#I want them to be changed irrevocably by their experiences

[leftenmost-window]

knock knock it’s inside the mysterious cube

you came back wrong and i am racked with guilt because i cannot bear to see you like this and i should have let you rest. i loved you so much that i defied death itself but i do not think either of us are happy

[pentanguine]

Favorite Books of 2023

So I didn’t quite get to it in January, but I did finally finish this list!! (And as always, I'm longwinded)

My reading taste was all over the place last year. I intended for it to be the year I read neglected fantasy trilogies gathering dust on my bookshelf, but instead I joined a book club for grad school and got shoved out of my comfort zone; ended up with a boyfriend (now ex, aka EBF) and read anything and everything he recommended; suddenly got into nonfiction and horror for no explicable reason; joined another book club for work and ended up reading even more books outside my wheelhouse; and discovered that I enjoyed hate-reading books during slow periods at work and on my lunch break. It was a mess. But somehow, a few favorites came out of it!

1. The Full-Moon Whaling Chronicles by Jason Guriel– What the fuck even is this book. It’s a book about a book about teenage werewolves on a quest to outwit some pirates and recover a lost treasure. It’s the story of a young woman in a post-climate crisis earth living in a Gothic mansion in Japan and questing for her favorite author inside a high-tech diorama. It’s about the aftermath of environmental destruction, invasive technology and autonomy, the power of fandom and transforming stories through your love for them, fathers (love for, betrayal by, forgiveness of), and worlds within worlds. It asks meaty questions about the role of technology in generating change for the better and creating hope when that same tech is eroding what it even means to be human and experience reality. It’s the kind of cli-fi that offers hope, that’s warm, that makes you think of alternatives. It’s dense with speculative worldbuilding and plays dizzyingly with metafiction, and the whole damn thing is written in couplets!!

I feel like I can’t adequately express how much I love the things this book does. It experiments with form and language, which would be cool enough, except it goes on to explore complex themes in a thought-provoking way while throwing in a bizarre and delightful clusterfuck of elements like robot werewolves and tree furries. Most importantly, it was just so much fun to read. I want a sequel with these characters. I want to go to a con dressed as one of the garden wolves. I want to study this book for English class and write an essay on it in rhyming couplets. I did not at all expect this to be my favorite book of the year, but it absolutely is. (It also only has 19 ratings and 4 reviews on Goodreads, so if it sounds at all up your alley, please read it!!)

2. The Mask of Mirrors by M. A. Carrick– What many of my favorite books have in common this year is that they were incredibly fun to read. Mask of Mirrors is entertaining from start to finish, as schemes that would fill a lesser book are introduced and then resolved in mere chapters, and the climax is nothing but action-packed chaos. The world-building is dense and rewarding, the plot is twisty, and Ren is conning everyone, all the time, in at least 6 different ways, which of course makes it more satisfying when she ends up conning herself into actually caring about her marks. You'll like this if you enjoy a TTRPG flavor of storytelling (it started as an RPG, which makes sense once you know it), or if you enjoyed the basics of Ellen Kushner’s Swordspoint but wished it had more action and large-scale worldbuilding. There is a lot going on in these books, in the best possible way.

3. Starling House by Alix E. Harrow – There’s so much I loved about this book: the slow Gothic creep, the stories within a story, the eerie illustrations, the immersive sense of place. Surprisingly, it was the grounded, realistic parts of the book that were the most compelling to me. This is a fantasy, but it’s also a small-town family drama and coming of age story that could have been literary fiction with a few changes. The prose is just gorgeous, beautiful without ever getting purple. This is ultimately the story of the most bloody-minded woman in Kentucky slowly finding a home in the place she’s lived her whole life, while she falls in love with an equally bloody-minded man. Like The Raven Cycle as haunted house story, with overtones of Hades and Persephone and Beauty and the Beast.

4. The Necessity of Stars by E. Catherine Tobler – This is an 80 page novella that I usually wouldn’t count as a book, but it’s simply too good to leave off this list. It’s a strange and beautiful story about aging, climate change, sexism and exploitation, memory and language and how they shape our identities, and how we move through time. In such a short page count, there are so many powerful images that have stuck with me over six months later, including a sea of deep purple irises and a woman and an alien making love under…amidst…as? the stars. There’s something very Le Guin-like about this story with its setting of stars, shadows, and trees, and its sense of humanity. Mind-blowingly good; I highly recommend anything from Neon Hemlock Press.

5. Heir’s Game by suspu– This is a webtoon and not a novel, but I included a 100k Sherlock fanfic in my best books of 2017, so I’m also counting this. It’s a fluffy, bloodthirsty, melodramatic, swashbuckling high adventure found family story with an entertainment value off the charts. It balances a lot of different story elements and tones, each character and arc is developed so well, and there’s a truly satisfying number of pretty men covered in blood. If you’re devouring it over the course of a few days like I did, you also get to watch the author’s art style improve over the course of the four years it took them to write this. I’m morbidly impressed by the amount of effort that goes into panels I read in 2 seconds. Disclaimer that I read this alongside EBF, which may have biased my feelings towards it.

6. Bloom by Delilah S. Dawson – A lovely blend of sweet(?), sexy romance and lush description with visceral horror, creeping menace, and strong dramatic irony.* The last chapter I found a little dumb and overly conclusive, but I’m willing to forgive that due to the immersive atmosphere and tension for most of the book. Ro, the protagonist, is heartbreakingly vulnerable in her twisted justifications for why her first sapphic relationship is actually so Beautiful and Good, and Ash feels like a good depiction of a non-traditional abuser. It’s indulgent and suspenseful, and it’s also got Things to Say.

*(In response to people complaining on Goodreads that the “twist” is obvious, I would like to say: Ash is a baker/cook, the jacket contains the word “consumes” and “devouring,” and there’s a flayed body on the cover. I think a blurb may have comped it to Hannibal. If you read all that and think the publishers are spoiling the “twist” of the book instead of just advertising what the book is about, that’s a you problem. This is not a thriller trying to set up a shocking twist and leave you guessing; it’s horror, and the horror comes from knowing what’s coming and watching Ro stumble right into it with nothing we can do to stop it. Thanks for coming to my TED talk.)

7. The Dawnhounds by Sascha Stronach– The thing I loved most about this book is that it’s truly, delightfully original. I don’t think I’ve ever read anything remotely like it. There’s living technology that’s based on plants and syncs with human biology, a fresh system of gods and resurrection, a found family pirate ship, and some viscerally disturbing body horror. I often found myself sitting still for a minute with my mouth open, head tilted slightly to the side, thinking “…how the fuck did she come up with that.” This is also such a satisfyingly queer book. It very much centers found family, and unapologetic abundance saves the day. I wish I could remember more specifics of this book, but mostly what stuck with me is that it’s weird as shit and I thoroughly enjoyed it.

8. This is Ear Hustle by Nigel Poor and Earlonne Woods –This is the book form of an award-winning podcast discussing the realities of life in the American prison system, from those on both the inside and outside. It’s an often intense read, which I took in pieces over two months, but the storytelling is so engrossing, and introduces its audience to people and circumstances they most likely wouldn’t have encountered otherwise. I would never have guessed that San Quentin has skill-building and education programs, including the media lab where the Ear Hustle podcast is produced, or that at least one woman began a relationship with someone already in prison, moved her entire life to a desert prison town, and raised a family there. Each story in this book humanizes people who are often given little sympathy or understanding by society (even if they have been or are cruel and violent; redemption is not the point). The system they live in is definitely cruel and violent, but they are, like everyone, multifaceted people with loved ones and hobbies. Everyone has a story. This is the best kind of nonfiction to me, the kind that alters your view of the world and is still cropping up in your thoughts over six months later.

9. They Were Here Before Us by Eric LaRocca – I went through a big Eric LaRocca phase last fall, and I think this is overall the strongest of his works. The stories range from existentially shocking tales of nature at its darkest and most unnatural(?), to grotesque body horror, to unsettling tension that creeps across the pages like a serial killer stalking outside your window. A lot of the stories deal with the desperation, grotesqueness, and violation that comes with loving another person, and there’s a recurring contrast between bodies as vessels for love and as simply meat. Bearing in mind that I once said, in bemused shock, “Is Gideon the Ninth horror??”: it pushed against the boundaries of what I was comfortable reading and thinking about, without being shock for shock value. His writing is just viscerally fucked up.

10. The Darkness Outside Us by Eliot Schrefer – This is a fucking dark and bleak book that officially hooked me at the end of Part One, when what I thought would be the reveal of the entire book…happened. And so I said “well, now what??” And plunged into a brutally depressing, borderline nihilistic, violently hopeful story about the nature of humanity and finding purpose in life. There are heartwarming moments in this book too, and also some funny or trivial moments that remind you this book is, for some random reason, YA.* If you enjoy sci-fi that grapples with the dizzying feeling of our microscopic place in the unending void of the cosmos, I highly recommend this one. And if you read Emma Newman’s Before Mars and want more in that vein, you’ll find a lot to love here.

*Unlike some people on Goodreads, I do see a reason for the protagonists to be teenagers, but you can very much write an adult book about teenagers

11. So You Want to be a Wizard by Diane Duane – I regret not discovering this book as a child, because I would have loved it. It’s the story of two children who teach themselves wizardry and become embroiled in an ongoing struggle for the fate of the world. The poetic writing, the way trees are held in reverence, and the way language is magic in and of itself are all things that appeal to me as an adult, but would have been even more meaningful when I was younger. I especially loved how matter of fact the children are about discovering magic: of course there’s magic in the world. They’re children, and they can believe in anything.

Honorable Mentions:

The Thousand Crimes of Ming Tsu by Tom Lin

How to Sell a Haunted House by Grady Hendrix

Smiler’s Fair by Rebecca Levene

[phantom-0-writer]

Tim stepped cleanly inside the room, and carefully shut the door behind him after checking if anyone was in the hallway. “What are you-” Danny started confused. Tim was acting very unusually right now. 

“I’m Red Robin.” He said.

Danny stared at him for a few seconds. Tim had expected him to be more shocked, Danny wasn’t like Damian and Bruce in the aspect of holding back his reactions. He watched Danny carefully and noticed that he wasn’t even surprised at all. 

His shoulder shifted a little, and a look passed in his eyes. He was relieved. That didn’t make any sense unless, “You knew.”

It made an irrevocable amount of sense. The stupid excuses he didn’t question, the easy slide bys on things that didn’t add up. Tim had wondered why Danny never brought it up with any of them. He was always quick to call bullshit on things but conveniently never on their mission cover ups. 

“Yeah.” He admitted quietly, findling with the small screwdriver in his hand.

“Why didn’t you say something before?” Tim asked. He felt a little ridiculous about it all now, “How long have you known?” Tim’s mind went back to the dining room argument from last night and he rolled through it in his head. “Wait, Jason knows you know, doesn’t he?” Tim blurted, “That why he- why didn’t I realize this sooner?” 

“I mean I know you guys can’t just tell whoever you want. It’s a secret identity for a reason. You guys didn’t want me to know. So I acted like I didn’t.” Danny shrugged. “I figured it out when Dick and Bruce were in Amity, and yeah, Jason knows. He also knows I’m Phantom. Cass knows too- not the Phantom thing. Or maybe she does, I don't know.”

“You knew the whole time?” Tim balked. All the effort they put in to hide the proof before he came, and he knew the whole time. Wait, did he say- “You’re Phantom?” Tim practically yelled. 

Danny blinked at him, “I thought you knew that.” He pointed the end of the screw driver at him, “Why were you guys so okay with him being in the cave then?” 

“We thought he was Thomas Jr.” Tim threw his hands up, rethinking his entire career choice. “I mean, yeah he was in Amity with you, but we figured it was like a guardian ghost thing since the time Dick met him that one time when you got lost or something he was the one- holy shit, you were following them the whole time weren’t you.” 

“You thought Thomas was Phantom?” Danny laughed, finding this ridiculous. 

“Isn’t that how supernatural stuff works or something. Like, you guys are linked because you were switched with each other and because you were with the family he was supposed to be with so he turned into a protective spirit to, like, watch over you or something.” 

Danny's look of appalment only deepened as Tim continued explaining. “Who told you that?” 

“I mean we just kinda figured it out ourselves based on past experiences.” 

“Past experience?” 

“With supernatural stuff the right conclusion is always the most unexpected and slightly irrational one.”

Danny snorted at that. “That is a really bad rule of thumb.” 

“Right, then explain how you’re the ghost Phantom when you’re also human and alive Danny.” Tim crossed his arms. He was trying really hard not to over analyze that right. Did that mean Danny was dead or that Phantom was alive? How could he be both? Well according to Schrödinger's theory- not now Tim. He should make a new file for this later and then he’d think about it. Alone. In his room where he could properly freak out over this. 

“Touche.” Danny clearly thought this was funny so no need to put a damper on the mood. Especially after everything that already happened. 

This information changed a lot of things. Tim would have to refer this back to the Fenton-Masters case. What about Damian? Did he know Danny was Phantom? Probably not, considering none of them had, apparently aside from Jason. It would be almost impossible for Tim to not tell him that since they were supposed to be working it together. Tim wasn’t sure how he would take the information. Not only that, but gave a new scope to the vultures that had attacked and the monster that had showed up from the pits. 

Later. File. Many lists. 

“Do you want to come to Mt. Justice?” Tim asked him. 

“Like the museum?”

“Yes and no. It’s also the Young Justice base. It’s top secret and no ones supposed to know about it.” 

“What! Then why are you telling me?” 

“Do you wanna go or not?” 

“Is that even allowed?”

“Definitely not.”

Danny raised a brow. “Then we can’t go?”

“It’s far but we can just take the jet. It’s like 30 minutes tops. We could take the zeta-tubes but then Bruce would find out you took the zeta-tubes and then we’d be fucked. Well, mostly me. But still.” 

“Wouldn’t he find out we took the jet then?”

“He wouldn’t know you were on the jet. It’s not weird for me to be going there since it is my team.”

“What if we get in trouble?”

“We’ll only get in trouble if we get found out.” Tim shrugged, “Do you want to go or not?”

Danny considered it for a moment before a grin tipped his face. “Yeah.”

“Sweet.” Tim reached for his phone only not realizing he didn’t have it. “I’ll let them know we’ll be coming around. They’re all already there. Tell Alfred you’ll be going out with some friends and then come meet me at Drake Manor.”

Danny seemed to embrace the situation now, forgoing his earlier hesitance. “I’ll wrap up some stuff. I should do breakfast too so Alfred doesn’t think anything is up. I’ll give you a heads up before I’m out the door. I’ll take my bike.” 

