#bullet point two is less represented in my writing over all but it is on my mind because it's what I'm writing at the moment lmao

[splickedylit]

Things I never get tired of writing

weird cultural worldbuilding, especially with strange, intricate social norms and power dynamics

characters playing little made up card games with implied bizarre, convoluted rules where I blatantly rip off the vibe of Pokemon, MTG, Duel Monsters/Yugioh etc

we see one of my favs from an outside POV: they are hot, badass, terrifying, tragic, or any/all of the above

[justanotherbirdbrain-blog]

Writing a Geologist/Someone who studies rocks: From a Geologist

Maybe a bit of a personality analysis on myself and everyone I have studied/worked with thus far, but I figured it would be helpful to provide the more common types of geologists, what they might find interesting specifically, and how they are conducting their research. I also wanted to show different sides of geology, because most depictions are of this rugged field geologist who always wants to go outside, when that is only like... 1/3 at most of the geology community.

Anyway! Let's get into it! *Also let me preface that this will be about geologists that have stayed in academia and not a geologist working a 9-5.

*I put bullet points at the bottom for people who don't want to read all of this*

There are probably three MAJOR types of geologists, but of course we are human and our interests lie somewhere on a spectrum. I just wanted to give the 'generic' versions to make it easier for you to write a character.

The first kind of geologist is the field geologist!

I am once again really just yoinking someone's face again, sorry stranger. I feel like this is a great image of someone doing fieldwork. So, what they are using in this image is a 'Brunton Compass'. So what is different and important about this compass compared to others is that it can be used to measure the angle the rocks are sloping, used to measure elevation and a lot of things honestly, but what the man in this image is doing is measuring the angle of these rocks for geologic mapping purposes. A lot of these geologists ask questions like: What did this landscape used to be? How old is this? What lived here during that time? What was the climate/temperature at that time? How has this changed since it was *insert what it used to be* and what changed it?

Some things I have noticed a lot over the years when dealing with field geologists is they can hike... endlessly. They never seem winded going uphill and those boulders that seem dangerous? They are in them. Heights do not seem to scare them at all, in fact nothing scares them. Camping for extended periods of time is one of their favorite things, and ending the day with a beer is kinda their thing. They are some of the friendliest people I have ever met also. Super, golden retriever energy. (of course every once and awhile you will find a mean one though)

Next on this list is the classic lab rat geochemist/petrologist. (I am a geochemist/petrologist in practice so I can say this, though this is less a description of me and more so some of my lab mates, yes I am outing them).

Thank you for your service random strangers! These are a type of person that really care more about the rocks after they are dissolved and run through a machine to give results. Things they love: strong acids (How else will you dissolve a rock), machines that will explode if you turn them on wrong, excel spreadsheets (we actually hate them though). All joking aside, Typically what these people really like about geology is being able to understand the 'life' the rock had. What did this rock used to be? What does this represent? How has this rock changed and evolved through time? With these elemental changes, what does that imply of the process this rock experienced?

You might be thinking to yourself now "how are these different from the questions listed for a field geologist?" and to that I think I would say scale. I think in general a geochemist looks at things that are smaller but can have bigger implications and a field geologist looks at the big picture. Its important to note that most research is always best when these two are working together. And when you think of it that way you can create some fun interactions with these two characters.

Personality wise, I feel like its all over the place, I have met several nice geochemists and bunch of not so nice geochemists. A geochemist will more than likely have a rock collection, but likely it will be of rocks they do not study. They will pull long nights at the lab and I feel like they will always be reading about something they 'just don't quite grasp' while critiquing or complementing the paper. Most geochemists still like to get out of the lab every once and get some fresh air, (they chose to study nature for a reason), but they don't do it enough.

The last kind of geologist is a modeler/geophysicist, these guys! These guys... I don't know a lot of them, I know a couple. So my understanding might be skewed incorrectly. Let me know!

Anyway! Geophysicists can be interested in earthquakes sure, it is important to know what is causing these major disasters, but most of the time (not every geophysicist uses earthquakes, this is just an example) they are interested in what they can learn using earthquakes! which is really so crazy! So, what a geophysicist will do is study how the waves more through the earth, because waves travel at different speeds through different solids and liquids (some waves don't even travel through liquids). Soooo, what are they curious about? The mantle and most importantly, the CORE. Yup, cool stuff. Anyway why did I include modeling in this also? Because using these observations typically you would make a working model to better understand how the system works. Models can also be made for fluid movement in the earth, volcanics, and a ton of other things, but the work is similar to that of a geophysicist. This is very big picture stuff, trying to figure out how the earth works in general. Also the key here is, from my understanding, it is a lot of math and a lot of coding. Which actually means a lot of people from those backgrounds find geology later in life.

Geochemists and geophysicists often work together and could potentially have a very good or very bad relationship.

Personality wise, these guys are always on a computer honestly, sometimes they will be stuck waiting for their model to finish running for days at a time. Just like a geochemist, you will find them outside occasionally, maybe to put in a new system, but more than any other geologist I feel like modelers are exceptionally good at not making their job their hobby. They may do martial arts, art, baking/cooking, owning plants, etc., on the side much more than the other geologists. These people are super smart, but these folks are probably the ones who know the least about like 'generic' geology, as in mineral ID and stuff, but they seem very nice and are typically pretty introverted.

There are many other kinds of geologists, like the geologist who kinda wanted to do marine biology but there were no jobs in marine biology so they study the ocean floor OR they studied paleontology of oceanic critters, so they could backdoor get into marine biology somehow and many others, or geologists who study the surface as it is today, but now lets talk about how all this can be helpful with writing.

I am making a bullet list of things that will apply to your character A=All F=field geologist P=petrologist and geochemist and M=Modeler and Geophysicist

A: It is important to know that one person cannot fill all of these roles as a character, and it is okay for your character to say "that's not my thing, but I have a buddy".

A: Feel free to make your science character have a very specific interest, not only will it probably make it easier for you in terms of research, but it is also more realistic.

F,P: Your character is likely to point out things that your other characters might not notice while walking, especially if they are a geochemist and field geologist. It will just be small comments here and there, like "Oh! Is this basalt?" before they might amuse themselves examining the rocks (It is a good way to get rid of the character)

F,P: There pack will be full of rocks, you will try to pick up their bag, and it will be exceedingly heavy

P,M: You are likely to find them crashing in their lab/office because they worked too late

F: They will drop everything for an excuse to go outside for 'vacation' but they will inevitably do geology the entire trip.

P,M: Probably behind on reading, and probably have a migraine from staring at too many screens.

P: Unsure if their hand is itchy because of dry skin or if they accidentally got acid on their hands (Some acids [HF] don't immediately burn your skin).

M: Always harassed by the scared general public because of a small earthquake that happened where is 'shouldn't have'.

Anyway! If you have anything geology related that you would like me to write about please feel free to ask! I am running out of ideas for my writing guides and am probably going to switch to different content soon!

[scribe-of-stories]

Samuel Smith 3 / Word Search Tag Game

It occurred to me about 3/5 of the way through writing this that the point of the game was to 'Word Search' a WIP with the prompt rather than to write something new with the prompts. Anyways, as per the theme of how I do things I have accidentally ignored the rules. Here's a short story about my character Samuel.

Kinda works out, my WIP doesn't have enough length to play correctly anyways.

@vicstmichael

-Light- Waking up to the goddamn sun shining bright and down on you was no way to start a hangover. Or, at least, I assumed it was a hangover. My head was pounding, body aching, and I was laying face up in the middle of some abandoned parking lot.

Okay maybe that last part implied something worse was going on. I took stock of myself and found some more concerning things. My jacket was in shreds and there were claw wounds on my body. Thankfully those were already healing up, being only partially human helped on that front. The fact that I was also incapable of remembering what caused all this even as I focused was beginning to cause more worry.

I stood, looked around. I was an investigator after all, surely I could solve something if I was at the scene of the crime. Assuming I was at the scene of the crime. What blood I had bled had pooled beneath me and there was no evidence of more of mine elsewhere. My car wasn’t here, and in fact the only vehicle I could find was a smashed up motorcycle some distance away. No bullet holes, so I either didn’t want to shoot or simply hadn’t the chance; but there were gouges in the concrete that matched the claw wound I had on my shoulder.

Something Wyrd had happened. I was alive, and I do not know why. Hell, currently there seemed to be a shit ton that I was missing out on. My phone was broken and I had no clear ride around; thankfully I knew this city and there was a path home, I just had to walk it. The sun was ever present, as oppressive as a foreign emperor; things like me were not meant to spend this long in the Light.

-Wish- “Sam Where The Fuck Have You Been?” were the first words I heard upon entering my office. I swear the space in here used to be larger, but I guess the second desk, magic circle corner, and lead lined safe took up most of it. Oh, and of course there was Ashley; she took up plenty of space.

Empathy kicked down the door of whatever building was currently representing her emotions and demanded that her anger should be mixed with care. The searing rage on her face dimmed and was given a touch of worry. Gave me time to shut the door behind myself and get over to my desk.

“Sam, what happened to you? You’ve been gone for Two Days.” Less anger now, but not gone.

“That’s a damn good question,” I searched my desk for notes, “Don’t remember a thing.”

I caught her up on what I did remember. The lot, the wounds, missing car, missing memory. Apparently the whole in my memory was much bigger than I thought. Two whole days gone from my life, and not a hint of what I was doing was anywhere on my desk; just blank papers and, oddly enough, a blank calling card.

“Ashley, have we been working a case?”

“I do not believe so, no?” she paused, uncertainty creeping across her face “finished that missing Tulpa job earlier this week, I think we’re between jobs?”

“No no, can’t be right,” I kicked a trash bin full of coffee cups, “We only get this stuff when we’ve been out staking a place,” and we always gave the office a clean when a case closed.

It was beginning to occur to us both that neither of us truly remembered the last two days. Ashley had holes in her memories, I had entire blank spaces. That’s when she finally brought attention to my least favorite failsafe.

“Sam, check your jacket pocket,” I did so, “No no, the other one.”

I drew a single notecard out of the pocket, semi-crumpled and used. It held a symbol on it that we had both decided on: a third eye on a head with a blindfold wrapped around it. I was supposed to keep this in my jacket when dealing with one of the worst kind of Wyrd . An Anti-Memetic Entity. We were on a case, one that neither of us remember.

I really wish I had a normal job.

-History- Ashley set up the salt circle, and I got into our safe. There were 100 and 1 precautions to take when working against something like this. It hides by erasing itself from memories, books, pictures, and hell even sometimes from your active senses. The worst of them had a type of global effect; nothing in the world was safe from those. At least, unless you had precautions.

The safe had lead, insolating it from the outside world; and now I had a salt circle doing the same for me. Even if it was in this room it couldn’t fuck with my head till the circle was gone. It was the only way we knew how to keep track of these things: store and view the information while insolated.

I sat down at my table and began to pour over our book of monsters. It took a bit, but I found what I was looking for: a note to myself.

“1409 Cheerwood Lane, client has hired Ashley and I to investigate a disappearance on the street. Ashley thinks it’s a memory eater, which is why we’re going ahead and writing this down. When we first went to look most of the houses were empty, a nearly abandoned neighborhood in the middle of lively suburbia. If I’m reading this note, consider this paper a book-mark; I’m leaving it on the page of what I think it is if you’ve forgotten.”

“It’s a playheist, or at least a Wyrdling of one,” Ashley nodded and repeated it back to me, a test to see if it was currently erasing itself. It either wasn’t or couldn’t. “Takes stories and eats them, or at least the original ones did. Guess we thought this was some kind of offshoot that started eating families instead?”

Ashley tapped a finger on her desk, “I mean, the life of a family has a certain narrative structure to it. A home as the stage, parents and children as the actors. If it has emptied out a whole street, it must be big by now.”

I looked down to the healed wound on my shoulder. Yeah, big. These things were supposed to be a type of fae. A small pixie that steals person poems and the like. It’s why I thought this one was a Wyrdling. Only part fae, it was born human. That would give it the kind of hunger and lust for power that is historically human, and the power to take in an abhorrent way.

“I hate Wyrdlings.”

“Sam, we are Wyrdlings.”

“Don’t remind me, where’s a binding book?”

-Weather- It always rained on days like these. The sun left, clouds rolled in, and now the droplets played a soothing melody of anarchic noise. Street lights lit the road, but every single house was dark. To be honest, I did not entirely remember why I was there. A compulsion led me to look down at my hand and there were a few simple words for me: Bait, 1409 Cheerwood Ln.

Adrenaline hit me like a brick through a window. I could hear it approaching, soft footsteps on wet grass. In a trained motion I spun around and produced my pistol, though now that I had a good look at this thing I doubt it’d do me any good. Still squeezed off a few shots for, you know, the comfort of it.

The thing was larger than me hunched over, its arms long and thick. Claws curled up into fists so that it could walk with its hands. Whole thing looked like a bunny with no hair and no mouth. The worst part about looking at it was the Deju Vu I was constantly getting. I had seen it before, yet I was just seeing it for the first time now. The cycle repeated every moment.

Sadly I was right about the bullets, they blasted through its skin but no blood leaked out. Instead it promptly roared. I was already beginning to forget how it sounded. Goddamn thing was giving me a headache.

Now, despite my appearance as a slightly portly fellow there was a damn good reason I was bait while Ashley was the trap. I couldn’t run nearly as fast as most, but there were paths I knew how to take that others simply couldn’t see. Given time, I could even set up these paths. Though I didn’t remember setting anything up, there were plenty around. Thanks past me.

It reached out to get me with one of its claws, but a small hop backwards produced the distance of a leap. I had no intention of actually fighting this thing, rather I had a destination to bring it. So began a dance of this thing running me down and myself being able to stay just a few feet ahead.

We eventually made it to 1409. It had managed to land one good rake down my back, and my legs were burning; but Ashley stepped in just as I was ready to keel over. This thing may have been bullet resistant, hell there were probably very few ways to actually hurt it, but in the world I lived in there were fates worse than death.

How does one kill an idea? Some would say you can’t, others say you come up with a better idea. Ashley and I had taken to sealing them in books. The Faeling had already stepped too far into our trap, and there was no getting out for it. A Chant, a salt circle, a chained and bound book. Another cursed tome to add to the pile.

I think I remember Ashley asking if I was okay, I responded with “gods I love this weather.”

-Disappointing- Ashley sent me home early that day. There was still cleaning and organizing to do, but she said I looked like hell; and that I needed to go store our new haunted tome anyways. I didn’t fight her on it, the path from our office to my home was a short one and I was glad to take it.

I was through the door before I noticed It. The room was dark to that point of comedy and I let out a long sigh before closing the door. There in the corner of my living room sat, assuming it could sit, my investor. An Umbral Entity that fashioned itself with a Mask and Umbrella.

“Congratulations on your victory.”

I considered telling them where they could shove my victory, but despite my exhaustion I managed to control myself. The first time they dragged me into this darkness I was effectively blind; nowadays I was more than capable of seeing through it. Dropped my book laden satchel on a table and proceeded to the kitchen to make a drink.

“People died.”

“That happens a lot around you. I do not think it is your fault.”

“Dealt with a Playheist, so my memory is a bit foggy. Don’t tell me that you were my client on this one.”

“No, your original client is an unfindable corpse lost to all senses.”

A took a long drink of a screwdriver. Glad to hear I wasn’t being played by my benefactor again, but the truth wasn’t exactly easy to hear about. A part of me was relieved that we were paid upfront for this one; another felt guilty that it was even on my mind.

“So why are you here?”

“Can a Patron not celebrate the victories of their Servant?"

“You haven’t before, and you’re not the type.”

I swear I could see a smile on its mouthless face, and I definitely heard a laugh. My eyes narrowed at it as I became more intoxicated. Historically it had only visited me thrice before: our first meeting, and two jobs it had me do. Interactions tended to be purely business.

“Nonetheless, I am here to congratulate you; and make an offer,” it motioned with an unseen appendage at my satchel. “Your new book, and what is inside it,” a bag of its own appeared, unmarked and made of a pale leather, “For my Satchel, and the Mask making kit inside.”

Again I fought my immediate urge to tell It to fuck off, but temptation snuck in. As a Wyrlding made by this very Entity I knew what making Masks would mean. Another avenue of power, a way to hide myself and take on new forms. An advantage, a way to protect myself, and another step closer to hell.

I swapped my drink for the book and crossed the room with it. Already I was considering my actions a mistake, but still I marched on. “I accept this deal, a fair trade.”

It removed the book from my hands, replacing it with its gift. Despite the weight of power inside, it was light. The leather strap clung to me in a way that felt right, the tools hidden away desired to be used.

“A fair trade indeed.”

My Patron vanished with those words, leaving me alone with my thoughts and my tools. The cost of use would be my very humanity, but I was becoming more and more aware that humans don’t last long in the world I live in. I turned and looked into a mirror, I saw disappointment.

-End-

Anyways, those I tag feel free to either play as intended or just write something based on the words; either way @ me with whatever you post!

I'll tag @kiraofthewind @patrickcharlton-oshea-author @moondust-bard and @p-h-lee

Your words are: Puzzle, Stone, Cold, Twilight, and Relief.

[princehendir]

Hi, I really hope you don't mind, but I used this link just now and I want to describe in more detail how the tool works, and the process of calling, in the hopes that that will decrease hesitancy for people and make them more likely to call.

This is all explained again in clear instructions through the link (there are more scripts in there too), but what the linked website does is take your name and address (so that the service knows who to connect you to), and then you put in your phone number, and the service calls you. It takes about 30 seconds for the phone to ring, maybe less.

After you pick up an automated voice, like the kind used by telemarketers, will repeat the instructions on the webpage, and then ask you to press * to be connected. I didn't get a person for any of my three calls, and I never have while calling my reps in the past, so I can't tell you how that goes, but i will tell you that leaving a message with your rep's offices is exactly the same as leaving a voicemail anywhere else. You get their recorded message, possibly it may ask you to press a number to be put through to a specific line, and after the beep you start talking. Just press * instead of hanging up when you're done so that the service can put you through to the next office. Don't hang up until you've done the third call with your house rep.

Whole process took about ten minutes.

Some bullet points:

Have your script out in front of you in some way. What I did is I had the site open on my laptop while talking on my cellphone.

It's ok if you don't say the full script as long as you hit the key points. I ended up cutting the last two whole sentences off of the script in my first call bc i got freaked out and hit the button too soon, but it doesn't matter because i hit all the key points. I'm calling about Israel and Palestine, the senator needs to call for a ceasefire and a withdrawal of military aid/the representative needs to join Rep. Bush and Rep. Tlaib in calling for a ceasefire, this issue is important enough to me that I will withhold my vote and future donations over it. These are the kinds of things that whatever staffer who ends up listening to your message/takes your call will write down to pass along up the chain. Just hit as many of those points as best you can

You don't have to worry about or use any of your energy up on "sounding natural". It does not matter if you stutter, or pause, I did a lot of both. And it really does not matter if you sound like you're reading off a script, most people who call their reps are, it's expected. Again, what matters is that you said your name, what you're calling about, what your position is, and that it's a key issue for you.

If the inbox is full and you can't leave a message, send an email. There's a link on the site for that too.

I did this on my break from work. If you have a break coming up do it then. Do it as soon as you're off work. It does not take long, and while it may be difficult, stressful or scary (my nervous system is still lit up, personally) it is not harmful to you, and it genuinely does make a difference. You should do it.

‼️URGENT‼️

Everyone in the US, please call congress right now. I’ll leave the info and a script below. Customize your message however you want.

And please share this everywhere. We need to help Gaza immediately.

If you don't know what to say, you can use this.

“My name is _____.

I am a constituent of _____.

First, I would like to let you know that my future vote and donation will depend on your action in this matter.

We need an immediate ceasefire in Gaza.

Israel is committing a genocide, and we will not stand for this.

Call for a ceasefire and allow the necessary humanitarian aid to enter Gaza.

Thank you.”

[letters-to-lgbt-kids]

My dear lgbt+ kids,

I wrote this letter about gender being a joy-centered experience - and in this one, I want to go into detail and share some specific things with you that give me joy or make me feel euphoric as a bi trans man.

This will be a somewhat self-indulgent letter: my therapist suggested that I write a list like that for myself, so I can look at it on bad days or after painful experiences, and remind myself of positive things. I figured that it may be interesting or inspiring to some of you as well - just keep in mind that these are my personal experiences and not meant to represent anyone but me.

So, without further ado, here are some random "Oh gosh, I love being a man, I love being bi, I love being me, I love being alive" things:

- There are many songs that make me feel that way. In fact, there are so many that I made a whole "Gender Euphoria" playlist for myself. Some of the songs in it are self-explanatory, some are connected to personal memories and a few are just Gender Vibes for a reason I myself don't even understand. All of them make me feel good.

- Clothes shopping. More specifically, going into a clothes store and heading straight to the Men's section without making up some excuse (to the person I am with or to myself) or "accidentally" ending up there. I remember so many shopping trips as a child that ended with both me and my mom in tears because we have been in this store for literal hours and still haven't found one single piece I am not absolutely refusing to try on... and now I walk in, find like five pieces in five minutes and actually have to stop myself from finding more? Clothes are fun and that keeps being a delightful surprise for me.

- Talking about stores and child-me: Hey, young me, do you remember that time you saw that yellow toy car in a store and you wanted it so badly and you got that Barbie doll instead? Guess what I just got you. Hint: It's yellow and it's just as fun to play with as you imagined it to be. Nobody, absolutely nobody, can stop you from getting a yellow toy car when you are an adult and there is something deeply healing and freeing about that realization.

- While trying to look as hypermasculine as possible can be fun, interacting with (or even just looking at) other men is a beautiful reality check, and that goes double for other queer men. Gay and bi men, even the cis ones, have all sorts of gender-fun, and experimenting with clothes, hair, hobbies, language etc. in ways that are not strictly hypermasculine actually makes me feel MORE connected to manhood rather than less.

- Everything that has my name on it is an automatic need. Do I need a new cup? No, the cupboard is full. Do I need a cup that says Oliver? Yes, yes, yes, desperately so. I finally understand why gift shops sell so much stuff with names on it. Turns out, stuff with your name on it is a must-have when you actually feel connected to your name.

- I feel like my name needs a separate bullet point. Shoutout to myself for naming me Oliver. I am an Oliver. I couldn't be anything but an Oliver. Oliver is a freaking awesome name for me.

- When I look in the mirror now, there is a dude looking back at me... and that just happened, slowly, over time. I just realized it the other day when I stood there in the morning and heard myself think "Wow, dude, you sure look tired" and there was just this sudden feeling of... warm, comforting normal-ness? I didn't even think about gender, didn't need to have any internal discussion about the fact that I am a man, I was just thinking about the bags under my eyes. It was a given that it is a whole-ass dude who has those bags.

With all my love,

Your Tumblr Dad

P.S: While writing this, two random encounters popped into my mind and made me smile, so I will share them here as well:

- A group of Gym Bros (the bodybuilder type, probably had more strength in their little fingers than I have in my entire body) all greeted me (very much not the bodybuilder type) with a loud and enthusiastic cheer of "Hey, bro!", "What's up, bro!", "Bro! Nice to see you!", "Bro!!". May have briefly considered not clarifying that we don't know each other and just let them adopt me as their (much, much smaller) bro.

