#the two-letter shorthands they all have are too confusing

[zincbot]

bathearst is the best problem sleuth character

[vickyvicarious]

I am anxious, and it soothes me to express myself here; it is like whispering to one's self and listening at the same time. And there is also something about the shorthand symbols that makes it different from writing. I am unhappy about Lucy and about Jonathan.

Welp, that didn't last long, did it.

It's really painful to see Mina's anxiety here, especially as she tries to soothe herself and we already know that in fact the situation is quite possibly worse than she suspects, at least in regards to Jonathan. And as for Lucy... well, I'll come back to that in a minute. For now, I want to just take a moment to appreciate how poetic Mina is here. The self-soothing via journaling is very sweet, but I absolutely love the way she phrases it "like whispering to one's self and listening at the same time." That is evocative as all get-out, and I love it. Somehow it gives me the impression of people hiding under blankets and whispering together. Mina has such an excellent way with words.

...yesterday dear Mr. Hawkins, who is always so kind, sent me a letter from him. I had written asking him if he had heard, and he said the enclosed had just been received. It is only a line dated from Castle Dracula, and says that he is just starting for home.

Another reminder here that we don't get all correspondence, just the relevant stuff it seems. And even though Jonathan's letter here may be relevant it would also be repetitive, since we know it's one of the ones dictated by Dracula. From this we can infer that we won't get repeated accounts of the same event typically either (a detail that can certainly leave room for some missing moments or missing perspectives in fanfic that are still canon compliant).

I really do wish we had access to these mentioned letters though. Or at least to Jonathan's letter. It would be especially powerful in the audio medium of @re-dracula - imagine if we'd gotten it, and the content is very short and pleasant, but it's read in the tone matching how Jonathan felt when writing it. I'm imagining it now and it would have been absolutely heartwrenching. Not to mention, hearing his voice again for the first time in a while, and while still so uncertain about his fate - it would've been very powerful for listeners/readers as well as Mina (more so than in the original format of the book, since the time elapsed has more of an effect this way). Sadly, we don't get that experience.

Then, too, Lucy, although she is so well, has lately taken to her old habit of walking in her sleep. Her mother has spoken to me about it, and we have decided that I am to lock the door of our room every night.

Okay, and here I can talk about Lucy. There's some really interesting stuff going on with both her and her mother in this entry. I'm going to get the Mrs. Westenra stuff out of the way first. So... we see here that Mrs. Westenra is a nervous person. Mina seems to think her fears about Lucy's sleepwalking are a bit overdramatic (love the little smile in her voice as she says the line about sleepwalkers falling to their deaths), even if it perhaps is getting to her a little more than she's admitting. And Mina tries to excuse Mrs. Westenra's anxieties as well, but it seems noteworthy that she has them. She also seems to be quite controlling. We've gotten hints of that already in Lucy's letters, but here we see it in action in two ways. First, she went over Lucy's head to talk to Mina about locking their bedroom door every night. And secondly, this may be just me, but the phrasing about the wedding planning seems quite vague. Going right from the description of Mrs. Westenra's fears to Lucy's wedding planning read at first to me like it was Mrs. Westenra who was doing all the planning. On a reread, it's probably supposed to mean Lucy, but. I dunno, even though it's quite possibly just my mistake I can't help but feel influenced enough to think the confusion reflects that Mrs. Westenra is also quite involved in Lucy's wedding plans. It fits my understanding of her character. And that is someone who is nervous but doesn't speak about her concerns to her daughter (fear over her sleepwalking, possibly worry about how her/Lucy's life will change after the marriage) and instead tries to control the situation in order to take care of Lucy (arranging matters with Mina, being super opinionated/involved in the wedding planning). *

While it's perhaps more mild/excusable here than I may be making it sound, it points to a possible tendency to exclude Lucy in the name of protecting her. It's kind of infantilizing in a way; it certainly isn't putting equal trust in her as an adult who has equal right to know what's going on. Admittedly yes, she is quite young, and yes, this is her mother, so it's somewhat understandable. But even if I get where it's coming from, I think it deprives Lucy of agency in a way that is not at all helpful for her. It shows a lack of trust in Lucy's ability to handle things well, and it just strikes me as really unfair to her.

Because again, Mrs. Westenra spoke to Mina (she says "to me" not "to us"). There's no mention of her speaking to Lucy about this at all. Now, I feel like Mina would mention this locking the door plan to Lucy and she would be okay with it, but the fact that this discussion/decision was seemingly made entirely without Lucy's input rubs me the wrong way.

But there's a lot of not talking going around already.

With the context of this entry, we can infer that probably part of the reason Mina didn't go around on those "duty calls" the other day was because she was worried about Jonathan. She went off to spend some time alone and distract herself by emulating a lady journalist and focusing on plans for the future. By this point she had already written to Mr. Hawkins (probably before leaving for Whitby) and was awaiting his reply, but she didn't mention that until she had some kind of news. I highly suspect she didn't mention it to Lucy either.

After all, Lucy is stressed too. Enough to resume her childhood habit of sleepwalking.

A couple of things are important about that: first, Lucy did this before and so did her father. It's nothing new, but it has been a while. Now, sleepwalking tends to run in families, but the fact that she hasn't done it in so long points to some kind of trigger. I highly suspect the trigger here is stress (along with lack of sleep, a pretty common factor for sleepwalkers I think). I headcanon that Lucy's sleepwalking as a child got worse for a while after her father's death. Regardless of that though, the correlation between the major impending life changes and Lucy suddenly sleepwalking again is certainly suggestive to me. She's going to get married pretty soon, and as happy as she is about that, it's a lot! She's super busy preparing for the wedding. Her entire lifestyle and to an extent social position is going to change. She's going to have new responsibilities, a new home... she can be eager for all of it and still be really nervous.

But Lucy isn't talking about any nerves she may have. She isn't confiding her worries or fears to Mina, at least not that we hear. I think she's happy, and she knows she's expected to be happy, and thus she doesn't feel like she's able to talk about any negatives that go along with that as well. We know from her previous letter that she sometimes finds it hard to open up even when she wants to ("...I would try to tell you what I feel. I do not know how I am writing this even to you.") - and while some of that may have simply been embarrassment about love talk, I still think it's also just a part of her character. Currently, while she does have Mina visiting to support her, Arthur isn't there. He's going to be her partner in life; this wedding involves him too. Having him there would be incredibly soothing, and I think that's a big part of why she's looking forward to his arrival. She probably also hopes that he at least will be genuinely excited and not as worried as her current companions. Because as it stands right now we have:

Mina (afraid for Jonathan, worried about Lucy) (whispering to herself in her journal rather than talking to someone else)

Mrs. Westenra (worried about Lucy **) (talking only to Mina)

Lucy (worried about her future. quite possibly worried about Mina and her mother if she notices their stress) (talking to no one and instead sleepwalking about it)

All of these women care for one another. In fact, they're united by Lucy, whom the other two love and who loves them both. And yet all three of them are hiding things from one another. And Lucy, who is the center of these relationships, is instead left out if anything. They all want to protect each other by hiding the truth. Mina, likely to avoid having to verbalize her fears for Jonathan and to keep from being a damper on Lucy's happiness. Mrs. Westenra, because she wants to protect her daughter from any distress. And as for Lucy... she probably feels like she can't talk about what's bothering her, probably wants to pretend and make it go away. I'm even tempted to say she probably notices that the others are worried and doesn't want to pile her own (surely less important) concerns on them.

It's only in small details right now but when I think about it, it's really frustrating. They're isolating themselves needlessly, and I'm sure they would feel better if they talked to each other! ***

Spoiler notes below:

*This also ties in to Mrs. Westenra hiding her own illness from Lucy, and especially with her gifting everything to Arthur in her will. In both cases she is trying to ensure Lucy isn't stressed or bothered with anything too demanding (her mother's poor health, financial responsibilities). But in both cases all it really does is rob Lucy of knowledge and power. She lacks context for why her mother keeps refusing to sleep with her, and it ends up just being hurtful/isolating and actually dangerous since it leaves her vulnerable to Dracula. While she isn't alive long enough for it to be an issue, and knowing Arthur's character it also isn't likely to have been a huge problem, getting cut out of her own mother's will would also have likely been very hurtful. And it would deprive Lucy of any independence at all; if Arthur weren't so trustworthy or their relationship went sour in the future that could also be quite dangerous for her. Mrs. Westenra wants to protect Lucy from everything, and does so by putting her faith in a trustworthy older friend (Mina) or especially trustworthy men (Arthur, then the doctors to an extent). It's like she thinks Lucy herself couldn't handle it.

I also think the characterization of Mrs. Westenra as a nervous and possibly highstrung person who worries a lot about her family could be a major reason why everyone conspires to hide things from her. They know that her weak heart combined with her personality means that she is very likely to stress out so much that she actually makes herself sicker (or has a heart attack and dies even), whereas another person might be able to handle it. And even if she made it through the shock okay, her reaction wouldn't be helpful. It's easier for everyone not to let her know. This is kind of a mirror to her own treatment of Lucy, but feels more reasonable for her than for Lucy.

** her own illness is of course also worrying Mrs. Westenra. As of yet she hasn't confided in anyone about that either.

*** And of course, this is an ongoing theme all throughout the Lucy section of the book. It stands at odds with the eventual sharing of information that is so key to victory against Dracula. But what is especially frustrating is that the seeds for all that later pain are laid here. Jonathan wanted to tell everything to Mina, and eventually was able to do so via entrusting her with his journal. In this way, he was able to get around Dracula's efforts to silence and isolate him. But while Dracula certainly contributes to silencing and isolating Lucy, he isn't the source of it all. Society, her loved ones, her own personality... everything is already working to do so to an extent.

One of the reasons I love Arthur for Lucy is that he is able to notice her truth even when she tries to hide it. He can bridge the gap that others in her life can't always cross, that even she can't seem to cross even if she wants to. But he's kept away from her for so long that even though she has that relationship it isn't directly helpful to her a lot of the time (though Arthur's willingness to call in the cavalry is a major boon). As we see here, Mina isn't necessarily able to always be fully open with Lucy but she is still hugely instrumental in protecting her, and she too is torn away. That one is related to Dracula, since it's thanks to his effect on Jonathan, but once again he wasn't intentionally doing that. It was convenient for him, much like how Lucy starts out as merely a convenient victim from his perspective. He was even willing to leave her behind in Whitby and then she coincidentally/conveniently for him wound up going to London too, because the plot has fated her to die.

Lucy is surrounded by people and plot devices (her mother being both) that isolate her, and she can't ever openly ask someone else for help when she needs it. Like, maybe a little bit, but... honestly, she never gets to pour her heart out on paper and then share it with a friend the way the others do. Or even in person. When she eventually opens up about her 'nightmare' while being drunk from the first time she laughs it off. She lies to Mina about being better. She tries to tell Arthur she's fine. Even outside of the more strictly supernatural reasons/ways she hides what is happening to her, she can't ever ask for help. I think the closest she comes is that request to van Helsing on her deathbed (because she never was able to knowingly share that memorandum with anyone, and it was one of the times she spoke most openly). And that wasn't entirely for herself even then.

I'm so sad about it.

[ramblings-of-a-mad-cat]

Honestly Peregrine using R*kep*ck & as a scapegoat rather than actually sharing responsibility for the actions of his psycho agents is such a shitty thing to do. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t feel sorry for her like i’ve seen a few ppl (mostly R*kep*ck stans tbh) who were like “poor Patty 🥺” or some shit because of it, but I’m just pissed that he’s putting all the blame on a single person instead of taking the responsibility, it doesn’t matter who it is. I’d feel this exact same way if Peregrine chose to put the blame on literally anyone else instead too including Verucca. Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised that Peregrine’s doing this though, R agents have never been good at taking accountability for their actions. 😒

In order to salvage his situation at all, to have any chance at all of preserving the possibility of MC joining R, Peregrine probably feels that he has to distance R from Rakepick as much as possible. Now, as for how much she actually did go rogue, versus how much of her wickedness simply came from her and not her bosses...it's open to interpretation, but as far as I'm concerned, it's basically irrelevant anyway. Because however much Rakepick might be individually horrible...R is a still a Dark Wizard Cabal who are not above killing people to get what they want. All of their underlings are terrified of the chain of command, especially Peregrine. While I'm sure he could find a way to explain that as well, I wonder how he'll explain away all of the threatening Black Quill letters littered around Hogwarts, all signed "R" and we know that is often used as a shorthand for the Leader as well as the group itself. (Which is confusing in it's own right but never mind that right now.) After everything R has done, and not just that, the demeanor they've put forward...for Peregrine to claim that they're the good guys is just laughable. These are the people who got Duncan Ashe killed. Who sent Dementors to Hogwarts to "test" MC. Who have churned out not one, not two, but three abusive parental or mentor figures. Verucca emotionally abuses Merula the same way Rakepick physically abused her, and Peregrine? He's such a gaslighter he might as well be from the early nineteenth century.

[dearestones]

Behind the Camera (Yandere! Alex Kralie x Reader)

Warnings: Yandere character, implied stalking.

Anonymous Request: Yandere Alex Kralie with Reader who avoids Him please? ( of course if you still writing for Marble hornets) -♠��

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Hanging out with Alex Kralie used to be so much fun. He was a nerd for old, niche movies and while you could see where he was coming from, you relentlessly teased him for his taste. In response, he claimed that you were mistaken and projecting your imperfections onto him, but you disagreed.

He tried to prove you wrong, but with every movie that you watched, the more convinced you were that this man could not have been a film student. Despite the fact that he knew his way around cameras and was often seen with one of those older models, you were more than sure that his vision was a bit too broad and too specific to be applied to his—admittedly, amateur—abilities. You had said as much, but he ignored your concerns.

For a while, that was it. The both of you would try to arrange a date where you would enjoy terrible movies—films, as Alex would say—and then argue about it. Verbal sparring usually occurred, but the blows were glancing and feelings weren’t hurt too badly.

Somehow, one day, Alex changed.

The light in his eyes had dimmed, his jokes became bitter and sarcastic, and you could tell that he was running away from something. You knew that something had happened to Amy, his girlfriend for many years, but you never had the courage to ask about the break up. All you knew was that Alex was with Amy when she left, but Amy had never returned any of your calls or texts.

It seemed that she had disappeared.

And you didn’t know what to make of it.

Questions led you nowhere, confrontation led to anger and an eventual blow up between you and Alex. For a while, you thought that it had been the end of it. You didn’t hang out with Alex or try to investigate and Alex left you alone. However, before life seemed to resume back into its normal, if boring state, Alex started calling you.

And you ignored him.

Alex started texting you.

And you blocked his number.

That should have been the end of that, but he didn’t think so. Instead of taking the hint and properly moving out of your life forever, the strangest thing happened.

Every day, without fail, you would wake up, eat your breakfast, and if circumstances demanded it, you would open your front door.

And you did.

Every single day.

Outside your door, there would be a series of cassette tapes. Some of them were named, the tape on them a bland color compared to the harsh strokes of dark black ink from a marker. You weren't sure what to make of the strange, incoherent jumble of letters and numbers with the date appended onto the title. Were they codes? Shorthand for something?

You were never too sure.

(You had a feeling that Alex was behind this, but you didn’t want to entertain that thought).

It was the tapes’ contents that had your heart stuttering into an uneasy rhythm. At first, you didn’t have the stamina or the energy to deal with this nonsense. Tapes with weird cryptic messages taped to the sides? Whatever. You could deal with it.

But the tapes continued to mount in number until you had just over two dozen of the stupid things. You were annoyed, yes, but then you were intrigued.

It took a while to get the right equipment in order to watch the cassettes, but you pushed forward. It didn’t matter that you had to fork over more cash than you thought was necessary or that you had a camcorder that you knew you were going to use once.

You selected one of the tapes at random, hoping that it was just some garbage. Maybe it was a ripped movie or somebody’s old home videos that were going to be more boring rather than scandalous. All of that hope left you immediately when you actually studied the contents in the tapes.

At first, you had been confused.

You saw… Trees, lots of trees. Shots of cars passing by on the street. The sun set until the screen was filled with darkness.

But then—

A familiar street. A familiar line of houses. A familiar door.

Your door.

Your house.

And then—

You went through the tapes. Each of them were scoured for their contents, dissected like a high school experiment.

At first, the tapes consisted of scenes outside of your home. Sometimes, you could see yourself puttering behind your windows or taking a walk outside if you needed to exercise. At first, seemingly harmless, but then you started watching the more recent cassettes.

Someone had filmed you buying groceries, going out for walks, giving a stranger directions to a nearby park.

Someone had filmed you reading in your living room, cooking in the kitchen, and going about your daily life like any other person would.

The only thing that kept you from panicking completely was that the point of view of the person—Alex, it was Alex, but you didn’t want it to be Alex—operating the camera was that they were always on the outside looking in. Not once had they breached your door and stepped inside your private space.

However—

Once you reached the bottom of the pile, you realized that there was one final tape. Unlike the others, the footage was short and to the point. No meandering shots of the outside that would have lulled you into security. No ‘bait and switch’ cliches that would be the cause of one or two heart attacks.

No. What you saw was someone—Alex, Alex, Alex!!!—approaching your door, a pale hand grasping the doorknob, and turning it. As expected, the door wouldn’t budge because you always kept it locked.

The person jostled the camera—you could hear them rummaging for something in their pockets—until you heard a strange thing.

A jangling of keys.

Your breath stilled.

The person neatly inserted the key into the lock—practiced, the motion was practiced!—and it turned with a click.

For a moment, the tape glitched, the image distorting until a voice finally filtered through. For the first time, a sound other than footsteps and the surrounding ambience was heard.

“Stop avoiding me.”

And the screen went blank.

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DISCLAIMER: I do not condone yandere behavior outside of fictional settings. Please don’t mistake the actions of fictional characters displayed in works of fiction to be considered harmless in real life.

If you want to donate a Ko-Fi, feel free https://ko-fi.com/devintrinidad.

MARBLE HORNETS MASTERLIST

[vampire-meta-knight]

So I am confusion.

When did people start deciding the acronym “LGBT” stops there, at just four letters? Like, I thought we all knew it was shorthand and includes a lot more identities? What’s all this nonsense about “cis asexuals aren’t inherently LGBT because they aren’t lesbian, gay, bi, or trans”??? Since when did the “QIA+” and everything else fall off the end? And by this logic, you’re also excluding pansexuals, omnisexuals, polysexuals, agender people, and intersex people to name a few.

I’m baffled. Like...guys...I don’t know why you seem to think LGBT is only four identities and is different from the queer community? I’ve seen that, too, where they try to act like “queer community” and “LGBT” refer to different groups. Huh??? They’re not two separate entities, they’re the same thing. Or am I just confused? Because I was pretty sure LGBT, LGBT+, LGBTQ+, LGBTQIA+, and queer all meant the same group of people, just with the understanding that we’re using umbrella terms because there are A LOT of identities (which is great!).

And like, even if you really are only referring to lesbians, gays, bisexuals, and trans people rather than the community as a whole, when you say stuff like “this group doesn’t belong in LGBT” it’s going to come off as if you’re referring to the whole queer community, y’know? Which usually seems to be the point, but I’ve seen some try to have it both ways: “Oh yeah, aces are valid, but they’re not LGBT!” We’re queer, so what’s the problem??? And plenty of aces ARE homoromantic, biromantic, trans, etc. And even those that aren’t are still queer as hell, so why are you trying to separate them?

And I’m a little confused as to what sort of community those four letters have that the rest of the letters aren’t invited to. Like, what LGBT-friendly place is going to turn down a pansexual? (Yes, I know it’s mostly used to exclude aces, but I’ve seen stuff about pans and other multi-specs labeled as being no different from bisexual, so there’s some erasure going on, too, and it sucks).

Of all the bad, lazy, poorly-thought-out arguments to exclude people I’ve seen, this has to be one of the worst.

(And if any of you even think of replying with “But you have to be oppressed to be queer” get your filthy hands off my post. Being queer is something you ARE, not something you earn, and who made you the judge of who’s oppressed and who isn’t?)

[dwellordream]

“To understand what friendship between women was, we must first understand what it was not. Before turning to the ways in which female friendship illustrated the play of the Victorian gender system, we must develop grounds for distinguishing it from other relationships between women. This is a detour, for the subject of this chapter is female friendship; erotic desire and marriage between women are the focus of subsequent sections. But friendship, erotic infatuation, and female marriage have so often been conflated, and women’s relationships so commonly understood as essentially ambiguous, that the detour is a necessary one. 

The language of Victorian friendship was so ardent, the public face of female marriage so amicable, the comparisons between female friendship and marriage between men and women so constant, that it is no simple task to distinguish female friends from female lovers or female couples. The question “did they have sex?” is the first one on people’s lips today when confronted with a claim that women in the past were lovers—and it is almost always unanswerable. If firsthand testimony about sex is the standard for defining a relationship as sexual, then most Victorians never had sex. Scholars have yet to determine whether Thomas Carlyle was impotent; when, if ever, John Stuart Mill and Harriet Taylor consummated their relationship; or if Arthur Munby and Hannah Cullwick, whose diaries recorded their experiments with fetishes, cross-dressing, and bootlicking, also had genital intercourse.

