#well I suppose you can construct independent meanings for each

[thatscarletflycatcher]

I will bore you all writing about Doctor Finlay, but bear with me.

One of the most unrealistic aspects of the Doctor Finlay-Nurse Meitland mess is the idea that they got engaged right before or as the war begun, and then for some reason had not seen each other ever since. Brenda has never left Tannachbrae during that time; which would have been an easier fix, had she joined up as an army nurse herself and been sent to units far from John's. I guess it couldn't be because the maximum drama of her new American fiancé living in town couldn't possibly be cut off. The western front didn't reopen till 44'.

The only possible mitigation, then, would be for Finlay to have been on the desert front, and lo and behold, upon rewatching 1x02, he tells a kid he was in the desert, then Sicily, then Italy, and finally Germany. But even on this generous scenario of the writers it doesn't make sense. If Finlay had had 6 years of ininterrupted service without leave home, chances are he'd have priority to have leave home as soon as the war ended, specially because I don't think personnel was being roaded or flown directly from Italy to Germany for obvious reasons of logistic convenience. So he would have been home on leave after may 45, and so the plot as presented is absurd.

But then it is all doubly absurd because the most reasonable and likely course of action would be for him to hear about it through letters. A dear John letter, or even someone from town condoling with him by assuming that the public status of Brenda's new engagement meant that Finlay had been informed too. What is the audience supposed to assume about their correspondence? Was he writing her tender, loving letters and receiving no response? Was he receiving tepid, general letters from her and being unconsciously or deliberately dense?

It makes no sense. Compels me though.

[furiousgoldfish]

Abusive childhoods can make us feel like we’re fundamentally unlovable, but also, like there’s maybe a chance that we will become lovable, but only if we do x and y and fix x and z in ourselves. We’re not allowed even to ask for any attention or acceptance until we do these exact steps, because if we do, we’ll just get reprimanded for not doing those steps.

And it can be really idiotic things, like, you have to look a certain way, you have to respond a certain way, you aren’t allowed to have any trauma or any symptoms or emotional wounds, you’re not supposed to be emotional or get upset, ever, or be justly angry when the situation calls for it, and you have to do everything perfectly on your first time, never get tired of being devalued, ignored, neglected and excluded, never think of yourself first, be exceptional at sensing everyone’s needs and fixing them, never have any needs of your own, never have opinions that clashes with someone else’s, each and every one of these does not describe a human being. None of this is a pre-requirement for being loved. If you can’t be any of this, that means you’re normal, you’re human, you’re incredibly lovable.

It goes beyond childhood as well; once you attempt to enter adulthood, you’ll easily get informed that you’ll be looked down upon (that translates to ‘unlovable’ to us) if you are not independent, extremely skilled, having a job, always fun to be around, in a relationship, into the same things everyone else is into, social, looking a certain way - you’ll get told that without these qualities, you’re low value, to be ignored and cast aside. It can make you feel like you’re not even allowed to be proud of yourself, you’re not allowed to even like yourself, for who you are! If feels again, like you’re fundamentally a failure and that everyone else must be right not to like you or want to be around you, because you’re ‘no good’ and ‘only a burden’.

But this also isn’t true. None of these qualities are a pre-requirement for being loved either. And I know this, because I know people who have none of these qualities, and they are loved. All of these things are based on a construct, and we do not love others based on how well they can fit to a construct, or based on how well they can obey us.

We love others because it’s in our nature as a social species. We like spending time around humans who are warm, who have kindness in their hearts, who pose no threat to us; who are capable of making us think, or making us laugh sometimes. We bond based on experiences together, situations we worked thru together, helping each other. We like sharing our happiness and grief alike, we like knowing there’s someone we can rely on when we’re lost, confused, or alone in our troubles. We also like seeing others being free to be who they are, we like spontaneous joy and passionate ideas, we like to be engaged and be filled with hope, or even just enjoy moments that would pass unnoticed if someone else didn’t point them out. We like knowing someone else’s opinions and perspectives, we like feeling like we’re alike. We like hearing stories. We like witnessing things together.

And none of this demands for any of the participants to have a certain skill, job, appearance, behaviour. Not for any of this do you need to be subservient, convenient, or perfect. You’ve been lied to. You’ve been good as you are, capable of bonding and being loved the whole time. There was nothing that needed to be fixed.

People are loved when they’re struggling. People are being loved when they’re sick, addicted, impoverished, demanding, imposing. People are even loved when they’re manipulative and abusive. So you are not unlovable. Convenience is not the key of love. You do not have to maximize how convenient you are to everyone in order to be loved. You are lacking in nothing.

[mitspeiler]

Director's Commentary Ch. 6

These are for my book The Dream Quest of Henry Sinclair, which you can read here on Ao3 or here on Royal Road.

In the previous chapter I introduced Leila's new name and look. I suppose I may as well talk about her now.

Words that are rendered in color aren't that way because they have some inherent power, but because Henry feels a fixation on them. As much as Leila is obsessed with killing Henry, Henry is fixated on killing her. Obviously not for the same reasons, and besides that he has distractions keeping him stable. But she is literally always there, a monkey on his back. In a way she is like the death drive or a manifestation of his anxiety. He thinks if he could just get rid of her, it would be smooth sailing. His burning hatred of Leila comes and goes, and he finally puts it away at the end.

I believe I mention that Leila means "daughter of the night" or something like that in the author's note on the chapter proper. It's a good name for a nemesis. It is also a name stolen from the figment from Simhabad. Leila consuming and stealing the identity of Leila is an inversion of Henry's relationship with Ayane. The blue boy and the blue girl help each other out while affirming her identity as an independent being, while the red boy eats the red girl and steals her identity.

This is not to say that the figment Leila is dead. It's really hard to kill a dream. Leila and Leila may wind up having a long talk in the future, probably whenever Henry reads The Thieves of Simhabad.

On a practical level, I made the doppelganger turn into a girl so that I could give her a real name and not have to write "the doppelganger" every time (the decision to render her name in red every time wound up costing me more time but I was invested at that point.) As for why she is a girl in-universe, well, I have cheekily told my friends that it's because she is the opposite of Henry, who is cis. But honestly her gender identity has nothing to do with his. Leila was undergoing an identity crisis due to being a fake creature, and decided to reinvent herself. She stole the Leila figment's name and face, but she isn't just cosplaying her either. Leila and all the other monsters Leila consumed off-screen were sort of stripped of parts to construct a new identity for Leila. She is a woman and a trans woman at that, though with the caveat that she is not a human being but rather an inhuman spirit that steals identities. If the first figment she'd met after that fight with Henry had been a man she would have reinvented herself as a man, or whatever gender and species combination they had going on.

Heh, this chapter is actually extremely eventful and pivotal to the story. and hardly about Leila at all. I could go on about many different aspects of it, but I'll just say that I included a small scene in which Henry tries and fails to invoke the goddess Cybele. It builds off n earlier scene that I also added during the editing process, in which Henry notes that dream magic has a very different texture than earth magic. these were intended to provide a bit of foreshadowing that his magic isn't working as it should due to him being in this world too long.

[bettermiya]

Hi! If you're still taking matchups, I'd love to have one! I have a lot of info here but I suppose that makes it easier to pick and choose HAHA as for genre/flavor of match i dont really care if it's more fluffy or smutty, i'm in my 20s

personality traits: introverted (distant, little interest in getting close to many people), extremely independent (often refuses to rely on others), confident (arrogant), straightforward (blunt, sometimes tactless), decisive, even-tempered, good sense of humor, playful, teasing, mischievous, realist that leans optimistic, curious (nosey), a bit of a troublemaker/rulebreaker, does not shy away from conflict.

hobbies: video games, watching anime, drawing (digital), painting (watercolor, acrylic), baking (but NOT cooking), reading, cosplay, thrill-seeking activities.

likes: cats, sweets, good food, winter, cool weather, lattes, traveling, piercings (i have 12), tattoos, puns (!), lazy days, learning foreign languages, cleaning, new experiences, trying new foods, trying new skills, people with a good sense of humor (quite subjective), people who are flexible and open-minded.

dislikes: dogs, spiders, bitter foods, hot weather, strong scents, pessimism, rigidity (in personality or environment), feeling restricted, possessiveness, conformity, having to be responsible for other people, boredom, when people don't stand up for themselves (i tend to look down on/clash with people who are overly insecure).

types / categories: intj-a ; 7w8 (yes i know type 7 is super uncommon for intj) ; love languages: physical touch, quality time (least likely to use/appreciate acts of service)

misc.: clumsy ; accidentally misuses slang or phrases bc i can never remember how they go (e.g. "let's bust this popsicle stand" instead of "blow this popsicle stand") ; able to pick up new skills relatively quickly ; studied french, korean, and latin in university ; prone to being a bit directionless in life but is go-with-the-flow enough that it typically isn't an issue ; prone to bad luck but tries to find the humor in most situations ; life approach: to have fun and be happy, to live a life of varied experiences, to not take life too seriously, to not force meaning into life

Your life is about to get a whole lot more interesting… your match is Nishinoya Yuu

Sometimes like calls to like, and your chaotic energy and puns (not to mention the baked goods) brought Nishinoya rolling into your path. Nishinoya finds your bluntness to be hilarious, though he sometimes gets offended when it’s directed towards him. Don’t worry, though, he takes what you say to heart only in the sense that constructive criticism and a new challenge are something he is always up for; and he has no problem issuing such challenges and criticisms to you as well. Though there may be a bit of an argument over who is going to be hitting to who in practice, you both help each other grow in your shared team position. He finally pulls you aside after spending some time together and agrees to teach you his Rolling Thunder move. You’ll share your special moves with him, too, right?

As an adult, Nishinoya spends his time traveling and reveling in new experiences, and he is sure you drag– bring– you along for the ride. Though there are times when travels lead you into hotter climates, he makes sure there are plenty of pools and oceans and lakes and cool places to make up for it. He buys you lots of ice cream. He promises to take you somewhere cooler with lots of snow in between the hotter places. While you are traveling, he points out every stray cat he sees and makes sure that before you leave, you both try some of the local sweets.

“Don’t you worry, I’m very flexible.” Winks.

Both of you get into plenty of mischief together, but he knows when to be serious and responsible. There may be a problem with who of the two of you will kill the spiders in the relationship. (“Really, we should just burn the hotel down, it’s the only responsible thing to do.”) But that’s okay, at least there will never be a dull moment. It might be hard to convince Nishinoya to slow down long enough for a lazy day, but if you bake some goodies, he’ll play video games with you and watch anime. (“I’m definitely going to beat you this time.”)

“Don’t forget, it’s okay to rely on others sometimes. That’s why volleyball is played with a team. It’s about connection and relying on each other to keep it going. We’ll rely on each other, okay?”

[mentalisttraceur-software]

I think a good general rule for copy construction which "casts" or converts between subclasses, if you are providing a generally reusable base class, is this:

base class copy constructor should be able to take subclass instances as an argument, and construct a base class instance with all the common base class state the same; and

subclass copy constructor should be able to take base class instances as an argument, and construct a subclass instance with all the common base class state the same; but

for any two classes where one is not a subclass of the other, even if they share a common base class, the copy constructor which they inherit from that base should not let them automatically "cast" each other like that.

In other words, given a base class `Foo` provided by some library, and subclasses `Bar` and `Qux` which both singly directly inherit from `Foo`, these should work out of the box:

Foo(bar_instance)

Foo(qux_instance)

Bar(foo_instance)

Qux(foo_instance)

But these should not work unless `Bar` or `Qux` go out of their way to make them work, for example by overloading the relevant constructor:

Bar(qux_instance)

Qux(bar_instance)

Because when converting between a base and a subclass, we know that the subclass is supposed to be substitutable for the base. The subclass has some delta of behavior, constraints, or data shape versus the base. There can be a pretty sensible default semantic for what it means to convert between them - "I got given a base instance, I want to use my subclass behavior with it" or "I may have been given a subclass instance, and I intend to ignore or remove any extra unexpected behavior from it". And this is generally a more useful default than rejecting the conversion.

But when converting between two independent subclasses of the same base - trying to jump between branches of the class hierarchy - well those are not expected to be substitutable. The deltas they made to the base might be incompatible. There is no sensible default conversion - each of those subclasses represents needs specific to the maker of that subclass, and we can't know if conversion is appropriate or how to do it without knowing those unique needs for both subclasses. And the only doable default that the base class can provide for this case would be to lose any functionality and invariants provided by one subclass, and then layer on all the functionality and constraints of the other - as if you converted from one subclass to the base class and then to the other subclass - but providing that out-of-the-box seems too likely to turn accidental erroneous or incompatible mixing of subclasses into silent misbehavior.

Note that if you actually do want the behavior described in the last paragraph, then the behavior from the previous paragraph lets you explicitly do it:

Bar(Foo(qux_instance)

Qux(Foo(bar_instance)

This explicitly bottlenecks through the common base, self-documents and announces the fact that the conversion loses or misses anything that wasn't shared by the common base class, which is good because in most cases this is exactly where this should be visible, where it is most local to the code whose behavior it is most relevant to.

[dailyadventureprompts]

Footnotes on foes: Eldrazi

Hey DMs, do you need an unfeeling aberrant force to threaten your campaign world at various scales but don’t want to use mindflayers? Bored of lovecraftian knockoffs threatening to drown reality in abstract but unspecified “madness”? Well have I got the monster for you friends, It’s the Eldrazi: an unknowable and all consuming horde that’s here to reduce your setting to nothingness.

I’ve always had a fondness for the Eldrazi after they originally debued in magic the gathering, alien beings that sap all life from their surroundings and seem to have no other aims beyond the total and complete obliteration of whatever world they happen to dwell on. (plus they have a super cool look, and in the end isn’t that what matters?)

Eldrazi have a lot of mystery surrounding them, but in trying to puzzle them out I came up with my own headcanon that was too good not to use.  Below the cut I’ll go into detail on how I think the eldrazi function, and how you can best use them in your campaigns.

TLDR: The eldrazi are the great decomposers of the multiverse, reducing dead worlds down into their base components, and then into dust to be reabsorbed by the cosmic cycles of the astral sea. A perfectly natural process, but one that can go catastrophically wrong should the eldrazi be drawn to a world that has not yet died as they often are by witless dabblers or disruptions to those same astral currents. When they end up on a world they’re not supposed to be they end up creating wastelands, fighting against nature like an infection.  

While they’re scattered about many regions of the astral sea where stagnation looms, the eldrazi mainly occupy a region of the multiverse known as the dead realms, a cosmic landfill where realities decay into one another and the faceless horrors can do their work.

It is important to note that the eldrazi are not a species, or in many ways actual organisms: Each eldrazi brood (differentiated by trends in their alien anatomy and what they transmute material into) is the intrusion of a singular will into the cosmos with its own aims, which constructs its bodies from the errant energies of whatever world it happens to interface with. This makes communication with the eldrazi highly difficult, especially for those who encounter them without prior knowledge, as the will that pilots an eldrazi brood experiences the whole of the brood at once, many bodies at once, many dimensions at once. Even the most intelligent and independent members of a brood are merely hands in comparison with the greater body, able to exert a greater tactile degree of control but not actively conscious.

