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biioshocker · 11 months

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Why Spider-People Suffer

Subtitled: How “Othering” Miguel Killed Hundreds of Cops

I loved seeing Miguel getting othered by his fellow spider-people so casually during this movie, both intentionally and unintentionally, and I believe it’s the reason he convinced everyone their loved ones had to die.

“Othering” Moments in the Movie

I’ve only seen the movie twice so I may have missed something more subtle, but here are the moments I remember where the main cast othered Miguel:

Gwen (unknowingly) making a joke (from Miguel’s perspective, re: “You’re not funny!”) of the fact Miguel doesn’t have a spider sense by letting him get decked by the Vulture.

Peter B. Parker commenting, “You’re not funny, spider-men are funny.”

Miles blatantly in fear of Miguel, on the tram shouting, possibly half-joking, “You have claws? Dude, are you sure you’re a spider-man?”

These seem like inconsequential, even humorous, moments but I believe they’re a lot more meaningful to Miguel than he lets on. It’s not that these moments are massively consequential in and of themselves, but more so that they are part of a persistent, consistent assault on Miguel's Spider-Man Authenticity™ that began with his very…

Origin.

In the comics, and what it appears to be in the movie, Miguel isn’t a “natural” spider-man. Not in the ‘bit and changed’ sense. There actually wasn’t even a spider surrogate for the virus in Miguel’s origin story. Instead, in Miguel’s universe the lab he worked in was attempting to directly recreate their original, dead-slash-vanished Spider-Man by splicing actual spider DNA with human DNA. This immediately deviates from the “typical” spider-person origin story as, usually, tests were being done on spiders and the subsequent escape, bite, and transformation that followed was a complete accident. The only actual accident within Miguel’s origin story was that it was Miguel at all, every other aspect was more or less exactly what the institute Miguel worked for was actually trying to accomplish.

A pretty notable difference between the comics and the movie is the introduction of Miguel’s injections. From what I know of the comics, Miguel doesn’t need to ‘re-up’ his spider-human powers, but we see in the movie that this Miguel needs some kind of supplement. Whether it be to replenish his abilities or to keep his delicate spider-human balance stable, we don’t know yet, but what we do know is that no other spider-person does this and it seems like a private, shameful ritual. A subtle nod to this theory, in my opinion, is Miguel’s “I’m different than them” line taking place at, or almost at, the exact moment he injects.

So, his origin is “wrong,” his creation was a “mistake,” in some manner he has to supplement is spider abilities, and believe it or not those aren’t even the most obvious discrepancies he has from other spider-people. Actually, some of his most noticeable differences lie with his…

Powers.

Compounding that “otherness” Miguel already feels within spider society, he doesn’t have “typical” spider-person powers, notably lacking a spider sense. This is because he wasn’t made the same way other spider-people were. As a literal spider-human hybrid, Miguel derives his powers — talons, paralysis, fangs, light sensitive eyes turned red by super sight — from just some normal, non-radioactive version of whatever spider breed was used in the splicing experiments. The lab didn’t actually know what gave the original Spider-Man his distinct powers, and so what Miguel ends up with is a lot more off-putting than other spider-people.

Humans, and even other spider-people (re: Gwen feeling she needs to reassure Miles he doesn’t need to “be afraid”) are frightened, or at the very least are put-off, by Miguel. I believe this can be attributed at least somewhat (if not entirely) to his powers. Yes, he doesn’t have a very approachable demeanor, but I would hazard that that wall he puts up is in response to the reactions he gets to his powers (ex: “I’m a good guy!” “You don’t look like a good guy!”). They aren’t the pretty, petite, charming powers that other spider-people have. They’re very gritty and raw, and they’re lifted directly from a species of bug that people are notoriously afraid of. And while it’s true that the other spider-people also have behaviors that associate them with the creepy crawler as well, those spider-people have a way to combat their negative character associations that Miguel doesn’t. They’re funny.

Humor is an under-appreciated, though well-established, part of a typical spider-person. The movie even goes so far as to call spider-person humor a “crutch,” but it's more than just making light of dark situations. Humor is how other spider-people connect with their community. This is why despite a persistent hate campaign from the Daily Bugle and calls of vigilantism from local police organizations, spider-people are almost always able to stay in the good graces of the communities they serve. Spider-people, through humor, are able to reassure, console, and win over the hearts of millions of New Yorkers.

So, it is especially obvious to other spider-people that Miguel is distinctly not funny. He is reminded both in comics and in the movie that he’s not approachable like a spider-man “should” be. Miguel doesn’t have humor to use as a “crutch” to offset his unsettling characteristics and because of that, he’s not well-liked by… really anyone.

These perceived shortcomings take a toll on Miguel, and are why he is so convinced of the importance of…

Canon.

Miguel views canon events as the holy grail of spider-person origins because he didn’t have one himself. I don’t think Miguel fully believes he is a true spider-man. Not only were his (atypical) powers acquired through a (botched) scientific experiment, and not only is everyone constantly reminding him that he’s not a “normal” spider-person, but Miguel’s universe already had its “canon” Spider-Man, and he died.

Or, at least he did in the 2099 comics. We can’t be certain about the movie-verse yet, but on the assumption it and the comics share a backstory, Miguel knows the full extent of his Spider-Man’s life. Beginning, middle, and end. That Spider-Man’s story is over and done within Miguel’s universe, which means that Miguel isn’t a “real” spider-man. He’s a knockoff. He was an accident, a fluke, a recreation.

With this in mind, I feel Miguel’s reasoning for dedicating himself to The Canon is two-fold:

Firstly, I think it stems from the idea that because his universe’s Spider-Man story is “complete” that is how the story must be told. There was a set beginning, middle, and end to the Spider-Man of his universe, and he’s easily able to reference it. There’s no guesswork around his Spider-Man’s story because it’s concluded. And to him, that finality is infallible, so he plays it out over and over and over in other spider-verses.

Secondly (most speculatively, but most importantly), but I don’t think Miguel has told anyone that he isn’t a bitten (or born) spider-person. In his introduction, we don’t get the usual “I’m the one and only Spider-Man” cinematic intro we had with the rest of the main cast (excluding Jess). He keeps his introduction short, sweet, and secretive. This leads me to believe he hasn’t told anyone of how he became his universe’s Spider-Man. He might think that if he did, the other spider-people would shun him. He might think they would hate him. He might think they would leave him.

A very, very prominent theme across many of the main cast’s stories is that they felt alone in the world until they found other spider-people, and I believe Miguel feels this isolation the strongest of all of them. He set up the Spider Headquarters in his own home universe. He recruited hundreds and hundreds of spider-people to join him and it looks like many of them live there for at least some period of time. I believe he’s so afraid of being left out of the social spider network that he has outright lied about his origin story, calling on the only Spider-Man story he knows the entirety of— his universe’s Peter Parker. Then, to cover his tracks he began collecting similarities across every spider-person’s reality, enshrining them in gold, and cementing them as The Canon.

And, unfortunately, what many spider-people have in common is…

Suffering.

Suffering isn’t unique to spider-people. Prematurely losing a loved one isn’t even unique to spider-people. Sadly, it’s not very uncommon at all, and those moments are often defining in people’s lives; they can be even more impactful than the joyful moments. I believe because of their efficacy, tragedies are something that Miguel could most easily use to connect with the spiderverse. Not because these tragedies were meant to happen, not because they’re a part of some greater, cosmic prophecy— but, sadly, because they’re so prevalent in every person’s life.

And most compelling of all, tragedy rarely ever has any reason behind it.

Miguel wasn’t able to find some incredible, world-defining Canon Event among the many hundreds of spider-people he met— he was simply able to find tragedy. The senseless, horrible, incomprehensible moment in every person’s life where they’ve lost someone they cared very deeply for, and no one could tell them why. There was no rhyme or reason to it, their loved one just simply ceased to exist— and what was so insulting about it was that the world didn’t end. The planet didn’t stop spinning, the sun rose the following day, and no closer came. Everyone else’s story just continued to be writ, and that was just as painful because it left them alone with their grief in a moment where they felt helpless, hopeless, and inadequate; in a moment that was impossible to reconcile because they wanted so badly, just like all of us, to understand why it had to happen. But there isn’t a why. The universe is random and underwhelming and every day a few unlucky people will draw a card that ends their game, completely by chance.

And then Miguel came along and he assigned the importance to that tragedy that the spiderverse, and all of us, felt like it deserved.

Miguel told them that their suffering wasn’t random. He told them it wasn’t just another case of wrong place, wrong time. He told them there was a purpose to their suffering. All the pain they endured, it had served to make them better, stronger, more resilient. Finally, there was a reason for it to have happened.

Miguel told them they weren’t alone. He reassured them that this horrible Thing that seemed to happen to all of them was cosmically indomitable, universally inevitable, and entirely inescapable— it was Canon. It was the price of power, it was the universe’s exchange. But now, in that tragedy, they would never be alone in their grief again, and that made all the difference.

When Miguel gave them a reason for their hurt, it became a rallying point among the spiderverse. Not only could they alleviate the guilt and the grief their loss has crippled them with, but they had something more tangible to blame it on— The Canon.

The Canon Miguel introduced to them didn’t have feelings, it didn’t feel anger or resentment or spite. It didn’t hurt them for no reason— it was simply the vehicle navigating them through to the landmarks of their lives. And there was comfort in believing that these tragedies were ordained by some unfathomable, all-knowing narrative. And so the spiderverse seemingly collectively decided it was easier to believe in the Canon than it was to believe in an unpredictable universe, until…

Miles.

Miguel sees his own perceived “flaws” in Miles.

Miles wasn’t supposed to become spider-man in his universe.

Miles has an atypical spider-man origin story.

Miles’ “canon” Spider-Man is dead.

For all intents and purposes, he and Miles are likely the most closely related spider-people to one another, but a key difference between them is Miles… doesn’t care. Sure, Miles is lonely in his own universe; and sure, Miles is overwhelmed by the expectations heaped onto him social and familial; and sure, Miles doesn’t even know he’s an accident. But he’s happy. He’s a happy kid and he was close friends with other spider-people who love and accept him, trained and mentored him. That’s not something Miguel had, and he resents of Miles for it.

We still don’t know for certain if there were other reasons Miguel chose to isolate Miles, but from what we can gather in Part One, it seems like Miguel only had the “original anomaly” excuse. Which he used to prevent Miles from interacting with other spider-people, and other spider-people with him. His reasoning doesn’t really add up though. In theory, the “damage” to the multiverse “caused” by Miles was concluded at the end of the first movie. Outside being an anomaly, Miles isn’t causing any harm to the multiverse by just existing in it (that we know of currently). So why restrict his access to other spider-people? It certainly wasn’t because Miles hasn’t experienced a crucial story beat (Dead Police Captain), because as we saw in the movie, Pav hadn’t experienced his either. Yet, Pav was allowed to join the spiderverse. From this perspective, there was no actual reason to exclude Miles from the spiderverse when he could have helped the cause.

Instead, for what appears to be no other reason than jealousy (or fear) that Miles was (and would be) so well liked by other spider-people, Miguel isolated him in his own universe for a year and four months, barring him from a society he had every right to join, and forbidding any other spider-person from even visiting Miles.

I think that’s what it comes down to with Miguel, really. Jealousy that Miles is an anomaly like himself, but unlike Miguel, people don’t question Miles’ Spider-Man Authenticity ™. They don’t make a joke of his shortcomings. They don’t “other” him. They like Miles. No one likes Miguel.

And on top of it all, probably the most infuriating (and frightening) part to Miguel is that Miles isn’t ashamed. He isn’t ashamed of being an accident; he isn’t pouring over his Spider-Man’s history trying to meet made-up expectations; he didn’t even parody the spider-people who were right in front of him when he was just coming into his own. Miles decided at 14 years old that he wasn’t, and couldn’t, be a Peter Parker copy. He accepted himself as his own, unique Spider-Man, and in breaking that mold and allowing himself to take a leap of faith, he became something incredible.

I think that scares Miguel, not only because his entire organization is founded in the belief that all spider-persons must experience specific events, and not because if Miles refuses to follow his story beats then the entire multiverse will unravel, but because if Miles is right and the multiverse can be as diverse and varied as it wants to be, then Miguel has hated himself for so long for no reason.

And I think that fear and jealousy and resentment all comes to head on…

The Tram.

Miguel’s meltdown during the tram scene felt like it came almost out of nowhere. The abuse he hurled at Miles just didn't correlate with what could reasonably be expected of an annoying chase around the city— and it was completely unnecessary. By the time it happened, Miguel had already subdued Miles. He was pinning him to the tram, he had already caught him. There was no reason to be so viscous at that point.

Except Miles had just moments ago done what everyone else had been doing to Miguel this whole time. Miles had “othered” him.

“You got claws? Dude, are you sure you’re a Spider-Man?”

The skepticism must have felt different coming from Miles, because Miles was supposed to be like Miguel. They were both mistakes, they were both the product of a dead Spider-Man, they were both supposed to be outcasts, but instead, here was Miles acting like all the others. Treating Miguel as different and lesser, and I think that was the final straw for Miguel.

I wouldn’t say Miguel had kept his cool up until that point, but he certainly hadn’t set out to hurt Miles— at least emotionally. In fact, he had previously just been trying to ease Miles into his Canon. Miguel had been trying to console him in the same way he had consoled hundreds of other spider-people before Miles.

But then Miles made a hurtful joke because spider-people make hurtful jokes (a theme, maybe, since hurtful jokes had been what provoked the Spot into a rampage, too: “I’ll become strong enough to be your nemesis. Then you’ll take me seriously.”) and Miguel, who already saw so much of his own story in Miles, was enraged by his audacity— dragging Miles down (to him, to his level), pushing his way into Miles’s personal space (look at me, hear me, respect me), and forcing him to listen to just how “other” he was too (we’re anomalies, carry the shame of it like I do).

There’s really no excuse for it. Miguel was clearly in the wrong. No one should be told they were a mistake, or that they’re the reason someone else died— and especially no one should be made to believe that the value of their life was less than another’s.

It’s horrible what Miguel said to Miles. I do believe Miguel was venting his own self-loathing, but he leveled his abuse squarely at Miles and now Miles is forced to struggle through the aftermath, and there’s no excuse for that.

Conclusion?

I don’t think Miguel is a villain, I think he’s just a damaged man. That doesn’t absolve him of the shitty things he’s done, especially to Miles, but I do think it helps to explain them somewhat. Ironically, as much as he feels ostracized from spider society, I think he’s just like every other spider-person. He’s looking for friendships and acceptance and his happy ending, and above all, he doesn’t want to be an outcast. Much of that feeling probably comes from his unwillingness to accept himself as he is and pave his own way as Spider-man.

I hope in the next movie Miguel begins to consider the similarities he has with other spider-people rather than focusing on the differences, because while the Canon may not be real (or maybe it is, guess we’ll see in Part Two), the connections he made with others through loss and grief were. He helped the entire spiderverse find comfort in one another and because of him, they aren’t alone anymore.

#atsv #miguel o'hara #across the spiderverse #spiderverse #spiderman: across the spiderverse #atsv spoilers #miguel meta for the thirsty soul 😌#corrected this bc i said he didn’t make organic webs but i misremembered lol

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linnienin · 1 year

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💄A S T E R O I D ⁕ S I R E N E ⁕(1009)💄 through the signs and degrees

Disclaimer: Take what resonates. I'm not a professional astrologer, i just am an avid researcher and i use my personal experience when writing my posts (Also, pls, don't copy my work, i spend lot of time on it, thanks)

Hello beautiful souls!

I'm back with another post on a very requested asteroid 💜

A lot of you asked me about Asteroid Sirene and how it manifests in a birth chart, and initially i answered singularly, but the requests started to get out of hand a bit for me, so i decided to create a whole post on this asteroid in different signs/aspecting different planets

I have planned other posts on this asteroid but for now I..

Hope you enjoy it!

W H A T ⁕ I S ⁕ A ⁕ S I R E N ?

⁕ In Greek mythology, sirens are humanlike beings with alluring voices

Initially descripted as half human half birds then as "sea-girls with the body of a maiden, but have scaly fishes' tails"

⁕ Etymology of the name meaning: "binder, entangler" i.e. one who binds or entangles through magic song.

This could be connected to the famous scene of Odysseus being bound to the mast of his ship, in order to resist the sirens' song.

M Y ⁕ I N T E R P R E T A T I O N :

I want to make clear that this is just my view and thoughts on this asteroid and if you know a trusted source on its meaning please link it down below, i'd be very grateful 🙏

To me Asteroid Sirene (1009) has a similar energy to Lilith but it isn't as raw and destructive, it's indeed more controlled and patient. Lilith is warm blooded while Siren is cold blooded. In our birth charts it can shows where we can become manipulative, turn to our dark side and take what we want with strategy, seduction and mischeviousness.

It can also describe our seductive aura, or how we attract and magnetize others with charm (this can be both conscious or subconscious, depending on how in tune you are with yourself, and also can depend on which sign or house you have this asteroid in)

So, are you interested in knowing how you emanate this irresistible appeal?

