#those don’t converge often but oh boi when they do: I’m having the time of my life

[why-the-heck-not]

adding Gasoline by Halsey to my coding playlist just bc I think it’s funny to hear the line ”I think there’s a fault in my code” while I’m debugging

[incorrect-ikevamp-quotes]

why does jean warn up to mc so quickly? ikevamp makes it clear that jean is a pretty reserved person and doesn't open up or let people in easily but he seems to let mc in quite quickly and it confuses me quite a bit.

Oh boy, where to begin with this one.

Well, I have a lot of Feelings^TM about this, but I'll try to be concise. Essentially, I think Jeanne doesn't recover in the other routes--or the general storyline--largely because he's just a lot to unpack narratively speaking. And without some pretty direct intervention, he has a hard time healing. MC’s direct intervention was meaningful because it was focused, consistent, and adapted to Jeanne’s specific needs. She also doesn’t make light of his experiences which is key; she fully understands that she can’t fathom what he’s been through. There is a very weighty respect and acknowledgement, a seriousness with which she treats his wounds that’s important.

It’s easy to make this a “why is MC nOt LiKe ThE oThEr GiRlS” but honestly that’s just not the sense I get when I look at all the information available to us. 

That being said, I also just feel like every person's recovery from traumatic events doesn't really look the same? I mean Leonardo’s cptsd isn’t going to operate the same way Jeanne’s wartime/Inquisition cptsd is going to operate. Some people require very individualized healing, others will often require a large scale group effort to lift them up.

Typically people don't ever just get over what happened to them and never worry about it again, either. It's usually a process of coping; the hope is that with time you find healthy ways to deal with grief and move forward. Therapists aren't magicians, they just help people process painful experiences/thoughts. It's honestly up to individuals to find meaningful ways to implement these tactics. 

Tl; dr: My contention is that Jeanne doesn’t open up or choose to stay alive because MC magically heals him, rather his recovery is a convergence of many people’s efforts and hopes that he stays alive. Gilles (he insists that Jeanne must live, asks him to promise), MC (affirms and bolsters that promise), Comte (makes a second life and recovery possible)--and in no small measure Mozart and Napoleon--all make an active effort to buoy him. As people often say, it takes a village to raise a child.

While Jeanne seems to respond most powerfully to MC’s attempts, it feels more like a product of chemistry/compatibility than it does a random cop out. There is no insinuation that only romantic love can heal; after all, MC gets close to him without any romantic intentions at first. They’re just good friends? It’s more that their feelings simply moved in a different direction after a point, which doesn’t necessarily happen all the time. Jeanne is also incredibly moved by Mozart’s love for him as a friend, Comte’s love for him as a father, and even Gilles’ love as a comrade to an extent. If anything, without their input Jeanne’s capacity for romantic love would be questionable at best.

Now, because I can never for the life of me stop analyzing, I have a more large scale outline of my thoughts below. Spoilers for Jeanne’s route:

If we look at Jeanne's life history, he has pretty specific trauma. Most of the harm he endured was a direct result of human rights violations after the war itself. He didn't enjoy fighting and killing people, but he's also very much a man that sees the reality of his position: it's either kill or be killed. His entire goal was to defeat the enemy as efficiently as possible in the hopes of ending conflict, and with his enormous resolve turns the tide. He had no innate interest in inflicting harm, or lack of control when engaging. He isn't pathological about it, and doesn’t dehumanize the other side. He was more "this was an act of necessity, but those are still human beings." So as far as I can tell he has a very strong moral compass and sense of duty, he doesn't show much delusion/confusion in that regard. (Also evident in his conversations with the young orphan boy.) Furthermore, he has been shown to have a sense of humor--cracking jokes with Gilles and boosting morale for his fellow soldiers.

His childhood abandonment is significant (he left his home because he was "not an adequate farmhand and they had no ability to feed all their children") but I don't know if I would consider it a huge trauma point for him. It seems as though he deemed it an act of necessity--not spite. It was simply the way of things, and he couldn't help his wiry constitution. You'd be surprised how common that was once upon a time, tbh... While it's certainly not right or fair, it does appear that in his perception it was the choice he made and he moved on after he became a soldier. Just focusing on what he could do, rather than everything he lacked. For people in his position, they often feel it is useless to linger on what should have been. There’s no time to linger or doubt, life hangs in the balance.

That leaves us with his time under the Inquisition, just before he was slated to be burned alive. I think this is the keystone trauma point for him, because there are a lot of moving parts to his powerlessness here. The first part is that his entire life's mission--ending the war so that people would no longer have to die and/or starve as a result of senseless violence--was just sabotaged. All those years of doing things he never wanted to do (wartime violence) and being forced to leave his family to ensure they didn't all starve, all of it treated like some kind of joke. Like he didn't sacrifice years of his life and sanity to protect a people who were happy to call him a monster and watch him burn alive. The second part is the overt gaslighting and rewriting of Jeanne's personal history (and overall French public perception) for the sake of the King's political agenda. To call him a treasonous danger to the country when he was once lauded a hero. The third portion is the actual physical helplessness of being arrested, starved, and continuously maimed for no reason beyond pure malice. While it's never right to do that to any human being, this was done to a man who prided himself on his stalwart moral code. To abuse and torture him for something egregious that he would never do (at the risk of death) is just another slap in the face to everything he is and believes in.

I just feel like the context clarifies why that period of time would be the tipping point. His entire moral code and life’s work is being called into question and swept aside, as well as his agency? He believes very powerfully in a sense of right vs wrong, what's fair and what isn't fair. Somebody else deciding that for him--and deciding in a way that is openly unfair/incorrect--further makes him lose himself and his sense of reality. A person in that situation begins to doubt if they are good or bad. His belief in god all the more pressing; if he was a good person, why would fate bring him so much suffering? Honorable soldier or not, his blade has drawn so much blood...

People often reference his stilted social skills (and I am of the belief that he is on the autistic spectrum) as a reason why he is so "people-adverse" but tbh? I don't agree. His memories before the onset of this trauma reveal that he was actually a very warm person, and that people were more than willing to fight under his banner. He had friends, and he had comrades--his country loved him. He was the picture of well-meaning civic duty. Just because he doesn’t integrate smoothly into larger social groups or adapt well to socially shifting circumstances, doesn’t mean he just hates people lmao. When people give him the space to exist within his comfort zone and don’t take advantage of him, he thrives. Compounded by that, we also have his actions in the present to further prove what is true and what isn't.

While he is stern with the orphan boy (I'm sorry I can't remember his name, damn it) there is no malice or cruelty in what he has to say. He doesn't punish the kid or do anything out of line. It may not be fair in terms of the adult level of discretion he asks of him, but the kid also didn't have a lot of options realistically speaking lmao. Same thing with MC, she and the orphan boy are nearly identical in how Jeanne treats them. He's a little rough, but the route reveals that his intentions are just a reflection of what he's been through. He truly believes that if a person isn't strong, they won't survive--because his entire life was a series of trying to be strong/reliable because nobody else would. There was nobody to protect him, and nobody to care for him went things went south. It was him and his sword against the world, and even his exceptional skill as a fighter did not protect him from the Inquisition's arbitrary torture. He has lived in a world where good acts can become absolutely meaningless, where following rules and helping people still gets you slaughtered. That's going to take a considerable toll on his mental health: where do you find the will to go on when the next second of your life could mean the devastation of everything that matters to you?

Spoilers: you don't. Or if you do, every minute of the day is a fight to stay alive. That is the point at which we meet Jeanne. Caught in the hellish whirlpool of wanting more, wanting better--but being terrified of the cost. The cost of hoping, only for his entire world to go up in flames again. It's not a small thing, in my view.

If you have any doubts as to whether or not that is the case, I direct you to literally every singular instance in which Jeanne's emotional sensibility goes visibly dark/south. When do these instances happen? When it rains, for one. And when Shakespeare deliberately starts pressing on his sensitivities: about the soldiers he was forced to kill, about the nation that spurned him, how he's truly "wicked" at heart and doesn't deserve to be happy--seconds before flames erupt for the festival. Does that really sound coincidental? I mean lmao. The rain is a painful reminder, but MC transforms that memory into something a little lighter with her bet. He has nothing to lose in her game, all she does is ask for time with him or offers him something if she loses. There's a playfulness there, a restoration of agency and ease that's invaluable to his recovery.

As for Shakespeare's deliberate retraumatization...I can't even begin to explain how damaging that event was. Shakespeare is undermining Jeanne's agency in that he--not unlike the corrupt monarch of Jeanne's era--is twisting Jeanne's beliefs to work against him. He knows full well that Jeanne doesn't feel like he deserves somebody so bright and understanding (we need to remember it's not really a luxury he's had much in life, especially after the war ended). He knows Jeanne has a tendency to impose that strict moral code on himself even more than he does on others. To reaffirm his every worst fear and lurking terror only throws Jeanne into a vicious downspiral. Jeanne doesn't reject MC out of disgust or hate. He rejects her because he literally cannot handle the concept of trying to be happy again, or of burdening her with his constant struggle to move on while he’s in the middle of a bad episode. He knows he won’t be able to stop reliving the past, that every second of his life and breath will be colored by his gruesome memories. He's trying as hard as he can to keep the intrusive thoughts quiet, to move on. But I'm not going to lie to any of you, that is incredibly difficult to do alone.

The next obvious question is, well why can't the other men help him? This isn't to say that they can't--we see how much solace Jeanne finds in Napoleon and Mozart. Even Isaac is gentle with the veteran. But there are limits to how much they can do. Napoleon is struggling with his own wartime trauma, and it's not identical to Jeanne's. Plus there’s a distinct difference in their sensibilities? Napoleon is the type to habitually seek comfort in helping others when he can't help himself, he's not as in tune with answering his own personal feelings and regulating them. (I mean just look at his new ES: he knows what he wants, but it takes a nudge from Isaac for him to go through with it.) He’s very communally reliant in ways Jeanne isn’t; Jeanne is a very private person, and typically prefers one on one from what I can tell.

Mozart is the definition of repression, and if you look at their interactions it's usually Jeanne that's smoothing over Mozart's rough edges. Mozart says as much himself: that he feels like a rotten friend because he knew Jeanne was struggling with a lot of intense trauma, but he didn't know how to unravel it without hurting him in the process. Mozart calls it personal cowardice, but honestly I just feel like they both had too much going on to be able to help each other effectively. (And Jeanne expresses this sentiment too? This idea that he's not angry with Mozart? He knows they're both carrying a lot, he's just touched Mozart cares about him in return.)

Okay, briefly unrelated, but like. Am I the only one that wheezes uncontrollably when Mozart is like "?????? Idk what it is about MC...I don't want her to be scared of me..." in his own main story in the baths. And Jeanne. IS TRYING SO HARD. NOT TO SPILL THE BEANS ABOUT HIM O B V I O U S L Y BEING IN LOVE. THE HILARITY I CAN'T DO THIS. Jeanne was like "yeah....yeah that's rough buddy.......[screams internally, give your boy time Jeanne he's fragile]"

Honestly? That's the thing about Jeanne too--he has incredible self-awareness and hyperarousal-related (I mean the PTSD kind, get your head out of the gutter) awareness to the people around him. He's very, very conscious of the fact that he is surrounded by geniuses when he can't even write his own name. Just because he has the fortitude not to lash out with his insecurities, doesn't mean he never feels stupid or inferior. And it doesn't help when there are people in the mansion who call him--a fucking war veteran from 500 YEARS AGO--nAiVe. He's not naive lmao. He just doesn't know how the world works so many years later, and it's a ridiculously steep learning curve? Leonardo and Comte are nearly 500 years old, but they lived throughout every hour of that time in a linear fashion. It is a big deal to be moved from 1430 to 1890 in the span of a second asynchronously, and then be expected to function without a hitch??? Given the circumstances he adapts well.

That atmosphere--this constant impatience with what he doesn’t understand, his inability to be caught up to speed quickly--is going to hinder his recovery lmao. He feels like a burden most of the time, and agency and freedom are crucial.

Another thing that occurs to me about the mansion's arrangement is that there is a power dynamic, just as any space with people in it has some level of hierarchy (unless you live with miraculously chill people). Jeanne is acutely aware that Comte is the most powerful being in that space, and he is not only hatefully angry at him--but likely afraid too. We have to remember that the biggest betrayal he witnessed in his life was at the hands of a monarch; it was the aristocracy that turned on him and erased the truth. Comte is openly a child that resulted from both that era and that type of lineage, I don't really blame Jeanne for being wary. He intimately knows how willing rich people are to throw normal folks under the bus to suit their ambitions/whims. Comte, while not deliberately threatening, also seems to be painfully aware of this impression he gives off. His "chad persona" as I've mentioned allows him to navigate his life in secret by necessity, but it’s actively damaging to his son. He can't reveal the truth because of Vlad's betrayal, and he's openly unsettled by what it could mean to be honest. Will they wonder about Vlad and find themselves ensnared under his mind control as Charles and Shakespeare are? Will Comte himself be subjected to the mortifying ordeal of being known only to lose them?? That's a risk he isn't willing to take--and that leaves him in a double bind.

What is it that they say, the truth will set you free? This is where MC and Comte come into enormous play when it comes to Jeanne's recovery. One thing to keep in mind is that most of the people in the mansion have their own traumas they're trying to carry, and I feel like a lot of them are unsure how to approach Jeanne. Or if they do, he's very guarded. It takes a lot of consistent effort to get through to him. What does MC do when Jeanne unleashes his harsh worldview on her? She's understandably frightened, but Jeanne isn't malicious (so she chases him around). In fact, he openly avoids and runs away from her--well aware that what he's done is wrong. If anything, he did it on purpose, bringing us right back to Shakespeare's verbal undoing; why does Jeanne attack her in the first place?

LMAO. He attacks her because she essentially says "oh thanks for helping me!" "I am not nice. Watch yourself." "But you seem like a nice guy to me?" "REEEEEE" Does the pattern become a little clearer? When people think kindly of him, his instinct is to shatter that illusion with an impulsive reprehensible act. When people think poorly of him or lash out, what does he do? When that orphan boy starts yelling and screaming, Jeanne is nothing but calm. He explains the situation, and offers the kid a choice, perfectly happy to be the bearer of bad news. This operates on many levels I’m sure, but I have a feeling it has something to do with him being hailed a saint and a war hero only to be tortured and branded a monstrosity (and he probably thinks being a vampire is doubly monstrous). He’s more comfortable being hated because he feels it’s what he deserves in a lot of ways.

Jeanne has a lot of internalized self-hatred because of what he's done, and because of how much harm was inflicted on him outside of his control (he's Catholic and he was tortured, come on this writes itself). If I'm honest, I think that's actually the greater part of why he hates Comte lmao. Comte refuses the very concept of being cruel no matter how much Jeanne lashes out. Sure he lectures him and scolds him, but he never actively limits what's important to him or controls or harms him. Comte fully realizes the tragedy of how Jeanne's life was used by a nation in dire straits, and knows he needs time and acceptance to heal. No matter how dismal or unhappy, Comte doesn't stop--he fully believes Jeanne should have time in his life where he can really live for himself for once. But therein lies the issue, Jeanne doesn't know how to live for himself.

Which brings me to how MC and Comte "heal" Jeanne. I feel like they give him the space he needs to recover, and that's what results in his gentled temperament and happiness. Remember that so much of his main story is MC endlessly chasing after Jeanne. No amounts of his hissing or running or threatening stops her. Even if his refusals are empty of real dislike, they're enough to deter most people. Not MC. She's able to see through to the depths of who he is, and doesn't just use him for her own ends? She actively seeks to teach him (to read and write) to help him settle better in this era, she actively tries to ease his distaste for rain with a well-meaning bet, and she never gives up on him. (Actions mean so much more to him than words in general too, tbh...). Love is more easily defined by work and effort than it is by attraction.

When he has his episode at the festival, sure she's rattled; but that's because she truly believed that he didn't want to be around her anymore. When she notices he really doesn’t want to be followed, she stops like any normal person would. It’s only when she reads his notebook and sees the truth for herself (that he’s given up despite having the same feelings for her) that her determination is rekindled. She doesn't approach him fearfully, doesn't treat him like he's made of glass either. She just wants him as he is--accepts and loves him as he is. Scarred, bloody, exhausted, abrasive, terrified. She doesn't define him by how easy he is to love. That is a huge issue with traumatized people lmao. Because of their maturity, people always just assume they don't need help, or they rely on them to an extent that isn't sustainable. The second they reveal need or that they struggle, people walk away or victim blame them because it’s easier than taking them seriously.

While MC's attempts may be a little more obvious (cherishing his lily field, wearing the hair pin he gave her, careful about his gruesome injury, really listens when he talks about the horrors of his life and accepts that he experienced a level of agony/terror she can never understand, tries to express her feelings no matter his evasion) I think it's also important to consider Comte's large scale effort. I don't say this to undermine MC, I say it because Jeanne's life was defined by a complete lack of security. He left his parents to make their lives easier, he lived in a war that meant life or death any second, and his country's leader branded him a traitor which lead to his endless torture and public execution. Jeanne does not know a life in which safety is the norm. Point blank. He does not understanding going outside and not expecting the worst anymore.

Comte not only understands that level of despair, but treats it with dignity and respect. He fully accepts being hated if it means Jeanne can use that hatred to live on and find a way to heal. And most importantly, when Jeanne begins to move forward with MC and Mozart's help, Comte never once holds it against Jeanne when the truth is revealed. He's not angry, this isn't about reprisal or reparations or revenge. It's just love.

Jeanne doesn't really have a concept of this? His entire life was mostly transactional, defined by strength and efficiency. Nobody gives a damn about your feelings. You either hurl yourself at the problem or die. Nobody is going to help you or carry you or save you. While he may have had a little more support while he was in the military from his fellow soldiers, that support system was ripped away from him during the Inquisition.

One very common sentiment regarding elongated imprisonment and torture is that survival occurs in pairs. It is an undeniable fact that people need others to survive. It is the nature of who we are. Individualism has never proven to be successful, or if it is, its dividends are astronomically minimal when compared to people working together.

What does it mean to be the most reliable, steady person in the room? Usually it just means you don't know how to ask for help when you are no longer capable of maintaining that stance. Napoleon is guilty of it. Leonardo, Comte, and Jeanne all are too. It's part of why MC and Comte's capacity to see what he needs and provide as much as they can is such a big deal. That sort of consistent support (without a constant necessity to beg for help) allows Jeanne to be able to re-integrate into his new reality and find joy. Even if his nightmares and memories never go away, they are now being actively overrun by positive experiences. That's the thing about recovery, really--it tends to be more about drowning out the negative as much as possible and coming to terms with it, than it is about forgetting or never feeling it again. It’s about softening the sharp edges of pain like sea glass.

So is MC magical and randomly got Jeanne to open up? Nah, I don't think so. I think it was a series of persistence and real acceptance of who he is that made him warm up. People really seem to underestimate how deeply affecting understanding is, but that's how damage is undone. Jeanne can't really linger on the idea of his own monstrousness, his unworthiness, a lifetime of misery, when the person in front of him actively listens and cares about him. Makes him laugh and smile and lose himself in warmth for the first time.

If I'm honest, I feel like people also just...underestimate the level of traumatic resurgence that's perpetuated and inflicted by society’s standards in general lmao. This rhetorical structure in which good and bad exist in moral extremes, this idea that people should be able to recover and never experience relapses or periods of sensitivity. The refusal to radically listen to people and their problems, and make active attempts--not matter how small--to mend/ease those hurt feelings. Granted there will always be people in the world who do not want to improve, but I feel like most people want to. It's hopelessness, silence, and stigmatization that remain the true enemies of traumatized/mentally ill people everywhere. And among that population are always war veterans...

[writerssnippets]

Fishy Business

Seal The Deal - Part 2

[read part one here]

It took Caspian three days to find Edgar.

That wasn’t unusual in and of itself. Edgar was reknown for being nigh-impossible to find whenever you needed him most. He was also incredibly lazy, and seemed to have a sixth sense warning him of people in need of his services. So really, Caspian shouldn’t have been surprised, but given his situation, those seventy-two hours were excruciatingly annoying.

Eventually, however, the dark-haired husband managed to find the scruffy fisherman, seated upon the ramshackle piers in the shadiest part of town, where the literal shadows seemed to converge with the figurative ones to create an air of gloom and dismal dilapidation. Edgar lounged amidst the rotting planks like a raccoon in his element, a fishing rod held idly in one hand. His hair was greying, his beard filled with seaweed and fishbones, and his clothes reeked of seafood. People on the docks often joked that he was the origin of the phrase “something fishy”, although they were always careful to only say so when he wasn’t within earshot. Strange rumours circulated the ports surrounding Edgar, features attributed to him ranging from dark magic to almost unnatural luck at card games. Nobody really knew where he lived, or how he earned a living, and many whispered that they’d never once seen him actually catch a fish, despite his constant presence at the shoreline. Caspian knew that most of those rumours were just that-- rumours, idle gossip of superstitious sailors. But he’d heard enough from Natalia to know that perhaps there was more truth to the rumours than most suspected.

And now he found himself hoping it was true, because Natalia’s life could be dependent on it.

“You really don’t give up, eh?”

Caspian started at the sound of Edgar’s voice. It was gruff and deep, and carried a scratchy undertone that sounded like splintering wood-- and on top of that, Caspian hadn’t even realized that Edgar had already noticed him. Part of him still hoped that Edgar was addressing someone else, despite the emptiness of the docks. Perhaps he was merely referring to his fishing rod?

“Oh come on now, don’t tell me you’ve wasted my time these past three days just to turn tail now, pretty boy.” Edgar twisted his position on the edge of the pier so that he could look at Caspian over his shoulder. His eyes were obstructed from sight by a wide-brimmed bucket hat, which cast his face into shadows and obscurity, and Caspian felt an involuntary shiver run down his spine. Yet he knew he had no other option, so he moved slowly forwards, moving to stand beside the fisherman.

“You’re Edgar, correct?” he asked tentatively, and Edgar chuckled darkly.

“That is the name that you sandfolk tend to use when referring to me, yes.”

Caspian suppressed a gasp at the word “sandfolk”, recognizing it as the word that those beneath the sea used to refer to those on land. Perhaps Natalia had been right. Perhaps--

“Whatever you’re plotting, I won’t do it,” Edgar cut into his musings, “I can see those little gears of yours turning, and I don’t have time for your convoluted plan to prank your stupid ship-friends.”

“I’m not-- this isn’t about a prank,” Caspian’s eyebrows narrowed into a frown, “this is serious. I need your help.”

“Well you won’t be getting it, so buzz off.”

There was a moment of silence, and Caspian grit his teeth, determined not to give up so easily. He shifted his weight from left to right, searching for the words to shape his pleas, but it was hard to concentrate beneath the intimidating presence of the gruff man. At last Edgar canted his head curiously, staring at the lanky figure beside him from beneath the brim of his hat.

“You’re a stubborn one, eh?”

Caspian only nodded firmly, not trusting his voice to respond.

Scoffing, Edgar reeled in his line, before setting aside the fishing rod and shifting his position to study Caspian more closely. An amused smile spread over what was visible of his features, his eyes seeming to glimmer in the shadows. His voice seemed to lose its crackly brokenness, shifting into a smooth deep accent as he continued.