This alien existence extends to their anatomy: resembling summoned or illusory creatures, the body of an individual Eldrazi lacks blood or organs, and is instead a notional matter primarily used to store the magical potential they sap out of the worlds they digest. When an eldrazi dies they do not rot, instead they erode, the magic that composes their being leaking back into the laylines they siphoned dry.  Such transference can cause surges of wild magic proportional to the size and number of the brood slain.

This lack of a physiognomy extends to how Eldrazi seem to “breed”, budding like fungus or grotesquely merging to form larger bodies, which amounts to the prime entity behind the brood splitting up its focus for multiple tasks.  Sometimes the entity needs to actively participate in its act of decomposition, in which case the brood begins draining all it can, growing all it can, and then merging together into an eldrazi titan. These entities can lay waste to landscapes but also think in ways the disparate brood could do nothing about.

Eldrazi have a strange relationship with magic, in that their singular goal seems to be to extract the magical/living/quintessential essence out of dead worlds, meaning they become very adept at reading and manipulating systems that are built upon these primal currents. Eldrazi broods spread along a plane’s laylines like mushrooms along a rotten branch, sapping at its nutrients till the line goes dead and the landscape with it. This infection can even spread to enchantments, curses, and magical constructs, bringing them into a titan’s influence and even providing a seedbed for the growth of more eldrazi.

Very little of this information is well known by planear scholars, and even less of it is understood by those who might encounter stray eldrazi that’ve ended up scattered on their worlds. What most understand is that the Eldrazi show up following great magical disasters, create a wasteland wherever they go, and seem to have an innate ability to overcome and subvert magical defences. Most are content simply to hunt them on sight, and the prime eldrazi seem more than content to let their stray buds be culled while they focus on the real task of eating worlds.

Adventure Hooks:

High in the mountains there’s said to be the wreck of some kind of flying ship, that locals say they saw hurtling through the sky decades ago only to crash somewhere amid the peaks. The ship is in fact a spelljammer, and salvaging its helm might just be the first step in the party setting off on their first cosmic adventure. All is not well though, as when they begin exploring the high cliffs and isolated valley, they find ship and much of the surrounding landscape has been turned into a spiralling labyrinth of giant bismuth crystals, the haunt of a few eldrazi the jammer crew picked up while fleeing a dying world that ended up scuttling them in the end. 

Powerful spikes of magic draw the eldrazi across the planes, so after the mid-campaign villain attempts their apotheosis and fails miserably, not only to the party have to deal with whatever threat that unleashed, but increasing numbers of sightings of horrifying entities skulking about the countryside near the villain’s old lair. This gives the party a chance to re-explore an old dungeon, finding its corridors warped and its chambers filled with dust. 

Desperate to impress their supervisor by summoning a rare creature from the outer planes, a group of arcane grad students at the local magical college have unwittingly ended up snagging an eldrazi away from its brood, and are intent on studying it. For its part, the eldrazi seems oddly complacent, but is infact exerting its flesh warping influence on the students and the animals surrounding their lab. The party first gets involved tracking drown grotesque chimeras of ratswarms and stray beats, which invariably lead them through the increasingly organic sewers and up into the lab, where the eldrazi has broken containment.   Not all the students are accounted for, and while some got away with benign abnormalities, others have been incorporated into the brood, and will seek new places to take root.

Also, while there’s no official stats for eldrazi, a lot of great creators have already taken the challenge upon themselves, so I encourage you to go out and find some of their work.

[mandoalorian]

Handy-Man

An AU in which Din Djarin advertises himself on Craigslist as a man who can assemble your IKEA furniture for 50 bucks.

credit for idea goes to @fleetwoodmactshirt and their post which you can read here; thank you to @clown-bae-anon for tagging me in the post!! 💓

Please please reblog!

You wanted to cry.

Moving out of your childhood home was meant to be your way of asserting your independence and proving to your parents that you could make it on your own. But, as you sat in front of the collapsed television unit, surrounded by an abundance of miscellaneous screws, with broken and bleeding fingernails, you found yourself wondering if you had made a severe lapse of judgement.

Better yet, they were coming over for dinner today— and you knew your dad would give you a mouthful if he saw you hadn’t finished assembling your furniture already. Desperate times called for desperate measures.

Unfortunately, you were brand new to the neighbourhood and hadn’t yet made any friends. You had no one to rely on; no one to ask for a favour. You pondered for a few moments, trying to figure out where you could find a handy man willing to work such short notice. You had no other choice than to turn to Craigslist.

There were a few potential candidates. Boba Fett; but he couldn’t be there until Tuesday. Fennec Shand; but she was extremely pricey. Then, at the very bottom of the website, you noticed a small advertisement. Only a few words.

“Din Djarin: I will assemble your IKEA furniture for 50 bucks. Will take me no more than an hour. I will bring my kid. Call me.”

And underneath, he left his number. You guessed that was the catch: that he would bring his child while he worked. You didn’t mind too terribly, besides, you were out of other options. You just hoped it wouldn’t be a sticky iPad kid who was going to snoop around your stuff and make a mess.

Grabbing your phone, you dialled his number. He answered on the first few rings, but said nothing.

“Uhm, hi,” you greeted, scratching the back of your neck as you tried to figure out how to approach the handy man. You’d never hired anyone from Craigslist before. “I have this huge TV unit from IKEA and I need it assembled before 5pm today. Would you be able to—“

“Address?” he asked, giving you the first taste of his velvety voice. After giving him your address, you were about to ask him about the child, but he cut you off. “I’ll be over in ten minutes.” Then he hung up.

He was abrupt, to say the least. You stood there, phone in hand, reflecting on your short witted conversation you’d had with the handyman. Maybe he just wasn’t sociable? It was okay though, he’d be coming over to work, not chat. You just needed him to assemble the television stand before your parents came over.

And if he was true to his advertisement, he’d get it done in no time.

Din Djarin arrived on your doorstep after seven minutes, carrying his son close to his chest. When you heard your doorbell ring out, you smoothed out your outfit, fixed your hair, and checked your appearance on the mirror hanging in the entrance-way. After all, this would technically be the first person you met in your brand new neighbourhood. And first impressions mattered.

As you swung open the front door, you announced, with a beaming smile crossing your lips, “Thank you so much for com—“

You were awe-struck. He was… breathtaking. Not like the handymen back home. He stood there, blinking his chocolate brown eyes, and nursing a child who must have been no older than two years. His hair was only a few shades darker than his eyes, short and curly, and he had a light graze of stubble donning his jaw and upper lip.

You found your gaze quickly flicking to his hands, only to check for a wedding ring. You hated how that was your first instinct but you felt a hitch in your throat when you saw just how large and thick his fingers were.

Your wild thoughts were interrupted when he cleared his throat awkwardly, and you wanted to curse at yourself how long you’d been standing there, blatantly checking him out. Your grip on the door tightened as you felt a flush of heat cross your cheeks, and you offered the handyman a weak smile.

“S— am sorry, I— hi,” you extended your arm and shook his hand. “I’m new. I mean I’m Y/N. But I’m new too. I uh—“

“I’m Din,” he introduced, cutting your flustered response short. “This is Grogu.”

His child cooed slightly and you were in awe over just how big the little one’s eyes were. You smiled and closed in on the child, offering him a small wave.

“Hi baby,” you cooed back, completely enamoured with him. Now that you were more aware of how you were acting around the handyman, you turned to focus your attention more on him. “Uh, please come in. And make yourself comfortable,” you offered, opening the front door wider and ushering both the man and his son inside. “Can I get you anything? A drink?”

“No thanks.” Din replied, setting down his toolbox and then the child.

“Grogu, are you hungry?” you asked, kneeling down to the little child. He slurped and eagerly nodded his head, causing Din to roll his eyes.

“He just had soup before we left,” Din told you.

“Kids always have big appetites,” you laughed, and finally, your comment had caused Din to break a smile. Albeit it was a small one, you still adored the way the corners of his eyes crinkled with delight.

“You have kids?” Din asked curiously, briefly glancing around your living room in search for any signs of children; but he couldn’t find any toys or printed comfort blankies laying around.

Somehow, you got the idea that he didn’t get around much (other than for work, at least). You got the idea that maybe he didn’t have many friends.

“No, but uh— I come from a big family and I used to have a babysitting job when I was a teenager. Feels like I’ve been around kids my whole life,” you admitted, wondering if you’d offered the handyman a little too much personal information. You quickly made the decision to change the subject, grabbing Grogu’s tiny hand. “Come with me Grogu, let’s see what I have in the fridge.”

Grogu selected some dinosaur shaped crackers and a juice box, sipping on it merrily as he toddled back into the living room where his father was working. You silently leaned by the door frame, admiring Din as he constructed the television stand. You’d only been gone five minutes and he’d already made so much progress.

Unable to escape the feeling, you just couldn’t ignore the flurry of butterflies that were ecstatically circling around in the pit of your stomach. You couldn’t tear your gaze from the attractive handyman who was fixing up your IKEA television stand for only 50 bucks. All of this seemed too good to be true.

He could be a serial killer and you wouldn’t even know. But as you watched his bicep flex underneath his light grey sweatshirt, you considered the many ways he might kill you; and for a split second, you knew that if he decided to turn around and choke you with his strong hands, you wouldn’t be mad at all.

“You want kids one day?” he quizzed suddenly, the question causing you to jump slightly. You were so quiet, you had kind of hoped he hadn’t noticed you were just standing there, watching him work.

“Uhm, maybe. I don’t know yet,” you said, glancing down at Grogu who was just patiently sitting down on your sofa, munching at his cookies. He was so well behaved. Din must’ve been a really good dad. “Did you want kids before you had Grogu?”

You winced after asking the question, hating the way the words had left your lips. It sounded wrong; like you were asking your handyman if his son was planned or not. But thankfully, Din only laughed.

“Kind of a weird story,” He said as he tightened a screw using nothing but the strength in his left arm. “I found Grogu. Or more like, he found me.”

You pressed your lips together as you wondered what exactly that was supposed to mean.

You and Din exchanged more small talk, and you both found yourselves learning more and more menial facts about one another.

You: What’s your favourite colour?

Din: Brown. Like dirt.

You: Cats or dogs?

Din: Fish.

You: Fish?

Din: They’re nice to look at.

Despite the random quick-fire questions you both asked each other, it didn’t stop you from yearning to know more about the mysterious handyman who took his kid with him everywhere.

Din finished the job early. He always did. But he pottered around with the finished television stand simply because he just didn’t want to leave yet. He was enjoying your company so much, and you were so endearing and easy to talk to. Not to mention, you were brilliant with Grogu.

Eventually though, he stood up and dipped his hands into his jean pockets. “Uh, I’m finished. Does it look okay? I hammered the shelving unit into the wall so it looks neater. It’s more stable that way, too.”

You smiled, impressed with Din’s skillful labour. “It’s perfect,” you admired. “You’re my hero. Really.”

That tugged on Din’s heart strings. Your hero. His cheeks flushed pink and he prayed that you didn’t notice his warm blush. You reached into your purse and paid the handyman.

“Thanks again.” you said with gratitude as you saw Din and Grogu to the door. You passed Grogu some more dinosaur crackers for the journey home and he took them from you eagerly.

Din wanted to get your number so badly. In the short time you’d spent together, you had completely bewitched him, and he didn’t want this to be the last time he saw you. You had his number but… the chances that you’d call him again were slim. Unless—

“If you ever get more furniture, give me a ring,” Din offered awkwardly, shying away from the idea of asking for your number outright.

“I will Din, I promise.”

Din nodded and ran his fingers through his dark hair. “Okay. Thanks. Um— bye then.”

“I’ll see you around Din.”

See you around. The words rang in the back of Din’s mind as he drove home as he processed your open-ended goodbye. He really did hope that he’d see you again.

———————

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[five-rivers]

What Was Bound, What Was Loosed Chapter 3

Written for Dannymay Day 6: Core.

.

Ellie took to spending her days in the palace library.

Danny thought he was trapped. Believed he was trapped. So did everyone else. But Ellie didn’t believe it. All cages had keys. Danny had opened hers. It was only right that she return the favor.

(Of course, she wasn’t happy about being stuck herself. There were still things she wanted to see on Earth. She missed the stars.)

The books were old and new. Some were in English, others were in languages she couldn’t even begin to recognize. Most of them had nothing to do with what she was looking for. Like in any library, they were on a wide variety of subjects, all spread out.

Still, she searched. The stack of tomes that had to do with ghostly kingship and the laws of the Infinite Realms grew progressively larger. Occasionally, one of the shades would attempt to put the books back, but they were easily dissuaded, having no will of their own.

She was making progress. Not a lot, but some. Enough to keep her going.

.

Vlad knew when to quit.

Oh, maybe it didn’t seem like it, he was easily as obsessive as any ghost, but he did. Sometimes, a plan just wasn’t feasible, and he had to cut his losses.

Cutting his losses, in this case, meant getting incredibly drunk on ghost wine. Fright Knight didn’t approve, but who cared what he thought? Fright Knight was part of the reason he was in this situation in the first place!

If he had just been warned this would happen, he’d have been able to make arrangements, to find some way to keep his portal open, or to stay in the human world, where his life was.

But no. They were all trapped here. No way out.

When hundreds of ghosts all said the same thing, Vlad was inclined to believe them. Danielle, as motivated as she was, was simply experiencing denial. Or, perhaps, bargaining. He had to admit he was never exactly clear on the stages of grief.

Then, there was Daniel, who seemed to be firmly trapped in the ‘depression’ stage, more of a ghost than Vlad had ever seen him as. He lingered in corners, at the edge of Vlad’s vision, quiet, sad, always flanked by Fright Knight and that other ghost, the one with the clocks.

There were parts of him, his Obsession reasserting itself, that yearned to reach out to Danny, but… He didn’t even know how to begin.

.

Danny felt like a pale, wandering shadow of himself.

Most of the time, he slept, exhausted by the demands the Zone made on him and the continuing changes he was undergoing. The expanding circle of vitality, of rejuvenation, of reconstruction and growth, that so many ghosts were celebrating had to draw energy from somewhere, after all, and even though Danny was absorbing just as much as he was expending, that process made him drowsy in and of itself.

Pain, too, plagued him. His missing eye ached, and sometimes it seemed as if the crown was burrowing into his skull, not merely resting on it. His hand hurt from all his attempts to take off the ring.

He could hardly care for himself in even the most basic of ways. Clockwork often had to remind him, or help him, and he was always so excruciatingly gentle.

Then Vlad and Ellie came.

Their arrival was a relief. Ellie was a friend, was family, and hadn’t been complicit in his betrayal and binding. Vlad had been an enemy, and not even an honest one at that, but essentially everything they’d been at odds over was moot, but he was familiar.

Despite the relief, despite his desire to connect with people who hadn’t hurt him, at least not as badly as everyone else, he hung back. He didn’t know what to do, didn’t know how to bridge the gap.

So, he lurked and lingered. When Ellie went to the library, when Vlad moped and bothered the shades that ordered the kitchen, he followed, he watched.

Clockwork and Fright Knight, of course, followed and watched him in turn.

At least, this is what happened when he was awake and aware enough to do anything. Danny was under the impression that being awake and independently mobile at all this soon after being… coronated… was unusual, perhaps even unnerving. Normally, he’d be curious, excited about new abilities and what they might mean. Maybe he’d even throw around a quip or two about how awesome he was but…

It wasn’t the time, and he didn’t have the willpower to reach for even that dubious coping mechanism.

