#the perils of living near family

[clunelover]

Today I really hit a wall on Men. Specifically the male attitude of "helpful women are like virtual calendars/a substitute for remembering things."

Sequence of events:

E is in their school play, and once the date and time is up and the (free) tickets are available, I forward the email to everyone in the family. The play has two showtimes, a 10 am and 6:30 pm.

Unrelated to play, I offer to host a birthday dinner for my stepdad. I text everyone the date and time and say what I'll be cooking.

One week before bday dinner: my dad texts to ask "is the dinner thing this weekend or next weekend?"

At 4:45 on the day of the dinner: Stepdad (guest of honor) texts me "we're meeting at 5, right?" Nope, it's 6! Hey, at least he asked instead of coming an hour early??

During the dinner, the topic of the play comes up. My dad and stepdad both want a reminder of when/where it is. I try to calmly say, and then my dad says "oh I might prefer to go to the morning show time, can I do that?" [lengthy digressions about the different showtimes and the ticketing website, ultimately leading to my dad needing to see if he's actually free in the morning.]

Yesterday, I text my dad to ask if he decided on which show so I'd know whether to get him a ticket for the morning (he can't work the ticketing website). No reply. The play is on Wednesday.

Today, I take E to therapy. On the way back to school, they tell me that at the bday dinner party, my dad said "hey E, gimme a kiss" on his way out the door, and they didn't want to but didn't feel like they could say no (I didn't notice this happening in the moment). We have a big discussion about how I definitely want them to feel like they can say no, they DO NOT have to worry about hurting grandpa's feelings, I will tell grandpa that he should not say "gimme a kiss" to either of my kids and try to have my antenna up at future gatherings. I drop them off at school.

Literally as soon as I drop them off, my dad texts me back about the play - "when is it, tomorrow? I have a doctor appointment at 10."

Blood starts coming out of my ears and mouth. I'm so angry I drive into a ditch while screaming "fuckyoufuckyoufuckyou!" (...not really but that's how I feel)

I reply "the play is tomorrow. There is a 10 am show and a 6:30 pm show. I got you a ticket for 6:30. At dinner on Saturday, you said you might prefer to come to the morning show. But if you have a doctor's appointment at 10, sounds like 6:30 is the best bet. Hope to see you there!"

He replies, "Don't get mad, but where is it? At the school? What's the name of the school?" [he's definitely managed to show up at this school once or twice before. BUT no, the play is not at the school cause there's not enough room there. It's at a church and all that info is in the email I forwarded everyone]

[blackness and tv static noise]

I finally get settled in to my work computer. The first thing I see is a message from my middle aged man coworker saying "hey when you get in can you tell me again how to do a merge request? I'm trying to make myself a checklist so I stop getting it wrong" (a document on this process already exists, as well as two different video recordings, one of which is actually a video of me training THIS VERY GUY. Oh and by the way, there's one other person on my team who knows the procedure inside and out...a male person...but somehow the messages asking for help are sent ONLY TO ME?!?!)

I'm seriously going to lose my fucking mind. I mean the #1 priority is tackling the bodily autonomy stuff for my kid's safety. As for the rest of it, the answer is probably to stop answering these messages and see what happens, but I fear that will lead to worse things (panicked day-of calls that will cause me more stress than a text...or in the case of my stepdad's party, him just being there an hour early to piss me off and get underfoot, and okay maybe you say "that's fine, put him to work!" but in case this post doesn't make clear, these men will find a way to make a simple delegated chore into my problem too.)

[torchwood-99]

There's a bit of a role reversal with Faramir and Eowyn, in terms of how their narratives include tropes and plot points that are often traditionally applied to characters of the other sex.

Eowyn goes to war because she refuses to be left behind to be burned inside the house when the battle is done, as is often the fate of women.

Faramir actually is nearly burned alive at the hands of the patriarch of his family when said patriarch believes the battle is over and hope is lost. While Eowyn is out on the battlefield, fighting, Faramir is stuck inside the home, burning.

Between the two, Eowyn is the one we see go on more of an inner journey. She changes more over the narrative, and has to deal more with her own flaws and personal demons, as well as the injustices inflicted upon her. The climax of her story comes with a great moment of heroism and courage in battle. She is rescued by a hobbit, but as an ally in battle, not as a damsel in distress.

Faramir in the books doesn't feel tempted by the ring, and is almost a paragon of virtue. About as much as a Man in Middle Earth can be. He's closer to Arwen and Galadriel than Eowyn is, in his near perfection, in how he inspires and guides others. He is also rescued by a hobbit, but in that moment he is helpless, a damsel in distress. He is rescued because others love him for his virtue and goodness.

So often it's the other way round. Not only is the woman usually the one trapped inside, in need of rescue, while the man is out there fighting, the woman's heroism traditionally comes from the list of virtues she possesses, while the man's heroism comes from his deeds and the things he accomplishes. The man fights, the woman inspires.

But during the Battle of Pelennor fields, it is Eowyn who fights, and while she does inspire Merry, she inspires him not as a paragorn, but as an example of courage that Merry finds himself compelled to live up to. He is inspired to fight by her side, instead of fighting for her.

Faramir is sick and unconscious. His agency is denied him by his father, who decides on his behalf there's nothing left for him to live for. And it is a rush for the heroes; Pippin and Beregond, to save Faramir, and it is explicitly stated that Beregond only broke the law because he was inspired to do so out of his great love for Faramir, which is shared by all. In that moment, Faramir's role is closer to the traditional fairy tale princess, whose goodness inspires the heroes into fighting for her during her peril.

And afterwards, it is Eowyn who has to fight to find meaning in life again, to choose joy and hope over despair, which Faramir, with his loving kindness, wisdom, and gentleness, inspires her to do.

I love that, and love thinking on how that affected their relationship going forward.

Eowyn must have liked that with Faramir, she's not being married to someone who will require her to take on every aspect of the so called "woman's role" (necessary, but limiting) which has been inflicted on her at her own expense by the men in her life, so they can be free to partake in the "man's role". Perhaps in turn, Eowyn's predisposition for more martial pursuits; even if she has embraced healing and gardening and no longer lives for battle, would also mean she can take on some of the certain necessary duties that Faramir finds taxing.

Between the two, there must have been a more equal division of labour and responsibilities, and therefore more freedom on both sides. Neither one of them fully suits the roles that society has assigned to them due to their gender, and in marrying each other, they no longer have to.

[mysteryshoptls]

During the Harveston event, Epel mentions a couple of folktale stories and folklore. Do you think you can make a compilation / list of all the folklore he mentions, what they mean, what what they possibly could be inspired by? Also, I love your work! We love you Ras <3

Hello! I'm happy to help where I can. Scouring through an event for specific lore can take time, so I appreciate your patience. Here are some folklore that Epel mentions in the Sledathon event. If I've missed any, please let me know and I can add to this list.

"...A long time ago, a beautiful maiden was walking in the woods, but a villain crept up from behind putting her life in mortal peril. Fearing for her safety, the animals around her rushed off down the mountain path in search of help. The animals ran ragged until they finally found someone to come help her. They then frantically pushed and pulled them as swiftly as they could back to the young maiden..."

Mentioned in Episode 1-3 of the event.

This is the anecdote that the Sledathon competition was based on.

This seems to be inspired by a combinations of the scenes of the Hunter approaching Snow White from behind to fulfill his mission, as well as when the animals rushed out to find the seven dwarves in the mines to bring them back in time to try to save her from the Evil Queen near the end of the movie.

"The dwarves who used to live on this land soon stopped getting sick after they started washing their whole body with soap... ...The story goes that the dwarves would scoop up the water and even wash their faces, too.

Mentioned in Episode 3-4 of the event.

This occurs when the boys were told to go wash up in the well before eating.

Inspired by the scene where Snow White has the seven dwarves wash up before their meal.

"It's said that if you face the well and make a wish, it'll come true. It's said this all started because long ago, a young maiden made a wish for love in a well. They say that the stronger the wish, the more likely it is to come true, so everyone from the village does it right before a harvest or heavy snow."

Mentioned in Episode 3-4 of the event.

This occurs after the boys were finished washing up before eating.

Inspired by the scene in Snow White where she is singing at the well at the beginning of the movie.

"Legend has it that the Fairest Queen prized red apples above all."

Mentioned in Episode 3-5 of the event.

In Harveston, there is an apple competition to determine the reddest possible apple.

Inspired by the red, red apple that the Evil Queen makes in her dungeon.

"Long ago, there was a traveler who came across a home with a scandalously disorganized dinner table, so they fixed up a grand meal for that family..."

Mentioned in Episode 4-6 of the event.

There was an unused set of dishware on the table during a meal, which is due to a superstition that as long as a plate is left on the table, then they'll never want for food.

Inspired by Snow White coming into the dwarves home and cleaning it up after seeing how dirty it is.

[mantis-dea]

Bruno Bucciarati's Type Headcanon

Bruno is someone with a deep-seated desire for a loving relationship and perhaps, a family of his own. As the years go by, his desire increasingly starts to surface.

However, the path he walks is fraught with danger and uncertainty. Serving as Giorno’s right-hand man in Passione, his life is intertwined with the complex world of Italy’s strongest mafias.

As Team Bucciarati works tirelessly to clean up Passione and protect their territory from rival factions attempting to seize power, Bruno finds himself constantly away on perilous missions, often with little respite between them. His absence can range from days to weeks, and sometimes even longer.

The weight of his responsibilities and the knowledge that his life is constantly on the line weigh heavily on Bruno's heart. He is aware of the dangers he faces, and it pains him to imagine someone he cares about worrying and waiting for his return, only for that day to never come. He has seen too many comrades who had family fall, and it's a fear that haunts him.

He believes that suppressing this desire is the responsible thing to do.

Bruno not dating means several less things to worried about.

What if someone kidnaps his s/o and uses them as leverage?

What if he promised a night out, but he could not make it?

What if a rival member decides to kill his s/o?

Because of these factors, luck would truly have to be on s/o’s side, especially if they are a civilian.

As a generality, Bruno’s type would be someone who is kind, gets his weird sense of humor, and exudes a calming presence that makes spending time together effortless. Whether he and his s/o are fishing, listening to Miles Davis, or simply relaxing, being near his s/o soothes him.

On the other hand, while I do think Bruno values calm and stability in a partner more, I can also see Bruno liking someone slightly chaotic. Someone who he enjoys sharing a laugh with. Someone who does stupid things to get him to laugh. However, he's not looking for an extremely chaotic personality, as his demanding work already saps his energy and exposes him to such individuals regularly.

Additionally, this person must accept his line of work.

If his s/o is not part of the mafia, he won’t disclose his involvement unless they begin to suspect, or the relationship is about to go to the next level.

Bruno would want them to see him as a person first before they make a decision. Afterall, he is in Passione to eradicate drugs amongst the youths.

Bruno is most likely to enter a romantic relationship with a fellow member of Passione. His future s/o would need to have some experience within the organization, preferably working alongside Bruno on numerous missions where they shared the same living quarters.

There are two reasons why Bruno would date a fellow Passione member:

1.) Bruno will be less apprehensive about dating knowing they are perfectly capable of defending themselves.

2.) They understand the mafioso lifestyle. Though the disappointment will still be present, they won’t be resentful or surprised when he’s away for extended periods of time. This shared perspective significantly reduces potential strains and misunderstandings. Moreover, Bruno can have open discussions with his significant about Passione's members and issues, providing a valuable source of insight and support.

