#Also even with the landmarks it was kinda interesting to see how little I know about the regional context actually.

[screambirdscreaming]

It's actually wild how much playing geoguessr for hours last night stabilized my brain out of spiralling.

I've been SAYING to myself things like "the world continues to exist and you have to stay grounded in it rather than spiralling about problems you can't in any way reach to push back against, and certainly doubly so if you are stuck spiralling" and also "the perspective from the place you live is so skewed from the material reality of most of the world and you have to account for that when informing your political stances" and other such things. But it hasn't really been getting through the immediacy of panic and dread.

And weirdly what did get through was spending hours clicking along a road through a place I've never been in a region I've never heard of, looking at how people build their houses and the structures along the roads where they sell various things to passersby, squinting at the signage to try to figure out which words might be place names, looking at all the unfamiliar plants, street dogs following the car.... that's the world the whole world is out there with more depth and detail than you can imagine. It's all out there.

[nokillbananashelter]

Kinda repeating myself here but to expand on a specific totk/botw criticisms i don’t like:

people saying that botw and totk’s primary story only happens in the memories or that the memories are the only plot points.

Botw & totk could not be more interested in making sure you are viewing your gameplay as the story & surrounding you with characters that have problems right in front of you that need *you* to solve them. The agency it gives you is in service of making YOU feel like you are the one in charge of your journey and YOU are telling the story of this link.

The act of traversing a dungeon is straight up part of the story of who link is as an adventurer. We are not playing the game to see those memories. We are playing the game to beat Ganon and reunite with zelda. Link story towards those two goals is flavored entirely by your actions, what clothes you wear, what items &powers you use, who you save, how you save them, and where you go when you go there. Even the journal entries reinforce the story they’re telling.They told the story in every corner of the game. Its in the ruins of old franchise landmarks you constantly find and Its caked into the UI. When you pause to absorb the vast vistas and listen to nature, you share that moment with link. If you play as an unstoppable killing machine or you fumble your way through every puzzle you are informing yourself of who this link is and how he solves the problems and that is in fact, an intentional way to tell story. There is so much narrative and depth you just need to connect the dots and accept that story doesn’t always happen with spoon feeding. And that was kind of the entire designed thesis of these games: people were getting sick of being spoon fed Zelda games!

90% of the story is about the land itself and searching for clues to beating an existential nightmare in a fragile New World growing on top of the bones of the old. Your progression and you learning is the same thing as link learning and progressing. That is why this is an RPG. Your experience becomes the characters experience. If you do not view the lessons you learned as links lessons you ain’t getting the whole ass sandwich!

And like. This isn’t even an abstract here, how is building Tarrytown into the wholesome community it is not plot relevant in a world that needs to be rebuilt? How is saving lurelin and then rebuilding it not extremely informative and formative of who link is as a person? How is taking the time save koroks or shield surf or play other silly games not telling you the kind of person link is and the kind of people who hyrulians are? How is that not relevant in a broken world trying to rebuild itself?? How is saving each region twice over with characters that go through personal growth arcs not active storytelling directly relevant towards reaching zelda beating ganon???? How is the tutorial in Botw not both revealing of the lesson The king of Hyrule had to learn (letting people come into their own on their own terms) and who he is as a ghost with unfinished business?

Memories are icing on a very layered cake. They describe motivations, not the whole ass story. Like even just thinking sequentially here. The memories end at a tragic critical failure point. Is the set up, not the whole plot.

I invite you, if you do not see the story, to start viewing this game’s plot and narrative structure like samurai Jack. I want you to note the similarities you see between the environmental storytelling, the amount of action being used to propel the story, the lack of focus on dialogue, and how a lot of his adventures are little acts of kindness that inform us of what a sick ass flip wizard he is while also being a deeply kind hearted individual with a primary goal in mind. It’s parallel to botw and totk, Down to the episodic nature of it.

And like, I know I’m being hard on people who view the games in a reductive way, but it does go back to what I posted earlier: these games are chalk full of things. You just need to meet at where it’s at because it took all this time to meet you where you’re at, and if you’re gonna have a conversation with the game, you need to respect and absorb what it is giving you instead of being obstinate that it doesn’t look 100% like it used to. None of these games look exactly like the other one nor can or should they be- and its ALWAYS been that way.

Idk, it’s just sad seeing the artistic vision in both of these games and seeing the deep tender heart within both of them and to know there is a lot of profound and loving meaningful things within them and some of the deepest Zelda nerds literally cannot see the forest for the trees on them.

And look, I’m not saying you can’t hate these games or dislike what they’re doing, or that there isn’t any real criticisms of this game that matters cause there’s lots of criticisms that matter, I just want to stop feeling gaslit by a particular corner of the fandom that wants to piss on everything until the next game comes out and suddenly the thing they pissed on is golden boy in service of detracting from the new experience.

[potroasttheghostdog]

Being on the spectrum, and having weird interests is actually crazy sometimes. Just scratching an itch leads you down an hours long rabbit hole of discovery and wikipedia pages. For me, one of my more mundane interests is fruits, plants, and botany.

I was eating an orange. Just chilling, while feeding my dog. I wondered what my favorite orange (cara cara) was a crossbreed from (it's *gotta* be blood and navel right it's so tasty but distinct from other oranges, can't be a valencia the color's not right!)

So I looked it up. Turns out, there's like 600 of these bastards. Well let's fucking read about all of them.

Oh Ermelo's orange. That sounds weird. What's that.

Oh it's just called that because takes its name from 'Ermelo', a parish in Arcos de Valdevez Municipality, Portugal. It was introduced to the region by Cistercian monks in the 12th century, but it is sweeter than the average orange. Oh, but it's on The Ark of Taste.

What the fuck is that.

Well, turns out it's kinda like the Endagered Wildlife registry, but for sustainably sourced heritage foods and local cuisines. They see local foods as tantamount to cultural landmarks that should be preserved and foods go on the list if they are either impotant orbrelevant to a specific culture or ethnoregion, or are in danger of dying out whether from extinction or a fading cultural relevancy. They urge the perpetuation of their existence by encouraging their continued consumption. This includes foodstuffs like fruit from extremely specific regions, breads, cheeses, and even certain breeds of livestock that meat comes from.

Here's some fun ones: classic mortadella of all things (because it originates in Italy and has been a staple of their cuisine for centuries) cuccalar (a specific type of italian bread) casu marzu (a gross kind of cheese, do not google if you have a weak stomach) carosello (an italian melon), Lake Michigan Whitefish, Gravenstein Apples, Mayhaw jelly, bogong moths, and bunya nuts. They have things on the list from all over the world and it's actually really gratifying knowing that someone somewhere can see whatever random little thing you have and see everywhere, is valued, because it represemts a culture that not everyone has. I've had Lake Michigan whitefish. I consider it just a fish. But it's on a list of important culture for the US that should be conserved for the sake of culture, and that's kind of eye opening.

The Ark of Taste is run by Slow Food.

Ok. What the fuck is that.

Turns out it's an international org dedicated to preserving cultural foodstuffs that also emphasizes sustainability by supporting eating, growing, and traditional cooking local foods. Think Audobon but for cheese.

What was I reading about? Oh right, oranges. Oh the chocolate orange has a 12 Brix.

Ok.

What the fuck is a Brix.

Turns out Degrees Brix (°Bx) is the measure of dissolved solids in liquids and aqueous solutions, but is used to measure sugar content in foods and juices in common. So like Scoville scale but for sugar. Honey, soda, wine, sugar, fruit juice, fruits, and maple syrup use it to measure their sugar content. There's also some other scales that are used for sugar measuring. The Plato Scale (°P) is used in brewing, The Oechsle Scale used on german and swiss wine, and the Balling Scale, which is the oldest and not commonly used anymore.

What was I reading about? Oh yeah oranges.

Oh Smith Red Valencia. Sounds sultry.

It's a pigmented bud sport of the valencia orange tree.

K.

What's a bud sport.

Turns out a bud sport is any kind of sudden morphological difference growing from a plant caused by genetic mutation. Like when a dwarf pine starts growing foliage branches that are morpholigically identical to a regular pine. You ever notice how sometimes your christmas tree, if you get a live one, has irregular branches where they grow out longer than normal, and the needles are a bit different than the rest of the tree? Bud sport. Neat. Oh it's night time.

What was I reading about? Oh yeah. Oranges.

Yeah turns out I was right, cara caras are the hybrid of blood and navels. Knew it. Also, apparently oranges aren't even the original thing. They started out as a hybrid between pomelos and mandarins. Also, also, apparently fruit genomes have "moms and dads", i.e. the chloroplast genome is considered the "maternal line" of a fruit's ancestry. The orange's chloroplast genome comes from pomelos, meaning pomelos are the orange's "mother".

Also---

[joshfuckingkiszka]

2: Rx

now, some of y'all might think there is something between you and sammy, but I PROMISE there is NOT, it’s apparently just how I see relationships between men and women, idk. 

THIS SERIES IS 18+, MINORS DNI

chapter warnings: asshole!josh, mentions of past eating disorders, extremely dysfunctional family - overbearing mother, hangovers, sam being sam. 

series masterlist 

Admitting that you hadn’t realized that the four men standing before you were the band that you usually listened to on your way to class was difficult, to say the least. You had so many questions racing through your mind that you wanted to ask them, but the one that kept popping up was “Why is Josh looking at me like he doesn’t believe me?”

“You didn’t know that we were Greta Van Fleet?” His disbelief matched yours but they held different meanings behind them, and you knew that, you just weren’t sure what his was.

Shaking your head, you answered, “I mean, it’s a pretty recent addition to my library so I hadn’t really thought to look you guys up yet. Besides, I kinda liked the intrigue of not knowing I guess.”

He scoffed and you found yourself quickly becoming annoyed with the curly haired man. If he was this interrogative with every woman he met, it was no wonder he was single. In every little side-eye glare and scoff at the words you spoke for the rest of the night, it was abundantly clear what he truly thought of you, and it made you wonder why Kenzi and Jita had even thought to set you up with him in the first place. Josh was an egotistical asshole who couldn’t seem to believe that someone in the world didn’t know who he was. Everyone else worked hard to keep spirits up, though, as you danced with Sammy to a pop song he claimed he hated, but you would occasionally catch him mouthing along the words. You rolled your eyes at him, but smiled as he got you another drink.

“I know what you’re doing,” Josh stated confidently, once the two of you were sat at the table alone.

You met his mahogany eyes and challenged, “And what would that be?”

“I’ve seen it before, you claim you don’t know the band, so you can sleep with one of them.”

A scoff left your lips and you cocked your head to the side, a mock pout on your face, “Oh, I see, you’re just mad it may not be you.”

“He has a girlfriend.” Josh had lost the subtlety in his accusation.

You breathed out, “Luckily, I don’t wanna fuck him.” Again with the disbelief.

It hurt you, that someone so easy to look up to and adore thought so lowly of you, he truly thought of you as some conniving groupie. While the pain settled in the depths of your heart, you found it interesting that in one night you went from the boring girl who studied too much and worked too hard, to having an argument with the lead singer of a famous band. The feeling was exhilarating, come to think of it.

Eventually, your night was called to an end at about 12:30. While you were a little too drunk to think about the repercussions, you knew that class the next day was pretty much out of the question. Luckily, tomorrow was also your day off. When you insisted on walking home from the bar - your apartment was way too close to pay for an Uber - Sam insisted on chaperoning you, mostly to keep you safe on the mostly empty streets. You groaned but didn’t put up much more of a fight than that. It was comfortable with him, he was easy to talk to and you actually wouldn’t mind the company on your trek home.

“And you’re sure you know the way?” He had every right to be slightly concerned, as you looked around for landmarks to make sure you were going the right way.

You threw an arm around his much taller frame, “I walk this way every day, Sammy!” His hands went up in defense as he instructed you to lead the way.

“Okay but close your eyes, I don’t want you to know where I live, ‘cuz, y’know you’re a stranger and all.” Sam laughed at your drunken words, now especially glad that he was walking you back.

“I promise I won’t tell anyone.” You made him hold out his pinky in the age old way of commitment. He linked your fingers together, stifling his laughter.

You whispered to him, “I take those very seriously, so don’t break it.”

“And why is that?”

It was suddenly no longer a joke.

“Because, and don’t tell anyone this, my sister broke hers and now I hate her,” you thought about it, and after a moment decided, “well, I don’t hate her, I just hate the outcome. She swore that we would always have what we had, and then she went to college and became successful and now I’m just her dumb little sister following in her stupid big footprints. But her feet aren’t actually big, they’re normal. I guess it’s her, uh, legacy! Yeah, her legacy is too big for me. Everyone knows it, I do, she does, and my mother especially knows it. Hell, I think even Josh might know it!”

He was confused but ultimately didn’t look surprised. “Josh is, well, hard to get used to. I had to do it my whole life. Still do, actually.” You both laughed, drunken giggles falling from your lips and it was comfortable again. In the morning, you probably wouldn’t even remember letting the whole thing about your sister slip.

“Your brother thinks I’m a groupie,” You admitted to him.

Sam laughed a bit. “Well if it makes you feel any better, you don’t really look like one. Eh, maybe if it were the 60s, I might think you were trying to get with Lennon or something, though.”

You playfully challenged, “Hey! I could be a groupie, 60s or not!” Thinking about your next question for only a second, you finally asked, “Do you guys have a lot? Of groupies, I mean. Is that why he thinks that?”

“Girls do like to try the whole thing with us, but most of us don’t really pay attention to them.”

“Does he?” You weren’t sure why you cared so much, or why you were so willing to brazenly ask the man’s own brother about his sexual conquests.

The taller man sighed, “When we first started, yeah, a bit. Eventually, he kinda chilled out and the music became way too important to us for any of us to give up for a one night stand.”

“What changed?”

Sam shrugged, but you could tell he was holding something back, the key piece as to why Josh could possibly hate you so much without even knowing you. The questions would have continued, had you not realized that you were now standing in front of your apartment building.

You smiled at your new friend. “This is me. I’ll yell down from the balcony once I’m up,” you assured him.

He raised an eyebrow at you, “You sure you don’t want me to walk you up?”

“I think I can manage,” you said, giggling a bit at his protection.

That’s exactly what you did, too. It took you a moment to finally get the key into the lock of the door, but once you did, you ran over to the glass doors of the small balcony and told him to text you once he got home. You weren’t sure when, but you had managed to receive everyone’s number, even Josh (Jake had given it to you when his twin wasn’t paying attention).

“For emergencies,” he had claimed, but a smirk rested on his lips as he said it, so you weren’t sure if that was the entire truth to the sentiment.

Once you had done the bare minimum for getting ready for bed, still smelling of alcohol and cigarettes from the bar, you laid down in bed and began to think of what this could possibly mean for you. It was only then that you decided to check your phone, seeing all the missed texts from your mother and you said a very quiet fuck into the dark abyss of your bedroom.

Just checking in, how’s school? - she did regular check-ins to see if you were anywhere near where your sister had been at your age, even though she claimed it was because she cared.

Sweetie? Are you busy? You never take this long to respond… - you decided not to tell her about your night out, it might start an all out war.

Answer the phone. Now. - There it was. Her ever controlling demeanor never took too long to appear when she wasn’t getting what she wanted.

I will come to Nashville myself if I have to, - she had finished that one with your full name, and you knew she was serious.

As much as you would have loved to set boundaries with your mother that you knew she would actually respect, it simply wasn’t possible with the woman. She would either get what she wanted out of you for the rest of her life - or yours if it killed you first - or you would eventually gain the courage to cut her out of the picture. The latter was extremely unlikely, though, she always knew how to sink her nails deeper into your throat, and keep you on her hook, needing her.

