#and it makes it incredibly difficult for me to gauge whether or not to take a break or decompress

[hungee-boy]

i dont know if its dissociation or something else but i think i have a lot of trouble figuring out how severe mental episodes are because i dont really feel anything when im having them

like if i have a panic attack my body has to physically tell me by shaking and involuntary jolts, i dont feel primarily anxious or stressed just

uncomfortable and frustrated cus i cant make myself do what i want or need to do

[tobiasdrake]

Rating Rain Code Characters on the Fight Me Bruh Scale

Here we go. We're ranking all of the major characters in Rain Code based on how confident I am that I can beat them in a fight.

Swank Catsonell

I want you all to know that despite what the rumors may suggest, I absolutely did not pay him to take a dive. This was a fight I won fair and square, because I am very principled and masculine.

<.< >.>

Seth Burroughs

For all his bluster, Seth is the least threatening man in Kanai Ward. The only thing threatening about him is his control over the Peacekeepers. He does nothing for himself, even needing one of his men to carry a megaphone around for him.

Seth feels like he'd go down so fast, I'd almost feel bad for him. But then I'd remind myself that he's a fucking fascist and hit him harder.

Yakou Furio

Despite his name, Yakou's not very tough. He gets routinely floored in every fight he's in. He did manage to shank Huesca with the element of incredible surprise, but that was more a product of crafty premeditation than formidable brawling. Even when he jumped his wife's would-be assassin, we next see him beaten to hell so clearly that fight took a turn after she (and we) bailed on it.

His file says he weighs 165 lbs but I have no idea where he puts it because his body type is skeletal. A stiff breeze would knock him over.

Yomi Hellsmile

Yomi reeks of paper tiger to me. As much as he loves throwing his weight around, he's too chickenshit to throw down himself. Even with guns in both hands and people he wanted dead right in front of him, he inexplicably returned the guns to his soldiers and ordered them to shoot everyone instead.

Yomi's fighting style is to run for his life and try to find someone else to fight in his place. But those other people who would fight for him, would already be fighting instead if a fight was happening. By definition, if I'm fighting Yomi, then there's nobody around to stop me from fighting Yomi. If this fight takes place then I win it. There is no version of the fight where Yomi fights and doesn't lose.

Desuhiko Thunderbolt

When he was faking the Master Detectives' deaths, Makoto figured that Desuhiko would barely even make it out of the starting gate. He judged correctly. Desuhiko is not a fighter. He's scared of blood and sticks to undercover intelligence.

His best shot at victory would be to show up to the fight Disguised as someone tougher than him. But it's not super clear whether that would actually help him.

Vivia Twilight

From what little we see of him in action, Vivia's incredibly quick on his feet and holds his own next to Halara. He moves blindingly fast and shitstomps cops with the best of him. But that's when people he cares about are in danger.

If we're just duking it out in the street, there's a strong chance Vivia goes down with the first punch and then mutters something to the effect of, "Oh well, you got me. Guess I'll just lay here now. Maybe the small bruise from your fist will kill me. Wouldn't that be nice?"

I only win this fight if Vivia isn't motivated enough to snap my neck before I know what hit me. But I don't plan to do anything that would motivate him to do that, so this is the most likely scenario when Vivia and I throw down. I'm not proud of it but I'll take the win.

Yuma Kokohead

With a Truth Sword in hand, Yuma is incredibly formidable. He's outfought countless Mystery Phantoms and even outmatched Makoto in a swordfight. However, it's not super clear how transferrable those skills are outside of the Labyrinth setting. Most of the time when Yuma's cornered, he's powerless; However, most of the time when Yuma's cornered, guns are involved, so that's not a fair comparison.

What it amounts to is that Yuma's ability to hold his own in a street brawl is difficult to gauge. That said, his stature is intimidating in and of itself. I'm always leery of fighting someone whose height easily allows for a full-body haymaker to the junk. Short people have no chill.

Kurumi Wendy

Kurumi doesn't get many opportunities for action but given what we know of her, I don't envy my chances. She's had to evade pursuing Peacekeepers in the past, which implies she's pretty scrappy and quick on her feet. She also managed to get in and out of Dohya District while it was under a counter-terrorist lockdown, skirting through Guillaume and Dominic's police state with so little effort that it put Yuma and Fubuki's attempt to do the same to shame.

So even though she never gets to throw a punch in the entire story, she fucking scares me. I start shit, she is going to sucker-punch me in ways I couldn't possibly see coming. There is a feral beast inside of her waiting for an excuse, and I'm not talking about her homunculus biology.

Martina Electro

This woman scares me. She's Yomi's right-hand, which means she does all the physically-intensive things that he doesn't. She's in the field leading from the front and, unlike Seth, we see that she's entirely willing to take matters into her own hands.

I have no basis for saying she could probably fold me in half and feed me my own spine, and has likely done exactly that to people in the past. But I believe it.

Dominic Fulltank

Are you joking? This man is 500 lbs of solid murder.

Let me paint you a word picture. I throw a punch. I break my fist on his rock-hard abs. Then he picks me up and rips me in half with his bare hands.

Guillaume Hall

Are you joking? This girl is 150 lbs sopping wet.

Let me paint you a word picture. I throw a punch. I hit her right in the fucking face because she's not a fighter. Then goddamn Dominic appears out of nowhere, picks me up, and rips me in half with his bare hands. But with extreme prejudice this time; Before, he was just defending himself, but now he's defending his boss.

Makoto Kagutsuchi

If I could define Makoto in one word, it would be cunning. Makoto has no reservations about doing whatever it takes to win, and his ultra-genius intellect is constantly plotting and scheming. He's so physically unimpressive that he looks like he'll collapse with a rough shove, but by the time fists start flying, he's already figured out 11 different ways to kill me.

Even if he might seem to be on the backfoot at the moment, Makoto is always in control of every situation he's in. He chose the place, he chose how we fight, he chose what happens to be on hand to use in the fight, and he chose who wins. He merely let me think that I chose those things.

Fubuki Clockford

We see precious little of what Fubuki's capable of in a fight. But she's no stranger to it. When Yuma first asked her to clear out the coffee shop patrons, her kneejerk go-to was to try violence. He had to talk her into a distraction instead. So she's clearly been in fights before.

Her biggest asset is her ability to save scum, though that has its limitations. It takes a lot out of her every time she turns back time, often leaving her winded and gasping for breath by the second reset. The stamina cost offsets the advantage of temporal prescience, especially in a street brawl.

But that advantage is powerful nonetheless. Do I feel confident that I could take Fubuki in a fight? Sure. Do I feel confident I could take her in five out of five fights? That's much more intimidating. Fubuki only has to win once. She decides which match "counts".

Halara Nightmare

Halara can take Fubuki in five out of five fights. Halara can take anyone in five out of five fights. Consecutively. Simultaneously. However you want to go, you'll regret it fast. We see them in action plenty and it's always the same: Halara Nightmare is violence incarnate.

Some fighters hit like a sledgehammer. Some hit like a truck. Halara hits like hospital anaesthetic; You blink and then wake up seven hours later with your kidney removed and no idea where the time went. They put me down so fast that I spend the rest of the day trying to figure out what even happened. Like a Hangover movie but instead of being drunk I got my ass kicked.

They are, and shall remain, the reigning champion of violence in Kanai Ward.

Real Yuma

I want you all to know that despite what the rumors may suggest, he absolutely did not offer me free ramen in exchange for taking a dive. This was a fight I lost fair and square, because we are both very principled and masculine.

<.< >.>

*slurp*

[taste-your-silhouette]

Hello, dove! how are you? I saw the "if not for you" work you did and loved it! i dont know if you are taking requests or not, but i was wondering if you could do some hcs or a small imagine where Damiano has a younger sister (23), and she follows him everywhere bc she hasnt seen him in a while and wants to tell him about a boy she likes and how to confront said boy. But then he gets mad at her by accident from stress and then it gets pretty angsty and ends with fluffyness! TYSM! take care <3

Hi, cutie! I'm doing great, how about you? I loved to know you loved "If not for you!! Thanks for your request, your idea was awesome, and I had a blast writing this fic, I hope you enjoy it 💙

Apri la vela, dai, viaggia leggera

Words: ~2161 The same A/N: Please, forgive me again if you come across any errors while reading. (y/d/n) your date's name. 

You had just arrived in Rome. After enduring 3 grueling years in Vancouver pursuing an extension course, you were finally back home, near your beloved family. Those 3 years would have been insufferable if it weren't for one extraordinary individual.

(y/d/n) and you crossed paths at the beginning of the course. During the first year, you were simply pals. You were still recovering from a platonic love, and although taking the course offered a great escape, it could be downright challenging at times. You longed for home constantly, especially for your brother Damiano. He was your favorite human being, your superhero, and being apart from him for these 3 years was incredibly tough. Not being able to chat with him before bedtime and share your daily experiences was difficult. With the remarkable success of Måneskin, you adore the band and words can't express how proud you are of Damiano, Vic, Ethan, and Thomas. Yet, there remains a twinge of sadness, knowing that your brother is not by your side to offer advice and fulfill his role as the older sibling.

As Damiano's schedule was hectic, and communication was challenging due to the tour and its finals, your parents played a vital role in ensuring your homecoming was flawless. With Damiano's return too, everything would be as if it were an ordinary day until you arrived back home.

I'm at the front entrance, could you kindly open it for me? You sent a text to your mom, and within moments, she and your dad were beaming with joy that you had arrived.

After numerous hugs and a few tears, his parents called out to Damiano, who was upstairs, enticing him with the best trick in the book: using pizza as a lure.

"Finally, I was famished," Damiano grumbled as he descended the stairs. And when you came into his line of sight of him, he let out a scream followed by an expletive.

He dashed towards you and scooped you up in a bear hug.

"How? When did you get here?" he inquired, stepping back slightly to get a better look at you. "Look at you, all grown up!" He embraced you tightly once again, holding on a little longer this time.

After Damiano, his parents, and you shared more hugs and the atmosphere settled, the four of you gathered around the table to indulge in the pizzas that had conveniently arrived just moments before you. As you enjoyed the meal, you caught up on various topics, skillfully avoiding the secret you had been keeping from Damiano.

"Damiano, how long are you planning to stay at home?" you inquired.

"I have this whole week off, but on Friday, we're flying to Barcelona. The tour is in Europe now," he replied, helping himself to another slice of pizza.

"Hmm, that sounds cool. Can I join you?"

He glanced at you suspiciously, trying to gauge whether you wanted to come along to simply enjoy the show or if there was something more to it. Eventually, he gave in to the idea of spending more time with you, making up for the three years apart and his absence.

//

The days until Friday flew by, and you had a great time with your family and made some new friends. Even Vic, Ethan, and Thomas came over to your place to throw a small, wild homecoming party.

On Friday, Damiano woke you up with a scream.

"Rise and shine! If you want to keep up with the pace around here, you'll need to get up before the sun," he shouted, bursting into laughter and tossing a teddy bear at you.

You despised waking up early. Why not just tell him about (y/d/n) and go back to sleep?

Ahhh, the temptation is strong, but NO!

You gather the essence of your love for (y/d/n). Take a refreshing shower and grab the bags you packed for a few days away.

Throughout these days, you and Damiano had incredible moments together. You played tons of video games, he took you on a shopping spree where you got a whole new wardrobe, you binge-watched the Harry Potter movies, and finally finished Game of Thrones (a series you started watching three years ago but didn't complete due to the events that unfolded in your lives). You cherished the shared experiences and wished for a chance to update Damiano about your journey with (y/d/n) over the past three years. You were certain Damiano would adore (y/d/n), but you also anticipated his reaction when he discovered you were dating someone, especially someone living in a different country.

You're at the airport, patiently waiting for the Barcelona flight to board. Meanwhile, Damiano is peacefully snoring on your shoulder while you're texting with (y/d/n). It's becoming increasingly challenging to find the right moment to tell Damiano about your relationship with (y/d/n). (y/d/n) is eagerly anticipating his reaction, and each day that passes without you revealing the truth feels like a strain on your connection. It weighs heavily on your heart, causing aching discomfort.

"Y/N, are you embarrassed by me or something? 'Cause I just don't get it..." This question has been lingering in your mind ever since your last phone call with (y/d/n)

on Wednesday morning.

Feeling frustrated with the whole situation, you put your phone aside and gaze ahead. Vic, who is sitting across from you, notices your distress and furrows her brow.

"Everything okay?" she asks, without the sound of her voice.

You simply shake your head and rest it against Damiano's head, closing your eyes.

//

When you arrive at the hotel where the five of you and the whole team will be staying, Vic informs the front desk that you and she will be sharing a room.

"No, she won't. She's my little sister, I've been away from her for 3 years, she's staying with me," Damiano argues.

"She can't stand being attached to you anymore, you're so annoying," Vic retorts.

Just as you were about to speak up, Vic stops you, grabbed your arm, and takes the room card.

"Next time, be quicker, dummy," she playfully taunts Damiano, laughing.

You both laughed as he playfully cursed at the two of you.

As you enter the room, you plop down on the bed and let out a sigh.

"Okay," Vic joins you, sitting next to you and looking at you, "spill the tea."

And that's exactly what you do.

//

"Y/N, you gotta tell to Damiano soon, I get that you might be scared of his reaction, but it's inevitable, you know? Carrying this secret around will only strain your relationship with (y/d/n) and fuck off Damiano, whether he likes it or not, you and (y/d/n) will live happily ever after," Vic advised, playfully running her fingers through your hair.

You chuckled and couldn't help but laugh at her candidness.

"Worst case scenario, I'm right here in your room," you responded, still giggling.

"Exactly! And we can hit up some awesome party too."

Both of you burst into laughter as you reminisced about the last wild party she and the boys threw to celebrate your homecoming.

"No way! So, I'm gonna go have a chat with Damiano."

You leave Vic by herself in the room and head to Damiano's room, but he's not there. So, as you make your way down to the hotel lounge, you call him, but he doesn't answer. Finally, you spot him at the hotel reception, near the exit.

"Hey, frate!" you shout at him, and he looks at you with an expression on his face that you couldn't decipher quickly enough, as it soon fades away.

You approach him, but before you can start talking, he interjects:

"What's up? Talk fast, I gotta sort some things out."

"Oh, nothing, I wanted to have a chat with you."

He's busy texting someone while you're trying to talk to him, but he glances up at you and responds:

"Can't right now, I'm heading out with Ethan, ciao."

Without another word, he turns his back on you and joins Ethan outside the hotel, and they leave without making much noise.

//

Hours passed quickly after you returned to the room frustrated for not being able to speak with Damiano. At least now you can talk to (y/d/n) who is trying to talk to Damiano about you guys but he's just too busy for that. That reason is better than having no reason to tell why you haven't talked to Damiano yet.

You're with Damiano in the dressing room, assisting him in getting dressed for the show. This would be the perfect moment to talk about (y/d/n) with him if he wasn't so annoyed. He's fed up with having to sing "Beggin" all the time when they have plenty of other songs they could perform, and he's griping about the in-ear headphones that are bothering his ear.

"You're tightening that ropes too much," he complains about the ropes you're fastening around his thigh.

"If I don't tighten it, your pants will come off during the show because it'll come undone," you retort.

"Like I've never gone pantless before. You're fucking squeezing me!" He screams the curse word, and you give up, leaving him alone in the dressing room.

You find Vic and Ethan making their way backstage, and you join them.

"I can't handle Damiano and his diva antics anymore," you roll your eyes.

Ethan and Vic burst into laughter, joining you in making fun of Damiano.

"Let him go pantless if he wants, he's into that," Ethan adds, concluding the joke as you reach backstage, where the sound of screaming fans grows louder.

This is the best part of tagging along to their shows—right before the performance, you can feel the anticipation and longing of so many fans. Damiano is fashionably late to the backstage scene, looking like a true rockstar.

He may be an idiot sometimes, but he's still your brother, and you can't help but feel a surge of pride in your heart for him.

As they make their way to the stage, Damiano catches your eye, winking and flashing you a smile, all set to rock the crowd.

When the gig wraps up and everyone changes their outfits, they suggest hitting up an Italian joint.

Damiano's annoyance has faded away, and the vibes are on point. The four of you are buzzing with energy, enjoying each other's company after an amazing performance. Yet, deep down, the knowledge that you're keeping something from Damiano and the fear that (y/d/n) might think you're ashamed of them is truly heart-wrenching.

"Y/N!" Damiano shouts your name. "Are you deaf? I've been calling you forever!"

"What's up? I was lost in thought, and you interrupted my flow," you grumble.

He casually drapes his arm over your shoulders as you stroll together. The restaurant is just up ahead, and little do you know, it's bustling with life and radiating vibrant energy. That's your destination.

"I've got a question for you, sis," Damiano murmurs in your ear. "Do you know that jerk?"

