is that the races you attend always end with Niki being the winner. Never James. But you still idolize him over the Austrian, and he’s tired of it.

“Make sure it goes fast, okay? Fast, but nothing should catch on fire or malfunction,” Niki tells his technicians, and they halt what they’re doing. “But, Sir-” one of them starts, and Niki closes his fist for them. “No,” he simply states before crossing his arms once again. Niki looks back over to you, and you’ve now got a smile on your face. He loves the sight, but he knows his adoration will turn sour in a few seconds once he follows your line of gaze. So he chooses not to, and he decides to use you as his motivation.

The racers all go to their cars, and they pull their helmets on. Some are dressed in black, some in white, and only two in red. James and Niki. Niki is surrounded by his team, and James has twice the number of people next to him. Along with mechanics are girls in short skirts with jackets similar to yours. Deep down, you wish you could switch places with one of them, but maybe it isn’t as good as it seems to be. Perhaps your spot behind the fence with your younger sibling is what’s meant for you.

Your neck is more than exhausted. Your shoulders have a unique pain to them, one that not even doctors can begin to describe. Your bones are in desperate need of a crack, and your muscles crave a lengthy stretch that’ll leave you shaking. Yet, you continue to stand there with no complaints ready to fly off your tongue. The whooping behind you is so loud, but you’ve gotten used to it. “C’mon, Niki! You can do it!” your brother cries out, clapping his hands in excitement.

Niki flashes a thumbs up, and he looks at you one last time. As he watches you ogle the man who would pop champagne moments before touching heaven, he puts his foot on the gas pedal and his hand on one of the levers, ready to push it to the limit. Maybe this time, you’ll finally notice him. Perhaps this time, you’ll realize he’s the best racer there is. He takes a deep breath, and he reassures himself that he’ll win as always.

“I have a feeling Niki is going to win this one,” the lady next to you says, and her friends nod their heads in utter agreement. You want to ask why she thinks that, but you’ve already left a bad taste in the crowd’s mouth. “Do you think Niki will win?” you ask your brother, looking up at him as best as you can. “I think so, but maybe James will surprise us!” he predicts, and you nod your head. “I hope James wins,” you whisper under your breath. Your bottom lip falls victim to your teeth, and you gnaw on it out of stress.

You keep your sights on James, and occasionally, you glance at Niki. Perhaps it’s simply just morbid curiosity that’s eating at you because there’s no way you’d just casually look at a man you despise with all your heart. As all the racers go to their designated spots in their cars, excitement fills your stomach. But it’s mixed with fear, as anything can go wrong at these tracks, and that’s the last thing you want to happen. You get lost in your thoughts, thinking about all possibilities.

Who will win? Who will get hurt? Who will get angry? Who will become sad? You ask yourself all these questions that don’t truly matter much to your life, and yet you still try to find an answer inside of you.

Suddenly, the sound of engines revving and then taking off fills your ears. Screams follow them up, and you realize that the race has started. You wait until every single car leaves your view before looking at the scoreboard. You can’t bear to watch them risk their lives while you stand not so comfortably yet safe behind a fence. “Oh my God! James is in the first place!” you squeal like a kid in a candy store, and your brother claps.

Some of the people around you cheer for James, and others for Niki. But you ignore them, and you simply focus on what the orangish-yellow neon lights say. Some names switch spots rapidly, perhaps too quickly for you to keep up with. But you stay trained on the upper two; I. HUN, II. LAU. The former stays on top for most of the race, and the latter switches with him every now and then. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” you nervously mumble, hoping that the Englishman stays on top.

“Seems like your favourite is going to win,” the known lady cleverly smirks, and you give her the side-eye. “Yes, because he’s good at what he does,” you confidently agree, hoping that you won’t have to eat your words in the next few minutes. She chuckles before shaking her head. “No wonder you don’t like Niki Lauda,” she expresses, shaking her head practically in some form of awe. “What are you talking about?” you annoyingly press, already growing tired of whatever conversation she’s trying to make.

“You’re both egotistical and full of yourselves. You do it because that’s who you are, and Niki does it for his own reasons, like pure enjoyment. It’s so obvious for you to dislike him because he’s a reflection of you, and you hate that,” she states, proud of herself for whatever reasons. “That’s dumb, and so are you. He does it because that’s who he is. I do it because I don’t like some people—such as yourself—and because I have plenty of reasons to be prideful. Not egotistical,” you snap, and she raises her hands as if she’s surrendering.

“Sure, whatever you say.”

Your mood has turned absolutely irritable, and the bitterness has claimed you entirely. You realize that you haven’t checked the places since before speaking to the lady, and you get excited. Flicking your head up, you expect to have your preferred person’s name at the very top, but instead, you see the name of the one and only Niki Lauda. I. LAU, II. HUN. “No, no, no!” you panic, watching as James stays in second place. None of the names change places at all, and you find yourself to be absolutely crushed. “Yes, yes, yes!” the crowd cheers and your face has fallen in disappointment.

Niki’s name gets announced, and everyone is absolutely elated. Everyone apart from you. Your brother celebrates the win from his high spot, and everybody jumps for joy. You stay silent, and you try your hardest to not swallow your pride. Each driver gets out of their cars slowly, and they congratulate the Austrian with smiles on their faces. You stare at him callously before you notice that James is still grinning. Despite not winning entirely, he never actually lost. So there’s no reason for you to be so dull and gloomy.

He walks off with his posse of men and women, and you realize maybe it’s time for you to head home as well. “So, your favourite won,” you say to your brother, and he giggles. “Yep! And yours lost!” he jokes, and you let out a forced giggle. “Yeah, yeah,” you brush off, making your way through the energetic body of people you strongly dislike.

Niki is engulfed in overly suffocating hugs. Some hands shake him, and some even slap him on the back, not so lightly. He doesn’t know which pairs belong to which bodies, and yet he goes with them all anyway. “You did great, Niki!” one voice praises. “Yeah, great job, Niki!” another adds. He thanks everybody in one sentence, and he pulls away once they start to mingle amongst themselves. The fantastic win of his isn’t what’s on his mind. It’s the thing that’s been etched and burned into his brain for him to think about, even though it should be appreciated now.

No. You’re what’s on Niki’s mind, and he has no intention of letting you leave.

He looks over at the swarm of heads that may have drowned you, and he can’t find you there. Not one trace of you is left behind, and his blood boils. Do you truly hate him to the point where you can’t even stay back for a few more seconds? Niki swears in Austrian under his breath, and he frustratingly walks over to the crowd. Fingers that aren’t yours reach out for him, and he ignores them all. “Have any of you seen that woman with the little boy on her shoulders?” he angrily questions, cracking his knuckles in anticipation.

His heart is still clamouring wildly in his chest, practically beating against him to be let out. “Uhm, she just left… She went that way! But I could easily replace her if you want…” a woman flirts, and Niki completely ignores her words after he gets what he wants. He leaves abruptly, and they are still yelling after him. “So eine verdammte Schlampe. Ich kann es kaum erwarten, dir eine Lektion zu erteilen, du hast darum gebettelt, seit ich dich gesehen habe,” he grumbles, walking through the crowded entrance.

Niki emerges with perseverance and even more anger than before. He searches through the sea of racing enthusiasts, and he spots you being bent over. It’s a wildly lewd position for you to be in, and Niki finds himself feeling flushed and displeased at the way you let others leer at you. He should be the only one to see you that way, nobody else. The Austrian wants to storm his way to you, to grab you and drag you somewhere more private so that he can put you in your place, but he knows the current setting isn’t right.

“Uhm, Mr. Lauda? Would you like a drink in honour of your win? It’ll be on us!” a shy waitress offers, appearing out of nowhere. He jumps in fear, but he quickly calms down. “Well…” he ponders, even though he’s not a fan of drinking after a race. In a trice, the lightbulb in his brain goes off. It shines brightly, and a clever idea starts to nag him. “Do you, uh, mind doing me a favour? I’ll even pay you extra,” he quickly prompts, and the waitress smirks. “Sure!” she agrees, carefully balancing the glasses on her tray.

“I need you to take all these glasses—maybe add some more champagne and make sure they’re really full—to that person over there,” he instructs, pointing to where you are. He watches as you wave to your family, who drives off without you. “The one with the brown jacket?” she double checks, and he nods in assurance. “Yeah, that one. Take them to her, and tell her they’re from someone who adores her and her love for champagne quite a bit,” Niki directs while trying to hold in a villain-like laugh.

“Ok! Then I just leave?” she asks, tilting her head innocently. “Yes. And don’t mention my name or anything about me at all,” he adds quickly before placing a hundred-dollar bill on the tray. The waitress slips it into her pocket before walking to where you’re standing idly. Niki watches the innocent worker make her way towards you until he realizes he should hide away before she makes a mistake.

“Excuse me, ma’am? Hi, I have something for you,” a waitress tells you, and you furrow your eyebrows in confusion. “I- What? I never ordered anything, I think you have the wrong person,” you tell her, turning your back and facing elsewhere. “No! I have the right person. They said they’re someone who adores you and your love for champagne!” she gleefully clarifies, and only one person comes to mind. James. You let out an excited, eager gasp. One that can’t be rivalled by any of Niki’s fans from his win.

She hands you the two full glasses, and you can just tell that the golden liquid is of high quality. You get drunk quickly, perhaps a little too easily. But that’s never stopped you from enjoying yourself at all. “Thank you so much! Oh, and I’m sorry for being rude at first,” you softly whisper to her, and she simply waves you away. “No worries,” she reassures, and she walks off before you can finish your first glass.

Tilting your head back, you bring the first flute to your mouth and you down everything it has to offer in just a few gulps. The drink slides down your throat with such ease. It’s brut, and it has a sort of bitter yet sweet taste to it. Sighing, you smack your lips and take whatever is left of the first glass gratefully. You then switch the glasses around with shaky yet skillful hands. “Thank you, James, for being such a lovely guy,” you murmur to yourself, dragging out the last letters of each word.

The alcohol quickly settles inside you, and it starts to distort you as always. Blurry eyes and a hazy mind, you’ve turned into a drunken mess in a matter of a few seconds. You slowly sip on your second and last glass before your temptations grow tired of your sluggishness. You down the entire thing until there’s a small drop at the bottom that just won’t budge. You let out a tiny sound of amazement, and you find yourself wanting to have some more. You lick your lips, trying to search for a slight hint of the sort of melon flavour until it goes away.

“Uhm? Does anyone know where that waitress went?” you ask loudly, and those who hear you shake their heads ‘no.’ “Damn,” you frustratingly mutter, lightly stomping your foot against the concrete. You roll your head backwards, in both a stretch and a habit. Your mind feels heavy, but your bones and muscles are even more burdensome. You bring your skull back to its normal position, and you decide to go look for her. Stumbling clumsily, you walk back into the dreaded arena where everyone is still celebrating Niki Lauda’s victory.

Niki watches you amongst a crowd of fans who are trying to form some sort of discussion with him. They hound him with all kinds of questions, some about the race itself and some about the esteemed racer and his personal life. Like a hunter stalking his prey, his eyes stay trained on you until you disappear behind the red door that leads to rooms that only named people are allowed to go to. “So, what are you going to do now, Mr. Lauda? How are you going to celebrate?” one of them asks, with a sort of sultry tone to their voice that he fails to notice.

“I have plans with a friend of mine for tonight,” he briefly states before pushing through them and following you into the stadium. “Can I join?” another asks, and he simply ignores them as they call after Niki with even more curiosity. It’s not hard to spot someone in bright red overalls suddenly walking into somewhere he shouldn’t be, but it’s easy to pay no mind to him because he’s a champion and most people who see him aren’t.

“Where, where, where are you, kleine Maus?” he hauntingly calls out, and his voice echoes back. Niki can hear the sound of your shoes clicking against the ground, and he decides to follow it. He tries his hardest to calm his heart down, but it’s hard to both hold your breath and make sure you’re not nearing cardiac arrest. The racer quickens the paces of his feet, practically jogging towards you as you decide to turn around and forget about the champagne.

Your jacket slips off your shoulders as you whip your body around, and suddenly, you’re pushed against a wall. The brick is painted over with a sort of cream colour. You begin to panic as strong hands keep you from fighting your attacker. “Du bellst wohl nicht nur, kleine Maus,” he notes out loud, and you don’t understand a word of what he’s saying. The voice is familiar, though, except for the fact it’s a few octaves deeper than you last heard.

“Niki?” you question, halting your flailing fists and restless legs. “Yes, kleine Maus?” the man questions and your jaw drops in shock. “What the fuck?! Are you insane? Get off of me!” you scream loudly, and his hopes of getting you still begin to die like a flower in the wintertime. Niki grabs ahold of your wrists in his dominant hand, and he swiftly turns you around and stomps on your ankles. “Help!” you cry out, but his other hand presses your face against the wall.

“Shut up, shut the fuck up,” he orders in your ear, pushing your white ribbon out of your face. You listen to him, but you disobey his commands at the same time. Writhing around, you try to escape the claws that squeeze you tightly, and you fail miserably. “Cute. Now stop fighting me, or else I’ll hurt you so badly you wouldn’t be able to go to anyone for help,” he threatens, and you gulp thickly in fear. Your saliva tastes of alcohol still, and you regret ever coming to the race.

“Good girl. See? That wasn’t so hard. All you need to do is listen to me,” Niki instructs, talking down to you like you’re some child who doesn’t know any better. “Why?” you choke out through gritted teeth. Your cheekbones rub against the brick, and the pain is gruesome. “Because I need to put you in your place. Do you seriously think you can just mouth off to me like that? To disrespect me like that? To prefer that pathetic racer over me?” he asks, and you let out a whimper. Each of his words sinks into you like needles filled with anesthesia.

They numb your mind until you realize what’s really happening, but by then, it’s too late.

“Well, obviously, I prefer James over you! Look at you, you’re rude, and you’re a horrible, shitty person. Now get off of me!” you lash out, even though your body doesn’t move. Niki simply laughs like a maniac, and you find yourself wanting to take back your words. “Maybe I’m so rude because I like you. Like how little boys tease little girls when they have crushes. You do know what a crush is, right? Just making sure since you’re so cold-hearted. Bet you don’t know anything other than hatred,” he spits, and you’re pretty offended.

“I know what you’re talking about! I’ve had feelings for people, okay?” you bite back, and Niki becomes curious. “Really? Let me guess. James Hunt? Some old boyfriend of yours? A man at a party who cleaned you up because you don’t know how to take care of yourself?” the Austrian questions, and you don’t realize who he’s talking about until you look at his hands. They’re the same as those gracious ones, except they’re more rough and lack gentleness. “That was you?” you ask, and you’ve lost all fight in your body at the realization.

“Well, of course, kleine Maus. Someone had to watch your back, and that someone is me! Du bist nicht so klug, wie du dich selbst darstellst, ganz ehrlich. But that’s okay, it’ll be okay. It’ll be just alright now that I’m here to put you in your place,” he reassures you, and you don’t even have the energy to ask him what he means. “Look, I’m sorry, I really am. I’ve learnt my lesson now, can you let me go? I won’t tell anyone, Sir, I promise!” you plea and your words start to blur into one another.

“I don’t think you’re sorry, kleine Maus. I need to do what’s necessary because I’m fucking tired of you and your bullshit,” Niki snaps, and you whimper from the harsh tone of his words. His change in behaviour gives you whiplash, and you realize that there’s no way out of whatever he has planned for you. “So careless, so mean, so ignorant… So clumsy. I guess you aren’t as independent or as strong as you claim to be,” he whispers, and he causes tears to sting your almost empty eyes. They hurt, and they carry such maliciousness to them that you can’t help but be terrified of Niki.

A hand comes up to the waist of your jeans. They flare out at the bottom, and well, they look pretty damn good on you. But maybe a little too good because they make Niki think wild thoughts. He expertly takes the buttons out of their holes, and he unzips your rusted zipper. “P- Please, Niki,” you beg one last time, but Niki ignores you. He pulls down your pants against your protests, and he lets them get tangled with your tired feet. Your bare ass is exposed to the cool air of the arena, and goosebumps begin to rise on your skin.

“Such a lovely ass, kleine Maus. Maybe I should fuck it instead of doing what I had planned. Would you like that?” Niki politely asks, and your eyes nearly fall out of your skull. “N- No, thank you, Niki,” you shakily reject, and he nods. “You see, unlike you, I’m not so mean. So I’ll spare you, but only this once,” he cheerfully tells you, acting as if you’re supposed to start jumping up and down at his words. The closest thing to gratitude he’ll ever get from you is silence.

Niki still has a tight grip on your hands, and with your legs now immobilized from the mess by your feet, you can’t do much to save yourself. He wraps his arm around your waist, and he grabs at the crotch of your panties with no care at all. The cotton bunches up, and his fingers graze lightly against your folds. You try to ignore his touch, but he does the opposite and forces you to focus on it. He’s frozen, and you’re waiting for his next malevolent move. You can hear his heavy breathing, and he angles his digits upwards so he can touch you even more.

You press a fist against the wall, and you try to brace yourself as best as you can. Unexpectedly, a fierce pain strikes you in your hips, and it hurts more than you can describe. His hand has left you, and you can feel the air breeze against your pussy. Your panties are on the floor, ripped into a shred of fabric that no longer has any good use other than reminding you of how you could’ve avoided this entire situation. “I’ll get you better ones, don’t worry,” he reassures you in a humorous manner, and you squeeze your eyes shut in annoyance.

Instead of having your hips jut out for easy access, he pushes your torso against the wall until there’s a pressure inside your stomach. Instead of pain, it’s a sort of tingling sensation that makes your eyes bulge out in shock. “Uhm...” you hesitate, and his ears perk up. “What is it?” he frustratingly asks you, and his harsh tone snivelling. “N- Nevermind,” you mumble, and you just try to take deep breaths. “Are you ever going to shut up?” Niki questions as his other hand skillfully unzips his red overalls.

He’s wearing a simple pair of shorts and a t-shirt for the hot weather and occasional coolness. You keep quiet, not sure if you should answer him or not. Niki grumbles in another language that you don’t understand, and you realize that no matter what you do, you’ll always make him angry. Even your begging doesn’t bring you any fruits of labour. Only disappointment.

His shorts join the pile of clothing on the ground, many colours clashing that leave his eyes to be sore. Sunset pink panties, pale blue jeans, vibrant red overalls, and black shorts. It’s a fashionista’s worst nightmare. His hard cock is left in his boxers, and he’s just too impatient to fully undress. He throbs out of want and need, with a swollen tip that leaks with pre-cum. “I know this isn’t so… What’s the word you people use? ...Ah, romantic! I know this isn’t so romantic, but it’s not supposed to be. I’m the only one who’s supposed to enjoy this, not you. So I don’t care if you want to fake a smile or anything like that, all you need to do is not say anything,” he explains, and you nod your head.

“O- Okay, Niki,” you assure, and he lets out a groan that is followed by his tongue clicking against his pearly teeth. “Dumb whore,” he spits, and his hand wraps around your throat. You’re inebriated beyond belief, and you don’t realize he can crush your windpipe in a split second until he whispers in your ear. “Can’t do one thing right, can you?” he retorts. The grip he has on your wrists suddenly loosens up, but you’re too sluggish to fight him. And even if you try, you’ll end up a pathetic loser with even less honour than before.

The fat tip of his large cock presses against your mildly slick pussy. “You’re already wet for me, kleine Maus! Oh, such a whore. You say you don’t want this, yet your little cunt is telling me otherwise. Maybe you should use it to think instead of your empty brain. You’d end up in better places if you did so,” he advises, and you try to tune him out. But he’s like an alarm that just won’t stop until you do something, and yet, you’re helpless. “Ich kann es kaum erwarten, dich zu meiner Hure zu machen. Wie viel verlangen Sie? Einen Dollar? So oder so, du wirst von mir gefickt werden,” Niki snickers, and you have a feeling his words lack kindness.

But who the hell are you to worry about kindness?

Niki pushes his hips forward as his cock slowly sheathes itself inside of your tight pussy. The way you hug him makes him moan immediately, and he wonders if he’s the first you’ve ever had. “Jesus Fucking Christ, you’re so right, kleine Maus,” he groans, slowly bottoming out inside of you. You’re biting down on your wobbly bottom lip, trying your hardest to keep quiet and not let out any cries. The pain is searing. It’s the worst thing you’ve ever felt, and it ingrains itself into your mind until it’s all but an illusion. You’re practically about to be torn in half from his cock, and you’re at an impasse.

The racer curses as his balls rest against your ass, heavy and swollen. He’s deep inside you, filling you up until you’re bursting and you don’t know what to focus on; the pressure in your stomach that just seems to grow with each passing second, or the pain that leisurely turns into pleasure you’ll be addicted to? Everything is so much all at once. “Feel that, kleine Maus? Do you feel how deep inside you I am? Good, because you’ll have to get used to it,” he tells you, and you writhe around.

“So desperate already…” he whispers, watching as you can’t stand still at all. Niki’s hand leaves the base of his cock, as he thrusts his hips forward to elicit a reaction from you. He holds onto you tightly, and your body jerks from his movement. Your swollen stomach is pushed further against the wall, much to your dismay. You let out a gasp, and you try to close your legs as much as Niki will let you. He chuckles before he drags his cock backwards. His tip is the only thing inside you, and he suddenly begins to pump into you roughly. “Oh my God,” you whimper quietly, and your words are drowned out by the sound of skin against skin.

He thrusts up into you at a quick pace, one that your fingers or past lovers could never rival. It seems as though he’s fast when it comes to almost anything. “Die beste Muschi, die ich je hatte,” Niki whispers. Your pussy slickens up as he fucks you, coating him with your sticky wetness. The sight is something to behold, and his cock slips in and out of you with each thrust. “Make some pretty noises, kleine Maus. I want to hear how much of a slut you are for my cock,” he demands, and a loud moan moves past your lips without warning. It’s lewd and pornographic, yet it’s not as debauched as the sounds your wet pussy makes.

“Yeah, that’s more like it, hure,” Niki praises, and you mewl once his cock begins to touch that sweet spot of yours. It makes you go dizzy and hazy, and it also makes your legs weak. You involuntarily stop clenching your thighs together. Each thrust brings you against the wall, and you feel like you’re about to explode. Your pussy clenches down on Niki’s cock tightly, and his motions stutter. “Are you going to come already, my little slut?” he questions, slowing down his thrusts just to see you get frustrated. But the reaction you have is quite the opposite of what he wants, and he’s confused.

You let out a shaky breath that is filled with relief. You try to cross your legs together and push your ass backwards so that you’re far from the wall, even if it means that you’re closer to Niki. Your efforts don’t do much, and you want to wail in defeat. Niki observes you carefully before he shoves you back against the wall. You cry out before whispering a simple ‘please’ to him. He doesn’t realize what you’re talking about until he watches you place one of your hands on your stomach. You splay your fingers out delicately, and Niki chuckles.

The hold he has on your hips goes away, and he reaches for your hand. “Shh, it’s okay,” he reassures, and you furrow your eyebrows in both confusion and surprise. Niki pulls his cock out of you until you’re an empty, gaping mess. Suddenly, he presses down on your bladder until warmth trickles down your legs, soaking the fabric at your feet. A few tears leak from your eyes, and Niki watches as you burn up with embarrassment and shame. The pain and pressure in your abdomen go away as you finally alleviate yourself.

“Dreckig, dreckig, kleine Maus,” he degrades, and you don’t have it in you to be offended. The streams of liquid eventually come to an end, and you’re so ashamed. You press your face against the wall and wait for Niki’s next word. But he doesn’t say anything at all. Zip, zilch, nada. Instead, he pulls his hand away from your stomach and uses it to silently guide his cock back to your drooling, aching hole. “Couldn’t help yourself, I know. It’s okay, it’s not entirely your fault, liebling,” Niki tells you, even though he’s more patronizing than comforting.

“Es ist nicht deine Schuld, dass du nicht weißt, wie man etwas richtig macht. Keine Manieren, keine Höflichkeiten... Ich verstehe, dass du so bist, aber ich bin hier, um dich zu ändern. Ich bin hier, um dir beizubringen, dass du unter mir stehst und dass du nichts anderes tun solltest, als meine Hure zu sein und mich zu verehren,” he continues, and you’ve decided to give up entirely. You forehead rests on the white brick, and Niki begins to fuck you roughly once again.

He pounds against your sweet spot relentlessly, not one error in his rhythmic thrusts. “Poor little thing acts all tough until it comes down to it… And now look at you, you’re a complete mess with my cock stuffed inside this perfect pussy,” Niki grunts, leaning his body forward. His chest is right up against your back, and his chin rests on your sweaty shoulder. Your white ribbon is a tangled mess, the two ends of it twisting together and falling in your face. The silk material is no longer cooling, and the styling purpose of it has lost its touch.

The plunges of his cock are more deep than quick, and each shove of his hips sends you spiralling in pleasure. “F- Fuck,” you moan, seeing stars in your vision as your legs twitch from overwhelming gratification. “Yeah, you like that? You like the way my cock makes your pussy feel, kleine Maus?” he questions, and he further pushes his head down until his mentum digs into your skin. You wail loudly out of pain before nodding your head desperately. Niki squeezes the sides of your neck even more, but he also pushes down on your windpipe until you’re gasping for air.

You wheeze resoundingly, and the sound of you suffering for breath sends even more blood down to Niki’s pulsating cock. “Say it, tell me how much you love my cock and how much of a slut you are for me,” he demands, and you grasp at whatever’s left in your vocabulary. “I- I love your cock, Niki. I’m such a slut for you and your cock. You make me feel so good. I love your cock so much,” you pathetically mewl, and you can feel a form of tightening building up in you. Your lower abdomen burns up with searing flames, ones that trail all the way down to where you’re both connected.

You get wetter and wetter, more loud and desirous as your climax builds up. It’s like a staggering tower that reaches up to the sky and past the clouds; it has an end, but it keeps growing. “Are you going to come, kleine Maus? Are you going to come around my fat cock? I know you are. C’mon, do it,” Niki urges, and you moan his name loudly. “Do it, come on my cock right fucking now, or else I’ll make this worse for you,” he demands, and your back arches violently. You let out a gasp as your jaw goes slack. Red fills your vision, and you’re clamping down on his cock.

