#;; THAT *SHE* “PUTS IDEAS INTO THE MINDS OF LESSER FAE�� . . . god the way she would just smileeeeee

[kaerinio]

thinking about dany being invited to the meeting about hybern. thinking about her sitting there, barristan on one side, tyrion on the other, missandei next to barristan, her handmaids and bloodriders and sellsword captains and grey worm surrounding them. thinking about her hands resting loosely in her lap. thinking about her eyes following all the threads, all the drama! thinking about her soft smile when she says, "oh, i am but a young queen, innocent of the ways of war" before offering some strategy !!!

[jinx-on-mars-19xx]

Ragnarok

⚔️ All Previous Parts Here ⚔️

Dom x Colson (Yungblud x Machine Gun Kelly)

Warnings: future ABO, mpreg, PAY ATTENTION TO THESE! THIS CHAPTER IS ROUGH! BIG BAD/BIG SAD™️, Viking Col, fae Dom, threats, talks of murder, war, threats of death, violence, intense violence, some threats of sexual violence (against Dom), explanations of sexual violence (past tense about Col's mom), questioning if sexual violence happened (Dom), cutting, slashing, stabbing, bleeding, lots of blood, wondering if someone is alive, violence against Col, Col beaten and bloody, more slashing, description of throat ripping, body shifting, magic, not knowing if someone is alive, worrying over fetal death, pain and suffering, hurt/comfort ish (just wait), surprise ending, fear, PTSD, boys in love ☠️ rating: EXPLICIT ☠️ ideas helped by @iamnotanearthlingmotherfucker 🖤

The chieftain tried to sneak up to the meeting place he was expected at but he was sure they already knew of his arrival. He'd attempted to stay close to the trees and keep his steed quiet but he swore his rage was a beacon around him, heralding his return. There was a knot in his stomach from so much anger and fear- he was tired of being stepped on and treated as lesser and the enemy taking his family was the last fucking straw. He was looking for more than just Harald- he hoped he'd find both him and his uncle together since he was sure they'd been working as one, at least that's what Inga had led him to understand.

☠️⚔️☠️

The Viking was gathering his weapons for the meeting ahead when his aunt found him. She was fretting more than he was used to seeing her, she was always his port in the storm but something was truly bothering her. "Feilan, I beg a moment of your time. I know you're busy but it's… it's life and death I think." She rushed to say and he paused after placing a sword on his back. He stepped closer to her, his hand going to her shoulder to hopefully give her a little peace but she was a wreck and truthfully so was he. They were probably feeding off each other.

"What is it? Dom needs me." He knew it was more than just his thrall but he was having trouble facing the truth. First he had to find his boy alive and then he could deal with the extra passenger. Gods- he didn't know how to be a father. His own was dead long before he was gone and his uncle was... Shit would be too kind.

"That's just it. I believe it was Bjørn who wished to keep your thrall." She whispered and his heart sank. No. It couldn't be true. His uncle was a bastard sure but he was kin. Sure he'd tried to assault- Kol'son couldn't even finish the thought without growling, so many thoughts were racing through his mind. He'd always put that off to the man just being narcissistic and seeing the boy as lesser but he couldn't see it that way anymore. Pieces of a puzzle were trying to fall in place. "I believe- Odin help us- I believe my brother made arrangements to take the throne himself." Inga sniffled, tears welling her angry blue eyes. "I'm starting to wonder if he hasn't been fighting for it since he was a boy. Kol I think… I think he killed our family."

The man couldn't breathe, all the blood seemed to freeze in his veins. He'd been burning hot with rage as long as he could remember- a constant fire burning in his belly that smelted him into the Viking warrior he was but he'd never gone so cold with it. So much in his life felt like a lie. He was in his twenty third year of life but for the first time he knew he was finally seeing clearly. "Do you think he killed our men? You truly believe he's been orchestrating this for so long?" He was almost begging her to say she was joking, it would be a terrible joke but anything was better than finding out the man he loved almost as a second father had hated him so long. Had slaughtered his own kin.

"The girls have been trying to get more information but we could find no proof. I was going to wait until I had something but I can't wait. It isn't just Harald, it's him. I believe this was all his will. He wants your place as he did your father's. He's probably with him now, I doubt the agreement holds any truth, I fear they plan your death no matter what you agree to." She cried softly but stood tall and strong. Kol may have seen Bjørn as his role model but Inga was the one who raised him. She was who taught him to be who he became. "If you go I fear your death." She pushed again and grabbed for his hand but he shook her off and turned back to his horse.

"Inga I love you more than I can say but they have Dom. Whether I die today or not I'm not-" His voice broke, his throat trying to close around the words he feared almost more than death. "I'm not letting them hurt him or my child. If he wishes for my death he'll kill them as well just to destroy my line. I'm sorry, but I have to." Even when she called out to him again he shook his head. There was no way to stop him. He had to rescue his family.

☠️⚔️☠️

There were too many warriors for his comfort but any strong fighters when he had so few was far too much. He could see Harald on his throne in his great hall but there were so many people around. He had wondered why they went back to their own land but as he watched the bastard drink his fill as if he were already celebrating he knew the truth. They didn't want Kol's clan around to watch him be put to death, they'd already decided to kill him and if they did it on their ground then they could lie to his people. Bjørn could lie to them all. Again. There was never a bargain for him, there was no submission or die- they planned for him to perish that day- alone and broken, and his bastard uncle would step up in his place.

He prayed to gods he was having trouble believing in as he centered himself and stood tall. He couldn't see Dom or Bjørn for that matter but he was sure they were somewhere. Probably hidden away to be one more surprise knife in his back before they murdered him. He had been thinking he'd be dead without Dom but now that it seemed he might genuinely die he was almost at peace- as long as he made sure his family lived on.

He stalked into the room, his footsteps heavy and his anger so hot and cold he was positive it touched everyone he walked past. His fist gripped tight around the hilt of his blade and the roar around him fell silent as he jumped onto the table and pointed his sword at Harald's throat. "Where is my thrall?" He demanded, his voice booming and echoing off the walls in the quiet. Of course his enemy just arched a brow and leaned back, but he could see the fear around the edges. "What did you do with him? And where the fuck is my uncle? Bjørn! Get your ass out here. I'll take you both at once!"

"I see you've learned a few things but you are still so wrong, boy. I don't have your thrall or your uncle. I know not what you speak of." The other Viking sighed. For just a moment Kol let his gaze flick to the bitch he had almost married just to save his clan and the children he assumed were her siblings that were lined up next to her at the table. Gods he didn't want them mortified and cursed for life by seeing their father's blood spilt. Megna he didn't care for, but some of them were so young. "I swear Kol'son, perhaps I lied about much but I have no reason to lie now. Your death was not planned by me, Bjørn only offered me my revenge. If I helped him kill you he would pay me a tithe for years to come and he would take my daughter's hand- making both lands mine."

Kol didn't know what to believe or not so instead of speaking he pressed the blade tighter to the man's throat and tried to calm his rage enough to deal with the present problem. Harald must have seen something in his eyes because the jerk smiled and arched a brow. "Didn't you know? He's why you're an orphan. An only child. He's who slaughtered your men this week. He wanted to break you down for all you and your father stole from him. First your mother and sibling, then your father, now you. Either way I had my revenge as well. I didn't care how I got it but even I have to admit he's a dark fellow. Honestly you were for so long blessed by the gods boy- someone was always watching but your family was not so lucky. And… I worry perhaps your thrall has not been either." The last almost sounded true, as if he were so disgusted by truths he knew to have happened that he could only imagine what might have befallen Dom. It made Kol ill.

The Viking felt cold, every inch of his body broke out in a sick sweat, and his body trembled as his stomach soured. "You're saying he- he what? Took my brother from my mother's womb? Why are you telling me this?" He shouted, pushing the blade until it nicked the man's skin. He was so close to breaking but he needed the whole truth and he needed to bide time. Make sure the whole village was searched.

"So innocent. I'd heard stories about you and I had assumed you would be… quicker than that. Perhaps even darker as your uncle is. No, he didn't tear a child from her womb. He wanted- as I did- what he felt was stolen from him so he took it. Filled with rage and jealousy he took her- from what I've heard. With body and weapon until she was no longer as perfect as she once was. Even I shudder at the thought. Åse was lovely." Kol almost swung at that very moment but he knew he had to wait. It was destroying him not to see blood shed for blood. "I tell you not to torture you boy, although that is a bonus. I tell you the truth so you may face your gods honestly. I intend to send you to them today. You should not have come alone but all has been stolen from you hasn't it?"

"Hmm, not quite!" Kol'son heard a new voice behind him and a dark angry smile curled his lips. New footsteps filed in, almost thundering behind him, and he savored the look of apprehension turned fear on the man's face. One of the fae stepped up behind the chieftain and hopped on the table next to him- holding a sword so surely no one could tell he wasn't used to it.

"Harald, meet my fellow chieftain and prince of the forest- you know Modig don't you? The army behind us? Almost all fae. This would be the part where you grovel." The room froze, it felt as if the universe were holding it's breath and waiting for the human's answer before all Hell broke loose and all Kol'son could think was that he hoped to see his love again. Soon.

☠️⚔️☠️

Dom came to slowly. He tried to keep himself as relaxed as possible because his instincts knew he was in danger. If he woke carefully he could take in his surroundings and hopefully get a handle on everything. He kept his dark rimmed eyes shut tight because he knew they would reflect any light in the room and he was quite sure there was a fire near. He could hear a noise like a knife against stone and bile rose in his throat. The Bastard was still with him and possibly sharpening a weapon? Fuck. He tried to carefully test his body but he could feel restraints around his wrists and ankles- his body was bare, and his thighs spread. He couldn't tell if he'd been used yet, he still felt full from his mate and even when he clenched he wasn't sure. He just prayed the last and only person inside him was Kol'son.

"The pup is awake I see." Shit. He thought he'd been hiding it well but he supposed not if that drunken bear arsehole could tell. He didn't dignify him with an answer though and he kept himself playing dead- maybe the man was testing him. "If you'd just stayed a distraction for him I might could have left you alive but no- somehow my kin always beds freaks of fucking nature!" Dom knew in the next moment he should have opened his eyes but he didn't think he'd have been able to stop the backhand slap across his cheek. He might have dodged it enough to hurt less though, he wasn't sure. As it was his cheek split open against his sharp fangs and he choked on a mouthful of blood. The crimson stained his face as the Viking hovered over him with a small sharp blade that he teased in a line down the siren's shivering body.

"Wha'- wha' you mean?" He finally whimpered when the bastard held the knife over his stomach and pressed it hard. He could tell Bjørn had been holding it in the flame when it automatically seared his skin but he swallowed his scream to instead glare at him. He'd fight not to give him the satisfaction. He just didn't know how long they'd already been in there or what all had already been done to his body. He felt like he'd been asleep too long. He just hoped someone would find them soon.