In the too-numerous times when Danny was both awake and not well enough to follow Ellie and Vlad around, he liked to sit in the garden. It was almost peaceful there, by the fountain, although the plants had a distressing tendency to reflect his every change in mood.

Today was one of those days. He was too dizzy and lightheaded to drift after Vlad or Ellie, even if neither of them moved very much, but he didn’t want to stay in the bedroom, or, worse, the throne room. His core seemed to pulse, sluggish and painful in his chest. Or perhaps that was his heart. He couldn’t really tell with this mixed-up form. It could even be both.

Another slow wave of transformation swept out from him, making his extremities tingle. He watched, tiredly, as it briefly interacted with the walls of the palace and the scattered shades before moving on. The shades… another aspect of all this that Danny wasn’t comfortable with, but couldn’t bring himself to learn more about. They were sustained through his power, but what were they? Extensions of his will? Aspects of his personality? Constructs generated by the palace? By the Ghost Zone itself? He didn’t know.

As much as he should try to learn, he couldn’t help but think of them as yet another imposition, another burden he was being forced to bear.

This wasn’t a healthy mindset. Jazz would tell him as much. Jazz wasn’t here.

“Danny!”

He looked up, his one eye already searching for Ellie. Fright Knight stepped forward, as if to protect him, but Danny snarled at him, annoyed. He wasn’t going to let him get in between him and one of the few people he could currently stand. Clockwork stayed back, passive, but he looked… worried. Uneasy. As if anticipating a disaster.

“Danny!” exclaimed Ellie again, bursting from a bush, a thick book raised above her head. “I found it!”

“Found what?” asked Danny, leaning forward slightly as Ellie joined him sitting on the edge of the fountain.

“A way out!” She opened the book and started flipping through it, obviously looking for a specific entry.

Both Clockwork and Fright Knight looked extremely tense, now. They probably didn’t want him to find this, didn’t want him to leave. Would they try to stop him?

He hunched his shoulders. He might not be well, but he could fight and make it hurt.

“Here!” said Ellie, triumphantly. “Look at this.” She tapped a picture of a bright, spherical object.

“The core of the Infinite Realms?” asked Danny, reading the legend of the picture.

“Uh huh. Apparently, it’s what determines what the Ghost Zone is like as a whole and controls the rules and laws and stuff. Like, even when it comes to what ghosts act like, and what they can physically do, or how the Ghost Zone’s physics behave. But the important part is that you can go talk to it and petition it and stuff, and sometimes it’ll listen. I bet we can get it to listen to you and make it so that the Ghost Zone doesn’t need a king anymore.”

Danny felt a flutter of hope. The book was old from what he could see, and, ignoring Ellie’s paraphrasing, the language was fantastical and couched in metaphor, but still if there was a possibility…

Near their feet, small, bright flowers began to bloom, each no larger than the head of a pin.

“Daniel,” said Clockwork, in a careful, soft tone. It wasn’t pity, not quite, but it was the verbal equivalent of being handled with kid gloves. “It doesn’t work like that.”

“Then what is it like?” asked Danny, hunching his shoulders and leaning protectively over Ellie.

“What do you think the King of the Infinite Realms is?” asked Clockwork.

Danny shrugged. Clockwork gave him a small, pained smile.

“The King of Ghosts and the core of the Ghost Zone,” said Clockwork, “they’re the same.”

Danny shook his head, unwilling to let this scrap of hope slip through his fingers so easily.

“Please, Daniel,” said Clockwork. “Why do you think it was so vital that you be crowned? The Realms cannot exist without their core.”

It made sense. A horrible, horrible sense.

“That doesn’t make sense,” said Ellie. “The core’s supposed to be the basis the whole Zone is built on. That can’t just be one person.”

“The library has some books on the subject,” said Clockwork. “But you can see how Daniel is changing things.”

Danny felt his hope collapse and doubled over, hands on his head, face almost touching his legs. A scream bubbled up in his throat, but he swallowed it. All those people, everywhere, his responsibility, his… Not just the people, everything. Everywhere. Not just his responsibility, but relying on him, modeled on him, dependent on him, centered on him.

He wasn’t just the Ghost Zone’s ruler, nominal or not, he was its heart.

“Danny?” asked Ellie. He looked up.

There were blast lines in the ground, radiating away from him. The fountain was cracked and leaking water. Fright Knight had, evidently, grabbed Ellie and leaped away, into the air.

Clockwork hadn’t left, still leaning towards Danny. There was a jagged, dripping slice across his shoulder. Danny gasped, reaching towards him.

“It’s alright,” said Clockwork. “It’s alright.”

“I can’t be,” said Danny. “I can’t be. I’m—I can’t be part of the Ghost Zone. Not—Not like that. That’s not—I can’t be what the Ghost Zone is built on, it doesn’t make sense, I…”

“It’s alright,” repeated Clockwork. “Would you like to go inside? You may feel better if you eat something.”

“Don’t want to bother Vlad,” mumbled Danny. Didn’t want another person to see him crumbling like this.

“We can send something up to your room,” said Clockwork.

He did feel tired. The fountain was repairing itself behind and underneath him. He groaned as the ground beneath him pulled together as well.

“I don’t want to be the core of the Ghost Zone,” he said, knowing that what he wanted was not and never had been a consideration. “I don’t want to be king. I don’t want to be in charge of anything.” He grabbed the edges of Clockwork’s robe, ignoring the moisture despite the pang of guilt it brought him. “I want to go home. And I…” His words failed as he reached for Clockwork’s injury. “I don’t want to do this.”

“This is nothing, Daniel,” putting a gloved hand over the wound. “I have had far worse.”

It started to rain. Great, heavy droplets of water tainted with just enough ectoplasm to glow.

It was one way to hide tears, he supposed.

[shadamyheadcanons]

Headcanon #188

Cross-posted on AO3.

Amy writes stories in her spare time. Adventures and suspense are frequent themes, but at their core, they’re almost all romances. Whenever Sonic’s going to be gone for a while or they have a disagreement, she writes instead, finding she’d much rather do something with her ideas than sit around and mope.

Eventually, she wrote one she was so proud of that she decided to email it to Sonic to see if he liked it. Unfortunately, she was so excited that she mistyped Sonic’s email address, and it autocorrected to someone else’s without her noticing.

She saw Sonic the next day, but he was oblivious. Confused, she double-checked the email on her phone, and her face went white. She’d gotten a reply from none other than Shadow, who asked if he could visit, as he’d enjoyed the story and wanted to chat about it. She sighed and set aside the weirdness, deciding that having a second pair of eyes on the story before she showed it to Sonic might not be a bad idea.

Shadow had caught a typo or two and straightened out a couple sentences, but he seemed otherwise impressed. He did have one quarrel, though.

“Do you accept constructive criticism?”

Amy narrowed her eyes. “Depends. Are you gonna be gentle?”

He started at her blankly, and she cringed. Of course he won’t be...this is Shadow, after all...but... She shook it off. “Go ahead! I want this story to be as good as it can be!”

He stared for a moment, then shrugged. “Both characters are likable, but they’re not compatible.”

Amy gasped. “EXCUSE ME?!”

He was unfazed by her outburst. “Didn’t you want criticism?”

Amy opened her mouth a few times in an attempt to speak. “But...they’re...” She stopped herself. I can’t admit they’re based on Sonic and me. It’s too embarrassing. She huffed and crossed her arms. “What do you mean? These two are made for each other!”

Shadow made a skeptical noise. “They have surface similarities--they’re optimistic and value some of the same things--but the connection ends there, doesn’t it? They’d make good friends, but they’re just not on the same wavelength.”

Amy balked, trying not to seem insulted. “They don’t have to be the same. They love each other, and he’s always there for her when she needs it!”

He scoffed. “Yeah, after bad things have already happened. He spends most of his time far off, being independent, free of commitment. Meanwhile, she’s more grounded and needs a serious commitment from her partner to be happy. Even if that’s not a problem right away, it will be eventually.”

It was hard to argue with that when it was something that had always made her apprehensive. She averted her eyes. “Fine. What am I supposed to change?”

“Hmm...” Shadow examined the words on her laptop screen. “I doubt he’d really need a relationship at all, but if he does, it should be something light. Nothing too serious.”

She pouted, trying to pretend it didn’t matter, but she knew Sonic well enough to know Shadow was right.

“And as for her...” Amy looked up. This time, he wasn’t looking at the laptop. He’d turned sideways and was resting an arm against the back of the couch to look directly at Amy. “It should be someone serious who would want the stability of a long-term relationship. He’d have to be willing to spend a lot of quality time with her. Shouldn’t be too tough to find someone like that. Why wouldn’t you want to spend time with someone you love?”

“I know, right?!” Her outburst startled him, and she giggled. “Sorry! Sometimes...it feels like people lose sight of that.”

Shadow shrugged. “It’s just not for everyone. Plenty of people are happy that way. They just wouldn’t go well with this character. People like...”

Sonic? she thought sadly.

“Rouge.”

Amy perked up, then thought about it. “Yeah. She is, isn’t she?”

Shadow nodded. “I’ve never understood it myself. I couldn’t live like that.”

“Honestly? Me neither,” she grinned. “I didn’t know that about you, though,” she hedged, curious.

He crossed his arms and stared off into space. “I have plenty of action and adventure in my life. All I would want is to keep my partner safe and happy so I can come home to them at the end of the day. After everything life’s thrown at me, I need consistency more than anything else, and what’s the point of having a partner if you're not going to share your life with them?”

Amy’s heart melted a little. Her grin widened at the tender words. “Shadow, you never told me you were a romantic!”

He chuckled under his breath. “Don’t tell anyone.”

--

In the end, Amy changed the male love interest far more than she’d expected to. The commitment thing was enough of a switch, but Shadow’s suggestions just got better and better. Soon enough, the male lead had a bit of a wild side to spice up her goody-two-shoes lifestyle, he was calm and patient enough to enjoy cuddling and romantic movies, and he had enough assertiveness to scare off evildoers before they messed with her, not just afterward. It was definitely different, but she couldn’t have been happier with the results.

Having learned her lesson from the email fiasco, Amy printed out the story this time and brought it to Sonic in person. She sat eagerly beside him to make sure he read the whole thing. By the end, he was grinning just like she was.

“That was really good, Amy! Nice job!” He gave her a thumbs-up.

Amy’s heart leapt. She interlocked her fingers. “I worked super hard on it! You really like it?”

Sonic nodded. “Yeah...and the characters seem a little familiar, too...I don’t suppose I know these two, do I?” he asked, side-eyeing her mischievously.

Amy giggled. “Maaaaybe...”

Sonic beamed and looked back to the story. “I had no idea you liked Shadow! When did that start?”

Amy froze. “What?”

He frowned, baffled but amused. “These two are supposed to be you and Shadow, right? It’s all right there.” She stayed silent, face blank. He scoffed. “I know I’m not much of a reader, Ames, but I can recognize basic subtext. You expect me to believe this was all a coincidence?”

She kept gaping like a fish, mouth dry. Sonic laughed and handed the pages back to her.

“I gotta get going, Amy, but thanks for showing me that. You’ve got real talent!”

The door shut after he zipped out of it, and Amy broke out of her trance. She furiously flipped through the pages one after another, feeling panic grow in the back of her mind.

Oh, no. Oh no, oh no, oh nooooooo...

[hollenka99]

A Mislabeled Hourglass

Summary: Fundy grows up faster than Wilbur was expecting but he is going to make the most of his son’s shorter childhood regardless.