He points at some random dude near the restaurant, except it's not just any random dude—it's your special someone. IT'S (y/d/n) !!

"What the hell? How is this even possible?" you blurt out, not waiting for Damiano's response.

You sprint towards (y/d/n) and wrap him in a tight embrace.

"I've missed you," he whispers in your ear as you hold each other close.

"I’ve missed you so much! How did you...?" You're cut off by Damiano, who has caught up with the two of you.

"Y/N, you've got plenty of great qualities, but being discreet and cautious isn't one of them. I noticed you chatting with him all the damn time, and you never mentioned a relationship until things got messy and I got pissed off."

"He slid into my DMs on Instagram," (y/d/n) chimes in, his arms still wrapped around you. "It all happened so fast. He even bought me a plane ticket to come here."

Damiano nods in understanding and adds:

"Since you didn't spill the beans, Vic provided me with some juicy details, like his name and the fact that he's your boyfriend, isn't he? Don't underestimate my stalking skills. And I needed to know who treated you so damn well while I was out."

You can't help but burst into laughter. This all feels like a crazy dream!

"I thought you'd lose your shit when I told you," you admit.

Damiano raises an eyebrow and responds, "Yeah, I had a little freakout, but Mom and Dad talked some sense into me. It's all good. I just want you to be happy, Y/N."

You grinned and embraced Damiano tightly, giving him a big hug.

"You're the absolute coolest brother ever! Love you, bro!"

Damiano burst into a boisterous laugh, his signature trademark.

"Love you too! Now let's head inside and grab some grub. I'm starving, and I want to hear the whole story of you two."

[bossferatu]

the characterization in this episode was off the charts.

we saw a lot of how each of the party views violence, what lines they have in regards to that.

to Rey it is a release. His beast is like a visceral itch under his skin, and so far we've only seen it scratched by violence. As much as he doesn't seem the typical Gangrel, his impulsive tendency to violence is about as aligned with his clan as he ever gets.

What's interesting about this is how he CANNOT handle the consequences of his violence. He can't deal with the aftermath of satisfying his basest urges. We saw this with Shaun (Sean?) and how he now mistrusts Fuego, despite how eagerly and without hesitation he satisfied his hunger.

Rey hasn't yet comes to terms with the violence he so craves, and he puts no forethought into what the consequences to his actions might be.

to Fuego it is power over a situation. We've seen before how she envies Rey's physical strength. She sees that as power. As ability to impose her will over others, much like her ability to Mesmerize.

She still sees herself as a superhero, as someone good, someone defending her home. She thinks she is right, that her choices and wants are more noble or better than others. But that's not why she does it, that's just her own excuse to herself. From what I've seen, she uses her 'morality' as an excuse to exert power without feeling bad. She hates being called a 'landlord' but doesn't hesitate to use Lingering Kiss on Shye, essentially getting them addicted to her kiss, just so she can keep feeding.

She doesn't think of consequences, only reacting according to her righteous impulse. She is classic Ventrue, seeking to push her power on others. She, unlike most Ventrue, seeks to protect what's important to her, but that doesn't make what she does good.

Fuego is one of the most complex vampires I've ever seen, and endlessly compelling, but she isn't a hero. She's ignorant to what danger she's constantly putting herself and all those closest to her in. And that makes her incredibly interesting and possibly my favorite character of this chronicle.

Serif is a little more difficult to gauge, from this episode, but it's clear to see that she has clear boundaries. She hasn't directly engaged in much violence this chronicle, standing by while the others take the more physical approach.

however, what we do get to see from her is her boundaries when it comes to ghouls. We already knew she was sensitive about the admittedly incredibly morally (dark) grey area in which ghouls operate. She doesn't seem to care much whether or not the coterie kills one of the security guards, but the second Rey wants to use his Vitae to save the other, she has a big reaction.

something that this implies, to me, is that she's not particularly concerned with the morality of it, or she wouldn't be, if not for her personal experience with ghouls. When Angela expresses contentment with her life, her choice, and with Isaac as her 'employer', Serif is upset. In fact, she's the same level of upset as she is when Rey gives the security guard NO CHOICE. This, to me shows that it's just the principle, the existence of ghouls which upsets her, not the actual morality of the situation surrounding creating one.

like Fuego, she uses morality to justify her own impulse and reactions, not the other way around. As much as she likes to believe it is a moral code that rules her actions, she is using it as an excuse.

this is not to say that these two are not some of the most (seemingly) moral kindred we will likely see. They both contain great capacity for kindness and humanity, but they are not as morally pure as they'd like to think.

to Isaac, I think it's clear that violence is a means to an end. He's pragmatic to a fault, and wouldn't needlessly endanger him and his in order to enact violence. He's the most reasonable of the group in that aspect thus far, and that's unsurprising, considering the situation he finds himself in.

he knows what dangers lurk for Kindred, and as a Tzimisce in Anarch territory very close to the Camarilla, he's in an even more precarious position than any of the other members of the Coterie. It occurs to me that while he's mentioned Shrecknet and how humans took it down, the others have no idea what danger the Second Inquisition poses. They haven't even really been informed about the Masquerade and WHY it exists.

he is now affiliated with this Coterie, partially in charge of the area they're in, and will be held EXTREMELY responsible for any breaks in the Masquerade. Already distrusted by the Anarchs, Isaac has no room for messy violence, even if it happened to be in his nature.

unlike the others, it doesn't seem like he's ruled by impulse, nor by morality. He is logical and pragmatic, or so he seems so far. It makes perfect sense that he should be furious or annoyed at the rest of the Coterie. He's the only one who understands the gravity of the situation in its fullness (or so it seems). And now, he has to clean up a big mess.

we'll see in future episodes, but here are my two cents about what the violence in this episode tells us about our new lil baby coterie. I for one was surprised that the shoe dropped so early, though I shouldn't have been, the tension has been piling up so quickly.

[maculategiraffe]

you know... I have REALLY bad spatial reasoning skills, like I have next to no ability to look at a given object and a given space and tell you whether the object will fit in the space, or whether a given lid will fit on a given tupperware. and I hate driving partly because I'm really bad at gauging whether I have room to change lanes, or time to get through a yellow light, or whether a space is big enough to park in, so I'm overly cautious about all those things and I know it probably annoys other drivers but I don't want to die or get a ticket.

but isn't that sort of the whole issue of ADHD, like... your brain doesn't really grasp the dimensions or relative perspective of anything. how long will this task take and how difficult will it be? I have no idea, so embarking on anything at all feels incredibly intimidating because I don't know if it's a Big Thing or not. it's important not to be late to a thing? I better plan to get there two hours early because I have no idea how else to make sure I'm not late. it seems like maybe someone might be mad at me? I lack the emotional dimension approximating mechanism that would (presumably) tell a neurotypical person whether this is a non-problem or a medium problem or a problem that's going to get me broken up with or fired

like how horses are terrified of everything partly because the way their eyes work means everything is either lurking menacingly just out of sight or looming up suddenly like a jump scare

my therapist told me about this thing called the pomodoro technique where you set a timer for twenty five minutes and commit to working on a given thing until the timer goes off, and I was like "yeah I mean I can try it but like... how am I supposed to know in advance how long any given twenty five minutes is going to be"

[pens-swords-stuff]

Hi Undine! I checked the advice masterlist and I don’t think I saw this topic on there (and I’m sorry if I missed it!)

What advice would you give for someone who has multiple scenarios in mind for the next event in their wip and can’t choose between one. I have a rough outline for my wip, and the chapters are generally planned out (but in like a very basic way) but I’m at a point where I can deviate a little creatively and I can’t decide between a few options for the next scene to write.

Write them all!

No, seriously. More on that later.

Before that, here are a series of steps that I would take if I was your situation in this order!

1) Really try to decide

Think about the implications each scene has for your story. Spend a few days ruminating over it! Sometimes all it needs is a little time to stew before you realize what the correct scenario is. You’ve probably done this already, but it’s a good step to keep in mind.

2) Leave it up to luck

Flip a coin, pull a piece of paper out of a hat, roll a die, anything luck-based will work here!

But Undine, I can’t leave up the plot of my story to random chance!

I hear ya! The point of leaving it up to luck isn’t to actually leave it up to luck, but to discover what your gut reaction to your result is. 

When you flip a coin and you get heads, what is your instinctive feeling? Are you excited that you got the result that you were subconsciously hoping for? When you roll a 5 on a die, are you disappointed in your result and wished that you rolled something else instead? Do you feel compelled to lie about your result at all? Do you have to talk yourself into being satisfied with your result?

I’m a really indecisive person, and this is a technique that I use to gauge what sort of feelings I have for several options. It’s surprisingly useful — just remember to be honest with yourself!

3) Ask for someone’s input

Sometimes our writing is too personal to us, and it can be really difficult to look at it objectively. This is where a friend’s input can be really valuable! They might see something that you don’t. Maybe one scenario makes more sense than the other. Maybe one is something different from the rest of your story that is a nice departure and a change of pace. Maybe one scenario doesn’t make sense at all. They might be able to help you identify those.

For example, one time I was writing a mystery script for a school play. I didn’t know who the culprit was, I was just getting started just to see where it went. My mom read my draft and pointed out that there was one character that must be the culprit because they had the motive, the opportunity, and the means. I had no idea about it until she pointed it out to me, and subsequently redrafted it to make that character the culprit. 

4) Analyze each scenario

Sit down with each scenario and figure out why you want to include it in the first place! Think of story-related things like how it would impact your characters, the significance of the scene, the symbolism/meaning behind it, the purpose it serves in your overall story, why you want to write it in the first place, etc. Think of personal writer things as well, like how difficult it would be for you to write it out, how much research you might need to do, how much joy it would bring you to write, etc.

A pros-and-cons list would also be good to make. Get out that yellow legal pad and draw a line down the middle. Evaluate the pros and cons of each scenario to help you make an informed decision.

5) Make a separate outline for each scenario

Let’s say that you’ve tried options 1-5 and you still can’t decide which one to go with. That’s okay! You can try making an outline of your book of what would happen if you went with each scenario.

Let’s say that you have five possible scenarios in mind. You would create five different outlines of what would happen if you picked each one. Sit down and figure out how each scenario would impact the rest of your story. Are there significant differences? Does one scenario lead to your preferred outcome, whether it be in the short-term or long-term? What is the significance of that particular scenario in the big picture of your entire outline? Are there any branching paths based off which scenario you choose?

6) Write them all out

Write out each scenario! Actually go through and draft each scenario and ask yourselves some questions:

Which did you enjoy writing the most? Did you finish writing them all out, or did you finish one but not the others? What felt the most natural? Do you have a preference for one scenario now that you’ve written it out? What are the differences between each scenario and how they played out? Which scenario has your characters at the most authentic? 

Sometimes, actually writing it out is a different beast compared to planning, and it can be really illuminating.

7) Just pick one and hope for the best

Sometimes we can think in circles all day long and never come closer to an answer. In that case, what I would do is pick a random one (flip another coin!) and put it in my outline. Underneath, I would notate my other ideas so I don’t forget that there are other possibilities, and I would just move on with my outlining. If you realize that something needs to be changed, you can always go back and change it later. For now, you could try just picking one.

8) Move on with your writing process and see how you feel later

Personally, I find that outlining a story is incredibly different from writing one. In particular, the understanding of my story and my characters change when/as I write it out. Sometimes, it ends up completely different from what I originally intended. Lay your ideas to rest for now, and maybe try moving on with your outline and drafting. It’s possible that the answer will reveal itself later, when you have a better understanding of your story in a month or so.

Some other things to keep in mind:

Is it possible for you to combine some scenarios?

Is it possible to fit those events/scenarios in at a later point in your story?

You can change your story/outline anytime you want. It’s not going to be a mistake or a waste of time to settle for an idea now.

Trust your gut instincts!

Outlines can change. Drafts can change. Don’t be too caught up on feeling like you have to make a permanent decision right now.

Good luck!

Remember, all writing advice is subjective! So don’t take this too seriously. This is just one person’s opinion.

If you’d like to ask me for advice on writing or running a writeblr, please check out my Ask Guidelines and FAQ first.

Ask Guidelines | FAQ | Advice Masterlist

[ban-joey]

upon 3rd rewatch i still think luthen is a jedi

like maybe not. maybe not. i don’t care. i honestly kind of hope they leave it open-ended: don’t tell me, let me make that choice for myself. but the fucking framing of that shot, the billowing cloak, the geometric hallway behind, the bridge he stands on--all clearly reminiscent of vader, right? but in the way vader commanded the screen in the original trilogy. this is the callback to what was good about those movies, recalling an arthurian tale visually if not thematically. we are so far away from what george lucas could ever possibly dream of (maybe he did dream of this, just executed it poorly. andor builds on morsels of material that has been in star wars since the beginning, but just does it so much better than fucking anybody, and those morsels are suddenly THE ENTIRE SHOW and i am FEASTING). there’s the speech that he makes to lonni, bits about anger and ghosts and sacrificing serenity and community--”I look down and there’s no longer ground beneath my feet”--the way he finishes with, what did I lose? EVERYTHING. he’s terrifying. he’s fascinating. he’s ruthless, and he’s doing what it takes. this is a show not about dark and light, good people and bad, this is a show about institutions and what they do to both individuals and communities. i don’t give a shit about the jedi generally speaking, i think they’re boring as all hell and the biggest dipshits alive. if Luthen is a jedi, then god damn he’s the most interesting motherfucker i’ve ever seen. what a fascinating way to portray a former (?) jedi. if he is. did he leave the order long before the empire? is that why he lacks ideology? is that why Saw sees nothing solid in him? i want to know and i also hope it’s never clear. he could be simply a Separatist and i would still be like fuck yeah dude. 

I just love how in this show there are some of the greatest performances I’ve had the pleasure to watch on TV. i’ve seen people talk about being disappointed about diego luna’s performance and man do i disagree. it’s HARD to play across people like Andy Serkis, and Mr. Serkis has his fucking role for a reason, and Luna does his job fantastically. he has to be ON for a DOZEN EPISODES. people who are like, but he has so few lines what’s the point of him? WATCH HIS FUCKING FACE WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT. ACTING!! this is a character we already know isn’t a TALKER all the time. he knows when to keep his mouth shut, watch, and listen, see what his next opening is. this is a show that is so fucking good at using silence, whether it’s lack of dialogue or literal complete silence, no score involved--you use silence because you can rely on your actors and your sets. you don’t need to fill the space any other way, you have what you need. also, his dialogue is always fucking baller. these characters are ALL so well written. “power doesn’t panic” how can you watch this episode, watch diego luna and andy serkis play across from each other, and not just fucking engage in the spectacle? “let’s make it look good” GOD DAMN THEY SURE DID

cassian is still difficult to read, difficult to gauge what’s new to him and what isn’t--in narkina 5, though, his fear is deeply present and cutting. the winning performances we see from other actors are a complement to luna--they play across from him, often as foils in a show where he is the leading man. these characters inform how cassian grows, what he absorbs and what he denies, pivotal moments and otherwise. he’s incredible. i love, love watching him work, and i have to hope that he’s just had a blast working on this show. what a thing, to be in a team of endlessly skilled actors, writers, producers, directors, set and costume designers, fucking everyone. what a world where you sit down in the writers room and lay out the whole show in 5 days flat. that’s it. FIVE DAYS. god. 

[clockworknightmares]

The Gift

I’ve had the ideas of this fumbling around in my drafts for a long time now and I finally finished it. I’m glad I waited thought because I had time to think long and hard about the way in which Rowena acquired Dray and what that might look like. This is from Vys’ POV, however I might write Dray’s POV at some point too.

Tw for “it” as pronouns, dehumanization, slavery, blood, muzzles, drugged whumpee (only briefly mentioned).

“That one.”

Vysthrain’s gaze follows to where Rowena’s finger is pointing. “That one? You can’t be serious, your Majesty. That one is- looks unremarkable. If- if I may be so bold.” He catches himself at the last moment. It never bodes well to contradict the Empress. He glances at her, gauging her reaction to his blunder. However- his opinion stands. The bloodied… boy in the arena below looks one more hit away from his demise. 

Rowena laughs, a melodic sound with an edge that sends a shiver curling down Vys’ spine. She doesn’t seem bothered at his difference of opinion. “Ostra Ailmer doesn’t know what he has.”

“But you do.” It’s a statement, not a question. He can see the cogs in her head turning, that slight twitch of her lips when she’s thinking. More like scheming, his brain provides unhelpfully. 

“That I do.” She keeps her eyes trained on the man in the arena as he runs his opponent through with the short spear he wields in his hand. It’s clearly not his weapon of choice, but he’s making it work. “You see, that is a half dragon.”

Vys snorts and plucks a grape from the bunch on the table next to them. Her majesty seems to be in a light mood, a mood in which he is allowed to converse freely. Within reason. “A half dragon. I think you have had one too many glasses, your Majesty. Everyone knows there’s no such thing as male halfbreed dragons.” He pops the firm grape into his mouth and rolls it around on his tongue. “Besides, if there was, surely they would be more… impressing.” He keeps his eyes on her and away from the blood splattered sand below. 

