#stereotypes tw

[robthegoodfellow]

Directly follows this snippet. Takes place in Spin Me Right Round universe, where Billy’s path deviates before he assaults Lucas in canon timeline (hence the vibe between them here is less fraught than you’d expect). Despite that, Billy still has to confront the lingering effects of being raised by a bigot (by which I mean, his own racism), and this snippet reflects on that process. Trigger warning for mention of racist stereotypes and past encounters with derogatory terms related to Latino community.

He and McKinney fell into a pseudo routine, heading to the community courts when practice let out and staying until either it got too cold or too late, and then Billy would drive him home. They figured out that if McKinney was wearing orange sweatbands on his wrists, Billy could more accurately aim for his hands without turning his way, and McKinney had taken to calling a stream of “B—B—B!” whenever he was coming up behind for an open shot.

Sinclair joined them one afternoon when Billy wanted to try a drill that only worked with three players—turned out the kid was more athletic than he looked, and way more into basketball than Billy realized. Apparently he and Sinclair, Sr. followed the Indiana teams religiously, college and pro, but Junior had been so desperate to talk ball with someone nearer his own age that he didn’t shut up for like half an hour, going on and on about their draft prospects, singing the praises of Stipo and Special K, bemoaning the Pacers’ shitty season—1 and 8 since New Year’s, which… yikes.

McKinney had tolerated the high-pitched chatter with good grace, not that Sinclair needed more than the odd grunt for fuel, and gave him some pointers to improve his stance, his shot. When Billy had asked later, en route to Maple after offloading McKinney, why he’d never mentioned even the slightest interest in basketball before, Sinclair had replied, with more hilarious vitriol than should be possible from the mouth of a literal child: “You’re a Lakers fan.”

“We’re not even in the same conference!” Billy had countered, indignant despite the amusement. “Hate on the Celtics, for Christ’s sake.”

“I can hate on both,” he declared.

“Whatever, dude,” Billy said, dismissive, deliberately provoking. “You just wish you had some of that magic—I get it.”

Sinclair had boiled for the rest of the ride, to Billy’s glee.

And look—he’d started all this with the goal of improvement, but it was a narrow, maybe selfish, maybe dickish kind of improvement: upping his game to antagonize some douchebag. But the more they practiced, just them two and with the team, the more he just… liked it. He really, really liked playing point guard. It felt… good?... to set the guys up for success, to tip into motion the dominos that put points on the board. Even though he wasn’t scoring as much, himself—it was a different kind of satisfying, knowing he’d made the right call when someone else made a bucket.

Which was great—maybe his heart had grown a couple sizes or whatever—but… there was another unintended side-effect. One that he was simultaneously so reluctant to confront directly and yet so desperately glad for that… he could hardly have explained it if asked.

He recognized it now because it had happened to him before, back home. It was—it was like this: So, Neil was… fucking racist, right? Billy’s whole life, the bastard had spewed all kinds of vicious, vile shit, and more subtle, insidious shit. Like, it took Billy ages to figure out, when he was little, what his dad meant whenever he mockingly referred to Frito Banditos, even long after the chip company discontinued the mascot. Another one: in third grade, Billy learned the meaning of greenback a couple weeks before he heard Neil rant about a seemingly similar term, and it took a mortifying mix-up at school for him to realize his dad hadn’t meant skyrocketing rates of soggy dollar bills.

Even as a kid, a part of him knew Neil was off-base—knew he was wrong—but as the years wore on, and all that garbage piled up in his ears, it… it poisoned the well water. Billy didn’t mean to, but for a while, an invisible finger pressed Play on the tape recorder in his brain whenever he crossed paths with any Latino—and he’d tense, get all awkward, precisely because he’d be trying to act normal despite the foul phantom torrent reminding him on a loop that they were all gang bangers, drug dealers, lazy freeloaders, illegal aliens, on and on and on.

And Billy’d had this paranoia, that somehow… they knew? That one look in his eyes and his thoughts would be manifest, even though he didn’t believe those things, even though he would press Stop if he could, bash the tapes to smithereens if he knew how. He’d been polluted—felt it intensely—how Neil’s ugliness had become his ugliness.

It wasn’t until middle school, when he started surfing sometimes with this kid Joaquin, who’d then introduced him to Manny and Luis, that he realized he could filter out the mental contaminants through… well, meaningful interaction with people—with the targets of Neil’s bullish bigotry. He’d started recording new stuff, true stuff, over the old.

Like… how Joaquin’s family had been in California long before it was even a state, and still visited relatives just over the arbitrary line in Baja; how Luis was living proof that everything Neil had sneered about the Sanctuary movement was bullshit, because there was a genocide going on in Guatemala and the US was backing the slaughter—had a hand in all the bloodshed plaguing the region, in fact; how Manny’s uncle had been one of the artists who’d transformed the concrete pylons of Coronado Bridge into a towering medley of murals, remaking Chicano Park into something beautiful rather a bleak reminder of the wholesale destruction of a neighborhood in favor of a motorway.

How Joaquin could make him laugh harder than anyone else with his lightning-fast, brutal quips, but Luis showed him the value of just sitting on his board, legs dangling, and feel the rise and fall of the surge like a pair of lungs beneath him; how Mexican food was hands-down the best thing Billy had ever tasted—not that there’d been much competition, considering his Ma’s favorite dish involved pickled fish and Susan’s most adventurous seasoning was salt; how as soon as Billy mentioned wanting a tattoo, Manny had brought him badass sketches of skulls… and when Billy’s mom had passed, had dropped off this little painting of some lilies, which he’d only been able to look at once and then put it away in the shoebox—safekeeping, not safe for opening.

It wasn’t like they were constantly hanging out or baring their souls—and Billy bared almost nothing—but you spend enough time with people over the years and you can piece stuff together. He missed them—wished he’d let them in, let them see more of him than the laid-back, wise-cracking beach bum. Hadn’t seen them since last March, when he’d gone off the rails. Hadn’t even said goodbye before leaving town.

Anyway. Went without saying, but Neil’s myriad prejudices hadn’t been limited to Latinos, and so—yeah, sometimes with Sinclair, with Jeff, and McKinney and other guys on the team… same playback problem, different tape. It wasn’t nearly as bad as it had been when he was a kid, probably because of the groundwork he’d already done thanks to his surfer buddies, and because he wasn’t an idiot child anymore who only had his parents to go off of—he read shit, and he had eyes.

Yet he couldn’t ignore—and was secretly relieved—that another round of re-recording was afoot, because just knowing abstractly, academically, that Neil was full of shit and racism was, you know, bad… it couldn’t compare to actually getting to know a person. First, there’d been Sinclair, and Jeff, to a limited degree—and now…

He was pretty sure he and Patrick McKinney were… friends? Guys didn’t exchange bracelets, or whatever, so unless they were Labradors in human form like Eddie, it was sometimes hard to tell when you’d crossed from the neutral status of “teammates” to something chummier. On Billy’s end, nicknames meant you were in—and he didn’t seem to mind Billy trimming his first and last—but maybe for Pat, the “B” was just… expedient?

It was more than that, though, because… like, he knew that Patrick had two older brothers—one about to graduate from Purdue and one living in Chicago who worked in advertising and had been involved in the Coke Adds Life campaign his first year in the business. That his father had died of cancer five ago, so his uncle, his mom’s brother, had moved in to help keep the household afloat. That he didn’t like his uncle much, for reasons Billy could guess.

Pat was shy—he tended to clam up in group settings, preferred to quietly observe, only piping in when he felt strongly about something—but once you got him alone, he had a mega puckish streak. Laughed easily, ragged on Billy nonstop, always in good fun, and could take it as well as dish it. Which was fortunate, because: ABBA. And just in general, the dude’s musical tastes were weird as fuck. He showed up at the community courts with a boombox one afternoon and started blasting a disco mix, for crying out loud. Claimed he played better when he had some groovy tune stuck in his head.

So, yeah. Friends, or… getting there.

The results of all their extracurricular practice were—pretty immediate, and pretty obvious. Both of them got more minutes with every game, the team started winning more than losing. Billy pretended not to notice how Carver was increasingly ornery about it—real waspish, pun definitely intended. When Coach announced the starting line-up ahead of a Friday match toward the end of January with Hargrove and McKinney at one and two, Carver flushed to the roots of his lame accountant haircut, but waited until the team had been dismissed to the showers to unleash on a poor innocent locker—the clanging kick carried over the hiss of water and booming chatter, and even when most of the team had finished getting dressed, Carver’s every movement was imbued with a violent flourish.