“I recognize you now. You’re Nautilyn’s husband, aren’t you? Poseidon, aren’t you lucky she’s not in the Basin right now, what with the anarchy down there.”

Caspian felt the blood drain from his face at the mention of the Basin, the dispair evident in his eyes as he crouched down and grasped Edgar’s shoulder. “What’s going on down there? Is everyone okay?”

Edgar laughed, roughly removing Caspian’s hand from his person. “So it’s true that she went back down there, then? I didn’t think the rumours were reliable. You must be going through quite the traumatic experience, stuck here on land, helpless to save your wife...”

“You needn’t rub it in,” Caspian scowled, clutching his hand to his chest protectively.

The fisherman’s eyebrows raised in intrigue. “That’s why you’re here, then? You think I can magically teleport her back to land? Well my apologies, Prince Eric, I can’t do that.”

“The name’s Caspian,” the addressed retorted, straightening himself out to his full height. Edgar followed suit, and to Caspian’s dismay the the gruff fisherman towered over him, beating his height by at least two inches. “Caspian Halbert.”

“Fascinating,” Edgar muttered with the tone of one who could not care less, shaking some of the dried kelp from his ragged clothes. There was something strangely regal about the way he moved, despite his dishevelled attire and unkempt appearance, and Caspian wasn’t sure what to make of it.

“And I don’t expect you to teleport her up here or anything, I reckon that would be far too much to ask,” the brave brunette went on, “I was just hoping that perhaps... perhaps you could help me get down there instead.”

The old fisherman’s movements froze momentarily, before continuing to wring out his tattered cloak. “What makes you think I can do that, Halbert?”

“There’s rumours,” Caspian continued, hitting his stride as he barelled on, “Natalia-- I mean, Nautilyn-- she thought you were a disgraced wizard. Like Umbrage--”

The tramp’s movements were swift as he gripped Caspian’s wrist, looming over the younger man with a threatening glint in his eyes. Somehow, his breath smelled of a pleasant ocean breeze rather than the reeking stench of rotting fish that hung around him, but Caspian didn’t have time to dwell on that as Edgar interrogated him at a low growl.

“You know Umbrage?”

“Y-yes? I mean, not personally, but Nautilyn’s told me about her. Umbrage was the one who gave her her legs, in exchange for her voice.”

Edgar let go of his wrist just as quickly as he had gripped it, taking a step backwards with a dry laugh. “Still the same old swindler, is she? I’m glad to hear she’s still got some fire left.”

Caspian rubbed his wrist agitatedly, wondering how many more times he’d be manhandled before the conversation reached it’s end. “There’s no denying that,” he muttered darkly.

“So you wish to cut a similar deal, hmm?” Ergar mused, combing his fingers through his beard, idly picking out scraps and bones, to Caspian’s great disgust. “Are you ready to give up your voice too?”

Absentmindedly, the brunette’s hand reached toward his own throat. “My voice--? I mean, surely you couldn’t possibly need that for anything? It’s not even that good of a voice, and yours is charming plenty.”

A derisive snort rang from Edgar’s throat. “Please, sailor boy, don’t lie to me. I’ve been around long enough, I’ve heard you singing sea shanties back in the day. Your voice is an excellent one, and mine, well... it’s overused, Halbert. I could use a change of pace, and your singing voice could earn me a fair penny.”

Caspian clenched and unclenched his fist nervously, trying to think of anything else he could offer, but finding his mind blank. His memories? That seemed almost worse. His sight, perhaps--? No, that wouldn’t do, he’d be useless as a blind fish. He bit his lip, well aware that he had very little options left. He had to get to the Basin, to find Nautilyn and Thames.

“All right, what are the conditions?”

The shoddy fisherman raised one eyebrow. “Conditions? I think a simple trade will suffice-- I get your voice, and you get the means to travel underwater.”

Caspian shook his head decisively. “No, I mean-- with Umbrage and Nautilyn’s contract, she got her voice back when she married the man she loved. Under what condition do you return mine?”

The second eyebrow raised to accompany the first. “You’re proposing to scam me out of my only profit? That hardly seems like a fair deal, Halbert.”

The brunette floundered uncertainly, flailing his arms in a desperate gesture. “Well I can’t lose my voice forever!”

“Then I suppose our deal is off,” Edgar shrugged, “it’s a shame, really, but I’m sure the tyranny in the Basin isn’t as bad as they make it out to be anyway.”

“Tyran-- oh, you manipulative monster,” Caspian growled, feeling the fury welling up inside him, his fists itching to amend the two inches of height difference between them.

“Monster, wizard, tramp, I’ve heard it all at this point,” Edgar shrugged, “they’re all just synonyms for Egregious-- which is my real name, should you be bothered to care, although I can understand why you sandfolk preferred the shortened version.”

Desperation twisted inside Caspian’s stomach like a noose, his fate flashing before his eyes as it tied and untied itself, the knot gripping his insides with nausea. What choice did he have? To wait another year on the shore, while his family suffered Poseidon-knows-what down in the Basin? No, he couldn’t afford to do that.

“Fine. I accept.”

A purple glow shone from Edgar’s eyes as he smiled, reaching out his hand towards the desperate husband. “Then seal the deal.”

Caspian took a slow breath, his mind racing as he tried to think of any last-minute alternatives, but he found nothing.

He shook Edgar’s hand, and sealed the deal.

And so it began.

[part 3]

[wellhalesbells]

✨✨ TOP FIVES FOR 2020 ✨✨

2020 was, i think we can all agree, a massively chaotic year but i have never consumed as much media before in my life, so i thought others might benefit from my slothery uh, connoisseur.... ship?  yes, that.  below are the books, comics, shows, and movies that got me through!

B O O K S .

the starless sea, by erin morgenstern - i loooove this book because it loves me back.  it says: ‘oh, you’re a reader, well i have just the thing for you.’  it luxuriates in language and story and riddles and fairy tales and it feels like an entire library in a single tome.

they never learn, by layne fargo - oh fuuuuuck, this was satisfying.  i thought it might feel a little exploitative as it is very aware of the zeitgeist and likely would not exist without the #metoo movement but it never ever did.  this was a fucking ROMP, period.  reading about a woman getting away with murdering skeezy guy after rapey guy after shitty human just made me happier and happier.

moonflower murders, by anthony horowitz - this is the second in the susan ryeland series (and the first was hardcore good fun too) and really feels very classic mystery with the artful twist of catering to the literary community.  mainly because: susan isn’t a detective, she’s an editor and she gets drafted in this time because the clue to what happened to a missing woman is in a book she edited, if she can find it.  both of the books in this series have such an excellent coming together moment that is rare af to find.

the invisible life of addie larue, by v.e. schwab - the writing in this is just so good.  it has that feel to me where i just want to drop the book and open up my own page and let my fingers fly.  it’s that inspiring kind of writing that reminds you of all the things language can do.

crown of feathers/heart of flames, by nicki pau preto - aaahhh, this series is SO FREAKING GOOD!  why is there not more of a fandom for it, why???? it is so many of my favorite tropes all resting perfectly together to the point where you almost forget they’re tropes because they just so naturally evolved there.  ugh, it’s just.... it’s so heart-bursty good.

.... number 5, part 2?  raybearer, by jordan ifueko - this was just so original and i was invested af.  like, what a brilliant idea though and an even better execution??  i loved every character and am so looking forward to the next in the series so i can get to know them even better!!

honorable mentions (sh*t i still liked a whole heckuva lot): you/hidden bodies, by caroline kepnes // writers & lovers, by lily king // i’ll be gone in the dark, by michelle mcnamara // the faceless old woman who secretly lives in your home, by joseph fink & jeffrey cranor // girl, serpent, thorn, by melissa bashardoust // a little life, by hanya yanagihara // the guinevere deception, by kiersten white // obsidio (and the entire illuminae series), by amie kaufman & jay kristoff // the bone houses, by emily lloyd-jones // house of salt and sorrows, by erin a. craig // we hunt the flame, by hafsah faizal // savage legion, by matt wallace // blacktop wasteland, by s.a. cosby // crier’s war, by nina varela // the empress of salt and fortune/when the tiger came down the mountain, by nghi vo // upright women wanted, by sarah gailey // the monster of elendhaven, by jennifer giesbrecht // a deadly education, by naomi novik // you let me in, by camilla bruce // when you ask me where i’m going, by jasmin kaur // the lights go out in lychford/last stand in lychford (and the entire lychford series), by paul cornell // the devil and the dark water, by stuart turton // serpent & dove, by shelby mahurin // one by one, by ruth ware // ruthless gods (this was SUCH an upshot from the first book - it’s worth sticking with if you’re on the fence), by emily a. duncan // cemetery boys, by aiden thomas // the inheritance games, by jennifer lynn barnes // the fortunate ones (2021 release), by ed tarkington

C O M I C S .

cosmoknights, by hannah templer - the art was gorgeous, the gayness was glorious, and just.... hot HOOOOOOOOT lady knights in space?!  a princess winning her own hand?  find something not to love in there, i dare you.

don’t go without me, by rosemary valero-o’connell - wow. wow wow wow wow wow.  the writing was stunning, so lyrical and atmospheric and deep, and rosemary has to be one of my favorite artists but even that managed to come as a beautiful surprise because it was just so freaking bold.

through the woods, by emily carroll - i loooove emily carroll, the convergence of spine-tingling horror and art that feeds into it, that is both visually and aesthetically pleasing, is hard to beat!  p.s. i also read beneath the dead oak tree from her this year and it was also a BANGER.

the impending blindness of billie scott, by zoe thorogood - zoe is someone that i just want to follow.  she’s just starting and i want to be there for every single step.  i love her art style and her ability to tell a story with it.

above the clouds, by melissa pagluica - this was so unique, and such a baller concept, as nearly half the entire book is conveyed only through the art and yet you’re never once lost, never once confused as to what any character is thinking or feeling.  it’s a story within a story and only one of those gets words though they both are chock full of emotion!

um.... number 5, part 2? crowded, by christopher sebela - everything about this series is fun af.  crowd-funded assassination and a hirable bodyguard who’s rated like an uber driver???  and the chemistry between the two mains is so great and gay!!

honorable mentions: monster and the beast, by renji // long exposure, by kam ‘mars’ heyward // fence, by c.s. pacat // invisible kingdom, by g. willow wilson // ms. marvel, by g. willow wilson // heathen, by natasha alterici // not drunk enough, by tess stone // giant days, by john allison // die, by kieron gillen // be prepared, by vera brosgol // ascender (sequel to descender, which is also great), by jeff lemire // the unbeatable squirrel girl, by ryan north // bang! bang! boom!, by melanie schoen // gideon falls, by jeff lemire // life of melody, by mari costa // cry wolf girl, by ariel slamet ries // the tea dragon society, by katie o’neill // ptsd, by guillaume singelin // heartstopper, by alice oseman // solutions and other problems, by allie brosh // finding home, by hari conner // the magic fish, by trung le nguyen // something is killing the children, by james tynion iv // the weight of them, by noelle stevenson // spill zone, by scott westerfeld // skyward, by joe henderson // miles morales, by saladin ahmed

F I L M S.

parasite, dir. bong joon ho - oh it was satisfying, oh it was suspenseful, oh i had to watch some of it through my fingers but i loooooooved it.  such a good story and so well made.

knives out, dir. rian johnson - okay, everything about this movie was amazing.  every single character was fun as hell and i could’ve watched an entire movie about each of them.  what a great fucking mystery!

blindspotting, dir. carlos lopez estrada -  this made my heart hurt so damn much.  what glorious writing, acting, and story!

portrait of a lady on fire, dir. celine sciamma - gooooorgeous cinematography, amazing chemistry, and such a soft, atmospheric film.

the farewell, dir. lulu wang - i cried and my heart felt so full and i love it so so much.

um.... number 5, part 2? someone great, dir. jennifer kaytin robinson - no part of me expected to love a netflix movie this much but it’s a love story that doesn’t get told that often??  the end of a relationship and the true love of friendship and i love these girls and i love jenny and nate’s broken relationship.

honorable mentions: eighth grade, dir. bo burnham // booksmart, dir. olivia wilde // midsommar, dir. ari aster // the curse of la llorona, dir. michael chaves // the secret life of pets 2, dirs. chris renaud & jonathan del val // jojo rabbit, dir. taika waititi // the invisible man, dir. leigh whannell // the favourite, dir. yorgos lanthimos // can you ever forgive me?, dir. marielle heller // troop zero, dirs. bert & bertie // ready or not, dirs. matt bettinelli-olpin & tyler gillett // brave, dirs. mark andrews & brenda chapman & steve purcell // the half of it, dir. alice wu // palm springs, dir. max barbakow // doctor sleep, dir. mike flanaghan // uncut gems, dirs. benny sadfie & josh sadfie // birds of prey, dir. cathy van // bloodshot, dir. dave wilson // the old guard, dir. gina prince-bythewood // enola holmes, dir. harry bradbeer // hocus pocus, dir. kenny ortega // always be my maybe, dir. nahnatchka khan // finding dory, dirs. andrew stanton & angus maclane // die hard, dir. john mctiernan

S H O W S .

black sails (2014) - this show, this shooooooooow.  i cannot, it just makes me want to cry with how good it is.  the characters, the EMOTIONS, the story, the plaaaaaan.  like, the creators clearly had a plan for every single step of this show and it was a gOOD, GOOD PLAN.

the untamed (2019) - truly, cheesy good fun with one of the best gay romances ever.  i love these characters and their relationships to each other and the way it glories in its own ridiculousness.

the righteous gemstones (2019) - one of the things that bothered me about my next choice (the ratio of female to male nudity) was so much more realistic in this one (i mean, we’ve all gotten five thousand dick pics and i know like three people?  so the fact that there is so rarely male nudity in shows when there are tits everywhere..... no, how does that even make a tiny bit of sense?).  this show was such great, wonderful, awful fun.  they’re not great people and the show is under no delusion about that and it’s GLORIOUS!

the witcher (2019) - this was just hella fun, i loved the characters and the fantasy elements.  i’m excited for the next season, it’s just entertaining swashbuckling through and through!

fargo (2014) - all of this was really very enjoyable with the through line being somebody fucks shit up and gets involved in something they really shouldn’t be involved in that’s going to swallow them whole.  season one and season three were my stand-out favorites but they were all so violent, clever, and vicious!

um.... number 5, part 2? central park (2020) - um..... so many of the hamilton actors in a muscial cartoon drawn and written by the bob’s burgers team? WHAT ABOUT THAT DOESN’T SOUND AMAZING?!  it was such a joy to hear daveed diggs and leslie odom jr.’s voices again!!

honorable mentions: schitt’s creek // the mandalorian // mr. robot // broadchurch // mindhunter // jack ryan // the good place // the end of the f***ing world // big little lies // elite // kidding // servant // letterkenny // curb your enthusiasm // i am not okay with this // ozark // buzzfeed unsolved: true crime/supernatural // you // runaways // dear white people // dickinson // brooklyn nine-nine // will & grace // 9-1-1 // dead to me // solar opposites // never have i ever // killing eve // what we do in the shadows // grace and frankie // avenue 5 // roswell, new mexico // the bold type // evil // tuca & bertie // impulse // the umbrella academy // watchmen // infinity train // corporate // search party // on becoming a god in central florida // a.p. bio // criminal: uk // the morning show // mythic quest // last week tonight // prodigal son // the great

[that-bi-bitch-writes]

P S Y C H (ch.1)

I hate definition intros but it has to be done: The word "PSYCH" is commonly used online and in conversation as a slang term to indicate that something that has just been said or typed was intended as a prank on the recipient or a joke.

Also short for Psychic

Next Chapter

Say what you want about organized religion, but you can’t deny that it is one of the most dangerous weapons on the planet. For centuries people have developed weapons and fought wars in the name of their beliefs. They’ve conquered lands and assimilated nations. Give the people superpowers and there’s no way people don’t die on a daily basis. Unless you give them lame ass powers and call them quirks. God’s funny like that. Most people get run of the mill things like the ability to draw small objects close to them. That way there’s a power imbalance in the world. It’s less chaos if only a select few get the good abilities. Less people question God’s authority that way. Those who get the awesome superpowers are seen as blessed, divine. Honored.  

[Mo.Name] [L.Name] was not blessed. She was liked by God at best. Being an empath, her quirk was not something to marvel at. If she worked hard to develop it, she could use her quirk offensively and defensively or even professionally but she would never be someone who was in charge of maintaining the world order. 

As she grew older she would become disillusioned with God and the blessed individuals that policed over the nations. They called themselves heroes, and a few people were but everything about hero society just didn’t sit well with her. She became a teacher instead and worked with kids with special needs. When they had trouble expressing themselves she could use her quirk to get a feel for what they needed in the moment or she could project enough calmness that they could pull themselves together and communicate without throwing a fit. 

She had a kid at a young age. 30 years old. Not too young and not too old. But by the time she was 35 she was a single mother. Her kid was the best. He didn’t cry too often and he learned how to speak very young. He soaked up information like a sponge and he didn’t develop a flashy quirk like the heroes she felt mild contempt for. Her baby was ignored by God.

Psych.

“No one is born equal. Yadda yadda yadda- How long has he been planning this monologue? No seriously it’s been playing in his head since the day (not really) we first met and I’m kind of bored of it now”

Izuku Midoriya was not a late bloomer. He never got his quirk, he has the extra toe joint, and he was bullied for being powerless. A Deku. [Name] [L.Name] WAS a late bloomer. He got teased a little, picked on. Sometimes people even gave him pitying looks. But it all ended  when he turned about six. There’s that old saying: two roads diverged in a yellow wood. Well one of those roads is for those scorned, and the other for those who who were touched by fire yet never burned. The sinner and the saint. What a traveller wouldn’t know is, that at some point, the roads converge. How else are they supposed to get to the same destination?

Wonder, outsiders..who is on which road? What makes the sinner a sinner and not a saint?

“Using your quirk in public is illegal”

“And minding your own business is free” [Name] bit back. What’s a little telekinesis gonna do? Cause mass destruction? Widespread panic? He just didn’t want to touch the handle on the door. Public spaces are very unsanitary... it’s not like his arms are too sore to do any sort of lifting. Nope. Not at all.

[Name] had unfortunately spent the entire weekend doing his least favorite activity. Physical exercise. Of course with a quirk like his he’d rarely ever need physical strength, but that’s exactly what everyone else would think. And [Name] is the type of kid that wants you to doubt him so he can feel the rush of proving you wrong. It’s a warped mindset but when no one ever expects anything from you, it’s kind of a thrill to see the surprised looks on their faces. A psychic with impressive physical strength would be the same as someone 5’6 (167.6 cm) dominating a sport made for tall people. Like basketball. Or volleyball.

Anyway, [Name] was in the sportswear store, a place he’d rather not be caught dead in, trying to get support for his wrists. Most of his quirk usage was through precise hand movements, a slight flick of the wrist could easily send someone flying. His hands, and by extension his wrists were very important. A punch thrown wrong during training could fracture that oh so important wrist, hence the whole idea of getting wrist wraps. 

For once [Name] was actually being proactive and he was very proud of himself for thinking of the idea in the first place. His eyes glowed golden as he reached his hand out to grab the wraps floating down from the top shelf. The UA exams were in about a week and a half and he had no idea what to expect. So he would train for everything they could throw at him. Even if it meant he had to go back to throwing punches at an oversized bag of sand.

[Name] used his telekinesis so often the drawback was nearly negligible. But if he did overuse it, the damage was a headache that could range from minor inconveniences like losing your chapstick, to a grenade going off in an enclosed space. The big ones weren’t usually the problem. The problem would be somewhere in the middle, because it would cause him to lose control of his telepathy, and once the headache combined with the voices of everyone in a 50 meter vicinity his brain would get seriously overwhelmed. Ultimately he’d be passed out on the ground within 5 minutes. 

For the first year and a half of middle school three times a week [Name] would have fighting training along with weight training, alternating days so that he’d have a break in between each session. This was all pretty much to catch up with his rapidly developing quirk. [Name]’s body wasn’t prepared for the use of his quirk. He grew to the age of 6 doing things normally until his untapped power literally exploded out of him. Talk about damage control. For quirk training he usually offered to help his neighbor who ran a junkyard by lifting cars and other heavy things telekinetically. An unofficial part of the training regime, [Name] would also read other people’s thoughts all day everyday. He said it was to get used to hearing others’ voices in his head. But that was only a half truth. [Name] was just extremely nosy, but he went about it in a casual way. He probably should apologize for the invasion of privacy but he loved every minute of it. Besides, listening to the spirits of others could be considered a god-honored practice.

On the day of the entrance exams [Name] regretted everything. He’d decided to become a hero for fun, less than two weeks prior (the whole reason he went to the sportswear store and started working out again), and by the grace of god he was regretting it. Not because he was nervous he’d fail, at least he wasn’t before he got there. It was just SO loud. He’d gotten better at controlling his quirk since he began using telepathy to eavesdrop but the last time he was in a room full of this many people was the middle school entrance ceremony (which he skipped halfway through because of a headache. By the way how could so many kids sitting in silence be so loud). It made sense, he was not used to having to deal with the noise of people muttering, thinking, PANICKING. And now that his quirk is stronger than what it was before everything felt ten times worse. [Name] leaned forward and tapped the green haired boy sitting in front of him muttering. Not only could he hear the boy’s thoughts going a mile a minute but his mouth was too. The kid whipped around eyes wide and shook nervously. [Name] was about to ask him to quiet down but got confused when he made sense of the kid’s thoughts. 

The kid was obviously a fanboy muttering about Present Mic who was getting on [Name]’s nerves a little with his exorbitant amount of energy. Before [Name] could say anything the ash-blonde near the fanboy spoke up.

“He’s probably telling you to shaddup”

The green haired boy opened his mouth to apologize and then realized he would be making more noise and quickly shut it before nodding profusely. [Name] was tired of referring to them by their hair colors and may have invaded the fanboy’s head for some background information on the two and got more than he bargained for. The fanboy whose name was apparently Izuku, was not only sitting next to Bakugou, his childhood bully, but just this morning he had gained an immense amount of power, officially becoming All Might’s successor. Oh look, two of them would be taking the exam in the same area. Things at UA were gonna get interesting.

[keytomythoughts]

Perfection Imperfections | Chapter 1

Chapter Index 

»»—————————————-　

Finally, summer break. It’s been a while since I was able to go home. Having to attend high school rather far from my home in Seoul, I never thought that I’d adjust to the new environment. Fortunately, I wasn’t entirely alone, since I stayed with my aunt for the four years of my high school life. School wasn’t so bad, but the homesickness is what killed it for me. Even though it was my parents' idea to send me a rather vast distance—me not being too excited about it, but I knew I wouldn’t get my way in the end—there was some good that came from it. The two only good things, actually. 

I glance outside the train window, the buildings of Busan zooming past me. Sure, it may not be my home, but I won’t lie. I’m really going to miss this place. My phone suddenly vibrates in my lap, glancing down to see a text from my group chat, smiling as I respond.

(Binnie)

R u still on the train?

                                                               Yeah have been for the past like 30 mins

(Eunuwu) 

Going back to ur parents? Or r u moving out?

                                                                                                                      Funny

                                                                        Yk I can’t move out, at least not on                                                                            my own. My parents won’t allow it

(Binnie)

:/

What about Jaehyun?

