#but I think having him change his name to link adds another layer

[mistymonster]

Thinking about how he changed his name from Lucy to Link because his grandmother told him that’s what his parents would have named him as a boy. And how that put him in the line of fire because he just /happened/ to be named Link and just /happened/ to be wearing the green clothes for his birthday. Which are two reasons KoRL was so fixated on making him specifically the hero (while Link’s courage had to do with it too, the whole image and name undoubtedly helped).

It’s like that domino effect meme where the tiny domino is “Link changes his name :)” and the giant one is “The gods drown Hyrule a second time and Link kills a man”

[kingchad]

I havent kept up with the actors social media, I am curious - could you link to or explain how Jed Goodacre interprets Chad vs. how you interpret Chad?

oh, yes, gladly! There's an observable shift between D1 Chad and D2/3 Chad. D1 Chad is a lot more pointed and deliberately mean. D2/3 Chad is a comedy side character who is incidentally mean because he doesn't recognize when he's being insensitive.

my personal speculation is that when Sarah Jeffrey had scheduling conflicts and couldn't be on set for D2, the original intended plotline for Chad had to change, and leading to him becoming a harmless gag character for levity. It also doesn't hurt that Jedidiah Goodacre is a HUGE Jim Carrey fan and pretty clearly enjoys any opportunity to improv/be silly on set. (If you're familiar with Carrey's work at all, D2/3 Chad is definitely giving that.) I suspect that Jedidiah's affinity for comedy on set pushed the Chad character even MORE in the direction of harmless sidekick than maybe was originally intended. If Audrey had been in D2, Chad might have been more similar to his D1 self throughout the series.

Of Chad, Jedidiah gives a pretty consistent take whenever he does give one. The quotes I'll pull are "[Chad] always thinks that [he is] doing the right thing, when sometimes [he is] not smart enough to understand [he is] dead wrong"* and "I feel like the first movie, maybe Chad was a bit more standoffish and maybe came off as not such a nice guy....in the second film, you found that Chad was more of a loveable idiot. That's a very fun place to be when you're an actor because in any scene, your go-to move is to just not understand and sometimes it ends up being funny. In the third installment, you can expect much of the same." Pretty unambiguously can be interpreted that Chad is stupid and means no real harm, and Jedidiah has fun playing him that way.

PERSONALLY, I much much much prefer D1 Chad's personality, because I have historically been drawn to and have a real fondness for characters that are assholes. I do try and incorporate some of the stupidity and goofiness of D2/3 into my writing, because I recognize that's 2/3rds of the canon material we have and I don't want to be COMPLETELY making shit up, but y'know. In my view, Chad knows when he is being a dick but doesn't value the people he's treating poorly enough to care. He isn't book-smart but he is people smart, and can manipulate and exploit the people around him. He thinks he's better than other people and can use that to justify anything he does.

A really core part of this to me is that Chad has almost religiously bought into the societal rules of Auradon, namely that there are good and bad people, and fairytales go a certain way. This is part of why Chad is deeply closeted and feels like he can't come out. He feels pressured to "stick to the script", in a sense. Heteronormative fairytale society. Auradonian compulsory heterosexuality.

Adopted Chad is a new thing for me, but I think it adds another layer to the fairytale conformity thing. Like he feels an even greater pressure to do the nuclear family, white picket fence castle grounds, 2.5 kids thing because he worries he might be perceived as "not belonging" by others. He feels he needs to prove himself by throwing himself into the stereotypical prince thing as much as he can.

I personally think those traits are more interesting to write and read than D2/3 Chad's traits are. They provide a great starting point for character growth. It's way more engaging to watch someone change into a more empathetic person when they can understand that they were wrong. It's not as interesting to read about a stupid character bumbling through social interactions imo.

I don't think that I always successfully communicate those ideas in my fics because I was 15 when I started writing Descendants fic! It's been 7 years, I'm 22 now and hopefully a better and more thoughtful writer! Incorporating all of this is something I'm REALLY deliberate about in my WIPs now and I actually want to rework a lot of stuff I've already posted someday.

*this first quote is from 2014, pre-release press for Descendants 1, so honestly this kind of disproves my speculation since the whole statement seems very by-the-numbers "Disney gave me a list of character traits and it's these ones" to me. I guess Chad might have been stupid all along! but the vibe is definitely different between films so the understanding of the character definitely shifted between movies regardless.

[inevitably-ineffable-husbands]

Crowley's Past: Was He Archangel Camael?

With S2 now having been out for a few weeks, and the theories running wild, I think one of the unanimous beliefs within the fandom is that Crowley was SOME sort of Important Angel Before™. I touch upon the MANY clues in the various parts of my initial GOS2 Thoughts Meta, so I won't go into too many of those here, but inevitably this separate meta started out as the pulling-and-expanding-upon of the Archangel Crowley theory, primarily the "Raphael" theory, since I have loved that theory to bits since its inception early post-S1.

That was until my friend Peter finished watching the season early last week, and presented to me an alternative theory as to Crowley's identity that I thought deserved its own post breakdown, since I haven't seen this theory before.

NOW, I should make it clear I haven't been as DEEP in the fandom as many of y'all since S1 aired, so it's probably come up before S2 as just a light mention, but I personally haven't seen anything, so what follows is a joint speculation between my real-life, not-in-GO-fandom-spaces-whatsoever friend Peter, and myself, with my contributions being the expansion of his theory and linking it to what we already know.

The theory is this: Crowley might actually be Archangel Camael.

Please, PLEASE note that I am aware that authors and writers change things for creative liberty and originality, so please take this entire theory with a grain of salt (or go nuts with me, I'm happy either way!).

I'll TRY to keep this concise, but y'all know me. You can skip right to the "Conclusion" for a point-by-point breakdown if you don't want to read everything, but I hope you'll at least give me a chance to explain within the body of this meta.

I apologize in advance if any of my thoughts are a bit scattered. Here we go:

The Initial Text

Here is the initial text Peter sent to me after he finished watching S2 (and this was after I mentioned that the popular running fandom theory is that he's actually Raphael):

Okay… well - disclaimer I did not go to religious school and my biblical studies were a great many years ago. As I recall Lucifer was not one of the 7 archangels - he was meant to be but he rebelled before he was appointed (and there is some wiggle for a fictional story). So, based on what we have seen Crowley was one of the 7 but he hung out with the wrong people and asked too many questions. He never says his real name when we see him as an angel it is comically dodged - for a good reason. Crowley has a login and proves he had clearance way above a level 37th angel. He can see the top most important meetings… like he may have been allowed to attend in a previous life… And one line sticks out to me “one fallen prince has already gone to Hell. Two shows a problem.” As I stated Lucifer was not a Prince - we are not talking about him. Gabriel was banking on going to Hell like his “brother” - I’m guessing Camael, the one who Sees God - who ironically has cursed eyes now as a demon - the Prince of Fortitude (also Love and Charity). He often breaks his demonic spirit in cases of charitable needs or love. Crowley is one of the big Seven to be entrusted with creating the cosmos ;)

Naturally, this had a lot of things click for me, and I'm going to break them down below, with my additional research into the points that Peter made since he mentioned that he was going off memory.

Who Was Cameal?

When Peter mentioned this angel, it boggled my mind that I never actually recall knowing of this archangel. I went to a Roman Catholic school up until Grade 12, and with that comes Religious Ed classes, which also feature World Religions in the later grades. Funnily enough, I found out WHY I never heard of Camael:

Camael is not recognized by the Catholic Church due to the Vatican's decision to ban the veneration of angels not mentioned in the Bible [SOURCE]

Kind of explains why I only heard of Gabriel, Michael, and Raphael (which now adds another layer to a theory I will cover further down in "Does Crowley Remember?"), then.

Reading further:

[He] is the Archangel of strength, courage and war in Christian and Jewish mythology and angelology. [SOURCE] He is claimed to be the leader of the forces that expelled Adam and Eve from the Garden of Eden holding a flaming sword. However, in iconography he is often depicted holding a cup. [SOURCE]

A Flaming Sword, you say??? Interesting. Here's a good place to point out that there IS also a theory that Crowley and Aziraphale are one single archangel that was split into two (and Gaiman has stated that in original drafts of the original book, they were at first one character, so this fact might be an afterthought of that original idea). Also, interesting that this angel is depicted with a cup, traditionally used in Christianity to depict wine, which is Crowley's drink-of-choice. So, there's that.

Another standout point for me is the Adam and Eve bit (which I bolded above). The Snake of Eden is TECHNICALLY the instigator (the "leader") who encouraged the expulsion of Adam and Eve from the Garden. "Forces" in this reading of it could be the metaphorical definition of it; the knowledge of good and evil, and the desire to see beyond the Garden. AND also the Flaming Sword itself BEING the object of force given to the couple for protection.

Furthermore, Crowley's a strong and brave character, given all the shit he endures time and time again. Strength (and bravery for that matter) can mean many things: emotional strength, physical strength, possibly also a strength of character and an unwavering belief in the values one holds dear. I should also note that it's interesting that an angel of war, should Crowley indeed be this character, wants nothing to do with a war and is actively trying to stop one: an angel of War can absolutely NOT want a war, because he knows it's wrong.

And without the Angel of War up in Heaven to PREVENT any war at all? Well, they would just get all willy-nilly crazy on the idea of War without having any pushback on it, wouldn't they?

Kind of like how Gabriel was to be demoted (cast out) for denying Heaven a War. Funny old world, isn't it? Seems the parallels write themselves.

What's in a Name?

Because Peter mentioned the name meaning, I had to look into it myself, and indeed, one of the various meanings of Camael is apparently "he who sees God" in Hebrew.

As Peter stated above, I think this is very significant because it's seemingly only Crowley who has "demon" eyes that he himself cannot change. It's the ONLY part of him that always remains a constant, and why he is forced to hide them. We know from S1 and bits of S2 with Shax that other demons can change their eyes because we see them mimicking other humans time and again without the black eyes if they choose to.

Crowley's eyes could have been cursed specifically because was ordained as "the one who sees God" and possibly was the ONLY angel who ever "saw" a physical God in the literal sense (it's implied in the show that no one actually SEES a physical god). It's possible that Crowley being cast out literally burned his angelic eyes and left a visible scar that can't be fixed or erased – a forever-reminder of what he did and can no longer do. AND as the one who sees God, he indeed was a very high-ranking angel.

In the GO universe, I suspect he was indeed the FIRST Supreme Archangel, tasked with creating God's Vision (HAH) of the Universe. And when Crowley questioned what the point of creating such beauty was only for it to be destroyed, God (or, I suspect more likely, the other Angels) saw it as Crowley questioning their "vision" in the metaphorical sense.

Does Crowley Remember?

In light of Season 2, and some interesting exchanges and moments of Crowley with other angels, some people speculate (and as I watch the series more, I'm starting to also agree somewhat) that Crowley may not remember everything from Before.

Now, while I do like this theory a lot, and it makes sense with the context clues from S2, I don't think it's that he doesn't remember anything at all, however, as many versions of the theory postulates.

My speculation is this: what if, by having his Angelic Name removed from recognition in the Bible, and going through a similar Trial to Gabriel, THEN by Falling the traditional way, the memories are still there, but they're just a bit fuzzy and scattered? It could also explain why some of the other Archangels DON'T remember him... he was removed from the memories of other ranking angels (Saraqael is the only angel to seemingly remember who Crowley was, so I postulate that she WASN'T a top angel until fairly recently, because of the named angels in the next section).

The show brings up the Book of Life in S2 on several occasions, leaving me to believe that this will be an important item in the next season. What if the phrase "it will make it like you don't exist" literally means "don't exist in memories"? Maybe a Book of Life 1.0 existed at one time, and everyone who Fell was forgotten because their angelic names were removed. Because wouldn't that be more awful than never having existed? Remembering that you WERE something or someone, you had a name that you can't remember, that you WERE important to people and events, and having everyone around you who you considered family forget who you are? It's its own kind of personal Hell ... kind of like George Bailey in It's a Wonderful Life, a movie that references angels, funnily enough. And Crowley remembers the furniture being there but not where it all belongs. I think his memory haziness is also a side effect of Falling the traditional way (burning sulfer and all that jazz, possibly causes trauma amnesia?).

It's a stretch here, I know, but I thought I would put this one out there as a possibility as to what it could mean (given that Gaiman and Pratchett tend to "play on words" a lot, I think it is worth mentioning this as an alternative meaning).

In S2, when Gabriel was sentenced, the Trial stated that Gabriel would forget his time as Gabriel, but not his time as an angel. I think a similar thing happened with Crowley, only much more violently with the "burning the eyes out" and "staining his wings black" thing.