“Take the long way round since the Manor’s in the opposite direction of the city.” 

Danny nodded. “What about you?” he asked. 

“No one’s gonna ask if I go in costume.” Tim shrugged, “Speaking of costume…” Tim turned to where he knew the wardrobe to be, “Let me see your clothes.” He opened the double doors in the bathroom where the closest would be and blinked at the largely empty room. “Where are the rest of your clothes?” He asked. Danny looked confused by that, “Oh,” Tim realized, “You used a second closet. Smart. Is it in the lab?” 

 “No, Tim.” He said, pacing his words, “These are all my clothes.” 

“Oh. Why?”

“This is a normal amount of clothes to own.” 

“But it’s like barely covering a fourth of your closet. And that’s only because everything is so spread apart.” 

“That's because the closest is the size of a literal barn. Why on Earth would I need that many clothes?”

“I thought Bruce gave you an allowance?” 

“He did.” 

“Is it not enough?” 

Danny balked at him. “Did you ask to see my closet just to make fun of me?” He huffed. 

“I’m not making fun, I’m concerned.” Tim said genuinely. Did Danny not feel comfortable asking for things? It must be because they were keeping so many secrets and he thought they didn’t trust him. This clearly ran deeper than Tim originally thought. 

Danny shoved his hand in Tim’s face, pushing him back. “Can we get back to the point?”

“Right.”

--- later ---

“Give it back!” 

“No, I had it first!

“Nu-uh. I just put it down for like two seconds when you grabbed it.” 

“You were gone for the whole round.” 

“Where’s the controller you had before?” 

“It died.” 

“There's a bunch of other ones in the drawer.” 

“You can have one from there, then.” 

“No! I want the one I had back.” Tim insisted. 

“No.” Danny moved so he couldn’t reach it. 

“That controller is player 1, so give it back.” 

“Exactly why I’m not giving it back.” 

“Why would you be player 1?”

Danny looked so smug at that, “If you recall, I’m actually older than you which gives me sovereign right over player 1.” He said pushing Tim away. 

“That doesn’t even mean anything!” 

“Ah, to be young and naive.” 

“Fuck you.” Tim said, tackling him off the sofa. 

“What on God’s green Earth is going on here?” Cass asked, returning from their small intermission for snacks. 

Bart rushed up to join her. “Is Danny winning?” 

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No you're not! Give it back.” 

“Get off me.”

Kon was the last to come onto the site. “Guys.” He said seriously, “Superman’s coming. And there’s someone with him.”

Tim stopped trying to strangle Danny, sharing a look of panic with his team. 

“So?” Danny asked, confused.

“Danny, you're not supposed to be here.” Tim hissed at him. “Shit. How do we hide you from Superman?” 

“It was nice knowing you.” Kon said with a sarcastic smile. 

“How far is he?” Cassie asked. 

“He’ll be here in like two minutes.” 

“I’ll hide under the couch, he probably won’t look under there.” Danny offered. 

“He can hear your heartbeat.” 

Danny smiled widely. “I got it covered.” He said, pulling himself into the small space.

Bart giggled in excitement. 

“How-”

Kon gave a silent sign that Superman was here, sending a confused look towards the couch Danny had slid under. Tim’s phone buzzed with a notification. 

Just then, “Konner?” Clark called from the Mission Room. 

The team shared a silent look. They’d just have to trust Danny had this covered. 

“We’re in here.” Bart called even though Clark would already know that.

Tim put up two fingers to silently ask Kon if there was someone else with him. He received an affirmative. This was a horrible day for prospective teammate introductions. 

“Hey guys.” Clark smiled, then confused “Why are you sitting on the floor Red Robin?” He asked.

“I was checking something.” Tim said, picking up the controller Danny had been forced to abandon. 

“Oh, okay.” He nodded, not questioning it further. “I’m glad all of you are already here.”

“Are we getting a mission?” Cassie asked. 

“Sort of.” Clark said, excited. Then in Kryptonian, “ Come .” He said to someone behind him they couldn’t see. Tim couldn’t hear any footsteps. And he found out it was because the person Clark was introducing them to could fly. And Tim also found out that Clark had spoken in kryptonian because this new person was a kryptonian. One that Tim had never met before. “This is Kara. She’s my cousin. The entire situation isn’t all clear yet but as it stands we understand that her pod, while launched at the same time as mine, was caught in an asteroid belt and was only left free recently, when it landed near the Fortress of Solitude.” Clark turned to Kara and introduced them to her in Kryptonian and then added, “ Tim and Kon-el speak Kryptonian which is why I thought you would be more comfortable here instead of the Watch Tower. Though, Kon’s could use some work. ” He teased. 

“Hey, my Kryptonian is fine.” 

“Why don’t you try saying that in Kryptonian?” 

“ My fine is Kryptonian .” Kon said confidently. 

Clark laughed and Kara looked at Kon like he grew a second head. 

“I don’t even speak Kryptonian and I could tell that didn’t sound right.” Cassie laughed. 

Tim took his turn to introduce himself to the nervous and quite blonde. “ I’m Red Robin. ” He pointed to the symbol on his chest. “ It’s nice to meet you. ” He put out a hand for her to shake but Kara just stared at it. Maybe they don’t have hand shakes on Krypton. Since Clark had grown up on Earth he didn’t really know much about the customs of his home planet for them to have learned it beforehand. 

“ Nice to meet you. I am Kara Zor-el, daughter of Captain Zor-El and the Lady Alura. ” Then she stuck out her hand like Tim had. When Tim took it to shake Kara seemed surprised by it. 

“ You’ll be in good hands here, Kara. I’ll be back to check on you later but if you need anything Kon or any of the others can get a hold of me for you, okay ?” Clark said softly trying to gauge if she’d actually be okay here without him. 

Kara started at Clark for a moment like she was processing what he’d said, “ Why will anyone need to hold you? ” 

“Oh.” Clark pondered it, “ It’s an Earth phrase. It just means that they’ll send me a message or contact me if you feel like you want me to come back. ” 

Kara took another pause to process and then, “ I see. ” And does a hand gesture that Tim didn’t understand. And neither did Clark. No one commented on it. 

After Clark left the atmosphere of the room went stale. Danny was still under the couch and they weren’t sure how willing Kara would be to not tell Clark about it. But they couldn’t leave Kara. And Tim’s phone was buzzing with notifications that he did not want to check because he recognized the haptics of the health app he had. The one that had everyone, including Danny’s, vitals. Danny, who Tim was pretty sure had just stopped his heart for the entire duration of Clark being here. Which had been a very long duration.

Kara looked between them, confused. “ Is there something meant to be done? ” 

“ How’s your english, Kara?” Tim asked.

“ Only a little . Kal-El said it will take time .” 

“ Langage harding learn. ” Kon nodded. Kara lipped his words back to herself trying to make sense of it. 

“What do we do about our stowaway?” Cass whispered to Tim. She didn’t speak Kryptnoian, but she understood enough to know what Tim had asked. 

“I could dash him out. Maybe we could spend the day together at the mall and then we’ll be best friends and then he won’t want to hang with Tim anymore because he’d rather hang out with me because I’m so much more fun.” Bart said all in one breath, his words afterwards speeding up too fast for Tim to make any sense of. 

“She’ll know something’s up. We need to test her loyalty.” Tim strategized while Kon attempted to keep Kara in conversation. 

“How? And why haven't any of the supes been able to hear him yet?” Cassie asked. 

Bart took a pause on his earlier ramblings to make Tim’s life more difficult. “Oh it’s because he’s not breathing. Isn’t that so cool.” 

Cassie shot Tim an alarmed look. “He’s a meta.” Tim said off handedly, “Can we focus?” 

“Are you aware that your brother might be suffocating to death? In fact, we may need to hide a corpse and I sure as hell would love to hear how you're going to explain that away at family dinner.” 

“Oh, don’t worry Danny’s fine.” Bart said flippantly. “Danny, if you can hear us, make the room one degree colder.” 

Tim couldn’t feel anything but Kon and Kara did. Kara eyed the room confused about the change but fortunately she didn’t comment on it. 

“So cool.” Bart whistled, lapping the room. 

“Convinced yet?” Tim asked Cassie.

“He’s an ice meta how- you know what, I don’t want to know. So how are we going to test our warden?” 

The lounge room was decorated to look like a regular living room, including hanging “family pictures” on the wall. Everyone on the wall was in costume, for security reasons, but they were actual nice pictures of the team and their mentors. Tim pulled out a batarang from his pocket, and played around with it for a while, talking aloud about random things. It only needed to sound like a real sentence since Kara couldn’t understand what he was saying anyway. Then the batarang “slipped” out of his hand landing right in one of the larger framed pictures. The impact was loud and the glass of the frame shattered and spilled on the floor. 

Cassie didn’t have to fake her flinch in surprise at that, turning to Tim alarmed. Tim adding to the performance acted shocked. Kara and Kon obviously hadn’t missed the commotion and their conversation stopped. Kara looked at the destruction of the frame, analyzing Tim and Cassie’s reaction.  

“Dude.” Bart turned to him wide-eyed, stopping in his tracks, “We’re so dead.” Kara didn’t speak english, sure, but the dread in Bart’s voice was obvious enough. 

“Why did you do that?” Cassie scolded, “That was Red Tornado's favorite.” 

Tim held his head in his hands dramatically, then he let realization dawn on his features. Slowly he turned to face Kara. “ I’ll get in really big trouble if Kal-El or anyone finds out. I can hide it, but you won’t tell will you? ” He made himself sound really worried. 

“ Won’t it be noticed? The image is large .” Kara asked. She was beginning to share their concern on her face, but that didn’t necessarily mean that she would keep her mouth shut about it.

“ Clean up can. ” Kon said in a reassuring tone. Kara looked at him sideways, clearly confused. 

“ They don’t really come in here often so we can pass it off. But you can’t tell. ” Tim told her. 

Kara looked like she was having a hard time understanding him as well. An easier time than with Kon for obvious reasons but still not an easy time. Tim couldn’t understand why since he had made sure their Kryptonian was in perfect condition. “ Pass it off? ” She echoed, confused. 

Kara must not have understood the phrase.“ Pretend like it didn’t happen .” Tim explained. 

She thought about it and nodded. “ An Earth phrase? ” 

“ Yes. ” 

Kara didn’t answer right away and Tim wasn’t sure if it was because she was still deciphering what he’d said or if she was thinking about telling. “ I will not tell Kal-El or his associates since no one was hurt and it was only a minor incident .” Cassie and Bart had already cleaned up most of the mess why Tim talked to Kara. Tim had made sure to hit the frame so only the glass would be shattered and the actual picture was mostly unharmed except for the small tear in the corner. That would be easy enough to cover up. 

Kara's body language was stiff and she was watching everything very carefully. It wasn’t strange since she had been left with a group of strangers in a new environment and she didn’t speak the local language. She seemed around Tim’s age or maybe a little older. Kara was meant to land on Earth with a mission to watch and protect Clark. This implied that she was of a status and position to receive missions. This meant she would work by a set of rules and report to a supervisor. The supervisor was likely Clark who was most likely to take responsibility for her for a variety of reasons. 

Cassie gave Tim a raised eyebrow to ask how it was going as she walked away to dispose of the glass shards. 

It would be a gamble. A deadly one. But if Tim made it look like Danny being here wasn’t that big of a breach of the rules he could convince her to keep it to herself. He shared a look with Kon. 

“ I’m really thankful, Kara. ” Tim says, smiling. He pulls out his phone and texts Cassie and Bart their half of the plan. “ We can show you around the rest of the base. Would you like to do that? ”

“ Okay .” 

“ Room fun lounge after work. Play TV on games .” Kon said. 

Kara stared at him.

“How about I do the talking?” Tim put a hand on Kon’s shoulder. 

“Why? I’m doing so good.” Kon said genuinely. Tim doesn’t respond to that. 

The tour lasted minutes and Tim made sure to bide their time well so Cassie, Bart and Danny could be fully settled in before they returned. It would take a while for Danny’s heart rate to return to normal, and it would be better that he was all there before they tried to pull this off. 

Tim checked his phone when they were nearing the end of the tour. Cassie had texted him they were good on their end. 

“ Let’s go back to meet the others. They don’t speak Kryptonian but we can translate for you so don’t worry. ” Tim said. Kara seemed nice, it was the circumstances that were a bit stressful. But that didn’t mean they should let her feel left out.

“ This is your team ?” Kara asked, following Tim back to the lounge room.

“ Yes we do missions together sometimes. When we’re not working we spend time at the base because we’re friends. ” 

“ It is nice to have friends. ” Kara nodded. 

“ Did you do missions with your friends on Krypton? ” Tim asked. Maybe he could gauge what her position had been to see how she would react. 

“ Only practice. We did not graduate from training yet. ” 

“ Going what’s there ?” Kon asked. Tim had no idea what he was saying. 

“ What dialect does he speak? ” Kara asked Tim. “ I cannot understand it. ” 

 “ We learned the same Kryptonian, Kon just doesn’t practice. ” Tim laughed. Kon understood enough that he elbowed him. “ Are there dialects in Kryptonian? ” 

“ Many. You and Kal-El speak very… proper. ” She said sheepishly. “ No one speaks that way where I am from. Only in important meetings with outsiders .” Then she paused sadly, “ Mother always said it was important to learn but I did not listen. ” Tim had figured Kara spoke so rigidly because she was nervous or shy. This explained why she was having such a hard time understanding them. 

They reached the lounge to Cassie and Danny locked deeply in a game of rock, paper, scissors. Danny had pulled his hood back up and was wearing his cowl from earlier. He had picked one of the older models that covered most of his face until the end of his nose and past his cheekbones. Danny shot scissors at Cassie, beating her paper. Bart cheered loudly, throwing his hands in the air and Cassie groaned in defeat. Danny cackled as he took the last cookie. 

“Hey, D. When’d you get here?” Tim asked for the sole purpose of silently telling the others to not call Danny by his real name.

With a mouth full of cookie, “A while ago. Who’s this?” He asked, gesturing his head to Kara. 

Tim made wide gestures and spoke clearly in english so Kara could pick up what he was saying. It would be important for her to learn. “This is Kara, she’s Superboy’s cousin.”

“I thought she was his aunt?” Cassie asked. 

Danny didn’t look nervous, fortunately, and smiled easily at Kara. Then to Tim’s surprise, “ Nice to meet you. ” he said in perfect kryptonian. 

“ He speaks as well. ” Kara commented. 

“You can speak Kryptonian, too?” Kon asked. 

“Duh.” Bart answered. 