Sorry, mom. Had a closing shift and was exhausted when I came home. I fell asleep, sorry. - in the past, it actually made you feel guilty, doing the things you wanted, but now it was simply a means to keep her at bay.

She responded almost immediately - Call me in the morning.

You groaned and almost threw your phone at the ground. Even drunk you knew not to do that, though, so instead you just let the tears well in your eyes and cried until you finally fell asleep.

In your slumber, you missed the text from Sam - Just got home, goodnight!!

Your alarm was not what woke you up the next morning, but a call from your mother at 6 in the morning. She had always started her days at 4 am, and berated you when your sister followed suit. “You’re wasting daylight,” she would scold you, and you were genuinely surprised to find out that most middle schoolers don’t wake up that early.

“Honey,” she had started, and to anyone else it would’ve been sweet, but you knew the manipulation tactics so well, you rolled your eyes at the pet name, “What happened to class yesterday?”

When you explained your ill teacher and Tanya asking you to close, she called them both extremely unprofessional, not respecting your rigorous routine.

“So what did you do instead?” It was gaining intel to her, she wanted to know if you spent your non-busy day productively.

You told her about the coffee shop, and how you cleaned your apartment - to which she scolded you for it having ever been messy - and you threw in a line about studying for your missed class, which of course was a lie, one you hoped she couldn’t see through. That satisfied her enough, but when she checked the time, she asked if you were ready for your 8 am class that met on Fridays. You knew if you looked hard enough, you would probably find your entire schedule written down somewhere in that house, and you shut your eyes tightly as you looked for the right words to tell your lie.

“You actually caught me as I was getting ready, Mom. I’m about to walk to campus actually, so I’ll have to let you go soon.” There was no way in hell you were going to an early class this hungover.

“If you would just let us get you a car, you wouldn’t have to leave so early.”

You knew how hard you had it, not taking up her offer of paying for your apartment, college tuition, or even the car she promised you. You worked every day that you could, even considering taking up a second job just so you could have the extra money. Tanya paid you well, but with all of your living expenses, you had just barely managed to get by. You had scholarships to your name, so that took some of the load off but, God, being an adult was so fucking expensive. If the boys hadn’t paid for your drinks last night, you surely would have been broke today. But you knew how fucked you would be if you did let her do those things, she would never let you forget it, and that’s not even mentioning the obligations you would have to her.

“I wouldn’t have anywhere to park it,” you claimed, and it wasn’t really a lie, “besides, I like the walking, keeps me awake.” You joked lightly, but that was also partially true. The bitter Tennessee winter had kept you wide awake on your trips to campus, and you were almost positive that you had nearly gotten frostbite and would lose a toe.

“Well, I guess it’s good that I know you’re exercising. And you’re still going to the gym, yes?” This again. Your entire high school career was filled with trips to the gym with your mother at 5 in the morning and again at 6 in the evening. She berated you for eating too much, and scolded you when you got dizzy from not eating enough. It made you sick, thinking about your ideals from back then, and how you struggled even now to keep them from re-entering your mind.

“Yes, Mom.” You hadn’t been to the gym in weeks, your schedule too overfilled with work, classes, and being a TA at a 7 o’clock class in the evenings on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.

“Okay, well, call me when you’re not busy.” She didn’t even bother to tell you she loved you. Maybe she just expected you to know, but you really didn’t. Did she end calls with your sister with the phrase? When was the last time she had told you? You couldn’t remember and your heart sunk. Did she love you? If she did, she had a very strange way of showing it.

Once the call ended, you did actually get out of bed, but rather than pulling on a pair of sweats and a t-shirt to go to class like you said you were, you sat on the floor in your living room, right in front of the balcony doors. It was light enough outside for you to see the storm clouds on the Nashville skyline. You sighed and pressed your face up against the cool glass of the door. With your pounding head, the cold felt nice. Your legs were crossed as you looked down to the street, noticing all the people filing out for their morning commutes.

Your eyes had only been closed for a minute - taking in the feeling of a chill nothingness - when you heard a commotion on the street. People walked past the man causing it, but when you heard your name, you stood up to look.

“Hey!” Sam called out your name once you slid open the door, “Let me up! I have breakfast!” You blushed at the scene he was causing, but you grabbed your keys and met him at the door anyway.

“What are you doing here?” You laughed and took a coffee that he offered you.

He smiled, “I know you probably aren’t as used to all the drinking as we are, so I figured you were feeling pretty shitty - I didn’t know what you liked so I just got you what I order.” The weight of your brain far outweighed the uneasiness in your stomach, but shitty was definitely the right feeling.

When he asked you how you felt, you contemplated telling him about the phone call with your mother, but you still didn’t know him that well and unleashing all of your childhood trauma at 7:21 in the morning probably wasn’t the best idea. Instead you simply answered with, “Hungover, now give me some food.” He laughed and handed you one of the bags.

“This is the greasiest thing I have ever seen in my life, Sammy.” It was hard to turn away the thought of not eating it, as you would have normally.

He rolled his eyes, “It’ll help, just eat it and stop being a baby.” Oh the implications behind that statement went so much deeper than he could have imagined. He didn’t know, you reminded yourself, so you sucked it up and took your first bite. It was good, you could admit that much, and when you had finished almost half of it, your pounding head wasn’t so loud anymore.

Sam insisted on turning on cartoons, and you watched as he fiddled with your remote in his attempts to turn on the TV. When he finally got it, he let out an “Aha!” and you laughed at him.

When he began doing a Daffy Duck impression, you thought it might be time to turn it off, but you were laughing so hard that you simply couldn’t. You told him that you were glad you were missing class for this, and he playfully scolded your absenteeism.

“So are you busy tonight?” He took a sip of his coffee.

“I am until 8.”

“Good, you’re coming out with us again,” he told you, never giving you the option to turn him down.

You scoffed lightly, “I don’t think I could handle another hangover like this in the morning.”

“No, no, we’re going bowling! No drinking required!”

[8-bit-britt]

Thoughts on Sonic Frontiers?

Oh man where do I even begin.

The wait for this game was a roller-coaster of emotions for me. I wasn't too interested in it at first and had no means to play it anyway since I didn't have my PS4 yet. But the more that was revealed, the more excited I got. I've always wanted to run around as Sonic in an open world and Frontiers kept looking more and more promising. But with hype came anxiety too. Part of me feared that the first Sonic game I've been excited for in years was gonna flop horribly and that all my hype would be for nothing. It did not disappoint.

I love this game. It's moody and atmospheric. The way the game is first presented to you through the tutorial level is perfect. Sonic starting in a dark, closed off corridor with no direction but to go towards the blinding light up ahead, slowly revealing the world to you as your eyes adjust but only a small strip of the island to get the players comfortable. I loved the somber music and the rain, it really added to Sonic's feeling of loneliness in an unknown location. Then once you get out of that tutorial area, you get this huge pan view of the actual island and the real game starts.

The funnest part of the game for me is how it encourages you to find certain landmark puzzles in order to unlock more of the map. Until then, you're running around blindly and venturing wherever your little heart desires. I love how as you progress through the story, the island theme changes with it. It gives you a sense of progress and keeps the exploration engaging in a sense. I appreciate finally having a Sonic game that has both atmospheric music that's part of the actual gameplay while still having your typical Sonic jams in the cyberspace levels. Stillness and Motion is the perfect way to summarize the feeling this game gives, coming from the title of the ost, having both high octane fighting and speeding through levels while also having a lot of downtime to just soak in the surroundings.

The bosses, good LORD. Easily the best super Sonic fights we've had in years, this is peak power. I love seeing other people's reactions to the music because it goes HARD. Metal music in a Sonic game, we love to see it. There were moments in these fights that legit gave me chills with how cinematic they are. Incredible.

Lowest point is easily the cyberspace levels. I found myself putting them off until I had to do them, they just stopped interesting me after awhile. I would much rather explore the islands than do these really short and easy levels. They just felt kinda tacked on last minute. You would think that the levels being short would be a good thing since I don't feel like playing them much but it just further makes it feel like there wasn't much time and thought put into them. Could just be me being spoiled on having played Sonic Unleashed recently but who knows.

Finally, the story. The story is great! I was excited to hear from the start that comic writer Ian Flynn was on board and I got exactly what I wanted. Uncovering the mystery of the Starfall Islands and seeing how it all connects to previous mainline Sonic games and seeing the characters written in a way that makes them feel real and fit the overall tone. Character depth that had been missing from the cast for so long. The way Sonic interacts with his friends here felt so genuine, both with it's light-hearted segments and it's more serious ones. Sonic not only helped his friends by freeing them but also helped them discover something more about themselves along the journey. In the game where we play off of Sonic being stripped of any sort of community in a foreign place, he in turn helps them realize what journey of self discovery they want to pursue and Sonic supports their decision to go their separate ways. At least for a little while. There's something so beautiful and bittersweet about that. The story arc with Tails is the best example of this, how Sonic didn't anticipate for his lil bro to grow up so quickly and is a little hesitant on seeing Tails venture out to become his own hero, but Sonic fully supports him. It makes me so excited to see the future of this series and how we can see these bonds further develope.

Also THE MODEL EXPRESSIONS, HELLO??? THEY ANIMATED SONIC'S EARS!

To try to wrap this up, I overall thoroughly enjoyed Sonic Frontiers and recommend it to anyone looking for a more engaging story within the series. It's a fun, chill game with its intense and heartfelt moments when needed.

[damonalbarn]

Hey I was wondering if you knew the article that Justine spoke about suzi in?!

It was in The Guardian in 2000. Here you go:

Sweet revenge

In the mid 90s, Justine Frischmann and Damon Albarn were the First Couple of Britpop. Then he used a Blur album to rake over their break-up, while she languished in obscurity amid rumours of heroin addiction. Now she's back with a new album, and it's her turn to exorcise her demons.

Caroline Sullivan

Friday March 24, 2000

As Alison Moyet once said, it's hard to write a decent song when you're happy. Rock bands thrive on romantic turmoil in their private lives, without which they would be reduced to padding out lyrics with football scores and the weather.

Thus it was for Blur's Damon Albarn in mid-1998 when he sat down to write what would become the 13 album. His eight-year relationship with Justine Frischmann of the chart-topping Elastica, whom he once described as **"the only person who's ever been completely necessary to me" **had just ended, at her instigation. Pained and humiliated, he decided to exact revenge by exposing their most intimate details to public scrutiny.

The outcome? Embarrassment for Frischmann, a number one album for Blur and a bit of a result for Albarn.

Break-up albums are by definition both embittered and yearning - in the case of Marvin Gaye's vindictive Here, My Dear, they're just plain nasty - but 13 got more up-close and personal than could be considered gentlemanly. Albarn portrayed his former partner as neurotic, even slipping apparent drug references into the single Tender: "Tender is the ghost, the ghost I love the most/Hiding from the sun, waiting for the night to come". Frischmann was the ghost, supposedly, who was on the verge of being consumed by what one music paper euphemistically called "the darkness at the heart of Elastica".

Frischmann's response can be found on a song called The Way I Like It, which appears on Elastica's first album in five years, The Menace (out next month): "Well, I'm living all right and I'm doing okay/Had a lover who was made of sand, and the wind blew him away".

This is unlikely to be her last word on the subject. As she ambivalently begins her first round of interviews since 1996, she's finding that everyone has the same three questions. Why did Elastica nearly sabotage a promising career by taking so long to follow up their million-selling debut? Had Frischmann taken leave of her senses when she walked out on Mr Britpop? And what about the drug rumours?

"One journalist said to me, 'Dahling, I heard you were on heroin - Mahvelous!' " she says with some amusement. "Drugs are around, but I'm not that interested and never have been, although there have been elements of party animal in my band. The rumours are a lot to do with rock'n'roll mythology, where people want to believe you're having a more exciting time than you are."

The only drugs on her person today, as she perches on the edge of an armchair in her publicist's north London living room, are Marlboro Lights. Her other indulgences are two cups of herbal tea and a Cadbury's Flake cupcake, which she nibbles with well-bred pleasure. Her dark eyes are clear, and her long, tanned body is a testament to the virtues of a daily swim in a pool near her Notting Hill home. Only Elastica know whether they really succumbed to heroin and hedonism after their self-titled debut made them more famous than they'd ever expected to be, but if they did, Frischmann, 30, seems little the worse for it.

Given the current predominance of damnable boy bands, the Britpop mid-90s are beginning to seem like a halcyon period for English music. It was a time when the underground went overground, and a self-described "little punk band" like Elastica could sell 80,000 albums in a week.

More than a few loser guitar groups saw Britpop as a licence to print money, but Elastica, led with cool elan by the androgynous Frischmann, were one of its gems. The Blur connection was a marketing godsend (Frischmann and Albarn met on the London indie circuit, she as guitarist in an early line-up of Suede and girlfriend of frontman Brett Anderson, he as a cherubic baggy hopeful), yet the spiky-haired Elastica LP embodied that euphoric time like nothing else.

Frischmann, guitarist Donna Matthews, drummer Justin Welch and bassist Annie Holland were unprepared for the album soaring to number one in its first week. When they signed their record deal, Frischmann, whose great-grandfather was a conductor of the Tsar's orchestra at the Summer Palace in Byelorussia, was five years into an architecture degree at London University. A liberal north London Jewish upbringing - her engineer father built the Oxford Street landmark Centrepoint - had instilled expectations of success, but the reality of being photographed in the supermarket and having her rubbish stolen was a shock. Fiercely independent, she also resented her unsought role as half of Britpop's First Couple.

There was more. Two of Frischmann's musical heroes, The Stranglers and Wire, decided that two Elastica songs were suspiciously similar to two of their own tracks, and won royalties. Meanwhile, there were malicious rumours that Albarn had done much of the work on the record. He hadn't, but he did find Justine's success in America, where she was substantially out-selling Blur, hard to endure.

"It was very hard for him to deal with and he's very confrontational," she says, with the flattering openness of someone who prefers interviews to be more like conversations. She admits she often says too much, but in an era of image control and spin, her honesty makes her a one-off. Not that she's likely to land herself in it too badly - she possesses the intellectual ammunition to look after herself, which must have been instrumental in attracting two of rock's more articulate stars, Albarn and Anderson.

She's been accused of being a professional rock girlfriend, though it was probably they who were lucky to get her. She spent the cab ride over reading the Sylvia Plath letters in Monday's Guardian, and muses on the irony of the poet's subjugating herself to Ted Hughes when she was the more gifted. (Her new boyfriend, by the way, is an unknown photographer, "though that'll probably change, because men seem to get famous when I go out with them".)

"I reacted the way a lot of women do, by being passive," she continues. "He put a lot of pressure on me to give up Elastica. He said, 'You don't want to be in a band, you want to settle down and have kids.' " In so many words? "In so many words. He kept putting on pressure till I started to believe him." She adds bemusedly: "I've met his new girlfriend, and one of the first things she said was that he wanted her to give up travelling with her work to stay home with the baby [Missy, born last autumn]. I'm surprised he's got away with being thought of as a nice person for so long."

After 18 months, during which they did seven American and three Japanese tours, Elastica came off the road to record company demands for an immediate second album. Annie Holland's response was to quit the group, while Donna Matthews became renowned for hard partying on the nocturnal west London scene. They lethargically recorded some demos, but their heart wasn't in it. By 1997, when a second album should have been ready to go, Frischmann and Matthews were barely speaking, and there was nothing useable down on tape.

Holland's replacement, Sheila Chipperfield (of the circus Chipperfields), was deemed not good enough and left by mutual consent. By 1998, their continued lack of productivity was being likened to the Stone Roses' lengthy and ultimately self-destructive holiday between their first and second LPs.

