#[ you are the earth that i will stand upon / roma ]

[rainkilled-a]

Headcanon!

Peter does not cry about Roma. When he finds out she’s dead, he throws up behind  the drop ship, but he never cries. Because he doesn’t want Bree to have to see him cry. 

**This is a general headcanon because of how much ive written them into his story but ALSO @dcncewithme and @earthsbled

[konohababy]

seven | kageyama t.

synopsis: a recap of the last seven years you spent with tobio kageyama  warnings: angst (??) word count: 3.4k notes: this has gone through so many rewrites it’s not even funny but here we are thanks for taking the time to read this if ya do ;)

̍̊˙· 𓆝.° ｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞 ·˙‧̍‧̍̊˙· 𓆝.° ｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞 ·˙‧̍‧̍̊˙· 𓆝.°

24

Tobio Kageyama breaks your heart beneath a heat-stricken sky in the middle of September.

“Y/N,” He begins. Pauses. Turns the words over in his mouth before loosening his fingertips around yours and steeling his spine.

“I don’t think I love you anymore,” He says, and you don’t fail to miss how even his voice is.

It’s a confession. A truth. It’s a dust mottled secret that’s been festering beneath his ribs and the ending line of a love story that had never really been close to perfect. Yet, it doesn’t hurt like you thought it would.

There’s no tectonic force of agony or a foretold shatter of pain when he says it. You’ve been to the depths of Hell and back with Tobio Kageyama, have returned with strings of gold laced around your necks and glittering jewels slung across your bodies. You’ve chased after rainbows to the ends of the earth holding his hand, racing against the tick-tock of a ballroom clock, and you suppose that was only a matter of time before the hands were set to strike midnight. And a part of you had always known that it wasn’t going to be long until Kageyama realizes just how much faster he is without you either.

When you look up at him, there’s a petal-soft smile tugging at the corners of your mouth, and a faint drumming of your heart as you nod.

“I know,” You whisper, and he finally lets go.

23

Kageyama’s signature is stark upon the dotted line.

Embellished with a flourishing heart at the end, it stains the paper in bleeding, dripping ink, marking the contract with a finality that he can’t quite erase now.

Standing in a room of flashing lights and congratulatory applause, Kageyama’s grinning wildly as his pulse catches in his chest, coming to the realization that this—it’s another step forward. It’s a pipe dream and a fantasy come true at the hands of his efforts. Two years from now he’ll be stepping off of a plane to play volleyball in Italy, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to that fact.

There isn’t a hint of regret clouding his mind that afternoon, no hidden qualms about the possibility of having to leave you and his life behind in Japan. You’ve always been able to understand the parts of him he hides below the surface; so you’ll know how important this is to him, right? Yet when he leaves the office, his fingertips are awfully still, tucking his phone deep into the pockets of his slacks without a single thought to call your number. He’s not entirely sure why.

When he slides beneath the sheets with you later that night, face flushed red after celebrating out with his teammates, it’s your voice that has to cut through the heavy air.

“Italy, then?” You ask quietly, but it’s not as if you don’t already know the answer.

Kageyama turns to you, eyes settling on the outline of your figure as you lay beside him, hands resting upon your stomach and eyes glued to the ceiling. Even through the ink-spilled darkness of the room he finds that he can still make out the familiar shape of your face, lit beneath the silver sheen of moonlight. He likes to think that he’s memorized nearly every part of you by now, every shape, color, and contour, but for some reason, he can’t make out the expression on your face tonight. He doesn’t really know if he wants to. There’s a breath. 

“Ali Roma,” He replies. “Two years from now.”

Your teeth catch onto your bottom lip. “You didn’t say anything.”

He swallows.

“It wouldn’t have made a difference.”

22

Yachi falls onto the carpet of your living room floor, sighing into the comfort of the rug as she scans the picture frames littering the walls.

She hums to herself, musing. “How are you and Kageyama?”

You look over at her from your seat on the couch, eyes finding the gaze of your best friend’s as you take another sip from the wine glass in hand.

It’s a simple question, really. Easy, and impossible to get wrong, but at the sound of his name it’s as if you’re suddenly searching for all the right things to say.

You know she doesn’t mean anything by asking, she never does, but the fact is that nothing has been the same since that evening last year—when a simple question spiraled into a bruising punch, a third-degree burn blistering open beneath the heat of reality.

And reality is that you and Kageyama are no longer the lovestruck kids you were five years ago.

You no longer eat dinner at the same time anymore, already fast asleep in bed by the time he comes home from practice, walking in to a cold plate and an empty table. You don’t stress over planning out extravagant date nights and weekend trips out of town, afraid that doing so would only spin the hourglasses back into a repeat of the last year. You no longer entertain his sister’s questions about marriage, telling her that you’re “not quite there yet” despite having been together longer than most. He doesn’t tell you when he’s scheduled to go out of town, when he’s planning on coming home late, and you can never really find the time to watch his games on TV anymore.

Reality is that the bed suddenly feels too small to hold the both of you when he comes home, and that every kiss goodbye has begun to feel like the real thing.

Reality is how he manages to attend your university graduation, bringing you a brilliant bouquet of your favorite flowers only to whisper an apology against your lips when he has to leave early. It’s how you find that you no longer mind his absence anymore.

You know that the story is coming to an end, that the magic is fading, but being together is too familiar for either of you to let go. You’re both holding on to the frayed ends of something that used to be, whether it’s out of comfort, fear, or a fierce loyalty to the lovestruck teenagers you once were before. The walls of your apartment are decorated with bittersweet memories of silhouetted scenes and honey-sweet kisses, moments suspended in time that will forever be a reminder of just how much you once loved each other. It’s just that you’re not entirely sure if you’re ready to turn the page just yet.

Yachi reaches up to poke your cheek, drawing your mind back to the warmth of your apartment. You bite your lip, the glass in your hand already gone empty.

You sigh. “I don’t know anymore.”

It’s an acknowledgement of reality.

21

“When are you leaving?” You ask him one evening, leaning against the doorway of your bedroom.

Kageyama spares a quick glance up at you from where he’s kneeling on the floor, packing a large duffel bag in preparation for his upcoming game somewhere down south. 

He settles back onto his heels, calloused hands resting atop his lap as he shrugs. “Tomorrow.” 

A brow quirks up in surprise. “Tomorrow? I thought we were supposed to go out tomorrow?”

He looks back at you. A minute-long pause overtakes the room while he mulls over your words, turning them over and over in his head until he realizes the mistake, the shattered promise hanging in the air. His eyes close shut as a deflated “shit” leaves his throat. 

“I’m sorry,” He sighs, gazing back down to pull the zipper of his bag over the white and gold of his uniform. “I can’t.”

You nod silently, accepting his apology. It’s not as if you’ve ever been a stranger to his hectic life of pro-volleyball, fully understanding that if he has to leave then he has to—you’re not exactly standing in a position to complain. But you know that life has begun to speed up for him, pulling him along with a hurried pace, and in that time, he’s managed to miss your anniversary, your birthday dinner with your parents, and a promotion party that you had worked so damn hard to get. It’s been months since you’ve really been able to sit down and enjoy each other’s company like you used to, so for one night, you’d like him to take this break just for you; to pretend that you’re both 18 again and dancing beneath the neon lights of Tokyo with your hands intertwined and your pulses caught in your wrists—a confirmation that you’re still as in love as you were that one morning four years ago, standing in the middle of a snow-dusted Miyagi. So you bite your tongue, and try again.

“It’s fine,” You tuck a lip between your teeth. “Maybe we can do something tonight instead?”

Kageyama doesn’t answer right away, only meeting your words with a heavy silence as he rises onto his feet. It’s only then that you notice the gym clothes he’d purposefully left out on the bed.

Your heart stops. “Are you really?”

He sighs, taking a step forward, but it feels like more than that. It feels like betrayal, you think. A bruising force gripping at your insides as your nerves ripple with something close to heartbreak.

You’re drawn aback. “We haven’t been able to spend time together in months, and the one chance we have, you’re gonna choose to bail on me for volleyball practice?” 

He frowns. “It’s not a choice.”

“Yes it is,” There’s a scoff of disbelief. “It’s always a choice, and you always choose to leave. Is it that necessary to go tonight?”

“It’s an important game.”

“It’s always an important game!” Your voice raises, just shy of a shout. “You know you’re ready for it, you told me so this morning! So why can’t you just stay for once?”

“We can go on a date when I come back—”

“That’s not the point!” Your brows furrow, staring incredulously at him. “The point is that you aren’t around anymore. You don’t care about us. About me. How much shit have you missed out on this year alone? Our anniversary, my birthday, my promotion party at work, dinner with my parents, lunch with our friends—when was the last time you actually asked about my day or sat down and had breakfast with me, Kageyama? When was the last time it wasn’t all about you?”

You lick your lips, tasting the bitter amalgamation of salt and chapstick as his silence pulls out the tears. Your chest constricts. You’re not entirely sure how you’d missed it—how all the absences and all the “I’m sorry’s” were nothing more than a trail of breadcrumbs leading you to the edge of something more. 

And you don’t have time to regret anything you’re saying; not when there’s a world of anger and frustration forcing their way through your veins, unraveling the knots you had oh-so carefully tied up once before. But they’re only side effects of the bigger problem festering beneath your skin—the fear that he’s leaving you behind, and that he isn’t going to stop and wait for you to catch up.

“Look, I’m sorry this isn’t about you for once, Kageyama, but I’m going insane—”

Is it wrong to want to know that he still cares? 

“—it’s always about you and your stupid volleyball games and your stupid interviews and your endless meetings and oh my god—aren’t you amazing?”

Is it wrong to want to know that he still loves you?

“Look at you, Tobio Kageyama, the king of volleyball! I can’t—”

You can’t keep up.

In a house where every wall is covered with reminders of how successful he is, is it wrong to want to know that you and your efforts are as equally cherished?

You want to see him happy, you always have, but once upon a time you had told him you’d be with him every step of the way. So what do you do when he’s the one who takes the first step ahead without you? 

The words die in your stomach before they meet the backs of your teeth, swallowing them down your throat upon the realization that enough damage has been done. Your lips no longer taste of salt and chapstick, but of blood and smoke. You’re toying with the pages of a cautionary tale now.

But it’s one night. A heartbeat of a moment. And in the grand scheme of things, it means absolutely nothing, but at the same time, it’s everything more.

Kageyama’s hands are at his sides, fists clenched tight to where crescent shaped indents line the flesh of his palm. He watches you quietly, eyes trailing down the sight of you and your tear stained cheeks as a shaky breath falls from your mouth. He knows he can’t fix this. 

After all, he’s tired of being held back. He supposes you’re tired of chasing after him.

20

“I’m sorry,” Kageyama mutters, eyes dropping to the floor.

His face is uncertain beneath the yellow lamplight of the desk, mouth pulled taut as he mumbles out the third apology of the night. It’s not common for him to be this expressive—so it’s enough to tell you that this rift has been bruising his heart for awhile now.

You let out a breath, falling back into the warmth of your shared bed with a sigh. It almost feels like a hug, you think, with the scent of his cologne woven into the sheets and the comfort of the night sky brushing against your cheeks, his brand new trophies gleaming from where they sit upon your bedroom shelves.

There’s a roll of your eyes when you look at him. A comforting tone lacing with your words. “Stop apologizing, I already told you that it’s okay.”

Yet Kageyama doesn’t reply immediately, switching his gaze from whatever’s on the ground to the open window hanging beside him, blue eyes catching onto the fractured constellations splattered across the night sky. You follow his gaze, embracing the silver sheen before you pierce the silence, calling his name with a certain softness.

“Kageyama,” You say, and his gaze shifts to meet yours. “Tell me about your day.”

He only nods then, drawing in a breath as if to tug his thoughts back down to you, allowing the words to leave his tongue with a melting ease. He tells you all about his new teammates on the Schweiden Adlers, the new strategies they’d tried out at practice, the Spanish phrases he’d picked up from one of the older players, and the way he’s been subject to what was called “hazing.” And you watch as his expression settles into one of gleaming enthusiasm, the worry on his face dripping away beneath the pale grasp of moonlight. By the end of his stories, he’s smiling, lost in the absolute dream that is his life.

Every comma, every question mark pulls you closer to the edge of your seat, hanging onto his every word like they’re the beginning of a brand new arc. It’s hook, line and sinker when you look at him, realizing that his world is being seen with pure, unadulterated color, threading gold between his fingertips like the ends of a rainbow, and it’s enough to be just be a part of that story.

He finishes, looking over to meet your eyes. “How was your day?”

You grin, readying the words at the tip of your tongue. You’re ready to tell him about the internship you’d secured in the heart of Tokyo, expose your pride over passing your final exams, and relay the conversations you had with his older sister over lunch the day before. To tell him that you’ve missed him lately, that it’s hard not being able to see him everyday until—

“Kageyama!”

There’s a knock. His head snapping back to see a figure peeking through an unlocked door, silhouetted, but still there, nonetheless. Your heart falters.

“Hirugami’s been trying to call you; He wants to go over some things again before the game tomorrow.”

Kageyama turns back to the camera, watching you through the screen as an apologetic look drapes across his face.

“Sorry,” It’s the fourth apology of the night, and the same words you’ve been hearing on repeat since the first week he got signed months ago. He sighs. “I should go.”

He pulls his phone from where it’s propped up on the hotel desk, bringing your pixelated image along as he readies himself to leave the room. You hate how familiar the scene seems, the bitter feeling of déjà vu arising that you’ve been trying to get used to with his longer hours away from home. Forcibly, you smile; finding that it’s much more difficult to do so this time around.

Your voice drops into a soft whisper. “It’s okay.”

You should be happy for him.

He steps out into the hotel hallway, and by the time he offers you a small smile, the pad of his thumb is hovering over the red ‘end call’ button. He looks at you.

“Happy anniversary.”

You nod, hope fluttering in your chest that maybe, maybe, you won’t feel like this by the same time next year. You give him a small wave. “Happy anniversary.”

Kageyama doesn’t linger long enough to hear you say anything else before he hangs up, leaving you back in Tokyo beneath a haunting silence and a darkened room. Rolling onto your side, you toss your phone somewhere across the mattress, groaning defeatedly into the sheets with a slight shudder. You’re not entirely sure when the bed had become so cold.

19

You’re the first person he calls after leaving the office in Tokyo.

He’s a whirlwind of emotions, pride kicking up in the depths of his stomach as his fingertips reach for your contact name with a melting ease. It’s only a short ring that passes before your voice echoes through the receiver, all hushed and curious while the butterflies erupt beneath his ribs.

“I’m going to play on the Japan National Team,” He announces proudly, not immediately noticing the curious attention from others standing around him at the station.

He chooses not to care though. Chooses not to give a damn about the looks he’s getting regarding his volume because his dreams are finally, finally tangible. He listens happily as you let out a squeal of excitement, never mind the fact that you’re also in the middle of your university library during exam season.

“Holy shit!” You gasp, pulling a busy, gleaming smile onto your face. “That’s amazing! You’re amazing!”

There’s a moment of silence bleeds over then, but he’s quick to break it.

“Thank you,” Kageyama blurts, almost sheepishly. “For being here for me.”

Your face softens; warming in the rare exposure of vulnerability as your bottom lip catches between your teeth.

“I’ll always be here for you,” You breathe out. “Every step of the way. Just don’t forget me when you’re famous, okay, hotshot?”

“Of course not,” He grins to himself. “You’re coming to the top with me, you know.”

Your pulse drums louder in your stomach. “I know.”

There’s another pause until Kageyama breaks it once more, continuing to ride the high of a freshly signed contract. It’s another blurted sentiment.

“I love you.”

Your smile widens. “I know.”

“Say it back,” He grumbles, knowing that the words have always sounded better falling from your lips anyway.

So you do.

18

Tobio Kageyama tells you he loves you beneath a snow-kissed sky in the middle of December. 

In the pale light of morning when the world’s blanketed in white and the windows are frosted over with ice, he finally says the three words that have been clouding the depths of his mind for months.

“I love you,” He admits; doesn’t quite realize how unfamiliar they feel until they’re leaving the tip of his tongue. 

He pauses, suddenly unsure. “I think.”

You allow a small laugh to leave your lips then, an airy, melodic sound drifting along the silence of sunrise as your fingertips reach out to intertwine with his in the open space between you two. 

You know it’s not perfect. It’s awkward and it’s confusing, and it’s a bit far from the breathtaking confessions that the storybooks had always foretold, but you don’t mind. You know you don’t need a chorus of singing birds or the magic of a rabbit hole, the frayed ends of a rainbow or the tick-tock of a ballroom clock counting down to midnight.

The only thing you really need is this—the story of you and him, walking along some snow-dusted sidewalk in the middle of Miyagi with your hearts stitched onto your sleeves and your cheeks kissed red, and it’s the only thing you suppose you’ll ever need to read.

You offer him a small smile.

“I think I love you too,” You reply, and he holds onto you just a little bit tighter.

[bellamyblake]

The ugly knitted red hat

That’s just some domestic Bellarke in the post season 4 verse where they have their own camp and are cute and sweet and all of that, basically fluff lol

After all these years, despite the peace, he still likes getting up early. 