- A very polite, elderly gentleman asked about my gender, immediately apologized and asked for my pronouns instead, explaining that his grandkids taught him that "the young people don't do gender anymore" and he thinks that's fantastic, he is just very old and forgets his manners sometimes.

[lazarusinashesmods]

Better Autonomy Beta

Autonomy is a nightmare in Sims—for me, at least. During my first (successful) legacy challenge, I turned off autonomy for over 400 interactions using MC Tuner because the whole thing drove me nuts. Stop playing games. Stop watching TV. Stop mixing drinks.

I was content with that for a while, but I noticed that when playing University, the dorm felt kind of... lifeless. My roommates talked to each other all day, which is what I wanted, but I also wanted it to feel like people actually lived there. I began work on a mod that would allow me to enable autonomy for certain actions without Sims obsessing over them. That became this mod: Better Autonomy.

The Bullet Point List

Short for time? Here's what this mod does:

Alters Sims' autonomous behavior, making them more likely to socialize and build skills rather than mindless actions that build fun

Less Chess, video game playing, and TV watching without having to disable autonomy for them entirely

Time limits on TV; Sims cannot endlessly watch TV and will be forced to exit out after an hour

More useful skill building; gardening, handiness, and cooking are prioritized

Overview under the cut! 

Overview

Better Autonomy does a number of things to Sims, autonomy, and interactions. Put simply, is drastically shifts how Sims prioritize activities and puts a much stronger emphasis on socialization and skill building. Sims are now far more likely to talk to others and far less likely to do mindless activities like watching TV. They also put a much stronger focus on useful skill building—that is, they'll be more drawn to practicing writing, handiness, cooking, and gardening, among other things.

The goal of this mod was to leave these interactions available for autonomy when Sims have nothing to do without them prioritizing doing them. No more finding a mod to disable every single action you find annoying.

How It Works

This mod operates with two mechanisms: the first is a global trait that is added to every Sim in the game. This trait is hidden and alters a Sim's autonomous behavior. Traits can be used for autonomy modifiers. For example, each age in the game has a "trait" and, for some reason, Maxis saw fit to make every Age Trait have an autonomy modifier to build fun. Better Autonomy's global Trait reduces Sims' draw to fun building actions by 50% and raises their draw to socialization by 400%.

The second is that it modifies StaticCommodities. These are incredibly complicated, but in short, these files list how much a Sim wants to do something, which is represented by ad_data. Better Autonomy lowers the ad_data for several interactions—watching TV, playing Chess, making coffee, dancing to the stereo, and more.

Now public! Download here.

[blanska]

Did Sergey lie to Lera?

SPOILERS for the Plague Doctor comics up until issue #8

Disclaimer: I read most of the comics with the help of Google Translate, so it is highly likely that I don’t have the fully picture. I wrote this after reading #8 of the Plague Doctor.

In Plague Doctor #8 Sergey tells Lera in the car that the Bird has been destoryed, erased.

When I read that, I put down my phone and started pacing in my room, because this statement comepletely contradicted my interpretation of the story so far. It contradicted what I have seen.

My opinion: I think it wouldn’t be a great story if they truly killed off the bird forever. But here’s the thing. This is my taste in stories, which has no bearing on what happens in the comics. So instead, let’s talk about what my more objective side saw.

The Knife Scene

The most convincing part for me that the Bird is right there in the comics is the scene when Oleg takes out the knife. Next we see a close-up of Sergey’s eyes and the knife reflected in them. Immediately I thought of the Bird. The way this is presented makes this moment seem very important and ominous. The knife falls to the ground, and in the next moment Sergey pushes the blade to Lera’s side. He says, “Dead. Always watch your back.”

What makes this even more convincing and important is Oleg’s reaction. All of a sudden he acts almost like a prison guard, puts Sergey in his place, “Close the knife and hand it over to me. And step back!” I find it hard to interpret this in any other way than Oleg talking to the sociopath who just crossed a line. Sergey hands over the knife with a frown. Immediately after this things go back to normal.

If the Bird has been dead for years, why do we get this scene? Why would they show us specifically this scene in this way?

Two different people behind the wheel

In every scene when Sergey is present, for like 90% of the scene I saw one of two personalities. The one who seems to be less active (or just not as eccentric as the other one) I saw perhaps in #1 at the cafe, possibly in #2 when he gives Lera and Oleg their first job (he is dressed in white), in #3 when Lera tries on the suit, in #6 after the casino when he’s been up all night and they meet at the apartment and in #8 in the car with Lera.

Let’s call him “Sublte Sergey” bc I no better ideas.

The way he’s sitting, standing, the way he’s holding himself is different from the other personality. He doesn’t take up too much space, but he also doesn’t seem to lack confidence.

The way he phrases things is more matter of fact and he doesn’t talk down to others all the time.

Doesn’t joke about murdering the person he’s talking to and doesn’t do other things that seem very sociopathic.

The other personality is way more obvious. I saw him in #2 when they first gather in the apartment, then later during the first training session. In #3 during training when he attacks Lera and starts coplaining that Oleg didn’t do a good enough job. In #4 when they meet in the apartment before the casino. And the thing is, he acts just like during the Game when the Bird was in control and the other personality was essentially held hostage.

Let’s call him “Entitled Sergey” (bc I don’t wanna call him Bird for the sake of the discussion).

The way he’s holding himself. He looks like he’s always on a stage, he takes up a lot of space, he seems overly confident.

He frequently phrases things in a very condescending way, he seems to think he’s the smartest person in the room and he’s always surrounded by idiots. He very often complains about what the others are doing.

He jokes about hurting or murdering Lera on two occasions, he’s the one who picks up the knife, possibly the one who wants to suggest ideas that Oleg immediately shuts down (perhaps bc it would cross a certain line).

If the Bird is truly dead, then who am I seeing here? Why would there be a personality that acts just like the Bird during the Game? Did the Bird play the role of this personality back then? Is this the person who might know himself to be The Sergey and is that why the Bird would have played this role? If yes, who the hell is Subtle Sergey?

The Second One

In the car Sergey talks about the “second” personality, because idk he forgot to count himself, but sure let’s call him the Second One. “He doesn’t remember anything, shakes with horror, cannot fight.” It seems like this is the person who almost crashed the car twice driving to Lera’s home. The person who’s influence is slowly fading away during the conversation in the car. Nice to finally meet you, buddy.

I do not think that the Second One equals Subtle Sergey. Because as the scene goes on he starts to sound more and more like Subtle Sergey and not like Entitled Sergey. He says he is afraid of the Second One. The Second One wouldn’t say this, at least I do not think he would phrase it in this way. So these seem to be three distinct personalities.

Who is We?

In the car when Sergey is ranting about his, well.. their internal struggles, at some point he starts a sentence with “we” then pauses and corrects himself to “I”. I really like this, because of course he would say “we” occasionally as he seems to be co-conscious and living together with at least one other personality nowadays. At first I thought he corrected himself to try make his sentences more consistent and easier to understand, since most people refer to themselves as “I”.

But after it occured to me that he might have lied about the Bird being dead I thought pehaps that was not the case. He is talking about the Second One, “If I lose self control.” and then “The epitome of his greatest fear is absolute helplessness!“ He talks about the Second One in the third person and he clearly doesn’t want this person to be in control right now. 

Immediately after this as he starts to explain what happened with the Bird during the game, he says “We...” then corrects himself to “I've never made excuses with an evil alter ego.” What if when he said “we” he was thinking “the Bird and I”? But since he later claims that the Bird is gone, he corrects himself.

Sure, he could have done this for many other reasons, such as realizing that the other part(s) of the “we” have made those excuses before. But it still makes me wonder if he indeed lied.

So what if he did lie?

If he did lie, then I think Subtle Sergey and the Bird has been living and working together on this project and we’ve seen a lot of both of them. There were some moments of instantaneous switches just like back in the Game, but now the Bird is not trying to take over, he’s on board with the plans. He’s part of a system, even.

Especially with the intense reaction of the Second One, stepping to the foreground and having panic attacks, being unsure of himself, I can see why they would claim that the Bird is dead. Even if they’re not that unsure of themselves, it makes sense to say that. Because the Bird did all those horrible things when he was fully in control and running amok. Now they’re doing things differently. Saying “oh yes, he’s right here, but I promise he’s not gonne empty a round of bullets into you like the last time” isn’t very reassuring or believable. I would definitely consider lying in this situation.

What if he didn’t lie?

Then we have the Subtle and the Entitled Sergey, one of whom seems to behave like the Bird during the Game. Which is weird writing. It’s confusing. In the Plague Doctor, we don’t get to see what is going on inside Sergey’s mind. We don’t see alters talking to each other, or be represented by different character designs. We can only guess. And putting an alter in the story who acts like the Bird, without an explanation or anything to make clear that this is not the Bird, is extremely confusing to me.

If he didn’t lie, I have no idea why we had the Knife scene. What was the point? During the Game there was a Sergey trying to resist and fight the Bird unsuccessfully. I associate this sociopathic side of him with the Bird.

If the Bird is truly gone, then a part of Sergey has been thrown out the window. They didn’t get the chance to learn to live together, to get better, to figure out their life. It is not a good lesson. You don’t ignore or kill parts of you, especially the parts of you that make it incredibly hard to live your life and thrive. You deal with it. You come up with solutions to make it work for you or at least make it stop being an obstacle. If Sergey gets to be the Anti-hero and gets to live a better life, a healthier life, it shouldn’t be because we threw out the part of him who was causing trouble.

So I hope he lied. I desperately hope that he lied. But please, Bubble at least let us find out what the truth is in the end! I am getting tired of guessing who this person is in the scene with Oleg and Lera :D Whatever the case is, I am intrigued, I want to know more, I want to know what is really going on. And as of now I am absolutely confused.

[regrettablewritings]

I'm feeling a Nevada Ramirez mood (love that damn asshole) but if you aren't feeling writing for him then I give this up to authors choice. But from the current ships numbers perhaps: 3 (because I wanna get fucked up), 9 (because I have to), 10 (because I would like to know your thoughts) and 11 (because I am wildly curious)

("I'm feeling a Nevada Ramirez mood" Translation: "I want a daddy to spit in my fuckgng mouth" Sorry, I don't make the rules about language translation.🤷🏽‍♀️)

3. Which one outlives the other, and how they cope:

You'd always kind of sort of lived in a fairytale. In hindsight, though, you probably had to: It's what probably made being with his stupid ass a bit easier. Kind of like you were living in one of those stories where a monster that terrorized some bucolic tiny town could be brought down to size by a soul of pure heart. Maybe even regain his human form.

If only your story had had a happy ending.

In a way, Nevada felt he was to blame for that; clearly, sticking with you had really only encouraged that type of behavior, or so he thought.

And now look where that ended you: All that gross-ass makeup to make you look like your last moments hadn't been agonizing (the coroner insisted it had been quick, but Nevada called bullshit); those stiff clothes that you never would've worn unless you had to (Nevada never would've put you in them if he had more of a choice); eyes closed, never to see the telltale signs of the one you left behind coming undone (actually, in a sick way, Nevada didn't necessarily mind this; it spared him the humiliation).

There wasn't even necessarily any sign that you had been targeted; the general theory really was that you'd been taken out by a stray bullet. But in some part of him, Nevada couldn't believe that. He didn't want to. It just made so much perfect sense in his mind: You were just minding your own damn business, walking home after a shift ended a little later than expected. You were the very picture of innocent and unsuspecting, all vulnerable and without him. In short: That was the perfect time for some rival gang or some shit to take a shot at you.

And the thought made Nevada's blood boil to the point that it evaporated into the air, further polluting these fucking New York skies with his inner toxicity being exposed. He'd make whoever did this to you choke. But not before roughing them up a lil bit. Maybe cut off some fingers. Some toes . . . Maybe a pound of flesh as payment if there was any time left, who knows.

But first, his men had to find them.

To say that Nevada does not take your passing well would be an understatement. He's somehow more violent. Somehow a lot less tolerant of bullshit (and he already wasn't before). If anyone so much as blinks wrong, they run the risk of having a nearly feral fuck jump at them and attempt to rip their face off.

His men, who already feared and respected him, dare not occupy the same room as him any longer than they have to. They miss you as a person, of course, but they never knew just how much of a hold you had on their boss until that hand was gone.

Sure, he goes through the usual motions seen in others, like sitting in his chair, downing copious amounts of whatever was left in his liquor cabinet. And, of course, there's the stages of grieving: He's eternally stuck oscillating between guilt and anger.

He was supposed to be the one that got killed out here, him! Not you: Sweet, kind, patient, hard-headed, stupid-assed you! He got that, why couldn't God get with the program on that!? He was the dealer, the gang leader putting himself into all kinds of problems with others; you were just some innocent bystander who happened to get caught in his web, decide they liked it there, and inexplicably stuck around.

And now you're dead. He was being selfish, you were being stupid, and now you were dead.

He stares blankly at nothing before humming with a sip of whatever the hell is in his glass now, he doesn't fucking remember. Can't taste it anyway; his sense of taste disappeared, floated away with your spirit the moment he learned of your passing.

The pure-hearted soul that kept the village safe was gone; all that remained was the carnivorous beast, ready to rampage and raze the town to the ground.

9. Which one swears more?:

Just in time for the 20210 Summer Olympics, we have a new category to observe: Fucking Goddamn Cussing Up a Shitstorm! Representing Washington Heights, we have a cussing prodigy, Nevada Ramirez! Also representing Washington Heights by way of duel citizenship between the apartments, we have . . . You!

Okay but in all seriousness, Nevada is definitely the gold medal-winner here. Science indicates that cussing helps to relieve stress and for as collected as Nevada likes to appear in front of others, 5'9" is not a lot of space for stress to go. He's constantly bottling up that shit! What's worse, though, is that the fucker makes it sound elegant.

How does he make "fuck" sound so gentle when it leaves his lips with a cold-eyed glower!? Who the hell knows!

Erstwhile, you're a pretty good runner-up. Even if you were a big cusser before getting with Nevada, you could never catch up with him -- he's just had way too many experiences where he felt the need to pepper the ambience with some cursing. And if you weren't as into it before . . . I'm sorry, boo, but you'll be picking up that nasty habit of his like you were picking up the torch for the Cussing Olympics. Bon chance!

10. What TV shows they watch together, and which ones they hide from the other:

Noah . . . How did you know I was planning to do a preference on what characters watch with their S/Os? Not that I can confirm or deny that Nevada was in that one but --

Nevada didn't really watch TV a whole lot before you two got together. It was a mix of him not having a lot of time and him not having a lot of care to keep up with anything. Everything is so goddamn serialized, what's even the point?

Really, the only reason he bought subscriptions to streaming services was to keep you entertained for when he had to be out the house or some junk. But there were a few too many times where he'd come home late and find you curled up on the couch.

". . . The hell're you still doing up --"

"Ssh!"

". . . Did you just --"

"Yes, now sshhh! I'm about to see who this chick picks to go to bed with."

Of course, 'Vada is pissed; people don't shush him, he shushes them! What the fuck could be so interesting that you'd do that!? He takes his glare from you to the screen . . . and about thirty minutes in, he gets it. He'd never say it out loud, but deep down, he knows why you like Love Island. It's stupid, it's trashy, he hates these dumbass twenty-somethings making drama out of nothing, and for fuck's sake will somebody talk to the girl with the dark skin and short hair she's the hottest one there --

Of course, he tries hard not to show his interest, taking seats next to you when you're watching "because he's tired", adding his own commentary "because these pendejos need to know better", etc. And, of course, it doesn't fool you in the slightest. As amused as you are, though, you don't tease him about it; you're afraid that if you do, your stubborn boyfriend would put up a fight in the form of leaving you to watch your silly little show by yourself. And you really don't mind sharing the show with him . . . No, solitary watching is reserved for your cartoons.

Nevada may let things with you slip to a point but the moment he learns you like to watch anything animated, he's on your ass with the ruthless taunting. Which is like the pot calling the kettle black because 'Vada's secret pleasure is even worse: daytime soap operas. Admittedly, there's some sentimentality connected to them (he remembers being at his Abuela's house and seeing her get really into some telenovelas), but the fact of the matter is really more that he's invested in the drama and bullshit going on between all this lunatics who we're supposed to buy as being doctors or CEOs or whatever over-glamorized positions they're supposed to have.

He doesn't actually get to watch them often but . . . hey, that's what he pays certain grunts to do for him.

Okay I had way too much fun writing these so lemme just cut myself off now. Thanks for asking!!!

[greenninjagal-blog]

Deja Vu pt 7

Hey guys. Been a hot minute. If it makes you feel any better this was supposed to be a short chapter and it ended up being 25 pages long. :) If you’re new to the story, you can check out the first chapter [here] or if you need a refresher check out the previous chapter [here]!

Summary: Dee takes on The Prince in a fight, and Remus takes on the Prince’s sidekick.

Word Count: 12029

TW: temporary character death, blood, teargas, guns,

Read on Ao3 || Hero Worship Series || My General Writing Masterlist

Remus is twenty-one and he doesn’t think he’s ever been as terrified before in his life as he is the second he sees Dee launch across the stage. 

He’s been scared before though: scared from the moment he saw Roman hit the asphalt at eight years old and there was so much blood outside his body and Mom wouldn’t stop cradling the body even when the EMTs were trying to help; scared from the moment he stood in the gas station bathroom miles and miles from what he’d thought had been his home and trying to tell himself that that was going to be the last time he chose to look at a future where he tossed himself into the jaws of death; scared from the moment when he was laying in Dee’s lap with a million lies stuffed in his throat and still was choosing to tell him the truth about this stupid ability of his that only ever ended with him alone and forgotten and not missed at all. 

Remus has been scared out of his mind, scared in his mind, scared far beyond the way that he thinks that any other living person could understand. He’s been walking with one foot in the grave since he was eight years old and eleven minutes younger than Roman and people still-- since that was still-- since the first time it started mattering to him at all.

He’s been scared.

It’s still nothing compared to the horror that grips his heart in an icy fist as Dee throws himself mindlessly into a fight Remus can’t see the end of.

It’s stupid and Remus doesn’t quite know how it got to this point even though he had been listening so hard to what Dee was saying. Dee is smart. He’s brilliant. He’s the type of kid that grew up excelling in everything he touched and he liked touching everything. He does math in his head like the numbers work for him, he speaks French like his tongue had never known another language, he lies and steals and uses people without them ever knowing they were puppets in his show.

Dee is a genius among idiots.

And somehow Remus is still watching him pitch himself into a physical fight with The Prince despite how he spent the previous three days saying that physical fights weren’t his forte and that their best bet was to humiliate and discredit the man on stage instead.

The Prince is smart and fast and most likely expecting the attack, but even he doesn’t have a chance to dodge against the agility of Dee aided by a surplus of invisible animal speed traits. Dee is moving for less than a second and--

--his claws are morphing right there in front of Remus’s eyes, too slow to make out, too fast to miss and Remus is beyond time and space as he stands there feeling more stuck than he’s ever been before. Dee’s nails are sharp with hatred, with protectiveness, with a selfish defense that Remus had only ever seen in spurts before. The Prince’s throat is soft and fleshy and weak.

One hit would take him out, permanently. One hit could have him covered in his own red blood, one hit could remove him forever and Remus would be in love with a murderer.

Dee lunges for The Princes throat, but at the last second he dips down and aims for an upsweep of his claws, cutting clean through that sash, shallow, painful, but not deadly because Janus is not a murderer.--

--One hit would take him out, permanently. One hit could have him covered in his own red blood, one hit could remove him forever and Remus would be in love with a murderer.

Dee lunges for The Princes throat, but at the last second he dips down and aims for an upsweep of his claws, cutting clean through that sash, shallow, painful, but not deadly because Janus is not a murderer?--

--shallow, painful, but not deadly because Dee is not a murderer.--

--Dee is moving for less than a second, but The Prince is expecting an attack and raises his arm in a flash of green light, and rolls to the side. Dee’s fist misses his face by inches, but it’s enough for the superhero to stumble off the stage which is not right, which is not what Remus saw, not what is supposed to be happening. 

His head is screaming so loudly he can’t piece together a single thought. His stomach lurches up his esophagus, leaving him choking on something that might or might nor be real while Dee fights up on that stage. 

The police bodyguards nearest to the shapeshifter swing into action, with guns or tasers or whatever-- it doesn’t matter because Dee’s body turns to a golden jelly like substance and absorbs the bullets and negates the electrical charge with a near maniac grin.

((And god, is it alluring to see Dee go absolutely feral even when Remus thinks that his own body is trying to kill him. He’s always so posh, so sophisticated, so in control. This is the side of Dee that he hides under a pleasant smile, the part that matches the scales and the fangs and the claws, the part that is half animal and doesn’t care about empty words.))

The crowd screams, chaotic and messy and dangerous and it turns the atmosphere into a thick soup of confusion and desperation. Remus feels one of those stupid fucking signs crash into his shoulder blade as someone gets shoved or hit or slammed or run over-- Remus isn’t sure because his focus is only on Dee, only on The Prince, only on the absolute anarchy that is playing out on stage like a theater production.

Remus remembers suddenly that he’s never made it through the intermission of a theater show, never made it to the second act and never made it to see the lead actors take their bows. Remus always left early.

He can’t leave early now. 

He doesn’t even want to, not really, not in any way that matters. Remus’s lungs are burning and his heart is slamming against his ribcage like it’s trying to break out and taste the world for itself. He grips the crowd control fence, so hard he’s not sure anything short of a nuclear bomb can get him off of it-- there’s a cold feeling stroking his spine, a voice in his head that tells him he needs to go and go now or he’s going to end up in one of those futures he promised his seventeen year old self that he’d never go through with. 

He can’t move.

Call him a captive audience but Remus is on the edge of his seat, off his seat, one breath away from joining the actors on stage and ruining everything. 

Dee lunges forward at the police line while The Prince crawls back up to his feet in a stupid daze, too slow, too dumb, too much like someone who couldn’t actually believe this was happening and too thick-headed to keep up with the actions. 

Dee never told Remus that he was an acrobat, that he was as flexible as an Olympic Gymnast, that he could twist in the air and remove his own bones and make use of every breath between him and his enemy. Remus thinks of every time he’d counted the feet, inches, centimeters, between the two of them and for the first time he thinks that Dee might have been counting them too, thinking of every way in which he might be able to use that space as leverage to pin Remus up against the wall--

Dee said he wasn’t good at fighting. But Remus watches him grow claws that slice right through bullet proof armor and then flip in the turbulent air and drive his heel into the soft of someone’s neck. A bullet misses him by a hair’s breadth and Remus catches sight of his fangs dripping with blood or venom or something as he hisses at the unfortunate soul who shot at him, missed, and lost a bullet to the dissonant crowd.