“Dead languages are my speciality.” Danny said pointedly. Bart giggled at that. 

“ Should we build a hole by playing a game? ” Danny asked, moving on the couch to give everyone else more room. 

“ Build a hole? ” Tim laughed, “What?”

Kara looked at Danny surprised, “ You know of that? ” She asked excitedly, her eyes lighting up. 

“It’s a phrase, basically like “break the ice’.” Danny answered, then for Bart and Cassie, “Do you guys know any games we can play?” 

“ You speak very well .” Kara complimented excitedly, leaving Tim’s side to talk to Danny. “ Did you also learn? ” Meaning is he a native speaker. 

“ Kind of? ” He laughed, “ You can speak more comfortably if you’d like. ” He gestures for her to sit.

Kara seems hesitant at first, but then she says something. It sounded Kryptonian but the accent was different to what Tim was used to and he could only make out some of it. To Kara’s delight and Tim’s further surprise Danny not only understood exactly what she’d said but even responded in the same way. 

It takes a while for them to settle on a game to play given all the language barriers. Kara spoke in what Tim learned was Standard Kryptonian but would often switch to her local dialect when she didn’t know how to say things. Kon and Tim could only understand Standard, and in all honesty, between them Tim was the only one who could speak it. Bart and Cassie couldn’t speak at all. 

They decided to play charades. It was awkward and hard at first, but they all got really into it by the third round. They kept the categories simple since Kara wouldn’t know any movies. Fortunately, she seemed to feel a lot more comfortable and talked a lot more, even if it was mostly just to Danny. There were times she would make an effort to say things in english. It was really broken but they all made sure to appreciate it and tried her best to understand. 

“I’m hungry guys.” Cassie said after her turn to act out her word, plopping herself in her spot between Bart and Kon. 

“Me too.” Bart agreed mournfully. 

“You’re always hungry.” 

“Should we order Pizza?” Tim asked, pulling out his phone. 

“I want pineapples on mine!” Bart said.

“Ew. No.” Cass kicked him. “I’ll have my usual.” She told Tim.

“Like mushrooms and olives are any better.” Kon snickered. 

“It’s better than pineapples.” 

Kara looked between them curiously. 

“Danny, ask Kara what she wants.” Tim instructed. 

After hearing them talk for the last hour Tim had finally been able to pick on some of the words but the grammar of it still eluded him. 

“ Everyone, something, something, food. ” Danny said.

Kara looked intrigued, “ What, something, eating, something. ” 

“ Something, something, like, something. ” He paused thoughtfully, making a circle in the air presumably to explain what a pizza was. “Something… ” Then, he pulled Tim’s phone to face them and pointed to the picture of a pizza on the website. “ This .”

Kara looked hesitant, “ ...Some…thing? ” 

Danny nodded encouragingly, “Something. Something, good.” He said. 

Glancing back at the picture, Tim could see on her face that she’d made a decision but she didn’t say anything. “Okay.” She said in english with a nod. “Have.”

“Great!” Finishing it up, “Kon, Bart.” Tim signaled. 

“Ugh. Why do we have to get it every time?” Kon complained, throwing a pillow at Tim. 

“I’m not going because I was the one that paid for it.” 

“I’m not going ‘casue I don’t want to.” Cassie said, kicking her foot onto the coffee table. 

“But you were the one who said you wanted food.” Kon complained, already standing up. 

“I could go.” Danny offered.

“You're funny. Absolutely not.” Tim shut down. 

Kara looked at Danny curious, “ Saying, something, what? ” 

“ Something, food, something, go. ” 

In english, “...Kitch...en?” She pointed in the direction of it and spoke in Standard Kryptonian, “ Is it not there? ” 

“ No. ” Tim shook his head, “ The store cooks it and we just have to give them money and take it from them .” He was careful not to throw in phrases she didn’t know.

Kara looked confused by the concept but accepted it. 

“Wait until she finds out about Drive-Thrus.” Danny joked to Tim. 

“I’m going to go check on the left-overs.” Cassie said heading to the kitchen.

Tim checked everyone's location on his phone. Danny’s was offline for obvious reasons, fortunately no one had freaked out about it yet. But he couldn’t be too sure. “I’m going to check on our smoke screen in the mission room.” Tim told Danny, “You’ll be okay here with her?” 

“What if we get abducted by non-friendly aliens in the five minutes you’ll be gone?” Danny’s tone was serious but his face was mischief. 

“I hope you do.” Tim scoffed, walking out.

---

“It’s just one slice, Red.” Danny tried to reach over his shoulder 

“No.” Tim blocked his food with his body, “You have your own.” 

“I just want to try!” 

“No! Eat yours.” 

“You let Kara have some!”

“That’s because I like Kara and I don’t like you.” 

“But yours looks so much more better than mine.” Danny whined, still reaching. 

“Lesson for next time then.” 

“C’mon, you’re not even going to finish it.”

Everyone watched them like a sitcom while they got to enjoy their food without meddling siblings. “I will. Just so you can’t have any.” Tim shoved as much of the slice in his mouth as he physically could. He was actually already full. 

“You're the worst.” Danny said, shoving Tim. 

“And you're worse.” Tim countered, pushing him back. 

Tim hadn’t pushed Danny very hard. Danny probably took harder hits during hockey practice. Tim had pushed him just hard enough that it forced Danny to take a step back to balance himself. Which was when he’d stepped on a wrapper Bart had left on the floor. Danny lost his balance and fell. But not before hitting his head hard on the metal fridge door behind him. 

Cassie gasped in shock. Kon and Bart rushed over to check on him. Kara watched wide-eyed, not sure what to do. 

Tim quickly stepped forward, “Hey, are you-” Next thing he knows there's a whole tube of ranch being squirted on his costume. His freshly washed costume. 

Danny watches Tim’s face morph from concern to absolute disgust with a deep satisfaction and cackles like the villain he is.

“You are such an asshole.” 

“Takes one to know one.” Danny’s on his feet and Tim chased him with a packet of garlic sauce that came with the pizza. 

Apparently feeling left out, Bart decided to dump his glass of juice all over Kon’s head. 

“Dude.” Kon shouts, but he’s quick to retaliate.

“Missed me.” Bart teases using the speed force to dodge. 

Cassie and Kara, the only civilized people here, sit and eat their pizzas at the island watching them. 

“They’re so dumb.” Cassie says to Kara, exasperated. 

Kara smiles following the action with her eyes. “ How fun .” She replies and they share a laugh even without understanding each other. 

snipbit from this fic

[crimsons-whump-pile]

I’ve been in a terribly whumpy mood lately, so please for your consideration, imagine a whumpee that’s been so heavily conditioned by whumper that they can’t really function without rules and orders, and now imagine a caretaker that will actually do that. I see so much where the caretaker tries to break whumpee out of that mindset, but what about a caretaker who just doesn’t have the time or resources to break the conditioning, and so their next best option is to just… go along with it?

whumpee won’t eat or drink or sleep without being ordered to? caretaker puts rules in place that require whumpee to do those things at set times, and the consequences for missing one of those times (because you know whumpee won’t accept that there are rules without punishments for breaking them) is to do that thing in the company of caretaker. whumpee misses their lunchtime? now they have to sit with caretaker to make sure they actually eat the food set out for them. it’s a consequence that doesn’t actually harm them, and one that will subtly reinforce that caretaker values whumpee’s wellbeing, without seeming like a cop-out.

caretaker knows that whumpee has been irrevocably changed by their experiences under the hand of whumper, and they know that the trauma incurred isn’t something that can easily be contradicted or fixed. they know whumpee is damaged, and they know it isn’t something they can help with right now, but that doesn’t mean they’re going to give up and leave whumpee behind, or expect whumpee to just bounce back on their own. caretaker wants whumpee to be safe and healthy, so they’re going to do their best to make that happen, even if they have to utilize the very conditioning that whumper put in place to make that happen.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Cannibals [Chapter 7: Lightning and Rust]

A/N: Only 3 chapters left!!! 🥳❤️💙🦇

Series summary: You are his sister, his lover, his betrothed despite everyone else’s protests; you have always belonged to Aemond and believe you always will. But on the night he returns from Storm’s End with horrifying news, the trajectories of your lives are irrevocably changed. Will the war of succession make your bond permanent, or destroy the twisted and fanatical love you share?

Chapter warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), babies and parenthood, blood and violence, character deaths, I really cannot summarize this chapter you just gotta experience it, I'll pray for you 🙏

Word count: 6.8k

💙 All my writing can be found HERE! ❤️

Tagging: @themoonofthesun @chattylurker @moonfllowerr @ecstaticactus @mrs-starkgaryen, more in comments 🥰

🦇 Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🦇

You’re curled up in bed with a velvet pouch of hot stones that have gone cold, bloody rags bunched between your thighs, trying desperately to sleep, and outside a storm is brewing over Blackwater Bay and bringing with it dark skies and strikes of lightning that stalk ever-closer. Through the open window, the air tasting like late-summer rain, you can hear Helaena and the maids corralling the children back into the Red Keep. They are laughing because nobody is dead yet, not even the ailing and absent King Viserys, not even doomed little Luke Strong.

Aemond lets himself into your chambers and stands over your bed, staring down at you with some combination of annoyance and concern. You have failed him. You were not where he wanted you to be. “Why weren’t you at the beach?” Playing with your niece and nephews, collecting your seashells.

“Because women are cursed.”

Aemond smiles, perhaps a bit relieved; he has his answer. “And you more than any of them, because you’re so wicked.”

“Maester Orwyle says I can’t have more milk of the poppy for two hours.”

“Then we must listen to him. It is a powerful remedy, and we cannot endanger you.” He takes off his boots and climbs into bed, lying behind you, one hand following the curve of your waist to settle on your lower belly. “I can relax the muscles. It might ease your suffering.”

Right now? “Oh no, no, you don’t want to do that,” you warn him. “It’s very messy.”

“You think I’m afraid of your blood?” Aemond says, amused. “Everything we’re built of is the same.” He lifts the hem of your silk nightgown and reaches underneath the nest of rags, sliding there in the coppery wetness as you inhale sharply, startled but not unwilling. When Aemond removes his hand, the carnage he is stained with is bright crimson but dotted with clots. Then he licks the blood from his fingers and paints his tongue red. You can’t keep the shock from your face. Aemond grins, wets his hand again, draws a heart on your left cheek just beneath your eye. You laugh and pretend to try to shove him away.

“You’re deranged, you’re a monster—”

“Let me help you,” Aemond whispers, nuzzling blood from his lips into your silver hair. “Let me take your pain away like you quiet mine.”

And you surrender to him like you always do—worn down, overpowered, intoxicated, bewitched, seduced, perhaps all at once—and as Aemond’s hand works and the gory metallic ether of blood fills both of your lungs, the cramps dissolve into nothingness and then build to desire, and you’re opening your thighs for him and the rags are whisked away, unnecessary, forgotten, and now there is blood on the bedsheets and your fingers are twisting into the pillows strewn around you, and it doesn’t feel shameful at all anymore, because what is blood if not made from the same minerals as coins and blades and ocean and ash, and what is lust if not a fire that burns the constraints of the world away?

You kiss him as you come, moaning into his bloodstained mouth, biting his lower lip, and if the careless pressure of your teeth makes him bleed then that’s just more iron and copper and steel to add to the molten sea you are marooned in, more magma, more rust. “Enough,” you gasp when the last of the waves have passed and you are emptied and too sensitive, and Aemond knows to listen. Then you reach for Aemond’s trousers, where you can see he is hard. You are abruptly and ruinously exhausted—you struggle to keep your eyes open—but it feels wrong to not take care of him in return.

It shouldn’t take long, he’s already flushed, he’s already dripping sweat—

“No need,” Aemond says, gently stopping your hands. And as you burrow into the pillows and your eyes dip closed, your skin and hair still splattered with red, he slips away silently so you can sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~

“I don’t want to leave you,” Jace says, knowing that he has to anyway. “Either of you.”

You are nursing the baby in a chair by the fireplace; you needed a change of scenery from the bed. The upholstery is pale blue velvet. The blanket the baby is swathed in is embroidered with pine trees and foxes, and far beyond your skill; Lady Caro made it. She is nearly as gifted with a needle as Helaena. On the walls of the bedchamber you share with your husband are mosaics you’ve pieced together over the past nine months here at the modest castle of Heart’s Home in a cold, remote corner of the Vale. The fractured faces look in on you like curious gazes through clear windows: Aegon, Helaena, Daeron, Jaehaera, Maelor, Mother, Criston. You aren’t any closer to them now, but you feel like you are. The world seems softer, warmer, smaller.

You smile as you ghost a fingerprint over the baby’s faint dark eyebrows. He’s half-asleep as he suckles, hushed and content and entirely helpless. He has Jace’s coloring, but something about the shape of his eyes reminds you of Aegon. “We’ll be here waiting when you get back.”

“I think he looks a lot like Luke,” Jace says, admiring the baby. He’s standing with one arm draped over the back of your chair and the flickering firelight from the hearth on his face, turning his skin from snow to sunstone. “And Joffrey. His face is rounder than mine.”

“Have you been to the Eyrie to see them since the war began?” Joffrey, Rhaena, Rhaenyra’s young white-haired sons Aegon and Viserys.

Jace shakes his head. “I never wanted to be away from you for longer than necessary. I didn’t want to risk being spotted and revealing where they’ve been hidden. And I didn’t know what to say.” About us, about our marriage, about our baby.

“You should visit them, Jace. I would visit Helaena and her children if I could.” You leave out the others intentionally; Helaena is your only sibling that Jace considers blameless. You miss Aegon and Daeron just as much, but in the solitude of your own heart—in the stillness, in the silence—you aren’t sure if you want to see Aemond again. You don’t know if he will be soft with you, or vengeful or cold, or if he has filled the void of your absence with a lover, something that you cannot think about without your stomach lurching and your skull aching, and so you put him out of your mind as much as you can and stay here with the baby instead.

Jace rests a hand on your shoulder reassuringly, then strokes your cheek. He says, meaning the baby: “We’ll have to get him his own egg.”

“I hope he won’t inherit my affliction,” you murmur somberly. “I hope he’ll have a dragon someday.” Without them, we are powerless. Without them, we aren’t real Targaryens.

“Maybe there’s something you need to do first.”

You look up at Jace, not understanding.

