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secretlywritingstories · 4 months ago

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Wavering Hope | Xenoblade 3 one shot

Summary: “Well then… the answer’s simple,” he had said, except is it really?

Ouroboros have defeated Z and Moebius but now their worlds are due to split. Noah feels more keenly than ever why N made a choice to suspend the world in an endless now to keep the person he loved close. But he must still let go, even if it not so simple.

Tags: Canon compliant, set during the end scene, saving the world but hurting while doing it, found family

Word count: 2.2k

Spoilers for the end of the game and warnings of end scene emotions

Read below or on AO3

It is a strange thing to be so sure in your convictions only to waver at the very last moment.

It had felt like such a simple choice when he had been trapped in the void with Mio showing him N’s memories through what M had shared with her. It was clear to see where N had erred and how Noah would make a different choice this time. He was a different man now. This world had shaped him into something else. The mere existence of N and M and meeting them had already changed his trajectory from their story.

And yet…

When they had flowed out of him and Mio at the last-ditch effort to finally end Z and Moebius’ hold on the world, he had seen it in a new light. And the choice wasn’t so sparking simple anymore. They were both there and they had just wanted forever with each other. He could understand it now that he was standing on the threshold of a victory that meant that he would have to say goodbye to half of his world.

He had meant it when he said that he would have made the same horrendous choice that N had taken back then. If he hadn’t seen how it would have changed him to become Moebius and how he had trapped that Mio right alongside him, then he would have done it too. They were beings of regret at how everything had turned out, a type of sadness that was so all consuming that it was breaking.

Maybe it was because he’d carried N within him as they laid waste to Origin on the journey to the core. He wasn’t sure how Mio had endured weeks of this with M. To carry so many lifetimes in one little being.

He wanted to give the two of them a chance. His heart broke to see the motes rising from them. They had all lost so much and he knew that the path those two had chosen had been wrong, painted in despair and agony, and yet… he wanted to hope that there could be a future for them.

Or for him and Mio.

It was so difficult not to see himself and Mio in the echoes of their other versions. The same beings. The same Noah born, with the same inclinations even now. He wanted to keep them all safe and to give them a choice to do what they wanted with their lives. The world he had grown up in didn’t have choices like that. But would the future really be better?

The world that would be born from Ouroboros’ choice? It was a choice. A choice to recreate more choice, but still.

It was weighing heavy on his mind as they escaped Origin and came back to the ground. Grass under their feet, blue sky above. Two worlds in the sky soon to split.

And then the Queens saying that they could still take it back. If they acted now before the effect set in, they could undo all that they had done to get here.

It felt like it carved something open deep within his chest. Because the choice had been simple before. Go, go, go. Keep going. Make the right choice this time around. But he felt the pull to make the exact same choice as N had done.

No, stay. Please stay in this endless now.

He wasn’t sure he was ready to give up the Aionios that he had come to know in the last few months. It felt like the future being shaped right in front of his eyes. He had seen how much they had grown. How everyone had grown. Every single colony liberated was on the way to creating a new, free life. They were collaborating across Keves and Agnus lines. Making friends. Building a community. The City was opening their doors to people from the colonies and they were becoming a home for those who could not go elsewhere. Embracing them.

He was so proud of everyone; of all of the connections they had built. Mio had been keeping track in her journal, documenting their journey and the people who crossed their paths. It was almost full, reaching those marks at the back that she had stopped crossing out as a countdown to her Homecoming.

Lanz and Eunie made some crack about never wanting to become Moebius and Noah loved them. Loved how steadfast they could be when he wasn’t. Everyone had looked for him to be the leader of their team, but he had never been sure that he was the right man for the job. In fact, anyone could probably do it better than him. He was the one who made emotional and rash decisions, always throwing himself into the fray whenever anyone asked it of him.

They had touched so many lives while being Ouroboros and now, he was just meant to tear the world down the middle?

“Why are you wavering, Noah?”

The question jolted him out of his stupor. He tried to express that he was torn. Making a choice for the people. Even though that was what they had been fighting for this whole time. The path had already been paved. It should not be this difficult. He had cracked open Flame Clock after Flame Clock, knowing it would fundamentally alter the people’s lives. He hadn’t taken it lightly, but it also hadn’t felt like this type of hardship of a decision.

But did they have the right to choose when there were so many mingled desires?

Monica and Ghondor appeared, almost as called. As if the two stubborn women could tell that he was wavering. He admired them both greatly. They could have turned a blind eye to the troubles of the rest of Aionios and lived in their little protected bubble. Never to be revealed.

Instead, they had fought. Relentlessly too.

And then Mio. Mio who he had found time upon time again, reborn and reshaped yet always gravitating towards her. The centre upon which his world turned. Maybe he had even felt it back then, their first meeting this time around when their blades had first crossed. When they were just a Keves Off-Seer and an Agnian Off-Seer who were meant to kill each other.

Maybe they would have, if not for Ouroboros.

She was steadfast too. The one who would never have succumbed to slaughtering The City citizens for an endless now. Not like Noah would have done. No, not like he had done. N’s presence was gone now but it had left rivets within him. An echo of regret. Of fear of the unknown.

He should be better than this. He would be better than this. They had fought Z. The very concept of what he was now struggling with, and yet the claws would not quite rescind their hold.

“Noah, all of us here want the same thing,” Mio said, looking into his eyes like she knew where his head was at. Like maybe she’d make sure he did it right this time around. “This is how the future should be.”

And that was it, wasn’t it? She was right, of course. They had fought to get here with their whole beings. Lanz and Eunie had been right too, of course they would not want to turn into the very beings that they had been fighting. It would just keep the cycle. Keep the endless now.

It was not the future that any of them deserved. They were all right. Noah was endlessly thankful that he did not have to stand here alone. He was not sure he would have made it without them all.

Maybe that was the true lesson that he would take with him.

The truth in this life, he was about to be granted. He looked down at the back of his hand. Empty. The mark that he had lived with for over nine years, red slowly receding for grey, bleeding closer and closer to the centre and the end of his life. A countdown that no longer marked his skin or his life.

It would mark none of theirs any longer. Not in the future that would lay before them.

“Well then… the answer’s simple,” he said.

He wondered if he bore a smile like Joran or Crys, as he said it. The elusive meaning behind the smile as people embraced the change. When they had control of the narrative. It was the end but only of this world. The future would be waiting for them.

Still, he could barely bear it when they all had to say goodbye. When he got to kiss Mio for the first time. He had wanted to do so ever since he’d seen them in their past lives, sharing kisses and affection and love.

It felt like coming home.

They might not get a chance to get married here, but that didn’t make the love any less true. He was sure of this. Again, the urge to hold her, simply keep her in his arms forever, resurfaced and he understood N so well. The desire to freeze time so that she, Tarion, Sena and Manana wouldn’t have to go.

He would miss them like a lost limb. He could feel it already now.

He had said the choice was simple and perhaps, it was but it didn’t mean that it was painless. It felt almost as if he couldn’t breathe, moments slipping between his fingertips as time was running out for them.

He wanted to have hope that they would see each other again. This world had shown him that reconnection was possible. It would no longer be rebirth or even the same worlds, but just maybe. He wanted to grasp that hope, hold it tight and embody it yet again.

But his hope was wavering.

He really wished it wasn’t so, but he couldn’t change it. It might just be what being human meant. Mio had said that it was only natural to wish for forever and oh, how he wished for it now. They had built quite a good world out of the motes left behind.

But it was still just motes. They would eventually rise towards the sky. Under the conditions of Moebius’ world, nothing good could last. The worlds must be separated again, like intended. He should just be thankful for the time that he got to have with his friends.

If he was a greater man, perhaps he could have stood still as the worlds started to slip apart and separate them. Stand graciously and watch knowing that they had done the right thing and that it would all be okay.

If he was a lesser man, perhaps he would have recanted when he had the chance. Once more freeze the world in statis to keep the ones, he loved dear. He had done it before and he understood the temptation more than ever. To keep hold of this world he’d come to care for.

But he was neither. He was just a man.

Chasing forwards as fast as his legs could carry him, hoping for just one more touch before the world would be cleaved in two. But he wasn’t running alone. No, Mio was running. Taion was running. Eunie was running. Sena was running. Lanz was running. Manana was running. Riku was running.

Of course, they would. They were all cut from the same cloth.

It was a simple choice but also a hard one.

It made them want to chase down every last second that all of them were together. Running forward. They would move forward later, allow this to slip away, even though the pain, because it was the right choice. The only choice that they could have made that wouldn’t have left the world worse than when they’d found it.

He knew they could never reach each other, yet his feet kept running. Until the ground under their feet started to give away. Ending. It took everything in him to stop. To watch as their team was carved in two by the fates of their own design.

A promise to find each other again because surely, it must be possible. They had all been brought together for a reason. Z said that he was the one fighting the flow but he’d been wrong. He wasn’t fighting it, he was moving with it, even when everything else stood still.

He would have to find a way to reunite. It simply must be done.

His hope might be wavering but he had still made the choice despite it. They had been Ouroboros and they had been the hope for the future. A future that now lay before all of their feet. All of the lives that could be born into a world, where they would have choice and not simply be forced into an endless life of fighting to live.

Both the choices that would be simple and the ones that would not be.

#xenoblade 3 fic #noah/mio #my stories #pedia #xenoblade chronicles

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leori-the-unlearned · 2 years ago

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something i love about fanfic. specifically, the short, fluffy oneshots about a certain part of life close to the author, or beat in the show, expanded on.

and what i adore is the dozens and hundreds of takes on this one little moment, shared between those characters both once and those hundred times.

i’ve read a few toh fics about luz signing amity’s cast, after episode 17. they happen differently - sometimes, it is a casual thing, and all the fic does is cover luz asking for permission and going for it. sometimes, witches don’t sign casts, and it’s something entirely new for amity; luz introduces her to the concept and amity sits there, feeling the marker on her cast. sometimes witches do sign casts, but amity isn’t supposed to have ‘graffiti’ on her cast, it must be pristine; or she just hasn’t had friends who want to sign it before, that started with luz and regaining willow’s friendship.

luz writes different things in each fic. sometimes it’s just her name; oftentimes, her name alongside a doodle. a mini luz, or a mini palisman, or a mini owl house, or amity and luz together or azura or hecate or both.

a thousand ways for this moment to go, and they are all both true and not. it is an experience that never happened but was thought about and recorded by so many people.

and, just now, i found the second reason i love this sort of thing so much. i was reading a fic, about that time after the cast was on and before it was taken off, and there was one mundane line about amity glancing at her cast and seeing what luz wrote. and there, in that moment, i thought back to every fic about the signing i’d read before, all of the different ways it could have and has gone, and it became, a little bit, my story and both of theirs all at once. ‘missing chapters’ the show doesn’t cover, painstakingly and belovedly filled by fans to build more - and it came together, with one line about amity’s signed cast.

just… it felt like ‘luz signed amity’s cast and she is fond of looking at what was written’ had become fact, because it was so loved. it is true to us, and there is an ‘us’, look at everyone who wrote and read and expressed love for this idea of that moment between them; we, together, decided it was real (even if we have never met, and may never think of each other)

#the best part of fandom #isnt always that you agree #but that you find people you do agree with and share with them #and i’m still stuck on the poetry of a moment shared a thousand times a thousand different ways #a love recreated forever and ever through endless stories #a love crafted between those two again and again universes over because [of course]/[could you imagine anything different?]/[we love them]#leori words

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after-witch · 4 years ago

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The Pain Sweeps Through [Yandere Jareth x Reader]

Title: The Pain Sweeps Through [Yandere Jareth x Reader]

Synopsis:

You’re not the first one he’s brought into the Goblin King’s Labyrinth. You’re not the first one to best him, to get to the center and beat him at his own game. But you are the first one to beat him and give in: “Fear me, love me, do as I say and I will be your slave.” What happens when the magic fades, and you’re left with is the muddled consequences of your decision?

Word Count: 2550

Notes: yandere, kidnapped, drugging, mentions of noncon

You hate the ballroom. You hate the gowns and the glitter and the music. You hate all of it.

How long have you been here? Time is fuzzy and of no consequence here, and the clock--you’ve planted yourself in front of it, staring--never behaves as it should. The novelty of the whites and golds and pinks of the ballroom, of the swirling dancers and their impossibly endless stamina, has long worn off. Well before this particular peach, well before this particular ball, spinning and swirling together like rainwater down a drain.

The gown that you once admired, that once had you blushing and twirling in its beauty and delicacy and shimmering glitter, weighs your shoulders down. The delicate glass-like heels refuse to budge from your feet, though no one will ever dance with you--a grin and a laugh is all you got, when you dared to ask--but they still feel sore from your wandering, your half-hearted spinning and attempts to lose yourself in the dream, all the same.

Everything, everything is sore. Your body and your head and your heart. The room feels fuzzy, not unlike the skin of a peach. Fuzzy and unreal and disorienting. And you’re so, so lonely.

The people here are dreamlike and blurry, talking amongst each other in giggling whispers, which is the most you’ve gotten out of them. Laughter. Do they mock you? Or are they trapped in some fugue-like state, unable to do anything but drink and dance and laugh?

Perhaps you’re not the only one here who has bitten peaches.

The clock in the corner strikes, but when you glance at it, its hands are winding aimlessly. There Is no hour and you’ve been here forever, it seems, and you might be here forever still.

All you can do is wander, your glass heels clicking against the ballroom floor, dodging the dancers who swirl or gather to sip champagne that flows freely. Wander and think, because getting lost in the haze makes you terrified that you might become one of them, unable to do anything but laugh and dance and your feet will be even more sore.

Which is more sore, you wonder--your body or your heart?

It doesn’t hurt much, anymore, to try to think about your friends and family only to realize that their faces and voices and actions are foggy and lost. They are loose memories that you can never grasp tightly onto.

But the loneliness is something you can grasp, and often do, feeling it keenly and sharp in your stomach. You feel his absence keenly, too, in the wake of no better company--here or there or anywhere. When you’re in the castle or in this ballroom or trapped in another fantasy.

When you’re in the castle (you admit, you miss its stone walls and the open windows of his throne room and even your room, oppressive though it was) you are often left to your own devices while Jareth does what he does. The goblins are stupid, and only want to roughhouse with each other. You aren’t allowed outside of the castle, so any entertainment or companionship you might obtain with others--assuming they didn’t hate you, assuming Jareth hadn’t killed them or tossed them into some oubliette to rot forever after assisting you into the center--is impossible.

And so Jareth is the only one you can have a conversation with; the only one who isn’t half-there.

Not that you openly pine for his companionship, either.

What started out as a nervous acceptance of his offer, a buzzing in your head and body that reminded you of your first sips of champagne, had dulled down too swiftly. You were his queen, yes. He was your slave, perhaps. But to a point--to a point.

You remember the first time he led you to your chambers, a near replica of your bedroom at home, albeit with a few twists: such as a closet stuffed with the most sumptuous clothing you’d ever imagined, some of them literal recreations of gowns you’d drawn in your notebooks or pinned to your wall.

It was beautiful and too much and all for you. And then he’d kissed you goodnight so gallantly and you’d sat nervously on the end of your bed. But when you tried to leave, the door wouldn’t budge. It was stuck, fast. You knocked. No one answered. You walked backwards to your bed and crawled under the covers and thought, maybe, this was a dream, and when I wake up I will be at home.

You woke up in your room, with the sequins of ballgowns winking at you from the closet.

When the door swung open and he stood there, dressed more modestly than you’d seen him before, you inquired about the door; ever so quietly, politely, unsure, nervous and realizing with the clarity of sleep that he was a goblin king and you were just some nobody who had agreed to give up the world and family and friends and your sister, safe at home he said, but did he tell you the truth? And he threw his head back and laughed ignored your question.

He told you to pick a gown for breakfast. A gown at breakfast seemed an impossible choice and perhaps he read your mind because he took one out for you, a pale green gown with sparkling puffy sleeves, and you hoped you wouldn’t get food on them. Did it matter if you did? The realization of who you were and where you were seemed to hit you again and again.

But as you dressed and as he adorned your neck with an emerald necklace, you were feeling better, a little less nervous, a little more excited. Your dreams--here they were, laid out in front of you like a feast. You were in a castle, you had anything you wanted apparently at your fingertips. And a king to hand it to you, his touch both gentle and firm as he took your arm like a gentlemen and led you into the hall.

As your own door shut behind you, you caught sight of it: a heavy, gilded padlock on the outside of your door, the padlock that had kept you from budging it the night before. Your stomach dropped.

“Why is that there?” You’d asked, looking up at him. He smiled, and it was not exactly a nice smile, you realized.

“To keep my queen inside her chambers. What else are locks in castles for?”

Your cheeks felt heated, and you’d blurted out--oh the memory of it makes you feel stupid, now--”If I’m your queen, you can’t just lock me up in my room.”

He stopped. His arm around you tensed and it made your heart speed up.

“Can’t I?” It was all he said, practically murmuring as he looked down at you. Then he’d continued, and you stumbled for a moment before following him in silence.

You had no words to answer him.

Fear him, love him, obey him; the words on loop echoed in your head as he led you to a dining chamber, bustling with goblins who tripped over themselves carrying trays and goblets to and fro. You barely remember sitting at the ornate, carved chairs in front of a haphazard meal--how well could goblins cook?--or the way Jareth insisted on giving you cup after cup of wine.

You barely remember the way the day seemed to jump by, and after dinner your head felt heavy and then there was a bed underneath you, his bed, large and sumptuous. The smell of peaches was in the air and your dinner gown, pink and velvet and scented like roses, bunched up underneath you as he was above you.

The days after that were often blurry. You asked to take it back, you asked to go home. He refused and locked you in your room. You asked to just be let outside the castle, at least, and inquired about the friends you’d made in the labyrinth. He refused and locked you in your room. He fed you peaches. He sat by your bed, petting your hair as your head swum in dreams, waiting to pull you out whenever he deemed it suitable.

Ah.

You’re lost again, lost in memories, when you’re suddenly in someone's grip and spinning, your back instinctively leaning as you twirl.

“Did you miss me?”

It’s Jareth, of course. No one else would touch you. He’s wearing a suit made of embroidered purple velvet, and when you glance up you see that he’s chosen makeup to match. And glitter, of course, always glitter. You swear you can see it flying off him as you dance, as he sparkles as much as anything else in the room.

His grip on you is familiar and firm, and when he spins you around the weight of this dream-like room seems to lessen. Your shoulders feel lighter and the glass around your feet doesn’t feel like it might break and shatter into a million pieces.

Your mind aches to talk to him. To have a conversation with a person, not a laughing caricature. To hear him ask about your favorite books, ones you didn’t own, so he could procure them. To listen to him tell you about those who didn’t make it through the labyrinth--though you hated these stories, grim as they were, and he stopped telling them. To cross your arms nervously and murmur out your fantasies at his behest, things you’d always wanted to see or do; unicorns and fairies (though you’d seen them before the castle, and they bit you) and jousts (not quite as gallant, with goblins as the knights) and anything else your heart desired.

You might tell him this. You might tell him that you did miss him, because without him you’re a heavy, aimless dancer stuck in this room that you hate with people that don’t view you as human and are they people at all? You might tell him that you do appreciate what he’s done for you, the gifts and gowns and dreams, but that you wish he wasn’t so commanding towards you, wasn’t so demanding of you. You might tell him that his passion confused you and his kisses were too intense and you don’t understand why he wants you, why anyone wants you.

You might tell him, yes, I missed you, please take me out of here and take me with you.

You might tell him this.

Stubbornness wins out.

“No,” you say, ignoring the ache in your feet. “I was just bored.”

He chuckles, but he’s not amused.

“And here I thought you wanted to join me in the castle.” He releases you from his grip with a final flourish, and the endless dancers around you begin to push in, separating you two in their increasing mania.

“Well, if you didn’t miss me, I’ll let you get back to your ball.”

The music swells with his words, as he backs way, disappearing among the nameless throng of guests.

It might be weeks before he shows up again, and instantly, stubbornness loses.

“Wait!” You push against the moving wall of people, their tulles and sequins scratching your arm, their heels stepping on your toes. Someone laughs, a barking, harsh laugh.

Through sheer force of will, you reach him, grabbing the end of a velvet sleeve and gripping it tightly with your fingers.

“Please,” you beg. “Don’t leave me.”

You see the glimmer in his eyes, a ghost of a smile. You bite your lip. Words are important here. Words are contracts and wishes and pitfalls all in one. “No, wait. I mean. Take me with you.”

He dips low then, taking your hand and pressing it with a gentle kiss. Someone in the crowd lets out a saccharine sigh.

“Whatever you desire.”

When his lips meet your skin, the ballroom collapses and inverts and you wake up in your bed with a slamming force that has you sitting so quickly that your head swims. You reach out and grasp the headboard and wait for the world to stop falling, wait for the pain of gowns and glass slippers to stop sweeping through your bones.

When you stand, slowly and gently, a discarded peach rolls onto the floor.

Your stomach curls when you remember biting into it. What can you do, when you’re locked up in your room with nothing to eat but what shows up on a golden tray in the morning? You’re stubborn and disobey him, and he locks you up in a room. In your room, you can only eat what he sends you. And he sends a peach, so you must eat.

And his peach sends you to the worlds of your dreams, worlds of ballgowns and princesses, glitter and lace, soft music and oh-so-much-prettiness. You scoff at the you that you used to be. The you that accepted the invitation into the labyrinth and in the end, capsized under the temptation of fantasy being reality. Of being his queen.

Though it’s hard to feel like any queen, even the queen of goblins and labyrinths and bogs of eternal stench, locked in your room, still dizzy from a peach.

When the door opens, he’s wearing something new. A costume change, because as long as you’ve known him (how long? He refuses to say, and time of course, no longer has meaning) he can never resist wearing something new.

It’s a gold suit this time, glimmering and shining. The gold glitter above his eyes seems to dance as his hands open and a large golden gown drops onto your bed. You look down at it and your heart aches. How you would have loved such a gown, before. How you do still love it, and you can’t hide the way your fingers slide over the fabric, earning a pleased chuckle from Jareth.

“What’s the occasion?” You murmur, fingering the delicate golden lace at the fringe of the sleeves.

He lifts you up and tugs at your night gown, and you obediently raise your hands this time as he undresses you. Layers and layers first, then the shimmering gown. He pulls matching shoes out of nowhere and you slip them on, sighing a bit when they’re comfortable and soft and not made out of glass.

“I’ve ordered our subjects to put on a performance.” He smiles, and if it’s not a nice smile, you push the bitterness down. “To celebrate the return of their queen.”

You allow him to take you by the arm, and you keep your eyes straight ahead this time. The door shuts behind you and you refuse to look back at the padlock.

“I trust you will behave,” he tells you, not stopping in your progress down the hall.

You nod and grip his arm tighter. At least he’s real. At least he speaks to you. At least you’re in the castle.

Tonight, you hope, his bed chamber won’t smell like peaches.

#yandere jareth #jareth x reader #jareth goblin king #labyrinth #afterwitch writes

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zecretsanta · 3 years ago

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FIC: The Funyarinpa's Noel

To: @cheesy0nion

From: @erisofimladris

This is a treat for @cheesy0nion!

Santa was the best-known, of course.

When it came to Christmas figures, no one didn’t know Santa. Who could forget him when his face was plastered across every place on the whole planet to the point that she suspected the earth would grow a red hat and jolly beard every December?

And it had been getting worse in recent years. Hardly a November went by when she didn’t see his face everywhere, when she didn’t see her own face anywhere except in some doctor’s offices or on the backs of old, forgotten reports no one cared to read.