“And that’s where you’re wrong.” Rowena sits back and smiles to herself. “You see, it’s not that there’s no such thing, it’s that they’re incredibly rare, almost unheard of and Ostra Ailmer doesn’t know just how valuable that possession is.” Her eyes narrow as she turns her attention to watching again, fingers steepled in the way she does when she’s thinking. Vys recognizes the look as that dark shimmering greed of hers. He’s seen it a few times- and knows if it’s something she truly desires, nothing will stop her until it’s in her possession. 

“And you’re going to get it, how exactly? Whether he knows what he has or not, Ailmer won’t give up a winning fighter easily.” Because- despite all odds, they were currently naming the object of Rowena’s attention the winner.

She leans over and pats his cheek like he’s a child asking a silly question. “Vys dear, when have I ever not found a way to get what I want?” It’s a rhetorical question. One that doesn’t even warrant an answer. He knows very well she has her ways. Even as Empress she can not simply demand what she wants, but there are ways.

“Sounds like you are already coming up with a wonderful plan, your Majesty.” He leans into her touch, as he knows she likes and gives her an easy smile. The heat of the day is not so unbearable to him in this moment. “Is there anything I may do to assist you in it?” If she becomes infatuated with some new object, will he be forgotten? He will never let that happen.

“Perhaps”, she says, idly watching the guards half guide, half drag the winner out of the arena. “However there might be no need for any form of coercion.” She gives him another smile. He knows all her smiles by now. This one is self satisfaction, security in her own plans, and just a hint of mirth. “My birthday will be arriving soon. And with it- gifts.”

…

There are such practices in court, that on the ruling monarch’s day of birth, they host many grand parties leading up to the day. These days are important as they allow the mingling of many Ostri and other important personages, officials and relatives, ambassadors and priestesses. It is the time to make important connections, vie for favors and with the right maneuvering, raise your position in court and the eyes of the Empress. A very difficult thing to do indeed.

It is one of the busiest times of Vys’ year, being both companion and spy for the Empress. Her eyes and ears in court, as she must keep herself from mingling too much. He knows Rowena keeps him to herself, not only because he owes her his life, his very existence, but also because he is invisible and they both know it. He is fae, lesser. And therefore apparently- deaf and blind. 

The festivities begin several weeks before the actual day, plenty of time for Vys to worm his way into many circles, sometimes through rather unpleasant means. But if it solidifies his usefulness, his position in Rowena’s eyes- He will give all he has. He may not have need to coerce Ailmer into giving up this new arena rat, but the Ostra might need a nudge in the right direction.

The first time he makes contact with Ostra Ailmer is at a social gathering of the more relaxed nature and the man in question- appearing to have had one too many of the overflowing cups of wine, was in the perfect condition for Vys to begin his plan. The air is warm and thick, cloying in only the way that incense and perfumes bring in small spaces. Vys was more than happy to keep the Ostra’s cup full, hang on his arm, whisper the seeds of Rowena’s desire into this man’s ear. 

“The Empress is very fond of the sport”, he says silkily, gliding his fingers along the man’s arm. 

“Indeed, so they say”, the Ostra replies, twisting the sheer fabric of Vys’ shirt around his fingers. They are pressed close in some low, overstuffed seat, no other ears around.

“I have heard such wonderful things about your champions though. Some say a stock even to rival hers.” The flattery was working, Vys can tell. This man, wrapped up so much in his own self importance, wouldn’t notice a trap until it was too late for him.

“But of course. My lot is the best in all of Athyx Cyreos. I import you know. Better than pulling from the same pools that seem to go around here.”

“Have you ever found anything...extraordinary in your imports?” Vys knows he has to be careful in his words, Ostra Ailmer must never know what he has.

“I do believe I’ve found a champion, a survivor. Not much to look at of course, I did not think it would make it past initial training, but it has done surprisingly well for itself. That is- hasn’t died on me yet.” He laughs, an ear grating thing, and somehow Vys finds it difficult to laugh along with him.

“You know, I have heard some gossip about what the queen desires for her gifts this year, you seem like the type of man that would do well in her court, one I would enjoy seeing around more often.” Vys trails his long fingers down the row of tiny buttons that make up the front of the Ostra’s tunic.

That gets the man’s attention. Vysthrain, however not known to be the Empress' ear, is certainly known as a permanent fixture of the court and Her Majesty’s upper circles. He has access most Ostri can only ever dream of. The gossip of the upper circles is as close to facts as he will ever get. And the gift presented to the Empress has a direct effect on the status and placement you can hope to achieve that year. A gift well received means favors and power. A gift ill-suited to her Majesty’s desires can bring shame and loss of influence.

“You say the Empress might have desire for some of my imports?” Ailmer says, sitting up and glancing around to see if any stray eyes and ears are on them. There are none, save those soaking in his every reaction to take straight back to Rowena. “Tell me fae, what you know of this.”

“Well, you never heard it from me”, Vys says, pulling the Ostra back down to be seated. “But she does have an eye for the unique. Something… different from what others have. She is our Empress after all.” How many more hints must he drop before this man gets it through his wine-addled head? Then again, Rowena had said that Ostra Ailmer did not know what he had. 

“She wants a strong champion, one to win for her?” Ailmer asks, missing the point entirely.

“No-” he starts, nearly frustrated but stops. He’s better than this. “No, I have heard the Empress desires it to be nothing, so that she may turn it into something” He recalls the image of the bloodstained boy in the arena. It had won, but barely. There was certainly nothing there, but that was the appeal for Rowena. She likes to rub her victories into her opponents faces.

“I- I will take this information into account. It has been… most helpful.”

Vys gave a lazy grin and stroked the line of the Ostra’s jaw.  “I am most pleased to be of assistance to you. In any way that I can.”

…

With the Empress’ desire secured, or at least he prays it is, Vys leans back into his job of attending every gathering, rooting out every gossip, avoiding those few people he knows better than to tangle with. The day of Rowena’s birth arrives, and with it, the gifts and delicacies and flatteries that never seem to cease. He can tell that she soaks it all in, but with a scrutiny in her eye that he knows sees through the genuine devotion and the false praise. Vys knows most of it is fake, simply a vie for attention and power. But so must it be, it is their way.

She has become fixated in these weeks, wondering more often than not if she can simply buy the thing she wants. But Vys reassures her that letting this be gifted could lead to an established connection with the Ostra and his imports and also the ability to show him up, simply giving away something so valuable (according to Rowena). Vys knows not of dragons and their worth, but it does seem to be a point of fascination with Her Majesty.

So it is of no surprise to him when she awaits this moment with a form of anticipation, not shown on her face, but in the way she sits up straighter, leans forward slightly, jeweled claws tapping slightly on the arm of her throne. She is raised a good deal above the court, stairs to a platform where her council and inner circle have their places, then still more stairs to her. The Ostri are allowed to ascend to the first platform to present their gifts.

Vys lingers there, keeping an eye on them, watching and mentally recording their gifts. The Empress allows him at her side, near the throne to be at her call, so he often moves between, catching a whisper from her in his ear, making (slightly) judgmental comments about persons of the court. He has not succeeded in making her laugh on her throne, but wonders what would happen if he did. She would either find it extremely amusing or highly punishable. He fears the latter, so he keeps his tone even, with the dry humor he knows she is fond of.

There are many people in court today, many gifts being presented. But Vys knows that Rowena waits for only one. When Ostra Ailmer approaches, she straightens ever so slightly and pulls on her look of disinterest.  

Vys tunes out most of the scraping and bowing and presenting, instead peering around for the thing that Rowena continues to fixate on. His heart begins to beat quicker when he doesn’t see it. If Rowena doesn't get it today, she is going to be most displeased. Particularly with him.

“And what have you brought for me today, Ostra Ailmer”, he hears Rowena say, clear and strong. She knows how to project her voice if nothing else. 

“Your Majesty, I know you hold a great love of sport and pride yourself in having only the best in the arena. Your choices are always unique and with great might. I myself am in the humble occupation of procuring such items. Yet it has come to my attention that you wish for something to craft yourself, mould to your desires. And I hope that on this day, I can present you with such a thing.”

Vys finds himself holding his breath. If what Ailmer procured is not-

The two guards that flank the Ostra part and Vys realizes why he hadn’t been able to see it, dwarfed by Ailmer’s guards of imposing size. Vys looks it over, and feels Rowena next to him doing the same. It was a rather dismal-looking individual with two short horns curling from a shaved head, hands chained in front connected to a thick collar around its neck, a muzzle strapped tightly against its face, clothed only from the waist down. They have it shackled at the ankles, barefoot. Ailmer obviously had tried to clean it up, but the traces of freshly healed wounds are still evident across its body. It keeps its head low, its eyes on the ground. Ailmer has been able to train it that much at least. 

The light catches in a glint on something at its chest, and Vys tries to get a closer look before realizing the room has fallen into silence and Ostra Ailmer has paled to the point of looking a rather sickly grey. 

It has been several long moments and Rowena has still not given an indication on whether or not the gift was worthy. She too- as Vys has been- is studying the thing before her, lost in thought. It made sense to Vys, of course. They had been discussing this moment for weeks now, but he realized to the rest of the court and especially to Ostra Ailmer in hindsight, this appeared to be a very poor excuse for a gift. It was a single worthless looking thing. It was not as if Ailmer was offering the Empress his best champion. No. This was some untrained waif that he had drug up from who knows where.

“Y-your your Majesty, I-” Ostra Ailmer begins, quaking in his boots, and cuts himself off sharply with an undignified squeak as Rowena stands from her throne. 

A sickening hush fell across the entire court. Even Vys, who knew that this was the gift Rowena desired, felt his breath catch in his throat. She never stood. She never walked down the steps. 

Ailmer and his guards bow low, dropping to their knees and not daring to look up at her face. Her inner circle even bows their heads, backing away to give her space as she descends. Only Vys watches as she comes to the bottom of the stairs, in front of the thing in chains who is neither bowing, nor trying to move away from her. Vys thinks he hears Ailmer whimper. 

Rowena’s dress pools at her feet, many lengths of dark red fabric like a waterfall of blood behind her.

A single gold clawed fingertip reaches out and catches underneath the thing’s muzzle, tipping it’s face up to meet her gaze. It’s eyes lock to hers, blue against gold, unblinking. 

Vys isn't sure how long they stay that way, the oppressive silence across the vast room, the shivering Ostra at the Empress’ feet before she tugs the gift a step forward by the chain connected to the collar and cuffs. 

“Ostra Ailmer”, she says, voice ringing loudly. Vys’ ears burn from the noise after so much deafening quiet. “Your gift is accepted.”

A general murmur comes over the entire court, first nervous tittering, then a few polite claps, then the court quickly recovers, returning to the claps and cheers of normal. 

Ostra Ailmer looks as if his ghost has already taken leave of his body and ascended to the Mother. 

“T-thank you your Majesty”, he whispers, not quite all there as his guards help him down the stairs. Vys has to try and not smile at the sight. The man will recover with time and most likely prosper well from this happenstance, but he will never forget this moment where he believed himself to be seconds from seeing his ancestors.

Vys watches one of the Empress’ personal guards approach as if to remove her new gift further behind scenes, but she waves them away with a subtle flick of her wrist, and ascends the stairs to her throne, chained gift in tow, stopping only once again seated as if nothing had happened.

Vys shoots a look across her to where she’s pushed it down next to her throne on the opposite side, golden claws slowly scraping across its shorn scalp. He meets its eyes for a moment, a cloudy blue, not quite there look. He recognizes the cloudiness. Ailmer must have had it drugged before bringing it into a room full of high profile individuals. Smart. 

The look doesn't last long, as it turns its gaze and head downward. But there had been something in those eyes that didn’t settle him. A slight shudder rippled through his shoulders and he returned his attention to the remainder of the presentation.

Rowena had another smile on her face, one that he knew very well to be only one thing.

Victory.

[barbershop-fourtet]

So the weekly prompt on the discord was “Shake It Up” and this fic fits that in a few ways. I’ve had it sitting unfinished for a few months, so I finally decided to finish it as a LW, which was something that I didn’t have much experience in (it would have been my first, but a conversation in the creators’ lounge led to me getting super excited over another idea and LWing that one the day before I finished this one). Also, I mostly write angst, so I wanted to focus on one of my fluff pieces this week. I didn’t edit it as much as I would have liked, but I’m still pretty satisfied with the results.

Anyway, enjoy a Four sickfic with a side of dad!Time.

~~~

“Hey Four, are you feeling okay?”

Hyrule’s concerned statement caught Time’s attention. Turning toward the back of the group, he caught a glimpse of Four’s slightly startled expression. “I’m… fine, why do you ask?”

“You’ve been lagging behind a bit, are you tired? I’m sure we can rest if you need.”

Four waved him off. “I’ve just got a slight headache and I’m a bit dizzy, there’s not much you can do about that and it’ll probably be fine soon enough anyway.”

Hyrule didn’t look convinced, but relented, opting instead to walk alongside the smithy. “Alright, but if you need anything, I’m sure we’d all be willing to stop.”

“He’s right,” Time called back from the front of the group. “We’d rather you be feeling alright than have you burn yourself out.”

“I know, but it’s not worth stopping for. Really, I’m fine, we can keep going.”

Time didn’t miss the slight hesitation in his voice, but let it slide, and the group continued on. Every so often, he could hear Hyrule checking up on Four, but his exact response was lost over the din of the group. He trusted that the traveler could keep a close eye on Four and gauge whether he was able to continue or not.

Sure enough, after only a couple hours Hyrule called up to Time at the front of the group. “We need to stop for the night, Four needs to rest.”

“What, I’m fine, what are you talking about…”

“Four…” Sky whispered, gentle concern in his voice, “I know you want to keep going, but... you’re really not.”

Time only had to take one look at Four to see what they were referencing. He was incredibly pale, and even from this distance Time could tell he was shivering, despite how warm it was outside. Despite his insisting words, he was leaning almost entirely onto Hyrule, unable to stand on his own. 

Despite this, he persisted. “No, it’s fine, we’re not too far, I can make it.” But even as he said this, he pressed himself further into Hyrule, the other boy wrapping his arm around the shivering smithy.

The group had stopped walking at this point, all of them looking at him with concern. Time made his way toward Four, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I know you don’t want to slow us down, but we’d rather stop and let you rest before trying to continue. Are you willing to stop for now?”

The teen was silent for a few moments, and Time thought he would continue to fight, but he eventually muttered a small “alright, if… if you insist.”

Time nodded, then turned to address the rest of the group. “We’ll stop here for now. Let’s make camp and settle in for the night. I know it’s early, but the sooner we let Four rest, the sooner he’ll be better.”

They all nodded, grabbing their gear from Epona and setting up for the evening. As Hyrule walked by, Time grabbed his sleeve. “Would you mind staying with Four and looking after him tonight? I’d feel best if he wasn’t left to do his own thing.”

He nodded. “I can’t stay up all night with him, but I’ll keep an eye on him until night falls.”

“That’s fine, whoever is on watch can check on him occasionally, but I want someone making sure he doesn’t try anything stupid until he falls asleep. He’s smart, but he’s also just as stubborn as the rest of us, and probably doesn’t like the fact that we had to stop for him. He needs to rest, otherwise he won’t be ready to keep moving.”

Hyrule nodded, then made his way over to Wild, who was digging through his bag beside Epona. A few whispered words were exchanged, then Wild pressed a piece of flint and some firewood into Hyrule’s arms. He took a few steps away toward a clear piece of earth, and within moments a small blaze was crackling gently.

Returning to Four, he gently grasped the smaller boy’s arm and led him over to the fire, sitting him down closeby. Despite his earlier words, Four didn’t protest, only curling in on himself and leaning closer to the warmth.

Sky walked past, shrugging off his sailcloth and wrapping it around the smithy, earning him a grateful look. Twilight did similarly with his pelt, then Warriors with his scarf and Wild with his cloak, until Four was buried under a pile of warmth.

The evening proceeded mostly as normal, the notable exception being Hyrule’s insistence that he help Four eat. Four probably would have rolled his eyes and turned down the help, except for that fact that he was both too weak to lift his bowl, and that his hands were still trapped under all the fabric.

As the sun started to set, his head began to bob as he started nodding off by the fire.

Hyrule was quick to notice this. “Come on, it’s late and you need rest. Let’s get you to bed.”

“Wait.” They both turned at Legend’s voice, watching him dig through his bag. “I’ve got just the thing in here that should help- aha!” Pulling out a small bottle, he tossed it to Hyrule. “This won’t get rid of whatever he’s dealing with, but it should help it pass quicker.”

Hyrule nodded, letting Four down the potion before helping him take off his tunic and settle into the pile of blankets the others had set up for him.

The others, taking this as the cue that the day was over, began settling into their own bedrolls, Hyrule placing himself by the fire to keep the first watch.