Keep reading 💄

S I R E N E ⁕ T H R O U G H ⁕ T H E ⁕ S I G N S :

⁕ Aries/aspecting Mars/1°,13°,25°: Bold, assertive and fearless. Doesn't matter if the rest of their chart has quiet,cutie poofie placements, when asteroid Sirene gets activated these natives becomes confident queens/kings and knows how to defend themselves. They don't lose time to get what they want, they get straight to the point and they know they didn't come to play but to win. Their seductive charm lays in how confidently they carry themselves, people see these natives as natural leaders and warriors. They carry a powerful and intense aura you just can't ignore, the types that dare to do or say things that should't be done or said (but coming from them they sounds so cool gosh). Their facial espressions are intense and animated, and draws people in.

⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕

⁕ Taurus/aspecting Venus/2°,14°,26°: The walking sleeping beauty (lmao is she sleepwalking?). Jokes aside, here you can see how unaware these people are of their allure, and this is part of their charm too. They have such a calming and indifferent aura that makes everyone comfortable around them, and people get obsessed by this feeling of peace these natives exude that they can't have enough of. Usually they are the silent type of "Sirene", it's kind of a dormant feature in them. They are very sensual in their mannerism, and if they get to the point of being aware of how powerful they are well, it's the end of the game. They can seduce EVERYONE with their touch. The Queen Mida (oh yeah and they want that gold) 👀

⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕

⁕ Gemini/aspecting Mercury/3°,15°,27°: Everyone's fling. Such a flirty aura. They're very smart and intellectual, and everyone find them extremely interesting, so they automatically are drawn in because they want to know more (and some people will desperately show off to get their attention, it's insane). They can get quite some hidden envy from others because of how witty they can be. These people have a way with words, when they speak everyone else shut down to listen to them. I find having Sirene asteroid in Gemini is very similar to being a Siren/Mermaid how it's described in mythology, they are very cunning when they want to, know how to play games with other's minds, they are very good at putting masks on and turn the cards in their favours. (Also, the ability of sirens to change their body features reminds me a lot of Loki in Northern Mythology which happens to be associated with Mercury) They're the true puppet master and they know it. They have light and quick movements. One minute they're near you, the next one they disappeared from your view, and this is extremely fascinating to people. It's like they can't catch them even if they try so hard.

⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕

⁕ Cancer/aspecting Moon/4°,16°,28°: I think of these natives as the spy who pretend to play the damsel in distress, portrayed in old hollywood movies. Don't be fooled by their cute acting. They're actually quite good manipulators. People love how inviting they feel, so warm and nurturing, they have a healing aura to them. These natives makes other people feel like they need to protect them from the dangers of others. I think Sirene in Cancer can be naive at first, especially when inexperienced, but when they get their heart broken oh boy. If Gemini was the master at mind manipulation, Cancer is the master at emotional manipulation. Overall these natives can be pretty unaware of their behaviour, sometimes getting overwhelmed by their emotions, but they can also be one of the most destructive people ever when activating the Sirene energy(both to others and themselves) if they aren't in control of it.

⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕

⁕ Leo/aspecting Sun/5°,17°,29°: OOOOH those hip swings, you can recognize them instantly from just their catwalk, it's simply hypnotizing. These people take pride in their sensuality, and they know how to use it very well. You can't escape their attention if they have claimed you to be their prey. Another go getter like Aries, but not so in your face, because even if their focus is on what they want, they'd rather give ALL the signals until what they want comes to them. Very much like: i believe, i attract. Their charm is in the way they carry themselves, so wild and raw, a power of nature, these natives hair can play a huge part when when presenting themselves to the world. One of their game tecniques is the push-pull. They enjoy a good chasing, and it's also a way for them to test you if you're worthy of their time (yeah, they have big egos, so beware of that)

⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕

⁕ Virgo/aspecting Mercury/6°,18°: The unattainable one. Like seriously, people get obsessed over conquering the heart of this person just because of their nitpickiness and because they are unavailable 24/7. Others can get obsessed over fantasizing on these natives and creating stereotipes when they didn't even shared a conversation in the first place like...this is some powerful stuff. They naturally look so put together, when they wear basics it looks hot on them. Their seduction way is showing how skilled and talented they are, they can literally do anything when they activate the Sirene energy, they get obsessed over a thing and practice until they have mastered it (coff coff, hello... low self esteem and need of appreciation from others 👀). However, once they get some potential suitors they lowkey refuse them like they don't need them anymore, lmao, this is what drives them craaaaazy, "you did all that stuff for mee and now you're walking away? " 👁👄👁 Lemme get some morreee.

⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕

⁕ Libra/aspecting Venus/7°,19°: The too good to be true one. They put sooo much thought and intention and effort to present themselves that everyone can't help but look at them all the time. On top of this magnificent presentation add also a flirtatious and extroverted personality that pleases literally everyone around them and BOOM, you can't excape the trap of falling for them. They have a gracious and light aura, great posture and poise, literally princesses/princes. They truly feel like royalty, they also have this natural rich people vibe if you know what i mean. The best at getting what they want in social settings, can have a very innocent vibe that people love. People pleasing is their tecnique to get what they're after. They are one of the most seductive signs in this asteroid, but they're kinda unaware of it. I mean, sure, they know they're pretty but they don't know how many hearts they rob. Even strangers gets captivated by their charming presence, most likely to have suitors telling them "it was love at first sight".

⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕

⁕ Scorpio/aspecting Pluto/8°,20°: Heavy aura, attracts anything without even trying. They know how to make an entrance (Leos too, but Scorpios are much more subtle, and still, they get so much attention). People automatically throws themselves at these natives, all it takes is a glance and a little smirk and they living magnets. These people holds the throphy for being the MOST seductive of all the Sirene asteroid's signs . There's just something so intoxicating about them, you can't not get obsessed with them. They are the ones that has to be particularly careful of their aura because they are in this energy all the time and they attract a lot of stalkers, obsessive people, so these are (and should be) the natives that should have firm and clear boundaries. They'll find themselves stepping down at times just to calm this powerful magnetizing field around them, especially if they don't like the spotlight, but if the rest of the chart has placements that like to be the center of attention, this is surely a bombshell placement (watch out for the immense envy/jealousy from others)

⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕

⁕ Sagittarius/aspecting Jupiter/9°,21°: Their spontaneity is contagious. They're hot and cool, and know how to talk to people. Give them a night and they will befriend literally everyone at the party, and will reap so many opportunities out of nowhere. A favourite of the masses. Sometimes they can be a little loud and can get envy/jealousy from others, probably because of a rigid opinion they have, but they surely know how to play with it, telling jokes and conquering again the trust of those that didn't like them. They have such a careless and free spirit that they literally live day by day, without worrying much about the future, and people find this extremey hot. This placement is one of the most underrated one in terms of seduction, honestly when researching for this asteroid i found many siren-like women in our history that had/have Sirene in this sign, and i think it makes sense thinking about it, because Sirens are in their natural habitat out in the wild, so there's a sense of familiarity between the native and the raw energy of Sirens.

⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕

⁕ Capricorn/aspecting Saturn/10°,22°: The strategic and cold diva. People cannot enter their inner world and their vulnerabilities and this drives them mad and obsessed over knowing what's behind the mask. Can embrace their seductive charm later in life (probably from their 30s on). I have noticed these natives can have strong facial features that are difficult to forget. Attracts wealthy suitors, or will use their seduction to attract opportunity to get into power positions. They have an authoritative and mature aura, slow but decisive movements, can be intimidating to others, big D energy. Demanding of others and themselves. Calculating every move they make, good at getting the favour of those in charge. Could find themselves attracted to older/more mature people or they could attract them a lot. Intense, can be similar to Scorpio Sirene, but people are much more wary when approaching them (this is why usually older people are attracted to these natives, because they give off the vibe of knowing what they want)

⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕

⁕ Aquarius/aspecting Uranus/11°,23°: The one that to seduce just have to be authentic and nonchalant. Weird in a cool way, they catch people's attentions without even knowing, but just doing their thing. Their independence and uniqueness are their strong seduction charms. They're pretty unaware of their appeal because they don't even care about seduction in the first place, they have other things that go onto their mind. Their authenticity and disinterest may not attract many suitors, but the ones that get attracted by them are genuine and shares similarities to them, so they might find even THE ONE with this non-method-method. If they're interested in seducing, they might use very peculiar and unconventional ways to do so.

⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕⁓⁕

⁕ Pisces/aspecting Neptune/12°,24°: The innocent mysterious person everyone is secretly obsessed with. People will find themselves having wild fantasies on this person and not even knowing why. The way they walk and talk is smooth and divine, like they have a light surrounding themselves. Their eyes always seem to wonder around, like they're never in the present moment, and this fascinates people a lot. If they make eye contact when talking to you or listening to you, they will hypotize you 100%, even if they're not really listening or are having other thoughts. There's just something so enchanting and special about their eyes, also, often these people will have unique eyes or stunning shapes/colours (ex. Liz Taylor has Sirene in Pisces and she is known for having one of the rarest world's eye colour, purple). The least aware of their Sirene charm of all the signs.

M o r e ⁕ o b s e r v a t i o n s:

Water sirene: innocent and wandering eyes

smooth and relaxing voices

Fire sirene: fierce and sexy eyes

clear and powerful voices

Air sirene: playful and flirty eyes

high pitched, unique and chameleon voices (good at changing their tone depending on the situation)

Earth sirene: sweet and calm eyes

deep and warm voices

And you've reached the end of this post! 💄

I hope you enjoyed it, i kinda wanted to include the houses too, but i think it'd been way too long to digest, so stay tuned for another post on Sirene in the houses

Edit: I published Sirene in the houses too! Click below to read the post (i also included Celebs examples)✨

I wish you all a wonderful day ahead! ✨

Yours,

Linnie

#astro observations #astro notes #asteroid sirene #sirene asteroid #asteroid sirene through the signs

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frail-and-freakish · 1 year

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today, april 11th, is the anniversary of Mel Baggs' death. Mel Baggs was one of the early founders of the neurodiversity movement and believed that no one was too disabled for human rights, something that modern nd movements fail to understand to this day. sie was so instrumental to my understanding of literally everything. sie died from medical ableism and neglect during the beginning of the pandemic. we would be nowhere fucking near where we are now without hir. i've decided to make a masterlist of some of my favorite posts of hirs, organized into different categories.

(some of these are listed in more than one category because they overlap so much)

here are some of the "essentials" (what you might have already read by hir/should read first):

hir memorial site hosted by ASAN:

In My Language

the oak manifesto

There is ableism at the heart of your oppression, no matter what your oppression might be

Getting The Truth Out (many pages, parody of bad autism awareness campaign called "getting the word out")

the meaning of self-advocacy

what makes institutions bad

aspie supremacy can kill

here are some of hir beautiful writings on perceiving/communicating with hir environment as an autistic person, and on communication in general:

up in the clouds and down in the valley: my richness and yours

distance underthought

the naked mechanisms of echolalia

empty mirrors and redwoods

the fireworks are interesting

hir tumblr tag #sensing (@withasmoothroundstone)

on personhood and who has the authority to take it away:

being an unperson

what it means to be real

empty mirrors and redwoods

on institutions and the I/DD service system:

caregiver abuse takes many forms

"i don't know that person's program"

what my home means to me

dd service system tag

god help the critic of the dawn: glamour and its fallout

what makes institutions bad

post on the JRC

outposts in our heads

on online social justice communities/their inaccessibility:

Your politics have a problem when they contradict the real-life experiences of the people they're supposed to be about.

politics, ethics and mental widgets

hir tumblr tags #outside the wall and #little packages (@withasmoothroundstone)

misc:

The Bones My Family Gave Me

Please violate only one stereotype at a time

My sort of people, just as real as theirs.

Reviving the concept of cousins

gender tag

this is hir poems and creative works:

this is hir writing on autistics.org:

may hir memory be a blessing/revolution.

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fantasy-frog · 11 months

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To anybody who might see this, July in the states is disability pride month. As someone who’s past decade plus has been a journey towards understanding, accepting, and advocating for my psychological and physical disabilities and my whole life, aiding disabled family members, I want make it known that: the way many of us feel you can help us the most, is not by “pretending” we’re abled, like we’re just like everyone else, because we’re *not*

When disabilities are ignored, or treated as just “uniquely abled”, it falls on the disabled to maintain abled people’s comfort; to make our disabilities small, to not advocate for equity and the bettering of our lives in a supposedly equal society.

Equality is not equity.

Differences must be acknowledged, understood, and worked around *by abled people* for any true progress to be made.

Most people think this is government related. I know abled people as individuals can’t change that there’s little to no wheel chair access in their bustling city, that the sidewalks are cracked and filled with lips. An abled person can’t make public schools treat autistic kids with humanity, or children with memory-relates disabilities able to always have notes for their exams. They can’t make the employers stop firing us, or the government give us our right to marriage when living under SSI.

What I’m asking for is Empathy. True empathy. The kind that informs your beliefs, and actions. Talk to disabled people. Get to know them. I promise you, you have a disabled person in your family or social circle. Really be inquisitive about their experiences, struggles, and frustrations.

Acknowledge your privilege. Your ease of access to the world. Really sit in it. Absorb it. Your empathy will only grow. And when enough abled people do even just this, the world for us becomes less hostile. It becomes more livable. We become no longer burdens, but cherished by our communities, our families and friends. And trust me, even though the world is not built for me, and I have to consistently jump through 10,000 hoops to achieve even the smallest of victories for an abled person, and my body hurts and breaks down, so I get in a chair on wheels, or get out my cane, or put on my noise cancelling headphones, and just come across obstacle after obstacle -

The majority of the pain comes from the stares. The glances. The questioning. The points when you see the patience leave the eyes of the one who you thought loved you unconditionally, and you remember your place in our collective culture. And fuck man. You recall how workable all the bureaucracy and hurdles felt, how manageable it was to push forward (it’s what you always do) … before you were reminded of where you sit on the totem poll, and how conditional worth is in our society.

Disabled people are worthy. We are valuable. But we need you to believe it, or nothing will ever change.

#disability #please reblog #disability pride month #important #disabled #disabilties #disability rights #advocacy #autism #ADHD #wheel chair friendly #wheel chair users #invisible disability #cane user #mental illness #chronic illness #disability awareness #disability awareness month

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abyssruler · 2 years

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breaking up, breaking down

pairing/s: albedo, childe, diluc, kazuha, scaramouche, xiao, venti, zhongli x gn!reader

summary: if there’s anything you can expect to be consistent in life, it’s that everything has an end. or — genshin men and how they are after you break up with them.

note: angsty in everyone’s part, but it got too lighthearted in childe’s bc i simply cannot take that ginger seriously (affectionate)

ALBEDO

There aren’t any notable changes to his routine. He’d still go about his day, working on his experiments and scribbling down notes, occasionally taking a break to sketch a pretty flower he saw or the wing pattern of a passing butterfly.

And then he finds himself drawing the outline of an eye, then a nose, then lips. Until he suddenly stops in the middle of drawing a strand of your hair blowing in the wind, your face frozen in a smile staring back at him through the canvas of his sketchbook.

It hits him then, the realization, the heart-wrenching clarity of what happened that leaves him sitting in his chair, staring at your face in paper and wondering where he went wrong.

He tries to distract himself by continuing his research, but his mind has a hard time focusing on what needs to be done. It’s agonizing, he doesn’t think he’s felt this way before, never even thought he’d ever feel such pain. In a way, he’s glad his master isn’t here to make a study of what emotional pain means to an artificial human like him.

He sees you two weeks after you broke up with him, laughing as you tried to haggle with a merchant for their wares, unaware of the charm you exude that draws people in like moths to a flame. But then your gaze moves, searching through the crowd—and Albedo should really leave now, avoid barging into your life because there simply isn’t a place for him there anymore—but he does none of that.

Your eyes meet. He doesn’t think he was imagining it when he saw yours dim for the briefest moment. (His heart hurts. Why are you looking at him like that?)

You make your way through the busy street to reach him. He tells himself he should leave, but for the first time in his life, he does what contradicts his logic and stays.

“You look good,” you tell him, something melancholic in the tone of your voice. Oh, if only you knew.

“You as well.” He wants to say more, wants to say how radiant you looked under the sun, the light hitting you in just the right way that has him itching to grab a pencil and immortalize the image in paper—but he holds his tongue. “I need to go.”

Your face falls. He wishes he wasn’t the cause of it. “Ah, right. You must be busy, as usual.” There isn’t a hint of bitterness to your voice, just resignation.

He leaves after bidding you goodbye, feeling the heat of your gaze at his back as he walked away.

CHILDE

He wants you and he will do everything in his power to have you back.

In the early days after you broke up, you won’t hear a word from him. Not a peep. You only hear passing news that dead monsters and hilichurl camps near the vicinity of your home have been utterly eradicated. Passing travelers claim how the areas were ‘strangely flooded’ even though it hasn’t rained in weeks.

Then come the gifts. From flowers to clothes to accessories to different delicacies that are all worth more than your entire life’s paycheck. And when that doesn’t work, Childe sets to work on his recruits.

You suddenly find yourself constantly being approached by a startling amount of Fatui recruits ranging from normal lackies to gunners to cicin mages, and even that one memorable time when a mirror maiden approached you in the middle of buying groceries and proceeded to buy everything in the store, saying all of it was for you.

The Fatui recruits had one thing in common: they all had nothing but praises to say for the Eleventh Fatui Harbinger.

“Master Childe defeated all the recruits in under ten seconds!” “Have you heard how Lord Harbinger killed twenty geovishaps and came out without a single scratch?” “I saw him buying that exact same shirt yesterday, it cost one million mora! He’s so rich!” “Lord Tartaglia has been so down lately. He keeps saying how much he misses his beloved.”