Just as one can read hundreds of Victorian letters, diaries, and memoirs without finding a single mention of menstruation or excretion, one rarely finds even oblique references to sex between husband and wife. Men and women were equally reticent about sexual activity inside and outside of marriage. In a journal that described her courtship and wedding in detail, Lady Knightley dispatched the first weeks of wedded life in two lines: “Rainald and I entered on our new life in our own home. May God bless it to us” (173). Elizabeth Butler, whose autobiography included “a little sketch of [her] rather romantic meeting” with the man who became her husband, was similarly and typically laconic about a transition defined by sexual intercourse: “June 11 of that year, 1877, was my wedding day.” 

The lack of reliable evidence of sexual activity becomes less problematic, however, if we realize that sex matters because of the social relationships it creates and concentrate on those relationships. In Victorian England, sex was assumed to be part of marriage, but could also drop out of marriage without destroying a bond never defined by sex alone. The diaries and correspondence of Anne Lister and Charlotte Cushman provide solid evidence that nineteenth-century women had genital contact and orgasms with other women, but even more importantly, they demonstrate that sex created different kinds of connections. The fleeting encounters Lister had with women she met abroad were very different from the illicit but sustained affair Cushman had with a much younger woman who became her daughter-in-law. 

Those types of affairs were in turn worlds apart from the relationships with women that Lister and Cushman called marriages, a term that did not simply mean the relationships were sexual but also connoted shared households, mingled property, and assumptions about exclusivity and durability. We can best understand what kinds of relationships women had with each other not by hunting for evidence of sex, which even if we find it will not explain much, but rather by anchoring women’s own statements about their relationships in a larger context. 

The context I provide here is the complex linguistic field of lifewriting, which brings into focus two types of relationships often confused with friendship, indeed often called friendship, but significantly different from it: 1) unrequited passion and obsessive infatuation; and 2) life partnerships, which some Victorians described as marriages between women. The most famous and best-documented example of a Victorian woman’s avowed but unreciprocated passion for another woman is Edith Simcox’s lifelong love for George Eliot, which has made her a staple figure in histories of lesbianism.

Simcox (1844–1901) was a trade-union organizer and professional writer who regularly contributed book reviews to the periodical press and published fiction and nonfiction, including a study of women’s property ownership in ancient societies, discussed in chapter 5. From 1876 to 1900, Simcox kept a journal in a locked book that surfaced in 1930. Simcox gave her life story a title, The Autobiography of a Shirtmaker, that foregrounded her successful work as a labor activist, but its actual content focused on what Simcox called “the lovepassion of her life,” her longing for George Eliot as an unattainable, idealized beloved whom she called “my goddess” or, even more reverently, “Her.”

Simcox knowingly embraced a love that could not be returned, though she was aware of reciprocated, consummated sexual love between women. Her diary alludes to a “lovers’ quarrel” among three women she knew (61) and mentions her own rejection of a woman who “professed a feeling for me different from what she had ever had for any one, it might make her happiness if I could return it” (159). Tellingly, though twentieth-century scholars often refer to Simcox euphemistically as Eliot’s devoted “friend,” Simcox rarely used the term, and modeled herself instead on a courtly lover made all the more devoted by the one-sidedness of her passion. Simcox defined her diary as an “acta diurna amoris,” a daily act of love, and aspired to keep it with a constancy that would mirror her total absorption in Eliot (3). 

After bringing Eliot two valentines in February 1878, Simcox wrote: “Yesterday I went to see her, and have been in a calm glow of happiness since:—for no special reason, only that to have been near her happens to have that effect on me. . . . I did nothing but make reckless love to her . . . I had told her of my ambition to be allowed to lie silently at her feet as she pursued her occupations” (25). George Lewes, the companion whom Eliot’s friends referred to as her husband, was present at most of these scenes, and he and Eliot tolerated and even enjoyed Simcox’s attentions, which they consciously construed as loverlike. 

During a conversation about Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s love poems, Sonnets from the Portugese, Eliot told Simcox “she wished my letters could be printed in the same veiled way— ‘the Newest Heloise,’” thus situating Simcox’s missives to her in the tradition of amatory literature (39). In private, Simcox indulged fantasies of a more sensual connection, reflecting on a persistent “love that made the longing and molded the caress,” and recalling how “[i]n thinking of her, kisses used to form themselves instinctively on my lips—I seldom failed to kiss her a good night in thought” (136). 

In trying to define her love for Eliot, Simcox significantly refused to be content with one paradigm; instead, she accumulated analogies, comparing her love for Eliot to both “[m]arried love and passionate friendship” (60). Like a medieval ascetic, Simcox eroticized her lack of sexual fulfillment, arguing that her love was even more powerful than friendship or marriage because, in resigning herself to living “widowed of perfect joy,” she had felt “sharp flames consuming what was left . . . of selfish lust” (60).

In an unsent 1880 letter to Eliot, Simcox again found herself unable to select only one category to explain her love: “Do you see darling that I can only love you three lawful ways, idolatrously as Frater the Virgin Mary, in romance wise as Petrarch, Laura, or with a child’s fondness for the mother” (120). By implication, Simcox also suggested that there would be an unlawful way to love Eliot—as an adulterer who would usurp the uxurious role already occupied by Lewes. She concluded by explaining that her relationship with Eliot was too unequal to be a friendship (120). 

In the absence of the sociological and scientific shorthand provided by sexology or a codified subculture, and in the absence of a genuinely shared life that could be represented by a common history or joint possessions, women like Simcox represented their unrequited sexual desire for other women by extravagantly combining incompatible terms such as mother, lover, sister, friend, wife, and idol. Other women deployed similar rhetorical techniques of intensification and accumulation to express sexual loves that were not equally felt and did not lead to long-term partnerships. 

At age twenty, Sophia Jex-Blake (1840–1912), one of England’s first female doctors and an activist who helped open medical education to women, met philanthropist Octavia Hill (1838–1912). In a biography of Jex-Blake written in 1918 that still adhered to Victorian rhetorical conventions, Margaret Todd called her subject’s relationship with Hill a “friendship” but qualified it as one that made “the deepest impression . . . of any in the whole of her life.” Jex-Blake considered the degree of love she felt for women to be unusual, writing around 1858, “I believe I love women too much ever to love a man” (78). 

During a brief relationship that Hill soon broke off, the two women may have been sexually involved, but even so their feelings were never evenly matched. During the period when the women were closest, Hill reduced their bond to mere chumminess by calling herself and Jex-Blake “great companions” (85). By contrast, Jex-Blake was in awe of Hill and described her as both child and mother, roles often eroticized for Victorians, writing in her diary of “My dear loving strong child . . . I do love and reverence her” (85). Even after the relationship ended, Jex-Blake thought of Hill as her lifelong spouse, referring twenty years later to the “fanciful faithfulness” she maintained for her first love, to whom she left “the whole of her little property” in repeated wills (94). 

Like Simcox, Jex-Blake used intensified language to underscore the uniqueness of her emotions. When she described inviting Hill on a vacation that included a visit to Llangollen, a site made famous by the female couple who had lived there together, Jex-Blake wrote of her “heart beating like a hammer” (85) and then described Hill’s response: “She sunk her head on my lap silently, raised it in tears, then such a kiss!” (86). Female friends often exchanged kisses, but Jex-Blake’s account took the kiss out of the realm of friendship into one of heightened sensation. Although it was common for female friends to love each other and write gushingly about it, Simcox and Jex-Blake also wrote of feeling uncommon, different from the general run of women. 

Simcox identified closely with men and Jex-Blake felt unable to love men as most women did; both were extraordinarily autonomous, professionally successful, and self-conscious about the significance of their love for women. Other women also had intense erotic relationships that went beyond friendship, but were less self-conscious about those relationships, which they rarely saw as needing special explanation, and which usually lasted years or months rather than a lifetime. An example of outright insouciance about a deeply felt erotic fascination between women is found in the journals of Margaret Leicester Warren, written in the 1870s and published for private circulation in 1924. 

Little is known about Warren, who was born in 1847 and led the life of a typical upper-middle-class lady, attending church, studying drawing and music, and marrying a man in 1875. Her diary attests to a fondness for triangulated relationships that included an adolescent crush on her newlywed sister and her sister’s husband, and a brief, tumultuous engagement to a male cousin whose mother was the dramatic center of Warren’s intense emotions. In 1872, when Warren was twenty-five, she began to write incessantly about a distant cousin named Edith Leycester in entries that reveled in the experience of succumbing to another woman’s glamour: “Edith looked very beautiful and as usual I fell in love with her....Tonight Edith took me into her room. . . . She is like an enchanted princess. There is some charm or spell that has been thrown over her.”

 Numerous similar entries recorded an infatuation that combined daily familiarity with reverent mystification of a sophisticated and self-dramatizing woman. Warren’s fascination with Edith lasted several years. Unlike Simcox and Jex-Blake, Warren never self-consciously reflected that her feelings for Edith differed from conventional friendship, but like them, Warren ascribed an intensity, exclusivity, and volatility to her feelings for Edith absent from most accounts of female friendship. Indeed, Warren rarely referred to Edith as a friend when she wrote of her desire to see Edith every day and recorded their many exchanges of confidences, poetry, and gifts. 

Warren fetishized and idealized Edith, was fixated on her presence and absence, and used superlatives to describe the feelings she inspired. Within months of meeting Edith, most of Warren’s entries consisted of detailed reenactments of their daily visits and the emotions generated by each parting and reunion: “Edith was charming tonight and I was happier with her than I have ever been. She looked beautiful” (287). Warren created an erotic aura around Edith through the very act of writing about her, through a liberal use of adverbs and adjectives, and by infusing her friend’s most ordinary actions with dramatic implications. 

Describing how Edith invited her to visit her country home, for example, Warren wrote, “Edith came in and threw herself down on the chair and said quietly and gently ‘come to Toft!’” (291). Although Warren got along well with Edith’s rarely present husband, Rafe, she relished being alone with her and described the awkward, jealous scenes that took place whenever she had to share Edith with other women (362, 369). Warren found ways to dwell on the details of Edith’s beauty through references to fashion and contemporary art. Like many diarists, Warren had an almost novelistic capacity to observe and characterize people in terms of prevailing aesthetic forms. 

She described Edith with flowers in her hair, looking like a pre-Raphaelite painting, and recorded her desire to make images of Edith: “I sd. like to paint her. . . . It wd. make a good ‘golden witch’ a beautiful Enchantress” (290–91). A ride with Edith inspired Warren to pen another impassioned tableau: “All the way there in the brougham I looked at Edith’s beautiful profile, the lamp light shining on it, and the wind blowing her hair about—her face also, all lit up with enthusiasm and tenderness as she leant forward to Rafe and told him a long story . . . I . . . only thought how grand she was” (369–70). 

Shared confidences about Warren’s broken engagement to their male cousin became another medium for cultivating the women’s special intimacy. By assuring Warren that she did not side with the jilted fiance´, Edith declared an autonomous interest in her: “‘I wanted you to come here because— because I like you.’ She was sitting at her easel and never looking at me as she spoke for I was standing behind her, but when she said ‘because I like you,’ she looked backwards up at me with such an honest, soft, beautiful expression that any distrust I had still left of her trueness melted up into a cinder” (290). 

Just as Warren heightened her relationship with Edith by writing about it so effusively and at such length, the two women elevated it by coyly discussing what their interactions and feelings meant. Before one of her many departures from London, Edith asked Warren: “‘[A]re you sorry I am going? . . . How curious—why are you sorry?’ Then I told her a little of all she had done for me . . . how much life and pleasure and interest she had put into my life, and she said nothing but she just put out her hand and laid it on my hand and that from her means a great deal more than 100 things from anyone else” (293). Edith’s gesture drew on the repertory of friendship, but in the private theater of her journal, Warren transformed the touch of a hand into a uniquely meaningful clasp. 

This is not to say the relationship was one-sided. If Warren’s diary reports the two women’s interactions with any degree of accuracy, it is clear that both enjoyed creating an atmosphere of pent-up longing. Edith fed Warren’s infatuation with provocative questions and a skill for setting scenes: “She asked what things I cared for now? And I said with truth, for nothing— except seeing her” (303). Three days later, just before another of Edith’s departures, Warren paid a call: When tea was over, the dusk had begun and I . . . sat . . . at the open window. . . . By and bye Edith came and sat near me. . . . The room inside was nearly dark, but outside it was brilliant May moonlight. . . . Edith sat there ready to go, looking very pale and very sad with the light on her face. . . . We did not talk much. She asked me to go to the party tonight and to think of her at 11. . . . She said goodbye and she kissed me, for the first time. (303–4) 

Warren is exquisitely sensitive to every element that connotes eroticism: a darkened room, physical proximity, complicit silence, a romantic demand that the beloved remain present in her lover’s mind even when absent, a kiss whose uniqueness—“for the first time”—suggests a beginning. Any one of these actions would have been unremarkable between female friends, but comparison with other women’s diaries shows how distinctive it was for Warren to list so many gestures within one entry, without defining and therefore restricting their meaning. Warren’s attitude also distinguishes her emotions from those articulated by women who took their love for women in a more conjugal or sexual direction. Her journals combine exhaustive attention to the beloved with a pervasive indifference to interrogating what that fascination might mean. 

Never classified as friendship or love, Warren’s feelings for Edith had the advantages and limits of remaining in the realm of suggestion, where they could expand infinitely without ever being realized or checked. Women who consummated a mutual love and consolidated it by forming a conjugal household were less likely to leave records of their most impassioned moods and deeds than those whose love went unrequited or undefined. Indeed, women in what were sometimes called “female marriages” (a term I discuss further in chapter 5) used lifewriting to claim the privilege of privacy accorded to opposite-sex spouses. 

Like the lifewritings of women married to men, those of women in female marriages assumed intimacy and interdependence rather than displaying it, and folded their sexual bond into a social one. They described shared households and networks of acquaintances who recognized and thus legitimated the women’s coupledom, liberally using words such as “always,” “never,” and “every” to convey an iterated, daily familiarity more typical of spouses than friends. 

Martha Vicinus’s Intimate Friends cites many nineteenth-century women who described their relationships with other women as marriages, and Magnus Hirschfeld’s magisterial, international study of The Homosexuality of Men and Women (1914) noted that same sex couples often created “marriage-like associations characterized by the exclusivity and long duration of the relationships, the living together and the common household, the sharing of every interest, and often the existence of legitimate community property.” 

Sexual relationships of all stripes were most acceptable when their sexual nature was least visible as such but was instead manifested in terms of marital acts such as cohabitation, fidelity, financial solidarity, and adherence to middle-class norms of respectability. Because friendship between women was so clearly defined and prized, one way to acknowledge a female couple’s existence while respecting their privacy was to call women who were in effect married to each other “friends.” Given that “friends” was used to describe women who were lovers and women who were not, how can we tell when “friends” means more than just friends? 

…There are many instances of published writing acknowledging marital relationships between women by calling them friendships. Victorian women in female couples were not automatically subject to the exposure and scandal visited on opposite-sex couples who stepped outside the bounds of respectable sexual behavior. Instead, many female couples enjoyed both the right to privacy associated with marriage and the public privileges accorded to female friendship. The Halifax Guardian obituary of Anne Lister in 1840 recognized her longstanding spousal relationship with Anne Walker by calling her Lister’s “friend and companion,” a gratuitously compound phrase.

Emily Faithfull, whom we will encounter again in chapter 6, was a feminist with a long history of female lovers. An 1894 article entitled “An Afternoon Tea with Miss Emily Faithfull” described her home in Manchester, decorated by “Miss Charlotte Robinson,” whom Faithfull readily disclosed “shares house with me.”80 Faithfull left all her property to Robinson in a will that called her “my beloved friend” whose “countless services” and “affectionate tenderness and care . . . made the last few years of my life the happiest I ever spent.” To call one woman another’s superlative friend was not to disavow their marital relationship but to proclaim it in the language of the day.”

- Sharon Marcus, “Friendship and the Play of the System.” in Between Women: Friendship, Desire, and Marriage in Victorian England

[myhoneststudyblr]

i received an ask from @sunset-study asking me how to annotate texts so i thought i would do a post giving some of my tips! as an English literature student, i spend a lot of my time doing annotations on loads of different types of texts so i think i have some good advice that i can give. i hope that you will find this helpful and if you have any other questions, please feel free to send me an ask!

disclaimer: these are my personal tips and experiences and i’m sure that there are many more that are relevant. i have tried to do a little bit of research to get some other ideas which hopefully will make this a useful post but as always i appreciate others adding their opinions and advice in the comments!

[Estimated Reading Time: 7 minutes]

What is covered:

General Tips

Things to look for

Specific Tips for Annotating Novels

Specific Tips for Annotating Plays

Specific Tips for Annotating Poetry

Other resources

General Tips

don't just highlight. this is very passive and often you will not really be taking in what is important. 

pencils are great for annotating. if you are anything like me, when you are annotating, you often are doing it as the thoughts come into your mind so a pencil allows you some leeway to erase and refine ideas. also when you are writing in a book, i personally do not have enough confidence to write in pen.

don’t annotate extensively the first time you read. often on a first read, you don't see the recurring imagery or features because you don't have the whole context so don't annotate deeply the first time you read something. that said, it can often be good to jot some questions in the margins that you have because these can be useful to remind you of your thoughts when you reread. 

think of some symbols to indicate important or interesting parts. for example, if it is a dramatic section, i will box it off and put a big exclamation mark. or if something is confusing or unclear, use a question mark. i tend to put a star for a section that is important. you could think of symbols for humour, foreshadowing, particular themes or characters etc.

actually respond to the text. this seems like an obvious one but a lot of the time, because we are taught in schools all these fancy techniques, when we see one of them in a text we just highlight them and note that its a metaphor or simile or foreshadowing. what you should try to do is explain - briefly - why that is important and its effect. also if you have any personal reaction to it, note that down as well because this can be really helpful when writing essays because it shows that you’ve actually engaged with the text. 

practice, practice, practice. annotation is a skill and honestly it can be quite difficult because you need to often read between the lines and summarise, while also analysing. so take some time to focus on this skill and create your own method and shorthand.

Things to look for:

structure. are the paragraphs long? is sentence varied or does it remain quite consistent? are there any repeated words or phrases? what is the overall shape of the text? where does the narrative start? does the focus shift anywhere? 

language. what are the literary devices used in the text? if so, what is their effect? has the author used a particular semantic field? are there any usual words? are there repeated words? are there any individual words that stand out to you? what are the connotations of these words? are there any words that you don’t know? if so, what do they mean? is there any unusual syntax? 

characterisation and voice. who is speaking in the text? if it is third person, how ‘close’ or ‘distant’ are we to the character? can we trust the character? are they an unreliable narrator? what are their key features? do any of these features link to key themes? if so, where is that shown in the text? is the author using a particular voice in order to get a specific reaction?

themes. what themes is the author exploring? where does the author explore these themes? are particular opinions (either by a character or perhaps the implied opinion of the author) expressed on the themes? are there any words or phrases that link closely to this theme?

Specific Tips for Annotating Novels

SUMMARISE REGULARLY

a novel is often long and there is a lot of stuff to cover throughout it so it is really important to keep making sure that you understand what is going on. summarising will also help you when revising.

for example, after each chapter quickly summarise the key points in a few sentences - which characters were important, did the plot move forward in any important ways, what themes were explored.

you could either do this on a post it note or if you have space on the last page of the chapter. make sure that it is not too long. a few sentences is absolutely fine.

KEEP A LIST OF CHARACTERS 

characters are obviously very important in a novel so make sure you know who’s who and where they come into the book. you could write the list of characters or a little character map on the inside cover of the book, which you can refer to if necessary.

COLOUR CODE

i personally don't colour code that often when annotating. i usually only do it in important scenes and moments where there is a lot going on and things can get very confusing. that said, colour coding can be particularly useful to keep track of themes in the novel.

there are many different ways that you can do this. for example you could have a particular highlighter colour for each theme. you could also put coloured sticky tabs on the page so you can quickly find the themes throughout the novel. 

Specific Tips for Annotating Plays

This is mostly the same for novels so take all of the tips above and apply them to the play you are studying with two main - VERY IMPORTANT - additions:

NOTE THE DRAMATIC FUNCTION

a play is written to be performed and this has a huge impact on the text, because it can affect how we interpret a particular character, theme or scene. 

so it is SO SO important that you remember that it is being performed and think about the different ways that it could be acted and how the audience could respond to it. 

on that note, remember that every performance, actor and audience is different so try to think of ALL the ways it could be played and how our interpretation could differ

PAY ATTENTION TO STAGE DIRECTIONS

this is a related point to the one above. my GCSE English teacher used to go on about this all. the. time. because it is so easy to overlook them and not consider them a real part of the text. BUT they are such a key part because they can give hints to performance as well as the atmosphere which might otherwise be difficult to discern just by reading the dialogue. they can also be good ways to demonstrate character traits

Specific Tips for Annotating Poetry

NOTE GENERAL FEATURES (STRUCTURE, RHYMING, METER, CONTEXT, THEMES, ETC.) SOMEWHERE SEPARATE 

poems are obviously much shorter than plays and novels so they are often packed full of interesting language points to annotate. therefore if you try to add in all of this other stuff in your annotations using arrows, it is likely that it is going to get very full and confusing. 

therefore, i would suggest only directly annotating language features for the poem and writing your notes on the more general features of the poem elsewhere - for example on a post-it note, or if there is a bunch of white-space under the poem. then it is easy to find and refer to but won't mix with your annotations and make it confusing so that you feel that you need to rewrite more notes on the whole poem 

if there is a particular word or phrase that is important for the above features (for example, links significantly with the context or has unusual - and therefore probably significant - meter) you can notes this on the text using arrows but keep it specific and short. you can expand on it in more depth in your general notes

IDENTIFY THE TONE AND MOOD OF THE POEM

this is good to identify because it can help you focus on the language that is important and helps you to interpret the meaning. 