My friend Peter mentioned that the show avoided Crowley's Before-Name "to a comical degree". I reckon, rather, that Crowley just simply doesn't remember his Angelic name, and his changing of his demon names is him possibly trying to find an identity. I think he recalls it having started with a "C", maybe? And now he's a snake, so he's kind of crawl-y, must be "Crawley". As time moved forward and as he learned more and more about humanity, he changed is namee to fit in better. Having a full Human-esque name makes him feel more connected to the Humanity he prefers.

And because I'm a romantic sap at heart, I think he enjoys spending time with Aziraphale because perhaps some part of Azzie's presence helps Crowley remember bits and pieces of his broken memory. He is LITERALLY Crowley's Emotional Support Angel – remember Shax can read into people, it seems. Azzie brings comfort to him, and seeing another Angel that also questions the choices Heaven makes allows Crowley to feel less alone.

The Original Seven Archangels

It's brought up a couple to several times in S2 the point that "God loves sevens". I actually couldn't remember why Seven was such a big Biblical number so a bit of quick Googling reminded me that "Seven [...] communicated a sense of “fullness” or “completeness” [...]. This makes sense of the pervasive appearance of “seven” patterns in the Bible." (SOURCE).

And of course, after Peter had mentioned it, I had to look a bit more into who the Original 7 could possibly be. Wikipedia mentions it could be Michael, Gabriel, Raphael, Uriel, Camael, Jophiel, and Zadkiel.

Peter was correct in his assumption that Lucifer wasn't one of the original 7 archangels, so that leaves us with Raphael, Camael, Jophiel, and Zadkiel, if we're assuming that Crowley is one of these top Archangels.

I would also like to speculate that "God likes 7's" could also mean (if you allow me to reach a bit) "God's favourite angels are the initial 7". If Crowley happened to be one of these 7, it could explain why he's able to get into Heaven without raising alarm at all, why he still maintains his immense power that set off alarms in Heaven when it was used purposefully against Heaven, why he was able to access the Gabriel Files, and why Sarqael allowed Crowley to continue watching the Trial (because if God allowed Crowley access even when he's no longer an angel, then Sarqael has no reason to believe that he's still not important to God).

Perhaps, in Modern Day, only having four archangels making the decisions symbolizes that, indeed, God's not really calling the shots anymore – and hasn't been for a long time – and that the whole system is all broken and not complete.

It also begs the question: if Crowley was one of the Original Seven (if they are indeed going to go in that direction), what happened to the other three? Did they also suffer the same fates? Were they turned to Scriveners just like Gabriel was to be?

Here is where I will also throw out there that my random thought that Muriel possibly also may have been one of the other three, as my own expansion of this theory, but I digress.

Anyway, I think I found the original Fandom Wiki that Peter quick-referenced when doing his quick message to me, and it's very interesting:

How they were founded as a unit is unknown, but it is said that it happened during Lucifer's rebellion. When Lucifer rebelled against God, one entire choir of angels followed him and was lost. Many angels from other choirs also followed him in his rebellion. It is revealed that Lucifer was meant to be apart of the Seven Archangels as well, however, since his fall he was replaced by Camael. 

Disclaimer here that I understand that Fandom Wiki isn't THE BEST resource, but we're also talking about a fictional story that loosely references actual scripture, so I think it's valid enough, heh.

But I bring this point up because Peter links it to Metatron mentioning the "Prince of Heaven" falling, as Gabriel as being "another" one. "Another one" what?? We have to assume that Metatron means another "Supreme Archangel" as holding the title of "Prince of Heaven", meaning Gabriel was NOT the first and only Supreme Archangel. I don't think Metatron is referencing Lucifer here. In fact, they deliberately avoid saying a name. We just ASSUME that it was Lucifer because that's the "common knowledge".

If GO is going to reference the theory that Lucifer actually fell BEFORE becoming an Archangel, then that means in my theory Crowley became his replacement of the Original Seven. And given that he was possibly the One (and only angel, in my above theory) Who Sees God, he was in-turn given the position of Supreme Archangel, charged with creating, again, God's Vision of the Universe.

I think having Crowley be the one who witnesses Gabriel's Trial is important if we're going on the theory that they are mirrors of each other in S2. What if:

Crowley ALSO had a similar Trial when he questioned God (or the other Archangels) about "what's the point of" the destruction of the universe, then subsequently saying "nah" to having Armageddon 6,000 years before the events of S1?;

In said Trial, Gabriel was a presiding member, and, given that we know his prior cruelty from S1, he voted on Camael being cast out in a vicious and cruel fashion "for betraying God". Thus, his eyes burnt and forever scarred to prevent him from ever seeing God again, had his name and memories removed from the Book of Life, and sent to on a one way trip to Hell. I speculate this because Trial-Gabriel certainly believe he was going to "Fall" that way. I'd also wager Camael/Crowley was the last angel to ever "properly" Fall, which is why the modern angels still think that they do it this way, rather than the way they planned for Gabriel. I realize that this point DOES contradict my theory about the other missing Archangels quietly being erased and reassigned, but perhaps BECAUSE Gabriel is SO High up the chain, they HAD no choice but to make an example of him. Perhaps Metatron just quietly deleted the other Archangels' original names without anyone's knowledge.

We now know from S2 that regardless of an angel's status, the angels will veto against anyone who goes against their interpretation of The Great Plan. We now also know that the "Supreme Archangel" is also a "title only" job that has benefits only if you're going to go with the Majority Vote. And if you don't, they're going to make an example out of you.

And I reckon Camael/Crowley, just like Gabriel after, tried to "go his own way" (as quoted by the Metatron) and got banished for it.

Aziraphale really now has himself in a pickle, and I suspect that he will figure ALL of this out when he gets there.

And finally because this is the "Sevens" section of this meta, I also want to mention these "a-bit-reaching-but-still-plausible-theories" that I came across while I was researching:

This tweet speculates that Gabe is morse coding "7"

Michael tweeted 7 dots after S2 aired

CONCLUSION

While this theory doesn't outright bust the Raphael Theory (since there are some similarities with Crowley and Raphael within the theory), as well as the "he was Lucifer" theory (which I also really like, but Crowley mentioned in S1 he was "hanging out with Lucifer and the guys" before he fell, so... I'm more apt to not really run with this theory). BUT it does tie up a lot more things, and it connects things better than the Raphael one does, in my humble opinion.

The TL;DR of this entire post is this:

I think Crowley was an Archangel, that is the only CERTAIN thing I feel.

I think he was Camael, The One (and only angel) Who (Literally) Sees God. He was the First Supreme Archangel who created God's Vision of the Universe.

I think that Camael questioned the Council of Angels why they need to destroy beauty that God created. It didn't make sense to him.

They told him about Armageddon (the S1 one). As the angel of war, and as the Supreme Archangel who had final say, he said "nah". And he tried "to go his own way" to avoid Armageddon.

The Council and Metatron did not like this, saw it as blaspheming against God. Camael then had a Trial similar to Gabriel's.

I think this all happened shortly after the war that sent down Lucifer and the other rebelling Angels, so Heaven was still VERY tetchy about anyone who questioned God and The Great Plan. Because Camael was a Supreme Archangel, the original Prince of Heaven, this was seen as SEVERE betrayal of the Council. For the record, I think the "Before the Beginning" sequence takes place AFTER the War that created Hell.

My belief about the Book of Life is that its ACTUAL purpose is to remove people from being remembered, which is far worse of an existence for someone banished. A metaphorical interpretation of "removed from existence" simply could mean "and everyone forgot about you", à la It's a Wonderful Life, a movie that references "angels getting their wings".

Camael was sentenced in a way that would make an example of him to other angels to remind them of their place: He was cast out of Heaven, his angelic name erased from the Book of Life which caused his other Council Members at the time to forget him, and for him to have foggy memories in turn, although he KNOWS he was an angel (perhaps as a side effect of being cast out the traditional way, you are forced to remember that you once lived in Heaven). His eyes were burnt out to quite literally leave an unremovable scar so he could no longer "see" God and their vision, which explains why Crowley cannot ever change his eyes regardless of how he presents himself. He has to hide them away.

I think Crowley was the last angel to be cast out in this way. BUT because his ANGEL name was erased, none of the remaining Original Council angels (Gabriel, Michael, and Uriel) recognize him. I suspect Sarqael remembers him because she was NOT an Archangel at the time since she was not one of the Original Seven Archangels.

I also suspect that there are purposely missing Archangels for a reason, and the fact that only 4 rather than 7 seemingly run things symbolizes the problems in Heaven and that God has not been in charge for a long time. I think those missing 3 or 4 are actually Scriveners, who were quietly sentenced and erased by the Metatron, hence why Gabriel thought that he was going to be cast out like his predecessor. But because Gabriel WAS a Supreme Archangel, he HAD to be made an example of, just as Crowley before.

"Supreme Archangel" is a Title-Only job, and if you go against the Council, you are indeed made an example of. I think this is purposeful setup for S3 to show that Azzie is in DEEP shit.

EPILOGUE

I still want to expand upon my Angel Theory section from my S2 Meta, but for now, I am so pleased with how this turned out, and I hope you've enjoyed this Deep Dive into another Archangel Theory. I had a lot of fun with this one; I like learning about supernatural things, it's always interesting.

I am interested in others' thoughts on this theory, especially if your memory of your religious education is a bit better than mine! Feel free to expand upon this more, because I am an interactive blog, so it will be added to the post! <3

I hope you enjoyed, and thank you for reading!

[isthisthingeven0n]

brightest lies : s.r

waking up in an unfamiliar place, you quickly learn you’re the next victim in the twisted game of truth or dare. (3k)

darkest truths / brightest lies 

(thank you so much for all the love on the first part of this two part series! tags for mini series: @haylaansmi) 

all my links

(everything on my blog is my own writing. if it is shared on another page or website know it hasn’t been approved me unless specified. all rights reserved. - i have to start doing this as I had some shit on my other blog with plagiarism)

DO NOT STEAL MY WORK - IT IS ALL MY OWN WRITING

The first thing you’re aware of is the restriction to your hands, the lack of blood flow to them and your feet. You’re no longer bound to the seat in the car, instead, you’re tied to a chair.

Opening your eyes, you wince at the bright light shining directly onto your face and the pulsing of your left temple. Slowly, your last memories piece themselves together. “Luke,” You call out, hearing his name echo in the space around you as your eyes avert to the droplets of crimson on your top, soaking through your trousers.

“You’re awake.” Someone states from behind you, watching you tense up as you lock your eyes with a doorway, covered in ivy made from metal, coated in gold. “I was worried you weren’t ever going to open your eyes again, Agent.” The voice becomes clearer as the unsub bends down, and you can feel their breath on your neck.

“Am I alone here?” You ask, taking in all the details of the space you’re in.

The unsub shuffles behind you, and you shudder as they glide their gun along your neck before facing you. “Just me and you, Agent.” Bending down in front of you, the unsub positions his gun to your chest, a smile forming on his lips. “So, I’ve got a question for you, Agent Y/l/n, truth or dare?”

*

Spencer had barely moved since he received the phone call.

Luke was in the hospital with Ms Jakings, and you were missing. He had just gotten you back, and you’ve slipped through his fingertips once more.

“Spence,” JJ speaks up, entering the empty room as Spencer sits on the edge of a table, lost in thought. “there’s something you ought to see, Penelope’s receiving a live broadcast.”

Lifting his head up, JJ can only see anger lining her friend's gaze as he marches past her and into the conference room set up by the police department.

“What’s going on?” Spencer asks as the rest of the team turn their heads, Rossi frowning deeply. “Garcia?”

Sniffing to herself, Penelope takes a deep breath as she presses the enter button, sending the broadcast to the team as it plays on the TV.

“Oh my god,” JJ mutters, covering her mouth as you’re sat in the middle of what seems to be a warehouse, tied up as blood coats your face. “is she?”

“She’s alive.” Spencer states, knowing you have to be, he wouldn’t know what he’d do if you weren’t.

The team watch closely as the unsub comes into frame, ignoring the camera wherever it is as you remain oblivious.

“I asked you a question, agent,” The unsub repeats himself as he grabs your face, lifting it up so you meet his gaze. “truth, or dare?”

You sigh quietly, your breathing becoming raspy as you stare back at the unsub. “Truth.” You spit out.

Chuckling to himself, the unsub releases your face and paces around the space, spinning his gun on his index finger as he nods to the camera behind his shoulder, out of your eyeline.

“Tell me something you’re afraid of?” He asks, raising a brow to you as he awaits your response.