“Did you know? Even Lady Signora wept after she heard that you and Master Childe broke up.” That one, you’re certain never actually happened, and you made sure to tell that with an unimpressed look to the pyro agent who told you. As if Signora would ever cry, she’d probably throw a party for you for finally leaving Childe.

In the end, after cycling through so many recruits, he had no choice but to come to you directly.

…Which is how you woke up at six in the morning to the ground shaking and the sound of an eerily familiar laugh right outside your house.

You open your window to find Childe fighting a lawachurl right in front of your house, a ring of Fatuus surrounding and cheering him on. His smile brightens to an almost comical degree once he sees you and your bedhead squinting out from a window.

“You look so stunning today, beloved!” He steps back from an earth-shattering punch by the lawachurl. “I’ve brought you the biggest lawachurl I could find so I can show you how worthy I am of you!”

He then proceeds to—and you have to blink a few times to see if you’re not hallucinating—fist fight the lawachurl. And he’s actually winning. No vision, no weapon. Just his bare fists.

When the commotion wakes up your entire neighborhood, you have to go down there and yell at him to stop or take this fight somewhere that isn’t right in front of your house! He complies with a grin and a promise saying he’ll meet you later.

There’s something fond curling in your chest that you try and fail to smother. With an exasperated tone, you tell him that yes, you’ll find time in your busy schedule to meet him. He lights up like you just agreed to marry him and yells out rapid orders in Snezhnayan to his recruits.

“I’ll see you later!” He blows a kiss in your direction that you ignore. You turn away and walk back into your house, trying (and failing) to fight the growing smile on your face.

DILUC

It’s not evident to anyone who doesn’t know him well, but Diluc takes it close to heart and buries it among countless other regrets that have accumulated in his life. The turbulent feelings that threaten to overcome his mind at any hour of the day manifests itself in him becoming more withdrawn.

He’s gloomy, more brooding than usual, and the reason becomes apparent once the other patrons notice the lack of a certain person who usually sits by the bar during his shifts. Your usual laugh accompanied by teasing grins and playful swats at his long hair when you think no one is looking are nowhere to be seen.

One particularly drunk person had come up to him as he was wiping down the counters and asked why you weren’t there. Anyone who had been there to see the sight would tell you that he didn’t say anything, hadn’t been able to say anything. He just… stood there, hands frozen mid-motion and eyes drawn somewhere, lost in thought.

He slips up sometimes. Asks the maids to prepare a dinner for two only to stop in the middle of talking as he realizes what he just said. At breakfast, he pauses in the middle of reading his daily papers to turn his head to the right, a question on the tip of his tongue that dies when he sees the empty spot you usually occupied. It’s the pitying gazes that follow when he slips up that he hates the most.

He makes your favorite drink sometimes, on the days when he’s on shift and feeling particularly self-destructive. It stays hidden under the bar counter, hoping against hope that you’ll walk through the door and greet him with an upbeat ‘good evening!’ that makes his day all the more better. You never do.

It’s on a bright, sunny morning when he’s out overseeing the delivery of wine to the tavern that he sees you again. His heart soars for all but a second before it comes crashing down, because Diluc Ragnvindr does not deserve nice things.

You’re holding the hand of some nondescript man, grinning and laughing and emitting such a great sense of contentment that he can almost feel it from where he’s standing meters away from you.

You’re happy. It’s been months and he’s still wallowing in old hurts. You’re happy.

Did you ever smile like that when you were with him? He likes to think so, but the realistic, pessimistic thought is that you’re probably better off not being with him. You’re happy. Happier now than you were when you were with him.

Everything he’s ever loved has been hurt directly and indirectly by his hands. He turns away from the sight of you and pretends to be preoccupied with his task. Maybe it’s for the best that you left before it could happen.

KAZUHA

He tries not to take it to heart. He understands why you left, knows it before you even made the decision to leave. And in the aftermath, much like a leaf adrift in the wind, he roams about aimlessly, lost in thought.

Grief is not an emotion he’s unfamiliar with. As he sits by the cliffs overlooking the endless ocean, grief burrows its way to his chest like an old, unwelcome friend. He doesn’t fight it. He’s learned the hard way that fighting it is a losing battle, like picking at a scab, hoping that doing so will make it heal faster, yet only succeeding in worsening the wound.

Kazuha isn’t a stranger to loneliness, of letting the wind kiss his tears away as they dried on his cheeks. He is, however, unfamiliar with this new kind of ache in his chest. And only after much rumination does he conclude what it might be.

The loss of his family, the loss of his heritage, the loss of his friend, and now, the loss of his lover. A master of loss, he could almost call himself. His old friend would certainly find such a title amusing.

He finds himself writing letters to you, even with the knowledge that he’ll never be able to send them to you. It’s the thought that comforts him, the pretense that he still has someone to tell of his travels, someone to simply come home to, even when he knows he isn’t welcome anymore.

In his weakest moment, when he had too much to drink and too little self-restraint, he sends one of the letters to you. He’s forgotten whether it’s the one where he laments the loss of your presence, the one where he begs you to have him back, or the one where only three words are written, a small blot in the ink where a stray tear had fallen.

He waits, and waits, and waits a little more, staying for a whole month in the small village he’d addressed the letter from for the small, improbable event that you may have written back. He learns later on that the letter never made it to your hands. The ship it had been on had lost all its cargo to the sea, including his letter. When he heard the news, he hadn’t known whether to be relieved or lament on what could have been.

It isn’t unpleasant to see you again. Kazuha has had time to let go of his hurt, but still, the image of your nostalgia-inducing eyes leave in him a sense of loss he thought he had already settled. Your mirage smiles, “Kazuha.” Had he been a weaker man, he would have folded and swept you up in his arms.

Nobody asks why his eyes have a slight sheen to it after he forces himself to walk away from you. He stands atop the beach and lets the waves wash over his bare feet, closing his eyes and imagining what could have been had he let himself succumb to the desire of holding you one last time, even if you were merely a mirage from the past.

Truly, the golden apple archipelago is a place where dreams are made into reality.

SCARAMOUCHE

He tries to act above it all, feigning indifference as if the entire thing is just a mild inconvenience to him.

Oh, you’re leaving him? That’s fine, he doesn’t care. Do you know how many people would kill to share his bed? You were tolerable, a way to pass time. Don’t think you were anything special. You, a normal person? Don’t make him laugh. You were nothing more than a pet he kept because you entertained him. It’s good that you’re leaving, actually. It saves him the trouble of having to get rid of you.

He’s… not very kind about it all. Defensive and on guard, hackles raising with every word that comes out of his mouth. He hates every second of it, but he can’t stop because stopping is to admit defeat, it means having to acknowledge that you meant something to him after hundreds of years of loneliness. He let you in his carefully guarded walls, and now—now you’re leaving him? Abandoning him after he bared himself open to you?

You are just like her.

Scaramouche stops before he can say those last words. The red that had been threatening to overcome his vision slowly recedes, leaving a numbing sort of clarity that washes over him like the rising tides of Inazuma’s beaches. His mouth feels dry, throat closing up.

There are tears streaming down your face.

He wishes you’d do something. Hit him, yell at him, curse his name. Anything. Just… anything but this silence that hangs heavy in the air, cloying in it’s thickness and threatening to drown him with words that can never be taken back.

He doesn’t apologize, won’t ever apologize. He is a god, and not even you would make him say those damnable words. He sees the way your eyes dim in understanding as you realize the same thing, and that, perhaps, is why you turn your back to him and walk away.

He wishes he could say that he called out for you, that he grabbed your arm and made you stay, that he just… held you. Instead, he watches you leave him, face blank and a phantom ache resonating in his hollow chest. The silence after you leave feels like the night before his creator abandoned him.

He tells himself it’s fine, that you’ll come back. You always do. This is just one of many arguments that always get resolved after a day or so—except. Except, he doesn’t let himself think of any other possibility. You’ll come back. (You have to.)

The months following your absence is a blur, spikes of irritation mixed with hateful words and barbed insults directed towards anyone who so much as breathed the wrong way. His subordinates are half-contemplating desertion just to escape his wrath. They all wonder where you’ve gone. You’re usually the one who soothes the Balladeer when he’s in one of his moods, like the godsend that you are. Though none of them are brave enough to mention your name after what he did to the foolish recruit who asked of your whereabouts.

Years pass. You never did come back.

He still gets the occasional reports about you and your general wellbeing, still sends out his best soldiers to clear out any monsters who’ve settled near your home. You never find anyone else after him. It brings a strange sense of relief in him when his monthly reports on you end up without a hint of a new lover.

He tries to forget you, but even with a new heart and the ascendance to godhood, there is still a lingering sense of loss and past regrets.

XIAO

He lets you go without argument. He’s used to people leaving him, but this is… different.

The thought of you there, physically within reach yet unable to to cross the distance that separates you from him. It’s a different kind of agony from the ones that have afflicted him for millennia.

He sometimes finds himself standing by the balcony of Wangshu Inn, eyes roaming over the vast landscape of Dihua Marsh, looking for the slightest hint of your silhouette. The sound of footsteps coming up the stairs always attracts his attention, anticipating your signature greeting and the smell of whatever mortal sustenance you’ve deigned to make for him to, as you once put it, let him experience the delicacies that this world has to offer.

You can’t call yourself ‘having lived a long life’ if you haven’t tried all the tasty food, Xiao!

…He misses you, though he will never admit it, perhaps not even to Rex Lapis himself.

His time—which once consisted of you, killing monsters, you again, roaming the lands for the remains of old gods, tasting whatever you cooked for him, and accompanying you so you can get home safely—is now comprised of nothing but endless slaughter. He tells himself it’s not a distraction, but it’s a thinly veiled excuse, weak even to his own ears. How low he has fallen to create such feeble excuses to justify the hurt that spreads from his chest to the tips of his fingers.

He used to pick up small things and trinkets in his time scouring the land for evil. A shiny pebble that reminded him of your eyes, a particularly large sweetflower that you would gape comically at once he showed you, qingxin flowers he plucked from the highest mountains just so he can see the way your face lights up in a smile. He still does all these things, only now, the objects are stored in a realm made in the likeness of your home, placing each one in a shelf or table that he thinks you would have arranged them in.

One time, he panics when he sees the flowers start to wilt, and in the heat of the moment, he placed adeptal power in them to ensure they will never die. To this day, he isn’t sure why he did so, only that he imagined at the time how upset you would be that they died in his care, even though he knows how unlikely it is that you will ever discover his hobby of collecting flowers and storing them in his realm.

Perhaps he hopes you’ll come back to him, so that when you do, he can see the way your eyes brighten up once he shows you everything he got for you while you were away.

It’s unlikely, he knows, but it’s nice to dream of it. He thinks his siblings would be proud to see him finally have a little hope for something.

VENTI

He spends the rest of the week in the tavern drinking as much as he can. For once, Diluc doesn’t try to reproach him for drinking what he can’t pay for.

He doesn’t exactly get drunk—can’t get drunk, more like. To a god like him, drinking a hundred barrels of Mondstadt’s finest wines won’t even be enough to get him tipsy. He is the god of freedom (and wine, he’d like to add), he can outdrink every single one of the archons and still have enough semblance to go to war. And yet…

You appear on the seventh day like a salvation, face contorted in worry when you see him slumped on the counter and one inch away from falling off the stool. It isn’t difficult to act the part of a drunken bard, pretending to sway on his feet and donning a fake intoxicated grin as he asked Charles for another glass.

The wind tells him of your arrival, but he ignores it just as he ignores the way his heart soars when the wind brings him the barest hint of your scent. He wishes you didn’t come here. He wishes he didn’t act so drunkenly. He wishes you were more heartless and ignored whoever must have tattled on him drinking Angel’s Share into bankruptcy.

You call his name. He pretends he’s asleep just so he doesn’t have to face his problems. Ha. How ironic. Will he wake up to Mondstadt destroyed by the remains of Khaenri’ah this time? He nearly did once.

He hears you sigh before he feels you bring his arm across your shoulders. You help him get off the stool, an arm around his waist to help keep him steady. The weight of Diluc’s disapproving gaze for deceiving you about his drunkenness is heavy, but he tells himself it’s alright. He just… wants to be selfish for once. If he has to act drunk to feel your arms around him again, he’ll suffer this humiliation as many times as he can.

“Venti,” you start as you walk him in the direction of your home. “I was worried, you know. Aether told me how much you’d been drinking since…” You trail off. He feels you shaking your head before continuing, “Just… don’t be so reckless with your health.” You laugh, mildly sardonic that’s directed more towards yourself than him. “Ah, what am I saying… you won’t even have any recollection of this tomorrow anyway.”

He wants to say something, but saying something means breaking this moment between you, it means revealing that he doesn’t actually need your help because once he starts speaking, the dam will break and everything will come spilling out. I’m sorry, I miss you, I love you.

The front door to your house opens. He’s gently placed down your couch, a blanket thrown over him as you thoughtfully take his shoes off for him. He feels you linger by his side, can practically hear the conflict in you.

He’s unprepared for the feeling of your warm breath on his skin, your lips hovering over his face before placing a chaste kiss on his forehead. “Goodnight, Venti.”

He leaves before the sun rises.

ZHONGLI

He only smiles, small and understanding with a hint of sorrow at the corner of his eyes.

He tells you he’ll respect your decision, but should you change your mind, he will always be here. You say it’s doubtful, he would’ve probably found someone else by then. Zhongli doesn’t correct you, only leans in and places his lips on the top of your head, as gentle as he’s always been with you, somehow managing to convey with a single gesture how high he holds you in regard.

And for the barest, infinitesimal moment, you half-contemplate the idea of staying. It’s a wishful thought. You end up leaving before you can change your mind.

He’s still as grounded as ever, but there’s a fragility to it, a certain brittleness that threatens to crumble from within him. He is the Lord of Geo, and yet he is so easily undone by you. The pain is temporary, he knows from past losses, but it doesn’t lessen the ache that resonates in his chest.

For the first time in his long life, he curses his golden memory that makes him incapable of forgetting, though that which he curses is also something he is grateful for. He can’t bear having to suffer losing the memories of your time together.

Your relationship is amiable, like that of old, awkward friends you had fallen out of touch with rather than that of old lovers. It’s what you wanted after all, this sense of normalcy. He has become such a vital part of your daily life that you simply couldn’t cut him off of your life entirely.

He doesn’t know which is worse; having to act as a mere friend when he wants nothing more than to wrap you in his arms and never let go, or to have no contact with you at all.

Morax is not one to ask for things, not one to plead his case to anyone. He was a selfish and proud god, a necessity that was shaped from him by the war. To love a mortal enough to leave his throne and fake his death would have been unthinkable. But that is why he is no longer Morax. He is Zhongli.

And Zhongli? He wants you. Desperately. Enough that he is willing to beg should you ask it of him.

His deceased enemies would laugh in mockery at what has become of the fearsome Morax. How low he has fallen—but it is a burden he is willing to bear. He will suffer as many humiliations as it takes to have you back.

The only issue is that you don’t want him anymore. But he is a man who finds gold where others would see stone. If he has to build his way up from friendship all over again, then it is a task he will do so gladly. As many times as it takes for you to want him back.

#genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #albedo x reader #albedo kreideprinz x reader #childe x reader #tartaglia x reader #ajax x reader #diluc x reader #diluc ragnvindr x reader #kazuha x reader #kaedehara kazuha x reader #scaramouche x reader #kunikuzushi x reader #xiao x reader #venti x reader #zhongli x reader #gn reader

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simplyreveries · 3 months

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Hello, can I request platonic diasomnia dorm with a first year fae m!reader (maybe he is Sebek's roommate and classmate)

but the reader got adopted by a human couple when he was a baby and grew up at other places, so he didn't know much about Briar Valley's history and fae's customs.

so do you think they just kinda welcome reader as new family member and teaching him about fae's things?

I don't know if i request too much and English isn't my first language. feel free to ignore this request if it's too much trouble. Thank you!"

how sweet<3

malleus draconia

he thinks its entertaining to see just how new you are and so unaware of the customs of fae culture, being in a dorm where many people may be of decent or even just from his kingdom its particularly interesting to watch as you grow so confused and bewildered at times.

often, he will advise you and tell you sometimes about how certain things work if you're curious, its usually if you ask. but if he notices you seeming still a lot like a fish out of water in a particular situation he'll chuckle softly and nudge you, telling you what something means to give you a better understanding when around other faes (especially lilia since he knows that man is confusing at times.)

in return you sort of tell him about human things and human culture that you've grown accustomed to- he is trying to understand and learn more about how exactly things work with humans so you're there to equally help him out when he seems a bit, befuddled haha.

lilia vanrouge

lilia thinks it's cute, but he used to meet all kinds of people with different backgrounds and family's so, you being a fae, but not really understanding anything of fae culture isn't all that surprising to him. he's over 600 years older than his human son, everyone is a little different, he'll muse and remind you.

sometimes he may mess with you a little for the fun of it by greatly exaggerating myths and stories or telling you what something means when it means the opposite. it's all light-hearted and playfully, don't worry, he will (eventually) tell you the truth! but seriously, he does have so much to share to you.

he does seem quite protective though, he doesn't seem to take it kindly if other troublesome students, especially those within his own dorm are being demeaning because of it. his presence alone with a small smile is enough to have the students back off from any kind of rude remarks.

silver

it's kind of the opposite for the both of you, he was a human raised by fae's but you were a fae raised by humans. he finds himself relating and understanding you a lot, when it comes to confusion between two cultures and species raised by. you two teach each other things quite often to help each other out.

definitely a good brother-like figure to you, he is calm and understanding. a good person to talk to if you're feeling out of place or confused. he gives a soft smile of reassurance, that'll easily help any sort of nerves.

asks lilia about the idea of even bringing you over to briar valley-- he knows lilia will be overjoyed at the idea and more than willing to show you the kingdom during one of your school breaks. he thinks you'll find yourself adjusting well during that time when you actually get to experience it.

sebek zigvolt

if im being honest... being sebek and when he hadn't warmed up to you- he didn't understand fully that you really couldn't have known a lot about fae culture and kind of looked at you in shock that you couldn't possibly know anything about them in a "how could you...?!" you're a fae, you must know!!

he mistakenly referred to you as "human" before but when he got a better look at your features you definitely renderred him a bit dumbfounded.

sebek has his own issues he deals with most likely because he is half fae, but over time as he does slightly start warming up to you he will tell you a lot of what he knows from his own experiences with great pride-! he does tend to go on and on getting pretty loud and excited... also seems to expect you to remember ^^;.