The techie with the bright purple hair stumbles back to the van pressing his hands to his headphones and squeezing his eyes closed like he can make all the bad things go away if he pretends hard enough. Remus wants to laugh at him; can’t he see this is too real to be fake? 

Someone barrels into the side of him, knocking Remus nearly through the crowd barrier. His head rings at the collision, sending sparks of stars shattering over his vision that he thinks match the pattern of tire treads on an eighteen wheeler that once ran him over.

Someone with another ability lets it loose and there’s an explosion from down the street, sending more people running towards the stage and the battle up there. The winds twist unnaturally, ripping the confetti papers into the air again and throwing them straight up into the air along with any loose accessories not pinned down. 

A girl screams right in his ear, an arm jostles into her throat to make her stop and Remus isn’t entirely sure it’s not his arm. Her face is gone in the shifting crowd before Remus can even figure out what she looked like. People shove and jostle and move and tear apart so quickly that Remus can’t keep track of it. 

There’s so much noise Remus can’t think. Gunshots, screams, the screech of metal and whirl of the wind-- it’s so much and Remus is so small against it. He feels the world moving around him, feels the time breathing through his skin, detaching him from reality and yanking him into something else, somewhere else, somewhen else. He’s not breathing, his heart isn’t beating, he’s not moving and his vision is flickering, flashing, fleeting: there and then it’s not and he can’t stop any of it. He can’t figure out what to do, what he needs to do, what’s supposed to be--

There’s a coin in Remus’s hand, pressed in his palm cutting into this numbed skin and he clings to it like a lifeline. There’s a Barney in his hand, the Barney from the night he met Dee, the Barney that means nothing to Dee and everything to Remus, the Barney that represents a decision Remus made when he caught it in the air three days ago.

Who gives a fuck about what’s suppposed to happen? Remus stopped Roman from dying thirteen years ago and the universe is going to have to live with it because Remus is not going to get Dee die, either.

He’s somewhere in the crowd, coming into his body, unsure when he left it, and there’s something thick in his throat he swallows away before he figures out what it tastes like. An arm is in his gut, a body slams into his shoulder. The force of the crowd is tearing him back from the fight, and Remus can’t go against it.

The sky is tinged with a low hanging cloud; something grey green and the screams are largest near it, the people shoving vigorously forward and away as it sweeps over--

--them like a wispy wave. Remus feels it pass over him too, a force that he’s barely aware of for a second because it's so quick and then nothing happens at all. It's hard to see anything, hard to hear, hard to focus. Why are they screaming?

Remus opens his mouth and it’s a mistake, a mistake, a mistake. It smells like vinegar, sharp and pungent and it fights its way down Remus’s throat when he breathes it in. His skin burns and itches and smolders where the smoke touches, where it seeps into his clothes, where it floods over his eyes. He screams as his lungs warp and twist in on themselves, tight, tight, tight and he can’t breathe through it.

He’s dying, he’s dying again, he’s dying and he doesn’t know what he did--

--them like a wispy wave. Remus feels it pass over him too, a force that he’s barely aware of for a second because it's so quick and then nothing happens at all. It's hard to see anything, hard to hear, hard to focus. The gas is everywhere and Remus can’t see where he’s going and if he stops whoever is behind him will run him over.

He shoves forward burying his mouth and nose in his sleeve, but it's not enough. His heart is exploding in his chest splattering across, bursting so hard it shatters his ribs but not enough to break his skin. He claws at his chest certain there’s blood there even though he can’t see it. He dead and dying and he can’t even gasp an apology to Dee he’s sorry Dee please he’s sorrysorrysorry--

--them like a wispy wave. Remus feels it pass over him too, a force that he’s barely aware of for a second because it's so quick and then nothing happens at all. It's hard to see anything, hard to hear, hard to focus. He’s trapped, caught in a gaseous net of tear gas that lives up to its name because he’s sobbing at the burn that he’s sure is the worst death to have survived. He doubles over, and he’s gone and done and dead because he can’t do it a third time. 

He doesn’t have enough sense to brace himself before there’s someone else’s panicked foot on the small of his back. Remus curls on himself covering his head in the chaos to protect himself, but the agony over his body is shredding his insides like razor blades that could pass through anything.

He can’t breathe. He can’t think. His eyes flicker trying to catch an understanding of anything around him, but his tears make it hard to make out anything up close and the smoke obscures the world he knows is past that.

Someone is screaming something, but Remus can’t make out the words.

This is the exact thing Dee did not want to happen, he thinks as his body convulses, as a guy with horns trips over him and several more people without powers descend on him with signs and fists and whatever else they have. Remus’s tears are streaking down his face and he weakly raises an arm towards them like he can help anyone when his own body feels like it’s dying. This is the exact thing they were trying to avoid.

It doesn’t make sense, Remus curses as someone steps on his ankle and he feels the bone do something it probably shouldn’t and his throat cremates the air in his lungs. It doesn’t make sense. Dee is smart. He’s brilliant. He’s clever and witty and always seven steps ahead.

Dee was the one who said a fight would cause a riot in the crowd and it would make everything bad. A fight was the opposite of what they wanted. Dee had even said that if he couldn’t get The Prince to agree with him, he’d back off and find another way. 

“It’s not so much for The Prince,” Dee had said. “It’s about getting the message to the people.”

And Remus is twenty one years old and can’t think of what Dee was expecting to happen when he launched across the stage like that when his own head just got kicked again and his lungs are a birthday candle away from engulfing him in flames.

What The Prince was saying was stupid, but it wasn’t something that Dee would have let get on his nerves. Dee was better than that-- Remus had seen him be better than that. Remus had said things that were more annoying, more irksome, more cutthroat than The Pitiful Prince could have thought to say. Dee had been shot half a million times in futures that didn’t happen and Remus had plucked him from the jaws of death every time.

Dee trusted Remus to keep him safe and informed. Even against The Prince.

Dee shouldn’t have been attacking at that point. 

Someone kicks his stomach again, and Remus tastes the dregs of Dee’s latte wander back into his mouth with a burn that reminds him of his worst nights except this is worse than all that. He feels like he’s one open flame away from igniting which doesn’t make sense because fire needs oxygen and he’s not getting any. Something happened to Dee, something wasn’t right-- Dee wouldn’t have attacked unless The Prince did something to him. 

Remus thinks that if he gets up he’s going to put The Prince in the ground, permanently. His earpiece sings with noises from the fight: Dee’s grunts, his huffs, his ha’s. Remus latches on to the sound of them, of Dee being alive, of Dee being completely in the moment rather than his usual twenty steps ahead of it. He’s not sure if the terror is from the shoe that slams into his spine at that moment, the ache of being unable to help, the fear that the teargas is going to kill him, or the idea that whatever The Prince did to Dee is still happening.

He tries to sit up, but someone jumps over him just poorly enough to kick him in the side of the head as they go. Remus feels the sting of wet concrete at 3 AM shock through his body again, stupidly. His brain screams something about windshields and rain and Remus tells it to shut up because Dee was in trouble and Remus had made him a promise to stick around all those lifetimes ago in that Casino where they’d met, on the balcony when he’d been stuck rather than gone, when he was laying in Dee’s lap in their hotel room saying all the words he’d never told anyone else ever before.

There’s wind. Remus blinks hard, choking on a sob that claws through his esophagus far more effectively than glass from a windshield ever did. There’s wind and it’s moving like a storm front, a physical force, direct, and purposefully. The wind is twisting through the crowd and catching the greenish tear gas in its invisible hands; Remus watches in delirious disbelief as it funnels upwards with the remains of confetti and signs, hats and papers, trash and abandoned items, upwards and out of his lungs, upwards and saving his life.

He breathes in a breath that feels like his ribs are going straight through his lungs, and desperately scrubs the memories of things that he swore weren’t going to happen from his mind. Another foot slams down inches from his face, and loose gravel sprays up into this face.

“HEY!” a voice yells. There are hands on him, Remus realizes in the next second, someone helping move him out from under the current of people that are in too much of a panic to help him. “HEY!--

-- “Are you okay?” the person says, and Remus has to squint to make him out against the tears in his eyes. At first glance Remus thinks he looks like someone important, someone familiar: a teacher he had once, a youth pastor from a church that his family only went to on holidays, someone in the community that all the other kids flocked too, except that they had to be the same age, so Remus’s marks that as his brain spewing nonsense again. He’s got glasses with smudges on the lenses, freckles that dance across his cheeks like a dot-to-dot for adults, and a smile that looks increasingly stupid compared to the background setting.

“You’re going to be okay, sir!” the man chirps right as another round of gunshots go off to their left as the armed guard fires one someone in the crowd and the winds shrivel up and die in response. “We’re going to be okay!”--

 --“Are you okay?” the person says, and Remus has to squint to make him out as his eyes ache and burn and he can’t scrub them. At second glance Remus thinks he looks like someone inconsequential, someone familiar: a college student who came here to follow the rules and trust his government, a guy who is in over his head, a kid who doesn’t know what he’s doing, and Remus hasn’t seen any sign of a power at all. He’s got a blue polo on speckled with dust, and bruises and scratches up his arms, a solid footprint on his abdomen that Remus doesn’t need two guesses to figure out where he got it from.

“You’re going to be okay, sir!” the man chirps, but Remus is busy spinning around just in time to see the armed guard fire at a civilian in the crowd and the winds overhead shrivel up and die because they lose whoever was telling them to move in the first place. “We’re going to be okay!”--

-- “Are you--OOP!” the person says as Remus throws himself up and bonelessly tackles that guard before he can fire his weapon. His throat is ragged and strangled and the noise that comes out of his is not even remotely human. His eyes are flashing with the futures he doesn’t want to see and he thinks for a moment if he stops moving he’ll forget which future is the present.

Dee should not have attacked. But he did, and every death that happens now is going to be pinned on him, on them, on anyone who isn’t the government and every plan Dee made will settle into ashes and fall through his fingertips.

Remus is twenty one and knows all too well that he can’t change the past. But he’s going to save the future, their future. His and Dee’s future.

The gun goes skidding across the ground and under the crowd barrier out of reach and out of touch and Remus’s head spins trying to orientate himself. Blood drips down his chin and spatters on the visor shield of the man under him, the would-be murderer, the all-to-willing homicidal maniac. Remus’s heart pounds in his throat, making its way to his mouth, until he’s not sure if he’s biting down on his tongue or the pulsating mass that keeps him alive and the tang of vinegar won’t leave him alone.

People stumble around the both of them, tripping over Remus’s legs, and someone stomps on his captive police guard's wrist so hard Remus feels it snap more than he hears it. The man lets out a yowl, as his eyes roll back and he gives in to the pain of it. 

The guy who does not look familiar in any way that Remus cares about is just a step behind them, grabbing Remus’s armpit as if to pick him up, but his focus is on the person in the crowd controlling the winds. Confetti screws through the air, a sign slams into the face of someone who gets too close to them and the two kids crouching behind them. They’re making a barrier. It’s for protection. They saved everyone who hadn’t been able to to get away from the teargas.

((They’re beautiful, Remus thinks, almost deliriously. The power and control and the fierceness. It’s like watching dancing, like watching pure strength, like seeing a miracle in first person. Remus never thought about other people with powers before, never thought about powers being a good thing when his ruined his life, but now he’s staring at this stranger with burning eyes and one foot in the grave, this stranger who is half wind and all power, this stranger who makes him think he might understand why Dee is so passionate about mutants like them.))

Remus is twenty one years old when he sees out of the corner of his eye, the man in the blue polo’s face screws up in concentration as he throws an arm out at the person controlling the winds and pale white light flickers from his fingers right next to Remus’s face. 

There’s a moment between Remus’s heartbeats where the sound disappears and Remus doesn’t need to breathe and time doesn’t pass at all. There’s a moment where Remus is frozen in place, half standing, half on the ground with his blood making him want to vomit. There’s a moment where he’s staring at the man right next to him and he thinks don’t you fucking dare--

But then the moment is over and Remus is watching the winds drop everything they’re carrying: the accessories, confetti, all of it that had been between them and the armed guard, falls to the ground and Remus watches the surrounding crowd descend on them like a pack of wild animals. His head rings with words that don’t make sense and he thinks that the smile the man gives him has a cold edge to it when he turns back to Remus like he’s expecting a thank you.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Remus jerks the man’s hand down, rasping where the words grate on his sandpaper throat and shoving him away. “What is wrong with you?”

He blinks and tilts his head at Remus like he’s not sure where the question is coming from, why Remus is asking, like he didn’t see what just happened right there at all. “Let’s get you somewhere safe, okay? I think you might have hit your head a little hard.” He says, “Wait… Do I know you fr--?”

Something soars overhead, and Remus rolls to the side and hunkers down as Dee’s draconic form sweeps over the crowd and nearly decapitates everyone still standing. Piercing screams echo in the crowd so loud Remus doesn’t hear whatever else the man says.

The man who helped him up, the man who looks like no one to remember, the man who just did something to that other person that made them not use their power, that man shoves both his hands into the air toward where--

--Dee is and Remus watches in horror as Dee’s fierce expression flips to a confused one. His glorious golden wings flap, once, twice, and then they vanish without a trace.

He’s been confused before, he’s been terrified before, he’s been scared. He’s seen Dee get shot, get run over, get hit until he bleeds. He’s seen Dee laugh at broken bones, seen him choke on his own body fluids, seen his eyes good dark and empty and lifeless. Remus has been scared, but that’s nothing compared to his feelings when he watches Dee drop like a stone through the air.

Remus knows what that fall feels like, he knows how his stomach swoops at the sudden empty air, how the air feels like daggers, how dreadterrorregret fills his lungs until he can’t even take that last breath. He doesn’t want Dee to know. Please, he can’t know, please Remus needs to stop this, fix it, please pleasepleaseplease--

--Dee is and Remus moves before he even knows what he’s doing. His blood is pumping so hard he thinks it's amazing that all his blood vessels don’t pop on him. He swings his elbow back with everything that he has in him, everything he can spare and then the stuff he can’t, because that was Dee and Remus would do anything for him. The man’s glasses shatter under Remus’s attack and he stumbles backwards several steps in shock. Remus follows him with a kick to his stomach that throws the stranger who can take away the only thing protecting Dee at the moment to the ground.

“DEE!” Remus shouts, glancing up because he has to make sure that he’s still in the air.

“You!” The man chokes on his own breath, looking up at Remus with something that might have been betrayal. “You’re with him!” 

And then--

--from behind him something sticks into his back, barbed enough to go right into his jacket and pinches there touching his skin. Remus inhales just as he realizes what it could be and then there’s white hot electricity coursing through his flesh. Remus feels every joint he has lock up, feels pain wrack through his body and ricochet around his bones like the worst game of pingpong, feels the tortured scream carve out of his lungs as he falls forward and his skin bubbles and melts around the prongs of the taser that does not have a safety setting engaged.

He head hits the asphalt and his vision fades and Janus is screaming his name in the worst way possible--

--from behind him something sticks into his back, barbed enough to go right into his jacket and pinches, hooking on his skin, and Remus lunges away, but he’s not fast enough. There’s white hot electricity coursing through his flesh. Remus hears the crackling of violent arcs break through his skin, hears the way that his scream terrorizes the air far worse than that time he dropped a toaster into the bathtub with himself, hears the way that Dee screams his name and lands on the ground next to them.

He head hits the asphalt and his vision fades and Dee wrapping his arms around him in the last embrace he’s going to get--

--from behind him and Remus twists to the side before something sticks into his back, barbed enough to go right into his jacket and stick there. He wants to vomit, but he’s more focused on throwing his body forward and tackling the police officer who just killed him twice and will not get the satisfaction of doing it again. Remus snarls as the man tries to bat him away. 

Remus might not have any intensive training, but he spent four years homeless, learning about the world from the streets of it. He spent more than his fair share of nights sleeping in alleys before he realized that he could use his power to find an empty hotel room for the night, a sucker that would give him money, an odd job that would get him off the street. 

He’s been in fights. This is nothing compared to those fights. 

He feels woozy, flighty: like his bones were replaced with helium and lead at the same time. He doesn’t dare let that stop him. He survived a 3 AM that never ended and he’ll survive this too. He didn’t need to see the future for that.

His knuckles hit the bullet proof padding, hard enough to send jolts through both of them. The officer swings an arm out, but Remus ducks under it and kicks his foot around the man’s ankle. There’s blood on his chin, screaming in his ears, the scent of burning flesh in his nose, and Remus grins as he shoves his palm into the officer’s face. Before the guy knows what is happening he’s on the ground again and Remus is slamming his heel into that visor so hard it shatters. 

He thinks he might be laughing, wheezing, as the blood welds up over the man’s nose and his eyes roll back. Remus brings a shaking palm up to his mouth and smears away his blood as much as he can, because it feels like he’s choking on it again. His eyes are searing and he’s almost surprised he’s not bleeding from them too.

Dee uses a brick wall of a building as a launch board to throw himself back at The Prince in the middle of the blocked off area. He flips mid flight, and whips his tail out of nowhere to land a blow that Remus can’t see if it hits or not.

“Motherfuck--” Dee’s shouts through that earpiece Remus forgot he’d been wearing. He hisses, with a stinging edge that matches pitch to the ringing in Remus’s head. “Do you know what this suit cost, you ingrate!”

Remus can’t breathe and is breathing too fast at the same time. He spins around searching through the chaos for something, someone, he doesn’t know-- what does Dee need from him? What is he supposed to do here? The man in the blue polo is gone and Remus can’t find him which means that he can’t see, not that he can see regularly, not that people aren’t still running around, screaming, the water pipes in a building didn’t burst and the metal of a few lamp posts isn’t warping, there aren’t trampled bodies everywhere he looks.

“Dee,” Remus coughs, choking on ragged words. “Hold on a moment. Let me get somewhere…. where I can... fucking see. Fuck!”

“That would be lovely dear,” Dee says although it sounds like he just ate asphalt and didn’t really hear what Remus said. “The Prince is being disagreeable.”

“I can’t...imagine why,” Remus says. “Personally, I love getting my... throat torn out.”

“We’re going to have a lovely conversation about your masochism, darling,” Dee says, and spits out whatever else is in his mouth and then grunts and swears again. There’s the startling sound of metal on asphalt and Remus’s brain tries and fails to configure the scene playing out where they are.

“It might be a pain kink at this point,” Remus says as he dodges between unfamiliar and panicking strangers he can barely see. He’s afraid if he wipes the tears from his eyes he’ll get whatever of the gas that’s in his jacket in them again. He can’t let that happen, not now, not when Dee needs him, and he knows that he can’t stifle the panic if he does. He sends a kick to the back of another armed policeman in the middle of aiming a taser at someone else.

Dee growls something at The Prince. Distantly, Remus hears what sounds like someone or something slamming into a car, and he thinks he sees the roof of the news van jostle along with the new round of screaming. 

“I would love to know all your kinks,” Dee manages after another second. “Fuck-- how is he doing this?”

Remus ducks out of the way of a blue post office mail box sailing through the air, missing him by inches, but taking out a police officer he hadn’t noticed before. He doesn’t get to see who threw it, but he thanks them, whoever they are. 

He needs to be closer to the fight again, closer to that eye of the hurricane that’s blocked off with crowd controlling barriers, closer than he is now so that he can do something. He jumps over a body, nearly tripping on an abandoned purse. A large shadow sweeps the area again, and Remus catches sight of Dee in the air, with his arm at a terrible unnatural angle. Remus thinks he feels his blood catch in his body freezing all at once despite the rapid pace of his throat bound heart.

Dee doesn’t seem to see him at all, his gaze is stuck solely on where Remus assumes The Perfect Punchable Prince is. There’s a shattering sound of gunshots from somewhere that echoes off of the walls of the surrounding buildings, but Dee remains in the air alright and fine and holding his shattered arm carefully.

His expression is contorted into something awful, something bad enough that even from the ground Remus can make it out perfectly and hates the sight of it-- the amount of pain he must be in, the pain that he never should have felt, the pain that Remus would take on wholeheartedly without a hesitation if he had the ability to sap it away from Dee. But before he can say anything Dee’s arm warps, twists, snaps back into place, and Dee snarls as he rolls his neck and flexes his fingers again.

“Did you just heal yourself?” Remus asks breathlessly, almost certain that his itching eyes are playing a trick on him. 

“Surely this came up in one of your futures before, darling,” Dee says without taking his gaze off his opponent.

Remus doesn’t say that in all of his futures Dee is too dead to show off, dead before Remus can get to him, dead before there’s even a hope for him to think about healing himself, dead, dead, dead. He doesn’t think it matters. There’s a feeling in his chest that blossoms and blooms and fills him like helium in a balloon threatening to take off with him. Dee’s wings flap powerfully to keep him in the air and Remus wonders how they would feel under his fingertips. Leathery, maybe? Somewhere between vinyl and bare skin maybe-- Remus doesn’t know enough about birds, bats, wings in general to know the answer. 

“Serpent!” The Prince shouts from somewhere on the ground. Remus thinks for a moment he can see the man through the crowd, but it's too much of a blur. There’s smoke in the air now, a fire from a nearby building, and Remus feels it burn acridly in his throat, heavy flumes of it sweeping through the crowd and obscuring the ground around them. Remus can almost hear the sirens in the background.

“I hope you aren’t referring to me, Prince,” Dee says with a bit of a hiss.

“Don’t you see what your actions have caused?” The Prince yells and Remus thinks the sound of his voice is grating. His knuckles crave to jam themselves down the superhero’s throat and rip out his voice box, just to make sure he stops talking forever.

“Me?” Dee says. “You are the one who wanted a crowd and a ceremony and a fight. I shouldn’t be surprised. One can’t pretend to be a hero without making someone else the villain!”

“You started this fight, Wyvern,” The Prince shouts back. “Crashing onto the stage and then attempting to kill me.”

“If you’re going to call names like a child, use my actual name,” Dee says, “Basilisk.”

The name sends shivers down Remus’s spine, and he isn’t sure if it's the good kind or the bad kind. His blood is pumping so heavily he thinks it should have drowned out all the other noise. 

Basilisk. Like the Casino where they had met. Like the mythical animal that could kill with a glance. Like a warning and a threat and a challenge. Remus swells with an emotion that’s so bright he’s not sure he can put a name to it, he just knows that he’s never felt it before: so proud, so happy, so thrilled. Dee chose his name and the rest of the world will know it.

((Part of Remus wonders how long he’s had it picked out, how long had he whispered it under his breath when Remus wasn’t there to hear it, how long Dee had thought about having his name up there in the lights outshining The Prince’s.))

“Basilisk,” The Prince snarls. “What type of person answers to the call of a monster’s name?!”

“The King of Serpents,” Dee shoots back. “The killer of foolish knights, and even stupider princes.”

“Now who’s name-calling like a child?!”  The Prince yells. 

It would have been comedic really, if it weren’t for the smoke and the screams and the gunfire. If it weren’t for Remus’s heart beating out of his chest and his mouth tasting like vinegarcopperasphalt and his ankle crying in a pain he can’t afford to actually think about. He thinks about leaving, about running away, about escaping alone but Dee’s life is on the line and Remus needs to make sure he makes it through this because he doesn’t know what he’ll do if Dee dies.