There’s some pleasure in it for him as much as Clarke hates it, to sneak out of the warm cacoon of their bed and put on his socks, then his pants and tie his boots. 

He even tugs on the ugly red hat that she knitted for him a month ago when the weather was starting to get cold because she just hated running her fingers through his curls and touching the cold tips of his ears.

The hat was funny, had a weird shape, longer on the back and shorter on the front, she had attempted to make some funny criss cross pattern that O had tried teaching her when they had their “sister bonding time” by the camp fire but Clarke had proven to be a disaster in that as much as she was in the kitchen.

Still, it brought her peace, as she told him one night when he was pulling her head to his chest and kissing the top of her hair. It calmed her anxious hands, helped the tidal waves that thretened to consume her, quiet down. 

And he had been proud of her for doing that, he had encouraged it and praised all her attempts-the ugly red hat, the bright green sweater she made for his birthday that had a longer left than right sleeve and barely any collar, the blue and red scarf she made him to keep his throat warm while he was standing guard at night but that barely wrapped once around him.

He loved the imperfection of it all because that’s what they’ve always been-imperfect yet beautiful.

And just like she loved his poor carpenting attempts and kept the three legged chair by the fire place or the sharp-edge chest by the bedside even though they only-half used them, so did he wear his hat and sweater and scarf with pride.

(Miller had the most fun out of it. But even he knew he had to stop teasing his friend when Clarke came by and brought them hot tea or soup before their nightshift at the gates).

So now he tucks on his uneven red hat and throws his jacket on, grabbing his axe from the place by the door and heading outside.

Technically, he knows that he should’ve chopped more woods for the fire a few days ago-fall was progressing and fast, bringing rain and an orange-red leaved path of prettiness to the door of their cabin but with it came harsher winds and colder nights. 

Clarke had been pressing herself closer and closer to him every night at first, then started wearing not one but two of his shirts to bed and when last night she shoved her freezing fingers in between his legs, he had yelped, got up and said “That’s it! I’m starting the fire!”

They had been postponing it because there were such warm days that they spend them in the back yard taking care of the last of their tomatoes and beans with nothing but shirts and pants on, even barefoot here and there. 

The house and it’s wooden boards would warm up and stay so through the night but yesterday had been the tipping point and though Clarke complained and tried to drag him back down to bed, she had simply melted away once he started the fire yet despite it all she still stole the blanket and left his back bare and somewhat cold.

Which is why maybe now that he picks up his axe and swings at the tree he has figured he’d chop off, he feels his back creak desperately and tug at him, making him hurt.

He ignores it of course as he’s used to the pain. 

They’ve had so many injuries in just the past year since they settled down in their eighty acres-he broke a knee just a few months ago, Clarke split her head open last spring, then caught a bad cold with a lasting cough, after which he was stupid enough to go after an angry boar that practically ripped his entire right side apart and left him drowning in a pool of blood.

But every pain dulled, he found out, no matter if physical or emotional. 

It took time, it took many tears and many heart breaks and many trembling hands holding each other at night when you woke up screaming and your voice got raw with terror and you could taste death but it passed...and it got duller.

It still hurt.

But it became a part of you, like a bone, like a scar or a bruise that never really faded and kept aching now and then with the changing of the weather.

He gets lost in his thoughts as he puts all his strenght in cutting off the tree-sweat thickles down his back and he throws away his jacket despite the harsh morning wind and the lack of sun. 

Clarke would kill him if she saw him, he thinks. It’s a good thing she’s home then, sleeping under the covers.

He stops to catch his breath, leans on his tired knees and the axe-damn, there may be some truth to all of Clarke’s jokes-he was indeed getting older.

He closes his eyes and lets the sharp morning air fill his lungs so hard it stung his cheeks, made the hair on his back rise, his toes curl up-he liked the cold much more than the summer and he was glad it was finally back.

Once his heart goes back to normal he looks up at the sky for just a minute and thinks of his mother for some reason, wonders if she’d like that weather and decides that she will-she was used to the cold of their small living quarters and welcomed it like an old friend she got to say hello to every morning.

He picks up his axe and goes on with his work, using the time to go over the list of friends they’ve lost and asking himself that same question-would they like it out here? In the forest? In their new camp? In the gloomy fall day?

Jasper, he settles, wouldn’t be a big fan of it, he was too skinny so he’d be too cold and Bellamy would probably use Clarke’s ugly scarf to throw over his wanky shoulders.

Maya would enjoy it. She’d never spend much time out so he thinks she’d like the sharpness of the cold as much as he does.

Lincoln may prefer the summer, he thinks, he often did like going around without shirts or shoes, just feeling the earth under him so the chilliness may not be to his taste but he’d probably enjoy the camp fire and even volunteer to help Bellamy with the wood chopping.

They could’ve talked like brothers, Bellamy could’ve exchanged a mythology story for a grounder one and then they’d be stupid boys and compete about who’d carry more wood back home just to be idiots about something and get scolded by Octavia and Clarke.

He sighs, rubs his back that’s now completely wet and keeps on his work, going through his list-Atom, Charlotte, Roma and on and on, names he knew by heart now that he repeated in times of quiet peacefullness like this.

Finally the tree falls and he kneels on his bad leg resting his hand on top and whispering a quiet I’m sorry like he always did when he cut off a tree or killed an animal these days. 

He still smiled sadly and rubbed his hand over the creasy bark. 

“I knew you’d have taken it off, you stubborn old man!” he hears her angry yet still somewhat sleepy voice coming from behind him interrupting his apology.

He turns with a half smirk, knowing full well that a big one would piss her off even more.

She’s in her oversized home-worn sweat pants that were once upon a time his, a shirt and a sweater knitted by his sister with the picture of a two headed deer. 

Her hair is in a messy bun, she has just one glove on her left hand and two cups of something in the other, her cheeks are red from the mix of cold and sleep and her eyes are that deep celurian blue like the ocean that he still hasn’t gotten to see yet but dreams of at least once a week.

And he has this sudden urge to kiss her.

So he drops his axe and strides to her while she keeps on with her speech.

“Do you know how cold it is, Bellamy? Let me tell you, it’s effing keep-your-jacket-on-cold especially when you’re chopping a goddamn tree and sweating your ass off and you go out there and you dare take it off when you know full damn well how sick you can get if you-”

But she doesn’t end her beautiful rant that he knows is provoked by simple love-she loves him and she cares and this is just another way of her saying it like he did when he massaged her feet after a long day in medbay or made her tea every night before bed or helped her braid her hair when she was annoyed but had too much patients to take care of.

All of it was love.

They were love.

He kisses her with all that he has and for a moment he thinks she’ll just pull away and keep scolding him but it must be too much for her to resist because she simply kisses him back and melts into him.

He smells her-in all her sleepy Clarke glory-her lavender shampoo, the pinecone soap, the bearness of sleep on her lips and cheeks. 

Her fingers wrap around his neck, tuck at his curls, he smiles a little, groans somewhat but then picks her up which he knows is what she’s been wanting all along and carries them to the fallen tree where he carefully sits them down.

Finally, she pulls away and rests her forehead on his.

“If you think this will work as a distraction you’re goddamn wrong!”

He chuckles and she can’t help but smile too.

“I am a little right.”

“No, you’re not.” she huffs and pulls away, cupping his cheek and moving his sweaty curls from his forehead under his red hat. “You took off your jacket but kept this on?”

He wraps his hand around her wrist and pulls it to his lips, kissing the inside of it with gentleness she still gets surprised by sometimes.

“I’ll always keep it on.”

And she knows he doesn’t mean just the hat. 

He means her love in his heart, her hand on his cheek, her lips pressed to his.

“Well you’re still an idiot-” she huffs and puts the cups by their feet before reaching for his jacket “Put this on before your ass froze.”

“What’s that?” he nods at the metalic cups while she settles down next to him and leans on his side, reaching down to pick them back up and hand one of them to his freezing fingers.

“A drink.” she says with a smile “I think we deserve one, wouldn’t you agree?”

He smells the familiar scent of Monty’s moonshine before he even brings it closer to his nose and laughs at her mishivious expression.

Then he reaches and covers her hand with his over his tired fucked up knee.

“We do, princess.” he rubs his thumb over her bony cold fingers desperate to wamr them up “We truly do.”

[fandomrewrites]

Chasing Butterflies: Twilight’s Last Gleaming

Hello all! As always constructive criticism is appreciated and I hope you enjoy the chapter. Please let me know if your have any imagine requests or want to be added to any of my taglists.

Season 1; Episode 5: Twilight’s Last Gleaming Pairings: OC x OC best friends, no love interests chosen yet Warnings: Swearing and mild violence Word Count: 2,265

Season 1 Masterlist

"E! Nova! You guys gotta get up and see this!" Harper calls as she walks into the girls tent. She moves to shake Elara awake and turns to check that Nova is up when Elara blinks her eyes open. "Come on!" She says once more leaving the tent.

Elara and Nova share a look but stand up following Elara's old cellmate out of their tent. Elara stands with just a singlet and underwear and Nova in a sports bra and pants. Upon exiting the tent they see the rest of the delinquents looking up at something in the sky.

They follow their gazes to see a pod from the ark falling to Earth. "They're coming to help us. Now we can kick some grounder ass." Jones says from the girls left.

The rest of the delinquents cheer. Nova rolls her eyes as she hears Roma mutter, "Please tell me they brought some shampoo."

"I hope they sent weapons." Nova says.

"And medical supplies and warmer clothes." Elara adds.

Nova turns on her heel, heading back inside the tent. She throws on a shirt and her jacket then starts packing a small bag. A few minutes later Elara joins her back inside, "We're going, right?" Elara asks.

"I am. And I'll bring some others. You should stay behind though." Nova replies.

"What? Why?" 

"I don't know where Clarke is right now. You need to stay here since you have medical experience."

Elara sighs, "Fine. Just be safe."

"Always am."

This comment makes Elara raise an eyebrow at the petite girl, "Please. Don't make me laugh." Nova smirks then walks past her and out of the tent. 

"Octavia! Ready?" Nova calls.

Octavia nods, "Yeah, we just have to get Bellamy." Nova follows Octavia into the tent used for setting up plans, "We should get moving. Everyone's ready."

"No one's going anywhere. Not while it's dark it isn't safe. We'll head out at first light; pass the word." Bellamy answers.

"You aren't the boss of me in case you’ve forgotten. I'm going whether you like it or not." Nova snaps at the older boy.

"Can you please listen for once in your life." Bellamy sighs.

Octavia answers before Nova can argue, "Everyone for a hundred miles saw this thing come down. What if the grounders get to it first? Bell, we should go now."

"I said we wait till sunrise." He says once more.

Octavia huffs and leaves the tent, "I'm going. I don't care if I go alone. No grounder is going to get me. And you can't make me stay." Nova says. She turns on her heel to leave but Bellamy grabs her arm, stopping her.

"Nova, I'm serious. I don't want you getting hurt."

Nova carefully looks at Bellamy, "If you keep acting like that I'm going to start thinking you care about me, Blake."

Bellamy cracks a smile, "Maybe I do, angel."

"Well you know I can fight. A grounder doesn't have a chance against me. And if you're that concerned, come with me."

"You're not going to take no for an answer, are you?"

Nova tilts her head and smirks, "What made you think that?"

Bellamy rolls his eyes and finally let's go of her arm. "So, are you coming with me?" Nova asks.

Bellamy sighs, "Sorry for this, Nova." Nova opens her mouth to ask what he means but before any words leave her mouth Bellamy hits her over her head with a heavy stick, knocking her out.

Nova slumps over, Bellamy catching her before she hits the ground. He gently lays her down and walks past her out the tent, getting ready to leave the camp without anyone else's knowledge. 

Outside of the tent Elara made herself busy talking with some of the other delinquents. After about 15 minutes Elara looks around, a concerned look plastered on her face. "Have any of you seen Nova?"

The delinquents around her shake their heads, "She probably left." Atlas says.

Elara turns her head to look at her ex-boyfriend. "Bellamy said to wait until sunrise."

"Like she would listen to him. Come on, Elara. You're her best friend. Don't you know her better than that?"

Elara rolls her eyes, "Did anyone see her leave?"

"I didn't."

"Then help me look for her. If she's not here then you're probably right."

This time Atlas rolls his eyes, but rather than arguing he turns around to start looking for Nova. Not thinking that he would actually find her, he pushes open the tent that they use to discuss plans. His eyes immediately find the petite girl.

He sticks his head out of the tent, "Elara! I found her!" He yells for the brunette. Hearing his calls she quickly runs out of the dropship and to the tent. She rushes over to Nova and gently shakes her awake.

Atlas stands over her shoulder, watching the interaction. "Nov? Nova, wake up." Elara quietly says.

Nova finally wakes up groaning and raising her hand to the side of her head. "I'm going to kill Bellamy." She grunts out.

"What? What did he do?" Elara asks.

"He fucking knocked me out. What a piece of shit."

Nova pushes herself off the ground, almost making herself lose her balance. "Be careful! You might have a concussion!"

"I'll be fine once I kill him."

"Nova Marie Kane!" Elara scolds. 

Nova looks at her shocked, "Did you just mom me?" Elara glares, "Sorry, not funny. But seriously I feel fine. Just incredibly pissed off. Can I please go find Bellamy so I can kill him now?"

Without waiting for a reply Nova pushes past Elara and Atlas. She walks outside the tent at the same time that Clarke and Finn enter the camp. "Did you guys see that? You know it's from the Ark, right? It has to be." Fox tells the two delinquents.

"Grab your stuff. Let's find out." Clarke replies.

"Bellamy said we're gonna wait until sunrise." Fox says.

"Where is he?" Clarke asks, starting to walk towards his tent.

"Don't bother. He already left. Let's go." Nova says. She angrily walks past delinquents, who are literally jumping out of her way. She exits the camp, Clarke and Finn on her heels.

"What do you mean? How do you know he already left?" Finn asks.

"Because the asshole knocked me out so I didn't leave. Whatever is in that pod he wants bad. And he has a head start."

 *_*_*_*_*_*

 Just as the sun begins to rise, the trio of delinquents arrive at the area where the pod landed. "Should we split up?" Clarke asks.

"Yeah. You go that way, Clarke." Finn says, gesturing to the left. "You can check that way." He gestures to the right.

Nova and Clarke nod, "Stay within yelling distance." Nova says, walking away from the other two.

After wandering aimlessly for a few minutes Nova turns around to head back the way she came. She makes it to the pod just in time to see a girl kissing Finn. "Well, that's one way to greet someone." Nova says.

Nova looks towards Clarke, seeing that Clarke looks rather annoyed. Her attention is brought back to Finn and the girl when Finn asks, "How did you get here?"

"You know that big scraphold? The one on K deck?" She answers.

"You built that from scrap?"

"I kind of rebuilt it." Finn laughs in response. 

"You're insane." He says with a shake of his head.

"I'd do more for you and worse. Just like you would for me." She staggers into Finn's arms. 

"Come on, sit down." Finn says. He leads her over to a rock and takes his jacket off to put around her. 

Clarke and Nova finally walk over to the couple, "You need to put pressure on her wound." Clarke says, handing Finn an ice pack.

"Thanks," The girl says.

"This is Clarke and Nova. They were on the dropship too. This is Raven." Finn introduces.

"Clarke? This was all because of your mom."

"My mom?" Clarke asks, shock evident in her voice.

"This was all her plan. We were trying to come down here together. If we waited-" She cuts herself off, "Oh my God. We couldn't wait because the council was voting whether to kill three hundred people to save air."

"When?" Clarke asks in a panic.

"Today. We have to tell them you're alive." We all move back to the pod. Raven reaches inside, "The radio's gone." She says, moving back to face the other three.

"That jackass." Nova curses. She squeezes her hand into a fist and punches the pod. She hisses in pain as the sensitive skin on her knuckles comes into contact with the metal. 

Clarke reaches over to Nova in concern but Nova pushes her away, "I'm fine. We have to head back. We need to find him."

 *_*_*_*_*_*

 Spotting Bellamy, Nova quickly runs over and punches the older boy across the face. She shoves him against a tree and pulls out her knife, holding it against his neck, "I should kill you." She hisses out, glaring.

Bellamy glares back but doesn't say anything, knowing that he deserves this. "Where the hell is it Bellamy?" Clarke asks from behind Nova.

"Where's what?" He questions, playing dumb.

"They're getting ready to kill three hundred people up there to save oxygen, and I can guarantee you it won't be council members. It'll be working people, your people."

"Where's the radio?" Finn asks.

"I have no idea what you're talking about." Bellamy says once more.

"Stop playing dumb Blake." Nova says through clenched teeth.

"Blake? Bellamy Blake? They're looking everywhere for you." Raven says.

Nova turns her head to look at the girl but doesn't stop pressing her knife to his throat. "Why are they looking for him?" Clarke asks.

"Shut up." Bellamy grunts out.

"He shot Chancellor Jaha." Raven replies.

"That's why you took the wristbands. Needed everyone to think we're dead." Clarke says.

"All that whatever the hell we want? You just care about saving your own skin." Finn glares at Bellamy.

Nova scoffs and finally backs away, shaking her head. "Where the hell is the radio Bellamy?" She asks.