#twst x reader #twst #disney twst #twisted wonderland x reader #disney twisted wonderland #twst wonderland #twst imagines #twst headcanons #twisted wonderland #malleus draconia #lilia vanrouge #sebek zigvolt #silver twst

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thatbitchery · 4 months

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Just in case you needed a guide to human relationships & interactions and how to actually relate to people I have one for you, & it's made of 3 parts.

People are different from you. There's literally not one human being out there exactly like you, you could have an identical twin with the same parents same childhood &c and I promise you you're nothing alike. You've lived such different lives despite 75% similarity in DNA. Understanding that people form their opinions belief systems worldview & c on individual experiences based on their trauma, family dynamics, cultures, home value systems, literally climate etc and we are all different will save you from easily getting triggered when someone doesn't share your opinion bc you're not in their shoes you don't know why they have/that/ opinion so you have no grounds to go feral. People are different from you. Understand this & save yourself the embarrassment of pointless arguments & little virtue locks because you cannot fathom different opinions when it's literally the one single truth. Understand this sk you're not going to war with people on the reblogs for not having the same pov. Yours makes sense to you. Theirs makes sense to, them. Who are you to decide whose is the absolute truth?

You are not a God get off your little high horse you're a human being. People do not owe you worship or discipleship. They don't have to believe everything you say or buy into you. Well within their rights to look at what you say or do and say yeah that's a load of bullshit. You're not a God so you're not always right, remember this the next time you're about to lay your life on the ground over an opinion, you could be wrong. Nothing will hurt you more than that thewizardliz my way or no way mindset. Remember the things you used to defend with your life when you were like 10 that you're rn absolutely disgusted by? Leave space & never speak in absolutes & never degrade another's opinion to the ground, you could be wrong & it will be very very very embarrassing for you when you find out you were.

Everyone is right, all the time. There is no absolute in this universe. Unlearn debates they're mighty pointless, everyone is right every single time. Truth is very subjective so the girl that has been traumatized by M3n saying all m3n deserve d3ath is right, if you were her you'd say the same thing and the v3gan is right & the carnivore is right & the conservative is right & the liberal is right- because everyone is right all the time and I promise if you were in their shoes, you'd see it. You'd see it. Even when someone Says the dumbest stuff known to existence, from where they are standing, they're right. Debates are pointless. Extremely. You can not fathom the kind of life others have had, not even your siblings or children- what then gives you the confidence to decide what should be right to them? Know your place.

So human interactions work better when you understand these, they just do. Once you no longer feel the need to justify your pov because you know you're literally the only one with it it's just makes things, easier thats why the apostle Paul said to never argue with people about opinions, its useless & tempts them and you to sin. It makes you more understanding & empathetic & pleasant & sophisticated to be around, it's the winners draw. You unlearn the need to argue because you know they'll never see it like you and you'll never see it like them so you take the high road and find middle ground or nod along and go home or find a way to say I don't agree, but I can accommodate that you think like that, and watch how people completely flock to you. There's no power , at all, to 'my way or no way' find your own little planet & leave that thewizardliz mindset on YouTube. Human beings are social relational creatures, part of relationships is accommodation.

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bugsbenefit · 11 months

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[chanting] HORROR S5 HORROR S5 HORROR S5

no but the fact that there's still people not ready for s5 to be absolutely horrific is wild to me. not only is ST a horror show, it's also consistently increased it's horror factor

s1 has a lot of psychological horror with Will's fate being unknown and us not knowing what the monster is, what it can do, and how it works

then s2 goes into massive psychological horror set up with Will's experiences with the MF, and then jumps you out of left field by having the Demogodgs kill everyone in the lab, including showing Bob, a known character, get torn apart alive

then s3 doesn't just have people unwillingly killing themselves via chemicals and a massive human flesh monster, but also shows you people graphically exploding into human meat mush

and then s4 gives you full suicidality metaphor via Vecna, and shows you teenagers, including one main character, get every bone in their body snapped, flung around like a ragdoll, and violently killed

the horror gets worse, more explicit, and closer to the characters each seasons

and then there's also interviews where it's openly pointed out that the party aren't little kids anymore and that they'll finally be able to play a bigger part in the explicit horror aspects. like, s5 is going to be BAD bad. Caleb has even alluded to s5 (or parts of s5) potentially being R rated before

anyone here thinking that s5 will focus primarily on things like "cute relationship goals" is probably going to be let down and Also blindsided by the horror aspect of the show, especially because it's not often acknowledged in a lot of fanspaces. ST really is the "shipping show" in some parts on here, despite always having been very much horror. yes there's gay main characters and a gay main pairing, but this isn't heartstopper or young royals, it's an entirely different genre. the drama doesn't just come from miscommunication or societal pressures, the drama also comes from the fact that a human meat monster could realistically bust through the ceiling at any moment

ST IS A HORROR SHOW AND SEASON 5 IS GOING TO BE SO HORRIFIC I CAN'T WAIT GIMME GIMME GIMME

#i looooove horror #that was one of the main reasons i really got into stranger things in the first place too #so to see so many people completely ignore the shows main genre is wildddd #especially with how much s5 is said to embrace it according to all we've heard of it #stranger things #stranger things s5 #byler

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furiousgoldfish · 8 months

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I'm going to sit down and try to explain this with patience, to everyone who still thinks calling out narcissistic abuse is 'ableist' or 'dehumanizing to the narcissists', and that abuse is something we're all equally capable of.

I don't think you understand what narcissistic abuse is, or how it differs from the other kinds of abuse. We can agree that all and any abuse is damaging, traumatic and scarring, but narcissistic abuse is so extremely pervasive, hidden, strategic and unbelievable, to the point where I can't honestly tell it's something any regular human would be capable of. And even more than this, the survivors of this particular type of abuse have found it extremely, extremely difficult to figure out they've been abused, even when they've been put through extreme, devastating, and absolutely dehumanizing scenarios. Realizing that your loved one is a narcissist requires your entire world to break down, and every piece of your heart shatters in the realization, and it takes months, even years to accept it.

The only way we can possibly figure it out is to connect the patterns. And patterns of the narcissistic abuse are focused on erasing one's own sense of self, one's perspective and ultimately, complete control over someone's emotions and behaviours. This is often done from early on, the grooming process starts at age zero, your value, worth and usefulness is determined by them, and you cannot wrangle yourself free from it on your own, not without someone confirming to you that you've been held captive, that your free will has been taken a long time ago.

Unfortunately, I have to give some examples, because I don't think it can be explained otherwise. When I was 2 years old, a narcissistic person found it a nuisance to watch over me, and they beat me up every time I disobeyed. I was a toddler. Then they proceeded to convince me that I was a demon, and would burn in hell regardless of what I do for the rest of my life. I've been brainwashed by this person to believe I was not a human being, had no human rights, that it was correct and regular for me to be locked up, beaten, and that it was my fault every single time, even when I did all that was asked of me. This person then had me comfort them after they would beat me, because it was a stressful experience for them. I wasn't allowed to cry. I would be beaten for making a face expression they didn't like. It was random and unexplainable.

Another narcissistic person created a game where they would give me wrong instructions for a task, then torture me when I did exactly as they instructed me to. It got to a point where I would beg them to tell me what to do correctly, and they would respond with a laughing 'you should be old enough to know this' and they would be even happier to beat me up and scream at me for getting it wrong. This person not only threatened to kill me regularly, but often made me believe I was in my last few seconds of life, putting me in position where I believed I was about to die. They forced me to work for them in unsafe conditions, heavy physical jobs, where I was not allowed to say I'm tired, not allowed to cry, and even after I'd do everything, they would still tell me I didn't deserve to eat. I was a child. I didn't think for a second I was being abused. I was already brainwashed to believe that everyone else had it worse, and that I was lucky.

I had no identity besides existing for them, I had no free will except to try and make myself into something they could use, and if I didn't do a good enough job, I'd be ostracized. They loved beating me, screaming at me and making me cry, and then they'd leave me in a room crying without being allowed to make any noise, while they laughed in the room next to me, as a family, loudly so I could hear what a great time they were having. They would treat other children gently in front of me in order to try and make me jealous. They would revise every part of what they did to me if I ever tried to bring it up. I wasn't allowed my own perspective, opinion, or complaint. I wasn't even allowed to remember the abuse correctly. I would be locked in a room and questioned and punished if my opinions weren't to their liking.

I don't believe this is something anyone is capable of doing. I don't believe anyone of us is capable of torturing a kid until the kid begs to be killed. I don't believe most of us are capable of erasing a child's point of view, their reality, their humanity to the point where the child is forced to live a life where they will either comply or be killed, and they will be tortured no matter what. This isn't a regular thing that a person can easily do.

Luckily, us who have been through this, have noticed that there is a specific pattern to their behaviour. That they use almost identical phrases with which their invoke guilt, fear and hopelessness. That they can go frighteningly fast from rage to laughter to acting hurt. That they enforce their will over ours with a specific type of terror that triggers both our survival instincts and our compassion and shame. That we've been groomed by them in an almost identical way - to not believe that we're allowed our own feelings, memories, opinions, point of view, or freedom. That we have learned to exist only to be an extension of them.

We also all noticed that we're all absolutely, beyond terrified of them, and that we don't feel we're allowed to say it, or think it. That we're taught by terror to keep believing that they're good people, that they do none of it on purpose, not even the most extreme, insane, egregious abuse. That they will go to any length, even committing more atrocities, to escape accountability. That they use tactics of darvo, gaslighting, double-bind, planting insecurities, triangulating, future faking, discarding, love bombing, mirroring, smear campaigns, projection, scapegoating, silencing, throwing tantrums, victim playing, like it's in their second nature. That they're genuinely, absolutely terrifying and almost unreal in how far they're capable of going. And most of all, that they are dangerous, and capable of completely turning another human being into their puppet, and never think for a second that it might be wrong. To them, we are nothing more but toys to manipulate, control, and discard. We are disposable. There is no limit to what they can do to us, because to them, we are not alive. They would do to us what normal people wouldn't do to a corpse. And they feel superior for it.

People abused by narcissists from early age are likely to develop the most complex and extreme disorders, complex ptsd and dissociative identity disorder being some of them, because that's what it takes to survive being a child and existing next to a narcissist. This means that small children need to be shattered in pieces in order to please the narcissist. Others that are very common are eating disorders, anxiety, depression, paranoia, avoidant personality disorder, panic disorder, and compulsions to cater to everyone's needs, to the point of our own destruction. This is what they make of us, on purpose, in order for us to be of use to them. And they will forever insist it's their right.

When I'm saying the word 'narcissist', I am not referring to 'anyone diagnosed with npd', I am referring to a person who will do this to a child, and insist on doing it for the rest of the child's life. I am writing it because I don't want children to have to live like this forever. I am not aiming to dehumanize the narcissist, their actions show who they are, I am saying, be careful and aware that this person will dehumanize you. That you are disposable to them. That making you feel good in order for you to like them, is a game to them, and one they're very good at. That playing the victim at you and demanding justice, will easily manipulate you into standing against the victims of abuse and talking down to them for 'dehumanizing their abusers', and being 'ableist to the npd', after being tortured past the point of return by those people.

A lot of us are permanently damaged by what's been done to us. We are not asking for justice. We're not asking for revenge. We are asking to be safe. We're asking for this to stop. We're asking for children not to be left alone with people who are dangerous to this level. We're asking you to understand that a narcissist left alone with a child means a child in danger.

It's common to not be aware just how bad it can go, because we think that most humans know not to torture a child. We believe that nobody would do things to children that narcissists do. If you read the stories of the survivors, you'll find out what actually happens behind closed doors. The themes of torture, dehumanization, sexual abuse, brainwashing, violence, and extreme cruelty are common, even towards toddlers.

I need you to not attack those children when they grow up and say they no longer want to be around narcissists. I need you to understand that they know what they're talking about when they say it's not safe, that they want to be protected. The society already failed to protect them at their most vulnerable, and they had to make it alive by their wits alone. And now you won't even let them speak without attacking them? It's inexcusable.

If you want to know about the narcissists, read what their victims have gone through. Then make a judgment on whether we're allowed to speak, and whether it's worth warning others to hold caution. I've heard and read stories of narcissistic parents sex-trafficking their own child, holding them captive and locked up and convincing them it's right to do this, using brutal punishments to 'train' them into inhumane slave-like behaviour, keeping the children in state so terrified the children wished they were dead. And in all those cases, they still convinced the children to love their parents, and to never blame them for any kind of abuse. Yes, even in the sex-trafficking cases.

Fighting for those children to realize that they didn't deserve that, is the only correct thing to do. Fighting to help them realize they're in danger, and that they deserve safely, it's not only right but extremely necessary, it's what we all should be putting all of our energy into.

Wanting to keep others safe will never be wrong. Wanting to protect those who still have their identity, their sense of self, their undamaged humanity, their free will and their point of view, that's worth fighting for! And above all, those who already lost it all, need to be protected. We cannot allow for already badly wounded people to be dehumanized over and over again. Nobody deserves that.

#narcissistic abuse #tw child abuse #tw child trafficking mention #narcissistic parents #toxic parents #psychological abuse #taking children's identity and self perception #to train them into personal toys and disposable puppets #while neglecting the children to the point where children don't realize they have the right to feelings #or even to exist without the parent's approval #devastating abuse #abuse

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leebrontide · 1 year

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Ok so I said I would do a post on “reasons you’re not writing” from the POV of a writer/therapist who works with anxious, depressed, and neurodivergent clients. If you dig that, read on.

But firstly, a disclaimer. This list is far from comprehensive. Don’t yell at me if your experience isn’t represented. This is a tumblr post. Have realistic expectations.

Also, sometimes the reason you’re not writing is that your other obligations are just taking all of your energy and focus. Fixing that is well beyond the scope of this.

That said, here’s a bunch of barriers I see people run into all the time.

1) You’re afraid of failing, and subconsciously feel like it’s safer not to try.

This is a tricky one, because it's probably messing up many areas of your life, which in turn means you're going to frequently feel stressed out in general, which speaks to the point above.

This is around about where the general internet will tend to offer you an array of affirmations to use to sooth yourself. And that's fine. If those work for you, then use them! BUT, if the affirmations aren't working, then friend you have a bigger project on your hands.

You need to get comfortable with failing, particularly at creative projects. I know that can feel scary and vulnerable, but you won't take risks if you can't fail, which is going to hem in your creativity so hard that your motivation will starve. This is why people talk about writing a garbage draft. Not because they want to make garbage, but because they need the option of making garbage in order to take risks. That may or may not work for you, but either way, you really might wanna look at how to lower your stakes.

2) You’re not sure what you’re trying to communicate.

You can make things happen in the story, but you feel like you’re wandering around aimlessly. You don't find you're making decisions with conviction. It might be hard to really fall in love with any of your writing decisions.

For this one, I suggest stepping back and figuring out what the core of your enthusiasm for a story consists of. That CAN be a message or philosophy. It can also be a feeling or a vibe or a dynamic. That gives you a structure that you can build your decisions around, that you can be enthusiastic about.

3) You switched hyperfocus. And maybe your new hyperfocus is a lot of fun, but you feel sadness thinking about the WIP you left behind.

This one has a similar need to the one before, with an added layer of nuance, because you're probably already struggling with identifying what does interest you. This can make people feel really hopeless and helpless.

I have three totally different suggestions for this one. The first is to just be patient with yourself. Sometimes it's good for your brain to just indulge, and let your brain mine for dopamine where it can. Like, lean in. Spa day for your brain, as long as it's feeling good.

Secondly, see if you can find creative ways to weave your hyperfocus into your writing. Is there a dynamic in your favorite show that can inspire your writing, even if it's an original work? Do you want to take a moment to think about how transportation works in the history of your world? Can you consider your MCs relationship to old movies?

It doesn't always work, but sometimes instead of trying to switch things over, you can build a bridge, that gives depth and texture to your work.

Finally- consider embracing short fiction! Do some writing inspired directly by the hyperfocus du joir while it's around.

4) You feel like nothing you say will be interesting to anyone else.

We understand this is a self-esteem issue, right? You're gonna have to develop the trust that your experiences are not so utterly unrelatable to everyone else that your perspective has no value.

