#and then went on to parrot the same beliefs that his parents and their parents

[klarolinexluv]

I know the tag said anti jegulus and while I am definitely 100% FOR jegulus. I agree with this assessment.

Let me see Morally Grey/Dark Regulus.

Regulus from what I understand (as I’m still reading the books - don’t judge me) was always and has always been supportive of the pureblood regime.

I don’t mind reading the fics where he never agreed and just played along but I also want to see the fics that Regulus DID agree and then proceeded to agree until confronted with the fact that his beliefs aren’t all correct.

Idk if it’s ever stated in canon about culture but the purebloods are right to want to have their culture preserved, but they go about it the wrong way.

The muggleborns are right to want to share their culture but then they go about (not all, this is mostly what I’ve read in fanon but also sort of backed up with what I’ve read in canon) ignoring most pureblood and wizarding culture because purebloods are mostly seen as evil and hateful and death eaters when like some of them aren’t even close to that rhetoric.

ANYWAY- the pureblood extremists are extremists for a reason. Idk if JKR ever explored this side in her writing and face real backstory for why the wizards are like this but I can understand how after the Salaam witch trails and the witch hunts would have scared the purebloods and the fact that their numbers were decreasing.

Anyway this is off topic.

But I wish this was explored more. The reasons behind their hatred for muggles and muggleborns, the rift between the two cultures and then the merging and how ‘blood traitors’ were helping the influence of muggle culture over wizarding culture. (This is not a bad thing because culture changes over time, I’m just saying that I understand why the purebloods began to resent muggles and muggleborns more fiercely over time and obviously this was all accelerated by wizards like Grindelwald and Riddle).

Like, I wish it was explored, the toxic cycle of hatred and how this affected the characters and their beliefs.

Sirius for exampled, op said that Sirius changed his views the moment he stepped on the train (idk if that’s canon) but that makes very little sense to me because Sirius would have believed the stuff his parents were saying for years and it should be explored how hard Sirius would have had to work to unlearn some of the things that he thought were normal.

And then Regulus. I want to know and explore his POV. Sirius was surrounded by Gryffindors and people who helped him unlearn his parents teachings whilst Regulus was a Slytherin who was only surrounded by other Slytherins who had the same views his parents had because of their parents (at least the majority anyway).

If we talk Jegulus, Regulus would have his beliefs reconstructed sooner because James would not let Regulus go on believing those things and then date him. Honestly, I love Jegulus but Hogwarts aged James was very firm in his own beliefs and he hasn’t personally been affected by the war to understand the world isn’t black and white. James would help Regulus unlearn things.

If we don’t talk Jegulus, Regulus’ beliefs would have been reconstructed by himself when he finds out what Riddle had done to himself.

I also don’t think all of his beliefs would be reconstructed in either scenario.

Let characters be bad. Let characters be evil.

But also let them change. Also let them grow as character (whether that is upwards and downwards).

But if we are being fr.

We couldn’t even handle Bellatrix, Narcissa and Lucius. So…

Since I got back into the Marauders recently, I noticed a huge shift from what the fandom used to be.

(Yeah I am one of those ‘back in the old days’ people.)

Well essentially I noticed a huge shift into focusing on Slytherin canon Death Eater characters and erasing their backgrounds and characters and just making them one dimensional dolls and then making them kiss each other. Essentially there is not character development just new romantic relationships.

I think it is a disservice to ourselves and to writing and fanon for characters to be limited by sexuality and romantic relationships.

Taking Regulus for example (one of the most, imo, fleshed out least fleshed out character). He is a year younger than Sirius (canonically), so where does the difference in ideology between them come from (Sirius was against his family from the train ride). If we are switching canon to make it so that Regulus was only pretending to agree with his family, then what do we reason for him to become a DE (Walburga and Orion weren’t and not all DE’s were marked). If we are taking that away then is that even Regulus anymore or an OC.

What I am trying to say is that Regulus exists as a character, and by changing critical aspects of him (naive, obsessive, possessive and malleable) just to make him fit a ship we effectively change Regulus to Reggie and at that point it would be better to just create an OC so that actual Regulus is there for canon compliant (even tertiary) exploration.

(Before someone says ‘why don’t you just make your own headcanons and let people do what they want’ I want to remind that we work in a community and the popular hcs are what I personally have to interact with even if I don’t want to)

If you disagree please feel free to interact in a calm and civil manner :)

[dis--parity]

19 for Theo

NSFW Headcanon Asks // Accepting!

19. When was your Muse’s ‘sexual awakening’ and what happened?

This is actually an interesting story to tell. I was tempted to include it as a bonus drabble for the current series I'm working on, but it felt too out of place, so I'll just tell the story here.

Theo's sexual awakening happened some time after he lost his eye, when he had just about reached the tender age of 18; his biggest supporter throughout the period where he was kept close to the house by his mother, more paranoid than ever that he would come to serious harm, was a surprisingly loyal member of his old cohort named Bernard. He was someone Theo always looked up to and had always aimed to please without really knowing why, and was the one to find him and get him medical attention immediately following the incident with his eye.

Subsequently, Bernard would serve as Theo's advocate for his safety, incessantly pleading with Theo's mother to let him leave the house under his watch so that he could work jobs and save up money to run away. On other occasions, Theo simply went to Bernard's house, where he had an awkward-but-friendly relationship with his own parents, who were more than content to just let the two boys hang out.

The more support that came in from Bernard's side, the more Theo started to understand the real reason he wanted to spend so much time with him - and after a while, he processed that his friendship wasn't what he wanted, as much as Bernard himself.

He was in pretty violent denial at first; his behaviour as a school bully led him to parrot all kinds of homophobia, which he'd subsequently internalised. And yet, whenever he was around Bernard, he felt just as safe as he felt uncomfortable - and when his barely-adjusting single eye caught glances of him in his distress, he started to pick up on the signs that his friend felt the same way about him.

He'd catch Bernard glancing towards his lip, putting his hand on his back whenever he had an excuse, even bringing his head in for a shoulder-hug when he felt vulnerable. The more he reflected, the more he saw the cues for what they were.

But Theo's tenure as an indomitable force led him to one other internalised belief; that he could never back down from something, even when he was shit-scared of it. Bernard's parents were out, they were alone with each other, and his emotions were running high.

Before he'd really accepted the path he'd gone down, he'd already pulled his friend into a kiss - and before he could sober up and apologise, Bernard returned his affection, fully and eagerly, until they both found themselves baring themselves physically and emotionally, unburdening themselves of all that had been pent up inside them while tangled in Bernard's bedshoots.

For both Theo and Bernard, that would be their first sexual experience, but it wouldn't be the last they shared with each other. Once they got a taste, they scarcely wanted to stop, constantly experimenting with what they liked whenever they had a moment of solitude, even going so far as to risk sucking each other off when Bernard's parents were in the next room.

Upon reflection, one could also say that this realisation and expectation of sex as a coping mechanism is what enabled Theo to go down the path of becoming a sex worker, as dangerous as he would soon learn the profession is. But that's a story for another time.

[heavencasteel420]

Sometimes I see discourse about why Jonathan and Billy turned out so differently despite both having abusive fathers, and usually it comes down to “Jonathan has Joyce” (on the more pro-Billy side) or “Jonathan chose to be a better person” (on the pro-Jonathan/anti-Billy side). I think there’s truth to both of these statements—having a mother who’s present and means well and loves him unconditionally does make a huge difference to Jonathan, even though it doesn’t negate everything else he went through, and ultimately both boys have a range of choices about how they’re going to act—but I actually think one of the major factors is the nature of their abusive fathers.

Neil is an authoritarian. He insists on establishing and maintaining a hierarchy where Billy “respects” him and follows his instructions on how to behave towards Susan and Max (who are ostensibly protected under this hierarchy but don’t have autonomy). He wants to be called “sir.” He has racist, sexist, homophobic beliefs that are retrograde, but basically in line with the dominant culture. He’s cruel and dangerous to Billy, but he’s also present and able to provide for the family financially. Billy obviously hates him and rebels in some ways, but he also imitates him by using violence, parroting his beliefs, and caring deeply about looking tough and “manly.” He probably feels like it’s safer to be like his father, both because his father consistently punishes him for doing otherwise and because the world is hard on men who aren’t like that. His mother is absent and his stepmother has no power in the household and a weak bond with him, so there’s no counterpoint. He takes out his rage on relatively safe targets: his little stepsister, other younger kids, and Steve (who’s strong and the same age, but has some social/emotional weak points and isn’t a vicious fighter).

Lonnie, meanwhile, is immature, selfish, and cruel, but doesn’t seem consistently interested in establishing authority over his ex or kids, and won’t provide any regular support (emotional, financial, etc.). He is dangerous and he can use force/threats/manipulation to get what he wants, but his power has no legitimacy in Jonathan’s eyes. He’s not a good parent even when he’s in a good mood, so there’s not much reward in siding with him. Joyce is vulnerable but she works hard to provide for the family and loves her sons for who they are, so it’s safer and more comforting to be on her side, even if Jonathan has to take care of her in some ways. Instead of internalizing his untrustworthy father’s ideas about masculinity, Jonathan tries to be his opposite. Like Billy, he has a lot of rage and bitterness inside him, but it would be anathema to his sense of self to take it out on a kid, let alone Will, who in a sense is his kid. He mostly seems to bottle up those feelings and (as of S4) self-sabotage.

[smokeys-liveblogs]

(Same anon as the Tylee ask)

I went to a college prep private school on scholarship where lots of the kids were expected to go to prestigious Ivy League universities and let me tell you. You don’t need a war to make the “always perfect” child go off the deep end. I didn’t have parents that expected me to essentially be a school machine but a lot of those kids just had no coping mechanisms for what to do when you aren’t flawless bc that simply wasn’t an option for them and their parents didn’t notice how much pressure they were under just to maintain excellence and make it all look effortless. That kind of sustained stress will come home to roost eventually.

I think Azula’s problem was that her father chose her as his most beloved child. She was talented and her strengths are things that Ozai valued and so she wasn’t abused in the same way her brother was. She had his favor, and what a shame that turns out to be. And because Ozai more obviously bullied (abused) Zuko, Ursa felt like he needed her protection and care more than Azula. Which made her feel alienated from her mother. I’m sure Azula’s understanding of love is more or less a zero sum game since Ozai seems like a zero sum kinda guy and Azula was raised to parrot her father’s beliefs. There is a winner of mothers love and a loser of mothers love and this family breeds rivalry and vicious infighting and so Zuko being the enemy was only natural in a million different ways. Which is extra sad because I feel like there were a few times in Zuko Alone when it seemed like they actually could have gotten along as children. Plus she was right her mother was horrified by her but I’m not sure if I believe that Ursa thought her daughter was a monster. I think it’s more likely that Azula was a child saying absolutely terrible Ozai-ish things and Ursa thought it was a problem but was ultimately powerless to interfere too much in the upbringing of Ozai’s favorite child. Which is very sad.

Being ''loved'' by Ozai was definitely Azula's (first) problem, yes. It was a vicious cycle that you explained perfectly - Ozai praises Azula and shuns (or worse) Zuko, Ursa focuses more on Zuko to even it out, Azula feels neglected by her mother and parrots Ozai even more. Ozai praises Azula for that, and... so on.

There's also another layer in which I am 97% sure that Iroh was Azulon's favorite child, the firstborn, and Ozai absolutely projected his own issues about that onto his children. Zuko was doomed from the start, probably, and the fact that he was so much weaker than Azula was no help.

The thing about children like Azula is that their parents hardly even see a child in front of them, instead only seeing someone that they can shape into a better version of themselves. The child in particular then isn't allowed to be their own person, and represses themselves for however long until it all comes exploding out of them at one point in time. It's... disgusting, really.

[beautifulletdownfics]

Terrible to Meet You - A Harry Styles One Shot - Act 4, And love blooms in hearts not fields

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Harry wants to get out of the house. Alex wants to get home.

Alex meets Harry at at crossroads. Harry meets Alex on a one way street.

A coffee shop OU fic feat. lattes, lamingtons & that Great Unfathomable Feeling.

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Story Page Here Terrible to Meet You Playlists My Masterlist Here

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7 Minutes 'It doesn't seem like long, but my whole world has changed'

Harry's insides were shaking.

He could feel it vibrating up and down his spine, circling his ribcage and then settling uncomfortably at the back of his throat. The nerves and anxiety sped around his body the closer to the Heathrow they got.

Tears threatened to pierce his eyes each time he looked over at Alex beside him. She was staring out the window saying silent goodbyes to London as they drove. 

Harry really didn't understand how this moment came so quickly. He knew that Alex's feelings were as mixed as his. Harry wanted her to go home, she'd been trying all year. Heartsick and homesick, she'd pushed through living on the other side of the world to her family as the world suffered through something horrifying.

After getting the email, her last week in London was bittersweet. It was spent packing up her room and saying goodbyes for the second, third times. Harry helped her organise herself, and then put himself in isolation with Alex for her final 48 hours. She needed to present a negative COVID test to Australian officials before she could fly. Getting tested and locking themselves away together for two days was a special kind of magic, really. They didn't have to share each other.

After Harry, Alex was saddest to say goodbye to The Daily Dose. 

She was going to miss Paul. Despite his eccentricities, he somehow managed to always keep the tone light and playful with her, and generally, the days passed quickly. Alex left Sydney for London after a gruelling university course left her feeling unmoored and unsure of herself, her time working for Paul had been an enormous time of discovery and healing for her. 

He'd been a source of comfort and support for her, especially in the last year, and he was the shoulder she'd cried on far too often. Alex loved making coffee despite how most people saw the job. There was a satisfaction in the process, even in the daily grind—the cleaning, the busyness, the dead patches—and Alex liked leaving the cafe in the afternoon with the smell of coffee seeping out of her but a clean shop locked up ready for the next day. 

She was going to miss that. But at the same time, Alex felt ready to go on and do more with her time now. The university degree hanging in her parent's study didn't feel like a straight-jacket anymore, and she was looking forward to finding work in her field. 

 London had been home for four years, though. She had many great memories here, not the least of which it was the city she flew the coup and found herself in. And the magic she thought was lost seemed to have redeemed itself in the final months of her being there.

She found herself, and then, she'd found Harry.

&&&

Saying goodbye to Harry was the hardest thing Alex had ever done. 

They'd both cried the night before, but when it was time to part at the airport Harry was steadfast in his encouragement of her leaving. (Despite himself) He'd never once said he (seriously) didn't want her to leave, or that she shouldn't. He'd never implied it would spell doom for their relationship. Harry was 100% sure that Alex going back home to Australia was just the next line in their story, and certainly not the last one. 

"You get home safely, okay?" Harry told her sternly, holding her face between his hands at the drop-off line. Both their masks were down around their chins, and Harry hated the tears he couldn't stop Alex from shedding, "This is a good thing, Al, you need to be home right now."

"I know," she nodded bravely, frowning as her chin wobbled, "But I don't want to leave—

"Shh, no," Harry shook his head and leaned closer, "You're not leaving me, you're going home.”

"When am I going to see you again though," she cried out, finally giving in to the (slightly) hysterical emotions that were bubbling just below the surface. 

Harry's heart rattled watching the wave of doubt hit her. He pressed his lips into her hairline and held her for another long moment.

"You'll see me in Dubai on your stopover," he'd said, rocking her against his chest, his words hurried against the material of her shirt, “You'll land, use the bathrooms, and then FaceTime me. That's when you'll see me next. And then, you'll see me when you get to Sydney and call me again. Okay?

"Okay," Alex parroted quietly.

"Okay … You really have to go now," Harry looked behind her to where the doors to the terminal were.

She nodded and reached up onto her tippy toes, letting Harry press his warm lips against hers once last time. Alex squeezed her eyes shut, trying to hold in tears but also the feel of him. His smell, where his body began and ended, how it measured up next to hers. 

Their hearts reached out, trying to feel the other pressing through their chests from the other side. You're mine, you're mine, they said to each other.

"I love you," Harry told her, not for the first time.

Seeing the red wetness around Harry's eyes, Alex threaded her hands through his hair, "I love you, too."

He pressed a quick kiss to her lips again, "Go."

Harry's belief that they were going to be okay was unwavering. 

If 2020 taught him anything, the whole world could change in a matter of weeks, so why not the entire outlook of his life as well? Why couldn't his meeting Alex change the course of both their lives moving forward? Something about meeting her felt like a one-time event, like something worth risking everything for. And he would, Harry told her numerous times that last week.

And as she walked away from him and into Heathrow, and Alex believed him.

&&&

Alex cried as her flight landed at Sydney International Airport. 

She'd watched the harbour out her window as the plane circled the city, that perfect Sydney turquoise blue gleaming back up at her and it made her chest ache with relief. 

Home.

Sydney airport was a stark change from the Heathrow she left behind. Their flight was met by police, abundance and army officers. It wasn't frightening though, Alex found herself swallowing back tears this time because she was so soothed by the fact she was back in Australia. Everyone was friendly and helpful, getting the flight of returning citizens through the airport and onto buses to the quarantine hotels. Alex's drove straight into the city centre and as soon as they started going by familiar places and landmarks she wasn't the only one teary in their seat. 

"Well, here it is," Alex said to the phone screen not long after, tilting it around to show off the hotel room around her, "Home for the next fourteen days."