Unlike Santa, she didn’t have any followers. She would know if she did. She would hear their voices speak her name. She wondered, sometimes, how Santa could go through the winter months hearing his name so many times without his ears falling off. She was sometimes jealous and wished her ears would do the same, if only to avoid hearing the endless void of no one saying her name.

But Santa’s ears must have stayed on, for his legend rang out in every house in every land that she ever traveled to, and no one ever spoke of her.

It might have been that it was hard to capture her likeness in a form humans could create. How could they comprehend the precise way her nose wiggled when she got a good scent, the ratio of her eyes to her head, the way her eyes didn’t look like jolly balls of light but rather, like the emptiness of a dark sky with only a few stars too far apart to shed any light?

Someone had seen her, once. Gazed into the little dots in her eyes and tried to copy her shape. They knew no one would believe what they had seen, so they tried to recreate her in black and white, to show her image to those around them. But no one thought they were anything other than a fool. And while everyone guessed the craziest things, no one knew her.

She was no man, with a nose that ended so short and lips anyone would want to kiss under the mistletoe.

She was no butterfly, born to live such a short life that none would know or remember her. No, she was meant to endure forever, even if those who saw her only got the tiniest glimpse. Nor was she an actress, who could portray such a role if it was asked of her.

She was not a koi or a small boat floating in a lake. She was nothing other than herself.

Few knew of her. Her stories were not told the way Santa’s were, full of presents and joy. No one quite knew what she was meant to be, who made her, or why. She was just there. She was just Funyarinpa, her name as meaningless as her life.

She was prepared, as soon as Halloween ended, for the usual onslaught of Santa, to fade even further into the darkness until her beak could only pick up the slightest of smells of cinnamon-crusted Christmas dreams. She was prepared to live in obscurity, to get her only Christmas joy from the dreams she ate when food in the Field ran scarce.

But then, someone spoke her name.

It was the first of November. She was not doing anything at all. And someone spoke her name.

She could not recall the journey, for in her mind there was no time between the instant when she heard the word and when she appeared in the room, hovering by a golden door with an ornate pattern deep inside a warehouse in the middle of a desert.

Did she finally have a cult of her own? Santa didn’t have any cults that she knew of, but some of the other creatures had cults, and they would speak of it sometimes. Few beings dwelled in the Field to compare with, but she had seen enough of human culture that she knew some humans would pick a secluded place to worship something they could believe but not see.

There was silence after, as if speaking her name was enough to conjure her in her true form. She was unsure how to enter. Should she be bold, awe the humans until they fell to their knees in worship? Or simply watch and wait, siphon their brains for what they wanted and give it to them so they would love her?

“What the hell is a funyarinpa?”

Her ears rang again, this time from a woman in a dancing outfit, out of place among the others. Her nose twitched with displeasure and her ears burned with shame.

“What do you mean ‘what the hell is a funyarinpa?’ You mean…you don’t know?!” The same man who spoke her name the first time was pointing to a portrait. The one that had been drawn of her once by the person whose journey took them a little too close to madness, who saw her true form. Nose and all. Hanging in a frame like it was worthy.

“How the hell would I know?!” the woman yelled again. She wondered if the man was going to stand his ground, if she was going to defend him. In all the years, all the centuries beyond human comprehension, she never had a defender.

“How could you not know?!” he yelled back, then paused. “That’s… that’s practically blasphemous.”

He knew! He knew she was real! She twirled in the air as he knew she was real and there - but what was he going to do about it?

“Say you’re sorry! Apologize to the funyarinpa! Goodness, you are such a rude woman.”

If she had a heart, it might have stopped then from pure shock. She was not someone worthy of an apology to most. She was not someone at all, to most. But she was someone to this man who could not coordinate his clothing to match and smelled of sweat and fear and a strange dream of reuniting with a childhood friend as her nose snuffled in his hair.

The woman thought he was “screwing around.” She started to tell another story as if the portrait showed a dog and not her magnificent form. But the man knew. He looked back. He spoke her name. He was hers.

And yet, the place was not one of worship. It was a prison, and he escaped it with the others, his dreams lost and confused in the following nights and weeks. But then a letter came, a strange, unexpected letter that made him rush off in such a hurry that she followed him at the same pace, not caring that the world was lit with ornaments and Santa’s face loomed around every corner.

She followed her follower to an apartment with a view of city lights sparkling in the window. She slid through the wall and found herself in a chilly room next to a plate of cookies, where a hastily-wrapped box in the corner let out a small noise no one paid attention to.

“Open this one first, Junpei,” said a young woman with brown hair who had not been there when she first saw the portrait of herself on the false cabin wall. Strong in the Field, so strong that she was surprised the woman’s eyes darted past her instead of looking right at her.

Junpei - oh, how sweet his name sounded as she traced the shape of its letters with her nose - reached out to the colorful package. It was wrapped in bright green paper with a red bow, the job somewhat sloppy but it did not matter for long, as he quickly tore through the colorful paper.

She was certain he would hear the snort that came out unwittingly when she beheld the sweater.

It was meant for humans, sized for Junpei in particular. It was knitted, woolen and warm like so many Christmas presents. And yet, this one was different. This one was perfect. Black on the sleeves, with white patches leading to her own image, her portrait, and he let out a high-pitched sound that she never knew a grown human could make.

“It’s the funyarinpa!”

Her ears buzzed with the sound, sending a vibration through her body. She soared through the air, emerging partially into the floor of the apartment above before drifting back down. She would have tried to smell Junpei’s dream on the way, but it was clear that his dream in the moment had just come true.

“You’ve been playing the stock market for over a decade, and this is what you spend your money on?” said the white-haired young man from the warehouse, now wearing clothes to look like Santa. But if they believed in him, she wondered, why would they also be honoring her presence?

It didn’t matter. There had been nonbelievers last time too, and Junpei was undeterred. He lifted off the sweater he wore, bedecked with Christmas bells, and pulled the woolen image of her over his head. Rolled his shoulders, widened his face into a grin. The woman at his side laughed, and soon the white-haired man was laughing too.

There was no fire roaring on a log in a fireplace, no mistletoe hung from the ceiling. The tree was minimal at best, the group of people small. But they were honoring her. The one who had seen her had brought her joy to his compatriots.

And then the box in the corner let out another sound as an elderly dog paced around the corner, followed and pounced on by a puppy that looked like her portrait. Black and white, spots in the right places. The white-haired man was rolling his eyes so far she thought they might fall out of his head entirely, but the puppy and the sweater matched and the little dog curled up in Junpei’s arms just like it belonged there.

She was not a dog. But she knew that humans could never comprehend her fully, and in all the years she had been waiting for someone to enter the Field and see her, no one had ever tried. Finally, finally, someone tried.

No one knew she was there as she hovered near the cookies, watching the humans exchange more presents covered in shiny paper. A book, a gadget of some sort. She didn’t care. She already had everything she wanted.

Her name was spoken many more times throughout the night. Not even the puppy, unnamed and with eyes full of the newness of the world, could see her. But they knew her, and that made all the difference.

Santa was the best-known. He probably always would be. But now she had a follower, and her follower had a family, and for the first time, she was going to have a merry Christmas too.

#submission #zero escape #9 Hours 9 Persons 9 Doors #cheesy0nion #erisofimladris #zecret santa 2021 #2021 bonus treat

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woman-loving · 4 years ago

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A History of US Bear Subculture

Selection from “A Concise History of Self-Identifying Bears,” by Les Wright, published in The Bear Book: Readings in the History and Evolution of a Gay Male Subculture, edited by Les Wright, 1997.

Roots In his 1991 introduction to The Bear Cult: Photography by Chris Nelson,[1] Edward Lucie-Smith attributes iconographic sources of bears to the 1950s gladiator movies starring bodybuilder Steve Reeves. Gay “physique studios” of the time reflected the predominant fashion of closely shaven faces and bodies. “Old Reliable,” a Los Angeles-based photographer of homoerotic wrestling, specialized in “natural” men, soliciting hustlers, punks, ex-cons, and other truly “rough trade” types off the streets (from the 1950s-1990s) to pose for his camera. Old Reliable’s models were street-smart scrappers, perhaps shabby, perhaps defiant, unquestionably blue-collar, or lower, class. A fat cigar in one hand and the middle finger of the other hand thrust into the camera’s face is the signature pose for Old Reliable’s models. John Rechy’s novels, especially 1963 best-seller City of the Night, serve as a record of gay male engenderment of this particular type in the urban subcultures of the late 1950s and 1960s.

Another informant, living in the Miami, Florida area during the 1970s, reports that when he first started coming out into the bar scene in his mid-twenties he encountered a cluster of “bears” that congregated in the Tool Room, a back bar area of Warehouse VIII, a “disco place.”

“[i]n the meantime, some counter-culture tabloid I read occasionally ran a cryptic personal ad for a Bears party, which would gather at a men’s bar called The Ramrod on a particular evening and time, so I bit. Not knowing the bar’s whereabouts, then learning the address and trying to find the unmarked place in the downtown darkness, I was late but not too late. A dozen of so men with beards, most of them husky, were piling out of the bar door as I was walking in. Two of them grabbed me by each arm, and one said “Great! You’re the even number!” Now I was just in the first stages of coming out, even to myself, but I let myself get swept away (with an alarmed smile on my face). I thought I was headed for my first orgy (gay or straight), but it turned out to be a real party at a home on one of the causeway islands between Miami and Miami Beach. Real men having a hell of a good time without a woman in sight. Imagine!! We watched the second half of the Dolphins game, played some cards, then sat outside under the moonlight, slowly pairing off and disappearing back indoors or off into tropical hiding places behind the patio.

I was out. I started hanging out regularly at the Ramrod, where any bearded local was greeted as “Hey, Brother Bear!” I checked out The Rack, a leather saloon, but the bear camaraderie was not present. A few Rack regulars were good-looking, beefy, bearded guys, but their bikes and image were their focus, not the bears among them. The bears continued to patronize the Ramrod and the Tool Room, or a larger bar in Fort Lauderdale called Tacky’s, but could be found in lots of neighborhood bars, too, like The Hamlet and The Everglades. Not only did we refer to ourselves as bears, but the term caught on among non-bears too.

It was too early in beardom, I guess, to have a Bears club or organization of any kind. Nobody thought of it. There were spontaneous parties arranged by word-of-mouth, picnics, beach volleyball. We even loaded three vans full of bears and invaded Key West.

You might think of Florida as an unlikely place to find bears, but bearded men were very common there in the 60s and 70s. When the disco era streamrollered fashion for straight and queer alike, it became less common. Many bears kept our beards, many left only a moustache. The Ramrod faltered and closed, 13 Buttons and The Copa flourished, as did all the big discos of the day. I became more private whit three bear affairs over five years, then finally met a cowboy in New Orleans on Mardi Gras and left Florida forever. We moved to Colorado in 1981 and had five great years together. I've been in Denver since 1986 and was later a founding member of one of the oldest bear clubs in the country, Front Range Bears.

But that’s another story.”[2]

Larry Reams has unearthed the first documented apparent uses of “bear” in the current sense. He has found among records of the Los Angeles-based Satyrs’ MC club the formation of a “bear” club mentioned in two entries from 1966.[3] Another source cites anecdotally a group of lovers of a “Papa Bear” in Dallas, Texas, as the start of the “bear community” “well before 1975.”[4] Several undocumented sources have related similar anecdotes of private circle or bar circles of self-identifying bears.

The first published description of gay “bears” appeared in a whimsical article called “Who’s Who in the Zoo: A Glossary of Gay Animals,” penned by George Mazzei in the Advocate, July 26, 1979. Larry Reams reports that he and his friend, the author,

“were standing in Griffs’, a Los Angeles leather bar, one evening discussing the types of men we were and those to whom we were attracted. We decided we were Bears and continued on to formulate what we thought constitutes a Bear. Once we had described Bears it was an easy step to look around the bar and create the rest of the article.”[5]

Because the type so strongly suggests aspects of both bear attitude and bear image, it is worth quoting in its entirety:

“Bears are usually hunky, chunky types reminiscent of railroad engineers and former football greats. They have larger chests and bellies than average, and notably muscular legs. Some Italian-American Bears, however, are leaner and smaller; it’s attitude that makes a Bear.

General Characteristics: Hair. Their tangled bears often present no discernible place to insert a comb. Laughter. Bears laugh a lot and are generally good natured. They make wonderful companions since they are prone to reach for the check, buy the next round and keep abreast of when the Trocadero is dancing this season. Their good humor can turn threatening if you attempt to cruise their trick and you will hear about if for weeks afterward. [...]”

Jack Fritscher was creating and documenting a similar impulse in San Francisco contemporaneous to this Los Angeles subculture. Those pre-AIDS years in the Castro and South-of-Market subculture are documented in the roman à clef Some Dance to Remember. Recorded in the novel is an account of Fritscher’s short-lived underground magazine called Man2Man, a direct precursor to the first incarnation of BEAR magazine. The “homomasculinity” of Fritscher’s philosophical quest was summed up in the magazine’s subtitle: “What you’re looking for is looking for you!”

First-Wave Bears of the Zeitgeist, 1986-1989

The energy that called itself “bear” appeared as one of the signs of reemerging gay communal life following the arrival of AIDS in the 1980s. After several years in a state of shock, emotional devastation, eating more, perhaps exercising less, continuing to age, and ready for a somewhat slower and more compassionate pace of gay sex and gay social life, “hibernating” clones, leathermen, and many other self-identifying types came back to gay public spheres as “bears.” AIDS led many of us to put on extra padding and to eroticize (or publicly admit to our erotic desire for) male bulk. Feminists, such as Andrea Dworkin and Mary Daly, had articulated the mechanisms of patriarchal/capitalist subjugation through the “beauty myth.” The tyranny of the “Castro (or Christopher) Street clone” had been breached.

Since the late 1970s, in counterpoint to the “endless party” spirit of gay life, increasing numbers of gay men were burning out on the alcohol and recreational drugs. Alcoholism has been, and remains, a serious problem in the gay community. The drug experimentation of the “love generation” had turned into a nightmare before AIDS arrived. Now, for the first time, many were experiencing another sense of self, a “sober self,” a discovery of self-respect, which allowed them to bring to a halt these self-destructive behaviors. Across the country sobriety became not only fashionable, but even “politically correct.” Discussion of the uses and misuses of the principles of Alcoholics Anonymous belongs elsewhere. Relevant to bears is the rise of self-esteem among gays--whether through sexual “liberation” or adoption of cultural norms of the moment.

The self-empowerment movements of the 1970s, the nurturance and “safe space” strategies of 1970s feminism, the ever greener alternative impulses of rural gays, Radical Faeries, and nongay-identifing men-loving men (as disseminated, for example, through RFD magazine), and the fundamental strategy of Stonewall politics--coming out--prepared the way. For gay men, who had come out as gay, as sober, as HIV positive, as leathermen, it would seem “natural” to come out--yet again--as a bear. On the one hand, Stonewall-era identity politics shaped the Zeitgeist. On the other hand, for many men-loving men who did not identify with any of the images of gay men in the gay press or with (usually) urban gay men they had encountered on trips to a city, their first encounter with the idea or an embodiment of a “bear” would strike pay dirt. Many have reported immediate identification, sometimes after years or decade of not “fitting in.” Twelve-stepping and two-stepping were new venues for socializing, for being in community without an explicit exhortation to sex. It gave us another chance, a utopian moment, in which to reinvent ourselves and our community.

“Bears” have been emerging as successor to the “clone” and as transmutated variant of “leatherman,” as an integration into gay mainstream social life of “girth-and-mirthers.” In many ways, it was a humanizing response to what clones had been. Martin P. Levine, in his study “The Life and Death of Gay Clones,” focuses on the urban enclave of West Village clones (Manhattan), noting that “AIDS, gay liberation, male gender roles, and the ethics of self-fulfillment, constraint, and commitment”[7] were the sociocultural shapers, creating and destroying this gay male subculture. Bears, during the 1980s, represented a break with the competitive and objectifying tendencies which had alienated so many Stonewall-era gay men. Bears continued the tradition of masculine identification, the social identity politics of gay liberation, and basic Enlightenment values of equality, self-determination, and self-fulfillment. Bears sought to ameliorate between socially isolating cliques and creating safe social spaces, comingling social and sexual spheres, merging rough, unkempt masculine iconography with the emotional nurturing lacking in the clone subculture and the caretaking many gay men felt called to as a direct result of the AIDS epidemic.

The point of titration came in 1987. The “Bear Hugs” parties, the advent of BEAR magazine, and developments in electronic communications were the catalysts that sparked the concept of the self-aware, self-identifying bear across communities. First, computer bulletin boards and then listservres and moderated mailing lists made communications instantaneous and were collectively dubbed “cybearspace.” All three significant events took place or are tracable back to San Fransisco, independent each other but with an unexpectedly synergistic effect all together. All three represented, each in its own way, a “safe space” for bears.

Play Parties A group of friends began organizing private “play parties” in Berkeley and San Francisco in 1987, as safe and warm gatherings--social and sexual for their friends and friends of friends. Private, invitation-only “jack-off circles” became popular during the AIDS sexual freeze, but these were an alternative social and sexual space for gay men who felt “left out”--out because they did not fit, or felt like they did not fit, the gay media images of “beauty”--young, tanned, smooth-skinned, blond LA surfer boy “twinks.” Their “difference” was both physical and perceptual, and was expressed through a social and sexual inclusiveness--men in their thirties, forties, and fifties, ranging from slender to stocky to chubby (though generally on the heavier side), usually with beards and perhaps body hair, and from a range of social classes. The common mold was a warm, nurturing, affectionate attitude toward each other. The intimacy of the early days changed, however, when the gatherings grew to over 100. By 1989, a larger space and a more formalized “guest list” became necessary.

This San Francisco group was the spawning ground for several later developments. Among them were Bear Fax Enterprises, a business privately owned by Ben Bruner and Bill Martin. The International Bear Expo, which ran for three years in San Francisco (1992, 1993, and 1994), the effort of dozens of local bears, was overseen by a steering committee, many of whom later founded the Bears of San Francisco and the International Bear Rendezvous. The “International Mr. Bear” competition and title were introduced at Expo ‘92; John Caldera, the first title holder, eventually acquired ownership of the tile, and the contest has been held annually ever since.

“Bear soup” became a widely adopted idea. In many places it refers specially to hot tub parties, though often with the implication of an orgy or private sexual pairings later in the evening. Sometimes “bear soup” seems to refer merely to a crowded space full of bears. The Bear Hugs group in Great Britain is a strictly social organization.

Similar groups, such as the OzBears of Sydney, Australia, and the Bear Cave parties in Manhattan, had started up for purposes of private socializing, and formed the basis of new groups that developed into bear clubs dedicated to social activities or even community work. As organized bear clubs have arisen and sex clubs started advertising a weekly “bear night,” these play parties have all but disappeared.

BEAR Magazine At about the same time, Bart Thomas began putting together a small, photocopied underground magazine he called BEAR . The magazine was, at first, local to San Francisco. It consisted of jack-off photos and personal ads. The reader could send in appropriate photos of himself or stop by the BEAR office and pose for the magazine. In some ways, BEAR may be seen as the direct successor of Jack Fritscher’s Man2Man underground magazine of nearly a decade before. Before he could actually launch the magazine, Thomas succumbed to complications form AIDS, but not before passing the torch to his friend Richard Bulger.

Bulger’s vision of a lifestyle magazine, articulating this masculinity, with a leftist sexual political slant, and embedded anthropological underpinnings, not to wax abstractly, but to act, to embody the principles through practice and a level of discourse clear to any blue-collar man. In a few years’ time the magazine expanded in size and status, and from word-of-mouth circulation to international commercial distribution, with a full line of videotapes, photo sets, and accessories.

In this 1993 study of BEAR magazine, Joe Policarpio describes the dual aspects of image and attitude stressed by publisher Richard Bulger through his choice of models and editorial content. The general profile of a “bear” includes at least some facial hair and some body hair (”usually the more the better”), a “musky animality,” a blend of traditionally masculine aggressiveness and (feminine) desire to cuddle, muscles by Nautilus or physical labor, and a tendency to be older than the models found in most other gay male porn magazines. “The most important point is these men are presented as fitting an ideological pattern the magazine espouses. This is one of freewheeling, playful and positive attitude toward sexuality between men. He is comfortable in his body and exudes a sense of self-assurance.”[8]

Because of personal ties, BEAR magazine was from the start intimately connected with the South-of-Market bar scene. The original Lone Star Saloon was the first “bear bar,” and followed the tradition of the Ambush and the Balcony, both of which had gone out of business early in the AIDS epidemic. These “sleaze bars” all developed an international reputation. They all offered a free-spirited, anarchic, anything-goes ambience, drawing in blue-collar types who disdained the middle-class pretensions of mainstream gay culture, those who sensibility combined social rough edges with the loyalty ethic of the American lower classes, and misfits, eccentrics, and other “rugged individual” types historically drawn to frontier towns and their saloons.

“Cybearspace” Direct electronic communications over the Internet developed and proliferated during the 1980s and 1990s. Word-of-mouth knowledge of bears spread very rapidly across the Internet. The preponderance of bears on-line or in computer fields is traceable back, in part, to this. One of the most often used private or personal uses of the Internet, regardless of sexual orientation, is for communications of a sexual nature. The lines of communication are numerous and diverse: live chat lines (IRC), BBS (electronic bulletin boards), unmoderated (echoed) an moderated mailing lists, websites, CU See ME (live video transmission), and e-mail. Altogether an individual can transmit or receive text, images (such as gif or jpeg), sound, and video images (nearly) instantaneously. The Internet allows for establishing and maintaining contact anonymously, for uncensored communication, for the exchange of visual images (yourself, your friends, your favorite sexual icon), and for echoed messages (broadcasting to all subscribers of a mailing list of a global mailing to everyone in your e-mail address book). Certain mediums (such as the IRC) can guarantee anonymity (no clues as to personal identity or physical appearance). The question of subverting prejudgment on the basis of appearance becomes moot, however, when we consider the proliferation of visual mediums, such as webpages, archived gif and jpegs, or CU SeeMe, which permit blatant self-advertising based on one’s appearance without revealing one’s name or location.

Early on, circa 1985-1988, there were several bear-dedicated bulletin boards, such as the PC Bear’s Lair (sysop Les Kooyman). The bearcave chat room on the IRC has been a very popular site in cybearspace for live conversation. While the option of remaining anonymous is always available (everyone uses a “handle,” or pseudonym), cyber-communities have evolved over time. This may range from sexual encounters to personal friendships to life partners.

By far the most popular cybearspace is the Bears Mailing List, or BML. Founded by Steve Dyer and Brian Gollum in 1988, it grew from a small, friendly, safe-feeling cybergathering of several dozen bears to a heavily subscribed, largely anonymous, and often fractious, moderated exchange of over 3,000 subscribers. Since 1995 Henry Mensch and Roger Klorese have been moderating the BML and introducing changes to accommodate the dramatic shift in tenor and purpose of the list. Subscribers are drawn from all fifty states and several dozen nations worldwide. English is the lingua franca although everything, including whether to have and who should determine a common language (and how), has been brought up for discussion. Bob Donahue’s somewhat tongue-in-cheek rough guide to “bear codes,” which was accessible from the BML archives, is the source of subspecies terminology within the bear community, such a cub, otter, behr, and the like. Numerous individuals have taken the code in all seriousness and this has become a source of contention, quoted by both sides in disputes over what is a “real” bear. [...]