It was honestly delicious to witness, though Billy made a point not to glance at him directly, monitoring instead with his—by now, very well-honed—peripheral vision. On the way out, trailed stoically by Baker and Copeland, the little pissant muttered, just loudly enough for everyone to hear, how the sport was clearly turning toward cheap tricks and theatrics, and wasn’t it a shame.

The door had barely swung closed when Billy keeled over, hands on knees, cackling like a fiend. Harrington, who’d been apprised of the plan since day one, playfully kneed him in the side and Billy flopped to the gross tile floor, still laughing, arms raised in a reclining Rocky victory pose. There was a smattering of chuckles around the room.

“Watch your back, B,” murmured Pat, leaning over him from his perch on the bench, his voice laden with amusement. “First it’s cheap tricks, then magic tricks, then…” He raised his brows.

“Turning tricks,” Billy finished, as though doomed to his fate, and Patrick snorted. “Don’t worry, man.” He accepted the offered hand and pulled himself upright. “No one’s gonna see me with the devil.”

They won that Friday at home against Jefferson High—a real nail-biter to the final minute, when Billy somehow managed a devious no-look bounce pass to Patrick in the paint for a jump shot so picture perfect that the bench rioted.

“That was some Showtime shit!” Pat hollered over the chaos of mobbing teammates at the final buzzer. He launched himself atop Billy in a semi-hug from behind, then bounded over to his mom in the stands, who was still in her scrubs under her winter coat. ��

There was talk of a celebratory bonfire at the quarry, and as he and Harrington were leaving the locker room, intending to at least swing by, have a couple beers, Billy paused.

“Hey, Mickey!” he called. “You need a lift?”

Patrick scrunched his nose, caught up with them as they headed for the parking lot. “Ma’s gonna want me home.”

“We’re not planning to stay long,” Billy tried. “Could ya talk her into an hour?”

“You made the winning shot,” Harrington pointed out. “That’s gotta earn you something.”

Pat shook his head wryly. “No one talks her into anything, but I’ll ask. Wait up?”

They hung back while he jogged to his mother in the lobby, winced when his beseeching look was met with an unimpressed flat stare. When her gaze flicked their way, they both startled, then simultaneously raised an awkward hand. She bit her lips, repressing a smile—the same way Pat often did—turned back to her son, and let him plead his case a bit more. Uttered a few stern words that had Patrick alternately shaking and nodding his head, then shooed him away.

“Home by eleven thirty,” he said, and waved his arm in an after you toward the winter night.

[violetmuses]

Ain't No Mountain || Chapter 1

TITLE: Ain’t No Mountain || Edward “Ed” Baldwin 

FANDOM: For All Mankind (Apple+ Series) 

CHARACTER: Edward "Ed" Baldwin 

MAIN PAIRING: Female Reader + Edward "Ed" Baldwin 

MAIN WARNINGS: Stereotypes, angst, strong language, trauma, dark topics, adult themes, etc. 

MAIN STORYLINE: While beginning a new chapter of your life, Edward Baldwin comes in out of nowhere. Could that unexpected bond change everything? 

Author’s Note: Hey! I’ve finally decided to write something different and our man is here. Feedback would be greatly appreciated. Thanks so much for reading as always! - V. 💜

Ain't No Mountain - Masterlist 🚀

Main Masterlist 💜

J Krew: @nerdysuperchick @a-reader-and-a-writer @babblydrabbly @lacontroller1991 @shadowkittybucky @loverhymeswith @justin-hammers @weallhaveadestiny @xoxabs88xox @katjnordstrom96   @mayhem24-7forever @skvatnavle @sociiallydiisoriiented @heresathreebee @alieninoklahoma @bewitchedignition @maddu-oliveira @reveluving @sugapapichulo @hodgepodge-of-rog @fangirl0927 @ijustthinkrickflagisprettyneat @ed-baldwin

_________________

1972

As a child, you cooed in Mom’s arms while held, glancing upwards towards the skyline. In fact, you were smart enough to cackle back then, amused by whatever jokes the constellations seemed to make. Your mother would then point between flits of light that beamed through darkness, smiling with joy that no one else had. 

This time, decades later, you’ve graduated college by a miracle, convinced that leadership only allowed that green-light to fit some kind of female quota in society. You buckled just as much as men, clearly ready to get the hell out and move on. 

Most of the neighbors were families. Women around here were either still wadding like penguins due to their pregnant bellies or pushing strollers. When you first moved in after graduation, people were so excited, finding out about the new girl. 

In truth, you only agreed to come back around because of Mom. Her family settled in this small town long before you were even born. Now, it was time to return the favor. 

Strangers didn’t know, but as an only child, you’ve grounded this house just to split assets between other surviving members of your family. Mom was smart enough to leave behind a strong will. Yet, Dad only helps but so much nowadays, especially since his own job still left him to work long hours. Even dealing with the funeral couldn’t stop bills. 

Now, you’ve resorted to the attic, attempting to clear dust and trying to figure out why everything in here is boxed up. It’s an otherwise neat house. Documents and paperwork were already taken care of, so why would Mom leave this spot so untidy?

You hold back another sneeze just as one of the boxes catches your eye. It’s definitely this small package, probably giving enough space to hold postcards or something. 

You shake dust bunnies out of your hair and mentally plan to take another shower before sitting down on the wooden floor. Some kind of marker inked onto that cardboard box, taped: 

Y/N L/N: Important

It’s Mom’s handwriting. Her penmanship always fascinated your mind growing up back then.  

Did I miss something while clearing out this place? You’re glancing around as if the space doesn’t even belong to you. 

You open the box carefully and quickly notice that this slew of envelopes were inside. 

The first note changes everything:

Y/N, 

By the time you’re old enough to read these letters, I will be gone. I don’t know how I’ll leave you behind or when I’ll leave you behind, but I’ll stay around for as long as I can. 

No matter what happens to me, take care of your father, watch out for the rest of our family, and never stop learning. 

Promise me. 

NEVER stop learning. 

I love you with all of my heart, Shining Star. 

Godspeed, 

-Mom. 

That letter trembles right out of your hands and you sob for the first time since the harrowing funeral. finally realizing its gravity. She was gone, and despite vague but loving words of this message, she still wanted you to be happy. 

And yet, through these heartbreaking tears, you somehow find peace and clarity. Maybe this one move could be your new start. 

___________

To continue paying bills around the house, you were confined to a desk, answering phone calls or scurrying coffee orders for suited men. It took everything within your strong-willed frame not to roll both eyes every day, at risk of losing a somewhat steady paycheck. At least you weren’t homeless. 

As long as you mentioned your father, no one with common sense mentioned marriage, either. You drove home by yourself all week though, worrying older staff members. 

You still didn’t care. The house was there for you every time. 

You were in the middle of cooking dinner when someone knocked on the front door unexpectedly. One of your neighbors must’ve offered dessert again and you genuinely smile despite making your own meal now. 

Just as you check at the peephole and open the door, you face someone oddly new. Either he just moved into the neighborhood as well or you just didn’t recognize him. 

He’s towering the doorway, standing up straight in a plaid shirt made just too big. Neat pants veiled his legs and good-looking shoes cover this welcome mat. His blondish hair is swept to the side. This man gives out one brief expression that doesn’t look like smiling. 

“Sorry to bother you. Uh, my wife Karen is cooking right now and the grocery store is already closed. Do you have any extra peper?” He seemed nervous, but you weren’t rude enough to tell him. 

“Oh, Karen? She could’ve called me for that. I’m sorry.” You pointed towards the nearest phone line, which has settled on the wall ever since you’ve moved. You’ve seen Karen around town, but she never mentioned her husband by name to you. 

“Are you, Y/N? Karen talks about you sometimes.” He narrows both hazel eyes and mentions your name. 

“Yes.” You answer him with respect. 

“I’m Ed.” He clips his name and offers to shake hands with you. It’s not like the office where men barely acknowledge you past coffee orders and phone calls. 

“Y/N.” You repeat your own name and welcome his handshake, quietly acknowledging his wedding band without saying anything out loud. “Let me get the pepper for you.” 