"Snazzy," Harry whistled as she pulled back the sheer curtains to reveal a staggering blue sky and then bright green treetops. He was sitting at his kitchen table with a cup of tea and a drizzly London morning just beginning, "And a view! Is that a balcony? Or a window?"

"A balcony but it's locked. I did get to smell the salty, beautiful harbour in the two-second walk from the bus into the hotel though." Alex settled on the bed in the middle of the room, the bedding crisp and clean underneath her, "I am literally inside this room for two weeks. No outside time. But I can see people outside walking around and having picnics in Hyde Park without masks on, so it'll be worth it."

"That seems unreal."

"It's like another world here," Alex agreed, yawning and finally feeling her body start to relax. "Anyway, how was your day yesterday? Wait, no, today?"

Harry laughed, "You've lost two days, I think. But it was good. I went and saw Paul, we had a cry together."

"Don't," she warned him, feeling the combination of over-tiredness and emotion simmering in her throat, "I've just travelled thirty-six hours, and I fucking miss you already, I'm not beyond completely losing it right now."

He smiled gently, "Have a shower and get into bed. I'm so glad you're there. Does it feel good to be home?"

"So good," Alex admitted, almost feeling like it was a dirty thing to be admitting to Harry, "Jess is going to come and wave at me from the park tomorrow with Noah. My mum's already sent a bunch of food to my room."

"You're exactly where you need to be," Harry told her. 

Alex couldn't hold back her tears any longer, the guilt she felt—the pain of leaving Harry—wasn't any match to finally being where she'd wanted to be all year, "Yeah, I am."

&&&

Figure 8 'Lovers hold on to everything'

Four days into her quarantine, Alex started training herself to do headstands.

"It's harder than it looks! But I'm getting there now," She laughed, propping her phone up against the leg of the bed and crawling to the wall opposite. She was now on Day 11, and Harry had been getting an update daily.

"Please don't injure yourself," Harry moaned, getting a great view of her bum as she crouched down facing the wall and then rose up, kicking her legs up with her palms flat on the floor.

"See?" The blood all rushed to her head, and Alex's hair fell down over her face at the same time her t-shirt moved, revelling her belly and bra to Harry. 

"Much better than yesterday," he told her, "Maybe tomorrow we could lose the bra?"

Alex laughed, her arms shaking as she came crashing to the ground. She was still working on the landing. 

Just as she was about to reply, she heard a knock on the door, "Oh!" 

"Dinner?" Harry guessed, watching her leap to her feet and disappear from view. A moment later, her legs walked across the screen, and Harry rolled over in bed to try to rid his phone screen of the glare coming from his windows open to the new London morning. "Oi!"

"Calm your farm," Alex tutted, retrieving her phone and grinning at Harry, "You'll never guess what I've got today."

"Hmm," Harry hummed in mock thought, "Let me guess, chicken and rice. A cookie and a ridiculous allotment of fruit?"

"Two bananas, an apple and four apricots."

"S'practically a fruit basket!"

"Tomorrow I get a glass of wine," Alex was already chewing, "Friday night drinks!"

"Friday date night?" Harry suggested, his fingers twitching with the want to be feeling her body between his sheets again, "You're fun when you're a little tipsy."

"Excuse me, I'm always fun!"

Harry laughed, "I can't believe you're so upbeat still. I'd been expecting a dip at some point. I would think a lot of people don't do so well in isolation for two weeks."

"I've got Australian daytime TV and a boyfriend who sends fun gifts,” she eyed the collection of books and puzzles Harry had organised, “I am looking forward to Sunday though."

Harry couldn't imagine how much Alex was looking forward to getting to see her family and friends when her time in quarantine ended, "Did you get tested today?"

"Yes," Alex screwed up her face, the memory of the swab up her nose still fresh, "Fucking hurt."

"Last one," he encouraged. "What's the first thing you're going to do with your brother when he picks you up?"

She halted before putting the next mouthful of warm, lacklustre dinner in her mouth, "It's supposed to be sunny and warm on Sunday, but I don't get released until the evening. So I think we'll just go to mum and dads for tea. Jess and Matt are going to be there."

"A large gathering in the home!" Harry looked scandalised, but he was smiling. 

"I know, it's all very 2019," Alex joked. 

Harry let out a long sigh from his chest, "I'm so happy you're there, but I miss you."

"You too," she said quietly.

"Hey," Harry called out, not having meant to dampen the mood, "Three sleeps until you get to meet Noah."

The mention of her nephew made Alex smile, "I'm gonna squeeze him so hard."

"Will you FaceTime me there?"

"O'course," her mouth was full, but she nodded emphatically. "My mum asked if we were going to have live music at all family events now."

Harry's laugh exploded out of him, he liked Alex's family very much already, "Happy to oblige."

"Because of you she's also back on Nathan about giving up the trombone in Year 8." Alex told him, "He was previously the musical hope for the family, but he stopped when the girl he liked at fourteen said she would only date a rugby player … Consequently, that girl is also responsible for how Nathan broke his nose."

Harry could sympathise with Alex's older brother, "We do crazy things for love."

&&&

"Could you say that again?"

"Were you not listening?"

"No I was, I just like hearing it in your accent."

"Harry," Alex complained, "I'm already shit at this."

"You're not!" He insisted, trying desperately to keep the grin at bay. 

Alex frowned at him and pulled the hotel duvet up to her chin, crossing her legs and slipping her free arm across her chest. Harry's heart was racing, hearing her talk about how his words were making her feel was incredible. Almost as good as physically having her. Almost.

"Al," Harry stilled at the defeated look on her face. His smile disappeared, "Sorry, I wasn't teasing."

"I'm no good a phone sex, it feels weird."

"I know it does at first," he tentatively reassured her, hoping not to draw attention to the fact that over the years Harry had become sort of good at phone sex. By virtue of necessity, such was his regular travel schedule. "I promise it can be great, and we can only get better at it. You're not no good. On the contrary, I'm enjoying myself very much."

She was finding it difficult. And even more so, trying to learn Harry and what he liked—how his body responded—without actually having his body physically there felt impossible. Phone sex was awkward and difficult, and Alex was more self-conscious then she'd ever been, trying to navigate intimacy with Harry through a phone screen. There was a divide there. He was right though, the undercurrent to what he said was that they'd have to get better, there was no other choice. It was all they had.

"Show me what you were doing," Harry beckoned gently, sensing Alex relaxing back into the moment. "And just imagine I'm there, don't apologise for angles or lighting. I don't care."

It was her last day in the hotel, and Alex had woken up with an ache between her thighs. Harry Facetimed her the instant he got the photo of her lying in the sheets, her torso exposed and wishing for his touch. He'd been sitting at home on his Saturday night, watching the first five minutes of half a dozen things on Netflix yet not finding his mind was able to focus on any. 

Alex he could focus on though. 

Her five seconds of bravery felt far away now, but Alex slowly pushed down the bedding again, "I was thinking about you going down on me."

Harry smiled, "Go on."

&&&

Nineteen 'I felt you in my life before I ever thought to'

Three months passed. 

The dreaded milestone ticked over which meant Harry and Alex had been separated the same amount of time they'd spent together in London.

It hadn't ever felt like this for Harry before.

He'd never known what this kind of missing someone was. Previously, he'd missed people, but not with a yearning or a longing that made his chest ache. Not with the kind of force that had him lying in bed at night unable to switch off the channel tuned to Alex.

What time was it in Sydney? Had he already sent her that link? Did she say she was spending the day with her dad? What could he say to get her back in that bikini from the day before? 

Missing Alex felt like having an itch inside his mind he couldn't scratch.

But in a sense, how much he wanted to be with her only made his consequent decisions easier. 

"You're hopeless!" His manager laughed him from LA, the whole team on the weekly check-in Zoom call. Generally there wasn't a lot to report between them, projects were on hold or cancelled. Harry had decided not to go back to the States to work on a few smaller things—a fashion shoot, a TV guest appearance and a small role in a film—giving his legal team some work in getting him out of contracts, but that was mostly sorted now. 

If he was going anywhere, it sure as hell wasn't across the Atlantic. 

"Not hopeless," Harry replied diplomatically, "It's something else … But it's not hopeless. It almost feels like having the answer and being the little kid jumping up and down on the spot, dying for the teacher to hurry up and ask the question."

A series of blank looks came back at him. Harry sighed. He'd never been bad at explaining his personal life before. It was always so rational, the relationships made sense or happened in a usual way. He just couldn’t shake the notion that all along, people had been right. 

When you know you know. 

He'd found Alex. 

That was as simple as it was to him. But it didn't settle everyone else the way it settled Harry. 

Alex. 

Did the name not tick a checkbox in their heads too? 

"So, you're going to Australia?"

"I just want to know what it could look like," Harry amended the assumption, but yes, he was going to end up wherever Alex did, and if that was Australia then that was that. 

"Who's in Australia?" 

The question wasn't to Harry, it wasn't about who he was going to Australia for., they all knew who Alex was. The question was about the industry—about Harry's career. It was who was in Australia for him to work with? Frankly, he didn’t see why the same people he worked with now couldn’t also be the people he continued working with either remotely, or with short trips abroad when travel allowed. 

"Obviously, it's not like everything can be done there," Harry offered diplomatically, "But at least for the foreseeable future, with the world how it is … Music as the primary focus, I want to write the next album there. Spend some time seeing the country too, I've always wanted to."

He got a collection of nods, and a few spoken agreements, assurances that it could work.

"This isn't a temporary thing," he said of Alex, looking at the faces who helped him run his life, "We're going to be navigating this for the rest of my career. So everyone's going to need to add Sydney time to their Clock app."

&&&

When he met Alex, Harry knew. 

When he landed in Sydney, Harry knew again. 

It was the right choice, it was the right place for him to be. All he wanted was to be moving in her direction; in the same direction as her. 

It was warm despite the late hour, the air was fragrant with it, in stark contrast to the London he left behind. 

He tried to think back to the last time he’d been in Australia, to what it felt like back then. 

If only he’d know then …

Harry opted not to apply for any special considerations or circumstances. He didn't want anything to jeopardise him being able to enter what was likely the world's most difficult country to get into now—especially seeing as Harry wasn't a resident, much less a citizen. Harry didn't want to hit the news. And despite evidence of people he knew in the industry being able to dictate where they quarantined on arrival, Harry requested nothing. He just wanted to fly in, go to whatever hotel they told him to, do his two weeks quarantine and then be with her. 

"Have you landed?" Alex's voice was urgent and tinged with excitement. 

Harry laughed, "Yes, how do you think I'm calling."

She squeaked, "You're here!"

"I'm here," he smiled under his mask, following the flow of fellow travellers walking through the empty airport, "Who ever heard of an International Airport having a curfew though? The pilot made the joke that if we were projected to land even a minute after 11pm, he'd have to turn around and go back to London. Which was like, a joke, but also not funny?"

Alex chortled, "You'll have to get used to the sense of humour here."

"Hang on," Harry saw a checkpoint of sorts ahead of him, "I have to go. I'll call you back."

"Call me from the hotel," she said, "I love you."

"I love you, too."

&&&

"Go to the window."

“Hi. What?" Harry could barely move his head off the pillow as his eyes struggled to open.

"Go to your window," Alex repeated, "Were you asleep?"

He sat up, heart thrumming quickly at the possibility of what he was going to see. A second before his mind had only barely been able to scramble together the cognitive function to swipe to answer the call. 

When he got to the window, Harry pulled back the curtains—he'd ended up at the same hotel Alex had been in too—his room looked out over Sydney's Hyde Park, the fountain and cathedral framing his window. Although his top floor room with a (locked) balcony was a little bigger than hers had been he still felt as if he was living in their FaceTime calls. He was sure he'd become more acquainted with the trees and greenery out his window as the days passed. 

"What am I looking for?" He asked, but Harry knew.

"I'm down here, can you see me? Blue jeans shorts … Yellow top? I've got a sign!"

Harry's eyes scanned the footpath opposite the hotel, there was a main road between him and the park. He'd been in the room less than 12 hours though, so he wasn't familiar with the foot traffic. 

"I can't… Wait, I see you," his mouth opened in a huge smile, "Hi!"

Harry waved and pressed his hand to the window as his heart waved down at Alex's. He felt like his insides were being swapped around inside him as he took his first look at her in the flesh in nearly thirteen weeks. She had sunglasses sitting up on top of her head and a The New Yorker tote bag over her shoulder. He bit his lip at all the exposed skin he was looking at, feeling it a cruel injustice in the fact he would be touching his girlfriend for a fortnight.

Alex was squinting up at the hotel, one hand to her forehead, blocking the sun while the other held her phone to her ear, "How high up at you?"

"Next to the yellow and red flag," he said, looking for a distinguishing feature. He'd fallen asleep to the sound of the rope flapping against the building.

Alex's voice took a teasing tone, "Oh, who's that sexy man with his shirt off in the hotel window?" 

"I can't read your sign."

"I only had a Biro," she lamented, shoving the makeshift sign under her arm, "It just says Hi."

"Hi," Harry leant his forehead into the window, "You look beautiful."

"So do you."

"You going to stand out there for the next two weeks?"

"Would you like me to?"

"Yes, please."

Harry watched her take a step back and lean against the wall to the park behind her, "I'd better get comfy then."

&&&

There was a couple in the room next door to Harry.

"I'm telling you, it's relentless," he implored Alex with his eyes, pausing for a second to listen to the sound of their bed hitting the wall, "They're at it constantly."

"Embrace it, some people are into that," Alex giggled from her parent's kitchen. She was making dinner for the whole family, with her AirPods in and Harry chatting to her as she chopped vegetables. "Let it get you in the mood, Harry. Is that voyeurism, or exhibitionism? I can never—"

"—Okay," He rolled his eyes, "Thank you, Comedian."

"You're just jealous you're not getting any."

"I really am," Harry said seriously, "If I have to wait, so should they."

Alex's laugh filled his ears, "It's alright, less than a week to go now."

"I cannot wait to be holding you," he said, longing in his voice. 

Harry had mixed feelings leaving London. He didn't know when he'd be back, but at the very least he was going to miss his first Christmas with his family. With England in lockdown, it was unlikely that even if he had stayed, he would be able to spend it with them anyway, but Harry would miss them. He already missed them. 

It wasn't like he missed Alex, though. And in all the conversations he'd had with his mum, or his sister, or anyone else, they'd all told him to go for her. They saw it in his eyes and heard it in his voice when he spoke about her. Or maybe their hearts knew as well, as though Harry meeting Alex had been locked away in them all and now the light to that room was switched on. 

So there he was, in Australia. To be with his love.

&&&

Ten Days 'Time has changed nothing at all, you're still the only one that feels like home'

Harry asked the nurse who took his last COVID swab to help him.

He hadn't requested anything up until that point, but he knew, even behind her protective gear, she was a friendly face. And he also knew that there were rumblings online that he was in Sydney. (All those spare and jet lag hours, he'd tried to stay off the internet, he really had) 

The good news was it was just rumblings, because why on earth would Harry Styles be in Sydney.

All it would take was one photo to confirm it though, which in a sense, was fine, he didn't care.

But Harry didn't want that photo to be of any of his first moments back with Alex.

Let someone snap a picture in a couple of weeks, on a random beach or coming out of a cafe somewhere. Just not his first day. Not when he hadn't seen her since the beginning of September almost three months ago.

He asked if the nurse could help him arrange Alex for access to the hotel car park because the discharge information pack he'd received directed him to organise pick up on the street. 

The next two days went slowly, those final 48 hours, waiting for a negative result and trying like anything to bat away fears that it wouldn't be the same. That somehow Harry and Alex would've lost the something that lit the spark in London. 

He hated that feeling—the doubt—and when he confessed it to his sister, she batted it away as nerves. She said life was always full of uncertainty and risks, the idea was to choose the ones you thought were worth taking. 

&&&

Alex stared at her legs as she sat, waiting for Harry in her dad's car.

It hadn't taken long to get the colour back to them, although mostly she was fixated on how she should have dressed a little nicer for the first time seeing Harry in months. She didn't even have proper shoes on, just the thongs that she'd kicked off the night before after coming back from the park with the dogs. 

Harry hadn't seen this side of her. This casual, probably more Australian sounding Alex. The one with bare feet and sunglasses holding her hair back. He'd met her family over video calls, but what would Harry think when he was in a room full of them? They were loud and could have distasteful senses of humour. There were family jokes that Alex had never thought twice about before but now worried Harry wouldn't appreciate. 

She'd slipped back into the comforting hum of life in Sydney so easily. Her friends, her family, her city. When she left Sydney hadn't felt like home, but as soon as she stepped back into it something in Alex let out a sigh of return. It was strange, leaving London just at the end of the summer months and falling straight into the beginning of a new summer here. 

In front of her, Alex sensed movement. The door she'd been instructed to park in front of opened, and a very tall man in an army uniform stepped into the underground car park, propping open the door with his foot. He pointed to Alex in the front seat and said something to Harry, who was the next person to appear, followed by a nurse in full PPE.

Alex felt an explosion in her chest, an electric shock or a bolt of lightning. Two hearts jumping up and down in excitement. 

She cracked the car door open and heard Harry thanking the two people escorting him, his hands moved as though they were itching to add a handshake to the gesture.

As soon as Alex was in his eyesight though Harry didn't think about anyone else. 

