#their relationship will never not be a source of anguish and fascination for me!!!

[vitasexualiiis]

Mori + Dazai in Dark Era:

Ever since finishing the Dark Era novel in full, I can't stop thinking about the end where Dazai confronts Mori??

After almost every exchange they have, Mori asks Dazai some very leading questions:

"Very well. You have my permission. However, I would like to know why." "Of course, he's a dear ally of ours, but is he worth sending executive-level men to the front line to save?" "I understand your plan, but but in all likelihood, Oda doesn't want help. What do you think of that?" "No matter what the cost, you have to get yourself dirty to keep the Port Mafia going. [...] you must also willingly perform any logically conceivable atrocity. Do you understand what I'm saying?" "What remarkable inference. There is nothing that needs correcting. I have just one thing I'd like to ask: What is wrong with that?" "It's a win-win situation. So why are you so angry?" "We have always brought darkness, violence, and cruelty to this city. Why is that a problem now?" "Stay, or do you have a logical reason for going to him?"

etc., etc. I assume the story is (textually) painting two pictures: one, that Mori is, above all, rational, and will win this argument no matter what. The second, that Dazai is no longer acting rationally, but is being lead by his emotions--something that, up until this point, was something he didn't (intentionally) give into.

Dazai didn't say a word. That was just about the first time he'd ever been unable to articulate his feelings. Logically speaking, Ougai was right, and Dazai was wrong. Ougai's narrowed eyes harbored a tinge of cleverness, as if they could see into his heart. It was the same kind of light that was once in Dazai's eyes when he looked upon his enemies or allies

Obviously Mori is asking these questions so he can refute them, but it does genuinely make me wonder if he has an ulterior motive here? We know that by this point, their relationship has deteriorated. Mori says, "It's not often you come here yourself." Which is a far cry from Dazai being his confidant and right-hand-man in Fifteen.

Are his questions rhetorical? Is he genuinely telling Dazai, "If you can give me a better option, I will take it"? Is he defending himself, knowing that he hurt Dazai immensely? Is it a plea for rationality? Is he testing his loyalty?

Does he want Dazai to realize he's languishing in the Mafia? ("Why are you so angry?") Is he giving him permission to live authentically--outside of the Mafia--by making him admit that he no longer holds its values?

Is he simply laying everything on the table so that Dazai can make the choice he needs to make? Or, is he pushing him away intentionally, knowing that Dazai will hang on until it kills one or both of them?

The thing we need to understand here, is that Mori never hated Dazai. He was (is?) afraid of him, yes, but Mori (STILL!) wants him by his side. Dazai was his confidant, his project, the ace up his sleeve and his heir.

Yes, Mori got the permit, and it was all worth it in his mind, but it's a Pyrrhic victory at best.

Two weeks after Dazai leaves, Mori is STILL described as "listless," and outright refuses to replace his executive seat (which...iirc he never has).

The organization had received an item of great value, something that more than made up for the total pecuniary damage and loss of talented subordinates. That included Dazai's disappearance as well. Logically speaking, the results couldn't have been better. Everything was going according to plan. Ougai folded the document [Oda's Silver Oracle] into a misshapen paper airplane. Then, with his chin still resting on his hand, he threw it. The deformed plane almost immediately crashed into the floor. "Things sure are going to get boring around here..."

Sooo...yeah. It really makes me wonder just what Mori was trying to accomplish with Dazai during all of this, and especially during their final exchange.

Was one of his sacrifices as boss Dazai's presence and loyalty? For the health of the organization? For Dazai's health and happiness?

I dunno! Given what we're shown here, I'm kind of inclined to believe it was a little of everything.

[hanagutierrez]

statement 

My main source of inspiration for the past few months has been my own mental health. I have struggled for my entire life with general anxiety and social anxiety, resulting in selective mutism as a child and difficulty expressing myself and my emotions in a way that other people can understand. As I got older I began to struggle with self-image and my relationship with my body, which I am still learning to work through. Art has always been an escape for me to focus on something other than whatever is going on inside my head, and I began to use it as a tool for self-expression as my skills developed. As I focussed on different aspects of my inspiration (for example, my anxiety or my discomfort), my art styles shifted and changed to accommodate what I had the ability to do, and what I wanted to say, from more abstract styles to surrealism to poetry and written word.

Lately, I have been admiring the works of Sarah Ball, whose portraiture strikes a certain chord in me. Pieces like Elise (2021) and Seyon (2021) depict the subject in a manner that is so simple and easy to look at but still are mesmerizing. With plain, flat backgrounds and shiny, detailed eyes, the paintings depict an anguish that still manages to portray almost an absence in the subject, which resonates with me as someone who experiences dissociation on a near-daily basis. Similarly, works by Arafin Sajedi depict a similar absence in the subject, despite her works being much more vibrantly coloured and detailed, often with realistic, shining eyes that look tear-filled, portraying a sort of misery. Her piece Like a Queen (2013) has been stuck in my head since I first saw it a few years ago. 

Photography is a medium that I have been interested in and fascinated by since I was a child, though I never went further than taking a few photos in my neighbourhood. Works by Leonardo Pucci, in which he often has faceless subjects that are turned away or partially hidden from the camera, and Vivian Maier, who became known posthumously for taking photos without anyone knowing, inspire me in depicting the inherent loneliness that comes with human existence. I have a passion for finding joy and beauty in the mundane, and I would like to use photography to portray the beauty of domesticity. 

I am interested in exploring poetry more as a means of speaking through my art. Constance Merritt has been an inspiration of mine for several years, particularly her poem Invisible Women, Dancing from 2003, as well as Erica Jong and her poem Narcissus, Photographer from 1971. I love how their words flow from simple prose into detailed and enthralling stories. Mitski’s lyrics hit me in a similar way; her words are blunt, but tell part of a story that leaves the listener wondering. (My favourite song of hers is Class of 2013, which I first heard about a month before I graduated high school. The lines “Mom, am I still young? / Can I dream for a few months more?” have stuck with me since.) In Merritt’s, Jong’s, and Mitski’s works, I admire how they all keep their words light and easy enough to read without exhausting the reader with overwhelming words, while their themes are very intense. I would like to involve something similar in my writing, especially while using my mental health as inspiration. 

In all my research and exploration, I have been collecting ideas like dust. I have experimented with new mediums like digital art and embroidery on canvas. I have been sketching ideas and lines of poetry on scrap papers, searching for reference images, and daydreaming constantly, getting lost in my own head while exploring the mountains and valleys of ideas and possibilities. 

As I mentioned earlier, I have been using embroidery and sewing on canvases lately, and I would like to use that more in the future, possibly in tandem with my poetry and other art styles that I would like to explore more, and I believe as I grow as an artist, my art can also evolve and develop as a coping skill for my health.

[casual-eumetazoa]

on love, the autistic way

my grandfather died last year (very suddenly, from covid) and it has been enough time now that i am able to access my childhood memories of him without feeling overwhelmed with grief and sorrow, and all i find in those memories again and again is an astonishing amount of love

it was more than just the love of a grandparent for their grandchild - it was a special kind of love and care of two autistic people for each other that i don’t know whether neurotypical people can experience

my grandfather was never diagnosed with autism and i was only diagnosed at 18 years old so it’s not like we had labels for it when i was a kid, but it was quite obvious that both of us were distinctly different, and we were different in the same way. my parents both have their own packages of neurodivergent traits but they never operated in the neurotypical world as outsiders, they were never so different that they had a need to carve out a space for themselves because they’ve always felt at home with everyone else

me and my grandfather did not. we both lived and operated in the neurotypical world, but we were just different enough to be acutely aware of it, and we both knew this is a condition we shared. it became a running joke for us back when i was in preschool and my grandfather was the first person to bring up the world “Aspergers” after he read an article online - i was about 11 at the time - and told me, “hey, look, this is you, this is us”. and that fact, that condition of us being different enough, that was a huge source of love. that was a bond stronger than family and bloodties, that was unlike anything i’ve had with any other family members

neurotypical parents of autistic kids talk about their anguish of not having their children express love in the way they want them to, and i almost get it, except i don’t think they realize that it feels like that too for their kids. because autism and not-autism speak different languages, not just in a literal sense, but in a much broader way that covers every aspect of your existence. expressions of love do not look the same in autistic. they don’t always look like words and hugs and drawings. but they can look like:

sharing or just respecting each other’s routines. so many of my happy childhood memories are of detailed, particular routines i’ve had, either shared with or arranged around my grandfather’s routines. in the chaotic world that was not built for us, we carved out our own space that operated on our rules, and we intuitively understood those rules and lived, thrived in them. 

when we were spending summers in a tiny cottage far from Moscow, that secluded world was ours, it ticked how we wanted it to, and it was full of love. it was in those repeated actions we shared, in our customs and our order - and when the rest of our family came to visit it was bittersweet, because they came into our order and broke it. we were happy to see them but we were also happy in our own specially constructed universe;

partaking in each other’s passions. my grandfather had a phd in physics and worked as an electrical engineer, he was obsessed with sci-fi, he spent his entire life tinkering with electronics and making crafts and collecting stuff that looked like junk to everyone else. i soaked up his knowledge like a sponge. i grew up with a deep fascination and love for science, technology, and books. he taught me maths and science from preschool all through my undergrad degree and he was the person who gave me my first sci-fi novel

i was obsessed with many things as a child and he nurtured those passions no matter how strange they seemed. just like i would spend hours listening to him explain physics to me, he would spend hours listening to me explain obscure biology to him when i was nine. he is the reason i am a writer and a biologist now. these passions were strange to everyone else but we both understood how much a special interest can mean to you and we bonded tremendously over ours, even when they did not overlap at all;

understanding and respecting each other’s needs, even those that seemed ridiculous to everyone else. my grandfather was deeply preoccupied with order and clean environments. i learned very quickly as a child how things had to be arranged in his house and where they had to be returned every time you used them. he couldn’t stand even looking or smelling certain foods and i always knew what to check for when buying stuff or helping with cooking. he had a very particular way of bagging groceries that i myself still use. so many quirks and habits he had that i was either aware of or actually picked up myself

and he knew my habits and quirks too. he knew my sensory needs and he read my body language like no one else in my family could. he always knew when i was close to meltdown and would get me out of that environment just before it would happen. he meticulously removed tomatoes or mushrooms from my pizza slices and knew the exact right consistency of scrambled eggs that i preferred. all of my ridiculous needs and preferences were not at all ridiculous for him because he knew how it felt and it did not seem unreasonable for him, and i also understood why groceries had to be put into the bag in Just This Way because i needed things ordered too;

spending time together in just the right way. being comfortable with just co-existing around each other without interacting. i love my grandmother too, love her to bits, but being around her often exhausted me because she wanted to talk, she wanted hugs, she wanted to Spend Time Together. but me spending time with my granddad could mean just sitting in the same room and reading and only breaking the silence once in an hour to share a line from the book i liked and continue to co-exist in silence. we did not look each other in the eyes because we did not feel the need to and we understood how much personal space we both needed. it did not upset us or make us feel unloved. the love was in co-existing in harmony even if that meant not talking for an entire day or staying in our own rooms for a whole weekend 

*

all of this was love, and it was special, because it was in defiance of what society was expecting. it was a daily fight to keep and maintain a space for ourselves in the world that did not work for us. it was such a sharp contrast to school for me, where everything about me was weird and wrong and needed fixing. it was the kind of love that told me “you are perfect just the way you are, look, i’m like you and we are both fine just as we are”

i am the spitting image of my grandfather in so many ways, and a big part of that is the habits, the stims, the routines and special interests i have picked up from him. it is all the time i had spent with him, all the happy memories i’ve made. it was the radical acceptance, the total understanding we’ve had between ourselves. and it is the absence of this love that i feel so sharply now that he is gone. 

and this is the definition of love that has been imprinted on my brain, and spread out from just familial love to every kind of relationship i have. this is what i am now looking for in everything - friendship, romantic relationship... the love i am seeking everywhere comes from a place of acceptance, of shared routines and respect for each other’s needs and boundaries and bonding over each other’s passions. this is love as i understand it as an autistic person and it is not easy to do in a neurotypical world

i feel for the mothers that want their autistic kids to hug them and say “i love you mummy”. but i feel much stronger for the autistic child who never had someone like my grandfather, a child who wants someone to listen to them talk for hours about their current obsession or wants someone to recognize their patterns and routines and allow them to exist as their brains require them to. i know i will spend the rest of my life searching desperately for this kind of love and i cannot imagine what i would be like if i did not get to experience it

my grandfather is dead, but the love we had for each other is very much alive in me, and still, not a day goes by without me thinking about it

[dweemeister]

Pinky (1949)

Hollywood’s plodding shift to featuring films starring and/or made by non-white people has produced stories and perspectives that have never graced cinemas before. Some of the American films that have stirred me are rooted in racial identity. The 1934 and 1959 adaptations of Imitation of Life are two such examples, and both tackle a subject that has not been addressed in Hollywood for decades – a black person passing as white and the conflicts of identity that inspires. Both versions of Imitation of Life are blessed with heartbreaking acting and ideas rarely uttered or depicted in film history. But I can imagine some viewers dismissing both films without attempting to engage them – the two adaptations have a black female lead that assumes certain “mammy” stereotypes and the 1959 version’s passing daughter character is mixed-race but is not black.

Released by 20th Century Fox, Elia Kazan’s Pinky (based on the novel Quality by Cid Ricketts Sumner) casts Jeanne Crain, a white actress, as the titular character: a fair-skinned black granddaughter who passes as white. It is without question that Crain’s casting undermines Pinky’s wonderful and nuanced message. Fox’s chief executive, Darryl F. Zanuck, and the Breen Office (which enforced the Hays Code) noted that because the title character loves a white man, the film – if it chose a black actress to play Pinky – could face an intense public backlash from "a number of sections of [the United States].” All but twelve states had anti-miscegenation laws in their books in 1949. Compromises were struck between Zanuck and the Production Office. Fox could make the film and keep the interracial romance (the screenplay was written in consultation with NAACP Executive Secretary Walter White) only if a white actress played Pinky. With Crain’s casting, the production moved forward, despite director Elia Kazan’s opposition to Crain’s selection.

On a sweltering day in the Deep South, Pinky Johnson (Crain) has returned to her impoverished rural hometown, hoping to see her grandmother Dicey (Ethel Waters) one final time before returning to the North. Dicey raised Pinky through her childhood and teenage years, with no mentions of allusions to biological or foster parents. Dicey is heartbroken to hear her granddaughter has downplayed her blackness during her time at nursing school, but is happy to learn that Pinky has graduated. To complicate matters, Pinky also tells of her love of a white doctor, Thomas Adams (William Lundigan), to whom she has revealed nothing of her black ancestry to. In addition, while attempting to collect her grandmother’s debts while in town, Pinky is involved in an incident with a Dr. Canady (Kenny Washington) and his significant other, Roselia (Nina Mae McKinney). The police arrive at the scene and apprehend all three. After being fortunately released from custody with just a warning – black people have been killed for far less by American police – Dicey learns that her elderly white neighbor, Miss Em (Ethel Barrymore), is dying and needs a nurse. Pinky, remembering how Miss Em was cruel and disparaging to her during her childhood, decides to extend her stay.

Also appearing in this film are the town’s doctor Joe McGill (Griff Barnett) and the gossiping Melba Wooley (Evelyn Varden, whose character is lacking a moral compass). Juanita Moore has a cameo as a nurse.

From the opening shots of Pinky, it almost feels as if it was shot on location somewhere in the Southern United States. Early in the film, there is an uncut tracking shot clocking in at almost ninety seconds as Pinky walks from the front of Dicey’s shack to the low cast iron gates of Miss Em’s slave-built estate. The sets, almost entirely constructed on a soundstage, are deep enough so that the audience cannot pinpoint the soundstage’s back wall. The foliage looms over dirt roads and buildings – the canopies, blowing in the wind, are never seen. Kazan, in retrospect, criticized his own film for not including the dirt and grime that need not be manufactured with location shooting. But these fabrications – thanks to cinematographer Joseph MacDonald (1958’s The Young Lions, 1966’s The Sand Pebbles) and art directors J. Russell Spencer (1936’s Modern Times, 1946’s Dragonwyck) and Lyle R. Wheeler (1939’s Gone with the Wind, 1956’s The King and I) – still evoke the small-town South. One can feel the humid heat permeating through the night, amid Spanish moss and the racial inequality built into public spaces and homes*. For those who do not live in such places, small dots on a regional map, the scenery envelops the viewer, allowing them to further understand the cultural disorientation of any visitor to Pinky’s hometown.

Though the film is a drama, Kazan borrows horror elements to frame the setting and highlight the racial tension that pervades this Southern town. Expressionist lighting overhangs shots of foggy forests, a graveyard, tight roads, and derelict/near-derelict buildings. During the night, these surrounding appear as if taken from a disturbing lucid dream. The lurking dangers are embodied through the racist and sexist characters that Pinky encounters. With this marriage of setting and supporting cast of flawed characters, Pinky could be classified as a Southern Gothic tale – a subgenre that uses the grotesque to comment on the American South’s culture. Kazan’s filmmaking here awakens the audience to Pinky’s inner turmoil over her racial identity and belonging. Freed from worrying about racial prejudice in the North due to her passing, she is terrified about what it means to be a black woman in the place of her childhood. Miss Em’s cousin, Melba, perhaps exemplifies the white residents’ racial animosity when she meets Pinky for the first time. What she says is a statement of curiosity, an expression of Southern gentility, and a veiled threat all at once: “I heard you were light, but I had no idea. Why, you’re practically white.”

Does Pinky still feel like she belongs to this poor village? That question, among others, has an answer. She must first navigate this racism, for the first time, as an adult. By film’s end and despite all outward appearances of success, it is unclear if Pinky is satisfied with the answer she has uncovered.

The interrogation of Pinky’s blackness truly begins when Miss Em quickly realizes the identity of the young woman tending to her bedside as a hospice nurse. Miss Em, though bedridden, attempts to reinforce her authority over Pinky – a relationship assuming Pinky’s immaturity and based on tacit racial subservience (for the latter, refer to both Imitation of Life films even as the white mother characters fully realize Louise Beavers/Juanita Moore’s humanity). No longer a child, Pinky will not tolerate Miss Em’s racial condescension. It matters not that the patient is drifting in and out of consciousness during her final hours. Miss Em will be more respectful towards Pinky in the face of this bedside manner. Perhaps she is chastened by Dicey’s friendship and the favor that Pinky need not return; perhaps she is admiring of the newfound strength in the young girl she used to berate; perhaps it is due to the drugs coursing through her body. That all or some of these factors can be interpreted as true empowers the film’s final act, as screenwriters Philip Dunne (1941’s How Green Was My Valley), Dudley Nichols (1938’s Bringing Up Baby), Jane White (no other film credits), and Kazan obfuscate any simple resolutions to the film’s sense of racial justice. Pinky validates anyone who might see the film as confirming that the harshest of souls can cool their racist predispositions, or that it is impossible to reform such persons.

Though Jeanne Crain’s casting captured the headlines, the best performances in the film are from the two Ethels. As Miss Em, Ethel Barrymore has little physical acting, so she must rely almost entirely in her verbal deliveries. Alternating between exhausted observation, acidic riposte, and resignation, Barrymore navigates these final hours of her character’s life with the requisite modulations in tone. Despite being on screen for less time than Crain and Waters, Barrymore – as Miss Em – inhabits a character with the most dynamic development, routinely stealing scenes even while confined to bed. Six years after starring and “taking a chance on love” in Cabin in the Sky (1943), the deeply religious Ethel Waters commands yet another accomplished performance in Pinky. As Dicey, she plays probably the least dynamic of the three principal characters, but Waters’ anguish and understated sense of egalitarianism is a fascinating contrast to Pinky’s drifting stoicism upon her arrival at Dicey’s shack. For the Ethels, they are playing roles analogous to those they had previously assumed. But Barrymore’s elderly curmudgeons rarely commented so directly on race; Waters’ hardened maternal figures seldom interacted with white people. Together, they form an imperfect, uneasy coexistence – a postbellum relationship grounded in necessity and deferred acceptance of the other.

Prior to Kazan’s arrival on set, John Ford (1939’s Stagecoach, 1946’s My Darling Clementine) had already directed a significant bulk of Pinky. Viewing the rushes, Darryl F. Zanuck was embarrassed by the footage Ford had shot, stating that, “Ford’s Negroes were like Aunt Jemima caricatures. I thought we [were] going to get into trouble.” Indeed, Ford was a dreadful fit, given the source material and the director’s reputation (Ford’s reputation on making introspective films about racial relations was dire, and he would not possess the basic skillset to make such a film until 1960’s Sergeant Rutledge). The cast, upon learning they were going to work with the best director in Hollywood at the time, were ecstatic the decision until it became clear his abrasive demeanor intimidated Crain and especially Waters. Zanuck quietly dismissed Ford in favor of Kazan (coming off 1947’s Gentlemen’s Agreement, which decried anti-Semitism), stating in public that Ford came down with a case of the shingles. Ford, as you have correctly guessed, never had the shingles. None of Ford’s work survives in the final print of Pinky.

Pinky was justifiably attacked by black critics for Crain’s casting over Lena Horne (who had lobbied for the role). The film, a compromise between 20th Century Fox and the Breen Office, contains mixed messages about racial integration and the nature of interracial friendship and love. The thematic confusion interferes with the film’s obvious, well-meaning intentions and the stellar performances from Ethel Barrymore and Ethel Waters. In its final form, one can only imagine how damaging Pinky may have been if John Ford remained with the production rather than Kazan. Within the artistic constraints of Hollywood studio filmmaking and the regressive perspectives of too many Americans, Pinky inspires a torrent of conflicting emotions as it struggles to form a coherent thesis. In a peculiar way, the muddled messaging is also a reflection of Pinky and mixed-race persons themselves, as they strive to understand what to make of themselves.

My rating: 6.5/10

^ Based on my personal imdb rating. Half-points are always rounded down. My interpretation of that ratings system can be found in the “Ratings system” page on my blog (as of July 1, 2020, tumblr is not permitting certain posts with links to appear on tag pages, so I cannot provide the URL).

