#The trouble with making things ten times worse for Julian is you get to the point where he just kind of ... breaks

[walkingstackofbooks]

IPS/BIL AU where Tain dies before he can send the message. Garak and Worf never go to the gamma quadrant. Julian and Martok don't get rescued.

Back on DS9 the changeling is stopped pretty much just as it was in canon, with Kira and Dax managing to stop the Yukon from reaching the sun, just as it explodes. (Maybe since Garak is still on the station, he notifies Sisko that Bashir has taken the Yukon out?) This time, however, no-one knows it was a changeling, and among all the shock and grief, there's tense speculation about what the hell Julian was doing out there in a runabout with a bomb.

The changeling had planned to never be identified, believing it would sow more confusion and fear in the Federation if they believe one of their own had been secretly allied with the Dominion. And so the changeling had left behind a trail of "Julian" interacting with highly questionable locked-down message-boards such as "Would enhanced individuals be better off under the Dominion?", which would never have been tracked back to him apart from under such scrutiny he's now post-humously receiving. (The changeling knew about Julian's enhancements - to become something is to understand that thing, after all.)

Of course, it is considered whether Julian may have been impersonated by a changeling, but once the link to his enhancements has been revealed - and his parents can't hide it, they confess, and are sentenced to time in a penal colony - it seems very much decided that Doctor Bashir had become an augment extremist, biding his time on DS9 until he could play out his part in the Dominion plot. There's varying levels of acceptance of this among Julian's friends - even if it seems that they have to admit it, it's still almost impossible to believe that Julian could have tried to do that. But it doesn't really matter what they think - life has to go on, and the war's continuing whether they like it or not, and little by little they move on with their now-Julian-less lives.

Time passes. they get a new CMO. The Cardassians re-occupy the station, and Sisko leads the campaign to get it back. Worf and Jadzia get married. Garak gets a message.

A.L.I.V.E. J.S.B.

And no-one knows what to think. JSB can't be... can it? But how...

Garak argues that Doctor Bashir's death is so well-known that no-one would use his name as the basis for some sort of trap. Miles agrees. Everyone else wants to agree. (For a certain definition of 'want'. Julian being alive, not a traitor... that also means he's been doing somewhere in the past ten months, and it's difficult to think about what sort of awful place that might have been.)

Garak and Worf are sent out to chase this signal - in theory, it's recon, but naturally it quickly devolves. They get captured themsleves, finding Camp 371 and Julian, looking ten months worse for wear. Garak learns about Tain's death, and the subspace transmitter he'd began working on and that they'd only just been able to finish, having managed to recruit a recently-abducted Starfleet engineer. An engineer who's currently in solitary, leaving them with a plan to escape now there's a runabout in orbit, but no way to effect it. Unless there's something Garak can do...

And Worf, of course, meets Martok, and is impressed by the Klingon's tale of daily fights for nearly three years. "Almost every day," Martok corrects him. "There have been times when I've woken up with a sore head to find that the doctor has taken my place."

Worf looks to Julian, nodding. "So you are the man we remember," he says. "Your enhancements may have helped you fight, but it was an honourable thing to volunteer."

"My... my enhancements?" asks Julian faintly. "What- what do you mean?"

"Commander, is now really the time—" Garak tries to interrupt but Julian speaks over him.

"No, Garak, I want to know— I-I need to know. What do you mean, Worf?"

And Worf, in his short, succinct way tells Julian how they had believed he had died, and what they had discovered thereafter, and while they know now that he is not an augment extremist, his parents' confession made it clear that he is an augment.

Julian doesn't say very much after that, apart from what is needed to help with the rescue - he calms Garak down, he volunteers to try and figure out what needs doing in the crawl space ("I've learnt at least a few things from tinkering with it over those seven months...") - but otherwise, he's withdrawn and spacey. Garak perserveres - he must get Julian back to DS9, has to hope there's still time to rekindle that light in his doctor's eyes - and manages to get them out, and even locking onto the engineer's life sign in solitary. They make it to the runabout, and escape.

It's a very different sort of homecoming. This time, rather than having only a few hours to get used to the idea that Julian had been missing for a month, they've been mourning him for almost a year, angry and confused and left with so many questions. And they've had almost a week of wondering what's become of Worf and Garak, and to tie themselves in circles wondering if J.S.B really could be Julian Subatoi Bashir.

Garak gets them all beamed directly to sickbay, and it's obvious that Julian's overwhelmed enough by that without having hordes of emotional friends come to greet him. So they're allowed in, one at a time. Miles petitions to be first, and wraps Julian up in what would have been the firmest of hugs - apart from Julian's so gaunt, so... fragile, that Miles find he dare not squeeze too hard. Words gush out - ones that he'd never have thought he'd admit out loud - about how much he missed Julian and how glad he is none of what they said was true, and it takes him some time to realise that he's been blabbering on and Julian's not been saying a word.

Julian has been clinging onto him tightly, though, and that... that's got to be enough, for now.

[pitchdarkhook]

RANDOM HOOK HEADCANON, CHECK !

TOPIC: THE CREATION OF THE MOLES―

I have mentioned roughly about why Hook created the Moles in this post over here. But! I have been thinking about it for awhile now and figured I should go in depth of why she created the Moles.

Hook's inspiration for creating the Moles can be found in THE ADVENTUROUS MOLES side quest in the game, where Julian asks the Trailblazer to go on a journey to find all the pages of the book. From reading the pages, the book is an interactive book, much like some of the children books that allows kids to stimulate their brains by letting them figure out a puzzle and etc.

From the passages of text, you can tell that the Moles are an adventure squad that details their expeditions in pages, describing the once-vibrant planet that is known as Jarilo-VI / Belobog and the troubles that they faced.

This book is an inspiration to Hook, I would say. And it made me raise my eyebrow when Julian tells the Trailblazer that he wanted a sequel and that he got the postface from Natasha. Where did she get it? We will never know, but what the author says in the postface is something that Hook is trying to do:

― ❝ But, more importantly, I want to give my young readers "the experience of adventure without the peril of it." ❞

The adventures that Hook creates for the Moles are never expeditions that put them into trouble. For example, she goes as far as to make another version of the boxing tournament, also known as the Dark Fist Tournament, where people don't fight and just play rock, paper, scissors with one another. She plans their adventures, she comes up with the puzzles on her own for the rest of the children under her watch, and I think that is a very mature thing to do, coming from a ten year old.

MOVING ONTO THE CORE REASON ON THE CREATION OF THE MOLES:

Like I said before in the linked post above, the Moles is a network for children to communicate and bond. Hook has been through a lot, as a kid. She lost her biological Mother, saw her biological Father pass on in front of her, watching as Fersman's health and memory get worse over time and this rough society that they were stuck in, due to the lockdown of the Underworld. The list really goes on.

The innocence of children is very important, it is crucial that children get to be children. They need to grow up properly, with happiness and a good mindset. Hook barely got to experience that when she was younger, which is why she thinks it is important for her to step up as the Boss of the Moles.

Where I am going with this, is that Hook is creating a LIVE sequel of the Adventurous Moles for her group, just like Julian wanted. She is constantly making up new things for the kids to do, which will both help them learn and have fun at the same time.

She is making the stories into a real adventure for everyone, like a fairy tale that has come true.

[theagent470]

The empty office

Artie couldn't believe he was stuck in the office working to get his project finished when literally everyone else had gone to the Christmas party.

His manager didn't seem to give a shit about his mental health and had insisted that he was to work all the hours he could until the project was out the door. Never mind the fact that he hadn't even been briefed on the project till Monday and it was only Wednesday now. And to make matters worse the manager had thanked him for his efforts before pissing off to the party himself!

The office was a large room, with desks for a hundred laptop users, and empty except for Artie.

His desk was positioned towards the back of the room so he could easily be missed.

As he was alone he decided to turn his music on loud on his headphones to help distract from the seething anger he felt towards his manager at the time.

Between his loud music and position in the office, Artie didn't hear the door to the office open and someone enter the building.

He was singing along loudly to Rage against the machine when Rachel the office manager entered his eyeline, with eyebrows raised. She was clearly dressed for the office party in a short sequined purple backless dress which showed a lot of leg, and a lot of her ample cleavage, with black ankle boots. Her black hair curled and her makeup on point with purple eyeshadow to match her dress.

“Shit I'm so sorry” Artie nervously stammered

“It's ok, given the current occupancy of the office I can see why you thought it was ok. Why are you still here though? Shouldn't you be heading to the party?”

“Julian said if this project doesn't go out the door this week, then i am in the shit and couldn't afford the hours off for me to go to the party” Artie explained bitterly.

“I see, and where is Julian now?” Rachel asked with a curious look

“At the party”

“Is he now the little shit. Leave this with me, get packed up and get yourself to the party. You should still have time to catch the meal. I will catch you up” Rachel told him

“ It's fine I don't want to rock the boat” Artie said

“Oh the boats been rocked already but not by you don't worry. This isn't the first time that little scrote has pulled this but I will make sure it's the last. Go on shut down and get yourself presentable. I just need to sort some stuff out”

Artie wasn't sure what to do, he didn't want to cause trouble but arguing with the office manager was a sure way to do that.

“Would it be ok if I waited for you, I would rather not head into a situation without some backup?” He asked

“Ok sure thing just give me ten minutes, there's some things I just needed to sort” Rachel told him.

With that she headed down to the reception area and Artie closed down his laptop and stored it and went to the bathroom to try and fix his hair (to no avail) and give himself a quick clean up.

As he got back to the main office he saw Rachel angrily finish a phone call and slam the office phone down.

“That was the delivery I was supposed to be waiting to collect. They have been delayed and won't be here for an hour or two.” She told him angrily.

“That's fine I didn't really want to go for the meal anyway” Artie told her “I will just log back in and do some more work till you're ready to go if that's ok?”

Rachel looked at him quizzically for a second before a devilish grin crossed her face,

“Or we can have our own little party whilst we wait?”

“What do you mean?” Artie replied 

“Come with me” with that she got up and walked to the supply cupboard, came out with a bottle of vodka and a bottle of coke which she passed to Artie, and two of the plastic cups from the water dispenser.

She led him over to Julian's usual desk and poured them a drink each with a generous measure of vodka. She knocked hers back in one hit and Artie followed suit unsure what was going on. Rachel poured them each another measure before sitting on Julian's desk, she gestured for Artie to take the seat and he couldn't help but see up her skirt as short as it was.

“Well we got plenty of time to kill, can you see anything you would like to do?” Rachel asked him with a flirtatious grin.

“Well we might be missing the meal but I can see something I wouldn't mind eating” Artie replied, regretting the cheesy line as soon it left his mouth.

“Oh really? Well no arguments here” Rachel replied.

For a moment Artie was dumbstruck and unsure what to do but Rachel spread her legs wide and that was all the invitation Artie needed.  He leaned forward and lifted Rachel's legs up onto his shoulders which made her giggle as she almost lost balance but she managed to steady herself. He kissed his way up the inside of first her left thigh, then her right, slowly building some anticipation before sliding her red thong to the side and began to tenderly lick at her slit before sliding his tongue up to her clit and teasing it with his tongue. Rachel was already wet with anticipation and the taste on Artie's tongue sent an electric shiver through his body. He slid one finger inside her tight pussy whilst still gently lapping at her clit. 

Rachel let out a small moan which Artie took as encouragement and began to tease her clit a little more roughly sucking and teasing at it, whilst probing for her g spot with his finger. 

He inserted another finger and placed his other hand on Rachel's lower abdomen and sped up his tongue game and Rachel began to pant faster

“Oh God I'm close, don't stop”.

Artie began to pump his fingers quickly in and out whilst alternating between sucking and tickling at Rachel's clit with his tongue and quickly felt Rachel's muscles begin to tighten and her legs squeeze around his head.

He kept his pace till she relaxed and he felt the blood returning to his head, impressed with Rachel's leg strength. He sat up in the chair and Rachel stood and fumbled her thong down to the floor and began to unbutton his fly.

“Shit I don't have a condom with me”

“Don't worry I have us covered” Rachel told him with a grin. She finished undoing his fly and his already erect cock sprang free. Rachel's eyes widened for a moment before she climbed on top of him and positioned his member at her entrance before lowering herself quickly onto it

“God I needed this” she murmured.

She was clearly warmed up ok and had no problem taking Artie which he was pleased with. His size had caused problems in the past.

She rode him for a few minutes on the chair but as she started to increase her pace the chair started squeaking dramatically causing them both some nervous giggles.

Rachel climbed off Artie and bent herself over the desk and Artie took the hint. He stood and positioned himself behind Rachel teasing his head across her clit before sliding it home. She moaned as he sank his full length into her before slowly starting into a rhythm. She reached one hand and began to play with her clit and Artie began to speed himself up a bit. He didn't know how long he had in him but was determined to give a good showing and luckily the alcohol made him last a bit longer.

“Oh god, I think I'm going to come again!” Rachel breathed heavily.

Artie tried to maintain his pace and Rachel's hips started to buck as she thrust herself back onto his dick. He felt her muscles tighten and had to slow himself and focus on his breathing for a moment but Rachel kept pushing back and riding him through her climax. Eventually her orgasm subsided and she slumped forward onto the desk. 

She gestured for Artie to withdraw before turning herself over and sitting back on the desk she slipped her dress down to reveal her breasts and Artie entered her once more.

He leaned forward and teased her nipples with his teeth whilst slowly grinding into her. She began to playfully nip at his neck and grasp at his back pulling her closer to him. He moved his head up and reciprocated her nipping with some of his own kissing and gently biting at her neck. She dug her nails in at this which made Artie increased his speed

“Oh shit I'm getting close” he gasped.

She pushed him off her and dropped to her knees, taking a firm grasp at the base of his cock.

“Come for me then, I want it now” she told him before taking him in her mouth and pumping the root of his dick hard and fast.

Artie was already on the edge and her technique was flawless, within seconds he shot his load straight down her throat and she sucked and swallowed eager for every last drop. Only when his legs started to tremble did she stop.

She stood and smiled coyly at him then straightened her clothes up. She sat on Julian's chair and pulled her thong back on. Her excitement left a visible print on the chair but Artie thought best not to mention that.

“Could you keep an ear out for the delivery whilst I straighten my makeup? She asked politely

“Sure thing” he replied. She slipped off to the bathroom and sure enough the delivery arrived whilst she was occupied. Thank god it hadn't been five minutes earlier he thought.

Rachel joined him back in the main office and smiled at him again, probably thinking the same thing

“Well that timing worked out nicely. Let's get going, I need to have a word with Julian.” she looked at Artie, quite shyly considering what they had just done, and added “I have a hotel booked for after the party if you're interested in spending some more time with me?”

“I'm game” he replied

[bubblybubbubs]

Bland (2)

Draco Malfoy x Reader

tags - @fanficflaneuse

Summary- Prince Draco has to confess a lot sooner than expected .

bland

a/n- this is very much unedited but i just had to post it

The first part seriously flopped but I loved writing it so I still decided to continue it :))

“Where were you boy.” Lucius seethed at Draco the minute he walked into his room. His mother stood behind him but remained silent.

‘Why are you in my room.” Draco knew he was in deep shit, whenever he was with y/n he had always made sure to get back to the castle before nightfall but he had decided to spend the night with you, it was very much worth whatever punishment his dear father was about to give him.

“Where were you.” He repeated again ignoring Draco.

“Out.” Draco said simply.

“I can see that.” 

“Your Grandfather wanted to have dinner with you last night and you were nowhere to be found. He is no doubt deciding whether to pass the crown down to me or my sister.” Lucius said gripping Draco’s arm.

“I don’t see why that has anything to do with me.” Draco said tugging his arm back.

“How can I show him I would be able to control a kingdom when I can’t control my seventeen year old boy.” 

“Maybe you aren’t fit to be king.” As soon as the words left his mouth Lucius smacked Draco in the face, Narcissa let out a faint gasp as she reached for her husband who avoided her touch.

“You will not speak to me in that manner.” Lucius yelled , Draco remained silent whatever he would say would likely only make manners worse.

“Your Grandfather was gracious enough to invite you to brunch today. You will go, and you will behave yourself.”

“And no more of this sneaking out. I’m assigning guards to you, so don’t even try it.” Lucius finally said before storming out of the room.

“I’ll be fine.” Draco said to his mother who hesitated to leave, she quickly gave him a hug and a kiss before heading out to follow her husband. 

Draco threw himself onto his bed. He quickly checked his clock, he had one hour until his brunch.

He considered skipping the brunch to spite Lucius, but he would probably drag him there.

When it came to the crown Draco’s father did not leave room for mistakes.

-

Draco didn’t mean to be late to the brunch. 

He had been ready rather quickly but he had gotten distracted trying to lose his guards. He had walked up and down the corridors of the castle but they managed to keep up.

“Finally his Highness decided to grace us with his presence.” His Grandmother said. The Malfoy’s weren’t exactly the most pleasant of people.

“I’m sorry I’m late.” Draco said bowing to both his grandparents before taking a seat. They were the only people in the dining area, they had no doubt cleared it out for their special brunch.

“Where were you yesterday.” His Grandfather asked, he had a much more calm demeanor than Lucius had that morning.

“I was at Blaise’s house and I forgot to let my father know.” He quickly lied, Abraxos nodded.

“I hear you leave the castle a lot, is that where you go?” Draco tensed.