She emerged and hovered by the front of the car, waiting for Harry to approach her, as if unsure what she was allowed to do. The sight of her in an oversized hoodie and small athletic shorts warmed him instantly. She looked perfect, with a tan that evaded her in London and a brightness behind her eyes Harry was addicted to already. He liked the thought that he was an errand, that picking up her boyfriend was on a list of things for her to do that day. The word 'normal' flashed in Harry's mind, and any worry he'd had about her or him or them together being different from how he remembered it disappeared.

"Hi," he smiled wide as he tugged down the mask covering his face and stepped right into her personal space, his bag and suitcase abandoned behind him. 

Speechless, Alex breathed Harry in deeply through tears as she was tightly wrapped up in his arms. She couldn't bring any words to the surface, and so they just stood in silence, holding each other. 

After a moment Harry turned his face into her neck and pressed a slow, warm kiss below her ear, "Hello, hello, hello," he said between kisses. 

It only made Alex's crying increase, and she squeezed him tighter while leveraging herself higher up his body, not yet willing or able to step away. 

"Alex," Harry said her name gently, "Let me see you, please."

She leant back but covered her cheeks with her sleeves, peering over at Harry through blurry eyes, "Wait a sec."

He smiled and pulled her hands away by her wrists, "Give me a kiss."

&&&

"You're such a tourist," Alex laughed as she drove, watching Harry lean forward in the passenger seat and try to take a photo through the windscreen of the Sydney Harbour Bridge above them. 

"You know bridges are my passion," he said dryly. 

She smiled as he sat back and slipped his hand back into hers. 

"I quite like you driving," Harry said, eyeing her in the drivers' seat, "Look at you knowing your way around."

Alex grinned under her sunglasses, "We're in my city now, baby."

&&&

Harry's mouth hovered hotly over the skin below Alex's breasts.��

"Harry," she ran her fingers through his hair, hating the anticipation. 

His lips upturned at the impatience behind her saying his name. He pressed a kiss to the skin there, then another half an inch further down her tummy, "M'not in a hurry."

"I am," Alex urged.

"Oh?" Harry stopped and looked up at her, his elbows on either side of her hips as he held himself over her, "You are?"

"Yes."

"Going somewhere after this?"

She whined, whined, "No, Harry."

Alex hadn't taken him home to her family. Not yet. 

She drove an hour out of the city to a beach suburb with what Alex had deemed the nicest Airbnb. It was private, and without Sydney's usual cohort of international tourists, the area was deserted except for locals. They could hear the ocean from the bedroom and see if from the kitchen. She'd booked them two nights; two nights to reconnect and just live in the presence of each other without her family stepping in and inevitably stealing Harry's heart.

(Except, of course, it was Alex's heart who has his, all this time)

"Look at you, fuck," Harry said, tilting back up to take her lips in his, pressing his torso, his thighs, his stomach, his hardened crotch into her. "Fucking gorgeous."

"We can do slow later," she all but begged, her fingers digging into his exposed back, "Please. Just … Just please, Harry."

Alex felt his hand brush over her thigh, deliciously trailing over the sensitive skin just below her hip bone and down between them. His eyes dipped down between them only briefly before Alex was feeling the tip of him pressing into her exactly where she needed it. 

"Yes," her body relaxed into the feeling, remembering the London nights, the mornings and that first time in his living room. 

"Alex," Harry said her name like he could hardly believe it, and at the same time as wanting to savour the moment he was thinking of their first, hurried time as well. His hips snapped forward, remembering that time the rush came from wanting to taste, to experience something new and to have Alex's body for his own the first time. 

The urgency behind Harry's movements this time were for want of something had and sorely missed, something already claimed but given up for a time.

Alex's head was stretched back onto the pillow underneath him while she felt her body shift and squeeze around him. She wrapped her arms around his chest to feel him closer, wanting to hold onto him as he pumped in and out, sighing against her neck, trying to regulate himself.

"God, Al."

"Harry."

&&&

Four nights later, tucked into the spare room at her parent's house, Harry rolled over and took her hand. 

"I think we should get a place here."

"A what?"

"A flat, a house, we should rent something in Sydney." 

"Sydney?" Alex's tone elevated, almost touching the spinning ceiling fan above them.

"Yes, Sydney," Harry repeated, "You mentioned a job you liked the look of a few weeks ago, did you apply for it? "

"But what about London? That's where you live, God, what about your work, Harry."

"I want to be here, I'm not in any hurry to go back to what normal was. Normal didn't have you," Harry said, throwing out the script he'd built in his head the last month. His heart was doing the talking, extempore, "I've watched you this week, Alex, it's like you're a whole different person here. You're so happy and settled and joyful, which, by the way, I already thought you were but here … Do you really want to go again? Could you leave your family again?"

Alex felt her chest going into overdrive like everything was whirring around too quickly. She felt had to be honest, though, despite the way it made the fear climb further up her throat, "No. I don't want to leave."

Harry brought her knuckles up to kiss, "I don't want you to leave, either. So, what if we stayed? For as long as it's where you need to be?"

"But your family—

"—Doing this means one of us is always going to be away from someone," Harry told her, "I can handle missing my family, Al, I can't handle missing you. You're it."

"It just seems like too much to ask you to do, Harry."

"You're not asking," he insisted. "I can figure out how to work from here. London was my home base, I spent a lot of the year away anyway. And it's not that much further to LA for stuff, I … I'm saying I can make it work here, Alex. I want to make it work with you."

Alex's heart did a cartwheel, "You want to stay in Sydney?"

Harry's somersaulted, "I want to stay with you, yes."

The End.  &&&

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Thanks for reading, everyone! x Kate

Tag list: @afterhoursharry​ @beautifuleclipses​ @bumbershots​ @coffee-doodle-doo​ @decadentdonkeyflowerzonk​ @elemayox​ @ficsthatmakemeswoon @finelinesupremacy @greatestview​ @hatnightin2008 @ifiwereaboy2323 @ihearthemcallingforyou​ @just-damn-bored​ @kakaym​ @kara-246​ @lifeandsomethingelse​ @luminescencefics​ @micurq27​ @miorni​ @monpetitchouchou16​ @morethanamelodyy​ @piawhat @rubytersteege @staceystoleyourheart​ @stepping-into-the-light​ @steppingonoranges​ @stylesfics-xx​ @stylishmuser​ @toalltheboyswhowastedmytime​ @tpwkhoney​ @ursamajor603​ @veryplatoniccircunstances @wanderlustiing​​ @whatevarandomlygoes

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[corkcitylibraries]

Cork in Verse | Ana Spehar interviews Jim Crickard

Cork in Verse is a series of interviews by Ana Spehar with Cork Poets. This week Ana interviews Jim Crickard.

Jim Crickard’s poetry is camp, entertaining work that explores culture, sexuality and identity with a hint of colour. In 2020 he was invited to represent Cork in the Cork-Coventry Twin City Exchange, which was moved online due to pandemic. In 2019 he was selected by Poetry Ireland for the inaugural Versify series and performed to a sold out show at Dublin Fringe Festival. He came second in the 2019 All Ireland Poetry Slam Final (and is working through his feelings about it with a therapist). In 2018, he won the Cuirt Spoken Word Platform and was awarded a slot to perform at Electric Picnic. In 2020 his poetry was broadcasted on RTE Arena. A poem he wrote was shortlisted in the 2018 O'Bheal International Five Words Competition, and his work has been published in Automatic Pilot, A New Ulster, and Contemporary Poetry.  

When did you start writing?

I started writing when was 16. I had just come out of the closet, my older brother Shane (20) died the same year in a road traffic accident. Looking back, I think I needed space for expression. I started out with a journal before sleep. It was playful, private, and helped organise my thoughts. I’d draw a little picture at the end of each entry. I acted a bit like Virginia Woolf, with a high-neck collar, writing solemnly by candle light. When people write diaries, I think they secretly fantasise them being found and read by the masses.  

When I was introduced to poetry in my Leaving Cert, I found it to be a bit stiff and flowery with poets like Keats, which had some appeal, but when we moved on to Adrienne Rich and Eavan Boland I was a lot more inspired. It was seeing people use the art form to represent women and give voice to minorities, and how they both textured their work with the confessional. I started writing my own poetry at the end of my journal entries but kept it secret. After a few years, and my first break-up, I started sharing online on a site called AllPoetry. It was great because there were little competitions between users and when I won a few of them I felt brave enough to share my work on Facebook. A few people were kind, but most were indifferent. 

When I started going to O’Bheal in Cork, though, I really felt like writing could have a future for me. Writing and performing alongside other writers really makes it a lot more gratifying and instils the self-belief you need to keep going.  

Could you tell us more about your creative process?

I’m always on the lookout for something to play with and tease out until it’s a poem. I write with the intention of making people laugh when they hear me perform. Unfortunately, ideas rarely happen when I’m walking around day-dreaming. I mostly need to sit down and write to find the idea or follow whatever I’ve got on my mind. One of my favourite poems that I’ve written takes a hen party in a gay bar and expands it into a series of images and scenarios that delight me and make me laugh. If it makes me laugh, then I trust that it’ll make a crowd of people laugh. I didn’t start out with that idea of the hen party though, I was trying to write a rather embarrassing romantic poem set in a gay bar, it was for a guy I was briefly dating. Suddenly there was a hen party in the corner. They abducted me with their willy-straws and novelty-glasses, and I followed their embarrassing moments and social faux-pas as they ran around, interloping and ruining the sacred queer-space. I was much more interested in them than the romantic poem I set out to write. I suppose it’s important to trust where the poem is going and let it reveal itself. If I ignored them and focused on the poem I was trying to write then I’d have missed out. 

How does the creative process of writing affect your mood?

I’m elated when it comes together. I love when I get into a flow and my fingers are typing as fast as they can and what I’m writing is surprising me. That doesn’t always happen though, it can be slow and boring and the cursor can be blinking in front of me waiting for me to write something. 

How often do you write? Do you write every day?

I wish I wrote every day. I’ve heard multiple sources say that that’s the best way to approach it, and I would definitely believe it. I have had periods where I wrote a new poem every week, possibly more than one. I have also had long periods of not expressing anything on the page. The latter feels depressing and I feel my life passing me by. It is this dread I feel that I’m losing precious time to grow and improve as a writer. I rationalise it by reminding myself that I need to work full-time, clean my apartment, cook dinner, which is all true. I also excuse myself by saying that I need to relax and watch some TV or listen to a podcast. I think that writing is the purest of me-time and I’d like to transform my relationship with it.  

Can you tell us more about Venus Envy?  

I have been known to dress in drag from time to time... I performed as Venus for Pride in O’Bheal. Afterwards I went to The Crane Lane with all of the poets. It was interesting being a drag queen out of context in another bar... People wanted to talk to me, some random stranger touched me as they passed by, and someone confided in me with something they had not mentioned before. There’s a strange power to being in drag. It’s like being a shaman, a eunuch, a jester, who is on the outside looking in. You can say things that you daren’t dream of otherwise, and people love you for it. If I had the time and money to do it more often I would. Drag will always have a special place in my heart, and on my right arm is a tattoo-portrait of Panti Bliss, the Queen of Ireland. I’ve thought about putting more drag queens beside her, but it would be like Mount Rushmore of Drag on my arm. Who knows, maybe I will.  

‘Hen Party in The George’  

Be careful around the corners, don’t make eye-contact at the bar, 

watch out for the mom, she’s on safari, in search of exotic birds. 

For a parrot to echo her punchlines, 

or maybe a cockatoo, 

she’s prowling around the cocktail lounge, 

she’s looking for me and you. 

The mother of the bride uses her lazy-eye  

to her advantage,

she edges into a group of faces with meandering conversation. 

Now blocking their exit, unsure 

who she’s addressing, 

on about her gay hairdresser, how great 

he is with the scissors. 

“I’ve never had a problem with the gays now myself” she says, 

pausing to sip from a pink plastic penis, 

pausing for praise.

And one by one, the gays fly south, 

migrating to the bar, 

to the dance floor, to South-Africa if necessary. 

“Snobs” she calls em -

“them gays can be awful touchy.” 

All her Christmases at once 

when the black crow drag queen

stalking her long legs across the stage, 

seven foot tall, in a silver crown of feathers refracting light off the disco-ball.

“Jesus” she says, stealing the

microphone:  “you’re looking better than me” 

“I should feckin hope so” the drag queen says “you’re twice me bleedin’ age!” 

Slowly, slowly, the hen party has pissed off all of the George... 

Abandoning punctured plastic husbands all over the stage. 

Flashing so many cameras it feels like E.T.’s family has landed.

A gathering parliament of lesbians  encircles the hens,

a murder of goth gays come down from their perch 

I wonder if they’ve seen Hitchcock’s movie, ‘The Birds…’ 

by Jim Crickard

Sex in the Housing Crisis  

We are the generation of born-again virgins 

headboards disturb housemates on shift work,

Air-traffic controllers should be included in rent  

to coordinate times to get the ride

Landlords can afford to support our sex-lives 

and change carpets once in a while 

We are the generation of born-again virgins  

Like ships in the night, we work to survive,

but we are no thirty year old cargo boats…

anchored in the harbour, waiting for labour,

we are Ferrari red speed boats    

with miles to go before we sleep,   

miles to go before we sleep.  

We are the generation of born again virgins 

Nothing kills the mood like mildew 

home-sense is built on the backs of millennials 

fumigating probate houses 

converted into one-beds 

with constellations of mould 

and half their salary paid  

to make out on an old couch  

facing a microwave

We are the generation of born again virgins 

If you’re living with parents you can forget it 

unless you can face breaking their trust   

and explain condoms in the toilet-drain. 

We must not forget about our parents sex-lives 

afraid their carefully considered bed springs

will be heard by their thirty somethings 

Let’s give the government hell for 

this inter-generational dry spell! 

by Jim Crickard

[snowflake-of-destruction]

Let us thank our giver of wonderful food on this Monday. Blessed she be.

It was mostly luck that Riku noticed the small form curled in a ball at the bottom of the tub before he turned the shower on, and that he was planning on letting the water heat up before getting undressed.

"What were you doing here with the lights off, Salena?" He asked, gently. "Ripan should have told you the master bedroom and bath are off limits for hide and seek. I'll make sure you get a pass this round."

The little girl remained steadfastly in ball form. "S'not hide and seek. I can't leave. I'm in jail."

"You're in jail?" Riku parroted and sat on the edge of the tub so he wouldn't tower over his friends' daughter. "Now what did you do to get sent to jail?"

Salena uncurled and sat up, twisting the end of her braid around her finger when she spoke again. "Not that kind of jail. I was kidnapped and now I am locked away waiting for my hero."

"And Ripan's coming to rescue you?"  His son should still know better than to involve his and Sora's room in games, but this was kind of cute. Ripan wanted to act out the same kinds of stories he'd heard from his dads. He wanted to practice having the strength to protect what mattered.

"No! Ripan's not a hero!" The tiny redhead was affronted at the very idea. Ripan thought he was so mature because he was two years and three months older when he was really just a butt head. His whole head. Just butts. "He's playing the head of the Organ Nation. He likes playing the bad guy. Dulce is the hero."

"Ripan wanted to be the head of the Organization?" Riku wasn't sure how he felt about that.

Salena patted his leg consolingly. "It's just pretend, Uncle Riku. And it's the Organ Nation. We voted for the name. Ripan went around collecting hearts and now he has so many organs he's in charge. When Dulce beats him, she takes the hearts and throws them into the sky."

"Oh, is that how it works?" Having the concept of make believe explained to him by a six year old brought things into perspective for Riku. He tried to cajole her out of the bath again. "Well, I'm a master of the keyblade so I'm going to set you free and then you can help me find Dulce and we'll all defeat the Organ Nation together.  That's how Guardians of Light do it. We fight as a group, getting power from our friends."

"I know that," Salena insisted. "I'm not four. I'm supposed to stay here though until the real rescue."

"How long have you been hiding in here?"

"Six hours."

"It hasn't even been six hours since your dads dropped you off."

"One hour."

Riku doubted that was an accurate count either, but however long she'd been left was too long. "I promise you I am a qualified rescuer."

"Uncle Sora does say you've been his hero since you two were smaller than us." Salena considered the offer. She knew Dulce had a heroic rescue planned but they could use it next time.

"He said that?"

"At homework time. I asked him if you two had been married forty years because Ripan said his dads--that's you and Uncle Sora--have been married longer than my and Dulce's dads and you are more in love and that our dads may have went away for the weekend to have a divorce because Cecily Almasy's parents got a divorce and..."

"Pause and breathe, honey. Nobody's getting a divorce."

"I know that. They went away to fight a big Heartless and to do kissing stuff in a hot tub," Salena snapped though she looked quite relieved. "So I told Ripan I was going to punch him and Uncle Sora told me not to hit and Ripan not to start rumors. And then we apologized and Dulce said we should get back to math. And then Uncle Sora said 'good idea' so I said 'have you and Uncle Riku been married for forty years?' I'm pretty sure my dads have been married for at least forty  years because they are old. Uncle Sora laughed and said no, and then Dulce and Ripan started fighting and Uncle Sora had to break it up, but then he said that you and he have been in love your whole lives though and you've always been his hero. But my Pop was in love with my Daddy since the minute, the second, the moment that he was alive so I think Dulce and I still win. But you and Uncle Sora are super old and in love too." Salena finally stopped for breath, gulping in air in dramatic little huffs.