((That’s a lie. Remus does know what he’ll do if Dee dies because he’s seen it a million times before, in a million other places, with a million other feelings and still no one there to mourn whoever he was and whatever he could have been. Remus is twenty one and he knows that if Dee dies there will be no more reasons not to break that promise to his seventeen year old self. He knows, he knows, he knows.))

He’s closer to the fight now, back to where he had been before the riot chaos. Most of the crowd is gone, leaving smokey forms that Remus only semi recognizes from his nightmares. The crowd barriers have been shoved, there are bodies on the ground, the news van is jostled and the crew abandoned it in favor of maybe not ending up with their blood all over the place.

All of them except that techie in purple with the headphones and the face mask. 

“Hey,” Remus says, slamming against the van next to him. The techie stares at him like he’s lost his mind-- and to be honest, that’s fair. He’s got more blood outside of him than inside, and he’s pretty sure the imprint of him is plastered on the side of the car now: a red silhouette to go with the station logo. His eyes are red rimmed, his smile twisted and pained, and it’s only his own inertia that was holding him up. “Don’t mind me.”

The guy is holding a phone peaking, around the corner of the van, dutifully filming Dee barely dodging getting shish kabobbed by The Prince’s rapier and he looks very much like he minds  Remus’s presence within 10,000 feet of him, but is too terrified to move.

Remus doesn’t blame him; where would he go anyway? Into the disassembled crowd where the horror movie screams come with real blood and tear gas was just used on hoards of innocent people for no reason with no warning? Into the arena where The Prince and Dee were taking turns causing massive destruction to public property without a care in the world? Remus doesn’t blame him from hunkering down behind the cover of his news van and praying for this hell to end.

He is a bit curious as to who’s watching this video he’s taking, though. 

Dee twists in the air dodging The Prince’s attacks on his wings, by a hair's breadth. Remus swears for a second that the silver shining rapier slices through Dee entirely, but Dee’s back in the air the next moment, fluttering back out of reach and catching his breath for both of them.

“You fight like a coward!” The Prince yells from the ground, swiping his sword in a motion that is illegal in Fencing. His red mask gleams like blood, but Remus can’t see a speck of it anywhere else on him, not even a scuff from where he fell off the stage moments ago.

((Was it moments? Remus’s head rings with the question. Was it moments? An hour? Days? Lifetimes? He died, Dee died, the strangers in the street died-- how long ago was it that none of that ever happened?))

Dee looks scratched and scarred to high hell by comparison: his suit is in tatters, slices through his left side and his right shoulder, tears in both sleeves where he gave up human hands for scaled claws and sharpened talons, and he was missing a pant leg at the knee, as well as both his shoes that he loved so dearly. Despite his apparent healing abilities blood was trailing from scratches not fully closed up around his elbow, his shoulder, one cheek.

The two of them had to have been fighting this whole time but Remus gets the sinking, sickening, drowning feeling that Dee hasn’t landed a single blow at all.

Which considering the bodies of unconscious police officers piled around them all like lifeless dolls, seems incredibly unreal. Remus saw Dee fight. There’s no way. It’s not possible.

“It’s not fighting like a coward to use your own advantages over your enemies,” Dee says, to The Prince. He steadies himself in the air, his wings and scales glowing gold. “Surely you’re familiar with that idea? You have all the marks of her other training.”

The Prince steadies his stance, shifting his weight around on the toes of his feet like he’s considering the pros and cons of launching himself into the air. Remus hopes he does it just to see Dee catch him by the throat and send him hurling back to the ground hard enough to create a crater he can’t dig his mortal bones out of. 

“If you are trying to suggest something,” The Prince says, “your cryptic theatrics are getting in the way, villain.”

“You think you’re the first Hero she ever trained?” Dee asks. “Think your something special? Going to make all the difference in the world? She’s playing you like a fiddle!”

“You’re one to talk, Janus,” a voice says and Remus swears it comes from everywhere around him. His lungs seize so hard he chokes on the air, the shearing pain in his throat tearing at his vocal chords. The voice sounds like thunder, like a foghorn, like a car alarm at 3AM waking everyone who was previously enjoying their evening.

But Dee doesn’t shift like he heard it at all, and the The Prince doesn’t even look around. Remus’s heart hammers in his chest, stretching his skin, his muscles, his insides as far as they’ll go and the only thing he gets from it is the techie twisting glance at him with a semi raised eyebrow, before he turns back to the standoff in front of them.

Janus. Remus knows that name, doesn’t he? It’s on the tip of his tongue, the edges of his mind, the fog of futures he’s seen and hasn’t seen. He knows that name, he knows who that is, he knows--

--but he doesn’t have a chance to figure it out because Dee is lunging downwards at The Prince, so fast that Remus thinks if he had blinked he might have missed the movement entirely. One moment Dee is in the air, the next his heel is slamming into The Prince’s sword arm shoulder, and from the way that the superhero’s body crumples Remus can bet that his whole foot had shifted into something that was probably lethal. 

The Prince hits the ground with a satisfying smack, letting Dee bounce off him and land another five feet away with a self satisfied, deeply relieved smirk. The Prince cradles his arm, his white outfit soaking with red, his face gnarled with painangerfear as Dee turns around methodically. The hero fruitlessly claws the ground for his rapier but Dee snaps his tail and knocks it out of reach. 

“Give up, Prince,” Dee tells him. “Unlike you, I don’t want a fight. That shoulder needs medical attention and there are people other there that need you.”

“A hero never gives up!” The Prince says and Remus swears that he’s heard that voice before, that tone before, those words before in a way that’s beyond time. They ring in his head, hollow and cold and empty: ghosts made of memories that Remus hated and couldn’t get rid of and that taste like a brother whom Remus once killed.

“She is using you,” Dee says stepping forward until he’s towering over the hero. “Don’t you see that, my prince? You’re worth more than being her puppet.”

“She saved me when I was at my lowest,” The Prince spits back.

“She probably put you there, too,” Dee says, clinically. “Dragana Witchall is not your friend. She’s not a savoir. She’s not a good person, no matter what she’s told you. She doesn’t want what's best for anyone other than herself and the moment you realize that she will do everything in her power to silence you. I’ve seen it happen before.”

There’s a twisted look on The Prince’s face, and Remus’s heart thumps in his chest, near to bursting, his tongue tastes like blood, and his eyes burn with the need to close them and never open them again, but he doesn’t want to miss a second of this.

“She…” 

Dee shakes his head. “Come with us, my Prince,” Dee says oh-so-softly, offering a hand to the Prince. “Shake off her lies and let us save the world before anyone gets hurt anymore. We can do it… together.”

The Prince stares at the hand and Remus, for all that he wants to punch the guy in his teeth, wants to rip out his vocal chords, wants to bury him alive, exhales giddily with Dee when the superhero takes Dee’s hand.--

--but he doesn’t have a chance to figure it out because Dee is lunging downwards at The Prince, so fast that Remus thinks if he hadn’t known it would happen he might have missed the movement entirely. One moment Dee is in the air, the next there’s a flicker of green light and Dee’s fist is--

What the fuck.

Remus hits the side of the news van, choking on blood that’s pouring from his nose and puddling in his throat where oxygen should be. His vision dances with static, buzzing in and out of focus, but he knows what’s going on: Dee’s fist came down on The Prince swinging with a velocity that might have killed a lesser man, but there was a flash of green, a slight side step, and suddenly Dee was on the ground grunting through the pain of a broken hand.

The Prince raises his rapier to Dee’s neck, millimeters from his skin, and Remus’s breathing shallows so sharply it gets clotted up with the blood as well. The Techie inches forward, his hands shaking as he tries to catch every moment of this nightmare. 

“Surrender, villain,” He says. “You cannot continue to heal yourself at this rate.”

Remus feels the scream trapped in his lungs, crushing against his ribs until he’s certain it will shatter outwards. He doesn’t… this isn’t… He didn’t see this. Why didn’t he see this? Why did Dee attack with his fist? How did the Prince know to side step? 

He can’t… It doesn’t make any sense. His palms tingle with the memories of futures that didn’t happen four years ago: shoving a body down the stairs, shattering a snowglobe against a temple, wrapping around a neck and squeezing for so long that his hand print follows Roman to the afterlife. Futures that didn’t happen based on a conversation that had but shouldn’t have. 

Remus’s head pounds, shooting pain from right behind his eyes, that mixes in with the ache from the tear gas. What happened? Why did it… why didn’t it...

“She is using you,” Dee spits up at the hero. “Don’t you see that?”

“You are blinded by your hatred and jealousy--”

“Oh please,” Dee hisses out. “As if I would deign myself to a motivation so cliché.”

“Snake,” The Prince says, but whatever else is drowned out by a strangled yelp when Dee shoves his injured hand up and catches the blade of the sword with enough force to knock it away from his neck. There’s a clattering of scales against metal that Remus thinks he heard once in a movie about slaying a dragon and Dee hisses out in pain as he vaults away to put distance between the two of them again, getting rid of his wings in favor of sharper claws.

“Darling,” Dee says, and it takes Remus a moment to realize he’s the one being addressed. “Enjoying the show?”

“If you aren’t careful... MARVEL is going to be stealing rights for this action sequence from under us,” Remus says, bringing a hand up to clutch at his chest and wondering for a second if it would make sense to tear open his ribcage so that his lungs would have better access to oxygen.

“Disney is a greed based cooperation that’s next on my list to take down, right after the FBE,” Dee says.

The Prince inhales sharply, angrily, offendly. “You would destroy Disney, you monster? I was going to have mercy on you but that’s too far!”

Dee spreads a hand towards the streets around them. “There are people in trouble, possibly dying out there and the thing that makes you upset is Disney?”

The Prince, at least, looks uncomfortable about that. 

“Re,” Dee says, “Lead me.”

The Prince steadies his blade, “I don’t know who you’re talking to but--”

--Remus doesn’t wait for him to finish. “Rush him while he’s talking, go low, and strong arm his legs from under him.”

Dee is moving almost before the words are out of Remus’s mouth and, god, does Remus never get tired of that. Of Dee trusting him, of Dee not hesitating, of Dee believing in Remus. Dee soars across the road, taking The Prince in a razor sharp slice: Dee’s left arm laid out and sweeping under The Prince’s sword to take out his feet. 

The Prince slams forward and hits the ground so hard that Remus thinks his face imprints on the asphalt.

Dee picks up the rapier and lowers it at the hero’s neck just as he rolls over bleeding from every orifice on his face. “It’s over, my Prince. Give up.”--

--Remus doesn’t wait for him to finish. “Rush him while he’s talking, go low, and strong arm his legs from under him.”

Dee is moving almost before the words are out of Remus’s mouth and Remus is so caught up in the jubilee of being heard that he almost misses the flash of green that flickers around The Prince.

“WAIT--!” Remus yells, but The Prince is jumping in the air doing a perfect flip over Dee’s attack that he shouldn’t have ever seen coming and definitely shouldn’t have been able to dodge.

Dee lands with a roll that brings him back to his feet. “Re, what was that?”

“I don’t know,” Remus says, spitting blood from his mouth. “Shit.”

The techie swivels to look at him again, at the blood trailing down Remus’s chin, at the unsteadiness of Remus’s stance. If it weren’t for the headphones the guy would have been able to hear everything already, and Remus isn’t sure if he’d run away screaming, or drop into a dead faint. He wasn’t even thinking about what the guy’s recording was picking up.

That’s a problem for another day. Assuming they make it through this one.

Dee lunges backwards out of the way of The Prince’s next attack, avoiding it without Remus’s help, and part of Remus is grateful for that. He can’t tell which is the terror of Dee being in a fight with The Prince still or the panic of not being able to see what’s happening anymore but he knows he’s drowning in both in a way that’s unhelpful.

Dee rolls under--

--The Prince’s swipe, millimeters away from an unwanted haircut. Remus can hear the heavy huffing of his breath, of the ache of Dee’s bones, the shake in his limbs from exertion. He kicks a foot to force the hero back, but the reprieve is short. The Prince’s charismatic stupid smile is gone replaced with a determination that makes Remus’s teeth grind together.

The Prince lunges forward, blocking Dee from escaping with a motion that swings upwards and across and reminds Remus of how he drew 7’s before his kindergarten teacher verbally humiliated it out of him. Dee’s face snaps to the side glistening with a new cut that digs through his scales and leaves him hissing in pain.--

--The Prince’s swipe and Remus’s mouth is moving as fast as he can: “He’s leaving his right side wide open. If you duck you can get the back of his calf and decrease his range of motion.”

Dee makes a noise that Remus thinks is grateful, hopes is grateful, prays-to-gods-he-doesn’t-believe-in is grateful. Dee is slower than Remus would have wanted him to be, but when The Prince drags his rapier through the air, it sails over Dee’s head and Dee’s claws slice through his calf muscle as Dee slips away.

“Mother of Pearls!” The Prince shouts, stumbling. “How did you…?”

Dee heaves several breaths, flexing his claws dripping with patches of scarlet. “Finally.”

“Villain!” The Prince snarls.

“We’ve been over this, honey. It’s Basilisk,” Dee shows off his fangs. Remus thinks the relief is hysterical, a gulp of fresh air after he’s been underwater for so long. 

The Prince snarls, something animalistic and Remus wishes he could show the whole world it: this is your Prince, this is your fake hero, this is the idiot in charge of everything and look how angry he is over a little cut. Remus has had worse than him and he’s never complained about it!

“ZEAL!” The Prince yells to the open air, “A hand, please!”

“Just one?” A voice responds from across the area, and Remus feels his blood go cold, his knees go weak, his mind go silent in a way it’s definitely not supposed to.

Remus doesn’t know how the man in the blue cardigan who looks like no one at all got all the way over there, but there he is crouching next to a fallen police guard checking for a pulse. He stands up at the call, looking vastly out of place in the scenery.

“Well, if my prince requests it!” He says with his voice drifting like a dream in the chaos. “I’ll give you both of them!”

“Dee, move. Move, NOW!” Remus yells just as the character raises their hands and white lights begin to flicker on the fingertips. They look like stars, like spheres of sunlight, like little harmless rays that probably would feel nice, but Remus can still hear the sound of Dee’s body hitting the ground in a future that he stopped, a future he prevented, a future he does not ever want to see happen again. 

Dee throws himself into a back handspring and twists himself over the beams of light, and Remus can’t catch his breath anyway. 

“Do I want to know what those did, dearest?” Dee puffs out. 

“Bad,” Remus says.

“Delightful,” Dee says, taking another step back, except that he’s sandwiched between the Prince and that guy-- god the partner. Remus can’t believe they forgot about them, the mysterious person only alluded to, and never seen, except that now Remus is seeing him and can’t look away. Of course it would be someone who can take away powers. Of course it would. 

Remus is going to vomit.

 If Dee turns his back to the Prince he won’t see the sword, if he turns his back to the partner, he won’t see the angle of the rays; Remus has a sinking feeling in his… everything all of a sudden.

“I’m running out of patience, Dragon,” The Prince says.

“How hard is it to remember the term Basilisk?” Dee prods.

The Prince sets himself for another attack. “You’re trapped. There’s no way out. Come quietly and we can get you medical attention and discuss whatever it is that you deemed necessary to harm hundreds for.”

“Will that be before or after Dragana Witchall has my head removed from my body?” Dee asks. 

“If you just talk to her--”

“Heh.”

Remus feels the inside of his ears pop from pressure he didn’t know he was experiencing. That voice-- coming from everywhere and nowhere and why doesn’t anyone else hear it? 

“--most of my life actually,” Janus is… no that’s Dee. Remus knows that’s Dee talking. Who is Janus? The pain in his head is sharp, like a nail driving directly into his cranium, like brain surgery without putting him under, like dying but without the death part. He doesn’t know Janus.

Does he?

“She’s not who she says she is,” Dee finishes. “She’s--”

“I’m growing tired of your stubbornness,” The Prince says in an astounding moment of pure irony that twists Remus’s intestines into knots and loops them around his neck like a noose. “Surrender with dignity, snake.”

“We don’t want to hurt you,” the partner, Zeal, adds.

Dee doesn’t say anything to them. Remus focuses on the sound of his breaths, on the movement of his chest, on the phantom feel of Dee’s lips on his own from so long ago. Remus’s brain whispers about rain on a balcony, about fire in a mall, about gunshots in a casino, but he reaches past that, past everything, past the past itself.

His domain is the future. 

“Are you at your limit?” Dee asks him. “I can do this by myself if I must.”

“What’s a limit?” Remus says. “How much blood is a human supposed to have again?” 

“More than that, dumbass,” that voice says, and Remus blinks because Dee’s head tilts and he looks like he heard it too.

“Virgil,” Dee says in a tone Remus can’t describe. “Come to play?”

Remus is vaguely aware of the techie in purple shifting forward, leaning towards the fight, still shaking from every limb. For a moment, he thinks that maybe this mysterious voice is coming from him, but it’s too clear, too loud, too calm to be from someone wearing a face mask and shaking the way this guy is so far away from where Dee is having his standoff.

“You made a friend,” Virgil, whoever he is, from wherever he is, says. 

“I got lonely,” Dee says. “And bored.”

“Bored enough to become public enemy number one?”

“Enough, Basilisk!” The Prince yells, “Give yourself up! You’re surrounded and you have all of this carnage to take responsibility for! Your partner may continue to hide in the shadows, but you can tell him we will find him and bring him to justice as well!”

“Or her! Or them!” Zeal tacks on. “Or xem-- we’re all inclusive here.” 

“Right!” The Prince says, self righteously. He looks a lot like he does on TV and Remus’s fists itch to punch the screen all over again. “Surrender and end this.”

“You know what will happen if you do,” Virgil’s voice says.

“If the peanut gallery could please keep out of this,” Dee hisses. “That would be nice. I’m thinking.”

“Thinking just like you were when you leapt across that stage?” Remus asks. “Or actually thinking this time?”

Dee makes a face that’s vaguely affronted, a dusting of pink over his ears that Remus might have thought was from exertion if he didn’t know better.

“Do you want an apology?” He asks and Remus is only semi thinking about saying yes you motherfucker, when we get out of this I’m going to strangle you myself because somehow you don’t know what you mean to me at all and you just keep dying and cannot handle watching that again, how did I ever do it the first several billion times? 

“I think an apology is a good start,” The Prince says.

“I was not talking to you,” Dee snaps. 

“I’m giving you fifteen more seconds, snake,” The Prince says, anyway. “Put your hands up and get on the ground or I will put you on the ground myself.”--

-- Dee doesn’t answer, still mulling one of his brilliant plans, or maybe waiting for stage directions from Remus who still hates the theater and everything that comes with it. The hero shifts as the seconds tick, inaudible and yet unmissable. Then The Prince sighs in disappointment and levels his rapier. 

“You leave me no choice,” he says. “Zeal.”

The man in the blue polo grins again at the call and flicks his hands towards Dee, with balls of white light dancing on his fingertips. Dee launches into the air with his wings flicking out, but the Prince is behind him in the next instant jumping and plunging his blade through the thin skin layers between the bones. 

Dee lets out a scream as the blade tears down and out of the wing, like a knife through a sail, like scissors through fabric, like an earring being ripped out of an ear. He flings downwards and hits the ground again and before he can think of moving a soft beam of white light hits him. 

Dee convulses, he yelps, he tries to get up, but the Prince’s boot is on his chest pinning him down again and Dee’s out of tricks.--

--Dee doesn’t answer, still mulling one of his brilliant plans, or maybe waiting for stage directions from Remus who still hates the theater and everything that comes with it.

“Zeal is going to shoot a beam, if you take the sky the Prince gets your wing.” Remus says.

Dee nods, and then without giving anyone any warning he launches towards Zeal, who doesn’t loose his stupid smile at all. He raises a hand like he’s going to high five Dee, and those white lights come out and suck away Dee’s transformation immediately. He lands on the ground at Zeal’s feet, with the asphalt tearing through his human flesh like it’s butter. --

--Dee doesn’t answer, still mulling one of his brilliant plans, or maybe waiting for stage directions from Remus who still hates the theater and thinks he hates it even more now. If he ever has to see another theater he’s going to set it on fire.

“Zeal is going to shoot a beam, if you take the sky the Prince gets your wing. Don’t fucking get near Zeal, dumbass.”

Dee nods and then without any sort of warning he lunges at The Prince, who parries him with his blade. The scales meet metal again and Dee hisses like he might spit venom, but the superhero grunts and forces him back with brute strength and not even Remus screaming give him enough time to prevent The Prince from shifting them around so that Zeal’s white beams of light hit Dee’s back.--

-- Dee doesn’t answer the hero.

“Can’t you turn into a beetle or something? Fly out of this,” Remus says. “Please.”

“That hopeless?” Dee asks him. “Okay.” And then he takes a deep breath and his form ripples and waves and pulls in on himself, like the reverse magic trick of pulling a rabbit out of a hat. 

“ZEAL!” The Prince shouts, and the white lights are flying towards him, even as Dee turns into a beetle and takes to the air. Remus screams as Dee is hit, even in such a small form, even at such a far distance, even against those impossible odds.--

--Dee doesn’t answer and Remus feels like throwing up. They need to win this, they need to get out of this, they need to escape, but Dee can’t and Remus can’t make him and… and... 

And there’s a glint of metal in the corner of his vision.

“You leave me no choice,” The Prince says, and Remus barely hears him because he’s staring at a glock of some police guard long lost and long forgotten and long waiting with the safety off already. 

This is a bad idea. Remus knows this is a bad idea. Its a bad idea, bad idea, bad ide--

-- Dee doesn’t answer and Remus is twenty-one years old with nothing to lose if Dee dies.

“Take The Prince, he’ll parry, but you’re stronger.” Remus says lunging for the gun on the ground because he’s insane and courting Death as much as he’s courting Dee. He's never held a gun before. It feels bad in his hands, feels weird, and strange and not at all like what he thought it was going to feel like.

Dee nods and lunges towards The Prince and Remus points his new glock at Zeal. The trigger practically pulls itself. Isn't that crazy?

The kickback is a shockwave that flies through Remus’s arm making it numb and the sound explodes just like his heart does in his chest. The shot goes wide, but it’s close enough to Zeal that he lets out a scream and his little rays of white light sail over both Dee and the Prince. Remus slams back into the side of the van out of sight of the heroes while his body shakes and his face pulls into a grin for a reason he can't explain. The techie is on the ground, covering the muffs of his headphones to press them tighter to his head.

“PAT!” The Prince shouts. 

“Was that you?” Dee asks. “What the fuck, Re!”

Remus shoves his hands over his nose, stifling the blood flow as much as he can, teargas be damned. His head is thrumping with pain, and Remus wants to scream. His vision is blotchy and patchy like the world’s worst video game. He can barely breathe between the metallic taste in his mouth and the liquid flowing out his nostrils . It’s like throwing himself at a brick wall and expecting a different outcome; he’s at his limit, that limit that Dee told him not to cross, that limit that he’ll gladly ignore if it means that Dee will get out of this safe and sound and--

And he can see a flicker of green light and Dee gasps right before The Prince manages to get under his distracted guard and haul him up in the air. Then there’s green light flickering, dancing, flashing and fading and Dee’s body hits the ground so hard it forms a crater around him and--

-- The Prince steps forward gracefully, gallantly. He walks like he’s standing on the air, filled with an energy that Remus thought only came from drinking five Five Hour Energies and besting Death at hand to hand combat even with that torn up leg. His rapier sways through the air pointing down at Dee’s body.