For more of my reviews tagged “My Movie Odyssey”, check out the tag of the same name on my blog.

* In the scene where Pinky goes to a general store late in the film, notice the racial composition of the customers and how they react to Pinky. Also, Dicey’s shack is aesthetically reminiscent to sharecropper hovels or slave living quarters.

[thewhumpstuff]

You and I, Me and You [6]

@badthingshappenbingo [Original characters and content for category - Flashbacks] [Warning: NSFW implications] [Teaser and Master List] [Archives of our Own] (You and I, Me and you: Chapter 7)

[<– Previous] ~ [Next –>]

Dark pillow talk. 

The freedom of her upper limbs came at the price. A few more crimson scratches against the raw, twine-irritated skin. The torment of rolling around on her knees as her back contorted awkwardly to accomplish the task within the given limitations. But success felt heavenly. Her arms snapped away from one another when the twine finally came undone. With a manic urgency, she plucked off the blindfold. The cloth wrapped around her eyes had never curtailed her breathing, but getting rid of it left her panting with relief.

The only source of illumination was soft and painfully consistent, it crawled in from under the metal door to shatter against the broken glass and to lick at her feet. That felt like a gift for now. For some time, her freed arms and restored vision tasted like a small victory. For some time, she remained still and poised, clinging to the piece of glass with a fervent hope. Then, the seconds and minutes began chafing at her resolve. Slowly but surely. The fluidity of time was not assessable. Staring at a piece of wall was not conducive to keeping track of the hours.

There was not so much as a scuffle outside. She felt forgotten. First, she dropped the glass, then she got fidgety. Two ritualistic, alternating motions. She craned her neck to flatten her cheek against the wall, right side… then left, her vision oscillating between the corner… and the dark despair of the room. And the painstaking transfer of her weight, from her knees to her haunches. This went on long enough to leave her neck and shoulder muscles begging for mercy and her leg muscles twitching with the strain.

As her resolve slowly melted, fear eagerly took its place. The exchanges with Jared had left her mind steeping in the past. It felt like a deliberate concoction. And now he had left her alone to brew. She could not fight the thoughts as they gathered and strategically battered against the flimsy walls of her brain. She followed the string of memories, brought to the surface by a slightly broken voice echoing in the room… It was her own, it sounded angelic somehow. She closed her eyes in surrender. “♩“…Am I out of my head Am I out of my mind...”♩ ~~~ ♩"…If you only knew the bad things I like…"♩ She grinned up at him as she sang along with the song he played. It was the one from the party, before they were interrupted. It sure felt appropriate. They’d consummated their relationship already, on multiple occasions, but the air today, felt differently charged. She used her elbows to slide backwards onto his bed, till her head found his pillow. He crawled over her on his elbows and knees, watching her protectively. She loved that he was concerned, but she felt the pressing need to prove that she was stronger than he thought.

His lips found the scar he had left on her neck, his tongue flicked across it, tenderly. “Bite me.” ♫…Don't think that I can explain it… ♫ He obliged, sucking her skin into his mouth, he teased it with his teeth. “Harder.” ♫…What can I say, it's complicated…♫ Curiosity and hesitance danced in his mind as his jaw tightened. A soft gasp morphed into a softer mewl. He let go. The scar had a perfect row of teeth-marks above and below it. He stared at it, it left him disconcerted. He looked at her. She looked incandescent, excited… ecstatic and bold. All the good things. As he tentatively nipped at her arm, sedulous about the force. She suddenly let out a cry of mock anguish. He snapped away from her. “Did I hur-” Her snicker, interrupted him. Something about her soft cackle sent a chill down his spine. “Of course, you did! But I liked it.” The cuffs dug into her as she stretched her arms instinctively, she felt like pulling him into an embrace. Aki made do with her legs instead, wrapping them around his hips to draw him back to her. “Fuck, Shira.” He chastised through grit teeth. It only made her laugh some more. “What? I like scaring people a little.” She beamed up at him with faux innocence. He shook his head and half-smiled, nervously stifling his unease, as he lowered himself against her again.

♫…Nothing's that bad If it feels good So you come back Like I knew you would… ♫ She nuzzled into his neck, leaving a small bite-mark of her own. She could feel his eyelashes against her shoulders, he did not even wince. Something about that left her feeling challenged. She picked another spot and bit a little harder. He closed his eyes and tensed but did not flinch. He let her finish, he even let her scan her handiwork as he propped himself on his elbows, his face looming over hers. The disquietude found words. “You like… hurting people too?” She tensed. His question sounded impassive, but she felt judged, nonetheless. “Sorry.” “No… It is ok. I’m fine.” That was not a very convincing reassurance. She gnawed at her lower lip. Feeling a certain surge of insecurities, she sought to assuage them by hoping this was a shared trait.

Her voice carried with it a note of dread, and of anticipation. “Too? Do you?” “No, not really… I mean… Do you like scaring and hurting too?” “I…” Her face was like a play. Emotions battling desires, battling her morals.

He placed his fingers on her lips and wore a brighter smile. Jared had no intentions of creating turmoil within her, not today… not after everything. They needed each other. “Shh…” She kissed his fingers, her tongue now flicking across the scar she had left. “Am I a bad person?” Depends, he thought. But ardently shook his head. He reached over to his bedside drawer. With a press of a button the collar and the cuffs clicked open. He whisked them off the bed. They found amusement in the way the fell, symbolic of their own inhibitions. They laughed. The moment her wrists were free, her hands worked on the buttons of his shirt. His hands made quick work of her little black dress with the classic ripping sound. Her motion, inspired by his urgency, left buttons scattered around them as she held the collar and tugged it apart. Fabric rustled, bared passion and bared bodies followed. - Later that night, the empty cups of tea sat huddled on the bedside drawer. The silence between them embraced a very different song. ♫…Love of mine, someday you will die… ♫ It crooned the spooning couple; she sang along in a low octave. He joined in. They could feel the vibrations through the contact between his chest and her back. ♩…“But I'll be close behind and I'll follow you into the dark”… ♩ “Will you?” Her fingers were entwined with his, she gave a little squeeze to emphasize her question, which followed the song. Will you, follow me into the dark?. “I’ll be there before you, so you’ll be the one following!” He chided, pulling her closer. They breathed in sync and inhaled deeply. Satisfied sighs mingled. She elbowed him gently, with a small click of her tongue. “Always the hero.”

Jared wasn’t the insecure sort, but revelations today had left him perturbed and he knew she would eventually have to go away. So, today he too, wanted to ask. “Will you?” She pulled her hair to the side as she twisted to look at him. She didn't think of darkness as death. She saw it something to explore and something to challenge. And something that Jared had already encountered and won against. “I kinda am, already… Aren’t I? But my darkness, my turn!” He much rather wished that she could follow him into the light. Not that he had luck finding light. He did find it in her, and now she was insistently trying to test it. Test her own light, till that darkness won out. She was still basking in her chance at glory. There was nothing that could keep her mind away from that future for too long. He wanted nothing more than to bury it. Jared’s fingers idle shapes on her back, doodling his way out of the instinct to ask her to not take up the offer, again. She turned to face him completely, his hand lay across her, with a heavy laziness.

Akira’s curious eyes pinned him with an odd question. “How the hell do you have such a high tolerance, by the way?” She had always secretly admired his endurance; it’d seem they weren’t exaggerating when there was talk of it among the BioHackers. It was thrown around as an analogy: ‘It is very difficult to endure this procedure… Unless you’re Jared or something.’ ♫…Catholic school as vicious as Roman rule I got my knuckles bruised by a lady in black… ♫ He was amused by the lyrics that underpinned her question. “Practice.” There was some pride in his monosyllabic response, but it was wrapped in resigned discomfort.

He believed it to be among the biggest distinguishing factors between them… Their cumulative experiences. “Like… in The System and stuff?’’ Her macabre fascination with suffering, even his, left him a little speechless. He could tell from the falter in her whisper, that she was terrified of broaching the territories he avoided with a vehemence. And yet she did it anyway. He swallowed and stayed patient. “Yes.” ♫…And I held my tongue as she told me, Son, fear is the heart of love…♫ “Was that it?” She was sheepish in her ask and knew it wasn’t and he wasn’t ready to elaborate. It did lead him to a realization. His compromise with pain and darkness, started young and it happened circumstantially. Then things spiralled and he was forced to befriend suffering as it became a blanket for his cause. It was a relationship that bore the test of time and in some way, became his one sole companion. Life happened and he survived. Until now. That was the other pressing distinction between them. She… sought this darkness. One way or another. She was jumping into an inferno, having never played with the flicker of a candle flame. That would mean she’d have no coping mechanisms in place to deal with the monster in front of her. There was no leashing that suffering once it found her, and it inevitably would if she kept looking for it. It would wrest all the control and snatch away the ground she stood on. That is what he believed anyway. Should he then provide the flickering flame and the hearth? Is that what she wanted, is that what drew her to him? Could he teach her what she needed to learn if she were so set on this path?

“Never mind…” Akira whispered when her question was met with a pressing silence. She turned away again and closed her eyes. “What?” He asked absently, his thoughts had consumed him so entirely, he forgot the question they were borne out of. He recalled the conversation quickly enough, without needing another prompt. “You know there is more… Shira” He sounded stilted.