It was a lot to parse. Ripan didn't tend to go off on run-on tangents, but it was something Sora did from time to time, so Riku was used to following along with fast-paced, scattered speech. He cut to the chase, guiding Salena back on topic. "So is it rescue time?"

"It's rescue time!" Salena declared, standing to her feet, extending her arm and then yelling "Zing!" before clarifying in a softer tone. "That's my keyblade summoning noise."

They ran off together just in time to see Ripan standing on the couch in the living room wrapped in Sora's terry cloth robe, one wrong move away from tripping over it and falling from his perch, several paper hearts taped to his chest and neck, facing off against Dulce, the wooden keyblade Riku had carved for Ripan in her hand. For a moment. Then, the keyblade was flying across the living room at Ripan's head. Riku had told Axel time and again that throwing his keyblade like his chakrams was a bad habit that would catch up with him one day. Riku hadn’t thought it would catch up with his son first.

Riku dived, too late. The damage was minimal. A knot above Ripan's eye, a bruise. He'd had worse, and was even healing from worse at that time, injuries sustained from the belief that strong wind would grant him the ability to fly. The twins cried more than he did. Sora cried most of all when he heard the commotion and came in from the other room where he'd been on the gummi phone with Donald, despairing that he was a terrible inattentive father. Injuries were tended, stern words about not throwing things in the house or at people exchanged, and ice cream distributed. Crisis averted.

It was the excitement of the night, next hurdle not arriving until the next morning when Salena and Dulce came running into Riku and Sora's bedroom at what felt like dawn, declaring it was time for their hair to be done.

To which Sora responded, "I never saw that horse before!" sitting straight up in bed, and then, a more intelligible "Who's a what?"

"You have to fix our hair!" Dulce insisted with all the urgency it would have called for if her sister's head was on fire and the only way to put it out was braids. 

"I want a ponytail coming out of the middle of a bun except the ponytail hair is curls and I need glitter star clips...Please." Salena was more patient but taking the matter no less seriously.

"Yeah, her hair needs to go in spirals like Miss Aerith. I will have two braids and then halfway down they turn into one braid and there's a bow at the end. Please and thank you." Dulce placed her own order. "We have all our hair stuff in our backpacks."

"It's the weekend." Riku found himself more easily oriented waking up suddenly than Sora. "You don't need to get ready for school."

"Yes, but we might be seen by the public," Salena stressed, making Riku wonder what plans they had for the day.

"How about a regular ponytail?" Sora yawned. "Or loose hair...just...being hair?"

"Hair being hair?" It should not have been possible for such a small body to contain such an air of superiority. Sora was ignored entirely thereafter. "Uncle Riku, you know how to fix hair, right?"

"Of course. I'm a master hairstylist from way back!" Riku lied through his teeth, thinking it wouldn't be that difficult to please two six-year-olds if they had brought enough brightly colored ribbons and bits.

He was very, very wrong. His braids were loose and crooked. His pigtails uneven. He got a brush tangled deep in Dulce's hair to the point he considered wrapping more hair around it and making it a part of the style. It was a disaster and he was politely given up on after several grueling attempts.

Still not the worst thing to happen in the three days. Nothing compared to the close call when the kids dared each other to drink paint.

[morlock-holmes]

So, I’m going to use what I think is actually a really under discussed, important observation to discuss something pretty trivial.

I’ve been trying to decide why I dislike a lot of “woke” politics in pop culture, and it’s really hard for me to articulate in words. It’s not that I disagree with the politics necessarily, or that I dislike strident messaging.

It’s more.... The best I can describe it is that I think a lot of left-wing messages in modern pop culture are kind of preaching to the choir.

And I kind of came to the conclusion that what I dislike about a lot of modern pop culture with left-wing messaging is kind of the same about what I dislike about a lot of the Christian pop culture that comes out these days (Stuff like “God’s Not Dead) and it’s also hard to articulate what I dislike about that stuff.

I think, okay, there’s this situation you can get in where your belief system is in the minority but still established enough to have its own multi-generational communities.

What I mean is, like, okay, for Mormons, Mormons are part of a minority religion in the US. But they have their own communities and there’s a lot of people who grew up in a world where their parents were Mormon, most of their neighbors were Mormon, their friends were mostly Mormon and even their community and political leaders were Mormon. Growing up like that you’d of course be aware that there were non Mormons, millions and billions of them, but you wouldn’t really be interacting with them directly every day.

The same thing is true of, say, right-wing evangelicals, and I think that’s created a kind of situation where a lot of Christian media is about conflicts between Christianity and the secular world. but depicts the secular world and, honestly, Christianity really poorly, because it’s not really a series of independent close observations, but sort of repeating the received wisdom that all your family and neighbors already agree on. It doesn’t have the bite of a personal conclusion that an artist has come to on his own, or even in opposition to his friends and neighbors, and the depiction of Secular America is often really kind of vague and laughable because secular America isn’t something that these people deal with day to day from their good friends and neighbors, it’s somewhere out on the periphery, where they can’t observe it very well.

And I think something similar is happening on the left.

I’ve been a little flabbergasted seeing businesses adorn themselves with rainbow flags when Pride comes around. When I  was a little kid businesses were terrified to even be indirectly associated with homosexuality, and it was often a big, newsworthy scandal if they were. Bill Clinton signed the bipartisan Defense of Marriage Act to forbid the federal recognition of same sex marriage.

But, I grew up in Portland, OR, and my parents, and friends, and the people in the weird art school I went to at least agreed that the DOMA was bigoted garbage and that there was nothing wrong with homosexuality.

Go back to my parents generation and few, if any children would have been as surrounded by pro-Homosexual communities as I was, let alone as much as today’s kids are.

Hell, my parents were little kids in a time where racial segregation was still a controversial issue.

Now, this is, let me be clear, unequivocally a good thing, and the triumph of a lot of hard work.

But I find that a lot of talk about left-wing movements, tends to act as if they are still the radical, minority insurgencies of my parents time, rather then established paradigms that sort of under-gird the thinking of large, influential communities.

I actually think this has a lot of effects that are really important today, but one of the less important ones is that now a lot of left-wing media has that same characteristic “preaching to the choir, parroting back received wisdom” characteristic that a lot of Christian pop culture has.

Actually, wow, case in point, I’ve been browsing youtube as I write this and The Dreaded Algorithm recommended me somebody complaining about this terrible, pro gun control episode of OK KO Let’s Be Heroes called “Let’s Not Be Skeletons.” instead of watching some guy complain about it, I just watched the episode, and now I am the guy complaining about it on the internet.

But particularly, my problem is not that it has a message, or that it has a particular pro gun control message, it’s that, like, ok what catches my eye is that there are characters in the episode are against any regulation of the skeleton rays that stand in for guns, and the writing is totally unconcerned about why. Why would someone be so afraid that they think they need the skeleton ray even as the whole town is skeletonized? Why does one character say that owning a skeleton ray is his right, what would make him think that?

You can answer these questions and still come to a strong pro gun control stance. In fact, in the US, dealing with these questions is actually crucial if you want to get more gun control.

You have all these characters who repeat catch phrases associated with the outgroup but they never go beyond that, there’s no evidence of deeper understanding of or direct interaction with the outgroup, they’re just a sort of a group of people who mysteriously all took on really easily rebuttable positions for no apparent reason other than generic cluelessness.

I feel like this is the kind of perspective that’s developed when you spend most of your time talking to people who already agree with you.

[yourdeepestfathoms]

Clipped

[Wings AU]

Wing Reference

Tw: Discrimination

———————

“A TV show? Really? We’re getting a TV interview?” Cathy said, wide-eyed.

“Yes!” Anne said excitedly. “The director told me! Isn’t that amazing? I mean, I knew we were popular, but not THAT popular.”

“Wow.” Jane looked up thoughtfully, like she was trying to imagine herself on television. “That’s wonderful! When is it?”

“This Friday,” Anne told her. “So everyone, get your best wing accessories!”

“Well, not everyone is gonna need some.” Kitty tittered.

“Hsst.” Aragon flicked her with one of her wings.

Nobody ever talked about why their music director didn’t have wings. Some of them assumed they had been cut off when she was younger for whatever reason, as she didn’t have any while she was a lady in waiting, but Cathy’s running theory was that she wasn’t born with any at all.

Instead of wings, Joan had awkward little wingbuds curling from her shoulder blades. And today, they looked the exactly same as yesterday: Small, tightly curled, and iridescent silver, with a gem-like gleam beneath the taut layer of flesh wrapped around them.

The wingbuds twitched at Kitty’s comment and everybody glanced at Joan, but if the comment bothered her (which it almost 100% does) she didn't show it on her face. She just straightened herself up some more and exhaled a sharp breath through her nose.

“Anne is right. We all have to look good for this.” She said. “And be ready to answer questions. You know how interviewers are.”

—

When Friday rolled around, the queens and Ladies met their interviewers, a robin named Carrie and a cardinal named Russel. They both seemed friendly enough and their wings were constantly snapping with energy, perhaps thanks to their job as anchors on a talk show, or perhaps they were just always like that.

The show started out with a performance of Ex-Wives and Six mashed together, thanks to Joan, who slaved herself over making the song. When that was over, the queens and Ladies took their seats on the studio stage and got to the questions.

The questions were normal- What’s it like being in such a big show? What’s your favorite song? If you could switch places and play a different queen, who would you choose? Was Henry really as bad as history says he was or was he worse?- and there were even some directed to the ladies in waiting, but then things took a turn for the worse when Carrie turned her attention to Joan and made a very bold move.

“I’m sorry if this sounds rude,” She said, and the queens and three other ladies in waiting all tensed up, already knowing where this was going. “But what’s wrong with you?”

Joan is very stiff from where she’s sitting, hands clasped together tightly in her lap. Her jaw is set firmly, but her eyes reflect a great amount of hurt and humiliation, and red flames flickered on her ears. Her wingbuds twitch slightly on her back.

“Well-”

“Don’t you eat?” Carrie went on, cutting Joan off, although it’s hard to tell if she meant to do it or if she did it on accident because Joan took a moment to finally speak up.

“What exactly are you supposed to be?” Russel chimed in, tilting his head at Joan as if she were a peculiar butterfly he found sitting on his windowsill.

“I’m-” Now Joan was really embarrassed. She looked down, stammering on a response. “I-I’m, umm...”

Although it was said quite rudely, nobody could really blame the hosts for asking such a thing. Avians were said to be magical, mostly because they can fly. Since everyone now seemed to be one, the government had to regulate the air space to keep them from crashing into each other and flying too high for safe breathing. Clothing was made with special flaps in the back to accommodate the extra appendages, much like sleeves. Avians decorate their wings like they would their hair, dyeing them different colors and accessorizing. Some people even pierce and tattoo their wings, even though the skin there is the most sensitive on their entire body.

But Joan didn’t look magical. She just looked like a defective toy on an assembly line of correct products- an eyesore that wasn’t thrown out.

“I’m...” Joan tried one more time to muster up an answer, but nothing came out. She looked down, wringing her hands in her shirt.

“I couldn’t imagine not having my wings,” Carrie said woefully, and her robin wings ruffled on her back to enunciate her point. “What a sad life you must live.”

Joan winced and shrunk in her seat. If she had wings of her own, then she definitely would have been using them to shield herself. But, then again, if she had wings, then she wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place.

“Are you one of the wingless?” Russel asked, leaning forward in his seat.

“Don’t you see those things on her back?” Carrie said. “Clearly she’s SUPPOSED to have wings. She just doesn’t.” She turned back to Joan, her eyes lit up in curiosity. “Why didn’t yours grow when you were born?”

Joan looked absolutely helpless. She glanced around her, at the queens, at the others ladies, even at the camera crew and live studio audience, but she didn’t seem to find any support in anyone. None of them could relate to her; they all had wings.

They were all normal.

“I don’t know,” Joan whispered.

“Don’t be rude.” Aragon spoke up. She tipped her glistening golden pheasant wings at the hosts, but they barely seemed affected by the action.

“What a bore it must be to not be able to fly,” Carrie mused. “I bet you feel like half of a person. Hardly a person at all. Such strange little bumps on your back, though.” She tilted her head at the wingbuds as if they were gemstones growing from Joan’s back.

“They’re called wingbuds.” Anne said.

“They have actual names?” Carrier goggled at the parrot. “How weird!”

“Can I touch one?”

“NO!!”

It was unknown as to who looked more horrified: The queens, the other three ladies in waiting, the hosts, the audience, or Joan.

“They’re sensitive,” Aragon quickly said to Russel, who had asked. “So they shouldn’t be touched.”

“Ah,” Russel said, nodding knowingly, despite probably not knowing that at all. “I see.”

“They’re sensitive?” Carrie echoed. “Then they might come in soon.” She gave Joan a sickly sweet smile. “Pray for that, little bird!”

Joan slumped and nodded dejectedly. She wouldn’t pray, though. That never got her anywhere.

———

If there was one thing that Joan really, truly hated it was the stark belief by everyone around him that the world was black and white.

Black and white. Good and Evil. Angels and Demons.

Right from the moment he was old enough to understand the concept, he had been told the same damn thing, over and over again.

If you weren’t an angel then you were a demon. If you weren’t a demon, either, then you weren’t a person.

In a world where everyone had wings, Joan was wingless.

In a world that believed that all people with bright, colorful bird wings were angels that wouldn’t hurt a fly but were often sanctimonious and arrogant, Joan was nothing.

In a world that believed that all people with crow were demons, cruel and twisted but with so much more passion than their counterparts, Joan was less than nothing.

Beast.

It was a name that even outstripped the title of coward that her mother and father had been given for fleeing their pale-winged snowy owl son and malformed daughter. The same title she had earned when she entered court, where she had been surrounded by wings swathed in gemstones and chains and silk. But then, no one expected a beast, something more like an animal than an avian, to understand loyalty and honor could they?

In her past life, it was years later that she’d learn that Peter only married her for the challenge, the adventure of taming the wild beast that lived in the court. She wasn’t much of a beast in that respect, too quiet, too shy, and too content to spend his days spinning wool and playing the harpsichord- she’d been a disappointment from the first day.

He hadn’t loved her. Her mistresses didn’t love her, although she had hoped they would. Her parents didn’t love her, either. The only person who ever loved her for who she was was her brother, John.

John was the only person Joan knew who accepted her for all her faults and failings. For her cowardice, her shyness, and her lack of wings. Joan loved him and, in a moment of terror at the thought of being the cowardly lame beast again, she betrayed that love. And he left her. He flew away on his own.

It would be centuries before she found someone who could accept her as she was again. Centuries of darkness of meeting people who either looked at her with disgust (secure in their superiority), fear (of the beast she was) or pity (for the poor, lost creature that tried to be an avian but couldn’t possibly be). She tolerated those that feared her far more than those that pitied or were disgusted.

But the robin and cardinal who had hosted the TV show? She didn’t even know what their reactions were. They seemed to be more in awe at her deformity, but not in a good way. They ogled her in a way that made her want to shrivel up in a ball and just die.

Their stares seemed to linger on her for the rest of the day. And that sort of stress is what made her back hurt more than it usually did.

No matter how much Joan scratched her shoulder blades, the itch won’t go away. It always prickled in her back, and she tries to force it away, she really does. She itches and itches until it looks like cat scratches down her back. She presses against the backs of chairs when no one is looking, wool and wood rough against her back. And still, the itch doesn’t go away, only lessens, just barely.

It’s maddening.

———

“It’s for you,” Jane said tiredly, trudging away from the door. Her huge harpy eagle wings were dragging on the ground; she must have been ready to sleep if she weren’t lifting them.

Aragon watched her go in amusement before walking towards the front door. There, she found the little wingless fledging who she had taken under her wing, into her nest, awhile ago.

“Hello, Joan,” She greeted warmly. “What are you doing here at this hour?”

“U-umm…” Joan gestured for her back.

Aragon frowned, knowing exactly what that meant.

“Of course, my darling. Come on. Take off your shirt when you’re in my room.

Shyly, Joan followed Aragon up into her bedroom, wrestling off her shirt once she was inside. She sat down in front of Aragon on the bed.

Aragon hummed worriedly when she saw how red the wingbuds extending from Joan’s back were.

“They feel a little inflamed,” Aragon said, carefully prodding around one of the buds.” How long have they been hurting?”

“A few days, I think.”

Aragon frowned deeply at that.

“Honey…” She sighed, “Why didn’t you tell someone?”

Joan shrugged.

“Didn’t want to worry anyone..”

Another sigh.

Aragon began to gingerly knead the area around the wingbuds, making slow, deliberate circles with her thumbs against the distended shoulder blades. Even with her careful moments, Joan still winced and flinched a few times, but held still as best as she could.

“C-can you go down a little bit?” The fledging asked shyly.

“Here?” Aragon pressed just beneath one of the buds and Joan nodded. She massaged carefully in that area.

“Your muscles are really stiff, love.” Aragon said, "Think you can flutter your wingbuds for me? It might get some of the tension out.”

“I’d rather not,” Joan breathed.

“I know, sweetie, but your back is really locked up. It probably isn’t very comfortable.”