“Most of the time.” Abraxos hummed.

“You sure spend a lot of time together.” His grandfather sent him a knowing look.

“Oh. No, No it’s not like that.” Draco said almost choking on his drink holding back a chortle. His grandfather merely nodded.

Draco was greatly uncomfortable as they sat in silence for the next few minutes. He could tell his grandfather was studying his every movement down to how he drank his tea.

“Well I think we’re done here.” Abraxos said getting up.

“What, now? We barely started.” His grandmother said in protest.

“Yes.” He said. His Grandparents nodded in farewell and left the room. 

Draco scoffed, that was what his father had been fussing about, a ten minute brunch?  

He got up and left the room.

“Did they know about y/n?” Blaise asked popping out next to the door surprising Draco.

“How did you know I was here.”

“Crabbe wouldn’t stop talking about it all morning.” Daphne chimed in.

“Of course.” Draco huffed.

‘When can I meet her.” Daphne said with a frown. Draco and Blaise had told her all about their escapades and Daphne was over being left out.

“Probably never, Lucius has gotten me a personal guard.” Draco said, Daphne and Blaise glanced behind them to face the three guards following them intently.

“We could sneak out.” Blaise suggested.

“No can do, I tried to lose them this morning it’s impossible.”

“We could try at night, They don’t sleep with you, do they?” Daphne suggested. “Your window is not way far off the ground.”

“Woah Daphne taking risks? Who is shes?” Blaise teased.

“Shut up Blaise.”

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

They all stood by the window staring at the ground below.

“I don’t think we’d die.” Daphne said shrugging.

“I’m the one that they wont let leave, the both of you can just leave through the main gate.” 

“Where’s the fun in that.” Blaise said with a wide grin.

Draco gulped as he looked down at the fall from the window. Luckily he wasn’t too high in the castle. The castle was perched on the top of a forestry hill so if they landed too far out they might just roll into the trees. 

“Fine I’ll go first if your too scared.” Blaise said, he stuck his legs out the window first, slowly shimmying his body through without letting go of the edge until he was barely holding on and he let himself go.

Draco and Daphne ran up to the window to see Blaise laying on the ground below giving them a thumbs up. Daphne laughed before following Blaise out the window.

“Your turn Prince.”Draco huffed as he slowly lowered himself out the window. As he was half way out he saw the door knob jiggle.

“shit.” He said quickly letting go and falling on his back.

“See it’s not that bad.” Daphne said standing above him.

“Speak for yourself.” He groaned at the pain .

“We should probably go.” Blaise said. He hoped that whoever had tried getting into his room had given up, if not he would only get in more trouble. He wouldn’t be surprised if Lucius threw him in one of the towers.

They trudged through the forest.

“When do we reach a road.” Blaise groaned.

“Soon, I think.” Draco said, he wasn’t actually sure he was just working off the memory of the map he had in his room.

“You think?” Daphne huffed raising her skirt to keep it out of the mud.

“When are you going to tell her.” Blaise said. Draco honestly didn’t know, he hated lying to her. He would tell her.

“Soon.” He said they both nodded in understanding.

“If I were you I wouldn’t hide the whole prince thing, I bet it drives the ladies crazy.”

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

Draco stood outside her house throwing pebbles at your window. He grinned wildly seeing you through the window as you opened it.

“Hey I’ll be right down.” She whisper yelled.

“She’s pretty.” Daphne said. She was right, even in her night gown she was still the prettiest girl he’s ever seen.

“Hi my Love.” Draco said kissing her when he saw her.

“Hi Norman .” She said pulling back.

“I’m Miriam, D-” Blaise elbows Daphne before she could continue.

“Julian has told me all about you.” She corrected herself before glaring at Blaise.

“Its great to meet you.” Y/N said smiling.

The four of them got along greatly and they spent the night walking the town. The three nobles had to keep a low profile and kept themselves covered but y/n didn’t seem to mind.

Draco told himself he would tell her but he always convinced himself that next time he would. He kept wearing intentionally ridiculous hats that always made you laugh. He also realized he would do anything to hear you laugh, the sound was angelic to him.

Suprisingly he hadn’t gotten caught sneaking out yet, they would always leave after dinner. He was on his way to his room to discretely sneak out when his father stopped him.

“You Grandfather is dead.” Draco felt a chill down his spine not necessarily at what Lucius had said but at the grin his father wore, almost as if he was happy.

“I’m sorry.” Draco didn’t know his grandfather very well but he imagined Lucius had some sort of attatchment to him, being his son and all.

“For what, tomorrow I’ll be king.” Lucius still had that wicked grin that unsettled Draco. Becoming like his father was easily Draco’s biggest fear, he never wanted to be king himself but he knew he would be a better king then his father.

Draco remaines silent so his father continued for him. “Imagine tomorrow I will be crowned infront of the whole kingdom, you and your mother at my side.” Lucius took a great breath before leaving Draco in the hall.

“We heard about your grandfather .” Blaise said turning the corner with Daphne in stride.

“So sorry for your loss Draco.” Daphne said giving him a comforting smile.

“Thanks, but im not really worried about that.” Draco said running his hand through his hair.

“Shit. You’re going to have to tell her.” Blaise said eyes widening

“I think this is good, your big reveal is long over due.” Draco knew Daphne had a point but he was still dreading having to tell her.

“Thanks Daphne, I feel way better now.” Draco drawled sarcastically .

“As much as we’d love to see this unfold, I think you better go by yourself for this.” Blaise said.

“Yeah I know.” Draco sighed.

If Y/N was going to dump him it might as well be in private. He wouldn’t be able to handle his friends pity.

“She adores you Draco, I’m sure it will be fine.” Daphne said trying to comfort him.

“For my sake I hope you’re right.”

“I’m always right.” Daphne and Blaise shot Draco one last supportive smile before making their way back through the castle.

Draco huffed one last time before heading back to his room.

[cicaklah]

witcher quarantine au or fringe AU of dreammmsssss

Por que no los dos?

Witcher Quarantine AU would have been AMAZING had I been fucked to write it. Modern AU, where Jaskier is a furloughed lutenist at the orchestra of the age of enlightenment, Geralt is his Polish hot bodybuilder and mysterious other job neighbour who keeps smoking into his flat and poisoning his sourdough starter and its very much an April 2020 fic in that its about being trapped in your flat obsessed with bread, and its such a time capsule omg.

When Jaskier was at school, and still, technically at the time, called Julian, the vicar came in and told them all that drugs were bad, and taking any would send them directly to hell. 

This was the nice vicar - the school had two who came to minister to the children, back when there was less of a crisis of young men who didn’t want to give up their lives to god, even if this was C of E and they absolutely were allowed to have sex and wives and wear jeans like normal people. 

Tuesdays and Thursdays were the days the children got ministered at. The Tuesday vicar was boring, apart from when he would tell them about hell, the only thing the children of St John’s had ever seen him get truly excited over. He managed to make even the exciting bible stories boring, even the ones where people got eaten by animals, which are a sure fire win with the pre-teen crowd. Thursday’s vicar, whose name has been lost to time, had a guitar and liked to teach them songs that sometimes weren’t even about Jesus (although most of them were.)

Maybe the school thought the impressionable ten-to-eleven year olds of St John’s would hear about the risks of year seven over at the local comprehensive from the nicer vicar, or maybe he took it upon himself to educate them. By the end of that fateful Thursday morning, Julian (known as Jaskier to his family, his father never really sure that his son should have such an English name, but his mother had insisted. If he was to have a Polish surname, she said, he should have an English first name. Fairs fair.) soon believed that drug dealers lurked around every corner, ready to offer him a free taste of something that would be so delicious, so incredible, that one taste would ruin his life forever, and all he would care about from then on, would be Drugs. 

“So drugs are like chocolate?” asked Bran (whose parents had changed it from Brian in 1996, so taken with this fantasy book they’d read).

“Much worse”, the vicar said. “Or, well, much better. Chocolate can rot your teeth, make you fat, give you diabetes, but you can still go to heaven if you eat it. Remember that, children.”

Over the next two-ish decades, Jaskier had taken a lot of drugs (and eaten a lot of chocolate, as his dentist could attest), and they’d been good, but ultimately disappointing. No drug could ever be like the promise of pleasure so deep that it would corrupt your immortal soul so deeply even the Anglican God would reject you. 

And then, just as he had made it, got his life together, his own flat, a place with the Orchestra of the Age of Enlightenment as their new lutenist, a global pandemic had hit, ending all the arts funding basically forever, trapping Jaskier in the limbo of being unemployed enough to lose sleep but not yet in trouble. 

And then, everyone on instagram started talking about this bread recipe.

--

The New York Times No Knead Bread recipe first hit the internet in 2006, and everyone in certain spheres of the internet went ballistic. Had Jaskier been into the food blogging scene as a teenager, maybe none of this would have happened, but Jaskier had a Myspace account where he had a dodgy fringe, eyeliner stolen from his sister, and a real belief that he was going to be a rock star, no matter what his guitar teacher said. He’d even once semi-successfully flirted with Pete Wentz, which is a sign of incipient greatness.

Those who were in the know, knew what would happen when the recipe started circulating in early 2020. 

It seemed simple enough. The recipe, when googled, declared that it took 90 minutes, the search engine unable to parse the ‘up to 20 hours proving’ time by its robot eyes. It gets you, as many an amateur baker has found over the last fourteen years, by seeming simple. You put the ingredients in a bowl, and then you wait. And wait. And wait. And there’s something in the anticipation of waiting for what’s supposed to be the best loaf of goddamn bread you’ve ever eaten to emerge first from the fridge, and then from the oven. The yeast rises, but somehow, something changes within you. When that first loaf, uneven, maybe not perfectly risen, but risen all the same, is unleashed from the oven, and you take that first bite, and the crust is unlike anything you’ve ever tasted, it’s almost too crusty, but then there’s the fluffy middle, and next thing you know you’ve eaten half the loaf even before you were supposed to because it hadn’t even fucking cooled, you animal. 

And here lies the dilemma. Now you need to do it again. Do it better. Chase that high.

He had just enough flour and yeast for one more go. Just one more hit. 

Meanwhile, in Fringe AU of dreamssss:

Walter and Bell adopt Olivia after her amazing response to cortexiphan, because hey, you can’t just let the saviour of the universes just walk out the door into the world. In this universe Blue Peter dies, Walter crosses over to the Red Universe (breaking it as-per) but does not take Peter with him, instead leaves the antidote in the house with a note for Walternate to administer. Peter therefore grows up in the Red Universe as he was meant to, with two loving parents. Olivia’s parents die in mysterious circumstances, and she grows up the child of two universes, with two daddies, in a lab. 

2010 me was not sophisticated enough to write it, so there’s not much more there than that.

[nvvermore]

“I wish you had of just done it for the thrill of it, but now you’re in deep shit.” - angst prompt

Is There Somewhere

“I wish you had just done it for the thrill of it, but now you’re in deep shit.”

words: 1438

cw: intoxication, sexual harassment, light blood/injury

Accompaniment

—

Julian was absolutely shitfaced. Amaryllis was mostly sober, and had decided they would stay that way as soon as they arrived at The Raven that night. On an average night they would describe him as drunk by the end of it, So why Julian was stumbling over his feet and words when it was only just past ten was beyond them.

When they swiftly slipped into their usual booth, surprisingly enough it did not take Julian very long to come join Amaryllis.

“My dear! There you are! I’ve been waiting for you allllllll night!” He announced, falling into the bench across from them. Thankfully, his hands were currently free of any drinks.

“You don’t look like you’ve done much waiting at all.”

“You took too long, I got bored.”

 “Sure. Ilya I’m not here any later than usual, you realize that?”

“Ah! Then you’re right on time, I’m going to get you a drink. And one for me too. Or two?” Before Amaryllis could stop him he was off again, quickly making his way to the bar on his long and slightly unsteady legs. Amaryllis had just decided to zone out until he returned, when a man approached the table.

“You Leroux?” He asked, looking over his shoulder. Surely he already knew the answer. Amaryllis sighed, very discreet already. 

“I’m not working tonight, I’m busy babysitting.” They explained with far less charm than usual. Somehow, the man took that as an invitation to sit down next to them. Another sigh. “Was I not clear?”

“Not working yet, or maybe with me it won't be work at all.”

“You’re already being quite the piece of work.” Amaryllis makes no move to scoot away from the man, or give any outward indication that they might be uncomfortable. And they weren’t really, just annoyed on the basis of not wanting to deal with anyone else tonight.

He puts his hand on their thigh. “Fine, work it is then, and I tip real well.” Amaryllis acts like they don’t feel a thing.

“I doubt you have the common decency to do so.” Glancing out into the rest of the tavern, their eyes catch on a head of auburn curls headed back this way. Amaryllis had to deal with this quickly. They were just beginning to conjure a strong suggestion spell to make the man do as they say, but Julian’s arrival beat them to it.

“What’s going on here?” He asked, a stein in each gloved hand. He sounded a little less belligerent than he did a few minutes ago, trying his best to sound stern.

“Buzz off dude, we’re busy.” He squeezed Amaryllis’s thigh, and while they remained indifferent, when Julian’s eyes caught the action he did not. In a flash, the steins were slammed onto the table and the man was being yanked to the floor by his collar. Definitely more vicious than Julian usually operated in fights, but he’d never before felt the need to get someone away from Amaryllis so strongly.

Once the man was on the floor Julian stepped around him, plopping down into the spot he had invaded moments ago. To Amaryllis, Julian this close was a more than welcome presence. He leaned back against the bench and splayed his arms out, staring the man down with a cocky smirk.

“Buzz off, we’re busy.” He mocked, and Amaryllis had to physically bite down on their desire to laugh. The man was clearly angered as he got to his feet, and if Amaryllis had expected what happened next, they would have mustered up that charm after all.

The man reeled back and delivered a swift punch right to Julian’s face. He jolted back up onto his feet at the impact, no hesitation as he threw himself into a fight with an opponent he knew nothing about. Another sigh from Amaryllis. Julian got into bat fights often, but never when this drunk and always as a sort of game. Two people would agree to fight, with rules, people made their wagers, and when Julian was involved Amaryllis stood by for healing afterwards. This was not any of that.

The two were throwing punches, many of them missing completely or were just ineffective from both sides. Hopefully the man was a shit fighter or just as intoxicated at Julian. Amaryllis’s suggestion spell wouldn’t work now with the man’s focus no longer on them.

Thankfully, before Amaryllis could come up with a way to end this that wouldn’t get them hurt, the man hit the ground hard, and Barth was approaching the scene.

“Devorak! What in the world?” The bartender asked, disappointed but not surprised at the scene in front of him. Julian’s lip was split and bleeding, and there was a sizable gash across his cheek. Amaryllis glanced to the hands of the unconscious figure on the floor, who had several rings on each of them. One of them they recognized instantly, the seal of a crooked family that resided in the Heart District. While Amaryllis didn't recognize this particular member, they had experience with the family before, and they were a kind of trouble Julian did not want to get into.

“Ce salaud was harassing me, and Ilya stopped him.” Amaryllis explained. Barth nodded, glancing between the three parties. “Though, we're going to need a room to lay low in, I can't get him home like this. And when he wakes, tell him his assailant was hauled off by the guard, and don't give him names. I'll deal with the rest tomorrow.”

“Ugh, alright. Next time maybe don't knock out whatever kinda bad news he is? Now I’ve got to deal with his sorry ass till he wakes.” Barth complained, but the amused grin he spoke with revealed otherwise. Julian, seemingly out of bravado for the time being, flushed and attempted to stutter out a sentence.

“Er- well, I can- let me ah. Clean up the mess?” He offered, wringing his hands together.

“Yea, your own mess of a face.” Barth then turned to address Amaryllis. “Take him upstairs and work your magic, would you? Take the third room on the left, on the house. My thanks for taking care of the trash.”

“Aye aye, Captain.” Amaryllis mock saluted as they rose from the booth. Julian looked mildly offended as they support his weight all the way to the stairs.

“H-he's not the pirate here, you know.”

“Oh? And you are? I still don't believe you.”

“But it's true!”

“Mmmhmmmm…”

The pair make it upstairs without incident, Amaryllis sitting Julian onto the bed, where the exhaustion thanks to what just occurred finally hits him. Armed with a damp rag they sit next to him, tilting his chin about to get a better look at the damage. They hadn't noticed before that his nose had bled too, but all the cuts had already started to clot up. Another sigh.

“You know, It doesn't bother me when you get into fights, but I wish you had just done it for the thrill of it.” They dragged a thumb across his bottom lip, over the cut. Julian took a sharp intake of breath, which Amaryllis did their best not to react to. Passing over again, with magic this time, it was now healed. The only evidence it was ever there at all was the dried blood. “But now you’re in deep shit.”

“Who was he?”

“It's better if you don't know. I'll take care of it, you'll be fine.” They went about healing the rest of his injuries, then gently cleaning the blood off his skin.

“Will you be? Are you okay?” Amaryllis saw the genuine concern on his face and tried to avoid looking directly at him.

“I have it under control. And it doesn't matter, I've had much worse happen. He was merely a pest.” Julian remains oddly quiet as they help him out of his boots and gloves, to the point Amaryllis has to check to see if he'd passed out. Eventually, they get him in the bed and under the covers. “I'll get you some water, you're going to be hungover and sore-” Julian's hand grabbing onto theirs stops Amaryllis in their tracks.

