#or play and record some myself if all else fails

[saikkunen]

And that is how the magic happened.

[novlr]

I have a bad habit of never finishing writing I start - I work hard on a story, make it to 3/4 of the way through, then lose passion for it and start something else. I know the key to overcoming this is discipline, and I’m trying very hard to make myself keep going with my current story that I like very much and spent so much time researching and outlining, but it’s a struggle every day to make my writing goal. Any advice for how to re-ignite writing spark or how to push through to the end?

We can lose our drive to write for a lot of reasons. It often indicates a growing maturity as an artist — you understand the craft better and your own (current) limitations better, and so you begin to feel overwhelmed in a way you didn’t before. It can also be that external anxieties are getting in the way or simply that you’ve lost interest in your current project. 

Hope is not lost. Read on for some tips on reclaiming your writing spark. 

Shift gears

Sometimes, all you need to reignite your writing spark is to engage your brain in a different way. If you’re struggling with your novel, take a break and try writing a poem or a piece of flash fiction. Or, you could try drawing sketches of your characters, a map of your story’s world, or some possible outfits for your climactic battle scene (it doesn’t have to be good. No one’s going to see it). 

The trick is to stay creative but to approach your work from a different angle. 

Change location

If you’ve been trying and failing to write at your desk, surrounded by crumpled up dreams drafts and last week’s candy wrappers, you may be suffering from an environment with stagnant energy. Try taking yourself on a writer’s date: go to a location that fits the tone of the project you’re working on (lux hotel lobby, seedy theatre bar, the wilds of a nearby park), and see if that gets your creative wheels turning. 

Dress [in]appropriately 

In Writing Down the Bones, Natalie Goldberg has a chapter called “Blue Lipstick and a Cigarette Hanging Out Your Mouth”. By this she meant, “Use outfits and props to step outside yourself and get a new perspective”. You might find it helpful to have a special “writer’s sweater” that you only wear when you’re writing or to dress like someone confident and cool enough to smash writer’s block in the face. 

Do some soul-searching

What’s really going on here? If the above tricks aren’t doing it for you, there may be some bigger issues at play that are inhibiting you from connecting to your writing spark. 

Write letters

I’ve written about the restorative powers of letter writing before, and I’ll mention it again: handwritten letters are a great way to get the words flowing. You don’t actually have to send them when you’re done (although you can if you want to); the recipient doesn’t even need to exist. Simply by putting your thoughts down in a low-risk way, you’re unclogging your creative pipes. 

Join a writing group

There’s power and accountability in numbers. You can find writing groups online, through community centres and writers centres, or by sticking a flyer up in a bookshop and starting your own. There’s even a Novlr writing community on Discord where we share tips, struggles, and just generally talk craft! By inviting other people into your writing practice, you’ll have some support and encouragement to keep you going. 

Find your writing spark with writing prompts

The internet is awash with writing prompts. These can be a helpful way to get something down on paper and stretch out your writing muscles. Whether it’s a premise, an opening line, or a character study, writing prompts can give you a gentle, creative push and even inspire new work.

Experiment with found structure

If writing a traditional story feels like pulling out your own teeth, try a found structure story. This means using fictional “found material” like shopping lists, calendars, to-do lists, ticket stubs, banking records, and so forth to create a narrative. 

Here’s an example: Imagine a week in which a bride-to-be prepares for her glorious wedding, is left at the altar, rages in misery, and ultimately emerges healthier and stronger. Now, write her shopping list for each day of that week. How does it change from beginning to end? How much emotional detail can you communicate to the reader through the items that appear on these lists? This can be a fun way to create a story without the anxiety of writing it.

Set a petty life goal

I am a proud champion of the value of pettiness as a motivator. There are plenty of noble reasons to write: to share powerful stories, to help readers in need of healing, to inspire others to write stories themselves, and to draw attention to important social issues or minority identities. 

There are also some really inane and selfish reasons to write: to become more famous than your ex, to appear on TV and make your ex regret everything they’ve ever done to you, to have your book made into a movie and receive casting consultation rights and pitch your favourite actor in the lead role and allow them to take you for coffee as a thank you. But the thing is… these are the motivations that are really going to pull you out of the dirt when you need it most. Find the silly driving goal that really gets under your skin and hold onto it for dear life. 

Forgive yourself

Many writers experience a lot of shame when they aren’t writing as much as they feel they should. Needless to say, this shame only makes the writing harder. Allow yourself the space to take some time when you need it, process your struggles, and return when you’re ready. The page will be waiting when you get back. 

[boundinparchment]

Blasphemous Rumors - IX

“Marry me.” He said it with such blasé that you weren’t sure you heard him correctly. Silence surrounded the two of you and he leaned down and tilted his head, watching you like a specimen under a microscope. “Just for a year. A marriage of convenience. Consider it nothing more than a harmless experiment for the sake of curiosity.”

Il Dottore/Female reader with established personality. Slow burn. Semi-enemies to lovers. Available on AO3 here.

Obscured half-truths should have been easier to spot.  Was it mere convenience that caused me to overlook such details or the notion that if she lasted this long under Pantalone’s reign, she was likely a safe candidate?  Worse still, was it because I find her to be one of the only tolerable individuals to deal with?

She wasn’t lying about her father, the change in circumstance, a decision to utilize her skills away from home.  Not only was it obvious merely from her demeanor at dinner the other night but she had little reason to hide such motivations to begin with.  Her candor prior to this arrangement was a refreshing surprise in comparison to the layered considerations from my colleagues.

Her father’s health failed and although she did her best to keep the books tidy, they slipped into the red when deadlines were not met.  Some months were just above water only for the subsequent ones to sink again.  In most cases, Agents were sent to take care of such matters, but circumstances required the Regrator’s personal assessment.  They were denied an appeal and had little choice but to declare bankruptcy; subsequently, their credit was ruined, financially and socially.  Sneznhayan winters were bearable with a collective community, with every individual playing their part.  When one could not contribute, however…

To give up one’s resources and time and energy for another.  Only the Eremites showed me such sentiments provided I pulled my weight in return.

I leaned back in my chair and rested my boots on my desk, tossing aside my mask to press the heels of my palms into my eyes.  Ridiculous.  Had I truly overlooked her personnel and public records all for the sake of this experiment?  A mistake I would have made centuries ago, not now.  Emotion certainly didn’t drive this decision, for we had no such bond.  And although I’ve had fleeting thoughts of what her body might feel like, I was not a creature of hungry lust.

Exploring a purposeful relationship was enticing, a new adventure, and I was never one to turn down an opportunity.

How foolish.

Such circumstances in life naturally led to the decisions she has made for the rest of her career.  The Fatui, while hardly beloved, offered enticing pay and there were plenty of enemies to sell information to.  She had gone to the postal service before the bank that day I saw her in town and she has a knack for searching for details beyond her station.  It was the only thing that made sense. 

She was hardly the first I have observed to turn to such desperate measures.  Treason was reserved for the betterment of the people at the cost of oneself, but if she were to be arrested or killed, who would care for her loved ones?  Given previous conversations, she hardly expected anything from me in this regard.  Which meant she gave little thought to the consequences of her actions or had terrible foresight.

There was little else in the file.  The Regrator would have approved her resume and background and thus must know she may not be as trustworthy as others.  I, for one, preferred to have different minds on various projects to identify other ways of thinking.  But the Ninth was not one for dissonance, and either he hired her out of ironic pity or he gave no second thought to those he financially fucked over.

Somehow, the latter would not be surprising in the least.

Despite it all, I found myself intrigued.  Did she have a plan?  What was her endgame? 

“This is rather amusing, Prime,” Omega crooned, papers fluttering as the Segment tossed the files back onto my desk.  “I would have thought Zeta to be the one to be wrapped up in such a dramatic tale.”

“I resent that,” came a second voice, off to the right of my desk.  “Besides, we need a little excitement amongst ourselves on occasion.”

“Neglecting a background check on a future spouse you barely know outside of a professional capacity is careless.  I am aware all of us manage to get along with her but you must not be thinking,” Omega continued.

“All of us know what he was thinking when he caught her touching—”

“Enough,” I barked, splaying my hands out as I glared at the two Segments.  “This is a golden opportunity if managed correctly.  Insight into a common life experience and gaining information not first disseminated from the Marionette or the Regrator.  She’ll be an asset if used correctly.”

“She’s either the stupidest person in existence or the bravest,” Zeta chimed in, gleeful.  “Treason right under a Harbinger’s nose for years and now she’s gone and married said Harbinger’s higher ranked colleague.”

The silence of my inner mind was deafening as every part of me came to the correct conclusion: we stood to lose a great deal if she flew too close to the sun.  Setting aside Pantalone’s bet and putting everything at face value, the spouse of a Harbinger found to be a spy would cast my own credibility into account.  And I have worked far, far too hard over these centuries.

Damn it all.

“A solution will be found,” I stated, the familiar confidence settling the stirring of the Segment network.

I rose to my feet and straightened my sleeves, erasing the traces of uneasy thoughts.  Before me, Omega and Zeta remained unconvinced, their own arrogance and perception too sharp, too much like my own.

But it was not them I needed to concern myself with.  My meeting with Pantalone this afternoon was more pressing. 

As I dismissed the others and locked my study, Omega turned back and said, “This is your experiment, Prime.  But do let us know if you need a…helping hand.  She’s our wife, too.”

I gritted my teeth, fighting back the urge to remind Omega that I created all of my Segments as tools of perception, functioning individuals separate from myself.  A waste of breath.  Whatever eventuality was inevitable with my Accountant, there was little reason for it to include being woven into a web of my Segment’s antics.

The office was quiet when I arrived upstairs, the faint sounds of a group lunch mingling with those of a client conversion and a series of clicks from a typewriter.  Boring and slow and enough to stir my mind to madness if I were subjected to such an environment; the briefest stint in the Akademiya archives sorting organizing copies of theses with little to no consequence on the greater world was enough to solidify that. 

Her old office was nothing but a series of file boxes and a bookshelf, not yet re-occupied.  It seemed far smaller than I recalled it being.  An observation worth analyzing later.

The Accountant was now found in the office just outside of Pantalone’s double doors, a wide vista spanning out behind her and room enough for a small sitting area, tucked out of view from the half-windows that lined the front of her new office.  So far, she had only managed to place a few of the familiar knick-knacks from prior business trips as personal marks.  She was deep in conversation with an Agent, their hood down as they stood just inside the threshold, speaking.  Something in my ribcage ached at the sight of her, sun painting her from behind as she idly played with the letter opener.  Distantly, I could still smell her perfume, a testament to its quality.  The scent had lingered in the dressing room this morning, warm, a little musky, sweet in afternote. 

Rationality kept its hold on me but memories of pressing her against the wall, impulsive and opportunistic, burned my eyes every time I blinked.  Such need would be dealt with later.  It held no place now.

Briefly, I considered her high shoulders and legs ankles as she feigned casualty, leaning against her desk.  Part of me thought to rap my knuckles against the wood paneling and startle the rambling Agent.  Just as I raised my hand, the Accountant’s head turned slightly, eyes shifting and meeting mine.  She gave the smallest shake of her head before returning her attention to the Agent, as if nothing had happened.

I bit back a smirk.  How well she knew my curiosity for reactions.

Not bothering to knock on the Regrator’s door, I slipped away and shoved all thoughts of her soft skin to the recesses of my mind.

Pantalone barely looked up from his desk at my presence, bemusement sitting in his brow.  A chill ran through the office, the window behind him cracked open despite the whipping snow dancing down from the rooftops.  He claimed it was for fresh air, regardless of the season.  I once argued the inefficiency of such behavior and, upon my next visit, he’d purposefully gone out of his way to make it colder fully knowing one such as myself was used to cold desert nights.

I contemplated pacing to keep the rampant thoughts of frustration at bay but instead settled into one of the nearby sofas.  The leather was supple, more giving than at first glance, disarming.  Propping my elbow up on the back, I rested my head on my fist before crossing an ankle over my lap.  This meeting would be a waste of time, as it usually was, and the Segments were not helpful in sorting thought priority.

“You appear to have returned from an expedition, not a honeymoon, old friend.  Don’t tell me marriage doesn’t suit you already,” the banker crooned.

Already laying landmines?  How droll.  Beneath my mask, my eye twitched.  This meeting was supposed to be about several other matters, the most important of which was gauging how much he knew already regarding the topic the Accountant dropped in my lap.  He had to be aware of the pattern, but whether he intended to do something about it...   

I waved a hand.  “Unexpected occurrences in the lab in my absence.  We had a fine time away.”

Pantalone chuckled as he rose from his desk, picking up his walking stick as he went, the thing little more than a prop.

“I would have expected you more…relaxed, is all.  You’ll need to be a little more convincing than just watching from a distance, Zandik.”

Amused, I tilted my head.  “Whatever are you talking about, banker?”

“You played your role at the wedding well enough.  But what about the bedroom?”

Pantalone took his time, the tip of his cane thumping into the plush carpet as he went.  He was practically in time with the ridiculous clock in the corner, ticking away.  Truly, he was wasting both of our times prying?

“Get to your useless point already,” I glowered.

“Apparently, the both of you were never quite out of sight, seemingly glued to one another but not in the…traditional sense.  More like friends than eager lovers.”

With a smile, Pantalone continued, pacing as he went.

“That was not the tell, though.  It may have been beneficial to let the staff do their job instead of insisting on making the coffee yourself.  The housekeeper and cook might be in your pocket but they do enjoy chatting with the groundskeeper.”

“What happens between my wife and I is no one else’s business.”

The words were pure fact but that was yet another blind spot I’d overlooked.  Beneficial, perhaps, to the farce of a happy marriage on the surface.  To any outsider, it might appear that way.  But it was unlike me to forget my position, one I had overcome death itself, in a sense, to achieve.  In the depths of my mind, Omega chuckled.

Pantalone ceased his peacocking and finally settled onto the other end of the couch, thumb idly playing with the design of the cane’s metal top.  “It is when you’re a Harbinger, my friend.  We might above the nobility but that does not mean people won’t talk.”

My mind lingered again on unspoken expectations, the peripherals that mattered little to an experiment focused on a single goal but were imperative to a proper union befitting my station.  Even if this agreement was only for a year at minimum, eventually we would need to tackle nonsense such as intimacy, at least feigning it, let alone legacies…

They wouldn’t, not if this didn’t last.  And she…why would she agree to more than a year with me?  She’d practically thrown herself at me but that didn’t mean much in marriages such as this.  He was not entitled to her physicality, nor was she to his.

And only a fool would consider throwing children into a paper-thin union.  Genetics was always such a fascinating field, the potential born from random sequencing in a particular order, uncovering the result only as the subject grew…

Just long enough to win the bet.  That was all they needed.  Nothing less, but nothing more, either.  She would get what she was owed from their agreement and even as a divorcee of a Harbinger, she would be a viable candidate for another, purely out of a strategic alliance. 