Bellamy rolls his eyes," Jaha deserved to die. You all know that."

"Yeah, he's not my favorite person either, but he isn't dead." Raven replies.

"What?"

"You're a lousy shot."

Clarke steps closer to Bellamy, "Bellamy, don't you see what this means? You're not a murderer. You always did what you had to do to protect your sister. That's who you are. And you can do it again by protecting three hundred of your people. Where's the radio?"

Bellamy hesitates, then sighs, "It's too late."

 *_*_*_*_*_*_*

 After regrouping at the camp and bringing more delinquents out to help look for the radio, the group stood in the river where Bellamy threw the radio.

Bellamy moves towards Elara, "It's going to take a long time for Nova to forgive me, isn't it?" He asks.

Elara looks at him, "Why does that matter to you?"

Bellamy shrugs, "I don't know. I guess it was kinda nice with her not hating me all the time. But I fucked up big time."

"Yeah, you did."

"Are you mad at me?"

"Yes. But I don't hold grudges. I know you did it to protect Octavia."

Bellamy nods, "Hey! I found it!" Jones calls bringing Elara and Bellamy's attention away from each other.

They all run over, "Can you fix it?" Clarke asks Raven.

"Maybe, but it'll take half the day just to dry out the components to see what's broken." Raven answers.

"Like I said, it's too late." Bellamy replies.

Clarke marches up to Bellamy and shoves his chest, "Do you have any idea what you did? Do you even care?"

"You asked me to help. I helped."

"Is there any other way we can let them know that we're alive?" Nova asks, stopping any arguing.

"You mean without a radio?" Finn asks.

"Yeah, I have an idea." Raven replies, smiling brightly at Nova. "You're a genius."

Nova shrugs, "I've been called a lot of things but never a genius." She then flashes one of her rare smiles, "I like it."

Elara can't help the laugh that escapes her lips. 

 *_*_*_*_*_*

 As night falls, the group of delinquents get ready to launch flares. The group quickly gets everything set up and lights the flares. The rockets blast off, the delinquents all looking up at them in awe. 

Clarke, Bellamy, Elara, and Nova stand next to each other watching the rockets light up the sky. "You think they can see it from up there?" Bellamy asks the girls.

"I don't know. I hope so." Clarke replies.

"Well, we'll find out soon enough." Nova says.

"Can you wish on this kind of shooting star?" Clarke asks. The three others turn to give her questioning looks, "Forget it."

They turn their heads back to the flares, "I wouldn't even know what to wish for. What about you?" Bellamy questions.

"I would wish for my parents to be here with me." Elara says.

Nova hums, "I would want to go back in time."

"For what?" Bellamy asks.

"So that I never went to councilman Abraham's place."

"Didn't he die from a heart attack?" Elara asks.

"Nope. He's the guy I killed."

"Didn't you say he deserved it though? Why would you want to stop yourself from killing him?"

Nova shakes her head, "That’s not what I- Forget it. It’s not important.”

[themoonwheniamlost]

Knees of Green

My gift for @hesnotmy!!! I hope you enjoy this, I put the fic under the cut and on AO3 Here. I went a bit to the left with your prompt I hope you don’t mind! 

Thank you so much to @thirst-teenth for putting this whole thing together! We’ve gotten so much good content, and I’m so happy to have been a part of it. 

Thank you also to my Beta/Bestie/Lungs @jesuisnilunnilautre .

Happy New Year All, ilysm, Have some lesbians.

It’s been two weeks since Andromache had gotten separated from them in the battle, and while Quynh had all faith in her wife, it was starting to worry her. The boys were trying to be helpful, but if Nicolo says one more … encouraging thing about “Distance makes the heart grow fonder,” or “Two halves of one whole heart can never truly be parted,” Quynh is going to throw a rock at his head. 

Fall harvest was imminent. It was silly to feel alone in a house full of love, but she did. Roma had work to do in the next town over, and Quynh could work to keep their home safe here. She dons a simple skirt and Andromache’s cape, Quynh grabbed her handled basket and left the cabin. She set out, looking into the distance, following a path that she knew like the lines on Andromaches’ palms. 

With quick feet and a wanting heart, she soon found herself in the hibiscus grove. It was easy to think of her wife there.  The grove was a gift that had grown steadily through the years to hold decades’ worth of memories. Stories of love and dirt and patience, keep them fresh for the harvest of each day, ripe enough to taste at any recall. 

As she steps between the trees she feels her heart swell like the first time she set foot here, when Andromache, smiling and covered in soil, had pulled her into a clearing full of freshly turned earth and dragged her by the hand through the unworn paths, pointing to each sectioned area and explaining what would go where. Few things could stop Andromache when she had things to say, and this was no exception.  It went on for some time, Roma’s face bright and a bit flushed, outlining how the Hibiscus plants would ring the trees here, the pepper and tomato plants here, and perhaps a fig tree in the back — 

Quynh felt like she was chasing a bee around the grove, heavy with promise, a garden pollinated by faith and trust. She smiled and reached out with the hand not clasped in Roma’s. “Cưng, how did you get dirt in your hair?” Her beloved stopped to let her free the garden from her head, pulling her fingers softly through the strands until she was satisfied. 

She looked up to Andromache’s face again, tongue light with the intent to tease her wife, and was caught instead by a gaze she knew too well. They drifted close to each other, chests rising in synch, the air between them tightened. It was easy to tilt her head just so, to gather her wife’s hair in her hands, to close her eyes as Andromache placed their lips together. The soft and easy press of familiarity settled them on the newly turned earth, and when they rose they had both had gathered a garden in their hair. 

Now, Quynh sat in their garden alone, not even counting the stars, she already knew their names, but what did they matter now? Apart from Andromache the sky was a vast sea of empty eyes. The only person who had pulled the stars down for her was Roma, a warrior strong enough to shine in peace as she did in war. Apart from Adromach she often felt like half of a blade, a hilt with no extension. Deciding that there was no use sitting about, she could sigh just as well tending to the garden as she could yearning on the bench, she gathered her skirts and her trowel. 

She knelt down to tend to the peppers first. It would take longer working alone, but it needed to be done. It would fill the hours if nothing else. 

While two weeks was nothing to an immortal, time somehow had a way of warping, a way of making the seconds into hours, the days into minutes. Andromache had tracked down the bandits they had been following. Dispatching them was easily done, finding their leader, gathering their movements, and locations. It was easy but time-consuming, luring them into dark corners and allowing the village to breathe without fear of their holdings. Finally, she was done, it was time for her to get back to her family. 

Andromache felt the distance with each step she took through the market towards the edge of town. While she had missed them all, the need for her wife hung from her shoulders like a wool cloak. Roma sees flashes of Quynh in every person she passes. Flashes of her clever hands, her dark and sparkling eyes, the curve of her hip against a fruit stall, her laughter on the wind. 

After walking through fields and farms for hours she came upon the town square. She spends an eternity dodging through stalls and around the edge of the village. Andromache ran the final distance to their house. As she came upon the door to their cottage, Yusuf is leaning in the entryway, holding out a hand for her pack. “She took her basket out an hour ago.” His face is bright and laughing the way it always is when they reunite, whether they be apart for years or for hours. 

She hears Nicolo yelling from the kitchen, “Hurry back you two so we can have supper at a reasonable hour, yes?” 

“I make no promises!” 

She needs no direction; she knows the path to the grove the way she knows the line of Quynh’s thighs. Andromache enters the grove to see Quynh tending to the new growth. She sets her labrys just out of reach and leans against the bench, breathing the air of home, of the same place as her wife. 

Watching a woman could steal your breath. And it’s a different kind of magic to see her hands working the soil rather than a weapon. So often they were fighting or running, or fighting and running. This was a quiet joy, a small reprieve in the setting sun, the stillness of the grove. 

She tries to commit the moment to memory. She stands taking in the lines of Quynh’s back, the way her hips hold her weight, the working song she hums so often, her hands folding strawberries into the basket. When she moves silently to kneel by the, their eyes catch and hold. Quynh reaches up to fold a spade into her hand, gentle like butterfly wings and azalea buds and places the basket between them. 

Years of knowing how to make their movements easy, build a steady rhythm between them. What leaves to trim, what’s ready to harvest, what should be left on the vine. Steady as heartbeats, timing is everything. 

It was a practiced thing too, the way that they made their movements slower as they finished collecting the rosemary, the distance between them shrinking as each woman breathed in the other. Their hands brushing in the basket between them. 

They set their tools aside and reach for each other. Cheek to cheek, arms around waists,  hand pressing fingers spread wide and digging into cloth. Lips, pink and open, pressed tight to taste, small nips and laughter. Closer still, pulling off blouses and kissing the skin warm. On the ground pressed together, Andromache cups her favorite breast to her mouth and notices the dirt on her hands. She leans back, “We can’t work like this.”

“What?” Quynh's lips parted as she made herself arch into those hands.

Wordlessly, Andromache links their hands together and pulled them between their eyes. 

Quynh sits forward, pushing Roma to the side; she blinks slowly, laughs “Race you!”  and shoves off the ground to rush through the pomelo trees. Laughing, Andromache throws her head back, “Unfair!” then dashes after her.

Later, when they’re lounging on the shore with Quynh’s head on Andromache’s belly, tracing mindless shapes on her wife’s thigh, Quynh says, “I know that I shouldn’t worry when you aren’t nearby. It just that sometimes I can’t stop it.” She pauses, and Roma strokes her hair once, twice, as she tilts her head back. “I know it’s just a matter of time until we’re together again. Because it’s just you and me.”

Andromache lifts both of their heads so that they can see eye to eye. “Until the end, Solnyshka.”

They walk back to the grove, fingers entwined, hands swinging lightly between them. As they dress, Andromache chuckles and asks, “How much do you want to bet those two will have something to say about our green knees making them wait for dinner?”

“I’m married to you Andromache. I know better than to take a sucker’s bet.”

[wonderful-writer]

06 - Into Grounder Territory

Summary: As Bellamy rallies a search party to look for Octavia, everyone discovers that the flares had not worked. More than one person was lost on your search for Octavia, and things end badly once you rescued her.

Word Count: 2.19k

Based Off: 01x06 “His Sister’s Keeper”

You heard Bellamy calling for Octavia outside the tent, but knowing her, it’s likely he won’t get a reply. He came to a stop in front of your tent and lifted the flap, revealing you playing with your necklace. “You’re still up?” He asked.

“Yeah. Can’t sleep knowing that I might have accidentally killed 300 people.” You responded, standing up and exiting the tent.

“That isn’t your fault, okay? It’s mine. I trashed the radio, not you.” Bellamy shifted the blame to himself to comfort you.

“But it wasn’t just you, Bellamy. I helped you. I didn’t try to stop you as much as I could’ve and we don’t know if they saw the flares or not and-” Bellamy put his right hand on your upper arm, as his other one held the torch.

“Hey,” He said softly, gaining your attention as he cut you off. “It’s not on you, I promise. It’s all on me. You don’t deserve to feel like that.” You nodded, a little bit of comfort coming from his words.

“Now, have you seen Octavia?” He asked.

“No. not since last night. But it’s Octavia, she probably just went to get some space.” You assured him.

“No, I checked the camp. She isn’t here.” He sighed.

“Okay, well you told me you fought with her before you saw me, right?” He nodded. “Okay, so I can help you look for her. She’s my friend.” He nodded gratefully as you told him to check the dropship while you searched the tents again.

When you couldn't find her and had disturbed or woken up everyone in camp, you and Bellamy gathered everyone willing to help look for Octavia to the middle of camp with the weapons you had gathered since your arrival laid on the ground.

Everyone took one as instructed while Bellamy began to inform the search party of the circumstances. “My sister’s been out there alone for 12 hours, so arm up. We’re not coming back without her.”

You were the first to grab one, a pair of daggers with sheaths for each thigh. You set them up and saw Jasper holding a torch and talking to Clarke. You heard Bellamy tell Clarke that we needed all the people that we could get as you walked up to the trio.

“Thank you for helping, Jasper. I know how you feel about leaving camp.” You told your brother. He smiled at you and you patted his arm as he passed you to get a weapon. You could tell he was scared, to you he was an open book.

Soon enough you were all ready to head out of camp, a total of 15 of you. One of the members pointed up at the sky to the beautiful meteor shower happening overhead, until you heard Raven speaking. 

“It didn’t work,” She said solemnly.

“The meteor shower tells you that?” Bellamy asked.

“It’s not a meteor shower,” Clarke told him. “It’s a funeral. Hundreds of bodies being returned to the Earth from the Ark. This is what it looks like from the other side. They didn’t get our message.”

The pit in your stomach grew larger as you realized that all of those innocent people were killed. You could’ve stopped it or helped stop it and you didn’t. Bellamy's words from before came back to you, this time giving less comfort than before and taking away none of the guilt.

Everyone began to murmur and talk amongst themselves as you looked to Bellamy and vice versa. Raven passed Finn and Clarke to storm over to Bellamy. 

“This is all because of you!”

“I helped you find the radio.” His face hardened and so did his tone, which was entirely different from the one he usually uses when he’s with you and Octavia.

“Yeah, after you jacked it from my pod and trashed it!” She yelled again before Clarke intervened.

“Yeah, he knows.” She looked him up and down. “Now he has to live with it.”

“All I know is that my sister is out there and I’m gonna find her.” He told the women before turning to Finn. “You coming or what?” Finn responded with a ‘yes’ and Bellamy shouted at everyone to begin moving out.

You and Bellamy headed the search with Finn, who managed to trace her from where Bellamy last saw her to a small hill. John saw something caught in the bushes and showed it to Bellamy. 

“Is that hers?” He asked, lighting the way with his torch.

Bellamy asked for the rope and maneuvered himself down to the bush. Once he was down, he picked up the cloth and called out. “It’s hers! I’m going all the way down!”

He continued to lower himself down the hill with the rope, Jasper following suit with a burst of confidence, and then you. Once you got down you saw blood on the tips of Bellamy’s fingers, illuminated by the light of the flashlight. Soon after, Finn arrived at the bottom of the hill, crouching beside Bellamy.

“Someone else was here,” Bellamy told you, looking at the deep footprint just ahead.

“The prints are deeper going that way.” Finn acknowledged.

“He was carrying her.” You concluded. The others began to make their way down as Jasper spoke up.

“If they took her, she’s alive. Like when they took me.”

The four of you stood up at Jasper’s words, knowing how things were last time, and followed the deep footprints.

You walked for a while until the party came upon a bunch of skeletons standing up in the forest as some type of warning.

“I don’t speak grounder, but I’m pretty sure this means keep out,” Finn said breathily.

After hearing some people begin to doubt the search and start to leave, Bellamy spoke up as he stared ahead. “Go back if you want. My sister, my responsibility.” 

“I’d walk into hell to find her,” Jasper told Finn, following after Bellamy. You did the same, along with Finn and a few others.

The sun had now come up and the small group had been searching for hours. “I got nothing, I lost the trail,” Finn told Bellamy.

“Keep looking,” Bellamy ordered.

“Wandering around aimlessly isn’t going to find your sister, we should backtrack-” Finn was cut off by Bellamy.

“I’m not going back.” He said. It was then that Roma pointed out that John was no longer in sight.

“Spread out. He couldn’t have gotten that far.” You started to move in the opposite direction when John’s body was dropped from a tree, throat slit. You gasped at the sight of him. You didn’t know him, but from seeing him around camp you could tell he wasn’t like Murphy at all, despite sharing the same name.

Finn came to your side and looked up before turning to Bellamy. “They use the trees.” He realized.

You all looked up into the trees but saw nothing. “We shouldn’t have crossed the boundary,” Diggs commented.

“Now can we go back?” Roma asked.

“There,” Jasper pointed to a grounder who dropped from a tree. That’s when you noticed many grounders had begun to surround you, trapping you and setting you up for death.

“We should run,” Finn suggested, and everyone agreed. You took off into the forest as the grounders chased you, cutting you off and causing you to turn every once in a while.

“I can’t run much longer!” Jasper yelled.

“I’m not stopping for him!” Diggs shouted. You fell back from the front of the group to help Jasper out. Bellamy stopped, along with Finn and the rest of you.

“Yeah, well I’m tired of running,” Bellamy commented.

“What are you doing?!” Finn yelled.

“They know where she is,” Bellamy stated. One of the grounders kept running towards you and Roma called out for Diggs when she realized that he wasn’t with your group anymore. You heard him call out to her and you all followed.

You could barely comprehend what was happening as Roma cried out and ran off again, seeing Diggs’s body impaled on a wooden structure they set up.

“They were leading us here. It’s the only direction we could run in.” Jasper panted as he figured it out.

“Hey. Where’d they go?” Finn asked, and you looked around. No more grounders.

“After Roma,” Bellamy told the group before heading off in Roma’s direction. You followed after him in an attempt to not get split up and to try to save Roma. It didn’t take you long to find her. You heard a scream and followed it, which led you straight to her.

“There she is.” Monroe pointed. “Roma!” She called quietly, as to not attract any grounders. Bellamy pushed past everyone to go get her, and you followed.

You sprinted up to her figure with Bellamy, finding her with a spear in her chest, pinned against the tree.

“They’re playing with us,” Finn explained.