“I’ve spent a lot of time considering what inspires a dragon to bond to someone,” he says. And you think, feeling a fleeting stab of betrayal before you stitch the wound closed with invisible thread: Because you’ve been helping the Blacks search for riders. “It seems that each creature has their own preferences. Meleys favored women who were spirited and highly intelligent. Dreamfyre has chosen two riders, both gentle, shy, and fond of animals. Seasmoke bonded to two sons of Corlys Velaryon with similar temperaments, agreeable and charismatic, Quicksilver to a father and son who were both considered weak and died young. Caraxes seems to have an affinity for warriors.” It does not escape you that Jace neglects to mention Vhagar, as if through his silence he can make the beast and her rider vanish. “And Vermithor…” Jace offers you a small, sympathetic smile, remembering that you once wanted him. “The Bronze Fury bonds to riders who are imposing in body and ambitious in spirit. And I suspect he only likes men.”

“So it was always hopeless,” you say gloomily. You recall the miniature Vermithor that Aegon once carved for you out of oak wood. You hope that Aegon is still alive somewhere, scarred but lying in wait, always underestimated, always so much deeper than he seems, an ocean that Mother and Father mistook for a puddle, messy and marginal and inconvenient.

“I believe dragons often gravitate towards riders who are mirrors of themselves. Even Vermax, he is…” Jace considers this. “He’s proud, and he’s clever, but he’s not as formidable as he imagines himself to be.”

“Like you,” you say before you can stop to consider whether Jace will be offended by it, and he gives you an amused smirk. The baby has stopped nursing and fallen asleep; you fix the bodice of your gown and cradle him against you. There are maids to take him when you’re tired, and Jace loves holding him, and Lady Caro steals him away often, but right now you don’t want your freedom. You don’t want your mind to be untethered and to wander to all the places you’re not supposed to be.

Jace continues: “What I mean is, perhaps there is some quality you must cultivate within yourself before the beast you are meant to have judges you worthy.”

“Hardly any unclaimed dragons are left now.” Then you tease: “Do you suggest I become quiet and timid so Grey Ghost will like me?”

Jace laughs. “No, I fear that’s a lost cause, princess. You could never be timid.”

You are intrigued. “Then what am I?”

“I think you’re hungry,” Jace decides. “I think you always want more.”

“I never wanted that many things.” Aemond. My family to be safe. And I wanted Vermithor.

“Every line that is drawn, every place you’re told not to go or act you’re not supposed to do, you insist upon overreaching.”

Is that why Aemond and I were so drawn to each other? you think doubtfully. Because it was forbidden? Because it horrified people who climbed high enough to live alongside Targaryens but could never understand them?

“I think Meleys would have been a good match for you,” Jace says after a while. “If she hadn’t already been claimed by Grandmother.”

“And now the Red Queen is dead.” Like Arrax, and Moondancer, and Seasmoke, and probably Sunfyre too. How many dragons will be left when this is over? How many Targaryens? You clutch the baby closer to you; he stirs in his sleep, tiny fingers grasping at nothing. “What sort of rider does Silverwing favor? What could this illiterate drunk Ulf the White possibly have in common with Good Queen Alysanne?”

Jace snickers. “That’s a good question. I’ve been ruminating on it. My theory is that since Silverwing was never ridden into battle, and has always been relatively docile and accustomed to living peacefully near humans, she was attracted to Ulf’s…how to describe it? His lack of military prowess. Or, alternatively, once Vermithor was claimed Silverwing was very, very lonely.”

You smile, and then it dies. It must be indescribably painful to be separated from one’s mate after a century together. Unsurvivable, even. “Can Silverwing fight, do you think?”

Jace heaves a sigh and shrugs. “I’m not sure if either of them can. Ulf will try, at least. Hopefully it won’t come to that, and Vermithor is enough to protect King’s Landing. Hugh Hammer is an inexperienced rider, but he’s brave and he’s committed. Each time I see him he’s better than he was before.”

Hugh Hammer is a bastard blacksmith, but he has more power in this war than I do. Ulf the White is an idiot and a drunk, but he’s a true Targaryen and I’m not. You rock your sleeping child in your arms, quieting the voices that flutter in your skull like bat wings. You kiss his wisps of dark curls and breathe in his warmth and newness and blood that is interwoven with yours.

“You could learn how to hate your own kind and claim the Cannibal,” Jace jokes.

You chuckle. “I don’t hate anyone.” Not here, not now.

Lady Caro arrives in the doorway carrying a tray of cinnamon tea. “I have come offering a trade,” she says, grinning, and shuffles excitedly across the room. She sets the tray down on the table by your chair and holds out her hands. Reluctantly, you surrender the baby. Lady Caro coos and beams at him as you and Jace sip cinnamon tea, sweet and loosing steam like morning mist into the air. “Surely by now you’ve made the logical decision to name him in my honor.”

“Carolei would be a very strange thing to call a boy,” Jace says.

“Caroson,” she jests.

You add: “Carogon. Carocaerys.”

“Awful!” Jace says, laughing.

“Have you been feeding the baby again?” Lady Caro scolds you. “We have wetnurses for that.”

“They get him all night. I want time with him too.”

“You’re barely even producing any milk. You’d make for a terrible goat.”

“Then I’ll nurse him for as long as I can.”

“You’ll end up with pitiful floppy breasts like mine.”

“Isn’t this what they’re for? Nourishing children, not being gawked at and tugged on by some man?”

Lady Caro turns to Jace, exasperated. “She has some disease. She can’t listen to anyone.”

He smiles. “She’s an untamable beast, I’m afraid. Burns up anyone who makes the attempt.”

Lord Corbray walks in, and nestled in his ancient arthritic hands is a sword in a sheath. There is a large heart-shaped ruby in the hilt. “Prince Jacaerys, I cannot begin to tell you what an honor it has been not only to host you and the princess here in our humble castle, but also to have a future king of the Seven Kingdoms born within our walls.”

Jace stands up straighter, as his mother would want him to. He’ll never look like the heir to the throne, like a Targaryen, but he can act like one. “We continue to be grateful for your hospitality.”

“To commemorate this happy occasion, I wish to gift you a cherished heirloom of my house. This is Lady Forlorn, made of Valyrian steel. She came to House Corbray over a century ago, and now I bequeath her to you. I hope she will aid you in your victory in this unjust war, and that all the realm will soon be at peace and under competent rulership.”

Jace looks at you uneasily; you pretend to be preoccupied drinking your tea. You ignore Lord Corbray’s slight against the Greens. You don’t have much choice, and you’ve had plenty of practice. Jace takes Lady Forlorn from Lord Corbray and unsheathes her, studying his reflection in the cold smoke-colored grey of the blade. His face is grave. Now he feels the weight on his shoulders of being not just a prince, an heir, a soldier, and a husband, but a father as well, something he himself never had in a way that was truthful and pure. You are alarmed to see tears gleaming in his dark eyes.

“Jace?” you say, touching his arm.

He regains his composure. “Thank you, Lord Corbray. I will treasure Lady Forlorn, and I will endeavor to always use her wisely.”

Lord Corbray smiles fondly at the slumbering baby in Lady Caro’s arms. Across the Riverlands, their sole surviving child, Jessamyn, is in hiding with her husband and children. At Lady Caro’s insistence, they fled from the Mallisters’ castle at Seagard in case Aemond and Vhagar descend upon it. He is still burning. A monster? you think. “I assume you’ve named your firstborn?”

You and Jace exchange a glance. You haven’t yet; you are afraid to discuss it with each other. There are so many possibilities—Targaryen or Velaryon or Strong—and none seem to be without some unspoken allegiance or condemnation. There are so few guiltless names left. But you think you know what Jace would choose if he dared to speak it aloud.

“We should name him after Luke,” you say. A boy, an innocent. A victim of a horrific accident that started this war.

Jace is surprised, but there is relief in his face too. “Lucerys?” he says, trying it out. Then he is solemn again. “It feels wrong to use the exact same name. Like I’m trying to replace him.”

“Lucerion,” Lady Caro suggests, still holding the baby. “It sounds like a prince’s name. It sounds like a king’s.”

Jace attaches Lady Forlorn to his belt and then takes the baby, obviously against Lady Caro’s will. “Lucerion,” Jace murmurs, smiling down at his son who is stirring awake and beginning to whimper. “Is that your name? Is that what we’ll call you?”

“Perhaps Luca for short,” you say from your chair, feeling drained and like you need to lie down. You’ll have to change your rags again soon, or you’ll bleed through them.

“Luca, the littlest dragon,” Jace proclaims, touching his fingertip to the baby’s puggish nose. Then he turns to you. “Did you have a nickname as a child? I always did and still do, of course. And Luke…” Jace trails off, thinking of his dead brother, murdered by yours.

You see your red bat traveling around the board; you feel the warmth of blood on your cheek. “They called me Red.”

“Red?” Jace is baffled. “Like the color?”

“There was a game we played when we were young, and my piece…” You close your eyes, not wanting to remember, not wanting to feel the weight of their absence. “It doesn’t matter. It was so long ago.” And you fear that Jace will hear the evasiveness in your voice and ask you more questions; but he is absorbed with the baby, and he has already forgotten.

Two days later Jace and Vermax fly south to King’s Landing, and you and Luca are left in the care of the Corbrays and the maids and the ghosts that haunt the drafty stone corridors of Heart’s Home, soldiers killed in the Riverlands and the Reach, women and children burned and starved, bones devoured by dragons, generations of names forgotten.

Sometimes you giggle with Lady Caro as you drink cinnamon tea in the Great Hall. Sometimes you stand in the castle rookery listening to the ravens caw and stare out into the cold mist of the mountains, wondering what is happening in the world outside. And sometimes you have Luca nestled in your arms and walk with him around your bedchamber, introducing him to the faces of the people you left in your old life, when you were called Red and you believed you could be someone like Visenya. But you never mention Aemond, and not just because there are no mosaics of him on the wall.

You wouldn’t know what to say. You wouldn’t know where to begin.

~~~~~~~~~~

You learn Jace is back when he climbs into bed just as you are drifting off one night, silver moonlight spilling in through the glass of the window, his body folding into you, his arm skating over your waist to find your hand and weave his fingers through yours. Two months have passed since he left, moons that grow full and then vanish, milk that dries up and blood that ceases flowing and rebuilds inside you for the next child, if there will be one, when there will be one. Luca is sleeping in his own room with his maids and wetnurses. Jace’s curls tickle your throat as he nuzzles into you as if he wants to disappear.

He says: “The littlest dragon is much bigger than I remember.”

“How was Helaena?”

“Troubled, as is to be expected, but in good health. Jaehaera and Maelor are well too. King’s Landing is cold some days now. I think they’ll have snow soon. The taxes, the riots, the stockpiling of food as the Reach and the Riverlands burn…it’s a disaster. Mother is desperate. She misses Luke, I think. And Baela, and Daemon. She’s lost so much weight I barely recognized her. But she was very, very happy to hear about Luca. Hopefully she can meet him soon. Although we’ll have to be careful traveling with him while he’s so small, we’ll have to ensure he’s warm enough.”

Winter is coming, you think, remembering Cregan Stark’s army under the protection of Daemon and Caraxes. “Did you see Rhaena and the boys at the Eyrie?”

“I did,” Jace admits, as if it was a fraught experience.

“And what happened?”

“Rhaena called me a traitor.”

“For marrying and fathering a son with me?”

“No, that she understands,” Jace says. “But it is treason to love you.”

You turn around to look at him in the shadows, in the moonlight. “You told her?”

“She could tell. I cannot hide it. I am a glass jar and you and Luca are the butterflies inside.” And Jace kisses you softly, his fingers hooked beneath your chin, his flesh coming alive again after so long away: managing and conciliating, lifting Rhaenyra’s spirits, pawing through the heaps of bastards in King’s Landing for dragonriders, flying on Vermax through storms and snow.

When you kiss Jace back, when your hands go to his chest and his jaw and his face, when you open his tunic so you can feel the heat of his skin underneath, you are aware that parts of you are waking up again as well. There is a dull but definite ache of lust beginning to bloom like a blood drop soaking into white cotton.

“Are you…” Jace begins. “Do you think you’re healed enough, I mean…have you stopped bleeding?”

You hesitate. “I have.” You think of your first time with him and how painful it was, the sensation of burning, of tearing, and you can only assume it will be worse now. “But I’m rather terrified too.”

“No, no, don’t be afraid,” Jace whispers, he pleads, running his fingers through your long unbound hair. “We don’t have to do that. I won’t hurt you. I’ll wait for as long as you want.” His dark eyes travel down the white nightgown that clings to your body, your breasts, your belly, and then lower. “Can I…can I try something?”

“Try what?” you ask, bewildered. Then as Jace begins to push the hem of your nightgown up over your hips to your waist, you grin and kiss him again in the dim celestial light, cool night air rushing up over your bare legs, blood surging through your arteries to where he bends low to taste you once—a long, slow, tentative drag of the tongue—and then moans quietly and pushes your thighs further apart so he can bury himself there and lick, suck, swallow down your clear mineral wetness as it pools for him.

Something isn’t quite right—not enough pressure, not the ideal angle—but it’s exquisite to be reacquainted with this side of yourself, to know you can feel this way again, insatiable and desired. When you reach to touch Jace, there is a moment when you are startled to find dark curly hair in place of silk-smooth silver, and there is a ghost in the room like a voyeur watching, and you think dazedly: If Aemond knew about this, would he kill me?

“There,” you gasp, jolting as your husband stumbles upon the perfect place and rhythm. “Jace, right there…”

He listens, he is groaning with desperation for you, and you roll into a climax that is brief and sharp and a little painful, but good. Instead of being extinguished, you are a kindled flame. You turn over, straddle Jace, and unfasten his trousers. You begin kissing your way down his belly, nipping at him, your palm kneading his hardness, and you know he wants you but for some reason when you go to take him in your mouth, he pushes you away.

“You don’t have to do that,” Jace says, alarmed.

“I know. I want to.”

“No, seriously. Stop.”

You look at him, wounded, rejected. “Jace, I’m not doing this out of obligation. I enjoy it.”

He is staring at the wall. “I just…for you to…I’m sorry, it just feels wrong.”

“I can do things you believe are only for whores and still be your wife.”

“Shh,” he says, and his voice is gentle but his face is pained. You think of something Criston once told you when you were collecting bones from the Godswood of the Red Keep: Red, it hurts your mother when you’re like this. Are you cursed to disappoint people, to repulse them, to be eternally misunderstood? “I have a gift for you.”

“A gift?”

Jace gets out of bed and fetches a small wooden box he must have brought into the room with him when you were still half-asleep. He opens the box, debates whether to reach in, decides against it and passes you the whole box instead. “I asked the castle maester to procure some while I was away…”

You squeal with delight when you see what’s inside: three black and white bats the same breed as Sapphire was, large fanlike ears and wiggling noses and small black eyes that peer curiously up at you. When you offer them your open palms, they immediately scramble into them.

“I hope they’re good ones.” Jace chuckles nervously. “I don’t really know what makes a bat suitable or not.”

“They’re perfect,” you say, smiling. “I’ll build them a roost. I’ll introduce them to Luca.”

Yet you cannot stop yourself from thinking: Aemond wouldn’t have cared if I was still bleeding.