Friend, you are a human, with human experiences, writing for other humans. Trust me, you can do this.

It can help to think about your actual convictions. What do you know? What have you experienced? What matters to you? Funnily enough, the cure for feeling like nothing in you is worth expressing is to pour more of yourself into your writing.

5) You’re collapsed. It’s hard to feel enthusiasm and energy for things.

You're not gonna like this, but for this one I encourage you to put your keyboard or notebook down and stop trying to write right now. I know that when you're feeling better the writing feels good, and you're trying to feel better because everyone is telling you to feel better.

But it's not working, is it? If it was, you wouldn't be reading this.

For many people, writing requires them to be able to feel investment and excitement, because those feelings help steer them towards what's going to work and be exciting for the reader.

Your best bet is to focus your energy on finding gentle little activities that aren't so hard to focus on. Ideally, ones that get you moving just a little bit. You'll have a better time writing when you're less collapsed.

Shaming yourself and getting hopeless and anxious because you can't do this really difficult task right now will make you more collapsed, not less, which will be the opposite of helpful.

And yes, these are depression symptoms. Consider reaching out for supports and assessment around that if you can.

6) You can’t figure out the next step.

Thank God for the internet, this one is a lot more actionable than it used to be.

The first thing to do here is step back and ask yourself "where am I getting lost?" If you have someone to talk this through with, even better.

Then you hop on to your favorite search engine and type in "Stuck on my outline 2nd act" or "can't get started editing" or whatever. People LOVE giving writing advice. There's plenty around. Read some advice! Try things out!

Now here is the critical point- when and if that advice fails, stop and figure out why it failed. For example, I have a short term memory disorder. Most writing process advice is for people who do not have short term memory impairments. So a lot of the advice just plain didn't work for me.

By figuring out that my subpar memory was in the way of my writing process, I was able to put together processes that work for my specific brain and my specific process. You can read about that in more depth here and here.

Frankenstien yourself a process out of stolen bits of other people's processes, with an understanding of your own personalized needs as the lightning that brings it all to life. If you have even traits of ADHD or autism or other forms of neurodiversity (no diagnosis needed) you might also google "ADHD editing hacks".

Finally, and maybe most importantly, chuck anything that you can't adapt right into the trash. I don't care how great the writer who gave the advice is. That's what works for their life and their brain. You have neither. Writing advice is only as useful as it is adaptable.

7) You think of yourself as someone who doesn’t finish things, possibly with history to back that up.

Oh, I feel this one. This was me so hard. For so long.

Make room for the idea that you can and will change over time. Getting shit done is largely a matter of developing a bunch of skills. You've already developed so many different skills in your life that you might not even recognize some of them as skills. But I promise you that you have.

But you see #6? Go read that one again. If you're not finishing things, it's because there's something missing in your routine and process that you haven't developed skills around yet.

I'm not gonna tell you it's easy, but you can find and isolate the barriers and figure out ways around them.

8) You have too many projects and feel frozen when you try to pick one to work on.

Ask yourself if this is a real problem. It may be! Maybe you dream of making a living off of your writing! That requires a level of consistency.

But it also might just be that you've had it drilling into your head that not finishing things is some kind of personal failing.

Write out all your WIPs and story seeds.

See if some of them can be mushed into one. Some AMAZING stories come from people combining story ideas that seem separate into a single story. That's fun.

See if some of them are not for finishing. What's that post going around? Some stories are for finishing, and some are just for "getting the wiggles out"? That's solid advice.

Maybe some stories are just for daydreaming on the bus. Maybe some stories are actually only 1/3rd of a story, and you want to leave it to grow in the ground before you try to do anything with it. That's incredibly valid and common!

If you actually look at the stories that you have that are for finishing, right now, you may find a much more manageable number. And if you only have like 2 or 3 things you're working on, you can just let them take turns as the passion for each project takes you.

Keep a file somewhere of these undeveloped ideas. I have a scrivner file that has each idea it's own little sub-document so I can add thoughts to them for years as they percolate.

9) You get lost in preparation and don’t make it to the page.

A couple different things can be happening here. One thing that may be happening is that you're just a writer who needs a lot of research and prep time before you write. I'm like that. I will prewrite intensively for a year before I write a single sentence. That sounds ridiculous to a lot of people but it works with how my brain works and then when I do start writing I can easily and happily churn out a consistent 2-4k words per hour. If it works it works! Don't let anyone shame you!

The other option is that you feel like you're going to get something wrong/fail/get in trouble if you get anything "wrong". You feel safer doing research, so that's where you stay.

Only you can figure out which it is. Introspect. Then you know whether to focus on managing anxiety or just keep preppin.

10) You want to write, but when you sit down to write suddenly it’s two hours later and you’ve written like 5 words but curated 3 new playlists, read some fanfiction, and argued with some strangers on the internet.

Brains are rough, aren't they.

There are two schools of thought here. Both work, but not for all the same people.

Option 1 is to clear distractions. Download one of those apps that keeps you off the internet. Put your phone someplace that you need a ladder to reach, so you have to very actively decide to go get it. Noise cancelling headphones. Comfy clothes. Protein rich snacks and a beverage within easy reach. Pee ahead of time. Make a routine out of it to train your brain into associating this with focus.

Option 2 is to figure out the optimal level of distraction. When I write nonfiction I almost always have mindless home renovation shows on at the same time. Because nonficiton writing isn't quite stimulating enough to hold my attention. So my attention wanders and I end up doing something that WILL hold my attention. When I write fiction, I need music OR to be outdoors where I can look at trees or clouds or people on the sidewalk. I can't watch any kind of TV.

Think of your attention like a pie chart. Different writing tasks may take up different percentages of that pie. If you're awesome at focus maybe you can just put 90% of your focus on writing, and the other 10% is just making sure you don't forget to eat or something. But if you can't reliably conjure up more than 70% for one thing, then fill the rest of the pie with things you can easily pick up and put down. I only look up at the home decorating shows when my passive audio scanning suggests it's something I want to look up at.

These are both good approaches. Ignore anyone who demonizes either. That only means they've found the version that works for them.

You have your brain. Build a process for your brain.

I hope this helps. I have a free monthly newsletter if you like hearing my rants. It is...not consistently about writing advice or mental health. One time I wrote about how genetically modified goats are related to French colonized Madagascar in the 1800s as well as the modern US military. One time I broke down modern challenges to medical privacy practice policies. This is all to do with what I write but in an idiosyncratic way.

Cause I gotta write about what I care about.

#writeblr #mental health #neurodiversity #writing #writing advice #writing process #writing procrastination

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blubushie · 2 months

Note

What are the things you Like and Dislike about Sniper? (Valve's Sniper and the fans' interpretation of Sniper)

I've got no issue with canon Sniper and love canon Sniper. I'm so sorry anon, you've woken the dog. Ignore me as I proceed to bark angrily for the next half-hour, because I have many issues with fanon Sniper.

But first I'll start with what I like about fanon Sniper. I love how everyone has their own little twist to him, even if most I don't agree with. I love how I can see how authors and artists have interacted with people and the scope of experiences they've heard about off how they write Sniper. I like that I can make judgements on people off how they treat his character (not in a "they make bad things happen to him" kinda way, but in a "how does this person handle Sniper's being adopted" kinda way). I like that I can use Sniper as a looking glass into the author/artist. I'm sure this applies to other characters too, but looking through Sniper just comes easier to me because I suppose I can put myself in his shoes? Iunno.

Now that that's over with, please allow your actual resident bushman and professional sniper to get on his soapbox, thank you.

List of shit I hate about fanon Sniper:

Fandom constantly referring to him as a Kiwi, completely ignoring his entire character arc in the comics where he realises that he is in fact Australian and that the two people who raised him all his life are in fact his "real" parents. The fandom needs to re-assess how they view adoptees/migrants and their relationship to their adopted culture, especially when they show no interest in assimilating into their birth culture and have no knowledge/experience of it. This is such an issue to me that I, someone who emigrated to Australia when I was two years old and grew up Australian despite being born in another country, will just outright block people who call Sniper a Kiwi cuz I already know how you're going to see and view me before we even get to talking.

I don't like how half the fandom twinkifies him. There I said it. On the other hand, I don't like the other half of the fandom often makes him very muscular. Do you not know what lean muscle looks like?

I don't like how the fandom calls him "stinky" or says he's unhygienic. None of the fandom understands how well animals can smell and how much of a successful hunt depends on animals not being able to smell you. You know what makes animals flee fastest? The smell of smoke and the smell of human body odour. If you're upwind of your target they are going to smell you and flee. Sniper, professional hunter for yonks, would not fucken stink considering it'd make him a completely useless hunter. He'd shower daily, wear scent cover (NOT deodorant--Sniper would not smell good, he just would not have a scent at all). Also none of the fandom understands how important hygiene is in the bush. Sniper is not walking around covered in dirt and such. He would be very clean and practise good hygiene because if you don't stay clean you end up smelly (ruining his chances of a successful hunt) and/or end up sick--especially with skin problems.

I don't like how the fandom has generally accepted out-of-characters traits as canon. For example, Sniper being "shy". Reclusive DOES NOT EQUAL SHY. He's a fucken assassin, does the fandom not understand how that works? Shy people do not get hired. No one is going to hire a hitman who's quaking in his boots because a client looked at him a little too long or applied a little too much social pressure. Sniper would be more than capable of blending into his surroundings when needed, such as a crowd, if it means making his hit or getting where he needs to go to make said hit. Sniper would be capable of lying to cover his arse on the spot and making it believable. Sniper would be able to manage being flirted with in public and play it off cooly--though privately is a different matter, so go wild with that all you like. There is a major difference between someone not caring for the company of other people and someone who gets shy or nervous around them. Professionals have standards, and Sniper would keep his shit together for the sake of getting his mark.

He wouldn't smoke cannabis. Whether it's because he just doesn't care for the high, whether it's because it doesn't do much for him, whether it's because THC in particular makes him anxious (you know that man is paranoid, all hitmen are)--the bottom line is that the smoke of cannabis clings to your clothes like nothing else, it takes forever to get the smell out, and yeah sure you can mask it with other smells but the issue is that Sniper, as a hunter, cannot be smelt by anything he's hunting. And you know what scent cover DOESN'T conceal? Cannabis. (Sauce: I have tried.) I could defo see him doing edibles though. But why do you think he's doing shrooms, ay? Because shrooms don't leave a smell.

None of the fandom knows how sniping actually works. Just. At all. I've seen horrendous fucking takes. He is not "feeling it." He is not cracking off a shot at 1200yd a second after taking aim. That's not how this works, that's not how any of this works. DO ANY OF YOU KNOW WHAT ELEVATION OR WINDAGE IS?

Sniper would not be bothered by the cold. A camper has SO LITTLE INSULATION (I live in one!!) and the outback gets BELOW FREEZING AT NIGHT IN WINTER. Sniper would be well-adjusted to handling extreme temperatures at BOTH ENDS of the temperature range. He might be a little more susceptible to cold because he's experienced less of it, but he would not be shivering at fucking 15c/60f. It's also fucken cold during the day in winter because it's the outback and there's no trees to trap the heat in. Temperatures fluctuate wildly, and bushmen need to be highly adaptable or you die.

Not Sniper-specific but the fandom also doesn't understand jack shit about weapons. You clean them after you use them. That's not a clip, it's a MAGAZINE--yes there is a difference. YOU ARE NOT PUTTING A DIRTY SWORD INTO ITS SCABBARD. That's not how revolvers work. No, that either. That's a double-action, you don't have to cock the hammer to fire it. That's a single-action, you do need to cock the hammer to fire it. Bolt-action rifles don't have hammers. You don't rack a bolt, you cycle it, you rack a slide on a semiautomatic pistol or a pump-action shotgun. I'm hitting you with my old man bitching cane.

Continuing from the above point: people who draw Sniper with his finger on the trigger of his rifle/any firearm when he should not have finger on the trigger of a firearm. YOU ONLY PUT YOUR FINGER ON THE TRIGGER WHEN YOU ARE READY TO SHOOT. TRIGGER DISCIPLINE, PEOPLE. IT SAVES LIVES.

Most of the fandom has no idea what the fuck they're talking about or doing with this bloke (or his job, or lifestyle, or where he comes from) and it shows. There, I said it.

#blu whos #tf2 #sniper tf2 #ok i'm done being angry now. but god it wouldn't kill you fellas to research things. please #i'm not saying i'm the arbiter of sniper. but i am saying that as someone who has a very very very similar lifestyle and job?#it's really bloody frustrating #sniperposting

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oonajaeadira · 11 months

Text

Leave Off Your Wandering pt. 1: Spring

Fandom: The Last of Us (TV)/ Joel Miller

Pairing: eventually Joel Miller x f!reader

Reader: Adult female. Old enough to have been an adult on Outbreak Day. Wyoming born and bred. Sheep farmer, easy-going but confident and self-sufficient. Likes to sing, not a great cook. Childhood friend of Maria. No other physical descriptors; no use of y/n.

Rating: T for now

Warnings: Mostly just Ellie being a swear mouth. There’s a lamb birthing. Fluff…this fic is sloooooow.

Summary: Joel and Ellie return to Jackson and you introduce them to the sheep.

A/N: Set after season 1 and then diverges. Does not acknowledge the existence of further plot/seasons, although I claim the right to steal ideas and bits of cannon from the second game if I want to for plot reasons later.

Here it is, y’all. Not much happens. It’s just life in Jackson. There’s more Ellie here than Joel, but that’s because I figure Joel wouldn’t even turn his head toward someone if Ellie didn’t love her first. I’m just setting the stage for healing, for giving Ellie and Joel a nice home and good things. Nothing happens. Life is slower and softer here. Welcome to the Roost.

You were there when Tommy Miller was ushered–bloodied and busted–by the patrol through the gates of Jackson. The hard steel of Maria’s eyes through the slit between her hat and kerchief found you in the crowd and told you with a glance, I know what I’m doing. Meet me at home.

“Yeah, he’s one of them,” you’d confirmed to her later that afternoon as one of the Roostlings tended to his split lip and eyebrow in her living room. “I say we leave him to the coyotes.”

You’d trusted them once upon a time, the Fireflies. But your experiences with them were a deep education in morals and humanity. What you’ve come to believe is that everyone has an equal right to life and compassion and protection. And you might not have found that in yourself if the Fireflies hadn’t come through your papa’s ranch touting that sentiment but living up to a totally different set of rules, one where everyone had an equal expendability for the greater good of the survival of the species.

Fuck the species. If humans were meant to die out, then they would. Nothing is permanent. Not civilization or any one species, not even the mountains that surround your town–even the wind and rain would take them someday. All you can do is be good to those here and now, nurture what you have, and mourn what you lose with a little humility and gratefulness that you got to enjoy it in the first place. There’s already enough suffering. Why add to it? Or prolong it? Just let us all wane with kindness and compassion. Spend our days eating good food and caring for sheep, wildflowers swaying in the sunshiney breeze and stars twinkling at night–

“You go somewhere, Meadowlark?” Tommy teases as he passes you a plate of honey-glazed carrots, bean salad, and egg souffle, breaking you out of your reverie. You’ve come to prefer his tamales, but Maria wanted to use up some of last year’s supplies, so this Sunday’s family meal is harvest plate.

“I was just thinking about the day you came to Jackson.”

Leaning back in the wooden dining room chair, dark eyes glinting in the candlelight, his smug little smile is insufferable. “You wanted my hide on a fence.”

“Stretched and tanned. Could have been useful for patching boots at least.”

“What was it changed your mind again? Oh yeah. Weatherproofing the storehouse, building out your Roost, constructing a working loom–”

“It was the cornbread. And maybe the tamales.” Keeping a deadpan glare between you while stabbing a carrot and taking a bite, you point your fork at your best friend. “And you’re good to my girl here.”

Maria chuckles through a mouthful, shaking her head down at her plate like a mother trying not to let two warring siblings know how amusing they are. “I regret everything. And nothing.” The same dark eyes that glinted with reservation on Tommy’s first day hold back none of her big, tough heart as they seek him out now. “But speaking of mending shoes…you reminded me. Tommy’s brother came by while you were at the Roost.”

Your fork, halfway to your mouth, drifts back down to the plate. “Joel? Here? How’d he find you?”

Tommy answers carefully, chewing slowly, thoughtfully. “He didn’t, really. Patrol found him. Him and a teenager. They were looking for the Fireflies because…the girl belongs to them or something. Used my last known location and headed out west.”

“From Boston? On foot? And he survived?”

“All the stories I’ve told you about him and that’s what surprises you?”

Tommy’d been an open book from day one, answering Maria’s questions about his background, the QZs he’d lived in, why he felt the need to leave the Fireflies. As they’d grown closer and he joined in your family dinners, there were stories traded from the beforetimes, about his construction business with his brother, how his niece’s death changed them both, the things they’d done to good people just to survive. He held nothing back and owned up to his mistakes. Although he often blamed Joel for actions he willingly took part in. Still, admitted that he used his army training to teach Joel to shoot and unwittingly turned him into a killing machine.

But even so, he missed him. You could see that. Tommy missed his big brother. Wished it could be different, that he could have changed him, brought Joel back from his numbness before it was too late. Best he could do was run away from his regret, swing the other way and try to even out all his wrongs…but then found out that the Fireflies weren’t the answer to any of it. And despite all Tommy had admitted to doing, it was this ability to forgive, to take some fraction of responsibility, and to shelter his light through the darkness that Maria took a shine to.