“Tell your partner to surrender,” the hero commands. “Now.” 

“I didn’t... expect him to do it either!” Dee says and it’s funny, Remus almost thinks that Dee is mad at him. That can’t be right! 

“Give up, Basilisk.” The Prince says again, “Before someone gets hurt.” 

Dee spits a mouthful of blood on the hero’s shoes. “People are already hurt! You are leading them to be hurt more, Prince! The FBE won’t help anyone!”

The Prince hesitates, maybe even uses that rusty brain in his head. “I…You truly believe that? Why can't you just trust me at my word?”

“What is the worth of your word?” Dee shoots back, scales glittering on the side of his face. “Anyone can go back on their words!”

Remus clings to the side of the van with white knuckles, tasting blood on his tongue and in the back of his mouth and on his lips. The hero is thinking, he’s thinking, and Remus thinks that maybe he can cross the distance quick enough to tackle the hero away from Dee and he’ll have a chance to escape.

“That is true,” the hero says. “Perhaps a sign of trust is then in order, then.”

Remus freezes.

The Prince reaches up slowly, plucking at the mask.

He should look away. Remus can’t look away.

Because he knows…he knows that face. He recognizes it. He’s seen that face a hundred million times before. He knows those lips, those brown eyes, that crinkle between his eyebrows and those unruly curls. He knows those cheekbones, and that jawline and the way that head tilts back when he laughs, and curls forward when he cries. Remus knows that face because he’s seen it every time he’s looked in a mirror, he’s been haunted by it for years now, been terrorized in the nights by that face. He’d seen that face covered in blood, that face gasping for air, that face crying and begging and anything to get him to stop, that face staring at him with a hateful vengeful ugly expression and saying “You can’t see the fut--”--

Remus leaves a bloody handprint on the hood of the news van as he vaults it and the techie in purple. His lungs scream in agony, but Remus can’t hear it at all. His heartbeat is thunderous, yet even that is nothing compared to the bloodlust washing over his mind.

Dee’s head whips up, his mouth moving in some type of exclamation, but it doesn’t matter.

Nothing matters other than the rage in his head, in his body, in his veins that floods his limbs with the need to move.

The Prince hears him coming and his rapier comes up in an offensive attack, that Remus blocks with his left forearm. The blade sinks into his flesh and blood pours down Remus’s elbow and on the asphalt and the only thing he can think is that falling off the balcony, that getting run over on highways, that falling asleep in a motel bathtub with bloody keys in his hands, all hurt a hundred times worse than this itty, bitty little scratch.

He laughs.

"Hey Roman!" Remus says in a parody of a delighted tone, and The Prince stumbles back. "It’s been a while!"

[Chapter Eight]

[do-y0u-have-to-let-it-linger]

EXT. The Roof (Winter) - Sunset

Not Just Attracted to Women!Peter Maximoff x Fem and Not Just Attracted to Men!Reader

Based off of a dream I recently had: Peter and Y/N have a conversation on the roof of Xavier's in mid-December. Peter accidentally lets it slip that he might not be straight, and he is afraid that Y/N will think less of him because of it because this is the 80s. Y/N reveals that she is also not straight, and is saddened by the fact that Peter could think that she could ever hate him- especially for that. She calls him wonderful. Feelings ensue. Also, a touch of Cherik at the end because I give the people what they want.

Warnings: Swearing, Peter cries, internalized homophobia (this is the 80s-ish and Peter uses the word 'queer' in a kind of incorrect and kind of offensive manner, but it was internalized homophobia and not actually intended to be mean to anyone but himself so I forgive him), a touch of angst but mostly fluff, Charles called you two "children" even though you are obviously not, Erik is happy that his son has someone that cares about him the way you do, Peter is insecure but not super blunt about it, Peter has been deprived of being adored his entire life, bad writing, I mention a serial killer twice, historical inaccuracy because the word queer was still a slur so yeah.

A/N: This is literally the first thing I have ever written so please be nice to me, I wrote this instead of an essay. I would love a comment of any kind, even if it's just a heart emoji or something, and constructive criticism would be highly appreciated. Also 'N/N' stands for nick-name.

(Ok, so, full discloser: the format is odd. The bullet points represent dialogue, and the only dialogue is between you two love birds. The first bullet point is Peter, the second is Y/N, the third is Peter, and so on.)

“I dunno, the whole ‘liking people’ thing has always been weird for me.”

“How do you mean?"

“Pppffftt- 'how do you mean,' what are you, Shakespeare or somethin’?”

“Yeah, because that’s the era when ‘how do you mean' would have been a popular term. Ok, what do you mean?”

“Just- when other people were liking people I never really was?”

He was gesturing wildly and avoiding eye contact, as always. He wasn't uncomfortable with eye contact, he just got bored easily in conversations, he needed to keep himself occupied. In this situation that meant staring at the red and green lights covering the rest of the roof, the snowy trees all over the yard, and a holly garland around the gate. Peter wasn't Christian, but man, did he love their Christmas decorations.

“Like… now? In school?”

“Well- yeah… but also when I was younger. And I never liked the right people? Or... liked them in the right way?”

“So you’ve never liked anyone.”

“No, no… I definitely have. It was just… weird! I don't-”

His hands dropped to his side in defeat.

“I don’t think it’s that out of the ordinary. I would tell you if it was. Also, if it was... 'weird', like you said, that wouldn’t mean it was necessarily bad.”

He hadn’t really heard what she said, he was too busy pondering what his next sentence would be. When she wasn't speaking, he was rambling.

"I had some of the normal crap… like in movies when they talk about the fluttery stomach junk. I've had that around a few girls I've been friends with, also that phase with the boy stuff, a-"

“Wait, what phase with the boy stuff?”

“Like- when you’re in middle school or whatever and you're gay for a second.”

His phrasing was a joke, but the statement as a whole was not.

“…‘Gay for a second’?”

“…Yeah?”

“Hmmm..."

"Is that- not-"

"I don't think that is... 'normal'... per-say..."

“Oh… Really?”

His heart sunk.

“…Yeah.”

“Huh.”

“…Mhm.”

“…Shit.”

He suddenly looked almost embarrassed. He shifted his posture, seemingly trying to shrink into himself.

“Do you... wanna chat about it?”

Panic started to slowly rise in him.

“Um- forget I said anything.”

“Why?”

Something in him said to go on the "defense". He did not appear as calm as he was intending to.

“I’m not- gay! or anything. I like girls! I do!”

She put her hand on his arm.

“Hey- look at me for a second. We are not in court, and I never 'accused' you of being gay. That would be a very funny reality TV show, but not what is happening right now. Listen, theoretically if you were gay that wouldn’t be bad! And I wouldn’t be… whatever you.. think that I would be? I mean- however you are afraid I would act in a negative reaction to it? I would try to be here for you, and be as supportive as possible.”

He didn’t believe her.

“Ok, sure.”

“Peter.”

“What? You’re going to tell me that you would honestly be friends with a queer person- be friends with me if I was... not... normal?”

She was taken aback by his tone, the word he had used, and the way he said it, felt like a weight dropping on her shoulders.

“Oh. would you… not?”

It was her turn to seem nervous.

“What?”

“Would you- stop being friends with someone for liking someone that they… I don’t know… shouldn’t... would be the word I guess?”

Why, in this situation, was she nervous? Oh. His fear was replaced with guilt.

“No.”

“Ok.”

“So… are you… do you… why were you scared?”

“... Why were you?”

She expected a joke from him, something along the lines of “touché".

“Are you… gay?”

“No.”

Yeah, he didn’t believe her.

“Uh-huh”

“Really, I’m not. I’ve liked boys, but also... I've had feelings for girls. I’m not… straight. So I just want to let you know that it’s okay if you aren’t too.”

“I never s-“

She smiled at him with a bit of pity, she had been there. The self-loathing, the feeling of walking on minefields with so many people in your life.

“You are…”

She paused.

“I am… what?”

“Give me a second I’m trying to find the perfect word.”

“… Okay?”

“Wonderful.”

That was not exactly the word he was expecting. Like, at all.

“Huh?”

“That’s the word. Wait- let me start over. You gotta look me in my eyes as I say it, because it’s gonna be really poetic.”

“Uh… should I be scared?”

“No. Maybe a little. No.”

“… Okay.”

He looked at her.

“You are… wonderful.”

“Oh... Thanks?“

He looked away again, to be honest, he was a bit uncomfortable. He rarely received compliments, especially ones that seem so... genuine.

“I’m not finished, look back at me, just for a second. You are so wonderful- and I will support you as whatever you are! I want you to know that I can- I can barely even think of something you could do that would make me genuinely hate you- like… maybe if you Dahmer-ed people or like chopped up a-“

He found this was amusing, yet disturbing.

“Y/N?”

“Sorry- I just- the fact that you thought, even for a second, that I could hate you… is just-“

“I’m sorry”

“No! Stop it. Don’t be sorry.”

She stared at him expectantly.

“What do you want me to-“

“Take it back! The sorry!”

“How?”

“Say you aren’t sorry”

“N/N-“

“Peter.”

“Ok. I’m, ya know, not sorry.”

“Good. You shouldn’t be”

“You’re weird.”

“Yuh-huh. Says the most likely, from the little information I've gathered, bisexual in denial who also happens to be the fastest boy on earth who had to slow down exponentially to interact with other people who also, also, happens sitting on a roof in the dead of winter with me.”

“What’s by smexual?”

Something about the way he attempted to repeat her words must have been hilarious, he thought, because here she was, sitting in front of him, in a fit of childish giggles. He would smile if he weren't so confused.

“No- that’s not- what I said- it’s… wait!”

“What?”

“You’re tryna get me off topic!”

“Am not!”

“Are too!”

“Am not!”

“Am not!”

“Are t- shit.”

“HAHA! Victory is a sweet dessert... wait is that even the saying? Still, I win you lose, nerd.”

“Ok, okay! go on.”

She was attempting to gather herself to give off a less jokey aura. It was half working, the "am not! are too!" argument a few moments ago made it hard for him to take her seriously, but he could tell it was important to her that he did, so he tried his best.

“You have to look at me again. just for a second.”

“I sw-”

“Just do it? Please?”

His attempt to put up a fight was thwarted by her small "please". He was pathetic.

“Okay.”

He looked at her.

“You…”

“Me… or- wait- I…”

“Are w-“

“Wonderful, yeah yeah. just get to the n-”

“No.”

“… No?”

“When you say it it doesn’t encapsulate it. It sounds silly.”

“Ok little miss ‘you art thou wonderful’, how would you have me say it?”

“I am you wonderful?”

“What?”

“You called me ‘little miss you are you wonderful’ what does that-“

“Ok! Would you just- shut up and call me wonderful one more time, please?”

She looked at him and blinked. That sentence surely came off as less ironic than intended.

“You are wonderful.”

She grabbed his face, in a half-joking manner. Her grab smushed his cheeks and she couldn't help but laugh a bit when she did it. Even though it was clearly a bit, he was still flustered.

“W-“

She shook him a bit.

"Shut up 'cause I'm about to say some beautiful and true shit. You are wonderful. You are wonderful. You are wonderful. You are absolutely, unchangingly, and irrevocably wonderful and there is absolutely nothing you can do about it, Maximoff.”

After saying what she would (in 40 years or so) recall as a painfully John Green-ish statement in her blunt and matter-of-fact manner, she let go of her semi-ironic hold on his pink cheeks. Were his cheeks pink because it was absolutely freezing, or because his heart was beating faster than he had ever (and would ever, mind you) run, you ask? No comment.

“Wow.”

“Wow what.”

“You do say it better than I do.”

“Did you like how I stressed different parts of the sentence each time? I thought that was a nice detail.”

“Wow.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Wow.”

Did his voice just... break a little?

“Peter?”

“Uh- yeah?”

Was he a little... sniffle-y? She was now very concerned.

“Are you okay?!”

“Oh- um... yeah!”

No! No he was clearly not! He was sniffling!

“Really? 'Cause, you don't seem it.”

“It’s just- I just- wow.”

“Wow, what!?”

“That was just- uh-"

“Just what? It really wasn't that fancy, you seem much too impressed with me. Oh my God, was it terrible?”

“I mean it was really corny but w-“

“I swear to God if you say 'wow' one more time I may have to add ‘use of the word wow too much’ to the list of things that could make me hate you. Right next to the Dahmer stuff. That was a joke. Your use of the word wow is only mildly perturbing. Sorry."

She was panicking "just a bit".

“I’m sorry, I mean I’m not sorry. Sorry. Shit! sorry! I mean I’m not!”

And he was absolutely... full-on crying at this point.

“Peter.”

“Yeah?”

He was looking down at his mittens. Not that this is important, but they were very pretty mittens.

“Look at me, you klepto.”

He didn’t.

“You know- I’ve been hearing a lot of that 'look at me' stuff from you today. I mean- the klepto part is new-“

“Peter.”

“What?!”

He peaked up at her.

“Talk to me. Please, you're kinda scaring me, let me help.”

“I’m not sad!”

“You’re crying!”

“Yeah but not from the sads!”

“… The ‘sads’?”

“You know- when you get sad! It just means being sad! I don't- that’s what Wanda calls it, not me!"

He wiped his nose, tears still running down from his puffy eyes to his reddened cheeks.

“What are you crying from?”

“No one’s ever called me wonderful before.”

“I'm sorry! I did a few minutes ago and you didn’t cry!”

“No! You can't 'sorry' me if I can't 'sorry' you! And- yeah but that doesn’t count!”

“Why?”

“Because it only felt big when you said it the certain way!”

“What way!?”

“You look at me, you grab my cheeks-“

“I'm sorry about that by the way I was j-“

“No! It’s really ok! Do it whenever! I mean don’t do it whene- shut up!”

“I’m not even talking! You're the one talking!”

“You look at me, you grab my cheeks, and you go: you are wonderful.”

“Yeah???”

“No one ever called me that before!”

"Peter, I- well- they- they should! They should! More often! Then the amount that it happens now! I think. In my opinion."

"Or really looked at me like that!”

“Looked at you like what, Peter?”

“Like I was somethin’!”

“Well, you are… ‘somethin'! Whatever that means! And- I think you deserve to be looked at as such!”

“See?”

“What!?”

“You just-��

A strangled sob escaped from his throat. He didn't know how to explain.

“Pete.”

“Ew. I hate that nickname.”

He crossed his arms over his chest like a toddler, trying to completely ignore the fact that he was an emotional wreck.

“Peter.”

“Yeah?”

She opened her arms and gestured for him to come closer. He was hesitant at first- but gave up all the reasons he shouldn't move to be closer to her in exchange for the promise of comfort she was offering him. He crawled over to her and curled up in her arms. The way she held him made him want to cry more. Who does she think she is- holding him like he was worth holding? With her chin sitting on top of his hair? Letting him do that gross cry sob with the spit and the snot into her only winter coat? Rocking him, and shushing him, and petting his stupid, silver hair? She was warm, too! The audacity of this woman.

When Erik brought Charles into his office to grab a chess set, they saw the two in the window. For a moment Charles considered telling Peter and Y/N to get off of the high platform, seeing as the two were the reasons the "no sitting on the roof" rule was enacted in the first place (neither of them were coordinated whatsoever). Charles quickly dropped this notion when he saw the look on Erik's face, Charles could tell it made him so happy to see Peter be held like that, cared for like that. Erik's expression made Charles want to both tell Erik that he is the most precious thing in the world, and make fun of him (look at Mr. Metal, gone completely soft). Possibly he could do both at the same time. But for now, he is just going to pretend he didn't see the two outside of the window, and have Erik grab them their game, go to the living room, and pretend not to have read Erik's mind when he inevitably asks him how he always manages to pick the white chess piece at "random".

[weaverofthreads]

On the process of writing a novel...

Ok, so this began as a DM to a very dear friend who had said they were super excited to work on a novel of theirs that they'd abandoned for years, but they felt a bit lost when looking at the project again. They had "too many characters, too many intrigues" and they didn't "know how to create order" for all their ideas. They didn't know "what to keep, what to remove, what to change" and wanted to know if I had any tips.  

I began to reply in messages and then realised I needed to make a whole post out of it, so here it is! All 3k words of it. This is for you, darling! I hope it helps.

Things I found extremely helpful when planning my novel for NaNoWriMo this year, after also taking some time off from it.  

Most of this comes from Alicia Lidwina’s Four-Part article on her NaNoWriMo prep process, and setting up a writer’s notebook, for 2018. You can find the link to the first part here and I highly recommend you check out the whole series of articles for a more in-depth read. 

Content of this ‘essay’: 

Preparation, Groundwork, and Materials

Project 'Stats' & Overview  

Mood, Moodboards, and Key Imagery

Things to Consider, and Important Bullet Points

Get to Know Your Characters  

Chronological Order

Tangential and Preceding Events

Basic Premise, Plot Definition, Sub Plot Ideas  

List of Locations

Scenes

Chapter Outline

NaNo Plan

Additional Notes and Tips for Writing

Ok. Let's begin.  

First of all, I'm not saying that this is the only way to write or organise a novel. It can be tackled in as many ways as there are writers in the universe. This is just the method I used to get my ideas crystallised and organised. 

Preparation, Groundwork, and Materials.  

Take your preparation seriously. I bought a cheap but still nice A4 sketchbook with blank paper for maybe £2 at the local hobby store, and used it solely for the purposes of being my Novel Notebook. It doesn’t have to be a pretty, perfect, Aesthetic(TM) journal at all. Its function is to act as a route-guide through the process.  

I bought a cute sticker from Etsy and used it as the front cover design so that I liked the book and that it felt a little bit special, without being too intimidating to put a mark in. Then I left the very first page blank, and opened it to the first double page. On the left, I wrote ‘Contents’ and then moved on to the right and wrote ‘Project Stats and Overview’.  

I used a pen that was comfortable to write with, which for me was important. I’m a very tactile person, and having nice paper and pens (not necessarily fancy), made the process feel good.

Project Stats and Overview

This is the bare bones of the book, and includes details such as:

Project Working Title: (in my case it’s Weaver of Threads)

Targeted Wordcount: (to give yourself an idea of the scope, but it’s not necessary. For me it’s 50-100k)

Genre: (for me, fantasy)

Series: (will it be one book or more? For me, probably more than one, and at least two).  

Inspiration: (here you can jot down all sorts of things which inspire your world and your writing, and it can be anything. In my case, I began with “density and lore, and feeling of being grounded in a real world from LOTR and Tolkien.” And I went on to include other writers and novels in the fantasy genre, as well as elements from our own world, such as Mongolian herding communities and way of life, the history of the Persian Empire, and Renaissance Florence!).  

Project Timeline: Give yourself a structure, and be realistic. If you know you’re a slow writer who’s prone to distractions, be generous, but if you’re someone who responds well to short deadlines, tighten the time frame up a bit. I said “November 2020 - November 2021 for the whole manuscript” because I know I’m a procrastinator who gets dejected if they shoot past intense deadlines….

Editing Deadline: December 2021-January 2022. I know I can edit fairly quickly, so I made this one much shorter.  

Main Requirements Prior to Starting: What do you need to get sorted before you can get going? It could be purchasing a laptop or figuring out a magic system. In my case, it was the latter.  

What Happens in your novel?: This is not ‘what do your characters do?’, but what, in one sentence, actually happens in the book. For Fellowship of the Ring, you could say ‘a diverse group of people assemble and set off together with the goal of destroying the Ring’. LOADS more stuff actually takes place, obviously, but that’s probably the key thing that happens in that book. So, write the same thing for yours. I’m not going to tell you what happens in mine, because that would spoil it :).  

That took up the first A4 page of my writer’s notebook, and after that, I moved on to Mood and Key Imagery. 

Mood, Moodboards, and Key Imagery

On the left hand side of the page, I wrote down the words and concepts that sprang to mind when I thought of the novel itself. These were in no particular order or placement — just a random cloud of ideas in a rough column on the left hand side of the page — and they included: history, mystery, love, friendship, betrayal, nostalgic, homesick, sense of belonging, sense of place, searching, closeness, secrets… etc. etc.

Then on the right hand side, I wrote down five key words that I wanted to associate with the novel. These would form the ‘visual aesthetic’ in the background of my mind, and could be very easily expressed with a moodboard.

This same process (writing down words and creating a moodboard) could be achieved on a website like Pinterest. Take your time with it, find the right visual clues that really match the essence of your story, and create a final mood board with a limited number of panels that will be your novel’s ‘true north’ when it comes to feelings. If you're artistically inclined too, you could draw sketches of things relevant to your world too.  

While this stage is really important for solidifying the feeling and mood of the novel, don’t get stuck here and spend forever procrastinating on Pinterest or whatever. Once you’ve crystallised that ambiance, it’s time to move on. It’s also perfectly fine to come back to this at a later stage if you find yourself running out of inspiration or drifting a bit. Daydreaming, drawing, mood-board-ing are all great ways to work on your novel on days when you don’t feel like writing.

Things to Consider:

Alicia Lidwina asked herself some questions which helped me get past the ‘block’ that I’d created when thinking about the novel, and those were:

What scares me about this story? (in my case it was the scope of it - it was easy for me to get lost in over-thinking tiny details and get too overwhelmed to handle the big picture)

What will readers take away from it? (in my case, I hoped that it was a sense of friendship, people from desperate cultures finding common ground, and a sense of being grounded in a real, tangible world.

What is its selling point? (essentially, why would an agent/publisher choose yours over the next one in the pile?). Don’t be bashful about this. This is your notebook, so if you’re proud of a feature or aspect of the story, write it down. In my case, there is no ‘Big Bad come to destroy the world’, no Chosen One who is the only one who can stop it. There is an antagonist, but it’s on a personal scale, and that’s the selling point. It’s about two people going on a personal journey to uncover a lost piece of knowledge that’s arguably not all that world-changing on its own, but which means the world to them.  

What will be the three biggest issues in writing the first draft? Identify the three biggest roadblocks, and then take a bulldozer to them. For me, it was time management, getting mentally stuck, and the sheer darned effort of it becoming overwhelming!

Important Bullet Points  

These are five key facts about your novel, distilled from the sections above. They include: What’s at the heart of the story? How long is the story? What’s the narrative focus of the story? What are the maximum number of main characters? And the maximum number of supporting characters (this obviously doesn’t mean you can’t have other, less important characters too!)?  

Relationship between the two main characters is forefront

50-100k words

The novel’s focus is on the characters’ main goal (had to be more vague here so I didn't give it away)

2 main characters

3 supporting characters  

If you find you’ve got too many main characters (not necessarily a bad thing to have a lot of characters - look at A Song of Ice and Fire after all!), then figure out whose story you want to tell here. You can always write another story with other characters in a connected novel, or a sequel. You don’t have to tell everything all at the same time.  