You moan his name loudly, and your juices coat his already sticky cock. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you mewl, digging your nails into your skin as you struggle to keep quiet like he ordered you to do. Your pussy spasms wildly, and your clit throbs, desperate for a few fingers to rub it. Your legs shake just a little bit, and you find yourself meeting Niki at his every thrust, desperate to keep going. Your ass moves backwards, and his hips move forwards, and the Austrian fucks you through your orgasm. Your nerves have sparks flying from them, and every part of you is sensitive.

“You’re so pretty when you come, kleine Maus. You look just like a desperate whore,” Niki grunts, and he can feel himself inching closer to his own climax. It’s like the light at the end of a tunnel or the chequered flag that usually waits for him at the race track before he’s announced to be the winner. “I’m gonna come inside you, kleine Maus, even if you don’t want me to. I’m going to fill you up with my seed and make you all nice and round. That way, you’ll know who you belong to, and you won’t be whoring around for the James Hunt you love so much,” he whispers in your ear, and you rapidly shake your head.

No, no, no, no.

“Yes, yes, yes, kleine Maus, you’re going to take my seed because I said so. Now stop fighting me,” he moans in your ear, and his thrusts grow sloppy and lazy. Niki shallowly fucks into you, and his balls begin to tighten up. His chest rises and falls, and he can feel his high beginning to climb up to the sky. Up, up, up, and away. Niki moans out the little pet name he’s applied to you, and he entirely shoves his cock inside you until he can’t move anymore. Growling, he comes inside you without a care in the world.

The raging, red tip of his fat cock is so deep. White ropes of his seed shoot into your womb, filling you up until you’re an upset, messy cumdump. “This is all you’re good for, kleine Maus,” Niki whispers in your ear, reminding you of your so-called place that he believes you belong in. His cum drips down your inner walls and leaks past his cock, and your fluids mix with each other. Niki’s cock twitches inside of you, but he remains as hard as a rock.

“Can’t wait to see you with my baby, kleine Maus. And I can’t wait to see James’s face when he sees you with me. Er wird so schockiert sein, dass sein Gesichtsausdruck unbezahlbar sein wird,” Niki laughs wickedly, and you can’t imagine you’ll ever meet anyone as cruel or as twisted as he is. “Can you get off of me now? I want to go home, and I want to stay as far away from you as I can,” you snap in both annoyance and exhaustion. “Nu-uh,” he tuts in a disciplinary manner. “You’re not going anywhere, kleine Maus,” Niki tells you. He tilts his head up until his lips touch the skin of your ear.

“I still have to celebrate my win with you, and I’ll make sure to push you to the limit, kleine Maus.”

[hopeamarsu]

Don’t turn around

Writer Wednesday #12 by @autumnleaves1991-blog​ , using themes from Jey’s Pride Celebration by @flightlessangelwings​

Jack Daniels x gn!reader

Word count 1,1k

Warnings: None really. Some mildly suggestive words, because it’s Jack after all. 

A/N: This is my first time delving into Kingsman fiction, so I hope I did okay with Jack. This weeks theme was “Fairy Tale and/or “I’m in love with you.” and the picture below:

Having to work a social event was always the same: dress up nice in black slacks, white shirt, possibly something that the catering provided for you as extra and comfortable shoes. Comfortable shoes were the key. They allowed you to actually walk home instead of limping. 

You thanked those comfortable shoes while you balanced a tray filled with champagne flutes, giving a tight-lipped smile for a lady wearing a stole and chatting with her companion as you swapped out their empty glasses for full ones. When your tray was empty, you began your trek back to the drink table when you saw him.

Dark, tall and handsome, descending the stairs in the middle of the opulent room like royalty. His dark navy suit was bespoke, you could tell it from a mile away, his trousers fitted from the waist and accentuating his body perfectly. Even with seeing on the front of the suit you just knew you could bounce a quarter off his glutes. 

As he stood on the middle part, before stepping down the final steps, you took a selfish moment to study him further from your vantage point. His dark hair was mussed in that perfect salon way and the hat in his hands seemed like it was crafted for him specifically. One hand trailed the black rim of it gently as he let his sharp gaze sweep the masses below. 

His eyes clicked with yours and suddenly the breath was stolen from your lungs. 

You couldn’t move even if you wanted to, pinned down by the intensity in his face. For a moment, time stood still as you looked at one another. It felt like a fairytale moment, lovers locking gazes from one end of the room to the other and you wanted it to last a lifetime. 

Unfortunately a colleague of yours spotted you and drew your attention away from the magnetic sight. In the minute it took to confirm to them that you were alright and you would join them in the drink table to switch to bartending, you lost sight of the intriguing man and as you turned back to look for him, the stairwell was empty and he was lost to the crowd mingling the floor. 

With a sigh, you shook your head and followed your colleague and swapped places with the bartender on shift. A moment like that, so rare, was lost and you would never gain it back.  Trying to get back into work-mode you started taking stock of what was needed and began to slice up some lemons and limes to use. 

“Don’t turn around.” 

A deep voice with a Southern drawl made you gasp and nearly slice your fingers instead of the lime on the cutting board. “I’m sorry, are you alright?” The same voice continued, a large hand appearing out of nowhere to pluck the knife from your hand and place it on the table. You nodded, unable to speak as the scent of whisky, tobacco and firewood surrounded you. It felt like home, like those long evenings spent in front of a fireplace, watching the flames with a tumbler in hand, and you wanted to sink deeper into it.

“Good. Don’t want something so beautiful to get marred on my account.”

“Who are you?” Your question came out hushed, but he seemed to catch it as he leaned forward a little, his voice low as he answered. 

“The name’s Jack. I saw you earlier and… well, you’ll make me work for my dinner tonight, I can tell you that right now.”

“What do you mean?” You questioned, trying to turn around to look him in the eye. You yearned to learn the color of them and how light reflected from them when he turned his head in the right direction, but the hand that had been holding onto the knife slid up to hold your elbow tight, keeping you rooted to the spot.

“Eyes forward beautiful. Don’t want to jeopardize anything, because I just know one look into the sweet abyss that is in your eyes will make Old Jack forget each and every thing on his mind.”  You could hear the sigh in his voice and you had the inexplicable urge to lean backwards, feel the expensive suit against your back and the heat of him around you. Soothe out any worries with full-body contact.  “And I’ve got to keep my wits with me, for now at least. But given the chance, I think…”

He grew silent and for a second, you thought he’d disappeared again until the voice continued, closer to your ear now and the dark timbre, the passionate promise in words spoken and unspoken made you shiver.

“... I think I’m in love with you already and will continue to fall deeper and deeper if I had you all to myself. Would you, beautiful? Would you give yourself to Jack, mhmmm?”  

You swore not even your comfortable shoes could help you now, the trembling of your knees so visible that without the bartop hiding both of your lower bodies it would be impossible to hide. He, Jack, you reminded yourself, seemed to sense this too and wrapped the other hand around your waist, propping you up and caging you between him and the prep station. 

“Would you?”

“Yes…” Your voice sounded breathless even to your own ears and he chuckled at it. Something fuzzy tickled the shell of your ear as he nuzzled a little closer, pressing his body flat on your back. You barely held in a moan, the hard lines molding into you perfectly, his height difference just right for him to tuck you into his chest.

“Wonderful. I’ll find you again soon, Tristan.” 

His parting words were whispered into your ear and suddenly he vanished, leaving you cold and alone. You fell forward a little with the sudden movement, barely catching yourself on the station after the lack of support. There was no comforting body around you, no strong arms to keep you upright and no more sinful promises whispered in your ear. 

Your eyes popped wide open as you finally registered the name he had called you. Tristan. You whipped your head back and forth the area in a desperate attempt to find him, but didn’t see anything but faceless guests walking around, nothing out of the ordinary. You lifted your dark-rimmed glasses a little, pressing the small button on the side to scan the room as you kept looking, worrying your bottom lip in silence.

Just how did he know who you were and worked for? And who was he, who Jack worked for? 

Everything taglist @clydesducktape​ @wayward-rose​ @themuseic​ @miraclesabound​ @clydesfavoritegirl​ @a-true-janian-reply​  @10blurredsmoke10​  @caillea​ @mind-p0llution​ @mariesackler​

[corishadowfang]

Forest Child - Original Fiction Big Bang

My piece for @originalfictionbigbang!  I was paired with @cecilsstorycorner, and they created an amazing illustration for the story; visit their blog to check it out!  (Link)

Summary: Nobody goes into the Forest at the edge of town.  People say you’ll go missing if you do--that’s what happened to Mary’s Uncle Ian, after all.  But after briefly entering the Forest on a dare from some friends, she realizes there might be more to it than she thought.

Trigger Warnings: Child abuse as a major story theme; some instances of body horror and general horror elements; brief instance of alcohol-induced anger towards the end.  If you think these will be triggering, then please stay safe and skip this one.

Story is under the cut.  Or, if you’d prefer, you can read it on the Google doc here.

           “Look at this!”

           Mary, much like the other students near her, started at the sudden exclamation.  She’d been drawing, absorbed in trying to get a bird’s wings just right, and hadn’t even noticed one of her classmates excitedly bouncing into the room with something cupped in his hands.  Now the boy proudly presented the item—a small stone—to a group of surprised fifth graders.

           One snorted. “That’s just a rock, Blake. What’d you do, pick it up during recess?”

           “It’s not just a rock,” Blake protested.  “Look closer.”

           Several of her classmates glanced at each other, as if deciding whether or not it was worth risking the embarrassment.  Mary found she didn’t really care much about the risk, and so she leaned forward, squinting a little.  “Is it glowing?”

           Blake beamed. “Yeah!  It’s easier to see if it’s dark.”

           Someone shouted, “Get the lights!”

           The student nearest the door flicked the lights off, and suddenly everyone was crowding closely around Blake and his find.  The rock glowed a very faint purple, the color spreading out across Blake’s hands.

           Mary’s fingers itched to draw, and she scooped her sketchbook into her hands, fumbling for a purple pencil.

           “Where’d you get it?” someone asked.

           “From my brother,” Blake said, and then, in a conspiratorial whisper, “and he found it in the Forest.”

           Mary’s pencil skittered across the page.  “He actually went in?”

           “Uh-huh!  He wouldn’t tell me how far, though.  Said he saw these weird glowing lights and felt like they were drawing him closer.  Before he knew it, he was suddenly standing underneath eerily dark trees, with something moving in the undergrowth.  Ran out of there as soon as he realized!  The stone got caught in his shoe, so he gave it to me.”

           “Right,” said one of their classmates.  “I bet he just painted a rock with glow-in-the-dark paint.”

           “It’s true!”

           Mary asked, “Can I see it?”

           Blake clutched the stone tightly, giving her an almost-suspicious look.  After a few moments he relented, tipping the stone from his hand to hers.

           Mary stared at it for several moments, running a finger over the stone and watching as the purple glow painted the tip.  She scratched at the surface with a fingernail.

           “Hey!”

           “No paint’s coming off,” she said, and gave the stone back to Blake.  “I think it’s real.”

           “See?”

           “I still think you’re lying,” one of their classmates said.  When Blake opened his mouth to retort, she continued, “Or your brother’s lying.  Nobody goes into the Forest.”  She paused, then amended.  “Well, nobody goes into the Forest and comes out.  That’s why people keep disappearing around town, right?”

           Blake opened his mouth, closed it, and then frowned thoughtfully.  “Well,” he said slowly, “there’s one way to find out.”

           A few moments of silence passed before someone hissed, “Dude, seriously?”

           “You can’t really be thinking about going into the Forest, right?”

           “If you go missing, do I get your stuff?”

           “I’m serious,” Blake said.  “I mean, come on!  Hasn’t everyone thought about going in there at some point?  You guys are just scared.”

           Mary’s breath caught, and she clutched her sketchbook to her chest.  The town was filled with stories of the Forest, most of them some degree of frightening, but the ones she most remembered were the ones told by her Uncle Ian, a man she mostly remembered for his soothing voice and exciting tales.

           “Sometimes it just looks like a normal forest—maybe a little darker than average, but nothing out of the ordinary.  But then—then you see these things at the edges.  Great big, monstrous things that look like they’d tower over the trees if they stood upright.  Birds with too many eyes, covered in glowing feathers.  Things that might’ve been deer, at one point, but are so covered in moss and vines that they look more plant than animal.  And the lights—those are what get you.  Bright colored things that hop and bob and mesmerize anyone who stops to look.  If you’re not careful, they can lead you into the woods without noticing.  And then—bam!  You’re trapped there.  You become part of the Forest.”

           “Is it real?”

           “Well, see, lots of people around town don’t think it’s real.  They think someone’s inside the Forest, doing something to make all those people disappear.  But you and I?  We know better.”

           Before she really had time to consider what she was saying, she breathed, “Can I go, too?”

           The class went quiet. “You?” one of her classmates asked. “Isn’t your dad, like, really strict?”

           “I-I—well.  We don’t have to tell him!”

           “Getting rebellious, huh?”

           “I-I’m not!  I just—I just don’t want to worry him, that’s all.”

           Blake snorted. “Sure,” he said, “you can come.  Anyone can come.  We’ll go to the Forest this Saturday around lunch.  Anyone who’s not a chicken can meet up there.”

           The lights flicked on.

           Everyone whipped towards the front of the room.

           Their teacher watched them with a skeptical look.  “So,” she said dryly, “I hate to interrupt your weekend plans, but I have a class to teach.  And besides that, none of you are allowed to go anywhere near the Forest unsupervised.  It’s dangerous.  I’m sure your parents have all told you this already.”  She gave Mary a pointed look.

           Mary shrank in her seat.

           Blake tried, “But we just—”

           “No buts,” their teacher interrupted.  “If I hear any more of this, I’ll have to inform your parents.  Clear?”

           Mary caught her breath, and found herself blurting, “Please don’t.”

           Someone murmured, “Knew she’d back out.”

           Mary flushed.

           Her teacher just gave her a long, tired look that, if Mary stared at it long enough, might’ve been read as sympathetic.  Then she said, “Pull out the homework from last night.”

           Class passed in the usual manner, but Mary found her mind drifting, a nervous, fearful excitement bubbling in her chest at the thought of stepping foot in the Forest.  No one’s ever gone too far in, she thought.  Nobody’s come back to talk about what’s in there.  What if I’m the first?  It could be like—like an adventure!  I could draw pictures of all the strange things in there, and people would talk about it forever.

           Maybe it’d help stop people from disappearing, too.  Like Ian did.

           The intercom came on, startling Mary out of her thoughts.  “Good afternoon.  Baseball practice has been cancelled tonight due to rain…”

           The rush of students shoving things in their desks and packing their backpacks overrode the sound of the intercom.  Their teacher shouted, “Wait until announcements are over!” to very little success.

           Mary sat at her desk silently.  She closed her sketchbook, slowly, ignoring the nervous tension ticking through her shoulders.

           The announcements ended with, “Teachers may now dismiss their students.”

           “Now you can go,” their teacher said.  “And Mary?”

           Mary looked up at her.

           Her teacher sighed, looking resigned.  “You know the drill.”

           Mary nodded, tugging her backpack on.

           “Sucks to be you,” someone said.

           Another shouted, “See you later, Mary!”

           Blake said, “Saturday, if you still want to come.”

           Mary gave him a weak smile, but didn’t dare reply with her teacher still watching.

           The school emptied and went quiet.  Mary walked slowly to the office.  She hated this part; hated the waiting, hated that she couldn’t go and play with her friends after school, hated the tension that built in her chest as she sat in those hard plastic chairs.  But she knew Papa wanted to check on her grades, and make sure she made it home safely, and that he was really just worried about her wellbeing, and so she tolerated it, settling into one of the chairs to wait.  She didn’t know what to draw, this time, but the conversation about the Forest was still buzzing through her skull, and so she found herself playing with one of her bird sketches, adding eyes and strange, curling plants.

           Her homeroom teacher showed up a few minutes later, looking as tired and disgruntled as always. Mary gave her a weak smile and went quickly back to drawing.

           The entryway doors opened.

           Mary’s shoulders rose, just a little.

           Papa looked intimidating, sometimes; she didn’t know if he meant to be, but he always had this serious, stern look on his face that made her wonder if she’d done something bad. He studied her carefully for a few moments and, seemingly satisfied with his findings, turned towards the teacher. “How was she today?”

           Her teacher flattened her lips.  “She was fine, Rick.  As usual.” Her teacher seemed to hesitate a moment, and then continued, “She talked about going to visit the Forest with some friends—”

           Mary sent her a panicked look.

           “—but I put a stop to that and explained why it wouldn’t be a good idea.”

           Papa said nothing, but he did turn, slowly, to look at Mary.

           She couldn’t quite meet his eyes.  “I-I didn’t—we weren’t really going to—it’s just, Blake’s brother found this rock, and—”

           “Thank you,” Papa said, curtly, and it took Mary a moment to realize he was talking to the teacher and not her.  “I’ll make sure she understands not to go there.”  He reached for Mary’s arm, grabbing it tightly as she tried not to flinch backwards.  “Come on,” he said, dragging her to her feet.  “It’s time to go home.”

           “Rick,” Mary’s teacher called.

           Papa paused.

           “I don’t think these meetings are necessary anymore.  Ian disappeared years ago.  Mary hardly seems to remember it.  It certainly hasn’t affected her grades or performance.  What might affect her is being unable to spend time with friends outside of school.”

           Papa didn’t answer for several long moments.  “Thank you for the input,” he said, “but I’d like to keep up with this, for now.”

           Mary’s teacher made a disgruntled noise.  “I agreed to this as your friend, and out of concern for both of you, but Rick—I understand you’re still grieving, but you have to move on—”

           “I’m fine,” Papa said, “and my daughter’s fine.  We’ll keep up the meetings.”  And then he was dragging Mary, again, out of the school and to the car.

           Their town wasn’t particularly large; it had a few small convenience stores, the school, a gas station and a diner.  Beyond the edge sat the Forest, equally small, but strangely separate from everything. Mary tried not to look at it, slipping her sketchbook slowly into her backpack.  Papa didn’t say anything to her, but she could see the furrow of his eyebrows in the rearview mirror, and so she turned her head to look, firmly, out the window, and tried hard not to think about the pit in her stomach.

           They pulled into the driveway too quickly, and Mary fiddled with her seatbelt, unbuckling it slowly.

           Papa stepped out of the driver’s seat and slammed the door.

           Mary flinched.  She found herself caught between moving quicker and dawdling.

           Papa decided for her, opening her door roughly and catching her arm; she’d just barely gotten free of the seatbelt when he dragged her free, corralling her up the stairs and into the house.

           It was very quiet, for a while.  Papa turned to look at her slowly, expression downturned, and Mary found herself desperately trying to fill the space.  “Papa, I—”

           “What have I told you?” Papa’s voice was low, rough, just on the edge of angry.  “You don’t go to that Forest.  You don’t even think about going.  You understand?”

           Papa’s grip was too tight around her arm.  She pressed on his hand a little, trying, “Papa—”

           Papa grabbed her other arm, his hands still too tight, and shook her roughly.  “Do you understand?”

           Mary swallowed and nodded.

           “This is for your own safety.  That Forest is dangerous.”

           “I-I know, Papa.”

           “You’d best remember it.” Papa let go, finally.

           Mary didn’t rub at the handprints on her arms, instead holding her hands tightly at her side. Papa liked to keep her in his sight—wanted to make sure she never got into trouble—and she knew, if he was already mad, it’d be a bad idea to leave before she was dismissed.

           His eyes softened, just a little, and the tension eased out of Mary’s shoulders.  “Go change out of your school clothes,” he said, “then come down for dinner.”

           She nodded, then hurtled down the hall to her room.

                                                             ~*~

             -Mary almost considered not going to the Forest on Saturday. Almost.

           She didn’t want to make Papa worried—or get scolded again—but the Forest was still a fascinating subject, filled with mysteries she was aching to solve.  Something inside her tugged her towards the tree line, and a part of her desperately wanted to follow that pull, even if it meant getting in trouble with Papa.

           But she couldn’t just walk out the front door.  She’d have to sneak out; Papa didn’t like her going anywhere without him.

           She worried her lip, debating.  He usually likes to come and check on me if I’ve been in my room for a while.  Her door didn’t have a lock, so she couldn’t keep him out.  Her eyes darted to her dresser.  She slid off the bed, opening a drawer and pulling out some clothes. She shoved them underneath her comforter, arranging them as best she could to make it look like she was just sleeping underneath.  It didn’t look much like her, but she hoped it would be enough that Papa wouldn’t notice she’d slipped out.

           She hesitated before moving to her window.  If I do this, she thought, then I’ll be disobeying Papa.  If he finds out, I’ll get in a lot of trouble.  She glanced nervously at the door.  He doesn’t have to know, she decided.  I won’t be in the Forest that long. Just long enough to try and see something cool.

           Mary gripped the bottom of her window and worked it open.  It made barely a sound, and she hesitated for just a moment longer, glancing uncertainly at the door.  Then she grabbed her sketchbook and a pencil and slipped out the window.

           Her feet hit the ground with a quiet thump.  She stood there, eyes screwed shut, half waiting for someone to come by and yell at her. When they didn’t, she opened her eyes a little.

           She was outside. She was outside, and Papa didn’t know, and no one was saying anything.

           Mary just suppressed a giddy laugh, her shoulders shaking a little.  She was out!  She was going to the Forest!  She was going to see things no one had seen before!

           She just barely remembered to pull her window closed before darting away, sock feet slapping against the ground as she hurried towards the edge of town.

           The other kids were waiting there already, hovering near the tree line.  Mary lifted her free arm to wave, shouting, “Hey!  Hey, wait for me!”            

           “We didn’t think you’d show up,” one of the kids said—Henry, she thought.

           “Of course I was coming,” Mary said, skidding to a halt, lifting her chin and trying not to show her nervousness.  “I want to see what’s in there, too!”

           Blake snorted and turned towards the Forest.  “So,” he said, “who’s going in first?”

           All of them swiveled to stare into the darkness between the trees.  They remained very quiet, and in the silence, Mary strained her ears, trying to see if she could hear something from within the trees.  She caught no birdsong, no rustling of the undergrowth—nothing.

           “I think Blake should go,” someone said.

           “What?” Blake protested. “Why me?”

           “Because it was your idea.  What, too scared to go in now?”

           “I am not!  I just—I just think someone else should have the chance.  You know, since I already have that cool stone.”

           “Don’t be such a baby—”

           “I’ll go.”

           Mary hadn’t even entirely realized she’d spoken until the group turned to look at her.  She clutched her sketchbook a little closer.  “I’ll go,” she repeated, more firmly this time.

           Blake recovered first, looking at the other kids and saying, “Hear that?  She’ll go.”  He turned to give her a scrutinizing look.  “So?”

           Mary turned back to the Forest.  For a moment, it felt like it was just her and the trees, the group of students fading to background noise behind her.  A breeze stirred the leaves and ruffled her clothes.  The darkness stretched in front of her, deep and thick enough that she wondered if she’d feel it when she stepped inside.

           Mary took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and took a step forward.  Then another.  Then another. She hesitantly stretched out a hand, and didn’t stop walking until her palm brushed rough bark.

           Her hand rested against a normal-looking tree, the bark chipped and peeling away, a couple of bugs skittering out of holes in the wood.

           Mary’s shoulders relaxed marginally.  She turned back to the others, who were still watching warily from the Forest’s edge. “Come on!”  She hurried into the trees.

           The darkness deepened, and she slowed a little.  She wondered if the trees were the ones blocking out the sunlight; she squinted at the tree tops, but couldn’t see well enough to tell.  The darkness made her shiver, but she stuffed it down, calling, “Hey, why do you think there aren’t any animals here?”

           “Don’t know,” Blake said, closer to her ear than she’d expected.  She yelped and jumped, scrambling to keep her sketchbook from falling. Blake snorted; in the dim lighting, she could just barely make out a dryly amused expression.  “But we need to find something cool.”  He moved towards one of the trees, feeling around the trunk curiously.

           “Isn’t coming in here enough?” one of the kids asked.  “I mean, we all did it, right?  It’ll be something to talk about at school.”

           “No,” Blake insisted. “I want to find something else like my stone.”  He reached up and tugged on a branch.  It came free with a crack, and he stumbled, almost falling off the root he was standing on. “See anything weird about this?”

           The kid leaned forward. “Dude, it’s just a normal branch.”

           He tossed it aside. “There has to be something.”

           The bushes rustled.

           Mary jumped, whipping towards it.  The leaves shifted, and for a moment, Mary thought she could see a flash of eyes. “Um.  Guys?”

           Blake and the others didn’t pay attention to her, moving towards some ferns and cautiously shifting through them.

           The bushes rustled again. Hesitantly, Mary inched towards them.

           The thing inside them moved.  It flicked its attention to her, and for a moment, the creature seemed to glow, two sets of eyes blinking up at her.

           Mary started backwards.

           The thing disappeared into the undergrowth.

           Mary braced herself against a tree.

           A branch creaked overhead, and something whispered through Mary’s ears, more impression than sound, almost forming words that sounded like, What is it?

           The whisper echoed with the rustling of another bush, with a brief flutter of bird wings overhead, or with the quiet creek of the trees:

           What is it?

           What is it?

           What is it?

           “Guys,” Mary asked, voice sounding unusually loud, “are you the ones saying that?”

           “What are you talking about?  Hey, do you think this leaf is glowing, or am I just imagining things?”

           Humans, the whisper voice said again.

           Humans.

           Humans, danger.

           Breaking, breaking, breaking—

           Something landed overhead.

           Mary whipped towards it, stumbling away from the tree.

           A faintly-glowing bird perched on a branch.  Flowers wove through its feathers and gathered on its back, leaves raising like plumes on its head.  Its glowing eyes flickered as it leaned closer.  It opened its beak, and the whisper-voice pressed, more insistent, into her mind, words a flurry of quiet trills and a ruffling of feathers: I know you.