~~~

When Warriors had woken him up, he'd said that his watch was uneventful, and a few hours later, Time was finding his own to be similar. Good. It would be best to have an easy night, Four definitely needed rest.

And speaking of Four…

Time leaned over and shook Sky gently, waiting a few moments for him to wake up.

“My turn?”

“Yup.”

He nodded, reaching for his gear and beginning to slip it on. “Alright. How’s Four doing?”

“I was about to check on him. Keep an eye on things, would ya?”

“Of course.”

With that, Time stood, walking over to his blankets and stripping off his armor. Dropping it beside the rest of his gear, he carefully picked his way through the tangle of bodies until he could kneel down at the smithy’s side.

The boy was restless, tossing and turning every few seconds. His shivering had stopped hours prior, but where his skin was once pale, it was now flushed a deep red. His breathing was slightly strained, and when Time put his palm against his forehead, he almost flinched at how hot it burned.

Legend’s potion seemed to be working though. Already a thin sheen of sweat beaded his skin, indicating that his fever had broken. If it continued at this pace, he’d probably be well by morning.

Time was almost too caught up in his thoughts to see Four’s eyes flutter open, glazed over as he glanced at the older man. He started slightly as Four shifted under his hand, moaning slightly as he turned his neck to face Time.

“Hey kid, how are you feeling?”

He mumbled something incoherent, but before Time could ask for clarification, he began to sit up, whining softly as his body protested the movement.

“Whoa, whoa, easy there, it’s been a rough day for you.”

“...”

“Pardon?”

“I have to get up.”

“No you don’t, you need to keep resting, besides it’s late.”

“I can’t, you always complain when I sleep in late and you have to start up the forge without me.”

...now Time was confused. Was Four delirious? Did he think he was talking to someone else?

As quick as he could, Time racked his brain. Four had mentioned the forge, which meant there was someone he worked with as a blacksmith. The only other blacksmith Four had ever mentioned had been-

Oh Hylia, Four had mistaken Time for his grandfather.

“Wait, Four, I’m not-”

Time paused. Four always spoke of his grandfather so affectionately, but also with a tinge of sadness. Despite his experience being away from home, it was clear that the long separation from his only family member was difficult for him.

He certainly wasn’t any less capable or mature than the others but… he was still a kid, far from home and missing his family. Maybe it wouldn’t be too bad to fib a little this one time. Besides, he wasn’t likely to remember it anyway.

Lowering himself fully to the ground, Time grasped Four’s hand in his own. “Don’t worry about it, Link. I can manage on my own, you go back to sleep so you get better.”

Four looked conflicted. “Are you sure? I may not be at my best, but I can still help out a bit. I’m probably gonna have trouble falling asleep again anyway.”

“It’s fine. Lay back down, and I’ll stay with you until you’re asleep again.”

“No, it’s fine! You can go get things started for t-”

“Link. It’s fine, I want to help you.”

Four hesitated, and Time thought he would keep fighting, but after a few moments, he relented. “O-okay then, I guess if you don’t mind.”

Time nodded, expecting him to lay back down as he had been before.

But Four apparently had other plans, and decided to turn and curl up right next to the older man, slinging one arm around his waist as he settled beside him.

Time stiffened, but Four’s tension quickly began to disappear as he relaxed into Time’s side. He was about to say something, or subtly move Four off of him, but then-

“Thanks grandpa.”

-and Time’s heart melted a little, and there was no chance that he could move away now. Wrapping an arm around Four, he gently lowered them both onto the ground, him laying flat and Four’s body resting on his own, blankets strewn around them. Four hummed softly, pressing his ear to Time’s chest, letting his echoing heartbeat soothe him, and Time couldn’t help but imagine that this was what it was like to have a child, to be a father. To have a child. He and Malon hadn’t had that opportunity yet, but since he’d met them, these boys were his sons.

He couldn’t deny it- that was what they were to him. As mature and capable as they all were, they would always have that place in his heart.

Time was silent, trying to comprehend the wave of emotion that was crashing over him, when Four hoarsely spoke up.

“...I don’t feel great.”

He chuckled softly, conscious of how Four bounced with the movement of his chest and not wanting to disturb him. “You had a pretty bad fever, you need to rest and you’ll feel better in the morning.”

“...I can’t wait to get better so I can introduce you to my friends, they’re really nice people.”

Oh, this will be interesting. “I can’t wait to meet them, they sound wonderful.”

Four nodded, curling further into Time’s side. “They are. We’re always looking out for each other, and despite everything they’ve been through, they’re some of the sweetest, softest people you'll ever meet.” He paused. “Being with the other guys… it’s kinda like when I was four… being in a group is nice, ‘cause I don’t have to be alone.”

Time wasn’t sure what had happened when the boy was four years old, but it was probably good, given how fondly he was speaking of it.

“They’re really crazy and wild, and some of ‘em are pretty hotheaded, but they all care about each other… and me.” Time couldn’t see his face, but he could hear the smile in Four’s voice. “Especially Time, he’s really great. He acts all stoic and serious but…” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I don’t remember dad much, but… I imagine that he was something like Time, always so loving and caring, always looking out for us. We’re not blood related, but he’s… he’s like our dad, you know?” His head drooped as he began to nod off again, not noticing the emotion he was causing in Time. “He’s a really good dad, too…”

Time was not crying. He was not.

“Anyway, I can’t wait for you to see them. I think you’ll love them too.” He yawned, the last of the tension leaving his body. “...g’night grandpa. I love you.”