"I didn't think Elastica were going to continue at that point, and we did kinda split up," she says, absently stroking her publicist's cat. Frischmann is a cat person; she's owned a tabby called Benjamin since she was 10. "Unconditional love," she coos. The pet's place in her life is so assured that prospective boyfriends are subjected to his feline scrutiny before she'll go out with them.

On top of everything else, in early 1998 her relationship with Albarn was in trouble. Frischmann retains enough of the indie ethic to detest the phenomenon of celebrity couples, and was dismayed when they became one. "I really hated the tabloid interest, and I went out of my way not to be photographed with him. Only about three pictures of us together exist, I think. In many ways, I think the media interest broke us up, because it made me feel the relationship was quite ugly, and I had to get away from it. There were other factors, too, obviously, because we were together for eight years, and I finally felt it was better the devil you didn't know, really."

Albarn's ego seems to have been severely undermined by having a girlfriend who was nearly as successful as he was, and something of a sex symbol to boot. Despite adopting a resolutely boyish T-shirt-and-jeans uniform, she's thoroughly feminine, a mix that got her voted fifth most fanciable woman in a lesbian magazine.

"I'm completely heterosexual, so I didn't know how to take that. It scares the shit out of me, the idea of being with a girl. I'm glad I've narrowed it down to half the people in the world."

She seems to view Albarn with indulgent exasperation these days, simultaneously praising his intelligence ("The Gallaghers just couldn't compete") and ticking off his flaws. "Damon adores being in the press, and sees all press as good press. He orchestrated that rivalry thing with Oasis. He really wanted kids, and I didn't feel our relationship was stable enough. He was a naughty boy, and he wasn't the right person to have kids with. I had this cathartic moment..."

At which point they split up. Albarn wrote 13 and then met Suzi Winstanley, an artist. "She was pregnant within three months," Justine observes wickedly.

Of the acclaimed 13, she's tactful, describing several songs as "really lovely". She studies her cigarette for a while before adding, "but I'm cynical about selling a record on the back of our relationship". But you're doing the same now. "It's true, but at the time I had no right of reply."

Elastica finally pulled themselves together last year, just as the music industry was about to write them off (their American label had already "very kindly let us go", as she puts it). Holland rejoined, Matthews went to Wales to sort out her life and the band banged out an EP and played the Reading Festival. Things came together quickly after that. They spent the last £10,000 of the recording budget on re-recording a dozen tracks, finishing the album, after years of procrastinating, in six weeks. They've called it The Menace "because that's what it was like to make".

It's dark and resolutely uncommercial - all wrong for 2000's pop-oriented climate. It's unlikely to match the success of the first one, which is fine with them. Call it (though Justine doesn't) their White Album. Its 70s punk aesthetic brings to mind angry girls such as the Slits and the Au Pairs, although the defining mood isn't anger so much as catharsis. None of the songs is specifically about Albarn, she claims. "The dark feeling is due to the sense of isolation, tasting success and getting frightened by it. I was questioning whether I wanted to be in a band any more, and there was no one I could ask for advice. Getting success and everything you ever dreamed about is hard to handle, and makes you question everything."

She's better prepared for success, if it comes again, this time. Already the privacy-preserving barriers are in place. The next interview of the day is with Time Out magazine, which wants a list of her favourite restaurants. "I'm not telling them where I eat," she says reflexively. "I'm gonna lie."

[yandere-flower]

Hi I'm currently on a long road trip and I have a question. Can please list your OC'S from worst to best to be on a long trip with?

Can I just say I absolutely love your guys questions that are like "I am currently engaging in a activity and I need to know if my yan of choice would be absolutely terrible to do it with so I'm going to ask you to rank all of them in hopes I get the best one, even though I know I won't" it's like just a shared experience amongst all of you that you live in fear about your yan being terrible and yet I'll never know and the fact that nobody follows up with who their yan is just confirms my former statement. Beautiful.

Anyway, here we go, from best to worst. also bonus what their go to drive thru is:

Cliff - This man is a professor, former frat bro, AND a dad he's got you covered whether you wants a quiet podcast trip, a drinking trip, or a nice bonding time trip with antics. Also will drive the entire time and you get to see his messy hair curls and casual style. Perfection. Likes Wendy's but does that dad thing of telling you he can make multiple stops if you want different things. Buys you expensive drinks at Starbucks, and boy will you go to starbucks often.

Zara- Honestly is good or bad depending on your preference. Is very picky and will veto most of what you say, however you get to ride in a luxury vehicle, eat at great restaurants and stay in beautiful hotels and get to look at Zara's hot summer road trip bod and ten different swim suits. Will not allow others on the road trip. Prefer driving but will take a break. Will prefer sit down restaurants but is a sucker for Raising Canes and Starbucks combo.

Olive: Instagram esque roadtrip, so be prepared to make a tons of stops for pictures. But honestly, it's all fun stuff, like landmarks or a pretty setting so it's really not to bad. Lots of chattering from gossip to work but it's all light hearted and fun and she lets you talk about anything and just goes "ooo tell me more" and is so interested. Shares driving responsibilities but is honestly not a good driver. A little picky about food choices but will let you convince her. Needs to pee often. Chipotle bowls for the win, Jamba Juice for a "snick snack"

Antonio- Curated playlists, specifics things to see, a few make out sessions in the car. Has a very specific mindset on how things will go and will get a little pissy if it does not turn out that way. Kinda forces you to do things you're not up for but "come on babe it's meant to be fun". Handsy at the wheel and will drive a majority of time. Go to drive thru is Wendy's because this man is hands down his daddys son.

Ezra - Makes prepared foods and snacks but kinda gets insecure if you prefer a drive thru over his perfectly prepared food. Probably listens to t-swift and harry styles albums so take that as you will. Very talkative and takes turns driving since he's a bitch who can't go beyond the natural limits of his mortal body. Average. Doesn't have a preferred place.

Margo: Kinda boring tbh. She's very good at making a plan, but also anxious about a lot of things. You will need to drive, and make executive decisions. Have fun listening to true crime podcasts and getting her expert forensic opinion on decaying bodies. Cannot listen to loud or pop like music. Likes Shake Shack or a Culvers.

Mizu - Obsessed with making things on time, has an itinerary and will veto many food choices. Do not eat in his car unless he give permission. Does not like driving however and prefers to back seat drive. Has fairly good music taste, and at least is good at planning. Doesn't mind Mcdonalds or Auntie Anne's but you need to eat in the building.

Desmond - Terrible, drives the entire time, will make you sit in the back seat, does no allowed snacks, gets calls from work constantly and prefers complete silence. Awful. Man likes a Jimmy Johns or a sandwich shop, but will berate you if you suggest Subway. Will drink Starbucks only because it's his only decent coffee choice on the road.

Sawyer: Don't. Please don't. He will drink and drive and insist you do to because "driving engages your brain so you body just beats the alcohol". Trashes your car, both on the inside and inevitably on the outside when he hit's a curb leaving the 3rd Taco Bell of the trip. Does not have his own car so it will be yours or a rented one. Will take 20 detours and you will not arrive anywhere close to on time. Spends 30 minutes talking to the cashier at the 7-11 about cryptids and insists you go hunting for mothman, will leave you in the forest if he gets scared. Passes out at the wheel once before your scream wakes him up. Don't.

[kindofwriter]

rqg asks! how about 5, 9, 11, 20?

5. Pick a character and make a prediction for their epilogue.

Okay, I don’t know what’s happening to Zolf, my sweet, sweet boy, after that last episode, but the fact that Alex made Wilde go make cute with him makes me very confident that Alex hadn’t forgotten about their lil holiday plans. I don’t whether it will be actual holiday (bless Dubrach and fingers crossed), an afterlife “holiday”, or a really mournful solo boat trip on which he thinks about Zolf and feels as heartbroken as we will, but I am quite confident that will will Go Somewhere. (Tho depending on what happens in this episode and what they’ve planned for future content, this may be a future episode).

9. Which was your favourite arc and why?

100% Paris. Imo, the only downside to Paris is that Bertie’s there instead of Azu. I love the themes, I love Mr Ceiling as a “villain”, I love mind manipulation as a trope, I love the fake out boss battle. I love the emotional rollercoasters every character goes through. I love that I know what all the landmarks look like without having to google it, lol. The balance of emotion and action is perfect. I’ve listened through RQG 3 times, and with the length of it I can’t see myself ever doing that again, but I can definitely see myself listening through the Paris arc again some time. Ah, sweet nostalgia.

11. Which raw-ass line will stick in your mind for years to come?

I put this in hoping other people were good at remembering quotes, oof, but honestly what really sticks with me is Zolf’s lack of raw-ass line when he leaves Sasha and Hamid. At that point Bertie hadn’t died and Rome wasn’t even on the horizon, I don’t think Ben as a player had any reason to believe Sasha (and or Hamid) would die before he could make Zolf say goodbye. He was probably thinking Zolf would show up in the epilogue having done some behind the scenes shit. And this reflects in Zolf words and mannerisms in this scene in such an interesting way, because none of the players recognising the gravity of the moment is somehow SO in character. So he just says 'see you later’. And that’s it. And it kinda haunts me.

20. I’m a firm believer that everyone takes at least a little piece of every piece of media they consume away with them, to become a part of their lifestyle, or moral code, or even a part of themself. What will you take from Erasing the Line?

Well, first off: Sasha’s fanon (kinda canon) haircut. I had it for 3 months before I decided being Gable Skyjacks would be cooler.

But, on a more serious note, it’s shown me many things I love about story telling. The Ben-and-Lydia’s-mutual-respect-based-on-skill-and-emotional-intelligence-or-lack-thereof-between-PCs is something that feels so much less manufactured when created by two friends manipulating their little imaginary people, and now that I’ve seen those dynamics work I want to seek them out again, and recreate them in my own work.

There’s also something about Zolf’s tenacity, that forward-motion through everything, especially in his, shall we say, second act that I really enjoy. Something about moving forward not just because you have to, but because you genuinely believe there’s something better out there. I want that.

Tysm for the ask!!!

[one-chicago-fanfiction]

Gabby and Antonio: This Instinct to Run

Word Count: 2k

Summary: This story is set many years prior to the beginnings of all One Chicago shows. When Antonio tells Gabby he's having top surgery at last, the two of them share a difficult, interesting conversation.

Antonio Dawson was nervous. He was waiting for his sister in their usual spot—a diner on the corner, just a few blocks away from the house they grew up in. It had, for a while, been their after school place, mostly in the years where Gabby was too young to be home alone, and Antonio’s school bus took longer to get him home than her’s did. They were older now, and Antonio was nursing a coffee, slouched down in the seat, one knee up at his chest, the other leg stretched out before him. He probably didn’t look nervous, but his heart was slamming hard in his chest, and a sickly sort of adrenaline coursing through him.

They hadn’t seen a lot of each other lately, and it was starting to take a toll as far as Antonio was concerned. Gabby was taking classes, training as an EMT. Antonio’s heart, meanwhile, still pulled him towards the same two things it always had. One of those things was the Chicago police department, a dream he’d harboured for almost as long as he could remember. When he thought about how long it was taking him to get started in his career there, he ached as if he’d already lost something. There was a desperation there, thrumming under his skin, a voice telling him soon, soon…

But first, there was something else he needed to do, something even more important. This thing, this one last thing on his to do list before he could start the rest of his life? Antonio Dawson had never wanted anything more.

Gabby walked into the diner, and met his eye with a smile and a nod. She ordered herself a drink and slid onto one of the seats opposite him, pausing only to kiss his cheek before she pulled off her coat and sat down. Antonio sat a little straighter. There was so much of their mother in Gabby, and the smile he gave his loving, strong willed, incredible sister was small, nervous. Something flashed through her eyes, something like suspicion. She’d seen, right away, the thing he’d been trying to hide.

“Good to see you, sis,” he said. Gabby hummed, dismissing his attempt at pleasantries.

“What’s going on with you?” She asked, nodding thanks to the waiter who placed her coffee on the table between them. She took a long sip.

“What’re you talking about?” Antonio asked. “I’m all good.”

“Sure,” said Gabby, wiping foam from her top lip. “That’s why you’re all weird and—sweaty—right now.”

“I’m not...” Antonio started, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. “I’m not sweaty.”

“And I’m not stupid,” Gabby said. “This isn’t no casual catch up. I wanna know what’s going on.” As kindly as she said it, her unblinking gaze was a challenge, and one of the common themes of their childhood had been Gabby’s challenges, Antonio succumbing to them every time.

“Okay,” he said. “Fine. I have news. I was gonna build up to telling you this, you know? I was actually gonna ask how things are going with you.”

“You can ask me that after,” she said, then another swig of her coffee. Antonio could smell the sweetness of it from here. Pumpkin spice maybe. Damn October. A pang of envy struck him. He should have thought of that himself. He cleared his throat, pulled himself back to what mattered.

“Sure,” he said, a quick glance around the diner before he went on, talking a little quieter now. “Okay. I, uh…I got the money together for my top surgery. It’s finally gonna happen.”

“Woah,” Gabby said, eyes wide, pushing her coffee aside as she leaned in a little closer. “Woah, Antonio. That’s—amazing. Are you, uh—I mean—do you have a date yet?”

“Two months from now,” he said, unable to stave off his idiot grin, even with his heart pounding so hard. He wondered if he looked as unhinged as he was worried he did.

“That’s soon,” Gabby said.

“Not soon enough,” Antonio said. “Trust me.”

“So,” said Gabby, and paused. It unsettled him that she was taking her time, choosing her words so carefully. It was something he was getting slowly used to, the way his sister would hold herself back sometimes, like his coming out had undone some of the comfort between them, like she couldn’t just let herself be, in case she said something that stung him, as if he wasn’t able to come back from that. Like she didn’t completely know him anymore.

“So?” He prompted.

“So,” she said, “you’re ready, then? I mean…for all of…for everything?”

“All of it,” Antonio said. “I’m ready for all of it.” Gabby smiled.

“Then I’m happy for you.”

“Look,” said Antonio. “I know some of this has been weird for you, but I—“

“Hey, no,” said Gabby. “It’s not that, I just—“

“Would you let me finish?” He said, a fond smile on his face. Gabby yielded with a nod of deference, slouching in her seat now, the mirror image of her brother across the table.

“I just wanted to say I appreciate your support,” he said. “I mean…I also kinda wish you’d stop treating me like some fragile bird.” Gabby made a face.

“Fragile bird?”

“Honestly?” Antonio started. “Never thought I’d say this, but I kinda miss you messing with me all the time. Lately you’ve been treating me like I can’t handle that stuff. Is it, uh…Is it that you’re…”

“That I’m what?” She asked, watching him so intensely now that he had to take a breath just to steady himself.

“Okay,” he said. “Sometimes I’m scared that…I mean, sometimes it feels like, maybe, you don’t know how to talk to me anymore.”

“Antonio,” she said, and his mind jumped back to the first time he’d told her the name he’d chosen, the first time she repeated it back to him, setting it in stone for the both of them. “It’s not that. It’s just…okay, yeah, this is all new to me. I’m kinda learning as we go here. And I love you no matter what, and I want you to be happy. I’m not mom and dad. I’m not gonna try to push you back in the closet just so I can tell myself we’re a normal family. You’re my brother, and I know now—that’s who you’ve always been. It’s just...I guess I’m still getting used to the fact that I was wrong for so long.”

“Okay,” Antonio said, holding himself back from apologising, quiet and desperately proud for not saying it right there at the table. He’d apologised to their parents, to the couple of so called friends who didn’t get it, to the girlfriend who’d broken up with him, pretty much on the spot. At the first hint of her sadness, Antonio had made his apologies and left. But time had passed now, and his truth wasn’t something to apologise for anymore. He knew that now. Or, at least, there were moments when he knew it, and moments when he tried to.

Nobody deserved those apologies from him, and nobody else was going to get them. Not even Gabby.