“It does matter, you know.” He mutters, face a little too squished up against the pillow. Before Amaryllis can find the words to argue back he’s out cold, snoring lightly. Gently, they rest his hand back on the bed. Against their better judgment—  the one that tells them to keep their distance, tonight being a great example of why— they run a hand through his hair, brushing his curls away from his face.

“Sweet dreams Ilya,” Amaryllis whispers, “Thank you.”

—

[dancedelion]

Where You Are

Genre: angst and fluff Word Count: 3391 Summary: When Geralt finds Jaskier in a tavern, he knows he has to stay, just to watch, just to listen, until Jaskier leaves town or gets fed up with him. Whichever comes first. ao3: Where You Are

Jaskier left and took Geralt's senses with him. He'd dulled them to anything else. Food tastes like nothing. He wears grey clothes and fights grey monsters with grey swords, on a brown horse. He doesn't hear when someone approaches him - he is dead a thousand times over, caught off guard -

He misses the times when it was just him and Roach and the road - when he didn't know and he didn't miss - It's just him and the road, but... he knows.

There's a buttercup by the side of the road. He picks it up and braids it into Roach's mane. The road is grey and so is the sky, but he has a brown horse with a yellow buttercup. It's enough.

He requests fewer baths. He can't smell the blood or the dirt or the sweat on his skin. He can't smell the flowers. He orders more ale, but it tastes like water. People who approach him are braver now, if they are not deterred by the look on his face. He touches – the cold, dead skin of monsters with no faces. The world is dark when the sun is up, darker when it is down.

He doesn't walk towards a town or a monster – he just walks. Sometimes there happens to be a kikimora. Sometimes a drowner. Sometimes a barmaid. Sometimes someone pressing a bag of coin in his hand, someone flinching away. He walks, but he doesn't hear the laughter in the tavern or the slicing of his blade or his own footsteps. It's a blur of grey. The only thing clear is the yellow buttercup. It wilts after a while. Geralt keeps walking.

He is somewhere – in front of some tavern, some monster's blood in his hair - when something slices through the muffled sounds – through him.

It's Jaskier's voice.

He freezes and stops whatever he was doing, if he was doing anything at all. He follows the voice into the tavern and a barmaid says something and he says something back but the only thing he can hear clearly is Jaskier's voice.

He is led to a grey table and sits down. Then he sees him, turned away from him. Wearing a blue tunic, like the sky. Jaskier turns a little more and Geralt can see the side of his face.

He remembers what red looks like. Geralt can't hear – but he can hear Jaskier.

So he stays.

***

Jaskier has told them to call him Julian, so they don't know about his most popular songs. So long as no one recognizes him, he's in the clear. No one will request any songs that will throw him back ten years into the past – violently.

He's in the middle of a song about a shepherd who's losing sheep when he turns and -

He stumbles over his words before he catches himself enough to pretend like nothing's changed. But there he is. Stoically sitting in the corner, like he's made of marble.

Jaskier didn't expect this – to run into him by accident, like you'd run into an old acquaintance. There is no protocol for this. How do you act when you meet someone who meant the world to you – means the world to you – was your friend – wasn't your anything – probably can't stand the sight of you? Maybe Geralt didn't see him. Maybe he'll leave once he does.

But then Geralt's gaze is on him – just for a moment – and Jaskier sings the chorus for the third time in a row -

Then Geralt is looking away again. Right. Right. That's how you act when you meet again – I've never calmed you after a nightmare in the dead of night, I've never tended to your wounds, I've never learned the meaning of the noises you count as language.

Jaskier pretends not to watch him out of the corner of his eye.

And now we're right back at the beginning - back to square one. I'm a bard singing and you're sitting in the corner. Just like it was always meant to be.

Jaskier's wrist is stiff and his fingers are tense and the sounds of his lute come out strange. But he keeps playing. What would you do if I walked over to you? Would you let me? Would you let me love you for a little bit? Or only from afar? You've ripped out my heart before, do you want to have anther go? Well, no thanks. Jaskier's had his fill of it.

He finishes his set a bit early. He has the brilliant idea to get outrageously drunk, so he sits at the bar.

The barmaid has curly hair and lovely brown eyes. “Sixteen pints of ale, please,” Jaskier says politely.

“That's a bit rash, isn't it?” she says, but smiles.

“Oh, believe me,” Jaskier murmurs, “I'll need it.”

“Not if you're not a mutant you don't,” she says. “That much alcohol will probably kill you.” “Eh, worth the risk.” “Sweetheart, I think at that point it counts as a suicide. What's going on? Lover's quarrel?”

“No, I...” Jaskier starts and then pauses. “You know what? Yes. Yes, it was. You wouldn't believe what he said to me, that brutish, stubborn oaf of a man -”

Jaskier goes on to describe a vicious fight over half an hour in which they had both traded scathing insults. Only exaggerating a little bit.

“And that's how we broke up,” he finishes. “Twenty years of a loving relationship down the gutter. I was going to propose, I had a ring and everything.” He had gone through two pints of ale already and he takes another swallow.

“We were going to settle down by the coast,” he says more quietly. “But alas, it was not – not meant to be...”

“That was just one fight, it's not the end of the world,” the barmaid says kindly, “maybe you can still talk about it.” “Ah, no, see... fight was a long time coming. We wanted different things.”

He's aware that somewhere behind him, Geralt is still sitting. Jaskier is sure he'll be gone in the morning and this time, Jaskier won't follow. He's angry, yes, but more bitter.

The burly man on the seat next to him nudges his arm.

“Lad, I don't mean to alarm you, but that man in the back has been staring at you for a while,” he says, “you want me to talk to him before he makes trouble?” Jaskier turns into the direction the man is pointing. It's Geralt. Looking at the table. He almost laughs.

“No, it's fine,” he says dismissively and waves a hand. Why is Geralt watching? To make sure he keeps his distance? Won't be a problem, sir. I don't even know you.

“That's the witcher,” the tall man two seats over chimes in. “They say he's strangled a man with his own laces.”

“No, no,” the burly man says, “that's the one from the songs. From what I've heard, he's killed two ghouls unarmed.”

Jaskier snorts. The barmaid leans over the counter. “I've heard he got swallowed by a selkiemore and survived.”

“I've heard he's a dick,” Jaskier says. Three pairs of eyes land on him.

“What,” the barmaid says, “you know him?” “Ah, no,” he denies quickly. “I've stayed in an inn he was before. They told me he didn't take his boots off in his room. Got selkiemore guts everywhere.”

Tomorrow he'll be gone. It'll be fine.

Before he leaves for the night, he can't resist turning around one more time. Geralt is sitting there exactly like he did when Jaskier first saw him tonight. Exactly like he did when Jaskier first saw him at all. Like he hasn't aged a day. Like in twenty years no one has gained or broken his heart. Still lonely.

***

Jaskier was going to leave town the next day, but there's a chance – a small chance, but a chance that the seat in the corner of the tavern won't be empty tonight. He has an argument with himself over it that lasts all morning. It's one thing to follow someone into battle who doesn't want you to, it's another to go into the same tavern again for the chance that he'll be there, just to see him. Once the sun sets, Jaskier gives up the pretence and heads back.

As soon as Jaskier's through the door, his gaze skitters to the seat Geralt occupied the day before. There he is, the great pretender. Less blood in his hair this time. Jaskier feels a little lighter when he starts his new song, lighter and a little heavier, but all worth it.

Why are we strangers again? I can't believe there was a time when you let me touch you.

“Your usual?” the barmaid says later, “sixteen pints of ale?” “Only fifteen today, please,” Jaskier says and winks. “I'm feeling a little better.”

“That's the spirit,” she answers.

All night, Jaskier can feel Geralt's gaze in his neck.

***

Geralt returns to the tavern, even though he doesn't know if Jaskier will be there. He can't not return. He sits in the spot furthest away from the people, from which he can best watch Jaskier. He knows Jaskier can't forgive him and worse, he can't ask for forgiveness. He wants to. But he can't bring himself to step up to Jaskier and just - talk. Not after how the last time turned out. He knows Jaskier saw him, so maybe that means he won't come back, but the memory still lingers in the tavern and it appeases Geralt a bit.

Then Jaskier is there and Geralt almost catches his eye. Just let me have this. Jaskier won't come over, he knows. So he sits and he drinks and he watches. Geralt is frozen in time, frozen in that moment in the tavern two decades ago - he is an ink drawing of a future that shouldn't have happened. Please don't smudge the ink. Please don't cry on me, I think I'll wash away - Geralt's fingers clench around his jug. He quietly watches as Jaskier goes to the bar again, talks to the barmaid. He doesn't get Jaskier's words any more or his smiles or his touches – but this. This he can have. If you will let me return to the distance of you, I will. Every time.

***

Jaskier keeps returning, and curiously, Geralt does too. It's strange. Geralt must know why he stays. It's much less clear why Geralt is still in this town.

He's right there, right across the room, but walking over to him would be like walking through a snow storm with no clothes. Swimming across the ocean with missing limbs. Climbing a steep mountain with half a lung. He could do it, but... shit, it would be painful.

He fantasizes about it, though.

“You look familiar,” he'd say. “You look like a friend I used to have.”

He fantasizes about yellow eyes on him and the amused curl of his lips.

It's too late, Geralt. I already know all your secrets. I know that under the big muscle mass and the frowns and the tense jaw, you have buried a heart. I know you have kindness hidden away in your yellow eyes. I have seen the soft lines of your body that you hide in your skeleton.

Geralt never moves from his spot, never talks to anyone.

If I come any closer, will you still insist that we are strangers? All Geralt gets are curious glances. Everyone is asking themselves the same question.

Why are you still here? Is there a monster in this tavern you are looking to kill?

***

Geralt rarely stays in one place for this long. But he has a good reason, he does. If he leaves, he won't hear again. Jaskier is at the bar and he's laughing. He doesn't need Geralt. He has five friends in this tavern alone. There's twenty strangers he could meet in this tavern, each of them with a nicer voice and a brighter smile than Geralt has.

And if Jaskier stays, he must have a good reason to. The girl behind the bar has pretty hair, Geralt can tell. And warm eyes. Geralt doesn't know what he'll do when his coin runs out. Find a monster near by, hope Jaskier will still be here when he returns.

Why are you still here? Where is the pretty girl that has caught your eye?

*** Geralt's breath hitches in his throat when Jaskier makes a step in his direction. He's had enough. He's not putting up with Geralt any longer. He'll point Geralt in one direction and tell him to stay far, far away from him. Worse, maybe he'll want an explanation.

Geralt's throat gets tight and he tries to think of anything that won't make him sound like a creep.

I didn't think you would stay for so long.

When the world turns dark, I will follow your voice. (And fuck, it's dark.)

The closer Jaskier gets, the more nervous Geralt becomes. He doesn't belong into this corner of the world, where Jaskier has decided to stay. That's where pretty barmaids and humans with normal eyes belong. Jaskier won't let him have this any longer.

Go and take with you the colors of the world. I've survived it before.

Geralt remembers the first time Jaskier talked to him, like he wasn't scary at all.

Here's your second chance, you can get it right this time. Say "I'm here to sing alone," and I will answer with "Ah. I know who you are. You're the bard I let in.” Walk away and I won't follow. Jaskier leans against the wall and crosses his arms.

You are the best thing that ever happened to me. I'm the worst thing that ever happened to you. Geralt has locked himself in a small room with no windows, only there is no lock and there is no door. “I was just going to stay one more day,” Geralt wants to say, but the words are stuck in his throat. From inside his self-made prison, he can still hear the gentle sounds of Jaskier's lute. So, he listens. Can you blame me? "I hear someone ordered a pie with no filling,” Jaskier says, his voice cold. Geralt nearly flinches. Jaskier saunters over and sits in the seat opposite Geralt. “Here to drink alone?” “Something like that,” Geralt says. He prepares for the inevitable accusations. He prepares his excuses. It's just your voice. A voice like amused smiles and no nightmares.

“I've seen you, you know,” Jaskier says. “Around.”

“Yeah, well, it's,” Geralt pauses, “the usual.”

“Right, right. Here's the thing though,” Jaskier says and leans forward across the table. “It's not. It's not the usual. You never stay this long in one place. So why are you still here? It can't be the ale, because to be frank it's not that good.”

“Maybe I just like... the company.” “The company? Geez, Geralt, you've lied better before. I know for a fact that in your whole life, you've never liked anyone's company. Are you here for a case? Some monster? Because I haven't heard anything.”

Geralt drinks in the sight of him, the soft red in his cheeks, the brown hair.

“No monsters,” he says slowly and looks down at his drink. "It's the smell," he says, “you smell... like home." "It's onion," Jaskier says and Geralt lets out a soft laugh. Jaskier sways back a little.

***

Home? What does it mean? Jaskier crosses his arms, then uncrosses them again. He tips back his chair. "I wouldn't have pegged you for one to settle down in a place like this,” Jaskier says conversationally.

How come Geralt still are as much of a mystery to him as he was twenty years ago? Or, well. Again.

“Likewise,” Geralt answers and Jaskier frowns. It's clear why he is still here, after all. The same way it's always been. “It's a pretty barmaid,” Geralt says.

“Tabitha?” Jaskier frowns harder. Why are they talking about Tabitha?

“Bit early to buy a ring,” Geralt says, irritably.

“A ring?” Jaskier has completely lost track of the conversation.

“To get married,” Geralt elaborates. “It's what people do. When they stay in one place for long.”

“Not if they stay somewhere for two weeks, what the fuck, Geralt,” Jaskier says, a little indignant. “Not me and Tabitha. No. Though...” His heart is racing faster. “If I'm honest, someone... did catch my eye, in this tavern.”

He presses his palms on the table and leans in closer.

***

“Oh,” Geralt says quietly. “I see. Someone... important, then.” He feels terribly cold, suddenly. “Yeah.” “Right. I should... I should go. I should stop bothering you.” He doesn't belong here, in this place where people talk and fall in love and are happy.

“Bothering me? That's what you call bothering, sitting in the corner and brooding? Not even an apology,” Jaskier shakes his head.

“I... I'm sorry, I should have left -” “Not for that,” Jaskier says quietly.

Geralt stares at him for a moment. He doesn't quite understand. Does Jaskier want them to part on good terms?

“I'm sorry for that, too, obviously,” he says.

“That's not good enough.” I know.

“It's, it's like they say. I am... my own worst enemy,” Geralt says. “I made a mistake. Bigger than usual. First with Yennefer, and then... You. You were still there. No matter how much I fucked up, you were always still there. I thought I'd... do the hard work for you.”

“That's incredibly stupid, Geralt, you know that?”

“Hm.”

“You've never had a friend before, have you?”

Geralt mentally goes through a long list of people he's met. None of them had been like Jaskier. “No.”

“Then I'll forgive you,” Jaskier says and smiles a little, “but let it be known that should you ever do something like this again, I'm going to write a very mean song about you.”

“Hm.”

“It'll involve an extremely scathing line about your smell.”

Geralt tilts his head a little.

“Seriously, when is the last time you had a bath?”

Geralt raises an eyebrow thoughtfully. “No, this is not something you need to think about,” Jaskier says, “oh Geralt, I don't know how you've survived a second without me.”

Geralt doesn't know either. Jaskier's eyes look a little brighter and Geralt loosens his grip on his jug.

“Why haven't you apologized two weeks ago?” Jaskier says then.

“You... you looked happy. Happier.”

“I think you haven't been looking too closely.”

“What about that... person. The one who's important to you? Will you want to stay?” Geralt says. “Because I can't. There's no monsters here.”

“You big idiot,” Jaskier says and clenches his teeth. “I really don't know how this is so hard to understand. I'm always in the same place. Have been for years. I'm always, always... where you are.”

Suddenly, Geralt realizes that the table is brown and so is his jug. The ceiling is blue. It's an odd color, for a ceiling.

“Oh, you,” Geralt starts, feeling like he's on the precipice of something. “You - ?” “I'd say that was fairly obvious,” Jaskier says softly.

“And -” Geralt swallows. “I -”

“That, uhm, obvious not so much,” Jaskier says, hands jittery. Geralt reaches out and covers them with his own. Jaskier stills instantly.

Let me – just let me -

Geralt reaches for Jaskier and pulls him closer. He kisses him – because as a rule, Geralt doesn't feel things, except that he does – and Jaskier smells like flowers. He tastes like something sweet. The world gets a little blurry around the edges, but this time it's okay. Geralt is thinking about a buttercup he'll pick for Jaskier, one he can put behind his ear. He can't lose this again, this feeling that's a little red and a little sweet and a little like Jaskier's voice.

Outside, the sun shines something bright again.

[a-stitch-in-time-and-space]

Headcanon: Julian Bashir is autistic and has frequent sensory overload, and the only two people who can help him are Garek and O’ Brien. Me? Projecting? It’s more likely than you think!!!

Ha, moooood. Which on that note I have a somewhat intense fic here in which Julian has a meltdown. It’s not related to sensory issues so much as “oh boy a lot of shit’s happened to him” but if you want more O'Brien helping him out after this – so because we gave that fic to O'Brien, let’s give this one to Garak.

