#//back to the normal though and I am going back Into the marshes to learn the rest of the basics about blender >:3

[keeps-ache]

wha

[pineappleciders]

heyy first of all its me the fucked up dream anon (now going by dream anon how original) second of all ive decided im going to learn about south park purely through your work so can i get some tweek (ive latched onto that boy) and whoever else you want (probably the main boys) with a reader (all platonic ofc) who's got that #anxiety? thanks even if you dont do it <33

🌌🌟/dream anon

main 4 + tweek with a reader who has anxiety; platonic headcanons

A/N: haii :3 i apologize if this like, distorts your vision of the characters or something. i am so glad you are being converted to the religion of tweek!!!!!!

TRIGGER WARNING: anxiety disorders, light mental health topics, paranoia, panic/anxiety attacks, death mention on kennys part

stan marsh

i think stan has a normal amount of anxiety. like he's so regular. he's your average joe

like he gets anxious over tests, and giving speeches, and over wendy. other than that he doesn't experience it to the extent of a disorder

so it might be a little difficult for him to imagine getting anxious over simple things like ordering food and stuff like that

he'll try his best to listen though, although he'll probably try to kinda reason with you, esp if you're feeling paranoid or something

"dude, i checked twice, it's locked. relax, man."

he'll try to distract you, by playing games and watching stuff, and just generally kinda trying to be funny to take your mind off of things

if you're having a panic/anxiety attack, he kinda panics too at first, before quickly pulling you away and asking what's wrong. he is sweating very hard

if you're unresponsive, he tries to stay calm but is honestly considering calling an ambulance. like he thinks you're having a stroke

"shit, a panic attack? uh, okay, errr.... take deep breaths, okay? in.. and out. in.. and out. okay, that's good.."

he looks up grounding techniques on his phone and relays them to you until you calm down and catch your breath. he like sends you images off of google of the 5 senses technique randomly and says he figured you'd need it someday

he tries to keep your anxiety in mind, and might slip up sometimes, but for the most part he tries to be careful with his words and actions as to not worry you. he shows his care in subtle ways!!

kyle broflovski

he tries to kinda. logic it out a bit. like if you're feeling insecure he tells you how unrealistic it is for someone to think about one random passerby's appearance forever

he does feel bad though. he doesn't completely understand, but whenever he's feeling insecure he tends to get really anxious about people at school

he usually gets anxious whenever he's doing something wrong or sneaking out. like he's actually sweating and shitting his pants thinking about what his mom will do to him if she finds out

he'll encourage you to order food for yourself, to get yourself out there more, and if you succeed he'll pat your shoulder and smile a lil

if you don't want to, he might dramatically sigh but he'll do it anyways. cuz he knows how hard it is

i do think he'd get a little anxious about asking workers for help and stuff, but he'll be the bigger person... he supposes... smh my head...

when you have an panic attack for the first time, he's like really confused and gets super concerned that you're having a heart attack, and pulls his phone out to dial your parents or 911

"i'm here for you dude! listen- hey, listen to me. it's okay. can- can you-"

he tries to talk to you to de-escalate it, but he gives up and has his hand on your back, while looking up what the fuck to do

'friend havign panjc atgack what to do'

if you're okay with it, he probably talks to your parents about it. he doesn't really trust himself to be able to always calm you down, so he encourages getting outside/professional help

he does try though, and he'll always be there for you in different ways!! like when you need help with something or just need company to distract you, he's at ur door with his xbox 360

eric cartman

you can tell that eric gets a little uncomfortable if you're freaking out or feeling anxious. whether it's because he actually feels bad or just doesn't know how to handle your emotions, you'll never know

but either way, he'll probably just like. sit next to you like "dude, what's up with you?" or in other cases he'll sneakily slip out of the room unseen

he does try to be kinda logical about it, but that's solely because he physically can't speak words of comfort.

"i mean, dude, be seriously. nobody cares about you that much to notice." you speak such kind words eric!!

he doesn't really like it when things get serious, so he'll generally try to transition the situation into something more casual. like he'll try to ease your (his) mood by getting snacks and playing games together, or even begging his mom to take you both to KFC

if you have a panic attack, all of his alarms are blaring and his brain is screaming flight!!!!! flight!!!! run the fuck away!!!!

and he probably tries to, but when you notice him and call his name he physically deflates

he awkwardly turns around and slowly strolls over. "Y/N... heeeeeeey... what's up... duuude..." you can hear the strain in his voice

if it gets to be too much, as in you won't stop hyperventilating or can't breathe, he'll probably alert an adult or take you to the nurse or something. he tells himself it's because he doesn't want to be a suspect of your death

if ur having trouble ordering food he'll gladly take ur place and make a scene to get all eyes on him. "erm excuthe me they athed for no pickleth🤓"

other than when you're voicing your anxiety, he probably treats you the same. i don't really think he'd take advantage of your anxiety unless you were like. butters or heidi or something and he was really trying to get you to do something for him or just trying to. stick himself in your mind. because he's a narcissist and he loves that!!

kenny mccormick

he doesn't relate necessarily, but he definitely understands.

he lives a lot of his life in fear of his next death, and is constantly praying it be quick and painless

kenny is more of a reserved fella, but not really shy or anxious. so if you're having trouble speaking up or ordering something he'll step up and do it gladly!!

i think he'd be pretty decent at comforting. like he'll pat his hand on your back and speak assuring, muffled words

"mm, mmph mmph mmmph! mmph mph mph mmmfmf mmf mph mph mmph!" (aww, it'll be okay. i'll walk you every step of the way, buddy!)

he tries to take your emotions into consideration more, and grabs your hand and squeezes it sometimes if you need a boost of confidence. sometimes he forgets your anxiety and says something rude and feels really bad about it

when you're having a panic attack, he's honestly really scared and expects you to start foaming at the mouth or something

he'll hesitate, but he'll pat your back and try to help you with grounding techniques. the 5-4-3-2-1 in particular is his favorite, and he'll tell you how to do it in like a rlly sweet and calming voice

he's still spooked though, and gets you a water bottle and like a washcloth. he's incredibly thankful you aren't dying or anything

kenny is very good at comforting! sometimes all it takes is a simple moment of eye contact and seeing his eyes crinkle that gives you a surge of calmness you didn't know you needed

tweek tweak

tweek is no outsider to anxiety and stress. he's literally a living beehive with all that damn vibrating

to anyone else, it would seem like tweek had a severe anxiety disorder, or even ADHD. but it turns out it's just a result of his crippling meth addiction and caffiene overdoses

he tries to think about what craigs taught him, about grounding techniques and how to handle a panic attack, and tries to apply those for you

he's shakily take your hand and wrap you in a blanket, making you hot cocoa and helping you slowly come back to your senses

"okay, okay, what are 5 things you can touch? or- no- AGH! was it 5 things you see- hear? no, ACK! i can't remember!"

most of the time if you're feeling on-edge about something, his main goal will be to just listen to you talk and validate your feelings. he doesn't really make it a point to give you advice or try to be logical, unless you directly ask for it

he's great at listening!!! he also doesn't trust his own advice enough to say it to someone else.

he really tries to think hard about what comforts him when he's anxious, and so he tries to use the tactics for you. for instance, he tries to help you get into a hobby like painting to have a bit more control over yourself

hc that tweek loves to draw with crayons so he'll make little drawings of you and him as stick figures being all happy and give them to you. as a treat

overall he is very attentive, and cares a lot. he tries his very best to be there for you, and a lot of the time that results in you two just hanging out or gaming together, so you can both get your mind off of things for a while. it makes him happy to be able to be there for someone else like craig was for him

[everybodyknows-everybodydies]

Dear Ma,

I made it to Morrowind! Not the part where Mournhold is, but there’s lots of stuff to see and I can get there eventually. I hope you’re not too mad about me getting in trouble, I’m REALLY sorry. (Don’t tell Dexion I said I’m sorry though because I’m not sorry at him and I think probably he should get lit on fire more often to build character. I promise he didn’t even get hurt he’s just a big baby and a s’wit. You can tell him I said that part.)

I saw they have a courier’s office in the place they dropped me off but they said I have to deliver a package for them before I can send anything myself. I think that’s a weird rule to have but probably Llaalam just forgot to tell me that’s how the mail works here. I don’t think it’s drugs because it looks like pretty official Imperial business but they did tell me to be really secretive and discreet about it.

---

Don’t worry I’m not a drug runner!

---

I think maybe I gave drugs to that old man.

---

Ma,

They have guildhalls for the Mages Guild here too! I was going to tell them I haven’t gotten my recommendation letters from everywhere else, just the one in Chorrol, but the lady in charge here in Balmora was really nice and said I could help as an Associate! So I made a new friend and I’m helping her study mushrooms and flowers and stuff. There’s a lot of plants here we don’t have back home. I pressed one of the flowers we picked for you—I hope it stays nice in the mail. Ajira says this one’s called stoneflower. Do you think when I come home we could plant some in the garden?

Are you doing alright? Is someone helping you with the laundry and the dishes and the cooking? Is it someone nice? I hope it’s Helene. Remember you aren’t supposed to bend over because of your knees so don’t let her put the big pot under the sink. Ajira’s showing me how to use some of the plants we found to make this tingly salve that’s supposed to be good for joints, so when I come home I’ll make it for you.

---

It’s me again, Ma,

I haven’t been sleeping well because

---

I’m sleeping GREAT and you don’t need to worry at all about

---

I am getting the normal kind of sleep and food and they’re letting me stay here in the guildhall while I’m helping Ajira. The food isn’t as good as yours. I’m trying to get this soup recipe from them though because I think you’d really like it if we used some of the spices from the mudhopper stew. Ranis said I have to be higher rank to learn guild secrets (this is a VERY good soup) so tomorrow I’m going to see what she says I have to do to get promoted to Apprentice.

The old guy I delivered the package to says he needs help with something too, and I feel bad because he doesn’t seem like he has any friends, but learning about all the flora has been keeping me pretty busy. I think maybe I’ll ask Ajira if she’d come with me to see what he needs help with. I have to make sure he told the courier’s office that I gave him his package anyway so I can send your letters.

---

Dear Ma,

I know you said I probably wouldn’t ever be able to hear it but I think being closer to Black Marsh made something click? Sometimes I feel like somebody’s whispering even when I’m by myself

---

I miss you. I’m sorry again.

Love,

Your Hallie

[zoomzooomfast]

Style things in my SP AU

 so because I am normal about Stan Marsh and Kyle Broflovski I have a Bunch of headcanons around them mostly in high school and older that I haven't stopped thinking about for 3 weeks 

- Stan and Kyle are Both Bisexual and there TfT and Kyle is a trans man and Stan is Non-binary and uses They/He pronouns 

-In High school Stan Played Football and Lacrosse and Kyle played basketball and Figure Skated 

-Stan had a varsity jacket he just refused to own or wear it himself but he always had his partners waring them with Kyle ending up being the permeant owner once they graduated 

-Kyle dated Wendy for a bit in high school where Stan ended up having an executional crisis where he wondered if they were gay and he dated craig for a few months and then he dated Kenny for a bit after that. Then Stan had a mental breakdown to Wendy and Wendy told him if Kyle is cool with it we can be poly

-Kyle was cool with it and the 3 of them where together till Wendy broke up with both of them because they seemed better being just the two of them. 

-All of the core 4 ended up going to Denver for collage and the 4 shared a 3 bed apartment where even though Cartman and Kenny knew Stan and Kyle were dating they both came up with stupid reasons why they shared a room

-After they graduated collage Gerald offered to get Kyle a house of which he took up fast and Then Kyle and Stan lived together there for a while

-But Stans things that made Them fun in collage became a problem and Kyle was sick of him. Kyle kicked Stan out and told him if he can get himself together then he can come back into Kyles life

-Stan left South Park after that for 6 or 7 years just living in different places around Colorado 

-Kyle during this span of time got Married to a childhood friend Rebecca who no one in his family liked she was to quite for anyone in Kyles family or life to like her. They had there Son  Ezekiel “Zeke” Rebecca hated the nickname. The marriage lasted about a year and half after Zeke was born.

-The marriage ended when Kyle came home from work one day to find a letter from Rebecca saying that she was a lesbian and has been having an affair with a woman and left him to live her best cottagecore lesbian life.

-Kyle had a full mental breakdown with him ending up resining from his job and staying home most of the day high and drunk watching a box set of red racer that Craig gave to Kyle for Zeke 

-Luck for Kyle this around the time Stan felt like he got his life together he was a little shocked when they showed up to Kyles house to see his best friend who he knew as the level headed psychologist both high and drunk in a weird way it remined Stan of there dad.

-Stan instantly developed a connection with 2 year old Zeke. And because of that Stan knew he need to help Kyle get his life together starting with getting Kyle somewhere to go so he wouldn't just drink and smoke

-From Stan just trying to keep Kyle Sober and busy by just running around Kyle learned that he was going to have a second child and that caused a less fun round of  a mental breakdown 

-Kyle ended up working as a secretary for his dad till his daughter Tabitha was born and then Kyle felt the need to get back to having real job. So Kyle applies to be the elementary schools counselor which he got

-Stan very happily took up Kyles offer of watch my kids and you can live here rent free

-Shelia comes over a lot to help Stan with cooking and to just be able to talk to her sons partner because Stan would actually speak. The first time Shelia came over she asked Stan about an engagement ring and what season him and Kyle want to get married in. Stan was there was what where just friends we haven't dated in years. Shelia had to sit down and go back over everything that Stan and Kyle have done in just the past 11-ish months. and if Stan was sure they weren't engaged or hell even married yet given that Stan is in reality just a housewife

-Stans “Proposal” as just Stan sitting in a chair in Kyles living room asking if he could be Kyles “House Husband” and giving him a ring that Shelia gave to stan saying that Kyle would like it. and He did, Kyle also played it as very chill

-After Stan Fell asleep Kyle went to the kitchen and Sobbed over the Phone to Ike

I don't have the between of them Getting married and Zeke being 12/13 years so thats all I got 

[fruitcoops]

Hi!! I was wondering if you could do another fic involving jules and coops together? Just like sweet moments between the three? I loved the baby sitting series you did and could not stop thinking about it❤️❤️ Thank you!!

Yeah, of course! I love writing my boy at any opportunity. SW credit goes to @lumosinlove, but the relatives are my ocs!

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Sirius asked under his breath as Remus finally—finally—appeared from the mass of people.

“It’s fine,” Remus said around a forced smile to a middle-aged man across the yard.

Sirius hid his mouth by pretending to look down at the nearest casserole dish. He didn’t even know what was in it; nobody had bothered with labels, and everyone’s dishes were the same basic florals in different colors. “I love you, Re, and I totally get the whole ‘meet the parents’ thing, but this is a bit much if I’m being honest.”

“Honey.” Remus’ shoulder pressed against his own. “I’m sorry you’re not having a good time, but my Aunt Jen would skin me alive if I didn’t bring the man I’m marrying to the family reunion. We can leave tomorrow if you really hate—oh, no.”

“Remus!” a shrill, excited voice called. Sirius felt his fiancé straighten up as a tall, redheaded woman in star-painted jeans hurried across the grass with three other women in tow. She reached up and gave Remus’ cheeks a squish, then leaned in a planted a lipstick-stamped kiss to his forehead. “How are you, my duckling? Was your flight alright? Make sure you stay away from the salt or else your feet will swell.”

“Hi, Aunt Jen,” Remus said, grimacing a little at her rib-crushing hug. “I’m doing well, and our flight was fine. How are you?”

“Peachy keen,” she assured him. Dark brown eyes lasered in on Sirius half a second later and he felt his fight or flight kick in. “And who are you?”

“Aunt Jen, this is—”

“It was rhetorical, honey,” Jen interrupted with a pat to Remus’ arm as she stepped closer to Sirius and immediately hauled him in for a hug. She was as tall as Remus, but broader in the shoulders and hips; he had never felt so engulfed by someone. It was a strangely enjoyable feeling.

“Aren’t you a handsome one?” the shortest of the group cooed, as if she was talking to a particularly small dog in a purse. “Our Remus always knew how to pick them.”

Remus furrowed his brows. “Aunt Lisa, this is the first boyfriend I’ve—”

“But he’s not just a boyfriend!” Jen trilled, giving Sirius’ cheek a pat. “He’s a fiancé, something I learned from your mother. Not from your father—oh, I gave him a talking-to about that—and not from you, duck.”

Sirius bit back a laugh at the nickname and spared a glance to his left, where Remus had gone pink all the way to his ears. “Sorry.”

“Introduce us!” the shortest insisted, taking the other two by the hands as pulling them forward with an eager smile.

“Everyone, this is Sirius Black, my fiancé.” Remus gestured between them, and the four women beamed at him. “Sirius, this is Aunt Jen, Aunt Lisa, Aunt Allison, and Aunt Mary, my dad’s sisters.”

“It’s lovely to meet you,” Sirius said, holding a hand out.

“No need to be so formal,” the brunette grumbled with a teasing grin. “We have heard so much about you from Lyall. After those damned pictures—”

“Allison,” Jen hissed.

“—after the damned pictures,” Allison repeated with a pointed look. “I was about ready to drive up to Gryffindor myself and give that lousy son of a bitch a piece of my mind—”

“Allison!”

“—but Lyall talked me down and I have been waiting to meet you ever since.” She finished with a soft huff and gave his arm a quick squeeze. “Remus is a lucky boy to have you. It’s very exciting to see you in person at last.”

Sirius’ heart gave a happy little ka-thump and he smiled. “I’m glad to be here. Thank you for having me.”

“He is so polite,” Lisa said to Remus out of the corner of her mouth with a wink and a thumbs-up. “Good choice.”

“You know what I just realized? We haven’t said hello to Jules yet. We’ll see you in a few, yeah?” Without waiting for an official answer, Remus wrapped an arm around Sirius’ waist and practically carried him away from the table. Once they were out of earshot—and the aunts had busied themselves with one of the younger Lupins—Remus relaxed with a slow exhale. “I am…so sorry.”

“For what?”

“I had no idea they were going to corner you like that. I mean, I did, but I was hoping it wouldn’t be for another few hours. They tend to move in a pack at reunions, like sharks. Or wolves.”

“They’re really sweet.”

“They are,” Remus said grudgingly, though Sirius could read the affection dripping off him like his favorite book. “My dad’s the youngest of five, and I was the first nephew. You can imagine how that went.”

“Baby of the baby?”

“Exactly.”

“Can I ask one thing?” Remus nodded, visibly confused, and Sirius found he couldn’t keep his grin down any longer. “Duckling?”

“I hoped you didn’t hear that,” he groaned as they headed toward the kids’ play area beneath a large oak. “Long story short, it involved five-year-old me, a pond, and a sinus infection that made me sound like a duck when I sneezed.”

“Oh my god,” Sirius laughed, earning himself a light elbow to the ribs. “And the name stuck?”

“Considering she was the one that had to stay with me while my folks were working, she could call me whatever the hell she wanted. Please don’t ask her about it unless you want a thirty-minute TED talk about the ins and outs of my sinuses.”

“She’s a doctor?”

“No, she just overshares.”

“Sirius!”

Sirius looked up and saw a herd of small children racing toward them, led by his favorite person under the age of eighteen; Jules crashed into his legs and squeezed him tight around the waist. “Hey, I missed you!”

Jules propped his chin below Sirius’ sternum and stared up at him with the classic hazel-gold eyes that were far more common than Sirius believed before they arrived in the Lupins’ backyard. “I missed you, too! How’s the team? How’s Harry? Is he still super small or did he do that weird thing that babies do where their legs grow and the rest of them still looks normal? How was your flight? Did you have turbulence?”

Sirius thought for a moment. “Good, also good, growing normally, and yes.”

“Sweet! Come play cornhole with us!” Jules grabbed his hand and dragged him along the grass at the closest thing he could manage to a sprint with Sirius’ added weight—the pre-teen years had lent him gangly legs, though he didn’t seem quite sure how to use them yet. He looked more like a foal than a sixth-grader.

“What the hell is cornhole?” Sirius muttered as the flock of kids ran ahead to grab armfuls of beanbags.

Remus grinned. “Something I’m about to kick your ass at.”