She would be fine.

“You certainly put on a show at the wedding but now it’s time to continue proving it,” Pantalone said, his golden eyes boring into my mask.  “And distantly watching your wife or allowing ridiculous rumors to circulate about her is not in your best interest.  Nor is an unsatisfied partner.  At least for your sake.  You look as if you’re going to snap in two.  Get it over with, would you?”

“Why don’t you concern yourself with your own affairs, Regrator?  It’s not as if you fare any better in solitude.”

“Touche.  As you said, no one else’s business.”

“Then drop it.  I came to discuss something else.”

The other man raised a thin eyebrow in silent query, leaning back into the arm of the sofa.

“You’re aware that Northland is not the only source of my funding,” I began.

“Naturally.”

“A few of my investors happen to be within the nobility.  Recently, Omega reported that some of them are claiming financial hardship and they’re unable to come up with the rest of their capital.  I’m curious if the same has occurred for Northland itself, if there’s been increase in bankruptcies or other defaults as of late.”

Pantalone raised his head slightly, eyes leaving mine for a moment in consideration.  So, Northland’s capital, which came from the very money deposited by its customers, was more vulnerable than it seemed.  Had he done a poor job of hiding it?  Or was it intentional? 

“I imagine they’ve been crumbling under the new tax laws and tariffs as of late,” the Ninth supplied.  “But they must understand that their roles as nobles are to take the higher ground and sacrifice for those with fewer means than themselves.  How else are we meant to bridge the gap, hmm?”

And yet, the Accountant made it seem so…

His words were too dismissive, too easy.  I may not dabble in economics but for her to be so concerned, to consider it information critical enough to examine, there had to be more to it. 

But it was clear that was all I was going to get, even if I resorted to pushing back against him by pulling rank.  I rose to leave, ready to be done with this waste of time, and Pantalone did the same, closing the distance between us.  As I neared the door, he put a hand on my shoulder.

“Omega will receive his funding, one way or another,” the banker smiled, his eyes closing in congeniality.  “I’m sure Tartaglia would be more than happy to manage a few small collections, the Rooster said the boy is going stir-crazy as of late.”

“I’ll consider it.  Such actions may not be necessary.”

He patted my back, the action patronizing.  “You need only ask, dear friend.  Moving forward, another will be handling your accounts and budgets; can’t have your wife balancing your books, can we?

“Surely you didn’t move her merely because of her change in station?  She’s not one for taking credit where none is due,” I replied, glaring over my shoulder.

“Since it needs to be said, her promotion was both earned and acts a way to keep her from the rest of the nonsense.  There’s a betting pool for her resignation, another for when she begins to take sick days and wears looser clothing.  Her colleagues are just as vicious as ours, I saw no need for her to be subjected to it.”

“Betting pools started by you, undoubtedly,” I shot back.  “Considering your prying nature.”

“I’m wounded, old friend,” the Regrator pressed a hand to his chest, his expression sullen.  It changed as suddenly as it began, his usual stoicism settling in.  “But do consider what I’ve said.  Showing up to your own dinner party with this much tension will undoubtedly raise more speculation than quell it.”

Easy for you to say, you don’t have multiple versions of yourself in your head, I thought bitterly, opening the door and slamming it behind me.

I attempted to ease the tension in my jaw by focusing on the corridor and not the motion off to my left.  The slam caused her to flinch and look up, unused to the proximity of those whose blood pressure rose leaving the Regrator’s office. 

Looking at her did nothing to help with that.  The expression on her face was too similar to what I remembered from that morning, lips parted in ecstasy she thought was private…

Taking her on her desk, where Pantalone could hear every sound, would shut the other man up for good.  Would shut everyone else up for good.  But that required him to be a different man, one driven by base desire alone, with no respect for the set-up of the experiment.

And she wasn’t mine to have.  Not really, marriage laws be damned.

The experiment needed to continue unclouded.  Marriage was more than lust, more than sex, more than physical intimacy.  Her suggestions for trying to get along and know one another, as much as he would let her, would certainly lead to more success in that regard.

The moment passed as quickly as it came when I entered her office, her hand still poised mid-calculation.

“Thank you for not interrupting earlier,” she said, returning to her work.  “They were rather informative, all things considered.  And I shouldn’t have to say that I don’t need a knight in shining armor.”

“I never claimed to be one.”

“Wouldn’t suit you anyway.”

Selfishly, I allowed myself the thought that kissing her would feel sublime, regardless.  Not an hour went by where I didn’t feel her lips on mine, a ghost of the stolen kisses from weeks ago.  If I was struggling with this, it stood to reason she might be as well.  And with the new information from this morning, I’m beginning to understand just what kind of position she put herself in, marrying me: she was not unlike Tyr, putting her arm in the mouth of Fenrir, as the old Khaenriahn myths went.

“Take an extended lunch and come to my workshop,” I said.  “We need to discuss a few details.”

She watched me, wary, but as I walked away, I heard her shuffling papers and gathering her belongings.  I did not pause in my stride when her office lock clicked and I felt her keeping pace beside me.

Resting my hand at the small of her back, I ushered her along amid her colleagues’ glances.  My skin burned.  Not even the thoughts of her being a political problem, a traitor and the biggest wrench in my plans, kept the sensations at bay.

I needed to get this experiment back on neutral ground as soon as possible.

[drdemonprince]

A personal dilemma about dealing with mental health without calling 911: My ex wife is trying to give me her cat and that’s a pretty good indication to me and others that she’s going to attempt suicide (in the past she has said this to me and others). Her actions towards me have been abusive (I have not been an angel to her for the record) so I have been trying to go no contact (but she continues emailing me). I don’t think connecting with her would be good for her even if I wanted to because she’s so fragile that any boundary I try to draw could set her off. She’s pushed away all the friends that I knew. I’ve gotten my mom to reach out to her (my mom is long distance). I’m considering messaging her parents (local) but they have a strained relationship due to her transness and have a very limited perspective on mental health (first generation immigrant things). Is there anything else I can do that you can think of? I feel like there’s nothing I can do, like I’m doing nothing, if something happens and I did nothing I don’t know how I’ll be okay

Sorry if this is too much to dump on a stranger, I will survive if this one gets deleted

Forgive me for repeating myself on this here, but when an abusive partner threatens suicide, you should treat this as a threat to your own well-being first and foremost, and take the steps necessary to keep yourself safe.

Your ex has previously indicated to you that if she were ever to give away her cat, that this would be a huge red flag that she was on the verge of suicide. She knows that you know this, and so she is the very least aware what kind of impact that her actions right now will have on you.

We can view this both as an credible intention to commit suicide, and as a threat that can potentially bait you into making contact with her or otherwise violating your boundaries as a survivor of her abuse. These two things can be true simultaneously and equally.

And unfortunately, when someone who has committed domestic abuse becomes suicidal they do fairly often aggress against their partners or former partners, or try to take them down with them. You should not by any means make direct contact with your abuser, definitely not in person. Whether she is deeply in crisis, attempting to manipulate you into granting her greater access to you, or very likely both, there is no way in which making contact plays out well for you.

I am glad to hear that you seem to be fully aware of this yourself; the fact that you're afraid that she might kill herself because of you setting any boundaries at all is fucking chilling. That really says it all about how volatile she is and how likely she is to attempt to "punish" you for standing up for yourself by harming herself and leaving you with a lifetime of guilt. I am so sorry you had an endure this kind of manipulation and terrorization.

I do not think that you have any reason to call the cops or the psychiatrists on your ex here. We all know the outcomes for people experiencing mental health emergencies when confronted with the police are dire. The odds are just as great that they might kill her or forcibly institutionalize her in a way that makes her more suicidal than that they might help her. You are not being negligent for failing to sic authorities on her. By not involving the police you very well could prevent her from enduring harm, and either way, you are allowing her to make decisions on her own terms.

It sounds like bringing her parents into the picture would not necessarily make things better, and that if anything they might call the cops. I would weigh what you know about them and the situation before making a decision on that front.

You mentioned that she is no longer close with any of the friends of hers that you knew, but perhaps you can contact some of them and just make them aware of the situation, and they can decide whether they are available to support her in some way. At the very least, you may be able to find someone who's willing to come by her house and check on her. Think about any other associates she might be on decent terms with, whether that's from school or work or some shared community space, and you can let them know the situation as well.

Ultimately she does have the right to kill herself if that's what she wants to do, and as horrifying as it might be for you, it is not your fault. You are not in control over what happens here. You have never been in control, she was abusing you and she is continuing to send you upsetting and terrifying messages that make you feel powerless and scared.

I understand that of course you want to do everything in your power to prevent a person you loved from killing themselves, but as someone who has been there and has had their abuser in fact kill themselves, it is truly out of your hands, and what is most important is that you don't wind up pulled back into their web.

[worriedvision]

Your family consider you a failure - Wriothesley, Neuvillette

Okay so this is a very self-indulgent fic, basically reader had to drop out of university after they hit a real low with their health. A lot of mentions about being a quitter, and being a potential criminal and/or spoilt brat. It's a happy ending, although this is an angst plot. Wriothesley's one is longer than Neuvillette's...

--

Wriothesley:

When he asked when he would be meeting your parents, you were hesitant to take him. Your relationship with your family was shaky, and it didn't help that you still hadn't been able to 'pick yourself up'. It led to an argument, with Wriothesley talking about how lucky you were for having a family and you lashing out at him for trying to guilt you into taking him along for dinner. Your parents had heard of your relationship, and they were in favour of meeting the man. He was the Administrator, after all.

After some insistence, you finally invite him to meet your family. He fails to hide his excitement, asking what your family likes as he thinks of what teas he could take along as a gift, meanwhile you were preparing yourself for the family ripping your name apart and playing Cupid for another family member who accomplished more than you did.

"Oh, you must be Wriothesley!" Your mother greets your boyfriend, not you, at the door. "Please, come on in! We've been begging for our child to invite you over."

"Oh, I've been looking forward to this as well. It's nice to put a face to your family name."

Oh, our child is known for being a slacker with important things. Enough about them, I'll introduce you to everyone else!" Your mother giggles, Wriothesley just following in confusion at the sentence.

You stand outside for an extra minute, needing a moment to gather yourself. Unfortunately, your least favourite relative comes along.

"Come on, if you aren't careful I'm going to steal your boyfriend. He's a hot piece of action!"

-

Wriothesley didn't speak to you at the dinner table. In fact, he was silent. Staring at the table, he seems out of it.

"Oh, we have to tell you about (cousin)'s achievements. They are so gifted and talented!"

Oh crap, here we go. Your cousin brags about all of their degrees and qualifications, smirking at you whenever you'd make eye contact with them, and trying to impress Wriothesley. You were worried that your boyfriend was thinking about leaving you for one of your family members, especially with the jabs your mother made at the start of the meeting.

"_'s silent...Oh, sorry, I forgot you gave up." Your cousin chuckles. "I mean, failing to complete a degree and hiding behind health? Spoilt brat if you ask me." They continue. "Probably had to commit theft to keep their accommodation, how shameful."

"That's not true!" You plead, noting Wriothesleys shaking. "I've worked towards supporting myself."

"Oh, so you were lying about your health? Disgusting."

You hear a glass shatter in Wriothesleys direction, and upon looking over you gasp in horror. His hand had crushed the glass, now harmed by the glass.

"Is that what you think of people who can't get lots of qualifications? Well, let me tell you something." Wriothesley grumbles, hand still clenching as you try to calm him down. "I don't have degrees, nothing fancy. In fact, I have a criminal record, are you going to tell me I am a failure?"

"Well no, but-"

"In fact, I i think you are a failure of a human being if you are so close minded as to assume there is only one measure of intelligence." Wriothesley stands up, slamming his hands down on the table. You hold his unharmed hand, but this only makes him continue. "I do spoil _, but I do that because I love them. I am proud of my partner for picking themselves up, and I am ashamed they have you as a family."

"Oh? Didn't mean to strike a nerve there. Are your family-"

"Come, my love, we're leaving." Wriothesley tuts, you run to catch up with him. You hear your family call for you, your cousin calling you a gold digger as you keep going.

Upon your return back at the Fortress of Meropede, Wriothesley turns around and holds you close.

"I'm sorry for forcing you,"

You shake your head, crying into his chest as the long wait for the elevator to reach your floor continues. "I should have told you."

"What? That you're human? I'm not perfect either." Wriothesley sighs. Hearing a drip on the floor, you pull away, looking down at his harmed hand.

"Let's get your hand sorted."

---

Neuvillette:

When you proposed to Neuvillette, he requested to ask your parents for approval. He knew that some people would be intimidated by him, and approval from your family would reassure him you wouldn't get affected by this. Figuring it would be a quick visit, you agree.

If only you remembered just how cruel your parents could be.

Your parents tore into you, disrespecting you for needing some time to recover after failing to succeed in your first plan. The implications are that you were a criminal and pointing out the irony of you dating the Ludex, adding in the possibility you gave him a 'bribe' to be innocent.

Neuvillette held your hand, running his thumb over the back of it, and you note the rain has started.

"I apologise, _, it appears I made a mistake in wishing to meet your family." He sighs, your parents furrowing their brows. "I won't request another meeting with your family, given their behaviour towards you. As your fiancé, I cannot accept this slander. I bid thee farewell."

Your boyfriend walks out, you following with a warm smile on your face as you realise you chose the best man you could.

[wizzdot]

Sunshine

Description: just an idea I had. Might make it a series. Might not. Reader’s callsign is “Ray”. TW - Reader is depressed and has been through some shit.

Not decided who I’m going to make the main love interest, if anyone at all. Hell, not even decided if it’s worth continuing. Hit me up with ideas if you like what you read…

The rain hammers against the living room window. The window of your shitty, little rented flat in a dodgy, shitty area. It was cheap though. And it was a roof -albeit a temperamental, leaky one - over your head.

It was your decision, after all. You could still be slaving away as a soldier. Giving your all, with no reward. What had you even been fighting for, anyway? Oh yeah! Arrogant men wanting to play a game of chess with your life. Nah. You’d choose your shit flat and shit job, thanks.

The bottle of cheap wine looks real nice right about now, what with the rain not letting up. But you hadn’t done a food shop for two weeks, and you’d used your last packet of instant noodles last night. Shit.

Your jacket is still damp from this morning, you notice, feeling regretful for not hanging it up over the radiator as you zip it up. It’s not as if you allow yourself the expense of using the central heating anyway. You tuck the stray bits of hair, that were poking out, underneath the hood and brace yourself.

“Once more into the void” you tut lamely to yourself, before stepping into the rain, on the hunt for dinner. ‘Goin’ fuckin’ mad, talking to myself now’ you roll your eyes at the voice in your head, sick to the back teeth of your failing life.

The familiar, chipped door of the local corner shop jingles as you enter. You stamp the wet off of your boots on the dirty mat at the door, not that it made a jot of difference to the trail of wet you left in your wake.