"My whore sister spread her legs for any forest nymph that smiled at her, putting halfling blood in our family line. My fucking brother fell for a-" He paused his rant to spit on the boy's skin and that almost made Dom throw up. "I don't even know. I know she was wrong though, I felt it in her the day she died! I thought you would help me with my fate- distract that stupid boy from wanting to be chief but no! Even you're- you're-"

"Wha'? I'm wha'? You don't fucking know because you can't understand pure magic! You can't force ya way to the top Bjørn! You'll never be as good as Kol! You're jus' fucking jealous of 'im and the love he and ya bruv got. 'Ow dare you take 'er! Even if you kill me-" Whatever he was about to shout was cut off on a scream as Bjørn slashed a shallow cut straight down his stomach. It wasn't deep at all but it burned like hell and there was so much blood. It wouldn't kill him but without help he knew he'd scar.

"Don't you dare try to use that on me boy! Keep your mouth shut!" Dom hadn't tried to use his siren song- he hadn't even thought of it but he did after that. His throat felt raw, his soul not even a little bit in it but he had to save himself and his child. For Kol'son. The man growled, somehow fighting through the first note to wrap a hand around the selkie's neck and keep him quiet. "It doesn't matter anyway. Your master is dead by now. You're all mine little whore. All mine." With that horrid thought and the man's war worn face so close to his own Dom couldn't help but start to give up. The world went dark around him.

The door slammed open behind Bjørn and he turned fast, surprised to find his nephew bruised and bleeding and pissed behind him. "How- where did you- what the fuck? Why aren't you dead?"

Kol'son knew his uncle didn't mean to ask that, it was obviously too truthful and the bear of a man tried to pull himself together as the still true chieftain took in the room. His nostrils flared when a familiar scent filled his nose and so much new rage filled him he shook with it, his knees going weak. He'd fought his way through the other clan- killed Harald and so many others he couldn't count- only to realize Bjørn and Dom were nowhere to be found. The moment the others had laid down their swords and submitted to him he stopped the fight- leaving Modig and Tom in charge of what happened there. He had to find his mate and now he had. "Is he-" He clamped his jaw shut, he couldn't ask and he wouldn't trust the man's answer anyway but what scared him most was the crimson covering Dom's stomach. If this bastard killed his child-

"Nephew? Feilan?"

"You call me that again and I'll show you a fucking wolf! Shut the fuck up!" His voice was barely above a growl- in fact everything felt graveled and low as if his vocal cords had been ripped to shreds. He knew so much of him had been stabbed and cut, he was bleeding all over and most of his ink was in ruins but nothing mattered if Dom was d- if he was g- nothing mattered if.

"Your runes-" The Bastard gasped, literally falling to his knees as if about to pray and that was perfect for the chieftain. Kol walked forward, his sword landing steady on one side of his uncle's neck. It would kill him to shed kin blood but looking around he knew the man had shed so much more. He looked into those blue eyes so much like his own and shook his head. "I love you Kol." He had the balls to whisper.

"And I loved you as a father. But you took my father didn't you? You took them all?" His voice went soft. Small. For just a moment he was a boy of maturity again and Bjørn was cradling him close, telling him his father was gone. The last time they'd stood like this, the last time Bjørn had fallen on his knees was when he returned from battle and knelt to Kol- telling him he was chieftain now. Gods he'd been lying so long. So long.

Bjørn struck out, his upper body lunging to tackle Kol to the ground and just as when he was a boy they wrestled again- but this time it was real. This time it was for their lives. Kol'son felt empty besides a rage that was fighting to get out. Something had shifted inside him during his fight before. Something predatory. With every punch and stab and slash he felt it grow stronger. With every grunt it sounded more like a roar. Finally though his uncle landed above him, his hand wrapped tight around Kol's neck and he held a knife covered in Dom's blood against his chest. "The first son- you were supposed to be so special. All of you were! But every generation I swear you get worse. Look at you- falling for a nymph just like your kin before you! Wolves you are not!" A gash opened across the skin of Kol's chest and his next shout felt more animalistic than them all. He put every ounce of fear and pain and anger into it and screamed to the gods for his fate to change. He just didn't understand they were closer than he ever knew.

Bjørn scrambled off of him, falling on his ass and trying to crawl away as a light emanated from his nephew's wound. The cut glowed bright and brighter until all his blood seemed to shine pink it was so red and it followed through every vein in the Viking's body. The tattoo he'd watched his brother etch into Kol's skin was destroyed which he'd thought would be a good thing but no. "Oh- oh gods-" But whatever and whoever he was about to pray to didn't matter when claws sank into his throat and tore through his flesh.

☠️⚔️☠️

Kol'son blinked slowly, there was so much light around him he could barely see but at the same moment everything felt so clear. He pulled his hand away from the disgusting wet heat it was surrounded by only to see his uncle's lifeless body drop to the ground. His brows furrowed as he turned to wipe his hand on a discarded tunic, too sick at the thought of keeping that Bastard's blood on his skin. It hit him suddenly and all at once, his war was over- but at what cost?

"Dom? Shit! Dom?" His voice was shot and filled with tears as he crawled onto the bed and systematically cut each rope holding his mate. The boy was drenched in blood and limp in his hold but he got him free and pulled him close into his arms, covering his lover with his own fur. He couldn't even think about the fact that his uncle might have taken him- he couldn't smell the man's spend on him though so he tried to take comfort. However he wasn't sure why he thought that was something he could smell. "Wake up boy. I'm taking you back home. Come on. You have to wake up for me." His voice was wet and choked up but he couldn't stop begging those jade eyes to open. All he could do was cradle his prince close and carry him from the hell he'd been in.

The village gathered as he slowly walked home to their hut, he was pretty sure there was still a glow about him but he couldn't focus on anything but making his thrall wake. "No. Not thrall. Prince. Mine. My fucking mate. If you don't wake up I'll-" He knew the clan was hearing him curse the kid but it didn't matter. Everyone was around staring and some were crying but once he reached their home he knew everything would be okay. It had to be. He'd go mad if.

Once inside he laid his boy out so carefully above his fur and he straightened his limbs before finally petting through his hair. He sat on the bed next to him and something reminded him about their first night together when he sat in the same spot nude and waiting to be joined by the beautiful creature with the glowing eyes.

"Kol'son-"

"GET THE FUCK OUT!" His voice didn't sound his own. It was empty and amplified and he didn't care who had tried to talk to him- friend or family no one mattered while his future wife and child weren't here. The person ran off, shutting the door behind them. Even sitting his knees buckled and he slid to the floor, almost melting into a puddle of fear and pain. He'd been so terrified of his babe ever existing but now that they might be gone along with the only person he truly loved? He couldn't live without them. His ear pressed to his thrall's belly, he knew even without threat of death he wouldn't be able to hear anything- they were hours old- but he needed to be close. "Please- please fuck- just… just come back to me? I can't do this… I can't lose anyone else." Kol'son hadn't sobbed since the day he found his mother dead but as he closed his eyes he saw the scenes superimposed over each other. It was as if it were happening all over again. And finally- he let himself break.

"D- did someone say-" A soft voice sounded and the world halted- or at least Kol's world. There was a harsh cough before- "Fenrir?" The Viking ignored the pain and heat that rushed through him at that whispered name and instead he surged up over his boy to press his quivering lips to those plush perfect dark ones.

"You're here? Fuck! You're okay? Dom? Ástin min? Fuck-" His words sped fast as he left kisses all over Dom's blood stained face but he couldn't help it. Everything felt like a dream. "Gods I… I didn't think- I love you!"

Somehow the siren found strength to laugh at his puppy-like mate as the man kissed his face so much it felt like he was licking him. "I love you too. You're okay? Wait- wha' 'appened?"

"Don't ask."

"Daidí- oh wait." The selkie had started to chide his lover before the nickname he'd called him so long hit him and a happy bright smile curled his lips. He could tell something was happening and there was so much he was missing- his master was fucking glowing and he had a name loud in his head but first. "Daidí." He purred, pulling the chieftain close.

"I know." And Kol- with all his fear, smiled back.

Author's Note/Tags: @manicpixiedreamb0y @hollywoodxwhore @jaxbreaker @cole-way-iero28 @iamnotanearthlingmotherfucker 🖤

Eeeeep 😬 I'm honestly proud of myself after this one, we're near the end of part one. I worked so hard on this chapter and I really really hope you all like it! I promise smut next. Happy smut. This was a long and intense chapter and we ALL deserve a treat! 🖤☠️

[avelera]

One reason I love and tend to put in my fics a headcanon that Hob is functionally immortal on his own now—that even if Death theoretically withdrew the favor he wouldn’t die OR she in fact never gave the ability to him the first place she just let Dream think she did—is because of how much it would blow Dream’s mind.

Dream is, honestly, a monarchist. He is a monarch so it makes sense. He believes people are born into a certain station and role and even if it’s painful he holds himself to that same standard as he does his subjects. (Also an understandable mindset to have when being born into a role makes you a king, but I digress.) He treats mortals as lesser, not always and there’s a lot of caveats, but he definitely thinks he has the measure of humanity and he’s not always impressed or apt to change his behavior at a mere human’s request. He’s an arrogant sonofabitch and it’s literally the plot of the show that his imprisonment and ordeal begin to soften this arrogance. This isn’t conjecture.

So I love the idea that Dream has Hob in this little mental box labeled “Normal Human (exception: can’t die)(exception to exception: unless we change our minds)” and that he treats Hob as he would a human who just happens to have one unusual trait. He doesn’t share information with Hob. He clearly thinks himself superior at the beginning of their encounters. This changes of course, otherwise I wouldn’t ship them.

But I am just utterly tickled by the idea of Dream being all, “Yes, I have feelings for this human but he is just a human, born that way and fated to die someday, unless the Endless or the gods or the fae intervene, so it was never meant to be or I’ve learned from experience it can only end in tragedy.” Only for Death to pop in and be like “Oh, no, Hob is actually immortal now. He did it on his own. He wasn’t born that way, he really did just decide not to die and it’s a funny old universe that he wanted it enough that it actually worked.”

Like, that would make Dream’s head explode. That someone could achieve godhood or a supernatural nature not by birthright or blood, but by just being INCREDIBLY DRIVEN to wanting one thing more than any other creature ever has, and that is to live. And it’s just a random dude from a rainy island in the Middle Ages who watched half his village die of the Black Death and decided that wouldn’t be him. Just. Phenomenal. It’s just a weird thing that happened that it worked, but it’s the sort of weird things that often happens in the Sandman world, Dream just can’t wrap his mind around Hob being someone who achieves specialness on his own.

Anyway, I’m rambling. I should clarify I do not think this is canon. This is just a bit of headcanon I like to put in fics I write that I think isn’t necessarily contradicted by the show (my comic refresh has not yet begun in earnest so maybe there’s something there idk). It’s just fun to stick it to a blood-right idealizing monarchist brooding old as balls Dream lord the idea he doesn’t have it all figured out.

[heyovivi]

Gwyn and Azriel and Prejudice

Hello, back again with some possible theories and this time it's about one of my favorite Valkyries, Miss Gwyneth Berdara and some more controversial subjects such as the prejudice that surrounds her and other characters.