------------------------------------

By the time the sun set, Sirius was exhausted. He had been introduced to dozens of people who looked just enough like Remus to be eerie, as well as plenty who seemed to have been acquired by one Lupin or another over the course of their life. Jules fluctuated between laminating himself to Sirius’ side and disappearing for an hour at a time, only to return more grass-stained and rumpled than ever as he begged Remus to swing him around by the ankles again. His ass had been thoroughly kicked at cornhole and freeze tag; it was a true miracle he hadn’t already passed out into a food coma. For all of his earlier griping, Sirius couldn’t think of a time in recent months when he had been more content.

“You’re a brave soul,” Remus remarked as they sat in the grass together and watched the fireflies wake. Though it was a warm night, it seemed the citronella candles littering the tables were doing their job of chasing off mosquitoes.

Sirius leaned his head on Remus’ shoulder. He smelled like grass and summertime and sunbaked warmth. “Am I?”

“Mhmm. I’m sure most people would have run screaming by now.”

“I like your family.”

A beat of silence passed; Remus rested his temple against the top of Sirius’ head. “I’m really glad to hear that. They’re weird and loud, but I love them.”

“And I love you.”

“Are you saying I’m weird and loud?”

“On occasion.”

“Asshole,” Remus laughed, giving him a nudge that hardly qualified as more than a gentle sway.

“Language, there are eight million kids around.”

“They’re busy.”

Sirius watched as small group run by in a wave of giggles, all clutching mason jars of fireflies with their names written on masking tape. “Thank you again for asking me to come with you.”

“Like I said, Aunt Jen would—”

“Remus.” He fell quiet. Sirius didn’t remember the last time he said Remus’ full name aloud. “Your family loves you so much. They’re everything I ever wanted growing up, and it means the world that you wanted to share them with me. All they want is to see you happy. It was amazing to finally meet them.”

“They really, really love you,” Remus said softly, his voice a little thick. “I had about twenty people tell me how wonderful you are. They all thanked me for bringing you, and not a single one mentioned the celebrity thing. Even my Uncle Jay didn’t say a word about hockey.”

“He was the one in the jersey?”

“I’ve known him for my entire life and I’ve never seen him without one.”

“Huh.” Sirius tucked his face closer to Remus’ neck and let the sound of the bullfrogs in a distant marsh lull him. “What time is it?”

“Almost eleven. The adults will be up for a while, but the kids will start crashing soon.”

Footsteps on the cool grass rustled to their right and Sirius looked up. “Who wants pie?” Aunt Allison singsonged, breaking their quiet bubble with paper plates and utensils. “This one is blackberry, but we have peach, pumpkin, and a few others on the table if you’re still hungry.”

“Just a small piece, please,” Sirius said.

Allison paused and cocked her head, then burst out laughing. “Oh, you’re funny!”

“I am?”

“Don’t fight it,” Remus whispered.

“You are a growing boy,” Allison said as she cut a thick slice and plonked it onto his plate. “And there’s no such thing as too much pie.”

I’m 26, Sirius wanted to say, though he held it in. “Just a small one for me, as well,” Remus said.

“Ha!” Allison snorted. “You’re already too skinny. Eat your pie or you’ll end up a string bean like your father. The NHL might have given you muscle, but it’s useless if you don’t enjoy some of your favorite aunt’s—”

“—woah, hey now—”

“—pie once in a while.” Allison kissed the tops of their heads once both plates were secure and bowing in the middle. “I’m going to make sure the kids aren’t poking around in the river again. Sleep well, you two.”

Sirius stared down at his plate as she wandered away. “I’m honestly going to die if I eat this.”

“Yeah, please don’t make yourself sick on pie. You really don’t have to eat all of that. The aunts and uncles are convinced that none of us are eating properly once we turn eighteen.”

“Really?”

“I wish I was kidding. You’re going to sleep so well tonight, though.”

As if on cue, Sirius stifled a yawn with the back of his hand and cuddled under Remus’ arm again. A familiar shadow bounded over not two seconds later and he barely held down a groan. “Hey, can I join you?”

Remus shrugged. “ ‘course.”

“Sweet.” Jules settled himself across their laps, staring at the sky with his head pillowed on Sirius’ thigh. “Did you have fun? I’m really glad you could come.”

“I had a great time,” Sirius answered honestly. Now please move on so I can take a nap.

“Mom and dad and me got here yesterday, and Aunt Jen kept checking the door for you guys even though she knew you weren’t coming until today. She was worried you wouldn’t like us, I think.”

“That was never an option, Jules.”

“Yeah, I know.” A devilish grin flickered over his face. “Remus is the weirdest of all of us, and if you want to marry him—”

“Get off,” Remus grumbled, shoving Jules’ legs onto the picnic blanket. “You know, you were a lot nicer before you turned eleven. Can I return you and get a new one? I have the receipt somewhere.”

“Nope.”

“That’s all a birth certificate is, right?” Sirius raised his eyebrows. “If you bring it back in good condition, I hear they give you a ten percent discount.”

Jules scowled. “That’s so not true.”

“How do you think I got Regulus?”

“Isn’t it past your bedtime?” Remus asked with a pointed look. “Run along, problem child.”

“Of the two of us, I’m the least problematic.” Despite his words, Jules clambered to his feet and dusted his hands off over Remus’ head. “I’m not the one that got a secret boyfriend and got engaged in a year. I’m so easy. Mom and dad want two of me.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Remus sighed as he stretched out on the blanket. “They had a second kid because they wanted two of me.”

“You’re adopted.”

Remus cracked one eye open in disbelief. “No, I’m not.”

“How do you know?”

“Because—y’know what, go to bed. Or go find the stampede, I think they’re by the river.”

Sirius whistled lowly as Jules scampered off again. “That was impressive. Isn’t your aunt over there?”

“Yep.”

Realization clicked into place. “She’s going to make him go to bed.”

“Yep.”

“You’re brilliant.”

Remus smiled without opening his eyes, and tugged Sirius down by the sleeve to lay next to him. “You’re just figuring that out now?”

The stars were brighter than anywhere Sirius had ever seen; for a moment, he was struck speechless by the endless rivers of sparkling white overhead. He stared until his eyes burned from dryness, then put his head on Remus’ chest and kept on looking. There was no way he could tear his gaze from it. A few shooting stars streaked across the clear sky and he felt his heart skip a beat in pure amazement when he realized there was nothing else he would wish for in that moment. He could listen to Remus’ heartbeat and the sound of his new family talking against a backdrop of the night, relishing in a full belly and cool wind, and simply stay there for as long as he liked.

[dansnaturepictures]

7/8/21-Return to Blashford Lakes

Today we went somewhere we hadn’t been for seventeen months and five days. A place that with its splendidly varied habitats which hosts a huge variety of birds throughout the year rare and common, and is strong for butterflies, moths, dragonflies and mammals too and was one of our most crucial and one of my favourite nature reserves in my late childhood and teenage years as I got hooked on birdwatching, wildlife generally and photography and I have always loved it since. Over the years there tended to be a barren spell of us going there over the summer as we maybe focused on more butterfly and other insect dominated locations this pattern developing into my working days a bit as we did come during summer holidays in my school/college days but all year throughout the winter especially this hub for wildlife has been a regular haunt for us for so long. But after that last visit on 1st March 2020 obviously Covid hit and the you could say main feature of seeing wildlife at this reserve is the hides, so it is a reserve good for piling into hides with lots of people looking at birds so obviously not good during Covid times. I have to say the team did work very hard to get the reserve open safely without the hides post lockdown 1 and we did explore the idea of coming back to enjoy this at a stage but due to one thing and another we sadly never quite managed it. But following 19th July the hides now are open with the welcome precautions still in place of masks to be worn and every window that can be opened.

A Black-necked Grebe that had been reported on Ibsley Water attracted us here especially today which we needed to see, and it allowed for this sweet reunion with a place I hold dear. During all the discussions of things you will do when lockdown eases or when we find our way to some kind of normal I felt extremely lucky as I have been able to do my main hobby still just because of what it is. But this was one thing on my list of things I wanted to get back to, getting back to places like these so hide dominated reserves. Prior to today since Covid hit it was only Sculthorpe Moor in Norfolk last September and an open screen/hide type area at Newborough Forest in Anglesey this June that I’d been to hides at.

As I walked in at the visitor centre side of the road entrance it was great to be back and one difference from when I last came here is obviously how vastly more interested I am in flowers now and other areas of insects too. And on the verge at the entrance was a lovely moth mullein which I took a photo of and tweeted on Dans_Pictues tonight one I learnt today. St. John’s-wort and yarrow adorned this patch of grass too and there was a lovely little deraeocoris ruber insect on the yarrow a new one for me which was delightful to see. A big thing about my deeper delves into flowers and other insects over the months has obviously been learning so much and it was the sign of the times back at one of my favourite nature reserves that I was only stood on a grass verge beside a road entrance to the site for two minutes or so and I’d learnt two new species!

I then proceeded across the grassy area to get to ivy north hide the first hide I went into in Hampshire since March 2020 and it was stunning to see the fields carpeted in St. John’s-wort, ragowrt and catsear/hawksbeard type flowers making it look deliciously yellow with thistle, black mullein, self-heal and others looking very pretty too. I took the first picture in this photoset of this area. I also liked seeing one of my favourite flowers foxgloves, purple loosestrife, centaury, wild parsnip, dock and Wood avens and Herb-Robert great woodland species that I hadn’t seen for a while still going strong with shadows of cow parnsnip as well throughout the reserve today. On the field area I noticed a beautiful moth flitting around which I got great views of landed on vegetation a smashing Treble-bar a new moth for me today which I also tweeted a photo fo. A welcome life and year tick for my moths and as my eighteenth identified moth species seen this year it levels (whilst I didn’t do a year list then, I worked this out recently) the amount of moths I saw and knew what they were in 2020 which I am pleased with. And whilst I might not ever be able to know every moth I see its more than justified me reinstating my moth year lists recently as I’ve seen more identified moths than dragon/damselflies and mammals two more year lists I keep beside birds and butterflies the main ones this year so far. I also did here today maybe my penultimate Big Butterfly Count this year with the survey ending tomorrow I had never done one here before and I saw three Gatekeepers and one Small White and Speckled Wood between the showers. A splendid Southern Hawker paraded over this area which I saw on the way out and back. 

I reached ivy north hide and among other things I came away impressed with how Covid secure the reserve is to visit as to save going into the hide if one wishes they have added a little open air viewing screen next to the hide which is interesting. As well as lovely views of ivy lake decent numbers of Sand Martins and a Common Tern parading over the water welcomed me back as key Blashford birds at this time of year and I’d not seen either for a few weeks now whilst having a really good year for them both. By the visitor centre I liked seeing some elecampane and mint in a very colourful flower bed area which I took the second picture in this photoset of seeing a nice bee on it too. Before spending some time at ivy south hide and seeing much the same wildlife wise to ivy north with Common Tern flying very nicely over and young Black-headed Gulls among the gulls out there and taking in some nice views I went in the woodland hide.

At this hide one of my absolute favourites with such intimate views available of feeding birds behind the glass where you can see them but they can’t see you as a shower came and went and some brightness emerged I liked seeing the memorable species of this area come one by one. Firstly a Robin one of some seen across the reserve today a fitting one as on that 1st March 2020 visit I took one of my favourite ever pictures I’ve taken of this iconic species. Then the commoner tits were there with Dunnock, soon to be followed by Marsh Tit coming to feed. Coal Tit and Chaffinch would soon follow as wood delicious looking Nuthatch. And I was stunned and got some very exciting moments when a dominant and large flash of red, cream and black arrived in the form of a Great Spotted Woodpecker (GSW). You can’t come to Blashford and the woodland hide and not see these, one of the species that has captivated me most at this reserve right from when we very first visited the bird of Blashford for me for so long with so many times waiting, watching and hoping and loving seeing and trying for photos of. I took and tweeted a photo of this bird, not the best in an awkward angle a little with it more so on the other side of the feeder than my side but having not been here for nearly a year and a half and how important the GSW is to our Blashford visits I was inclined to take whatever I could get if in the summer days when less birds come to the feeders with food available naturally I was lucky enough to see one. And whilst I’ve been so lucky to see and hear these birds a lot elsewhere since last March it was probably my best chances for pictures since this a species I did photograph from this hide on 1st March 2020 too so it felt so good to be back getting such a prolonged view of it. I rarely see many species on a feeder at the same time as the woodpecker they are that dominant but Great Tit and others did stand up to it and be on the feeder at the same time today. 

It was exhilirating to see a Jay and then another fly in displacing the dominant woodpecker and seeing a shaggy looking Jay especially dash past the window getting a striking view I thought it was going to crash into the window at one point. A spectacular moment and I loved getting pictures of them again this year today including the third picture in this photoset I have had a good year for them. Two standout moments on this trip today with two of my favourite birds. I took the fourth and fifth pictures in this photoset of the body of water on the way to ivy south hide and a lovely view of ivy lake there. 

I then met up with my Mum who had returned from a dog walk at nearby Rockford Common with Missy to end the day in the tern hide. There was no sign of the Black-necked Grebe for us as I arrived after a shower but I did see a lot else. This included an early Goosander, a key staple of a Blashford winter this female was something of an early one and we got a pleasant view of this distinguished duck I took the sixth picture in this photoset of this with my bridge camera which came to life in this hide alongside my DSLR for photos I certainly in summer days where maybe it happens less felt I got my fill of bird photos at this top bird spot. I loved seeing the young speckled Lapwing in the seventh picture in this photoset of a nice intimate view I got of this wonderful wader. There were many Egyptian Geese around too I got some stunning views of these including the one in the tenth picture in this photoset. This was my bogey bird this year one I struggled to see quickly which I usually see without too much trouble due to not coming to Blashford we didn’t see any until Fishlake Meadows and then Petersfield Heath Pond in June seeing an extraordinary amount at the latter with Ruddy Shelduck too. Seeing them all here today it was as though we never needed to worry about seeing one this year. There were top views and more photo opportunities of another of my favourite birds with Great Crested Grebe, and I enjoyed seeing gulls including Lesser Black-backed Gulls well. Another pick of the bunch on Ibsley Water was a sweet little Common Sandpiper a key bird for this spot, a third seen this year by me which has been great after RSPB Lodmoor and Stour Vallye nature reserve in Dorset over two days in our April week off of day trips. The top bird moments were set nicely to dramatic scenes as a further showers moved in and their were touches of sun as well looking over the smashing Ibsley water and I was so glad to be back at Blashford. Its interesting sat in the tern hide on Ibsely Water an area overlooked by the further along Goosander hide and Lapwing hide too, I saw Common Tern some more as well as Lapwing and Goosander. With the Goosanders mostly in over winter any terns the spring and summer migrants you would not see them together so this must be the first time I saw all three in a day which I found very interesting. I took the eighth and ninth pictures in this photoset of the views here.

An always likely sight in the woodland hide at Blashford greeted us when home this evening when a Sparrowhawk flew up from the garden and over the other gardens, appearing to have had a kill with some feathers left in the garden. This was so exciting to see. I had seen probably this Sparrowhawk hovering over the area recently and with the noise and numbers from the Starlings coming in lately this was maybe only a matter of time. Its another glorious Sparrowhawk in the garden experience which I feel over the moon to have a little collection going for here and my Dad’s house where I grew up. I liked seeing some new pretty flowers the bright red chrysanthemums in the back garden too and alongside nice other bird and sky views at home today it was special to see some Goldfinches including a young bird on the balcony feeders once more. What a brilliant Saturday, I hope you all had a good one.

Wildlife Sightings Summary for Blashford Lakes: My first ever deraeocoris ruber and Treble-bar moth, three of my favourite birds the Great Spotted Woodpecker, Jay and Great Crested Grbee, one of my favourite dragonflies the Southern Hawker, Cormorant, Lesser Black-backed Gull, Herring Gull, Black-headed Gull, Common Tern, Coot, lots of Tufted Duck, Mallard, Goosander, lots of Mute Swans, Egyptian Goose, Lapwing, Common Sandpiper, Sand Martin, lots of Woodpigeons, Blue Tit, Great Tit, Coal Tit, Marsh Tit, Nuthatch, Robin, Dunnock, Chaffinch, Gatekeeper, Speckled Wood, Small White, cranefly just inside the window of ivy south hide and bee.

[herenortherenearnorfar]

Final graduation ficlet (which got quite long). A-Qing lives (sort of) and channels ghosts while living out her fashionista dreams. Jiang Cheng is identifiable due to his clothing choices. Light violence and zombies. 

The best thing about living in Koi Tower is the clothing. Silk that runs like water between her hands, brocade heavy with embroidery, jewelry that chimes and sings as she moves. She doesn’t feel heat or cold, can’t sense gentle changes in pressure or even most pain. There’s still enough perception in her fingers to map out the bamboo grove and song birds stitched on her favorite dress and feel the whorls of gold and inset jade on her new bracelet. 

After the first impolite insinuation about their friendship Jin Ling stopped buying her gifts more excessive than those he gave to the rest of his friends. Ouyang Zizhen, who can describe the grandeur of Lanling’s markets so clearly she can see the hawkers and jewel-bright fancies in her mind’s eye, has been thoroughly scolded by his father on her behalf so many times that they’ve regretfully halted their shopping trips. 

Wei Wuxian makes up for it. He doesn’t have money of his own, but his husband is rich and lets him do whatever he wants, and what he wants is to spoil A-Qing whenever he’s in town.

He calls her cousin (biao zhi mei, an affection which makes several martial relationships familial and she thinks retroactively enforces at least two adoptions) and takes her places the boys are too scared to go. Good company though they usually are, they’re rich kids to the core. The streets A-Qing grew up on, back alleys and muddy side streets, are too lowly for little princes. They aren’t like Wei-qianbei, who can banter with street walkers and haggle with counterfeiters. His company is a welcome escape from the pompous brats in Koi Tower. Together with Wen Ning they walk the streets, wearing high collars and low hats for disguise. They sniff about the food vendors until oil and salt fill A-Qing’s throat and coat the remnants of her tongue. Wei Wuxian buys her trinkets, little squares of silk and jangling bracelets of gilt and enamel, louder and more delightful than the demure ostentation of the Jin. When she was young and dreamed of being rich she wanted bracelets up to her elbows, not “restraint” or “taste”.

At the end of every outing Wei Wuxian hands her a little parcel. “From your shushu by the water” he says, as if she has any idea who that is. They’re nice gifts through. Scarves and robes in fine cotton and brocade. There’s stitched florals and ribbons. She makes Jin Ling describe them to her and he reluctantly tells her about violet and turquoise geometric patterns, waxed pale into fabric. There’s one overrobe she especially likes— dark blue, Jin Ling says, with a cracking pattern like mud under the sun, like lightning, like the death lines on her own skin. She can feel the stares on her when she wears it.

The old men certainly stare when she slams open the door and begins tapping her way into the conference room, though she can’t tell whether it’s the crackling midnight robe, the green jade pins in her hair, or the fact that she’s here at all that has them so startled. That’ll teach them to try to distract her with poetry and fancies. As soon as the fine cultivator ladies, who normally scorn Koi Tower’s corpse, swept her away, she knew something was wrong. 

It’s bold of them to try to ambush Jin Ling in his own home. They’re going to regret it. 

“Xiao-guniang,” Jin Ling says, sounding relieved. A servant takes her arm and guides her over to the table, and A-Qing doesn’t snap at them. She’s learned to pick her battles. “I was just about to send for you. These kind elders have quite the suggestion for me and I wanted your input on it.”

“Is this really the place for a young... lady?” come the protestation. 

“My shibo thinks highly of her judgement.” Jin Ling says, leaving everyone to put together in their own heads who his shibo is.

That stirs up whispers. It always does. A Sect Leader, almost grown, consulting her? A corpse under the Yiling Patriarch’s protection, a barely civilized street rat. They might have given her Xiao Xingchen’s name (it still hurts to hear it spoken, still scrapes every time someone calls her Xiao Qing, though even Song-daozhang insists he would have wanted her to have it) and a backstory worthy of tears (’she survived Xue Yang!’ Ouyang Zizhen would cry, passionate and sweet, and Jingyi would add a story of her bravery so embroidered it was unrecognizable) but she’s still a parentless urchin. A girl. A dead thing. There are a dozen reasons she shouldn’t be here. 

Jin Ling has the full support of the Jiang and the Lan behind him though, and Nie-zongzhu always compliments her accessories. None of the other, weaker sects can do a thing about it. Politics is a lot like living on the street; the big people make the rules and everyone else puts up with it. The old coots make some noises about propriety, forcing chaperones and moderating the affection A-Qing and her friends can show each other in public, but they can’t get rid of her or mitigate her influence on their young ruler.