“I, I’m afraid my family will never know what happened to me,” You start, looking up to the unsub as you lock onto his green eyes. “that my death will never be something that can be explained as you’ll escape after this, won’t you? I don’t want to die knowing my family will be left with questions.” You explain.

From the station, Spencer remains stoic. JJ and Emily share a look whilst Rossi stands besides Matt, hoping you can buy yourself some time whilst Garcia tries to locate the signal.

“You sound sure of that.” The unsub responds.

“I’ve been in enough situations to know.” You try to shrug your shoulder, but the ropes are too tight for any attempt at movement. “So, truth or dare?”

“Excuse me?” The unsub retorts.

“That’s how the game works. You take it in turns, otherwise, what’s the fun in that?” You ask, trying to keep it together as you force a small smile.

Moving closer toward you, the unsub kneels down. “Okay, agent. Truth.”

“What was your involvement in the Beavers game of truth or dare?” As soon as the question has left your lips, you watch as something changes in the unsubs expression.

His eyes darken, and you barely register the knife he pulls from his back pocket as he sinks it into your thigh.

You yell out in pain, looking down as the handle sticks out from your trousers, but he laughs giddily like a child.

“How much longer, Garcia?” Spencer’s voice is cold as he tears his eyes from the screen whilst your cries ring throughout the room.

Penelope carries on typing, working through various layers of coding. “I’m almost there, but the signal is being bounced across the state.” Penelope reasons as she holds back tears, knowing she needs to keep it together for your sake.

“That wasn’t the answer I was looking for.” You tell the unsub through gritted teeth as you focus on your breathing whilst he shakes his head. “I won’t carry on playing until you tell me.”

“I didn’t play,” The unsub begins as he walks away from you. “my brother, Charlie did. He, he let me sit in on one of the games as I wasn’t old enough to join in so I sat in the background whilst he played.”

Listening closely, you wish the rest of the team could hear this, help in some way. But you’re all alone, it’s down to you to get out of here, or die trying.

“And they dared Charlie to do something stupid, reckless. Charlie sent me out from his room that night, and I wasn’t allowed to see what the dare was.” The unsub pauses before marching back to you and grips the knife from your thigh. “You know what they made him do?” His eyes fill with tears as he stares at you whilst you shake your head. “They made him overdose, on camera.”

Ripping the knife from your thigh, another scream leaves your lips as you hear it clatter against the ground.

“So you, you want revenge?” You breathe out. “For, for Charlie’s sake?”

“This is what Charlie would’ve wanted! Revenge for what those sick teenagers made him do. I saw the recording, they convinced him to take more pills, that he’d be a pussy if he didn’t.” The unsub scoffs as he wipes his eyes before his attention returns to you.

Back in the station, Garcia’s attention is sidetracked as she finds out who the unsub is. “His name is Grayson Taylor. He’s 21, an undergrad at Ohio University, and he did lose his brother Charlie when he was 12. Charlie was 16 at the time when he,” Garcia trails off.

“Is there anything on him? Any bank transactions or work history in the area?” Emily asks, leaning over the table as you manage to stall sometime with Grayson.

“Nothing of late, he, he’s been off the grid.” Penelope sighs as she returns to trying to locate the signal. “I’ve almost got the pinpoint for the broadcast, it’ll be less than two minutes until I’ve got a location.”

You can feel your vision beginning to fade, yet all you can think about is one thing. “I’m sorry,” You mutter under your breath. “I’m sorry, Spence.” You manage to speak coherently, wishing Spencer could hear you.

“Truth or dare, Agent?” Grayson demands, now holding his gun directly to your chest. “And this time, no more games.”

With all your might, you lift your head up and look at the young man as swallow back your tears. “Truth.” You tell him.

“What is your darkest secret? And for your sake, you better make it a good one.” He spits at you, knowing your team are watching from the station.

Everyone in the conference room pauses as they watch intently as tears fall from your eyes. “Come on, Y/n.” Rossi mutters as Tara stands beside him, taking his arm as Spencer tries not to crumble into himself.

“I,” Your lip quivers as you look down to your stomach. “Nearly six weeks ago, I, I found out that I,” A shaky sigh leaves your lips.

“Spit it out, agent!” Grayson yells as he cocks the gun at you, quickly losing his patience.

“I found out that I’m pregnant.” You tell him clearly, and silence falls around the members of the BAU as they look to Spencer. “And I was waiting for the right moment to tell the Dad.” You admit. “But I guess he’ll never know, I, he’ll never get to be the father of our child.” Tears fall from your eyes whilst Grayson claps.

“Oh that is certainly something,” He bluntly laughs. “don’t you think so, agents?” He adds, now catching your attention as you shoot your head up, looking across the room to where Grayson stands with a camera in hand.

“No, no!” You mutter as Grayson zooms in on your face. “Please, please, don’t.”

“Spence,” JJ walks over as Spencer stumbles over his feet and collapses into a chair.

“I’ve got the signal!” Penelope yells through the line. “Technically there are three locations that the signals bouncing from. But all three are warehouses just outside of Beavercreek.”

Not wasting any time, the team exit the station with back up on route whilst your broadcast remains live.

“I can’t do this,” You whimper, and Grayson sighs loudly. “please, can I at least say goodbye?”

Sitting in the SUV with JJ, Emily and Matt, Spencer clenches his fists as they listen to your broadcast.

Grayson rolls his eyes as he nods. “If you must.” He props the camera back up before standing behind you, patting your shoulders as you flinch.

“My name is Y/n Ingot Y/l/n, I know I won’t leave this place alive, but to my family, tell my Mom I went with pride, that I’ll always be her golden child.” You try to compose yourself as you focus on the lens.

“Ingot isn’t Y/n’s middle name.” JJ speaks up, and Spencer snaps out from hearing your last words.

“Ingot is a piece of relatively pure metal, it’s used in steel making.” Spencer explains. “Penelope, are any of the warehouses used in steelmaking or any metalwork?”

“Erm, yes! I’ve sent the directions to you, you’re the closest.” Penelope responds as Emily slams on the gas, heading straight to you.

“Please be okay.” She mutters under her breath as she watches the monitor seeing the team are minutes away, still listening to you on the broadcast.

“And to my other family, the BAU, I’ll never forget a moment of what you did for me. The laughs we’ve had, the heartache and suffering we’ve witnessed, but even in those dark moments, there has always been a triumph. No matter how big or small, there’s been something.” You pause as tears continue to fall from your eyes as the dried blood from your cheek drips with your tears. “I know you’ll think of this as a loss, but please think of the small triumph you’ll have. Save the other students, stop there being more unnecessary death.”

“Anything else?” Grayson nudges you with the gun. “Times running out.” He motions to the blinking light on the camera turning red.

“Spence, Spencer Reid,” A watery chuckle leaves your lips. “I, I love you, Spencer. I think I always have but I was too afraid to admit it before we started dating. You will always be the best person I ever had the pleasure of knowing, and loving. I, I’m sorry we never got to say goodbye, and that we never got to meet our child.” You can’t hold back the sob anymore as your head falls forward. “I love you, goodbye.”

The broadcast ends abruptly after that, and Spencer remains too silent beside JJ. “Spence,” JJ starts, but Spencer shakes his head as tears fall from his eyes, rippling down his cheeks as Emily pulls up to the warehouse.

Without waiting for any orders, Spencer storms ahead to the warehouse. He hovers by the doorway, hearing Grayson taunting you inside.

“Reid.” Emily snaps quietly as Spencer turns his head, eyes filled with rage.

“You knew, didn’t you?” Spencer questions under his breath, watching closely as Emily lowers her gaze. “Don’t you dare tell me how to act right now, Emily.” Spencer adds as he turns around, positioning himself ready to shoot Grayson the second he has the opportunity.

“Thank you for the show, Y/n,” Grayson whistles as he moves to stand in front of you, his back turned to the entrance of the warehouse. “I think you know what happens next, don’t you?”

You nod weakly. “Just, make it quick.” You mutter as you close your eyes, awaiting the inevitable.

Yet, the sound of a gun fires, but you don’t feel any pain course through your body.

Opening your eyes, you look down to see Grayson in front of your feet, lifeless and the faint sound of footsteps rushing toward you.

“Sp, Spence?” You call out as your vision gives in, and you can faintly feel a pair of hands on your cheeks.

“Y/n, come on, stay awake for me!” Spencer pleads as Emily and JJ work on undoing the ties around your wrists and ankles. “Come on, don’t close your eyes, please!” He cries out as he watches your eyes droop. “Please, baby, don’t close your eyes.”

“Medics, in here!” Emily yells as the medics enter the warehouse, assisting you immediately and Spencer is forced to one side.

“Stand down, Reid.” Emily tells him firmly as he watches you being lifted onto a stretcher, breezing in and out of consciousness. “I’m sorry, Spencer.” Emily speaks softly now, resting her hand on Spencer’s arm. “Y/n wanted to tell you herself, I, I couldn’t.”

Spencer nods to Emily before heading out behind your stretcher and into the ambulance.

“She’s stable for now,” One of the medics reports.

“What about,” Spencer trails off, barely having time to comprehend there is a ball of cells inside of you. and knows this level of trauma so early on could result in a miscarriage. “is it?”

“We’ll know more once we get to the hospital, sir.” The other medic answers as the doors close and Spencer sits with you, holding your hand with all his might, never wanting to let go.

*

Three months later:

“Today’s the day, huh?” Penelope grins like a Cheshire cat as she perches on the edge of your desk whilst you grasp onto your mug.

“Why do I feel the strangest sense of De Ja Vu?” You ask, raising a brow as you place your mug down and wheel back in your chair, resting your hands on your small, but growing bump.

“How is my godchild doing? Better not be keeping you up too late.” Penelope chuckles as you roll your eyes before reaching for your crutch.

“Ah, let me help.” Luke calls out as he rushes over, smiling softly to you as he helps you to your feet and with the crutch. “You steady?” He asks, his hands outstretched as he glances to Penelope.

“I’m good, thanks, Luke.” You assure him as Emily exits her office. “You guys have got to stop hovering, I’m fine!” You add as your back remains turned to the entrance to the bullpen. “I know my way around a crutch, thanks to a certain genius who got shot in the knee a few years back.”

“And now look at you,” Spencer pipes in, and you turn around, seeing your goofy boyfriend stood there with his satchel in hand. “quite the pair we make.” He adds.

“Welcome back, Reid.” Luke shakes Spencer’s hand.

“Thanks, it’s good to be back.” Spencer comments as Emily steps closer.

“Come on,” Emily motions to Spencer as he follows behind her. “let’s have a chat about the rules from now on.”

Glancing over his shoulder, Spencer smiles to you before closing the door to Emily’s office. “Looks like someone’s grounded for a while.” Rossi tuts.

“Makes two of us.” You add, motioning to your leg and growing bump.

“Wait, does that mean I can’t have you all to myself anymore?” Penelope frowns.

“Oh, Pen,” Wrapping your arm around her, you kiss her cheek. “you’ve got me for another few months, don’t you worry ‘bout that.”

After a good hour, Spencer exits Emily’s office, looking like his tail is hanging between his legs.

“Hey,” You call Spencer over as you wander to the kitchen whilst it remains empty. “you okay?” You ask, resting your hand on his hip.

Spencer nods as he steps closer, wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you close against him. He closes his eyes as he feels you laugh against him.

“What’s this for?” You question as Spencer pulls away, but his hands remain cemented on your waist.

“For being you.” He mutters. “For surviving, fighting, being a genius, my best friend and a future Mom, and I love you for it all.” Spencer adds.

“Hold on,” You pause, resting your hand against his chest as a smile forms on your lips. “did you just call me a genius?” You revel in the moment as Spencer shakes his head in disbelief.

“That was the takeaway from that?” He laughs through his words whilst you lean forward and kiss him softly.

Before Spencer has a chance to fully react, you pull away. “I love you too, Spence.” You whisper into his lips. “So, you grounded too for a while?”

Nodding in response, Spencer steps left as he reaches for a mug and pours sugar directly into it, knowing you’re giving him a disapproving look. “For the next two months.”

“Huh,” You mutter as you lean against the counter. “looks like you’re stuck with me then, Doctor Reid.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way, Y/l/n.” He nudges you playfully. “Come on,” He holds his hand out for you to take. “I promised I wouldn’t let go, and I don’t intend on breaking that promise any time soon.”

Taking Spencer’s hand, you both exit the kitchen and return to your desks as paperwork piles up. But every now and then, you catch a glance from your best friend, your love and father of your child. And in that glance, you know that everything will be alright.