♫…Soles of your shoes are Are all worn down… ♫ She half-sung and half-hummed along with the song as it tapered to its end. She stretched and curled her toes, twisting to fit in the mould he made… Stolen covers, shared skin. She let her better judgement win and did not push the issue, unless he felt like divulging more himself. He did not. ♫…The time for sleep is now…♫ “But it’s all in the past now. You should get some rest, ‘Jared didn’t let me sleep’ won’t be an acceptable excuse to slip at training.”

~~~

♩…But it's n-nothing to cry about…♩” With the memories, her songs followed too. Holding notes while holding herself up was hard, but it was worth the effort as the trill hung poignantly in the room. The words only drew the tears that clung to her lashes, she ensured they didn’t fall and streak the grime her cheeks had collected off the walls.

There was a constant tug of impatience as he paced and waited for it to be long enough. A part of Jared was eager to get back. He couldn’t put a finger on why. What was he expecting to really resolve now? Time needed to soften her, so he could get on with business. This wasn’t something he’d struggled with before; this was the easiest part of interrogations he’d conducted in the past. But then, she wasn’t just any captive. Maybe it was time he came to terms with that. Objectivity would be harder to use as an anchor. But perhaps, that was his edge.

So, he fell prey to his impatience. Shuffling back to her holding cell. He heard her voice and it made him stop in his track. It was not just any song either… It had a firm spot in their playlist. His hand teetered over the latch as he waited. ♩“….'Cause we'll hold each other s-soon”…♩ It was sung slower than the original, giving it a beautifully eerie tone. Something rattled behind her. She fell silent and snatched the piece of glass off the floor. The door creaked open, he blocked most of the the light that pooled in, the bit that leaked past acted like an ambient spotlight on Akira. He remained by the threshold. “You know that song is special, by all means do finish…” She held the piece tightly enough to peel the scab and freshen the cut. Her breath hitched as she quickly blinked away the tears. No, I can’t show weakness. The lyric was too perfect, it longed to grace the moment. Who was she to stop them… “♩…I-in the blackest of rooms... ♩” [Category 2] [I’ve used ‘Bad things’ and ‘I’ll follow you into the dark’ as anchors for the post, I do not own the songs.]

[farmhandler]

Nipped

Rating: T

Relationship: Shiro/Sendak

Additional Tags: catnip, Fluff and Crack, Lotor and Sendak do not get along

Chapter: 1/1 | WC 9.7K~

Read on AO3

Summary: “I contacted your officials—” Shiro didn’t know what to think of Coran contacting anyone on Earth, let alone any ‘officials’, “—to procure a gift for our galra friends, and after describing some of our members they assured me that ‘catnip’ as it’s called, would make them feel brighter than the entire universe!”

“Is that what they said?” Shiro asked. “Exactly?”

“Well, their exact words were more about them feeling ‘higher than the clouds’, but yours are actually quite low comparatively.”

A/N: Commission for @isabelle-lux​! Thank you again for commissioning me!

“Can you see it yet? Can you see it?!”

“Hold on, Lance.” There was a rustling sound, and then a thump, but Shiro didn’t look behind him to see what had happened. “If you’d stop crawling all over me, maybe I could get a good reading!”

“Why are you the one in charge of this again, Hunk? This was my seat in the first place!”

“Because you couldn’t sit still,” Pidge piped in from her side of the room. She was seated at the other console, gathering readings while Allura steered the ship. So far, she hadn’t said a word about all of their bickering. Shiro wondered if she was seriously that zen, or if she had closed off her hearing using her shapeshifting powers again.

“Well?!” Lance shrieked. Allura didn’t move a muscle. Yep, she definitely wasn’t listening.

“This is pretty exciting,” Sendak said to no one in particular. “I’m excited. I haven’t seen Earth in years. It’ll be good to be back.”

Good was putting it lightly. The last time Shiro had been on Earth, he had barely been conscious. Now, nearly five years later, he was in a much state of mind. The war was on its last legs, they were making serious headway now that Lotor was at the helm, and over time their little family had grown exponentially larger and louder—

His thoughts were cut off by the sound of an inhuman shriek. Everyone but Allura winced, whipping around to see what the noise was about.

Shiro was already halfway across the room by the time Ayame came running in, bawling her eyes out. Shiro crouched down in front of her, checking on her for any immediate injuries, but with nothing obvious to show for it, he could only guess it was one thing.

“What happened, sweetie?”

She said nothing, but continued to sniffle and rub at her eyes.

“Were you running again?” Shiro asked, moving her hands gently away from her face to see what the damage was. Her nose was a little red, but that could be from how hard she was crying.

“What have I told you about running in the halls?” Shiro asked, forcing a sternness to his voice that he didn’t feel.

They had had this conversation a dozen times, but it was hard to be angry when the tiny galra standing in front of him was scowling so fiercely, fresh tears staining her cheeks. It was both heartbreaking and adorable.

She tipped her head forward and sniffed, as if she could conceal her expression with her bangs. Shiro had been trying to get her to cut her hair for weeks now, but Ayame absolutely refused to allow anyone near it, and Shiro didn’t feel up to trying to get past her claws.

“Ayame.”

Shiro knelt down in front of her and brushed the hair out of her eyes. She jerked her head away and started growling, flexing her claws like she was going to take a swipe at him. Thankfully by this point, she knew better than to do that.

“Ayame,” Shiro said, louder than he intended, calming his voice almost immediately when she looked up at him wide eyed. He tried not to raise his voice around them—auditory sensitivity notwithstanding—but the twins made it very difficult to keep calm when they wouldn’t listen. “You know you’re not supposed to growl when you’re upset. We talked about this.”

As Shiro stood there, staring down in disapproval, the growling slowly quieted, and then came the sniffles again.

“Honey.” Shiro sighed, reaching out again so he could comb his fingers through her hair. “Udak and I warned you just this morning that if you ran, you could hurt yourself. Coran just had it waxed. Isn’t that right?”

Watching her face smack against the floor as she ran away from him the first time she’d gotten hurt in this same way had given him the scare of his life. They had extensive conversations with the twins, not that they understood them fully.

Ayame mumbled something that Shiro couldn’t hear.

“What was that, sweetie?”

“Uh huh,” she said, barely above a whisper. “No run.”

“She okay?” Pidge asked from behind. Shiro nodded without turning and scooped Ayame into his arms. She shoved her face into his throat, clinging to his shirt with her claws.

“How far are we from Earth?” Shiro asked the room at large. “I want to get both of the twins checked out before we land.”

She looked fine, but he wanted to be sure there wasn’t a scrape anywhere he couldn’t see. They’d never been on Earth before, and they needed to have every vaccination available before being introduced into the atmosphere.

“Wait, wait, wait, I see it!”

Hunk’s cry garnered the attention of everyone in the room. Even Allura had adjusted her hearing back to its usual levels once she had seen for herself how close they were, and she smiled back at those gathered around Hunk’s screen.

“Nearly there!” she called back. “Radar imaging will not be able to compare to the real thing in a moment. Coran?”

“Right away, princess! Full speed ahead!”

It wasn’t long before Earth came into view, and the room held a collective breath.

“Oh my god, wow,” Shiro heard someone say. It sounded like Lance. He was too busy staring.

Through the castle’s main view, they could see it: Earth. Home.

Shiro didn’t realize there were tears in his eyes until Ayame called out to him.

“Daddy?”

Ayame blinked up at him, the absence of her pupils no longer a source of discomfort for Shiro. At first, it had been strange, seeing a human baby with a light dusting of purple fuzz and full head of black hair, but he’d quickly taken to it. There was something charming in knowing that her eyes were like Sendak’s, too.

“Daddy,” she said, sniffling. The sniffling got worse, and her eyes began to well with tears. “Daddy!”

“No, no, honey, it’s okay,” Shiro hurried to say. As emotional as seeing Earth made him feel, his tears would set off Ayame, and then she might start screaming. “I’m fine. I’m just happy to see Earth. That’s where I was born.”

Ayame followed the line of his finger and stared at the round object increasing in size. Within minutes they would be close enough to make out the details that he remembered seeing those first few times he had gone into space. It would never stop being breathtaking.

But as much as he wanted to stay and watch, he had children to take care of, and a mate to find.

“Come on, baby girl, let’s get you checked up. Then we’ll find your sister. She should be with udak, right?”

“Don’t wanna see her,” Ayame said, crossing her arms.

“You don’t want to see your twin?” Shiro frowned, bouncing Ayame in his arms. She remained unaffected, casting a remarkably withering glare for her age, lips curling into a familiar snarl. “Just this morning you were saying you missed her at breakfast.”

“Don’t wanna see her!” She clung to Shiro’s shirt, her scowl deepening. “I wanna stay with daddy.”

As she clung to him, tears threatening in her eyes, he knew that the day was going to be long.

“Shiro!”

Sendak found them just outside the medbay. The frantic note to his voice no longer concerned Shiro; it was, at best, level four on the danger scale, and with how he’d found Ayame just minutes ago, he could assume that this was the reason Sendak called out to him now.

“Sendak! You’ve brought Ellar. Great!”

She had herself buried in Sendak’s furry chest, one of her favorite places to be, and her eyes were slightly red-rimmed. Shiro gestured to Ayame.

“I take it this one escaped?”

“I have been looking for her for half-a-varga,” Sendak said, sounding out of breath. “I have no clue how she manages this so often. I had only just fished her sister out of the kitchen cupboards.”

“Again?” That explained the tears.

For some reason, Ellar was fascinated with containers of all kinds, which included the cupboards in the kitchen, one of the few places that had some. If given the opportunity, she would pull out every item in whatever container she could get her hands on and set it down neatly to the side for further examination. It wasn’t that she wanted to use, or even consume the things she found. She just wanted to take them out and look at them.

“Now that you’re here, hold her while I get the pods ready,” Shiro said, holding out Ayame. She tried to cling to Shiro, digging her claws into his shirt, but he was well-versed in dealing with the two of them at this point and pried her off, ignoring her anguished cry.

Shiro had a lot of experience with these pods. He had fed his children for the first time in them, and they’d been in them a number of times since. It was quick, and thankfully painless. Shiro was glad for that, as he was glad that he was able to take a moment with Sendak while they rested inside.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, nudging him with his shoulder. “And why aren’t you wearing a shirt?”

“Ellar vomited on it—quite violently.”

“Glad I wasn’t there for it. Their puke is so much more…potent.”

Sendak scowled, and they turned to the pods to watch as Ellar and Ayame remained curled around each other. Short puffs of air were delivered into the pod for decontamination purposes—or whatever it was that the Alteans used to keep people safe in unfamiliar atmospheres.

“So, how does it feel?” Shiro asked. “Being back on Earth.”

“I never visited Earth, technically. I merely hung about your skies. I hardly saw any of it.”

“Uh, huh.” Shiro leaned into him, smiling when Sendak wrapped an arm around his waist. It was strange to think about how far they’d come and all the things that had happened. There was a lot of bad, but there was so much good.

“Hey, c’mere.”

Shiro tugged on Sendak’s shoulder, pulling him down into a chaste, but satisfying kiss.

“Mm,” Sendak hummed. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your kiss?”

“Just wanted to. I love you,” Shiro added, because he wanted to do that, too. Sendak cocked his head, silent—he was more frugal with his affection at times, which Shiro didn’t mind. “After all this, why don’t you and I pawn our children off to someone else and find a nice beach somewhere where we can…relax.”

“Are you certain you want to relax?” Sendak teased. Before Shiro could answer, the pod beeped, alerting them that their kids were ready to go.

Ellar’s voice was the first rise up in the form of a screech.

“Daddy, Aya bit me!”

Once everyone had been calmed down and changed into more fitting clothing, they assembled at the entrance to the castle to be welcomed back to Earth.

Earth. Shiro still couldn’t believe it.

Thankfully, the team that met them was small. Sam and Matt Holt had gone ahead of everyone else—with a few aliens in tow—and broke the news that hey! Aliens existed all along! They had taken on most of the brunt work as far as catching Earth up to speed.

Make no mistake—the paladin’s welcome included a thousand questions and promises to discuss more later, but for now, they wanted to visit. They wanted to go home.

“I can’t believe we’re finally back,” Hunk said, whispering it reverently. His eyes were shining, but none of them had broken yet, not even Lance. Considering that their families would be visiting the next day, he didn’t expect that to last long.

Shiro thought about the family that wasn’t waiting here for him. He thought about his parents, and what they would say. Then Sendak tapped him on the shoulder, holding the twins in his arms, looking comfortable with the two of them clinging like little monkeys, and Shiro grinned.

“Udak carried us,” Ellar declared. From the sound of her voice, she was disappointed Shiro hadn’t offered to do the same.

“I’m sure udak was very happy to do that for you,”  Shiro began slowly, reaching out to pry her fingers away from Sendak’s fur. “Make sure you tell him thank you. And watch your claws.”

Ellar’s expression was impish, but she did as she was told, retracting them reluctantly.

“Thank you, udak,”  she said. Ayame was quiet in the crook of his other arm; she had never been much of a people person, and with so many new faces, Shiro didn’t expect to get much out of her. She reached out to Shiro, who took her, tucking her under his chin while he scanned the area for any pressing matters that needed attending to. His lion was docked in the castle, and Allura said Coran was dealing with the placement of the castle so it wouldn’t interfere with the Garrison.

Shiro was staring at Coran, frowning at the site of something large packed in dozens of bags, when he heard the sound of a ship landing. He looked up, and was surprised to spot a very familiar ship, carrying a familiar individual.

He looked at Sendak to make sure he wasn’t seeing things, and sure enough, a familiar scowl appeared on Sendak’s face the moment he realized Lotor had crashed their Earth-party.

It was no secret that the two of them didn’t exactly get along. While they kept things civil, Sendak didn’t agree with Lotor’s politics regarding the empire, and he felt that Lotor lacked the respect for a retired veteran that had stood by his father without question. Lotor resented him for his loyalty and refused to attempt to understand, not that Shiro could exactly blame him.

Shiro usually attempted to intervene when they bickered, but lately he’d let them go at it on their own. He was tired of dealing with petty squabbles. He did that enough already with Voltron.

Lotor’s private craft landed some ways away from the castle, smooth and ethereal as the man himself. Shiro glanced at Allura to gauge her reaction, and judging by the shell-shocked expression on her face, she hadn’t expected him to show up either.

“Allura!” he cried, the moment he stepped out of his hangar. He spread his arms wide, indicating that Allura should throw herself in between them. Instead, she tugged on his arm and pulled him into her own embrace, leaving him floundering for a moment before he found his footing.

“Lotor!” Allura planted a quick kiss on his lips. “What are you doing here? You said you had meetings to attend to.”

“Hello, darling,” he cooed, saccharine in its sweetness. “I decided to make time for you.”

Their relationship had come as a great surprise to the paladins and Shiro, who saw Lotor initially as an antagonistic figure. When he approached them, claiming that he wanted Voltron’s help to change the empire, none of them had bitten. He’d been imprisoned until he’d proven his worth, and then eventually, once they trusted him enough to let him roam free, he revealed that he was Altean.

It changed everything for Allura, and their budding relationship began to flourish.

“How are you holding up?” Shiro asked Sendak, a subtle way of asking if everything was going to be fine. He didn’t think Sendak would do anything rash, but he preferred not to have them fight, especially in front of the twins.

“Shiro,” came Lotor’s voice from across the way. Allura had him attached at her hip, looking happy, if a little frazzled, releasing him only when he bent at Shiro’s front. “And how are you doing, patti?”

Shiro felt the rush of anger that came from Sendak. That was one of the ways Sendak referred to the twins in Galran, and he hated that Lotor had adopted it.

Don’t say anything you’re going to regret, Shiro told him.

I would not regret it, I assure you.

I’m sure you two could get along if you tried, Shiro said, then refocused his attention on Lotor, who was gesturing to Ayame.

“May I? All the time that I’ve known your group, and I’ve yet to truly acquaint myself with your children. They are such fascinating examples of what the empire could be.”

Shiro thought it was a nice sentiment, but as there was a growling sound coming from behind him, Sendak apparently did not agree. Shiro didn’t turn around, plastering a smile onto his face.  

“If she’ll let you.” He kissed the top of Ayame’s forehead, grabbing her fisted hand and wiggling it encouragingly. “Want to say hi to Lotor, sweetie?”

Ayame shook her head and wrenched her fingers free of Shiro’s grip, clinging harder to his shirt.

“She’s a little shy,” Shiro said apologetically. “You’d have better luck with Ellar.”

The growling got louder.

“Maybe another time,” Lotor said, eyes flickering to Sendak. “In the meantime, I should introduce myself to your people.” He inclined his head, then walked off in the other direction.

“Sendak,” Shiro said, turning around to face his mate. The look on his face was entirely too innocent, and when Shiro raised an eyebrow, he huffed unhappily.

“I do not like him,” Sendak said simply.

“I know,” Shiro replied. “You don’t have to like him, but you do have to be civil. Set an example for the twins.”

Sendak looked down at Ellar, who returned his stare with one of her own. Her ears twitched, flicking as she listened to the sounds going on around her.

“Down,” she requested, wiggling in his arms. He set her on the ground and in a predictable move she turned around and immediately attempted to go exploring, but Shiro caught her shoulder and urged her to his side.

“Not now, honey. Stay close to me.”

“But daddy,” she whined, pulling at his pant leg. “Wanna go look at the big ship!”

“Stick with me. We’ll have lots of fun together.”

“Udak?” she said, directing her pleading stare at Sendak. For all he appeared the harsher one, Sendak was easily charmed by his children.

“Stay with your father,” Sendak said, sounding regretful. “We will conduct a perimeter check later.”

“Permitter check!” she yelled excitedly, though she couldn’t have any clue what it meant.

“I’m hungry,” Ayame said, tugging at Shiro’s collar.

“Right. Food.” He grabbed Ellar’s hand and nodded in the direction of the apartment complexes. “Let’s go, Sendak. And remember: behave.”

“I make no promises, but I will attempt to remain impartial. For you, and our children.”

“Our kits,” Shiro quipped, which never failed to make Sendak puff with pride. “It should be easy for you. You do it all the time on the ship.”

“I can ignore his slighted behavior when there is a mission at hand,” Sendak said. “Now, he is simply…here.”

He slid to Shiro’s side, eyeing the people that watched them carefully. As they headed towards the living area, they spotted more people out and about. Every single person stared; not that Shiro could blame them. Seeing aliens was one thing, but Shiro had to be the first omega to start a family with one.

Granted, he didn’t appreciate being a side-show. His kids weren’t something to ogle at any more than other children.

“Well, while we’re here,” Shiro said, ignoring the stare of a woman that looked like she was contemplating walking over, “let’s settle in. I think Coran mentioned something he wanted to show us earlier?”

They were all staying in a few of the Garrison apartments that had been outfitted for their arrival. Shiro had lived in the apartments for a few years already, but the other paladins had only lived in the student barracks and explored their quarters excitedly.

The last time they’d been here, they were students, and now they were being given honorary degrees and awards for all that they had done. It was a little surreal.

Shiro checked the cupboards, but other than following their requests for bedding and high-chairs for the kids, they hadn’t been given any food.

“Guess we’re roughing it in the cafeteria,” he mumbled, closing the cupboard door. “Sendak?”

He could sense him in the bathroom, and since both children were gone, he assumed they were in there with him. His assumptions were proven correct when Sendak came out a few minutes later, moving at a slight crouch so he could hold Ayame’s hand while Ellar clung to his leg.

“They enjoy liquid hand soap,” Sendak said upon arriving in the living room. “Ellar attempted to eat it. I dissuaded her of the notion.”

“It’s squishy,” Ellar said, miming squishing something between her fingers. She let go of Sendak’s hand and ran over to Shiro, raising her arms pointedly.

Shiro repressed a sigh, hoisting her up into his arms. They both liked to be held, but Ellar loved to climb on Shiro the most.

She yanked on his shirt and then pointed at the couch, shouting, “go, go go!” until Shiro went over and sat down. From there she clambered into his lap and curled up, holding onto his middle tightly.

“Aren’t you hungry?” he asked, poking her side. She giggled, and her claws dug into his side. “Rule number one: no claws.”

Her ears flattened, and it took another series of pokes and tickling her middle for her to pull away,  still giggling excitedly. If he wasn’t careful, she would want to play instead of eat, so he looked at Sendak for help.

“It’s time to eat,” Sendak said sternly. It wasn’t his ‘you are in so much trouble’ voice, but it got Ellar to switch gears, grabbing onto Sendak to be lifted into his arms.

Thank you, Shiro said, praying the rest of the day would run as smoothly.

The cafeteria ended up being a lot more…crowded than Shiro anticipated.

On their arrival, there were already a few galra there perusing what the Garrison had to offer; Shiro spotted Kolivan loading his plate with mashed potatoes, and Lotor was at the other end of the line, fingering his chicken nuggets curiously.

“This is the worst,” Hunk mumbled from behind Shiro.

“What?” Shiro turned, eyeing the sullen expression on Hunk’s face. “Why?”

“I wanted everyone’s first taste of Earth food to be something good.” Hunk’s frown deepened as he watched Kolivan take his first bite. “I tried to tell the chefs to let me be in charge, just for today, but no-o. Apparently being the yellow leg of Voltron isn’t enough!”

“Well, we did want this to be pretty casual. And we’re having a formal dinner tomorrow evening. I’m sure Coran or Allura can convince them to give you more freedom.”

Hunk’s frown didn’t dissipate, but he stopped giving one of the cooks a dirty look and turned, trudging off towards Kolivan’s table. Shiro watched him point at Kolivan’s dish and then take it from him, marching back towards the buffet while Kolivan stared at his back in obvious bafflement.

“Is it truly that bad?” Sendak asked.

“No,” Shiro said. “It’s actually pretty good. The made-to-order stuff is usually the best out of the bunch. I think that’s where Hunk is going right now.”

“I want that!” Ellar shouted, pointing at the salad a cadet was carrying. He was in the middle of trying to squeeze past them without alerting the large alien, a decorated captain, and his alien children to his presence, and at Ellar’s shout, he blanched.  

“Green!” she said, even louder. People were beginning to stare.

“Sir,” the cadet said, eyes skirting past the alien at his shoulder and the young girl reaching for his food. “Uh.”

“Sorry,” Shiro said, pulling her hand back. “Ellar, don’t point at people, honey. Apologize to the nice man.”

“Sorry,” Ellar said, lacking in sincerity. The cadet stood there a moment longer, but Shiro waved him off, shooting him an awkward, but gracious smile when he thanked him for his service.

“It’s weird,” Shiro said, once they were sitting down at a table near the far end of the cafeteria, “being treated like this. Out there, being a war hero seemed less…real. I was just a student here.”

“And a decorated officer,” Sendak pointed out. Then he reached for a napkin to wipe Ayame’s face with; she had begun smashing her meal between her fingers before proceeding to shove the remains into her mouth. The twins had started on solids ridiculously early thanks to their galra genes, but since food goo was most often the entirety of their diet, Shiro hadn’t even considered that she might not realize not all food had to be mashed.

“Sweetie,” Shiro said, trying not to laugh. “That’s not how you eat that. Sendak, will you grab the fork out of her hand before she hurts herself?”

Other than dealing with two rambunctious twins, lunch was surprisingly uneventful. No one tried talking to them which might have had something to do with the fact that Sendak glared daggers at anyone who walked by their table or even looked their way.

“You’re looking very mean right now,” Shiro teased. Sendak turned his glare onto him, but he only smiled in return. Sendak couldn’t scare him if he tried.

They finished lunch in peace, which was a relief for Shiro, who was more than happy to wait until later for people to bombard him. For now that honor could be given to Lotor; at the other end of the room, he’d been surrounded by a dozen or so cadets entertaining an audience while Allura enjoyed her meal.

When she met Shiro’s eyes, she smiled. Out here, she wasn’t a princess, and with her hair down, her ears were hidden completely. Soon people would learn to recognize her, but for now he could tell she was enjoying not being noticed.

Shiro jumped when his phone started ringing, playing a ringtone he didn’t recognize.  

He was so startled by the unexpected noise that he couldn’t even place it for a good minute. When he finally realized that somebody was calling him on a device he hadn’t used in years, he swiped open the screen and stared at the number before lifting it up to his ear.

“Hello?”

“Hello! Shiro!” It was Coran’s voice. Shiro winced; he was yelling. “I was told this frequency was how I could reach you from afar! Very primitive, but resourceful for your kind I suppose. Can you hear me?!”

“I can hear you, Coran.” Sendak raised a brow, and Shiro shook his head. “What are you—why are you calling me?”

“I have something to show you! Well, all of you! But I need you to come to our quarters! In the lot behind it!”

“Something to show us?” Shiro looked at Sendak to see if he had any idea what Coran was on about, but his expression was blank. “Okay. Give us a minute here. I’ll round everyone up and meet you there.”

“Wonderful! As I said, I’ll meet you all in the lot behind our quarters, where Lotor parked his ship!”

“Wait, Lotor put his ship there?” Shiro asked, the first of many questions, but Coran had already hung up, leaving Shiro to stare at his phone in confusion.

He turned to Sendak. “He didn’t bring anything with him, did he? I don’t remember loading anything onto the castle.”

“Neither do I,” Sendak replied. He reached over and wiped at Ayame’s mouth. “It must be something from Earth.”

“Maybe.” Shiro recalled the bags that he’d seen Coran taking a look at, and tried to remember what they reminded him of. “Huh. Well, guess we should see if we can find the others around here and check it out. Maybe it’s urgent.”