At best they can insinuate, and since Jin Ling started making eyes at the visiting cultivator from Dali those insinuations have had increasingly little weight.

What are their words? A-Qing signs, even though she knows perfectly well why they’re ganging up on Jin Ling in a side room. She won it out of Duanmu-zongzhu’s wife, who was sent to distract her. It’s amazing what people will say in the presence of a mute girl-- they think she’s deaf too and talk quite freely. You would think they’d be more careful, since she is, by their own accusation, a conniving abomination, but for all their fear they never quite take her seriously. 

“They had some suggestions about the salt trade.” Jin Ling is doing an admirable job of playing the mature diplomat. “Surely they can explain it better themselves.”

“We merely wished--” one of them starts stammering, and another one takes over. “We thought to inform Jin-zongzhu of the opportunity to centralize control of the salt market. The Jin, Qin, and Lan together hold most of the salt marshes, and Jin-zongzhu’s great-aunt ruling in Meishan mean he would be able to get the western brine wells to cooperate with a taxation pact. It would be very beneficial to both the sects and the merchants!”

“They want to put limits on who can buy and sell salt, and they’re willing to levy a tax to make it worth our while.” She can practically hear Jin Ling’s posture, arms crossed, defensive. “Xiao-guniang, I don’t suppose you have any thoughts on that?”

I’ve walked in salt villages, A-Qing replied, leaning her cane against the table so her hands can move furiously fast. It’s not a good life. Brine and heat. If they could only sell to a few merchants they would be underpaid. No choices.

(A maid helpfully murmurs a translation of her words to the rest of the room. Few people have bothered to learn the language she now uses, the one she pieced together with the help of her friends.)

Jin Ling hums. “That makes sense.”

“There’s no reason to hesitate on the behalf of some peasants,” a very bold voice complains. “Their state won’t be improved by empty sympathy.”

“They’re just boilers, of no concern to you Jin-zongzhu. We treat them well.”

Oh. Oh. 

She was going to hold back, for Jin Ling’s sake, but now she’s angry. Who of you is Hu Anshi? she demands, mouthing out the sounds of the name and punctuating it with the bracketed meaning (beard, safe, stone) over and over until it’s duly translated. 

Reluctantly, one of the many voices in front of her says, “I am, xiaojie.”

Even with her ever sharpening sense (honed by cultivation that she came into late and kicking) it’s hard to differentiate him from the rest of the horde of weakly pulsing qi before her. They all have ghosts attached to them, hovering resentment like a cloud about their heads. Rich men attract desperate hatred better than anyone else. But she thinks she can single out one fuzzy figure with a particularly heavy load of sins and a familiar tinged energy over his shoulder,

A-Qing takes up her bamboo cane and strikes it once on the ground. I talked to your ghosts, she signs with her free hand. They had a lot to say. 

That silences them. 

Jin Ling inhales sharply and moves closer to her side, hand grazing her sleeve in support. When she shakes her head he withdraws, leaving her alone on in the cool air of the Koi Tower, shivering in her fine cotton and silk. Shivering because she’s letting the change come over her, letting the whispering, angry ghosts attached to Hu Anshi’s back have their say. 

It’s hard to pinpoint exactly when she took up this route of cultivation. Mediumship is... frowned upon by the sort of people who bear swords and seek immortality. The common people like it though and before she knew Xiao Xingchen, A-Qing made the acquaintance of a number of temple diviners and spirit writers. Some of them even offered her apprenticeships-- blind girls made for good optics. Spirit specialists willing to take on a pickpocket without the slightest inclination towards ghosts were unfortunately untrustworthy by definition. She never took them up on the offers. 

Then she died and, like many of the restless dead, needed a way to communicate. Lan Sizhui played her Inquiry a thousand times in those first weeks, to ask her if she was comfortable, to field questions from the other giggling Lans. Eventually A-Qing memorized the song and began to play it on her own, tapping it out with bamboo against earth and fingers against wood. The spirit language, limited in form and structure, was easy to pick up and didn’t need a tongue or eyes. 

When you played Inquiry, ghosts answered. A-Qing didn’t mention the questions at first, just did her clumsy best to give offerings to those whose names she learned, to give justice to those small inequalities her late night listening uncovered. 

Wei-qianbei, who had what he called a “vested interest” in her wellbeing, learned about it eventually. He was the one who found her in Caiyi town (hidden from Lan and Jin elders alike while some ridiculous politics happened) fighting off possession by the little girl who’d been murdered two doors down a year ago. He was the one who helped her curse the wrongdoer, soothe the restless soul, and settle back into her own cold skin. After that he taught her Inquiry, and how to use the meditations Xiao Xingchen had happily guided her through to solidify her presence and strengthen her energy output. If she was going to get possessed, he suggested, she should be purposeful about it.

He didn’t teach her how to use her corpse strength to drag evildoers into the light. It came naturally enough and only needed a few suggestions from Wen-qianbei and Song-daozhang. 

After that things had sort of... spiralled. By the time she went to join Jin Ling, then Jin-zongzhu, in Lanling a few months later, A-Qing had found herself an avatar of vengeance for any number of unquiet spirits. The living consulted her too, when there was bad luck or poltergeists, hauntings or incomplete burials. 

As it happened, the highest halls of cultivation have hungry ghosts in need of justice too. 

She lived in the north, in a village with no name. A-Qing says as icy incorporeal fingers close around her neck. They were poor and made money by selling salt, because one woman could bring up enough brine in a day to provide a whole family with salt for a year. And it paid. Until one day the merchants came to town with you at their head. 

You have to give Zu’er, the maid who’s translating, credit. Even though the hand language drops lots of in-between words by necessity and requires creative substitutions-- earth for salt, sky for day-- she always picks up on A-Qing’s meaning. And she doesn’t flinch as smoke, hot and roiling, begins to peel off A-Qing, which speaks to her nerve if nothing else.

A-Qing taps her staff again and begins drumming out the song of opening, of offering. 

Under your guidance they wouldn’t pay them enough to buy firewood from the inland where trees grew, or rice from the flood plains that weren’t salted beyond survival. Salt worth a fortune sold for scraps.

So they starved. Working, salt crusted, they hungered and hated you.

Footsteps echo on the cold marble floor.

“Bar the door,” Jin Ling says next to her, mild and spiteful. Whatever spirit he channels in clan politics, it’s a vicious one. “I think everyone should hear this.”

So a woman took salt on her back and went to sell it someplace else. And who did she meet on the road but the merchants? Do you remember what you did?

“She’s a witch and a liar,” someone, maybe even Hu Anshi claims. A-Qing is too deep in to care. The ghost, who came to her instantly when she played Inquiry this afternoon, looking for answers about this purported plot to head a monopoly, is particularly insistent and clever. She’s been following Hu Anshi for a long time, too weak to strike, too smart to get caught by protective charms and spirit dispelling talismans. 

Now she finally has a chance to speak, in a sense of the word.

There is a complication to channeling without a tongue or eyes. She can get around just fine in this body of hers but spirits are rather less experienced. Without Sizhui or another Lan expert most can’t make their wishes known. So A-Qing has to get creative. 

As much as she hates to admit it, she knows who she learned this mean showsmanship from. Three years with Xue Yang teaches you a lot about drama. 

Cane held out like a divining sword, she advances, letting the spirit half sunk in her flesh and a faint memory of the room’s layout guide her around the table towards the bundle of quaking men. Like cowards, they scatter before her, not even trying to fight back (just as well; she can’t be killed but a sword in the stomach doesn’t make anyone happy). The ghost over her shoulder knows which target she wants to pick and swings about as frightened bodies swirl around her. Hu Anshi might be able to dodge but he can’t hide, soon she has him cornered. 

His friends abandon him quickly, fleeing to the edges of the room as she advances. When her bamboo strikes his shaking legs, she gives in and lets the ghost have its way. 

The problem with possession is that you have very little control. Locked away in the cool dark of her own flesh, A-Qing can’t even see what’s happening. Jin Ling is there, though, with his Clarity Bell, so she’s comfortable sitting back. 

She gave the ghost pretty clear directions; no permanent damage, show how you died. At worst she’ll choke him for a bit before Jin Ling snaps her out of it. 

For the sake of her friend, A-Qing tries to be subtle about her skills. Jin Ling helped her form her sign language, stuck with her even in the earliest days when the other frightened juniors were suggesting they report her to the Chief Cultivator, sent her long letters that Lan Jingyi would sprint down from Gusu to read out loud to her. He brought her here, gave her pretty dresses, listened when she talked about hungry children and towns that cultivators never visit. Listened when she talked about frightened female ghosts, begging for their lives, and murdered servants who have never gotten justice. Even his dog has been kind to her, has guided her through gardens and chased away bullies while Jin Ling sat in stuffy rooms doing grownup work. In deference to his family and responsibilities she doesn’t swear even when people act like bastards, she doesn’t run, she doesn’t summon evil spirits indoors without cause. 

Sometimes she wonders how long their friendship (bound by oaths though it is) will last. In the three years they’ve known each other he’s gotten tall and deep-voiced, while she’s stayed the same. By the calendar she’s a decade older than him but she’ll never be fully grown. A-Qing is a creature of boundaries, not a girl and not a woman, not living and not dead. Not a destitute orphan anymore but not made for places like this. 

More accurately, places like this aren’t made for her. It’s a shame because they clearly need her badly. Who else will give the ghosts and forgotten people a voice? 

When the Clarity Bell finally shakes the ghost out of her body, she’s throttling a man with exquisite delicacy, holding his warm and moving throat like it’s the finest china ware. This is how she died, A-Qing thinks. You strangled her and left her body by the roadside. You took her salt and sold it and her family starved. 

There’s a heavy hand on her shoulder. “That’s quite enough, I think.” says Jiang-zongzhu, whose voice she bothers to remember.

A-Qing lets the man fall to the floor, gasping even though she barely choked him. 

“I told you all to stop talking about your salt plot,” Jiang-zongzhu is shouting above her. “Now you’ve tried to convince Jin-zongzhu alone to go along with your little price fixing scheme? Pathetic. I’ve heard enough of it. Get out. Don’t ever bring it up again.”

There’s a desperate skittering that A-Qing barely notices in the post-possession fog. She assumes the room clears. 

“We’ll send the accusations of foul play to the local authorities?” When faced with his uncle Jin Ling always phrases orders as questions. 

“A good idea,” Jiang-zongzhu agrees. “Send some cultivators too-- it’s outside of our wheelhouse but there’s bound to be some resentment built up if a merchant syndicate has been running wild through the marshes. Where did you say they were active, Xiao-guniang?”

He’s always polite to her. At first it was a disgusted sort of politeness, a politeness that suggested that she didn’t belong anywhere near his precious nephew. Over time it’s mellowed into frosty gentility and the occasional hand on her arm when she’s lost. 

Qing province? she shrugs. South Bo Sea coast.

Signing proper nouns is like playing charades. For qing she points to herself (the words are close enough in pronounciation) for bo she taps her staff. It must make sense though because Jiang-zongzhu doesn’t even wait for Jin Ling’s swift interpretation. “That’s closest to Laoling. Qin Cangye has had a lot on his plate lately. Best to send a letter and some of your men.”

“I guess I should go do that. And I have to reassure the sect leaders I’m not doing demonic cultivation again.” A-Qing frowns and Jin Ling hastily amends, “You did great though.”

“Great is pushing it,” Jiang-zongzhu snaps. “You’re getting a reputation.” 

Jin Ling, whose voice is already by the door, isn’t impressed. “They can get over themselves.”

Then it’s just her and Jiang-zongzhu in the room. One heartbeat, one steady warm core. A-Qing turns to go, only to be caught by the arm. 

“Thank you.” Jiang-zongzhu says slowly. “You’ve been a good friend to him.”

A-Qing remembers the courtyard with the lotus pond, where she and Jin Ling and Lan Jingyi swore to be siblings in the eyes of the gods. (Though they love their other friends, they were excluded for practical reasons. Sizhui is already related to all of them and needed no further binding. Zizhen is a little in love with everyone and Jin Ling claims it’s bad form to sleep with sworn siblings, so for them to keep their options open he had to be excepted.) It’s a secret oath; Jin Ling doesn’t need the political complication of open sworn brotherhood. It’s still binding. 

I try.

Jiang-zongzhu always smells like thunderstorms when he’s stressed. Right now all she can smell is the cloying Jin incense and a sweetness of lotuses. “Keep trying. And don’t be afraid to send for me again if you hear they’re ganging up on him.”

As he lets go of her her hand brushes his trailing sleeve. In an instant her fingers graze over silk brocade and fine patterned cotton. The texture is familiar and she instinctively grabs the fabric to feel the delicate embroidery and the stiff, thick woven cotton that still smells ever so slightly of wax. She can imagine the patterns inked on, maybe lotuses? Greenery? The colors are definitely shades of purple, blue and green. 

A-Qing smiles as Jiang-zongzhu pulls away and stalks out. 

The best thing about Koi Tower is the clothing, which sits against her skin and reminds her of the people who have taken her in. 

The second best thing is getting to terrorize entitled rich people.

[cheese-greater-official]

The Great Gatsby .. I think antibucci Summary: Literally just the great Gatsby. Nothing else here. Absolutely no changes. Definitely use this for class, or reference. The Great Gatsby is public domain now after all. Anyways here's the totally unaltered and complete book of the Great Gatsby. I swear nothing was changed, most definitely. Of course credit to F Scott Fitzgerald for writing this commentary on both his life and the world he was in. A lot of this can still relate today, so keep an open mind when reading. Notes: I'd like to preface this by saying... This is really I mean REALLY just the Great Gatsby. I swear. There is nothing going here that is out of the ordinary! Nothing at all! Chapter 1 Chapter Text Then wear the gold hat, if that will move her; If you can bounce high, bounce for her too, Till she cry “Lover, gold-hatted, high-bouncing lover, I must have you!” - Thomas Parke D'Invilliers. In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since. “Whenever you feel like criticizing any one,” he told me, “just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.” He didn’t say any more, but we’ve always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence, I’m inclined to reserve all judgments, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of being a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild, unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought — frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon; for the intimate revelations of young men, or at least the terms in which they express them, are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgments is a matter of infinite hope. I am still a little afraid of missing something if I forget that, as my father snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth. And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes, but after a certain point I don’t care what it’s founded on. When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction — Gatsby, who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the “creative temperament.”— it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No — Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men. My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this Middle Western city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a clan, and we have a tradition that we’re descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch, but the actual founder of my line was my grandfather’s brother, who came here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil War, and started the

wholesale hardware business that my father carries on to-day. I never saw this great-uncle, but I’m supposed to look like him — with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in father’s office I graduated from New Haven in 1915, just a quarter of a century after my father, and a little later I participated in that delayed Teutonic migration known as the Great War. I enjoyed the counter-raid so thoroughly that I came back restless. Instead of being the warm centre of the world, the Middle West now seemed like the ragged edge of the universe — so I decided to go East and learn the bond business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business, so I supposed it could support one more single man. All my aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep school for me, and finally said, “Why — ye — es,” with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year, and after various delays I came East, permanently, I thought, in the spring of twenty-two. The practical thing was to find rooms in the city, but it was a warm season, and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town, it sounded like a great idea. He found the house, a weather-beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington, and I went out to the country alone. I had a dog — at least I had him for a few days until he ran away — and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman, who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove. It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road. “How do you get to West Egg village?” he asked helplessly. I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighborhood. And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees—just as things grow in fast movies—I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer. There was so much to read for one thing and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college—one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the "Yale News"—and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the "well-rounded man." This isn't just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all. It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western Hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. They are not perfect ovals—like the egg in the Columbus story they are both crushed flat at the contact end—but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual confusion to the gulls that fly overhead. To the wingless a more arresting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size. I lived at West Egg, the—well, the less fashionable of the two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. My house was at the very tip of the egg, only fifty yards from the Sound, and squeezed between two huge places that rented

rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on my right was a colossal affair by any standard—it was a factual imitation of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming pool and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was Gatsby's mansion. Or rather, as I didn't know Mr. Gatsby it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an eye-sore, but it was a small eye-sore, and it had been overlooked, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbor's lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires—all for eighty dollars a month. Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed and I'd known Tom in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago. Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven—a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savors of anti-climax. His family were enormously wealthy—even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach—but now he'd left Chicago and come east in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance he'd brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that. Why they came east I don't know. They had spent a year in France, for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn't believe it—I had no sight into Daisy's heart but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking a little wistfully for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game. And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red and white Georgian Colonial mansion overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran toward the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sun-dials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold, and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch. He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy, straw haired man of thirty with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining, arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts. "Now, don't think my opinion on these matters is final," he seemed to say, "just because I'm stronger and more of a man than you are." We were in the same Senior Society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. "I've got a nice place here," he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm

he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep pungent roses and a snub-nosed motor boat that bumped the tide off shore. "It belonged to Demaine the oil man." He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. "We'll go inside." We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-colored space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding cake of the ceiling—and then rippled over the wine-colored rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless and with her chin raised a little as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. "I'm p-paralyzed with happiness." She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I've heard it said that Daisy's murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate Miss Baker's lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth—but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered "Listen," a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way east and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. "Do they miss me?" she cried ecstatically. "The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath and there's a persistent wail all night along the North Shore." "How gorgeous! Let's go back, Tom. Tomorrow!" Then she added irrelevantly, "You ought to see the baby." "I'd like to." "She's asleep. She's two years old. Haven't you ever seen her?" "Never." "Well, you ought to see her. She's—" Tom Buchanan who had been hovering restlessly about the room stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. "What you doing, Nick

?" "I'm a bond man." "Who with?" I told him. "Never heard of them," he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. "You will," I answered shortly. "You will if you stay in the East." "Oh, I'll stay in the East, don't you worry," he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. "I'd be a God Damned fool to live anywhere else." At this point Miss Baker said "Absolutely!" with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. "I'm stiff," she complained, "I've been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember." "Don't look at me," Daisy retorted. "I've been trying to get you to New York all afternoon." "No, thanks," said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry, "I'm absolutely in training." Her host looked at her incredulously. "You are!" He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. "How you ever get anything done is beyond me." I looked at Miss Baker wondering what it was she "got done." I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. "You live in West Egg," she remarked contemptuously. "I know somebody there." "I don't know a single—" "You must know Gatsby." "Gatsby?" demanded Daisy. "What Gatsby?" Before I could reply that he was my neighbor dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips the two young women preceded us out onto a rosy-colored porch open toward the sunset where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. "Why candles?" objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. "In two weeks it'll be the longest day in the year." She looked at us all radiantly. "Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it." "We ought to plan something," yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed. "All right," said Daisy. "What'll we plan?" She turned to me helplessly. "What do people plan?" Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her little finger. "Look!" she complained. "I hurt it." We all looked—the knuckle was black and blue. "You did it, Tom," she said accusingly. "I know you didn't mean to but you did do it. That's what I get for marrying a brute of a man, a great big hulking physical specimen of a—" "I hate that word hulking," objected Tom crossly, "even in kidding." "Hulking," insisted Daisy. Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once, unobtrusively and with a bantering inconsequence that was never quite chatter, that was as cool as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes in the absence of all desire. They were here—and they accepted Tom and me, making only a polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. They knew that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening too would be over and casually put away. It was sharply different from the West where an evening was hurried from phase to phase toward its close in a continually disappointed anticipation or else in sheer nervous dread of the moment itself. "You make me feel uncivilized, Daisy," I confessed on my second glass of corky but rather impressive claret. "Can't you talk about crops or something?" I meant nothing in particular by this remark but it was taken up in an unexpected way. "Civilization's going to pieces," broke out Tom violently. "I've gotten to be a terrible pessimist about things. Have you read 'The