If his s/o is a civilian, they must be the one of the luckiest people ever.

For this civilian to catch Bruno’s attention, they’d have to do something truly “significant” in his eyes. It will most likely be an act of kindness.

Helping an elderly lady with groceries.

Buying a kid who didn’t have money an ice cream.

S/o trying to skim board in a fountain, only to fall face first into the water, attempting to avoid crashing into a kid.

I also have a one-shot where civilian s/o exchanges a bag of apples that Bruno was gifted for a bag of oranges. She was watering plants on her balcony when she overheard the conversation about him not being fond of apples. She runs down and exchanges the bags with him.

After witnessing an act of kindness, there is a low chance that Bruno may strike up a conversation with you. If you are close by him after the incident occurred, he may comment about it out loud.

As time passes, If Bruno sees s/o consistently after the initial incident, he will begin to think about them more frequently, noting just how often they keep crossing paths. If he’s in a crowd, he finds himself doing a quick glance to see if you are there.

After a series of encounters – four or five to be exact–, with each one seemingly involving him or his future s/o running into one another, he becomes drawn to them. He eventually initiates a conversation, sharing a chuckle at the uncanny frequency of their meetings. With each interaction, Bruno finds himself falling deeper in love, and s/o becomes a constant presence in his thoughts.

He starts to believe fate is trying to bring you two together. Unexpectedly, after some pep talk from Mista of all people, he finally goes and asks them out for dinner.

[theineffablesociety]

I'd like to plan a Good Omens meetup for Saturday October 19th, 2024. Poll below!

Edit: If you're looking for the Discord link, please message me!

We're currently looking at a hotel in Langhorne, PA that has a good bit of space. Just need to see about availability and cost.

For our immunocompromised and vulnerable fellow fans who plan to attend, we're going to include a masking policy in our event spaces and hallway/foyer outside those rooms. We'll have extras available.

All ages welcome; under 18 must attend with a guardian.

-

Start original message:

The Ineffable Society Meetup is a thought that's brewed in my brain since June 2023 when a bunch of local GO fans chanced to meet for the first time at the King of Prussia PA screening of series 2 episode 1 and 2.

It is time to stop brewing and let others contribute.

Here's my initial thoughts:

I'm willing to organize but not alone. We'll need to work together.

I live near Philadelphia, PA so this is the area I'm willing to do what needs doing primarily in Eastern PA, Central NJ, surrounding areas therein.

I'd want everyone attending to be 18 or older, please. I encourage those 17 and under to organize something together!

Taking suggestions for type of venues to host, think like a family reunion or larger.

I'm not interested in handling money, so would seek at least 2 people to oversee financials if that comes into play. (Finances might be needed to cover renting a space, any printed materials, little swag gifts.)

As mentioned, Saturday October 19th. Because it's close to the Earth's Birthday. :3

Afternoon through evening could be good. Maybe a 3 hour window on the small end; most of the day on the larger end. Will depend on location and on how many helpers step up.

Good Omens related fun: encouraging cosplay, script book readings, discussions, games, swaps. Maybe screening an episode together (there's copyright law to contend with here though). Depending on how much time we have together and space. Simplest plan would be an informal Good Omens afternoon mixer type.

If fewer than 12 people are interested:

We could just meetup at a restaurant that has a function room! (Not super ideal for allergies, as there's probably nowhere that's good for everyone. But does it in a pinch. And would probably not be a big up-front cost. Often there's a small room fee and then the assumption everyone will eat.)

If more than 12 up to 40 people are interested:

We might consider renting some conference rooms at a small hotel. (That does make it easier for people to find accommodations: already there! At a hotel! Downside is this will require chipping in.)

Any more than 40 people and uhhh... We'll figure it out.

WHAT I NEED TO KNOW FROM YOU

There will be more questions to follow, but most important one is below.

Please answer YES if you are:

A Good Omens fan

18 or older

In the Eastern PA to Central NJ area

Or are otherwise willing, able, and interested to go there

For transparency. A little about me:

I'm North (SeedsOfWinter). They/he.

Over the past two and a half decades, I've organized or been a member of organizations that planned meetups, game nights, reunions, and nerd events for friends and strangers alike.

I've been a Good Omens fan since June 2019. I run @rareomens. I am a mod for @ineffableeraszine and @bildadzine. I was a mod for the Our Side Zines, Pin Me Up 2, and many more. I was a founding admin for the LGBTQIA+ Fans of Good Omens groups.

I've been part of convention presentations for Good Omens at The Ineffable Con (virtual) and DragonCon (in-person, Atlanta GA). I love to organize fan photoshoots and meetups.

I know that any attempt at gathering people requires a team to make it happen; and that there's pitfalls and perils to all of it, especially when you're dealing with a bunch of possible strangers meeting for the first time! But the end result (you all getting a chance to connect together as fans) is feeling pretty worth it.

[twstjam]

Lost Invitation (Part 1) - Rain Check

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME!!!! and happy en glomas day everyone! :D To celebrate, here's part 1 of a new fic I started writing on impulse <3

Characters: Yuu, Grim, Malleus Draconia, Heartslabyul (mentioned) Word count: 2.8k Summary: You're committed to helping Riddle Rosehearts and his card soldiers in a war against followers of the Jabberwock looking to usurp the rulers of Red and White. You're also in love with a stranger you met in the woods who wants you to run away with him. Whoever said that love and war weren't so different might've been onto something. In your experience, they're both equally difficult. Nobody ever said that you had to choose between one or the other though. Ao3 Link Masterlist | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

If you were asked two years ago whether or not you wished to fight in a war, your answer, reasonably, would most definitely have been a big, fat NO. You would be quicker to pack up all your things and vanish with Grim before the enemy army could even begin their march to the Boardfield, the traditional field of battle for the Queendoms of Roses and Lilies.

Though the Rosehearts and Whitelily families are infamously known for their quarrels, it's not unheard of for them to unite in times of peril. Even when currently under the leadership of constantly-conflicting young rulers Riddle Rosehearts and Wystan Whitelily this isn't untrue. When the Jabberwocks declared war on the Whitelilies, Riddle had been quick to offer his assistance.

And as someone working for the Rosehearts family, that had meant your assistance as well.

And you didn't want to be involved in a war. No one did. All of this had nothing to do with you, a magicless outsider who couldn't contribute meaningfully if you tried, so really it was best that you got out of the way as soon as possible… but who would you be if you didn't at least try to help out your friends?

You don't know when it happened, but the card soldiers and Riddle himself have become almost like family to you.You have no obligation to stay and help, even Riddle had assured you of that, but you're still not sure if it's your lack of self-perservation or sheer stupidity that had told him you wouldn't leave.

Even if it was expected, being a part of a war was hard and stressful and the days seemed to stretch longer and longer. You spend practically every waking and sleeping moment working tirelessly near a cauldron, brewing potion after potion for the use of the card soldiers. Your alchemy skills had been taught by famed alchemist Divus Crewel himself, but they can only take you so far.

You barely get full eight hours of sleep. You don't even want to imagine how Riddle and Wystan are faring. You barely see your friends anymore, let alone in a peaceful environment, and every time they head out with the troops there's no guarantee they would return.

Your days are hectic and unpredictable… but, at the very least, you have something to look forward to. Something to ground you and make you feel at ease. Or more accurately… a someone.

----

Potion ingredient runs are your favorite to do. At the very least, you do them once a week, but if potions are burnt through fast then the travels to gather herbs become more and more frequent, to your delight. Stressed as you are, you're not eager to do work as much as you are eager to get out of your cramped room cluttered with books and scrolls and herbs that is also more often than not reeking with the mixture of smells of dozens of different potions. You spend so much time in there though that you barely notice until you're walking out of a magic mirror into the open outdoors lush with greenery and colourful with blooming flowers of sweet fragrances.

Being surrounded by the beauty of nature is only one of the upsides though. As your horse brings you and the wagon deeper into the quiet but lively woods, tall, decayed stone walls slowly come into view. So many plants have made themselves at home in the cracks between the stone that from a distance it's not recognizable as an aged structure forgotten by time.

Once upon a time it was a grand tower home to a reclusive mage and alchemist. They kept their research hidden away and secret from the world… that is, until, other mages discovered their body in the tower about a decade after their death.

A majority of folk are scared to even speak about the tower, let alone visit it, and maybe once you would've been the same, but living in a haunted mansion for a few months sort of desensitizes one to the presence of any kind of ghost.

Ace and Deuce had gotten concerned when you bragged about it once. They were probably right to be, but it's not like it'd be any good even if you were afraid of ghosts. Instead of the phantom of a paranoid, lonely mage, when you had visited the tower for herbs for the first time you had instead encountered a very alive mage instead, though he's not any less lonely and secretive.

Your mysterious horned friend, whom Grim had creatively dubbed Tsunotarou, had been haunting the old ruins one night while you were gathering some rare nocturnal herbs. You had gotten spooked by a pair of reptilian green eyes peering at you from the dark, but Tsunotarou, though he was tall and horned and wrapped in elegant robes made out of the night sky, had seemed more wary of your unassuming human presence garbed in a stained alchemist's uniform. He hadn't been expecting someone else to be there. At least that made two of you.

Despite the surprise of an unwanted companion at his beloved abandoned ruins, Tsunotarou had come back, and the two of you had struck a conversation. Considering the oddness of both of your choice of location to spend your evenings, it wasn't hard to think of things to talk about. Somehow, this had led into a friendship forming between the two of you, and now when you go on your trips for herbs, it also means seeing Tsunotarou. It means cosy evenings picking herbs while he talks your ear off about the most niche topics, at the same time staining his own gloves with dirt and tearing them on briars as he helps you.

You never ask him to help. He had simply commented once that it seemed like tiring work, at the same time asking you what herbs you needed before kneeling down and gathering them for you. It's become routine since then for him to assist you, and neither of you say anything about it as you work in the comfort of each other's presence.

In a hectic life, Tsunotarou has become your anchor, your safe space. Your home away from home. The closeness you feel with him sort of just crept up on you one day, and before you know it he's made himself at home in your heart. You don't know—can't know if you're as important to him and you'd never ask, but he's become close to you like you've become close to him and you're angry at yourself for it because now your stupid heart wants to do anything for him like it does with Riddle and the others and you definitely don't have enough space on your shoulders for it.

So it's painful when Tsunotarou looks at you, no doubt taking in the sight of your paled skin and sunken eyes and says, "Come home with me."

You know why he asks. Had asked it before, and it had hurt just as much the other times, but he keeps asking, persistent. It's something you've learned is part of his non-human biology, something that comes with his horns, his tail, his eyes, his ears, and his fangs. It's part of who he is to want to keep people close, like his grandmother, his parents, his caretaker Lilia, and now you.

"I can't," you say, every time. You want to but at the same time you don't. You're curious and eager to see more and learn more about your dear friend (perhaps even his actual name one of these days), but your heart also belongs with Riddle and the card soldiers and you won't abandon them. "You know I can't."

"And you know I cannot bear seeing you so overworked and exhausted," Tsunotarou says, gentle but also stern as he caresses your cheek in his hand and despite your refusal of his offer to care for you, you lean into his touch, your heart yearning for comfort after denying it for too long.

"You also know your mother doesn't like humans," you remind him.

"I will hide you, then," he says, insistent, despite how the idea is so childish to the point that you laugh.