“Thank you.” Ed nods gratefully, but not without returning to a somehow stoic expression. 

“You’re welcome.” You answer back while opening the cabinets and pick up two tins to hold a small brown bag, just in case. 

By the time you return while holding those cases of pepper, Ed hasn’t even moved away from that front door’s threshold. 

“Thank you.” Despite repeating himself, Ed finally begins to smile and you appreciate it without acting excited of course. He’s married after all. “Good night.”  

“You’re welcome.” You repeat. “Good night.” 

You wait until he walks down the street and turns a corner before closing that front door behind you. 

What the hell? You think to yourself. 

[woundposting]

wound, eroticism and subjectivity

the holy wound, attributed to jean le noir / the incredulity of saint thomas, guercino / the body of signification, elizabeth grosz (in: abjection, melancholia, and love: the works of julia kristeva) / hannibal nbc / the incredulity of saint thomas, caravaggio / saint catherine drinks the blood of christ, francesco vanni / the body of signification, elizabeth grosz / crash, david cronenberg / side wound of christ (england, 15th century) / the terror amc / the terror of pleasure: the contemporary horror film and postmodern theory, tania modleski (in: the horror reader)

[intheholler]

what joke are you really tryin to tell when you make fun of appalachia and the greater south?

even when you "just" mock our accents (you and i both know what you're really implying when you take on the drawl), the punchline of your joke there is poverty.

those who prefer a more overt route over backhanded implication: when you laugh at our education, or lack thereof, the punchline of your joke is still poverty. systemically underfunded schools packed with underprivileged children who aren't getting the same standards of education as the rest of the country is a real knee slapper boy i tell you what

when you mock our dental health and start quipping about toothless hillbillies, you're still laughin at poverty. appalachia is disproportionately uninsured compared to the rest of the nation. fellas most of us can't afford the privilege of regular, preventative dental visits and checkups, let alone the cost of huge procedures when things finally get dire. beyond that, our poverty is generational. from the get go we inherit bad teeth from family who couldn't afford that shit neither.

in the same vein, when you make fatphobic comments about said disproportionately-uninsured region--one with few jobs available to begin with, let alone work that pays enough to afford wholesome, unprocessed foods that don't rot yer teeth for supper--the butt of your joke is,, u guessed it,, ✨ poverty ✨

but to me the real kicker is the cousin fucker jokes. how can you not see that when you snark about inbreeding, when you piss yourself over that infamous billboard and oh, how could anyone possibly need to be told that?!, your punchline is not only poverty and a lack of education enough to develop critical thinking skills and the ability to build safe support networks, but you're also usually guffawing at incestuous rape and vulnerable children on top of it. peak comedy.

really though, how is any of that funny?

what happens to everyone's class consciousness the moment we start talkin about the hollers n the deep south?

why does health insurance, quality education, and food security for all suddenly go from issues worth fighting for to punishments, and ones we deserve to be humiliated for on top of it?

i know im just a dumb ol hillbilly n all, but i reckon i just don't get what we're supposed to be laughin at here

[tiredandsleepyaf]

Ok, so let me explain why rebloging posts like these do little to nothing to assure Jews that they’ll be safe around you.

Goyim reblogging this stuff don’t typically listen to Jews (which is apparent because we’ve said stuff like this doesn’t actually do anything to help us many times) about their experiences with antisemitism or listen when Jews try to educate them on things like antisemitic dog whistles or blood libel. Most of them are way more enthusiastic about punching Nazis than they are about showing any compassion to Jews. I’d venture to guess the majority of Jewish people know that often the goyim who reblog this stuff are just out for blood and don’t give a damn about us, because we’ve seen this many times. Not to mention that the desire for a violent revolution that some leftists seem to have has led to Jewish people facing a lot of antisemitism (at their hands). I would bet that some of the people reblogging this act similar to Nazis themselves. I know at the very least the goyim rebloging this don’t listen to Jews because we’ve said many times that this sort of thing doesn’t really do anything to help us, and we’d much rather goyim call out and learn about antisemitism. Overall, it’s just very performative activism, and it’s pretty obvious that the goyim reblogging this are just doing it to try and make themselves look better, and not for the sake of Jews.

[arminsumi]

˗ˏˋ꒰ 🍒 ꒱ party favor

Nerd!Armin x popular!fem!reader

Overview; nerd!Armin getting a bj for the first time during a Halloween party by popular!fem!reader

Contents; college au, Halloween party

Warnings; 🔞 MDNI, SMUT, stereotypes, reader is mean

Note; lol i've sat on this draft since january would you believe!!

Smut warnings; light humiliation, dom!reader x sub!Armin, blowjob + facial

You accepted some nasty dare at a Halloween party, and that's why you were on your knees for Armin Arlert, in the bathroom, making him tremble in pleasure.

His heart was beating so hard in his chest he thought he might die. When the door shut the party out behind you two, he wiped his palms on his clothes.

Oh, and those clothes? About that...

He was wearing the tightest Halloween skeleton costume you've ever seen.

He'd been uncomfortably readjusting it, awkwardly shifting his legs so that he wouldn't have this embarrassing bulge. Skin-tight. You could practically see his nipples. His slight muscle was hinted at; that subtle curve of his bicep drove you more insane than any other physique you've feasted your eyes on.

"You're so kind, Min, letting us use your house for the party. 'M gonna pay you back." you said as you pulled his zipper down. His heart skipped a beat.

"Please! You d-don't have to repay me..." he said embarrassedly. He thought he was in heaven when you nuzzled his crotch.

He rolled his eyes back, his glasses started fogging up. You could hear his breathing get heavier when you started sluttily making out with his tip.

His size surprised you. When you commented on it, he stuttered; "Th-thank you. Uh — AH — ummm fuck, sorry."

You giggled uncontrollably. He came almost immediately after you started sucking on his cockhead. Ropes of sticky sweet cum shot all over your tongue, you swallowed it down just to embarrass him.

"God," you groaned with a smile up at him. "You're such a pathetic virgin."

Armin's tip twitched when you said that.

His cock hovered over your face. Juicy, slippery, thick, veiny, mouth-watering. It was a treat for both your eyes and your mouth, clearly; you couldn't stop staring at it and licking your lips.

A sharp hiss escaped through his gritted teeth when you lowered your soft lips back down on his cock and began sloppily blowing him again.

He was losing his mind over the fact principle Erwin's daughter was on her knees, sucking off his favorite goody-two-shoes student.

And in your mind, you were just laughing about the fact that armin's best friend dared you to blow him off.

[my-autism-adhd-blog]

Hi everyone,

So, as you may or may not know, The Good Doctor is airing its last season.

I’ve heard mixed reviews about this show, so I was skeptical about watching it. However, my skepticism turned into anger as I came across THIS.

Freddie Hiemore isn’t even autistic himself. Another bad representation for us autistic people. And the fact that this was supported by and hate group makes it even worse. I found another article explaining the ableism and inaccuracy of said group.

Anyway, I’m happy the show is ending. Young Sheldon too. I don’t like it when the media makes autistic people so smart like savants, or to an offense way of portraying those with level 2-3 autistic people.

The media really needs autistic actors to play autistic people. They know what it’s like to be autistic and the struggles they can go through.

That’s all I had to say. Thank you for coming to my Ted Talk.

[a-scary-lack-of-common-sense]

Wreck it Ralph fanart?? In 2024? More likely than you think....

I get way too insane about kids' movies, and I've been on a nostalgia binge watch lately, so here's a villain/hero swap AU

Does anyone even remember this movie??

[walpu]

People on tiktok are discussing the possibility of Aven beings SAed and someone said this 💀

Not only this is like. Extremely stupid AND contradicts the lore since by that time Aven's master was already dead (killed by Aven himself mind you) but it's also so disrespectful to his character like the whole point is that he climbed the ranks because he's smart and dedicated and lucky. We literally saw Jade addressing it and taking him under her wing. Like WHAT does that comment even imply??? That his master promoted him, that DIAMOND abused him like what are you people on

[notbecauseofvictories]

it’s very funny to talk about Christianity with my best friend, because some part of me is so ridiculously Catholic it refuses to learn anything about the Christian denominations that make up her research. I swear she’s explained the difference between Methodists and Presbyterians eight separate times, but not a single thing stuck because some pre-Vatican II neuron was too busy slamming pots and pans together while screaming ONE HOLY CATHOLIC AND APOSTALIC

[thetomorrowshow]

when to hold 'em

ur honor i love the flower husbands

~

The crown of antlers is in his hands.