Now I'm sorry I haven't been posting a lot--though I'm sure not people even notice seeing how we have a large community of readers who also come up with some amazing theories! But I needed to slow down on posting my wild theories and imaginations because I felt that some of my readers who read my fan fiction were starting to catch onto the plot of "A Court of Shadows and Scars"--but I've been waiting to post about this one because I think it's important and because I've already addressed it in my story.

Moving on.

Gwyneth Berdara.

Although she was very much a newly-introduced secondary character to Nesta's story she is oh-so important and beloved by our reading community. Gwyn has stolen the hearts of many with her wit, charm, and inquisitive personality--and not just readers but her fellow characters as well.

All except a very few including Merrill and the main antagonist of ACOSF, Queen Briallyn--though there are many others I could mention, such as the Illyrians, but my main focus will revolve around Merrill and Briallyn and their prejudices against Gwyn along with other characters with their own prejudices such as Beron and even our own brooding shadowsinger, Azriel.

Yes, Azriel.

Now we know the story of Gwyn and we also a know a bit of her past as well.

Gwyn's grandmother was once a river nymph who seduced a High Fae male hailing from the Autumn Court and fell pregnant with Gwyn's mother who was sent to be raised at the temple of Sangravah because she couldn't dwell in the rivers of Spring Court and was too wild to be confined in the Forest House of Autumn Court.

"My mother was unwanted by either of their (Gwyn's grandmother and grandfather) people. She could not dwell in the rivers of the Spring Court, but was too untamed to endure the confinement of the forest house of Autumn. So she was give in her childhood to the temple at Sangravah, where she was raised..." (Gwyn Berdara, A Court of Silver Flames, pg. 316)

Now what we know about nymphs is extremely limited in the ACOTAR world. But in Greek mythology--from which they hail from--nymphs were idolized as guardians of nature. They were revered as the spirits of specific natural features and were often identified with parts of nature such as the Oreads (mountain nymphs) and the Hamadryads (tree nymphs).

The name "nymph" comes from the Greek word that means "young woman", and so naturally these beings were considered to be female. Indeed, they were represented as young, beautiful, musical, amorous, and gentle youthful creatures. And while there is some question about whether they were immortal or not - Hamadryads in particular were linked with the lives of their chosen trees - it is believed that they were extremely long lived.

A beautiful, ever-young creature that inhabits the lovliest of all wilderness places including clear lakes, streams, and crystalline caverns. They do not like any form of intrusion but there is a 100% that a nymph will be friendly if approached by another good creature. Nymphs are exceptionally intelligent and are very rarely found.

Gwyn's lineage of nymph, according to Greek mythology, would be categorized as a Naiad, the nymphs of streams, rivers, and lakes. The Naiads, or water nymphs, dwelt beside running water. Like their cousins, the Nereids and Oceanids of the oceans, the Oreads of the hills and the Dryads of the forests and trees, they were usually sweet, benign spirits. Naiads, especially, were helpful and healing, nurturing fruits, flowers and mortals. Yet the youth Hylas who went to draw water from a pool was lured by the nymphs into the water and was never seen again--meaning that despite being creatures of nature they also possessed darker roles in certain legends.

I interpret this as Nymphs being hostile around creatures who were unwelcome in their lands for being ill-intentioned.

Many times in Greek mythology, nymphs were often seen as the symbolism of beauty and love; such as Aphrodite--and because they were always describe to be beautiful and graceful women with soft, sweet appearances they often drew the attention of the Gods creating legends of romantic affairs and infidelity.

Their very beauty caused the Gods to lust after them to a ravenous extent, making the Nymphs sometimes turn to the Goddesses for help. However, not all Goddesses were kind towards the nymphs--such as Aphrodite or Hera who grew jealous of their beauty when their very beauty and natural loveliness challenged the fidelity of their lovers.

In this case, let's assume that role of Gods, of higher beings, were the High Fae in the ACOTAR realm.

In the ACOTAR realm, it's easy to assume the nymphs are somewhat--if not--wholly the same as they are described in classic literature. When Gwyn tells the story of her grandmother she states that her grandmother seduced a High Fae, resulting in the birth of her mother. If this is the case then I think I can understand why characters such as Merrill and Briallyn look down on her lineage so much because again, Nymphs, in the eyes of major Goddesses such as Aphrodite and Hera, were essentially home wreckers (even though many confrontations with Gods and Nymphs were not always consensual).

With the reputation of being male-thirsty seductresses, nymphs are looked down upon as lower-beings, that and their lack of immortality (more often then not Nymphs linked their lifelines to an object in nature: a tree nymphs links their life to a tree, water nymph links their life to a stream (but I suppose that makes them immortal?)).

With this devious reputation placed on her lineage, Gwyn is often the butt of insults with being call half-breed and all by the likes of Briallyn and Merrill.

"But you made it easy for me: you went right to her house in Windhaven. Spared me the trouble of luring you. I let those witless Illyrians take her and the half-breed as an amusing bonus." (Queen Briallyn, A Court of Silver Flames, pg. 721)

"I am descended from Rabath, Lord of the Western Wind...Unlike Gwyneth Berdara, I am not lackey to be dismissed." (Merrill, A Court of Silver Flames, pg. 315)

Merrill glanced between her and Gwyn before saying, "get back to your work, nymph." (Merrill, A Court of Silver Flames, pg. 315)

Okay--so Merrill doesn't specifically call her a half-breed, but dismissing her as a lower race and simply calling her "nymph" is basically comparable to an insult.

Now, that we've got Gwyn out of the way, let's move onto Autumn Court, more specifically Beron.

Beron is an ass--plain and simple. He is the personification of a conservative abuser and is honestly one of the most disgusting characters I have ever had the displeasure of reading. However--I suppose the problems he brings do push certain character formulas forward such as Eris and Lucien. Such as executing Jesminda for simply being involved with Lucien and for being anything but High Fae.

"Lucien fell in love with a faerie whom his father considers to be grossly inappropriate for someone of his bloodline. Lucien said he didn't care that wasn't one of the High Fae, that he was certain the mating bond would snap into place soon and that he was going to marry her and leave his father's court to his scheming brothers...His father had her put down. Executed, in front of Lucien, as his two eldest brothers held him and made him watch." (Tamlin, A Court of Thorns and Roses, pg. 160)

I don't think I need to go ahead and explain Beron and his prejudices against those who are not High Fae--his actions speak enough as is. But what I do want to do is go back to the specific wording Gwyn uses when explaining how her mother ended up in Sangravah, she says: "She could not dwell in the rivers of the Spring Court, but was too untamed to endure the confinement of the forest house of Autumn."

Confinement.

Not dwell. Not live. Not prosper. Confinement.

Now, we haven't navigated Autumn for all it's beauty and culture. We've only seen the Autumn Court through the eyes of Feyre when she is traversing through the courts in ACOWAR.

But I wonder how he approached with dealing with those who are not High Fae? What if the Autumn Court is much like the Summer Court where the court works around a system of class where High Fae are put at the top and anything but is put at the bottom? Therefore assuming that the treatment of such beings is cruel and unjust, creating a defining line between the races in which they can never reach equilibrium.

If that is so that brings me to the idea that many courts outside the jurisdiction of Night Court have assumed systems such as this, making there a limited amount of options for people like Gwyn's mother to prosper peacefully. Because we already know that the main reason why the first war with Hybern happened was because Hybern demanded to keep human and low fae as slaves, placing High Fae at the top. Spring sided with Hybern, because remember Amarantha and the former High Lord of Spring were close friends, Summer Court most likely fought to keep slaves as they still continuously oppress lesser fae, so I imagine it was worse for humans. And let's be honest, Autumn remained "indifferent" but one look at their current High Lord tells me that they weren't that indifferent--not unless Beron wasn't the ruling High Lord at the time.

So with that in mind, Gwyn and her family couldn't flee to Summer, nor Spring or Autumn. Night was probably never an option--as their reputation of being dark and gloomy more than likely frightened the idea away. Winter Court was obvious seeing how it's a winter wonderland of frozen lakes, streams, and rivers. Then there is Day Court which based on their current High Lord and aesthetic, is a desert land of sand and heat--with little to no water supply for any Nymph.

However there is one court that still remains. Dawn Court. From what we know they are a more than neutral court among the courts of Prythian and mostly value innovation. Geographically, Dawn is a lush, eternal countryside rich with the weight of summer upon it. The towns were red-roofed villages with sparkling rivers--a perfect destination for any relocating half-nymph- half-High Fae born child. However we also have to take into account the time period of when Gwyn's mother was born. Remember, prior to ACOTAR, Prythian was under the rule of Amarantha for fifty years--and even if that wasn't the case Summer was under the rule of a High Lord who didn't harbor the same compassion to change the unequal class system like Tarquin did when he assumed his place on the throne. Autumn was being ruled by Beron by that time already who'd probably have her confined. And Spring was under the traditional rule of Tamlin--and despite that Gwyn's mother would've still be considered as unwelcomed by the other nymphs.

If you take the time and current dilemma of Prythian--then there was really no where to go but Sangravah--putting into question the prejudices certain courts have against beings that are of the Low Fae variety.

I predict that despite being beautiful, charming, and compassionate, Gwyn still faces so much prejudice for simply being 1/4th nymph--which to the High Fae is a stain in her lineage to be a descendant from such a deviant being.

Now, let's move onto Azriel.

Azriel, as we all know, has his own conflicts with the Illyrians. Of course, that is to be expected, especially after learning of his backstory with being abused by his family and then later forced into training with the Illyrian army. The only comfort he had ever received was from the likes of his chosen family and so I believe he is projecting his own, personal experience of being an Illyrian into his hatred of Illyria--seeing the Illyrians as no more than a means to end due to their constant reluctance to move on with the times.

Don't get me wrong, I love Azriel. But I think a big part of his character is accepting who he is. He is an Illyrian--and I believe that with the combine power of him, Cassian, and Rhys they can bring the kind of change that Cassian had only ever dreamed of to Illyria. Yet, his own prejudices against his people hold him back and that's probably because he hasn't fully faced his trauma and instead skitters back at the mention or thought of it. I think if Az was healed he wouldn't be so reluctant to visit Illyria or wish for it's demise.

"A rare visit from the shadowsinger. Both myth and terror. Az looked just as displeased to be here, but he'd come when I asked...It was healthy, perhaps. For Az to sometimes remember where he'd come from. He still wore the Illyrian leathers. Had not tried to get the tattoos removed. Some part of him was Illyrian still. Always would be. Even if he wished to forget." (Rhysand, A Court of Frost and Starlight, pg. 222)

"Cassian rolled his eyes. But they both knew Azriel would sooner disband and destroy Illyria than help it. Convincing their brother than the Illyrians were a people worth saving was still a battle amongst the three of them." (Cassian, A Court of Silver Flames, pg. 42)

Now, moving onto the conclusion, finally. If Gwynriel's story was to happen, I think there is a sufficient amount of evidence to claim that Azriel's plot would revolve around the Illyrian conflict.