Warnings: Mentions of hunting animals, implied character death

Wilbur is no stranger to growing up faster than most. In the midst of learning survival skills as a child, he was still able to play to his heart's content. His mum, and later Phil, never cared too much if he got dirty. Kids will be kids. Despite that, his first experience with grief is at 6, he causes an animal's death sooner than most would and he dies himself for the first time at the age of only 9 (stupid accident, he should have watched his step). He is perhaps 8 when Phil gives him his first taste of independence. At 11, Tommy enters their life and makes him a big brother. Phil's day trips gradually get more frequent, sometimes stretching out for longer durations too. Whenever it's just him and Tommy, he has to be responsible, has to play a more adult role despite being in his early teens when it becomes a noticeable habit. Then Technoblade shows up. You could argue that from around 17 or 18, Wilbur is practically becomes a young carer on a full time basis. However, this accelerated maturation was all mental. The earth had gone around the sun once when he spoke his first word, five times when he began deciphering sequences of letters as words, ten times when Phil told him what to expect over the next several years and it had completed its 19th revolution shortly before Fundy came into the world. Fundy was... different. First of all, he was a shapeshifter so right off the bat, he was never going to look fully human. Sally had fins and naturally red hair. Fundy was born with a substantial amount of ginger hair and ears that seemed slightly more pointed than they should be. When his son gets older, it will become apparent that his senses are stronger than Wilbur's too. Speaking of Fundy getting older... Wilbur has a hunch that something isn't quite right when his baby rapidly outgrows clothes meant for his age group. He initially dismisses it as Fundy likely inheriting his ridiculously tall genes. Because what else could it be, right? Then he is crawling at 2 months old. Wilbur's far from a baby expert but he's sure infants don't become that mobile that soon. A month or so later, Fundy takes his first clumsy steps towards him. Now that? Yeah, that undoubtedly raises alarm bells. He knows for a fact that that milestone was for those around 12 months old. Okay yep, something was definitely up. The books say Fundy should have been introduced to solid foods by now. He guesses that puts him in the Bad Dad category, along with temporarily using cows to feed him when he first got Fundy. He'd defend himself by pointing out he didn't have formula on hand the moment he became a father and was yet to learn non-human milk wasn't actually good for the baby but those excuses don't seem credible. He knows he's been going about this blinder than he would liked since day 1 but the accelerated aging might end up screwing him over even more. Ha, imagine having time to settle into parenting a baby before they graduate into toddlerhood. It's fine, he swears it's fine. It just means he gets to start having comprehensible, reciprocated conversations sooner than most, not to mention going through less nappies. There are stumbles for the first week or two after Fundy learns to walk but his son soon gets the hang of it. Only days after his first steps comes his first word. Noisy pattering paired with cries of "Daddy!" get more common. He could certainly get used to this. A one year old's way of running is potentially one of the silliest things he's ever witnessed. But look at his little champion go! When Fundy learns to crouch, Wilbur is crouching right beside him. Tommy comments that he looks and sounds like an idiot whenever he plays with Fundy. Wilbur pays him no heed because his brother is an absolute hypocrite. He has to say, Tommy is doing a great job for someone who was thrown in at the deep end just as much as he was and his brother doesn't even have the responsibility of having to care for a kid. He's always been a bit... rough and ready when it comes to playing with others. But with Fundy, he makes sure to be gentle around the toddler. Wilbur isn't entirely sure whether hanging upside down from someone's grip on a near daily basis is healthy for a little kid but Fundy's eruption of giggles each time suggest otherwise. When Tommy turned 11, he was not yet an uncle. The following April, he has a two year old nephew who complains he wants to help blow out the candles, nearly fighting for his right to do it instead of the actual birthday boy. It somehow leads to a pillow fight between them. So all in all, Tommy is taking it in his stride. By Fundy's second Christmas, Wilbur is able to start calculating. A 14 month old kid is supposed to be getting the hang of being bipedal, not receiving books that will help them learn how to read. Given that his son was walking at 3 months old, his best guess is that Fundy's development rate was four times that of other children. It seems consistent too since Fundy is approximately the equivalent of a 4 or 5 year old boy now. He recalls Sally once joking about how shapeshifters tended to live fast and die 'young'. He thinks he gets what she means now. Quadruple speed for Fundy though? Fuck. If he's got the maths right, they will be the same physical age when Wilbur is 25. The gap will only grow more and more from then on. At 30, he will have a child who is roughly 40. And when Wilbur himself is 40... he'd rather not dwell on the heartache his early 40s are set to bring. He has been given a 60 second hourglass that's been labelled as a 4 minute one. He's begun to comprehend this with 2 seconds' worth of sand already piling at the bottom. What is he even supposed to do? Does he bake a birthday cake every January, April, July and October 10th or just that last date? He guesses that will be for Fundy to decide in the future. Tommy has made a 'reverse leap day kid' joke before but it really is based in truth. While still a small child, one of Fundy's favourite places to rest is against his father's chest. There have been plenty of nights where the little boy has fallen asleep in his father's arms while being read a story. He's rapidly getting bigger and Wilbur frequently has to adapt how he holds him to accommodate. In the quietest of moments, his eyes will notice a tiny mischievous smile directed at him that will make his day or his ears will catch the softest of snores coming from beside him. As much as he tries to enjoy those occasions, peace often leads to a chance for overthinking to take place. When that happens, it all turns bittersweet with the desperate wish he could get several years of this, not feel lucky if he gets more than 2 or 3 of them. Of course, every time Fundy is resting against his chest is not necessarily positive. There are obviously the typical 'toddler having a breakdown because they scraped their knee' type stuff. Those are fine, all he has to do is soothe him and distract from what is usually an overthought 'injury'. But then there are the times where Fundy's fingers ache from the ordeal of slowly developing claws, Wilbur lets him dig his nails into his jumpers as hard as he feels the need to. The same happens whenever there is any significant growth with his ears too. The older Fundy gets, the more used to the flat of a small head pressing into his chest he becomes. He would do anything to alleviate his pain and discomfort if he could. And no, he definitely hasn't shed a tear or two when nobody is watching in regards to the matter. From here on in, it feels like he's on home soil. He's helped raise a kid from the age of 4 before. The only difference now is that this kid is his own flesh and blood. And a shapeshifter, which Tommy never was. They've begun entering the "Dad, look what I can do!" phase of Fundy's life, now that he is getting more capable with age. The first major instance is when he comes home from a hunt. Tommy has a smug look on his face and Fundy seems seconds from exploding with excitement. His son is let loose on him as soon as he's freshened up, dragging him to a chair where he is made to listen to the most drawn out reading session he has ever experienced. But Wilbur can't help but beam every time Fundy successfully gets through a word. The day he believes Fundy is old enough to start learn how to use a bow can't come soon enough. He knows fuck all about hybrids or shapeshifters other than the very basics. He can't tell you how to construct the most impressive of architectural structures. But this, archery and hunting? Now that he can impart wisdom on. He passes down second hand stories about Fundy's grandma and anecdotes about his trips with Phil when he was a young boy himself. As far as he can tell, Fundy laps it all up. Swordplay is soon added to the mix of training activities. The wooden sword he crafted for his son is slightly too big but eh, the kid will quickly grow into (then inevitably out of) it sooner than later. They gradually work up from technique and stance to improving accuracy and striking moving targets. Every bit of progress he makes, his dad is there cheering him on. Fundy only grows reluctant when it begins to get 'real'. That is to say, when Wilbur tries to take him on an actual hunt or attempts to introduce him to the subject of turning a kill into a meal. And yeah, he gets it. He wasn't the biggest fan of it either when he was being taught himself. Plus, he's aware Fundy's nose is more sensitive than his or Tommy's so yep, preparing a body's going to be even less pleasant for him. It's unfortunately a part of this sort of life. There's... well, there's always the option of heading down to the butcher's in town. Just keep in mind who got his first girlfriend indirectly due to the fact her dad would always give him money for helping supply produce. You've been doing great though. The important part is you're learning how to survive on your own if need be, not to mention how to defend yourself in case of an attack. Another part of Fundy's development to make him gush with pride is when he starts to really hone his shapeshifter nature. It's small at first, a furrier hand transforming into a paw here, a lump of a half formed tail spotted underneath a dressing gown there. He can't really describe how happy it makes him to see a child with a fox's head greet him one morning when Fundy jumps out from behind a door. There are features the young shapeshifter will keep in his human form obviously. Yet it's thrilling to have him keep coming over to show off a new shifting-related ability. The first time Fundy manages to morph fully into a fox, during the spring after his 2nd birthday, Wilbur promises the three of them can have an 'anything Fundy says, goes' type thing the following day in celebration. There are times where Fundy may, for instance, forget to include his tail as an animal or he'll walk around as his usual self, albeit with accidental fox eyes. It's simply a matter of practise, Wilbur believes. One of the best parts of Fundy gradually improving his shapeshifting is the fact he loves to curl up on his dad's lap while in fox form. Wilbur cherishes it. Fundy's getting older now (taller too, this kid is undoubtedly going to be at least 6 foot one day) but he'll always be smaller as a fox than as a human. Forgive a father with limited time to enjoy carrying his son around for wanting to prolong the inevitable. Fundy is 3 when he physically catches up with Tommy, age wise. It's not until he is the equivalent of maybe 15 that he passes his uncle's height. Tommy complains about it incessantly, especially whenever Fundy teases him about how much taller he's getting. It's all fun and games but Wilbur was an unusually large teenager once (only a few years ago really, though let's not dwell on that) so he understands what it's like. Going through growth spurts is hardly the most enjoyable thing out there and he can't imagine how it must feel to keep getting hit by them with even less time to settle into your new height. Not to mention growing pains. During a quiet evening, he checks in on his son and approaches the subject. It leads to him allowing Fundy to rant about the worst parts of growing up. Orange fur recedes on his arms to show a few stretch marks. Ah, he was wondering if the extra hair was deliberate or simply puberty taking hold. He assures Fundy stretch marks aren't something to be ashamed of. He got a bunch of them himself at his age. Although, they've pretty much all faded by now. It's fine, you don't need to stress about it. Besides, Tommy's going through the same kind of shit. The main problem with Fundy and Tommy being similar ages now is that they are arguably closer than ever. Which, no, isn't a bad thing. In fact, he's glad that for a few months they're able to hang out on more equal footing. The issue lies in the fact that Fundy takes after his uncle when it comes to causing mischief. The little rascal is turning into a bit of a prankster. And yeah, maybe Wilbur himself likes channelling hints of chaos into his life but you'll never hear the designated responsible adult admit to that in the others' presence. At one point, Fundy is a six year old gleefully explaining how Tommy helped him up so he could place that water bucket. Only a year later, there's an 11 year old revealing that yes, he was the one to make their chickens, cows and sheep switch enclosures during the night. He only gets more ambitious from there. God knows where he got all that dye from when he's in his mid-teens. Fundy is much like himself as a teenager. Both clearly love their respective fathers but both grow to varying degrees of resentment regarding the level of independence they are given. Wilbur always had too much. It was his job to take care of Tommy whenever Phil left on short trips until the avian hybrid pretty much said 'well, you're an adult now, you can take care of things all by yourself' before heading off with Technoblade for months on end. It's why Wilbur knows kids want a safety net, for an adult to be there to help them out if they need it (no matter how mature or independent they feel). Has he taken it further than he should have? Maybe. Fundy is the only one who can be the true judge of that. He just wants his little boy to be safe and happy. He didn't want him to grow up so quickly. However, even if this was happening in 15 years, he would have grown up too soon. It doesn't surprise him too much when Tommy and Fundy make the choice to go off on their own. He only allows it because they promise they will stick together throughout the journey. He supposes it was time. Phil snuck off to do the same around their age and his mum was roughly 18 when she set off to be a nomadic traveller. The thought to live a similar style life has crossed Wilbur's mind. His duty to the two boys under his care has always made him reconsider. But Tommy is 16 now and not as much of a child as Wilbur likes to say he is. As for Fundy, he's probably around the equivalent of 18 or 19 by this point. He hates to admit it but they've both grown up. Where the hell did the time go? So although it pains him to do so, he nevertheless sends them off with a smile. If they find anywhere nice in their adventures, they'll be sure to tell him. He might even join them if they choose to stick around in one area. He turns back into the house after they leave and fuck, has it always been this empty? He gets a letter in early July, telling him all about this place called the Dream SMP and their time there. He arrives and things seem to snowball as soon as he begins the 'drug business' bullshit. Suddenly, he's a general with his brother and son as soldiers, along with some new friends. They are at a disadvantage in this fight against tyranny but it's okay, Eret says she has a secret weapon. They might just pull through. Or... they might instead be brutally betrayed by a former friend and lose so much more than their possessions. He loses track of his battalion in the chaos. All he knows is screaming for everyone to flee. Then the agony a sword through his stomach. Tubbo's dead, as is Tommy. Where's Fundy? He can't see him anywhere. God, please say he managed to get the fuck out of here. Please let it be that he turned into a fox and scarpered away, something like that. Never mind his dad. If Fundy's alright, he'll be alright too. He loves his son, has done all he was able to ensure his little boy has never had reason to doubt this fact. Over the past few years, that love has been repaid in mischievous grins, unrestrained giggles and drowsy cuddles, among other quieter moments. It gets repaid once again as a boy playing a soldier struggles to join the side of his pretend general of a father in order to loosely grasp hands. It barely registers. Neither does the tiny pained smile or ginger hair that go largely missed by eyes preoccupied with the vain effort to keep them open. They all celebrate the independence they'd fought so hard for the next night. The bittersweet nature of this victory goes ignored. With all the cheerful chatter and singing declaring their land to be one of freedom from tyranny drifting in the evening air from the campfire, it feels like the good mood will never end. It feels like the only thing that may tear the father and son apart is Wilbur's desperation for just a bit more time with Fundy as his little boy, despite how painfully obvious he was already grown up into a man in less than 5 years. Arm slung around him as a toast is made, they are not yet a debilitatingly stressed president, increasingly suicidal exilee or secretly loyal spy. For tonight, they are still a relatively happy, loving pair. For tonight, there is hypothetically still so much time for them to stay like that.

[moved-to-void-kissed]

Huh. I already knew that the KOS-MOS and T-elos in XC2 weren’t 100% supposed to be the same characters as their original Xenosaga versions, because they’re called KOS-MOS Re: and T-elos Re: (where Re: stands for Refrain according to their visors) in the Japanese version of XC2. But I didn’t realise there was actual lore to both their presences in XC2 on top of that, rather than them just being crossover characters for the fun of it.

According to this video, there’s a caption in the official XC2 artbook that translates as follows: “From a past much more distant than 500 years, a Driver engaged with KOS-MOS and T-elos (not Rex or Amalthus) challenged themself to reach the top of the World Tree, failed in their pursuit, and perished. Thus, the pair fell down into the Cloud Sea of Alrest.” This means the pair have both canonically - or at least, as canonically as information given in an official artbook is - existed as Blades in Alrest for a long time, and actually technically might predate the creation of the original KOS-MOS (and therefore T-elos, since she was created after KOS-MOS) in the world of Xenosaga.

I think that’s actually pretty neat, and it’s something I do kind of want to incorporate into my version of events that has my selfship with KOS-MOS in it, since if a world has lore I always do my best to stick to it (or at least alter it in a way that is actually feasible based on what lore has already been given). And I think I’ve figured out a way to do that!

..It’s under the readmore because it got long, but, yeah! My selfship with KOS-MOS now has a slightly different backstory!

So, I think I’m going to make it so that Calanthe (my self-insert) still gets transported from the world of Xenosaga into Alrest because when KOS-MOS first awakens, and accesses the power of the Zohar, Calanthe being in physical contact with her causes it to happen as a consequence of the Zohar’s effect. However, KOS-MOS (or rather, that KOS-MOS, who normally has red eyes) doesn’t actually get transported with her when this happens, since she was designed to use the Zohar’s power. Instead, when Calanthe appears in Alrest, she does so holding the Core Crystal of the Blade version of KOS-MOS (i.e. KOS-MOS Re:, who always has pink eyes), which she immediately and unintentionally resonates with.

Now, normally, a Blade does not have any memories other than their name when they are awakened by a new Driver. However, it’s shown in KOS-MOS’ Heart-to-Heart that she knows how the World Tree was constructed, because she describes the process, and she says this information is stored independently of her normal memories. If the KOS-MOS in XC2 is just a normal Blade, this doesn’t make much sense that she would have this put in her. However, to explain why it’s a thing, I’m going to write in the headcanon that both versions of KOS-MOS derive power from/are linked to the Zohar/Conduit (it’s basically different universes’ versions of the same thing), and because the Zohar/Conduit is a gate between universes, the two versions of KOS-MOS are able to exchange memories and information between each other now that the Xenosaga KOS-MOS has activated. A bit like having two computers in different places both logged in to the same account and able to share files between each other in real-time. This means that the Blade KOS-MOS in XC2 knows who Calanthe is, and so as far as Calanthe understands, the two are the same entity.

However, the KOS-MOS in Xenosaga is a fully robotic combat android whereas the KOS-MOS in XC2 is a full-fledged Blade, although she still seems to retain some robotic aspects - the wiki calls her an AI, she tells Adenine she stores her knowledge in a database rather than books and encyclopedias, and Astelle is also able to upgrade her and tries to tinker with her (but then, she also refers to herself as a Blade in all instances I can think of, and she tells Pandy she doesn’t run on electricity when she offers to give her some lightning). So, I’m running with pieces of that and saying that KOS-MOS initially has a very robotic personality in XC2 because that’s what Calanthe knows the KOS-MOS in Xenosaga to have (and she thinks they’re the same physical entity) - but over time, as she travels more with Calanthe and the rest of the party and gains things like Trust and Affinity, she is free to express herself more “organically” if she wishes to. She isn’t necessarily restricted to a limited, programmed personality anymore.

I hope that that all makes sense! It.. doesn’t really change too much about the story of my selfship with KOS-MOS (moreso just the backstory), but it sticks closer to canon because it means the KOS-MOS in Xenosaga and the KOS-MOS in XC2 are no longer being treated as the exact same individual physical entity who moves across worlds (although they can share memories and information about their experiences). This also means I may well have two different versions of events for my selfship - the default version of events where Calanthe gets put into Alrest, and another alternate version of events where Calanthe stays in the world of Xenosaga and joins the party there. But I don’t know much about Xenosaga itself, and I first fell for KOS-MOS through her XC2 version, so for most intents and purposes it makes more sense to stick to that version.

Thank you very much to anyone who has read this!

[elisaenglish]

Books are my lifeblood. They are the gift my mother gave me, not least of all because – as with the familial generations that preceded her and through circumstance not choice – she never received them herself. Although she couldn’t have known what she intellectually had on her hands with me, she did understand that breaking cycles comes from embracing what you’re terrified to hold. Or to read or to write, especially when you can’t.

