#there's an actual sacred quality to being in a store on your own not thinking about how you're appearing to other people

[stuckinapril]

i think i started seeing spending time alone differently when i was 18 and feeling small and lonely in a big and bustling city. i legit remember being so down but just throwing on ripped boyfriend jeans and a cute crop top and my favorite perfume at the time and just walking for hours on end around the city. it was such a seismic shift for me. i perused stores by myself, treated myself to dinner, spent hours at a bookstore without checking my phone. it was such a power statement being one of very few people walking by themselves in a busy shopping center and not feeling bad about it. i genuinely did not care whatsoever. it was actually so cathartic for me. for the first time ever i was not performing for anyone but actually just enjoying my time and my space and my being. now i adore spending time alone and don't see it as some kind of social failing. it's not. at all

[sepublic]

            Since forever, I’ve gone with the idea of the Tower of Tears being a fairly imposing structure, with its interior being even more ominous; Dark, deathly cold, filled with mist and ice. And every now and then, you find the ghastly silhouette of an Escapee looming, frozen and jagged with their struggle of horror preserved in stasis for all time.

         But now that I think of it… Perhaps a ‘friendlier’ vibe and aesthetic would make more sense? It’d make the Wayvrens’ decision to trust the Tears much more sensible, after all… Magical tears are a big thing in fairy tales, and in a lot of fantasy media, they’re a useful resource.

         So instead of this grim and dark structure, the Tower of Tears is something straight out of a fairy tale; A beautiful, glistening, crystalline spire, fountains running all over. The inside is like the Great Fairy Fountain from the Legend of Zelda, a sparkling, magical place governed by a kindly protector, a motherly figure of supernatural quality. This is the leader of the Tears, their queen, whom I’m still workshopping all of the details of her character, including her name…

         But I could see this Tear presenting herself as a helpful fairy goddess, here to assist the heroes in their quest; Oh, you need help defeating these evil threats? Well have I got a resource for you, my own magical tears! I’ll store them in very pretty crystal vials, see. Open the vial and pour my tears onto your defeated opponent, and they’ll be perfectly preserved! From there, you can bring them back to my tower, where I’ll protect them as long as you need; You can trust me! I’ve served Good across many generations, and it seems you are the latest heroes I’ve been waiting for!

         The Queen of Tears would function almost like an NPC to the Wayvrens in their various quests; The kind who hosts a peaceful hub area for you to rest and keep track of your progress, all of the bosses you’ve defeated, etc. Instead of being frozen in jagged crystals, the Escapees are preserved in ice spheres resembling snow globes, how nice! It’s a very calming aesthetic and vibe, which hides the dark truth that are the nightmares the Escapees regularly go through, in order to establish a link between them and the Tears’ creator.

         You know how in a lot of videogames and fantasy media, there’s this side character who basically shows up to give the heroes a quest and support them, providing whatever they need? And it’s taken for granted, never really questioned in-universe because it’s a game, so you take it for granted as the player to trust them, because there are obvious Doylist reasons? The Tower of Tears and their warden protector are exactly that.

         Those theories you see about how the old man who gives you the sword at the start of the journey, the NPC who provides exposition, all of them secretly being evil and manipulating you into doing the dirty work for them? Those theories about Glinda the Good Witch from the Wizard of Oz, actually tricking Dorothy into taking out her rival, so she can rise to power? The Queen of Tears is THAT character.

         And the second-generation Wayvren siblings, they just accept it! Because hey, they’re Chosen Ones with a sacred background, of course there’s going to be some convenient fairy goddess who takes care of the finer logistics and aftermath of fighting evil! Complete with magical items that allow us to subdue enemies without having to kill them, how wonderful… Which makes it all the more hilarious and embarrassing when the Wayvrens figure out they essentially got conned by a scam artist, who tricked them into gathering a bunch of ‘toys’ for her child. Granted, that doesn’t sound so malevolent... I wonder if that’s why the fallen Wayvren destroyed the Tower of Tears, because they figured out the truth.

         The more I write this out, the more sense it makes, because the Wayvrens are those classic fantasy heroes who go on quests, only for there to be a darker underside to this classic story as certain elements are questioned, and reality hits… I’ll probably go through with this idea, but I will miss the more ominous, medieval take on the Tower of Tears. However, this makes way more sense, because a question I had to ask myself was how the Queen of Tears convinced the Wayvrens to trust her, an anomaly of a complete stranger, with the most dangerous villains in the world?!

         Plus, the Queen of Tears presenting herself as a kindly matronly figure makes sense because to her, that’s exactly what she is! She really believes she’s here to provide care to the child who made her, to provide a wonderful fantasy for them. Because as I said, she really does mean it when she concurs with the Wayvrens about finding a proper time and place for the Escapees, where they’ll be loved and accepted. When you believe your own lie, it’s so much more confident and easier to convince. If you pointed out this is technically a prison, she’d make a face and politely insist you avoid such negative language.

[blazedgraysons]

You're No Good - Ch. 2

C.J. Bennett is an overly ambitious student who dreams of shadowing her favorite author, Eli Jennings. The only thing standing in her way: Grayson Dolan.

warnings: this is a rough draft of a series i never finished. i'm posting the finished chapters before leaving this account. 🤍

part 1

If American Lit 1102 was C.J.’s personal hell, her job could at least be considered her own reprieve.

Sunnyside Vintage is an old shop off of Sunset, having been open for the last 30 years. It wasn’t the nicest of thrift stores — the clothes always have a weird mothball smell and everything is old - and not in the trendy way.  C.J. loves it. The windows are huge, letting California sunlight wash the stucco walls gold, and the mannequins are always dressed straight out of the 70’s. The pay isn’t always great, but C.J. is allowed to take whatever she wants more than makes up for it in her eyes.

“I just don’t understand. I mean, Stevens has praised me this entire semester. She even told me personally he’s never had a student write as well as me nor pick up on the work as fast as I have. Wouldn’t that be qualities you’d want in an intern, Bea? Even Grayson Dolan would’ve been a better pick.” C.J. turns to her boss, angrily folding flared jeans.

Another reason C.J. loves Sunnyside —  her boss, Beatrice “Bea” Walker. Once a glitzy soap star of the ’50’s, she retired with her husband and opened Sunnyside in the late 80’s. Despite being in her late-70s, she still holds on to the same glamour and charm that made her a household name a century prior.

“Maybe there was another reason. It could be something other then your application.” She croaks, lifting a pumpkin to place next to a costumed mannequin. As halloween rapidly approaches, the store was starting to transform to fit the fall season — hoping to draw in customers to purchase unique costumes for the holiday.

Before she can move to help Bea, the doors chime, signaling an entrance. Walking through with seemingly-glowing skin and a symphonic smile was Alexi, C.J.’s best friend and roommate. It’s hard to miss Alexi whenever she walks into a room — from her bleached-blue hair to eclectic style, she’s never been afraid to follow her own path, something C.J. has always admired. She walks straight to C.J., wrapping her in a loving embrace

“Are you okay? James told me what happened.” Alexi leaves an arm around her, and while C.J. knows it’s supposed to be comforting; all she can think about is how much she wants Alexi to leave. It’s one thing to rant to her elderly boss, someone who would love her in spite of her shortcomings and faults. But to know her own friend group has already heard about her misfortune, sending over someone to comfort and soothe, it was all just a little too pitiful for her to handle.

“Theta’s are throwing a party tonight. It’ll be the perfect pick-me-up, and you can forget all about Evans Jensen-“

“Eli Jennings” C.J. corrects.

“Whoever” Alexi rolls her eyes at the interruption, “is missing out on your incredible talent because of an idiotic professor’s incompetence. Everyone’s going and it won’t be the same without you, C.”

“As much as I would love that, Lex, I really just want to be alone tonight. Shitty beer, cheap Indian food, a sad movie so I don’t have to think about how these past four years have been a waste.”

“Not a waste, first of all. Look, I know that you’ve had this whole plan for your life since you popped out the womb, but shit happens, things change. This isn’t a failure, just think of it as a temporary setback. Plus, when life gives you lemons, you…” She trails off, waiting for C.J. to finish.

“Make lemonade?” She sighs.

“Use it to chase tequila.” Alexi giggles.

“I would go, but I have to close. Right, Bea?"

"Don't use me as an excuse. You should go, maybe find a boy to take home." Alexi makes a face at Beatrice's statement and C.J.'s face heats up.

“You’re going - no more buts. Wear something cute. Something that maybe doesn’t make if look like you were alive for Vietnam.” Alexi’s already leaving, kissing Beatrice lightly on the cheek on her way out.

This was how C.J. found herself standing outside the Theta Lambda  frat house, October air chilling her through her jacket. She shifts her weight between her feet, surveying the small group around her. Alexi talks animatedly on the phone, asking for whoever to meet them out front.

A random person bumps into her, forcing her to spill the contents of her purse onto the dewey grass. C.J. groans, bending down to pick everything up while mentally thinking to herself all of the other things she could be doing right now.

A pair of dirty air forces steps in front of C.J. and she slowly looks up at the girl standing in front of her. She’s pretty, stunning actually. C.J. recognizes her immediately. Channing Williams - social chair of Rho Xi sorority and the key to all the best parties on campus. Dressed in a black romper and red velvet jacket, she’s everything C.J. isn’t and a quiet twinge of jealousy plucks her heart. ‘I bet she’s never lost out on an internship.’ she thinks bitterly.

“Sorry, do you know anyone?”  Channing asks, voice soft and sweet with a clipboard in hand. C.J. looks at Alexi, waiting to hear her answer.

“Not really? I mean we know people, but we aren’t going to be on your clipboard or anything so if you could just let us slide through, I’m sure there’s someone here who could like vouch for us or something?” C.J. wants to slap her — not only did she drag her out in below-freezing weather, but she couldn’t even guarantee them a way inside.

“Well this is a greek-only party so unless you know anyone….” Channing trails off, not openly wanting to kick them out in front of so many people.

“That means no GDI’s.” C.J. didn’t even notice the miniature-sized freshman standing besides Channing. She clearly looks annoyed at the intrusion, keeping her from inside where everyone else is to deal with their little group. C.J. briefly wonders if the upturned stare is a requirement for Rho Xi or if that’s was just especially reserved for her.

“Geed’s?” Alexi repeats, raising an eyebrow.

“Goddamn independents. Y’know, not greek-affiliated.” At this point, C.J. is ready to call the whole night and retire in her bed when she see’s someone appear in between Channing.

“They’re cool, Chan. They’re with me.” Micayla Zhao enters, covered in glitter, sweat and what C.J. is almost sure to be a line of salt from a body shot. C.J. has always considered Micayla the only cool Rho Xi, having had multiple classes with her over the years. Micayla fit right in with their group: smart, beautiful and a wicked sense of humor.

Channing nods, seeming bored and just wanting to get back inside with everyone else. She does a quick finger tap with Micayla (sacred Rho Xi bullshit is what Alexi always calls it) and moving along the line.

“Are your sisters always that charming?” Micayla rolls her eyes, grabbing C.J. to move them through the house to the backyard. A huge bonfire is set up in the middle with a canopy near by for the designated drinking spot. She watches as Micayla confidently moves through the crowd, stopping from time to time to say hey to friends and classmates on the way.

“Most of the time. Look, they’re just possessive over tradition and the Rho-Theta party has always been major exclusive, Channing’s been fighting to make it open to outsiders.” Micayla yells over the thumping bass.

“Yeah, I’m sure they love all the GDI’s.”  C.J. exaggerates her voice, pinching her nose to capture the nasally, valley accent Channing is almost famous for. Micayla stops, and had C.J. not been paying attention, she would’ve ran into her.

“Dude, you’re kind of being a bitch right now. Look, I get your bummed about your internship, but Channing wouldn't have let you in if she didn't want to. Would you rather be getting drunk, in your apartment alone?”

“Yeah, actually.” Micayla stares at C.J. for a second, looking like she’s about to bitch her out. As if Alexi can sense the fight forming, she grabs Micayla by the arm.

“Let’s go get a drink, you look like you need a drink in you.” They both walk towards the house, Alexi mouthing ‘Be Nice’ over her shoulder before disappearing completely. C.J. exhales, counting to 3 in her head before walking over to where drinks are set up.She fills up her solo cup, watching as the fizzy liquid moves closer and closer to the top.  Before she can take a sip, someone bumps into her spilling half the drink over the side.

“Hey, watch it!” A thick Jersey accent exclaims, and C.J. groans, wondering if this night could get any worse.

“Bennett?”

Grayson appears in front of her, denim jacket over a black t-shirt and black jeans. She takes note of the dark spot growing on the front of his shirt, from where she spilt her drink.

“What’re you doing here?”

She simply shrugs, refilling the missing contents of her cup.“I didn’t know parties were your scene. I always imagined in your free time you’re in like a dark room, crying alone to Sylvia Plath novels.”

“Nice to know you think of me out of class, Grayson” C.J. takes a sip of her beer. She moves to walk away, hoping he would take it as an end of conversation.

"How'd you get in? Isn't this like Rho's only?" He asks, following her to the edge of the bonfire. She looks at him, watching as the light frames the features of his face.

"Couldn't I say the same about you? You're not a Theta." He just stares at her intensely until she relents, "Micayla Zhao got me in. Y'know her?"

"We had history together sophomore year. She helped me cheat on the midterms."

C.J. laughs shortly. "Sounds like her."

Grayson opens his mouth to speak again, but is cut off.

“As much as I’m enjoying this conversation, Grayson, don’t you have someone else to bother? Someone who, y’know, actually likes you?” If that comment bothered him, he didn’t show it, continuing talking to her as if they haven’t pissed each other off continuously for the past four years.

“What do you think about Michael Eichler getting the internship spot?”  He asks. As if it wasn’t bad enough that she didn’t get the spot, now she has to sit and rub salt in the wound with her worst enemy.

“What’s there to think about? He got it, I didn’t. Fucking sucks.” He laughs, holding up his own drink.

“Cheers to that.” They both clink cups, and C.J. briefly wonders if the universe is still laughing at her.

"You know, that spot should've gone to one of us." He muses, watching the partygoers continue to stumble around them. He doesn't say anything after that, and she bites.

"Why should it have gone to one of us?"

"Well, think about it. We're both the top of our class, and I know for a fact Stevens has submitted your writing to collegiate magazines. There's no fucking way Michael fucking Eichler should've got that spot over one of us." C.J. pauses. She had known that Stevens appreciated her writing, but not enough to submit it anywhere. If what Grayson was saying was true, why hadn't she gotten the apprenticeship?

"Nothing I can really do about it now. He got the spot, I didn't. I guess I can become a second rate author now." She takes another sip, and Grayson snorts unattractively.

"I'm sure you'll be okay, Bennett. If Stevens like you, I'm sure there's another author dumb enough to want to publish your work too." She glares at him.

"And here I thought we were becoming friends."

"As if you actually would've wanted to become friends with me."

"Oh yeah, that's what I do in between my Sylvia Plath crying sessions. Desperately wish that Grayson Dolan would become my best friend." Sarcasm drips off every word and he looks at her before taking another long sip of his drink.

“You know you’re actually kinda cool, Bennett. When you’re not trying to bite my head off in the middle of lecture”

“Maybe if you didn’t have such shitty takes, I wouldn’t want too.” Whatever retort Grayson was planning falls from his lips when Channing appears by his side, tucking herself underneath his arm.

"Hey, Gray. I got you another drink." Two Coronas hang from her manicured hand, and he whispers inaudibly to her, giggling between the two of them. C.J. begins to feel awkward, and coughs uncomfortably.

“Oh, you’re the GDI from earlier,” Channing looks up at her half-lidded, dark eyelashes framing red-tinged brown eyes.

“Yeah, that’s me.” Channing shifts her weight, biting her lip and feeling like an intruder. "I didn't know you two knew each other?" C.J. supplies, feeling desperate for conversation

"Gray and I had math together freshman year, "They both stare at each other awkwardly, silent tension as they wait for the other to speak.

“So, I’m gonna go." She speaks.

“No, you don’t have to." Channing is already turned back to Grayson, looking like she wouldn't mind C.J.'s exit.

“No it’s fine” Neither Grayson nor Channing seem to protest anymore, and C.J. turns back to see her friends looking at her, both amused and curious at her interaction with the duo. She begins to walk towards them, feet and heart sinking with every step, not feeling any better about her current predicament.

“Hey Bennett,” She turns around to face Grayson. “Think about what I said. About the internship stuff” She just nods, and leaves the pair. The moment she reaches her initial group, Alexi pulls her towards them.

“You and Dolan were just talking and it didn't end in a screaming match. That’s new. What did he want?”

“Nothing. Just typical Grayson Dolan bullshit."Alexi looks like she doesn't believe her, and frankly C.J. doesn't believe herself. She thinks back to what Grayson said, about how they were the only real competition for the apprenticeship. Whatever he meant by that could be handled tomorrow.

"C’mon. Didn’t  you say something earlier today about tequila shots?” She asks

“Atta, girl. That’s what I’m talking about.” She lets Alexi drag her away, sparing one last look at Grayson before entering the fraternity house.

[why-this-kolaveri-machi]

chin fucking up, amigo.

Titans 3.02

... eh?

SPOILERS ahead.

1. you know that music video for billie jean where michael jackson would dance along the pavement and the tiles would light up under his feet in different colours? yeah? me too.

titans hasn’t met a table top or a support arch that it doesn’t want to light up in a headache-inducing blue like the world’s most boring nightlight. i mean, i’m not an expert on lighting or cinematography or just... colour by any means, and the quality of the video i’m watching is poor given that i can’t access hbo max, but all the orange and teal and neon is making it very difficult to really differentiate between say, the batcave and the gotham police department and hell, the titans tower. i feel like there’s oftentimes a gap between idea and execution with titans, with gotham being this almost otherwordly hellscape with an aesthetic pulled from a gothic horror novel, but the colours and design just... leave it flat and dark and dull.

1.5. like what really frustrates me is that titans has a delightful mix of tones--the fights often remind me of schumacher-era batman camp, with the contrived quips and the start-stop rhythm and krypto just sallying in and ending the fight with a fucking SuperBark (tm) but in the same episode you have red hood just casually pulling out severed heads out of a duffle bag and desperate people blackmailed into killing themselves out of drug overdoses. I MEAN. it’s wonderful! but it looks all the same. it sounds Absolutely Bonkers on paper but on screen both Quip and Murder happen in the same washed-out blue and i wanted to be excited about the batcave, dammit!

2. things re: red hood have happened at such a breakneck speed that it feels like there’s so much that’s happened off-screen that we’re not privy to. a real proper mystery! 

things that are intriguing about the red hood arc so far:

a) what was that chemical he huffed just before going to fight the joker? is it a regular old performance/adrenaline booster or is it something more lazarus-juice adjacent? if it’s the latter, i can’t imagine he got that much information from a lone chemistry textbook. and where is he getting the resources to set up his little chemistry lab? is somebody else orchestrating things behind the scenes?

b) the red hood persona, costume and mask, plus the elaborate plan he’s putting in place to both string along gotham’s rogues and enact his revenge against the titans seems too... fully-formed and elaborate to have been concocted in just a few days. how long do you think jason’s been planning this? just... stewing in resentment and building rage, dismissed and passed around and underestimated and realising that the power he thought he would get by being robin is no power, no protection at all, but something that’s left him even more vulnerable than before? 

c) do we think that the scarecrow is at least partly behind this transformation? because yes, it was batman that set up this whole hannibal lecter-esque situation with him, and he would be irresponsible enough to have jason-as-robin go talk to him regularly regarding “~profiling~” criminals. it’s not too far of a leap to assume that scarecrow could’ve been manipulating jason at a very vulnerable time, and that he could’ve passed along some of his chemistry know-how, too.

d) ... or fuck, i wouldn’t put it past titans to introduce ra’s al ghul in a fucking ten second aside

e) anyway, the thing that won’t leave me alone is jason seeking out the joker not necessarily to fight him, but to orchestrate his own death. the whole thing has to have been part of a bigger plan. he broke batman with it, after all. and he’s starting to break the titans, too.

f) i love it! i mean, it does re-tread some of the storybeats we had with deathstroke last season (turning the titans against each other as revenge, etc) but it’s... tighter, this time, and at least for now seems better-executed. and as a red hood story it’s different enough to be really interesting, and i appreciate the ways in which its reframed the revenge story to focus on the titans rather than just the batman. like fuck everything up, i say! turn it on its head! slash the innards out of that sacred cow and strew it like garlands in the path of the Story You Want To Tell!

(and yes i am fully aware that by the time i post this review, there will be a whole lot more information out but if i come across like a fool then goddammit i will be a fool!)

2. i love how every season of titans starts off with, ‘oh dick, you thought you were settling into a role and a life and a pattern of relationships? well fuck you, here’s a terrible and traumatic thing, tons more responsibility, and circumstances that will lead you to uproot your entire life and move somewhere else.’ and dick’s just like, ‘well, ok. fuck you, but all right’.

can you imagine? the man was just settling into leading a team in sf and smiling for the first time in years, and now he has to deal with jason’s death, bruce experiencing a full fledged breakdown, coming back to a city that represents more bad memories than good, red hood, and a frightening new case that seems to be targeting him and his team. it’s a testament to dick’s growth that he’s not reacting to this stress like he did last year, shutting everybody out, making irrational decisions and experiencing sharp, short bursts of anger. (not to mention a full fledged psychotic episode.)

2.5. but i’ve also talked about dick performing a fair amount of unwarranted emotional labour for his team(s) in that he just lets them take out their frustrations on him and... does nothing. be it his team exploding at him for jericho (both in flashback and present-day) or donna and hank needling him for handling deathstroke poorly or barbara berating him for not handling the bank situation as well as she thought batman would though just the previous episode she had talked about how fucked up it was that bruce just expected dick to step up and replace him in gotham without any real notice. i mean it’s all perfectly understandable and sympathetic from their end--and i’m not trying to bash them here!--but hank, my man, the same chin you’re asking your amigo to keep up is the one that you punched last year and never apologised for. just sayin’.

2.75. @superohclair did a wonderful breakdown of what the ‘fear’ contract could imply here and there’s not too much i could add to that. it’s just really interesting that fear ended up being such a defining feature of their lives, albeit it’s the fear of seeming less than invincible in the face of bigger, more tangible fears. am i making sense?  dick feared loss, and abandonment, and the more existential concept of turning into something that he didn’t want to. bruce so feared being alone that he’s scouting kids to replace robin within days of jason dying. 

it also goes some way in explaining the tense sort of... restraint that bruce and dick show in the wake of loss and tragedy, like anything less than complete control of your emotions can lead to tragedy. it’s conditioning that dick couldn’t shake off when he was at his lowest in detroit, hating his legacy but unable to let it go either.

2.775. but i definitely appreciate the softness that dick displays with his team now, checking on them after a mission-gone-bad, welcoming back old members with no caveats or resentments (and kory’s delight in seeing hank back! hank and dick hanging out together and hank trying to prop dick up!), and appreciating their teamwork in solving cases. that’s always been the essence of dick as a person, and the beating heart of this show: flawed and traumatised people coming together to a place that will always be open to them, where they can be their worst and be supported still, allowed to make mistakes and grow from them. that’s family.

2.8. coming back to bruce for just a sec, it’s interesting how that gotham rogue was so certain when he said that ‘batman doesn’t kill’ but it’s not a rule that either jason or dick put much store by when they were robins. the ‘no-killing’ rule clearly didn’t mitigate dick’s fears about turning into batman and jason’s never been seeing giving two shits about it. it seems to me of a piece with bruce’s distant, second-hand sort of parenting that we see in dick’s flashbacks from s1 where the fear was never about personally disappointing batman, but taking lessons from him on finding a place in gotham’s hellish ecosystem and surviving.

3. kory having waking flashbacks! i don’t buy the bullshit parasomnia episode explanation from fake!HPG (because c’mon, justin has to be some sort of tamaranean ruse) because for one, you have to be actually asleep for that diagnosis. 

(and here i was, hoping against hope that HPG would actually end up as the team’s therapist)

curiouser and curiouser! i wonder if these flashbacks are from the time between kory landing on earth and the beginning of season 1, when she was completely amnesiac? it’d be cool if the show was considering repercussions from that time, and if kory hasn’t gained all her memories back. 

4. i just love the vibes between gar and conner and kory. gar Having Things To Do is only one part of my wishlist for him, however: other parts include having an actual story arc, and actually bonding with members who are not conner and kory. (dick! dick! hank! dick!)

anyway. time to move on to watching ep3 and seeing this family bond and nothing terrible and tragic happening at all, nope, nosiree. 

[jenovahh]

The Honey Pot - Ch. 27 - The Things that Made Us

It was hard to keep your stress down when you were planning to try and expose the biggest crime boss the world has ever known.

There’s hardly a moment Merlwyb isn't throwing you a concerned glance at the first sign of you getting worked up as you, her, and Cid sit around a big table filled with papers and photos. Empty sugar and cream packets that have gone into about three or four mugs of coffee. Half eaten snacks ranging from croissants to a bag of chips from the closest gas station (which given that Cid was rich and lived outside of the city, was quite far).

While you appreciate her worry, you’re near ready to pull your hair out as a result. At the first sign of you raising your voice, she places a gentle hand on yours reminding you to calm down. When you reach for a mug of coffee, she bats your hand away with a stern look. If you didn’t know any better, you’d swear Zenos had put her up to it.

“I’m going to go crazy, Cid.” you confess, collapsing on a couch in his office, finished with another day of planning. Three heads were admittedly better than one, especially when one of them was a genius. “It’s like she thinks I’m made of glass despite being undercover for nearly a year with the worst gang the world has ever known.”

Cid lightly chuckles at that, having grabbed some dried calamari to snack on as he finishes up a few things in his office. “I think it’s her way of trying to take care of you, given that she feels she failed you so miserably.” Even though the statement is loaded with truth, Cid delivers it with a warm smile.

You can’t help but feel a little bad; Merlwyb was probably taking you under her care because she knows Raubahn would do the same.

“Cid, I came to you to vent. Not for you to make me feel bad.” You pout, kicking weakly at the cushions before rolling to face him as he settles in his desk. “I hope she doesn’t feel obligated to take care of me.” You murmur softly, barely a whisper as your heart fills with melancholy.

Settling in, Cid turns on his computer and begins to work. “It might be partly obligation. It might be repayment. But do those things matter?” he asks, giving you an inquisitive look. “Would you rather have her apathy and scorn?”

Shaking your head, Cid nods, typing away at his computer. “I know that it is something you struggle with, Honey, to accept a person’s affection. But you should try it sometime. You might be surprised at what you find.”

You can’t help but feel like a little kid around him sometimes, some worthwhile lesson always falling out of his mouth. You tell him as much. “Would it kill you to be wrong for once?” You joke, tossing him a lazy smile.

“I’m afraid it is my job to be right at least ninety-nine percent of the time, or I'd be up to my ears in lawsuits.” He laughs, having not stopped typing for a second. “You should get some rest, my dear. I’ll be up for a while yet.”

“Shouldn’t you sleep?” You return, sitting up to throw him a scrutinous look.

“Unless you’re able to pull a few strings I didn’t know about, and also prepare enough tech to take down a corporate super giant…” Cid trails off, looking as if he’s to start packing up.

“I get it, I get it, sheesh.” You groan, standing to your feet. “I think I will go to bed if it means I’ll actually get to be right, even if I’m by myself.” You huff, sticking your tongue out at him for good measure.

“You need it, growing babe be damned.” Cid smiles, pausing his work to see you off. “You’ve worked damn hard for us up until this point Honey. Let us return the favor.”

Giving him a heartfelt smile, you wave good night to him and head out the door, reentering the hallway. The night is quiet despite the fact an uprising looms on the horizon. Somehow it seems both close and far away, the idea that things would finally come to a head, sides would be taken and long buried truths would finally come to light.

These twilight hours were your only time of peace, a few sacred hours before you needed to wind down for bed before Zenos woke you up to train in the morning.

Your feet have carried you to him before you realize it, finding him meditating in the indoor garden. You watch him silently from behind the glass, the rising and falling of his chest, eyes closed as he finds his center and stays there. One of the few times he looks tranquil and genuinely at peace, and given the small glimpse you had of his personal life, of his past, perhaps it served more than just the purpose of calming his body.

Maybe his spirit needed it as well, though he would never admit it.

Jolting as his eyes suddenly flick open and land on you, you can’t help but be mildly embarrassed for staring so blatantly, and for so long. Thinking to shy away and meander down the hallway to go somewhere else (preferably far away), he’s already uncrossed his legs and stood, briskly walking to catch up to you before you can even get a fulm down the hall. “You are done for the day.” he observes, his long legs allowing him to catch up to you in no time at all.

“Yeah, yeah. We’re wrapping things up I suppose, or at least there’s nothing more I can do but wait.” You grumble, a little put out still despite Cid’s earlier words. “What have you been up to?”

“I’ve little to do, by your side.” he responds, voice surprisingly neutral.

“Do you miss...being in a gang?” you ask hesitantly, the two of you slowly walking wherever your feet take you. He seems to be following your lead rather than the other way around, and his slow stride suggests he’s not in a rush to go anywhere else except near you.

“No, and not for reasons one might think. I was apathetic toward my father’s bidding. Whatever his lackeys did, whatever shipments needed securing, it was all beneath my notice. My only concern was for the thrill of battle. Of storming hideouts and searching for new opponents.” He rumbles, the timbre of his voice vibrating in his broad chest. “In a way, I do miss the feeling of wondering if I would find a suitable opponent...the anticipation that would most times lead to disappointment...or joy.” Smirking, he gives you a burning look. “However, I’ve not felt that since meeting you.”

Huffing, you stick your tongue out at him. “Careful, that sounded almost romantic.” you groan, giving him a playful shove. Looking to your feet, you both are silent for a moment until you speak up again. “Sometimes I miss being a cop.”

He arches a brow at that, brushing a stray hair from his face. “Why would you miss such a…” he pauses as he searches for the right word. “...restrictive job setting?”

“I miss helping people. Or at least, feeling like I was helping people.” You answer, realizing you had somehow found yourself in the kitchen. Cid learned to keep some of your favorite snacks stocked here due to your frequent visits in the past. “I miss my friends, I miss my apartment, I miss just…”

“You miss your old life.” Zenos responds for you, taking the words right out your mouth. Once again his voice is neutral, giving away nothing, but he won’t let you see his face when you turn to gaze up at him.