Shiro stared up at Lotor’s ship and wondered how many rules they were currently in violation of, and who had to explain to the commander that an alien had parked his ship in a parking lot near the residential apartments.

Then he looked over at the pile next to Coran and had to blink a few times to make sure what he was seeing was correct.

“Is that catnip?”

“Is that what you Earthlings call it?” Coran asked, approaching the pair. They were the first to head off in this direction—the others couldn’t be far behind. “I can’t read your symbols, but I was assured this was just the stuff we needed!”

“You needed catnip?” Shiro adjusted Ellar in his arms and walked over to take a look at the bags. There were at least a dozen bags piled up, and he could detect the faint smell of mint. He must have ordered in bulk somehow.

“What is that scent?” Sendak said, the vehemence in his voice surprising Shiro.

“It’s catnip.” Shiro’s lip twitched. “Coran, why did you get this again?”

“I contacted your officials—” Shiro didn’t know what to think of Coran contacting anyone on Earth, let alone any ‘officials’, “—to procure a gift for our galra friends, and after describing some of our members they assured me that ‘catnip’ as it’s called, would make them feel brighter than the entire universe!”

“Is that what they said?” Shiro asked. “Exactly?”

“Well, their exact words were more about them feeling ‘higher than the clouds’, but your clouds are actually quite low, comparatively.” Coran hummed thoughtfully. “Well, in any case! I’d like you all to partake in catnip, as a special gift from me! I was assured it can go in tea and in your food and it will still work its magic. In fact, let’s try it out now!”

“Coran.” Shiro’s voice was edging onto laughter. “I think they misunderstood you when you were describing our galra allies. Catnip isn’t really for—”

But Coran wasn’t listening. He was already ripping open one of the bags using his Altean superstrength that Shiro always forgot about, and soon the smell began to permeate the air. Shiro opened his mouth to comment on the smell when voices started coming from the other end of the lot.

Shaking his head at Coran and his antics—catnip, really?—he turned and spied Lance with his arm wrapped around Keith, followed shortly by Allura, Lotor, and Hunk. Pidge was some ways away, messing with her pad.

“Like I was saying,” Lance declared, loud enough for them to hear. “I think we could really put the par in par-tay. Come one, let’s live a little!”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Keith replied, sounding annoyed. He hadn’t moved out of Lance’s embrace, and when he turned his head to address Allura coming up beside him, Keith sniffed subtly at his throat.

“Allura! Lotor!” Coran called. “So glad you could make it! I’ve got the—” He grunted as he ripped open the bag, “—catnip right here. Just trying to open it so we can all have a taste.”

“Wait, catnip?” Lance frowned. “You got us catnip?”

“I don’t think we can eat catnip, right?” Keith asked. “Not that I’d want to.”

“Nonsense! I was assured it was perfectly healthy for our galra friends, at the very least. Give it a try.”

“I’m not sure that’s a great idea—” Shiro started to say, but he was interrupted by Sendak, who had moved in front of him. He had a confused Ellar in his arms, and he shoved her at Shiro, something wild in his eye.

“I am going to look at the catnip,” he said, slowly, dragging out each word in the oddest way. “Protect her with your life.”

“Okay.” Shiro blinked at him. “Are you okay? You look a little…”

Sendak did not reply. He walked over towards Coran and then gave the bag of catnip a delicate sniff.

“What’s udak doing, daddy?” Ellar asked.

“I’m not sure,” Shiro answered. He walked up beside Sendak, coming to his side just in time to watch him take a handful of the catnip and shove it into his mouth.

“Is that—are you sure you should be eating that?” Shiro asked. Again, Sendak ignored him—he was completely focused on combing through the catnip, popping pieces into his mouth like it was candy.

“Coran,” Shiro said, turning to the man in question. “What exactly did you say to the, uh, officials?”

“Why, I described Sendak here and a few others. They understood almost immediately and suggested this amount based on their size and weight. Though I’m not entirely sure how much your mate weighs, I think it should suffice, don’t you think?”

Shiro looked back at Sendak. A good portion of the bag was gone. It had been less than five minutes since they opened it.

“Coran, this is really nice of you, but I’m not sure catnip was the best idea. It’s actually intended for cats. Humans aren’t meant to consume it. Not usually, anyway.”

“Sendak is a galra; I’m sure he’ll be fine!”

Shiro wanted to argue that he didn’t think it was going to be fine, in fact, mostly because he’d been trying to catch Sendak’s attention and he was completely ignoring him in favor of rubbing catnip all over his cheeks.

“Dude,” Lance snickered, nudging Keith with his elbow. “He’s got catnip all over himself.”

“Lance—” Shiro started, but then Ellar decided to forgo sitting peacefully in his arms and squirmed in his grasp, trying to adjust her position while Shiro juggled the both of them. She ended up kicking Ayame in her haste, and then in a surprising display of aggression, Ayame snarled at her.  

“Hey. Watch the growling,” Shiro said.

“She hit me!” Ayame cried.

“I didn’t mean to!”

“Ellar.” Shiro sighed. “I know it was an accident, but apologize to your sister.”

Ellar’s eyes narrowed. When he looked at her, Shiro noticed that her pupils were dark and enlarged, and her face was also flush under her fur, subtle in the way that only Shiro would notice.

Then, because Ellar wasn’t about to be beat by her sister, she turned and raised her claws, returning Ayame’s snarl with a low growl.

Shiro glanced over at Sendak, who was now staring at the pile of catnip like it was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen.

Sendak, a little help over here?

Shiro.

Sendak’s voice sounded urgent, but Shiro was busy setting the twins down to see about separating them.

Unfortunately, whatever demon had possessed his children was suddenly rising up, because the moment she hit the ground, Ayame pounced on Ellar, sending them both tumbling.

“Uhh,” Hunk said.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Shiro knelt, hands raised and ready to rip them apart, but the two were like feral cats when they were especially rowdy. He’d needed a trip to the medbay pod after one particular incident. “Enough, you two!” He glanced behind him. “Sendak! What are you doing?”

Sendak looked over, staring like he’d only just noticed him. Shiro went back to the twins; Ayame had just bit her sister’s ear.

Shiro. You must try this. It is fascinating.

“What did I say about you two fighting?” he said lowly, trying not to raise his voice any more than he had to. He waited until he saw an opening and then snatched Ellar away from her sibling, shoving his foot in between them when Ayame tried to go after her. “What has gotten into you both? I understand you want to play, but you’re going to hurt each other. Sendak—oh.”

Having abandoned the catnip, Sendak finally came over and reached for Ayame, picking her up so he could twirl her around. If that wasn’t shocking enough, there was an honest-to-god smile on his face.

The bond was buzzing with a strange new infectious energy that Shiro couldn’t parse, but it was a good energy. Sendak was feeling very, very happy.

Shiro stared, frozen with indecision. What did he address first? The twins, or Sendak’s odd behavior?

“That stuff smells funny,” Ellar mumbled into his arm. “Udak smells bad.”

“I believe that the catnip is reacting in some way with Sendak. How interesting.” Lotor stroked his chin with his thumb and forefinger before walking over to where Coran was still standing by it.

“You probably shouldn’t go near it,” Shiro cautioned, tugging Ellar behind him preemptively, as if that would stop whatever was affecting them. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“I am only half-galra,” Lotor declared proudly, then proceeded to shove his nose in the open bag.

“Lotor,” Allura began, “you really should step back. I’m sure Shiro is an expert on catnip.”

“What is happening right now?” Shiro heard Hunk whisper.

Meanwhile, at Lotor’s words, Sendak’s smile had transformed into a scowl.

“You know nothing of the galra,” Sendak said, whirling on him. “ You are a—” he paused to hiccup, and for a second Shiro was concerned that maybe he was drunk and not high, “—a whelp.”

“Me? Son of Emperor Zarkon?" Lotor's eyes narrowed. "Really.”

“You know nothing,” Sendak continuing, insisting it once more. “You believe you know leadership and love. I know love.”

“Oh no,” Pidge muttered quietly. “I see where this is going.”

Sendak gestured to Shiro, then looked over at him. However, instead of speaking, he only stared. Shiro waited to see what he was going to say, but the sight of Shiro apparently distracted him enough walked over to him, away from the catnip and Lotor.

“Sendak,” Shiro said, cupping Sendak’s cheek once he was close, “what has gotten into you?”

Shiro, Sendak said, his attention and his gaze zeroing in on him. His voice boomed inside Shiro’s head. Then he spoke out loud, grasping Shiro’s hand while he spoke with that same urgency from before. “Shiro. Have I told you?”

“Told me what?”

Sendak did not at first reply. He stared at him once again, his one eye as wide as Shiro had ever seen it. Then he leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to Shiro’s lips, careful of the child hanging between them.

“Your mind is the most beautiful place I have ever been—the most wondrous thing I have ever known.” Sendak kissed him again, lingering. “You are my life. de luste da, lusilbe.”

Sendak had been teaching him Galran alongside the twins. What little he had learned didn’t help him in the middle of conversation, but he knew that phrase. Sendak had whispered it into his neck after long-hour days; he’d murmured it in the morning when Shiro had just woken up; he told it to their children whenever they cried, and made sure they knew.

“I love you, too,” Shiro said, thick with emotion. It was hard not to be when Sendak’s happiness was bleeding through so strongly. “de luste da. And you are really out of it.”

“My mind has never been clearer,” Sendak said in that same, slow, wondrous tone. “I feel as though I’m seeing for the first time.”

From behind Shiro, somebody snorted. “Oh, he’s seeing all right.” It was Pidge. “Why didn’t anyone tell me galra were basically cats?”

Sendak’s eyes flicked to his right, towards Pidge, but then Ayame started crying.

At her quiet sob Shiro jolted into action, taking her from Sendak so he could look her over. “Ayame, honey, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“My head hurts,” she cried, rubbing her eyes with her fists while tears squeezed on by. “Udak smells bad.”

“It’s the catnip,” Shiro said slowly. He looked behind Sendak. A headache—she had a headache from the catnip. It didn’t occur to him that it would be a potential side-effect; he didn’t know of any children that had gotten high before. Assuming that was what was going on. “Jesus." He rubbed his palm across his forehead. “Is this really happening right now?”

Sendak, meanwhile, looked vaguely alarmed, and had began combing his fingers through the fur on his face in search of any pieces of catnip.

“Are they gone?” he asked Shiro, after a moment.

“Uh.” Sendak managed to get a few, but too many were buried and would need much careful combing later. Shiro sighed. “Yeah, Sendak, you did, but I don’t think that’s going to help right now. Coran, can we get out of here? And can you get rid of all that catnip?”

“Remind me to save some for later,” Lance said. “I wish I had my phone on me. This is gold.”

“Oh.” Coran blinked at him. “Oh. Right away, Shiro! The castle is unfortunately quite a ways away. And there are also your primitive docking procedures they made us take part in.”

“Let’s take my ship!” Lotor suggested loudly. He was grinning deliriously. When he walked toward his ship parked just a few dozen feet way, he suddenly stopped in the middle of walking and looked, for lack of a better word, thoughtful. Puzzled, even.

Shiro waited, but Lotor continued to stand idly, now gazing up at his ship in open admiration.

“Lotor,” Shiro barked. Not affected, my ass. “Lotor, your ship?”

“Right.” Lotor blinked, then turned and saw Allura at his side. “Oh, my love, you’re here. I’m so relieved.”

“Lotor.” Allura kept her voice firm, but her lips twitched. “You need to focus. We need to help the children.”

Now Ellar was crying, too, and Sendak had taken hold of her, cradling her against his breast in a way he hadn’t done since they were babies. From the expression on his face, he looked close to tears himself.

“She is suffering,” he told Shiro. He stroked the top of her head, and she buried it further into his fur. “Shiro, what must I do to absolve her of her fear?” He paused. “The catnip. I must destroy it from the source.”

“Sendak, no.” Shiro grabbed him by his arm before he could turn and try to destroy all the catnip. He couldn’t help his heart from breaking at the genuine sorrow in his gaze, but it would only make things worse. “They’re going to be fine. Come on, baby. Let’s go to Lotor’s ship.”

Sendak took one look at Lotor’s ship and shielded Ellar away from the site, as if he couldn’t bear her knowing of its existence.

Shiro sighed, yanking on his arm to pull him forward. The day was just getting longer and longer.

Thankfully, there were no problems with the twins, as far as the castle scans could tell. They had clear signs of a headache from the potent scent affecting their body chemistry, but they weren’t hurt.

“Thank god.” Shiro let his arms fall to his side, the hunch in his shoulder from the day's activities finally evening out. “That was an ordeal. I thought I was going to be the one most worried about them.”

“Yeah, I’m not gonna lie, Sendak kinda looked like he might cry,” Hunk said at his side. “Good to know they’re okay.”

“Coran gave them some kind of vitamin that apparently makes kids fall asleep, so they’re napping now. It’s for the best; they usually nap after eating anyway.”

“Dude!” Lance walked in between them and wrapped his arm around Hunk’s shoulder, butting his head against Hunk’s cheek. “Are we really not going to talk about what just happened?”

“Lotor seems like he's doing… better,” Pidge said cautiously. They all turned in tandem to look at Lotor, who was currently gesturing wildly in the direction of his ship while Allura looked on in mild exasperation. And possibly amusement. “Sendak was hit pretty hard.”

“Where is he, anyway?” Keith asked.

“Oh, he’s right—" Shiro looked to where he’d seen Sendak last, mildly surprised to find that he was nowhere near anymore.

In fact, he wasn’t anywhere.

“Did anyone see where Sendak went?” Shiro asked. Meanwhile he was tugging on their connection, trying to decipher which direction he’d gone. His emotions were distant, which meant that he was either shielding himself away from Shiro, or he really was that far away.

“I think I saw him walk past Lotor’s ship,” Lance offered, tapping on his chin. “Not sure. He might’ve kicked it on his way out, too.”

Keith’s brow furrowed. “He kicked Lotor’s ship?”

“Yeah.” Lance grinned. “Now that I’m remembering, he definitely did. It looked like it hurt.”

Shiro had vague recollections of pain, but he’d brushed it aside at the time, too focused on making sure the twins were totally and completely safe. Now he forced himself not to panic and started walking towards where the paladins said he’d gone.

“Wait, Shiro, where are you going?”

“I’ll catch you guys later,” he said, waving his hand. “I’m going to find Sendak! Watch the kids for me!”

“But I don’t—!” Lance stopped, then sighed. “Man, I am so tired of babysitting.”

Sendak.

There was no reply.

Shiro couldn’t sense Sendak’s location at all, which implied that Sendak had done so on purpose. Why he would do that was another question entirely.

Sendak, where are you?

He didn’t find him in the cafeteria or their room, and after pinging the castle ship just to make sure he hadn’t missed him there, Shiro’s frustration began to build.

Sendak, I’m serious. Where are you? I’m worried about you.

No response. Shiro tried valiantly to force his consciousness to Sendak’s side, but it was locked down tight. Fuck.

“Where the hell did he go?” Shiro mumbled to himself, stopping near one of the outlets just a few blocks away from the cafeteria.

Normally he wouldn’t be so concerned with Sendak’s disappearance—he was a fully-fledged adult alien, after all—but he was high as a kite, apparently, and he didn’t know the area. If he wasn’t careful, he could stumble into the wrong person not expecting the appearance of an extremely tall alien and cause a serious incident.

“Fuck,” he swore softly, crossing his arms. “If I was a tall, furry, purple alien that had just consumed a lot of catnip, where would I go?”

The answer came faster than Shiro expected.

From across the street, he became aware of something large and purple moving inside one of the shops. It was a flower shop. One of the few inside the Garrison that was usually used by the Garrison staff to decorate events or honor fallen comrades. Shiro had only bought flowers there once, to bring on a date.

He blinked a few times to make sure what he was seeing was real, and then he started walking across the street.

Sendak? he tried, but the purple mass inside the shop didn’t even flinch.

By the time Shiro reached the doorway, it became obvious that it was indeed Sendak. He carried with him a large bouquet, his brow furrowed with intense concentration.

Once he noticed Shiro standing outside the store, gaping at him, his gaze expression went unbearably soft and the bond opened up again, sending a flood of love and affection Shiro’s way.

“Sendak, what are you…” He paused to receive the giant bouquet that Sendak had apparently purchased and was now shoving into his arms. “Are these…sunflowers?”

“Shiro.” Sendak crowded him back against the wall, caging him in with his arms. Then he ducked his head, nuzzling the top of Shiro’s head. “I remembered.”

Shiro couldn’t hold back his smile at Sendak’s obvious pleasure, despite his confusion. “You remembered?”

“You.” Sendak mouth pressed into his temple. “You once told me that you missed the sunflowers on your planet. It took me some time to discover a suitable location, but some of your locals assured me that this shop would carry them.”

“You went to find me sunflowers?” Shiro looked down at the bouquet of sunflowers, his heart twisting uncomfortably in his chest. “Sendak, that’s—that’s so sweet.” The bag crinkled as he clutched it to his chest. “How did you even remember? I don’t even remember mentioning them.”

“I remember everything about you.” He paused for a long time, practically pressing Shiro into the wall—not that he minded. After a long period of silence, Sendak seemed to shake himself free of his thoughts and cupped Shiro’s cheek, tilting his head up to stare deeply into his eyes.

“de luste da,” he said fervently, his thumb stroking Shiro’s lower lip with care.

“I love you, too.” Shiro said sincerely. He couldn’t stop grinning. “Sendak, you are really something else, you know that?”

The flowers were a surprise, but a welcome one, and Sendak—he had done it all for him. He had always been more romantic than Shiro gave credit, but even when he was high he was thinking about Shiro.

He drank in Sendak’s affection like it was a drug, basking in the warmth of his presence and his welcoming scent. Even though he was crowded against a wall in the middle of the sidewalk, blocking off any potential traffic, neither he nor Sendak felt particularly inclined to move, only doing so when they heard a familiar voice coming from down the street.

“See! I told you we’d find ‘em this way.” 

“Is he all right?”

Those were Lance and Allura’s voices, which meant the others couldn’t be too far behind.

“Lance! Allura!” Shiro pushed at Sendak’s chest, to no avail. He growled, pulling Shiro harder into his embrace. “Sendak, please—” He managed to wrench an arm free and waved it at the paladin’s approach. “You guys didn’t have to come find us.”

“Hunk agreed to do the babysitting, and I wasn’t gonna miss out on—ow! Keith!”

“What he means is, we were worried.” Keith nudged Lance again, who was rubbing his injured shoulder and shooting Keith a dirty look. “The dinner is in a couple of hours and we just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“How did you find me?”

“We used the ‘find my phone’ app on your phone,” Pidge said.

“I don’t remember setting that up,” Shiro replied, raising an eyebrow.

“You didn’t.” Pidge smiled. “But knowing you, we can’t be too safe.”

Shiro decided not to comment on the validity of her statement. Instead, he focused on wriggling out of Sendak’s hold, using the bouquet as a replacement of sorts.

“Sendak, baby,” he cooed, attempting to return his hair to a semblance of its former glory. His hair product didn’t come cheap. “Why don’t you hold onto those? I trust you’ll take care of them.”

Sendak’s chest puffed out, his pride swelling at being entrusted with the insurmountable task.

“What are those?” Allura asked, walking up to them. Sendak watched her carefully, but he didn’t growl this time, thank god. “They’re so beautiful.”

“Sunflowers,” Lance said. Then he added, “some people consider them weeds—ow! Keith, will you stop hitting me!”

“I barely touched you. Alphas,” Keith grumbled. “Bunch of babies.”

“Hey!”

“They are glorious weeds,” Sendak declared proudly. It was unlikely the translator told him much about weeds, considering how proud he seemed. “For your hands only, Shiro. I purchased their entire stock.”

“Don’t they get shipments?” Pidge whispered, hopefully not loud enough for Sendak to hear. If he did, he made no comment. He was busy staring at Shiro again, gazing at him in what Shiro could only assume was quiet adoration.

“What do they smell like?” Allura asked him. She wisely did not try to take the bouquet from Sendak, who shifted closer at her question.

“Not like anything, honestly. But I like them. They remind me of Earth.” Shiro reached over and plucked one from the bouquet, his smile broadening when Sendak dragged his knuckles over Shiro’s forearm affectionately. “My mom when I was little would put out sunflower seeds for the birds, and we’d always have sunflowers growing because of it.”

“Aww,” Pidged cooed. “That’s cute. There are breeds of sunflowers that smell, you know. I bet we could get some.”

Shiro expected some kind of declaration from Sendak at that, but he was still staring at Shiro openly. Then a sudden wave of affection so strong flooded their connection that Shiro felt tears well up in his eyes.

“Sendak?” Shiro asked, wiping at his eye. “Are you okay—”

“Marry me.”

The conversation around them came to a grinding halt.

Shiro froze. “What?”

“Your mind is the most beautiful place I have ever known. You—” He took Shiro’s hand and squeezed it forcefully. “You are my life.”

“Oh my god,” Shiro breathed. How did Sendak even know about marriage? “How did you even know—what are you saying?”

“Marry me, Shiro.”

Shiro shook his head. “No, seriously, what is happening right now?”

“Holy shit,” Lance whispered.

“Your paladins explained it to me,” Sendak said. The flowers fell from Sendak’s hand and onto the ground. He soon followed, dropping down on both knees in front of Shiro. “Marry me. Commit yourself to me in the human way.”

“Oh my god.” Shiro covered his mouth with his hand, overwhelmed and under-prepared. “You’re not serious. We’re not doing this right now.”

“I have never been more serious about anything. de luste da—you are my love, Shiro. You hold my heart in your hands.”

Marriage; Shiro had never considered marriage before. He'd always been focused on his career goals, and once he'd been launched out into space and bonded to an alien, Earth-style romance had hardly been a priority. If Shiro was being honest, he'd never expected to come back to Earth at all. And now that he was here, he couldn't deny that the idea of an Earth-style wedding had crossed his mind once or twice. 

He just hadn't expected it to become a possibility so soon. 

Shiro. 

Sendak's voice was warm and affectionate, taking hold of Shiro's heart and squeezing. He prided himself on keeping his cool during sad movies, and watching videos of kitten rescues, but Sendak was holding nothing back; his feelings came at Shiro from all sides, a torrent of love and devotion. Helpless to it, Shiro couldn’t stop the tears from flooding his eyes.

“I can’t believe you’re doing this right now,” he choked, rubbing at his eyes with his free hand. “I can’t believe you’re proposing right now. On both knees. Do you even know what you’re saying?”

“I want you in my life for eternity—as long as time allows.” He waited, whispering his name in the space inside Shiro’s head that had been carved out years ago.

Shiro.

He was pleading with him now, begging him to consider a possibility that he knew he already wanted. Shiro couldn’t manage the words, so he nodded his head rapidly. His eyes were too watery to see properly, but he felt when Sendak brought him into his embrace, and he heard the clapping and whistling from his friends.

“I hate you,” Shiro mumbled into his chest. “That’s not fair. You know I can’t say no.”

“When he’s back to normal, we are definitely going to teach him how to actually propose,” Pidge whispered to Keith. Shiro didn’t hear his reply, because in the next second, Sendak was tilting his head up, a dark looked in his eye, and then they were kissing.

“Sendak—mmph.”

He held nothing back; Sendak kissed Shiro deeply, sliding their lips together, setting out to devour him with a passion Shiro hadn’t felt since the kids were born.

“Sendak,” he breathed, when there was room to. “We’re in,” Sendak kissed him again, “public—“ and again, rumbling contentedly all the while.

“Let them watch,” he said against his mouth. And because Shiro was weak to Sendak and intimacy he had missed with twins, he let it go on for a few seconds longer, winding his hands around Sendak’s neck.

It was when Sendak’s prosthetic hand landed on his ass that he pulled away, shimmying out of his grip so there could be no further incidents.

“Well,” Allura said loudly, her cheeks slightly flushed. “This is wonderful. What is ‘marrying’? Is it a ritual?”

“Probably similar to how it works in Altea,” Pidge explained. “You say your vows and sign some paperwork, and then you’re married by law.”

She hummed. “This is different from being bonded?”

“Yes.” Keith answered this time. His eyes skated to Lance, then off into a random direction. “Bonded pairs have legal protections, but you don’t get any tax breaks unless you’ve been bonded for a few years.”

“It is the same for the galra,” Lotor cut in.

Eyes wide, Allura spun around to face him, her face lighting up. “Lotor! You found us. I thought you had ‘business’ with your ship.”

Lotor coughed delicately, his cheeks coloring. Shiro didn’t want to know what ‘business’ implied, and thankfully Lotor did not elaborate.

“I made it just in time to see this wonderful declaration.” He clapped his hands together. “Now, Allura, why don’t we—”

“No,” she answered immediately.

Lotor pouted.

“What do you mean?” Shiro asked. “I didn’t realize the galra did it, too.”

“How do you expect people to marry?” Lotor raised a brow. “Technically, in the eyes of the law you two are no more than lovers. To truly solidify your mated status you would need to submit the proper paperwork.”

Shiro opened his mouth, then let it fall. This was news to him.

“This is news to me,” he said, looking at Sendak. "Were you ever going to explain that to me?"

“I will draw up the paperwork immediately,” he said to Shiro, which didn’t answer his question, but that he would save for a later date.

“We’ll talk about it later.” Shiro nudged him with his shoulder and Sendak took the opportunity to pull him into his embrace again, nuzzling and kissing at his cheek and neck. When his lips passed over the bondmark, Shiro shuddered, raising his hand to his cheek. “Come on. Let’s go back to the castle. Hunk is watching over the kids, right?”

“Yes. Our children.” Sendak pressed his mouth to Shiro’s throat, splaying his hands greedily across his hips. “I would have more with you, if you are willing.”

Someone around them snickered. Shiro’s cheeks lit on fire.

“You are never allowed near catnip again,” he ground out, taking one of Sendak’s hands and threading their fingers before he forcefully pulled away and started walking in the direction the paladins had come.

Their first day back on Earth may not have been as uneventful as he would have usually preferred, but truthfully, Shiro wouldn’t have changed a thing.

Well, maybe just a few.

[xnadercrownboiofnorhb]

Of Knights and Dragons: Chapter Two, Compromise

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The second chapter in my nameless FE anthology.

As always, thank you for taking the time to read this! I hope you enjoy it!

Much Love 

Compromise (Part Two)