“She only came because of me,” Bellamy said softly, as he reached up to close her eyes with shaky fingers.

“They can kill us whenever they want,” Finn told the group.

“Then they should get it over with! Come on!” Jasper began to yell, causing all of you to try to stop him. You all crowded together as Monroe pointed out the grounders that began to surround you. You thought you were dead until a foghorn blew and the grounders stopped, running away.

“They’re leaving.” Bellamy pointed out.

“That horn, what does it mean?” Jasper asked, and Finn answered.

“Acid fog.”

He quickly began to take out a piece of the parachute from his sack to cover the five of you with until the fog passed. Not long after, you were tightly squished between Bellamy and Finn as you waited for the fog to pass, uncomfortably aware that Bellamy was practically on top of you.

“How long are we supposed to wait?” Jasper asked.

“Will this even work?” Monroe countered.

“We’ll just have to find out,” Finn answered.

“No, we won’t,” Bellamy responded, pulling back the parachute before you had a chance to protest.

“There’s no fog.” You and the others climbed out of the parachute, glad to not be in the uncomfortably hot and stuffy area anymore.

“Maybe it was a false alarm.” You commented, shrugging your shoulders.

“They’re coming back,” Finn pointed to a grounder who ran across your view in the distance.

“I think he’s alone,” Jasper said after looking around to find no other grounders. You all kept in your crouched position as Monroe asked if we were able to run, but Bellamy decided on something else.

“He doesn’t see us. I’m going after him.” You looked over at your friend in disbelief as you thought over how bad of an idea that was.

“And do what? Kill him?” Finn asked.

“No. Catch him. Make him tell me where Octavia is, then kill him.” Bellamy corrected. You rolled your eyes at your friend’s stupidity and scoffed lightly.

“What an idiot,” You mumbled, watching him make his way over to the grounder.

“How do we know he’s not leading us into another trap?” Jasper whispered.

“We don’t,” You answered.

You followed Bellamy to the grounder, who went inside a cave. It would be easier to capture him that way, but you knew that the grounders put up a good fight. Either way, the outcome of the situation wouldn’t be good for anyone.

When you entered the cave, you saw the grounder passed out on the floor and Octavia freeing herself from the chains he tied her up in. As she and Bellamy reunited, Monroe was watching the entrance and you looked around with Jasper, while Finn got a closer look at the grounder. You hovered near Octavia and hugged her once she let go of Bellamy. She let go of you to greet Jasper, as you got a better look at the grounder.

“We need to leave, now. Before he wakes up.” Octavia told her brother.

“He's not going to wake up,” Bellamy assured her.

“Bellamy stop!” She protested. “He didn’t hurt me, let’s just go!”

“He started this,” Bellamy told her, preparing to shove the spear into the grounder’s chest. “Y/n, move.”

You inspected what the grounder had on his person closely, leaning over his body. 

“Foghorn,” You whispered, taking the item in your hand.

The movements of the grounder took you by surprise, as you thought he was unconscious. What stunned you completely, however, was the feeling of a knife being driven into your left side. It stung as it entered your body, but a general burning coursed through the rest of you. You were thrown to the ground, hitting your head as you heard your name being called from multiple people. It was like when you got into the knife fight with Murphy, except a lot more painful and it didn’t take you nearly as long to lose consciousness.

Darkness poked at the edges of your vision, every sound entering your ears garbled like you were underwater and couldn’t swim. But it didn’t take much longer for you to fall into the dark void of unconsciousness, not knowing when you would wake up again.

Taglist: @soullessbabee | @hyperion-moonbabe-art3mis | @dummythiccwitch | @sireddobrev | @gxvrielle

[arsonsara]

Acknowledging The Ostrelephant In The Room: A Breakdown of The Mag*psies, The Mistakes They Made, And How They Could Be Improved Upon.

(TW: Slurs [G*ypsie]. & Negative Representation of those in the LGBT+ Community)

[The Following Essay also contains spoilers for the game Mother 3.]

Mother 3 is my favorite game of all time. If anyone has known me long enough to talk about what games I enjoy or followed me on Social Media to see my occasional bouts of reblogging fan-made content for the series, this is an obvious talking point. I’ve been a part of the community surrounding Mother 3 ever since I was about 10-12 years old, with my old Acer Laptop playing through the Fan-Translation on a GBA Emulator. While I wouldn’t consider myself a Mother 3 Veteran, I have been around long enough for me to see how the community has changed and shifted through the years as well as how I myself changed through my perspective on the world around me and myself. 10 or so years later after having played Mother 3 for the first time I still stand by my statement that it is my favorite game of all time, without question.

However, I would be lying if I were to say that Mother 3 was not a flawed game. Arguments can be made that games inspired by the Mother Franchise have gone leaps and bounds above the original series in terms of narrative structure and gameplay. However from what I've seen from the community of Mother 3, none of that tends to bother them enough to hamper the experience of the game itself. Except for one thing. One group of characters that has the community tugging at their collars or just straight up ignoring their existence. While I can understand and even empathize with the idea of just straight up mentally retconning something, especially when said thing directly affects you emotionally due to any personal connections you might have with the connotations, there’s a certain level of unease I garner when I see people clearly side-stepping the situation. Choosing to pretend it never happened as opposed to acknowledging it for it’s flaws, properly criticizing it and even potentially putting ideas forward as to how the situation could’ve been improved. Time to stop beating around the Walking Bushie: Let’s talk about the Mag*psies.

Now let’s start off with what’s right in front of us. The first thing that hits you in the face as soon as these characters are mentioned by name, the thing that unequivocally is a black mark against Mother 3 as a game. Mag*psies. Yeah, it’s bad. Now for those unawares on what I mean let’s clarify something right off the bat: The term Gy*psy is a slur. Specifically a slur against the Romani people, a slur that originated in Europe upon the rising population of Roma migrating from their homeland to European nations. The slur came from an uneducated perspective that the Romani hailed from Egypt. With this slur comes the negative stereotypes that came from that same origin point: That Romani people were a nomadic people that consisted of criminals, ne'er do wells, and the dregs of society. Sometimes, mostly in media, they were even seen as wanderers who practice unsavory and unholy acts of magic. As well as the more uninformed, sensationalized version of “Voodoo” (which, when you put into perspective of how the Romani were mistaken for Egyptians and that Voodoo originated from Hati, really puts into perspective how xenophobia is born on blatant misinformation, scapegoat tactics and a really shitty grasp on geography.)

So with that in mind, the fact that this is the name that was chosen for this group of characters is bad. Although for most people, (I hope) this goes without saying. So why am I bringing this up? Because for a group of characters whose entire troupe are named after a slur that has real world connotations, the Mag*psie don’t outwardly express any malice or xenophobia against the Romani people. With how they’re characterized and presented, there aren’t really any clear connections to the stereotypes for those of Roma descent outside of a connection to magic, in this case PSI. And even than the Magy*psies being proficient in PSI seems more like it was intended as a genuine plot point then as a racial stereotype. So if that’s the case, why was that the name that was chosen? Simple: It was a case of misinformation.

One common misconception regarding the term G*psie is that it means being a free spirit, a wanderer, one with the world around you and mystically inclined. Of course this is all false and mostly stems from taking a negative racial connotation and turning it into a marketable buzzword for anything that seems ‘Mystical’ or ‘Free-Spirited’. In the same way that a Ouija Board is a tool for summoning and contacting spirits and demons that was manufactured by Parker Brothers for about 20$. So, it’s easy to surmise that the reason the name Mag*psie was chosen is because the developers of the game believed it to be an old-world term for someone of magical expertise or connected to the Earth spiritually. It also helps to keep in mind that Mother 3 was developed in Japan, and most people were more than likely unaware towards it’s true connotation. Hell, it wasn’t until a few years ago that people in the United States started to call people out on usage of the term and considering that Mother 3 was developed in the early 2000’s it’s easy to understand the confusion. Now, i’m not saying that this to excuse the use of G*psie in the game. Point blank, it shouldn’t have been used and is a legitimate flaw and mistake on part of the developers. But it also helps to keep in mind that the choice of word wasn’t out of malice, just ignorance. Does that make it better? No, but i’d like to imagine that if way back when, if someone on the development team found out what G*psie actually meant that it wouldn’t have gone into the game. Considering the core messages of Mother 3 and it’s tennants on the importance of companionship, family, community and love, It doesn’t make sense to have such a vile slur used within it’s context.

So what do we do with this information? Well, the Mother 3 community is oddly enough in the best state it’s ever been to fix this problem. Why do I say that? Because the game hasn’t been internationally localized yet. And let’s face it, the Mag*psies are one of the biggest reasons the game hasn’t seen an official English release. And maybe it’s just my overly-optimistic, dare I say, Pollyanna-esque point of view, but if a discussion were to start about the positive changes one could make towards the Mag*psies as characters and a narrative concept, the right people might just be listening in on the conversation and make the right changes for an international release or even a remake.  Now, considering how it’s been 14 years since it’s Japanese release, and soon to be 15 years in a few months, I can understand if you just groaned or rolled your eyes reading that. But on the same merit, what’s the harm? Let’s say we do have this conversation and Nintendo just doesn’t pay attention and Mother 3’s International Localization continues to be a pipe-dream. What do we lose? That’s the fun thing about Fandom, sometimes you can just toss out the bad things about something you enjoy and make it better and overall more positive for the community. We toss out the old Mag*psies with their slur-using titles and uninformed, sloppy concepts of gender expression (trust me, we’ll get to that second point later.) and have newer, better ones that we can use for fan-content! So in the end, we either change the tide of the franchise itself and turn them around, giving us a greater chance at localization than we ever did before on top of a group of characters of positive representation! Or we just have these nicer, more appealing versions of the characters for our own uses now that the franchise is pretty much finished. It’s a win-win.

So with that, I'll start by making what’s probably the easiest change to these characters anyone could ever make.

Mag*ypsies. Mag / ypsies.

Magi.

And there we go. Good as new! Plus, it still works as a title for a group of people who specialize in mysticism and PSI as Magi is the plural for Magus! So, from this point forward, I am going to be referring to these characters as The Magi. Baddabing, Baddaboom.

Now with that out of the way, it’s time we address the second issue regarding The Magi: Their presentation of their gender identity and the problems those bring. In Mother 3, The Magi are referred to by Alec as being “neither male nor female”, and it’s heavily implied that The Magi aren’t even human. That due to them being so ancient, wise and strange they can't fit into the binary of male or female, so they have the traits of both. This results in the characters looking like they’re all men in drag, acting overly flamboyant and flirtatious. This results in The Magi being seen as a negative representation of people who identify as Genderqueer or Non-Binary. The stereotype of being loud, obnoxious, overtly sexual and all placed under a single umbrella of a flawed perspective which just results in them all being poorly written “”Drag Queens””. Now that isn’t to say a character who dresses in drag is a bad thing. If anything I encourage the idea of a Post-Modern RPG having a Drag Queen or King as a plot important ally or even a party member! The issue lies in that, because all of The Magi are presented like this it implies that those who don’t fit within the gender binary of male or female are all like this. Even if that wasn’t the intention, that is what the subtext implies.

Part of the intention behind the creation of the Magi was to balance out the more gritty, action-oriented and “Macho” tone that Mother 3 had compared to Mother 2 and 1. The idea was that The Magi would be at the center of the conflict between Tazmilly Village, The Main Party and The Pigmask Army and to balance out the darker tones of the story they would be aloof, androgynous and accepting of the fact that they would pass as the story progressed. This way the characters would be able to balance out the darker story beats and lighten the mood. Although it’s easy to see how this viewpoint would result in a less than stellar outcome. While on paper, the idea of a group of characters hearkening back to the more light-hearted and out-there tone of the previous games to make it so the game is less bleak is a fantastic idea, the execution was botched due to how sloppily it was handled.

The Magi in Mother 3 are represented in such a dissonant way, especially at the start of the game upon their introduction. Not only are you slapped in the face with their appearance and unfortunate name choice, upon asking about the whereabouts of Claus after he went up to the mountains to fight a Drago as revenge for the death of his mother, almost all the Magi basically respond by saying “Eh, who cares, humans live such short lives anyways so what does the life of one kid mean in the grand scheme of things?” Seeing as the players are meant to see The Magi as sympathetic characters and eventually team up with them in the end game to arrive at the locations of all of the Dragon Needles, the fact that this is their introduction is not only a slap in the face to those who are being negatively affected by how their presented but is also just...crappy writing. And don’t even get me started on the scene where Ionia teaches Lucas PSI, that is just BAD. Like point blank, bold text, red color, size 46 font BAD. Like even if The Magi didn’t have their original name and weren’t sloppy representations of non-binary/genderqueer folk that scene would still be really uncomfy.

And yet with all of this going against The Magi in terms of their presentation, it’s still hard to pin them down as having any ill-intent behind them because of their importance at the end of the game and what they eventually stand for. Once the race for The Dragon Needles begin, not only do all of The Magi support you on your quest and show levels of genuine concern and compassion for the protagonists, but also end up fleshing out the world around them in a way that gives the player a sense of hope in a time of hopelessness. Whether it be Ionia and her boundless compassion for the party and Kumatora especially, acting as her surrogate parental figure and doing everything she can to support the party in a time of crisis. Or Lydia, taking care of a wounded Pigmask Soldier, someone whose job it is to rip the life from The Magi in hopes of awakening the Dragon to shape the world in their master’s image. That despite their motivations, they wouldn’t let a wounded man die in the frigid cold of the mountains. These characters are meant to be beacons of hope, characters to lighten the mood during dark times and become characters you genuinely feel for. And yet, the execution fell flat due to a shoddy introduction, sub-par writing and misinformed representation.

So, where does that leave us? This is obviously an issue that’s a lot more nuanced than just changing their name so where do we start? While I don’t claim to have the perfect solution for this, and encourage others to throw their hat in the ring and keep the discussion going, I do have a few ideas: First things first, remove the concept that The Magi aren’t human and are incomprehensible to “Mortals”. Instead, make it so The Magi are just humans from the past who were so proficient in PSI and Psychic Abilities they were able to survive the cataclysm from milenia’s past and are more akin to Buddhist Monks in how they’re perceived. That being said, I do still like the idea of their style being tightly connected to that of Magicant from Mother 1. Spiral Shell houses, pink hair, very sparkly and pretty, we can keep that aesthetic. It makes sense for them! By making this change, we humanize The Magi a lot more and make it so the players can connect with them better and empathize with them easier as opposed to them being the off-the-wall weirdos that the game tries to represent them as. Plus, if the game really wanted an off-the-wall weirdo that ties back to the previous games, just give Dr. Andonuts more screentime. Along with that change, make them more empathetic without sacrificing their all-powerful mysticism. For example, when Alec and Flint arrive at the party at Aeolia’s, instead of having them nonchalantly shrug off the potential of Claus’ death, have them actively participate in assisting them in finding their lost child. Instead of it being “We’re all powerful so the death of one person is meaningless in comparison to how we perceive the world.” it’s more “We’re all powerful, so assisting you in your journey to save your loved one is a simple task that will require minimal effort. If such a simple request can result in a good outcome, it shall be done.” Of course that begs the question of why they don’t just take care of everything, but I think that can be circumvented with the idea that they can’t intervene with the lives of others too much. That using their immense psychic powers too often would result in them misusing their powers and that they have to practice a certain level of restraint, or even that they’re so strong an overuse of their powers would result in devastation. Sort of like how a knight in a medieval fantasy story would seek guidance from an all powerful wizard, but the wizard can’t just solve the problem for them.

Now my next suggestion is turning a negative into a positive: Instead of having The Magi all represented as men in drag, The Magi are now all represented as different type of people that could fall under the non-binary or genderqueer spectrum! Now instead of all of them falling under the same umbrella, Aeolia can be purely androgynous and agender going by they/them pronouns, Doria is now demigender, partially identifying as male but going by xey/xem pronouns, having a big old pink lumberjack beard and a heartwarming smile, Lydia looks older and more aged with their physical appearance looking like that of an older man but using she/her pronouns and identifying with female presentation whilst feeling that they don’t have to be rescritced to said female presentation, Phygria could be genderfluid and upon each appearance they have they transition between genders, and Mixolydia falling under Genderqueer, having their own personal presentation of themselves and who they are! As for Ionia, I would actually argue keeping her the same! I say this because, if all The Magi are under the same umbrella representation of a stereotyped drag-queen, it’s a problem. However, if all The Magi are comprised of different, varied representations of the non-binary/genderqueer community it would make sense to have one of them fall under the representation of someone who dresses in drag!

Of course, these are all just my ideas. Whilst I have done as much research as I could while writing this, I understand that there are certain aspects behind those of non-binary expression that I am unaware of and ways that I could improve upon this idea. Like how changing The Magi in this way would still result in them all basically being a part of a big “Bury Your Gays” Trope due to them all passing away upon pulling their respective Needles, so i’m sure that there are plenty of other ideas other people could throw in! And I encourage that, I encourage people to look at this and tell me how this concept can be improved upon to create a more inclusive and positive representation of The Magi! Because that’s what we deserve! I can look at this years in the future and admit that there may have been something I missed out on or was just blatantly unaware of! But I’m hoping at the end of the day that this discussion can not only lead to a critical analysis of the wrongs behind the original Magi in Mother 3, but how they can be improved upon and made better. If not for Mother 3, or the Mother 3 community, for those who plan on making their own stories, their own games, so that they know to not make the same mistakes the developers of Mother 3 made and make something even better.