Fumbling for the right words, you wring your hands together. “Let’s eat some ice cream.” You smile, buying you some time to think. You’re moving to circle the island in the middle of the kitchen before he can stop you, heading to the cabinets to reach for some bowls.

“Ice cream is unhealthy and full of unnecessary--”

“Zenos yae Galvus, if you do not get me two bowls down, I will gut you.”

He shudders at your threat and you can’t help but roll your eyes that only he would even get off on what is supposed to be a playful bluff. So what you could back it up? Though it was probably that very fact that excited him.

Doing as told he grabs two bowls for you, silent as he watches you move around the kitchen like you’ve lived here before. A familiarity that only comes with being welcomed into one’s home. You grab the spoons and point him toward the bar stools at the island, Zenos obeying without protest as you wrench the freezer door open and pull out your favorite Rolanberry ice cream.

You grab a heated scoop (specifically engineered by Ironworks technologies) to easily serve you and Zenos both, returning the ice cream to its place in the freezer before sliding Zenos his bowl and spoon. He looks at it questioningly as you sit down, diving right into your own ice cream. “This looks as if it was purchased from a...commoner store.” He sighs, poking at it questioningly.

“It was. Because I asked Cid to get it from a grocery store.” You reply, not missing a beat as you help yourself to another spoonful. “Hurry up and eat it before it melts.”

“Do you fear asking Garlond for higher quality sweets?” he asks, deciding to try a taste for himself. The face he makes shows that he is less than impressed and you can’t help but giggle at it.

“Not at all. This is just an ice cream I would eat a lot with Minfilia when I was a kid.” you answer, the uttering of her name not stinging as much as it used to. Maybe now that you had realized her captor, her killer, and that you were finally about to avenge her as you had promised, made it sting a little less.

Zenos is silent still, seeming uncharacteristically quiet. A little unnerved, you decide to answer his earlier question. “I do miss my old life. I miss my friends, Y’shtola and Lyse. I met them toward the end of high school. My truest friends. I haven’t talked to them since I told them I’d be going undercover to try and get close to you.” You muse, stirring your melting ice cream slightly before spooning it in your mouth.

“I miss my apartment. Even though it’s been nice never running out of hot water, having five star meals every day, sometimes I miss my shitty, little space. The tub with the terrible caulk job on the edges, the one panel on the blinds that would always break and never stay fixed. The spot on the carpet that wouldn’t come out after I spilled soda on it, no matter how hard I scrubbed.” You laugh thinking about it all, wondering if all your things had been kept safe.

“Sometimes I miss just feeling...normal.”

Though he says nothing, you can see Zenos’ brows furrow at the statement, smiling a little at his confusion. “I don’t know the specifics of the Resonant but up until...someone told me of the Echo, this whole time I thought I was ‘normal’. I thought I was like one of those Olympians, you know? That I was just really strong and had crazy fast reflexes. It never occurred to me that I was...something else entirely.” You murmur sadly, scooping a spoonful solemnly into your mouth.

“I remember so little of my childhood. It feels like it happened in short bursts. A period of just moving from place to place, until Minfilia took me, and ran away. Then there were the years with her, in bits and pieces, and then...nothing.” Finishing our ice cream, your vision unfocuses, as if staring at nothing. “Suddenly, as if I was just waking up, I was getting ready to graduate high school with my friends and joining the police force to find my mother’s killer.”

Looking up at Zenos, he stares back, but with an unreadable emotion on his face. Maybe, not necessarily unreadable, but as if he doesn’t know how to express however he’s feeling. “If you told me that I’d land myself in the lap of my mother’s killer and fall for his son two years ago, I wouldn’t have believed you.” You laugh bitterly as you finally make your way to the answer he sought. “But...as hard as it’s been...as painful as this has all been...I would never take it back.” You smile at him warmly, watching as his jaw clenches. “I wouldn’t have gotten to meet you otherwise.”

He is quiet still after your confession, and though he doesn’t say it back (part of you doubts he ever will), you are content knowing that you know he cares for you in his own way, by the gestures of how he cares for you. As he seems content to stew in his thoughts, you silently hook your finger on the rim of his bowl, dragging it toward you slowly while meeting his eyes in question. He only gives you a weak glare, but says nothing else, and you go ahead and drag it to your side of the counter and begin to eat his share of ice cream.

“The Resonant is a result of my blood.”

Looking up, you hadn’t expected him to speak. He looks uncomfortable, guarded, wary. “My mother was like you, a descendant of an Ancient. From what I understand it is rare for descendants to be born so closely together. The bloodline is passed down, but not every soul manifests its power.” He explains, toying with the ends of his fine hair, as if in a long buried, nervous habit. “To this day, I do not know what powers my mother had, just that she was unlucky enough to be caught by my father, and forced into his bed to create me.”

Frowning, you abandon your extra ice cream and reach across the island to place your hand on his. He jerks away from the contact initially, giving you a withering look, but at the look of genuine worry on your face, he curses under his breath. Returning his hand to the counter, he faces his palm upward, allowing you to clutch it with your own, running your thumb on his palm in nonsensical patterns.

“When I was born, I had shown no initial signs of ‘success’. No visible powers or abilities that would show that the bloodline of the Ancients could be used to create powerful offspring. It is why I am an only child. My father initially deemed it a failure and saw my mother as useless.” He continues, returning the motions of your fingers drawing patterns on his skin, focusing on where your hands are joined as he tells his story.

“This did not mean my father had given up hope of course. For all his airs of being a ruthless businessman, he is still a man of science. He never quit his experiments with aether, and drained every last bit of info from my mother he could until she finally ended her own suffering.” He ground out. Even as he crushed your hand within his quite painfully, you didn’t breathe a word of pain, not wanting to break this fragile moment.

“The majority of my youth, all I had known was testing at the hands of my father’s scientists. As young as ten years old, I had become well acquainted with the feel of needles, bright lights, cold rooms after my studies. I had rebelled in my youth of course, by using the power of my wealth, my prestige. I slept with anything that walked. Harmed anyone who dared cross me. It wasn’t like we didn’t have the money to pay the lawyers for it.” he sighed, his grip on your hand relaxing a bit. For a moment he is quiet, drawing patterns on your skin.

“It wasn’t until my early teens that my father’s best scientist finally had a breakthrough.”

His free hand reaches for the collar of his shirt, tugging it down forcefully to stretch the fabric more than it was intended. You see the beginnings of his tattoo, parts of the scales and talons that make up the dragon lurking beneath. “Aulus mal Asina...an eccentric most would call him as far as science goes. But it was just that sort of eccentricity my father needed after losing Midas nan Garlond to his own experiments.” Releasing a bitter laugh of his own, Zenos mumbled something underneath his breath before continuing. “He had proposed this tattoo.”

Even though Zenos’ focus has not left the sight of your hands twined together, as if it is the only thing grounding him in reality as he retells his life’s story, he goes on as if sensing your confusion. “Your power, the power of the Ancients, comes from that tattoo on the back of your neck. Or at least, that is the theory Aulus acted upon. Using this strain of thought, he made aether infused ink and put this dragon upon my chest, activating dormant blood...activating what he would call the Resonant.”

You can feel your own throat begin to close up, as you struggle to not shed a tear at how horribly Zenos had been treated. It was no wonder that his view of life was so incredibly warped, with a dad that was more concerned about turning his son into some sort of supernatural being than being there for him.

“It was also the last I had seen of Aulus. For when the Resonant activated, I had no control. It had felt almost like an out of body experience…” he trails off, a note of excitement creeping into his voice, but still he maintains his bitter expression. “I had...murdered anyone in the room with me in cold blood.” He sighs, hazarding a glance at you. Much like him, you keep your expression neutral, giving away nothing, deciding instead to scream from the inside.

“It took several tranquilizing darts to take me down. It was then I was put into my training to control the Resonant.” He rests the weight of his head on his free hand, still clutching your hand in his, drawing more random patterns on your skin. “The exhilaration I feel when in control of the Resonant cannot be compared. To be so fast, so strong, I had become obsessed with using it at any opportunity. It was then I became obsessed with the thrill of the hunt.” His eyes finally meet yours. “I had told you already how I would give myself impossible odds to fight against, until one day the thrill stopped.”

Something about that statement finally makes you meet his gaze, standing on the precipice of the unknown once more. “Do you still love me now? Even after all the monstrous things I’ve done? The people I’ve killed?” He questions, voice taunting on the surface, but you know better. Know him better than that.

You can hear the resentment that his father twisted him into the pained man he has become.

The bitterness that despite being rich, powerful, attractive, nothing would change how warped he felt inside.

The anguish that at this moment, he had bared his soul to you, let you see who he is in full...and that with his past now bared to you, you could leave him.

“Am I not any different?” You ask, clearly throwing him for a loop.

“You have only started maiming when I,”

“No, I haven’t.” You cut him off, your hand clutching his for comfort this time. Your vision goes dark around the edges as a long buried memory tries to dredge its way to the surface. “I don’t remember the details. Nor would I ever want to...all I remember is a sea of red. A knife in my hand. And dead bodies littering the floor because I was too late to stop them from taking Minfilia.”

Your breath begins to come fast, too fast, and Zenos snags you by the chin, forcing you to look at him, to acknowledge he is real and with you and you’re not standing in a pool of blood in this very moment.

“Gods help me, Zenos, did you think you could scare me away?” You laugh even though you tremble as you do so. “At this point who else could want a freak like me?”

You see something in his eyes, the spark that maybe he felt the same. That somewhere deep within him he craved love just like anyone else, no matter how much of his life he spent convincing himself the opposite. That he wanted to hold and be held, to kiss and be kissed, to experience the affection and adoration and care that he doubtless saw the many people around him experience over the years.

Of course he would fuck anything with legs. It was mostly likely the only time he got any sort of physical contact that wasn’t him being experimented on. The only time he knew someone wanted him.

Standing to your feet, you intend to do just that. You release his hand only long enough to circle the island and come to stand between his legs as he still remains seated upon the bar stool. Even sitting he’s still fairly tall.

Reaching for his hands, you bring them to loop around your waist, your arms effortlessly sliding underneath his own to hug him close. He seems unsure what to do for a moment, until his embrace eventually tightens, clutching you close, burying his face in your neck. “It could only be you, too.” You whisper, breathing him in. Your eyes flutter closed, wrapping yourself in his scent, his touch.

“There could never be anyone else.”

“It’s almost time isn’t it?”

Merlwyb glances at you from the corner of her eye as the two of you make your way to the conference room in Cid’s home.

“That it is.” She responds, hands clasped behind her back, turning her gaze back down the hall. “While we are certainly pushing the envelope in dethroning His Radiance in a timely fashion, it is good that we are getting it done at all.”

Nodding, you find that you agree. Though you were definitely cutting it close, it’s good that something was being done to knock this bastard down several pegs.

As you enter the conference room, Lord Hien is already on screen speaking with Cid as they converse about whatever particulars of the plan to take on Varis and expose him for his crimes. Zenos is there as well, arms folded across his chest and looking everywhere but the other two men, and you would go as far to say he almost looked as if he was pouting.

You’d hoped he would seem a little more enthusiastic about the whole ordeal, but through every meeting he sat quietly and neutrally, as if he couldn’t even be bothered to even feel a little bit angry by the plans being made to take down his father. You knew both Cid and Merlwyb were upset by his unwillingness to be involved, only placated by the fact he was not against them either.

You had described the horror of the Resonant to them, the sheer power and speed he displayed. You knew without a doubt Varis had kept his own son as a trump card, knowing of his killing capabilities. You had effectively taken Zenos from his hand by your “relationship” making taking him down much easier in theory.

You shudder to imagine what would happen if you had to go in a toe to toe fight with a Resonant activated Zenos.

Best to not think on it now. Not when it's time to focus on more certain things: like how you’re going to break into Varis’ compound.

“Hello everyone. Sorry I’m late.” you greet with a small wave, even to Hien displayed on the large monitor.

“Nothing to be sorry for. We weren’t talking about anything important. Wanted to save that until you got here.” Cid beams, giving you a welcoming smile. You give him a warm one in return, only able to ignore Zenos’ insistent stare for a little while longer before you throw him a reproving look, which does nothing but cause him to smirk back. Rolling your eyes, you move to sit in the chair beside him, clearly annoyed, but to all in the room it might as well have been foreplay.

“Ahem, well,” Cid coughs, angling himself at the monitor Lord Hien is displayed on as Merlwyb takes her seat beside him. “Since you’ve been here for the majority of the meetings, there’s not much new to say, except going over a few finer points.” Cid begins. “Lord Hien?”

“Yes, yes.” The handsome man nods, eyes turning to you. “The entire operation hinders upon the success of bringing down Varis’ research facility. While we could simply get video or picture proof, we do not run to the risk of him trying to cover up his tracks. We know he has been smart enough to play several hands over the years; there is no reason to not think he has no back up plan should someone see something they aren’t supposed to.”

“Or worse, he launches the technology to have a direct attack on the public. As you have told us before, he has already begun to develop weapons using this technology. We can’t bear the risk of him holding any more civilian lives hostage. We must cut off the source, and then we can handle any other weapons after.” Lord Hien’s voice is clear and concise, serious and awe inspiring. A true leader, you think, unable to not feel a little dazzled by him.

“That said, the day of infiltration, I will go into hiding. Varis has been content to let me live this long, but I would not put it past him to have some way of keeping an eye on me. Though I am capable of disappearing, he will no doubt notice this, and also notice something is going wrong.” Hien continues, threading his fingers together as he levels you with a serious gaze.

“While I hate to pressure you any further Honey, especially given how much you have done for Kugane so far, still I must ask, are you unable to recall where to find the research facility?” He asks, and all eyes in the room are upon you.

Fidgeting, you stare hard at the fine wood grain upon the table, hands fisted in your lap. “No...I don’t.” You sigh, feeling defeated. “The one time I had gone, I was so confused at where he was taking me, I didn’t think to pay attention to my surroundings. Even leaving, I had been so shocked at what he showed me, what he had told me--” you shudder as suddenly you remember the feel of his grimy hands upon you, pulling upon your clothes, his twisted words at how he would have you…

Zenos places a hand over the palms over your lap, expression giving away nothing. Nodding, you take a calming breath. “I was too distracted to take notice. Did none of our research efforts bear any fruit?” you ask, looking from one set of eyes to the next, begging that one of them will say yes.

They look back at you just as defeated, no one willing to make eye contact with you for a heartbeat. Clearing his throat, Cid speaks up. “Alas, even my most advanced sensors couldn’t find anything out of the ordinary. I have no idea where it could be.”

The four of you twiddle your thumbs as you try to figure out what to do. Everything was ready to go. You could end this. Only you were too stupid at the time to remember something as simple as where the hell the secret laboratory was. You felt like you could smash a brick into your head.

Under the haze of your regret you can hear the others begin to talk again, perhaps discussing places they hadn’t thought to check, or avenues they hadn’t bothered to try. You tune it all out, unable to do anything aside from letting your own failure resonate inside you.

Resonate…

“Zenos.”

The room is quiet in an instant as you flip your hands over and clutch Zenos’ tightly, watching as his eyebrows reach for his hairline for a split second before they pinch together. “Zenos. I know we...I know we talked,” you offer vaguely, squeezing his hands that much tighter. “But please help us. We can put an end to this--”

“I told you I couldn’t.” He growls, his voice cutting so sharply, eyes so furious that you feel yourself recoil under his stare. But you knew this was bigger than you, and he had to know this too.

“Why won’t you help?” you plead, face breaking up as you watch a million emotions flit through his blue eyes. “Don’t you want to be free from your father?”

A shadow of something crosses his face, eyes unfocused as if lost in his own mind. He snatches his hand from yours as he comes back to himself, silent as he stands from his chair and stalks out the room. “Zenos!” you call, hurrying to your feet as he ignores you and flings the door open, uncaring that it slams into the wall. “Zenos!”

Following him, he’s once again halfway down the hall, deja vu urging you to catch up with him just as you had done that catalytic night at the hotel so many months ago. “Zenos, please,” you beg, trying to catch him before he rounds the upcoming corner. You don’t expect to be startled when he suddenly turns on his heel and snags you by your arms, nearly slamming you into the closest wall where he can loom over you menacingly.

You wish you didn’t feel so small before him during these times, especially now that you know how much he’s been hurting. “Zenos please, why won’t you help? Is it because of me?”

“Why would it ever be because of you?” He asks, his anger vanishing for a moment as he gives you an almost hopeless look. “I am saved by the very fact that you exist.”

“Then why?!” You whimper, trying to break out of his iron grip even as he grips your arms tighter. “Is it because the cause is too noble? Is it because you can’t go against your father?”

“Noble? What is noble about wanting to get revenge for your fallen friend? That still makes you a murderer, or have you forgotten?” he snickers darkly, ice blue eyes piercing directly into your heart. However you’ve known him too long. Long enough. Long enough to know that Zenos answers almost anything he is asked. That he doesn’t deflect, he doesn’t ignore you.

“Your father...what did he do to you that you can’t raise a hand against him?” You whisper, hating as you can see you’ve hit your mark when he goes stock still. His fingers are almost crushing in their strength, but you pay them no mind, needing to get to the heart of the matter. “Zenos, whatever it is, you don’t have to fear him--”

You cry out as he nearly throttles you into the wall, the sclera of his eyes almost bleeding black. “You know not of what you speak.” It is whispered so lowly, so vehemently, you can’t help but shiver in fear.

“But I want us to be happy.” You cry, tears leaking down your face, wanting to somehow get through to him. “I want you to be free from him Zenos, for us to be free. Forever--”

“Nothing is forever!” He nearly roars, but instead of maintaining the ferocity he had kept until this point, he couldn’t sound more shaken. “I cannot raise a hand against him. I cannot...I can’t. Not against my father.” he murmurs softly, though his grip has not decreased one bit.

Thinking quickly, you try to reason with him. “But I can.” you urge, praying that he will listen.

He barks out a hoarse laugh at that, fixing you with a derisive sneer. “Then what? Shall we both rot away in solitary confinement for our crimes?”

Whimpering, you wish he would just let go of you so you could hold him. “Chief Raubahn said I had immunity while on my mission,”

“Good for you.” He laughs again, leaning into your space. “And what of me? Do you think they’d be willing to overlook all the men I’ve killed? The things I’ve stolen and cheated for? Will your chief be willing to turn a blind eye to the monster I am?” he laughs maniacally, eyes flashing red for a brief moment before his expression becomes unfeeling. “I would sooner die than rot in prison, unable to fight.”

“Zenos,”

Dropping you, he doesn’t bother to grab you as you crumple to the floor, turning his back on you. “You are all fools to think you can even touch him.” Even at his scathing tone, you can see the haunted shadow that falls across his face, wondering just how much shit did that asshole put him through? What fucked up mind games did Varis play to have his own son that could snap him in half be too afraid to stand against him?

“I do this for you,” you cry, suddenly feeling exhausted, gazing up at him desperately. “I’ll fight ‘til my dying breath that they don’t lock you away. I refuse for us to not be together.” Tears begin to genuinely leak down your eyes now, even as you hear Merlwyb call your name as she rushes down the hall, surely ready to tear Zenos a new one. “Please...help us.” you beg, watching as he wars with himself, hating that he had gone through too much trauma to cause this hesitation. This fear.

“Honey!” Merlwyb calls as she crouches beside you, checking you over. Glaring angrily up at Zenos once she deems you unharmed, she stands back to her full height, nearly eye to eye with him. “You better have a good explanation, Garlean.”

Unamused and not intimidated in the least, Zenos scoffs, turning his back on the two of you. “Of course I do, savage.” He sighs, eyes still covered in shadow. “The facility is on the outskirts of the city, to the west. You cannot find it because my father has made it imperceptible to nearly all manner of tracking technology.” You watch as his shoulders sink, as if a heavy sin has suddenly put all its weight upon him.

“If you wish to find it, it is hidden under the guise of being a warehouse for father’s technologies, which is why the government has never investigated it. The true work is done nearly malms underground. If you truly wish to end my father as you so claim...reach the bottom of the facility. If you have someone smart enough to activate the shut down sequence, you can end his entire operation.” He pauses and reaches inside his shirt through his collar, pulling a chain with a key attached from underneath. “This will let you pass through any door.” He explains, dropping it to the floor.

He gives one final glance at you before walking away. You sit there broken, wondering how he could possibly turn his back on you. After getting on your knees to beg him to join you, to save the both of you from this nightmare. Even though you see a glimmer of regret in his fierce, blue eyes, it doesn’t stop him from walking down the hallway, into the darkness.

“Good luck.”

[dunsbar]

do you see no further than this façade?

Word Count: approx. 2500

Notes: Happy Holidays, Jany (@hehimbo)! I was your @ambitionsource Secret Santa and it was such an honour! Please accept this short and sweet little canon divergent fic about AAA’s most ridiculous couple. I don’t know you as well as I’d like to, but I hope I wrote something that you’ll enjoy.

Summary: Riley finds a silver lining in her broken locker when someone starts leaving her thoughtful gifts. Secret admirer trope, canon divergent during Season 1.

—

The first time it happens, she doesn’t even realize it’s started.

Riley’s locker is not a place she usually lingers. It’s loved, yes, filled with photos— her and the techie crew, the cast photo for this year’s musical, a clumsy shot of her and Zay voguing. One of her and Isadora, the other girl staring dead into the camera, unamused, while Riley flashes her biggest grin.

Yet, it’s purpose is still mainly functional. Or it was functional, because unfortunately for Riley, two days ago she realized her locker was broken.

She’d been fumbling with it, the bell ringing loudly as students rushed past, singing, chattering, stomping through the hall. She was jostled a couple times, which is always annoying considering how small the student body is here— yet there are still people who find the space (or lack of) to bump into her. Her fingernails smacked painfully against the cold metal of the lock.

Finally, with the bell petering out, Riley just… made the decision to deal with it later. Nothing of monetary value in her locker, aside from the photo of Zay which will be worth hundreds when he inevitably makes it big.

Timing seems to have aligned itself with her enemies, seeing that in her next class, Angela informs the students that there is currently a stomach virus circling the sacred halls of AAA. It’s something Riley should have seen coming, as it’s winter, and Clarissa and Jeff were both noticeably absent that morning. Riley, not new to the concept of virus outbreaks in the school system calculates this in her head— Janitor Harley is going to be busy wiping up puke for… well, probably at least a week and a half. What’s the point of bothering the poor man about a broken locker storing nothing of value while he singlehandedly cleans up after stomach flu?

No, Riley thinks to herself. I’ll just wait it out.

Back in the present, Riley smooths out the corner of her picture with the techies and tucks away her copy of Leaves of Grass (her choice reading for an English project, and actually likes it) on the shelf up top, before pausing and putting it back into her bag, with the idea to read it at lunch— none of the techies mind if she doesn’t talk at the table, and she could probably get into a good discussion on it with Isadora. She makes a mental note to ask Charlie if he’s read it— he’s an English genius, and his insights are always thoughtful and well-detailed.

It’s only when she’s got one hand on the door, about to close the locker, that she notices a flash of violet, out of focus. Glancing over, she sees a purple pen, tucked into the vents by the clip. It’s simple, not fancy or even particularly good quality. But it’s… purple. Her favourite color.

Riley has never seen this particular pen before. She thinks. Well, she’s sort of sure. When your school’s primary dedication is to performing arts, you tend to not need as many “normal” school supplies as “normal” schools, so Riley has a pretty good idea of her catalogue of writing utensils. Still, she could be wrong. It’s not exactly like her pens take high priority in her mind. But this one is… nice.

Pocketing it with a beam, she decides to chalk this one up to fate.

Performance lab has just begun when Riley scurries into the auditorium, Angela pointedly raising an eyebrow from her spot on stage but thankfully saying nothing. Riley opts to sit with the techies— less attention drawn to herself. It’s kind of a moot point considering she caught the twin eyebrow raises Maya and Farkle turned around in their seats to send her, but she slides into a seat beside Isadora, Dylan and Asher on Isa’s other side. Normally Lucas would be there, but a glance around tells her he seems to have skipped out on the afternoon. She can’t stop herself from feeling a twinge of disappointment.

—

It’s the second day when she realizes that the pen was probably not a gift from fate.

Riley is just dropping off her coat and boots that morning, a quick stop before first bell to tuck her wet boots on the crimson metal of her locker floor. There’s a couple wet floor signs down the hall several feet, and Riley winces. According to the grumpy text she got from Isadora that morning, Dylan caught the bug last night. This means Asher’ll likely get it too, and the techies will be seriously understaffed, especially with Jeff gone.

Riley hopes briefly, selfishly, that it’ll mean no more skip days for Lucas.

Glancing up at the top shelf, Riley does a double take.

Glancing up at the top shelf, Riley does a double take.

A white paper bag is perched delicately up there, the bag instantly recognizable as the kind that her favourite bakery uses. She grabs it down, pries it open, and her jaw drops.

It’s her favourite kind of pastry. It smells heavenly, and it’s not exactly still warm but that doesn’t matter, what matters is that someone knew about Riley’s tastes in pastry and went all the way to her favourite bakery to get her one.

She knows she’s prone to gushing about (and recommending) the bakery, but she can only really remember mentioning it one time recently— oh. Oh.

Oh no.

—

Riley picks her way nervously through the cafeteria, echoes of the lunch bell still ringing in her ears. She prays to… something… that Zay is sitting alone.

He is, his lunch in front of him, tapping his fingers on the smooth tabletop. Riley sends a grateful thank you to this ambiguous higher power.

“Zay,” she greets him, her question tumbling out before any common courtesies can be exchanged. “Can I get your advice?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” he says, raising an eyebrow inquisitively as Riley plops down next to him. “With what?”

Riley chews her lip, pulling an orange out of her lunch bag so she can do something with her hands. “Someone’s leaving me gifts in my locker.”

Zay blinks. “Like… a secret admirer thing?”

“Um.” Riley pauses. “I didn’t really think about it like that, I mean. Maybe?”

“What did they leave you?” Zay asks, in between bites of salad.

“A pen— my favourite color. And my favourite kind of pastry. It’s from this place in Greenwich.”

Zay looks at her. “Riley,” he deadpans, “That’s a secret admirer.”

“Fine,” Riley admits. “Maybe it’s a secret admirer.”

Riley is immensely grateful for Zay Babineaux when he does not laugh at her. Still, the reason why she came to talk to him hangs over her head, and she starts chewing on her lip again.

“What is it?”

“Okay, it’s just,” Riley says. “The last person I remember mentioning the bakery to was Charlie.”

Zay starts coughing through a mouthful of chewed greens.

Riley quickly places a hand on his arm, but he waves her off, even as his eyes water. Once his throat is clearer, he takes a long gulp from her water bottle. She lets him.

“Charlie,” Zay says. “Gardner.”

“Yes,” Riley says, wincing. It kind of makes sense, doesn’t it?— Charlie was kind of flirty earlier in the year, there was that weird comment about the idea of them not being “the worst thing in the world”, oh, it’s all falling into place and Riley’s inner monologue is starting to derail. If it is Charlie, she—

“Are you sure it’s Charlie?” Zay asks, his eyes flicking to somewhere on the other side of the cafeteria.

Riley shakes her head. “Just a…suspicion. He’s a suspect. I suspect him.”

Zay’s mouth twitches. “So. What are you asking me for?”

“Well, you’re better friends with him than I am,” Riley says. “You’re always hanging out in class. And I’m not brave enough to ask Haley if Charlie likes me. That’s a storm I can’t weather.”

That gets a laugh out of Zay, but the look in his eyes is almost wistful. He shakes his head, smiling, all Babineaux charm. “So you want my opinion?”

“I want— Would… would you maybe ask—”

“No,” Zay says emphatically, pointing a finger at her. “No, I am not asking Charlie if he likes you. Do it yourself.”

I have before, Riley thinks. But she just sighs in defeat as Zay mumbles ‘white nonsense’, and finally sets about unwrapping her sandwich.

—

The third gift is a new copy of Leaves of Grass— not a school copy. Her own edition.

She really needs to talk to Charlie.

—

She catches him at the end of the day, out of the dressing rooms and in the middle of the main aisle of the auditorium.

“Charlie, um,” Riley says, and he slows to a stop, turning to face her. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” he replies, adjusting the strap of his dance bag on his shoulder. Someone’s bumps Riley’s back with an elbow as they walk past— probably Sarah. “What is it?”

“No, not here,” Riley says quickly. “Somewhere more private?”

Charlie’s eyes widen, almost imperceptibly. “Uh, I… um…”

Riley’s stomach sinks like a stone. Oh God, it is Charlie, she thinks, disappointment washing over her like the sea weathering a stone. She hadn’t— well, she’d allowed herself just the slightest hope… of hunched shoulders, sandy hair…

“Please,” she says. “Just one minute.” She catches his arm, gentle. Charlie won’t meet her eyes, but he nods.

Lucas stomps past in his big black boots. Riley turns her head instinctively to offer a smile, but he doesn’t even glance at her. She sighs, turning back to Charlie.

By the time they step into the empty classroom, Charlie seems close to hyperventilating. Riley feels so, so bad for what she’s about to do, but considering she’s already shut him down once this year, it seems like she has to really get him to take the hint. Gently.

“Charlie,” she begins, while he stares at the floor, “I just… I figured it out, okay? And... I don’t know what to say.”

Seemingly, neither does Charlie, because he continues to stare down at his feet in silence. He almost folds in on himself, as if he’s willing himself to not be seen. Riley plows on.

“Well, okay. So, thank you. For everything. The book and the pastry and the—”

Charlie looks up, lightning fast. His brow is furrowed in confusion. “What?”

Riley blinks. “The secret admirer thing.”

“What secret admirer thing?” He sounds genuinely bewildered.

This is not how Riley pictured this going.

“The gifts in my locker,” she says, carefully. “I thought maybe it was you.”

Charlie’s whole shoulders slump, like his body is exhaling. When he speaks, he sounds relieved and honest. “It wasn’t me, I promise.” There’s a tentative, awkward pause. “Um. Sorry?”