Joan gave in and flexed the wingbuds, which sent strings of fire shooting through every nerve. Aragon helps her through it by gently rubbing her back to try and loosen some tenseness in her muscles.

“Shh, shh,” Aragon murmured when she heard a tight whimper, “You’re okay, darling. You’re okay. You’re doing so good, you know that?”

Joan shook her head a little.

“Well, now you do,” Aragon said, “Would you like me to go get a cool rag? Would that help?”

“N-no. P-please don’t leave me.” Joan whimpered out, “Please, Catalina…”

“I’m not going anywhere, Joan,” Aragon assured her, “You must be tired, huh? Do you want to try to sleep or should I keep-”

“Sleep.” Joan said. “Please.”

“Alright.”

After pulling her shirt back on, Joan laid down next to Aragon, feeling her soft golden pheasant wings bundle her up. Slowly, she’s able to drift off.

—————

The next morning, Aragon woke up to Joan trembling in exhaustion and pain.

She says she’s fine.

[throughthewwods]

100 Days of Productivity

Day 29

✨Got my house functionally clean for the upcoming week.

Main victory was the kitchen, which was 😬

✍️ Added a bit to my drawing

📚 Wrote my biopsychosocial model reflection paper

🍪 Got my kid’s friend into Girl Scouts, so that’ll be fun for them to share

🐕 Bribed my dog with peanut butter to let me brush him

👩‍🔬 helped Kiddo with her dissolvable substances science experiment

Realized I need to work more with her on science lingo so it doesn’t become unintelligible, thus boring. You know, there’s this push to get girls into STEM, which feels like insincere social engineering when my daughter parrots she loves science like the public school nudges them to, but they kids aren’t being helped to truly understand ‘science’ as more than a catchphrase. My kid is lucky she has a parent who understands enough to fill in the gaps, but many don’t. I observe this weighing on her self esteem: to be conditioned to believe she likes a subject and have it integrated into her identity then one day feel like a deer in the headlights aware she doesn’t understand and if she likes science then why is she bad at it? I must be stupid compared to other girls” it’s frustrating because the truth is I don’t think my kid is destined to be a scientist. She’s a bubbly extrovert who I can only hope doesn’t become a cheerleader, but I don’t want her to integrate the false belief she’s ‘not smart enough’ to understand/enjoy scientific concepts all because she is unknowingly a part of a poorly executed social experiment.

Truly, my greatest accomplishment yesterday I was not eating my young heh.. 😬

so over this being sneaky/lying bs constantly stressing me out with new problems I have to solve.

Anyway....Saturday was mostly ok.

RB and I drew together for a bit while the kids gabbed giddily about Bob The Pig in their Mindcradt World they’d been diligently sculpting. Him beginning to sketch (his own inner work to sustain his creativity despite Covid malaise) inspired me to grab my own sketchbook. (An impulse to do the same for myself)  We’ve both been struggling with artists block all year, but the times we’ve drawn together make a subtle, dreamy quiet. I’m reminded of a course I took a few years ago that described the science behind ‘bringing the best out of each other’ via relationship congruence: how couples unconsciously influence each other, for better or worse; and that one reason studies find happy couples tend to be healthier and more successful than singles or unhappy couples is because their healthy habits/attitudes cue, enhance, and reinforce each other.

It was a positive afternoon for the kiddos also. I know RB gets anxious about his son’s autism string social challenges, but I think it’s good for the kids to learn how to navigate disagreements and if things went too far down a bad road there’s two reasonable adults to mediate in the room over. 🤷🏻‍♀️ Covid sucks for kids. I know my lil extrovert for sure misses peopling and I’m certain his son does also. If they have a good day, greet. If not, remember how important these social situations were for my little brother way back when he was cognitively learning socializing nuances. Coincidentally, my kiddo has had many differently abled people in her life, which has taught her to be pretty accepting, flexible, and compassionate. RB is still trying to work out that parenting balance of respecting and accommodating to your child’s special needs, but also letting them be a typical kid.I think over time RB is starting to relax though realizing we’re all a pretty good fit and everything will be just fine even if the kids bicker.

[firebird-inkheart]

A Child’s Understanding p.2

(Please check previous post for warnings)

{Previous}

The afternoon sunlight blinded him the moment he stepped outside. Ace flinched, squinting even as he turned his head. Behind him the strangers’ mocking laughter echoed harshly in his ears. His palms ached where his nails bit in deep; his skin was tough and calloused, yet in that instant it threatened to split apart and let his frozen blood flow freely.

‘Cursed blood,’ came the bitter reminder. ‘Devil’s, demon’s. Poisoned, unclean, festering―’

He jumped as the hands clamped on his shoulders squeezed hard. The pressure banished the loud and hateful voices to the back of his mind where they could only murmur their loathing messages. Ace let out a shaky breath.

“They’re wrong,” Sabo said sternly. “That’s the one thing that will never be true, alright.”

It wasn’t a question, but a demand that beget the acceptance of fact.

“... Yeah.”

But he had heard so many other ‘facts’ which were contrary to his brother’s that it made it hard to be convinced, let alone sound convincing. Sabo sighed and let his hands slide away. Before he could really register the missing presence of their weight an arm wrapped around his shoulders. They walked down the steps to put a little more distance between them and the Yew. The obnoxious voices grew just a little quieter.

“Remind me again, what was it Chante told you, exactly?”

He scowled and shot him a look; seriously, why was he asking? Sabo knew damn well everything Chante had told him. They all got the same lectures when Chante deemed it seriously important.

A thin eyebrow rose back in challenge.

“I can parrot what she said until I’m blue in the face but it won’t have the same effect as you saying it for yourself.”

Ace bit down on his cheek and stared at his feet. Chante often sat down with him to simply talk about things no one had bothered to talk with him about before. Things like his feelings and stern but strangely gentle reprimands for his behavior. About who he really was. The blacksmith was full of many profound thoughts, with perspectives he’d never once considered before. Her strong voice, the voice he had gradually come to see as, well, not exactly a motherly one― Ace wasn’t quite sure how he felt about putting that label on anyone in relation to himself ―but someone he could respect enough to rely on, floated through his mind.

“The navy’s sense of justice is and always has been dictated by what the World Government is afraid of. And the government is afraid of everything that doesn’t immediately bow and grovel at its feet,” she had said. “That fear has turned you into a casualty as a result and for that I am so, so sorry. But there’s something I want you to know so listen to me very carefully…”

“My worth is not defined by the judgement of anyone.” 

Sabo leaned in a little closer, the corners of his mouth twitching up. “Sorry, what was that? Didn’t quite hear you there.”

Ace looked up, though not without glaring, each word cutting on his tongue as he tried to cement some belief into them. “My worth is not defined by the judgement of anyone.”

He pumped his arm and Sabo joined him in agreement. “Your worth is not for anyone but yourself to determine!” He grinned, flashing his gapless glory. “But it sure helps to know there are people that value you all the same. Right Hon?”

There was no reply.

“Honyo?”

Cacophonic; the sound of glass shattering against something solid and heavy rang through the air, immediately followed by an uproar of deep swears and shouts and one utterly unholy shriek. The boys jolted, running back into the Yew, nearly tearing the doors from their hinges as they bulldozed their way through. 

Aya had dropped several dishes to reach for the nearest man and strong arm him into submission; the knife he had been reaching for clattered harmlessly to the ground. One of the strangers, gangly as he was, turned on the barmaid only to find his face pinned to the ground by the foot of one of the cooks that had come out to investigate the commotion. The others surrounded a manic, snarling, green haired little girl brandishing a broken bottle.

Two of the men lunged at Honyo and she jumped, tossing herself at the man with the bowler hat. The men collided in a heap and bowler hat guy screamed. The man’s hat went flying as Honyo repeatedly bludgeoned him with her crude weapon and the man himself fell back in his chair, sending them both crashing to the floor. 

“TAKE IT BACK! TAKE IT BACK, TAKE IT BACK, TAKE IT BACK!”

The man with the large bow tie loomed over the screaming girl and struck, grabbing a fistful of hair― the little pompoms that held some of her hair up snapped from the force ―and wrenched. Hard.

Her head hit the table with a solid thunk!

The blood in his veins was all but screaming in his reeling mind as the last couple seconds finally caught up to him.

Bowtie man huffed. “That oughta teach you to settle do―”

“Get your filthy hands off her!”

He pitched forward as the boys barreled into him, their roars fierce and wild enough to compete with the Tiger Lord himself. Ace slammed a fist into the bastard’s head once, twice. Each hit was so powerful that his face bounced off the floor, leaving dark smears across the wooden surface. Bowtie man groaned and turned to jelly under his legs.

Sabo had rolled off the man and reached for Honyo as she picked herself up. She wiped the back of her shaking hand across her forehead― he saw red and his knuckles cracked loudly ―blue eyes shiny with fresh tears of pain and unadulterated fury. She readjusted her grip on the bottle. Sabo had barely wrapped his hand around her arm when she lunged.

A glint of light. A flash of silver. Ace didn’t have time to fully register everything as he leapt up, wrapping his arms around Honyo’s waist, and pulled her back. 

The knife in Bowler hat guy’s hand slashed through empty air, harmless.

“Take it back!” Honyo screamed again. “Take back what you said right now!”

“What the hell is your problem you little menace?!” Bowler hat shook harder than a leaf in an autumn breeze, brandishing his little knife in one hand while the other held a stained kerchief to a nasty looking gash on his balding head.

He could feel his grip slipping as Honyo struggled to reach out and keep attacking the stranger, her face alight with fire and fury. Sabo slipped his arms under hers and received an elbow to his face for his efforts. With a grunt the two managed to pull her back a couple more steps.

There was a long running understanding that pissing off a Roronoa was like inviting a storm into your house when you were better off leaving the door shut. But in that moment the only thing Ace could think as he and Sabo struggled to hold Honyo back, was that this was nothing short of a testament to the little girl’s strength.

“Us kids aren’t as stupid as you think we are!” she growled. “Adults like you that go runnin’ your mouths are the worst! You can’t just say another kid should die just because of who their parents are— It’s wrong and you better take it back now!”

His heart flew up into his throat and locked the air out. She had started a brawl because of― Because of that? Ace had never told Honyo about who his father was. He’d been too scared, was absolutely terrified right now, of the idea of her knowing and… and hating him. And yet… And yet she―

Bowler hat guy couldn’t seem to believe that all this ruckus had been because of his careless words either, his mouth hitting the floor for one short moment before incredulous chuckles filled the air.

“And what would a sniveling little girl like you know about what’s right and wrong? Don’t you know about the things that devil Roger did? Any kid of his would be just as bad― no, worse ―and shouldn’t be allowed so much as an inch of life!”

Ace ducked his head, twisting the fabric of Honyo’s shirt around his fists. Sharp eyes flickered down and back at the man, nostrils flaring. Pulling her arm back as far as she could get it with Sabo holding onto her, Honyo flung the rest of her weapon at the man and beaned him square in the forehead.

“Existing isn’t a crime you thick skulled bigot! It never has been and it never will be!”

His heart was being squeezed to death and filled to the brim with warmth all at once. It was too much. Dark eyes flickered up, startled.

“Existence isn’t a crime! Being born and living isn’t a crime! What should be a crime is people like you that go around saying children should die just because you’re chicken shit scared of their parents!”

A collective gasp raced around the room. Ace found it difficult to pry his eyes away from Honyo. For such a small kid she looked so big just then. She was rage and passion, a thin trail of dried blood smeared down her face from a small, bruising cut on her temple, and the shine in her eyes had finally broken free. Big fat tears rolled down her cheeks and dribbled off her chin. One fell onto his face.

‘She’s crying for… me?’

“That’s― That’s treason!” Bowler hat raved. “Treason against the World Government―”

And didn’t that seem to be the root of so many problems in this world. What a fool to admit his flawed thoughts stemmed from them.

The doors creaked, soft footsteps treading across the floor.

“I’ll have you reported! You hear me, I’ll―”

The presence that washed over him was familiar and warm. Often it reminded him of summer days spent lounging in the grass beneath the sun, where gentle winds would tease at stray strands of his hair and he would nap, content. But underneath all that was the warning of a blade that did not reveal itself for idle reasons. And it was being dangerously provoked at that moment.

“Now, what’s going on here?” Cheerful as always, as if he couldn’t bother with being serious; Ace had never felt more relieved to hear that voice.

“Poppop!” Honyo yelped, the same time the boys squawked, “Shin!”

Roronoa Shin came to a stop a few steps away from the disaster zone they all occupied, dusty blue eyes wandering over everything with faint curiosity. Absently he carded his fingers through his light hair and messed it up even more than it already was. 

When Ace had first met Shin he’d thought the man was a clumsy dope and wasn’t good for much despite his broad build.

That was one mistake he had been careful to never make again.

A small frown tugged at his lips. Shin shuffled closer to the odd formation of children― Honyo had stopped struggling now but there was still a feral glint in her tear filled eyes ―reaching out to gingerly cup his daughter’s face and examine her cut.

“So.” His voice was soft, a small, frightening smile replacing the frown. “Which one of you upstanding looking gentlemen hurt my baby bean?”

“That hellion is your brat?” Bowler hat was sweating bullets even as he blustered through with false bravado. “We were minding our own business when she attacked out of nowhere and for no good reason! If you think―”

Honyo surged forward causing Ace and Sabo to fall on top of her in surprise. “Liar! Liar, liar, liar, liar! You said a kid should die if their parent was a criminal and you still haven’t taken it back!”

Shin’s eyes twitched. He looked from his daughter to the man quaking in his just a little too nice boots. “My bean doesn’t start fights for no good reason. And that sounded like a damn good reason to me.”

Without looking back he said, “Why don’t you three head outside and wait just a minute for me, m’kay? I’ll take care of things from here.”

The blade had revealed itself and was baring its fang with a dangerous glimmer. Ace and Sabo scrambled to their feet, neither letting go of Honyo this time as they hauled her up, and made an immediate beeline for the doors.

Pleasant as ever, Shin returned his attention to the men, waving to Aya and the cook as if he was simply stopping by to talk as he usually did. They backed off, trading knowing looks. To the group of strangers, though, the smile he graced them with was as biting as ice.

“Now, let’s have a little chat, shall we?”

[pathofcomet]

bride of ice (1)

{dragon age: inquisition | g. | female trevelyan/iron bull | 2.9k}

| https://archiveofourown.org/works/23533642/chapters/56444983|

There is some kind of comfort in their name, and the knowledge that they will always be part of House Trevelyan, that there’s always the safety net of their title and of their family, and all that it taught them. When uncertain, just follow Andraste’s words and your better’s orders, and pray it goes well. Sometimes, life is as easy as that.

Even if it isn’t fair. Even if it doesn’t leave space for questions.

She was born on a holy day, her mother’s birth-giving pain’s screams mingled with the joyous ringing of the bells from the Chantry. That’s how her mother knew, as her desperate wish has been, that this one last, late child will be a girl. Or at least that is the story that her mother says when she feels particularly fond over the fact that there’s only one of her children left in her house, or to nobles visiting hoping for the young lady’s hand in marriage, or when she wants something from her sole daughter and has to preface her request with emotional manipulation.

The young Trevelyan looks out the window of her carriage, frowning, knowing exactly what her mother wants from her this time before she even has to voice it.

“You cannot, mother.”

“Of course I can,” her mother smiles back at her. “I am your mother and I am your lady and I am sending you on a trip with your brother, not to marriage against your will.”

It is a bait, and a reminder of all that her mother has already done for her: postponing her marriage for this long already, despite the disagreement from other nobles and her own husband, asking in return just from some obedience when she outright needed it. Like right now.

It was the Conclave after all, and an important meeting for her family. Not only was her own brother in the Templar order, alongside cousins and uncles, but most of their relatives were also spread in the ranks of the Chantry. At this point, it was equal parts family reunion and political orchestration for her. It is also an out, one last taste of the world before she knows, with certainty, that she will be made to choose her position in her family’s expectations: become a wife or a Chantry sister. Her time is running out, and this is why she doesn’t want to spend the last of it calming down centuries of hatred over diner.

She turns, to glare at her mother. At least, she doesn’t want to do it without her. There isn’t any political party that she hasn’t navigated thanks to the patient guidance of her mother. But whereas once her mother had dark, black hair – it is now faded to a grey, and when before, during her childhood, her mother used to do this trip to the Chantry by horse, her daughter laughing between her arms, she is now preferring the rest of a carriage. Her daughter grew, but she just got old. It is a startling realization for the young woman to have, in the golden light of the morning, that her mother is now frail and aging. Even if she wanted to do it, her mother couldn’t physically withstand the long journey, or the cold weather upon the arrival.

It was an escape as well: given the opportunity to prove herself, and carve a path straight between the crossroad the destiny was putting her at. She wanted to laugh then, to agree just to please her ingenious mother. She was her only daughter after all, and she was born alongside the joyous ringing of the Chantry bells, and her mother had taken one look at her baby girl and was determined to give her the world, or as much of the world as she could give to another woman.

But before she can answer, the carriage halts to a stop. Her mother wipes her fingers alongside her daughter’s lips, erasing a mark of stray rouge, and pulls at the thin, lace veil she is wearing to cover her head, making it more presentable. It is a light colour, matching her dress, and it is a pious imitation of the statues of their most holies. Her father has insisted on this outfit for her, just an image of their reputation and a reminder of their role and quality in the world.