[fan-dumb-trash]

Come Out And Play [Prinxiety One-Shot]

Hey @5-crofters-jams ! Here’s your present for @secretsanders! I really love Prinxiety along with Panic! and Billie Eilish so I’m super happy I got you! Hope you had a good Holiday! TBH this is one of my favorite things I’ve ever written, so I’m praying that youll love it as much as I do :D - <3 Ray

Warnings: Angst and Self deprecation in the beginning.Some swearing. don’t worry it ends up fluffy very quickly :D

•••

Roman curled up in a ball, head between his knees and tightly shut his eyelids. His roommate was stomping around their little apartment in her thick combat boots, sounding like an elephant in tap shoes. Her shouts where echoing in the open space, fading in and out everytime she exited and entered a room. Roman suddenly felt the same pit in his stomach he did when he was a child. Little Roman always tried to drown out his parent’s shouting by his favorite Disney songs, hiding away from the ugly with the lighthearted.

Now, it was like everything came around full circle. Roman messed up. He always did. His passions, his fears, his inability to live his life, had caused others to get dragged down with him. Roman’s roommate just happened to be the collateral damage of today.

“It’s Christmas Eve! How in the hell are you okay with staying here all night, being sorry for yourself and sad. If you want to throw a pity party, do it on your own terms. I’m goin’ out. Don’t bother joining me.” The girl seethed, her tone cold and biting. At this point, she was standing by the door with her hand on her hip. Roman’s earbuds were in and he pretending to ignore his roommate.

“Go ahead and write your dumb little short plays and hide the fact that you don’t have a clue what you’re doing with your life,” she scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. Roman flinched and bit his lip. He would not cry. He asked for this. As usual he declined another one of her offers to go out. Roman was tired, and his words came out uncensored and offhandedly. Clearly he had stricken a nerve in his roommate.

“Why can’t you just loosen up and go out for once? Is it so hard to be a normal human being?”

Roman heard her sigh. He had no energy to respond to her. Her car key jingled in her hands as she went to open the door. “Goodnight Roman,” she said, “Merry Fucking Christmas.” She huffed and slammed the door. Roman began rocking back in forth. He would not cry. He asked for this. He screamed into his knees and rolled off the couch, walking towards the table. Roman opened his laptop and stared at the empty word document.

Time passed. A few words were typed, and just as quickly, they were deleted. Ideas of heroes and dragons bounced in his head. Epic journeys and stories of love could unfold in his head, but to translate them into written word took more concentration than Roman could muster. He decided to give up for the night and retreat to Netflix. Before doing so he decided he had to at least grab a snack.

As he began to walk towards the cupboard, he heard a soft noise coming from outside his apartment. It was faint, but alluring. Roman found himself being drawn to it and carefully unlocked his kitchen window. He slowly opened it and he heard the sound of instrument strings being plucked from above him. A soft, deep humming swirled with the wind that directed the noise to his ears. The voice began to sing.

“And some days I lie wide awake 'til the Sun hits my face. And I fade, elevate from the Earth”

Roman, tired and disheveled, jumped onto the counter and grasped the window sill, his nail polish chipping a bit under his tight grip. The voice became more clear.

“Far away to a place where I'm free from the weight, this old world, this old world~”

Roman took a sharp intake of breath when he heard the small riff at the end of the line. He leaned closer and closer to the sound, sticking his head out the window.

“I don't trust anything, or anyone, below the Sun.”

Silky, smooth, and striking with each word, Roman somehow felt connected to the source of music. What twist of fate had him stumble upon this siren-like voice? Roman didn’t know, but he wanted to find out. Whether it was the spirit of the holiday, or the exhaustion creeping up on Roman, the man, in a leap of faith, decided to investigate.

“And I don't feel anything, at all”

Roman looked down. It had come to his attention that there was a fire escape starting a few feet under the window. Forgetting his fear of heights he plopped out of the window and walked on the metal balcony over to a nearby ladder. The wind blew around the man, throwing him a bit off balance.

“I'm king of the clouds, of the clouds~ I get lifted, I get lifted,”

He pinpointed the source of the noise. It came from above him. One foot in front of the other, he scrambled up the ladder. He prayed that it would lead him to the stranger, and not to his death. Roman’s head began to race. Thoughts bounced around like a kid on a sugar rush. What am I thinking? I’m going to die I’m going to die I’m going to freaking die. As he got closer and closer he found himself regretting his decision more and more. It took all his strength to not look down. He knew that if he did, he would freak out and plumit towards the ground. Roman imagined himself as prince climbing up a tower to reach his beautiful Rapunzel. With this in mind, the stranger with the lovely voice finally came into view.

“King of the- What the FUCK!?!?” The man screeched, and suddenly stopped playing his guitar. His eyes were wide and dark, like a deer in the headlights. His jaw virtually dropped down the six stories below him.

•••

Virgil appreciated cliches. They offered consistency. You always knew what to expect when you sat down on the couch with your cozy blanket, and put on a Hallmark movie. There were no surprises. Real life was never like the movies, so everything he watched, he concluded would never happen to him.

Never in Virgil’s uneventful and drab life did he expect to actually live through one of these cliches. That’s why when a man with tangled red hair and big caramel eyes appeared at the edge of his secluded balcony, he concluded that everything he knew, was a lie.

“SORRY! Ididntmeantostartleyou! I just-erm… reallyreally liked your voice.” Roman, at this point, had climbed over the banister and sheepishly waved at Virgil. His smile was tight, but easy. Virgil didn’t quite know what to make of this situation.

“Thanks…? But that still doesn’t explain what the HELL you are doing up here! Where did you come from?” He interrogated, burying himself in his scarf. Virgil’s face was on fire.

“Oh,” Roman’s brow furrowed. “I’m in room 42, right bellow you, I think…” Virgil growled and buried his face in his hands.

“Why are you here?” He asked. Everything was silent for a moment, but the wind howled and caused Roman to shiver. He didn’t plan to be out in the cold. His thin bomber jacket would do him no good in the winter weather. Virgil caught onto this and looked up at the man, concerned. Roman shrugged at his stranger, and replied to him.

“I mean, isn’t a little spontaneity good every once in a while? People just do stuff without any explanation. It can be good, bad, but it just happens. Is it your job, or my job, to decide what the universe should and shouldn’t make happen?”

Virgil couldn’t decide if this dude was crazy or brilliant. He did know he was cold, and scared of heights. The man refused to look at anything that wasn’t Virgil. The way he couldn’t truly smile, or relax his posture told him something was off. Roman slowly came further and further from the edge. Virgil didn’t have the heart to send him back down the ladder.

“You’re shivering,” he said. “I will be right back. Don't go anywhere, okay?” Roman nodded in response, and Virgil slipped through his own window. As his feet hit the tile floor, a loud whistling noise startled him and sent him up into the air. He looked over and realized it was just his tea pot. Thanking the gods for not letting his house burn down, he grabbed the first jacket he saw and an old beanie, and quickly filled two mugs up with tea. Walking back outside, Virgil had no idea what he was doing. A handsome stranger, speaking like a crazy person just decides to meet him on his balcony, and for what? His mediocre at best singing voice? Maybe guy is right, he thought. Spontaneity can be good.

With this newfound motivation, Virgil carefully approached Roman after much struggling. He set down the two tea mugs and then tossed him the sweatshirt and beanie. Roman quickly threw the sweatshirt over his head. It was much too big for him, but frankly he did not care. As he slid the beanie on, he felt a little warmth come back to his body. Virgil moved his guitar case off of an empty chair and gestured to the seat with his long, pale fingers. He cleared his throat and began to speak in his best medieval voice.

“Have a seat, lone traveler. If you’re gonna trespass, and invade my secluded balcony, you owe me every last detail of your halfway decent origin story.” It took all of Virgil’s self control to not burst out laughing at the bewildered look on the other man’s face. Roman did not expect this tall glass of emo to provide such a performance. He began to laugh, and sat down next to Virgil. Virgil’s cheeks tinted pink at the harmonious sound and Roman smiled.

“But what if my origin story’s no good, kind sir?” Roman questioned, with the same kind of voice. Somehow it held more of a dramatic flair than Virgil’s. The edgy man snorted and crossed his arms.

“Well you’ll just have to tell me anyways, won’t you? If it’s that bad- I’ll feed you to the crocodiles.”

Virgil replied. If possible, Roman smiled even wider, causing warmth to spread though Virgil.

“How about this,” the man began. “I’ll start you off with a question. What’s a dude like yourself doin’ all alone on Christmas Eve. You seem like the social type, right?” Virgil asked, curiosity in his eyes. He sipped the tea and buried himself into his scarf. Roman practically guzzled his tea, desperate to warm up.

“Well, I am. A prince such as myself has got to slay. Theater sort of demands that you be social. All the actors, tech crew, directors… Frankly, I don’t think I get a break,” Roman sighed.

“Should’ve guessed you were a theater guy,” Virgil shook his head and chuckled.

“Yeah,” Roman grinned. “It’s obvious once I mention it. But I mean when things get overwhelming I tend to… back up? I mean if it’s in the middle of a show I’ll play my part, but I don’t attach myself to the vulnerability of it all or I’ll get hurt… I mean good thing a lot of male leads are shallow and one dimensional.”

Virgil hesitantly nodded. “I guess… I mean guys aren’t always like that in real life. And I’m sure you aren't. So I’d just accept that you’re gonna get hurt and just live,” Roman flinched and shut his eyes as the other man finished that phrase. Virgil cursed under his breath and slowly reached out to touch his hand before sharply pulling back.

“Sorry! Did I say something? I probably did sorry that was harsh I shouldn’t have-“

“You aren’t wrong. I really do. It’s just not easy, outside of theater. Christmas has always been tough since my parents split. Don’t get me wrong, I live for the aesthetic. Red is my favorite color. Green is… captivating,” Roman breathed out, catching a glimpse of Virgil’s own eyes, hidden behind raven hair. “ It’s just that what I expect is never what I get. Christmas kinda ruined itself for me. It didn’t help that ever since I moved here I haven’t kept in touch with my folks as much as I should. I just feel… guilty. For feeling free. But I’m also sad as hell if you can’t tell,” He gestured towards himself and his disheveled appearance. Virgil noticed the bags under his eyes, and the exhaust plaguing him. He hummed sympathetically.

“That’s gotta suck big time. I mean, if you’re living a better life without their drama, you shouldn’t feel guilty. If they truly gave a shit about you they’d understand your actions, or at least try to,” Virgil sipped more of his tea and gazed at Roman. He seemed to be in his own little world. A part of Virgil wanted to join him in the bliss. “I’m just an antisocial guitar lover who’s only plans are to hang out with their parents on Christmas Day. The universe is one funny dude for giving you me, of all people, for condolences,” he reached out a hand to touch Roman, but this time he didn’t pull back last moment. Roman looked over at him with an intense gaze. He sighed and smiled sadly.

“I write. A lot. Short plays. They never go anywhere because they’re never real. It’s all in my head, fantasy. For once I want something tangible. Theatre is my escape from my sadness… it’s just that I think it’s taking away from stuff that really matters,” Roman whispered, almost too quietly. The wind had settled at this point, not taking away from the spoken word. Virgil smiled back, unsure of why he was listening to a stranger.

“It seems like your art is your way of expressing yourself. Isn’t that what really matters? Being yourself? Music is my escape. Singing something is acknowledging it’s real, but also acknowledging the wisdom and power that you gain when you overcome an obstacle. It’s also just… really nice ya know? I respect you. And any other sane person should,” Virgil said. Roman stared at him, in awe. He was stunning in more ways than one. His features, his words, his voice, made Virgil a person that could inspire Roman in such a short amount of time.

“Will you sing for me?” Roman asked. Virgil blushed and shook his head.

“No! I mean I’m used to singing in front of people it’s just the circumstance-“

“How about this,” Roman began, rubbing circles on Virgil’s palm, making him blush more. “You can play a song on your guitar and I will sing it, but you have to promise to sing a little with me too. Deal?”

Virgil contemplated for a moment. It would be interesting to hear if this prince man could carry a tune. He hummed aloud.

“Hmm. What do have in mind?” Virgil asked, a small smile playing on his lips.

“Do you like Billie Eilish?”

“Is that even a question? Of course I do. What song?”

•••

Roman was shocked how quickly he could answer Virgil. I mean, it was a simple question, and the choice was obvious. While Virgil’s voice was steady, Roman could see the nervousness swimming in his eyes.

“Come out and play.” Roman replied, pulling his hand away from Virgil’s. His checks tinted pink, and Virgil laughed at him. Roman imagined the gears in Virgil’s head turning. His jaw was tight and he averted his gaze away from Roman. Roman noticed this, and carefully grabbed Virgil’s guitar, pushing it into his chest.

“You don’t have to be nervous. It’s just me, a random stranger who doesn’t know a thing about you, and who definitely won’t judge you,” Roman softly said. Virgil finally looked up at him and smiled.

“Okay,” Virgil muttered, adjusting his position so he could play. “Thank god I know this song by heart. If I didn’t, we’d be screwed.” Roman shook his head, amused.

“Well, my damsel in distress -heh, literally- I happen to know the song, infact, I could sing it backwards.” Virgil raised his eyebrows, and adjusted his fingers on the fretboard. Roman scotted forward in his chair and curiously peered at Virgil. The emo man sighed.

“I would rather you not do that. You ready?” He asked.

“I was born ready.” Roman exclaimed, sipping the last of his tea and abruptly clearing his throat. Virgil pursed his lips together and shook his head at Roman.

“You do know that clearing your throat actually rubs your vocal chords together and messes up your singing, right?” Virgil said matter-of-factly. Roman gasped, somewhat surprised. The other man laughed quietly to himself and began playing his guitar, long fingers plucking cooper strings to create a calming sound. Roman grinned and hummed along. He looked across the balcony and the setting sun that peeked between the trees.

“Wake up and smell the coffee. Is your cup half full or empty? When we talk, you say it softly- but I love it when you're awfully quiet,” Roman sang with a bright, warm voice, throwing Virgil in for a loop. There was somewhat of a shaky undertone to it, even if Roman himself was confident. Virgil found it endearing.

“Hmm, hmm quiet. Hmm, hmm” Virgil hummed softy with Roman, their voices not quite melting together. Roman looked over at Virgil and their eyes met for a brief moment. The moment ending just as quickly as it started.

“You see a piece of paper, could be a little greater. Show me what you could make her. You'll never know until you try it-“ This time Roman sang to Virgil, sincerity lacing his words. “-and you don't have to keep it quiet” Roman emphasized this phrase, causing Virgil to roll his eyes good heartedly. He sang the chorus with him.

“And I know it makes you nervous. But I promise you, it's worth it- to show 'em everything you kept inside. Don't hide, don't hide~” Virgil’s smooth softer voice blended perfectly with Romans’. They both grinned, noticing it. They sang to each other as Virgil began playing his guitar more enthusiastically. Roman refrained from singing- entranced by Virgil.

“Too shy to say, but I hope you stay. Don't hide away~ Come out and play.” Roman stared, seeing the weariness poke out in Virgil's voice. He found it beautiful. He found him beautiful- and thanked the universe for having this happen to him. The rest of the song way sweet, and unsteady- but by the end they where both lost in the moment. Virgil sighed, content.

“Well that wasn’t so bad, now was it?” Roman crossed his arms and leaning back in his chair. His eyes betrayed any negativity he was trying to portray. They were filled with light and joy. Virgil smirked and shook his head.

“No, it wasn’t. I’m going to come hug you now, okay?” Virgil said, placing his guitar back in its case. Roman laughed and stood up and Virgil embraces him. Roman rested his chin on Virgil’s shoulder as he wrapped his arms around his waist.

“Did I make your Christmas Eve less crappy?” Virgil asked, mostly as a joke.

“Hell yeah you did!” Roman replied, tilting his head a bit. Virgil broke away from the hug and grabbed Roman’s hand.

“Okay, I have a question and this might be a bit odd-“ Virgil started- but Roman interrupted.

“Oh, of course my darling emo I will marry you!”

Virgil cackled and lightly smacked him on the shoulder. Roman grinned, proud of himself.

“Noted. I was going to ask if you wanted to come to my parents tomorrow? I’m sure they won’t mind another human around and they always make a ton of food anyways even though it’s just me and all. I mean if you don’t want to that’s chill too…” Virgil looked down at the floor, his face on fire. Roman squeezed Virgil’s hand, causing him to look up.

“I’d love too, but first I need to know your name.”

“Oh shit!” Virgil exclaimed, facepalming. “My names Virgil. My dad's a huge poetry nerd and my other dad just like adores unique things so bam!”

“Wow, that's a lovely name! I happen to like poetry myself.” Roman smiled as Virgil’s blush became more visible.

“I should probably ask what your name is,” Virgil commented.

“I’m Roman Prince, at your service,” He said, bowing. Virgil snorted.