Rise of the Coloured Empires' by this man Goddard?" "Why, no," I answered, rather surprised by his tone. "Well, it's a fine book, and everybody ought to read it. The idea is if we don't look out the white race will be—will be utterly submerged. It's all scientific stuff; it's been proved." "Tom's getting very profound," said Daisy with an expression of unthoughtful sadness. "He reads deep books with long words in them. What was that word we—" "Well, these books are all scientific," insisted Tom, glancing at her impatiently. "This fellow has worked out the whole thing. It's up to us who are the dominant race to watch out or these other races will have control of things." "We've got to beat them down," whispered Daisy, winking ferociously toward the fervent sun. "You ought to live in California—" began Miss Baker but Tom interrupted her by shifting heavily in his chair. "This idea is that we're Nordics. I am, and you are and you are and—" After an infinitesimal hesitation he included Daisy with a slight nod and she winked at me again. "—and we've produced all the things that go to make civilization—oh, science and art and all that. Do you see?" There was something pathetic in his concentration as if his complacency, more acute than of old, was not enough to him any more. When, almost immediately, the telephone rang inside and the butler left the porch Daisy seized upon the momentary interruption and leaned toward me. "I'll tell you a family secret," she whispered enthusiastically. "It's about the butler's nose. Do you want to hear about the butler's nose?" "That's why I came over tonight." "Well, he wasn't always a butler; he used to be the silver polisher for some people in New York that had a silver service for two hundred people. He had to polish it from morning till night until finally it began to affect his nose—" "Things went from bad to worse," suggested Miss Baker. "Yes. Things went from bad to worse until finally he had to give up his position." For a moment the last sunshine fell with romantic affection upon her glowing face; her voice compelled me forward breathlessly as I listened—then the glow faded, each light deserting her with lingering regret like children leaving a pleasant street at dusk. The butler came back and murmured something close to Tom's ear whereupon Tom frowned, pushed back his chair and without a word went inside. As if his absence quickened something within her Daisy leaned forward again, her voice glowing and singing. "I love to see you at my table, Nick. You remind me of a—of a rose, an absolute rose. Doesn't he?" She turned to Miss Baker for confirmation. "An absolute rose?" This was untrue. I am not even faintly like a rose. She was only extemporizing but a stirring warmth flowed from her as if her heart was trying to come out to you concealed in one of those breathless, thrilling words. Then suddenly she threw her napkin on the table and excused herself and went into the house. Miss Baker and I exchanged a short glance consciously devoid of meaning. I was about to speak when she sat up alertly and said "Sh!" in a warning voice. A subdued impassioned murmur was audible in the room beyond and Miss Baker leaned forward, unashamed, trying to hear. The murmur trembled on the verge of coherence, sank down, mounted excitedly, and then ceased altogether. "This Mr. Gatsby you spoke of is my neighbor—" I said. "Don't talk. I want to hear what happens." "Is something happening?" I inquired innocently. "You mean to say you don't know?" said Miss Baker, honestly surprised. "I thought everybody knew." "I don't." "Why—" she said hesitantly, "Tom's got some woman in New York." "Got some woman?" I repeated blankly. Miss Baker nodded. "She might have the decency not to telephone him at dinner-time. Don't you think?" Almost before I had grasped her meaning there was the flutter of a dress and the crunch of leather boots and Tom and Daisy were back at the table. "It couldn't be helped!" cried Daisy with tense gayety. She sat down, glanced searchingly at Miss Baker and then at me and continued: "I looked

outdoors for a minute and it's very romantic outdoors. There's a bird on the lawn that I think must be a nightingale come over on the Cunard or White Star Line. He's singing away—" her voice sang "—It's romantic, isn't it, Tom?" "Very romantic," he said, and then miserably to me: "If it's light enough after dinner I want to take you down to the stables." The telephone rang inside, startlingly, and as Daisy shook her head decisively at Tom the subject of the stables, in fact all subjects, vanished into air. Among the broken fragments of the last five minutes at table I remember the candles being lit again, pointlessly, and I was conscious of wanting to look squarely at every one and yet to avoid all eyes. I couldn't guess what Daisy and Tom were thinking but I doubt if even Miss Baker who seemed to have mastered a certain hardy skepticism was able utterly to put this fifth guest's shrill metallic urgency out of mind. To a certain temperament the situation might have seemed intriguing—my own instinct was to telephone immediately for the police. The horses, needless to say, were not mentioned again. Tom and Miss Baker, with several feet of twilight between them strolled back into the library, as if to a vigil beside a perfectly tangible body, while trying to look pleasantly interested and a little deaf I followed Daisy around a chain of connecting verandas to the porch in front. In its deep gloom we sat down side by side on a wicker settee. Daisy took her face in her hands, as if feeling its lovely shape, and her eyes moved gradually out into the velvet dusk. I saw that turbulent emotions possessed her, so I asked what I thought would be some sedative questions about her little girl. "We don't know each other very well, Nick," she said suddenly. "Even if we are cousins. You didn't come to my wedding." "I wasn't back from the war." "That's true." She hesitated. "Well, I've had a very bad time, Nick, and I'm pretty cynical about everything." Evidently she had reason to be. I waited but she didn't say any more, and after a moment I returned rather feebly to the subject of her daughter. "I suppose she talks, and—eats, and everything." "Oh, yes." She looked at me absently. "Listen, Nick; let me tell you what I said when she was born. Would you like to hear?" "Very much." "It'll show you how I've gotten to feel about—things. Well, she was less than an hour old and Tom was God knows where. I woke up out of the ether with an utterly abandoned feeling and asked the nurse right away if it was a boy or a girl. She told me it was a girl, and so I turned my head away and wept. 'All right,' I said, 'I'm glad it's a girl. And I hope she'll be a fool—that's the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool." "You see I think everything's terrible anyhow," she went on in a convinced way. "Everybody thinks so—the most advanced people. And I know. I've been everywhere and seen everything and done everything." Her eyes flashed around her in a defiant way, rather like Tom's, and she laughed with thrilling scorn. "Sophisticated—God, I'm sophisticated!" The instant her voice broke off, ceasing to compel my attention, my belief, I felt the basic insincerity of what she had said. It made me uneasy, as though the whole evening had been a trick of some sort to exact a contributory emotion from me. I waited, and sure enough, in a moment she looked at me with an absolute smirk on her lovely face as if she had asserted her membership in a rather distinguished secret society to which she and Tom belonged. Inside, the crimson room bloomed with light. Tom and Miss Baker sat at either end of the long couch and she read aloud to him from the "Saturday Evening Post"—the words, murmurous and uninflected, running together in a soothing tune. The lamp-light, bright on his boots and dull on the autumn-leaf yellow of her hair, glinted along the paper as she turned a page with a flutter of slender muscles in her arms. When we came in she held us silent for a moment with a lifted hand. "To be continued," she said, tossing the magazine on the table,

"in our very next issue." Her body asserted itself with a restless movement of her knee, and she stood up. "Ten o'clock," she remarked, apparently finding the time on the ceiling. "Time for this good girl to go to bed." "Jordan's going to play in the tournament tomorrow," explained Daisy, "over at Westchester." "Oh,—you're Jordan Baker." I knew now why her face was familiar—its pleasing contemptuous expression had looked out at me from many rotogravure pictures of the sporting life at Asheville and Hot Springs and Palm Beach. I had heard some story of her too, a critical, unpleasant story, but what it was I had forgotten long ago. "Good night," she said softly. "Wake me at eight, won't you." "If you'll get up." "I will. Good night, Mr. Carraway. See you anon." "Of course you will," confirmed Daisy. "In fact I think I'll arrange a marriage. Come over often, Nick, and I'll sort of—oh—fling you together. You know—lock you up accidentally in linen closets and push you out to sea in a boat, and all that sort of thing—" "Good night," called Miss Baker from the stairs. "I haven't heard a word." "She's a nice girl," said Tom after a moment. "They oughtn't to let her run around the country this way." "Who oughtn't to?" inquired Daisy coldly. "Her family." "Her family is one aunt about a thousand years old. Besides, Nick's going to look after her, aren't you, Nick? She's going to spend lots of week-ends out here this summer. I think the home influence will be very good for her." Daisy and Tom looked at each other for a moment in silence. "Is she from New York?" I asked quickly. "From Louisville. Our white girlhood was passed together there. Our beautiful white—" "Did you give Nick a little heart to heart talk on the veranda?" demanded Tom suddenly. "Did I?" She looked at me. "I can't seem to remember, but I think we talked about the Nordic race. Yes, I'm sure we did. It sort of crept up on us and first thing you know—" "Don't believe everything you hear, Nick," he advised me. I said lightly that I had heard nothing at all, and a few minutes later I got up to go home. They came to the door with me and stood side by side in a cheerful square of light. As I started my motor Daisy peremptorily called "Wait! "I forgot to ask you something, and it's important. We heard you were engaged to a girl out West." "That's right," corroborated Tom kindly. "We heard that you were engaged." "It's libel. I'm too poor." "But we heard it," insisted Daisy, surprising me by opening up again in a flower-like way. "We heard it from three people so it must be true." Of course I knew what they were referring to, but I wasn't even vaguely engaged. The fact that gossip had published the banns was one of the reasons I had come east. You can't stop going with an old friend on account of rumors and on the other hand I had no intention of being rumored into marriage. Their interest rather touched me and made them less remotely rich—nevertheless, I was confused and a little disgusted as I drove away. It seemed to me that the thing for Daisy to do was to rush out of the house, child in arms—but apparently there were no such intentions in her head. As for Tom, the fact that he "had some woman in New York" was really less surprising than that he had been depressed by a book. Something was making him nibble at the edge of stale ideas as if his sturdy physical egotism no longer nourished his peremptory heart. Already it was deep summer on roadhouse roofs and in front of wayside garages, where new red gas-pumps sat out in pools of light, and when I reached my estate at West Egg I ran the car under its shed and sat for a while on an abandoned grass roller in the yard. The wind had blown off, leaving a loud bright night with wings beating in the trees and a persistent organ sound as the full bellows of the earth blew the frogs full of life. The silhouette of a moving cat wavered across the moonlight and turning my head to watch it I saw that I was not alone—fifty feet away a figure had emerged from the shadow of my neighbor's mansion and was standing with his hands in

his pockets regarding the silver pepper of the stars. Something in his leisurely movements and the secure position of his feet upon the lawn suggested that it was Mr. Gatsby himself, come out to determine what share was his of our local heavens. I decided to call to him. Miss Baker had mentioned him at dinner, and that would do for an introduction. But I didn't call to him for he gave a sudden intimation that he was content to be alone—he stretched out his arms toward the dark water in a curious way, and far as I was from him I could have sworn he was trembling. Involuntarily I glanced seaward—and distinguished nothing except a single green light, minute and far away, that might have been the end of a dock. When I looked once more for Gatsby he had vanished, and I was alone again in the unquiet darkness. Chapter 2 Summary: Just chapter 2 of the Great Gatsby Notes: (See the end of the chapter for notes.) Chapter Text About half way between West Egg and New York the motor-road hastily joins the railroad and runs beside it for a quarter of a mile, so as to shrink away from a certain desolate area of land. This is a valley of ashes—a fantastic farm where ashes grow like wheat into ridges and hills and grotesque gardens where ashes take the forms of houses and chimneys and rising smoke and finally, with a transcendent effort, of men who move dimly and already crumbling through the powdery air. Occasionally a line of grey cars crawls along an invisible track, gives out a ghastly creak and comes to rest, and immediately the ash-grey men swarm up with leaden spades and stir up an impenetrable cloud which screens their obscure operations from your sight. But above the grey land and the spasms of bleak dust which drift endlessly over it, you perceive, after a moment, the eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg. The eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg are blue and gigantic—their retinas are one yard high. They look out of no face but, instead, from a pair of enormous yellow spectacles which pass over a nonexistent nose. Evidently some wild wag of an oculist set them there to fatten his practice in the borough of Queens, and then sank down himself into eternal blindness or forgot them and moved away. But his eyes, dimmed a little by many paintless days under sun and rain, brood on over the solemn dumping ground. The valley of ashes is bounded on one side by a small foul river, and when the drawbridge is up to let barges through, the passengers on waiting trains can stare at the dismal scene for as long as half an hour. There is always a halt there of at least a minute and it was because of this that I first met Tom Buchanan's mistress. The fact that he had one was insisted upon wherever he was known. His acquaintances resented the fact that he turned up in popular restaurants with her and, leaving her at a table, sauntered about, chatting with whomsoever he knew. Though I was curious to see her I had no desire to meet her—but I did. I went up to New York with Tom on the train one afternoon and when we stopped by the ashheaps he jumped to his feet and taking hold of my elbow literally forced me from the car. "We're getting off!" he insisted. "I want you to meet my girl." I think he'd tanked up a good deal at luncheon and his determination to have my company bordered on violence. The supercilious assumption was that on Sunday afternoon I had nothing better to do. I followed him over a low white-washed railroad fence and we walked back a hundred yards along the road under Doctor Eckleburg's persistent stare. The only building in sight was a small block of yellow brick sitting on the edge of the waste land, a sort of compact Main Street ministering to it and contiguous to absolutely nothing. One of the three shops it contained was for rent and another was an all-night restaurant approached by a trail of ashes; the third was a garage—Repairs. GEORGE B. WILSON. Cars Bought and Sold—and I followed Tom inside. The interior was unprosperous and bare; the only car visible was the dust-covered wreck of a Ford which crouched in a dim corner. It had occurred

to me that this shadow of a garage must be a blind and that sumptuous and romantic apartments were concealed overhead when the proprietor himself appeared in the door of an office, wiping his hands on a piece of waste. He was a blonde, spiritless man, anaemic, and faintly handsome. When he saw us a damp gleam of hope sprang into his light blue eyes. "Hello, Wilson, old man," said Tom, slapping him jovially on the shoulder. "How's business?" "I can't complain," answered Wilson unconvincingly. "When are you going to sell me that car?" "Next week; I've got my man working on it now." "Works pretty slow, don't he?" "No, he doesn't," said Tom coldly. "And if you feel that way about it, maybe I'd better sell it somewhere else after all." "I don't mean that," explained Wilson quickly. "I just meant—" His voice faded off and Tom glanced impatiently around the garage. Then I heard footsteps on a stairs and in a moment the thickish figure of a woman blocked out the light from the office door. She was in the middle thirties, and faintly stout, but she carried her surplus flesh sensuously as some women can. Her face, above a spotted dress of dark blue crepe-de-chine, contained no facet or gleam of beauty but there was an immediately perceptible vitality about her as if the nerves of her body were continually smouldering. She smiled slowly and walking through her husband as if he were a ghost shook hands with Tom, looking him flush in the eye. Then she wet her lips and without turning around spoke to her husband in a soft, coarse voice: "Get some chairs, why don't you, so somebody can sit down." "Oh, sure," agreed Wilson hurriedly and went toward the little office, mingling immediately with the cement color of the walls. A white ashen dust veiled his dark suit and his pale hair as it veiled everything in the vicinity—except his wife, who moved close to Tom. "I want to see you," said Tom intently. "Get on the next train." "All right." "I'll meet you by the news-stand on the lower level." She nodded and moved away from him just as George Wilson emerged with two chairs from his office door. We waited for her down the road and out of sight. It was a few days before the Fourth of July, and a grey, scrawny Italian child was setting torpedoes in a row along the railroad track. "Terrible place, isn't it," said Tom, exchanging a frown with Doctor Eckleburg. "Awful." "It does her good to get away." "Doesn't her husband object?" "Wilson? He thinks she goes to see her sister in New York. He's so dumb he doesn't know he's alive." So Tom Buchanan and his girl and I went up together to New York—or not quite together, for Mrs. Wilson sat discreetly in another car. Tom deferred that much to the sensibilities of those East Eggers who might be on the train. She had changed her dress to a brown figured muslin which stretched tight over her rather wide hips as Tom helped her to the platform in New York. At the news-stand she bought a copy of "Town Tattle" and a moving-picture magazine and, in the station drug store, some cold cream and a small flask of perfume. Upstairs, in the solemn echoing drive she let four taxi cabs drive away before she selected a new one, lavender-colored with grey upholstery, and in this we slid out from the mass of the station into the glowing sunshine. But immediately she turned sharply from the window and leaning forward tapped on the front glass. "I want to get one of those dogs," she said earnestly. "I want to get one for the apartment. They're nice to have—a dog." We backed up to a grey old man who bore an absurd resemblance to John D. Rockefeller. In a basket, swung from his neck, cowered a dozen very recent puppies of an indeterminate breed. "What kind are they?" asked Mrs. Wilson eagerly as he came to the taxi-window. "All kinds. What kind do you want, lady?" "I'd like to get one of those police dogs; I don't suppose you got that kind?" The man peered doubtfully into the basket, plunged in his hand and drew one up, wriggling, by the back of the neck. "That's no police dog," said Tom. "No, it's not exactly a police dog,"

" said the man with disappointment in his voice. "It's more of an airedale." He passed his hand over the brown wash-rag of a back. "Look at that coat. Some coat. That's a dog that'll never bother you with catching cold." "I think it's cute," said Mrs. Wilson enthusiastically. "How much is it?" "That dog?" He looked at it admiringly. "That dog will cost you ten dollars." The airedale—undoubtedly there was an airedale concerned in it somewhere though its feet were startlingly white—changed hands and settled down into Mrs. Wilson's lap, where she fondled the weather-proof coat with rapture. "Is it a boy or a girl?" she asked delicately. "That dog? That dog's a boy." "It's a bitch," said Tom decisively. "Here's your money. Go and buy ten more dogs with it." We drove over to Fifth Avenue, so warm and soft, almost pastoral, on the summer Sunday afternoon that I wouldn't have been surprised to see a great flock of white sheep turn the corner. "Hold on," I said, "I have to leave you here." "No, you don't," interposed Tom quickly. "Myrtle'll be hurt if you don't come up to the apartment. Won't you, Myrtle?" "Come on," she urged. "I'll telephone my sister Catherine. She's said to be very beautiful by people who ought to know." "Well, I'd like to, but—" We went on, cutting back again over the Park toward the West Hundreds. At 158th Street the cab stopped at one slice in a long white cake of apartment houses. Throwing a regal homecoming glance around the neighborhood, Mrs. Wilson gathered up her dog and her other purchases and went haughtily in. "I'm going to have the McKees come up," she announced as we rose in the elevator. "And of course I got to call up my sister, too." The apartment was on the top floor—a small living room, a small dining room, a small bedroom and a bath. The living room was crowded to the doors with a set of tapestried furniture entirely too large for it so that to move about was to stumble continually over scenes of ladies swinging in the gardens of Versailles. The only picture was an over-enlarged photograph, apparently a hen sitting on a blurred rock. Looked at from a distance however the hen resolved itself into a bonnet and the countenance of a stout old lady beamed down into the room. Several old copies of "Town Tattle" lay on the table together with a copy of "Simon Called Peter" and some of the small scandal magazines of Broadway. Mrs. Wilson was first concerned with the dog. A reluctant elevator boy went for a box full of straw and some milk to which he added on his own initiative a tin of large hard dog biscuits—one of which decomposed apathetically in the saucer of milk all afternoon. Meanwhile Tom brought out a bottle of whiskey from a locked bureau door. I have been drunk just twice in my life and the second time was that afternoon so everything that happened has a dim hazy cast over it although until after eight o'clock the apartment was full of cheerful sun. Sitting on Tom's lap Mrs. Wilson called up several people on the telephone; then there were no cigarettes and I went out to buy some at the drug store on the corner. When I came back they had disappeared so I sat down discreetly in the living room and read a chapter of "Simon Called Peter"—either it was terrible stuff or the whiskey distorted things because it didn't make any sense to me. Just as Tom and Myrtle—after the first drink Mrs. Wilson and I called each other by our first names—reappeared, company commenced to arrive at the apartment door. The sister, Catherine, was a slender, worldly girl of about thirty with a solid sticky bob of red hair and a complexion powdered milky white. Her eyebrows had been plucked and then drawn on again at a more rakish angle but the efforts of nature toward the restoration of the old alignment gave a blurred air to her face. When she moved about there was an incessant clicking as innumerable pottery bracelets jingled up and down upon her arms. She came in with such a proprietary haste and looked around so possessively at the furniture that I wondered if she lived here. But when I asked her she laughed i

Feel free to delete the first one. I would do anything for you if post this. The Great Gatsby in all it’s glory

im aware i was probably supposed to read the whole thing to find out if you changed anything and tnhen find out you hadnt and id wasted an hour of my life but i am way too lazy to do that

[lauwrite1225]

Body and Soul || Finan x OC || Part 1/3

Summary : Finan is finally free from years of slavery. But his body and soul are broken. However he found in Saegyth, a way to recovery. To be a man, again. 

A/N : So, this is a really short fic which I had the idea of during my exams. There will only be three parts alterning between Finan and Saegyth point of view. I hope you’ll like it ! 