...okay maybe he was crying. “...goodnight Link. I love you too.”

~~~

Time woke to the feeling of Four stirring beside him. Lifting his head, he cracked his eye open to see the smithy blinking at him, eyes still bleary with sleep. “T-Time?” he croaked out. He coughed a bit, voice hoarse from sickness and disuse. “What- where…?”

“You were sick, remember? We stopped to let you rest.” Leaning over, he rested his hand on Four’s temple, noting with pleasure how much it had cooled overnight, with only a bit of sweat still covering his skin.

He blinked, squinting as he tried to recall the previous night. “...oh.” He glanced at Time, a tense look on his face as he reached for his gear. “Uh, I didn’t say or do anything weird, did I? I have a tendency to get pretty delirious when I have a fever.”

“...you were a bit… affectionate, but that’s it about it.”

“Oh.” He relaxed a little, fingering the stitching of his tunic before pulling it over his head. “That’s good, because I tend to ramble about weird things when I’m sick, so I didn’t want to confuse any of you or something.”

Time nodded, glancing to where Wild was dishing up food from a cooking pot over the fire. “It looks like breakfast is ready, do you want me to grab you some?”

“No, I can get it, I’m-” Four stood, only to wobble and fall back onto his knees. “...okay maybe that would help.”

Time chuckled, reaching over to ruffle Four’s hair. “Stay here and get yourself a bit more awake, I’ll bring you something.”

He stood, but was distracted by a small noise from Four. He turned, noting the contemplative look on the smith’s face, and kneeled down beside him.

“Are you alright?”

“Huh?” He glanced up, realizing that Time was still watching. “Uh, yeah, I’m fine, just thinking about something.” He paused, hands clenched in his blanket. “Last night, I- did you… I had this dream that…” His gaze dropped to his lap, watching his fingers twist his blanket into knots. “...nevermind, it’s probably nothing.” He smiled gently as he glanced back up. “Thanks for all your help.”

Time nodded, rising off the ground to check what Wild was cooking.

As he was walking away, he heard Four mumble something behind him.

He glanced back over his shoulder, noting the way Four’s cheeks were red and he was refusing to meet Time’s eye. “Pardon?”

His blush deepened before he met Time’s gaze with a soft look in his eyes. His response was a soft whisper, but Time heard it clear as day.

“Thanks, dad.”

~Bonus~

They emerged from the portal, looking around to see if any of them recognized the area.

All of them except Four, who immediately let out a surprised cheer.

“This is the Minish Woods! We’re not too far from my house, we can head there to rest up.”

Time nodded. “Lead on then, the sooner we’re there, the sooner we can plan our next move.”

Four grinned, grabbing the closest hand- Wild’s- and dragging it down the path between the trees.

“We landed right by the entrance of the woods, and it’s only a short walk from there, hurry up!”

They hurried after him, amused by his excitement, until they reached the door of a lone house.

Four didn’t hesitate, opting to throw it open and yell “Grandpa, I’m home!”

...no response came.

Four frowned, eyes searching the room, before walking into a side room, calling out for his grandfather again.

He returned to the main room, a concerned look on his face. “I don’t understand, he’s normally here, working in the forge, I don’t know why-”

“Of course it’s when I decide to leave for just a few minutes that my grandson comes home.”

Four’s face split into the biggest grin imaginable as he raced forward and tackled the man in the doorway.

“Good to see you again kid, but where have you been, young man?”

Four giggled, pulling back slightly and wiping a few tears off his cheeks. “The same old hero-ing, you know how it is.”

“Of course I do, it took you away from home for long enough when you were young. Well-” he glanced at the others, who were watching the reunion from a respectful distance. “Younger, at least. Younger than these boys, by any means. I’m assuming these are the ones you’ve been writing me so many letters about?”

Four nodded eagerly, stepping back and gesturing for the others to come closer. “Yeah! These are my friends that I’ve wanted you to meet.”

The introductions went smoothly, with a few rolled eyes (Legend when Four called him a hoarder) and shy looks (Wild when Four referred to him as a pyro).

And then Four got around to introducing Time.

“This is…” Four blushed, his gaze dropping to his shuffling feet. “This is… well, he’s the responsible one of the group, kinda like… the dad. He’s the one doing his best to keep us from doing something stupid.”

Smith- as he’d asked them to call him- laughed, extending a hand toward Time. “Well, it’s nice to see that there’s someone keeping an eye out for my boy.”

Time smiled, clasping his outstretched arm and shaking firmly. “He does that well enough on his own, actually. If anything, he helps me keep the other wild ones in line.”

“Well, you’ve only seen what’s happened when he’s alone. If there were four just like him, well, that’d be-”

“Aaaaaand that’s enough of that story! I’m sure we can have time for stuff like that later,” Four cut in, cheeks red. “They, uh, don’t need to know that kind of stuff, grandpa.”

“Oh, you’ve been pretty mature around them, haven’t you? They haven’t seen your… colorful side, have they?”

Four pouted. “No, they haven’t seen it yet, and I don’t feel like changing that right now.”

Smith chuckled, wrapping his arm around Four’s shoulder. “Well, that’s too bad. All the same, I missed you, kid.”

Four sighed, leaning into his grandfather’s embrace, a content smile on his face. “I missed you too, grandpa.”

[concerningwolves]

Hey I'm doing a short story for class about an autistic girl who discovers she have telekinesis and I want to knows how to portray her properly and how beint autustic affect her powets with makint autism sounds baf

Hi anon! I’m very sorry if I’m answering this too late for you; I barely had time to even look at my inbox in October and November, and then when I got time to do so this month, I got overwhelmed by the backlog. Nonetheless, I’ll answer this and hope that even if it’s too late for your original purpose, something in it will help you (/help anyone else who reads this) :]

AUTISM, SUPERPOWERS & FAIR REPRESENTATION

Okay, so, the basic answer to “how not to make autism sound bad” is approach the story with compassion and/or empathy – but that’s a very broad answer and probably not overly helpful for specifics. I’ll start with the “how to represent autism well” part and then break down the superpower-specific stuff from there.

1) Autism should be an integral part of your characters’ personhood, but not their entire personality

As an autistic, I struggle to define where my autism ends and my personhood (i.e., my sense of the “self”) begins, because they’re so deeply entwined with one another.  Autism is a condition that alters how I think and interact with the world, and therefore profoundly impacts how I perceive both myself and the things around me. That doesn’t mean, however, that my only personality trait is autism. It all gets very convoluted and existential – would I still be ‘me’ if you removed autism? What is ‘me’? Is it even fair to think of autism as a separate Thing? – but it is worth considering if you want to get inside your autistic character’s head.

A trap that allistic creators tend to fall into is “this character likes [X] / does [X] because they are autistic”. For example, I once saw someone say that their OC likes blue because it’s a calming colour and therefore sensory-safe. This is a valid process on its own: I also like pale blue (+ other pastel shades) because it’s a sensory-safe colour! But where many allistics fall down is in not considering that an autistic character’s likes, dislikes and hobbies don’t have to relate to their autism.

Although the show has its flaws, I do think that Sam Gardener from Netflix’s Atypical is a positive example of an autistic character just liking something because they like it. His special interest is all to do with penguins and antartic wildlife/explorations, and he also enjoys art as a hobby because... he just does. That’s not to say these things don’t intersect – he takes a scientific illustration class in college precisely because it combines two things he likes; it’s also fair to say that autism gives him an edge in drawing because autism brain is excellent at grasping theory/technicalities. But ultimately it’s nice to have an autistic character whose interests and personality traits go beyond the stereotypical special interest.

For more on representing autistic characters, check out [this post] where I go into a bit more depth. (NOTE: that post is on my list of things that I want to revise/rewrite/flesh out, so it might change soon, but the basic stuff is still the same).

2) Autism isn’t inherently “bad” – but that doesn’t mean it’s without issues, either

Autism is not the devastating tragedy that neurotypicals like to present, but it does come with its own difficulties and pitfalls that you should acknowledge if you want to write a well-rounded autistic character. There’s often discourse/debates on my dash about whether it’s fair to call autism a disability. I’d say it is – there are definitely aspects of autism that are disabling, i.e., sensory overload, burnout, trouble communicating, etc. – but it isn’t a disability in the way that allistics/abled people think.  

Some aspects of autism are “double edged”, in that they have useful and troublesome sides. Speaking for myself, hyper-empathy means that I’m good at grasping why emotions Do The Thing, which is incredibly useful in filling in gaps in my social sense! But. It also means that I struggle to draw a line between my own emotions and someone else’s, and am simply awful at creating healthy emotional boundaries. As the writer, you create good representation by showing both sides. Let your character have meltdowns! Let them have trouble in social situations! Let them get burnt out or overwhelmed! But also make sure to show that this doesn’t make them inherently burdensome to other characters, and explore the good/neutral aspects of autism, too.

3) So, how would all of this impact superpowers?

A lot of that depends on your world’s magic/superpower system. Some things to consider are:

Does your character need to be concentrating?

Do emotions influence how controlled the power is?

Does the power take a physical or mental toll on the user?

etc.

These are laws you ought to think about as part of worldbuilding, regardless of a characters’ neurotype or ability, but I do believe that autism will have an impact on how a character interacts with their powers. For example, many autistic people have difficulty with fine motor skills and spatial awareness, either as part of autism or due to a co-existing condition [1]. This could theoretically cause trouble if a character needs to gauge personal space/use spatial perception when using telekinesis to direct objects. Where emotions effect a power, emotional dysregulation or rejection sensitive dysphoria could also come into play by disrupting a characters’ concentration or control. 

Make sure to show your character working with or around these sorts of issues, and keep a balance between the pros and cons. If sensory input throws off her concentration, what are ways she can get around that? Earplugs for noise, dark glasses for light sensitivity, seamless clothes, headphones... etc etc. On the more negative side, I can only imagine the chaos I might cause during a meltdown if I had telekinesis: objects flying everywhere, lightbulbs bursting, general pandemonium. That said, telekinesis would be great if I could levitate myself and just hang there without any sensory input. Also useful if I needed to get stuff and didn’t have the energy to move because of burnout, or if I could use telekinesis to “weigh down” a blanket on top of me during meltdowns. There are some really fun possibilities here! 

Another way to avoid showing autism as a burden/something bad is to give your character a support network and/or accommodations in the story. Have your character find ways to work around issues just like a neurotypical person would, yes, but also have other characters be understanding and ready to help. Thriving support systems are just as important as the autistic character themself.

Basically, address the fact that some aspects of autism are difficult to cope with/require aid but don't overtly focus on that, you know? Your character can get upset, frustrated, or be resigned. She can beat herself up! All autistic people live with this feeling of "not good enough". But show her overcoming this, show her with a good support system, and show her being a person as complex and developed as any other character.

FOOTNOTE(S)

[1] general practise in diagnostic circles is to avoid diagnosing with things like dyspraxia if another developmental disorder is present (i.e., autism), but we’re still learning about what the big ice-cream bar of autism actually covers. What traits an autistic person has can vary hugely from one person to another.

[monsterywriting]

Dirrath pt 11

Masterlist

word count: 3,201

AN: finals are officially over and i’m finally free! here’s the next part of Dirrath and 13′s story that surprisingly doesn’t have all that much Dirrath in it.

“Are you sure you can do this?” Dirrath asked, withholding the knife from you just before you could take it from him, “You have to concentrate, even if the pain becomes unbearable.”

“I know, I’m the one who told you that,” you scoff in exasperation, “and if I can’t, you can scrape my guts off the floor and heal them back into place.”

The demon begrudgingly relinquishes the knife to you, watching silently as you bring its sharpened edge to your leg and making a long stripe up your thigh, barely breaking the skin.

You glance briefly up at your coconspirator as you hand him back the knife, your eyes meeting as you both steeled yourselves in preparation for what you were about to attempt.

The certainty with which Dirrath had accepted your proposition was replaced with anxiety now that you were on the verge of going through with the plan. He had been fairly easy to convince with your theory for healing yourself, even if you couldn’t exactly show him the proof of your healed paper cut.

But the apprehension was understandable. A lot of things could go wrong with this. You could lose your focus and set back your healing even further or be unable to perform the same trick twice. Or you may die of exhaustion or blood loss before you even got close to healing your stab wound. There was a lot at stake here, but the potential reward could be you regaining your strength faster and actually be able to use your magic again for the remainder of your time in Roquechade’s castle.

You weren’t going to be able to fix the glamor issue in a week, but with Dirrath’s growing impatience for a cure, you might finally be able to at least convince him to tell you more about his curse.

For now, however, you concentrate your entire attention on healing the wound on your gut. You weren’t sure how you can focus the strain of using magic to the cut on your leg, but you tried first visualizing it; imagining the magic exiting your thigh and entering into your stomach.

You didn’t know much about the theories behind magic, your tutors believing it much more important to learn its applications and teaching you extensively means of harnessing magic easier. This was the easiest method for you, imagining magic as a tangible object, moving and acting upon the world around you. So, instead of questioning whether this was possible, you instead focus on making the magic work.

For a few tense moments, nothing happens. Dirrath says something, but you quickly tune out all outside distractions and focus harder. Soon enough, you feel a tug in your abdomen.

It isn’t like the work done by the castle healers in Altruria; they could undo an injury completely, turn back time on broken bones, cuts and bruises until the patient was as good as new. This was the distinct sensation of your wound stitching itself together.

You don’t feel the pain in your thigh immediately, so you don’t realize it’s actually working until you feel warm liquid running down your leg. A good sign that the deterioration only happens there, at least.

The pain grows steadily as the cut deepens but just as it begins to grow unbearable, Dirrath begins to heal it.

It gets harder to focus as both wounds now heal simultaneously, constantly catching yourself before you can flip your attention to the wrong one. Dirrath also heals faster than you, constantly having to stop his own healing to allow the wound to deteriorate again but also serving as another distraction for you.

Your body was also quickly tiring. The tutors always said you had a bad habit of using magic incredibly inefficiently, falling back to these bad tactics even after learning less taxing methods and counteracting any natural talent you may have held. It didn’t matter to you much then, having very little practical use for magic in your life until that point.

Now, however, you felt it, realizing they had been right as your strength began to crash. You forced yourself onward, the muscles of your arms and legs convulsing as you pulled energy from them.

Dirrath was yelling, you think, but you still don’t break your concentration even after you no longer felt the pull of healing in your abdomen.

Suddenly, Dirrath was shaking you out of your trance and your magic halting with your broken focus. You felt as though you just ran a marathon, drenched in sweat and panting for air.

You look down at your stomach, relieved to see the stab wound had been reduced to a white line. You were just about ready to pass out, no longer concerned with the task of healing as Dirrath finished up healing on his own end.

“Stay awake,” the demon said, snapping his fingers in front of your dazed eyes, “You didn’t concentrate it on the cut at the end there. You have some deterioration everywhere.”

You blink away the sleep, though you can’t help but relax into the plush mattress and pillows. You know Dirrath’s right, this point the most critical in keeping you alive, but it’s difficult to fight how sore you feel everywhere or how your eyes throb with the need to close immediately. However, the moment you feel your eyelids begin to slide down involuntarily, the door slams open.

“What the hell happened here?” Olek demanded from the doorway, his sudden entrance succeeding in keeping you awake, adrenaline coursing through your veins at being caught by the one person who you did not want to catch you.

Your captain looked downright livid as he took in the scene before him. Granted, you could imagine exactly how bad it looked. You were definitely looking a complete mess; sweat rolling down your face into your eyes, your legs still twitching with residual spasms and your entire body feeling like one giant bruise. Worst of all, standing next to you with knife still in hand was Dirrath, the one person still in the castle who wasn’t currently locked away that the captain still mistrusted.

You try to explain, your words coming out so hoarse and stilted even you had trouble understanding what you were trying to say. You instead switch tactics to tapping one finger on the small scar that now adorned your stomach, a sharp contrast to the angry red, puckered flesh that had been there before.

“Gods above, what have you done? You could have died!” Olek snarled, an all-too-familiar vein beginning to pop out of his forehead once he turned to Dirrath, “And you- I’ve held my tongue about your for long enough. This was the final straw!”

Olek stalked into the room straight towards Dirrath, slamming the door shut behind him. The demon, to his credit, didn’t outwardly flinch, but it was clear by the way his body tensed that he was not underestimating the captain.

Before Olek could reach him, Dirrath thankfully let the knife fall onto the bed, making the captain’s grip on the handle of his sword lessen slightly. Only slightly.

“Stop,” you croaked, mustering the strength to swing your legs over the edge of the bed and somehow managing to stand on wobbly knees. No matter how precarious your balancing act, you’re determined to take the few steps necessary to put yourself in between your captain and the demon.

“You shouldn’t even be able to stand right now,” Olek chided, stepping forward to try and sit you back down.

“Well, I couldn’t go to the banquet injured, and this way I can be of more use if something does go wrong,” you retort, your patience running thin, “What’s done is done. It’s over now.”

“What you’ve done- it was stupid. If you had killed yourself, then everything would have been for nothing! You should have told me instead of trusting this idiot-”

“Well, he’s done more to help me than you! What would you have been able to do, Olek?” You snap, the words that left you sinking in just moments later and all anger immediately dissipating as you tried to backpedal, “Wait, Olek-”

Your stomach twists as Olek’s expression also drains of anger, unreadable as he abruptly turns to leave. He pauses, not looking at you as he turns back to grab Dirrath by his collar and drag the demon out the room with him. You flinch as the door slams shut behind him, leaving you alone once more.

You sit heavily on the edge of the bed, your body still aching but unable to fall asleep with the lingering regret on your mind as your words repeated themselves on it.

Garreth was the one to bring your food that afternoon - a testament to Olek’s current standing - standing nervously in the center of the room while he waited for you to finish eating.

“Sit,” you gesture to one of the couches, unable to handle the formalities normally shoved upon you at the moment.

Most of the members of your guard refused to speak informally with you. Whether that was because they found you unworthy of your title or because they respected it too much to get comfortable with you, you had no clue. Garreth was one of the few that normally reciprocated your attempts at small talk, but evidently word had gotten around about your spat with Olek. But while you didn’t quite feel up to the normal chitchat, you did take the opportunity to interrogate the guard.

“He didn’t say anything when he returned. Just started ordering everyone to stop lazying around. Then he ordered me to bring your food when the servant brought it. He still tasted it, of course, my princess.”

You frown at the sudden inclusion of your title, which deepens with the new information that Olek would test your food. You had no doubt it was in case of the eventuality that it was poisoned, but you couldn’t help the bitterness settling deep in your belly at how you now had to be constantly watched over and protected for the rest of your life. But now was not the time for that, still trying to gauge how badly you’d ruined things between you and Olek.

“Is this your first time arguing with him?” Garreth asks slowly, the awkwardness of his tone shifting into something softer, understanding even. You nod glumly, the urge to right your wrong overpowering any sense of embarrassment. 

“That’s… surprising,” he replied, shifting in his seat, “He was always arguing with the 13th, er- the one before you. The 8th was always breaking up their fights.”

Your head shot up to stare at Garreth, studying his expression for any sign of deception. A million questions circle in your mind, each vying to be the first out your mouth. You didn’t know which new piece of information to address first. The fact that Garreth thought Olek particularly belligerent or that Olek would actually come to blows.