He holds it, turns it, examines every angle.

Then places it on his head.

Scott looks up, across the silent plateau, to the darkness that gathers on the other side.

Sìín kuvi ndakuatura nu Ndíoxī.

-

"You've got this!" a little boy shouts, pumping one fist in the air.

Scott rolls his eyes over to Jimmy. "I thought you said this would be private?" he comments archly.

Jimmy shrugs, looking a little sheepish. "Word gets out. Especially to kids."

"Right. And since you and I were the only ones who knew about this, the children found out through. . . ?"

"I have no idea."

There are six or seven children sitting or standing in the long grass of the field, some tens of meters away. Jimmy waves to them. All but one wave back.

Scott pinches the bridge of his nose. "I don't want anyone getting hurt, Jimmy," he bites out.

"You won't hurt anyone," Jimmy insists. "They're far enough away that they aren't even an issue. They just want to see some magic!"

That's the problem.

Scott's curse isn't a party trick. It isn't something to be gawked at and applauded by children. It's a curse, barely controlled, and a very dangerous one at that.

And it isn't just that he doesn't want them getting hurt. That's most of it, of course, but. . . . 

Scott really doesn't want an audience. He doesn't want people to see him fail.

(Last time he failed, he was surrounded—by elves and enemies alike.)

Something of his thoughts must show on his face, because Jimmy just makes a sound kind of like a sigh and squeezes his hand.

"You're all right," he says quietly. "I'm not leaving. You can control it when I'm here, right?"

"Control is a strong word," mutters Scott. It implies that he can do a lot more than keep an imaginary door shut.

Not to mention, he hasn't been able to let go of Jimmy. They've learned over the past couple of days that when they separate, Scott loses whatever hold he has. It had been unpleasant that first morning, when Scott woke late to find that Jimmy had already gotten back to work, leaving him coated in frost and ice weighing down the tent.

He really has no control if the magic is untamed without the tamer's touch. In all fairness, Jimmy has more control over the magic than Scott does.

But Jimmy just smiles (so brightly that Scott can't help but reluctantly smile back) and points to a patch of wildflowers a good fifty feet away from them.

"Shoot ice at that," he instructs, and Scott, with another glance at the children and more than a bit of trepidation, raises his hand toward the flowers.

He pushes, releasing a little bit of his hold on the magic, letting it conduct out through his arm, pulsing and freezing and—

Frost and ice shoot from his fingertips in a barrage (and the force has him stumbling back a step), about half of it hitting the flowers and the other half falling around them, with some icicles stabbing into the ground a good several feet away.

Scott quickly reasserts his hold on the magic and pulls his arm close to himself, pressing his side into Jimmy.

It's terrifying, using this magic. This magic that, just a few days past, had been using him.

There's no way of knowing just how much damage he's capable of. Based on what he did at the town, Scott thinks he could practically level a village.

It isn't nice, having that much power.

"Whoa!" a young boy screams, and all the other children join in the excitement, chattering about the magic.

"Nice one!" Jimmy says, dragging Scott over to look, sword bouncing on his back.

The flowers are shredded, heads torn from stems and petals torn from heads. A bit of grass is pulled up in a streak, dirt stark against the yellow stalks of grass. Frost coats the area, shards of ice stabbing into the ground.

Scott feels a little sick, looking at it.

That could have hit a person.

If he hadn't figured out that touching Jimmy gave him a measure of control, he could have killed anyone in the camp.

Jimmy's already tugging him back, probably wanting to practice again. He wants Scott to get good at his aim, and Scott isn't sure if it's so he feels more safe with himself, or so he can be more useful in attacks.

"I'm just a weapon," he says offhandedly. Bit of a fall from king of the elves.

"Come on, now," Jimmy says consolingly. "You're a beautiful weapon."

Scott snorts. "Try that one again."

"My favorite weapon?"

"If I could let go of your hand, I would."

Jimmy grins. "What I'm hearing is I can be as obnoxious as I want, and you can't do anything."

"Oh, you—"

Their flirting is cut off as a child crosses the invisible boundary, skipping up toward them.

"Stay back there," Jimmy commands, voice ringing with sudden authority, stepping forward with an arm out.

Scott glances at him, more to make sure that it's still his Jimmy there than anything else. He forgets, sometimes, that Jimmy actually has power. Not just the power of a ruler, either—some sort of unknown, hidden power had to have played a part in his survival, and his ability to heal others. Scott's seen him heal so many of the survivors that they just rescued, just by pressing a hand to their wounds. Jimmy, somehow, is a living, walking, healing miracle.

As much as they're teasing each other today, Scott can't help but feel a little hollow inside. It's still so hard to be here, to hold the hand of his once-dead betrothed.

Not that he has any other option.

Not that he doesn't want to.

The child halts immediately, waits for Jimmy and Scott to come toward her.

She's a little older than the other children, and one that Scott recognizes—from when, he doesn't know—, her scales like freckles spattered across her cheeks and nose.

"Codfather!" she says, standing at attention. "We've found something."

-

"I'm honestly just surprised it made it all the way down here," Scott muses, turning the satchel over in his hands. Below it, on the table in Jimmy's planning tent, lies the crown of antlers and a thin grey book, instantly recognizable as the one he had forgotten to give Lizzie.

"That would be the enchantments," Jimmy says, leaning on Scott's shoulder. When Scott turns his head to raise an eyebrow at him, he elaborates.

"Well, look, see the way the stag kind of shimmers? That's a protection kind of enchantment, to keep the bag from tearing. And the cod is a homebound enchantment—wherever you are, it'll find you."

Scott blinks.

How on earth would he be able to tell that just by looking at it?

"Are you making things up?" he asks dubiously.

Jimmy frowns. "What? No. My people showed me every step of the process when they were making this. We had a promising young Cod—Everarda—she was going to Gem's Academy, and she enchanted the thread. And Theo attached the strap—I think Jesse did part of the bag itself, and—"

"And the crown," Scott murmurs, picking it up with more reverence than he's shown it in some time.

It still shines, despite traveling down river for weeks and ending up buried in the mud. Its glow, perhaps, is more due to its divinity than any amount of polish.

How had it found him here?

Aeor, no doubt.

Scott's been kind of ignoring his god, as of late. Sure, he's said a couple of prayers here and there—some of them sobbing, silent prayers in his frozen world, others rote repetition and dull words—but he hasn't exactly been the most faithful of chosen ones.

It isn't that he doesn't respect Aeor. He still worships his god. It's just . . . easier, he supposes, to pretend as if this is all there is. His story ends here, and he dwindles away.

Yet every night, he tosses and turns, struck by recurring dreams. Dreams that have an oddly golden quality, dreams in which he has the crown of antlers and is alone against Xornoth.

Dreams in which he thinks in a tongue that is unrecognizable to him.

He's been ignoring the dreams, hoping them to be nothing—and in so doing, he's been ignoring hints from his god.

The fact that the crown is here again, one of the artifacts necessary to defeat Xornoth—and he doesn't think he really needs the boots anymore—feels like a bit more than a hint.

His stomach swoops unpleasantly. If Aeor's sending him messages of this magnitude, he clearly wants Scott to get going.

It's not like Scott can take on Xornoth with nothing changing. Xornoth almost killed him last time. He still has no idea what he's doing. Not to mention, Xornoth is surely even more powerful by this point, surrounded by soldiers and Rivendell's magic and who knows what else. There's no chance of survival.

Yet Aeor is pushing him. Aeor is telling him to go up against his brother another time and fail. Aeor is sending him to his doom.

And Scott's going to do it.

He doesn't want to. He wants to stay here, with Jimmy, in this little temporary civilization forever. He wants to forget about the world outside, forget that everything will likely collapse in a matter of months.

He doesn't want to die.

He doesn't want to fail again.

But he has been feeling like he's living on borrowed time.

And he can rub his thumb along the light scars on Jimmy's knuckles and wonder if he feels the same.

"What's this?" Jimmy asks, drawing Scott from his morbid spiraling by picking up the grey book.

"I—I don't know," Scott says, still reeling from his moment of revelation. "Something Oceanic, I think. I meant to give it to Lizzie."

He's going to die. He's being sent to his death like a lamb to the slaughter.