Masterlist

Part 2. Part 3.

Warnings: None

A raspy laugh escaped Finan's dry lips. It hurt his throat, but he couldn’t care less. He couldn’t tell if it was happiness he was feeling, he hadn’t felt it in years, but he was sure it was close too. His heart was so light and yet it was beating so hard in his chest. It was like the life that was leaving Sverri’s body was now running through his veins. 

That was it. He felt alive. Alive and free. The words echoed in his head.

I am alive and I am free. Alive and free. 

And suddenly, as he realised the meaning of it, his body felt heavy. He fell on his knees, his legs to weak to keep him standing. He continued to laugh as he laid on the ground, his fingers brushing the grass. He stared at the sky and grabbed the wooden cross hang around his neck. He pressed it against his lips, thanking God for finally having mercy on him. 

“Are you alright?”

He let go off the cross and turned his head to the person who just spoke. For a moment, he was amazed by the woman who just crouched next to him. She had golden hair, waving in the wind like wheat in summer. For a moment, he hoped he had the strength to let his fingers ran through her strands. Her eyes were fascinating as well. They were made of a deep blue, but not like the sea he had been surrounding by for three winters. They were calm and reassuring. 

Her hand found his shoulder, catching his attention. He blinked several times before finally answering. 

“I think so. I’ve just seen an angel.” He said, a smile, at least he hoped it looked like one, forming on his face. 

She chuckled and for a moment he sweared it was the most beautiful sound he heard in ages. She removed her hand and grabbed a flask hanged at her belt. Finan pushed himself up with his elbow as she handed him the bottle. He drank all of it, his hand shaking. The water ran down his throat, appeasing the ache of it. 

“Thank ya.” He smiled, giving her back the flask.

“What’s your name?” She asked, hanging the flask back on her belt. 

He studied her a little more before answering. She was dressed as a warrior, a chest plate covering her upper body. He remembered seeing her fighting with the people who came for Uhtred. She wasn’t as skilled as the other warriors, but she fought with fierce. 

“Finan.” He watched her repeat his name silently. “Yours?” 

“Saegyth”

…

A whole day passed since they rescued Uhtred from the slave ship. Saegyth spend most of her day to help the last slaves still here. But there was one who didn’t leave. Finan stayed last night near the fire with them. 

Unlike most of the slaves she saw that day, the Irishman was more talkative. He spoke a little of what happened on the ship, what cost Halig’s life. Sometimes, his eyes were lost in the fire and darkened. The man saw much. Probably too much for one life. But almost all the time, his face would break in a smile. The smile of a broken man. 

Finan was asleep in the grass when Saegyth decided she should see how he was. She put down her bucket of fresh water and the clean clothes Hild brought back from a village near, and kneeled next his body. 

"Finan ?" She called him her hand on his shoulder. 

He slowly opened his eyes, a little confused. His fingers came to her wrist, barely touching it like to be sure she was real. As his fingertips grazed her soft skin, he smiled. She gave it back to him, studying his face a moment.

His skin was crackled and tanned because of the time he spent on the ship. His lips were in bad condition too, his flesh raw in some part. His face was half covered by his beard and his dark hair was leaving the ponytail he had managed to make. The state of the man was making her heart squeeze. She didn't know much of him, but whatever he had done, it could never be worth for such punishment. 

Her hand left his shoulder and she tilted her head. "You slept almost the whole day. I wanted to know how you were." 

"I’m fine." He answered, his eyelids half closed. 

"I brought you some clothes and water to wash you." She explained, her hands posed on the edge of the bucket. 

Finan frowned and sat up. He looked to the bucket, and seemed to hesitate. Slowly, he leaned above the water, his eyes widening as he stared at his reflection. One of his finger came touching the features of his face on the edge of the water, blurring his own reflection. Saegyth noticed the tears sparking in the corner of his eyes. 

"I hadn't seen my face in three winters." He declared, his gaze still fixed with his own. After a moment, he looked back to her. "I was still a boy the last time. I didn't had that beard." He chuckled even though Saegyth clearly heard the sob behind. 

She knew so little of the man and yet she couldn't help but feel so much for him. She felt this desire to help him deep in her heart. This will to learn who he was. And she knew he was much more than just a slave. 

Her hand found his face, her thumb rubbing his cheek to wipe the tears. 

"Let me help you to bring a little of that boy." She softly said. 

She searched his eyes in order to have some kind of answer. But he simply nodded and her hand dropped back to her side. She took a pair of scissors and started to roughly cut his beard. Finan's fascination about his own face started again. As she worked, Saegyth stared at him, wondering how he looked before. 

When she finished, Finan finally looked at her, his fingers lightly brushing what remained of his beard. 

"Thank ya." He said. 

"It's normal." She smiled at him. 

He frowned a little as he thought. "You are not a Dane."

"No, I am not." She laughed, sinking a fabric in the water. 

"And you’re not an abbess." He added, amusement in his voice. 

"Neither. I am a Lady." She declared as she met his deep brown eyes.

"I've never seen a Lady fought before." There was some admiration in his tone that she appreciated. 

"There's a first time for everything." She removed the fabric from the bucket and spinner it. "Can you remove your shirt?" 

He did, grabbing the edge of what remained of the shirt and removing it. Saegyth almost gasped when he revealed his body. He was thin despite his muscles, his ribs clear under his skin. His body was a parchment on which paint cans had been accidentally spilled. There was bruised of varied colours, from purple to yellow. Scars were forming straight lines, especially in his back. And she wondered if there was still part of his skin that hadn't been damaged.

"Where did ya learn to fight ?" He asked her, trying to take away her attention from his body. 

She swallowed and put the wet fabric on his arm. "Uhtred taught me when we were hiding from Danes in marshes." This was years ago, but yet it felt like yesterday. "I always wish to learn, but being of noble blood made it difficult. So, when my husband died in battle, I asked Uhtred to teach me." 

Since the first time she met the Half - Dane in Winchester, she felt some sort of fascination for him. Maybe it was youth, but she didn't regret pushing her curiosity. She discovered a man of honour and with a kindness unexpected for a Dane, after all she had heard of them. When King Alfred freed Ragnar, Uhtred's brother, she didn't hesitate to follow him to save him.

"I am sorry for your husband." He said, as he shivered when the fabric was now running in his back. 

"Don't be. He wasn't a man I choose and I was young when I was married to him." She explained, looking side as she winced.

She never loved him, neither respected him. He was a turd, to her, to other peoples and learning his death felt like a relief. She felt free and she didn't wait to experience that freedom. 

As she cleaned the most recent wounds, red and still swollen, she noticed the way his jaw clenched. How once more, his eyes were lost. And so, she spoke again, trying to distract him.

"Uhtred is a good man, King Alfred recovered Wessex thanks to him." She told him about the many plans Uhtred came up with. But also his stupid actions that cost him the gratitude of Alfred. "Uhtred is a good strategist in battle, but he still has progress to make in politics." She chuckled, putting down the now dirty fabric. 

He smiled a little, maybe he heard a different version of those stories from Uhtred. "But he is a good man." He repeated her words.

"He is." She untied his hair, dark dirty strands falling on his bare shoulders. 

Finan plunged his hands in the bucket and leaned his head. He splashed water all over his face and hair, running his fingers through it. His tongue licked droplets on his lips.

"Not salt water." He smiled, like he just discovered the existence of it. 

His joy for a such a subtle thing made her heart squeeze again. Her life hadn't always been made of happiness, but never simple things made her eyes spark like Finan's ones. He took water in his hands and poured it on his hair once more. Saegyth untied a ribbon around her wrist. She let her fingers gather his strands before attaching them. 

“What will you do, now?” She asked him, handing him a clean shirt. 

He grabbed it and brushed the cloth with his thumb a moment. “I thought… That maybe I should stay with Uhtred.” 

“You don’t want to go back to… To your home?” She frowned a little.

His gaze darkened and he took a deep breath, his shoulders rising before falling as he loudly exhaled. She bit her lips, regretting her question. She wanted to excuse herself, but he answered before. 

“No… There’s nothing for me there.” She nodded silently. “I'm free because of Uhtred. He gave me hope and strength to pass another winter.” He looked up to her, meeting her pupils. “I owe him tha’.” 

She couldn’t help but smile. The man lived hell for years and yet, he was ready to fight and serve a man, even if it could cost him his life. The strength he said Uhtred gave him, she was sure it had always been there in him. She put her hand on his and squeezed it lightly. 

“He’ll be glad and grateful.” 

As she removed her hand to leave, he grabbed it. She raised an eyebrow, surprised by his action. 

“Thank ya.” Finan said. 

“It’s normal.” She repeated.

He shook his head. “No, it’s not. No one has ever been that kind with me. Even… Before.” 

“It’s nothing Finan, really.” She rubbed the back of his hand with her thumb.

“Not for me.” 

She held her breath a moment. There was so much sincerity in his words. None of the other slaves dared to speak to her. Finan was broken, and yet the man didn’t disappear. 

“There’s a first time for everything.” She simply said and he let go of her hand.

Tag: @n0rthumbria​ @geekandbooknerd​ @sihtric​ @othermoony​ @seaberrycloudberry​ @amyyreblogss​ @for-bebbanburg​ @beowulfsdottir​ @bird-on-a-wire20​ @minimartian​

[religioused]

Where Did My Plowshares Go?

Holy Saturday

by Gary Simpson

Scriptures:

Psalm 31:1-4 The Message

I run to you, GOD; I run for dear life. Don’t let me down! Take me seriously this time! Get down on my level and listen, and please—no procrastination! Your granite cave a hiding place, your high cliff nest a place of safety.

3-5 You’re my cave to hide in, my cliff to climb. Be my safe leader, be my true mountain guide. Free me from hidden traps; I want to hide in you. I’ve put my life in your hands. You won’t drop me, you’ll never let me down.

John 19:38-42 The Message

After all this, Joseph of Arimathea (he was a disciple of Jesus, but secretly, because he was intimidated by the Jews) petitioned Pilate to take the body of Jesus. Pilate gave permission. So Joseph came and took the body.

39-42 Nicodemus, who had first come to Jesus at night, came now in broad daylight carrying a mixture of myrrh and aloes, about seventy-five pounds. They took Jesus’ body and, following the Jewish burial custom, wrapped it in linen with the spices. There was a garden near the place he was crucified, and in the garden a new tomb in which no one had yet been placed. So, because it was Sabbath preparation for the Jews and the tomb was convenient, they placed Jesus in it.

1 Peter 4:1 and 6 (ESV)

Since therefore Christ suffered in the flesh, arm yourselves with the same way of thinking, for whoever has suffered in the flesh has ceased from sin,

6 For this is why the gospel was preached even to those who are dead, that though judged in the flesh the way people are, they might live in the spirit the way God does.

Reflection:

Holy Saturday is the link between Good Friday and Easter Sunday. Today is a vigil pause between the cross and the resurrection.(1) Holy Saturday is that "in between time." (2) As much as we may wish that we could ignore the fact that we are caught in-between, we cannot ignore the in-between periods of our lives. We are not given the privilege of skipping Holy Saturday in our lives.(3) Our province and our country are stuck in Holy Saturday. The Coronavirus pandemic struck. Many businesses closed temporarily, some to never open again. At times early in the pandemic, things felt unnatural – just way too quiet. And the price of oil plummeted. We are still waiting for the normal to return. Spiritually, we caught in a holding zone. The crucifixion is passed, but the full glory of the resurrection is not here yet.(4) Holy Saturday 2021, for some of us, feels like over a year of Holy Saturdays. The Coronavirus lockdown is a brutally long, anxious, and vulnerable time.

Even children have Holy Saturday moments. When I was a kid, there were times when my punishment was to sit quietly on a kitchen chair. No talking was allowed. I could sit in the chair, okay, but no talking was rough. The three to five minutes timeouts felt like an eternity. I think my silent timeouts might have been more challenging for my mother than they were for me because I just could not keep quiet.

Canada is still sitting on the kitchen chair - over a year later. McDougall United Church is sitting on the chair for a second Easter. The Holy Saturday moments in life feel like they are an eternity long. During the pandemic, the Holy Saturday moments for children are especially challenging. Many children had to take courses online and were cut off from their friends and classmates for weeks, even months. Children learning at home have to try to navigate a dual relationship with their parents, where their parents might be functioning both in both a teacher's role and in a parent's role. And a special place dedicated to learning, school, no longer exists. Learning takes place in the home, the same place where children live and play. As with my time-out moments, the shift to learning at home can be difficult for parents too. Being plunged into a quasi-teaching role with almost no time to shift gears is difficult.

Jesus is gone – dead and buried. The disciples lost their teacher and friend, Jesus' family lost a son and a brother. The region of Palestine lost a dynamic itinerant rabbi. Jesus was executed for being a potential source of discontent against the government and the religious leadership, which were closely related. Jesus' disciples and family were deep in shock, possibly dealing with anger and fear. They may feel very vulnerable. What if someone falsely accuses them, just like they falsely accused Jesus? When you are hiding, hoping nobody is thinking of you or coming for you, time is painfully slow. Some people are experiencing are feeling afraid and vulnerable with our COVID Holy Saturday.

Hans Steiner, of Stanford University indicates that the social isolation caused by the pandemic Conflicts with our need to "social interventions" that help us "resolve anger" when we believe that we are "at the mercy of injustice and uncertainty." (5) Tensions seem to be high during the pandemic. There are many possible reasons – uncertainty, danger, children's education bouncing between school and home, work bouncing back and forth between office and home, job uncertainty, business closures, and extreme incidents of injustice. We are experiencing loss of loved ones, loss of lifestyle, loss of routines, loss of dreams, and financial loss. David Rosemarie, assistant professor in the Harvard Medical School's Department of Psychiatry, says he is seeing an increase in levels of anger in his practice.(6) There are times when anxiety and depression can look like anger.(7) David Rosemarie believes the anger over masks is related to fear over civil rights being taken away. He believes that fear is due to fear of the virus. Rosemarie observes, "When we're aggressive, we don't have to show our vulnerability to other people." (8)

You might be thinking, "Are there any scientific studies about COVID restrictions contributing to anger. In the United Kingdom, a study was conducted of over 2,200 participants aged 16–75 years. The study, published in the Journal of the Royal Society of Medicine, found that 56% of the participants reported "having had arguments, feeling angry or fallen out with others because of COVID- 19." The researchers concluded that COVID-19 restrictions cause "considerable strain." (9) If you are feeling anxious and angry, and you think COVID restrictions might be impacting your behavior, you are not alone.

There are many explanations as to what 1 Peter Chapter 4 means. I am not going to discuss the complex range of opinions. There might not be a highly definitive meaning for 1 Peter Chapter 4.(10) A few commentators consider the passage to be a mysterious encounter Jesus had with the dead, after Jesus' death.(11) 1 Peter Chapter 4 can be seen as a symbolic representation of the depth of God's love and grace. Holy Saturday could be the time when Jesus brought the Gospel of saving grace to all of the dead from the preceding ages. Verses 5-6 could refer to the Gospel going to "all the dead." The epistle of 1 Peter seems to be about Christ descending to the "place of the dead" to preach to the dead.(12) I tend to believe that descending into the depth of hell symbolizes the fact that there is no mistake, no sin that God cannot forgive, that nobody is left out of the realm of God's grace. The key takeaway is that God is just. Judgment is fair, because even those who died before Jesus' ministry on the cross hear the good news.(13)

Jonathan Turtle, an Anglican priest, describes Jesus as descending into the grave and "taking Adam and Eve by the hand," and leading them out of the grave, "pulling them up out of the grave." Rowan Williams, when he was the Archbishop of Canterbury, observes that this was not the youthful Adam and Eve.(14) Like Rowan Williams, I invite you to picture the old Adam and Eve. I am going to give you a moment to picture Adam and Eve. I see them as frail, with thin gray hair, arthritic hands, stooped shoulders, and eyes grown dim with age. I can almost picture them weighed down with a lifetime of guilt and shame. Then, I can visualize a change, as the fear of meeting God, and as a lifetime of guilt and shame, melts away in the presence of the Christ.

Middle Church tweeted, "Too many Christians act as if the Bible asks us to beat plowshares into swords." (15) Sadly, it is not just Christians who act like the Bible says we should beat our plowshares into swords. At a time fear is causing some tense, anxious, and fearful people to beat their emotional plowshares into swords, and they are living out an angry, grace challenged form of religion.

Prayer:

Companion God, in our Holy Saturday season, we give you our offering – the broken dreams, uncertainty, sense of oppression, anger, anxiety, fear, and depression. These things are too much for us. Beat the swords of those emotions into plowshares and use the plowshares to help plant a garden of healing. Amen.

Notes

(1)Jonathan Turtle. “A Sermon for Holy Saturday.” 26 March 2016, 18 March 2021. The Church of St, Mary and St. Martha. <https://stmaryandstmartha.org/a-sermon-for-holy-saturday/>.

(2)Michael K. Marsh. “A Sermon for Holy Saturday, Matthew 27:57-66.” Interrupting the Silence. <interruptingthesilence.com/2011/04/23/a-reflection-on-holy-saturday-matthew-2757-66/amp/>.

(3)Marsh <interruptingthesilence.com/2011/04/23/a-reflection-on-holy-saturday-matthew-2757-66/amp/>.

(4)Marsh <interruptingthesilence.com/2011/04/23/a-reflection-on-holy-saturday-matthew-2757-66/amp/>.

(5)Hans Steiner. “COVID-19 Q&A: Dr. Hans Steiner on Anger and Aggression.” Sanford University, Department of Psychiatry and Behavioral Sciences. n.d., 23 March 2021. <https:med.stanford.edu/psychiatry/about/covid19/anger.html>.

(6)Alvin Powell. “Soothing Advice for a Mad America.” The Harvard Gazette. 14 August 2020, 23 March 2021. <https://news.harvard.edu/gazette/story/2020/08/a-closer-look-at-americas-pandemic-fueled-anger/>.

(7)Powell (2020) <https://news.harvard.edu/gazette/story/2020/08/a-closer-look-at-americas-pandemic-fueled-anger/>.

(8)Powell (2020) <https://news.harvard.edu/gazette/story/2020/08/a-closer-look-at-americas-pandemic-fueled-anger/>.

(9)Louise E Smith, et. al. “Anger and Confrontation During the COVID-19 Pandemic: a National Cross-Sectional Survey in the UK.” Journal of the Royal Society of Medicine; 2021, Vol. 114(2) 77. <https://journals.sagepub.com/doi/pdf/10.1177/0141076820962068>.

(10)William Barclay. The Daily Study Bible: The Letters of James and Peter. Revised Ed. (Burlington, Ontario: G.R. Welch, 1976), 248.

(11)Christian Community Bible. (Madrid: San Pablo International, 1988), N.T., 463.

(12)Barclay (1976), 248.

(13)Bruce B. Barton, et. al., eds. Life Application Study Bible. Second Ed. (Wheaton, Illinois: Tyndale House Pub., 2004), 2134.

(14)Turtle (2016) <https://stmaryandstmartha.org/a-sermon-for-holy-saturday/>.

(15)“Middle Church.” Twitter @middlechurch. 23 March 2021, 23 March 2021.

<https://twitter.com/middlechurch/status/1374343151805169667?s=21>.

[inktrailing]

SPN: purgatorio (snippet)

Still haven’t settled on a replacement title lol.

This is... currently in the teens for chapters. Still too early for a chapter count and I won’t know my timeline until I actually rewatch s8 and decide when they’re getting thrown back in.

Last time I posted a snippet I wasn’t sure where pairings where fully landing. It’s definitely slowburn poly Dean/Lucifer and Dean/Cas, with Benny continuing to be a wildcard lmfao.

There’s some rando probably inaccurate field medicine in this chunk that will be replaced at some point after I finish researching for it.

(As a refresh this is my s7/8 AU wherein Lucifer was trying to use the hallucinations as a way to manifest through someone and ended up helping Cas out a bit but popped out in Purgatory when Cas got there).

Previous Snippet.

Warning for explicit language, canon-typical violence.

CHAPTER

“You act like you have any idea where you're going,” Lucifer tells Dean.

“I do,” Dean says. “It's called moving. Getting a lay of the land.” He spins in a circle, arms spread wide, then points at a particular rock that had an odd blue-tinted moss covering one of its sides. “I know that rock,” he says with a grin. “I know this area. Do you?”

“It's all the same,” Lucifer drawls.