~~~~~~~~~~

You are snuggled up with Luca in your chair by the fire, cool midday light—the color of steel, smoke, rainclouds, ash—streaming in through the windows. The baby’s eyes have turned dark like Jace’s, and his curls grow longer. He is only half-awake and blinking drowsily, his diminutive hands clasping your fingers. He doesn’t cry often, but he doesn’t smile either. Lady Caro believes he already has the temperament of a good king, a calmness, a graveness. She says: How improper would it be for him to be full of complaints or cheerfulness, the way the world is right now? No, he ought to be serious. He ought to be grateful he’s not starving or being roasted alive.

“I have some new friends,” you whisper to the baby like a secret or a myth. “They’re asleep right now. They sleep all day, kind of like you do. But then at night they come alive and they’re free, and they fly around like hawks or dragons.”

You speak for Luca, a soft bird-trill of a voice: “What are their names?”

“Good question,” you say, smiling. “Iris, Shark, and Flood. And you’ll meet them soon.” Your eyes go to the mosaics on the walls. Jace hasn’t asked you to take them down, but he doesn’t acknowledge them either, except for the mosaic you made of him that hangs by the headboard of the bed. He beams at that one and calls it fine work. “You’ll meet the people I grew up with too. Aegon will make you wood carvings. Helaena will sew you blankets. Daeron will take you on adventures. Jaehaera and Maelor will play games with you. And Mother and Criston will love you because you won’t be like me. You’ll be sweet-tempered and honorable, and when you’re old enough you’ll have a dragon to help protect us with.”

There is a knock on the doorframe; one of Luca’s wetnurses has arrived to feed him. You regret that you can’t anymore. Lady Caro was right; you’d be a terrible goat or cow or yak.

“Princess,” the wetnurse says, curtsying before she takes the baby from you. You watch her leave with him for his own bedchamber—Lady Caro has already filled it with toys and children’s books—and as soon as they are out of sight, the darkness of your losses creeps back in like spiders scurrying down the corridors of your veins and arteries, like rust growing over steel. Then you hear the rumbling of voices downstairs in the Great Hall.

You stand and swish in your gown—one of the Vale’s anemic colors, a faint dusky rose—through the hallway and down the spiral staircase of the tower. In the belly of the castle, the commotion is louder, and you sweep into the Great Hall to find men gathered around the table closest to the roaring hearth, Lord Corbray and his knights and the maester, and Lady Caro too looking on anxiously. Jace is holding a piece of parchment in his hands, presumably just delivered by a raven. He shakes his head as he reads it. Outside, snow is falling.

Lady Caro is saying: “Well you’ll have to tell her. Oh, the poor dear, as if everything else isn’t bad enough. And only the gods know where Aemond is, he hasn’t been spotted in the Riverlands for days…” Then she spies you and shoos Lord Corbray and his men from the room. They bow to you as they depart, swift little bobs of the head. They have to; you are now both the wife and mother of future kings.

“Jace?” you say when the Great Hall is empty except for the two of you and Lady Caro.

Jace’s face is stricken. Lady Forlorn hangs from his belt. The letter is still clutched in his left hand; the right grips the hilt of his Valyrian steel sword. “I’m so sorry.”

“What?” you ask, immediately horrified. Aegon dead of his burns, Daeron killed in battle, Mother executed for treason, Aemond…? “What happened?”

“You have to believe that I had no idea about any of this, I never would have given Hugh the order if I’d been there, or let Mother do it—”

“Jace, please tell me.”

Aemond, Aemond, Aemond??

Instead, Jace says absurdly: “It’s Helaena.”

You stare at him. “Helaena isn’t a warrior.”

“No,” he agrees. “But she got to Dreamfyre somehow and tried to escape the city.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

That’s impossible. She wouldn’t leave Mother and the children. “No, she couldn’t have, she—”

“She took flight,” Jace insists. “And my mother sent Hugh Hammer after her on Vermithor.”

Vermithor was supposed to be mine, you think numbly. “And Helaena, she…she was…?”

Jace is trying to keep his voice steady; his dark eyes gleam, begging you not to hate him. “Dreamfyre attacked when Vermithor flew close to her. She wasn’t an especially aggressive dragon, but she was large and formidable, and she fought to defend her own life and that of her rider. Vermithor ripped out her throat, though Hugh was burned to death in the saddle. Then Vermithor flew eastward, and no one knows where he is now. Dreamfyre crashed to the earth, and Helaena with her. Their bodies were found on the beach outside the Red Keep.”

She can’t be dead. She never hurt anyone. She just wanted to be with her creatures and her family. She embroidered my blankets with red bats, she put ladybugs into my open palms. “Why would Helaena try to run, why would she do that?”

“I don’t know.”

You think nonsensically, as you have no way of knowing this: Because she was trying to stop something terrible from happening. “I told you to give her more freedom. And that freedom allowed her to sneak away to the Dragonpit.”

Jace reaches for you. “This isn’t your fault—”

“All of it ismy fault!” you shout at him, and Lady Caro shrinks away and covers her mouth with her hands. “If I’d had Vermithor, the Greens would have been unstoppable! And Rhaenyra never would have tried to claim the throne, and Aemond wouldn’t have been sent to Storm’s End, and Luke and Jaehaerys and Baela wouldn’t have died, and Aegon wouldn’t have been burned, and Aemond wouldn’t be destroying the Riverlands, and Helaena would still be alive, but instead I’ve always been useless!”

“You aren’t useless,” Jace pleads.

“Not normal enough to be a good wife or daughter, not extraordinary enough to have a dragon!”

Again, Jace tries to touch you, to soothe you. “Please don’t—”

You fling his hands away. “What was our marriage for if not to stop this from happening?! To end the dying, to protect the people we have left?” You whirl away from him and flee from the Great Hall, the castle, yourself. Behind you, Lady Caro is comforting Jace with soft tenderness you’ve never been capable of.

“Let her go, my prince,” she is counselling. “Give her a moment to grieve…”

You throw open the first door you pass and trudge out into the snow, no fox fur coat, bare feet. The cold stings and then your skin goes numb and it doesn’t bother you anymore. The icy mountain wind tears at your hair, flowing in long waves like the women of the Vale wear it, delicate and feminine, pretty and powerless. Tears cascade down your face; currents of red magma scorch your throat. When you close your eyes, you see the yellow butterfly that was once Helaena’s game piece.

She never hurt anyone. She never did anything wrong.

Now you are under the shadows of the soaring pine trees, their green needles so thick you cannot see the grey of the sky.

She never met Luca.

You gaze up into the branches, covered with tufts of white snow and icicles like fangs, and you have the overwhelming, ravenous feeling that you need to go home. You don’t belong in the Vale. The Vale almost killed you when you were a child, Aemond’s hands shoving you into a rushing stream freckled with ice.

And then all at once—like you’ve been hit, like you’ve been stabbed with a blade—you are flying high above the castle and the wind is raking over your cheeks, but it is not your face but Aemond’s, half-blind and half-scarred, torrential red waves of a sea of blood in his skull.

He’s here, he’s here—

And if he’s able to see through your eyes that you are outside in the forest…

The castle!!!

You bolt through the trees back towards Heart’s Home, your bare feet leaving tracks in the fresh powdery snow that is nearly up to your knees, and you stumble out of the shadows just as Vhagar soars overhead and unleashes her flames on the castle, wood burning, stones collapsing, people inside shrieking as they incinerate. You’re screaming for Aemond to stop, but he does not hear you and he does not see you either, he is high above in a place you’ve never been and never will be, he is flying, and he is hearing only devastation and he is breathing in its dark, intoxicating smoke, and as Vhagar swoops by the stable and it bursts into an inferno—horses galloping loose and engulfed in fire, dead but not knowing it yet—you run into the crumbling castle.

“Jace?!” you shout, but the air is full of smoke and the sounds of wood cracking and stones caving in are deafening. You feel blindly for the spiral staircase that leads up to the tower where your and Luca’s bedchambers are located. From the part of the castle that was once the Great Hall, you can hear Lord Corbray and Lady Caro screaming as their skin blisters and sloughs away and their flesh is cooked and their bones are charred black, and when the flames reach their lungs the screams go quiet. You cannot think about them. You don’t have any time; you must think of Luca and Jace. “Jace!” you bellow through the smoke.

And then there is a weak reply: “Here.”

You follow it into the stairwell. Parts of the wall have been blasted away; you can see the pine forest outside, the cold barren sky, the Mountains of the Moon. Jace is halfway up the steps, slumped against the fractured wall and pinned there by stones that have rained down on his legs. His bones must be broken; his face is bloodless and his curls matted to his forehead by sweat. His right hand fumbles futilely for the hilt of Lady Forlorn. Now, dimly, you can hear Luca crying.

Jace rasps as he stares vacantly up at you: “I tried to get to him. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, Jace, I can do it.”

“I love you.”

“I’ll be right back.”

You climb over him and chase Luca’s wails up the staircase. Vhagar is back, and the ruins of the castle tremble when she roars, and you feel the heat of her flames radiating up through the floor. You lose your footing and clamber up the last few steps on your hands and knees, then manage to stand again and careen into Luca’s room. Half the roof has collapsed; a wetnurse is sprawled on the floor and half-buried in fallen stones, blood hemorrhaging out of her mouth and ears. You grab the baby out of his cradle and quickly bundle him in his blanket patterned with blue dragonflies. His tiny hands grasp at your face and your hair as you rush back down the spiral staircase to help Jace. Smoke needles your eyes; you and Luca are both coughing as you try to clear your lungs.

You reach Jace and kneel beside him, holding Luca in your left arm and using your right to try to roll the stones off Jace’s legs, but he’s not helping you.

“Jace, please, we have to go now,” you say, but when you look at his face he’s not there. His dark eyes are glassy, his chest doesn’t rise and fall with the tide of air.

He’s gone, you think. Like Father, Luke, Jaehaerys, Baela, Rhaenys, Helaena. And you are struck by an excruciating pang of fondness for Jace more forceful than anything you ever felt for him when he was alive, and you cannot leave him here. He was your husband, he was Luca’s father. And he loved you. He must have. He said it over and over again.

“Jace?” you sob. But outside Vhagar is still flying—the gales churned up by her wings gust into the jagged holes in the castle walls—and she could be coming back, she could be returning to burn you, and Jace is dead but the baby is still alive.

You clutch Luca to you as he cries and you race down the steps, following the smoke-filled, twisted passageway. The heat is suffocating, the sounds of a dying castle engulfing, Heart’s Home turned into a graveyard, into a shattered skeleton, charred and cursed like Harrenhal. You crash through the door at the base of the stairwell and into the ground level of the castle, and you are almost out—

Something ignites, something explodes, and stones from the castle wall you are feeling your way along rip out of their centuries-old mortar and collide with you. Your ribs crack, you are thrown to the floor, but even as you scream and claw your way out of the rubble you don’t let go of the baby. You force yourself upright and stagger with Luca towards a gaping chasm where there was once a wall. There is a tremor like an earthquake. Outside, Vhagar must be landing.

Now you are in the snow again, bare feet and a gown covered with soot and wreckage. The baby isn’t crying anymore. When you glance down at the blanket he is swaddled in, the white space between the blue dots of dragonflies is turning red with blood.

Blood?

You can’t look. You can’t allow yourself to feel it; it will consume you until there is nothing left. The last vestiges of the castle are crumpling. Across the field, Vhagar is devouring Vermax’s small, broken corpse, crushing his bones in her massive, monstrous jaws.

Blood??

Aemond’s footsteps are behind you, crunching in the snow. His cloak cracks in the frigid wind like the sails of a ship. His words are full of dark, euphoric, lethal triumph, a high like nothing he’s ever known, not even when he claimed Vhagar, not even what he imagined he would feel on your wedding day when you’d be bound to each other with fire and blood in the tradition of Old Valyria. “I said I would find you, and I did.”

You hear your own voice as if from a very far distance, lightning strikes miles away but moving closer. “You killed him.”

Aemond is puzzled. You are supposed to be happy. You are saved, you are home. “Killed who?”

“He’s dead, and there will never be another. Not like this one. Jace was his father, but Jace is gone. You killed him too.”

And you turn to face him, and Aemond sees what you are holding in your arms, and only then does he understand.

[shizuturnspages]

Hi, your headcanons are literally so good?😭 I was wondering if you got some for Capitano🙏🙏 If you don’t write for him that’s okay!!!

Omggg yesss of courseeee i love Capitano!!!!

Yandere Capitano

❥ Capitano’s obsession with you is fucking absolute. He doesn’t need to say much—hell, he’s probably not the type to waste words at all. His actions speak for him. When he wants you, he fucking has you, and nothing, and no one, will ever change that. You’re his, completely and irrevocably. He’ll watch over you with that deadly silence, and you’ll feel his presence like a fucking weight on your chest. It’s intense, suffocating, and you’ll never escape his grasp.

❥ Capitano doesn’t trust the other Harbingers, and that shit’s amplified when it comes to you. He knows they’re all backstabbing, manipulative fucks, and he won’t let anyone near you, especially Il fucking Dottore. That guy’s twisted as hell, always scheming with his experiments and creepy obsessions, and Capitano’s aware of every damn look Dottore sends your way. If that bastard even thinks about getting close, Capitano’s ready to fucking end him. No second chances, no warnings—he’ll make sure no one, especially Dottore, ever lays a hand on what’s his.

❥ Capitano’s always fucking watching. He doesn’t need to be glued to your side because he’s got his soldiers, his eyes, everywhere. Nothing happens without his knowledge. You might think you’re alone, but he’s got tabs on you at all times. If any of the other Harbingers try to get too close or influence you in any way? Capitano’s already fucking there, ready to crush anyone who dares. He doesn’t trust them, and he sure as hell won’t let you fall into their traps.

❥ When it comes to Capitano, his affection is fucking powerful. He’ll pin you against the wall, his imposing presence looming over you, letting you know in no uncertain terms that you’re his. His touch is rough, possessive, and commanding. There’s no softness here—he’s a man who takes what he wants, and when it comes to you, he’s not holding back. Every touch, every fucking look, it’s all pure dominance. And you’ll feel that intensity in every fiber of your being.