THINK ABOUT THE SOUND OF THE POEM

poems are usually meant to be lyrical and rhythmic in some way and read aloud. so think about how these words sound when you read it (are they harsh or soft) and consider the rhythm that the poet creates through punctuation. it could be helpful to consider a poem like the lyrics of a song and imagine what it would sound like if it were set to music 

rhyming is an important part of this and you could note - just for your own reference - the rhyme scheme (if there is one) using letters at the end of the line. but again, referring back to tip one of this section, talk about the rhyme scheme in greater depth elsewhere so as not to clutter your notes 

Other Resources

there are so many resources that you can find on the internet about annotation but here are just a couple that i thought were useful:

Annotation Guide Produced for AP Language Students

BBC Bitesize GCSE Revision Page on Annotating Texts

General How to Annotate Guide (Note: this is not just for literature but also for textbooks but has some great tips)

Annotating Poetry Guide

[stillbandofbrothersthirsty]

As Far As Friends Go

Chapter 5 (Chapter 1; Chapter 2; Chapter 3; Chapter 4; Chapter 6; ... Chapter 18)

Summary: Emily Rooney has always wanted more than what her family wanted for her; to get married to a nice, wealthy young man and have lots of well-raised Catholic babies. So when her fiancee enlists with the marines she decides this is her chance to have an adventure before she has to get married. She finds herself outfitted with the 506th working alongside a flippant intelligence officer.

Emily - November 1943

Emily and Luz beat their final opponents by 50. She walked home that night with a new sense of pride bolstered by her new soldier friends’ praise.

Their first opponents had been Joe Liebgott and Moe Alley. Their speedy victory had been chalked up to beginners luck on Emily’s part. So, she graciously accepted a second invitation to play, this time against Donald Malarkey and Skip Muck. After another inevitable win the men grew rowdy with the idea that Emily Rooney was seemingly unbeatable.

After another three games in a row Nixon had come over to let Emily know that he and Welsh were headed back to base, if she wanted to walk back with them. Luz and the other soldiers around her whined for her to stay. After their time together, Emily felt she could trust the men. She at least felt she could trust Luz so she told Nixon to go on without her.

“How’d you get so good?” Luz asked as they walked back.

“Played a lot in college.”

“How was college?”

“College was,” Emily hesitated, “fine.”

“Just fine?” Luz’s figure was barely visible in the darkness. A few paces ahead of them walked Joe Toye and Frank Perconte.

“I really enjoyed learning!”

“Oh yeah? What’d you study?” George sounded genuinely interested.

“Geography and History.”

“Smart girl, eh?” Emily thought she could make out the flash of George’s smile.

“I love those subjects, it’s easy when you love it,” she said.

“That makes sense why you’re here then! Teaching us common soldiers all about maps and such,” George said, “so why just fine then? Since you got to study what you love?”

Emily focused on the gravel crunching beneath their steps as she tried to formulate the best way to explain herself. She didn’t know why she felt so comfortable being vulnerable with George right now, but she did. Maybe it was the alcohol or maybe it was just because he was being so friendly. “I don’t think anyone wanted me there, not to learn at least.”

“Whaddya mean?” George’s warm shoulder brushed hers briefly as he moved closer to listen.

Emily exhaled, “I was so excited to learn and to get to go to college! But when I got there I quickly realized that it was just one giant pantomime.” She paused. George remained silent, waiting for her to continue. “We were encouraged to spend time with the Notre Dame boys, and it wasn’t subtle. I didn’t really feel challenged academically or that my scores or assignments mattered. All my classmates were consumed with the latest hair styles, their boyfriends, dances, and as far as academics went,” Emily scoffed, “they didn’t really care about learning or thinking critically,” she was ranting now, “as long as they appeared to be a ‘successful’ student, that’s as far as it mattered. A respectable young woman with a formal education. That moves you up in life. But no one actually cares if you learn anything or have any thoughts of your own!”

George was quiet and Emily felt a flush taking over her cheeks. She was grateful for the shield of darkness.

“Well, good thing you didn’t listen to them,” George finally said.

“What?” Emily turned to look at him, despite the low visibility.

“Well, you’re here aren’t ya. You’re actually doing something with your education. You’re doing everything they didn’t want you too and that’s gutsy.”

Emily allowed herself to smile slightly, “yeah, I guess so.”

“Not a lot of dames would leave everything behind to join the European front. I mean, how many women do you see around you right now?” Emily chuckled, “there’s plenty of other brave women here.”

“Yeah, and you’re one of them.” They were approaching base at this point and the few dim lamps that hung on the front of the buildings illuminated George’s face slightly.

“Thank you, George,” Emily smiled softly at him.

“Anytime.” He bumped her gently with his shoulder. “You want me to walk you back to HQ?”

“That’s okay, we’re fifty feet away,” she gestured, “though I appreciate the offer.”

“Sure, see you later.” George disappeared into the darkness with Joe and Frank.

The next morning Emily felt more exhausted than she had in a long time. She wasn’t hungover - or at least she thought. To be fair she hadn’t experienced that sensation before.

“Alright kid?” Nixon asked as he trudged into the intelligence room.

“Kid?” she asked dryly. He shot her a look that said, yeah and? 
“Yeah I’m good, thanks. You alright?”

“I’m up aren’t I.”

“Indeed,” Emily chuckled, “coffee?”

“Sure,” he accepted the drink, “is this..?”

“Regular,” Emily didn’t have the energy to elaborate until she had consumed her own cup of coffee. Luckily, her and Nixon’s shorthand had evolved into a clear language.

After a few quiet minutes of mutual existence Nixon finally said, “we’re getting you on the rifle range today.”

“Okay,” Emily said dully.

Nixon squinted at her, “okay?”

“Yeah, okay, just tell me what time so I can change into my pants.”

“Okay,” Nixon drawled suspiciously.

“What?”

“I was expecting a little more pushback or more questions.”

“What’s there to ask?”
 “I don’t know, you always seem to come up with something!”

“Well I just said let me know so I can change.”

“Right, well are you nervous?”

Emily raised her eyebrows at him, “I’ve shot a gun before, Captain.”

Nixon winced into his coffee.

“What?” Emily asked, “don’t like women shooting guns?” 
“No,” Nixon said defensively, “god, you make me sound like a misogynist. I don’t like that title.” 
“Captain?” Emily was confused.

Nixon waived his hand is disgust, “yeah that.”

“Why?”

“I just don’t care for it. I don’t care for the frou-frou and fanfare of it all.”

“This is coming from a man who has an exclusive drink preference?”

Nixon gave her a cool look which caved into a little chuckle. “I’m here to do a job, a job I don’t particularly want to do, and that’s it,” he said with finality.

His attitude came as a surprise to Emily. Her impression of Lewis Nixon thus far had been that of an out of touch but clever and capable officer. She never had any sense that he took his military career seriously, like Winters for example; Nixon’s flippant attitude made that clear. But before now she would’ve guessed that title and rank meant something to him. Their conversation revealed a surprising humility Emily hadn’t expected to find in him. He was here out of duty to his nation just as much as any other foot soldier who had enlisted, not for glory. Guilt tugged slightly in Emily’s stomach. What was she here for? Not glory, but if she was being honest, not in humble service of her country either. Between the two of them, she was the opportunistic one using the events of war to seek adventure.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Nixon interrupted her introspection.

“Sorry,” Emily shook her head to clear the fog of her mind, “I’m tired.”

“Wild night?”

“Not really,” she said innocently.

“Really? I’m disappointed in George Luz.” Nixon smiled devilishly.

Emily couldn’t help the red flush that crept up her cheeks. There was nothing to be embarrassed about but Emily was Irish, so her blushes were frequent and beyond her control.

Nixon clocked it immediately and wasn’t about to be gracious enough to let it go ignored, “what?” he demanded with a half-smile, “what are you keeping from me?”

“Nothing!” Emily insisted.

“Aw come on, you know I’ll find out.”

“There’s nothing to find out!”

“There isn’t? Why are you so red then?” Nixon was unrelenting.

“I don’t know! I can’t help it!” Emily pressed her hands against her cheeks, desperately trying to cool her face, “I’m not hiding anything!”
 Nixon raised his eyebrows in doubt. Quickly, Emily collected herself and straightened, determined to get her power back from him, “There’s nothing to hide. Besides, I am spoken for, Captain,” she said haughtily.

Nixon wrinkled his nose in distaste at her pointed use of the title he had just admitted he hated.  Emily smiled smugly back at him and the conversation was put to rest. The pair ditched their empty mugs and were about to start out for their morning duties when Private Allen Vest stopped them in the doorway.

“A letter for Miss Rooney,” he said holding out an envelope.

“Thank you,” Emily took it and Vest was gone as quickly as he arrived.

“Finally a letter from that boyfriend of yours?”

“Fiancee,” Emily corrected, opening the letter.

“Hey ask him if he’s had a chance to try the local cuisine yet. If he’s anywhere close to Turin, I know this lovely little hilltop place I’d love to recommend.”

Emily looked up from the letter to shoot Nixon a disgusted look. He raised his eyebrows in mock offense, “at least say hi for me!”, then he swaggered out leaving Emily shaking her head and smiling. She had barely comprehended the few words she had already read, having been distracted by Nixon. She began again,

Dearest Emily,

I’m glad to hear you’ve settled in England easily. I apologize for the time since my last letter. I can’t begin to describe to you how difficult things are over here and frankly, I’ve had more to worry about than our correspondence. I do appreciate each of your letters, and your enduring loyalty to me…

A slight pang of guilt hit Emily at those words. Why though? She asked herself, had she been unfaithful? Not in the slightest. She had done nothing wrong or untoward since she’d been separated from John. But, though not explicitly wrong, she had done things she knew he wouldn’t approve of. She had played darts and cards, she’d drank and socialized with men without a female companion. She had been alone in a room with who John would consider a strange man on more than one occasion. This was on top of the liberties he had already been a good sport about; her working, shooting, and potentially being sent to the continent. These were all things that were acceptable from women who were single and not from her class, especially when there was plenty of dignified work to do on the home-front. And so Emily had omitted the details of her relationships and aspirations in her letters to John. She most definitely would not be conveying a hello to him from Nixon.

Emily finished the letter, folded it up, and stuffed it in her breast pocket. From her desk on the far left of the room she collected a box of maps and hurried out of the room. She was running late. Emily walked as quickly along the pebbled road as she could while still maintaining her poise. The box hadn’t seemed to weigh much when she first picked it up but it grew heavier in her arms with every step. The edge of the cardboard dug into her stomach, pulling on her skirt. A sudden anxiety of how her skirt may be twisted around when she entered the classroom came over her. She bounced the box on her hip which provided some momentary respite and room to desperately pull at her skirt in an effort to straighten it. She was roughly twenty-five yards away when two hands reached out for the box, accompanied by a friendly voice

“Em, let me take that for you,” George Luz said.

Emily’s initial instinct was to protest the help. She was more than capable but George was already taking the box from her and she couldn’t deny her relief.

She straightened and smoothed her skirt before she looked up at her rescuer, “thank you, George. You sure it’s not too much? You’ve got a lot on you right now.”

“Another couple pounds won’t hurt, whoa!” George feigned dropping the box and laughed when Emily lunged to support him. “Seriously, no sweat. Where are we going?”

Emily pointed straight ahead to the building they were approaching. “Perfect, that’s where I’m supposed to be anyways,” George said.

Emily grinned at the trouble maker, “you running late too?”

George smiled crookedly back at her, “I left for the bathroom while we were getting settled in. I don’t think they got up to much without me if we were waiting on these.” George lifted the box in indication.

Emily flushed, “I know, I know, I got distracted and lost track of time.”

“By anything good?” George’s question was innocent but there was something about it that felt probative.

“Letter from John,” Emily patted her breast pocket, doing her best to keep her voice nonchalant. She noticed that George took the opportunity to glance at her chest and redness flared in her cheeks again. George quickly looked away and said, “nice, how’s he doing? Remind me, brother or boyfriend?”

“Fiancee, and he’s doing well.”

“Nice,” George stepped aside to let Emily enter first through the already open doorway. Inside, Welsh was already lecturing.

“Yesterday we talked about magnetic declination and the left add right subtract rule,” Welsh noticed her enter with George close behind, “today,” he continued, “we’re gonna put it into practice.”

“Thanks George,” Emily whispered her thanks and took the box from him. Trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, Emily walked around the soldiers, occasionally having to step over a canteen or helmet, until she reached the front of the classroom. As Welsh continued to speak, Emily took out gridded maps from her box and began to distribute them to the soldiers.

“Glad you could join us,” Welsh grinned a gapped tooth smile at her once the lesson was ended. His hands were stuffed deep into his pants pockets and he rocked back and forth on his heels as Emily re-organized the maps in her box.

“I’m so sorry I was late,” she grimaced, “I - I don’t have any excuse just lost track of time.”

Welsh gave a shrug that told her it wasn’t a big deal. He didn’t say anything more but remained standing only feet from her, watching her work.

“That was a good lesson,” she said to break the silence, “they seemed to really get it.”

“Yeah, it always makes more sense when once can practice it on their own,” Welsh said.

“Agreed, best way to learn is by doing.”

“I’m relieved to think you went well though,” Welsh said settling himself on the edge of the table. He folded his arms across his chest and looked at her with those disarming blue eyes, “I only learned all of this a couple days ago. It really should’ve been you teaching them.”

Emily smiled at the ground in response to his slight compliment, “you did a fine job. Besides, you’re their leader. It’s important to establish that you’re the one they should go to for information and support.”

“Pfft,” Welsh scoffed, “I’m sure that’s true, but no one wants to look at my ugly mug at the front of a classroom. All of those guys would have paid better attention to a beautiful lady like you.”

Emily fully flushed at this blatant compliment.

Welsh bit at his bottom lip, “anyways, time to get on to the next thing,” he stood, “want to leave that there for this afternoon?”

Emily nodded, “that was the plan. Just tidying things up a bit so you can easily find everything you need later.”

“Thanks,” Welsh said. Emily watched his lean figure walk out the door, silhouetted by the mid-morning sun streaming in. A little shiver ran through her body. Thoughts were creeping up in her mind that she was afraid to touch. If she acknowledged them there would be no denying them. She refused to be distracted from her plan; make the most of her career now before she had to return home and settle down. She couldn’t give anyone an excuse to send her home, not her parents or John or Nixon or any of the soldiers she worked alongside. Any acknowledgement of her growing crush would only lead to trouble.

[finnofamerica]

The Black & White - Kili x Reader

Summary: Everything is black and white until you meet your soulmate. Additionally, when your soulmate dies, everything goes back to black and white. Featuring Balin and Ori!

Word Count: 2,480

Date Posted: 05.21.2020

Note: Two more to go guys!! Thorin and Tranduil will be posted in a few days. Also so far Kili’s has been the longest. 

|| Masterlist || 

You made the journey from the Iron Hills to Erebor with minimal complaints. Your father was one of Dain’s generals and, in turn, a trusted friend to the Lord of the Iron Hills. It was painful for your father to tell you to go, but he knew it would be good for the sake of Erebor and the future of the Dwarven kingdoms. An Assistant to the King’s advisor. 

When you arrived you read your letter of instruction once again. You were to make your way to the Erebor library and find Balin. You frowned as you looked around the great kingdom, there were so many halls and steps - you had no idea where to start. 

“Excuse me,” A soft voice startled you out of your thoughts, “You look a little lost.” 

You smiled at the bowl-cut haired dwarf. “Yeah, I think I am. I’m supposed to be looking for Balin, my father sent me to assist him.” 

Bowl-cut raised his brows in surprise, “You’re Y/n?” 

“Yeah?” 

“I’m Ori!” He beamed, “I’m a scribe of sorts, I suppose. I also work with Balin. You’ll love him, he’s very wise, and the mountain has a lot to do. It’s so very busy all the time, never a dull moment here - I’m talking too much.” 

The boy flushed, he wasn’t much older than you, only about 68. You being only 64 yourself. 

“I don’t mind,” You shrugged, “It’d be nice to have a friend around.” 

Ori ginned at you again, leading you through the halls of Erebor to the library. As you followed, he told you all about the reclamation of Erebor and how he nearly got burned to death by the Dragon. 

“I can’t believe they let you go on that journey! My father would never let me do something as dangerous as that.” 

“Mother didn’t want me to go,” He admitted, “But my brother’s promised to look after me. Here.” 

He swung the door to the library open. Books were stacked on shelves high to the ceiling, brilliant ladders on sliders extending all the way up. 

“Balin!” Ori called into the empty library. 

“What is it, my boy?” He called back from somewhere deep in the depths. 

“He’s in the office.” 

Ori led you through the maze of the library, arriving in front of a desk, where Balin - you assumed - was cataloging a stack of books next to him. 

“Balin, this is Y/n,” Ori introduced you. Balin smiled at you, grasping your hand in both of his in a firm handshake. 

“It is so wonderful to meet you, my girl, tell me, how was your journey?” 

You told him of all the things you saw and the two days ride was fine, though you missed the comfort of your home in the Iron Hills and that it was the first time out and about without your father. 

Balin provided you some assurance, leading you to your prepared quarters. He told you to get some rest, for tomorrow you would join him in a meeting of the leaders, to take notes. 

Your quarters were nice and comfortable, but you still found it hard to sleep without your father’s snores coming from the other room. You wrapped yourself up in the furs that made your blankets, curled up into a ball, and tried to fall asleep in the candlelight. 

. . . 

You dressed in one of your nicer dresses the next morning, hoping you would look professional for your first meeting. Balin met you outside your quarters, Ori at his side holding a huge book. 

“Good morning, Y/n, have you eaten?” Balin asked, holding what might’ve been a biscuit in his hand. You shook your head. “I thought as much, after the meeting I will help you get some food for your quarters.” 

“Thank you, Balin, that is very kind.” You bowed your head to him with respect. 

“None of that, girl,” He handed you the biscuit, “Eat up, you’re meeting the King this morning.” 

You ate while you followed them through the halls, wishing you had something to drink to wash the biscuit down. Too soon you were standing in front of a regal, powerful-looking king. His stony face, looking down at you. 

“Thorin,” Balin greeted him, “This is Y/n, she’ll be assisting me.” 

Thorin looked over you, figuring out what to make of you. His steely grey eyes not giving away his thoughts. 

“Very well, we shall see how she manages to keep up.” His voice was so deep it almost startled you, though you’d heard from your father the magnificence of the King under the Mountain. 

You frowned, eyebrows furrowed. 

“Don’t worry,” Ori whispered, “He’s always like that.” 

You gave your friend a smile and swallowed your nerves. You sat between Ori and Balin, notepad on the table and pen in your hand. Around the table sat the many leaders in Erebor, and you quickly began to note who was who, Ori’s whispered information heling you along in your notes. 

At the King’s sides sat the Princes, both of them listening to their Uncle. The moment you saw the younger prince, your world exploded into color, but the longer you listened to the meeting the more you realized how out of your depth you really were. You had no time to tell the young Prince that he was the reason you were seeing colors. 

As promised, when the meeting was over, Balin brought you to the Erebor market, helping you pick out some food for your quarters. 

“Do you know how to cook?” He asked. 

You nodded, “My father taught me. He was busy on watch most nights, so he taught me how to cook so I wouldn’t have to wait for him to come home.” 

“And your mother?” 

“She was never around, and my father never speaks of her.” You shrugged, your arm hooked with Balin’s as he guided you around. 

“That’s too bad, she missed out on raising a brilliant and talented daughter.” He patted your hand. You gave Balin a smile, grateful for the kindness he showed you. You spent the evening making your dinner and preparing your breakfast for the morning. There would be another meeting tomorrow and you wanted to be prepared. 

You grabbed another notepad, transcribing your shorthand into comprehensible sentences. Finally, with the lingering smell of your dinner in the air, you curled up in your bed and fell asleep. 

. . . 

“The markets have done great these past few months, trade between Erebor, the Iron Hills, and Dale have boosted the amount of product available in each city and so far boosted the economy of all three states.” The man read from his notes. You took your notes in shorthand, learning as much more from the meeting than you thought possible. 

Kili’s eyes turned to you, partially hidden behind Balin. He’d never seen you before but now that he had he couldn’t take his eyes off of you. The soft green of your dress complimented everything about you, and the soft scratching of your pen was oddly soothing. It was then that he realized that his whole world was in vivid color. The thought kind of scared him. His whole world used to be monochrome, he was used to monochrome. Why was he seeing color? Was he dying? He was much too young to die. 

Later that evening Kili found himself seeking the guidance of one of the wisest men he knew, After his Uncle of course - but if his uncle knew about this surely he would’ve told him and Fili by now. Kili made his way to the Library, knowing Balin would be there, it wasn’t often that he wasn’t in the great library. 

“Balin? You here hiding somewhere?” He asked, arriving at the desk where Balin usually was. Hearing his name, the old man left his office and leaned over the desk to talk to Kili. 