But what you truly wanted to ask about was your predecessor; the 13 before you. You knew nothing of the person you replaced. The only bit of information you’d been given was when you first arrived, the castle still grieving at the time. All you knew was that you were replacing them because they had died, not the usual vacancy left in the court after an older member retires or dies and all the subsequent titles shift down a number. You didn’t ask questions at the time and no one bothered to fill in the details for you.

What would they fight about? How could it get so heated they would actually, physically fight? Olek was a stick in the mud, sure, but you never thought he’d actually fight you over the things he’d get annoyed with you about. In fact, he was always so patient with you, it used to make you feel bad how he would have to explain things about the capital or your studies.

“It got so bad, the High Queen would threaten to intervene. In retrospect, I suppose if Captain Olek had been the problem they would have just transferred him out,” Garreth continued, seemingly unaware of your inner turmoil.

“What were they like? The 13th?” You ask, feeling it somehow wrong to condense the magnitude of a person with all their complexities into such a simple question, but unable to keep yourself from asking it.

“Captain Olek could tell you better than I,” Garreth said truthfully, smiling sheepishly as you deflated at the reminder of your ongoing conflict with your captain, “Can I ask what exactly happened?”

“I did something stupid- and when Olek tried to tell me that, I said something very insensitive that I regret,” you grimace, wanting to fold in on yourself at the very memory of what exactly you said, unable to bring yourself to repeat them to Garreth, “Thank you, I’m done.”

You present your empty plate, watching as the guard takes it and leaves. Before he closes the door, Garreth turns to look at you one last time, seemingly deep in thought before he speaks.

“Olek is tough and loyal. I’m sure he wasn’t hurt by what you said, but he would definitely be worried about you doing something that would put you in danger.”

You’re left alone once again, Garreth’s kind words unfortunately doing little to assuage your guilt. And, despite clearing your plate, you were still starving, your body seeking to restore the energy lost in your earlier misadventures.

Eventually, you’re able to briefly fall into a fitful sleep, jolting awake with every errant noise in the castle - which was many in such a large structure.

You wake suddenly one final time when you hear your door creak open. For a brief moment, you think it will be Dirrath bringing the cart of sayerba before remembering there’s no more need for it with your healed stab wound. Instead, it’s Olek, carrying in another tray of food.

Your stomach growls at the aroma of the hot meal, but you say nothing, feeling as though you had to address the elephant in the room but unsure how to proceed.

Olek shouldered that burden for you, clearing his throat as he approached your bedside, “I knew you’d still be hungry after expending that much energy.”

“I’m sorry, Olek,” you blurt out, unable to take his offered truce without at least saying as much, “what I said was a low blow and-”

“It’s alright, Princess,” Olek smiled for a brief second, setting the tray down on the bed for you to take, “I’ve head far worse things growing up. I know you did not mean it maliciously.”

You ate in relative silence, Olek sitting on his usual armchair in the corner. You try to think of something to say as you shovel the food down your gullet, wanting to alleviate some of the tension you still felt, even if only imagined.

“Growing up in the outskirts, no one really had any magical ability. You would have been pretty normal out there,” you finally manage, though it doesn’t come out as quite the compliment you imagined, so you quickly add, “well, the girls in the villages would have been all over you, probably. You look like you’d be a strong farmer.”

Your joke elicits a snort from Olek and you beam.

“I don’t think I’ve every heard you talk about your life from before,” Olek said, the silent prompting not going unnoticed by you.

“Oh yeah, everyone was too afraid to ask in front of you, but they all wanted to know if we really had no plumbing or electricity, or if we all had to make fire from rocks,” you smile wryly, Olek frowning, “In truth, yeah. With no magic, people had to rely on other contraptions, but supplies were hard to come by from the capital and resources were better spent putting them back into the farms.

“The only ones I knew of back then were me and my mother. But there was once a young man who had serious talent,” you falter a bit as the memories flood back, Olek thankfully remaining silent as you worked out what you wanted to say, “He even went to study in the capital for a time. But when he came back, he wasn’t the same, or so his family said. Obsessed with becoming stronger in magic. We got called out after one of his many failed attempts at doing higher magic, but my parents were busy so I was sent ahead. When I got there, he was a mess of innards held together only by his skin.”

Olek sucked in a breath and you realized at some point while you spoke he had leaned forward in his seat, “How old were you?”

“Hm. Twelve?” You ponder, not too sure but settling on that. It had been a long time ago, either way, “But that’s not the point. The point is, he survived for six days like that, his family watching as my mother and I tried to fix him. For a long time, I never wanted to do magic because I was scared of it, thinking that would happen to me.

“But then I was taken to the castle and I learned that magic wasn’t some scary, unknowable force, just a tool that can be used incorrectly like any other. And that I wasn’t scared of magic in and of itself, but that it would drive me to do something as selfish as to watch the people I care about have to see me like his family saw him… and I did that to you today.”

You trail off, losing momentum as you tried to put your concluding thoughts into words. You didn’t feel much lighter, as was commonly said of divulging such burdensome memories to someone else. You just felt sad, all over again. There was no weight lifted, or release after having said it. It was still there, just as heavy and omnipresent as it had been before, but now Olek knew. And perhaps that made you feel the tiniest bit better.

“You’re right,” Olek murmurs, and you sink into the mattress, “Magic is a tool, and while you did use it stupidly… you weren’t using it selfishly. You were trying to help, be useful in a way only you could be. And that’s something that makes you fitting for your title.”

“Thank you, Olek,” you smile, though it quickly falls when you sigh, “But that doesn’t excuse what I said out of anger. You’ve done so much to help me without magic. Remember when I first arrived in the castle? You were the only one who would stop to help me understand things that were happening. And don’t say it was just your job. I know it wasn’t your job to help me cheat on that aptitude test my first week.”

Olek’s mouth fell open and a sound of pure indignation escaped him, but when he was ultimately unable to say anything in his own defense, he burst into laughter. You join in immediately, relieved there’s no searing pain in your abdomen as you laugh.

[insane-control-room]

Not Over Yet

for @writingdispenser based on their amazing fic, I’m Gonna Like the Way You Fight

ao3 link here

Sometimes the best laid plans are disrupted.

It was supposed to go perfectly. They had planned for everything and anything, even bringing packs of food and drink just in case they got stuck. The plan itself was flawless, two utterly brilliant men conjuring the smartest and most untrackable idea, a mix of minds that was so impenetrable that Spy knew that it had to have been an inside job. Had someone seen their movements and subsequently gave them away? He could have sworn that he heard the tell tale clack of high heels behind him right before Engineer’s yelp and the bat blinked in his vision moments prior to it all going dark. Yet again, it all happened too fast for his liking. 

He groaned and let his head lean back. His arms were sore and unable to move, as were his legs. Whomever it was that caught them must have known who they were dealing with, and made sure to tie him up tight. Was Engineer in the same situation? Where was Engineer, in any case? Spy could not see him, eyes darting left to right. Trying to speak and call out for him failed too, his mouth dry. 

He cleared his throat painfully, about to try again, when he heard him talk first, a weak, “Spy…?”

“I am here,” Spy quickly assured him. “Are you alright? I am afraid that my good looks are a little off kilter for the time being, as my nose feels like it is broken.”

“And I,” Engineer replied slowly, as if forming words into comprehensive lines was a strenuous task, “Might have a little bit of a concussion.”

“Oh,” Spy winced. “That… does not sound good.”

“No, no it doesn’t, I’ll reckon,” Engineer conceded. “I’m right sure that it sounds pretty bad.”

“Are you tied up?” Spy asked, trying to gauge their situation. Engineer hummed an affirmative. “Well, ah, let’s think of our options.”

“I don’t have my wrench,” Engineer muttered. “Can’t teleport out of here.”

“They must have known about it,” Spy hissed, trying to wriggle himself free. Everything felt strangely stiff and heavy. “Is it somewhere around this area, though?”

“I think it’s on a table just a bit away,” Engineer answered. “I’m going to try to get to it.”

When Engineer moved, Spy realized why it was so hard to do anything.

They were tied to each other.

Engineer seemed to reach the same conclusion at the same time.

“This is both better than I expected and worse,” he commented. “If we’re tied together, maybe we can work together to get up and move. Did you ever have to get up with a partner in a gym class?”

“What the hell are you talking about,” Spy snapped, losing his patience and growing agitated in worry. “Non, I have not.”

“Okay, so what we gotta do is,” Engineer leaned against Spy. “We need to push against each other and get into a vee shape with our legs. On the count of three, one, two, three!”

It took a bit of time, but eventually the two men found themselves on their four feet, panting and groaning from the exertion. 

“On your feet?” Engineer asked between breaths. Spy could only nod. For a mercenary he thought this would be nothing difficult, especially not for a spy, but he supposed that being knocked out and with a concussed partner would make things a bit harder. “Good, good. I think that the best way to do this is to get the wrench in one hand for both of us.”

“Are we retreating?” Spy asked, almost disappointed. He wanted to continue on. Engineer paused, shoulders sagging down. “We can continue. This is just a… small setback, that is all.”

“I-- I want to agree with you,” Engineer said slowly. “But….”

He looked to his feet. He did not know how to word this. 

I don’t want you to get hurt? Your safety and preservation is important? 

“We’re a team. We decided to do this together, and if things are goin’ south as they are, then maybe it would be smart to back up and regroup. To come at this with fresh eyes,” Engineer decided to say. “Maybe that way they wouldn’t think of us as a threat anymore.”

“Or maybe they’ll block off our access point and increase security, which will happen whether or not we stay,” Spy pointed out. Engineer grew silent. “Let’s think about the moment. If we go, we might lose our ability to go through with our plan.”

“You’re right,” Engineer admitted. “I guess I’m a bit worried.”

“You, worried?” Spy snorted. “The man who snuck over enemy lines to place a sentry right by their respawn? He who set up camp directly above the RED respawn?”

“Okay, yes, I might have done some pretty risky things,” Engineer huffed, trying to look for Spy’s knife so they could cut themselves free. “This is different.”

“How so?”

Those, he did alone. Those, he could plan for and escape in the blink of an eye without worrying about anyone or anything. This, in an indescribable way, was different.

However, bringing that up brought an idea to his mind.

“Spy, you can use BLU teleporters, right?”

“Yes, cher, and what does that have to do--”

“What if we get out of here, and watch for when they lax up security again,” Engineer began, and Spy, figuring out his plot, finished for him, “And teleport in while their guard is down. Brilliant.”

“I’m glad you think so,” Engineer hummed. “But we still need to get untied and I need to set up the teleporter somewhere they wouldn’t think to look. And I don’t think that my brain is working enough to determine a place like that.”

“First things first,” Spy soothed, also unable to locate his knife. “Getting out of these ropes.”

“Y-yeah. That’s probably a good start,” Engineer mumbled. It was hard to concentrate. “Do you have any ideas for how to do that?”

“We could try stretching it out and hoping it will loosen,” Spy offered. “Or find something rough to saw it off.”

“Would a buzzsaw work?”

“Yes, I-- where do you see a buzzsaw?”

“Right in front of me.”

Spy craned his neck, and sure enough, there was a circular blade sitting on the table beside Engineer’s wrench. Operating it would be tricky, and not cutting off their fingers would be trickier, but with calm concentration they would be able to use it to their advantage. 

Then there was a pause.

“Wait a second.”

“What?” Spy heard a curious noise in Engineer’s voice, almost as though he was holding in laughter. “What is it, Engineer?”

“Hold my right hand, no, the other right,” Engineer instructed him. “Tight.”

When Spy did so, he was greeted by the unnerving sense that all was not as it seemed within that rubber glove. Sure enough, he could feel the Engineer twist his wrist, bend his elbow, and leave his hand in Spy’s grasp. 

The rope, no longer holding them, fell from Spy’s wrist. They turned to face each other, their other hands still bound. Spy awkwardly held out Engineer’s hand for him to take, staring at the place it should have been on the man’s body. A mechanical base was at his wrist, and Spy quickly realized that he was holding a prosthetic. 

“Did you build it yourself?” he asked, curious. Engineer nodded. “That is incredible.”

“Thank you,” Engineer accepted, blushing just a tad. Spy found it a bit exhilarating to be the first to discover this-- or at least, it felt like it, and that was how he would hold it in his mind. Engineer, breaking away from staring at Spy, turned to fumble with undoing the knot on their still bound wrists. “Uh, do you want to pick where I put the teleporter? Somewhere that we both can reach it, and where it wouldn’t be noticeable.”

“Let’s scout out this hall,” Spy offered. “Perhaps we will be able to spot somewhere of interest. I’m sure that this place is rather dull, as they put us here expecting us to find nothing.”

“True,” Engineer nodded in agreement. “But let’s be careful when we go out. Our only weapons are… a wrench and a buzzsaw.”

“Not exactly ideal, but workable,” Spy commented. “Still, it doesn’t seem like they were expecting us to be able to escape at all, seeing as they did not put any watch over us.”

“Don’t jinx it, Spy,” Engineer warned him. “We don’t know that, maybe whoever was on our watch just stepped out for a smoke.”

“I will backstab them if they did,” Spy told him bluntly. “And yes, with the buzzsaw.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Engineer tried not to laugh. It brought a smirk to Spy’s face, and the man picked up the blade, weighing it in his hand. It was battery powered, which would be quite helpful against any enemies they might encounter. They made their way out into the hallway, glancing around corners to see no one, but if they strained their ears, the sounds of a patrol could be heard in the distance. “Do you want to go left or right?”

Spy pondered for a moment. Left was closer to the central hallway, right seemed to lead to a dead end.

“Let’s go left,” he whispered. “Just with caution.”

Engineer nodded, and the two crept along the path. Glancing along the hallway, they were able to tell that the floor was sloped, and down probably meant where they needed to go. 

They signaled to each other, and Spy slipped into the shadows to find the nearest nook to hide in. Soon he returned to Engineer, and once a guard marched past them, the pair stealthily made their way to a room, the lock already picked by Spy. It was a bit difficult with Engineer’s vision pulsing at times and confusion attacking his senses, but Spy kept him steadily on their goal. 

After repeating this several times, and getting an approximate two miles into the facility over the course of an hour, they finally heard signs that their escape was noticed. Grinning at one another, they were able to make much faster progress now, as the guards of GRN and YLW were going up the hallway slope instead of down, expecting them to have retreated. Soon, they reached a door that was electronically sealed, and Spy frowned. 

“Should we go back now?” he asked Engineer. “So I could get my sapper.”

“Or we could wait for someone to open the door for us,” Engineer replied, but that course of action became disproven as someone did go through the door in a moment-- and it left no window of opportunity to slip through, opening and closing immediately. “Sapper it is.”

They back tracked two rooms to determine where to hide the teleporter. A shelf was brought into question, thought it would be rather annoying to deal with, seeing that it was close to the ceiling and would force them into a stoop, and possibly break their backs. 

“Wait a moment,” Spy reached out his hand to stop Engineer from climbing up the shelves to look around the room. “If, as I think, it was an inside job that gave us away, then they will be expecting us to come back in from above, as that is your rather signature maneuver. So perhaps, a wiser move will be to come from below.”

“What about that there grate?” Engineer asked, pointing at a relatively man sized hole. Spy realized that was a way further into the building. Spy mentioned it to him quietly, and they slipped within. Crawling along quietly, they dropped down into the next flight, and edging into the room, they sighed with relief as no one was around. They crossed the hall into the room across, too many people marching by to be comfortable with going any further without any of their, especially Spy’s, gear. 

They set up the teleporter, and then Spy found himself in a tight hold, Engineer’s face inches from his own, and then there was a strange sensation similar to teleporting, and they were back at spawn-- BLU spawn, to be precise. 

“Medbay, now,” Engineer grunted, hauling Spy over his shoulder much like one of his toolboxes. The medical bed under his back was strangely comfortable, and the healing rays sinking into him felt like a blissful blessing as well. He suddenly was assaulted by smells, now realizing that he had been unable to due to his nose having been swollen. He sighed and relaxed, his eyes closing out of instinct. The Engineer smelled of sweat and hard work, but more importantly, safety, and it let him drift….

“Spy, don’t pass out on me again, now,” firm hands shook his shoulders. His eyes snapped open, and he tried to ask him what he meant by ‘again’, but his mouth was too dry. “You awake now? Good. Good. You scared me.”

“Sorry,” Spy replied, rubbing his eyes. The scent of the Engineer was again in his nostrils, this time awakening him rather than putting him to sleep. “I… I didn’t realize. It was very soothing.”

“Ah yeah, I know,” Engineer huffed, sitting next to him and leaning against him under the tranquil rays of the medbay’s medigun. “I wonder if this stuff can fix up a concussion….”

“We’ll see,” Spy mumbled, leaning against him as well. The change of plans, at first a painful poke at his pride, now seemed further away than he could have dreamed. And, he decided, as an arm wrapped over his shoulder, soft muscle embracing him in a half hug, that he preferred this outcome, in a strange, sentimental way he thought he had shed many years ago. His own arm snaked behind Engineer’s back, and the two of them sat there, silently inhaling and exhaling, glad to be alive and with one another. Spy, stirring out of his trance and growing a touch embarrassed, coughed, and then asked Engineer: “Do you think we should infiltrate again in the dead of night or in broad daylight? Both will have the advantage of surprise.”

“Right now, I can’t think much about that,” Engineer told him in response.

“Fair enough,” Spy answered with a slight smile and shrug. “Are you feeling any better, though?”

“It feels like my brain is being remolded,” Engineer replied, rubbing his forehead. “It hurts a little, but I hope it will get better soon.”

“Aw, poor Engie,” Spy crooned, and began rubbing circles over the man’s temples. “Is this helping at all?”

“Yeah, it is,” he sighed. “Thank you.”

Spy said nothing. He did not feel like there was anything to say. Instead, he rubbed his temples for a few moments longer, and then leaned back against his strong hold. They breathed in unison as their bodies and minds rested and healed.

Looking at each other when they finally got up, they both grinned, reinvigorated.

The game wasn’t over until they called it.

[once-upon-a-pirate-ship]

How Restlessly the Stars Do Gleam 2/?

Story summary: Princess Emma isn't the princess of much anymore. It's been months since her parents and brother were taken, and she's been on the run with her godmother Red. When Emma and Red board a merchant vessel to sail to Arendelle, Emma quickly finds that the captain is not to be trusted. After helping two slave brothers, Emma takes over the ship and begins her journey to save and rebuild her kingdom.

Read it on AO3 | or start at the beginning

Chapter 1 on Tumblr

Chapter 2: Trick of the Knife

word count: ~6k

Panic was a curious thing.

Emma liked to think that she was a rational person, that the years of guidance from her parents had taught her to keep her emotions in check. Sure, they’d told her to trust herself and her instincts, but being an effective ruler meant not getting carried away by intense feelings that had no bearing in reality.

Needless to say, it was frustrating for her to wake in the morning with a jolt of panic, for her mind to race the second consciousness gripped her, for her eyes to search frantically around the captain’s quarters for whatever it was she was missing. Because the clawing of fear in her stomach couldn’t have been her imagination.

Except it was.

Her sword was propped against her bunk just inches from her hand, her boots knocked over haphazardly where she’d kicked them off the night before. Everything else was exactly as it had been when she’d entered the cabin hours ago.

Emma fell back onto the bed, dropping her elbows from where they’d held her up in her attempt to locate some imaginary danger. She huffed, blinking up at the ceiling and trying to breathe deeply. It was a familiar process for her, convincing her mind and her body that she was safe for the moment; her anxiety was nothing more than the product of her current circumstances, of months on the run and the weight of the world crushing her bones.

She swung her legs over the edge of the bunk, closing her eyes to feel the gentle sway of the ship. She’d been pleasantly surprised to find that the sea calmed her—relieved that something could—because she hadn’t been sailing in years and another obstacle, no matter how trivial, might’ve been too much for her.

Emma had just managed to get her breathing under control when a knock came to the cabin door. She grabbed the sword on instinct before she went to open it.

“I hope I didn’t wake you,” Liam Jones said, a large tray balancing in his hands, “but I thought you might wish to break your fast.”

“As much as I appreciate the thought, I don’t expect you to bring me meals on a silver platter—or any platter, actually,” she replied, frowning as she examined the offering. “You’re not a servant or a cabin boy, Liam.”