❥ Capitano’s influence is inescapable. You can try to run, try to hide, but it’s fucking useless. His control extends far and wide, and you’ll always find yourself being dragged back to him. And deep down? You’ll start to crave that control, that feeling of being completely fucking owned by someone as powerful as him. Because as terrifying as his obsession is, there’s a sick comfort in knowing that he’ll protect you, even if it means fucking obliterating anyone who gets in his way.

❥ Capitano’s got a possessive streak that runs deeper than anyone could guess, and here’s the fucked-up part—he’s got a secret room, cold and barren like the man himself, where he keeps mementos of you. It could be something as small as a strand of hair, or maybe an object you once touched. But to him? It’s a fucking altar to his obsession. And if you ever found it? Oh, you’re not getting out of there until he makes sure you understand exactly how much you belong to him, body and soul. You’ll be his forever, locked away in the icy grip of his love.

[togglesbloggle]

Insofar as I have a principled position on the matter- and I don’t, not really- it’s this: art does have the ability to alter our values and our way of interpreting the world. It’s absolutely a live grenade, and should be taken seriously as such.

Like, of course it does! Probably you can point to some book, some film, some story somewhere that touched you not just deeply but irrevocably. There are moments of aesthetic experience which give a before and after to our lives, just as surely as moments of extraordinary suffering or extraordinary joy can.

I’m lucky enough to have more than a few I can list off, personally. Profoundly transformative ones like Evelyn Waugh’s Brideshead Revisited or the music of John Cage, sure. But maybe even more interesting (tractable?) to me were small moments of grace like the one I found in the Dragonlance novels by Weis and Hickman: the dark wizard Raistlin Majere wove back and forth across the line between ‘hero’ and ‘villain’ in exactly such a way that, after reading his books at a young age, I immediately and quite distinctly overcame my fear of the dark.

What a wonderful thing for a book to do! I’d be hard-pressed to explain exactly how, if only because I’m such a different person now than I was then. Perhaps your own intuition will bridge the gap a bit. It was all tied up with this distinction between good and evil, you see, and with the ability to stare in to the face of evil things without flinching, to understand that they have contingency and history just like good things do, and to be in some sense in community with them.

That was a long, long time ago, and I don’t think my model of the world even has evil in it any more, not in the sense that I believed in it then. But my fear of the dark never came back, either.

I don’t believe for a minute that Weis and Hickman had any idea that they were giving me that gift in particular, nor did they have any sensible means to achieve such a goal even if they somehow wanted to. It wasn’t a transformation mediated by intent, you know? It didn’t reduce to an argument that I believed or disbelieved in some intellectual way, or to some specific controlled experience that the authors had planned for me.

Art is transformative, but not in the way that effective polemic is transformative. It doesn't (principally) reason with us or persuade us. Rather, I think art is dangerous for the same reasons that travel to a foreign country is dangerous, or a friendship with somebody new is dangerous. It threatens us by expanding our conscious history to include new categories of experience, that is, by changing the context in which we go about the business of living.

It's wrong to think of art mostly as a tug-of-war dragging hapless consumers from one ideology to another, with the victory going to whichever faction can fill the algorithm with mass-produced and doctrinally compliant stories clamoring endlessly for their views. Normalization has its power, don't get me wrong, but there will always be far greater power in a single glimpse over the horizon.

Think about Whoopi Goldberg's account of seeing Nichelle Nichol's Uhura on television:

“Well, when I was nine years old Star Trek came on. I looked at it and I went screaming through the house, ‘Come here, mum, everybody, come quick, come quick, there’s a black lady on television and she ain’t no maid!’ I knew right then and there I could be anything I wanted to be.”

Once. It took one time, and the walls fell away, and everything was possible. The fashions and approved styles may come and go with the seasons, but the outer perimeter of our experiences, and the sense of what the world could be, can only ever grow, and sometimes it grows by leaps and bounds in an instant.

I guess this is why I tend to think of censorship and control over media as basically quixotic. Sure, with enough energy you can control what's normal and what's public, but controlling what's possible is an exercise in futility on a grand scale. You can never win that fight, only lose it fast or slow.

We all have this remarkably unpredictable collection of soft places and hard places: some things in us that deform to match the shape of their environment, and other things that break us before they can bend. And we all try to find a way to make these strange shapes work within the limits of our own experience and the world as we understand it. Some of us thrive in communities and cultures where others die gasping, and some of us spend our entire lives trying to smash through excruciating barriers that others can't even detect.

Art is one of the things that expands those limits, gives the strange creature inside us a little bit of room to stretch and grow and find a space for the hard bits to arrange themselves as they need to be. But it can't do that without changing the soft parts as well, because the soft parts need external force to maintain their shape. Socialization and ideology can only weakly bind us, because they rely on deliberate and conscious pressures to conform; ignorance is stronger, because it denies us the choice altogether. Without art, you'll never really be able to learn what kind of animal you are, as opposed to the kind of person your world has told you to be. But art will change you, too, as discovery always will.

The life you have now has real value- great beauty, and great meaning. For all that you are defined in part by the walls of your cage, knowledge and new experiences are not something to accept lightly, and they can never be undone. All I can say, really, is that I've never once regretted it.

[yes-these-obsessions-are-healthy]

It’s been discussed before yes yes yes but the fact that in Trespasser Solas declines your Lavellan from joining him because he doesn’t her want to see what he will become.

a) All Lavellan knows is the moral, ethical, and principled Solas, the Solas who acts defensively and practically. Solas has and will act/order others to act in such a way that would break many Geneva conventions if it means succeeding, and he doesn’t want to test Lavellan’s love for him by making her bear witness to that, to choose him when she has no idea the true cost of what she is demanding, not only of herself, but of the world that will be ravaged by all of the terrorism and political maneuverings meant to destabilize and destroy the only world she has ever known. There is nothing more heart-breaking than someone you love forsaking you, to reach that limit one has for another. But equally so, Solas does not want to be in the position where he may be left with the choice between choosing Lavellan or his mission. What he will become may just be a man that would sacrifice her for his plans. He will not let her potentially put her heart on the line like that.

b) He doesn’t want to make her a monster that participates or allows such things, because part of the reason he fell in love with her was because of her goodness. It wouldn’t be difficult to groom her into evil if love was added to the mix. Love can compel you to do terrible things for the sake of a loved one, and Solas does not want to take advantage of her in that way, does not even want to have that temptation or that possibility involved. He is distancing himself to avoid accidentally corrupting the nature of what he believes to be a good, pure spirit. Evil inevitably poisons goodness. The Evil he wields is utilitarian and remorseful and necessary but evil all the same because it will do harm to thousands via the removal of the Veil. The man is planning what is potential omnicide. You cannot participate in that and not have something about you change irrevocably to allow it to happen. Solas, again, thinks of Lavellan as a good spirit. He wants to keep as many “good-spirited people” (kind, good people) intact as possible before he executes his plan. Why, I do not know, but I suppose because he believes that possessing a good spirit means your life will be happier. To be good is to exist well, and as Solas explains, to be good of heart means you will attract good spirits in the Fade and thus your experience in the Fade will be more pleasant, so by this logic he believes that, ideally (strictly ideally, he knows how much reality does not reflect ideals), goodness begets goodness begets peace.

Solas needs to be a monster because truly effective warfare is conducted when principles and ethics are thrown out the window. He does not want Lavellan to witness that and be confirmed in how much of a monster he was, is, and is willing to be. He wants her to remember him as a civilian, as Solas the humble apostate, not Fen’Harel the shadowed and conniving guerrilla war general. Selfishly, he wants her to only love a part of him, the best parts of him, because he is afraid of the whole of him being rejected, because who he is in totality is so storied and convoluted and repugnant that it would require the most extreme cognitive dissonance to be able to love him, and if there is anything Solas hates, it’s people who ignore reality in favor of their own self-serving fantasies. Lavellan would be right to disavow him, and by the same token it would be so terribly selfish of them both if she forgave him of his crimes and he accepted that forgiveness, because his sins cannot be absolved with a single individual’s love. That is the tragedy of their love, because love cannot overcome all that has happened. It cannot redeem or wipe away what he has done, not unless he kills a significant part of who he is, the Ancient Elf, the Rebel, the Failure, the Veil Maker, the Doomer of the World.

[thatweirdgirlyousatnexttoinmath]

It's been almost five years since The Haunting of Hill House came out on Netflix. And it has irrevocably changed my life.

The depiction of grief. Addiction. Depression. Loss. Identity. Family relationships. Family dynamics. Healing your inner child. Having to deal with your inner child. The fact that in some ways you never really grow up, you're that exact same person inside that is dealing with all these increasingly complex and difficult things, trying hard to not let the child in you react because you know it shouldn't.

Thinking about Theo taking her gloves off. Nell going to therapy, putting in work, and still having her demons chase her around all the way to the end. Shirley's entire life and career being based around wanting to help people in their darkest moments the way someone helped her (though isn't that what they all do, too? Especially Theo). Luke as the youngest, being left behind or not believed and eventually having to find ways to self-soothe, which as an adult are not as health-friendly as other options out there. But it's what he had to do to cope. And Steve... everyone knows a Steve.

I know people have commented before about the five Crain siblings and the five stages of grief. But they also each experience those themselves, and in some ways the five of them simply display how much grief and living can do to a person. Juxtaposing the entire modern part of the series with them as children reminded me how much the things I do now can also be drawn back to little Me. The decisions I make, what scares me, who I reach out to. What haunts me? I may not have a big scary terrifying Death House in my past, but I mean... we've all got our version of a big scary terrifying Death House.

The tragedy of Hill House, the complicated love that's shown, the connections and relationships we have with our families, the world, ourselves. I cannot, will not, should not, would not forget it.

[yuri-is-online]

And Your Name Is? (Sebek, Silver, Idia)

Synopsis- After successfully resolving whatever was causing NRC to be trapped in an endless time loop of overblotting and disaster, one last reset should give him a chance to experience a normal school year with you. But instead you find yourself trapped in the here and there, appearing as a vague shadow around the school that vanishes as soon as he catches up to you. The kind thing to do would be to allow you to be forgotten in the chance it lets you return to your world.

But this is Twisted Wonderland where the kind thing is seldom done, and he wants you back as much as you want to find him again.

notes: they/them pronouns used for Yuu, thanks to the lovely annon who requested this, they suggested Silver and Sebek in celebration of Book 7 Chapter 5 and I decided to add Idia because I expect he'll be doing something soon-ish. Please look to my masterlist for the other parts if you liked this.

Sebek

This is madness, it has to be. What other explanation could he have for these memories torturing him every time he finds himself alone. Lilia had reassured them they were real, even if Lord Malleus's memory was fuzzy and Silver's as unreliable as ever what he saw, what he felt, were all painfully real. There was a missing student from his first year class, an incompetent irrevocably out of place, magicless human who seemed determined to get into the worst situations possible. He can't decide who he is angrier at, the other students for forgetting you, you for once again getting yourself into a situation someone would need to rescue you from, or himself for... for... for...

He'd asked his mother once, angrily and painfully disrespectfully, why she would marry someone so weak. The perspective of time, looped or otherwise, made him realize he was really blaming her for the way his grandfather saw him. As if he could have somehow earned his total respect and love if he erased everything about his father from his being, as if the answer his mother ultimately gave him was a sin somehow.

"Because my love is not weak, true love never is. You can let it change you for the better, or you can let it make you worse. When you see the person you love you will know what they'll do, your soul becomes theirs in a way. Your strengths and weaknesses become shared."

Sebek thinks he must be letting love make him worse. He isn't loud when he approaches your silhouette, he makes no announcement, no demand you be grateful he is paying you attention despite your humanity. He just sits under the apple tree, and quietly into the the empty night air reads a novel. There's a vague memory he has of a much louder conversation you had here about the exact same book. The knight saves his love at the cost of his own life, and he had gone on at much louder length about how noble that was.

You though, you had hated it. "What's the point of living if the person you want to share your life with had to die for it?"

"Do you remember?" His voice is still woefully in line with a normal volume, and you are still just out of reach. "That is what you said, and I am sure I said something very stupid about knightly honor. I probably told you that a mere human would never understand, but whatever I might have meant you were right in the end. It's an empty world when your life is paid for with the life of someone you love." You flicker as if to disappear, but Sebek is faster, snapping up from his seat to grasp you in a death roll and tumbling down to the grass. Yes, love is absolutely making him worse, how else is he supposed to explain to anyone the sheer joy he feels to find you, heavy and warm in the flesh successfully pinned under him and trembling. He can atone for his improprieties later, the sheer worry you inflicted demands immediate penance. There is no running from your fate, not that the arms that encircle his shoulders and pull him further down seem at risk of fleeing anywhere. Sebek's eyes close in relief, allowing himself finally to release his weakness into the strength of your embrace.

Silver

He used to dream what it would be like to live without his curse. Granted Silver didn't have much of an imagination, most of those thoughts consisted of him doing simple things like training with his father or cooking without fear of hurting himself, not that those were bad things to want. Now though, he almost missed his lapses into sleep. He was certain, based off of what little Malleus and Lilia had been able to tell him about the here and there, that he could find you in his dreams. When he went to bed at night he knew he slept, knew he dreamed, but for some reason he just couldn't find you. There were traces, locations he remembers from past timelines, places he's sure must be a twisted echo from your world, all showing traces he could follow but never once showing him you.

It was enough to make him cry, he swears he's cried more in the past month than he has in how ever many years he's been alive. He knows it's scaring his father, he thinks it's scaring Sebek. Malleus is still under the impression there is a way to save you so he has yet to give into fear, but if the way he dismisses Silver, teasingly telling him to get some rest, is any reassurance he's worried about him too.

"I really hope you aren't missing because you think we don't care." He seldom speaks aloud to you outside of dreams, Silver isn't sure if you can hear him when he does. But there's a painful strength to his desire tonight, maybe fueled by the silhouette he saw flickering just beyond the Ramshackle Gate earlier in the evening. He knows Malleus told him to rest, but he finds himself walking back there "just in case" before he returns to his dorm. It's quiet here, inviting himself to close his eyes and begin tracing the steps he saw earlier. You were dancing, he tried to reach for your hand to give you the partner the waltz so clearly demanded but only found air. They're still only holding air when when he pauses, eyes blurring as he tries to examine a still tingling palm, confused to find tears pooling in its center as words continue to flow. "That's not to say if you do I don't understand. If I was in your place, I would feel lonely too. It has to be painful, feeling so alone when you are surrounded by so many people..." His eyes close. A gentle breeze picks up the autumn leaves and tickle his nose with a familiar scent as he chokes out an earnest plea: "Is it too much to ask for you to be lonely in my hands? I promise I'll hold on so tight you never float away again." A comforting weight settles itself onto his hand, his fingers thread through theirs and his other arm pulls them into his embrace through sheer muscle memory before his eyes even open.