“Hello you!” Ravi, the (overly) cheery, elderly shopkeeper shouts. I nod, sending a tight lipped smile in response to his greeting. “This rain, eh! It’s pouring down! Madness out there!” his accented voice says chattily, as you try to disappear behind a shelving unit stacked with tinned soups.

“Yeah, mad” you grit out, monotonously.

“Chatty as always, eh?” - “yep” good god, please stop talking to me! Not in the mood..

You grab two tins of soup, and three 29p noodle packets and head back to the counter to pay. Ravi scans your selection through and looks up at you with a raised eyebrow, awaiting something else. You sigh. “The norm, Ravi, if you will” you say. “Thought you might have quit! Bad vice to have, a young thing like you..”

You choose to ignore that comment, as he slides the packet of cigarettes over the counter. “£16.49”. You pull the slightly soggy twenty from your pocket and hand it over and he quickly counts your change and you’re on your way, the ding of the shop door sounding your departure.

The rain has somehow worsened, so you decide to run the mile and a half back to your flat, pissed off that you’d had to put any effort in, whatsoever. You’ve kept your fitness levels up since your military days. You huff a laugh at your own expense. Knew the morning jogs before work were worth while.. you think to yourself.

Work. Fuck. You’d not finished until 5am this morning, hence the wet jacket. Drunkards had crawled in after winning the football match, refusing to leave until gone 3am, and leaving a shit tonne of mess behind that needed cleaned up. You got decent tips though. Tips that your landlord would snatch off of you thanks to the fact that you were a month behind on rent payments. Easy come easy go, you thought to yourself, as you jog back to the flat.

You get back in record time but halt abruptly when you reach the door. The rain has, by this point, soaked completely through your jacket, but something else has caught your attention. The door handle (which lost its spring a while ago) is slanted down. Someone has visited while you’ve been gone.

“Fuck” you whisper to yourself, before quietly shoving the pack of cigs down your bra to try and keep them dry, and gently stacking the tins and packs of noodles into your post box, for safe keeping, while you investigate..

On second thoughts..

You grab one tin, and carry it as a weapon. Just in case, right? Old habits die hard…

You step in, silently, and notice the wet footprints leading to the kitchen. They weren’t even trying to be subtle, what the actual fuck?!

Slinking towards the kitchen, acting every bit the trained operative that you once were, you round the corner, ready to beat the intruder to ever lasting shit with your soup can, when your eyes meet something - or someone, for that matter - that draws the breathe from your lungs.

“Get out” you all but growl.

The intruder huffs a confident laugh.

“You’ve not changed much, apparently.. a ‘hello’ would be polite, Ray” the figure, with their back turned, lounging on your one remaining wooden chair, that you use to hang your washing on to dry, teases.

“I don’t go by Ray anymore. Now, get out” you spit, marching back to the door to grab your remaining tin of soup and packs of noodles, no longer threatened by the unknown, but instead, utterly pissed off at the fact they’re wasting your time.. You return to the kitchen, intruder still unmoved, and slam the tins down on the counter to try and convey the fact that they weren’t welcome..

“You’ve got about 10 seconds..” you warn.

“Until…?”

“Until I call your superior..”

“He knows I’m here..”

“I’ll call his superior, then” I threaten.

“You’ll call Kate? T’was her decision to send me..”

“Look, Lieutenant. I don’t give a single, steaming shit about whatever it is that you’ve gotten yourselves caught up in, this time. And if you think I want to be involved, you’re heavily mistaken. And it’s laughable that Kate chose you to try and retrieve me.. didn’t even think to send Gaz…? The only one of you wankers that I actually, borderline, tolerated?” You laugh bitterly.

“I really mean it, Ghost. Get out.” you practically spit his callsign, wanting him to understand that you really weren’t considering his, yet unspoken, offer.

“We’d have sent Gaz…” he pauses “but he’s broken. So I’ll have to do…”

Your stomach drops at that and Ghost almost almost sees the break in your facade.

*18 months earlier*

You’d gone through your entire military career with Gaz by your side. You’d class Gim has a friend, even though you were detached and fairly closed off. He was always determined to bring down your walls.

The pair of you were eventually split up when he was headhunted for the formidable taskforce, the 141. You didn’t see him for months, maybe even over a year, until your unit, which you labelled as ‘the Donkeys’, because they were all so shit, crossed paths with the 141 in Russia.

You, and Shepherd, you came to find out, who had been acting as the temporary commanding officer, visiting from America on a joint op, were the only survivors, not that Gaz knew.

The 141 didn’t stick around to check how us Donkeys got on. Just left us behind to do the grunt work, while they, along with Shepherd, moved on. Yeah. Still a bit bitter about that…

Mission accomplished, in their eyes. Necessary losses and all that.. the Donkeys were just collateral for them.. you included.

You returned to base, under your own steam, injured and forced to practically hitchhike back from Russia. When you limped back through the base security, flashing the dented dog tags, confirming that you were, in fact one of them, you were hailed a miracle.

Laswell called within the hour of your miraculous return and wanted to promote you to Lieutenant of your new unit, of strangers, that you’d yet to even meet. Hell, you were even ready for active duty, with your injuries. You decided that it was all for show. Or out of pity… you guessed that, seeing as the rest of the donkeys, and the existing Lieutenant, had been killed, they needed a replacement.

The day of the ceremony rolled around a couple of weeks after, the big names in the SAS, in their fancy suits covered in silverware and ribbons, turned up, to ramble on about what important work you’d all been doing and rewarding medals to hundreds of other soldiers. It was all bullshit.

When it was your turn to receive your medal of distinguished bravery, and to solidify your promotion to the rank of Lieutenant, you stepped up to the stage slowly, and glanced around at the huge crowd, dressed in their formal uniforms, and caught eyes with them. The 141. Gaz was smiling at you, sending a thumbs up your way, mouthing ‘proud of you!’ toward the stage.

You furrowed your brow, thoughts running rampant in your head. Proud of what, exactly? Proud that my entire unit were wiped from existence? Proud that, for some reason, I came back to base?

You froze on the stage. You don’t know for how long. You just remember gulping, trying to make your inner voice shut the fuck up.

Autopilot took over for a few seconds, and you step forward again, towards the important guy, holding the medals and sashes. “Y/n y/l/n. I present to you…” all you hear is your name, and then his muffled voice.

You take one final glance around the ceremony, and take the Lieutenant badge from the silver tray, earning a few gasps from shocked spectators.

“Fuck your promotion. I quit”

And you left the stage, head held high, and walk away. Away from the SAS. Away from the chess game of life. Away from the danger and greed of those in charge. You were done. Even the donkeys didn’t deserve their fate. They were someone’s child. Someone’s parent. Someone’s brother. And they were gone. Without a second glance. But they were oh so thankful for their service, right?

Bullshit.

Canon fodder. That’s all you were sent in for that day.

Pawns to be banished from the board for the next step of the game. Bigger picture. Greater good. All that grandiose bullshit.

You remembered rushing to your old room at the barracks and hastily packing whatever you had left. Hoping you’d be gone before someone detained you. Surely what you’d done was some sort of illegal, right?

What you didn’t expect was for Gaz and his Captain to come knocking on your door.

“Y/n? You in there..?”

“Piss off, Garrick” you snapped in reply.

“Soldier, open the door” the Captain’s, you’d assumed, rough voice commanded.

“Sorry Cap” you popped the P, immaturely, “no can do, don’t take orders anymore, remember? I quit..”

There was one heavy crash at the door, followed by some splintering sounds of wood, and then the Captain, followed by a sheepish looking Gaz, invited themselves into your room.

“Ray, is it? You don’t need to do this... You’re a valuable asset. You have so much to offer. I’ve read your file. You show a lot of promise. Garrick, here, backs that up. Says you and he came through the ranks together, said that you were the only one who could beat him in your year. Is that true?”

You kept your back to the men, continuing to blatantly ignore them and stuff your belongings into bags.

“You don’t have to rush, Ray. I have my other two men blocking the hallway”.

You remember furrowing your brow at that, not that he could see. Why was he protecting you? Why was he being… nice… about it?

“All due respect, Captain, but I’m out. Done. Finished. Yeah? Understood? I’d love to think up some more words to try and get through to you, but I need to get off base asap, before I’m detained. Hell, they’ll probably decide that what I just did is some sort of war crime. Now.. if you’ll excuse me..” you said, pushing past the men and out of the door.

“Ray!” Gaz shouted.

“Here, at least take this..” he presented his wallet.

“Help you find somewhere, yeah?”

You recall being caught off guard at his offer before nodding, sending a tight lipped smile his way.

“Thank you”

*now*

That was the last interaction you’d had with Kyle Garrick. Probably the last act of kindness thrust upon you since, hell, since you can remember...

And now his Lieutenant is in your shitty little flat, that Gaz’s money helped pay the deposit for, telling you that he is hurt.

You’re snapped out of your thoughts by the scraping of the chair against the wooden floor, and the massive Lieutenant, skull covered face and all, standing from said chair, his head practically touching the ceiling light.

“I’ll pass on your regards to Gaz” he grumbles, heading to the door. “Enjoy your soup, Ray.”

You wait until his back is turned and he is out of earshot, before gulping and scratching your damp hair. I hope Gaz is ok.. I - I wonder why they’ve came to me..? What the hell has happened..

More thoughts run through your head, and the squeak of the springless door handle jolts you again. Christ, hasn’t he gone yet..? He’s taking his time..

“Good bye, Ray. Trackers in the wallet. If you want to disappear again” Ghost speaks quietly, as if to himself, before stepping out into the curtain of rain.

Your eyes flash back and forth, furrowed brow. That slimy little prick, they’ve known where I was this entire time.. probably kept an eye on me.. what the actual fuck..

You rush to the door, opening it and seeing the Lieutenants broad figure stalking away into the darkness, the splashing of his steps the only thing you can hear over the pounding rain hitting the street.

“How hurt is he...” I shout into the darkness.

You don’t see, but Ghost smirks under his balaclava, before turning to face you.

“He’s not taking visitors, Ray. Let’s leave it at that..”

Cunt. Fucking bastard. He knows what he’s doing. Dangling a piece of string in front of a cat..

You growl.

“Arghh! FINE. Fuckin’. Fuckin’ FINE. You win. You happy? You fucking win, Lieutenant. Give me 5 minutes..”

He smirks again, and this time you swear you can see the smugness shine through his eyes. It won’t take you long to pack anyway. Not like you’ve unpacked in the 18 months you’ve been here.

You rush back into the flat and grab the two loaded rucksacks, untouched since you left base for the, what you thought would be, final time. You grab the door handle, and rush back to grab your tins of soup and noodles. Oh - and the wine!

What? It’s a waste not to use them..

You join Ghost back on the street.

“Welcome back, Ray..” the Lieutenant says in a cocky voice.

“Don’t call me that” you snap, bitterly.

“Need to have a name, woman. You’re the newest member of taskforce 141…”

“Piss off…” is all you can muster for the time being.

You wrap your soaked jacket, tighter around your body, and pray that the cigarettes in your bra are still dry.

You’re gonna need them…

[wondereads]

December Reading Wrap-Up

The Villain Edit by Laurie Devore (★★★★☆)

I saw this author speak at Yallfest, hence why I decided to branch out quite a bit from my typical choices. The Villain Edit is a contemporary romance about a failed romance author who goes on a Bachelor-esque show to drum up sales for her backlist. She has a one night stand the day before production starts, who turns out to be a producer on the show. As much as this has the premise of a romance novel, I would consider it a contemporary novel with a strong side of romance. The focus is by and large on the development of the main character, Jac, as she struggles with her personal issues and starts to crack under the spotlight. I did enjoy the romance—even though the "love triangle" has a completely obvious end, Devore does some fun things with it—but I would have been perfectly content if Jac ended up alone, as long as she came to terms with herself.

Jac is a decidedly 'unlikeable' character, in both the show and the book, but she's highly entertaining to read about, and I felt a lot of empathy for her. She makes so many bad decisions and is unfailingly rude, but she rarely felt grating, even if I was banging my head against my steering wheel as I listened to the audiobook. There were some moments that felt a little misogynistic to me, but I think it was just playing into the dehumanizing aspects of reality tv. Even though this book is outside of my comfort zone, I had a great time with it, and it did a good job maintaining tension throughout.

Harrow the Ninth by Tamsyn Muir (★★★★★)

I am always blown away by how Tamsyn Muir constructs such intricate plots. I've read Harrow before, but I was still astonished by how neatly everything came together, each mystery playing into the others (I also have a crap memory so I forgot a lot of the book). Of the three Locked Tomb protagonists, Harrow is definitely my favorite. She's not 'funny' like Gideon or Nona, but she's snarky in her own way, and I have a soft spot for overachievers. She's also ridiculously competent and dedicated, and it's incredibly satisfying to see her always take it further than anyone thinks she will (soup).

Since I wasn't panicking about what the actual fuck was going on like the first time I read this, I got to slow down and take in more of the side relationships a bit more. Augustine and Mercy are both hilarious characters in their own right, and it's only multiplied when they're put together. I am an Ianthe hater (this would all be over if it wasn't for her), but she's just as compelling a character as everyone else. And then there's Jod. Fuck Jod. Anyway, on a technical level, Muir's writing is just breathtaking, with serious, flowery descriptions cut with hard-hitting, simplistic statements, occasionally lightened by humor that would be out of place in any other story. What an amazing book.

More books under the cut

Nona the Ninth by Tamsyn Muir (★★★★★)

It took me a while to decide to give Nona five stars. Not because it isn't a spectacular book, it is, but because I experienced so much emotional turmoil while reading it that I wanted to withhold a perfect rating out of spite. Paul?? You can't put Paul in a novel and expect me to reward you for it. And yet it's all so good there's no other option. I'm actually quite furious with myself that it took so long to catch on to what was happening. I've still got absolutely no clue how necromancy works, but it was very interesting to learn its origins, only recorded through Ye Olde Twitch.

I was very excited to see the return of a fan-favorite character. I was a bit worried she Came Back Wrong. She probably did a little, but for the most part it just seems like her own, genuine decision to behave in this way in some semblance of a quarter-life-crisis. The first half of the book is rife with amazing new relationships, though I am hesitant to describe it as found family as it only lasts around 300 pages before quickly becoming lost family (that's not a spoiler, Muir would never let anyone be happy). In terms of the worldbuilding, beyond the origin story, it was so interesting to see what life is like outside of the Nine Houses, and there are many new mysteries introduced. I think the thing I most want to know more about is what the hell is going on with the Resurrection Beasts. I'm sure I'm not alone when I say I wait news of Alecto eagerly.