Speaking of characters… 

…Get to Know Your Main Characters:  

Here you can write character sheets for each of your main characters and cast. There are hundreds of these templates available on the internet, asking questions like ‘how would your character react to [insert event]?’ etc. to get to know your character. If this isn’t your thing (it isn’t mine) then at least write down some useful information about them. Rough height and weight, hair, eye and skin colour, general temperament, and any other defining physical or mental traits. 

Next came the Chronological Order

This does not have to represent the final order of the novel’s structure, nor the order in which you write the manuscript, but you need to know what happened within the timeline, and when, in order to be really clear when you’re telling the story. You can write the manuscript out of order, and you can tell the story with flashbacks or in a different order, but you need to have the underlying chronology securely in place so that your writing makes sense and so that you don’t confuse yourself or the readers in the process.  

Preceding and Tangential Events

These don’t need to be in the novel itself, but it may be important to define the sequence of events that also led up to the moment where we pick up your story, and what is happening elsewhere so that you can be sure of these too. In my case, I defined the events that concerned one of the supporting characters’ lives so that I knew how and why they were at the point they are in the story. It relates directly to - and heavily influences - the events of the novel, so I needed to have this person’s history nailed down as well, even though I don't tell it all explicitly in the book (because that would be unnecessary and a bit dull).  

Basic Premise, Plot Definition, and Sub-Plot Ideas (plus writing a synopsis)

Alicia Lidwina defined the story premise helpfully with the following formula:

Story Premise = Main Character + Desire + Obstacle

Pick a different colour for each of these components, and write a short paragraph to explain them in the context of the novel. Alicia Lidwina used the following:

[Main Character] “Harry, an orphan who didn’t know that he’s a wizard, [Desire] got invited into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and wanted to live his school life to its fullest, [Obstacle] but a certain Dark Lord who killed his parents is trying to rise into powers again and kill him in revenge.

Do this for your novel, and keep it really short.  

Plot Definition: This is even shorter than that! It’s a single sentence!! It’s most closely tied to the desire of the character, and lies at the heart of the story. It’s most likely a distilled version of the ‘what happens in the story’ from the Project Stats page, so check that to see what you wrote there.  

Sub Plot Ideas  

Five bullet points (no more) for things that are happening concurrently and which are related in some way to the main story. For me, Kae and Tomas are doing their research, so that’s the main theme, but beneath that there are a few other related incidents.

Writing a Synopsis - developed out of the points in this section, and includes:

Who the main character is

What the stakes are (the story premise is your guideline)

What the main plot line is

How the MC resolves the problem in the main plot line

How the book ends.

List of Locations  

Start with the main ones and add to it as you go on. Write a little bit of information about them so that you have something to refer back to. I also drew a big old map which I found very helpful and also really fun to do.

List of Scenes

It’s very important to map out every single scene that happens in the novel. Use your timeline to help with this, but remember a scene is not necessarily a chapter. You can have more than one scene within a chapter, but try not to have too many.  

I used small post-it notes (sticky notes) and wrote down things like “M joins K’s clan at the fire and K learns about magic” and “K studies at Citadel, intro to Citadel, magic, and characters” as separate scenes. Once you’ve written down everything that is going to happen (this will take some time! Get a drink and some snacks ready, and go slow), you can stick them into your notebook in the order you’d like to tell the story. Some chapters may have just one scene, while others may have two or three. I didn’t have more than two in any of my chapters, and actually ended up splitting some scenes that I’d made too vague in this section into more chapters. It doesn’t have to be set in stone, but it will form a road map.  

Additions and Notes:  

I left a section of the Scene Outline bit of the notebook blank for things to add in as I went along. I haven’t used it yet, but I might.  

Chapter Outline

I arranged the scenes into the chapters already by sticking them in order, but you could do a chapter outline separately after this. It’s up to you. 

NaNoWriMo plan:  

I did this back in October, and wrote down the main goal for nanoprep, which was to finish the background info. Breaking that down further, I listed - magic (how does it work exactly), geography, and politics. 

After that, it was just a case of writing the 1667 words a day. *spoilers, I got distracted and didn’t do NaNo this year* . What I should have done, was break it up into chunks and write down my goals so that I had something tangible to use as a road map, and I will be doing that now for the novel as I take it up again outside of NaNo. Having check boxes and manageable goals really works for me. Find what will work for you, and if it turns out not to, adapt!

Some final pointers and tips:

Set regular goals for yourself. Whether you work by saying ‘I’ll write 1000 words a day’ or ‘I’ll write something every day’, make a structure for yourself. If you slip and miss a day, week, or month (I didn’t meet NaNo this year because I chose to work on another project instead *slaps forehead*), don’t beat yourself up. Writing is a craft and it takes a long time and a lot of discipline to master a craft.  

Your first draft does not have to be good. At all. Your first draft is just words on paper. A first draft is the block of marble taken from the quarry, and subsequent edits and reworking is the process of carving the sculpture itself. The editing that is done by the publisher or the professional you employ to edit it for you later, is the final polishing. Don’t be demoralised if the block of marble seems very rough when it first lands in your studio. That’s ok!  

Take regular breaks. Writing is hard work, and most people can’t concentrate on something successfully for longer than 55 min's, and if you’re doing that, you’re already doing really well. Personally, I’m at 15-20 on a good day. Write in little sprints of ten minutes or so, and then get up and stretch, look out the window, maybe leave the room, come back in with a fresh approach.  

Stretch your hands, and wear wrist braces when you work. Seriously. I gave myself tendinitis on my first major project, and couldn’t use either hand properly for weeks. The ones I have are these, and they allow me to work safely for much longer.  

Keep hydrated. Have a bottle of water on the desk in front of you between your arms as you type and sip it, otherwise you’ll forget. 2 litres a day is usually recommended, but know your body and drink accordingly.  

Treat yourself. Whether that’s something as simple as a decadent hot chocolate after your first chapter/chunk/sprint is done, or a new notebook or a pen or that sticker set you wanted on Etsy or literally anything nice, reward yourself for the hard work you’ve put in, with tangible things you can look at or experience and say ‘I have that because I did the work’. It’ll help with your sense of achievement, especially if the project is a long one.  

Join a local writer’s group for feedback. With the current Covid-19 chaos, this is probably not possible right now, but getting constructive feedback on your work from someone who hasn’t been cocooned in the project in the way you are, but who respects you as a writer and wants to help you grow, will be invaluable. It’s too easy to exist in a little isolated bubble and think you’re doing ok, when in reality you could be creating bad habits which will be difficult to break later. By these, I mean things like ‘filler words’ you don’t realise you use, or other pit-falls it’s easy to tumble into when you can’t see the wood for the trees…It’s intimidating, and it might take some courage to work up and do, but I promise it’ll help you grow. You don’t have to do what the people suggest, but it’s great to get outside opinions all the same.

Submit work to writing competitions. This will help with showing agents and publishers later down the line that you’re not only committed, but hopefully talented, and will help you to push yourself. Use the world of your novel for the setting, and get to know it by writing short stories on the competition’s theme set there.  

Read. Read the writers you admire, and read them ‘actively’ - figure out exactly what it is about ‘that’ sentence that made you shiver, and use the same techniques in your own work (don’t plagiarise, obviously, but if it was alliteration that made the sentence work so well, use it yourself! Perhaps it was the metre of the line? Great, now you know a rhythm that will drive a sentence forward or slow it down etc.)

Enjoy it. If you’re not enjoying what you’re doing, it’ll show in the work. Take a step back if you start floundering, and ‘interview’ yourself about why it’s not fun any more. Refer back to the sections in the notebook that helped to clarify the plot/process, and see if you’ve wandered away from them. Make yourself answer questions like: ‘What is the main reason I don’t want to do this?’ ‘What is the character’s motivation?’ ‘Should I scrap this section?’ (don’t delete it, but cut and paste it into another ‘scraps’ document, and then start afresh from the last place you were happy with. Nothing is wasted - it all goes into building the world and getting to know the characters, even if it doesn’t get explicitly told in the finished product, so don’t be afraid to do that last bit).  

Good luck!

I hope you found this helpful, and if you have any questions or things you’d like to add to this, please feel free to send me an ask here on Tumblr.

If you’re a new writer hoping to get an agent or publisher, you might also find this post on ‘talking to a published author’ helpful or interesting.

If you would like to keep up to date with my own novel’s progress, you can follow me here on Tumblr, as well as on my writing Instagram @rnpeacock

[yukiwrites]

Khalid, Nervous

Thank you so much for the support and patience as always, @xpegasusuniverse !! This was a blast to write, so I hope you like it!

Summary: Khalid walked towards the path of being crowned King of Almyra, though he still had some time to go. Before he could begin the plan to open the borders to Fódlan, he planned to receive a diplomatic envoy to foster better understanding between the nations. However, he found suspicious that Balthus was so quiet lately...

Commission info HERE and HERE!

__________________________

Although Almyra, the state itself, never played an actual part in the civil war in Fódlan due to both countries’ constant animosity, some people at the castle named the upcoming diplomatic meeting as ‘Seeing old allies again’.

Honestly, from where Khalid was coming from, that was a great step. The few Almyran that helped deal with Nemesis and all that he entailed went back home filled with pride, talking about the fast friends they had made there during all of that fighting.

Even though it had been a few months since the end of the war, the lock at Fódlan’s Throat was still tightly closed, which was a given, honestly. Fódlan still needed to put itself back on its feet with its internal affairs before considering its neighbors -- this diplomatic mission was to be the first step into opening the borders from both sides to allow for a friendly relationship between them.

Since many of the people ‘from the top’, as some of the Almyran soldiers called, from both sides already knew each other, this first meeting was more of a formality than one to hold any true political meaning. After all, Khalid was still to be crowned as King, and the first bullet point in his agenda after the coronation was to start the peace talks for good.

As he was still a prince; and as Fódlan was still restructuring itself under Byleth and the reformed Church of Seiros, they were simply setting up the common ground for the people to start getting used to the news of both nations being on friendly terms.

Still, that did not mean that the meeting was of any less importance, especially considering those who would be coming as representatives: Lorenz as the head apparent of House Gloucester, accompanied by his fiancée, Leonie, as the political ambassadors; while Hilda would come as a ‘cultural ambassador’ as she called herself in her last letter.

It would be a breath of fresh air to meet with his old classmates, especially with those who weren’t a constant thorn at his side… and those who weren’t blatantly hitting on his parents…

“Hahh… I was doing such a good job not thinking about it for one hour.” Claude slumped on the pile of papers he needed to go over to prepare everything for the ambassadors’ arrival. Since this was an initiative of his own as the Crown Prince, Claude was the one responsible for everything.

Of course, Tiana and Arash would meet them as the heads of state, but since Khalidwas already at the end of his studies to be the head of government, their role was more of open support rather than a decision-making one. Claude wouldn’t become King in a year or two; but since diplomatic relations between countries was a sensitive matter, it would be better to put it to motion while he was still a prince.

Such a trail of thought brought him back to his own position as a prince and how his parents, the King and Queen, had a permanent pest going after them… all by Claude’s doing.

Khalid scratched the back of his neck, then ran his hands through his head in an attempt to bring back the peace of mind he had worked hard to attain for the past hour.

Balthus had basically decided that he would be living off of the castle for the rest of his life -- or at least that was what he seemed to have planned, at least. He had memorized the rulers’ schedules to the point that he knew when and where to ambush them to demand for a spar or to simply be beaten up by Tiana for flirting with Arash.

It seemed as though he liked to be beat up by her, to which Khalid decided that was the most thought he would put in that specific matter. He couldn’t say it was all bad, however. Of course, it was still 90% bad; but the not-so-bad 10%, the one that Balthus actually pulled his own weight, made it hard for Khalid to always be mad at him. He usually either helped with the townsguard training, patrolling, or even ran errands for them here and there, though that last one was so eventual it might be non-existent.

Still, Claude was more than embarrassed to meet again with Lorenz, Leonie and Hilda while Balthus was making himself so at home he might start walking around in his undergarments at any time…

The thought brought a shiver down Claude’s spine, making him sit up straight. After being tense for a few moments, the prince exhaled and shook his head. “This isn’t like me,” he sighed, “whether I like it or not, I know the guy too well by now, so I can prepare for any… scene he might cause. Anyway,” he cracked his neck and knuckles, focusing his attention on the papers, “let’s get these over with right away. The ambassadors are set to arrive soon…”

Preparations for the diplomatic delegation weren’t all that hard, nor were they extense. The Crown couldn’t be seen spending much on a visit that was more of a formality towards the first step to the peace talks -- as most almyrans still held prejudices against the fodlanese, the process had to be gradual.

In the near future, they would allow for tourists to travel between countries, as a way to let the people mingle and let the preconceived notions melt away naturally. For now, however, the task at hand was to welcome Khalid’s former classmates.

They were to be brought over to the castle grounds by the palace guard, where they would greet Khalid first. Then, they would be shown to their quarters to freshen up just enough for them to get ready for the modest welcome banquet prepared for them -- where they would meet the king and queen. It was scheduled that they would only meet Balthus then, though it was anyone’s guess if he would comply or not.

In Balthus’ mind, he wasn’t unreasonable -- well, he knew he could act on impulse sometimes, but he was one to follow the orders of those he chose to bow his head to. Wasn’t he a model student back at the Officer’s Academy? He, too, could sit back and wait for his turn.

Such a mindset was what Khalid counted on, honestly; though it wouldn’t be nearly as much trouble for Balthus to meet the fodlanese envoys earlier than him sneaking closer to the king and queen…

“Ahem!” Claude cleared his throat as he stood in wait for the escorts to bring the ambassadors to the main hall. It would do him no good to dread something that was beyond his control -- he had to better himself to BE able to control the matter in the future.

As if on cue, the court marshal prepared to announce the foreign guests. “Lady Hilda Valentine Goneril of the Goneril Duchy has arrived! Count Lorenz Hellman Gloucester and Lady Leonie Pinelli from the Gloucester County have arrived!” He shouted as the large doors were pushed open to reveal them. Once they stepped in, he continued, “guests from Fódlan, you stand in the presence of our kingdom’s light, prince Khalid inb Arash!”

Hilda was the first to enter due to her higher status as the daughter of a duke, though she wore her usual carefree smile. She made sure to bow politely, showcasing proper respect towards the prince in front of her. “Whoa, KHALID, huh? It’s gonna take a while to get used to that, even if I’ve been reading your signature on your letters lately!” She giggled, running to his side to allow for Lorenz and Leonie’s greeting.

“Lorenz Hellman Gloucester greets the light of Almyra, prince Khalid ibn Arash,” he bowed respectfully, his well-trimmed and slick hair falling down on his shoulders.

On the other hand, Leonie looked from Hilda to Lorenz then back at Claude, shrugging at the end. “Uh, hi there, Claude, long time no see.” She greeted with half a bow, wearing her usual smile.

“Haha! Yes, yes, welcome!” He opened both arms as if to hug them all at once, though he only patted their shoulders. “It’s great to meet all of you again, now without needing any secrets.”

“... Any secrets, your highness?” Lorenz raised one eyebrow in doubt, raising himself back to his height after Claude’s pat.

“You know me, Lorenz,” Khalid winked, then turned around. “Now, you all must be exhausted from the long trip! You’ll be escorted to your rooms, so enjoy our hospitality until the banquet later tonight.”

“Sending me away so soon?” Hilda complained, stretching as she walked beside Claude. “Well, not that I’m against it. I’m beat! I wanna rest! My back hurts!”

“Hahaha, that’s the Hilda I know and love!” Khalid threw his head back in laughter. “I’m sure you’ll feel comfortable with the service here, so go on have a soak at Almyra’s special hot tub bath…” He lowered his voice as if speaking a secret, though it was more for suspense rather than secrecy. He knew how much Hilda loved scented baths and being pampered.

That made the young woman’s eyes sparkle. “Woohoo! No need to tell me twice!” She sped up in front, following the servants that were guiding them.

“Whoa, Claude, I mean, Khalid-” Leonie approached, “even though we exchanged letters, it’s still hard to believe that you were a prince all along! I never would’ve guessed.”

“You can call me Claude if you want, I know some people will never get used to it…” Khalid trailed off, then cleared his throat. “Anyway, you gotta tell me how the mercenary's life's been treating you at dinner. I heard you were rounding up Jeralt’s men…”

“Yeah, it’s been a blast! It’s hard work, sure, but finishing up a job to help folks is always worth it in the end.” Leonie crossed her arms behind her head. “Besides, we’re mostly taking requests from Lorenz here to help stabilize the Alliance.”

“Rather, the territory that used to be the Alliance, Leonie.” Lorenz pinched in, coughing as though to announce that he was there as well.

“Yeah, that’s what I meant! Fódlan’s united and all, but us folks are still getting used to the new names and stuff.” Leonie bobbed her head to the side. “It won’t matter much for the commoners at the bottom of the food chain, but we’re doing what we can to help them.”

Khalid watched the couple with a smile, remembering how close they had gotten with each other during the war. It was to the point that the news of their engagement didn’t come as a surprise to him -- or to any of their classmates, for that matter -- since it was obvious that their hearts were with each other.

Now, they worked together as the noble that looked at the big picture and the commoner that helped pick out the details that would affect the common people the most, which was a great combination, honestly.

At the banquet, when Tiana commented on being cautious over the ‘Gloucester heir’ as she bitterly referred to Lorenz, Khalid made his point.

“To be honest, Mother, he was kind of like what you’re imagining when we were students. He still had his own kind of honor and felt much better than his father, but there was some stuck-upness to him that was unbearable at the time. But he got more agreeable after the war. Heck, even during it, too.”

“That’s high praise coming from you, Son.” Arash laughed under his wine cup.

Tiana narrowed her eyes at the Lorenz and Leonie duo, already seated at their appointed seat by the table closest to the royal family’s. “I’d struggle to believe it if I hadn't seen the two of them coming together. That family is… ah, was, I suppose, poisonous. It’s good that the past seems to have been forgotten.”

“Yeah,” Khalid met Lorenz’s eyes from a distance and smiled after receiving a respectful nod in response. “Don’t tell him I said that, but I’m glad to have him on our side.”

“Pfft!” Tiana threw her head back in laughter, accompanied by Arash’s stiff chuckles. “Don’t worry, Son, I wouldn’t disgrace you by telling your friend how much you treasure him!”

Khalid laughed awkwardly in response, scratching the back of his neck.

He heard familiar stomps coming from behind him, which made his heart fall before he even turned around to check. The voice that greeted him wasn’t a deep one, though.

“Claude, listen to this!” Hilda pouted behind the prince, nodding at the king and queen in acknowledgement for randomly approaching their table. “Balthie won’t listen to me!” She pulled the large man’s arm with both of her own.

Somehow, Balthus seemed to be behaving TOO well since the announcement of the ambassadors. Even at that moment, although his face was flushed from drinking, he still had his lips tightly closed and looked away to the ceiling. What was going on?

Without waiting for Khalid’s reply, Hilda continued.

“You know I was originally gonna come with Caspar, right?” She grumbled as Khalid got up and nodded in confusion.

“Yeah…?” He left the royal table to guide Hilda back at the guest table.

“Well, that was in the beginning… We were just back home after a trip and Holst told us about this mission so I was really excited for us to come together! I wanted to bring him to the market and have a lot of fun… We’re just about married…”

“...” Balthus scratched his temple awkwardly, stealing glances at Hilda before looking back up to the ceiling. Watching that, Khalid crossed his arms, urging Hilda to continue.

“But my brother said that he was too busy to deal with a lot of stuff and he needed extra muscle, so Caspar had to stay back! That was so unfair.” She yanked Balthus’ arm so he would come down to her height. “Holst said that if I wanted to avoid leaving my hubby back home when I travel, I had to bring the ‘extra muscle’ back home with me! But Balthie just keeps avoiding me when I mention it!”

“Oh? Oho?!” Claude’s eyes sparkled for the first time that evening. “You mean Holst is calling in one of the favors Balthus owns… and wants him back in Goneril, is that it?” He asked Hilda, but looked straight at Balthus’ direction.

Now the big man was avoiding two pairs of gazes.

“Balthieee!” Hilda shook him, making his head dangle one side to the other.

“Hahh…” Balthus sighed deeply, deflating so much he reached to the nearby table and yanked a wine jug to down it all in one go. “I’m not saying I’m not going, little miss. I owe Holst a lot more than just my life.”

Claude’s chest beat with excitment. Balthus was leaving?!

“... But I want to make Almyra my home.” The moment those words were out in the open, Khalid’s heart fell. His home? His… home?! Unaware of Claude’s whiplash, Balthus continued. “Since Goneril is just there at the border, I can go whenever, right?” He laughed, well hydrated from the now empty jug.

“No!! You have to go back before I do! I want Caspar to come here, too!” Hilda protested heavily, which was the reason for their argument in the first place.

“I can’t leave so suddenly like that, little miss!” Balthus raised his free hand in defense, but Hilda wanted her point to go through. That was a side of herself that she cultivated with her daily life alongside Caspar, and if Claude were in his right mind, he might’ve praised her for putting up a fight for something she wanted.

But Balthus’ words still rang in Khalid’s ears.

Make Almyra his home… Almyra… his home… Gods, please, no!

He thought that he would eventually be rid of the lummox, but if he planned on staying, there was not much Khalid could do to prevent it. Was he to suffer forever, was that it? Would he always have to watch his own back at his own home?

No, no… Nooo!

[guide-on-how-to-read-faster]

Guide on How to Read Faster?

Isn't it so much easier to get through school if you could complete your reading assignments three times as fast? Wouldn't it be more fun to jump right into a good piece of fiction and blaze through it in less than a day? Let's explore speed reading in more detail.

The two ways of thinking about speed reading may be familiar to you if you've already looked into the subject. It is said that speed reading is the essence of success and everything you have ever dreamed of. Others say speed reading is a myth and doesn't work. Truth usually lies somewhere in the middle.

When considering speed reading, the first thing you need to ask yourself is: "Why do I want to read faster?" While speed reading novels for pleasure requires a different approach than speed reading textbooks or research articles for understanding hard science, speed reading novels for pleasure requires one approach. When using RSVP tests or Rapid Serial Visual Presentations, individual words or blocks of two or three appear sequentially on the screen.

Reading Process

Before we move on to the techniques, it's important to understand the reading process.

Reading is the action of analyzing a piece of writing to understand its intended meaning. So, reading effectively requires more than just recognizing a series of words. You must also understand the relationship between the words and the unstated implications of the situation.

Compare this to skimming, which is the rapid consumption of text to gain a general idea of what you're reading. The gist of it will become apparent even if you don't comprehend the details. The goal of speed reading is to maintain skim-like reading speeds while maintaining reading-like comprehension.

An educated adult reads approximately 200-400 words per minute. It is claimed that speed readers can read thousands of words in a minute. To do so, they rely on peripheral vision.

The fovea, or center of your visual field, has the highest acuity, about 1° in any direction. The width of your thumb extended at arm's length is approximately this size. The parafovea has moderate acuity between 1 and 5° from the center, and the periphery is greater than 5° from the center. In peripheral vision, it is physically and biologically impossible to recognize and interpret the text.