Although not the only cybear group to do so, the BML has staged several informal, in-person gatherings of its subscribers During Stonewall 25 in New York City, for example, some sixty to seventy BMLers gathered at Bethesda Fountain in Central Park on the day before the parade. Consensus determined the group should form a spontaneous contingent and march in the parade. And thus on Sunday, Stonewall 25 included a sizable contingent of mostly bearded, bearish-appearing gay men from all across the country and from abroad.

Second Wave: formalizing, 1989-1994

Bear Clubs As the concept of bear circulated between gay communities across the country and “news of recent developments in the gay capital” was drawing more comers to San Francisco, localized efforts to promote and organize bears appeared everywhere. The Bear Paws of Iowa, co-founded by Dave Annis and Larry Toothman in 1989, was the first bear club. By 1992, Bear Expo organizers were aware of four such clubs. Two years later, there were forty. According to the International Directory of Bear Organizations, maintained by The Tidewater Bears (Virginia), as of January 1996, there were 137 bear clubs or explicitly bear-friendly (girth-and-mirth and leather) clubs worldwide.

Bear clubs have generally followed along the lines of their older cousins, the lather motorcycle clubs. In some places this means an informal club that schedules periodic social events. In other places, this has translated into a great deal of fundraising and gay community civic activities. As the club model has gained wider acceptance, it has drawn long-standing problems endemic throughout the gay community into its sphere.

A formal club membership structures creates automatically an insider/outsider division, even if membership is “open to all” (usually defined as “bears and their admires”). Having a club also invites quibbling over definitions of who is a “real” bear. (This is borne out by regional differences, whether emphasis has been placed on body hair, on body weight, or on “attitude,” though a beard or moustache seems to be universally required). Clubs and organizers of events, such as the OctoBearFest (Denver), Orlando Bear Bust, Bear Pride (Chicago), European Big Men’s Conference, or the International Bear Rendezvous (San Francisco) have created bear contests, which engenders the very hierarchical system the earlier bear impulse had been resisting.

Finally, the disjunctive ideals of bears as working-class masculinity and bears as an increasingly distinct subculture within mainstream gay culture bring into sharp relief the larger issues of gay community. If bears began in a spirit of inclusiveness and egalitarian-mindedness, sex positive and relatively “anti-looks-ist,” then what is to be made of the increasingly conformist, consumerist, competitiveness that has take over? As the idea of bears has spread, the opportunities to travel far and wide, to purchase ever more and ever more costly bearphernalia, to update an expand one’s computer sources are generating another, unanticipated dividing line-between bear haves and bear have-nots. to what extent does having money now calculate into the formulas of who is a “real” bear?

Expanded Print Media As BEAR magazine rapidly grew in format, production values, and circulation, reception among gay mainstream media remained very lower. The first published serious essay on bears was a piece I wrote in 1989. It appeared in its entirety in Seattle Gay News, an abbreviated version in the San Francisco Sentinel, and Drummer magazine carried the “Sociology of the Urban Bear” as the first bear cover story in 1990. (It was reprinted in Classic Bear, February 1996.)

What became known as bear types had been featured, in one way or another, in RFD (rural), in Chiron Rising (”mature”), in leather/SM-oriented, and girth-and-mirth publications. Numerous niche-crossover magazines sprang up in the early 1990s--Bulk Male, The Big Ad, Husky, Daddy, Daddybear, GRUF. Bearish models began staring back at the reader from the pages of Advocate Men, Honcho, In Touch, and other gay mainstream glossies. BEAR magazine’s direct competitor American Bear, published by Tim Martin (Louisville, KY) took advantage of a lacuna left by BEAR magazine’s retreat from Bulger’s philosophical lifestyle magazine publishing. With the establishment of the bear icon in the gay community and the world of mainstream-gay print advertising, gay bears had become a local presence everywhere (not just in San Fransisco). And with interests, at least sometimes, beyond immediate sexual gratification, this translated into new niche markets. While American Bear Features a regular column on dissonant (HIV-positive/negative) couples (Bulger adamantly refused to mention AIDS in his magazine), a how-to column on accessing the Internet, and other features, none of the bear magazines have attained Playboy-calibre intellectual content.

In the early 1990s “bear war” broke out when Bulger, then owner-publisher of BEAR, sought to gain sole ownership of the word “bear” as his company’s trademark. Needless to say, this led to a lot of bad feelings and was widely followed and criticized in cybearspace. The Advocate even mentioned it in print. At the time, the Bear Hug group’s informal newsletter the Bear Fax had been expanded into a full-fledged magazine by Bill Martin. The lingering legacy of this “war” was a schism, based on a difference in basic body types typically portrayed in each magazine, between “fat bears” and “skinny bears.” Since this time, personals ads have proven far more profitable, and the bulk of the magazine currently consisted of personals ads, photo spreads, and commercial advertising.[9] The magazine was sold to Bear-Dog Hoffman in 1994 and is currently under Joseph Bean’s editorship. It is not clear which direction the magazine will go. It is clear that BEAR is the voice of authority in matters of bear community and sensibility.

Print media as gone a long way in generating a prototypical bear icon--full-bearded, fairly to very hairy, beefy to chunky GWM baby-boomer, probably of Irish, Jewish, Italian, Scandinavian, or Armenian heritage. In reality, the question of race, presence or absence of body hair, body build, social class, or outlook on life is anything but so neatly compartmentalized. BEAR magazine introduced the serious photographic work of Chris Nelson (as Brahman Studio) and Steve Sutton (who succumbed to complications from AIDS in 1994). Lynn Ludwig has established himself as the documenter of the San Francisco bear community. And, perhaps, the most gifted photographer of bears is Los Angeles-based John Rand, whose work is included in this book.

Bear Contests The bear calendar includes many regional gatherings, as mentioned above, as well as annual bear contests as the local club level. The highlight of such events is often the bear content. As Lurch, a popular bear icon, stand-up comic, TV actor, and psychiatric nurse, has put it, “I prefer to say ‘titleholder.’ ‘Winner’ implies ‘losers,’ and none of us are losers.”[10] Successful bear contest titleholders may be expected to organize or work a number of fund-raisers, go on public speaking engagements and represent their hometown or club on the road. In other places, the local bear club may be one of the few, or even the only social outlet, and merely being a known presence in the local community is the extent of the titleholder’s “duties.”

The emergence of bear contents has tended to straddle the fence between two sides--parodying traditional gay ideals of beauty while striving to establish a new, legitimate bear ideal. The International Mr. Bear contest, a component part of the San Francisco-based International Bear Expo, evolved in its first three year from poking somewhat self-conscious fun at traditional gay values to striving in an increasingly serious manner to project an image of a self-confident bear ideal, a new icon assuming its place among the archetypes of male beauty. From the beginning there has been an emphasis on personal warmth, a compassionate nature, civic-mindedness in the gay community, and spiritual playfulness. Titleholders John Caldera (IMB ‘92) and Steve Heyl (IMB ‘93) worked hard during their “reign,” and have remained genuinely and deeply committed to the bear community. Yet, in the progression of titleholders and the proliferation of bear contests in recent years, here has been an increasing tendency toward consolidating a bear image, and away from qualities intangible or at least invisible to the camera.

#lgbtq history #bears #us history #united states #gay history #les wright #the bear book

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spoopybcbe · 4 years ago

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here are some plots i would love based on a few books i’ve read this year (going to count comics/graphic novels too because why not). most of these are fairly loose interpretations, or are left relatively open so there’s a lot of room to play around with pairings and dynamics. a lot of these plots are open to mumus or groups, or as 1x1 ships.

meddling kids by edgar cantero

every summer, a motley crew of curious kids found themselves spending their days in an idyllic small town. it was like someone had plucked the town straight off of a postcard or movie set - but it also seemed to be a magnet for the strange and unusual, as well as ne'er-do-wells. determined to solve the mysteries of this quiet little town, the group of kids start their own investigation team. over the years, they find themselves in more than one sticky situation - but they always catch the haunts, and they’re always a bad guy in a mask. their last summer together, though, things end a bit differently. it’s their last case. they catch the bad guy in the mask. but something happened that night - something they can’t explain. something terrifying. and it changed their lives forever. (their lives fall apart, lots of wiggle room here, eventually they come back together as adults to solve the mystery - and be a 1x1 or mumu or group)

the saturday night ghost club: a novel by craig davidson

as a child, they grew up transfixed by their uncle’s stories of the strange, paranormal, and occult. they spent more time in their uncle’s oddities shop than they did playing outside or making friends. the new kids in town are also inexplicably drawn to his shop - and they form their own little rag-tag crew of ghost hunters. every saturday night, the uncle takes the crew of kids to a different spot in town, and tells them the story of what happened there - and the ghost that now roams. it could take a turn like the book - with the uncle’s tragedy and trauma coming alive through the stories - or it could stray and the town actually has its share of haunts. the plot could pick up with the child returning to their hometown as an adult, perhaps carrying on their uncle’s legacy by recreating the saturday night ghost club with a friend or partner. (lots of wiggle room here too, open to anything - 1x1, mumu, or group)

lumberjanes by noelle stevenson, grace ellis, brooke allen, and shannon watters

a group of friends spent a lot of summers together at a camp. they bonded over exploring the mysterious forest surrounding the camp, (almost) fearlessly diving deeper into endless puzzles as they tried to solve the mysteries around them. a lot of strange, and almost supernatural, things happened that they really couldn’t explain. but eventually their years at the camp came to an end, and they all went their separate ways. they promised to always keep in touch, but never did. the only thing they ever really shared or had in common was the camp and their adventures - without them, there was nothing holding the group together. years down the road, they all get a letter in the mail about a reunion. the camp is opening to alums for a few weeks and, feeling nostalgic, they all sign up for their old cabin. when they return a lot of memories come flooding back, and it isn’t long before the mysteries of the woods start calling to them again. (i know this is pretty different but please!! up for 1x1, mumu or group)

the haunting of hill house by shirley jackson

a haunted house. a group of strangers turned paranormal investigators. what could possibly go wrong? perhaps one or two people in the group are already familiar with one another, and they’re looking for their big break within the paranormal community. they don’t have a lot of equipment or an established team or a following. what they do have is a supposedly haunted manor scheduled for auction and a very limited amount of time to find some evidence of the paranormal. perhaps one used live in the house or spent summers there as a child, and is just looking for proof that what they saw and what they heard was all just a dream or a figment of their imagination. perhaps one is just looking for a change of scenery - for something, anything, exciting to happen to them - and this call to action is the perfect escape. (basically a modern sort of adaptation of the book minus the death, open to 1x1, mumu or group)

alosha by christopher pike

very loose interpretation - essentially playing around with the idea of multiple/different dimensions, and there being gateways/doors to these dimensions on earth. perhaps one muse discovers that they are actually from a different dimension and begin to recover memories from that life. perhaps they stumble upon a door and find themselves in another dimension - either eerily similar or vastly different from their own. (lots of wiggle room - you don’t have to be familiar with the book and i don’t really recommend it lmao. it was a childhood favorite. open to 1x1, mumu or group)

the ocean at the end of the lane by neil gaiman

in a quiet little town, a child meets a child a few years older than them - and befriends them and their unusual family from down the lane. the more time they spend with the family, the more it becomes apparent that they’re not exactly normal. eventually the child discovers that they are a family of immortal, interdimensional beings with extraordinary gifts. they protect the child and their family from a dangerous entity that has invaded their home - but it comes at a cost. in order to recover, and protect the child, they cast a spell over their memories. when they wake the next day, the family is gone, and the child only remembers them as the family down the lane and the child who used to play with them. as an adult, they return to their childhood home for a funeral, and are immediately overwhelmed with hazy memories of the family from down the lane. they mindlessly find themselves traveling down the lane until they reach the house long forgotten, and in the front garden is a familiar face - only they appear older now, too. (there is some wiggle room here, probably better as a 1x1)

moonstruck by grace ellis, kat fajardo, and shae beagle

cute, sleepy, idyllic little towns with magical and/or supernatural realism/surrealism? yes please. give me the werewolf who works as a bartender at the local LGBTQIA+ bar. a witch that owns the flower shop. the cute barista who has no idea what is happening right under their nose. a werewolf desperately trying to hide what they are from their super cute, clueless roommate. a witch who works at that cute little bookshop and their familiar is a regular customer. literally anything and everything you can think of. (lots of room here! open to 1x1, mumu or group)

#wanted plots #discord rp #discord 1x1 #discord mumu #plot bunny #plot bunnies

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aspenflower17 · 4 years ago

Text

Finding You (Part Two of ??)

Hello again! I'm back with the second installment of my new series, Finding You, which was previously Untitled. If you want to be tagged when I update this series, just comment below :)

Part One Link

In this part, we finally get to Satan and what he's been doing during all this. It's not really a happy chapter. You have been warned.

I think it's important to note that I am American. In this part, there is a funeral. Since I don't know much about other cultures or religions way of holding funerals, I just wrote what I know (and that's very little actually. I've only been to two full funerals. I’d be happy to answer any questions you might have). Feel free to change the story up in your head to match your own funerary customs.

As always, likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated and help me endure the torture that is typing up this story from my notebook 😒 I also tried to make sure the editing on here was good. Any DM's for typos or things that didn't make sense are appreciated so I can fix them (please be kind though 🙂 ). I did write some of the funeral disjointed on purpose, trying to recreate how I was feeling when I attended the funerals I did.

Tags (for you lovely people <3 ): @obey-me-trashshshshsh, @naimena

F! MC/ Satan

Word count: 3,195

Warnings/triggers: ANGST!, description of funeral, loosing someone dear to you, some violence at the end though nothing too graphic (he is the avatar of wrath after all)

Satan had felt when Mc died. His pact mark had begun to glow and heat up. A terrible rending feeling in his chest, then… Nothing. He couldn’t move, fear completely paralyzing him. No, it couldn’t be…

Then he heard Mammon scream. Then Asmo. Then Levi. Soon, the whole House of Lamentation was filled with wailing. Satan scrambled for his D.D.D, hurriedly dialing Mc. No, no, no, no, no. He had just talked to her. She’d been fine.

“Hi! This is Mc. I can’t get to the phone-”

“No… No, no, no, NO!” Satan screamed, throwing his phone at the wall. Satan sunk to his knees in a sobbing heap.

The brothers never got an answer to what exactly had happened to Mc. Diavolo had confirmed she had passed, but he couldn’t get any details since she hadn’t been sent to the Devildom. He had managed to find out when and where the funeral would be, if they wanted to go. They would only be able to attend the graveside service though, since the viewing was being held in a church.

Each brother attended the graveside service. Satan stood stoically as the casket was brought out of the hearse. He was wondering if he would be able to get Asmo to charm everyone in attendance so he’d be able to see her face one last time, when he felt his brothers all shifting around uncomfortably. He realized the religious figure he’d tuned out was quoting scripture at the congregation, promises that Mc was now in the hands of God. He decided to tune him out again. Then the casket was being lowered. He had to be physically restrained from going out and pulling her out as the first fistfuls of dirt were being thrown on the casket. How could they do that to her? A voice murmured a reminder that she was gone, and they were just saying goodbye. Well, he needed to say goodbye too. Maybe that wasn’t such a good idea.

Next thing Satan knew, he was at the corner of the grave, a flower he’d had a death grip on since they had started out from the Devildom in his hand. Her favorite. A shiny wood box met his eyes from 6 feet below. Was she really there? He couldn’t feel her presence from his pact mark. Where was she? When was he going to wake up?

The other demon lords watched their brother loose the fight with his emotions. He sobbed, falling on his haunches. Six hands found a part of Satan to touch, tears in their eyes as well.

“It’s time ta let ‘er go,” Mammon’s stuffy voice came from next to him. Satan looked over to find Mammon had removed his sunglasses. His eyes and face were wet.

“I… I don’t think I can,” Satan stated, tears falling freely.

“I know. I know,” Mammon said, pulling his brother in for a hug. Each of the rest of the brothers joined in the hug, pulling the fourth and second born up with them. After a bit, they all let go, moving forward to give Mc their own token and say their last words. When Belphie had finished, Lucifer put his hand on Satan’s shoulder.

“Mc’s waiting for her flower,” Lucifer said, gesturing towards the grave. Satan nodded, and walked forward. He fiddled with the stem for a second, trying to find the words to say, “Mc… Huh, I don’t actually know what to say… I guess, I… I thought I’d find some way to be with you forever. I never thought… I’ve never felt anything like you before Mc, and I don’t think I ever will again… Please… Please, if it’s possible, come back to me. Please,” he uttered as he dropped the flower onto the casket, and walked back to his brothers. He knew everyone was looking at him, confused and curious through their sorrow. They all stayed until the end of the funeral, when Satan turned to Lucifer, “I think it might be time to go.”

“If you’re sure, that would probably be the smartest course of action,” Lucifer nodded, the humans looking questioningly at the demons. The religious man from earlier was actually making his way towards them.

“I’ll visit her later when there aren’t so many people around,” Satan stated as he started walking. The brothers exchanged looks before following him.

The next couple months were quiet at the House of Lamentation. The brothers did the bare minimum required to keep the household going. They were all absent from RAD and Lucifer even took some time off from the endless amount of paperwork he usually did, to grieve. Mc may have been dating Satan, but the rest of the brothers loved her too, and missed her greatly. The only time the brother’s saw Satan was when he was raiding the fridge, finally giving into his stomach pleading for food. He still managed to look somewhat put together, though his eyes were dead and haunted. He had retreated so far into his mind if one of them managed to get him to acknowledge their presence they counted it as a win. He was a shell of himself, and everyone was worried.

Time marches on though, and life slowly returned to normal. One day, Lucifer had gone to RAD and come home with some random paperwork that needed to be done. Another, Asmo was going out to update his wardrobe because his was terribly behind the trends. Each brother found their own way of coping. Beel eventually asked if they could all have family dinner again. They all actually made an appearance, though Satan left once he was done eating.

Though he wasn’t doing well, Satan had been visiting Mc’s grave at least once a week if not more. Lucifer had granted him access to the portal indefinitely, a gesture of kindness that did not go unnoticed. At first he just cried quietly at her grave, not able to produce a coherent sentence. It slowly evolved into him reading her her favorite books or some snatch of poetry that reminded him of her. Eventually he was able to talk freely as he once had. Sometimes it was a mixture of the three. His brothers never saw him cry though. Since Mc had been the only one that seemed to truly understand his feelings, she was the only one allowed to see him cry. Through this self therapy, Satan started to heal. He started sitting in the common room with his brothers in the evening, or snorting at some joke that had been thrown around the table at dinner.

As the years passed, Satan would still visit Mc’s grave, though the frequency dropped. He slowly learned to deal with his sorrow, just like he had with love when he’d first fallen for Mc. It was much harder, his wrath often informing his depression. She became his support again, even if she wasn’t able to respond to help him through his feelings. He always visited on her birthday, bringing her a bouquet of flowers and some small piece of literature, art or playing her some music.

One year, while reading her some Shakespeare, someone came up behind him, “She appreciates it. I know she does.”

Satan stopped reading instantly, whipping around to see a woman who looked quite a lot like Mc, “Excuse me?”

“Coming to see her every year. You have great taste in art by the way,” the woman said, sitting down besides Satan, looking fondly but sadly at the headstone.

“Um, thank you. May I ask who you are?”

“Only if I can ask you the same thing,” the woman responded, smiling at him wryly. The look was so similar to one Mc would give him, he found himself instantly trusting this woman, “I’m S… Stan,” he answered, giving the nickname Mc come up with, when he had asked if he’d ever be able to meet her family. She’d laughed when she'd thought of it, saying she could never introduce him as Satan.

“Stan? I was wondering. She met you when she took that trip out of the country right?”

“Yeah… Did she tell you about me?”

“Oh, you want me to remember that far back? Hmm… I seem to remember her talking about how smart you are, “She chuckled, her eyes far away, “I remember one time, I went in to talk to her and she was furiously reading some book. When I asked what she was reading she told me she couldn’t talk to me right then, needing to catch up to where you were in the story. It was a silly little moment, but she looked so determined… I do know she was in love with you. Though she only really told me about you shortly before she died, I remember the look in her eyes when she talked about you. Telling me about how drawn she was the moment she laid eyes on you. You know what a romantic she was. As her Mother, you can guess how excited I was to meet you, especially after watching her get her heart broken before... You’re exactly her type, you know. Tall, blonde, smart. She was even thinking of introducing you to us. Then it happened.”

Satan didn’t realize the tears were flowing until she looked over and wiped a tear away. She continued, “I was disappointed when I didn’t see anyone that matched your description during the viewing. I don't know what kept you, but I am glad you made it for the casket lowering. I was surprised to see your brothers though, if that's who they were. You all look so different… Anyways, I’m sure she would've loved the intrigue you brought to her service. A handsome stranger, distraught at the thought of life without her. She always did love big, dramatic displays of affection.”

“You remember me from the funeral?”

“Who could forget? It became a topic of conversation in our family once we could all talk about her without crying. Who was that blonde guy? Why wasn’t he at the viewing? Who were the other men he was with? Did she secretly get married while she was out of the country? So many theories, each one more ludicrous then the last. It seems her best friend and I were the only ones to connect the dots as to your identity.”

“Ah. I’m a little embarrassed now,” Satan admitted sheepishly.

“Don’t be. I was extremely bitter after the funeral for a long time. How could my beautiful daughter be taken away from me? Parents were never meant to outlive their kids. I’ve never understood the reason people take photographs at funerals. Most of the time, there’s so much makeup caked onto the body they’re almost unrecognizable. There’s a photo of you from the funeral I actually saved though. You’re looking at the casket with such a look of longing and loss, just waiting for her to come back to you. That photo actually brought me a lot of peace after she was gone. Your look perfectly encapsulated how I felt at the time. It also helped me to know she was able to know that much love before she left. I never want you to feel embarrassed for showing that kind of love to my daughter.”

" She is and always will be the only one for me.”

Mc’s mother laughed, “Oh, you’re still young and quite handsome. You’ll find someone else. In fact, you don’t look like you’ve aged a day from the first time I saw you. You must’ve made some kind of deal with the devil,” she joked.

“Ah. Very funny. Yes. A deal with the devil. Haha.”

Mc's mother looked at him, slightly concerned, "Well, it seems I've made things awkward. I’ll leave you two alone now.”

“Oh, that’s okay. You don’t have to leave on my behalf,” Satan protested.

“It’s alright. I live close by, and I come and visit fairly often. Maybe I’ll see you around sometime. Good night, Stan”

“Good night, and… thank you.”

Mc’s mother smiled at him and walked away.

“Well, Mc, I guess I have your mother’s approval now,” Satan joked, turning back to his Shakespeare.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Remind me why we’re here again,” Satan said, only slightly interested in the antics Mammon was trying to drag him into.

“Tryin’ to get some sucker… er, customer ta part with their Grimm, obviously,” Mammon explained, leaning back in his chair and turning to face Satan and Belphie.

“What does that have to do with us?” Belphie mumbled, eyes more closed than open.

“Well, everythin’! You two are super smart, so I need ya ta…” As Mammon continued talking, Satan wondered, not for the first time, if Mammon actually ever intended to make money with his schemes, or if he had simply found a way to work through his sin without causing too many problems. He had to understand how likely his plans were to fail… Right?

A bump on his shoulder announced Belphie had fallen asleep. Since Mc had helped him work through some of the trauma he had held onto since Lilith’s death, Belphie had gotten comfortable with his brothers again, growing especially close with Satan, their mutual dislike of Lucifer giving them something to bond over. When Mc had died, Satan had found Belphie to be the most supportive of his brothers. Though they'll lost had lost Lilith, Satan had found Belphie the most sympathetic to what he was going through.