[ithinkthereforeidread]

the collected poems of todd anderson

christmas day of 1959.

ao3 link here

He knew this day would come. He’s been dreading it, sure, he’d never really enjoyed Christmas much beforehand, his multiple unopened desk sets epitomised such. At his house, fires weren’t warm, hugs were stiff and silence was punctured by the sounds of laughing children in the house next door. It’d always been this way for the Anderson family. Todd grew to accept it.

But this year was supposed to be different.

He was supposed to spend his Christmas at Welton, with all the Dead Poets.

 Usually, the boys would go home to their families for Christmas, but through the efforts of Neil he assembled a complex string of falsities about a gargantuan Latin group project that all the Dead Poets needed to finish.

“Serious business, I care about my education father, why else would have you sent me here?” said Neil over the phone, holding his index finger to his mouth to silence Todd from his chuckling, although all Todd really saw was the wide grin that hid behind it, and the way Neil’s eyes crinkled up all the way, a complete oxymoronic action when Neil was usually on the phone to his father. Todd stifles back laughter and Neil smacks him lightly, only causing him to laugh more.

“Well, that was quicker AND easier than I expected...” Neil states after placing the phone back on it’s cradle and ending the call. “But hey!” Neil squeaks, “We’re all spending Christmas together! The biggest concern was just getting my father to agree, everyone else’s parents seemed fine with it.”

Todd and Neil start to walk, side by side, Neil bumps him playfully. “I’m so glad you told me, Todd.” Neil turns his head and looks towards the shorter boy. “My Christmases at home aren’t that great either, I’ve always wanted to spend them here, but I could never work up the courage to ask my father, ask Charlie, in our first year he almost called up my father himself. It was hilarious, he had to look up at the phone, he was so short.”

“You and Charlie have been friends for ages then?” Todd queries “Oh yeah, we met in our last year of preparatory school, he was a pretty mischievous kid, obviously not much has changed.” Neil laughs, “he was just always so confident and sure of himself… I always wanted to be like that, nothing ever got to him.”

“Has that changed?” Todd’s questions were always short and straight to the point. Startling upfrontness in the most unexpected of moments. It was something Todd was known for.

“Not really… I mean, I try to get him to open up… he just isn’t an emotions type of person, I think?” Neil scratches the back of his head. “During our 9th year he went through something really big and not great, but he didn’t tell me a single word about it. To this day I have no idea wahat happened. I tried asking but it didn’t lead anywhere… all I know is some kid had been expelled but it didn’t look like him and Charlie fought or anything because they spent so much time together ....” Neil trails off.

“You know people stare at us sometimes.” Todd blankly states, an unconscious switch being flicked immediately. “When we’re walking to classes, when we go into our dorm, when we exchange smiles in classes… They bump their friends with their shoulders and snicker under their breaths… Have you noticed that Neil?”

Neil’s walking pace slows slightly, “Uh… no, I-uh I didn’t… Do they think we’re-“ “-Maybe.” Todd interrupts before Neil can say The Word. “Bu-but we aren’t, I mean, you were talking about that girl from-“ “-Yeah! Ginny, from the play, wow, I mean, she’s just great.” “Yeah, I’m sure she is.”

God.

This got awkward.

Nice one Todd.

Did it again.

~~

Ink splatters dried on the paper he cradled so delicately, he stares at the contents once more.

“what wouldn't i give to love myself as feverishly as I love you? what is the opposite of amnesia? that is what you are. sometimes i cant find my way around my memories. i have to take detours… i think you were the best one.

little fragments of joy pepper my vacancy i didn't know that i should want to be hopeful or that being hopeful meant giving up some intrinsic part of me.

last night i had a dream that we were breathing underwater flying high in the sky, arms outstretched, laughing, smiling, hugging, bodies pressed onto one another. it didn’t last long. piece by wretched, fragile piece i throw out every hated qualm of thee your impenetrable stare fixed onto me

i have hoped for love that is beyond you being caught by me or me trying to slip through the cracks. they read me, you, us, with their glacial eyes and think they know but they don't

and it seems neither do we.”

“Wow, Todd. This is so… different. But good! It’s just, I’ve never seen anything like this in our English class, in the poems we’ve studied… I just… wow.” Neil looks up at Todd, eyes so soft, Neil knows how big of a deal this is to Todd. He doesn’t just share his work with anyone.

“I-I’m glad you liked it.” Todd smiles, it’s almost as if he’s had to completely remove himself from himself in order to let Neil observe and compliment this part of him, he takes the page out of Neil’s hands and places it in his book. “What-er, who was it about?” Neil gingerly queries. “I- uh, well.” Todd’s heating up now, he should’ve expected Neil to ask him this question. Dammit. Why was he so stupid for letting him read it. “Well, I-I don’t think you necessarily have to go through something to write a-about it, it-it’s fiction for a reason.”

Neil’s lips downturn slightly, “I guess, but everything that we produce in art- whether that be acting, or poetry writing, painting- whatever… it… subconsciously shows something that you might not necessarily want to show or see, right? Like how Keating got us the other day to choose a poem we liked and recite it… It tells you so much about a person. When Charlie was reading his poem… wasn't all you could think about was how bleak it was?” Neil continues, “The academically and poetically rigorous selection made by Cameron or Knox’s complete devotion and enamoration with the simplest emotion of the human being, love? We hide these parts of ourselves, maybe we view them as flaws and faults of our cognitive machine, but art reveals them all.” Neil delivered a love poem to the class himself. He takes a big breath and lets the words he just spoke sit in the air of their dorm for a while.

“Into the meadows dawn..” Todd clicks his fingers, a vague ritual to jog his memory. “flashes my faun.” Todd recites “O Hunter, snare me his shadow… O Nightingale catch me his strain. Else moonstruck with music and madness, I track him in vain” all they’re doing is staring at each other.

“You- you remembered my poem?” Neil questions. “Yeah- I went to the library after you said it- wanted to see if there was more… Oscar Wilde…” “Yeah.” “I notice them staring now that you mentioned it.” Neil breaks the trajectory of the conversation, “God, they’re all so stupid, it’s as if Judy Garland and President Eisenhower just strutted into the school, arms interlocked!” Todd chuckles. Then more silence.

“Has anything changed, Neil?” “What do you mean?” “Between us. What this is. Our comradely bond, as Keating puts it.” Todd chuckles, “ Our co-dependence, attachment at the hip.”

More silence…

“I-I think…” Neil finally states, “that it was never anything it wasn’t already… perhaps we ignored it, suppressed the feeling… but… it was always there.”