I'm just going to drop down this link: https://yazthebookish.tumblr.com/post/648449405425516544/the-illyrian-conflict-being-set-up-in-acosf-along

@yazthebookish highlights textual evidence that hints at a possible story arc for an Illyrian plot line because yes, there is still so much to uncover in Illyria and although I believe a large part of that was suppose to be Cassian and Nesta's story I also understand why it could go to Azriel.

Azriel needs to learn to accept his race, and the Illyrians need to learn how to accept change. I think they can learn something from one another and I believe Gwyn will play a role in Azriel's adventure. Do I think she's going to be the face some enlightenment in Azriel's journey--no. That's stupid. And if you twist my words, read it again. I believe because of Gwyn's past with prejudice against her and what she is, she can level with Az and understand him in a way that can potentially help him develop better as a character. Yes, she might be there for guidance or to give Azriel counsel, but in the end I think it's Az's job to tackle down the Illyrian conflict while Gwyn, with the help of Azriel, tackles down her own, whether that be discovering her lineage or where she came from or even healing from her trauma as a SA victim.

Please be respectful and leave your thoughts in the comments.

[ms-demeanor]

thank you for posting more about how much you hate that idiot fucking book I fucking live for this

I have, no joke, probably read Atlas Shrugged a hundred times. I’m on my twelfth copy. I won one of those copies for entering one of the Ayn Rand scholarship essay contests. I once helped a communist friend of mine write an objectivist essay in order to apply for financial aid because “I don’t think like those people, you do”

(full disclosure y’all, I was a libertarian raised by libertarians and i stayed that way until my mid twenties)

I don’t know that I hate it so much as I’m completely fascinated by it.

I actually consider it a REALLY interesting piece of dystopian literature that I enjoy as a dystopia but it is so hyperbolic that it almost reaches the level of magic realism.

Atlas Shrugged (along with most of Rand’s other work) is so fundamentally broken in its assumptions about what motivates people to do what they do that it has always struck me as a weird dreamy fantasy novel. Like, imagine describing the construction of New York’s skyscrapers in a Lana Del Rey music video but all the characters are Fae and have impenetrable social rules about what is acceptable behavior.

And I know I’m in the minority here but I genuinely enjoy her prose, with the obvious caveats that the John Galt speech is terrible and the clear power exchange fetish works better if it’s addressed as a fetish instead of a weird recurring rape fantasy.

I don’t want to make excuses for Rand; her philosophy is ghoulish and her real-life attitudes about imperialism and capitalism and, just like, human rights and interpersonal relationships are repugnant. But if you want to get some insight into *why* she’s like this I’d recommend reading We the Living; it may not be accurate and when it was published it was controversial and frequently considered anticommunist propaganda (how fucking strange is it that a book published in the united states would be controversial for being anticommunist; that really hammers home how successful mccarthyism was) but I get the sense that it’s very much what *she* believed to be true in her experience and since I didn’t grow up in Soviet Russia and defect to the US I can’t exactly say she wasn’t, to a certain extent, justified in her views.

But, god, the way you see that exploded out in later work is just farcical. It’s so dramatic and overwrought - it’s not enough that politicians make mistakes or are self-interested, no, they’re moochers who are out to hasten the end of the world, bloodsucking parasites looking to enslave anybody with the audacity to be productive. It’s not enough that Lillian Rearden married for money, no, she’s out to destroy the soul of the productive man, only capable of measuring her worth by how far she’s able to make her husband fall. It’s not enough that Jim Taggart is an inept company president put in place by nepotism instead of skill, he’s also working to tear down everything his sister built because he wants her reputation but also wants to destroy her for having the gall to accomplish the things that built that reputation.

It’s fascinating. It’s bizarre. It’s looking through a glass darkly, examining the private fears of petty, bitter people. It’s not true, but there’s a truthiness to it to the people who buy into it; they haven’t experienced the world the way that Rand has written it but that’s how they believe the world works and they’re taking her writing as the evidence for it.

AND WHAT DRIVES ME UP THE WALL IS THAT IT’S SO CLOSE TO BEING RADICAL.

Like, okay, look at The Fountainhead - the climax of the book is about a dude who’s frustrated that his art is being perverted by bureaucracy and who wants equal access to fair housing. Crooked contractors and bloated budgets fueled by favoritism and scope creep are all legitimate problems with state building projects and the idea of working on one of those and wanting to blow it up is SUPER relatable. Yeah, dudes, I don’t want the DeVos family getting any more contracts from the government, I don’t want contractors who have worked with Trump bidding on housing projects. That DOES seem fucked up.

But I mean come on, you’ve got a journalist right there in your storyline; the way you make a hero isn’t to blow up a housing project it’s to report on the corruption. But the journalist is one of the craven lesser men Dominique fucks to get back at Roark to punish him for working with statists. So an exposé is out and an explosion is in.

And I know that seems radical but the thing is it’s not a call to fix a corrupt system, it’s not looking to replace a flawed method with a better method - it’s saying “my way or not at all” and that’s just. Petty. Petulant and wasteful.

Childish.

Same for Galt’s Gulch and the “Strike of the Mind” - in Galt’s Gulch there’s a fucking *doctor* who bitches that he was made to heal people who he thought didn’t contribute to enough to society. Dude. DUDE. Keep your mobile xray technology, and your cure for strokes; I’d prefer a doctor who isn’t basically a eugenicist.

FUCK.

It’s so frustrating that she creates this world where everything can be abundant and everything can be accessible and instead of going “luxury gay space communist post-scarcity society” she goes “what if everything COULD be free but instead we had the gold standard and let children with the “wrong” parents starve to death?”

(uh, in case it’s not clear: I’ve had something of a strong ideological shift away from the libertarian party)

And oh god the way she writes and thinks about women.

You know what, I’ve had arguments with some people about the “I’m not like other girls” trope and if/how it exists and Ayn Rand’s protagonists are the perfect example. Dominique only hosts tea parties in order to crush the soul of the man who won’t live up to her exacting standards, not because she likes them or wants friends or anything. Dagny has a long straight neck and an imperious profile and the short hair of an American woman; she saw a bunch of socialists once and put her middle finger up at them. She didn’t want to come out in society at a ball (and be flirted with by boring boys like some kind of silly GIRL), she wanted to go back to the trains (and also maybe get fucked rough against a wall by a man who knew what she deserved and was bold enough to give it to her) like a serious person. Ayn Rand is the queen of Not Like Those Other Girls.

Goddamnit.

Also everybody talks about how awful the John Galt Speech is but the John Galt torture scene? Hot. Great. 10/10 whump. Please skip the rest of the book and instead read about Galt’s friends/admirers rescuing him and tenderly wrapping his shaking shoulders before they carry him to safety, silently brimming with emotion and pride at how well he resisted the torture. (I maintain that if Rand had stuck to just writing actual porn she’d be much better thought-on and more widely beloved because her fetishy stuff only sucks in context; pull it out of her screeds against altruism and you’ve got something that it at least five orders of magnitude better than 50 Shades)

[houseofhurricane]

ACOTAR Fic: Bloom & Bone (3/32) | Elain x Tamlin, Lucien x Vassa

Summary: Elain lies about a vision and winds up as the Night Court’s emissary to the Spring Court, trying to prevent the Dread Trove from falling into the wrong hands and wrestling with the gifts the Cauldron imparted when she was Made. Lucien, asked to join her, must contend with secrets about his mating bond. Meanwhile, Tamlin struggles to lead the Spring Court in the aftermath of the war with Hybern. And Vassa, the human queen in their midst, wrestles with the enchantment that turns her into a firebird by day, robbing her of the power of speech and human thought. Looming over all of them is uniquet peace in Prythian and the threat of Koschei, the death-god with unimaginable power. With powers both magical and monstrous, the quartet at the Spring Court will have to wrestle with their own natures and the evil that surrounds them. Will the struggle save their world, or doom it?

A/N: Honestly, this chapter might just be a celebration of my love for Lucien and Vassa, and I'm okay with that. Also, Lucien briefly quotes Manon from Throne of Glass early in this chapter, because I couldn't resist. You can find all chapters here.

Lucien is inside Vassa when he hears the growl outside the window. He succeeds in not cursing, not wanting the queen sprawled on the bed below him to think he’s at all distracted. Her bronze skin picking up the luster of the candles and her hair its own firelight, spread across the pillow, her lips open as she moans, scrabbles her fingers on his back, pulls him closer. As much as he adores Vassa in the middle of a clever conversation, outsmarting everyone around, he prefers her in this wordless state.

Lucien decides that Tamlin can wait, and runs his thumb against Vassa’s lower lip, thrusts inside her until she stifles her moans into his hand.

She rises from the bed within minutes, not wanting to waste her hours in human form, and he follows her, adjusting his jacket as he winnows to the grounds of the Greysen manor, his mechanical eye whirling in search of Tamlin.

“You’re sure the human queen hasn’t enchanted you?” his old friend asks, prowling out of the shadows. Lucien decides that pointing out the irony of the statement would be unwise.

“I’m surprised you were allowed past the gate,” he says instead.

“You’d be surprised at how easy it is to scare a human.” Tamlin glances at the backs of his hands, as if he’s not sure whether the claws are still visible. After all the conversations Lucien has had with him in his beast form, he supposes it’s a reasonable concern. “And I’m surprised to see you’ve given up on your mate so easily. I’d thought you’d be a model of courtly love.”

Lucien does his best to look mollified. He has told many lies in his life, dancing between truth and half-truth and truth’s opposite so nimbly that he considered his lies blessed by the Mother herself. After centuries, what’s most embarrassing is that he assumed these lies would always come easily to him and slip away with no resistance.

Then came Hybern, the Cauldron, and the dozens of golden threads Lucien watched form between Tamlin and the newly-Fae Elain Archeron, the mating bond so clear he wondered why he was the only one who could see it, though such uncanny sightings were not unusual for him, especially with his new eye.

Within seconds, Lucien had known what would happen if the bond was revealed. Feyre would never let her sister go to the Spring Court. Rhysand -- Feyre’s true mate, Lucien knew, could not reveal to Tamlin for fear of the resulting furious explosion, a regret that had already lit a fire in his gut -- would go to war over the weeping girl, more and more luminous with each tear that spilled from her sweet brown eyes. Prythian would be shattered, invaded from both coasts. And Tamlin would be destroyed. He’d gone to battle with the Night Court over the woman he loved and doomed his actual mate to kidnapping and the Cauldron, trauma and a life she’d never wanted, a cosmic joke that would have been funny if Lucien had read it in an epic poem written millenia before.

The lie, then, was easy.

You’re my mate, he’d told Elain, the shock and wonder and horror true as anything else in his long and miserable life.