“Oi! Listen when I’m talkin’ ta ya! Ya both younger than me, so you shouldn't really show me more respect.”

Belphie lifted his head, and rolled his eyes, “Mammon, do you really want me to do you a favor? How about this? Maybe, don’t explain how you’re going to con people in front of those you want to con.”

Mammon looked around worriedly, finally noticing the glares he was getting, before rounding on Belphie, “I was just explainin’ the plan ta ya and Satan cuz ya both asked again! If ya didn’ wan’ an explanation, ya shouldn’ have asked!”

Belphie was about to retort, when he got a self satisfying smirk, “Oh, dearest big brother, looks like you’ve got your first customer.”

Mammon went pale, turning around slowly to find a demon about as tall as Lucifer staring Mammon down, obviously angry.

Very interested in how Mammon was going to worm his way out of this one, Satan turned to say something to Belphie when he caught sight of a familiar hat.

“Belphie, correct me if I'm wrong, but isn’t that Luke?”

“Hmm? You mean the chihuahua?... Oh, I think it is. Why do you suppose he’s here? I never heard we were getting any visitor."

"It's a little terrifying just how much you know. You're like Asmo that way."

"It's not my fault everyone just assumes I'm sleeping while they're talking."

"Belphie, you know enough, I think you store information while you're asleep."

"Huh… I'd never thought of that before… Who’s that other angel with him?”

“I don’t know… She kinda looks familiar though, don’t you think?”

Belphie looked over at him, arching an eyebrow, “Do you know any angels younger than Luke?”

“Well, no, but… She just looks so familiar.”

“I guess… Hey, you’re missing Mammon squirm.”

“You watch and enjoy. I’m going to go talk to them,” Satan said, clearly distracted, as he got up out of his seat.

“Where do you think you’re going?” a large body planted itself in front of Satan. The demon was tall, but so was Satan. He was able to look him right in the eyes.

“What’s it to you?”

“You’re with the guy that was going to scam us right?”

“You were actually going to fall for his scheme? Really? Well, the first step to getting the help you need is admitting you have a problem. Now, move. I’ve got places to be.”

“Not so fast Princess. You’re not getting away that easy,” the demon put out his hand and grabbed Satan’s shirt.

Satan looked down at the offending hand, and then at the demon, his horns already starting to sprout, “I’d suggest you unhand me if you want to keep your kneecaps.”

The demon laughed, a cocky smile on his face, “Ya think just cuz you’re an elite ya can take me? What makes you so special huh? Ya just think ya so great, just because ya pretty. Am I right?”

The rest of Satan’s demon form appeared, his eyes glowing, a menacing aura surrounding him, “No. I know I can take you because I’m the Avatar of Wrath. Maybe, if you weren’t such a dunce you’d have noticed that,” and with that Satan grabbed his hand in a bone crushing grip. The demon started yowling, trying to twist out of his grasp. It only made Satan increase the pressure. He leaned in right next to the demon’s ear, “Next time you pick a fight, understand who you’re dealing with first.”

He swept the demon’s legs out from under him, and put him in a wrist lock submission hold. The demon was now yelling for mercy, desperately trying to break Satan’s hold. Satan looked around to see if he could still see Luke, but realized quickly that wasn’t going to be possible. Both of his brother’s were currently dismantling whatever demon had decided to pick a fight with them. The rest of the area had erupted into chaos, most demon’s running away. No one wanted to be around when one of the Avatar’s were fighting, much less three! A couple idiots were trying to get in on their fight though.

Sighing, Satan leaned down again, “Well, well, well. Looks like you’re losing your kneecaps today.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Satan muttered to himself, picking up bits of trash that had been left by the fleeing demons. Because of his involvement in the fight, he had to clean up the entire park. Trying to explain to Lucifer he'd been trying to walk away apparently didn't help when you'd put five demons in the hospital before he'd shown up to stop you.

“Well, Lucifer, if you could’ve just kept your cool, you’d still be prancing around with Simeon and Michael up in the Celestial Realm, making friendship bracelets, painting each other little rocks and braiding each other’s hair as you giggle about how… Huh?” Satan crouched down, noticing a small foot peeking out from a pile of leaves. Moving around to the other side of the pile, he saw it was the small angel that had been with Luke.

Up close, the feeling he'd met her before was even stronger. She looked so familiar, but he knew he’d never seen her before. The youngest angel he’d ever met was Luke. Maybe she was from the foggy memories of Lucifer’s he still had? That was forever ago though. She should've grown up quite a bit by now...

His musings were interrupted as the small angel moving. She winced as she sat up, holding her head, “Wha… What happened? Luke? Where are you?, then noticing Satan, “Oh, hello there. I’m sorry, but could you help me find my big brother?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Part Three Link

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buffyversefanfiction · 3 years ago

Text

Slayer of Slayers

Warnings:I do not own, nor do I claim to own any of the copyright or characters within the Buffyverse which includes but not limited to the television shows Buffy and Angel, as well as the Darkhorse comics series’ continuation.

15+ Strong to moderate violence, Graphic to mild descriptions of gore, and torture, sexually charged scenes, sexual innuendos, mild to strong language, and practices of witchcraft.

M/M, F/F, M/F, GEN, OTHER +

PART EIGHT LINK HERE

Part Nine: One of Us

As the story goes there was but one and only one, one born into every generation, one chosen to fight against the evils of the world, only one, and she was called the vampire slayer. Buffy Summers was the slayer that with the help of her bewitching best friend Willow Rosenberg changed those rules forever as one became two, then two became many, as slayers all over the world were activated to join the fight against evil but before those rules were broken, before everything changed forever, the world was changed once before by the birth of the first slayer known as the primeval one. Sineya was the first woman to become the slayer creating a legacy that would be added to by many but although those who came after her were vampire slayers too none quite had the power which she held due to the first slayer having a direct link with the shadow demon which had formed with her human body causing her to lose her humanity as she became the first slayer making her far stronger than any other slayer in history. It was that power, the power of the first slayer, that the unhinged vampire Drusilla sought out to recreate knowing that if the witch Willow was able to adjust the slayer spell to aid her in turning all potentials into slayers, then she too could adjust the magic, altering it somehow for her own liking…

Drusilla’s plans were many years in the making formed within a vision she had of a child, a son of the slayer she despised more than any other slayer, and so she waited patiently for the perfect time to her plans into action knowing she needed Theo Frey, Buffy’s son, to have lived a human life before she introduced herself to him, and that she would need an inexperienced witch that she could manipulate into doing her bidding as she educated that witch, Ruby Moon, in all things related to the dark arts, knowing its allure would make the witch a willing accomplish in anything she wanted her to be, and after much waiting it was finally time to take both Theo and Ruby into her undead family. It took Drusilla roughly about two years of training Ruby in the magics as well as her right-hand vamp Tobias taking the ropes with training Theo into becoming ready to be the first male slayer in history, as she chose to turn the eye as she witnessed a relationship forming between Tobias and Theo, believing it would make Theo more loyal to their cause if he was in love with her number one vampire, until Ruby had found a way of both educating herself on the infamous slayer spell as well as learning a way to manipulate the magics in order to send Theo back in time, to the time of the first slayer, placing him in the same place as the primeval one, to witness her creation, as well as his own.

Prehistoric Times

Theo was surprised at first to find himself suddenly transported from the abandoned insane asylum that Drusilla called her home to be deep within the deserts of a prehistoric Africa, not knowing the logistics of the spell that Ruby had cast, only knowing that the outcome would conclude with him becoming a slayer but as he adjusted himself to his new surroundings and saw only endless miles of nothing but the scorching hot desert he wondered just what exactly he would find in a seemingly non inhabited desert, other than a serious case of sunburn and possible heatstroke. And so with no other choice other than to stay put, Theo decided to begin walking through the seemingly never-ending desert determined to find some resemblance of life or anything which would hint to him why he had been sent to this unforgivingly hot place but with no answers and the lack of water beginning to take its toll on his mostly human body, it was not long before Theo could not go on any longer as he found his body dropping into the sandy grounds before passing out for what felt like mere moments. However, those supposed mere moments were long enough for his body to be dragged into a cave by three powerful mages known as the shadow men, and for his body to be tied in chains like the woman next to him, the woman in question being none other than Sineya, something Theo was quick to realize when he reawakened to find himself tied next to the primeval one, as he quickly stood up and tried to break free of his chains only to quickly realize there was no escape. Theo had wanted to know how the slayers were created and now he knew the cold harsh truth, that the first slayer was nothing more than a human victim of three powerful men who sacrificed her innocence to make her a super-powered soldier against all things supernatural, and it was then he realized that Sineya was nothing more than a girl, a girl that nobody saved, and now just like her, he was about to go through the same process that would change them both forever…

The shadow men, one by one, walked into the cave where Theo and Sineya were stood chained to chains attached to the stone-hard ground as they quickly began chanting in a prehistoric language that Theo couldn’t even begin to try and comprehend, as a dark shadow-like fog began forming in front of his eyes before it slowly began making its way towards Sineya, surging into her body causing the woman great pain as she screamed out in the agony of this shadow demon entering and violating her body as it attempted to bond itself with her, lasting for what felt like a lifetime for both her and Theo, as Theo watched the prehistoric woman continuously scream out in pain as her body shook voraciously as if the demon itself was torturing from inside her own body forcing Theo to learn the cold hard truth of the creation of the slayer as he now began to fear he would be the shadow men’s next victim, no longer willing to pay the price of becoming a slayer himself. But much to Theo’s dismay he had no choice in the matter, he was chained and unable to escape, and the only allies he had were the very people who sent him there for this very reason and so he just stood there in chains knowing once the shadow men were done with the primeval one that he would be their next victim. However, once Sineya fell to the ground seemingly unconscious the three shadow men quickly began chanting another spell in their long-dead language, one that Theo quickly noticed was ever so slightly differently worded than the one they had just chanted. Instead of summoning another shadow demon as they had done for Sineya, a thick ruby red smoke appeared in front of Theo, its essence giving off something greatly different than the shadow demon before it, as this red smoke wasted no time in forcing itself inside of Theo’s body entering him through his eyes, nose, and mouth, causing him to choke on the mystical smoke as it filled up his body before he fell to his knees, his entire body began to feel like it was burning up, as he felt an incredible heat, unlike anything he had ever felt before until the pain from it made the son of the slayer passed out completely.

Theo had no clue what entity had formed itself with him only that it was a creature different from the primeval slayer’s creation but he knew that whatever it was had bonded with his very soul-changing forever as he felt stronger than ever before, faster, and wiser, as a rage had inside of him began burning up what little humanity was there and yet he still found himself more human, weaker, and slower than the original slayer herself Sineya. For some reason whatever the difference between the shadow demon which had former itself with the first slayer was vastly different from whatever demon had formed itself with Theo and although it bothered him that he was nowhere near as strong as the slayer herself he decided to, while still remaining in the past, to learn from Sineya, understand her in a way nobody else would get the chance to, and use this very knowledge to one day return to his current timeline ready to become the slayer of slayers that Drusilla had told him was his destiny. But as he quickly learned during his time in prehistoric Africa, nothing was going to go the way he had expected them to go, and before long he found himself bonding with Sineya, learning far more than he ever expected to from her and joining her on her many hunts, all this while the first slayer never so much as uttered a single word towards him. Theo watched her in action, learned her ways, and before long began cheering her triumphs which he began to equally share himself as he unknowingly began to feel what it was like to truly be a slayer and as her own king rejected Sineya, claiming her to be the very evil she hunted, Theo couldn’t help but feel sympathetic towards her, as the two became unlikely friends during a time when both were at their least human. After spending what felt like forever in the prehistoric past Theo suddenly found himself being pulled through the very fabrics of space and time for the second time as he was taken from the past and soon to find himself returned to the current timeline in which the spell Ruby had cast had originally taken place, returning to the abandoned insane asylum that the vampire Drusilla had made her home and he just stood there in a state of shock, he was left questioning his entire existence, his sinister schemes, and the path which Drusilla and Tobias had led him towards, only to find out that to Drusilla, Tobias, and Ruby, he had only been gone for a few minutes, a few minutes which had changed everything for the soon to be the slayer of slayers…

Modern Day

Theo Frey just stood there in the caves of a long-forgotten island while his army of vampires got to work on destroying the wall between them and the Hellmouth, using their bare hands to punch into the solid wall until their hands were red raw, and bloody only to continue to tear at the walls with their hands, refusing to stop until there was nothing in between them and the Hellmouth itself, and as he stood there watching the undead women and men hard at work to achieve their shared goal, Theo couldn’t help but reminisce about the simpler times he spent in a world that mostly consisted of him and the first slayer, having previously seen her spirit which forced him to reconsider everything just like it had done once before. Theo couldn’t help but remember the joy he felt alongside Sineya at helping her protect the innocent, the pride he felt at destroying evil, and the simple black and white view of good and evil he had once shared until he allowed vengeance to lead him down the dark path he was now on, vengeance which was aimed at the wrong party, or rather partly on the wrong ones, as he could not help but wonder if what he was doing now was more something that Drusilla would want him to do than himself as he began questioning just how much control Drusilla and Tobias still had over him. Before long Theo’s vampires had all but destroyed the wall standing before the slayer of slayers and the Hellmouth which he was prophesized to open, bring forth the apocalypse, and become the rightful king of an army of vampires, and all Theo had to do was pour his blood to open said Hellmouth, as he was surrounded by undead minions cheering the vampire/slayer hybrid, ready to follow him into the apocalyptic war, and yet he found himself hesitant as he realized that this was the choice he had to make, he could bring about the end of days, possibly killing the few people he reluctantly still cared for, or he could do the rare heroic thing and make sure nobody could open this Hellmouth.

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monsterboyes · 5 years ago

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Welcome to Night Vale Fan Episode: Curly Fries

I wrote this Welcome to Night Vale fan episode for fun. I had a lot of fun writing out an outline of the story and coming up with ideas for dialogue. I might not have built up the outro as well as I wanted to, it’s kind of emotionally discordant with the story, but I had fun writing it all anyway. Honestly the entire story is based on me hearing the song I chose for the weather three times in one day, associating it with a concept from the series, and imagining Carlos and Cecil driving while it plays in the background. I wrote around that idea and this is what I came up with. I don’t promise official quality but I hope you enjoy! -------------------------- Cecil: Not all who wander...are lost.

...But, uh, we are. We are very lost. Please help. Welc-

Carlos: Ooh, let me do it! Carlos: Welcome...to Night Vale! Cecil: Listeners, today’s broadcast is very special, because as I’m sure you’ve already deduced, we have a special guest in our midst- my husband, Carlos! With whom I am hopelessly lost in the desert. Carlos: Hi everybody, really glad to be here! Cecil, we’re not hopelessly lost. We’re talking to Night Vale right now! They’ll help us! Cecil: I’m...sure they will. Not terrified in the least. We’re definitely not going to wander this hellscape for eternity. Anyway, uh, Carlos, what brings you to the show today? Carlos: Well, Cecil, as you know, we were out on a date at the Night Vale Harbor and Waterfront Recreation Area, on a sunset stroll across the boardwalk, when we came across a vendor renting out metal detectors.

We rented one, went down to the...uh, beach...or, as much of a beach as it can be, considering there’s no water, and the ocean is only visible from the boardwalk itself, and started searching for treasures.

Cecil: Untold treasures.

Carlos: Yes, excuse me, untold treasures. Of the deep, you know, that sort of thing. But we wandered too far from the boardwalk and were swept out to sea by the phantom ocean, and we woke up...uh, here.

And now we’re stuck here, and we don’t know how to get home, and it’s very boring, so we’re putting on a broadcast together!

Cecil: Oh, it feels so good to be back on the air. Listeners, I don’t know how long we’ve been trapped here. My portable radio equipment doesn’t seem to be broadcasting, and my phone is dead. So I couldn’t reach anyone for help. Help we desperately need. Or we’re going to die here.

Carlos’ phone is fine, but he’s got no signal at all. He’s been trying to play Pokemon Go all morning and it’s just not working. It just shows his cute little trainer standing there in a big empty void of space, which is normal for the desert, but none of the Pokemon are showing up and it’s just been very frustrating for both of us.

Also, I wore these new boots, and I’m very upset that they are hurting my feet. They’re 6 inch high platform boots with a goldfish swimming in a little fish bowl embedded permanently in the platform with no hope of escape and no source of food, and after days of trying to break them in they still just aren’t comfortable for some reason. All things considered, this has not been a good morning for us.

Carlos: At first I thought we may be in the Desert Otherworld somehow, but that was quickly disproven when I realized my phone had no signal. Also, there are no mountains, or lighthouses, or crippling post traumatic stress reactions, or masked armies, or geographical loops. But mostly no cell phone reception. That place had incredible cell phone reception. Cecil: Really, the only thing here is lots and lots of sand, and also old televisions, refrigerators, mysterious piles of magnetic shavings, all sorts of neat stuff. It really takes my mind off the inevitable bleached skeletons we’re going to leave here in the desert. I’ve been playing with this metal detector and honestly, this place is a gold mine for neat junk that if we ever manage to find our way out with, I’m going to take home and then put in the garage, and every time I look at it I’ll think “Why did I bring this home with me? What was I thinking?”, before formulating plans to organize or dispose of it, only to keep it there forever as a monument to my obsessive need to collect mementos and symbols representative of my experiences in an attempt to create a physical record of the fact that I did something, went somewhere, was someone, even if they pile uselessly in a corner serving only to remind me that I opted for material goods and trinkets in lieu of crafting meaningful personal memories of events and loved ones that only I could ever truly understand that would die with me rather than be thrust upon whoever is saddled with the task of organizing my affairs after death, walking into my garage, seeing my pile of junk, and not grasping for even a second the depth of what I wanted it to mean and represent and communicate about my life, tossing it into the trash and along with it any dreams I may have had in the back of my mind of being immortal by way of inspiring others with my personality made manifest by collected worldly goods. Oh! And radio equipment! We found some radio equipment that seems to be working just fine, unlike mine. And to elaborate on this phenomenon, it’s time for the Children’s Fun Fact Science Corner! Carlos? Carlos: Cecil, and kids at home, my running theory is that we are trapped in another time entirely. You see, we’ve dug up a lot of stuff here. But all of it is from the past. When scientists do a lot of digging- it’s called Earth Science, by the way- they often find things underground organized in layers of sediment, one on top of the other. As you dig further down, you find older things, and that’s how we know which fossils are older than other fossils. But here, no matter where we dig, we seem to find things at random, completely disorganized. It’s very unscientific of these random objects to appear all in the top layer of dirt. Meanwhile, Cecil’s portable broadcasting equipment seems to work, but based on how none of you came out here to rescue us during our first several broadcasts, it doesn’t seem to be reaching you. I believe that it can only broadcast to the present day, and- because we are surrounded by anachronisms, we are not in the present day. It’s 2019, I think. So we should, in theory, only be surrounded by things people use in 2019. But we’ve dug up several Furbys and at least one toot-a-loop, which indicate that it is not 2019, wherever we are. We’ve found such a wide range of things there’s no telling what year it really is! But this set of radio equipment we found is timelessly elegant in its design, and so I believe it probably broadcasts to any point in time. Also I can pick it up on the portable radio we brought with us to the beach, so it’s definitely working. Cecil: It is true that my equipment only seems to broadcast to the present day. I know my phone back at the studio sometimes makes and receives calls through time itself, but I don’t know that I’ve ever broadcast to another era...but it is also possible that our listeners just plain aren’t feeling very helpful today. Maybe they’re busy. Maybe we’re doomed. Maybe we’re just doomed. Carlos: Cecil, nobody is ever too busy to listen to your show. And we’re not doomed. Cecil: Oh, Carlos, you’re embarrassing me. And we’re probably doomed. Carlos: I’m sorry, but it’s true. And it has to be, otherwise my theory sounds ridiculous. And we’re not doomed. Cecil: Fair enough. It sounds very scientific to me! Anyway, this has been the Children’s Fun Fact Science Corner. Also we’re doomed. Carlos: Cecil, I’m going to go run some tests with the metal detector and see if I can find anything to help us figure out where and when we are. And maybe a refrigerator that still has food in it. So far, besides the radio equipment, everything’s just a bunch of junk. I’ll take my radio with me so I can hear your broadcast, be sure to call me back if you need anything! Try to stay calm, alright? Cecil: Good luck, Carlos! Listeners, in the meantime, let’s get to the news. Local radio host Cecil Gershwin Palmer was reported as saying that despite the suffocating fear of eternity or the dark void of ceased existence, he doesn’t really mind being trapped in an endless mysterious desert, as long as it’s with his husband Carlos. He could, quote, “Do science here forever”, as long as it was with his handsome husband. Aw, isn’t that sweet?

Meanwhile, we’ve got...uh...there’s...hm. I’ll level with you, Night Vale. This place is booooo-ring. Nothing’s happening at all. There’s barely any plants. I’ve only seen one animal, and it was a lizard, and it was a very boring lizard. It only had 4 legs, and it just kind of sat there on a rock for a while. The fish in my shoes died, so their senseless agony is no longer a viable source of tragic entertainment. I can’t check my tumblr. It’s just dirt and sand and rocks and sun and junk. If we were going to be whisked away to a mysterious time and place, couldn’t it at least have been an interesting one? I do have to admit...I’ve tried to keep a strong, stoic face about this whole situation, but I’m getting a little worried. We don’t know how long we’ve been here. Carlos claims it’s only been a few hours, but you know how he is with time and perception and facts. There’s never any wiggle room with him for senseless anxiety and baseless assumptions of doom. I shouldn’t make fun, I’m sure he’s worried too. At least we’re here together, I suppose. Better than being lost in the desert alone... Oh, uh, looks like it’s time for Traffic.