It’s a story, I suppose. But never one that I’ve felt is mine to tell – and I haven’t. Except now she’s halfway gone and I don’t know how long we’ve got, I wonder whether I’ll have to reconstruct her one day, that this is my gift, my terror. Not to break a cycle, but to complete one. And if love is immortality, then I have to pass it on.

Whether the goddess is in the questions or the cumulative answers that yield yet more, we are the precipice becoming. Feminism isn’t a label or an identity and, whilst we flirt with ideology, I still think that it’s too politically charged, too abstract in conceptual terms to fully capture the visceral stance – in defence of self and other.

Balanced scales, balanced hearts. Everything in equilibrium.

And no, not in any way or shape or default, always necessarily female.

As to the why? To paraphrase Maya Angelou, Why wouldn’t I be on my own side? A side further in and farther on than socially determined gender norms or archaic modes of being. A side that is not so much a binary line as an opening to what has closed upon itself, either in substance or in meaning.

One word after another, page by page, and on...

As I return once more to books, I remember that my greatest freedom has been that I’ve read from the first unbounded. My literary breadth, depth and contextual scope aren’t confined to the feminist sphere by any stretch of the imagination; but I’ve roamed there nonetheless and, suffice to say, it is the current course.

In this regard, we see tastes trending towards Atwood and a revival of the like but lesser-knowns; Naomi Alderman offers up The Power should you have a penchant for cautionary reversals; but for me, it’s still Carter that reigns and her ever so unsettling castration fantasy – The Passion of New Eve – that litmus tests the nerve:

“At the end of the second month, she took off all my remaining bandages and inspected me without a word. Then she opened the wall upon the mirror and left me alone with myself.

But when I looked in the mirror, I saw Eve; I did not see myself. I saw a young woman who, though she was I, I could in no way acknowledge as myself, for this one was only a lyrical abstraction of femininity to me, a tinted arrangement of curved lines. I touched the breasts and the mound that were not mine; I saw white hands in the mirror move, it was as though they were white gloves I had put on to conduct the unfamiliar orchestra of myself. I looked again and saw I bore a strong family resemblance to myself, although my hair had grown so long it hung down to a waist that, on the operating table, had acquired an emphatic indentation. Thanks to the plastic surgery, my eyes were now a little larger than they had been; how blue they were showed more. The cosmetic knife had provided me with a bee-stung underlip and a fat pout. I was a woman, young and desirable.

[…]

Let the punishment fit the crime, whatever it had been. They had turned me into the Playboy centrefold. I was the object of all the unfocused desires that had ever existed in my own head. I had become my own masturbatory fantasy. And – how can I put it – the cock in my head, still, twitched at the sight of myself.”

Tip of the revelatory iceberg, I tend to think. Although technically it falls under the critical auspices of feminist fabulation. Either way, it’ll reflect his mettle – and yours if you’re up for it.

But I promised you debate, not fiction – layers of the living kind and ours, as women. So here it is, complete with the usual perspectival caveat and varying degrees of intersectionality, my list of eighteen. It’s neither absolute nor essentially prescribed; just what has steered my lens to clarity. I could wind it back to Christine de Pizan’s Le Livre de la Cité des Dames and her proto-feminist assertion that:

“Condemning all women in order to help some misguided men get over their foolish behaviour is tantamount to denouncing fire, which is a vital and beneficial element, just because some people are burnt by it, or to cursing water just because some people are drowned in it.”

I could hover over Wollstonecraft, meander through A Room of One’s Own, abandon Woolf for De Beauvoir, then on to Friedan, Lorde and Hooks, go the Greer or Dworkin route, or the academic one via undergraduate staples such as Judith Butler and Hélène Cixous. I could. But I’m keeping it here and now, and only so far back as I go – and maybe one day you’ll do the same for your girls, for your futures:

Everyday Sexism, Laura Bates

Men Who Hate Women, Laura Bates

Misogynation, Laura Bates

Asking For It, Kate Harding

Down Girl, Kate Manne

Know My Name, Chanel Miller

Cunt: A Declaration of Independence, Inga Muscio

Rose, Inga Muscio

Bitch Doctrine, Laurie Penny

The Mother of All Questions, Rebecca Solnit

Whose Story Is It Anyway?, Rebecca Solnit

Three Women, Lisa Taddeo

Full Frontal Feminism, Jessica Valenti

The Purity Myth, Jessica Valenti

Sex Object, Jessica Valenti

The Beauty Myth, Naomi Wolf

Promiscuities, Naomi Wolf

Not All Dead White Men, Donna Zuckerberg

Occasionally I wonder whether I would’ve wanted someone more like me for a mother. I wonder if we would’ve had a different dialogue, a different ending. But then I remember that without who she was – and is on her better days – I wouldn’t be me.

Read freely, ma fleurs. Be well in yourselves, have faith in each other. Now let’s go build a thing. Because that’s who we are, and these are our verbs – compose, construct, cultivate. Here, now, always. So we are, together.

[carmichealroyals]

CHARACTER INSPIRATION // C H A L L E N G E

Rules: Write up a blurb or make a visual collage of the people or characters (from books, TV shows, movies, etc.) that inspired your OC, either visually, personality wise, or just a general vibe.

I was tagged by this by so many lovely pals -- @thelockwoodroyals, @wa-royal-tea AND @ourwillowcreekroyals !!! I only feel bad that it took me so long but I wanted it to be as perfect as it could be while taking time to fiddle with Photoshop more (thank you @royaldevilliers for answering my silly questions). Below the cut are the descriptions for the personality types and tropes for each of the main three kids of this next generation! 

Not sure who’s done this yet, so if you see this and you want to do it, this is me telling you to do it!

CHARLOTTE:

The Protagonist:  Protagonists are natural-born leaders, full of passion and charisma. Forming around two percent of the population, they are oftentimes our politicians, our coaches and our teachers, reaching out and inspiring others to achieve and to do good in the world. With a natural confidence that begets influence, Protagonists take a great deal of pride and joy in guiding others to work together to improve themselves and their community.

Spirited Young Lady:  She is the girl who bends the rules just a little. Oh, she can dance a country dance or pour tea with the best of them, but she may also be a good walker or horseback rider. She may be the most intelligent girl in the story, and she is almost certainly the wittiest and the most outspoken, sometimes earning her the title of spitfire. She may be talented in more practical ways, as well: if given the opportunity, she may turn out to be a wise investor, and she may harbor talent for music, writing, or art that goes beyond drawing room entertainment and might become a means of financial independence if necessary. In rare cases, she may even solve a murder. Though she occasionally runs into some trouble, especially if she fails to obey the powers that be, she usually comes through in the end.

Deadpan Snarker: A character prone to gnomic, sarcastic, sometimes bitter, occasionally whimsical asides.The Deadpan Snarker exists to deflate pomposity, point out the unlikelihood of certain plans, and deliver funny lines. Typically the most cynical supporting character. In most cases, it is implied that the snarker would make a good leader, strategist, or consultant given their ability to instantly see the flaws in a constructed plan. More often than not, their innate snarkiness is the only thing preventing the other characters from comprehending this for themselves.

Politically Active Princess:  The Politically Active Princess is a princess that takes active interest in and plays an active role in politics. Naive courtiers and commoners alike might view her only as a figurehead, but in truth, she discreetly uses her position and guile in order to achieve her ends. Skilled in diplomacy, she will usually attempt to solve conflicts via conversation or bargaining, rather than combat. Her defining trait is her involvement in politics or diplomatic matters, without letting herself serve only as a bargaining chip.

Inspired by: Mia Thermopolis (The Princess Diaries); Lorelai Gilmore (Gilmore Girls); Vex’ahlia (Critical Role); Jenny Lee (Call the Midwife)

PETER: 

The Architect:  It can be lonely at the top. As one of the rarest personality types – and one of the most capable – Architects (INTJs) know this all too well. Rational and quick-witted, Architects may struggle to find people who can keep up with their nonstop analysis of everything around them.

The Dog Bites Back:  Unlike the Bastard Understudy and The Starscream, this character attacks as a crime of opportunity. There is no danger that he will take over the villain's place in the grand scheme of things. There is, however, a possibility that he will menace the others as a True Final Boss. The backstabber often ends up dead, but this is usually not Redemption Equals Death because their motive is not noble. Innocent victims who turn on the villain typically do it only for revenge, while evil victims prove that they were fine with all of the Big Bad's crimes except the one committed against them.

Middle Child Syndrome: Everyone loves the oldest child because the parents can rely on them, they watch out for their siblings, and they're so confidently attractive. The Youngest Child Wins because they're the "baby". But what does that leave the one in the middle? That's essentially the definition of Middle Child Syndrome, in which a child automatically may become The Unfavorite or the rebellious Black Sheep, specifically because they are the easiest child to overlook. They're not old enough to be given the responsibilities and privileges of the oldest, and the youngest child took their spot as the spoiled and doted-on "baby" of the family. This tends to be more of an issue when there are three children rather than four or more. Oftentimes in media, the middle child ends up becoming more of the Deadpan Snarker or the quirky one for this reason.

The Un-Favorite: Where there's an Alpha wolf, there's got to be a Beta. When there is a first banana, there is a second banana. This is the person in the family who can't get a break. For example, this is the child who's the big let-down to their parents, the daughter that was supposed to be a son (or vice-versa), the child the parents had by accident when they'd already decided they didn't need another mouth to feed, the adoptive, foster, or stepchild that came before the parents had a biological child, the illegitimate child conceived by infidelity on the part of one of the parents (if not even worse). But all in all, this is basically the kid who is always getting the short-end of the stick. In some extreme cases, this may cause Rich Sibling, Poor Sibling, especially if one sibling is forced into service to the other. A regular line that may be entailed with this is a variant of, "Honestly, [name], why can't you be more like [favorite's name]?"

Inspired by: Edith Crawley (Downton Abbey); Fiyero (Wicked: The Musical); Logan Huntzberger (Gilmore Girls); Rafael Solano (Jane the Virgin)

PEGGY: 

The Mediator:  Idealistic and empathetic, Mediators long for deep, soulful relationships, and they feel called to help others. But because this personality type makes up such a small portion of the population, Mediators may sometimes feel lonely or invisible, adrift in a world that doesn’t seem to appreciate the traits that make them unique.

The Baby of the Bunch: Being the youngest of your group typically comes with some perks and challenges. On one side you're probably the cutest, have a pass to act immature, people like taking care of you, and you can embrace your fun side, knowing that the elders are there to handle the serious stuff. And if there's anything you're naïve about, you have plenty of others to give you the realest unfiltered advice without the generational gap and detachment that your parents or the Old Master have. On the other end, sometimes people don't take you seriously. There you're kinda stuck because no matter how old you get, you'll always be "the baby" in their eyes.

Indifferent Beauty: A character who is attractive, aware of their effect on other people, but doesn't care or at least doesn't value their physical attractiveness over their other traits. Often, this character is a consummate professional who is well aware of the fact that they could use their "assets" to get what they want by other means, but feels that it would be unprofessional or beneath their dignity, and is instead focused on proving that they can compete purely on skill, often to the exclusion of romantic opportunities. While such characters are not averse to dressing in sexy outfits, they don't plan on relying on or even exploiting their sex appeal - but the camera will often do that for them. Other characters' indifference is not due to regarding relying on appearance to be beneath their dignity, but rather that they consider it to be unimportant.

Spoiled Sweet:  The Spoiled Sweet character is a naive, spoiled, rich or comfortably upper-class or upper-middle-class girl, who has everything they could ever want, but instead of being mean, she is as nice as can be to everyone. While still spoiled, slightly naive, perhaps shallow, maybe even a bit selfish at times, when it comes right down to it, she is a loyal friend and doesn't use her money or popularity as an excuse to treat everyone like garbage — though the trope Rich in Dollars, Poor in Sense is in play, especially since a particularly common sticking point is that characters of this type often believe their friends and other loved ones deserve to live just as well as they do.

Inspired by: Rory Gilmore (Gilmore Girls); Beth March (Little Women); Pike Trickfoot (Critical Role); Peggy Schuyler (Hamilton: An American Musical)

[myblueeyedbuggers]

My Boys

Chapter 11

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14

Pairings: Steve Rogers X Reader (Best Friend) Bucky Barnes X Reader

Word Count: 1531

Warnings: Language, Bullying Themes

Summary: After being abandoned by her parents in Brooklyn in 1929, y/n makes a living for herself by working for the Црни лабуд gang until she meets two boys in a back alley and her life slowing begins to change.

Eyup my Loves! so it’s been a while since I last added to the story, I tried my best to keep my writing similar to my previous chapters, let me know what you all think! any advice or constructive criticism is welcome :) I’ll shush now, enjoy!

(This is what I Imagine Annetta to look like :) )

So, in case you were all wondering, the day didn’t get any better. I mean I kinda knew that kids my age could be massive A holes to each other, but I didn’t really expect to see it literally the flipping second I ‘walked’ through the doors. And by walked I mean dragged by the duo known as my own personal demons, or Steve and Bucky to the rest of the population.  A crowd of kids were all gathered around a row of lockers, loads of the shitheads were cheering and encouraging whatever the hell was goin’ on, and as I was about to find out it wasn’t a surprise performance by Frank Sinatra. Safe to say that was a bigger disappointment that diet coke. Anyway, what was I saying ? oh yeah, stood at the front of the crowd were a bunch of lasses that couldn’t of been older than 16, in their hands was a bunch of eggs and flour. At the bottom of their feet, on the floor, was a kid around the same age as me, her glasses were snapped in half and the bottom of to shirt was ripped, but what disgusted me the most was the fact she was begging for help as these girls smashed egg after egg into her face. You know how bulls lose their shit when they see somethin’ red? Yeah imagine that but 10x worse, the lads didn’t have time to stop me as I tore through the crowd ready to beat the ever-loving shit outta these pricks.

“‘OI! WHAT THE ACTUAL SHIT ARE YOU DOIN’”  the crowd fell silent as the girls turned to me with what one can only assume was supposed to be a ‘threatening’ glare, if I’m being completely honest it looked like they’d all simultaneously crapped em self’s. One of the girls stepped forwards, she was only a tad taller than me, her hair was a bright red, her green eyes were narrowed at me like she couldn’t believe someone was actually talking back to her. I think this is the part where I yell surprise right ? no? okay then. “Not that I care, but who the hell do you think you are? You got any idea who I am?” she sneered at me, oh my god! I’ve found someone with a bigger ego than Bucky. How in the hell is that possible. “well from first glance I’da said Santa Clause’s ex-wife but I reckon he’d have a better taste in girls now I’ve seen you up close”. And que the outraged gasps from her minions in 3,2,1…. I could hear a few people laughin’ and if I weren’t mistaken a very loud “Oh Jesus wept” from barney boy. Oooh yeah that’s when I know I’m doing my job right.