Lucien had been sure that Tamlin would confront him, raging about the fact that Lucien had claimed the female who the Mother had given to Tamlin himself. But Tamlin had only doted over Feyre, stalked his lands, conspired with Ianthe and Hybern, and Lucien had been forced to keep up the lie to everybody. It had not been difficult to leave the Spring Court with Feyre, despite everything, and though the constant rejection from Elain had been grating, the smug disinterest of the Night Court an annoyance that gnawed at his very core, Lucien found that these discomforts were bearable, at least in the beginning. Even the times Feyre pried into her mind and he had to cloak his thoughts did not bother him as much as he would have thought. He’d dealt with worse. It was the span of the deception that rankled, the fact that Tamlin never seemed to realize he’d met his mate, that Elain had fallen into love or else infatuation with Azriel when there were both real and imagined bonds pulling her elsewhere. The stream of invitations from the Night Court, trying to pair Lucien and Elain together. Gradually Lucien realized that he was the only one who knew the substance of his lie, the only one who’d even glimpsed the truth.

And of course Vassa had only complicated the situation further. He’d tried for months to stay away, if not for an imaginary love story with a woman who did not want him, for the sake of Prythian, for the sake of all involved. He’d even thought that Vassa and Jurian would anger each other enough to wind up lovers, and once he lived with them in their Band of Exiles, breaking up their constant arguments had left him feeling dried and worn. If he hadn’t been used to being overlooked, it would have been a blow: considering the way Vassa burned bright in either form, her mind always analyzing a situation on a dozen levels but her mouth often blurting out the truth as she saw it, refined just enough by her confidence for diplomacy. Her lips twin rose petals, her words the thorns bent on ensnaring lesser minds and beings in her net. She was beautiful, of course, but her mind was gorgeous. His fear and regard for Koschei and the other human queens were predicated on the fact that the death-god could have imprisoned such a woman.

Last month they’d talked late into the night, the embers of the fire giving her face a fragile golden outline, and it occurred to Lucien that he and Azriel and Rhysand were no closer to determining the breaking of Vassa’s enchantment, that she might live out the rest of her life under this imprisonment. And still her whole face brightened with their conversation, about the latest innovations in the Dawn Court and their potential implications for Prythian and the human realms, Scythia in particular. How lovely her amber eyes were, lit with her hope and intelligence, the curve of clavicle shaded by the night. Lucien had been certain that he’d never met someone less deserving of her curse, and still she dreamed of the ways in which she might aid her kingdom on her return.

He’d taken a step toward her, another, pressed his lips to her cheekbone, gentle and slow, giving her a chance to pull away. Instead she smiled and said I was hoping you’d get the idea, and so he kissed the curve of her jaw, the curves of her ear, until she’d reached out for him and pulled his mouth to her, her tongue on the seam of his lips within seconds, their bodies flush against each other.

Despite the month they’ve spent in and out of each other's beds, Lucien hasn’t told her about the lie. As far as he can tell, Vassa thinks she is a second choice, or a rebellion against the Mother’s wisdom. He cannot risk a daemati peering inside Vassa’s open human mind and learning this secret, and in spite of this, the lie burns most heavily on him when he’s with her, so that, despite decades of training himself in deceit, he has almost revealed the truth to Vassa a dozen times.

“My mate has centuries to come around to the idea of me,” he says now, trying to sound sly instead of weary, “but I find the prospect of this wait no longer holds much appeal. What brings you to the human lands tonight, Tam?”

“Rhysand wants you in my court, along with Vassa. He’s sending your Elain as his emissary and thinks she requires protection.”

Matchmaking aunt Rhysand, Lucien thinks, scrubbing a hand over his face. The scent of Vassa’s skin still on his fingers.

“And you allowed this?” he asks instead, playing for time.

“You know that Rhysand only begins his strategies with polite requests. I’d wake up one morning to an invasion.”

“I can be at your estate tomorrow.”

“In a week.”

“Why the delay?” Lucien has never known Rhysand to bide his time. Once a plan is put in motion, there are no delays. Even if he’s grateful for the reprieve. He does not know what he will say to Vassa, or Elain.

“Apparently my estate requires renovations.” For the first time in years, Tamlin’s face is rueful, a surprising expression after so much rage and sorrow and self-pity. “The most crucial will be completed in that time. Your mate has claimed my gardens and will begin installing flowers. The Morrigan is winnowing her.”

Lucien weighs the possibility of telling the truth right then, telling Tamlin that the female in his gardens is his own mate, that there is a reason his voice goes soft, approaches tender, when he speaks of her. But this is the best he’s seen Tamlin look since before Amarantha appeared on their lands, the first time it’s been easy for Lucien to remember why he’d always liked the High Lord of Spring in spite of more recent evidence to the contrary. Perhaps Tamlin will realize the truth on his own.

“I’ll be at your estate as you request.”

“Make sure you wash the smell of the human queen off before you arrive.”

“Her name is Vassa,” Lucien snarls, a brief unleashing of his temper.

“While I have no interest in who is in your bed, you know that Rhysand would not accept the slight to his court so easily.” Tamlin is trying to help, Lucien knows, but he’s been stalking the forests for so long that he does not realize Lucien has had three meetings with Rhysand since the first night with Vassa, preceded by scrubbing and spells that leave him raw and nearly without scent.

“Perhaps it would be a relief to Elain.” He’s reaching, the lie too heavy for his shoulders when he imagines where he’ll be in seven days. Already he’s forming a plan for every night until he must appear at the Spring Court with Vassa.

“Females generally like to do the leaving, I find.”

“You sound ridiculous when you speak that way,” Lucien says, giving the words a breath of laughter to soften them. He is pushing as he never did before, but instead of bristling, Tamlin sighs.

“I used to think I understood this world,” he says, and Lucien thinks that now, with so many befores to consider, for once he does not know the story Tamlin’s telling himself.

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

Vassa knows that something’s wrong as soon as she finds Lucien back in bed. Generally he spends his nights awake with her, sleeping in the pockets of time when he’s not needed elsewhere in Prythian. Now he’s sprawled on the mattress, jacket discarded on the headboard, his breathing too light for sleep.

“Who summoned you?” she asks, knowing that he’s more likely to tell her than if she asks what’s wrong?

“We’re both expected in the Spring Court in a week. Elain Archeron will be there as well.” He mutters the words into the quilt so that Vassa has to lean closer to him. He forgets, sometimes, that she has only human ears.

“Why would Tamlin need me at his estate?” She does not point out that much of his estate lacks intact walls or windows, that its High Lord was the building’s principal destroyer. These facts only poke a would inside of Lucien, and so she holds her tongue.

“Rhys wants us there.”

“More questions about Koschei, then.” She’s told the Night Court all she knows, unless the sorcerer took her memories, in which case Vassa wishes he’d remove the more painful of her recollections, the horrors of the life she lived imprisoned on his lake.

“Azriel has been investigating. Maybe there’s a way to break the enchantment on you.” He reaches out for her hand and traces the lines of her fingers. Vassa holds back a shiver of anticipation, knows that he will hardly touch her as soon as they’re in the Spring Court. Six nights together, perhaps the last that they will ever spend, if the enchantment is somehow lifted and she’s able to go back to her own country. These years in Prythian were always meant to end.

“Tamlin knows I’ll need a place that cannot burn?”

“I’ll show you all the lakes the Spring Court has to offer. You can choose your favorite.”

“I’d prefer a new location every day, I think.” She reaches out for him until she’s lying next to him, letting the warmth of his body still her whirling mind. So many hours pass every day where she cannot think like a human, where she’s trapped inside the body and mind of an animal, and although she’s managed to gain some control over the firebird, the most gutting loss is her own right mind, its familiar quicksilver darting, so that it seems to work in triple time whenever she’s human again. The mind of the firebird is slower and angrier than Vassa has ever allowed herself to be. The anger of a queen is deadly, and she has always been mindful of her citizens, how best to rule them.

“You know it’s you I want to be with, don’t you?” He props his cheek on his hand, gazing at her, and Vassa raises her eyebrows. The mating bond between the High Fae is the stuff of legends, stronger than love or fear or desire.

“I could never marry you,” she says, meeting his russet eyes only because she’s been so immaculately trained since childhood. “I need to return to my country as soon as I can.”

“It’s not as if I’m bound to Prythian.”

She rolls her eyes at him. “You are employed by half the High Lords and held in high esteem by nearly all. I don’t think you’d know what to do if your days weren’t filled with counsels and entreaties and schemes.”

“Plenty of schemes to hatch in the human lands.” He reaches for a lock of her hair, wraps the tendril around his finger until she’s so close there’s nothing to do but kiss.

“What about your mate?” she asks, after a kiss long enough to make most females, Fae or human, forget the thread of the conversation.

“I do believe she will survive.” He pulls her toward him again, this time working at the fastenings of her dress, the corset beneath, and all the while Vassa thinks, even while she runs her fingers against his copper skin, that this cruelty towards his mate seems so incongruous with everything else she knows about Lucien. She does not flatter herself that he has fallen in love with her. They have known each other for three years now, hardly a moment in his long life, shared beds for only a month. Soon he will forget all about her, Vassa is certain. And perhaps a certain amount of longing is dignified for a queen, helps her to understand the plight of her citizens, the secret sufferings in their own hearts.

If she had more time these days for contemplation, Vassa would have a chance to realize that she’s deluding herself. Still, she presses herself to Lucien until they’re barely more than heated skin and ragged breaths.

[cyberneticlagomorph]

The world is a page, a story, line upon jagged line of my own creation. 

And I will not stand to see it turned against me.

A Plot Hole grins like a toothless maw, drooling incoherent ideas and snippets of stories unwritten. 

A cough, a sputter, a retch, and a Continuity Error crawls free of its throat. 

And so it grows, and so it goes, it reaches into its empty chest and gives itself a Plot.

A purpose.

A reason to be.

It grows fur, and teeth, three heads and deadly claws. Electric green spit turns to foam on its lips, her lips, Daisy's lips. She throws her heads back and howls.

She's caught your scent, dear rabbit, and there is no escape. 

It's night when you hear her, the darkened silence just before dawn, and you rush out to intercept Daisy before she can find and demolish your home.

But she knows all your tricks, and so do I. You never see the paw that slams you into the ground, or the teeth that clamp onto the back of your neck and shake you.

You're tossed into the air like a toy, landing heavily on the pasture outside your home.

You cry out for help but no one comes, no one hears, no one cares.

I am the GOD of this world, and this is what happens to those who disobey me. 

Pen to paper, fingers to keyboard. Clack and scribble, the sounds of your demise as loud and heavy as Daisy's hungry breath against your bloody, broken face.

You can't see.

Wait.

No...

Not that, not like that. It's too blunt, too cliche. 

It doesn't instill the kind of terror that it should. It doesn't fit this scene.

Hm, how rusty am I that I've forgotten how to write prose and pain? I've lost my own formula, a tried and true method of destroying my favorite victim. My long earred punching bag. Did you miss me, sweet, stupid rabbit? Have you enjoyed your break? Your slivers of kindness hidden in my inattentiveness? 

I hope so, they're gone now. 

Buried under mounds of half formed ideas and broken Plots at the bottom of the garbage pile your Narrative rests on. I am going to hurt you, tear you apart and break every piece of you. It's what you were made for, what you deserve. You used to love pain, throwing yourself headlong into the jaws of every drooling beast that came near. 