Also can we talk about the fact that it’s canon that Julian and the other augments can hear sounds at decibels that non-augments can’t and that it causes them pain, but Julian just taught himself to not react, like fuck, how did someone write this and not follow through on Julian-Bashir-is-autistic-and-or-otherwise-nd!

sorry for taking so long, a. this got a bit longish so it’s under a cut and b. I got distracted by the fact that I always want to see everyone’s notes on reblogs in case of interesting discussion points and i have just now learnt that that cannot be done easily if a lot of people reblog at once… oh hyper-fixation how you get me time and again

this takes place post-Doctor Bashir I Presume and alludes to the fact that during this time Garak and Bashir’s interactions were gradually stripped away in the show (because it too gay) - Andy Robinson ran with that in A Stitch In Time and had Garak write about how much he regretted the two of them not remaining close/hinted that he was in love with him… so take that background as you will.

—— More Space ——-

Thank goodness, he thought after an indeterminate amount of time. O'Brien was here. He would be able to calm him down, he would know how to come up with some soothing description of exactly which of DS9’s pistons or pipes or programs was currently making that noise and he’d either fix it or stay with him until it sorted itself out. Or maybe the noise was gone and the residual whining was just himself recreating it perfectly in his head, or maybe he was just too far gone by now for it to matter, but O'Brien would help. Since the two of them had become friends and some of Julian’s old ticks had returned after his augmentation had come to light, Miles had been a surprisingly steady presence in his life.

“Doctor?”

No, not Miles.

Garak.

He couldn’t make himself respond. His body felt like it was compressing him into a vice, with all his ability to focus somehow splintered into a million shards, each of them painful to the touch. Oh no, what if Garak touched him? If Garak touched him right now he might shatter or scream or something else entirely outside of his control, but talking was also impossible right now, so he couldn’t ask him not to touch, please don’t touch-

Garak sat down in front of him, far enough away that it didn’t feel like too… much.

“Doctor. You don’t need to say or do anything.”

He could manage that.

“I was wondering why you’d missed our lunch date. Very pleased to find you didn’t simply opt not to come without telling me, although I find the alternative to be distressing.”  He stopped talking for a moment then. “Apologies for breaking into your room. Again.”

While Garak simply sat and occasionally spoke Julian was dimly aware of the fact that he could feel his edges hardening again. The shards were being pulled back together.

He also noticed now that he was freezing. It usually happened like that, having sat sedentary for however long or coming down from some emotional extreme. He shivered.

“This station is cold,” said Garak.“The temperature, the lights, the people… all too cold.”

Julian managed a smile and it was like his mouth was freed from a curse. “It is, isn’t it.”

“Not to mention loud,” Garak added.

“All that machinery,” Julian nodded and spoke slowly. His mouth still needed to unstick. “Every time an alarm goes it’s like a sharp pain… I used to be… much better at this.”

“What do you mean?”

“I used to… I used to get these all the time as a child. Meltdowns, shutdowns, I think. But then my parents told me later that it was a side-effect of the augmentations and I tried to… to will myself to stop them, to bypass my natural instincts in order to not be found out and it worked, in a way, or at least nobody found out. I familiarised myself with and categorised any sights, sounds, smells, feelings I came across on earth during my Starfleet training and ordered them into lists and sublists: What I could handle mostly, what I could handle sometimes, what I needed to avoid at all costs. I managed to… to pretend. And then I came to Deep Space Nine and for awhile it was all too much again, I had to make new lists, but I managed, I really… I really did, I really did, I really-” he was talking himself into hyperventilating again, he knew this, but he couldn’t stop now, “- and then I got captured and it was like everything just stopped. I barely- I don’t even remember most of it, but when I got back it was so much worse -”

“Julian,” said Garak and the sound of his first name coming from Garak’s mouth surprised him back to the now. “Julian,” said Garak again. “You’re here. With me. On a floor that is quite cold, I might add.”

Julian breathed out and mumbled under the exhale. “One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.”

“What is that,” asked Garak.

“Counting my fingers. It… helps.”

“Noted,” and the easy way in which Garak seemed to have just accepted that he would be helping Julian again in future was another shock to his system, but then why wouldn’t he? Even if they hadn’t met up as often as they used to. Even if he was untrustworthy at heart and Julian could never figure out why Garak wanted his company at all. He found he missed Garak’s simple and complicated nature. It grounded him, somehow.

He got up off the floor, reaching out for Garak when he stumbled. He held him just tight enough to make sure that he wouldn’t fall. Not overcrowding – Julian suddenly remembered that Garak was claustrophobic. He must know how easily sensory inputs could become too much.

At Garak’s questioningly soft hold on his arm, Julian nodded and he helped him to the sofa. “Would you like some water?”

Julian nodded. As Garak went to fetch it, he began to talk again. Somehow… he just needed to get it out now, like an excision. “After the truth came out my mother told me that they’d been lying. I mean, they’ve been lying about so much, but specifically about this. I’ve always been like this. Or. Some of it. The meltdowns. I thought… those memories weren’t real. But now they are? Some of them. I’m having trouble sorting them.”

Garak handed him the water.

“I developed a theory,” said Julian, forgetting to sip.

“Tell me your theory doctor,” said Garak, his tone of voice tender as he sat down beside him, again, close enough if he needed him, but not too close.

“I was wondering why a heightened inability to process inputs was a side-effect of the vast majority of augments, when I had this inability before my augmentation. I started to suspect that it was less to do with the augmentations and was simply… who we were. The augmentations gone wrong could throw that into extremes, but that may have more to do with medical trauma responses than… anyway, I can’t confirm until I have more data. I did research into my own developmental delays, the medical history – it’s fascinating how we repeat cycles actually, first it was considered a form of possession or changelings, then it began to be classed under a broad form of what would be known as schizophrenia, then divided into narrow and still somewhat inaccurate categories of autism, aspergers, adhd, add, high and low functioning etcera, and then was gradually broadened again under general brain-differences known as neuroatypicals or neurodiverse,” he took a breath and continued: “- I’m not too interested in 21st century history honestly, but I know the government upheavals affected medical classifications and concepts of what was known broadly as “disabilities” at the time, and that it fundamentally shifted again once we formed the federation. But then -” and here he started gesticulating widely in excitement or outrage - “it all becomes the same just repackaged, doesn’t? Stigma against augments who are overwhelmingly people like me is stigma against neurodiversity is stigma against the “possessed,” it’s…” he trailed off. “It’s all the same,” he finished lamely.

He’d become very aware suddenly that he’d done that thing that annoyed most of the people he ever conversed with, running his mouth while forgetting the other person. But Garak didn’t seem annoyed. He was listening intently, in fact. At the pause he even nodded and offered: “The history of such matters is different on Cardassia. Or rather, mental and developmental differences don’t get acknowledged on Cardassia.”

“Eugenics?” said Julian with a frown.

“Not as such. We don’t mind in theory, as long as everyone can perform the tasks they’re assigned to. It’s a… class thing. If you belong to a powerful family and are expected to do great things in the army or politics or the sciences, being unable to do so for any reason is usually – what is the term humans use? - “Swept under the rug.” But then someone like you, dear doctor, if you had been Cardassian it might surprisingly have been easier for you.”

Julian shook his head. “My abilities are due to my augmentations. I’d have been… I don’t know. Not me,” he said softly.

At that, Garak gave him a look that he couldn’t pin down. Something… surprised for a moment, almost? Then smoothed out into an enigmatic smile. “Perhaps. From what you tell me you’ve always processed like you do, you’ve just been given better tools to translate and more…” he searched for the word for a second, before landing on: “space.”

At that Julian burst out into an unexpected laugh. “I certainly have enough space out here. More than enough, I’d say.”

Garak’s smile deepened. “But it doesn’t matter. Either you were always going to be able to pursue medicine and the stigmas of your parents and surrounding society were preventing you from discovering that on your own, or your augmentations made you unlock new abilities. But on Cardassia someone with the kind of passion you possess would have done well, with or without them.”

“If I were born into the right class. And if I didn’t get arrested for being fundamentally against the militaristic state.”

“Naturally,” acceded Garak. “And I must say I’m quite relieved to find the incorruptible, perfect federation comes with its own flaws. One wouldn’t have expected it with the way humans constantly go on about it.”

“Oh, we go on about the federation? According to you Cardassia is superior in culture -”

“- oh, definitely -”

“- politics -”

“- without a doubt, my dear -”

“- criminal justice system?”

“- well, we’ve never brought a wrong case before the court-”

“- I know you’re just saying that to rile me up-”

“- my dear doctor, when have I ever been anything but sincere?”

“- when have you ever said anything you meant?”

“- I am offended, truly-” said Garak with a big grin on his face.

Julian found it the easiest thing in the galaxy to return.

“Remember to drink your water,” he was reminded, gently, before they continued their lunch discussion. It was a moment in which they both forgot that they had ever begun to drift apart in the first place.

—— The End ——-

[vsuvia]

i don’t know if you’re still doing the prompt thing but if you are, could you do 50 with julian or asra please? ♡

i totally am! i’ll do asra since i wrote two for julian earlier. thank you so much for requesting!! this REALLY got away from me haha but i hope you enjoy it anyway

50. “I just want to be alone right now.”

You feel Asra’s hands freeze where they’re moving through your hair, and he takes them away as quickly as he can, lays you down carefully as he extricates himself from the bed. “Are you sure, love?” he asks quietly, and you can tell he’s not hurt, just worried. His hands hang limply by his sides, like he’s aching to touch you again, to take you up in his arms and feel the heartbeat you share until it drums the world into rightness again.

Tiredly, you nod and bury your head in the substantial pile of pillows at the head of your bed. It was a hard day today, putting it mildly. You’d gone out to the forest to pick mushrooms and whatever other herbs you could find, and just as you were turning back to head towards home, you felt the cold snuffle of a snout at your hand, then heard the frantic voice calling your name.

Immediately, a chill had gone down your spine. If Muriel came to find you... it had to be something bad. “Follow me,” he’d muttered tersely, and when he added a “please,” you were truly frightened.

He’d led you to a clearing, Inanna alongside him with her tail between her legs, and clamped a hand over your mouth when you gasped at the sight. In the center, bound with a ring of sickly greenish fire burning around them on the grass, were two unicorns. You’d been still half-convinced that Asra had made them up until this moment. And they were as beautiful as he’d said, their fur so soft-looking, their eyes impossibly old. It just made the pain clearly written on their faces, heard in their voices, so much worse.

Some kind of charm had been constructed around them that kept them inside and fed off their life force; you could feel it, a sucking, dry kind of energy, as you and Muriel worked and worked to try to unravel it. Despite your best efforts, it seemed like every time you came close and tugged on a thread of the spell, hoping it would fall apart, it just tightened the hold it had on the creatures. And after you’d tried everything, after you both had exhausted your magic so much that you could barely stand, you had to watch as the two creatures fell to the ground.

You wiped your nose angrily on the back of your hand. “Why would someone do this?”

“Hunting,” came Muriel’s flat response. The fire still burned -- you couldn’t even get in to move the bodies -- and it reflected in his eyes, in the tear tracks streaked down his broad face. “The horns are expensive.”

“That’s legal?”

“Lucio,” he replied, simply, bitter. Of course.

You’d sat there in silence for as long as you could, hoping that the person who did this would come back to check their traps. But the sky started darkening and the stars winked into existence, and eventually Muriel had gotten up, Inanna at his heels. You didn’t follow.

A half-hour or so later, he came back with Asra, and together they’d half-walked, half-carried you back to the shop. Somewhere, dimly, you were aware that this was something you should be thankful for. And you’d make it to that feeling tomorrow. For now, there is a yawning nothingness where there should be... anything, really. There’s only the sight of green fire burning every time you close your eyes.

And now there’s a faint sense of guilt, too, as you watch Asra gather his coat and his bag. Why do you feel like crawling out of your skin? He is the person you trust most in the world. It’s because he saved you, a little voice inside you whispers, and your chest tightens painfully.

“Can I leave Faust here with you?” he asks, knitting his brows together as he looks you over, fingers drumming on the strap of his bag. Considering this, you nod, and she slithers off Asra’s outstretched arm to sit beside you on the bed. “It’s a little busy at the market tonight. Don’t want her causing any trouble.” 

Trouble! she echoes gleefully, and flicks her tongue at you.

That’s not why he’s leaving her here, but you’re grateful that he pretends otherwise. “There’s some sleeping draught in the cupboard, all right?” he says, pulling on his boots. “And if you need me, just send Faust. She can come get me quicker than anyone else.” Hesitantly, Asra picks his way back over the room to the bed to brush a kiss lightly to your forehead. His hand smooths your hair, like it’s acting of its own accord, like he can’t help but touch you. “I won’t stay too long away.”

And then he’s gone in what seems like a blink of an eye. Funny how you used to crave his presence whenever he left and now your conscience is eating you alive for everything he’s ever done for you with no reciprocation. The fire is still burning behind your eyelids, stark as a wound, so as soon as you hear the door close and feel the rush of magic that means he’s locked the door, you cross the room in three strides, pull out the sleeping draught, and drain it in one long swallow. You barely make it back to the bed before the soft darkness of sleep comes; a blessing, a medicine in its way.

***

Like clockwork, you wake with the candles blown out and the moon shining through the window in a stripe onto the bedsheets. Before you even open your eyes, you can feel the warm body next to you, weighing down the mattress, hear Asra’s soft sleep-breathing. Relief washes over you, as it always does, to know he’s here. Somehow, you feel less guilty, more lucky, as you stare down at the silvery moonlight on his bare back, making his skin look mercurial and otherwordly.

Your feet touch the floor as silently as possible and you almost roll out of bed to avoid waking him -- Asra’s a notoriously light sleeper, and if you could help it you’d stay in bed, but your stomach is growling something fierce. The larder is across the whole floor from the bed, but you know which boards creak and which will stay silent. In fact, you’re successfully halfway there when you see the package on the table.

Untying the twine reveals a loaf of -- what else? -- Selasi’s pumpkin bread, still steaming thanks to a clever little charm. The wax paper falls away easily, and you’re about to tuck in when you see the note nestled beside the loaf.

You can’t save everyone, and you can’t fix everything. You and I... we saved the world. But even if we hadn’t, it wouldn’t matter. You’re worth more than what you do for other people. You’re worth everything to me.

...But I can’t afford everything, so I bought you a loaf of pumpkin bread instead. Selasi says hi. Please eat this if you wake up before me, okay?

I love you. xo Asra

When you get back into bed, ten minutes later, your fingers smelling of cardamom and cloves and the letter clutched tightly in your hand, you kiss his shoulder. Not enough to wake him up, but just a way to touch him, to ground yourself. And at the touch of your lips, through the veil of sleep, he smiles.

[moonlightchess]

The Winter Wolves (1)

Eirik and Eija Sturmborn are twins, born to a long local tradition in northernmost Minnesota, of winter wolves and pack wars and family bonds as deep as they are destructive. Things are changing as of late, and worse, not changing at all - they’re adults now, and they have yet to shift into the wolf-skin their wild-bred parents should have passed on to them long ago. Wholly human they remain, albeit strong and hardy and ready to die fighting back the howling rival packs threaded throughout their family’s Gray woods as rumors spread that the Sturmborn twins are never going to make the final change and now is the time to strike, to wipe out the Sturmborn pack entirely so that their dwindling bloodline will finally cease to be a threat in the inevitable statewide pack war that has been simmering for years. 

There’s also the death of their lost brother Sven, years ago, killed in an alpha fight during a wolf run with their parents when the twins were children - as the story goes, anyway. Details are emerging, cults are stirring, and the twins can’t stop dreaming of ravens and death. The Danish Larsen witches to the south who claim Eija’s dearest friend and heart’s desire Sara have no idea that she’s been using her magic to aid the twins in uncovering what really happened to Sven and holding off the Karlsen and Jorgunsson packs for as long as possible. Meanwhile Eirik’s continued clumsy attempts to woo the elegant violinist, the newcomer to Angle Inlet Julian Hassan, are not going well at all. The brutal tragedy and burgeoning madness stirring in their land and their blood are nothing compared to the battlefield of human longing, a truth more evident every day.

“All religion is only ever a desperate search for the freedom and relief of not being held accountable for your own life, your own future, your own actions,” Eirik told his sister once, huffing the words into a cloud of sawdust as he’d hunched over his current project - a kitchen table for upstairs. “The trick is finding the right god to apply to your personal aesthetic, the right doctrine to inspire your vanity and ego. You have to find the god that’s willing to tell you what you want to hear, who looks the way you think god should look. Once you do, of course you’ll die for them. The mass appeal of Christianity lies in how malleable and forgiving it is, and churches and cults alike all feed on growth. That’s why the Buddhists are so welcoming to any ignorant white college student with a “namaste” bath rug, they’ve figured it out. It’s the same reason romance novels with empty, undefined characters always sell the best. People like to see themselves in things, I revere the old gods as much as anyone, but I’m not stupid. We are nothing if not our own egos. It’s the invite-only religions that you ought to keep an eye on.”

Eija had laughed, the inhalation of a lungful of sawdust of no concern to her. They were woodworkers and potters by trade, the Sturmborns. Her own palm was slowly working out a thick pine splinter from a week ago. “So now my brother is a philosopher,” she’d observed, stealing his iron beer stein for a healthy gulp. At eighteen apiece - twins, they - technically the state laws of Minnesota frowned upon such indulgences. But the town of Angle Inlet was also acutely aware of the elective and social power of its enormously Scandinavian population, who poured beer and honey wine out at winter gatherings for everyone present, including their young. Such was their culture, and they’d been raised into responsible sorts. The ale of tonight was a heady, oaky blend with a thick head of caramel foam, heavily scented of smoked apples.