                                                                            Idk, they rlly dc what he does tbh

                                                                       They’re just hell-bent on me getting                                                                                    into the top schools and shit

(Eunuwu)

Damn, rough

                                                                                                                        Mhm

(Binnie)

Try talking to them, u never know

They might change their minds?

                                                                 Nah, I already know how it’s gonna end

                                                                         Me crying and stuffing myself with                                                                           pints of ice cream

(Eunuwu)

Doesn't sound so bad

(Binnie)

¬_¬

(Eunuwu)

Except for the crying part ofc

But c’mon it cant really be THAT bad

I’ve been over plenty of times, they seem nice

(Binnie)

U’ve been to her house??

                                                                         Yeah him and oppa are friends too

(Binnie)

Righttt forgot lol

                                                                  And that’s bc you were there dumbass                                                                    and half of the time ur either in oppa’s                                                                    room or out somewhere

                                                                  Interaction with my parents = minimal

(Binnie)

That sounds awful ngl :( sorry Hyuna

But hey we should all hang soon!

(Eunuwu)

I’ll be in Seoul for the summer too so y not?

                                                                                                           I miss y’all :’(

                                                                   Ok I should be there around like 5 ish                                                                     so I’ll text then

(Binnie)

Aww I miss u toooo 

(Eunuwu)

*puke*

                                                                                           Shut up, ur just jealous

(Eunuwu)

Me? Jealous?? Of what, ur face?

Yea no thx, Ive got a great face already

And personality 0:)

                                                                               Gr8, explains why ur still single

(Binnie)

LOLL

She got u there bro

(Eunuwu)

Shut up

Ur talking as if u’ve got a gf

Idiot

(Binnie)

At least I didnt reject them as coldly as u did lol 

                                                                                             See? My point exactly

                                                                               Your fAcE scared off every girl                                                                                   in sight bc of tht pErSoNaLiTy

                                                                           I almost feel bad for them, u little                                                                             heart breaker

(Binnie)

He made a couple of em cry I heard

                                                                                                                     Rlly?!?

                                                                                                                         YAH

                                                                                                               U MORON

(Eunuwu)

Bin wtf

(Binnie)

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

                                                                                    U JERK HOW COULD U??

                                                                                              Those poor girls omg

                                                                               Im so kicking ur ass when I c u

(Binnie)

Me 2

(Eunuwu)

Wtf?? Y???

(Binnie)

No reason lol, just feel like it

                                                                                         And this is why ily Binnie

(Binnie)

:D <3

(Eunuwu)

GROSS

                                                                                                        Can it u demon

                                                                                                         Read 4:02 PM

I snort, turning off my phone and placing it back down on my lap as I go back to staring outside my left-hand window again. Meet Cha Eunwoo and Moon Bin, my two best friends. The only reason I got through high school how I did without major setbacks. Sure, there was the occasional homesickness and all, but had I not met these two, I probably wouldn’t have even attended and graduated. 

Being so far away from the place I grew up never really suited me, and they saw it right away from day one how lonely and upset I looked. I didn't seem to fit in, especially since I skipped a grade and was placed in classes that were very advanced for me. Not that I minded the vigor, but it was hard for me to socialize, let alone make friends. 

That’s when I met them. Freshman year in homeroom before my first literature class. Moon Bin, a boy with parted, coppery-golden hair accompanied by his shy, puppy-eye smile and sweet nature, offered me an empty seat next to him in class, even going as far as to share his textbook and asking how I found the school. No doubt, I was embarrassed and immensely shy, stuttering over my words and failing to meet his soft gaze. However, he didn’t make fun of me nor find me odd. All he did was smile, laughing lightly at my slightly flustered state. He stuck his hand out, introducing himself (most people just call him Moonbin or Bin) with that smile of his, thus the start of our new friendship. Since then, he became someone who always knew how to cheer me up when I was feeling down. No moment was ever dull with him by my side. 

Eunwoo, the tall, brooding black-haired and charismatic student almost everyone knew (and crushed on) of, was usually with Moonbin when we hung out together, but he normally kept to himself. Though quiet and sometimes reserved with his intimidating looks, it didn’t take long for him to break the ice with us, the three of us becoming close friends. Promising to stay like this until we went to college and beyond. Regardless if we all diverge and tread different paths, we would always converge and come back to one another. 

Four years flew by and graduation was upon us. Just like that, the two became like family to me, my ride-or-die duo. The two who were able to turn my world upside down, finding solace in a time where I thought it was nearly impossible for me to.  

My thoughts are interrupted by my “Move” ringtone—yes, I’m a huge Lee Taemin fan—looking down at my phone again to see it’s my brother calling. I sigh, picking up the call.

“What?” 

He gasps dramatically. “Is that any way to address your loving older brother after being away for so long?”

I snort, shaking my head. “Loving my ass, oppa. How are mom and dad?”

“They’re fine, living. Didn’t you tell them you’re coming home?”

“Nope, I don’t even text them that often. You already know this..”

He sighs. “Yeah, I figured.” 

There’s a slight pause on his end, but he continues. “You took the three-thirty train, right? So you’ll be here around five or so?”

“Yeah, give or take.” 

I look out the window again to see the endless stretch of greenery and flowing springs, sometimes even children playing in the fields. I grin mischievously, deciding to poke fun at my brother when he doesn’t respond right away. 

“What, you miss me?”

He makes a sound similar to throwing up. “As if. I got so used to the peace and quiet. I’m not ready for it to go away.” 

“Yah!” I realize that I had yelled a bit too loudly and eyes were now trained on me, and I bow my head in apology. I lower my voice, “You’re such an asshole.”

“Oh, I know, but you still love me anyway.”

“Shut up.”

I can hear his laugh resonate through the phone and a smile unknowingly tugs at my lips. I wouldn’t say it out loud, but it’s true. When I lived with my aunt in Busan for the duration of high school, I missed Jaehyun a lot. Though two years older than me, he didn’t seem to alienate me the way my parents do. While I hate the notion that they spoil Jaehyun endlessly and let him do as he wishes, I won’t lie and say that he was a prick about it. He could’ve been, but he never came off as selfish. I’m really close with my brother, shocking as it may be. Sibling relationships are like that—one minute you want to strangle them with their intestines and the next you’re singing duets together. Crazy, but that’s how it is for us. My parents don’t really pay me any attention, so Jaehyun decides to do that instead. Not complaining though. I’d rather take his pranking and teasing over my parents’ demands and reprimands any day.

“Aight, I’m heading out for a bit. Text me when you arrive.”

I smile again. “Will do, but make sure to get me food!”

“Let me think…” He hums, and I can practically sense the smirk on his end. “Nope. Get your own.”

“Oppa!”

Jaehyun laughs. “See you in a bit, Hyuna. Get here safely. Bye!”   

He hangs up the call before I get a chance to retort, and I scoff. Typical of my brother. He knows how much I enjoy street food, and every time he goes out, it’s almost certain that most of the time he stops somewhere to eat. Did he ever bring food back? Sure, but by the time I’d get to it, most of it was gone anyways. That only lasted a little while before I had gone upstate anyways, so he had more food for himself, I guess.

As the train barrels down the tracks, I feel my heart racing in excitement, but there’s also a slight ounce of dread. I really don’t know why. I want to believe it’s because I’ve been away for too long, but part of me knows it’s the fact that I’ll have to face my parents again. Knowing that I only have two months to decide where I wanted to go and what I wanted to do, I know the bitter truth is that those decisions won’t be left up to me. Last time, I was sent to Busan.

God knows where I’d be sent to now.

***

“Final destination of the KTX Busan-Seoul train at Seoul Station is approaching and will arrive at 05:30 PM. The doors to alight are on the right hand side. All passengers are requested to dismount the train upon arrival. Thank you.” 

That’s my stop.

Gathering my bag and hand luggage, I patiently wait for the train to pull up at the station. Seeing the familiar shops and buildings around me makes my legs bounce up and down in both excitement and anticipation. 

Four long years away from Seoul...

Before getting off, I quickly text the group chat and then my brother, letting them all know that I’ve reached safely. Side-stepping the other passengers exiting the subway doors, I carefully land onto the platform with my luggage in tow. I breathe in the air around as I stretch my arms up into the sky, the grin widening on my face.

It sure as hell feels good to be back home.

I try my best to maneuver through the crowds, but it doesn’t stop the rush of people knocking into me. At times like these, I curse my genetics for favoring my older brother instead of me in terms of height. Eventually, I come to a clearing and when my eyes glance upwards, I spot a rather familiar dark brown-haired six-foot-tall male amongst the small crowd waving me over.

“Hyuna, over here!”

I gasp, my eyes widening. “Oppa!”

He smiles as I begin walking towards him, my feet hurriedly moving across the concrete. The distance between us shortens and I abandon my luggage as he opens his arms wide. 

Only for me to sucker punch him in the stomach.

He yelps in pain, grimacing as he holds his abdomen. “Shit, that hurt. What has Aunt Sua been feeding you up there? Rocks?”

I smack his shoulder, my blood slightly boiling in anger. “Yah, why didn’t you tell me you were coming?! Do you know how much money I blew off for the bus fare?”

He straightens his back before going to rub his shoulder, then behind his neck.

“Fine, fine. My bad. I wanted to surprise you, but I guess that didn’t work, did it?” 

I cross my arms over my chest, huffing in annoyance. He sighs, nodding.

“Okay, okay, I’ll compensate you. Dinner’s on me.”

At this I grin, blinking excitedly. I grab onto his arm and shake it vigorously. “Really? You mean it? You’re the best, oppa!” 

“Look at this brat..” he taunts, shaking his head. In a flash, he headlocks me and rubs the top of my head harshly with his knuckles, upsetting the neatly-tied auburn ponytail. 

“Yah! Quit it!” I smack his arms and flail in protest, but he chuckles, saying this is what I get for cunningly finding a way to exploit him the minute I stepped back into Seoul. 

What can I say? It’s a talent. 

He lets go eventually, and I try to smooth down my already-tangled hair. I grumble incoherently but Jaehyun pulls me into his embrace, wrapping his arms around me. His free hand gently pats the side of my head in comfort.

“Welcome home, sis.”

I stand there stiff for a second before hugging back. He squeezes me tighter and I find myself smiling into his shoulder. 

“Good to be back,” I whisper. 

We stand like that for a moment before he pats my back a couple of times, us pulling away from each other soon after. He reaches behind me to grab my hand luggage as he shoulders my bag. I tell him that I can carry them just fine, but he starts walking away from the platform to the parking lot. I call out after him as I run to catch up, and I can see the corners of his mouth twitch. Jaehyun leads me to his car, a sleek matte-silver convertible Mustang. My mouth drops open in shock at its stunning beauty, my body forcing itself to remain composed for the sake of avoiding public self-embarrassment. 

He throws my luggage in the back seat before he turns to me, smirking at my expression. “You like it?”

“Shit, do I like it? I love it!” I run my fingers over its metallic surface, the silver exterior gleaming in the evening glow. Grinning, I stare up at my brother who catches my gaze as I stand next to the driver’s seat, my fingers already curled on the handle.

“Can I—”

“No.”

“Please—”

“Nope.”

I pout as I pull my hand away and step to the side. Jaehyun chuckles, rubbing my head playfully before getting into the driver’s seat and starting the car. The engine purrs to life as my brother pulls out his shades and wears them. He looks at me and cocks his head to the passenger seat. 

“Don’t just stand there. Get in.”

Smiling, I quickly make my way over to the other side and slip into the passenger seat. I barely have time to buckle in before Jaehyun speeds off. I scream in fright, but he laughs heartily, telling me to let loose.

With the wind harshly whipping around us, I close my eyes and tilt my head upwards, absorbing the remnants of my childhood in a place I’ll always call home. A place where my heart always feels at ease.

My name is Jung Hyuna. I’m eighteen years old, and this is my story.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 |  

[lone-flower]

#FFXIVWrite2021 entry - prompt: “Debonair” ➤ 1640~ word count ➤ emet/wol established relationship, mid 5.0 spoilers/era

debonair /ˌdɛbəˈnɛː/ adjective • confident, stylish, and charming

        It was the nightless eve prior to the Mt. Gulg operation, all their efforts converging into an allyship spanning Norvrandt, and the completion of the oversized Talos. All that remained was the task of imbuing the automaton with magic — with life — upon daybreak, and the campaign would begin.

        In spite of the recent Sineater peril and subsequent overthrow of power within Eulmore, the pampered citizens oh so fond of their galas and get-togethers had all but demanded a fête be held in honour of their saviors and those who were lost, along with seeking to dispel tensions preceding tomorrow’s battle. All were invited, from the most opulent maiden to the most unscrupulous street urchin, with the slight ulterior motive of better integrating the new-found societal structure of Eulmore; no better way to relate to another than by brushing shoulders, after all. Food was promptly prepared (no meol in sight) and the festivities began in earnest as one and all flocked to the main hall.

        The plaza was positively abuzz once Abarbluom had made his way from the powder room, the more spirited attendants transforming the court into a large ballroom while others opted to remain seated and eat. An impromptu musical band had formed near the storefronts, its members composed of men and women in various tiers of dress, a heartfelt tune teased from their instruments. Children weaved between the crowds while playfully chasing each other, almost certainly looking to eat more than twice their fill with sweets alone.

        He looked over the crowds for a familiar face, linking eyes over bobbing heads and feathered hats with Thancred, who heartily waved back. Both Minfilia and the twins sat at his side, who rose a glass of water in his direction, rousing a smile to Abarbluom’s lips; he dared not envy Thancred’s evening charge as babysitter. He continued to scan about the hall and caught a glimpse of the Exarch himself, rushing out the corridor leading to the Beehive, cane in hand as he pulled his hood over his face in shame. Smoothing down his robes and composing himself, he strode into the main hall and took station beside Urianger, muttering something to him before he replied.

        “The chaste Exarch, at the Beehive?” Y’shtola’s voice. “What will the people say?”

        She had come to Abarbluom’s side without his knowing and gave him a friendly touch on the back, smiling up at him.

        “We mustn’t tease him,” he responded, laced with sarcasm. “The poor man just had the shock of his life.”

        “All in good spirits. An exposed thigh may temper the lad.”

        The two shared a chuckle as they observed the crowds, now sharing a silence. Music and laughter mingled into a single sound that reverberated about the chamber, bringing a tap to Abarbluom’s foot.

        “It’s blinding, you know,” Y’shtola spoke, almost to herself. “That Aether of yours.”

        Abarbluom swallowed. “I almost want to apologise, but I understand that would be quite foolish of me.”

        She turned to him, concern touching her face. “You will tell us when it’s too much, won’t you?”

        “You have my word.” Reassuringly, having absolutely no intention of doing so, betraying the thrumming, encroaching pain at his core. “Care to dance?” he dodged.

        She sighed, gesturing down. “I believe you already have a partner.”

        He was jostled by a small hand tugging at his petticoat then, only to be met with the large pleading eyes of a young Mystal girl of no more than ten Summers, sporting a gown covered in mismatched patches.

        “What a wonderful dress!” he remarked, kneeling to her height, confrontation with Y’shtola sufficiently avoided for now.

        The girl beamed, emboldened. “My mum made it for me, she did, the other kids laugh at me for it but... she said I could wear it today because she says the night time will come again soon!”

        She spoke in that excitable ramble-on way children were known to, performing a wobbly curtsey for Abarbluom who applauded in reply.

        “Well, we’ll show them then, won’t we?” He offered his hand and she took a finger in hers. To Y’shtola, “Duty calls.”

        The girl led him by hand amongst the twirling dancers, their faces a blur in motion. She was at most a third of his full height, but he tried his best to take her hands in his as she stood on his boots, her dress fluttering as they turned about. They fell into a very simple box waltz, the girl giggling and smiling all the while as he spun her round, pausing only to stick her tongue out at the boys who assumedly teased her.

        With a rousing flurry the song ended, and the two parted to bow before honouring the band with a round of applause with the others. It was in the moment or two of silence before the band resumed that Abarbluom had bid farewell to the girl, sending her off with a raise of his hand —

        crack

        — vision clouded with pain, pleasant music transformed into discordant tones, the Mystel confused and anxious, inner voice screaming to get away from the crowds before he, before he —

        Barely composing himself, Abarbluom gave her a gentle pat on the head before excusing himself to the fresh air of the balcony surrounding the plaza, scarcely aware of his own actions; he met with Y’shtola’s eyes wide across the hall, giving a weak smile.

        Rounding the corner which led to the outer terrace, he exploded into a violent coughing fit, haggard breaths racking at his chest. A passing group of Eulmorans looked and laughed, thinking him yet another overindulgent party-goer, leaving to give him privacy. Shining white spattered about the top of his hand as Abarbluom fought to compose himself, fought back against the light inside him.

        His vision clearing and breathlessness passing, he stared down at the slick of fluid as it glimmered, luminous even in the shade, as exhausted tears began to prick at his eyes. Shifting his weight to lean against the wall, he slowly drew a handkerchief from his inner pocket, listlessly cleaning his hands before taking it to his lips. The beams of light bared down on him harshly, assailed with its majesty inside and out.

        “Are you alright?” A chair grated across the floor.

        Abarbluom heard them approach, his vision bleary through tears, now desperate to recover and control himself in the presence of another. He combed fingers through his hair and wiped at his face before the stranger firmly took his wrist in a gloved hand.

        “I’m sorry, it’s nothing —”

        “Enough, quit it.” Commanding. “Calm down.”

        He righted his spectacles suitably to see, finding Emet-Selch looking up at him with a furrowed brow; not in anger, but in genuine sympathy. Abarbluom sighed, arching down to take him into an embrace as Emet kept his hands at the Roegadyn’s waist. They parted, Emet taking a hand to Abarbluom’s cheek as he leaned into the touch, giving a single soothing rub.

        “Come.”

        Much like the Mystal earlier, he was led by hand to where Emet had been, promptly being seated himself as Emet kneeled by his side, their fingers linked together. The shaded terrace had been prepared with a handful of tables, each with a pair of chairs. It was common to enjoy lunch or breakfast out here, with the evening air often chasing patrons inside. Abarbluom shakily took a glass of water at the table to his lips before slumping in a sigh.

        “I don’t think I can do it,” he choked, gazing out at the cliffed expanse of Kholusia and the radiant halo of Mt. Gulg. “Not again.”

        There was a twinkle in Emet’s eye then, scarcely noticeable as he rose to his feet. “It’s too much, is it not?” He took the seated Abarbluom in his arms, pressing his head to his chest. “They ask far too much.”

        “It has to be me,” Abarbluom mumured against the cloth of Emet’s sleeve, eyes fluttering closed. “I can’t fail them - my duty. I already owe so much.”

        Emet paused his gentle ministrations at the words, a pang echoing about his core as he inwardly cringed. “Has the coughing passed?” he detracted, no longer interested in chasing his avenue of interest - for now. It could wait.

        “I feel… a lot better.” Abarbluom replaced the glass on the table, giving him a tiny smile. “This isn’t the first time, I just - I will never get used to it.”

        “Not much longer,” Emet cooed with a peck to Abarbluom’s brow. “A true hero worth his salt must be strong.”

        “And you would know?”

        Emet pulled a soured expression. “Would you dance with me?”

        Abarbluom blinked at the query, the jubilant music from within the plaza finally audible to him once again. “I would like that a lot.”

        He left his seat and pulled Emet into an intimate embrace (a sharp intake of breath), the two slipping into a slow dance. With his palm snugly at the ancient’s slim waist - a single hand almost wrapping entirely around - he dipped his head low, meeting the crown of Emet’s head. They stepped in rhythm to the muffled notes, Emet’s robes unfurling, Abarbluom tenderly dipping him low.

        The song reached its crescendo, and they sealed it with a kiss.

        “How debonair of you,” Emet chided, flustered despite himself. “I’m not some Spring maiden to be swept off her feet.”

        “And I would’ve obliged you much sooner had you approached me,” Abarbluom countered, releasing Emet from his hold and watching him trail away. “Instead of gloomily sulking out here.”

        He turned back to give a sly smile. “You forget, dear hero, how else would I get to be with you alone?”

        Abarbluom would remain absent from the rest of the festivities, inviting all sorts of displeasure from the Scions following his reappearance the following morning, ready for duty.

[rikalovesrice]

Douxie x Reader (#2) - About You!/Remarkable

Reader : Has a difficult home life. You live in the shadow of your popular, straight-A, athletic older sister and often go unnoticed by your parents. You wonder if there’s more to your life, if you’ll ever be more than a forgotten child. If you’ll ever be more than what your parents see you as, what your sister sees you as...what everyone seem to see you as : Unremarkable. 

Then....You meet Hisirdoux Casperan. And one night when you were particularly upset with things at home, you went for a late night stroll and saw him...You discovered that things definitely aren’t as they seem.

And, well....The rest is history!

You’re a pizza delivery girl part-time, often using your scooter after hours and not damaging it at all to assist Douxie, Archie, and Zoe in their late night hunts. You allowed Douxie to take it for a spin one night. Yea, never again. (Explaining all the damage to your manager was a nightmare like Douxie can’t drive anything except a magic ship)

You carry your dad’s old metal baseball bat for good measure (cause, you know, you’re not a freaking wizard).

And so.....

- After dropping off your last pizza, you check the time on your phone. It’s about an hour before Douxie’s shift as Benoit’s ends. You’ve made it a small tradition to hang out there until it’s time to roll. So you cruise over, park your scooter, and head inside, one server already starting to make your usual. You greet everyone kindly as you take a seat on the couch.

- Douxie backs out of the kitchen door with trays full of food and milkshakes. As always, he acknowledges you with a smile. And as always, your heart skips a beat.

- You pass the time by reading a novel you got from Arcane Books, sipping on your hazelnut latte made with almond milk. You feel a light tap on your head and look up from your book to see Douxie leaning his arms on the back of the couch. They’re about to start shutting it down so Doux is gonna start cleaning. You lend a hand, picking up trash wherever you see it.

- For good reason, Douxie allows himself to be the last to leave the cafe every night. You’re texting Zoe when one of Douxie’s co-workers, putting on his jacket to leave, speaks to you.

- “So how long have you guys been dating?”

- Your fingers freeze and you look up, confused. “Um...Dating? Who’s dating?”

- “Uh, you and Doux? You’re always comin’ in and waiting for him, aren’t ya?”

- You hope the co-worker can’t see the heat blossoming across your cheeks. You honestly hadn’t thought about how this looks, you coming in here every night for past week or so and staying until closing. Always leaving with Douxie like...

- “N-no! It’s not like that. We’re just friends.” You hope you sound convincing because it’s true. “Us and two other friends like hanging out after work, is all. Nothing else!”

- There’s a small pang in your heart but you quickly sweep it aside.

- “What are you talking about?” Douxie walks over, looking ready to head out for the night.

- “Uh, n-nothing!” you say, smiling through the awkwardness. Feeling and ignoring the co-worker’s suspicious gaze, you stand up and move to Douxie’s side. “Um, ready to go?”

- “Um...Yea.” Douxie’s a bit perturbed, noticing that you’re flustered as you brush past him and hurry out the door.