“For me, at least.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

~~~

The wind pierced Todd’s skin in tiny microscopic ways, embedding itself under the protection of his coat and completely evading the rest of his physical form, though perhaps the wind wasn’t the cause of the spine-curdling ache he felt, but simply an additional symptom.

Bells rang, green and red Christmas themed paraphernalia adorned the streets he’d previously been driving through, staring out the window at lights and snow that trickled onto an already naturally bleached layer of the ground. His footprints leave indents and obtain a slippery consistency to the outer sole and toe cap. He treads more carefully.

His hands clutch the leather cover of the journal he is hiding underneath his jacket, minimising any further damage that may soon come its way, finally, through minutes of soul-searching and carefully treading through stones and flowers, he makes his way to Neil.

He looks at him with a certain sense of fragility, his stone head protruding from the ground and covered in snow. Todd wipes some away to see the carvings made into him. His full name. Aged 17. Dutiful son of Tom and Susan Perry.

The newness of it all sends a pang to Todd’s stomach as he looks at the other stones weathered with age and the constant bombardment of the elements. That’ll be Neil one day. Flowers not fresh and carvings unreadable. Forgotten to the world and all its inhabitants, rotting in satin lining and cherry oak wood. Todd stifles back a sob and covers his mouth, forcing himself to get it together for just this moment.

“Merry Christmas Neil.” Todd whispers, the words can barely come out. “You-you’re not here physically but you’re here with me, and Charlie, and-and all the other Dead Poets.” he continues, “though- though Charlie isn’t here technically either. He left. Had to. He’s not graduating, at least he’s not at Welton” Todd looks down, brushes his emerging tears away with his shoulder

“I just wanted to come here and give you your gift, I’ve had it in the making for a while now, you’ve seen some of it already. I wish I could’ve given it to you earlier… if I had known this would happen.” he pulls out the journal, and opens it up.

“Here, I’ll read you some.” Todd, though already cold and miserable, situates himself next to Neil’s cold headstone and leans his head on it, opening the journal's contents to its first page.

“Dear Neil,” Todd’s starts, but adds an offside, “It’s dated on the 7th of a while back, my-my birthday.”

“I hope this book finds you well,” Todd’s breath hitches, “especially considering that I’m probably too anxious to deliver it to you. What you’ll see here is what we spoke about the night we first kissed. About freeing ourselves from any subconscious fear or dichotomous dread of both working with and against the grain or being liked or disliked. The people I look up to the most are inspirationally unpopular. So, here’s a suite of poems by yours truly. Hopefully you’ll find your own meaning and reverence in the words my brain has conjured up, words mostly pertaining to you. Every inch of your being alive has me transfixed and enamoured, and I’m truly gobsmacked on the good deed I must’ve committed to have deserved having you in my life.” Todd’s face is red and stuffy from the cold and his breathing is short and punctured.

“You’re sleeping right near me at this moment, and as a sweaty toothed madman once said. We were together. I forgot the rest. Consider this journal a detachable limb of my own self, something you can always carry around and know that I am with you, always. You can suck the life force, the bone marrow out of the words I have written in here and I would applaud and encourage you to do so. Without you, I have no idea where I’d be right now. I owe you so much Neil, you’ve taught me that sometimes the world can be good. That a person’s smile can brighten an entire room. A performance perfectly acted can be a person’s ultimate achievement and their triumph. You are the word phenomenal incarnate Neil, I hope my words do you some sort of justice.

You deserve the world, Neil. I’m brainstorming ways to give it to you.

With love, Todd.”

————���—————————————————————

i hope you guys enjoyed!! its fucking brutal honestly but needed some angst and tragedy in my fictional life to reflect my own.

just a preface that some of the poem todd read's is borrowed from pete wentz old emo livejournal posts because i need to somehow tie my two big interests together and MAN does that man write some gay ass shit. hope your heart doesnt hurt too much <3

creds to @neilscrown on tiktok for posting the headcanon "Todd definitely bought Neil a Christmas present and he never got the chance to give it to him so he would sit in his once shared room and stare at it" it tore my HEART OUT and inspired this rambling

[fannishcodex]

So I love @revasnaslan 's Where One Fell Verse, a SPOP AU. :D (Will add a link to the fic series in a comment or reblog below after remembering that tumblr sometimes has issues with embedded links, I think.)

Like, I really love it a lot, it borders on self-conscious "am I being too much, will this for some reason bother the fic writer??" And really, I’ve realized, no way, it won’t, especially since I write fic too and know I would be delighted if my fic got that reaction; but I think this may be more part of my self-consciousness and shyness. In any case, my affection for these fics is on hyperfixation level. I'm in the WOF Verse fandom. It's a thing I've been thinking about in some way since I found it late last year via @cirusthecitrus, it's one of the things that cheers me up these days. I struggle to articulate my pleasure with this fic, but I want to try to do it more.

This fic is a wonderfully character-driven story.

Fic spoilers under the cut, so recommend reading Where One Fell (fic 1) and Everything But A Door (fic 2) before this--and also, just, this fic has my deepest rec and everyone should check it out:

But, another different note first, even more self-conscious on my part: me writing about this fic more feels long overdue, but I really do struggle to sometimes articulate even my positive feelings about a thing because I want to get it across well--but I'm trying to more just spill it out now instead of trying to refine it more; and just also other things have been...a lot, there's been a lot (good and less good) that's pulled my attention in other directions too. So, long overdue, I wish I could've done more earlier, but I still just want to...gush about the fic; but I get self-conscious and worry about, like, "I don't want to end up pestering/pressuring and asking for immediate gratification for a new chapter/I don't want to guilt-trip for an update especially since I feel like I understand because I write fic too and I write slow and it's hard"...but I still want to gush about WOF verse, especially since it's like any other story I enjoy. I like gushing about the stories I enjoy.

So, again, this fic is wonderfully character-driven, which I love.

I'll bring up some canon for obvious reasons, but mostly in terms of contrast. One of the ways WOF Verse felt refreshing and drew me in was that after SPOP canon--well, in some ways SPOP canon feels like a wasted ensemble show; like many other things SPOP doesn't pull off, it doesn't pull off an ensemble show (especially when it ends up sidelining a bunch of characters that should've been prioritized more instead of a very mishandled character), and it kinda feels like it ends up having too many characters/like it starts feeling like too many characters if some are sort of just there and not really used (and I have my thoughts on who should've been prioritized, but that's another post; though granted I think my interest in this fic really indicates some of the characters I would've prioritized more).

So, I enjoyed how WOF Verse focuses on a smaller cast, giving them more attention and exploring them more. The general summary of the fic immediately drew me in, because I'm a sucker for family themes and dysfunctional families and familial love getting messy and complicated in fiction, and I hadn't realized I needed clone Hordak and his genetic template/progenitor Horde Prime shifted to them being literally brothers, plus the added twist of having Horde Prime actually care for his brother, but Prime's become thoroughly twisted in how he shows that affection and protectiveness--didn't know I needed that until I found this fic. And oh do I enjoy how this fic opened up the original '80s She-Ra/MOTU up to me more, because I just thought "wow, Hec-Tor Kur is a good made-up alt name/'real-ish' name with a last name for Hordak in this AU, and Anillis Kur just sounds cool and it just feels like it fits as an alt name/real name for Horde Prime when he's not always using that title," and I thought making them literally blood brothers was just a neat twist on them being clone and genetic template/progenitor. But nope, apparently Hec-Tor Kur and Anillis Kur are their real alt names from the original '80s canon which also heavily implies they're brothers, and that's really cool. (And I think it would've been really interesting if spop/the latest reboot had actually just explored that more, explored them more as brothers and siblings.)

Again, WOF is very character-driven, and I love that. And I enjoy how this feels like it also fits the story and world of the fic, which involves Anillis Kur/Horde Prime going into Extremely Overprotective Brother Mode and confining his sickly younger brother Hec-Tor (Hordak) to the Velvet Glove because he's that paranoid about anything happening to his brother due to a lot of family trauma that happened before Hec-Tor was even born/when he was just a baby (and baby Hec-Tor himself almost succumbing to illness and dying did not help with Anillis's issues), not to mention that controlling; so much of the fic so far is in a closed world, it adds to the hyper focus on the characters in that closed world. I appreciate how at times the fic really does have this claustrophobic feeling. I like how it sometimes makes me think of like a one-setting/limited setting play on a multi-chapter scale.

And of course, I like the specific characters getting this sort of hyper focus, and WOF makes me enjoy them even more. I love Hordak, his character, his voice, his design, etc. Horde Prime also has such a cool design and again that same cool voice, I adore Keston John's voice acting and his range in it. Canon S5 doesn't give him enough internal depth or character though, and ultimately makes him too much of just an obstacle and symbol/too much of a plot device in the show and a wasted opportunity for a more interesting character. That becomes even more apparent in contrast to WOF Verse, because Anillis Kur/Horde Prime is so much more interesting!!! Like Anillis/WOF!Prime is so much more interesting, it makes me realize how canon Prime is lacking in character/interest.

Ohman, this Prime. Prime has a great design and a great voice, and WOF has an interesting personality to match those elements in quality. There's so much fascinating contrast with him in WOF, and it makes him feel like a more unsettling villain. We've seen him care, and so it feels more frightening when he turns more aggressive and ruthless and cold. WOF's opening scene really effectively sets that contrast with him; it starts with him exhausted but having a really sweet moment with a very young Hec-Tor, and then not long after that when Hec-Tor's asleep in his arms it's a very unsettling mood whiplash with how Anillis coldly treats the clone attendant; it's even very effectively distilled and crystalized even further with the image of Anillis holding a sleeping Hec-Tor in his arms while glaring daggers at the clone attendant, that contrast of love and threat. Like, definitely a character that can do Both and I love that. And contrast adds layers to Anillis, it renders him in even more emotional dimensions, he can be multiple things at once.

And I rather love that he's far less...touchy, with everyone; it more finally struck me that he's rarely negatively touched anyone until a pivotal scene, and it being a rarity made the scene pack more of a punch, and then I looked back and realized he just doesn't do that often, there's another earlier scene that also feels shocking because it's another rare use of explicit touch, his touch is more targeted--he doesn't need to constantly do it to feel threatening at all, and is in fact much more threatening and unsettling without it. (I literally had to pause some instances because I was nervous about what Anillis would do next.) It's so fascinating to watch Anillis steadily grow worse and to watch Hec-Tor gradually have the dawning realization of what Anillis is really doing and the truth of his situation. It's interesting to see Hec-Tor gradually realizing that what he's lived with his whole life and what has felt normal isn't a good thing, it's not acceptable.

And I really do like that familial love is such a motivating factor for Anillis, and that it's something that feeds into a lot of his ruthlessness and villainy; and it feels like something I still don't see enough in fiction. And it just feels more believable, more consistent. Anillis acts horribly, is abusive, but it still feels like what he does is out of love for his brother and he really is blind to what he's actually doing to his brother, that it's the opposite of what he wants, it's not protecting him like he believes. I like that level of character believability/consistency, and part of that also involves how it's overall framed, and it's still framed as pretty terrifying; Anillis cares about his brother, but his methods are twisted.

And my gut feeling does...well, feel connections between canon and this AU--and that may be obvious as source material and fic based on it, but I mean--it's as if canon were the very rough first sketch/draft, and WOF is the fully realized version of the character, plus the change of shifting his brotherly status into a brother that actually does care but goes about it in a horribly twisted way. WOF takes parts and pieces and little details from canon and fleshes them out into something more fully dimensional and more interesting. Like the trace of canon Prime's collection with plants/other things and even arguably the imagery at the end with his ship the Velvet Glove becoming a tree feel connected to a more fleshed out version in WOF where Anillis keeps a garden. And there's so much meaning that can be pulled from his garden--it's another reflection of his controlling behavior with the way he controls/manages the garden; on the flip side, it feels like it further reflects the contrast/dichotomy in his character, as gardens can still have positive connotations too--it can reflect the potential Anillis had (may still have?) for genuine good/for genuinely nurturing care. And it also does more explicitly point to Anillis's affection for family since his late father had kept a garden too and Anillis's own garden on the Velvet Glove still has his father's plants. There's so much done with Anillis's garden.

And with his backstory and the contrast in his character, just his...everything, I also want to know more about Anillis, I'm curious for even more of his backstory, even going more into "why are you like this?" Like this is a genuinely fascinating, charismatic, threatening, multi-faceted antagonist right here.  

And I can go on about Anillis, but I love Hec-Tor/Hordak in this too. I love Hordak, and I enjoy how this still feels so much like Hordak, but with a different life; I feel like there are commonalities that remain from canon within him combined with differences based on the AU he's in and the different experiences he's lived with. Like, there's such an interesting detail with Hec-Tor's growing anger issues that remind me of Hordak--it's there, but different because of their different lives, Hec-Tor's developing because of his isolation but still quieter, simmering, because his brother only has his best interests at heart, he shouldn't act like this... And then it’s so nice to see Hec-Tor be even more talkative about SCIENCE because he does have more space to be a bit more open about his passions in this AU/different life situation. And it's all like another AU I didn't realize I wanted until I saw it--I really dig seeing Hordak/Hec-Tor as a baby, as a little kid, getting to have a childhood and get to have more typical developmental stages and to have more familial experiences, albeit twisted ones. And I love how the story has shifted to Hec-Tor more, love his POV and following him on his journey.

And the clones! The clones are great in WOF and give me feels too. I love how more of them are focused on as individuals, and that we get to see more of their characters and glimpse their differing views. And when Etherian characters join in, they're as well written and interesting too (the Entrapdak is so good). I just like WOF's cast, and the line-up plucked from canon and how they adjust to the AU; this ensemble just feels better, and it's utilized and treated better than canon.

And the worldbuilding with Anillis & Hec-Tor’s race and the clones and their world is so good and seamlessly interwoven with story and character, enhancing the whole thing even more and making things even more interesting.

I just...really love these characters and this story. They have a lot of heart and intrigue.