"That's not going to work and you know it."

"You will not believe the fabrications my mother would believe if they were to come from me," Tsunotarou boasts, his head tilted up in pride at being a mama's boy. You huff a fond laugh.

"Still, no matter how much she loves you I don't think she would appreciate you hiding a strange human in her home without her permission." You cradle his hand on your cheek with your own and lower it away. You're immediately mournful at the loss of his touch, but thankfully you have the impulse control to be able to release his hand and begin the walk back to your wagon, where you would then go home with all of your gathered ingredients and… go straight back to work.

Tsunotarou catches your hand before you can get far. You don't have to look to see the pleading expression on his face and you don't want to, instead smiling sadly at your feet.

"We shall get our own place then," he blurts out. "Just the two of us. Nobody can bother us ever again. There will be no wars. You will not have to work a day in your life. Let me take care of you."

You're too stunned to speak. His words leave you breathless, pondering if he knew the weight behind saying something like that, the implications. If he knows that his touch sends goosebumps rising through your skin, makes you yearn and ache as he laces his fingers with yours and squeezes.

You don't notice him sidling up closer behind you until he is. He tugs on your hand and turns you around with his other hand on the small of your back. You're face-to-chest with him, having to place your hands on his firm chest and crane your neck to look up at him. It's a mistake, because the desperation in his eyes frighteningly makes your resolve falter.

"Please," he whispers in a tone perhaps unbefitting of someone so imposing in appearance but to you could not be more fitting for your gentle, caring friend. "Stay with me."

You're helpless as he curls gentle clawed fingers around your jaw and leans down. Hot breath ghosts over your lips. You shudder, and the urge to close the distance is so overwhelming—

You pull away. Blink. Squint your eyes shut to force away the images that crop up in your mind of him. Him and you. Together.

"No," you whisper. "I… we can't."

He doesn't have to ask why. It's obvious enough based on the confused and hurt furrow of his brow.

There are many reasons why. You're afraid. You don't know his name. He loves his mother and his mother would hate him. He's noble-blooded and you're not. He's a mage and you're magicless. He's something much greater regardless of whatever kind of being he is. You're just you. You're useless. Can't even help your friends enough that they won't have to deal with all the bullshit with the Jabberwocks anymore and live peaceful lives again.

"It's… not the right time," you say with a small squeeze around his own hand. "We both have responsibilities that we have to put first."

You're not fully confident that the opportunity will arrive. Who knows how much longer the war will last. Tsunotarou might even find someone actually worthy of him by then, so you don't want to get your hopes up. At the very least you can reject him in a way that won't squash his, and you're relieved when his eyes brighten.

"Someday, then," he says, and it's not set in stone but still he sounds as if he's convinced it's written in the stars. Someday. Someday.

Tsunotarou bends at the waist and kisses your knuckles. Warmth gathers in your face and you have to force back a lopsided smile. Maybe it isn't so bad to have something to look forward to…

"Someday," you echo back.

----

You're startled awake by an odd sound.

You look down and realise you'd fallen asleep on your desk again. There's drool staining the page you'd been reading, a complicated recipe on a type of energy elixir you're trying to memorise. You wipe the corner of your mouth, no longer concerned at being annoyed by being woken up from a nice dream that's already fading from your mind, instead relieved that there's no one (Ace) around to make fun of you for drooling on invaluable books again…

Wait, where's Grim?

You remember that he had been dozing off in a corner of the desk, curled up on top of an open book with the excuse that he was "helping" (he does help, bless him, but sleep was calling to him in that particular moment) but he's not there. You sit up and look around. His bed by the window is empty, and so is every other surface in the room he could to lounge on regardless of whether or not it was a book or a scroll and you needed it.

It's not unlikely for him to wander off of course, but a part of you feels strangely antsy at having found yourself alone. Technically, you're not alone. Riddle and the others aren't around again unfortunately, having left to meet up with Wystan and his own soldiers with your fresh potions, but there are the ghosts of the castle lurking about somewhere or other and the castle staff, too. None of them are around at the moment though, so your surroundings feel eerily quiet and lonely.

That's likely why you feel so unnerved, you think, as you get up from your chair to begin looking for Grim. He's likely to be in the kitchen, the gluttonous thing. You stretch out your sore limbs and your stomach rumbles. Grabbing a snack doesn't sound too bad.

You fix the pouches on your belt that had gotten a bit crooked and leave your room. There's no one around that you can see. It's not unusual; it is a big castle, but for whatever reason you feel tingles go up your back, your body wary of a nonexistent danger behind you. You take a step forward—

"*FGNAAAAA!!! Unhand me! Myah! Henchman, *help!!!*"

"Grim?!" You whirl around at the sound of his voice and sprint in its direction. You skid to a stop, blood going cold when you see five people dressed in uniforms with the emblem of a creature with eyes of flame, rough hands trying to get a grip at Grim's wriggling body.

Jabberwocks. And they have Grim.

"That's the alchemist!" shouts out one of the Jabberwocks trying to secure Grim. The three currently unoccupied immediately lunge towards you and you barely slip away.

You almost trip over your feet as you try to reach into your pouches while at the same time evading the intruders. Grim is hissing and yelling. You grit your teeth and, with conviction, pull out a small bottle of translucent orange liquid. You toss it at their feet and the splatters of liquid that fly up into the air come to life and cranky fire lizards climb up their bodies and burn through their clothes. As they scream and try to throw off the lizards, you run past them with another potion in hand, ready to aim it at Grim's captors.

One of the two trying to keep him still intercepts your throw, grasping your wrist and twisting it painfully behind your back until you drop the potion. You yell out in pain, your vision blurry with tears as you're forced down to the floor.

"Get your hands off of my henchman!" Grim yowls. He leaps out of the grasp of the Jabberwock and blue fire spurts out of his mouth and catch on the clothes of your assailant.

He breathes in for a stronger burst of fire but the other Jabberwock grab him and frantically lock an anti-magic collar around his neck.

You kick and struggle beneath the Jabberwock on your back. You reach desperately for the other potions on your belt, all the while screaming a lot of choice words in a voice you hope is shrill enough to deafen or call other people to come to your and Grim's rescue.

You're quickly silenced with a gag, blindfolded, tied up, and unceremoniously slung over someone's shoulder like a sack of potatoes. You continue to kick and scream, but it's useless as magic swirls around you and both you and Grim vanish from the castle.

[warrioreowynofrohan]

LOTR Newsletter - September 21

Today's reading is very short, a single brief sentence, but the appendices of LOTR and "The Hunt for the Ring" in Unfinished Tales have more context on what is going on in the wider world.

The appendices tell us that Gandalf is still in Rohan attempting to tame Shadowfax.

The the same time, the Ringwraiths ride north from Isengard to the Shire. Saruman's deception of them is very short-lived, as they learn that that he did not just find out the location of the Shire from Gandalf, as he claimed, but has known it for a very long time.

But first, some context about Saruman's dealings with the Shire. Another interesting part of this section is that it shows that the Bracegirdle's (Lobelia's family; that's her maiden name) and the Sackville-Bagginses are already commercially involved with Saruman. It somewhat evokes a mercantile imperialism, where a foreign power gains local allies and clients because it purchases build of their wealth, and uses that as a foundation for intel and political power. His arrival in the Shire after the War of the Ring thus does not come out of nowhere, but builds on existing ties and existing power - the "ruffians" are available for him to use as a paramilitary force because they had already been being used that way by Lotho, but were always Saruman's people.

Saruman had long taken an interest in the Shire – because Gandalf did, and he was suspicious of him; and because (again in secret imitation of Gandalf) he had taken to the ‘Halflings’ leaf’ and needed supplies, but in pride (having once scoffed at Gandalf’s use of the weed) kept this as secret as he could. Latterly other motives were added. He liked to extend his power, especially into Gandalf’s province, and he found that the money he could provide for the purchase of ‘leaf’ was giving him power, and was corrupting some of the hobbits, especially the Bracegirdles, who owned many plantations, and so also the Sackville-Bagginses. But also he had begun to feel certain that in some way the Shire was connected with the Ring in Gandalf’s mind. Why this strong guard upon it? He therefore began to collect detailed information about the Shire, its chief persons and families, its roads, and other matters. For this he used Hobbits within the Shire, in the pay of the Bracegirdles and the Sackville-Bagginses, but his agents were Men, of Dunlendish origin. When Gandalf had refused to treat with him Saruman had redoubled his efforts. The Rangers were suspicious, but did not actually refuse entry to the servants of Saruman – for Gandalf was not at liberty to warn them, and when he had gone off to Isengard Saruman was still recognized as an ally.

So, Saruman already has agents going back and forth between Rivendell and the Shire. The Ringwraiths overtake one of those agents.

When the Black Riders were far across Enedwaith and drawing near at last to Tharbad, they had what was for then a great stroke of good fortune, but disastrous for Saruman, and deadly perilous for Frodo. Some while ago one of Saruman’s most trusted servants (yet a ruffianly fellow, an outlaw driven from Dunland, where many said that he had Orc-blood) had returned from the borders of the Shire, where he had been negotiating for the purchase of ‘leaf’ and other supplies. Saruman was beginning to store Isengard against war. This man was now on his way back to continue the business, and to arrange for the transport of many goods before autumn failed. [Footnote: The usual way was by the crossing of Tharbad to Dunland (rather than direct to Isengard), whence goods were sent more secretly to Saruman.] He had orders also to get into the Shire if possible and learn if there had been any departures of persons well-known recently. He was well supplied with maps, lists of names, and notes concerning the Shire. This Dunlending was overtaken by several of the Black Riders as they approached the Tharbad crossing. In an extremity of terror he was haled to the Witch-king and questioned. He saved his life by betraying Saruman. The Witch-king thus learned that Saruman knew well all along where the Shire was, and knew much about it, which he could and should have told to Sauron’s servants if he had been a true ally. The Witch-king also obtained much information, including some about the only name that interested him: Baggins.  It was for this reason that Hobbiton was singled out as one of the points for immediate visit and enquiry. The Witch-king had now a clearer understanding of the matter. He had known something of the country long ago, in his wars with the Dúnedain, and especially of the Tyrn Gorthad of Cardolan, now the Barrow-downs, whose evil wights had been sent there by himself. Seeing that his Master suspected some move between the Shire and Rivendell, he saw also that Bree (the position of which he knew) would be an important point, at least for information. [Note from Christopher Tolkien: Since the Black Captain knew so much, it is perhaps strange that the had so little idea of where the Shire, the land of the Halflings, lay; according to the Tale of Years there were already Hobbits settled in Bree at the beginning of the Third Age, when the Witch-king came north to Angmar.] He put therefore the Shadow of Fear on the Dunlending, and sent him to Bree as an agent. He was the squint-eyed southerner at the Inn.

This clarifies a lot of the later events in the first half of The Fellowship of the Ring. The southerner at Bree who is staying with Bill Ferny doesn't have immediately obvious significance in the book. How could he be a spy of Sauron, when Sauron has only just learned the location the Shire and has no presence in northwest Middle-earth? But if he was a spy of Saruman, why would he be helping the Ringwraiths? This passage solves the mystery - and shows how much Tolkien had plotted out even events that are completely left out of the book - by placing him as an agent of Saruman who had been captured and subverted by the Ringwraiths. Which also explains how the Ringwraiths knew to go to Hobbiton in particular, and how they knew where Hobbiton was. And they also learned that Frodo Baggins was moving out of Hobbiton.