           Mary’s mouth opened and closed several times as she stared at the bird.  It took her a moment to realize there had been confusion in the voice—the bird’s voice?—and that made her still.

           A sharp crack sounded behind her.  Blake yelped in alarm, then shouted, “Nope!  That won’t work!”

           The bird whipped towards the noise almost as quickly as Mary did.  It let out an ear-splitting screech, and Mary rushed to cover her ears. The bird took flight, swooping low over the others’ heads, nearly brushing Blake’s hair.

           A low rumble went through the Forest, shaking the ground.  The trees suddenly seemed like they were leaning in, closer, closer, pressing until the branches dipped too low.  The whole Forest suddenly came alive with noise, and between the rustling leaves, the buzzing, the hoof beats, Mary could barely make out something that sounded like words:

           Breaking breaking breaking get out stop breaking leave go leave leave leave—

           “What is that?” someone whispered.

           Another turned and sprinted out of the Forest.

           Blake didn’t move right away, standing frozen, staring blankly into the trees.

           “Blake,” Mary hissed, starting towards him.

           Something split from the shadows.  It reared, dark, above Blake.  Glowing patches seemed to ripple across its back, and its mouth stretched just a little too wide as it roared.

           The sound shook Mary, and for a moment she wanted to clamp her hands over her ears, the pressure beating deep inside her mind.  Her legs shook and she wondered, very suddenly, if she should’ve snuck out at all.

           Blake seemed to break out of his stupor finally.  He screamed, sprinting away from the strange, shadowy beast.

           Mary’s legs moved without her conscious input; she turned and followed Blake, hurrying out of the Forest and breaking into the sunlight.  She stumbled, then fell, losing her sketchbook upon impact.  Her palms scraped the ground, tearing up grass and dirt. She scrambled back to her feet, and then started running again, and kept running until she could scramble back into her room’s window.

                                                             ~*~

             -Mary couldn’t get what she’d heard in the Forest out of her head.  The rest of the day, she wandered around in a daze, a part of her half-focused on the creatures that had emerged to terrify her and her classmates, the rest focused on the strange words.

           I know you.

           “You’re distracted,” Papa said, and it started her out of her thoughts.

           “I-I’m fine, Papa!” she said, forcing a grin.

           “You should be focused on finishing your homework,” he said.  His scowl deepened, and he said, “You should have finished that Friday night.  Or earlier today, when you were in your room.”

           “I-I know, Papa.” She leaned over the paper, but her mind drifted.  She found it hard to focus on math equations when her mind still pounded with the words, over and over again.  I know you, I know you, I know you—

           “Papa,” she asked before she could think better of it, “what happened when Uncle Ian disappeared?”

           Papa stiffened.

           “I-I just—did he disappear because, um—”  Because something in the Forest spoke to him? she wanted to ask, but couldn’t quite get the words to form.

           “I’m not going to talk about him,” Papa said, voice harsh.

           “I-I, I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to—”  She trailed off.  “I just wanted to know.”

           Papa was silent for a long moment.  “Go finish your homework in your room.”

           Mary knew better than to argue.  She just nodded, scooping up her papers and scampering to her room.

           She knew Papa would check on her, eventually, to find out whether or not she’d actually finished her homework.  She tried to do it, but her attention kept slipping, flicking back to the window and the Forest, not quite visible, beyond.

           She didn’t want to go back to the Forest.  Not really. She was still curious about what was inside, but her adventure with her classmates had given her a scare.  But—

           (I know you.)

           I left my sketchbook there, she thought.  I should go back and get that, at least.

           She didn’t acknowledge what would happen if Papa came to check on her and she wasn’t there.  She just slid out her window, hurrying across the town in bare feet, trying not to worry too much about how dark it had gotten.

           The Forest was just as dark and silent as always.  She noticed a dark shape, pages fluttering a little, on the slope.

           Mary hesitantly lifted her sketchbook.  It’d sustained some wear and tear, the pages covered in dirt, the cover torn a little bit. Mary brushed off what she could, fingers gently running over the pages.  She clutched it to her chest.  I should get back, she thought, before Papa notices that I’m gone.

           The Forest loomed in front of her, dark and imposing.

           (I know you.)

           Mary bit her lip. She shifted a little on her toes, glancing furtively down the hill.  After a few long, agonizing moments, she took a few cautious steps towards the tree line. “Hello?” she asked, her voice coming out as more of a squeak.  She cleared her throat, then tried again: “Hello?  Is, um.  Is anyone there?”

           The trees creaked ominously, but nothing answered.

           Mary fiddled with the edge of her sketchbook.  Maybe whatever it was is mad, she thought, because we were breaking things.

           After a few moments of debate, Mary murmured, “I’m sorry for breaking things.  I won’t do it again.  I just had a question.”

           For a few moments, she didn’t think anything would answer.  Then a low breeze stirred, and with it, a quiet, almost imperceptible murmur: Human human human back danger back they’re back they’re back.

           “Why are you here?”

           Mary jumped, whipping around, trying to figure out where the voice had come from.  It didn’t sound entirely human; it felt almost as if the words had been pressed into her mind, formed between the low wind and the steady creaking of the trees.  “Who are you? Are you that bird?”

           The breeze picked up. Something flickered between the trees.  “I have been called many things by many humans,” came the voice again, making Mary’s head ache faintly.  “You would not understand most of them.  Your people do not have a name for me.”

           “Are—are you the Forest?”

           The Forest didn’t answer.

           Mary caught her voice. “You can talk,” she breathed.  “Have you ever talked to anyone before?  Nobody’s ever said anything about that!”  She took a half-step forward, suddenly excited.  “Is it because of magic?  Can you—”

           The wind picked up, blowing past her so strongly that it almost knocked her back.  Something growled from the shadows.  Danger, a cacophony of voices seemed to whisper.  Breaking breaking breaking—

           “I-I—”  Mary’s voice caught in her throat, and she backed up a little, not quite leaving the edge of the trees.  “I’m sorry.  I d-didn’t mean—I won’t do it again.”

           “Humans say many things,” the Forest said, “and rarely do they mean them.”  The murmur quieted, fading to low chittering sounds, then silence.

           Mary’s shoulders hunched a little, and she couldn’t help the guilt that bubbled in her chest.  “I just had a question,” she murmured, “about something you said.”

           The Forest didn’t speak, but she thought she might have heard the fluttering of wingbeats overhead.

           Mary steeled herself and said, “Y-you—you said you knew me.  B-but I’ve never been here.  How?”

           The Forest was silent so long that she didn’t think she’d get an answer.  “I don’t know,” came the quiet response, like a whisper of a bug against her ear.

           “Oh.”  It was almost disappointing, and she felt a little silly for even trying to ask.  “Okay.” She took a couple steps backwards. “I guess—that’s all I wanted to ask.” She started to leave, then paused. “I—I really am sorry.  We just wanted to see if what we’d heard was true.  Honest.”

           The Forest didn’t respond this time.

           Guilt flickered in her chest for a moment.  I wouldn’t like it much, she thought, if someone hurt me.

           (Papa never apologizes.)

           The guilt solidified into something a little more solid and actionable.  She squared her shoulders and, an idea forming in her mind, made her way back to town.

                                                             ~*~

             -Mary stood outside the Forest with her backpack slung over her shoulder, decked in her overalls and heavy boots and her coat. Papa hadn’t noticed her sneak out the window, and she hoped he wouldn’t come looking for her just yet.  I won’t be long, she thought.  I just need to do this.

           The Forest was very, very quiet.  Mary squinted, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t see more than a few feet into the trees.  “Um. Hello?”

           She waited a little while for a response, but when she didn’t get one, she let the backpack slip to the ground.  She unzipped it and pulled out one of several water bottles, hesitating at the Forest’s edge. “Um.  Is it okay if I come in?”  When the Forest didn’t answer, she took a deep breath, and stepped forward.

           Darkness shrouded her, and she blinked.  The dim lighting made it difficult to see, but one hand reached out to brush the trunk of a nearby tree.  She twisted the cap off the water bottle, opening it with a quiet crack.  She poured the water onto the roots of the tree, humming a quiet song to herself as she tried to look further into the woods.

           Something rustled behind her.  She jumped, then held her breath, but nothing moved again.

           She finished pouring the water and darted back into the sunlight.  Her chest rattled with a few deep, shaky breaths.  After a few moments she bent, grabbing the next water bottle and hurrying into the Forest.

           She’d made it through three bottles and was well onto the fourth when that same strange impression of a voice asked, “What are you doing?”

           Mary was so startled that she lost her hold on the water bottle.  She tumbled backwards with a quiet oomph!

           Things stirred inside the trees; vague shapes she couldn’t identify, tall gangly things that looked like they were bent out of shape, the gleam of eyes that were clustered too close together for comfort, the twitching of tree branches that seemed to move all on their own.

           Mary took a shuddering breath.  Her hands shook a little, but she managed to keep her voice steady as she said, “Watering you.”

           She didn’t think she was going to get a response for a moment.  Then the voice came again, brushing around her like a breeze: “Why?”

           “Be-because! Um.  Because I want to make up for the other day.”  She stood and brushed off her overalls.  The bottle was empty, now, so she stuck it underneath her arm and listened to it crinkle.

           “I did not require reparations,” the Forest said, in the hurried footsteps of animals, in the quiet whisper of the leaves.

           “Oh.”  Mary bit her lip.  “Well, I’m going to keep watering you, anyways.  Is that okay?”

           The Forest didn’t answer.

           Mary nodded decisively. “Okay.  I’m going to get more water.  Um, please don’t do anything to me?”  She started back towards the Forest’s entrance, then paused. “Oh!  Um, by the way.  My name’s Mary.”

                                                             ~*~

             -It became a routine, of sorts.

           Mary didn’t know how much she owed the Forest—wasn’t sure if she’d repaid it after giving it a few water bottles—and so made a game out of bringing it things she thought it might be able to use.  She planted some seeds, near the edge; stole bird food out of the feeder; brought table scraps for some of the animals.  She made sure to stay close to the Forest’s edges, always wary of going too far.  (Of going missing, and of no one coming to find her.  She wondered if Papa would grieve like he did for Ian.  She wondered what that would look like, with no one else around.)

           It was fun, almost; it felt like she was getting away with something exciting and new. Papa would pick her up after school, and she’d wait a while, then duck out the window and run to the Forest, some new item stuck in her bag, ready to see if it was something that it would like.

           The Forest didn’t really say anything, but that was alright; Mary had plenty of words for the both of them, and would often talk to herself—as much to keep her nerves down as to explain things.

           “Kevin said he could fit three whole golf balls in his mouth, but I know he’s lying because his mom would yell at him for putting even one in.”

           “I found a feather today! I think it was from a blue jay, but I didn’t see the bird.  See, see, I put it in my hair.”

           “Kathrine says that you can keep frogs as pets.  I want one, but Papa says that we can’t have pets.”

           A breeze brushed across the back of her neck.  “Why do you keep coming back?”

           She stiffened, her hands twisted in the grass as she tried to plant some flower seeds.  “Huh?”

           Lights blinked faintly in the darkness.  Something moved a little, still too coated in shadow to accurately make out.  “Most humans stay away.  Why do you return?”

           Mary fidgeted with her pants.  She rocked back on her heels, careful not to sit.  “Do you not want me to?”

           A long, long pause, before the Forest answered, “You do not do harm.  You can stay.”

           Mary grinned, and surprised herself with her excitement when she chirped, “Okay!”

           An animal (a deer?) started, jumping away into the undergrowth.  A couple of birds took flight, letting out odd, tinny cries. “But you did not answer.  Why do you return?”

           “O-oh.  Um.”  She worried her lip, suddenly feeling very much like she had done something wrong, somewhere, and couldn’t quite figure out what it was.  “Well.  It’s. Um.”  She shrugged, looking at her feet.  “I just want to,” she finished quietly.

           When the Forest didn’t respond, she hurried to say, “Um!  I like—I think you’re very cool!  And, uh, and I still owe you for—for what happened.  And—and you listen.”  She trailed off, hands wrapped around her legs.

           For a few moments, nothing moved.  Mary wondered if she should start heading back; time always moved strangely in the Forest, and she found she could end up staying here for hours instead of minutes, if she wasn’t careful.  (Papa had almost caught her climbing in her window, once, and she’d sat on her bed frozen, expecting to be scolded, or to find her window locked from the outside, or—

           Papa had never said anything, but she hadn’t gone out for a few days, to be safe.)

           A bright glow caught her attention.

           One of the strange birds had hopped down from its perch.  It ruffled its feathers, bouncing closer, head tilted towards one side.

           Mary caught her breath and held it.

           The bird moved just a little bit closer.

           Mary, hesitantly, reached out to pet it.

           Its feathers were unusually soft—softer even than the blankets that were piled on the couch at home. Up close, she could tell that the bird had what looked like flowers twined through its down, long stems twirling round and round its body.  Mary fingered one of them, but didn’t pull, gently running one thumb over a petal. “I need my sketchbook,” she breathed, and got up so quickly that she startled the bird into flight.  “Um!  I’ll be back!”

           Her cheeks ached from grinning as she sprinted down the slope.

                                                          ~*~

             -“Hey, Mary, I’m having a birthday party this weekend,” Helen said, coming up to her with a grin.

           “A birthday party?”

           “Yeah!  You should come.”

           Mary’s grin faltered a little.  “Oh. Um.  Papa doesn’t usually like me going places without him.”  But I go to the Forest, don’t I?  She tried not to think about Blake or the others, sitting not that far from her. “But maybe I can ask!”

           Helen nodded, appeased, and Mary tried to ignore the nervous excitement buzzing in her stomach. Maybe Papa could come, she thought.  Then he wouldn’t have to worry, and I could still go and hang out with my friends.

           When Papa came to pick her up after school, she asked, “Hey, Papa?  Helen’s having a birthday party this weekend.”

           “I’m sure she’ll enjoy that.”

           “She invited me to come. Can I go?”

           Papa studied her for several long, agonizing moments.  “You’ll have homework to do,” he said carefully.

           “I’ll get it all done Friday night!”

           “You never get it done that early.”

           “But I will!  You can watch me.  Or, or you could come to the party, too.  I won’t get into any trouble, Papa.  I promise.”

           “You’re a child, Mary. Trouble is all children get into.”  He shook his head.  “No.  I don’t think you should go.”

           “Come on, Papa, please. I never get to hang out with my friends.”

           “You spend time with them at school.”  Papa grabbed her arm, roughly, and dragged her to the car.  “You can go when you’re older.”

           “How much older?”

           Papa didn’t say anything.

           “I really won’t get into trouble,” Mary said, something tightening in her chest.  She didn’t know why this bothered her so much, but she found herself pressing, “It could even just be for a few moments!  I just want to—”

           “No, Mary.  I want you safe.  Where I can see you.  This discussion is over.”

           “Everyone else gets to hang out with their friends.”

           “You aren’t everyone else.  I don’t know why any responsible parent would let their kids run around unsupervised—not when so many people go missing.”

           Before Mary had really had time to think about what she was saying, she muttered, “Just because Uncle Ian disappeared—”

           “Don’t talk about him!” Papa roared.

           Mary shrank.  Her heart thundered in her chest.  Very suddenly, she was aware of the fact that they were still in the school parking lot, and that people had stopped to stare at Papa’s outburst.

           Papa seemed to realize this, too, because his attention swept around the observers.  He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.  “You’re not going,” he growled.  “That’s final. I don’t know why you’re putting up such a protest.  It’s unreasonable.”

           All she could do was nod, even as something tightened in her chest.

           “Get in the car.”

           I don’t want to, some part of her thought desperately, but she listened, anyways, sliding into the front seat and trying not to hunch her shoulders.

           Papa got into the driver’s seat.  He started the car, and they pulled away from the school, the worried faces of Mary’s classmates disappearing behind her.

           Something welled in Mary’s chest and clogged her throat, but she bit her lip and shoved it down, some part of her understanding that crying would probably make Papa angrier right now.

           “I’m doing this to keep you safe,” Papa said, breaking the silence.  “You understand that, right?  I can’t risk you disappearing like—like others.”  He stumbled over the words, and his voice was strained, like he was trying hard to keep it level.

           “I-I know, Papa.” Her voice cracked, a little, and she didn’t quite dare look at Papa to see how he reacted.

           Papa didn’t say anything more—not even when they got home—and Mary hurried to her room, shutting the door.

           She hadn’t even had half a second to think about what she was doing before she was scrambling out her window.  Running to the Forest was almost second nature, now, and she found herself sprinting up the grassy slope before she’d really had time to think about it.  Her eyes burned, and her vision blurred, a little, as she hurtled between the trees.  She nearly collided with a sturdy trunk; her hands flew out to brace herself against it, and she just stood there for a few moments, shaking, tears flowing down her cheeks.  She stayed quiet, scrubbing at her eyes as she tried to get the tears to stop.  It’s stupid, she thought.  I shouldn’t be so upset.  It’s just a birthday party.

           “Your face is wet.”

           Mary started, despite herself.  She pulled away from the tree.  “Y-yeah.”

           “Why?”

           Mary rubbed her eyes fiercely.  “B-because I’m crying.”

           “Crying?”  The Forest’s voice trailed off into a breeze, the word picked up by various creatures inside.  After a few moments, an answering murmur came: sad upset overwhelmed too much emotion—

           “You are hurt.”  It wasn’t a question, and there was something almost angry underneath it.

           Mary flinched backwards, because for a moment all she could hear was Papa’s voice, and she hadn’t come here because she wanted to be yelled at again—  “Don’t be angry. Please.”

           The whole Forest seemed to suddenly go quiet.  “You are hurt,” the Forest repeated, and this time it sounded vaguely uncertain, “because of anger?”

           “I’m not hurt,” Mary said stubbornly.  “It’s stupid.”

           “Mary,” the Forest said, and for a brief, fleeting moment, she was reminded of Uncle Ian, gently soothing her after she’d fallen and scraped a knee, just before picking her up to tell her a story.

           (Papa had told her stories too, once.  When had that stopped?)

           When the Forest spoke again, its voice was back to normal, and she could believe she’d imagined the whole thing.  “It is understandable,” the Forest said.  “Humans often hurt others when they are angry.”

           “H-he—he just wants to keep me safe.  He’s just worried.”

           “But you are still hurt.”

           “I don’t want to talk about this,” Mary said quickly.  “I just—I don’t want to think about it.”

           The Forest went silent again.

           Mary stayed silent, pressed against a tree, until something fluttered near her foot.  She blinked, lifting her head.

           A bird had fluttered closer.  Its faintly-glowing feathers illuminated the ground around her.

           Something shifted in the undergrowth.  A creature that vaguely resembled a fox emerged from the bush, lifting its head to press against her hand.  Mary’s fingers curled into the animal’s fur, and it curled up against her.  Mary giggled, the sound wet, as more animals emerged, gently pressing against her.  “Thank you.”

           A low hum went through the Forest as a response.

                                                              ~*~

             -The Forest asked, “Why do you talk to me?”

           Mary stopped pouring the water for a moment, startled by the unexpected question.  “I, um.  Do you not want me to?”

           The nearest tree creaked. “It is simply strange.  Humans do not often talk to me.”

           She wasn’t sure how to take that—as a reprimand, as a statement, as a question.  She tried to answer, anyways.  “Well, um.  It’s because I like having someone to talk to.”

           “You do not have humans to talk to?”

           “I do!” she hurried to say.  “I have Papa, and the kids at school, and lots of other people!  But, um.  They maybe don’t listen as well?  But it’s okay!  I know they’re just busy and have lots of other things to worry about and I’m just a kid who makes them worry and causes trouble and—”  She paused for breath, and found she wasn’t sure how else she could continue, so she just fell silent instead.

           The Forest waited.

           Mary whispered, “It’s lonely, sometimes.”

           The trees creaked. The wind echoed between them, making the whole Forest sound strangely hollow.

           Mary asked, “Is it lonely for you, too?”

           Birds fluttered overhead; vines twisted a little around the nearest tree trunk.  “I have never talked to anyone before.”

           “Is it because of the stories?  Because if it’s the stories, then—then I can make them stop!”

           A wingbeat fluttered near her ear.  “I do not know the stories,” it answered.  “I have never had need to talk to anyone before.”

           “Oh.  How come?”

           “Everything within my borders is connected.  The trees,” the trunks leaned forward, “the birds,” one rushed overhead, “the stones,” a couple pebbles bounced down the path.  “I can see, and hear, and feel everything that is connected to me.”

           “Even me?”

           “No.  You are not a part of the Forest.”

           Mary tried not to think about how strangely empty that made her feel.  “But you know I’m here.  You can hear me.”

           “Yes.  Through the ears of the birds, and the mice, and the deer. I can see you through the eyes of the ants and the rabbits and things humans have no name for.  I can speak through the voices of the wind, and the leaves, and the stones, and you will hear because of your presence within my boundaries.  I am many and one at once; I have no need to talk to others.”

           “Oh.”  Mary scratched a finger in the dirt.  “But, um.  Then.  Um.”

           The Forest waited, silent save for a bird call, somewhere in the distance.

           Mary chewed her lip, then took a deep breath.  “There are stories about people disappearing when they come here.  I thought maybe, um—maybe you were taking people because you were lonely?  But if you don’t need to speak to anyone—and it’s silly, anyways, I’m being dumb, because if people disappeared then you would’ve taken me and Blake and it’s just a silly superstition, anyways.”

           Something soft brushed against Mary’s legs; when she turned, it had already disappeared, eyes gleaming in the undergrowth.  “Sometimes,” the Forest said, “things from the Outside enter my boundaries.”

           Mary cocked her head.

           “Some find their way out. Others stay, and become a part of the Forest.”

           “Become a part of you?”

           “Yes.”

           “But, um, how does that—how does that work?  Do they build homes here?  But then why don’t they come back to see their families?  Dad had a friend—he thought he came here.  They never found him.”

           “No,” the Forest answered, in a long burst of wind that was more like a sigh.  “You do not understand.  They become a part of the Forest.”

           Mary frowned.

           “I can show you.”

           Some warning rang in the back of Mary’s mind, then; some instinct that told her that she should leave, that she would not like whatever she was about to see.  But she didn’t move, her legs too stiff, her eyes wide as she stared into the too-dark depths of the Forest.

           The undergrowth rustled and shifted.  A nearby tree creaked and cracked, loudly, and it took Mary a moment to realize it was turning, the roots tugging free of the ground and shifting.  Small lights flickered from the grass and popped around the tree’s trunk.  A large, bulbous growth had formed on the side of the tree, half-covered in bark and moss; the layers peeled back slowly with a cracking, snapping sound to reveal what lay underneath.

           The thing might’ve been human, once.  It looked vaguely human-shaped.  The arms were twisted above its head, almost completely subsumed by the trunk.  A large branch curled through one shoulder, sprouting several large, faintly glowing flowers.  The legs had elongated into something that almost resembled roots, toes breaking through shoes that had half-decayed.  Moss patterned the lower portion of the person’s face like a beard.  Its eyes were half-lidded, glowing white and pupil-less in the dark.

           A jumble of emotions Mary couldn’t quite parse apart fluttered in her chest.

           Then the maybe-person’s mouth moved, and spoke in a voice that rasped with disuse.  “This is what I mean,” it said, and the words seemed to be echoed by the birds, by the leaves, by every single thing around them until Mary felt too hemmed-in.  “They are transformed by the Forest.  They become a part of me.”

           Suddenly it felt like the unnatural darkness of the Forest had lifted, and Mary couldn’t help gaping.  Each tree seemed to have something else attached to it—a deer skeleton, threaded through with vines, or a fox that still seemed mostly alive but was covered in mushrooms, or nothing more than a vague face that had been trapped in the hollow wood.  The mouse that skittered across the ground carried fungus on its back; the deer that pranced, just in view, had antlers that had twisted out of shape, greenery growing along its chin and neck, legs too long and too many. A many-eyed thing blinked at her, long claws trailing through the undergrowth.

           Mary didn’t know when she’d surged to her feet, nor when she’d started running, nor when her breath had gotten caught in her throat.  All she knew was that she needed to get out, out, out, back to light and safety and away from that thing in the tree—

           She burst into daylight, tripped, and fell, skidding across the grass and scuffing her palms. She lay there a few moments, shivering, hiccupping, waiting for something to step out of the Forest and follow her.

           Nothing did.  When Mary pushed herself onto her knees, the Forest was as silent as always.

                                                            ~*~

             -The man in the tree wouldn’t stop staring at her.

           She saw it whenever she blinked, or looked in a mirror, or caught something out of the corner of her eye.  She couldn’t stop seeing it, those glowing eyes boring deeply into hers.  It made her chest clench, and her breath shuddered.

           “Mary,” one of her teachers said, voice just on the edge of concern, “are you doing alright?”            Mary looked at her teacher, and for a moment, she thought his eyes were glowing.  She blinked, and it was gone.

           (I know what happened to the missing people.)

           Mary forced a smile and said, “Fine!”

           “I can call your father. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind picking you up if you’re not feeling well—”

           “No!”  Mary took a deep breath, then continued, “I’m fine. I don’t need to worry him.”

           The teacher didn’t look convinced, but he let it go.

           The day passed in a haze. One moment, she was sitting in class, staring at a worksheet.  The next, the end of day announcements came on, and she was wandering down the hall towards the office.

           Papa came to pick her up and speak to her homeroom teacher.  She couldn’t really focus on what they were saying; she kept staring at Papa, wondering if she should tell him.  (I know what happened to Uncle Ian.)

           Papa tugged her towards the car, and she didn’t protest, allowing him to usher her into the seat. Ask, a part of her whispered.  Ask me what’s wrong. Please.  I need to talk about it.

           Don’t ask, another part of her hissed.  I can’t do it.  I can’t say anything.  I don’t want you to be mad at me.

           She didn’t even realize how silent the ride home had been until they pulled into the driveway. Papa pulled her, roughly, from her seat and dragged her into the house.  He shut the door, but didn’t let go of her arm.

           Oh, she thought.  He’s noticed.  He’s going to ask now.