            Perfection. The delicate porcelain was truly a sight to behold, a picturesque display of colorful, dainty pastries upon pastel china. Accompanied by the fragrant floral aroma of lavender tea gently emitting from the plump kettle in the center of the silver serving tray. Sparkling silverware thoughtfully arranged to gently rest on top of elegant doilies accented with carefully sprinkled lavender buds. Simply beautiful.

            “Jakob you have absolutely outdone yourself.” The handsome young butler mused to himself after finally creating an ensemble that properly captured the masterpiece he envisioned. It was not that his other his other creations weren’t magnificent, no, Jakob knew everything he poured himself into never fell short of phenomenal. However, this arrangement needed to be particularly perfect.

            Jakob served the fair Nohrian Princess, Lady Corrin, for the vast majority of his life. He committed each of her preferences, habits, and routines to memory. As Corrin’s personal manservant, tending to her needs, down to the most minute detail, was expected of him. A requirement he prided himself in. Consequently, Jakob was the first to notice that something was wrong.

The change was subtle, it always was. Corrin had a habit of masking her troubles, locking her grief within herself and presenting her outward image with a smile. She was a compassionate liege and she treated her retainers as friends, as equals. She valued them. She felt their service to her, to Nohrian royalty, was demanding enough without her piling her personal burdens upon them.

Yet Jakob could see right through her polite facade. He saw the quiver in the small corners of her faltering smile, the absent laughter she offered to others in well-intentioned courtesy, felt the vacancy within her distant stare as her focus floated off to a distant place. He initially assumed it was due to the ongoing war. The war had taken a toll on everyone. This melancholy was different. It stalked his sweet-tempered master like a shadow and lingered as an uninvited guest. What Jakob found so strange about Corrin’s apparent distress was how sudden it was.

Try as he may to pinpoint a particular event or interaction that may have caused this degradation in her happiness, and oh did he try, he simply couldn’t place it. There was no evidence to be found in his examinations of the troops and nobility alike. No fruitful information spreading through the grapevine of the castle or mobile infantry camps. It was so frustrating for Jakob to watch Corrin interact with others so compassionately,all the while her own aching so invisible to all of them. Dare he bring up the matter with his liege directly, it was always the same: I am perfectly fine, Jakob. Truly.

Composing himself and collecting the shining tray in his hands with his typical impeccable posture, Jakob hummed happily to himself as he turned to leave the servants quarters. He shared in her distress in his own way; Corrin was, quite literally, his world. An extension of himself, his reason for facing each day with a sense of purpose. Watching her held captive by this concealed grief, unable to relieve her of it... Jakob felt helpless. He lovingly observed the precious display in his hands and felt reassurance.  He may not be capable of easing the sadness that haunted his esteemed Lady, as much as it pained him, but he would do everything within his power to bring her a little happiness.

Corrin hadn’t been sleeping well lately. She stood before the vanity mirror in her simple lounging clothes, examining the dark, puffy crescents laying below her tired eyes. Her short, dark hair was tousled, lazily held back by a lone black band. For a Nohrian princess, she certainly didn’t look the part. A basic white blouse with a single waterfall of ruffles pouring down from the throat, baggy sleeves shoved up to the elbows, all tucked into high-waisted brown trousers. Oh her siblings would keel over seeing her in this state. Nohrian royalty and their fascination with exuberant presentation. With all of the traveling she had been doing, she didn’t have much for extravagant outfits. With her armor in with the smithy for reinforcement, and her torn dueling attire being repaired in the hands of Flora… oh that was fun to try to explain, this attire was all she had just short of her nightgown.

She looked much older, hell, she felt much older than she was these days. The strain of this violent war had added half a decade onto all of the lives it affected. Suffocating in that isolated tower all of her childhood and most of her adolescent years, Corrin remembered aching for a taste of freedom. She would stare out from the high barred windows of her bedroom and dream of getting lost in golden wheat fields, traversing opalescent mountains, and experiencing the salty bite of the sea. Yet when the time came and she was finally released from that dark cage, she was greeted with only injustice, destruction, and war.

Ever the optimist, she found reasons to persevere. The people she served alongside brought her such happiness and hope. So many colorful personalities, each with their own compelling stories and experiences. She was always eager to listen, alway willing to extend a helping hand. Anything to nurture what hope remained in the grave reality they endured.

However important each unit was to her, she especially revered her retainers. Those vigilant few who were always there for her. Even beneath the tyrannical rule of King Garon, these servants always found methods within their stations to make her feel less alone. That loneliness was something she knew very intimately, it was nearly as much a part of her as her skin or her eye color. Had it not been for Jakob, Felicia, Flora, and… and…

Corrin’s exhausted eyes fell to the small scabs that dotted her forearms and she felt an intense wave of embarrassment weigh her down. The sour burn of anxiety had taken up residency in the pit of her stomach since that damned stint in the courtyard nearly a week ago. While most of the abrasions had healed up nicely, the tenderness of her skin served as a nagging reminder of her foolishness. Her selfish behavior had compromised the relationship she held most dear to her heart. She had only seen Gunter once since that evening, he was running a group of troops through a series of demanding drills one early morning. He seemed unchanged, and that bothered her. Commanding in his classical stern, unfeeling way. He didn’t seem to notice her that day and even if he did, he showed no indication. Despite her hurt, Corrin felt that it was for the best. For the first time she was grateful for the chaotic state of the kingdom that drove the two in opposite directions.

Still, Corrin stepped away from the vanity and leaned against her regal oak bedpost with a heavy heart. It was agony to always have him just beyond her fingertips, but that pain was nothing compared to the anguish of his indifferent absence. Driven by her fantasies, she had taken a risk and reached for him. She reached out and finally made contact, but she was reckless and so she fell. In her carelessness she shattered something so fragile, cutting herself on the shards on the way down.   

Hot, fat tears formed in the corners of her eyes, a physical response she often denied herself for fear of weakness. She let them fall freely, warm wet streaks forging their way down her pale cheeks. Her tears were generous and plentiful, perhaps the result of her futile attempts to banish and conceal her misery deep down in the depths of her core. It was all spilling over now, pouring out of her seams. Saturated in her raw emotion, she was oblivious to the gentle footsteps approaching her.

“My Lady...”

Corrin shrank into herself, her eyes timidly seeking a path to the source of the tender voice. How could she let someone find her in such a state? Wiping her eyes she squinted at the figure before her. She did not immediately recognize the man outside of his signature armor.

“I would have knocked, but…”

Gunter stood before her, his kind eyes shining with concern. It was simply uncanny to see him in something other than his battle dress or combat fatigues. Instead, he was adorned in embellished uniform quite similar to that of any other castle servant. He exuded an approachable warmth in this humble, unobstructed form. He was a tall man with broad shoulders and he sacrificed none of his bulk in the absence of chainmail or armor. He looked so refined, so handsome.

“What are you doing here?” Corrin squawked at him, the words expelled from her mouth faster than she could process them and her broken voice led her to sound much more abrasive than intended, but the Knight before her was unphased.

“I have taken time to reflect and have decided we need to talk.” He spoke slowly and softly, the way he always did when she required his reassurance. He caught Corrin in a turbulent whirlwind of feeling. Before she could rationalize any mindful, appropriate reaction - she was overcome with irrational anger.

“I want you to leave.” An unconvincing lie, they both knew that. She couldn’t counteract the combustion of conflicting energies in her head, more tears fell from her eyes.

“Your majesty… I-” Gunter attempted to draw closer to her, offering his hands to her.

“Just go!” Corrin lashed against him, pushing him away. “Leave me, Goddammit!”

Gunter didn’t so much as flinch in the wake of her outburst.

“Corrin.” His voice was calm but firm as he stripped away the formal titles and addressed the young woman directly, cutting into her. He gently lifted her face and held it in his hands, collecting tears with his fingers.

She was shaking in his palms, her breathing fast and erratic. She couldn’t bring herself to look him in the eyes. He hushed her softly and drew her into his arms; her face pressed against the base of his neck. Corrin was in a state of shock in the wake of this otherworldly interaction. For even in his softest moments, this sort of physical tenderness was uncharacteristic of the brutal veteran Knight she thought she knew. It was effective though, as in a mere matter of seconds, Corrin remembered herself. Her breathing became slow and intentional. She could feel her heartbeat slow from its thunderous tyraid.

“Damn you...” Her quiet, fractured voice was muffled in the creases of the finely tailored vest adorning his sturdy frame. For the first time she could really feel him. Not the cold, rigid metal that always separated him from the rest of the world. Him. His body was warm, and when he moved back Corrin didn’t want to let go. Her reluctance was obvious as they parted.

“I need you to understand something.” Gunter spoke plainly, but there was a degree of reassurance in his voice that differentiated this tone from his typical apathetic way of speaking.

“Corrin. I care you. I care so deeply for you.” He lifted a hand to her cheek, coarse from years of labor and battle. It felt pleasant against the softness of her face.

“Then why did you leave?” Corrin asked. She knew the answer. She wasn’t sure if she truly wanted to hear what Gunter had to say next.

Despite her efforts, she couldn’t stop herself from admiring him as he internally mulled over his response. His face was a marvel to the Nohrian Princess; always finding something new to appreciate each time she looked at him. His features were strong and mature, a wide-set jaw with high, gaunt cheeks, and a sharp nose. A narrow scar ran in a diagonal cut across his face, splitting through the center of his left eyebrow, over the bridge of his nose, and down to the corner of his lips. Fine lines decorated his face a representation of his hard life in Nohrian servitude. There was a raw, masculine energy about him that few men possessed.

He watched her as her gaze fixed on to his lips he shifted with discomfort. He couldn’t allow his resolve to diminish any further, it was already compromised the moment her held Corrin in his arms. Biting at the line of his lower lip, Gunter finally spoke.

“These are uncertain times, Corrin. This war is barbaric and unforgiving.” He turned from her to face the towering arched window overlooking the bleak countryside surrounding the castle. “Nohr demands everything we have to offer should we ever wish to see peace return to this land.”

The stoic, towering Knight seemed to shrink ever so slightly as he cast his eyes to his hands. His fingers rubbing against his palms nervously as he carefully chose his next words, “We must be entirely free of distractions. We simply cannot allow personal desires to interfere with our obligations to this kingdom. This is no time for romance” His head lowered as an unexpected flush spread across his face, “regardless of how badly we may want it.”

It wasn’t Gunter himself speaking these words, but the disciplined, resolute persona he had carved out for himself over the years he spent clawing his way up the ranks of the Nohrian Army. Corrin could sense frailties in his delivery of his words, a resistance to his own logic. She knew he didn’t wish to share these words any more than she wanted to receive them. It was a matter of seeking out the flaws in his defenses and breaching the impenetrable walls he had carefully built around himself.

“I disagree, Gunter.” The tears had dried on her face as she prepared herself for the assault against his resolution. “These are uncertain times, and that’s all the more reason to pursue... this.” Corrin’s voice had regained its stability and she delivered each word with truth and confidence.

“Our days are unforeseeable, Gunter. If I am fated to perish in the heat of battle... I would prefer to do so having known the depths of your heart.”

Gunter was touched, but he was prepared. He came to her quarters picturing her rebuttals of youthful idealism. He came here expecting he would most likely have to leave her in heartache.

“Corrin, even if we weren’t at war…” Gunter turned to face her once more, looking into her eyes. Her gaze burned further into him than he had anticipated, but he continued on, “This could never be. As my liege, as a princess of Nohr, associating with me would bring you only shame and dishonor. Do you understand the disruption this would bring to your units? Think of your siblings… Of King Garon.”

“Gunter,” Corrin closed into him and brought her hands to the sides of his face, her thumbs affectionately tracing his cheeks. “I don’t care about status or the opinions of aristocrats. What has being a noble truly meant to me? When I was locked away from the rest of the world?”

“Corrin…” He could feel his guard slowly dissolving in her gentle hands. He so desperately ached for her to talk this sense into him. He needed her to take his hand and lead him away from his internalized code of honor.

“We wouldn’t have to disrupt anyone.” Her hands fell to take his, her thumbs tracing over his palms and fingers. “No one would need to know.”

Gunter swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat, he knew engaging any further in this behavior would put both of them at risk. The thought of Corrin being reprimanded and punished for engaging in something so scandalous disturbed him. In addition, if he was going to court the princess, he would want to do so properly. He would like to take this slow, showering her with the respect and adoration she deserved. Yet, he couldn't ignore the risque excitement that accompanied the flirtation of a secret affair.

“We could make this work.” She whispered to him.

He had so many questions for her. Why? Why was she interested in him, in the presence of more youthful, appropriate suitors? When had she started to feel this way? What exactly were her feelings towards him? What did she hope to gain from this? What did this mean?

Amidst his anxiety, he knew one thing to be true; the kiss they had shared hidden in the courtyard. That kiss stirred a very powerful, very raw passion in Gunter that he long thought was dead and buried. Whatever these feelings were, they were real.

He decided against speaking at all and presented his submission to Corrin in the form of a soft, lingering kiss. Just as before, this harmonious connection released a humming warmth that spread throughout their bodies. Maybe this truly could work. Maybe this hidden romance could give him a genuine reason to look with hope towards the future.

Instinctively, Corrin fell back onto the soft velvet of her bed, pulling Gunter down upon her. His body hovered over hers, their faces bright with a blissful smiles. He brushed her hair away and traced along her face, his thumb stopping just below her bottom lip to guide her into a deep, fulfilling kiss.

All at once thunderous crash followed by the sound of shattering glass erupted from the far side of the room.

Startled, Corrin shot her face towards the open doorway of her quarters. There stood a traumatized Jakob, his mouth agape in shock. He didn’t so much as glance at the mess of porcelain shards and broken pastries strewn about the bedroom floor in a soggy, steaming heap. Some sort of indistinguishable cry of despair expelled from the back of the butler’s throat before he recklessly escaped the scene.

Gunter groaned, his face in his hands as he rolled over from Corrin. The two laid side by side in an uncomfortable silence. Both staring at the ceiling unable to find words that would, in any way, make this situation less dreadful.

Well, shit.

[renaramblesaboutcomics]

Wednesday Roundup 18.10.2017

When it comes to a variety of genres... I honestly wasn’t very variable this week to be honest. Superheroes and Giant Robots, or otherwise known as two of the three ingredients alongside furry animals and a dash of Chemical X which are required to create a Rena of your very own. But in this contest of Heroes and Robots, the real question is who is going to come out on top? Or at least it should be because people love pitting things against each other and gamifying everything. Or so I’ve heard.  

DC’s Batwoman, DC’s DC Comics: Bombshells, DC’s Super Sons, DC’s Titans, DW’s Transformers: Lost Light, Lion Forge’s Voltron Legendary Defender Vol. 2

DC’s Batwoman (2017-present) #8 Marguerite Bennett, Fernando Blanco, John Rauch

I was already fully on board with this storyline for Batwoman last month when it was revealed that the Needle was the Scarecrow all along and Kate was in a fear toxin induced fever dream for most of the out there visuals and flashbacks, but that grounding came through in full force this issue as Kate proved herself to not only be a badass and to get herself out in the most seasonally appropriate and cool one-liner of comics this month, but also while never undermining the threat that the Scarecrow poses. 

One of my problems with how the Scarecrow has been underused is that not only is he almost always the underling to some greater plot and easily tossed to the side within the narrative -- I could even make a good argument that this is still the case in this storyline -- but the existential threat of having a psychiatrist who is more fascinated with abusing his knowledge and position of power over those he examines, and forcing confrontation of someone’s worst nightmares and fears, is just a fascinating subject that has hardly received its dues in decades now. 

And Marguerite Bennett, who has always been someone I trust with a focus on character first, understands that potential and shows that brilliantly over the course of these last two issues. Really, Kate’s character and history has been the focus of this entire run thus far, sometimes even to the detriment of the pacing considering that we take so long to -- for something like the tenth time in half as many years -- retell her origin story, which is something I was pretty critical of, but it is something I appreciate so much more now.

Bennett is truly making Kate her own, and all the backstory, all the set up, helped make the fears and anguish of the fear toxins feel that much more earned within the comic itself when we showed them. Yes, if you’ve been following Batwoman for the past decade which... well, I have -- you can infer a lot of these things without all that set up. Her relationship with her father being complicated, her mother’s death and sister’s kidnapping her original trauma, even the turbulent romance of her year abroad. She didn’t need these things, but having them all presented within the run and really allowing for an insulated story experience for new readers and old alike, frees Kate of so much of the baggage one might have otherwise expected from her at this point. 

And it works as it gets us to the gates of a true confrontation with Scarecrow himself. Kate Kane’s traumatic life before and as Batwoman has always been the source of her unyielding attitude and her drive forward. It defines her far differently than the other members of the Batfamily. So facing her fears and overcoming her trauma may have just unleashed a Batwoman that the Scarecrow is even less prepared for than he realizes.

The art in this issue, as the art for this entire series so far has been, is just excellent. It’s stylistic and weaves in and out of traditional paneling to complex, interwoven dreamscapes and I love that we can have that level of detail and understanding without sacrificing readability, which has been a critique I’ve had of Batwoman stories as far back as Elegy itself. 

Just overall this was a really inspiring read and it feels especially powerful during the Halloween season. So fantastic timing.  

DC’s DC Comics: Bombshells (2015-2017) Vol. 5The Death of Illusion Marguerite Bennett, Laura Braga, Mirka Andolfo, Elsa Charretier

I am not the huge fan of Bombshells that most of the people I know are, and as such I’ve not really gone out of my way to comment on the last few volumes, but it felt a bit incomplete this week to not mention Bombshells since it did come out this week and is taking us to the “new season” that is currently being published. 

There are too many artists to really get into on an individual level so I’m instead going to focus on the formatting, as the adaptation from a Digital First to a printed volume is something all the issues share regardless of artist or style. I just want it noted that while I do enjoy the retro pinup style for some characters, I don’t always like it for all characters, and it’s also a judgment call on how well it adapts from artist to artist. 

Strangely enough, it feels like the comics that are the least exploratory with being a part of the digital medium and instead are drawn like comic strip-sized panels that are then stacked for physical publication and volumized format are usually the ones that read the weirdest. That continues to prove true in this comic especially since, as overstuffed as this cast is, the limitations of being drawn like they only have half the page to start with, means we get lots and lots of pages where everyone in a scene are crammed in together -- which you can sort of see in the panels I chose to post above. And that inhibits something that Bennett, as a writer, is usually exceptional at. And that’s building female characters from and around their environment. 

Look at those last two panels and think of how much more impactful that sense of loneliness and being surrounded would feel for Ivy if there had been more space to allow that sense to come across. 

And that bleeds right into a general writing issue I’ve had with Bombshells since the start. I, on principle, love all the characters and I love the world and the world building. There is precious little that is not inherently appealing to me about this series. 

But I feel like I have so few central characters to focus on because of how bloated the cast is and how intertwined all the characters and events are, that I’m left almost annoyed at the fact that we can’t say who, in any one issue, is the central protagonist. And even if that’s a problem I’ve had a sense of from the start, it’s becoming more of a problem in this volume than any of the one before because they’re fitting so much in any one issue. We had the introductions of at least ten characters that I can remember who are obviously going to be prominent, the concept of this universe’s Suicide Squad, and the idea that Hugo Strange is working for all sides and countries at the same time while cloning Kara even though.... Russia had had her loyalty before and... I don’t know. It’s a lot. It’s a whole lot at once. 

And even though this is counter to my main argument, I’m getting really damn annoyed that every Batgirl and Batgirl adjacent character in the damn world has been featured now as a Batgirl or otherwise now except for Steph and Cass. Like. Why. What’s the point. 

DC’s Super Sons (2017-present) #9 Peter J. Tomasi, Jorge Jimenez, Carmine Di Giandomenico, Alejandro Sanchez, Ivan Plascencia

Super Sons wraps up yet another arc but this time around we have a bit of a juggling act being performed with the artist chair. This isn’t to say it gets completely distracting, but there are a few transitions that were not nearly as smooth as they could have been. I am more of a fan of books who switch artists at least attempting to maintain a theme, but as far as getting the job done story wise, Super Sons more than steps up to the plate. 

But of course that leaves the question of what I feel about the storyline and... I still enjoy it! I stand by my consistent criticisms that without Gleason, Tomasi tends to invest more in Jon being the Perfect Child foil to Damian rather than digging into his own insecurities and flaws, and that definitely applies here where he moralizes to save the day and also drops the very interesting thread of plot that actually had me hopeful that we would be seeing more angles to Jon’s naivety, what with the possibility of Damian finally revealing that it was Lois who asked Damian to befriend/train Jon all along, but does it work for having our two young heroes inspiring an entire future of heroes for a parallel dimension?

Sure! I would think so. It feels like Jon and Damian’s new friends and this parallel world are going to be the Legion of Superheroes to Jon’s Superboy which is honestly a pretty exciting idea and is neat to see in the context of modernizing an old idea with a whole new spin and within the current comic landscape. 

Or we’ll never see any of this again because comics do that sometimes. It’s hard to tell. 

Personally, I enjoyed the ending, even if it was mostly action and explosions, but it’s like I always tag here on the blog -- Every Story Needs an Explosion!

.... I also have a tag on this blog that is “Sun Bleached” for characters who are whitewashed and goddamn DC, you have got to get a memo out to all your colorists on rather or not you’re going to commit to Damian being dark skinned or not. And don’t think I don’t notice that he and Talia both shift between “white” and “brown” depending on the morality they’re showing at any one time. I’ve seen the panels of Batman #33. I see you. 

DC’s Titans (2016-present) #16 Dan Abnett, Brett Booth, Norm Rapmund, Andrew Dalhouse

I’ll be honest.... this wasn’t the best issue. And it’s not that it’s bad it was just that it felt entirely skippable. Young Wally shows up but we don’t at all get any time with him to have more than a surprised reaction -- there’s no time to see him mourn or get angry or anything. And the rest of the Titans don’t really have that time either. They’re just more angry than they had been in the last issue and... judging by solicits Wally’s going to be back so the emotional stakes and catharsis were pretty much all we had for this issue. 

Instead it was purely fighting and not really even fighting that came to a conclusive end. After all, we still have another issue to go and none of the possessed Titans were freed either. Instead it just leads to.... well an Evil Donna reveal which... I don’t know what that’s going to lead to because I’m still wondering what we’re going to be doing about Wally and Wally!

Overall I still like Titans but this is one issue that really gives me nothing to add or even to say that I haven’t mentioned in previous Roundups because, for me, this issue didn’t do a great job of adding anything writing or art wise. 

Just gotta wait for next month then.

IDW’s Transformers: Lost Light (2017-present) #10 James Roberts, Jack Lawrence, Joana Lafuente

In all honesty, the last couple of issues of Transformers: Lost Light have made me feel things that I haven’t since James Roberts’ “First Season” of MTMTE. It really, truly feels like he is back on his A-game and that we’re getting places where his original outline had us going before the whole Dark Cybertron stuff jumped into the fray. 

And if it wasn’t obvious from my Batwoman review, it’s because i really really love fridge horror and mind trips and just in general when stories shock me with where they’re willing to go with their characters. Because this is dark. Arguably this issue reveals itself to be darker than almost anything else that Roberts has shown us in his Transformers yet. 

Which, again, is saying something. 