If LOTR was a TV show and we were seeing all this happening simultaneous, this would be an intensely suspenseful part of the show, with the Ringwraiths on their way north, knowing where Frodo is, and Frodo still waiting at Bag End for Gandalf and not knowing that there any immediate urgency.

[wof-reworked]

whats ur opinion on dragons having different houses bc of class or tribe? i love dragon architecture </3

I'm such a fan of dragon architecture oh my god. One of my biggest worldbuilding gripes (besides the lack of clarity around food/cooking) is that the actual housing arrangements of the dragons are so vague????? Like towns are a thing but also Tui seems to imply most dragons sleep in caves even though it makes no sense for any of the other tribes???? like ma'am most of your dragons live in swamps, jungles, or deserts where the hell are they even finding them

Basically, we have functionally no point of reference for anyone who isn't royalty (Winter, Turtle) or grew up in such specific circumstances that don't reflect back onto broader dragon society to the point where their input is rather moot (Moon, the DoD, Peril, Qibli). Qibli is the closest thing we have but the Scorpion Den is a combination of a shanty town and refugee camp that makes it harder to draw conclusions for the rest of the population. (We're also not counting Darkstalker bc. well. 2000 years)

For my writing, my stance is usually that dragons are primarily nomadic. Dragons who live in/around towns stay there primarily for reasons like child-raising, business, injury, apprenticeships, or just laying low/blending into a crowd. Like with how dragons don't need to cook their food to eat it, dragons are not dependent on housing and are able to comfortably sleep and live outside (barring extremes such as the central desert or really the entire Ice Kingdom). So, the exact permanence of a dragon's stay in town is situational and tribe/job-dependent more than anything else.

As far as the tribes go, Icewings and Nightwings are the most home/town oriented tribes- both tribes have the rarest approach to housing in that almost all members of both tribes live and sleep primarily in one home location that they return to for the majority of their life. For Icewings, this usually looks like multi-generational families that split off into new homes/houses only once there's a real need for it. On the other hand, Nightwings living on the volcano lived primarily together in caves/dormitories divided by age- even though this no longer exists, most Nightwing towns and houses involve many shared buildings and resemble something more like tight clumps of houses or caves.

For the majority of the tribes (Skywings, Sandwings, Mudwings, Rainwings), most dragons will have multiple houses that they move between as needed or wanted. While outliers exist, most dragons have at minimum two homes/dens: one in a more populated area that might operate as a job homebase or a place to receive guests, and a more isolated, private home that exists for the dragon in question to stash any items of importance or valuables, as well as eat and sleep. For more nomadic dragons, banks exist in towns to hold treasure, freeing up their secondary/non-work den to be little more than a shack or burrow with sleeping arrangements. More houses usually equals more money/class power, up to a certain point, where you start to see buildings more akin to Vulture's mansion or even the Royal Palaces, where one building or collection of buildings is large/grandiose enough to host other people's jobs and living spaces (on a related note, gardening is a very stereotypical high class hobby to have, as it shows both an abundance of leisure time and of space).

Between these tribes, Skywings are the most town and home oriented- Skywings often live primarily in towns and only leave for what is essentially a nesting den, as without rudimentary flight skills, Skywing towns are borderline unnavigable and occasionally hazardous for dragonets. Even with their relative isolation, nesting dens in the past have often been located near other nesting dens, creating something of a nesting village for Skywings parents to socialize and raise their hatchlings. Queen Scarlet's reign did irreparable damage to this style of collective child-rearing and nesting dens as a whole. With her breeding programs, most Skywings were forced into partnerships for the sole reason of producing more future Skywing soldiers, and the majority of eggs were instead stored in mass hatcheries until their hatching day.

On the other hand, Mudwings are the most isolated and nomadic, in part due to the structure of sib groups creating a situation where most Mudwings hatch into life with a social network already established. The Mud Kingdom is also temperate enough that housing isn't always necessary, and most Mudwings only congregate in towns for business or seeking a mate.

Finally, Seawings are almost entirely nomadic, and will usually move between a territory, with small dens and hoards scattered within. These territories can hold many multiple families, or they can exist for a single dragon- Seawing property laws are almost nonexistent and mostly maintained by honor and frequent patrolling of the territory to maintain order and mark it as lived space. These territories aren't uninhabited land either- Seawings will grow seaweed and herd schools of fish on their territory, and many take a certain landscaper-esque role, shaping the terrain into something aesthetically pleasing or useful to the inhabitant and helping signal to other Seawings that the land is occupied. One of the few times Seawings will settle in one den or space is for a hatching den- this lasts from the laying of the eggs until the hatchlings become able to swim well enough to keep up with their parents.

I've been pretty burnt out on WOF writing for a while, but this was honestly a refreshing change of pace from what I've been working on recently. Thanks for giving me an excuse to ramble about dragon housing !! I'd love to hear what other ppl think, the more headcanons the merrier :>

[garussy]

Wings of fire au where the nightwings get the rainforest and completely ignore the war

In this au the nightwings wouldn’t have made the prophecy and they would’ve taken the rainforest a few years after the war was declared while everyone was distracted

So it would be from Moonwatcher’s point of view Morrowseer and Secretkeeper raised her

Morrowseer is a girl dad

Let’s just say it took the nightwings a while to get settled in and move everything so the eggs and hatchery were still on the nightwing island

The few eggs that were hatched in the rainforest were unlucky and didn’t hatch on a full moon

But Moonwatcher did

Moonwatcher would describe everyone through their thoughts first she barely brushes over appearances

Some rainwings surrendered and live as servants for the nightwings

Grandeur, Glory, Jambu, and Kinkajou live together wandering around the continent

So when they were camping near the border of the rainforest and mud kingdom Kinkajou decided to explore

Moonwatcher ran into her and Kinkajou would be the first dragon Moonwatcher every described their appearance in detail

Kinkajou stalls or convinces her family to move around the border so she could keep seeing Moonwatcher

After a few meet ups Moonwatcher is convinced to leave the rainforest and see what the world is like

So the thoughts

Moonwatcher describes Morrowseer as having really dark and upsetting thoughts unless he’s around her when he is with Moon he has a lot kinder thoughts since he knows she can read them

Kinkajou’s mind shocks Moon because it’s unlike the rainwing servants she’s seen Kinkajou is bright and happy even after everything that happens

Qibli’s mind reminds Moon of her dad Qibli is suspicious of everyone and has a few dark thoughts and only has nicer thoughts with Sunny, Thorn, and later Winter

Since Moon was raised to not trust Icewings she isn’t suprised by Winter’s thoughts of how much he dislikes her and she wonders why Qibli likes hanging out with him

Moonwatcher can’t read Turtle’s thoughts and she is relived and worried at the same time she knows how Turtle looks at Kinkajou because it’s the same way Moon looks at her

Peril’s thoughts amuse Moon since she is used to the nightwings having rude or violent thoughts but never as loud or dramatic as Peril’s

Now some side characters

Since there wasn’t a prophecy Peril and Sky were raised with Kestrel

I’d like to imagine a friendship or maybe a relationship with Glory and Sky

Glory, Tsunami, and Peril are violence buddies Glory is the only voice of reason

Anemone is sweeter since she had Tsunami there to take the pressure off of her

And Kinkajou at some point bites part of Morrowseer’s ear off don’t ask me how she did it or how she survived but she did

She claims it was just a joke but really it was revenge for him insulting her when Moon and Kinkajou revealed their relationship

[sealrock]

02. horizon

no content warnings word count: 809 words

The picturesque Sharlayan horizon never failed to take his breath away. Against the green backdrop of the Orn Wild, the clouds of night that blanketed the sky just hours before started to break apart as the sun stretched its rays across the mountaintops, the muted multicolored sky becoming richer in color.

Hues of oranges, pinks, and reds mixed like paint on an artist's easel. The call of mourning doves announced the arrival of dawn… Not that the city of Sharlayan heeded it, seeing how the colony never sleeps. The buzz of activity could be felt even from his vantage point from the Makers' Quarter, researchers running this way and that, preoccupied with whatever kept them up for three nights straight. Hector couldn't judge too harshly, for he couldn't sleep either, the rush of excitement thrumming through his diminutive body.

Hector's father continued to lament the boy's career choice to become a gleaner. As soon as he turned sixteen, an adult in the eyes of Sharlayan law, Hector walked straight to the colony's Gleaner's Guild and signed up. While Hector could've continued his studies to work alongside his father as a scientist, he took his mother's advice and followed his heart. For most of his young life, Hector's otherwise mundane love for horticulture began with a visit to Saint Mocianne's Arboretum as a child. By the time he turned nine, he already had a miniature greenhouse from the comforts of his room, taking the time to study each individual plant and its growth patterns.

And so it was decided. Hector wanted to witness many more horizons, not from the Great Gubal Library stuffed to the brim with tomes, but from cities he only heard about in those tomes. The world is vast, filled with many perils and thrills, and gleaners were allowed to travel wherever their assignment took them. After a year of training, seventeen-year-old Hector Wormwood, son of Esta and Jolyon Wormwood, was ready to take the world by the horns.

When the bell rang out, its resonating chimes echoed across the morning air, Hector was quick to head for the Gleaner's Guild situated in the Collectors' Quarter, his dark green uniform free of wrinkles and stray lint. It was at the guild that he met his fellow inductees—most were older than him, and others came from average families. The Wormwoods were part of Sharlayan nobility, though nowhere near the irrefutable status of wealth and recognition that was the Leveilleur family. To see the family's only heir amongst the crowd of, for lack of better words, errand boys and girls raised an eyebrow or two.

Tucking his wavy ink hair behind his ear, Hector anxiously waited for his turn to receive his backpack, he practically quivered in place as the line grew shorter. Maybe he shouldn't have drank all that coffee in one sitting this morning, but he couldn't help but feel like he could bounce off the walls in pure jubilation.

"… Hector Wormw-"

"Present!"

The lady at the front desk, an older Hyuran woman, jolted upright from her slumped position in her chair, eyes wide as saucers at Hector's louder-than-normal voice. It was clear she wasn't a morning person, judging from her wrinkled frown upon spotting Hector's raised arm and beaming smile. Muffled snickering and giggles came from behind him. Hector offered a sheepish smile as an apology and shuffled forward. A few pieces of paper signed here and an oral declaration of obedience and secrecy on behalf of the Forum there, and Hector became an official gleaner.

Hecto's first assignment—acquire a species of live seedkin from the Sea of Clouds. While others may balk at the prospect of going so high up, Hector didn't think twice about it. In his training, Hector's superiors deemed him most suitable to handle the study, cultivation, and capture of flora. With the trip funded by the guild, Hector was filled with a blooming sense of wanderlust. He already said his goodbyes to his parents the night before, knowing they would be too swamped with work to give him a proper sendoff at the Cenotaph. Hector didn't mind, that was the family's routine since he was born, and his plants kept him company either way.

Hopping into the chocobo carriage with other gleaners, Hector looked over his backpack for all his essential items; the guild provided temporary packing equipment, the rest he'd have to procure on his own. The carriage jerked forward as the chocobos started their strut along the bricked path down. Instead of looking back at the colony, its massive size shrinking with each passing minute, Hector kept his eyes towards the sun, the sky brightening with a brilliant blue as the morning yawned past the mountains. Hector was off to start his journey to distant lands, and he never felt more excited in his young life until now.