For She Is Wrath by Emily Varga (★★★☆☆.5)

This started off as a very strong book. The story revolves around Dani, who used to be the daughter of an esteemed swordsmith before she was framed for the murder of a warlord and sent to prison. She is able to break out of said prison with the help of another young girl who just so happens to have a secret stash of magic. Dani puts this magic to use to disguise herself in order to infiltrate the royal court and take revenge on all who ruined her life—especially her former paramour, Prince Mazin..

I really liked Dani, the main character, and her pursuit of vengeance is a classic tale, even if this weren't a retelling. The very beginning is a little convenient (really, of all prison cells?), but once Dani is able to start working toward revenge I was hooked. I found the magic system intriguing, the romance had a lot of good tension, and it was incredibly satisfying to see the execution of said revenge. The big issue I had with this book was pacing. I seriously thought this would be the first in a series; it felt like there wasn't nearly enough time to do everything the characters wanted to in just over 400 pages. However, in the last 100 or so pages of this book, so much happens. A character is kidnapped and saved, an ill-advised bargain is made and broken, a big betrayal and a big reunion occur, on top of like seven other plot points. These major plot points, which would usually be given at least a full chapter if not multiple, were being cycled through with only a few pages each, not allowing the reader, or the characters, room to dwell on what was happening. It was so disorienting and unsatisfying that I docked what could have easily been a 4.5/4.75 star read down to 3.5.

The Last Graduate by Naomi Novik (★★★★★)

I don't really have much new to say about this one; I remembered it pretty well, I just reread it for potential use in my thesis. It was tough to stay focused on the actual reason I was combing through instead of just underlining every time El and Orion were in the same room. I continue to be obsessed with their relationship, even years after the series has ended. My favorite part of this book is probably the Scholomance itself; I love that it is shown to be somewhat sentient, even if it is only to fulfill the parameters of its creation. I honestly wish we could have gotten more of it as a character in its own right, but I know the plot wouldn't work otherwise.

The Golden Enclaves by Naomi Novik (★★★★★)

This one was a bit different. Still reading for my thesis, but I honestly forgot a good bit of the story, so there were some twists that surprised me once again. Novik is not subtle about the magical world being an allegory for ours, the fortunate creating problems (pollution, poverty, etc.) for the less so and needing to be forced to do something about it. The only truly fantastical thing about the whole situation is that El truly can single-handedly force them to care, which is quite cathartic to read. While there are a lot of new characters and relationships introduced in this book, and I'm a fan of all of them (particularly El and Liesel), my favorite is El's mom. Her and El play off each other well, and it's interesting to see the woman El constantly brings up in her narration.

Threads That Bind by Kika Hatzopoulou (★★★★☆.75)

I was not anticipating this book to be so good! Threads That Bind follows Io, who uses her skills as a Fate-born, allowing to see the threads of fate, as a private investigator in the city of Alante. Her latest case leads her to a run-in with an inhumanly strong and half-crazed woman who wields her own cut life thread as a weapon. Investigating the mystery leads Io to criminal gangs, up-and-coming politicians, and her own absent sister, all involved in something dark in the city's past. I think the mystery of this book was very good; I definitely had my suspicions for the ultimate culprit (and there were some red herrings that just felt unnecessary), but the process of Io discovering the truth was highly entertaining and it wasn't completely obvious.

I also loved the magic system! The idea of characters being distantly descended from various mythological figures, giving them appropriate powers, was very interesting, especially since it isn't the typical demigod approach. My favorite part of it is that the powers come in sets of siblings, each one playing a different role. For example, of her three sisters, Io is a Cutter, representing the Fate that cuts the threads of life, which allows her to sacrifice one of her own threads to cut someone else's. The worldbuilding is also one of my favorite tropes, which is that it seems to be Earth but far in the future, after some sort of climate disaster. I hope the rest of the series explains more of the history! Io herself was mostly a likable and easy-to-root-for protagonist. My one gripe with this book was that she felt a little too perfect sometimes, a lot of her mistakes and failings coming from her rough upbringing, not necessarily her personal flaws. Still, I enjoyed reading about her, and I really liked the romance. Her and Edei have a pretty natural progression from allies to friends to lovers that doesn't feel rushed, which is often an issue I have with YA romances these days. There was one thing I was hoping would happen, but I'm holding out for the sequel (the title, Hearts That Cut, bodes well). Overall, I really enjoyed reading this book, and I'm looking to get the second one soon!

Wolf Siren by Beth O'Brien (★★★★☆)

Can't say much about this one, it's unreleased and I read it for work, but it balanced an understandable middle grade writing style well with the heavy topics it addresses.

Forged by Blood by Ehigbor Okosun (★★★☆☆.25)

This one was a bit of a disappointment. Forged by Blood tells the story of Demi, an Oluso who can wield magic in a land that has forbidden it. She is hired by a lord to kidnap the prince of her kingdom, Jonas, in a deceptive bid to get him a higher position that would hopefully benefit her people. Demi does so with the help of her close friend, Colin, but a wrench in their plans requires them to go on a bit of a journey with the prince. This book isn't really advertised as such, but it's absolutely a romantasy, not a high fantasy. Demi's world is an unsubtle allegory for colonization, the northerners having overthrown the original royal family and oppressing literally everyone else. This is a typical plot, but it's not the unoriginality I have an issue with; it's the fact that the romance kind of neuters the whole metaphor. In an attempt to allow Demi a romantic relationship with Jonas, prince of her oppressors, the story has to take a whole forgiveness-and-collaboration approach to what is basically colonization, and it just misses the mark.

In general, I wasn't a huge fan of the romance in this book. There are a lot of plot gaps that clearly only exist to make room for popular romance scenes, and the romance just wasn't good enough for me to forgive that. I was sort of into it in the beginning, but that was more the concept; the characters don't really have much chemistry. The thing is, I really enjoyed Demi and Jonas as characters (Colin less so, he was clearly only there for love triangle drama). They're both passionate and dedicated, which the romance doesn't really add to. The magic system is also interesting, based on Nigerian mythology, but the book doesn't dwell on it as much as I'd like. Overall, there wasn't really anything egregiously wrong with this book, but it wasn't nearly as good as it could have been.

The Poppy War by R. F. Kuang (★★★★★)

Another thesis reread!

Impossible by Lyra Cole (★★★☆☆.75)

This book is an omegaverse about five incredibly damaged people. Indie is an isolated girl with an intense eating disorder who discovers that she is an omega. In this world, omegas and alphas live in relative secret, making the transition difficult for her on top of her psychological struggles. Meanwhile, Hollis, Joshua, Leon, and Risk are four alphas whose pack fell apart in a mysterious, violent 'incident,' leaving them all traumatized. Normally books like this shy away from the impact PTSD and depression can have on someone's life. Impossible doesn't sugarcoat how flashbacks and severe depression fuck with a person's psyche, which I really appreciated. This is first and foremost a romance book, but it still allocates a decent amount of time to discussing the characters' problems and their healing process.

Other than that, there is a loose political undercurrent in the story, things that have far too serious implications for an omegaverse romance duology. Concerning that, I would have appreciated more happening; I was anticipating a bit more conflict coming from that area. The romance itself is pretty good; Indie and Leon by far spend the most time together, so their relationship develops the most naturally. The others feel a bit rushed, but I still like them. The book feels a little vague and directionless, but I enjoyed the characters and romance.

Kushiel's Dart by Jacqueline Carey (★★★★☆.5)

My longest read of the year tells the story of Phedre no Dalaunay. In the country of Terre D'Ange, there is one precept valued above all others: love as thou wilt. D'Angelines have a unique desire for beauty that presents itself in art, governance, and, crucially, sex. In the Houses of Night, which worship Namaah, sex is their method of tribute, and Phedre, sold by her mother to Namaah's service, has known all her life what she is meant to do. The only thing out of the ordinary about her is a red mote in her eye, Kushiel's Dart, which marks her as someone who experiences pain and pleasure as one. A noble, Lord Delaunay, takes notice of Phedre and purchases her indenture to then train her in the art of espionage. Her position allow her into places typical spies have no access to, and her skills loosen her clients' tongues. But Terre D'Ange is unstable, and her subterfuge leads her into a conspiracy to take a kingdom.

For a book published in 2001, this book is astonishing pro-LGBTQ and sex-positive. It portrays an understanding and healthy depiction of BDSM, draws a tasteful line between consensual sex work and rape, and boasts multiple characters that are openly queer. It's more politics and arranged marriages that get in the way of relationships than gender. This is also a complex and compelling political fantasy, pulling in court intrigue, diplomatic relations, and pretty good accuracy for medieval Europe (the map is just Europe, Terre D'Ange is France, it's not subtle). Phedre herself is a wonderful protagonist; she is dedicated, headstrong but clever, and knows how to utilize her talents to the best of her abilities. She has multiple entanglements throughout the course of the novel, but there are two main relationships, both of which were wonderful to read. One is a deadly dance, exploring the lines between love and hate, and one is complete devotion as the two go through hell together. Even for a book that discusses sex so openly, there actually aren't many sex scenes and most take up very little space; don't go into this one expecting a ton of smut. My only complaint is that the story does drag at times; it is over 1000 pages. I would read the trigger warnings before picking up this book, but otherwise I highly recommend it if you're looking for an in-depth political fantasy.

Otherworldly by F. T. Lukens (★★★★☆)

This was a cute, lighthearted paranormal romance between a goddess' familiar and a teenager who doesn't believe in magic. Ellery's region of the world has been stuck in an eternal winter for five years, but they might have a chance to save their city (and their family's farm) when they meet Knox, a familiar who's gone rogue for the chance to live his own life for once. The deal is simple: Knox helps Ellery discover why their Goddess has abandoned them, and Ellery helps Knox experience normal teenage things. Lukens has always been quite good at writing these cozy fantasy romances; they use magic tropes well to further the romance. I've previously had issues with them creating a world that 300-page romances just don't have time to explore, but this one was pretty self-contained and I didn't feel unsatisfied at the end.

The romance itself is very cute; Ellery and Knox play off each other well, and the story doesn't feel overly contrived or too rushed. I do think it's a little ridiculous that this one area of the world has been trapped in winter for five years and Ellery still doesn't believe in the supernatural. Oddly, it was the skepticism that broke my immersion. However, once they get past that, I thoroughly enjoyed the story. If you're looking for cute, fantastical romances, F. T. Lukens is a great bet, and I've enjoyed every book from them I've read.

[lxtstrip]

Homesick | C. Sturniolo

TW: weed/drugs mention

AN: first sturniolo fic — also don’t do drugs, smoke a joint (pack a bowl, rip a bong, eat an edible idc!) where/when legal and enjoy.

WC: 935

Pairing: Chris x Reader

“Stay in Boston.” Chris read with confusion from a crumpled note he found in his newly thrifted hoodie pocket. He didn’t think much of it, just some trash left by an artist in Los Angeles. Whether it was a photographer, videographer, songwriter, or maybe a failed sketch was anyone’s guess.

What he wasn’t aware of was the treacherous journey that hoodie had taken to get to him and its ties to the city he called home. The hoodie had gone through a family vacation, a boy’s high school career, moving into a college dorm, a relationship, many italian ice date nights, and a breakup. The hoodie signified an era of someone’s life; the same tagline as everything else you lay your eyes on at a thrift store.

He thought about everything he had ever known as the items were piling up in his newly found second hand collection. Donating his skates when he was 13, his mother cleaning out the garage of all their holiday things, and even down to his brothers piling clothes on the bed to list for sale online. He didn’t own much, just enough to keep him out of trouble, so the thought of someone having enough to give away was enough to make his head spin.

He kept the paper regardless of whether it was trash or not. Chris adored Boston and only associated positive memories with it. Fenway Park, Gillette Stadium and TD Garden were his go to places to hang with his friends, brothers, or even alone. He remembers frantically Googling ‘free things to do in Boston’ before dates and eventually dipping into his wallet after he couldn’t find anything good with pride. He was someone who would do anything to make anyone happy, whatever the cost, but he couldn’t apply that theory to himself.

When all was done and dusted for the day he decided to shut himself in his room and unwind. He ran his fingers down the spines of the books you gave him, reading the titles to himself, hearing your voice with each syllable. Empty promises of going to visit him came flooding back into his memory as soon as he saw your favorite book; tattered edges, taped spine, and a receipt paper bookmark. He shook himself out of it and went to his desk to pack a bowl.

With a swift flick of the lighter Chris pressed the glass to his lips and inhaled for a moment feeling the weight of the world lift off of his shoulders. He sat in his computer chair and looked around his room for signs of you - something, anything. He repeated the motion a few times and grabbed the torn piece of paper from his thrifting excursion.

“Stay in Boston.” Chris repeated to himself countless times before grabbing his phone. He knew your number by heart and as soon as he hit the call button an all-too-familiar ache came over him. He took another hit and exhaled when he heard your voicemail message play. He never thought he’d be here; alone, in his room, pining after a love lost.”

“Hey, it’s Chris…” he started. “I wish you were here. I’ve said it every day to myself while I’ve been out here. I know neither of us wanted this… I don’t think either of us knew what we wanted. I’ve been getting by on memories of stumbling to diners and stealing the mugs or skipping classes to go hang out at the park…” he took another hit and sighed. “What I’m trying to say is my heart will always have a space for you, my brain has always had one.”

You looked at your phone to see another voicemail from Chris. You shrugged it off thinking it was most likely another message he recorded at a party where he would preface it with whatever drug he was taking at the time; the west coast ruined him. As much as you hated to admit it you kept up with their videos and you locked in on Chris looking more gaunt every time.

You hadn’t answered a call from Chris in months and you never reached back out. You listened to his newest voice message as you recanted the first call since the split. He had just done a few lines of cocaine and he described it as feeling a sense of finally being able to focus to a greater extent. It shook you to your core that a once happy-go-lucky boy turned into… this. You couldn’t even begin to describe what you were feeling.

Chris often called to describe his high to you; cocaine, ayahuasca, benzos, acid, angel dust, salvia - the list went on. You were still his safe space and since he drew the conclusion you weren’t even listening to them he let his troubles go in the safe space of voicemails and dial tones.

Chris clutched the “Stay in Boston” note and thought about what it meant to the previous owner of the hoodie. Chris also thought about why this would fall into his lap and when it did. He slowly fell back into his nightly routine while he continued to contemplate that random piece of paper.

After a night of continuing keeping up his high, losing games, and melting his brain over three words Chris decided to head to bed. The second he was in bed it’s as if on cue he saw your name flash across his screen. It knocked his next breath out of him as he answered with a simple “Hello?”

“Chris…” you said followed by a shaky exhalation. “Please stay in Boston.”

[kissesandarsenic]

I knock on your door. 'May I come in Miss?'

'What is it? I'm busy.'

I look around and notice other university students looking at me.

My heart was pounding. I was beginning to have a panic attack. I gulped and made myself say the words I had rehearsed.

'Miss, may I enter and show my devotion to you?' I blurted out.

In a state of panic, my ears pricked up. There was silence from within your office but the sound of laughter behind me. I felt the walls close in on me.