A car, gliding effortlessly across the sands of a vast desert. The man inside turns up the radio, and hears a familiar story- familiar because it’s literally happening, right now. The radio describes his every action. The way he glances at the radio as if it is another human being to make eye contact with, questioning its words with his eyes. It describes the way he turns the dial to increase the volume. The way he furrows his brow, attempting to understand how the voice on the radio knows what he’s doing. The way he pulls out a set of beakers and places them carefully on the dashboard, normally a reckless act while driving, but completely safe in the flat, closed-course, car commercial style desert he’s driving on. He sends some colored liquids through swirling crazy straw tubes from one container to another, a bunsen burner aflame, attempting to science some sort of sense out of this disembodied narrator. The liquids are turbulent and sloshing, but he does not care. He looks out the windshield and stares at a dot, in the distance- and the dot stares back. He focuses all his energy, all of the vehicle’s horsepower, the entire weight of his leg on the gas pedal, and every photon receptor in his eyes on that tiny...little...dot. He stares with such intensity that his eyes start to lose track of their own interpretation of the light that enters them, blurring into one solid color, forcing him to focus on something else to be able to focus back on his goal. He blinks furiously. The dot becomes bigger, and bigger, and bigger, until finally- he sees that it’s me! Hi Carlos! This has been, Traffic. Carlos: Cecil, look! The metal detector came through! I found a 1987 Pontiac Firebird Trans Am 2-door coupe! And a renewed interest in those psychic energies I told you that you sometimes give off and that I really need you to let me probe into! Cecil: A car, that’s wonderful! We can use that to get...home. Assuming it’s...nearby, and that we’re...in the same timeline as home, and...in the same year. Maybe we’ll even be back by dark! The sun is starting to set... Carlos: Cecil, I know how to get back home. We’re going to be okay. Get in the car. Wait- first, help me take the t-tops off. On the drive back we may as well enjoy the weather. [THE WEATHER] Cecil: Listeners, we are home. As we drove dramatically with sweeping camera angles and rolling hills through that sudden downpour of mysterious flashes of light, pink clouds, psychedelic wind, nostalgic VHS fog, and laser beams erupting from the desert floor, the sun set and we could see in the distance a guiding light. As we drove towards it, we reached an old dirt road, and down that dirt road, we found a fence, and a gate, and a sign. I turned around in my seat to read the sign, and...well, you remember a few years ago, when we got the new landfill, which doesn’t accept any physical items? Carlos: My theory had one major flaw. I thought based on all the anachronisms we had found in the dirt, all at the same layer of sediment, we must be in some sort of mishmashed timeline, outside of the linear time that we’re normally outside of, but also outside of the non-linear time we’re normally not outside of. Some third form of time never before seen. But they...well, they weren’t anachronistic. There weren’t any items from the future. That would be anachronistic. Everything we found was from the past. Which is...normal. That’s just normal. That’s how time works, even here. Cecil: Yeah, we were...just...in the old landfill. Also my portable radio equipment was working fine, I just...forgot to...plug in the microphone. I was very stressed. I forget to plug in microphones when I’m stressed. Carlos: I guess the sand blew over top of it over time and hid it entirely, and the phantom ocean must have created a phantom beach next to the raised sands as a result, and we washed up on top of it. But, hey, even if my science was flawed, at least we got to spend the day together, and I got to be a big part of your show! Plus, it was my day off, so I really didn’t want to do any accurate science anyway. Cecil: Yes, we’ve never done a show together like this. It was a lot of fun even if I was terrified the entire time. Carlos: Cecil, I was scared too, but I didn’t want you to worry, so I tried to be strong, for you. And you know, despite the suffocating fear of eternity or the dark void of ceased existence, I also wouldn’t really mind being trapped in an endless mysterious desert, as long as it’s with you. I could, quote, “Do radio broadcasts there forever”. Cecil: Aw, you were listening! And so intently. That’s almost word for word, with adorable changes in perspective. And it’s a good segue into an inappropriately sappy closing statement for tonight’s broadcast. Listeners, Steve Carlsberg, my brother in law, speaks often of lights and guiding markers in the sky, telling him exactly how the universe works. I’ve never really believed in any of that stuff. But today, some lights in the sky showed Carlos and I the way home from the old landfill. As soon as we crested the horizon I saw them- and I’d recognize those lights no matter where they were, Arby’s or not. Sometimes I wonder if maybe they’re part of something bigger, too, like the lights in the sky Steve talks about. They lead us home today. And they lead us to each other years ago. Carlos, I’m glad we have each other. I’m glad we have this place. I’m glad we have delicious roast beef sandwiches and curly fries with horsey sauce. We have not eaten in days. I love you.

Carlos (mouth full of curly fries): Aw, Cecil, I love you too.

Cecil (mouth full of curly fries): Today’s broadcast is sponsored by Arby’s. Not officially, it’s just, (swallows), we’re currently eating Arby’s and I don’t know how to end the broadcast. I don’t normally do broadcasts off the cuff like this. Carlos: I know how to end it! Can I end it? Cecil: Well, I mean, it’s my show...I always...um. You know what, sure, it’s fine. Go ahead. Carlos: Good night, Night Vale! Carlos and Cecil: Good night.

#welcome to night vale #welcome to nightvale #WTNV #nightvale #night vale #cecil palmer #carlos the scientist #fanfiction

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maviemesregles · 5 years ago

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Once I was an Eagle

Thanks to all who keeps following this story! For all your lovely comments and messages in DM. <3

I've had so much fun writing this chapter. Xmas music was on as early as November started and inspiration hit me to write a wee bit of festivity. Hope you enjoy it!

P.S. Of course for full experience turn on your Christmas playlist or just listen to Michael Buble album ;)

Thanks to my beta @eclecticstarlightconnoisseur as always :)

Read on AO3.

Chapter I: The beginnings

Chapter II: Sassenach

Chapter III: Catharsis

Chapter IV: Lovestruck. Part I

Chapter V: Lovestruck. Part II

Chapter VI: Flecks of Sun

Chapter VII: Mince pies & baubles

December

I used to think that I have grown out of loving Christmas time. In fact, I turned Scrooge-like and annoyed everyone around me with remarks about how this time has turned into something cynical, commercial, plastic. It wasn’t about love or family or Christianity anymore. Damn me, my Catholicism would be as fake as the myriad of Christmas advertisements. But this year something has changed. Or rather someone has changed it.

The snowflakes were dancing around the narrow streets of Edinburgh draping the roofs in white fluffy blankets. The naked trees outlining the alleys and parks and the dull grey sky were a reminder of the seasons changing. The chill in the air made people wrap their scarfs around their necks while their coats kept them toasty warm. Rosy-cheeked and smiling, the young, old and the smallest ones were peering into the shiny, glittery shop windows. My feet froze in front of one featuring a festive woodland scene. I noticed my own reflection in the shiny glass, seeing a smile touch my lips as I gazed upon the scene. The eyes of Beauchamp who was happy. I really was. Dizzyingly, drunkenly, unbelievably happy.

The whole month has passed since that horrifying evening that made me think of the possibility of losing Jamie.

The whole month of visits to Broch Mordha, of Jenny teaching me to cook (and failing), of Brian showing me different surroundings and telling me fascinating stories of the family Fraser (or clan as he called it).

Of me laughing until I would cry at the jokes Jamie’s godfather Murtagh made.

Of getting drunk and singing on the streets with Jamie and his childhood friends Angus and Rupert.

Of that sweet, touching feeling that made me so sentimental when Jenny and Ian’s children would call me Auntie Claire.

Of Geillis and me spending quiet cozy evenings together in my kitchen with a bottle of red.

Of Jamie and me trying to find a secure corner in Lallybroch to make love without being interrupted by his family.

Of us making plans for the summer and where we might spend our first vacation together. (me suggesting Rome, Jamie saying Amsterdam would be more interesting)

Of arguing over that for the first time and then having makeup sex that made the hairs on my skin rise and hide my eyes away from the neighbours the next day.

Of catching a cold and then giving it to one another, spending two days at home, snuggled up on the couch in the company of disgusting snotty tissues.

Of twenty-three mornings, days and nights of Jamie making me coffee, greeting the sunrise together and making love in the darkness of the night.

Of five hundred hours saying I love you.

* * *

“Claire? What takes ye so long? I’ll freeze all my manly bits down here waiting for ye.” Jamie’s voice sounded muffled, mixed up with the noise of the traffic outside. “Ye ken, ye could put on a Tesco bag as a dress and yer still be the most bonnie and sexy lass I’d ever seen.”

Snorting (not ladylike at all and reminding Adso to be a good boy), I put on the only pair of heels I’d own (sleek and shiny, black stiletto) finally making it outdoors.

December 20th was the day Geillis threw a Christmas party each year. Though this time I’d much prefer to stay at home with Jamie trying to recreate his mom’s Gingerbread cookies recipe. But, I could not say no to my best friend.

Jumping into the car I cursed feeling all the sharp embroidery of the dress I’d bought (a black bodycon, fully covered in beads, ending just slightly above my knees) dig into my skin.

“Jesus H.Roosevelt Christ!” I hissed as my hand immediately reached for the button of the heating control. “Of course you’d freeze everything in here, you bloody Scot.”

Expecting Jamie’s usual reaction - rolling his eyes, saying something in Gaelic I did not understand (on purpose), and then laughing at me, I turned my head.

“What?”

His mouth was slightly agape as his eyes travelled from my feet up to my body. Lingering for a second on my hips, he licked his lips. By the time his gaze reached my face, his eyes darkened becoming a stormy blue.

“What?” I repeated, shifting on the leather seat.

“Fuck,” All of a sudden he sounded exactly the same when he whispered my name with last thrusts inside me. “Yer the most gorgeous woman I’d ever seen, Sassenach.”

My heart started beating out of control. The way he looked at me - I already was seeing the stars without even being touched.

“Fuck?” My brow quirked in a question as I leaned to him, taking a fistful of his white collar. “Are you suggesting something, my lad?”

He swallowed. Not able to resist I dragged my tongue over his Adam’s apple. His skin tasted bitter (the cologne he’d used) and a bit stinging (the remnants of the stubble).

“I’ll have ye until ye forget yer own name,” Jamie’s finger drew intricate patterns up my leg, sliding over the black material of stockings.

My breath hitched as his hand slipped under the hem of my dress.

I bit my lower lip thinking Geillis would kill me if we were late. And surely my redheaded friend will make all kinds of inappropriate guesses as to why we did not arrive not on time.

Jamie removed his hand just as if he read my mind.

“Though there are at least a million and one things I would love to do to ye right now,” he brought his hands back to the steering wheel. “I canna wait another hour for ye to dress. And ye’d definitely need to change afterward.”

Jamie gave me the most awful wink that made me laugh out loud.

“I’ll hold you to a million and one things, James Fraser.”

As the evening progressed, we drank (wine and whisky, clearly a regret in the morning), Jamie devoured at least a dozen of canapes complaining that there’s no real food (and Geillis assuming with a smirk that “Claire, do ye no feed yer Highlander?”). We danced. My cheek resting just above his heart, arms wrapped around his neck, Jamie’s hands on the small of my back.

I ached. I felt hot and needy. More and more with each hour of Jamie’s innocent (not at all) words and texts (though we barely left each other) of what he was going to do to me once we are home.

An accidental (not) brush on Jamie’s leg with the tip of my shoe under the table.

A squeeze of his hand on my hip as we danced.

A chaste kiss in the company of Geillis watching us and the one that took my breath away when no one paid attention.

On our way back the car windows steamed up with alcoholic breath or perhaps it was from the mist of desire floating between us.

When my aching feet crossed the threshold, kicking off the shoes, Jamie’s hand closed the door pressing me against it. The skin on my face was hot, flushed. But Jamie's fingertips ran over my heated body leaving a pleasantly cool trail over my cheek and neck.

I was nothing but my body. The dim hall light blurred into one endless mirage. He was kissing me then. The tip of my nose. With a quite mumble “cute one”.

His lips hot with desire blazed a path of sweet kisses. My eyelids. Cheeks. Lips.

When my dress fluttered down my body to the floor with a soft rustling Jamie led me to the bedroom.

Our lovemaking was the bridge to one another that we had built and rebuilt every time our bodies joined. In the aftermath, we laid in the darkness of the room with the only sound of Adso’s purring interrupting the pleasant stillness.

Limbs still entwined, Jamie drew me even closer seeking to imprint our union forever into the skin. I curled up around him, my lips pressed to a soft curl on his neck.

Through the soothing warmth of sleep, I thought I heard Jamie mumble something about buying a Christmas tree and going to Broch Mordha.

For where all love is, the speaking is unnecessary. It is all. It is undying. And it is enough.

* * *

Mornings in winter were very dark and cold. But at the same time cosy and serene, despite the cold that drew a frozen lace upon my cheeks each time I ran down to my car in a hurry to warm it up. Nights last much longer bringing that peacefulness with them. It was my favourite time. I could curl up covered by a heavy duvet, wrapped up in Jamie’s embrace, listening to his heartbeat. The darkness of winter mornings was a chance for my lips to find that hollow space on Jamie’s neck in the dark, where he was tender and delicate. I would press a kiss there, his skin smelling musky with his own perfume and the memory of our lovemaking.

Later, when the sun warmed up the room, my legs felt like Jello from morning sex and I dissolved limp and slick as I lay on top of Jamie. Despite my amorous morning activities, my mind was still partly sleepy. Jamie, on the other hand, was out of bed in seconds, urging me to hurry up. In the end, it wasn’t a dream about buying a tree. Jamie had the whole plan set up and I obediently followed him. Though I wasn’t sure why I’d need a Christmas tree when we were going to celebrate in Broch Mordha with his family.

Morning began with having fresh croissants in the bakery with herbal tea and polishing off with mulled wine from the market stall (Jamie saying it’s not a crime at this time of the year after my remark that we look like chronical alcoholics sipping Gluhwein in the middle of the day).

Jamie stoically handled my nagging about the pine needles that’ll be all over my beige carpet, Adso’s misbehaving and surely kicking the tree down, and how awful we are chopping down the real one.

He rolled his eyes only several times as I kept choosing one tree over another. We’d spent about three hours at the tree farm, becoming cold to the point I couldn’t feel my toes anymore. We struggled for thirty minutes to load the green beauty to Jamie’s car and laughed so hard, the passerby surely thought us mental.

I had spilled the hot cocoa all over my jacket and dropped mushy marshmallows to the car seat. Jamie hoovered the insides of his car for another hour trying to get rid of the pine needles and the mess I’ve created. He cursed in Gaelic every other second as he tried to fit the three through the doorway. All of this adventure was so far away from the perfect but it felt so real, so ours, and so magical.

“I love you.” I whispered into his lips, being held up high in Jamie’s arms. I retrieved a box of vintage tree ornaments and lights from the highest shelf in my flat knowing that they would be just perfect on our tree.

When the pink and fluffy skies turned into the dark-blue, Jamie and I sat on the floor amongst packets of tinsel, tangled lights, and shiny baubles.

My life never resembled anything close to what one would see on a TV commercial. It had been some time since I truly felt happy at Christmas, now I felt as though that feeling of peak and joy come back.

As the second mug of tea was drunk, I sat with my back pressed to Jamie’s chest, his knees as two guards around my hips. The Spotify Christmas playlist and the warmth of Jamie next to me made me feel half sleepy as I lazily dug through the decorations.

“Where did ye get all of those?” He pointed to the box of baubles.

My fingers that fought stubborn mess of tangled lights, froze.

“It’s from my childhood.” My voice sounded distant. “I know it’s a pile of old crap, but I could never throw it away.”

Jamie’s lips softly touched the back of my neck.

“Tis no crap, Sassenach. Tis yer memories. And ye should always keep em here.” His hand came around my chest and laid over my frantically beating heart.

Suddenly my mind conjured up the picture that was still so vivid. It is 1991 and our Christmas tree is ridiculous. At least that’s what four years old me thinks and I don’t forget to inform my dad of my thoughts. My father stands on the ladder that dangerously wobbles as he tries to secure a star on top of the tree. There is Miracle on 34th street rolling on TV and my mum plugs in the Christmas lights. I happily squeal and grin at the sight of it. My parents kiss and I say it’s gross but just then dad chases me over the room to give me sloppy kisses on my cheeks. I explode with giggles and ask for the hundredth time when Santa is going to come. We eat the best roast dinner and watch Home Alone, the three of us curled up on the couch. I’m beyond thrilled I’m allowed to stay up late but fall asleep right after the movie finishes. In the morning I am a proud owner of a doll in a blue dress that Santa had brought me.

And now I realize that Christmas tree from distant 1991 was just the perfect one. As perfect as the one I was looking at now, with Jamie’s arms wrapped around my waist.

It was tall, brushing the ceiling, filled with all the ornaments I own, bathed in tinsels and ceramic snowflakes.

“Shall we?” Jamie kissed the tip of my ear and plugged the lights in.

The tree shone and my heart together with it.

“It’s beautiful.”

“Well, now I have to move my things in here.” Jamie spun me in his arms humming to Buble’s version “It’s beginning to look like Christmas”

My brows furrowed as I escaped his embrace to steal a piece of mince pie we’d bought two days earlier. (Jamie with an almost childlike squeal plodded down the aisle of Christmas stuff in Waitrose, saying we must get these).

“Why so?” I pinched his jaw with my forefinger and thumb.

“For one,” Jamie raised a finger to tap down my nose, followed by a slightest of lips brush. “I’m terribly worried for the health of yer wee cheetie. Those awful candles ye buy and burn, Sassenach. A Dhia, the poor cat will suffocate.”

I snorted.

“Nonsense. You love it.”

A high-pitched squealing left my throat as I tried to escape Jamie’s hand that made an attempt to smack my arse. Adso that has been observing his parents from a nest made out of a duvet on the couch sniffed, yawned and walked away, showing with all his being how ridiculous we are. (And yes, Jamie declared that now he’s the full-time dad to my cat taking into account the amount of time he spends at my flat).

“And second of all,” my boyfriend with a grace better than Adso’s reached me in two steps. “We have bought a Christmas tree together. That’s a commitment. A serious one.”

Failing in my attempt to hide behind the aforementioned tree I let Jamie take me by the wrist, drawing me into his arms. He let his hands scatter down my sides, stopped for a second to knead my hips, finally squeezing my bottom with the most mischievous look I’ve ever seen him make.

“God, yer arse.”

“A commitment?” I licked my lips feeling my heart beating frantically. “What you have in mind, Mr Fraser?”

Jamie started to sway us in a slow rocking dance motion, turning off the main light with his left hand. The room sank into a cozy glow of Christmas lights that flickered on the baubles and tinsel. The candles that lived on my coffee table (now Christmas edition - Spiced Gingerbread and Twisted Peppermint) gave a touch of a true home, drawing the shadowy patters on the wall. As the voice of Buble sang “I’ll be home for Christmas, you can plan on me…”

Jamie leaned forward to kiss me with a whisper.

“I think we should move in together, Claire.”

#once i was an eagle #outlander #outlander fic #modern au #outlander fanfic #the frasers #claire beauchamp #jamie fraser #maviemesregles #angst #fluff #christmas #xmas

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narniagiftexchange · 5 years ago

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THE SUMMER NARNIAN GIFT EXCHANGE.

for @quecksilvereyes by @luxaofhesperides.

EVEN AS A SHADOW, EVEN AS A DREAM. Moments between goodbye and hello. (aka: Caspian wonders about the Pevensies as they try to adjust to life back in England.)

The night feels quiet now. Empty, almost.

He’s given up on sleep; under the care of the moonlight, Caspian wanders the grounds until he can see the door at the edge of the cliff. Though he had seen Aslan weave magic into it, he still found it hard to believe tree branches stacked onto each other could form a doorway to another world. Closed, now, with no chance of opening again unless Aslan willed it.

Capsian gazes at it, his heart heavy with sorrow. It was only hours earlier that he had watched the Telmarines and the Kings and Queens of Old vanish through the door. The sky he could see out past it’s opening was the Narnian sky he loved dearly; what was it the Pevensie’s saw? What sky did they look upon?

The stars offered no comfort or guidance; without the sea, the stars are just stars.

When the dawn comes, Caspian will don his crown and set forth fulfilling his promises as King. Even now, after Aslan named him and his bloodline rulers of Narnia, he feels too young and unworthy to bear the weight of the crown. It would be better if a Narnian took the throne, if Aslan remained to rule over his people, if the Pevensies stayed --

He may not know how to rule a land full of fairytales brought to life, but he’s seen how Miraz ruled and knows what he must never do. Guidance from Miraz is better than none at all, no matter how Caspain feels on the matter.

Tomorrow, he will begin to learn all there is about Narnia. These histories will no longer be spoken in whispers; he’ll record everything so it may never be forgotten. Tomorrow, he’ll give his everything to bring peace and prosperity to Narnia. Tomorrow, he will become King Caspian and no longer belong to himself.

Tonight, under the stars, searching for the shadows of friends now gone, Caspain is just a boy with stars in his eyes, chasing dreams and looking out into a world full of impossible realities and so much to learn.

But he will remain alone.

There are cracks in the universe. Small fractures where different worlds cross and intermingle. There are few left; the last ones, surviving the march of time, hidden in this world. Lucy knows the wardrobe is out of reach, and the train station is just a train station. Still, she will search, peeking down alleys and behind corners in the hopes she stumbles across one.

“Lucy,” Susan calls from the entrance of the station, “Come on, we’ll miss the train.”

She glances back into the alley one last time, then walks away. It feels like there’s a piece of her missing these days. Only a week since they’ve left Narnia, and they all long to go back. Here, in England, in these bodies, they are not their true selves. Lucy watches how Susan walks through the crowd, following just a few paces behind; her gait is still that of a queen, one that demands respect. The crowds part as much as they can, people moving without ever noticing who they’ve moved for.

For now, Narnia lingers in them, but Lucy knows it’s only a matter of time before that disappears as well. If it hurts her, it must be worse for the others.

Peter and Susan, who will never go back, hurt the most. She’s sure of it. But they hide it well, with soft sighs and sleepless nights that Lucy only notices because she can’t sleep either. It’s a heartbreak they all share, but as the eldest siblings, they will keep quiet about it and endure the pain until they can fall apart when no one is watching.

She wants to talk about it, talk about all of them, bring them back together again. But she knows from experience that they all must smother their own pain before they can go back to the way things were.

Peter and Edmund are waiting for them at the station, sitting on a bench idly watching people pass by. She sits besides Edmund and waits for that pinch to come again, but every day she’s waited, and the pull of magic never appeared. The train comes, and the walls of the station don’t change; they board and nothing changes.

The disappointment never leaves her. Lucy longs to go back to Narnia. To dance with the dryads, to play with the fauns, to breathe in air that isn’t filled with smoke; she longs for another lifetime lost.

Edmund gently takes her hand and sits beside her on the train. Ever since their first trip to Narnia, he’s been watching over her as best he could. The pain of his betrayal will always linger within him. So Lucy doesn’t say a thing. She leans against him and gathers the strength to plaster on another smile and survive the day.

When the four of them get off at their stop, following the crowd of students, Lucy watches as Peter straightens up and holds his head higher, and Susan squares her shoulders and keeps her eyes forward. Only Edmund looks off to the sky, statue-still as the crowd moves around him.

Lucy’s always known that she has her heart on her sleeve; there’s never been a reason to hide how she feels. But Edmund, quiet, withdraw, thoughtful Edmund, keeps his cards close to his chest.

She’s never seen him look so heartbroken before.

In the dawn’s gentle light, your soul whispered to me, “Welcome home.”

The stars have guided me to you once; once more, I shall follow them.

“Your Majesty, you’re up early again.” Cythalia, the willow dryad, greets him as he walks through the long hallways. She’s one of the first aides he’s appointed, and over the course of the year, they developed a friendship outside titles and spoke at length about Narnia’s history. She settles in her place a step behind him, following him to the courtyard.

“Sleep has weakened its hold on me lately, it seems,” Caspian replies. He’s grown familiar with Cair Paravel now, having wandered it’s rebuilt halls many nights when the dreams were too much to endure. The Pevensie’s helped recreate the floorplan of the castle from memory before they left, wanting to bring back their old home.

Edmund had told him about the sunrises he’s seen from his balcony during the Golden Age, how the sky slowly warmed with color, the dark of night slipping away to make room for the sun.

“I’d fall in love with the sight every morning. It gave me the strength to become a better king; all I wanted was to keep Narnia safe so all may see the beauty this world has to offer,” Edmund said to him two nights before he left.

The memory is one of many he keeps close to his heart; the softness of Edmund’s dark eyes, the gentleness of his voice, the way he looked silhouetted by the moon. In that moment, he felt at peace, unburdened by the sudden weight of the crown.

He chases that feeling now, waking up early to watch the sunrise, to see what Edmund saw, to find a fleeting moment of peace before he continues his work to help the citizens of Narnia live happily.

Caspian looks out to the sea, to the horizon, and breathes in the salty air. Cythalia places her hand on the trunk of a nearby tree, and waits. They’ve gone through this enough times to know Caspian will speak first.

“What do you remember of the Kings and Queens of Old?” he asks after a long moment, eyes fixed on the horizon.