“YOU BITCH!” she screamed at me, her grubby little hands started swinging towards me in such an exaggerated way it was almost funny, I mean come on anyone coulda seen that comin’ from a mile off. And like the genius I am, I literally just side stepped her as she lunged forward,  an’ from the look on her face she weren’t expecting that, it was like the world slowed down as she surged forward unable to stop herself. Well that was till she landed head -first in the bin. I’d be a big fat liar if I said I wasn’t on the floor dying from laughter. Her legs were flailing above her head as she struggled to pull herself outta there, her cronies tried to help by grabbing her legs but that ended with one of em sporting one heck of a shiner on her right eye. A small sniffle pulled my attention away from the rather hilarious sight, glancing behind me I saw the young lass still on the ground, holdin’ her glasses which were in half with tears rolling down her cheeks. “hey, it’s okay now, they’ve gone. Here take my hand, lets get ya cleaned up eh? Reckon they’re be a bathroom round here somewhere”. The lass didn’t say anything to me, only looking at me with apprehension before taking my outstretched hand and leading us to the bathroom, the sound of the crowd growing quieter as we moved further away from it. “Thanks for saving me from Monica, she’s been bullying me since we were 11, nobody’s ever stood up for me before.” Her voice was so quiet, it shook from the effort it took her to hold back her tears, and I admired her strength, not a lotta girls woulda gone this long and not tell a teacher. “Don’t worry about it mate, I’m sorry it took so long for someone to defend ya, my names y/n by the way, don’t think we’ve met” her brown eyes met mine, as a small smile spread across her face, I couldn’t really tell what colour her hair was but I’m guessing it’s a shade a brown,  other than that she looked like a completely normal person. “My names Annetta, you’re right we ain’t met yet but I’m glad we did”.

-Later that day

It took us ‘bout 30 minutes to get all the egg off Annetta, best we could do was wash it off and cover up the stains with the cardigan I leant her, but what really put the icing on the cake was the teacher in period 1 yellin’ at us for being so late. The temptation to yeet my shoe at someone had never been as strong as it was in that moment, fortunately for the overgrown turnip of a teacher I had to settle for a mean ass side eye. And man was it a mean one.

Apart from that the day had gone by with no more incidents, well unless you count me chasing Bucky round the canteen with a carton of milk for stealin’ half my lunch, much to Annetta’s entertainment and Steve’s embarrassment. I mean the butthole deserved it, nobody and I mean NOBODY messes with my lunch. Even blue-eyed boys with a smile that could charm the devil….what am I sayin’?!

ANYWAYS it’s now what? 4th period I think, which meant English with Annetta, and maybe my favourite boys in the world. Shakespeare and Charles Dickens. Bet ya thought I were gonna say Steve and Bucky right? Well they’re currently sat behind me debating who’d win in a fight, Popeye, or Bugs Bunny. I’m surrounded by idiots. Thankfully, the teacher walked into the classroom and saved me, Mrs Davis seemed like a nice woman, she had a friendly smile and roundish face, her hair tied back into a neat bun as she took a seat. Now I’ll save you the boring bits, she started the lesson with a pop quiz which was just plain rude, about halfway through it the door burst open and there stood my best friend in the entire world. Monica. I have to say I loved her new style, the schools P.E kit really brought out the judgement in her eyes, did you detect my sarcasm yet?.

You wanna know what made her entrance even more dramatic ? the lovely aroma of gone off milk and rotted banana skins that followed her around the room,  I could help the smirk on my face as everyone around me started gagging at the smell. If you ask me I reckon it’s an improvement, I mean she certainly captures the attention of everyone in the room. Monica’s face started to match her hair, quickly racing over to Mrs Davis to give her the tardy slip before taking her seat which just had to be across from me, whoopee for me. Eventually Mrs Davis got the attention back to her, carrying on with her lesson, which moved onto matching up the famous English literature quotes with the character and book. To be fair this was actually a load of fun for me, even if Steve butchered a line from Romeo and Juliet, I don’t remember Shakespeare saying, ‘ A rose by any other name would smell as bad’. The way I banged my head on the table made Annetta think I broke my neck. Fun times people.

Of course, my reaction didn’t escape Mrs Davis’s attention, just my luck eh?. “Miss y/n, seeing as you seem to know everything, answer me this. Elizabeth Bennet is a main character in a well-known book, she’s known for the quote ‘I am a no bird and no net ensnares me. I am a free human being with an independent will’. The question is who is the author of this book is it A) Charles Dickens B) Jane Austen or C) Arthur Conan Doyle ?”. Is she being for real right now?. “Miss? With no disrespect the question itself is wrong, that wasn’t said by Elizabeth Bennet from pride and Prejudice, but said by Jane Eyre, and it was written by Charlotte Brontë”. A small smile spread across her face, which was confusing as all heck and a tad creepy to be honest, “very well-done Miss y/n, that’s the first time a student has gotten that question correct.”……

What in the name of ever-loving fluff just happened?….

So our girl is back and kicking butt! hopefully it’s not as bad as I think it is, and again I want to thank you all again for being so patient with me, good news is I’ve got the rest of the book written already! I’ll be posting them at least once a week.

Lots of love,

Rose xxx

[st-just]

Barely coherent rambling about nation-states, culture, the Hapsburgs, and Canada

Because why have a blog except to occasionally purge one of the essays floating around half-formed in your brain. To be clear, it’s still half-formed, just on tumblr now. 1,666 words, here’s the Deveraux essay mentioned. Book is Martyn Rady’s The Hapsburgs: To Rule The World

So I’ve had like, nationalism on my mind recently.

And so there’s a kind of recurring beat in left-of-centre American political discourse (like, not ‘internet rnados screaming at each other’ discourse, ‘people with doctorates or think tank positions having debates on podcasts or exchanging op eds’ discourse) where you have some people on the radical end list some of the various horrible atrocities the country is built on, the ways that all the national myths are lies, and how all the saints of the civic religion were monsters to one degree or another – this can come in a flavor of either righteous anger or, like, intellectual sport. And then on the other end you have the, well, Matt Yglesiases of the world. Who don’t really argue any of the points of fact, but do kind of roll their eyes at the whole exercise and say that sure, but Mom and Apple Pie and the American Way are still popular, and if you’re trying to win power in a democracy telling the majority of the population that their most cherished beliefs are both stupid and evil isn’t a great move.

Anyway, a couple weeks back Deveraux posted an essay for the 4th of July (which I don’t totally buy, but is an interesting read) about why the reason American nationalism is so intensely bundled up into a couple pieces of paper and maybe a dozen personalities is precisely because it isn’t a nation at all. Basically, his thesis is that in proper nation-states like England or the Netherlands or wherever, there really is a core population that is the overwhelming demographic majority and really have lived in more or less the same places since time immemorial, and that once the enthographers and mythologists finish their work, all those people really do identify with both the same nation and the same state as its expression. America, by contrast, is by virtue of being a settler nation whose citizenry was filled by waves of immigrants from all the ass ends of Eurasia in a historical eyeblink, even before you add in the native population and descendants of slaves lacks any single core ethnicity that is anywhere close to a majority, as well as any organic national traditions or claims to an ‘ancestral homeland’ that aren’t obviously absurd (and we are trying to include the descendents of slaves and the native population these days, to varying levels of success). All this to say that his point is America is a civic state, not a national one, with the identity of ‘American’ being divorced from ethnicity and instead tied to things like the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution, the whole cult around the Founding Fathers, Lincoln, and [FDR and/or Reagan depending on your politics].

Which, like I said, don’t totally buy, but interesting. (to a degree he overstates how homogenus ‘actual’ nation-states are, he makes America sound very special but if his analysis holds that it’d presumably also apply to several other former settler colonies, in the American context there’s a fairly solid case to be made that the whole ‘nation of immigrants’ story and the racial identity of whiteness were constructed to function as an erratz national ethnicity, with incredible success, etc, etc).

But anyway, if we accept that the American identity is bound up in its civic religion and the mythologized version of its political history, it’s absolutely the case that there’s several segments of the left who take incredibly joy in tearing said civic religion and national mythology apart and dragging whatever’s left through the mud. I mean, hell, I do! (reminder: any politician whose ever had a statue dedicated to them was probably a monster). And, well, call it a greater awareness of historical crimes and injustice, or the postmodern disdain for idols and systems leaking out through the increasingly college-educated populace, or the liquid acid of modernity dissolving away all unchosen identities, or a Marxist cabal undermining the national spirit to pave the way for the Revolution or whatever you like, but in whichever case, that critical discourse is certainly much more prominent and influential among left and liberal media and politics types that is was in decades past.

And, okay, so I finished Martyn Rady’s The Hapsburgs a few days ago. And I mentioned as I was reading it that the chapters on the 19th and 20th centuries reminded me quite a bit of courses I’d taken in school on the late Ottoman Empire and Soviet Union. Because all three are multi/non-national states (Empires, in Deveraux’s terminology, though that’s varying degrees of questionable for each, I think. Moreso for the Hapsburgs than the rest) who outlasted their own ideological legitimacy. And in all three cases it just, well, it didn’t not matter, but even as all the ceremonies got more absurd and farcical  and the politics more consumed by inertia punctuated with crises, things kept limping along just fine for decades. Even in the face of intense crisis, dissolution wasn’t inevitable. (The Ottomans are a less central example here, admittedly, precisely because of the late attempt to recenter the empire on Turkish nationalism. But even then, more Arab soldiers fought for the Sultan-Caliph than ever did for the Hashemites, and most prewar Arab nationalism was either purely cultural or imagined the Empire reformed into a binational federation, not dissolved).

But as Rady says in the book – losing WW1 crippled Germany, it dissolved Austria-Hungary. And in all three cases, as soon as they were gone, the idea of bringing them back instantly became at least a bit absurd.

And okay, to now pivot to talking about where I actually live but about whose politics I (shamefully) know significantly less than America’s. I mean, maybe it’s because most of my history education from public school was given by either pinko commies or liberals still high off ‘90s one-world universalism, or maybe it’s just a matter of social class, but I really can’t remember ever having taken the whole wannabe civic religion of Canada seriously (the only even serious attempt at sacredness I recall was for Remembrance Day). Even today, the main things I remember about our Founding Father is that he was an alcoholic who lost power in a railroad corruption scandal.

Really, in all my experience the only unifying threads of national/particular Canadian identity are a flag, a healthcare system, those Canadian Heritage Minute propaganda ads, a bill of rights from the ‘60s, and an overpowering sense of polite smugness towards the States.

And that last one (or, at least, the generally rose-colored ‘Canada is the good one’ view of history) is taking something of a beating, on account of all the mass graves really rubbing the public’s noses in the whole genocide thing. At least among big segments of the intellectual and activist classes, most of the symbols of Canadian nationhood are necessarily becoming illegitimate as Canada is, in fact, a project of genocidal settle colonialism.

But it really is just purely symbolic. Most of the municipalities who cancelled their Canada Day celebrations are going to elect Liberal MPs and help give our Natural Governing Party its majority in the next election, no one of any significance has actually challenged the authority of the civil service or the courts. And, frankly, most of the people who are loudly skeptical of all the symbols of the nations are also the ones whose political projects most heavily rely on an efficient and powerful state bureaucracy to carry out.

(This is leaving aside Quebec, which very much does have a live national identity insofar as the vigorous protection of national symbols is what wins provincial elections. If I felt like doing research and/or reaching more there’s probably something there on how pro-independence sentiment has largely simmered down at a pace with the decline of attempts to impose a national Canadian identity).

I mean, Canada does have rather more of a base for a ‘national’ population core than the US (especially if you’re generous and count the people who mark French on the census as a core population as well). At the same time, no one really expects this to continue to be the case – even back in Junior High, I remember one of the hand outs we got explaining that due to declining fertility most or all future population growth would come from immigration (I remember being confused when my mother was weirdly uncomfortable with the idea when it came up). I suppose our government gets credit for managing public opinion such that anti-immigration backlash hasn’t taken over the political conversation. Which you’d think would be a low bar but, well.

But anyway, to try and begin wrapping this rambling mess up – it does rather feel like Rady’s portrayal of the late Hapsburg empire might have a few passing similarities to the future of Canada. A multinational state whose constitution and political system and built on foundations and legitimized by history that no one actually believes in anymore, or at least no more than they have to pretend to to justify the positions they hold, but persisting because it’s convenient and it’s there and any alternatives are really only going to seem practical after a complete economic collapse or apocalyptic war. (Though our civil service is a Josephist’s dream by comparison, really.)

Or maybe I’m premature, and the dominant culture will just be incredibly effective at assimilating immigrants into that civic identity. Anecdotally, the only people I know who are at all enthusiastic about Canada as an idea are first generation immigrants. I could certainly just be projecting, really – I’ve never really been able to get all that invested in the nation-state as an idea of more moral power than ‘a convenient administrative division of humanity’, and certainly liberating ourselves form the need to defend the past would certainly rectifying certain injustices easier.  

Or maybe I’m just being incredibly optimistic. Half the economy’s resource extraction and the other half’s real estate, so decent odds the entire place just literally goes up in flames over the next few decades. BC’s already well on its way.

[captainsimagines]

Titanic || H.S

Part Five || “No Me Queda Mas”

Disclaimer: I do not own the pictures I use for title cards. Obviously. 

Warnings: This book contains mature themes and discussions, such as gun violence, emotional and physical abuse, attempted suicide, mentions of blood, character deaths, heavy sexual content, and reference to the real maritime disaster of the 1912 cruise liner Titanic.

“Exactly. But if you jump, I’m gonna have to jump in there after you.“

         Both Harry and Drake were up by seven in the morning, energetic and absolutely starving. They made sure to dress as quietly as they could, careful not to wake their other two roommates. They were men of the same age, around their late twenties, heading to the states to escape religious persecution. They had arrived later that day after they had picked up the remaining passengers from Ireland, both men talkative and equally as excited to start a new life. The four men chatted into the deep hours of the night and discussed a variety of topics. Perhaps the funnest topic they covered was women.

The two men were traveling with their girlfriends and since they were not legally married, they had to bunk in separate living quarters. Except their boyfriends had splurged what money they could to give them the best comfort as possible, and Harry learned their girlfriends were staying as second-class passengers. Drake made the joke about how first and second class weren’t all that different, and that these boys were living every poor man’s dream of being with a woman of practical royalty.

“They scream louder than any woman.”

“What do you mean?” Harry questioned.

“I mean,” Drake nudged his shoulder playfully, “they’re so touch-deprived that they practically melt from any man’s touch.”

“Man, shut the hell up!”

Everyone continued to joke and tease, and Harry wondered if that was indeed true. He had only been with two other women before - his first when he was seventeen and a woman he thought he loved at the age of twenty-four. He prided himself on the noises he caused, but he didn’t quite understand what Drake meant. Did upper-class women really not experience pleasure as often as women in love? Did upper-class women even fall in love? Do upper-class men not know how to perform? He understood the point of the joke, and although slightly misogynistic, Harry pondered on the societal gossip that sometimes proved true. It wasn’t like he was ever going to experience it to compare.

He and Drake tip-toed outside their room and locked it behind them. Breakfast was available until ten, but they wanted first dibs on the freshest stuff there.

It was a buffet style breakfast. They stacked their trays up high, first come - first serve, with buttered bread, sugar cookies, chicken noodle soup, and milk.

“They’re holding out on us. I saw them lugging buckets of grapes and strawberries up to first-class.”

Harry chuckled and sipped his milk, “Because they’re first-class.”

“Either way, this bread is delicious.”

And over breakfast they chatted about their past trips, skills, family, and aspirations. If it was possible, Drake spoke more than Harry. Once a conversation reached its end, Drake would easily glide into a new one. It was quite refreshing to speak to someone who didn’t shut you down or didn’t know how to carry a conversation. Harry paused Drake, however, when he mentioned that he was a trained carpenter.

“You build things?”

“Buildings. I build buildings.”