The long hours spent in Gem's secret library seem like a lifetime ago—a time when devastation was fresh, when Jimmy was dead yet the world seemed more hopeful than it does now. He barely recalls how they found the book in the first place.

"And it stayed in your bag the whole time," Jimmy muses, turning it this way and that. "What's it about?"

"I don't know, I couldn't read it."

"Hm." Jimmy flips the book open to the first page, while Scott gently sets the crown back down and turns to the young teen who had found the items.

"And there was nothing else there?" he questions.

She shakes her head. "Nothing that I saw, Lord Smajor. I can show you the place, if you like."

It's unlikely that the boots would have made it there. It's not like they had some sort of tracking spell, after all. It's more likely Lizzie found them, washed up on one of her islands.

"That won't be necessary," he tells the girl. "If anyone finds magical boots that burn to the touch, however, find me."

She nods, takes a few cautious steps back. Scott waits expectantly for Jimmy to dismiss her, but when he doesn't, she just shrugs and bounds off.

Scott looks back to Jimmy, who has stepped uncomfortably far away, the fingers of his right hand just brushing Scott's waist. Scott steps more into reach, peeks over at the book that Jimmy is so intently studying.

It looks much the same as he remembers, if a bit more wet. Strange, faded blue letters, made large with thick strokes. Not much of a conceivable pattern to split up the words (unless it's a character based language?), or even a way to tell if it's written from right to left or not.

But Jimmy is scrutinizing this old little book, mouth moving slightly as his eyes slowly travel across the page.

"Can you read it?" Scott asks incredulously. Jimmy can barely read Common, how on Aeor's great earth is he reading whatever this is?

"I—I think so?" Jimmy says, looking up from the book. "I've never seen this language before. At least, not that I can remember."

Right. Amnesia.

"I think I used to be able to write in this," continues Jimmy, voice hushed as his eyes return to the book. "That's crazy. How old is this?"

"Very," Scott says. Then, still confused, "Can amnesia make it so that you forget an entire language?"

Jimmy doesn't answer. Instead, he points a shaking finger at a point on the page, letting go of Scott (who presses his arm to Jimmy's, maintaining their vital contact) to do so.

What's so exciting about that part? Jimmy's suddenly gone white as mountain's snow, eyes watering as if he's about to cry. What could possibly bring him to tears so quickly? Is this a book of prophecies? Is Jimmy reading about the doubtless end that awaits them?

But Jimmy, voice weak, doesn't say anything like that. Instead, he says, looking over at Scott, "This . . . this is about me."

-

"It's a journal, of some kind," Jimmy explains, later, sitting on the grass in his tent, a plate (which was really more of a carefully sanded piece of wood) of berries and two bowls of thin soup between them. "I think Lizzie wrote it."

Scott frowns. "Lizzie? Are you sure?"

That just can't be possible. Gem's library had been sealed for likely hundreds of years. Jimmy's only—well, he only showed up ten years ago, and Lizzie—Lizzie's been around for a while, but fish hybrids don't live for longer than the average human lifespan.

Right? Lizzie's been. . . . 

"Lizzie joined the House Blossom Alliance over twenty years ago," Scott says aloud. He was there when she showed up to her first meeting, he remembers that. She'd seemed young, small, hair falling into her face, clearly dressed in her nicest of clothing—which was almost meager compared to the glory of some of the other empires.

Still, she had commanded the respect of all of them, speaking boldly and making firm promises. Scott remembers being begrudgingly impressed, though not quite as much as the boy Mezelean Prince, who repeatedly urged his father (in a voice a bit too loud to be a whisper) to arrange an alliance.

If Lizzie had only inherited her kingdom at that age, then there was no way she had been able to write whatever that book was. Neither she nor Jimmy would even be born for centuries.

"Lizzie joined then . . . and none of us really knew much about the Ocean Kingdom, but we'd seen their buildings begin to rise above the water and she seemed legitimate. . . . And then you showed up about a decade later and started reaching out to empires, didn't you?"

"Why are you reciting history to me?"

Scott snorts. "This is barely history, more of a contemporary review," he tells Jimmy, adjusting so that Jimmy's heel isn't digging into his thigh. They've contorted themselves a bit oddly, perhaps, one of Jimmy's legs reaching around their dinner to keep physical contact with Scott, but there's only so long that they can hold hands in a day.

"I just don't understand how the books came to be in Gem's hidden library."

"Maybe it wasn't all that hidden?" Jimmy suggests. "Maybe Lizzie found it and put these books in."

"Are you sure Lizzie wrote it?"

"Yeah, it's her handwriting."

"That is definitely not her handwriting," Scott says, pointing to the open book beside Jimmy. "That isn't anyone's handwriting. That's an ancient Oceanic script that nobody remembers."

"I remember it," Jimmy says, popping a berry into his mouth.

"Yes, but you don't really, right? You can read it, and write it, but you don't know how you know it or where you learned it. How do you know it even talks about you?"

"Lizzie's writing to me in parts of it."

"How do you know it's you? And not someone else named Jimmy?"

Jimmy frowns. "It's not exactly my name, you know. It's a word that means me. Nobody else would have that."

It does not make sense.

None of this makes any sense.

"Sounds inefficient for a language," Scott murmurs absently, ignoring the pang in his chest as he remembers that Jimmy died and now is back so what does sense even matter?

"Right, it changed to use names as the Ocean Kingdom grew. Barely anybody even knew this form of it by the time. . . ."

Jimmy trails off, eyes unfocusing with a concerning suddenness. His lips move ever so slightly, forming unsaid words.

"Jimmy?" tries Scott, reaching over to tap on his knee. Jimmy blinks, eyes refocusing on Scott.

"Sorry, what was I saying?" he asks, brows furrowed.

And if that isn't strange, Scott doesn't know what is.

"Something about the language developing over time?" Scott prompts.

Jimmy bites his lip, looks askance. "I don't . . . I don't know. I don't remember. I don't. . . ."

He doesn't look like he's going to cry, exactly, but he certainly looks troubled, and his eyes catch on the book.

"None of it makes sense," he says quietly, and Scott could not agree more. "Lizzie wrote that. I know she wrote that. I don't know how. And it's . . . I need to talk to her."

"It's from before you lost your memory, isn't it?" Scott asks after a moment. He isn't sure how far he can push this, but he feels a sense of idle curiosity. What does the book say? Why does it worry Jimmy? How did it get in the Crystal Cliffs secret library, unrecorded and forgotten?

Jimmy nods. "It's gonna eat at me, Scott," he says, already sounding tired. "Lizzie's writing about all sorts of things that I don't remember. They just don't make sense. I need to talk to her, figure out if she remembers any of this."

"You're saying we need to go to the Ocean Kingdom."

Again, Jimmy nods. "Yep. At some point." He looks away, sighs, briefly looking far too old yet much too young to be leading a camp of refugees, let alone a kingdom.

Jimmy's always had moments like that, when his bearing makes it obvious to Scott that Jimmy stumbled into this role ten years ago and gave it his all, despite his lack of experience.

He doesn't deserve this—war, death, pain.

Jimmy doesn't deserve any of this.

But Jimmy doesn't dwell, even if Scott does. Instead, he looks back up to meet Scott's eyes, lips quirked in a smile. "What about you? What's with the crown?"

Right. The crown.

Scott swallows.

He and Jimmy have talked a little. Just enough to air out any pressing concerns, for Scott to realize that his conflicting feelings were not unwarranted but unneeded, and for Jimmy to accept that Scott is struggling and help him feel assured of his love as often as he can.

But they haven't talked much, despite literally never leaving one another's side. They've been so busy keeping the camp running and planning attacks and defenses and experimenting with Scott's curse that they haven't been able to sit down and talk, like they're doing now.

Does Scott tell him what it means?

Does Scott tell him that by sending the crown, Aeor intends for Scott to go up against Xornoth again, just to fail as he already has? Does he tell Jimmy that this little respite was nice, but it can't last forever?

Maybe he can put it off. Maybe he can stay with Jimmy just a little bit longer, in the relative peace of the camp.

It's selfish. Scott ought to at least try to fight Xornoth right now, if only for the elves in captivity.

But Scott's kind of tired of trying to save the world. Let someone else do it, for a change.

He forces a smile, fiddles with a berry between his fingers. "It's just a Rivendell treasure. You needn't worry about it."