           “Mary,” he said, and for the first time she noticed how hard he was working his jaw, and how harsh his voice came out.  “One of my coworkers said they saw you running out of the Forest yesterday.”

           Mary’s heart dropped like a rock into her stomach.  That’s not what I wanted to talk about, she thought, desperate.  That’s not how I wanted this conversation to go.

           “What did I tell you,” Papa asked, “about going to the Forest?”

           Mary knew she was supposed to say something, here, but she froze, Papa’s image overlapping with that of the man in the tree.

           “I told you,” Papa growled, “not to go back there.”  His voice lifted, rising to an almost hysterical pitch.  “I told you not to go to the Forest!  You could get hurt!  Do you want to disappear like all those others?  Is that what you want?  To disappear and leave me alone?”  He shook her, roughly, and her head spun.

           Maybe it was the disorientation, or Papa’s words, or the desperate attempt to get attention off her. Maybe she just didn’t know how to keep it in anymore, because she blurted, “I know what happened to Uncle Ian.”

           Papa suddenly went very, very still.

           “H-he—the Forest—it’s magic.  He became a part of it.  He’s still there.”  Mary looked at Papa desperately.  “I’m sorry.”

           Papa didn’t move for several long, long moments.  When he did, it was to hit her, sharply, across the side of her face.  Mary would’ve fallen, had Papa not still had such a harsh hold on her.  “Don’t talk about Ian,” he shouted, and he hit her again.  “He made his own choices.  It’s his own fault he’s gone.”  And again.  “I won’t let you make the same mistakes.”  And again.  He was crying, now, his voice near hysterical.  “I’m doing this for your own good.”  He hit her again.  “Don’t go back to the Forest.  Don’t go back there!”

           “Papa—”  Her head throbbed.  She was crying too, she thought, but her world was spinning, and she was having trouble focusing.  “Papa, please—”

           She woke up on the floor, with the house dark, and Papa gone.

                                                            ~*~

             -Mary hadn’t intended to go back to the Forest.  Not really; not after seeing—

           Eyes glowing, moss coating its chin, Mary wondering desperately if this was how the Forest knew her—

           But she was tired, and lonely, and hurt, and she no longer knew where else to go.

           The route to the Forest seemed longer than before.  She wondered, absently, if Papa would notice that she left and come after her.

           (Did it matter, if she didn’t come back?)

           Mary dragged herself up the slope; she shook, a little, her heart thundering in her chest.  She pulled herself inside the tree line, but didn’t make it very far before she collapsed, curling up against the trunk of the tree.

           The Forest was silent. That was good; Mary wasn’t sure what she would’ve done if something had come to see her.

           She stayed curled against the tree, shaking and silent, for a long time.  “Is Uncle Ian here?” she whispered.

           The Forest didn’t respond, save for a quiet wind that, if she listened closely, she thought might’ve whispered Ian’s name.

           “It’s just—he went missing.  Like a lot of people.  Him and Papa were really close.  They used to tell me stories—Ian was really fascinated about the Forest, you know. But then he disappeared, and Papa stopped telling stories.”  Mary pulled her knees to her chest, but it couldn’t quite stop her shaking.  “Why?” she whispered.  “Why do you take people, and—and—”  She couldn’t quite bring herself to say the words; she didn’t know what she might’ve said if she did.  “Can you let them go?” Mary asked instead.  “I-if Uncle Ian were—if he came back, then maybe Papa would change back, too. Maybe he’d stop—”  She broke off, a fractured part of her brushing against another thought she didn’t really want to have.  “Please let him go.  Please.”

           The Forest was silent for a long moment before something gentle brushed her shoulder.  “I can’t.”

           “Why not?”

           “They are interconnected to my magic.  They are part of the greater consciousness.  I do not know if their consciousnesses can be unwound.”

           “Oh.”  Mary leaned heavily against the tree.  “Do you think,” she asked tiredly, “I could become part of it, too?”

           The Forest went still.

           “I don’t know what to do,” she whispered.  “Papa’s always angry or worried or—he’s not happy.  A-and I don’t—he scares me.  I don’t want him to scare me, because I know he loves me, but he does, and it’s—!  And I keep thinking about the—the person in the tree, and I can’t sleep, and Papa won’t listen because he’s just mad that I went into the Forest, and I’m tired!  I don’t want to go back, and I don’t want to think about—about what happened to Uncle Ian, and I don’t want to be alone anymore.”  She didn’t know when she’d started crying, but once it started, she couldn’t stop.  She shook and heaved, great shuddering sobs rattling her chest and she pressed herself against the tree trunk.  “If I disappear into the Forest,” she whispered, “then no one would mind.  Papa would be sad for a while, but then he wouldn’t have anything to worry about anymore.”  Her words died out slowly, and she just sat there, a heavy sense of exhaustion weighing down on her chest.

           The silence went on for a little longer.  Then, in a voice so quiet she might not have heard it, had it not been magic: “I hurt you.”

           Mary curled up tighter.

           “I hurt you,” the voice repeated, and it sounded so strangely human that Mary couldn’t help thinking about the person in the tree again.  “I am sorry. I am sorry, I did not mean—I only wanted to explain—I should not have showed you that.”

           Mary shrugged, shoulder scraping the bark.  She winced, but didn’t move away.

           “If I hurt you,” the Forest asked, “why did you come back?”

           Mary didn’t know how to answer that for a long moment.  “Papa hurts me, too.  But he does it because he cares.  I—I know you didn’t mean it.”

           “That does not make it okay.”

           Why do you sound so human now? Mary wanted to ask, but didn’t, almost afraid of the answer.

           (A part of her wondered if it was because of the people who were a part of the Forest’s consciousness; if they gave the Forest a way to understand what humans were like.  She wished it had worked a little sooner.)

           “What can I do?” the Forest asked, the trees creaking.

           “Just let me stay here. Please?”

           The Forest didn’t respond, and Mary took that as an affirmative.  She stayed, curled against the trunk of a tree, until faint sunlight started to peek through the tree line.

           She knew she should leave, then.  She didn’t want to.

           (Didn’t want to go back. Didn’t want to stay.  Didn’t know what she really wanted anymore.)

           Eventually Mary stood, her legs stiff.  She hesitated just inside the tree line.  A part of her thought of turning and running deeper; going so deep that she’d be lost in the Forest forever.

           (She wondered if that was the reason so many people went missing; if they had just gotten so tired of living in the town that they’d decided leaving for the Forest was better.)

           After a few long moments of deliberation, she took a step back into the sunlight.

                                                              ~*~

             -Mary made it back to her room as the sun was coming up, tumbling into her bed and falling asleep almost as soon as she’d hit her pillow. Papa came to wake her up barely a moment later.  He didn’t say anything; he just ushered her along, shoving her school clothes at her, driving her to school in silence.

           (Mary didn’t want to go, but she didn’t want to stay.  The car felt suffocating with its silence, and she practically held her breath until they reached the school building.)

           The whole day seemed to pass in a sleep-deprived haze, but that was alright; it meant she didn’t have to think about Papa so much, and about his reaction and what it meant.

           But she did think about the Forest, her mind twisting in useless circles as she tried to make sense of her feelings.

           (She liked the Forest. She liked that it listened, and she liked the mystery, even if it scared her.  But she didn’t like that it took people, and that they ended up like the thing in the tree, and that maybe there were other people out there like Papa who—

           But the Forest had been upset to find out it had hurt her, and it had apologized, so maybe—

           Papa never apologized.)

           She hiked back out to the Forest after school, tired but determined, and set foot into the tree line with a mission in mind.

           The Forest spoke, much more quickly than she’d anticipated, the ferns lifting to brush her legs, lights flaring in the darkness.  “You’re back.”

           “Y-yeah.”

           “You did not have to come,” it said, “if I made you distressed.”

           “I-I know,” she said. “I wanted to.”

           The Forest didn’t say anything to that, and Mary gathered herself, trying to find the words.  “What is it like,” she asked finally, “deeper inside?”

           The Forest was silent for several long, long moments.  “Are you sure you wish to see?”

           Mary steeled herself. “Yes.  I want to know if—if there’s anything—I just need to know.”

           “I hurt you last time. I do not wish to hurt you again.”

           Mary smiled, despite herself.  “I-it’s okay. I’m choosing to do this, this time.”

           “That does not—” The Forest broke off, and Mary was struck again by how strangely human the sentiment was.  “If it is too much, then please say so.  I will guide you back out.”

           “Okay,” she said, voice shaking a little.

           Carefully the trees pulled back, inching along the ground, dragging their roots from their places until there was a long, grassy path into the darkness.  Lights flickered along the edges, guiding Mary inward.

           For a moment, Mary remembered the stories about those lights, and how following them could lead to a person getting lost forever.

           But she also knew that the Forest wouldn’t mind if she chose to turn and walk out, instead.  Slowly, hesitantly, she edged forward, walking carefully along the path.

           The pathway was bright, lit by brightly glowing balls of light that kept the darkness in the rest of the Forest at bay.  Trees and stones and animals continued to move out of her way, extending the path further and further into the Forest’s center.  She wondered if she could keep walking and come out on the other side.

           (She wondered if Papa would come looking for her, or if he’d just stay in his empty house and grieve.)

           The trees stopped moving, and Mary stepped into the center of a large, dark clearing.  She blinked, trying to peer through the darkness, willing her eyes to adjust.

           Lights flickered in the clearing, a rainbow of blue and pink and yellow, flooding the grass and the trees with brilliant, fractured hues.  The long strands of grass shimmered with dew, waving in the slight breeze.  A massive tree grew in the center of the clearing, trunk twisted so that it looked like it was made up of dozens of smaller trees.  Bird nests filled the upper branches, protected by a thick canopy of leaves.  Tiny hatchlings peered out of their nests at Mary, feathers still dull, but scattering small bursts of light as they ruffled their downy wings.  A larger bird flew overhead, gliding towards one of the nests and perching to feed one of the chicks.

           Something emerged from the trees, and Mary gasped as a large stag walked towards her.  Its antlers looked like gnarled branches, chipping apart in areas to reveal bursts of color.  Its neck seemed too long, its legs too spindly, and when it huffed, it breathed mist.  Mary was almost afraid, until a doe and fawn stepped out behind it.  The fawn looked much like its father, if a little more proportionate, but had a pair of extra legs it bounced on.  It jumped towards Mary, curiously lifting its head and nuzzling at her hand.  Mary giggled, stroking its velvety fur.

           “Being part of the Forest is not always death,” the Forest said, and it took Mary a moment to understand it was coming from the stag.  “There is life, too.  One is given power and care through life, and when they pass, they become a part of the Forest again, to help support life.  It is the way of things.”  A pause. “But I should not have shown you the man.  It distressed you.  That was wrong.”

           Mary knelt, scratching the fawn under the chin.  “You didn’t know.  You, um. You hadn’t interacted much with humans before.”

           “It was still wrong. I should not have hurt you.”

           A bird fluttered near her, and the Forest shifted, voice coming from it, instead of the stag.  “I do not always understand human morals,” it said, “but I understand harm.  My concern has always been whether or not harm has been done to those that are a part of me.”

           “Y-you said that’s why you chased us out before.”

           “Yes.  I allowed you to stay because you did not cause harm. I should not have then caused harm to you.”

           Mary stood.  A couple more birds fluttered around her, stirring her clothes and making her giggle.  “It’s beautiful,” she admitted.  “I wonder if that’s why people stay here, sometimes.”

           The Forest went quiet, suddenly.  “They get lost,” it said after a long, long moment.

           “They can’t find their way out.”

           “Sometimes. Sometimes, they are lost in their minds, rather than in the physical world.  They stay here and do not leave.”  A pause.  “I do not want that to happen to you.”

           “But you can always guide me back out.  Right?”

           “Yes.”

           “And—and you can guide others out, too?”

           A pause.  Lights flickered, lighting up a path.  “If they choose,” it said finally.

           “Good. Because—because I don’t want—I don’t want people like Ian to go missing anymore.”

           The Forest stayed silent for a long time.  Mary didn’t mind; she let the silence grow, absently petting the fawn until it felt like things had grown too late.  Then she stood, letting the Forest guide her back to the edge, lights flickering along the path.

           The Forest stopped her briefly with a whisper of, “Mary.”

           She cocked her head.

           “You are always welcome here,” it said, “if you need refuge.”

           Mary smiled, a small thing that felt more real than anything she’d given over the past several days.  “Okay.”

                                                             ~*~

             -Mary hadn’t really meant to talk to anyone about the Forest—at least, not until she had a better plan.  She didn’t know how to explain what she’d learned (didn’t think anyone would listen), and so cautiously hoarded the information to herself, going back to the Forest when she could in order to speak to it and learn more.

           But then it was the weekend, and Papa was having people over from his work, and they’d gotten into the adult drinks and gone red in the face and started hollering and laughing in the living room.  Mary knew that she wasn’t supposed to go in there—wasn’t sure she wanted to, really—but she’d heard one of Papa’s friends say, “All those stories about the Forest are bullshit.  Mark went in a couple days ago, and he came back out, perfectly fine.”

           Mary paused, hovering close to the doorway.

           “Maybe he just—maybe he just got so lost that he came out the other side.”

           “Nah, nah, I’m telling you—he said he saw these colored light things.”  The words were slurred, but Mary couldn’t help her grin, and she pressed her hands tightly to her mouth to keep from giggling.  “Said they led him right out.”

           Papa said, “You shouldn’t tell such stories.”

           “Oh, come on, Rick, lighten up.  It’s all in good fun.”

           “You shouldn’t—you shouldn’t talk about stuff like that.”

           Something in Papa’s voice made the hairs on Mary’s neck stand on end.  She peered cautiously around the doorway.

           Papa was leaning forward in his recliner, bottle clasped in his hands, his expression distant and haggard.  “Ian talked like that,” Papa said.  “Ian talked about that all the time, about his—about how the Forest was magic, and how he’d go see it one day.  Nobody believed it.  People just—just fucking ran away.  But Ian believed in those stupid fairytales, and he wouldn’t stop looking.  He believed them so much it killed him.”

           One of the men laughed, and slapped Papa’s shoulder, and said, “Right, a story’s what killed him.”

           Papa shoved the man’s arm away.  “He wouldn’t leave it alone!  He kept—he obsessed over it until—until there was nothing left.  He’s dead, now.  Maybe if people didn’t talk about those damn stories—”  He shook his head and took another swig from his bottle.

           Mary stepped into the living room, and without truly pausing to think, she said, “But they’re true, Papa.”

           All eyes were very suddenly on her.  She quailed under them, suddenly wondering if she should run back to her room.

           “Look at this!” one of the men said, pointing at Mary.  “Kiddo’s going to join us!  What’ve you got to say, kiddo?”

           Papa stared at her, a dark look on his face.

           (Mary remembered telling Papa about what happened to Ian.  Papa had been so angry, then.  She wondered if it’d be different now, with friends around.  She wondered if it mattered.)  “I-it’s true, though.  The Forest—people disappear because they become a part of it.  But it’s not trying to!  It’s because of the weird magic stuff.”

           “Weird magic stuff,” someone repeated, laughing.

           “Yeah!  It’s not all scary, though.  Some of it’s really pretty, too.  A-and we worked out a way to maybe keep people from disappearing? That’s what those lights were.  I talked to the Forest about it the other day, and—”

           “You went back to the Forest?” Papa asked.

           The room suddenly went very, very quiet.

           Mary took a hesitant step backwards.  Papa’s scowl had deepened, his eyebrows so low that they cast his eyes in deep shadow.

           Papa stood.  He stumbled, a little, and nearly dropped the bottle.

           Mary scrambled back further.

           One of the men said, “Hey, Rick, maybe you shouldn’t—”

           “I told you,” Papa said, low and quiet and fierce, “not to go back to the Forest.”

           Mary’s eyes darted towards the door.

           “Look at me!”

           Mary whipped towards Papa, who had come much, much closer than she’d expected.  “I-I’m sorry.”

           Something sharp stung her cheek.  She fell and sprawled across the floor, hands scraping roughly against the wood.

           “Rick, hey!”

           “Why did you go back there?” Papa snarled, and the way his face contorted made him seem more like the not-human from the Forest, rather than the Papa she’d known as a child. “I told you not to.”

           “I’m sorry!” Mary said, scrambling backwards.

           Papa lifted his hand again.

           One of his coworkers caught it, hissing, “Rick, I think you’ve had a little too much—”

           “Let go of me!”

           Mary scrambled to her feet and ran.

           Papa roared behind her, but she didn’t look back, crashing through the door, sprinting bare-foot through the darkening streets.  She wove through the houses, and after a while she heard an angry shout of, “Mary!” from behind her.

           Papa was chasing after her.  Papa was far away, now, but he could catch up quickly.

           (What happens when he catches her?)

           (“I will give you refuge, if you need it.”)

           Mary stumbled from between the houses and onto the field, the Forest looming dark and silent ahead. She hurried up the slope, chest rattling, breathing heavy, scrambling up, up, up, one hand reaching frantically for the trees.

           Heavy breathing and footsteps sounded behind her, and she’d just made it to the tree line when Papa grabbed the back of her shirt.  She stretched an arm, frantically, towards the Forest, but Papa dragged her backwards, lifting her like a disobedient cat.  “Where are you going?” Papa asked, shaking her, and it hurt.  She fumbled for his arm, and she shook her again.  “Huh?  You think you’re going back there?”

           Mary choked on a sob. “Help,” she said, and it was more a sob than an actual cry.

           “Help?”  Papa snarled. “I am helping you, I’m keeping you from ending up like Ian.  You should be grateful, but you never know how—nothing but trouble.  We’re going home. We’re going home, and then you’re going to—”

           A harsh wind echoed between the trees.

           Papa stopped.

           Mary dangled, the tips of her feet touching the ground.

           (“He has caused you harm,” something that sounded eerily like the Forest whispered in her mind.

           He’s protecting me.

           Is he?)

           “You aren’t helping me.”

           The world went very quiet, and it took a long moment for Mary to realize she’d said anything at all. When Papa responded, his voice was low and dangerous: “What?”

           Mary swallowed, but continued, one hand reaching to grab Papa’s arm.  “You’re hurting me,” she said. “A-and I know it’s because you’re scared, but—but—but I want you to stop hurting me!”

           “I’m trying to keep you safe.”

           “Then why do I feel safer in the Forest then with you?”

           Papa’s face contorted into a snarl.  He shook her, roughly.

           Mary grimaced, her head spinning, one hand silently reaching back towards the Forest. Something brushed against her fingertips.

           Papa growled, “We’re leaving.  You are not to come back to this Forest.  You are not—”

           And then the Forest spoke, long and low and rumbling, like it was shaking the very earth. “What are you doing?”

           Papa froze.  His grip loosened, just enough so that Mary could drop to the ground, coughing and sputtering.

           Rough hands—almost like wood—gently touched Mary’s arm.

           Papa’s voice came, low and broken and uncertain: “Ian?”

           Mary blinked up, and for a moment she saw Uncle Ian’s face as it once had been, soft and friendly with a twinkle in his eyes.  Then it shifted, a little, and she noticed the rough, cracked edges of his face and the bushes along his back.  He lifted Mary carefully and turned towards Papa, face contorting into a scowl.

           The trees leaned forward ominously.  “You have done harm to the child.”

           Papa took several steps backwards, eyes too wide.  “I’m protecting her,” he said.  “Ian, I’m making sure she doesn’t get hurt.  I’m trying to keep her from ending up like you.”

           “This is not protection,” the Forest rumbled; Uncle Ian’s chest reverberated with the words, and things moved behind him, large and dark and intimidating, gnashing teeth and snarling loud enough that the cries seemed to blend together.

           “Sometimes,” Papa said, but his voice was wavering, “sometimes you have to hurt people to protect them.  Ian, you have to understand.  Sometimes—”

           The wind roared through the trees, moving so quickly that it stirred Mary’s clothes and nearly knocked Papa off his feet.  “No,” the Forest said.  “You have done her harm.”

           Papa’s expression contorted, into something angry and feral and frightening.  “What do you care?” he snapped.  “You’re not really Ian.  You’re not really here. You’re just some sort of—some sort of crazy hallucination.  Just a bunch of trees.”

           “I have many names, and none at all,” the Forest boomed, and it sounded like the thunder of falling stones, of countless animal cries and the crash of waterfalls.  “I have been here since time began, and even before. I have seen humans far stronger and braver than you.  I have seen love, and life, and death and pain.  I have survived throughout the ages, and I shelter those who would take refuge within my trees.  And I will protect my own.”

           A creature lunged from the depths of the Forest, massive and snarling ferociously, covered in bark-like armor with long claws that stretched like shadows towards Papa.  He scrambled backwards, panicked, as it swiped at his chest.  More appeared, wraith-like and warped, a mass of long fangs and claws and eyes.

           Ian’s fingers curled tighter around Mary, and she lifted a hand to grip his shoulder.

           Papa looked at Mary for a moment, then to the wall of darkness that snarled at him.  He stumbled a step back, and then another, and then turned and bolted back to the town.

           The creatures stayed where they were for a few moments, waiting until he was out of sight until, one by one, they moved back into the trees.

           “Are you alright, Mary?” the Forest asked, Ian carefully setting her back on her feet.

           Mary hiccupped and shook, but she said, “Y-yes.”

           The Forest did not answer, and she found herself admitting, “N-no.”  She sat, and hugged her legs to her chest, and tried not to think about how much her neck hurt.  “I-I can’t go back.  I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.”

           “Then stay here.”

           Mary’s head whipped up, but she had no one to look at, save the empty expanse of the Forest. “I-I don’t—I don’t want to end up like—”

           Ian stretched out a hand, slowly, and reached to gently touch the space above her heart.  Light flickered through his fingertip, warm and bright and alive.  “I cannot stop that from happening, if you choose to stay here permanently,” the Forest said, and for the first time it sounded pained.  “But I can give you refuge, when you want it.  I can guide you to the edges, so that you won’t be lost for so long that I overcome you.  I can provide you with a piece of my magic, so that even if you travel, you will have my protection with you.  But,” and its voice went whisper-quiet, “only if you want it.”

           Mary touched Ian’s hand, gently.  “You’d look after me?”

           “Yes.”

           Mary grinned, then laughed, and though the tears still stung, they didn’t feel quite as bad anymore. “Okay.”

                                                              ~*~

             -Most of the time, nobody goes to the Forest outside of town.

           There are stories, though; of a young woman who lives within the Forest, who can do strange magic and plays tricks on travelers, who has traveled through the world herself. They say that she was the daughter of someone who lived in the town, once, and that her parents died, or moved away and left her there, or were stolen away by the Forest itself so that it could have their child.

           Sometimes people claim to see her—a wild-haired woman in hiking gear or a mismatched dress or heavy winter clothes, sitting in the trees or talking to animals or yelling at travelers when they get too close.  She’d guide people out of the Forest, sometimes, and those people talked about the fantastic things they saw within—about fairy lights, and unusual creatures, and shifting trees.

           Most people don’t believe the stories—a forest is just a forest, after all.  But every so often, someone gets curious enough to go to the edge and look in.  And, when they do, they sometimes find her grinning back at them.

[santaclausdeadindian]

Sorry for doing it this way, I think OP deleted their post or blocked me like a mature, balanced person would, so I have to tag you in

@mr-laugh

Oh boy, lot to unpack here.

So you didn’t even know there were that many subgenres of fantasy, one of the most popular classifications of fiction on the planet... And you think you know enough to tell ANYBODY what classic fantasy is?

And where exactly I attempted to do that, huh?

If you don’t even know the most common subgenres of this vast pool of fiction, why are you jumping into this discussion? You just admitted you don’t know anything!

There is no discussion, there is a stupid ass post. Don't flatter yourself, you don't know jack shit.

Me not knowing what exactly are the precize subgenres of a genre of literature, which, btw, are completely arbitrary and for your information, sword&magic is a legitimate category, has absolutely nothing to do with what that post you were so keen on agreeing with above. It was you who said pretty much any classic fantasy is like that: some poorly written, self-indulgent and borderline racist.

Did ya read the link, buddy? Howard talked about knowing what burning black man smelled like. He was quite approving of these things! And the books are pretty racist, it’s not hard to see, unless you ain’t looking.

Yes, I started reading and by the end of the first paragraph I was convinced he was ahorribly racist man. And? Still doesn't change the fact, that for my 12 year old self, there was nothing racist about it. I definetly wasn't looking for it, that much you got right. If I'd read it again, I'm sure I'd catch on to it now, that I know what kind of asshole he was. So the implied racism would be there. You got a point for that.

Rugged individualism? It always amuses me how that argument always pops out of the mouths of guys who are aping what they’ve heard their buddies say. If ten thousand mouths shout “rugged individualism”, how individualistic are they?

Then you should amuse yourself by looking up why this thing crops up as of late. It's coming from certain, supremely racist yet unaware of it publications that claim ridiculous shit like "rugged individualism" is a hallmark of white supremacy, among other, equally laughable things, like punctuality. It's a joke.

Again, I will give Howard to you, if someone that racist writes a black man saving the hero of the story, I bet there was something else still there to make it wrong.

Conan’s not some avatar of rugged individualism.

Uhm, yeah, he pretty much all that.

He’s as unreal and unrealistic as the dragons are,

It's called fantasy for a reason, buddy.

but more dangerous because White Men model their ideas of reality on Big Man Heroes like him;

Glad you are totally not racist, yo!!! It's such a relief that White Men are the only ones with this terrible behavior of looking up to larger than life, mythic superpeople and nobody else. Imagine what it would be like, if we would have some asshole from say, hindu indian literature massacering demons called Rakshassas, by the tens of thousands, or some bullshit japanese warlord would snatch out arrows from the air, or a chienese bodyguard would mow down hundreds of barbaric huns without dropping a sweat, or some middle eastern hero would fight literal gods and their magical beasts in some quest for eternal life.

it's a poison that weakens us, distracting us from actually trying to solve the world’s issues, or banding together to deal with shit.