And it’s darkness an passing a moral event horizon that is really necessary to get us on board with having Getaway and other mutineers as bigger villains than the likes of every other antagonist that the Lost Light crew has encountered so far. I mean, that’s a hell of a direction to take us and yet it’s managed because we’re now beyond just the hatred for what he did to Cyclonus and Tailgate, we’re down the moral sinkhole where his actions are not justified at all. Where you arguably could see the reasons for mutiny when they did so in the last arc of MTMTE. 

Now he’s just. Straight up a villain? Though that comes with some questions of its own because before he didn’t seem to be happy that the Black Block Consortia was going to destroy all of them. He jsut... wanted them to not be on the Lost Light? Or so I thought? He did call the DJD, but specifically he thought it was just for Megatron so idk. I literally don’t know but I’m fascinated to see things from Getaway’s perspective.

And speaking of perspectives, I already adored First Aid but he was so good in this issue, and this his discoveries and the further and the further and further down the hole things went from there felt like my stomach was dropping each time. To the point where I wanted to just scream “it’s a trap” multiple times. 

It’s just good stuff, I really enjoyed this issue and am on the edge of my seat for what’s coming up.

Lion Forge’s Voltron Legendary Defender Vol. 2 (2017-present) #2 Tim Hedrick, Mitch Iverson, Rubine, Beni Lobel

Okay. All my skepticism before, all my complaints, all my concerns that both art and characterizations were lacking in this story compared to the actual series? I take it back because... I had an absolute blast reading this issue. 

So along with our art change, we get something in this issue that we honestly haven’t even gotten from the series, and that is non-food related Hunk centric storylines with him being hailed as a hero to an entire species, having girl problems, and people literally fighting for the right to marry him. Even if those people are more like... sexy female Knuckles and Sonic. 

Anyway. This issue pretty much addresses everything I was worried that we were missing before. There’s a coherent plot with a clear need for the individual paladins as well as Voltron all together, there’s jokes but not so much at the expense of a character’s dignity, and Hunk... Hunk is treated better in this issue than he is for the majority of episodes for the last three seasons of the show and I’m genuinely kind of floored by this fact.

There’s a scene I absolutely loved where Hunk, baffled at his own situation, even goes to Lance and they have a whole page dedicated to their heart to heart. Lance ranges from jealous to sarcastic, to genuinely helpful and it’s the first time that any of the franchise has remembered they were friends and roommates first before anyone else. 

I was genuinely surprised with how much I enjoyed this issue and if I could give a reward for the single most improvement from one issue to the next it would go to Voltron this week.

Though I will say, c’mon artists, backgrounds are a pain but you have to treat them like your friends. You can’t rely on gradients 100% of the time.

So while there was some harsh criticisms I had this week, I think overall it showed to be a pretty good week for comics, and more than a couple of surprises came up to really make me sit back and reflect on things. But with little doubt, my pick of the week has to be Batwoman because that series and Marguerite Bennett just as a writer on her own have managed to really redefine a familiar character and make her story her lore, and her personality stand proud and alone from all the strings of continuity that has been supposedly holding her back for all these years. I absolutely love it and can’t wait for the next issue.  

And those are the comics for this week! Did you happen to agree with me? Disagree? Think I missed out on picking up a comic that was good? I’d love to hear your thoughts.

But before I let you go, I have to (yes have to) plug once more:

I have exactly a month to pack up everything I own and move halfway across the country again which is not helping those financial crunches I mentioned before either.

As such, I really would appreciate if you enjoy my content or are interested in helping me out, please check out either my Patreon or PayPal. Every bit helps and I couldn’t thank you enough for enjoying and supporting my content.

You could also support me by going to my main blog, @renaroo, where I’ll soon be listing prices and more for art and writing commissions.

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[thesaltydigest]

Joint Review: “And I Darken”, or: Everyone is Fucked Up and Toxic and Nothing Goes Well

Title: And I Darken

Author:  Kiersten White

Review By: Captain Clo and Bekworm

Verdict: So many bad decisions are made you’ll want to pull your hair out, but this violent girl is fascinating, and boy isn’t her brother adorable? but I don’t think I’ll be reading the sequel... wait did I just buy it???

This Review contains spoilers

And I Darken is an alternate history YA novel with a very specific twist: what if Vlad Dracul – the one who inspired Count Dracula – was a woman? Lada Dracul has all his story – daughter of the Wallachian Voivode, or Prince, Vlad II Dracul, she is sent to the Ottoman court as political hostage with her younger brother, Radu (who is instead an actual historical figure), when she is just a child. Inflexible and obsessed with the idea of going back to Wallachia and becoming its ruler, Lada is violent and cruel, convinced that love is weakness and that being a woman is a disgrace. Of course, she isn't completely wrong. Lada is a warrior at heart, but she has to struggle a lot in order to be respected as such. And she is a political hostage, in a precarious situation, and any weakness or soft spot she might show can and will be used against her – hence why she never lets her love for her brother show, for example. 

Radu is the deuteragonist, and is everything Lada isn't – kind, sensitive, averse to violence. Where Lada fights with all her might against any and all attempt to tame her with scathing remarks or her fists, Radu is more of a political animal, preferring to use his words and his good looks to charm and deceive. They are also complete opposites in how they see their future. Lada hates the Ottoman empire and wants to go back to Wallachia; Radu converts to Islam and has no desire to leave.

Their relationship becomes even more complicated when Mehmed, the future Sultan, enters their lives – since they both fall in love with him.

CHARACTERS

BEKWORM: The hatred for women in this book is a little much for me. Women who marry are weak or "A waste of air", and women who have children are even weaker or "broken from the inside". The only strong women are the ones who walk away from this life. The ones who marry and have babies are locked away and considered useless.  

CAPTAIN CLO: That's understandable for who Lada is, but is certainly there. She sees marriage as a prison – she knows she's going to be used as a political tool and made to marry whoever her father wants. You can either sympathize with her perspective or see it as a sign of how inflexible and spiteful she is. No one character in this book is a good example. Lada is very self-centered, and since she can't imagine a situation in which marriage doesn't mean her personal annihilation (and she's right in this expectation), she thinks any woman who is satisfied with marriage is stupid. Actually, self-centredness is exactly what makes her and Mehmed identical, and so toxic for each other.

BEKWORM: Mehmed did not grow on me one bit. My god. He is well and truly awful. I'm glad Lada walked away from him. And Radu's devotion is just pathetic by the end of the book. "Could never love anyone but Mehmed!" You're like 16, mate, calm the fuck down. But I guess I'm not romantic in the sense that I believe loving someone every day for years is a choice. People think it's something you fall into and can't get out of, but that's not true. And it's why I think a lot of long term relationships fail when people realize they're not hopelessly in love anymore. Because waking up and loving the same person every day is a choice you have to make. So if you love someone for years it's because you want to. So get the fuck over it, Radu. Sometimes people don't love you back. For fuck's sake. Am I heartless? I don't even care.

CAPTAIN CLO: I was actually struggling to rationalize what I liked about Mehmed and I came up short. What even is his personality? I can come up with a decent list of character traits for Radu and Lada, but not for Mehmed. Why are they both in love with him?  

BEKWORM: Exactly!! He's definitely a character you can't describe because there's just nothing there.

CAPTAIN CLO: I think Lada might like him because he's something to aspire to (powerful), and because for all that he's still sexist sometimes, he doesn't want her to change her ways. But that's very little. And why does Radu love him at all? What does he get from Mehmed that makes him attracted to him?

BEKWORM: I don't know. Maybe because Mehmed was his sexual awakening. But he gets nothing out of their relationship.

CAPTAIN CLO: This is always a big problem with YA romance, in my opinion. A lot of times you can't tell what makes a character attracted to someone. Certainly, Mehmed treats Radu with kindness and trusts him, but just like Lada, he's self-centred, takes him for granted, and hardly thinks about him at all. Radu is invisible to both of them. Maybe that's exactly why he falls in love with Mehmed? Radu has a few friends, and it seems like he looks for kindness in people, but if it's kindness he's after, he might have fallen in love before, with the first Janissary he befriends. Instead, even when offered a relationship with him, he's not attracted to him at all. He wants Mehmed. But why?

In general, the relationship between Lada, Radu, and Mehmed is toxic. Anyone expecting them to get better and understand each other eventually will be disappointed, probably – and I'll be the first in that sorry lot. I really want Lada to stop treating Radu badly. He doesn't deserve it, and they could be such an amazing team. And Radu could learn not to be a fucking doormat, but that's what he's used to, thanks to Lada. And although I want them to get what they want and both have a relationship with Mehmed, I know it won't happen – when does it, ever? No, let's have another toxic triangle. 

I think it's so amazing that there is a book about Radu that acknowledges his romantic ties with Mehmed – at least one historical source attests it, but I can't delve too much in it here – but the plot falls into the tired, old Gay Best Friend Who Is In Love With Straight Friend trope. Honestly. There is also a fair amount of angst about it – Radu feels deeply ashamed of his inclinations. And actually, I'm not sure how much that makes sense. He's an educated person, and his best friend was (historically) noted for his interest in Greek literature. Are you telling me Radu never stumbled upon homoerotic poetry from ancient Greece? Even Persian poetry had notable examples, and that would have been so easy for him to find. And the fact that Mehmed is firmly established as heterosexual... I'm not down for other two books of anguish and pining.

BEKWORM: I'm glad in the end Lada remembered what she wanted from life, because she fell into that classic trope of Ambitious Girl Falls in Love and Forgets EVERYTHING. And that she left. And Radu's reason for not joining her wasn't just Mehmed, and that was good too. Because the two of them having a conflict about what they consider Home is interesting. Having a conflict over Mehmed is not.

CAPTAIN CLO: That's definitely a nice touch. But knowing how history went between the two of them... Yeah, I can't see this ending well. It was inevitable too, they adjusted differently to living in the Ottoman empire. Although Lada will NEVER find a place where she can fit is she keeps going like this. The problem is not only what place they consider home, but their different personalities. Lada has ambitions, but they're STUPID ambitions. She just cares about ruling Wallachia, just like her father before her; she doesn't care about advancing the region or protecting people. Granted, no one does in this book (and historically that's also generally true). She lacks emotional intelligence, and she also suffers for it. Lada completely rejects the idea of home = trusted people I love, so there won't be any betterment in that, I don't think. I wonder if she'll come to realize all this or she'll just. Start to impale people.

BEKWORM: Obviously we hope she just starts impaling people.

Not but really. Lada is an absolutely fascinating protagonist, especially in a time where many female YA protagonists are pasty white girls with shiny brown hair, who has no friends, but she’s so clumsy guys isn’t that adorbs? Lada doesn’t have many friends, but that’s because she’s a feral she wolf who’s ready to cut some throats open with her damn fingernails. And it’s awesome. She’s ready to take over, and I’m more than ready to watch it happen. Lada is an amazing outlet for my lady rage, y’all. I love it.

ON HISTORY                         

CAPTAIN CLO: When goodreads suggested And I Darken as my next read, I was pretty conflicted about it. I'm a huge history nerd and I've been studying the area from the Republic of Venice to Istanbul in exactly the same years in which the plot develops. So of course, I had high expectations. At the same time, however, I didn't; this is a YA book, not a historical novel, and it would be unfair to expect of it the same attention to detail and history-related content. YA lit is (generally) focused on fast-paced adventure, romance, and characters – not on showing historical issues and give a broad, in-depth account of life and history of the time.

In the end, I was still disappointed by what I got – but I feel like I have to “confess” my inflated expectations.

There is one specific issue that I feel like was underdeveloped – the Janissaries. The Janissaries were a military corp at the direct orders of the Ottoman Sultan. They were also slaves, ailing from the Balkan area under the Ottoman's influence. Young Christian boys were taken by Ottoman officials (sometimes offered by the families themselves), mostly from peasant families, and then brought to Turkey. They were taught Turkish and converted to Islam, then brought to the capital to be trained as specialized infantry soldiers. Janissaries were salaried slaves, but were also highly respected and had many privileges. They didn't pay taxes, were the personal guards of the Sultan, and had great opportunities to advance socially – something a lot of them would never achieve otherwise. Promotions were given on the base of loyalty and meritocracy, not class. The more skilled became governors or even prime ministers. Some became governors and then rebelled to the Sultan, like a famous Albanian national hero, Skanderbeg. Some became immensely powerful Grand Viziers, like Zaganos Pasha, the prime minister at the time of Skanderbeg’s rule, and close collaborator of Mehmed the Conqueror. 

There are so many interesting things in just this little, scant description, I don't even know where to begin. Issues of conversion, religion, national identity, class, social advancement... The list is long. And the Janissaries feature heavily in And I Darken, yet these issues are barely touched upon. The Janissaries we directly see on the page are either resentful of their slavery and desire freedom, or traitors of the Sultan, only after better pay and privileges. The better prospects are only brought up once, by Radu, who isn't a Janissary. On top of that, he was partly lying. It's not like dissatisfaction wasn't possible in the ranks, but I think it's important to remember that, historically, Janissaries never revolted to be free. They only did so to have better pay. Seeing as slavery is perceived as morally revolting in contemporary Western culture, it's understandable that we expect them to revolt, Spartacus-style; I did for sure when I started to get interested in them. But history proves that something – their training, their sense of camaraderie, their new-found religion, their better prospects, I honestly don't know – made them stay, and made them mostly loyal. I am deeply dissatisfied in how this matter was brushed aside in the book, although I'm not surprised it was.

RELIGION

CAPTAIN CLO: The role of religion and religious conversion was more central, but still not developed very well. Radu converts to Islam of his own volition, finding peace and understanding in its practice. Which is positive, but the reader is never really told much about Islam itself. I'm not an expert, but my perception is that at the time – mid 15th century – Islam was a much more approachable religion for every class, but especially the lower one. Radu himself remembers the Orthodox rite he was used to as oppressive, dark, filled with notions of sin and hell, and a language difficult to understand. These are childish recollections, distorted by how much he hated his previous life – in which he was mistreated and abused – but they make sense. In Islam he finds something different... but what? Although we're treated to the scene in which he enters a mosque for the first time, we never know what, exactly, he learns that makes sense for him. One can read through the entire book and never learn anything about Islam proper but the superficial, commonly-known things – the five pillars, the muezzins, the mosques, the existence of the Quran. It's very little. It's even less when we learn that a lot of Radu and Mehmed's friendship is based on deep conversations about Islam – but we're never once shown them having such a discussion.

BEKWORM: I wonder if White worried that getting to deep into it would be seen as preaching. But you're right it would have been more interesting to see more about the religion, especially because most people don't know what it's about. I know I really don't.

CAPTAIN CLO: Maybe she did, and that's understandable... but such as it is, Radu and Mehmed's shared religious passion sounds like an informed ability. It feels to me like an important piece of the historical puzzle is missing. Conversions to Islam in the Ottoman empire were rarely forced – yet they happened a lot. Certainly in part for pragmatic purposes – non-Muslim subjects had to pay an additional tax and had various other restrictions – but the persuasive power of Islam shouldn't be underestimated, in my opinion.

OVERALL

BEKWORM: Overall we give this a solid Meh. Lada and Radu are worth the time it takes to read this book. Their relationship with each other is heartbreaking but sweet in an entirely new way. However, the focus of their romantic interest is definitely a big, dull dud. Sorry, Mehmed! But please get a personality you’re really bumming me out. (Oh my god, guys, I think he’s this book’s version of the pasty, shiny haired protagonist! Everybody loves him but no one knows why. He’s the Bella Swan of the Ottoman Courts)

We’re expecting the following books in this series to involve less pining, more impaling, and so much heartbreak you’ll probably be sitting there wondering why the fuck you’re reading it while simultaneously refusing to put the damn thing down. Should be fun! I’ll need a bottle of wine.

[under-the-lake]

Fenrir and Greyback: a liiiiiiitle digression about werewolves - part 4: Norse Mythology

The Middle Ages in Europe are fascinating. Not only do Southern and Central Europe bloom and blossom in arts and literature, but the North is home to the boom of civilisations often forgotten: Vikings, Saamis, Finns. And yet, Vikings did have a huge influence on the development of economy in Europe and the Middle-East via Russia, they discovered Iceland and Greenland and Canada and settled there (even if the Canadian colony was only short-lived), they raided the British Isles and dominated them for centuries. And their helmets have NO HORNS. Just saying.

The Saami and Finns are small peoples but they do have a different type of society and their myths and relationships to animals and shape-shifting are not similar to the ones we can see in Central Europe. Therefore it is rather interesting to have a look at them, even if sources are scarce. But let’s start with the more widely-known things: the Norse Fenrir.

NORSE MYTHOLOGY

Many people are familiar with Norse mythology through watching the Vikings-series on their coms or on the telly. I must admit not having watched it. Lack of time is to blame I reckon.

Warning: I know many of you are experts in the domain I’m going to travel now, and I ask for your forgiveness as to the shortness and lack of detail I shall provide. This isn’t meant to be a thorough study of either the Edda (or Eddas) or any other source.

So. Fenrir, the fen-dweller (that’s what it means in Old Norse). He’s not mentioned often in Norse mythology, but he’s an important character. He goes by many names, yet his genealogy is doubtless: he is the son of Loki and the frost giantess Angrboda of Jötunheim (Angrboda means ‘she who bodes anguish’ - see the rest of the tale). The story goes Loki was leaving his wife Sigyn from time to time, but always came back to her, eventually. One day Odin asked him about his children. Loki answered the names of his legitimate kids. Odin knew, thanks to a dream, that Loki had illegitimate descendants as well, with the giantess Angrboda. Those kids were the strangest things on Earth: they were three, as different from each other as the rose is from the Devil’s Snare. Odin had foreseen that those children would be the downfall of the kingdom of gods. He sent his best people to get them to Asgaard to try and have them under his control.

The first child was a serpent called Jormungundur. It grew and grew all the time and spat deadly venom at his foes. Odin made him live in the ocean circling the Earth and people would call him the Midgard Serpent.

The second child was a girl, but the most unusual and strange being ever seen: one side of her was a beautiful lass, while the other side of her was a dead one, decrepit and rotting. She was called Hel. Odin sent her to guard the lightless world, the kingdom of death, Niflheim. I don’t know if there’s a link, but hell is something like that, right? A place where, as Hel puts it, her companions are Famine and Hunger and Sickbed.

How Odin’s plan regarding Fenrir went to the dogs

The third child, Fenrir, is the one that interests us for this time.  The gods were so much afraid of what he could do when grown up that they wanted to keep him under their watchful eye. Yet Fenrir was only a wolf-cub when it reached Asgard. Only Tyr was willing to feed it. It grew quickly, on a diet of raw meat. It ate like a wolf but spoke like a human being. Odin knew Fenrir was going to be a threat to the realm, as would both the other children of Loki’s. He held council with the other gods and they decided to tie Fenrir so that he wouldn’t harm the gods, as Odin has foreseen. So they bound him in chains, telling him it would be to test his strength. Fenrir broke the chains and the gods weren’t happy. They forged a second set of chains. This time, each link was so heavy that no single man could lift it. The chains were called Dromi. They thought that would do the trick with Fenrir. Well, they were wrong. It took much time and effort from Fenrir, but he eventually exploded the chains. It is said that bits of them could be found all over the place for ages after this event. This was a blow for the gods.

Odin thought. And thought. Finally he came up with an idea. A new set of chains called Gleipnir (it means ‘open’ - which the gods weren’t towards Fenrir…). Odin had to pay a huge lot of cash to the dwarves who made it for him in Swartalfaheimr. Gleipnir was to be woven out of six magical ingredients: the footstep of a cat, the beard of a woman, the roots of a mountain, the sinews of a bear, the breath of a fish and the spittle of a bird. No wonder the price was high. The result was what looked like a silk ribbon. When the Aesir saw the ribbon, they were happy and went to find Fenrir near the Black Lake (see, that too is like in Hogwarts… a Black Lake with a beast nearby). Fenrir despised Gleipnir. When the gods insisted upon his trying his strength on it he started feeling suspicious. He was thinking the gods weren’t being entirely open with him, and that they wanted to bind him forever rather than merely test his strength (a bit slow on the uptake, the Fenrir…). The gods said they’d free Fenrir if these were ties he couldn’t break. Fenrir didn’t believe them. In the end Fenrir suggested he being tied only if one of the Aesir would put his hand in his mouth. Fenrir wouldn’t bite on it unless there was some treachery. None of the gods would risk their hands, though. Finally, Tyr put his hand in the wolf’s mouth, and the gods bound the beast. As Fenrir had thought, the gods were never going to free him. They had taken a leaf out of Loki’s book for a change. So the wolf chopped the god’s hand off.

For those who want to see the work of the writer of this cartoon and read the text as it is, here’s the link: https://blacklemonjuice.deviantart.com/art/Loki-and-Fenrir-Tyr-s-Hand-351526878

All this happened only because the gods were scared of Fenrir. Fenrir, out of spite, told the Aesir: ‘I’d have been a friend to you had you not been treacherous to me. Now look what you got yourself: a death sentence. At the end of the times, at Ragnarok, I’ll kill you, Odin, Father of the Gods, and I will eat the sun and I will eat the moon.’

Fenrir was brought to a far-away place, and Gleipnir was tied to a boulder. A sword was placed into Fenrir’s mouth to keep it open. Fenrir howled and howled. A river, called Ván (meaning ‘expectation’ in Olde Norse) flowed from his drooling mouth until Ragnarok. He had an oath to fulfill, and he wasn’t the like to break it. He waited.

How Fenrir’s plan regarding Odin didn’t go to the dogs

Fenrir kept his word. And here’s how it happened.

Slowly, the end of the Aesir and the World as it was known would come. Signs showing that would be the falling honour standards and the lessening importance of kinship and human relationships. Oaths sworn weren’t kept. Not only did humans act in this way. The gods weren’t strangers to such betrayals or lack of honour. See what they did to Fenrir, among other tales.

Among other prophecies about Ragnarok (that’s the Norse name for the periodic end of the world they face), one said that three winters would come in a row without a summer to part them, and that then Loki and his son Fenrir, who had been bound to prevent the prophecies from happening, broke free of their fetters and started doing exactly what the Aesir had feared they would.  Loki went to gather an army of giants to destroy Asgard, the fortress of the gods, but also the rest of the land. Fenrir, on his own, set off to destroy the world too. He roamed the world with his jaws open, the lower one on the ground and the upper one in the sky. And he ate the sun and he ate the moon. And one part of his prophecy was fulfilled. Then Fenrir killed Odin and Tyr. And the other part of the prophecy was fulfilled. Fenrir didn’t go on wreaking havoc forever. He was eventually slain by Odin’s son Vidar, who survived Ragnarok to be the bearer of ancient knowledge with the new generation of gods who would reign on Asgard after the earth has risen from the sea again.

SO WHAT ABOUT ROWLING’S FENRIR, THEN?

Fenrir Greyback is a werewolf, we know that. He’s a special one, that we know too. So is there an influence of the Norse Fenrir on the wizarding world one? Yes, yet small. I don’t know how much Rowling knew about Norse mythology but to pick such a name as Fenrir 20 years ago she should have known. The Vikings series wasn’t aired yet, and there’s an awful lot to say about the comparison. Here is a small bit.

Greyback is exceptionally strong for a man. He resists Bellatrix’s Stunning spell in Malfoy Manor, after she discovers they have the Sword of Gryffindor, while the other Snatchers are… well… stunned.

‘What is that?’ [Harry] heard her say.

‘Sword,’ grunted an out-of-sight Snatcher.

‘Give it to me.’

‘It’s not yorn, Missus, it’s mine, I reckon I found it.’

There was a bang and a flash of red light: Harry knew that the Snatcher had been Stunned. There was a roar of anger from his fellows: Scabior drew his wand.

‘What d’you think you’re playing at, woman?’

‘Stupefy,’ she screamed, ‘stupefy!’

They were no match for her, even though there were four of them against one of her: she was a witch, as Harry knew, with prodigious skill and no conscience. They fell where they stood, all except Greyback, who had been forced into a kneeling position, his arms outstretched.

(DH, Chapter 23)