“Hardly, but it’s something I’ve been thinking about.” Eirik lapsed into a comfortable silence without further elaboration, another habit to which they were prone. She eventually retrieved some homework from under their longest work bench, history tonight, and settled cross-legged on the basement’s gritty stone floor while her brother worked. He was sanding the chair smooth by the time she looked up again, rising to his considerable height - both of them quite tall and sturdy like their parents - to tap her on the top of her head. Her nearly-buzzed snow-blonde hair scraped his fingertips like velcro, and she lifted her head without comment. His own was much longer, down just past his shoulders in thick wheat-blond waves. “It’s getting late.” He handed her the last of the beer stein to finish, which she did, bringing it upstairs to wash later.

The house was quiet, still. They hadn’t seen their parents in weeks, which was not unusual. The wolves had come calling in September, as they were wont to do, and Kaspar and Emma Sturmborn had bolted from the house one night at last, howling and wild and tearing at their clothes. They’d returned once or twice before the autumn chill had cracked the damp haze of summer, naked and soaked in blood, flesh scored raw with gore and gashes that healed in a day or two. On the last night of September though, their mother had been snappish and restless at dinner. Their father’s profoundly sexual longing for her had oozed through his attempts at polite conversation, the occasional baring of teeth suggesting that marital relations weren’t the only carnal craving he was experiencing just then. The blood moon had come.

The howling, the clicking of claws on their porch, the soft whuffing and whimpering of the pack had kept the twins up that night, and in the morning their parents had been gone, lost to the woods with the front door swinging open in the slight breeze. Every year the pack came, and every year they stayed away a little longer. But Eija and Eirik knew hunting, knew canning, fermenting, cooking and cleaning. They knew how to make and repair furniture, ceramics, clothes. They knew how to maintain embers in the wood stove to keep the house warm, and they knew how to play chess to keep each other entertained. Every year they were fine whenever their parents returned, and this bred a sense of confident abandonment in Kaspar and Emma. No questions were ever asked, no details ever offered.

The matter of Sven though, was troubling.

Sven had been their brother, once. He’d been tall and thick like them, pale and blond with a strong jaw and ice-colored eyes so light and glittering they were nearly colorless mirrors. He’d turned with their parents early, tumbling around the woods as a pup and laughing at the way his body had shifted so fluidly from yipping gray wolf to boy and back again. Sven had never stopped laughing, in fact - he’d been funny, loud and bright. He hid Eija’s shoes and teased Eirik into putting his hand into a box full of shaving cream to find out the “secret.” His hugs had always been warm and tight, and one day he’d bounded out the door with his parents and the pack to chase the blood moon and he’d never come back.

There had been a hunt, their parents had explained. A fight, an accident, Sven’s blood splashed dark across the trees and snow. He’d never come back from the woods, and they’d never spoken of him again. Eija though, she kept his sweaters at the back of her closet and would occasionally put one on, for bad nights. She still had Eirik at least, who was steady and intelligent without any of Sven’s lively humor but all of his sturdy support and dependability. Their parents would not speak his name, as if to acknowledge that he had once been would invoke some darkness, violate some pact. Still, on the night of the Friggablot every May, after honoring their mother with dinner and gifts, the twins would slip into the wolf-woods to light a sacred fire for their lost Sven. He never found it, no matter where they camped.

Eirik’s nighttime routine was a quiet one, as was Eija’s. They shared a dinner of beef stew and bread, and Eirik brewed them warm root tea as the sun sank. Wordlessly, they washed the dishes side by side with Eija scrubbing and her brother drying, and he pressed his lips to her temple before they separated for the night. “Drom sott,” were his only words, and she smiled faintly, squeezed his hand. Hausblot had already passed and the nights were going brisk and chilly, but their northern blood was ready and she didn’t bother leaving the woodstove lit. Instead, she waited for Eirik to finish his bath before taking command of the upstairs bathroom herself, the scent of his wood-and-mint soap lingering soothingly. 

She’d cleaned and laid out the old furs for her bed the month before, in preparation for northern Minnesota’s half-year deep freeze, but even snuggling down under at least ten pounds of fur and fabric couldn’t lull her to sleep. Normally this was not an issue for her, but a buzz filled her brain that wouldn’t be silenced even as the night wore on. It was around midnight that she finally abandoned all pretense and let her mind find Eirik, who was not in his bed. He was in fact, directly over her head.

The roof of their log home was flat to the east side and angled to the south, with a lip of log rising up around the perimeter that acted as a sufficient barrier to prevent one from rolling off in their sleep. This had led to some years of the twins sleeping on the roof when there was no rain predicted, and she found him up there several minutes later via the ladder hooked to her bedroom window that only asked for a little swinging and dexterity to get there. The air was sharp and cool, the sky swirling dark, the milk-dense moon casting the world in a pearl glow. An icy, pine-sharp breeze bit through her soft pajamas, and she shivered, tiptoeing across weathered roofing to him.

He’d laid out all of his own thick bedding, his pillow, and in his flannel pajama pants and long-sleeved black henley he looked as comfortable as anything indoors. Eija tossed her own pillow, managing to land it just beside his head so that he didn’t stir, but when she crawled into their now-shared nest of furs and blankets he silently slid an arm around her shoulders to draw her close. His heartbeat steadied under her cheek when she rested her head on his chest, the cool air sweeping out toward the woods unable to cut into the warmth of them, and finally she slept.

A cold, gray-soft dawn had broken when she next opened her eyes, the loss of Eirik’s soothing heat abruptly jarring. He was sitting upright beside her, leaning forward a little and peering out toward the woods. She opened her mouth, but before a breath escaped her he silenced her with a raised hand and pointed. “Look.” His voice was a whisper, strange considering that they were at least ten miles from their closest neighbor. The word floated away from his lips on a cloud of steam as it met the frigid air, his breath dissipating even as she obeyed.

The tree line of the woods surrounding their house began after roughly half an acre of wild growth that served as something of a kitchen garden - their parents had taught them how to grow potatoes, carrots, turnips and herbs to sustain them when trips into town became a snow-packed luxury in the winter months. Eirik’s pale eyes were fixed upon the space now, and after a moment of bleary adjustment, Eija came to understand why. A small collection of people were emerging into the burgeoning light, spilling out from the woods like a tiny swarm of rolling bugs out from under a lifted rock. They were all in dark hooded robes obscuring their faces, but their heights suggested men, women, maybe even children.

“What were they doing in our woods?” Eirik’s hand tightened around her forearm, where it had fallen moments before, and he shook his head to silence her. No one had noticed them yet, they were likely too far away. There were at least ten of them, and the way they moved together felt familiar. A rival pack then, maybe the ones who had challenged their father for his alpha position and killed Sven - laughing Sven -years ago. Eija’s teeth bared themselves and she tensed all over, but Eirik was only alert, watching. The group slowly broke apart, crossing their land on silent feet in the earliest possible morning, several heading west toward the Lost River, others east into town. It wasn’t until the last of them was no longer visible that Eirik seemed to exhale, lifting his hand from Eija’s arm.

Something about what they’d seen felt profoundly wrong, despite the robed figures having done nothing particularly threatening. “It wasn’t a blot,” Eirik said quietly. “Hausblot’s done, they’re quite late if they’re observing out there at this point.”

“Erik the Red’s day?”

“Couple of days too early. Maybe. I don’t know.”

They rolled their bedding in silence and carried the piles back into the house through her bedroom window, where Eirik laid them neatly back across their beds. He slept below Eija’s attic room, down the hall from their parents’ empty bedroom. She realized as she was inhaling deeply of the cold forest scents still clinging to her furs that part of her had hoped their parents would be among the strange hooded figures, on their way home from a few months with the pack. But none had crossed the kitchen garden to enter their house, and some natural instinct had held her back from calling out to the group to ask for them.

[johannesviii]

Top 10 Personal Favorite Hit Songs from 2015

This is the last list that was kind of difficult to do and where some cuts had to be made. The next four ones weren’t very good years music-wise and generally speaking.

Also there’s something that embarrasses me even more than Blue (Eiffel 65) somewhere on this top ten. Oops.

Disclaimers:

Keep in mind I’m using both the year-end top 100 lists from the US and from France while making these top 10 things. There’s songs in English that charted in my country way higher than they did in their home countries, or even earlier or later, so that might get surprising at times.

Of course there will be stuff in French. We suck. I know. It’s my list. Deal with it.

My musical tastes have always been terrible and I’m not a critic, just a listener and an idiot.

I have sound to color synesthesia which justifies nothing but might explain why I have trouble describing some songs in other terms than visual ones.

2015 was a bit calmer, apart from the fact I moved out of the appartment and bought one instead of renting one. This is still where I’m living nowadays, it’s not big but having no landlord is a LOT less stressful even if it will take a long time to pay the loan (one time the lock broke and I couldn’t get out and the landlord refused to fix it OR pay for a new lock if I decided to call someone to fix it ; another time someone who had a spare key opened the door while I was wearing a bathrobe and was like “oh. You’re here” and I was like “...I mean..... yeah.... 'cause I live here”). I also made new friends online that year and felt less isolated.

Sidenote, my first “flat” mp3 player’s battery died today but after a quick emergency operation I was able to save the data on it. I used that mp3 player from roughly 2008 to 2013 so that’s a relief, it kinda has sentimental value and I was still using it to listen to DW audios nowadays from time to time.

As you can see in the first picture, my super old portable cd player, which still works fine, by the way, is judging this little amateur so hard right now.

So! This is the year Faithless dropped Faithless 2.0, 21 Pilots dropped Blurryface, Mylène Farmer dropped the surprisingly quite good (for this point in her career) Interstellaires, and Carly Rae Jepsen dropped E MO TION, which would have been my favorite album of the year... if Nightwish hadn’t made the absolutely jawdropping Endless Forms Most Beautiful. A symphonic metal concept album about Earth and evolution and the place of humanity in the universe?? Excuse me? Who’s read my christmas list? My favorite songs on it are Alpenglow, Shudder Before The Beautiful, the title track, Edema Ruh which has the best intro, and of course The Greatest Show On Earth, which is an incredibly ambitious, kinda bloated and quite pretentious (in a good way) song about the history of Earth, looking back from a future where mankind is extinct and concluding “we were here”, and holy shit I get emotional every time, and it’s 24 minutes long, and I still never get bored when I relisten to it. Just amazing.

As far as unelligible songs that piss me off go, it’s all Carly Rae Jepsen: I Really Like You, and especially Run Away With Me. If they had been elligible, that last one would be my #1, definitely.

Here’s some... uh, a lot of honorable mentions, actually.

Budapest (George Ezra) and Chandelier (Sia) - Still elligible, still not on the list.

Cheerleader (OMI) - I have no idea why people dislike this song.

Ex’s and Oh’s (Elle King) - This is one of these songs that would be higher on the list if I had better taste. I still like it a lot though.

FourFiveSeconds (Rihanna, Kanye West, Paul McCartney) - Ditto.

You Know You Like It (DJ Snake) - Great drop. The rest is meh.

Miracle (Julian Perretta) - The opposite of the previous one ; a fantastic song let down by its drop.

Uma Thurman (Fall Out Boy) - This song makes absolutely no sense but it’s a lot of fun nonetheless.

Lean On (Major Lazer) - Super overplayed but holy shit this is incredibly catchy. The bridge is especially great.

Want to want me (Jason Derulo) - If this guy had that kind of song in him why does he suck most of the time. What happened.

Hundred Miles (Yazz) - Nice earworm that never got annoying.

Are you with me (Lost frequencies) - Basically a less good version of Waves from the previous year. This is a compliment.

Ain’t Nobody (Felix Jaehn) - And this is the less good version of Rather Be from the previous year. This is also a compliment.

Laissez Passer (Maître Gims) - When I started to check French hit songs from years where I basically wasn’t listening to the general local radio anymore, some friends told me they were grabbing popcorn and waiting for me to start hating some specific acts. Maître Gims was one of them. To their disappointment, I love just about every non-love, non-breakup hit song he’s ever made. Oops.

Love Me Harder (Ariana Grande & The Weeknd) - It took me ages to like The Weeknd but this song helped a lot. This just sounds fantastic regardless of the content (just saying this because I have a tendency to dislike stuff like that). He isn’t even the best singer of the two on this track, wow.

Millionnaire (Soprano) - In a worse year, this would make the list without question. The lyrics aren’t that original but still very good (love the line “remplis-moi les poches d’espoir” (fill my pockets with hope)) and the melody is just beautiful.

On écrit sur les murs (Kids United) - If you recall I put the original version of this on my 1990 list because I liked the Kids United version a lot and also had nothing else to put at the 10th spot on the 1990 list. The fact that I don’t even have enough space for the better version on this list says a lot about how abysmal 1990 was, music-wise.

And now, the actual list!

10 - Centuries (Fall Out Boy)

US: #43 / FR: Not on the list

Why are these guys still on my lists.

No, seriously. Why. This is yet another song that would be better if it was faster. And the sample is badly used. So I have no idea why it works. One of these days I’ll have to reevaluate Fall Out Boy’s entire discography, take a good look at myself, and admit I possibly like this band and that I’ve been lying to myself for like 15 years... but today is not that day.

9 - Sapés Comme Jamais (Maître Gims)

US: Not on the list / FR: #10

Told you I liked Maître Gims!

Listen. It’s not my place to comment on the ethics of the whole La Sape movement (which can be summarised as “modern black dandies trying to get the most expensive & beautiful clothes possible”) but you have to admit it’s super cool to have a more energetic and fun version of Suit And Tie. God, that beat. And it’s a ton of fun to sing along with the chorus! And it’s such a convincing song when it’s combined with the music video, you kinda want to look as cool and confident as these guys.

Also quick shoutout to the Sapeuses. Absolute legends & queens, every last one of them.

8 - Style (Taylor Swift)

US: #29 / FR: Not on the list

That year my s.o went to a party I didn’t want to go to and came back home completely drunk & way too late, crashed on the couch and started to ramble about how “Style” by Taylor Swift had a better sound mixing than the entirety of Epica’s latest album at the time and how amazing it was. For like half an hour.

I completely agree, just to clarify.

7 - Cool For The Summer (Demi Lovato)

US: #53 / FR: Not on the list

In what is possibly the least controversial opinion on this entire list: I love Cool For The Summer, the melody is great, the lyrics are good, the singing is the best, and you all know that and you all love this song, so yeah. Moving on to-

Oh god here comes #6. Oh shit. Oh no.

Can’t we just skip it and pretend-

6 - Animals (Maroon 5)

US: #46 / FR: Not on the list

So. I.

Uuuuuuuuuuuuuh.

How can I justify this bullshit.

The truth is: I can’t. Not really. I’m not even entirely sure what happened here. I hate this band and have always hated them, from the start. The lyrics are painfully stupid. The singing is as atrocious as ever. The “AWOOOOO” bit on the bridge is absolutely ridiculous. None of Levine’s “oh look at me I’m so dangerous” act remotely works. There isn’t a single thing I find competent here apart from the melody. I mean it. I’m not saying any of this to look cool. If I wanted to look cool, this certainly wouldn’t be on the list.

But you know what, the sheer incompetence on display here may be exactly why I like it. If it was a credible serial killer song written like an upbeat pop song, it would be disturbing and unlistenable. But the way it’s made, it simply sounds stupid, so you keep imagining some sort of inoffensive nerd pretending he’s a horrible monster (and failing) whenever you hear it. And that, I think, is what pushes it squarely into the “so bad it’s f█cking fantastic” territory, where it joins Butterfly from my 2001 list.

That sounds about right.

5 - Adventure of a Lifetime (Coldplay)

US: Not on the list / FR: #29

I haven’t mentioned A Head Full of Dreams in that year’s albums, because it came out at the very end of 2015 so I mostly consider it to be a 2016 album. It’s not as good as Mylo Xyloto, and not as consistant as Ghost Stories, but it contains some real gems. Adventure of a Lifetime isn’t nearly my favorite song on it, and I still put it super high here. I love the lyrics in particular (”under this pressure, under this weight, we are diamonds taking shape” oh damn) but the song itself just makes you want to move. I literally can’t listen to it without at least moving my head in rhythm a little bit. It’s nearly as colorful as the album cover. And it’s a joy to sing along the “woooohooooo”s!

4 - Stolen Car (Mylène Farmer & Sting)

US: Not on the list / FR: #61

This is Stolen Car (Take Me Dancing), from Sting (2004), rewritten as a half English half French duet where it’s unclear if the female singer is the imaginary lover or the car in the story. You might want to re-read that sentence.

What did I say on a previous list? Ah yes, “I see a duet between two singers I like and I die instantly”. This is also the last time Mylène Farmer is going to appear on one of my lists. I could say “self care”, but I genuinely don’t like any of her more recent hits, at all. Whatever. She’s been on these lists since the very first one (1988) anyway.

It’s been a wild ride, to say the least.