This is what you just said. It's up to the white man, to get their shit together, be not racist and solve the world's problems, because those poor other people's just can't do it. If we would just not be oh, so racist, then China would surely stop with the genocides they are doing now, or blowing more than half the greenhouse emissions into the athmosphere, the muslims would stop throwing their gays from rooftops or ramming trucks into crowds and would just start treating women as equals, India's massive rape problem would be gone, subsaharan African would be magically bereft of the host of atrocities committed there on a daily, yeah, you sure have that nonracism down, buddy!

A rugged individualist would be smart enough to realize that even the most individualistic person needs others; no man’s an island, and a loner is easier to kill.

Individualism doesn't mean at all what you think it means, it's a cluster of widely differeing philosophies that puts the individual ahead of the group or state, it's ranging from anarchism to liberalism and is also has nothing to do with my point.

Central Europe?  What, Germany?  Because let me tell you, historically they are SUPER concerned about race!

Germany traditionally considered western european, central europe would be the people stuck between them and the russians, to put it very loosely. We are equally nonplussed by the self-flagellating white guilt complex and the woe me victim complex of the west. We did none of the shit those meanie white people did to the nonwhites and suffered everyting any poc ever did and then some. We don't give a shit about your color, we care about what culture you are from and if you respect our values.

I’m an American from a former Confederate state; trust me, race is everything.  It always is.

No it really isn't. How old are you? Asking without condescension, genuinly curious, because if you are in your low twenties at most, it's understandable why you think like this.

See that hike? Do you know what happened at that time that made virtually all american media suddenly go all in with racism?

Occupy Wall Street, that's what. It's a brilliant way to sow victimhood and hate and desperation amongst the people who have one common enemy, the powers that be, the banking sector, the politicians, the megacorporations.

Can't really blame you if you are in your early 20's at most, you grew up with this bullshit hammered into you. If you are older, step out of your echochamber please!

If you actually believe, that mankind doesn't progress naturally towards a more accepting society purely on the merit of there being more good people than bad and sharing a similar living with all the hardships in life, seeing that our prejudices inherited by our parents are baseless, that's how we progress, not virtue signalling courses and regressive policies. I was raised as any other kid, I had a deep resentment towards the neighbouring nations, I said vile, racist shit against people who I actually share a lot of genes with, of which fact I was in deep denial about, and then as I gradually got exposed more and more actual people of these groups, I started to realize I was wrong and everybody should be judged by their individual merits. It works throughout the generations, my grandma was thought songs about Hitler and how all jews are evil in school, she legit thought all black people at least in Africa are cannibals and shit, my mother stillsays shit that would get her cancelled in the USA, and I will probably have a mixed race kid as we stand now.

This whole racism is an eternal problem is laughable and disingenuous and I am actually sorry for you that you feel like that.

Moving on. As for Dany, the “noble white girl sold to scary dark foreign man” is a very popular trope, especially in exploitation films, which Martin draws on much more heavily than most authors do.

No, he fucking doesn't. I already wrote a bunch of examples from the books you seeminly ignore willfully. First of all, she is sold to those olive skinned savages by a white man, who is a terrible, increadibly evil man. He want's to fuck the then 11-12 ish Dany so bad, she picks his slave most resembling her and rapes her repeatedly, "until the madness pass." He also maimes children and traines them as disposable slave spies by the hundreds. There is no boundaries colour here, GRRM prtrays all kinds of people as reprehensible, evil and disgusting. Just like you can find plenty of examples to the opposite.

What is he drawing from your exploitation movies exactly? He writes about the human anture, he writes about the human heart at war with itself, that's his central philosophy of writing.

ASOFAI is basically just a porn movie with complicated feudal politics obscuring it, which is probably why it worked so well as an HBO series (up until the last two seasons or so.)

There is no gratuitous sex scene in the books, the rapes are described as rapes, they are horrible, they are very shortly described and usually just alluded to.

The people commiting them are not put into generous lights and one of the single most harrowing stories hidden behind the grand happenings of the plot is a girl named Jeyne Poole, whose suffering although never shown, is very much pointed out, along with the hypocrisy of the people who only fight to try and save her, because they think her a different person.

Honestly, if you actually read the books and they came of to you as porn, you might want to do some soulsearching.Btw, the HBO series was a terrible adaptation, it immedietly started to go further and further from the books with every passing season and the showmakers made it very clear to everybody, that they didn't understand the very much pacifist and humanist themes of Martin. And neither did you.

We also get no indication Essos will eat it when Winter comes; hell, they seem to not know Winter exists, given the way people act, even though that is also unrealistic and weird.  Essos was just super badly designed, and Dany is a terribly boring character.

to be continued

[headachebrain]

My Favourite Books of 2020

There was nothing to do in 2020 so I read 62 books. The only places I went this year were work, home and the library. Reading kept me busy, it kept me occupied on public transportation so I wouldn’t stress over how crowded it was or who wasn’t wearing their mask correctly. I learned new things, got inspired to write. I cried a lot. I laughed a lot. I listened to my first audiobook which was such an amazing experience and a highlight of this dark year. Out of 62, here are the 16 books that I loved the most in 2020. I’ve included my Goodreads reviews because they’re funny to me – you can tell I like a book very much when I say “I’m going to be thinking about this for a long time.”

Fiction I wish I wrote:

If I’m reading a novel and it makes me mad that I didn’t write it that means I loved it. Such a Fun Age, the debut novel by Kiley Reid actually made me angry at how good it was. It’s always been my dream to write a contemporary novel about a Black woman just living life. I haven’t been able to do that yet but Reid did it so well. I read a few romance novels this year but none of them hit me. Romance novel clichés don’t get to me like they did in my early twenties when I’d devour romance novels but The Bride Test by Helen Hoang kind of wrecked me. I’m so here for contemporary romance novels having diverse leads, not just in race but in gender identity, body size and mentally. This year I’ve read romance novels about a woman in a wheelchair, fat women, queer folks – it’s incredible. The Bride Test was the best of the bunch for me this year. My Goodreads review says it all. For the past  three years an Elizabeth Acevedo book has been on my best of lists, she is incredible. Clap When You Land is another novel in verse about two Dominican sisters who find out about each other after their father passes away. It made me cry a lot. I know all too well the emotions that go with finding out you have half siblings that were hidden from you and Acevedo captured them so well.

Such a Fun Age by Kiley Reid Goodreads review: I loved this novel. It's the kind of novel I wish I wrote. It was funny, suspenseful and so painfully awkward at times I wanted to put it down. I could really identify with Emira trying to become an adult and find a job she cared about. There aren't a lot of novels where the Black girl main character can just BE - Emira could turn up with her girls and go to work and date and she felt like a full, well rounded human. I'm going to think about this book for a long time.

The Bride Test by Helen Hoang Goodreads review: What a treat.

Clap When You Land by Elizabeth Acevedo Goodreads review: As a Black girl that found out I have multiple half siblings, this book hit me HARD. It was sad, but hopeful and beautifully written. One of the best of 2020.

YA novels I wish were around when I was a kid:

I have vivid memories of searching my elementary school library for books with Black and brown faces on the cover. Even when I worked at a bookstore from 2006-2013 I’d have parents coming up to me asking for books that had characters that reflected their kids. I used to have a little list that I kept in my pocket so I’d be ready when I’d get asked. Now almost ten years after I left the bookstore, I go in and see so many different kinds of people on the covers of YA books. The diversity makes me emotional. Now so many kids can pick up books and see themselves no matter their body type, gender, sexuality or race. I’m not a kid any more but the teen novels I read this year that I loved were super diverse.

You Should See Me in a Crown by Leah Johnson Goodreads review: Started off a bit shaky but about 50 pages in I was hooked. I wish I had this book when I was a kid. What a gorgeous cover. I loved the themes the novel covered, loved that Liz was queer, loved the sickle cell storyline, the grandma made me cry. Little Black girls are so lucky to have this.

Shine by Jessica Jung Goodreads review: I love K-pop so I loved this novel. The writing was really good, the style reminded me of the Sweet Valley High books I read as a kid. Really enjoyed it.

Felix Ever After by Kacen Callender Goodreads review: Really cute. The writing could be tightened up a bit but I enjoyed the story. Also loved the BTS mentions

Memoir that gutted me:

I don’t usually read memoir but thanks to the library I read amazing memoirs by women of colour. In the Dream House and Know My Name focused on domestic abuse and sexual assault respectively that were so honest and heartbreaking but ultimately uplifting and hopeful. With both books I’d be reading and suddenly realize tears were streaming down my face. While Mariah’s memoir, that I listened to in audiobook format, made me laugh, cry and appreciate the living legend she is. She’s a miracle.

In the Dream House by Carmen Maria Machado Goodreads review: Devastating

Know My Name by Chanel Miller Goodreads review: I had this book on hold at the library for a year. This memoir will stay with me for a long time. It's sad, heartbreaking, hopeful and beautifully written. So beautifully written. Everyone should read this book

The Meaning of Mariah Carey by Mariah Carey Goodreads review: I listened to the audiobook version of this memoir, the very first audiobook I've ever listened to and it was such a rich, enjoyable experience. I've always been a Mariah fan, but never a super fan. I was familiar with some of her struggles but I never knew how much she'd been through. Incredible writing and storytelling about an incredible woman that truly beat the odds. I kept thinking to myself "it is a miracle that she's still alive." Easily one of the best memoirs I've ever read.

Brilliant Essay collections:

Essay collections are really hit or miss. I love reading well crafted, interesting essays. Wow, No Thank You and White Negroes both focused on topics I’m interested in – humour, Black women issues, mental health and pop culture. I may only read essay collections by Black women from now on.

Wow, No Thank You by Samantha Irby Goodreads review: The only books that have made me actually laugh out loud were written by Samantha Irby. She's a writer that makes me feel seen, while also inspiring me to try to write essay (which I find so difficult). I enjoyed the majority of these essays, especially ones about trying to get her first book picked up as a TV show. As a fellow Black girl that doesn't do shit, I'm glad Samantha Irby is writing.

White Negroes by Lauren Michele Jackson Goodreads review: Excellent. I'll be thinking about these essays for a long time.

Non-fiction that changed my worldview:

I read The Warmth of Other Suns by Isabel Wilkerson last year and it changed the way I looked at the world. Caste, also by Isabel Wilkerson, affected me the same way. Everyone should read it.

Caste by Isabel Wilkerson Goodreads review: a book everyone needs to read.

Well written fiction:

These novels were the ones I knew I’d never be able to write – they were just good stories about women. One about a Black woman scientist dealing with her mother’s mental illness, one about contemporary women living in Seoul and another about a woman who was sexually assaulted by her teacher. I read a lot of fiction this year but it was fiction by and about women that I really enjoyed.

Transcendent Kingdom by Yaa Gyasi Goodreads review: whew. beautiful prose, devastatingly sad. I loved it.

If I Had Your Face by Frances Cha Goodreads review: Great writing and a fascinating look at the life of women in Korea.

My Dark Vanessa by Kate Elizabeth Russell Goodreads review: tough to read but so well written. I'll be thinking about this novel for a long time.

Honourable mentions: The Deep by Rivers Solomon Cemetery Boys by Aiden Thomas Turtles All The Way Down by John Green Good Talk by Mira Jacob Get a Life, Chloe Brown by Talia Hibbert

[secretsantasides]

Gift #8: My Universe

Gift for @enby-fander

Prompt: Analogical High School AU

My Universe

Characters: Logan, Deceit (called Daniel), Virgil, mentions of Remus, mentions of Patton

Pairings: Romantic Analogical, Platonic Loceit, Brotherly Anxciet, implied Brotherly Logicality

Warnings: Alludes to homelessness and poverty, sad boi Virgil

Summary: Thank you to the two anons who showed up on @enby-fander's account and gave me major inspiration right when I needed it. Here you go, Trans Virgil and Nonbinary Logan that starts as angst and ends as fluff.

--------------------------------------------------------------

As the rest of Kingston High School's sophomores rushed into the cafeteria, Daniel Hyde instead ducked through an out-of-the-way, yet familiar, pair of dark, wooden, though probably fake wood, double doors. His head was down as he stalked over to the Fiction section, deliberately searching. For what, bystanders had no clue.

They parted, anxious to induce the wrath of Dan, a boy rumoured to be in a gang. None of them would put such a thing past the punk boy. He wasn't someone to mess with.

He walked with such a determination that they knew he was on the hunt. His prey? Another, hidden from all but him.

Logan Jekyll was seated in the middle of the mystery section, shrouded in darkness. The junior knew these shelves well, so much so that they could traverse them without requiring sight. That way, they had no reason to flick the switches at the start of each row to the "on" position, which would illuminate the row of dim fluorescent bulbs dangling above. Logan liked it better in the dark, anyway. It hid the introvert from those pesky freshmen. The ones who liked to taunt Logan for some unknown reason.

"Oh look, it's genius Jekyll. Aren't you the one with the ridiculously high GPA? Highest in your year?"

They gave a quick, curt nod to both questions, not speaking. Instead, they continued to read their book, turning the page after a few seconds of silence.

The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde was most definitely living up to the praise they had heard it received, primarily by the Hyde brothers. Daniel had always pressed them to read it, so they had finally began the novel.

As they read, laughs were heard. The rowdy students had become bored with the junior and had stampeded away towards the computers. Logan never understood what they seemed to find so funny.

"Hey, first chair Jekyll, heard you got the solo for the next concert."

When they nodded, quick and curt, the group started laughing yet again. All the way over to the doors. Probably after they walked out the doors, too.

Logan recognized someone in that mob as the sophomore who liked to raise hell during rehearsal, along with a few trumpet players, a bassoon, and half of percussion. He brought the baritone horn section down considerably, even with Logan there to counterbalance his pure idiocy. And to think, this kid is laughing at him. Sheer stupidity, all of it.

"Jekyll, my man, the reason our debate team isn't shit. You're captain, right? Who's second, in your book?"

At the first question, they nodded. At the second, they scowled and looked back at his book. They did have an opinion on who would fall second, but that opinion was not owed to a group of freshmen who loiter around and taunt others. Seeing the spectacle-wearing one's scowl, the boys laughed. Turning and walking away, they kept on snickering and joking about "perfect Jekyll."

'Our debate team? You mean, my debate team.' Logan recognized none of those dumbasses as members of debate, especially not the one who initiated the conversation. He would be debating things when pigs flew.

"I found Jekyll, man of the hour. Nice speech you gave, didn't realize you could do that. Thought only seniors could."

They shook their head "no" at the statement, causing them to… big surprise… laugh at them.

At least they're eloquent enough to make a speech. These people could barely string together simple sentences, let alone write with enough skill to compose a speech at the level Logan did so at.

"Hey guys, here's Dr. Jekyll. Heard you finally found your Mr. Hyde, and you're terribly in love."

They scowled, otherwise ignoring all of them. That narrative wasn't even fitting to Robert Louis Stevenson's original story. In the end, it was revealed that Dr. Henry Jekyll and Mr. Edward Hyde were one and the same, a relationship they and their boyfriend do not possess.

"What, don't want to admit that you're gay as f*ck for Hyde?"

The scowl already adorning their features intensified some, but that was the only indicator of how pissed Logan truly was. Lacking a reaction, the group turned and walked away, laughing as they went.

Did they owe them an explanation of their love life? No, they should f*ck off. It's their damn significant other, not theirs. They were thinking of multiple profanities that could describe those idiots, but decidedly did not execute them aloud. Their choices would make probably Remus Kingston proud, a boy who has an alphabet of swear words, an alphabet that only skims the surface of his cursing dictionary.

As Logan sat there, reminiscing about how much of an asshole all of those freshmen were, Dan was slowly honing down his search radius.

He had visited most of Logan's normal rows, besides mystery and parts of nonfiction. As he walked to non-fiction, he stopped abruptly and turned to walk down the row of mystery novels. Logan truly adored the who-dunits covering these shelves, or so he's heard. He may have good luck looking here, as long as his brother knew Jekyll well. Dan was certain he did.

Don't fail me now, nerd, I need you, he thought, breathing deeply.

He strolled casually into the aisle, flicking the switch at the start of the row. The dim fluorescent lining the ceiling flickered on, revealing exactly what he was looking for. Exactly who he was looking for. Logan Jekyll.

Logan hissed at the sudden lights, sparking a chuckle from the sophomore stalking towards him. They looked up, blue-green eyes meeting grey.

There was an amused smirk adorning the boy's features. Logan did not mirror the expression, but they were nonetheless glad to see the sophomore.

"Didn't realize us Hyde's had made an impression on you. Not surprised, though, with how much you see my brother."

The one clad in blue blushed a deep red at the mention of their boyfriend. Daniel laughed at the sight, before offering out his hand. Logan looked down at the palm obscured by black, fingerless gloves, bewildered as to why the other was putting his hand out. Their confusion showed, causing Dan to roll his eyes and huff.

"Take my hand, Calculator Watch, I'm helping you up. That sorry excuse for carpeting is stale as f*ck, so we might as well go sit somewhere more comfortable."

Reliasition flashed before Logan's eyes as they muttered an, "Ah." Their hand took the other's gloved one, allowing the younger boy to hoist the older off of the matted, black carpet. They now were roughly at eye-level with each other, Logan with a solid height of 5'5" and Daniel being just a half or full inch shorter.

Daniel ran one hand through his slicked back black hair, shoving the other in one pocket of his faded leather jacket. The hand brushing the hair joined the other in the pocket opposite.

"Now, Jekyll, we have a pressing matter to discuss."

The two walked in silence for a while, Daniel leading them through the hallways. Suddenly, he took a left into a classroom, Logan following behind.

The classroom was abandoned, obviously having been used as a science room at one point. There were posters adorning two of the walls, saying things like "Eat, sleep, science, repeat."

"We need to talk about my brother."

Panic flashed in the eyes of Logan, who hid the emotion quickly. Dan wouldn't have noticed if Logan had not coughed directly afterwards, drawing attention to their still shell-shocked expression

The older of the two anxiously scuffed one of their NASA-themed Vans across the linoleum tiles, before looking back at the aforementioned boy.

"Go on."

"Well, he has refused to leave his room for the past 5 days, so I wanted to ask you for…"

He hesitated, but Logan pushed him on.

"For what? Spit it out, Hyde."

Daniel coughed, before regaining his composure.

"I need your help, Jeyll. I need your f*cking help. You're the only person I know that can do anything to get my brother out of his hiding space, and that's all I care about. I'm willing to put aside our indifferences if it helps my brother. Now, tell me, will you?"

"So, what am I supposed to do again?"

The two were walking to the apartment the Hyde brothers shared.

Daniel cleared his throat. "You're supposed to get that bastard to emerge from the cave he has made out of his room. This may be a habit of his, but it has gone on longer than normal, which concerns me."

Logan chuckled. "Sounds like him, alright. At least I now know for certain you and I are talking about the same person."

Dan burst out, "Finally! Someone understands how antisocial that motherf*cker can be!"

He gestured dramatically to emphasize the point.

The older's face morphed into a grin and they began to laugh.

"Hey!" they said, through their laughter, "That's my boyfriend you're talking about!"

Daniel snorted.

"He's my brother! I'm allowed to call him an antisocial bastard."

The pair's laughter tapered off as they continued their trek.

"May I ask how far away your apartment is?"

Daniel coughed, shifting a bit awkwardly.

"Um… it's still a few minutes away, but we're heading up on it."

Logan cocked an eyebrow.

"Y'all live in the downtown area?" they asked.

Dan stayed silent, but nodded.

"My apologies for pushing the subject."

The pair had arrived at the place Daniel pointed them towards, a run-down, dirty-looking, crowded apartment building. Dan stopped multiple times before they arrived, obviously completing a routine.

First, he stopped by an older woman, who was walking across the sparsely filled parking lot with a cart. In the cart, canned food resided, all of which had a small message written on them in Sharpie.

As he reached her, Daniel pressed a can of food he procured from the pocket of his black backpack into her hands.

Logan heard her murmur, "God bless you, honey. You and your brother stay safe, alright Danny?"

They saw Dan give a warm smile towards her. "We will. Stay safe, Mrs. Cunningham."

Secondly, he waved to a group of little boys running in the lot, kicking a ball around. The one who had the ball kicked it towards Daniel, grinning brightly.

"Mr. Hyde!" the other boys shouted, having just spotted the teenager.

"Now what have I always told y'all? Call me Dan."

"Okay, Mr. Dan!" the boys chorused.

Daniel rolled his eyes, ruffling the hair of one. "I give up, y'all obviously are gonna be respectful at all times."

He paused, before clearing his throat.

"That's a good thing, boys. Respect everyone, even if it doesn't seem like they deserve it. Just gotta respect everyone."

The last part was murmured.

The boys all nodded vigorously, before one shouted, "First one to the tree over there gets to pick teams!"

They all sprinted, leaving Dan and Logan to chuckle.

"Kids, right?"

Daniel gave a half-moon smile. "Yeah."

The last stop before the Hyde apartment was at the front desk of the lobby. It could barely be considered a lobby, more like a room with a desk shoved in the corner, some assorted furniture in the other, and stairs to the upper floors. Daniel stepped up to the desk, pulling a sheet of folded notebook paper out of his jacket pocket. He set it on the desk before turning around and smoothing the worn-leather of his jacket. He popped the collar, looking Logan in the eyes.

"Let's go, Jekyll."

"Apartment 7C, correct?"

The pair had just arrived at floor 7, both out of breath. Daniel hid it better, though.

"...Yes," he composed himself, looking at the junior with a look of annoyance.

They strolled down the hall, stopping just short of the end.

APARTMENT 7C read a small, dirty plaque mounted just above the doorknob.

Dan proccured an equally rusty key from his back jean pocket. He turned to Logan and said, "Let's go get my bastard of a brother out of his damn slump."

The pair walked into the mess of an apartment, Daniel shouting out a quick, "I'm home!" to ease the other Hyde's anxieties. Though, the shouting may be contradictory, as the older Hyde brother was not a fan of loud noises.

Daniel quickly dropped the key on a rickety table close by to the door. His combat boots were shed, as Logan kicked off his Vans.

Dan turned to Logan, directing him towards his brother.

"Down the hall, first door to the left. It'll be locked, so… here."

He grabbed a penny from the counter and threw it to Logan. They caught it with ease, studying the coin. They looked up, raising an eyebrow.

"Our locks are garbage, so this should get it easy. I would've done it myself earlier this week, but I believe in the sanctitiy of one's room. That is, until you're in there for almost a week."

Logan nodded, turning to follow the instructions given.

Dan stopped them.

"I don't think he wants to see me, so I'll stay back. Jekyll, get my brother. Please."

He sounded almost desperate, so Logan obliged.

They found the door indicated easily, as there was a galaxy-patterned poster in blues and purples attached to the door with Scotch tape. It just seemed… right.

They jangled the knob a bit, discovering it was unsurprisingly locked. Logan took the penny, shoved it into the flat indentation on the rusty knob, turning slowly and carefully. It worked. The door was now unlocked.

Logan turned the handle, quickly entering the dark room. They heard a hoarse voice, dull due to lack of use, emitate from the corner.

"L-eave m-e the hell alon-e."

A throat was cleared, a few coughs ringing through the silence of the room.

"I'm fine."

Logan huffed, rumbling for the light switch mounted on the wall next to them.

Their hand knocked the switch up, prompting a hiss from the figure huddled in a corner.

"I thought you would be happier to see me. I assume I was wrong."

The figure looked up, revealing messy purple hair, tired and unfocused eyes, and a miserable expression adorning the features Logan would always find beautiful.

"Stella?"

"It's me, nebulosa."

Logan looked around the room.

It was very… Virgil.

He had a few band posters on the walls, hoodies with patches and stitching and a worn leather-jacket (much like Daniel's) hanging in the closet alongside his school-issued letterman's jacket, a black guitar propped up nicely in a corner, a chair that looked similar to those in the small dining room set with his low-quality music stand, band folder, and the large, bulky case of a euphonium put aside carefully, and a few trophies and certificates earned for track, for musical achievements, or for academic accomplishments were set on the dresser or hung on the wall above it. Everything was in black and deep purple, with subtle hints of navy.

They liked the color scheme a lot, as it was quite pleasing to the eye.

Much better than their brother's mixture of bright and pastel blues, all light in tone. Patton really didn't know how to mix colors.

Logan's attention was diverted, however, from the room surrounding them when they heard sniffles from Virgil's corner.

"Hey, hey. What's wrong?"

Virgil wiped his eyes, acting as though he wasn't just crying.

"I'm just over-emotional, I guess. Damn it, peri-"

He stopped himself, a look of shock adorning his features. Logan looked upon him with a look of pity, sad-smile creeping onto their features.

"Is that why you've been isolating yourself, babe? Hey, hey, come here."

Virgil shook his head. "I'm fine," he said stubbornly.

Logan walked over to him, wrapping their arms around him.

"It's okay, stella. ...I love you."

Virgil gave a weak smile.

"I love you too, Logan."

[illegiblewords]

5 Questions for Writers!

               5 Questions for Writers                                                        

I got tagged by @kunstpause, it looked like fun so figured I’d go for it! THANKS TO KUNST!

Tagging @wouldyouliketoseemymask, @nilim, @azwoodbomb, @peregrineroad, @frostmantle, @autumnslance, @strangefellows, @redbud-tree, @nozomikei​, and @rivenroad​. No obligation to anyone but full permission to steal granted to anyone else who might like to. I’ll literally be delighted if you pick this up spontaneously and blame me as an excuse lmao.

1. Do you have a favorite character to write? Who and why?

2. Do you have a favorite trope to write? Or one you want to write?

3. Share your favorite description you’ve written?

4. Share your favorite dialogue you’ve written?

5. Scene you haven’t written, but want to?

I made long answers so have a cut!

1. Do you have a favorite character to write? Who and why?

It depends heavily on what fandom and where I am mentally, but I’ve figured out I tend to love writing angsty lameass dudes with blonde hair who are prone to doing really silly things despite taking themselves entirely too seriously. Honestly, I have a pretty huge track record at this point. Harvey Dent, Vexen, Dmitri, Lahabrea, probably more besides. Every one of them fits the right balance of lameass to angst. I like seeing them grow and find fulfillment as people and they are very very cute while still having an edge of badassery and cleverness. Also they’re funny.