We can draw a comparison between Fenrir and Greyback based on this. Fenrir, as we saw, has extraordinary strength, so much so that it takes the most skilled dwarves and the rarest material to make chains that would bind him. In comparison, Greyback is nothing, of course, but he retains that sort of inhuman strength from his condition. Being a part werewolf even when the moon is not full has apparently granted him some wolfish qualities along with the werewolfish lust over blood. Greyback’s strength is not natural. ‘Normal’ people are knocked out by Stunning spells. He isn’t. He was ‘forced into a kneeling position, his arms outstretched’, which means he got the blast but it didn’t affect him more than that. Hagrid either, on another scale, doesn’t get the full blast of a Stunning because of his giant blood. It’s a bit strange though that the strength and resistance to spells has been kept out while the werewolf hasn’t transformed. I can’t help wondering how that could happen. In Hagrid’s case it’s genetic. In Greyback’s it’s not. Being bitten can’t affect the genes that much. Or has his will made his genes mutate in some weird extra-quick way? That’s most unlikely. This is a total mystery to me. As for the general idea of werewolves being resilient to curses, there is a theory that goes like this: Werewolves in general would be more resilient to curses and therefore wizards would tend not to use spells on them but rather bind them, like Snape did to Lupin in the Shrieking Shack in PoA (Chapter 19). If we link Fenrir and werewolves as having similar characteristics, we can draw a bond again: Fenrir too was bound and not killed, yet the Aesir could have got rid of him when he was a cub.

Fenrir has as an aim to get revenge by killing the chief of the gods, the Aesir Odin, and then eating the sun and the moon. While doing that he aims to destroy as much of Asgard as he can. While not aiming to destroy The World, Greyback wants to destroy a world, the world of wizards. He is bitter and resentful because he was bitten and because werewolves are shunned by wizarding laws, and also because of what he heard Lupin’s dad had said while the Ministry officials were interrogating him: werewolves were ‘soulless, evil, deserving nothing but death’. Greyback wants to make a society of werewolves, killing all the wizards to the last one. Plain revenge. In this, Fenrir and Greyback are similar.

A third comparison, maybe a bit more far-fetched, is that both tend to kill innocent beings: Fenrir wants to deprive the world from the sun and moon (who did nothing in the tale of his binding), and Greyback wants to kill children, who are the epitome of innocence, at least according to common canon (I mean Tom Riddle wasn’t exactly an innocent child… but that might be the exception): ‘Greyback specialises in children … bite them young, he says, and raise them away from their parents, raise them to hate normal wizards. Voldemort has threatened to unleash him upon people’s sons and daughters; it is a threat that usually produces good results.’ (HBP, Chapter 16). This quote covers both the use of children and the revenge part of Greyback’s motivations...

Then we can also examine the descent of both creatures. Loki and the giantess Angrboda gave birth to Fenrir. Loki is the son of a giant, Farbauti, and someone who could be a goddess, a giantess or some other being, we don’t know. So Loki’s ‘classification’ is a bit tricky, but he’s commonly considered a half-god because he lives in Asgard. Fenrir came to the world the son of an unfaithful father. We know nothing about Greyback’s lineage. There’s however something remotely linked between being illegitimate and being bitten. None of the situations is ‘normal’, and both are leading to the individuals being shunned by a part of the society for some reason, be it good or bad.

Both Fenrir and Greyback embody the outlaw. Fenrir is exiled from Asgard and from doing anything because he’s feared by the gods. They bind him so that he can’t move and keep his mouth open so that he can’t talk. He’s exiled from the world, in a way. His name, the fen-dweller, refers to marshlands that are usually on the outskirts of human living places. They are regions which are hostile to ‘common’ people and where outlaws seek refuge. They are also regions of weird tales and strange beings. Greyback is an outlaw as well because his position as a werewolf makes him dangerous to the society and also because he has decided to be a fully-acknowledged one by pushing the boundaries of his werewolfitude out of the full moon-period. Both Fenrir and Greyback embody a death of some sort, and death by murder is out of the law. Fenrir will kill Odin and eat the sun and the moon, and Greyback kills people in a very uncivilised way (I don’t know if there’s a civilised way though). Remember, if you read the part about medieval times, that outlaws in Knut’s Laws in the 11th century in England named outlaws ‘werewolves’. Literally.

We can also ponder how the Battle of Hogwarts involved werewolves and how it’s related to Norse mythology. After all, Ragnarok is also called ‘wolf-age’ in Völuspa, and Voldemort started recruiting werewolves from the start. We know that because Lupin was sent as a spy among them, as he tells Harry in Half-Blood Prince: ‘I’ve been living among my fellows, my equals. [...] Werewolves. Nearly all of them are on Voldemort’s side. Dumbledore wanted a spy there and here I was …  ready-made.’ (HBP, Chapter 16) So that means werewolves, as well as giants, were part of Voldemort’s plan for an army. He had had them with him in the First Wizarding War too. Well, interestingly enough, wolves and giants are The Enemy during the Norse Ragnarok as well, and both were there to help destroy the old world and bring a new one to birth. In the Harry Potter series, it’s hard to imagine the positive role of werewolves in the Battle of Hogwarts, the Rowling version of a Ragnarok, but they are finally defeated, like Fenrir was at Ragnarok, bringing a new order to rule. Fenrir, like Greyback, have a further similarity linked to the new order that is set after the battles: both are killed or vanquished by members of the new generation. Fenrir is killed by Vidar, who is said to be Odin’s son and survives to bring knowledge to the new generation of gods, while Greyback is defeated by Ron and Hermione. However, the importance of both characters in that battle is hugely different. While Fenrir’s presence is paramount to the success of Ragnarok and the rise of a new era, Greyback’s presence is not important at all per se. He doesn’t kill significant characters (Fenrir killed Odin, the Father of the Gods), nor does he have a prediction to fulfill upon his shoulders (yet, as Dumbledore would put it, predictions are only fulfilled because we know about them). Furthermore, Greyback doesn’t actively kill many people during the battle. He merely scavenges on weakened bodies:

Two bodies fell from the balcony overhead as [Harry, Ron and Hermione] reached the ground and a grey blur that Harry took for an animal sped four-legged across the hall to sink its teeth into one of the fallen. ‘’ NO!’’ shrieked Hermione, and with a deafening blast from her wand Fenrir Greyback was thrown backwards from the feebly stirring body of Lavender Brown.’ (DH, Chapter 32) In that respect, Greyback is completely different from Fenrir.

One could argue that wolves aren’t that special a representation of the enemy. Indeed, most of the civilisations which had wolves among the list of their natural predators didn’t like them much, but often they revered them in a way or another. Man’s relationship to wolf, apart from the completely manicheistic one the Christians have, has always been ambiguous. In Fenrir’s case, it’s symptomatic that he is The Enemy, but he is also the son of a half-god, and the most feared creature by the Aesir (notice the Aesir didn’t kill Fenrir as a cub, as they could have). We sense that in the Harry Potter  books too. Greyback is not The Enemy, that’s true, but he’s nearly his right hand in cruelty, obscene cruelty. Even Bellatrix doesn’t reach that level of lust in her actions. Maybe not even Voldemort. The latter only kills by habit, sort of. You annoy me, I’ll get rid of you. No pleasure in there, because there’s probably not enough human left in him to feel emotions. Greyback on the other hand is rejoicing at the perspective of biting, licking, sucking and everything that is not mentioned as such in the book but that can be guessed via the vocabulary Rowling uses. All these elements make Greyback probably the most disgusting creature in the book and one of the most feared.

There are many links between the Norse Fenrir and the British Greyback. Was Rowling aware of all?, I have no idea, but one day I’d like to ask her…

PS: If you are a gamer, and you want to plunge into Norse mythology, why not have a look at Senua’s Sacrifice? Description here! Just follow the link:

http://under-the-lake.tumblr.com/post/164632016201/hellblade-senuas-sacrifice

Sources for Part 4:

Page 394

Gaiman, Neil, Norse Mythology, Bloomsbury, London, 2017

Ward, Renée (2008) J. K. Rowling's Fenrir Greyback: identity, society, and the Werewolf. In: Terminus, 7-11 August 2008, Chicago, ILL, USA.

Rowling, Joanne K., Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Bloomsbury, 2005

Rowling, Joanne K., Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Bloomsbury, 2007

Fenrir: https://norse-mythology.org/tales/the-binding-of-fenrir/

Loki: https://norse-mythology.org/gods-and-creatures/the-aesir-gods-and-goddesses/loki/

Ragnarök: https://norse-mythology.org/tales/ragnarok/

Wikipedia, Fenrir: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fenrir

Völuspa (Annotated text): http://library.flawlesslogic.com/voluspa.htm

[chwpromoblog]

MALLORY HONEY. high school senior; seventeen. nana komatsu. OPEN.

and, as matilda wormwood once said:

"No more Miss Nice Girl."

BEFORE THE PARTY;

Mallory's entire life had been a long con on all fronts, though she didn't know it. That had been everything. And given a few more years, and a few more wrong turns, her path could have been entirely different. But she doesn't try to think of that. What's the point? She ended up okay, finally surrounded by enough, able to be enough. That's it. That's all there ever is.

Most children are born to fulfill some sort of purpose, even if their parents won't ever admit it. Some are band-aid kids to save relationships. Others are the second chance kids to help patch over the ugly, unruly first attempts. Mallory was born a product. At least, that's what she thought of her life. There were too many blanks for her to fill on her own to be entirely sure. But that's how her parents treated her. She was the cute little girl who smiled and waved at her neighbors, who made nice with the local librarians. And then she smiled and waved at a new set of neighbors, and a new set of librarians.

Her family was constantly on the move, ever-changing: new hair, new clothes, new names, new life. She went through several sets of bangs, unfortunately shaved eyebrows, and even a tragic bleaching job done in a hotel bathroom sink in just a few years.

School was almost impossible to keep up with, but not because she didn't understand the material; she was far beyond her peers, but was never able to take her end of year exams. Her parents begged and begged for her to stop going, stop caring — because they'd barely gotten past their schooling years, and look how they turned out? Mallory was devastated, because she loved school. She loved the math, the science experiments, and she especially loved to read. Not that she read much, with all the library books she'd abandoned in former homes, too heavy to carry, and all the ones her parents had ripped apart to get her attention. As precocious as she was, she knew there was no point in school if she couldn't advance, so she agreed to give up on it.

And just like that, Mallory was given a purpose, far beyond the reach of playing nice with others. She was a distraction, a pawn. She pointed out lockets in jewelry stores that she begged attendants to let her try on and then fumbled with clasping them around her neck while her parents went behind the counter and got themselves a few knick-knacks. At the supermarket. Saks. Anywhere her charm could possibly work. Her father's supposed international business dealings and mother's supposed hair and makeup artist freelancing for bigwigs were never a thing at all. This was their thing. This was how they survived. And Mallory was their lynchpin.

For all their sticky fingers, Mallory's parents were truly and painfully dumb, which meant that she increased their success tenfold. No more random nights spent with one parent and not the other, which she finally deduced were twenty-four hours in the local jail. And, blessedly, they stayed put for longer than they'd ever had, which Mallory loved the most. She had all of the book smarts in the world for having read so few books, but no common sense — so it had been difficult to even figure out what her life was all about, though she was right in the middle of it. Once she did, it was the little things that kept her afloat, like the ability to grow attached to places, and to people. Maybe in the end, that made leaving worse, because she would sob each time they did. Once, she even cut her own hair in anguish, leaving the remnants in yet another hotel sink, her ends as frayed and uneven as can be. And she didn't care. She didn't care. She didn't care.

Sure, her parents yelled, but they didn't hit. Sure, they had their expectations, but at least they could continue to scrape by if she met them. Sure, they looked absolutely nothing like her, and something told her that she was just another thing they'd stolen, but maybe the alternate reality she could have lived would have been worse. Silver linings, silver linings, silver linings. Never a wholly great picture, or a wholly great life. She spent every waking moment miserable. Everything felt like a complicated math equation with no worthwhile end. Sure, her parents could get arrested and sent away for a long time, but where would she end up? Sure, she could go back to school, but how would she catch up?

And, finally: sure, she could get arrested, but...? She couldn't manage to conjure up a question in her head. Honestly, she had no idea what would come of her, or what the police would make of her. And that was terrifying. But one day, her parents asked her to distract a mother and her young child while they opened her car, turned the key into the ignition, and waited for her to run in before they sped away. Mallory looked downwards at the young girl, who stared up at her with stars in her eyes, still at the stage in which she looked at everything in the world with such awe. And with that, she knew this was the one heist she couldn't help make happen. She blew their cover, screamed bloody murder, and they all went in handcuffs.

Mallory didn't even know she was Mallory, but that was apparently her name, attached to a mother who had adopted her when she was just a baby and had waited since the day she was taken for her to come home. She'd never adopted again, just held within her a resilience and an assuredness that told her that Mallory was out there somewhere. She'd been kidnapped as a three year old, as smart as her captors thought she was, because she'd been taken by a woman who'd faked her credentials to become a first grade teacher — and who had zeroed in on Mallory, because of her age, her natural wits, and her lack of understanding about the world. That was who she'd called her mother for her entire life, while her actual one had been in some town in Illinois, suffering. And suffer she still did, as she painstakingly sought out the best lawyers to get Mallory's record expunged.

She'd been wanted for years, as a victim and as a criminal. But she was a child, just barely fifteen, and her lawyers claimed Stockholm syndrome. Mallory had never heard her pain described so succinctly. She still managed to love her supposed parents while on the run, though their lives inflicted nothing but grief. She'd been scared to run, to separate herself, to do anything other than listen. They'd emotionally abused her, turned her away from everything else she'd loved, her attachments, to get what they wanted out of her. And for all the intelligence Mallory always thought she had, she'd never felt so stupid in her entire life.

It took a while to rebuild herself from the ground up. Even now, she considers it a work in progress. But she's back in school, at least on pace with where she should have been all along — but too afraid to go any further, even though the material bores her. People are morbidly fascinated with her, a career thief with a conscience. She's built to be a subject of a Lifetime movie, and, believe me, she's been approached. But instead, she lays low. She gets to know her mother, over and over again, and doesn't make her job as headmistress any more stressful than it needs to be. She thinks over where she's been, and where she's going. A quiet girl with a personality in construction, too smart for her own good. Even now, that's all she knows. But it's a start.

DURING THE PARTY;

Surprisingly, she liked parties. She didn't get to attend very many, having an understandably overprotective helicopter mom, but she'd always heard that the party that opened the school year was not to be missed. So, she crawled out of her window. Clumsily, considering she was out of practice with the whole sneaking out of places thing. And nearly broke her ankle in the process of making her way down from said window. But she made it in one piece and dashed towards Rosewood's campus before the porch lights could come on and alert the headmistress.

She hadn't made very many friends in Rosewood, truth be told. Nearly everyone was obsessed with the stories about her, not necessarily interested in getting to know who she'd become. So, she liked parties, but they were a painfully awkward experience for her.

She'd stood in the corner of some room for nearly an hour, simply observing, before a blasted Rosewood student accidentally sloshed some of the contents in his Solo cup on her shoes and then shoved his incredibly expensive camera into her chest. He mumbled something she couldn't really understand, but considering he quickly doubled back to his group of friends, who were posed for a photo, she pretty much got the message.

Holding up the camera in their direction, she examined the viewfinder, the smiling faces of each and every kid, until she'd realized she accidentally started recording them. At her profuse apologies, they simply started laughing, cackling, filled with the kind of animation and glee that only came from their togetherness, this kind of camaraderie. And right at that moment, she realized — everyone had been obsessed with documenting her story for her from the moment she made it out into the light. But what if she could do it for herself? What if she could document Rosewood?

She'd heard whispers of a gossip blog from years past, the stories crackling with something insidious. But this would be different. They could all write about and record one another. They could be the makers of their own stories. Things could be different — for herself, and for everyone else.

Mallory is the founder and editor-in-chief of The Wood, which will be replacing the gossip blog as the news source on all things Rosewood and Ravenwood. Her player will be involved in the running of The Wood if they so choose.

alternate faceclaims and prompts.

[chwrpg]

MALLORY HONEY. college sophomore; nineteen. lauren tsai. OPEN.

and, as matilda wormwood once said:

"No more Miss Nice Girl."

BEFORE THE PARTY;

Mallory's entire life had been a long con on all fronts, though she didn't know it. That had been everything. And given a few more years, and a few more wrong turns, her path could have been entirely different. But she doesn't try to think of that. What's the point? She ended up okay, finally surrounded by enough, able to be enough. That's it. That's all there ever is.

Most children are born to fulfill some sort of purpose, even if their parents won't ever admit it. Some are band-aid kids to save relationships. Others are the second chance kids to help patch over the ugly, unruly first attempts. Mallory was born a product. At least, that's what she thought of her life. There were too many blanks for her to fill on her own to be entirely sure. But that's how her parents treated her. She was the cute little girl who smiled and waved at her neighbors, who made nice with the local librarians. And then she smiled and waved at a new set of neighbors, and a new set of librarians.

Her family was constantly on the move, ever-changing: new hair, new clothes, new names, new life. She went through several sets of bangs, unfortunately shaved eyebrows, and even a tragic bleaching job done in a hotel bathroom sink in just a few years.

School was almost impossible to keep up with, but not because she didn't understand the material; she was far beyond her peers, but was never able to take her end of year exams. Her parents begged and begged for her to stop going, stop caring — because they'd barely gotten past their schooling years, and look how they turned out? Mallory was devastated, because she loved school. She loved the math, the science experiments, and she especially loved to read. Not that she read much, with all the library books she'd abandoned in former homes, too heavy to carry, and all the ones her parents had ripped apart to get her attention. As precocious as she was, she knew there was no point in school if she couldn't advance, so she agreed to give up on it.

And just like that, Mallory was given a purpose, far beyond the reach of playing nice with others. She was a distraction, a pawn. She pointed out lockets in jewelry stores that she begged attendants to let her try on and then fumbled with clasping them around her neck while her parents went behind the counter and got themselves a few knick-knacks. At the supermarket. Saks. Anywhere her charm could possibly work. Her father's supposed international business dealings and mother's supposed hair and makeup artist freelancing for bigwigs were never a thing at all. This was their thing. This was how they survived. And Mallory was their lynchpin.

For all their sticky fingers, Mallory's parents were truly and painfully dumb, which meant that she increased their success tenfold. No more random nights spent with one parent and not the other, which she finally deduced were twenty-four hours in the local jail. And, blessedly, they stayed put for longer than they'd ever had, which Mallory loved the most. She had all of the book smarts in the world for having read so few books, but no common sense — so it had been difficult to even figure out what her life was all about, though she was right in the middle of it. Once she did, it was the little things that kept her afloat, like the ability to grow attached to places, and to people. Maybe in the end, that made leaving worse, because she would sob each time they did. Once, she even cut her own hair in anguish, leaving the remnants in yet another hotel sink, her ends as frayed and uneven as can be. And she didn't care. She didn't care. She didn't care.

Sure, her parents yelled, but they didn't hit. Sure, they had their expectations, but at least they could continue to scrape by if she met them. Sure, they looked absolutely nothing like her, and something told her that she was just another thing they'd stolen, but maybe the alternate reality she could have lived would have been worse. Silver linings, silver linings, silver linings. Never a wholly great picture, or a wholly great life. She spent every waking moment miserable. Everything felt like a complicated math equation with no worthwhile end. Sure, her parents could get arrested and sent away for a long time, but where would she end up? Sure, she could go back to school, but how would she catch up?

And, finally: sure, she could get arrested, but...? She couldn't manage to conjure up a question in her head. Honestly, she had no idea what would come of her, or what the police would make of her. And that was terrifying. But one day, her parents asked her to distract a mother and her young child while they opened her car, turned the key into the ignition, and waited for her to run in before they sped away. Mallory looked downwards at the young girl, who stared up at her with stars in her eyes, still at the stage in which she looked at everything in the world with such awe. And with that, she knew this was the one heist she couldn't help make happen. She blew their cover, screamed bloody murder, and they all went in handcuffs.

Mallory didn't even know she was Mallory, but that was apparently her name, attached to a mother who had adopted her when she was just a baby and had waited since the day she was taken for her to come home. She'd never adopted again, just held within her a resilience and an assuredness that told her that Mallory was out there somewhere. She'd been kidnapped as a three year old, as smart as her captors thought she was, because she'd been taken by a woman who'd faked her credentials to become a first grade teacher — and who had zeroed in on Mallory, because of her age, her natural wits, and her lack of understanding about the world. That was who she'd called her mother for her entire life, while her actual one had been in some town in Illinois, suffering. And suffer she still did, as she painstakingly sought out the best lawyers to get Mallory's record expunged.

She'd been wanted for years, as a victim and as a criminal. But she was a child, just barely fifteen, and her lawyers claimed Stockholm syndrome. Mallory had never heard her pain described so succinctly. She still managed to love her supposed parents while on the run, though their lives inflicted nothing but grief. She'd been scared to run, to separate herself, to do anything other than listen. They'd emotionally abused her, turned her away from everything else she'd loved, her attachments, to get what they wanted out of her. And for all the intelligence Mallory always thought she had, she'd never felt so stupid in her entire life.

It took a while to rebuild herself from the ground up. Even now, she considers it a work in progress. But she's back in school, at least on pace with where she should have been all along — but too afraid to go any further, even though the material bores her. People are morbidly fascinated with her, a career thief with a conscience. She's built to be a subject of a Lifetime movie, and, believe me, she's been approached. But instead, she lays low. She gets to know her mother, over and over again, and doesn't make her job as headmistress any more stressful than it needs to be. She thinks over where she's been, and where she's going. A quiet girl with a personality in construction, too smart for her own good. Even now, that's all she knows. But it's a start.

DURING THE PARTY;

Surprisingly, she liked parties. She didn't get to attend very many, having an understandably overprotective helicopter mom, but she'd always heard that the party that opened the school year was not to be missed. So, she crawled out of her window. Clumsily, considering she was out of practice with the whole sneaking out of places thing. And nearly broke her ankle in the process of making her way down from said window. But she made it in one piece and dashed towards Rosewood's campus before the porch lights could come on and alert the headmistress.

She hadn't made very many friends in Rosewood, truth be told. Nearly everyone was obsessed with the stories about her, not necessarily interested in getting to know who she'd become. So, she liked parties, but they were a painfully awkward experience for her.

She'd stood in the corner of some room for nearly an hour, simply observing, before a blasted Rosewood student accidentally sloshed some of the contents in his Solo cup on her shoes and then shoved his incredibly expensive camera into her chest. He mumbled something she couldn't really understand, but considering he quickly doubled back to his group of friends, who were posed for a photo, she pretty much got the message.

Holding up the camera in their direction, she examined the viewfinder, the smiling faces of each and every kid, until she'd realized she accidentally started recording them. At her profuse apologies, they simply started laughing, cackling, filled with the kind of animation and glee that only came from their togetherness, this kind of camaraderie. And right at that moment, she realized — everyone had been obsessed with documenting her story for her from the moment she made it out into the light. But what if she could do it for herself? What if she could document Rosewood?

She'd heard whispers of a gossip blog from years past, the stories crackling with something insidious. But this would be different. They could all write about and record one another. They could be the makers of their own stories. Things could be different — for herself, and for everyone else.

Mallory is the founder and editor-in-chief of The Wood, which will be replacing the gossip blog as the news source on all things Rosewood and Ravenwood. Her player will be involved in the running of The Wood if they so choose.

alternate faceclaims and prompts.

[chwpromoblog]

MALLORY HONEY. high school senior; seventeen. nana komatsu. OPEN.

and, as matilda wormwood once said:

"No more Miss Nice Girl."

BEFORE THE PARTY;