[fairytalesofthewind]

And flew like a moth to you, sunlight, oh, sunlight (The Fall of Icarus)

A Sunlight by Hozier x Daedalus and Icarus by Ovid x Jegulus fic

Read on Ao3 

961 words

Regulus hated his life with his parents, even more now that his brother was gone. He longed to join Sirius in his self made exile. He couldn’t imagine a world without his love, but it had now been closed off by the seas between them. 

But even though his parents, the seas, land and waves obstructed his path to Sirius and happiness, he would find another way. The land and the seas may hinder him, but the skies lie open. His mother might control many arts of magic and with that also people, but she did not possess, nor did she control, the sky. 

Regulus knew he had to resort to unknown arts, magic not even familiar to his terrible mother. A type of magic that was hidden in the deepest part of their Black library. A magic that would allow him to change his nature. 

The freckles on his shoulder blades, of which the Black brothers always claimed looked like constellations, were replaced by feathers in rows. A warm and foreign magic placed small feathers connected by thread on his skin, before adding longer ones. Then wax joined in such a way that eventually beautiful wings were created. 

He was already standing near the window of his room. Isolated from his family, sent without food after the smallest of disagreements. He looked at the picture of Sirius, grinning at him from his dresser. He was unaware of Sirius’ peril on the other side of the seas dividing them, but aware of the urgency of his freedom. 

Regulus admired the miraculous work of this ancient magic, and moved his thumb over the yellow wax. He let out a beaming smile, he could finally be free. 

Regulus, however, was still a reasonable boy. He knew not to fly too low, for then the waves would weigh down the feathers. He knew not to fly too high, lest the sun burns the wax off his wings. He would find the golden middle course, which was already very familiar to him after years of mediating in the Ancient and Noble House of Black. 

He also knew not to get distracted by other destinations, but to fly straight to Sirius. He knew he had to follow the path the magic paved for him; a dark purple string of stars. 

As the magic seized the way, Regulus did not doubt his plan any longer. He threw himself out of the window with the unfamiliar wings, and with the fear of falling and failing, his cheeks grew wet. His hands trembled, but he blamed the strong winds. Underneath the night sky, he felt the stars kiss his cheeks, until the sun greeted him again hours later. 

At first, Regulus felt like a young bird that jumped unknowingly from a high nest into the even more unknown skies. But with the magic guiding him, he soon flew like an experienced albatross, master of soaring flight.  

He did not only see the night sky turn into a colourful and hopeful morning, but he saw the lives of those familiar with the sea. At night he saw many glowing jellyfish along the shore, before the fishermen took over in the early morning. He saw how the large whales avoided the big ships moving towards the docks. He did not only see the fishermen, but they also saw him. They believed him to be a god with his graceful flying. 

Regulus, now more confident, deserted the path the magic had paved for him. Instead, he noticed another strong magic. Not purple and guiding, but sparkling and desperate. He was attracted to the desire to follow it, but the closer he flew, the more tired he became. However tired, the less distance there was, the more warmth his body received. The desire for that safe warmth spread from his fingertips to his heart. 

The vicinity of the source of this wonderful magic overwhelmed him. After hours of flying he once again felt his entire body tremble. After the long journey, he felt the wax chipping away, the feathers following also. Feather after feather fell, until it was only his bare arms and a little bit of magic holding him in the air. It did nothing to halt him, especially not after seeing his destination. He shouted their names, first in glee, but then in fear. Until the sea right before them all took their names from him. 

Both men startled into action. They found feather after feather in the waves, but not Regulus. Until one of them looked back to the shore, where a body lay protected by a purple mist made of stars. 

It was not his brother, but another man, who reached Regulus first. In the most gentle way possible, James took Regulus in his arms. The stars danced around them in approval before they dissapeared into the sea’s gentle waves. 

James felt immense relief as the boy breathed softly against the hand holding his cheek, and he felt his own tears brush over his cheeks. He felt his hands trembling before Sirius joined the embrace. Three of them shared tears of relief. 

As Regulus met James’ eyes it was not his body that took flight, but his heart and soul. Like the stars just moments before, it was as if they danced around them. 

Regulus had been a rational, reasonable boy, and had not flown too close to the sea nor the sun, but he knew that he had flown to his own sunlight. He flew like a moth to James. 

His soul, like his heart, felt like it was filled by sunlight. A soul that was born in the cold and rain, was now surrounded by the love of his brother and the burning flame called James Potter.

[stardustedknuckles]

It's in the way Caleb more than any of them carries the loss of the Nein. His home a front for the tower. His boundaries with regard to using the sending stone to call Beau (who gives no indication she's necessarily bothered, even given the situation he finds her in). The way he hasn't moved on, the way he's been waiting for something like this. I think it's good and valuable that the Nein took some time to try and figure out what happiness looked like outside of daily mortal peril, truly, and I also think that the thing they made together was the best part of them all and they know it. Nobody knows it better than the man who cried when he received the spell that would allow him to shelter his friends after losing one, who crafted a whole tower from magic and dreams according to his love for the family they made.

Caleb is both the saddest and the most hopeful of the Nein in terms of coming together again. Everyone else has settled into a new path, and he's floating between ideas. Just waiting. Perhaps for closure, but just as likely for them all to return and be together again. He's not unhappy. It's just that "not unhappy" is still new and he's not sure why it sits wrong on his shoulders after a year of near-constant fear and fighting for their lives and for the world.

And Beau - Beau who tearfully told the Nein six weeks into knowing them that she would die for them, Beau who was looking for a cause to die for and found one to live for, only to have to let it fracture into everyone's separate lives. She's not unhappy. She's got Yasha, she sees Caleb regularly (and bullies him into choosing a path the way she has) and a life of emotional fulfillment she never thought possible.

But she's also got a 9-5 and it's focused on the right goal, but Beau lives and dies by direct action and there is none of that in official politics. Moves are made by inches. There's nothing to punch. She's used to getting the hell beat out of her, the clean exhaustion of physical exertion, and these days she comes home with her brain fried from absolute boredom and monotony. She never kept office hours for the Nein. She still doesn't. When Caleb calls in the end throes of her most deeply personal activity, her response is to fully whoop and celebrate that they're all getting back together. In a way, just like Caleb, she's been waiting. Doesn't matter the reason. As long as they're together, they'll make it work.

[thebrickinbrick]

The Dead Are in the Right and the Living Are Not in the Wrong

The death agony of the barricade was about to begin.

Everything contributed to its tragic majesty at that supreme moment; a thousand mysterious crashes in the air, the breath of armed masses set in movement in the streets which were not visible, the intermittent gallop of cavalry, the heavy shock of artillery on the march, the firing by squads, and the cannonades crossing each other in the labyrinth of Paris, the smokes of battle mounting all gilded above the roofs, indescribable and vaguely terrible cries, lightnings of menace everywhere, the tocsin of Saint-Merry, which now had the accents of a sob, the mildness of the weather, the splendor of the sky filled with sun and clouds, the beauty of the day, and the alarming silence of the houses.

For, since the preceding evening, the two rows of houses in the Rue de la Chanvrerie had become two walls; ferocious walls, doors closed, windows closed, shutters closed.

In those days, so different from those in which we live, when the hour was come, when the people wished to put an end to a situation, which had lasted too long, with a charter granted or with a legal country, when universal wrath was diffused in the atmosphere, when the city consented to the tearing up of the pavements, when insurrection made the bourgeoisie smile by whispering its password in its ear, then the inhabitant, thoroughly penetrated with the revolt, so to speak, was the auxiliary of the combatant, and the house fraternized with the improvised fortress which rested on it. When the situation was not ripe, when the insurrection was not decidedly admitted, when the masses disowned the movement, all was over with the combatants, the city was changed into a desert around the revolt, souls grew chilled, refuges were nailed up, and the street turned into a defile to help the army to take the barricade.

A people cannot be forced, through surprise, to walk more quickly than it chooses. Woe to whomsoever tries to force its hand! A people does not let itself go at random. Then it abandons the insurrection to itself. The insurgents become noxious, infected with the plague. A house is an escarpment, a door is a refusal, a façade is a wall. This wall hears, sees and will not. It might open and save you. No. This wall is a judge. It gazes at you and condemns you. What dismal things are closed houses. They seem dead, they are living. Life which is, as it were, suspended there, persists there. No one has gone out of them for four and twenty hours, but no one is missing from them. In the interior of that rock, people go and come, go to bed and rise again; they are a family party there; there they eat and drink; they are afraid, a terrible thing! Fear excuses this fearful lack of hospitality; terror is mixed with it, an extenuating circumstance. Sometimes, even, and this has been actually seen, fear turns to passion; fright may change into fury, as prudence does into rage; hence this wise saying: “The enraged moderates.” There are outbursts of supreme terror, whence springs wrath like a mournful smoke.—“What do these people want? What have they come there to do? Let them get out of the scrape. So much the worse for them. It is their fault. They are only getting what they deserve. It does not concern us. Here is our poor street all riddled with balls. They are a pack of rascals. Above all things, don’t open the door.”—And the house assumes the air of a tomb. The insurgent is in the death-throes in front of that house; he sees the grape-shot and naked swords drawing near; if he cries, he knows that they are listening to him, and that no one will come; there stand walls which might protect him, there are men who might save him; and these walls have ears of flesh, and these men have bowels of stone.

Whom shall he reproach?

No one and every one.

The incomplete times in which we live.

It is always at its own risk and peril that Utopia is converted into revolution, and from philosophical protest becomes an armed protest, and from Minerva turns to Pallas.

The Utopia which grows impatient and becomes revolt knows what awaits it; it almost always comes too soon. Then it becomes resigned, and stoically accepts catastrophe in lieu of triumph. It serves those who deny it without complaint, even excusing them, and even disculpates them, and its magnanimity consists in consenting to abandonment. It is indomitable in the face of obstacles and gentle towards ingratitude.

Is this ingratitude, however?

Yes, from the point of view of the human race.

No, from the point of view of the individual.

Progress is man’s mode of existence. The general life of the human race is called Progress, the collective stride of the human race is called Progress. Progress advances; it makes the great human and terrestrial journey towards the celestial and the divine; it has its halting places where it rallies the laggard troop, it has its stations where it meditates, in the presence of some splendid Canaan suddenly unveiled on its horizon, it has its nights when it sleeps; and it is one of the poignant anxieties of the thinker that he sees the shadow resting on the human soul, and that he gropes in darkness without being able to awaken that slumbering Progress.

“God is dead, perhaps,” said Gerard de Nerval one day to the writer of these lines, confounding progress with God, and taking the interruption of movement for the death of Being.

He who despairs is in the wrong. Progress infallibly awakes, and, in short, we may say that it marches on, even when it is asleep, for it has increased in size. When we behold it erect once more, we find it taller. To be always peaceful does not depend on progress any more than it does on the stream; erect no barriers, cast in no boulders; obstacles make water froth and humanity boil. Hence arise troubles; but after these troubles, we recognize the fact that ground has been gained. Until order, which is nothing else than universal peace, has been established, until harmony and unity reign, progress will have revolutions as its halting-places.

What, then, is progress? We have just enunciated it; the permanent life of the peoples.

Now, it sometimes happens, that the momentary life of individuals offers resistance to the eternal life of the human race.