Lahabrea is my favorite at the moment, and him reaching that position is an accomplishment considering how stiff the competition is in FFXIV. Loser tricked his way to the top while I was busy laughing at him.

2. Do you have a favorite trope to write? Or one you want to write?

I really, really, really love redemption arcs and people recovering from fucked up experiences. Latter case especially I love seeing characters in those situations successfully connect to the people and world around them, especially if they get to grow together with a partner. I also LOVE “hero saves the villain and villain takes it to heart”.

(You may be sensing a theme here haha.)

There are a few reason these concepts resonate with me, the first being I think they’re really hopeful, inspiring, and something I always wanted to see growing up but rarely did.

People fuck up in life. People get hurt in horrible ways that bring out the worst in them. Sometimes when that happens they dig themselves deeper and deeper into ugliness. The more a person’s bad side comes out, the more hopeless it can feel. And for mental illness especially I’ve found this can be a major issue.

Everyone makes mistakes and everyone has flaws, but I think there’s something really significant in seeing someone who has hit rock bottom, who can no longer imagine a way out, get offered a hand for support and take it. While recovery and redemption (not synonymous of course) ultimately need to be carried by the individual struggling, I really can’t understate how important it is to know in those situations that you’re not alone and someone believes in you.

I think a big part of why this theme is important to me is because mental illness, both genetic and due to trauma, is something unbelievably difficult and painful not only for the sufferer but those around them. The most mentally ill characters in fiction tend to be villains, and are disproportionately more likely to be suffering severe trauma. It frustrated me since I was pretty young to see over and over again cases where a mess could have been avoided if there was any support system in place.

Seeing compassion and connection given that kind of power means a lot to me, as does recognizing that villains are people before they are villains. It’s also very reassuring in the sense of “If this person fucked up that badly but still tried to better themself, I can too. And odds are I’m also worthy of love and compassion, even when my issues make things harder for others. I just have to keep working to improve.”

3. Share your favorite description you’ve written?

Eff.

Straight up I think I’ve written too much to have just one favorite description. It’s been a lot of years and I have hundreds of fics and I’m lame. So I’m going to put a few of my favs.

Anytime there’s a gap in block quotes it’s a different section within the same fic.

22 - A Batman Fanfic

He trembles beneath the weight of their expectations but his smile never fades flashes before cameras microphones under his nose crowds screaming questions bleeding together he answers like clockwork the District Attorney who must bring justice to us all paying tribute to false idols with golden hair and silver tongues we the people bow down in worship to this guardian of the law with words and deeds I believe in Harvey Dent so he swears in hallowed halls to bring prosperity to smite the wicked to damn the criminal with authority invested in him by Gotham’s dutiful children and himself.

***

On the precipice of victory we stand united our voice raised like a torch like a spear like a golden arrow against the beast of Lerna we are gods and monsters we are so much more than good and evil we are order in the court cauterizing corruption our head held high and mighty manifest in Harvey of the doubletalk Harvey who writes himself into the fabric of Gotham’s history Harvey who will not bend before the Roman we command you the unworthy we condemn you the unrighteous we will not be merciful and you will fall before our eyes.

***

I am Dionysus divided at the altar of Tyche O Fortuna O Fortuna give me guidance in the light of the moon you dance sacred silver dollar I see and obey the wax and wane your whim Wheel of Fortune the card I am dealt your servant your slave venerated puppet of flesh blessed is your wisdom bestowed upon I am your disciple wine-mad twisted chanting your word becomes law holy splendor against gavels desecrating your name defiant in denial extend your will through me and we shall strike the innocent enlighten the ignorant or spare them all for now.

Doppelganger - A Spider-Man Fanfic

She asks him to tell the story of himself, and like Scheherazade he begins anew each day.

As with many other things, this comparison is imperfect. The Ravencroft Institute is hardly a palace and neither of them could pass for royalty. She sits in a chair across from him over a carpet the color of sawdust. Her walls are lined with insects pinned on display. Not many butterflies, quite a few beetles. On a bookshelf Dmitri sees The Metamorphosis nestled between non-fiction texts more relevant to her profession. He thinks maybe it's an inside joke she has with herself, but doesn't say so.

He's received an invitation to call her Ashley instead of Dr. Kafka and doesn't know whether to accept. It might be to make him more comfortable. It might be something else. In her late fifties Kafka is built from delicate features, and he suspects the lines around her eyes mean they crinkle when she smiles. Short black hair, beige suit, only jewelry a pair of diamond stud earrings. Dmitri thinks she looks like a mother, but not his.

Her weight sinks into leather, darker than the floor. The couch he rests on matches. He finds himself leaning forward with one elbow propped on his thigh, the other locked in a cast suspended by his neck. There is something reassuringly empty in the gray fabric of his uniform, cheap and utilitarian and harmless. Dmitri’s wrists are thin, but then he's lost a lot of weight recently. He probably wouldn't be able to run as fast as he used to, but then circumstances would be the same anywhere he went so that really doesn't matter. His espionage days are over. His free arm is shedding in flakes but at least his skin is dry. Clean.

Dmitri no longer looks like anyone, unrecognizable to himself. A face without much in the way of edges, short nose. Weak chin. Mismatched eyes that shift between green and blue and brown and every other natural hue as moments pass into minutes pass into hours. Dark blotches interrupt his forehead and chin. They will peel in new patterns across a span of days. For the most part though, he is pale enough to trace veins where his body seems on the brink of spilling out.

It's been a while since he shaved his head and the hair that grows back is almost foreign. An unruly mess of black, blond, brunet, and red—strands as unlike in texture as anything else. The mask that made him Chameleon was white plastic embedded with hardware. Left deformed after trying to resemble others in flesh too many times, it allowed him to duplicate any face, any body he could remember. More than holograms, the most complete sensory illusions technology could perform.

Without it, Dmitri feels stripped.

When Kafka looks at him she’s receiving constant signals and missing none of them. The moments he needs to turn away, flat monosyllabic turns of phrase he chooses or resorts to or blankly accepts as his own. It doesn’t have to be this way. It isn’t comfortable and he doesn’t even trust it’s not calculated. But she’s going to notice no matter what he does at this point, and lying about it doesn’t do anyone much good. They both know why he’s here.

***

“We were poor. We worked hard to keep ourselves fed and clothed and less than an embarrassment. I probably could have worked harder. Mother,” he begins before stumbling over himself.

The story he’s telling isn’t hers. Whatever else she was, Sonya Smerdyakov wasn’t Mrs. Bates. He remembers her voice as the beginning of an echo, forever following someone else’s lead.

And so he followed her.

She was bright like a light going out. She was gentle without being kind. Her fingers were short and delicate and she touched him as little as possible. He found her attention in the way she avoided his name.

***

In the privacy of his room, Dmitri began talking to himself.

Celebrities. Teachers. Children. The flat, steady rhythm of his father’s voice. The words and intonations favored by mother. Sergei’s laugh. He lost himself in a fantasy of conversations, strode through space to mimic confidence he didn’t feel, flashed teeth in front of his mirror like other people.

Once, Dmitri raised his voice. And when his older brother came, eyebrows knitting in confusion, he found himself full of stammered explanations, hands fumbling at his elbows, stumbling over his tongue to make sense of it.

Just making stories for himself. A game with no ending. That was all.

***

He would have died in that town under the eyes of speechless parents. Dmitri remembers the confusion that took his peers when he found a job for people who spoke for themselves. They thought he might be growing up.

He could lie. And when he began he understood it would always be a game with no ending.

Dmitri lost himself in a fantasy of conversations with real people and a voice that didn’t belong to him.

They asked a stranger to sign their yearbooks without even realizing it.

And then he was eighteen, and he left to continue elsewhere.

He didn’t announce his departure.

From Umbra - A Final Fantasy XIV Fanfic

It was probably a dream.

Lukewarm water crept down his throat, nearly making him choke. A skin pressed to his lips, insistent. He coughed, and for the first time there was moisture enough for resistance.

The face that obscured his vision was shrouded in white cloth. Cenric found he couldn’t focus on it. Mismatched eyes, one light and the other dark. Impossible to say if blindness caused the inconsistency.

A string of shells dangled from the figure’s neck, rattling gently. The skin pulled back for a moment. Careful. Patient.

It returned only once he'd grown quiet. Cenric drank for as long as he could. Impossibly, a great deal remained by the time he relinquished his hold.

There wasn't enough of him present to say thank you. Cenric barely registered being dragged, being carried onto a cart. Awareness was altogether gone by the time they started to move.

***

…to the blessed traders who enrich our lives we’re bound to pay with our lives in turn aether born fire-walker your will sees us to rest we entrust ourselves to your sight forged of oschon for peace and prosperity and an ending you do not weep for father azeyma lives in the earth with you her fan brings no breeze the air is hot and thick and breathless your domain a silent place that does not stir have you forgotten the sound of your own voice have you known what it is to live and fail have you been alone do you know what it is to die how can a god pass judgment without being judged nald’thal lord of departures of flame and sand whose coin purse overflows who knows not what it means to starve what it means to spoil the legacy of one who loved you nald’thal who holds shells and souls and precious stones as if their worth were equal nald’thal who cannot know mercy without knowing pain who are you to weigh mortal affairs?

***

In darkness he unwinds the black bandana, steps first from his slops and then his kurta. Yuyudana has provided robes, which rest neatly on a small rock nearby. It crosses Cenric’s mind that the bones of his knees, his hips, his wrists, even his face have all started to protrude strangely. He looks less hyuran than before, maybe less than he ever has. Closer to something priests would exorcise than anyone deserving aid.

He wonders if this idea has occurred to them.

The water, when he advances, is cold. Goosebumps raise across his skin as slowly, gingerly, he wades in to his waist.

Cenric ducks under.

His hair is a long and tangled wreck. Being wet only disguises this slightly. It drifts past his neck, comes to float near the surface. Cenric holds himself in silence, eyes open, watching the silver scatter of light over stones and plants and fish. He remains for as long as he can bear.

His vision stings afterward. Gasping, he can’t tell if the cause is exposure or something else. For a time he simply waits, breathing hard through his nose, hunched so that his lips are partially submerged.

He thinks of nothing, pretends that this time instead of no future he has no past.

Only one moon remains. Maybe the sky aches for losing Dalamud, but better that than the blow which scarred Eorzea.

Stalemate - A Final Fantasy XIV Fanfic

He is presented with impressions of a horse, gaunt and fetid and decayed. Spreading ruin wheresoever it goes. Occasionally it sloughs off portions of its own flesh, which collect flies and blacken any land that surrounds. On its back rests a world, and alongside it does the herd struggle under their own burdens. But even beasts of such endurance have limits. Theirs are reached. When the rotten steed lags, its companions cannot afford to falter. Cannot turn. Without its ability to bear loads, this aberration has no place. Falling is inevitable.

Yet a heart still beats and lungs yet swell.

The Ascian shivers in his grasp, but does not attempt escape.

Here, something festers. Something bleeds. An old wound exacerbated over time.

Fevered, coated in a film of self-disgust, the core of Lahabrea convulses.

 Don’t…

 Don’t leave me like this…

***

Teeth and tongue. Lingering, wet, disembodied. Another finds his hip. Another his thigh, slipping beneath what clothes remain.

And another.

And another.

Warm, human, seeking. The Warrior tightens his hold, uses the moan crawling from his own chest as incentive. Barred by naught but fabric, driving close as he can manage. Lahabrea makes a strangled sound, his gasp crushed empty. A new mouth finds the dark knight’s ear in response.

These are parts of him no one dares touch, no one dares acknowledge. Slick now, attended with something like reverence. Supplication.

He resolves to fuck the Ascian senseless for this, presses his intent deep into Lahabrea’s aether. He is going to steal all his fancy words away. Make him squirm.

“I… I…” Tight, airless, like a plucked string. The Warrior feels Lahabrea’s voice reverberate against the roof of his mouth.

The feeling is difficult to describe. Cracked ice. A fraying rope. Such is Lahabrea's response, fumbling and disoriented as it is.

The Warrior lets go.

4. Share your favorite dialogue you’ve written?

Just imagine me weeping over here lmao. Same deal as before, I’VE DONE TOO MUCH SHIT.

Spare Change - A Batman Fanfic

"Stop," he gasps, "I wouldn’t—"

"You would Harvey. You did. It’s what makes you such a damn good instrument. You had to test yourself, prove that you’re not a real person.” He can feel fingers grinding against bone. His knees bend. Harvey kneels, shuddering, gazing up into the destruction of his own visage. Two-Face meets his eyes, blue on blue. “People are weak. People are ruled by what they want and don’t want. You’re capable of anything if the wind blows just right. You can’t even stop yourself.”

"I wouldn’t," he repeats, numbly.

"Did you," demands Two-Face, forcing him down further, "or did you not flip for their lives, Harvey Dent?"

"We…We aren’t the same people anymore."

"Of COURSE we’re the same people!" Another shove and he’s on the ground, Two-Face sitting on his chest, teeth bared, coin clenched tight between them. "Do you really think you can close your eyes and pretend you aren’t capable of these things? They’re alive," and there is something hideous in his expression, something certain, "because they were lucky. No other reason.”

"The coin is gone! Even if I wanted to listen to it—I can’t!”

"If you’re so sure," says Two-Face, "then how about you improvise?”

And with one motion the silver dollar is under his tongue, forced back so hard he feels himself gag and begin to choke before his eyes open.

The Inquisitor’s Letters - A Dragon Age: Inquisition Fanfic

To His Worship Inquisitor Mahanon Lavellan of Skyhold, My name is Isell from Amaranthine and I’m seven. My mum is helping but says I can send you all by myself. Thank you for fixing the hole in the sky and also the one by the dead man’s house. There were demons but they’re mostly gone now and people are going outside now. Da says Amaranthine has been through too much and can survive anything and he says you’re an elf like us and the Hero of Ferelden was an elf too. He says people used to think elves can’t be heroes but now they don’t. Have you met the Hero of Ferelden? Also I heard that even though you’re Dalish Andraste helped you in the Fade and that humans let you be in the Chantry because anyone Andraste likes must be a really good person. What’s Andraste like? The Chant says a lot but it’s different meeting someone I think. Also I think I saw you a little before but Mum wasn’t sure because you had a helmet on and we were far away and there were a lot of people but I bet it was you. Da wasn’t sure I should write because he says the Dalish don’t like city elves like we are but I think you must be nice and Mum agrees with me. I’ve been playing demon hunters with my brother Arrion (he’s just five still) and Da said templars are who fights demons usually and elves can’t be templars. People thought elves couldn’t be heroes and inquisitors though and we are so I bet I could too. Is it hard fighting demons? Da says they’re real scary but I’m not scared. Thank you for helping us and everyone and I hope you kill lots of demons. Sincerely, Isell U’venlan

From Umbra - A Final Fantasy XIV Fanfic

Cenric sits on the floor, draped in a white cotton tunic. It might have been snug on a Roegadyn but anyone else would find ample room. Behind him, Memesu stands on a cot holding shears. Gold earrings dangle on either side of her face.

“I fought at Carteneau, you know,” she mentions casually. There is a soft hsssssshhhh. Click.

Hair hits the floor. Coils.

He starts to shake his head, aborts the gesture partway through. Stills. “…you saw Bahamut?”

Memesu snorts. “I’m sure everyone this side of Hydaelyn saw Bahamut.” Click.

“That’s probably true,” he concedes. The dragon is what everyone knows, everyone remembers. He can't imagine the proximity. “What about the Warriors of Light?”

“Pff.” Gentle tugging at his scalp. Cenric does not open his eyes but leans into the motion. “I wasn’t of rank to see their like. Not that I’d remember. Stop moving.” Click.

Cenric hesitates.

“What do you remember, then?”

For a time, the only sound comes from blades and a thousand strands cut short. This lasts for several minutes. Cenric resigns himself to secrets.

Then, “I used to think I was special too. As a twin. My sister was Memeni. We studied together.”

 Was.

The exhale hits him slowly, quietly.

“She died?”

He can feel the shrug in her hip against his shoulder.

“It was Carteneau,” says Memesu. “Of course she died.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why?” Click. “It had nothing too do with you. If you keep trying to claim responsibility for every misfortune you find, you’re going to get self-important.”

Cenric only grunts, quiet and non-committal.

 Click.

 Click.

 Click.

“Carteneu was so much worse than people remember. Only four years later and already we hurry to dispose of details.” There is a hard undercurrent to Memesu’s voice, but what contact she makes remains light. Careful. “I remember the arcanist from Limsa who didn’t dodge a magitek canon in time. Miqo’te. Spells come faster in that discipline, so there’s less stress on distance than thaumaturgy. Girl got careless.” Click. “The mess smelled like rotten eggs and charcoal. Her face was… melted.” Click. “I try not to look in those situations. They only make casting harder. But she was so close.”

Cenric doesn’t move. Doesn’t say a word.

Memesu continues. “One of our own gladiators, an Ala Mhigan, took to mutilating any pureblooded Garleans he could catch. The man had a string of eyes hanging around his neck. I’m pretty sure one enemy officer wet himself before he started to beg. Not that it particularly mattered.”

 Click.

“Memeni… didn’t anticipate what she was getting herself into. She saw magic as a way of being useful to craftsmen. My focus has always been theoretical. Right side.” Startled, Cenric lets her guide his jaw to get a better view of his profile. Click. Click. “Meni used to think I was a priss. She preferred to develop magitek kettles alongside alchemists. See if she could find a way to capture light like the Mhachi did. She still enjoyed fishing when she could, even though it smelled awful. Never outgrew the braids she wore growing up. ” Memesu sighs. “…just understand she died afraid, in pain, and with things left undone. My sister didn’t even resemble herself at the end.”

Cenric is very still. Thinks carefully.

“…I wish it could have gone differently,” he says at last.

Memesu’s mouth slides up in a small, crooked smile. She tousles the neat, ear-length hair before her. “So do I.”

Eclipse - A Final Fantasy XIV Fanfic

It ends at Elidibus’ untimely arrival.

“Lord Zodiark,” he says, so smoothly that were he not searching for it that the anger would be undetectable, “appreciates your attentions.”  His gaze does not waver from Lahabrea as he speaks. “But there is work to be done and I’m afraid there are words I would have with your Speaker.”

They disperse.

Nabriales, careful and curious, folds himself out of sight beyond the chamber then makes his way back to its edge.

Lahabrea, farthest from the exit, attempts to steal some small dignity. Turns to face Elidibus.

The Emissary makes him wait. Expressionless red masks matched by those who wear them.

Then, with more speed and force than typical for his demeanor, the Emissary closes distance to trap his colleague against the wall.

“It was my error,” hisses Elidibus, leaning in, “to have stayed silent upon rescuing you. A mistake I will remedy now, so we can be on no uncertain terms.”

Lahabrea lowers his eyes. Nabriales notes that despite the dread they all share of such reprimands, the man does not brace.

“You know as well as I that these words offer less succor to our Lord than action,” continues Elidibus, his fury quiet and no less sharp for that, “just as we both know your thoughtless action is the cause of repeated missteps these past centuries. Make no mistake—for all the strides you’ve made, your fixation and your impatience have cost the rest of us considerable time.”

Silence.

“Do you truly think this is your best service to Him?” asks Elidibus. “To us? Compromising your ability to fill the hours? Even Emet-Selch agrees these displays are disgraceful. You have ever borne them poorly, but being a 'paragon among paragons' naturally you continue ignoring your own better judgment with ours to continue this exercise in futility. Idiot.”

A twitch of the head. Almost a flinch.

It is one of few moments Nabriales has seen the Emissary express his anger so openly. Even after the Thirteenth fell to Igeyorhm’s error, Elidibus allowed the Angel of Truth to lead and voiced his own reproach with a more typical icy demeanor. Scathing though it was.

“I can be of use,” says Lahabrea softly. “Only three of us remain, and I—“

“You,” Elidibus snaps, “cannot follow the most simple instructions for the good of us all. Not for Him, not for Amaurot, not even for yourself. Your pride has made you not simply an embarrassment but a liability.”

Neither man speaks for several moments after that.

And then, at length, Elidibus exhales.

Says the Speaker’s name.

Receives his attention.

“What would you have me do?” the Emissary asks. His tone now is almost weary. “Clearly it would be unreasonable to trust you’d simply listen. Must I mind you like a child?” This is what breaks Lahabrea’s composure.

Knowing the man’s temper, Nabriales had expected him to lash out. Even on the back foot their orator is perfectly capable of defending himself from insults.

Instead, he embraces Elidibus fiercely—face just within the bounds of his pauldrons. Jaw locked shut firmly enough to hurt. Expression downcast.

Elidibus remains perfectly still at first. In the absence of conversation it is possible to hear the rush of Lahabrea’s breathing. Only through the nose, withheld briefly between each inhale as if that offers some means to steady himself.

As if that would make it better.

Tentatively, Elidibus holds him back. Lahabrea's fingers contract, and though he remains upright when his knees begin to give it is the Emissary who helps him kneel.

“Easy,” he murmurs, and Lahabrea removes one hand to run it reflexively over his face—coming against the mask.

Nabriales finds himself staring, searching. A puzzle with missing pieces whose image he may yet divine

“It was not,” says Lahabrea roughly, “my intention to…”

Elidibus reaches beneath the other man’s cowl, finds the hair and skin beneath. Draws him in once more.

Naught that would be shared with or among the Sundered. Nothing so personal as that.

Nabriales has worn his own share of flesh. Bedded lovers, adopted companions and families of vessels to fulfill a purpose. Passable enough, perhaps, but never for him. Not in truth.

It’s as if he looks upon two strangers.

Parched - A Final Fantasy XIV Fanfic

The door closes behind them. Lahabrea, projecting his preferred likeness over the host, waits on a couch within.

It’s admittedly a surreal sight. Ishgardian finery with its gilded edges, its elaborate wallpapers and marble floors. A collection of creams and blues and greens, fine furniture with velvet seat cushions. All ostentatious in the extreme… and then Lahabrea. Masked and cowled. Pouring three glasses of La Noscean arrack.

Elidibus freezes, and though none of them can see his eyes the confusion is clear enough.

“What is this?”

“Your turn,” says Emet-Selch, lightly but less flippant than he might have been.

Lahabrea proffers a cup from where he sits.

Elidibus neither moves nor speaks.

Emet-Selch approaches. Takes the drink. Presses it carefully into the other man’s hand.

“Don’t think,” he says smoothly,” that I won’t let you drop it.”

Mercifully, Elidibus has a good grip.

“Sit,” says Lahabrea, gesturing with his own glass to the sofa across from him.

Elidibus sits.

Emet-Selch sits.

Takes his own glass, perhaps a bit pointedly.

Elidibus’ mouth is pressed tight. It opens briefly, as if to speak. Shuts again.

“Explain,” the Emissary manages eventually.

Lahabrea meets his co-conspirator’s eye. Downs his arrack in a single attempt.

It is a long attempt.

It lasts several moments.

The other Ascians watch.

“Elidibus,” says Emet-Selch as Lahabrea endeavors to catch his breath in the aftermath, “Lahabrea and I are concerned that you may be experiencing some difficulties in recent years.”

“I’m fine,” replies Elidibus coldly. Holding his drink. “Why did you think this necessary?”

“Because—“ wheezes Lahabrea.

“Because you’re practically a mammet,” says Emet-Selch, picking up Lahabrea’s glass. Moving it just out of reach. “Truly. It’s been what, two hundred years? Three? Neither of us can remember the last time you so much as spoke of matters unrelated to the Rejoining.”

Lahabrea reaches. Elidibus pours his arrack into the other man’s glass before nudging it back toward him.

Elidibus makes eye contact with Emet-Selch.

“I remain focused,” he says evenly. “Nothing more.”

Emet-Selch gestures to the bottle.

Elidibus sighs.

Refills his own glass.

“There are matters I must attend myself. As is the case with each of you.”

“Undoubtedly,” replies Lahabrea more evenly. “But with few exceptions, you haven’t done so.”

A hard stare from behind the mask.

“What would you have me do? I can’t very well take time off.”

Emet-Selch sips.

“A negligible amount of time,” he says, “taken sparingly, may be forgivable.”

5. Scene you haven’t written, but want to?

Lmao see this is a plus side/minus side deal. Minus side, it’s being asked just before I embark on a MASSIVE ASS FANFIC. And I basically am excited for all of it. Plus side, there are things I refuse to spoil.

So... putting it vaguely, in no particular order:

- Lahabrea and Hydaelyn meet a second time after Praetorium.

- Moonfire Faire

- Thancred

- Conversations over mulled wine

- Silvertear Lake

Some of these are sex scenes. Most aren’t. But I am very hyped.

[nestofstraightlines]

The Dæmon-Cages

I went to a preview screening of episode six of His Dark Materials,’ The Daemon Cages’, followed by a Q&A with the senior creative last night.

I’m not even going to give broad expectation spoilers for the episode above the cut (I’ll include a bit right at the end under the cut just giving a broad overview of whether I liked it or not).

As for the Q&A, it was very interesting.

The team were asked several questions (by a very positive audience) about themes and research; things like ‘how did you decide which of the many themes to focus on? Did you go back to the inspirational material of the books such as Milton and Blake?’ and I would characterise the answers as a slightly defensive ‘we just went back to the book’.

Call it confirmation bias, but for me that tallies with what I’ve perceived of the writing/creating flaws of the series.

Because what does that mean?

I’ve been going back to the book for 22 years now and unpacking more depths and more angles. It really did feel like there was a rejection from Thorne and series Exec Producer Jane Trantor that adaptation would involve unpacking something and repacking it into your own storytelling form.

Their tone was much more enthusiastic when it came to discussing detail: they talked about wanting to know exactly what every moment of Lyra’s day at Jordan would be, what she would do for breakfast etc. And that’s got merits; it can suggest nice images (I’m guessing this is where the idea of Roger bringing Lyra breakfast every morning comes from).