Try looking at a stationary object, such as where the wall meets the ceiling. Keep your eyes smoothly moving from one side to the other of the line. Unfortunately, it is actually impossible. Multiple small, jerky movements of your eyes are called saccades. During reading, saccades allow the reader to fixate the fovea on a word by moving their eyes quickly.

When speed readers use their fingers to guide their eye movements, I initially thought they employed smooth pursuit. Smooth pursuit occurs when your eyes fixate on a moving object and can follow it smoothly. If you move your finger from side to side in front of you, your eyes will smoothly follow it without jerking. The finger technique speed readers use is less about the pursuit of smoothness and more about maintaining a metronomic pace as they read.

The saccades allow the fovea to focus on the next word. It is estimated that each fixation lasts around 250 milliseconds, but it can vary greatly based on legibility, difficulty, and whether it is proofreading or reading for comprehension or swiping. However, not every word is fixed.

In about half of the sentences, the word "the" is skipped. In certain cases, a word may be skipped even though it has been processed. The rapid serial visual processing (RSVP) technology is useful for displaying information (usually text or images) in which the text appears word-by-word in a fixed focal point. In addition to being a basic reading aid, RSVP is being investigated as a way to boost individual reading rates. Additionally, RSVP is being used for research in visual impairment, dyslexia, perceptual and cognitive psychology. There are many different languages and platforms available for RSVP.

Through these technologies, words are presented to the viewer in the center of the visual field in rapid succession, thereby eliminating the need for eye movements. In light of the aforementioned individual variations, visual processing physiology, and the way we comprehend language, I would argue that RSVP is an inefficient way to consume text. RSVP does not allow for regressions, which is another problem. Regression is a brief look backward in the text to return to an earlier word. The purpose of this is to correct errors' incomprehension. RSVP further reduces comprehension by eliminating the possibility of regressions.

According to proponents of speed reading, subvocalization, or using your inner voice while reading, will slow you down. Numerous studies have examined the effects of eliminating or minimizing subvocalization. Findings consistently indicated decreased comprehension. It makes sense that phonological processing is an important part of reading and comprehension, since all writing systems represent words, and since the primary form of language is vocal rather than visual.

What does all this mean? Perception of visual information occurs rapidly. However, reading is slowed down by linguistic processing. It has been demonstrated that language processing rather than the ability to control eye movements is the determining factor of reading speed in various studies. We are limited in our ability to read by our ability to identify and understand words rather than by our ability to see them. As a result, reading faster actually reduces comprehension, which may or may not matter depending on what you are reading.

Learn how to read faster

After we have clarified the science behind reading and speed reading, we will take a look at how to speed read faster. To read faster, one does not need to read the same way for every reading goal.

As a method of improving one's reading comprehension and speed, it is suggested that one practice more reading. Even though this does help, it's a very slow and gradual process that doesn't produce drastic changes.

To drastically improve speed, comprehension must be reduced. We need to read slower to increase comprehension. There's no way around that; you can only improve slowly.

In each case, we have to balance reading comprehension with reading speed. Is it possible to reduce comprehension minimally, while increasing speed maximally? I have found the following techniques to be the most useful over the years.

1) Determine the Type of Reading

Determine your reading goal and the type of reading you will perform first. It is not necessary to maximize comprehension for every reading task. Do you read nonfiction for pleasure? Do you proofread an essay for a friend? Do you read a textbook for class? Do you read high yield notes and bullet points for one of your classes?

Having a clear goal in mind will help you determine the minimum level of comprehension required and, therefore, the maximum speed that can be achieved.

2) Remain Flexible

Secondly, make sure your speed is flexible. During the reading process, you will come across sections of text that are easy for you. It's a simple language, you understand the concepts, and you can easily get through it. You don't have to focus on every word to understand it.

In other sections, you will be introduced to new words or concepts that require your attention. Often, this will happen, so you must be flexible with your reading speed to optimize your speed/comprehension balance. If you're not sure about the significance of a paragraph, focus on its first and last sentences.

3) Use a Pacer

Use a pacer, such as your finger or a pen. You can follow along with your eyes by running your pacer below each line from end to end. You will instantly increase your reading speed with minimal comprehension loss.

It is important to find the sweet spot between pushing the boundaries of your comfort zone and only slightly reducing comprehension. My opinion is that if you reduce comprehension by 10% but gain 50% in speed, that's not a bad tradeoff. The pacer will need to move faster in places and slower in others, as described above.

Different Types of Reading

1) Textbooks

There is often a lot of unnecessary text in textbooks. There's no need to worry if you accidentally skip a paragraph or a whole section. Pay attention to bolded words or sections that contain key information, and speed up while reading text that adds context to what you've already learned.

Identifying what is important in each section by looking at section headings and bolded terms will make it easier for you to read the section. It may take a few minutes at first, but overall, if you execute it properly, you should save time.

When I'm finished reading a section or page, I summarize what I've learned. Alternatively, I can write a few bullet points or speak out loud to myself. This greatly improves retention and comprehension.

2) Books for Pleasure

If you read for pleasure, you can do whatever you want. If you want to enjoy the nuances of language, then you should slow down. In contrast, if you only wish to grasp the gist, it won't be a problem if your comprehension drops considerably.

It very much depends on the book and what you hope to gain from it. Depending on the book, I read every word or skip sections. The majority of books fall somewhere in the middle.

3) Research

In reading research articles, which you will read a lot during your pre-med, medical school, and residency years, follow a systematic approach. The best way to gain a deeper understanding of the abstract is to read it slowly and carefully. Focus on those key points when you read the full article.

Spend a few minutes reading the abstract, a few introductory paragraphs, the methods and results in sections quickly, and then spend more time on the conclusion.

A Guide to Speed Reading

Problem – The amount of reading material available these days is so overwhelming that often it's impossible to keep up. In this way, we scroll headlines and teasers instead of reading content that will actually educate us. Our lives are often dominated by the pressure to finish our daily tasks on time or keep up with the latest developments in our areas of interest, regardless of whether we are at work or studying.

Solution – Today, speed reading is a highly valuable and essential skill. People who master speed reading techniques can read as much as three times faster than the average reader, who usually reads between 200 and 250 words per minute.

Benefits – When speed reading, the human brain is challenged to perform faster and better. With speed reading, your brain will be trained to absorb information much faster than it is used to. As a result, your memory and brain function will be improved. Additionally, you may benefit from increased general and specialized knowledge, improved problem-solving skills, or increased self-confidence.

A Final Thought

We have compiled this article to teach you how to read faster. This article will describe how speed reading techniques work and provide you with tips, information, and resources to help you read and learn more quickly.

[aceandart]

Hey! I read your recent post and it read differently to a lot of posts under the destiel tag as of now. Personally, I’ve seen the first 5 seasons (watched it about 5 yrs ago), but haven’t been caught up to date on any of the recent stuff other than the Destiel apocalypse that’s happening right now. Could you explain the following?

“...mostly being this show is a misogynistic racist homophobic consent issue-ridden pile of bad writing “.

I was contemplating returning to the show and tuning in for the missing seasons, but what you said about it has now placed me on the fence. Could you elaborate and advise?

Thank you so much! I appreciate seeing an honest post that doesn’t sugar-coat or overlook bad writing/negative characteristics of a show!! :)

[re this]

Hi!

Well, I feel like the finale probably took care of any fence-sitting you were doing (and sorry I couldn't reply sooner), but actually my answer wasn't going to change even if the finale was okay (good, imo, was always a stretch): No, I personally would not recommend watching this show. and while my answer is mostly because of the things I am going to list to answer the rest of this question, I was also going to say - you dropped the show in s5 and that was five years ago? Whatever caused you to drop it in the first place, it probably got a lot worse. (It literally doesn't even matter what your major grievance was, they have since doubled, tripled down in terms of how bad it was.) Trying to marathon through ten seasons (20-23 episodes long each) is hard; trying to marathon through all of that to get something without a satisfactory ending is a lot of emotional labor for no payout. It's not just that this is a bad show (though it really, really is, on every level); it's that you have already tried it, you tried arguably the better seasons of it, and you still didn't want to stick to it. By the nature of how tumblr works, it can make anything look so much better than it is, just because in general the people you see hyping it up *like* the product, have decided to devote their fandom time to it, are highlighting the choicest parts of it. spn was always about the potential around the edges, the story fans made of it; the actual product was always secondary to the could have, should have beens, and this gets truer the later into the show you get. I'm not saying there weren't some great episodes, some great scenes, and even some great mini-arcs, but it was a drop in the bucket to everything else. and I'm positing this answer on the idea that you are asking because you want to watch the show, and not because you want to use the show as a supplemental for your fandom experience, but if it is the latter, I'll just say I'm currently heavily involved in reading fanfic for a fandom I've never actually watched a whole episode for, and while I'm probably missing some context I'm still highly enjoying it. fandom, honestly, so often becomes so much more than the bones we build it on. and if you want a little more, catch some "greatest hits" videos or catch up on just some of the “must-see” episodes and save yourself from having to watch all the moments in-between, because there are a lot more of them than the good parts. very few shows improve as they age out, and before the nov 5th resurgence if you weren't already following spn blogs, likely the main spn meme you were coming across was the annual 'salt and burn this dead horse' that went out after each season renewal. the tl;dr answer is really, it's not worth it. (to be honest, at the end of the day, despite the sheer amount of time, energy, and words I've put into this fandom over the years, and I put in a lot, I didn't actually like the majority of the show. so, you know, grain of salt on my opinion. then again, you left it seasons before I did.) That said, buckle up, cause now I'm gonna tell you why:

Literally, The Shitty Writing

I feel like the finale speaks for this point by itself, but before I get into all the "problematic" bad writing spn does, I want to talk about the fact that the writers are also just fundamentally bad at the craft of writing.

continuity errors. they’d change their lore/creature ability to fit their plot. (the reapers esp got the end of that bad stick.)  the characters will often forget (monster-slaying) solutions that worked before (holy wood, yarrow, christo, creative approaches like exorcisms on recording, spells to remove angels from their vessels, bullet with a devil’s trap, etc).  the writers forgot their own timeline more than once. the random retcons they'd do. sometimes it would also lead to plot holes.

which, speaking of, they had plenty of

there's also things that don't count as plot holes but are very large missed opportunities (ex: Dean spends a year in Purgatory and no one recognizes him? he doesn't bring up his daughter?)

I don't even know what this one would fall under, but if a character wasn't right in front of them, they would forget that character's existence. not just Adam (though that was a big one), but there were so many secondary characters that even in places it would make sense to mention them, much less bring them around, they didn't. or because they would not expand their main character list, characters who should have been around a lot more than they were (*cough* Cas, but that's an easy one, I'm also talking about characters like Kevin) would have these huge gaps between episodes that didn't make sense

they don't really have character development. this isn't to say the brothers don't change, they do, but at the same time the characters face the exact same (internal) arguments over and over again, never resolving or growing from them; they just have more examples when they think about them and it gets worse and more unhealthy because of the new weight added to it. the problem with their brothers only format, and the problem with their biphobia but more on that later, is that Dean wasn't actually allowed to grow out of his John Winchester's son role, to let himself be comfortable (and dare to be happy) with himself because that meant changing the story into something they didn't like and/or didn't know how to do. at the same time, allowing Sam to grow meant breaking the Brothers Only format, because as the show stated multiple times, Sam's happy ending did not involve hunting.

and with that, they sometimes flattened the characters so badly they became caricatures more than anything else.  hell there's a whole season where Dean goes evil, and people had a hard time realizing it, which was not because it was a subtle slow descent but because shitty pacing, uneven (and contradictory) episodes, previous actions that weren't written as being evil but were the the exact same thing as when he was evil that were supposed to be "signs", and how they chose to represent that evil meant it was really hard to figure out that was what they were doing and not just writing Dean as more of an asshole than they previously were.  (he's not evil, he's just a prick.) and I don't mean I had trouble telling, I mean fandom as a whole had major arguments about it, much less the general viewing public.

the series finale put a definite end to the idea they would follow through on even one of their main series themes (family don't end in blood, free will vs destiny, always keep fighting, etc), but this was something they would build up to addressing and then just anti-climatically let fizzle out in multiple seasons. character and relationship themes (not just destiel but the brothers co/counter-dependency, the importance of found family, Dean's growth from Daddy's Blunt Little Instrument and Sam's acceptance that he deserves better/agency in his own life, etc) would be built and broken down in an effort to drag the question out into another season. it wasn't two steps forward, one step back, it was a reboot.

their filler vs arc episode ratios: there's nothing wrong with the Monster of the Week format as a stylistic choice, but this show

a) would kill its own plot momentum to focus on MotW episodes. [part of this is the general spn problem they created of constantly trying to one-up their season's Big Bad, which I understand but also means one episode they are going against The Most Powerful Being in Existence (for the Fifth Time) and then rather than focus on that world-ending threat, they hunt vampires for like six episodes straight. they had a very bad balance where rather than continuously weave the larger arc into the season, or at least build characters and relationships, they'd jam it all around the season premiere, finale, and mid-season finale/premiere episodes, and then all the rest was just, bullshit cases where nothing got resolved or had a lesson stick around for the next episode, making them very skippable. also more on this under the homophobia section]

b) the filler episodes contradicted themselves and the main plot all the time.

c) sometimes they focused so much on making the b-plot a mirror they forgot to write a coherent a-plot. also: sometimes they focused so much on making the b-plot a mirror they forgot to write a coherent b-plot. 

I cringed my way through more than one episode of dialogue

the recycled plots

more on this in the next sections, but either they didn't notice, actively didn't care, or purposefully chose to overtly and subtly imply or state a bunch of really fucked up things, and then never address them at all

speaking of never addressing anything, I realize this is a fandom vs canon battle in general, but so many things get swept under the rug as they move on to the next issue (ex: Dean put an angel in Sam's body to "heal him", violating his consent and exasperating his issue with telling what reality is - a huge issue from previous season - and once the Mark of Cain story really took over the subject gets dropped.) 

death is so cheap on this show. and I don't just mean that the revolving doorway of resurrections means it's hard to get worked up about a death because (as long as the character was a white man and especially the brothers) there was a high chance they'd be back, and I don't just mean that their Murder Is the First, Last, and Best Solution to Any Issue, Ever means the faceless and not so faceless hoards of villains, monsters, and humans who get caught up in it are just hand waved as one of those things (they have ways of saving vessels and the later into the show the less likely they are to even try), but that there was no point in investing in (esp non-white, male) secondary characters because chances were they'd be dead pretty fast.  I'm honestly shocked characters like Jody (who actually at one point was in the middle of being killed off on-screen and then we didn't see her for eight episodes, so we assumed she was dead) made it until the end.

(speaking of dead characters though, what was with the habit of bringing them back constantly? just don't kill them in the first place! create new ones and let those ones stick around instead!)

when they can't use death as their solution, the other answer the writers fall back on is Deus Ex Machina

buckleming were a writing duo who had their own bingo cards that included things like shitty pacing, OOC-ness, flat one-liners, etc, and the question wasn't if you'd get bingo, it was a question of how often you got it during their episodes. at some point throughout the show, it became hard to tell what was a buckleming episode and what was just another episode in the season.  aka the writing quality went WAY DOWN as a whole

you know the tv trope Idiot Ball? or Idiot Plot?  spn should have it's own page for both. 

they constantly break viewer's trust, which is the basic tenet of what not to do when it comes to telling a story. (again, not just destiel, though the queerbaiting is a major part of it because it happened all the time to avoid actually answering that question.) when a writer violates their character's or story's core identity for a 'twist', it needs to have been carefully built so that it's a surprise to the viewer, not a betrayal. (you may not have seen it coming, but when you look back you can see the groundwork.) these writers, every time, chose the "shocking" choice regardless of how much they need to break canon or character to do so. their twists are either obvious, and/or they don't make sense with the rest of their story/lore of the show, and the viewer is left feeling stupid for believing they have more respect for the audience/characters than they do.

I realize this is pretty subjective, but huge swaths of it are just boring. fandom made the experience of watching it interesting, not the show itself.

and yet, for all of that, the quality of writing (while painful to have to sit through) was not the worst thing about it.

(note for the following: I stopped watching after s11, but I'm sure some if not all of these are still relevant until the very end)

Misogyny and Consent Issues: Is There a Limit? Signs Point to No

there is honestly so much under this topic I don't even know where to start. i'm going to focus on patterns rather than specific incidences, because otherwise I'll be writing this for a week, but just know I can easily provide examples of all of these because this is literally what I spent years writing meta on.

female characters were more likely to die quicker/earlier (esp vs other other male characters with similar reoccurring roles/characterizations), stay dead, and die often at the hands of their loved ones and/or in Stranger Danger situations. they died for man!pain. they died for fodder. they died as a sacrifice. they were turned into love interests (whether that was their original role or not) and then killed. they were put in mortal danger and then not given resolution for several episodes (Schrödinger's death.) they died in ways we've seen male characters survive. their deaths - the violence enacted on them - was constantly, consistently sexualized, and the camera lingered.

when it came to villains the show would go out of its way to kill the female one first, or act like she's the more pressing issue so that the male character could hang around longer (and honestly by male character I often mean specifically Crowley and the season's female villain. not only that but they'd often break canon to kill off a female character, and break canon to save Crowley/a male character)

when you compare the treatment of reoccurring female characters vs male characters who occupied either similar roles or characterizations, female characters were often punished and/or treated poorly for the same attitude and/or actions of their compared male character, who often got not just a (free) pass, but more screen time, dialogue, and development

they have more than once used the story line of underage girl seducing a grown man. (it was a whole season arc even.) this is esp galling when you find out about crew member Jim Michaels, who sexually harassed and assaulted (minor) fans

(btw, not the only crew/cast member to do so! and still be invited to cons!)

Dean Winchester (who is narratively treated as the moral judgement for the show) has blamed more than one rape victim for their assault/trauma. they often get abused (or outright killed) for stopping their abuser. 

Dean is ok with flirting with/leering at barely legal teenage girls. already sketchy when he's 26, really gross when he's in his mid/late thirties 

speaking of Dean. based on past personal experience I'm going to say up front people do not like me saying this, but that doesn't mean what I'm saying is wrong or even based on interpretations: Dean has more than one relationship that if it isn't rape, falls under extreme dubious consent.

there's actually a lot of rape (or "extreme dubious consent") and assault/molestation, both shown and mentioned: Cas and April, the cases were men take away free will and then have sex with the women (Ben Edlund was one of the better writers of series and even he did this a couple of times), Crowley orgy (and demon sex in general), random women in some episodes, Sam and meta!Gen, Becky and Sam, Sam and Lucifer, Dean and Alastair, several monsters (like the siren) and their victims, male characters secretly watching female characters undress/be naked, and so on. Dean was often attacked sexually by men, Sam by women. most of this is never addressed, never treated like what it is, and/or is made into a joke

and there's even more rape jokes beyond that, sub-sections: prison, vessels/demons, angel possession, sex work, childhood abuse, monster of the week, sexuality, etc.  huge chunks if not whole episodes were devoted to making what amounted to a rape joke. 

often ignored non-sexual consent (esp Dean’s actions, including a lot of mind-wiping and violations of body autonomy)

everything about Sam and body autonomy - he is frequently violated (multiple characters have possessed him; he is fed demon blood); how he feels unclean, how he feels disconnected from his own body, how he often is forced to act outside of his control and then blamed for those decisions

actually, Cas goes through that a lot too; he is trained, brainwashed, and forced to do things without his consent, and goes through major depressive episodes because of it

this show has a pattern of girls who are kidnapped, (sexually abused), raised in isolation, and expected to develop some perfect moral compass of acceptable behavior and were then killed off when they didn't. meanwhile, male characters get fourth, fifth chances.

female characters (and I'm talking about ones with speaking roles, who play an actual part in the plot, who are sometimes in multiple episodes) are more likely to be unnamed or given no last name

are you a Mother on spn (as in, that's your role)? you're either fridged for man!pain or abusive or both

it rarely could pass the bechdel test (including in s9 don't believe those fandom lies), and that's including episodes that focused on female characters. if the test included that the characters have to be named, that (small) number probably gets cut in half. if that test included both women are alive at the end...  

female monsters prove they deserve to live by killing off their family to prove they're the "good kind"  (this is not necessary for male monster characters)

female characters are not allowed to get vengeance

they took the Virgin vs Whore dynamic (and that that's all women are), and devoted a whole episode to it, but in general it underlines of ton of interactions, esp with regards to Dean and women.  {I actually never got around to writing it, but women tended to fall into four main classifications on this show, though overlap definitely allowed: Victim [sub-categories: Fodder, (Dean) Mirror, Mother], Love Interest, Sex Object, and Villain/Obstacle. very few female characters were either allowed to outgrow their category or didn't start in one.} 

we see the male characters assault female characters but it's okay because [insert supernatural reason here], ignoring that whatever explanations for why it's being allowed, we are still visually being shown this violence against women, and often from our "heroes"  (the women are then tossed away from the narrative after the violence and again, their aftermath gets regulated to off-screen who cares)

female characters were only allowed to be "so badass"; female hunters often fought female monsters or they lost/got regulated to the sidelines in battles. this gets even more contrasted as a male character/hunter will often do a nod about how "badass" she is, even as she is very easily beaten.

 the whorepobia of this show

had a tendency to strip female characters down to their underwear/make them nude before torturing them, and then adding sexualized torture on top of that

outside of actor injuries affecting this (like one of them broke his arm so he had a sling for a few episodes), female characters are often more likely to visually carry the bruises/violence of violent incidences much longer than male characters

gratuitous filming shots of breasts, asses

the use of the words: bitch, skank, whore, slut; the play on words they do so they can say "pussy"  

taking female myths/figures and reducing them to a cheap, sexist storyline (Amazons, Artemis, Lilith, Eve, witches - who are only allowed to live/be "good" if they're men, and are otherwise in league with demons/are evil and lose)

they often kept a character but switched out her actress; helps with the disposable feeling

how they treat women's ages (ex: Jody is not allowed to be a love interest to Sam because she's older than him/calling Dean 'kiddo'. ex: Rowena is played by a woman fifteen years younger than Crowley's actor. ex: Amara being one of the oldest things in existence but still having to age her way up.)

their treatment of teenage girls, ranging from how they sexualized them to expecting them to save themselves to treating them like they are grown adults and not children to the way they kept killing the ones who posted selfies to the fact the pr more than once used the tag "teenage girls - the scariest thing ever" for Claire's episodes 

actions and lasting legacies by female characters often got erased or passed on to male characters instead

it's a time honored tradition to treat certain monsters as metaphors for things. specifically for spn, they often use werewolves and vampires for sexual assault. (not the first to do so, not the last to do so.) however, that part of it gets textually glossed over, or treated as a joke, more often than not

and for all the patterns I talk about above, there's plenty of other one-off examples of misogyny/sexism or consent issues/rape culture this show did. like that time a grown man sniffed the bra of a dead teenage girl. not for any reason, just because it was there and that's what dudes do, apparently.