He'll stay, Scott decides, as Jimmy gives him a soft, loving smile. He'll stay as long as he can.

-

Which isn't very long.

As it turns out, their little frozen-town trick from the week before didn't go over well with Mythland, and it's only the next morning that a woman comes running to the planning tent, declaring that she'd seen three unfamiliar men searching for the camp while she was on patrol. That means that Mythland knows roundabouts where the first camp is (the newly-formed second is off to the northeast, and as far as they know, hasn't been discovered), and the probability of attack is high.

It's time to move, then. Scott spends all morning running from place to place with Jimmy, helping children and disabled and those unwilling to fight pack up and prepare to move to the second camp, from whence a proper plan will be formed.

It isn't terribly easy to mobilize a camp of hundreds of people in only one day. Many of them, in the short month or so that they've been here, have settled in as if it were their home. Some of the families have collected possessions, strangely enough—Scott watches an elderly man argue with Jimmy for almost ten minutes in some strange Oceanic dialect over not wanting to part with his chair. Jimmy responds patiently, but Scott can feel his body tense more and more as he responds in the dolphin-like clicks and whistles of the dialect.

Finally, Jimmy pats the man on the shoulder and says something in a low voice to him, then moves on.

"What'd you say?" asks Scott, hanging on to Jimmy's arm as they walk away, surrounded by the hustle and bustle of hurried packing.

"I told him he can leave the chair or die in it, I don't care," Jimmy says breezily, and Scott almost laughs.

"One of these days you need to learn diplomacy."

"I said I'd go find his husband, he can be diplomatic."

It takes an hour to find him, however, because at every turn, Jimmy is pulled aside and asked a question, called over for help, or stopped to listen to some sort of plan or explanation. The camp is quickly emptying, guides hurrying back and forth between the camps to lead more people to the safer location.

"I hope we aren't being watched," Scott says offhandedly, watching a group of a dozen or so Cod head out, laden with makeshift packs. "Then they'd find the location of the other camp, too."

Jimmy doesn't reply, just points beyond the treeline, out toward the outskirts of their massive camp. There, past the chaos of destroying shelters and striking tents, Scott sees several people in light armor, each carrying a weapon, making circles around the camp.

"Patrol is doubled," Jimmy says shortly. "All the way down to Camp Two."

"How many people are in Camp Two?"

"We have . . . what, two hundred joining them?" Jimmy guesses, readjusting the sword strapped to his back. "So they'll be up to around five hundred. It'll drop, though, as they send us fighters tomorrow."

They're leaving tomorrow, too. Everyone who is left in the camp tomorrow at noon (the able fighters, that is) will be marching out. The plan is to head out toward the Ocean Kingdom, add their little force of four hundred to Lizzie's armies, and from there plan with Lizzie a way to try and defeat Xornoth.

Scott should feel better about it. He'd felt for so long that Jimmy's small goals were pointless, after all.

But he knows now that it's hopeless to try and sway this war. Scott feels like there's a rain cloud looming over their heads, ready to strike down with lightning and set the camp ablaze. Death surely lurks just beyond their line of sight.

There's no way to defeat Xornoth. His power will only grow, the God of Darkness fed by the fear and torture he brings to the land.

Maybe Aeor wants Scott to take a shot at it just so that he can go to the afterlife with full honor. Elvish history and religious lore is fairly vague on anything other than the separation of the afterlife, but it's always had a sense of peace and happiness. Maybe Aeor knows that Scott is bound to die, and wants to hurry it along so that he can get some peace for once.

For a god that sends him frustrating hints all the time, he's really outdone himself with this one.

He's going to die. Aeor is sending him to his death.

Jimmy notices something's wrong, somehow. Jimmy, who never notices anything, even when he's not busy with mobilizing an entire camp over the space of a day and a half, notices that something is wrong, which means that Scott isn't hiding his thoughts very well.

He used to be so much better at this. Back before he met Jimmy.

But Jimmy frowns at some point during the day, rubs his thumb over Scott's knuckles, and asks how he's doing.

And when Scott asks why Jimmy would even be concerned, Jimmy points out his wings and how stiff they are, and the way his fingers are repeatedly tapping against his side, and the anxious frown on his lips, and asks if he's having sensory overload.

No, he's just thinking about his own imminent death. Nothing to worry about there.

He wants Jimmy to live. He wants Jimmy to gather his little force and leave the land of the Empires, go somewhere without demons and death, somewhere his people can rebuild.

He doesn't want Jimmy to be captured and subjected to torture, or killed, or whatever evil is in mind for him.

He wants Jimmy to be happy.

If it comes to it, Scott decides right then and there, he'll split off from the group. He'll leave a note, telling Jimmy to get out when it all goes wrong, and fly to Rivendell alone, ready to confront his demon brother once and for all.

And then he'll die.

Right.

He's going to die.

-

They set out at noon the next day, Scott's satchel uncomfortably heavy with the weight of both the crown and general travel supplies—some food, first aid, and a bowl and spoon. Jimmy hikes beside him at the front of the pack, the mysterious runes carved into the old leather of the hilt of his sword sparkling in the sun.

If Scott had been in charge of this expedition to the Ocean Kingdom, he would have set out at dusk rather than noon, the hot sun beating down on their backs. He barely gets half an hour into the march before shrugging off his coat and draping it over his head, sweat dripping into his eyes.

Elves aren't made for heat, not noonday, marching-through-tall-prairie-grass, not-a-cloud-in-the-sky kind of heat. It's hot, but worse than that it's humid, so Scott has to deal with not only the burning sun but also the thick air that threatens to choke him. He stops frequently to take a sip from the waterskin bumping against his hip, to wipe the sweat from his brow, to pray for clouds, and he can only hope that his skin isn't burning beyond recognition.

At least last time he trekked through the plains, he was covered in ice. Now he's overheating, out of breath, and just generally exhausted.

And they haven't even been walking for a full day.

His wings itch to take flight, glide through the air and feel the wind on his face, make it to the Ocean Kingdom in under an hour instead of the several day journey that the force has embarked on.

They're walking the whole way, despite the fact that the nearby river would be a much faster way to travel for Cod. Jimmy says that the river is being watched intently, and that four hundred rebels is a little conspicuous. They'll be expected to take the river route, not go around.

And Scott also suspects that Jimmy doesn't want to leave anyone behind. Not all of the rebels are native Cod, and not all are capable of breathing underwater—like him, for example.

Not that Jimmy would change the plans and safety of his entire camp for just Scott.

They walk all afternoon in even warmer weather (and it can't really be that warm, because all of the Cod are doing fine, but Scott is really just not suited for this), and they're about to press onward after a blessed break for supper when one of the scouts sent on ahead comes running back, a little dot on the rolling yellow-green plains ahead that gradually becomes larger.

When they arrive, huffing and puffing, green in the face, they salute Jimmy and bow a little to Scott, accepting a drink of water.

"There's a small Mythland camp up ahead," they manage after a moment to catch their breath, sweeping their sweaty brown bangs out of their eyes. "An expedition or scouting group, probably. Fifty soldiers at most."

"We stop here to rest," Jimmy decides immediately, without waiting to consult the two Cod that he's chosen to be his seconds-in-command. "We'll continue in a couple of hours. Can you lead me to the camp?"

The young Cod nods, and before Scott knows it, they're guiding him and Jimmy away, a group of five of the stealthiest Cod accompanying them.

Scott doesn't really think it's a good idea to go spying—not when both he and Jimmy are rather high-profile, and letting go of Jimmy could have disastrous consequences making it impossible to split up—but who is he to make the rules around here?

And maybe he just doesn't want to go because his legs and back ache from the journey thus far, and his excessive clothing is all stuck to him with his own sweat.

Or maybe he doesn't want to go because he's going to die in a matter of days and he wants to spend as much time talking to Jimmy as possible instead of silent surveillance.

But as dusk falls and the world darkens, Scott finds himself lying on his belly at the peak of a small, ridge-like hill, peering down at a small camp of Mythland soldiers.

There's probably fifty men or so, most of whom are preparing or eating an evening meal between the six rows of tents. None of them are in armor, milling around the two campfires on either end of the camp, over each of which is a pot of something cooking (probably a stew).

"Fire is good," Jimmy murmurs. "It'll throw off their vision. We can probably get pretty close."