She links her arm with her mother’s, eyes trained to the sky. Even after years and years of doing every week, she cannot get used to the murmured thanks of the poor, who have just been sent coins by her father’s men, or the enthusiastic greetings of possible suitors, or the envious glances of fellow nobles. As time went by, it felt less like her finding a connection with the Maker of the world, and more like a theatre play that she cannot take part in, because she’s unsure of her role or of the script she has to parrot.

So she walks, tight lipped, taking her seat inside the Chantry, offering a chair to her mother, and her dropping on her knees to the cold floor, palms held together in front of her, eyes casted down in a perfect picture of modesty and belief. She feels pity towards her dress, washed just the night before, and she can feel the hilt of her daggers digging painfully in her thigs, at least needed support in keeping her awake during the preaching. She’s not sure if the Maker is supposed to hear you better just because you are in pain during your pleas, or because he’s seen your face in his house more often than others’, or because your house has the largest donation ever given in the history of the city.

It is one’s own badge of pride that they decide to rely on. She’s not sure she wants hers to be as fickle and unsure as religion’s teaching. Even now, the sermon that they are given is against what they’ve been told just three weeks before, and yet no one seems to notice, or to consider it the least queer.

The bells start ringing, above their head – and slowly, people begin to rise and trickle out into the street. Her mother slowly pats her head and her back, reward for another of these days spent together. Her father is supposed to be busy ruling, and her brothers each with their own titles – so it is the women of the Trevelyan that have to show their faces to the world, stand proof of their ties and their history. People will believe a great many things if they are shown they can rely on said beliefs. And their house has been just a great constant, and such a stable pillar for their people, such an easy path for their own.

The young lady sighs, wondering when exactly this stopped pleasing her, given that she’s gotten nothing less than what she could have possibly wanted, sometimes even before she knew she wanted it. As they ride back towards their estate, she thinks it must have been around the time her brothers placed a dagger in her hand for the first time, and she realized she doesn’t want to let it go.

It is with that same pure glee that she greets her second brother on the entrance steps, hands cupping his cheeks to get a good look at him, then having him pull out his tongue at her and throw an arm around her waist, raising her up effortlessly and spinning her around. She screams into the air, servants turning around to laugh alongside them. Behind them, she can hear her mother clearing her throat, and he puts her down slowly, to go and place his hands in his mother’s, kiss her forehead.

He still stinks from the road, probably back just a little while before them – and his sister turns around, stops one of the chamber ladies, demands a table to be set as soon as possible for them all, and a warm bath to be drawn for him. Out of all of her siblings, his is the only room still kept intact: although he has his own place within the Templars, being situated just outside the city, he has always been just half a day ride away – and it has always been her family’s delight to summon him among them for any and all possible excuses. Out of all her siblings, this is the one she loves the best, he is the one that taught her the most, that cared the most about the small girl who came into his life well into his teenage years.

She cannot remember him without the Templar uniform. Even with all the silks awaiting him at home, out of pride, he wears the cotton shirts of his peers. She finds him magnificent and an idiot for this choice. He also forces her in leather pants and shirts, demands spars and duels from her, and laughs when it is way too easy to best her. He is the only one who seems to care if she can fight on her own, though it is an activity that no one interrupts them from, which means it must be approved by the Bann. Her only weapons are gifts she’s gotten from him, alongside the stories about all the female Templars among his ranks. There’s a fierce protectiveness from him that translates into actual actions, rather than advice that paints her in nothing more than beautiful furniture.

If she wasn’t the only daughter, if she wasn’t so precious in securing a political tie because of her good blood, she wonders is her parents would have agreed to her following the steps of her brother. Though, when he joins them at the table after his bath, he is carrying an empty vial, and she knows things aren’t as easy as he would like to make them seem behind all his blinding smiles. After all, that’s the entire purpose of the Conclave that the two of them are supposed to attend together.

His fingers move to pull at her veil, teasing her even more by unknotting her hair-do when she tries to protest against it.

“Ass,” she mutters under her breathe, though her mother’s leg kicks her under the table and she bites her tongue as a result. He laughs again, leaning to plant a loud kiss on her cheek, and she stuffs a pie in his mouth just to make him stop.

“So, sister. I heard you almost let me be the only suffering Trevelyan out there.”

“Oh, and I would have done it gladly if someone –” here she stops to bite into an apple, staring pointedly at their mother “didn’t insist upon my presence. I am not even qualified to breathe in those meeting rooms.”

“Nonsense! You’d make a fine serving girl!”

“Ass!” This time she says it out loud, and her mother slaps, loudly, against her wrist. It leaves a stinging, red mark behind and she glowers at her brother, blaming.

“You know it doesn’t suit you to whine like a petulant child,” her mother says, calmly. “If you are aware of your own faults, then work on them. If you’re not willing to do so, then do not complain when others point them out to you.”

“Yes, mother,” she murmurs.

“And both of you will be on your best behaviour out there, I hope. I did not raise fools who bark at each other out of boredom.”

“It’s out of love we do it, mother,” he says from her side, and he pats her leg, where she keeps her daggers, asking for peace. She smiles in her bowl of soup, hides it behind the rim.

His spine straightens. “We are Trevelyans, mother.”

With that, he says a whole history in a sentence. It means they will do what must be done of them, and they will honour the name that they are wearing. It means she is a good daughter and he’s a loyal Templar – and no matter the place, no matter the time and no matter the setting, they will do right by this first and foremost.

This calms her, better than anything her daughter might have tried. There is some kind of comfort in that knowledge, that there’s always the safety net of their title and of their family, and all that it taught them. When uncertain, just follow Andraste’s words and your better’s orders, and pray it goes well. Sometimes, life is as easy as that.

Even if it isn’t fair. Even if it doesn’t leave space for questions.

After lunch, they retreat in their father’s study, discussing the details of their departure the next day. There’s a stiff bitterness in his tone whenever he talks to his daughter, and she can imagine exactly how displeased he is with having her go. But someone still has to be just a Trevelyan, and nothing more, and his choice is limited, at the moment, to her – his oldest would never be sent to such a meeting to begin with.

So he must agree to letting her have her own horse, have her own say in their family’s matters. She tries not to take it personal, that he lacks any more trust in her – it is just that, as much as her mother wished for a daughter, he aimed for a son. He didn’t quite make peace with the fact yet.

Only after all this, her brother double checking their servants’ work, are the two finally left alone. He calls her over in his room, where a big, wrapped present is waiting for her, his hideous scribbling accompanying the rope keeping it together. There’s no hint of what’s inside from the text, just normal teasing for the spoilt baby, and he patiently waits for her to open it.

Inside, the pieces of a leather fighting gear. The smell is faint, and the sewing high-quality, and her brother must have spent quite a considerable part of his pay for this. She blinks away her tears before they can fall, the awe still there, her fingers still touching at each surface they can find.

“Thank you.”

Murmured, softly, overwhelmed.

“The Conclave is more of a war gathering than they’d like to let you believe, sister. You won’t be left powerless if I can help it.”

“I have Andraste,” she says, but he just scoffs, incredulous.

“Because that worked so well so many times before.”

That makes her laugh, at last.

“Thank you,” she says again, because there’s nothing more than that that she can say to express how truly grateful she is.

“I’m glad you are coming, sister.”

But she can’t quite say the same, even if the next day she wears her brother’s gifts, proudly.

 _______________________________

The travel itself is pleasant enough, spent in good inns and with good food, sharing memories of their childhood with her brother. They add layers as the weather turns colder and admire the landscape around them. One evening, he plays the lute – the next, she sings by voice. Halfway through, their party meets up with their uncle and aunt, working as escorts for the elder couple – as they arranged weeks prior through a letter. Her aunt immediately presses a silver hair pin in her hands, a beautiful gift that she puts to use the following morning. Her uncle spends one afternoon sharpening her daggers, and she’s reminder that their daughters won each hunting game between their families for the past three years.

Once their destination reached, she situates herself by their side, among the civilians present for the Conclave. Her brother hugs her goodbye, before joining his friends, and later in the day, a second degree cousin, now Chantry sister, finds her and they spend some time catching up. The tension is palpable in the air, but everyone is doing their best to stick to their own and try not to start anything. Divine Justinia is a wonderful respite in the midst of all; her kindness oozing off her, a softness in her voice that manager to lift the angriest frown, a power in her presence that silences even the rowdiest person.

Honestly, Lady Trevelyan admires the woman, finds some hope that the Conclave might actually come to an agreement after all, if she is to judge over all of it. And yet, in this world, everyone wants as much as they can get, and then even more if they can fool others into giving it to them. The negotiations are not that different from her own arguments with her tutors, spoiled and exasperated sides equally certain that they’re in the right.

So the days pass by, and at least the food is nice, and the wine flows freely in the evenings. She’s seen enough drunken Mothers. If bored, in the long afternoons when they aren’t allowed to be present to the talks, the guards ask her for a fight, and she trains alongside them until she knows her fingers will turn red in the water basin as she tries to wash away the dirt from her clothes. She reads out loud holy texts with the sisters in the morning, plays chess with the older participants, writes the letters for her aunt who left her glasses at home. Sometimes, a servant slips her a note – most from her brother, Kill me written out of boredom and exasperation, some from admirers trying to tell her that she’s pretty, but only making crass comments that she immediately throws into the fire.

It’s life – but life as far from the one she knows as she will likely ever get.

And then, it all blows up. Or that’s what people tell her, because she cannot remember –

[bertel-king-blog]

Read Between the Lines

I fell in love with a guy once.

This was a surprise. You only love books and school. I thought you were into girls.

This was back before I could have gotten away with saying, “So what if I do?” I don’t. I didn’t. But it hasn’t impacted my life much. I know plenty of lesbians who have been in love with more men than me.

“Are those unicorns?” he asked one day, spotting the cover of the notebook I was doodling in. “I thought everyone gave those up when they were eleven.”

Panicking, I closed the book, which only made it easier to see the cover.

“I guess I hold on to things longer than I should,” I mumbled.

“Hey, I’m not judging. You do you.”

That was it. There was no more to that conversation. Despite what he said, I thought he was judging. But he noticed me. That was enough.

I’m almost ashamed to say he was tall, dark, and handsome. I came to take comfort in being different, and in this way my crush was just like the stereotype. Though he was also black, which in retrospect would have been a problem with parents like mine in a town like the one we lived in. I got out of there, and so did nearly everyone else from my school. Most of those who didn’t now look lost in time. They voted for the president not out of any policy preference or anger at other cultures, but sheer bitterness.

Back then, all of them, guys and girls, looked better than me. I’d say they didn’t like me, but that would mean noticing me. I was fortunate to float through school too invisible to be bullied and, despite my love for books, too average for teachers to love me. Those reactions I mentioned earlier? Those were from the few friends I made in college.

That conversation lingered with me for weeks. Each day we sat next to each other in the class, not saying anything. That was fine, because like me, he spent his quiet time deep in a book. And from that day forward, I noticed what he was reading. Eldest. The Audacity of Hope. Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince.

He, too, seemed to be using books to disappear from this torturous camp the buses ferried us off to each day. He used them to fill every moment that wasn’t filled with busy work.

Some of our interests crossed over. I read Harry Potter and Eragon, though I didn’t like the book enough to bother with the sequel. I sat next to him reading The Two Towers wondering if he would comment. He didn’t, but he noticed. A few weeks later he started reading The Fellowship of the Ring.

I should have said something to him. We sat next to each other for an entire quarter. It was a quiet class, but we could have spoken at any point on the way in and out. There were so many opportunities.

But why would he want to talk to me? No one else did. And I had made it to high school without developing the skills necessary to strike up conversation with someone new.

So that’s where that chapter ended. We didn’t share any classes the next quarter, and I spent that time kicking myself for not having taken a chance. Those few months were among the longest, most miserable of my life.

Next quarter, there he was. Civics. There were lines of desks between us, but while most of our classmates talked in their free time, we sat there reading books. In his hands, Democracy Matters. Mine, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.

And despite the agony of the past few months, I didn’t say a thing (my choice of reading sure didn’t help me feel more comfortable around men).

This time, after our last class of the quarter, he stopped just outside the door.

“Hey, uh, I was wondering what your name was.”

I was not expecting this. “Trish,” I stammered out.

“Trish. I’m Jacob.”

Hi, Jacob.”

An awkward pause.

“I noticed you like to read.”

“I do.”

An even more awkward pause.

“I guess I’ll see you around,” he said.

“I guess so,” I parroted.

It was then that I realized he was as nervous and bashful as I was. After he walked away, I waited a bit before walking in the same direction to my next class, smiling dopily to myself.

That next year, I started my first quarter hoping to see him again. It had been a full quarter, plus the summer, since the last time we spoke. But he wasn’t in any of them.

The next day, I saw him in the cafeteria. It was my turn to overcome my nerves.

“Mind if I sit here?”

He looked up from his book, Call Me by Your Name.

“Trish,” I added.

“Huh?”

I gestured toward the book.

“Oh,” he smiled, embarrassed. “Sure. I’d like that.”

That was as close as we ever got to flirting. We barely even seemed like friends in those first few weeks. We mostly read side by side. Small talk was not something I had ever needed to know before.

By the third month, we had figured out how to speak. It was nice, looking back, to know someone who moved at the same speed.

Unfortunately, there weren’t enough days left in school. Soon we were looking at colleges and receiving acceptance letters. We both chose schools that were out of state, probably out of a mutual belief that we both needed to get far away to get a fresh start on this whole people thing. We said we’d keep in touch, but we didn’t. That’s okay. I’ll never forget the last thing he said to me.

“You were reading Rocket Boys the first time I spoke to you.”

“I was?”

“It was sitting on your desk next to that unicorn notebook you used to doodle in.”

“You remember that?”

“It was seeing you with all those books that made me interested in reading. I mean, I read just fine, and I got good grades, but it wasn’t something I did for fun. But you were always in a book in a way I had never seen before.”

“You read because if me?”

“I read because I like it. But it’s thanks to you that I found that out.”

“Thank you for noticing me,” I said, though I wasn’t sure if it came out right. I couldn’t put into words what it meant to have had that big an influence on someone’s life, but more than that, his noticing me changed mine. He pulled me out of my shell. Not completely out, but at least my head and neck, like a turtle or a snail. Enough to engage with the world.

We went our separate ways. I voted for Obama in the fall. I jumped at the chance to see Cornel West when he came to my school. My parents and extended family members, who never talked to me all that much to begin with, started talking to me even less.

A decade has passed. Many old classmates surely have had kids by now. Some have probably gotten divorced. Me? I’ve still yet to date anyone, but I don’t hesitate to say I’ve experienced love.

Read Between the Lines was originally published on Bertel King Jr.'s website.

[sequoiann]

by a thread

pairing; seventeen seungkwan x reader genre; angst, soulmate!au, ft. bestfriend vernon word count: 5.1k

synopsis; the ring finger of soulmates are connected by a red string. some people can see them but some can’t --- seungkwan can see them, but you can't. that means you never know whose string yours is connected to --- and that's pretty much the only way to find your significant other. if one soulmate dies, the threads will slowly turn black and fade away.

Your eighteen-year-old self sat drearily in your seat in the lecture hall, body slumped slightly as you rested your arms on the small little black table that was fixed to the chair. The pads of your left index finger and thumb gently rubbed themselves on the lower region of your right ring finger as you tried to picture how it would look if a red thread coiled around it like how it did around your friends' fingers.

The red string was something that would gradually appear as one grows older, but there is no specific age whereby one would be able to see the string. Some people claim that theirs had appeared at the age of a mere seven years old, while some others' strings only came into view at the age of thirty. People were indirectly classified into three categories --- the first being a group of people who had their strings solidified by the time they are 12, the second being a group who had their strings solidified at ages above twelve, and for the rest --- the third category that included you --- people who simply, and unluckily, do not have the ability to see the string with their two eyes. The third category has an unbelievably small population, you were told.

Vernon, your best friend, caught you going into a daze with your eyes fixated on your almost un-ordinarily empty finger. He grabs your hand and pulls it away from the other. You jumped slightly at his abrupt gesture and yanked your arm away almost too harshly, holding it to your chest as if he had just attempted to rip your arm out of its sockets. 

"What?" you asked, your eyes looking at him up-down. 

"What?" he parroted, his eyes reflecting surprise and disbelief at your seemingly exaggerated reaction. "Stop staring at your finger like that!" 

You blinked, noticing that you were subconscious about the fact that you were doing that. 

"I was just daydreaming," you defended. 

Vernon nods his head his mock belief. "Yeah, yeah." 

You rolled your eyes and lightly nudged him to the side. You suddenly became really sheepish as a visual craving popped into your mind. 

"Hey, Vernon?" you said in a soft voice, your eyes turning back to the lecturer every once in a while to make sure you don't get scolded for 'disrupting the class'. Mr. Bons wasn't very tolerant of his students talking during his lecture. 

"Hmm?" he hums, his fingers doing some fancy pen-twirling thing. His eyes stayed glued to the front of the auditorium, but he leaned slightly closer to you to show that he was listening. 

"Can I see yours again?" you asked, a meek smile playing on your lips. Red strings were invisible to others' eyes, unless the owner grants the opposite party permission to see it. 

"Y/N!" Vernon exclaims in a hushed tone, his focus breaking off the lecture. "You saw it just before the lecture started!" 