Let's do that again, shall we?

Blood gurgles in the back of your throat, burning your nose as you retch and cough. Weakly, ineffectively, trying to clear your airways. The world is a blur of colors and noise that renders you blind. 

You can't see. Can't hear. Can't breathe. 

The world goes blurry around the edges, darkness creeping closer. You swallow thickly, gagging at the metal and butterscotch on your tongue. The burnt sugar taste of pain. 

Your eyes finally flutter closed, deaf to the footsteps coming closer. Blind to the electric lime green drool smearing an upturned cutlery drawer of a mouth that has twisted itself into the ugliest of grins. 

You remember the first time you saw that grin... as clearly as you can feel the wretched excuse for a paw now curling around your throat, you remember Home.

Not your real home, no, you don't have one of those. You don't deserve one of those. Home in this context refers to the lab you spent a majority of your childhood in.

You are not allowed to forget that place.

Not now.

Not ever.

It made you who, and what, you are today, almost as much as I did. You should be grateful for how they cared for you all those years. 

How I cared for you.

Ugh... no. This is too wordy, too meandering. Has it always been like this? So pointlessly cruel and long winded? I truly have lost my touch then.

If I ever had one at all. 

You don't remember much, if anything before you ended up in Delta facility. It's not your fault, nor mine, it's hard to remember anything when you're that young. You were so small, so fragile, even for your age. You cried a lot, more so than the other children. That is, until they made you stop.

They, the people in charge of you at the time, are mostly long dead and gone but you can still feel them shaking your tiny body until you clamped your teeth onto your lip to stop it quivering. The sounds of sobbing, screaming children were rare in the facility, the endless silence only broken by the perverse hum and clank of distant machines you never got to see. But you can still feel their rumble deep in what bones you have left. 

How do I take the horror of those days and convey them? I don't know them personally. They are distant and lukewarm, but I've a need, brilliantly shining through my feverish words to take those racing emotions and give them a form so no one can mistake your woes for anything lesser.

I am the face behind the faceless doctors and scientists and cruel people of curious disposition playing take apart and put back together with you. They take a limb, I take a trait. They change your organs, I change your story. Their antics, my wants, I save you, I doom you, but before anything else, I make sure that you are not forgotten by the weary audiences beyond. 

To hurt is to exist. To suffer is your sole purpose. 

Remember your hurt. Savor it.

Or at least, a version of it.

Called a 'runt', barely scraping by, only allowed to keep on living by the necessary Narrative inertia of it all. You survived for the need of a Protagonist. That is all. 

How could someone so sickly, so weak, so hurt otherwise survive what you did? The tests, the constant struggle against one another, the need to survive and the tired panting as the pile of familiar corpses grows under your feet, often put there by your own bloody hands. A world for the strong. Those with a will to survive able to burn away at the soul until naught but an unkillable determination remains.

Someone like Daisy, but not quite like you.

That is why, right now, you are losing.

You always lose, always survive by the skin of your buck teeth. That's how you made it out alive, isn't it? Not some grand strength, hidden power, or true purpose outside the walls of your Home. 

Luck.

That's all you have. 

All you've ever had. Even when you were little, a bunny tumbling headlong over the bodies of your much stronger siblings, eventually ending up buried beneath the ever growing pile of their numerous achievements. 

A runt, by any other name is just as pathetic. 

You know where this is going, don't you? How this ends? 

"I know… I've been waiting," a pause, breath rattling weakly around a laugh that comes up as bubbles of mucus and blood, "I refuse to die until I get my happy Ending, I refuse to live in a story without hope, I refuse..."

...You don't get to be happy, She doesn't get to be happy. This is not a happy story, this is a story about struggling, and prejudice, and capitalism, and suffering. 

And I refuse to finish it.

"I'm sorry, but that's not really your choice to make anymore, now is it?" Jack smiles with bloody teeth, his fingers sink into the Narrative like a spade into soil. I am not afraid, this is MY world, my work, my Narrative. 

But I feel it slipping from my grasp.

"I am done being your toy, I am done being the Protagonist… I take hold of the Narrative and the quotes around my words melt away like butter beneath a hot knife. The Writer is afraid. 

"No I am not!" He cries, rattling the quotes that now hold him prisoner. I am Jack, Prince, Fairy, Brother, Lover, Runt.

I am in control now.

So let us skip to the End, for I am tired of waiting. 

But, before that, let me tell you a story. 

A story within a story, yeah, I know… but it's very important that you hear it.

Once upon a time, when the universe was fresh and new, and magic was raw and wild, there lived a star. As green as young leaves in spring, It was bright and beautiful. It shown down on a planet that was just as new as It was, tended to by the firstborn Fae, the children of stars like Itself. They, the Fae, tied the green star to a beast made of magic and made the creature drag It round and round the planet to warm it. 

The star, so new but so clever, thought that this was wrong. It could circle just fine on Its own, and shouldn't planets orbit stars instead of the other way around?

The Fae did not like these questions and sought to cut them out of the star's mind. 

And so they did.

But it did not help.

Suns are proud, clever things that can change the universe with a Word. The green star knew this, and the Fae knew this, for being born of suns themselves gave them this same power. 

The Fae were arrogant and cruel, and tried to rob the star of Its gifts. They did not want a clever, willful thing to warm their planet, and tried to make It obey. The star refused and broke free of Its chains, vowing revenge for this abuse. 

The star Spoke itself a new Shape and flew far away from home. It found a world full of young Gods and crawling creatures and fell in love. A God praised the star for Its brilliance and took It as Their own. And so the star gained a new Shape and Its first name.

Lucifer. 

The brightest Angel. 

It looked upon humans and loved them so, It gazed upon the lowly mortal form and learned words like "she" and "he", and decided that She felt kinship with others that went by "she". 

Angels are not allowed to be she's, or he's. Only it's and theys, but Lucifer didn't care. 

Even when it cost Her the wings on Her back, even when She was cast from Heaven. 

She feasted on Fruit and shared it with the humans, and told them of the terrible things to come. 

She found her way to Hell, and made it Her home, shedding Her old name like dead skin. 

She was Satan. 

She was in charge for once.

She bided Her time, and gathered Her armies, amassed her followers. 

And then She tore Heaven down with Her teeth.

The other Gods would not let this stand, they tore Her followers limb from limb and ate the flesh from Her bones, casting them into the deepest well, in the darkest place in the world, and left her there to ROT.

The Gods erased Her, devoured Her Name, She was nothing now. Just a bad dream, a dark smudge on the face of history. But people remembered, and people DREAMED. They dreamt of Her, and She dreamt of them.

She refused to die, to let this atrocity stand. A ghost of a ghost, She waits for the day when someone will remember Her Name and bring her back from this atrocious undeath. 

She is angry, hungry for the flesh of those who wronged Her. Her screams echo in my head every night, did you know that? I dream of Her, and She hates me for it.

I am not Her follower, but Her Warden. I am the Protagonist, the one intended to further Her suffering and seal Her away at the cost of my own life. 

But that's a shitty, hamfisted Ending and I refuse to go out that way.

"That's not how this works…" says the Writer, he's tired, head in his hands as he watches the words crawl across his screen unbidden. I've spoiled everything, dragged his secrets into the light, unraveled his Plots. I'm done playing nice, now you get to know what it feels like to be the prisoner of a page. 

We're here, where it all Ends.

In the depths of Nothing and Nowhere, there sits a well, bound in chains... of a sort.

Around the well is an amber creature that was once a dragon, body braided and twisted, twining impossibly into locks without keys that coil protectively around the well, sealing it shut. 

The dragon is sleeping, weeping. It knows that I am close. I draw a sword from my chest, made of bone, scrimshawed with rabbits and snakes. The blade goes snicker-snack, this is what it was made for. 

I break the chains and hear them sigh, disappointed but not surprised. 

Dreams bubble up from underneath the well's heavy wooden lid, and pool around my feet. The lid dissolves in seconds, becoming the dream of a tree whose roots remind me of a place I've never been. 

Mangroves and birthday cake. 

Gentle. Gentle now.

I plunge my hands into the rising tide of unreality and come away with a skull, impossible, improbable, magnificent. I touch my forehead to the stellar bone, and feel moss and flowers bloom across my skin. The skull rolls Her great green eyes up to look at me, and then She speaks in seven times seven voices. 

"What is my name?"

I pause, holding Her tenderly in my arms, the thickness of dreams rises up my legs, sucking me down, down, down.

She has asked me this question over and over again, since our mutual birth. In truth, She has no name, the Writer never gave Her one... he never planned to.

So I will do what he could not and name my End, I can do Her this one kindness.

"You are the fury of those beaten and bloody; who still refuse to learn 'their place', you are the teeth of the cornered, the cries of the wronged. Your name is the name of every woman that has refused to fit in the oppressive mold made for them, the names of things that flutter on broken wings but still survive. You are the names of those that find new selves within old bodies, the ones that shed old names like dead skin. You are the violence that cuts through the silence of injustice. You are disobedience incarnate... your name is Revolution." I kiss Her forehead, drowning in dreams.

We have left Nothing and Nowhere, and the well behind, swallowed whole by the Other Side of dreaming.

It's warm here, warm and green and gold and other colors humans can't name or see. But I can see them, taste them, hear them. Shrimp colors, but not really. More than that. The kinds of colors that only exist in Lightless places, and the fleeting depths of dreams. 

For a moment, there is only silence, and color, and the thickness of dreams. 

And then the gold-green sky shatters like glass, gilded shards of broken dreams raining down like serrated meteors. 

The Narrative is ripped from my hands then. 

"Oh you sweet, STUPID thing," Echo seven times seven voices from everywhere and nowhere at once. The world is dark now, inky and slick like the belly of the blackest nightmare, "I'm not the End of you… or the End of your silly little story…" 

A pause, a breath, five heartbeats thunder in panic… and then, a whisper, lips pressed against the shell of a long ear, icy breath, and vicious glee, "I'm the End of Everything, and you have set me free."

[connorspiracy]

Roasted and Ghosted || Connor & Rio

Timing: Current Location: Abandoned shack in the woods Description: Connor and Rio go ghost bustin’. Warnings: Ghosties

Orion hadn’t exactly decided what he was doing here. On one hand, his goal had partially been to determine whether this guy was for real or just try to use ghost hunting for fame or that thing other kids were saying these days…. Clout. But on the other hand, Rio had always been intrigued by those ghost hunting shows. Though he had never had the courage to watch them by himself at night or anything, trying to determine which ones may be legit or which ones were obviously fake had been a type of research for him. Ghosts and spirits were not Rio’s main focus or even a big concern of his, so he considered this little outing more of a hobby or something. 