He points to a tent on the edge of the second row away from them, a bit bigger than the others, which two men are currently exiting. “I bet the man in charge is there. I want to know what his plans are.”

"Can we risk it?" Scott whispers back, tearing his eyes away from the camp to focus on Jimmy's shadowed face, two bright streaks across his vision from the light of the fires. "If we get caught, the whole operation is done for."

Jimmy clicks his tongue, reaffirms his grip on Scott's hand. "If we get caught, you fly us out of there, okay?"

"What? Jimmy, I haven't flown in weeks—my wings were broken, I don't even know if they'll support my weight, let alone—"

"Then we won't get caught," Jimmy says simply.

Right. Because that's the way that works.

Still, Scott only sighs and nods, and after a few long moments of silent communication with the other five rebels, Jimmy and Scott crawl back down the hill, sliding back on hands and knees until they're far enough back that they can stand fully.

They wait there, silent, until dark has fully fallen and the air cools, various nighttime critters hopping out of their hiding places to make their voices heard. Scott leaps back in surprise when a field mouse crawls across his foot, briefly losing contact with Jimmy and sending an icicle straight through the mouse, skewering it to the ground.

Jimmy sucks his breath in between his teeth. Scott cringes, gripping Jimmy's bicep and feeling his control acclimate again.

He hates this. He hates not being in control. He hates being cursed.

"Just . . . try not to do that again?" Jimmy says after a moment.

Scott nods wordlessly.

They don't say anything after that, and soon enough they can't really see anything beyond a foot ahead of them, and Jimmy begins to lead the way around the curve of the hill.

It isn't too difficult to move through the tall grass quietly, crouched over to hide in it, but Scott finds himself gritting his teeth every time Jimmy stumbles over a stalk or tramples some grass. Can't he just be silent? Scott has massive wings behind him and he isn't getting caught on anything, it can't be that hard.

He has to remind himself every couple of steps that different people have different skills. Elves have light feet and are better at sneaking than most, after all. It isn't Jimmy's fault that he's a flat-footed Cod.

"Left," Jimmy breathes in his ear, and Scott freezes. "There's someone on watch."

Scott looks around, trying to get his eyes to acclimate to the darkness. The firelight is throwing off his heightened vision (just as Jimmy had predicted it would for the enemy) , but he can maybe see a figure standing out in the grass to their right.

Now that he knows the man is there, if he pays attention he can hear him. He can hear the slight wheeze that accompanies each breath, the almost-silent rustle of clothing.

They shift left, Scott keeping an eye on the shadowy figure, making sure he doesn't head this way.

But as they move, Scott's still-alert ears pick up another sound, distant and almost indistinct.

Ba-thump. . . . Ba-thump. . . . Ba-thump. . . .

It might be his imagination, but it seems to be growing louder.

"Do you hear something?" Scott ventures to whisper, glancing around to make sure the guard doesn't hear him. Jimmy shrugs.

"No. What is it?"

He doesn't see anything. But he can still hear the rhythmic thudding, ever so slightly louder. Maybe it's his heartbeat?

Ba-thump. Ba-thump. Ba-thump.

Jimmy continues moving, bent over almost double, masked by the tall grass. Scott follows, their fingers linked and connecting them, swallowing back his bad feeling.

It sounds like a drum. A beating drum coming closer and closer.

Ba-thump, ba-thump, ba-thump, ba-thump—

"Are you—" Scott starts, before something clicks in his memory and he knows exactly what the sound is.

Uh-oh.

Ba-thump ba-thump ba-thump ba-thump ba-thump ba-thump—

Scott drags Jimmy back by his tunic, pulling him down on his back in the grass, the sword in its scabbard jostling against Scott's arm (flattened under Jimmy as they both lie supine on the ground). Scott presses his free hand to Jimmy's mouth, silencing the question about to burst from his lips.

Just in time, as a horse and rider come barreling through, barely two meters away from them, hooves thudding against the grass and saddlebags clanking. The horse gallops across the field to the camp, which is still far enough away that they can't hear anything more than the general bustle of a camp getting ready for bed.

Scott carefully sits back up once he's sure the danger has passed (and Jimmy does too, with considerably more noise), watches as the rider dismounts, tying the horse's reins to the post that's been set up at the edge of camp, next to the pack ponies that are lazily munching on the grass.

"He looks important," Jimmy whispers.

He does. The rider is wearing the official white surcoat of Mythland, a polished leather satchel strapped across his chest. He doesn't even unsaddle his horse, just continues on into the camp, stride slightly bowlegged.

Neither of them even have to say anything. Both Jimmy and Scott just move forward in sync, zigzagging from left to right, slower and slower the closer they get to the camp as the grass grows shorter, until they find themselves right behind the tent that the rider entered, the larger one that is luckily off to the side rather than in the center.

It's dangerous. There's a tent behind them a little ways, and others in their line of sight—made especially risky by the firelight emanating from one of the campfires, only a row away from them.

Still, nobody seems to be wandering about over here, and Scott trusts that either he'll hear them coming or Aeor will protect them.

Now, though, he needs to focus.

"Can you hear anything?" whispers Jimmy. Scott shushes him near silently, presses his ear up against the canvas. Jimmy does the same, his bad ear out toward the camp.

A couple of indistinguishable murmurings—pleasantries, if Scott had to guess—then the most obnoxious slurping Scott has ever heard—

"I don't believe I understand," a man's voice says, gruff and low, muffled through the tent wall. "The king wants us to abandon our course?"

"For the time being," a younger voice—the rider, Scott guesses—says.

"But we just sent our report. We've found the rebel camp. We need to attack before they move. I was expecting two thousand soldiers, not a messenger telling me to head to the coast."

"Everyone is being sent to the coast," the rider responds. "The rebel camp will still be here later."

"Or they'll all go hide in their little badger-holes. We could lose the Codlands if they get bold."

A chuckle. "It wouldn't take much to re-conquer them, I assure you. Especially without their ruler."

Scott squeezes Jimmy's hand. Jimmy squeezes back.

"I don't know," the first man says. "Something strange is going on with those rebels. Did you hear about Medokrill?"

"I don't bother myself with the names of their primitive villages."

"Froze. Overnight. Three men got frostbite."

"The weather of this place does not—"

"And in the morning, most of the Cod had vanished." The squeaking of a chair, another horrid slurp. "Now, I don't like that sort of coincidence. The town freezes—in August, mind—and that same night, the rebels strike and sneak everyone out of there. And only Medokrill froze. Even the prairie around it was untouched."

"What do you want me to do about it?" the rider asks after a moment. The other man chuckles.

"Keep it quiet, ideally. I don't know who or what has that kind of power, but I'm thinking the blame lies with those fairies. They might not be so neutral, after all.”

“I'm sure His Majesty would find that quite informative.”

“Remember that we don't want to scare our men, or give the Cod hope. Keep it quiet. But otherwise, you could get me my men so I can quash this rebellion."

The rider clicks his tongue. "The command is coming straight from His Majesty. Everyone is going to the coast for an attack."

"What could be so important—"

"The Ocean Queen is gone," the rider says.

Jimmy stiffens beside Scott. 

"She'll be arriving in Rivendell early tomorrow morning. The King intends to . . . delay her return, if you take my meaning. We attack while she's gone. By the time the day ends, we should have the upper hand and the fish will surrender within the week."

"Hm." The other man goes silent for a long moment. "I don't know how I feel about that. Tomorrow?"

"You're the last group to know, unfortunately. You should make it to the river in under an hour, and from there it will be several days' march to the coast itself. With any luck, the fighting will be done before you even arrive."

A long, drawn-out sigh. "And I don't suppose my little espionage group was small enough to escape the King's attention?"

"Every man, General. This could be the end of the war."

"Right. Well, it'll be morning before I can get my men moving. That wouldn't be too much of an issue, would it?"

"I suppose I might have stopped for the night before reaching your camp. Officially, I arrived tomorrow morning."

"Sure. And none of that stuff about the freeze leaves this tent, all right?"

"And you never heard a thing about the Ocean Queen's permanent little trip."

Another slurp that sets Scott's teeth on edge.

"Agreed. Have you been to the Capital lately?"

"Not in several weeks. Why?"

"Just wondering how the new market law is going."

"Ah. Well, I can tell you. . . ."

Jimmy tugs, lightly, on Scott's sleeve, and after a moment longer of listening to make sure they don't return to the earlier topic, Scott allows himself to be pulled.