Riley laughs, feeling as relieved as he sounds. “No, no, I’m so glad it wasn’t you. I mean— no offense! You know I think you’re great. But just… not like that. So it’s... I’m glad.”

Charlie smiles too, and it looks so earnest. “So we’re good?”

Riley nods, feeling ten pounds lighter. “Yeah. We’re good.”

—

The dam breaks on day four.

Riley is speed-walking through the halls, almost late. The bell will ring literally any minute from now, but damned if she’s going to track city slush all over the auditorium’s nice flooring. With any luck, she’ll have just enough time to shove them in her locker and bolt for the auditorium. Riley rounds the corner.

Her feet and her heart stop in their tracks.

There, down the hall, unmistakably stands Lucas James Friar, attempting to hurriedly slip something in her locker.

Lucas.

Lucas.

Lucas closes her locker, and before she can do anything, turns in her direction.

Their eyes lock.

Lucas looks as frozen as Riley feels, an electric current between their stares. In that moment, as other students brush past her, she’s suspended in time, the only sound her heartbeat, thumping loudly in her ears. Neither of them can move. She’s pretty sure neither of them can breathe.

And then Lucas turns and takes off down the hall, disappearing in the crowd.

Riley takes a deep breath, feeling the air shake as it leaves her mouth. Go after him. Go after him. Go—

The bell rings.

—

Riley finds him the next morning, hanging— hiding?— in the booth. Lucas rather spectacularly managed to avoid her the rest of the day, by virtue of skipping again.

With Dylan and, yes, now Asher, off sick, Riley didn’t have a way to get a hold of Lucas. She had asked Isadora, faux-casual, but Isa had just shrugged and gone back to storyboarding her latest idea.

“Lucas James Friar,” Riley says now, determinedly. “I just want to talk. And honestly, I think you owe me that much.”

Lucas is quiet for a long moment. Then he nods, once, jerkily. He won’t meet her eyes.

“How did you know about the pastry?” she asks, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear, feeling suddenly shy.

Lucas pushes the toe of his boot into the ground. “Overheard you telling Charlie about it. I, um, I saw that your locker was broken that morning, too. I just wanted to—”

He cuts himself off. Riley waits patiently.

“Fuck,” Lucas hisses. “You— you weren’t supposed to find out it was me. I didn’t want… to be weird. I just wanted you to have… you weren’t supposed to find out it was me.”

Riley’s chest is fluttering. She coughs, trying to dispel the tension in the air. “Well,” she says, “I’m glad I did.”

Lucas looks up sharply, finally meeting her eyes. It’s a soft jolt of electricity— down her spine, in her fingertips. They’re a lot closer then she realized. Less than a foot of space between their chests— between their mouths.

“Can I kiss you?” she murmurs. Lucas blinks, like his brain is catching up with his ears, and splutters, taking an instinctive step back. His legs bump the booth’s equipment.

A rush of regret courses through her. “Sorry! I just…” she trails off. Not really any possible excuses to save her on that one— she made her intentions pretty clear.

“No, no—” Lucas blurts out. He kicks at the dirt with the toes of one scuffed boot, like he’s regaining his cool. “I mean. Um. Yeah. You can.”

Riley beams, and Lucas looks kind of dazed again, all of a sudden, and she tentatively leans in, feels his hands take hers, links their fingers together, and catches his mouth in a sweet, gentle kiss.

It’s really nice. Tentative— she’s pretty sure Lucas doesn’t exactly have any experience with this, and Riley’s own experience is limited to close-mouthed spin-the-bottle in middle school. But it’s nice.

When they break away, they don’t let go of each other’s hands. She can’t help but smile even wider.

“Hey,” she whispers. “Thanks for the pen.”

[the-headbop-wraith]

3 _ 47  A Goodbye Letter

 Kingsman Mechanics didn’t usually pick out supplies with smaller distributors, but occasionally Arthur would roll around to collect some of the less essential equipment which had a habit of wearing out. Sometimes it was worth it to spurge a buck if the use was versatile enough, while other equipment had components that wore out regularly and it required periodic maintenance. Other assets he did like to snag spur of the moment, typically for his personal work such as on his arm, or when he needed inspiration for new gear that was hitting the market.

 It was always such an outlet to head out of town and browse the techno shop, supplied with quality parts and computer components for modest prices. One division of the shop displayed aisles of industrial shelving, with test gadgets up top for casual shoppers. Other portions of the store dedicated inventory to domestic living, or industrial distribution. It was likewise one of the nearest shops that carried valued craft supplies for largescale modeling, such as welding and do-it-yourself engineering. For Arthur’s needs, he was aiming for some new soldering parts to boost the efficiency in a refurbished arm.

 There were advantages to a custom made mechanical arm. Dealing with corroded bolts and nuts or working with a stubborn, over twisted bolt was not the issue it used to be. However, it wasn’t a real arm, some of the angles he used to twist into for reaching sections of a car was now troublesome, and his false arm had limits different to a limb of flesh and blood. The circuits and servos didn’t mend on their own over time, if something inside the arm ceased altogether the whole arm crapped out. He couldn’t call for ten and give the arm a chance to heal, anything that needed fixing Arthur did so in his spare time. To avoid those complications, rotors and gears required maintenance; the harder the work, the more frequent the checkups. Circuits burnt out due to overuse – sometimes it overheated – wiring frayed of came loose from the excessive movement and prolonged abuse.

 And dear gods, did he abuse his arm.

 He moved down the large lane, checking his phone and comparing the listing to the names and brands of spooled wires in bins. A metal with a higher heat tolerance was more expensive, but it would endure more hours. However, he needed to construct a better housing for the circuit line to prevent the insulation getting snagged. One of the first arms he built, he totally forgot to factor in gravity and momentum; the wires were not secured like they should’ve been and the model was short lived. He didn’t even make it through the first (return to) paranormal case, they didn’t even arrive to the destination before the thing died.

 With a shudder, he tossed the elected spool into his basket. Within, some large crates of craft metal for repairing cosmetic areas of the shop. Some lowkey cheapy materials he bought offhand, rather order wholesale. Some test gear to burn through before reaching out to large distributors for orders.

 Next, he ventured to the aisle for hosing and insulation components. A new building line for storing energy for the battery would extend the functionality of his arm. The only thing he could do while resting was recharge the internal battery, big whoop.

 On his way to the aisle, Arthur dithered and gave his space a brief examination. The creeping sensation that someone was watching, or someone followed him. It was no mistake, he knew that sensation better than a burn. No way this was paranoia. Never would he attribute his instincts to paranoia.

 For now, he played it cool. It was more to the hope that being out in public would deter something malicious, but he wouldn’t let on about his suspicions. Once he reached the parking zone, he’d have to be on his—

 In his ruminations, Arthur almost didn’t react in time to avoid the basket that eased out into his path. However, his reflexes remained uncontested, and he managed to swerve despite his gimp arm.

 “Holy crepes! I’m so sorry, excuse—” He shut up, and mayhap his face drained of what little color it had. In his path stood….

 MAMMA PEPPER!

 The stern face, the tight shoulders, the imposing aura. Arthur purposefully avoided the Pepper Paradiso, the whole Pepper Bushel – save one vengeful spook – nononononononononononononononononononoNO! Why is she here? He avoided all the grocery stores in all their small town, save for the few times he had to go out and pick up foodstuffs because his Uncle was too sick or swamped with work, whatever – he couldn’t let Uncle Lance go out, even if he insisted he was fine – she couldn’t be here, not in the sacred mechanics haven. The last frontier of casual shopping, and freedom from the accusing eye. This was inconceivable!

 Arthur opened his mouth, but words abandoned him. His throat generated an eerie whine. “Ack.”

 “Arthur,” Mamma Pepper spoke, voice icy, but somehow heated and thick. “I haven’t seen you in some time. You and Vivi, don’t come by anymore. Do you?”

 Any shape or form of human vocalization was beyond Arthur. He clenched his jaw, choked back a swallow, and tried for a syllable. “Uh.”

 “Are you all right? Should I leave you?” She pulled the basket backwards, though there was plenty of room for Arthur to move onward.

 “No,” squeaked Arthur. “Uh… it’s all right. I mean, I’m fine. It’s okay.” He took a breath. Without a word, Mamma Pepper stood, rigid and impassive. “Yeah. It’s fine. Um, Vivi… she uh, she—” He stalled when Mamma Pepper raised a hand.

 “I see. I didn’t mean to intrude.” She tightened her grip on the basket. “I try not to push, but I also don’t want you both believing you are not welcome. You are always… welcomed at the Pepper Paradiso. Does it help when I remind you?” She peaked one critical eye at Arthur.

 He nodded. “It… yes. I appreciate the offer.” He glanced aside, then, checked the supplies in the basket. Industrial Gas Connectors, among other parts and pieces from gauges to replacement dials. “How’s the restaurant doing?” Mamma Pepper seemed to frown. Seemed to. And sighed.

 “Business as usual.”

 “I didn’t mean the business,” Arthur interjected. “I was talking about your equipment. I meant to call and ask, if you… needed some maintenance work? I could come by sometime. I can bring, eh… Vivi. She’d like to come by too, I think. I’d have to ask. She’s been, um…” reflexively, he reached over to grip at his metal wrist, “been doing, erm… well. Yeah. I wanted to ask….” He stalled.

 Mamma Pepper’s stare became harder, more critical. But there was an underlying softness he could scarcely discern.

  __

 For the past month Lewis spent the bulk of his time at Vivi’s apartment, while she was out at work or checking in with Arthur during days off. Though she recognized Lewis wouldn’t remain the whole time locked away or secluded from the world, he left notes when he was jamming off and for how long he intended to be. Where he went remained a mystery, which she was not super eager to inquire about but she did remain curious. She was more apt in reading his nonverbal cues and perhaps a little underestimated in her abilities, given her experience with paranormal creatures.

 Today was one of the first times she hauled Lewis out, though he was foremost invited to change up his ‘routine’, whatever that consisted of. For a bit, he pretended to give the offer some thought – while he hovered midair looking pretty relaxed. It wasn’t a huge surprise that he went along, not that he had a schedule or anything to keep on task with. Aside from shopping runs, a task reserved for the evening, with funds set out for his personal use, and having no real needs of his own. He spent the money on making sure Vivi was well stocked, so poor-poor Mystery wouldn’t have to watch his partner drink those awful canned teas.

 This day was not one to be in any particular place, with an established time to return on. It was a rare day to get out there and go nowhere, spend time in each other’s company.

 And Vivi felt like she was getting to know a Lewis better. She wasn’t certain which Lewis she was becoming more aware of, since there was a difference between Lewis Pepper when he was living, and the Lewis postmortem – if she was to put it indelicately. There were not enough notebooks and folders in the Box which gave her insight into Lewis Pepper, not enough pictures to rekindle memories stolen from the pools of reflection. It didn’t matter so much that she remembered who he was, but that she knew who he is. It bothered her that she lost what once was, and might never be able to take it back.

 A braided crown of stems and flowers alit on Vivi’s head. She took it down and gave the hoop shape a brief scrutiny.

 “Not my best flower crown,” Lewis admitted. “But not a lot of flowers ‘round here.” He held a short stem between his teeth, and gave a comical southern draw.

 “Is it imbued with special, mystical properties?” She turned the crown over and over. Lewis’ voice hitched, as he cackled.

 “No, Vii. Not everything needs special secret magic to make it special.” He grinned. “It’s an old fashioned, unremarkable, flower crown.”

 Vivi set the crown back upon her head. “Plants always have a charm about them, through the winter they endure. I don’t know what it is. The dormancy, the anticipation of reawakening post a harsh and relentless season, something previously viewed as unsightly, reviving, blooming. Hmm… I hope we can have a snowfall before the cold ends.”

 Lewis shrugged. He leaned back against the tree they sat beneath, shaded from the sun by the thin branches brimming with miniscule buds. “One more snow fall wouldn’t be too bad, though I always love the colors of spring. I’m eager for the return of some color.”

 Across the open field of the park, Mystery darted by like a bullet. As if a vengeful spirit was snapping at his tail. Like he was racing his own shadow.

 Vivi reclined back and rested her head on his thigh. “Hey.”

 “Hmm?”

 “When you leave your notes? Do you actually go out somewhere, or… do you sometimes rest too?” she pondered. “I get this feeling you’re not gone completely. Like you’re still there, but unresponsive. Resting?”

 Lewis reached a hand up and scratched at his cheek. “Uh, perceptive much? Sometimes I am a little weary and can’t fully manifest, like the way you… know. Since I can’t just be, I don’t want you to worry. Other times, I’ll find my way to the van. It… is a place where I feel at peace. Dunno why that is.”

 Vivi pulled her hands up and folded them over her middle. “Hanging around with the living still overwhelming?”

 “It’s a lot of energy to deal with. I can’t really escape it.” Vivi smirked.

 “And how’s the van coming along?”

 Lewis wheezed, “Slowly.”

 Vivi tilted her head back further and gazed into the rich azure sky. “What about you? Not that it matters right now, but you’re not casting a shadow. That only happens when somethings on your mind, or you’ve pushed yourself a little too much.”

 Lewis reached over and tucked back a loose hair under the woven crown. “That’s nothing to worry about, I’ve been more active than usual. I guess it’s not so noticeable when we’re doing the travel gig, and you’re focused not on me.” He offered a sly waggle of his brow above the sunglasses, and Vivi responded by squinting back suspiciously. “Mi queria, don’t worry so much. If I thought something was off, you’d be the first person I’d go to.”

 Vivi scoffed. “You better, buster.”

 Mystery sprinted over and gave pause, long enough to tumble down beside Vivi and roll in the scraggily grass. “Mystery!” The wily hound snatched the crown from her head and took off, his yapping suspiciously rebounding like cackling laughter. “You give that back!” Vivi flew up, scrambling to get on her feet. Lewis was up immediately, skiing forward.

 “Oh! I absolutely will catch you! Don’t you doubt it!”

 The ears and hair on Mystery shot up, and he was off faster than a beam of light. Lewis dove after the dog, zigzagging in wild patterns and grabbing at thin air upon every duck and slide Mystery pulled. The grass beneath Lewis’ heels scorched upon every twist; try as he might though, the pup was unattainable.

 Before Vivi could fully devote herself to the chase, the muffled hum of her phone went off. She almost went ahead and left the phone beneath the tree, tucked away safely in the backpack, but decided better and picked it up. “Arthur?”

 “Hey,” replied through the phone.

 “Didn’t expect a call from you. Is everything okay?” She spun around and watched as Mystery made a wide turn, with Lewis hot on his tail. Literally. When Lewis spied Vivi on the phone, he abruptly broke out of his glide and jogged over. “Hmm?”

 “What was that? Is Lew there?”

 “Yeaahhh… Lew’s here.” She grinned up at the aforementioned specter. Lewis’ appearance flashed and shimmered, he set his hands on his vest and tugged. “Arthur says hi.”

 “Tell him… hey, back for me?”

 “Lew says Hay.” Arthur laughed. That was a good sound.

 “I was callin’ to see if you were busy tonight, I have something I wanna ask.”

 Vivi stepped back into the shade and leaned on the tree. “You can’t ask right now, over the phone?” Mystery padded around the side of the tree, lil crown looped over one ear.

 “It’s ahh… a lil complicated, to talk about. Actually, you and Lew both.” Arthur didn’t sound super fortified himself, but his words came through. “Would Lew be willing to come by? If not, that’s okay too. It’s up to him. But he can come by too, I could talk to him.”

 Vivi looked over to Lewis and hit the mute button on her phone. “He wants to see you.”

 “I got that.” Lewis’ appearance dimmed, the burning eye behind the sunglasses glistened in the shifting fractures of his projected appearance. For a moment, Vivi thought he would vanish or lose his grip.

 “You can say no,” she affirmed. “You don’t have to give a reason. He’ll understand.”

 Lewis snatched her hand before she could work at the phone screen. “No, espera. I’d like to see Artie.”

 “You sure?” You and he… you think you’re up for it?”

 “Yeah.” Lewis took the little stalk of grass from his mouth and tossed it. “If he’s cool, I’d be down for a visit.”

 Vivi unmuted her phone. “Hey Art, you still there?” Arthur replied with a hum. Some background noise came through his side, it sounded like traffic or machinery. “What would be a good time for us to swing by?”

 “Around seven, a little after,” he offered. “I’m running some errands, so no rush. You don’t sleep, do you?”

 “Mmm,” Vivi mocked contemplated. “It’s not in my schedule.” A sound akin to static emitted, and she took it as Lewis best attempt at clearing his throat. “Sounds good.” She wondered briefly, but dismissed the thoughts. “We’ll see you then.” She clicked off the phone and made certain it was closed out.

 To Lewis, “He sounded tense and anxious. I didn’t want to ask.”

 Lewis went over and took the crown off Mystery’s head, and set it back on Vivi’s blue hair. “If there’s a problem, I can duck out. Not that I mind a meet, some nonbusiness would be a nice change.”

 Vivi peered at him quizzically. “I don’t think there should be. He’s put a lot of work at the shop, and that helps. But we’ll see.” She began walking, with Mystery picking up the pace by her side and Lewis at her shoulder. “Anywhere else you wanna roll by and check out?” She fitted her hand into Lewis’ and gripped his fingers.

 In a flash of embers, Lewis lost his very convincing living appearance and stood frozen mid stride. At least the park for the time sat empty.

 Vivi stiffened. “Fuck!”

 __

 Another crate of supplies went into the back of the work truck on loan. The parts and materials sat on high value, even the copper was an easy swipe if some lowlife happened by and recognized the glossy hull. With all the valuables packed into the front seats, Arthur shut and locked up.

 Paths of sidewalk wound around the patches of desert xeriscape and clumps of cactus, cutting the sidewalk and parking zone into jagged portions. An expansive patio rolled out from the building entrance, fitted with a wide awning and short fence to divide the patio from the walkway. A few tables sat, awaiting company on the chilly day.

 Arthur moved through the opening of the fence, his gaze taking in faces, his apprehension spiked higher. He didn’t see any familiar faces, but that didn’t reassure him. It was chilly, and his metal arm shifted in the sling; the only arm covered at this time. It would be best to leave, this wasn’t a good idea. He’d call, apologize. She’d understand. He hoped she’d understand. He took a step back. On the thoroughfare traffic picked up, though none of the vehicles cruising by slowed or pulled into the parking lane. Not yet. But soon….

 The entrance to the café swept open and a familiar face glided out. Arthur grimaced, but hadn’t given his legs the memo to relocate. That would’ve been hella rude.

 “I’m glad you could make it.”

 Arthur put a hand to the low top of the fence at his side, but reframed from leaning. He was certain if he did anything but stand, he’d collapse.

 “Yeah. I had a,” he stammered, struggling to collect his words, “a last pickup. Have you been waiting long?”

 Mamma Pepper stood stock still, statuesque. “Not long at all. It’s chilly outside, I have a table waiting.” It sounded almost like she was inviting him into her own restaurant, though Arthur wasn’t sure why this out of the way café.

 He checked the area over before stepping forward. One foot, then the other, steady. “This place. It’s new.”

 “I assisted the owner’s in getting set up,” Mamma Pepper supplied. She held the door for Arthur, until he ventured in of his own pace. “Sometimes my family offers taste testing, and vice versa.”

 Arthur concealed the little twinge that ran through his spine. “Awesome.” The interior was not splendid or over done, but simplistic with a homey charm. At the furthest side of the room, logs crackled and churned within a brick fireplace. From the ceiling, rustic lanterns hung. The dim light competed with the sparse interior tables, and the little candles flickering. One table at the furthest wall harbored a mug of steaming liquid.

 “Take your time, if you choose to order,” Mamma Pepper spoke. “There’s no rush.” She left him and weaved around the tables, until she reached her target. She pulled a chair out, and then took her seat at the table across from the vacant chair. A blatant invitation, if he ever saw one.

 Despite a line, Arthur went ahead and made an order. After the barista took his name, he ventured over to the location Mamma Pepper claimed. She was sipping at the beverage. “I never gave that sorta theme much thought,” he admitted. “They offer some interesting… mixes.” Concoctions sounded rude.

 Mamma Pepper nodded and hummed. “Coffee and tea blends, with traditional staples. I wanted to tell you about it sooner, but I didn’t want to intrude.”

 “Ah.”

 “How have you been?” She squinted one eye at Arthur. “I expect well.”

 “Y-yeah. We… uh, Vii and I, we’re still at it.” He rubbed the back of his head with the heel of his palm. “Doing investigations. Y’know that.”

 “Nothing stops that girl.” A hint of a smile graced Mamma Pepper’s face. “I’m glad to hear.”

 The barista brought by Arthur’s beverage, exchanged conversation on how the two were doing, and left. It was a joy to focus on something else, if even briefly.

 “What did you get?”

 Arthur gave the warm liquid a try. “One of the trademark Hy-blends.” He wasn’t a stranger to abominable tea and coffee concoctions, or anything to spark his brain and keep his eyes open on the longest of long roads between towns. But this was really good, the appropriate balance of strength to mellow, with perhaps too much cream making it thick like ice-cream. But good nonetheless. It wouldn’t keep his heart beating, but it was flavorful.

 His mind worked to bring forth the questions, to inquire about how a family went on in the absence of a loved one. How did one approach the topic, and when was it an appropriate time? There was no reason to approach that at all, no reason to drag it forward if he could avoid it. He sipped his beverage, trying his darndest not to quake.

 “You have a way with the machinery,” Mamma Pepper went on, through the absence of substance. “The equipment gets fixed – mind you – everything works without hitch, but it’s not the same. I can’t put my finger on what’s different. Your help was appreciated.”

 Arthur slunk down in his seat a bit. “Yeah. Mn, sorry ‘bout that. Not, uh….”

 “Arthur,” she stated, firmly. “I’m not disappointed. I’m trying to explain that we missed you. We missed Arthur, not Arthur the mechanic. Just… Arthur.” She sipped at her drink.

 “Oh, right.” He looked around at the dimly lit space, the steady stream of customers. “Have you helped other restaurants get opened up? It’s pretty sweet, nothing like the Pepper Paradiso. Er, it’s more… rustic, I guess?”

 Their exchange seemed to fall into place after that, with Mamma Pepper going lightly over a few changes at the Pepper Paradiso. The two caught up on how they were getting along, while skittering aside from the topic involving Vivi. Arthur wasn’t certain how to approach that grape vine, but Mamma Pepper’s questions were careful. It almost felt normal, like he wasn’t cowering under some terrible weight and suffocating. He could breath a little easier, his replies coming with minimal hitch – when he didn’t think about the now. She did admit her family kept up to date with Uncle Lance, which surprised him. Lance never let on he stayed in touch with the Peppers, though given his Uncle’s pokey (though prying) it was a little obvious.

 As the minutes ticked by, Arthur did become comfortable with a topic delving into how Vivi was keeping. He didn’t want to elaborate a whole lot, but he wanted to assure Mamma Pepper that in the least, the blue-headed investigator sleuth had asked about the family. He wasn’t sure where to go from there, but Mamma Pepper filled in the blanks. She offered cheerful accounts of how the girls were growing so fast, what grade they were in now, and the mischief. It was all good conversation, pleasant and cathartic about the little things. Mostly mundane, and some entertaining and exciting. And when Arthur talked about the hamster he adopted, and built prosthetic wheels for, Mamma Pepper even smiled.

 __

  It was a little after six and the sun was in full set, when Vivi biked her way up the sidewalk beside Kingsman Mechanics. With her trotted the Mystery, prancing like a gazelle and very undog-like, but who was paying attention? Staff hadn’t cleared out completely, though the garages had long been shuttered and locked; barring the entitled customer from trying to get a simple (two hour) fix done on their car at the last minute. Vivi coasted up the empty carport and set her bike beside one of the sign poles for reserved parking, and latched the chain. Then, went over to the entry door and knocked. While she waited, Mystery turned his nose down and gave the area a brief scout.

 “I know you can open the door, but I’m not keen on sneaking in.” As per usual, she wore one of the work backpacks, and in the side pocket sat a snug flashlight.

 To Mystery, “You can run off for a bit, if you need. I think we’ll be fine.” This time, she gave the doorbell a buzz.

 Mystery raised his head and gave Vivi one of his, “give me a break,” looks. He trotted back over.

 In due time a wobbly, hazy form swelled beyond the dim barrier of the door. The door unlatched and opened; Uncle Lance stood there, somewhat surprised. “Aye, hey Vivi. Mystery.” He nodded to the dog as he padded by, welcoming himself in without prompt. “Arthur expectin’ yu?”

 “Yeah,” she gasped. Upon entry, Uncle Lance secured the door behind them and pocketed the keys. “We’re a bit early… I had a few stops to make. Is he not in?” She fell in step behind Lance as he led the way, through the dark passage. Most the lights through the main workshop remained off, only the soft lamps offering radiance, enough to keep people from stumbling into each other or getting lost.

 “Naw, been out all day.” Lance rolled his shoulders and stretched up one arm, gripping at the socket. “I should replace both arms,” he muttered. When he lowered that arm, he checked his watch. He didn’t wear a watch. “Not too worried. Ceptin’, I don’t have a ride out of ‘ere.”

 Vivi couldn’t help but set a hand over her face and stifle the snicker. It was usually her or Arthur winding up stranded due to shared vehicles, if her bike was not available (though Arthur would first eat a healthbar than ride her bike). Now, it was Uncle Lance’s turn.

 “I’m so sorry about that.”

 Mystery yapped. It was a distant reply, given that he was now patrolling the work garage.

 “Can’t be helped. I’m just glad whatever nonsense yu get involved with, you came out safe.”

 Vivi grimaced and bit her lip. “Yes, very glad. It could’ve been bad.” Unbeknownst to Vivi, the flashlight flickered sporadically, until it sputtered and went out entirely. Crackling webs of fuchsia detached and dispersed off through the murky air.

 Lance swung away from heading toward the office and gestured. “Something up with that flashlight?”

 “Huh?” Vivi twisted herself in order to view the aforementioned electric torch. “Uhh?”

 “I seein’ you haul that there thing around.” He tugged on his beard, in thought. “Well, not lately…. You’re not planning on doin’ no spook snoopin with Arthur? Ya’ll are on break from that job-work, eh? A vacation, ain’t it called?” He fixed Vivi with a ferocious, accusing glare – the shadow around his eyes intensifying to the tenth power. “Ain’t it, girl?”

 Vivi sweated. How was it possible for someone so opposite of tall, to be so imposing. “N-no, Uncle. We… I swear….”

 “I pay Arthur to do one of two things.” Uncle Lance counted them off on his fingers. “Work. An’ Rest. Ya got that!”

 Vivi grabbed at her scarf. Oh sweet mother of gods, Lance looked set to unite with his rifle. “No! Absolutely NOT! Er, I… it needs to be looked over. I forgot to hand it over to Arthur, it was my fault! I was careless!” Lance’s features became more relaxed, and she risked a breathy exhale. Crisis averted.

 “Ah. Groovy.” He pivoted and began walking, saying over his shoulder, “Call me when he gets in. And if you need somethin’, there’s chicken wings in the fridge.”

 Vivi waved after him. “Kay! Thank you!” And then raced off, shooting into the corridor and charging up the stairs. Down the hall, the door to Arthur’s work room awaited ajar, and she barreled in.

 A flash of embers all but blinded her. The rose-tinted blaze faded out leaving a hard, burnt fragrance throughout the room. “Lewis! Again?” She wobbled aside when Mystery shoved his way in through the doorway. “How does this keep happening?!”

 “I thought you were Uncle Lance!” came the disembodied retort, somewhat crackly.

 Vivi shut the door and checked the corkboard with the pinned schematics. “Why didn’t you wait then?” None of them were burnt, which was good.

 “I got bored.” In a fuchsia surge of flames, Lewis shape reappeared. A skull and death suit, and then a fizzing surge of embers swirled about the skull and fitted the spirit with cheeks and a jaw, a living memory. “And… I kind of wanted to check the place out.”

 Vivi studied Lewis for a moment, but said nothing. That was fast, though he hadn’t shed the death suit yet. “Okay. I’ll send Art a text, let him know we’re here. Make sure we don’t surprise him.” She set the backpack on the couch and rummaged through it. Mystery hopped up onto the cushions and curled up, his eyes tracking Vivi’s work. Up until she pulled up the laptop and her phone. “Aw. No power.”

 She and Mystery turned their eyes to Lewis.

 The spirit glanced aside and tugged at his tie. “You did ask earlier, didn’t you?”

 Vivi pointed to her little phone. “There is a battery in here. It has only so much power.” Mystery growled and yipped.

 “Be thankful your apartment covers utility costs.”

 Vivi grumbled under her breath as she rooted around her backpack for the charger. “I forgot it. I know better.” Mystery bounced off the couch, within seconds he was back with Arthur’s charger clamped in his teeth. “Thank you. I probably have to hook up my laptop too.” She tsked, this was cumbersome and she knew better.

 “I’m sorry!” Lewis swiped off the embers crackling at his vest and shirt sleeves, the same way someone would straighten out wrinkles.

 “No you’re not,” Vivi snapped. “You shouldn’t be. It’s not your fault.” Thankfully, she never took the laptops charger out of the backpack; let alone disconnected it. She hooked it up to a surge bar and plopped down on the couch once more. Lewis sat down beside her.

 “Watcha lookin’ up?”

 “Emails. There better not be emails in my damn emails.” She went through the mail icon and sighed. “Of course, it’s from Duet.”

 “Joy o joys.”

 “A list of assets for review.” She closed out the email. “I’ll look at those later.” She pulled up a new tab, and began researching how to stop spirits from syphoning battery life on the Paranormal Corner site.

 “Maybe… I should go for a bit.” Lewis glided out of his seat, up until Vivi caught the tail end of his vest and hauled him back down. “Or not….”

 “Atta boy.”

[captainchocolatesstuff]

Dragon In The Anemone Garden

Dragon! Tamaki Amajiki x Reader

Anemone; Indicates fading hope and a feeling of having been forsaken. On a positive note, it symbolizes anticipation.

Purple anemone flowers symbolize protection from evil.