The need to see you dominated my thoughts. My fight or flight response kicked in and I felt short of breath.

'Miss. I beg you. Please I need to show you how much you mean to me. I think about you every day and every night. I see you everywhere I look. I long to kneel before you and worship your beautiful breasts'

'Intetesting. But why specifically should I let you enter?'

Hearing your voice sent shivers down my spine and gave me the confidence I needed to say the following words.

'Your perfect soft breasts are all I think about. When I wake up with an erection, the reason it's leaking is because my last thought before sleep was caressing your nipple inside my mouth with my tongue, flicking over it and sucking it deeper into my mouth.'

I wait at your door to the sound of more laughter behind me. But then suddenly I hear some furniture being dragged and scraped across the floor inside your office.

'Very well. Undress. Leave your clothes outside. Then you may enter. Prove yourself worthy'

One of the students had been recording the whole scene with his phone. Laughter had given way to silence and now disbelief as I stepped out of my briefs.

I opened the door and looked down at a bare wooden floor. Restraints and a spreader bar had been prepared on the floor.

I instantly got down on the floor, lay myself spread-eagled out for you to buckle me in and then watched as you walked towards me and stood directly over over my face. You weren't wearing underwear.

'You think you know what devotion means?'

You'll wish you hadn't stepped foot in my office.

Trick please! I share the same limits as you.

To me, you'd stood out amongst the masses on your very first day of class.

Sure, you weren't the only eager face in a wall of apathy. There'd been others there, diligently writing down notes, hands shooting up to offer input to my questions or clarify statements. You'd been quiet in comparison. To other lecturers, you could easily have slipped under the radar.

But not me. I'd recognised the potential in that cute, earnest little face of yours. A harmless crush. That's all it started off as. Might have disappeared over time when the course work started mounting and that cold, callous nature was revealed beneath the maternal facade.

It had been so fucking easy to manipulate your desires into something more. Something darker.

Breaking into your dorm room to implant speakers that would play subliminals while you slept. Making all your dreams come back to thoughts of me, standing over you. The new deity you were born to worship. Whenever you had a class with me, I made sure to keep a few buttons in my blouse unlatched. I could stomach the leering looks of other less interesting toys if the pay off meant ensnaring you.

Your grades are failing in every class but mine. Every ounce of energy goes into thoughts of me and how you might please me.

Friends and family are worried for you, but they don't understand. You need me. Nothing else matters. Not your social standing, your career, your shame. Just me.

I was waiting for the day your inhibitions finally crumbled into dust. When your hand and mental images of me were no longer enough and you needed me to sate those carnal desires.

And now here you are, naked beneath me. Eyes glassy and unfocussed as they flicker between my face and my cunt, hovering torturous feet above you.

'Please, Miss?' you say. And oh, your voice is so pitiful. It sends a rush of warmth straight to my cunt. It's a wonder I'm not dripping down my thighs.

'Please what?'

'Let me worship you. Let me serve you. Please, Miss. Mistress. Goddess, please I'll do anything.'

Grinning, I kneel down, pulling my skirt up to see your pathetic simpering face. Tongue lolling out, begging for just a single drop of my essence to find it's way into your mouth. I take a seat and hear the muffled groan vibrate against me, your tongue lapping away like a starving dog.

Desperation looks divine on you. I'll never tire of seeing it. You fell into my web, pet, and I'm never letting you go for as long as we both shall live.

Trick or Treat Ask Game! Send in a fantasy with a "Trick" or "Treat" attached and I'll elaborate on it!

[girldragongizzard]

Epilogue 3: The Fenverse

"People say that my experiment failed dramatically," Fenmere the Poet says to me as we watch the proceedings. "But those that do weren't there. And they fail to acknowledge the beneficial repercussions of what the Harmless Free Radicals did. But, of course, I never finished the comic, so there's no record. Still…" She gestures at the two Artists working to restore the wooded wetland of her old vacant lot.

I've read what remains of that comic, what's left online, and I really can't see how it was part of anything big. There's very little that's special about it, and it's messy and weird. But, then, the outward appearances of the works of the Artists are often like that.

What I can see now, however, is that Chapman is crouched down working with Scilla the Botonist, quietly and carefully, murmuring in low relaxed tones. I am, in fact, in the presence of three Artists and they are not bickering, arguing, snapping at each other, or otherwise showing any sort of friction between them. And that is profoundly, disturbingly unusual. And nice.

This work started with the new year, actually. Every month, Chapman and Scilla have made their rounds to each of Säure's burn scars, and started prepping them for a year of intense, planned but wild growth. It only took that long to get started because they had to form the business and strike up a contract with the city to do the repairative work instead of someone else. Though, that was helped along thanks to certain connections I'd already established, and a few strategic pieces of poetry by Fenmere.

This is my first time going along for the rounds, though, so Fenmere is bragging to me about what she's done to make this possible.

I'm genuinely interested, of course, because this is Fairport and Artist history, though I was even alive for a lot of it.

"I was the first, you know," Fenmere says. "This is why I've called myself 'the Worm' for so long. A reminder of my first form, but also of how lowly we all truly are. A reminder to myself to be humble, though I'm still very terrible at that." She looks at me for a moment as if to see if I'm about to react to what she's said, but I'm afraid I'm a disappointment to her. She continues after a breath, "I got to see the hatching of each of my siblings, and watch them grow with the help of the others in a way I didn't get to experience. And almost immediately, there was fighting. We've never all got along. Too many differences."

"Ah," I say.

I've been constantly working on my vocabulary, but I seem to be coming to the limits of it. So, I've started collecting noises that are as versatile as possible. The various grunts of acknowledgement that English speaking humans use to keep a conversation going. It seems that I can learn to imitate an unlimited number of noises, really, but only remember a small handful of them as words. So when I practice and use a new word for long enough, my memory of a less used one will become less available when I need it. I'll never talk like a human without my AAC, and I'm totally OK with that. Often, I prefer it.

"Now I know what people like Säure and his ilk say about us Artists. I know they call us the Architects, or other terms and phrases of similar provenance and intent. And that my work, my Fenverse, must seem like playing into their expectations," the Poet explains in her strange, rough, lispy voice, mouth opening a minuscule fraction to let the air and sound from her syrinx escape, her nostrils doing most of the work. "But, I don't give a flying shit about them. Whether we're talking about ants or gods, cooperation is better than eternal conflict. And the world really has seen too many eons of chaos as it is. I think it is high time for some more harmony. Don't you?"

"Yes," I agree.

She gestures with her right claw at the ground of the land surrounding the creek, which gleams in the morning sun, and says, "When they are done planting this round of seeds, I'll bless the lot with some of my words, and we'll be ready to go to the next location. This should never have happened. But we can bring it back to its original half-assed glory of municipal environmental posturing within the year, and to something much better by the next. The raccoons and deer will love it!" She turns to smile at me, eyes doing the same slow blink that I do. "Of course, the Earth needs far more work than this. And if something isn't done soon, this lot will burn down again in no time. But I think with how us dragons have turned out, and how we may be shaping humanity and the world itself in ways that we Artists could never achieve, there should be some hope!"

I bob my head.

"But I am still inordinately proud of what I did," she mumbles. "The Fenverse was probably my greatest work."

"How?" I ask, happy that that word bubbled up in time to use it.

"Did you know that not all poetry must be written or spoken in words to be considered poetry?" she asks me.

"No," I reply, honestly. That sounds like bullshit.

"It is true," she says. "I've been composing poetry since billions of years before language existed, so I should know, of course. In any case, it was simple. I used the ridiculous shenanigans portrayed in my comics to lure representatives from the various cliques and factions of my siblings. And then, when all the important players were here, I bound them in a poem, the Fenverse. And despite what they think, it worked. I was so cunning, I disgust myself."

As I said, having read the comics myself I still find that hard to believe. But, again, Rhoda once said that the Artists are like the scientists to the ants that are the rest of us. And I certainly know that the Artists can Do Things. Chapman, for instance, can draw a few careful lines on a paper cup and turn it into a megaphone. Or with a few different lines, and a hole in the end, it becomes a small jet engine. So I don't discount anything Fenmere is saying, as hard it as it is for me to emotionally accept it.

—

Way back. Thursday, October 24, 2002, if I recall correctly.

The new coffee shop finally opened its doors where the old Donut Kitchen used to be. The sign on the brick column in front of the door had the business' logo as big as a child. And it was a child. A cartoon of a black haired girl holding a huge steaming cup of coffee.

I was the first customer. I'd been checking their "opening soon" sign every day to be sure I remembered the hour correctly. 6:30 am, October 24.

It was a different set of owners at the time. They'd eventually sell the place to their employees, after starting their own roastery. All such good people, even if they occasionally had their differences.

That day, I put up with the company of others to start a line at the door at five o' clock. And the owners, who were staffing the counter that morning, were bewildered and delighted by the enthusiasm of these five people, as if they found themselves hosting a rock show with first come first serve seating or something. I don't know why, but when the doors opened, the other four people stepped aside and insisted I go first.

I was wearing New Balance shoes from K-Mart, a pair of jeans I found at Good Will that were a bit too baggy and held up by a belt my grandfather gave me, and a huge gray hoodie. The biggest hoodie I could find, hood up, with my beard poking out from it. There was a crumpled up collection of dollar bills in my fist in the pocket.

This was before I'd become fully disabled. I think the job I had at the time was at a record store. It wasn't going well. The boss was a high strung anal-retentive dick.

Look, I've never really used words like that to describe anybody before. It's not my style. But there really isn't a better way to describe this guy.

I'd already put myself on the waiting list for the Magnolia apartments, though. I think I knew where I was headed already.

Anyway, I did not look or smell like someone anyone should give deference to. But for the brief few seconds, I was treated like a lady, and it hurt in such a good way. And I'm sure none of the people there knew or would have guessed why.

I ordered a cowboy cookie and a double tall mocha with no whipped cream, and then immediately saw my favorite seat, off in the far corner.

The golden upholstery, high back with wings, and deep shadows of the twelve buttons punched through the padding all called to me, but the location was the best part. I could watch the whole cafe from there, and the parabolic array of my hood would channel sound from the front into my ears.

So that's where I was sitting when the wild haired, goateed person in a navy blue trench coat walked in, shoving their hand deep into their satchel to pull out a stack of neon orange quarter page handbills. They were so excited. And, now, I know that most people looking at this person would have gendered them a man, just like what they would have done looking at me. But, I know better now, so I'm using they/them in retrospect, even though their name is a stereotypically male name.

I really don't know many enbies named Jonathan.

After placing their order, and introducing themself, which they did with excruciating politeness and care, they pushed their stack of handbills forward on the counter and said, "I'd like to ask if it's OK for me to distribute these weekly comics here. They're kinda weird, but my friend draws them, and we both thought this would be the perfect place, because your logo looks like one of her characters!"

Both owners of the shop leaned forward over the counter to look at the sample of the comic, Andi up on her tiptoes in order to see, and Henry leaning in sideways, hands busy wiping down a freshly cleaned mug.

"Oh, yeah!" Andi said. "These would be great! We'd be honored to carry these!"

"Oh, sweet. Thank you!" Jonathan said, then took most of the stack and turned to put them on the windowsill near the counter. "Is this a good spot."

"You bet," Henry said.

Then Jonathan, waiting for their drink with hands in pockets, looked my way and pulled a hand out to wave.

I guess I waved back.

They grinned, then kept looking around the shop in awe of it.

The decor was the same back then as it is now, but the colors of the walls and ceiling were different. With the new owners came a fresh look, but still in the same basic "actually the Victorians really loved color" theme. The fixtures and collection of strange glassware in the windows have remained. The glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling were added much later. They were absent when Jonathan took in the place.

Walls the color of milky coffee were trimmed with golden orange molding, and the ceiling was an amazing yellow. The furniture and counters were painted in a circus rainbow of reds, blues, greens, yellows, and the occasional purple. The radiator was painted a dark russet.

"Great Scott, I love this place," Jonathan said.

"Thank you!" Andi exclaimed, handing them their drink in a to-go cup.

Then Jonathan left.

Andi shot me a smile before returning to her place behind the counter.

The other four customers who had been waiting with me outside the door were also scattered around the shop, and had watched the exchange. One of them stood up to go look at one of the comics. I watched them flip it over and read something on the back, then put it back down, grunting. Then they left.

After a couple of hours, I was the only customer in the shop, so I got up to see what the fuss was about.

The comic was titled Harmless Free Radicals and was marked as copyright 2002 by Fenmere, the Worm. It was printed in thick black toner on this Astrobrite card stock, four up and then trimmed into these little handbills. This one had only one panel. It was a scratchy cartoon of a girl, a lot like the one on the shop's logo, sitting on the floor next to her bed, with some kind of little dragon made entirely of shadow perched on her bed looking over her shoulder. She was holding a set of the comic handbills.

"More cards?! How? I thought they came out once a week! It's only Thursday!" the little dragon exclaimed. I felt like I could hear her voice.

"Shush! Stop breaking character! We have to maintain a suspension of disbelief in order for this to work," the girl replied in low tones, I imagined.

There was a url. It was a webcomic in the early '00s. Of course self-referential meta fourth wall breaking bullshit was totally in at the time. Well, all the webcomic authors seemed to think it was a hit.

—

After an hour or so of listening to Fenmere talk about her big scheme, her Fenverse, I'm maybe ready to say more than just a word here or there.

During a pause in her speech, while she's busy observing the work of her siblings, I turn and plod my way over to the sidewalk and pull out my tablet to put it on the concrete. Then I look at her and wait for her to notice. She has fully forward facing eyes, like a human's, so her peripheral vision isn't as great as mine.

"So, in any case," she starts saying and then looks over to where I was. Then she notices where I am and how I've pulled out my tablet. "Yes?"

"Ian and Brenna starred in comic," I tell her. "What about Ink and Jenifer?" Ink was the little dragon and Jenifer the girl.

"Oh, yes," Fenmere says. "Everyone in the comic was a real person who lives today. Though, Ink is Jenifer's imaginary friend. She's sort of a special case."

"And Jonathan?" I ask. "They aren't a hampster."

"Oh, yes they are," Fenmere says.

"Like Kimberly a poodle?" I ask.

"Oh, beans, no," Fenmere chuckles. "That's 'Hamster, with a capital 'H' and an apostrophe before it. The cartoon was a liberty to throw people off, but Jonathan is from Bellingham. A Bellinghamster."

"Bellingham? Where that?" I ask.

"Somewhere else," Fenmere says. "It's unimportant now. In any case, as I was saying, in order to make the whole thing work I had to bind Fairport in the treaty as well. It's inherently part of the alliance. So, when my siblings come here, there's a minimal amount of trouble they can cause each other. And when I'm present, it's peaceful."

"Wait," I say.

"Yes?"

"You started comic in 2000?"