They sneak back through the grass, not stopped by the sight of any sentry, off toward their vantage hill, around the side of it and to the back, where they find the other five rebels that they'd brought with them sitting cross-legged, conversing in whispers and pulling apart stalks of grass.

"Back to camp," Jimmy says shortly when they look up, and walks straight past them, pulling Scott with him.

Without a word, they follow him, stealing off in the direction of their resting soldiers, several hills away.

"What are we—" Scott whispers, but Jimmy shakes his head.

"Later."

Later.

How much later?

This is kind of important news, in Scott's opinion!

If Sausage is concentrating all his forces on the Ocean Kingdom because Lizzie's going to be in Rivendell for some reason, their whole mission is for nothing. They won't be able to strengthen her armies if they can't reach the ocean, but they can't go back—soon they'll be closed in, Mythland having conquered the Ocean Kingdom, so maybe they can flee to the Overgrown—but the general already suspects that the Overgrown is aiding them, and joining their ranks would only lead to an invasion—

"Who's there?" a guard calls, peering out into the darkness.

"It's us, Lanale," Jimmy says, and Scott stops to survey their rebel force.

It's too small. It's absolutely tiny. There's approximately four hundred of them, some as young as fourteen, ready to fight to try and free their country.

And that captain had just casually ordered two thousand soldiers to entirely wipe out their little force.

There's nothing they can do to help Lizzie against all of Mythland's armies. They won't even make a difference. They surely can't join the Overgrown, as it would lead to an attack. They can't stay here, not with Mythlanders combing the prairies for them.

He has no idea what Jimmy intends to do. He can't see any way out.

Yet Jimmy moves with purpose, and Scotr walks with him, picking through sleeping rebels, until Jimmy finds the woman he wants and shakes her awake.

She stretches, stands slowly, pushes her hair back. "Codfather," she yawns, clearly not-quite awake. "What do you need?"

"You're a good leader, Millie," Jimmy says, skipping pleasantries. "I need you to be in charge while I'm gone."

Millie blinks. "Gone? Gone where? What's happening?"

"I'm putting you and Emilio in charge," Jimmy explains, rather impatiently. "There's been a change in plans. You need to split up. You take most of the fighters over the river to the Overgrown, all right? Volunteer to join Katherine's army. Emilio needs to take fifty men and go back to Camp Two. Emilio will gather everyone who is able, and lead them to the Overgrown. Got it? Everyone is going to House Blossom."

"I—what?"

"Jimmy—" Scott starts—what is he talking about? That will only make things worse, and where will Jimmy be?—but Jimmy doesn't stop.

"Scott and I are leaving right now to Rivendell," he says firmly. "Can I trust you to lead these people to the Overgrown?"

Rivendell?

How?

Millie nods, all traces of sleepiness gone. "Of course, Codfather. And Emilio as well. They're a good fish."

Jimmy claps her on the shoulder once before turning away, pulling Scott back in the direction they came from.

"Wait!" Millie whisper-shouts, and Jimmy pauses, looks over his shoulder.

Millie gives him a grim nod. "Codspeed."

Jimmy nods back, once, then continues on.

"I'm sorry, what?" demands Scott, once they've retraced their path through the dozing force. "I—what are we—Rivendell, Jimmy? What—"

"We have to warn her," Jimmy says, and that may be true, but they can't just abandon the people here to go on a rescue mission miles and lifetimes away!

"Right, but it's logistically impossible—we ought to be headed to the Ocean Kingdom, warn her military commander, bef—"

"He literally told us where she was gonna be, we have to go out there—"

"He told us Rivendell! We don't know where in Rivendell, and more importantly—we can't get to Rivendell! How are we—"

"It's my sister, Scott," Jimmy says, and Scott falls silent at the desperate look on his face. He thinks he can see, by the moonlight, the sparkle of a tear on his cheek, somehow distinguishable from the shine of scales pushing through the scars on his face.

He got those scars, Scott remembers, when he fell through the Void and the nothing tore away pieces his skin, dissolving everything that was Jimmy.

Scott promised himself then, as his wings beat desperately and tears streamed down his face and he carried the unmoving body of his fiancé in his arms, that he would do anything for Jimmy, as long as he survived.

"It's my sister," Jimmy says again now, and Scott's eyes flick up from his scars to his beautiful, serious, brown eyes. "I'm not gonna leave her. I'm not gonna let Sausage murder her."

Scott glances away.

If they reveal themselves, Scott will have to face Xornoth.

If they save Lizzie, Scott will die.

And maybe that's dramatizing it a little bit, but it's true. If they go out into the public, if everyone knows that they're alive, then Xornoth will come after them.

Instead of, maybe, several more weeks with Jimmy, Scott's timeline has dropped down to a matter of days—hours, even.

He can't leave Jimmy so soon. He just found him again.

But one more look at Jimmy's pleading, teary eyes, and Scott knows that he can't leave Lizzie to die. She doesn't have a chance against the demon.

No one does, but he can at least hold Xornoth off while the others get to safety.

He'll never see Jimmy again.

"All right," he says, even as it breaks his heart. "We'll do it. But how do you intend on getting to Rivendell?"

Jimmy's eyes slowly slide up, up to the half moon, to the stars surrounding it. "Well, remember my escape plan from earlier?"

"Jimmy."

[poisonheiress]

Saw a recent post on Tiktok about how people complaining at Viv not having fat rep shouldn't be saying anything when they don't like Mimzy as if that excuses the zero diversity before and after her in both Hazbin Hotel and Helluva Boss. That statement combined with someone making a fat joke about Moxie in the comments (with a startling high number of likes) shows me how little Viv's watchers like or even care about fat people and their voice when it comes to rep.

I know I've mentioned it a few times in talking about Mammon and The musical episode as a whole, but fatphobia is a problem in Viv's work in very blatant ways, ways that are not new by a long shot. Fat people have been constantly talking about this for years, about wanting to be shown as people and have their bodies shown in a way that doesn't reduce them to the butt of the joke or only paint them in the "sexy fat" since that's obviously the one way people could think a fat person was attractive. However, people, especially in this fandom, look at that ask for respect and see as nothing more than gum on the bottom of their shoe.

It's not only heartbreaking but morally bunk, and I honestly can't tell if it comes from their ignorance or this unbeatable need to defend Viv from ever possible critique (even if said critique would actively benefit her). But it doesn't honestly matter.

Fat people wanting more rep then one person per show (especially when that one person is a walking example of stereotypical bad fat rep) and for a creator to not include fat bodies as a joke is not a big ask. It's the bare minimum and the fact that people are clamoring to try and excuse Viv's fatphobia by blaming the audience says that everyone making this claim does not care about the voices of fat people nor actually respecting their opinions on the subject.

When fat people are asking for their body types to be treated seriously and to not be minimized to fat stereotypes or insulting jokes, the response isn't to shame them for daring to have that opinion nor is it to make a joke that a character commonly insulted with fat jokes is actually fat rep.

If you want to lick Viv's boots, that's your right but stop putting down fat people who are just asking to be respected in media to prove that loyalty.

[piosplayhouse]

Thinking about it considering both binghe and liu qingge (shen yuan's most canonically ideal men) are described as feminine in text, you could for sure make the case that fem yuan has a Hugeee thing for butch girls that she just does not examine ever

[meggie-moo]

one of my biggest fic pet peeves is when they make a canon bi character gay, like?? there’s no need, they are already attracted to the same gender? literally what is the point of erasing their bisexuality, when it literally does not change the possibility of your ship happening? 😭 idk, it just does not sit well with me, lol

[capsrecedinghairline]

Just saw a clip where David Mazouz talks about how a WB exec called him “too Jewy” to play young Bruce Wayne so uhhh now I have decided that Bruce should have thick curly hair, he should have bold, broad features, he be exactly what people think of when they stereotype Jews.

And yeah, obviously there is no singular way to “look Jewish”. That’s not the point. The point is that a Jewish kid had to load his hair down with gel in order to play a canonically Jewish character. I shouldn’t have to spell out the rest for you.

The point is visibility. The point is that Jewish-American comic book innovators used the concept of superheroes’ secret identities to explore identity and assimilation. The point is that I want Bruce Wayne in a kippah and I’m not gonna shut up about it.

[bugslap]

ayo that creepy british guy in the alley kinda foine