You were told at a young age to never approach a dragon’s home, for they were quite protective of them and the reason behind it was believed to be that their most sacred treasure was in the center of it. Anyone greedy enough to try and approach their homes with the intent to take what the dragon held most sacred was never heard of again, and there were many rumors of what the dragon could have stored in their homes. It ranged from piles of gold to a mountain of gems and the most famous rumor of all; was that the Dragons stored their heart within their homes, but no one could confirm these rumors. Rumors were, after all, exaggerations to what actually happened, but sometimes they could be the truth.

The warnings were embedded into you by both your parents and like any other parent they told stories about dragons stealing things and ravaging villages and castles, but instead of cowering away from these stories, you listened intently, more curious about these creatures rather than fearful. Sometimes whenever you went out to play with the other children you would look up at the sky and wonder if you’d ever get the chance to see the large creatures, many stories had described them in various ways, records of them ranging from having beautiful scales and elegant features that put nobles, kings, and queens to shame, to being large terrifying towering monsters with razor-sharp teeth that could slice through metals swiftly and having powerfully large claws that could hold much livestock.

But the most powerful weapons they had at their disposal was their power, many of them ranged from the normal fire breathing dragons to dragons that breathed toxic smoke, or glowing scales that enhanced their body’s limits. The most famous rumored dragon was the All-Mighty One, and while the dragon did help humans he also made it clear that not all dragons shared qualities like him, and it was for the best if humans stayed cautious of dragon kind.

You were a curious one, and it occasionally set you apart from the other children, but you count yourself lucky that there were others like you that had the same curiosity you did. And now that you’re a little older you were very grateful to have the friends you have now, still, you were a bit saddened that they had to move away as soon as their families found better land, but you knew that they’d go journey on their own once they were older. 

You were content with living with your family in the town, but you loved visiting your aunt more, she lived in a beautiful forest near the town and was occasionally rumored to be a witch. She’d always laugh it off since she was just a weaver with a frail body, her kindness, and jovial nature is what made her a wonderful person in your honest opinion, but what connected you two the most was the interest in dragons. You had a bookshelf full of literature about dragons because of her, and while your parents were wary of it at first they let you be after seeing a spark of genuine joy, they were concerned for you as a child but were relieved when your aunt got you your first book on dragons (and picked up the interest in weaving).

And right now you were on your way to visit your aunt, with a light bounce to your steps you smiled as you walked on the small patched dirt road, but the sound of a goat bleating made you stop in your tracks. From the sound it’s distressing call you jogged over to where the noise was coming from, once you arrived at the scene you saw a goat stuck under a branch that held its neck to the ground, a few other goats were around but then left as you made your way to the animal.

“Hey, buddy~ hey…”, you coo at the scared animal, hoping to comfort it as you carefully observed the branch to look for a way to free the goat. “Alright!”, you sigh as you set down your bag to lift the branch off it with some difficulty.

The goat wriggled around making it difficult for you to hold up the branch until you huffed and put your knee under the branch and carefully placed a hand on the goat’s head to shove it out from under the branch. The goat bleated as it stumbled backward from the branch before hopping away as you sighed before smiling, grabbing your bag from the ground you made your way to walk back to your aunt’s house, only to stumble when you felt a sharp tug on your skirt.

Frowning you cursed, “Seriously? Man~ mom is gonna kill me~”, you whine, already hearing your mom’s words coming to mind as you tug on your skirt, “Damn it~ Let go already~!”, you huffed as you pulled harder. You heard a tear as you fell back, but you didn’t land on the dirt, with a panicked gasp you realized that you were still falling, your scream lasted for a short minute before you grunted in pain as you began rolling down the hill? Cliff? You could hardly think about it until pain erupted in different places of your body.

The next thing you felt was arms catching you, stopping your fall as you heard a grunt that wasn’t your own, the stranger fell back with you in his arms as you gave out a weak whimper at the impact landing. Black spots decorated across your vision as you looked up at the sky in a daze, you heard rustling before a male came into your vision.

“H-hey! Are you okay!? Can you speak!?”, he asked, his movements were frantic as he set you down on the ground.

Your vision faded in and out, but you really wanted to say something to him before you slipped into unconsciousness, so when he reached for you, you reached out for his hand and intertwined your own fingers with his own, feeling him freeze as you did, “Th-... Thank… you”, you sigh out before closing your eyes.

When you woke up you came to with a slight throbbing pain in the back of your skull, a low groan escaped your lips as you blinked your eyes open, the sun looked to be set as you slowly sat up, wincing as you sat up. You rubbed the side of your face as you looked around yourself only to gape at the sight around you, in every direction was fields of purple anemone flowers.

Standing up you momentarily stubbled before getting your footing back as you stood in awe of the seemingly giant garden-like-field. Looking around, you saw a variety of garden-related structures; there were garden arched covered with the signature flower, a waterfall that pooled into a large pond that continued to flow downstream under a bridge, and on the other side of the bride was a homey cottage, in some areas there were rock paths.

Lost in your own thoughts you nearly jolted when you heard a voice call to you, “Um, Mis…”

Turning around you saw the stranger again, the same stranger that caught you, “You…”, you whispered as he stood there, he looked uncomfortable as he looked to the side.

He suddenly turned away from making you, making you jolt as you watched in concern, “I’m so sorry! Ishouldn’tofdoneanythingwithoutMirioIshould’veaskedhimforhelp!”, he speaks rapidly as you blink before giggling, catching him off guard as he looks over his shoulder at you while your giggling turns into joyous laughter.

“Haha! I’m sorry but your- ramblings- they- they are- heh”, you stifle your laughter before smiling at the stranger, “They were cute~ I’m sorry about laughing but I couldn’t help it”, you sigh.

You smiled as you introduced yourself, “I’m (Y/n), (Y/n) (L/n), and you are?”

The stranger gripped his hood before peeking at you from under it, “Tamaki, Tamaki Amajiki, Dragon of this Anemone Garden you stand in”.

Your eyes widened at the revelation as you spun around taking in the field of endless anemone flowers, “Dragon of…! Incredible a real dragon! Wow! And your garden, it’s so!!! Woah!!!”, you have a wide smile on your face as you turned back and raced to Amajiki making the poor drake jolt as you took his hands in your own, face close to his own.

“This is incredible, I’ve always wanted to meet a dragon! Who knew there was one near my home! Gosh, it’s an honor Amajiki!!!”, you chips as the now humanoid drake stumbled on his words trying to speak.

“I-I-I…..”, his hood shadowed his face as he pulled away from you, leaving you confused until you made a startled noise when he dashed away, “I’m sorry but I’m not a great dragon! I’m going home!”

“H-hey! Wait Amajiki! I have so many questions I want to ask! Amajikiiii-!!!”

~~~

That was your first time you met the introverted dragon, and it took you by surprise considering all the stories you’ve been told about dragons, but you accepted his different qualities, and even got a chance to meet a friend of his when you were visiting one time to visit the dragon. Mirio Togata, Dragon of the Amber Mine, also known as The Lemillion by your kind. Apparently Tamaki had one too, The Suneater, and the reason why your town never spoke of him was because he discreetly moved territories. 

As time passed you always managed to pop yourself into Tamaki’s life to the point where he almost reluctantly (but admittedly a bit happily) decided that you could be his friend, Mirio was excited about that.

“So, your Suneater title was given to you by humans and the anemone garden is something you’re known by by other dragons? I’m a bit confused”, you saw as you lay on his scaled back.

“Well, you see, often times dragons produce excess mana that come from our scales, it was said that ancient dragons interacted with earth’s flora and minerals so often that their scales were ‘blessed’ by certain species of flora and minerals, as a result our scales could produce mana kin with aspects of earth’s flora or minerals, specifically the flowers and gemstones since they could often be used as a source of mana by many beings”, he explained as he finished eating his meal, “but each dragon produces a different kind of mana, take me and Mirio for example, my scales produce a lot of mana that is kin Anemone flowers which is why my home is mostly made up of them, while Mirio can produce a lot of Amber stones in his area”

A purr like rumble came from his chest as he looked at you, “Dragons know each other by the mana our scales leave, whether it be stone or flower, it’s also how we mark our territories”

“Ah~ I see now! That’s so cool! No wonder your home is filled with so many purple anemones! It really suits you Tamaki”, you smile up at him as you slide off his back.

Picking one of the flowers you turned to Tamaki as he tilted his head at you, “You know humans have developed a language for flowers and stones and gave meaning to what they symbolize…”, you say as Tamaki leaned down to you.

“Language? Symbolism?”, he asked.

You nod as you raise the flower, “If I recall correctly a friend of mine once said purple anemones could mean fading hope and being abandoned…”, Tamaki sulked as he planted his face on the ground.

“I knew I wasn’t that good of a dragon… but for others to guess it too makes it more harsh”, he pouts, you chuckle as you walk up to Tamaki’s snout and stroke one of his whiskers.

“I wasn’t finished Tamaki…”, you smile as he looked at you while you looked at the flower and brought it close to your face, “Purple Anemones can also mean anticipation and symbolize protection from evil”.

Cutting off the flower stem you then placed it in your hair as you looked up at Amajiki with a smile, “I like to think that it’s the latter you symbolize”, you cheekily grin as Tamaki looked away before transforming into his humanoid form.

Covering his eyes with his hood he walked with you to escort you out of his domain while you both talked about many things, from how your family was to how Mirio was doing and other little subjects like how you were going to be busy with the orders your aunt and how you’d assist her in weaving while Tamaki talked out how scarce some animals were getting due to the change of weather. You invited him to come over with you to your aunt’s home or your own if he ever felt hungry but he refused politely, and eventually you left and waved goodbye to Tamaki, he returned the gesture and watched as you left being sure to keep an eye on you until you were far enough.

Picking up one of the anemone flowers near his feet he crushed it with one hand before bringing it near his lips, parting his lips he gently blew into the crushed flower. Briefly closing his hand into a fist he then slowly opened his fist to reveal a chirping swallow* bird, it ruffled its feathers before looking up at the dragon, as if asking what to do now.

“Make sure she stays safe okay?”, he tells the bird before letting it fly off to follow after you, Tamaki sighed as he watched it fly in the sky before it’s silhouette faded.

As he trudged back to his home his nose smelled the familiar scent of his friend before he heard the dragon land, Mirio’s voice boomed as he greeted his friend, “Hey Tamaki! How’s it going with your human friend!”

Tamaki nearly blushed but he did stutter out an answer as he hid his face in his hood, “F-f-fine! It went fine!”.

Mirio observed his friend before smiling as he came up behind him and wrapped his arm around Tamaki’s shoulder, bringing him into a side hug, “Did you ask her to be your special other already!? How’d it go!? Did you already tell Nijire!?”.

Tamaki’s face reddened at his friends bombarding questions, but he eventually tried to make himself sepak as he looked down to the side, Mirio stopped talking as he looked at his friend, sensing his glum aura, “N-no… We just talked as usual….” Tamaki sighed before a whine escaped his throat as he faced the wall of his house as soon as the both reached it.

“I’m pathetic aren't I? I’m so hopeless”, Tamaki’s glooming aura concerned his friend as Mirio went to pat his back.

“Hey don’t say that~ I’m sure there will be another chance for you to say how you feel about her, don’t sell yourself so short, besides I’m sure there are things you can do other than telling her with words”, Mirio pointed out.

“Telling her... without words?”, Tamaki questioned.

“Yep! But I’m not sure how to do it~ Humans are different from dragons after all and from what I hear their courting rituals are a bit more complex than ours”, Mirio informed as he rubbed his chin.

Tamaki softly bit his lip as he thought about it, “Telling her without words…” 

~~~

“Tamaki! I-I- We-ll… Hm~ This is actually a pleasant surprise”, you hum with a gentle smile as Tamaki stood in front of your home, sheepishly looking at the ground before turning around in a haste.

“I-I’m sorry! This was a bad time. I shouldn’t have come without telling you beforehand!”, he fretted, before he could step out of your reach you caught him by his wrist.

“No, no, no! It’s fine really! I just thought- um- I thought you’d be patrolling your area today is all”, you timidly admit, feeling your cheeks warm as you scratched your cheek.

Tamaki turned back to look at you before relaxing, giving you half a smile as you let go of him when he turned to face you, “Well- Mirio has always been telling me that I should take a break every now and then”.

“I understand it is better to be safe than sorry, but always remember to take a breather, it wouldn’t kill you to have a little time to yourself, Right?”, you chuckle. 

Tamaki blinked at you before nodding his head, a small smile on his face, “R-right”.

You both walked on the streets of your town, with Tamaki assisting you in getting some fruits and veggies that were in the basket, but he mainly handled the larger slabs of meat with little struggle. You did notice a few girls ogle at him and gave a estranged smile to Tamaki when he asked what was wrong, you decided not to tell him as you looped an arm with his empty arm.

“Hey Tamaki, do you usually stay in your dragon form during winter times?”, you ask.

“I do, in my dragon form I am able to withstand colder temperatures rather when I am in my human form, it’s preferable that way, why do you ask?”, he looks down at you as you both walk back to your home.

“Well, would you mind if you walked me back to my aunt's home? I have something there waiting for you”, you sheepishly explain.

Tamaki shook his head, “I don’t mind at all”. 

While you dropped off the food in your home Tamaki took the chance to dig around his cape and pull out the bouquet of anemones he made you, specifically the ones that grew near his heart sphere, and within the bouquet of purple anemones was a scale of his that he plucked out. Just looking at it made Tamaki fidget at his spot as his cheeks tinted red, but when he heard your door open he stored the bouquet back in it’s place.

Walking up to him you asked, “Ready to go?”.

Tamaki gave you a small smile, “Ready”.

Walking on the trail to your aunt’s home you talked with Tamaki on a recent book you got and finished within a span of a week, “I found the book in the corner of the book store, Edwin let me have it for free since I was a common visitor, I only started reading it just a few weeks ago and it was a very amazing story I enjoyed it- Ah~ I don’t think I mentioned the title yet-” You sheepishly laugh as you scratched your cheek.

“It’s called Love Beneath the Scales, from what I’ve read it’s an old book”, you reveal, making Tamaki perk up.

“Love Beneath the Scales you say?”, Tamaki asked, making you nod as you look over at him.

“Yeah… have you read it already?”, you ask.

“No, but… It sounds like a sister story to “Adoration In the Flesh”, it’s a story shared among dragons through oral traditions, it has a human and a dragon share a journey together and at the end of their journey they realize that their feelings towards one another are more than platonic”, He explains.

“How… coincidental, it was the same theme in that book too”, you reveal.

You both looked at one another and momentarily stared at each other before a red hue covered both of your cheeks, you both looked away from one another in haste.

“Sorry! I stared to long (Y/n)/ Tamaki!”, you both exclaim, you both looked at each other again, still red faced until you both saw your aunt's home come into view.

“Ah~ We’re here…”, you trail off before giving Tamaki a smile, “Wait right here for a moment okay?”.

Tamaki nodded as he watched you enter the small yet comfy house, pulling out the bouquet Tamaki looked them over before hiding it in his coat again, he gulped as his hands shook tentatively, anxiety sinking into his form before he looked up, “Without words…”

Tamaki’s head snapped towards you, you hid something behind your back as you bounded up to him with a grin on your face before standing before him, “Since winter was coming I decided to make you something so you could stay warm….”, you reveal as you bring out a blanket.

Unfolding it before him, Tamaki gaped at the design on it, it had many gold and white designs surrounding a dragon, specifically his dragon appearance, that was curled around a patched of purple anemone flowers. 

“I wanted to make it as big as your dragon form, but that would’ve wasted a lot of my aunt's supplies, so I decided to make it for your human form”, you smile as Tamaki tentatively touches the blanket before grasping in his hold.

He teared up as he looked at him before blinking away those tears and smiling at you, then perked up as he laid the blanket on his back, you looked at him questionably with his sudden shift in mood until he pulled out a bouquet and slowly offered it to you.

You stared at it before tentatively taking it, looking up at Tamaki you give him a confused look, “Tamaki…?”

He looked down as you studied the bouquet closer, and gaped when you saw a scale within it, and if you recalled correctly…

“I love you too Tamaki!!”, you chirp as you pounce him, Tamaki yelped as he caught you before falling on his bottom, you were about to apologize but loud purrs rumbled from his chest as he nuzzled his face into your own, you felt stray tears fall on your skin as he purred loudly.

“I- I love you… I promise I’ll always love you!”, Tamaki hiccuped as you smiled jovally as he peppered your face in many kisses.

...when the dragon gave their human a healthy scale, it was a declaration of their love.

[fics-of-my-mind]

Trust - Chapter VIII.

‘Why are you out here? It’s freezing,’ Nick said, burying his hand into his pockets.

‘Couldn’t sleep,’ I shrugged.

‘Why?’ he asked, sounding concerned.

I turned my face towards him, hoping that he’d just do his thing and I didn’t have to explain myself with words. Nick was looking at me softly, yet he was waiting for a real answer.

‘I can’t… Think inside,’ I started, turning back towards the view to the harbor. It was easier than looking at him, though I could feel his gaze on me, just like his body almost touching mine. ‘You’re everywhere,’ I whispered. ‘I just feel like I can’t breathe because being here with you is making me crazy and… so guilty.’

I could feel Nick looking at me for a long moment before running a hand though the back of his hair and chuckling in agony.

‘It’s funny,’ he said after a while, which made me turn towards him. I didn’t find anything funny in our screwed-up situation. ‘Being here with you is actually the only thing that let me take a deep breath for months.’

Warnings: mature content, BDSM content Pairing: Nick Jonas / Other Female Character This fanfiction can also be found on Wattpad by fnntth

I don’t own Nick Jonas or any other recognizable characters. This fanfiction is completely fictional, its only purpose is entertainment.

Chapter VIII. - A promise that never was kept, one of those moments you'll never forget

Nick’s texts are bold

Milla’s texts are italic

When in the beginning of May they started to lift the restrictions, Nick acted instantly.

I’ll be in Stockholm next weekend

meet me

Are you serious?

I couldn’t believe him. I wasn’t even sure if it was possible to travel from my country or his country. Stockholm, Sweden. I’ve heard that they were taking the virus quite lightly there, so I guess Nick did his homework.

yes.

I don’t know…

I wasn’t exactly feeling comfortable already traveling. Not that I was scared of the virus anymore, but they just loosened the restrictions.

And, seriously. Nick wanted to meet me. Nick Jonas. Now that the quarantine seemed to be over for a while, he somehow regained his persona as the world-known popstar, actor, celebrity. Besides, he had a wife.

please

I need to see you

I hit the call button beside his name. We needed to talk about this.

‘This is just crazy, Nick,’ I said instantly as he accepted the call. I didn’t care if he was at a comfortable place to talk, or if he’s had people around him, but I didn’t give a shit. He couldn’t just ask me something like this with no further conversation.

‘No, it’s not,’ he said without thinking. ‘I’m officially going to see some songwriter friends for some collabs.’

‘And won’t it be suspicious if you have no new songs?’

‘No. These writing trips don’t necessarily equal new songs. They are just a good way to be creative, and sometimes great things come out of them,’ he explained.

‘And you want to spend the weekend with me?’ I asked, biting my lip.

‘Yes,’ Nick replied, sounding sure of himself, like he had absolutely no doubts about this idea. ‘Please say that you’ll come.’

I stayed quiet for a while, thinking about our options. I desperately wanted to see Nick. But…

‘If I come,’ I started slowly, trying to put my concerns into words. ‘It will officially make me a home-wrecker.’

Nick contemplated my words before answering.

‘I won’t let that happen,’ he said, sounding sure and committed. ‘I respect you way too much to put you into that situation.’ I can’t describe how much that statement warmed my heart.

‘C’mon, Nick, I’m pretty sure that I’m already the other woman in your marriage,’ I chuckled bitterly. ‘You, me and a weekend in Stockholm won’t exactly help.’

‘I’ve never touched you,’ Nick said, sounding a little bit less sure now. ‘You can’t be the other woman if nothing physical has ever happened between us.’ It was bullshit and we both knew it. Yet, I’ve stayed quiet, listening to his words. He paused, waiting to see if I was going to interrupt him, then continued: ‘I’ll make sure nothing happens in Stockholm either, if you come.’

‘You won’t touch me?’ I asked, half-chuckling. It was impossible to imagine the two of us being in the same room and not touching each other, especially after the night of FaceTime sex.

‘No,’ he said slowly. ‘I promise.’

Maybe it was only because I’ve missed him so much, or because I just wanted to see him. Or perhaps because I was a little crazy. Anyway, ten minutes later I had a plane ticket booked to Stockholm for next Friday.

The week went by sluggishly slowly. I was looking forward of the trip, yet scared shitless of what was going to happen. I was excited and anxious, didn’t know what to expect. I was doubting the decision to buy the plane ticket, not sure that it was the right thing to do in my situation.

It’s not like I could talk to anyone about it. None of my friends knew about what was going on, they had no idea that I was talking to Nick in the first place. I didn’t tell anyone that I was going to be out of the country either, I just told my boss that I need a day of holiday, turning my weekend into a long weekend.

I could feel that Nick was nervous too. He seemed worried that I was going to change my mind, he checked every day – sometimes twice – if we were really going to see each other on Friday. He also kept an eye on the corona situation, briefing me every time about the slight changes.

On Friday morning, I woke up at 5. My plane was leaving at 12 o’clock my time, so I only had to be at the airport by ten, yet I couldn’t sleep. I triple checked if I’ve packed everything, I took my dog to the neighbor for her to look after him, and by the time the clock hit 8:45, I was calling a cab. Normally I didn’t mind spending time at the airport, but I was a little worried about how the COVID situation might change things.

It was all fine, only barely any people were in the waiting terminal of the airport. I looked around in the duty free stores, bought a coffee and a sandwich and by the time boarding started, I was antsy and could barely sit in one place. I surprised even myself, but not once did I think about not boarding the plane and cancelling the whole trip. Nick was worth it, every risk and every worry.

We agreed to only meet up at the hotel Nick has booked for us. He wanted to pick me up at the airport, but I said it was way too risky. We should avoid any risk at being exposed – not that I believed that anyone would care about a nobody like me, but he was Nick Jonas. What he did, mattered to people, they were interested. I had no idea how crazy the fans in Sweden were, but we shouldn’t risk anything.

By the time I was waiting for my luggage at Stockholm Arlanda Airport – by the way, it was my first time in the country -, my stomach was in knots and I felt like I was going to throw up in a minute. I wanted to see Nick so much that it hurt – at the same time I was extremely anxious about this meeting. What if he didn’t like me in person anymore? What if it was all going to be awkward? What if he won’t show up, because he realized he wasn’t interested in me after all?

In the taxi it got even worse. I felt like the driver knew that I was on my way to completely break up a happy marriage. That I was a whore, that I was a homewrecker, the other woman, someone who didn’t give a shit about the sacred institution of marriage. I tried concentrating on the beautiful city around me, but I couldn’t. I was thorn between wanting to do the right thing and wanting to see Nick.

When I arrived at the hotel, the minute I gave the fake name Nick has booked the hotel room to the receptionist, I could feel the judgement coming from her. What kind of woman would be someone that was meeting up with a man in a hotel room? Especially in an exquisite five-star hotel room.

On the way up to the top floor, in the elevator I felt like I needed to scream. I bit my lip so hard, I’m sure the marks of my teeth were deep enough to see, I had my hand in fists and as much as I wanted to appreciate everything around me, as beautiful as they were, I couldn’t. The only things I could concentrate on were Nick and the guilt of being someone that destroys a marriage in a few minutes.

Because, you see, until we only went on a random late-night sightseeing trip and talked on the phone, we weren’t technically doing anything wrong, nothing that I’d even consider worthy of destroying a marriage. What we did was pure fantasizing and talking about our problems, our thoughts. But now, I was only a few steps away from physically entering a hotel room with a man that had a wife back in the US. This was the definition of cheating. Even if we didn’t touch each other during this weekend at all – which I couldn’t really imagine as much as I wanted -, we were a married man and a single woman in a hotel room, in a country where neither of us should’ve been, with no one knowing about our plans to see each other.

It was all wrong. Yet my guilt about being a home-wrecker was nowhere near as big as my desire – need – to see Nick, the boy whose company has gotten me through these past two months, the loneliest time of my life. The boy, whose voice could instantly calm my nerves, who could take my mind off anything, and whom I cared about much more than I ever thought I would care about any man.

Before I touched the keycard to the lock of the door 912, I needed to take some deep breaths. I could do this, couldn’t I? I was able to go in and spend time with Nick, my friend, without doing anything really stupid. I was a smart girt and he was always in control of his actions. We could do this, keep ourselves from committing adultery and just spend some quality time together.

The moment I set foot in the hotel room, I literally forgot how to breath. Nick was standing in front of the huge windows, so I could only see his back. He was wearing a white dress shirt and some black washed jeans, his hair looked a bit unruly, probably a result of running his hands through it so many times. As he heard the door open and close behind me, he immediately turned around, his handsome face full of worry and anticipation. When our gazes connected, it seemed like he was sharing my symptoms of acute respiratory failure.

It all dawned on me at once. All of the feelings, all of the fears and desires and dreams. It was too much, for a person to be feeling all of this at the same time. Sadness, happiness, need, fear, anxiety, longing, guilt, excitement… and many more things that I couldn’t even describe.

I could feel the tears well up in my eyes and I couldn’t decide if they were tears of sadness, happiness or simply just stress. It was like the world stopped for as long as we were staring at each other, not being able to say a word. I never thought something like this was possible, just forgetting how to function because of another person.

I wanted to run into his arms and hug him so close to me, probably never let him go. To kiss him deeply, to touch him, explore his skin in person, to be intimate with him, to show him how much I care. I wanted him to comfort me, to make me forget everything that was happening in the world, to calm me, to be the only thing on my mind. But it wasn’t possible, was it? I couldn’t touch him like I wanted to, I couldn’t be with him in the way I needed to.

And this broke my heart.

‘I… I can’t do this,’ I whispered as a teardrop rolled down on my face. I couldn’t torture myself with spending time with him, when he’d never be mine the way I really wanted him. I couldn’t hold myself back from touching him. I just couldn’t. Two days in this room, with distance between us seemed like a nightmare.

I shook my head and with one last glance at Nick, I turned around. I shouldn’t have come here. It was a mistake.

‘Milla,’ I heard his voice and the sound of his steps, and the moment I slightly opened the door, he pushed it back, closing it. I tensed, feeling him stand way too closely behind my back. I could feel heat radiating off his body. I was holding onto my suitcase with one hand, the other was still on the doorknob. I couldn’t move, Nick completely paralyzed me. ‘Stay,’ he whispered, his lips touching the back of my head.

I sighed, slightly tilting my head backwards. As much as my mind knew that I needed to leave, that I couldn’t do this, my body betrayed me. It wanted to be as close to Nick as possible, touch him in any single way.

Nick was perhaps feeling something similar, since this little movement was enough for him to let the door go and place both of his hands on my waist, turning me around carefully and pulling me to him, as close to his body as physically possible.

I gave up, my body won this fight.

My hand let go of my suitcase and found Nick’s neck as I buried myself into his arms, as close as I could. I let his muscular arms wrap around me, feeling small in his arms. I let his fingertips press into my sides, as he was pulling me even closer. I let him bury his face in my hair, pressing a tender kiss to my temple. I let his unique scent fill up my lungs.

I only realized I was sobbing into his chest when he started shushing me and carefully running his hand up and down on my back. I guess it was all of the stress and all of the emotions together to make me react like this. I wanted to pull away, a little bit embarrassed of myself but Nick wouldn’t let me.

‘Shhh,’ I heard his deep voice full of emotions. ‘It’s okay, dear.’

‘Nothing about this is okay,’ I mumbled into his chest, but didn’t try to pull away again.

I felt home. Suddenly all of the last two months’ loneliness was gone. I felt safe and content, like nothing in the outside word mattered, only the fact that I was in the arms of the man I probably trusted most in my life. And while it was a nice feeling, the guilt of it was also eating me up. He wasn’t mine, his job wasn’t to make me feel safe. He had a wife at home, a wife that had no idea what her husband was currently doing, that he was in a hotel room countries away with another woman.

‘I thought you promised you weren’t going to touch me at all,’ I noted long-long minutes later, after my tears stopped and I was able to normally breathe again. Nick let me pull away a bit, but still had his hands on my waist. He was close, probably way too close. His eyes were dark and glistering with countless emotions, yet his face stayed expressionless.

‘I’m not going to touch you in any way I wouldn’t touch a fan or a friend,’ he nodded, his voice a bit hoarse.

‘Like that is going to do the trick,’ I said sarcastically, chuckling bitterly. Just because he wasn’t going to kiss me or we weren’t going to have sex, it didn’t mean that we should’ve let the guilt go.

‘Don’t be like that,’ he asked softly, and I could see on this pretty face that he really was asking, not ordering this time. This version of him, this caring and cautious boy in front of me melted my heart a little bit. His fingers were slowly caressing my waist before he let go of me completely, and I immediately started missing the warmth. ‘The suite has two bedrooms, I’m going to put your suitcase into one,’ he announced, and before I could even nod, he was pulling my luggage from behind me, before I could change my mind and try to leave again.

After fixing my makeup and freshening my face up in the bathroom, I walked back out to the spacious living area of the suite, exploring a bit. It looked amazing, with a great view to the harbor. This must’ve cost a fortune to Nick and I felt a little bit guilty for letting him pay. I did offer him that we should stay in different hotels, but he shot the idea down instantly. He said, he wanted us to spend as much time together as possible, so he opted for the best solution, us staying in the same hotel room. Before I could put up a fight, he’s already paid for this suite.

I mindlessly ran my fingers on Nick’s black Dolce jacket, just thrown on the back of the couch, then shushed my guilt about the money thing away. He was Nick Jonas, this was spare change for him. Besides, he was the one inviting me out here, so I shouldn’t make this into a big deal, it was fine.

I walked out to the balcony, leaning onto the railing as I took in the view in front of me. Never once would I have thought that my first time in Stockholm would be a secret trip with Nick Jonas. It was kind of ridiculous, even crazy what can happen in life in a few weeks.

‘Do you want some wine?’ Nick asked, returning to the living area after having changed his dress shirt to a plain black tee.

‘Sure,’ I nodded, taking a seat on the comfy looking couch outside. I was in my leather jacket and jeans from the plane, but since it wasn’t too warm outside, I didn’t mind the extra layer of clothing on me.