"I did."

"And you finish in 2015?"

Fenmere cringes and says, "I stopped in 2015. The Fenverse was completed then, but not the comic. I'll always regret that, but there are more important things to do now."

"What is Fenverse?" I ask, even though she sort of already explained it. I want a more detailed description. Something's itching at the back of my mind.

"My entire life's work," Fenmere says. "A poem written with the fabric of reality itself, where my siblings are the words, and this city, Fairport, is the signature. I had to use the inherent magic of humanity to make it work, though. Other people, other animals, would have eventually sufficed. Humans were just lucky enough to put together the right mix of dreaming, beliefs, and science, I think."

"Why Fairport?" I ask.

"Because I was here at the time," Fenmere replies. "It's nothing that special, except maybe it tends to isolate itself from the rest of the world too much, and lies to itself about its own nature. Like a lot of small cities across the world. So that isn't all that special, either, just the right properties for what I needed. Also, I like the coffee here."

"Are people of Fairport part of Fenverse?" I prod, getting to the crux of my itch.

"Oh, I suppose yes, they'd have to be, since the city wouldn't exist without them," she responds, looking up in the air at something in her mind.

"I bound by Fenverse," I say.

"You were here, so yes," she says.

"Rhoda bound by Fenverse," I point out.

"Oh."

I get up and walk away. I've got some thinking to do.

I think I'm going to want to compare notes with Chapman, when sie is free to think about this kind of thing. And I want to figure things out more clearly before I talk to Rhoda about it. And, I also wish I was in better touch with Ptarmigan. There were a bunch of things the Artists were doing when we were fighting Säure that didn't have obvious effects, and they didn't explain what happened. I feel like the same thing is going on here with the Fenverse, whatever it really was.

More particularly, I think the Artists aren't always fully aware of the side effects of their Arts. Or they don't care.

I have no idea if it could be true, but Fenmere's exclamation when I pointed it out seems to indicate it's a distinct possibility.

If Rhoda and I are part of the same enforced treaty that was meant to bind all of Fenmere's siblings to some sort of harmony and peace, maybe that was a force in the way the dracomorphosis unfolded. It might be how Rhoda became the Bellwether, or the Dreamer.

Because right about the time Fenmere was putting the final touches on her life's work, a poem that was billions of years in the making if we believe her, Rhoda was freshly grieving the loss of her child, Jacob. Only a handful of years into that grief, at most. Not a perfect coincidence, and other people in the city must have been grieving things. But still.

I'm not sure it's relevant in the grand scheme of things, though, besides giving Fenmere something to think about. To bring her up short next time she's doing something that big.

Things still happened the way they did, and a bunch of other things that were going very badly have started turning around.

I'm not sure anyone would really want to risk rewinding things and doing them differently, even if we could do that.

I know I don't.

[deus-ex-mona]

let lipxlip sleepxsleep

Aizo: Great at dance performances due to his athleticism. The way his ponytail sways when he dances never fails to drive their Julieta wild!

Q: How would you say the phrase “Trick or Treat”?

Aizo: Trick or Treat… Give me some treats, or else I’m gonna play a trick on you.

[Argh! I tried to say it as cool as I could… but now I’m kinda embarrassed (laughs).]

Yujiro: A well-mannered boy who is especially good at singing. The way his dignified gaze peeks out from beneath his diagonally cut bangs is always sure to blow the reason out of their Julietas’ minds!

Q: How would you say the phrase “Trick or Treat”?

Yujiro: Trick or Treat! Will you give me treats? Or, perhaps, would you like me to play a trick on you?

[I’m so embarrassed… This is the first time that I’ve ever felt this embarrassed from saying “Trick or Treat” (blushes).]

Special Release! A Day in the Life of LIPxLIP

The super popular idols of LIPxLIP are High School students. Let’s take a look at a day’s schedule of these two exceptional student idols in this special release!

6am: Yujiro: Wakes up → Solo dance practice

7am: Aizo: Wakes up → Goes on a morning run

8am: They both go to school

8am-4pm: They attend classes at school

4pm: School ends → They head off for their lessons

5pm: Their lessons begin

6pm-10pm: Dance lessons, voice training, etc.

10pm: Their lessons end

10.30pm: They head home

11pm: They take their baths and review the scope of their upcoming interviews and such that are scheduled for the next day

12am: They go to bed

Yujiro x Aizo INTERVIEW

Their feelings for their Julieta always spurs them on

From the looks of your schedule, you guys are busy from the crack of dawn to late at dusk. How do you manage to cope with your school lives and your idol lives?

Aizo: Back when I first started High School, all I thought was “Ugh, school…”, but now, I’m thankful for the words of “You only have a single chance to enjoy your High School life.” that the President of our agency had said to us. Not gonna lie, it’s really hard to cope with school and our idol activities.

Yujiro: To be honest, when I first entered High School, there were times when I felt reluctant to go to school, thinking along the lines of “I’d much rather prioritise my work and lessons, so why do I have to go to school…?”. But now, I’m enjoying both school and our activities as LIPxLIP. I’m finding life to be very fulfilling at present. 

Aizo: I can’t cut corners in both my school life and our activities as LIPxLIP, so I’m always giving it my all! I was totally bushed the day after the sports festival, though (laughs).

Yujiro: I was able to work in top condition the next day… or so I’d like to say, but I was still a little tired myself. I almost nodded off during our break at work. Aizo fell asleep though (laughs).

Aizo: Hey! You can’t say stuff like that!

The two of you live very busy lives as LIPxLIP. But just what spurs you guys on to work as hard as you do?

Yujiro: We owe it all to the support that our Julieta have shown us.

Aizo: We really want our Julieta to see us at our coolest after all!

By the way, how has school been for you these days?

Aizo: We play basketball during our lunch break with our classmates, and it’s a ton of fun! We are also thinking about playing soccer next time.

Yujiro: I think my grades aren’t bad at all. I’m striving to cope with both my High School life and my idol activities, but I wouldn’t be able to say that I’m coping if my test scores were bad, right? So, I’m doing perfectly well in that regard!

As for your idol activities, you guys have released Shin Jidai, your first collaboration song with your seniors, Full Throttle4 (FT4). What was the recording process like?

Yujiro: I was very nervous before the recording session because it was a collaboration song. However, despite still being nervous during the actual recording, I was able to learn a lot from YUI and RIO. It may be an exaggeration to say this, but I watched and studied the way they recorded without blinking a single time.

Aizo: I’m with Yujiro on this. YUI’s carefree high notes, RIO’s skillful and persuasive singing, the way they were both able to respond to the producer’s directions immediately, and the fact that they were able to sing in all kinds of patterns made me think that they’re what we should strive to achieve. But YUI usually eats nothing but super spicy food, so how he’s even able to sing such high notes in such a relaxed manner remains a complete mystery (laughs).

Yujiro: Aizo, if YUI reads this article, he’d definitely get mad at you (laughs).

Aizo: We’ll have to cut that bit out, then (laughs).

We’ll write the article with care (laughs). Shin Jidai sure has a different vibe from your usual songs as LIPxLIP, doesn’t it?

Yujiro: Our collaboration song, Shin Jidai, has ambitious lyrics and a rock soundtrack, which aren’t often heard in our previous songs, so I think that we were able to show our Julieta a completely new side of us.

Aizo: Since our Julieta loved the song too, I want to sing more rock songs in the future. So look forward to it!

I have high expectations for your future songs! By the way, speaking of FT4, when you were guest performers at their concert, Full Throttle4 LIVE 2022 RECEPTION PARTY, back in July, Aizo imitated DAI and Yujiro imitated MEGU. How did you guys feel about it?

Aizo: I never expected that I’d have to impersonate DAI right there on stage…

Yujiro: I was extreeeeemely surprised!

Aizo: Though, didn’t we unexpectedly manage to nail our impressions? (laughs)

You guys nailed them! I couldn’t help but laugh when I saw it…

Aizo: Right? I’m glad to hear that. Yujiro’s impression of MEGU almost made me laugh too (laughs).

Yujiro: MEGU’s unique in a good way (laughs).

It has been announced that LIPxLIP will be performing live at Special Sunny Party, which is set to be held in October. Please give an enthusiastic message to your fans who are waiting for the live to take place.

Aizo: We’re giving it our all in our lessons so that we’ll be able to bring the best possible smiles to your faces, Julieta. Please look forward to it!

Yujiro: Like Aizo said, we’re attending our lessons diligently so that you’ll be able to see us at our coolest. So look forward to our performance in October!

How will LIPxLIP celebrate Halloween? A Themed Q&A

Q1: What tricks would you prank each other with?

Aizo: I’d give Yujiro a bitter beverage while pretending that it’s cocoa. He’s prolly gonna be in a bad mood for the entire day (laughs), but I’m confident that my prank will be a success.

Yujiro: I’d prank Aizo with a wake up surprise. Maybe I’d have him quietly carried out to the middle of our school’s schoolyard while he’s asleep and wake him up there. Or perhaps I’ll get the help of YUI from FT4 and have Aizo wake up to a flashy performance by YUI (laughs).

Q2: If you were to release a song or a music video centred around Halloween, what would it be like?

Aizo: I’d want to don a cape or something and act like a vampire! I’d put on some fangs too.

Yujiro: Vampires are nice, aren’t they? I’d like to star in a music video that tells the story about idols who are only active at night… but in truth, they happen to be vampires.

Aizo: They’d be super mysterious idols for sure cuz they don’t do any work during the day.

Yujiro: What are your thoughts on making a Halloween-exclusive music video about the day in the life of “Vampire Idols LIPxLIP”, which starts with us waking up in the evening and going to bed in the morning?

Aizo: Let’s discuss it with the Pres and our Manager back at the office (laughs).

Q3: Is there anything you’d like to dress up in?

Aizo: I’d like to wear a kimono. To be honest, I’m a little interested in kumadori, the style of makeup that’s used in Kabuki.

Yujiro: You are? I can help you to get dressed up in that. As for me… I’m interested in the makeup and outfits of the female models who walk down the runway. I find myself thinking about how cool they are when I see the way their high heels clack as they strut their stuff, so I’d like to experience it for myself.

Aizo: I guess they are… But I’m not confident in my ability to walk in heels (laughs).

Q4: What kinds of treats would you give each other?

Aizo: I’d give Yujiro a treat with such a great impact that it’ll leave him stunned in surprise. Like a brightly coloured cake from overseas, maybe? I know he loves sweets and that he has probably eaten all kinds of them, but I wanna venture out in search of sweets that he has never eaten before and is curious about!

Yujiro: Aizo’s not really one for sweets, so I’d look for treats that even someone like him can indulge in. Like something coffee-flavoured or infused with matcha, for instance.

[silly-feeling]

Ignatius's Tickle Monster Intake Interviews (Aka some practice with character voice)

INTAKE INTERVIEW Dr. Ignatius Bryn Custos February 2 Subject 01: “MIRT”

NOTES: This is going to be a lot harder than I thought.

After 2 grueling failed attempts, I’ve managed to capture one of them. There must be shorter imprisonment spell that I could use… will have to consult my spellbook to make sure.

This monster is the most cooperative of the bunch. I hate to admit it, but I think he may have let me capture him out of pity. Perhaps his insight can help me more easily capture the others.

(This interview has been recorded, transcribed and edited for clarity.)

CUSTOS: Alright, we’re recording. Let’s begin. Please state your name for the record. MIRT: You already know my name, silly— CUSTOS: Mister Mirt, please cooperate. It’s for the record. MIRT: [heavy sigh] It’s Mirt. CUSTOS: Just Mirt? No surname? MIRT: Just Mirt. Haven’t got a family to inherit a name from. Well, not that I know of, anyways. CUSTOS: Interesting. I’ll have to circle back around to that. Now tell me, Mirt, what type of creature are you? MIRT: [giggling] You know what I am— CUSTOS: For the record, Mirt. MIRT: I’m a tickle monster. CUSTOS: Mirt, do you know why you’re here today? MIRT: I reckon I’ve finally tickled the wrong bloke. CUSTOS: I suppose you could say that. MIRT: Aw, I didn’t mean any harm by it. Just having a little fun, ’s all. CUSTOS: Yes, that much is clear. But I’m sure you understand that your idea of fun can be unpleasant and inconvenient to others. MIRT: So I’m in trouble, then? CUSTOS: Not exactly. I’ve decided to isolate you to keep you from… bothering anyone else. My primary motivation is to study you— there’s a void in research about tickle monsters, you know. MIRT: Y’don’t say! Wonder why that could be. CUSTOS: So try not to think of this as a punishment. Your cooperation will play a crucial role in the written history of your kind! MIRT: I dunno. I’d rather be out in the woods ticklin’ blokes, if I’m honest. CUSTOS: Well. Like it or not, you’re here to stay for a while. Best to make the most of it. Now, I’d like to ask a few more questions…

INTAKE INTERVIEW Dr. Ignatius Bryn Custos February 6 Subject 02: “GREARY”

NOTES: This is the specimen I previously encountered in the deadwood forest. Was not looking forward to encountering him again— his command of magic is impressive, and his abilities allow him to keep me at a distance and torment me at the same time. I even considered not attempting to capture this one at all, but I’m glad I made the trip to check in on him. I still can’t believe my luck! I happened upon him snoozing against a tree— fell asleep while reading a book, from the look of it— and I was able to capture him without any issue whatsoever.

Perhaps this won’t be so hard after all.

(This interview has been recorded, transcribed and edited for clarity.)

CUSTOS: Please state your name for the record. GREARY: I refuse. CUSTOS: Please. You’re only dragging this out for yourself. GREARY: So be it. CUSTOS: The sooner we complete this interview, the sooner you can return to your room. GREARY: I refuse to participate in this indecorousness. CUSTOS: Alright. Your name is Dreary, then. GREARY: No, no, no, that’s all wrong! Greary, with a G— CUSTOS: Thank you. What type of creature are you? GREARY: Oh, blast— Don’t think you can bamboozle me so easily, human— CUSTOS: I’m not trying to trick you, Greary. I’m simply gathering information. GREARY: Well. I want no part in it. I insist that you release me, posthaste! CUSTOS: I can’t do that, Greary. Like it or not, you’re a bit of a menace. Do you understand that? GREARY: [scoffs] If lesser creatures such as yourself don’t approve of how I conduct myself, they are free to avoid my territory. CUSTOS: Have you met Mirt already? Are the two of you familiar? GREARY: You assume we’re familiar merely on the basis of our propensities? Tickle monsters do not fraternize with one another— CUSTOS: So you’re a tickle monster, then? GREARY: Ooh, you— CUSTOS: Why don’t you get along? Tickle monsters, I mean. GREARY: Other tickle monsters serve merely as distraction and competition. CUSTOS: Interesting. May I ask why you were so cooperative about answering that question and not the others? GREARY: Because I already don’t like that fellow. Not one bit. CUSTOS: Hmm. I see. I’m sorry if Mirt was a little… overeager. He hasn’t been able to tickle anyone for nearly a week— he may have a touch of cabin fever. GREARY: Fever or no, he’s chosen a powerful enemy today. As have you.