“Just be patient with me,” Gabby said. “I really am trying.”

Antonio bristled a little, but forced a smile despite it. They’d always been close, always been the ‘Dawson Girls’ growing up, and Antonio had hated that term even before he truly understood why. He wondered if, despite knowing he was only one person, had only ever been one person, if Gabby was mourning him anyway, even as he sat opposite her.

“If you miss having a sister,” said Antonio, “just know you never really had one at all. Just the idea of it, that’s all.” Gabby made a face.

“Well, okay,” she started. “I get that, but for a long time there, that idea was my reality. It’s gonna take me longer than—“

“It’s been over a year,” Antonio said. He hadn’t expected this when they’d arranged to meet, this anger in him, the hot liquid shock of it coiling under his skin. Another living thing inside of him.

His transition was not a graveyard. He wasn’t burying his old self, wasn’t killing off some girl, someone’s daughter, someone’s sister. They hadn’t talked about it, but Gabby had mourned a little at every landmark of his transition. She’d celebrated with him of course, but he could sense the sadness in her too, quiet and hidden away. The day he came out to her, the day he started testosterone, the first day she noticed a drop in his voice. The binder he wore today was safe, and it fit him correctly, and now that he was on T it helped him pass in public, but it still felt like a prison.

Summer had passed, sticky and hot, and all the while Antonio had contended with the harsh fabric against his skin, his chest pressed impossibly flat against him, a miracle and a curse all at once. Working out was almost impossible, breathing too deeply ached, and the sight of other men effortless in tank tops, or shirtless in public—it stung him just to see it. He’d lost count of the summer days he’d spent whiled away inside, just so he didn’t have to bind in that heat, just so he didn’t have to come face to face with the things he needed to survive, and didn’t yet have.

His sister watched him from across the table, folded her arms across her chest. There was Dawson anger in her as well, and the barest hint of disappointment that only made Antonio want to get up and leave. He’d perfected that too—this instinct to run.

“Do you really think I’m like that?” Gabby asked. “You really think I’m not happy for you, just because I miss thinking I had a sister? Sometimes I do miss thinking that, but I have a brother now, and I wouldn’t change you for anything. All that stuff mom and dad think matters? It doesn’t. This does. We do.”

Antonio blinked. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s...that’s what I mean. I guess...I guess I just don’t like feeling like I’m something you have to settle for.” Gabby’s gaze hardened on him then. She was fierce, and wild—they both were, in a way, but Gabby was sharper at her edges, and stronger at her heart. Antonio swallowed hard.

“You are not a consolation prize, Antonio,” she said, and for a long moment afterwards, neither of them said anything. They just sat there, the Dawson siblings, eyes fixed on each other, just watching, waiting for one of them to break.

In the end, as was always the way among them, it was Antonio.

“Long story short,” he said, “I called you here to ask you something.”

“Sure,” said Gabby, reaching for her coffee once more, the tension going out of her, the air a little cooler and easier to breathe between them. Antonio felt his heartbeat calm a little too. He fixed his eyes on the table in front of him.

“Can I, uh…Can I stay with you for a while? After surgery I mean.” He glanced up to find Gabby smiling at him, watched as she reached across the table and punched him on the arm, as if they were kids again. “Ow.”

“Damn right you’re staying with me,” she said. “Someone’s gotta keep an eye on you.”

“There’s no one better,” he said, rubbing his arm. Gabby laughed.

“No one better to order me around,” she said, “than my big brother.”

“Will you listen to me, though?” He asked.

“Nah,” said Gabby, and clinked her cup against his before downing the rest of her coffee. “Cheers.”

[monstersdownthepath]

Spiritual Spotlight: Tanagaar the Aurulant Eye

Lawful Good Empyreal Lord of Night, Owls, and Watchfulness

Domains: Animal, Darkness, Good, Law Subdomains: Archon, Feather, Moon, Night

Chronicles of Righteousness, pg. 25

Obedience: Find and observe a mouse or rat from no more than 30 feet away. Continue watching the mouse, unseen, for 100 breaths. Catch the mouse and release it in an area where owls hunt. Benefit: Gain a +4 sacred bonus on saving throws against effects that would hinder your sight or hearing.

Oh my god

After all these years, after all this searching, we’ve finally found it. We’ve found an Obedience that justifies carrying around a Sack Of Rats! It’s a miracle!

Anyway, this Obedience is ironically somewhat difficult to perform if your DM is being a stickler about it. Note that you not only have to find a rat--which means if you’re using a Sack Of Rats, you have to release it and then relocate it--but you have to watch it while being unseen. While one may assume that “unseen” simply applies to the rodent in question, the linguistic gymnastics we tend to pull here at Monsters Down The Path LLC to cheese Obediences sometimes works against us, and in this case “unseen” may not simply apply to your prey, but anyone. If your DM applies this additional stipulation, I hope you’ve got a good Stealth mod! And a good excuse about your weird behavior.

While Tanagaar isn’t exactly an evil guy, he’s not especially well-known, and your weird prowling may get some raised eyebrows. The good news is that as a Lawful Good deity (and an Archon at that), the number of times you’re likely to be sent into Evil territory to subtly work among them is 0, reducing your chances of needing actual excuses about why you’re skulking around like a cat. If, for whatever reason, you want to keep your worship of the Aurulant Eye under wraps, simply being a catfolk, kobold, or goblin is a good enough excuse.

Next comes catching the vermin and releasing it in an area where owls hunt. Simple enough in almost any environment but a desolate stretch of empty desert, winter wasteland, or subterranean cavern, as owls are very widespread, to the point that this Obedience could simply say “release it into the wild.” The biggest problem is refreshing your rodent stock, an issue that goes largely unaddressed in other Sack Of Rats Obediences because those usually require the death of any small critter, and this one specifically requires rodents. Better take up rat catching as a hobby or frequent the local pet store, I guess!

The benefit is more amazing than it looks at first glance, because Monsters Down The Path LLC’s patented Linguistic Gymnastics is here to point out that any effect which could impair your sight or hearing is blocked, even if that effect is SECONDARY, such as against powerful spells like Sunburst or against afflictions like Blinding Disease. Having your senses stripped from you is always bad, even for a short time, but the fact this benefit applies to “any effect” that would “hinder” your sight or hearing means it works on everything from having dust blow in your eyes to an enemy’s Greater Shout, and it can potentially give you an edge against dozens or hundreds of other effects which tack on sensory abuse as a bonus effect, making it a fantastic bonus at all levels. It even applies to EVERY saving throw instead of just Fortitude!

Boons are gained slowly, typically achieved once you reach 12, 16, and 20 Hit Dice. Followers of the Empyreal Lords, however, can enter the Mystery Cultist Prestige Class at level 8, which grants them their Boons much quicker! Entered as early as possible, you gain the Boons at levels 10, 13, and 16 instead. Mystery Cultists MUST take the Celestial Obedience feat, NOT Deific Obedience.

Empyreal Lords do not grant the typical Evangelist/Exalted/Sentinel spread (and cannot enter those classes), instead having only one set of Boons granted to their followers regardless of their class.

Boon 1: Forest Dweller. Gain Calm Animals 3/day, Eagle Eye2/day, or Deeper Darkness 1/day.

Oh, interesting! Never seen Eagle Eye here before, and it’s actually a good spell! ... sort of. It creates a magical sensor above you, upwards to 400ft+40ft/lvl, from which you can see as though you were there and rotate your viewpoint around freely. It’s more or less to give one a birds-eye view of a battlefield, akin to someone playing an RTS with an over-the-field viewpoint to make commanding armies easier, though the birds-eye view is also very, very useful for spotting threats to a small group of people (such as the party) that they cannot see from the horizontal plane.

Also, needless to say, but having a safe way to see the surrounding terrain from several hundred feet above it can make navigating towards a destination or landmark much easier. With a 1 min/lvl duration and 2/day availability, you can be the party’s aerial lookout without ever actually leaving the ground and putting yourself in danger, and the sensor itself is invisible as well if you fear flying enemies. Eagle Eyes isn’t useful at all inside enclosed environments, and in fact cannot be used to spy into the floors above you unless you have line of effect, but if you want to peel inside, say, the Evil Wizard Tower without alerting them via the use of a familiar or similar, go crazy.

Calm Animals causes up to 2d4+CL HD worth of animals to become docile and harmless for its duration, but for it to actually work on a group of animals, they all must be roughly the same type (i.e. a pack of wolves) and cannot be further than 30ft apart. This isn’t really a problem, as using it on a bunch of angry animals usually means you’re hitting a pack of scavengers or predators you’ve angered, and its generous scaling means that it’ll be useful at all levels of the game whether you need to slow down a charging pack of raptors or just one big T. Rex--wait a T. Rex has how many hit dice? well, scratch that particular idea I guess. unless you get lucky with your 2d4 roll. Still useful. The big problem is that it’s completely useless against anything that’s not an Animal, and if an Animal suddenly receives the gift of sapience--even temporarily--the spell has no effect on them. That makes this spell useful for traveling through the wilds (or, rarely, stopping the charge of an enemy warhorse), but not for much else.

Which leaves Deeper Darkness, the spell which hammers your party just as hard as it does an enemy. Creating a 60ft sphere of absolute black can send chaos through the ranks of more or less any foe, because if the area was already low or dim light it becomes supernaturally pitch that not even darkvision can pierce it! Not even yours. Cutting off your party’s ability to see is just as crippling for them as it is your enemy, so be sure to have some method to actually take advantage of the shroud or you’ll end up swinging at empty air or, worse, swing at allies. While it’s good for making an escape, Obscuring Fog is way better, way cheaper, and doesn’t take away your magical flexibility.

Boon 2: Owl's Eye. You gain darkvision out to a range of 60 feet. If you already have darkvision, increase its range by an additional 60 feet.

Wow! Boring! But useful for more or less everyone, since not needing torches or a light source when skulking around in the dark or keeping night watch makes it less likely you’re spotted by some prowling predator or sadistic dungeon-dweller, but it’s noting spectacular or even particularly noteworthy. I appreciate that Tanagaar extends existing darkvision outwards, but it’s rare you’ll actually need more than 60 feet unless you’re actually adventuring in an open area after dark.

It’s a decent Boon, but it’s also insultingly easy to replicate with existing spells or cheap items (such as a Wand or Potion of Darkvision), making its impact a little hard to appreciate.

Boon 3: Hunter's Edge. You gain Sneak Attack +3d6. This increase to Sneak Attack damage stacks with Sneak Attack damage you may have from other sources. Whenever you deal Sneak Attack damage with a piercing weapon, you deal +2 points of damage per Sneak Attack die.

huh hey that’s pretty good

hey aren’t you supposed to be Lawful, Tanagaar? Not that I don’t appreciate a little bit of pragmatism among the forces of Good, but stabbing someone in the kidney from behind seems kinda underhanded, doesn’t it? Then again, so does summoning flocks of owls to gouge out enemy eyes or appearing before them as a terrifying phantasm to gently coerce them into surrender. Even Law knows when it needs to fight dirty, I suppose.

Not that you HAVE to, mind; with how easy it is to set up a Sneak Attack (you literally just have to be flanking), you don’t have to be particularly sneaky. Just standing across from an ally and stabbing someone in the throat when they turn away from a brief second deals +3d6 damage to them, which is already good before you take into account that, actually, it’s 3d6+6 because Tanagaar superdupercharges your Sneak Attacks with +2 damage per die! Even NOT having SA to begin with is still adding a flat +6 damage to your attacks that stacks with all your other damage modifiers, but having SA available beforehand--such as by being a Rogue, a Ninja, a Slayer, or one of the rare archetypes to hand it out--is especially viable because Hunter’s Edge stacks with ALL other sources. Have +5d6 from your class already? Now it’s 8d6+16 damage.

It’s even tastier if used on a ranged weapon, but make no mistake, it’s still pretty damn nice just at its base regardless of your build... unless you’re a Mystery Cultist, which is aimed mostly at casting and doesn’t get anything particularly martial-aligned until later levels. Classing into Mystery Cultist also means that your Sneak Attack is unlikely to be at all impressive (you may reach 6d6, but certainly not the impressive 8d6 I proposed), but the only other option is waiting for this ability to kick in at level 20, which is simply unacceptable. Aside from that, the only real problem I have with this ability is that it specifically works with piercing weapons... and since Tanagaar’s holy weapon is the kukri, you actually miss this Boon entirely if you stick only to his weapon of choice, and your god actively discouraging you from using any of their sacred aspects isn’t a good look for anyone!

You can read more about him here.

[shadowstar1919]

Danny Phantom meets Addison Sides Cp2

This Is also on Ao3 If you rather read it there.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/37400899/chapters/93511624

I only took an hour to write this because I wanted to write but idk cannot focus today but yeah enjoy?

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

“Huh, that’s interesting.” I say and float over in my human form. I decide to drop down and walk since Sam appeared to be fully human and it would be rude to float around a human when presenting as human myself. "Well I guess I should properly introduce myself, I am Teresa Sides Well in my human form but I go by Addison Sides in my ghost form." Saying as I try in vain to wipe the smudges off my glasses using my black t-shirt. "Well I think you heard my name, but I am Sam and this is Danny." Sam gestures to Danny. "Hey sorry I kinda spaced out in you guys. Anyways I think we should go get coffee if we are going to talk about this some more." He yawns and almost immediately turns human again. The light from his transformation is almost blinding in the dark of the forest edge. Sam yawns in a chain reaction. "Yeah, I have work in the morning, besides you got the day off Danny." Sam waves her hand behind herself tiredly as she has already turned heading for the passenger side of the car. Danny leans against the driver's side of his car. "Well since you probably don't know your way around here want a ride?" Danny asks motioning for me to hop in the back seat. "Uh, sure I actually have no idea where I am not gonna lie. Also, sleep doesn't sound too bad." I blurt out honestly tiredly which was a weird experience for me because back at my home universe I never get tired. The door handle clicks open and the older model of cars door creaks open and I sit down on the leather seat. I look over at Sam who is doing something on her phone and doesn't seem to be paying attention anymore. Danny gets in and he pulls his door shut seemingly too hard. "Oops still not used to this car yet." "Well, I guess you can sleep on your couch tonight?" Sam looks over at Danny. "Well I am fine with that or she can sleep in the spare room. It's kinda empty other than the spare bed." he suggests. "Honestly I can literally sleep anywhere, I have no idea why but I haven't felt this tired since before..." I start out giggling then the thought dawned on me that I haven't been tired since I died. Emotions got tense in the car since everyone seemed to know what I was talking about and I got the sense that Danny might be drawing on that emotion since well it was kinda a ghost thing to do. "No, I get that. for the first few months as a halfa, I had a hard time adjusting." Danny tries to bring some light to the situation as he starts the car. "Ha! He kept falling through stuff and accidentally freezing out his bedroom." Sam laughs. She had put the phone away and seemed to be listening to the conversation more closely now. "Only thing is I know I have been a half-ghost for almost 4 years now. I don't think I have really slept in that time period since back in my universe I have no need to." I fidget with my Fitbit flipping between heart rate and steps. "Well you also said you couldn't use ghost powers there so maybe it has to do with how this universe uses power like ghosts are formed here using ectoplasm which is kinda like an antimatter substance." He continues and almost starts rambling on. Thankfully Sam nudges him and he starts backing out of the parking spot. The conversation lulls and I get focused on where we are going. Much like a little kid looking out the window on a road trip, I take in the landmarks. We leave the campsite I note the name is Camp skulls on lake Eerie and get on a highway. There are roadside advertisements for the Nasty Burger, some odd road signs, to say the least. I have never seen a ghost crossing sign beside a deer crossing before. But then again I wasn't in Ontario anymore and I definitely wasn't even on the same plane of existence anymore but it was kinda fun to see the differences. "So, why did you come to our universe anyways, are you running from something?" Sam presses as she turns to look at me. I drowsily reply "Well I was actually testing out my portal gun with my college club, we uh, are an ectoscience club we were trying to see if we could make portable portals to the phantom zone er plane not quite sure but thankfully I can get home because the portal gun has a built-in homing function." I ramble a bit near the end and kinda trail off into a yawn. Noticing the warm feeling of my leggings I can tell my body is starting to fall asleep on me. I drift off while looking out the window. The last sign I see is Welcome to Amity Park.