He ducked his head, a habit he shared with his brother. “Aye, however, I simply wished to see to it myself that you were well fed,” he paused, waiting for her to let him in. When she simply narrowed her eyes at him, he added, “I know you reject gratitude, Emma, but I think getting my brother to sleep this long and break his stubborn streak warrants a proper thank you. It’s a feat, honestly.”

She sighed, stepping back to allow him entrance. “Okay, just don’t make a habit of it.” She watched him set it on the table, her lips pushing into a tight line. “You’ve brought me too much,” she admonished. “Would you care to join me?”

Liam shifted his feet, moving half a step back and away from her. “I—I couldn’t, besides, I’ve had my ration already this morning.”

“And I suppose you never give any of yours to your brother to ensure that he’s well taken care of,” she shot back, raising a knowing eyebrow. It’s what she’d do, if Leo were there. “Sit, eat, tell me how we’re faring today,” she encouraged as she took the closest chair and leaned her sword against it, and there was only a slight edge of a command in her tone.

Liam didn’t move right away, looking at her as if he were gauging whether or not he could win this one. After a moment, he relented, dropping into the place opposite her. “Eating with a princess,” he muttered, forcing his hand to take a piece of bread only after she’d taken some of the fruit for herself.

“Would it make you feel any better if I told you that my mother was a bandit and my father was a shepherd?”

His head shot up, and he nearly dropped the chunk of bread he’d been holding. “Pardon?”

Emma smiled, and for a moment she could almost hear her parents as they told her the story. One of their favorites, actually, and no matter how old she was, she never tired of it. It was something she repeated in her head over and over again lately, a grasping attempt at comfort when things got particularly difficult.

“When my mother was on the run from the Evil Queen, she became a bandit to survive. She taught me everything she knows about tracking, archery, all of it.” Emma couldn’t help the smile that pulled up the corners of her lips at this, the fighter her mother was beneath it all.

Liam took a moment to process that bit of information, making himself eat a little more of the bread under her firm gaze. “Are you trying to convince me that you’re not a typical princess?”

Emma chuckled, “I think I’ve already proven that.” She leaned forward, taking a roll for herself. “I’m trying to say that my parents have never liked to stand on ceremony, either. No, a meal with a sailor would hardly scandalize them.”

His mouth opened automatically but he forced it closed, and Emma could tell that he’d meant to correct her on her use of the word ‘sailor,’ but it was accurate now. She expected it to take a bit more time for them to break their habits.

“Did your father teach you to fence, or was that your mother, too?”

“My father,” she replied. “Put the first wooden sword in my tiny hands on my eighth birthday. I was tormenting the castle guards by the time I was eleven.” It’d been a long time since she’d thought about that, and the memories flashed in her mind before she could stop them.

Her laughter, bubbly and free like the child she was. Leo had been so small, his hands grasping the air as if to ask to hold her new gift. And then later, a heavier gift, one that was responsibility when she held it in her hand, promises to clean it and practice every day. The guard’s playful annoyance that steadily grew as she got more skilled, her parents’ mildly exasperated expressions that were too fond to be anything bad. Teaching her brother once he was old enough, his wide and curious eyes as he watched her and tried to mimic everything she did. All those days ended with wonderful soreness buried in her muscles that made her bed feel softer and her sleep come easier.

But those days were long gone.

Liam laughed, bringing her back to the present. “I suppose that isn’t surprising,” he said as he reached for an orange. “I’m no great swordsman myself, but Killian was quite impressed.”

The rock that had lodged itself in her gut disappeared with the mention of the younger Jones brother. “Oh?” She kept her eyes on her food, hoping that she sounded only mildly interested and not like her heart had done a flip in her chest.

“He was nearly raving about it yesterday evening,” Liam told her, fondness across every inch of his face and in every tone of his voice. “The particulars eluded me, but I’m to understand that some of your disarming techniques are incredibly impressive and difficult to master.”

Emma hummed, her expression nearly nonchalant despite the pride that took root in her stomach. Pride and something else, something she couldn’t quite name. It only took a moment for her to pick up on the odd shift in the silence.

“Is something wrong?” she asked Liam, glancing up at him across the table where he seemed to be thinking too hard.

“No, no,” he insisted, shaking his head to dissipate the haze of contemplation. “Your father was a shepherd? I thought he was a prince,” Liam said.

“That’s what you’re supposed to think,” she replied, “because King George adopted his twin brother James as his heir.”

“Isn’t your father King James?”

“His name is David, actually,” she told him. “George didn’t want people to know that James was dead. It’s not exactly something they’d announce to the realm after all that, though. It’s all a bit complicated.”

Liam nodded, and Emma was good enough at reading people to recognize the connections he was making in his mind that shone through his blue eyes. They were perhaps a bit grayer than his brother’s, and their expressions were different enough that it often seemed to her that they were different shades entirely.

“I hadn’t heard about your family,” he said quietly, his gaze flicking up to her from the orange peel he worked off. “I’m sorry.”

It was more than just their capture that he referred to, this much was obvious. Red was the only one who was privy to anything more specific, so Emma didn’t have to wonder at the source of this knowledge.

“It’s likely just a sleeping curse variation with my parents, but we’re unsure what was used on Leo. His curse is…different.” Cruel was the word she wanted to use, but that wouldn’t help anything. And it wasn’t as if the Evil Queen had laid out the exact parameters of the curse when she’d found her. But that wasn’t something Emma wanted to think about.

“How old is he?”

“Sixteen,” she replied, her lips pulling up on one side without her consent. “Seventeen in a few months, though.” She didn’t have to add that she hoped to see him before then.

Perhaps it was because Liam was an older sibling himself that the melancholy filled the air so intensely; a lost brother was hardly something they wished to discuss thoroughly. Emma’s appetite vanished as she played with the roll in her hands, unable to bring herself to eat it.

“You will save them, Emma. You will succeed,” he insisted, “and Killian and I will do whatever we can to help you along the way. You have my word.”

“Thank you, Liam,” she said. “I find myself desperately in need of allies these days, and it’s a relief to know I’ve got good men on my side.”

Liam flushed, but he carried on admirably. “And when we reach port tomorrow, we’ll replace the, um, less desirable men with trustworthy ones. A handful, at least, if I’ve got anything to say about it.”

“I appreciate that,” she replied. “Red is quite the charmer, you should bring her along.”

“Already asked her myself this morning,” he told her. “Terry’s arranged a group to oversee supplies while I accompany Lady Red in the search.”

Nearly everything had already been taken care of for her, though Emma did not feel like an inadequate captain. The title was more symbolic than anything, and her parents would have been proud at her efficient delegation of duties.

“I’ll remain behind to watch the ship.”

“Killian’s volunteered to stay, too, which should provide ample protection should anyone attempt anything foolish.”

If every mention of the younger Jones was going to torment her stomach with that flock of butterflies, Emma was going to have a difficult journey. “Alright,” she said, squashing down the fluttering feeling.

When Liam realized she’d finished, he stood quickly, as if it went against his honor to tarry when there was work to be done. “Thank you for breakfast, Captain,” he said as he reached for the tray, but her sharp gaze made him stop. “I’ll, um, just return to relieve Lady Red at the helm,” he told her.

“Perfect,” Emma replied, “I’ll be on deck shortly.”

He did not bow when he left her cabin, but there was a distinct nod of his head that felt like the equivalent of one. Emma let it slide, closing the door behind him to secure the lock so she could dress for the day without interruption.

The new trunk sat at the end of her bed, Red’s bag of belongings noticeably absent from it. She sighed as she considered how it had gotten there, knowing the answer would certainly irritate her. Emma pulled her leather satchel from the trunk, deciding that it just wasn’t practical enough to use. She considered offering it to Killian and Liam, but they’d never accept it.

Emma pulled on the dark leather pants and that blue vest that she loved too much, preparing for the day she was expecting and the one she wasn’t. This meant sliding the blades into their hiding places and tucking several things in her pockets that one may not have deemed entirely necessary, but she’d learned that having to leave abruptly was not uncommon, and she hated replacing things she’d had to leave behind. Much of her downtime was spent sewing hidden pockets into her clothes, but she never minded the monotony.

She replaced her boots, ensuring that her dagger was in its place before securing the sword against her hip. The weight was so familiar now, she felt lopsided when it wasn’t there unless she was using it. Once her hair was tied up and out of the way, she left her cabin to return the tray to the galley.

It didn’t take long for her to reach her destination, but the voices that carried from the galley made her pause around the corner, leaning against the wall as her breath held to prevent an early reveal of her location.

“She is our princess and our captain, in case you need reminding, and you will do well not to forget it again.” This was Killian; she’d recognize his lilting accent anywhere. But his tone was harsher than she’d ever heard it, hinting to his listener that there was no argument.

His words were met with dark, throaty chuckles from more than one person. “Oh, aye, that slip of a girl would make us regret it, would she? No amount of sword tricks will save her if I decide to cross blades with her,” a man replied.

“She ain’t that skilled, boy, really,” another said, sharp and teasing.

Killian simply laughed. “You must not have been watching yesterday, then. None of us have ever seen a swordsman like that and you know it,” he told them. To him, this was obvious. His praise wasn’t fluff and flattery, it was fact, and Emma was torn between considering what this meant to her and focusing on the problem at hand.

“Awe, does the little slave boy have a crush?”

“Wishing for a peek under her skirts, laddie?”

“This won’t end well for you,” a third voice said.

All pleasant thoughts vanished from Emma’s mind at their taunts and threats and use of the word slave, and her plan was formed before she even had time to think about it. Disrespecting a captain was about a step away from a mutiny attempt, and she couldn’t ignore that, nor could she ignore her desire to prove these men wrong.

When their laughter died out, Emma stepped into the galley and greeted them with a smile so sweet it was poisonous. “Good morning, gentlemen,” she said, her eyes scanning the scene.

Killian stood tall with crossed arms nearest to her, while the three men grumbled from where they were grouped by the end of the table. They shifted their feet and seemed somewhat annoyed at her appearance, but Killian was too perceptive, staring at her as he waited for whatever she had planned.

Emma took her time setting the tray on the table, pretending to adjust her vest for a moment before bringing her right boot on the bench. Her hand lingered by her laces as if to fix them, and though she was aware of the eyes on her, she did not look up until she slid the blade from her boot.

The dagger glinted even in the low light, her thumb brushing fondly along the design on the hilt. She smiled at the three men as she returned her foot to the ground.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” she asked them, holding it out for them to see, warning dripping from her sweet tone. “It was a gift from my father, a present for my sixteenth birthday. Had the swan made special for me,” she added, smiling at the silver bird. Vicious and beautiful.

“Until a few months ago, this blade had never touched blood,” she said, her voice even, calm, unremarkable as her thumb moved to edge to metal. But in a second her grip shifted and the dagger sliced through the air in a show of speed and agility, though it might have been to test the balance or the weight. “Since then, I’ve had to do a lot of cleaning, and you know princesses—we hate to clean up after ourselves.” It didn’t matter that this wasn’t particularly true in her experience, she wished to make the point all the same.

Her lips curled up higher as she glanced between the traitorous men. “So either you can keep your heads down and work until you’re put off this ship tomorrow, or I’ll have to clean this dagger again.”

“Or there’s always the brig,” Killian added helpfully. His mouth was twisted in a smile that was half threatening and half proud of the woman before him.

“There is, isn’t there?” Emma asked, pretending to think on it. “Getting a bit crowded, though. Might be better off not facing Silver after all that has happened,” she mused, appraising the three crewmen again.

Two didn’t move, attempting to keep their expressions firm and unyielding as their chests puffed and their shoulders broadened, but the smallest—and smartest, if anyone were to ask Emma—looked between them before stepping forward.

“We’ll stay out of trouble,” he decided.

Killian and Emma turned expectantly to the others, but they did not even react at their friend’s announcement. They kept their fierce gazes on Emma, but this wasn’t anything she hadn’t planned for.

“It must be my parents’ reputation of benevolence that hasn’t convinced you,” she sighed, “but I can assure you, I do what I have to do to survive. And if you decide to get between me and a chance to save my kingdom and my family…” She didn’t need to finish, and her words thickened the air with her thinly-veiled threat.

“Come on, Evans, Blake,” the smart one told them, “don’t be fools. We can leave tomorrow.”

It was in this moment when Emma’s free hand moved behind her, edging the leather as she waited for the two men to make their move. Her movement was too gentle, too slow to draw anyone’s attention, and her body appeared relaxed and devoid of tension though she was prepared for what was to come.

It only took about thirty seconds before the fools moved, pushing past their friend and lunging towards her. But the distance was enough that time was on her side, and Killian charged the one closer to him—Blake—as the small throwing blade left her hand before Evans could even register what she was doing.

The slim knife whipped through the air with the perfect spin, and her lips almost twisted into a smile as she watched it connect with his palm, slamming dead in the center and dragging him back so it could pin him to the wooden wall he’d barely had time to step away from.

Evans cried out in shock and pain, predictable curses falling from his mouth as he stared wide-eyed at his hand, his uninjured one reaching to grab the handle, but he cursed again when it moved.

Killian had done exactly as Emma anticipated, and his opponent was knocked onto his back, the sword at his throat. But both Killian’s and Blake’s eyes were on the knife that stuck into flesh and wood.

“Bloody hell,” Killian muttered, raising an eyebrow as he glanced at Emma. “I didn’t know you could do that,” he said.

“I’m full of surprises,” she replied, sliding another blade from one of the hidden panels in the front of her vest to show him before pushing it back into place.

“And weapons, apparently,” he chuckled.

Emma grinned, returning her dagger to her boot. She preferred not to use it, honestly, but more because she didn’t want to damage it rather than a dislike of cleaning it. But with her throwing knives, this particular kind of fight was easily taken care of without even having to move from a strategic spot. She could get the higher ground—or the place with the best escape plan, in her case—and hold onto it.

Evans was still moaning in pain, though he’d begun to spout insults at her between curses. It was easy enough for her to ignore him as she approached and drew her sword, yanking the knife from his hand without hesitating or even attempting to be gentle. He groaned, crouching as he brought his wounded hand into his body to cradle it, but the hilt of her sword temporarily put him out of his misery when he toppled to the ground.

Killian took this as permission to do the same with Blake, and he was looking to her for direction as she turned to him.

“I suppose the brig will have to do,” she said.

The other crewman moved right away, hauling the man in front of her over his shoulder without waiting for her to ask. He’d already wanted to avoid conflict, and after seeing her other skills, he wasn’t eager to incur her wrath.

She stopped Killian from lifting Blake with a raise of her hand. “Don’t. I’ll get someone else to do it,” she told him. “I have to get Red anyway, she’s got the keys to the brig. Just wait here with him,” she added, hoping her tone and the intensity of her gaze would prevent him from arguing.

Their eyes locked, tension snapping between them that had nothing to do with anger or his wanting to protest. But she had no time to decipher the look, and she sheathed her sword, tucking the bloodied blade into its spot at the back of her vest.

“Good,” she said, “don’t move.”

She only had to wait a moment for his nod before she turned, heading towards the deck without stopping to analyze every word and expression she’d seen from Killian during the last few minutes.

The atmosphere on deck was lively, the fair weather and the absence of the more miserable sailors making for a pleasanter mood than she’d felt on the ship thus far. There was laughter in the air, camaraderie amongst the crew as they worked on their various duties. They were down in numbers, but even that wasn’t enough to dissolve the jovial spirit following Silver’s loss of power.

Red stood at the helm, Liam at her side likely trying to convince her to give up her post and let him work instead. But there was no animosity in their manners, only evidence of their rapidly developing friendship as Red rolled her eyes at whatever Liam said.

Emma reached them quickly, ignoring their pleasantries and turning to Red. “Killian and I ran into some trouble in the galley,” Emma said, “if you’ll kindly bring the keys, the two men can join their friends in the brig.”

“Of course,” Red replied, glancing at Liam with a raised eyebrow as something unspoken passed between them, then he replaced her when she moved to head below.

“Oh, and don’t let Killian carry the man himself, please,” Emma called. “He’ll reopen his wound.”

Red’s lips curved into a smile. “Aye, aye, Captain.”

When she was gone, Emma turned back to Liam with the intention of uncovering the root of that look they’d shared, but the elder Jones was cool and kind as he offered her a smile.

“Thank you, Captain,” he said. “You seem to be making a habit of helping my brother and myself.”

Emma waved a hand dismissively, swallowing the discomfort that followed his gratitude. In recent weeks, she’d found it difficult to acknowledge praise or recognition no matter the subject. If she had to think about it, she’d probably trace it to her inadequacy and failure in saving her kingdom, her people, or her family, so she found it much better to not think about it at all.

“It’s nothing,” she replied, glancing around the deck to study the differences in the crew, watching for the way they worked together. It was easier to think like this, to plan and strategize rather than focus on dangerous things like emotions and honor and everything else.

“It’s not,” Liam insisted.

“I’d like your help tomorrow after you and Red find new crew members,” Emma said suddenly, the change in topic not subtle at all but the request of his assistance was a carrot that dangled before him.

“Whatever you need, Captain.”

Emma, she mentally corrected. But he was probably better off using her rank on deck where the others could hear, at least until they could bring in some of their own sailors.

“I’d like for you and Killian to assist me in bringing Silver to the local authorities,” she told him, and his eyes darkened. “As far as I’m aware, these waters don’t take too kindly to slavers, either.”

Liam’s grip tightened on the helm, but he otherwise kept his expression neutral. “Killian and I would be happy to join you.”

“As I suspected you would be,” she replied. With a nod, she left him to his post, finding Terry across the deck so she could discuss their replenishment of supplies the following day. Though her captaincy was flimsy at best, she still wished to lend her aid in whatever way she could.

--

For the second night in a row, Emma found herself at the helm. It wasn’t nearly as late, however, the golden sky just beginning to turn to a deep blue that didn’t yet hold any stars. She watched, waiting patiently for the pinpricks of light to appear overhead.

The day had been long, filled with people needing things and asking questions and there wasn’t a moment in which she could ponder things like tense gazes or proud smiles. But perhaps gazes and smiles shouldn’t have been high on her list of priorities.

She pulled out the flask from inside her vest, unscrewing it to take a sip. Before a few months ago, Emma hadn’t cared much for rum. But now she relished in the familiar burn as it dragged down her throat and eased some of the tension in her body. She froze with the flask poised for her second sip when the ship creaked.

“I don’t suppose you’d share,” a voice called.

Emma watched as Killian approached, her eyes scanning his face for anything or everything. “As long as you’re not here to convince me to give up my shift,” she said dryly.

He chuckled, “No, love. I know that the Lady Red is set to relieve you in a few hours. I simply wanted to speak with you regarding our earlier confrontation in the galley, since we’ve had not a moment to ourselves since the whole ordeal.”

She willed her stomach to unknot itself as she passed him the flask, unable to stop herself from following his movements. His fingers nearly grazed hers when he took it, close enough that she could feel the heat from his skin. Killian’s head angled up and to the side, revealing the column of his neck as he drank.

“Good rum,” he commented, returning the flask.

She accepted it, taking another small sip before replacing the cap and returning it to her inner pocket. “Does that surprise you?” she wondered, but she couldn’t determine why she cared.

“That a princess has good rum?” he asked, his eyes meeting hers. She couldn’t see the color in the growing darkness, but she’d already spent enough time studying them to imagine the exact shade now. “I don’t know about other princesses, but it doesn’t surprise me that you have good rum, Captain.”

If she’d heard only the words, she would’ve been incapable of determining whether or not this particular statement was a compliment, but in his tone, there was no question. But he’d come on deck for a reason, and it wasn’t likely to be to issue compliments and nothing else.