Let us admit without bitterness, that the individual has his distinct interests, and can, without forfeiture, stipulate for his interest, and defend it; the present has its pardonable dose of egotism; momentary life has its rights, and is not bound to sacrifice itself constantly to the future. The generation which is passing in its turn over the earth, is not forced to abridge it for the sake of the generations, its equal, after all, who will have their turn later on.—“I exist,” murmurs that some one whose name is All. “I am young and in love, I am old and I wish to repose, I am the father of a family, I toil, I prosper, I am successful in business, I have houses to lease, I have money in the government funds, I am happy, I have a wife and children, I have all this, I desire to live, leave me in peace.”—Hence, at certain hours, a profound cold broods over the magnanimous vanguard of the human race.

Utopia, moreover, we must admit, quits its radiant sphere when it makes war. It, the truth of to-morrow, borrows its mode of procedure, battle, from the lie of yesterday. It, the future, behaves like the past. It, pure idea, becomes a deed of violence. It complicates its heroism with a violence for which it is just that it should be held to answer; a violence of occasion and expedient, contrary to principle, and for which it is fatally punished. The Utopia, insurrection, fights with the old military code in its fist; it shoots spies, it executes traitors; it suppresses living beings and flings them into unknown darkness. It makes use of death, a serious matter. It seems as though Utopia had no longer any faith in radiance, its irresistible and incorruptible force. It strikes with the sword. Now, no sword is simple. Every blade has two edges; he who wounds with the one is wounded with the other.

Having made this reservation, and made it with all severity, it is impossible for us not to admire, whether they succeed or not, those the glorious combatants of the future, the confessors of Utopia. Even when they miscarry, they are worthy of veneration; and it is, perhaps, in failure, that they possess the most majesty. Victory, when it is in accord with progress, merits the applause of the people; but a heroic defeat merits their tender compassion. The one is magnificent, the other sublime. For our own part, we prefer martyrdom to success. John Brown is greater than Washington, and Pisacane is greater than Garibaldi.

It certainly is necessary that some one should take the part of the vanquished.

We are unjust towards these great men who attempt the future, when they fail.

Revolutionists are accused of sowing fear abroad. Every barricade seems a crime. Their theories are incriminated, their aim suspected, their ulterior motive is feared, their conscience denounced. They are reproached with raising, erecting, and heaping up, against the reigning social state, a mass of miseries, of griefs, of iniquities, of wrongs, of despairs, and of tearing from the lowest depths blocks of shadow in order therein to embattle themselves and to combat. People shout to them: “You are tearing up the pavements of hell!” They might reply: “That is because our barricade is made of good intentions.”

The best thing, assuredly, is the pacific solution. In short, let us agree that when we behold the pavement, we think of the bear, and it is a good will which renders society uneasy. But it depends on society to save itself, it is to its own good will that we make our appeal. No violent remedy is necessary. To study evil amiably, to prove its existence, then to cure it. It is to this that we invite it.

However that may be, even when fallen, above all when fallen, these men, who at every point of the universe, with their eyes fixed on France, are striving for the grand work with the inflexible logic of the ideal, are august; they give their life a free offering to progress; they accomplish the will of Providence; they perform a religious act. At the appointed hour, with as much disinterestedness as an actor who answers to his cue, in obedience to the divine stage-manager, they enter the tomb. And this hopeless combat, this stoical disappearance they accept in order to bring about the supreme and universal consequences, the magnificent and irresistibly human movement begun on the 14th of July, 1789; these soldiers are priests. The French revolution is an act of God.

Moreover, there are, and it is proper to add this distinction to the distinctions already pointed out in another chapter,—there are accepted revolutions, revolutions which are called revolutions; there are refused revolutions, which are called riots.

An insurrection which breaks out, is an idea which is passing its examination before the people. If the people lets fall a black ball, the idea is dried fruit; the insurrection is a mere skirmish.

Waging war at every summons and every time that Utopia desires it, is not the thing for the peoples. Nations have not always and at every hour the temperament of heroes and martyrs.

They are positive. A priori, insurrection is repugnant to them, in the first place, because it often results in a catastrophe, in the second place, because it always has an abstraction as its point of departure.

Because, and this is a noble thing, it is always for the ideal, and for the ideal alone, that those who sacrifice themselves do thus sacrifice themselves. An insurrection is an enthusiasm. Enthusiasm may wax wroth; hence the appeal to arms. But every insurrection, which aims at a government or a régime, aims higher. Thus, for instance, and we insist upon it, what the chiefs of the insurrection of 1832, and, in particular, the young enthusiasts of the Rue de la Chanvrerie were combating, was not precisely Louis Philippe. The majority of them, when talking freely, did justice to this king who stood midway between monarchy and revolution; no one hated him. But they attacked the younger branch of the divine right in Louis Philippe as they had attacked its elder branch in Charles X.; and that which they wished to overturn in overturning royalty in France, was, as we have explained, the usurpation of man over man, and of privilege over right in the entire universe. Paris without a king has as result the world without despots. This is the manner in which they reasoned. Their aim was distant no doubt, vague perhaps, and it retreated in the face of their efforts; but it was great.

Thus it is. And we sacrifice ourselves for these visions, which are almost always illusions for the sacrificed, but illusions with which, after all, the whole of human certainty is mingled. We throw ourselves into these tragic affairs and become intoxicated with that which we are about to do. Who knows? We may succeed. We are few in number, we have a whole army arrayed against us; but we are defending right, the natural law, the sovereignty of each one over himself from which no abdication is possible, justice and truth, and in case of need, we die like the three hundred Spartans. We do not think of Don Quixote but of Leonidas. And we march straight before us, and once pledged, we do not draw back, and we rush onwards with head held low, cherishing as our hope an unprecedented victory, revolution completed, progress set free again, the aggrandizement of the human race, universal deliverance; and in the event of the worst, Thermopylæ.

These passages of arms for the sake of progress often suffer shipwreck, and we have just explained why. The crowd is restive in the presence of the impulses of paladins. Heavy masses, the multitudes which are fragile because of their very weight, fear adventures; and there is a touch of adventure in the ideal.

Moreover, and we must not forget this, interests which are not very friendly to the ideal and the sentimental are in the way. Sometimes the stomach paralyzes the heart.

The grandeur and beauty of France lies in this, that she takes less from the stomach than other nations: she more easily knots the rope about her loins. She is the first awake, the last asleep. She marches forwards. She is a seeker.

This arises from the fact that she is an artist.

The ideal is nothing but the culminating point of logic, the same as the beautiful is nothing but the summit of the true. Artistic peoples are also consistent peoples. To love beauty is to see the light. That is why the torch of Europe, that is to say of civilization, was first borne by Greece, who passed it on to Italy, who handed it on to France. Divine, illuminating nations of scouts! Vitælampada tradunt.

It is an admirable thing that the poetry of a people is the element of its progress. The amount of civilization is measured by the quantity of imagination. Only, a civilizing people should remain a manly people. Corinth, yes; Sybaris, no. Whoever becomes effeminate makes himself a bastard. He must be neither a dilettante nor a virtuoso: but he must be artistic. In the matter of civilization, he must not refine, but he must sublime. On this condition, one gives to the human race the pattern of the ideal.

The modern ideal has its type in art, and its means is science. It is through science that it will realize that august vision of the poets, the socially beautiful. Eden will be reconstructed by A+B. At the point which civilization has now reached, the exact is a necessary element of the splendid, and the artistic sentiment is not only served, but completed by the scientific organ; dreams must be calculated. Art, which is the conqueror, should have for support science, which is the walker; the solidity of the creature which is ridden is of importance. The modern spirit is the genius of Greece with the genius of India as its vehicle; Alexander on the elephant.

Races which are petrified in dogma or demoralized by lucre are unfit to guide civilization. Genuflection before the idol or before money wastes away the muscles which walk and the will which advances. Hieratic or mercantile absorption lessens a people’s power of radiance, lowers its horizon by lowering its level, and deprives it of that intelligence, at once both human and divine of the universal goal, which makes missionaries of nations. Babylon has no ideal; Carthage has no ideal. Athens and Rome have and keep, throughout all the nocturnal darkness of the centuries, halos of civilization.

France is in the same quality of race as Greece and Italy. She is Athenian in the matter of beauty, and Roman in her greatness. Moreover, she is good. She gives herself. Oftener than is the case with other races, is she in the humor for self-devotion and sacrifice. Only, this humor seizes upon her, and again abandons her. And therein lies the great peril for those who run when she desires only to walk, or who walk on when she desires to halt. France has her relapses into materialism, and, at certain instants, the ideas which obstruct that sublime brain have no longer anything which recalls French greatness and are of the dimensions of a Missouri or a South Carolina. What is to be done in such a case? The giantess plays at being a dwarf; immense France has her freaks of pettiness. That is all.

To this there is nothing to say. Peoples, like planets, possess the right to an eclipse. And all is well, provided that the light returns and that the eclipse does not degenerate into night. Dawn and resurrection are synonymous. The reappearance of the light is identical with the persistence of the I.

Let us state these facts calmly. Death on the barricade or the tomb in exile, is an acceptable occasion for devotion. The real name of devotion is disinterestedness. Let the abandoned allow themselves to be abandoned, let the exiled allow themselves to be exiled, and let us confine ourselves to entreating great nations not to retreat too far, when they do retreat. One must not push too far in descent under pretext of a return to reason.

Matter exists, the minute exists, interest exists, the stomach exists; but the stomach must not be the sole wisdom. The life of the moment has its rights, we admit, but permanent life has its rights also. Alas! the fact that one is mounted does not preclude a fall. This can be seen in history more frequently than is desirable: A nation is great, it tastes the ideal, then it bites the mire, and finds it good; and if it be asked how it happens that it has abandoned Socrates for Falstaff, it replies: “Because I love statesmen.”

One word more before returning to our subject, the conflict.

A battle like the one which we are engaged in describing is nothing else than a convulsion towards the ideal. Progress trammelled is sickly, and is subject to these tragic epilepsies. With that malady of progress, civil war, we have been obliged to come in contact in our passage. This is one of the fatal phases, at once act and entr’acte of that drama whose pivot is a social condemnation, and whose veritable title is Progress.

Progress!

The cry to which we frequently give utterance is our whole thought; and, at the point of this drama which we have now reached, the idea which it contains having still more than one trial to undergo, it is, perhaps, permitted to us, if not to lift the veil from it, to at least allow its light to shine through.

The book which the reader has under his eye at this moment is, from one end to the other, as a whole and in detail, whatever may be its intermittences, exceptions and faults, the march from evil to good, from the unjust to the just, from night to day, from appetite to conscience, from rottenness to life, from hell to heaven, from nothingness to God. Point of departure: matter; point of arrival: the soul. The hydra at the beginning, the angel at the end.

[larissa-the-scribe]

Terrarium Lights

Part 1 of 3 for @inklings-challenge

An older lady befriends and adopts a ghost she found in her garden

Next part >>here

Michael Goffrey bid his wife farewell as he left for his next shipping job, and Gail Goffrey was once again faced with the fact that her house was cavernously empty.

She had expected the house to feel empty after her children grew up and moved on with their lives; that was the sort of thing one always heard about from the mothers and wives left behind. However, everyone seemed to stress the loneliness—not the rather more intense boredom.

Gail had always preferred quiet and alone time, so she did not take issue with the solitude. However, though she still had to cook and mend and clean and tidy and all the other tasks, it was one thing to do so for six people and quite another, shorter thing to do so for two. It was even less of a thing to do so for one, since Michael had been promoted to first mate and now had to accompany the airships personally, no longer simply loading and unloading at the cloudends as he once did.