Racism: All the Flavors(+ Bonus Sexism)

when you compare the treatment of reoccurring white characters vs characters of color who occupied either similar roles or characterizations, characters of color were often punished and/or treated poorly for the same attitude and/or actions of their compared white character, who often got not just a (free) pass, but more screen time, dialogue, and development. 

usually Black men but in general men of color: 

a) got humiliated (often using feminization or infantilization) before their death  

b) had a more violent death; had a death that visually echoed racism (lynching, shot in the back, etc)

c) often used (racialized) rhetoric that in the real world is used against them

d) often filmed in ways to highlight their physicality, to portray them animalistically, to dehumanize them

e) even when victims, will add context to make them partially responsible for their death

characters of color were the villains or antagonists, very rarely "good guys"

this was a very white show, and while I'm speaking about speaking roles, reoccurring characters, and characters who get their own arcs, I'm also talking about background characters

using lore from groups they should not have and/or turned creatures into racist caricatures

having white actors play characters they shouldn't have

heavily depended on stereotypes for their characters of color

the treatment (esp narrative empathy level) of white angels vs angels of color.  again, screen time and character development differences between the two

a summary of (East) Asian woman on this show: fetishized porn/sexualized, “tiger mom”, Yoko Ono/The Girlfriend, monster. they were often silent or had no dialogue. microaggressions (usually spoken by Dean) were leveled at them.

antisemitism (styne issue, erasure of the Judah Initiative, Lilith, the golem)

like the sexism, just had random racist lines or visuals throughout the show (and sometimes those came in the absence of who should be there); some groups literally did not have enough characters to make a pattern, which is why this section looks a lot shorter than it really is

like for ex, I'm trying to stick with patterns but seriously, they put a Black woman in a dog collar and said her white boyfriend was her master/that she belonged to him

the ignorance of how white privilege worked to make them palatable

the replacement and/or elevation of a white character over a character of color (Lisa over Cassie, Bobby over Missouri, Charlie over Kevin in terms of how they were treated under Found Family, etc) 

how they treated non-Christian Gods: easily killed, evil, weak. they often repackaged them into a Christian framework and made them lesser than.

Bi/Homophobia, Queerbaiting, and Using Fans

they butchered Charlie.  they killed her, they killed her in a way that involved leaving behind plot, characters, and logic to do so, they killed her and used the violence of it for "shock," they butchered her and stuck her in a bathtub.  the guy who wrote Charlie in every other episode (Robbie Thompson, one of the better writers of the show) didn't write her last episode (assumption: because he wouldn't) and then he arguably left the show over her death. at one of the cons (comic-con?) the cast literally turned their backs when a fan questioned Carver (the showrunner) about what he did because they wanted no part of it. there was a mass exodus of fandom after they killed her (and another portion actually hung around because they got destiel queerbaited to stick out the rest of the season, and then they left.) she was un-apologetically queer, she was found family, she was widely popular, and they killed her for no reason at all. they didn't just Bury The Gay (their only reoccurring one), they salted and burnt the ground

they spent over a decade queerbaiting Destiel. they built queerbaiting destiel into the structure of the show: season opening/first couple of episodes whetted the appetite, which they then backed away from (usually removing Cas from Dean's physical area) and around this time they'd usually have some kind of heterosexual love interest, then mid-season they'd have some room to be together and share feelings, Cas would again disappear but this time they'd have some bi!Dean thrown in to keep you going, a few episodes before the end they'd have a major connection moment (I need you, I love you), and then the season would end with something to keep destiel fans occupied with during summer. it was never a trajectory, it was a cycle; just enough for plausible deniability but more than enough for fans to believe in. they had whole seasons where the b-plot were mirrors for destiel. they tried to sell DVDs by promising destiel cut scenes. they'd remove Cas from huge chunks of episodes just because they didn't want destiel interacting in the same physical space. they filmed them (I'm talking camera angles, physical positioning, etc) romantically.  (and sometimes, someone on crew/the network would accidentally reveal how not-fucking-happening destiel would be, and then backtrack when they realized fandom’s uproar.) 

a) Dean was only allowed to care so much for Cas, the narrative would only give him so much room to mourn/miss him. (Sam too.) it's beyond my general complaint that the writers/bros lose all interest in a character if they are not right in front of them (if they even cared when they were), but specifically they will spend episodes talking about how Cas is family, how much they care, and then because Dean and Cas cannot share the screen they come up with asinine reasons to remove Cas, which means Dean/the bros do not help him on his issues, and he is cast adrift until they need him, a push/pull of show vs tell with contradictory answers but made a lot of Cas/Destiel fans argue Cas deserved better.  

b) they also devoted seasons to the (subtextual) love triangle of Dean/Cas/Crowley. (I wish I was fucking kidding)

c) "you construct intricate rituals which allow you to touch the skin of other men": the way they use violence to supplement affection (which is actually a larger pattern with Dean and his loved ones in general, but specifically the show is willing to show - multiple times - Dean and Cas being violent (often with an arguably sexualized filming to it) in conjunction with or as replacement for expressing their care.)  other side of this: hugging/physical affection outside of the shoulder/hand thing is reserved for escaping or coming back from death, if then (and it took seasons and a few deaths to even get that.) 

d) "buddy"  

that time Dean was allowed to be textually attracted to his mother and a literal dog (who was visually made to be very clearly a girl dog), but his attraction to men always stays subtextual and/or treated as a joke

they spent the whole show queerbaiting bi!Dean. aside comments, checking out other guys, getting flustered by men he finds attractive, metaphors, mirror characters, the heterosexual overcompensation [which is different from but comes from a similar place of the macho compensation to counteract how he gets sexualized/feminized], everything with Cas and how they play that relationship romantically and with sexual attraction, the character development that led to his relaxation of his macho compensation coinciding with increasing subtextual readings of his bisexuality (and domesticity), the inspiration for his name/character is bi, his relationship to Charlie and the pattern of fictive kinship, etc etc.  

why are angels straight???? why do they have gender???? (why are they interested in sex???)  minus the queerbaiting of destiel, they spent a lot of seasons pushing Cas into a heterosexual box. other angels were often pushed into heterosexual boxes too. (or left in subtext and then killed.) closest we got to playing with gender was Raphael and maybe Hannah, and at least with Raphael it was not without its issues. (also: both dead.)

random transphobic lines

homosexuality was often treated like a joke/punchline. queer characters/scenes were often treated like a joke/punchline.

outside of Charlie, queer characters were small, two-bit roles, extremely rare, and often killed

how they treated and showcased fandom space and esp queer fans in-show (much less how they treated them in real life), comes from a deeply sexist and homophobic place 

The Show Was 328 Episodes Long And the thing is, these are the four big categories, but it's not like this is it. The show flip-flops on calling John an abusive parent/that the bros are childhood abuse survivors. The show doesn't even really call out when Dean is being abusive to Sam, and the way they always, always go back to the Brothers Only format means they are often ignoring or straight-up forgetting the unhealthy aspects of their relationship. The show ignores how their trauma builds (and all the things that happen because of it), disconnecting the current issues with the ones that came before. The way they flip flop on monster morality and never address what the winchester bros do to people who happen to be monsters but aren't evil (or definitely aren't as evil as they are).  How violence is always the answer. How the "saving people'' part of hunting got dropped the later the show goes on, and red shirt vessels/hosts die in droves. Depending on how you view it, the way they treat alcoholism and addiction. The ableism. The line between the narrative's opinion on acceptable violence and not is inconsistent and dependent on how much they like the character doing the violence vs who the violence is being done to. Etc.

(The above lists are definitely missing stuff. I haven't done anything in this fandom in like four years, I've forgotten a lot.) I'm not saying people didn't enjoy this show. I'm not saying I didn't enjoy (parts of) this show. I'm saying whether you are basing it on things like writing craft or things like 'social justice issues', this show is bad. It is of poor quality. I really don't know how to explain the hold it has on people, how a show can be charismatic, how fandom was able to squeeze so much out of so little, but that's probably what's got you attracted into the idea of watching it again. If you're thinking of watching it because you want a coherent, well done story, look elsewhere. The finale was the literal last straw, not the only one. 

[capricornsicle]

Per your pinned post, how about your take on Satomi Ito?

Excellent icon (Supercorp!!) and username, first of all!

Satomi is a fucking BADASS. Lady survived internment camp, government cover-ups, at least 60 years of white boy bullshit, the worst racism the US had to offer against Japanese-American citizens, at least 60 years of werewolfing, and many, many attempts on her life by not-unskilled hunters and other genocide-curious people.

Satomi was one of the most powerful characters in the wolfverse (and, since her death was so weak-sauce and lacking, I’m choosing to believe she still is). She had a massive pack, about two dozen if I recall correctly, and had a habit of adopting orphaned werewolves, like Brett and Lori or Jiang and Tierney, regardless of what they may have done in the past. She was uniquely understanding of the difficulty werewolves had with controlling their violent impulses. In 3b, we learn that Satomi spent her time in the internment camp playing Go almost non-stop so she’d never be tempted towards violence. Massive respect for both boring herself and condemning herself to a life sitting around staring at a board, and for being good at Go, which I’ve always sucked at. She also defeated countless assassins in the deadpool storyline circa s4 without losing control or taking a hit. Seriously, the woman can dodge bullets.

My admiration for Satomi is to the same degree as my outrage at her treatment by J*ff D*vis and the “casual” racism of the show and the writing. She was this incredibly powerful alpha, the oldest known werewolf and the one who taught her pack and her friends how to hide their scent, and introduced the “what three things” mantra that was the only thing able to calm down werewolves without anchors or werewolves who still struggled with their anger. She dodged bullets. She was a known friend and advisor of Talia freaking Hale.

Being killed off by Monroe and her followers in a fight that was more about Jiang and Tierney than anyone else was disrespecting the story that had already been told. I don’t think it was necessary for Satomi to die, she just died because the hunters had to kill a bunch of people for, uh, reasons. Satomi Ito was a mastermind and an incredibly wise woman, not some inexperienced werewolf who’d go to a peace summit with hunters and get shot while her back was turned. She was significantly too clever to get tricked and killed by Gerard, of all people. That we don’t see her death is even more insulting -- killing off all your characters of color is despicable enough, but mentioning that they’re killed off in passing for the purpose of talking about other characters even more so. She wasn’t given a funeral, or a burial, or even any acknowledgement. She was used for “oh no the hunters are so evil and dangerous” and nothing more.

Satomi could (and should) have been an advisor for Scott and his pack. She should have had significantly more scenes, more of her intelligence and cunning should have appeared on-screen than we learned from what other characters who got screentime learned from her, and if she had to die, she should have had an epic ending in which neither plot armor nor miracle could have saved her. She should have died how she lived, choosing non-violence over personal gain and helping other supernaturals realize that having claws and fangs doesn’t make them monsters.

Imagine the following scene:

Satomi arrives at the location for the peace summit between the wolves and the hunters. Gerard and Monroe are there with their hunters, perhaps some of the named ones who didn’t get nearly enough exploration of what sounded like really interesting stories, like Gabe and/or Nolan (also two non-white characters but who’s counting). They talk, and Gerard incites violence. The hunters attack Satomi, who came alone as asked so as not to endanger her pack and in pursuit of genuine, truthful peace. She dodges their bullets and evades their attacks, but refuses to kill them. Eventually she is compelled to strike back, but she stops herself and turns back into human form, making a point of not taking the life of a hunter who wants nothing more than to exterminate her kind, and when she stands back to let the hunter up Gerard slits her throat from behind, or something equally Gerard-y.

That kind of scene would have spurred on the final battle. It would have made very clear to Monroe and to the hunters that Gerard was not “protecting” anyone, just committing genocide. That could have been the moment that divided the hunters and allowed them to be defeated when they were unstoppable in the same situation a few episodes before the final fight. It would have been gut-wrenching and heartbreaking and horrifying, as well her death should have been. It would have said, “werewolves are not monsters, people who want genocide are”. The murder of such an important and powerful werewolf would have inspired a lot in our favorite Scooby Gang, turned neutral characters against the hunters and given the audience a much better sense of how evil Gerard was supposed to be than the “I murder werewolves for sadistic fun” we got. Instead, we got the lazy, half-assed “oh Satomi’s dead” that inspired nothing and just made the audience confused to how tired she had to be to get tricked by a couple of novice hunters.

The treatment of Satomi, as well as other Japanese (or Korean, or Black, or... well, Kali was played by a Black actress, and the various Latinx and/or Native/Indigenous actors/characters [Melissa, Scott, Nolan, Theo, Gabe, Hayden, I could go on] are white-passing to a lot of viewers and/or have little screen time and backstory, you get the idea) characters was another demonstration of how popular media favors white-passing and lighter-skinned characters of color, and Teen Wolf and its creators made no attempts to try and be better. They and darker and non-passing characters are used as motivation for the white main characters’ goals, they are killed off with weak reasoning and death scenes that, if they exist, only incite anger in the treatment of non-white characters in the audience. Those that survive for longer stretches of time are reduced to stereotypes and racist tropes. Satomi plays the wise old Asian. Deaton is reduced to the Magical Negro trope after a season or two. Boyd is stingy and unhelpful to the white mains. Monroe is violent, aggressive, and evil. Morrell is untrustworthy and self-centered (and Deaton’s sister, even though she’s way lighter? okay screenwriters). Even those characters of color who are with the good guys have small roles, meaningless deaths, and never deep and meaningful backstories. Those characters that pass may have some of those. Satomi is a great example of how Teen Wolf’s “casual” racism wasn’t nearly as casual as it appeared. It went deeper, all characters of color were affected by it, those darker and less passing even more so, and it was unfair. You’re not representing someone by giving them one character that looks like them and then whisking them away after a few minutes of screentime. The only meaningful thing said by false representation and racist stereotypes is that you’re just another racist.

TL;DR: I loved Satomi as a wise and powerful character of color, one that lived for a hundred years or more and learned and taught things that saved the characters we knew and loved in the epic final fights. I’m also angry she died so quietly and meaninglessly. I’m angry she was reduced to the role of “wise Asian” and barely got screentime. I’m very angry how representative her treatment is of the treatment of all characters of color on Teen Wolf and in other popular media, and what I’m super angry about is that this fandom and others love to gloss over racism or call it “casual” and pay no attention to the non-white characters in the source material. Characters of color are not there for representation points. They should be there because they’re important to the story and fans who do or don’t look like them can relate to and enjoy them. Satomi deserved better treatment on the show, and she deserves better treatment from the fandom.

[gaberoothekangaroo]

Yoooo okay I GOTTA ask about Witch Adam/Ronan, derek/stiles daemon au (!!!!), arranged marriage

no read mores! we flood the dash like men!

Witch (Adam/Ronan, 2k + words) [coincidentally, I never actually wrote anything between Adam and Ronan other than some dialogue around the prompt ‘What? I’m not a witch? Who told you that?’. So instead have what I wrote before I got to them: Adam meeting the women of 300 Fox Way]

The first thing he made sure to check was that there were no other witches in Pine Brook. He found a home that boasted psychics, but he didn't think they'd be actual witches. The home was old, lived in. Loved. It seemed normal aside from the porch full of plants. There was no over pouring of occult paraphernalia.

They could be.

Rolling back his shoulders and pushing up the sleeves of his shirt, he unlatched the worn gate and creaked his way up the stairs and across the porch. Before he could even knock, a woman with white hair appeared out of the darkness behind the screen door, smiling at him. It sent chills dancing up his spine.

"Magician, what brings you around?" She asked from within the confines of the house, giving him a faint smile.

Unsure of whether or not she was speaking to him, he glanced over his shoulder to make sure he was alone. When he managed to swing his eyes back to face her, she had opened the door and was looking up at him. He tried not to jump backwards.

"I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd swing by." She turned away into the house without waiting for him, disappearing into the dark. Hesitant, he let the door slap against the frame.

"Come along!" She cried from somewhere inside. 

He grasped the handle and moved inside, careful not to let the screen door slam again. It was dark in the foyer, coats hanging on either side of the hall before the stairwell that led up one side and the hall that seemed to continue on forever ahead of him. The woman popped her head out of a doorframe two thirds of the way down the hall before disappearing. He moved towards her at a brisk pace, not wanting to hang around in the hall forever.

She had led him into the kitchen where two other women were hip to hip at the stove making something. The kitchen opened up into a dining room as well with a very large table pressed up against the near wall of windows. The woman he had followed was sitting at the table, nodding to the space in front of her. Unsure of what to do, he watched the ladies backs as they moved about on his way to the table. They were somewhat behind him and to the side as he sat down.

When he turned to face the woman, she had leaned across the table and was staring very intently at him. He gave her a nervous smile, trying not to be rude.

"The Magician has come by to say hello. He also wanted to see how witchy we were."

He stilled, blood running cold. He sure as fuck hoped he didn't just insult an entire coven of witches. The clatter and noise at the stove stopped as the two women found their way to the empty side of the table next to him and the woman opposite him. He swallowed thickly, looking up at them.

"Ladies, I-" He began, before the shorter woman stopped him.

"Sugar, we're as witch as it gets. I don't want you causin' no trouble, y'here me?" He nodded quickly. "I need a 'yes, ma'am,' yu' understood?" Her eyebrows lifted in response to her question.

"Yes, ma'am. I understand."

She nodded once, turning back to the stove, throwing out a, "Good."

The other woman continued to stand there, arms crossed over her chest. Evaluating him? Reading his soul? Intimidating him? He had no clue, but he felt like a lizard under the watchful gaze of a cat. Any wrong move could be the end of him and no one would be the wiser.

"I want you to listen real close to me, young man. I don't want no tomfoolery going on in this town. You keep yourself clean and you keep yourself out of our affairs. I don't wanna catch you round this street again." She stared at him some more. It felt like she wasn't through. He didn't want to try to 'yes ma'am' her before she was through. "And keep that ruckus /down/." She emphasized as she too moved back to the stove.

He felt cool hands against his, turning his attention to the first woman. She carefully moved his palms upwards, dragging her nails lightly over the lines. Carefully placing them on the table cloth, she moved away and disappeared into the darkness of the hall. He looked at the backs of the other women, unsure of what to do. He felt very out of his element here. More so than usual.

He didn't have to wait long before she came back. She placed a small vial stuffed full of herbs on a long loop of leather into his palms. She carefully curled his hands over it and patted them.

"To keep the ruckus down."

"Mom, where's-" A loud voice entered the kitchen before it stopped. He turned to look. There was a wild girl standing in the doorway, painted nails digging into the wood as she eyed him. He was in a house full of lionesses, sharp teeth and poisoned words. He quickly turned his gaze away, placing it back on the table in front of him.

"Come along, little magician." The woman took one of his hands and led him past the girl in the doorframe and down the hall of coats to the front door.

She smiled and waved him goodbye before disappearing in the blink of an eye. As he stood there, confused, on the front porch, he could hear the loud voices of the women inside. He didn't know how to feel. He stumbled his way off the porch and through the gate, eyeing the 'psychics' sign in the yard.

Derek/Stiles daemon au (2 versions, mostly bullet point notes)

Version 1: de-aged + daemon. I think it was set post? season 1? pre? season 2? Some sort of shenanigans is going on with some monster of the week. Derek and his wolf familiar, plus alive Hale family and alive teen pack, end up finding de-aged Stiles and his de-aged hyena familiar near their property line. Derek’s stuck on babysitting duty while they try to figure out why the Sheriff’s kid is an even tinier kid. Derek having to awkwardly walk around Stiles’s questions about where his mom is at and why she can’t come pick him up. Scott and his familiar somehow get thrown into the mix in which Scott is Very Upset at having to find out from the rest of teen Hale pack that his best friend is now tiny!best friend.

This version had Derek being able to merge? with his daemon when he shifted into a werewolf. Have no clue if I planned to have the rest of the Hales and werewolves be able to do the same thing. 5+ years away from a 2am fic idea.

Version 2: daemon + adults/college. Canon divergent somewhere around season 2/3a? or maybe even season 1 before Scott and Stiles are on Hale property. Again, some sort of shenanigans/monster of the week. Stiles and Derek are both at the gym when their familiars get into a fight, spooking Stiles and causing him to leave the gym. On his way home he thinks he’s being followed and is run off the road/kidnapped. My notes become less clear here: either Derek is also kidnapped at some point and the two bicker their way out confinement and to safety or Derek and pack are there to save one of their pack members and Derek ends up saving Stiles, too.

Arranged Marriage (tbh i spent like seven or eight hours just absolutely writing like a mad man to get this out of my head and into a notepad. and once it was there i promptly forgot it all. had to reread it before i could summarize lol)

With the kingdom on the brink of war with neighboring nations, the king reaches out to form alliances. He promises his children’s hands in marriage, but many of the other nations aren’t willing to have to wait for the children to be old enough to be useful, so the king promises the hands of other members of his court. Gweyir, son of a baron, is to be wed to the kingdom to the north--a secluded land and people, cut off by a snowy mountain pass that sometimes doesn’t clear until mid summer. He goes from training with the guard to trying to study a language and culture his kingdom doesn’t know much about. He doesn’t know the name of the man he’s to marry, or his station; Gweyir is very unsure about whether or not men can marry one another because he’s never seen it before and is panicking. When the time came, he left at dawn, without pomp and circumstance, on horseback with as much as he could fit into his saddlebags and one of the knights of the court as escort. The pass hadn’t melted enough and they nearly fell to their deaths multiple times, but they eventually made it days later, ill prepared for the frigid weather. From the border onwards, he could only understand a few words here and there from the people he spoke with. Having arrived at the castle, they held a feast and dance; he awkwardly fumbled his way through the whole thing. In the morning he and the knight were escorted by a page to his new estate and to the waiting wedding party.

Roughly scrubbed clean by angry grandmothers, dressed in very fine but plain clothes after many minutes waiting naked on the cold stones, he was left alone in a room with chairs and a table near a large window. The door opened a couple times and he heard lots of hushed arguing before it closed again. After what seemed like half the day, he was led into a large ballroom or long hall with music tinkling softly and a good gathering of people whispering. He stepped up next to the man, broad shouldered and well muscled like a brawler with hair beginning to gray. Halfway through whatever marriage ceremony they were in, they finally faced each other and the man immediately led him, the page, and a slew of other men through a door on the other side of the room where he was promptly interrogated about who he was and why he was here--first in their language and then in his own when it became obvious he didn’t really know the language. Much arguing follows before the man sends the page to request a meeting with the king.

They meet with the king. And the court. And with representatives from his own land after what seems like months because of the still half snowed in pass. And they are to wed. The alliance has already been made, signed, and soldiers and supplies shipped off to the front lines.

Many, many, many words later, the husband is being sent to lead a war party and the estate is to be left in Gweyir’s hands. He’s left with the keys, including a small ring of keys to the husbands’ rooms and other doors beyond that--of which he is to not go within. And he doesn’t because it’s a retelling and the butchered bodies of Bluebeard’s wives aren’t the secrets behind the locked doors, but hidden behind the faces of the people at court who know his history and wish ill to the husband.