3 - Shut Up And Dance (Walk the Moon)

US: #6 / FR: Not on the list

And for the second least controversial opinion on this list: despite the massive overplay, I never EVER got tired of this, it’s colorful, energetic, super fun, and it’s still on my mp3 player to this day. Just a fantastic song. And a great band! I wish One Foot had been elligible for a future list, it’s super good. Aw.

2 - Ego (Willy Williams)

US: Not on the list / FR: #69

This is a song about a guy who imagines himself as this super cool elegant dude, but when he looks at himself in the mirror he hates everything he’s seeing.

I know this isn’t supposed to be a song about gender dysphoria but my god is this shit relatable.

To make things even better, it’s served by creepy music box sounds ala The Birthday Massacre and by an untouchable, strange beat. It’s a dark, weird song, but it’s all kinds of wonderful and catchy as hell, and apparently I’m not the only one to think that considering the mindboggling number of views on the youtube music video. Watch it if you haven’t seen it, it’s hypnotic and makes the song even better.

I only discovered this song last year but I’ve listened to it so much since then I really debated if this should be at the #1 spot. It’s just... so horribly relatable.

But you know what’s even more relatable?

Being broke and sad and still trying to have the time of your life.

1 - Downtown (Macklemore & Ryan Lewis)

US: #84 / FR: Not on the list

Some people call this Thriftshop 2.0 but I think it’s even better than Thriftshop, which was, if you recall one of my previous lists, already pretty damn good in my opinion.

As you probably already know, it’s a song about a guy buying a moped and bragging about him and his friends, and their mopeds, and how cool they look when they ride downtown on their mopeds. I never owned a moped in my life. But I have a super small & shitty car which I love very much and so it’s very relatable. Also I’ve never written the word ‘moped’ so often in a single paragraph before in my life.

I love every single person who sings on this track. I love the music video. I’ve been trying to match the flow of the second verse ever since it came out and I still can’t do it with my shitty accent. It’s full of weird and corny lines, but that’s also why I love it so much. The dialogue at the beginning! “Dope, my crew is ill, and all we need is two good wheels”! “Head into the dealership and drop a stack and cop a Kawasaki, I'm stunting on everybody, hella raw, pass the wasabi”! “My seat is leather, alright, I'm lying, it's pleather / But girl, we could still ride together / You don't need an Uber, you don't need a cab / F█ck a bus pass, you got a moped man”!! “Cut the bullshit / Get off my mullet / Stone washed, so raw / Moped like a bullet - NYAOOOOOO”!! “Running around the whole town / Neighbors yelling at me like, "You need to slow down." / Going thirty-eight, Dan, chill the f█ck out / Mow your damn lawn and sit the hell down”!!! Oh shit, I basically quoted one third of the song. I just. Ugh. I love it so much, okay?

Cringe culture is dead and we peed on its grave. We spend enough time in our lives feeling miserable. Like what you like. Even if it’s super ridiculous. No: especially if it’s super ridiculous. Live a little, damn it.

Next up: The Year Everything Went Wrong Except Pop Music

[rebellect-writes]

[SIZE=1][b]Name:[/b] Jess. [b]Age:[/b] 21. [b]How did you find us?:[/b] In the TARDIS’s swimming pool.

[b]Name:[/b] Drew Shamis.   [b]Nicknames & Aliases:[/b] Drew works as best as anything. Dew at a push. [b]Age:[/b] 27. [b]Date of Birth:[/b] May 11th 1984 [b]Gender:[/b] Male. [b]Sexual Orientation:[/b] Homosexual. [b]Occupation:[/b] Works at and owns Creature Comforts. [b]Powers:[/b] None.

[b]Face Claim:[/b] Ryan Kwanten. [b]Description:[/b] [IMG]http://www.blogher.com/files/Jason-sized.jpg[/IMG] [i]Height:[/i] 5’10 [i]Weight:[/i] 150lbs. [i]Eyes:[/i] Brown. [i]Hair:[/i] Dirty blond. [i]Build:[/i] Average. [i]Visible marks:[/i] He has a nasty looking scar circling his right wrist from where wire cut to the bone. Also, Drew has a tribal wolf [URL=http://th09.deviantart.net/fs15/150/f/2007/073/6/9/Tribal_Wolf_Bust_and_Paw_by_KMoongangSR.png]tattoo[/URL] on his right shoulder. [i]Style:[/i] Drew’s not the type to spend money on lots of clothes he’d wear once. So he gets and wears what he’s comfortable in. So jeans, t-shirts, boots. If he has to dress up, he will do but he always feels like a clown when he does. Jewellery isn't something he'd normally wear either. The exception to that rule is a gold crucifix that he's had since he was a kid.

[b]Special Skills:[/b] He's good at working on the fly, if that counts. He’s also pretty handy when it comes to slinging out drunks at the bar. [b]Personality:[/b]   At first glance, Drew’s the type that smiles and tries to be the friendly type of guy. He may not look it or come off it at times but he’s actually a smart one. He just hides it behind his sometimes dumb looks and useless comments. Drew wants people to be comfortable around him so if he can make people laugh and also laugh at himself, he counts that as win. Now he’s not exactly smart-alecky either, Drew knows when to hold his tongue and stop talking. It’s probably something that he’s picked up and harnessed while working at the bar, who knows.

He’s loyal, stubborn and persistent, and not always in that order. Drew will back friends no matter what because that bond means a lot to him. Former friends fall into his loyalty zone, even if they drag him into some kind of trouble. That’s not to say that he’ll let people walk right over him. He’s more than willing to give a little as long as he receives and if someone’s run out their fourth, fifth and sixth second chance with him, he knows when to call it a day and just walk away. While he may go out of his way to help people and be friendly, Drew’s not an attention seeker and won’t willingly search for it and he’s not exactly great when dragged into the spot light either.

Drew’s known love once, and he’s still in love despite having no idea if Eric is alive or dead. He’s held out hope since he was sixteen that Eric is alive though, and where most people would have moved on and found someone else, Drew hasn’t done so. One night stands don’t appeal to him; women at the pub get turned down or distracted by Ja-Mal while Drew can escape into the office out the back. It’s been over ten years, you’d think that he would have done the sensible thing and let things lie, but he hasn’t. Did I mention that stubborn streak?

On matters regarding the supernatural, Drew’s pretty loud. He doesn’t care if a person has fangs, fur, scales or feathers. They’re still human. He’s not about to go out and cause trouble just because he’s breakable. Drew knows for a fact that a lot of things could end his life, and he’s more than likely to end up in a deadly bar fight than eaten by a ‘monster’. And that’s another thing! He hates the word “monster” being used when referring to preternatural people. The only thing that Drew doesn’t tolerate is when someone kicks off in Creature Comforts, he does have human clients to and his ‘baby’ doesn’t need to be seeing none of that nasty Hollywood monster mojo.

Because people see him as a nice guy, they generally get a shock when he snaps. Drew’s not an angry person by nature and it takes a lot to make him so but when he gets angry, he also gets a little angsty and may slightly paranoid. He’s locked himself away in his office for hours before today and had to be dragged out by his best friend because a delivery had been messed up. He doesn’t like being angry, or scared, or any of those pesky negative emotions because then he can’t help but wonder why he tries so hard. [b]Likes:[/b] [LIST] [*] Cherry coke. [*] Playing video games. [*] Canines. Shush your faces. [*] Working so he doesn't have to think. [*] His baby, Creature Comforts. [*] Cooking. [/LIST][b]Dislikes:[/b] [LIST] [*] Thunderstorms and rain. [*] Dealing with drunks at the pub. [*] People demanding he does something. [*] Being stuck indoors. [*] The catholic religion. [*] Doctors, hospitals, anything medical. [/LIST][b]Strengths:[/b] [LIST] [*] Understanding and accepting of the supernatural. [*] Knows when to back down in a situation. [*] His stubborn streak. That’s saved his life. [*] Isn’t opposed to listening to others ideas. [/LIST][b]Weaknesses:[/b] [LIST] [*] Clowns, borderline fear. [*] Eric. [*] Sometimes he forgets to look after himself. [*] Smokes when he’s stressed. That’ll kill him one day no doubt. [/LIST][b]History:[/b]  

Back in the early summer of 1984, a young mum named Cheyenne gave birth to a bouncing baby boy. There wasn’t much room to celebrate though. Cheyenne had a ‘white boy’ according to her boyfriend at the time, Louis. He was Hispanic in origin; Cheyenne was only half Native American from her mother’s Hopi blood. The boy that she named Drew didn’t look like it at all; in fact he looked more like the beast that had taken her virginity in a brutal attack. Still, she didn’t hold that against her son and even though the colour of skin drove Louis away and left the small family broken, she did her best for almost two years before finally giving up and signing Drew away into the child protections services. She left no trail for Drew to pick up should he ever want to contact her, only a scribbled tribe name on a book store receipt and her cross.

Since he was too little to remember his real parents, Drew grew up in a small town house in the central business district of New Orleans. He hated it with a passion, his sister Anna made his life hell and Amanda and Nickolas his foster parents didn’t even notice, they were so wrapped up in their own respective work lives the majority of the time they barely even noticed their own biological daughter, their foster son was beyond them. It was basically a time where he brought himself up, if he fell down then he picked himself up, if he was hungry, then he made himself something to eat and avoided the family as much as possible by staying out as late as possible or locking himself away. It wasn’t like the bruises from Anna’s ‘lessons’ would have bothered his mom or his dad even if they had seen them when he was around.

By the age of thirteen, nearly fourteen, he’d more or less dropped out of school and spent a lot of his time on the streets avoiding things. He met another kid, just a little older than him called Eric and they started hanging out more and more. By the time he was sixteen, he’d developed a major crush on Eric but he was always scared that the other male would turn him away. He’d seen Eric’s parents once, and they in a roundabout way made Drew glad that he had foster parents even if he did want to deck Eric’s deadbeat dad. It was only a few weeks after getting a glimpse of what Eric’s parents were like that he finally admitted that he had feelings for Eric and got the shock of his life when Eric admitted the same thing.

They had a year together and it was great. Drew would always come up with something new for Eric and Eric would retaliate and surprise him. It was one of the happiest times in Drew’s life and not even his bitchy sister couldn’t ruin for him. Even his foster mom was a little more approachable, especially after she’d stumbled across him and Eric making out. The happiness was short lived though. Eric’s Ulfric caught them out one day along with the pack Bolverk. Ulfric Shane believed that wolves should stay with their own kind and wanted to deal with the ‘embarrassment’ that the boys had become before anyone within Eric’s pack got any bright ideas and tried something funny, so he set the evil doer on Eric to teach him a lesson.

While the wolves fought and tore into each, Drew was held back by Shane. He struggled, it was only natural, and the guy snapped Drew’s arm in two like a twig without even blinking. He was hauled away when Shane thought that he’d got what he wanted. Drew all the while thought that he’d end up as Gator bait or something worse, dinner for Shane. It was perhaps a stroke of luck that a rival pack decided to take over the territory because Shane wasn’t doing what he should’ve been doing. Drew never saw his boyfriend come mate again after that day, the only thing he remembers seeing was his Eric pinned by some shaggy Hollywood monster that smelt of wet dog.

Shane handed Drew off to the Geri and Hati, loyalists that believed in what Shane did. These pair weren’t none too gentle with the teenager either. The Geri threw Drew in the back of a car after clocking him upside the head and that was it. Bye bye Eric, bye bye New Orleans and hello Chicago. He fought against the two wolves, Julian and Warrick. If they thought that he was going to sit back and let them just walk all over him then they had another thing coming. Of course every time he resisted something that they said or did, they hurt him. After awhile it was like he became their pet, he stayed with them for almost three years before they finally let him wander around on his own. The first chance he got, Drew ran as fast as he could and didn’t stop until he collapsed and when he got up he ran some more.

Drew bounced around a lot after that, finding work when and where he could. Sure, he could’ve gone back to New Orleans and tried to find out what had happened. Instead something kept him away from his home. He tried getting a life for himself, and by the time he was twenty five he’d made his way across the pond and settled in the UK, Jackford actually. Instead of sitting on his thumb though, Drew hunted for a purpose and found a rundown family pub that was up for sale because the owner’s wife had passed on because of cancer after pouring her life into the business. Drew snapped the offer up with a promise there’d be a memorial for her. He’s made a good go at things at Creature Comforts since then and still stays somewhat under the radar. Just in case.[/SIZE]

[jflashandclash]

Tales From Mount Othrys

Why Little Siblings Need Fidget Spinners I

           “Can you believe that he expects me to stay?” Pax whined as Mercedes untied the dangling bells from each of his joints. This was a practice exercise for both of them. He’d done awesome this morning—she even told him so. He had to break into the captain’s quarters, dodging or flirting through the guards until he, without ringing a single bell tied around each of his joints, climbed through the side window, took pictures of a particular file, and climbed back out undetected.

         Once Mercedes discovered Pax’s illiteracy, after several months of Pax claiming he couldn’t remember documents that she kept sending him to practice on, they had settled on this method. He would bring the information back and she would sort through it.

         Then came part II: Mercedes untying the bells from his wrists, elbows, knees, ankles, waist, and neck. She also wasn’t allowed to make the bells ring. She had instructed him to think of them like sleeping fairies that will eat your flesh if you wake them up.

         She said he would be ready for a mission to New Rome soon.

         Pax tried to focus on that and his anger at Axel for leaving, instead of how seamlessly she removed the ribbons from his ankles.

Each segment of bells was attached to the one above—the ankles to the knees and the knees to the waist, so none would slip down. The wrist ones were attached to the elbow and then to the one around his neck. Because no one else could see them during their exercises, they had taken to tying them under Pax’s clothing.

         To put them on or take them off, Pax had to stand in his underwear, alone (other than Mercedes) in the room that she had been allotted to train her spies.

         He swallowed, trying not to notice how pretty her Mediterranean skin tone looked against her olive hijab.

         “As you should,” she said, delicately setting his ankle bells into a small wooden box without the slightest ring.

         Pax blinked, his mind scrambling to remember what he’d just said to her. Right. Axel wanted Pax to stay while Axel went off on some secret mission of awesome—as if Pax couldn’t figure out where his brother was going.

         “How am I supposed to train a proper spy if he can’t work under the duress of a quick response?” she said. Her dark, humorous eyes flicked up to him as she collected the bells from his knees and hips.

         Pax wanted to pout at her. Instead, he glanced up at the ceiling, struggling not to think of her eyes and hoping the only thing rising in him was a blush. He tried to think of things that would keep his head cool—like seeing Morpheus disco. That could kill any engine. Someone needed to remind the gods that disco died decades ago.

         “He acts like I should want to stay,” Pax mumbled.

         “As you should,” Mercedes said, setting the next four bells into the box without a sound. “You’re the inner softness to his hard shell. If something were to happen to you, he’d be coarse and hollow.”

         This was a topic that Pax tried to ignore. It was something both Mercedes and Chris had mentioned, around the same time they began to avoid being alone with Axel.

The Pax brothers had both been terrified Axel would be called back for another cage match. The cruise ship still buzzed about his battle against Praetor Julian.

He had been.

         Pax hadn’t been allowed to go to the next one. Axel forbade it. Pax had been locked in Alabaster’s laboratory while the Witch Boy watched him kick, scream, and sob at the door. Axel could have died without Pax getting a chance to say goodbye or getting a chance to save him. No matter how many times Lou Ellen tried to distract him with magical vials or Alabaster pointed out he’d be more of distraction if he were there, Pax had shrieked.

         Since then, everyone referred to Axel as a natural born killer. As if it was a good thing. As if he had no remorse about whatever demigod he’d had to murder on stage. They didn’t know Axel’s nightmares had gotten worse. They didn’t see how he carefully shined Julian’s medals and polished the new charm bracelet, muttering prayers in Mayan that their souls should safely make it to their afterlife.

         “I’m surprised Luke thinks he can sneak Jack out too,” Mercedes said absently as she untied the bells from Pax’s wrist.

         Pax wanted to be happy for the change of subject. Instead, he jumped, making his neck bell jingle. “What?!”

         Mercedes gave him a smirk.

         Pax whined. Once he proved he could move around soundlessly with the bells, they had a running bet. Whichever of them jingled in their training owed the other a favor. Pax owed Mercedes a lot of favors.

         She set to undoing his elbow bells. “Didn’t you notice that Luke was suddenly concerned about having backup mediators for Jack’s monster meditation classes and other nonsense, ‘in case he got sick,’ even though Jack can’t physically become ill with his power? And how Jack complained that some of his clothing has gone missing—specifically stuff he might use for travel? And how Flynn is shockingly overbooked this week?”

         Pax stared at Mercedes as she removed his shoulder bells. “You’re good,” he said.

         “I strive to have my spy worthiness validated by a munchin,” she said.

         Pax sighed dreamily. “I hope I can talk like you and Alabaster when I grow up. Maybe I’ll absorb it off of you, assuming neither of you starting chasing me out of your wings, although I’m pretty sure Alabaster already wants nothing to do with me.”

         Pax liked to think he had two wings of the ship to enjoy and two wings to carry him: one, Alabaster’s laboratory; the other, Mercedes’ spy barracks. As far as he could see, Alabaster tolerated him on his good days. On his bad days, he chased him out of the lab.

         “Maybe Alabaster and I share something in common. His mistress is his lab. Mine is the spymaster unit. It just takes a little parasite to shake our focus.” Mercedes stood up. The last bell was around his neck. She folded her arms, tilted her head, then reached out a hand and flicked his bell.