Empty and meaningless. That’s what it felt like. With her family, she had people to help and care for. With just herself, she felt as though she were wasting time walking in circles for no other purpose than to exist.

She made it to the second day without any significant issue.

She was out tending to the herb garden when it happened—a bug wandered in front of her. That shouldn’t have been a problem. Bugs were some of her favorite creatures. But after the first smile, it hit her that she hadn't seen a new kind of one in months—this one already had three sketches in her notebook.

She’d run out of garden bugs to document.

Bugs, of all things. Bugs were everywhere, bugs had never-ending variations, bugs were constant. And she’d run out of them.

Stabbing the trowel into the earth perilously close to the offending bug, she sat back on her heels and looked up at the sky.

"Well, Lord, I reckon you put me on your good Earth for a reason. And I don't think it was just to sketch bugs." She smoothed her apron out, flicking bits of dirt off of it. "I also doubt I'm done with what I'm supposed to do down here, otherwise I wouldn't be here. But if you don't mind me saying, I'm awfully bored of where I am, though I do love my house and my husband and my town quite fierce. But I have all the time in the world, and I'd like to do good with it, if I could. So if you could show me what to do where I can—give me eyes to see as who I can do good towards—then I would appreciate it mightily."

Gail had prayed similar prayers before, with varying regularity. She knew the good Lord had heard her, as he always did. And if he answered with more solitude and time and boredom, then she supposed that was where she was meant to be for the moment. But she dearly hoped there might be something new this time.

So, really, she shouldn't have been surprised to see someone under the loquat tree. But then again, it had been raining since before dawn, so no one in their right mind would have been outdoors. She should know, since she herself had been out gathering moss for terrariums and hadn't heard a breath from anyone all day, even near the city.

Her first impression was that the lad was quite young. Younger than her youngest, in fact, who had not too long ago started her career as a professor at the nearby university. Looked perhaps like he could be one of her students. Very slight of build, as though he needed to eat more, and small looking as he sat hunched in the rain and letting the wet drip down his messy hair, full of loose ends that had gotten free from his ponytail.

Gail stood at the edge of her garden for a moment, resting her pail of moss against the stone border as she observed him.

He didn't move, just sat there with his face turned towards the soil, and didn't seem to see her. Part of his shoulder seemed stained, perhaps with mud. With the house not a few feet to the left, she wondered if he'd tried to knock and not gotten an answer, what with her out and about.

Well, unexpected or not, there was really only one thing to do.

Gripping her pail handle resolutely, Gail marched her way through the garden paths and stood in front of him. He shifted at the sound of her approach, turning his face up towards her—his eyes were pale, as if someone had sketched them on and not bothered with paint. What's more, up closer, the brownish stain on his shoulder looked rather like dried blood.

He tilted his head, as if trying to tell where the sound had come from.

"Well then," she said after a long moment of trying to figure out what to say, "who might you be?"

"Oh." He looked more directly at her, and somehow the eyes looked a bit more colored in, like they remembered they could be brown. "Dreadfully sorry, ma'am. I seem to have gotten lost in the rain. I hope you don't mind me taking a few moments here under your tree?"

He hadn't answered the question, but he seemed more surprised than shifty. "Not at all. Unpleasant weather to be lost in, for sure. If you'd like, you can wait it out under a roof."

"Oh," he said again, and looked to his left; this time it seemed like he understood what he was seeing. "I suppose that would be nicer."

"Well, you're welcome to my roof, if you’d like," she said. She wondered how long he would take her up on that.

He awkwardly stumbled to his feet before she could offer her hand. "That's very kind of you, ma'am."

"Would you like anything to eat?" She went ahead and led the way to the kitchen door.

He hummed thoughtfully. "Thank you ma’am, but I don't think I'm hungry."

She didn't think he would be, but, well, it wasn't like she had experience with this. Which concerned her—she had no idea what she was supposed to be doing. At least he didn't seem to be wicked. She supposed he must need a helping hand and, while she needed to figure out what that help was, he was still just a boy; she would do him the courtesy of treating him accordingly.

The porch and floors, old and creaky since long before she and her husband and infant son had moved in decades ago, greeted them with typical fanfare as they trudged over the threshold. She dripped her way over to the stove, where she put the kettle on; it was unlikely that her visitor would want any, but she most certainly did. Setting her pail of moss by the stove to deal with later, she glanced back to see the lad standing in the middle of the space, staring up at the roof.

Gail wondered if he noticed that he wasn't wet.

"Say," she said, carefully pulling teacups out of the cupboard, "what did you say your name was?"

He looked at her sharply. "I… I don't think I did."

"Hmmmm. Well, how should I call you, then?"

He stared at her.

In the background, the rain continued on.

"Should I just call you ma'am, then?" He said, smiling faintly.

Gail squinted at him. "Now then, young man, are you dodging the question deliberately, or do you just not have an answer?"

"Oh." He glanced around the kitchen, then back to her, and blanked. "Sorry, what was the question?"

Gail rested back against the counter. She picked up her glasses from where she'd left them this morning, and stuck them on, pushing the temples through her sodden mess of hair. "I was just asking what your name was."

His eyes widened. "I… don't… Didn't I answer that?"

"Not as I can recall."

"That… that was rude of me, then, wasn't it?" His eyes were still wide, and the brown was fading.

Maybe it was rude of her to keep pressing the matter. He seemed not to know. Gail pressed her glasses firmer on her nose, trying to reach some kind of decision—but whatever was going on with her guest had been set in motion.

"What is my name?" He asked, his voice rising. "I can't remember my name."

"That's alright, dear," she said, trying to distract him, calm him down. "Do you remember where you were before my garden?"

It had the opposite effect.

He stepped back, towards the door, and glanced around with eyes that no longer understood where he was. "No… I-I can't remember… where am I? Do you know my name?"

"I'm afraid I—"

The kettle shrieked into the space between them with a rush of steam.

The lad cast a wild glance in its direction, stepped backwards. Gail, startled into motion, scrambled to shut the thing off.

When she turned back, the space where he had stood was dry and empty. She and the rain and her pail of terrarium moss had been left alone again.

Next

[collectivecloseness]

Omg some more Robin pls?! Maybe some angst or smth?

Enough Sweetness

Robin Buckley x reader

Steve tilted his head up to watch Robin, yet again laughing under his breath, at her humming to another cheesy love song blasting through the radio of family video. This time she was even dancing to it. Again!

He’d let her enjoy her happiness. She genuinely deserved it, and he was kinda living through her vicarious joy in her love life right now. But not when she was about to abdanon him during his shift, and leave him with a tonne of shit to sort. “Hey! Wanna pick up those tapes on the fooor, for the dozenth time?” Steve chirped at her, but he still shook his head as he smiled, when Robin span around to him, beaming widely herself.

Her teeth shone, dancing with the large bag of candyfloss she hadn’t realised she’d been hugging for the past twenty minutes now. “Y/n’s picking me up early. I’ll do it when she gets here!” She waved Steve off, although hopped over to his side, putting away the sugary treat and grinning up at him, so glad each other’s positive energy was bringing the other up more and more! She was still just bouncing on her feet as she stood next to him, asking him yet again if she should change into the other shirt she brought with her, needing his advice with what she should wear on her first date with you.

Yesterday had been massive. An amazing event in Robins usually perilous life. The first time her heart had beat that fast and it wasn’t because of a panic attack, in months. You had asked Robin out, on a date. You!!!

Robin had been desperately and deeply crushing on you for months, ever since you moved to town and became friends with her and Steve! Robin was so pleased you were actually gay, because she had no idea if you had actually been flirting with her when she had with you, holy shit! And thank god you’d been brave enough to make the first move and ask her out, because Robin knew she would’ve been too scared to speak up. Well, minus a trapped life or death situation. Like how she told Steve her... situation.

The entire end of yesterday’s shift, the phone call between the two that had lasted all night, and all of today’s shift, had literally just been Robin and Steve discussing your date tonight! Robin thought Steve was nearly as excited as her. She was so so so glad she could just talk with him about it! Over and over. Even when she was basically just repeating the same thing for the millionth time, Steve still got excited with her when she brought it up, even asking more questions about it that he’d thought up!

They mostly, however, talked about what you two would do, since Robin, half stupidly, said she wanted to be the one to think of the date idea, since you’d been bold enough to ask her in the first place. She panicked until Steve helped her with some ideas, and she finally had decided on a good date! Robin had it all planned out, every detail perfect. She’d even gotten you a present! Just some chocolates. One of the big selection boxes, a brand you specifically brought up liking.

Robin always remembered those things about you. Steve had teased her for an entire month, when on a shopping trip you two had tested loads of perfumes, and then Robin secretly bought the one you liked the most. She did literally douse herself in the stuff, but Steve teasing her about spraying it extra hard whenever you came in, didn’t help her red face when she was trying to get it on with the ladies! Rather, one particular lady. But... those chocolates were golden. Steve said that type of present was okay for a first date too.

Something Robin asked Steve about yet again. Her bag was by the candy section near the front of the store, since you’d be here soon enough and no customers would be at this time. She opened up her bag, showing off the selection box to Steve in person, and not just a peek through her zipped bag. “Are you sure it’s big enough? Or- or is it too big? Or-?”

“Robin it’s chocolate. I’m sure she’ll love it.” Steve chuckled. But Robin only rolled her eyes at him. “You’re a guy, you don’t get it.”

“Well I get dates, since I’ve actually been on some.” Steve teased, raising his elbow up to defend him from Robin’s shove he knew was coming, but both friends still had smirks on their faces. It’d been a part of the reason Robin was so excited anyway. She kept bringing up the last 24 hours how this would be her first proper date!

“Look, y/n will love them. I swear. You didn’t even need chocolate, she likes you.” Steve solemnly vowed, hand to his heart, and the other coming down on Robin’s shoulder. Who just started vibrating under him at the knowledge, like a puppy on a sugar rush. Steve had to physically take his hand back off, she was making it tingly. He still looked at her. Holy shit. Had she just been vibrating this entire time?

“Yeah, but it’ll definitely score points!” Robin chimed, knowingly.

“Well you know what would score points with me? Picking up those tapes I’ve asked you to clear. You said you wanted to split into sections today.”

“Luckily I don’t need to score points with you, I already know you love me.” Robin sung, Steve having his turn to roll his eyes at her now, as Robin moved back over to the wrong side of the room.

“Hey! At least take your bag to the break room. That way I won’t break my neck on that as well.” Steve teased, lifting it up for her to snatch out his hands.

“Okay!” Robin said, balancing her tray of chocolates in one hand and the strap of her bag in the other.

“Y/n will definitely know you’re a creepy stalker if she sees you just staring out the windows.” Steve teased, tidying the tapes on his side of the room, Robin not even caring about giving a comeback today, too cheerful, only a snort, as she turned her back.

But Robin’s luck did have to run out at some point. While she woke up with a great skin day, and she’d found the bottle of conditioner that always made her hair look extra soft, and her best looking clothes had dried in time for her to wear/pack in her work bag... Robin made a mistake.

Robin skipped over to the front desk, where the break room entrance would be. Only to trip over the pile of tapes on her path, and go flying into the dirty carpeted floor.