You involuntarily glance toward the living room, toward the mantle where there’s a polaroid of a ruggedly handsome thirty-five year old man and a girl in fluffy brown pigtails. “Shit, Tommy. You think he’ll head back here?”

“Said he was counting on it.”

There’s a somber silence at the table as everything comes to a halt. Maria’s not exactly chilly, just… reserved. Ah. They’ve already been talking about it.

“Should I be congratulating you on a family reunion or….?”

The sudden winter of their discontent warms to a spring as your old friend goes back to her plate. “Well, it’s yet to be determined. Of course he’s welcome here, but not if he brings trouble.”

“He’s not going to bring trouble, sweetheart. You should have seen him that night we talked. He’s got demons chasing him, but he’s tired of running. He needs good people. We’re good people.”

“Unless he finds those Fireflies and they take him in first,” you interject. “Seems to me they’re just like everyone else, and a man who’s that good at mindless, morally-gray protection is a valuable asset.”

That sets him laughing, breaking the tension, throwing you unexpectedly off-guard after you’d just darkly insulted his kin. “Joel? Join the Fireflies? Not a chance in heaven, hell, or all the shit between! He’ll be back. He’s an asshole, but he’s my brother and I know him. He’ll be back. You’ll see.”

________

The day after coming back from your next shift at the Roost, you find yourself ass to the mud on the street outside the Jackson stables. Two bodies–yours, and that of a larger child–rounding a corner in colliding trajectories. You’d been fiddling with the buttons on your walkie, not watching where you were going, your boots taking you home the way they’ve done for years.

But she’d been moving fast–not running, but walking with that speed that teenagers are only capable of when they’re stomping off in a probable fit of angry hormones.

“Oh, shit, I’m sorry,” she curses, diving for your wayward walkie and the batteries that spit out all over the ground as you get yourself up and your ass dusted off. “Here,” she says, clumsily dumping a cluster of plastic and tech into your hands. “I hope I didn’t break it. Are you like one of the marshals here or something?”

A quick rummage through the jumble in your hands shows no damage and you start pumping the batteries back in, casting a glance around for the compartment cover. “Not quite.” Seeing what you need a few feet away on the ground, you nod at it. “Would you mind getting that cover, miss…er… You know, I don’t think I’ve seen you around here.”

“Ellie.” She watches with interest as you clip the walkie back together and push the activation switch. “I’ve never seen one that small.”

“It’s actually an old kid’s toy. Meadowlark to Whippoorwill,” you mumble into the walkie, your lips nearly touching the plastic speaker, “just had a butterfingers. Testing the walkie.”

“What’s a butterfingers? Are those like code names?” Ellie asks.

Her eyes–black and sparkling–hold your own, a tense moment for both of you as you both hope for different reasons that the machine still works. “Something like that.”

“Whippoorwill here,” comes the voice through the can. “I hear you. Actually need a favor. Send a change of clothes through patrol tomorrow. The big one finally popped and she was a gusher.”

“Damn! I missed it by one damn day? Shit. One or two?”

“Three!”

“Uuuugh. Well that’s just fuckin’ fantastic. Glad you were there to catch ‘em, Whip. This is gonna be a good year. I think Hank’s on the round over there tomorrow. I’ll go pawing through your closet and send some things along.” Starting off in the direction of your friend’s house, you wave back at your new acquaintance. “See ya, Ellie. Nice to meet you. Take it slow around those corners, ‘hear?”

_____

The run-in wouldn’t have been memorable but for the next night when you show up at Maria and Tommy’s place for family dinner, carrying a warm basket of muffins, happy and singing to yourself as you dance in through the door…and come to a stop when four pairs of dark eyes turn to you from the dining room.

Guests? At family dinner? A man and–“Hey there…Ellie, right? Fancy meeting you here…”

The girl smiles from her seat at the table, waving with a hand covered by the sleeve of her raglan top. “Hi.”

“Oh. You know each other,” Maria says, lifting the basket out of your hands. “Then you must have met–”

No. You haven’t met him. But he stands up from the table, wiping a hand on his jeans and extending it to receive yours. Manners. Polite. That’s unexpected knowing the little that you know. His hair is gray now and he’s a bit softer around the middle, more gravity in the cheeks. His ample shoulders have taken weight over the years–literal and emotional.

No, you haven’t met him. But you know him. You’d know those eyes anywhere; studied them in an old polaroid on the mantle just over there. Soft but strong. A good person from another lifetime who was scarred deeply by this one. Someone who cut his soul right down to the quick in order to keep others alive. Those eyes may be a bit more haunted now, but they’re still just as keen.

You never stopped to think that you might someday meet them in person.

“Hi. You must be Joel.” _____

It’s the girls at the table that notice your interest. If left unchecked, your eyes wander across and start to examine the gorilla grip on the fork, the protective hunch over the plate, the beard that’s been newly trimmed and hair recently shaped up (by Maria, no doubt), the scars across the knuckles…temple…nose…

The man’s been through hell and back since the polaroid.

Ellie though…is unscathed, unmarred.

Protected.

And observant. She finally smirks the third time she catches you staring.

Maria’s knee bumps yours to reign you in. He’s not a threat, her eyes say.

This isn’t the time to correct her assumptions, so you put all your focus on your plate or whomever is speaking, whatever isn’t Joel Miller.

“Tomorrow’s work is barrier wall on zone two,” Tommy chews both his words and his venison at the same time. “Once we’ve got that fortified, internal barrier can come down and we can incorporate it as a new section, start safely upgrading the housing there. It’s got a school facility. Be nice to restore that for its intended use instead of using the old record store.”

“Sounds good, count me in,” Joel grunts once he’s politely swallowed his mouthful. “Just put a hammer in my hand and point me at a wall.”

“Just like the good days, eh, brother?”

“Sure.”

“I could swing a hammer” Ellie pipes up.

“You can go to school.”

She scowls darkly at Joel. “Your face can go to school.”

“Ellie–”

“Whippoorwill to Meadowlark.” The walkie on your hip crackles to life and you swallow quickly as all forks stop and all eyes swing to you.

“Meadowlark here. I hear you.”

“Wanted to let you know that all three lambs are hale and made it through the night. Mom’s a little restless, but they’re all safe in the enclosure and I’m doing a sit-in.”

“Thanks for the update. Good to know. You’re in the lead.”

“I know, but Chickadee comes in next week and I bet she takes it. Anyway. Thanks for the clothes and the book, I knew I forgot something. I’ll leave you be unless there’s any change.”

“I’m giving the walkie to Chickadee tomorrow, so you’ll have to egg her on.”

“You know I will. Whippoorwill out.”

Once the radio goes silent, there’s a mix of reactions around the table; pleasant surprise from Maria and Tommy, Joel on guard, his eyes flicking between you and the others waiting to know what it all means, and Ellie’s head twisting around, trying to catch up.

“Three?” Maria trills. “You didn’t tell me there were three new lambs!”

“Yeah. Just missed them. Whip got to do the honors–”

“The big one popped! She was a gusher!” Ellie smiles as the table turns to her. “You were talking about sheep pooping out babies?”

“Ellie, manners. People are eating.” Her guardian glares at her before checking in sheepishly with Maria.

“It’s fine,” you make her excuse. “Ellie head us over the walkies yesterday and–”

“So what’s with the code names?”

The girl is practically vibrating out of her chair with curiosity.

This time it’s your turn to be scrutinized by the newcomers; two pairs of brown eyes hungry for answers.

So you explain while you pick at your dinner.

“There’s a wide acreage outside the settlement walls, on the west patrol loop. We have a good herd of sheep out there. Can’t raise ‘em all in town, there’s not enough room or grazing, although if the winter’s bad, we’ll bring ‘em in to some barns over at the old ranch house.

“But there’s four of us shepherds, each one taking a week at a time out there. Doesn’t require much. Sheep do the hard work of eating and sleeping and rearing their lambs. We do the shearing and milking, send back daily gallons with the patrols–that’ll be the cheese on your salad there. But mostly just make sure they’re healthy and taken care of. Scare off wolves and coyotes if they come sniffing.”

“You go out there alone?” She asks, wide-eyed.

“Sure. It’s pretty secure and the patrols check the fences every day. The Roost is added security for us, since it’s elevated.”

“What’s the Roost?”

“Ah, it’s kind of a fancy treehouse?”

“Thanks to me, I’ll add,” Tommy pipes up. “When I got here, it was nothing more than a shack on a platform. This one here had a target on my back until the day she had four stout walls and a pretty little porch. Won her over pretty quick.”

“Stick built?” Joel asks, shoving a fingerling potato in his mouth.

“Yeah. Reinforced. A-frame. Even pulled windows out of a lodge.”

“Smart.”

Ellie obviously has no time for Construction Corner with the Millers. “You don’t get scared?”

There’s something about her eager wonder that grabs your attention, pulls you in tight, makes you want to answer whatever question she’s got. “There’s nothing to be scared of. I mean, not for us anyway. All of us Roostlings grew up around here. We know the sounds of the animals at night, know they’re more scared of us than we are of them. We’ve seen infected out in the wilds, sure, know what to listen for, but we also know how to defend ourselves if the barriers don’t hold…and they always hold.

“But mostly, it’s relaxing. Quiet. Slow. Time to think. There’s nothing better than a night suspended in the treetops, with the sheep below and the moon and the stars above….”

Joel has stopped chewing, a wistfulness showing from underneath his gruff mask. There’s something thrilling about catching his attention.

A goofy smile cracks Ellie’s face and she giggles, reaches out to punch him on the arm. “Did you hear that? Sheep and stars. It’s everything you dreamed of, buddy!”

“I didn’t mean…” he winces at her brute force and shoots a guarded look at you. “I think I’ll leave the sheep to the shepherds. You said you grew up here?”

It’s the first thing he’s really said to you unprompted and now that you have an excuse to look him in the eye, it’s actually hard to do. “Ah, yeah. Family sheep ranch down in…well, down-river. Not far. Maria too.”

“Spent a lot of time at that ranch growing up,” she smiles. “You and your sister were bad influences.”

“Is that why you up and left us for the big city?”

Maria laughs. “Had to get out before I spent my whole life here. Whoops.”

Joel reins the conversation back. “So you haven’t spent any time in the QZs?”

“No. Holed up at the ranch with…with some folks,” you say as Maria looks away. “Then Jackson was starting up and it was safer here, so I brought in my flock.”

“Hmm,” he grunts, reading your expression, catching the slight omission in your speech. Recognizing survivor’s talk.

You hold his gaze for a few seconds, wondering what your answer is worth to him. You’ve heard of the quarantine zones, knew how rough and miserable they could be. Tommy and Maria both had their stories and you count yourself lucky for never having been unfortunate enough to have to scrabble for existence in one of them. Would have languished and suffocated. Wouldn’t have been able to breathe without the big sky, or sleep without the mountains keeping watch…

Does he think you naive? Or that–wrongly–you’ve had it easy? Does your answer tip the scales in his opinion for the worse?

And what about him? Has the QZ made him dangerous? Hard? Dishonest? Tommy always said he was an asshole…

“Can I see it?” Ellie interjects. “The Roost. Can I go out there with you?”

The question is surprising in more ways than one; most noticeably in its boldness and by your shock in a kid getting so excited about sheep. “Uh, yeah, sure. I mean, that’s why there’s a bunk bed. We bring folks out there all the time. But you have to be willing to work while you’re out there.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Joel grumbles with a tight jaw, stabbing a potato with his fork.

Maria had explained to you the circumstances of Joel carting the girl across the country. To get her that far unscathed? To get her to the Fireflies… He must not have found them or he would have come back alone. Maybe they were dead.

Not that that would be a bad thing.

The girl is smart. Better off here.

But it seems no amount of time can take the father out of the man and he’s fallen into the role for her pretty hard, his jaw twitching as he balances between politeness and worry.

“It’s completely safe, brother. Walled in. Patrolled. In communication, as you’ve witnessed. And the Roostlings are all pretty skilled with a shotgun. She’ll be fine. Might do her some good.”

“Come on, Joooooooel. It’s sheeeeeeeep. In a treehouuuuuu-suh.”

He takes his time chewing. Keeps his eyes on his plate.

“We’ll see.”

“Well,” you smile, winking at the girl across from you, “I just got off my shift, so you’ve got three weeks to warm up to the idea before I go back.”

“Do I get a codename?” She wiggles in her seat, grinning hard at Joel, goading him.

“Sure. I don’t know. You’re pretty spikey. How about Thistle?”

“What?” This dismays her and gets a choke–and then a chuckle–out of Joel. “Why can’t I have a bird name?”

“Because you’re not a Roostling. You have to earn your wings.”

This sets her jaw in a challenge. “Oh. I’ll earn it. I’ll earn it so hard you don’t even know. Bring it on. Take me to the fluffy bastards.”

“Ellie, dammit!”

_____

“So, he’s, uh….” you hand a dish to Maria so she can dry.

“Less than personable?” She finishes, keeping her voice down so as not to be heard by the brothers chatting on the back porch.

“Got some adjusting to do if he’s gonna fit in here, I was going to say.”

“He makes you nervous though. I can tell.”

“No. Not…like that…I just…” It’s best to avoid her keen eye, but catch her surprise out of the corner of yours. “It’s just–”

“My oldest friend in this god-forsaken world,” she declares, throwing the dishtowel on the counter and settling hands on hips. “You are telling me that? That is the man that is turning your head?”

“No. That’s not…He’s…” a growl of frustration follows, trying to scare your thoughts into cohesive order as you scrub glaze out of a pan. “It doesn’t happen that often, you know? Someone from the past showing up and there’s all this…change. I mean, he’s not really from our history, but you’ve had that picture of him and his daughter sitting out and there’s this face from the past just…looming. Like, there was this man who lived and worked construction and then the worst day happened and his child was killed and the person he was just got…replaced with that guy. It’s…I’m just morbidly fascinated by what twenty years in a post-hell society can do to someone. I mean…that smile in the polaroid…he was so warm and healthy…”

It isn’t until this moment that you realize what Maria begins to surmise. The pan and washcloth are abandoned.

“So you’ve had a crush on a man from the past all this time, making your castles in the sand. And you’re disappointed that he showed up and was that.”

She generously and lovingly gives you the time to think.

“Maybe. I don’t know. He’s still good looking, so you have to give me a little slack there. But I don’t know him. Didn’t know him. It’s just an interesting thing, you know? A little fantasy of the beforetimes? One that didn’t really line up way I imagined it?”

Maria begins to laugh kindly and quietly. Then a little less kindly and a lot less quietly. “Oh shit, that man came here for sanctuary and didn’t know he walked into a full-on trap.”

“Hey!”

“No. No. That’s not fair and I’m sorry,” she concedes, taming her laughter somewhat unsuccessfully. “Just go easy on him, okay? He’s Tommy’s brother.”

“Well, then that’s as good a reason as any for me to stay on my side of the creek bed. And, to be fair, those other guys? They came after me first. I have no interest in men that have no interest in me. So it looks like he’s safe.”

“For now,” she smirks. “But. If Tommy keeps me up at night complaining that you’ve busted a bottle over his brother’s head–”

“That was one time! And that guy was a fucking jerk!”--now you’re both laughing–”Which, I guess, yeah, if Joel’s as much an asshole as Tommy says, then maybe I should play it safe and apologize to y’all in advance!”

Thank goodness you have each other to lean on, or you’d both be rolling on the floor in a cackling mess. _____

It only takes a fistful of days and as many shy nods in passing around town for a knock to come at your door one evening.

“Well…hey there….Mr. Miller. What can I do for you this evening?”

The generated streetlights don’t come all the way down your block, and he blinks in the candlelight coming from your open door, his jaw gaping slightly before sealing shut, blocking any words that want to come.

Stepping back, you let the door open wider for him. “I was just putting a snack together. You wanna come in?”

“No, I..don’t…”

You’ve seen this look before from folks new to Jackson. From folks who’ve had to keep what they have to survive. Folks who lived among others who would never offer up anything for free without the expectation of payback and therefore have forgotten–or perhaps never experienced–the simple joy of receiving hospitality.

“You don’t want to come in? Or you don’t want to eat my cooking? Because I’d be offended by either.”

Walking away from the open door has the desired effect and he finds his way to the front room sofa in view of the kitchen on his own.

It allows you to watch him check off the boxes as you put together a tray. Telltale sign of the long-hauler as he scans the rooms for exits and places where a threat could be hiding. Check. Then the sign of the QZoner as he studies his surroundings, taking in a home that’s lived in but not damaged by twenty years of decay or depression. Check.

That finally leaves him open to be vulnerable, and you watch to see if he’ll allow himself to be at ease.

The way his fingers curl and uncurl on his knees, how he looks away when you catch his eye.

You wonder if he’ll ever really sink in. Having family here will help.

“You drink, Joel Miller?”

“Depends,” he answers vaguely, but nods with certainty.

Your offering is simple, rye crackers on a plate, a disk of sheep’s milk cheese with a knife in it, two tumblers, and a bottle of sunshine.

“You all are sure generous with your whiskey around here,” he comments as you pour him a full glass.

“Not whiskey. Cider.”

He frowns. “Cider? You make this?”

“I’m not that talented,” you wave your hand over the cheese and crackers. “As you can see, this is what I consider cooking. Like most things here, I traded for it. There’s an orchard a ride out. Gone wild. It gets harvested once a year and there’s a cider press in town. Couple of ladies spend a good month canning and bottling.”