[annebrontesrequiem]

CLAMP Timeline BS: How xxxHolic and CCS are Connected

Major spoilers for xxxHolic, TRC, and minor-ish spoilers for Cardcaptor Sakura and Cardcaptor Sakura Clear Card

Also it long

Backstory

Cardcaptor Sakura run: 1996-2000

xxxHolic run: 2003-2011

Clear Card run: 2016-present

What I have read: The entirety of xxxHolic

What I have watched: The entirety of Cardcaptor Sakura, the entirety of Cardcaptor Sakura Clear Card, xxxHolic season 1

 Crackpot Theory Time

So I got the idea for this after seeing some post somewhere (I’ll try to look for the post later) something along the lines of “maybe Sakura in Clear Card will be so powerful she’ll be able to influence the TRC universe/help the members of the CLAMP universe.” Then I started thinking about how, though there have been many posts on the TRC/xxxHolic timeline, I haven’t seen an xxxHolic/CCS timeline. I’m sure it exists somewhere, but since I’ve got my own theories I’m not writing one myself.

This is less of a timeline and more of a “how are they connected”, basically I’m going to be going back through the anime and the manga and saying whether I think CCS and xxxHolic take place in the same universe, and whether or not they’re taking place at the same time.

Let’s start with the most stuff (and apologies the manga scans are ones I made myself so if they’re kinda wonky that’s why)

Also one day I’ll update this when I actually read TRC (lol)s.

Also some of these are a bit crazy.

 Plot Points

Since xxxHolic came second it’s unsurprising that the majority of the things I’m going to be discussing comes from this series. So I’m going to start by framing this around xxxHolic, dipping inThis is going to be a bit all over the place but since I’m focusing on a specific chapter it shouldn’t be too confusing.

1.      In Chapter 2 of xxxHolic we see the most references to Cardcaptor Sakura. Namely Watanuki and Yuuko have an argument about the plastic replica of the Clow Key that Yuuko owns.

2.      Now the version that Yuuko has is the first iteration of the key. That means that when Yuuko acquired it (whenever she did) it was most likely during the first part of Cardcaptor Sakura (although yes I understand in meta it’s because it’s the most iconic iteration). Then again the key has been around for a long time, as it’s the original iteration. It’s possible that Yuuko got a copy of it from Clow, or some point before Sakura got hold of it. Although that’d most likely have to be before Kero fell asleep for 30 years, and before the cards got into the Kinomoto house.

3.      Another thing to note is that Yuuko only has a prop version. Although you might use this to say CCS is a show in this version, it’s pretty obvious that this is just for a gag. Considering the fact Watanuki doesn’t recognize it, there’s little chance that CCS is a beloved kid’s show in the xxxHolic universe.

4.      This is further proven by Yuuko’s words: “…The one who owns the original now is the creep’s [Clow’s] blood relation, a cute young girl.” This is probably the best indicator that CCS is taking place at the same time of xxxHolic. Although it’s possible that CCS takes place in an alternate world/universe, that also seems unlikely. Although Yuuko never seems tied to the shop in the way Watanuki is in the latter half, there’s also (in xxxHolic) no proof that she’s jumping around worlds. Besides, it seems unlikely she’d bring it up to Watanuki in the present-tense if that were the case. Thus we can pretty safely say that Sakura is both alive and still a little kid in the xxxHolic world.

5.      Now the most confusing part in regards to the CCS/xxxHolic timeline is Watanuki’s existence himself. In Chapter 11 Watanuki and Yuuko go to see a fortune teller. During said interaction the fortune teller explicitly states: “Your parents have safely passed into the afterlife” after noting that they died in an accident. Now this could cause some issues, as we know not only that Watanuki’s parents are Sakura and Syaoran (from what I know it’s specifically their clone versions but again I haven’t read TRC so I could be wrong). This could point to two things, either A. This is just a lie or something that CLAMP retconned later, or B. Sakura and Syaoran are dead. Assuming that this isn’t just a retcon or a sort of lie (since Sakura and Syaoran clone’s weren’t actually dead at this point, I’m pretty sure in TRC they don’t even know about Tsubasa Li yet) we could explain this via Eriol. Eriol is confirmed to be the reincarnation of Clow Reed. As of such if we assume that there was another Sakura and Syaoran running around in this world (plz god no), then the accident which caused their death doesn’t actually mean that CCS happened way earlier. It just means that they might’ve reincarnated.

Random Exposition

I’m just going to be talking about technology and geography here

1.      Firstly I had to go back and check and unfortunately the name of Watanuki’s school doesn’t match with the name of Sakura’s school (or rather her brother’s old school). Cross Private School has nothing to do with Tomoeda. Although that could actually further point to them existing in the same timeline, since if they lived in the same place it’d be weird if they never ran into one another.

2.      Tomoeda is said to be close to Tokyo. In fact in the second season we see Sakura and the gang taking the train to Tokyo. Watanuki obviously lives in a city, or a very dense suburb, and in Chapter 5 he mentions that Ginza would take hours to walk to. Having lived in a very dense city myself once (Paris I miss you baby) I know that walking from one side of the other could theoretically take hours. Though I’m not sure how large Tokyo is and I have no real sense of distance, I’d guess that Watanuki lives either in some made up part of Tokyo, or in the suburbs directly connected to the city. As famous landmarks are never mentioned, it could be either or. He could even be from a neighboring city theoretically, although then it’d prolly take much longer to walk to Ginza.

3.      Lastly I want to talk about technology. In Cardcaptor Sakura Clear Card we can clearly see that this is meant to take place in modern times, as Sakura has upgraded to an iphone, in keeping with the time. This definitely disproves CCS coming before xxxHolic, as nothing in xxxHolic suggests it takes place in the future. I also think that there’s no way xxxHolic comes before CCS for any real period of time, after all in Volume 1 there are many chapters dedicated to the woman who cannot stop using the internet. This too points to me that xxxHolic and CCS are running in conjunction to one another, or are at least only a few years off.

Conclusion

So this is all very crackpot and weird, but I do think it’s interesting to ponder. As that forum post said Clear Card definitely seems to be upping the scale of Cardcaptor Sakura, the magic is greater, the stakes seem higher, and characters such as Yuna D. Kaito point towards a storyline that seems more tonally in tandem with the greater CLAMP extended universe, as really ratcheted up by xxxHolic and TRC.

You could make the argument that CCS and xxxHolic are from different universes, though considering what I’ve written and read I don’t think you can argue that they’re utterly disconnected. Overall I’m still missing a huge piece of the puzzle, that being TRC as well as the rest of the Clear Card chapters. One day I’ll prolly remake this post, but until then I hope you enjoyed!

[phobiadeficient]

would you believe i got two of these in the upwards of thirty requests in the inbox

(warnings for aggressive and possessive behavior, all entirely consensual)

-

Scout was perfectly aware of the fact that he was in this mess because he didn’t know when to shut up and when to leave well enough alone. He knew that. He was aware.

Because that’s the thing, it was so easy—hell, so fun to get a rise out of any given member of the team. Engie, Heavy, Soldier (assuming he could get away again before Soldier could catch him and make him do push-ups or some shit), any given member of the team was so fun to piss off. It was just so much more entertaining to piss off the Alphas in particular.

And for the life of him he just couldn’t seem to get Sniper to crack.

It had started with just annoying the man, then truly trying to get on his nerves with assorted jabs and pranks and other minor problems. And then it had escalated, and he figured, well, what better way to rile him up than to flirt? That would really drive him up the wall.

And it took him probably longer to notice than it should’ve, the fact that he wasn’t just interested in Sniper in regards to pissing him off, but also just interested in Sniper. But he figured it out, and leaned into it further.

Just words, at first, then standing much closer than he needed to, lingering touches to Sniper’s shoulder, his arm. Winking, leaning past him to get things, spending time in Sniper’s sight line between matches. No response. No rebuttal.

Finding Sniper off away from the team, out of sight, and flirting more overtly. Picking lint that didn’t exist from the collar of his shirt, visibly giving him once-overs, making idle filthy comments and jokes that would be enough to make even Medic blush, probably.

He caught a tightness to Sniper’s jaw, a flushed tint to his face, his grip on his gun going white-knuckled before he turned away to ignore Scout some more.

And still spending the rest of his time with the same quiet ease and confidence as always. Never bothering with the ridiculous dick-measuring contests the other Alphas tended to get into, ignoring the squabbling like he was above it all. God, it got on Scout’s nerves. He’d show him.

This was one of his more harebrained ideas, to be honest. He didn’t tend to, uh, “take care of himself” on base anymore after a firm complaint about how the Omega scent spreading through the base put just about everyone on edge. He tended to just take a ride out to some boulder landmark a mile or so out from base to handle it, maybe grab something to eat on the way back.

But this time in particular he’d had the whole mood of it ruined by how goddamn hot it was, and one too many cars driving by, and finally the fact that at one point he blinked his eyes open and noticed a big fuckoff spider on the windshield crawling steadily towards him.

So he’d given up and resigned himself to being frustrated and out of sorts all day, but then on the drive back in he’d seen the glint of the barrel of a rifle in the watchtower and gotten an idea.

It wasn’t as bad as in a closed room, but he knew he still would have to take a shower and change his clothes if he wanted to seem at all presentable, he knew his smell was probably strong, heady.

He climbed the ladder with the widest smirk he could ever recall having, feeling just a little bit giddy.

“Hey, Snipes,” Scout greeted once he was up. Sniper didn’t even turn to look at him, raising a hand in a careless wave before returning it to his gun. A pause. “What’s up?”

A nothing sort of hum, and silence again,

“...What’re you doin’ up here?” Scout asked more outright, hands shoved in his pockets, still grinning.

“Watch duty,” Sniper replied dryly. “Soldier seems to think we need to. Only way to get him to pipe down is to do a shift every now and then and come up with nothing.”

“Uh huh.” Scout took a few more steps forward. “Must be wicked boring.”

Another hum that didn’t say much of anything. Scout rolled his eyes, moving forward further after a second.

“Might be nice to, y’know, have something to do,” he said, tone suggestive.

Another hum. He resisted the urge to grit his teeth, moving to lean just to one side of Sniper.

“...Like, this just seems wicked boring is all,” Scout shrugged.

An exhale from Sniper. “Scout, go get your kicks somewhere else, awright? I’m not in the mood for your—“

He stopped talking. Inhaled, exhaled. His brows were furrowed. Scout watched him sniff once, twice, casting off to one side, then finally he looked at Scout, visibly shocked.

He saw Sniper’s throat bob with a swallow. He tried to keep his smile in check.

“Not in the mood for my what?” he prompted.

“Really?” Sniper asked, tone not as firm as Scout had come to expect. “This is your idea of how to get a rise out of me? This?”

“What do you mean?” Scout asked faux-innocently. “I’m just standin’ here. What, you want me to leave?”

Sniper was staring at him. His mouth was a hard line. “This isn’t going to work,” Sniper said, voice flat.

“You’re gonna have to be more specific, I dunno what you’re talkin’ about,” Scout replied easily.

“This stunt of yours. If you think it’s that easy to get me jealous, you’ve got another thing coming.”

A pause, then Scout’s eyebrows furrowed. He’d been trying to make Sniper a lot of things, but jealous wasn’t really one of them. “Wait, what?”

“No, I get it, awright, you have no idea what I’m talking about,” Sniper scoffed sarcastically, glaring back down his scope. “Just bugger off already, mate, I’ve got work to do. And even nonsense work is better than any of the buggery you decide to throw at me.”

“No, wait, I’m being serious here, why the fuck would you be jealous?” Scout demanded.

Sniper exhaled hard enough to almost qualify as a sigh. “You just want to rile me up with this and the other flirting nonsense,” he mumbled. “You try to get me hot and bothered and upset, knowing full well you won’t go through with it, then you run off to work it out of your system with your Alpha in town and probably laugh it up the whole way there.”

A beat. “My what?”

“Your ‘secret boyfriend’, in town,” Sniper drawled, making air quotes. “The one you got once the blokes got on your case about stinking up the whole bloody base twice a week.”

Scout blinked. “Wh... what? I’m not taken, man. What the fuck are you talkin’ about?”

Sniper turned his head to glare at him. “Mate, you want me to believe you’re not bonded when you head off base on the weekly for hours at a time and hog the only phone on base all the time?”

Scout pulled down the collar of his shirt. “Uh, yeah. You see a mark here? I head off base to get fast food and I call home to my brothers and Ma. I don’t have some civvie guy. You’d fuckin’ smell the guy, wouldn’t you?”

Sniper’s eyebrows were furrowed again. “Can’t ever smell much except the seven other blokes we work with and the nine we kill for a living, to be honest,” he mumbled.

“Yeah, well, no. I’ve been single since before I worked here. Whole fuckin’ time.”

“No partner? Not even a casual type?” Sniper asked, eyes narrowing.

“No, not even a one-off kinda situation, not for like, months.”

Sniper stared at him. And this entire conversation was stupid as all hell, but on the other hand, Sniper was staring at him, and something about the slope of his shoulders told Scout that he was at least a little bit upset, and that made Scout’s pulse pound, blood heat, face flush.

“Then why do you keep—“ Sniper started to ask, and cut himself off. “You...”

Sniper stared at him for a long few moments. Rose to his feet. His rifle clattered just a bit as he set it down against the wall. For some reason, it made Scout’s heart skip a beat.

“This whole bloody time you’ve just been trying to get a rise out of me,” Sniper said, not a question, a statement of fact.

Scout swallowed hard, nodded, paused. “I mean, yeah, basically,” he agreed. “Uh. Yeah I dunno I just, I figured...”

How was it that he suddenly couldn’t seem to make his brain and mouth work at the same speed? Maybe it had something to do with the fact that Sniper was a good bit taller than him, and his voice had gotten awfully low for a second there.

He tried again. “It was just that I thought you’d—“

“Thought I’d what?” Sniper asked, voice hard, and it made Scout shiver, then a moment later he finally caught the slightest amount of Sniper’s scent—

And it was just that usually it was buried under everything else, everyone else on the team and the other team and gunsmoke and blood and heat and dust, and now he could finally smell it clearly enough to pick out that Sniper was—

Pissed off was a word he could use. But underneath that there was something heady, and it made him feel almost dizzy.

“Thought you’d figure it out sooner,” Scout said quietly, and wished his voice wasn’t so squeaky.

The sound of boots thunking hard against wood as Sniper moved to close the distance between them.

Scout backed up on instinct, a flare of intimidation crossing his nervous system like a gust of wind, and in a moment he was boxed into the corner of the watchtower, and the smell of anger and something else was so strong now it made his whole head spin.

And Sniper leaned in and down, nosed in against his neck, and he breathed in long and deep, exhaled slowly. Scratched stubble against Scout’s jaw as he tilted his head back up to align his mouth with Scout’s ear, and it made Scout jerk, hands snaring in the front of Sniper’s shirt. His pulse was pounding hard, and he knew it had to be obvious how much of a mess he was.

“Would you rather we make our way back to the base or my camper before I rip you apart,” he asked, voice low and steady, “or should I just fuck you here?”

“Here,” was what Scout tried to say, but the first few attempts came out as whines, and finally he gave up and moved to latch onto Sniper’s neck, starting to fight with the buttons of the other man’s shirt.