Cythalia runs a finger down a groove in the bark. “I was barely a sapling when they first arrive,” she says, “but the forest spoke of them long after they left. I heard stories of four children who saved Narnia and brought in endless light. Of High King Peter, who often sat amongst us trees and listened to us sing, of High Queen Susan who let us adorn her hair with our flowers, of King Edmund who protected saplings and and saw our potential to help Narnia as spies, of Queen Lucy who danced with us in the night.”

“Did you ever meet them?”

“No. By the time I was able to leave my tree and take this form, they were busy travelling and ruling Narnia. Then they left. I fell into a deep slumber and only awoke to the sound of Queen Lucy’s voice.”

Caspian turns to her at long last, and though he has grown taller and stronger, his eyes are still that of a young boy listening to fairy tales for the first time.

“Do you miss them?” Cythalia asks, looking over him with worried eyes. Her concern is touching, and Caspian can’t help but smile. Just three years ago, he would have never imagined that one of his closest friends would be a dryad with long hair dotted with yellow flowers and a low voice that drifts on the wind. He once pictured his life as King as a lonely one, helping others then returning to the castle alone; what Narnian would befriend a Telmarine?

Cythalia always smacks his arm when he says that. She’d reassure him that she extended her hand to a lonely Narnian, not a Telmarine. To have a kind friend such as her is a gift Caspain would be forever thankful for.

“I miss them greatly,” Caspain confesses. “I first saw them as children barely older than me, then as heroes, then as friends. I only wish I had gotten to spend more time with them after the war. Sometimes, I dream that they walk these halls and wait for me to catch up. I wake alone, and it always hurts.”

The flowers in her hair wilt ever so slightly. Cythalia looks out to the sea and forces on a smile. “They must have been truly wonderful for you to love them so much.”

“They were.”

“I know there is little I can do to help you carry this pain, but I will always be here if you need to talk. We’re friends after all. You can rely on me.”

She pats his shoulder, then steps back. “Let’s head in. You have a long day ahead of you.”

Caspain turns to follow her back inside. As he steps off the soft ground onto carefully laid tile, he can see in his mind’s eye Peter and Susan walking alongside Aslan the day of their departure. He forces the memory away and prepares himself to begin the day.

Just before they cross the threshold, Caspian says, “Thank you, Cythalia. I am honored to call you a friend.”

“As am I.”

The pain of waking after chasing a memory of Edmund has eased. Though it won’t ever leave him, with a friend by his side, he can endure it for another day.

Peter wonders how many times he can offer to an ear to Edmund before it becomes too much. The first time they came back, thoughtlessly and clumsy, Edmund had spent his days at the manor wandering the grounds, trying to adjust to his young body and learn the lay of the land again. Peter would like to think he has some idea of what Edmund will do to cope with leaving Narnia again; wander and ponder and quietly find his footing in England again.

This is not what Edmund does.

He spends hours in silence, staring at the sky through a dirty window, his schoolwork completed and set aside. He sleeps in erratic bouts, oftentimes up late at night, drinking tea with Susan as they pretend that they’re fine. He looks lost these days, heartbroken and defeated, and Peter knows it’s not because he left his torch in Narnia.

So maybe one more time will do the trick.

“Hey,” he says, trying his best to keep his voice low and gentle, “Ed, you know you can talk to me right? If there’s anything on your mind.”

Edmund doesn’t look at him. “I’m fine. You don’t have to keep checking up on me, you know.”

“You’ve just got me worried. You spend all day looking lost and sad, how am I supposed to ignore that?”

“It’s nothing, really.”

Peter sighs. “Ed. Come on.”

“You make me feel even more guilty every time you ask, you know.”

“Guilty?”

He turns to look Peter in the eye. “Yes, guilty,” he repeats, “Because I miss Narnia, but I know there’s a small chance I may go back one day, but you won’t. Why would I talk about Narnia when I know you miss it more than me?”

“That’s not your fault--”

“The least I can do is not bother you with my brooding.”

Peter drops a hand onto Edmund’s head and messes up his hair as best he can. When Edmund’s successfully fended off Peter’s attack by leaping up and putting distance on them, he’s stopped looking so down.

“What was that for?!”

“You were being stupid, so you deserved it.”

Edmund stops trying to fix his hair to pin Peter with a disbelieving stare. “I’m stupid for being considerate about your feelings?”

Peter pretends to consider the question for a moment, then says, “Yes. You’re making up problems that don’t exist. Talk to me about Narnia. It’s something we all shared. Just because I can’t go back to Narnia again doesn’t mean I want to forget we went there.”

Though he’s never been the most patient of people, Peter is prepared to wait centuries if that’s what it takes to help his siblings.

“I just miss it,” is all Edmund has to say after a few minutes of silence.

They all miss Narnia. That much is obvious. And they’ve all drifted apart to handle their own pain without amplifying another’s. Susan’s taken to collecting quiet, beaten down girls and shaping them into warriors, a habit in Narnia to help women find their own power. Lucy’s taken to drawing landscapes and portraits of Narnia, trying to bring some of it back into England. Peter himself is focusing on living in England again, studying and looking out for those around him, ready to catch any of his siblings if they stumble.

But Edmund is stuck in his sorrow, searching the skies for something and quietly getting through each day like a ghost stuck in a routine. It’s not just from leaving Narnia; the loss goes too deep for that.

“Ed,” he says, worried and wondering if he’s done something to make Edmund so reluctant to talk to him.

“I just keep thinking about it. I wasn’t ready to leave. I wanted to stay.” He goes still. Quiet. “I wanted to stay.”

“I know, I know, I did too,” Peter says, guiding Edmund to sit down.

With a great, heavy sigh, Edmund collapses onto the edge of his bed and hangs his head. “We were gone for a thousand years. How much time will pass before I enter Narnia again? I don’t think I can handle losing everyone again.”

Peter feels that he’s finally understood. A memory of Edmund and Caspian talking quietly together in a courtyard under the stars comes to mind. He had left them to talk, knowing they only had a few days left before they had to say goodbye, and wanted them to have them time to themselves.

“Are you afraid you’ll lose Caspian?”

“We just barely met,” Edmund whispered, “But I wanted to get to know him. I wanted to help him.”

No wonder the loss runs deep. Though he may return to Narnia one day, he will most likely never see Caspian again. There’s little he can do to offer comfort, but he’ll try.

Wrapping an arm around Edmund’s shoulder, Peter says, “Don’t give up hope so easily. After all, he still has Su’s horn, doesn’t he? He may call for you again.”

“Maybe,” Edmund says, and the silence that follows tells him Edmund won’t speak again for the rest of the night.

A month later, Peter will say goodbye to Edmund, Lucy, and England. He will board a ship headed to America with Susan and their parents. They’ll try to move forward with their lives, find a way to make a name for themselves outside Narnia, and live as best they can. When they leave, Edmund and Lucy will hug them tightly, and Peter will beg Aslan to let Edmund see Caspian again one day.

But that comes later. For now, Peter leaves Edmund to handle his grief in silence, and makes sure that none of the boys at school try to go after him. He makes tea for Edmund on his quietest days, and waits, ready to be there for his siblings again.

This longing has burrowed into my bones.

In silence and in sound, I shall search for you.

It’s only at sea that he feels whole. There is no pretending, no masks to wear, no lies to tell. Under the sun with the sea beneath his feet, Caspian has never felt more himself. He is more accustomed to the way the ship rocks than he is to the steadiness of the land. He longs for adventure and looks out to an ever-distant horizon, dreaming of sailing to the edge of the world and seeing all that Aslan has created.

Cythalia never comes with him; she cannot leave the land in which her roots grow. So instead of accompanying him, she bullies the crew into letting go of their preconceptions of him and seeing him not as a king, but as Caspian.

The fear and respect the crew has for her always makes him grin; for such a gentle dryad, she’s not afraid to bare her teeth.

So he sails along the coast of Narnia, wandering through towns and speaking to people, always looking for ways to improve. He sails to distant lands in discuss trade and alliances. He looks to the stars and let them guide the journey, finding the constellations Cornelius taught him as a child.

“The brightest star in the sky, Aslan’s eye, shall always show you the way,” he murmurs to himself. With most of the crew below deck, sleeping, he is surrounded by the sound and smell of the sea. The waves crashing against each other, rocking the ship, filling the air with the scent of salt. He is alone at night, quiet and melancholic. The night watch keeps their distance, and never mention his nighttime stargazing in the day.

Even after two years, Caspian finds himself thinking of the Pevensie’s at night. They’ve left his dreams to haunt his waking hours; he wonders about the Narnia they ruled, how it’s changed, if they would be happy with the decisions he’s made as king. He wonders about the life they live in their original world. He wonders how different it is in Narnia.

When he looks to the stars, Caspian thinks of Edmund, the talks they had late at night before he left, and wonders if he looks to the stars in his world and thinks of Narnia.

He wonders if Edmund misses what they could have been as much as he does.

Caspian keeps his gaze on Aslan’s eye, and wishes for an answer.

Susan refuses to talk about Narnia. It haunts her thoughts, plagues her dreams, and never lets her get a moment of rest. She wants to cry, scream, rage at losing the land she ruled and loved for years. She grew up from schoolgirl to queen and back again, and now she can’t find her footing in either world.

Susan refuses to talk about Narnia. It hurts too much.

But for now, she will listen. When Peter wakes up from nightmares about old battles and disorienting dreams of returning to Narnia, she sits with him at the kitchen table and listens, offering silent comfort as the clock ticks on the wall. And when Lucy sends her paintings of Cair Paravel and Tumnus and the centaur she was teaching archery to in her last year as Narnia’s High Queen, Susan keeps them safe and carefully hidden away from her parent’s eyes.

And when Edmund sends letter after letter, telling her about the hurt and loss and longing he carries, how he’s terrified that in the time they’ve been on Earth Caspian has already died, how he doesn’t know if he’ll ever survive leaving Narnia this time around, Susan will listen. She will write back about America, and offer tips on getting through sleepless nights, and promise him that he will survive this.

Not once will she ever mention Narnia, but Susan will remind him that what he feels is real and nothing can ever take that away from him.

Not ever her.

My heart has not known silence since I met you.

Caspian is too scared to wonder too much about why he misses Edmund the most. He has gotten used to the ache in his chest when he thinks of the Pevensies. He can live with the few memories he has of them.

But his memories of Edmund are the brightest; small smiles and hushed voices, starlight and gentle hands. If he looks too closely, it will only hurt more. So Caspian tries to push it aside, ignore it, forget about the wonder he felt the first time he heard Edmund laugh.

He focuses on the sea and guiding his crew through the waters, sparring with them on deck and looking out for any sea monsters that may decide to try to make a meal out of them. The thrill of adventure makes it easy to smile as they travel; the world is full of wonderful things the Caspian carefully documents in his journals, always searching for more knowledge. As a child, he had never imagined the world to be so beautiful, but he stands now with his crew and his heart is (mostly) full.

At night, dreams of Edmund fill his sleep, where they talk of the stars and finding their place in the world, not as two kings, but as two friends. Caspian tries to forget these dreams, no matter how impossible it is.

“The air is sweeter here,” dream Edmund says, “Not full of smoke that coats your lungs until you cough up ash. It’s a lovely world. Take care of it.”

I will, he thinks, I promise you, I will care for this world as best I can.

Above him, Caspain can swear he sees Aslan’s constellation smile. It must have been his imagination, but the sight filled him with light, so he holds onto it anyways.

He’s lucky that Lucy is still with him. With Peter and Susan gone, England is unbearable. There’s another war brewing; he knows the cost of battle, how it takes and takes and takes and still demands more. He’s no king here, and no one will follow him. But he can fight and protect the land he lives in now.

If he is of age. Which he is not.

Edmund tries to enlist time and time again, but Lucy always appears to drag him back. He’s all she has left in England, and he knows he shouldn’t leave her, but there will always be a part of him that demands sacrifice, that tells him he is still not forgiven for his betrayal.

“I just want to be worth something here,” he tells her one day as they make their way down the streets, Lucy peeking into alleys and around corners. “I want to be more than just Edmund.”

“You’re my brother,” she says, “The Just King Edmund. You’re enough, so stop trying to throw yourself into a war that has nothing to do with us.”

It’s an argument that never ends, so he stays silent the rest of the way back to their Aunt Alberta’s house, where they count the days until their parents are back from America so they can never see her again.

Lucy is quick to collect any mail addressed to them, then disappears up the stairs to her room. Edmund follows, brushing passed Eustace, who says something to him that he ignores. Lucy’s room is their only sanctuary now, where they can take a moment to breathe without anyone criticizing them.

He reads through the letter Susan sent him, advising him to cherish the feelings he has as the strongest tie he has towards Narnia. She never writes out ‘Narnia’, but it’s implied enough that Edmund knows where it goes. Peter adds a little note at the end telling him to make tea if he can’t sleep and to look after Lucy.

“It sounds like they’re doing well,” Lucy comments as she finishes reading her letter. “America sounds nice.”

“Anywhere sounds nice compared to here,” Edmund says, smiling when Lucy collapses onto her back, groaning dramatically.

“You’re right about that.”

“Do you still miss it?” Edmund asks suddenly, the words pulled out of him without warning.

“Hmm?”

“Narnia. Do you still miss it?”

Lucy sits up and regards him carefully. “I always miss it. Not a day goes by when I don’t wish to return. Why?”

Why indeed. He looks to the painting in her room, of a distant ship on a vibrant sea. He swears he can hear the waves, but he doesn’t say a thing about it. The waves are as real as the dreams he has about walking the halls of Cair Paravel with Caspian.

“No reason,” Edmund answers, “Just curious.”

That is where this will end, that day. But the next day, when the two of them go through this routine again, Lucy will talk more about Narnia and the waves in the painting will come to life. For now, Edmund looks at the painting, listens to the waves only he can hear, and feels something settle in his chest.

______________________ notes: title from Euripides: "Come back! Even as a shadow, even as a dream." i recommend listening to this song while reading poetry fragments in between scenes are all original. i just couldn't think of a decent poem to put them into lol.

i hope you like it!!

#tcon #narnia #casmund #caspian x #edmund pevensie #susan pevensie #peter pevensie #lucy pevensie #for quecksilvereyes #by luxaofhesperides #narnia gift exchange #summerexchange: 1 #type: fanfiction

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divainity-aa · 5 years ago

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reggie + old age / death trigger warnings: death, abuse mention, alcoholism word count: 2080

ACT I. THE MANTLE EMPIRE CRUMBLES

richard mantle gets diagnosed with lung cancer at age 65. reggie is age 30. the mantle men never had a long life expectancy. riddled with a history of mental illness and addiction, they were doomed behind the delusion of material wealth and success that they were immortal. drowning in more money than they knew what to do with, though lacking in matters of the heart. it’s the start of the family’s estrangement, long overdue. victoria mantle wipes her tears on the drive home from the appointment. features remain motionless when she delivers the news. his heart seems to have no sympathy as she embraces him, searching for some sort of support. his hands remain at their sides.

he watches as the disease kills his father, having made him into a senile old man with not even half the spunk and livelihood he used to have as a young, up-and-coming entrepreneur. it eats him alive, taking first his body and then his spirit. the chemo, the hair loss, the medication, the appointments. he finds a reason not to be there for any of it. he can’t help but feel a kind of satisfaction, that it’s the universe doing itself due diligence, paying him back for his suffering all these years that he was made afraid in his own home. it was what he had prayed for all these years, every time he bit his tongue saying his father’s name.

so why wasn’t he happy?

richard mantle dies at age 73. on his deathbed, he begs to see his only son, now age 38. you’d think the years of treatment would have given them time to reconcile, to move past their past, but the opposite is quite true. pride seems to be the vice on both ends, keeping them apart. his father finds shame in his illness and need for victoria’s constant assistance and reggie has no interest in making amends even in light of a tragedy. the roles have reversed, reggie now the one never home and his parents never leaving. part of it was spite, wanting to leave them alone the way they left him and part of it was in fear that he would be there when it came to an end.

one night, he’s told that richard called only for him, the heir to his throne, his so-called pride and joy, mumbling something about seeing him before he met with god. he’s told that his father wanted to tell him everything he should have said, beg for forgiveness while he’s bedridden and his mother called for him profusely. he doesn’t pick up the phone. he picks up the bottle and brings it to his lips instead, for it is far more comforting, in a bar nearly 20 minutes away. waiting.

there’s a call later in the night, this time from the hospital.

hi, i’d like to speak to reginald mantle. it’s urgent. ... yeah. sir.. we regret to inform you that your father just passed away. ... sir ? ... ... sir are you still— is she still there ? your mother? yes she’s still here. do you want me to hand her the pho— no. don’t tell her i answered. .. oh. okay. is there a message you’d like me to pass on? ..... .... sir is there a message— .... tell her to let me know when i get my part of the inheritance.

he was right. his father’s pride would be what killed him.

reggie doesn’t attend the funeral. his mother pleads with him on the phone, begging that he’ll do the right thing and put past wrongs aside. he’s your father, goddamnit! but he doesn’t show. he burned the invitation, with a match of his own light, watching his father’s glowing portrait disintegrate upon gloss paper. he stares, hoping that some kind memory, some fond recollection that can guilt him into feeling sorry. but like most times, he feels nothing.

he spits on his grave and pours his father a drink through the soil. he thanks him for nothing and never goes back.

soon, all of riverdale knows and they begin pouring in meaningless condolences. old acquaintances emerge from the woodwork, knowing of the inheritance he has on its way, and honest friends reach out to apologize for something that isn’t their fault. it’s hard to tell which is which, but it doesn’t matter. he ignores them all, paying mind only to the numbness from hard liquor. he packs a bag with his things, enough clothes for a week, before leaving riverdale without intending to return.

ACT II. THE LAST MANTLE STANDING

reggie moves back into the mantle mansion at age 40. it’s not until years later that he decides that he’s ready to even make a reappearance at what was never a loving home. his mother is there to greet him, she herself decreasing in health and taking after that of her husband. they’ve not been in contact all this time, too painful for both of them, but still she embraces him with tears in her eyes. for the first time in forever, a hand raises to reciprocate, tears streaming quietly down chiseled cheeks. maybe it’s the sight of his mother, aged but still the same, maybe it’s her compassion. he was never the perfect son, nor she the perfect mother, but grief has a way of bringing families together after setting them apart. he’s not quite ready to forgive her and she knows it.

but he’s home. they both are.

reggie’s mother dies at age 80. reggie is age 47. no diagnosis, no illness: simply the wrath of father time. her bones finally became to brittle and her heartbeat too slow. she passes away in her sleep. reggie finds her in the morning when he’s bringing her breakfast. there’s still a grape juice stain on the carpet from where it is he dropped the tray.

he calls the family he never knew, her estranged sister and two brothers. they come to riverdale for a private service and he meets them for the first time, having never before because his mother didn’t keep in contact after marrying. they look so much like her it hurts. they share a few embraces and exchange information. it’s the last time he ever sees them until 20 years later. they collect her things that she left them and leave before the weekend is over, leaving him with the lease.

he remembers when he thought the house was emptier with his parents in it.

ACT III. A LEGACY REBORN.

the mantle foundation and recreational center is founded in 2050. his hair begins to gray and he’s painfully aware that there’s little time left for him to salvage what’s left of his life. it could be over tomorrow & he has no heir: no wife or children. his fear of a legacy, of a child bearing his name and his burden too great for him, leaving him truly and utterly alone. and with nothing to lose, more importantly.

he sells the riverdale gazette for a sizeable amount and uses the earnings to renovate an old building, a former warehouse, into a clubhouse, one for kids ages 12-19. the doors are always open and there’s no entrance fee— only the request that you treat others the way you’d like to be treated. a rule he never followed. the inheritance he receives from both his mother and father are poured into its operation, furnishing it with love & comfort, and its foundation creates countless opportunities for riverdale’s youth. students are given access to endless resources, human and material alike. new school supplies, toys, books for the taking. tutors, therapists, coaches and advisors at the ready. free of charge, at the disposal of those who otherwise wouldn’t have access.

college scholarship funds are opened in the names of influential people in his life, including the archie andrews scholarship, the betty cooper award, and the veronica lodge fund ( in partnership w/her namesake ), to help riverdale’s follow their dreams to higher education. every application is read by reggie himself and he interviews every candidate to hear their stories. he often ends up giving more awards than promised, quite literally having money to burn, just not at anyone’s expense but his own.

he’s there for all of it. from getting his hands dirty when the building was built to being there to greet kids every day and lock the building when it’s closing : he is invested. his face is no longer attached to misery, but delight. hope. the kids know him by name when they bustle in after school and he treats them like the children they never had. in a lot of ways, they are.

the people of riverdale almost can’t believe their eyes, its once infamous villain now having had a change of heart. some are still skeptical, others have accepted the change and donate regularly to the cause. he’ll never fully undo the wrongs he’s done, but this is where he begins. and better to have started now, than never being given a chance to.

all the while, he lives a quiet life, tending to his kids at the center when he’s not at home. visits are seldom, but each one is appreciated and cherished as time continues its march alongside him.

ACT IV. A SOLEMN REPRISE.

reggie is diagnosed with liver cancer at age 70. and it seems with every day that he may not outlive his father. damaged by the consumption of hard liquor from premature age has caught up and it’s eager to collect its dues. he lived comfortably in the delusion that illness had skipped his generation, that he was where it ended, but he is sorely mistaken. he refuses all treatment, remembering how it is his father died, under flourescent lights that burned his eyes, and he grimaces. he’d rather die able-bodied, than drag out his suffering. though fearful, he is accepting and continues business as usual. the world still turns and it will even after he goes.

reggie dies at 75. it’s in his sleep, the same as his mother. a night he never woke up from. suspicion grows when he’s not seen around town, nor at his own foundation’s headquarters. a coworker finds him after he doesn’t pick up any calls and alerts authorities.

the town comes together for the funeral, knowing there’s no family of his that would do it himself. archie, betty, jughead and veronica help plan it with the help of the lives he’s touched. the scholars he’s changed the futures of return home without a second though and pay their respects. there’s an exchange of stories, recounting every part of his life. the core four give eulogy together. riverdale high pays tribute to him not just as a public servant but for the stellar athlete and leader that he was. there’s a plaque dedicated to him at the mantle foundation center and a portrait painted of his likeness hung to remind all its guests why it is they have what they do.

ACT V. A NEVER - ENDING STORY.

his will. he’s cremated, the way he wanted to be, and his ashes spread in the wind, on the shore of his favorite beach. a free spirit while alive, he wanted to same for his soul. he’s also given a gravestone next to his family, just for looks.

in his will, he leaves the mansion to the next CEO of the mantle foundation, instructing that it’s used to expand their headquarters whether it be to create a second location or another office for its business staff. he leaves each of his three cars to archie, betty, and veronica, telling them they can give it to their kids for their 16th birthday, keep them for themselves, or sell them at market value. whatever works best. his motorcycle goes to jughead.

he leaves a video for each person who’s stuck around this long behind, on a thumbdrive that’s mailed upon his death. each video is personal, with things he just wants to make sure are known, even after his passing, and heartfelt in its own way. each of the core four receives one and so does his foundation staff.

his personal funds to be completely depleted after this division of assets. the remaining funds are all left to the foundation to ensure it’s kept running until the next person takes charge.

the empire ended with him, but its name will last forever now because of it.