“Seems like the women run the show around here,” he says, impressed, taking a sip and then staring hard at the glass. “Holy shit.” You’re not sure at first if that’s a good or bad expression until he goes in for another drink.

“That make you nervous? Ladies brewing up the good stuff?” You only laugh at his impression of a deer in the headlights. “I suppose if you’ve spent enough time around Maria, it’s easy to think that. It’s just a very empowered place for everyone. Everyone’s got something to contribute that gives them some pride and gets them some respect. And I guess, in that way, you don’t have to worry about Ellie here. I can tell she’s gonna find her place and do just fine.”

“That’s actually what I came by for,” he says, distracted by the cider. “You know how long it’s been since I’ve had a drink of something that doesn’t burn?”

“It’s sweet, yeah?”

“Yeah. It’s been a minute since I had anything sweet.”

You let that hang, watch him examine the amber liquid…or, rather, a memory swirling in its depths.

Twenty years of a broken heart can’t be good for a person.

“You came to talk about Ellie?”

It takes him a second to realize you’re addressing him, but he only nods, and finishes the glass. When you pick up the bottle to pour him another, he quietly stops you with a gesture and the tiniest shake of the head. No. “You ever have raiders come by your Roost?”

“We’ve seen raiders in the area. They’ve attacked the town border before. Always small groups. Hungry. They don’t have the numbers or the ammo round these parts.”

“But what about out there in the open?”

Crossing your arms and leaning back in your seat, you let him know he’s being assessed, let it sink in that he might be over-protective and has the right to be scared but doesn’t need to be. Realize he may never grow out of his defensive conditioning.

“I’m not going to lie to you, Joel Miller. There’s always a chance. But I don’t know if there are any words I can say that would magically put you at ease. There’s one thing I can see though, you care a lot about that girl. I reckon you’re here tonight because she’s bugged you about going out there. And you hate disappointing her, so here you are. But you’re also afraid of letting her out of your sight.”

He doesn’t look at you. Just rolls his glass between his wide palms.

Ducking forward, you do your best to get your smile in his eyeline. “Since I can’t convince you with words, I’ll do it with evidence. Ride out there with me tomorrow and see for yourself.”

“I don’t…that’s not what…”

“Hey. Good parents want their kids to be safe. I know the type.” It was meant to put him at ease, but you realize a bit too late that your words were poorly chosen. It’s difficult to read his emotion; there may be a few going on at once.

Most of them break your heart.

An apology would only make it worse. “Tomorrow morning. Stables. Dawn.”

________

He doesn’t like to talk much, Joel Miller. Knows his way around a horse like a true Texan should, completely at ease with a shotgun strapped to his back, but doesn’t seem to want to spoil the silence. Or perhaps he’s just always on guard. That’s okay. You like the sounds of the morning. The crunch of the woodland floor, the sweep of the wind in the leaves. The birds have been up for hours already, their voices warmed up and singing clear. It’s still chilly at daybreak this time of year and steam rises from the horses’ noses, mixing with the fog of the dew evaporating in the rising sun.

After a good half-hour ride through dappled forest light at a leisurely pace, you take up the walkie that you’ve borrowed from Chickadee.

“Meadowlark to Whippoorwill.”

Seconds and trees roll by as you wait for your answer. No hurry.

“Whippoorwill here. You taking another shift? You’re a day early.”

“Nope. Just giving a new resident a tour and letting you know we’re coming in at the north passage. Put some clothes on and don’t shoot us.”

“I make no promises.”

“Don’t ever change, Whip.”

As you come to a ravine and dismount, Joel finally pipes up. “Put some clothes on?”

“Yeah,” you explain, leading the horse down the steep incline, “Whip’s a nudist. Don’t ever show up at her house unannounced if you aren’t ready for a lot of skin.” When he doesn’t know what to say, you smile over your shoulder. “Just fucking with you. Although, there is a stream to the south we all like to skinny dip in come summer.” Another baffled look from him, and another sly smile from you.

He’s distracted by this to the point that he actually flinches when the barrier appears before him. “The hell?” he exclaims, examining a hedge of vines growing up over a twelve-foot tall wall of stone. “You don’t even notice this from the top.”

“Nope. That’s the point. Doesn’t look like a wall from up there, just looks like a hedge from down here. Most people don’t want to make the effort to climb down but if they do, they just assume they have to find another way.”

“This is the meadow perimeter?”

“Well, this gate anyway. A lot of it is woven steel gage and cliffs that only goats can manage. Most of it is natural barrier or camouflage like this so you wouldn’t even know there’s anything being protected.”

“Huh. Clever.”

“Welcome to Jackson Meadow, home of the Roost.”

After displacing and replacing some facing shrubs, you’re able to coax the horses through a narrow tunnel and up a gentle rise that eventually opens out into a sweeping field in a valley under the face of the butte.

It’s still early enough that the wildflowers are just slivers of purples and yellows behind their bud casings, but they spread far and wide across the green expanse, broken only by the random white-gray lumps of grazing sheep. The sun is just beginning to break over the surrounding mountains to the east, but once it spills over, it will only make the spring colors of the valley more vivid than any surviving photograph, more picturesque than any oil on canvas…probably. It’s been decades since you’ve seen a landscape painting, so what the hell do you know.

Able to ride side by side now, you make another study of your companion. And there’s a war going on inside him. You can tell he’s taken by the raw beauty of the meadow, but twenty years of looking over his shoulder makes him nervous in wide open spaces and his eyes won’t stop moving between the grasses and the treeline, constantly appreciating, constantly scanning.

“Relax, Mr. Miller. Enjoy the view. You’re in good hands. See that patch of trees up there?” You nod to a wooded area near the center of the expanse. “Roost is in there. I guarantee you Whip has eyes on us and everything in this valley right now.” Raising a hand over your head with three fingers raised, you use the other hand to point to them.

The walkie smacks on and Whippoorwill’s steady drawl comes out. “Three.”

You wave. Smile at Joel. “See?”

He relaxes in the saddle and a quiet, ponderous minute goes by before he works up the bother to ask whatever’s tumbling around in that head of his. “Why do you keep calling me that?”

“What.”

“Mr. Miller. I’m no mister. It’s just Joel.”

Things are slow in Jackson, people take their time. As you do with your answer. “Maybe it’s my way of keeping a distance, Joel Miller. You seem like the kind of man that likes people to keep their distance so he can get a good read and make sure it’s safe to approach.”

Twisting with a frown, he scans you as if he’s never really looked before, maybe a little annoyed that you have his number.

You dismount your chestnut mare some distance before reaching the trees, leave the reins to the saddle and let her be, walking over to the nearest duo of sheep–a mother and baby. The ewe bleats at you out of habit, but knows you’re no real harm. She watches her lamb though, chewing when she remembers to.

This lamb is still very young and you’re not sure if it will remember. There’s a bounce to the left, and then two to the right, and then each leg steps carefully as he haltingly makes his way forward. You’re able to scoop him up and turn him over in your arms like a baby, instantly quelling him, and his legs hilariously splay.

“What’d you do to it?” Joel, having followed suit and let his horse graze, walks up and there’s the tiniest smile as he gazes down at the creature in your arms.

“Nothing, that’s just what they do when you turn ‘em over. Here.” You don’t even tell him to put his arms out or ask if he wants to hold the lamb, you simply get close enough and the man’s instincts kick in. All you have to do is hand him off.

Joel’s surprised at first, flinches a bit when the lamb wiggles in his arms–the tiniest protest to being transferred to an unfamiliar nanny. But then both of them calm and you have to stifle a laugh as the two of them just…stare at each other. The lamb in his lamby wonder, and Joel like a new, star-struck dad.

Going about your business, you begin checking the creature’s general health, pushing at the belly, checking the mouth. “This one was born on my last watch, so he’s only about ten days old.”

“Really,” Joel sighs, totally enchanted, not even realizing that he’s instinctually bouncing the lamb a bit. The father in him showing its face again.

“Yep. And,” you indicate the mother, now watching a bit more closely since there’s an unfamiliar human involved, “I birthed that one too. And probably most of her whole line for the last twenty years or more. All of them were as little as this one, and all of them survived. And if the Roost can raise flocks and flocks of dumb little sheep, we can certainly take care of one smart little girl.”

When he scans you this time, it’s clear you’ve given him reasoning that resonates.

He allows you to lift the lamb from his arms, watching thoughtfully as the little thing springs away past its mother and tumbles into some lupines head first. After it recovers and bounces a little more, you bring Joel’s attention to the trees a few hundred meters to the south.

“You can just catch the Roost there, see? The A-frame sticks up above the treetops. And that’ll be Willa at the porch railing.”

He squints. “How do you get up?”

“Retractable ladder. Tommy rigged it for us. You gotta be in it to win it. You’re either up it or fuck it. Ergo, if the ladder’s up, you don’t get in.”

“Huh. How do you get supplies up? Pulley?”

“Yup.”

“Huh.”

It’s a quiet ride back to Jackson, and you do your best not to look over your shoulder to gauge his reaction, like Orpheus leading Euridice out of Hades trying not to lose a tenuous chance for Ellie to spread her wings. It’s not every day a young person wants to learn the shepherding gig. Most of them want to stay in town near their friends, or are too afraid of the world to venture out. Ellie though, she’s been in the world. Observant. Eager to learn. Fearless.

The sheep could use someone like her.

You could too.

It’s when he’s busy unsaddling his horse in the stables that he clears his throat, and you let the curry brush lighter over your horse’s coat so you can hear him think out loud.

“Yeah that works,” he mumbles. “Think it might be good for her.”

Poking your face over your mare’s shoulder and waiting to catch his eye, you release the hounds of smiletown. “You’re right. And probably good for you too, Joel Miller.”

____

“Whoa, coooooool!!!” Ellie says for the fourth time on the ride from Jackson as she spies the Roost through the trees.

Over the past few family dinners, Ellie asked a million questions about this week–how to stay warm, where to bathe, if the sheep bite–anything and everything, even if it was common sense.

And with every answer she’d listen, enrapt, her eyes flicking to Joel now and then. It became obvious to you–although maybe not to the others–that she was asking not so much for her own good, but to calm Joel, signal that she was thinking ahead and covering all the bases, that even if she already knew the answers it might calm him to hear them too.

A little overkill. But the concern they showed for each other while trying not to be sappy about it was endearing you to both of them.

And perhaps Joel was calmed; maybe not so much by the answers you gave, but the way you gave them--calmly, indulgently, and with just a little bit of sass to show you could keep up with Ellie’s tongue and put her in a figurative headlock when she got too cocky. You caught Joel smiling down into his plate a few times. And at you a few more.

He’s got a good smile. It comes out more often now.

A duffel bag lands on the ground at the base of the Roost’s tree and your horses jump a little. Then there’s a cheerful trill from above, “I’ll be right down! Just packing up the wool!”

“No rush, Goldie! We’ll go water the horses while we wait.”

Ellie follows your lead you as you dismount to pull the packs off the horses–bulky with a week’s weight of food, water, and clothes–before climbing back into the saddle and heading off to the south.

“There’s a creek up here flows right down from the Tetons. Purest, cleanest water you’ll ever see.”

“Can you drink it?”

“Absolutely. You, me, the sheep, it’s for all of us. We humans boil it first, of course.”

Ellie’s nose wrinkles. “Seems a waste. I mean, if it’s coming down from the mountains it’s really cold right? We hardly ever had cold water in the QZ. It’s so good when it’s cold.”

“You’ll be singing a different tune when you have to bathe in it.” Her face falls and you can’t help but laugh, hauling yourself out of the saddle and guiding the beast through the pebbled creekbed. “Believe me, come summer, you’ll be plenty happy with how cold it is.”

Once the horses are watered it’s a leisurely stroll back to the Roost, handing the reins over to a tall, veritable Viking of a woman, stong-boned and willowy all at the same time, the long golden braid spilling down her back and curls springing out from the sides of her face giving her the appearance that she’s wearing a lazy albino scorpion on her head. Her blue flannel matches her eyes and clashes with her sunburned cheeks.

“Ellie, this is Goldfinch, our junior Roostling.”

The woman takes Ellie’s small hand in her long, sturdy fingers. “Maybe not so junior if you pull yourself up on board.”

“Goldie started with us about ten years back when she was around your age.”

“Ten years ago?” Ellie asks. “There hasn’t been any new shepherds since then?”

The Rootling shares a concerned look with you before you answer, “Well, there have been, but not all of them stuck.” And you put the question to rest by helping Goldie pack up your horse. “Shit, this is a lot of wool. How many did you do?”

“About twelve?” She answers. “I’m only taking ten worth. Left the rest for you.”

“Damn, you must have been bored. Ellie, can you hand me that duffel? Thanks.”

As Ellie brings the bag to you, she’s also scanning the thatch of forest where the Roost stands. “So she’s taking the horses? She doesn’t have her own?”

“Horses are a sign of civilization,” Goldie offers. “Especially if they’re on a picket line. And we like to keep it not so obvious that we’re out here. We’d have to keep them on picket or they’d just wander off back toward the gate an s hang out there wanting to go home and give away that location.”

“Besides,” you explain, “won’t need ‘em until we go back to Jackson. Safest place to be in the whole pasture is the Roost with the ladder up and a loaded shotgun nearby, not trying to saddle up to ride off. If there’s trouble, we can hold out the time it takes for a posse to come down from town.”

“Is there ever trouble?” Ellie wonders, just slightly concerned.

“Never yet,” you wink.

Finally there’s the ceremonial clink of the walkies, acknowledging that the leaving Roostling is taking hers home and the new occupant has one with a completely restored battery. “Patrol, this is Meadowlark taking over for Goldfinch.”

A few quiet seconds. A pinecone drops nearby.

Then a man’s voice from the speaker. “Meadowlark, this is patrol, we read you. We’ll be hitting east gate around noon today. Anything you need?”

“Nope, we just landed. By ‘we’ I mean me and a learner. New girl, Ellie Williams. Callsign Thistle.”

“Copy. Welcome to the Roost, Thistle.”

Ellie beams, then blinks as you hold the walkie to her face, and you nod her a nod of encouragement.

“Thanks…patrol. Uh…Thistle over and out.”

“Good job, kid,” Goldie says, hoisting a leg over the horse and taking the reins of Ellie’s mare from you. “Have a good week, you two. May your days be filled with storms.”

Once she’s out of earshot, Ellie turns to you. “Storms?”

You strap a pack over each shoulder and start climbing the ladder. “We’re in friendly competition with each other to have the most lambs born on our watch and shear the most sheep. If it rains it can be miserable work at best and impossible at worst and we’re less likely to make good numbers. So it’s an affectionate curse.”

“Oh. Seems cruel to the sheep.”

“What do you mean?”

Shouldering a smaller pack, Ellie starts climbing behind you. “Wishing for storms when they have to be out in it.”

“Eh, they’re happy as clams when it rains. They’ve got wool sweaters already.”

“I’ve never worn a wool sweater.”

Reaching the top, you wait for her to crest so you can see the look on her face when she does. “Then you’re in for a treat. It takes a lot to waterlog wool. Rolls right off. You’ll see. You’ll love it. And that’s not even mentioning the socks!”

“What does happy as a clam mean–” she begins, but stops abruptly as her face comes to the top of the ladder, her mouth opening in awe, rounding in concert with her eyes. “Whoa! Holy shit!!!”

The Roost as a whole isn’t all that large and can be crossed in half a dozen steps. Roughly a seven meter square platform, it holds a one-room cabin with a balcony running along the north and east sides. The windowed, A-frame peak looks out to the north pasture and the roof slopes just out and above the east balcony to shade it in a cascade of knotty pine. Windows wrap all but the west side, the interior wall of which has a simple built-in double cabinet bed with a single bunk running across its head above.

It’s this cabinet bed that draws Ellie inside, and you watch her slowly take in the rest of the cabin, with its rustic table and chairs–Goldie left a couple Indian Painbrush in a mug of water in the sun–the windowed corner with the soft, plush, patchwork pillow chair and a basket full of wool roving, the opposite corner with its woodstove upon a harlequin tilework patch of floor and the spare array of cooking tools on spiraled iron hooks in the knotted wood walls.

The honey dark timber stretches overhead to a peak, from which hangs dried strands of vegetables and herbs, higher up a set of snowshoes, a number of straps and ropes–a butcher’s hook among them, the one arguably ominous tool, meant to make dragging a bloated carcass easier…although it is rarely needed anymore.

Even though the Roost has become your home away from home, the fresh smell off the boards and the dust motes dancing in the sun make you pause and smile every time.

It’s just comfortable enough for two people, a generous hideaway for one, and your favorite place in the whole world. There’d been more than one occasion where you thought about asking Tommy to build you its replica in Jackson, but it would be a shame to ruin its uniqueness…and, of course, there were higher priorities in town.

“Is that where you sleep?” Ellie points at the cabinet bed.

“Yep. Or you, if you want. There’s a bunk. I’ll take whichever you don’t want.”

Bouncing over to the side of the cabinet with the recessed ladder, she climbs, pats the mattress, and frowns. “Why’s it all lumpy?”

“It’s filled with fleece. Same down here. It doesn’t feel lumpy when you sleep on it. Feels like a cloud hugging you. How’s the view up there?”