Sniper’s hands gripped him around the waist, hefting him enough to lift and bodily pin him against the wall with a curse that sounded like it was halfway to a snarl. Scout helped to support his own weight with legs around his hips, distracted from his half-frantic efforts to get Sniper naked by hands groping their way up his thighs and a hum of approval against the side of his head, breath hot on his cheek.

And then Sniper was kissing him, hard, leaving no room for breath or hesitation, demanding access to his mouth rather than asking for it, and this intensity was just so new that it made Scout’s pulse hammer. And Scout’s hands faltered, from trying to get Sniper’s shirt off to clinging at it helplessly, to trying to inhale enough to make any kind of sound that would let Sniper know just how good this all felt, and it very much didn’t work.

A hand at his belt, yanking it open hard enough to make Scout almost wince, and then similar rough motions between them before Scout was bodily shifted in such a way that Sniper ground forward hard against him, echoing Scout’s pleased groan.

“Fuck,” Scout managed in the centimeter of space between them, only for it to warp into a muffled moan as Sniper claimed his mouth again, one hand sliding down the back of Scout’s pants and gripping one cheek in his hand, humming appreciatively.

Then his hand shifted, trailing down further, two fingertips teasing between his cheeks like a promise. “You’re a bloody mess,” Sniper rumbled against the corner of his mouth, and it made Scout flush up to his ears, because god damn it, but he was right. He was probably practically soaking through his briefs. And he went to complain, to say well, if he would get the hell on with it, but Sniper rolled his hips forward again and his hand moved further down and all at once his index finger slid up to the second knuckle all in one go and it made him jolt, keen, head falling back to thunk against the wall. “Loud, too. Don’t know what else I expected from you.”

Then there was another finger teasing at him, making his breath stutter, making his eyes flutter shut, and immediately following that, a growl that rumbled through him and shook him like an earthquake.

“Look at me,” Sniper demanded, and he did, couldn’t help it, and there was fire there behind Sniper’s gaze, something furious and possessive and fucking hot. It simmered down a few notches as Scout tried his damndest to rock forward against him, making more pleased little noises. “I don’t have a rubber on me.”

“I’m on suppressants,” Scout said, “just, c’mon. Quit teasin’.”

“Needy thing,” Sniper murmured, and his teeth—ever-so-slightly sharp, enough that Scout had noticed it—scraped just so against the sensitive skin of his neck below his jaw, down further until Scout practically whimpered. “Bet you’d practically beg if I asked you to.”

“Don’t you make me,” Scout warned, and wished he could’ve said it without his voice wavering, and felt heat flare through him as Sniper just chuckled, and his hands withdrew enough to heft Scout bodily.

And then he was on his back on the floor, and Sniper was at his neck, pulling him free of his pants and gripping briefly at the bulge at the front of his briefs, making him jolt and gasp. And he wasn’t even free of his damn socks and shoes as he kicked off his pants and moved to wrap his legs around Sniper, pulling him down closer, closer still, breath coming uneven through parted lips. And Sniper had to position teeth over his windpipe like a threat to make him pull back, at least enough for Sniper to get his own pants down, and then Scout was back again, trying to hook Sniper back in, get more, still more. Anything.

“I’m ready, c’mon,” Scout urged, and would be ashamed later of how whiny he sounded, because in the meantime he was overwhelmed with sensation at the feeling of Sniper teasing at him with subtle rolls of his hips, not quite enough force to slip in, just enough to make him want it. And then when he did push in, Scout had to bite his lip to quiet the moan that tried to tear free of his chest, had to close his eyes against the onset of sensation as he tried to sort out everything enough to be coherent.

“Good,” Sniper praised lowly, and continued to roll his hips just so, being such a fucking tease that it was kind of driving him insane but at the same time this felt too good to stop for even just a second.

And even as he rolled into something like proper motion, it made Scout keen, squeezing his eyes shut, because god damn it, he could still tell Sniper was holding back. He had a grip behind Scout’s knees, pushing them up towards his chest, and his expression was screwed up in concentration, and it felt so good but it wasn’t what he wanted, he wanted harder and faster, he wanted Sniper to tear into him already.

And he squirmed against Sniper’s hands, voice fraught with groans and choked words, and Sniper smirked down at him. “Impatient,” he chided breathlessly, and Scout arched and gasped against a series of much harder thrusts only to practically whimper at Sniper slowing back down again a moment later. And that was when Scout realized he really was trying to make Scout beg.

And like hell he would.

Instead, he drew Sniper down and in with a kiss, with gentle nips just below the jaw, only to hook an arm up over his neck and roll him bodily to one side with the strength all that running and jumping ended up giving him.

And he only took a second to appreciate the view of Sniper laid out beneath him looking rumbled and a little dizzied before he planted his hands on Sniper’s chest to pin him in place and started to ride him like he was absolutely made for it.

It took a bit for Sniper to get his head together enough to start rolling up in time, groaning out praise and running appreciative hands up Scout’s thighs. And Scout very much enjoyed the visual of Sniper’s head rolling back when he sank as far as he could go and just rocked slightly, sighing with pleasure at the feeling of it.

“This is my show now,” he panted down at Sniper, feeling a thrill all the way up his spine at the idea of having him laid out like this so easily. “I’m in charge.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” Sniper teased just as breathlessly, smirking again, and Scout scowled, determined to fuck that smug look off his face.

But he was also getting close, and the need to save his pride and the need to finish were both crowding into the forefront of his mind and grappling for his attention, and Sniper slid one hand to start pumping at him like he meant it and the other to rake nails down his thighs and actually he was starting to get worried that he wasn’t going to last like this.

And it was a haze, a blur, the rush of blood in his ears and pleasure up and down his back and his own hard breathing, his own uncontrollable stammering, saying c’mon, c’mon, just fucking knot him already c’mon—

And then oh, fuck, did he. Sniper rolled his hips up hard, took hold of Scout’s waist in a bruising grip and yanked, and then he was being knotted and filled up and he’d find the energy to be embarrassed later about the half-yelp half-whimper that tore free of his throat at the feeling of it, and he came hard into Sniper’s hand.

And he teetered but managed to catch himself before he fell over, just barely managing to keep himself propped up in the wake of it, fucked practically out of his mind and left dizzy in the wake of it. Eventually Sniper managed to coax him into relaxing forward, head pillowed on his chest, both of them just breathing heavily and trying to pull themselves together.

He saw Sniper fumbling out of the corner of his eye to pick up Scout’s shirt from where it had landed, cleaning off his hand, and he would’ve complained if he had the energy for it but instead he just groaned. Sniper glanced down at him, free hand petting through his hair. “I’ve just made it all the more likely that you‘ll waste my time trying to get a rise out of me, haven’t I?” he mumbled, sounding slightly annoyed.

“Rise, no,” Scout murmured back, managing a little wink. “Ride, absolutely.”

And little did Sniper know that the slap on the arm he got for his joke would be counted as a win for Scout, too.

[unsaidmar]

One, The meeting.

Plot: Both Spencer and Olivia mourn their losses. Maybe doing it together works best.

WC: 2k, I get carried away.

CW: Brief mentions of death.

A/N: Hi y’all! I’m very excited to share this. I submitted it for a creative writing assignment last week and I thought I would share it here too. This is the first time I post what I write and I kinda want to make this a series.

Olivia knew pain was lighter on the shoulders when carried with someone else, she was completely aware of the fact that pushing her friends and loved ones away was the last thing you’d want to do when grieving. Didn’t stop her, though. Opening up was a conscious effort she had to make.  

Lia had been gone exactly 467 days. Each one harder, longer and duller than the last.  Her mom had told her that pain didn’t have an expiration date, that she shouldn’t worry about getting over Lia’s death sooner than she was ready to, but nothing could help the feeling in the back of her mind, the little voice that reminded her that the world did not stop spinning when she left. Even if she felt like it did.

Mornings were almost automatic at this point. Get up, make an effort to look better, grab an excuse for breakfast, promise mamá you’ll get something else on the way to work, drive mindlessly to the place you knew like the back of your hand. The Grey Roots was special, it seemed to transform people’s perspective as soon as they walked in, it was full of memories and knowledge. That much was true for Spencer Reid.

Maeve had been gone exactly 278 days. Each one harder, longer and duller than the last. The team did their best to navigate around Spencer’s grief, always taking hints the he dropped. A fake smile that meant “we can ignore my loss today”, a shrug accompanied with the ghost of a smile that meant “today I’m feeling better, but I’m not expecting it to last”, and the words “I’m fine, I promise”, that roughly translated to “this is manageable today, so don’t ask me about it”.

The love and sense of protection the BAU had over Spencer was instinctual, which was hard when he seemed to be a thousand miles away while standing right there. Morgan had said that if isolation was what he needed right now, isolation he was going to get, but always with the promise of his friends running straight to him if he needed the comfort.

On his days off, he tried coming to terms with the loss. Loss was a tricky thing, Spencer thought. By definition, it was the state or feeling of grief when deprived of someone or something of value, so if it meant the absence of something, why did it feel like loss went with him everywhere?

The Grey Roots was a landmark in the man’s life. Maeve had recommended he visit the museum while they were corresponding, which he was more than happy to do, always trying to find a way to feel closer to her than he could actually be. Now his visits changed in nature, he was there to reminisce. To try and get the optimistic feeling of loving her to come back.

The stranger that usually walked around the museum with files in her hands went unnoticed for a while, but to her, Spencer had never gone unnoticed. She had been watching him his last four visits, visits that were a lot closer together than the usual visitors liked, which naturally, sparked her interest. She was drawn to him, always turning her head to check if he was there and her eyes lingering for a beat too long to try and come up with an excuse to start a conversation.

Olivia cared very little about dating and would usually turn down people’s advances, but as he sat there, earbuds in and basking in the sunlight the botanical garden side of the museum had to offer, she couldn’t help but hope he was one of those ballsy men that usually approached her. Apparently, the gods felt bad for Ollie, because as Spencer stood up to go, a book slipped out of his bag onto the floor. Oblivious to it, he kept walking.

“Thank the fucking gods” Ollie whispered to herself as she made a beeline for the book. Trying to reach the tall guy, she elbowed her way through the people walking in front of her and tapped him on the shoulder. Play it cool, dork.

“Hey” she said trying to get her breath back. “You dropped this back there” She tried not to fixate on the way his curls looked with the sun shining directly on them, or on the way his eyes took in her presence.

“Oh, thank you so much” He rushed out, grateful that he didn’t have to lose the last thing that connected him to Maeve and cursing himself for being so careless.

Make conversation, now. Say something. Anything. “I take it that’s important, you look relieved” she giggled to try and appear chill. Failing miserably, of course.

“Um, yeah. It was.” Beat of silence. “It is. It was a gift” He answered looking down at his feet, holding on to the book like it might disappear if he doesn’t.

Now, genuinely relieved she could spare him the disappointment, Ollie looked up at him. “Then I’m really glad you didn’t have to lose it” She replied, mirroring Spence’s thoughts, which made him smile.

To the doctor, looking at her felt almost offensive to Maeve’s memory, like she could see him staring curiously at this kind stranger whose eyes were enticing enough to make him forget how to talk. His best friend JJ was the best at reading his expressions and figuring out what he was thinking, she was smart enough to know Reid felt guilty for wanting to move on and leave the pain behind, so she made sure he knew that no one expected him to act like a widower forever, not even Maeve. After all, no one tells you how long you’re expected to mourn a loss, there’s no unspoken rule of appropriate sulking time. 278 days later still felt like too soon and just about enough at the same time. Strangely enough, he wanted to keep talking to this girl, and it would have to start with an introduction.

“I’m Spencer”

“I’m Olivia, but please call me Ollie” or call me anything you want.

“Ollie, good” he let out a giggle that was uncharacteristic of him to say the least. Mainly because he had never made it this far into a conversation with someone as pretty as Ollie. “You work here” It wasn’t a question, he noticed the plaque pinned to her shirt that read Dr. Olivia Vega, Conservator.

“Yes, I’m one of the conservators here. I know I might not look like it, but I promise I know my stuff” This observation prompted Spencer to give her a once over and he smiled at how right she was. She was wearing black cargo pants and a simple lavender t-shirt she seemed to have cropped herself, her arms were covered with little tattoos and her dark hair had streaks of purple in it. She was a sight to see, and hadn’t she been so kind and smiley, Spencer would’ve been intimidated by her. “My mom always says I look like I dropped out of high school to form my own punk band” She added, interrupting his train of thought. “I kind of agree with her now that I think about it, but I have a doctorate in history and that’s not very punk”

“Well, I’m a federal agent but I look like my grandpa, so I’m right there with you”

You do not look like a grandpa. “A federal agent, huh? The wall-climbing, gun-shooting, vest-wearing kind?”

“Sometimes, yes. But I work for the Behavioral Analysis Unit so the work I do revolves around profiling people, we try to narrow down the suspect pool by studying the way the crime was committed and making educated guesses about what kind of person would do that and the possible motives behind it. I also have doctorates, but not in history” He said, glad he could sound cool in front of what appeared to be the coolest human ever. Maeve doesn’t mind you moving on, he repeated to himself.

“Judging by the fact that you didn’t introduce yourself as ‘Doctor so and so, but you can call me Spencer’ I think you’re nice and not full of yourself” Ollie joked. “I would have been super intimidated if you’d lead with that”

Is she a witch or am I thinking out loud? “You should see the people I work with. I look like a 12-year-old boy compared to them” She erupted in laughter, causing Spencer to blush. “I’m not kidding, they call me ‘kid’ and ‘pretty boy’”

They got that right, you are pretty. “No way, my older co-workers call me ‘kid’ too! And I’m their boss. The least they could do is call me Doctor Kid.” She pretended to pout.

A mom with a stroller trying to walk past them made the two realize they were still standing in the middle of the path, so entirely entertained with each other that they didn’t notice the third-grade class that had just passed them. As if the realization had struck them both at the same time, they looked back at each other, both of them trying to stretch the interaction as long as they could.

“Do you, maybe, want to have this conversation somewhere else? Perhaps not in the middle of the crowd?” She asked hopefully.

Taken aback by the offer, Spencer agreed and followed her back to her office, that looked exactly like he would expect it to. A bunch of framed pictures with friends and family covered the wall to his left, she had a jean jacket full of pins hanging behind the door and a bunch of miscellaneous books on a bookshelf right behind her desk, all of them with post its sticking out and what he assumed were her bookmarks.

After offering him coffee, they talked about all the things they had in common and relished on the things they didn’t. It was refreshing to get out of their heads and talk about something other than what stage of grief they were in. Spencer was glad that Ollie had approached him first, otherwise he wouldn’t have met her or even know she existed. A text from Penelope brought him back to reality and he sighed at his phone when he read it.

“I have to go, we got a case” He said, annoyed.

Ollie tried to mask her disappointment with an airy laugh, “Oh those fucking serial killers, so rude of them to interrupt our conversation”

Come on, Spencer. Say you want to see her again. Maeve doesn’t mind. Faster than he could process, the words came tumbling out of his mouth. “I want to see you again” He declared; eyes wide, afraid he came on too intense.

“Well, what a coincidence. I want that too.” She smirked, thanking the gods for all the love they seemed to be showing her today. She took a bright pink sharpie from her drawer and scribbled her number on Spencer’s palm. “Please, don’t wash your hand before you save the number”  She hoped she hadn’t blown her cover as the chilliest most relaxed person ever with that one sentence that sounded like she was begging him to call her. He took out a little white card from his bad and handed it to her.

‘SSA Dr. Spencer Reid. Behavioral Analysis Unit’. Two phone numbers were displayed along with the FBI logo. Which made Ollie look up to question it.