“Uh huh. That's what I thought. Cas?”

“Um.” Cas glances between them. “There's a vampire nest that roams here.”

“Exactly. We hopped territories. I thought it was all a free-for-all chaos. But nah, it's organized chaos. That's your jam, ain't it, Lucifer?”

“Don't dare to presume anything about me, Winchester.”

“So that's a yes, then.”

Lucifer moves for him and Cas steps between the two of them, hands out.

Dean smirks. Lucifer scowls.

“You don't start learning the ways of the land, Lucifer, you're gonna be our weak link.”

*****

“Monster 101,” Dean pants, “please have an answer, right the fuck now.” He presses into the packed dirt wall. He turns his attention to Lucifer. “What the hell is that?”

“Well,” Lucifer says casually. Way too casually. “If someone tells you God made the 'first' beasts don't you think there might be a... oh, second, third. You know. More than one?”

“So which one is that?!” Dean hisses, swiveling his head in the direction of the open-air marshlands.

“Behemoth, if I remember correctly,” Lucifer answers. He reaches out and pulls Cas closer into their hiding spot.

“They don't look as though they have a lot for their maneuverability,” Cas says. “We might be able to lose them in the woods?”

“Can't either of you just fly us out of here?”

Cas shakes his head. “Like the Leviathans... they're grounding me. Unless...” He glances at Lucifer.

“No dice,” Lucifer answers.

“Seriously? What's the point of being an archangel anyway, then?”

Lucifer huffs. “Dear old Dad liked his toys. Also,” Lucifer risks a glance around the wall. The beasts were scouting. “I think they might be after me. So, really, sure lacking on those Archangel Benefits right now...”

“Then they can fucking have you,” Dean snarls.

“Dean,” Cas warns.

“What? How much else is gonna want to snack on him? He's a liability.”

“So am I,” Cas argues.

“No, it's not the same—”

“Yes, yes,” Lucifer interrupts, “we all have something nasty on our heels. You have the sheer numbers after you, Winchester, I think that makes things minutely more difficult, thank you. Castiel is right: if we make it into the woods, we should be able to lose them. I'll draw them off if I must.”

“Lucifer,” Cas starts, stricken.

“Please, I'll be fine.”

“I don't think—”

“See, he wants to play bait, Cas. So we should let him.” He pats the back of his hand against Cas's arm. “Let's go.”

When he moves, keeping low, Cas follows. Good. He wasn't sure what else he could say to convince Cas to come with him. Lucifer darts out in the other direction, making himself blatant, juicy archangel bait. Dean knows the moment the beasts catch onto the scent and it's the first direct look Dean gets of them as the three whirl around to stare at Lucifer.

One of the giants, already free from the marsh, charges. The two behind are slower, rising up from the water, dragging muck and grasses over smooth, short-haired skins. Dean sees the jaws open, rows of flat teeth big enough to crush his head if they get close enough.

Their bellows shake the lands, one call after the other, a chorus of unearthly groans all vibrating the air and when they move it's as though that same land moves for them, quickening their gait.

Dean tries to ignore the fact that Lucifer flinches. He pulls Cas after him and doesn't look back after he sees Lucifer peel around the other bank, leading them away.

“Dean,” Cas pleads.

“We can't do anything for him!” Dean hurriedly says. It's not a lie. “We'll only distract him. We'll find him again, okay?” Dammit. “I promise. We'll look for him.” Cas stares at him earnestly and he must be able to tell that Dean's being honest with him because he stops protesting and follows.

Dean's suddenly going to be real pissed if Lucifer gets himself eaten because he's not sure he'll be able to pick up the pieces of Cas if he finds his brother torn to shreds.

How's this become his life?

*****

“Everyone else under the sun can find the bastard and yet it's been over a day and here we are still trudging around, like damn, did the dude finally fly or is he just doing this to screw with us...”

Dean's been muttering to himself for the last twenty minutes. He knows it's not safe but he's tired and he needs sleep and he's going on being awake for twenty-five hours which outside of Purgatory he could do, but inside... Fuck. He needs sleep. This constantly-being-hunted thing weighs on a guy. Exhausts him faster than he can cope with. Cas needs sleep, too. Dean's held up by the Hunt. Cas is held up by Stress.

It's not a good combination!

Fucking Lucifer. This is all his fault.

He rubs sweat and grime off his face. They need to go back to a river. He'd like to get this film off of him.

He stops walking and turns to Cas.

“Just power nap, Cas. An hour.”

“I'm fine, Dean. I can keep moving.”

Dean rolls his eyes skyward. “Cas, if he needs healing when we find him you're gonna need to be more on your game. Sleep. I'll stay on guard.”

Cas sets his jaw but sinks down to the forest floor and coils himself against a tree, tucking into his trench coat, nearly black from their travels. It makes a good camouflage, but Dean still kind of wants to wash that, too. Seeing Cas like this throws him back into an unkind future Zachariah zapped him to.

Dean shakes his head and walks away. He makes sure Cas is in sight, raising a hand to block out the sunlight streaking through the canopy. They have several hours til nightfall. Dean's not sure he wants to go another night of being on the move. He'd prefer taking shelter somewhere and wait til dawn, but if night's bad for them, it's just as dangerous for Lucifer.

Dammit, Cas. Why'd you have to get attached to the devil?

“You fucker,” he mumbles when he knows he's out of earshot, “if you're doing this on purpose then you can go right back to Hell. Cas needs you and every hour we can't find you is gnawing at him.”

He drops his head. “I can't believe I have to do this,” he says more to himself. “You'd better be hurt. You'd better...” He glances back towards the small shape that is Cas, trembling in his fitful sleep. Dean sucks in a harsh breath, curses, and spits out the last words of his prayer, “I can't track angels. I need a fucking sign, man.”

He sighs and heads back for Cas, walking a perimeter around his tree.

*****

“Dean.”

Dean pauses and turns to look at Cas, awareness flagging. The sun's going down. All he has for dinner is some leftover scraps of meat from days ago and some weird leafy green tufts that Cas said were full of nutrients and good for him and when Dean asked how Cas knew that, Cas said the plants told him with a weird little smile.

Dean hates salad but he'd eat them if it meant Cas would feel comfortable smiling again.

“Yeah, Cas?” Dean asks. Cas is staring off to their west, head tilted, eyes concentrating. “What is it?”

“It's...” Cas opens his mouth, closes it. Frowns. Tilts his head the other way. “Holy.”

“What?”

Cas looks to Dean. “It's... familiar. But off. Home, but not.”

“Home like Heaven?”

Cas nods.

Dean wonders if it's coincidental.

“How far?”

“I think we could get there before sundown on foot. Flying may be... dangerous.”

“Yeah, no, and I'd rather not wear you out. Of the two of us, you're the one lighter on his feet right now. Let's go. Lemme know when we get close so I can prepare in case it's an ambush or something.”

Cas nods again, and then he takes the lead.

In the end it's not a trap. They find a deep tear in the ground like a meteor plowed into Purgatory. There's a ring of felled trees at the top of the pit and at the very bottom is a strange white-flamed flickering fire and a hunched-over devil.

Cas's relief latches onto Dean.

“Cas, blink us down there,” Dean asks, and then fumbles for his footing an instant later after they're relocated. Cas is already kneeling by his brother, hand on his shoulder to push him up. Lucifer twitches to the touch and Dean can see lacerations down his side that must be taking too long to heal.

“Lucifer,” Cas says, trying to rouse him.

Dean flops down across them with the makeshift fire in the middle, looking more closely at it. It has the makings of a normal fire, wood and kindling, but Dean thinks he understands why Cas picked up on holy. It's grace-fueled. Actual, honest-to-God, holy fire.

“Lucifer,” Cas says again.

“Castiel,” Lucifer finally responds.

“Cas, can you fix him so we can go?”

“I...”

Cas slowly looks over to Dean and Dean has a real bad feeling real fast.

“I can't,” Cas says.

“Why not?”

“I-I don't...”

“Beast trumps angel,” Lucifer groans. He reaches up a hand and closes his fist. The holy fire vanishes. Well, Dean had been concerned about it drawing any other attention.

“Fine,” Dean says. “You gonna stay alive til morning?”

“Mmm,” Lucifer responds. Barely.

“Okay. Morning, then. We'll do this the human bullshit way. Cas, you talk to your plants or whatever and try to find something we can use as a salve and bandages and shit.”

Dean's really not sure if Cas can actually talk to plants or if it's just something getting him through his daily life to think he can, but either way he thinks Cas can suss out something to use. Trial and error, anyway. If Lucifer's gonna die it's because his Dad made something bigger and badder, not because of some plant goo Cas will slap on him.

“I think we're sitting ducks down here but the fire's out,” Dean continues, “Cas, you good enough to take watch?”

Cas looks from Lucifer to him and nods, a little off balance, but determined.

“Good, because I'm exhausted. Can I borrow your coat?”

Cas strips out of it and hands it over to Dean. Dean balls it up, caked Purgatory and all, and uses it as a pillow and lays besides the dead fire wishing that grace left any coals and heat. He meets Lucifer's glassy expression, glares at the devil, and then rolls over, putting his back to both the angels.

CHAPTER

In some world-turned-upside-down bullshit, Dean is keeping watch while Lucifer rests. Not that Lucifer's moved much since they found him the night before. Cas is gone. Has been gone all morning to do his plant thing that hopefully also involves bringing Dean back something to eat.

He should be the one out there but Dean can't tell one plant from another and keeping an eye around the top of their pit is the best use for him.

The company's shit though.

“You prayed to me,” Lucifer says two hours into the boring morning.

Boring is good. Boring means no monster attacks. Boring means no getting separated and having to try and find another angel.

“Desperate times,” Dean mutters. “You saw Cas. He barely holds it together on days he doesn't think you're dead. You must've done a real good job convincing him you're not an asshole.”

“I'm the only reason my brother is a functional person.”

“Sure, whatever.”

Lucifer scoffs. “Believe what you want.”

“I'll do just that.”

The sun's beating down on them from above when Cas returns with arms full like he just came from a Farmer's Market. There's some dried blood that trickled a path down his forehead. He found a canvas bag somewhere, or maybe he made it. Dean's not entirely going to judge him right now, even if he left Dean alone with Lucifer for hours on end.

“You find what you need?” Dean asks.

“I think so,” Cas answers. He sits down between the two of them and sets his bag in front of him, slowly pulling out small bundles wrapped in twine. He tosses one to Dean and Dean curiously loosens the twine and unfolds the large fronds. “Don't eat the outside,” Cas tells him, “that's just the vessel.”

Dean thanks a God he doesn't believe in that the fronds contain a plethora of small berries.

“You're the best, Cas,” Dean tells him.

Cas's smile is brief, but worth it.

Dean eats and watches curiously as Cas continues to pull things out, including a few rocks of varying sizes that make sense to Dean as he takes a cylindrical one and starts grinding various plants and other matter on a flat one.

“Purgatory's first doctor,” Dean jokes.

“I imagine there had been others in the past.”

“Yeah, slapped-together medicine before they get their heads chopped off. Not a lot of long-term teamwork going on here that I've seen.”

“Or there is,” Lucifer says, “but they only pick off stragglers.”

“Outnumber people. Cowards.”

Lucifer shakes his head.

Dean's finished his berries and the rest of his meats that he didn't eat last night by the time Cas has some concoction of paste gathered on one of the fronds and is looking at Lucifer with some hesitance.

“Get it over with, Castiel,” Lucifer says in way of permission.

Cas nods and lifts Lucifer's shirt and Dean looks away when Lucifer winces, but it isn't quick enough to miss the mottled blacks and purples marring Lucifer's side around the slashed skin, and he looks back just as fast.

“Shit,” Dean says, ignoring Lucifer's glare. “Cas, you got any water or anything we can clean that out with first?”

“I don't, unfortunately,” Cas says.

“It'll be fine,” Lucifer mutters.

“It looks infected,” Dean growls.

“I just need enough healing so that my body's natural response can kick in.”

“Oh, and it can naturally heal beast infections, right? Because it's doing so well with whatever that was.”

“Dean,” Cas says.

Dean gestures at the injury like it makes his entire argument.

Cas frowns.

“Put it on, Castiel,” Lucifer instructs. “If it gets me mobile, we can... worry about the rest when we've moved away from here.”

Dean makes a face in mockery but stays quiet as Cas seals the frond over Lucifer's side.

[drkfought]

   ─         the  mirrors  surrounding  you  did  as  they  were  meant  to ,  reflecting  back  a  spitting  image  of  jensen  ackles    -    but  it’s  clear  something  is  wrong  from  the  moment  that  a  vision  of   𝘫𝘢𝘤𝘬  𝘥𝘦𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨  𝘨𝘰𝘥   strikes  you .    perhaps  it  was  a  passing  daydream  in  the  frenzy  of  the  funhouse .    you  reassure  yourself    -    you’re  𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐍  𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑 ,   a   𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘺  𝘰𝘯𝘦   year  old   𝗙𝗜𝗥𝗘  𝗖𝗛𝗜𝗘𝗙   whose  virtue  lies  in  your   + loyalty   &   + selflessness ,  although  you’ve  been  told  that  you  tend  to  be  quite   - short  tempered   &  - self  loathing ,  and you’re associated with  𝒇𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒌𝒍𝒆𝒔  𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒏𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒆𝒅  𝒃𝒚  𝒔𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒔  𝒂𝒄𝒓𝒐𝒔𝒔  𝒔𝒌𝒊𝒏,  𝒄𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈  𝒈𝒍𝒂𝒔𝒔  𝒃𝒆𝒏𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉  𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒅𝒚  𝒌𝒏𝒖𝒄𝒌𝒍𝒆𝒔,  𝒕𝒉𝒆  𝒓𝒐𝒂𝒓  𝒕𝒐  𝒓𝒖𝒎𝒃𝒍𝒆  𝒕𝒐  𝒑𝒖𝒓𝒓  𝒐𝒇  𝒂𝒏  𝒆𝒏𝒈𝒊𝒏𝒆,  𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒅  𝒃𝒍𝒖𝒆  𝒋𝒆𝒂𝒏𝒔  𝒂𝒏𝒅  𝒇𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒆𝒍  𝒕𝒐𝒔𝒔𝒆𝒅  𝒂𝒄𝒓𝒐𝒔𝒔  𝒂  𝒃𝒆𝒅 ,  by  those  around  you .    suddenly,  however,  you’ve found   𝐉𝐎𝐇𝐍'𝐒  𝐉𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐍𝐀𝐋   on  your  person    -    was  that  always  there ?     from  the  moment  you  leave  the  funhouse ,  memories  from  your  life  in   𝙨𝙪𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙣𝙖𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙖𝙡   have  begun  to  return   -   leaving  whoever  you  had  been  before  in  the  mirror’s  reflection  behind  you .    you  can  almost  hear   𝚁𝙰𝙼𝙱𝙻𝙴  𝙾𝙽   by  𝙻𝙴𝙳  𝚉𝙴𝙿𝙿𝙻𝙴𝙸𝙽  following  in  your  wake .

hi  i  love  dean  winchester  so  stinkin’  much   ...   i  am  ....  so  excited .    he  deserves  a  life  where  he  wasn’t  hunting  monsters  all  the  time !    one  where  he  got  a  job   &   had  kids   &   is  just  living  life !    let  dean  have  a  life !

full name :     dean  henry  winchester . alises :   the  righteous  man .   the  sword  of  michael .   squirrel . age :   forty  one . gender & pronouns :   cis male ,  he / him . sexual & romantic orientation :    bisexual / biromantic . species :   human . identifying  marks :    multiple  scars  across  his  body .   some  looking  like  they  came  from  knives ,  others  from  guns .    his  memory  on  how  he  got  most  of  them  is  fuzzy

    ─        𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍  𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄 .

i  will  try  to  make  this  short .    dean  was  born  to  mary   &   john  winchester   &   for  four  years  he  had  the  most  simple  apple  pie  life  a  four  year  old  could  ask  for .    in  1983 ,  a  demon  went  into  the  winchester  house  to  visit  their  newborn  son :  dean’s  younger  brother  sam .    when  mary  interrupted  the  demon’s  visitation ,  he  killed  her .   slashed  open  her  stomach   &   burned  her  on  the  ceiling .    dean’s  father ,  john ,  witnessed  the  terrible  end  of  his  wife’s  life   &   though  he  made  it  out  alive  with  both  sam   &   dean ,  the  event  would  irreversibly  change  him .

john  became  obsessed  with  discovering  what  it  was  that  killed  mary .   he  learned  to  hunt  the  supernatural   &  ruthlessly  trained  his  sons  to  do  the  same .    dean’s  toddler  life  of  toys  turned  into  tinkering  with  guns ,  his  warm  bed  into  dirty  motels ,   &   his  carefree  existence  into  only  worrying  over  his  younger  brother .    he  became  the  perfect  killer  but  it  took  a  toll  on  him .    his  father ,  far  from  perfect  even  before  this ,  became  harsh  on  dean .   molding  him  until  he  was  more  dutiful  soldier  than  he  was  boy .   dean  did  everything  his  father  asked  &  followed  his  every  order  with  blind  faith   &   even  then  he  would  never  be  the  perfect  son  to  john .    sam ,  on  the  other  hand ,  rebelled  against  the  life  john  gave  them .   though  dean  tried  constantly  to  settle  their  explosive  arguments  as  best  he  could  no  matter  his  thoughts  on  the  matter  at  hand ,  desperate  for  peace  between  the  two ,  he  still  couldn’t  stop  sam  from  running  away  in  the  end .    he  wanted  to  hate  sam  for  it  at  first ,  but  he  never  could .

years  later  when  john  went  missing  on  a  hunt ,  dean  reached  out  to  his  estranged  brother  for  help .   the  job  was  supposed  to  be  a  simple  one  but  after  coming  back  unsuccessful  to  the  tragic  death  of  sam’s  girlfriend  ( same  as  their  mothers ,  in  fact )   sam  entered  back  into  his  life  for  good .   

though  the  plots  of  both  heaven   &   hell ,  sam  &  dean  became  pawns  in  the  story  of  the  world’s  end .    the  apocalypse  slowly  set  into  motion  &  started  with  the  winchesters  at  the  center  of  it  all .    even  though  they  managed  stop  the  world’s  end ,  though ,  it  was  hardly  the  last  threat  to  humanity .    as  years  passed ,  the  brothers  found  themselves  thrust  into  apocalypse  after  apocalypse .     an  endless  cycle  that  they ,  eventually ,  discovered  was  god’s  doing  all  along .   they  were  simply  the  main  characters  of  a  never  ending  tragic  story  that  god  was  writing .    furious ,  the  two  brothers ,  with  help  from  their  rebel  angel  best  friend  &  the  half  angel  son  on  lucifer  himself ,  devised  a  way  to  defeat  god  for  good .    in  the  end  they  succeeded .   jack ,  the  mentioned  son  of  lucifer ,  took  god’s  place  after  his  defeat .    the  world  is  their’s  in  the  end .   they ,  for  the  first  time ,  get  to  choose  their  own  paths .