#╰ I. ⦊ HEADCANONS / METAS.#long post tw /#THIS SHIT LONG ASF.#haven't decided who he'd want as his successor to run the place but .#it's verse dependent .#eveRYTHING ELSE IS ABT RIGHT THO FJDKA THIS TURNED INTO A STORY HONESTLY .#lowkey proud? i should write a novel #the phone call is so Cinematic jfdlj

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cherita · 7 years ago

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10 Climate Fiction Books to Read for Earth Day

Today is Earth Day, that day of the year when we’re reminded to take care of our planet. It’s the only one we’ve got, after all… for now, at least.

But in the world of speculative fiction, reminders aren’t really needed. Sci-fi authors have long thought up future scenarios impacted by every sort of ecological disaster imaginable, whether caused by our own careless pollution or technology gone awry, some strange alien virus, or just a pissed off Mother Nature who’s had enough of our shit. It even has its own cute genre name: cli-fi, for climate fiction (see what they did there?).

Though the name is a recent invention, writers have pondered the perils of climate change as far back as Jules Vernes’ 1889 adventure novel, The Purchase of the North Pole, while J.G. Ballard’s dystopian novels The Drowned World (1962) and The Drought (1964) are considered early cli-fi classics. Today, with terms like “global warming" and "carbon footprint” now part of our everyday lexicon, climate change and environmental disaster are in everyone’s thoughts — and climate fiction has grown right along with our awareness.

Even if climate change has never once crossed your mind (you could be a monk, I guess?), these 10 books are sure to get you thinking about the environment and our impact on it…

Imaginative future sci-fi of a floating refugee city in a post-climate change world:

Blackfish City (2018)

by Sam J. Miller

After the climate wars, a floating city is constructed in the Arctic Circle, a remarkable feat of mechanical and social engineering, complete with geothermal heating and sustainable energy. The city’s denizens have become accustomed to a roughshod new way of living, however, the city is starting to fray along the edges—crime and corruption have set in, the contradictions of incredible wealth alongside direst poverty are spawning unrest, and a new disease called “the breaks” is ravaging the population.

When a strange new visitor arrives—a woman riding an orca, with a polar bear at her side—the city is entranced. The “orcamancer,” as she’s known, very subtly brings together four people—each living on the periphery—to stage unprecedented acts of resistance. By banding together to save their city before it crumbles under the weight of its own decay, they will learn shocking truths about themselves.

Blackfish City is a remarkably urgent—and ultimately very hopeful—novel about political corruption, organized crime, technology run amok, the consequences of climate change, gender identity, and the unifying power of human connection.

Moby Dick retelling of inter-planetary exploration to help a resource-depleted earth:

The Beast of Cretacea (2015)

by Todd Strasser

Master storyteller Todd Strasser reimagines the classic tale of Moby Dick as set in the future—and takes readers on an epic sci-fi adventure.

When seventeen-year-old Ishmael wakes up from stasis aboard the Pequod, he is amazed by how different this planet is from the dirty, dying, Shroud-covered Earth he left behind. But Ishmael isn’t on Cretacea to marvel at the fresh air, sunshine, and endless blue ocean. He’s here to work, risking his life to hunt down great ocean-dwelling beasts to harvest and send back to the resource-depleted Earth. Even though easy prey abounds, time and again the chase boat crews are ordered to ignore it in order to pursue the elusive Great Terrafin. It’s rumored that the ship’s captain, Ahab, lost his leg to the beast years ago, and that he’s now consumed by revenge. But there may be more to Captain Ahab’s obsession. Dark secrets and dangerous exploits swirl around the pursuit of the beast, and Ishmael must do his best to survive—if he can.

Lyrical present-day tale of the apocalyptic effects of climate change:

Clade (2015)

by James Bradley

On a beach in Antarctica, scientist Adam Leith marks the passage of the summer solstice. Back in Sydney his partner Ellie waits for the results of her latest round of IVF treatment.

That result, when it comes, will change both their lives and propel them into a future neither could have predicted. In a collapsing England Adam will battle to survive an apocalyptic storm. Against a backdrop of growing civil unrest at home, Ellie will discover a strange affinity with beekeeping. In the aftermath of a pandemic, a young man finds solace in building virtual recreations of the dead. And new connections will be formed from the most unlikely beginnings.

Clade is the story of one family in a radically changing world, a place of loss and wonder where the extraordinary mingles with the everyday. Haunting, lyrical and unexpectedly hopeful, it is the work of a writer in command of the major themes of our time.

Near-future tale of the apocalyptic effects of climate change:

Drowning Towers (1984)

by George Turner

Francis Conway is Swill - one of the millions in the year 2041 who must subsist on the inadequate charities of the state. Life, already difficult, is rapidly becoming impossible for Francis and others like him, as government corruption, official blindness and nature have conspired to turn Swill homes into watery tombs. And now the young boy must find a way to escape the approaching tide of disaster. The Sea and Summer, published in the US as The Drowning Towers is George Turner’s masterful exploration of the effects of climate change in the not-too-distant future. Comparable to J.G. Ballard’s The Drowned World, it was shortlisted for the Nebula and won the Arthur C. Clarke Award for best novel in 1988.

Fantasy tale in an apocalyptic world of catastrophic climate change:

The Fifth Season (2015)

Broken Earth trilogy

by N. K. Jemisin

WINNER OF THE HUGO AWARD FOR BEST NOVEL 2016

This is the way the world ends…for the last time.

A season of endings has begun. It starts with the great red rift across the heart of the world’s sole continent, spewing ash that blots out the sun. It starts with death, with a murdered son and a missing daughter. It starts with betrayal, and long dormant wounds rising up to fester. This is the Stillness, a land long familiar with catastrophe, where the power of the earth is wielded as a weapon. And where there is no mercy.

Hard sci-fi in a post-climate change world where skyscrapers are island homes:

New York 2140 (2017)

by Kim Stanley Robinson

NOMINATED FOR THE HUGO AWARD FOR BEST NOVEL 2018

New York Times bestselling author Kim Stanley Robinson returns with a bold and brilliant vision of New York City in the next century.

As the sea levels rose, every street became a canal. Every skyscraper an island. For the residents of one apartment building in Madison Square, however, New York in the year 2140 is far from a drowned city.

There is the market trader, who finds opportunities where others find trouble. There is the detective, whose work will never disappear - along with the lawyers, of course.

There is the internet star, beloved by millions for her airship adventures, and the building’s manager, quietly respected for his attention to detail. Then there are two boys who don’t live there, but have no other home - and who are more important to its future than anyone might imagine.

Lastly there are the coders, temporary residents on the roof, whose disappearance triggers a sequence of events that threatens the existence of all - and even the long-hidden foundations on which the city rests.

New York 2140 is an extraordinary and unforgettable novel, from a writer uniquely qualified to tell the story of its future.

Spec-fic tale of genetic engineering gone awry, causing ecological devastation:

Oryx and Crake (2003)

MaddAddam trilogy

by Margaret Atwood

Oryx and Crake is at once an unforgettable love story and a compelling vision of the future. Snowman, known as Jimmy before mankind was overwhelmed by a plague, is struggling to survive in a world where he may be the last human, and mourning the loss of his best friend, Crake, and the beautiful and elusive Oryx whom they both loved. In search of answers, Snowman embarks on a journey–with the help of the green-eyed Children of Crake–through the lush wilderness that was so recently a great city, until powerful corporations took mankind on an uncontrolled genetic engineering ride. Margaret Atwood projects us into a near future that is both all too familiar and beyond our imagining.

Poignant, literary tale of inter-planetary exploration to help a devastated earth:

The Stone Gods (2007)

by Jeanette Winterson

On the airwaves, all the talk is of the new blue planet – pristine and habitable, like our own was 65 million years ago, before we took it to the edge of destruction. Off the air, Billie Crusoe and the renegade robo-sapian Spike are falling in love. Along with Captain Handsome and Pink, they’re assigned to colonize the new blue planet. But when a technical maneuver intended to make it inhabitable backfires, Billie and Spike’s flight to the future becomes a surprising return to the distant past –- “Everything is imprinted forever with what it once was.” What will happen when their story combines with the world’s story? Will they –- and we –- ever find a safe landing place? Playful, passionate, polemical, and frequently very funny, The Stone Gods will change forever the stories we tell about the earth, about love, and about stories themselves.

The ocean fights back against mankind’s pollution in this sci-fi thriller:

The Swarm (2004)

by Frank Schatzing

Whales begin sinking ships. Toxic, eyeless crabs poison Long Island’s water supply. The North Sea shelf collapses, killing thousands in Europe. Around the world, countries are beginning to feel the effects of the ocean’s revenge as the seas and their inhabitants begin a violent revolution against mankind. At stake is the survival of the Earth’s fragile ecology—and ultimately, the survival of the human race itself.

The apocalyptic catastrophes of The Day After Tomorrow meet the watery menace of The Abyss in this gripping, scientifically realistic, and utterly imaginative thriller.

Biopunk tale of a genetically engineered future in a post-climate change world:

The Windup Girl (2009)

by Paolo Bacigalupi

Anderson Lake is a company man, AgriGen’s Calorie Man in Thailand. Under cover as a factory manager, Anderson combs Bangkok’s street markets in search of foodstuffs thought to be extinct, hoping to reap the bounty of history’s lost calories. There, he encounters Emiko… Emiko is the Windup Girl, a strange and beautiful creature. One of the New People, Emiko is not human; instead, she is an engineered being, creche-grown and programmed to satisfy the decadent whims of a Kyoto businessman, but now abandoned to the streets of Bangkok. Regarded as soulless beings by some, devils by others, New People are slaves, soldiers, and toys of the rich in a chilling near future in which calorie companies rule the world, the oil age has passed, and the side effects of bio-engineered plagues run rampant across the globe. What Happens when calories become currency? What happens when bio-terrorism becomes a tool for corporate profits, when said bio-terrorism’s genetic drift forces mankind to the cusp of post-human evolution? Award-winning author Paolo Bacigalupi delivers one of the most highly acclaimed science fiction novels of the twenty-first century.

#book list #climate fiction #cli-fi #sci-fi #science fiction

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l3monsoda · 7 years ago

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OK Listen Up

ALL THE SPOILERS AHEAD FOR STEVEN UNIVERSE OK SO LIKE JUST SKIP IF YOU HAVE TO

Also very long post I got lots to say here

First of all Freaking Called it so freaking long ago!

I FINALLY found time to watch A Single Pale Rose and listen folks, all yall just about driving me up a wall with your constant screaming “OH Worst plot twist ever boo!” and “This totally makes Rose the villain. Wahhh” and “She totally was a manipulative mastermind who selfishly and single-handedly orchestrated the entire gem war resulting in the death of thousands and endless suffering for all of our heroes! That devious dastardly monster!!!”

Ok guys chill out for a second and hear me out ok? I think everyone is missing some very important already established aspects of Rose, and now Pink Diamonds character. I’m going break this down slowly so bare with me ok because I’ve got about the whole shows worth of points and evidence to go through here because honestly crewniverse has been building up to this since like day one.

First thing I want to get out of the way is those of you who are talking about how after this there is no way to reconcile the initial image of Rose Quarts as a kind all loving compassionate leader who only did things for the greater good everyone around her. To those folks; I have to wonder if you have been paying attention? Because guys Steven literally went through a whole arc about this already, Rose was not the perfect amazing flawless gem that the original cast of the crystal gems always made her out to be. She’s not supposed to be viewed that way by us anymore. All kids grow up and find out there parents aren’t perfect, Steven included. Rose had secrets, she lied, she stamped out rebellion within her movement and quickly buried the evidence. and this is just the obvious stuff that is told to us.

If you really want to know the real Rose Quartz you need to be paying really close attention to episodes where we see her through the eyes of not the gems but Greg. That is when Rose’s true characterization comes out and we start to get some real insight into who she was. The Rose Greg knew was sweet and silly but also lacking in something that I think was previously attributed to her by sheer virtue of being “good” empathy. Rose is compassionate, she is kind, she genuinely finds value in the uniqueness and wonder of life on earth but she can’t empathize with it. Rose’s perspective of understanding is completely limited to her own point of view, she is incapable of seeing it another way. We see it in the way she handles her relationship with Greg, the frivolous nature she approaches humanity as a whole, the callousness she puts toward the care of a baby. She appreciates and values human life but in the way a scientist watches ants build a colony.

She thinks humans are cool and fascinating, fun to watch and they do all these silly and funny things that are so much fun be a part of. To understand how Rose views humanity look no farther than Pink Diamonds human zoo. On the surface it is benevolent and on a practical level it is paradise where nothing bad happens ever, an actual ant colony for what was no doubt an early exploration by Pink Diamond into humanity. This displays again a form of compassion with out empathy. Rose loves humans but she doesn’t connect with them, for her there is a barrier that she can’t bridge and it stems from a complete inability to put herself in another’s shoes. I like to think Greg helps with this somewhat in a way that no other human companion had, his empathy abounds and his patience to explain things to Rose both the world and his feelings seem to have helped them make some sort of progress, but honestly I have always suspected the whole Steven experiment was just Rose’s way of finally bridging the last step she never could, Rose can only truly understand what she has experienced for herself and so Steven was her way of finally understanding humanity once and for all.

Now at this point you might be thinking “See Rose is a villain!” but I’m here to tell you no. Rose is not evil, Rose is selfish. Contrary to what generations worth of Disney films have been telling you, that is not an inherently evil trait. A lot of very compassionate and giving people are selfish. See selfishness is often coupled with greediness and while the two can exist quite harmoniously within the same person they don’t have to. To be selfish or self centered just mean that everything is usually viewed first and foremost through the lens of you. Your needs, your wants, what benefits you. But this doesn’t mean you can’t do nice kind things and also I’m of the opinion that it doesn’t some how negate the positive impact of that kindness just because it was done in part to benefit the doer as well. All through out history you have astoundingly humanitarian and kind acts being pursed for selfish reasons. As long as the selfish motivation doesn’t impeded the good detrimentally, as long as good gets done should we really care why?

The other thing we need to take note of is this, Rose and especially as Pink Diamond, is childish. She literally refers to her relationship with Greg as “Play”. Every action we’ve ever seen rose take that was not seen through the lens of the adoration of the Crystal gems or through the almost fairy tale like narrative sometimes given to us be Garnet we see Rose take with a note of levity and lack of seriousness that has always caused me to call into question her leadership capabilities. Now when we saw this trait in Rose it manifested itself as charming and sweet (Most likely Greg’s influence since it’s in his memories that when we witness the most flawed versions of the woman but she was still the woman he loves and therefore very much a still biased viewpoint) but when we meet Pink Diamond we see it’s far less endearing implications. It’s important to note that by Rose’s own words, gems do not grow up and change, they come into being as they are. This means that Pink’s diminutive stature and two year old like tendency to throw a tantrum are not credited to her lack of experience but more who she is as a character. At the core of who Pink Diamond and therefore by extension Rose Quartz is is a child who has been made to lead. This isn’t something she was liable to outgrow especially since there is all the emphasis on not only the flawlessness but also the unchanging eternity that is a diamond. A Diamond is forever.

So when we add these well established and known parts of the character up what are we left with? Well for starters we are most certainly left with a huge heap of a mess of a war and hurt and grieving parties on all sides that could clearly be traced back directly is the defiantly questionable choices of Rose Quartz. Though the blame game is such a silly waste of time since you could also say that the fact that the other Diamonds gave the clearly incapable Pink Diamond a colony in the first place was in pretty poor judgment, also no one made the diamonds corrupt all the gems on earth including their own soldiers, they were clearly going to abandon earth anyway, they could have just left and let the cluster do it’s work and so on and so forth.

Any way I agree Rose has a huge part of the blame in the amazing tragedy that was the Gem war but this prevailing opinion that it was all a carefully plotted masterful manipulation meant to hurt everyone and just let her do whatever she wanted without consequences is honestly giving too much agency to a character that as far I can see from what we’ve been shown was regularly just keeping her head above water while busily preforming “Fake it til you make it”.

Pink Diamond’s Story looks to me to be this, A child who was desperate to grow up. She wants to prove she is capable and strong and at first it manifests in a desire to run her own colony, then she gets one and falls absolutely in love with her planet with a childlike wonder and reverence that can only be achieved by truly childish entities. She tries to defend this new found bauble she has gained but the wheels for colonization are in motion and she’s just a child in spirit and overwhelmed so she reaches out to those who have always fixed it for her. They are not in agreement they poo poo her so she takes matters into her own hands but hides under a disguise to evade punishment from her elders. Suddenly growing up isn’t about colonies or running things but being able to have her own say in how she lives and what she believes in. It becomes clear the other diamonds aren’t going to “Let her be a DJ.” so she does what every child does when they don’t get their way, she runs away. Albeit running away in her case involved faking her own death cruelly conscripting her pearl to silence and adding even more fodder to the fire of the thousands year long gem war but children rarely think too far beyond the consequences of their own perspective.

Her desire to live among humans, her abject praise of all things new, her obsession with growing things, her fascination with all things on earth’s ability to change, and her constant encouragement to other gems to go ahead and become something new, to recreate themselves outside of the diamonds expectations this all fits in perfectly with this narrative. Rose is obsessed with growth and development, because ultimately it’s exactly what she wants for herself. She struggles with it due to a lack of empathy, she tries her best to be good and do right but the truth her perspective is so limited that her action often end up tone def.

What’s most interesting about this character to me is that she seems to be self aware of this problem with in her. That one line in ‘We Need To Talk’ literally haunted the moment it aired. Greg cries out her barely even knows her and Rose grimly and resolutely responds with “That’s a good thing.” Actually do me a favor and go back and watch the whole scene because honestly it perfectly illustrates my empathy point too. But Rose KNOWS she done messed everything up, you can see her trying to form an understanding to do and be better but she just lacks the tools.

See I’m not on here trying to defend the viewpoint that Rose is a wonderful perfect all benevolent leader because honestly, it a stance that doesn’t have a leg to stand on. I’m saying she is someone who wants to do good thinks she is doing good but just falls short of the mark and she knows it. She tries to fix it with things like working to cure the corrupted gems and taking the time to really understand humans but even she knows it’s not enough.

This brings me to Rose’s final crime, leaving all of the consequences of her past to Steven. See in Rose’s mind becoming Steven was no different than killing Pink Diamond to become Rose Quartz. It was a natural progression and the final answer on how to grow up, how to understand humanity, how to be better. Steven has what Rose lacks in spades, he is arguably too empathetic. Everyone tells Steven when he’s kind that he’s like his mom but actually he like what his mom was trying to be but wasn’t. It didn’t seem wrong unfair or even cruel in Rose’s mind to leave the mess of her past to Steven because she was going to BE Steven. Rose thinks that by becoming Steven, this half human gem hybrid she’s actually at last gaining the means to clean up her own mess. We know that’s not at all the case but again this comes not from a malicious intent but a lack of perspective on Rose’s part.

Rose just like every other character in this show is not one thing, she’s nuanced. Honestly it shouldn’t be all that surprising in show that’s done nothing but take the time to show us that sometimes there are no villains just a lot of different viewpoints and misunderstandings.

Sorry for the long post if your still here my god you have my sympathy and respect.

#su #a single pale rose #rant #loooooooooooong post #beware #Character study?#honestly i have so many other things I should be focusing on right now #steven universe #pink diamond #rose quartz #spoilers #someone should probaly take me keyboard #ah no one will read this anyway #too long

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texanredrose · 7 years ago

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Symphony of Souls (Pt 3)

It took her some time to recover, deep breaths helping to ease the turmoil in her chest. Velvet immediately came to her side, offering a comforting touch and soothing words- though they brought with them a bittersweet sort of pain as well. She spoke of the six she knew, friends she'd had for a while now.

They all lived in the city and remained close friends after college, often meeting at one residence or another for a shared meal or movie or just to talk. She'd only been formally inducted into the friend group during their senior year, with the others sharing ties going as far back as kindergarten, but she'd quickly bonded with all of them. They were staunch friends who sometimes felt more like a family, which made things easier for the rabbit Faunus who'd moved to Vale from Menagerie. Sun and Pyrrha understood her plight, hailing from Vacuo and Mistral respectively, while Blake and Emerald seemed to have bounced around before finding Yang and Sun here in Vale. Coco and Yang were somewhat local, with the former having family out west near the border and the latter's lived just a few miles up the coast.

Weiss honestly couldn't be happier.

After she regained the ability to speak, calming her tears for the meantime, the deity showed her guest around, allowing her to marvel over art no one except her had seen in thousands of years.

"I studied photography in college but I recognize all these pieces from my art history class." She frowned, ears falling slightly. "Except..."

"They don't look exactly the same." Weiss nodded, reaching out to touch the gilded frame on one of the paintings. It showed Thief's- Emerald's, oh, how she'd missed the sound of her name, even in the privacy of her own head- first encounter with the ancient deity. In her fury, a cascade of white light radiated from Weiss' form, with her precious Nightowl just a few steps behind, watching the groveling mortal with curiosity, ears flicked forward. "I had my Thief recreate them, changing the appearances of my chosen and even myself a time or two. I keep the originals here and have destroyed all copies; a tedious task but... I had time." She sighed, allowing her arm to drop. "I had to divert suspicions."

"I don't think anyone would see a classical painting resemble someone they know and jump to the conclusion of deity aided reincarnation," Velvet said, lips curled in amusement, but the chuckle died in her throat upon seeing the seriousness in the deity's expression.

She knew better. "You'd be surprised. I remember when mortals thought physical deformities were the sign of witchcraft; when silver eyes meant terrible power; when freckles were signs of sin. Mortals are funny creatures, when left to tell their own stories." A frown touched her lips. "I also have to consider there are others like me- fallen deities who could try to harness my power to reclaim their former glory."

"They can do that?" Any lightheartedness was swiftly replaced by concern, brows pinching together in worry.

Her lips pressed into a tight line. "I don't know. But I know there are times when I feel almost as powerful as I used to be, like with the six of them by my side I can be as strong as I was before I met Blake that first time. I had many names then and only a handful of consistent depictions- enough to make me a true deity, to bend the world to my whim." She moved on to another picture, depicting a hunt lead by her Gladiatrix with Dragon not far behind, the others following in various states of interest. The thrill always appeal to the first two more than the others, though her Thief and Jester rather liked the physical exertion if nothing else. "I've little idea what could restore one like me or if it's even possible... but I wouldn't put it past half my pantheon to try, so I must protect them."

Velvet leaned closer to a bust of her beloved Seamstress, muttering something about glasses before sighing. "What about you?"

"Pardon?"

"Could you restore yourself?" She gestured to a few more paintings- these obviously made centuries after the initial batch, cataloging their reunions and individual adventures through history. Her Gladiatrix standing in defense of Haven during the Great War, Nightowl rallying humans and Faunus alike during the Azul City Revolution, Dragon proudly posing with Remnant's first suspension bridge behind her, Thief's mugshot on a stylized wanted poster from an exhibition during the resurgence of noir media, Jester leading a caravan across desert dunes, and Seamstress dressing some noble in the fashion of the times. They looked different those times- hair color, skin tone, scars and the like, sometimes taller or shorter, and Weiss recalled each iteration vividly- but they were still her chosen. "If they-"

"No!" She snapped, anger and fear lending power to her voice, before smoothing out her expression a moment later. "No, I- I won't do that. The cost would be far too high." Shining blue eyes fell on a painting of them out in the field behind the temple, beneath the shade of the tree that stood at the edge of their garden. "I'd lose them forever... I can't bear that."

Silence echoed in the room, only broken by Velvet's soft footsteps.

"So you... hide their identities in classical works, hide among mortals yourself, and hope you can find them again, thinking they might reject you..." She paused, obviously putting the pieces together. "They have before... haven't they?"