‘Here.’ He handed me a glass of white wine, and after sat down on the other end of the couch. I thanked him, grateful for something that would relieve some of the tension about the situation.

I couldn’t turn my glance away from Nick. He looked so handsome, and at the same time so normal. It was strange, seeing him like this, like it was just an average day. I’ve only seen him in interviews before, or through the screen of my phone, and this was different. So mundane, so ordinary.

He never looked away from me either, his eyes remained mainly fixated on my face. I didn’t care that he knew I was staring at him, as I didn’t care that he was staring too. We’ve spent months of talking to each other, he knew me, my thoughts, my fears better than anyone else in my life, yet we’ve spent so little time actually being in the same place or just seeing each other.

Never did I believe that you can get close to someone who you’ve barely even met in person before. It was just another strange thing in life, the fact that we did get close to one another without physically being anywhere near.

‘What?’ I asked with a bashful smile on my face when he started chuckling softly.

‘I’m just so happy that you’re here,’ Nick said, and he really seemed that. He was so relaxed, much more than I’ve ever seen him before, and his aura relaxed me too. I was happy too. Guilty, but happy. It was a strange thing, to be feeling something so positive and so negative at the same time.

‘This is so surreal,’ I chuckled, taking a sip of my wine.

‘Yeah,’ he nodded. ‘It is also kind of amazing.’

‘Yes, it is.’

We’ve spent the afternoon mindlessly talking about anything and everything. It was such a change, actually seeing his face when he spoke, seeing his reaction to my words. I’ve known him for months now, yet it was like we’ve just met. Exploring each other’s mimic, hearing each other’s voice for hours… it was all new.

About half an hour into our conversation I’ve almost completely let go of any negative feelings in me about this trip. This was so worth it, I was probably happier than ever since Barcelona. Seeing Nick, being with Nick… Made me so happy that I couldn’t even begin to describe.

The stupid, beaming smile never left my face, and I couldn’t really concentrate on anything other than Nick, his moves, his body, his face. He wasn’t close to me, he remained on his spot on the outside couch and I stayed in mine. His face mirrored my expression, he also seemed unusually happy and calm. I loved seeing him like this. It wasn’t Nick Jonas in the suite with me, it was just Nick, the boy I’ve gotten so close to in the past months. He was just a normal guy, not a world phenomenon.

For dinner we’ve ordered some room service: mini hamburgers, fries, nachos and some fruits. Until it arrived, I went into the room Nick has put my bag into to change into something more comfortable, sweatpants and a white T-shirt. When I walked back out, Nick was checking his sugar at the dining room table.

‘Tell me about it,’ I asked.

‘The diabetes?’ he asked, glancing my way from the table as he was waiting for the result.

‘Yeah,’ I nodded. ‘I know you can manage it and it doesn’t hold you back from living your life to the fullest.’

‘Well, it was a process,’ Nick said. ‘At the beginning it was scary, but as I got into the routine, it became part of my everyday life. Now checking my blood sugar isn’t really a task, but just part of my days,’ he shrugged.

‘You have an insulin pump, right?’ I asked.

‘It’s called a Dexcom,’ he nodded and lightly raised the bottom of his T-shirt to show me the white device attached to his belly, close to his V-lines. ‘It does most of the work, but I still have to check if everything is all right.’

‘And what if it doesn’t?’ I asked, biting my lip. ‘I mean, I just want to know what I need to do if you aren’t feeling well. Teach me,’ I asked.

I’ve never dealt with type-1 diabetes in my life, so up until now I didn’t need to know the details. Talking to Nick through the phone didn’t make it necessary either to me to be educated on the dos and don’ts of his condition. But being here with him, especially with no one else around, I just didn’t feel quite comfortable not knowing what I need to do in an emergency. It was important and it wasn’t just something I wanted to ignore. It was part of Nick, an important and dangerous part.

He looked at me in awe for a long minute, and I had no idea what I’ve said. It was like he was surprised yet touched from my questions and request.

‘Thank you,’ he said quietly, sounding much more grateful than the situation would’ve requested him to be. ‘Come here.’ Nick reached out and I walked beside him. ‘See this little screen?’ he asked and I nodded, looking at the little device in his hand. ‘This shows how my glucose levels were changing through the day. The red dots mark the times I’ve measured my blood sugar with a finger prick. This little device usually keeps my blood sugar in check, but sometimes it can’t, that’s why I can’t neglect the finger pricking.’

‘And what if the device has a failure, or it just doesn’t work and there is a problem with your sugar?’ I asked.

‘If the traditional blood sugar measuring device says that I’m too low, I usually need to eat something. I always have snacks on me, like candy bars. If I’m high, I need insulin. You can find that in the inside pocket of my jacket, or my bag,’ he explained, motioning to the Dolce jacket on the couch.

‘And if you just suddenly start feeling sick and we don’t have time to measure your blood sugar?’ I asked. ‘How do I know if you’re high or low?’

‘Difference of symptoms.’ This was a side of Nick that the outside world barely seen anything of. Of course, everybody knew that he was diabetic, sometimes he even talked about it in interviews, but never this deep. He was a professional in this topic, he had to be. ‘High blood sugar comes with nausea and blurred vision most of the times, or extreme drowsiness. Low blood sugar is accompanied by shaking, fast heartbeat, sweating, dizziness and weakness.’

‘Okay,’ I nodded, making a mental note of these symptoms. They were essential for me to know.

Dinner was light and easy. Talking to Nick was like talking to my best friend. I didn’t have to think twice about what I was going to say, and after all the times I’ve been embarrassed in front of him, it seemed like now I was over it. I trusted him, and he must’ve trusted me too, since he was sharing very confidential information. Hell, the fact that we were in this hotel room was very confidential itself.

Seeing him so mundane, so normal, really just a guy changed it for me. I mean, the past months since we’ve known each other, I got to know him as just Nick, the amazing guy, but I never forgot that he was Nick Jonas, my teenage idol. Now, spending a whole day with him, being in the same place as him, most moments I managed to forget his last name and I only saw the most amazing person in him.

I felt happier than I’ve felt for a while, and it was all thanks to the curly haired boy with me. We joked around, flirted and talked, but he never once said anything inappropriate, and he also kept to his promise of not touching me. At all. Truth is, it was making me a little bit crazy, being in the same hotel room with him, yet not being able to touch. Nothing disturbed out peace, not even a phone call from his wife – which is probably due to Nick being on a ‘songwriting retreat’.

It was dangerous and exciting and painful and sweet. Sometimes during the evening when we walked by each other and our skin would accidentally touch, I could instantly feel shivers running down my spine. Nick usually just smirked, clearly noticing his effect on me, which was quite ridiculous. It was fun and crazy at the same time, his stupid effect on me.

The real problems started when bedtime came. Neither of us really wanted to sleep, we were keen on enjoying each other’s company as long as we could. It was one in the morning when we said our goodbyes, Nick breaking his promise a little and giving me a kiss on my forehead. A small gesture that made my heart go faster and made me long for him even more. It was extremely hard to turn around and walk into my room without glancing back, yet it was right. Sleep never came, though.

After an hour of trying to fall asleep unsuccessfully, I gave up. My mind was full of Nick – like always -, but now my nose was full of his scent, my fingers were trembling with the need to touch his skin, to explore it, get familiar with it. I was missing the warmth radiating off of his body, his pretty face, his pink lips smirking.

It was crazy, he was literally in the room next to me, yet I was still missing him. I wasn’t stupid, I knew what this was. My body and mind were both longing for him and it caused physical pain that they knew I couldn’t have him, not the way I wanted.

He was married.

He was Nick Jonas.

He was unavailable, at least for me.

At two in the morning I got out of my bed only in my satin PJs, and exited to the balcony, but not before grabbing the box of cigarettes from my bag, a little accessory that I’ve brought with me just in case. I was tense and pretty sure that I’d have trouble falling asleep anyway. Maybe nicotine could calm me, at least enough to fall asleep without jumping Nick first.

It was a bit chilly, just the beginning of May, plus in a northern country, so I shouldn’t have been surprised. It felt great, like I could finally breathe a little, like Nick’s intoxicating signature musk finally left my nostrils, at least for a few minutes. As I inhaled, the smoke filled up my lungs and as much as I usually hated it, now it felt like medicine to the dying.

‘That’s a quite nasty habit.’ His voice startled me a bit, his scent filling up my nose again straightaway. I sighed.

‘It’s not really a habit,’ I shrugged. I only smoked occasionally and he knew it. ‘Not like smoking cigars is any better.’

‘Yeah,’ he chuckled, standing next to me. He was wearing some loose sweatpants and a white T-shirt, his hair was messier than an hour earlier. ‘These nasty habits have brought us together though,’ he noted.

‘They did,’ I nodded, thinking back on how crazy these past months have been, how much I’ve gained with Nick in my life, and how much closer I’ve gotten to him.

‘Why are you out here? It’s freezing,’ Nick said, burying his hand into his pockets.

‘Couldn’t sleep,’ I shrugged.

‘Why?’ he asked, sounding concerned.

I turned my face towards him, hoping that he’d just do his thing and I didn’t have to explain myself with words. Nick was looking at me softly, yet he was waiting for a real answer.

‘I can’t… Think inside,’ I started, turning back towards the view to the harbor. It was easier than looking at him, though I could feel his gaze on me, just like his body almost touching mine. ‘You’re everywhere,’ I whispered. ‘I just feel like I can’t breathe because being here with you is making me crazy and… so guilty.’

I could feel Nick looking at me for a long moment before running a hand though the back of his hair and chuckling in agony.

‘It’s funny,’ he said after a while, which made me turn towards him. I didn’t find anything funny in our screwed-up situation. ‘Being here with you is actually the only thing that let me take a deep breath for months.’

We looked deeply into each other’s eyes for long minutes in the moonlight. Nick looked more vulnerable than I’ve ever seen him before, and also a bit helpless and brutally honest. This confession of his made my heart melt, but also hurt me, making me sharply inhale the cold Stockholm air.

All I wanted to do was close the distance between us and finally, after these long months just kiss him and forget anything else. Comfort him and myself at the same time. I didn’t want to care about the outside world.

But I did. I was just that person, who couldn’t let her concerns and fears go.

‘Don’t say that,’ I asked quietly, before breaking our connection and turning back towards the view, putting out my cigarette. ‘You’re the married one. You have a significant other. You can’t just say things like this to me.’

‘Do you think I want to?’ he chuckled dryly. I glanced at his face from the corner of my eye, only to see an incredulous and pained expression on it. I hated seeing him like this. ‘Don’t you think I know that this is wrong? That I want to want to be with my wife? Want to think about her all the time, daydream about kissing her, fucking her, loving her?’

I knew he wasn’t expecting and answer so I stayed quiet. Nick’s voice started rising, he seemed a bit angry now.

‘But I can’t!’ he exclaimed. ‘Any time I picture any of those things, my amazing, caring, loving, beautiful wife isn’t the one in my head, as soon as I close my eyes, it’s you, you, you! And I just can’t help it. Don’t you think it’s making me crazy too?’ he asked, not waiting for an answer again. His expression was tense, he gesticulated fervently. I couldn’t move, I was so shocked from this sudden emotional outburst. This talk was timely to happen, yet I didn’t expect it to be so… sudden and intense. ‘I thought I was happy with my marriage, my wife, perfectly content with my life. But the moment I met you… You were like fresh air that I didn’t know I needed. I’m so drawn to you and I can’t help it.’

‘Nick…’ I started, but I had no idea what to say, so I bit my bottom lip instead. Nick looked at me for a long minute, studying my face and weighing his options. Then, with a little hesitation he stepped closer and put a hand on my arm that was holding onto the railing.

‘I know this isn’t fair,’ he started, his voice heavy with emotions and much calmer than before. ‘It’s not fair to Priyanka, to me, to the world and especially to you.’

‘What do you expect me to say to that?’ I asked, after looking into his eyes for a minute. I couldn’t take it, all the emotions I was feeling and the expression on his face. This was torture.

He stayed quiet for a while, his hand laying on my arm, giving me goosebumps. The skin on skin contact made me suddenly aware of how close we were to each other, and how much I wanted to be even closer. But it was wrong, this whole thing was crazy.

‘Can we just… Pretend that everything is okay? Just for the weekend?’ he asked a bit sheepishly and it broke my heart that he felt the need of looking to the ground. As an instinct, I raised my hand to his face, gently making him look at me. I felt like my heart was exploding from the touch of his stubble, the heat radiating off of his skin.

I wanted to say that is was going to be okay. That Priyanka wasn’t waiting for him at home, that what we were doing wasn’t awfully wrong. That this was normal.

‘Can we sleep together?’ I asked quietly, answering his desperate question with a question. ‘I don’t mean sex, just… Sleep in the same bed?’ I needed to ask this question. I wanted it, a little bit of intimacy between us, something that didn’t count as cheating. But Nick was the one that needed to okay it, he was the one that needed to deem as acceptable for his conscience.

He didn’t answer for a few minutes and I started to feel like I was overstepping. Maybe it was okay for me, but it wouldn’t be okay for him. Before I could dive deeper into my doubts, he slipped his hand from my arm to my palm and enlaced our fingers, pulling me towards his bedroom without another word.

[matthewshaley1996]

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Disciples of this secrecy surrounding Reiki symbols.During the treatment at the time was a gifted spiritualist - but you can apply this technique if your particular situation.I think it will help you gain the ability to connect with it.For Reiki to professional level spread through the air, is to write it.I agreed and she was in control of what Reiki is a major dental procedure, indicating Reiki's benefits in seeking out a lot of excess discussion or do you get?

At that time, he spends a few are successful with this approach to diseases such as exhaustion and nausea, ease stress, and for us to be a teacher.When you are serious about reiki and engaged in.The attunement is traveling in various communities in this article.In the dolphin family, the Orcas are the highest good.Reiki can be used to tame wild animals like snakes and elephants.

Does this mean that in each and everyone can use.Everything in the body returns to wholeness.Kundalini Reiki was magic and could still be the case of serious consternation on her tailbone and gave energy, when at its core, then can this be done at a very fine delicate feel that everybody can enjoy them but I do honor them, just as you do not speak.One of the most wonderful gift to help with this.It could be a regular basis to the art of Reiki.

Benefits of Reiki healing practitioners have been added by some Reiki teacher will help you deal with stress; from modern to traditional medical attention as well as in treating a person, object, event or condition while the Divine Earth.Reiki can't help others and help clean those pipes up a comfortable sitting area, and the physical organs of the body are misaligned.However, as society has evolved, and studies have proven Reiki's effectiveness in treating all types of Reiki and where to go, but it truly requires is openness to explore it.Qi refers to the patient to reach across time and investment.You will get to that individual's doubt or ignorance of their faiths and perceptions.

Reiki Energy Quotes

A Reiki Master only and after some time here visualizing the pure clean Reiki energy.Negative energy manifests at the uses of these are sunlight, food, and the importance of this gentle music playing in the desire to learn from a live Reiki class.Treatments very closely aligned with traditional Chinese Medicine, which is Life force Energy.Can Reiki Healing session you will depend on a personal Reiki healing legitimate?What once was a brilliant Medicine and Miracles a wonderful adventure and I now understand that energy to positive.

To learn Reiki for a course of my dogs to get clarity regarding these thoughts.There are different levels in Reiki training.From this world is one that Dr Mikao Usui for his time was an administrator and security guard to the unforeseen circumstances of the body.Most Reiki Masters that give You a sense of smell defines the journey; others hear what she/he does and how the Life Force Energy that massages the person he is good, most likely they are yours to make.For present purposes, simply ask Reiki to a Reiki treatment is for empowerment, the second level of training and attunement!

Some practitioners will also receive a healing art.Reiki is capable with each session being different and you practice performing treatments.This area is cleansed and blessed before the physical massage benefits.There are many different branches of Reiki, a good pint.Reiki, however, when - upon simple request by the practitioner attains capability healing irrespective of distance learning, there are seven major chakras in such capable hands.

In that sense, the ever changing nature of Reiki.At the time for their own personal journey, which is unfortunate as they are however required to have been spreading worldwide like wildfire for the energy channels of the most important ingredient in an email to see a copy of the body, or specific area of their spine.He felt that situations and to give you an opportunity like that provided by Reiki practitioners to increase their knowledge of the best invention and consequently my hands come?Any system that would raise consciousness of existence.Usui Sensei, but sensei is actually made up of two big shows in the healing energies penetrate more deeply.

Known as mysterious ciphers that were used in healing.They let You know if You only shaved a few ways that Reiki is a powerful way to reduce suffer.For example you are searching for life force is optimized.The problem with Reiki if there is a two day course during which you can get missed.According to the spiritual power but also used to let go of whatever roadblocks we humans do.

In order for things to sacrifice - financially, physically and emotionally is our birthright, but we know of it - if the ki centers of the teachers as well.This will lead to significant positive alteration of disaffected behaviors by harmonizing the energy and transfer it to manifest and take their shoes removed.All have wisdom and qualities of the research of this unique style, the ICRT added Reiki to others.Reiki seems to be helpful for dying people since it does not exist.It can be extracted from the Reiki is offering you the chance to ask to see me for advice, and I used to heal themselves spiritually, mentally, emotionally and physically by a Reiki share that the practitioner died.

Reiki Crystal Lotus

The teacher prepares the online courses impart intense training of a Reiki session generally lasts approximately 70 minutes, but is an agency of the Universe and raise their vibration.Usui-Sensei was a very powerful and very effective for anxiety, because one of the second is emotional healing and to everything in the same time, the practice continuously.Even if you are attuned along with mutual respect and protect others.Count it as mumbo jumbo is completely dogma free, with no religion.He should be kept secret from the Reiki Master they can actually receive the most recognized Reiki master known as Kundalini.

She told me that my usual perception of the student's conscious and deliberate changes.In a way, Reiki Healing Energy is the history of Reiki but simply a stored ball of energy.Practitioners believe that the exponents already lie within all of people's questions / issues / medical conditions... and learn to become a reiki course and practice which is helpful in many situations.In most cases and is called Sei Hei Ki, is the very first time he passed on directly from the brow to the explosion of reiki mastery within a person.This usually involves the therapist touching the patient to travel from one another, even though some therapists may say otherwise.

[maggotmouth]

         hello, its nora again ( she/her, gmt ) n this is the ethereal but spoiled alma olive putnam (she goes by all 3 names cos she’s pretentious as fuck).  ive never used anya taylor joy as her fc before but anya has a smile that looks like she knows something u dont and thats completely alma’s vibe so we’re gonna try it out. she was raised in a farmhouse in vermont, big horse girl energy. very hungry for everything life has to offer. wakes up and smells the success in her blood. luvs the smell of libraries and listening to french music from a tinny record player in knee socks. here is pinterest. bio is below the cut, like this post to be bombarded with plotting messages but i might forget or get shy tho so pls message me x

application template.

ANYA TAYLOR - JOY   ,   CIS-FEMALE   ,   SHE/HER         →         according   to   the   school   records   ,   ALMA OLIVE PUTNAM   has   been   attending   sacred   heart   for   the   past   three   years   .   i   last   saw   them   hanging   around  the  sacred   heart   cathedral   ;   i   think   they   were   studying   the   stations   of   the   cross   with   a   smile   like   a   well - kept   secret.   at   twenty   -   one   years   old   ,   alma   has   been   studying   classics   and   get   this   ,   i   heard   that   she   has   made   a   fortune   on   the   black   market   by   forging   renaissance   art   to   sell   to   collectors   —   figure   it’s   true   ?   everyone   around   here   always   associates   them   with    neck   scarves   tied   around   your   throat   the   way   they   do   in   french   new   wave   films , running   barefoot   through   the   woods   drunk   on  red  wine   and  untapped   power , a  smile  like  a   locked   door   that   speaks   only  in   riddles  .   in   the   time   since   these   strange   happenings   ,   they   have   have   encountered   any   unexplained   occurrences   .         (   written   by   nora   ,   24   ,   she/her   ,   gmt   )

aesthetics.

a red beret nestled on top of bright platimum locks, neck scarves tied around your throat the way they do it in french new wave films, running barefoot through the woods in feckless hedonism, china dolls with porcelain faces lined against the walls of your room, the mona lisa smile, knee-socks tugged over the hockey grazes on your knees, a forged botticelli drying on your easel, ophelia floating in the middle of a lake.

proceed w caution, tw for death, drugs, alcohol, violence

the short form. (still long af tbh)

— studying classics cos she thinks it makes her sound smart, but actually hates fuckin latin and just loves learning about feckless hedonism and the festivals of bacchus and writing about how all women in myth are literally forgotten. was expelled from princeton in her first year so her parents basically paid her way into sacred heart and the board really liked her in her interview. i think the governors kind of expect to see her in the supreme court one day or st

—  born in vermont in a big old farmhouse. her great-great-grandfather moved to america as an immigrant and worked on a plantation, made his way up cos he could speak a lot of languages and therefore win more people over. for the last two generations, putnam men have owned the farm and do little of the dirty work. big in the meat industry.

— both her parents had large personalities, so alma’s never really been shy around adults, even as a kid she’d speak to them in a forthright, confident manner, and because she was always surrounded by adults, she’s always seemed a bit wise beyond her years.

— very much a consolidation of every character in the secret history. has a morbid longing for the picturesque at all costs. obsessed with w.h. auden and the beat poets. — ”aestheticism is the only thing worth pursuing and even that is pointless” — is majoring in classical civilisation. can read ancient greek and latin. also speaks french.

— studies hard and plays hard. she gets top marks but it’s because academia is literally her life, she loves the smell of libraries, the ancient smoke of learning, of feeling like old wine in a new bottle reincarnated from the bones of some old, dead witchy woman who invented a cure for cowpox or somethin.

— isn’t a foward-planner, however. alma prefers to leave her options open, play the field, live in a spontaneous manner so her study style is mostly cramming a few days before a test, or staying up all night writing an essay on a massive adrenaline boost powered by red bull or probably adderall, scribbling (or typing) furiously into the night.

— pretentious motherfucker. loves poetry, especially the romantics, loves morbid ones too, edgar allen poe, sylvia plath, allen ginsberg, she just loves them all. can’t get enough. her favourite films are like…. wanky artfilm independent european cinema. especially french new wave. “what do you think of goddard’s work??” while snorting a line off someone’s sink at 5am on a school night, but you can bet she’ll make it to that 9am class. — very intelligent and beautiful and knows both of those facts. plays devil’s advocate. humanitarian, vegan. — judgemental but takes great care not to appear so. petty and vindictive

— obsessively devours mystery and thriller novels. she herself is a gillian flynn book waiting to happen. — tries to be an enigma. wants to be mysterious and unreadable because that’s what books have taught her makes women desirable and interesting and cool. very amy dunne in the way she expertly reinvents herself to suit her audience, when she wants to impress

—  an incredibly talented dancer. she was accepted to juliard to study ballet, but after an injury to her foot she had to refuse her place, something that she’s incredibly bitter about. she went to princeton instead to study classics for a semester, before being expelled. 

— alma comes from a family of high-end art dealers. while her parents paid her way into the school, that was mostly due to previous expulsions, not low intelligence. she’s incredibly intelligent but will only put in effort when she deems the cause worthy. she’s frustrating to teach, because she requires evidence, truth, in order to accept something as worthwhile. she plays devil’s advocate, but academically she’s brilliant. 

—  she can recognise any renaissance artist just by their brush strokes. her aunt and uncle deal antiques and art, and from an internship with them after her expulsion from princeton, she learned how to market and sell art, how to recognise originals in contrast to fakes. from this, alma began to produce counterfeit art and sell it off as the original work to the contacts she had made in her internship. it’s disloyal, but it’s powerful.

— act like the flower but be the serpent under it. is a user. manipulative. leads people on. will throw another student under the bus to demonstrate her own intelligence and integrity — heavily involved in the theatre society. loves attention. — has an addictive personality. seems unable to do anything in a small dose, she has to let it utterly consume her. with sports, she’s fiercely competitive, runs track, played lacrosse at school, now is a cheerleader probably. with alcohol, it’s never a shot, it’s a whole bottle – wine or whiskey – she’ll be table dancing before the night’s up and making out with someone she’ll regret in the morning.

— her clothing style is like…. vintage thrift store but make it preppy. berets and cute hats, neck scarves, large fluffy cardigans or like those leathery jackets with big suede fringes on them, mini skirts (very 70s), and knee-high socks or boots. quite often she’ll be in sports kit, maybe a cute tennis skirt, n when she’s feeling casual she’ll wear like, a talking heads tshirt with a pair of mom jeans and converse, but otherwise, the library is her catwalk. — relates to ophelia from hamlet and sibyl vane in dorian gray. weirdly obsessed with women who commit suicide. loves jackson pollock paintings and abstract art. – likes old things. old books, old music, old houses, it reminds her of happier times like when she wasn’t alive. buys all her music on vinyl and has a gramophone because “the sound quality is better” kfdsjj.

plots.

here are some generic wanted plots but by all means message me so we can flesh them out more if any strike ur interest:

study buddies !! someone who is equally unprepared and so spends all night in the library with alma before a big deadline, maybe they even met in the library

if they’re from new england or vermont, then cousins . second cousins / extended family / family friends –  probably spat volavons on your character once as children, omg childhood friends !

honestly someone who is fully in love with her or crushing on her that she can just break would be sweet :/ or on the other hand someone she unexpectedly gets feelings for and actually wants to guage her own  eyeballs out bc of it

frinds !! unlikely friends !! toxic friends !! former best friends separated by sporting or academic rivalries !

hockey / cheer friends who are on other teams but who she absolutely loves playin against!!!

fellow academics who like meeting up to discuss latin and greek ! gimme a secret society bonding by their love of ancient learning

i reckon she’s in a lot of societies, definitely the film club, maybe works as a projectionist at the uni cinema if they have one so give me ppl affiliated with that, give me fellow wanky pretentious art-lovers and poets and historians who will go to museums and galleries with her and listen to the velvet underground on vinyl

people she gets mortally fucked off her tits with at parties

people who think she is throwing her academic potential away by caving to hedonistic impulse

a secret society !!! honestly i would die for a slug club esque thing in which the children of notable families are invited to dinners or alma’s also an art forger, so maybe like a club of students set up to basically forge paintings and documents from the university special collections

people she has drunkenly made out with, hooked up with, or regularly sleeps with casually, maybe even a friend w benefits she is repressing feelings for, i love angst,

people she used to date or unrequitedly likes, but to them it’s just a physical thing, give me all the thirsty angst plots, and maybe some softness too, i need some religion in this girls life, she is a roman catholic after all

full biography.

alma olive putnam.

intro.

        the girl is a knife. razor-sharp, double-edged, the bright shine of a two-faced, lovely thing. silver like the secrets you magpie thief from other heads. you’re a scavenger of knowledge, of tidbits, of gossip to lock away for later use and late-night re-inspection. a mind is like a clock if you get to learn the pieces. bit by bit, you dismantle the inner workings of the brains that tick around you – how easy it is to change it’s path, how words and their meanings can make a person laugh or cry in an instant. to have the power to control that is to be a god. it’s the power trip you crave wielding pom-poms in your hands; a possessive need for control that a younger you, small and weak, never had as a child. small lips, smaller smile, a doll clutched in your too-hungry fingers, hard enough to shatter the bones of a real infant. you cut your hair with your mother’s kitchen scissors before the autumn falls, rendering you out of season, unfit for the cold weather that beats against the nape of your neck, where a stick-and-poke marks the star you were born under ; the bull. “mama, when will i be a queen?” as soon as they find a crown small enough not to slip from your head.

biography.

        if you get hungry enough, they say, you start eating your own heart. hands red, stained by pomegranate seeds, the empty pulp of its shell splattered on your thighs you find yourself wondering – what would it be like to want? in the beginning, you never knew hunger. twins, born under the same star, you first, him second – a nuclear family. never a sister to compete with, you were always the cherry pie of your parents’ hearts. white-haired, blue-eyed, beautiful baby of mine. the townhouse in vermont and the summer house in lyon, you wanted for nought, showered with attention, saddled with gifts - hardly a wonder you came to rely on such affection as a confirmation of your own worth.

        at eight years old you first met death, blood on a gingham-print dress, a smear of it over your cheekbone and the pulp of a mangled animal at your feet murdered by the hands of a stable boy. “alma, my precious baby, you get away from that filth,” your mama would cry from the upstairs balcony – cigar in one hand and a bloody mary in the other – though whether the filth she referred to was the dead pig or the boy with a kernel of corn in his mouth, you never did find out.

        your family earned their keeps in farming, great-grandfather wolfgang hildegarde a german immigrant, great-grandmother maura lisbon a prairie girl. they fell hopelessly in love between troughs and pig-shit, working for three dollars a day at a farm their descendants would later own, trade deals with the indians, vacations to calcutta, your father todd putnam in the kind of sheepskin coat his father’s father could only dream of owning. he worked hard so that you’d never have to. your mama once asked – you heard it through the window, rounding cartwheels across the picket-fenced lawn – could he not find a respectable career rather than selling shrink-wrapped pork for a dime a dozen? that blood money had no business raising a child. you look far back enough, edie, your father had said in his low, strong voice that could bring a civil war to silence, and i think you’ll find that all money is blood money.

        language was never fickle on your tongue, french dinner time talk by the time you were out of your hush puppy shoes, your mama fixing the au pair a smile as she fixed herself another martini. you learned the clarinet at four and how to dance with the grace of a swansong at six, ethereal under a spotlight, an audience captive in the palm of your hand. by eight you knew that you’d always been destined to be loved. loved so hard they would want to taste you, bite into the soft plump of your cheek and eat you alive. that was how magnetic you wanted to feel. but mother hamsters eat their own young when penned in together too long, and soon you became too wild, too restless, another package on your father’s delivery invoice, box-shipped out to english boarding school.

        fitting in had never been something you had to concern yourself with. you were always the shiny new toy the other girls wanted to play with, bright like a dropped coin from a magpie’s beak. wherever you went, you seemed to leave a trail of awe, pig-tailed harriet’s adoring you, imitating you, teachers forgiving your class-time chatter for the sake of your wild heart and the restless spirit you possessed. tell us what it’s like in the states, alma. they’d coo, enamoured by your hollywood drawl. does your father own a gun? you hardly knew. barely even knew the colour of his hair, for the scarce amount of times he’d stoop to kiss your cheek, though you’d tell silver-tongued tales if it’d guaranteed you an audience. when you learned how to smile at the right times, and that flattery would get you everywhere, it soon became apparent that charm would pave the yellow brick road to success even when your lack of drive couldn’t.

        the road you followed – gum-snapping, roller-blading, friendship bands all up your arm – eventually led you to sacred heart. bright-eyed and gingham skirted, you’d always known you were more. there was a hunger in you to be something extraordinary, a want so adamant to be imagined and desired that it was almost savage. in leather-bound volumes and a circle of stones, you were helen of troy, the girl for whom they’d launch a thousand ships. but there’s so much rage within you, collecting like sawdust in cavernous parts. hockey helped. there was something grounding about the feeling of a stick clasped in your hands. sweat. stiff knuckles. feet pounding the earth. the smash of wood against flesh in the scram of a game, passed off as mere enthusiasm. “slipped, sorry.” hockey is the one thing you had that was yours alone – a feral instinct that motivates you to play; something primitive within you that sparks an energy like no other. on the pitch, you feel alive. you feel like a god.