- Making the coast is clear, you two round the cafe and head into the near pitch darkness of the alley. Douxie secures his bracelet and wills a ball of blue light to form in his palm, bathing the alleyway in soft light. You retrieve your dad’s baseball bat from behind a trashcan. At the concrete back of various shops, where rows of alleyways converge, Zoe and Archie are waiting.

- You give Zoe a hug and Archie a couple scratches behind his ears.

- The typical arrangement : You drive, Zoe’s tiny self sits on the pizza box behind you, and Douxie rides on Archie, who’s shapeshifted into a horse.

- It’s quiet. Way too quiet. And then, before Zoe can finish yelling your name, something slams into the scooter. You nearly bang your head on the wall as you’re thrown out of your seat and onto the ground. Zoe’s already back on her feet, volts of pink lightning sparking between her fingers.

- You slowly but purposefully get back on your feet, groaning and your head spinning, and set the scooter back upright. Douxie and Archie, now a dragon, are in front of you, shielding you from the threat.

- You hear the bone-chilling sound of congested snarls, wheezing, and clicks. Under the glow of magic, you see the faint shape of white, cloudy, veiny eyes like the undead. Thick dribble oozing from a wide, crooked mouth crowded with rows of needle-like teeth. Claws like icicles for fingers. A tail thicker than your entire body thrashing against the ground so hard you feel your bones tremble. You wonder why the creatures seems to be getting louder. And then, to your horror as you look to the side, you realize there’s two of them.

- “Ghouls...,” Douxie says, the word shaking and breathy, laced with terror. The runes circling Douxie’s bracelet glow brighter. “(Name), you need to get out of here. Now.”

- “Wait, what? No, I’m not leaving you guys!” You take hold of your bat.

- “You don’t understand, (Name),” Zoe says, sounding just as grim. “These are ghouls. And all they want is human fle-”

- The ghouls lurch forward, bashing their disfigured faces into a blue barrier of Douxie’s magic. They rake violently at the barrier and their mouths snap wildly, spit flying, growling and gurgling.

- “Go, (Name)!!” The force and urgency of Douxie’s voice coupled with how hideous and frightening the ghouls really are have you mounting back on your scooter and taking off in the opposite direction. “Go with her, Arch! Keep her safe!”

- The barrier breaks and the ghouls begin to clamber after you. Douxie isn’t having any of that and he quickly subdues one with a rope of magic, engulfing the monster in blue flames for good measure. Zoe surges forward, pink electricity flaring around her, and zaps the second ghoul into submission. 

- Archie’s flying beside you. “What’s going on? What are those things?” You’d seen plenty of scary monsters now but those abominations were a whole other level of horrifying. 

- “Ghouls,” Archie says, anxiously looking back. “They consume and crave human flesh and only human flesh. We must get you to safety!”

- You felt your insides turn to ice. Two adults and one teenage boy had mysteriously and recently disappeared without a trace. Nothing left of them except splatters of their blood. And as the fear of being the next victim crawled under your skin, you screeched to a stop as something leapt from above, landing heavily in front of you. The terror spikes tenfold. A third one.

- Archie immediately goes on the offense, blasting the ghoul with fire before shapeshifting into a bear, tackling the foul creature. “You must go, (Name)!” Archie claws the ghoul in the face. It retaliates with its teeth, biting Archie in the shoulder.

- You speed your scooter past the scuffle. But hearing Archie’s pained cries, you heart clenches and you know you can’t leave him. The ghoul has Archie pinned to the ground, mouth still latched onto and claws raining down on him.

- “Stop it!” you screech, head pulsing wildly with adrenaline as you rush the ghoul with your bat, swinging as hard as you can into its head. It’s enough for the thing to reel back and let Archie go. And definitely enough to make it angrier. Your stomach plummets when it turns its attention to you, but you stand your ground, brandishing your bat. “Leave Archie alone! It’s me you want!!”

- The ghoul howls and goes for you. You don’t know what’s happening. Somehow, you manage to avoid the first couple of swings of its claws. The next things you know, you’re on your side on the ground, your right arm suddenly wet and warm. There’s horrible ringing in your ears. The world is spinning. In fact, you almost don’t even notice the ghoul above you opening its mouth wide, ready to finish you off. Then there’s fire. Fire and fire and fire. It just keeps going and the ghoul tumbles away from you, writhing and yowling. 

- An exhausted Archie shapeshifts back to his smaller dragon form and hovers over you. “(Name)...! Oh no...Oh no!” Archie nuzzles your face. You moan, trying to turn over but Archie carefully lays a paw on you. “Don’t move, (Name). You’re...You’re badly injured...”

- “So...are...you...M’sorry...” You can’t really hear yourself. Lacerations are evident by patches of wet, sticky fur. There’s a cut over one of Archie’s eyes. You black out for a second. And when you wake up again, you’re in someone’s arms. A black sweatshirt against your cheek. A skull necklace. The smell of old paper and cats and burnt cloves.

“(Name)...,” Douxie says, cupping your cheek, his golden eyes wide and swimming. “(Name), you’re going to be alright. I’ve got you...I’ve got you.”

- For some reason, as soon as you register Douxie’s face, your eyes burn with tears.

- “M’sorry....I’m sorry....I...I...” You couldn’t do anything. You got in the way. What were you even thinking? Idiot. Useless. Just...useless as always.

- “Shhh, love,” Douxie whispers, brushing hair out of your face. “It’s alright. Hold still for me.” His bracelet glows and magic swirls around his hand. Douxie murmurs an incantation, touching his fingertips to your head, then to your arm. You sigh in relief as the pain begins to lessen, relaxing further into Douxie’s arms, your head lolling against his chest. 

- Douxie grips you closer to himself. “I’m sorry...I’m sorry. I couldn’t...” Seeing you in this state, he’s reminded in one second centuries of loss. Of bloodshed and violence. Of people fading, drifting away right in front of him. And now you....

- “She’ll be fine, Doux,” Zoe says, resting a hand on his shoulder. “This...This isn’t anyone’s fault. It’s not your fault.”

- “I’m sorry,” Archie says. “I couldn’t protect her...”

- “No, Arch, you saved her,” Douxie says, finishing his healing spell. Douxie holds you closer still. He doesn’t quite understand the squeeze in his heart looking at your sleeping face. You’re so frail. So small in his arms. So, so vulnerable to the dangers lurking in Arcadia compared to himself and Zoe and Archie. And yet...

- “She just about gave her life for me,” Archie whispers, pressing his nose against your temple.

- “You’re so strong,” Douxie whispers above you. “So...remarkable. And you don’t even know it.” Douxie lifts you up, cradling you close. “Let’s get her home.”

Aaaaaaand you decide to take a break from the hunts. Because you’re feeling low and worthless, and also cause Douxie’s worried sick. But after getting into an argument with your materialistic, vain, and conceited sister, you rush out into the night, baseball bat in hand, and end up bashing a monster in the face. Because you don’t want to be like her, even if you feel worthless. 

- “(Name)?!” Douxie says, rushing over to you, already scared for your safety. “W-what are you doing? Are you sure you want to -”

- “It’s okay,” you say, meeting Douxie’s eyes. “I know...I know I can’t do much. But I can at least do this!” You swing at a monster just as it jumps at Douxie’s back, sending it sprawling. Huffing and puffing, you manage a smile. “I’ll do this... with you.”

And Douxie knows you will. He knows you can.

He knows, he sees, how remarkable you truly are.

[writefightandflightclub]

Little Victories: Poe Dameron x Reader

Author’s note: a relatively undeveloped one-shot but but I want it gone from my drafts - so here you go!

Summary: You’ve been trying to move on from events in your past. Could Poe be the one that finally relights that spark in you?

“Sometimes, when the losses are insurmountable, and the wins infrequent, you find that life begins and ends with the little victories.”

Warnings: theme of past SO bereavment, casual alochol consumption, gambling, pining.

Beautiful GIF by @3intheam​

You feel uncommonly relaxed. You have even dropped some of the very particular tension in your neck and shoulders, which you swear you’ve been holding there for precisely 418 days. Yes, you know it’s odd to keep counting. 

You had questioned the General when she suggested you come along this evening - you’d even been angry. You wanted to make yourself useful instead- restocking the ammo, repairing the ships, reworking flight plans. The Resistance may have taken down a dreadnought today but you had learned the hard way that the fight never really stopped. There was a war, and to idle around because of a little victory? It seemed arrogant. It seemed careless.

Truth be told, though, Leia was a tough woman to argue with. Her words rang in your ears even now “You don’t want to celebrate the little victories?” she had snorted, actually laughing out loud. Then, deliberately softening her tone: “Sometimes, when the losses are insurmountable, and the wins infrequent, you find that life begins and ends with the little victories.” 

You’d wanted to scream at her. Wanted to scream that you fought and you still lost anyway. That you still lost everything. But it had seemed unecessarily cruel, self-pitying. Especially after what Leia has lost too. 

“Look, go and try to have some fun. Drink. Play some sabacc. Laugh. Or have a bad time, butt heads with Dameron some more, drink Finn under the table and puke, lose all your credits, I don’t care. But live. I know you’ve had your fair share of battles, Y/n, but if we don’t celebrate the little victories, what are we even fighting for?“

Exactly. Hard to argue with. So, here you are, sat around a table in the converted cargo hold of this rusted-up trawler. Playing sabacc with your new friends, as requested. Poe, Rey, Finn, and black squadron. And you hate to admit it but Leia was on to something. For the first time in a long-time you enjoy a night-off, and you start to let your guard down. To relax. You even let yourself sink just a little into your chair. For a while, you even let yourself forget.

Smiles and gentle laughter warm you, and you’re awash with the background hum of casual banter and jibes flying across the table. At one point, Finn becomes particuarly animated as Poe starts boasting about his dreadnought take down for the nth time. Finn spirals into a rant, as is so often the case, and Poe takes the opportunity, while he can’t get a word in edgewise, to slip out and replenish his beer. En route back to his chair the commander gives your shoulder a gentle squeeze and you turn to see he’s clutching not one but two bottles in his other hand.

“Want one, Y/N?” he asks, passing the bottle over to you. You smile up at him and take it, his hand still lingering on you. You swear just a little bit more of your 418-day-old tension melts away.

“Thank you.” you smile, and he clinks bottles with you. His hand slips away from you and you feel bereft, which is a joke because you know what bereft feels like and how dare you be flippant about it. “I’m glad you joined us.” 

“You are?” you say, trying to sound as casual as possible.

“Yeah, the more people here the bigger the pot of credits I can take home.” he gives you a good-humoured, teasing smile but boy, he knows just how to get your hackles up.

“Oh, it’s on, Dameron.” you challenge as he retakes his seat opposite you. 

The evening progresses, credits changing hands, people getting merry. And you’re actually having fun and it’s all going fine and you haven’t thought about Ettan once and then Finn... Finn has to go and do that.

“So, Y/n, you’ve been with the Resistance long enough now. We need to know. You got a super cute boyfriend? Girlfriend?” Finn asks you outright, wiggling his eyebrows. It’s an innocent enough question amongst friends, of course it is. And it’s not Finn’s fault you’ve never spoken to the squad about Ettan. But the question catches you completely off guard. That’s what you get when you relax, you suppose. “Or, come on -give us some gossip- do you at least have your eye on anyone on base?”

His question sends a wave of piqued interest through the group, eyes converging on you. Poe tenses, trying to look completely non-chalant, but at the same time he leans in and raises an interested eyebrow at you, his eyes half moons as he diligently pretends to concentrate on sharing out the cards for another round.

You flounder, trying hard not to look instantaneously at Poe. At the same time, you inwardly chide yourself for even thinking that; your reaction, your fear in that moment tells you everything you’d been unwilling to admit to yourself. Again, that’s what you get for letting your guard down. You start to let yourself feel things.

Seeing it’s a topic you don’t want to discuss, Poe clears his throat in an over-the-top fashion, shifting everyone’s attention back to him. “Well, me, obviously, everyone at the base has their eye on me.”

“Damn right they do!” Finn launches at Poe again “I know I have my eye on you, because you’re a huge cheat at sabacc!”

Poe rides the distraction, knowing exactly how to set his friend off on a tangent. “Oh, someone can’t take some competition. It’s just like that time on Jimaq.” he says, slamming a palm to the table.

That set Finn off down a whole new direction, another rant, and then soon, the whole table is animated in discussion again. No more eyes on you. Or rather, just Poe’s eyes on you. Now that the coast is clear, Poe checks back to you, kicking you lightly under the table until you look up at him. He gives you a subtle wink and mouths “You ok?”.

You smile at him, nodding your head automatically -of course, you’re fine- and you mouth “thank you.”. Then he just keeps looking at you, his foot, his leg still in contact with yours under the table. Pressing against you. Your skin begins to flush hot under the stare of those whiskey brown eyes, and so you take a sip of your beer and pray that the next round of sabacc commences shortly. 

The thing is, you feel good. You even feel heady and flirtatious, the kick of excitement in the pit of your stomach making you feel more alive than you have since... well. In 418 days.

And then, then you feel guilty. Like you shouldn’t be quite this happy after you lost him, lost Ettan. Like you shouldn’t be happy ever because you’re the one who is sitting here alive and he’s the one who gave it all up to save you. Gave it up so you could live. And every day since had been a battle - a battle amongst the war.

Your eyes swim, momentarily, but then Leia’s words reverberate in your mind. This is what living is. This is what he was fighting for, for you. So you could feel; feel excited, feel happy, feel narky, feel shitty. So you could have these moments.

Because sometimes, when the losses seem insurmountable, the wins infrequent, you find that life begins and ends with the little victories.

“Hey, Y/n, you in?” Poe asks from across the table.

Some rounds you would win, some you would lose, but the little victories had to be worth savouring, didn’t they?

“I’m in.” you say decisively, your fingers brushing Poe’s as he slides some chips towards you. And as you look into his warm eyes you think you might finally be ready to start letting your guard down.

Maybe just a little.

And most definitely starting with him.

[simonalkenmayeris-still-dead]

CC2 - Parallel Evolution

OR did I just read two chapters of infodump?

I’m sure there are writers here, and any writer will tell you, you need to lead with a hook.  And to be sure, a people eating monster is a good hook, but I don’t think we need two chapters dedicated to it.  I don’t think we needed even one chapter dedicated to it.  

Tell us you eat people, then move on.

However, in a controversial choice, Simon has decided chapter two should be just a little more introduction.

Since we know how much he hates vampires, I decided to compare the length of his introduction to the length of Bella’s introduction in Twilight.  Unfortunately, I couldn’t find my copy of Twilight, so I had to go with the next best thing.  50 Shades.

50 Shades opens with Ana looking at herself in the mirror because she needs to describe herself for us.  Very similar to The Creature’s Cookbook already, opening with a description of the protagonist.

The introduction to Ana is only two paragraphs long.  In it we learn what Ana looks like, that sleeping with her hair wet makes it impossible to deal with in the morning (this is integrated characterisation, even EL James can do it), that she’s at university with exams to cram for, and she’s about to go interview Christian Grey.  And that her flatmate Kate persuaded her to do the interview because she’s sick.

Simon takes two chapters to tell us he’s a monster who eats people, and he’s a hoarder.

Let’s see what he has to say.

Parallel evolution (No, not convergent evolution. That’s another topic) is a scientific term: two species that are seemingly, but not actually related, growing alongside one another.

Here’s a tip, don’t tell us what you googled to remember the phrase you’re looking for.  You might have got convergent and parallel evolution mixed up, but not everyone does, so don’t mention convergent evolution!  

This part of the book is kinda hard to talk about, because there’s honestly nothing happening.  It’s just Simon lecturing at you, and often lecturing inaccurately.  The part when he gets race and species mixed up is honestly a yikes moment.  Saying we never know our genetic makeup, yet call everyone human is an amazing failure of logic from a character who claims to excel at it.

We are your only predator, so when you thrive, we feast. We have always been an adversary to you, and thus, we evolved to be unobserved

I don’t really know that much about apex predators, except that they’re supposed to prevent complete destruction of an ecosystem by animals lower down the food chain.  So if the Cousins are an apex predator, they’re not doing well at it, since humans are basically ravaging the earth (that would actually have been a good premise for this story, though).

I also object to framing biological processes as adversarial. Biological processes have no agenda.

When I opened my eyes for the first time, it was to stand up from a sticky pool of blood and gaze about in recognition.

This chapter is all over the place, and I found it hard to read because of this.  I actually tried to get through it three times yesterday.  For example, this little flashback implies that maybe the story is about to start, but oh no! It’s actually just another prompt for Simon to talk about how he’s different from us.

I didn’t need to read 14 pages of this (including the previous chapter).  It’s too much.  It’s why I’ve always said I don’t want to subject myself to reading this book.

And the majority of this is stuff that the author should be able to integrate elsewhere in the narrative.  Or if they can’t, it doesn’t need to be there.

Just as an example, I’m doing some worldbuilding right now.  I have a folder on my computer with a bunch of documents in it.  I know most of those ideas won’t be explicit in the final work.  But that’s okay, because it’s like the foundation of a building.  Even if you don’t see it, it’s a good idea to have one.

And just looking over this chapter, it really hits like the author wrote it because they feel the need to justify Simon’s – the character’s – actions.

Nine times out of ten, I take a solitary man who often carries a weapon or is under the influence, but I do not discriminate. I have hunted women. I have even captured a teenage boy hitchhiking away from a juvenile record and an outstanding warrant.

Maybe I’m biased but following up “I do not discriminate” with how you usually target people who are largely considered the dregs of society seems like you’re trying to make a point to me.

It is really quite remarkable considering the lengths a man used to go to to have his one knife sharpened at a whetstone.

The person writing Simon really has some remarkable ideas of what life has been like throughout history.

I invested very carefully, in what we now call utilities and viable nascent technologies and simply did not budge. Like Xerox, Apple, Google.

Okay here’s the problem I have with this.  Apple was unsuccessful for years.  Even if you invested in it, you probably wouldn’t want to keep that investment - unless you were Agnes Nutter’s descendant. 

When I was a kid, Apple computers were what schools had because they were cheap.  

Apple didn’t become a prestigious brand until like, the 2000s or something. IBM, meanwhile, were super successful.  And if you can’t give up on Steve Jobs, he owned Pixar, which was already successful in the mid 90s.

This chapter just irritates me, but I’ve managed to keep this breakdown down to just over 2 pages this time, which I think is a win for us all.

[cyndecreativity]

Zodiac Chronicles - Trouble in Tauri - Ch. 1

Trampled paths carved through a thin layer of snow in two opposite directions, converging on a small schoolhouse that rested by a stream. The wider path led between a pair of farms and into the village proper a few miles off. The smaller path consisted of only one set of very large tracks, boot prints of an unusual size, that led to the small stream and back to the door. Tristan eyed his large tracks as he closed the schoolhouse door and hoped the midday sun might melt the snow enough to obscure them.

Tristan backed away from the door and turned slowly, careful not to bump his horns on the doorframe or any of the other students. The villager children paid him no mind, hanging their heavy woolen coats, hats, and other cold weather gear on the hooks in the mudroom. Several of the girls even seemed happy to see each other, giggling and shrieking with glee, leaning to whisper conspiratorially as they headed to their seats.

The young ones, the calves, moved awkwardly, as calves do, and climbed onto the benches to hang their scarves and hats up. Some preferred to stuff their things into the bins below the benches. After the removal of their hats, one of the calves became surrounded. Tristan just barely made out their young pronunciations of shock and amazement at the nubs protruding from the center one’s scalp. It would be several years for the nubs to turn into anything even resembling horns, but with the arrival of the nubs, that calf become the coolest and most mature among the herd. He reflected on his brief moment of approval when his nubs arrived. And struggled to forget the subsequent frustration and terror from his peers as the nubs grew larger and longer than normal.

Struggling against the memory, Tristan frowned and dropped off his gear on his half of the mudroom. The boys of the class lingered to remove their gear. Ladies first, as the manners say, and the calves have little sense of propriety. Tristan gathered his materials for class, plus an ancient Herbology almanac.

“We didn’t think you’d make it today, Jorgus. Are you okay? What happened to your father?” Tristan’s ear perked up at the voice of one of the other boys.

“Doesn’t really concern you, does it, Seamus.” A thud as the Jorgus, a gangly bull with fresh horns in his brown hair, threw his bag down on the bench under his hook.

Tristan turned and watched Seamus, a sturdy young bull with black hair and a square jaw, furrow his brow. “I’d think it concerns all of us! The attacks have been happening more often, yeah? And with all our Dads-”

Jorgus growled and tilted his head, jerking his horns with agitation. “Seamus, just drop it, okay?”

Seamus shared a look with the other boys, Jorgus’s usual group, and nodded. “We’ll… catch up on the way home, then?” He did his best to sound optimistic.

Tristan watched the boys turn away one by one to leave Jorgus to finish. Mortimer, the youngest among them, his hair still almost white, received a light whack from one of the other boys. Jorgus turned to check on their departure and caught Tristan’s prying eye. He sneered and tilted his horns at him. Tristan started and jerked back to his own preparations.

Part of him wished he could walk home with those boys, to make a group of friends and… do whatever friends do together. He wished he could talk about the orchard with them, about the plants along the path, about their crops, and the state of their land. He wanted to make friends his own age. But he knew how he looked, how they all looked more like his younger siblings. Not just because of his incredible size, but the older Lunars, those that heard the voices, told him he had aged far too quickly, gaining a few years in a few months as a babe. Blessed by the Spirits, they called it. He called it a curse.

He took the last bench at the table in the back left of the large open schoolhouse. This area in the back typically held the eldest students, the ones closer to the front reserved for the younger calves, or most in danger academically. He held the bench in the back for years simply due to his size, too large to sit anywhere else in the room. He might block the view of the other students was the official reason, but mostly he took up a desk and a half on a good day.

Unbidden, he remembered vividly the pain in his chest the day the girl he typically sat next to, perhaps eleven at the time, had complained before class that he had crushed her hand when attempting to use his ink and bone splinter. He barely remembered swinging his arm out far enough to touch her. The teacher had simply calmed the girl down and offered him the bench in the back. As he moved, he watched the girl’s best friend eagerly move up to take his seat with no objections from the teacher. He sat in the middle of the bench and spread out comfortably over the two-desk wide table. He felt his size for the first time and tears stung at his eyes. He looked up as Miss Shaunessy moved to the blackboard and continued with class, though not without offering an apologetic smile. That remained his table for the following four years.

The aging Taurus woman, not old, but not as young as she used to be, walked down the center aisle of the classroom. Wrinkles threatened at the corners of her eyes, a few locks of silvery hair threaded into her hair buns under each horn. She assessed the youngest calves first and shot harsh glances to the gossiping girls as he walked by. At the head of the room once again, she smiled to the class and listed off her plans for lessons that day. Calves first, as their attention span dwindled as it grew toward lunch, then the higher education lessons for the older children.

As the drone of the teacher buzzed in the back of Tristan’s ears, his mind drifted to the work left in the orchard. Wasps had moved into a section of the trees that he would need to discourage from the area. An increasingly common occurrence, but nothing difficult. Fruits and flowers had been scattered under a few trees, easy enough to clean up and add to the compost bin. With the shorter days of the season, he pondered how much light he would have to work with. He opened his almanac and started to thumb absently through the pages, scanning the detailed diagrams as they passed. He paused on a page and studied the flora depicted. It had to be the flower that appeared at the edge of the grove a few days ago. He tugged a sheet of parchment out of his bundle and dipped his bone into the ink well on his desk to scribble the page number down.