(Disclaimer: I definitely ended up having trouble figuring out tags for this. Especially since I think only the first five tags actually show up at first? And I think last I checked tumblr freaks out over dashes within a tag so while “hec-tor kur” probably fits better, I don’t think tumblr can handle that for some reason so just going with “hordak,” which also really still just fits.)

[only-by-the-stars]

Winter's Moon - Director's Commentary

chapter two, here we go!

“Wh-what?” Her breath growing short, Mipha yanked the key out to make sure it was the right one. It was. Her hand shaking, she shoved it in again and turned it. Still nothing. “No, no... no, no, no...” She tried it again. And again. “No, come on, please... not now, not now...” Tears built in her eyes as she kept trying, her heart thudding in her chest and her stomach roiling with nausea. But no matter what she did, it simply refused to start. “Oh Goddess, no... no, why, why now...” Mipha's head dropped to the steering wheel, and she let out a sob. “Why...”

I can't call Impa, she's in class right now... and so is Zelda... Father is at work... and Goddess only knows how much it will cost to fix whatever is wrong, or worse, buy a new car if it's beyond repair... oh why, why? I do not need this...

I've never had a car break down on me like this, but I have had multiple computers just stop working. Just... shut down while I was right there doing something, or when I left to go to the bathroom or something. It was devastating every time, and my reaction was exactly this, thinking why, no, I don't need this, with that exact physical reaction too. So this was all too painfully real to write.

more than that, though, it adds another layer of motivation to the decision Mipha's going to make when she gets that life-changing offer. it hurts to put her through this, but her life has to get worse before it can get better, so it's believable that she decides to take a chance and go live with a giant talking wolf for a year in exchange for unimaginable wealth. so what has to happen in this chapter, is her having one hell of a fucking awful day, breaking her down enough that when Link shows up later it's at exactly the right time. step one of this process is her car breaking down, when she's already late, and adding another financial burden to her. so she's already stressed as hell when it happens, and then this piles onto it.

She'd only just finished putting her purse in her locker when someone called her name. Mipha turned. It was Malon, one of her coworkers, an equally nervous look on her face. “Yes? What is it?”

“Well, you're late. And...” Malon twisted her apron in her hands. “Ingo said to send you to his office as soon as you got here...”

I chose Ingo to be her asshole boss because, well... he's an asshole. Seriously. Hate that guy. Having him be in charge of the Milk Bar and being horrible to his employees, including poor Malon here, is just such an easy leap from how he is in Ocarina of Time after the timeskip.

“Well...” He finally looked up. They watched each other for a few seconds, Mipha barely daring to breathe, and Ingo chewing idly on something. Then he shrugged. “Eh, why sugarcoat it. Gotta let you go. Sorry,” he added, not sounding apologetic at all.

Mipha's heart seemed to stumble before pounding so hard it felt like it would burst out of her chest. “Wh-what? I...” She shook her head, her eyes wide. “No, I...” She couldn't breathe. “Please... please give me another chance, I...”

and the shit sundae gets another scoop of crap. ;~; first she's late, then her car breaks down, and now she's lost her job, just when she badly needs whatever money she can get to repair or replace the car.

“What?” Ingo blinked, and finally looked back at her. “You kidding? I'd have to pay you for that, and you no longer work for me! Malon can pick up the slack, just drop off that apron in the laundry bag. If you were anyone else I'd have you just hang it up somewhere, but, well...” He grimaced. “I don't think the others wanna wear something that's been on slimy scales.”

Mipha's spine stiffened, her damp eyes now alight with a cold fury. “They're not.”

“Huh?” Ingo scratched his head. “Who's—”

“My scales. They are not slimy. I am not slimy.” Breathing hard, Mipha undid her apron with shaking fingers and threw it onto his desk; he recoiled as if she'd hurled a live spider at him. “Reserve that word for your own behavior. If nothing else, I am glad I shall never have to hear your disgusting and utterly wrong remarks about me again.” She'd endured them in silence before, but not anymore. Not now that she no longer had to.

and then Ingo adds literal insult to injury, by making what is far from his first disparaging remark about her Zora traits, but what will be the last. Mipha's had enough, and she finally gets the chance to stand up to him, in a moment that'll come up in conversation later, and is the first glimpse we see in this story of just how fierce she can be when something or someone angers her enough. it's also a taste of what she's had to put up with from ignorant, prejudiced Hylians, in contrast with the caring she receives from her friends and especially Link. he's always treated her with kindness, but this kind of thing nevertheless contributes to her insecurities and belief that he wouldn't find her attractive (when in fact the opposite is true and he's intensely attracted to and in love with her).

And until it could be seen to, she'd have to rely on Impa and Zelda for rides to school. She knew they wouldn't mind, but she hated imposing on them, hated having to ask them for things that she felt would bother and inconvenience them. No matter how much they told her it wasn't any trouble, she still agonized over it.

I know this feeling. All too well. It's really, really hard for me to ask people for things, and I always end up feeling guilty about it and apologizing and saying "you don't have to do this, really", to the point of sometimes frustrating others. I felt like Mipha might have this problem too, so I put that in here. it becomes a key part of her arc in the long term: her difficulty in asking for help, in asking for anything she wants, even thinking about what she wants instead of trying to subsume her own needs and focus on others, and how she needs to try and be better about that. and in the short term, it adds even more of a weight to her at the moment, just thinking about the fact that she'll have to rely on her friends for transportation and all the guilt that that's gonna cause her. she, like me, hates feeling like she's a burden, like she's bothering other people. and now there's no way around it, intensifying her despair.

As she waited for the water to warm up sufficiently, Mipha caught sight of herself in the mirror. She couldn't explain it to herself, but something about seeing her own reflection triggered another torrent of tears, her face crumpling as she turned away from the glass and stepped into the shower. Hot tears mingled with hot water as she stood there, and she let herself scream as she cried.

I've had those moments, where something as innocuous as your own reflection can just snap you in two when you're already feeling like shit, and you just start crying. And when it's really bad, it's hard to keep your tears quiet so that other people won't hear, and freeing to be able to do it in total privacy the way you really need. Mipha is pretty much at a breaking point after everything that's happened today, on top of the exhausting hell that her life has been for a while, so she needs to be able to let it all out in a really primal, cathartic way like this. everything is just... going so horribly wrong and downhill for her, and she has no idea things are going to be looking up soon, or at all. from her point of view right now, everything is just going to keep getting worse, and she's not sure at all how she's going to get through it. she needs the drastic change that's about to come to her, and in her current state she's more than ready to accept an offer that sounds fucking bonkers.

which is the point of all this misery I'm inflicting on her--I don't torture characters for the hell of it, there has to be a good solid reason, and a payoff that will make it worth it. here, the reasoning behind breaking her down so much is, again, to make it believable that she'd take the chance on living with a giant talking wolf she's never met (or so she thinks) for a year in a remote location, in exchange for financial stability for herself and her loved ones. which of course ultimately leads to the happy ending she gets with Link after it's all over, saving him and giving them the ability to finally be together as they've wanted for years. if she had a hunky-dory life with little strife in it, it'd stretch credibility, so the circumstances have to be established so that anyone reading would understand her choices.

this is something really, really important to me. everyone hates it when characters make choices in a story that are obviously Because The Plot Says So, right? yeah!!! me too!!! that shit sucks! the plot, in my opinion, should move along thanks to the choices the characters would organically make, plot and character arcs should be intertwined and working together to build something special. which I know can be a challenge, of course--crafting something like that is never an easy thing. and doing adaptations like this makes it even more challenging.

because, you see, I'm not just taking this old fairy tale plot and tossing new original characters I can mold into being what I need them to be into it. I'm taking someone else's established characters, putting them in an old fairy tale (where people usually don't really question the bizarre shit that's being thrown at them), and making it a setting similar to modern day Earth. whew. So I have to have Mipha and Link, and all the other characters I pulled in, take actions that move this along in my version of this basic plot, and I have to do so in a way that feels organic and believable to them, in this setting, with the information they have and their own personalities and motivations. and there's some really weird stuff coming up that Mipha's gonna have to deal with, and make choices about that would--and do--seem bizarre to those on the outside, but would make internal sense to her, and anyone reading this story and seeing it through her perspective. Hell, just the offer she's about to get in this chapter is super weird! her taking it is in itself one of those choices that others in her life wouldn't necessarily understand, but anyone reading it does have to get it, or the story falls apart. needless to say, I had to put a lot of thought and work into crafting all these elements and bringing it together, writing it, and you'll get to see my thought process on all these as we go along in this commentary series.

Fresh tears built as she pulled out the beach photo, her blurring eyes focused on Link.

“Why aren't you here with me?” she whispered, beginning to cry again. “You were always so good at comforting me when I needed you... and now you're gone, and I...”

This, of course, is to drive home just how much she misses Link, how good a friend he was for her, and how much his absence from her life still hurts her so much. she got a fresh reminder of him right before her life started crumbling down all over again, and it's like a knife in the heart, remembering what they had and how much of a comfort it always was. in a time when she's suffering so much, it's little wonder she's clinging once more to her memories of when things were good, wishing she had those times and those people back again.

little does she know, that he's about to come back to her right when she needs him most.

Her own stomach was terribly empty, and she needed something for her headache, but she couldn't bring herself to go out there and face them. Not now. She needed more time. Time to calm herself down and construct a mask so that she wouldn't worry them and wouldn't have to relive her awful day by telling them about it. It couldn't be avoided forever, of course, but... even a little delay would be a kindness.

Sure enough, she soon heard the sounds of pots and pans clanging in the distance. Mipha's stomach growled, and she pressed a hand to it. Frustration rose. Why, why couldn't she just get it together and go out there? They were her friends, she shouldn't be avoiding them. So why? Ugh.

I've been there. Haven't we all? You're so upset about something, and you know you need comforting, but all the same you can't face talking about it. can't face seeing another person, not when they'll ask you questions that'll break through any facade you put up and expose your weakness. you're just not ready for that. and yet, they're out there, and there's something you need in that area, whether it's food or drink or... whatever. so you just sit and wait, getting more and more frustrated and not knowing what to do. frozen. and it sucks.

Illuminated by the glow of the porch light was an enormous wolf with deep gray fur, far bigger than it had any right to be. Far bigger than any normal wolf should be, at least the size of a horse, if not larger. Strange white markings stood out on its forehead, and as Mipha stared at it, its eyes seemed to meet hers through the window. Her breath caught. “What... what is that...?”

In the original fairy tale, the prince is cursed to be in the shape of a huge white bear. which would work just fine for any other adaptation of the story, but we're working with Legend of Zelda canon here. which has the perfect transformation for the poor guy to be cursed with. and no, I don't mean the pink bunny. :P I'm talking, obviously, about his transformation into Wolf Link in Twilight Princess. this works so well for multiple reasons:

1) the size thing. obviously he is not that big in TP, but here I need something Mipha can ride on, and that's only possible and somewhat safe for him if I make him huuuuuuuuge. as fucked up as horses are in other ways, they at least have the kind of spines necessary for people to ride them. wolves... do not. I gathered from a little research into this matter that it might be possible if they were big enough, but seeing as we don't have megafauna anymore (aside from the horror that is the moose), that ain't gonna happen in our world. this is fantasy, though, so I just made him bigger and called it a fucking day. MAGIC.

2) as a wolf he would, also, be suited to the climate he's about to take Mipha to very soon. fur, feet that won't slip in the snow, etc.

3) it was a forced transformation at first in the game, and it's a forced one here too.

4) this is more meta, but... remember how scared people would get of Link in his wolf form? especially in Ordon, where it was to the point that they tried to kill him? I can't blame them for being on edge, but from Link's perspective that had to hurt, particularly when it was people he knew and had grown up around. it would've been very isolating, and during those early sequences Midna wasn't being very friendly to him either (I love her, she has fantastic growth and that evolution is why she's such a great character... but for Link at that point in time he wouldn't have been too happy, I can look at this from both angles). how does that relate to this Link? simple. he too is very isolated, has been for a few years, and now it's continuing, because that wolf form is scary to most people and thus makes it difficult or impossible to go into towns and cities. not only that, but it puts up a wall between him and Mipha, because she doesn't know it's him and he has to pretend to be someone else. so the feelings of sorrow, pain, and isolation I headcanoned TP Link as experiencing during those early portions, now go to this Link, as part of his ongoing trauma.

5) plus, it helps clue the reader in that this is Link, setting up that dramatic irony where we're aware of his true identity but Mipha isn't.

She gestured at the backyard, where the wolf was still staring at them. Staring at her, unless she was imagining things.

He very much is staring at her. This is the first time Link's seen Mipha in person in four years, he'll soon be speaking to her for the first time in three years... no wonder he can't take his eyes off her, when he's missed her so badly and still loves her so much. Right now he's getting himself ready for that conversation, so that he doesn't break down and give himself away somehow. Constructing as stoic a mask as he can so he can hold himself together when talking to the best friend he's in love with that he hasn't seen in so long.

Mipha lifted her head and opened her eyes just as the back door creaked open and Impa reappeared. She looked vaguely dazed, and all the blood had drained from her face. “Um...”

“Impa?” Zelda frowned as her girlfriend closed the door. “What's wrong? You look like you've seen a Poe.”

“I think I might prefer that...” Impa rubbed her forehead. “This is... okay. I'd ask you to promise that you won't accuse me of being crazy, but to be honest even I'm not sure that I'm not.”

Mipha glanced over her shoulder at the window. The wolf was still out there, but now it had settled down on the ground, its head resting on its massive paws. “Just tell us. I will not laugh or doubt your sanity.”

“Appreciate it.” Impa took a deep breath. “Okay, so... as nuts as this sounds, that's not just a regular wolf. Yes, I know we knew that already, going by the size,” she said quickly as Zelda opened her mouth to say something. “But I mean, more than that. It...” She swallowed. “It talked to me.”