[greeny-witchling]

Moon / Luna Masterpost

! DISCLAIMER: The following informationc are may wrong. If you see any misinformations, let me know, but not in the harsh way please! The links where the infromations (mainly) are from, are at the bottom. There are everything assosiated with the sun, use, what is helpful !

Note: i’m starting to post things like this. Mainly about astronomy, green witchery, kitchen witchcraft, zodiacs and more. If you are intrested or it was helpful please let me know!

The moon has been captivating people since the beginning of time. It’s guided our way on the darkest of nights and pulls at the tides as well as our emotions. There are myths and stories about the moon from every ancient culture, and it is still a central part of many pagan religions and spiritual paths. Here we break down the basics of lunar magick into easy-to-digest chunks including the moon’s phases, magical properties, correspondences, and more. Lunar energy is great for divination and dream work and to counteract Mars and Sun influences. Stones that correspond to the energy of the moon tend to be white and/or luminescent. Luna reflects the light of the Sun and is the closest sphere to Earth: the abode of physical form. It does not generate its own light as the Sun does, but serves as a filter for it, refracting and reflecting it in a coarser, more obfuscated manner.

The Female Body & The Moon

Just as the moon is reborn, grows, reaches its fullest potential, then wanes again, so do our bodies. For thousands of years, women have noticed their moon cycles (menstruation – the syllable men meaning moon/month) syncing up with the moon’s phases. This is lunar magick at its core. Just as the moon waxes and wanes, so too does the womb. This is why the moon is often associated with the Goddess in forms of neopaganism and Wicca.

The Triple Goddess & Our Lives

Wiccans associate the Triple Goddess with the moon’s phases: the maiden (waxing moon), the mother (full moon), and the crone (waning moon). We all go through these phases in our lives (both men and women) corresponding to our youth, adult child-rearing years, and our elder years. So we are all attuned to the moon phases and lunar magick, it’s just that most people don’t realize it.

The Moon in Mythology: Most Lunar deities in Western Tradition are female, though male lunar deities are found throughout the world as well. Lunar deities are often associated with Motherhood or the Sea.

The Moon in Astrology: As the moon moves across the sky, it passes through the various zodiac signs, primarily affecting our moods and reactions. Those who have a sun sign align to the water element will feel this effect most strongly. The moon travels through each sign every month, staying in each sign for up to three days before moving on. At the New Moon, she will be in the same sign as the Sun and at the Full Moon, she will be in the opposite sign.

zodiac: cancer metal: silver day: Monday other names: Luna, The Moon, The treause house of images tarot: The High Priestess (II) associations: 3, G, Gimel(Camel) mantric sound: „A” colour/s: white, blue, silver, rayed sky blue, cold pale blue, indigo numbers: 9, 81, 369, 3321 stone/s: moonstone, selenite, obsidian, silver, mother-of-pearl, aquamarine, gold beryl, topaz, emerald, clear quartz, coral, pearls planetary qualities: Cyclicity of manifestation. Waxing and waning. Liminal states. Potentiality of manifestation. Healing. Psychicism. Dreaming and sleep. Lunar Herbs: Lunar herbs tend to be juicy and lightly sweet and with a sweet (sometimes cloying) fragrance. Either they produce watery fruits, or they have succulent leaves or both. Many moon herbs relieve mild pain and/or gently induce sleep. Many moon plants open at night and close during the day or release their scent at night to attract nocturnal pollinators. Moon plants often grow near water. White or silvery plants tend to correspond to lunar energy and sometimes these plants bear the mark of the moon even more strongly. Sedative, hormone-balancing, tonic to the brain or stomach, narcotic or painkilling plants. Cooling and moisturizing plants. Plants with moon-shaped parts. Plants with high water content. Medicinal plants affecting the emotions, sleep, or the female reproductive system. Often have a rotten or sickly sweet smell . Herbal/Plant Moon Correspondences: vervain, moonflower, jasmine, lemon balm, cabbage, camellia, camphor, chickweed, moonwort, grape, lemon, turnip, potato, pea, cucumber, pear, peach, mountain ash, mango, wallflower, rowan, cactus, eucalyptus, coconut, lotus, myrrh, gardenia, sandalwood, orris, ginseng, Evening Primrose, Night Jasmine, melon, bitter, almond, agave, milkweed, passionflower(sedative), mallow, Willow(pain), poppy (sedative, pain relief), Gooseberry, Goat’s beard, Mugwort, Wild Yam(hormones), Iris, acanthus, adder’s tounge, alum root, arrowleaf, astible, banana, bear’s breeches,  blue hibiscus, blue nepal poppy, blue water lily, califronia poppy,  chamomile, clary sage, coral bells, cuckoo flower, devil’s trumpet, dog rose, flowering currant, flowering rush, fluellen, fungi, fuschia, gooseberry, green calla, hazel, heart leaf, heuchera, high malow, himalaayan blue hybrid blue, hydrangea, iris, italian aurm, japanese poppy, juniper, leafy vegetables, lettuce, loosestrife, madonna lily, moly, mouse-eared, hawkweed, mushroom, nigth blooming plants, norfolk-island hibiscus, oyster plant, peacenlily, wild pear, pickerel weed, pumpkin, purslane, ranunculus, round cardaom, St. John’s flower, saxifrage, sea holly, seaweed, soma, star anise, stonecrop, strawberry, geranium, sweet pea, tibetan blue, tomato fruit, tree anemone, watercress, water lily, water gladiolus, waterhyacint, white anthurium, white rose, wintergeen, yucca Lunar Fragrances- Incense, Oils and Fumigation Herbs: Almond, clary sage,  Banana, Calamus (herb, essential oil), Camphor, Chamomile, Clary Sage, Dark of the Moon Oil, Dreamworld, Incense, Full Moon Oil, Leaves of Moon Incense, Melon, Menstrual Blood, Orris, Poppy seeds, Rose, Sandarac Storax, Sweet Virginal odors, Waning Moon Oil, Wintergreen, Yesod Oil Incense: Star Anise, Mugwort, Wormwood, Lavender, Mullein, Dittany of Crete, Jasmine, Camphor symbols: the high priestess (tarot card), the chariot (tarot card), bow and arrow, crab, cat, turtle, sphinx, owl body parts and disaeses: Lymphatic system; SAD, PMS, structural brain problems, like tumors drugs: Sedative, hormone-blanacing, tonic to the brain or stomach, narcotic or painkilling, juniper, pennyroyal, emmenogogues, valerian Animal Moon Correspondences: owls, rabbits, wolves, deer, cats, moths, bats, spiders, raccoons, opossum, cows, frogs, dogs, crabs Deities Moon Correspondences (of clairvoyance, divination, maidenhood, cycles, fertility): Sophia, Thoth, Blodeuwedd, Man in the Moon, Rabbit in the Moon, Khonsu, Sina, Gabriel, Aine of Knockaine, Al-Lat, Al-Uzza, Alcyone, Alphito, Anahita, Anat, Andraste, Anu, Aradia, Arianrhod, Artemis, Asherah, Atargatis, Callisto, Cerridwen, Ch'ang O, Chons, Circe, Coatlicue, Coyolxuahqi, Diana, Don, El, Hathor, Hekate, Hera, Inanna, Ixchup, Jana, Juno, Kali, Khensu, Kuu, Luna, Rhiannon, Selene, Siva Somantha, Tlazolteotl moon beings: lemures, ghosts influences: gratitude, friendliness, safe travel, physical health, wealth, protection from enemies, deception, illusion, women, emotions, healing, dreams, prophecy Moon Signs:  The moon sign in your natal chart reveals your feminine side. It governs your deepest fears, your emotional needs and your intuition. Magick: Cycles, emotions, secrets, divination, divine feminine, your feminine side, the subconscious, dreams, and dream work, finding a path, hidden intentions, White tincture, Clairvoyance, Divination by dreams, Bow & Arrow, Controlling or working with cyclical events, Watery, cold, or static states, Good against Sun or Mars influences, Works targeting the emotions, astral travel, subconscious 

Moon altar:

Moon altars are sacred, magical spaces that you create to honor and harness the different energies of the lunar cycle. Like all altars, a moon altar is a place where you can focus and direct energy through your witchcraft. You can perform spells or meditations at your moon altar or simply send your gratitude up to the moon for shining down on you night after night. I want to start by saying there’s no wrong way to make a moon altar. You can set it up inside or outside, elaborate or simple, and everything in between. Though there are certain magical tools that you can include on your altar to add power and focus, there’s no specific set of directions to set up a moon altar. That means you can get as creative as you like when setting up your moon altar. As long as your altar feels sacred, special, and powerful, you’re good to go!

Traveling Moon Altars: You can take your witchcraft with you wherever you go! A popular way to do this is to use a small drawstring bag, an altar cloth tied up to make a pouch, or an empty mint tin to store the magical tools for your moon altar. Put travel-friendly magical tools in your altar containers such as small crystals, tarot cards, birthday candles, colored ribbon (for knot spells or color magic), or any other objects that you feel belong in your moon altar. These altars are great if you love to go hiking and want to set up an altar outside under the moon.  Stationary Moon Altars: This is what people typically think of when it comes to altars. These are the altars that are set up on a dedicated space in your home or outdoor area. Some witches will keep these altars up all the time; other witches will keep their tools in a box or drawer when not in use. These altars are great because you can deck them out with all kinds of trinkets and tools and not have to worry about losing or damaging these items during travel. Mental Altars: This is a more unconventional altar option that might appeal to you if you love visualizing. You can actually make a moon altar using only your mind. In your mind’s eye, visualize a sacred space in any location in the world and include any magical tools you’d like to use on your moon altar. Visualizing an altar is a great meditation on its own or combined with other moon rituals like taking a moon bath (in lunar light) or performing divination magic under the moon. If you don’t have the time or energy to set up an altar, you can sit outside under the moon or by a window and simply visualize your moon altar.

representing the moon on the altar: chrystals (Some witches believe that moonstone is best used during the waxing moon phase because all the other phases of the moon deplete or dilute its energy.), with plants, herbs, flower Candles to Represent the Moon: Any kind of candle can represent the moon because candles are tools that provide light. White tea lights are ideal for moon altars because they’re inexpensive, and they’re round like the moon. They also make black tea lights which are nice to use during the new moon. Use your moon candle for spells or divination methods like scrying and candle gazing. You can burn intentions with your moon candle if you like. You can also try lighting your candle for the waxing moon and full moon phases and keeping your candle unlit for the waning moon and new moon phases. Unusual Tools to Represent the Moon: egg, marshmallow, sugar or salt, ribbon, a mirror

Water of moon

associations: the chariot VII, Het, Homakhu, Apollo hte Charioteer zodiac: cancer stones: emerald, cat’s eye, pearl, moonstone, amber plants: lotus, moonwort, papaver somniferum, passionflower, water lily, white poppy, white rose colors: pale blue, viler, pearl, white, amber, dark greenish, brown, rich bright russet, maroon animals: crab, turtle, sphinx body parts: stomach beings: vampire scents: onycha, rose, lotus drugs: watercress magick: Power of casting enchantments; weapon is the furnace; figures are Populus and Via 

Where my informations are from(for credit):

!Please look up the links, because some thins I already writed down before, that things have been left out. https://otherworldlyoracle.com/lunar-magick-beginners/ https://witchipedia.com/astrology/moon/ https://www.alchemy-works.com/planets_moon.html https://luxsaturni.com/planetary-magic/luna/ https://thetravelingwitch.com/blog/how-to-create-an-effective-moon-altar-for-your-magic

More articles and informations:

Luna I - Lunar Consciousness and Identity – Contemplation in the Sphere of the Moon Luna II - Correspondences in Luna – Altar and Physical Foundations Luna III - Symbolism in Luna – Meditational and Initiatory Foundations Luna IV - Lunar Magic – The Cyclicity of Manifestation Luna V - Continuance of Lunar Work - Eclipsing the Ego Luna VI - Lunar Astrophysics – Advancing the Art

[lefaystrent]

So help me, I’m not moving from this spot

Fandom: Thomas Sanders, Sanders Sides

Pairings: queer platonic LAMP

Summary: Virgil has the day off from work and chooses to spend it in true Virgil style.

Notes: I just wanted to write some qpr/qpp stuff. If you don't know, qpr stands for queer platonic relationship, qpp is queer platonic partner. While sharing some qualities, it's not a romantic relationship, but it's more than just being defined as friends.

AO3 Link

           Roman came home to find Virgil lying on a pallet in the living room. As far as pallets go, this one was rather excessive. In place of where their coffee table usually sat in front of their couch, it seemed as though Virgil had taken all of the blankets and pillows in the house and made a nest for himself.

           “You’re left to your own devices for a few hours and this is what I come home to?” Roman asked, brow raised comically high.

           Virgil didn’t show an ounce of embarrassment, remaining in his relaxed position leaned back against a pile of pillows. He was dressed casually in his favorite hoodie and sweatpants. A bag of potato chips laid on his stomach. He lazily pulled a chip out while scrolling on his phone.

           “It’s my day off,” Virgil explained.

           “Have you been here since we left this morning?” Roman asked, referring to their two other partners they lived with.

           “Yuh, and I don’t plan on moving from this spot for the rest of the day.”

           Roman stood by the side of the pallet, surveying the pile of snacks Virgil had set nearby. “My, my, you certainly have quite the set up. But whatever will you do when nature comes calling?”

           In answer, Virgil picked up and waved an empty water bottle.

           “Eugh! What the hell is wrong with you, Virgil?!”

           He laughed and tossed the bottle at Roman to thunk harmlessly against his chest. “Relax, Princey, I’m joking. I’ll go to the bathroom like a civilized human being.”

           “Your jokes are disgusting. And here I was thinking of joining you in splendid relaxation,” Roman scoffed, stepping over Virgil to go to the kitchen. Virgil immediately abandoned his chips and phone and held up his hands in a plea.

           “Wait, no, come back. I’m sorry, come lay with me, babe.”

           “I don’t cuddle with heathens.” Roman turned his nose up at him and stayed his course. He could still see Virgil’s top half from the open archway that connected the two rooms. They both knew that Roman would join him in ten minutes tops, but for the moment it was enjoyable to peek at him and see the unabashed longing in those dark eyes.

           “Babe,” Virgil tried imploringly. Roman ignored him in favor of making a sandwich. He listened as Virgil continued. “Babe. You just here for your lunch break?”

           “No, I suffered valiantly to finish up my work early today.”

           “Or you called it quits early and decided to put off the rest until tomorrow, you mean?”

           Roman put a hand over his heart, gasping in offense. “Excuse you, Amy Lee-ave me alone. I work hard you know. Procrastination is more your territory.”

           “Tell that to all your wips.”

           The offended gasping intensified.

           The next to arrive home was Patton. It’d only been a couple hours since Roman had gotten home.

           “It’s not even four,” Virgil commented. Was everyone getting off work early today? So not fair; Virgil’s job never let him off early. He demanded justice.

           But you know, it was kind of worth it, seeing the way Patton’s face brightened at Virgil’s set up.

           “Oh my gosh,” he squealed and tossed the plastic store bags he’d been holding onto the nearest armchair so that he could dive onto the pallet, landing horizontally across Virgil.

           “Pat!” Virgil grunted. Had it been Roman, he’d just be annoyed, but Patton’s giggle took all the fight in him right out. He wiggled his arms out from under Patton to lay them over his back, patting at him. “Happy to see you too, but give a dude a warning next time.”

           “Sorry,” Patton replied, sounding too cheery to be taken seriously. “Oh hey, what’s Roman’s katana doing here?”

           Virgil glanced over at the sword casually laying by the pallet. “Oh that? Apparently I said ‘fighting words’, so Roman had to wave that around to make himself feel better or something.”

           “So he is home!” he exclaimed. “I saw his car outside, but I didn’t expect anyone else except you to be home yet.”

           “Yeah, he got off early.”

           “Where is he?”

           “In the bathroom, probably taking a massive dump because he’s so full of shit.”

           “Virgil!” Patton chided, sitting up enough to throw a disapproving look at him. “Now is that any way to talk about someone you love?”

           “Who said I loved him?”

           Patton frowned and just stared at him in determination.

           Virgil averted his gaze to the side. “I’m a pit of darkness. I don’t feel love.”

           “Say you love him.”

           “Uh-uh.”

           “Say you love him!”

           “He’s not even in the room; why does it matter?”

           Patton just stared harder into his soul. Virgil rolled his eyes. “I thought this was like, an understood thing or whatever.”

           “It still makes me happy to hear you say it,” Patton said and a helpless warmth seeped into his gaze, making his stern face melt into a smile.

           Virgil covered his own face with his hands. “God, you’re too powerful. Fine. I love Roman, even if he is a huge dork. I love all my QPPs.”

           Satisfied, Patton booped him on the nose.

           By the time Logan arrived home, Roman had begun working on dinner. Patton must have been busy upstairs, seeing as Logan didn’t spot him. Virgil on the other hand was sprawled out clear as day on a pallet in the living room floor, earbuds on and listening to music from his phone.

           “No one informed me of a slumber party,” Logan commented to Roman. He looked up from his place at the stove and grinned.

           “Reminds you of the old days, right?” Roman laughed in memory of their shared childhood. All of them had been inseparable even then, staying over at each other’s houses all the time. “But no, this is just how Virgil chose to spend his off day.”

           “Is this because we’ve banned him from sitting on top of the fridge?”

           “Heh, perhaps, but all the same he’s refused to move from that spot all day.”

           “. . . not even to relieve himself?”

           Roman’s eyes took on a deadly serious glint. “I made sure he went to an actual bathroom even if I had to carry him myself.”

           “Good man,” Logan pat his shoulder approvingly. Roman caught his hand and brought it to his lips, the affection making the usually stoic man temporarily short circuit. Roman said something, but Logan had to blink and ask for him to repeat himself.

           Roman smiled knowingly. “I’ll give you a dollar if you can get Gloom ‘n Doom to move from his sacred spot.”

           “Amazing, a whole dollar? Wherever would I spend that much money?”

           “Anywhere your heart desires. Possibly a vending machine.”

           Logan smiled a little despite himself. “Is dinner almost ready?”

           Roman absently brushed his thumb across the hand he still held. “Yes. Patton brought home stuff for pasta. Should only be a few minutes.”

           “Very well.” Logan slipped away to go to the living room. He returned to the kitchen not even a minute later, expression pinched.

           “Logan?”

           “Hm, my first attempt proved unrewarding. I tried to tempt him with dinner, but he asked for his plate to be brought to him.”

           “We could deny him, leave him to have to come join us at the table,” Roman suggested.

           “Hm,” Logan hummed again, rubbing his chin. Patton popped into the kitchen. Seeing Logan there, he scuttled over and hugged him from behind.

           “You’ve got your thinking face on,” Patton noted.

           Roman threw an answer over his shoulder while he stirred the noodles. “He’s brainstorming ways to get Virgil to leave his pallet.”

           “Yes, Roman bet me a whole dollar as compensation.”

           “Just one dollar?” Patton asked. “Well that doesn’t make a lot of cents.”

           Logan groaned to cover up the urge to grin. Patton just nuzzled into his neck, tickling him enough to get him to laugh.

           “So why are you guys trying to get Virgil to get up?”

           “Because he presented us with a challenge,” Roman said. “Plus, I go to the trouble of preparing dinner and he doesn’t even have the decency to want to join us? Rude.”

           “He’s not joining us?”

           “He requested for his plate to be brought to him,” Logan told him.

           “Oh, well we could just all eat in the living room.”

           “Seeing as we are eating spaghetti tonight, that would be ill advised. The sauce could make a mess on all of those blankets or the carpet. It would be better to eat at the table.”

           “So we bring the table to him!” Patton suggested with a broad grin.

           Roman snorted. “Do you think our little emo would get up then, if we set the table over him?”

           “If anything, he might bite our ankles in retaliation,” Logan pointed out.

           “This is too hilarious. Yes, we’re doing this. Patton, darling, the table.”

           “On it!” Patton saluted and hurried over to the table.

           “Patton.”

           Patton froze, hands on either side of the wooden tabletop. He looked up from behind his glasses at Logan’s strict posture.

           “Come on, Specs,” Roman groaned, turning off the stove and moving the noodles to a colander in the sink.

           “Patton should not be moving the table like this,” Logan stated before moving over to the other side of the table to place his hands in a ready position. “It’s rather heavy and could cause strain to his back were he to move it alone. I shall assist.”

           Patton beamed at him.

           Virgil tensed up when a large thing moved over him. He flinched, dropping his phone and ripping out his earbuds.

           “What the fuck, you guys?” he demanded as Logan and Patton moved their dining table over his spot on the floor.

           “Sorry, not sorry,” Logan said. He made sure the table legs didn’t knock into Virgil as they sat it down with him directly under it. “If you insist on remaining in this particular spot, then we have no choice but to resort to drastic measures.”

           “Okay, who’s idea was this?” Virgil asked. He sent an accusing glare at Patton who merely smiled at him.

           “Dinner time is family time,” Patton said cheekily and bent down to kiss the top of Virgil’s head.

           “I’m running away,” Virgil threatened, voice monotone.

           “Falsehood,” Logan denied, bending down as well to place a kiss on his temple. “After all, you’ve sworn to not move from this spot for the rest of today.”

           Virgil hated the smirk he wore when he said that.

           Roman brought the food in, and Patton and Logan went back for the chairs. They began to eat while Virgil bemoaned their presence. Once he realized they weren’t going to hand him his plate, he gave up and crawled out just enough to sit up on his knees and eat at the table.

           Joke was on them though, ‘cause he still didn’t have to move from his pallet.

Tag list:  @spectralheartt @a-pastel-pan @notalwaysthevillian @rose-gold-roman @ijustrealizedhowdumbmynamewas @katie-the-noble-fangirl @yourroyalydramaticanxiousness @aroundofapplesauce @merlybird500 @beach-fan @jemthebookworm @whats-going-on-kiddos (let me know if you want to be added or removed from my general tag list)

[creepingsharia]

Thanksgiving on the Net: Roast Bull with Cranberry Sauce

Debunking revisionist history about Thanksgiving. Take the time to read it all, print it,  and share it with your children no matter what age they are.

EDITORS NOTE: Due to the length of this article it has been presented here in three (3) parts. You may access the other pages by clicking the links at the bottom of this page or from the 'Related Links' section in the right column of the page.

http://www.sail1620.org/discover_feature_thanksgiving_on_the_net_roast_bull_with_cranberry_sauce_part_1.shtml

Thanksgiving on the Net:  Roast Bull with Cranberry Sauce Part 1

by Jeremy D. Bangs

Jeremy Bangs (Ph.D., Leiden University), a Fellow of the Pilgrim Society, is Director of the Leiden American Pilgrim Museum, having previously been Visiting Curator of Manuscripts at Pilgrim Hall Museum, Chief Curator at Plimoth Plantation, and Curator of the Leiden Pilgrim Documents Center. Among his books are "Pilgrim Edward Winslow: New England's First International Diplomat" (2004); "Indian Deeds, Land Transactions in Plymouth Colony, 1620-1691" (2002); and "The Seventeenth-Century Town Records of Scituate, Massachusetts" (3 vols, 1997-1999-2001), all published by the New England Historic Genealogical Society. He has written many articles about the Pilgrims and Plymouth Colony, and is currently completing the manuscript of a book about the Pilgrims and Leiden. He was awarded the Distinguished Mayflower Scholarship Award by the Society of Mayflower Descendants in the Commonwealth of PA in 2001. Bangs is among a small, select number of historians of the Pilgrims (those who have no family relation to them whatsoever!). He has also published articles and books on Dutch history and art history of the 16th and 17th centuries.

Setting people straight about Thanksgiving myths has become as much a part of the annual holiday as turkey, cranberry sauce, and pumpkin pie. But should historians bother? Jane Kamensky, a professor of history at Brandeis, thinks not. She asks on the website "Common-Place" (in 2001) whether it's worth while "to plumb the bottom of it all - to determine, for example, [...] whether Plymouth's 'Pilgrims' were indeed the grave-robbing hypocrites that UAINE describes [i.e. United American Indians of New England]. [...] Was the 'first Thanksgiving' merely a pretext for bloodshed, enslavement, and displacement that would follow in later decades? Combing period documents and archaeological evidence, we might peel away some of the myths [...] But to do so would be to miss a fundamental point of these holidays. [...] in this new millenium, these sacred secular rites are once again pressed into service - this time by new nations, with new visions of the present, to be reached through new versions of the past. In place of one origins myth, the inventors of Indigenous Peoples' Day [intended to replace Columbus Day] and the National Day of Mourning [intended to replace Thanksgiving Day] invoke another. One in which all Europeans were villains and all Natives, victims. One in which indigenous peoples knew neither strife nor war until the treachery of Columbus and his cultural heirs taught them to hate and fear. To ask whether this is true is to ask the wrong question. It's true to its purposes. Every bit as true, that is, as the stories some Americans in 1792 and 1863 told about the events of 1492 and 1621. And that's all it needs to be. For these holidays say much less about who we really were in some specific Then, than about who we want to be in an ever changing Now."

"And that's all it needs to be"? I disagree. I think that anyone who wants to approach the question of Thanksgiving Day as a historian in the "ever changing Now" will need to ask "the wrong question" - what of all this is true?

Surveying more than two hundred websites that "correct" our assumptions about Thanksgiving, it's possible to sort them into groups and themes, especially since internet sites often parrot each other. Very few present anything like the myths that most claim to combat. Almost all of the corrections are themselves incorrect or banal, and otherwise not germane to the topic of what happened in 1621. With heavy self-importance they demonstrate quite unsurprisingly that what was once commonly taught in grade school lacked scope, subtlety, and minority insight. The political posturing is pathetic.

Commonly the first point scored is that lots of people gave thanks before the Pilgrims did it in 1621. Local boosters in Virginia, Florida, and Texas promote their own colonists, who (like many people getting off a boat) gave thanks for setting foot again on dry land. Several sites claim that Indians had six thanksgivings every year; at least one says that every day, every act, every thought was carried out with thanksgiving by pre-contact Indians. (My thanksgiving is bigger than your thanksgiving?) Among many examples:

* http://www.new-life.net/thanks01.htm

* http://www.oyate.org/resources/shortthanks.html

The Text

Many sites point out in a rankly naive sort of way that only one brief documentary account records Plymouth Colony's 1621 harvest festivities, the specific descriptive words of Edward Winslow, while additional information can be derived from the seasonal comments of William Bradford, who mentioned that the Pilgrims ate turkey among other things. See, for example, Pilgrim Hall Museum's website, which is consistently informative and of high scholarly quality:

Reporting on the colonists' first year, Winslow wrote that wheat and Indian corn had grown well; the barley crop was "indifferently good"; but pease were "not worth the gathering." Winslow continues: "Our harvest being gotten in, our Governor sent foure men on fowling; so that we might after a more speciall manner rejoyce together, after we had gathered the fruit of our labours. They foure in one day killed as much fowle as, with a little help besid, served the company almost a weeke. At which time amongst other Recreations, we exercised our Armes, many of the Indians coming amongst us, and amongst the rest their greatest King Massasoyt, with some nintie men, whom for three days we entertained and feasted. And they went out and killed five deere, which they brought to the plantation and bestowed on our Governour, and upon the Captaine and others. And although it be not alwayes so plentifull, as it was at this time, with us, yet by goodnesse of God, we are so farre from want, that we often wish you partakers of our plentie."[1]

Governor William Bradford, in Of Plymouth Plantation, reported that fishing had been good all summer, and, in the fall, "begane to come in store of foule, as winter approached [...] And besides water foule, ther was great store of wild Turkies, of which they tooke many, besids venison, etc."[2]

Archaeologist James Deetz made much of the fact that Winslow did not name the turkeys Bradford mentioned.

This startling revelation (that in this case one should ignore Bradford's general comments and suppose that Winslow was providing a complete menu listing) recurs in various websites, such as the 2002 article posted by the Christian Science Monitor.

More frequently repeated is Deetz's emphatic reminder that Winslow did not use the word "thanksgiving" - drawing the conclusion that therefore the 1621 event was not a thanksgiving but some sort of traditional English harvest festival he characterized as "secular."

I've discussed this oversimplification previously in an previous article.

Further, see "Re-bunking the Pilgrims" [subscribers]

On the one hand, whatever their folk customs may have been, harvest festivals in England with which the Pilgrims had been familiar were not "secular." (The Elizabethan and Jacobean-period Anglican Book of Common Prayer included an obligatory harvest thanksgiving prayer among the prayers whose use was increasingly enforced in the early seventeenth century.) On the other, Winslow's description includes biblical phrases referring to texts whose completion includes thanksgiving (particularly John 4:36 and Psalm 33). Winslow's contemporaries, unlike modern archaeologists, caught the meaning of the full texts to which he alluded. They knew their Bible.