"Why are you crying?" A voice he's been chasing after for hundreds of years now, cracked from a months worth of silence asks him so earnestly and sweetly the only response he can find is laughter.

"It doesn't matter, it doesn't matter!" His arm finds it's way under your legs to sweep you up into a protective cradle as he spins you around and around to reassure himself that this is not a dream, no matter the familiar gleam shining up at him from your eyes.

Idia

This is so not worth it. Idia is not built for this, this, this cliche bullshit plot line. He will not own up to his past self's decisions, he will stay resolute in nihilistic pride and continue to refer to himself as a looser NEET who has never gotten any in his entire life. And technically, as he has argued to Ortho for the past five hours now, that is still true.

"New timeline new me, I am not in love with a student who doesn't technically exist that was my much cooler alter ego." He says that, but Ortho knows that's not a video game's code he has pulled up on his monitor. And despite checking the school's security cams being his thing, his older brother has several open on his other monitor. They've been changing through this entire argument, clearly monitoring wherever you appear and logging it as data in a massive spreadsheet Ortho has maybe taken one or two looks at when he managed to convince Idia to take a nap.

"Um big brother, not to be rude-" Ortho really wants to be. Idia isn't the only one who loves you, just the only one insistent on denying his feelings. "but isn't it sort of... childish to deny yourself at this point? The prefect-"

"They can't be a prefect if they aren't in school." Idia snaps.

"Just Yuu then." Ortho chooses to take the weird cackle Idia lets out as a sign he is making progress with his code and not a sign of a mental break. Yet. "They never showed interest in anyone else, they always picked you. That's got to be enough data to prove that when you save them," because there really is no point in pretending Idia is trying to do anything else at this point, even he gave up denying that just fifteen minutes into this conversation "they won't abandon you for anyone else."

"That's what I'm afraid of." Idia doesn't think he meant to say that, the words sort of just fall out of his mind onto his lap. He risks a look at the security footage, your ghost seldom comes into Ignihyde. That had bothered him at first, angered him even. What, you'll tell him you love him, steal his first kiss every time you can, and watch all his favorite shows just to get him to talk to you more but then when you're trapped in a liminal space you won't bother knocking on his door? Did all those things you said you would do only apply to the good times?

Not that it changed what he was going to do, part of him saw saving you as a challenge but mostly it was just out of gratitude for saving Ortho. That would have earned you his help even without the whole "lovers doomed by the narrative" thing you had going on. But recently, the more he worked on saving you really, he had started to wonder if his self doubt was what was pushing you away. Idia hated how much magic could rely on something as unpredictable and unreliable as human emotion, but it did. And whatever was happening to you was absolutely magical, he had the data to prove it. Reluctantly, ignoring Ortho's protests despite the guilt that gnaws at him he leaves his room. The harsh nighttime light of Ignihyde's LED displays bounce off his skin as he shuffles himself through the empty dormitory, no real destination in mind. He couldn't bring himself to say it out loud in front of Ortho, he couldn't bring himself to say it in front of you either, if his spotty memory is serving him correctly. He finds himself stood in front of a vending machine in one of the school's hallways, two distorted shadows flickering with equal uncertainty in the glass.

"Hungry?" Idia doesn't know why he asks, but he knows why he puts enough money into the machine for two bags of chips. "I keep forgetting I'm just getting shit for myself now." You don't respond, but Idia isn't too surprised or upset. It has to be weird hearing him address you directly after he's spent so much time ignoring you. "Just because Ignihyde's meant to respect the King of the Underworld doesn't mean you'll get snatched away if you pay me a visit. You shouldn't be afraid of him, he isn't dangerous to you." But I am. He doesn't say that, but the words hang heavy in the air anyway. Your shadow tries to reach for the vending machine, but pause almost confused when Idia beats you to punch in the familiar number of your favorite drink.

I love you. He doesn't say it out loud, but the thunk of the can makes the point just the same Idia realizes when he brings the can up to a very confused, very familiar looking face. You are confused, and a bit scared when he drops the drink to tackle you but you hold onto him anyway.

I love you too. You don't say it either but the steady, comforting beat of your heart screams it just the same. I will find you in ever lifetime.

[dark-audit]

Things I wish more writers understood about PTSD

Traumatic events don't always lead to PTSD. Two people can experience the exact same traumatic event, and one can go to work the next day shaken up but otherwise alright, while the other still has trouble functioning normally two years down the line. This is a fact that's been studied to death in psychology, but we're still no closer to figuring out why this discrepancy exists. So no, that character who experienced a very traumatic event and wasn't traumatized to your liking wasn't actually 'unrealistic'; they just didn't live up to your preconception of how trauma is supposed to effect people.

There is no flaw or 'weakness' in a person's temprament or personality construction that will make them more likely to develop PTSD, and likewise, people who don't develop PTSD are not inherently 'tougher'. PTSD is not the kind of illness you can blame on the person who suffers from it; human beings are more complicated than that. Furthermore, people who don't develop PTSD from a traumatic event exist, in fact they're very common, and while they don't develop that precise, largely arbitrary set of symptoms, they are still likely to be deeply affected by the event/s. Their experiences are no less real than those of their counterparts.

Sometimes, a person who experienced a traumatic even didn't develop PTSD afterwards - because they already had it. There are lots of people who go into therapy following a traumatic event only to discover they've been experiencing the symptoms of PTSD for years, following a previous unrelated traumatic event. This is especially common for people who had C-PTSD beforehand. Since PTSD can often manifest in very subtle ways, and since people are likely to 'mask' symptoms as a way to keep judgement or prying at bay, this scenario is not particularly uncommon.

PTSD doesn't always develop immediately following the traumatic event. PTSD can take any amount of time to develop. For most people, it takes around 3 months for symptoms to appear, but for a lot of people, the symptoms of PTSD do not appear for many months, even years after the event/s. This usually has something to do with the memory issues that can arise after trauma, and also might be affected by how a person conceptualizes the 'threat level' over time.

People with PTSD are not 'broken'; people with PTSD can be treated. Human beings aren't inanimate objects; we're living beings, graced with this incredible ability to adapt, grow and change. While there is no 'cure' for PTSD, there are loads of types of psychotherapy and medications that help to alleviate symptoms, and many people with this disorder are able to live fulfilling lives despite the diagnosis. Recovery is never out of the question, no matter how severe a person's symptoms might be. PTSD or not, I for one have yet to encounter anyone I would ever consider irrevocably 'broken'.

People with PTSD don't all experience the same symptoms. I feel like it needs to be said, because there is a bit of a 'type' in fiction, isn't there? And this can be incredibly disheartening to read for someone whose PTSD doesn't align with the way it is constantly shown to 'normally' manifest. In reality, PTSD is a very complex disorder, which might express itself in a wide breadth of different ways, and people handle their symptoms using a wide breadth of different methods. You'd be hard pressed to find two people who are completely alike in this regard.

Perpetrators of violence are just as likely to develop PTSD as their victims. This is one of those things I learned though my torture research escapades, and I've found it applies to other violent crimes as well, such as violent assault and murder. It's not a particularly nice fact to know if you want to maintain your straightforward good-vs-evil worldview, but alas, the real world is grim and complicated. There is actually a name for this type of PTSD, and it is Participation-Induced Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PI-PTSD), or perpetrator trauma. PTSD does not discriminate, and you're not safe from it just because you're not on the recieving end.

People with PTSD aren't automatically more violent. I don't know why this myth has to be so prominent with every single mental illness ever, but like, yeah, its not true for this one either.

[qweerhet]

i have come to realize over the past few days that a lot of bad transfeminist takes on this website are percolating in spaces where it's presumed the transfem experience is one of either attempting to be recognized as a woman socially, or wanting to be recognized as a woman socially but not attempting (with an unspoken "yet" attached), and suddenly everything coming out of those spaces about transmisogyny makes sense.

transmisogyny never applies to men because if you're a woman, you know it already. or if it does apply to men, it always benefits them, because someone who looks like a man and occupies the social role of man could never actually be a woman, at least until they start trying to occupy the social role of woman. if a woman is closeted, she'll come out eventually. people who don't chemically or surgically transition and continue to use he/him are selfishly benefiting from transmisogyny, and don't want to come out because they benefit too much from enacting violence on trans women. transfems are always treated as failed women, and never as failed men, because being transfem means trying to be recognized as a woman. nobody could ever see a real transfem as a man, only men are seen as men, and transfems do things like use she/her and wear women's clothes and go on estrogen, which means everyone knows they're transfem. transfems who are men aren't a part of this conversation. tma people who aren't women don't exist because transmisogyny comes from being perceived as a woman.

and it's like. well. i certainly know lots of people who would directly contest & cleanly disprove your presumptions here (i mean. myself being one of them, even though i do present femme full-time!), but you'll never get the chance to have your worldview shifted, because you've made your social spaces profoundly unfriendly to them!

even if you've already made an effort to decouple transmedicalism from your theory, you still have to make an effort to actually engage with & understand the material experiences of people who don't align with current narratives about transition at all. transfems who use all pronouns and grow massive beards while on e and never legally change their names or gender markers. transneutral and transandrogynous tma people. trans women who refer to themselves as women but do not want to chemically or surgically transition or publicly use pronouns other than he/him, ever. full-time female impersonators who solely use she/her and chemically and surgically transition, but still identify as men. and you have to really engage with what we say about transmisogyny, as in, listen in good faith and understand what we're expressing about its functions in our daily lives!

or you could circlejerk forever about how being a woman is the be-all-end-all of experiencing transmisogyny and personal identification is one and the same as material conditions of privilege, to the point that personal identification automatically prescribes material privilege. and shut out a solid chunk of tma people from your gender theory permanently and irrevocably. and implicitly call a solid chunk of tma people liars for talking about daily life experiences. that's cool too, definitely won't have any negative consequences for trans community and trans spaces in the broader world or anything.

[klaineccfanficlibrary]

Any suggestions for multi-chapter fics with an alternate meeting and happy ending

So many great fics! I have tried to give you a selection, the first few have a festive theme; then some recent fics; and some old classics. Let me know if you like them! ~Jen

Here is our alternative meeting tab.

A boyfriend for Christmas by @caramelcoffeeaddict CoffeeAddict80

When Kurt takes his 6-year-old nephew, Caleb, to see Santa, he's mortified when Caleb asks Santa to give his Uncle Kurt a new boyfriend for Christmas; Blaine - who is working as one of Santa's helpers - however, is eager to help Caleb get his Christmas wish.

~~~~~

The Christmas Guest by @lilyvandersteen

Kurt goes home for the holidays and finds out a fellow passenger will have no-one to celebrate with, so he invites him to spend Christmas with the Hummel-Hudsons. Somehow, Kurt's family thinks the guy he brought home is his boyfriend. As the days go by, and his Christmas guest proves enchanting in every way, Kurt finds himself wishing they truly were dating. Could his wish come true?

~~~~~~

It's who I'm with by hundredindecisions

In an attempt to make industry connections (and pay rent), Kurt gets a job as a nanny for the daughter of a Broadway producer. When bringing her to a piano lesson one day in December, he meets Blaine Anderson, personal assistant to a famed pianist. (For Klaine Advent 2021)

~~~~~

Leaps and Dives by @annepi-blog

As the 2024 Paris Olympics unfold, gymnast Blaine Anderson and diver Kurt Hummel find themselves navigating more than just their athletic dreams. Blaine, focused on his second chance at Olympic glory, crosses paths with Kurt, a newcomer to the world of professional diving with extraordinary talent. What begins as a chance encounter blossoms into something neither of them expected.

~~~~~

Sonder by @gleefulpoppet

[AU] Kurt is one of the most respected and talked about men in the fashion industry and business world. His app Style•Revolution is the fastest-growing app in history, still rising after three years. Recently, he moved the company to Seattle to be at the heart of the newest technology epicenter in the United States. Yet, with all his success, experience keeps teaching him to be wary of people’s motives who want to be close to him, and he wonders if he’ll be alone forever. Or maybe this city has plans for him that he can’t imagine when his gaze locks with a mysterious, honey-hazel-eyed busker.

~~~~~

Swords and sands by exquisitetragicthing

Ancient Rome AU, 73 years BC.

Blaine and Kurt are enslaved in the same grand villa in Capua, 125 miles south of Rome. Blaine is a renowned gladiator known for his unmatched skill in the arena. Kurt is their master’s treasured body slave and performer. In a time where their love could be as dangerous as the sword, they find themselves instantly and irrevocably drawn to each other.

~~~~~

Crema verse by twobirdsonesong (Main verse plus 65 one shots!)

Kurt’s just landed a job at Vogue as Carrie Bradshaw’s assistant. One of his tasks is to bring her coffee in the morning. Enter Blaine, the barista. This is the story of how they change each other’s lives.

~~~~~

Syrup and Honey By @heartsmadeofbooks

Kurt Hummel is 25 years old when he finds himself being the owner of the bakery he had been dreaming about his whole life, just in time to sweeten up Blaine Anderson's days.

~~~~~

Barking up the wrong bakery by maanorchidee @forabeatofadrum

Kurt is the biggest dog party planner in Los Angeles. When his usual dog bakery cancels on Kurt, he’s in the dire need of a last minute replacement. Luckily, he comes across the Dalton Doggy dog bakery, which is run by Blaine and Cooper Anderson. Cooper’s a mess, but Blaine manages to charm Kurt. Will Kurt be able to keep it professional?

~~~~~

The Symphony verse by Shandyall

Blaine has spent most of his life feeling like the only thing people notice about him is that he stutters. He’s working hard to overcome his (mostly self created) roadblocks when he meets Kurt in an online class the summer after his freshman year of college.

~~~~~~

Westerville Abbey verse by @hkvoyage

Blaine is the second son of the earl of Westerville, and is considered the spare heir. After his 18th birthday, he attends the London Season to fulfill his duty of finding a wife. He soon realizes he is more attracted to the new footman. Kurt, who has just arrived at Westerville Abbey to work alongside his father, becomes equally as smitten with the earl’s youngest son. Will Blaine and Kurt be able to overcome their class differences in 1910s England? Will their forbidden love survive WW1? A Downton Abbey inspired historical Klaine AU.

[gwens-wife]

The Retreat Pt. 1

Larissa Weems X f!Reader

Chapter 2

Summary- Y/N is a stressed writer trying to survive university and her sudden rise to popularity. After a strange invitation to a writing retreat hosted by a woman named Larissa Weems at Nevermore academy, what will be uncovered?