Ellie pets the bunk mattress another second or two, considering it, before turning out with a smile, “It’s–” but the smile fades when she sees beyond the four meter peak of the cabin and out through the windows for the first time.

Turning to face outward--to see though her eyes–-the sun is breaking fully over the butte, filling the valley like a warm, golden bath, serving up a green to the eye that exists nowhere else in the world. It never gets old and is beautiful from every angle, especially this view from the treetops, birds-eye.

Wordlessly she descends the bunk ladder behind you and wanders out to the balcony, resting her forearms against it, staring out at the vista, and you let her have it while you unpack the bags, situate the supplies, assess the woodpile, toss a set of fresh sheets on each bed.

Once finished with the settle in, you join Ellie where she’s drifted to the other side of the balcony, looking out at the north pasture where the sheep like it best.

After a moment she asks quietly, “What was this place before?”

“This land?” you specify, and she nods. “It was just this. A valley meadow. Native land.”

“It’s hardly touched out here. No broken buildings. No bomb craters.”

“Nope. This place was never really that urban. Even with all those people, some wild places remained. Some were actually sanctioned by the government as untouchable natural places, just to let the animals live and the trees grow. It was for everyone to enjoy.”

“National parks.”

“Yeah, that’s right. This was part of a park like that. But Jackson wasn’t densely populated. Didn’t spread as fast out here. We were low priority. No bombs. So many of us lived on our own land that when the governments came to round any of us up, we’d take up arms and hold our ground. It’s what my sister and I did when they came at our ranch. I think after a while military just left the area thinking if we all got infected it could only spread so far before it just finished off the population and had nowhere left to go.”

“Did it?”

“Oh it came, but it didn’t take everyone. It wandered in later, like everything does out here. Cordyceps are like a fashion. It spread in the urban areas first and made its way out here eons later. But there were fewer people in a lot larger space…and a lot more guns. It was easy to stamp out.”

Ellie’s not like most of the other kids in town who nod at your ancient stories of the olden times. To them, this is the world as it is and how it will be and stories of how it used to be are less than monumental, just a passing curiosity for aimless evenings around a fire. But Ellie’s attention reaches beyond the meadow, beyond the mountains, beyond what she can see. It stretches out in time and tries to divine the past and what might have been; she tries to calculate what exactly was lost and in what ways it’s actually better. A life she could have had versus the one that’s brought her here to this balcony in the morning sun.

A far off bleat becomes a signal for the reverie to break, and you bump your shoulder against hers.

“C’mon. I’ll show you how we do the rounds.”

_____

After a few days, Ellie is doing the morning rounds on her own, reporting in when she notices an ewe in a lay, keeping an eye out for cast sheep–“You see a sheep on its back, do whatever you can to right it, you’ve got about twenty-four hours until they die there of bloat and stupidity,”--and generally letting them all get to know her.

“You’ll need to take your time. Let the lambs come to you or the mammas get emotional about it. Treat ‘em light and gentle for a while. If the ewe sees no need to watch you anymore that means she trusts you and you can pet and pick up the little ones if they let you. But they start cryin’, best to put ‘em down and let ‘em run. Never chase them. You chase them and never let them come to you, they’ll run when you need to get to them most. Take ‘em some apple or carrot and they’ll be your friend forever. Squash and pumpkin are good too. Sometimes I’ll bring out a pocketful of oats. Don’t tell the stablemasters in town; they’d have my ass.”

By mid-week if you couldn’t find Ellie, all you’d need to do was climb up to the Roost and survey the green meadow for the contrast of her red tshirt and you’d spy her sprawled out in the grasses surrounded by a clutch of lambs and ewes. The girl was a sucker for animals.

Shearing went by faster with someone there to hold hooves and legs or just keep the lambs within sight so any ewe under the shear wasn’t kicking to check on her baby. It might have been Ellie’s least favorite part except for the evening time task of carding wool (“Boring”) and drop spinning (“Impossible”).

“Motherfucker,” she whispers, singing a song of hatred at the breaking threads on her spindle, throwing her hands out and taking a dramatic fall backward onto the wool rug she’s sitting on.

“Patience, young grasshopper. It’s not a fast skill; it can take years to learn to spin consistently,” you laugh in the warm glow of the lantern, your spindle wizzing as your yarn pulls at an even gauge, “and all you have out here is time. You’ll get it.”

“Grasshopper? Have I graduated from Thistle?”

“Nope, sorry. Old joke, before your time.”

Abandoning her work and rolling over to her belly, Ellie kicks her stockinged feet lazily in the air and pulls at the fibers in the rug. “There’s only one more day left and there haven’t been any new lambs.”

“Season’s slowing down some. They’ll be fewer and further between.”

“Don’t you wanna win?”

“Win at numbers? Not if it means the health of the sheep. They’ll birth when they birth. Besides, nobody’s beating Willa this year. Those triplets made that a certainty.”

“Whippoorwill’s name is Willa. Chickadee’s name is Addie.”

“Yup.”

“So everyone turned their name into the closest sounding bird except you.”

“Nah. We’re just not real clever with the names is all. Goldie’s name is Pam. We just call her Goldfinch because she’s a blond. Probably wouldn’t even have callsigns but that it makes it easier to hear over the walkie.”

“So what about yours then? Why Meadowlark?”

You smile. “Larks are songbirds. I like to sing when I’m out here. I’ve been caught at it so many times, I don’t even hide it anymore.” You belt a made-up melody loudly out through the open window into the night, “Isn’t tha-a-at ri-ight you wooly ba-a-a-asta-a-a-ards!”

A sleepy sheep calls back in irritation.

“You’re a weird lady.”

Ellie laughs begrudgingly, sits up with a grunt and starts picking at her thread again, squinching her mouth at the lumps. “So if I become a Roostling, I don’t get to pick my own bird?”

“I’m sure we could make an exception. Why? You got one in mind? Because left to us you’d probably be a red-bELLIEd something-or-other.”

“Ha ha. Fine. I don’t know much about birds. Mostly just pigeons in Boston.”

“Well fuck if I’m gonna call you Pigeon.”

The night’s starting to chill down a little and she hugs her knees into her chest, setting her chin on them in thought. It’s about time to close up the window and put a few logs in the stove, but Ellie’s attention wanders up and out among the stars.

You have so many questions. Were all the kids in Boston as stubborn and wild and foul-mouthed as her? Where were her parents? Dead, most likely, but how did she survive them? How did she meet Joel? Did she smuggle run with him? She’s a fair shot with a shotgun, but not practiced. Did he get her here all by himself? That takes a lot of luck and skill. He must care about her a lot to bring her with him all this way, to keep her safe….

“So it was just you and Joel out there for a long time, huh.”

“Yeah.”

“I bet you’re happy to finally have somewhere warm to sleep. Traveling during the winter would have been rough. Good thing it was a milder one this time around.”

She gives a pathetic shrug. “I dunno. I liked it. Just us under the stars. We looked out for each other.”

“Well, you have a lot of folks who will look out for the both of you now. And if you need someone to look after, well, these sheep could really use you.”

Unexpectedly, she laughs, something you’ve said keeps her in the giggles for a while. “One night we were camping and I asked Joel where he wanted to go most in the world and he said he wanted to settle down and farm sheep. This is kind of his dream. But then he said that he wanted to be a musician. Maybe he should be the one out here with you to watch sheep and sing.”

“Maybe. Does he have a tolerable voice? The sheep are picky, as you’ve heard.”

“I don’t know, he wouldn’t sing for me,” she squishes her cheek into her knee, giving you a shit-eating grin and a teasing sing song. “But I bet he’d sing for you if you asked him.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” you smile and wink, trying to hide your chagrin under a swirling cape of nonchalance. “I can be very persuasive. But...I don’t think Tess would like that so much.”

“How do you know about Tess?”

“Tommy has his tales. They were quite a little family unit for a while. I’m actually surprised she didn’t show up here with you two.”

This sobers her, turns her attention back out to the stars, halting her response. “She would have…. but she didn’t make it.”

A chilly breeze sweeps through the window, and you’re not quite sure if it’s the drop in the air or your heart that makes you shiver.

Tess didn’t make it. In the world as it is, that means one thing. You wonder what happened. How. If it was horrific–of course it was, you can see it in Ellie’s hardened eyes that it was–and how much it affects her or doesn’t. It’s so difficult to tell with kids these days. In the end though, it hardly matters how. In all the myriad of ways it could have happened, it would have ended the same.

You wonder if Tommy knows.

You suddenly feel ashamed of that selfish little spark of hope it sparks in you.

But while what you know about Joel Miller could fill a book, what you don’t know about him could fill a library.

And you’ve had enough time pass through you to know that a lot of patience and a little observation can go a long way towards preventing disaster.

Thoughts for another time.

“What about you, kid, hmm? What was your answer? In all the world, where would you go?”

But you’d already guessed, seen the longing in her face every night this week and see it now as she looks out the window at the silent silver satellite in the sky.

_____

“Ow, dammit! Just keep a good hold on her back legs so she stops kicking me!”

The lamb is breach and you’re halfway up to your elbow in sheep, trying to push at the little one’s one back haunch to clear the way for the other leg. Ellie, wide-eyed and trembling with excitement keeps letting the ewe’s leg slip and you’d be laughing if the hooves didn’t pack such a punch.

You must have seen a thousand sheep born and assisted in a high percentage of those in your lifetime, but this one manages to give you a new rush. It’s the morning you’ll be heading back to Jackson and you were afraid you’d go all week without Ellie getting to experience a birth. Here it is, and she’s just as thrilled as you’d hoped and all you have to do is make sure both the lamb and the ewe make it through.

It doesn’t take much–a little push, a little twist, a little pull, a little gasp from Ellie–you’re able to get both back hooves in your hand and the little one comes sliding out in a gloopy mess onto the grass. Your favorite flannel is caked with blood and you’ll have to go straight to the launders with it on arrival back in town…

…but it’s all worth it when the baby bleats the tiniest baa and Ellie giggles and clutches her cheeks.

“Holy shit! That was awesome! It’s so tiny! Can I name it? Like Snowball or something?”

The footfalls making their way through the meadow proceed Willa’s answer, “You don’t have to do that. The earth and the sky and the wind will name her themselves.”

Leaning back to acknowledge not only your friend and her arrival, but also a broad form following her clad in denim and gristle.

“Brought you a friend,” Willa smirks for the girl’s benefit, tilting her head in Joel’s direction.

“Joel!!! Look!!!” Ellie’s grin is so full she can’t even close her jaw, gaping like a kid who just saw her first Christmas tree.

Another tiny bleat escapes the lamb as its mother begins to lick it clean and Joel’s eyes nearly disappear behind cheeks and crinkles. “Hey there, babygirl. You have a good time?”

“Fuck YES.”

Willa extends a hand to help Ellie up and Joel does the same for you, taking care to keep your dripping forearm at a good distance.

“She did real good out here; you’d be proud,” you praise the girl, squelching her grin with a big, wet, slap on the back. “I’d love to have her again.”

“Aw, maaaaaaan!” Ellie reels in disgust as you dig your palm into her shoulder, really getting the juices in there.

“You just earned your keep, kid.”

This snaps her head around. “Really? Do I get a bird name now?”

“Yup. And I think I know what’ll suit you just fine.” In a short second of mountain time, the wind picks up just a little, lifting the brown curls around her face and the sun comes up behind her over the bluff, kissing her pink cheeks as you lean down and look her straight in the eye.

“Welcome to the Roostlings, Starling.”

____

You let them ride ahead of you, allow the father-daughter team to catch each other up on the week’s news, watch adoringly as Ellie chatters on about the lambs and how they tumble and bounce and how cold the water is and how the Roost creaks and sways a bit when it’s windy, which sheep were her favorite and how much she hates spinning wool.

Next time you’ll have to teach her how to knit, you think. She’ll probably take to that a little better.

And when he’s not giving her his glowing attention, Joel’s only report is that he started work in the new section of town, nothing exciting except the house was blessedly quiet for a whole week thank god.

She still has stories to tell Maria and Tommy at family dinner, repeating again some of the highlights you overheard her tell Joel, and new ones she just remembered. Your friends smile and listen, bewitched, time enough to give her an ear and delighted with the novelty of an excited young person at their table.

“Looks like you have yourself a new recruit,” Maria laughs. “What did you settle on for a callsign?”

Ellie tips her head back, answering through a mouthful of potatoes, “Starling!” and slaps a hand over her mouth when a chunk goes flying.

“Ellie, dammit, talk OR chew, not AND.”

Maria ignores Joel’s curse at her dinner table to ask you, “What prompted that?”

You chew and swallow, pointedly showing off the patience that the girl couldn’t muster, a blatant tease. “Seemed a good choice. Kid’s a sucker for the stars.” You match Ellie’s smile before you sweetly add, “And, y’know. Because starlings are loud and annoying as hell.”

That earns you a bird of another kind.

_____

Tommy cuts a good silhouette against the coming twilight as he lines himself up to the peg and explains for his adopted niece how to score a ringer in an after-dinner game of horseshoes. He demonstrates the looseness of the grip, the swing of the iron, and Ellie soaks it up like a sponge, eager to learn.

He’s a good teacher. He taught Maria…who is currently beating his ass. But Maria is good at whatever she does regardless, always has been.

You concluded long ago that it’s not your game. Branded it a Texas thing and took up your spot on the back porch swing with a bottle of cider, kicking off your boots and putting your woolen-socked feet up on the railing to enjoy the setting sun reflecting off the mountain face.

There’s a cheer as Ellie tosses and the shoe lands with a loud clang.

The porch door opens when Joel returns with a bottle for himself. But instead of rejoining the game, he wanders over to sit next to you on the swing, upsetting it enough to pull your feet from their perch.

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay. Pull up a seat, Joel Miller.”

Several lazy minutes pass, a sweet, comfortable silence filled with the occasional sip from a bottle and an exchanged smile as you push at the porch a little, encouraging the swing to do its thing. And he lets his knees go soft, keeps his feet on the ground but aids in a little gentle rocking.

“Thank you,” he says, finally, tipping his head toward his ward as she scores yet again, “for taking her out there. She hasn’t shut up about it since.”

“Yeah? What’d she have to say?”

“Went on about the lambs, complained about how cold the water was. Said she was tired because she liked getting up early in the morning to see the sunrise but liked being in the trees at night and wanted to stay up to listen to the night birds. Said you liked to sing when you work and the fact that she didn’t complain about it–and from what I heard the night we met you–makes me think you’re not too bad at it. Not too fond of your cooking, though.”

That earns a snort from you. “Well I don’t blame her there; I warned y’all. I wouldn’t say she’s the most obedient kid, but she sure is smart, and really capable and brave. That girl eats the world with the spoon she’s so hungry to know all the things all the time. And strong–she swings an axe better than me. Got a mouth on her–”

“Sorry about that–”

“--and is beautifully, brutally honest, and pretty fucking hilarious. She’s really special.”

“Yeah. Yeah she is.” Something like pride melts his shoulders as he watches Ellie joke around with Tommy, and then slowly evolves into gratitude as he turns to you, to someone who can see her like he does. “Funny, that’s what she said about you.”

There’s a pull to share in that pride and gratitude, to lean in and let yourself bask in the glow of the compliment.

But a wall goes up when you reveal, as kindly as you can, “She told me Tess didn’t make it.” As his eyes grow stony and deny you the pleasure of their focus, you chase after his attention by turning your body toward him on the swing, bringing a knee up and placing a hand on his forearm, gently urging him to stay here with you. “Hey. She didn’t tell me what happened and I don’t need to know and you don’t have to talk about it. But I do need to ask you one thing. That man out there might be your brother, but he’s my friend. And Tess might have been your lady, but she was still family to him. She was important to him. And he’s important to me. And I need to ask you if he knows.”

The arm under your finger tenses as his fingers grip the cider bottle and you move to let go–to let him know you’re not forcing him–but a hand claps down over yours. It’s now his turn to urge you to stay, to give him a minute, to let him bust through whatever is starting to well up in him so he can swallow and tell you, “He knows.” Another quiet minute as he stares out at his family on the back lawn, his jaw working to bring the air in and keep the tension out. “He knows. Thank you…thank you for… taking care of him too.”

His fingers flutter a little, scarred knuckles contracting and loosening like he’s fighting the instinctual urge to hang onto something. So you set your bottle on the porch railing and gently lift his away too, slip out of this awkward hold and instead shift his hand between both of yours, giving it warmth, giving it permission to hold onto you like it wants to.

“They’re my family, which means you are now too. As long as you plan to leave off your wandering and let us keep you safe and cared for, that’s thanks enough, Joel Miller.”

“Quit that,” he grumbles, clasping your hand in case you interpret his words as an ask for release, needing a stolen moment of secret comfort in the deepening twilight. “Joel’s enough. You sound like my mother.”

“Okay,” you compromise, trying to tame your eager heart, silently explain to it that there’s nothing here but the time to do things right. “Okay, Joel.” You smile. “Joel Joel Cinnamon Roll.”

“Shit,” he cringes, shakes his head slowly, stifling a laugh. “Now you really sound like my mother. That’s what she used to call me, how did you-- Tommy.”

��Yup.”

“I hate you both.”

“No you don’t.”

Ellie scores another ringer and Joel smiles. “No, I don’t.”

________

NEXT: SUMMER

MASTERLIST

SERIES MASTERLIST

#tlou fanfiction #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x f! reader #joel miller x meadowlark #ellie williams #leave off your wandering

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