At midday, the teacher encouraged them to take lunch outside, the sun shining brightly for long enough to raise the temperature a few degrees. Tristan hesitated in the mudroom as the others filed out with their bundles. When no chuckles or insults found their way to him, he peeked outside and found the ground moist with melted snow. He heaved a small sigh of relief, forced into a sharp exhale as Jorgus elbowed him out of the way. Tristan straightened up to allow the boy and his friends passage.

Tristan turned back to his things and caught sight of the Mayor’s daughter, Isolde, watching him. He furrowed his brow to her, a simple unspoken question. She stiffened, blushed, and turned back to her things to hastily throw her scarf over her head. It caught in her little female horns, the movement too fast or still not used to her horns’ length. The flush moved to her ears as she disentangled the knitted muffler to drape around her neck. He chuckled quietly, despite himself, as she hurried outside with her wrapped bundle of food. Tristan returned to his desk to eat his salad in peaceful loneliness.

Dismissal usually marked a feeling of relief among the students as they darted from their desks and gathered their things. Today, however, the girls from that morning gathered together to whisper again, pointing to Jorgus occasionally. Tristan slowly gathered his books and papers and lifted his inkwell to stopper it.

“I told you to drop it!” Jorgus’s voice filled the small building, startling and quieting the girls for a moment.

His friends, the group of boys around his age, shrunk away again. Tristan looked down to his desk, dotted with splatter from his inkwell, and pressed the stopper in. A bin under the bench in the mudroom held the spare cloths to clean spills with. He lifted his eyes back to the scene as the girls’ whispers grew again. Jorgus unceremoniously scooped up his things before Miss Shaunessy could approach him.

Seamus, Mortimer, Geremiah, and Brandon followed him to the mudroom. Tristan rounded the wall that separated his desk from the mudroom and crouched down to seek the box of throwaway cloth under the bench.

“Oh, and students! Please do not forget to travel in a herd as you head directly home.” A few of the students groaned. “I’m just telling you what I’ve been told, sweetings. They also emphasized not being out after dark. Winter has shorter periods of sun, which means you will have less time to dally. And there is always safety in numbers.” Miss Shaunessy sauntered the length of the classroom as she spoke to fix Jorgus with a particularly intense gaze. He sneered. She turned around and caught sight of Tristan. “Oh, Tristan, I noticed you weren’t paying very close attention during lectures today. Did you need help with anything I covered today?”

He shook his head. Miss Shaunessy noticed far more things than the previous teacher. He grabbed a cloth stained with spots of paint and ink and stood to shake the fabric to her with a hopefully gentle smile.

As he stretched to his full height, she leaned back slightly to keep her eyes on his, but she did not show any fear. She merely smiled back and patted his arm. She shifted out of his way and walked with him the few steps back to his desk. “You don’t have anyone to head home with, do you, dear?”

He shook his head. A silly question.

She nodded. “You do live alone on the other side of those woods… Would you like me to go ask for an escort for you?”

His brow furrowed.

An uneasy smile crossed her face, a mix between nervous amusement and worry. “No, I suppose you’re big enough to handle most things on your own. But you’re still just a boy, despite outward appearances. I just want to make sure you’re taken care of, is all.”

His breath hitched. He vowed to pay more attention to her lectures.

“You mean someone was attacked last night!?” A brown-haired girl with the smallest horns in the group lifted her fist to her chin, brow knit.

Evelynn, the blonde ringleader of the girls and owner of the largest horns, nodded as she made her way to the mudroom. “Isn’t it just awful? And the attacks are getting more frequent. That’s why they want us to walk in herds now.” She gestured to a pair of girls, both younger, as they scrambled for their things. “You heard that right, calves?”

The two girls, Flora and Aishling, chorused a “Yes, sissy!” and proceeded to haphazardly don their layers of clothing. The youngest children moved quickly, faster than their teenage counterparts, thanks to the small growths on their heads not yet formed into horns. Evelynn rolled her eyes and continued on to her hook to don her own set of weather gear. Miss Shaunessy smiled absently at the children and patted Tristan on the arm before wandering back toward her desk.

“But my father told me it was-“ Evelynn glanced at the group of boys across the mudroom and whispered loud enough for them to hear. “-Jorgus’s father that was attacked last night.”

The girls shared a gasp with varying reactions of surprise.

“You keep my name out of your dirty mouth, Evelynn!” Jorgus burst through his group of friends, finger pointed sharply at the ringleader of the gossipers.

Miss Shaunessy stopped in the middle of the building by the firepit. She shared a look with the mayor’s daughter Isolde still at her desk as she turned around. Tristan dropped the rag on his desk and moved into the mudroom. He had no intention of intervening, but his size intimidated most folk, forcing cool heads to arguments.

Evelynn swatted his hand away as she crossed her arms, big brown eyes glaring daggers into him. Her friends fanned out around her to cross their arms at Jorgus, though not all of them had their heart in it. One girl stayed behind, the brown-haired one, and glanced at Tristan.

Jorgus narrowed his dark eyes at Evelynn, his head tilted to brandish his longer and sharper horns at the girls. His friends, too surprised at his actions, took a few moments to step in beside their friend to brandish their horns, smaller than Jorgus’s but still as harmful if used properly.

Evelynn did not appear fazed, thought the tremble of her voice betrayed her. “My father told me that yours was injured last night while they were hunting. He said they had to take him to the doctor because his injuries were so severe.”

All the posturing broke. Whispers of “The Doctor?” moved through both groups, each losing their members to gossip, conjecture, and fear.

“He’s fine. He’ll be home by dinner tonight and tomorrow we’ll work on tilling the land.” Jorgus cracked his neck.

Evelynn’s lip curled. “Everyone knows that the no one comes back from seeing the Doctor.” She grinned, confident in her victory.

Jorgus tilted his head the other way. “Well my dad isn’t everyone else. The doctor told me himself that Pa would be back by tonight.”

Miss Shaunessy stepped slowly down the center aisle toward the two little herds of teens. She caught Tristan’s eye and nodded at him to step down. He lowered his shoulders and stepped back a bit, but remained ready in case Jorgus made the wrong decision.

Just as Miss Shaunessy entered the mudroom, the energy between the herds changed. Evelynn rolled her eyes. “Whatever. Young bulls and their posturing.” She grabbed her things and stormed out the door into the chilly winter air. “Come on, girls!”

Most of the girls shot hateful looks as they grabbed their things quickly to follow Evelynn. Maeve, the brown-haired one, moved slowly to grab her things and hesitated at the door. Jorgus relaxed slightly and straightened his head to glare at her. Maeve squeaked and disappeared through the door.

Jorgus growled and stalked back to his desk. His small herd of friends stayed in the entrance and moved to begin dressing in their jackets and scarves. Isolde hesitated, but returned to packing up her things. Miss Shaunessy heaved a small sigh and trotted down the center aisle back to her desk.

Tristan furrowed his brow. Only Miss Shaunessy, Jorgus, and Isolde remained in the schoolhouse building. He hoped, despite his own solitude, that Jorgus or Isolde had a group to walk home with. Especially if the monster sightings proved to be true. He hoped that Jorgus’s father recovered and that Evelynn’s gossip proved to be only that. But in the case that Tristan’s hope had no basis in reality, he knew the only tangible thing to do. He knew the only thing he wanted his whole life.

“Uh, hey, Jorgus.” Tristan lifted a large hand to wave awkwardly to the young man.

Jorgus jumped at Tristan’s low timbre and backed away, eyeing him up and down as he jammed a few scraps of paper in his bag. “What do you want, cullbait?”

Tristan’s brow furrowed despite being used to the insult. “I just… uh, wanted to tell you that… um, I’m sorry about your father. I know how… how difficult it is to-to worry about your father and, uh… I guess you’re the man of the house while he’s injured. A-and at least you still have your-your mother and your little siblings-“

Jorgus’s mouth lifted in disgust as Tristan rambled, his cheeks lifted to squeeze his eyes into a narrow, his brow furrowed. “What are you rambling about?” He thrust the last of his items into his satchel.

Tristan lifted a hand to the shaft of his horn to grip it and rub absently, a habit from when they had hurt growing in. “If… If you need any help-“

Jorgus spun on the larger boy. “Help!? From you?” He dropped his satchel on the desk. “I can’t believe you haven’t gotten it through that thick skull of yours that nobody even wants you here.” He scoffed. “We’d want your ‘help’ even less.”

Isolde tightened the leather strap on her stack of books and papers. “Jorgus-“

Jorgus shook his head and turned to her, poking a finger at her face. “No, not even from you. Mayor’s daughter, as if that excludes you from suffering like the rest of us. I heard your father is sick. From that plague. The one from before. That it’s coming back.” He looked back to Tristan. “I also heard it’s your fault. You and that foreigner father of yours. Your mother knew about it and cast a spell to protect your land, but nobody else’s. That’s why you’re safe. And we’re not.”

Tristan’s arms quivered. He shouldn’t have said anything. He should’ve just gone home, alone, like every night. He closed his eyes and gripped his horn tighter, his other arm lifted to cover his torso.

“And then you have the nerve! You continue living here, coming to this school, as if you have any right!” Jorgus tilted his head down to brandish his horns again. “You and your father should be driven out of town!”

A sharp pain on his arm startled Tristan. Blood blossomed on the arm over his torso.

“Tristan!” Miss Shuanessy bolted for the scrap fabric Tristan dropped onto his desk.

Jorgus, stunned, raised a hand to touch his horn. It came back red. He shook his head, he muttered something, and grabbed his satchel. Isolde hurried around the desks and stumbled as Jorgus pushed past her to run from the building.

“Come here, poor boy.” Miss Shaunessy pressed the fabric to Tristan’s arm. “That boy… He may be a handful but ever since his horns grew out the way they did…” She looked to Tristan’s face. “Don’t take it too personally. Like you said, he’s having a rough go of it. It was nice of you to try to connect with him and offer to help out.”

Isolde hovered by the edge of the row. Tristan looked to her, chest empty. He never should’ve tried. He knew what the town thought of him and his father. He knew better. Tears welled in his eyes and he pressed his hand to the cloth. Miss Shaunessy released him with the promise of salves or something, but Tristan had to get out. He had to go home.

He moved back to his desk and found Isolde holding his satchel, all packed and tied and ready. He barely registered the act, how she had moved so fast, and accepted his bag. He dropped the fabric and satchel to slip into his weather gear. A stray thought reminded him to be careful of the wound bleeding through his jacket as he only had the one. He growled. All because the town hated him. All because of a stupid rumor.

He grabbed his bag and ripped the door open. The sun had indeed melted all the snow outside, revealing moist and brittle grass. A few groups of kids lingered and chatted as they headed back toward the village. Jorgus’s little herd had waited for him, despite his protestations, and crowded him to point at his bloodied horn.

Tristan’s blood. He stomped down the short stairs. “All I wanted was to help, Jorgus Jones!”

Jorgus spun around at the voice. Terror pulled at his features at the massive bulk of Tristan charging toward him. He whipped back around and moved swiftly for the path that lead back to town.

Tristan growled. He wanted to stop him, to make him understand, to hold him responsible for injuring him. So many emotions threatened to split him open. “Everyone should be allowed to help each other! We’re a community! That’s what it means to be a community!” In his frustration, he looked to the rest of the students that have lingered to gawk.

A loud thud drew everyone’s attention. All eyes turned to Jorgus, groaning on the ground, a large root split through the soil at his feet. He writhed a bit and got to his hands and knees. A shrill chuckle can be heard from further up the path. Tristan caught Evelynn through the blur of his tears, hand in front of her mouth, as she laughed at the unfortunate bull. The rest of her group chuckled, one by one, with varying degrees of mirth. The laughter spread through the rest of the students, including Jorgus’s little herd. He grunted as he stood and bolted down the path, past Evelynn and her friends.

Tristan sniffed and continued to wipe his face, the cold winter air unpleasant on the slight moisture around his eyes. He slipped his satchel over his shoulder and checked the sleeve of his coat. A chill wind whipped past him and his hands hurt. He left his other accessories in the building. He turned around to head back inside and almost bowled over Isolde.

“Oh! Excuse me, Tristan.” She smiled brightly to him, in an uncomfortable way he could not place.

He barely nodded and attempted to move past her.

She gently placed a hand on his arm. He froze, eyes on the contact. He recognized her mitten, knitted by his father some winters ago and sold by the village seamstress Ciara. His brow furrowed. Her other mitten lifted to offer him his forgotten accessories; mittens similar to hers, a long scarf knitted by his father with a less intricate design, and a warm knitted cap that he tied around his horns. He muttered a thank you and dropped his sack on the ground to don the accessories.

She held his items as he donned them individually. “I agree with you, by the way.” He lifted his eyes to her. “We should be allowed to help each other, as a community. I think it’s just awful that we are so discriminatory to those that are sick and injured. Or who have been in the past.”

He nodded absently. Paranoia and fear shook his fingers. He looked up to the rest of the students, those that lingered, and found hateful glares. Isolde, the mayor’s daughter, held high regard among the town, high enough that even her father’s illness did not dull her priority among them. To find her speaking to him? He snatched his scarf and easily tossed it over his horns to drape from his shoulders.

Before she could continue, he hurriedly wandered away from her, down the path to the thick row of trees that separated his orchard from the school. He barely heard Isolde sputter after him, the crunch of dead plantlife under her boots with a few steps. He heard the whispers of the other students, however, and quickened his step. He should know better. And so should Isolde.

[there-must-be-a-lock]

Big Damn Heroes

A Supernatural / Buffy the Vampire Slayer crossover! 

Characters: Sam, Dean, Cas, Charlie, Buffy, Willow, Spike, Xander, Giles, Anya, Faith

Word Count: ~4930

Warnings: Flirting, play-fighting... it’s sexy but not smutty. 75% banter, 20% geeky references. (No, seriously, SO MANY. If anyone can spot all the easter eggs/quotes from Supernatural, the Whedonverse, and beyond, I’ll give you a cookie.) 

A/N: For @impala-dreamer​ and @deanwanddamons​, and the I Do Understand That Reference Challenge! I’ve been wanting to write a SPN/BtVS crossover since I first started watching Supernatural; I’ve been imagining some of these character interactions for a while. Thanks for giving me an excuse to finally do it! 

Major thanks to @stunudo​ and @thoughtslikeaminefield​ for the reading and cheerleading. This was the most excited I’ve been about writing in a hot minute and I was so happy that you guys were excited to read it. 

This bears very little resemblance to either show’s canon/timeline. No Dawn, no Tara. Just go with it. 

“Okay, stand super still for me?” Charlie asks apprehensively. She twiddles a few knobs on the gadget she’d built, and a little fan of laser beams shoots out one end. She points it at Dean, who grimaces and shields his junk protectively as the lights sweep up and down his body. 

Sam rubs at the tension headache that’s developing between his eyes. “You sure about this?” 

“No?” Charlie says, voice squeaking slightly, and Sam’s headache throbs again. “But… I think so. It should work. I don’t think you understand how ridiculously complicated this whole thing is.” 

“You are bringing their alternate selves here from an entirely different universe,” Cas says skeptically, arms crossed as he looks critically at the scene. “There are a lot of variables at work.” 

Charlie points the device at Sam and scans him as she nods firmly. “Yes. Thank you. What Cas said. What’s the worst that can happen, right?” 

Sam raises his eyebrows and sees Dean and Cas making near-identical expressions of disbelief. 

“Right. Probably not a good thing to ask around here, huh? You guys are like the living embodiment of Murphy’s Law. I don’t think I’m gonna, like, blow anything up though, so that’s something!” Charlie cuts off her own nervous babbling and takes a deep breath. “Well, here goes nothing.” 

Sam's ears start to ring, and he feels a tug somewhere in his chest. The bunker fuzzes and fades around them. 

The last thing Sam hears is Cas saying flatly, “Well that can’t be good.” 

***

Dean’s drawing his gun before the room even comes into focus, fighting a dizzying surge of nausea. He looks around wildly, turning to scan his surroundings. There’s a redhead in an eye-poppingly colorful sweater sitting on the couch, looking at him open-mouthed; a cute, tiny blonde at her side; a cozy, utterly suburban living room; and most importantly, a total lack of Sam, as far as he can see, and that’s a problem. 

“Whoa, hey, take it easy,” the blonde says sharply. “Drop the gun.” She’s standing, coming toward him with her hands raised, and she’s clearly not a threat, but Dean’s not letting his guard down yet. He eases his finger off the safety but keeps it pointed at her. 

“Where’s my brother?” Dean snaps. 

“You just Apparated into the middle of my house, buddy, how ‘bout I ask the questions?” she says, unfazed. Which. Fair. Dean lowers the gun slightly. 

The second he starts to relax, the blonde is whipping around like a goddamn ninja and kicking the gun out of his hand. She settles back into a fighting stance, looking way more serious than anyone wearing sparkly lip gloss has any right to look. Dean’s so stunned he doesn’t even try to fight back; he stares for a second, torn between the urge to pull his other gun out of the back of his pants, just to make a point, and the urge to propose on the spot, because wow. 

“Um, hi, answers now?” the redhead says, still sitting on the couch, staring incredulously. 

Dean takes a deep breath. “I’m Dean Winchester. I’m pretty sure this was a fuckup of gigantic proportions. Where am I? Who are you? How did you…” 

“Sunnydale, Buffy, and mystical forces-of-evil-fighting Slayer powers,” she rattles off, with a little smile at the look of astonishment on his face. “Yeah, I get that a lot.” 

“Buffy?” Dean says, smirking, and she raises an eyebrow. 

“That’s really not the part most people fixate on,” she says bemusedly. There’s a phone ringing somewhere in the next room, and Buffy shouts without taking her eyes off Dean: “Xander? Would you get that?” 

“I’m not most people.” 

***

“Yes, quite. We’ll be right over,” Giles says, and he hangs up before turning back to Sam with a long-suffering expression. “Your brother is safe and sound. I’ll take you to him and we can try to sort this mess out.” 

Sam lets out a long sigh of relief, following Giles to the door. He looks down at his phone again as Giles locks up, but it still displays “no signal.” Sam frowns. 

“Where are we?” he asks. 

“Sunnydale, California.” Giles leads the way to a tiny European car. Sam has to fold up like a pretzel to get in the passenger seat. 

He watches out the window as Giles drives, frowning to himself as he tries to figure out why they’re here of all places. He’d been so busy with the whole Apparition thing that he didn’t question Giles’s initial reaction to a stranger materializing in the middle of his living room, but his expression had definitely been more resigned and exasperated than astonished, like maybe this sort of thing happened to him a little too often. 

“Is there such a thing as magic in this world?” Sam says, with a sneaking suspicion that he already knows the answer. “Or… ghosts? Demons?” 

Giles blinks a few times. “Magic, yes. Demons, quite. Ghosts… not that I’m aware of, but stranger things have happened on a Hellmouth, I’m sure.” 

“A what?” 

“Hellmouth. Sunnydale sits on top of a literal gate to hell, and as such, there is a convergence of mystical energy here. It tends to draw monsters and… well, general disaster.” Giles sounds like he’s repeated this little speech a few times before. 

“Averted any apocalypses lately?” Sam asks wryly, and that does get him a very polite, British expression of surprise. 

“Well, yes. A few, as a matter of fact. Buffy does stay busy.” 

“Buffy?” 

“Yes, the friend I called when you arrived. The Slayer. Do they have one of those in whatever world you’re from?” 

“In my world, Slayer is a band,” Sam says with a shrug. “So… you’ve never heard of me? Or my brother? Dean Winchester?” 

Giles gives him a skeptical sideways look. “Should I have?” 

“I think I have a theory.” 

“It’s not bunnies.” 

“What?” 

“Never mind. Go on.” 

***

“This is where you live?” Dean asks, looking around at the big windows and unlocked door. “Are there protective spells or anything, at least?” 

“No. And thus, the neverending construction,” Xander says mournfully, nodding toward an unfinished window frame. 

Dean’s still processing how normal it is. They’re all sitting around in the incredibly ordinary living room on comfortably mismatched couches, and the coffee table in front of him has a copy of Cosmo on it, for fuck’s sake. He’s never met a hunter of any kind who’d be reading about “Why Wet Kisses Make Men Horny.” 

He looks up hopefully when he hears the door, but it’s not Sam; there’s a bleach-blonde guy coming in, shaking off the ratty blanket he’d been wearing like a cape. 

“Oh, great, you’re back,” Willow grumbles. 

Buffy gives him a look that’s borderline murderous, which would be about as threatening as a newborn kitten if Dean didn’t know what she’s capable of. “Why, exactly, are you back?” 

“Bored. Not much to do in a crypt.” The guy shrugs, looking Dean up and down with an appraising gleam in his eye. “Who’s the pretty boy?” 

Dean’s still processing “crypt.” Before he can decide how he feels about the flirtatious tone, Buffy answers for him: “Spike, this is Dean. Dean, this is Spike. Spike, you can fuck right off now. Dean, you want a glass of water or something? Sorry, all the alternate universe talk made me forget my manners.” 

“Got anything stronger?” 

“If by stronger you mean orange juice?” Buffy offers apologetically, but Spike pulls a flask out of the inside of his long coat and passes it to Dean with a smug half-smile. Then he makes himself at home in one of the armchairs, raising an eyebrow at Buffy as if to make it extra clear that he has no plans to “fuck right off” any time soon. 

“Cheers,” Dean says gratefully. 

Spike winks at him, obvious and shameless, and drawls, “You just let me know if you need anything else.” 

Buffy’s got her arms crossed, glaring daggers at Spike, and Dean can tell there’s something going on there, but he can’t really resist flashing his most charming grin in Spike’s direction.  

The front door opens again, and Dean breathes a long sigh of relief when he sees Sam. 

***

“What makes you think there’s a version of you in this universe, anyway?” Willow asks, and everybody pauses to think about that one for a second. “I mean, if there are all these different worlds, why are you guys the heroes in every single one?” 

“Bit bloody full of yourselves,” Spike says. There’s no reason for that sentence to sound as suggestive as it does, but that seems to be his default tone. Sam tries not to notice the way Spike’s staring at his brother. Not like Dean is aware of it; he’s too busy staring at Buffy. 

“There’s a world with nothing but shrimp,” Xander chips in unhelpfully. Sam shakes his head like that might clear his ears. 

“Chuck said -” Dean starts, and Sam cuts him off with a gesture before anyone can ask who “Chuck” is. That seems like a surefire way to derail this barely-coherent conversation, and Sam wants to figure out how to get the hell home. 

“It’s not a bad point,” he says. “So if Charlie programmed the thing -” Willow opens her mouth like she really wants to interrupt, but Sam plows on, “- to bring us from a world that didn’t have an us, maybe that’s what made it glitch. It couldn’t bring anyone to us, so it brought us here instead.” 

“But why would it drop you with us?” Buffy asks. 

“You guys seem to be the ones who deal with the apocalypses around here,” Dean says, shrugging. 

“We are the local experts at the saving people and the hunting things,” Buffy agrees. 

Spike smirks. “Big damn heroes, is what we are.” 

Buffy shoots him a withering glare. “You are not included in this.” 