Harry shoved him, “That’s what I meant!”

Drake laughed along, “Yeah, my father was a carpenter. I built my Montana ranch from the ground up with my own two hands.”

Harry felt like meeting Drake was fate. Now he didn’t have to grovel and beg some New York carpenter to oversee the construction of a London business. If Drake agreed to help Harry build his bakery, he would at least trust the process more. A few sips of soup and some sugar cookies later and Harry considered Drake a closer friend than those he met on the playground.

“I have a proposition.”

“Well, Mr. Capitalist, I’m all ears.”

Harry grinned, “Would you like to help me build my family’s bakery? I would pay you generously and provide you housing during your extended stay in New York.”

Drake mimicked the act of deep thought, leaning forward and swishing around his cup of milk. “Hmm, a generous offer.”

“Or do you have to be back in Montana immediately?”

Please don’t. Please don’t. Please don’t.

“My brother has the ranch covered. I can write to him and let him know I’ll be bringing in a little extra cash.”

Harry jumped in his seat like an excited child, “Is that a ‘yes’?”

Drake chuckled and tried not to spill his milk as Harry shook his shoulders excitedly.

Drake was around five years older than Harry, thirty-two and thriving, so it made sense that he had this feeling of being an older brother to Harry. He was actually the youngest of his siblings, having older brothers at his side since birth. It was a blessing, and in a weird twist of plot, he felt like an attentive older brother sat here at breakfast. The way Harry’s bright smile lit up any room and the way he acted as if everything happened for a reason - he was almost tempted to give this kid the rest of his sugar cookies.

“Sure, man. I trust you’ll pay me.”

Harry nodded and while overflowing with joy, he slid his sketchbook in front of Drake and began reviewing the first couple sketches of the type of building he had in mind.

     You had been kept up late by your mother’s final walk-through of your stay room, complaining there were not enough towels and not enough space for your accessories on the bedside table. She acknowledged the vastness of the ship and its wonderful hospitality, but there was always something wrong in her mind. And all you could do was nod your head as you sat impatiently in the side chair as she worked the midnight crew through each fix.

So excuse your slow responses and tiny yawns at breakfast. The tables were beginning to clear out, with many still entering for early tea or a late meal. The breeze passed through the open doors and nipped at your cheeks, waking you up slightly from the boring chatter.

As the others spoke, you couldn’t help but think about yesterday and what weird a kiss you and Cal had shared. Was it supposed to feel good? You knew Cal had other women before as he was turning thirty-six just a week after your scheduled wedding. He was never so playful, especially not in front of waiting staff, so you pondered what that change in attitude could possibly mean. Or perhaps you were thinking too much, and he really just had a lapse in judgement.

You could make out talk about the weather, America’s current stock market, and ideas about what the cooks were going to prepare later today. Speak on topics that never interested you and never will interest you carried on for a few more minutes before everyone began ordering their second course. You pulled a cigarette and its holder from your handbag, expertly placed the cigarette inside the silver and inhaled the cooled, mellowed smoke. It woke you up instantly, also calming any nerves from the night before.

You didn’t like when Cal smoked and dusted your flooring, but the presence of a holder made all the difference. No mess, no stains on your fingers - just tranquility.

Your mother cleared her throat quietly as to only alert you, watching the other occupants of your table carry on with their conversation. She unfolded her napkin and placed it carefully across her lap. “You know I don’t like when you do that in public.”

Instead of rolling your eyes at her absurd worry, you inhaled the smoke deeply and exhaled across her view, clouding her face in your personal stress release. It was a power move, a move that you were allowed to execute since she was in control of literally every other aspect of your life. A little smoke shouldn’t anger her as much as it did, but any ounce of independence you still displayed could be interpreted as plain disobedience. And disobedience of your own family meant it resulted in disobedience within a marriage. But before you could establish dominance in one area of your life - your own body - Cal reached over to pull the cigarette from its holder and extinguished it on one of the side plates. You narrowed your eyes, ashamed of the control he proved he had.

“She knows,” Cal chuckled, ignoring your look of embarrassment and instead calling over the waiter who was making his rounds.

A woman you had met briefly yesterday as she boarded from Ireland, Molly, was invited to sit at your breakfast table by one of the men here, yet you couldn’t remember which one. She was a small woman, dressed in a comfortable dress that didn’t quite match the occasion of a late breakfast, but she wore it proudly. She was sweet, strong-willed, and almost always proved louder than anyone else in the room. You liked her personality as it was entirely different from everyone else you had ever met. Although your mother called her “new money” with a nasty grimace on her face, you only saw her for what she was - independent and vocal.

But here you were now, being dehumanized in front of practical strangers, and you looked up to see Molly’s surprised expression. She lowered her arm to extinguish her own cigarette on her ashtray. To continue smoking freely after you had been refused your tiny refuge seemed wrong, improper even. But you didn’t acknowledge her action, ears perking up as Cal restated your breakfast order.

“We’ll both have the lamb, rare, with very little mint sauce.”

You absolutely hated lamb. Any type of meat, really, and the thought of having to stuff it down so you wouldn’t starve maddened you.

“You like lamb, right Sweetpea?”

You plastered a thin, wide smile as you turned to your fiancé, your face almost comical and proving so as Cal took it as a real ‘yes’.

By now your little squabble had gained attention from all at your table. Molly began laughing loudly to cut through the tension, raising her water glass to take a quick sip.

“You gonna cut and chew her meat there too, huh Cal?”

Your mother turned to her sharply but Molly was unmoved, deciding to change the subject to something more interesting. Cal interlocked his fingers together and rested his hands above his belt buckle, looking across the table at Molly with a more calm look compared to your mother, but still hardened with displeasure.

“Say, who thought of the name ‘Titanic’? Was it you, Bruce?” Molly asked.

Bruce Ismay, the chairman of the White Star Line, seemed ecstatic to receive questions about the ship. As of that month, it was his greatest accomplishment and current world wonder, his newborn creation that deserved any and all praise given. He nodded happily and swallowed the piece of fruit hurriedly to answer Molly’s question.

“Yes, yes,” he answered, cleaning his mouth with a napkin. “Mr. Andrews here built her from the ground up!”

Thomas Andrews, a shipbuilder and main architect for Titanic, was shy with any compliment he received, deciding to accept the praise quickly and return the attention back to Ismay. “But the idea was all Mr. Ismay’s! He envisioned a liner so grand in scale...”

You began to drown the conversation out. Cal insisted on dining with specific groups of people. From your point of view, it worked almost like a ranking. Ismay and Andrews were certainly important people on this ship and had first hand experience with such social circles, but they were no John Jacob Astor. The most Cal and your mother did was share morning greetings with Astor, who dined with his wife in a more private section of the same dining hall. Cal had always maintained your titles of royalty, saying that only a few dollars here and there separated you from a higher connection. And at dinner time your group expanded, including around ten others who were just as respectable.

“I wanted to convey sheer size with her name! And size means stability, luxury, and above all, strength,” Ismay spoke.

You sucked in a low breath, ready to make a select few laugh and others seethe. “Do you know of Dr. Freud, Mr. Ismay?”

Mr. Ismay turned to you in silent astonishment, surprised by the first complete sentence you had spoken all breakfast. But he smiled and shook his head ‘no’ at the name. You felt your mother reach her hand under the table to cup your arm.

“His opinion about the male preoccupation with size might be of particular interest to you.”

Your mother’s fingernails dug deep into your forearm. “What has gotten into you?”

But Molly and Mr. Andrews enjoyed your comment, laughing under their breaths.

You smiled sweetly and tore your arm away from your mother, standing and excusing yourself from the table. Both Mr. Ismay and Mr. Andrews stood out of respect for your departure. You exited the room to walk out on deck.

Cal took in slow breaths to steady his rising anger, avoiding other’s eyes so that they wouldn’t notice the effect you had on him. But Molly, with her rapid wit and steady toughness, wouldn’t let Cal live this down.

“She’s a pistol, Cal. Hope you can handle her!”

Cal crinkled his eyes and chuckled as to brush off your misbehavior. “I might just have to mind what she reads from now on, don’t I?”

Mr. Ismay sat down and readjusted his tie. “Freud, who is he? Is he a passenger?”

     It was bullshit that third-class passengers were barred from touring certain areas of the ship. All Harry wanted was a better view of the ship’s structure so he could outline it. He mainly drew portraits but he had promised his mother he would show her his drawings of the best parts of the ship, like the grand staircase, fashion, the giant steam funnels, even the food. But third-class passengers weren’t allowed in first-class areas without the proper approval, having to eat from a choice of about four foods each day and reduced to simply imagining what the giant clock looked like.

So Harry doodled anything he found interesting - the dogs who traveled down to third-class to take a shit, the coast of Ireland as Titanic sailed past, and third-class passengers with their children, card games, and instruments. He was currently drawing a man holding his daughter up against the railing to see the water, focusing on the detail of their clothing and their happy expressions. Drake watched Harry work his magic, grinning every single time Harry drew the next precise detail accurately. It wasn’t exactly common knowledge, but Drake swore that every human wanted to have this specific talent. Anyone who disagreed wasn’t human.

“I can’t believe you got the eyes right,” Drake scoffed, inhaling smoke from his reduced cigarette.

Harry grinned at the comment, smudging the charcoal over the two foreheads to create the shading. Looking from the models to his paper, he completed another detail that impressed his friend. He was almost finished, brushing his index finger over certain parts. Drake greeted some friends he met at last night’s dinner as they walked past and rested in the surrounding benches. He motioned them over to Harry’s work.

Drake nodded in approval at all the compliments Harry received, “Do you make any money off your drawings?”

It’s quite possibly every artist’s worst nightmare, to scribble incorrectly over a good drawing, completely ruining the fine detail it took too long to accomplish. But as Harry’s pencil scraped over that crumpled piece of paper, the air around him and the water under him spoke to his artistic desires, telling him to wreak havoc on his flimsy sheet and to never stop. The somewhat endless black line did indeed stop once it reached the edge and to the fabric of his tan pants, leaving a light but visible charcoal mesh on his only pair. His eyes, as well as his clouded mind, ignored his major mistake and instead focused on the yellow fabric that begged to flap higher in the cool, ocean breeze.

His eyes traveled through every detail- the white lace clinging to the base yellow, the pearls hugging your waistline and wrapping around your backside to function as buttons, the baroque beauty of your neck and the lace wrapped around it, your brown skin glistening underneath the sun, and your red lips sculpted into a memorable pout - all of it entered Harry’s viewpoint in what seemed like forever but only took a mere second. One glorious second for Harry to stumble into a world he knew he could never abandon. The curl in your hair, the frown on your face, the gentle nature of your grip on the forbidden first-class railing - all of it a disastrous craving that would for sure develop into a blister on the lip if Harry didn’t get a smell of your lavish locks and accidentally brush the tip of his nose against the priceless diamonds draped through each curl, or get a taste of the red syrup staining your plump lips and accidentally bite it a little too hard to muster a moan of pleasure rich women kill to produce, or get to feel the touch of your fingertips against his palms, his face, his chest, his back as you left streaks of bright red. These prohibited images knocked against the padded confines of his thick skull and he felt like he completely violated the law with such an absurd idea.

But as you furrowed your eyebrows and focused on another focal point - Harry himself - he felt as if every inch of your being was worth being imprisoned for. His forbidden sweet creature.

You stared at the stranger briefly before looking back at the waves beyond the bow of the ship. Yet, you continued to feel his powerful gaze. You didn’t feel uncomfortable with his locked stare, but you wondered if he was possessed, spiraling through a trance that you had become a victim of. Was his gaze good or bad? Was he seriously entranced or judging your physique? Walking away would break the spell, but you stayed glued to the railing for some reason, watching the waves make way for Titanic’s many entrances.

You heard the voice in your head instruct your view to stay on the water, but you disobeyed for once, unaware of such a lovely decision until you locked eyes with your third-class admirer. You have always gotten attention from anyone you encountered, both pleasant and unpleasant, but attention nonetheless. And the waves of this particular admiration traveled through the misty breeze and onto your blushed cheeks, pinching them with a silent yelp, a plea, an almost beggarly request for your consideration. So you obliged its want, gazing across the third-class gatherings to the man sitting on one of the few benches on deck, surrounded by confused and teasing passengers who looked between you and him, wondering if you were going to break first from the rare situation. A situation that many never considered legitimate, possible, or even appropriate. But the lot of you were on the blue waves and the bubbly foam and the impressive craft of a thousand good Irishmen that welcomed the rare and extraordinary.

He was attractive - his short hair dancing in the air one curl at a time, his broad form rising to sit up straight when he realized you were also admiring him, and his eyes never blinking as to not miss anything you might do. And he had this magnetic pull, almost as if he was screaming at you to come down and speak with him. You felt somewhat disgusted with yourself, imagining a normal conversation with a normal person, a very handsome person, whose gaze alone made you feel a tingle at your fingertips and caused a tiny grin to break on your face. It wasn’t appropriate to be thinking of another man this way when you had never felt this way for the man you were to marry. And yesterday’s kiss did not equate to the powerful senses you were currently experiencing.

You hoped he didn’t see your grin, but Harry did. He caught it instantly, his heart pounding and his hands instructing him to quickly sketch the curve.

By now Drake was waving a hand over Harry’s face to see if that broke off his view, but Harry simply leaned forward, unaware of the obstruction and oh so enchanted by that tiny grin you hadn’t dropped.

“Oh, forget it, Harry! It’s like angels flying out your ass to get next to the likes of her.”

To be seen, thought of, recognized as a human being and not glossed over as some extra - the recognition of plain existence excited you to new extremes. And just as your mind told you to unlock the first-class gate and venture over to your admirer, real life interrupted in the form of Cal’s tamed grip on your upper arm.

You dropped your gaze quickly, hoping Cal did not realize your original viewpoint, and looked down at the unwanted physical connection between you.

"Why must you defy your mother’s orders and misbehave in front of friends?”

You pulled yourself away from his tightening grip. “I have already received this lecture from my own mother. I do not need to hear it again.”

Cal let out a low chuckle, “Then why must you not listen? You embarrassed me.”

You fought the urge to yell and relay yet another disapproving tone. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I’m not feeling well this morning.”

And with that fake apology, Cal hummed in sympathy and tugged you in for a short hug. “Why didn’t you just say so? It could have saved us the humiliation.”

You sucked in a harsh breath at his choice of words to avoid the frustrated tears, pulling away and patting his chest as you excused yourself to your stay room. He groaned as he suspected he had done something else wrong, but did not dare to follow you this time.

Drake shook his head in discontent, “A man like that should be grateful to have a woman like her.”

Other passengers shared their agreement, whistling and all. They teased Harry and shoved him playfully, congratulating him for the impossible. And as you walked from Harry’s eyesight back into the ship, he rejoined the conversation briefly before he began a simple illustration of your eyes.

Drake sat back down on the same bench as Harry as all the chatter died down, looking over at Harry’s paper. He rolled his eyes and smiled.

“She really did a number on you, huh? I’m all for going after the unreachable but this is truly unreachable, boy-yo.”

Harry stopped his tracing to look up at Drake, “I know… but she saw me, too.”

Drake furrowed his eyebrows, wondering if Harry was simply awestruck or serious. And with a slight chuckle of disbelief, Drake muttered, “that she did.”