But for me, in general, it’s an approach that fits badly with Pullman as a source material. Pullman writes intuitively, discovering the story as he writes is.

At one point in Northern Lights he uses the metaphor for reading the Alethiometer that it is like climbing down a ladder in the dark, and trusting that, though you can’t see the next step, it is there. I believe that he was describing his writing process there too.

He writes indirectly, using negative space to let the reader infer a fact or an idea. For example, with daemons. We are told a little and shown a lot. Pullman is showing himself the story too.

I don’t believe Pullman knew when he was writing Northern Lights what Lyra would do for her breakfast every morning. But if the story had wanted to contain a scene set during her breakfast, he would have known.

And okay, different writing processes, whatever. But actually it is fundamental to the text and I think where the problems have crept in.

Genre storytelling can be broken up into two rough camps: character-led and ideas-led. The senior creatives of this programme, almost inevitably coming from a British TV background, fall into the wrong one - character-led.

Now both camps contain both things: if I call a story idea/s-led it’s not saying its characters aren’t important and good or vice versa. It’s about which is the ultimate point o fthe story.

For instance, Harry Potter is, for me, character-led. Its fantasy trappings are rather unpacked or picturesque dressing used to heighten basically mundane human interpersonal drama. Yeah, it’s good versus evil, acceptance versus discrimination, but those topics aren’t explored, they’re not a priority, they’re a situation to throw the characters into.

Where Thorne has worked in genre shows before, the same can be said. There is a specific situation, even a mission statement, but these are not shows constructed around telling an idea as story, but rather focusing on interpersonal drama. The premises are settings, real or imagined, which are already neatly packaged for the audience. They’re not about inventing fantasy, they are about using it to tell small-scale human dramas. Events serve nothing larger than character and relationship drama.

In Pullman’s His Dark Materials, character and relationship drama are a but not the greatest priority of the series, they are in service to broader ideas and themes.

That’s the other camp of genre fiction, where the fantasy is not a static setting used to heighten charater stuff, but an active agent used to tell a particular story.

Calling this camp ideas-led sounds like its an inherently grand sort of a category, and His Dark Materials is of course an example that is grand and important and epic and so on. But for a show to be ideas-focused, it doesn’t have to be a Big Important Theme with Big Important Execution.

Some ideas are ‘what is it to be human?’, some ideas are simply ‘whodunnit?’ or ‘what if a monster got into your house?’

Anyway.

Pullman’s HDM is ideas-led. He creates a world (and later worlds) of things we need to pay attention to. This is not Harry Potter – school, castle, wizards, you pretty much got it – this is unconstructed fantasy. And it’s not constructed for picturesque ends either. Pullman isn’t inventing this stuff because it’s independently cool or pleasing or whatever, or at least not only that. He is creating it to express a set of ideas through the medium of a story.

So story and world are perfectly bound together. And he understands the difference between convincing a reader and making your world CinemaSins-proof. It’s a story, not a world.

The series is over-invested in the details; over-invested in the tools, and misses what they are used to build in the book/s. Sometimes it even breaks what they are meant to build.

I think the failure of daemons is the biggest casualty of this.

At the screening the creatives talked about the challenge there, the unprecedented challenge of making a show in which every human character is accompanied by a unique CGI creation. They mentioned the impossible budget challenge this presented as well as the challenges in visual storytelling and presentation. I.e. even if one can afford to put a whole crowds of daemons in every wide shot it looks impossibly cluttered and like Doctor Doolittle.

And yes, of course, but it baffles – and frankly annoys – me that the imagination seemed to stop there. Or rather, the understanding of storytelling stopped there.

They talked about having spitballed pragmatic adjustments to daemons, such as making them be semi-invisible, flicking in and out of visibility. But in the end they ‘wanted to stay true to the book/s’. Again, I think we’re looking at a profound lack of understanding of what ‘true to the book’ even means.

Creatives more suited to the material would have found creativity borne of limitation. They would have had a deep and confident enough understanding of the idea they were dealing with to find the solutions from within their own storytelling field, to create daemons for screen in a way which worked.

It feels like this teams’ reaction to the challenge has been ‘to do our best and tell people they don’t understaaand it’s haaard when they complain we haven’t got it right’.

I’m sorry if that sounds harsh. But they took on this challenge and there’s a little hubris in that. I’m not sure what made them feel they were the people for the job here, but they’ve failed to convince me of that fact.

People have been telling fantastical and profound stories on screen for a long time before CGI became so photorealistic. And I think CGI has both a limiting effect on the imagination, and it encourages directors and writers with a limited sense of visual storytelling to imagine that they are equipped to deal with stories that they perhaps aren’t, because they can unthinkingly assign fantasy ideas to the ‘literalist CGI’ box.

I just get the feeling that none of the head creatives, as a mix of character-focused storytellers and details-people, really get what daemons are in a storytelling sense.

They mentioned that when they had conversations with Pullman, he advised them not to focus on daemons, that he novel included them only when they were important. And that’s true, and I can’t put words in Pullman’s mouth, but it’s my belief the TV series team misunderstood what he was getting at, and I’m basing that on stuff Pullman has said elsewhere (such as in his essays and speeches collected in Daemon voices) as well as my own reading of the book/s.

Daemons don’t appear important but the story is carefully constructed, without ever seeming to be on the surface, to explore the idea of the daemon.

It’s a practical issue too. You employ people to write and direct this stuff who are used to stories made up of human characters interacting in rooms, and they’re going to lack experience in showing stuff which is vital to this story, which includes the relationship between the human heroine and her shape-shifting animal-shaped companion, a giant talking polar bear, a city in the Aurora Boreales, fights with demons during a hot-air balloon fight and so on.

A lot of the stuff that matter in HDM isn’t just mundane drama in fantastical settings. The most vital emotional scenes include a girl interaction with a giant talking solar bear; the threat tot he bond between a person and their shape-shifting soul-manifestation etc

 The human/daemon relationship is like a lot of things at different times and in different ways: human/animal, siblings, friends, parent/child etc. But it’s not a mundane human relationship clothed in light fantasy disguise. It's an idea and thus needs careful building for screen just as it did on the page.

Russell Dodgson, the head of VFX on behalf of Framestore for the series, talked about how fans always focus on daemons while there are so many more ideas in the book. ‘People love talking animals, I guess.’ He joked.

And OK, he was being off-the-cuff and deliberately glib, and in any case he’s not the writer and thereby not responsible for getting the overall imagining of daemons for this series right. But he’s so off the mark here in a way which helpfully sums up the misses of this team.

Daemons are not talking animals in the book and that is what the series has rendered them as through this lack of understanding that they amount to more than an emptily whimsical note.

EXPECTATION SPOILERS FOR THE DAEMON-CAGES:

... Having said all that; a really great episode! Best episode of the series yet.

It benefits from coming from a part of the book which is perfect for an episode of TV: it is very dramatic and climactic, while also being something of a great self-contained story in form. Lyra goes into a situation with very clear parameters of tension, fears, goals and a ticking clock. The production plays on all of those very strongly.

The weakest element of the episode is predictable given what the weakness element of the adaptation has been all along: daemons of course. As with last week my feeling is that while the show is so far from doing justice to certain ideas and moments it might as well be on a different continent, it finds enough strengths in other areas to stop the bottom dropping out of the episode.

The production design is absolutely incredible. It’s the boldest imaginative leap from the book so far. The staging of some of the events plays out differently due to a differently imagined Bolvangar and I adore the new approach. Again, I’ll have more to say when the episode has aired. I can’t wait to get into the detail of this!

[darrowsrising]

YA vs. NA vs. Adult

Hey there! I wanted to share some (hopefully) fun facts about the book market in the US, and maybe shed some light on why ppl find the original RR trilogy in the YA section. BTW I hope none of this comes across as preachy - I’m trying to get a YA book published myself and I’ve done a lot of industry research and just wanted to share some stuff. 

In the US, “New Adult” never really took off as a category except in romance, with Sarah J. Maas’s books being the biggest success (this is all according to interviews and articles I’ve read from literary agents and authors). I’ve heard that in Australia New Adult really took off so I wouldn’t be surprised if it was a more well known category in other countries? I wish it was a category here, and if it was I def think the original RR trilogy would be New Adult. 

Anyway, because New Adult never really took off in the US most bookstores don’t have a section labeled “New Adult.” So then the choice becomes, do you shelve RR in YA or Adult? 

I for sure think the new books have an adult ~ vibe ~ and belong in the Adult section (and that’s usually where I see them). But as for the original trilogy? I think that’s up for debate. 

YA Author Alexa Donne has a really interesting video on youtube called What Counts as YA Fiction? She points to some hallmarks of YA, one of them being an immediacy to the writing; you feel like you are there with the character and there’s lots of big emotions. I think RR fits that. In fact it was one of the things I loved about the books. Another big YA theme is the MC finding their place in the world, pushing back against conventions and establishing their identity. I think that was a big theme in the original trilogy. Also everyone was looking for the next Hunger Games at the time, and I think marketing ppl saw that RR was on the line between YA and Adult and pushed it toward YA since that was the better market and a book marketed as YA would probably sell better. 

Honestly, I’ve heard a bunch of different definition of what’s YA so I think it’s a little subjective. I certainly understand your point about violence and other more mature themes in the book and I probably wouldn’t recommend it to somebody say, 12 and under? But I think the original trilogy would be totally fine for most teens. 

You brought up movie ratings, and one interesting thing about those here in the US is that you can get away with a lot of violence before you get an R rating. For example, The Dark Night Rises, the batman movie where a guy gets lobotomized with a pencil and the villain has two ppl fight to the death with baseball bats, was rated PG13. Taken, where girls are abducted and raped, was rated PG13. It’s usually full nudity and swear words that get you an R rating. I think those standards are really backward, but the point is that teens aren’t strangers to violence, especially in media. 

I found a 2014 blog post on something called teenreads written by PB himself where he said RR was both a YA and adult novel, lol. So maybe that’s the answer. 

I’ve heard a lot of people debate whether the original RR trilogy is YA or not and ultimately I’m not sure why it matters. The one thing that bothers me is when people say that RR is essentially too good to be a YA novel. Nobody on this site has suggested that but I’ve heard others make that point. It bothers be because I think a lot of people who aren’t familiar with YA think it’s all girl books about romance and vampires. In fact, YA science fiction is struggling right now because publishers think young women don’t like science fiction. So maybe I want RR to be YA to prove that a lot of young women do like science fiction and we’d like more of it, please. 

Sorry, I know I’ve rambled. I hope some of this was interesting! 

Thank you for your imput! It really is interesting. Here are some things I figured out as a reader of fiction in general.

Sarah J. Maas writes YA. That's what it is marketed as in the US and UK. That's why it comes with warnings for mature themes (sex). She announced that she's moving to NA for future books - Crescent City. My book provider imports books from the UK and they market it like they are on the british market. And, if I am not mistaken, she won awards for YA.

I understand that YA has a very bad reputation these days, but it's not only from the outside, but also from the outside. The YA fandom is toxic. There is no doubt about it. They (in general) have the highest amout of purity police with a checkmarking list of certain things that must be handled in the books a certain way, otherwise is trash.

I totally understand and hate that YA is considered 'hot vampires for girls', I hate it with a passion. It is as condescending as the romanian translator who was invited to meet Pierce Brown at an event and her after thoughts where that his books has many young female fans and now that she has met him in person she knows why. Which is code for 'the guy' s hot so there you have it'.

Bitch, I stood front row at that event because my love for this series and Darrow is beyond human understanding! Pierce could look like Smaug and I'd still sit front row. Because I freaking love every aspect of it, sci-fi especially.

But getting back to the subject at hand, if you looked at the crowds when Pierce Brown visited Romania, I would too market the series as YA.

I know perfectly well that teens from 13 to 19 can handle violence well and understand complex themes and question things that happen in the real life. I don't doubt their intelligence in the least. I was like 17 when I read the RR trilogy, i'm not a hypocrite.

The reason I don't wany it piled with YA is because it gets critiqued to YA standards. And the YA fandom has the worst standards. They have so many and they must be habdled in certian ways and lo and behold this trilogy gets trashed because it's all the worst things you can possibly imagine, but still better than the new trilogy.

The Red Rising Trilogy is indeed faster paced and more violent than most of the YA books I have read. So if it's indeed too much for YA, I think it's fair for it to be considered NA. The themes are handled in more intense ways than you usually find in YA. The fluff and comfort, the moments for breathing are rare and even if the protagonist just sits somewhere, his emotions are at war while he remains cold on the outside, barely keeping it together. The rest is survival, war, violence of all types, danger at every step. It's never stoping, just slowing it down for the briefest of moments. And I think that makes the very shallow boundaries between YA and NA - the way you handle the themes.

The Iron Gold Trilogy is indeed more in tone with the likes of A Song of Ice and Fire or Broken Empire. And I think the sault wasn't that big from RR to IG. It basically moved from NA to Adult.

I can agree with Pierce Brown that up to a point the initial trilogy is YA and Adult. I mean...let's not fool ourselves, kids and adults alike were all over the Harry Potter books. So I understand why he would say that. There were middle schoolers to the Meet and Greet I went to. Kids love sci-fi and battles and stuff.

Also, I don't know what to say about 'immediacy of the writing' as being hallmark YA. I have read NA and Adult that has that. And 'protagonists finding their identity and establishing themselves and pushing conventional boundaries' are themes in A Song of Ice and Fire as well.

But thing is there are certain boundaries I consider the way the themes are handled.

So... that and the fact that there are triggering things that easily make the NA mark makes me believe that the Red Rising Trilogy should be marketed as NA.

Again, it's not only the fandom and the attitudes towards 'impurity', but also the way the themes are handled. Which is not a clear delimitation, because as you said it, it's subjective.

Thank you for the info you provided, very helpful. Good luvk with your book and never shy away from rambling to me, I love it!

[dragonhrte]

Destiny? Chapter Four: Anywhere But Here

 Author's Note

This is one of my first fan fiction series. Also dark/ angsty themes, there's a lot of crap that goes down. Thank you so much for giving this work a read! Quick disclaimer, for all intents and purposes MHA/BNHA are not mine they do not belong to me. The manga and anime have inspired me to write this fiction and dialogue as well as events are given credit to the beautiful people who have blessed us with this series. Aside from standard story line events this work is mine.

Word Count: 1,834

Please note that

*abc* is a sound effect

'abc' is internal thoughts of whomever

"abc" is dialogue

(abc) is a side note from yours truly ;)

~Love, DragonHearte

I approach the school's gates the next day, or where the gates are supposed to be. There's a swarm of people surrounding them though, it'll be hard to get through. I wonder, 'What is all the excitement about?' I manage to push myself through to the gates. My attempt to break through the crowd was hindered by the elbows thrown and other people shoving through the mass of people. I pass by the currently occupied reporters, I'm in the homestretch when a reporter stops right in front of me, but to interview a different kid. I stand on my tip-toes and see, 'Oh, it's Bakugo.' I think to myself, pleasantly surprised to see him coming to school early. 'He seems the type to get to school late, he's got the whole delinquent vibe going on...' My thoughts are interrupted by the abrupt stop in what the reporter was asking. She then says, "You're the kid from the sludge villain incident!"

"BUZZ OFF!" is his response and storms away without answering her.

'The sludge villain incident? What could she possibly mean by that?' I have this tendency to look at my feet while I walk and think, so, I end up bumping into none other than the already ticked off Bakugo.

"Hey watch where you're walking!" He exclaims while continuing walking to the building.

"Sor-" The rest of the word dies on my lips as when I notice his presence is no longer there. I feel a flare of heat at my hip, and stare at his back for a second too long before continuing on my way to homeroom. I set my books down after getting to my seat, Mr. Aizawa jumps straight into things.

"I've seen the results from yesterday's exercise, grade-wise and All Might's evaluations. First off, Bakugo, you acted extremely childish, grow up."

Surprisingly, Bakugo responds with a simple and resigned, "Okay."

I raise my eyebrows at his tame response, it's been only two days since I've first encountered him, and even I can tell he was lacking in his usually explosive nature. I'm too caught up in my observation to hear what Mr. Aizawa said about Midoriya afterwards. Midoriya responds with a quick and determined, "Okay!"

Mr. Aizawa moves on and says, "We'll be voting on your class's president today."

All the kids in the class are jumping out of their seats and waving their hands wildly in the air. 'In my previous school, it was always a struggle to get students to volunteer for the class president role. Why's everyone so excited over such a normal classroom duty?' I think this to myself and turn to Midoriya who is also raising his hand and ask, "Why is everyone so excited to be elected to do something so boring?"

He says, "In normal schools, you would be right. But here, the class president gets to basically lead the class. Which paves the way for a top hero in the making."

A shout breaks through the chorus of voices, "Be quiet!"

Everyone stops their actions and turns to the source of the voice, Ida, who then says, "Since we are going to be voting in a Democratic fashion, it makes sense to also elect the class president through this method. Self-nominated individuals will be voted on through a ballot-like system. I propose anonymous votes as well."

"This is a classroom, not Congress!" Someone yells in response to Ida's statements.

Ida looks over at Mr. Aizawa and asks, "Will my proposal be accepted?"

Mr. Aizawa nods his head while getting into a yellow sleeping bag, the many bags under his eyes an indication of his ever-present exhaustion. "It doesn't matter to me how you figure it out among yourselves, as long as you decide before the period ends."

The class goes with Ida's idea, and the results are written on the board. The names and number of votes written side-by-side.

"I got three votes?" Midoriya says, clearly confused.

"I only got one vote?! Why did none of you extras vote for me?!" Bakugo exclaims, looking at the different members of his friend group. They respond to his question by avoiding eye contact, Kaminari can be heard saying loudly, "Wow, would you look at the tiles on the floor? They're so glossy. I can't seem to direct my attention towards anything but these super shiny tiles..."

A look of murder passes over Bakugo's face that seems to say, "Just wait until we're at the lunch table, you will hear an earful from me!"

Mr. Aizawa takes a look at the board and says, "Based on the votes, Midoriya will be class president with his three votes, and Yaoyorozu will be your class vice president with her two votes."

At lunch, I am sitting at the table in the corner. Still not alone, because the other classmates: Kirishima, Kaminari, Sero, and Ashido have chosen to invade my lonesome table. Bakugo storms over to us with his ever-present, sour expression on his face, and plops himself onto a seat at the table. I immediately lower my head, and look down at the food on my plate, as I push it around on my plate I look at him through my lashes. I quietly observe while Bakugo starts to give the rest of the group a piece of his mind.

They simply look at one another, silent conversations passing in mere glances at each other. After a few moments of silence, Sero turns pleading eyes to me and asks, "Did you vote for him Schaffer?"

I don't respond, instead I look up from my plate and I notice his eye twitch in annoyance, so I stick my tongue out at him in return. I watch as Bakugo's face twists into more than a tad-bit of annoyance, and then get up from the table to dump my trash in the garbage. On my way there I say to myself, 'I couldn't lie to them, but I also don't want to feed his already large ego.' I shake my head at my childish behavior, the same childish behavior I had just called Bakugo out on. I head back to the lunch table.

*Vree*

There are siren sounds going off and an announcement through the loudspeakers tells us there is a level 3 breach of security. All of the students start to panic and head for the hallways and any other available paths to an exit. I stand frozen in panic and confusion for a fraction of a second, and then weave through the jumble of students in the direction of Ida. 'He seems like a leader-type. The class listens to him, maybe he knows what's going on?' I think to myself and then yell out my question to Ida, "Do you have any idea as to what a level 3 breach of security is?"

When I reach him, he says, "An upperclassmen just informed me that it means someone has broken into the building. Which is a rare occurrence due to the barrier around the school."

I nod my head and stay close to him as we move with the ocean of bodies into the hallway. I mutter to myself, "We need to figure out who exactly is the cause of the breach, and get everyone's attention. If we can look through that window over there, someone could probably identify the perpetrator...." I look at Ida and say, "Do you think you can-"

"I heard what you were muttering to yourself, and yes."

I watch Ida as he lets the crowd direct him toward the window, with his face partially squished against the glass I barely hear him over the clamoring voices of the students as they try to exit the building.

"It's the press from this morning! They're on the lawn outside!"

*Vree*

Another cycle of the sirens can be heard throughout the school, a frantic student body ensues. We try to calm them down with the newfound knowledge, but no one's listening they're all too caught up in the nearly impossible breach in security. I yell to Ida, "They're not listening! We need to think of a way to draw their attention to you!"

"What do you have in mind?!"

I look around the hallway frantically, going through all the possible options and then I spot the exit sign above the door, and then I yell to Ida, "I have an idea! Can you find a way to get over there?"

I point to the exit sign above the door, Ida nods his head. He says something to Uraraka, who then extends her hand. When their hands touch, Ida kicks off the floor and is sent floating up in the air. He quickly reaches down to the bottom of his uniform pants and pulls them up and over his ... calves. There are engine-like exhausts coming out of his calves. He pushes himself towards the exit sign from off the wall and shouts something out. I watch with amazement as he soars through the air, somersaulting a few times before grabbing onto a pipe above the sign attached to the wall, I nod impressed at his execution of the plan. Ida turns to the mass of now confused students, and proceeds to tell them the whole situation. Everyone has calmed down at this point and we are able to return to our regularly scheduled class. The police were called and the reporters were driven away. Midoriya and Yaoyorozu are standing in the front of the class to lead in the selection of the other student council members. Midoriya, a bundle of nerves says, "Instead of picking the other members now, I would like to hand the role of class president over to Ida. He showed excellent leadership in a situation where it was needed most."

My classmates chime in, saying they agree with Midoriya. We all look over at Mr. Aizawa for confirmation, he stares blankly ahead and states, "Whatever you choose doesn't matter to me, as long as it gets taken care of today."

Ida stands up while looking over at me and pauses, Bakugo turns his head to look at me slightly, and trying to appear uninterested, but he's curious nonetheless.

Ida, with conflicting emotions on his face, says, "I will..." that's when I nod my head yes, paired with an encouraging smile. I know where he's going with this, he wants to me to give him permission to be class president. Even though it's only been a couple of days, I can tell Ida is very honor-bound. He doesn't think it's okay for him to take credit for my initial plan, but he also wants to be a leader. I mouth to him, "I don't want it, go ahead."

The other students start to give Ida words of encouragement, sensing a bit of hesitation at the end of his acceptance. I look over at Bakugo, he simply quirks his eyebrow up and turns his head to fully facing the front of the classroom again.

Chapter Five: Out There

[thotyssey]

On Point With: Magdalena Femanon

Sporting club looks that are equal parts darkly dramatic and campy, this Lady of the Haus of Femanon strikes a towering, memorable figure as she vamps across the dancefloor on stilts. An actress of stage and screen and a performance artist across all media, there are few people in the city’s nightlife more compelling than Magdalena Borlando, better known on the scene as the incomparable Magdalena Femanon.

Thotyssey: Thanks for talking to us today, Magdalena! So, crap, it's already the second week of August... how's your summer been so far?

Magdalena Femanon: Hello! Yes, summer’s definitely ending; however, the next and last few weeks will definitely be the most exciting for me out of the season. But so far, it's been pretty solid. Got to film a couple projects, see one of them premiere at a distinguished film festival, and Pride was wild this year. Working hard, playing harder.

Exciting! You're an actor, a visual and performance artist, a makeup artist, a nightlife personality.... I'm sure there's even more to add here, but when somebody asks that terrible question "So, what do you do?" how do you usually respond?

I typically respond with "actor and performance artist." I think those two really encompass all I do and include the other tools I use such as makeup.

Did you have any idea, growing up, that your life and career would be so diverse, and encompass so many different elements of expression?

Oh, I was always a performer, and knew I wanted to pursue performing professionally. But I definitely jumped around among the art forms before I chose to be an actor. However, in college I started to feel a bit stifled. As an actor, I feel that at this point I have to keep a certain physical "brand," and I am getting called in for roles that suit this physical "brand." Discovering and entering nightlife was so special and fulfilling because it gave me limitless self-expression visually, and gave me a space to create these characters! My constant goal is always to be able to merge the two--that is, see these characters on stage and film, which I have thankfully been able to do a bit over the past year.

Where are you from, and how long have you been in New York?

I've been in NYC for six years now. I was born in Argentina, and moved to the states when I was around three years old with my parents to outside Philadelphia.

Oh wow! 

Always my surprise fun fact.

Do you feel an attachment to that Argentinian heritage, still?

Definitely. My whole extended family still lives there, so I'll visit every few years. And I continue to speak Spanish at home. When I was in college I helped form a bilingual theatre company, and was focused on devising and / or producing Latin theatre. I'm always down to incorporate Spanish language into a piece if it works, like I recently did in a piece I helped create, actually... with a couple other members of my drag family, the Haus of Femanon. I would like to be doing more of that.

That sounds fascinating! You certainly have tons of credits on your acting resume, both stage and screen. But of course I have to be Basic and focus on your two episodes of Law & Order: SVU! What was it like working on that show? I bet production is a pretty well-oiled machine.

Haha, that was pretty sweet, yes! Well-oiled machine is right. I mean, 20 seasons! They know what they are doing, and how to do it quickly. The couple episodes I shot aired two / three weeks after I shot them.

That must've been extraordinary to watch them from home, I bet the whole family was watching!

Oh definitely... all while trying not to cringe at the subject matter, haha!

Speaking of family.... the Haus of Femanon! First of all, how were you introduced to the world of NYC nightlife, and then how was Magdalena Femanon born?

The Haus! Well, four out of five of us--Peroxide, Détroit, Mr. He, and myself--attended Pace University, studying within the performing arts department. We were not close at all as a group yet, but we each knew that each other wanted to create looks / try drag / express herself in another, different way than we were getting from school. So we found a flyer for Ladyfag's Holy Mountain (RIP), and we went out in these terrible looks. We were so ugly, but we discovered something special that night--as well as meeting a very special person, Lick, our last member. We started going out all the time, to every party, and immerse ourselves in this world. After a while, we started collaborating on stage and in film as well.