“Kili,” Balin’s voice lilted with humor, “It must be a pretty big problem if you’ve come to the library.” 

“Balin, you’re smart-” 

“Well, I should certainly hope so.” Balin laughed. 

“What does it mean when you start seeing colors?” He twiddled his thumbs nervously, now it wasn’t like the young prince to be nervous. “Am - am I dying?” 

“No, my boy, you are not dying.” 

“Then what is happening to me?” 

Balin let out a sigh at the fear and confusion in Kili’s voice. 

“Come inside and sit. I guess Thorin and Dis never talked to you about this.” 

You were sitting at a table around the corner, studying one of the Mountain’s history books, when you heard Balin’s soft voice explaining how soulmates worked to the young prince. Your heart sank in your chest, soulmate? 

“How could I have met my soulmate and missed them?!” Kili exclaimed loudly. You could hear the sound of his head thudding against the table. You decided that it was time to go, this was very personal to Kili and you had no part in it. Part of you wanted to listen, but in your heart, you knew you couldn’t, so you packed up your books and made your way out of the library. The door thudded softly behind you. 

. . . 

The next morning Kili was asking everyone if they had soulmates and if they could see in color. That fact that he’d somehow missed his one was tearing him up inside. How could he see them and not know? Balin said he’d know. Frustrated with himself, he stomped off to the library, seeking the company of himself on one of the high balconies. 

A balcony where you just so happened to be putting away the books that Balin had cataloged. 

“Stupid, stupid stupid,” Kili hissed to himself, running his hands through his hair as he paced. 

“Prince Kili,” You approached cautiously with the stack of books in your hands, you bowed your head to him, not sure if you could bow without losing your books, “Are you okay?” 

Kili met your eyes, his brows furrowing. 

Finally, he sighed, slouching against the bookshelf, “I’ve met my one somewhere, somehow, and I missed them! I have no idea who or where they are!” 

You knelt beside him, setting your books aside. 

“I think, if I may, once you find them you’ll know.” You rose from your spot, collecting your books to continue your work. 

“Wait,” Kili gently grabbed your arm, “I’ve seen you with Balin, are you related somehow?” 

“No,” You smiled, “My father is an old friend, he sent me to assist Balin, and learn his ways. Balin is getting on in years, and with no kids of his own, he wanted someone to take over for him.” 

“So you’re going to take over the library?” Kili frowned, brows furrowed. 

“Balin is an advisor to the king. Thorin is keeping his eyes on me, and if I do well under Balin’s guidance, then I will also be an advisor.” 

“Oh, I suppose that makes sense. What’s your name?” 

“Y/n.” 

“Y/n, have you found your soulmate yet?” Kili asked. You grimaced. 

“Uh, no, not yet,” You lied. 

“Oh.” He looked defeated, disheartened. “Well, see you at the next meeting.” 

You watched him leave, his movements sluggish, and saddened. Long after he left you headed down to Balin’s office, knocking on the door frame. 

“Balin?” You chewed your lip. 

“Yes?” 

“I think Kili might be my one,” You admitted nervously, heat rising on your cheeks in your embarrassment, “I don’t know what to do.” 

Balin gave you an understanding smile, putting his work aside. 

“He’s so distraught over not knowing who his soulmate is, and I feel bad, but,” You started frantically explaining, “He’s a prince and you’re training me to become a leader and I don’t know if I can be a great leader if-” 

“Y/n, dear,” Balin took a hold of your hands, forcing you to stop your frantic movements, “take a breath.” 

You took a deep breath and nodded. 

“Great leaders are great because of their heads and hearts. The people they love are their guidance.” He patted your hands, “If you are truly Kili’s one, you should tell him.” 

“How? If he doesn’t believe me-” 

“He will.” 

You waited for a free day before you went to talk to Kili. You heard about him and Fili trying to figure out who Kili’s soulmate is. To say Kili was distraught was an understatement. Kili was near heartbroken. 

You’d practiced your speech in your head a million times, and you found him sitting alone at the gate, twisting a stone in his hand. 

“Prince Kili,” You bowed to him, before approaching cautiously. 

“Hi, Y/n,” Though the carefree prince’s voice showed no excitement. He played with the stone in his hand again, “You know, I carried this with me the entire journey to the mountain, through everything, and I never knew it was green.” 

“Kili,” Your voice softened as you turned your gaze away from him, “I’ve been hiding something from you and I can only hope you’ll forgive me.” 

“What is it?” Kili asked, his face serious, and maybe a little suspicious. 

“I have met my soulmate, though I didn’t tell him because I was scared,” You finally brought your gaze to his chocolate eyes. “Kili, I lied to you, and for that, I’m so truly sorry. I see now how much this has hurt you and -” 

He embraced you tightly, startling you out of your train of thought. You cautiously wrapped your arms around him. You thought he’d be angry with you for lying to him.  

“I thought I’d never find you, and here you were under my nose the entire time.” He pulled away beaming at you. “Why did you hide this from me?” 

“I thought it’d get in the way of being a good leader. I need to be a good leader.” 

“Leaders are guided-” 

“By the people they love, I know. Balin told me. That’s why I came to tell you the truth.” 

“Y/n,” Kili said softly, holding your hands, “If you want to wait, I’ll wait for you.” 

You wrapped your arms around him, pulling him close to you. You knew you didn’t want to wait. 

“I’ve had enough of waiting.” You whispered, burying your head into his shoulder. Kili held you tight to him. He was glad that you didn’t want to wait, but to him, it would be worth it, no matter how long. 

In meetings, though you took your job seriously, shared secret glances with Kili. Though when problems arose, Balin would ask you what your plan was. Soon he knew that you would be an excellent advisor to Thorin, and later Fili, if Thorin wanted to keep you on his service. 

When you had free time, you would go on little dates with Kili, getting to know each other and officially establishing your courtship. 

Tags: @littlepurplewarrior​  @smolcinnabon @fizzyxcustard​ @aspiring-ginger​ @saviorsong​

[beyondthetemples-ooc]

Word prompt: look

I think this is for the "post a sentence of your WIP with this word in it" prompt? I don't think I've reblogged anything else for word prompts lately, so... If it's meant to be something else, please let me know!

But for that one, oh my stars. Another good guess. I already know this is going to be a Long List. I like using "look" because it's a good way to Denote Attention Shifting, or someone paying attention to another's expression or details in the environment (thus presenting these details to the reader), and "looked" is Really Unobtrusive rhythmically and connotationally compared to "gazed", "observed", "appeared", etc.

I was going to make a list for ever instance of every form of the word, including “looks”, “looking”, and “looked”, but after just ONE STORY that list grew WAY too long! So I’m doing what I did with the last one and stuck to The Exact Word.

And now for the (ridiculously long) complete list. Gotta give myself kudos for taking this little 4-letter word in so many directions over the course of my writings, though! (There are actually more, but several instances are in stories I don’t really want to share yet, and frankly after ctrl+F’ing and fighting Tumblr’s weird formatting for two hours, I’m losing my attention span!)

Safe to say you probably win this one, though. Because it occurs a LOT.

Dove’s Memories:

"It is your own teachings that have sent me away," Magena told the council members, her voice soft, steady, as she took one last, longing look around the land she had always called home.

She strode through the halls with confidence, not allowing herself to look back.

Only Azar seemed to know, but a dark and distant look came into her eyes whenever asked, and so the others left the subject alone.

Dove watched the bird walk around the bed and look at her new surroundings for nearly an hour before Alerina came in and told Dove, ”I’m sorry that took so long… Are you alright?"

Dove watched the dove as she walked to the edge of the bed, stopped, and turned to look at her.

“He took one look at her and knew,” Alerina said with wonder.

“You look a little like Raven…”

“You look scared.”

He closed his eyes lightly with a look of blissful concentration and chanted a few more syllables before the glow began to outline Sieara as well.

Sieara looked up at him – and both could have sworn to see a look of confusion in her eyes.

Alerina pulled back, so she could look into her eyes, and smiled.

Alerina could only look on helplessly until she was done.

“But it didn't look like Azarath..."

(shorthand note) Sits and tries to look casual, but does her best to meditate, calm the fears, keep her powers under control... 

Kary’s backstory:

(shorthand note) Girls look -- then group around her and hide her.

“What does it LOOK like?"

"Well, look who was telling the truth for once."

"You just look like you really need it."

“Look at her, she's pale as Salvany's sheets."

Soul Sickness:

(shorthand note) Dove drops her gaze... thinking, and doesn't look back up... but gives him a small nod.

She glanced to them, and shook her head to look him dead in the eye.

“I mean… Look at you!“

Dove’s Dark Discovery:

He didn't have to look very hard to see what she really wanted: Raven needed someone to steady herself against.

“How afraid she was to even look at us.“

She tried to look into Dove's eyes, but she refused to meet her gaze.

“Look into yourself.”

“But you didn't look into their eyes, and laugh at their pain, and fear, and use your powers to torture them to death.“

The Final Journey:

Then, look for an alternative exit.

Dove still doesn't look up; that didn’t mean anything but that she'd be even more liable to lose control, without the strength to fight her powers back.

(shorthand note) Raven’s dark and suspicious look kills her, she promises she’s okay

She sighed, shaking her head at the number of books she had to look through.

“You look tired."

She knew Raven only wanted to look out for her.

(shorthand note) Meaningful look at Dove.

Kary the Wanderer:

Showing fear would only make her look easier to–

“I know, I plan to look for food now.”

"Mind if I take a look myself?"

Spellbound pt. II:

A dreamy look came over Dove’s face.

Dove blinks, trying to figure out how she could tell him without telling him exactly what had happened in Raven’s memories, she did let her look into her mind in confidence…

A wistful look suddenly came into his eyes.

Having to yell to be heard over the flapping of the enormous wings, the wizard called, “Dove, open your eyes and look!“

Even though he tried to make it look painless, tolerable, so as to not worry them, there wasn’t much he could do against their empathy.

Fire and Flight: The Key to Igniting a Pacifist Heart:

And right now, he didn't look like very much at all. 

When she wasn't too afraid to look into them. 

After a few moments of staring in absolute wonder at the glistening gems inside, he finally managed to look up at Dove.

Dove made a movement to look away, but held his gaze.

She winced as his eyes widened tremendously, and she forced herself to look away.

(shorthand note) Next day, after dinner it’s dark outside, Srentha keeps noticing Dove glancing at the window – and once he saw the look of anxiety slip on her face, he asks her what’s wrong?

But that look in her eyes, the distant, nervous look, kept him from asking any more questions.

“You look really pale.“

“I mean, I’ve always thought you two look kind of similar, but you look nothing like–” 

He felt like he was being pulled into them and didn’t want to look away. 

(shorthand note) When she turns to look up at Raven there are traces of worry and confusion but no tears…

“But I didn't want to hurt YOU, either, and--look what happened…”

She lifts her head and a dreamy look came into her eyes, lifted towards the ceiling and complemented by a tiny, shy smile. 

“And you saw my magic like something special to me, not some weird corkscrewy obligation to destiny, or bitter irony because, hah, look what I can do, and good luck figuring out what to do with it because we're all going to die before I could have a place on the council!”

He broke the eye-contact to look down and gather his thoughts, breaths chopped off as he rapidly began and ended words that his smiling mouth couldn't capture, and Dove's mind fizzled like a soda in the wake of his mind's absence.

"Dove, you look better than anyone in the room!" Srentha replied.

He walked from the couch to where she stood, a slightly curious and confused look on her face; what could be missing from a costume she didn’t even wear?

Tells her he sees that lovestruck look on her face.

He looked at her, wanting to call out to her, look so deeply into her eyes that there was no way she could think he wasn’t speaking from the bottom of his heart.

Eventually he exhausts himself - throws himself on the ground to rest and rolls onto his back, so that he was right next to Dove and could look up at her with such dedicated affection, Dove couldn't help smiling back with every fondness and romantic tendency she never let show before shining through her eyes.

The Next Step:

And with every word it was becoming harder to look her sister in the eye.

But Dove glanced up, and recognized that receptive and willing [and so COMFORTING] look in her eyes that made her such a good listener, even if she was wholly unfamiliar with the subject matter.

Dove could only look at her in concern, not understanding.

Alerina readied the memories, and let Dove look into her mind...

“I... I’m sorry, Dove, I cannot look at those times anymore...” 

Srentha's eyes open and hands slip down to hers, clasp, step back to see – look at each other’s desire burning in their eyes.

She couldn’t look away, fear held her captive but love made the imprisonment willing.

(shorthand note) They’ll look into it, special meditations to seek it.

That look broke his heart cleanly (in two?).

"You don't look okay to me."

“Dove, with the way you look now, they’d think you have a deadly disease and only two days to live.”

(shorthand note) They say she doesn’t look so good.

Growing Up Demon:

“She's passing often enough - look at how many diapers we've used already!”

“Dove, look at you!“

“Azar, you've seen the look she gets when you're not feeling well."

"She has that look all the time lately."

From down here, it didn't look nearly as terrifying as it was up there, suspended hundreds of feet in the air, with only a thin metal track and the cooperation of physics keeping its passengers from death...

She turned to look up at her mother.

"Don't look at him, okay?"

Kary with Eric:

(shorthand note) Eric's coming to look for her... 

Dove gives him a worried look and hands him Leyla, and with her powers raring to go, they rush to the lobby. 

She whispers (harshly), “Look me in the eye and tell me you've never abused your privilege to check on someone you care about."

“He's just worried about you, look at those eyes.”

[Untitled story re: Brother Blood]

Raven turned at the concern in his voice - she immediately recognized the look of shocked terror on Dove’s face and rushed to her side.

He chuckled at the fleeting look of realization in her eyes.

Something Special About Srentha:

And what seemed strangest to Dove was when he would walk down the hall looking determined, then he’d look dazed or weak, and he’d suddenly turn to go back to his room looking confused, and later on even worried, mumbling “What was I doing…?”

And Srentha sighed, seeing that knowing look in her eyes.

"You look so pale.”

(shorthand note) It's supposed to look like it's made from raven feathers or something.... and his hair is really scraggly.

Dove opened her eyes, to look up at him-- couldn't suppress the miserable whimper voicing the agony in her skull.

Only then did Srentha lift his head to look at her-- and she was surprised to see tears glistening in his eyes.

“You look disturbed."

"Teron, look at her power.”

He gave Dove a (conspiring?) look that sent a freezing chill down her spine.

“Look at each piece of the picture as its own existence within the whole, not in relationship to the other pieces of the image.”

"You look ill."

"Look into the eyes of your reflection.”

"Do I look like I can attempt escape?"

"Does it look like I want a history lesson?"

Maybe he wanted to see what her power could really look like.

“Their rituals don't look like that.“

It would look like he was studying the maps, if Nightwing didn't notice his closed eyes.

Something Strange About Srentha:

(shorthand note) Except she knows he’s lying, because there’s a look in his eyes she didn’t understand.

She pulled away to look him in the eye. 

“Dove, look at me.”

(shorthand note) No appetite at all but she didn’t want to look weak…

“To show you where I had to look to find you.“

“ But, you didn't see him struggling so hard just to look around.”

Welcome to the Real World:

Dove could only look at him with her suffocatingly concerned eyes and tight-lipped worry.

And so he explained it to her, watching the old comfort revive the at-ease look in her eyes; she had always liked it when he could explain his workings, and thus distract her from things she couldn't really help...

“Like, you look at one and you get hives.” 

(shorthand note) Tries to look okay.

Another pause to shove down the suffocating regret and bite back tears at the absolutely horrified, disbelieving, terrified look in her daughter's eyes - SHE was crying! 

"Sathera," Dove begged, and Leyla obliged - they came together in an embrace, Dove holding her daughter close and comforting, cradling her head and rocking her body as she breathed with unnatural control over her sobs, forcing them back so she could look so much stronger for her child than she felt.

[Untitled one about Leyla’s 14th birthday]:

"Mmmm, she didn't look AWFUL.“

"We'll look after her," Srentha promised gently.

He blinked, stealing one last look and hoping to catch her eye... but Leyla kept them locked closed (still looking unsteady, her breaths were shaking, and she still looked really, really pale)...

Apparently Leyla couldn't speak yet, because she just blinked her still-watering eyes open, and tilted her head (just a very, very little bit) to look at her.

And when he got to her side, close enough to look at her face: his brow furrowed deeply and his heart knotted itself in his chest.

Dove lifted her head, to look up at him... and he cupped her face, gave her a kiss on her forehead, and pulled her into a close, gentle, reassuring embrace.

[Untitled story]:

Dove couldn't look her daughter in the eye. Couldn't even look AT her.

A Work of Magic: (I used “look” a lot in this one, probably because Mistress especially isn’t very talkative and thus I needed to describe her expressions to characterize her?)

Mismagius opened her mouth in protest just before the ball opened and Jess snapped it shut and held it closed against the ceaseless rattling for a few moments, needing to use both arms as it continued to blink, before letting it open again, and Mismagius materialized with a heated look of disdain.

Jess noticed but it didn’t register, and then a loud thunder clap made her look up.

Jess brings her up a bit so she could look outside – “Isn’t it beautiful?”

Says they should look for her, she’s been gone for too long now…

Jess glanced at Mistress – she had that usual look of resentment on her face.

Paul returns Weavile with a look of disgust and takes out Honchkrow.

“No wonder you look so relaxed,” Jess told the Mismagius.

There was always something about this forest that captured her heart every time she hovered among the dark trees… the way the thick trees off the path formed a natural maze had always brought a sense of safety and security, and even the path had a worn, natural look that didn’t disturb the forest’s magic. 

His body had a more bluish tone than Missie’s, and the tips at the end of his head were so bright that they were almost florescent; the moon’s rays made them look phosphorescent, glowing, and his eyes were so vivid. 

There was that look in her eyes… the same exact expression that she had been wearing so many times lately.

The Mismagius looked up into the trainer’s eyes, and the soft, comforting look in them made her feel even more unsure of the situation than ever before.

But her mother looked into her eyes, carefully… and then she glared, proclaiming that her daughter never had that look in her eyes.

Jess took the moment of silence as a chance to take a closer look at this girl: her hair was short, spiky, and colored blonde and blue; her eyes were a deep amethyst color, more black towards the center and a brighter shade of purple on the edges; and her outfit {{rewrite}}

“Well, I’ve read about it, {{ visited Mt. Silver via teleportation? Is that Kanto or Johto?), but I didn’t look very hard at the inter-region map.”

The Mismagius hovered and nudged Missie gently, causing her to look up, and then the larger ghost smiled reassuringly.

“I mean... Look at Mistress!"

“Look at her,” Jess said, and Mistress lifted her head slightly, just enough to show her blushing.

(shorthand note) Jess sighed with a look of slight disappointment and tells her that she shouldn’t go messing with people like that. 

(shorthand note) (as they walk, Missie plays with Mistress and ends up cheering her up a bit, Trick leans onto her and rubs his head against her affectionately and spun upside down to look up at her.

“Not that they should be punished, they can’t help it, but if people are going to look down on you just because your chants mean bad luck, then that’s the equivalent of punishing a Pichu for not being able to store its electricity!”

“Hey, Jess look what I found!”

One final loud crack, and the glow suddenly brightened, Sonia stared deeply into the bright [purple] light for some odd reason, Jess quirked an eyebrow at her - then covered her eyes, Missie and Trick winced but refused to look away – still Mistress held her unmoving gaze, then the top pieces flared off and with a final flash of blinding light that made even Mistress flinch, the shell broke apart.

“It’s to help Mistress and Missie look great out there!“

(shorthand note) He has a bond with Mistress, and when she suddenly floats off with this annoyed look on her face and Dusk's right next to her, he KNOWS something's going on.

(shorthand note) Murky leads Jess to the spot and Jess walks in on them as Absol gains the lead, then she gasps and gets Sonia, says Mistress and Dusk are battling an Absol, and it doesn't look good!

“Hey, Sonia, look at this.”

(shorthand note) J looking up tips for contests on the internet/writing things down (Mistress hovering over her shoulder), and Jess narrates to her: charisma, show off best qualities, work with the things that make individual special, it helps if you pick your favorite or closest and think about what makes them so close to you, make them look good by bringing out their best characteristics, be creative and use attacks in unusual ways, make sure you work in harmony, remember that contest battles are all about making them look unique and not strong, the PKMN sometimes needs to be as creative and as able to improvise as the trainer, focus on bringing out the Pokémon’s best qualities...

(shorthand note) Jess sees a book on the shelf and asks if she could look through it, she just read something on the internet that she wanted to check out

“Besides simply being ghosts and thus able to defy the laws of physics, these amazing creatures have the ability to look far beyond our petty concerns and deeply into our souls, even deeper than most of us would allow our closest of friends to venture.”

(shorthand note) Get to know each other and look forward to our next meeting 

But every time she tried to look closer, they vanished.

Until she saw Mistress pause, just in time to see the ghost look towards the source of the voices.

There was compassion in her, and Jess took one more look to the boys... and decided that, yes, they could use a good scare.

"I didn't know, they all look the same to me!"

Even after everything that happened, a part of her ached to see her very first trainer look so sad.

"And look how that turned out," Jess sighed.

[dokidokivisual]

Gochiusa BLOOM episode 3 impressions

Previously: episode 2, episode 1 (seriously, the number of notes on ep 2 review is too low...)