"Which was an hour ago!" you retorted.

"Those two students at the side," you hear Mr. Bons bellow, making you and Vernon jolt in shock and sit upright, facing the front again. 

"If you two would like to have to have your own little conversation, it'd be favorable to all of us if you stepped out," Mr. Bons said. "Would you like to?" His voice wasn't raised, but for some reason that made everything seem scarier and more... intense. The eyes of the students in the hall that were settled on you two were not helping either.

"No, Mr. Bons. We apologize," Vernon spoke, bowing slightly. Mr. Bons shoots you two another piercing glare before returning to his lecture. A chuckle couldn't help but bubble itself out of your mouth, and Vernon nudges you as a gesture to shut you up, but you could see the corners of his lips turned up too.

The lecture ended another hour later, and you and Vernon exited the auditorium with childish shoves and blame-pinning on who got who into trouble with Mr. Bons previously. You were still bent on seeing his soulmate string again, though --- it was like a drug; you couldn't get enough of it. 

Vernon sighed (not tiredly) and held his hand out to you, the relatively thick and solid red thread fading into view. You loved seeing the way it coiled around the length of his ring finger like a vine looped around a tree, leaving gaps at his finger joints so that Vernon could bend his finger without any restrains caused by the string. 

"Nice," you muttered, brushing your fingers across it, before it disappears again. 

You whine. "Vernon!" 

He smiles smugly, shrugging as he walked along. You sulked and followed. 

"Why are you always so unwilling to show it to me?" you asked, tightly hugging your moderately thick stack of notes to your chest. 

"Because you always become like that," Vernon said pointedly. 

"Like what?" 

"That," he said, his eyes looking to your pouted lips as he nodded towards it. "All whiny and sulky and sad." 

"I'm not sad," you huffed, crossing your arms under your stack of notes. "I just find it unfair that I can't see mine." 

Vernon smiles slightly. "Don't worry, you'll still find him. That's for sure. I'll help." 

You scoffed. It wasn't that you didn't trust Vernon and/or his words, it was just easier said than done. The possibility was really near zero.

"Have you heard?" Vernon asked, pushing the greens on his plate to the side as you two sat in the canteen. You teasingly pushed them back into the rice portion, mixing them up slightly.

"Eat up," you smiled, ignoring Vernon's narrowed eyes at you as you dug into your own food. "You were saying?"

"Seungkwan's coming back," he told you, and you thought you heard him wrong. You quickly gulped down your mouthful of food so that you could speak.

"Seungkwan? Boo Seungkwan?" you queried. Vernon nods in confirmation. Seungkwan used to study in the school you were in during freshman year, but he had transferred schools by the second year due to his parents' work, you had heard. You never knew him personally, but everyone in the school would've known of the name Boo Seungkwan --- he was quite popular for his easy-going-ness and his humorous personality. You never actually met him properly before, though. You've only seen him a few times on campus across the field or something. 

"I thought he left the province," you said. 

Vernon nods. "He did, apparently. But his parents decided to come back since their business isn't improving much there and Seungkwan likes it better here," Vernon said, putting a spoonful of rice into his mouth. "These are all rumors from the other kids, though. I'm not sure." 

Your mouth formed the shape of an 'o'. 

"And they also said Seungkwan's joining our main class, since they've mixed the classes up from freshman year. He can't exactly go back to his 'original class'," Vernon said pointedly, shrugging. "But then again, all rumors. We'll have to see tomorrow."

You pursed your lips --- you weren't very sure if you liked the idea of having someone new in your class. You've already grown accustomed to the current bunch, and a popular kid being thrown in seemed unnormal to you.

Your busy and packed schedule the next day made you nearly forget about the unsubstantial story about Seungkwan's arrival. Your class was in the middle of History, when you heard buzzing outside from the students from other classes who were seemingly having their break. Heads turned and you caught sight of the 'hot topic' stopping in front of your classroom door --- Seungkwan. He was nearly unrecognizable to you at first glance, but the way his teeth showed and the way his eyes turned to mini crescents when he smiled was still the same. He lost weight, that's for sure --- the chubbiness in his cheeks were less prominent now, and his hair had been dyed into a darker shade of medium ash brown. He donned a slightly oversized maroon hoodie, his bag slung over one shoulder.

"Oh, Seungkwan, you're here," your History teacher, Mr. Walter spoke, before Seungkwan had a chance to introduce himself. Seungkwan stopped in a half-bow in slight surprise. 

"Good afternoon, Mr. Walter," Seungkwan greeted, much to Mr. Walter's delight that he had remembered his name even after these few years. Seungkwan was directed to the empty seat behind you, since you were seated in the second last row of the classroom. You were never one who took seats at the front --- you didn't have to make it more difficult for yourself and get caught for dozing off in class. Vernon was actually the opposite, which explains why his notes always end up with you for at least 3 days.

Seungkwan took his seat behind you after fist-bumping a couple of students whom he was friends with while walking past them, and you found yourself shifting such that you were sitting upright. You told yourself to ignore the fact that he was literally right behind you, but you internally didn't want to come off as a bad and/or lazy student to him. After all, you are going to have to be his classmate for the whole of the next school year. 

You found yourself forcing your eyes to stay open through the two-hour lesson, your entire body starting to feel sore from being so tense. You'd usually just slump into your seat. But the lesson finally passed, and you had time to break out of your 'trance' and stretch as almost everybody crowded around Seungkwan and asking him how he's doing and whatnot. Even Vernon did, and you narrowed your eyes at him, pressing your lips into a line. He simply chuckled, pushing his shoulders up slightly as he cocked his head to a side. 

"I'm just being a sociable kid," he said, and you merely shook your head. 

The day went by slower than usual, but towards the end of the day's classes you just laid your head down on the table, but you still did listen to whatever the teachers were saying. When the last class ended, you felt the need to pop some confetti and throw a party --- you actually sat through the day's lesson without sleeping. 

"Hey." 

You continued packing your bag, stuffing your pencil case and books into your bag, which was placed on your lap. 

"Um, Y/N?" 

You frowned and stopped, turning around to the voice. Seungkwan was leaned forward on his desk, looking at you, and that only made you confused. 

You pointed an unsure finger at yourself. "Me?" 

Seungkwan nods, his innocent, child-like smile playing on his lips. "Yeah. That's your name, right?" 

You nod. "You know me?"

"Well, I believe we did attend the same lectures before," Seungkwan reminded, chuckling. "Though we're always on opposite ends of the auditorium. And I've seen you walking around campus too." 

"Oh," you said slowly, trying to recall if you actually ever took the same lectures as he did. As far as you remembered, you two were never in the same room before; but maybe that was just your short-term memory playing its cards on you. "I see." 

Seungkwan hums. "We’ve never actually talked though. So hi, I'm Seungkwan," he said, extending a hand to you, his lips pressed in a smile that resembled a seal's.

You chuckled at the similarity, shaking his outreached hand which was soothingly soft and warm. "Everyone knows," you muttered, not rudely. "You already know too, but hi, I'm Y/N."

Seungkwan giggles, and you couldn't help but mirror the ray of sunshine painted all over his face. "You've changed quite a bit," he told you, crossing his arms on the table. 

"I did?" 

He nodded. "You actually stayed awake through the whole day," he teased. "You used to be sprawled all over your desk during classes. Napping." 

You widened your eyes, feeling the tips of your ears tingle as blood rushed up your neck. How did he know? You didn't exactly sleep during lectures.

"I've passed your classroom a few times during freshman year," he explained, reading the question in your head off from your expression. "You're always in the window seat." 

You chuckled sheepishly, rubbing the nape of your neck. 

"The desk must be comfortable for you to always sleep so soundly on," Seungkwan said mockingly, lying down on the table, pressing his cheek onto the tabletop.

You laughed aloud. "It is, actually." 

Seungkwan clicks his tongue and sits back up, pressing his fingers to his cheek that was in contact with the table. "Not my type."

You laughed again at his statement, shaking your head. 

"Y/N!"

You turned around and saw Vernon with his backpack slung over both his shoulders, ready to go. He raises a reminding eyebrow when he sees you talking to Seungkwan.

"Dinner?" 

"Oh, right," you said, quickly shoving the rest of your items into your bag as you zipped it up, standing up and glancing over to Seungkwan. 

"I'll see you tomorrow, Seungkwan," you said as a goodbye. 

Seungkwan nods, waving as he stood up to take his leave too. "See you tomorrow, Y/N." 

"Actually," Vernon started out of the blue, and you looked up at him, expecting him to be directing his words at you. However, he was looking at Seungkwan instead. 

Seungkwan blinks, tugging on his bag strap as he turned his body to face Vernon. 

"Do you wanna join us for a meal?" Vernon suggested, and you widened your eyes, subtly nudging him so that Seungkwan wouldn't see your aggressive action.

"Why would you---" you muttered under your breath with gritted teeth, only speaking loud enough for Vernon to hear. Inviting Boo Seungkwan for a meal? It's his first day back, he'd definitely have his evening schedule packed.

"It's okay if you don't have time," you quickly added in. "We know you're busy."

Seungkwan laughs, shaking his head. "I'm free, actually. So sure, I'd be glad to."

Vernon smiles, almost proudly. 

Unexpectedly, Seungkwan became part of you and Vernon's two-man group. It wasn't just you and Vernon skipping unimportant classes together anymore --- it was you, Vernon and Seungkwan playing truant together. The two-seater table at the corner of the canteen that you and Vernon always took during lunch breaks was no longer used --- round tables or four-seater ones replaced that to make space for Seungkwan. 

Like that, two became three. 

Everything really did become brighter in the presence of Seungkwan --- it made you understand why he was so popular. He can literally make a serious situation become light-hearted and entertaining, and sometimes it would get you three into deep trouble, but it didn't really matter. There was something about his personality that was just so playful and bubbly, you can never not smile when you're around him. He was really the best friend you could find --- after Vernon, of course. You wouldn't forget Vernon. Vernon was the peacemaker of the group. You and Seungkwan were the ones who would do everything with a strong, burning passion --- and more often than not, too much of that. Vernon always has to make sure that no one dies when you and Seungkwan plan to go to amusement parks to replace the free time during skipped lessons. 

Vernon even teased you about neglecting him at times, ever since Seungkwan became a part of your little clique, as Seungkwan's dormitory room was actually closer to yours than Vernon's was. And that meant that your mornings were always greeted by a chirpy voice belonging to Seungkwan, and you two would walk to class together. But you knew Vernon wasn't actually hurt about it --- he wasn't that petty.

However, half a year passed and Vernon had to move. You literally felt the feeling of betrayal surge through your body at that point in time when the news was revealed to you and Seungkwan. Apparently, the reason was that his parents are convinced that Vernon would never find his soulmate in the state he was in. He'd been out and about quite often, and his parents were the kind who wanted him to have a stable future. Seungkwan reacted before you did after Vernon spilled the beans, shoving Vernon childishly, before starting to fake-cry and whining really loud. Vernon was still being all smiley and cheery, though, because he promised that he'd be in contact and he'd come back every once in a while. 

"Can't leave you two alone," he had said teasingly. "You'd burn down the entire school." 

You took his word for that, but you couldn't help but feel a little empty once he actually moved away. Not a 'little', actually. You felt pretty damn hollow.

Three became two again. 

The two of you started to take that two-seater table at the corner of the cafeteria during lunch breaks, and only two empty seats were in class whenever you two were absent --- most of the time somewhere in the arcade. But Seungkwan, being the sweetheart he was, really made up for the empty spot that Vernon had left behind, and you noticed that he had seemed to inherit some of Vernon's motherly traits. He always indirectly made sure you weren't skipping meals, but sometimes he just overfeeds you. If you have eaten but he hasn't, then it is equal to you not having eaten your meal yet, for Seungkwan never likes eating by himself. He also always makes sure that you don't get injured while running around like a headless chicken --- and you do that a lot, especially after long days at school. You played your part in taking care of him too, of course --- Seungkwan was one to trip over air and then start laughing to himself even though raw scratches were visible on his knee, really. 

You had also gradually come to know about the fact that he hadn't found his soulmate yet, and like the majority of the world's population, he did have the ability to see the red string around his finger. You've seen it a couple times, and it was a different shade of red compared to Vernon's. The red on Seungkwan's thread was softer, while Vernon's was more of a crimson shade. After you had told Seungkwan that you didn't have the ability to see your own red thread, he had frowned a little but you two didn't stay on the subject for long.

The year ended faster than you thought it would, and your family had planned a vacation to Genting Highlands, which was a theme park situated at the top of a mountain. It was going to be a 5-day stay, and Seungkwan had jokingly complained about you not bringing him along. He had never been to that place, but you, on the other hand, had been there a couple of times since you were a toddler. 

"You'd have to take a car up the mountain, right?" Seungkwan asked, scrolling through his phone of the images that he had Googled as he sat in your room at your actual house. You were packing your luggage for the trip and Seungkwan casually came over.

"Yeah," you said, seated on the floor too, rolling your clothes up so that there was more space for them to fit in the bag. "We're taking a bus, actually. My dad doesn't want to risk driving up by himself."

Seungkwan chuckles. "I thought he said he was a good driver."

You laughed, shrugging. "On the road, that is. He'd have to turn a lot on the mountains. The road isn't simple. You should see it for yourself someday. It's really nice once you get past the roads, though."

Seungkwan nonchalantly lies down, resting his head on your lap as he scrolled through more photos of the said place. You smile to yourself and briefly ruffled his hair before you continued folding your clothes, stuffing them into a ziplock bag before placing that into the luggage. 

"It says it's really cold at Genting," Seungkwan pointed out, and you nod. 

"Not very, but yeah. We're literally touching the clouds up there," you told him, chuckling. 

"Then what's with your short-sleeved clothes that you packed?" he asked, scorning. 

"I tolerate the cold well, Seungkwan," you argued. "It's really not as bad as you think."

Seungkwan pays no attention to your words and stands up, going through your closet and pulling out long-sleeved clothing.

"Bring these instead!" he exclaimed, removing them from their hangers and throwing them in your direction.

"Are you trying to die of hyperthermia, you small, little bean? You think you can withstand cold? No, you can't," Seungkwan sneered, placing them in your bag before you could stop him as he mentioned something about how you were tugging at his coat the other day when you guys were out and you were cold because you had underdressed.

You stared at him, removing the sweater piece that had landed on your head and stifling your laughter at his attempted insult. “You’re adorably annoying.” 

“I know, now continue packing. And don’t you dare remove those clothes I put in.” 

You left for Genting Highlands two days later with your flight being in the morning. Despite that, Seungkwan came to the airport and sent you off with a bright half-hearted smile, waving to you at the airport and then making faces once you checked in, a glass pane separating the both of you. Seungkwan then went home, and he simply anticipated your return in five days. 

Those five days --- ended up not to be five days. 

When Seungkwan heard the words "Genting" come from the television in his living room, he immediately brisk-walked from where he was --- the kitchen --- to the living room. The anchor on the news seemed particularly serious about the report, and Seungkwan immediately grabbed the controller, turning up the volume so that her words weren't so muffled. 

"The tour bus had departed to Genting Highlands at 4pm this evening, but it has been reported that the bus driver was unsober, resulting in the unstable driving and overturning of the bus which had fallen off the steep and curved mountain roads. The bus was carrying 23 passengers, all reported to have sustained serious injuries, except for 9 of them who are suffering from minor external wounds. All victims have been sent to the nearest hospital and are currently receiving treatment. The driver..."

The controller in Seungkwan's hands slipped out of his loosened grip as his tears started to fill his eyes, his lips quivering as horribly scary thoughts raced through his messed up mind. The image behind the anchor showed the broken pieces and debris of the severely damaged bus. Your name was continuously recited in his mind like a silent mantra. He quickly grabbed his phone, dialing your number as he placed the phone to his ear. 

The number you have dialed is not in service. Please...

Seungkwan roughly ends the call, re-entering your number into the dial pad. He knew the call would get through even though you were overseas. When the same words echoed from the phone, he shuts his eyes and bites down on his lip, hot tears pouring down his cheeks as he dialed another number --- your mother's. Then your father's. The same robotic voice comes through instead of whatever he wanted to hear --- the simple beep of someone picking up the phone and the voice of yours or your parents'.

Seungkwan speedily dials a different number, which was pretty much his last hope.

Beep.

"Hello?"

Seungkwan's heart was racing, his hands shaking, his palms clammy. "Vernon..."

Seungkwan took hours to get to wherever you were, and throughout the whole thing, he was repeatedly praying that the bus wasn’t the one that you were in. The trip was filled with random bursts of silent tears on the plane during the flight or on the bus. Vernon had freaked out after receiving the news from Seungkwan, but Vernon managed to keep his calm and cooled the desperate Seungkwan down a little. He was making his way to you too, but Seungkwan knew that it would take longer for Vernon to reach the destination. Seungkwan had found out which hospital the bus victims were sent to, fortunately.

Once Seungkwan reached the hospital, he immediately ran to the information counter, his eyes now puffy and bloodshot.

“The bus,” he lisped, breathless. “The bus that was on the way up to Genting. That accident. The injured people were brought here, right?”

The redhead counter lady frowns slightly, nodding.