   ─        𝐀𝐋𝐔𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐃  𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄 .

there  was  still  a  fire  at  the  winchester  house  when  dean  was  four  years  old .    an  accident  this  time .    an  electrical  fire .     a  normal  tragedy .     their  mom  was  still  lost  but  dean ,  holding  onto  the  bundle  that  was  his  little  brother ,  watched  as  the  fire  fighters  pulled  his  dad  from  the  flames .     sitting  with  them ,  brother  in  his  arms ,  while  they  consoled  him   &    let  him  wear  their  helmets  would  always  be  a  far  more  comforting  memory  to  dean  than  the  ones  his  father  gave  him  in  the  years  to  come .    john  winchester  became  distant .   negligent .    borderline  abusive .    dean  did  his  best  to  take  the  bulk  of  what  their  grief  drowned  father  put  on  them ,  trying  to  shield  sam ,   &  gave  a  lot  of  his  life  to  helping  raise  sam  where  john  fell  short .   they  moved  around  a  lot ,  finally  settling  in  alucard  when  dean  was  around  seventeen .

when  he  was  a  late   teen  if  he  wasn’t  at  home  or  sneaking  out  for  a  smoke   &   some  girls ,   dean  worked  at  being  a  volunteer  firefighter .    it  was  something ,  he  thought ,  slightly  productive  to  do  with  his  life  as  it  was  already  obvious  to  him  that  he  wouldn’t  be  able  to  go  to  college  with  sam  still  needing  him  around .   at  age  eighteen ,  with  his  high  school  diploma  stating  he  graduated  with  average  grades ,  dean  officially  joined  the  fire  force  at  an  entry  level   &   began  saving  up  money  for  his  own  place .    a  place  away  from  his  father  but  close  enough  that  sam  could  use  it  to  get  away  at  any  time  as  well .   though ,  as  the  year  went  on ,  he  found  that  john  would  have  been  unlikely  to  allow  dean  to  live  under  his  roof  anyway .    

dean  was  notorious  with  women   &   thought  himself  as  careful  but  clearly  not  as  careful  as  he  thought .    when  he  found  out  he  was  going  to  be  a  dad  at  eighteen  he  initially  rejected  the  idea ,  wanting  nothing  to  do  with  the  child  out  of  fear  of  turning  into  his  father .    sam  was  the  one  who  talked  him  down  from  the  anxiety .   with  his  encouragement ,  dean  slowly  worked  to  learn  how  to  be  a  parent .   preparing  a  room .    reading  parenting  books .   anything .    it  came  as  a  shock  a  month  before  the  due  date  to  when  he  found  out  the  mother  was  backing  out  of  keeping  the  child .    she  had  been  the  one  initially  for  raising  it  at  first  but  suddenly  felt  she  couldn’t  do  it .    though  he’d  be  on  his  own ,  dean  had  steeled  himself  to  becoming  a  father  too  much  to  let  the  girl  to  go  up  for  adoption .    beverly  winchester  was  born  feburary  13th   &   dean  took  full  custody  as  her  sole  guardian .    he  kept  in  touch  with  bevery’s  mother  still ,  who  went  on  to  study  psychology  outside  alucard .

being  a  single  father  was  far  from  easy  but  dean  managed ,  always  taking  help  where  he  could  from  his  brother  or  from  friends .    one  friend  even  got  closer  than  others .    when  beverly  was  nearing  three  years  old ,  dean  started  seeing  a  foreign  exchange  student  from  england  who  was  taking  classes  at  the  local  university   &  the  casual  feeling  of  the  affair  wasn’t  there  for  long .    things  blossomed  into  something  serious   &   when  it  was  discovered  she  was  pregnant ,  this  time  dean  was  far  more  sure  about  things  than  when  he  was  twenty .     the  wedding  was  small    &   around  nine  months  later  dean  became  a  father  of  two  as  simon  joined  the  winchester  family .  

for  a  few  years  this  seemed  the  perfect  arrangement .    dean  worked  up  through  the  ranks  at  the  station ,  setting  himself  up  to  be  the  new  fire  chief  one  day ,   &   raised  his  kids  happily  with  his  wife .    but  perfect  sometimes  doesn’t  last  long .    their  relationship ,  after  all ,  had  been  a  rushed  one .    after  around  six  years ,  things  simply  didn’t  have  the  same  spark  as  they  used  to .     the  divorce  wasn’t  nasty ,  they  knew  it  was  a  mutual  thing ,  but  it  still  stung .     he  left  the  court  as  a  single  father  again ,  now  with  joint  custody  of  his  son .    he  didn’t  seen  simon  much  after  the  divorce .   shortly  after ,  he  &  his  mother  moved  back  to  england  which  dean  was  always  bitter  about .    though  simon  came  to  visit  sometimes   &   dean  called  whenever  he  could ,  he  always  felt  like  he  was  far  from  the  boy .

at  fourty  one ,  years  later ,  he’s  gotten  well  back  on  his  feet .    no  serious  relationships  seem  to  stick  but  at  work  he’s  finally  gotten  fire  chief .    he  misses  being  in  the  middle  of  the  action  sometimes ,  but  he  loves  his  job  nonetheless .     if  not  at  work  he’s  visiting  his  brother ,  the  bar ,  fixing  his  car ,  or  dedicating  time  to  beverly   &   simon  who  has  recently  moved  to  alucard  to  be  around  dean ,  much  to  his  delight .    as  his  life  is  coming  back  to  him ,  though ,  it  is  stressing  him  out .   the  world  was  already  dangerous  without  remembering  monsters .    he  feels  as  though  this  is  just  another  story  he’s  now  lived  out   &   isn’t  even  sure  whats  real .

  ─        𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑  𝐈𝐍𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 .

father  to  BEVERLY  MARSH  &  SIMON  SNOW  in  alucard .    he  will  absolutely  go  off  on  you  if  you  are  mean  to  his  kids .    yes ,  this  includes  other  kids  who  bully  his  kids .   he  doesn’t  care  he’ll  yell  at  you  for  being  an  asshole  no  matter  your  age .   absolutely  no  one  messes  with  his  kids .

has  had  beverly  around  since  she  was  born  but  has  seen  simon  infrequently  since  he  was  about  six  since  simon’s  mother  took  him  back  to  england  with  her .    he  doesn’t  love  simon  any  less ,  but  he ‘s  struggling  with  fact  they  don’t  know  each  other  as  well  as  dean  would  like .    he  hates  that  his  son  grew  up  so  far  away  from  him  with  visits   &   phone  calls  too  few   &   far  in  between .

is  also  now  having  to  cope  with  the  fact  that ,  in  this  new  life  he  remembers ,  he  doesn’t  even  HAVE  his  kids .    closest  thing  he  has  to  a  child  there  is  jack   &   he  doesn’t  even  know  if  jack  is  okay .

still  has  the  impala  here .    can’t  have  dean  without  his  car .

while  he  is  the  fire  chief ,  fixing  cars  is  a  huge  hobby  of  his .    if  he  didn’t  love  his  job ,  he  would  absolutely  leave  it  to  work  as  a  mechanic  at  the  local  garage .

while  he  mostly  works  on  his  car  himself ,  he  still  brings  his  car  to  the  garage  a  few  times  a  year  for  things  that  his  own  garage  doesn’t  have  the  tools  for .   they  know  him  there  from  his  recognizable  car .

his  father  has  been  alive  for  sometime  but  he’s  recently  found  out  he  died  from  a  stroke  in  his  sleep .   dean  is  stuck  between  the  duty  of  giving  his  father  a  proper  funeral   &  his  own  bitterness  at  the  man  for  how  he  treated  him   &  sam .     this  is  only  worsened  by  the  memories  of  john  that  will  come  back .

he  is  bisexual !   because  i’ve  watched  this  show   &   have  eyes !    i  know !    is  he  repressed   a  lot   &  hasn’t  exactly  had  an  offical  coming  out ?   also  yes !    doesn’t  mean  he  HASN’T made  out   &   gotten  with  a  guy  or  two  in  the  past .   just  means  he  never  felt  like  he  could  say  anything  about  it  all  growing  up   &   now  just  figures  it’s  too  late .

uuuuuuuuuuuuh   anyway .    i’ll  add  to  this  more  if  i  think  of  more .

[galaxierowls]

The Great Gatsby

by

F. Scott Fitzgerald

Then wear the gold hat, if that will move her;

If you can bounce high, bounce for her too,

Till she cry "Lover, gold-hatted, high-bouncing lover,

I must have you!"

—THOMAS PARKE D'INVILLIERS

Chapter 1

In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since.

"Whenever you feel like criticizing any one," he told me, "just remember that all the people in this world haven't had the advantages that you've had."

He didn't say any more but we've always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence I'm inclined to reserve all judgments, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of being a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild, unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought—frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon—for the intimate revelations of young men or at least the terms in which they express them are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgments is a matter of infinite hope. I am still a little afraid of missing something if I forget that, as my father snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth.

And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes but after a certain point I don't care what it's founded on. When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction—Gatsby who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the "creative temperament"—it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No—Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men.

My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this middle-western city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a clan and we have a tradition that we're descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch, but the actual founder of my line was my grandfather's brother who came here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil War and started the wholesale hardware business that my father carries on today.

I never saw this great-uncle but I'm supposed to look like him—with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in Father's office. I graduated from New Haven in 1915, just a quarter of a century after my father, and a little later I participated in that delayed Teutonic migration known as the Great War. I enjoyed the counter-raid so thoroughly that I came back restless. Instead of being the warm center of the world the middle-west now seemed like the ragged edge of the universe—so I decided to go east and learn the bond business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business so I supposed it could support one more single man. All my aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep-school for me and finally said, "Why—ye-es" with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year and after various delays I came east, permanently, I thought, in the spring of twenty-two.

The practical thing was to find rooms in the city but it was a warm season and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town it sounded like a great idea. He found the house, a weather beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington and I went out to the country alone. I had a dog, at least I had him for a few days until he ran away, and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove.

It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road.

"How do you get to West Egg village?" he asked helplessly.

I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighborhood.

And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees—just as things grow in fast movies—I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.

There was so much to read for one thing and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college—one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the "Yale News"—and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the "well-rounded man." This isn't just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all.

It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western Hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. They are not perfect ovals—like the egg in the Columbus story they are both crushed flat at the contact end—but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual confusion to the gulls that fly overhead. To the wingless a more arresting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size.

I lived at West Egg, the—well, the less fashionable of the two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. My house was at the very tip of the egg, only fifty yards from the Sound, and squeezed between two huge places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on my right was a colossal affair by any standard—it was a factual imitation of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming pool and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was Gatsby's mansion. Or rather, as I didn't know Mr. Gatsby it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an eye-sore, but it was a small eye-sore, and it had been overlooked, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbor's lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires—all for eighty dollars a month.

Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed and I'd known Tom in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago.

Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven—a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savors of anti-climax. His family were enormously wealthy—even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach—but now he'd left Chicago and come east in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance he'd brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that.

Why they came east I don't know. They had spent a year in France, for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn't believe it—I had no sight into Daisy's heart but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking a little wistfully for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game.

And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red and white Georgian Colonial mansion overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran toward the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sun-dials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold, and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch.

He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy, straw haired man of thirty with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining, arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body.

His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts.

"Now, don't think my opinion on these matters is final," he seemed to say, "just because I'm stronger and more of a man than you are." We were in the same Senior Society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own.

We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch.

"I've got a nice place here," he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly.

Turning me around by one arm he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep pungent roses and a snub-nosed motor boat that bumped the tide off shore.

"It belonged to Demaine the oil man." He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. "We'll go inside."

We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-colored space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding cake of the ceiling—and then rippled over the wine-colored rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea.

The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor.

The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless and with her chin raised a little as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in.

The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room.

"I'm p-paralyzed with happiness."

She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I've heard it said that Daisy's murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.)

At any rate Miss Baker's lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me.

I looked back at my cousin who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth—but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered "Listen," a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour.

I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way east and how a dozen people had sent their love through me.

"Do they miss me?" she cried ecstatically.

"The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath and there's a persistent wail all night along the North Shore."

"How gorgeous! Let's go back, Tom. Tomorrow!" Then she added irrelevantly, "You ought to see the baby."

"I'd like to."

"She's asleep. She's two years old. Haven't you ever seen her?"

"Never."

"Well, you ought to see her. She's—"

Tom Buchanan who had been hovering restlessly about the room stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder.

"What you doing, Nick?"

"I'm a bond man."

"Who with?"

I told him.

"Never heard of them," he remarked decisively.

This annoyed me.

"You will," I answered shortly. "You will if you stay in the East."

"Oh, I'll stay in the East, don't you worry," he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. "I'd be a God Damned fool to live anywhere else."

At this point Miss Baker said "Absolutely!" with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room.

"I'm stiff," she complained, "I've been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember."

"Don't look at me," Daisy retorted. "I've been trying to get you to New York all afternoon."

"No, thanks," said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry, "I'm absolutely in training."

Her host looked at her incredulously.

"You are!" He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. "How you ever get anything done is beyond me."

I looked at Miss Baker wondering what it was she "got done." I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before.

"You live in West Egg," she remarked contemptuously. "I know somebody there."

"I don't know a single—"

"You must know Gatsby."

"Gatsby?" demanded Daisy. "What Gatsby?"

Before I could reply that he was my neighbor dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square.

Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips the two young women preceded us out onto a rosy-colored porch open toward the sunset where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind.

"Why candles?" objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. "In two weeks it'll be the longest day in the year." She looked at us all radiantly. "Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it."

"We ought to plan something," yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed.

"All right," said Daisy. "What'll we plan?" She turned to me helplessly. "What do people plan?"

Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her little finger.

"Look!" she complained. "I hurt it."

We all looked—the knuckle was black and blue.

"You did it, Tom," she said accusingly. "I know you didn't mean to but you did do it. That's what I get for marrying a brute of a man, a great big hulking physical specimen of a—"

"I hate that word hulking," objected Tom crossly, "even in kidding."

"Hulking," insisted Daisy.

Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once, unobtrusively and with a bantering inconsequence that was never quite chatter, that was as cool as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes in the absence of all desire. They were here—and they accepted Tom and me, making only a polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. They knew that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening too would be over and casually put away. It was sharply different from the West where an evening was hurried from phase to phase toward its close in a continually disappointed anticipation or else in sheer nervous dread of the moment itself.

"You make me feel uncivilized, Daisy," I confessed on my second glass of corky but rather impressive claret. "Can't you talk about crops or something?"

I meant nothing in particular by this remark but it was taken up in an unexpected way.

"Civilization's going to pieces," broke out Tom violently. "I've gotten to be a terrible pessimist about things. Have you read 'The Rise of the Coloured Empires' by this man Goddard?"

"Why, no," I answered, rather surprised by his tone.

"Well, it's a fine book, and everybody ought to read it. The idea is if we don't look out the white race will be—will be utterly submerged. It's all scientific stuff; it's been proved."

"Tom's getting very profound," said Daisy with an expression of unthoughtful sadness. "He reads deep books with long words in them. What was that word we—"

"Well, these books are all scientific," insisted Tom, glancing at her impatiently. "This fellow has worked out the whole thing. It's up to us who are the dominant race to watch out or these other races will have control of things."

"We've got to beat them down," whispered Daisy, winking ferociously toward the fervent sun.

"You ought to live in California—" began Miss Baker but Tom interrupted her by shifting heavily in his chair.

"This idea is that we're Nordics. I am, and you are and you are and—" After an infinitesimal hesitation he included Daisy with a slight nod and she winked at me again. "—and we've produced all the things that go to make civilization—oh, science and art and all that. Do you see?"

There was something pathetic in his concentration as if his complacency, more acute than of old, was not enough to him any more. When, almost immediately, the telephone rang inside and the butler left the porch Daisy seized upon the momentary interruption and leaned toward me.

"I'll tell you a family secret," she whispered enthusiastically. "It's about the butler's nose. Do you want to hear about the butler's nose?"

"That's why I came over tonight."

"Well, he wasn't always a butler; he used to be the silver polisher for some people in New York that had a silver service for two hundred people. He had to polish it from morning till night until finally it began to affect his nose—"

"Things went from bad to worse," suggested Miss Baker.

"Yes. Things went from bad to worse until finally he had to give up his position."

For a moment the last sunshine fell with romantic affection upon her glowing face; her voice compelled me forward breathlessly as I listened—then the glow faded, each light deserting her with lingering regret like children leaving a pleasant street at dusk.

The butler came back and murmured something close to Tom's ear whereupon Tom frowned, pushed back his chair and without a word went inside. As if his absence quickened something within her Daisy leaned forward again, her voice glowing and singing.

"I love to see you at my table, Nick. You remind me of a—of a rose, an absolute rose. Doesn't he?" She turned to Miss Baker for confirmation. "An absolute rose?"

This was untrue. I am not even faintly like a rose. She was only extemporizing but a stirring warmth flowed from her as if her heart was trying to come out to you concealed in one of those breathless, thrilling words. Then suddenly she threw her napkin on the table and excused herself and went into the house.

Miss Baker and I exchanged a short glance consciously devoid of meaning. I was about to speak when she sat up alertly and said "Sh!" in a warning voice. A subdued impassioned murmur was audible in the room beyond and Miss Baker leaned forward, unashamed, trying to hear. The murmur trembled on the verge of coherence, sank down, mounted excitedly, and then ceased altogether.

"This Mr. Gatsby you spoke of is my neighbor—" I said.

"Don't talk. I want to hear what happens."

"Is something happening?" I inquired innocently.

"You mean to say you don't know?" said Miss Baker, honestly surprised. "I thought everybody knew."

"I don't."

"Why—" she said hesitantly, "Tom's got some woman in New York."

"Got some woman?" I repeated blankly.

Miss Baker nodded.

"She might have the decency not to telephone him at dinner-time. Don't you think?"

Almost before I had grasped her meaning there was the flutter of a dress and the crunch of leather boots and Tom and Daisy were back at the table.

"It couldn't be helped!" cried Daisy with tense gayety.

She sat down, glanced searchingly at Miss Baker and then at me and continued: "I looked outdoors for a minute and it's very romantic outdoors. There's a bird on the lawn that I think must be a nightingale come over on the Cunard or White Star Line. He's singing away—" her voice sang "—It's romantic, isn't it, Tom?"

"Very romantic," he said, and then miserably to me: "If it's light enough after dinner I want to take you down to the stables."

The telephone rang inside, startlingly, and as Daisy shook her head decisively at Tom the subject of the stables, in fact all subjects, vanished into air. Among the broken fragments of the last five minutes at table I remember the candles being lit again, pointlessly, and I was conscious of wanting to look squarely at every one and yet to avoid all eyes. I couldn't guess what Daisy and Tom were thinking but I doubt if even Miss Baker who seemed to have mastered a certain hardy skepticism was able utterly to put this fifth guest's shrill metallic urgency out of mind. To a certain temperament the situation might have seemed intriguing—my own instinct was to telephone immediately for the police.

The horses, needless to say, were not mentioned again. Tom and Miss Baker, with several feet of twilight between them strolled back into the library, as if to a vigil beside a perfectly tangible body, while trying to look pleasantly interested and a little deaf I followed Daisy around a chain of connecting verandas to the porch in front. In its deep gloom we sat down side by side on a wicker settee.

Daisy took her face in her hands, as if feeling its lovely shape, and her eyes moved gradually out into the velvet dusk. I saw that turbulent emotions possessed her, so I asked what I thought would be some sedative questions about her little girl.

"We don't know each other very well, Nick," she said suddenly. "Even if we are cousins. You didn't come to my wedding."

"I wasn't back from the war."

"That's true." She hesitated. "Well, I've had a very bad time, Nick, and I'm pretty cynical about everything."

Evidently she had reason to be. I waited but she didn't say any more, and after a moment I returned rather feebly to the subject of her daughter.

"I suppose she talks, and—eats, and everything."

"Oh, yes." She looked at me absently. "Listen, Nick; let me tell you what I said when she was born. Would you like to hear?"

"Very much."

Thank you.

[multimetaverse]

there is dumb josh drama on Twitter @enbyriley has compiled a whole google doc on things they’re angry at him for. This is of little interest to us, but there are DM screenshots in there that strongly suggest Gary Marsh was in the way of andi mack. docs doot google doot com/document/d/1-qh1c5y7y2TglXQIKcNpTqISWmDZRoW3V472oU1wkRQ

Yeah it’s the most honest we’ve seen anyone from Andi Mack be about the censorship and restrictions they faced and those ultimately came from Gary Marsh. I really don’t care about this rehashed drama, some of it is serious stuff that I hope Josh has properly atoned for but a lot of it is pretty minor and some of these accusations seem very flimsy and don’t have any evidence to back them up. Obviously Josh should never have been so involved with the fandom across so many different platforms and I think to an extent he was failed by the adults in his life, I get that some of these instagram and discord group chats would have been private and hidden but his tumblr and twitter were public and open for everyone to see and someone whether his parents, his team, someone from the show, or someone from Disney should have intervened a long time ago. I think a lot of it has to do with not having the social network that an average kid would have which is part of a broader question of whether we as a society should be putting child actors into an adult world of working that denies them a normal childhood and forces them to grow up too fast.

It was always clear that Gary Marsh was hurting the show; the censorship was right there in front of our eyes and only got worse as the show went on. I am surprised that Josh would so openly admit it and that it didn’t leak until now. A lot of people in the fandom had a misconception that the show was cancelled because of canon Tyrus but in reality the show was cancelled before the writing of 3x10 while permission for canon Tyrus was only given during the writing of 3x21. 3x10 was filmed in August while 3x21 was filmed in December so for Disney the question wasn’t whether to cancel the show because they didn’t want to deal with a gay relationship but whether they were going to let the show end without a canon gay relationship. 