“Fitting. Oh, I’m glad you decided to waltz into my life and climb up a fire escape just to hear me sing.” Roman’s smile grew as Virgil spoke. Fate was a funny thing. Perhaps Roman was able to live a little all along, all he had to do was find the right person.

“I’m glad I did too, Virgil.”

•••

Note: The songs used in here are King Of The Clouds By Panic! At The Disco and come out and play by Billie Eilish! I’d recommend giving them a listen! I also don’t own thoose songs I’m just a huge fan of them :3 Hope you liked this!

[awed-frog]

I only just learned that Christine Nöstlinger died last week. It’s the kind of news that leaves you both sad and slightly incredulous, because even as an adult, it’s hard to see someone like Nöstlinger as a real person. To me, she’ll always be a funny, exotic name on the cover of a book - she was one of my favourite writers when I was a young child, and I don’t think it ever occurred to me that those people - people like Roald Dahl, Astrid Lindgren, Bianca Pitzorno or Michael Ende - actually existed in the real world, and did things as mundane as wear pajamas or brush their teeth. In fact, as I was scrolling through a couple of obituaries today, I was surprised to learn Nöstlinger was Austrian, not Swedish (her books were side by side with Lindgren’s on my shelf) and that if her stories were always delightfully subversive, it’s probably because she grew up in Nazi Austria and experienced that reality first-hand. And while I do understand this is a thing that happens - that people have lives, that they must be born somewhere and do stuff and exist in actual reality - as I read of her death I became a child of eight again; what I found myself mourning was that name on my bookshelf - nothing more. I am slightly ashamed of that, of knowing nothing about this person who brought me so much joy, because over the last few years, I’ve gotten to know some YA writers and I now have a new appreciation of how hard they work and how determined they are to make a difference - not only to make children happy, that is, but also to teach them how to think for themselves, to help them engage with the world around them with full awareness. And so, to honour Christine Nöstlinger and her work, I decided to translate a speech she gave to the Austrian Parliament for the 70th anniversary of the liberation of Mauthausen. I couldn’t find an English version of it, and I think it deserves to be more widely read - especially today.

“I was almost two when the Mauthausen concentration camp was opened, and as the last survivors were freed by American troops, I turned eight. For this reason, you could think this is not a subject I remember hearing about or discussing. 

But I do.

I didn’t know the word Mauthausen, but I was certainly familiar with the expression ‘concentration camp’. I would hear it again and again as my grandma grumbled about the Nazis with the dairywoman or at the grocer’s. That’s when someone would whisper in warning: ‘You’ll get in trouble!’, they’d say; or: ‘You keep talking like that, you’ll end up in a concentration camp!’.

One memory is particularly clear and vivid in my mind: my uncle, my mom’s kid brother, is visiting us. He stands in his SS uniform, tall and broad, very close to my mother, and says: ‘Ella, the Jews are all going to pass through the chimney!’. And my mother, who was much shorter than he was, went red with rage and slapped him across the face. I think that was the first and only time my normally placid mother ever hit someone.

Obviously, I didn’t understand what ‘pass through the chimney’ meant, but I could guess it was something really bad. And that was the day I understood that Mr Fischl had passed through the chimney. 

Mr Fischl was a shoemaker, and he’d had a shop in our alley. He’d resole shoes, repair heels and fix the toe caps so that those who couldn’t afford it wouldn’t have to buy new shoes for their growing children. In 1938, shortly after the Anschluss, my mother witnessed a chilling scene as she was coming home from work: a group of SA soldiers had dragged Mr Fischl out of his shop and they were now forcing him to scrub clean the three white arrows some regime opponents had painted on the wall. A truck was parked in the street, full of grinning SA men. Mr Fischl, on his knees, was surrounded by his amused neighbours. My mother, with a heavy heart, moved to the other side of the street and walked on; she later heard Mr Fischl had been taken away that very day. Soon after those events, an ‘Aryan’ shoemaker took over both Mr Fischl’s shop and his apartment. Nobody ever mentioned Mr Fischl again - nobody, that is, except my mother. Again and again, she’d tell my sister and me what had happened to him. She always felt guilty she hadn’t done anything to stop it, and would always justify that choice to herself by saying: ‘If I hadn’t had children waiting for me at home, I would have gone there and sent those thugs packing!’. 

I was a child then, and when you’re a child you need to see your mother as someone who’s big and strong and powerful - especially if your father has been away in Russia for a long time. I hadn’t known then that adults sometimes lie to themselves. For this reason, I was thoroughly convinced that my mother would indeed have saved Mr Fischl if I had never been born. ‘Where did they take Mr Fischl?’ I asked once, and when my mother answered bluntly ‘To a concentration camp.’, I came to believe his death had been my fault.

This irrational sense of guilt started to fade away when I finally noticed that my mother was neither strong nor powerful: she was small and helpless, and definitely not capable of sending anyone packing.

But not being guilty is not the same as not being responsible. Many people have fully accepted this, and have done their best to bear witness for future generations - they’ve tried to explain where racism once led us; they’ve stood up and spoke out whenever the mood was souring against a minority group. 

Now, that’s not an easy thing to do, and many others were simply too uncomfortable to even try. Instead, those people interfered with this effort to remember, pretended they hadn’t known what was going on, complained about what they themselves had lost in the war, and basked in the self-serving idea of a ‘new beginning’. In order to expedite this ‘new beginning’, our post-war governments were not particularly keen to prosecute those who’d been implicated in Nazi crimes. To be perfectly blunt, those people were simply too many to be locked away. Without them, there would have been no possibility to establish a functioning state. Where on Earth would we have found a sufficient number of teachers and civil servants with a perfectly clean slate soon after the end of the war?

Meanwhile, the efforts to welcome back home those Jews and political opponents who’d managed to flee abroad were lukewarm at best. And there was no question of even discussing how to better integrate the Roma and Sinti communities - or, those among them who’d survived. For all of those reasons, my generation and my children’s generation have grown up in a country in which racism, far from being a bad memory, was instead an ongoing, deep-seated conviction passed down from father to son and from mother to daughter.

And today, not much has changed for the better. The only difference is that racism now presents itself under a different guise. Nobody dares to use (and few to even think) words like ‘master race’, ‘subhuman’, ‘Rassenschande’ and ‘final solution’. There is a strong taboo around them.

No, our current form of racism simply rejects all that is foreign. It sees native people as being threatened by an unsustainable wave of immigration; it insists that foreigners have it easy, and what it means by that is: ‘Those people want to live off us, they want to take something away from us!’.

Those who think these things, those who say them openly when they know others will agree, well - they won’t write racist slogans on the walls, won’t vandalize Jewish tombs, won’t insult a veiled woman, won’t beat up black people or set fire to refugee centres. On the other hand, what they do is giving confidence and justification to the people who actually do all these things; the certainty that they’re acting in everybody’s best interest. They are the fertile ground upon which violence grows. 

And the number of minorities against whom people ‘have something’ (in the best case) or ‘do something’ (in the worst) is already increasing. To the traditional victims of disapproval and aggression, today we can add asylum seekers and economic refugees (no matter where they come from); also people with a migration background (no matter whether they’re Austrian citizens or not). And obviously, people whose skin is a different colour. Today, however, unlike what happened in the Nazi era, total assimilation seems to protect from hostility. And I fear that when we’re talking about ‘more integration’, well - to the large majority of the population, what that really means is ‘assimilation’. We do not want to experience and get used to what is foreign and unknown; we want those who only just arrived to adapt to our traditional way of life, and that will rarely succeed. That’s why we are uneasy with living with people from unfamiliar cultures. For a long time now, our politicians’ solution to this problem has been to wait and hope that the issue will fade as those who’re already here slowly become more tolerant and those who have recently moved here slowly learn how to fit in. Often, these expectations have been met; but just as often they have not.

What we need to do is implement concrete measures: for instance, compulsory kindergarten attendance and all-day schools. We need properly trained teachers so that children who speak a different language at home can learn German quickly and efficiently. That way, as they start school, both their language skills and their chances to have a good education will be the same as those of the native speakers. This is the only way to prevent the emergence of parallel societies in vulnerable neighbourhoods. Better schools are also the only viable tool to weaken the deeply ingrained racism of most of our local population. Let’s remember that those who know nothing will believe everything, even the most outrageous nonsense and the most shameless distortion of facts. 

That said, we still need to understand why so many people prefer to believe racists over those who say that it’s perfectly possible to coexist peacefully (if not to truly share our lives with others). Maybe there is a reason; maybe our skin doesn’t have seven layers, as we all have learned, but eight. Maybe this eighth layer is a ‘civilisation skin’. We are not born with it. It appears and changes as we grow up. Whether it’s thick or thin, well, that depends on how well we look after it. If we don’t care for it properly, it stays thin and tears easily. And what seeps from those wounds may lead to consequences that will again cause us to say: ‘No one ever wanted that’.”

Christine Nöstlinger, 2015

[witch-of-letters]

Alliances don’t come cheap - Part I

I’ve decided to (almost) completely rewrite the series ‘cause I felt that something was off about the story (the way it sounded, the descriptions etc.) This time though, the details should be well-written and the characters well-described. I’v also taken the liberty to add the actual scenes and dialogues from AC: Brotherhood here. Hopefully, the description of things is better this time.

P.S. The feedback is always appreciated. Don’t only tell how much you’ve liked it, say how well the characters were written, what do you think of the main character (i.e. the Reader) and what do you think will happen next?

Synopsis: Arriving to Rome was not what you had imagined. Some painful memories are brought up, but that doesn’t make you lose your focus. The Apple is safe in the Assassins’ hands, but for how long?

Theme song: The Seccession - One Hundred Strings

Bold italics - Spanish/situation/places

Italics - thoughts/Italian/emphasizing

Previously on ADCC:

“Promise you’ll come back.” You looked at him. You didn’t want to leave him either but duty called, and you’d be a fool if you chose to ignore the threat the Borgia posed.

“I cannot, Aguilar. The Borgia must be brought down. It’s now or never.” with that you stabbed the map, right on the spot that you’d be visiting next. Rome.

Rome, 1500

Roma. The city of long gone centurions, senators, and gladiators, looked captivating as though it was built by the God himself. Ancient structures were still standing, now but a shadow of their former selves. You, now a ‘respectable’ ambassador (the title of which you earned through shrewd manipulation of people and well-thought tactical plans), were currently looking at the horizon, watching as the sun was slowly descending down the sky and illuminating everything with its orange glow.

Everything was as you had predicted. The forces of the Borgia were stationed throughout Rome, terrifying its citizens into submission; Corruption was running rampant among the ranks of both nobility and priesthood; The presence of the Assassins was weak - and nothing was being done about that. It would be up to you to find the solution to all of the above. With or without the local assassins’ help.

Stepping down from the roof, you walked all the way to the port in silence despite receiving strange looks from some of the passerbys. It was a known fact that Italians looked down upon the Spanish, demeaning them in almost everything, be it fashion, commerce, or the way of ruling over the something. And you chose to ignore it - for their own sake.

It didn't take long for you to find the exact spot where the messenger would intercept you and give you a letter with the most recent updates on the current situation. You let out a quiet but amused hum as you once again realized how used you were to carrying out the duties of an assassin while disguised as a seemingly harmless bureaucrat, whose persuasiveness could rival any of the diplomats'. ‘What would mother say about this?’ A tinge of sadness struck your heart at the mere mention of her. You were still heavily mourning her, as though she died only a week ago...but in reality, it has only been eight years since it happened. Neither you nor your father, who disappeared after your twelvth birthday, were ever the same after her initial disappearance when you a three-year-old. But while you were on duty here in Rome, you refused to let your mind be consumed with these thoughts. They would only interfere with your life and make you lose yourself.

“Signorina, signorina!” a shout was heard from behind your back. ‘Finally.’ you thought. The young man, wearing only a pair of pants, boots, and green rags, handed you a sealed letter as he tried to manage his breathing. You looked at the sky once more. He was fast, you’ll give him that.

“Grazie, I assume no one followed you?” This type of questioning was always necessary in this line of work, so that no lose ends would be left to tie up. At your words, he looked around, trying to make sure he was indeed not being followed.

“No, signorina, I was alone all this time. Even if anyone followed me here, they’d be no match for you. Everyone in the Thieves’ Guild knows that.” he whispered last bit excitedly. Indeed, if anyone dared to go against you, physically or with words alone, they would instantly regret doing so. They didn’t call you a Spanish Mentor and Master Assassin for nothing.

“Bene. If you see La Volpe, be sure to extend him my thanks. I really appreciate his help.”

“I will.” The young man left your presence in a hurry, as though carrying the message to its current receiver was a matter of life and death. The thief in question though, was even more elusive than ever. While he has responded to a letter you had sent him from home, so far, he still hasn’t met up with you to discuss various important things. How could you reorganize the underworld network without the Master-Thief and a long-time friend of yours at your side? You hoped you would receive an answer to that question soon, before everything crumbles beneath the heavy feet of the Borgia.

The Vatican Vault, in the meanwhile

Ezio was confused by Minerva’s words. Who was she? Who were ‘Those who came before’? What were the Apples made for? Why did she call him ‘the Prophet’? And who was Desmond? She showed him various things through her projections that he couldn’t make sense of, and then disappeared abruptly, leaving him with many unanswered questions. But he didn’t have time to ponder on that, the Apple and the Papal Staff had to be dealt with, so he left the secret chamber, only to find that the Staff was still standing in the center of the platform. He tried to pull it out, but the mechanism clicked, and it was quickly pulled down and sealed off. So much for trying to get it out. Suddenly, the platform started to lower down, and bringing forth the walls, making the circle Ezio was standing in even smaller. Mario appeared up on the edge of the Vault.

“Better in the hands of the Earth, than in the hands of man.” Ezio didn’t expect him to appear there.

“Uncle?”  

“What can I say?” Mario continued while gesturing with his hand, “We sent a single man against an entire army. I was worried. Quick, climb up. We have to get out of here.” Ezio did as he was told. There was no time to waste. Once he was finally up, he turned back to his uncle.

“You would not believe the things I have seen, Mario,” he began but was quickly cut off.

“Then be sure to stay alive, that I might hear of them!”

“I expect opposition.”

“And I expect the Borgia to mourn the loss of many lives tonight.” With that, they quickly left the room, running through the illuminated halls, only to stumble upon a big group of monks standing near the exit. One of them exclaimed: “Che cosa fate qui? (What are you doing here?) Assassini. God will see you pay for your crimes!” Another one said: “You have desecrated the sanctity of this holy place." Ezio was quick to respond.

“You condemn what you do not understand.”

“We must go, Ezio. Now!” Mario sternly reminded. They ran through the group, pushing a couple of monks aside, and once outside, Mario voiced his concern over his nephew.

“Did Rodrigo manage to hurt you?”

“Barely, my armor blunted his attack.” Again, another group of religious men was mumbling amongst themselves ‘For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places. Wherefore take unto you the whole armor of God, the shield of faith, wherewith ye shall be able to quench all the fiery darts of the wicked.’

“Be ready to fight.” When they opened the doors, they were met with a bunch of Borgia guards. They attacked them immediately on sight.

“What are you doing?!” exclaimed Ezio while running a sword through a guard’s gut.

“Saving you, from the look of things,” replied Mario.

“Not bad for an old man.”

“Agreed. You still have some skill.”

“Buona questa. (Good one.)”

“Excellent!” They kept fighting them off, one by one, untill all of them were dead and bleeding. When Mario started running away, Ezio was quick to follow him, climbing up the crates and portruding beams. On their way, they were again met with some guards, who were dumb enough to unsheath their swords. They were dead within moments.

When Mario finally stopped, Ezio found himself standing at the edge of the tower, overlooking the Tiber river, and holding the Apple in his hands. He was hesitating to throw it into the river below.

“This decision is yours alone to make, only do so quickly.” Ezio kept holding the Apple over the edge, but he couldn’t unclench his fingers. Something didn’t seem right about just throwing it away. Seeing his hesitation, Mario offered a solution: “Give it to me. You can do with it as you will later.”

“Bene.” He handed the Apple over to his uncle.

“Jump!” They jumped off the ledge. It was time to go home.

Later, in the evening

It was getting dark. Torches were burning with a golden glow, not only attracting moths to themselves but also illuminating the way to your new residence, courtesy of your another long-time friend, Niccoló Machiavelli. If you were honest with yourself, you had quite the strange relationship with him. While you knew each other almost like the back of your hands and you still kept secrets, it felt as though he knew what they were. Knew how heavily they weighed upon your shoulders. Even so, he was a very good friend - one that would never dare to betray you (despite a certain fox thinking otherwise in the nearest future).

Once you stepped through the front door, you immediately went upstairs, taking off your clothes, and subsequently drawing yourself a hot bath. It was a privilege to have one, since not every person could afford buying one, and frankly, some people were apparently still believing the superstition about washing their own body being bad and sinful. Idiots.

Allowing yourself to relax in the water, you heard a knock coming from downstairs. ‘A guest? Now? *sigh* Can’t you let a woman enjoy the relaxation time?.’

“Come in!” you shouted. While the nightly visit was a surprise for you (you never expected guests so late), you were thankful for it being done before you went to bed. The footsteps were getting louder and louder, and soon enough the door opened, revealing the Niccoló Machiavelli himself, without a stain of dirt on him. The bastard. You gave him a look. He threw a sincere apologetic smile your way.