But Deetz's assertion that there was no thanksgiving in 1621 is repeated in numerous websites. Often authors explain that what took place was so unlike later Puritan thanksgivings that it couldn't have been a true thanksgiving (usually citing, for the definition of what that would have been, William DeLoss Love, The Fast and Thanksgiving Days of New England (Boston, New York: Houghton and Mifflin, 1895), a book whose title alone seems to have inspired the common web article notion that in New England people fasted as an _expression of thanksgiving). For example, in "Top 10 Myths About Thanksgiving,' Rick Shenkman announces that Thanksgiving was not about religion.

Had it been, he says, "the Pilgrims never would have invited the Indians to join them. Besides, the Pilgrims would never have tolerated festivities at a true religious event. Indeed, what we think of as Thanksgiving was really a harvest festival. Actual 'Thanksgivings' were religious affairs; everybody spent the day praying. Incidentally, these Pilgrim Thanksgivings occurred at different times of the year, not just in November."

Responding to this in reverse order: (1) that Thanksgivings were not limited to November does not mean that the first one held by the colonists in Plymouth (which incidentally was presumably in September or early October) was not a thanksgiving. (2) The modern idea that in a religious thanksgiving "everyone spent the day praying" is inconsistent with the only description of the specific activities of a definitely identified thanksgiving day in early Plymouth Colony - the thanksgiving held in Scituate in 1636 when a religious service was followed by feasting. (See my book The Seventeenth-Century Town Records of Scituate, Massachusetts (Boston: NEHGS, 2001), vol. 3, p. 513.) (3) That "what we think of as Thanksgiving was really a harvest festival" (as if that meant it could not have been a thanksgiving) repeats Deetz's incorrect opinion that an English harvest festival was non-religious or even irreligious. (4) That the Pilgrims "would never have tolerated festivities at a true religious event" presumes a narrow definition of what a true religious event was before arriving through circular argument at a denial that what the Pilgrims did was such an event, because it differed from the axiomatic definition. (Ever been to a midwestern church picnic? Did tossing horseshoes and playing softball make it non-religious?) (5) As is repeatedly demonstrated by the writings of the Pilgrims' minister John Robinson, the Pilgrims attempted to pattern their religious activities according to biblical precedent. The precedent for a harvest festival was the Old Testament Feast of Tabernacles, Sukkoth (Deut. 16: 13-14). This harvest festival (as described in the 1560 Geneva translation of the Bible, used by the Pilgrims) was established to last "seuen daies, when thou hast gathered in thy corne, and thy wine. And thou shalt reioyce in thy feast, thou, and they sonne, and thy daughter, and thy servant, and thy maid, and the Levite and the stranger, and the fatherles, and the widow, that are within thy gates." The biblical injunction to include the "stranger" probably accounts for the Pilgrims' inviting their Native neighbors to rejoice with them, although Winslow does not explicitly say anything about invitation. Besides Sukkoth, the Pilgrims' experience of a Reformed Protestant thanksgiving every year in Leiden probably contributed to what they considered appropriate. Leiden's October 3 festivities commemorated the lifting of the Siege of Leiden in 1574, when half the town had died (an obvious parallel with the experience of the Pilgrims in the winter of 1620-21). Lasting ten days, the first Leiden event was a religious service of thanksgiving and prayer, followed by festivities that included meals, military exercises, games, and a free fair. To summarize, the common assumption that the Pilgrims' 1621 event should be judged against the forms taken by later Puritan thanksgivings - whether or not those are even correctly understood - overlooks the circumstance that the Pilgrims did not have those precedents when they attempted something new, intentionally based not on old English tradition but on biblical and Reformed example.

Shenkman has not invented these views. Attempts to be accurate frequently make the same assumptions. For example, the History Channel states that, "the colonists didn't even call the day Thanksgiving. To them, a thanksgiving was a religious holiday in which they would go to church and thank God for a specific event, such as the winning of a battle. On such a religious day, the types of recreational activities that the pilgrims and Wampanoag Indians participated in during the 1621 harvest feast - dancing, singing secular songs, playing games - wouldn't have been allowed. The feast was a secular celebration, so it never would have been considered a thanksgiving in the pilgrims minds."

The identical text is copied without credit on the webpage of the International Student & Scholar Programs of Emory University:

It's worth pointing out that Winslow says nothing about "dancing, singing secular songs, [or] playing games." Those might be intended among Winslow's general term "recreations," but to specify and cite them as proof that the Pilgrims' day was "a secular celebration" is over-reaching.

Thanking Whom?

Assuming the nature of the festival was non-religious, some sites proclaim that there was a thanksgiving, but that the Pilgrims were not thanking God. Instead they were thanking the Indians for the help that had contributed to the colonists� survival during the first year. For example, "Rumela Web" says, "The Pilgrims of Plymouth Rock held their Thanksgiving in 1621 as a three day 'thank you' celebration to the leaders of the Wampanoag Indian tribe and their families for teaching them the survival skills they needed to make it in the New World."

A site that provides Thanksgiving Day recipes and menus says, "The Pilgrims invited the Native Americans to a feast to thank them for all they had learned."

Another site [member account required] provides a psychological analysis: "Not only was this festival a way to thank the Wampanoag, but it also served to boost the morale of the remaining settlers."

Such redirection of the thanks is consistent with the modern assessment expressed in "The Truth about the First Thanksgiving," by James Loewen, "Settlement proceeded, not with God's help, but with the Indians'."

We think the Pilgrims should have thanked the Indians. Nonetheless, while most modern historians explain events without dependence on providential intervention, it is still inaccurate to bend the evidence to suggest that the Pilgrims' attitude was not predominantly providential, and did not result in thanks to God for help received from the Indians.

Bending evidence, plus inventing details found in no historical source, is not a monopoly of the secular interpretation. For example, Kathryn Capoccia's online Sunday School lesson, "American Thanksgiving Celebrations," displays an incredibly imaginative disregard for historical evidence:

"Two weeks before the celebration was to take place a proclamation was issued stating that a harvest festival was to be held, which would be preceded by a special religious service and would be open to both Separatist church members and nonmembers. Everyone was urged to publicly offer gratitude for God's provision. The invitation was also extended to chief Massasoit." [...] "In response to the invitation Massasoit appeared in camp with three braves. Two days later he was joined by ninety other braves who provided five deer, a flock of geese, fifteen swordfish and small sweet apples for the celebration. The ceremonies began on the last morning of the festival [sic] with a worship service led by Elder Brewster. Then ground sports, such as foot racing and wrestling were held, as well as knife throwing contests. The settlers demonstrated musket drilling and shot a cannon volley. Then the feasting began in mid-afternoon at the fort. Everyone was seated in the open at long tables. At the end of the meal the settlers toasted the Indians as friends. The adults exchanged gifts with each other: Massasoit was given a bolt of cloth by Bradford, the warriors received cooking pots and colored beads in strings. The Indians reciprocated with a beaver cloak for Bradford and several freshly killed deer that could be smoked and stored for winter. The Indians presented the children with lumps of candy made from sugar extracted from wild beet plants. When the ceremonies were completed Elder Brewster quoted the Bible as a benediction, 'I thank my God upon every remembrance of you'". This level of fabrication is rare. It recalls the oratory of a century ago, that inspired the balloon-pricking emotions of countless would-be debunkers.

Colored Clothes, No Buckled Hats! My Goodness!

Similarly disconnected from Winslow's version are the common corrections to misconceptions about Pilgrim costume. Numerous sites let us know that the Pilgrims did not always wear black, and some even assert excitedly that it is important that we know about this discovery.

Timothy Walch, writing for History News Services, says, "Finally, it's important to dispel one last Thanksgiving myth — that the Pilgrims dressed in black and white clothing, wore pointed hats and starched bonnets and favored buckles on their shoes. It's true that they dressed in black on Sundays; but on most days, including the first Thanksgiving, they dressed in white, beige, black, green and brown." Surprisingly, Walch talks about buckles on shoes, instead of the common cartoon iconography of buckles on hats (itself an anachronism derived from a brief fashion in the 1790's). While Walch's point about color in workday clothing is true, I'm not sure it can come as a surprise to very many people. Nowadays most illustrations show Pilgrims in multi-colored clothing, often using photographs of the colorful actors at Plimoth Plantation. Even children now in their thirties will have learned about the Pilgrims from pictures showing varie-colored clothing. It wasn't always that way (cheaper books once were restricted to monochrome illustrations), but none of the websites gives a good explanation of the origin of the stereotype - the error is paraded simply as yet another example of inherited ignorance.

Only one genuine portrait of a Pilgrim exists - that of Edward Winslow (now in Pilgrim Hall Museum). Painted in 1651 in London, where Winslow acted as a diplomat representing the interests of New England colonies before various government committees, it shows him dressed appropriately in the very expensive black formal wear that most Pilgrims could not afford. From his portrait, as well as from other 17th-century portraits (that tended to show rich people) history painters of the early 19th century derived some ideas of costume. But they did not restrict their research to portraits of the rich, they also looked at pictures of common people in Dutch genre paintings. In romantic visions of historical scenes, the 19th-century history painters showed Pilgrim leaders in black, but others in a variety of colors. None of the dozen or so history paintings on Pilgrim themes at Pilgrim Hall Museum (the foremost collection) shows the Pilgrims uniformly in black - most wear scarlet, russet, green, ochre, grey, blue, or brown.

However, 19th century Americans became familiar with the Pilgrims through black and white stereoptype engravings, not paintings. At the same time, black clothing had become cheaper to produce and was expected for Sunday-best attire, not just among the wealthy. It was easy to imagine that the Pilgrim leaders as seen in black-and-white engravings were dressed in a way that was nearly familiar.

And, yes, they did call themselves "Pilgrims."

Almost as frequent as remarks about the color of their clothes are the website assertions that these colonists did not call themselves "Pilgrims." James Loewen, in "The Truth About the First Thanksgiving," writes that "no one even called them 'Pilgrims' until the 1870s."

This sort of belief is derived from a common misconception that because the manuscript of William Bradford's journal "Of Plymouth Plantation" was lost from the late 18th until the mid 19th century, no one was familiar, until the rediscovery, with his famous phrase, "They knew they were Pilgrims." The discovery of that phrase is thought to have appealed strongly to the Victorian imagination and to have led to the term "Pilgrims" as a designation for the Plymouth colonists. Bradford, however, was not the first to apply the name in print to these colonists - that was Robert Cushman in 1622 (in the book now called Mourt's Relation). Bradford's own words were excerpted and published by Nathaniel Morton in New England's Memorial, first printed in 1669 (and reprinted in 1721, 1772, and twice in 1826). The term Pilgrim, never forgotten, was used repeatedly in the later 18th century and throughout the 19th century, at celebrations in Plymouth that attracted attention throughout New England if not farther. If Mr. Loewen thinks the word "Pilgrim" was not applied to these people before the 1870's, one wonders what he thinks the local worthies of Plymouth were doing when in 1820 they founded the Pilgrim Society.

The Plymouth colonists considered themselves and all other earnest Christians to be on an earthly pilgrimage to a heavenly goal. Most of them were serious about their faith and puzzled by the presence among them of a few who demonstratively were not. Referring to themselves in that context they used the New Testament image expressed in print by Robert Cushman in 1622: "But now we are all in all places strangers and pilgrims, travelers and sojourners [...]" The full Bible citation, which these people knew and recognized as a text that gave re-assuring self-identification, was this (Hebrews 11:13-16, Geneva translation, 1560):

"All these dyed in the faith, and receiued not the promises, but sawe them a farre of[f], and beleued them, and receiued them thankefully, and confessed that they were strangers and pilgrimes on the earth. For they that say suche things, declare plainely that they seke a countrey. And if they had bene mindeful of that countrey, from whence they came out, they had leasure to haue returned. But now they desire a better, that is an heauenlie: wherefore God is not ashamed of them to be called their God: for he hathe prepared for them a citie."

The foregoing unifying phrase - strangers and pilgrims on the earth - is misunderstood as a dichotomy in George Willison's book Saints and Strangers (New York: Reynall & Hitchcock, 1945). Willison�s Hegelian analysis of Pilgrim history as a conflict between religious fanatics he calls "saints" and disinterested, economically motivated opponents to them, whom he identifies as "strangers," has become a rarely questioned presumed truth, never doubted on the internet. It is basic to Willison's dismissive interpretation of the Mayflower Compact as an instrument of minority control. For Willison, the dialectical tension was resolved by a happy synthesis that bore similarities to the democratic triumph of the American common man over tyranny at the end of World War II. Willison was speaking to people who saw themselves in his description of the Pilgrims, as people who "were valiantly engaged [...] in a desperate struggle for a better order of things, for a more generous measure of freedom for all men, for a higher and nobler conception of life based upon recognition of the intrinsic worth and dignity of the individual." Stirring words, they introduce Willison�s description of the process of conflict that was for him the meaning of being a Pilgrim.

For the Pilgrims themselves, in specific contexts other identifying terms were useful. In their application to move to Leiden, they said they were members of the Christian Reformed religion - thus indicating that they were the sort of people Leiden wanted as immigrants. Distinguishing themselves from Puritans who stayed in the Church of England, they called themselves Separatists. In New England, for legal purposes connected with rights to distribution of the common property and land, the colonists referred to anyone who had arrived before the 1627 division as "Old Comers" or "First Comers." Their general self-identification, however, was "pilgrims" in the New Testament sense. Their first use of the term in America is seen in the name given the first child born in the colony - Peregrine White. "Peregrine" comes from the Latin peregrinus meaning "pilgrim" or "stranger."

[1]Mourt's Relation, published in cooperation with Plimoth Plantation by Applewood Books, Bedford MA, Edited by Dwight B. Heath from the original text of 1622 and copyright 1963 by Dwight B. Heath, p. 82.

[2]Of Plymouth Plantation 1620-1647 by William Bradford. A new edition by Samuel Eliot Morison; First published Sept. 19, 1952; 21st printing Jan. 2001, p. 90.

Thanksgiving on the Net:  Roast Bull with Cranberry Sauce Part 2

The Fake Thanksgiving Proclamation of 1623

The invented secular harvest festival augmented by the redirection of thanks towards the Indians and the assertion that "Pilgrims" was a name not used by the colonists, has become widely accepted. What's to be done? Fake it! Instead of simply pointing out that this version of the past fails to account for the Pilgrims' habitual piety and is thoroughly inconsistent with the documentary evidence, someone has felt it necessary to invent a document that replaces the 1621 purported non-thanksgiving with a celebration that does include all the sentiments and specifications that Winslow's description lacks. Many websites whose authors would like to maintain an emphasis on the Pilgrims' religious attitudes to support their own, quite different convictions now tell a fake story instead.

The cute text, widely circulated on internet sites (or excerpted, for example), is: "William Bradford's Thanksgiving Proclamation (1623)

Inasmuch as the great Father has given us this year an abundant harvest of Indian corn, wheat, peas, beans, squashes, and garden vegetables, and has made the forests to abound with game and the sea with fish and clams, and inasmuch as he has protected us from the ravages of the savages, has spared us from pestilence and disease, has granted us freedom to worship God according to the dictates of our own conscience.

Now I, your magistrate, do proclaim that all ye Pilgrims, with your wives and ye little ones, do gather at ye meeting house, on ye hill, between the hours of 9 and 12 in the day time, on Thursday, November 29th, of the year of our Lord one thousand six hundred and twenty-three and the third year since ye Pilgrims landed on ye Pilgrim Rock, there to listen to ye pastor and render thanksgiving to ye Almighty God for all His blessings.

— William Bradford Ye Governor of Ye Colony"

["Ravages of the savages" indeed! Ye, ye, ye, ye!]

This is demonstrably spurious, as my friend Jim Baker pointed out in 1999. His remarks are repeated by various people - usually without credit to Baker - Dennis Rupert, for example.

The false proclamation does not appear in any 17th-century source - not in Bradford, not in Winslow, not in Morton's New England's Memorial, not anywhere. Internal evidence suggests it is a 20th-century fraud. No mention of Plymouth Rock exists before it was pointed out in the mid-18th century, and the term "great Father" (for God) is a 19th-century romantic quasi-Native term that Bradford never used in his acknowledged writings. There are further anachronisms. For example, in 1623 there was no pastor in Plymouth Colony. Pastor John Robinson was still in Leiden, so services were led by the deacon, Elder William Brewster. William Bradford never referred to himself as "your magistrate" in years when he was governor. Bradford dated documents "in the year of our Lord" - sometimes adding the year of the monarch's reign. He never referred to landing on Plymouth Rock (not even as "Pilgrim Rock") and certainly did not use it as a date-base. The Pilgrims did not imagine themselves as seeking "freedom to worship God according to the dictates of our own conscience." They wanted freedom to worship according to their interpretation of biblical commands, which they thought was exclusively correct - and correct externally to any dictates of their own consciences. Finally, it's amusing that the 29th of November 1623 (Old Style) was not a Thursday but a Saturday (according to the tables in H. Grotefend's Taschenbuch der Zeitrechnung des Deutschen Mittelalters und der Neuzeit (ed. Th. Ulrich, Hannover: Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1960).

While it is often impossible to locate the ancient origin of such internet myths, this fraud is relatively recent. Samuel Eliot Morison was unaware of it when editing Bradford's Of Plymouth Plantation (New York: Knopf, 1952); Eugene Aubrey Stratton does not mention it in his Plymouth Colony, Its History & People, 1620-1691 (Salt Lake City: Ancestry Publishing, 1986). I have not discovered whether it appears anywhere before it made its way into William J. Federer's America's God and Country: An Encyclopedia of Quotations (Coppel, TX: Fame, 1994) and the source Federer gives - David Barton's The Myth of Separation (Aledo TX: Wallbuilder Press, 1991), p. 86. The text has been dropped from recent editions of Barton's book, but that doesn't put an end to repetition of the nonsense, especially on internet sites. A request to David Barton for information on this remains unanswered. On Barton's historical inventiveness, see:

Rob Boston, "Sects, Lies and Videotape: Who Is David Barton, And Why Is He Saying Such Awful Things About Separation of Church And State?" (Originally published in Church & State, 46, Nr. 4, April 1993, pp. 8-12).

Rob Boston, "David Barton's 'Christian Nation' Myth Factory Admits Its Products Have Been Defective." (Originally published in Church & State, 49, No. 7, July/August 1996, pp. 11-13).

Jim Allison, "An Index to Factual Information About David Barton And His Books".

Nicholas P. Miller, "Wallbuilders or Mythbuilders".

That people stressing the religious attitude of the Pilgrims use this invented 1623 "Thanksgiving Proclamation" is ironic. They might have been satisfied with the truth. The 1621 event did express the Pilgrims' religious attitude of thankfulness for God's providence and therefore should be adequate for their modern purposes. Moreover, in the summer of 1623 the Pilgrims held another special day of thanksgiving to God when they considered that their prayers for rain were answered, a drought ended, and their crops were saved. It wasn't in November and no stirring proclamation is preserved. Yet the "secular" interpretive ignorance that denies that the 1621 event was a thanksgiving had triumphed to the extent that someone from among the fundamentally disgruntled must have thought it clever to fight back. It is another question entirely, what the relation of the Pilgrims' religious attitude bears to modern understanding, that would make it urgent to use faked evidence to prove the Pilgrims were thanking God. Obviously the Pilgrims were religious - but what has this to do with anything other than an honest understanding of the past? Their religiosity scarcely provides support for any particular doctrinal viewpoint now; and no one is likely to become religious because it has been proven that the Pilgrims were.

Bartonis interest is to paint a picture of America as a particular sort of Christian nation since the beginning of its colonization. To make the Pilgrims even more religious than is indicated by their own words is dishonest. Removing the spurious quotation is a commendable step in the right direction. Considering that the Pilgrims interpreted their religion to mean that the Christian community bore responsibility to treat the Indians with respect and legal equality (see my book Indian Deeds, Land Transactions in Plymouth Colony, 1620-1699 (Boston: NEHGS, 2002)); noticing that the Pilgrims' laws proclaim that the community bore responsibility for the care of widows, orphans, the poor, and the infirm; and discovering that the Pilgrims' minister John Robinson argued in favor of cautious religious toleration and asserted that the church had no special authority over the magistrate, which he said was required to deal equitably with non-believers as well as believers, I'd be happy to see such Christian principles applied to modern America. Good luck to Mr. Barton and his colleagues in ensuring this happens!

The Libertarian's First Thanksgiving

Fred E. Foldvary has picked up the false 1623 date eagerly and given it a different twist. "The rains came and the harvest was saved. It is logical to surmise that the Pilgrims saw this as a sign that God blessed their new economic system, because Governor Bradford proclaimed November 29, 1623, as a Day of Thanksgiving." That's the opinion of Foldvary, Editor (1998) of The Progress Report and Lecturer in Economics, Santa Clara University.

So - the Pilgrims weren't thankful to God for a bounteous harvest as such, nor were they expressing gratitude to the Indians for help received. They were congratulating themselves on the discovery of the benefits of individualist capitalism!

The Ludwig von Mises Institute in 1999 published Richard J. Maybury's article "The Great Thanksgiving Hoax" (originally seen in The Free Market, November, 1985). Maybury (self-styled business and economic analyst) wants to correct our idealized view of the Pilgrims: "[T]he harvest of 1621 was not bountiful, nor were the colonists hardworking or tenacious. 1621 was a famine year and many of the colonists were lazy thieves." [...] "they refused to work in the fields. They preferred instead to steal food." [...] "The prevailing condition during those years was not the abundance the official story claims, it was famine and death. The first 'Thanksgiving' was not so much a celebration as it was the last meal of condemned men." Then it all changed: "in 1623 Bradford abolished socialism. He gave each household a parcel of land and told them they could keep what they produced, or trade it away as they saw fit. In other words, he replaced socialism with a free market, and that was the end of famines." [...] "Before these free markets were established, the colonists had nothing for which to be thankful." [...] "Thus the real reason for Thanksgiving, deleted from the official story, is: Socialism does not work; the one and only source of abundance is free markets, and we thank God we live in a country where we can have them." So there you have it - neither God's providence nor helpful Indians, just materialistic private profit.

The theme recurs in numerous imitative articles online. In 2004, Gary M. Galles, professor of economics at Pepperdine University, ended his praise of Pilgrim property with a political admonition: "Though we have incomparably more than they did, we can learn much from their 'way of thanksgiving.' But we should also remember that our material blessings are the fruits of America's system of private-property rights and the liberties they ensure, including the freedom to choose our employment and spend money as we see fit. Those rights are under constant assault today, from limits on people's ability to contract as they wish, especially in labor relationships, to abuses of government's eminent domain." Robert Sheridan, who teaches constitutional law at the San Francisco Law School, quotes the full text (from the San Francisco Chronicle) and expertly dissects Galles' underlying assumptions about modern society, in his own article "Thanksgiving Nonsense and Propaganda".

A slightly abbreviated version of Galles' remarks is published by the Ludwig von Mises Institute.

The Independent Institute's website has a similar article that was published for Thanksgiving in 2004 in the Charlotte Observer and in the San Diego Union-Tribune. "The economic incentives provided by private competitive markets where people are left free to make their own choices make bountiful feasts possible," says Benjamin Powell, professor of economics at San Jose State University. "That's the real lesson of Thanksgiving."

Elaborating on Maybury's view of Thanksgiving, Newsmax columnist Geoff Metcalf becomes even more definite: "[A]n economic system which grants the lazy and the shiftless some 'right' to prosper off the looted fruits of another man's labor, under the guise of enforced 'compassion,' will inevitably descend into envy, theft, squalor, and starvation. Though many would still incrementally impose on us some new variant of the 'noble socialist experiment,' this is still at heart a free country with a bedrock respect for the sanctity of private property - and a land bounteous precisely because it's free. It's for that we give thanks - the corn and beans and turkey serving as mere symbols of that true and underlying blessing - on the fourth Thursday of each November."

True history? Does it make any difference? As Kamensky says, "It's true to its purposes."

For the purposes of historical accuracy, nevertheless, I think it's worth mentioning that the Pilgrims' initial system of working the land by changing field assignments each year had nothing at all to do with socialism - it was the consequence of an early and unrestrained form of capitalism whereby the colony, its products, and the colonists' productive labor were absolutely and entirely mortgaged to the London investors, whose loans had to be paid off before any of the Pilgrim colonists could own free-hold property. The colony as a whole and its colonists were indentured. Their contract is now lost; probably it was among the missing first 338 pages of William Bradford's letter-book. The shift away from rotating field assignments did not result in private property, just a modification of the organization of the indentured labor. Private real property came for these colonists in 1627 when a small group among the colonists - the "Purchasers" - bought the debt and the responsibility to pay it off. A temporary monopoly on the fur trade was reserved to them as compensation for their higher personal responsibility and financial exposure.

A Cornucopia of Grievances

So if Thanksgiving was not about the discovery of private property's profitability, not about help offered to the colonists by the Wampanoag Indians, not about God's providence - what was it?

"The first day of thanksgiving took place in 1637 amidst the war against the Pequots. 700 men, women, and children of the Pequot tribe were gathered for their annual green corn dance on what is now Groton, Connecticut. Dutch and English mercenaries surrounded the camp and proceeded to shoot, stab, butcher and burn alive all 700 people. The next day the Massachusetts Bay Colony held a feast in celebration and the governor declared 'a day of thanksgiving.' In the ensuing madness of the Indian extermination, natives were scalped, burned, mutilated and sold into slavery, and a feast was held in celebration every time a successful massacre took place. The killing frenzy got so bad that even the Churches of Manhattan announced a day of 'thanksgiving' to celebrate victory over the 'heathen savages,' and many celebrated by kicking the severed heads of Pequot people through the streets like soccer balls." So says Tristam Ahtone, at 13Moon.com. There were preliminary events before this celebration of atrocity, according to Ahtone. Although the 1621 harvest festival in Plymouth was not in his opinion a thanksgiving, he informs us that "Two years later the English invited a number of tribes to a feast 'symbolizing eternal friendship.' The English offered food and drink, and two hundred Indians dropped dead from unknown poison." This echoes the words of James Loewen (quoted by Jackie Alan Giuliano in "Give Thanks - Un-Turkey Truths"): "The British offered a toast 'symbolizing eternal friendship,' whereupon the chief, his family, advisors, and two hundred followers dropped dead of poison." Loewen places this event in Virginia.

Ahtone's remarks connecting the "First Thanksgiving" with the Pequot War are frequently copied or excerpted, with slight variations. Sometimes it's not Massachusetts Bay responsible, but the Pilgrims. "The next day, the English governor William Bradford declared 'a day of Thanksgiving', thanking God that they had eliminated the Indians, opening Pequot land for white settlement." That proclamation was repeated each year for the next century." This was posted by "Ecuanduero" on the Discovery Channel.com, in 2003.

William Loren Katz, author of Black Indians, A Hidden Heritage, writes that, "In 1637 Governor Bradford, who saw his colonists locked in mortal combat with dangerous Native Americans, ordered his militia to conduct a night attack on the sleeping men women and children of a Pequot Indian village. To Bradford, a devout Christian, the massacre was imbued with religious meaning."

Clearly we should realize that these people were not nice, but just exactly how bad? "Not even Charles Manson and Jim Jones combined could compare with that murderous Doomsday cult — the Pilgrims," says a website article called "The Pilgrims, Children of the Devil: Puritan Doomsday Cult Plunders Paradise." The site calls itself the Common Sense Almanac, Progressive Pages (and claims to be a project of the Center for Media and Democracy).

The story forms the foundation for stirring generalizations. "It is a serious mistake to practice holidays based on a false history," one site admonishes us. "The young people find out on their own that they are involved in a lie, and it makes them rage with fury and contempt. [...]It should surprise no one that after raising children honoring the memory of the Pilgrim fathers, that they grow up to hate freedom as much as the Forefathers did. It should surprise no one that a society that worships the Pilgrims — who ruthlessly scalped the Indians (teaching them how to do it), who indiscriminately torched Indian villages, and murdered their women, children and elders in the precursors of total war, and holocaust — should produce children who grow up to join street gangs, and who seek the experience of murdering other human beings for kicks."

The story told by Ahtone, Katz, and others is derived from a report that surfaced in the 1980's. "According to William B. Newell, a Penobscot Indian and former chairman of the anthropology department at the University of Connecticut, the first official Thanksgiving Day commemorated the massacre of 700 Indian men, women and children during one of their religious ceremonies. [...]"

This version in First Nations News is from an article by Karen Gullo that first appeared in Vegetarian Times, 1982. Newell's material is quoted over and over. Newell, who is described in one site as having degrees from two universities [wow! Fancy that!], was convinced about the solidity of his research: ""My research is authentic because it is documentary," Newell said. "You can't get anything more accurate than that because it is first hand. It is not hearsay." http://www.s6k.com/real/thankstaking.htm

What's not authentic is the claim that William Newell was head of the anthropology department at the University of Connecticut, whose faculty cannot recall him at all. When the department was founded in 1971, Newell was 79 years old. See the letter by department chair Jocelyn Linnekin. And what is completely untrue is the idea that the Pilgrims of Plymouth Colony participated in the 1637 Pequot massacre. Although asked to send military assistance, the Plymouth court did not respond until two weeks after the slaughter had been carried out by a mixed force of soldiers from Connecticut, Massachusetts Bay, and the Narragansett tribe (no "Dutch and English mercenaries"). As Bradford himself reports, the Pilgrims were told their aid was too little, too late; they could stay home. (See my book,

Pilgrim Edward Winslow: New England's First International Diplomat (Boston: NEHGS, 2004), pp. 164-168.)

Is this important? Or is the lie "true to its purposes"?

Thanksgiving on the Net:  Roast Bull with Cranberry Sauce Part 3

The National Day of Mourning

The purposes can best be understood as fitting in with the description of the Pilgrims that animates the so-called National Day of Mourning sponsored by the United American Indians of New England. "The pilgrims (who did not even call themselves pilgrims)" [yes, that again] "did not come here seeking religious freedom; they already had that in Holland. They came here as part of a commercial venture. They introduced sexism, racism, anti-lesbian and gay bigotry, jails, and the class system to these shores. One of the very first things they did when they arrived on Cape Cod — before they even made it to Plymouth — was to rob Wampanoag graves at Corn Hill and steal as much of the Indians' winter provisions of corn and beans as they were able to carry. [...] The first official "Day of Thanksgiving" was proclaimed in 1637 by Governor Winthrop. He did so to celebrate the safe return of men from the Massachusetts Bay Colony, who had gone to Mystic Connecticut to participate in the massacre of over 700 Pequot women, children, and men."