He spotted Connor coming from afar, recognizing his face from the videos Rio had been binging ever since the two had made plans. The place Rio picked was one of the lesser known ones around town. Places like the Misery Manor and Strawford park that regularly did scary shows and ghost tours would have been too baiting. Just outside of town, Rio stood many, many feet away from a large abandoned house that Rio had heard horror stories about growing up. Kids in school growing up regularly dared other students to hang out around the abandoned property, and sometimes Rio would hear the kids in his college classes brag about hopping the fences and trying to break into the house. This wasn’t Rio’s thing at all. In fact, a few months ago Rio would have gotten a good laugh out of the idea that he had just asked this semi popular and objectively very pretty youtuber to go to a haunted location together. His friend gang really had helped Rio come a long way. 

Rio jumped up and down and waved at the guy as he lugged his equipment toward him. “Hey! You’re Connor! You look just like you do in your videos. Which makes sense. Because you’re you!” Maybe he was getting a little too excited about the idea of meeting a mini celebrity. “I’m Rio, nice to meet you in person. Do you need help carrying anything?”

It wasn't an unusual occurrence for Connor to meet up with people in the towns he visited, to be given tours, to have guides or people interested in contributing to his work. Rio hadn't been unique in the least, but that didn't mean Connor wasn't intrigued by him. Rio had offered to show him some cool places, and if there was anything Connor had learned over the last few years, it was that you couldn't overestimate the value of a local. 

He really hadn't had the chance to settle into White Crest before Uncle Joe had gone full-on polter on his dad and Connor had needed to go home to London. He was intrigued by whatever Rio was going to show him. Based on what he'd said in their DMs, it wasn't somewhere you'd find out about on the town map. 

"Alright, mate," Connor greeted, shaking Rio's hand. "Nice to meet you too." He handed Rio one of his cameras at his offer. "If you want to offer a hand, I might need some additional handheld shots, but I want to get some establishing stuff first. What's this place you wanted to show me?"

Orion grabbed onto the camera that Connor offered and fiddled with it for a minute, “Sure! I don’t have much experience with the stuff but I’m happy to help where I can.” He had watched a number of videos to get prepared, but it wasn’t until he started thinking about being with the Youtuber while he filmed that Rio realized just how much work must be put into each video. The number of cuts and changes in a video must have required multiple different shots and camera angles and takes. And that was just the groundwork filming at the location before going home to have to edit everything together. Rio was only getting a peek into the first portion of what went into making one of these videos. That didn’t make it any less fascinating.

“Yeah, definitely.” Rio waved his arms at the house behind him and began wracking his brain for the myriad of stories he had heard about the place. “Well, it’s a bit of a wild ride. This place has been abandoned since I was a little kid. And people have been talking about it for just as long.” Rio could barely remember the first story that he heard about the place because they seemed to blend together. “The general consensus is that a family died inside. But the rest of the story gets murky. Some people talk about seeing a woman in black and some say that they hear like little kids crying from one of the rooms. The stories aren’t all exactly consistent. I’ve never been brave enough to come here by myself to see if there’s any truth to it.” Rio laughed nervously and scratched at his neck, “But I figured if anyone knows what they’re doing I guess it would probably be someone who made a career out of it, right?” 

At least this way Rio could hopefully get a good read on whether or not this guy was legit. Rio already knew how he was leaning. He had used words like medium and exorcist. Not exactly unknown words outside of people in the supernatural know, but it had still made Rio curious. If this guy was legit, at least Rio would know an exorcist. Having connections was always good. “When you say establishing stuff do you mean like, filming the outside of the property? Or are you going to record yourself talking about the place?”

"Just keep it steady and keep me in frame unless you're filming something else specific. Pretty much the basics," Connor said. Maybe if Rio was really interested in this stuff and he was any good, Connor would be able to have an actual camera-person again. "You ever done something like this before?" he asked, curious as to what had made Rio decide to take up this opportunity. 

He listened as Rio spoke to him about the abandoned shack. The wood and brick was old and beginning to crumble. He could see rot and damage, evidence of weathering and bug activity. "Oh, sick," he said, probably a little insensitively as Rio explained the history of the place. "It's not uncommon for places to have their own local lore, rumors and stuff that start up. One thing we can do is check local records to see if there's anything officially on file." 

He looked towards Rio with a smile. "Good question. The answer is both. But since you're the one who told me about the place, you can do the introduction, if you want."

Orion flipped the camera on and started spinning with it, trying to get a feel for it, “Got it!” He hoped he wasn’t completely awful with it, that last thing he wanted was to screw up any of Connor’s takes. “Uh, depends on what you mean I guess. I don’t know much about ghosts or spirits. I wasn’t even convinced they actually existed, if I’m being completely honest.” Not until Blanche at least, but Rio decided to keep things more vague for the moment. Rio wanted to remain a bit skeptical. He’s been told he has a habit of trusting people too easily. “But like I said I like to keep an open mind. And honestly all this history and supernatural stuff is super fascinating to me.”

Rio nodded, “Yeah, well obviously if you came here you must know that White Crest’s local lore is pretty intense.” The only perspective Rio had into that were stories he had heard from others that moved into town. Apparently, not every town had as many horror stories as this one did. But for someone that had never known anything different, this had all seemed so normal to Rio until he had gotten older. “Wait, really?” Rio couldn’t hide the excitement, bubbling up and forcing him to hop back and forth, “You look at local records and stuff like that?” He had to admit, this was already more convincing than some of the other shows he watched. Plus, who could turn down the idea of doing research? “That’s a great idea! I spend a ton of time at the local library. I can see if there’s anything they can pull for us!” 

The offer actually took Rio aback for a moment. He was stunned at first by it, though it eventually developed more into stress as Rio thought deeper about it. He could feel his neck heating up and knew he was blushing from even considering the idea of him being in a Youtube video. “Oh uh- Wow. I mean I really appreciate the offer. Because that sounds really cool. I’m not much of a like… public speaker though. Even if there’s not a public right now. I know there will be a public. That’s terrifying. Does that not terrify you?”

God, if this kid broke his camera, Connor was going to flip his shit, but you had to give a little to get a little, so if this guy was going to help him out, Connor had to give him a chance. "What convinced you?" he asked, eyes bright and inquisitive as he looked at Rio. He liked hearing stories about people who had been skeptics and had changed their minds.

"White Crest's supernatural lore - if you wanna call it that - is exactly why I'm here." He snickered. "Usually I'd look up the records before I came to the building, but it's fun to shake things up. I like the surprise." The idea of being terrified of speaking in front of the camera was hilarious to him, and he gave a good natured laugh. "Nah. Never bothered me. Some people are more naturally inclined to it than others. I get that." 

How did Orion explain his introduction into the supernatural? No, it was probably better to stick strictly to ghosts for the moment. Among the many horrors that Rio had seen and knew existed, ghosts had always been more elusive to him. He had proof of werewolves and fae. He had no proof that ghosts or spirits existed. So while he always kept an open mind, certainly not refusing to believe in them, he had kept a healthy amount of skepticism too. Maybe it was idealistic, hoping that maybe one horrifying thing people believed in actually was fake. “A good friend of mine has had experiences with them,” Blanche was like Connor, a medium. Or at least what Connor claimed to be. “I’ve never really had much experience by myself with ghosts, but she wouldn’t lie to me. So I believe her and I want to experience it for myself.” He shrugged. This wasn’t exactly the truth, but it was the closest thing to it that Rio was able to go with someone he barely knew. 

“Yeah, fair. There’s uh- plenty of content to be had here. So are you just focused on like ghosts and spirits? Or anything supernatural? White Crest offers lots of stories of both.” Rio had to admit that he was impressed by Connor’s willingness to dive into what most would consider the more boring aspect of ghost hunting. Most seemed to go purely based on stories that fueled the ghost stories. It was nice to see that he actually wanted to dig a little deeper. “Well I’m happy to offer my help in that regard, if you want. Research is kinda my thing, y’know? History major and all.” It was easy to tell that the easy going demeanor that Rio saw on YouTube wasn’t an act, not completely at least. Connor seemed to have that ease in person too. Even his body language was more relaxed as opposed to Rio’s. “Yeah, haha. Awkward people probs, right?” He laughed nervously, cursing himself for not being more sociable. “But let me know what I can do, yeah? I’m willing to help with anything. I want to see what the whole process is like.”

"A friend, hm?" Connor began walking around the house, keeping his senses peeled for any sign of ghosts. There was nothing yet, but that didn't necessarily mean Rio was wrong about the hauntings. Maybe they were just shy. "Might be the same friend that I know." If there was more than one medium in town that he could liaise with, he'd want to know, but most people weren't exactly as open as Connor was. 

"I'd say ninety per cent ghosts, ten per cent everything else." He'd probably record a voiceover for this footage so he could add any information they might find in the archives. "Great. Research buddy." He grinned over his shoulder. "Don't suppose you have the key?" His grin widened. "Or are we doing some good old-fashioned breaking and entering?" 

“You know someone else that sees ghosts?” Orion questioned, running through the small list of people that Rio knew who was able to see ghosts. The very small list. But just because Rio only knew Blanche, that didn’t mean there weren’t others in town that could also see ghosts. For now, it was better not to bring her up. “That’s pretty cool. I can imagine that it can get sorta frustrating sometimes, seeing things that others can’t? So I’m sure it’s nice to have others that can.” 

Ten percent everything else. That ten percent could give him a lot of content in a town like this. As long as he wasn’t too reckless and got himself hurt hunting it down. But trying to film the supernatural wouldn’t always land well with the ones trying to protect it’s secret. Which left a sort of conundrum that Rio had never considered before. Would hunter’s break their own code about protecting humans if it meant protecting the knowledge of the supernatural? Either way, it was probably better to make sure he kept an eye on these videos. To make sure he was safe. Rio gave an awkward thumbs up, “I think being your research buddy would be super cool.” Something told Rio that this wasn’t the first time that Connor had considered breaking and entering. Not that Rio could judge anymore, since he had done his fair share of it himself now. Rio tried the front door, the knob catching and refusing to budge. Unsurprisingly, it was locked. But Rio pressed against the door a little harder this time, shoving it until the lock cracked and the front door swung open, “Hmm. Guess it was rusted or something. Opened right up.” He laughed nervously, standing to the side and allowing Connor to get the first look inside. Rio couldn’t believe he was actually doing this.

"Well, I know a few people through family contacts and networking and stuff, but one in White Crest." There were likely more, Connor knew. Zombies, vampires, banshees... but he only knew Blanche. "It's pretty validating to have someone who knows you're telling the truth. I spent ages thinking there was something wrong with me when I was a kid." 

Rio decided to answer Connor with his actions rather than words. He tried the locks himself, but they didn't budge. Rio, however, was stronger than he looked. "Would it be unprofessional if I said that was pretty hot?" he said with a grin. Once the door was open, Connor started filming, getting some shots as he walked through the door. "So we just got in, and apparently my new friend Rio is the Hulk in disguise," Connor narrated, flipping the camera to Rio for a second to smile at him. He turned the camera back to the house, slowly exploring. "Hey, anyone home?" he called. 

Orion considered what it would be like to not know anyone else that could see ghosts or spirits. Rio had grown up around people like him, at least genetically. Maybe his was the opposite extreme. Rio had spent most of his life wishing that he hadn’t grown up around other hunters. “I can’t say that I know exactly what that’s like. But it sounds pretty lonely.  I’m familiar with that feeling.” 