“Couldn’t let me scrub myself clean, amigo? I’ve never pegged you for being that kind of man, Nic.” you velvety voice sounded sweet but with a hidden tone of annoyance and warning in it. He produced a paper from beneath his red robes.

“I only wanted to give you this letter with instructions, Y/N. Besides, you would never kill me, I’m your friend.”

“So you are saying but don’t let my calm voice and facial expression fool you, I’m still pissed off about you coming here at night. I prefer to receive visitors in the daytime. And besides,” you mocked him, “you could’ve sent that letter with a messenger. I received one from Volpe today.” You began washing your long hair, applying an almond-scented oil, which according to the merchant you had bought it from, would make your hair shiny and soft. He wasn’t lying when he said that - that much you knew.

“Really? What did it say?” he stepped closer to the window. “I assume those were the updates on Roma?” Your silence was an answer enough.

“Then you know that he has to do it as quickly as possible. This city hasn’t been in a good state for quite a while now, and I fear the situation will become even worse.”

“That much is clear. The Borgia have always been up to something. If they want power, they will stop at nothing to achieve that. The unrests in Madrid and Barcelona were handful enough after the end of Torquemada’s Inquisition eight years ago. He was a fool. The king was a fool. I was a fool, Niccolo.”

“There’s nothing wrong with-” you swiftly cut him off.

“You don’t know what happened in there! It…It was a mess. No, worse, un montón de mierda (a pile of shit)! If things were different…maybe all of the Borgia would already by lying deep beneath the earth, forever trapped in the darkness…” you stood up from the bathtub, not caring if your current visitor saw you naked. He focused on something in the distance, allowing you to cover yourself with a simple white nightgown. Once you were done, you approached him.

“I will start gathering the intelligence myself tomorrow. Preparations will take time but as always, it’s better to be ready than making up everything as you go.

“I will take my leave then. Buona notte, Y/N.”

“Buona notte,” you whispered back once he closed the door. Tomorrow was going to be a long day, that much you knew. But before laying down under the warm covers, you went towards your writing desk and sat down. For days now, Cesare has been gathering his forces near Castello Sant’Angelo. While his motives were somewhat unclear to you, you knew that nothing good would come out of this. If you were correct - and with those things you usually were - he would set his sight on Monteriggioni, since just earlier today, you heard of Ezio defeating Rodrigo in the Vault. And now his son would try to get the Apple back...If Mario doesn’t receive the letter you’re about to send him, you fear Ezio will experience a great tragedy once more. As if the man hasn’t gone through enough.

Taglist: @sassenach-on-the-rocks, @kisstheassassins, @creednight, @assassins--and--hidden--blades, @thelastemzy, @tarjanisfrye, @iceboundstar, @thebgassassin, @undertastic-dork, @mavrisfanfics @, @ermergerd517, @galaxycat-1459, @clara-oswhy, @peanutbutter-kitz, @kittitt, @sazula, @writingsofawaywardnerd

[imaginethebeautifulworld]

nordes, axIs, allIes + prussaI, canananda, sapIn, roma- as craetures??s?

This will require a lot of research~ Let’s crack open some old tomes, light a candle, and conspire, shall we?

Allies:

America- Mimic. 

A creature able to change its shape to disguise its body as an inanimate object or another being. The concept was first introduced in Dungeons and Dragons in the 1970s, and it appealed to me for Al as America has a habit- the country as well as the character, of borrowing bits and pieces of other nations, and almost presenting as them on many an occasion. Similar to the doppelganger, but I don’t foresee Al trying to actually consume his targets, merely... Mimic them.

Canada- Ol’ Yellow Top.

Old Yellow Top is an alleged cryptid from Ontario, Canada. Allegedly, there have been sightings of this guy since 1906. Some have claimed that it could be a Sasquatch, apart from the distinctly golden mane on its head and the lightness of fur. I immediately thought of Mattie in this case- Just trying to live in the woods, mind his own business, get mistaken as a local cryptid. All in a day’s work, really.

China- Bai Zé.

An alleged mystical beast of Chinese legend. According to lore, the Bai Zé was encountered by the Yellow Emperor during a patrol. The Bai Ze gifted the Emperor with information on all 11,520 types of supernatural creatures in the world, and how to overcome their hauntings and attacks. The emperor had this information written down in a book called the Bái Zé Tú. Just thinking back to how many stories Yao's passed down to his younger siblings and the advice he has for the other nations- I felt this fit him very well.

England- Feyling.

A child born of both Fey and Human blood. Much like a Half-Fey, they have excellent charisma, and with practice and patience, eventually can successfully cast spells and incantations to overwhelm others, become seemingly invisible, and slip away from the law. These creatures are born with the ethereal beauty of the Fair Folk, but unfortunately, it also makes them a little aloof. And of course, I thought of England. It would make sense as to why he can see the Fey, and his strong connections to earth-based magicke.

France- Enfant de Melusine.

The legend of Melusine is reminiscent of a fairy bride. Melusine, vaguely similar to mermaids, had the lower half of a serpent, and the upper half of a human woman, though by some accounts, this metamorphisis only occurred once per week, some accounts by once per month. She was taken as a bride by a king, and gave birth to two sons. The legend gets further distorted- some claim that she was unable to stand the holy words of a Sunday sermon, others claim that her husband discovered her true nature- But the endgame was the same. She completed her transformation into a dragon, and fled. It is rumored that all French royals were descendents of her two sons, and that one can hear her crying for her children outside the castles to date. I feel France is definitely one of those lost, wandering children. It's in his tenancity, his resilience, and beneath his majestic beauty is a ferocity that nothing has been able to break.

Russia- Domovik.

Similar to the Brownie in Scottish folklore, the domovik is believed to protect the home from tragedy and disaster, including theives, disease, natural disasters, and evil spirits. Although he never attacks people, it has also earned the spite that falls to the common poltergeist. Rumour has it that he lives near the hearth, or perhaps behind the stove, so long as he is warm. I felt this fit Ivan; he is so desperate to help others, and he has a kind of quiet protectiveness.

Axis:

Germany- Kobold.

Kobolds are industrious small humanoid creatures, noted for their skill at building traps and preparing ambushes. As for what Ludvig may be trying to trap is anyone's guess, but combining his ingenuity with his skills in engineering and strategy, it fits him. They are also resilient as a concept, as throughout even modern history, German mythologists like Jakob Grimm (yes, from the Brothers Grimm) made many arguments that the story of the kobold dates all the way back to Rome, perhaps even before. The Church continued to tolerate the creature, and it was one of the small pieces of Germanic culture that hasn't been diluted throughout the ages. And that, to me, seems very much like something Ludvig would appreciate.

Japan- Kitsune.

Stories depict them as intelligent beings and as possessing magical abilities that increase with their age and wisdom. Some folktales speak of kitsune shape-shifting to trick others — as foxes in folklore often do — other stories portray them as guardians, friends, and lovers. Kiku downplays it frequently, but he is a devious little bastard, and it makes him all that better for keeping an eye out for his friends. And with all that age and wisdom he's obtained, I feel he's met all of the qualifications of the Kitsune.

Prussia- Vampyre.

Rather than provide a whole description of the lore on vampyres and all that wonderful blood-sucking stuff, I'm going to cut it short and give a few ideas why Gil would make a good vampyre. An isolationist longing for the simplicty of his earlier lives, relying on the energies of others to keep him young. Prussia needs to have exposure to that youthful energy, to new ideas, and soak it all up. Otherwise, he'll fade away into nothing but dust.

Romano- Werewolf.

I kind of dabbled on this before in one of my asks on Lovino headcanons, and it's a running theory I've been exploring for a while. In the supposed story of the founding of Rome, brothers Romulus and Remus were raised by wolves. Now, I had the thought of if they hadn't just been raised by wolves, but were, in fact, wolves traversing as human. And from there a long internal journey began of if Rome and eventually Romano were also part of that lineage. So anyway- Lovino is very territorial, devoted to his family, and has a deeper connection to the ancient roots than most people would think of him.

Spain- Ventolin.

NOT to be mistaken for albuterol! Ventolins are actually small wind sprites with majestic green wings. Legends depict that they will fly inland from the sea, bringing with them gentle rains and mists. They also help babies fall asleep with quiet, soft whispers, and bring with them the last goodbyes of those who died far from their homes. Spain in particular comes to mind, with his more peaceful nature, especially when it comes to children. Also, the thought of that man gently knocking on the front door with the last whispers of a loved one- It's a very soothing image to me. But mostly the sweet whisperings to quell the nightmares of a baby really stood out to me. It's Tonio; of course he's going to help out the little ones.

Veneziano- Merman.

If there's one thing I picked up while I was lost in the maze of a city that is Venice, it's that the city itself half belongs to the creatures below the waters, not just those of us above it. With deep canals filled with algaes and seaweed and centuries of mystery, it's all too easy to imagine that beautiful bastard's caramel eyes as he slowly swims nearer to the surface, charming young lads and lassies away from the dusty walkways, down the crumbling steps, and into the depths. He's got the charm, the mystery, the alluring smile and bright eyes that could make you want to sign your life away. Plus I mean- At this point, the poor boy probably actually is at least part fish.

Nordics:

Denmark- Draugr.

The Draugr are undead beings, but the rest of the lore gets very debateable. Some say that they guard their treasures in burial mounds. Others claim they haunt the oceans, and if seen are a harbringer of doom for any soul upon the waves. And yet another legend I encountered told of undead Viking armies, raised by necromancy, consuming all flesh in their wake, devouring every- Basically zombies, people. I feel like Mati would be a prime example of a ghost (or zombie) who is still around to fufill their purpose. His devotion to protect his family of Northern rapscallions has kind of become his only real dream now, and I believe it is so strong an emotion that it could essentially keep his spirit tied to the earth, with essentially the same skills he had before. Just- A lot more dead jokes. You thought the dad jokes were bad? Oh buddy-

Finland- Nisse.

Small creatures from Scandinavian folklore, Nisse live in houses and barns, secretly guarding the farmstead. If treated well, they protect the family and animals from evil, and sometimes even help with chores and farm work. In ancient times, it was believed the nisse were the first farmers. It wasn't until later in my research that I discovered that the Nisse are most commonly associated with the winter solstice, and can be seen in a lot of holiday decor; they look like little elves with white beards and either green or red clothing resembling the 17th century. Tino with his nurturing spirit, I feel, is perfect as a representative of these little guys.

Iceland- Fossegrimen.

The fossegrimen is a fiddle-playing water spirit who never wants to leave his waterfall. In lore, many travellers would stop and ask him for help in learning how to better their skill at the fiddle, and he would often gladly be of help. The cost was often just a nice meal with a good portion of meat. If travellers didn't meet the expectations, the fossegrimen would only teach their student how to tune the fiddle, but not how to play it. I thought of Emil immediately for the determined isolationism, the love of good music, and the easy going attitude of still offering help, even if the exchange wasn't quite what he expected.

Norway- Mage.

As much as I would love to explore a potential troll!Norway route, the reality that he is probably a well-rehearsed and extremely gifted magicke-user just refuses to leave me alone. Mages, unlike wizards, are not as timid about their abilities. He is absolutely out there wandering ruins and exploring foreign cities. He may be traveling alone, but he is learning plenty. I feel like at some point, Lukas probably also looked into necromancy, but that's a theory to explore when I'm a little less sleepy.

Sweden- Landvættir.

The Landvættir are land guardians, most specifically centered around farms or wild grounds. When approaching Vikings neared land, they allegedly removed the carved dragon heads from the bows of their ships, to avoid the risk of provoking the Landvættir and bringing bad luck. There wasn't very much lore on them that I could find, but from the little I did, I feel Berwald is exactly the kind of stoic guardian one must pass by quietly to safely explore a new world.

These were a lot of fun, Anon! I may do more research later into some of these concepts (may even try to find some pictures~), but for now it is late, and I thank you for the Halloween ask!

Merry Samhain!

Blessed be.

[linkspooky]

Panem Et Circenses

Roma’s monologue from the latest chapter was what interested me the most more than any bloodshed depicted. (Yes, even more than Urie getting owned.) In particular her light reference to a latin phrase. 

Bread and Circuses or “Panem Et Circenses”, it’s a phrase used to describe appeasement of the masses, most particularly in the form of government. That public approval is best gained not through exemplary of excellent public service and police, but through distraction and satisfaction of the most immediate and shallow desires of the populace. 

The phrase itself originates from Rome in Satire X of the roman satirical poet Juvenal (about AD 100), citing what the roman populace cares about, forgoing both it’s historical birthright or political involvement. In 140 BC. Roman politicans passed a series of laws to keep the votes of poorer citizens, by introducing a grain distribution, and easy to access entertainment [x]. 

It’s also important to remember that Roman culture is based upon the culture of the Greek City States (most importantly the surviving culture of Athens), and for Latin culture the concept of every citizen having not only a right, but an obligation to participate in government. Athens was a direct democracy where all able bodied citizens had to paricipate, vote, sit in juries in order for the government to function. Rome was a republic, and then an empire, but still in those days there was a sitting senate and opportunities for even commoners to participate in government as long as they were citizens. 

Basically, it’s a very latin idea (that is combined Greek and Roman), that the improvement upon society relies on individuals stepping up to contribute. Therefore the mass of the government those who wield power, and the masses those who are subjected to power is almost one in the same. However the pacification of the masses, that is supplying them with bread and distraction to fill their most surface needs and stop them from rising up themselves while it helps a certain amount of individuals secure power, leads to the downfall of society. 

What, I wondered did he mean by society? The plural of human beings? Where was the substance of this thing called “society”? I had spent my whole life thinking that society must certainly be something harsh and severe, but to hear Horiko talk made the words “Don’t you mean yourself?”, come to the tip of my tongue. [...] What is society but an individual?

Osamu Dazai’s, No Longer Human 119-120

What Juvenal is satirizing is the decline of individual heroism, in favor of the satisfaction of the masses. Individual heroism in a sense of the ability of a single individual to stand up and make a difference in its simplest of terms: agency.

… Already long ago, from when we sold our vote to no man, the People have abdicated our duties; for the People who once upon a time handed out military command, high civil office, legions — everything, now restrains itself and anxiously hopes for just two things: bread and circuses (Juvenal, Satire 10.77-81)

This idea of certain forces being used to pacify the masses to make them easier to control is something that appears again and again in philosophy. Nietzsche accused Christianity of fostering a slave morality,

“I finally discovered two basic types and one basic difference. There are master morality and slave morality. . . . The moral discrimination of values has originated either among a ruling group whose consciousness of its difference from the ruled group was accompanied by delight - or among the ruled, the slaves and dependents of every degree [...]  The Christian faith is from the beginning a sacrifice: sacrifice of all freedom, all pride, all self-confidence of the spirit, at the same time enslavement and self-mockery, selfmutilation …” Nietzsche - Beyond Good and Evil

Nietzsche accused Catholicism of suggesting that by making our most cherished values originate not among those who were the best and brightest of their times, but among those who were the most oppressed and impoverished. That this encourages not pride in oneself and one’s own achievements but rather pride in keeping your head down and surviving. Therefore people are encouraged not to be revolutionary but to be ordinary. 

Jesus’ statement itself presents a paradox. “If the meek aren’t meant to inherit the earth, they cannot do this by remaining meek.”

Of course religion asks for faith that all suffering and losses endured in this world will be rewarded in the next one. It can quickly look like an excuse for further suffering in this world, hen people could just as easily work to make a paradise out of this one. 

Nietzsche calls this idea “Slave Morality”. It’s obviously connected with the dynamics of power.

Karl Marx in his critique of Heigel wrote this: 

"Die Religion ... ist das Opium des Volkes" and is often rendered as "religion... is the opiate of the masses."

Karl Marx

The full quote in context is this, though. 

Religious suffering is, at one and the same time, the expression of real suffering and a protest against real suffering. Religion is the sigh of the oppressed creature, the heart of a heartless world, and the soul of soulless conditions. It is the opium of the people.

The abolition of religion as the illusory happiness of the people is the demand for their real happiness. To call on them to give up their illusions about their condition is to call on them to give up a condition that requires illusions.

In essence, if people were to abolish their habit of simply looking for happiness to distract them from suffering, or even their need to give reason and justice to suffering which is by its nature unjust, then people could directly look at the suffering and then deal with it. 

Of course it’s not that simple, but this is philosophy and philosophy likes to deal in conjecture and abstract terms. 

As shown through Juvenal, Nietzsche and Marx, the tendency of the masses and therefore individuals to forgo deeper reasons to live for instead more on the surface pleasures is what leads to their own ability of making their will manifest. 

It’s all about individual agency. This is a theme that too, comes up time and time again in Tokyo Ghoul. Furuta, perhaps in reference to V’s many own roman references describes basically this as the way that V corrals the masses in “66- Old Guard.”

He mentions both things, food and distraction. Kuzen similarly, says that in his early life with V that he was supplied with a safe dwelling and all the food that he could eat in return for completing their heartless tasks for them. 

Kuzen describes it in different words, but what he feels before meeting Ukina is in essence the same problem that plagued Roma as she was growing up: He was bored. 