I think Magdalena Femanon was born out of frustration. I was trying to discover who I was / wanted to be, struggling to feel comfortable with myself. And then on top of that, no one could see me! Literally. I am a very petite gurl, to put it graciously. Even in the tallest of heels, I couldn't talk to anyone as they towered over me. No one wants to bend down for more than five seconds to talk to anyone, especially with music blasting. Within a few months of starting to go out with the Haus, I was at a theatre / performance festival and saw a street company perform wearing stilts. I got home that night, and ordered a pair of my own. I also did it to be Extra; I live in a world of extremes. So now I have metal legs for dayz, and the constrictions of them actually really influence and allow for more creativity in what I do. Stilts definitely changed the game for me and were probably the official birth.

[photo by Peroxide]

Stilt-walking in these crowded spaces must be a challenge!

At first I was definitely a bit wobbly...and CRAZY, when I look back on some of the things I did. But you find balance quickly, and it's mostly mental--telling yourself you won't fall.

So, did you sort of build your looks and fashions around being this tall creature on stilts?

It's usually the first thing I think about when I have an idea for a look. It was challenging at first, especially since I'm not a damn seamstress in any way... but definitely fun. I make it work.

By the way, how did you come up with “Femanon” as a family name?

Mr. He actually coined it officially. It takes from the words “femme,”  “phenomenon" and “anonymous.” We wanted to be a Haus as a way to collaborate and perform as a unit, even though we each do our own individual projects as well. I see it as paying homage to the houses of the NYC Ballroom scene. I still gag a bit when I think about how I get to host Battle Hymn with, like, Grandfather Hector Extravaganza or Javier Ninja.

That is quite a legacy! The first time I saw your name, I believe you were doing Kayvon Zand’s party at Webster Hall. Do you miss that space?

Oh yes...Webster Hall. That was a really fun time. Really a shame it needed to close... I read it will be more of an arena now, and less dance nights? Lame.  A part of New York and gay / queer history. Yes, Kayvon's party was great...the kids were HUGE in size at that time... getting up those stairs was not a joke, haha!

It’s hard to explain the appeal of those types of parties (Holy Mountain, Battle Hymn, etc) with club kids in these extravagant looks to people who have never been. How would you explain what makes them great?

It IS very difficult to explain, and people ask all the time. I do not think there are too many places that could full-on celebrate us for being freaks. It's like the watering hole--the place where you go and meet up with a community of people like yourself. The parties are freeing, even if you are not dressed up. Everyone is welcome... unless you're a Nazi. It's a place to meet other artists and collaborators. All of these things add to the appeal.

I was just talking to the Haus of Sterling, and they were marveling about Femanon’s edgy, dark looks. Is that a good description?

I would say that's pretty accurate. With the exception of Détroit (who herself is so over the top campy) none of us go for very human-like personas. I mean, we are glamorous the way a blood-sucking alien is glamorous. We love horror, we like looking other-worldly, we like black and white, we would rather scare you than make you swoon over how elegant we look. 

Tell us a little more about the kind of performing art that the Haus does.

For short nightlife gigs and for events such as Bushwig, we usually do campy numbers involving interpretive dance, usually something relevant in pop culture at the time, and there's always a slight element of gross.

Mr. He was part of a theatre ensemble last year and invited Lick and me to join for the last few productions, where we played characters also very similar to campy nightlife personas. Very much about the look. Very queer. Very camp.

Recently, Peroxide and I starred in a short film which was set within the frame of nightlife called Like Glass. The project was very close to Peroxide and me because although the characters were fictional, the themes were very much those of our lives and something we were eager to share through this medium. It's gotten into a couple of festivals at this point, and I hope it goes farther.

As far as this weekend goes, it appears that the Haus will be up in Sugar Loaf, NY for an August 11th festival called Dusklit, What is that exactly, and what will the Femanons be doing there?

Dusklit is an annual one-night interactive art festival. The art ranges from immersive performances, to pieces in site specific environments, music, puppetry, poetry, sound installations, etc. We performed last year and had a blast, glad to be back this year. 

This year, we are doing a piece called  "INTERWEB:secrets" about the comfort of anonymity on the internet. Participants can share their secrets in the web we create for them, as well as take a secret back with them from an unknown person. We hope to create a massive web of secrets by the end, and have it be an amusing--if not cathartic--experience for people. 

The Haus will also be camping in upstate New York together. CAMPING. Five clowns in a tent. It will be quite a show for all involved.

That would be something to behold! 

Back in the city, August 18th is KUNST, Goddess of Club Fashion Susanne Bartsch’s seasonal raver at Elsewhere. You’re gonna be hosting!

Yes! I like Kunst because it's in an immersive Brooklyn venue, there’s good DJs, and Ithere will be several performances. My babe Baby Yors is performing this time, so can't wait to see him.

Yeah he’s great! Looking ahead, on September 8th at the Paramount Hotel, Susanne is presenting Belladonna, a party and lewk contest. This is a great idea! And it should be epic. Are you hosting, or actually competing?

Belladonna will be epic... I'll be there as a host for sure, but everyone better bring their best lewks. I hope to see those few nightlife gems that only come out once in a while for special occasion look parties, that always slay us. I can't wait to see how it turns out.

Anything else on the agenda?

Well, my nearest project after Dusklit is my trip to Black Rock City in a couple weeks for Burning Man. I'll definitely be bringing the stilts and a few looks I have as I stomp through the desert. Focused on preparing for that now.

That’s gonna be so Fury Road! Okay, last question... if the Haus of Femanon ever decided to take in a new member... what would her required credentials be?

“Adheres to Slender Man, willing to submit to cult rituals, and NOT vegan (as our vegan quota of two members max has been filled).”

Very reasonable! Thank you, Magdalena!

Check Thotyssey’s calendar for Magdalena’s upcoming appearances. Follow her on Facebook and Instagram, and visit her website.

On Point Archives

[lomlwintersoldier]

Castle of the Black

Part 1: Home

Summary: Your once thriving planet has been taken over by monsters that had once only been creatures of fiction. Now, ten years after the Great Darkness that brought these creatures, you must fight for your life to survive the horrors of the castle of your captor. 

Word Count: 1685

Warnings: none yet

A/N: this fic will be pretty dark I think so if you don’t like darker themes, please don’t read this fic!! I’m getting back into the swing of writing regularly. Hope you all enjoy.

Earth.

It is home to everything that has ever lived. Our histories, our homes, our families….. It is everything we’ve ever known and all we ever will know. For humans at least, given our short lives and easily snuffed out flames.

It was once a thriving place, teeming with life and goodness, but those days of peace had long since disappeared. Now it was dark, filled with danger at every turn, dangers created by the creatures that now wandered this earth with a deep seated hatred for the human race: vampires, werewolves, sirens, mutants, and last of all...demons. The demons. They killed who they wished, whenever they wished it and if anyone challenged them, human or otherwise, they would die too. Demons terrorized the earth and no one was safe.

After the Great Darkness, these creatures were finally able to show their true forms and humans went from the top of the food chain, the hunter so to speak, to the prey. It was open season on humans everywhere, to the point where humans were nearly extinct ten years after the Darkness. Only the most resourceful and cunning of humans survived the onslaught led by the demons and eventually they went into hiding for their own protection, surviving in small gatherings and villages away from the cities that had been overtaken by the inhuman creatures.

This was where you lived now, a small village a few miles west of Olympia, after being driven from your home in Seattle after the Great Darkness. You were only the fourteen when it happened and it had only been a sheer stroke of luck that you’d survived this long. You supposed it hadn’t been just luck though. You were smart, resourceful, strong. You knew the world you lived in and you knew the way it worked; you were a human, weak, fragile, and you knew to never let your pride or rage at the creatures get the better of you because it would mean certain death.

“Y/N! The Ward needs you.” Peter calls out, distracting you from your thoughts. You glance back, your eyes narrowing at him for disrupting your thoughts but he was your friend. A bit young perhaps, he was only sixteen but he was smart, and he was probably the only person you fully and wholeheartedly considered family in this place. You’d found him just after the Great Darkness, also alone and left without a family so you’d sort of adopted each other.

“Alright, I’m on my way.” You call back, getting up from your spot on the rocks beside the small bubbling creek that rested between the dense forests, cutting through the thick brush like an icy sapphire knife. It was your favorite place to be because it gave you an escape from the darkness of the world you’d lived in for ten long years. “What do you think it’s about?” Peter asks when you reach him, his eyebrows furrowed in worry and you knew why. The Ward only called on you when something was wrong and because it had been quiet for a few months now, everyone had been more on edge, thinking that this was the calm before the storm.

“I have no idea. I’m sure it’s fine though.” You reassure him despite the uneasy feeling in your stomach. “Don’t treat me like a kid, Y/N. I know when something’s wrong.” “You’ll always be a kid to me, Pete.” You tease, trying to lighten the mood. “You were only six when I found you. Big ass eyes, too skinny arms.” “Shut up. You’re not that much older than me.” He huffs as he walks beside you. You grin widely at him which draws out a small smile from him in response. “If something's wrong I’ll tell you. I promise.” You say seriously, knowing he’d want you to be straight with him.

You both trek back to the village in silence, both deep in thought as to why the Ward would call on you and the longer you walked, the more sinister your thoughts became and by the time you made it back to the village, your heart was pounding from all the scenarios you’d thought up in your head. When you reach the edge of the village, you swallow to clear the thick lump thats formed in your throat from the stress of your thoughts and split away from Peter, who returns to his tent. You however, continue down the small, makeshift roads you’d help build when you’d first formed this new home towards the Wards tent. You glance behind you to make sure you weren’t followed by a curious ear and shut the tent door quickly before turning to the woman in front of you.

“What is it?” You ask, furrowing your brow intensely. “Another sighting?”

She lets out a shaky breath and looks at you with a haunted gaze.

“We got word from the city today.” She whispers. “They’ve found us.” “Werewolves, vampires…?” You ask urgently. Those you could fight off. Those you could stand a chance against. The Ward looks at you with haunted eyes and then you know. This was a beast you couldn’t fight, only run from and even then you wouldn’t survive long.

“Demons.” You answer your own question in a hushed tone. All the Ward can do is nod, and you realize this is the first time you’ve seen her look so terrified. “We have to warn the others.” You say, glancing outside the mesh window of the tent out to the rest of the makeshift village. “We have to leave.”

“It’s no use. Remember what happened to the village near Winlock?”

“All murdered. Didn’t even last a day.” You murmur with dread filling your stomach like hot lead. “We’re all going to die.” She whispers. “We can fight, okay? We won’t go down without taking a few of the bastards down with us.” You mutter but your words are hollow, even to your own ears. The lucky ones would die quickly but demons were known to kidnap, torture, and abuse the prisoners they took from their villages. You only hoped you would die quickly when the time came. “When will they be here?” “Considering where they were last seen...I’d say they’ll be here by nightfall.” The Ward replies.

“That gives us enough time for us to get the kids out. We can’t save everyone but we can save a few.” You say determinedly. Maybe not all of you would survive this onslaught but at least a few of the others could. The old woman nods in agreement. “I’ll round everyone up.” The rest of the day passes in a blur and you find yourself swallowing your fear every now and then to comfort those around you but to be honest you were terrified. You’d watched your entire family die at the hands of a demon and you had had your fair share of close calls with them over the years. Still, you knew you had to remain calm but you couldn’t help but wonder if each face you saw today would be the last time you’d lay eyes on them.

You sent a group of children away with a few adults to take care of them; your heart broke at the thought of losing them but you knew it was their only chance of survival. Demons showed no mercy, the ruthless bastards.

“We��re gathering around the fire pit, Y/N.” Peter called out to you. You glance up at the sky, the orange and red hues signaling the oncoming sunset and all you could think was how cruel this was, for the earth to be so beautiful yet be the harborer of so much ugliness.

“You coming?” He asks, this time quieter and his tone more concerned than anything else. “Yeah, yeah.” You mutter. You give the horizon one last look, committing it to memory in case tomorrow’s never came for you which was very likely at this point.

You turn and follow Peter to the pit where everyone had assembled, fists clenched tightly around weapons fit to kill lesser monsters than demons. People spoke in hushed voices but no one here was a coward. You knew they would fight and die here rather than be taken prisoner by the demons. There were worse fates than death.

The Ward makes her way to stand atop a cut down tree trunk, waving her hand to get the attention of the villagers that had stayed back to fight. Silence falls over the crowd as every pair of eyes turns to the leader they’d chosen so many years ago.

“Brave ones.” She begins, her voice commanding an authority so few had, and you’re reminded why she was the Ward in the first place. “We stand here on the ground we’ve cultivated and sown for eight years. I’d hoped this day would never come...the day we fight for our lives but it has. I will not create false hope, or give you empty promises but know this.” The wind seems to have stopped whistling through the trees, leaving an eerie silence behind as the Ward looks over the faces before her, no more than seventy men and women, as if she were memorizing all of our faces. “Remember that we are family. If we die tonight, it will be among loved ones.” She finishes quietly. As if the universe was hanging on her every word, the earth goes silent; not a single bird can be heard, nor the high chirp of the squirrels that had always seemed irritating up until now. The sky falls to a darker hue as the sun sets over the mountains you called home and your breath catches because suddenly, it’s no longer silent. But it’s not the animals you hear. No, you hear hoofbeats, getting closer and closer and you close your eyes, knowing what you will see when you open them again.

After a few moments, you open your eyes again. Inches away from your face are bright red eyes and a wicked smile.

The demons had arrived.

Castle of the Black Masterlist

Masterlist

Tags: @xxchexchickxx @killpop-writes @melconnor2007@psychicwitchphilosopher @frolicsomefawkes @the-witching-hours12-3 @bubblegumuntsr @badassbaker @trashsnitches@barnes-toddpartnersinheartbreak@thickthighedqueen@megandrawsspace @rda1989@ailynalonso15 @cupcaitlyn96 @take-u-2-an0ther-w0r1d @thefridgeismybestie

[yaldev]

Sketchy Back-Alley Crystal Ball Reading

"Aran? Here for the reading?"

"Yeah, I hope I'm not too early."

"No no, come in."

New technology has made the ancient art of divination easier than ever, inviting a new supply of swindlers to meet the demand. There will always be those who fear change, and others are glad to capitalize on that. Aran knows he's being exploited, but he'll take false hope over no hope at all. He already paid in advance, so he might as well try to enjoy the experience.

Yet each step down the wooden stairs furthers Aran's regret of ever coming to this women's basement office. The lighting is low-quality everywhere on the bad side of town, but this place is particularly dark. He hopes it's because she needs to save power which the crystal ball needs, but his skeptical side insists that it's to make the illusion harder to decipher. Boxes of products stored by the proper business upstairs crowd around many of the walls. The furnace's hum is annoying, but soon enough his ears will just tune it out.

"Is that the crystal ball?"

"Yes, the mystical treasure through which I will see Pelbee's future for you!"

Aran blinks, rolling his eyes beneath his lids. This sorcerer doesn't believe in Pelbee, he's certain of that. True adherents would have enough faith to follow the scripture that denounces all magic as an agent of chaos. She'd have enough respect for the law to find a legitimate career.

What she's doing isn't technically illegal. Engaging in direct magic is frowned upon and illegal in most cases, but an exception is made for using mana to power machines. The questionable loophole: claim that traditional trinkets are just machines like any other. The crystal ball in the middle of the shady room doesn't need to be connected to the power grid, but it gives the oracle some plausible deniability if accused. She isn't using divination directly, she's just using a machine she made.

Even other practitioners of magic condemn the use of crystal balls. They claim that magic can do many things, from showing the past to deciphering the present, but it cannot preordain the future. Fortune-tellers serve to further erode the already-bad reputation of their legitimate practice, and that these swindlers stand in the way of wizardry ever being legalized. The oracles tell the other mages to stop gatekeeping and accept that magic-users will never be legitimized under Ascendant rule. The Empirical Truth can't stand them.

"No need to stand, take a seat." The fortune-teller courteously invites him as she lugs a chair from the corner toward the ball. She sets it at the perfect distance: close enough to see the show, but not so close that the audience can see any behind-the-scenes extras. Aran takes a seat, placing his arms on the rests. Sometimes he feels like his attitude makes things impossible: he wants to indulge in fantasies of the fantastic, but remains too skeptical to allow himself the pleasure. Sure, magic can power machines like any such force, but the idea of seeing the future with it is straight out of fiction.

The host stands on the opposite side of the mystical machine, takes a sandy substance from her pockets and starts to scrub her worn skin with it. It sticks in the gaps between fingers as she interlaces them and rubs her palms together.

"All part of the ritual." She justifies herself, putting exotic emphasis on the last word. "Now, what is it you seek? Be specific, I can't see the whole future at once."

"I'm having doubts about my girlfriend." Aran explains with fidgeting feet. "She's been acting different lately. She's normally so nice, but now she's so snippy and distracted."

"Hm, go on."

"Huh?"

"I said go on."

The glass ball has turned slightly pink. The fortune-teller runs her hands across an imaginary surface emanating from the sphere.

"I don't know, she talked to a guy we met one time and she's been becoming more like this since. I don't think she's cheating, but maybe she thinks she wants something other than me?"

"Yes..."

"Yes that you're listening, or yes that I'm right?"

Glowing clouds are materializing in the ball, swirling around each other like a tempest. Aran can't say whether it's really a property of the ball or if she just read a book about illusion magic once.

"Just talk."

"Alright, alright. I was thinking of marrying her, offering some jewelry. I picked this ring-"

"You picked that ring?"

"Uh, I picked a ring that looked nice. I have it here-"

"No need, I can see it."

"Alright, uh, I guess I'm just worried that it won't go so well. I hoped you'd be able to see what will happen, maybe give some advice."

No reply comes. The lights continue to flow, unobserved by her tightly shut eyes. The hands finally touch the orb, and the mists seem to flow towards her fingertips. They permeate the glass, flowing up the arms and creeping into the ears. If she's putting on a show, she's very good.

The sight is a marvel to behold, but it's accompanied by total silence. The world feels isolated and still, but Aran doesn't know the true feeling of emptiness until the furnace decides to shut off. What once seemed quiet is now contrasted by this total abyss, from which the oracle speaks her truth.

"Drop it."

"What?"

"Drop it. It's over."

"This reading, or...?"

"The marriage. You are doomed."

Her eyes open, shining a dull yellow matching the lights above. She continues.

"She will only keep changing from here. You are a fool to hang on to the past."

Aran shifts uncomfortably, raking his nails against the armrests. He's not quite sure how to respond, but takes a swing.

"I thought you're supposed to tell me that if I put in some effort and show her love, that she'll come back-"

"I am SUPPOSED to speak the truth, Spiritless!" She spits back with a harsh face.

Swing and a miss. The mystic calms down a bit, the light fading from her eyes.

"It delays the unstoppable. This path is hers, and you cannot follow her on it. Either you will let her pursue it, or she will flee you for it in her own time."

"But she's my sweet! My-"

"She is NOT YOURS! Nobody is yours! You cannot own someone! None own anything but the footsteps they leave in their path!"

Aran is speechless. Sound does not leave the throat, but water prepares to descend from the eyes. The swindler's expression softens. She is very aware of the world around her, but moments of self-awareness usually escape her. The powers in the crystal ball slow down and fade back to nothingness.

"I guess it's a good thing that you paid in advance. If you came looking for hope, I didn't give a good service, but maybe that means you can trust me."

Aran takes a deep inward breath.

"I got what I paid for. I guess if all fortunes were good, then good would just be normal."

"Very. You look uncomfortable, do you want to leave?"

"Yes, but I don't want to go back there."

The witch shakes her head. "You have no path but your own. Follow it. We think ourselves free as cars, but we are trains on rails. We can't stop, only proceed to the destination chosen for us since the tracks were laid."

"Yeah..."

Aran stands up and moves to pick up his chair, but she beats him to it and lugs it again towards the wall.

"Thank you." He says to break the silence.

"If you want my service again, you know where and when to find me. Now get home and cope."

A rude farewell, but Aran has too much on his mind to take notice. He leaves with a heavy heart, feeling increasing regret with each step up the wooden stairs.

Yaldev is a fantasy/sci-fi worldbuilding project based entirely on Beeple art. It is the story of a world in magical pandemonium, of the nation which rose to conquer it, of this empire’s inevitable collapse, and of the new world which emerged in its wake. The project has major themes about perspective, imperialism, nationalism, nature and the metaphysical battle of law against chaos. For all stories in order, check out the pinned post on the subreddit at r/Yaldev, or this album on the Facebook page!

[lithialetheia]

Tag ❀

I was tagged by @bluepatient​. ¡Gracias! (｡^‿^｡)

This is so long tho.

1- Coffee or Tea? Tea.

2- Black and white or color? Color in things, black in clothes.

3- Drawings or paintings? Both!

4- Dresses or skirts? None. But if I have to choose… I’d say dresses.

5- Books or movies? Both, I love both.

6- Pepsi or Coke? Coke.

7- Chinese or Italian? Italian.

8- Early bird or night owl? Night owl.

9- Chocolate or vainilla? Chocolate!

10- Introvert or extrovert? Introvert. Exrovert with my friends (?).

11- Hugs or kisses? NONE. Just, don’t touch me, ok? As long as you keep your distance we’ll be ok.

12- Hunting or fishing? None. I’d never kill or hurt an animal.

13- Winter or summer? Winter.

14- Spring or fall? Fall.

15- Rural or urban? I hate big crowds. I think that I’d love to leave in a rural place (as long as there is wifi).

16- PC or Mac? PC.

17- Tan or pale? You mean if I am or if I like? Cause I am in the middle of both, and of course I like both.

18- Cake or pie? Both.

19- Ice cream or yogurt? Both.

20- Ketchup or mustard? Both.

21- Sweet pickles or dill pickles? I SAID DON’T TOUCH ME!!!

22- Comedy or mystery? Both.

23- Boots or sandals? Boots.

24- Silver or gold? Depends on the clothes I am wearing.

25- Pop or Rock? It depends of my mood.

26- Dancing or singing? Singing. I hate dancing.

27- Checkers or chess? None, I don’t like table games.

28- Board games or videogames? Videogames, videogames forever.

29- Wine or beer? I don’t like both. I hate alcohol, it makes my throat feel weird. But if you have some lemon beer I wouldn’t mind a sip.

30- Freckles or dimples? They are both so cute!

31- Honey mustard or BBQ sauce? Mmmm... Hard question... Both!

32- Body weight exercises or lifting weights? Body weight exercises.

33- Baseball or basketball? How about some pilates?

34- Crossword puzzle or sudoku? Crossword. I can’t stand numbers...

35- Facial hair or clean shaven? I am fine with both.

36- Crushed ice or cubed ice? Cubed ice.

37- Skiing or snowboarding? I never tried it :’(

38- Smile or game face? ... Both?

39- Bracelet or necklace? Bracelet and CHOKER.

40- Fruit or vegetables? Gimme both!!

41- Sausage or bacon? Can I have some salad instead?

42- Scrambled or fried? I don’t like fried things... And I don’t like scramble either.

43- Dark chocolate or white chocolate? Chocolate with milk for moi. Pls.

44- Tattoos or piercings? Piercings. I’d never make a tattoo, but I like when people have pretty tattoos.

45- Antique or brand new? I don’t really care.

46- Dress up or dress down? ... I have no idea.

47- Cowboys or aliens? *thinks in mccree* *thinks in mass effect* Both!!!

48- Cats or dogs? Both. But cats are so pretty.

49- Pancakes or waffles? OMG BOTH.

50- Bond or Bourne? None.

51- Sci-Fi or Fantasy? Both!

52- Numbers or letters? Letters. Team Letters 4ever.

53- Harry Potter or Lord of the Rings? Both!!

54- Fair or Theme Park? I prefer staying at home and read play videogames.

55- Money or fame? Money.

56- Washing dishes or doing laundry? I am used to do both things.

57- Snakes or sharks? Snakes.

58- Orange juice or apple juice? Apple juice.

59- Sunrise or sunset? Sunset.

60- Slacker or over-achiever? Over-achiever, I’d say.

61-Pen or pencil? Both.

62- Peanut butter or jelly? Jelly.

63- Grammys or Oscars? Not very interested in those things.

64- Detailed or abstract? Both.

65- Multiple choice questions or essay questions? Essay questions.

66- Adventurous or cautious? What about being adventurous but careful at the same time?

67- Saver or spender? Saver.

68- Glasses or contacts? I don’t wear any but I think that glasses have personality.

69- Laptop or desktop? Both.

70- Classic or moderns? Moderns.

71- Personal chef or personal fitness trainer? Personal fitness trainer.

72- Internet or cell phone? Internet.

73- Call or text? Text.

74- Curly hair or straight hair? I hate my hair because it’s very curly, so straight hair.

75- Shower in the morning or shower in the evening? It depends.

76- Spicy or mild? Spicy.

77- Marvel or DC? Both!

78- Paying a mortgage or paying rent? I have no idea.

79- Sky dive or bungee jump? I rather don’t do any of that.

80- Oreos or Chips Ahoy? Mmmm... Chips Ahoy.

81- Jello or pudding? Both, of course.

82- Truth or dare? Truth.

83- Roller Coaster or Ferris Wheel? *shrug*

84- Leather or denim? Denim.

85- Stripes or solids? Solids.

86- Bagels or muffins? Both.

87- Whole wheat or white? White.

88- Beads or pearls? Beads.

89- Hardwood or carpet? Hardwood. Easy to clean.

90- Bright colours or neutral tones? I like mixing both.

91- Be older than you are or younger than you are? I’m good how I am right now.

92- Raisins or nuts? Nuts.

93- Picnic or nice restaurant? Can I just have dinner at home?

94- Black leather or brown leather? Black leather.

95- Long hair or short hair? Short hair.

96- “Ready, fire, aim” or “ready, aim, fire? I think that aiming before firing is wiser.

97- Fiction or non-fiction? Fiction.

98- Smoking or non-smoking? Non-smoking. I can’t stand it. I hate it.

99- Think before you talk or talk before you think? Depends on the situation and my mood.

100- Asking questions or answering questions? It depends.

I am tagging anyone who wants to do it!!  (✿◠‿◠)