Welcome to another review of Gochuumon wa usagi desu ka? BLOOM. In this episode, the series explores a topic it rarely touched previously, which is school life. Unlike many similar slice-of-life series, Gochiusa rarely concerned itself with such a mundane setting, preferring the ambience of cafés and cobblestone streets. There were a few exceptions, such as the first half of season 2 episode 10, but this is the first episode fully dedicated to a school setting.

Another distinguishing trait of Gochiusa is that the group of main characters attends not one, but several different schools. In particular, there are two high schools: a “normal” one attended by Cocoa and Chiya, and an “elite” one attended by Sharo and Rize. Moreover, there’s a group of middle school characters on the verge of graduating. As such, the question of which high school will Chino, Maya and Megu eventually choose was bound to come to the forefront at some point. And that’s exactly what happens in this episode.

There’s a lot of interesting stuff to discuss, so let’s get down to business...

The episode opens with a shot of Aoyama Blue Mountain on a boat, which also appears in the beginning of season 1 episode 1. By the way before COVID you could totally ride a boat like this in Colmar. Just watch your head...

Yeah, this is under the bridge from season 2 ED. Filmed by me.

Anyway, I’m being sidetracked. What’s important is that this is the only shot where you could tell it’s morning, because of the angle of the shadow from the bridge. It is indeed morning, and we see Cocoa and Chino walking down to school. Seems the summer vacation is over and it’s already September? Cocoa, the self-described pikka-pika no onee-chan, tries to coerce Chino into committing to enter the same high school as her, while Chino is not sure about that. We’ve seen Chino being unsure about her future as recently as this season’s episode 1, and in regards to the high school choice the time for a decision is quickly approaching.

Soon we see Maya and Megu who are facing the same decision. Megu seems to have already decided on what Maya derisively calls the gokigenyo school. The greeting gokigenyo (ご機嫌よう) comes from the word “kigen” (機嫌) which means “mood”, and can be literally translated as “how do you do”. However the same word is also used as farewell, which often causes troubles for translators.

The concept of “gokigenyo school“ has been popularised by the light novel and anime series Maria watches over us (Marimite), which is also one of the most influential works of the yuri genre. This concept has also been parodied a number of times, for example in the excellent episode 5 of Flip Flappers.

Megu manages to convince Maya and Chino to come with her to a tour of this school, and we get a close-up of Maya hinting that she’s definitely hiding something.

Meanwhile at Cocoa’s school, the class president declares the theme of the cultural festival being “cafe”, and puts Chiya and Cocoa in charge of it, because they work at a cafe. It seems that Chiya is considered to be more dependable than Cocoa by her classmates, since she got a higher rank. Nevertheless, it is Cocoa who mostly delivers the speech to fire up the other students.

Note the usage of Chinese tally marks to tally the votes. The five strokes comprising the character 正 (”truth”) equate 5 votes. This method is popular across East Asia, even in Korea where Chinese characters are no longer used.

Also I’ve seen a lot of people were confused by the inclusion of “sex museum” as one of the proposals, which is how 秘宝館 (hihokan) has been translated by the official subtitles. This word, which literally means “the hall of hidden treasures” has been used by various establishments of this type in post-war Japan, however only few of them remain open now. I think “sex museum” is a bad translation because, while technically correct, it breaks mimesis, or in simpler terms, immersion. The English translation is so blatantly inappropriate that it would never make it onto this blackboard, whereas the Japanese word is obscure and innocent-looking enough that it just might. A better translation would be “adult museum”, in fact that’s what the most well-known hihokan, Atami Hihokan uses for its English title.

As proof of each other’s ability, Cocoa mentions Chiya’s triple tray wielding skill (お盆三刀流 obon santoryu) which has been demonstrated in season 2 episode 1. Chiya brings up Cocoa’s “basking in the sun” (日向ぼっこ hinatabokko) attitude which supposedly makes her popular among customers. This is a reference to season 2 episode 5 where Rize says Cocoa always either practices latte art or basks in the sun.

On the way back from school, we learn that Chiya is actually scared of the responsibilities placed on her, and her dream of becoming the president of Ama Usa An franchise (which has been mentioned in s2e1, s2e9 and maybe other episodes I forgot) might be ruined because of this. Cocoa consoles her, again showing her motherly side.

Back at Rabbit House, Cocoa explains how the upcoming festival will be exciting (wakuwaku) and fluffy/cuddly (mofumofu). This is one of several times Cocoa uses silly onomatopoeia to describe something in this episode (aforementioned pikkapika onee-chan and describing her school also as mofumofu in a latter scene). Interestingly, all of these lines are anime-original, and at this point seems like an intentional effort to make Cocoa speak in a more eccentric manner.

In the next scene Sharo becomes angry at Chiya for keeping secrets from her, and blows her cheeks, which makes her turn into a Fugu fish, according to Chiya. Fugu is famous in Japanese cuisine for being a highly poisonous but sought after delicacy, however in this case the comparison has to do with the tendency of a live fugu (as well as other pufferfish) to inflate its stomach, giving it an almost spherical appearance to deter predators.

Next there’s another anime-original CocoChino scene where Chino asks Cocoa about what her school is like. This is my favorite part of the episode because it’s just so adorable. Like, even the fact that Cocoa is drying Chino’s hair with a towel after bath shows how close they became. The direction and the delivery of the dialogue is masterfully executed. Cocoa would be really hurt if Chino chooses any other school, and Chino knows that. But Chino can’t admit she’ll choose her next school because of Cocoa, at least not yet.

Now we move on to the main plot of the episode, which is Chimame visiting Rize and Sharo’s school. Like I said in the preview, this episode covers chapters 10 and 11 of the volume 5 of the manga, which in-universe occur at the same time. However while it fully covers (and has the same title as) chapter 10, only the first half of chapter 11 is included. So about 2/3 of the episode are dedicated to the story of chapter 10.

Chimame attend a speech by “OG” Mate Rin. OG in this case doesn’t mean “original gangsta”, but “old girl”, which is a Japanese term for female alumni of some school (there’s also OB for men). Chino recognizes Rin as the editor of Aoyama Blue Mountain, and I’m not sure if Maya and Megu ever met her, so they don’t. When Rin recalls a senior who turned her life around, Chino recalls her chance meeting with Cocoa. In particular the phrase deai ga taisetsu (”chance meetings are to be cherished”) sticks with her. On the other hand, Maya seems to be interested in the fact that Rin was recommended for scholarship. Interestingly in the manga, Maya slept through most of the speech. 

The senior Rin was talking about was obviously Aoyama and we see that there’s actually a huge bounty placed on her. The currency sign consisting of combined letters G and U wasn’t seen before, with prices usually displayed in yen, but there was a Euro-like sign at an open market at the beginning of season 2 episode 1, which might be a shorthand way to write GU. Either way this currency must have a serious hyperinflation problem as the reward for finding Aoyama exceeds 10 billion GU. In countries affected by hyperinflation, a stable foreign currency is often used to perform economic transactions, which might explain why most of the prices are in yen.

But is there some significance to this exact number? Why, yes, 10/27 is Aoyama’s birthday! It is also the start of “reading week”, which actually lasts 2 weeks, until November 9.

After the speech Megu gets separated from the rest of the group, and the other two also get lost in the vast campus of the school. As seen from the above interior shot of the school, it is also inexplicably rabbit-themed (or maybe just this particular hall is), with golden rabbit statues and also a picture on the left wall with the kanji for rabbit (兎).

Through a series of misunderstandings Chimame end up infiltrating the school with Sharo and Rize providing uniforms for them to blend in. Despite having trouble to behave “ladylike” before, Maya naturally blends in once she treats it as a game, and even gets invited to a tea party. She makes a mistake though by mentioning moyashi (bean sprouts) which is considered a cheap and low-class food, but she’s saved by the fact that the rich girls don’t even know what that is, and Sharo explaining how to prepare it in a fancy way.

Eventually the groups meet each other and Maya reveals she has been recommended for scholarship due to her good grades. Perhaps she also treated her school grades as experience points to gain, as the title of the episode (and the manga chapter) ”The whole world is my experience points” seems to suggest. This is the idea behind a real concept of gamification, by the way.

There’s also a callback to the season 2 episode 8, where Maya asks Rize for advice while Chino and Megu are spying on her. It is worth to rewatch that scene, because it’s full of foreshadowing for this episode. Back then Maya thinks she’s the only one of the three to go to this school, but now she thinks there’s a good chance all three will still go to the same school. Chino doesn’t seem to feel this way though.

In the end we see Cocoa and Chiya joining the group, also wearing the elite school uniforms, which is briefly explained by them gathering supplies for the cultural festival. I guess the next episode will explain how they ended up there. In the manga even the fact that they have a cultural festival wasn’t revealed until this point. Also in the manga fukiya club president, Karede Yura, inexplicably appears for just one panel so that Cocoa and Chiya could thank her, without any lines. In the anime she appears just as (if not more) suddenly, however there’s some foreshadowing with her inviting Rize to a tournament earlier, and she gets quite a few speaking lines.

If you listen closely there’s a funny sound effect as she looks at Rize, and then at Sharo. I really liked her design since her first appearance in the manga, and Koi probably does too, as her role has greatly increased in the recent chapters. Consequently her single-panel background appearance has been expanded as well in this episode, she got her full name mentioned in the credits, and there’s even a Karede Yura character song included on the second BD volume (which includes this season’s episodes 3 and 4). All things considered, I fully expect Yura to appear in the episode 4 as well.

The episode ends with Chino looking at the sky with a worried expression. It just hit her that both Megu and Maya are going to a different school than she is expected to go to. As Megu and Maya have a clear path forward, Chino’s future has become even more uncertain, and she feels like the odd one out in the group. Now the part of the ending where Chino is suddenly alone makes sense:

this is basically her imagining the future where Maya and Megu leave her. The coffee cup transition symbolises Chino waking up and seeing that MaMe are still her friends and aren’t going anywhere. We’ll see though...

This time it’s Megu doing latte art in the ending, and the picture is of Chino and Maya dancing. The weird thing is, Megu wasn’t even present at this scene, so how did she draw it in such detail?

Also another random fact I noticed: Chino’s Alice costume actually appeared in the opening of both season 1 and season 2. Here’s a comparison for reference:

Anyway, that was the third episode of Gochuumon wa usagi desu ka? BLOOM and I hope you enjoyed reading my review. See you next week... or so.

[painted-crow]

may i ask about mbti too? in relation to sortinghatchats, ofc. (if yes, i'd like to ask about how do you think being a ravenclaw primary relates to being an intp as the introverted thinking dominant thing seems to be very much in tune with the ravenclaw primary system)

I think it is, but it's been 10 years since I really studied MBTI in depth. (13 year old me had some niche hobbies.) Hang on.

(Future Paint dropping in: just a warning, but this post is gonna be kind of a trash fire.)

Okay, I found a site that has descriptions of the functions (here's their masterpost) that seem accurate from what I remember. I don't know about the rest of the articles on the site, I poked around a bit and some of them are a little on the silly side :p

For our purposes I think it should work.

But first,

A bad crash course on MBTI and the cognitive functions system

So, you're probably used to seeing four-letter types like ESTJ thrown around on the Internet. They're each shorthand for a set of cognitive functions (if you're using the right sources and aren't a coward 😉).

There's an Introverted and an Extroverted version each of Sensing, Intuition (the N), Thinking and Feeling--so, eight total, and they're all pretty different from each other. When MBTI people say Ni they're not making a Monty Python joke, they mean Introverted Intuition (the little I = introverted, so Ne = Extroverted Intuition).

Each type uses the functions in a different order. You have a dominant function which is your main approach to the world, and your secondary function which supports it, and they describe a lot of how you think. You also have a tertiary function (opposite of your auxiliary, it's weaker support) and an inferior function (opposite of your dominant, not something you're necessarily great at, some people will say you should try to strengthen it... it's up for debate).

Intuition and Sensing belong to one category (perceiving functions) and Thinking and Feeling belong to another (judging functions). You get one of each category for your dominant and auxiliary, and one will be Introverted and the other Extroverted. So for INTPs it's Ti dominant and Ne auxiliary, for ESTJs it's Te/Si, for ENFPs it's Ne/Fi, etc.

If you find your top 2 functions, you can reverse engineer your type. Works like this. Say you've landed on Ti dominant and Se auxiliary. You already have the ST that makes up the middle of your type. Your dominant function is Introverted, so your type is too: IST. (If your dominant is Extroverted, you get an E.) If you use Ne or Se in your top two, you're a Perceiving type so slap a P on there: ISTP. (Te and Fe users get a J.)

Confused yet? It's because this is a bad explanation! Good ones take even longer! xD

MBTI is an amalgam of Meyers and Briggs' ideas, weird old versions of the functions made up by Carl Jung which have morphed into something that kinda makes sense through basically a game of Telephone (this isn't a bad thing) and various adjustments, theories, and simplifications someone decided to write a book and a quiz about. It can be useful if you read good sources, or it can be... weird. (No, you're not a J type just because you like to keep your desk clean.)

If you like MBTI and want to study it, my 13-year-old self would highly recommend Personality Type: An Owner's Manual by Lenore Thomson. Amazon has used copies for ~$7 if you can't find it locally/in a library.

Bad crash course over, back to the post.

So, Ravenclaws and Ti.

Yeah! There are similarities! And probably correlations in their... userbase? That's the word I'm going with.

Here's my post about how my Ravenclaw primary feels/works.

Here's a reference article about Introverted Thinking.

Some cherrypicked bits from the article (highlights are mine):

People with Introverted Thinking want the world to make sense in a logical manner. They form an internal framework of how the world works. It is constantly being modified and improved through life experience and experiments.

They have the ability to find commonalities in seemingly unrelated things.

Someone with Introverted Thinking may take a while to fully understand a concept. This is because they want to know all the components and how everything works together.

However, once a Ti user figures out the whole system, everything clicks. They can see how the car and motor works, and how it all fits together. They have created a map and an internal framework, which could be applied to understanding how engines in other machines work. Pieces of this framework could also be used to understand seemingly unrelated concepts, like how a plumbing system works, or how computer programming languages interact with hardware.

So, that whole linked article echoes my post really loudly! Like I said, lots of similarities.

Let's have a look at Ne, the INTP auxiliary function (article link).

Extraverted Intuition (Ne) deals with experiencing the outer world, noticing possibilities, and what could be. Ne deals with seeing how all things in life are interrelated, and allows the user to see the world in multiple different perspectives.

Okay, go on...

Extraverted Intuition is always seeing possibilities. They always want to know “what could be”. They are adept at understanding the external environment, but they always want to take it one step further. They wonder, “if I change this, what will happen?”

Uh huh...

Extraverted Intuition also has the ability to make obscure connections. The Ne user can take two seemingly unrelated topics and bring them together. This can also cause the user to have an off-beat sense of humor.

Oh wow. I dunno about that ;)

Correlation, not rule

The thing is, I don't know how much I can say about this. There are lots of Ravenclaws who aren't INTPs, or even Ti users. There are probably lots of INTPs and Ti users who aren't Ravenclaws.

My older brother from the last post? Pretty sure he's an INTJ. (I don't care what Keirsey tells you about "oh they're both NT types, they're the smart types so they're similar."* INTJs use a different set of functions and don't have Ti as part of their stack.)

The SHC community is a lot smaller than the MBTI one, of course, so I don't have a way of testing this very effectively, or a good pool of examples. Like, I can say that Luna Lovegood is often considered an INFP, but she's not exactly available to take an online test, what with magic messing with technology so badly in the wizarding world ;)

Readers, go ahead and stick your MBTI and your Sorting (as best you know them) in the replies or reblogs, if you like. We're going to have some selection bias here but it'll be interesting anyway.

This post is a mess but I don't know how to make it better. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

------

*I was hoping Keirsey might have developed a little more nuance over the past 10 years, but glancing over the site, it seems to be the same oversimplifications and stereotypes as I remember. Rationals are still the "smart types": the first word they use to describe them is "ingenious."

This kind of thing loses credibility with me real quick, especially because Keirsey is one of the most aggressive in selling their model to companies in order to evaluate employees.

[lxiewrites]

hey there ghouls, it’s ya boys

Ao3

Summary: Keith and Lance try to contact the dead... and it kinda works?

Thanks to @gigili-jiggly for letting me ramble about the boys and ghosts and @bleusarcelle for being such a STICK IN THE MUD with Halloween! Xp

Lance laid on his back, rhythmically throwing this little stress ball he found in the air. It was in the shape of a star and spun when it reached its highest point. He more or less tuned out Pidge and Hunk's scientific ramblings or whatever they were doing, he had no idea what they were talking about anyway. He was in the zone with throwing and catching the squishy yellow star, up and down, up and down. It actually was pretty soothing.

"What are you guys doing?"

...Aaand soothing relaxing time is over.

He scowled over at Keith, tummy turning over. What was he even doing here? He didn't think that Keith would be the type to stay after school. Probably thought he was too cool to join a club or a team. Always a broody lone wolf, with a giant stop sign over his face saying 'don't talk to me'. Okay, something is weird with those metaphors but whatever! It's his own thoughts! He can do what he wants!

"What's it look like, Mullet?"

"Lance," Hunk admonished before turning to Keith with a smile, ignoring how Lance threw up his hands in a massive 'what?!' gesture. "We're just here for robotics club, we're, uh, a little shorthanded right now but you can join if you want?"

Keith's brows furrowed, eyes darting across the three of them. Hunk with his big smiling face hands fiddling with wires and a thing to strip the color from them. Pidge with their smarmy little grin sitting in a circle of discarded parts giving him a short salute and… Lance. Obviously the most brilliant and handsome and charming of the group who's obviously supervising from his position on the couch but whatever. Details.

"This is the robotics club?" Keith drawled, eyes going directly to him.

Instantly something inside Lance prickled, stomach all spikey and annoyed. "Yeah, got a problem with that?"

He could hear Hunk using that mother-hen tone with him again and he knew for sure Pidge was rolling their eyes and he could look over and throw the star at them or something, take the prickly pressure off of him, but he kept his eyes locked on one Keith Kogane. Watching how those weird purple-blue eyes--honestly it really depended on the lighting (not that he spent a lot of time wondering at the color of Keith's eyes or anything)-- narrow, head tilting as those indigo (the lighting wasn't the greatest so it was closer to indigo) eyes flickered around the room, no doubt taking in the cobwebs and black and orange streamers. "No, but... isn't this the art room?"

"Technically," Pidge piped in, pushing their glasses up their nose. "But it's not being used for anything today and the shop room is being used for a car or something. I don't know but it's a mess."

"Oh."

Keith shifted a bit on his feet, almost squirming under their stares, his thumb running over his knuckles wrapped around the strap of his bag.

"If you want you can join us," Pidge said. They looked around and shrugged. "It's a little messy but you could probably find a space."

"Yeah!" Hunk agreed, "Just sit anywhere, dude, we're pretty chill."

Hunk looked over at Lance, eyebrows raised, trying to communicate via facial expression. Which Lance pointedly ignored. They specifically left the couch alone and he called it and he was having a nice and relaxing time with his--oh fine!

He sat up, moving his legs over to give Keith room, embellishing the move with a wave of a hand.

Keith made his way over, carefully avoiding small parts and pieces scattered over the place. They definitely did some rearranging before they completely took over. The tables were all shoved to one side of the room, pressed up against the wall displaying the best work and portraits, nearly impossible to work at unless you wanted to sit on top of the tables. And while he's all for anarchy those tables have been around since the eighties he did not trust sitting on one of them. They left the paint-splattered couch in the back alone to actually sit on while Hunk and Pidge scattered their work across the floor. Delicate pieces of machinery and wires laying out where anyone could step on them along with tools and various nuts and bolts.

Keith finally made past the minefield and the way-too-old couch sagged under his weight. Lance shuffled even more to the side until his arm brushed against the art cabinets, fiddling with the stress star in his hand.

"What are you doing here, Keith?" Hunk asked as conversational as ever.

Keith shrugged. "My ride isn't coming until later. I didn't think anyone would be here."

"Ah, sorry for interrupting your alone time, dude. Do you come to the art room often?"

"Sometimes."

Eloquent as always. He peeked over, noting how stiff he was. The couch was old but it was comfortable and plush, but Keith looked like a statue, backpack on his lap like a shield. He was going to wear through the straps with how much he was rubbing the course fabric between his fingers. Silently, Lance tossed him the stress star.

Keith fumbled, lips pulled into a small frown and turning to look at him. Lance was carefully keeping himself sitting forward and occupying himself with his cuticles, biting off a section of dead skin. He fought down a satisfied smile when he heard the backpack hit the ground.

"Well, it's a nice place.” Hunk continued, oblivious, hands and mind preoccupied with the device in his hands. “My friend Shay comes here a lot. She's really good." Hunk nodded to the artboard barricaded by all of the tables.

Pidge scoffed, "Yeah, sure, friend." Their hands leaving their robot part to put up air quotes.

"She is!"

Lance laughed as Hunk sputtered, his deep rich brown skin turning ruddy and red. "Buddy, you went on and rambled about her for, like, an hour."

"I just respect her as an artist!"

He could feel Keith relax into the couch, back slumping, hands rhythmically squeezing the star, tracing his fingers around the letters printed on the side... He could even see a little smile.

"Maybe we should make a truth detector," Pidge teased, hazel eyes glimmering, smirk in place.

Hunk groaned, "Guuuyyyss, I'm serious! She's just a friend!"