“Shit!” Steve swore, running over to where he’d seen Robin topple, only hissing as he saw her gift for you, crumpled between her hands and the floor, and the chocolates scattered across the entirety of it. It was broken. But Steve had to quickly move onto Robin, who was face first on the floor, taking her arm and lifting her up a little. “Robin? Hey. Are you okay?” He asked concerned.

Robin felt dazed for a moment, the heels of her hands slightly burning, and embarrassment flooding through her at eating shit like that. But then, as Steve helped her sit up, Robin took sight of all of her chocolates, smashed and thrown around the floor. It was ruined.

Everything was ruined!

Steve’s heart sank deep into his stomach when Robin immediately burst into tears. “Shit, Robin.” He rubbed her shoulder as he stood her up by himself, very little help from his friend, as he quickly determined she wasn’t properly hurt. She was just upset. Her face not red from bashing it, but from how her tears started to flow.

“Sssh ssh ssh ssh. Hey, Robin. It’s okay.” Steve promised, rubbing both her shoulders quickly to try and comfort her, feeling awful as she buried her hand into her face, after staring at more at her gift strewn about.

“Sssshh. I promise y/n won’t mind, eh?” Steve spoke with a smile. But it didn’t work. Robin shook her head vehemently, rubbing the back of her hand against her nose. “No. It’s all ruined!” She sobbed. Steve gave her a quick hug, murmuring a “No it’s not. It’s not ruined.” into her hair, before pulling back with his hands still planted firmly on her shoulders.

Robin only stood in his hold. “I’m so stupid. You told me to pick them up.”

Steve couldn’t have his best friend talking like this, especially not on what was supposed to be one of the best days of her life! “Nah. I’m too bossy, not surprising my words go in one ear half the time.” Steve shrugged, to which, to his glee, gets a small laugh from Robin.

“You’re not bossy.” She moans, sniffling that tiny smile away again.

“Thank you.” Steve still smiles, gratefully holding onto Robin when she pushes herself into his chest for a hug this time. Squeezing her tight in his arms as she hugged his back, his smile dimming a little as he sees the open box, crumpled on the floor. There wasn’t a single chocolate left in the red plastic of the packaging, nothing salvageable. But it wasn’t that big a deal. He just had to focus on Robin right now. Get her happy and date ready again like she was a minute ago.

But then as he pulled back, because he swore he heard her crying more, even though Robin still looked like she needed that hug, Steve’s eyes wandered down. And his face softened in empathy. “Hey... What happened?” He asked gently, looking down to get Robin’s attention on her pant leg, that was very ruffled and messed up, high on her calf.

Robin sniffed, keeping one hand on Steve’s bicep for leverage, as she pulled up her pant leg, and started to feel the small sting of pain now she was moving it about, now she’d noticed it. She had a scrape on her knee. Little dots of blood around a tiny cut, the skin all looking very flushed.

Steve hissed through his teeth, mostly to show Robin he saw it, as he rubbed his hand up her back. “Come on. Let’s go to the break room, get it fixed.”

Steve walked her there, turning on the lights before he propped Robin up on a stool, grabbing the first aid kit and gently dabbing at her scraped knee with an antiseptic wipe. As Robin used the tissues he’d brought, to clean up her snot. Although she was still crying. Steve carefully pressed a bandaid to her knee, before settling on his knees by her front, gently nudging her hand with the back of his finger. “Hey. What’s wrong?” Steve learnt to ask that more than ‘no need to cry’ after that had been ingrained in him as a child. He’d only gotten rid of it after his King Steve days, even then when he was trying to comfort people he cared about.

“It’s okay! You’re still gonna go on your date and have an amazing time. It doesn’t matter that much, really Robin.” He assured her, but he chewed on his lip as Robin didn’t respond, tears still following heavily, only shaking her head with a groan, disagreeing with him.

Steve sighed, deciding to sit down properly at her knees now, knowing that under the layer of glee Robin had for this date, she also was bursting with anxiety. “Why’d you think chocolate would be the end all?”

“It’s not about the chocolate. It’s because it was a gift for her.” Robin explained despondently, her breath hitching with cries as she scrubbed harshly at her cheeks. Who cares? Her make up was ruined now anyways!

“Okay, why do you think a gift would be that important?” Steve decides to ask instead, his own breath catching in his throat at the miserable look Robin gives him from where her head is bowed. Fringe a mess, mascara dabbed under her eyelids, skin flushed under her freckles, and eyes dejected.

“Oh jeez, you’re really nervous aren’t you?” Steve realised, rubbing his hand over the back of his head.

“It’s-“ Robin had to take a deep breath, the action immediately stuttering in her throat, and causing her to sob again. Wiping at the tears still leaking out of her eyes. “It’s not just that it’ll be my first actual date. Or that, I don’t know if I’m going to be able to date that many people. Because I can’t exactly go around saying that I...” She swallowed, tearing up further as her lip trembled. “Saying I like women.”

Steve shuffled closer, resting his hand on her good knee.

“That like, I might not get many opportunities to date. It’s not just that, I-“ Robin heaved a breath that sounded pained, spit flecking out as she breathed. “It’s that... I really, really like her Steve. Like, I don’t just like y/n, I...” This one, Robin found harder to finish. She didn’t wail more, or cover her face, She just needed help in saying it. He nodded in understanding. He already knew. Squeezing her knee, he moved until Robin could catch his eyes. “I really really really like her Steve. I like her so much. And I just... I don’t know what I’ll do if she doesn’t like me that way. If we go on a date, and she wasn’t really that serious, or she decides I’m not good enough-!”

“Hey! Nobody could think that.” Steve shook his head as he stopped her there. Eyes serious but empathetic up at her.

And Robin nodded, taking his hand that was on her knee into both her own. Holding them tight, as she tries to come down.

Steve can tell she really does believe him, so he shimmies a little closer, his feet jammed against hers as he adds. “I mean hey, didn’t she ask you out?”

Robin laughed. A shy and excited little “Yeah.” leaving her lips, like she still couldn’t quite believe it herself. It was really a good for her moment. And she squeezes her best friends hand in excitement as she recalled the happy memory, Steve squeezing back.

“What the hell happened in here?!?”

Robin and Steve’s heads both shot to the closed door of the break room, instantly recognising your voice. And realising you must’ve seen the scene of scattered tapes and ruined chocolates all over the floor, with no one in sight.

The two both froze, before turning back to look at each other. With only knowing looks, no words, passing by the duo, Steve easily recognised that Robin wanted him to go out first, and get you.

Which is what he did, Robin watching him stand and open the door, hearing him mumbling to you about her, as she sniffed, and desperately tried to wipe at her eyes. Oh my god. How much snot did she have in her? And why could she still not stop crying??!

When you entered the break room after Steve had somewhat explained the front, your heart broke as you saw your Robin. Sitting there on a stool, looking so small, as she looked up at you with a tear streaked face, pant leg lifted and a bandaid on her knee. “Hey! Hey sweet girl. What happened?” You asked, walking towards her.

Robin looked up at you sadly, eyes blurry from her tears, feeling like her shaky lip was about to form a pout. And all she wanted to do was reach her arms up for you.

But she didn’t need to. Because you swooped straight down to her level, enveloping her in a big hug. Robin cried more into your shoulder as you did so. Not loudly, but knowing she was letting drool and tears onto your jacket and still clinging to you anyway. Little hiccups leaving her as you pulled gently away, rubbing her leg up and down above her sore knee. “Hey sweetheart, you’re okay. What happened?”

Robin took some shaky breaths, still clinging onto your jacket as you held her arms, her voice a little shaky too. “Th- the chocolates.”

“Were they for me?” You asked, with a sweet and surprised smile.

Robin nodded. Wanting to bemoan ‘I ruined it’, but finding herself unable to with that smile you were giving her.

“Oh Robbie, that’s so sweet! Thank you honey.” You hugged around Robin’s neck, swaying her a little, with your cheek pressed to hers. And Robin couldn’t help but close her eyes, and take a breath, clinging onto your arms that were wrapped so lovingly around her neck, and just letting you sway her.

“It’s okay, thank you for the gift anyway sweetie, I saw it. That was so sweet. They looked nice.” You spoke warmly.

Robin nodded, sniffing as she clenched her hands back and forth over the arms of your jacket. She was about to say, that she just wanted everything to be perfect, to prove to you, but she was cut off by you talking first.

“I don’t think I need that much more sweetness though, do I honey?” You grinned wide, before leaning up and giving Robin a big kiss to her cheek.

It made her giggle, actually giggle. Even though it was sappy. But she knew that was the point. You were trying to make her laugh.

But as Robin’s giggles died down, you gave a tilt of your head with a small shrug, saying a causal “Also” before pulling out from your bag, the exact same box of chocolates.

“Holy shit.” Robin laughed in a breath, still sounding a little congested. You wiped her tears softly with the back of your hand. “Yeah. Seems like we have a lot more in common than we thought. And we haven’t even started the date yet!” You smiled, and Robin smiled shyly but excitedly back, hiding her freckled face that was red for a different reason now. “So I think you’re doing a pretty good job so far.” You winked, and your hands dropped from Robin’s shoulders to her lap. Where Robin could pick them up into her own, and hold them.

Robin sniffed, most of her tears having stopped now at least, and you freed one hand to rub at her hurt leg again. “C’mon. Let’s clean up that pretty face, after Steve took my shining knight moment of helping your poor leg.” You smiled, taking Robin’s hand to help stand her up, and keeping a hold of it, as well as still looking at her, while you walked her over to the basin in the room.

Robin stammered out, finally able to make a joke “I might’ve bled out first, before you got here.”

You grinned at your date. “Well, did Steve get to do this?” You asked, getting on your knees in front of Robin, and kissing her sore knee.

Robin sucked her lips in with her smile as you did so, holding her hand out for you this time, to help you up. Something she felt so grateful for, to feel you holding back. “No.” She sniffed. “Bastard.”

You threw your head back at her joke, eyes shining on hers as you laughed with her hand still in yours. And Robin beamed with pride banging in her chest.

She finally relaxed as she let you wash her face up. Blowing her nose a little disgustingly, but you didn’t seem to care. You stroked back her hair that was sticking to her cheeks with the water, before giving a smiling pout, knowing her tears and your wet cloth had kinda messed with her look. “Oh your pretty make up. I know I worked hard today on mine too.”

You made Robin shy, looking to the trash can before binning her tissue, pivoting a little on her feet with a burning smile. How long had you been doing and redoing your make up? Were you freaking out about what to wear like she was? Just for your date with her?

“Guess I’ll have to freshen up your make up for you, huh sweetheart?” You took Robin’s face in your hands, wiping your thumbs on the glowing parts of her cheeks where tears had rolled before. Robin nodded at your grin, loving that you were holding her face. And knowing you were hinting at touching it more, by doing her make up for her. “Yeah,” Robin started, finally feeling the flirty part of her beat the anxious one, as her hand stroked the back of your own affectionately. “I think I still feel all lightheaded from the fall, so...”

You wanted to kiss Robin right now. You’d tell her that, later, after your first kiss. You’d tell her all the times you wanted to kiss her beautiful face. But instead, you held yourself back by nodding. Gently squeezing her warm cheeks once more, before tilting her head closer to you and kissing her other cheek this time. “Okay then. And you’ve still got to tell me where you’re taking me on our date! I’ve been so excited since yesterday!”

Robin’s eyes widened. Finally clear enough to see you again, and so wonderstruck grateful at what she saw. God, she couldn’t wait to kiss you!

[book--brackets]

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