A moment passed before Drake spoke again, deciding on letting Harry live in his little fantasy for the rest of the day. He tapped Harry’s stack of papers with his index finger. “I’m sure you’ll do her justice.”

And Harry did.

     If you stood in the middle of the room and screamed at the top of your lungs, you were certain no one would even look up. Because besides your impressive attitude you were known for, your problems seemed minuscule compared to others. No one seemed to piece together why you were the way you were, opting for society’s sexist explanations instead of simply asking you.

Just a few hours ago you were seen and not looked over quickly - you felt appreciated and noticed. Now, even in a room with hundreds of people and many sat at the same table as you, you weren’t even acknowledged. Perhaps it was because you never spoke - you couldn’t blame them for not noticing you then. But then again, when you did speak and Cal silenced or interrupted you, discrediting even opinions, no one minded.

They were the same endless parties, the same narrow people, and the same mindless chatter. Like they flipped a switch each night and wiped their slate clean, ready for the same routine the very next day with no complaints at all. And it frightened you that this would remain your routine, the same routine you had already lived for twenty-two years, with no way out and no ‘off’ button.

You felt as if you were floating away, heavy and lightweight at the same time, feeling yourself blink every few minutes. Your eyes focused on one point - the ashtray in the middle of the rounded table, even as people from surrounding tables came to greet your mother and Cal. You kept track of time by the impressive height of the gray ash, some landing outside the tray and onto plates. It grew higher… and higher… and your food was barely picked at, Cal was reaching over you every so often to tap his cigarette on the tray, and your mother was on her fourth glass of champagne.

They didn’t see that you weren’t eating. How does someone not notice that someone isn’t eating at a dinner?

You reached over for your champagne glass, your hand shaking slightly as you downed the rest of it. Everyone’s voices were becoming silent, like you were covering both ears or going deaf, and as Cal reached over to give you a kiss on the cheek, your eyes were suddenly heavy.

“Please, excuse me, Cal. I need to run to our room really quickly.”

Cal paused his conversation with Astor to turn to you. “Are you alright? Would you like me to escort you to the cabin?”

And you smiled, “I’ll be fine.”

It was a really nice gesture, but in Cal’s mind it was simple chivalry.

You stood up, your feet sore and the nerves bunching together throughout your legs. The laughter seemed to grow as you exited, and now those nerves shocked you into running.

You barged into your stay room, ignoring the obvious worry the staff gave you, their questions of tea or more blankets flying over your head. You simply speed-walked past them, hiding your face behind your curls so they would not see your very real tears, staining the powder on your cheeks and leaving visible streaks lighter than your natural color. You leaned back on the door and tried to drown out the drunken laughs and loud violins. Controlling your breathing was easy at first until you opened your eyes and saw a mass explosion of gold, the intricate designs of each piece of cloth, the carvings in the wood encasing your mirror, your freshly made bed that Cal had jokingly suggested he’d crawl into late at night. You swallowed the itch in your throat, walking to the make-up table to drop the pins you began tearing from your hair. One-by-one you let each curl fall to your shoulder, their lost weight causing your headband of diamonds to fall to the floor. You silently deliberated what the name of your maid was, cursing yourself for forgetting when she had so nicely introduced herself last night. But then her name slid from your tongue, and you almost cried from the sudden joy.

“Trudy?” you called, starting to hyperventilate. “Trudy?”

You reached behind you to unbutton your dress, but your shoulders just wouldn’t bend far enough. Suffocated, you clawed at the loose hanging jewels instead, pinching and stretching the skin on your back that you could reach.

“Trudy!” you began to choke on your breath, yelling louder each time you called the maid. So you tugged and ripped the silver necklace from your neck, threw your jewelry box across the room, and tossed a few perfume bottles you had packed so delicately against the wall.

“I can’t... I can’t,” you cried, knees partially crumbling beneath you as you leaned against the chair. You lifted your head to witness your disheveled look, hair a mess and mascara smudged just below your water line. Lips quivering, an intense wave of self-pity and self-hatred drowning your thoughts, exclaiming the few words that actually made it through your sore skull. You listened to them, repeated and mean, basically ordering you to listen and to follow.

“Ya no queda mas.”

There is nothing left.

You were indeed a follower - and you were going to oblige.

And so you abandoned everything, opening your room door and running through the crowded hallway full of oblivious passengers who swam in the bliss of a full stomach and buzzed fingertips and toes.

You ran across the deck to the stern of the ship, careless as to who or what you toppled along the way. Of course everyone took an interest, calling out to see if you needed assistance. But as you left their eyesight, their worry diminished and they assumed someone else would offer a hand. One right after the other, they allowed you to cross their paths and leave it in an instant.

Harry lay on a third-class bench, staring up at the starry night. With a cigarette in one hand and the other stuffed away warmly in his coat pocket, he wondered just exactly where in the hell that damn ‘Big Dipper’ was. Or the little one. Hell, any constellation for that matter. He loved watching the night sky, but the city smog hid most of the stars. Now, with only the steam from the funnels blocking his view, he focused on every star individually, losing track of them as time passed, each one beginning to look the same in size but different in brightness. They formed all kinds of shapes in Harry’s mind, but he could not find those documented ones the astronomers raved on about.

He could have sworn he saw the rectangular shape slightly, its handle coming into existence as the sound of sobbing arrived and left in a flash. He lifted himself up, cigarette hanging from his pink lips and eyebrows scrunched in confusion. He watched as you continued running, pausing to catch your breath at one of the benches.

He recognized that beautiful brown skin anywhere.

His feet hit the deck floor immediately once he saw that you weren’t stopping, instead walking towards the stern railing and looking over into the water. He jogged lightly, careful not to make much noise as you contemplated such a drastic decision. Perhaps you were going to change your mind, step away, take a deep breath and go back to your endless desserts and musical concerts. But he quickly hid behind a pole when you checked to see if anyone had followed you, slightly disappointed in the fact that no one did, and stepped onto the railing and swung a leg over.

“Fuck,” Harry whispered, his mind racing and thinking of a way to calmly and safely get you back onto the deck without frightening you. If he were to jump out now, you were for sure going to let go.

You turned around once more and back toward the water, this small gesture of goodbye to the ship and all on it finally settling within you. The waves were dark, not light blue like they were during the daytime. And they sounded louder and more angry, taunting you instead of offering tranquility. The thought of jumping when the sun was out danced around in your head, a more vibrant suicide seeming better suited for your needs.

But maybe you deserved to die in the dark with no other sound besides the unnerving crashing of water and massive propellers in a never ending motion of slicing. You thought about Cal and almost immediately recoiled, the last thought before you died an unhappy thought and not at all what you wanted it to be. Perhaps your mother or your father. Trudy. No one seemed to properly fit, so you settled on the image of your famed racehorse as you leaned away from the railing, hanging off and ready to fall. Your racehorse, dark brown and majestic, waiting for you to come home.

���Don’t do it.”

You gripped the railing tight, unaware that your initial hold was so loose, and you were moments away from leaving your misery behind.

You whipped your head to see who had followed you, stunned that this person was not from the first-class - the class that prides themselves on their selflessness and courage. He was from the third - the class that truly embodied all things selfless and are crucified for it.

“Stay back,” you begged, raising one hand up as if to physically stop him, but you quickly regretted it as you felt the tough winds push you ever so slightly. “Please don’t come near me.”

Harry contemplated his next move, inhaling some final smoke from his cigarette and stepped closer. He showed you the cigarette, stepping towards the railing to throw it overboard.

It was smart, you thought. He was going to come closer, you knew that. But to do it so discreetly as to not scare you - you were kind of grateful.

“Please just leave me alone,” you sobbed, looking back down to the rushing water. “I’ll let go.”

Harry stood dumbfounded, hands in his pockets and worry etched into his face. He remained calm, however, trusting in himself to sweet talk you back over the railing.

He cleared his throat, “No, you won’t.”

You scoffed, newly formed tears threatening to leave your eyes. “What?”

“You won’t do it.”

This time you looked up to the starry sky to gain clearance in thought but were intrigued nonetheless. Either you could snap at him and jump, or you could listen and come back over the railing. All you wanted to do now was sleep, as your head began feeling heavier by the second.

“What are you going on about? Don’t presume to tell me what I will or will not do! You don’t know me.”

Harry cleared his throat awkwardly, still trying to calm the situation down as easily as he could. But as your hands turned whiter as your grip strengthened and your voice began to crack, Harry knew he had to convince you this was not the answer.

He didn’t quite understand it - wanting to end your life at such a young age. By the look of your clothes and make-up, Harry could tell you had most material things the people in third-class would kill for. But there were sparkly tears on your waterline, contradicting the image of glory and wealth you so effortlessly portrayed, and the sounds of crashing waves waiting to gobble you up - the sense of you, the mere idea of that glory and wealth, - it absolutely bombarded any quick wit or joke Harry’s mouth was thinking of spitting. All rational from here on out.

“I’m sorry,” Harry spoke, bringing his hands up to breathe warm air into them. “I just don’t want you to experience the dip, is all.”

You stayed silent, staring at him as he stared at you.

“You know the water’s freezing. If you were to survive the fall, the cold would probably hurt more.”

Now your bottom lip quivered and the sudden realization of how cold the night air actually was hit you at that exact moment, and you internally begged for the stranger to step closer. “How cold?”

Harry shrugged, still trying his best to remain casual. “Most likely a couple degrees over.”

You stared at the black abyss beneath you, “I bet that would hurt.”

Harry chuckled lowly, taking the risk and stepping closer to you that a simple turn of the head was enough to see his whole face. And it dawned on you, swiftly and surely, that this was the boy who could not seem to stop staring at you earlier. He was much more handsome up close, and his voice was the final piece of the puzzle. “Exactly. But if you jump, I’m gonna have to jump in there after you.”

You laughed dryly, “You’re crazy. Absurd. The fall alone would kill you.”

Harry smirked to himself, focused on the way your wavy hair flew in all directions. He was getting you to speak more. He was buying time. So, he removed his jacket and warm vest to prove his statement.

“Yeah, it would hurt,” Harry shrugged, finally stepping close enough to hang across the railing with you. He glanced down to your shivering feet, fearful that the heels would unlock themselves and send you free falling. “Trust me, you don’t want to do this-”

“And how do you know that? Maybe I want to… die.” It resonated as a question in both your minds, the sinking sensation overwhelming your chest.

“We all die someday. I think the best part is not knowing when.”

You observed the boy’s face, studying his expression to somehow gain a better explanation as to what he possibly meant. You swallowed more tears, this time speaking in a low whisper.

“I can easily predict when.”

Harry actually felt his stomach clench.

You continued, “It’s probably already planned, with as many as two-hundred guests in attendance, and an open bar.”

Harry shifted his weight from his right foot to his left, his eyes never leaving yours. “It’s difficult to respond to that.”

You gave him a small smile, “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

Whether you meant that in a sincere or disrespectful way, Harry was hurt by the comment nonetheless.

“I know you’re angry, but trust me,” he redirected, an attempt to forget suicidal intentions and reasons and focus on the actual present moment itself. “Water that cold, like right down there… it hits you like a thousand knives stabbing you all over your body. You can’t breathe, can’t think-”

You closed your eyes, eyebrows scrunched and suddenly so very cold. “Okay, please stop.”

Harry watched as your skin produced goosebumps and your grip tightened even more. It was a sign of victory, he thought. “I’m just hoping you’ll save me the swim by coming back over the railing.”

You sighed deeply, the air you expelled turning into the cold breeze itself, mixing with the shaky breaths of the one person on this whole damn ship to hear your screams. And you didn’t even physically cry out.

“Come back with me. Trust me, you don’t wanna do this.”

You reached your arm over to prepare for the turn, but instead of gripping the railing like you expected, a warm hand gripped yours instead, tightly, and his thumb immediately began rubbing your knuckles in a soothing motion. He helped you turn back toward the ship, hands now gripping both of yours.

He smiled up at you, his eyes almost watering from the unnoticed stress that was building within him. You grinned slightly, giving a small shrug of the shoulders as the silence broke.

“I don’t want to go back.”

Harry grasped your hands tighter, “Hey, me neither. Do you know how many rats welcomed me in my cabin yesterday?”

You laughed (somewhere between a laugh and a snort), forgetting momentarily that the two of you were standing in dangerous positions exchanging quiet words.

“Thank you.”

“It’s no problem. I’m Harry Styles.”

“I’m-”

“An absolute blooming rose.”

Your eyes widened momentarily, the moment passing with an awareness of peace from the sudden declaration of recorded beauty. You told him your real name anyway, absolutely loving the way it sounded in a british accent, his british accent, but the ‘blooming rose’ reference remained number one. There, with your body still on the wrong side of the ship and his hands now clutching your upper arm and elbow to begin pulling you over - there you were actually content with your current life.

“Up you go.”

You raised one leg to step up a rail, unaware that the beaded lace part of your dress was longer than the rest. It caused a severe slip, and before you knew what was happening, you were falling. You screamed, one hand barely catching the railing and the other arm suffering Harry’s grip and digging nails.

“Harry!”

Harry cried out in distress, almost going over himself. He locked his feet to the ground and against the ship, thighs pressed against the railing, and attempted to pull you up.

“C’mon, you can do it! You gotta climb, too!”

You followed his instructions, trying to climb the railing like a ladder with your free hand. But as you got higher and your legs remained swinging mindlessly against the wet ship, you slipped lower.

“Help me! Help me, please!” you yelled, to Harry and to anyone else who would hear, the ocean now loud with the outrage of your absence.

Harry could feel his heart exploding from the adrenaline spiking as he looked down at your terrified face, relying solely on him to save your life. The whole time he spoke with you he was frightened of the possibility of you letting go or accidentally falling, but now that he could visibly see that you most certainly did not want to die this way, he was mortified.

“I got you, okay?” Harry waited to shout again until you looked back up to him. “I got you.”

You nodded the best you could, the tears still dripping from your eyes and nose, determined to hear his frightened voice.

“I won’t let go! I promise. Now, pull yourself up!”

It took everything in you to support your own body weight with a corset strangling you at the same time, but you gripped the rails and then Harry’s shoulder. The corset made it more difficult to breathe, but you compiled the last pinches of energy and strength within you and aided Harry in your rescue. You groaned as your knees stabbed into the top bar, but the feeling of Harry’s arms wrapping around your waist to pull you over fully eradicated that pain. You two toppled over onto the safe deck, rolling over each other with a loud thud. Harry stayed glued to your waist while you gripped the deck with your nails.

In such a climactic moment, the two of you didn’t notice three members of the crew running toward you with no clue as to what just occurred.

“What’s all this?”

Your dress had ripped slightly, and due to your bedroom tantrum and the high winds, your hair was in absolute disorder. You had no coat on, tears streamed down your face, and a third-class man was hovering over your trembling body. And the crew failed to detect the similar shaking of Harry’s large frame or his scared expression, instead pointing a finger at him and labeling him the guilty party.

“Don’t you move an inch,” a crew member warned, stepping toward Harry and dragging him away from you. Two of the men swooped in to scoop you up, checking for signs of harm.

Your frantic eyes searched for Harry, but he was already looking at you, slightly disappointed and eager to prove himself innocent without throwing you into the cold water himself by revealing the truth.

- 

Finally, they have met lol. xxMoni