“I hope you’re not here to insist that you could’ve handled things on your own in the galley today,” she said. She doubted it, especially after his expression before she’d left, but he was known to be stubborn, so it was plausible. Maybe.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied. “While perhaps I could’ve handled them myself, I’m incredibly relieved that I didn’t have to. I would’ve torn some stitches, I’m sure, and I’d hate to get on my captain’s bad side.”

Emma hummed, glancing up at the sky to check for the appearance of stars rather than looking at the ones in his gaze. “I’m glad.”

“And I was also going to tell you that you—Your Highness, Captain, Princess Emma—can be bloody terrifying when you want to be,” he told her. He was grinning when she finally looked over at him, his eyes glimmering far too much for the fading light.

“As I said, I do what I have to do to survive. And if my parents can’t get past that once I’ve saved them, I can always abdicate the throne. Leo would make a good king.” It was true, she knew, but it didn’t hurt her any less to say it. Too much blood had been spilled since that terrible day, but she couldn’t very well save the damn kingdom if she was dead, could she?

“But you would make a fantastic queen,” he said firmly. “And if I recall correctly, your parents took their throne back from the Evil Queen once before. That couldn’t have been done without some difficult choices.”

“Maybe,” she allowed. But he didn’t know her parents—very few did—and their constant insistence that violence was always a last resort and there was always a choice when it came to taking another’s life…she wasn’t sure that they would welcome her back into their family as openly as she wished.

Emma cleared her throat. “But maybe not. Either way, they trained me to be lethal. Fair, yes, but as you’ve seen, I can take a life just as easily as I could pardon one.” She could hear them now, the sword is not equal to the gavel, Emma, and when given the choice, put down your sword before ending a life.

Killian shifted, his eyes meeting hers. “I’m not sure your parents would agree with me, but I believe that there are certain people for whom pardoning isn’t possible. Saving someone who could take hundreds, possibly thousands of lives if they escape—” he paused, his lips turning down into a sharp frown. “Well, perhaps I’ve seen too much to judge fairly.”

Or perhaps her parents hadn’t seen enough to judge rationally, though Emma wasn’t about to raise the issue to them upon their rescue.

“I would’ve killed her,” Emma said, her voice strangled. Killian’s eyebrows pinched together, and she sighed. “The Evil Queen. If I had been there all those years ago, I wouldn’t have just stopped her and exiled her. I would’ve killed her. If my mother or my father had, they wouldn’t be cursed now. Leo wouldn’t be cursed now. And more than that, my kingdom wouldn’t be ransacked, and my people wouldn’t have been murdered or chased from their homes.”

Though her voice had been bitter when she spoke, the words were not rash or thoughtless. Every night that she’d been forced to remain awake for survival, she’d considered this. Wondered at her parents’ choices, weighed them against her own. She was never able to determine who was in the right, however.

“You worry that when you save them, they won’t understand,” Killian said, and it should’ve been a question, but it wasn’t. “That they’ll disagree.”

“I don’t care,” she said, and she wished it were true. If only she didn’t care, didn’t honestly believe that the look her parents would give her upon their rescue would break her beyond repair, didn’t think that their disappointment in her would be a curse in its own right.

Emma sighed, not even trying to relax her grip on the wheel. “The Evil Queen would kill my brother if she could, and that’s enough for me. If my parents hold it against me, I’ll abdicate, as I said before.” The words were rational, emotionless, but the storm of doubt and hopelessness swirled in her chest.

“You shouldn’t abdicate,” he repeated, his gaze unfaltering. “Emma the Swan Queen,” he murmured, and the way he said it was almost like a reflex, a thought that passed his lips automatically.

It made her eyebrow quirk. “Swan Queen?”

Killian ducked his head, his hand running through his dark hair. “Aye, like the dagger. Elegant and beautiful, but deadly when provoked. Fitting, don’t you think?” When his eyes locked with hers again, his lips curled into the smallest half-smile.

“I don’t hate it,” she allowed, and his smile widened. “Now I just have to save and rebuild the kingdom, and then perhaps they can call me that. Well, it’d have to be the Swan Princess first, at least.”

“You’ll do it,” he said, though his tone was more befitting of a vow. Emma wished she could bottle his belief in her, keep it and uncork it when she couldn’t believe in herself.

Her breath had snagged in her throat, but she spoke anyway. “I certainly have a better shot with you and your brother to help.”

Killian waved a hand dismissively. “You could do it without us.”

“Sure, but as you said earlier,” she replied, “although I could do it alone, I’m relieved I don’t have to.”

That tension returned from before, electricity snapping against her skin beneath Killian’s gaze. If she’d had less on her mind, she could’ve understood what it all meant, but all she knew was that it was somehow both pleasant and unnerving and she never wanted to look away.

“If we thought for a moment that you’d let us, Liam and I would pledge you our fealty in the manner befitting your title.”

This, Emma knew, was no small declaration. She’d seen soldiers lay their swords at her mother’s feet, their heads bowed as they sealed their promises to fight and die for the queen and her kingdom. It was something she’d never gotten used to, and she never would, should she one day take her mother’s place.

The depth in Killian’s eyes told her he knew exactly what he was saying, and after a moment he spoke again. “We may be mere sailors, hardly making up for your lost navy, but we’ll fight with everything we have.”

She heard the words he did not say and quickly offered her own opinion on the matter. “Mere sailors who also happen to be talented swordsmen and navigators,” she pointed out.

“Ah, a bit of luck,” Killian said. “Our captain before Silver was the best we’d had, and we sailed with him for about five years. He offered to teach us valuable skills, and we were eager to learn. Liam dedicated himself to navigation, insisting on bettering our future prospects so we could perhaps one day join the navy.”

“But you wanted to learn to fight,” she guessed. “Fight and survive.”

“Aye,” he confirmed. “But Nemo made sure we each learned some of both endeavors to manage on our own.”

There was enough in his voice and in his face for Emma to determine that the tale ended with grief. “Sounds like he was a good man,” she said.

“One of the greatest I’ve ever known.”

The silence that followed Killian’s story was not uncomfortable, and the two sat together as the stars glowed more brilliantly above them. Despite the pleasant tension that continued to buzz in the surrounding air and the sensation that curled in the pit of Emma’s stomach, she was painfully aware that some things would have to wait.

“We’ve a busy day tomorrow,” she began reluctantly, “you should rest while you can.”

“Aye,” he breathed, but he made no move to leave. His eyes did not falter from hers, either, as if he wished to prolong their moment for as long as he could. Eventually, he realized what he was doing, and Emma imagined the color that touched his cheeks and the tips of his ears in the darkness.

A smile ghosted his lips as he began to leave. “Good night, Captain Swan,” he said.

“Captain Swan?” she repeated, her brows furrowing.

He paused, meeting her gaze once more. “If you insist you’re not yet the Swan Princess, then I believe that makes you our Captain Swan.”

She considered that, studying his eyes like they held the answers she sought. “Good night, Killian,” she said after a moment.

He nodded, turning to leave her at last. She watched him until he disappeared below.

In his absence, Emma was left to ponder the man who had begun to work his way beneath her skin. If she wasn’t careful, the butterflies would become something much bigger, more than just a stuttering heartbeat and a fluttering in her stomach. But as she stood beneath the infinite stars at the helm of this ship she now led in place of a kingdom, Emma wasn’t certain that she wanted to be careful.

[supportivespaceforsurvivors]

that was such a cop out on the minor question. you could have said that while you don't know the specifics of that situation, there are situations where minors are not innocent and they should not be making fun of someone's triggers or intentionally triggering anyone.

we didn't say that minors are completely innocent at any time, no matter the circumstances or their actions; we absolutely know that minors need to be held accountable for their actions, especially if they're harming others - on purpose or not.

yes, we agree that minors shouldnt be free of blame. what we mean is, "minor" is an incredibly wide range of ages and we simply dont have enough information on that specific instance in order to properly gauge the situation - not to mention, 'minor' changes in meaning depending on where you live, as age of consent & majority changes depending on what country you live in. for example, was the minor 11 years old or 17 years old? was the minor intentionally triggering the adult, or did the minor accidentally trigger the adult and then say they found it "ridiculous" (which isnt a good position for the minor to take, but again, an 11 year old having this view point is very different from a 17 year old having this view point)? how many times was the minor told to stop - of which an "acceptable" amount also depends on how old the minor is, due to younger kids needing more explanation and reminders before they get it - and how much does the minor actually understand of why the thing is triggering? is this a purely an online situation, or is this someone you physically spend time with irl?

while the minor shouldn't get to shrug off the consequences of their actions, the age and situation has a huge impact on how one should respond. the original ask we received was incredibly vague in the actual question ("Should minors be free from blame if they repeatedly triggered an adult despite being told to stop?") before adding their own opinion at the end - which we don't disagree with! its just extremely difficult to answer a question when there are any number of situations that it could have come from. sure, we should have said it isnt okay regardless, but there are so many different circumstances that we have no idea how to best guide the anon for how to deal with this situation.

let me explain this by using one of my own "out there" triggers (not because i think that anon's trigger would be out there, but because "weird" triggers tend to be less respected by the wider population): the pokémon, umbreon. if an 11 year old were to accidentally trigger me (a 23 year old) via the pokémon, i wouldn't be comfortable going into much detail about why its triggering to me beyond "it brings up bad memories", and simply asking the 11 year old to stop or saying it triggers me - no matter how many times i do so - might not be enough for the 11 year old to understand that it isnt okay. if a 15 year old accidentally triggers me, i might feel more comfortable explaining the exact situation, but that doesn't mean the 15 year old will understand - meaning they won't put any effort into actually stopping the behavior, no matter how many times you try to explain or ask them to stop. if a 17 year old triggers me, they are at an age where they should understand fully why that specific pokemon brings up bad and painful memories for me (once given an explanation), and needing to ask them more than once or twice to stop means its time to stop hanging around that 17 year old for my own wellbeing - because if they continue the behavior, it means they simply don't care whether they hurt anyone, and obviously that isn't okay. depending on the age of the minor greatly changes how to best respond to the minor, but that doesnt mean i think the 11 or 15 year olds should be excused of all ill intent; however, a minor being too young to properly understand the situation isnt them trying to purposefully hurt you in the worst ways imaginable, its them not understanding how or why it hurts you. does it make it okay? of course not! but completely condemning a child for not understanding why something is bad is also bad. you also have to realize, maturity and compassion arent automatic, nor are they unlocked at a certain age; theyre learned. an 11 year old can be more compassionate than a 40 year old, depending on how they were raised and their life experiences. by just saying "a minor and an adult" without any context on if this minor could possibly even understand why something is triggering to the adult, the anon gave us almost nothing to work off of. that is why we said we werent comfortable answering with the information given.

[tzipporahssong]

hi! i hope finals are going well <3 i have a question about meeting with a rabbi. i’m sorry in advance if this doesn‘t make any sense at all, english isn‘t my first language :(

i have been attending saturday morning services at the local synagogue for a month now and i‘m starting to get really comfortable with the congregation and the rabbi and i know that if i want to pursue conversion, i‘m gonna have to talk to the rabbi at some point and here comes my problem. i‘m a university student in my final year and obviously that‘s taking up a lot of my time and because we don‘t have these „introduction to judaism“-classes with a strict syllabus in my country, i have no idea at all how my rabbi would personally handle a conversion process, what would be expected of me, how much time i would have to dedicate weekly, and i feel like unless i can‘t gauge how much time per week a conversion would require, i can‘t make the decision whether i could „fit it into my schedule“ or if i should finish university first. but i feel like if i went to the rabbi and said „hi i‘d like to convert but first please tell me how much time that would take and what i would have to do?“ it would seem to him as if i‘m on the fence about conversion itself (which i‘m not!) and not just about whether right now is the right time for me or if i should just keep going to services as a guest, finish uni and convert then? because the last thing i want is to meet with a rabbi, then cop out if i can‘t handle a conversion time-wise and then just ... keep attending services as if nothing happened? maybe it‘s just my anxiety talking but this seems to me like an incredibly embarrassing literal worst case scenario ...

Hi there!!! Converting during university is difficult, I won’t sugarcoat it. I’m really glad that you’ve found a congregation you love and are comfortable with, that’s always such an important first step.

Here’s the thing though, just because you talk with the rabbi doesn’t mean you’re committing to taking on the process right then and there. If you’re starting to get serious about converting, then just finding an opportunity to talk with them about what your situation is will be so helpful. They might have ideas on how to accommodate your moving, or they might be able to recommend shuls where you’re planning on moving to. They may be able to get you in touch with other rabbis who you can work with. They’re going to have the answer and I promise you they won’t bite. They’re there to help guide you, however that looks, and the only way to get that help is to take the leap and have a conversation with them.

Please feel free to chat with me whenever you’d like. 💙

[starlightsearches]

A New Life Pt. 2

I liked the Kylo Ren soulmate AU so much and I got so much love on it that I decided to write a second part! I hope you guys like it! (Here’s the first part if you missed it)

Requests are still open ✨

Kylo Ren X female reader soulmate! AU Pt. 2 

AN: Mentions sex. 

It’s only been a few days since you’ve boarded the Finalizer, but you’ve certainly made yourself at home. So far, Ren has provided you many items that you requested, including an impressive collection of art supplies, a veritable rainbow of a wardrobe, and most eclectically, a maintenance jumpsuit, which you’re wearing right now, the top half tied around your waist over a sleeveless white shirt. 

It had been sweet, and strange to him at the time, when you asked for it, walking through the hangar as Ren took you on a tour of the ship. You had been wide-eyed, admiring the sleek, black organization of the Order, so different from the simple and slow life you had known. You watched the workers at their duties, and a few radar technicians had scurried by, trying to avoid Ren’s attention while still getting a good look at you; the ship was full of talk about his new “guest,” but that had been the first time you’d left his room, and everyone wanted to see.

“What are they wearing?” You had been asking questions non-stop, and Ren tried to answer as many as he could to the best of his abilities. He liked to watch as you listened, processing the information with the slightest of scowls while you internalized it.

“Jumpsuits,” he was grateful it was a question he could answer easily; the more difficult the question was to answer, the more focused you looked, and the more distracted he became by the shape of your brow and the set of your eyes, “standard issue.” Your gaze had followed behind the techs, the look becoming familiar to Ren already. He liked that he was learning to read you without using the force, that your subtle gestures were becoming windows for him to peek through even when no one else could.

“Could I have one?” You had asked, still so polite, despite the fact that he had never said no to one of your requests before. That didn’t mean he wasn’t confused.

“Why?” Compared to the other clothes you had requested, the jumpsuit was plain, and the green-gray color incredibly ugly. You had looked at him, lashes framing your pleading eyes, the corners of your mouth turned up into the slightest of smiles.

“Please?” That was all it took. Ren would give you anything you wanted. Asking something of you, though, was not something he felt prepared for.

“They want us to do what?” you say, sitting curled up on the couch with your sketchbook on your lap. Ren sits across from you, very careful not to move. You had already scolded him a few times for fidgeting too much, and he doesn’t want to ruin your drawing.

“Um, a wedding?” Ren says. He wasn’t sure how to explain, had been putting it off for the last few days, but the longer he waited, the more impatient the general became.

“But why?” You laugh when you say it, and Ren adds your laugh to the mental list he’s compiling of his favorite things about you. “Aren’t weddings between soulmates kind of, I don’t know, silly?”

“Well, actually,” he clears his throat, and you go back to sketching, staring at him for a moment before adding another line on the flimsi and blending it out with your finger, “no one really knows-” he swallows before continuing, “that we’re soulmates.” You pause in your drawing. 

“Why not?” You look up, confused, and then disappointed, leaking sadness out of the corners of your mouth, and it reminds Ren why he didn’t want to have this conversation in the first place.

“The First Order frowns upon connections that could put the organization at risk. Soulmates are seen as a hazard.” You nod solemnly, dropping the sketchbook into your lap and looking pensive. “Some people know, obviously, but it was decided that it would be better if we kept the true nature of our relationship secret.” He watches closely, taking in your microexpressions with a careful eye. You hum through your lips, deep in thought, and Ren waits anxiously to know what you’ll say next.

“So what will everyone else be told?” 

“We’ll keep the details private. Our marriage will be seen as a political alliance . . . would that be alright with you?”

“Of course,” you say, after a short pause, “it doesn’t really matter to me, whether there’s a wedding or not.” Ren relaxes, and you start another sketch, slower this time, more detailed.

“You never wanted a wedding?” he asks, watching your hand glide across the flimsi; your hands go on the list as well.

“I don’t think there’s been a wedding in my village . . . ever.” You look up into the distance, trying to remember. “When you live somewhere as remote as I did, most people meet their soulmates at a very young age. By the time they’re old enough for something like a wedding, they’ve usually been bonded for years. The additional ceremony is pointless.”

“What about people without soulmates?” Ren wonders out loud. It’s pretty common for people in the Order to marry without finding a soulmate, for political alliances or companionship, but your life is so different from his. Despite the difference, it’s easy for him to talk to you. He never feels like you’re judging him. Being around you is like being someone else and himself wrapped up into a person who makes sense.

“They stay in the village, help raise the children and take care of the cattle and whatever else is needed. We support them when they are too old to work. In a way, we become their soulmates when we care for them.” You smile fondly at the memories, and he watches the faces of old friends flash by in your head.

“Seems sad.”

“Not forever,” you say, and then pause before adding, “I thought I was one of them. The sadness doesn’t last.” You set your drawings to the side and stand from the couch, stretching for a moment.

“Are you glad,” he asks, even though it scares him to hear your answer, “that you’re not . . .  one of them?” You go to him, sitting at his side and curling yourself up next to him. The couch is already too small for him alone, but he can’t be uncomfortable when you show him affection like this.

“Yes,” you smile, and he places one hand in your hair, always trying to gauge the invisible boundary between not enough and too much. Will he ever be too much for you? The thought haunts him.

“What about after the wedding?” You ask quietly, your face buried in the fabric of his shirt.

“What do you mean?”

“Isn’t it traditional for the couple to . . . go somewhere? Like, a honeymoon?” Oh. Ren’s heart races, he’s suddenly highly aware that he can feel you everywhere on him, the press of your body against his a little terrifying now. All your contact up until this point had been initiated by you, never more than an innocent resting of your head on his shoulder when you sleep or the brush of your fingers against his arm when you’re walking side by side down the corridor. He hadn’t wanted to pressure you, to make you uncomfortable, but it was difficult to maintain control, his eyes always managing to catch the gleam of a zipper at the back of your dress, or the shape of your hips underneath the fabric of your jumpsuit. And now you're inviting more, and it frightens him how much he wants it.

“I- I don’t think I could leave,” he says with some difficulty, purposely avoiding the true nature of your question, “I need to stay on the ship.”

“That’s a shame,” you reply. You’re looking at him now, your chin resting on his sternum, and your eyes examine him mischievously; you recognize the effect that you’re having on him, and you like it. It calms him a little, knowing how easily you accept him as he is. “I guess we’ll have to have a honeymoon here.” You roll off of the couch without warning, and run your fingers down the length of his arm. The gesture makes him shiver, and he can’t look at you when he feels this way.

“I’ll tell the general to schedule the wedding as soon as possible,” Ren says, focusing all his energy on keeping his voice steady. You bend down to eye level where he lies, and place a lingering kiss on his temple before whispering in his ear.

“I can’t wait.”