Mallory's entire life had been a long con on all fronts, though she didn't know it. That had been everything. And given a few more years, and a few more wrong turns, her path could have been entirely different. But she doesn't try to think of that. What's the point? She ended up okay, finally surrounded by enough, able to be enough. That's it. That's all there ever is.

Most children are born to fulfill some sort of purpose, even if their parents won't ever admit it. Some are band-aid kids to save relationships. Others are the second chance kids to help patch over the ugly, unruly first attempts. Mallory was born a product. At least, that's what she thought of her life. There were too many blanks for her to fill on her own to be entirely sure. But that's how her parents treated her. She was the cute little girl who smiled and waved at her neighbors, who made nice with the local librarians. And then she smiled and waved at a new set of neighbors, and a new set of librarians.

Her family was constantly on the move, ever-changing: new hair, new clothes, new names, new life. She went through several sets of bangs, unfortunately shaved eyebrows, and even a tragic bleaching job done in a hotel bathroom sink in just a few years.

School was almost impossible to keep up with, but not because she didn't understand the material; she was far beyond her peers, but was never able to take her end of year exams. Her parents begged and begged for her to stop going, stop caring — because they'd barely gotten past their schooling years, and look how they turned out? Mallory was devastated, because she loved school. She loved the math, the science experiments, and she especially loved to read. Not that she read much, with all the library books she'd abandoned in former homes, too heavy to carry, and all the ones her parents had ripped apart to get her attention. As precocious as she was, she knew there was no point in school if she couldn't advance, so she agreed to give up on it.

And just like that, Mallory was given a purpose, far beyond the reach of playing nice with others. She was a distraction, a pawn. She pointed out lockets in jewelry stores that she begged attendants to let her try on and then fumbled with clasping them around her neck while her parents went behind the counter and got themselves a few knick-knacks. At the supermarket. Saks. Anywhere her charm could possibly work. Her father's supposed international business dealings and mother's supposed hair and makeup artist freelancing for bigwigs were never a thing at all. This was their thing. This was how they survived. And Mallory was their lynchpin.

For all their sticky fingers, Mallory's parents were truly and painfully dumb, which meant that she increased their success tenfold. No more random nights spent with one parent and not the other, which she finally deduced were twenty-four hours in the local jail. And, blessedly, they stayed put for longer than they'd ever had, which Mallory loved the most. She had all of the book smarts in the world for having read so few books, but no common sense — so it had been difficult to even figure out what her life was all about, though she was right in the middle of it. Once she did, it was the little things that kept her afloat, like the ability to grow attached to places, and to people. Maybe in the end, that made leaving worse, because she would sob each time they did. Once, she even cut her own hair in anguish, leaving the remnants in yet another hotel sink, her ends as frayed and uneven as can be. And she didn't care. She didn't care. She didn't care.

Sure, her parents yelled, but they didn't hit. Sure, they had their expectations, but at least they could continue to scrape by if she met them. Sure, they looked absolutely nothing like her, and something told her that she was just another thing they'd stolen, but maybe the alternate reality she could have lived would have been worse. Silver linings, silver linings, silver linings. Never a wholly great picture, or a wholly great life. She spent every waking moment miserable. Everything felt like a complicated math equation with no worthwhile end. Sure, her parents could get arrested and sent away for a long time, but where would she end up? Sure, she could go back to school, but how would she catch up?

And, finally: sure, she could get arrested, but...? She couldn't manage to conjure up a question in her head. Honestly, she had no idea what would come of her, or what the police would make of her. And that was terrifying. But one day, her parents asked her to distract a mother and her young child while they opened her car, turned the key into the ignition, and waited for her to run in before they sped away. Mallory looked downwards at the young girl, who stared up at her with stars in her eyes, still at the stage in which she looked at everything in the world with such awe. And with that, she knew this was the one heist she couldn't help make happen. She blew their cover, screamed bloody murder, and they all went in handcuffs.

Mallory didn't even know she was Mallory, but that was apparently her name, attached to a mother who had adopted her when she was just a baby and had waited since the day she was taken for her to come home. She'd never adopted again, just held within her a resilience and an assuredness that told her that Mallory was out there somewhere. She'd been kidnapped as a three year old, as smart as her captors thought she was, because she'd been taken by a woman who'd faked her credentials to become a first grade teacher — and who had zeroed in on Mallory, because of her age, her natural wits, and her lack of understanding about the world. That was who she'd called her mother for her entire life, while her actual one had been in some town in Illinois, suffering. And suffer she still did, as she painstakingly sought out the best lawyers to get Mallory's record expunged.

She'd been wanted for years, as a victim and as a criminal. But she was a child, just barely fifteen, and her lawyers claimed Stockholm syndrome. Mallory had never heard her pain described so succinctly. She still managed to love her supposed parents while on the run, though their lives inflicted nothing but grief. She'd been scared to run, to separate herself, to do anything other than listen. They'd emotionally abused her, turned her away from everything else she'd loved, her attachments, to get what they wanted out of her. And for all the intelligence Mallory always thought she had, she'd never felt so stupid in her entire life.

It took a while to rebuild herself from the ground up. Even now, she considers it a work in progress. But she's back in school, at least on pace with where she should have been all along — but too afraid to go any further, even though the material bores her. People are morbidly fascinated with her, a career thief with a conscience. She's built to be a subject of a Lifetime movie, and, believe me, she's been approached. But instead, she lays low. She gets to know her mother, over and over again, and doesn't make her job as headmistress any more stressful than it needs to be. She thinks over where she's been, and where she's going. A quiet girl with a personality in construction, too smart for her own good. Even now, that's all she knows. But it's a start.

DURING THE PARTY;

Surprisingly, she liked parties. She didn't get to attend very many, having an understandably overprotective helicopter mom, but she'd always heard that the party that opened the school year was not to be missed. So, she crawled out of her window. Clumsily, considering she was out of practice with the whole sneaking out of places thing. And nearly broke her ankle in the process of making her way down from said window. But she made it in one piece and dashed towards Rosewood's campus before the porch lights could come on and alert the headmistress.

She hadn't made very many friends in Rosewood, truth be told. Nearly everyone was obsessed with the stories about her, not necessarily interested in getting to know who she'd become. So, she liked parties, but they were a painfully awkward experience for her.

She'd stood in the corner of some room for nearly an hour, simply observing, before a blasted Rosewood student accidentally sloshed some of the contents in his Solo cup on her shoes and then shoved his incredibly expensive camera into her chest. He mumbled something she couldn't really understand, but considering he quickly doubled back to his group of friends, who were posed for a photo, she pretty much got the message.

Holding up the camera in their direction, she examined the viewfinder, the smiling faces of each and every kid, until she'd realized she accidentally started recording them. At her profuse apologies, they simply started laughing, cackling, filled with the kind of animation and glee that only came from their togetherness, this kind of camaraderie. And right at that moment, she realized — everyone had been obsessed with documenting her story for her from the moment she made it out into the light. But what if she could do it for herself? What if she could document Rosewood?

She'd heard whispers of a gossip blog from years past, the stories crackling with something insidious. But this would be different. They could all write about and record one another. They could be the makers of their own stories. Things could be different — for herself, and for everyone else.

Mallory is the founder and editor-in-chief of The Wood, which will be replacing the gossip blog as the news source on all things Rosewood and Ravenwood. Her player will be involved in the running of The Wood if they so choose.

alternate faceclaims and prompts.

[chwpromoblog]

MALLORY HONEY. high school senior; seventeen. nana komatsu. OPEN.

and, as matilda wormwood once said:

"No more Miss Nice Girl."

BEFORE THE PARTY;

Mallory's entire life had been a long con on all fronts, though she didn't know it. That had been everything. And given a few more years, and a few more wrong turns, her path could have been entirely different. But she doesn't try to think of that. What's the point? She ended up okay, finally surrounded by enough, able to be enough. That's it. That's all there ever is.

Most children are born to fulfill some sort of purpose, even if their parents won't ever admit it. Some are band-aid kids to save relationships. Others are the second chance kids to help patch over the ugly, unruly first attempts. Mallory was born a product. At least, that's what she thought of her life. There were too many blanks for her to fill on her own to be entirely sure. But that's how her parents treated her. She was the cute little girl who smiled and waved at her neighbors, who made nice with the local librarians. And then she smiled and waved at a new set of neighbors, and a new set of librarians.

Her family was constantly on the move, ever-changing: new hair, new clothes, new names, new life. She went through several sets of bangs, unfortunately shaved eyebrows, and even a tragic bleaching job done in a hotel bathroom sink in just a few years.

School was almost impossible to keep up with, but not because she didn't understand the material; she was far beyond her peers, but was never able to take her end of year exams. Her parents begged and begged for her to stop going, stop caring — because they'd barely gotten past their schooling years, and look how they turned out? Mallory was devastated, because she loved school. She loved the math, the science experiments, and she especially loved to read. Not that she read much, with all the library books she'd abandoned in former homes, too heavy to carry, and all the ones her parents had ripped apart to get her attention. As precocious as she was, she knew there was no point in school if she couldn't advance, so she agreed to give up on it.

And just like that, Mallory was given a purpose, far beyond the reach of playing nice with others. She was a distraction, a pawn. She pointed out lockets in jewelry stores that she begged attendants to let her try on and then fumbled with clasping them around her neck while her parents went behind the counter and got themselves a few knick-knacks. At the supermarket. Saks. Anywhere her charm could possibly work. Her father's supposed international business dealings and mother's supposed hair and makeup artist freelancing for bigwigs were never a thing at all. This was their thing. This was how they survived. And Mallory was their lynchpin.

For all their sticky fingers, Mallory's parents were truly and painfully dumb, which meant that she increased their success tenfold. No more random nights spent with one parent and not the other, which she finally deduced were twenty-four hours in the local jail. And, blessedly, they stayed put for longer than they'd ever had, which Mallory loved the most. She had all of the book smarts in the world for having read so few books, but no common sense — so it had been difficult to even figure out what her life was all about, though she was right in the middle of it. Once she did, it was the little things that kept her afloat, like the ability to grow attached to places, and to people. Maybe in the end, that made leaving worse, because she would sob each time they did. Once, she even cut her own hair in anguish, leaving the remnants in yet another hotel sink, her ends as frayed and uneven as can be. And she didn't care. She didn't care. She didn't care.

Sure, her parents yelled, but they didn't hit. Sure, they had their expectations, but at least they could continue to scrape by if she met them. Sure, they looked absolutely nothing like her, and something told her that she was just another thing they'd stolen, but maybe the alternate reality she could have lived would have been worse. Silver linings, silver linings, silver linings. Never a wholly great picture, or a wholly great life. She spent every waking moment miserable. Everything felt like a complicated math equation with no worthwhile end. Sure, her parents could get arrested and sent away for a long time, but where would she end up? Sure, she could go back to school, but how would she catch up?

And, finally: sure, she could get arrested, but...? She couldn't manage to conjure up a question in her head. Honestly, she had no idea what would come of her, or what the police would make of her. And that was terrifying. But one day, her parents asked her to distract a mother and her young child while they opened her car, turned the key into the ignition, and waited for her to run in before they sped away. Mallory looked downwards at the young girl, who stared up at her with stars in her eyes, still at the stage in which she looked at everything in the world with such awe. And with that, she knew this was the one heist she couldn't help make happen. She blew their cover, screamed bloody murder, and they all went in handcuffs.

Mallory didn't even know she was Mallory, but that was apparently her name, attached to a mother who had adopted her when she was just a baby and had waited since the day she was taken for her to come home. She'd never adopted again, just held within her a resilience and an assuredness that told her that Mallory was out there somewhere. She'd been kidnapped as a three year old, as smart as her captors thought she was, because she'd been taken by a woman who'd faked her credentials to become a first grade teacher — and who had zeroed in on Mallory, because of her age, her natural wits, and her lack of understanding about the world. That was who she'd called her mother for her entire life, while her actual one had been in some town in Illinois, suffering. And suffer she still did, as she painstakingly sought out the best lawyers to get Mallory's record expunged.

She'd been wanted for years, as a victim and as a criminal. But she was a child, just barely fifteen, and her lawyers claimed Stockholm syndrome. Mallory had never heard her pain described so succinctly. She still managed to love her supposed parents while on the run, though their lives inflicted nothing but grief. She'd been scared to run, to separate herself, to do anything other than listen. They'd emotionally abused her, turned her away from everything else she'd loved, her attachments, to get what they wanted out of her. And for all the intelligence Mallory always thought she had, she'd never felt so stupid in her entire life.

It took a while to rebuild herself from the ground up. Even now, she considers it a work in progress. But she's back in school, at least on pace with where she should have been all along — but too afraid to go any further, even though the material bores her. People are morbidly fascinated with her, a career thief with a conscience. She's built to be a subject of a Lifetime movie, and, believe me, she's been approached. But instead, she lays low. She gets to know her mother, over and over again, and doesn't make her job as headmistress any more stressful than it needs to be. She thinks over where she's been, and where she's going. A quiet girl with a personality in construction, too smart for her own good. Even now, that's all she knows. But it's a start.

DURING THE PARTY;

Surprisingly, she liked parties. She didn't get to attend very many, having an understandably overprotective helicopter mom, but she'd always heard that the party that opened the school year was not to be missed. So, she crawled out of her window. Clumsily, considering she was out of practice with the whole sneaking out of places thing. And nearly broke her ankle in the process of making her way down from said window. But she made it in one piece and dashed towards Rosewood's campus before the porch lights could come on and alert the headmistress.

She hadn't made very many friends in Rosewood, truth be told. Nearly everyone was obsessed with the stories about her, not necessarily interested in getting to know who she'd become. So, she liked parties, but they were a painfully awkward experience for her.

She'd stood in the corner of some room for nearly an hour, simply observing, before a blasted Rosewood student accidentally sloshed some of the contents in his Solo cup on her shoes and then shoved his incredibly expensive camera into her chest. He mumbled something she couldn't really understand, but considering he quickly doubled back to his group of friends, who were posed for a photo, she pretty much got the message.

Holding up the camera in their direction, she examined the viewfinder, the smiling faces of each and every kid, until she'd realized she accidentally started recording them. At her profuse apologies, they simply started laughing, cackling, filled with the kind of animation and glee that only came from their togetherness, this kind of camaraderie. And right at that moment, she realized — everyone had been obsessed with documenting her story for her from the moment she made it out into the light. But what if she could do it for herself? What if she could document Rosewood?

She'd heard whispers of a gossip blog from years past, the stories crackling with something insidious. But this would be different. They could all write about and record one another. They could be the makers of their own stories. Things could be different — for herself, and for everyone else.

Mallory is the founder and editor-in-chief of The Wood, which will be replacing the gossip blog as the news source on all things Rosewood and Ravenwood. Her player will be involved in the running of The Wood if they so choose.

alternate faceclaims and prompts.

[chwpromoblog]

MALLORY HONEY. high school senior; seventeen. nana komatsu. OPEN.

and, as matilda wormwood once said:

"No more Miss Nice Girl."

BEFORE THE PARTY;

Mallory's entire life had been a long con on all fronts, though she didn't know it. That had been everything. And given a few more years, and a few more wrong turns, her path could have been entirely different. But she doesn't try to think of that. What's the point? She ended up okay, finally surrounded by enough, able to be enough. That's it. That's all there ever is.

Most children are born to fulfill some sort of purpose, even if their parents won't ever admit it. Some are band-aid kids to save relationships. Others are the second chance kids to help patch over the ugly, unruly first attempts. Mallory was born a product. At least, that's what she thought of her life. There were too many blanks for her to fill on her own to be entirely sure. But that's how her parents treated her. She was the cute little girl who smiled and waved at her neighbors, who made nice with the local librarians. And then she smiled and waved at a new set of neighbors, and a new set of librarians.

Her family was constantly on the move, ever-changing: new hair, new clothes, new names, new life. She went through several sets of bangs, unfortunately shaved eyebrows, and even a tragic bleaching job done in a hotel bathroom sink in just a few years.

School was almost impossible to keep up with, but not because she didn't understand the material; she was far beyond her peers, but was never able to take her end of year exams. Her parents begged and begged for her to stop going, stop caring — because they'd barely gotten past their schooling years, and look how they turned out? Mallory was devastated, because she loved school. She loved the math, the science experiments, and she especially loved to read. Not that she read much, with all the library books she'd abandoned in former homes, too heavy to carry, and all the ones her parents had ripped apart to get her attention. As precocious as she was, she knew there was no point in school if she couldn't advance, so she agreed to give up on it.

And just like that, Mallory was given a purpose, far beyond the reach of playing nice with others. She was a distraction, a pawn. She pointed out lockets in jewelry stores that she begged attendants to let her try on and then fumbled with clasping them around her neck while her parents went behind the counter and got themselves a few knick-knacks. At the supermarket. Saks. Anywhere her charm could possibly work. Her father's supposed international business dealings and mother's supposed hair and makeup artist freelancing for bigwigs were never a thing at all. This was their thing. This was how they survived. And Mallory was their lynchpin.

For all their sticky fingers, Mallory's parents were truly and painfully dumb, which meant that she increased their success tenfold. No more random nights spent with one parent and not the other, which she finally deduced were twenty-four hours in the local jail. And, blessedly, they stayed put for longer than they'd ever had, which Mallory loved the most. She had all of the book smarts in the world for having read so few books, but no common sense — so it had been difficult to even figure out what her life was all about, though she was right in the middle of it. Once she did, it was the little things that kept her afloat, like the ability to grow attached to places, and to people. Maybe in the end, that made leaving worse, because she would sob each time they did. Once, she even cut her own hair in anguish, leaving the remnants in yet another hotel sink, her ends as frayed and uneven as can be. And she didn't care. She didn't care. She didn't care.

Sure, her parents yelled, but they didn't hit. Sure, they had their expectations, but at least they could continue to scrape by if she met them. Sure, they looked absolutely nothing like her, and something told her that she was just another thing they'd stolen, but maybe the alternate reality she could have lived would have been worse. Silver linings, silver linings, silver linings. Never a wholly great picture, or a wholly great life. She spent every waking moment miserable. Everything felt like a complicated math equation with no worthwhile end. Sure, her parents could get arrested and sent away for a long time, but where would she end up? Sure, she could go back to school, but how would she catch up?

And, finally: sure, she could get arrested, but...? She couldn't manage to conjure up a question in her head. Honestly, she had no idea what would come of her, or what the police would make of her. And that was terrifying. But one day, her parents asked her to distract a mother and her young child while they opened her car, turned the key into the ignition, and waited for her to run in before they sped away. Mallory looked downwards at the young girl, who stared up at her with stars in her eyes, still at the stage in which she looked at everything in the world with such awe. And with that, she knew this was the one heist she couldn't help make happen. She blew their cover, screamed bloody murder, and they all went in handcuffs.

Mallory didn't even know she was Mallory, but that was apparently her name, attached to a mother who had adopted her when she was just a baby and had waited since the day she was taken for her to come home. She'd never adopted again, just held within her a resilience and an assuredness that told her that Mallory was out there somewhere. She'd been kidnapped as a three year old, as smart as her captors thought she was, because she'd been taken by a woman who'd faked her credentials to become a first grade teacher — and who had zeroed in on Mallory, because of her age, her natural wits, and her lack of understanding about the world. That was who she'd called her mother for her entire life, while her actual one had been in some town in Illinois, suffering. And suffer she still did, as she painstakingly sought out the best lawyers to get Mallory's record expunged.

She'd been wanted for years, as a victim and as a criminal. But she was a child, just barely fifteen, and her lawyers claimed Stockholm syndrome. Mallory had never heard her pain described so succinctly. She still managed to love her supposed parents while on the run, though their lives inflicted nothing but grief. She'd been scared to run, to separate herself, to do anything other than listen. They'd emotionally abused her, turned her away from everything else she'd loved, her attachments, to get what they wanted out of her. And for all the intelligence Mallory always thought she had, she'd never felt so stupid in her entire life.

It took a while to rebuild herself from the ground up. Even now, she considers it a work in progress. But she's back in school, at least on pace with where she should have been all along — but too afraid to go any further, even though the material bores her. People are morbidly fascinated with her, a career thief with a conscience. She's built to be a subject of a Lifetime movie, and, believe me, she's been approached. But instead, she lays low. She gets to know her mother, over and over again, and doesn't make her job as headmistress any more stressful than it needs to be. She thinks over where she's been, and where she's going. A quiet girl with a personality in construction, too smart for her own good. Even now, that's all she knows. But it's a start.

DURING THE PARTY;

Surprisingly, she liked parties. She didn't get to attend very many, having an understandably overprotective helicopter mom, but she'd always heard that the party that opened the school year was not to be missed. So, she crawled out of her window. Clumsily, considering she was out of practice with the whole sneaking out of places thing. And nearly broke her ankle in the process of making her way down from said window. But she made it in one piece and dashed towards Rosewood's campus before the porch lights could come on and alert the headmistress.

She hadn't made very many friends in Rosewood, truth be told. Nearly everyone was obsessed with the stories about her, not necessarily interested in getting to know who she'd become. So, she liked parties, but they were a painfully awkward experience for her.

She'd stood in the corner of some room for nearly an hour, simply observing, before a blasted Rosewood student accidentally sloshed some of the contents in his Solo cup on her shoes and then shoved his incredibly expensive camera into her chest. He mumbled something she couldn't really understand, but considering he quickly doubled back to his group of friends, who were posed for a photo, she pretty much got the message.

Holding up the camera in their direction, she examined the viewfinder, the smiling faces of each and every kid, until she'd realized she accidentally started recording them. At her profuse apologies, they simply started laughing, cackling, filled with the kind of animation and glee that only came from their togetherness, this kind of camaraderie. And right at that moment, she realized — everyone had been obsessed with documenting her story for her from the moment she made it out into the light. But what if she could do it for herself? What if she could document Rosewood?

She'd heard whispers of a gossip blog from years past, the stories crackling with something insidious. But this would be different. They could all write about and record one another. They could be the makers of their own stories. Things could be different — for herself, and for everyone else.

Mallory is the founder and editor-in-chief of The Wood, which will be replacing the gossip blog as the news source on all things Rosewood and Ravenwood. Her player will be involved in the running of The Wood if they so choose.

alternate faceclaims and prompts.