"For now!" Lance had to add, just to see his friend blush so hard he could almost see the smoke burst from his ears.

"What are you guys working on right now?"

Lance turned to see Keith star at the different parts scattered around the linoleum floor.

Pidge lit up, brandishing her piece into the air like how Rafiki did to baby Simba. "My greatest creation!"

"It's going to be a recon offline virtual encryption radar or ROVER for short. It's basically a droid."

"It's way cooler than that!" Pidge insisted, glaring at Hunk for his betrayal of their creation. "It's going to be able to scan a surrounding area and break any encryption code that might be present. It's going to be able to send signals into space and pick of distant radio chatter and…"

This is usually the part where Lance tunes them out. They start getting into the details and using terms he doesn't know. All he knows is that it might be slightly illegal and probably could've helped Nicholas Cage steal the Declaration of Independence. The more technical mumbo jumbo and his brain decides to vacate.

He could practically feel his eyes glass over as they start feeding off of each other, looking over to Keith to see if he got anything from their ramblings to find him staring at him with a confused look on his face. It almost struck Lance at how much... cuter he was? Instead of a permanent frown and a 'don't mess with me or I'll punch you' attitude he looked a lot softer. One eyebrow higher than the other, mouth softened into something that wasn't a smile but it wasn't an angry scowl, his head was even tilted to the side like a confused puppy.

Deflect, deflect, deflect. He cleared his throat and shrugged with an 'I don't know' sound.

They looked back at the two on the floor who somehow got to arguing about some sort of thing and doing it once or twice? Whether it was safer or unneeded? Listen. He doesn't know crap about robots or what they're talking about he's just here to test stuff out.

God. He could just feel the awkward descend on them. Should he say something?

He shifted, the silence uncomfortable and heavy in the air, he blurts out, “So what are you doing for Halloween?”

Keith’s brow furrows when he looks at him, “Halloween?”

“Y’know, trick or treating, pumpkins, costumes, ghosts?”

Slowly Keith shakes his head, brow still furrowed in confusion, like Halloween isn’t this national holiday that is beloved by all. “I don’t really celebrate Halloween, it’s kind of… boring?”

Lance reared back like Keith just bitch slapped him. ”Boring?” Lance turned to face Keith fully, he looked mildly suspicious but otherwise impassive as Lance smacked himself in the chest. “Halloween is my lifeblood. How dare you.”

Keith’s lips twitched, scooting around to rest his arm along the back of the couch. “It’s just another holiday that’s capitalized by the candy companies.”

Lance stabbed a finger in the air between them. “You earn that shit. It’s in fun shapes like fangs and eyeballs and you go around in costumes and scare the shit out of your friends.” Both hands come up, clenching in the air like he could grab the spirit of Halloween and shove it in Keith’s face. “It’s hanging out with your friends and getting candy, and it’s watching scary movies and all of the spooky stuff.”

Keith is completely unconcerned by how Lance is so close to tackling him and shoving candy corn down his throat. “Yeah but you can do all of those things at any time of the year. The candy is just candy but in different wrappings, you can technically wear a costume at any time, and all the spooky and scary stuff can happen any day of the year. Ghosts and hauntings can happen at any time not just Halloween.”

“Okay, point, but the aesthetic. All of it is amplified by Halloween and ghosts are more likely to come at Halloween because that’s when the veil is thinnest and they have an easier time coming to Earth or something.”

“You guys believe in ghosts?” Pidge scoffed, face scrunched up in amused disbelief.

Lance gave her a funny look. “And you don’t? I would’ve thought out of all of us you would.”

They chocked on their laugh. ”Me? Why?”

“You know, like, like,” he waved his hand in the air like it could physically keep his thoughts going, “all that energy has to go somewhere, so the souls or whatever become ghosts or spirits.”

“Lance,” Pidge said, “there is no scientific proof of a soul. And if the argument is energy then it would just be the electricity in the brain keeping vital organs alive until it runs out. No ghosts.”

“Okay, but there are so many weird things that happen with no scientific explanation. Why can’t here be ghosts?” Keith chimed in.

“Can we just, like, not talk about ghosts? Is that a thing that can happen?” Hunk smiled a queasy smile, shoulders shuddering.

“Hunk! Not you too!” Pidge cried.

Lance leaned forward, an evil smile creeping across his face. “Our school is built on an old cemetery you know.”

Keith leaned forward; eyes gleaming smile tugging at a corner of his lips. ”Really,” he said, not quite a question.

He grinned. “Years ago the old cemetery was too full and there wasn’t enough room. So they decided to move it but they only moved the headstones, not the bodies.” He tapped his foot on the floor. “Corpses are rotting under us right at this moment.

“LALALALALA,” Hunk shouted, fingers in his ears. “Nope! Nope! Nuh-uh, we’re not talking about this.”

“Oh my god, there’s no such things as ghosts!” They shouted over Lance’s laughter. “Ghosts aren’t—“

The lights turned off, shrouding them in darkness.

“—real.”

Lance’s heart jumped when he heard a scream, matching it with his own, two more joining his. Leather wrinkled under his fingers, as he blinked his eyes to adjust to the dark. He could just make out the shape of Hunk’s hands covering his mouth. He relaxed his grip. “Hunk!”

“Sorry! Sorry!” His hands waved in the darkness. “My bad!”

“Can I have my jacket back?”

Lance jolted at Keith’s voice right next to him. As in right next to him. “Fuck, uh,” he released his hold on Keith’s jacket, haltingly smoothing it out, “sorry.”

Lance didn’t hear his response, or if he made one in the first place because Hunk decided to screech again, sending the hairs on Lance’s arm straight up.

“Oh god, I felt something brush against me!”

Lance felt his pulse in his wrists and his cheeks, his nerves getting twitchy as adrenaline started pumping. “Hunk, please tell me your joking.”

“I’m not, man! Something brushed against me! And it felt cold!” A dark shadow that he was hoping, praying, that it was Hunk stood up.  “What if it’s a ghost?! What if it’s one of the people in the cemetery that really doesn’t like art or robots or something?!”

Lance stood up, squeezing his hands into fists to get rid of the unsteady feeling in his limbs, heart starting to pick up. “Okay if there is a ghost I say we just book it.”

He felt Keith stand up next to him. “If it’s a ghost they probably need help, to, like, move on or something. We should try to communicate with it and help it.”

Lance turned to look at him, only wishing that Keith could see the incredulous look on his face. “Keith, buddy, I don’t know if you have seen any horror movies but that never goes well.” He punctuated the syllables in never to drive the message home.

He winced at a bright light that blinded him, blinking away the black spots that appeared in his vision.

“Yeah, except it’s not a fucking ghost you dumbasses,” Pidge said behind their phone light their tone the definition of “done”.  “It’s probably a short fuse, c’mon, Hunk, we’re the only ones that are gonna be able to fix it. I don’t trust these two yahoos.”

Hunk whined, head tipping back. “But there are ghosts. And we shouldn’t split up! That’s just spelling disaster in horror movies! We’re going to be picked off one by one!”

“Would you rather sit in the dark?” They rolled their eyes at Hunk’s whine, moving behind him to push him to the door. “Come on big guy, I’ll protect you. Ghosts can’t hurt those that don’t believe in them.”

The last thing Lance heard was Hunk whining down the hall. A fading, “They’re the first one’s to go!”

“Why are they going to fix the fuse?” Keith said behind him, making him jump. He almost forgot he was there the guy was so quiet.

“The maintenance guy, Coran, is sick or something. I think he said slipperies but I have no clue what that is.” He nodded to where his friend’s left. “They help him a lot. I don’t think the school even knows, pfft. That good ‘ol school funding!”

He felt a little shot of pride at the little huff of laughter but immediately tensed when something crashed. A scream in his throat he whipped around, eyes darting around in the darkness seeing nothing.

His muscles jumped, throat closing, when a hand wrapped around his upper arm, a bright beam of light illuminating the wall before them. His arm hurt where Keith’s fingers dug in, his lip nearly white from how hard he was biting it, eyes intent as he looked to see the source of the crash.

Lance drew closer, arms brushing but Keith still didn’t let go, eyes settling on a brass corner sticking out from behind one of the tables. Relief came but it didn’t stay, muscles still poised in fight or flight, heart pumping and insistent against his chest. “It’s fine,” he croaked. “A painting just fell.”

“Did you mean what you said about the school being built on a cemetery?”

“Maybe,” Lance cleared his throat, ignoring how it cracked, “My older brother Marco told me, he had to move to this school when they rebuilt it here, like, twenty years ago.”

“Maybe the ghosts need help moving on, like, if they receive closure on their resting ground being disturbed.” Keith’s voice was just above a whisper, hushed.

Lance’s skin fucking crawled. He whirled on Keith, his dark, dark eyes wide and serious. “How do you supposed we do that?!” A harsh whisper that scraped through the air like nails on a chalkboard.

“We communicate with them,” Keith whispered back, not nearly as harsh. It was actually annoyingly even. “An Ouija board. We can write it out on a piece of paper and use a necklace or something to hold above it as a pendulum or cut out a circle.”

“How do you even know this?!”

“…I watch a lot of paranormal videos.”

“Jesus Fuck.” Lance scrubbed his hands against his face. “How do you know we’re not going to contact a demon or something?”

“I don’t.”

“Fuck, fuck, no.Absolutely not. Not happening, nuh-uh, no—“

Ten minutes later he was sitting on the ground in a little circle of discarded robot parts—were these parts like… body parts of robot pieces? Ugh, okay, no thinking that—across from Keith, a piece of paper between them and Keith’s phone light next to the paper casting shadows across their faces.

“I hate this. I want you to know I hate this.”

Keith only gives him a noncommittal hum, finishing cutting out the circle with safety scissors they found. At least if they’re killed by a poltergeist it won’t be by overly sharp scissors.

Keith slaps the circle on the paper, eyes narrowed and determined. “Are you ready?”

“No.”

But he sets his hands on the paper anyway, fingertips brushing Keith’s as they start to slowly slide the improvised Ouija thingy over their improvised Ouija board.  They aimlessly slid it around the letters, the paper sticking to itself slightly.

It was silent between them. Which was new. They’re almost never quiet with each other, someone—usually Lance— saying something. It felt heavy. Weighed down. Like another presence in the room. Like a gho—

There was a lump in his throat as he tried to ignore the silence. His attention expanding all at once like someone turned the dial in his brain up to an eleven. And somehow that was better and worse than the silence. Every tiny sound from the wind rattling the windows to the minute creaking of the room, amplified by the silence between him and Keith, loud enough that it was distracting. The darkness so black there was color.

He squeezed his eyes shut and focused on the soft shh shhhof the paper. Ignoring the shuffling sounds in the walls his brain conjured up. Focusing on the soft huffs of breaths between them as his heartbeat took center stage as a rapid beating drum in his inner ear. Reminding him of how all those victims in horror movies could hear their blood pumping as they died. Pushing down that voice in the back of his head reminding him of all the stupid horror movies he watched like Paranormal 3 or The Ring or The Conjuring—

“So how are we supposed to contact them or whatever?!” Lance said, a little too fast, a little too loud, trying to drown out the voice and images flashing across the forefront of his mind.

“I don’t know, don’t you just shout at the spirits to make contact and they… just… do?”

“Why are you asking me?!” His heartbeat was loud as he looked at Keith, fuzzy with black at the edges as his eyes adjusted again.

Keith’s jaw and eyes were tense, little lines creasing at the corners as he stared down that their hands.  “I don’t know! I don’t like this any more than you!”

“You know, if we were smart we would just leave.”

“Yeah, but that wouldn’t fix anything!”

“We’d be fixing our lives, Keith!”

“That doesn’t make any sense!”

“You know,” Lance brought up his hands, clapping them together, mouth pressed in a straight line, “this is a bad idea. We should go and leave and come back in the morning.”

“Fine. You go, I’m staying.” Keith crossed his arms, mouth firm as he stared at Lance.

Maybe another time Lance would have left. Shouted something at how he was just being plain stupid. Which he was! But he could see the rapid pace of Keith’s jugular in his neck. How pale he was, his fingers rubbing together. His normally pink and plush bottom lip thin and white as he bit it.

He sat back down.

He really wanted to find his friends and leave, and while he knew somewhere deep down they were not being haunted a bigger and louder voice was telling him there was a chance. A slim chance but there was this big, gaping possibility. And he would never forgive himself if Keith got his guts ripped out by a ghost if this possibility happened to come alive.

“Fuuuck, I hate this.” He glared at Keith who looked at him with relief, the tension between his eyes a little less stressed, his shoulders relaxed away from his ears. Lance could feel his heart kick up a notch and he didn’t think it was because of ghosts this time. He intensified his glare. “I hate you.”

Keith smiled at him. “You ready to contact the dead.”

Lance shook his head. “Jesus fuck.” Put his hands back onto the paper circle.

“Spirits,” Keith called out, eyes darting to the corners of the room. “Please. Let us help you.”

They waited a beat. He doesn’t know what it’s supposed to feel like to use an Ouija board, if there was supposed to be a pull or a tug or, hell, an electric shock or something. But he was getting zip. He looked at Keith who just shrugged.

Keith called out again. “If there’s anyone here, please say something.”

This time Lance closed his eyes, who knows maybe the ghost was shy or something. He let his hands slide side to side with Keith’s, not feeling a particular pull but—

Fuck

Lance shot his eyes open. Heart beating fast and this time it definitely was not because Keith had a cute smile or pretty eyes. He heard something.

That shuffling from before. In the walls. It wasn’t in his head but he could hear it. In the room. Around him. And once he heard it heard it he couldn’t un-hear it.

“Keith,” he whispered. “I think I hear something.”

Keith looked at him with wide eyes, so wide he could see how his purple-blue-indigo irises were nearly engulfed by fear, the pupils only leaving a thin rim of color surrounding them.

“What,” he whispered back.

The sound traveled. Started at the back, right behind him and the couch and moved. And if his body wasn’t fucking paralyzed it would be shaking because that’s how his insides felt. Organs trembling as the rest of it locked up tight.

He didn’t look, didn’t want to look. Looking only makes it real; he’ll see whatever is there and get his face eaten off by a fucking demon. But he could still hear. Hear how that scrabbling turned to scratching. And by now, with him being so quiet, barely breathing, Keith could hear it too.

They locked eyes, both hearing it. Adrenaline starting a slow course through his veins, muscles twitching, heart jumping. He could see how Keith’s eyes slowly slide from his and he squeezed his fingers bringing them back to him.

He mouths, “I don’t see anything.”

Lance squeezes his eyes shut until colors flash in a kaleidoscope behind his eyelids, the scratching sound even louder, getting closer. Nails on a chalkboard, nails at his throat.

It was a ghost. It was a fucking ghost and he and Keith were gonna die and their corpses were gonna be found in the morning because of course Halloween was on a school’s day—

He felt a ghostly hand brush against the small of his back and he fucking leaped—

Straight into Keith's lap screaming. Keith’s hands fisting in the back of his shirt shouting in his ear so loud it was going to be ringing the next day— if he lived.

Heart in his throat he waited for the ghosts to do some shit where they pried him off of the newfound lifeline he had grasped in his arms, pulled around the room and shook like a doll.

And all of a sudden it was bright. Bright, bright, bright, bright. And all he could think of was ’do ghosts glow?’before he heard.

“What the fuck is wrong?!”

He shot his eyes open, black dots and bright light blinding him for a second before he could see Hunk and Pidge in the doorway eyes wide with panic.

Throat sore, he stopped screaming Keith quieting down soon after though both of their chests heaved as they tried to catch their breaths.

“What. The fuck. Is wrong?!” Pidge shouted again.

No ghost. The light was on. His friends were here. He dropped his head to Keith’s shoulder and breathed. Arms tightened around him.

Not looking up, he declawed his hand from Keith’s back, waving it at his friends. “Wanna explain, Keith?”

He felt a similar press of a forehead against his shoulder, the sigh fanning across his collarbones. Keith murmured something into his shirt.

Using his body he shook them both. “Come on, Keith, tell them what your idea was.”

Another sigh. “ We tried to use an Ouija board to contact the spirits.”

“Eh, eh, eh, it was Keith’sidea! All his! I wanted to leave!”

“You would’ve left without me?” Hunk said, pouting. He placed a hand on his chest. “Buddy, I’m hurt.”

Lance reached a hand towards him. “No, no, buddy! I would’ve found you first and then booked it!”

Hunk thought for a moment before nodding. “Accepted.”

“I told you guys there were so such things as ghosts,” PIdge said, exasperated.

Keith finally let him go to turn around. “But we did make contact with the ghosts!”

“Yeah!” Lance nodded, fervently, backing up what Keith was saying. “There was a ghost and it touchedme!”

Pidge squinted and looked between them while Hunk’s face screwed up in horror. “How did this hypothetical ghost make contact?”

“There was a lot of scratching noises, like it was in the walls and, again, it touched me!”

Pidge's suspicion fell from their face, expression blank. They smacked their lips together and looked at Hunk. The big guy losing the horrified look on his face, lighting up in relief and understanding. Pidge blinked slowly before bringing up a hand to rub at their forehead, pointing their other hand toward the cabinet doors. “I found your fucking ghost, morons.”

As one, Keith and Lance turned to look and found a little mouse cowering in front of the cabinet. It paced in front of the doors, little claws scrabbling at the wood, trying to find its way in.

Lance felt blood rush to his face and shared a look with Keith, who was also red from the tips of his ears to where it disappeared under the collar of his shirt. He cleared his throat, tearing his eyes away from Keith to look at Pidge and Hunk sheepishly. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.”

“It’s a good thing you got the lights going,” Keith piped in, cheeks still red.

Hunk’s nose wrinkled. “Actually, we didn’t.”

“What do you mean?” Lance asked.

“When we got there everything was fine. Nothing looked out of place and we didn’t know what to fix, so we just left and were going to tell Coran in the morning.”

“The lights came back on when we were walking back and heard you yahoos screaming,” Pidge finished.

Lance took a deep breath. Nerves fried and muscles sore from being so tense. That entire fiasco might have been a mouse but no. Just no. He’s not risking it. He got up and helped Keith up, a single-minded mission to get the fuck out of dodge.

“Okay, we’re all leaving.” He grabbed their backpacks and tossed them to their owners and started shooing them out the door despite Pidge’s protests and Hunk’s comments about cleaning up. “Let’s go.” Next to them another painting from the art wall fell. “NOW!”

A/N: okay, yes, it might be a day late for Halloween but in my defense I got sick and my body snuck up on me and hit me over the head with a club

[hispeculiartreasure]

All We’ve Got is Time - Chapter One | B.B.

In a world where Bucky never falls off a train and Steve lives after crashing the plane, Bucky is trying to adjust to a new peace-time normal. Spring 1946, Reader starts a brand new typist position in one of the many New York office buildings after being displaced from her factory job once the war ended. An unconventional friendship starts which leads to all the romance and fluff.

Title: All We’ve Got is Time

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

AU: If They’d Survived/Window Washer!Bucky Barnes

Rating: General Audiences

Word count:1,944

Chapter 1/24

Warnings: Slight peril? But really none, enjoy the set-up😊 

Series Masterlist

Fiddling with the sleeves of your new blouse, you wait for the elevator to reach the sixth floor. You hate yourself for fidgeting but you can’t help it today. This new position is a step up for you, making a good first impression is important. If this doesn’t work out, you don’t know what you’re going to do.

As the doors slide open, you check the waistband of your wide-legged pants once more before approaching the front desk. Seated on a high stool behind the desk is a woman who you would describe as the epitome of prim and proper. Her dark dress buttoned up to her neck, lapels ironed, her hair pulled tight with every strand in place. Behind her are rows and rows of desks, young women flitting around the office, running to offices that line the edge of the bullpen.

“May I help you?” she inquires, her voice stiff.

With a nervous nod you say, “Yes, ma’am. It’s my first day. I’m Paul Anderson’s new typist?”

She hums and flips through a bound book on her desk. “Yes, I see that. I am Miriam Flannery, Office Manager. I oversee every typist and secretary here. Allow me to show you the office before you get started.” Rising, Flannery walks - more like stalks - through the bullpen, doling information out to you in a monotone voice.

The entire eastern wall is covered in windows, bathing the office in gorgeous natural light. At least you weren’t going to be stuck under fluorescent lights in a cave somewhere. That New York City view could cheer anyone up. You had only been here for a few weeks, but the familiarity of the skyline steadies you a bit. Slowly you tune back in to Flannery’s monologue.

“. . they will process your initial paperwork. Here is the mailroom, where you can also retrieve supplies. Next to it is the breakroom, there is coffee and a refrigerator to store your lunch. Here is the filing room, where we store paperwork for all of the corporate offices. Later on, one of the other girls will show you filing protocol.” You barely had a chance to see anything as Mrs. Flannery waved her hands in general directions, keeping a swift pace.

She stops at a desk directly next a window, an office door a few paces off. “This is your desk. You have been provided with a top-of-the-line, brand new Remington Rand typewriter. Please take care of it, the replacement process is not enjoyable.” Flannery turns around sharply, eyeing you from behind thick-framed glasses. “Now a few of my ground rules.”