in the original fairy tale, when the father goes outside to see what's going on and sees a giant bear, he doesn't bat an eye when said bear says "good evening". he just says "good evening" right back. LIKE. I know this is a fairy tale, suspension of disbelief and all, but it's still kinda hilarious to think about the fact that these people live in a world where you can see a giant fucking bear in your backyard, hear it TALK, and not lose your shit over how goddamn weird this is. how often do other animals talk to these people???

once again, this is not gonna fly in a modern setting where most animals don't talk. this isn't Animal Crossing, this is Legend of Zelda, and even in TP Link couldn't talk while in wolf form. suffice to say, this is not something that the characters can reasonably expect to have happen when they approach a wild animal (or what they think is one, anyway).

“What?” The shock on Zelda's face mirrored what Mipha felt. “But—but that shouldn't be possible, wolves don't have—”

and in the next line, Zelda drives home that point. wolves, like most animals, do not have the equipment necessary for speech. like vocal cords, for instance. I was also inspired by a line in the show Wonderfalls, in which the protagonist starts getting talked to by various animal figures, and in the first episode she protests against this by declaring that the particular animal doesn't have a larynx.

The wolf lifted its head only a little as she approached, regarding her quietly with eyes that she could now see were the bright blue of a clear summer sky. She stopped short a few feet from its huge snout, hands clasped in front of her. For a long moment they just stared at each other. Then she delicately cleared her throat. “Um... hello?”

“Hello, Mipha.” The wolf's voice was low and rough, exactly what she would've expected him to sound like, but there was also a gentleness to it that caught her by surprise. “I'm sorry for scaring you and your friends.”

1) obviously Link wants to get a better look at her. and just like in TP, he retains those signature blue eyes in wolf form, giving another blaring sign as to who he is. he's also at a loss for words at first, a little, which is why she speaks first.

2) his first thought is to apologize for scaring her and her friends, because Link is kind and would never want to frighten them (especially her), and hates that the form he's in is doing that without him trying. it doesn't help that he's not at all used to being intimidating--in his true form, he's short and slender, with soft, pretty features, very non-threatening looking overall. and he doesn't want to be threatening, he's brave and will stand up for those he cares about, but he's not a bully who likes to push people around, he just wants to protect and help others. to suddenly be a huge creature with claws and fangs that everyone is afraid of is a huge adjustment, to put it mildly.

3) being in the body of a wolf has changed his voice, which helps him hide his identity from her. naturally, it's going to be a rougher, more... growly? kind of voice, befitting the beastly form he's in. even so, he can't hide his true personality, which softens it with that gentleness that surprised Mipha, that helps set her at ease around him. even if she doesn't know who he is, the person he is at heart comes through loud and clear, which makes her instinctively trust and like him pretty quickly.

“Why would you have cause to look into me?”

“I know how that sounds, and I'm sorry.” His gaze darted away. “But I needed to find—I need someone to help me with something, and so I had to find the right person.”

“And you... settled on me, of all people?” Mipha tilted her head slightly. “Why?”

“Because I need—I need someone who's kind. Kinder than most. And dedicated to helping others. That describes you, doesn't it?” He looked straight at her again with those piercing blue eyes. “Am I wrong?”

“I...” Mipha felt heat rise to her face. “I wouldn't... I wouldn't say you're wrong, necessarily, but I... oh, I would never put myself above anyone like that. I simply try my best to do well by others, that's all anyone can do. I'm not special...”

He was silent for a moment. “Based on what I've heard, I'd disagree.”

1) LIE QUICKLY, LINK, LOL. He really just had to look into where she was after all the moves, and now he has to make it sound plausible that he was just looking for someone like her, not her specifically. It does have to be her specifically, because his love for her and desire to be with her is a thorn in the side of Twinrova and Veran, so they decided to punish his failed escape attempt (and thus his utter rejection of Veran) by setting up this situation to hurt him further.

2) it really does describe her perfectly, and as someone who's known her since they were both in preschool, Link would obviously know that. and she is special, he knows that too (but has to pretend it's hearsay), just as we all do. Mipha can deny it all she wants, but she is truly wonderful. ;~;

3) he pretty much has to get her to agree to this, because he genuinely thinks this could be his way out to freedom and being with Mipha again, so the angle he approaches this from is to ask her for help. which he does need, and knows will get her interest, since he's well aware of how selfless she is and her desire to help those in need (a trait they share). there's some guilt deep down, but it's overridden by the urgency of the situation, to free himself and get back to her.

“I...” He looked down again, something changing in his eyes. “There's not a whole lot I can tell you, and I'm sorry about that.”

“Why?” Mipha's frown deepened. “Why can you not tell me? I think it will be hard for me to help you if I don't know what the problem is...”

“Believe me, I wish I could. But...” He sighed. “Part of the problem, as you put it, is that I'm bound from speaking too much about it. I physically can't say certain things. I'm sorry.”

“Did you have a choice in the matter?” He shook his head. “Then do not apologize, for it isn't your fault. Just tell me what you can, and I'll see what I can do for you.”

this establishes the other part of the curse he's under: his inability to speak honestly about what's going on and who he really is. the reason Twinrova did this is simple: to ensure that it's not too easy for him to break out of her grasp. think about it--if he went to Mipha, told her it's him and that he needs her to do x because of y, she would readily agree, and not do anything to fuck things up, and they could enjoy being reunited and it'd be fun to some degree. but because this is a rigged game designed to punish and hurt him, there has to be that wall of separation from her, continuing to isolate him even as he gets to be around her for the first time in so long, and make him fear that she'll turn him down. fortunately, Mipha's compassion inclines her to be sympathetic and understanding towards this predicament, which touches him deeply. he'd figured she would be, hoped she would be, but to have her already showing him such kindness is a bit overwhelming.

“I can't tell you exactly what you'd be helping me with, but I can tell you what you'd have to do. It's pretty simple: just come and live with me for a year and a day.”

“Live... with you?” Mipha's mind immediately conjured up the image of herself in a huge cave, beside this giant wolf. As if sensing what she was thinking, he laughed slightly.

“It's not what you're probably picturing, trust me—it's in a manor house, and you'd have every comfort you could ask for. I'd also give you more money than you'd know what to do with, as compensation for uprooting your life like this.”

“You would...” Mipha stopped breathing for a moment. Her head spun. More money than she'd...? Oh no, that wasn't quite true. She did know what to do with it, at least partially. Father... I could help Father and Sidon... give Impa some stability as well... and then use the rest to settle myself somewhere... oh, I... “That... that is... very kind of you, of course,” she managed. “But... but what would you get out of such generosity? I cannot imagine how my residing with you and taking such wealth would help you...”

1) "a year and a day" is a time period that turns up in mythology, fairy tales, literature, and other media, and has been used in real life legal situations. hell, some forms of neopaganism use "year and a day" handfastings as a form of trial marriage. tons of examples of this trope out there!

2) Mipha's wild imagination gives Link the first real laugh he's had in literal years at this point. let that sink in.

3) and here we are, the offer that changes everything, that I've been building towards her getting. on the day that she lost her job after her car breaking down, when she's at what feels like rock bottom, she gets offered unimaginable wealth in exchange for helping someone by living in a comfortable manor. wealth she could use to help her father and brother, and her friend too. also, the fact that her mind instantly goes to how she could help someone else with what she'll get for helping someone... is more proof that she truly is special, despite her denials.

“Look, just... take a week to think about it, okay? I know it's a huge thing to ask, and you should have time to consider. So I'll come back in a week for your decision. If that's alright?”

“Yes, I... that's fine.” Mipha nodded. “Thank you. You're right. It is quite an offer. I promise I will have an answer for you when the week is out.”

“Thanks.” He rose up onto his feet. Slowly, as if he didn't want to frighten her. “I'll see you next week, then... sorry again for scaring you all.”

“Don't worry about it.” Mipha offered him a small smile, and he seemed to go very still for a moment. “I know now that you meant us no harm. I'm not scared anymore.”

1) he wants so badly for her to agree, for them to have this chance at being reunited, for himself to have a chance to be free, but his conscience won't let him try to push her too hard or coerce her. so he gives her a week to consider. we know it's a foregone conclusion, of course, or else there wouldn't be a story, but Link doesn't, and he wouldn't be a sympathetic lead (or in character) if he got overbearing about it. hence his consideration for her feelings.

2) he is indeed trying not to scare her again, and all too painfully aware of just how big he is right now. he's not used to towering over her.

3) this is the first time he's seen her smile in years, of course he freezes up. for three years he's had only the memory of her face, her smile, to comfort himself with, robbed not only of the ability to talk to her, but of all his pictures of her. to finally see her smile again hits hard. and then she follows it up by assuring him she's not scared of him... no wonder his emotions are so strong that even while trying to hide it, she can still sense it enough that it puts a lump in her throat as she watches him walk away. and the more she gets to know him, the more she can kind of sense him, even if she doesn't consciously know it.

“You didn't already say no? Are you losing it too?” Impa shook her head too. “Mipha, this is nuts. Completely insane. There's nothing to think about, because it's crazy.”

“She's right.” Zelda stepped forward. “No amount of money is worth—”

“What would you know about it?” Zelda's eyes widened, hurt flashing in them, but Mipha pressed on. “You don't have to struggle like I have been, you have never known what it's like to...” She drew a deep breath as she started to tremble. “I lost my job today. My car won't start. My father is still overworking himself trying to keep everything together, probably into an early grave, and Sidon doesn't have a college fund anymore, let alone the chance to do all the fun things he wants and deserves to do. If I took that money, I...” She dashed at her eyes with a shaking hand, hating that she was near tears again. “I could make such a difference for them. For you too.” Mipha gestured at Impa. “Don't tell me it's insane to want to help the people I care about. Don't you dare. Either of you.”

“I'm sorry.” Zelda bit her lip and looked away. “I didn't know... I'm sorry, I just...”

“We just want you to be safe,” Impa said quietly. “That's all. You have to admit it sounds pretty sketchy. I understand why you're tempted, don't get me wrong, but...”

“Then you should understand why I'm going to consider it.” Mipha looked down at the floor. “I know you two care about me and want me to be safe, and I do appreciate it, but this is my decision to make. And it is so much bigger than just myself.”

And here begins a conflict I worked hard to carefully set up: Mipha's choices based on her own experiences, vs. the misgivings of Impa and Zelda as people on the outside looking in. Look, they do have a point, from an outsider's perspective, it would sound like a terrible and reckless idea. Seeing it through their eyes, they have perfectly valid objections to the idea of Mipha running off to live for a year with a giant talking wolf she's never met before on the promise that she'll be given a fuckton of money. Which DOES sound bizarre! I can't blame them for being weirded out, can you? I wanted this to come across as a situation where both parties have equally valid positions.

Because... from Mipha's POV, her decisions are understandable too. We've just seen her have one of the worst days of her life, when she's already struggling just to keep surviving and has very little real joy in her life, and the implication here with what she says when she snaps at Zelda, is that Zelda doesn't know what it's like to be poor, because her life has always been comfortable. And that's true! So she doesn't really comprehend the desperation and pain Mipha's dealing with over her financial situation. She can't. And neither she nor Impa was out in the backyard with Mipha while she was speaking with Link, to see how he treated her and how he set her at ease. It's a carefully balanced conflict, where they all have their reasons to feel as they do and no one is just being two-dimensionally antagonistic about it, it all comes from a place organic to their characters. Mipha wants to help out this person she thinks is a stranger and help her family and friend, and Impa and Zelda just want the best for her because they care about her and worry about her. so this sets the stage for conflicts to come as things progress in her adventure.

I have a week to decide what to do about his offer. But I think I already know my answer, if I am honest with myself.

I chose to end the chapter on this line because... I just didn't see a point in putting in artificial suspense. We all know she's going to say yes, there wouldn't be a story otherwise. So why not end it on this note, where she's pretty much already made her choice because of her circumstances and desire to help those around her? Adventure calls, and Mipha is answering it with a firm yes. She just doesn't know exactly what's in store for her at this point...

[jimmymcgools]

Can you do a directors cut for they pay me a golden treasure?

hi! this has been in my ask box for like two weeks! i'm so sorry! my brain broke and i forgot how to think about things!

i'm glad you asked for this one, thank you so much 🙏 i'd had the first ~500 words of this sitting in a google doc for so long -- i was originally thinking of posting after i finished slip and fall season. but then my brain did that thing where i wanted everything to be exactly perfect and i kept working and overworking the first few paragraphs until way too much gluten had formed in the dough and it was chewy and terrible.

but then i took a step back and just tried to write a thing that captured all the little interesting ideas i wanted to include, and that helped me get the ball rolling.

commentary below! 💖

Two points of pressure weigh down his shoulders, as heavy as the bags of cash had been—heavier, even. It feels like he has two hands locked on either side of his neck. He can feel the man who owns the hands standing behind him, and he can hear the echo of the word wife.

this idea was one of the first things that made me want to write this oneshot -- linking this physical sensation of carrying the bags with this metaphorical way he feels lalo's control over him.

He swallows. His mouth is tacky with a sugary layer of Gatorade.

i wanted the whole thing to hopefully be SUPER sensory and way deep in jimmy's head. and this is the kinda shit that takes me longer than it should to remember. sometimes i have to just sit and think through every part of my body as if i'm in that situation and see if anything good leaps out.

He’s just standing there outside the apartment and his arms are so heavy and his shoulders are so heavy and his head is so heavy he feels as if he’s going to fall right through the ground, as if he’s going to plummet into the earth before she can even open the door.

this is one of the sentences that previously died to being overworked. i kept changing it and changing it until eventually i looked back at my very first version, which was more brainstormy note than intended prose, and i thought it was better than anything else i'd managed. so i used that!

There’s a bang and his eyes snap open. The door is widening to a square of light and his hands are in front of his chest, curling into balls.

this part is a reverse of the previous example, though! here i kept an earlier version for a while, something that started like "The door opens with a bang etc etc" and then i realised it DID need more work, it needed to be more in jimmy's head and not tell the reader exactly what was happening in the first three words.

A square of light—sand and sky and space blankets—and then she’s there, silhouetted against the white, and he takes— —one step, then the next, then the next— —through the bright doorway.