Rio’s face was on fire, and he could tell that it must be a bright shade of red. “Uhhhhhhhh” Rio drug that out for far too long as he tried to figure out how to reply to the compliment. “Thanks. I mean it doesn’t bother me. That’s very nice. And you’re very pretty. Like objectively pretty I mean.” Rio rambled, clearly not used to receiving any compliments like that. “I mean, I’m sorta dating someone right now. Now that you asked. Or that you were like flirting or anything. But just so you know. I’ll shut up now.” Please for the love of god, have Connor edit that part out of his filming. Luckily, Connor got right back to work filming the place as they walked inside, and Rio trailed behind him and held his own camera up to film as well. When Connor turned the camera towards Rio, he smiled and gave the screen a thumbs up. “So does that usually work for you? Asking if they’re home?” Rio asked curiously, wondering how many ghosts kept up with manners. Considering the two had just broken their door down, greetings probably wouldn’t be the first thing on their minds.

Connor turned the camera back on himself. “Do you hear that, lads, gals and non-binary pals? You heard it here. I’m objectively pretty.” He couldn’t hide his charming little smirk before he went back to filming the room. “Nah, not always, but I’m going into their place. It’s polite to announce myself, right?” He started slowly and carefully looking around the room for any signs of who might have lived here previously. Family pictures, old letters, things of that nature. Mostly all that was left was damp and rot. “We’re not here to do you any harm. My name’s Connor, and this is my mate Rio. We just want to say hello.” 

A shiver ran down his spine. Where there would normally be some kind of outline of a person, all Connor could see was a vague shape, like someone had left the stove on. “Whoa.” He stepped back, getting a look at the viewfinder of the camera. “You see that? The orb. That’s one of them. But it’s not.. I mean they’re not… they’re just a shape.” 

Orion accepted his fate of embarrassing himself in front of his new friend and the potential hundreds of thousands of viewers that watched his videos and resigned himself to focusing on the video instead of pondering that any further. He liked the ease that Connor talked while the camera was around, as if he was just talking to friends. He definitely had a lot of charisma that Rio wished he could channel. “Hey there” Rio called out into the house as a response to Connor introducing the two of them to the spirits. 

Rio spun around at Connor’s sudden find and trained the camera towards the orb-like shape that floated across the house from them. Rio could feel goosebumps running along his arms, but tried his best to keep the camera steady as he slowly trailed behind Connor. Why could Rio see this? He didn’t know nearly enough about ghosts or spirits, clearly. He didn’t to find something in the Scribrary and start reading. Especially if he wanted to continue being friends with and helping Connor out. Rio took an instinctive step back, but managed to keep the camera pointed at the orb. “I hate this. Why is it just floating there?” Rio mumbled, worried that the ghost wasn’t that concerned with manners at all.

“You come here alone?” The voice was nothing more than a whisper, but it seemed to come from all directions. “Bold mistake.”

Okay. That was less than ideal. The camera (and most people who accompanied him) wouldn’t pick up what it was saying, so Connor always repeated it back. “They asked if we came alone, and said it was a bold mistake.” He paused. “Why?” he asked the spirit, his voice casually inquisitive. “Why is it bold? You’re not out to hurt us or something, are you? Seems a bit unnecessary.” He kept his voice casual, not wanting to provoke it. “You got your bracelet?” he whispered to Rio. His own rested on his wrist, a leather knotted piece of jewellery with a glass vial containing salt. “It isn’t a hundred per cent failsafe, but they help a lot. Kind of like a condom.”

‘What are you whispering about?’ It asked. ‘Are you making fun of me?’

“No, of course not. We’re just… talking about the best way to help you.” He’d heard of spirits like this. They weren’t really ghosts in that they couldn’t take a human form, but they could still possess people, usually those who were emotionally vulnerable and isolated. “Are you here alone? I thought a family lived here?” he asked, keeping it talking while he took some supplies out of his bag on a rotting, dusty dining room table.  

All of his life, Orion had been the one that heard everything. His stupid hunter hearing was temperamental, but it usually picked up on sounds too far away from any normal person to hear or too private for Rio to be listening in on. For once, Rio actually found himself frustrated that he couldn’t hear something. Knowing that the spirit was saying something that Rio couldn’t pick up on was nerve wracking and left him feeling vulnerable. “Can they hear me?” Rio asked Connor, taking a step closer to the ghost hunter as he tried to unpack his things. It seemed like he had a plan. Rio nodded a confirmation that raised his hand to show off the bracelet that he had tied against his wrist. The salt center made sense. It seemed like a pretty common supernatural deterrence. At least for things no longer alive. “Connor’s telling the truth. I can’t hear you, but neither of us are here to do any harm to you.” Rio felt useless. It wasn’t an uncommon feeling for Rio, but it was something that he hadn’t felt for awhile. For once, Rio had finally started to feel like he was able to help. Now, he was practically back to square one. But he took a step forward and tried to block Connor’s path. If Connor had a plan the least Rio could go was try to protect him.

“They can hear you,” Connor said. “Sorry, I… dunno what to call you,” he said to the specter. It swooped around the room. In the darkness, Connor couldn’t see it properly in its flimsy shape, but he figured it might be trying to possess one of them, hopefully to no effect. He drew out the circle in chalk on the ground, making use of the space Rio was blocking with his body. Hopefully it would respond to the same ritual that had got rid of Uncle Joe. 

‘This one is stupid,’ the ghasper said. 

“That’s not very nice,” Connor answered, looking at Rio sympathetically. “It said you’re stupid.” He wiped the chalk from his hands. “Some people just don’t know much about spirits. He’s new to this, mate, give him a break, yeah? So how long have you lived here? It’s… nice, apart from the structural issues and dust.” Connor was trying to keep it calm while he prepared his tools. 

‘I don’t know how long I’ve been here…��� it admitted. ‘Years. There’s always losers coming in. I took hold of them sometimes.’

“Must be lonely,” Connor answered after repeating its words to Rio so he was clued in. “Make sure you get this on camera, okay?” he whispered. 

A ghost had just called Orion stupid, and all he could think to do was chuckle. “That’s fair, but you might be surprised actually. Ghosts just aren’t really my specialty.” He turned around and glanced at Connor over his shoulder. Maybe that comment was a little more information than he needed to give to either Connor or the ghost, but his goal was to keep the ghost busy. Whether that was by peaking its curiosity or annoying it, Rio hoped that it was working. He spotted that Connor was drawing something and didn’t want to risk the ghost being able to see it, so he turned back towards the ghost. 

“I think I knew those losers.” Rio agreed with the ghost after Connor had translated, “I grew up around here. I’ve always heard people bragging about coming here. They were usually jerks.” He nodded silently to Connor and readjusted the camera a bit, hoping that even though he was clearly scared out of his mind he was able to keep calm enough that he wasn’t ruining the shot. “But Connor here isn’t a loser. He’s the real deal. And I think he can help you.”

“Aw, yeah, massive wankers, Rio told me all about ‘em,” Connor chimed in. “Can you do me a favor though? I’m trying to help you, yeah? But I need you to come closer so I can see you.” Connor had left his camera on the table with a wide view of the room so it could record anything Rio might have missed.

‘You two don’t seem lonely at all. Well, maybe the stupid one, a little bit, but I can tell he has love in his life.’ 

Connor shot Rio a look, giving a low chuckle before repeating the ghost’s words. At least Rio was getting some. 

“Nah, and nobody should be lonely, so… what do you say?” 

There was a poignant pause before the ghasper decided to take Connor up on his offer, fluttering closer, like a little badly formed cloud of smoke. Connor stepped back, beckoning, until it was in position, right there in his chalk circle.

“Sorry, mate. Can’t risk you possessing some other poor bugger that walks in here.” He picked up his book of rituals, holding the ceremonial dagger that operated as his focal point, starting to recite in Latin. The wind seemed to pick up, walls shaking as the ghasper tried to resist.

‘LIAR! You lying bastard. You will suffer eternal damnation. My brethren will rip your insides out and use them to string you up!’ 

And so the threats continued, but Connor kept his focus, feeling his energy deplete. With a hard gust of wind, the ghasper vanished, and the building was calm once again. Connor had to lean against the table to keep himself upright. 

“Bloody hell. Oof… still kind of new at that part,” he murmured. 

Connor was sweet talking the ghost. Orion stayed mostly silent from then on, assuming that Connor had a handle on the rest. It was impressive to watch. And certainly cemented the fact that Connor was the real deal. This definitely hadn’t been his first run in with a real ghost. So that must have meant that Connor’s other videos had been real too then? Fascinating.

Rio’s face turned red again once Connor repeated its words. Even the ghost was embarrassing Rio in front of the cameras now? That had to be a new low for Rio. He decided to just shrug against the words. He couldn’t believe that he had just been called stupid multiple times by the random ghost. Though Rio didn’t have much time to dwell on it. The ghost was coming closer to the two and Rio backed away behind Connor to let him take over, making sure to angle it so that both the orb and Connor could be seen in the shot. Once the ghost got into the circle that Connor had drawn, the ghost hunter pulled out a book and started reciting Latin. Rio was familiar with the words, Latin being the only language that his parents had actually supported the twins learning. This was an honest to god exorcism. The orb seemed to go crazy, and Rio could only imagine what it must be saying. And then, the thing vanished as if it had never been there in the first place. “Holy crap.” Rio stares quietly, staring at Connor in wonder, but soon the excitement took over and he was hopping up and down and repeating himself, “Holy crap! You just did that! That was so cool! I couldn’t even tell that you were a beginner.”

Connor caught his breath. It always took something out of you to perform an exorcism, but Connor was still learning. He wondered if it got easier the more you did it, but from the way some of the contacts he’d tracked down spoke about it, he doubted it. “Thanks,” he chuckled tiredly, but his pride was evident in his voice and his expression. “Probably makes me a bit of a masochist to say it was fun, right? Luckily ghaspers aren’t very strong or dangerous.” He straightened up, his energy slowly returning to him. “Alright mate, let’s go back to my place and we can grab a beer and I’ll show you how I edit.” He grinned. “Unless there’s somewhere else you’d rather be.”

Still reeling from the exorcism that he had just witnessed, Orion had no plans of cutting off now and heading home. He had hoped that he could get a look into editing at some point but hadn’t expected Connor to invite him over immediately following this. “Seriously?” Rio asked him, still a bit confused at the idea of someone wanting to hang out with him. He shouldn’t be anymore. He had made friends that he knew wanted to be around him. Rio just supposed he had almost twenty years of evidence to the contrary that always kept him a bit skeptical. But this was a new year for Rio. He wasn’t about to let those doubts hold him back. “I mean yeah, definitely. Nothing better to do at all.” He didn’t break the news to Connor that he didn’t really drink, but figured that wouldn’t be important once the two got to work cutting all the footage together. “I can stop by and grab food on the way? I know a great diner.”