“Did a girl get sent in too? She’s around 5’4, brown hair,” Seungkwan said, his arms frantically moving about as he described your features, recalling the outfit that you were wearing when you waved goodbye to him at the departure hall. “She’s wearing a beige sweater.”

The frown on the lady’s face deepens as she recalled the bloody scene when the victims got brought into the hospital, and she apologizes. “I’m sorry, we’re not allowed to…”

“Please,” Seungkwan cut her off, pleading as he placed his arms on the raised countertop, his head bowing for a moment before he looked back up. “She’s my friend, please.”

The lady hesitated, but relented in the end.

“What’s your friend’s name? I can check the records.”

Seungkwan let out a breath of half-hearted relief. It was ironic, really. He was comforted that the lady was willing to help him, but on the other hand, if your name was indeed found in the registered records…

“Y/N. Y/F/N.”

The counter lady types in your name into the computer, and her eyes briefly scanned through the monitor before she looks back up at Seungkwan, her expression falls subtly, reflecting sympathy and pity. “Room 104, level 3…” she said, trailing off as she considered adding a few more words. “You should hurry.”

Seungkwan ran even faster than he did when he got here. He didn’t even wait for the elevator, he just darted up the six flights of starts, dashing down the hallways of wards and muttering apathetic ‘sorry’s to the people whom he had accidentally bumped into, barely avoiding the other people in his way.

When he finally neared Room 104, he slowed down to a jog, stopping in front of your ward door. His hands suddenly seemed to lack the strength to just push open the door and go inside to see you, whom he had traveled miles for. He glimpsed inside and saw you. Was it you? He questioned even that. A large, white bandage was wrapped around your head, your chocolate-colored hair flowing over that, and a cervical collar around your neck as you rested uncomfortably, stiffly on the pillow behind you, your eyes shut close and an oxygen mask was pulled over your nose and mouth. Tubes were poking out of your arms. Both large and small scratches and cuts were visible all over your exposed skin, with angry red remnants of dried blood.

With shaky, pale hands, Seungkwan pushed the sliding door open and stepped in, closing it behind him. Seungkwan walked over to your bedside and squeezed already sore eyes shut, the beads of tears replacing his dried ones as he saw you in the state you were in.

“Y/N…” he sobbed, dropping to his knees beside you, taking your limp hand in both of his and clasping it tightly. Your fingers remained flaccid, not holding his hands back.

“Come back safe, okay?” he had said repeatedly, pulling you into a hug.

“Yes, yes, you naggy grandpa,” you chuckled, wrapping your arms around Seungkwan.

“I’m just being a concerned friend!” he retorted. “Really though, promise you’ll come back safe with no injuries or whatnot! I won’t stand that!”

“Yes, Mr. Boo! I promise!” you said astoundingly, laughing as Seungkwan pouted cutely.

Seungkwan’s tears couldn’t --- wouldn’t --- stop. “You promised, Y/N,” Seungkwan cried, burying his face in the sheets of your bed that smelled unfamiliarly like iodoform; the smell that all hospitals had. “I haven’t told you that I love you, Y/N, please.” 

Your fingers suddenly twitched ever so slightly, and Seungkwan shot his head up, his eyes on your face. Your expression remained monotone and unchanged, but your fingers slowly and weakly closed themselves around Seungkwan’s. Seungkwan’s eyes widened and he could feel the adrenaline and hope surge through him. “Y/N.” 

But that only happened for a brief period of time, as the next moment your fingers loosened its grip again, and a loud sound filled the room. The heart rate monitor beside your bed had a continuous beep sound, one after the next, as if a city truck was backing up on the street, alerting anyone nearby ---  almost verbally telling everyone of the urgency; Seungkwan didn’t even have time to react. Then just out of nowhere the monitor changed its tone --- this time the sound was constant. No breaks in between the beeps. Just a long, flat piercing sound that penetrated Seungkwan’s eardrums. A sharp burning pain was felt all over his ring finger, and the originally bright red thread coiled around it faded into black. The black wasn’t a color --- it was nothing, a void --- dull with an almost powdery sheen. Then it just disintegrates.

The monitor had flatlined.

You were gone. You, Seungkwan’s oblivious soulmate.

You were the person who held Seungkwan’s hands when he was cold even though it didn’t help much, and he would whine about how you were cold too. And then that would result in you two huddling together like penguins, with you squealing sometimes because he always used that as an opportunity to tickle you.

You were the person who crept into his room at night to bring him soup when he was sick, or stuff like seasoned chicken --- his favorite --- when he wasn’t. You would put yourself at risk of being caught by the patrolling teachers, but your little trip was always successful. You and Seungkwan would just sneak out together sometimes, and end up as a giggly mess when you two barely avoided the guards or teachers.

But now, there was no more ‘you’. Seungkwan now sits alone at lunch, even though he doesn’t like being alone, and usually buys instant food for dinner, even though he can practically hear you reprimanding him for being unhealthy. He’d rub his two palms together and stuff them in his pockets when it was cold. He’d have to treat his own wounds when he ‘trips over air’ and injures himself. You were no longer there to chide him for getting hurt, or shush him when he whines while you apply the yellowish medication to his wounds.

And two became one.

[ablogcalledrevenge]

Sticky Sweet ~ A Purim Drabble

So I’ve been in kind of a slump lately, money’s been tight and I’ve been trying to look for a new job. But today is Purim! Purim is one of my favorite holidays and being away from home and unable to celebrate it made me sad. But, I was inspired by the holiday and thus, a fic was born. Spawned by my belief that all the Skywalkers are Jewish and my love of Kylux, here’s a fic of Hux and Kylo celebrating Purim. It started off like that and then sort of spiraled into an ode to being Jewish. So, enjoy and Chag Purim Sameach!

The synagogue is warm today, full of light and full of people. They’re celebrating Purim tonight, a holiday Hux didn’t know about until a week before when Kylo announced he’d been asked to play the guitar for the play. A holiday that has a play? Well, mark him down for quietly interested and amused.

It’s not like his religion was doing anything better. Hux was not a religious person, he was raised Catholic more for appearance’s sake than any real devotion to the church. He went to church with his father and stepmother because that’s what good Irish boys did, not because he felt a special affinity for Jesus. He didn’t care that other people did, it wasn’t his place to judge someone for being religious. In a way, sometimes he was jealous of faithful people. To have such simple but unshakable beliefs seemed both ridiculous and comforting. Perhaps it was because most religious people knew their place in the world, while Hux was left floundering after college and the death of his father.

He was supposed to follow his father’s path unthinkingly, continuing his legacy and trying not to fuck it up. When the heart attack took Brendol’s life unexpectedly, leaving Hux with some money and a kick in the ass out the door, he didn’t know what to do. His whole life had been so regimented and confined, that the sudden opening of his cage doors was frightening. What kind of person could he be now? Did he even want to try? With the whole world beckoning him, his cage seemed almost comforting. Would it be so wrong to stay?

Then Kylo crashed into his life. He literally crashed into his life one day when they both walked out of two different buildings at the same time and, like a fucking rom-com, bumped into each other spilling coffee and papers all over the sidewalk. Luckily Hux’s work papers didn’t get stained by the coffee and Kylo’s eye didn’t bruise too badly. They started dating the next day and haven’t stopped being exasperated with each other since.

Kylo wasn’t that religious either but being Jewish, he said, wasn’t always about the religious part. Sure, he’d gotten bar mitzvahed and knew the prayers and celebrated the holidays, but being Jewish was more than that. Being Jewish was more about feelings and family, traditions that sometimes started with the Rabbi, but more often started from an inside joke from the Old Country. There was a comfort in being Jewish, a knowledge that you could be curious and question things without reproach. That you could fuck up and be allowed the chance to fix it. For someone like Kylo, who chafed against rules and got angry too quickly, it worked. Not only was he allowed to argue with the Rabbi about Abraham and Jacob, but he was encouraged. Kylo liked being Jewish and Hux liked seeing him embrace that part of him.

So here he was, sitting in one of the carpeted bench seats of Kylo’s temple, watching a Purim play. It was… interesting. He understood the basic concept of the holiday, enjoying the tale of female empowerment and ingenuity, the rush of rebellion against an evil despot. But this was the children’s service and he felt a little out of place. Granted, he didn’t have to come. Purim wasn’t a high holy day and Kylo had been the one asked to play music for the kid’s play, not him. But Kylo had turned his brown puppy dog eyes towards Hux and said please in that soft, quiet way and Hux had melted. So here he was, watching his boyfriend in a homemade dog costume, play guitar while the rabbi and some parents told the story of Purim.

The costume had been Hux’s idea actually. Kylo had told him that it was part of the holiday to dress in costume. Purim, he said, was like Halloween mixed with theatre mixed with overthrowing oppression. But it was also March, so getting a costume a week before was tough. But Hux was nothing if not clever, so he bought some face paint and some felt and made them costumes. Inspired by the very reason he was doing this in the first place, Hux made Kylo a puppy dog costume: brown pants and a brown shirt with floppy felt ears pinned to his hair and face paint to look like a muzzle and a spot around his eye. Hux drew whiskers on himself, dressed in all black and sported a headband with cat ears. Nothing too fancy but not too shabby either. Besides, it made the kids happy and Hux always had a soft spot for kids.

Like now, for example. Queen Esther had just met with her uncle to discuss their plan of exposing Haman and Hux was holding Nathan in his lap. Nathan’s mother Sarah was holding his younger sister while their father overacted as Haman onstage. Nathan was dressed as a pirate, complete with hook hand, eyepatch, and kippah decorated with a skull and crossbones. He had taken one look at Hux and Kylo and quickly launched himself at them, jabbering on about how he was a pirate and pirates were so cool and he liked that they had matching costumes and he and his sister had matching costumes, she was dressed like a parrot because pirates have parrots and he was so excited for the play and could he please sit with Mr. Hux? Sarah had just laughed, the traitor.

The play was cute, everyone booing and shaking noisemakers whenever Haman turned up. Kylo switched between the keyboard and the guitar so effortlessly, cueing scenes and playing up the drama. Hux was utterly charmed and completely smitten. When the Cantor had started singing, encouraging the kids to join him, Hux bounced Nathan on his lap and sang along. It was a awkward attempt, Hux only knowing random lines and words, but it made the others happy. Hearing Kylo’s baritone mixed with the wink sent his way, soothed his embarrassment.

When the play ended and everyone clapped, Kylo led the parade of children around the benches giving their parents a chance to take photos as the kids preened and sang. Hux waved to Nathan and the other children, feeling so utterly ridiculous in his stupid cat ears. Then Kylo caught his eye and he realized that the feeling wasn’t annoyance or benign appeasement, it was happiness. Being here in the synagogue with Kylo playing the guitar and children clapping, made him happy.

He was able to stop himself from crying.

After the play, the congregation met in the open party space one room over. There were tables set up with wine and grape juice and platters of homemade hamantaschen. The cookies were soft and crumbly with the perfect level of sweetness to mix with the tart jam. They had been made by the Women’s Group headed by Kylo’s mother. Hux had spent a whole day watching Leia and the other women fold the dough into triangles and dollop different flavors of jam in the middle. Kylo’s favorite was strawberry jam and so when Hux was given the opportunity to try and make some, that was the only flavor he used. Only half of them came out lopsided or puffy and he considered that a success. 

It was strange in a way, to be surrounded by people so unlike him and yet who accepted him so simply. He was Kylo’s boyfriend and he seemed like a mensch and he made Kylo happy. They liked him and he felt a surge of affection as he watched everyone partake. Kylo approached him with sticky fingers and in lieu of holding him, kissed his cheek instead. Somewhere in the room a person laughed and somewhere else a baby started to cry. There was the gentle patter of rain outside the stained glass windows and one of Kylo’s ears was askew. Hux adjusted the felt ear and then fixed the barrette holding Kylo’s kippah in place as well. Honestly he was surprised it stayed on so well. Most times, it just slipped off Kylo’s head no matter how many bobby pins held it down.

“It’s a Purim miracle!” Kylo declared, wrapping his arms around Hux. The congregation took no notice. They were a fairly open sort, the rabbi having married two gay couples just last year alone. Hux laughed and shook his head.

“I didn’t think Purim had those kind of miracles. The play made it seem like this holiday was about the perseverance of people rather than miracles. You did a very good job playing the music, by the way.” Hux countered, taking a sip of too sweet wine.

Kylo stepped closer, one of his felt ears brushing Hux’s hair. Across the room, Nathan and two other children played tag while the Cantor told a joke to a group of old men.

“Everyday with you is a miracle.” Kylo said simply, as if that wasn’t the most cheesy and romantic and wonderful thing he’d ever said. Hux, trapped between a snort and a swoon just kissed him instead.

No, Hux wasn’t the religious type, but he was sure Kylo could make a believer out of him.

[strongwomanspeaks4joy]

The basics/Main Characters

The basics about me: I was raised in a very conservative evangelical christian home. My siblings and I were homeschooled to give us a “christ centered education”. We went to church in the next town over a lot. We had almost nothing to do with the community in the town we lived in. It was a small, rural town like so many: past its prime by 40 years with more crime than the locals wanted to admit and rife with poverty and idiotic pride. We lived in a fairly quiet neighborhood and the local kids (including us) spent any spare moment playing in yards and riding our bikes in the street. Life wasn’t all bad. 

But dad was there. I’ll call him J. I don’t like calling him “dad”. He lost that right years ago. J was a narcissist and somewhere on the dark triad scale (narcist/psychopath/sociopath). He was the boogyman, the monster, the bear, the judge, jury, and executer. He was the Spanish Inquisition. We lived in cringing, placating terror of him and his moods. I’ll be talking a lot about him since SO MUCH HAPPENED and it’s taken me literal years to realize that he was the adult in all of those situations. 

Mom suffered under J’s abuse for 30+ years. She was emotionally, mentally, and spiritually abused that entire time. She loved us the best she could and took care of us the best she could. She struggled through depression and health issues while practically being a single parent to three kids close in age--one with special needs--while also running the house and homeschooling us. She thought she was saving/protecting us from J and it took her a long time to realize that she wasn’t. She was also complicit in the conservative indoctrination and a lot of the more general crappy stuff that she believed was important or good (purity culture, hyper-religiousness, being an anti-vaxxer among other things). She is still anti-vax, conservative, super religious, gullible as heck, kinda racist, homophobic, transphobic, other phobics that I probably have yet to discover, voted for Trump, and often circles the drain on being radicalized. She’s also amazing with kids, supportive in ways that surprise me, loves her kids to the moon and back, an amazing musician, and gentle (if sometimes a parrot of much less gentle people). She’s a complex person. I love her and I’m proud of her and also profoundly disappointed in what she chooses to believe. 

I’m the oldest kid. I’m now in my 30′s and have strayed farthest from the old conservative life/beliefs. I started doing that at 17 when we moved to a different state and I made friends with folks who were the kind of people I had be raised to distrust and avoid but ended up being my kind of people. I’ve always landed in the weird in between places. I’m too liberal and ask too many questions to be a real conservative/evangelical. I’ve often been to conservative in my own moral code to jive well with the more relaxed crowed. Though I’ve figured that out more in the last few years and I’m DEFINETLY NOT conservative OR evangelical. When I was a kid I took my “eldest sibling” roll very seriously. I tried REALLY hard to protect my siblings. It didn’t work. I’ve carried some almighty and misplaced guilt because it didn’t work. I’m also engaged and, because I dearly love my fiancée, I have realized that I’ve got a lot of “daddy issues” I need to work on to be healthy myself. My fiancee is SUPER SUPPORTIVE AND WONDERFUL OH MY GOSH. Due to the pandemic I haven’t been able to keep myself insanely busy to run away from my issues soooo anxiety and lack of previously available workarounds (aka never stop spinning) means that I’ve finally gotten my butt to therapy and WOW there’s a lot. 

Sibling 2 I’ll call SL. They are typical middle child: people pleaser, peacemaker, “easy” kid. SL and I were attached at the hip as kids. We were often mistaken for twins since we were close in age and had the similar  mannerisms. We didn’t experience the same things the same way but we had very parallel childhoods that often overlapped. When we’re telling stories about the past we still refer to our individual selves as “we” since we were always together. J really targeted them for more of the sexual and surrogate spouse abuse. They were young enough and desperate to please this impossible man that they tried to make him happy and not rock the boat. It didn’t work. They’ve carried the mental and emotional damage from that to this day. They’ve been in and out of mental health hospitals, therapy, medication, suicide attempt, but they’ve done INCREDIBLE work to become a heck of a lot more stable. I could not be more proud of them!

Sibling 3 will be BJ. They were the youngest and also the one with special needs. The cognitive, behavioral, and learning disabilities they deal with is a freaking laundry list of conditions. J *hated* them. He was more physically violent with BJ than he was with the rest of us. By the time BJ was 6 they had had multiple wooden spoons broken on them through spankings, had been taken by the throat by J and shaken till their teeth clacked more than once, had been locked in their room alone overnight while they had a complete autistic meltdown, hand been screamed at, grabbed and physically hauled around by the back of the neck on the regular, mocked, belittled, scathingly criticized, and completely dismissed as worth J’s time or energy unless it was negative. BJ and I fought all the time as kids. They were my kid sibling so I was protective of them--but I didn’t really like them until I moved out of the house and we weren’t driving each other nuts. They have also done an INSANE amount of work to be the person that they are today and I am so, so SO proud of them!