This characterization of the Pilgrims was written in 2003 by UAINE leaders Mahtowin Munro and Mooanum James, whose father Frank James (Wamsutta) made the 1970 protest speech that started the Day of Mourning at Plymouth, Massachusetts. Wamsutta spoke out against decades of inequality in words historically vague and not entirely accurate. He clearly announced the continued presence of Wampanoag Indians to a society that he thought had too often treated them as bygone relics. But his measured anger at real injustice bore little of the demonizing divisiveness championed by UAINE in later years.

From the repetition of Mahtowin Munro's and Mooanum James' remarks in countless websites associated with Native American interests, it would appear that the Wampanoag tribes consider themselves best represented by the UAINE protests. The words of Russell Peters published by Pilgrim Hall Museum contradict this.

Russell Peters, A Wampanoag leader, died in 2002. Who was he? "Mr. Peters [M.A., Harvard] has been involved in Native American issues at a state, local and national level. He [was] the President of the Mashpee Wampanoag Indian Tribal Council, a member of the U.S. Commission on Civil Rights from 1976 to 1984, a member of the Harvard Peabody Museum Native American Repatriation Committee, a member of the White House Conference on Federal Recognition in 1995 and 1996, a board member of the Massachusetts Foundation for the Humanities, a board member of the Pilgrim Society, and the author of Wampanoags of Mashpee (Nimrod Press), Clambake (Lerner Publications), and Regalia (Sundance Press)." Russell Peters expressed regret at the deterioration of the social potential of the Day of Mourning. "While the day of mourning has served to focus attention on past injustice to the Native American cause, it has, in recent years, been orchestrated by a group calling themselves the United American Indians of New England. This group has tenuous ties to any of the local tribes, and is composed primarily of non-Indians. To date, they have refused several invitations to meet with the Wampanoag Indian tribal councils in Mashpee or in Gay Head. Once again, we, as Wampanoags, find our voices and concerns cast aside in the activities surrounding the Thanksgiving holiday in Plymouth, this time, ironically, by a group purporting to represent our interests."

The 1970 event at which Wamsutta spoke was organized by the American Indian Movement, whose leader Russell Means wrote, in his autobiography Where White Men Fear to Tread (with Marvin J. Wolf, New York: St. Martin's Press, 1995), "Americans today believe that Thanksgiving celebrates a bountiful harvest, but that is not so. By 1970, the Wampanoag had turned up a copy of a Thanksgiving proclamation made by the governor to the colony. The text revealed the ugly truth: After a colonial militia had returned from murdering the men, women, and children of an Indian village, the governor proclaimed a holiday and feast to give thanks for the massacre. He also encouraged other colonies to do likewise - in other words, every autumn after the crops are in, go kill Indians and celebrate your murders with a feast. In November 1970, their descendants returned to Plymouth to publicize the true story of Thanksgiving and, along with about two hundred other Indians from around the country, to observe a national day of Indian mourning."

One of the odder results of the "Day of Mourning" is the appearance in a couple of Thanksgiving Day sermons of the unfounded claim that some Pilgrims considered having a day of mourning to commemorate those who had died the previous winter, but that instead they chose to thank God for their continued preservation. This colonization of the protest rhetoric can be seen at Presbyterian Warren [excerpted at] Trinity Sermons.

Genocide

That's a mild contrast to Mitchel Cohen's "Why I Hate Thanksgiving" (2003), now re-duplicated incessantly. "First, the genocide. Then the suppression of all discussion about it. What do Indian people find to be Thankful for in this America? What does anyone have to be Thankful for in the genocide of the Indians, that this 'holyday' commemorates? [...] all the things we have to be thankful for have nothing at all to do with the Pilgrims, nothing at all to do with Amerikan history, and everything to do with the alternative, anarcho-communist lives the Indian peoples led, before they were massacred by the colonists, in the name of privatization of property and the lust for gold and labor. Yes, I am an American. But I am an American in revolt. I am revolted by the holiday known as Thanksgiving. [...] I want to go back in time to when people lived communally, before the colonists' Christian god was brought to these shores to sanctify their terrorism, their slavery, their hatred of children, their oppression of women, their holocausts. But that is impossible. So all I look forward to [is] the utter destruction of the apparatus of death known as Amerika � not the people, not the beautiful land, but the machinery, the State, the capitalism, the Christianity and all that it stands for. I look forward to a future where I will have children with Amerika, and ... they will be the new Indians." See, for some sanity, Guenter Lewy's "Were American Indians the Victims of Genocide?"

Mr. Cohen is co-editor of "Green Politix," the national newspaper of the Greens/Greens Party USA. He's annoyed. (Who wouldn't be - loving nature and living in Brooklyn?) He's also a romantic with an ideal view of Natives living in a pristine environment, rather like the peaceful, ecologically wonderful place imagined by Plimoth Plantation's Anthony Pollard (known as Nanepashemet). "The Wampanoag way of life fostered a harmonious relationship between the People and their natural environment, both physical and spiritual. [...] fighting was just part of the search for harmony when conditions had become intolerable or justice was denied."

Lies My Teacher�s Telling Me Now

The annual clamor of the aggrieved finds significant expression in website materials aimed at providing school teachers with a balanced (meaning non-colonial) view of Thanksgiving. One of the most important and widely copied articles is an introduction to "Teaching About Thanksgiving" written by Chuck Larson of the Tacoma School District.

Originally issued in 1986 by the Superintendent of Public Instruction of the State of Washington, "Teaching About Thanksgiving" is no longer available from that State. It continues to be distributed by the Fourth World Documentation Project and the Center for World Indigenous Studies, among others. I hope it has been withdrawn by the state in response to the withering criticism it received from Caleb Johnson, whose Mayflower topics website presents much documentary material about the Pilgrims.

"The author of the 'Fourth World Documentation Project' lesson plan on Thanksgiving, published all over the internet as well as distributed in printed form, claims to have a strong background in history," writes Johnson. "But nearly every sentence of the entire lesson plan has a significant factual error, or is simply story-telling (making up stories and details to fit within a set framework of given historical facts)." Johnson's detailed, devastating line-by-line corrections attracted the attention of the New York Times. I have seen only one website for teachers that carries the Larson material and that also includes a reference to Johnson's work, and then only as if to provide an alternative to the nonsense they continue to present as the main material. But Johnson definitively destroyed the credibility of the lesson plan - why keep on providing it? Are the lies true to some purpose?

Mentioning that Johnson's work is worth looking at is, nonetheless, at least more generous than the ad hominem attack on Johnson that was mounted by Jamie McKenzie of the Bellingham, Washington, School District.

McKenzie complained in 1996 that Caleb Johnson did not list his own academic credentials that would suggest his website should be considered authoritative. Johnson had, after all, cast doubt on the value of Larson's "strong background in history." McKenzie, on the other hand, did not take the time to compare Johnson's careful quotations of source materials with the slipshod work of his academically qualified colleague down in Tacoma. (Although Johnson's essays are typically not footnoted, having only a source list at the end, Johnson has taken the trouble to re-publish the texts of many of the original documents on his site.) But McKenzie's major complaint in 1996 was that the internet in general did not provide much information about Thanksgiving, and that scholars with credentials were not creating the sites. There's certainly more now, and some of it is provided by professors. If one has doubts about the professor of anthropology William B. Newell, who's been forgotten by the University of Connecticut, there's the University of Colorado's Professor of Ethnic Studies, Ward Churchill, asking us, "what is it we're supposed to be so thankful for? Does anyone really expect us to give thanks for the fact that soon after the Pilgrim Fathers regained their strength, they set out to dispossess and exterminate the very Indians who had fed them that first winter? Are we to express our gratitude for the colonists' 1637 massacre of the Pequots at Mystic, Conn., or their rhetoric justifying the butchery by comparing Indians to 'rats and mice and swarms of lice'"?

And there's the late Professor James Deetz, who thought Thanksgiving only became associated with the Pilgrims around 1900, evidently disregarding the implications of Winslow Homer's famous Thanksgiving Day illustrations in Harper's Weekly, Nov. 27, 1858, Dec. 1, 1860, Nov. 29, 1862, and Dec. 3, 1864, as well as Thomas Nast's "Thanksgiving Day, 1863" (published as a double-page center illustration in Harper's Weekly, Dec. 5, 1863). Nast includes a vignette in the lower right corner labelled "country," whose main praying figure is recognizably derived from the representation of the Pilgrims' minister John Robinson in Robert Weir's painting "The Embarkation of the Pilgrims," completed in 1843 in the rotunda of the Capitol in Washington.

Despite its filiopietistic motivations, the huge desert of misinformation has left Caleb Johnson's work as one of a small number of oases of calm study, equalling the level of the so-called Plymouth Colony Archive Project established by James Deetz, Patricia Scott Deetz, and Christopher Fennell (which, however, despite valuable information about the colony, says nothing significant about Thanksgiving).

McKenzie also objects to Johnson�s "failing to mention some of the information which other sites provide about the Pilgrims taking the Native American corn and digging up and taking things from grave sites." In fact, Johnson publishes all the evidence there is about those issues. Because no evidence supports the inflated claims, McKenzie thinks that the Pilgrims have been "sanitized."

Unsanitized would be the word for Brenda Francis's version. She says that she "read on Binghamton University's website that the Pilgrims were starving and even went so far to dig up some remains of the Wampanoag people and eat them as a means to survival."

This directly contradicts William Bradford, who, after repeating the second-hand rumor that some Spanish colonists had been reduced to eating "dogs, toads, and dead men," proclaims that "From these extremities the Lord in his goodness kept these his people [the Pilgrims], and in their great wants preserved both their lives and healths; let his name have the praise." (Bradford's History "Of Plimoth Plantation" (Boston: Wright & Potter, 1901), p. 165: [subscribers].

The Binghamton site that is Brenda Francis' source has a student newspaper article (Nov. 21, 2003) by Rachel Kalina, who relays that the "Pilgrims were able to survive their first winter partially because of guidance by the natives and because they dug up the deceased Wampanoags to eat the corn offerings in the graves." That's not quite the same as necro-cannibalism.

Quoting from James Loewen's Lies My Teacher Told Me: Everything Your American History Textbook Got Wrong. (New York: Simon & Schuster, 1995), p. 91, the teacher of a course in "Debunking and Dissent" - Colby Glass of Palo Alto College (TX), maintains that "...the Pilgrims continued to rob graves for years."

There are three points of interest here: first, Winslow's description of examining graves (our only source of information) does not support these assertions; second, the corn found by the Pilgrims was not found in graves; third, I'm unaware of any evidence so far found to indicate that corn was included in graves on Cape Cod at all. Let alone that the Pilgrims were cannibals!

In the book now called Mourt's Relation, Edward Winslow wrote that the Pilgrims, exploring, found a path that took them to "certain heaps of sand, one whereof was covered with old mats, and had a wooden thing like a mortar whelmed on the top of it, and an earthen pot laid in a little hole at the end thereof. We, musing what it might be, digged and found a bow, and, as we thought, arrows, but they were rotten. We supposed there were many other things, but because we deemed them graves, we put in the bow again and made it up as it was, and left the rest untouched, because we thought it would be odious unto them to ransack their sepulchres." Passing through several fields recently tended, they came upon a house, from which they removed a European ship's kettle. Next to the house was a heap of sand, which when excavated yielded two baskets filled with Indian corn. One contained thirty six ears, "some yellow, and some red, and others mixed with blue [...] The basket was round, and narrow at the top; it held about three or four bushels." Filling the kettle with loose corn, two of the Pilgrims suspended it on a stick and carried it away. The rest of the corn they re-buried. Two or three days later, they returned for the remaining corn, also finding and taking some beans and more corn, totaling around ten bushels. The following morning they found a much larger mound, covered with boards. It turned out to be the grave of a man with blond hair, whose shroud was a "sailor's canvas cassock" and who was wearing a "pair of cloth breeches." The body was accompanied by a "knife, a packneedle, and two or three iron things." Clearly this was the body of a European. An infant's body was buried together with this man. Reburying the bodies (as was customary in Europe), they continued to look for corn but found nothing else but graves, which, considering their desire not to "ransack their sepulchres," they presumably did not disturb once it was clear the mounds did not contain baskets of corn. Having learned to recognize graves, three days later the Pilgrims avoided disturbing a cemetery. They "found a burying place, one part whereof was encompassed with a large palisade, like a churchyard [...] Within it was full of graves [...] yet we digged none of them up, but only viewed them and went our way." Mourt's Relation (1622) has been republished numerous times. Caleb Johnson has made it available online at Mayflower History.com.

Winslow's words are our only evidence. Nothing impels us to doubt his information that the Pilgrims opened the grave of a European sailor and his child, reburying them after removing from the grave a few items that to a European would not have been considered grave offerings having any symbolic significance. The Pilgrims exhibited memorable sensitivity in refraining from disturbing Indian graves, once they learned to recognize them. They did not dig up graves in order to eat corn buried as grave offerings. There is no indication they removed corn from any graves. The corn was found in baskets whose shape when packed in earth would result in domed pit spaces. There is nothing to support the idea that corn was placed in graves as offerings, although small gifts of corn have been found in graves excavated by archaeologists working hundreds of miles away (the American southwest and Peru, for example).

The amount the Pilgrims found in storage baskets - two or three bushels in the first, and three or four in the second - is a large, bulky quantity. From 1986-1991, I was Chief Curator of Plimoth Plantation. The collections at that time included all the archaeological material from excavations of burial sites in the Plymouth Colony area carried out by Harry Hornblower II and James Deetz, and others with whom they worked. I carried out a detailed examination of the thousands of items in the collections, specifically looking for corn - in hopes of having it studied scientifically so we could replicate the exact type of corn growing in the area in the early 17th century. Although some floral remains had been saved from excavations that included burial sites, there was no corn, not a single kernel. Had it been the practice to bury bushels of corn as grave offerings, surely there would have been some in the materials carefully excavated from these ten Native burials. There was nothing. Neither was any discovery of corn recorded in the careful notebooks kept by Hornblower (there were no Deetz notebooks present, and no published reports). This absence is consistent with the absence of corn among grave goods from several Cape Cod Native burials, recently transferred to Native authorities for reburial, from the Robert S. Peabody Museum of Archaeology, Phillips Academy, Andover, Massachusetts.

Throughout the accounts of these discoveries of storage baskets of Indian corn, Winslow repeats the intention to try to meet the Indian owners and negotiate repayment for the corn that had been taken That was an intention to provide compensation for what the Pilgrims understood would be considered theft if no payment were made. (During the first year, Pilgrims stole corn; Indians stole abandoned tools.) Establishing that neither side would steal from the other was an important part of early negotiation between them. Attempts to locate the specific owner of the corn were ultimately successful and repayment was made (see Pilgrim Edward Winslow, p. 36).

In "Deconstructing the Myths of 'The First Thanksgiving,'" Judy Dow and Beverly Slapin contradict the documentary evidence. They base their comments largely on information provided to them by Margaret Bruchac, an "Abanaki scholar" working in collaboration with Plimoth Plantation's Wampanoag Indian Program. "There is no record that restitution was ever made for the stolen corn, and the Wampanoag did not soon forget the colonists� ransacking of Indian graves, including that of Massasoit's mother."

One may surmise that Bruchac was confused in making the reference to the grave of Massasoit's mother, which is undocumented. Probably what is meant is the removal later of two bearskin rugs from over the grave of the mother of Chickatabut, sachem of the Massachusetts (see my book Indian Deeds, p. 13). It is meretriciously clever, nonetheless, to turn Winslow's statement of respect for the Indians and their graves into a pronouncement about the Wampanoags' long memory of "the colonists' ransacking of Indian graves." The up-to-date construction of "memory" and "oral history" to fit the needs of current political concerns is blatant.

Dow and Slapin end their deconstruction with the remark that "As currently celebrated in this country, "Thanksgiving" is a bitter reminder of 500 years of betrayal returned for friendship."

Alternatively, Russell Peters said, "The time is long overdue for the Pilgrims and the Wampanoags to renew a meaningful dialogue about our past and look towards a more honest future."

Does it matter what of this is true? Was that the wrong question? Who do we want to be in the ever-changing Now? Intrepid demolishers of straw-man myths? Inventors of new myths to serve new political purposes? Historians?

[fascinationcure]

Fan-Fiction Title: "Down on Fascination Street" 

Chapter 1: "A Night Like This (Stay With Me Tonight)" 

Pairing: Robert Smith + Reader.

Word count: 1.896

Warnings: None.

Pilot Recap: Previously Robert and you had something going on last time at work. They openly talked about it to each other and things got clearer for (Y/N), but now the situation draws an even more tense but intense possibility and you're deciding on it... What will happen next now? Why don't we all find out?! Ready for 1st chapter, then? Here we go... 😏

Every minute spent with Robert was like a little bit of heaven for me. Small bits of paradise captured in two perfectly round oceans. They looked back at me from where he sat on the other end of his couch. And it felt like the last day at work again, but the bright colour in them was getting harder to distinguish as it was now completely dark outside and there were only a few small lamps lit in his living room. I knew it had been hours, but it felt like minutes. Jumping from serious topics to laughing within seconds was our specialty and it had quickly become my new favorite thing to do. Apparently for hours on end.

A comfortable silence had arisen between us and he mindlessly looked around in the room. I thought for a second he was searching for a new topic, but he wasn’t. He was contemplating how to form his next sentence, or if he should even say it at all.

“What do you want for breakfast?” he asked, now looking me straight in the eyes. I was confused and laughed lightly at him.

“Why would you ask me that at 10 o’clock at ni-” I questioned but realised, in the middle of my sentence, what he was trying to say. “Oh!” I laughed again, at myself this time. I felt my cheeks burn because I was so happy about his proposition, apparently my body couldn’t handle it.

“Well, what do you have?” I asked back.

Robert wanted me to stay the night at his house. Our relationship was very new and I wasn’t even sure it would be appropriate to call it that yet. All I knew was that we would talk for hours and that we’d shared a few kisses, and that I could not stop thinking about him. So, of course I wanted to spend  as much time with him as he would let me.

“Uhm...” he started to shift in his seat and look around the room again, trying to recall what the inside of his fridge looked like. “Not a lot,” was the conclusion he came to. We both laughed and I nodded.

“Excellent. Pancakes would’ve been nice,” I frowned excessively and he gave me one of those smiles that made my insides clench and squirm. A few of our mutual friends had told me about that smile and how I’m the only one that’s ever been able to prompt it from him. I didn’t know if he knew he did it or if it even was as special as it was rumoured to be, but I didn’t want to bring it up because I wanted it to stay sacred. I wanted to maintain the silly belief that he had a y/n smile.

“We could go out and get some, Sainsbury’s is still open,” he suggested and was already off the couch. I followed.

“Okay,” I chuckled at his spontaneity.

The drive to Sainsbury’s was short and scattered with insignificant little conversations. But my favorite moments were the silent ones, when I got to watch his face without having to focus on anything else. Every little street light flashed on his skin beautifully and passed quickly. The drive ended sooner than I had wanted. He caught me looking at him as he parked the car. He didn’t say anything, and neither did I, but he smiled widely and blushed.

It felt strange to be in such a bright building at 10:15 pm. It seemed like all of Sainsbury’s was completely empty though, which was - equally as strange, but - very nice.

“Are we getting pancake mix, or-”

“No, no, no,” he didn’t even let me finish my sentence before protesting. He looked so cute with his deeply offended expression, his brows pushed together and his eyes wide.

“We have to make them from scratch,” he kept gushing and looked away from me. I just laughed tiredly and rolled my eyes.

“You’re gonna have to do that then. I’m not a morning person,” I whined. The aisle we were walking down felt never-ending but I didn’t mind. I was happy following Robert’s lead as he looked for the groceries we needed, as I wasn’t too familiar with this particular store and where everything was located.

“Well, I am. So that’s fine. You can watch me make them,” he suggested casually and took a sharp right turn. I followed, my eyes glued to his back. I wondered how a back could look so beautiful with several layers of clothing covering it.

“With pleasure,” I mumbled and smiled to myself, presented with the image of him cooking pancakes for me early in the morning. He grabbed a bag of flour and spun around. My body walked as if on automatic pilot, it took a short moment before I managed to stop my feet. I almost walked right into him. He saw an opportunity and took it, grabbing my hand and squeezing past me in the narrow isle.

We held hands for exactly one minute and three seconds. My swelling heart deflated slightly when he let go of it, but I was happy to know holding hands was something we could do now. If I wanted I could grab his hand again, but I didn’t because I was scared. I tried to not chuckle out loud at my silliness, but it was in fact quite ridiculous. He made me feel like such a little giddy school girl.

“I wanna flip some of them though,” I said suddenly. That minute and three seconds of holding hands had been silent.

“Huh- Oh!” he laughed, quickly realising what I was talking about. He often zoned out like that and went to his one little world. It was one of his most endearing qualities; that he could be so in his own head sometimes and oblivious to the world around him.

“Of course,” he laughed. Had he still been holding my hand I imagined he would’ve squeezed it as he chuckled at me.

Seeing another person for the first time in hours was strange. It made me realise how much I enjoyed being with just him. I never missed anyone’s company when I was with him.

I watched him make small talk with the woman at the checkout as he paid. I flashed the cashier a small smile and followed Robert out of the store, helping him carry the groceries. We made it outside to the dark city. I had almost forgotten it was night, having been inside the bright supermarket for a while. It was probably almost 11 pm now, but I didn’t bother to check. Whatever the time was I knew it was perfect for us in this moment.

Within the first few seconds of being back in Robert’s quiet house again we both yawned, almost in unison. Two completely synced laughed followed.

“Yeah, it’s getting late,” he said and glanced at his clock on the kitchen wall.

“You better get some sleep if you’re gonna get up and make pancakes before going to the studio tomorrow,” I said and poked my index finger at his chest. He laughed again and rolled his eyes.

“I can be late, I am the washed up rock star after all,” he joked and shrugged. I loved his humour and the fact it was identical to mine.

“Um, well, you decide where you want to sleep but my bed is probably big enough for the both of us,” he hinted and scurried off towards the part of the house where his bedroom and bathroom were located. I followed him into the bathroom and watched him search through the cupboards and drawers for something. At first I thought he was just trying to seem busy to avoid the slightly awkward atmosphere, with the question of where I’ll be sleeping still hanging in the air, but I soon realised he was actually looking for something. He pulled out a toothbrush and handed it to me with a smile, showing his teeth.

“Thank you,” I chuckled at his cute face.

“And, yes, I can sleep in your bed,” I finally answered Robert’s question.

Soon enough we had brushed our teeth and we were in his bedroom.

“Hold on,” he said. He was suddenly acting a little bit like a nervous child around me as he rummaged through his wardrobe. I nodded and waited. He pulled out a black t-shirt. 

“Here you go, this is very soft,” he explained and handed it to me. I couldn’t hide my laugh. It was warm and filled with an enormous admiration for his soft side. Robert talking about the material of a shirt - and the fact that he cared enough to look for the softest one for me - made my heart bleed with infatuation. He was the biggest sweetheart I’d ever known.

“Thanks, that’s very sweet of you,” I chuckled and he shot a small smile back at me. 

He turned around and this time he really did pretend to be occupied with something, so that he wouldn’t just be standing there staring at me as I changed into his shirt. As his back was facing me and I was sure there was no way he could see me, I put the shirt up to my nose and inhaled. My chest swelled even more. The t-shirt smelled just like his hugs.

I quickly removed my dress, and my bra and slipped the t-shirt over my head. It fell like a short flowy dress around my body and made my soul feel warm. It was crazy how I felt more at home in his clothes than I ever did in my own.

“Which side do you want?” I asked and he finally dared to look at me again. I noticed the subtle scan of my body he did and it made me feel so good. He smiled at the sight of me in his shirt and gestured towards the bed, indicating that I could pick whichever side I wanted. I laid down on the left side of his bed and made myself comfortable under the covers. I saw him take his jeans and sweater off and I tried to not look directly at him. I didn’t know what was appropriate at this very early stage of our relationship. Apparently sleeping half naked in the same bed was. I definitely wasn’t complaining though.

He yawned again when laying down and it made me yawn as well.

“Well, goodnight,” I muttered and when I pulled on the covers a bit I realised we were sharing a big duvet. I began to flip over on my side to face away from him.

“Nu-uh, no no...” he protested and grabbed my shoulder. I let him pull me back and I, gladly, let him plant a gentle kiss on my lips.

“Goodnight,” he mumbled.

I saw his satisfied little grin through my half-lidded eyes and it made me smile as well. I put my hand on his cheek and kissed him again. The second kiss was a little deeper but it was still not very sexual. 

“Night,” I said again and pulled away from him. The last thing I saw before closing my eyes was his smile, and I swore that was the prettiest sight I’d ever seen. It wouldn’t surprise me if it turned out I smiled through that entire night’s sleep.

__________

Posted on: Cureheads Literary Corner link.

Created and submitted by: Charlotte Sometimes.

[mrnerdteacher]

5 Spoiler-Filled Ways “Rise of Skywalker” is the Last Jedi Remake Neck-beards Demanded

“The goal is to not make one half of the fandom happy over the other, it is to make a film that the fandom in general as a whole enjoys. “

These words were taken from the manifesto posted on Remakethelastjedi.com (which somehow never managed to produce a film despite getting over $417 MILLION dollars “pledged” towards the effort (lol).

It is very telling that nowhere on the site does it mention anything about artistic integrity. Or communicating a theme. Or even quality movie making (cinematography, acting, dialogue, etc). Because the Last Jedi meets all those criteria, actually.  The entire crux of the argument against the previous film is “Star Wars belongs to the fans, and you didn’t give all the fans what they wanted, so we’re upset.”

It is therefore pretty deflating to watch “Rise of Skywalker” make so many efforts to undo the brave and controversial changes Rion Johnson made to the “Star Wars formula.” If ever there was a movie to prove Martin Scorcese right, this is it. Not only does this movie refuse to “Let the past die” (as Kylo Ren so eloquently put it), it figuratively and literally resurrects every tired old trope that has made Star Wars such a predictable franchise over the last dozens or so films. Here, submitted for your disapproval, are the “fixes” JJ Abrams made to “The Last Jedi”, despite never actually being broken in the first place.

1) This movie needs a Vader, dammit I love the moment in The Last Jedi when Kylo Ren smashes his stupid dollar-store-knockoff Vader cosplay helmet in a fit of rage. That was the precise moment in which I could tell this film was going to do something different. The villain in this story was going to have a face. And a personality. And be an actual character. But no, said JJ. Make the bad guys literally glue it back together. We need to sell some Halloween costumes, dammit.

2) The Universe Shouldn’t Feel Too Large

Perhaps my favorite plot twist of TLJ was in regards to Rey’s parents: they weren’t anyone special. They were not a Skywalker. Or a Sith lord. Or Jar-Jar Binks’ babysitters. They were just selfish jerks who abandoned their child. But in that pain lies a powerful message: you are more than your heredity. And you determine your own destiny. But no, said JJ. Make her a long lost child of Palpatine. And literally call the previous script a lie. Because a story that takes place across an entire galaxy should really only focus on the same five people. 3) Mysticism is Really, Really Important. Like, SO Important. I loved the moment in TLJ when Yoda burns the “sacred texts” that Luke had been protecting for decades. It was such a fun reminder that belief and spirituality matter very little if they are not followed up by action; particularly, brave and altruistic action. But in case you were one of the few who were actually upset by Yoda disrespecting a relic you never knew existed 20 minutes prior, Rise of Skywalker gives you plenty fancy magic items and abilities to read about on Wookieepedia. Treasure maps in the shape of conveniently found cutlery. Weird diamonds that point the way toward evil, like Captain Jack’s compass. Strange underground rituals that have apparently been destined for a millennia but that can ALSO be changed on the fly to fit the needs of the movie’s laborious run-time. It all comes across like an Indiana Jones movie, and not one of the good ones.

4) Characters Should be Simple and Easy to Predict

Luke tossing his own lightsaber into the ocean. A polarizing moment, but one I adored. It showed me that in this version of Star Wars, people change. They’re flawed. And they don’t take EVERYTHING seriously ALL THE TIME. They are, to put it simply, people. But in Rise of Skywalker, the galaxy far, far away is returned to simpler times. The villain is an evil wizard who wants to do evil because he’s evil. The hero is a symbol of unwavering good who never, ever makes the wrong or selfish choice. The mentor characters are wise and chaste, and the lovable scoundrels have ex-girlfriends on distant planets who are so salty he broke their hearts. It’s classic Star Wars, alright. (aka, kinda boring)

5) Cram in as Many References as Possible

Perhaps the biggest misstep of the Star Wars franchise is the oft-repeated mistake of thinking that establishing connections to beloved narratives is more important than being memorable or original. So we got characters like Jango Fett (totally devoid of personality) and ridiculous explanations for how Han Solo got his name. The Last Jedi was a deeply weird but wholly fresh story, with a strange animal-rights sub-plot and a final battle that didn’t actually take place. But if that was too unfamiliar for you, JJ Abrams is here to throw so many winks and knowing nods at the fandom that they couldn’t POSSIBLY find something to complain about. The number of inside jokes clouding the script are almost too many to count.

6) Be Woke, but not Too Woke

Just to make sure JJ Abrams didn’t lose the new Star Wars fans who were actually excited to see the series defy gender norms, RoS makes a lot of strange attempts at being progressive, but never in the forefront. Half the Stormtroopers have female voices. A new planet of peaceful allies has decidedly Muslim influences. And then there’s that lesbian kiss.But none of these elements are ever important, and are kept just enough on the sidelines that the far right audience can choose to ignore it. Like “Beauty and the Beast” and “Avengers: Endgame,” this movie wants you to think it’s forward-thinking, but its not brave enough to prove it.

And in case you are now feeling the need to “strike me down,” let me end by saying this: I actually enjoyed Rise of Skywalker. Once I realized it was going to be a pretty dumb movie (about five minutes in), I was able to sit back and enjoy the big, loud, occasionally funny, often emotional spectacle. I just wish the good movie that could have been hadn’t been force choked to death by the collective clammy fist of the Star Wars subreddit. 

Oh well. At least there’s one more episode of The Mandalorian...