TW- None

See A/N at the end :)

—————————

Summer had been especially unpleasant this year. You had been swamped with calls and conferences throughout what was supposed to be your break from university, and while you didn’t mind the attention from your colleagues, social interaction became a chore you weren’t willing to continue to upkeep.

Being a poet and journalist had its perks: recognition, special meetings with important people, getting to essentially do whatever you wanted under the guise of doing it for “research.” You had it easy, honest to God you did. But it had just gotten too slow.

Too much repetition. Too many late nights writing articles about people you didn’t care about. Too much pressure.

You were irrevocably burnt out, and the approaching fall semester loomed over you more and more as the days passed. Sooner or later, a few calls a week and a meeting or two every month would shoot to your phone ringing non stop from editors to publishers and meetings would be every other day if not more. It was hard balancing your personal life and work, at times you wondered how you did it. But it always boiled down to staying in your apartment all summer moping and depressed.

When you weren’t spending hours sitting at your desk staring at the wall trying to make yourself write, you were in bed laying in the dark. You didn’t eat much and your health was beginning to plummet. It was obvious to those around you that you were tired.

You stopped reaching out to friends and most of the time your phone was on silent anyways. Trying to put pen to paper was like learning how to walk again. You felt helpless and trapped in your own mind. How could it be that the same person that was thriving and writing for local celebrities and magazines could barely get out of bed and formulate any sort of coherent sentence? It was madness. But then the invitation came and your attitude had changed.

It came in a sleek, red, wax sealed envelope. Even more confusingly, you had no idea who would’ve sent it. Lightly popping the seal from the paper of the envelope, you opened it to find a crisp white invitation with your name scrawled in perfect cursive along the top. Scanning further down, it read:

Dear Y/N,

I hope this letter finds you well and inspired by the creative pursuits that fuel your passion. It is with great enthusiasm that I extend to you a personal invitation to join us at a unique and invigorating writing retreat on the picturesque grounds of Nevermore Academy.

Throughout your stay, you will have the chance to participate in a variety of workshops, engage in thought-provoking discussions, and receive personalized feedback on your work. Whether you are working on an article, poetry, or any other form of writing, this retreat is designed to support and inspire.

In addition to the enriching literary activities, you will have the opportunity to explore the charming town of Jericho and Nevermore Academy. It is a place where inspiration is found not only in the words we write but in the world around us.

I would be honored to have you join us for this retreat, and I am confident that it will be a transformative experience for you and your writing journey.

As a personalized highlight, I have made special arrangements for your stay. The details of which I am keeping confidential until your arrival and I expect you not to share them with anyone once you’ve been informed.

I look forward to welcoming you to Nevermore and sharing this adventure with you.

Warmest regards,

Larissa Weems

Below the signature sat an address and a golden embossed Nevermore seal at the bottom of the page. This was the perfect opportunity, but who was Larissa Weems and how was she able to get your information all the way from Nevermore?

What secret mysterious information did she have for you?

You had so many questions that you wanted answers to, like why was the retreat being held at a school for outcasts, who was this Larissa woman? But opportunity reared its head, and for the first time all summer, you were excited to meet new people and uncover what Nevermore had in store for you.

——————-

The term has started, and classes drug by. Your fall was the quietest it had ever been, and you couldn’t have been more thankful. You were ready to drive to Jericho and meet the ever alluring Larissa Weems and all the other writers at the retreat. Only a few days left before you could make the drive to Nevermore and answer all your questions.

That night you began packing your suitcase for the month-long trip to Nevermore. Conveniently, your Thanksgiving break fell around the same time, meaning you’d only miss about a week of school between leaving and coming back. It could be excused as a business venture. You packed all the fanciest clothes you had, and honestly you had no idea what you were getting yourself into, but it had to be better than your cramped apartment and not being able to find inspiration to write.

———————

You’d left that weekend.

It was a beautiful drive to Jericho. The leaves were all shades of reds, yellows, and oranges, and recent rain had left a perfect fog over the mountains. It felt like something out of a movie. The air smelled like fall. It was perfect for the occasion.

Once you had hit downtown Jericho, you still had a 20 minute drive to Nevermore. Spotting a café, your stomach rumbled and you decided it couldn’t hurt to stop for a coffee and a pastry. The Weathervane housed a cozy, diner-like atmosphere that you only saw on TV. You couldn’t keep yourself from smiling as you walked in.

A girl came to take your order and you walked out with a chocolate croissant and a chai latte. Begrudgingly, you got back in your car to continue your journey to the retreat. There would be time to explore the town later, and you were more than thrilled to see Nevermore for yourself after the things you’d heard from other people.

———————

When you arrived through the large gates you honestly couldn’t believe your eyes. A castle sat before you. Despite its dark exterior, you could see flower gardens and a lake in the distance, meaning you’d definitely have plenty to do in your spare time. You unloaded your things and walked to the main entrance where a woman with mousy brown hair sat pointedly at a table right beyond the doors.

She introduced herself as Jamie and helped check you into your room and gave you your necessary itinerary for the month, as well as a map and a brief description of what the rest of the day would entail.

“A welcome party will be held tonight to kick things off. Wear something nice. There will be refreshments and drinks at the bar in the ballroom. Everything else you need to know should be on your itinerary.” Jamie outstretched her hand for you to shake, which you did, and you offered a warm smile as a sign of your gratitude that she returned. You debated on even asking, but the anticipation was killing you. You had to meet Larissa and find out what was going on.

“Is there a Larissa Weems here? Where could I find her if she was?” You asked so sweetly your teeth almost rotted there on the spot, but your attitude changed when you seen the way Jamie had reacted to your questions. “Um..No. Ms Weems will not be seeing anyone until later tonight as she’s with someone important. As a friend, I don’t recommend seeking her out. She’s very….strict.” Her voice lowered as she went on, and a pit began to form in your stomach. What the hell have I just gotten myself into?

Smiling in understanding, you decided not to press further. Jamie’s chipper attitude returned as she handed you your room keys. “You’ll be staying in Ophelia Hall. My room is close to yours so should you have any questions don’t be afraid to knock.” With a quick thank you, you headed up the stairs and down a hallway, passing by a large oak door with a golden plaque.

Principal Weems

Your heart started to race and you felt your breathing stop as you put two and two together on Larissa’s profile. She was the principal of Nevermore. A loud crash came from inside the office, accompanied by muffled voices. Something was off, but the sound of oncoming footsteps snapped you out of your train of thought and you rushed to continue the hike to your room.

What would the night bring later on and how could you get closer to Larissa and understanding your strange invitation when everyone here was so secretive? But most importantly, what was the big secret she was harboring?

——————-

Thank you for reading, this is my first ever fic and I would LOVE to hear your feedback. I also didn’t proofread so if anything is wonky excuse it and act like it isn’t there. I have a cool plot in mind and I’m excited to continue writing, however if you have any ideas for how you want the story to proceed don’t be afraid to let me know!

With Love,

-S

[daistea]

Do you think Mithrun (even if much later on down the line, and also by extension Marcille too i guess?) ever return to a point where he'd be able to develop new desires at an easier rate like he might have in the past, or would he be permanently affected by having lost his previous desires in the first place?

Honestly, I think this is who he is now. I mean, if you think about it, he spent only 140-ish years as his old self and now has several hundred years left. This is now the majority of his future, and while I do think he’ll live well and continue to adapt and experience all the things he deserves, he’s still irrevocably changed.

(I’m making an effort to think about people who have been changed by trauma/accidents/disabilities and I wanna note that those changes arent necessarily bad. Despite everything, it’s still you 🎉 But at the same time I don’t want to ignore/be all sunshine and rainbows/toxic positivity about the difficulties and challenges they face. Sooooo basically, it’s a nuanced kinda thing)

On the developing desires subject, the details are fuzzy tbh. I wish we got more post canon stuff about him. I like to think that he’d make the choice with his desires. He’d choose which ones to cultivate, but even then it’s a struggle. He makes the conscious choice to live everyday. I, personally, don’t think he’d ever return to what one might consider ‘a normal person/life’

That’s not exactly what you’re asking tho, I know. But the subject is so twisty turny and complex that I honestly think his ability to develop new desires would change day by day.

Um if you want my Other opinion, the opinion that’s not affected by rose tinted shipping glasses; he doesn’t spontaneously develop new desires. A lot of them are gone, and he would make the decision to spend the rest of his life with someone simply because he’s comfortable with them, or likes their company, or they make a good team. He’s not unfeeling ofc, but that desire simply isn’t there anymore and he learns to adapt his lifestyle around that fact. There’s nothing bad about that, it just is. I think that’s a lovely thought! But this is just another way to interpret his character ofc and what you choose to believe is up to you.

puts my romance goggles back on

Yeah if you wanna headcanon that he develops new desires and that it gets easier as it goes on, then you go right ahead! That’s also a lovely thought 💕

I personally headcanon that it doesn’t get easier, but he makes the choice to keep going and to live all while developing the odd desire here and there(after a lot of work, which would make it all the more satisfying for him in the end anyway)

There’s good days and bad days! And there’s ants on him.

We’re all just playing dolls tbh, and while we wanna respect all that Mithrun’s canon character represents and stands for… If you wanna imagine him developing new desires at a faster/easier rate, then go for it lol

[loopdile]

loopdile so real. i have a Vision of both siffrin and loop being Deeply Deeply Closeted Repressed Transfem and having gender envy over odile and i feel like that'd do Something to the Dynamic. Something......... Something........................... well i'm not successfully envisioning it but maybe YOU are?

i am positively plagued by loopdile gender visions!!! maybe not the exact same as you're thinking but i think you will enjoy them. walk with me, anon, through the garden of my loop gender headcanons. it's kind of a big garden but we'll get to the odile part eventually i promise.

Before they were Siffrin, Siffrin had their gender on lock: something transfem, but also tied to unique cultural elements in some way, either the specific identity or the way of thinking about it or just the particular set of presentation options. Perhaps they even started fantasy HRT! But then they forget everything, obviously, including their identity and transition plans. They decide pretty quickly that they're not a man, but none of the alternatives feel exactly correct either; if their previous identity was presented as an option, maybe it would click and they'd settle into it pretty fast, but unfortunately that is literally impossible.

So, no clear goals in mind. And because of his forgotten past, continued memory problems, and constant traveling, Siffrin starts to really value the few things he can count on to stay consistent. He'd rather wear his comfortable hat and cloak than leave them behind in favor of anything more gendered. He'd rather stick with his familiar body than risk changing it. Still, maybe there are some changes he'd be happier in the long run to have made... but the process would be stressful, and he's got enough stressful things to worry about already!

But then we get to Loop. Who has already been changed, suddenly and irrevocably and so very, very accidentally. They are not Siffrin anymore, they do not have the hat and cloak, they aren't even human. They don't even really remember who they were pre-loops. There is no familiarity for them to cling to; instead, they're desperate to find things they can control, things they can change, proof that the world moves forward and they're in charge of their place in it. The motivation that Siffrin lacked, Loop now has in spades!

However, their negative feelings are more intense as well. They struggle to face real stakes, to put effort into anything too complicated, to try anything that might disappoint them. They take risks, yes, but not about things they care about; they take risks because they don't care. And they have a lot of other things going on, too, both practically and psychologically, so gender isn't their immediate priority. "Who and what am I?" is a very difficult question for them right now on multiple levels, a difficult question with only difficult answers.

But, starting with the practical: wearing clothes is an easy way to look and feel a little bit more normal, right? So they experiment, and they decide that dresses are just similar enough to the cloak to be comfortable, but distinct enough to not be as emotionally fraught. And they like them in a frivolous way that Siffrin was never willing to lean all the way into. Siffrin didn't put much thought or energy into his appearance, but Loop's inhuman form is a constant issue, so they might as well dress it in a way they like! Something good to balance out the bad, since they can't be neutral any longer.

And of course they think about body craft, though in a different context from most people. Even the nearly-human parts of their body are lacking detail, without all the right functions behind the form, and then other parts aren't human at all. Their body feels wrong, distracting, constricting. They don't understand how it works, and it draws attention they don't want, and it's not them. And yet, isn't it? Even if they'd been put back into a Siffrin body again, they aren't Siffrin anymore, either. Loop is what the loops made them. They want to change their body, to make it something they can be comfortable in, but they can't. Because body craft is a method of changing flesh and blood and bone, and Loop is not made of such human stuff anymore.

So we've got Loop. Trying to find themself, and maybe succeeding in some ways, but stymied or uncertain in others. Desperate to change, but scared to hope. To make a long story short, they join back up with the party, which brings its own set of problems, and yet... it's also a step towards fixing some of their problems, too. Most relevant to our post, here: Odile is a craft expert with a unique set of experiences. She's got a wide foundation of knowledge, since she's familiar with all three main craft types. She used to be part of Ka Bue's underground body-crafting scene, where she not only crafted her own body but also helped and taught other people; and unlike in Vaugarde, where Houses provide resources and education, Odile and her peers had to do their own research and experiments, develop their own techniques. She even has some knowledge of wish craft from Siffrin, and the way she stopped Siffrin from looping proves that she's unusually good at analyzing and adapting to new forms of craft.

So once Loop's dissatisfaction with and ignorance regarding their own physical form comes to Odile's attention, of course she offers to help. To see if she can figure out what their body is made of, and how it works, and hopefully, in what ways it can be changed.

And this dynamic with her... it's totally different from her relationship with Siffrin, both pre-loops and post. And Loop has always admired her, and here she is, talking about the confidence and determination with which she changed her own body, not without fear or frustration but not letting herself be slowed down by them, either. Taking her fate into her own hands and refusing to be anyone other than herself. And Loop used to feel that Odile understood them best, and losing that connection felt like the end of the world, but here she is, still! Observant and caring as ever. Dedicated to figuring them out again. Unflinching as she sees them for the strange thing they currently are, but equally unshakable in her insistence that they do not have to stay exactly as they are.

So Odile helps them figure out their body. Helps them with the craft itself, too, but even more than that — through both encouragement and example, she helps them be brave enough to genuinely try. To ask themself what they really want. To strike a balance between Siffrin's complacent hesitation and Loop's miserable desperation. To experiment, and face both the chance of failure and the chance of success with head held high. To hope.

Odile is not one for platitudes and empty positivity, after all. If she says something's possible, then it is, or she will make it so, one way or another, despite any setback. Isn't she proof? She remade herself, and she can remake Loop, too. Changing them, slowly and carefully and so very, very deliberately. Loop will never be human again, but they can decide who they are and become themself.