         The metal rang.

         Pax swallowed. If it were anyone other than Mercedes, he would have thought she was flirting with him.

         “Now, the favor owing is negated for today,” she said, her face businesslike. “I do this in exchange for you not being stupid and running after Pax One.”

         “That sounds like you’re calling in another favor,” Pax complained, trying to spot how she pinned her head covering. She tucked the pins so well.

         Pax was in the process of making Mercedes a fancy, brown headscarf with pink and yellow embroidery along the edges. As Pax had never embroidered before, and had to sneak a hijab from their spymaster so he could get the proper size, the process had been slow going, much slower than when he’d made Flynn hair sticks with little pandas attached to them. (He didn’t find out until later that she hated pandas. Who would have thought a girl from China could hate pandas? She still wore them sometimes, so he was skeptical when Jack slipped up about that information.)[1]

         Pax hoped Mercedes would wear the headscarf. She always wore simple, plain clothing, no makeup, and no jewelry. What if she didn’t like something ornate?

         Mercedes’ dark eyes felt like they were burning into his soul. “Fine. Use it as a favor, Pax Two. I don’t mind being down two out of a hundred.”

         “It’s not at one hundred!” Pax cried, hoping she wouldn’t notice how he dodged the agreement. There was no way he was about to let Axel rush off on some secret, dangerous mission that only involved Luke and Jack. What if he got in trouble? Or met a hot chick and Pax didn’t get to see the blossoming of their romance? He’d miss months of potential teasing!

         Her gaze narrowed. “I mean it Pax Two. They’re going somewhere you shouldn’t follow.”

         Pax tried to give her a charming smile. Mercedes should know better. Those were the epic words used to warn someone away from an awesome quest. Pax was okay with doing an awesome quest, especially if it meant helping out his brother. Or annoying him. That would also work. He just needed some company questers.

 Author’s Note: Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed! This is Part I of a Ten Parter about Pax not... thinking things through... So, just a short story of the essence of Pax XD (All shorter chapters and fairly light hearted) Anyway, this entire story hasn’t been betaread, so I hope there aren’t too many mistakes! (I didn’t want to bother my friends with it >.<) I hope you guys are having an awesome weekend!

 [1] As you may have noticed: tiny Pax? Struggles with stereotypes. Older Pax? Struggles with nudity—okay wait. That doesn’t change. Well, at least he unlearns one bad habit.

[mobius-prime]

87. Sonic the Hedgehog #55

Monkey Madness

Writer/Pencils: Frank Strom Colors: Karl Bollers

This issue's intro page gives us a small amount of backstory on Julian Robotnik - apparently, before he ever became Warlord, he experimented with cyborg technology, but finding that he couldn’t control his creations, gave up on them and moved on. However, apparently one of his creations still lives on today…

After the alert they received last issue, Sally, Sonic and Antoine are out to investigate what the Eggbots are up to. Despite Antoine begging for some rest as he can't keep up with Sonic's speed, Sonic rushes on ahead anyway, something which Sally admonishes him for until they hush up, noticing the Eggbots digging ahead.

Antoine manages to catch up, and as he and Sonic discuss what the Eggbots might be digging for, Sally follows a signal that Nicole is picking up to a nearby mechanical crypt, which she opens, only to find a person within.

Despite looking entirely organic, this guy is apparently mostly made of cyborg parts. He's been trapped within the pod for ten years, but now that he's free, he's immediately ready to take his revenge on the world! While this is happening, the Eggbots have managed to dig up a powerful ring to Snively's dismay, as he was hoping they were tracking down Ixis Naugus' energy signature, but he doesn't have long to be angry as the ring flies toward Monkey Khan instead.

Oh boy, I can see we're dealing with a real doozy here. Monkey Khan, now emboldened by his freedom, proceeds to wreck house amongst the Eggbots, which infuriates Snively as he watches from his cell in the Devil's Gulag. Sonic, seeing only Monkey Khan's destructive nature, immediately attacks him despite Sally yelling for him not to, and Monkey Khan becomes so enraptured by Sally's beauty that he forgets to care that he just got smacked in the face at high speeds by a living spiked mace ball.

Sonic and Antoine attempt to rush after them as Monkey Khan literally just flies away on a cloud with Sally in tow, but a second Eggbot ambush stops them in their tracks. Antoine and Sonic begin fighting for their lives beside the chasm that the first Eggbots dug to find the ring, arguing with each other all the while about whether Sonic is capable of solving problems with his words instead of with his fists. Meanwhile, Sally irritably pokes fun at Monkey Khan as he attempts to woo her with the charm of a "king of the jungle type," noting that if he spent his power on doing good instead of boosting his own ego he could really make a difference. As this is going on, Antoine and Sonic have been cornered against the chasm, and note that they finally managed to work together for once, hoping for a rescue…

Sally has managed to persuade Monkey Khan to not be a douche after all, and now he's happily decided to become allies with Sonic and co. But first, he decides he needs a long vacation after his decade of imprisonment, and flies off into the sunset on his weird magic cloud thing. Uh… okay buddy! Some real strong character development you got here!

Rise of the Robians!

Writer/Colors: Karl Bollers Pencils: Andy Underwood and Edwards Artistic Studios

The racial tensions between the Mobians and their roboticized brethren, now being referred to as Robians, are beginning to get worse. A scared Robian turkey has been cornered against a wall by an angry Mobian mob, finding herself accused of treason for being found near Robotnik's old lab, until a blinding flash distracts everyone for a moment.

Chuck confronts everyone over their hysteria, and they all agree to take it to Sally for judgment on the matter. However, when they get there and explain the situation, Geoffrey informs them that Sally is currently out. King Acorn then appears and insists that despite his condition, he's still able to pass judgment, and has in fact heard the whole matter already. And so, he gives his verdict…

*sigh*

I know I've said this many times before, but this is why absolute monarchy is a bad idea, guys! Doubly so when the ruling monarch is extremely sick and clearly not in his right mind! Even the normally unfailingly loyal Geoffrey has his misgivings, and attempts to interrupt him to ask him to reconsider, but the king rages at him and slams him aside with his scepter to everyone's shock. At that moment, Sally, Sonic, and Antoine walk in and are stunned by the scene that awaits them.

Exhausted by his outburst, the king collapses, prompting Sally to immediately shout for Dr. Quack to come and look after him. However, to compound matters, the crew then immediately gets a message from Knuckles, citing trouble on the Floating Island and asking for their help. I guess it's time to see what Knuckles has been up to this entire time, eh?

[searchforthescars]

for the prompts: “i’m so sorry” and you can write for whoever you’re feeling the most ;)

hahahahaha so this took way too long and I’m so sorry BUT it’s almost 4k words so maybe that makes it better??

HERE BE QOAAD SPOILERS UNDER THE CUT

So basically after I read the Thule section of QOAAD I wanted to write something in which Livvy comes back to her family. Partially, it’s because it’s an angsty/heartbreaking/wonderful concept, and also because I wanted an excuse to examine Livvy’s trauma.

So here, enjoy. (:

Her family knows she’s coming. They’re prepared; in fact, Tessa says Julian is beside himself with excitement. Livia thinks she’s ready, too. The new Los Angeles Enclave is in Diana’s capable hands. Maia and Bat and all the rest of her council have practically begged her to leave.

Tessa tells Livia that the smart thing, the Blackthorn thing to do was to go. Looking back, that’s probably the thing that convinces her.

“You’re loyal,” Tessa says, brushing a stray hair from Livia’s cheek. “All Blackthorns are. You’re loyal and smart and strong, and you don’t know what to do when you aren’t needed.”

“I’m not,” Livia whispers. “Not anymore. Diana doesn’t need me, and neither do Bat or Raphael or-”

“I know,” Tessa says. “But your family does. Your loss tore a hole in them that nothing can repair. You know Julian wants you there. He invited you once and you said no because of duty. Because of loyalty. But now, I think it’s time.”

Livia nods. Tessa summons a Portal. As Livia steps forward, Tessa touches her shoulder, right above her tattoo.

“I hope there is a day when you no longer feel the need to wear this,” she says sadly.

Livia forces a smile, a tiny close-lipped thing. “Me too.”

Her eyes sweep the sea, the sand, the caves. She thinks of Cameron, his body walled inside the Silent City. She thinks of Rafael and Diana and Maia and all the others that have loved her fiercely, trusted her willingly. She thinks of the scorches in the marble and concrete of the Grove where a body once burned. She thinks of executions. She thinks of victories.

“Go,” Tessa says clearly. “Go, Livia Blackthorn.”

Livia steps forward. The last thing she sees before the Portal closes around her is the sun rising over the horizon of the new Los Angeles.

The first thing she sees when she opens her eyes is a very worried Emma hovering over her."You're lucky I didn’t sit up," Livia says, picturing their foreheads smacking together.Her voice sounds rough to her own ears. She was trying for a dry tone, but her voice just sounds...empty.

Emma winces and leans back, allowing Livia to sit up. “You should take it easy,” Emma says nervously. “You ended up on the beach, probably a little dehydrated.”

“I’m fine,” Livia groans. Her head pounds, but she sits up anyway, swinging her legs over the side of the infirmary bed and taking in a room she hasn't seen properly in almost ten years.

She can't make herself think about the Institute or her family or the fact that she is now in a world in which she doesn't truly belong. The immensity of it will crush her. So she looks up at Emma and asks the only question that makes sense in that moment.

"Where is my family?"

In Emma's defense, she did warn Livia that barging into Julian's attic-turned-studio would give him a heart attack. In Livia's defense, she wanted to see her big brother again.

“Julian?” she calls from one side of the door. On the other side, she hears a thump and a crash. “Jules? It’s-”

The door flies open. Julian tosses a paintbrush aside and stares at her.

“You have paint on your forehead,” she tells him after a moment, trying to be normal. Trying to be okay.

“Livvy,” Julian breathes, reaching for her, wrapping her in a hug. Like she did in her office, Livia leans her forehead against his shoulder, breathing in the smell of turpentine and paint, cloves and mint.

“It’s okay,” Julian murmurs. Livia’s heart clenches. Is it? “You’re okay now, baby girl. It’s okay.”

She lets him hold her and pretends not to notice when he cries. She wonders, distantly, if she should feel guilty for the dryness of her eyes.

The most gratifying reunion thus far is when Drusilla barrels into the kitchen, grabs a water bottle from the fridge and completely blows past Livia.

“Wait!” she hears Dru shout from outside. “HOLY SHIT!”

“Language, Drusilla!” Julian scolds from near the sink, but he’s smiling as Dru races back into the kitchen, nearly tripping over a chair, and wraps Livia into a crushing hug.

“Are you real?” Dru asks her sister, voice thick with tears. “Are you staying?”

Livia nods, reaching up - up? When did Dru get so tall? - to stroke her sister’s hair. “I’m staying.”

Dru pulls back. Her eyes immediately go to the scar running across Livia’s face. A sudden memory jolts Livia: their mother, standing in the kitchen, her eyes immediately fixating on any flaw in a shirt, a face, a painting.

“You look so much like Mom,” Livia whispers.

Dru reaches out to touch Livia’s cheek. “You look so much like yourself.” She taps the scar. “Except this. How did you get this? It’s so badass!”

“Language,” Julian chides again, giving the pasta on the stove a jab with a fork.

Dru rolls her eyes. “Jules, I’ve heard you and Emma in your room. You use way worse, and way more explicit language.”

Julian groans and mutters something under his breath. Livia can’t help but laugh.

“Come see me soon?” Dru asks. “We have so much to talk about.”

Livia nods. “Whenever you want.”

In retrospect, Livia should have asked Julian why he was cooking. She also should have changed clothes into something this dimension’s Livia would wear. But instead, she wanders the Institute that feels like a stranger’s home, and makes a mental list.

What I Know:

She finds the room that belonged to another version of her without any trouble. It’s right across from Ty’s, the only door with dust on the knob. There are pen marks on the doorframe: her height, and Ty’s, marked out year by year, stopping at age 15.

Livia touches her name. It’s not her given name, but a nickname she hasn’t heard in years. She adds to her list: Everyone called this Livia ‘Livvy’

She opens the closet. It’s modestly full of dresses, long sweaters, shapeless shirts and many, many sets of gear. She can’t imagine wearing any of the dresses. She pulls one from the closet - a green sleeveless dress with a short chiffon skirt and a low back - and laughs to herself. The other Livia liked dresses and gear.

She wanders over to the desk. It’s neat, like her desk at the Bradbury, only with more books: Sherlock Holmes, advanced calculus, computer science and programming.

Something in the back of her mind itches. She reaches for the calculus book and flips it open, batting away the dust that rises up from the pages. The numbers are familiar, but the problems are foreign.

This Livia was smart.

She sits down. The desk chair creaks. Someone other than her must have sat here; the seat is too high. She lowers it until her feet touch the floor.

“You’re shorter than you were here.”

Livia whips around to the door. Emma leans against the doorframe, body language easy, eyes hard. “Sorry,” she says, lifting her hands. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

Livia shrugs. “It’s okay.” She looks down at her hands. Did the other Livia have these scars? “It makes sense. During our formative years, we were malnourished.”

Emma raises an eyebrow. “‘Our’?”

Livia feels herself flinch internally. Emma sighs. “You did that here, too,” she says, almost wistfully. “Talked about yourselves as if you were a unit.”

“We were,” Livia says, almost defensively. Two factions of emotion war within her. On one hand, she dislikes the implied denouncement of her relationship with her twin. On the other, it’s been so long since she’s talked about her family without the conversation surrounding their deaths.

Emma’s eyes go to the desk. “You know calculus?”

“I know math.” Livia cracks one of her knuckles. “I don’t know if I know this much of it, though.”

The corner of Emma’s mouth twitches. “I think you’ll figure it out.”

Livia doubts it, but she doesn’t say anything. Emma turns to leave, then looks back. “Livvy,” she says, her voice impossibly soft. “Don’t worry about trying to fit into a mold of another person. Just be you.”

“I’m not-” Livia chokes on the lump rising in her throat. She swallows, tries again. “I’m not what- who you lost. I want to be. I don’t want to cause anyone any more pain. But I can’t pretend forever. And I don’t know what you want from me.”

Emma twists the ring on her left hand around her finger. Livia sees the thorns emblazoned on the silver band and tries not to smile. “At your core, you are the girl we lost. I know it doesn’t seem like it, but take it from someone who knew you since the day you were born, you are.”

“How?” Livia asks dubiously.

Emma thinks for a moment. “After Julian hugged you in Thule, you touched his face. You patted it, as if the shape of his features comforted you. You’ve been doing that since you were a little girl.”

Livia sniffs, once. Emma strides forward to wrap Livia in a hug, her head against the older girl’s chest. It’s a little awkward with the chair between them, but welcome in a strange way.

“The way you talk is the same,” Emma continues, her chin resting atop Livia’s head. “You stand the same way, too. And there’s a very specific way you say your twin’s name that no one could hope to replicate, even if they tried.”

She pulls back, kneels before Livia, and takes her face in her hands. The Blackthorn family ring is cold against Livia’s cheek. After a moment, Emma takes her hand away, pulls off the ring, and hands it to Livia. “Here.”

Livia shakes her head. “That’s- that’s yours. From Julian. I can’t-”

Emma presses it into her palm. “I’ll get another one.” She smiles. “Julian would want you to have it.”

“What do I want?” Julian asks from the hall. Livia holds up the ring. Julian grins. “Yeah. You’re right. Put it on, Livs.”

Livia does. It’s a strangely familiar weight on her hand. Emma kisses her forehead, and she and Julian leave her be.

Livia turns to the desk, to the book full of pencil markings. On instinct, she opens the top left-hand desk drawer, where her desk in the Bradbury held paper and pens.

There, rattling in the desk, are pencils. And, beside them, a notebook full of blank pages.

Despite herself, Livia smiles.

She’s mid-way through her twentieth problem when Octavian barges into the room. “Livvy!” he shouts, flying at her, hugging her tightly. “I missed you! I missed you!”

“I missed you too,” Livia murmurs, rubbing Tavvy’s back. He’s small for a ten-year-old; she can feel his ribs and spine against her palm. “Where have you been all day?”

“I went to the beach with Mark and Tina and Ty,” he says. He pulls away and reaches into his pocket, presenting her with a near-perfect sand dollar. “Look!”

Livia feels her heart start to race at the mention of her twin’s name. She pushes her emotions aside and takes the sand dollar in her hand. “It’s beautiful, Tavvy.”

“You can keep it,” he says, earnest. “Mark says they bring good luck.”

“You need good luck, it seems,” Mark says, entering the room without so much as a hello. He sits on the edge of her bed and winces. “I forget how hard you like your mattresses.”

Livia laughs. “Hi, Mark.”

He smiles at her. “We’ll talk later,” he murmurs as Tavvy continues to chatter about the ocean and seashells and a seagull that took it upon itself to chase Cristina Rosales halfway down the beach.

When Tavvy takes a breath, Mark interjects. “Weren’t you sent here to tell Livia something?”

“Oh, yeah.” Tavvy grabs her hand. “Can you come to the library? We want to surprise Ty.”

“Surprise Ty?” Livia repeats, looking over at Mark for confirmation. “He doesn’t usually like surprises, Tavvy.”