She holds a finger up, “One: This is a place of business. I expect you to handle yourself with class and decorum at every moment of the day. Vulgarity is frowned upon.” Two fingers are held up, “Two: Punctuality is a necessity in our business. We start on the dot and expect everyone in the office to subscribe to this practice.” A third finger joins, “Three: Personal visitors are prohibited. As I said, this is an office, not a lovers’ lane. Finally: If you do your work and do it well we will not have any issues. Understood?” Though feeling slightly dazed, you nod which seems to satisfy the office manager. “If you have questions, I will be in the reception area.” The tall woman marches back to the front desk, not leaving any room for said questions.

Before you even have a chance to set your handbag down, a short, balding man emerges from the office immediately adjacent to your desk. “Hey there, Betty right?” You politely correct him, honestly believing he was mistaken. “Ah, I get women’s names mixed up all the time. I see long hair and painted face and it all blends together. I’m Paul. Come on in, let’s go over your job duties.”

Ignoring the irritation in your gut you follow him into the smoky office, doing your best to suppress a cough. The space is an obvious homage to Anderson’s glory days. Old sports memorabilia takes up an entire wall, next to which are several framed certificates and plaques. Someone liked for people to be aware of his success. Always a great sign in a superior, right?

You sit in one of the uncomfortable leather chairs in front of his desk while Anderson settles in behind it. After exchanging pleasantries about commutes and weather, he delivers a well-practiced speech about the company, their goals for the fiscal year and quarter, etc. Information you’re already aware of, but must politely nod to as if it was all new.

“The job is pretty simple,” Anderson continues. “Sit in on any meetings I have and take notes. Transcribe letters I dictate to you. Monitor my correspondence. Now, make sure everything is perfect. I get a lot of mail so I expect you to read through everything and let me know when I need to respond. I’ve been told you’re a firecracker, but try to tone that down here. Things are easier on everyone if you keep your thoughts to yourself and do the work. What else is there. . . oh, in my experience, women just make coffee better than us men, so I may ask you to do that from time to time. I think that about covers it. Sometimes things pop up, but I trust you’ll be flexible, yeah?”

“I will do my best, sir.”

“Alrighty!” Anderson stands from his chair, buttoning his jacket. “It’s been nice to meet ya, Ruth. I feel like we’re gonna work well together,” he reaches out for a handshake which you return firmly. Possibly a little too firmly.

“Not Ruth,” you remind him. “But I sure hope so.” You move to leave when Anderson stops you.

“Just a little tip for ya? Try to look more like a lady, sweet-cheeks. Spend your first week’s pay on some new dresses,” your boss adds as he leads you out of his office. Hot blood blazes through your veins and it takes everything in you to give your boss a tight-lipped smile and nod. No matter how much you want to shove all the papers off of his desk and tell him to go to hell, you know this job was too vital. You had to keep in mind that you were lucky to be here at all.

He closes his door and you sigh, wondering what the hell you’ve gotten yourself into. The clicking of heels alerts you to yet someone else approaching you. Although this sight was far friendlier than the last two. Her fiery red hair was coiffed perfectly in the latest style and her eyes were bright green and warm. She props a hip against your desk, leaning in with a smile.

“You working for Anderson?”

“Sure am.”

“I’m Suzy, I sit right over there,” she gestures to a desk not too far from your own.

You introduce yourself, exchanging a small handshake. “Nice to meet you, Suzy.”

“Word to the wise, he’ll never get your name right no matter how many times you tell him. He just picks a common one and moves on. He knows you’re a typist, but he’ll still ask you to make him coffee, he likes it black in the biggest cup you can find,” Suzy takes in a deep breath, “Everyday at 2:30 he has a phone call with his mistress, so don’t go into his office until 3:15 unless you wanna reason to gouge your eardrums. On Fridays his wife makes him the worst smelling casserole in the world for lunch, so steer clear of him or he’ll try to make you take it. ”

All you manage is a blink. “Did you. . . work for him at some point?”

“Thankfully no, but I’ve watched him fire four typists in the last three months. It’d be nice to have someone stick around for a while.”

That’s encouraging.

“But don’t worry,” she lays a gentle hand on your arm. “If you follow Flannery’s rules, do what Anderson asks, and keep your head down you’ll be fine. Flannery’s a fuddy-duddy, but she’s fair for the most part. I’ve been working here the longest out of any of the girls here, so holler if you need anything. I’ll let ya get settled in.”

The moment Suzy walks away, Anderson pokes his head out, needing you to take notes during a phone call that had just come in. You scurry in with a pad and pencil and furiously take notes of the hour-long phone call. Anderson tasks you with typing up the notes and dealing with information that needs to be forwarded to other retailers and suppliers. Before you know it, it’s lunchtime and the office slowly began to quiet as everyone took their breaks. You hear the chatter of several women in the break-room but you can’t tackle social hour today. From the moment you had stepped in the door you were overwhelmed with massive amounts of information and your brain had almost reached its capacity for processing.

As soon as Anderson leaves his office to attend lunch, you lay your head against the desk, inhaling deeply, hoping to calm yourself. The pile of notes you had taken during your first meeting mocks you, begs to be organized and typed - you know the more time that passes since the meeting, the more confused you’ll be by your own shorthand. You ghost your hands over the nicest typewriter you’ve ever seen, admiring the shiny keys and smooth roll. You insert a sheet of paper and roll it to the correct indentation.

You poise your hands above the keys to begin typing when a dark figure falls outside the window nearest your desk. You let out a small cry, thinking someone must have jumped from the rooftop and was plummeting to the sidewalk below. Leaping from your chair you press your face to the glass, trying to find whomever had jumped. Much to your surprise he was right beneath your windowsill, holding on to the ledge tightly. He was yelling at someone above him, though his words were lost through the thick glass. Though you could imagine the colorful language you’d be using in a similar situation.

Briefly he struggles to gain a foothold against the brick below him, his feet slipping every so often which threatens to take ten years off of your life. Oddly enough, he maintains a cool temperament the whole time, face blank of emotion, fear seemingly nonexistent. Finally he seems stable enough to release one hand from the ledge, reaching down to grab a leather strap dangling from his harness you hadn’t noticed before. Seconds later, the strap is anchored to a rod next to the window. Now that he seems to be out of danger for the time being, you notice an identical leather strap attached to the opposite side of the window - and then the pieces fall into place. Someone had been careless with the window-washer rigging and this man had nearly paid dearly for it. He looks up again, catching sight of you still pressed against the glass, eyes wide with worry.

Then this man has the audacity to smile at you? Like he hadn’t just about plummeted at least fifteen stories to his death? Crystal blue eyes peer up at you beneath dark loose locks of hair hanging over his forehead. Then he gives you a thumbs up - you’re guessing to let you know he’s okay - and he rappels down to the ground floor of the building. And as mysteriously as he drops into your life, he’s gone. You glance around the office, still completely alone.

Well. . . what a first day.

Chapter Two

A/N: Ahhh I cannot believe I’m doing this. Welcome to the beginning of my very first full-blown series as well as my first time foraying into the world that is Bucky Barnes. I tried to keep this to a oneshot, but then 10k turned into 15k and 15k is on it’s way to 20k. . . apparently these guys just have a lot to say. I’m hoping to post once a week on Fridays, schedule permitting. I’ll let you know how many parts there will be as soon as I know, I promise. If you’d like a tag, just let me know!

Now some other people that need attention. . . @ursulaismymiddlename​ for encouraging me to pursue writing Bucky when I feel oh-so-unworthy of this character. @abovethesmokestacks​ for fanning the flame of this idea since I first threw the idea at her in a casual chat. She has literally been here for this from the start and has been the sweetest of soundboards. Pia also created the GORGEOUS above moodboard for this fic. I am not worthy. Then there is my personal hype-woman @barnesrogersvstheworld​ who has read over this fic and listened to me whine and convinced me to turn this into a series rather than jamming it into a oneshot. Love you ladies so much. This wouldn’t exist without you! ❤

Tags: @moderapoppins @lookwhatyoumademequeue @crazinessgraveyardsandcartoons @thinkwritexpress-official @fearless2tobeme @laneygthememequeen @past-perfect-future-tense @drhughgrection @wildsageleon @promarvelfangirl @connorshero @anditwasjustus @p3nny4urth0ught5 @just-add-butter @usernamemingmei @the-canary @thorfanficwriter @blueskiesbleakeyes @silverwing2522 @satansmushroom @nerd-without-a-cause @firewolf-marvels @reginaphlanageadams

[englishlistwords]

1. THORN

Have you ever seen a place that calls itself “ye olde whatever”? As it happens, that’s not a Y, or, at least, it wasn’t supposed to be. Originally, it was an entirely different letter called thorn, which derived from the Old English runic alphabet, Futhark.

Thorn, which was pronounced exactly like the 'th' in its name, is actually still around today in Icelandic. We replaced it with 'th' over time—thorn fell out of use because Gothic-style scripting made the letters Y and thorn look practically identical. And, since French printing presses didn’t have thorn anyway, it just became common to replace it with a Y.

2. WYNN

Another holdover from the Futhark runic alphabet, wynn was adapted to the Latin alphabet because it didn’t have a letter that quite fit the 'w' sound that was common in English. You could stick two Us (technically Vs, since Latin didn’t have U either) together, like in equus, but that wasn’t exactly right.

Over time, though, the idea of sticking two Us together actually became quite popular, enough so that they literally became stuck together and became the letter W (which, you’ll notice, is actually two Vs).

3. YOGH

Yogh stood for a sort of throaty noise that was common in Middle English words that sounded like the 'ch' in Bach or Scottish loch.

French scholars weren’t fans of our weird non-Latin letters and started replacing all instances of yogh with “gh” in their texts. When the throaty sound turned into 'f' in Modern English, the 'gh's were left behind.

4. ASH

You’re probably familiar with this guy from old-fashioned Greek or Roman style text, especially the kind found in churches. It’s even still used stylistically in words today, like æther and æon.

What you may not know, however, is that at one time the ae grapheme (as it’s now known) was an honorary English letter back in the days of Old English. It still had the same pronunciation and everything, it was just considered to be part of the alphabet and called æsc or ash after the ash Futhark rune, for which it was used as a substitute when transcribing into Latin letters.

5. ETH

Eth is kind of like the little brother to thorn. Originating from Irish, it was meant to represent a slightly different pronunciation of the “th” sound, more like that in “thought” or “thing” as opposed to the one found in “this” or “them.” (The first is the voiceless dental fricative, the second is the voiced dental fricative.)

Note that, depending on your regional accent, there may not be much of a difference (or any at all) in the two pronunciations anyway, but that’s Modern English. Back in the old days, the difference was much more distinct. As such, you’d often see texts with both eth and thorn depending on the required pronunciation. Before too long, however, people just began using thorn (and later “th”) for both and so eth slowly became unnecessary.

6. AMPERSAND

Today we just use it for stylistic purposes, but the ampersand has had a long and storied history in English, and was actually frequently included as a 27th letter of the alphabet as recently as the 19th century.

In fact, it’s because of its placement in the alphabet that it gets its name. Originally, the character was simply called and or sometimes et (from the Latin word for and, which the ampersand is usually stylistically meant to resemble). However, when teaching children the alphabet, the & was often placed at the end, after Z, and recited as “and per se and,” meaning “and in and of itself” or “and standing on its own.”

So you’d have “w, x, y, z, and, per se, and.” Over time, the last bit morphed into “ampersand,” and it stuck even after we quit teaching it as part of the alphabet.

7. INSULAR G

This letter (referred to as insular G or Irish G because it didn’t have a fancy, official name) is sort of the grandfather of the Middle English version of yogh. Originally an Irish letter, it was used for the previously mentioned zhyah/jhah pronunciation that was later taken up by yogh, though for a time both were used.

It also stood alongside the modern G (or Carolingian G) for many centuries, as they represented separate sounds. The Carolingian G was used for hard 'g' sounds, like growth or good, yogh was used for 'ogh' sounds, like cough or tough, and insular g was used for words like measure or vision.

As Old English transformed into Middle English, insular g was combined with yogh and, as mentioned earlier, was slowly replaced with the now-standard 'gh' by scribes, at which point insular g/yogh were no longer needed and the Carolingian G stood alone (though the insular G is still used in modern Irish).

8. “THAT”

Much like the way we have a symbol/letter for and, we also once had a similar situation with that, which was a letter thorn with a stroke at the top. It was originally just a shorthand, an amalgamation of thorn and T (so more like “tht”), but it eventually caught on and got somewhat popular in its own right (even outliving thorn itself), especially with religious institutions. There’s an excellent chance you can find this symbol somewhere around any given church to this day.

9. ETHEL

Similar to Æ/ash/æsc above, the digraph for OE was once considered to be a letter as well, called ethel. It wasn’t named after someone’s dear, sweet grandmother, but the Furthark rune Odal, as œ was its equivalent in transcribing.

It was traditionally used in Latin loan words with a long E sound, such as subpœna or fœtus. Even federal was once spelled with an ethel. (Fœderal.) These days, we’ve just replaced it with a simple E.

10. TIRONIAN “OND”

Long before there were stenographers, a Roman by the name of Marcus Tullius Tiro invented a shorthand system called Tironian notes. It was a fairly simple system that was easily expanded, so it remained in use by scribes for centuries after Tiro’s death.

One of the most useful symbols (and an ancestor to the ampersand) was the et symbol—a simple way of tossing in an “and.” It was sometimes drawn in a way that’s now a popular stylistic way of drawing the number 7. When used by English scribes, it became known as ond, and they did something very clever with it. If they wanted to say “bond,” they’d write a B and directly follow it with a Tironian ond. For a modern equivalent, it’d be like if you wanted to say your oatmeal didn’t have much flavor and you wrote that it was “bl&.”

The trend grew popular beyond scribes practicing shorthand and it became common to see it on official documents and signage, but since it realistically had a pretty limited usage and could occasionally be confusing, it eventually faded away.

11. LONG S

You may have seen this in old books or other documents. Sometimes the letter S will be replaced by a character that looks a bit like an F. This is what’s known as a “long s,” which was an early form of a lowercase S. And yet the modern lowercase S (then referred to as the “short s”) was still used according to a complicated set of rules (but most usually seen at the end of a word), which led to many words (especially plurals) using both. It was purely a stylistic lettering, and didn’t change pronunciation at all. It was also kind of silly and weird, since no other letters behaved that way, so around the beginning of the 19th century, the practice was largely abandoned and the modern lowercase S became king.

12. ENG

For this particular letter, we can actually point to its exact origin. It was invented by a scribe named Alexander Gill the Elder in the year 1619 and meant to represent a velar nasal, which is found at the end of words like king, ring, thing, etc.

Gill intended for the letter to take the place of 'ng' entirely, and while it did get used by some scribes and printers, it never really took off—the Carolingian G was pretty well-established at that time and the language was beginning to morph into Modern English, which streamlined the alphabet instead of adding more to it. Eng did manage live on in the International Phonetic Alphabet, however.

[degenerate-perturbation]

Chapters: 11/26(?) Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Female Amell/Female Surana Characters: Dragon Age: Awakening Ensemble Additional Tags: Established Relationship, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Self-Harm, Blood Magic Summary: Amell and Surana are out of the Circle, and are now free to build a life together. But when the prison doors fly open, what do you have in common with the one shackled next to you, save for the chains that bound you both?

She didn’t ask, Loriel would tell herself, after. She never asked.

But that was later, much later. For a long time, everything was fine.

After the bloody clearing, Loriel fell into her work the way one might fall down the stairs—not all at once, but once the process had begun, it became almost impossible to stop.

It was almost like being back in Kinloch. She spent all day surrounded by stone, studying magic. Only now it was on her own terms, something she was doing because she wanted to. Her freedom looked an awful lot like her prison, but it didn’t matter what it looked like. What mattered was what it was.

And of course she still had Yvanne.

Most days she woke later than she liked, with the whole morning having slipped away from her. The guilt of having done that was enough to rattle her out of any desire for breakfast, so she would go without. She would spend the day at her work, following one idea and then another. It went intolerably slow. Sometimes she couldn’t tell if an experiment had failed because her idea was bad, or because she’d done something wrong. It was just so hard to do this alone. But asking Yvanne to help was unthinkable (though she had promised, hadn’t she? She had promised to help.)

And when she could no longer stand going back and forth with herself about whether her ideas or her methods were bad, she would go back to her bedchambers. Yvanne would be there, along with a dinner in any possible condition between ‘slightly cooled’ and ‘stone cold and beginning to curdle.’ They would talk, or rather, Yvanne would talk. Loriel would nod along and eat her congealing meal, hardly tasting it. Her mind would be on the project she’d abandoned downstairs, churning with ideas for new ways to try it, if maybe she should return to an earlier form, if maybe she was struggling fruitlessly and Avernus had figured it out decades ago and it would have been faster simply to ask him.

Yvanne would finish telling her about her day, and ask her about hers, and Loriel would shrug and report that it had been pretty uneventful, really. Just work. And they’d maybe break out an aged bottle of red, and go to bed, and have sex, and afterwards Loriel would lie awake and think of blight and blood and spirit, and eventually, often when the dawn rays were already beginning to break over the horizon, she would sleep.

And then it would begin again. And again. And again.

—

Her library grew, as she requisitioned books from distant libraries, or else copied treatises herself. Her quantity of notes multiplied precipitously, until she could no longer easily keep track of them herself—and it wasn’t as though she could hire an assistant. Nobody else could understand her shorthand, anyway.

Letters from Avernus weren’t frequent, but always illuminating. Rarest of all were cryptic scrawls coming from the Architect. These generally raised more questions than they answered. She wondered if he wrote them himself, or if Utha or Seranni scribed for him. Perhaps Velanna would recognize her sister’s handwriting if she saw it—but Loriel never showed her. The thought of going out and talking to people, of being seen by them, turned her stomach.

She still had the opaque black crystal the Architect had delivered to her with Velanna. It had seemed so exciting at first, like it was surely the answer to everything. But the longer she tried to puzzle out its secrets the less she understood it. The rare times she had contact with the Architect, he was less than helpful. He kept assuming that she knew all sorts of things that she didn’t. When she asked in writing, his response WOULD explain the parts she already thought were obvious. Useless. Avernus, being nearly two centuries old, was bad enough, but the Architect was not old but ancient, and his humanity was further behind him.

She left the crystal on her desk, until looking at it made her sick with anger at herself. Then she shoved it in a drawer where she couldn’t see it anymore.

Probably she would have made more progress if she kept things better organized, but she’d never needed to be particularly organized before, and now she had no idea how to do it. Nobody had ever taught it to her. Every time it occurred to her that today would be the day she put things in order, it only took a minute of looking around at the mess for her to despair and give up.

It was pathetic. It wasn’t as though she’d never done original magical research before, but the Calling was another beast altogether. There were so many moving parts, and the more she learned the more confused she got. She needed a break, but a break simply wasn’t possible.

Because the clock was ticking. Every day she didn’t understand the Calling was another day that the unthinkable might happen. That one of them might begin to hear the song.

Alistair had said thirty years, but that had been at most thirty years. And even if the average was twenty, twenty-five, that didn’t mean it couldn’t be as few as five, for some people. Was it written down somewhere, how long each Warden lasted before the Calling claimed them? Where would she find such a document, if it was?

Yvanne still had awful darkspawn dreams. Did that mean she was more vulnerable to the Blight than other Wardens? Did that mean the Calling would come to her sooner? Did sooner mean twenty years rather than thirty—or as few as five? How much time did they have?

What made one person vulnerable to the Blight, and another one hardy to it? What made one person survive the Joining, and another one perish? What made one person’s blood different from another’s?

Or was it in the blood at all? Maybe it was something else. Some quality of the spirit, the same thing that made some children mages and spared others, perhaps. What made spirits different? Maybe Justice would have known, but Justice was gone. Justice was gone because of her. She and Yvanne pretended like it was because of Anders, but really it was because of her. Anders was gone because of her, too. What a farce. What a ridiculous, ugly farce. It was a wonder Yvanne didn’t hate her. It was all such a wonder, the fact that they still loved each other, such a wonder. It made her exhausted.

But what else was she going to do, with the time left to her? This was all she was good at.

Death’s child could do this one thing. She couldn’t do everything that was asked of her, not even most things. But maybe she could do this. Just this one thing. Just this one.

—

The thing about their arguments was that they really weren’t all that frequent. Most of the time they got along fine. Most of the time they lay down together, and rose up together, and kissed each other fondly. And it was not the most exciting of all possible lives, but wasn’t that what they’d fought for? Most days, when she was with Yvanne, Loriel could half-believe herself happy.

The problem was that it was always the same argument.

Yvanne would drink too much, and Loriel wouldn’t say anything, because it wasn’t her place. Yvanne would always do exactly what Yvanne wanted, and all attempts to prevent her would be ultimately fruitless. It still put Loriel on edge. So every time Yvanne brought it up—she only did it when she was drunk—Loriel was already on edge, so who could fault her for reacting the way she did?

“We could leave all this behind,” Yvanne would say. It was what she always said, as though wheedling would do it, as though she could wear her down. And usually Loriel would demure and conciliate. She’d always been so good at it.

But today she lost her temper. “That is not an option,” she snapped. “I’m not like you. I don’t give up on things.”

As soon as she said it she held her breath, waiting to see Yvanne draw back in hurt and offense. But instead she just rolled her eyes.

“That’s not even true,” Yvanne said. “You’ve given up on lots of things. You’ve given up on almost everything.”

Loriel stiffened. “Just what, exactly, have I given up on?”