Boredom is another word for fulfillment, even if it’s not as poetic. Roma had no parents, no point of attachment, no people in her life no reason to continue living and yet she did. She looked at it and said why? Then she looked around her and saw nothing but people distracting themselves.

Roma was both disgusted, and envious. Envious that they had the opportunity to distract themselves despite being such weak and frail creatures yet she who had been fighting for her survival all this time did not have such a luxury. So Roma made humanity her distraction. 

Roma calls the common enemy of humans and ghouls “boredom” itself. Probably not something Urie could immediately sympathize with, but look back what exactly is Urie’s entire quest for anyway? 

To have his own existence affirmed. Without it, Urie was merely lost. Donato had to ask for him the questions he was putting off asking for so long. He simply suffered without reason. 

Urie’s quest is one for an individual identity outside of his father’s. He is plagued by the same questions then we all are, “Why am I fighting? Why was I born? Why do I exist?”

His answer to this so far though has been to surrender his sense of identity to the CCG above him, and hope that through ascending the hierarchy therefore he will get the affirmation he so desperately desired. He too was bored in a way. He did not have a reason to stand or fight. Too weak to stand on his own feet and fight for his own reasons and therefore he surrendered his power to a higher system and hoped the would make the decision for him.

“The weak wish to surrender themselves to the strong.”

Fura notices this same pattern in Sasaki and Arima themselves, he defines a good person as somebody who can struggle with and accept an answer they find themselves, while the opposite of that is somebody who accepts an answer from on high and nods “Yes, I understand.”

That people who are therefore mentally troubled by what they do are actually healthier than those who aren’t. At which point we reach the final panel of Roma’s monologue, where she casts Kaneki and Furuta in the same role. Conductors of a meaningless parade who aren’t going to bring any meaningful change to the world. 

Why is it that the both of them in Roma’s mind, are different from Aogiri who stated that they actually believed in a world for ghouls, an answer that bored her? 

Is it because they too, just like Roma but unlike Tatara and Eto of Aogiri have no true intention of destroying the cage placed around them, no care to follow through on the future that the both of them promised to their respective sides. “A perfect world without ghouls” and “A world where you walk freely up above.” They are completely different promises but at the same time they are in essence promising the same thing. Bear with it for now, and the world will be better. 

Perhaps it’s because Furuta and Kaneki both on their opposite sides of the game create exactly the kind of gameboard that Roma enjoys to dwell in. That they both lead the masses through distractions and promises, showmanship rather than substantive leadership that might actually bring a better change to the world. 

Furuta sets up a scoreboard, publicizes the gory details of the CCG, sets up executions on the streets as a way of inciting the masses. Kaneki en masse dumps broken Quiqnues in front of the crowds even as they are starving for food. Both of these are demonstrations, put on to convince the crowd. 

They only requires the masses to secede their agency to them, their individual will, to tie their strings collectively to both Furuta and Kaneki, and in return these two kings will supply you with what you need. 

Roma calls both of these so called revolutions for what they really are, “parades” simply a conflict to entertain the masses on both sides and distract them from the suffering of their lives rather than actually addressing it. 

The common evil then shared between humans and ghouls is not their propensity towards violence, but rather their propensity towards boredom. Attempting to fill the void of their meaningless existences causes them to stumble blind through their own lives rather than acting individually and with purpose. 

[thecorteztwins]

(The event being referred to in this fic is how Earth 616 and Earth 1610 [Ultimates] merged at the end of “Secret Wars” in 2015 to create the new “All New All Different” Marvel Prime universe of current comics...which basically seems to be 616 with a few Ultimates characters added like Miles Morales. It’s also references the Captain Britain Corps, Roma and Saturnyne, and my theory that book-only character Alecto is an AU Fabian Cortez...but please don’t let all this obscure lore put you off from reading it! Why? BECAUSE IT ENDS WITH HIM GETTING PUNCHED IN THE FACE. THAT’S WHY.) "Captain Alecto, you are aware of the curious events between Earth 616 and Earth 1610,” said Roma, the Omnniversal Guardian, Ruler of Otherworld, Goddess of the Northern Skies, seated on her throne. Her assistant, the white-clad Majestrix Saturnyne, was standing beside her as usual. Alecto nodded from his kneeling position, hand over his heart in fealty as he nodded, “Yes, my lady. A most curious event indeed.” “Precisely,” said Saturnyne, “That is why you’re going there. To this new Earth formed from their cross-dimensional collision.” “It is only for exploration,” Roma said, “A mere reconnaissance to help us better evaluate just what these two worlds have become as one, and if there is any cause for concern. This event is entirely unprecedented; we do not know what dangerous may have resulted from such a rift in not one but two realities, what dimensional distortions may have sprung from their union. This is why you, as one of the best of the remaining Captain Britain Corps, has been selected for dispatch to what we are tentatively deeming, for the time being, Earth Prime.” Alecto’s bowed head hid his proud smirk. He was not surprised by his being picked for such an important mission. He was not just one of the best in the Corp, he was the best, and that was even before their numbers had been depleted by trans-dimensional tragedy. After all, he was a part of Roma’s personal guard, hand-picked by her and Saturnyne from the Corp’s best-of-the-best, and he was its Captain. What did that tell you? “Of course, m’lady,” he promised, “I will not fail, nor achieve anything less than perfection in this task---as I know the Majestrix Saturyne demands.” It was Saturnyne who smirked now, and placed a well-manicured hand on her curvaceous hip, as if to say you know me well. As a cosmic bureaucrat of the highest order, order of the highest degree was her chief concern---and she was cold to the point of cruel in terms of enforcing it upon all worlds. And unlike the Lady Roma, who was at least apologetic before destroying a universe that threatened the others, Alecto had never known Saturnyne, Her Royal Whyness, to say I’m sorry. But then, neither did Alecto. “I trust in that, Captain,” said Roma. And with a wave of her hand, he was transported to the new Earth Prime that so concerned them. A digital file from Saturnyne uploaded to his wristwatch-like comm device told him that he must seek the one called Magneto, a being of some power in this universe who had been aware of the incursion and attempted to prevent it. Roma, the file informed him, had done her best to place Alecto close to him. Alecto did not have to wander long before he sighted a magenta-clad, cape-wearing man with white hair, just as the image file had shown him. He approached him, hailing as he did so. “Greetings, resident Magneto of this world. I am Alecto, of the Captain Britain Corps, and personal bodyguard to the omniversal goddess Rom--” He did not get to finish, because as soon as Magneto had turned and seen Alecto’s face...he’d punched it.

Somehow, Alecto could swear he heard Psylocke laughing.

[newstfionline]

Letter from Mexico: Lessons in a quake zone

Whitney Eulich, CS Monitor, September 21, 2017

MEXICO CITY--Back in 2013, I was in Mexico City for a work trip when the light fixtures started swaying in a ground-floor hotel restaurant. In the United States, we’re taught to find a sturdy table to crouch under, or a doorframe to stand in when the earth starts to tremble. So, I did just that, throwing my hands up against one of the hulking doorways of the 1920s building.

Seconds later, waiters and cleaning staff were running past me--in some cases crouching to squeeze through the space between my arms and the floor--to get outside. I looked around at the empty restaurant perplexed and a little amused, and decided I should probably follow.

But, this week, when Mexico City started jerking to a 7.1 earthquake, I was grateful for that lesson in local quake culture.

More than 40 buildings were toppled in Tuesday’s temblor, including one wing of a private elementary school. The death toll has reached more than 137 people in Mexico City alone, out of more than 270 nationwide. And in a city like this one, where many neighborhoods are built upon a squishy former lakebed, a building that survives one quake won’t necessarily make it through the next. Getting outside is the priority, even if there are other risks once on the street.

I rushed downstairs as my office began violently shaking Tuesday, meeting up with my daughter and her caretaker outside the front door. We held each other as we walked slowly down a tile pathway toward the building’s front gate, trying to keep our balance. The caretaker called out the Lord’s Prayer in a steady lilt and I peppered her with questions. “Is this big? Is this stronger than the last one?” I asked, referring to the 8.1 quake that rocked the capital just 12 days earlier while I was out of town. My 11-month-old daughter, thankfully, seemed oblivious.

Out on the street, we heard glass breaking, loud snaps, and watched, horrified, as a seven-story building around the corner bounced and swerved, throwing bricks from its façade. The structure didn’t fall, but apartments were visible through the broken walls.

A group of construction workers gathered with us in the middle of the street--as far away from buildings, trees, and electrical wires as we could get--their arms wrapped around each other’s backs to form a human chain.

The moment the earth stopped swaying, the workers were off, like many around the city, jumping in to help trapped residents escape their damaged homes or clear rubble from fallen buildings. An older woman came walking down the street, leaning on a teenage boy, sobbing. “It was just like ‘85,” she cried, taking stock of the buildings on the block. That was the year of Mexico’s deadliest earthquake, which left thousands dead and hundreds of buildings destroyed.

It was heartening to see people bolt into action. A trio of carpenters--grandfather, son, and grandson--working on a neighbor’s home rushed from one site of wreckage to another with their tools to offer help. Bicyclists, some with whistles, started directing traffic on a four-lane thoroughfare where stoplights had gone dark.

The day after the quake, volunteer turnout was astounding. Support centers were overwhelmed with donations of water, men and women slapped together simple sandwiches for volunteers, and crates of water bottles blocked sidewalks. Local restaurants and shops opened their doors to volunteers and displaced residents, offering water, meals, and other support. Some areas of the Condesa and Roma neighborhoods, where numerous structures fell or were deemed inhabitable, were so clogged with volunteers it was difficult to move through the street. As the day wore on, there were moments where the outpouring of support felt almost alarming.

Although official search and rescue teams, the Army, and firefighters are on the scenes of collapsed buildings, there is a distinct feeling that no one is really in charge. Guidance or explanations from authorities are scant, leading to misinformation, even if intentions are good.

Earthquakes have been on my mind since I moved here three years ago, in part because my partner likes to geek out on seismic activity. Before renting our first apartment, he studied maps of the 1985 quake destruction, and suggested we choose a building with fewer than six floors, because they respond better to the vibrations of temblors here. I guess it’s rubbed off on me, because I started asking about earthquake risk when making decisions here, too.

When interviewing surgeons for a throat operation I was met by surprised laughs when I asked what would happen if a quake hit mid-procedure. The carpenter who built shelves for our kitchen was dismissive when I asked her if we should put on cabinet doors so that dishes didn’t slide out during a quake. I don’t know if these reactions are indications of the normalcy of earthquakes here or a coping mechanism: we can’t always know what will happen until it happens.

But being a parent changes things. The everyday risks of letting your children grow and learn as independent people feel suddenly much higher after this week’s disaster.

A young girl known as Frida Sofia was believed to be buried under the rubble at the Enrique Rebsamen school in the south of the city, capturing the nation’s attention--and instilling waves of nausea in parents like me. She reportedly wiggled her fingers through the rubble on Wednesday, and rescuers worked around the clock to free her and five other students supposedly trapped there. By Thursday, however, authorities said they doubted “Frida” exists, or, at any rate, is trapped in the school.

My daughter won’t be going to school any time soon, but even so, this quake raises tough questions. How do you know the school you send your child to, or the home he or she goes to play in, is structurally sound? How do you know that building codes are truly met in a nation seeped in corruption, where a bribe can possibly get a building approved without actual inspection?

These aren’t pleasant things to think about. But, luckily, there are plenty of reasons to feel hopeful in the aftermath of this disaster. Mexicans have come together this week, helping and supporting neighbors and strangers alike. The solidarity is inspiring, whether it’s volunteers trying to coordinate rescues before officials arrived on the scene or men and women standing in the pouring rain Wednesday night, removing rubble in hopes of saving lives.

And, if the aftermath of the ‘85 quake serves as any indication, this citizen unity could lead to concrete change in Mexico. That could mean pushing for stricter standards around building inspections or simply realizing that together, Mexican citizens are a powerful force.

[mariamorisot]

Love is Technology is Death, Chapter 2, Rough Draft

New Post has been published on http://pleasetouch.me/2017/05/14/love-is-technology-is-death-chapter-2-rough-draft/

Love is Technology is Death, Chapter 2, Rough Draft

2. Inferno

My suitcase weighs an awful lot. It has strips of neon pink duct tape stretched along its sides to give me a clue as to which suitcase is mine, coming down the conveyor belt. Inside is a sure mess of clothes and electronics, no lithium batteries included, of course, as per flight regulations. I would pry it open here, but there’s no easy way to do this in the middle of a high traffic area like the FCO airport. So I just wait for Natalia’s bright smile so I can soak up the warm atmosphere it brings.

Standing in the exit to the terminal and she isn’t here; my mind sinks into a sand trap it has always want to enter into when idling. “Maria.” Mary. Mother. My suitcase drops to the floor and my right eye lets loose a quick stream of teardrops. Followed by my left shortly after.

* * *

Laughing, laughing as children laugh, we skitter through the sugar cane fields, playing hide and seek. I’m crouching, hiding, trying to control my voice; my outburst of giggles. Thinking of all the times that we’ve been through the reigns of this game, toppling over each other in the dark. My grandfather calls us in. Natalia pats me on the head, “gotcha.”

* * *

Gotcha. My face brightens up at the sight of her face, “quit crying,” she says, “you’re home.”

I lug my suitcase to the elevator and fight my way inside, just behind Natalia. And we just look at each other and smile not to laugh.

* * *

On the way home, driving through the streets of Roma, everything becomes quick flashes of street cars weaving in and our of traffic. There is no order here, only chaos, and that is the thing I love most about Roma. I love to watch the cars make their progression through the streets, following loose-knit rules for how to drive.

She knows I love this, and she smiles as she looks over watching me absorb all of the data form the streets’ confusion and try to assess how one exactly drives in this mess. She asks me, in a joking tone, “do you think you would like driving here?” But my response is buries in a series of honks coupled with the sirens of an ambulance racing through the streets. I don’t think I could ever drive here.

We park the car in the garage, a little cramped place underground, and walk up and around to her place. There’s very little talking between us, but by this time I know my way around enough to not feel completely lost as to where we are heading with ourselves through the streets near her flat.

She opens the front door to the apartment complex with her key, after first fussing with it a few times and its not quite working to satisfaction lock. I watch the folks walking by and try to keep myself out of the way a bit, but people walk three at a time side by side down this little pathway and it’s just impossible to keep out of peoples’ way.

The bag is heavy. But I can carry it. Once inside I choose to go up the stairs rather than taking the elevator. I tell her I will meet her at the apartment. And so I start the slow climb up the stairs. It’s good for the legs.

* * *

“Tea is ready,” I look up from my phone which ironically has no cellular access, it’s just an Internet phone and only has wi-fi; I’ve been checking in with my friends on Facebook and Instagram, to name only a couple of the social networks I frequent. I’ve been trying to cut down but that hasn’t been going so well.

Tea is herbal and although it feels good on the tongue it leaves me feeling a bit unsatisfied. Coffee. Now that would be the thing. But Natalia insists that I drink too much caffeine and I should level it out with some herbal infusions. So I drink it, regardless of how much I do or don’t like it.

* * *

You are going to Hell. The inner voice cautions me. And in the womb I entered, in the puddles of this rain storm, exited; I critique the pleasures and the pain of this sing: How must I act to carry on? In sickness and in health, until death?

The image of Pope Innocent III appears before my mind; cautioning me to stay, cautioning me to grip onto some aesthetic virtue. The iron maiden, the cat’s paw, the breast ripper; these are a few of the things flashing before my mind’s eye.

You are going to Hell, the voice repeats, each time more sadistic than the last, until I wake up and I find myself unable to sleep any longer. They call this my mania, but it is so real, so vivid, so sound. The sound abounds and I can only hear the notes of an angel dealing death upon my soul.

And I see the Great Beast of Revelations pulling itself out from the center of the earth, like a lion, like a lamb, like a dragon. And I bear the mark on my right hand, and in my forehead, that causes me to choose sides with such a swollen body full of dead saints.

There is no escaping this awful sentencing, save that I can maybe disseminate the choice words of God, and redeem myself through a consecration born in dust and ash and sackcloth. This is my torture, it is self-inflicted, it is guilt, it is denial. And I belong back in the hospital, back in group therapy, back in the heretic’s gate.

* * *

Sipping tea; her eyes meet mine, and for the first time since landing, I feel air born. Natalia’s calm smile meets my own nervous half-laugh, and we break the silence with our synergy.

* * *

Watching the LEDs spin, in their random pattern of a euphoric and chaotic schism of a muse, I bounce through ages and times past, forgetting momentarily about my recurring nightmares of the pope’s last supper. Forgetting the frock I had imagined myself in, and cutting my hair short around the sides to be a bit more boyish.

Waiting for her shift to end.

She’ll be upset I’m sure, for my not going out, but I can’t stomach it right now, I want to lay here, staring at the lights on my Raspberry Pi, wondering how truly random the randomness generator on this motherfucker really is.

And if I slowed things down, if I redefined the function drawing entropy from the pool, and made this thing creep to a near halt– then fired her up and started the execution of the code all over again, what difference would it make in my conclusion of what it really means to be random in a world full of pattern and predictability.

[rainkilled]

Tag drop 1.