I don’t blame Josh for being frustrated and also not for wanting to work for Disney Channel again; after all it was his characters story line that was being hurt. With the exception of Bex’s aborted Gabriel story line in 2a, Gary pretty much let Terri and the writers do what they wanted: Bex’s teen pregnancy, Andi not knowing her who father was, racism, sexism, bullying, panic attacks, learning disabilities, arrests, a funeral, and financial issues. Terri wants a Jandi, Jamber, and Muffy kiss? Sure no problem. Cyrus kissing Iris twice? Go for it! Hell they had no problem doing a gun safety plot line, we got the word gun said on Disney Channel before the word gay. And there was a reason that Cyrus and TJ could talk about the gun but not about their own feelings. 

That’s not to say that our boy Gary is a virulent homophobe because he wouldn’t have let there be a gay character in the first place or let Cyrus come out but clearly he views two boys having feelings for each other as something far more controversial and risque than literally everything else the show tackled up to and including a gun plot line which Disney was happy to promote. Andi Mack was an important step forward for rep but there is no other rep on Disney Channel right now, not even brief Good Luck Charlie style rep, and again that’s all on Gary. 

Josh blames Gary Marsh for there not being a Tyrus kiss which is obviously correct. A lot of people swallowed Terri’s spin in her post finale Paste magazine interview but of course she was lying about her ability to have a Tyrus kiss approved and wasn’t going to bad mouth Disney in anyway and jeopardize her Lizzie McGuire reboot. We had three conversations between Cyrus and Buffy in 3x13, 3x15, and 3x21 where Cyrus talked about his feelings for TJ in a coded way that doesn’t make any sense in universe since he was able to talk about his crush on Jonah with Buffy in S2 and in 3x11 he used the word gay. Was it a creative choice to have Cyrus never openly discuss his feelings for TJ? Of course not, Terri just couldn’t get it approved and if she couldn’t even get an open discussion of feelings approved then she was never going to get a kiss.

There’s a lot that Terri and the writers can and should be blamed for in regards to the Tyrus story line especially in S3 but if they had foreseen the restrictions they’d face then they wouldn’t have had Cyrus kiss Iris twice, or go on group and individual dates with Iris, or come up with a mashup name for them, or have Cyrus introduce Iris as his girlfriend to Andi and Buffy. The bench scene was the best ending we were going to get for Tyrus with Gary’s restrictions and Terri’s writing but it wasn’t an ending that will age well. 

When I was talking about Seblos and Tyrus in my HSMTMTS 1x05 review I shared a snippet of an interview Gary Marsh did in 2008 regarding Ryan’s character being coded as gay in the HSM movies but not alowed to actually be gay:

Regarding the fact that there are boyfriend-girlfriend relationships in the HSM movies, Marsh interjected, “Yeah, but that’s not about sex,” as though having two boyfriends equals full-tilt boogie. And as to why there can be boyfriend and girlfriends but not two boyfriends, he could only note, “It’s just not something that we’ve ever had the opportunity to portray. It hasn’t been a place we’ve gone.”

Again I don’t think he’s personally homophobic and I don’t think he’d publicly make such a statement today but when the man in charge of Disney Channel equates a same sex relationship with sex then that’s not something he views as appropriate for children or for Disney Channel. It explains why it would be until 2014 until there was lgbtq rep on Disney with the lesbian moms on Good Luck Charlie, why there wouldn’t be an openly gay character until 2017 when Cyrus came out to Buffy, and why there wouldn’t a gay relationship until 2019 when Cyrus and TJ held hands and it explains why there’s no other rep on Disney Channel. It’s deeper issue than just one executive and it’s likely that Gary Marsh’s successor will hold somewhat similar views which means that Tyrus could be the only rep on Disney Channel and the only rep anywhere on Disney with younger kids played by actual kids for a while.

[burningfestivalpersona]

Local Human-Turned-Pokemon, Mitsuru Kirijo, and The Start of A Fairly Unusual Adventure

She comes to in a forest, with a feline form standing over her.

“Come on, get up,” He nudges her with a paw. “Wake up already.”

She stretches out, and her body doesn’t feel quite right. It’s too small, for one thing. She doesn’t know why, but she’s sure that she should be taller than this, even if she’s surprisingly alright with being outsized by a kitten.

“Where am I?” She mumbles, blinking at the trees towering overhead.

“We call it the Tiny Woods, because it’s not as loud or sinister as the other nearby forests.” She can’t tell if that’s a joke or not. “What are you doing here?”

She thinks back to try and remember, only to realize that she can’t. She can’t remember anything.

...Well, anything but her name, anyway. She explains these circumstances to the kitten, as she tries to adjust her sense of balance. It’s off, and she doesn’t quite know why.

The kitten listens patiently, sunlight sparkling off of the coin on his head. “Mitsuru, huh...? That’s not a common name around here. Not one I ever expected to hear from a Totodile.”

...Oh. That explains the oddities.

Her body has been transformed.

.

The kitten explains to Mitsuru some of the specifics of her situation. The form she has taken is called a Totodile, while his species is called Meowth.

“Most Pokemon just go by their species name,” He states. “You don’t normally see a lot of Pokemon of the same species outside dungeons, so I guess it works.” He doesn’t offer a name of his own, so Mitsuru figures he must just be called Meowth.

Meowth explains to her about the Mystery Dungeons, and the Pokemon within them, and is more patient with her lack of knowledge than she would have expected.

“There’s a Pidgey over there,” He gestures at a sunflower seed nearby. “Why not pick a fight with it? If anything goes wrong, I’ll be able to handle it.” He sounds surprisingly sure of his combat ability.

When she bites the Pidgey, its feathers come away covered in frost.

“...Huh. I could have sworn you were a Water Type.” But he seems to be more amused by the whole thing than anything else, so Mitsuru supposes she can’t have gotten it too wrong.

.

Meowth asks Mitsuru if she’d like to form a rescue team with him. She’s not sure there’s anything else she can do but agree, after he’s given her so much help.

He’s even given her a house, a little place built on top of a marsh, that appeals a lot to the part of her that lives in the water, but feels a little small at the same time.

Besides the house, he also offers her a scarf. There’s two to choose from, one red and one green.

“I didn’t really want to get two... if I did, I would’ve gotten two red ones. But they were a package deal, so...” Since Meowth seems so attached to the red, Mitsuru decides that he can have it.

Even though the color appeals to her just as strongly.

.

The banker in town looks a lot like Meowth. “See, Pokemon can do this thing to change what they look like,” He explains, though he doesn’t sound entirely sure about it himself. “I’m not... really interested in changing who I am, but if I was... that’s apparently what I’d look like.”

Mitsuru can sort of see it, and she doesn’t have any problem with the idea that someone’s form could change so drastically. Even discounting what’s happened to her, it seems sort of familiar.

“I’m like ninety-eight percent certain we aren’t related, though,” He continues. “And other two percent’s only because I never actually had parents. Come on, Purple, over there, looks like he’s about to try and sell me TMs again.”

He seems a bit disturbed by the very idea of visiting that shop. “Are TMs really that bad?” She asks.

“...Not really. Normal Type Pokemon like me can learn a lot of moves from them. It’s just... moves like that don’t feel like me.” And she understands. “You, meanwhile, might actually get something out of a visit.”

“What do you mean?”

“Tell me you wouldn’t learn all of the Ice Type moves you can get your claws on.”

She can’t. For all that Meowth says her species is supposed to hold power over water, she can’t help but feel more of a calling towards ice.

“I also wouldn’t be surprised if you could pull off Attract, but I don’t feel like wading through another crowd of admirers. Assuming the ice queen thing doesn’t put them off.”

“I-Ice queen!?”

“Would you prefer empress?” She would, actually, though she doesn’t know why.

She just chalks it up to another thing she doesn’t remember about herself and carries on.

.

Mitsuru and Meowth go on to save more Pokemon, and eventually one wants to join them, but can’t. The feeling of a missed opportunity stings, as she watches the due of Magnemite floating away.

“This is the sort of thing we should have thought of beforehand,” She remarks. She wonders, for a moment, if she got the saying right, as she only has claws at the moment, and has yet to meet many Pokemon with hands. Not that Meowth seems to think anything strange of it.

He nods, also watching them float away. “Would have been nice, having an Electric Type on the team. It’d be just like old times.”

“What do you mean?”

He blinks, as if he hadn’t expected her to hear his words, but answers her anyway.

“I... There’s someone I knew, once, who liked to throw lightning bolts everywhere. Or, knew isn’t the right word, really... he was my brother. Sort of. It’s complicated. But... it’d be nice. If Magnemite had come along.”

Magnemite comes back to join them the next day, and Mitsuru doesn’t think she’s ever seen Meowth so happy. But... he seems sort of sad, too, in a way that leaves a cold feeling in the pit of her stomach, which has nothing to do with her ice.

She wishes she knew why she can understand it so well.

.

They do more jobs, and pick a fight with another local team, and are eventually asked to retrieve one of their fellow rescuers.

“I ain’t scared of Zapdos,” Meowth puts forth. “My brother shocks harder.” Present tense, this time, but Mitsuru’s not about to be upset with him for being confusing, when her own history is one of those things she’s unsure about.

“I see,” Alakazam nods. “But what of your partner? She will take extra damage from their electric attacks.”

“If I did not go to save Shiftry, I would be remiss in my duty as a member of a rescue team.”

Meowth’s tail twitches, as though he’s recalling an old joke that only he understands. “Besides, all the lightning in the world won’t stop him from being weak to ice.”

.

Mitsuru’s not actually sure what happened during the fight with Zapdos. She was knocked out partway through. Everyone was, except Meowth, who managed to beat them back somehow.

“And you said Revive All Orbs were inefficient.”

Before she can argue just how situational these sorts of orbs would be, Alakazam’s team arrives.

“A Meowth, a Totodile...” Charizard looks them over. “If you’ve won this fight, you must be awfully strong Pokemon, despite that.”

“Assuming, of course, that you are Pokemon at all,” Alakazam finishes, and Mitsuru is drawn to tell the truth, as well as to admit that she’s not sure why she’s there.

“Hill of the Ancients?” Meowth doesn’t sound very impressed by his advice, but he shrugs anyway. “...Guess it couldn’t hurt. Not like I had any plans for tomorrow.”

He doesn’t seem to believe it will help anything.

.

The world’s balance is upset, and an old legend is spreading around town. “It wasn’t her,” Meowth grinds out, sounding much more sure than Mitsuru feels.

“Do you have any proof that she’s not?” Gengar asks.

“You don’t have any proof that she is. You can’t, because she comes from a world that doesn’t have Pokemon.” The surety of his words surprises her, when he can’t be certain that he’s speaking the truth. “You don’t even know she’s the only human around. For all you know, half the Pokemon in this square could have been human.”

They still end up driven out of town by the paranoia of the villagers. But it’s nice to know that there’s someone who has faith in her.

.

The heat bothers her. More than the Grass Pokemon lurking in the forests, more even than Zapdos, Mitsuru can’t walk through the heat without feeling like her scales are about to shed off.

“Huh. Are you sure you’re a Totodile, and not, say, a Sneasel?” For being on the run, Meowth remains surprisingly able to make cutting remarks. “Really, it’s like you’re an Ice Type in disguise.”

“I’m human,” She tells him, wondering if he’ll listen.

“Who says a human can’t be Ice Type?” She wants to reply with how humans don’t have Pokemon types, with how they can’t freeze things or use these kinds of powers.

“So says the devoted Normal Type,” She replies instead. “The most unconventional thing I’ve seen you do is produce coins from nowhere.” Coins which don’t even have a use to them, in this desolate place.

“I mean, I’m pretty sure Psychic humans are a thing...” Mitsuru wonders where Meowths knowledge of humanity comes from. Nothing he says ever sounds outright wrong, but... that honestly just raises more questions.

.

The cold doesn’t bother her. Neither do Ice Type attacks.

Articuno is stymied by this, as their attacks continue to do nothing to her. “Why isn’t this working!?” They complain, and she shrugs back at them, standing in front of Meowth so he isn’t hit by the snow.

“It’s cause she’s the Ice Empress,” Meowth mutters. She’d thought that joke had died already. “And you don’t have Ice Break.”

Those words mean something, but Mitsuru doesn’t ask, never gets the chance, as Absol jumps in and offers to guide them away.

They accept, of course. She’s not effected by the cold, but her partner is, and the sooner they can get this over with, the better.

.

They do more rescues. They renovate their base. They quell Groudon. And soon, it’s almost time for them to take to the sky.

“Your partner will not be able to return with you,” Gardevoir says, her voice quiet. “I’m sorry.”

“Return?” There’s probably more she should be asking, but this word sticks out to her. “Isn’t this his world?” Except... except that doesn’t feel right, either. She wakes up in the morning still confused about it.

She supposes it doesn’t matter. After all, she’ll be returning to the human world, and Meowth will stay here.

She wonders if she should tell him that. She decides not to.

It probably doesn’t mean anything, anyway.

.

It keeps bugging her, as she climbs the Sky Tower. As she battles Rayquaza. As the massive serpent’s massive claws turned on her partner somehow ends with the dragon being hurt. As Mitsuru is pressed close to the edge of the clouds, and calls up every bit of cold from within herself.

It’s not Ice Fang, or Ice Beam, or Blizzard, but something else.

She calls it Niflheim.

It bugs her, as she is warned of the results of the star’s explosion. “Go ahead,” Her partner says, shrugging more carelessly than the situation warrants. “Pretty sure I’m meant to die young in every life.” And she wants to say that’s wrong, but...

Isn’t that what the evidence has shown, so far?

“I’m not sure two lives is enough of a frame of reference,” She breathes out, memories slotting themselves into place far too late to be of any use.

“Well, I mean, most people only get the one.”

They survive, anyway, with the assistance of Gengar. Or a human bearing his voice, which raises some questions, and answers others.

Not that it matters to Mitsuru, as the light swirls around her body to take her away. To take her home, after over a month of exhaustion, and battling, and spending time with someone who, by all logic, should not have been there.

“Is there anything you want me to tell Akihiko?” She finds herself asking.

Shinjiro shrugs, his tail twitching. “Tell him he can zap harder than an actual god. He’ll love that.”

“He misses you, too,” She tells him, because it has to be said. She’s wanted to say it since she first woke up, but only now remembers enough to. “I’ll tell him that, as well.”

She doesn’t know if she’d call this a perfect ending, but it’s the one she’s gotten either way.

[dansnaturepictures]

8 of my favourite pictures I took in August 2020 

1. View at Magdalen Hill, Hampshire

2. Yellow flowers at Lakeside Country Park, Hampshire

3. Some of one of my favourite birds the Great Crested Grebe at Lakeside 

4. Water at Fingle Bridge, Dartmoor, Devon 

5. Meldon Reservour on Dartmoor 

6. Wall Brown at Cape Cornwall 

7. Orange Swift moth at home 

8. Woodpigeon out the back 

I must admit one thing that is easier when the world is normal and I am at work in the office and in an average week will only take photos the Saturday and Sunday is these posts. Had I been in the office from next Tuesday onwards I would have quite liked the fact that I would post this then to add something to my social media in a time I would not normally post on my wildlife/photography accounts probably. Don’t get me wrong, I am loving every minute of being able to have walks with my camera as part of my working day each day though and then have the weekends. But its meant it can be hard to find where to stick these posts, of which I can’t believe I only have two left after this as the idea is the amount of my photos I select corresponds to the number of the month and 10 is the maximum number for a Tumblr photoset this strange year is certainly going very fast. With my life as it is now, doing these posts the last few months have been a classic Saturday morning job which I’ve enjoyed and has allowed me to reflect on the amazing wildlife experiences I have had each day and so many photos taken. A little bit later than that today as I began writing early afternoon and couldn’t finish this blog before we went out today which I shall post about later, but I thought just two days until the end of the month I would just post it now I very often write it up a few days prior to posting and its a pre-what I did in my day post. 

August 2020 has been packed, thrilling and fantastic for me come rain or shine of the very hottest kind in a heatwave starting the month and patches within it. The above meant I didn’t really know where to turn at times for picking these eight standout photos I took this month and notable ones miss out in the interest of giving different pictures a chance. Photographically the first point to make is my yields of photos each day got higher and higher and this has to be the month when I finish it I’ll have produced most photos in and certainly had a couple of the days I produced my most photos ever in a day during last week. I have really enjoyed it. 

To summarise the month for wildlife its been an insect dominated one again. The butterfly season may be quieter now but this month I was able to put what I think is the crucial cherry on the top of an extraordinary and amazing butterfly year for me again by seeing my first Painted Lady (Farlington Marshes) and Silver-spotted Skippers and Clouded Yellow (Old Winchester Hill) of the year to take my butterfly year list to 43 making it my second highest ever behind last year’s 45. Leaving just three I’ve seen in my life I am yet to see this year. One of those despite trying we just couldn’t make happen and the other two are not immediately local to us so its ones we didn’t go anywhere we could see them this year. So that’s why I feel I’ve seen all the butterflies I have done, and that time at Old Winchester Hill at the height of the heatwave was a particularly memorable day one of my best this year as I saw an abundance of insect life in a thriving flower meadow and much more wildlife in one of the most beautiful spots in Hampshire on the South Downs. What a start to the month I’ll keep that time with me always in memory. Its got to the stage the last few wet in places days I didn’t see a butterfly which is probably for the first time since well before the summer showing how crucial butterflies have been for me this month and the others this year with how many seen especially. I concluded my Big Butterfly Count surveys spanning July into August that national survey I contribute to well that day at Old Winchester Hill with so many seen. 

I think a big part of my August has been the amount of moths we have seen mostly coming in the house but outside too, with so many I managed to photograph and enjoy and of the ones I identified mostly with the kind help of others online six were new to me so far this month continuing a strong trend of my 2020 as I did in 2018 and 2019 really of noticing moths, yearning to know what they are and learning and celebrating them. Fitting 10 years on from when my butterfly and side interest in moths began too. 

But I cannot say August hasn’t been a birding month at all because it has, and compared to July I saw so much more. Year list wise seven year ticks to date renergised my year a little for this its always quieter over the summer with my bogey bird seen and another candidate for it ones I normally and can see easily but don’t in a year for whatever reason and two of my favourite birds and one on my B list seen gloriously during our weekend away in the West Country last week. I could add more bird year ticks yet and its meant my bird year list is competing with my last two years again being the third highest amount of birds I’ve seen on given dates lately. But bird wise alongside many other great species seen locally in the garden at Lakeside, and getting to visit the Peregrines of Winchester Cathedral due to something I was required to go to the office for in Winchester for the first time seeing them or any in the flesh since March, the big story has been those Great Crested Grebe chicks at Lakeside. I craved seeing this pair I’d followed before this year produce chicks and when they did at the end of July I was beyond excited and through this month I have taken many moments of pure joy and fascination at seeing these adorable youngsters of one of my favourite birds grow. Some of the best bits of my walks locally whilst working from home. I took so many pictures of them too. 

Other wildlife wise I had some great dragonfly moments in August a couple of Golden-ringed Dragonfly one of my very favourites sightings standing out that day at Old Winchester Hill we went to Cadman’s Pool in the New Forest and saw one a key place for them the forest is and we saw one in similar surroundings at Dartmeet, Dartmoor on Monday. Other insects have been seen by us like the Buff-tip moth caterpillar at the start of the month at Baddesley Common and Emer Bog and the Common Green lacewing in the kitchen yesterday. I’ve seen nice mammals this month too most notably my first bats of the year out the window and then I enjoyed a glorious dusk walk seeing them skim over beach lake at Lakeside what a moment. 

I’ve taken in many breathtaking landscapes this month producing so many photos of them I’ve seen some wonderful habitats in vibrant summer colour and the early autumnal signs I’ve been noticing have come on more fully with so many colourful leaves and berries observed. 

Finally a focal point of August was that instead of going to Rutland Water for the Bird Fair which we had done every year since 2008 obviously it was cancelled and held virtually which was good to bits of, we went to Devon staying in Dartmoor and visiting special locations we found last year in Cornwall too on Sunday. It was a sensational and needed few days away, where I had magical experiences for seeing birds, butterflies, some of my best views this year and much more in weather that we got so much sunshine out of in the end. I really enjoyed relaxing and taking in one of the best bits of the country wildlife and landscape wise some of my favourite habitats that weekend. Here’s to September! Stay safe and well all.