INTAKE INTERVIEW Dr. Ignatius Bryn Custos February 12 Subject 03: “PEET”

NOTES: This may be the death of me. This wasn’t even the last one. He doesn’t even have any special powers. He’s only three and a half feet tall, for goodness sake! But it took 4 attempts to capture this one. I think I’m losing my voice.

I wish I wasn’t so damnably ticklish. Then this would be a whole lot easier.

(This interview has been recorded, transcribed and edited for clarity.)

PEET: Oh, how exciting— CUSTOS: You’re in surprisingly high spirits. Please state your name for the record. PEET: Yes, well— not every day a creature like myself has the privilege of being interviewed. My name is Peet— that’s P-e-e-t not P-e-t-e. Distinction without a difference, I suppose. I am a tickle monster by trade. Pleased to meet you. Well, meet you again, hmm? CUSTOS: Yes, you’ve been quite a handful. PEET: Please don’t take it personally. It is in my nature to tickle, after all. I know tickling is more unbearable for some creatures than it is for others. I don’t mean to be cruel, I simply can’t resist a target as ticklish as yourself— CUSTOS: Does tickling fulfill some sort of need for you? Or is it a want? PEET: Hmm. Good question. You, you’re a human, yes? CUSTOS: Yes. PEET: Think of it like this: tickling is to tickle monsters what sunlight is to a human. It isn’t like being denied food or water— we won’t shrivel up and blow away if we’re denied tickling for a week or two. But like a human locked away in a dark dungeon, we become pale and sickly and despondent. CUSTOS: I see. PEET: Oh, this is fun. Give me another. CUSTOS: I noticed that Mirt and Greary gave you hell when you first arrived— what is that like for a tickle monster? I assume you’re used to being the one doing the tickling. PEET: Ah, yes. Just a little friendly hazing, I’m sure. It is an… odd experience. I can’t remember the last time I was tickled. It’s rather overwhelming, isn’t it? CUSTOS: I’d say so. Do you think this experience will change how you tickle others going forward? PEET: [chuckling] If you’re trying to ask if I’ll go easy on you next time, unfortunately the answer is no, my friend. I have standards for my craft, a sense of pride in my work. I’m sure you understand. CUSTOS: Not quite. But that’s fine— over the next few months or so of observation I expect to get a clearer picture of your culture and motivations. PEET: M-months? Oh, goodness. You frightened me for a moment. But surely you’re talking about tickle monsters as a whole, not— CUSTOS: No, sir. I’m sorry, but you will be in my custody for a while. PEET: A while?! I thought this would be a simple interview— now you’re telling me I’ve been incarcerated? This— this can’t be ethical! CUSTOS: Tickling people without their permission isn’t exactly ethical either, now is it? PEET: You— wait, you can’t do this, those two will eat me alive in here, I don’t stand a chance— CUSTOS: You held your own quite well against me. PEET: That’s not the same— CUSTOS: I’m sorry, Peet. But on the bright side, you can look forward to many more interviews in the future. PEET: [whimpering]

INTAKE INTERVIEW Dr. Ignatius Bryn Custos February 17 Subject 04: “RISIO”

NOTES: FINALLY. Gods. I’ve never been so relieved to be done with something. I never want to be touched ever again. I want to live in a tickle-proof bubble for the rest of my days.

Oh well. No use dwelling on that nonsense. Time to focus on the easy part— observing and interviewing.

I’ve observed them in their natural habitat for the last few months. Their behavior will undoubtedly be different in captivity— not to mention in the company of other tickle monsters— but I believe this will provide a lot of insight nonetheless.

It is strange getting to know them. I’ve been approaching them as if they were beasts. Monsters. But they’re really just people, aren’t they? Strange, strange people.

Ethically, it is a conundrum. Perhaps I shouldn’t have done this. But I’m too far in to start second-guessing myself now.

Besides. They deserve it for what they’ve put me through.

(This interview has been recorded, transcribed and edited for clarity.)

CUSTOS: Risio. Are you going to cooperate? RISIO: Why should I? That was dirty. CUSTOS: Can you please face me? RISIO: We’re talkin’ just fine like this, aren’t we poindexter? CUSTOS: [sighing] Alright. Please state your name for the record. RISIO: You just said it, moron. CUSTOS: I need you to say it! Risio! Just say it, alright? RISIO: Touchy! I guess I can’t blame you. I’ve been sweepin’ the floor with you for the past week. Must bruise a man’s ego to fail so many times in a row, huh? CUSTOS: State. Your name. For. The record. Risio. RISIO: Okay, sheesh! It’s Risio. Duh. CUSTOS: Thank you. What type of creature are you, Risio? RISIO: I’m a tickle monster. Obviously. CUSTOS: Thank you. Have you already met the others? RISIO: Oh, I met them, alright. Did you set them up to try to jump me as soon as you crammed me in here? CUSTOS: I don’t tell them to do anything. That’s just... what they’ve been doing. RISIO: Yeah? Well, the gaggle of rejects you’ve managed to scrounge up didn’t stand a chance against ol’ Risio. The alpha has arrived. CUSTOS: Is that so? I’ll have to see if the others have anything to say about that… RISIO: They’re all gonna lie to save face. Don’t want to accept my natural superiority. CUSTOS: Hmm. RISIO: So is that it? Can I go now? I’d like to kick my lessers around a little bit. Teach ‘em who’s boss, y’know? CUSTOS: In my interview with Peet he said that tickling was to tickle monsters what sunlight is to humans. But you appear to be some sort of plant-like creature— Do you feed off of sunlight as well? Do you photosynthesize? RISIO: Photo-what? How the hell am I supposed to know? Dweeb. CUSTOS: [heavy sigh] Alright.

[velnica]

Homeward (Orpheus/Eurydice)

A ficlet about Eurydice, Sanson's Ancient self, and Orpheus, Guydelot's Ancient self.

He is here again, with his sweet melody that filled the night air like a thousand nightingales. It is obvious that he is here for me, though I do not know why he would, when he can have his fill of adoring audience with far more enthusiasm elsewhere. Yet for nigh a moon he had greeted me as I leave for home, leaning his tall frame against the stone wall outside the building. His is a striking form under the moonlight; a shining jewel to my tarnished brass.

"Good evening, Eurydice," he says, as per usual.

"Good evening, Orpheus," I reply back, like all of those other days. He smiles back, and nothing else is said; from here on the only sound left will be my footsteps, and a song that follows them until I round over yonder corner. So I walk down the stairs and along the pavement as is routine, but I fail to shake the feeling that something is different tonight.

I look up at the moon, seeking answers. Is it his looks? No, Orpheus has always looked the same; confident and bright, as is his right as one of Altima's protégé. Is it his smile? No, it is always gentle and sincere; a smile just for me, he'd said once, and I could not find the lie in those words.

I crane my ears back towards him when it hits me: Orpheus's melody has a different lilt, imperceptible perhaps to those who have not listened to it near nightly, but it is there—half a note deeper and half a breath slower, as if it is waiting for something to happen, something to rouse it back to its usual tempo.

The book against my chest feels inadequate to contain the sudden swell of heat that blooms within. It's an absurd proposition, that someone like Orpheus could be waiting for someone like me; Eurydice; a plain-faced clerk with far too serious a furrow between my brows and minuscule talent for nothing else except recording history.

And yet...

I stop at the far end of the path, where the pavement's patterns meld to a different design. He is still leaning against the pillar; playing, waiting. The wind takes that exact moment to change, and with it, so do I.

"Your melody is different tonight, perchance you can explain its intricacies as I walk home?" I ask, before blushing several shades deep. By the Star, that sounded far too bold—

Orpheus's melody suddenly shifts, this time rising up to a trill, akin to a flight of birds looping through the air. He near jogs to catch up, not breaking even a single note, then stops next to me.

"I've one better. Let me play you a new composition, and you may tell me your opinion of it."

"You know I'm no good critique. I know little and less about techniques," I confess. Instead of chastisement, Orpheus just grins.

"Pah, I've no shortage of people raring to tell me that I ought to use a different scale for more sophistication or some such; no, I'd like you to describe to me what you feel when you hear it, just as you have always done."

I colour even more. It is such a simple ask, and I've always opined on his songs—often unprompted—when he barges into my resting spot at lunch; yet tonight it feels like my answer will forever change the course of... of...

Orpheus waits, still with that handsome grin on his face. His beautiful turquoise eyes shine from behind the mask, and I am drawn ever closer as if pulled by an invisible string. The heat returns to my chest and before I can make a fool of myself, I nod.

His grin bursts into stars. "Come then, let us begin," he says as he lifts his harp and starts walking, in sync with his new melody.

I fall into step with him and listen to this new song, to Orpheus's voice, to the plucking of strings against his fingertips and I let myself feel. The melody tugs at the corner of my lips and before I realise it, I am grinning wide, heart light and aflutter.

I look up at the sky again and send up a wish—to the Star and the Moon, may this feeling never, ever fade.

Continued in Invitation.

[tgrailwar-zero]

As KUKULKAN worked on breaking down the loose bricks, CONSTANTINE and PRETENDER kept an eye out.

PRETENDER: "Sure, nothing wrong with a bit of caution."

You watched as several twinkling faeries disappeared into the darkness.

Following suit, the walls crumbled, resulting in another path.

The three Servants stepped into a wide room, looking around.

KUKULKAN: "Look! A sword."

She pointed at a weapon, stabbed into the rock- cracks splintering around the point of impact. It was a blade of deep crimson with black trimming.

The blade was dull, the red-hot sheen mottled by dust and cobwebs forming on the odd curses and indentations on the blade, but seemed to have a certain heat radiating off of it. Reaching a hand towards it, CONSTANTINE drew it back with a wince, as if burned.

CONSTANTINE: "It's like there's some sort of magecraft preventing me from using it. My hand gets too close, and it feels like my fingers are are about to burn off."

He squinted, looking closer at the strange blade, finding some engraving on it.

Regnum caelorum et gehenna.

CONSTANTINE: "...'The kingdom of heaven and hell'..."

KUKULKAN: "That said 'Blade's Tomb', right? Perhaps this is the 'blade' that they were speaking of?"

CONSTANTINE: "Perhaps. Though I wonder who this belonged to. Perhaps someone who fought in the 'Origin War'?"

Reviewing the facts, it seemed like there were three wars, at least. A 'Lunar Grail War' that went wrong, the 'Origin War' where you first arrived, and this current 'Solar Grail War' that you were a part of.

PRETENDER: "Not sure, I suppose the only answers lay deeper. You know, I never thought of myself as the type who did well in dark spaces like this, but being part of a group makes it a bit more manageable."

With a spectacular success, you note something close to the sword- off to the side, hidden a bit. KUKULKAN seemed to spot it as well, stepping over and picking it up. It seemed to be a small, circular object- and luckily perfectly in-tact, undamaged by any sort of reckless rummaging.

When it was picked up, a holographic image flickered to life- a recording. The woman on the recording seemed... familiar. She looked like CASTER- though her gaze was a bit less derisive. More tired. Stressed. And unlike how CASTER seemed unflappable, this 'CASTER' seemed to be just as aware of the pains of the world as anyone else. She seemed... scared.

CASTER(?): [ Saber, I assume that if you've found this blade, you've recovered your memories. I don't know how- maybe though that 'Imperial Cheat' that you call a 'skill'. And I can also assume that you're very, very angry with me. But listen… ]

CASTER(?): [ We were never going to agree on how to handle the situation we're in, so I'm taking things into my own hands. I barely managed to convince that Nameless Servant. So I played dirty. Perhaps, if you pick up this blade again, your first instinct will be to go for my neck and put me to task. Or whatever 'me' is left, I suppose. But… ugh, well… ]

CASTER(?): [ …I'm desperate, okay? You weren't there when it first arrived. Didn't see what it did to the world. I did. If you were left to your own devices, you'd grab your sword and keep fighting and breaking yourself over and over again to no avail, all while my Darling could do nothing but sit and watch. You'd lose. You'd die. You'd fail. There's no winning this as Heroic Spirits. Not as we are. Not as I am. ]

CASTER(?): [ I can get this to work. I swear I can. Even if all of my will is corroded in the process, if I can just keep that 'intent'- I can do it. So please, Saber- and you know I don't say 'please' a lot. If you're back- find me. Give me a chance. You two gave me a chance before- saving the life of one less-than-perfect girl like myself. I just need one more, and I won't let anyone down. ]

CASTER(?): [ …I'll make his wish come true, okay? ]

With that, the image flickered out.

[youphoriaot7]

Wait, um...crack theory that's starting to feel less and less crack by the second? (Or maybe I'm just convincing myself.)

What if this ["this" being the note, the corpse, the message in blood] was all done by Cellbit's minime?

This actually plays into something I was thinking about the other day, which is that the Federation knows exactly what they're doing. And...you know, I hesitate to say this. Because while it may have been an incredibly confusing day, it still felt like a win, and I don't want to take that away.

But the more and more I think about it, the more sense it makes for the Federation to have...at least planned for the A0 project to get stolen, if not pointed the islanders towards it.

I was backwatching Cellbit's October 15th vod and I finally got to the conversation between him and the guard—who I still really think is Antoine, and that does play into this, but I think it works without too so *shrug*—but I just...

The guard asked him what he knew about Project A0, so Cellbit responded, "I know that you're striving to achieve perfection—you've been analyzing everything on the island, you've been taking information, you've been giving tasks to make people busy and analyze their behavior...and creat[ing] something using a bunch of water and energy." (The guard's response was "it's a bit vague, but yes—you're on the right path.")

From Baghera, we know The Federation was doing DNA testing. Which is yet another way of analyzing people (and, in this case, hybrids and(?) animals). So, clearly, they've been planning for this for a while. Plus, they've been giving the islanders these tasks to, as Cellbit pointed out, evaluate and analyze their behavior.

But why would they be analyzing the behavior of the islanders? Is it strictly because the island is an ExperimentTM and they're the only humans the Feds have access to? (Implying that the workers aren't, in fact, humans, but that's a whole other kettle of fish.) Or is it something else?

Do we really know what this player data truly is, or how it manifests lore-wise? Because we know about those three (four?) books Fit found at that outpost, but who's to say that's all of it? It certainly wasn't everyone on the island—just some of the new players. Is it possible that data could manifests as memories; somewhat similar to what Fit and/or Pierre have done? (I know Pierre's has robotic connotations to it, but you can see what I'm getting at.)

Cellbit brought up a good point earlier at the A0 event: what are these things made of? Because, like, meta-wise, they're a custom mob that can be easily reskinned, just like a player model. No big deal. But canon-wise? What the hell can take the shape of various people without prior programming/precursory knowledge?