“Bottom one is my personal line; top one is the work phone” He anticipated the question.  

The shit eating grin he was wearing did not go unnoticed by her friends back at the BAU, but he brushed them and their raised eyebrows right off. This whole thing with Ollie was his to keep. At least for the moment.

That night, even though spent in a dingy motel a few minutes out of Redding, Pennsylvania, Spencer slept better than he had in 278 days. He wasn’t an outgoing person at all, he didn’t ask for numbers, he didn’t agree to have coffee in some stranger’s office, he didn’t text bright pink numbers sloppily written on his hand. But maybe the way they met was a sign that he should, maybe, no matter the outcome, he wanted to see where this led. Not even sure what this was.

Here goes nothing.

“Hey, this is Spencer. I didn’t wash my hand” sent at 2:13 am.

“I mean, I did. Just not until I texted you” sent at 2:13 am.

Back at her own apartment, Ollie made a mental note to go visit Lia so she could hear all about the handsome man she had met. Following the advice her therapist had given her, she took out the notepad she had devoted to the letters she wrote her and started writing what she would give anything to be able to say to her face.

[keelywolfe]

FIC: Welcome to Backwater ch.7 (spicyhoney)

Summary: Stretch knows he can't really depend on the kindness of strangers, but oh, sometimes he wishes he could.

~~*~~

Read ‘The Kindness of Strangers’ on AO3

or

Read it here!

~~*~~

It was with a heavy, weird-ass book in hand that Stretch returned to the heat of the afternoon. This time he made haste getting back to the store while his knees were cooperating, almost jogging on the sidewalk and waving to any regular customers as he passed. The sun was on its downward path by now and the strollers were out in full force, the Human moms and pops pushing them hardly paying him any mind past a ‘good afternoon’ as he went by.

His knees were back to the wibble-wobbles when he slipped through the door, the bell announcing him with a muted clank. The first thing he noticed was that Red wasn’t behind the counter. He was standing at the back of the store, leaning on his cane and blocking off the hallway that led to both their living quarters. Yeah, that looked like insurance that Stretch couldn’t hurry on past him upstairs; Red wasn’t quick, but he also wasn’t stupid, and Stretch could feel his hard gaze scrutinizing him from across the store.

Wonderbar.

Stretch pasted on a grin and tried to act like someone who hadn’t been recently felt up by Red’s little brother in the public library. Not that Red said that he couldn’t, but some things, (for example, random groping) could probably be inferred.

“hey, what’s up?” Stretch said brightly.

“my bro called,” Red said bluntly, and Stretch’s feeble hopes deflated like yesterday’s party balloon. So much for discretion.

“i can explain,” Stretch blurted, “it wasn’t my idea, seriously, i was only—"

Red interrupted him with an amused snort. “easy, kid, don’t haul out your guilty conscience on my account. all he did was give me the gist of things, said you had yourself an unexpected adventure.” Red jerked his head towards the hallway. “g’wan, string bean, you can use my bathroom. take a shower and cool off.”

A cool shower pouring down on his dirty, sweaty bones sounded like Eden itself right about now, apple not included.

“thanks,” Stretch said gratefully. He skirted around Red, who didn’t move, only squatted there like a grouchy stump in the middle of the doorway while Stretch squeezed around him. Must be tempering his kindness with a little extra asshole to keep things even.

On his way to showerland, Stretch took a quick detour to leave the book on the coffee table amidst the clutter. Maybe he could ask Red about it, get the cliff notes version.

The shower in the downstairs bathroom was stuck with the same crappy water heater as upstairs, not that it mattered since Stretch was about ready to cuddle with an iceberg to cool off. Added bonus, the showerhead was a lot better and it managed to crank the feeble water pressure up to its max. There was a cheap plastic stool sitting in the tub, way too short for Stretch. He sat on it anyway, knees almost up to his chin as the cool water poured down on him and washed away the sweat and filth.

He was shivering a little by the time he was done, dragging a ratty towel over his dripping bones. The pile of his clothes was missing and there a new folded bundle sitting on the closed toilet lid. He must’ve been out of it more than he thought, he’d never even heard Red coming in. Unless laundry fairies were a thing and wasn’t that idea a lot more pertinent than it was yesterday.

Stretch picked up the bundle and part of it fell on the floor. Pajama pants, luckily not a pair of Red’s although it might’ve been hilarious to see Stretch wandering around like a scrawny hulk who sprouted upward out of his clothes instead of sideways. They were red plaid flannel and worn to the stage of being shiny at the knees and elbows. Probably an old pair of Edge’s, the fit was pretty close and not too many Humans wore their waistband quite as skinny as a guy without a waist.

(he was not getting a cheap thrill out of wearing a pair of Edge’s pajamas, no matter what his libido was trying to tell him)

He wandered out into Red’s living room, still squeegeeing his skull dry with the damp towel, and saw the sofa was made up with some blankets and a pillow, the television remote set helpfully in reach.

“you done?” Red’s voice echoed up from the store and his peculiar gait made its way down the hallway until he appeared again in the doorway. “then lay down and turn on the boob tube, zone out awhile. you’ll feel better.”

“what did your brother tell you?” Stretch asked. Not that he wasn’t willing to do what he was told. The couch was saggy in the middle, but the blankets were clean and smelling of laundry detergent. They felt blissfully cozy after the cold shower.

“said you met edgar allen,” Red said. “under less than stellar circumstances, i’m guessin’, since i don’t think ya got an invite for a meet and greet with the local scarecrow.”

This time his shiver had nothing to do with the temperature. Edgar Allen was an okay guy, (guy?) but Stretch was still on the fence about the corn’s attitude problems. “not exactly, no. thanks for the heads up, by the way.”

Red tilted his skull to one side, baffled, “heads up about what?”

“i dunno,” Stretch leaned up on an elbow to see him better and hopefully increase the effect of his dirty look, “maybe when you’re warning me off from the local landmarks, you could’ve touch on that fact that a stroll through the fields might involve the corn trying to hold me as a captive audience?”

“naaah,” Red scoffed. Stretch didn’t miss the way he absently started picking at his gold tooth; that was a nervous tell right there and maybe all this wasn’t just concern but dealing with a little guilt that Stretch’s latest town bonding experience was less than top notch. “that's why the damn scarecrow is there t'begin with. ‘sides, even without him you’d have gotten out before dark. anyway, never expected you to go tromping off into the corn in search of a maze, sorry i misgauged the direction of your dumbass.”

“no, i’m sorry, not your fault.” Stretch couldn’t hold back a yawn so wide it nearly split his skull, yeesh, it wasn’t even dinner time and he was ready to sleep for a week. The imaginary hamster running on the wheel in his head wasn’t quite as ready and it decided to race back to thoughts of Edge sitting in the library, alone. Researching he’d said, so intent on his books from the so-called restricted section, like a bargain basement Hogwarts. “hey, what does your brother do?”

“mostly he’s a pain in my ass.”

It was said with great feeling and Stretch snerked out a laugh. Yeah, kinda a universal trait with little brothers. “no, seriously, i mean, for a living, what does he do?”

Red shifted his feet, his cane scraping the floor. “why are ya askin’?”

“curious. bored,” Stretch shrugged, “take your pick.” He didn’t really want to explain to Red that his brother wasn’t just a sexy pair of legs in boots anymore, (but those hips would never be forgotten). He was interesting, no, fascinating. This whole town was turning out to be some kind of puzzle and it seemed to him that Edge might be a big piece. He’d said that figuring out Backwater was a fool’s errand, but he’d never met Stretch’s kind of fool before.

“kid—” Red sighed and that resigned tone snapped Stretch out of his whimsies. He cringed internally. What was he even trying to do here, he owed Red so much and not just for the job, and here he was digging for information about his bro after Red already warned him off, not once, but twice, so maybe what he was really digging was his own grave, if he didn’t knock it off.

“nevermind,” Stretch said hurriedly. “i shouldn’t’ve asked, none of my business, i get it.”

Red shook his head. “that ain’t it.”

Stretch tried on a little laugh, ha ha, see, it wasn’t that big a deal, right? “look, the state of your brother’s ass aside, i get it. that’s your little brother, and i didn’t forget what you said. we only bumped into each other at the library, i’m really not trying to get into his pants.”

He left off on making it a promise; he was telling the truth, but why take the chance on not keeping it.

He didn’t expected the hand that suddenly scruffed over his skull, like the noogies he used to give to Blue when he was little…well, okay, Blue was still little but noogieing was off the table since he’d started his guard training.

This wasn’t like that childish roughhousing, Red’s knuckles only scraped softly along his coronal sutures. “no, kid, you don’t get it. my bro can handle himself, it ain’t him i’m worried about. but you? don’t ya got the feeling you ain’t up to any new affairs of the soul right now? might want to take it easy awhile.”

That unexpectedly gruff kindness made tears sting in his sockets. Stretch guiltily leaned into that touch to absorb every drop, and how was it he could accept it from Red when he couldn’t take it from his own brother? “i don’t get you. you barely even know me. why are you so nice to me?”

Red huffed out a laugh. “you want i should be an asshole? okay, but i gotta warn ya, i’m a contender when it comes to dick moves.”

“thanks, but you can keep your dick in your pants.”

“your loss.”

“seriously, though, what i mean is. i just don’t get it. this place is so weird, but everyone is nice.” It didn’t exactly line up with Stretch’s view of the world. His brother was always nice sure and Snowdin hadn’t been too bad, if you didn’t count the fact that all his friends were from drinking his nights away at Muffet’s. The surface world ran about fifty-fifty with Monsters being on the kinder side of the scale…until he got dumped and found out he lost all his friends in the divorce, how was that for loyalty.

Red only chuckled. “now you’ve gone and cursed yourself. can’t say everyone is nice, you ain’t met everyone yet.”

That was true, fuck, he hoped the universe wasn’t listening and if it was, that it didn’t decide to drum up a little drama. “red?”

“yeah, kid?”

Stretch craned his head back on the pillow and met Red’s crimson gaze upside-down. “thank you for being nice.”

“don’t tell anyone. i’ll lose my resident asshole status.

“secret is safe with me, promise.” Stretch yawned again and the cow bell suddenly jangled loudly out front, startling them both.

Red shouted. “yeah, i’m coming!” He tossed over his shoulder back at Stretch, “take tomorrow off, sleep in, you ain’t had a day off since ya got here.”

“thanks, boss.”

Stretch started to settle in, nap ahoy, captain, hard to starboard and all that, and his eye lights snagged on the book. Shit, he forgot to ask Red about it. Probably didn’t matter, Red’s ingredient label kinda went equal parts of cryptic and cryptid, so he probably wasn’t gonna give the right answers even if Stretch figured out what to ask.

Wait.

If Red and Edge want to share the part of the local Obi-Wan with their mysterious ways, that was fine. He already had the perfect person lined up to ask about the town’s history. Well, part of a person, anyway, the most important part.

Plan formed, Stretch turned on the television and snuggled into the blankets, letting the dulcet tones of Pat Sajak lull him to sleep.

He didn’t dream.

~~*~~

The next day, Stretch headed over to the theater bright and early, still munching on the muffin Red handed off to him as he settled on the stool for the day with his latest book, this one with a bare-chested pirate embracing a busty Human woman as the ocean sprayed up over the hull over them. Seemed to Stretch that would be less smokin’ sexytimes and more cold and wet, but what did he know, his closest encounter with the ocean was extra salt on his Applebee’s margarita.

“thanks, mom,” Stretch said as he took the little paper lunch bag Red held out to him. Red only grunted and didn’t look up from his book. In the midst of rummaging for his tasty free breakfast, Stretch hesitated at the front door.

He felt a little guilty even though Red was the one who told him to take the day. Before he started working at the store, was Red really sitting there all day long, twelve hours of a cash register and customers while he drank beer and soaked up a little romance language in the form of a cheap paperback?

Not that Stretch was judging, hell, if that made Red happy, more power to him. Still, there had to be more to his life than that, didn’t there? Maybe he’d see if Mitch sold sudoku pads at the gas station, pick him up one along with a six-pack. Hard to guess if they carried that kind of entertainment; Mitch was either some kind of crossword grand champion or the kind of guy who ate ketchup on his cheerios and Stretch still wasn’t sure which.

The first movie showing wasn’t for another hour, but Igor didn’t make a fuss when Stretch asked him if he could go sit down early. (and holy shit, the proprietor’s name was actually Igor? He wasn’t sure if the guy’s parents hated him or if the universe sense of irony rolled a natural D20 when it hit this town.)

Igor only grunted and handed over two cups of popcorn without being asked, handing back a crumpled dollar in change. Aww, Stretch had a usual, see, he was settling into town just fine, suck it, Edge.

(don’t think it, don’t think it, don’t think it…)

Stretch made his way to the theater to his regular seat, propping his sneakers up on the chair in front of him. The popcorn he set aside for now, it wasn’t exactly his idea of a breakfast treat and that muffin Red gave him was still settling into his magic. To be honest, he wasn’t entirely sure if Doris could show up very long before the movie. He was no expert, but he did know that ghosts could have some peculiar rules about manifesting. Hopefully this wouldn’t mess with her morning routine, whatever it was.

He didn’t have to wait long. Maybe Doris could sense him or maybe she could just feel it when a living person came into the theater. She slowly came into focus next to him, pale ectoplasm coalescing, and the already cool air chilled even further.

Doris happily sniffed at her popcorn as she said, whispery soft, “Good morning, Stretch, you’re here very early.”

“yeah, took the day off work,” Stretch said. His voice sounded too loud in the empty theater, not even the elevator music was playing yet. “i need your help with something.”

He might as well have flipped Doris’s switch to ‘on’. She lit up, a smile curving her pretty mouth and seeming more solid than ever. The seat behind her was barely visible through her pale pink dress as she said eagerly, “Of course, anything that I can do.”

So that was how Stretch came to tell her the story about Edgar Allen. He didn’t leave out any details, including the bit about the kids shouting at him not to go in the field, the corn closing in around him in a dizzying maze of green, Edgar Allen’s assistance, and Edge’s cryptic warning that the scarecrow would disappear with the harvest.

Doris listened to it all raptly, her eyes wide and startlingly blue, and she never flickered once the entire time. The only unsettling sight was a single trickle of blood running down the side of her face, gathering in a heavy droplet on her chin.

“My, that sounds terrifying,” Doris breathed, unaware of the irony of her saying that while a slender thread of ghostly blood ran down her cheek. The droplet swelled fatly, growing until it finally fell with a plip onto her dress, leaving behind a perfectly round spot that would slowly vanish, only to be replaced by the next drop.

It didn’t really bother Stretch much anymore; he was getting used to it and an old memory of blood was nothing compared to his recent woes. “yeah, it was spooky all right.”

“But I’m not sure I can help you,” Doris continued sadly, “There wasn’t a scarecrow in my day, not that I remember. But the corn. Yes. That I recall.” She shivered delicately and her chair let out a strange groan of springs. “A person could get lost for days in the corn. I remember…” Her already faint voice went softer and Stretch strained to hear her, her gaze distant. “I remember one year at harvest time, they found a skeleton in the field, it was awful. Oh!” She gasped and pressed a gloved hand to her mouth, “I’m so sorry, it was a dead person, not a skeleton like you!”

“no offense taken,” Stretch assured her. He slouched down in his seat even more and waggled his feet, his untied shoelaces laces bobbing against the seatback “huh. so at least one person died out in the corn.”

“I’m afraid I don’t remember much about it,” Doris admitted. “whoever it was, they weren’t local.”

“uh huh.” An outsider, then, like him, getting munched up by the corn triffids. “who owns the corn fields, anyway?”

“I…” she hesitated, then apologetically. “I’m not sure. I don’t know if I’ve forgotten or if I never knew.”