“We figured if we told him, he’d bolt,” Dru says, poking her head into the room. “Come on. He’s getting suspicious.”

Wordlessly, Livia follows her siblings down to the library. She schools her features into the blank expression of calm she perfected over years of leadership, but inside, she’s quaking. She can feel her hands shaking at her sides. Her arms are slowly going numb. Her heart is racing, and she can feel her breath quickening.

She’s nervous, she supposes. And terrified. What if he doesn’t want me? What if he hates me?

“He won’t hate you,” Mark says, as if reading her thoughts. When they reach the library, he hangs back with her. “As surely as I know the sun rises in the east, I know that Tiberius could never hate you.”

Livia looks up at him. “Why are you talking like that?”

Mark laughs. “It’s a long story.” Livia opens her mouth, and Mark shushes her. “No, Livvy.” He pushes the door open. “You have to go in.”

So she does. Ty is leaning over a table, studying something in a thin, black notebook. “The shadow needs to be darker,” he’s telling Julian, who crosses his arms and leans against a bookshelf.

“Now you’re giving me artistic advice?” he asks, bemused.

Ty stands up straight. Livia feels her eyes widen in shock. He’s tall. He’s grown up. He’s practically a man now. “You asked for my opinion, Julian.”

Julian smiles, his eyes on Livia’s. “That I did.”

“What are you looking at?” Ty asks, turning. The moment his eyes meet her’s, Livia wants to bolt.

I can’t do this, she thinks, mouth dry. I can’t I can’t I can’t I can’t.

You have to, she tells herself sternly. Her resolve - the same resolve she had when she stood on a cliff’s edge, prepared to blow her brother’s head off with a shotgun - strengthens. You have to.

The twins regard one another from across the library. Ty's hands flutter at his sides, then go still.

"Livvy?"

Livia opens her mouth to speak, but no sound comes out. So she nods. Yes, it's me. Yes, I'm here.

Ty strides forward until they're an arm's length from one another. His eyes trace the scar on her face. She can see the conflict in his eyes, a push and pull he can’t resolve. A part of her is relieved. She can still read him. On some tiny level, she still knows him.

Behind Ty, Julian watches them. Livia can see the fear in his eyes, the silent prayer that Ty won't push her away.

She wouldn't blame Ty if he did. She's a transplant, after all; it would make sense for him to reject her like mundane bodies reject a foreign heart or lung or limb.

She looks down at Ty’s hands, now barely shaking. They look strong. They’re climber’s hands, she realizes, and then she has to tamp down the rising memories of knives and demons, water and blood.

Ty links his pinky with hers. She looks up sharply, physically jolting at the sensation, then nearly yelps when Ty pulls her to him, wrapping her in a tight one-armed hug.

“Livvy,” he says again, voice rough. Tentatively, she wraps her free arm around his waist, her upper arm still pinned by his. “Livia.”

"I'm sorry," she gasps against his shoulder. It’s all she can say. He trembles against her, the hand now holding hers spasming. "I'm so sorry, Ty."

He lifts their connected hands and places her other arm over his shoulder. He buries his face in her neck. She can feel the tears on his cheeks.

“Hold me,” he mutters. “Livvy, please.”

She does. She squeezes him tight and tight and tighter, until they may as well be the same person. He responds in kind, tangling his fingers in her hair, smoothing his hand up and down her back.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers again when he pulls away. “I’m so sorry.”

Ty studies her face. Carefully, he touches a hand to the scar on her cheek. “You didn’t cry,” he says. “Why aren’t you crying? There are tears in your eyes.”

Livia shakes her head. “I don’t deserve to cry,” she says. “I left you. Not the other way around.”

“I left you in your world,” Ty counters. Despite herself, Livia flinches. “And clearly it bothers you.”

“You have no idea,” Livia whispers.

“Actually,” Ty says softly, the saddest smile crossing his face, “I do.”

She does cry, eventually. After Ty disentangles himself from her to get something from his room and Julian sees himself out, she sinks to her knees on the library floor and wraps her arms around her torso. It’s cold comfort, but it’s all she can do to keep herself together.

She remembers the last time she did this. It was when she lost Dru, the last of her family. She collapsed on the office floor and wrapped her arms around herself, digging her fingers into the spaces between her ribcage as if she could break her own heart via her lungs.

Cameron had found her then. He sat with her, his hand on her back, and let her cry ugly, heaving sobs until her energy was spent. She hasn’t cried since. Not until now.

Before she even registers the tears, they’re falling, one after the other until she’s sobbing, biting on her fist to keep from making noise, twisting her shirt in her fingers to stop herself from shaking.

I’m sorry, she thinks, although about what, or to whom, she’s not sure. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

“Don’t be sorry,” she hears Ty say, and she knows she shouldn’t be speaking aloud, knows she should stop, knows she should pull it together for him, but all she can do is reach up for him and pull him down to sit beside her.

“Livvy,” Ty sighs, guiding her head to lean on his shoulder, wiping her tears with a soft hand. “It’s okay, Livvy. You’re home now. You’re safe. No one’s going to hurt you again.”

“They didn’t hurt me,” she gasps. “That’s the point. Everyone else hurt. Everyone else died.” Her voice rises in a heartbroken howl. “And I got to live! It’s not fair!”

Ty is silent for a moment. Then, “I wrote you something.”

Livia lifts her head. “What?” She dashes tears from her cheeks.

Ty holds up an envelope. “I got your letter. But it burned when-” he cuts himself off, color rising to his cheeks. “But I thought...if someone ever went back to Thule, maybe I could reach you.” He places the envelope on the floor in front of her. “You don’t have to read it now. But I wanted you to have it.”

Livia dries her tears. “Thank you,” she whispers. “For everything.”

Ty shakes his head. “I didn’t do anything.” He locks his pinky with hers. “You saved yourself. Here, you saved Julian. And now you’re back, and I’m never letting you out of my sight again.”

It takes her a moment to realize he’s teasing. When she does, she smiles.

“I was wrong,” he says softly, standing up and offering her a hand. She takes it; he easily pulls her to her feet. “When Julian first told me about you, I was wrong.”

Livia frowns. “About what?”

Ty bends down to pick up the letter. He extends it to her, and she takes it. “You are my Livvy.”

In the middle of the night, Livia wakes up.

She may have had a nightmare; she’s not sure, since she can’t remember whatever dream pulled her from sleep to waking, but, in any case, she’s up now. So she turns on the light, smiling fondly when she sees Ty curled up, asleep on her floor, and reaches for his letter.

Livvy,

When Julian told me about you, I told him you weren’t my Livvy. I believed that, too, up until now. Now, upon further reflection, I think you might be. Everything Julian told me makes sense now. Of course you would have started a rebellion. Of course you would have kept us together. Of course you’re leading the survivors of the Dark War. I wouldn’t expect anything else from you, honestly. You’re a warrior, Livvy. It’s what you do. You protect people from the things that hurt them. You protected me from the world. You protected me from myself.

I’m sorry I didn’t see it sooner. In this world, you wanted to be parabatai, and I said no. I told you I would always protect you and stand with you anyway; why did we need a pair of runes and an oath? Now, I wish I hadn’t. I held you back, and I didn’t protect you when you needed it most. Logically, I know I was too far away to save you, but you have to know that I would have died for you.

I wish I could have died with you. It isn’t fair that you’re gone and I’m here. It isn’t fair that I’m gone in your world, either. At least here, I have my family. There, you’re all alone.

Maybe there’s a dimension where we’re together. I hope so. I miss you, Livvy. More than anything. I wish the version of you reading this could tell me how long it takes for the world to right itself under the twinless twin’s feet. Because I think my world will always be off-axis.

There’s nothing if you aren’t here.

I love you, Livvy.

-Ty

“You finally get to read it.”

“What the hell?” Livia hisses, lurching back against the headboard. In front of her, at the foot of the bed, hovers a ghostly visage: a younger version of herself with longer hair and an unblemished face in a long white dress. “You’re-”

“I’m you,” Ghost Livia says. She smiles softly. “This is kind of cool, actually.” She cocks her head to the side, seemingly studying Livia’s face. “I’m badass in your dimension, huh?” She crosses her arms. “Let me guess, you hate the scar.”

“How is this-”

“Ty will tell you,” Ghost Livia says. “He’ll tell you everything.” Some unrecognizable emotion crosses her face. “I have to go now,” she says, a little mournfully. “Soul theory is a strange thing. You and I are tied somehow, just like Ty and I are bound. I don’t know all of how it works, but there’s enough of you in me, and me in you, where I can’t stay here.”

Livia nods. “It makes sense. Our timelines were the same at one point.”

Ghost Livia smiles down at Ty, still asleep on the floor. “I don’t have to tell you to take care of him. I know you will. Just…” she searches his face. “Don’t leave him again. We’re not meant to be separated.”

Livia nods. “I won’t. I swear.”

Ghost Livia sighs. She tilts her head up, as if looking at the sky. “Tell Ty I love him,” she says. “Tell him you love him too.”

As Livia watches, Ghost Livia disappears. Ty wakes up with a start, blinking as if adjusting to the light.

“She’s gone,” he says, emotionless.

Livia nods. “I’m sorry.”

Ty shakes his head, clambering up to sit beside her. “I’m not.” He leans into her, bumping her arm with his forehead like a cat until she lifts her arm to encircle his shoulders. “I have something much better.”

She kisses the top of his head and smooths down his messy hair. Her own voice echoes in her head. I kissed him. I told him I loved him.

“I love you, my Ty,” she whispers. When he doesn’t answer, she looks down and smiles when she sees he’s asleep. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

[douchebagbrainwaves]

PARTLY BECAUSE YOU DON'T NEED A BRILLIANT IDEA TO START A STARTUP THAN REALIZE IT

Their value is mainly as starting points: as questions for the people who had them to continue thinking about. And for programmers the paradox is even more pronounced: the language to learn, if you want to be running out of money.1 If even someone with the same qualifications who are both equally committed to the business, that's easy. Microsoft. You knew there would be.2 I wonder. You don't need or perhaps even want this quality in big companies, but you need it in a way that doesn't suck. And yet the grad students seem pretty smart. That's ok.3

Milton was going to visit Italy in the 1630s, Sir Henry Wootton, who had been ambassador to Venice, told him his motto should be i pensieri stretti & il viso sciolto.4 I suspect the only taboos that are more than taboos are the ones you never hear about: the company that would be the ideal place—that it would basically be Cambridge with good weather, it turns out you have to have at least one person willing and able to focus on one type of ambition. We felt like our role was to be impudent underdogs instead of corporate stuffed shirts, and that the weight of a few extra checks that might be easy for General Electric to bear are enough to prevent younger companies from being public at all. Like skirmishers in an ancient army, you want to go with Ron Conway and bet on people and those who prefer to bet on people. It would cost something to run, and it might be worth a hundred times as much.5 Some smart, nice guys turn out to be easier than I expected, and also did all the legal work of getting us set up as a company with a valuation any lower.6 We talked to a number of VCs, but eventually we ended up financing our startup entirely with angel money.7 If you believe everything you're supposed to when starting a company. Yes, because they give them more leverage over developers, who can more easily be replaced. There are very, very few who simply decide for themselves.

The English Reformation was at bottom a struggle for wealth and power, but it seems so foreign. When you get a couple million dollars from a VC firm, you tend to, because that's where smart people meet. The church knew this would set people thinking. It would cost something to run, and it came closer to killing us than any competitor ever did.8 That last test filters out surprisingly few people. It used to mean the control of vast human and material resources. Usually the claim is that you should be more careful about drawing conclusions based on what a few people think in our insular little Web 2.9

No one dared put on attitude around Robert, because he was obviously smarter than they were and yet had zero attitude himself. No doubt there are great technical tricks within Google, but the most important may be that once you have users to take care of. Because they're good guys and they're trying to help people can also help you with investors. But that assumption is often false, and this is the right way to search for components. At this stage, all most investors expect is a brief description of what you plan to do.10 It would be too easy for clients to fire them.11 Smile at everyone, and don't tell them what you're thinking. Could you describe the person as an animal? So parents are giving their kids an inaccurate idea of the language by not using them.

Usually there is something deeper wrong. So the acquirer is in fact getting worse performance at greater cost. When you offer x percent of your company for y dollars, you're implicitly claiming a certain value for the whole company. He says the main reason is that people like the idea of being mistaken. One of the founders might decide to split off and start another company, so I figured it had to be carefully planned.12 It's not a charity, but they weren't setting the terms of the debate then. Suppose it's 1998. Of course, if they have time machines in the future they'll probably have a separate note with a different cap for each investor.13 It's worth trying very, very few who simply decide for themselves.14 The trouble with lying is that you get a lot of people need to search for components, and before Octopart there was no good way to do that is to visit them.

In a field like physics, if we disagree with past generations it's because we're right and they're wrong. But can you think of one that had a massively popular product and still failed? It was as if I'd told him how much girls liked Barry Manilow in the mid 80s.15 That depends on how ambitious you feel.16 David Filo's title was Chief Yahoo, but he was proud that his unofficial title was Cheap Yahoo.17 If another map has the same mistake, that's very convincing evidence. Clearly you don't have to find startups. More generally, design your product to please users first, you leave a gap for competitors who do. Online dating is a valuable business now, and they're all trying not to use words like fuck and shit within baby's hearing, lest baby start using these words too. Morale is tremendously important to a startup is that you need someone mature and experienced, with a business background, may be overrated.18 But only about 10% of the total or $10,000 of seed money from our friend Julian. I realized it would probably have to figure out where to live by trial and error.19

Perl may look like a cartoon character swearing, but there are cases where it surpasses Python conceptually.20 Don't do what we did. Of the two versions, the one where you get a lot of data about how they work. What drives people to start startups is or should be looking at existing technology and thinking, don't these guys realize they should be doing x, y, and z?21 And pay especially close attention whenever an idea is being suppressed. How much stock should they get? Programmers like to make a winning product. There could be ten times more startups than there are, and that is exactly the spirit you want. There's a hack for being decisive when you're inexperienced: ratchet down the size of your investment till it's an amount you wouldn't care too much about losing. The reason Cambridge is the intellectual capital is not just that there's a concentration of smart people, but diluted by a much larger number of neanderthals in suits. They'd face some challenges if they wanted to make web apps work like desktop ones.

Notes

I could pick them, but the idea is the only cause of the year, they can grow the acquisition into what it means to be a lost cause to try to be a good plan for life in general we've done ok at fundraising, but that it's boring, we try to become dictator and intimidate the NBA into letting you write has a spam probabilty of.

What if a company tried to raise money? This is an acceptable excuse, but I call it ambient thought. Many more than determination to create a portal for x instead of themselves. So, can I make it easy.

Only in a rice cooker.

We wasted little time on a saturday, he wrote a hilarious but also the perfect life, the top 15 tokens, because there are few who can say they're not ready to invest more, and stonewall about the paperwork there, and b when she's nervous, she doesn't like getting attention in the US treat the poor worse than Japanese car companies have little do with the government, it could change what you're doing. But in most competitive sports, the world in which multiple independent buildings are gutted or demolished to be some number of restaurants that still require jackets for men. Particularly since economic inequality in the Baskin-Robbins.

It's worth taking extreme measures to avoid the topic. They bear no blame for any opinions expressed in it. Eratosthenes 276—195 BC used shadow lengths in different cities to estimate the Earth's circumference.

But it was cooked up, but what they made, but investors can get for free.

They look superficially like the one hand and the valuation of an investor? If the startup isn't getting market price.

William R.

There are successful women who don't aren't. The more people would treat you like a probabilistic spam filter, dick has a similar logic, one variant of compound bug where one bug happens to use some bad word multiple times.

Even though we made a bet: if he hadn't we probably would not change the number of customers you need to be about web-based applications. Everything is a function of two things: what ideas did European culture with Chinese: what ideas did European culture have in 1800 that Chinese culture didn't, they would implement it and creates a rationalization for doing so.

Is what we measure worth measuring? But this takes a startup idea is stone soup: you post a sign saying this is not pagerank commercialized. So if you're a YC startup you have a standard piece of casuistry for this point.

Deane, Phyllis, The First Two Hundred Years.

Anyone can broadcast a high product of some brilliant initial idea.

One new thing the company is like math's ne'er-do-well brother. The original edition contained a few old professors in Palo Alto, but they're not. Travel has the same attachment to their situation.

But although I started using it, whether you realize it till I started using it, and so effective that I'm skeptical whether economic inequality is not a remark about the same advantages from it. Html. But the change is a constant multiple of usage, so you'd find you couldn't do the equivalent thing for startups. 32.

Obviously, if the present, and mostly in less nerdy fields like finance and media. Those groups never have to put it this way that weren't visible in the 1960s, leaving the area around city hall a bleak wasteland, but I'm not talking here about academic talks, which is probably not far from the Dutch not to be in most competitive sports, the fact that the VC.

At YC.

It's unpleasant because the proportion of spam. One source of food. The French Laundry in Napa Valley.

Even as late as Newton's time it takes forever.

That's very cheap, 1/10 success rate is 10%, moving to Monaco would give you fifty times as much the better. In a startup with debt is a negotiation.

There are fairly high spam probability. Once again, I'd open our own startup Viaweb, and that there's more of it in action, there are only pretending to in order to attract workers. Though you should probably be the technology everyone was going to visit 20 different communities regularly. Html.