Yvanne made a broad, flicking gesture around the room. “What haven’t you given up on?” She started counting off on her fingers. “The rest of the world. This Keep. Everyone we ever knew.”

Her mind went instantly to Anders. You gave up on him, too,  she thought poisonously. Faster than I did. But Yvanne wasn’t done.

“You know you keep accusing me of running away,” she said sardonically. “But notice how I’m still here. I stayed. I never ran, I always stayed with you. It was always, only, ever, you.”

You wanted to run, though, Loriel thought. You wanted to.

“All I ever wanted was a home in the world, with you,” Yvanne said. She’d said it before. Many times. “But you’re not with me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Loriel said, exasperated. It was a lie. “I haven’t gone anywhere.”

“You have, though.”

No more than you have, she thought. It was almost as though Yvanne didn’t see her at all, when she looked at her. What did she see?

“All I ever wanted was to be with you,” Yvanne repeated distantly. “There wasn’t room for anything else.”

But I am with you! She had to say it out loud, but her throat was so tight. She had to say it. She had to. If she could just— “But I am with you,” she echoed. “I’m here. I’m not gone.”

“Not yet.” Yvanne put her hands over her face. “Maker, I’m so afraid. All the time I’m afraid.”

A cold pit of ice dropped into Loriel’s stomach. This was not a standard part of The Argument. “Afraid. You’re afraid of me.” Was it so shocking? Everyone else was afraid of her. She had made herself frightening. She had done it on purpose.

Yvanne’s head snapped up. “ Of you? You bloody idiot—I’m afraid for you! I’m afraid I’m going to walk in on you in a pool of your own blood and won’t be able to bring you back. I’ve researched so many advanced healing spells, just in case, but it might not end up mattering. You can’t bring back the dead.”

“I’m not going to die,” Loriel scoffed. “Not any time soon, anyway.”

“You can’t know that.”

As many as thirty? As few as five?

“I know it as much as anyone can know anything,” she retorted. “I know what I’m doing. I’m not taking any undue risks.”

“Now that’s rich!” Yvanne said scornfully. “That might be the boldest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Now that got under Loriel’s skin. What right did she have to say that? And to say it as though it was self-evident. As though Loriel were simply being obstinate in not acknowledging it. As though it were anyone’s business but her own what she did with her own life and her own body.

“You don’t own me,” she said, too harshly. “I own me.”

“Wasn’t saying I did,” Yvanne muttered.

“No, I rather think you were,” Loriel said icily. “It isn’t what you said, but it is what you meant.”

Yvanne huffed, threw her hands up slightly. “Excuse me for suggesting that people with lives as tangled up together as ours might owe each other something!”

Then maybe they shouldn’t have gotten so tangled.

“And I owe you what, exactly?” she said instead. “To do with myself as you will, simply because you don’t trust me?”

Yvanne took a long time to respond. Then, quietly, “I don’t often ask you for things. But I’m asking you for this. Please.”

Loriel wanted to ask her what in the Maker-forsaken void she was talking about. Did Yvanne think Loriel would be any different outside the comfortable confines of Vigil’s Keep? Did she think the poison was in the flagstones?

For a brief moment she considered it. Abandoning her work, come what may. The Calling would take them some day, and she would never know which day—only that when it took one of them, it would take them both.

She thought about the great wide worlds, its endless sky, its infinite varieties. It choked her with its vastness. Who would she be out there?

“No,” she said eventually. “No, I’m sorry. I can’t do that.”

“Right,” Yvanne muttered, in the tone that meant the argument was over. It was the answer she’d been expecting. “Course you can’t.”

Loriel shrugged helplessly. She couldn’t. She was sorry, she was. But she really, really couldn’t.

—

Her newest idea was to test everything on rats. Surely it would have better results than trying to recreate the Blight in a glass vial. The Wardens had a vial of Archdemon blood, which had to be added dropwise to darkspawn blood, along with a dozen other things, to function in the Joining. She could infect the rats, and study them, try to cure them. She would regret their deaths, but it would all be worth it in the end.

A part of her knew she didn’t understand the Blight well enough to even bother with the rats. But she was so tired of failing. After all, Avernus had most of his success with live subjects.

Catching the rats was the hard part, requiring an elaborate series of paralysis glyphs and sense crystals. Then there was the matter of keeping them contained, fed, and watered. She spent weeks figuring out some way to manage the rats, all the time her mind wandering, such that the work of a few hours stretched into a full week.

In the end it didn’t matter. All the rats she infected with Blight died right away, and she didn’t know why. Had she miscalculated the dose? Were rats fundamentally different from people, in some way? But animals could be blighted, so that couldn’t be the case. Could one of the lower animals be made into a broodmother? Could rat-darkspawn be created?

The thought of trying to get more rats to try and find out was more than she could bear. She sat splayed in her chair, wondering if perhaps she could find a breeding pair and have them produce offspring for her, but in order to make that work she would need to figure out some kind of accelerated growth spell. It was surely doable, in theory, but it would involve creation magic, a field she knew nearly nothing about.

(Yvanne knew about creation magic. Yvanne had promised to help her with this, once. She had promised.)

So she abandoned the idea entirely, and returned to glass vials. Months of effort, wasted.

She sat back in her chair, closed her eyes. Tired. So tired.

You don’t have to do this, Yvanne had said. I’m doing this for you, Loriel had said. So many times she had said that.

And it was true. It was! She was doing this for her, for the both of them. For all the Wardens. For all the people of Thedas. Because she was the Hero of Ferelden, and a piss-poor one at that, and she owed this to them. And to her Wardens. And to Yvanne, and to herself.

It was true. Wasn’t it? It was. It was! She was doing this for her. For everyone, but really just for the two of them. Who gave a damn about anyone else? The world had turned its back on them, over and over. Loriel had struggled so hard to save them, and were they grateful? They weren’t. Was it so wrong to want to do something for the one she loved?

(If Yvanne really loved her she would have been grateful. If she really loved her she would have supported her. If she really loved her she would have been able to see—)

—

That year had been a late winter followed by an early summer, and Loriel nearly missed the whole spring.

Months later (who knew how many). The same argument.

Yvanne had said: How do you think I feel?

How you feel, Loriel thought scornfully. “How you feel!” she said, not nearly as scornfully. “It’s always about you, somehow. Always about Yvanne and what Yvanne wants and how I can give it to her, that’s always been the story. Maybe if you really loved me—”

She broke off. That wasn’t fair. It wasn't fair and it wasn't true. Yvanne loved her. Loriel loved her back. That much was true. That was the one eternal constant of the universe.

It wasn’t fair and it wasn't true, and when Loriel could think straight she remembered it. But she was so tired, so exhausted that the world bent and twisted before her eyes and she couldn't tell truth from darkspawn blood.

She pinched the bridge of her nose . “I’m...I’m sorry. I’m not thinking straight. I didn’t mean that.”

Yvanne seemed to soften. More than anything Loriel ached for comfort. Not even magic. A touch would do. She was reminded of the time at Redcliffe, when she had first done blood magic, and all she had wanted was reassurance that everything could be alright. Yvanne hadn’t given it then.

“You’re right. You aren’t thinking straight,” she said, not giving it now. “So let me know when you are.”

Usually at this point Loriel would storm off in a huff to go work, and in a few hours she would come back and everything would be forgiven. Because that was what love was about, wasn’t it? It was about pain. It was about forgiveness despite the pain. It was about the choice to love and forgive and forget the pain. But this time it was Yvanne who managed to storm away first, except she didn’t storm. She walked calmly and closed the door quietly, not in anger, but resignation. Loriel was left alone in their chambers, the last place where they still shared a life.

(Maybe if you really loved me—)

No, that wasn’t true, Yvanne loved her. ( But she couldn’t see her anymore .)

Loriel needed to sit down, but there were so many articles of clothing on the nearest chair that she sat on the bed (their well-used bed, that had so delighted her when this had all begun) instead. And even sitting took too much energy, so she lay back. Maybe she could sleep for a while. Just a little while, so she could think straight.

But sleep didn’t come. Her racing thoughts were wide awake, and hungry, and had no pity for her.

She had always been afraid that she wasn’t good enough for beautiful, vivacious, lovely Yvanne. That one of these days Yvanne was going to figure it out and leave her. For a long time she’d been holding her breath, waiting for the blow.

But maybe that wasn’t it. Maybe it wasn’t that she wasn’t good enough for Yvanne. Maybe it was that she was just all wrong for her ( wrong wrong wrong, it slithered through her mind like crawling worms in the dirt), maybe they only fit together at all because they’d grown together like the intertwining roots of trees. She thought of vines twisted together so tightly they had fused ( parasites, living off each other, sucking the life out of each other, unable to survive any other way)

Now they’d traded the Circle for the Wardens. And love born of terror, perpetuated in bondage, what was that worth?

What did they have in common, anyway? Their whole lives. Their magic. What else?

She stared into the darkness, wishing she knew some spell to end all thought.

(What else? What else? What else?)

—

It wasn’t about the blood. It was about the sacrifice.

In that sense, to call it blood magic was a misnomer.

You can’t get something for nothing. This was the oldest rule in the book, from back before there were books, before writing, before language. It was as simple as anything, and it was as true of entropy magic as of blood magic.

Loriel knew all about entropy. The rule of entropy was this: you can’t get something for nothing.

That was why it was impossible to draw her own blood, store it, restore herself, and use it later. Blood stored in a vial, divorced from the pain and loss it had caused, had no power. The blood itself was inert. It was the pain that mattered.

She had to suffer. It had to be this way. It could never have been any other way.

Life was pain. It wasn’t all pain. But it was pain, sure enough. And pain was life, for only living things could suffer. For every sting of the blade, she knew herself to be alive. Here she was in the depths of the underground, nearer to the deep roads (the darkspawn) than to the sunlight, but while she hurt she lived.

Yvanne didn’t understand that. Yvanne was a healer. She didn’t understand the necessity of pain. She never had.

But you can’t get something for nothing. That was the rule. (Loriel knew all about rules. She had always been so good at following the rules. So, so good, and what had it gotten her?)

Her current project involved attempts to refine blight from blood—her own, a darkspawn’s, and an archdemon’s. Each Warden-Commander was entrusted with a vial of Archdemon blood, a single drop of which was used in the Joining cup. Loriel had it here, a measly quantity of it. It ought to have been refilled when Urthemiel had fallen, but nobody had been there to tell her to take its blood. She hadn’t known she was supposed to do that, and now here she was wasting the small quantity she had away on her useless experiments. (But that could be a good thing, that could mean that when she used it all up there would be no more Wardens and if there were no Wardens that meant there was no Warden-Commander and if there was no need for a Warden-Commander then Loriel could—go where? Do what?)

She wanted to understand what made Warden’s blood different from darkspawn blood, and what made both of them different from archdemon’s blood. She had for days now been heating, distilling, refluxing, heating again, countless hours spent staring at glassware full of the murky stuff, ( half-wondering what it would feel like to take the vials and smash them on the table and feel the shards of glass in her skin ), because surely it couldn’t be a matter of mere concentration. Darkspawn were not Wardens with more Blight inside them. And Archdemons were something different entirely.

Why were all the archdemons dragons? What did dragons have to do with Blight? But no, not dragons—old gods. But why were the old gods in the form of dragons? The Chantry would say that they were false gods of no significance, but even if that were true, why would beings clearly much more powerful than mere animals take those forms? Urthemiel had been the god of beauty; the Architect had been his high priest. Loriel had slain Urthemiel. She had driven a sword—

( she barely knew how to use it, it should have been Yvanne, it should have been her, none of this was meant for her, that was why she was down here in the dark, because she had taken what rightfully ought to have been somebody else’s, because she had transgressed, and now she was being rightfully punished )

—through its skull. She remembered how its bones had cracked. It had already been most of the way to dead by the time she finished it off. She’d hardly contributed to its killing at all.

(she’d picked up the sword, nearly as long as she was tall, because she happened to be nearby, it had just happened, she hadn’t meant to—)

Did the Architect know that? Did he know she had slain his god? Did he still regard the archdemon to be his god? It was no more corrupted than he was. (Would that be Loriel’s fate? Was that the fate of every Warden, to someday become the monsters they fought? What was the difference between them and the monsters, anyway? That wasn’t so bad. She’d been a monster all her life, what would be the difference?)

The bright blade bit into her scarred skin. The veins there were weakening. She would have to pick a new place to cut, soon. Her blood ran hot and warm down her skin. Loriel incanted. Nothing happened.

(What was the Architect’s name? What had he looked like? Who had he been when he had been a man?)

She changed the words of the incantation, then the pronunciation. She changed how she held her fingers. She cast again and again. Nothing happened.

(He deserved it though, that’s what he got, for breaking the rules. Rule-breakers had to be punished, that was the rule. That’s what he, what she deserved. That’s what she deserved, for expecting something for nothing.)

Her blood clotted and the flow stopped. It still hurt, but was that enough? No, it wasn’t, she could tell. The pain was necessary but not sufficient. She needed to bleed to cast spells like this, or else they’d always fail, and she’d have no one but herself to blame.

The knife bit into her flesh again.

(Yvanne didn’t understand, of course she didn’t, how could she?)

She didn’t feel the knife slip from her numb fingers, and though she felt herself slipping, felt herself fall, by the time she hit the floor she had already slipped into something like sleep—but not peace.

She dreamt herself in the Black City, wandering its winding streets and high towers. She knew only that she was desperately searching for something—someone?—that she couldn’t find. When she looked down at her hands they were claws, the bulging veins there black with the same Blight that ran through the gutters and oozed down the walls. It flooded the streets and rose higher and higher, up to her hips and shoulders, in her mouth and her eyes and over her head, and all was black.

—

Loriel woke slowly. First she became aware of her body and the bed it was lying in. At first she didn’t notice anything unusual, and then she did—the absence of pain. Nothing ached or throbbed or stung. She felt better than she’d felt in many months. She was suffused with the vague sense that whatever dreadful thing had been happening, it was over now, if it had ever even happened. Perhaps it had only been a terrible dream.

For a while she let herself float peacefully in the dim twilight of half-sleep, aware enough to relish the glorious lack-of-pain. But finally she had no choice but to open her eyes, and remember everything.

Yvanne sat sleeping in the wooden chair besides the bed. Her cheek pressed against her shoulder, her chin on her chest. It looked singularly uncomfortable.  Loriel wondered why she’d sat there instead of getting into bed with her. She reached out and touched her gently on the elbow.

Yvanne started, her eyes flying open, then relaxing. There were dark circles under her eyes, and they were red-rimmed; she’d been crying, but had stopped some hours ago, presumably when she’d fallen asleep.

“You’re awake,” she managed, “That’s good.”

Loriel coughed hoarsely. Her throat was dry. “How long was I…?”

Yvanne glanced out the window. It was dark, with no trace of either daybreak or sunset. The candles were all extinguished, and all that illuminated the room was a trio of Fade-wisps fluttering around Yvanne’s head like a halo, casting her in an eerie greenish light. “I don’t know. Most of a full day, I think.”

A glass of water stood on the bedside table. Loriel drained it, leaning on her elbow. She opened her mouth to ask what happened, and then closed it. Some of her memory was trickling back, as though after a hard night of drinking. You bloody idiot, I’m afraid for you! I’m afraid I’m going to walk in on you in a pool of your own blood and won’t be able—

Instead she lay back. She knew better than to insult her by apologizing. The fact that she was even thinking of apologizing annoyed her. I’m the one that almost died, and somehow I need to comfort her ?

Eventually Yvanne said, “How do you feel?”

Loriel thought about it. “Good, actually,” she said. “Better than I’ve been. Much better.” Whatever exact combination of healing spells and potions Yvanne had administered, it had really done the trick. She felt like she could think clearly for the first time in...she didn’t even know how long. She was herself again.

She had the sudden traitorous thought—all along Yvanne could have helped her like this, and for whatever reason, she hadn’t.

“That’s good.”

What a funny path life took. Only a handful of years ago their positions had been reversed, and it had been Loriel sitting and fretting at the bedside, feeling helpless and afraid. She didn’t feel helpless or afraid now. She just felt tired—clear-eyed, but so tired.

“Thank you.”

At that Yvanne couldn’t take it anymore. She drew a rattled half-sob of a breath, and suppressed a hiccup. “‘ Thank you’? What was I supposed to do, leave you there?”

It occurred to Loriel how exhausted Yvanne looked. Not just tired, but...older. It could have been only the flickering Fade-light, but—some of the lines on her face looked new. Were they really new, or had Loriel just not been paying attention? Would she have turned to her, years down the road, and been surprised to see an aged face looking back at her?

All at once the guilt crashed over her, so intense it made her nauseous.

It would have been easier if she’d loved her any less.

Did you love me for me , she thought, or because there was no one else? And that thought hurt.

Then she thought, did I love you for you? And that thought hurt much worse.

“Loriel, I…” Yvanne swallowed, staring at her laced fingers between her knees. “Loriel, I can’t do this anymore. Something has to change.”

You’re right, Loriel thought, deciding. It does.

She struggled into a sitting position, and then realized it wasn’t much of a struggle. She was only stiff from sleeping so long. She scooted out of bed and found herself shivering in only a billowing nightgown. She didn’t have to look long for her robe; Yvanne had put it in the top drawer of the northmost chest of drawers. Her feet were cold on the stone floor, but she could live with that.

She went to her desk, rummaged for parchment and ink and quill. It was really more Yvanne’s desk these days, and she kept it in order. She stood as she wrote; the document would not need to be long. It only required her signature, and her seal.

“Do you know where my signet ring is?” Loriel asked.

“Upper right drawer,” Yvanne said automatically. She hadn’t spoken or moved, had only watched Loriel move about the room with uncertain eyes.

She found the ring. “Thank you.” Sealing wax lay in the same container, dark burgundy stuff; blue was more fitting for the Warden-Commander, but red would do. She dripped the wax onto the bottom of the document and pressed her ring into it, leaving an impression of the double-headed griffon symbol of the Wardens. The ink had had time to dry while she’d fumbled with the wax.

She read over what she wrote, once, twice, thrice, just to make sure. But her mind was clear, and short of letting it sit overnight—not an option—she was sure she’d covered all her legal bases.

Yvanne finally rose. “Loriel?” she said hesitantly. “What is that?”

Loriel rolled up the parchment and handed it to her before she had a chance to lose her nerve.

“It is a legal document, signed and sealed by the lawfully appointed Warden-Commander of the Grey Wardens of Ferelden, Arlessa of Amaranthine, and Lady of Soldier’s Peak,” said Loriel. “It states that Warden-Lieutenant Yvanne Amell is abroad on official Grey Warden business of highest priority, and that any attempts to impede her free movements will be met with swift reprisal by the Grey Wardens of Ferelden and the Ferelden Crown. And there’s some more legal jargon at the bottom if you want to review that.” She raised her chin. “I can’t promise it will keep you safe from anything out there, far from it, but it should make public life as a mage on her own a much easier prospect.”

I can’t do this anymore, Yvanne had said. It was her favorite gambit. It meant— I’m doing as I’ve decided. Do whatever you want, but my course is set. Most times in their life it had been a bluff—until Amaranthine.

Well, no more.

“I don’t...what?” Yvanne looked at the parchment, then at her. “I don’t understand.”

“That’s just it, isn’t it?” Loriel said tiredly. “You don’t understand. And you never will.”

She knew it for the truth as she said it. For the nearly twenty years that they had known each other, for all the things they shared, for all that they had walked within each other's very souls, Yvanne would never understand. What did Yvanne know about darkness, about decay? Yvanne grew gardens and built castles in the sky, content to pretend that the world ( their bodies (them)) weren’t falling apart. Yvanne would never understand Loriel, and Loriel—it had become now blindingly obvious—would never understand Yvanne.

Loriel would never understand Yvanne, and she was tired of trying.

For an endless, awful moment they stood suspended in time. Yvanne stared at the parchment, the wheels in her head turning and creaking as it dawned on her, the full significance of what Loriel meant. In that long moment, it dawned on Loriel, too, the magnitude of it. She was standing on a shore, beholding a massive wave rising up to swallow all that she knew, and it had not crashed down on her head yet, but it would, any second now, it would.

“Are you telling me to go?” Yvanne said. Just to make sure. Just in case she’d misunderstood.

Ask me to come with you, Loriel thought then, desperately, as though that was going to save them. If she only asked, Loriel’s resolve would break, and she would have said yes. She would have followed her to the ends of the earth, if only because the prospect of living without her had now become terrifyingly real.

But Yvanne didn’t ask.

She didn’t ask, Loriel would tell herself later. She never asked.

Loriel would remember for the rest of her life the sight of Yvanne clutching the parchment and tearing out of the room. Loriel didn’t know why she would go after this—only that it would be far away, and that she was unlikely to ever see her again. Because she understood as well as Loriel did, what this meant for them—that the farce was finally over, the soap-bubble of their shared dreams well and truly popped. As it had always been destined to be.

For Loriel’s basic nature was that of entropy, and that meant she understood the nature of all things was to, eventually, cease. Every mechanism must someday wind down, and every life must eventually extinguish, and every love must eventually fizzle. You could run and run and run, but entropy would always get you in the end. Loriel had tried denying it, had tried cheating it, but it was no good.

Because you couldn’t get something for nothing. That was what Yvanne couldn’t seem to understand.

And that was why it had to be this way. That was why it had to end.