Another mystery. If he was gonna play at Sherlock Holmes, he really needed to start taking notes. Maybe get a pipe.

“welp, either way, edgar allen bro out there saved my ass,” Stretch told her. He picked up a piece of popcorn and didn’t eat it, only crumpled it between his fingers and let the mangled bits fall to the floor, “and he’s gonna die come harvest time. i feel like i owe it to him to at least hear his story, you know? edge wouldn’t tell me much, just gave me that book and a scavenger hunt.”

“This Edge person doesn’t sound very nice,” Doris said disapprovingly. Her mouth pulled down into a frown that flashed briefly to a bloody smear. “Is he local?”

“kinda? he’s a monster like me, so he could only have been in town for a coupla years. since we came to the surface, anyway.”

Sudden relief washed over Doris’s pretty face. “He’s not a human, then.”

“nope, he’s another skeleton monster.” That seemed to satisfy her. Note to self, Doris wasn’t real keen on Humans, in a way that didn’t seem like it was only about the way they ran away when they got a good look at her. That mystery wasn’t all too mysterious, not with a big, bloody clue flickering in and out of view like a gory version of a kid’s flipbook. If that was a going away present from another Human, he didn’t blame her for being wary. He wondered if she’d met Edge before but Stretch hesitated to bring up that idea, or to mention Red; he didn’t want her to feel bad if she didn’t remember. “yep, another skeleton monster in town. he’s kinda rough around the edges, but he’s okay.”

“Okay, is that all?” Doris said with unexpected mischievousness, “he didn’t sound simply ‘okay’ when you were describing him.”

A blush flared hotly in his cheekbones and Stretch hunched down in his seat, weirdly embarrassed in a way he hadn’t been with Red. At least Red could see what he was staring at, Doris only had him waxing poetically about Edge’s hips to go by, and Shakespeare he wasn’t.

“yeah, yeah,” Stretch grumbled, and damn, he should’ve brought along his hoodie, at least he could’ve hidden from the laughter shining in her translucent eyes. She had a dimple in the cheek on her good side and it deepened as Stretch admitted, “could be that i enjoy the view. but that’s it, okay? just a little sightseeing, i don’t need any souvenirs.”

“Uh huh,” Doris clicked her tongue thoughtfully, “Stretch, my mama always told me you can’t hurry up a good time by waiting for it.”

Other people were starting to come into the theater now. One of them gave him a curious look, but they didn’t stop, only followed the others down to the front row.

“the only time i’m looking for is in the nick of,” Stretch sighed. “guess there’s no way around it, i’ll have to read the book.”

He should’ve known not to try to find an easy way out; seemed like all his shortcuts had abandoned him, lately.

Doris laid a hand on his arm and a sudden chill sank its teeth in deep enough for his bones to ache. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help,” Doris said softly.

“nah, you helped plenty,” Stretch told her. She had. Now he knew that scarecrows were slightly more recent, at least within the past century and that maybe the cornfield wasn’t quiet as safe as it’d been played off to be. At least a cornfield without Edgar Allen in it.

The lights started dimming, the first credits beginning to roll. His popcorn was cold, the butter congealing it into clumps of greasy blobs that stuck to his fingers. Stretch ate it anyway, hey, it cost him a dollar, and laughed with Doris as Buster Keaton escaped from a bumbling crowd of cops by grabbing onto a passing car.

His phone was in his pocket, tucked in deep and only lightly pressing against his femur through the thin cloth of his shorts. It vibrated once in a quick, staccato burst while the movie was playing but Stretch ignored it.

That was one lesson he’d learned very well while they still lived under the mountain; if you focused on the task at hand, you didn’t have to think about the ones you left behind.

~~*~~

tbc

[rokutouxei]

in future tense

part 3 of: atelier heart

ikemen vampire: temptation in the dark theodorus van gogh / mc | gen | 2565 | [ao3 in bio]

She and Theo were born and lived in times a hundred years apart. In the weeks they're together, she and Theo attempt to understand their time-separated worlds through a back and forth of trivia. But Theo learns much more than just what it's like to be in the 21st century.

spoiler warning: a conversation between MC and Theo in chapter 4 of his route is referenced.

What does it mean to be born in the 21st century?

Theo tries his best to imagine what it would be like, in a world more than a hundred years from his now; his “now” which is already ten years ahead of his “then”, before vampires, before Comte. And yet even in his wildest imaginations he can’t seem to grasp what it would mean to live in the future; time is instead a looping spiral instead of straight arrow, the kind he used to imagine it was.

When he takes her out into the city the day after she arrived, it’s her first time out of the mansion, into the world that is late 19th century Paris, France. To Theo, nothing really strikes him as different or interesting in this time period; sure, the fashion has changed a little from when before he was turned, and maybe there were a few different landmarks here and there, but nothing that was enough to warrant the look on her face, that was, in two words: entirely wonderstruck.

Eyes as wide as saucers like an excited child, an unashamed smile on her face. At the most mundane things too: the architecture, the cobblestone streets, turns her head at carriages like she had never seen one in her entire life before this point. She observes the ladies passing by, her eyes roaming over their clothes, and then turning back towards her own rather simple set—le Comte hadn’t had a chance to have clothes tailored for her yet, but soon he will. For now, she tugs at her sleeves and runs her hands over her dress like trying her best not to seem like she’s trying too hard to fit in, like these clothes aren’t hers to begin with, like this isn’t the world she belongs to.

And yet, instead, she does the opposite: carries the aura of being someone otherworldly, not entirely alien but at the same time—so strikingly unfamiliar.

At that moment, the image of a recognizable painting fills Theo’s mind, one he’d seen at an auction once, and he wonders if it is rather too on-brand of him as an art dealer to think of such a parallel like that.

Meisje met tulband, painted in the 17th century by Johannes Vermeer, during the Dutch Golden Age. An obviously European woman in what seems like clothes borrowed from worldly trips far from the embrace of home. During this time, what was exotic was valuable. It illuminated experience, knowledge of a bigger world beyond the borders of the mountains and seas. On her head, a turban from an Eastern country, on her frame, clothes that do not suit the style of European garb. But most importantly: a pearl earring, large and glimmering, treasure of the faraway seas, hovering just underneath her ear like hesitating if it actually hangs from it or if it is only an illusion of grandiosity.

So attractive, in all her exoticism, pulled back from the gray of European normal, that is known and familiar and comfortable, standing above all others.

And yet so remarkably out of place.

So on the first week, she and Theo make a deal.

For every thing about the 19th century that Theo explains to her, she would tell him something about the 21st century in exchange. A fair deal, Theo thinks. This is what he can give her. Just a trade of information: nothing too personal to be shared, nothing too involved. This guarantees that both of their curiosities are satisfied, and—well, Theo will never say it out loud, but—this is also his way of getting to know each other in tiny, unobtrusive ways.

Not enough to make a difference, of course, he thinks. He doesn’t want there to be a difference. If he’s keeping her by his side at all times to monitor her, he’ll just have to do his fair share of understanding who he’s working with. That’s about it.

Except there was one thing Theo did not get to add onto his assumptions: that the woman never runs out of questions.

Sure, she has the hindsight of having been born in the time when this has all technically already happened, already a time long past her—time is a spiral, or something, Theo reminds himself—but the reality of having to live all this is still way beyond her. So she doesn’t stop asking. Even about the most trivial of things.

It drives Theo insane.

Like what kinds of clothes people find fashionable. (“You could see it on the street.” “Well, yeah, but I wanted to know what you found fashionable.” “I don’t really care.” “You’re boring.”)

Or if ankles are still scandalous things. (A squint of eyebrows. “Dresses are often supposed to touch the floor.” “Not where I’m from. You’ll see much more than just ankles.” “…Knees?” “…Thighs. Or more.” “…Why.” “Why not?”)

And what kind of things people enjoy. (“Séances? Sounds scary.” “Others talk in flower codes.” “Oh! We still have that in the future! Kinda.”)

Also, if Kings and Queens are still “a thing” (her words)—and she can’t seem to believe him when he says they do, still, in fact, exist, and reign over nations. (“So instead, you have, democracy, you call it?” “Well, we’re trying.”)

But even if she always seems so awed by the workings of this era, somehow it is Theo who is left much more bewildered with the stories she tells. While she listens to him with this kind of avid wonder, the kind a child would have to a storytelling adult, Theo sits next to her like a skeptic, incredulous, mind unable to process what she is saying.

Like, what is an internet? The inter-, he figures out, but a net? Of what?

“It’s a network! That’s what the net stands for. So it’s kind of like a group of people, who get to talk, but digital.”

“Digital? What do fingers have to do with his?”

“Fingers? …oh, because digits. Um. No, it’s kind of like… a space that… you can’t touch? It’s sort of… mental?”

Theo doesn’t have a follow-up question because he doesn’t know how to follow-up to that. He just kind of looks like her like she grew a second head. Can this much change really happen in a hundred years or so? Why is her world so foreign from his?

But it doesn’t deter him. He listens intently to her stories about art in a hundred years. Cameras so small, they can fit in your pocket, so fast they can take a photo in a second. Artworks made not of canvas and paint, but of, again, this “digital” medium, which is accessible to nearly the entire world. And because of this “internet”, everyone who has it can both make and see art so easily—and they can fit these in their “cell phones”, hand-held telephones that can connect to nearly anyone… without wires!

And with each and every one of her attempts to explain the overwhelming time she used to come from, something inside Theo grows, a feeling he does not understand yet. It’s dizzying—but he cannot stop listening.

So he doesn’t stop answering either.

By the second week, whenever their schedule allows, he takes her to museums, introduces her to art movements that have flourished, are only beginning to flourish. Occasionally, she will point at one and say, “Oh, that one’s pretty famous in the future!” and Theo feels a sense of pride. The appreciation for art and beauty is one of the many things that transcends time—if the world allows it to.

He’s far from Comte’s level of elite, but he takes her to shops anyway, to see what things are in stores. The feeling that sits in Theo’s chest only grows as she points at things and says, “That’s a classic vintage piece. I’ve seen those a lot in museums,” and sooner than Theo would like, every mention of time gives him that feeling of distance, pulls her away from him.

So far away.

The fact keeps pressing itself into Theo’s brain, that she doesn’t belong here, she is only a tourist, she is only here for a short while.

The world is a gentler place in that time she is from. He doesn’t want to selfishly keep her here.

(But if he could, if she would, maybe, he wouldn’t be opposed to it.)

Shortly after a conversation about traveling from her home country to Paris in the 21st century—“You can get halfway across the world in half a day?” “Yeah, non-stop flights do that. 900 people in a single ride.” “…I find it hard to believe you.” “You don’t have to, it won’t change the fact.”—that last remark pushes Theo to finally, finally ask the question that he has held hesitantly in his mouth for the longest time.

“What’s it like, sitting here in the 19th century, knowing the future?”

She doesn’t answer for a moment, her eyes shifting off to one side, away from Theo, as she ponders on his question. Theo takes this time to observe her instead—the way she holds herself up now, so comfortable, rather confident in her 19th century clothing, the little ways she’s learned the mannerisms apt for the time. She’s so different from the girl he’d seen that first night, trembling, afraid of a (well-meaning) nightmare.

Ah, yes, yet another reminder that she does not belong here.

Not with him. Not like this.

Theo snaps back into focus once she speaks. “It’s a little conflicting to me,” she begins. “I don’t know how time works, so somehow it both feels like much of it is already set in stone, but also there are so many more things that can change.” She turns to him, meeting his gaze. “But what I’m sure of is that everything you’re doing now is going to have an impact on the future—I guess I’ll see it when I get back.”

(Theo withers ever so slightly, but not enough for her to notice.)

She continues. “It’s a little scary too, because historically—well, I guess it’s not history yet, but, there are still a lot of bad things that will happen, in the next hundred years. So many.” She cringes. “But after that? There are also so many good things that will happen. Things that—well, I haven’t stayed long enough here to say for sure, but—I think many of the good things that will happen by then still seem unthinkable now. The same way you don’t believe me sometimes. But they will happen.”

And she’s so sure of it: tells him that millions of people of all ages, classes, and nationalities go to museums to enjoy art—even Vincent’s!—in the future. That some of them even get to go for free, that the world’s governments actually want people to be in any degree appreciative of art. She tells him how she could just look up a painting on her “cell phone” and she would already be able to experience it, in a way. She tells him that so much of the world revolves around art being accessible, that people don’t even think about it too much anymore. It’s just normal.

“You won’t believe it, Theo,” she says. “Art is everywhere.”

She reminds him of the sunrise.

The sunrise he’s long dreamt of—the dawn of the new era of Art, in a better world where artists are free to make what they want to make, to showcase their work, to continuously push the barriers of the human understanding of beauty and creation. The fact that she’s come from that time doesn’t only make her a reminder of it—but also an assurance, that all of this will pay off, that he is making a difference.

He may not have been one of the chosen ones, the gifted ones, who had extraordinary talents, who could, with a wave of their hand, change the turning of the world, influence society, but—he has something he can do.

And she believes in him.

Why does it make him feel so much steadier just knowing she believes in him?

He is no one. He is nobody important. They can give him names now, call him the Phantom of Goupil, but in the long stretch of time after this, in a hundred years, in a thousand—he will be no one. History will eventually forget his name—and Theo has long accepted this truth. And if he doesn’t have much to offer to time, he has much less for her. The 19th century is no match to the 21st century’s innovations and astonishing development. He is just a plain man from a backwards time.

But at some point in the past few weeks with her, that feeling he’s once again started to ask if he could reclaim has grown in him. The desire to be remembered.

Not by the world, not by history—just by her.

Even a hundred years into the future.

There are a lot of things Theo doesn’t know yet about what’s to come. But if there is one thing about art that he knows is consistent across time, it’s that a single piece of art has the power to change something fundamental in people: the way they see life, the way they see art, the way they think about the world, the way they feel. A fateful encounter not only with the piece of art itself, but with the moment in which one meets it. The feeling that rushes, that consumes, the recognition: that one’s life has now been altered, irrevocably, by that one piece of art.

It is falling in love, but greater.

Theo really thought he would never find the capacity to ever feel that way again. That that moment, with that painting, is the pinnacle of what his heart can take.

But now he knows he isn’t.

Now he knows it isn’t, so he prays.

He doesn’t have much to give, but he prays.

That maybe she will give him the taste of it. Carve the shape of it in his mouth.

Down his throat. Chase it down into the pit of his belly where the acid of his self-resentment remains. Let it echo in his veins.

And if she does—his voice will scramble will to make sense of the sound, and he will settle for other ways to let himself be heard, the strained vocal cords of his heart, calling her hondje, knabbeltje, the only way he knows how. To say “this is for you.” To tell her how good she’s been to him, so obedient. To scoff at her rebuttals. To join in her laughter. To tell her things only the hollow in the center of his chest he’d long shouted at have ever heard.

Oh, she doesn’t even need to ask.

The fact dissolves like something bitter turning sweet, sweet, impossibly sweet on his tongue.

She doesn’t need to do much of anything: she just needs to stay.

To forgive his grumbling, his shaking footsteps, his frequent step-backs into a past that has long left him behind. To look back over her shoulder, call out his name in the star-like lilt of her voice, Theo?

And he will give her everything.

---

in the atelier: The Girl with the Pearl Earring, by Johannes Vermeer, 1665.

this is just a fun trivia thing, but the title "the Girl with the Pearl Earring" (Meisje met de parel in Dutch) was apparently only given to the painting in 1995. i didn't find what it was called much earlier (it was auctioned somewhere in the Hague in 1881, bought by a private collector), but after it was transferred to the Mauritshuis (also in the Hague) in 1902, it was called "Girl with a Turban" (Meisje met tulband). that's kind of why i decided to go for the more obscure / older name.