Additionally: the way Antoine and Cucuthree talked at the end of his stream earlier today makes me think about the fact that these minimes are clearly called a "failed Federation experiment" by multiple people in multiple places—the one that comes to mind is the Twitter post for the event. The Duck even mentioned in the second cutscene: "Luckily, they're harmless, so you have nothing to worry about!" Luckily implies that at one time...they weren't so harmless.

Plus, Cellbit hasn't exactly been...the nicest to his minime, which was also a warning given out by the Duck—and he gave it a knife. Didn't Bagi say it looked like a stab wound?

Before I stretch this way too far, the point is: There's too much in that note that no one except for Cellbit knows. Which means there are only a couple of options here. Either:

1) It's Cell, somehow. [Whether a sleepwalking/off-camera situation or what.] Not really too keen on this option. Makes my stomach all tense and churny. (/lh)

2) The Federation has records of his memories, somehow. [There have been plenty of opportunities for them to get these—for example, we still don't know what happened to Cellbit when he got kidnapped. And we know that they were experimenting with Project A0 around this time, likely having done something with Felps.]

2.5) The Federation has records of his memories, and has put it together with their other knowledge and technology to create these...clones. [Remember how people were speculating they might have to fight armies of themselves? Maybe that wasn't so far off. And, well. You're telling me a clone of Cellbit wouldn't try to fight psychologically?]

Anyway, I put way too much time into this, so um. Yeah. I, uh...I really hope I'm wrong.

[thislovintime]

Peter Tork at Carleton College, a special series

"Having flunked out of Carleton College, I mean, that’s probably one of the better things that happened to me in my career. I have them to thank for that." - Peter Tork, MPR, 1987 In December 1966, Peter told a journalist for the Winston-Salem Journal: “There is no compulsion for schools to teach knowledge. They do not teach wisdom. They do not teach people how to think.” It may sound like a bold statement — coming as it did from the son of an economics professor, at that — but Peter’s years at Carleton College seem to have proved to him the veracity of that assertion. In this special series, This Lovin’ Time takes a closer look at Peter’s time at Carleton College. For easier accessibility, and with minimal narration, here is the deep dive into these, to quote Peter in an interview with the Pioneer Press in 2014, “two and a third” years of Peter’s life.

The curricular

“[Peter] according to one source, was ‘very bright.’ That would seem to be the case: he managed to place out of both Freshman English and chemistry because of formidable board scores in those subjects.” - Carletonian, February 6, 1981 “When Peter was graduated from the New University High School in Storrs, he received honors in mathematics and was awarded a $400 scholarship!” - Catherine McGuire Straus, 16 Magazine, October 1967 “About the only place where Peter didn’t take his banjo was class, when he went to class. When he did attend classes, he usually went barefooted. All the teachers and professors thought that he was tremendously intelligent, but they would get mad at him because he wouldn’t study. He’d get ‘A’s’ on all his papers, and then ruin all his brilliance by not studying for the final.” - Steve Pope, Flip, October 1967 “[Peter] does not like school. He said: ‘Look at it this way. Schools — public, private and colleges — are strictly vocational institutions. Yeah, you got to have degrees if you want to get somewhere. ‘If you want to think, you do that someplace else. There is no compulsion for schools to teach knowledge. They do not teach wisdom. They do not teach people how to think.’” - Winston-Salem Journal, December 1966 “I studied, but I kept going off on tangents, particularly in my favorite subject, educational psychology. I was interested in so many aspects of it that I couldn’t organize myself. I failed, but I don’t regret it at all. I learned more from educational psychology class than anything else I ever took. I’m sure if I ever teach, it will have helped me a great deal.” - Peter, Seventeen, August 1967 “I wanted desperately to learn, but I was too interested and I kept drifting off into daydreams. Some of the teachers understood, but they couldn’t save me from being thrown out. Grades are the thing. Education is being made as full as a cold fish.” - Peter, Fabulous 208, January 1968 “During his final term [at Carleton], Tork was fascinated by an educational psychology course. ‘I’d be assigned one chapter of a book and I’d read the whole book and skip all of the other assignments,’ he recalls. ‘I was really disorganized — absolutely incapable of doing what was wanted of me.’” - Carletonian, November 1982 (x) “I took music theory in college — and when I was starving in the Village, I used to transcribe arrangements for a living. That means I would take a record and play it and then put the notes down on music manuscript paper. I was a perfectionist and my music manuscripts are still the most beautiful you’ll ever see.” - Peter, 16 Magazine’s The Monkees: Here We Are (1967) “[Eventually, Peter was] kicked out again ‘for low grades and missing chapel’ […] chapel was required [at the time].” - Carletonian, 1982

In the 1970s, of course, Peter went on to teach high school; you can read more about that in posts tagged "Tork teaching."

The extracurricular

“Dawn Patrol,” the Friday morning radio show hosted by Peter on KARL radio (x)

Peter Tork: “I didn’t think I had any problem concentrating on academia, my problem was that I didn’t do enough of it. (laughs) What I did — actually, what happened was, I really was so deeply involved in all the extracurricular activities. I was in the orchestra, I played French horn for year, it was wonderful. And I was in theater. And I was a DJ on KARL radio.” Q: “So it was the priorities were a little mixed up, I guess.” PT: “Well, you know, it’s a funny thing. I wouldn’t say so, I would say my priorities were in perfect order. Carleton did not agree, of course. I mean, they thought that my — or, I should say, they agreed, but the priorities were not their priorities for the students. Because as it turns out, obviously my priorities were in perfect order. I was into music and broadcasting and showbiz. And… which is where I belonged, and always did as it turns, but I didn’t know that at the time, see, that’s the thing about it. Having flunked out of Carleton College, I mean, that’s probably one of the better things that happened to me in my career. I have them to thank for that.” - MPR, 1987

Folk trios and groups (x)

“[At Carleton, Peter] also sang in several folk groups, including a trio he formed with Peter Basquin, ’63, and Bill Wingate, ’65. During a recent visit to Carleton, Basquin recalled that Tork used to burst into his room at three in the morning to try out new riffs that he’d composed.” - Carletonian, November 1982 “The chords for the chorus [of ‘Can You Dig It’] I’d written in college, and [they] had just stuck with me.” - Peter Tork, Head box set liner notes

The Players (x)

Plays acted in: Hamlet, Mandragola, Under Milkwood (for which Peter was also assistant director), Ulysses In Nighttown, The Underground Man

“I acted in high school and college and amateur theatricals around my hometown, I did musicals in high school and it was really — I strove to do that as well as be a musical, be a pop entertainer, folkie as it was in those days. It’s always been that way with me.” - Peter Tork, Headquarters Radio, 1989 “An adaptation of Fyodor Dostyevsky’s ‘Notes from the Underground’ titled ‘The Underground Man’ will be presented this Thursday, May 10, at 7:30 p.m. in Nourse Little Theater. […] Members of the cast are: Lucy Lewis, Neill Peterson, Peter H. Thorkelsen [sic], Arthur Williamson, and Fips Braendel as The Underground Man.” - Carletonian, May 1962 “All the minor characters are quite competent in their parts and in conjunction with artistic blocking and excellent lighting, help to engender that enthusiasm and swift-moving excitement which is the most striking characteristic of the production.” - from the Carletonian review of “Hamlet” by Shelagh Day, November 1962 “The play [‘Mandragola’] opened and closed quite charmingly with music written for the occasion by Peter Basquin, and played by Felix Braendel, Peter Thorkelson, and Jairus Lincoln.” - from a review by Shelagh Day, Carletonian, January 1962 “‘Under Milkwood’ is a day in the life of a small, Welsh fishing village from the middle of one night to the next. It presents the life of the town, the good and bad together, sometimes comic, sometimes serious. The men of the village are played by Tom Miller, Bob Miller, Jim Hall, Peter H. Thorkelson who is also assistant director, Peter Bornstein, Ken Moss, and Fred Lott. The women’s parts are read by Eve Meyer, Pat Lee, Carrol Herbert, Ellen Rosen, Marilyn Barkley, and Ann Armstrong.” - Carletonian, February 1962 Researching Peter's time at Carleton also turned up a letter to the editor of the Carletonian, from one Peter H. Thorkelson... (x) “To the Editor: As a fringe member of the Carleton players, I would like to take exception to some of Miss Shelagh Day’s Carletonian reviews of our productions. My particular complaint has to do with Miss Day’s device of judging a play from one level above the play itself. For instance, in her review on ‘Ulysses in Nighttown,’ we are informed by Miss Day that she ‘is looking for the ideal play and prefers to judge on this basis,’ even though the play is ideal when judged ‘in the context of Carleton College…’ In her review of ‘Mandragola,’ Miss Day’s most scathing comment has to do with the theme of the pay. ‘[The play’s] one and only thought is “Sex — ain’t it wonderful!” or “Sex — what a wonderful human failing!”’ Her bitterness is more or less standard for an eighty year-old sex-starved spinster, but not for a serious reviewer of the dramatic arts who has not yet reached her majority. Yet, in the form of the first-rate rhetorician, Miss Day very cleverly managed to cast aspersions on the play’s value by casting doubt as to one part of it. Miss Day’s reviews are in general the same from one play to the next; always picking, never satisfied, but always making some concession, almost, one believes, in order to show everybody that she is open-minded. Does Miss Day have a standard criterion? Or does she use what amounts to a quadruple-standard?” - Peter H. Thorkelson, The Carletonian, January 1962

(For reference I’ve also typed up Shelagh Day’s full reviews; you can read those here.)

The friends

“[Peter] loved to stay up all night to talk about philosophy and politics, and those of us who shared Peter’s thoughts usually did so in his room. There he would talk about anything that came to his crowded and creative mind. In old faded Levis, wearing a straight T-shirt (for some reason, during his freshman year, Peter always wore faded blue-and-white horizontally-striped T-shirts), with his banjo nearby, Peter would talk… and talk… and talk. By the time Pete would be finished talking, you were convinced that what he was saying was right. He was (and still is) a very convincing talker whose arguments and thoughts would fall nicely together as he developed them. When it came to girls, however, Peter would often let his banjo do the talking. Playing love songs and ballads, he was an outgoing and popular date. As I remember, he dated very sweet and pretty girls and he used to frequently fall in love. But that’s a natural extension of Peter because he’s a very loving-type person. Yet, in his own way, he was shy… if you can imagine someone being shy and outgoing at the same time.” - Steve Pope (“who was called “Poper” by Peter during the years they were best friends on campus”), Flip, October 1967

“Peter joined Players, Carleton’s drama club, which he seemed to enjoy. In ‘Ulysses in Nighttown,’ he played the demanding role of Buck. But, apart from this, Peter didn’t take an active part in the school’s extra-curricular activities. As the year went on, Peter was maturing more and more. He was developing his private philosophy of education, which he could sum up very simply: You get a lot more from living than from learning. Living is learning. Peter thought the best thing about college was the bull sessions, the long conversations you could have with intelligent people about anything and everything.” - Steve Pope, Flip, November 1967 (x)

“While at Carleton College in Northfield, Minn., [Bob] Middleton’s roommate was future rock star Peter Tork, who taught him to play the guitar. [Subsequently, in Greenwich Village] Middleton played with Tork and with Peter, Paul and Mary, and briefly with Joan Baez.” - Ellwood City Ledger, July 3, 2019

“Long before Peter Tork became a Monkee, he was living in NYC at a grotty little place on Macdougal Street, and playing in a ‘pass-the-hat’ café on West 3rd Street. I think it was called the West Wind; in any case, it was just east of 6th Avenue. It was our habit to go down to the Village from our Upper West Side digs, usually on Thursday night, to hear at least one set and give him moral support. Frequently, when we walked into the place, we doubled the size of the audience by our arrival. It was easy for Peter to see who had come in. He had a wonderful and varied set of pieces, some blue-grass, some even Broadway (I remember with particular pleasure hearing his ‘Who Will Buy?’ from Oliver.) He also did a magical arrangement of ‘Full Fathom Five’ from The Tempest. Whatever he was singing, at that particular point in his act, he would gracefully finish it, and then launch into ‘If I Could Shimmy Like My Sister Kate’ for me. It was a swingin’ version and I always appreciated it. […] [W]hile still part of the Monkees, he came back to NYC. Somehow, we managed to arrange a dinner for several of us at Billy Wingate’s parents’ apartment in NYC–so we were Peter H., Bill, Ann, Peter and me. You will remember that Bill and Tork shared a love of banjo playing. (Don’t remember if anyone else was there—if so, speak up!) Somewhere in the course of the evening, I admired Peter’s colorful shirt extravagantly, whereon, he took it off and offered it to me. Regrettably, I was embarrassed and didn’t take it. I’ve always been sorry about that. Many years later, when he was in the Monkee’s revival phase, I wrote to him on behalf of Beverly Brown’s dance company, which was staging a benefit for which I was the chair. He astonished all of us by sending Bev a very generous check, even though, so far as I knew, he’d never paid attention to her choreography or seen her after Carleton. He was just an incredibly sweet and generous person, whenever you were with him. […] We wrote to each other at Christmastime most years thereafter, until this past one…probably my fault, as we were consumed with the business of moving house, and I missed the correspondence. He was a wonderful, funny, companionable, creative, enthusiastic and dedicated man.” - Katie Courtice Basquin, Carleton.edu Alumni Farewells, 2019 (x)

The campus legacy

“In 1979, a group of students felt [Peter Tork’s] legacy at that institution was not being properly honored so they stole a portrait of Carleton’s first president.  It was only returned after the college agreed to officially rename a section of Carleton’s student union ‘The Peter Tork Pinball Area.’ Alas, that pinball area has since been dismantled.“ - MPR, February 13, 2014

Q: “A couple years ago, a few Carleton students held a portrait of the former Carleton president hostage until the school named a pinball room after you. What do you think of that?” Peter: “I actually have rarely been so graced with an honor. As a matter of fact, I think I can truly say it is one of the singular highest honors I’ve ever received. When I heard about the news, I practically collapsed in gratitude.” Q: “Have you been back to visit?” Peter: “I went there this past — not this past summer, summer before this past — it brought a wave of nostalgia. It’s interesting because the nostalgia that I had was for a time I never really partook in. The groves of academ, you know, are… suddenly seemed very, very attractive to me because it’s the cloistering, the ability, the chance to delve into whatever it is that you’re doing without obstruction, without distraction. That looked awfully attractive to me at the time, and I felt it too, but I don’t know that that’s ever to be.” - MPR, 1987

Sources:

The Carletonian, 1961-62, 1981-82 Winson-Salem Journal, 1966 Flip, 1967 16 Magazine, 1967 16’s The Monkees: Here We Are, 1967 Seventeen, 1967 Fabulous 208, 1968 MPR, 1987 and 2014 Pioneer Press, 2014 Head box set liner notes Carleton.edu, 2019 Ellwood City Ledger, 2019