“But why split us up?” Sam muses, rubbing the bridge of his nose. His headache has not improved in the slightest. When he looks up, Dean’s eyes are darting between Sam and Giles, who has his glasses off and is pinching his own nose in the exact same spot. 

“Wow, Sammy,” Dean says, an infuriating grin spreading over his face. 

“What?”  

Dean turns to Buffy. “So this whole Slayer thing. Kind of a birthright? Destiny?” 

She shrugs. “I guess so. There was this whole group of old British guys with sticks up their asses, but... ” 

Sam rolls his eyes, starting to see where Dean’s heading with this, and asks Buffy, “Ever died, by any chance?” 

“Twice, actually,” she replies, without batting an eye. She looks back and forth between them. “Wait, have either of you -” 

“Trust me, you don’t wanna know,” Dean says ruefully. “Sacrificed yourself to save someone, I’m guessing?” 

“That’s me, self-sacrificey girl,” Buffy says, matter-of-fact and borderline chipper. “Kind of my specialty. That and the quipping.” 

“Let me guess, you handle the research,” Sam says to Giles. 

“Well, yes, I suppose. Although I’m not exactly helpless in a fight. I do know a bit of magic as well.”  

Sam buries his face in his hands for a second. 

“So when the program couldn’t find a match for either of us, it sent us to… someone as much like us as it could find,” Dean says. 

Willow jumps in quickly. “What sort of computer -” 

“What was that about shrimp?” Dean asks at the same time. Everybody starts talking at once, and Sam sighs heavily. He almost rubs his forehead again, but he stops himself when he notices Giles doing the same thing.

***

Dean’s trying to explain the whole Chuck situation when he sees the distortion in the middle of the room, and he trails off in the middle of the sentence, watching anxiously as Charlie blurs in and out a few times before solidifying in front of them. 

“Okay, weird,” she blurts out, looking around wide-eyed and overwhelmed. 

“Holy fuck am I glad to see you,” Dean says fervently. 

“Right back atcha,” Charlie says. “Somebody want to tell me what the fuck is going on?” 

“Ooh, are you the one who beamed them up?” Willow asks excitedly. “Actually… you look weirdly familiar, have we met before?” 

Charlie blinks at her a few times, a smile spreading across her face, and shakes her head. “I don’t think so. Pretty sure I’d remember you.” 

“This is Charlie, she’s our resident computer genius,” Dean says, and they make the rounds of introductions yet again. 

Charlie gives everyone an awkward little wave. “Charlie. Um. I like LARPing, pretty women, and long walks on the beach.” 

Dean doesn’t miss the way Willow perks up at that, and he bites the inside of his cheek to hold back his laughter. 

“Hey, where’s Cas?” Charlie asks, finally tearing her eyes away from Willow long enough to look around the room, as if Cas might’ve hid behind the bookshelf when he arrived. 

Dean’s stomach sinks. “He came with you?”

“Yeah, we -” Charlie starts, but she’s interrupted by the door opening, and much to Dean’s relief, Cas is walking through it next to a frazzled-looking girl. 

“I’m hoping one of you can explain why this man materialized in my car?” the girl asks irritably. “As if parallel parking wasn’t hard enough without surprises.” 

“Hi to you too, Anya,” Buffy chirps. “Glad everybody could join us for what was supposed to be my relaxing day of solitude.” 

“I’m not a man, exactly,” Cas interjects. 

Anya tilts her head to the side inquisitively, glancing very blatantly down at Cas’s crotch for a second, and Dean snorts. 

“Would it be rude if I asked -” Anya starts. 

Giles answers before she can finish: “Yes, it undoubtedly would be.” 

“I’m an angel,” Cas says nonchalantly. 

“Judging by everyone’s faces, Anya’s not an angel, then?” Sam asks, looking between the two of them. 

“Only that one time, for Xander’s birthday,” Anya volunteers, and Xander splutters an incoherent protest. “But that was a sexy angel, not a real angel. I don’t think we have those here.”  

“She used to be a revenge demon,” Buffy explains. 

“Used to be?” Cas asks. 

“Oh, I’m human now,” Anya reassures him.

Spike adds, “Not that you’d know it, talking to her.” 

“Considering how primitive and strange humans are considered to be by most of the known universe, I wouldn’t say that’s a bad thing,” Cas says mildly. “Some of your customs are utterly incomprehensible to an outsider.” 

“That’s what I keep saying!” Anya exclaims. “I mean, how am I supposed to know exactly which reproductive habits are acceptable for public discussion?” 

“They do have some very arbitrary rules about appropriate behavior,” Cas says. Dean notices Sam and Giles rubbing their foreheads in tandem again. 

***

By the time they finish asking all their questions and comparing apocalypses, Sam’s actually kind of having fun, but he knows it’s time to get back to work. 

“You ready to get out of here?” he asks Dean, during the next lull in the conversation. Dean looks more than a little put out as he sneaks a glance at Buffy, but he shrugs. 

“Probably should. Charlie? Hey, Earth to Charlie.” 

Charlie looks pretty dazed as she turns to face them. “Hmm?” 

“We should probably get home,” Sam says apologetically. 

Charlie’s face falls. “Really?” 

Dean gives her a sympathetic look. “Worlds to save, and stuff. Still need to find a way to warn all those other Sams and Deans. Sorry, kiddo.” 

“Maybe you can come back sometime, if you… y’know, survive the apocalypse?” Willow says, with a hopeful smile. Charlie grins at her. 

“We also have places to be,” Anya says cheerfully. “Very important things to do.” 

“Subtle,” Xander mutters. They wave their goodbyes and head for the door, followed by a somewhat sulky-looking Spike. Then again, that might just be Spike’s face; Sam can’t really tell. 

Cas, Charlie, Sam, and Dean huddle in the middle of the living room, and Charlie says resignedly, “Strap yourselves in, I’m gonna make the jump to lightspeed.” 

“You don’t have to scan us again, do you?” Dean asks, eyeing the gadget with some mistrust. 

“Nope. We’re all saved in the system. Ready?” 

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Dean says, with one last half-smile in Buffy’s direction. Charlie hits the button. 

Nothing happens. Charlie frowns and hits it again. 

“Charlie?” Sam says hesitantly. 

“No, obviously that’s not supposed to be happening,” she retorts. She fiddles with a couple knobs. “I think I know what it is, though. There are all sorts of parameters for, like, which Earth you’re coming from and which Earth you’re going to, and I think the weird glitchy thingy might’ve scrambled the algorithm.” 

Dean leans in to look. “Did you try hitting it?” 

“It’s quantum physics, Dean, you can’t just keymash until it works,” Charlie says, rolling her eyes and holding it away from him. “Unless you want to be stuck in shrimp-world or something.” 

“How long do you think it’ll take to fix it?” Sam asks. 

Charlie shrugs. “Could be a couple hours, could be a day or two.” 

“I could help you,” Willow offers. Charlie looks like Christmas came early. 

“You guys are welcome to stay, it’s no biggie,” Buffy offers. “Not like you’re the strangest thing that’s ended up in my living room.” 

“I’m flattered,” Dean says with a grin. 

Sam sighs, but he can think of worse worlds to be in for a day or two. At least they’re not surrounded by shrimp. 

***

“So this is what you do every night?” Dean asks, as Buffy hops the fence with zero visible effort. He might have actual hearts in his eyes. 

“Pretty much,” she says cheerfully. Dean follows her. He does okay, even if he doesn’t stick the landing like a Russian gymnast. 

Sam had stayed home, after some silent pleading in eyebrow-speak, so it’s just the two of them, and it’s nice, for a graveyard. There’s something about the idea of “patrolling” that Dean likes. He imagines coming here night after night, recognizing the mausoleums, getting familiar with all the paths. It sounds stable.

“Do you like it?” Dean asks. “The whole Slayer thing.” 

Buffy wrinkles her nose adorably at him. “I’m not sure like is the word I’d choose. What else would I do, though? Not like I could just walk away from it. I tried, once. The weird follows me wherever I go.” 

“Sorry, if you don’t want me to follow you any more I can just…” 

She laughs at that. Dean feels butterflies in his stomach, like he’s just a middle schooler with a crush. It’s been a minute since he put actual effort into flirting with somebody, beyond the easy one-liners. Dean fiddles with the stake she gave him, twirling it in his fingers, trying to keep an eye on his surroundings instead of just staring at Buffy. 

“Sometimes I wonder,” she says softly. “Y’know? Like, why me?” 

“You’re basically a superhero,” Dean says. She can probably tell how hard he’s geeking out about it. “That’s what heroes do.” 

“It’s not just that, though! Like… I was bored out of my mind trying to be normal.” 

Dean laughs. “Normal was a disaster.” 

“So even if the weird wasn’t following me, I’d go find the monsters myself. Who does that?” 

“Crazy people,” Dean agrees. “I can’t imagine doing anything else, though. Never gonna have a normal job, never gonna have a normal relationship, and yet.” 

“So you’re not - there’s no relationship?” she asks, exaggeratedly casual.  

“Nah.” Dean tries to hide his grin, and then he asks cautiously, “What’s up with you and Spike?” 

She stops dead, mouth open, staring at him. “Wait. Oh god. Please don’t tell me Faith is already running her mouth, I told her -” 

“No, it’s cool, I just… guessed, earlier,” Dean says sheepishly. “Don’t worry, I don’t think anybody else noticed.” 

Buffy makes a face and rolls her eyes, and they start walking again. “It’s complicated, the… thing with Spike. It’s definitely not a relationship though.” She stresses that last bit, and Dean really shouldn’t feel relieved, at that, but he does. 

“Isn’t it always complicated?” 

Buffy sighs. “There’s the whole undead creature of the night thing, for starters, which. Oddly enough, seems to be a type for me?” 

“Yeah?” 

Something must show on his face, because Buffy frowns. “Oh, Jesus, don’t tell me you’re some sort of demon too.” 

“Would that help my chances?” Dean asks wryly. “Cause I kinda used to be.” 

She stares for a second. “You’re joking, right?” 

“Really not.” 

There’s a moment where she’s clearly deciding whether she wants to go there, but then a familiar voice rings out behind them and interrupts: “Thought you were heading home, pretty boy.” 

Dean turns, grinning in spite of himself. “Change of plans.”  

“Lucky us,” Spike drawls. “Mind if I join you for a walk, pet?” 

“No,” Dean answers, just as Buffy lets out a resigned, “Kinda.”  

Spike catches up to them and slings an arm around Dean’s waist, pulling him against his side. Buffy lets out a huff, but she’s laughing too. 

“Are you really trying to make me jealous?” she asks Spike.  

“Is it working?” 

Dean disentangles himself and looks back and forth between the two of them. “Yeah, this is obviously healthy.” 

Buffy laughs, but Spike just retorts, “Like you would know a healthy attachment pattern if it bit you in the ass.” 

Dean considers protesting, but he doesn’t really have a leg to stand on there. 

“Guess it’s in the job description. Are we gonna go fight some monsters, or what?” 

“Yeah, let’s go find the monsters,” Buffy says, grinning at Dean. “That’s what heroes do, right?”  

***

Sam zones out of the discussion around the time Cas and Giles start talking comparative theology through the millennia. He slouches back on the couch and watches them fondly as Cas answers question after question. His eyelids feel heavy and he’s comfortable, and even though he knows he should take the opportunity to learn more about this totally new Earth, all he really wants to do is sit, and breathe, and rest. 

Cas and Giles end up heading back to Giles’s house for tea and… something about an old book of etchings? Sam can’t really follow Giles’s breathless, excited rambling. He waves them off, thinking that he might actually go to sleep early, for once. 

Sam goes to the kitchen, chugs a glass of water and then fills another, and he just stands there for a moment, one hip leaning against the counter as he looks around. It’s such a normal house. Even on their most domestic days, they’re still in a bunker. Must be nice to have a little bit of normalcy, no matter how crazy life gets. There’s faint music and the occasional giggle from upstairs, but otherwise, the house is quiet. 

Of course, just as he has that thought, the front door slams open and someone shouts, “Yo, B! Ready to go?” 

“She went out already,” Sam says, bemused. 

He gets an impression of red lips, dark hair, and leather as the girl closes the door behind herself, moving whirlwind-quick. She plants her feet (loudly, in big stompy combat boots) and crosses her arms, looking at Sam suspiciously. Neither of them move for a second.  

“I’m Faith,” she announces eventually. “Who the fuck are you, why the fuck are you in B’s kitchen, and where the fuck is she?” 

“Sam, and… it’s a long story. She’s out patrolling with my brother, they left about an hour ago.” 

Faith seems to make some sort of decision about him, and suspicion turns to mischief as she gives him a broad grin. “If your brother looks anything like you, can’t blame the girl for ditchin’ me.” 

Sam’s mouth twitches as he tries to hold back a smile, and he takes a sip of water to cover it. 

“Aww, you shy?” Faith teases. Her voice is low and raspy, kind of absurdly sexy, and she clearly knows it. “Must be one of those nice guys I’ve heard so much about.” 

Sam doesn’t answer. He watches Faith stalk toward him. 

She’s a fucking force of nature, Sam can already tell, all aggression and attitude as she comes at him with a challenge in her eyes. He doesn’t move when she gets up in his space, looking Sam up and down like she’s inspecting him. He has a feeling she’s used to people backing away before they let her get this close. 

“Sam, huh? What brings you to Sunnydale?” 

“Just passing through,” Sam says calmly. “What about you?” 

“How do you know I’m not from around here?” she asks, looking up at him coyly. 

Sam doesn’t dignify that with a response, just smirks and waits. She takes a step back and leans against the counter, mirroring his pose. Her eyes are sparkling. 

“Fair enough. I’m a Slayer, figured I’d stick around in Sunnydale and help B for a while. Always seems to be somethin’ around here that needs its ass kicked.” 

Sam cocks his head to the side, considering her. “So you fight vampires?” 

“And whatever else is askin’ for a fight,” she retorts. “Why, is your brother a vampire?” 

“What?” 

“Buffy’s got a type. A demonic kinda type, if you know what I’m sayin’. Don’t worry, I won’t stake him.” 

Sam laughs. Figures. “I wasn’t worried. Just curious if the superpowers are all they’re cracked up to be.” 

“You better believe it,” Faith says proudly. “Strength, speed… stamina.” She says the last with a sly, unsubtle smirk, watching Sam to gauge his reaction. 

“Show me,” he challenges. He doesn’t specify which one he means, and Faith raises one eyebrow. 

“Right here? I figured you’d be the candlelight and Al Green type.” 

Sam smiles. She’s not the first person to make that assumption. 

The first punch is light, and he lets her see it coming; she dodges it easily, without so much as blinking. Sam’s left hand snakes out, lightning-fast this time, and she sidesteps neatly, grabbing his wrist instead and holding his arm in place. She’s stronger than he expected, and she’s grinning like this is the most fun she’s had all week. 

“Sure about this? I wouldn’t want to hurt you,” she says, sugary-sweet. 

The next punch is in earnest. She blocks it, throws one of her own, and then it’s a blur for a moment, a flurry of blows one after another, none of them landing. Neither of them are moving their feet much, trapped in the narrow space between the counter and the kitchen table; they’re just testing each other. 

“Not bad,” Sam admits. 

“Right back atcha.” 

She takes a couple steps backward, out into the open space, and Sam follows, watching closely. This time she lets loose with a flashy spin-jump-kick thing like something out of a cheesy action movie, and Sam’s laughing as he ducks. 

“Points for style, but not for substance,” he teases. 

She comes back at him twice as hard and almost gets him this time, but then he snatches her wrists and slams her back against the wall with a thunk that’s a whole lot louder than he expected. They both wince and freeze. 

“Everything okay?” Willow yells from upstairs.

Charlie’s pissy voice adds, “Please don’t tell me that was a monster.” 

“Just tripped,” Sam shouts back. He looks down at Faith, taking a half-step closer so that there’s maybe an inch of space between their bodies. He’s still got her wrists pinned over her head. She’s definitely not trying to get away. He has a feeling she could, easily, if she wanted to. 

“Not so nice after all, then,” she purrs, looking up at him through her lashes. 

Sam shakes his head slightly. “Not so much. You giving up, then?” 

“Not a fuckin’ chance. Just thinkin’ maybe we should have the rematch back at my place. You know, in case you ‘trip’ again.” 

“Sounds like a good idea.” 

***

Probably good they only stayed for a day, Dean thinks, looking around the room. Nobody, from either world, looks particularly happy about the departure, but they’ve all said goodbye often enough that they don’t draw it out. Charlie gives Willow one last little wave, and then she hits the button. Everything goes fuzzy. 

It’s disorienting, for a moment, but the bunker comes into focus around them. After the dizziness has passed, Dean gives Charlie a wordless hug. 

“I’m gonna go read a book with pictures in it,” she says glumly, and shuffles away. “And eat ice cream.” 

“Research time, I guess,” Sam says. “Back to work.” 

Cas heads to the kitchen to make some coffee as Sam starts flipping through his notes. Dean settles down at the table and looks at the nearest book without really seeing it. He feels fucking off, almost sad, as if he could’ve possibly gotten attached to that other world in less than twenty-four hours. 

“That was… kinda a nice universe, right?” he says. “I dunno. There was something about it.” 

Sam gives him a knowing look. “Yeah.” 

“Ever wish we could just… stay somewhere else?” Dean says, and he can’t keep the bitter note out of his voice. “I mean, why do we keep coming back to this world? What’s so great about it?” 

“It’s ours,” Sam says, with a shrug. “I mean, the other one wasn’t our responsibility, you know? Of course it was nice, not having to worry, but… this one’s ours. Gotta take care of it.” 

Dean twirls a pencil between his fingers and wishes it was a stake. He smiles, slightly, as he remembers. 

That’s what heroes do. 

.

.

.

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[autumnblogs]

Day 4: You eat a weird bug and don’t even care.

Starting later than usual today because I’ve been absolutely swamped with work. Let’s get down to business to defeat the Huns.

https://homestuck.com/story/644

I’ve never really gotten why John falls asleep here. Seems an odd place to fall asleep, especially with the adrenaline rush that must have been. Maybe he’s passing out from exactly that? Alternatively, maybe Vriska is putting him to sleep.

 I also forgot that John Sleeps/Skaian Magicant is split between two flashes.

https://homestuck.com/story/651

Ah here we go. John has what are, if Jade is to be believed, lousy dreams. He dreams of his Dad, of clowns, of baked goods, of Fruit Gushers, of his own symbol, the weird knock-off slimer, and Harry Anderson, before finally Jade appears.

I am not a psychologist or therapist. I am not even anything more than an amateur literary critic. But let me give you my take on that. It’s clear that John is dreaming about all kinds of things that are giving him anxiety here, if Jade’s assessment about his dreams being lousy is true.

Harry Anderson is, as he’ll say later, kind of a weird mutual father figure for him and his Dad, and as a stage magician and comedian, he represents John’s aspirations.

John wants to grow up to be a great stage magician and comedian, and if there’s anything we’ve seen about the Heir of Breath so far, it’s how extremely self-critical he is of his abilities - he’s screwed up every disguise and magic trick he’s tried so far. 

The other things are pretty self-explanatory - he’s anxious about his relationship with his Dad, he’s anxious about his Dad’s identity, he’s anxious about his own identity - with the exception of the gushers. Are gushers just symbolizing Sburb for John? Does he have a premonition that the gushers are tainted by the hand of his archnemesis, Betty Crocker? Maybe that one’s just silly.

Maybe they’re all just silly!

https://homestuck.com/story/652

I promise I will have more to say about Jade’s conversations once she is actually introduced, but until then, she is too enigmatic for me to talk about :^)

I will say, if the fact that John is stressing out about everything in his life and just not vocalizing his anxiety, it’s probable that he thinks Jade is just as mysterious as his pals think she is, and is just not talking about it.

I think John, like Jake, is way more intelligent than he lets on, and probably just keeps a lot of things on a simmer, thinking about them without necessarily opening up about them. He talks a lot about surface level stuff for sure, but he seems a lot more hesitant to talk about emotions, theories, that sort of thing. It actually reminds me a lot of how Kim Kitsuragi from Disco Elysium, far from his highly imaginative partner the player character, writes his thoughts down in a notebook to keep track of his through processes, hunches, case details, etc, whereas the Detective organizes everything in an interactive Thought Cabinet that serves as one half of the game’s Inventory and Progression System.

For example, John’s ability to describe and his ability to theorize is on full display in the FAQs that he writes, but when he talks, he’s often just as disorganized as he is everywhere else. Maybe John needs to take up journalling.

Huh. I wonder if Kim is a Prospit Dreamer and the Detective is a Derse Dreamer? That would make a lot of sense. Once @bladekindeyewear finishes playing Disco Elysium (which he is playing at my behest), I’ll see if he’s interested in assigning Lunar Sway, Classes and Aspects to the two of them.

https://homestuck.com/story/665

Dave Owns. The Narrative switches between character perspectives often right before there’s a major climax so that lots of characters can all have climactic encounters in sync with one another.

Eye imagery is on full display here as Dave ascends to the highest point in the building. The Sun over Dave’s house is drawn differently from other abstractions of the Sun in Homestuck, and this particular drawing of the Sun will later be juxtaposed against Terezi’s eyes as Alternia’s Sun burns them out.

The Sun as the Symbol of Light is also juxtaposed with Rose’s eyes later when she uses her seer powers, strengthening the connection between the Sun and Eyes. Near the very beginning of the comic, Rose compares the Sun moving on from the east coast to the west as him casting his lurid gaze on younger parts of the world, or the country. I’m not recalling the exact phrasing at this time.

Lil Cal’s creepy eyes are also highlighted by the Camera here. Through the vehicle of Lil Cal, Lord English is watching and quietly giving approval to all of this.

I choose to interpret the camera’s focus in this flash as giving us a glimpse into what Dave is paying attention to. And boy does Dave notice all of these eyes on him. Between seeing the sun as a malevolent eye watching him, to Lil Cal’s glassy gaze, to the Cameras bro uses to surveil him 24/7, Dave feels like he’s constantly being watched, and I think it’s safe to say it gives him the creeps.

https://homestuck.com/story/673

WV’s self-estimation isn’t much better than John’s.

https://homestuck.com/story/678

I wonder if we can get some insight into the strange minds of the Carapacians in the way that before he’s even finished receiving the commands, WV acts on them. WV is even more impulsive than John.

https://homestuck.com/story/684

Oh yeah, WV’s self-worth is way worse than John’s.

https://homestuck.com/story/685

Luckily almost as soon as his thoughts come, they go. He doesn’t spend too much time brooding over his self-loathing and survivor’s guilt, so good for him.

https://homestuck.com/story/688

A whole bunch of things that are symbolically related to the cast!

While WV’s can town playtime functions as foreshadowing for us, it serves as a replay of the extremely recent past for him, at least in terms of events that we know about.

https://homestuck.com/story/694

The light on Serenity’s belly looks a bit like the Sun, and therefore, an eye.

https://homestuck.com/story/699

The Blue Trees of Can Town call forward to Terezi’s forest, but I don’t think this is probably more substantial than something fun Andrew decided to call back to when he was writing the trolls.

IDK. Maybe Blue Trees = Democracy = Justice?