"More than once," she said, doing her best to keep her tears in check. "By the time I found them, sometimes... they had lives- happy ones. They’d settled down for love or necessity; sometimes, they clung to each other in pairs, doing what they could to make the best of a cruel world. They didn't want to risk uncertainty, so they turned me away, and I understood. I watched over them from afar." Weiss sighed. "Other times... I just... found them too late."

"Why?" The Faunus shook her head. "Why keep putting yourself through this?"

"I love them, Velvet." She smiled, a sad and broken thing with her eyes still shining wet with tears. "For all the pain and loneliness I endure, just one moment more with them... it's worth it."

She truly believed that. At the end of each day, it's what motivated her to face the next one, to continue walking down this endless road rife with agony she could hardly articulate. Just one more moment, one more smile, one more laugh, one more kiss from their lips- she would keep going until the sun turned to dust.

Suddenly, she found arms wrapping around her, a light embrace that eased the turmoil within all too easily, loosened her tongue enough for the words to flow.

"There are times though... when I wonder if I should resign." She closed her eyes and tried with all her might to keep her voice steady. "If I allowed myself to fade away entirely, what remains of my power would strengthen their bonds. They'll find each other earlier in their lives and, together, they will find the happiness they deserve." A shuddering breath. "That's all I want for them."

"But then they wouldn't have you." The Faunus squeezed her a little tighter. "It sounds like you make them happy; they've chosen you before and they will again."

"Maybe." She muttered, pulling away just enough to look into umber eyes. It still hurt, because she could see the soul shining bright, calling to her, looking to ease her distress as the others had... but she couldn't indulge more than she had already. "I bring them pain, too. Just look at Blake."

A sigh slipped past her lips as she turned away, leading Velvet further into the room, to the very last painting at the back of it. Unlike all the others, this one her Thief painted many centuries after the fact, plagued by nightmares of the night the temple fell. Flames burst from between blackened columns, stone crumbled along the foundation, and thick smoke obscured all but the bright red of the soldiers' eyes as they marched up the steps and desecrated their home.

"Wait, I know this one. I did a paper on it." The Faunus leaned closer to inspect it, noting every little inconsistency with a keen gaze. "This is 'Fall of Maiden Temple' based on the old legends describing the sacking of Tempir. The army of King Sidom swept across Mantle, destroying effigies of ancient gods and ransacking places of worship so he could install himself as a God King. By all accounts..." She paused, the pieces falling together. "That was three thousand years ago."

Absent of every other recreation were the two figures lying in pools of blood in the courtyard of the temple- partially blurred and obscured by smoke and the boots of soldiers as spears were thrust down into prone bodies, unable to defend themselves. Further up the steps, another lay with a sword imbedded in his gut, and more beyond.

"Yes." Weiss swallowed thickly. "These are the memories I bring back. I'll never forget the night I failed them; seeing me reminds them of that. I failed to protect them. I did this." Thousands of years' of guilt fell heavily on her shoulders, but she stood tall. She brought this upon them all; the least she could do was own up to her terrible failures. "Each time they choose to stand beside me again, they forgive me this, my greatest transgression... but I've yet to forgive myself."

She turned away in shame, her mind playing tricks on her and lending movement to the flames. Moments like these, she felt her weakest, the agony of being without her lovers compounded by the memories lodged deep in her soul, her final moments with each of them mired in sorrow and regret. She should've given her life to protect them, not the other way around.

"Do you tell them this every time?" Velvet kept her voice soft, falling into step behind the deity as she made a hasty retreat from the room.

"No." She shook her head, closing the door quickly and setting the locks, as if such physical means could ever hide away the memories, the guilt and sorrow, the pain and rage. "When the memories come, I let them vent, let them process in their own time, and let them decide to move on, which they always do. After suffering through the vague memories of their first death, they usually want to focus on happier times. I keep all this to myself... until now." Blue eyes slid to the Faunus and she could tell by the worry shining in her eyes and evident in her expression that she'd drained herself by dwelling on the night her temple fell. A little rest would recharge her; unlike the wear of weathering centuries alone, this loss of strength came from resisting the inclinations inherent to all her kind, the urge to exact harsh punishments against those who wronged her tempered by the futility of the gesture. Beyond that, Velvet had no recollections to draw upon and no duty to share in the memories, and another pang of regret stabbed at her heart. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have burdened you with this."

"Weiss, it's not a burden." She paused, then shrugged. "Okay, it is a burden, but the sort you're supposed to share. Everyone needs a friend." She smiled, ears perking. "And maybe I can help make this right. I could call everyone together for a party, introduce you to them again. I'm sure I can talk Blake into it."

"That won't be necessary; in time, Blake will make her decision," the deity said, drawing herself up and offering a polite smile. "I've been through this before. I must merely wait."

Weiss started for the door, ready to escort her guest out; she couldn't imagine Velvet would want to stay bear witness to more. Or, perhaps, she didn't trust herself to keep it all locked away, for it wouldn't be the first time secrets were coaxed from her lips. She'd always been so weak to those whose souls appealed to her, one of the many failings she possessed. Sometimes, she wondered why Mother stood to make such an imperfect creation, but, then again, weren't they all?

Halfway down the stairs, she turned back, aware she was no longer being followed and curious as to what had drawn the Faunus' attention. Instantly, she recognized the glint in Velvet's eyes, determination coupled with compassion, and she'd seen it in too many shades to mistake it now.

"What were the first words you said to Blake when you were in our apartment?"

A frown touched her lips- yet another bittersweet memory. "I asked her 'do you believe in destiny', it’s-"

"Here's the thing, Weiss," she said firmly, not wavering in the slightest as she stood at the top of the stairs. "I really didn't before I met you. But it's hard to argue with what I'm seeing and I don't think it's just a coincidence that you came to the park that night or that I already know everyone you've been looking for, that I live with one of them." Velvet looked around, noting that very little outside the locked room indicated much about the person who dwelt within the penthouse. So instead, she turned to point back down the hall, towards the room they’d just left. "I don't have, what, seven millennia of memories to sift through, trying to find the right path." She then pointed down, at the space between her feet. "I only have the here and now. And from where I'm standing?" Her brows pinched together. "There's an obvious way to approach this and it seems to be the best solution. Let me talk to Blake and the others. Just... see if I can get all of them together to meet you."

Weiss sighed, sensing already her odds. “I’ll not talk you out of this, will I?”

“You can try.” Velvet crossed her arms over her chest, shifting her weight to one foot. “I mean, you’ll fail, but you can try, if it makes you feel better.”

“Very well,” she said, conceding the fight a bit too readily. The chance to be among them again- immortal she may be, but she had her weaknesses the same as any mortal. Six of them, to be precise. Then again, were it any other making the offer, she might still be able to resist... but not Velvet, with her bright soul shining in her eyes. “But I would appreciate it if you didn’t bring up what I’ve told you here today or try to push Blake one way or another. It’s her decision and I will respect that. I expect you to do the same.”

After a moment, rabbit ears twitched. “Okay, fair. It’s not my story to tell.” At the deity’s continued stare, she rolled her eyes. “And I won’t twist Blake’s arm.”

“That doesn’t sound very convincing.”

“Look, I think we can both agree she has her... stubborn streaks. All of them do.” The Faunus began descending the stairs, moving her hands in vague gestures. “But I have the benefit of not remembering a damn thing. I’ll ground Blake in the present and presently? You’ve gone through hell and high water to just spend a little time with her where she isn’t figuratively tearing your throat out. The least she can do is humor us both.”

“You’ve certainly come around quickly.” Her lips lifted into a small smile. “I’d imagined telling someone a time or two before- sharing my grief with a mortal. I never imagined they’d believe me, though.”

“Guess I’m different in a few ways, huh?” Velvet smiled, putting a comforting hand on her shoulder. “But, honestly, between what Blake told me of your explanation and what you’ve said thus far, I can at least trust that you’re being honest, and all those paintings are hard to argue with- especially because I’m pretty good at spotting forgeries.” Her expression turned a bit more somber. “I get the feeling there’s more you’re not telling me, though.”

“Much like with the others, too much too soon can overburden even the most accepting soul.” The deity stopped at the landing. “I do hope we can continue talking after everything’s settled with the others.”

“Will you ever tell me the rest of the story? About Myrtenaster and who you were before Blake? The past seven thousand years are pretty well accounted for but what about before that? And-”

“Answers in due time,” she replied with a chuckle, accepting the little, sheepish smile and nodding towards the kitchen. “Would you like some lunch before you go?”

One ear flicked as a smarmy smirk claimed her lips. “I think there’s a legend or two cautioning against sharing a meal with a goddess.”

“Lucky for you, I’m a deposed one, so it’s not nearly so dire a concern.” They both laughed, her offer accepted as they started towards the kitchen. “And thank you, Velvet. For helping me with... all this.”

“Hey, what are friends for?” She smiled, and Weiss could already feel another piece of her heart beginning to break off. “Are we going to have another one of Blake’s favorites?”

She raised a brow, feigning ignorance. “Whatever do you mean?” The look she received, however, encouraged her to drop that act rather quick. “I’d hoped it wasn’t quite that obvious.”

“Well, sure, not to the average person looking for neat recipes,” Velvet said, a smile tugging at her lips. “But aside from the fact you literally named the tabs after them, I’ve known Blake for a while now. When I recognized some of the entries, I kinda figured you’d pointed me at something... special.” Shrugging her shoulders, she let out a little chuckle. “And I mean, it’s exciting, in a way.”

“How so?” They stepped into the kitchen together- an area of the penthouse she rarely entered, unless struck by a particularly strong bout of nostalgia.

“There are times we’ve been out before, like at a restaurant, and she’ll order something.” The Faunus leaned back against one counter, reminiscing with a grin. “She’ll be excited until it comes, and then her expression kinda... drops.” Despite the sour turn of her recounting, Velvet seemed rather giddy about it. “We’ll always ask her if she’s okay and she just brushes it off. Says ‘I thought it would taste different’ or something, because it is good, and now I know why.” Her hands moved with every word as her smile grew. “It’s these memories- the times she’s eaten this stuff before the recipe changed, or a certain ingredient became more popular. She’ll still order them, still eat them, but it’s like she’s always known something’s missing or off. And now? I know!” She shook her head a little. “You even included cooking instructions- no one thinks to prepare suya using the old religious methods anymore!”

Unbidden, the smell of cooking meat and burning wood filled her nose, called forth by a memory, and she could hear laughter in her ears and feel at least one set of arms around her waist. “It certainly changes the taste, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah.” A brief pause. “Watching Blake’s face light up, having finally found the taste she’s been expecting...” Her ears drooped. “I... kinda feel bad, now that I think about it, depriving you of that.”

“It’s quite alright.” She went to the pantry, possessed by a mission. “Did you enjoy the meal as well?”

“Yeah... are you sure-”

“Velvet,” she said, turning a smile towards her guest. “It’s fine. I’m sure you noticed how long the Nightowl tab is; there’s more opportunities ahead. I make it a point to treat them like the royalty when I find them- I cook all their old favorites, bring back dishes the whole world’s forgotten.” Weiss tried to focus on assembling the ingredients but felt her resolve weakening, turning to look at her guest. “But I do wonder... when she catches wind of something she particularly likes, sometimes her ears will... do this thing-”

“Oh, you mean this?” Although longer, her rabbit ears twitched in a peculiar pattern. “Yeah, she does that.”

Despite the inherent differences, she found her heart fluttering all the same. “I’m glad.” Shaking her head slightly, she focused on the task at hand, cataloging what she had readily available and mentally going through the recipes to see what she might have to offer. “I look forward to seeing it again myself. But for now, perhaps you’ve noticed the others have similar reactions to certain foods?”

“Yeah, now that you mention it.” Velvet’s brows furrowed very slightly before she laughed. “Coco’s usually the loudest about it.”

“I suspect we both know why, now don’t we?” She motioned to one of the cupboards. “Grab the skillet and saucepan from there. Let me show you what she remembers.”

The kitchen came alive with the sounds of cooking- an activity she didn’t do near as often without her beloveds present. Velvet turned out to not only be a great helper but attentive to the process as well, asking little questions about the benefits of using a mortar and pestle versus store bought ground peppers and the like. All in all, a nice afternoon capped with a meal Velvet enjoyed enthusiastically, proclaiming something along the lines of ‘the universe finally makes sense’ and a promise to ‘cook more things with wine’, though it would likely be difficult for her to find bottles as old as Weiss had readily on hand.

It remained one of those bittersweet things that her existence brought, made all the easier to bear when a smile flashed her way. It wasn’t one of the ones she’d longed for... but that didn’t bother her in the slightest.

Three days.

Weiss tried to not count each second but felt too restless. Never before had she entrusted her secrets in such a manner, not since she'd lost her chosen. The ones she took to pass the centuries rarely called to her the way they had, the familiar thrum of a compatible soul rare enough that she didn't want to sully the years with her ever present regret. She feigned happiness and that seemed to pacify her temporary partners, if she deigned to care about their opinions at all.

However, after three days, she began to worry. Did they begrudge her using another to bring them together? Velvet promised she wouldn't mention their previous lives though. Perhaps Blake had?

When her scroll rang, it quite nearly gave her a heart attack, anxiety spiking rather suddenly as she saw the name flashing on the screen.

The Reckoning had come.

"Hello?" She did her best to sound composed as she answered, nervously picking at the hem of her blouse.

"Hey Weiss!" Sorry it took so long. Someone wanted to be difficult." Velvet seemed in high spirits, a teasing lilt to her tone.

"There's a difference between 'difficult' and 'cautious'," Blake said, her voice raised as if yelling from another room.

"Whatever you say, Bookworm!" The rabbit Faunus laughed, bringing a small smile to the deity's lips. "Anyway, I know it's short notice, but everyone's coming over to the apartment tonight. Wanna join us?"

Blue eyes flicked to her bed, where she'd laid out an appropriate outfit after seeing her guest down to the lobby the other day. She'd thought it foolish at the time- wishful thinking and it did nothing to settle her nerves- but perhaps the spontaneity had remained intact, too. Her beloveds were always prone to last minute decisions. "I would love to."

"Great! Do you remember how to get to my apartment?"

"Yes."

"Perfect! Swing by, let's say, around seven?" Velvet lowered her voice. "Everyone else will be here around six thirty; I think it'll be easier if you only have to go through the whole explanation once."

"That's considerate of you. Thank you." More words sat on her tongue but she refrained, by the barest margins.

"Blake's looking forward to seeing you again, by the way." Weiss felt her heart stutter. "I think she's starting to remember more. She asked me about going to the library the other day. I think she misses the smell of books."

She couldn't help but blurt out the first thing that came to mind. "Should I bring one of her old ones? I still have her original collection. Most of it, anyway."

Silence followed her words and the deity cursed her impatience, more than aware how terribly reckless she became when so close to reuniting with her lovers. The thought occurred to her every time yet she always decided against it, feeling as though it would do more harm than good. She'd just never spoken it aloud before, not to someone capable of responding anyway.

"Actually, I think she'd love that."

"... you do?"

"Yeah!" Velvet's smile could be easily heard across the line. "I think something from her past might help make these memories seem more real, more tangible. Bring one from the early days if you have it; it might remind her why she decided to stay with you at the temple." She paused, humming. "But, if you do bring a book for her, maybe you should bring something for the others as well? It might give them something to focus on while they remember; a grounding rod to a particularly strong memory."

She blinked. Bringing them something from their past had occurred to her but choosing an item specifically for its importance hadn't; she usually considered something they especially liked, not something from a shared memory.

"That... actually sounds like a wonderful idea." Blue eyes darted towards the hallway. "It may take me some time to choose what I'll bring. There are... so many choices."

"Do you need any help carrying them over?"

"No." Her mind raced with possibilities. "Thank you, Velvet, but I'll keep my physical limitations in mind."

"I dunno, seeing you waltz through the door with a work bench over one shoulder would be entertaining." The Faunus chuckled. "But seriously, you can thank me if this all works out. I'll see you later, okay?"

After bidding Velvet goodbye, Weiss hung up, hardly able to process how quickly things had progressed. Usually, she'd still be working to get the first one she found to remember, to trust her, but now she'd have all six together again.

Quickly, she got to her feet and hurried to the secured room, excitement hastening her steps. She already had ideas for what to bring and only a few hours to be ready.

Music and laughter drifted down from an open window as Weiss waited for seven o'clock to roll around. Her eagerness had gotten the better of her and she'd arrived fifteen minutes early with a bag slung over her shoulder. As people passed, they gave her odd looks and she could hardly fault them; if it bothered her, she could always hide herself away, but she didn’t want that. Weiss wanted all the world to know that tonight, she would have a chance to reclaim those whom she’d lost so long ago, and so many times since. For such an auspicious evening, she would not hide herself away, and would soak up the curiosity just as easily as any other attention paid her.

The ancient deity wore her best silk for the occasion, the white fabric folded and pinned in place by hand crafted broaches bear their marks. When she sat on the throne in her temple to hear the plights of mortals, she wore this very ensemble while surrounded by her lovers. An ivory crown etched with snowflakes pressing against her temples, her Gladiatrix and Dragon at her shoulders, her Seamstress and Jester at her hips, her Thief’s emblem high on her belly and her Nightowl in the center of her chest, a mimicry of the stars that constituted her constellation in the night sky, given new meaning- she truly looked like one befitting her power, the honor and respect conferred upon the pantheon her very birthright. In those days, her eyes never dulled, always shining so bright from the adulation of thousands the world over and multiplied by those she’d chosen to keep beside her through the centuries, and none dared question her divinity.

Now, more often than not, some brave soul would muster the courage to ask if she’d hand made the ‘costume’ or if it was story bought, or snort derisively that she’d be late to her ‘dumb party’ when she deigned to not acknowledge their presence at all.

Weiss checked her scroll, still a minute shy but unable to wait any longer, and ascended the stairs, standing before the door with her heart thudding in her chest. She should give it a few more minutes, to not seem so eager- she’d scared her beloveds quite badly by showing her emotions too quickly in the past and she didn’t want to repeat the mistake.

The test of her resolve came to an abrupt end, however, when the door opened.

“Blake.” The name left her lips like a prayer, confronted with the Faunus giving her a soft smile that melted her heart every single time.

“You’ve always been a stickler for punctuality, if I recall right,” she said, a rueful lilt to her voice. “I think, anyway.” Amber eyes gave her a quick once over, ears twitching slightly. “I... can’t tell if your outfit surprises me or not.”

“I wanted to impress.” Weiss offered a smile, unable to keep herself from drinking in every little detail. Blake and purple dominated Blake’s attire, which seemed rather fitting; the deity had ensured her Nightowl had access to nothing short of the best clothing in her preferred colors, the dark fabrics blending into her midnight hair while the traditionally royal purple affirmed her status at the deity’s side and brought out her eyes all the more. However, she had to admit: black leather with a purple top, while not the most refined ensemble, definitely looked good on her. “I suppose I’m a bit out of date, though.”

Blake flashed her a smile. “Actually, I think you’re rather timeless.” She coughed into her hand, a blush just beginning to rise in her cheeks as the Faunus averted her gaze, missing Weiss’ fond smile entirely. “Anyway, I wanted to be the one to meet you at the door. I... wanted to say... I’m sorry.”

“That’s hardly necessary; this time-”

“No.” She shook her head and waved off the words with a cringe. “I mean, I do feel bad about kicking you out before, but the more I started to... remember...” She glanced at the deity, making eye contact briefly before a sigh escaped her lips, ears laying back atop her head. “For some reason, I kept feeling like I owed you an apology for something but, every time I tried before, you would stop me.” One hand came up to rub at her arm, a long held, self conscious gesture. “I think you know why I want to apologize better than I do. Right now, anyway. Velvet said that everything would make more sense once you talked to us. So. When I remember, I’ll probably try again, but until then, at least I’ve said it.”

Weiss chuckled, ducking her head to buy herself time as she marshaled her thoughts. “I can’t believe I forgot how sneaky you could be, catching me before I’ve even had the chance to raise my guard.”

“If I remember right, it’s one of the things you love about me.”

She paused, looking back up and slowly shaking her head. Although something she would expect in a few years, when her memories were entirely restored and their bond repaired, to hear it so soon, with no hint of insincerity or uncertainty...

“... how?”

Blake looked uncomfortable for a moment before averting her gaze again. “I guess it seems... weird to you. But... it’s weird to me, too.” She raised a hand, rubbing at her temple. “I have... so many images in my head, disjointed from emotions, and I can remember each one, but I can’t... it’s like there’s movies in my head, but the scenes are jumbled.” She looked up, meeting Weiss’ gaze with a pleading expression. “Velvet helped me make sense of some of it. Made some of the pieces fit together- it’s not enough, but it makes me feel like there’s... some truth in your words, in these... memories.” She shrugged, ears lifting slightly- a sign of hope. “I want to hear you out. I want to make sense of it.”

With a nod, the deity smiled. “Thank you.”

“Thank Velvet.” The Faunus puffed out a brief laugh. “She’s... always been scary good at talking some sense into me.” Her shoulders relaxed a little. “She’s... not the only one. But I think you know that already.”

“I do.”

Blake turned, pushing the door open a bit more. “Would you like to come in and meet the others... again?”

“More than anything,” she replied, entering the apartment again and able to hear quiet chatter amid music coming from the living room, voices she hadn’t heard in far too long reaching her ears. “How much did Velvet tell you?”

“It was less ‘telling’ and more ‘confirming’, putting things in order.” The Faunus frowned, brows pinching together. “This is going to be a shock to everyone, isn’t it?”

Weiss reached out, gently laying a hand on Blake’s arm. “It will pass swiftly. I promise.” Her expression turned contrite. “I’m afraid of everyone, your reaction is always the worst. That’s my fault. Theirs will be easier.”

To her relief, a glimmer of her beloved Nightowl returned in the soft smile that answered her. “I trust you. And I get the feeling you’re being too hard on yourself.” She nodded towards the interior of the apartment. “Now, come on; I’ve kept you to myself long enough.”

Deep down, she laughed at that, allowing only a chuckle to break the surface, because she didn’t think Blake understood how vast an understatement that was, but it would come in time. Taking a brief moment to brace themselves, the two stepped beyond the foyer and into the living room, everyone’s attention sliding to them almost immediately. Blue eyes quickly scanned the all too familiar faces, her heart skipping a beat at how happy they all looked, enjoying each other’s company.

Curiously, she didn’t spot Velvet among them, but any question as to the rabbit Faunus’ whereabouts was silenced as the others spoke up.

“Oh, hey! Who’s your friend, Blake?” Yang called out from between Sun and Pyrrha on the couch, leaning forward slightly to get a better look. Then a spark ignited in those lilac eyes as she tilted her head. “Wait, you look familiar- have we met before?”

“Wow, Xiao Long, not even thirty seconds,” Coco said with a drawl, sitting on the adjacent loveseat with Emerald. However, a furrow came to her brows followed by the lowering of her shades prevented further teasing, chocolate orbs flicking over her frame. “But you might be right for once.”

“Maybe we shared a class together?” Emerald offered, glancing at the others before returning her gaze to Weiss, throwing a remote of some sort at Sun, whose mouth was hanging wide open in shock.

He fumbled with it but shut off the music all the same, going right back to staring the moment he’d complied with the unspoken request.

“Sorry!” Pyrrha’s apologetic smile said it all as she made a small gesture with her hands. “It seems we’re all having the same issues. Would you mind jogging our memories?”

“Of course,” she replied, unable to keep from smiling at the phrasing. “Do you believe in destiny?”

#Symphony of Souls fanfic #Weiss!Harem #Polyamory implied and in later installments #TRR writes

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