But Terezi’s brand of justice has nothing to do with Democracy.

https://homestuck.com/story/709

Tab, like GameBro, is an artifact of a bygone age.

https://homestuck.com/story/711

It’s a lot easier to become a citizen of Can Town than it is to become a citizen of the United States!

https://homestuck.com/story/714

I wonder who input all those commands before WV got on board? Maybe whoever was in charge of building these contraptions in the first place - a Carapacian Lab Rat in the Veil.

Always felt like the unseen actors making Sburb run behind the scenes were one of the nicest touches, they lend an air of sinister mystery even beyond the Guardians.

https://homestuck.com/story/721

I am not good at chess.

Maybe sometime, I will have my friend who is good at Chess analyze this game, and see how he feels about it.

https://homestuck.com/story/735

WV’s Self Esteem is very, very bad.

https://homestuck.com/story/752

Our first introduction to the laws of time travel in Homestuck - the past is a place that materially exists, and in only one specific configuration that can be interacted with. You can only bring things forward from the past if nobody else got to them before you. You can’t go back and undo things that somebody else (or you) has already done according to the canonical configuration of events.

https://homestuck.com/story/757

This is ridiculously cool.

Homestuck’s huge climactic story events are arguably one of the things that makes it so special as a story. I can’t think of a story that does such a good job of building up tension in multiple storylines before having them all converge.

https://homestuck.com/story/760

:D

https://homestuck.com/story/765

I wonder what the exact mechanism is by which Jade is aware of the gaming abstractions and commands to the degree that she is? Is it just her Skaian dreams? This could be a one-off gag, but it could also be an indication of a degree of clairvoyance greater than that which I feel like the visions she has as the Prospitian Moon passes through Skaia.

https://homestuck.com/story/768

Jade loves to watch things grow.

It’s a Space Thing.

https://homestuck.com/story/777

According to BladeKindEyeWear’s Inversion Theory Jade’s complicated and carefully orchestrated time loops, which she uses to connect people with possibilities, is an example of her inverting under extreme stress, acting more like a Seer of Time, her opposite, than like a Witch of Space (in much the same way that Rose acts an awful lot like a Witch of Void for much of the comic’s first half!)

I expect a real Seer of Time wouldn’t need quite so many contrivances to keep track of everything going on in the past and future. Eventually, Jade stops using her colourful reminders, which is probably an indicator that she is no longer attempting to play outside of her lane.

https://homestuck.com/story/789

Pretty much all of Jade’s interests cast her immediately as someone with a pretty strong maternal instinct, something that she shares with other heroes of Space. Jade is a caretaker. 

Her playthings are dolls so she can roleplay the part of a Mom. She grows oodles of plants, and seems to have a knack for it. She likes animals, and though the only animal in her life takes care of her, she puts in some work to take care of him too.

Her interests definitely mark her as the more classically girly of the two between her and Rose, and like her brother is preoccupied with manhood and Dadliness, Jade seems to preoccupied with Momliness - which is odd, considering that she doesn’t have a maternal figure to aspire to! (Maybe the White Queen?)

https://homestuck.com/story/790

Jade is not of course, only girly. The same way that Dad’s culturally out-of-place baking hobby marks him as transgressively feminine to John’s dismay, Jade’s scientific and artillerist hobbies are transgressively masculine.

Although it’s tempting to say that Jade loves the sciences because Grandpa raised her to, or because she’s aping him after he died, she’s clearly born to it. I think about the question of nature and nurture a lot in Homestuck.

I think on the whole, it falls pretty far to the side of Nature. Characters who share a common ancestry also share common character traits more often than not, even in the absence of shared cultural touchstones, shared geography, shared timeline. The same character only has a limited number of possible choices that they could have made, as Aranea will later say.

On the other hand, some characters turn out very different in one life than they do in another. Dirk doesn’t turn out nearly the psychopath that Bro Strider is by the time that Homestuck Proper concludes.

https://homestuck.com/story/795

Squiddles are, as everyone knows by now, a manifestation of the Dark Gods of the Furthest Ring, but I think there’s more going on with them too - they have kind of a horny energy that I can’t quite place. I’m going to come back to that. Any case, they seem to be one of the symbols that Rose and Jade share in common, although Rose subverts the colorful and cute squiddles into icons more of the extradimensional beasties that they actually represent.

Maybe I think Squiddles are a symbol of horny for the same reason that snakes are lewd to Cherubs - there’s definitely something phallic about tentacles, and definitely something intimate about the idea of becoming someone’s tangle buddy. The very first time I read Rose’s handle, I thought it read Tentacle The Rapist, which I suspect is kinda the point, and some of Andrew’s other works have variously described the process of interacting with tentacles as being molested and so on and so on.

Rose and Jade actually share a huge number of symbols in common between the two of them, which I think is great, but also sad - Rose and Jade clearly actually have quite a lot in common, and the two of them don’t really interact very much.

https://homestuck.com/story/797

I’m going to eventually decode Jade’s fascination with animals too, but for now I want to remark that it’s not just the idea of looking like an animal that excites Jade - it’s the idea of being  like an animal that excites her. The exact same little poem is later reiterated by Serenity in WV’s nightmare, as he dreams of losing control of the power of the Ring of Orbs Fourfold and killing everyone he loves. What would be a nightmare for WV though is a fantasy for Jade. The idea of being out of control is thrilling for her.

Dave is also a furry.

https://homestuck.com/story/798

The trappings of a proper gentleman. Monocle. Pipe. Top Hat. Little White Gloves. A proper gentleman without these is a piss poor excuse for a proper gentleman indeed.

SYMBOLS.

https://homestuck.com/story/800

Another spot where Jade is able to interface directly with the audience, in some form or another.

https://homestuck.com/story/802

Jade may have fantasies of transforming into something more animalistic, but she’s not willing to indulge them.

https://homestuck.com/story/803

Jade completely rejects the symbols of witchcraft that Rose so readily embraces.

https://homestuck.com/story/804

Jade contemplates engaging in some Vriskaesque behavior. Is it just because Vriska is watching her? Maybe she’s picking up some Vriska-esque vibes through the feed as the Thief of Light practices her mind control. 

https://homestuck.com/story/808

I think it’s safe to say one of two things is going on here.

Jade is either literally cognizant of the audience and interacting with them, putting her on a layer of the story that is quite a lot closer to us than you would expect of someone as innocuous as Jade (maybe the immediate presence of the Fourth Wall upstairs could facilitate that relationship?)

Or Jade has an active imagination, is extremely lonely, and likes to interact with her imaginary audience as a way of projecting a friendly and hospitable demeanor onto the world around her in sort of the exact opposite way that Rose imagines the worst of everything and everyone?

Or, as it often is in Homestuck, it could be both motherfuckin’ things.

https://homestuck.com/story/829

Did I mention Dave is a furry? Dave is totally a furry.

If we read Squiddles as a symbol of intimate contact with living things, Jade’s computer having Squiddles front and center is appropriate - it’s her point of contact to all the people in her life.

Tune in on the morrow to watch Dave’s Bro beat the shit out of him.

Until then, this is Cam signing off, alive and not alone.

[reliciron]

Do you have any Mirialan headcanons?

OH BOY DO I!!!

Ok… ok I can do this. I apologize, this is my first anon and I’m a little beside myself with excitement right now.

Ok, Mirialans.

Canon says they’re a near-human species, and other than some weird colored skin and tats, the only inhuman thing they have is their flexibility and agility. Their home world, Mirial, is cold and dry. Their geometric tattoos are usually done after some sort of personal achievement, which I personally read as a ‘right of passage’ sort of thing.

So, they come in yellow, green, and pink, and other than their skin color, their tattoos are their most notable attributes.

Personally, their tattoos always looked to me like the sort of patterns you’d see on a snake. I mean, I live in the American southwest, this is prime rattlesnake territory, and several of the tattoo designs you see in SWTOR look just like that. Yellow, and green are pretty common colors in snakes, and I dare you to find me an animal that better fits their ‘super flexible’ attribute.

So Mirialans are snake people.

More specifically, they are a reptomammalian species that resemble humans through convergent evolution.  As reptomammals, they possess both reptilian and mammalian characteristics. The way I saw it explained with Tauntauns, Mirialans are covered from head to toe in scales, and certain scales grow hair, say on their heads and faces.

Unlike humans, they don’t have body hair. Men can have beards, but that is usually due to having some human in their ancestry.

Their body can regulate its temperature, but not quite as well as a full mammal, so they generally run very cold compared to humans and they tend to suffer more in extreme heat.

Depending on what region of Mirial their ancestors come from, their scales can be thicker and rougher, or smaller and smooth. They do not have any natural patterning to their scales, but it is fairly common to have their palest scales on the chest and belly and the darkest at their spine. However, long ago their ancestors did have scale patterns, and so that is where their tattoo designs came from.

Having evolved on a cold planet, and being omnivorous, they needed to bring their prey down quickly to avoid expending precious heat and energy chasing it down, thus their ancestors were venomous. And unlike the scale patterns, they kept the venom. Their incisors are sharper than a human’s and they have a set of upper and lower fangs. Like snakes, their upper fangs are hollow and they have a pair of venom glands situated just beneath their cheekbones. They can open their mouths well beyond a human’s range of movement, and at full flexion, the muscles surrounding the glands squeeze the venom down and out the tips of the fangs. The venom itself is fatal to anything smaller than a medium sized child and is composed of a mix of neurotoxin and hemotoxin.

The neurotoxin causes localized paralysis, making it difficult for a victim to flee, and if it’s small enough, respiritory failure. The hemotoxin destroys red blood cells and makes clotting difficult, but mostly it’s there to cause pain and hopefully shock to the victim. Left untreated, a Mirialan bite can cause days of agony and permanent organ damage to an adult. Common poison antidotes can alleviate the paralysis and prevent any organ damage, but little can be done about the pain.

A general Mirialan antivenom exists and can stop the majority of the toxin, but only antivenom made from the offending Mirialan or related family members, will fully counteract it. It’s because of this that more responsible individuals carry personalized antivenom. Still, in this day and age of blasters and thermal detonators, you have to have majorly fucked up for a Mirialan to bite you.

They have good senses of smell, and average vision and hearing, but like snakes, they are able to ‘see’ in infrared. Its like someone turned up the color saturation on hot objects and they practically glow in the dark.

They’re from a largely matriarchal society, and if you want those sweet sweet tats, you need to complete a sort of coming of age feat. The feat in question is often tailor made to each individual to test their strength. Ex. A girl who likes hunting could be asked to go kill a certain tough critter, or guy who likes science could be asked to write a dissertation in his field. Basically something that was a challenge but not impossible

The facial tattoos were the ones they had to earn, but body tattoos were just for decoration, like any other species. Although it is common for those with facial tattoos to have that pattern repeated or expanded upon on the rest of their body.

Oh.

And a Mirialan man’s dick is held inside his body and only comes out when it’s party time.

Aaaaand I think that’s it. If I think of anything else major I’ll try to post it. 

Thank you so much for your question!

[creampuffqueen]

Worlds of Fire and Darkness | Chapter Twelve (Folas)

Hey everyone! It’s been a hot second since I’ve posted to this story, but here it is! Read on Ao3 (Here)

Folas, Lyria, and the new guests from the Southern Continent take a tour around Orynth.

“Dalias, if you don’t stop fidgeting, I’m going to kick your ass as soon as this is over.” Hissing at my fifteen-year-old brother wasn’t really an everyday occurance- Dalias was often calm and quiet enough to not need my reprimanding. However, I could see his blood starting to boil with his awful temper. Hell, if he didn’t reign in his temper I would kick his ass again.

Waiting for the entourage from the Southern Continent was mind-numbing. My only consolation was the princess standing a few feet away, dressed in a lovely silky green. Her hair was loose, with a coronet braid around her head adorned with a silver tiara. I couldn’t see from where I was standing, but I was nearly positive she had emeralds inlaid in all of her jewelry.

The royal family was front and center, as always. The Ashryvers were on their right, with Asceline standing regally next to her father. My mother, Lady of Perranth, stood to the left of young Aerith. Evalin and Lyria stood in a line to the side of their mother, and I knew the male children stood in a similar formation to their father. 

It was all very formal, for a group of people we really were supposed to be friends with. 

I hadn’t seen the Southern Continent royal family in years, as they didn’t often come to the Peace Ball. Getting all the way to Terrasen took the better part of a year, and so they made the journey sparingly. And, after Empress Nesryn became pregnant again, she and her family hadn’t come since. 

Which meant I hadn’t seen these people since I was Dalias’s age- or really, I would have been more around fourteen. However old I was, it had been a long time. 

Spring scents floated through the air, wind ruffling my hair. Looking a bit to the side, I could see Lyria’s skirts fluttering as the breeze drifted around the group. I kept my gaze at her feet, not letting my eyes wander further up. 

A nudge came from my side, and I glanced over to look at Sabron. Taller than me by barely an inch, (though what an infuriating inch it was) he looked down at me and gestured slightly to Lyria. 

I turned my head away so he couldn’t see the blush I felt creeping up my cheeks. And so I didn’t have to look at his stupid smirk. 

Sabron let out a low snicker, and I reached right under his shirt sleeve and pinched him. He hissed back, but before he could retaliate I whipped my head forward, peering frantically into the distance for what I could hear coming.

Nearly a minute passed, and I had started to believe my Fae senses had failed me. Sabron was shifting from foot to foot, ready to get back at me. But then-

A giant, soaring bird flew towards the palace, the sun catching on it’s golden wings. A ruk.

And atop the ruk, a rider sat. The bird swerved and swooped lower, letting out a loud call. Nearly two dozen more ruks flew into view. 

The entourage from the Southern Continent had arrived in all their glory. The telltale clopping of horse hooves on pavement was soon loud enough for all to hear. Excitement rippled through the gathered people, with shifting and whispers filling the castle grounds.

The horses drew near, the people donned  in shining armor and bearing flags and banners. The cavalry stopped in a perfectly straight line, and moments later the ruks landed in perfect unison, placed in front of the horses in the gaps between them. I had to admit, the precision was incredibly admirable. I wondered if I could ever get my own horse to stand that still.

Aelin, Rowan, and Lyria stepped forward first. Aelin’s arms were extended warmly, Lyria kept a gentle smile on her face, and even Rowan was standing less ramrod-straight than usual. They were greeting their friends.

“Princes and Princesses of Antica. Welcome to Orynth.” The two ruk riders in the lead dismounted, and I was able to glimpse their faces better. Nesryn and Sartaq,  the future rulers of the arguably most powerful country in the world. They were smiling.

“Aelin, Rowan.” Nesryn grinned. She embraced Aelin, and even gave Rowan a pat on the back. Sartaq did the same.

Nesryn’s gaze landed on Lyria, and her smile broadened. “And Lyria! You’ve grown so much, look at you!” The princess dipped her head with a smile.

“People of Orynth,” Sartaq boomed. “And all the people of other countries, I present my children.”

Several people dismounted horses and ruks, and two small figures hopped out of the golden carriage. Lined up together, the heirs to the mighty Khaganate. 

“Prince Kasem.” The young man bowed, his long hair fluttering slightly in the springtime breeze.

“Princess Dara.” The girl who bowed next looked to be about the age of Caeda or Dalias. Her hair was tied in a long braid that snaked down her back, and I could see the cunning in her dark eyes.

“Princess Dhyana.” This girl was much younger than the two others, with her hair chopped at the collarbone like her mother. She smiled broadly and bowed, and her little cherub cheeks reminded me of my own sister.

“Prince Ronin.” While I knew the boy was hardly a year younger than Dhyana, he was skinny and small, making him look so much younger. His black hair fell in front of his eyes as he bowed, and he made no move to brush it off.

“And Princess Akira.” This was the youngest of Sartaq and Nesryn’s children, a little girl about Marion’s age. She bowed dramatically, her little braid falling over her shoulder. She blew a kiss to the gathered people, producing a lot of giggles. Then she bounced over to her siblings, taking Ronin’s hand.

The rest of the Khaganate royals were introduced, and excuses for those who couldn’t come were made. Prince Arghun would be staying in Antica, and Prince Kashin was staying in the steppes with his wife and their young son. I didn't particularly mind, since I’d met Arghun before and the man certainly rubbed me the wrong way. 

And finally, finally, Aelin and Rowan turned and gestured to the palace. “Let us all go to the drawing room. We have a lot to catch up on.”

The people dissolved from their family groups, and soon we all converged on the palace doors in a giant blob; a giant blob of smiling, laughing people.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw stablehands taking away horses and ruks. But something more interesting caught my eye instead.

Lyria and Asceline, elbows linked, were walking into the palace, heads bent low as they giggled back and forth. Seeing my chance, I quickly ducked through the crowd to reach them.

I came behind Asceline and threaded my arm through hers. When she flinched, as expected, I squealed and pitched my voice.

“Ooooh, are we having girl talk? Can I join?” 

Asceline rolled her eyes and sighed. “Shove off, prick.” She said, though there was no real bite to the words.

“I know, right? He was sooooo hot.”

“Are you even hearing yourself? How stupid you sound?” 

Lyria snickered on Asceline’s other side. “This is interesting. Who was hot? I think I need to see.”

“Oh please, Lyr, don’t encourage him!” Asceline wailed, though she didn’t let go of my elbow.

We traveled through the palace and to the drawing room, Asceline teasing me mercilessly. I detangled myself from the two princesses, making a mock bow as I did so.

“Say what you want, Asceline dear.” I purred. “But don’t look now, because Leo is watching.”

I watched, victorious, as Asceline’s entire face turned red. She glanced behind herself quickly, then whipped her head back to face me with a snarl.

“You are a prick! He’s not even there!”

“Why do you care? Do you like him?” I asked with a devious smirk. 

“I’m leaving. I hope your brothers throw you in a rotting vegetable patch full of dog shit.”

“Oh, how you wound me.” I fake-moaned. She rolled her turquoise eyes and stalked off, looking a bit more like a wolf than a girl. I turned back to face Lyria.

The crown princess was shaking her head slowly, clearly amused. “I’d watch my back if I were you. She’ll be out for revenge by sundown.”

“I’ll take my chances.” I shrugged. “At least we’re alone now.”

“Why do you want to be alone?” The world narrowed at that moment, my vision tunneling, focusing in on Lyria and the way she was swaying gently, golden hair shimmering, green eyes piercing. 

“Does anybody ever tell you how beautiful you are?” I whispered, hardly even realizing the words that had just come out of my mouth.

Lyria laughed softly. “Yeah. But I know it anyway.”

She stepped closer, touching her hand gently to mine. I felt my own blush rising up my cheeks, heat sparking from where her fingers slipped into my own.

“When did this happen, Folas?” She murmured. “When did we get all grown up?”

“I don’t know. It still feels like yesterday you were chasing me around the castle grounds and sneaking into my bedroom to eat chocolate.” 

Lyria put her other hand in mine, and a shudder worked its way up my spine, warmth from her hands driving out the lingering cold of spring. Could we stay like this forever?

Her green eyes drew me in, like a never-ending evergreen forest, sparking deep into my heart. How did I get lucky enough for this?

I felt her drawing closer, tilting her head up to mine. I leaned for her, the rest of the world fading away as I did. I removed my hand from hers, taking it instead to her chin, cradling it, tilting her lips toward mine, and-

“ Princess Lyria!”

We sprang apart, nearly throwing each other across the room. I stumbled over my feet, barely regaining my balance in time to stop Lyria from tripping over her dress.

Prince Kasem stood before us, looking mighty pleased with himself. I resisted the urge to snarl at him, deciding that was not the kind of hospitality I was supposed to show to guests.

“Oh dear, was I interrupting something?” He asked. From the look on his face, I knew that he knew damn well he was interrupting. Not able to snarl, I instead just glared.

“No, not at all.” Lyria assured him, twisting her hands in the fabric of her dress. Noticing the little tic, she removed them, instead keeping her hands firmly at her sides.

“Yes, well,” Kasem continued, “I understand that our parents want us to rest after our journey, but since it is only the morning, I was wondering if we might venture into the city?”

“Us… the two of us?” Lyria squeaked.

“No, no, princess.” He said emphatically. “Me, you, and anyone else who wants to come. My sister Dara wants to see the city, as do my cousins. Perhaps some of your friends would like to come as well.”

“Of course. I would be delighted to show you around my city.” Now a genuine smile came across her features, and the little thing had my heart damn near stopping.

“When will we go?” Kasem asked.

“Whenever you want.” Lyria replied. “I’ll ask some of my friends first, and then we can meet back… at the front courtyard, in about half an hour?”

Kasem bowed again, and walked off, likely to gather his family. The young man’s short braid swayed with his steps, reminding me of a snake. I threw the thought aside, however, when Lyria turned back to me.

“You’re coming with us.” Her tone of voice left no place for argument, and I just nodded. She took my hand and dragged me along, setting a quick pace as she searched for her friends.

It didn’t escape me, though, that she was holding my hand.

“What are you doing?” I asked. I gave her hand a little squeeze, just to make sure I wasn’t dreaming it. She squeezed mine back.

“Well, you were going to kiss me, so I think it’s only appropriate.” She said, the tips of her pointed ears still pink. She glanced at me as we walked, then quickly shifted her gaze away again.

“I mean, you do have a point.” I stopped her for a moment, pulling her close. “But we did get interrupted, and I just don’t think that’s right.”

I tilted her head up again, lowering my own face to give her a proper kiss, but she sidestepped out of my grasp.

“Not here.” She hissed. “Sam is watching us, and he’s looking particularly violent.”

“I’m not scared of your little brother. Besides, I like you, Lyria. And I don’t care who knows or sees it.”

“That’s a declaration.” She breathed. “Didn’t this happen like… ten minutes ago?”

“You know as well as I do that whatever this is has been going on for longer.” I said.

Lyria’s eyes widened, and her lips parted slightly. I couldn’t keep my gaze off them.

“Kiss me later, Folas.” She whispered. “Kiss me all you want, but later, in a place where my parents aren’t present.”

She had a point. Her words had me glance around quickly, making sure that Rowan and Aelin weren’t anywhere near. I had grown up with them, and they were like family, but I really didn’t want to see just how protective they would get over their daughter.

I settled for holding her hand instead, and Lyria went back to dragging me through the drawing room, searching for her friends.

We found the witches first, the three of them miraculously together. From the look of Nysa’s face, she was incredibly unhappy about the whole situation. Caeda stood nearby, and she clung to him; a rock from which she could glare at her sister to her heart’s content.

“I’m going to be giving the Southern Continent royalty a tour of the city in a bit.” Lyria told them. “Would you like to come?”

“Oh, thank the gods.” Kerrigan sighed. “I’m so sick of socializing with people. Count me in.”

“Me too.” Nysa piped up. Caeda said nothing, but we all knew he would follow Nysa wherever she went.

“Good. Front courtyard in half an hour. I’ll meet you there.” The witches nodded, then went back to glaring at everyone who passed.

We made our way through the drawing room, until we’d gathered a sizable group to head out into the city. It included all of my brothers, Asceline, the Allsbrooks, Teagan of Briarcliff, Miran Owen, Sam, Aspen, Rygan, and Giselle. When Lyria asked Amelie, she decided to remain at the palace.

The half hour was nearly up, and the drawing room had noticeably less people in it. We were about to leave as well, still hand in hand, when a golden female stepped in front of us.

“Where do you two think you’re going?” Queen Aelin asked, eyeing our clasped hands. Lyria blinked up at her mother.

“We’re going into the city with the Khaganate royals. They wanted to look around.”

She still looked suspicious, but the queen stepped aside and let us go. “Please be back before dinner.” 

We walked out of the drawing room and hurried to the front courtyard, only stopping when we found Fleetfoot napping on a plush couch in the hallway. My own family’s dog, Noir, was curled up beneath the couch, his black fur nearly causing me to miss him. But with a sharp whistle, both dogs bounded after us.

The sheer amount of people gathered in the front courtyard was nearly overwhelming. Thankfully, the royals from Antica had left the youngest members behind as we did, meaning only teenagers and adults would be making their way into the city.

Lyria clapped her hands, the sound echoing across the yard. All eyes turned to her, and consequently, me. The sight of so many eyes on me made me break out into a cold sweat.

“I welcome all of our friends from the Southern Continent.” Lyria said, ever the diplomat. “And I am excited to show you all around the city of Orynth.”

With the amount of royals leaving the palace, several guards accompanied us, despite Lyria’s protests. The dogs dashed around, nipping at each others’ ears and sniffing everybody’s clothes. And off we went, a group of twenty-four young adults, let loose in a great big city.

~~~~

“This is my favorite sweet shop.” Lyria said, producing several gold pieces seemingly out of nowhere. She ordered, insisting the woman manning the till to keep the change. 

A few minutes later, a massive box of chocolate was passed around our group, while Lyria invited everyone to take a piece. 

I wasn’t usually one for chocolate, but the little truffle was filled with caramel and sprinkled with sea salt, and even I couldn’t resist.

Lyria sneakily grabbed the last chocolate from the box, green eyes filled with mischief. Before I could ask if she was going to share, she grabbed my hand and whisked us both away.

She dragged me into an alley, giggling hysterically. We were close enough to the others that I could still hear them, but I wasn’t focused on them. Instead, my focus was entirely taken by the princess in front of me, golden and sparkling in the sunlight.

I wondered if she knew just how much she took my breath away. How every time she moved, every time she spoke, I fell a little bit deeper in love with her.

Lyria held up the chocolate truffle, waving it in front of my nose. I reached out, and she popped it into my mouth. It was too delicious for me to even complain about her feeding me like a baby.

I chewed through the sticky caramel, trying very hard to focus on not choking, instead of how my entire body felt like it was on fire from her touch.

The alley was so narrow that we were pressed against each other, and I could feel the muscle of her legs through the fabric of her dress. She put her hands on my shoulders and looked up thoughtfully at me, and I thought I might combust right then and there.

When she kissed me, I melted into her embrace, and pulled her closer. Every part of me sang from the contact, coming alive from her gentle touch.

The kiss was quick, and when she pulled away, I noticed she had chocolate staining her lips. Before she could say anything, I tugged her back to me and kissed her.

I heard her soft gasp, and then felt her hands gripping my shirt, kissing me harder. My hands tangled in her hair, still in a complicated updo, and her whole body went soft.

She tilted her head back, giving me better access, and I groaned into her open mouth. The kisses turned ravenous, as if were burning up, seeing whose flame could consume the other’s first. 

Lyria’s lips trailed from my own, drifting down my chin and up my jaw, and everything in me turned to putty as I let her have her way.

Her pointed canines nipped at my neck, and I moaned into her shoulder. At the sound, she pulled away sharply, breathing hard.

“Not here.” She breathed. 

“Yeah.” I agreed. “I don’t think an alleyway with our friends five feet away is a very romantic spot for the first time.”

Her eyes were blown wide, and her puckered lips were swollen. She still had a trace of chocolate in the corner of her mouth. I reached up to wipe it away, her gaze never leaving mine.

“You’ve got something on your neck.” She giggled. She licked a finger and wiped it away, bringing what had to be chocolate up to my nose.

“You smeared chocolate all over me, didn’t you.” I sighed. Lyria snickered, confirming my suspicions. 

“It’s okay. I’ll get it off.” She leaned closer, sucking the candy off her finger as she did so. 

Lyria kissed my neck again, sucking at the chocolate in a way that made me gasp. She continued down my throat, and I shuddered beneath her touch, burning, burning. 

When she pulled away, licking her lips for last traces of chocolate, I very nearly pulled her back down again, answering my body’s call of more, more, more.

But she giggled, and granted me with one last quick peck, before she pushed herself out of my arms and walked off to rejoin the group. I sat there, stunned, trying to process what had just happened.

I got off the wall, trying to remember how to walk. My legs wobbled like jelly, and I struggled to hold myself upright. What kind of magic did she possess that could render me so helpless?

I found a nearby fountain and splashed my face with cold water, hoping to erase the sweat and the scent from what had just happened. I wiped myself off with my shirt sleeve, then turned around and nearly slammed into Asceline.

“Have fun?” She purred, her Ashryver eyes glowing.

“No clue what you mean.” I sputtered, trying to break away from her and rejoin the group. She just laughed in my face.

“I saw you two disappear into an alleyway, and then Lyria comes out practically glowing, and you appear wobbling like a newborn fawn, with some… male issues that are very apparent. Have you two got any secret rendezvous for tonight, perhaps?”

“Not that I would tell you.” I snapped, splashing more water in hopes to calm myself down.

The shifter just sighed and rolled her eyes, before flouncing off with the others. I waited until my body was cool, then hurried after her.

Lyria was at the front of the group, as if she’d never left. Her hair was mussed and her dress was wrinkled, but her green eyes were vibrant in the sun. My gaze followed her like a magnet, never once leaving hers.

I hung back as we travelled through the city, supervising the dogs. I was afraid if I got too close I’d have to drag Lyria to another alleyway and kiss her until I couldn’t anymore. She was like an intoxicating drug, glorious and addicting. 

A group of children raced through the group, making a beeline for the dogs. I worried they’d scare them, but Fleetfoot allowed them to pet her, as did Noir. The kids soon scattered, but one, a little girl, dashed up to Lyria.

“Princess!” She called. “Princess Lyria!”

“Hello,” Lyria said kindly. “May I help you?”

The girl peered up at the princess with wide eyes, as if she was amazed she was actually talking to her. She stood, gaping for a moment, before she collected herself and reached up to whisper into Lyria’s ear.

She looked thoughtful for a moment, before she twisted her hands and made a small flame. The girl squealed with delight, but then Lyria took it a step further.

The flame transformed into a wyvern, breathing fire over her palms. The fire must have been cool to the touch, because the shaped fire flickered to the little girl’s hands. She stared, wide-eyed, as the wyvern flapped over her hands, before disappearing in a cloud of smoke.

The girl threw herself at Lyria, hugging her tightly for a moment before running off again, giggling with happiness. I met Lyria’s eyes, and saw the pride there, the joy.

It wasn’t long before more children appeared, requesting various shapes in fire. Even some of our own group participated, and Lyria granted them all. Smoke puffed up from hands all around, and squeals of laughter filled the small square.

I made my way up to the princess, pushing through the crowds to do so. Fleetfoot and Noir stayed at my heels, helping to part the group of people. She smiled warmly at my approach, holding out a hand which I gladly took. 

“What shape do you want, Folas?” 

I turned slightly, whispering into her pointed ear, “Any shape you choose. But only if you let me come to your room tonight.”

She blushed fiercely, but didn’t whisper back. Instead, she produced a fiery heart, and let it float into my hands before it dissolved into a cloud of smoke. She gave me a secretive smile, and turned to the next person.

~~~~

“I think something’s wrong with Fleetfoot.” Aelin said, concern lacing her voice. “Rowan, come look at her.” 

I picked my head up from where I’d been sitting with Lyria, dutifully keeping my hands to myself. The golden dog was lying beside Aelin, looking perfectly fine to me, if not a little round in the stomach.

Lyria took my hand as she listened in, and it took all my strength to keep listening to her parents rather than turn my attention to her. But I looked forward, keeping my eyes on the dog.

“She hasn’t eaten anything this evening. Lyria, did you feed her out in the city?”

“No, not that I’m aware of. She might have gotten into something while we weren’t watching, though.” She said.

“I was watching her the entire time.” I added. “Or… like, almost all the time. But when I was watching, she didn’t eat anything.”

Rowan stroked Fleetfoot’s fur, and felt her stomach. His brow knitted suddenly, and Lyria squeezed my hand from beside me.

“Aelin, feel her stomach. It’s… sort of hard.” His mate did as he said, and her expression became more confused.

“Did she swallow rocks? Or something else that’s tough?” I stood from the couch, gathering closer, Lyria still gripping my hand. Fleetfoot dozed on, not particularly paying attention to us.

Asceline appeared, likely seeing the commotion around a dog. She peered over my shoulder, then shoved between me and Lyria to feel Fleetfoot’s belly.

“That’s not rocks, Aunt.” She said, looking more serious than I’d ever seen her. “Those are puppies. Fleetfoot is pregnant.”

“No way.” Aelin said incredulously. “She’s so old, and there are no male dogs around-”

She turned her gaze to me, and suddenly I felt like I was being burned alive.

“Except your dog.”

“Noir isn’t mine,” I protested, “He’s my parents’. Besides, I don’t control him.”

Aelin just sighed. “You know what, it’s nobody’s fault. But tell your father that if my dog gets hurt or sick because of these puppies, I will skin that dog.”

“No, she won’t.” Rowan sighed. “Fireheart, you and I both know you won’t hurt a dog. She’ll just be very angry and probably yell at him a lot.”

“I think Noir can handle that.” I said. I turned my gaze towards Fleetfoot. “What will you guys do with the puppies?”

“I’m not sure. I mean, we just found out about this.” Aelin groaned. “The Peace Ball in three days, as if that wasn’t enough work. Now my dog is pregnant.”

“Not very pregnant.” Asceline added helpfully. “Probably not even a month along. You’ve still got a month to go.”

Lyria had been silent the entire time, holding my hand like a vice. Now she stood up, throwing a lame excuse to her parents, before dragging me out of the room.

She clipped silently down the hallway, saying nothing. I recognized the wing of the castle as the area her rooms were, and I finally pulled her to a halt.

“Lyria, what’s wrong?”

“I’m fine.” She snapped. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Then why did you take me here?” I asked. “I want to help you, Lyria. What’s going on?”

“I thought you wanted to come to my room.” She said. “Like, for a romantic endeavour or something of the sort. I thought you wanted to come and make love to me all night.”

“I-” I sputtered for words. What was going on? We’d been doing so well just minutes before, but now?

“Lyria, I do, I really do, but you’re not in the right headspace and I want to help you.”

“Headspace? I’m not in the right headspace?” She shrieked. She ripped her hand from mine with a scowl, and suddenly she was walking away, taking her golden beauty with her.

And I was alone in the dark hallway of Orynth Palace.

[gaiatheorist]

Atypical/Elliptical.

There was a tweet highlighted yesterday by one of the Neuro-Divergent accounts I follow, building pace on the back of a compare/contrast photo of an autistic female, and an autistic male. If you haven’t seen it, you can guess how it went, she’s all cute and ‘sailor suit’, he’s in a cluttered room, overweight, in food-stained clothing. Lazy stereotyping at best, offensive and dangerous in reality. The dangerous tweet I reported was one from a contentious incel, stating that females don’t have autism, further down the page of “Would you like to report any other tweets?”, we have that other old favourite “Autism isn’t real.” Yes, I’m shaking my head.

I’m not going to go into in-depth analysis of incel beliefs and values, I’ll just hover over the suggestion that this particular variant was whipping up his followers that ‘Women don’t have autism’, based on his interpretation that the female whose picture he was using was conventionally attractive, and neatly presented. If you tell someone the sun’s 93 million miles away, they accept it, but if they see a sign saying ‘wet paint’, they feel compelled to put their finger in it to check, then complain that they have paint on them. (I know, I don’t touch wet paint, I lick it, it keeps life interesting.) ‘Everybody knows’ that a common feature with autism is the special interest, that we will fixate obsessively on a certain topic, or subject, and woe betide any mere mortal who can’t escape before we get into full flow, what with us not always picking up on non-verbal cues, like snoring. It’s entirely possible that the ‘girl’ had a special interest of dressing and presenting herself in a certain way, even ‘normal’ people do that, hanging their entire identity on presenting a certain way, designer clothes, certain styles of dress, Angry Bird eyebrows. Step back, and absorb that, the girl wasn’t ‘properly’ autistic because she didn’t have food in her hair, wasn’t wearing a Star Trek uniform, looked ‘normal’. Specifically, she looked the kind of ‘normal’ that incels have experience of being rejected by, because they expect to have nice-things handed to them on a plate, and then blame everyone else when they’re denied. There’s a certain example of a petulant, pouty individual, who sulks when they don’t get their own way floating to mind.  

Using the newfangled terms neuro-divergent, and neuro-typical, and pausing just for a second to point out that no, we’re not ‘all a bit autistic’ any more than we’re a ‘bit vegetarian’ or a ‘bit left-handed’, neuro-typical people are assumed to be the norm, anything else is deviant. I’ll hold my hands up to that, I don’t iron my laundry, or peel my vegetables, you can stop clutching your pearls, I’m not going to steal them, what would I want pearls for? People with neurodevelopmental disorders are atypical, outsiders, outliers, ‘other’, and it’s more than a little annoying that ‘everyone knows’ that, specifically autistic people, have a tendency to see themselves as different from others. (You started it, telling us we were wrong and weird for our plethora of sensory aversions, and routines, just because they don’t make sense to you.) We’re atypical, whether that’s because we’re genuinely distressed if our ‘usual’ brand of socks, or cereal, or soap is discontinued, or because we won’t cross the road if the light isn’t green, even if there’s nothing coming. Other examples are available. 

I’ve spent vast chunks of my life being bounced between “Why are you doing it like that?” and “HOW do you do that?”, I don’t have any savant-skills, but I’m on an elliptical axis, I do some things differently. (The axis isn’t just elliptical, it’s occasionally highly irregular, I have multiple other medical issues, autistics are often blessed like that, to the untrained eye, it might appear I’m neurotic, or hypochondriac, or do my shopping on NHS direct. I’m an unfortunate combination of chromosomes and chronology.) You neuro-typical types bimble along happily enough on your spherical orbits. Yes, you have spikes, too, I know, but it seems that they’re the exception rather than the rule, your orbits appear far more regular than mine. I’m deviating from all-autistics, to ‘me’, there are common factors, but we’re not a one-size-fits-all contingent, I don’t get upset if different types of food touch on my plate, but I can’t use oven-gloves, and I’ll go all day without a drink of water rather than share a drinking vessel, we’re all different. 

I’m sometimes envious of the spherical orbit, the regularity of being able to remember to prepare and eat three meals a day, not being afraid of bridges, being able to choose a direction and travel in it without sensory overload, it might as well be necromancy or Olympic level athleticism, it just isn’t ‘there’ for me. When my orbit is within ‘yours’, I’m highly efficient, that’s the “HOW do you do that?” phase. I just do. There isn’t really much of an alternative, but it’s not very healthy, I have all of your weird scripts and rules tumbling around my head, like that stage where you’re learning a new language, everything has to be double-processed, and checked, it’s clunky, not fluent. I’m 43, and I still don’t dream in your language, I can concentrate for periods, but remembering all of the verb endings tends to kick the tenses out of the window, we’re no longer congruent, and I don’t make sense to you. 

When I’m within your orbit, I take short-cuts, as verbose as I am here, I omit the unnecessary, because I don’t have the cognitive or physical energy for all of it. I’m a flat-pack item of furniture, I don’t need ‘all’ those screws and fixings to be functional, do I? I unintentionally infuriate and antagonise, because I don’t want to stop for a cup of tea, or chat about TV programmes, I want to complete the task set, before I run out of energy. (I know, but the externally imposed sanctions for non-completion generally have a ripple-out impact on others. My intense bursts of activity alienate other people, because they want to slow down, and chat, but that’s not the task in hand, and I know that my brain and body are temperamental, I *need* to finish within time, and properly, in case I’m less-functional the next day, I always stacked/banked work to make sure I was ahead of myself, to avoid letting other people down if I was ill.) 

When our orbits converge, it’s phenomenal, on a ‘work’ level, a life-admin level, or, that holiest of Grail, an interpersonal level, those brief instances are stellar, apart from me freaking people out by my intensity sometimes, I’m an acquired taste. I’m really good at some things, a large proportion of which have yet to demonstrate a particularly useful potential, but there’s time yet. I’m steering very firmly away from the lazy stereotypes of ‘special talents’, I’m resilient and resourceful because I have to be, I often view things from an alternative perspective, and connect-the-dots that others don’t. I still can’t use oven-gloves. 

When my orbit swings outside yours, it’s difficult, sometimes impossible for aims to be reconciled, That’s the kick in the teeth on a regular basis, last week, or last month, or yesterday, or earlier today, I might have been functional, or even brilliant, then, all at once, I’m not. “You were fine yesterday!”, yes, I know, I was there. 

Chromosomal and chronological factors sometimes spin me out of orbit. I might have been able to walk to Tesco one day last week (Coincidentally, I wasn’t, but that’s not the point.), that doesn’t mean I can do it every day, it’s a cross-over complexity with my telephone directory of other ailments, as well as the autism. When I’m out of orbit, whether it’s sensory overload, burnout, or just my day-to-day ‘wrongness’, I process differently. A ‘normal’ action, like parking a car (I don’t know why I use driving analogies, I’ve never taken my test.) becomes a pantomime of a driving test, where the instructor speaks a foreign language, it’s an unfamiliar car, on unfamiliar roads, and the car’s on fire, and full of wasps, with an angry pig in the back seat. I don’t have muscle memory, or subconscious competence for a lot of functions people take for granted, not just oven gloves, sometimes events conspire to throw me out of spherical orbit, and everything becomes far more complicated than it needs to be. The elliptical orbit makes ‘just’ my ultimate four-letter word, and I know plenty of others. Some instances of being out-of-orbit are predictable, sensory overloads, other illnesses, compounded difficulties around other life-events, my toe having poked through my sock, and being strangled in my boot, it can feel like being an adult-sized toddler, and the temptation to throw down and scream on the supermarket floor because I’m tired is an unwelcome, but regular occurrence. 

“Oh, we all get like that sometimes! Can’t you just...?” If I could have ‘just’, I would already have ‘just’, wouldn’t I? 43 years of having been chastised for being difficult, or ruining everyone else’s picnic feed very firmly into the ‘masking’ phenomenon. Charlatans and snake-oil sellers, and Gwyneth Paltrow, as well as even more insidious practitioners are always trying to promote some thing or another that will make us fitter, healthier, more productive, then, to continue the Radiohead theme, many medical types throw back “You do it to yourself.”. 

Autism is a lifelong developmental disorder. I can’t consistently ‘try to be less like that’ any more than I can try to be less right-handed, or biologically female. (Yes, I *could* attempt to alter both of those, but to what end?) I’ve had a lot of medical interventions since the brain aneurysm ruptured, and 99% of them have tried to un-autistic me. That’s normal, because autism is abnormal. It’s also normal because autistic females broadly present differently to males. Broadly, I have observational experience from working in education, the ‘old’ perspective was that boys were more frequently autistic than girls, and, more-autistic. Slight tangent on the common misconception of the autistic spectrum, if I may? “We’re all a bit autistic, haha!”, no, no, we’re not, any more than we’re all a bit epileptic. The autistic spectrum isn’t a continuum-spectrum, from 0-100% autistic, while it is clear that some people are severely autistic, and others are not, it isn’t actually a point-scoring exercise, unless you’re UK benefits agencies.

Males and females are conditioned and socialised differently, after millennia of girls-do-this-boys-do-that, humanity is cautiously asking why. I’ll leave my wonky femininist soapbox under the desk, apart from the fact that females are ‘supposed to’ be quiet, and kind, and compliant, and all the gubbins that the incels say. I’m 43, I was raised pink-for-girls-blue-for-boys, there were a lot of things Girls Didn’t Do, it’s OK, I’ve done most of them now, don’t tell my Dad. Much like left-handed children in days gone by were forced to write with their right hand, there has been, and still is, to some extent, pressure on males and females to behave differently, as if keeping our reproductive paraphernalia in a more-or-difficult-to-kick location is an absolute-for-everything. I don’t think it is, but we’ve already established I’m atypical. Not all 40-something-year-old people, with, or without autism had the same childhood experiences I did. There’s no place for detail here, some of the embedded lessons weren’t kindly taught. That Pavlovian response system stuck, be quiet, be pleasant, be demure and train that flinch into a smile. (Various parties ought to apply for funding for having ‘tamed’ this particular shrew. I’m not tamed, I’m barely even domesticated, but I have a shed-load of coping mechanisms.) 

Females shouldn’t feel the need to be less-than, to defer to males, but, in a disturbing number of arenas, that’s the norm. I spent the largest part of my life being afraid of men, because of what some men had done, and hating myself for holding a belief that was anathema to the absolute core of my being. (Chapter whatever, fundamentally knowing that males were not ‘better’ than females, but feeling obliged to concede, to avoid disturbing the peace.) The #MeToo disclosures and discourse picked that metaphorical scab, I’ll never go back to that half-life.

I’m atypical because, after decades of excruciating path-of-least-resistance masking, I’ve managed to mask proficiently to a point where I can ‘act normal’ for short stretches. I shouldn’t have to. I’m not suggesting I should be allowed to climb on top of the curtain poles, and throw things, but I don’t see why not-acting-feminine should be seen as disturbing or threatening. It hurts, not just the bras, and the stupid shoes, and the sitting-all-cramped-up, but the emotional and physical toll of carrying oneself ‘female’. When I had the full spectrum cognitive functioning assessment after the brain injuries had settled, the neuro-psych pointed out that a consideration was always ‘At what cost?’. The popular analogy for physical or cognitive energy is a ‘battery’ (A cell, doofus, a ‘battery’ is a number of cells together- behold, I’m reaching my cranky-pedantic cut-off stage.) In order to do anything at all, you need enough ‘charge’ to complete the task. Yes, given, BUT, with autistic masking, there isn’t just the ‘charge’ for the task, there’s the additional charge involved in keeping everything else running, without breaking down, or burning out, the energy overdraft. I’m virtually constantly in my ‘overdraft’, and it’s a bitch to pay back. 

I’m elliptical because I frequently swing inside, or outside a typical orbit, I can be ‘miles ahead’ at some points, but ‘miles behind’, and struggling to keep up at others, it’s not a reliable pattern, I can’t predict all of it, and I am SICK of well-meaning “Oh, don’t be so hard on yourself!”. I’m rarely being ‘hard’, I’m usually being practical, if I do x and y on one day, I won’t be able to do z as well. (”Don’t call yourself disabled!” can be a blog for another day.) 

This has been an attempt for me to shake myself out of a fog of not-writing. Autism is opaque and oblique, it can be brilliant at times, when things ‘click’, but it’s almost-always difficult to articulate in a way that’s palatable, let alone digestible, I know, it sticks in my own throat enough. The ‘experts’ trot out their theories, sometimes without consultation, and the organisations that set out to ‘cure’ us are pedaling the myth that autism is a disease. It’s not, it’s a divergence. Take this as ‘A Portrait of This Autist’, I can’t speak for anyone else, but I do think it’s important to speak.