fuckin' love an em dash, mate

His legs, having delivered him here, to this final glowing space, give up.

another one of the ideas i was very excited about for this one-shot was comparing kim to the golden glowstick he holds that night in the desert! i always think about it when i watch that scene!

here's my first shot at making the comparison -- this final glowing space. for a while i wanted to include the memory of him holding that glowstick right here, so that people might link it with him holding her in the entryway, but it didn't work with the pace.

Her voice sounds like it’s coming down a long phone line, traveling through thousands and thousands of copper-lined miles. Crackling and cracking.

i'm a self indulgent lil shit so i put some references to my other fic in here. hopefully if youve read acb, this specific description makes you think of baby kim and jimmy talking softly on the phone at night.

Kim’s fingers are razors in his hair, crushing his head close against her shoulder.

another metaphor from early acb used here, which in itself is a reference to a song by the national, of course. all my fics are just a bunch of national songs stacked inside a trenchcoat

As soon as his chest touches hers, he’s clawing with tight fists at her back, holding her faster and faster, like he’s scrabbling for purchase over screaming dirt

i loved the idea of drawing all these parallels between the desert experience and his experience here. it makes me think of the split-screen opening. jimmy's dry tongue sticking to his mouth is like him trying to say the first part of kim's name. the way he hugs her is like the way he scrambles towards the esteem.

it's all entwined forever now.

From down the long crackling line, she says his name again. Jimmy. He almost can’t hear it. Jimmy.

god, i'm such a writing nerd and i love thinking about writing so much and it's like -- what does not having his name in speech marks add here? in my head it adds so much. is it real, is she really saying it? is he just thinking it? yet he says he almost can't hear it. somehow not having the speech marks also makes it feel far away to me. intangible. if she's really saying it, it doesn't feel real anymore.

i love writing!!!!

“Hey,” Kim says, her voice quiet, her eyes locked on his. The dry skin on his lips stretches with his smile. “Hey.”

would die for these two softly exchanging "hey"s.

It’s good to be close because he knows there’s something horrible trapped between their chests. Something he can feel running warmly down his white and unblemished t-shirt.

jimmy brushing his hand over the spot as they sit together on the sofa.

Like he’s something that might burn her, or something that might break. Or both—like he’s fragile and electrified.

i kind of want to do more with this duality at some point. i think they both feel this about the other. that they could burn them or be burned by them.

He wants her to cradle his cheeks the same way she always does, or stroke her thumbs over his mouth, or curl her fingers around his ears, but she doesn’t. She just holds him in her fingertips. Like water in her hands, he thinks.

more of that wild self-indulgency, but god i couldnt resist linking this moment with the first time they makeout in acb:

"Then she pulls back, breathing heavily, looking down at him. She frames his face with her hands. Gasping for breath, staring up at Kim from between her palms, Jimmy feels like she’s the only thing holding him together. Like he’s water in her hands."

the only thing holding him together.

the ", he thinks." i added in the one-shot makes me feel like jimmy's making the link too, not just me as the writer.

The apartment smells of smoke. Another thing he’s dragged with him over the threshold from the desert: one hundred thousand dollars in cash and the word wife and the smell of dust burning beneath a high sun.

of course, it smells of smoke because kim's been smoking inside, but jimmy doesn't know that

Boxers picked up and then put down in almost the same spot on the bathroom floor.

this moment always gets me. these actors are incredible. there's so much goddamn emotion in one little action.

In his hand now, the ache of a yellow glowstick. The edges of his fingers are made red with it, and his skin and bones and all the gaps between the different parts of himself are marked out with the light. He’s awake, and the yellow stick is fragile in his grasp. Glowing through the cold and the dark. Burning a ghost on his retinas. His suit jacket is thin above him, a loose sheet. The desert is loud with lizards and wind and tires wheeling over dirt roads. The glowstick is golden.

and now finally i get to this glowstick moment. i'm really proud of how i executed this paragraph. it's the writing nerd in me again. i love what the present tense does to it. to me, it makes it feel eternal, ongoing. this is how i felt okay about not setting up the glowstick thing earlier. this paragraph makes me feel like jimmy's been thinking about this the entire time.

all the gaps between the different parts of himself are marked out with the light

also the thought of like... jimmy sitting awake in the desert thinking about the jimmy vs saul of it all.

Burning a ghost on his retinas.

"Did I dream it or did I have $1,600,000 on my desk in cash? When I close my eyes, I can still see it. It's burned into my retinas like I was staring into the sun."

Kim’s face is warm against his spine. Her heartbeat seems to pulse through his skin.

more of my stolen acb lines, this from the final chapter:

"He can feel her breathing, her knees pressed up close behind his, her chest against his back. Her heartbeat seems to pulse through his skin. If he didn’t know better, he’d feel like the Sandias, like a line of protection between her and the world."

When he closes his eyes, he’s walking, he’s still walking.

returning to the first sentence here gave it all a terrifying feeling to me. like -- does jimmy feel like this moment of getting home is the dream? this looping dream?

thank you so much to everyone who read this one-shot, by the way! i was super nervous about tackling canon times, and everyone's messages have been so reassuring. i really appreciate it 💖

[imaginedhaven]

Rules of Engagement: Chapter Eleven

Link to Masterpost

Holy crap, we’ve cleared 50,000 words of this. Things are really starting to pick up now, so if I had to guess this will probably wind up being... maybe around 75k-80k in total? It still has to be WRITTEN, though, so... lol.

Also, we’re going to start earning that warning in the masterpost for canon-typical violence from here on out. Just so you’re aware.

Enjoy!

~*~*~

“So, let me make certain I have this absolutely clear,” Aedion drawled in a way that immediately set Rowan on edge.

Rather than reply and risk growling rather than speaking, he nodded, the movement tighter and less smooth than he would’ve liked.

“Aelin came here to Rifthold fully intending not only to continue her relationship with the prince, but to apprehend a criminal—not just any criminal, but an assassin—who was originally from Terrasen and moved to Rifthold.”

Rowan gritted his teeth and gave another silent nod.

“She elected to do this for reasons you are aware of, but that she has not told me and that you refuse to tell me.”

Another nod and another clenching of his jaw.

“And so the two of you have been sneaking out at night, which Captain Westfall”—the name came from Aedion’s lips as though it were a curse in and of itself—“condoned, if not outright allowed.”

The captain spoke up then. “Given the information presented to me, I had little other choice.”

“I’m not finished,” Aedion snarled, and the captain fell silent. “While you were sneaking around the slums of Rifthold, you got into more than one brawl, and you destroyed at least one business, which as of now still has yet to recover, if it ever will.”

This time it was harder to stifle the growl, but as Aedion’s expression didn’t change he must have managed it with at least some success.

“And then last night, it all finally comes to a head when Aelin allows herself to be abducted by said assassin. And you allowed all of this to happen.”

Rowan’s grip on his temper, already tenuous due to the nature of the situation, finally slipped enough for him to snarl at the other warrior. “Do not presume to think I made my decisions lightly,” he growled, “or that I have not spent a single moment wishing it could have been myself in her place.”

The shifter—Lysandra—delicately cleared her throat, and Aedion immediately turned his attention toward her. “If we’re done yelling at each other about whose fault it is,” she said pointedly, “then perhaps we can come up with a plan for how to handle the fact that our princess is missing?”

Rowan nodded shortly, and unfurled a roughly-sketched map of the city over his desk. He watched as the captain’s brow furrowed, likely at the idea that a foreign soldier had been able to acquire this much information about his city, but Rowan chose instead to focus on the plan he had been given. “Aelin’s request was that she be given twenty-four hours as a head start,” he began, “and I see the merit in that. If she’s not able to get the information she requires now, this assassin will go to ground and it could be years before we hear of him again.”

“It likely won’t be years,” the captain interrupted, ignoring Rowan’s scowl. “I did some research on my own into the man she’s hunting. He’s too proud to go completely unnoticed for that long.”

“Be that as it may, this is our best opportunity.” Rowan tapped on a building on his map. “She was taken here. Her captors didn’t notice me following them. It appears to be a stronghold of some sort, almost a guild hall for cutthroats and killers. I think it’s unlikely that they would move her from this place.”

“Unlikely but not impossible,” Aedion retorted. “We should keep an eye on the place.”

“Once you’re satisfied with my explanations, I intend to go there myself. If you can promise to adhere to the plan, you may join me.” He had long since given up on keeping the frosty bite from his tone, but he fisted his hand at his side to keep it away from his blades.

“And how can I trust that this is actually her plan?”

It was the mark of a good soldier and guard, to be skeptical of his statements. If this were any other situation, Rowan would even be grateful that Aelin had someone such as this as family and protector. But this was not any other situation, and Rowan carefully called up a hint of the ice that swirled within him in the hope that it would cool his temper before he killed Aedion. “Whatever Aelin did or did not tell you is between you and her, and I refuse to be pulled into that fight. The only thing that matters right now is making certain that she exits that building safely. Are you going to help with that or not?”

Aedion growled, eyes glinting in a way that strongly reminded him that this male was indeed related to Aelin of the Wildfire, but nodded. “When do we leave?”

“As soon as we’re finished here. Captain? Lysandra? Anything to add?”

Captain Westfall cleared his throat. “If I may, I can’t keep Dorian from noticing she’s missing all day long. Do we have a plan for that?”

Rowan frowned thoughtfully, and Aedion and Lysandra glanced at each other. “That’s a terrible idea,” the shifter said as if in response to some unspoken question.

“It’s the best one we have,” Aedion replied. “This entire plan, such as it is, hinges on secrecy. And you had best believe I’ll be having words with Aelin about coming up with better plans later, but right now we’re stuck with the mess she left us in.”

“Have we considered just telling Dorian?”

“No, he’s right,” the captain interjected. “The less Dorian knows about this for now, the better. He’s terrible at keeping secrets like that from his expression; if we tell him everyone will suspect something is amiss.”

Rowan quickly turned his attention to the guardsman, frown deepening. He very much suspected that this was not actually true, and that the prince was far better at keeping secrets than he wanted anyone else to believe. Perhaps the raw magic that lived in his core was less well-controlled than he had believed?

Ah, of course. The magic. It wasn’t public knowledge that the crown prince of Adarlan was burdened with such a strong gift of magic. It was likely the captain was aware of the secret, and didn’t want any upset to risk a flare-up of the young man’s power at an inconvenient time.

Rowan carefully set aside the thought that Aelin’s disappearance would possibly cause an emotional disturbance in the young prince that was severe enough to unleash his magic. Better to think his control was simply a work in progress like Aelin’s rather than wonder how close they could’ve possibly gotten in a few short weeks.

Lysandra sighed, interrupting his thoughts, and when he looked up at her he froze for a moment as Aelin’s face looked back at him.

It wasn’t truly Aelin’s face, though. Lysandra was trying to adopt her usual confident smirk, but the gesture looked stiff and unpracticed. If he looked more closely the color of her eyes was ever so slightly darker as well, and the scattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose was in the wrong pattern. It was deeply unsettling to be looking at this face that both was and was not his carranam, and Rowan quickly looked away. “It should be close enough to fool the prince, for a short time,” he managed.

“So we’re decided, then,” Aedion declared.

“I still hate this plan,” the shifter cautioned.

Captain Westfall scowled as he stood. “It’s the only plan we have. I’ll do what I can to limit your interaction with the prince. I’m assuming you don’t want a guard sent to the building?”

Rowan nodded. “Best not to call attention to our movements. But be ready, in the event that we do not return.” He suspected all would be well, but it never hurt to have a backup plan.

The captain nodded, the motion tight and precise as he would expect from a soldier of the man’s status, and quickly left. “You can get there on your own?” Rowan asked Aedion.

The younger male stared at the map carefully, then nodded. “I can get there.”

“Good,” Rowan said. And then he flew from the room in a flurry of wings and frosty air.

~*~*~

“You take me to such nice places,” Aelin purred as Arobynn led her into another chamber, slightly larger than the previous one. Her arms and legs remained chained, but with slightly more freedom of movement she could carefully roll her shoulders and her ankles in preparation for moving quickly should an opportunity arise.

“Such a valuable player in the game should be treated with exactly the respect she commands,” Arobynn replied smoothly, though Aelin carefully suppressed a shudder at the bite beneath his words. She needed him to keep talking, to give her time to find the truth beneath the layer of lies she knew he would present.

“Well, I do believe the next move is yours. I await it eagerly,” she smirked.

She glanced at his face, focusing on the way his eyes didn’t move at all when he smiled. “I have a proposition for you, my dear.”

Oh, how she wished she could free a single arm. It was all she would need to make him regret the way he was speaking to her, as well as the bargain she believed he was about to suggest. Instead, though, she relaxed into one of the chairs as he sat in the other. “I’m listening.”

“See, we each have something the other wants,” he continued. “I have information I know you seek, and I would very much like you to stop being a pain in my ass.” Again, that undercurrent of rage slipped through his ironclad control, and Aelin hid another smirk. Riling people who claimed to have excellent self-control was a talent she had developed from the moment Aedion had come to their home from across the sea. It seemed this man was no exception.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean,” she replied.

“Ah, so you weren’t aware when you and your… companion… trashed the Vaults that I had a significant investment in the business?”

“One of your hulking brutes didn’t like that I beat him fair and square. I could hardly control what happened next.”

“And the safe being cracked open before you left?”

“Complete coincidence, I assure you.” She was well aware that he would have no proof it had been her who had broken open the safe, and she knew that refusing to admit to what he suspected would only make him more angry. That was good. She needed him angry enough to let information slip.

“I see. Then I presume you don’t want to know how your parents died?” Another biting remark overlaid with false sincerity, velvety smoothness underlaid with sharp fangs and claws.

Aelin went cold, sensation fading from her limbs as she stared at him. “I was there. My parents died of an illness.”

“Ah, yes,” he drawled, kicking his legs up and over the arm of his chair. “An illness no healer could cure, or so I heard. I had left Terrasen by then, of course, but word spreads quickly when rulers fall.”

Aelin bit her tongue to hold in a sharp reply before glancing back over at him, expression carefully uninterested. “And assuming I can believe you’re telling the truth,” she said, “what would you ask in exchange for this information?”

“Why, what could any man want from a lovely princess such as yourself?” he asked, and Aelin once more carefully mastered her own expression to hide any disgust. “You have power, and yet you cannot access it without aid. I have that information and more, and yet I lack the power that would ensure my own safety. I’m certain we can come to some kind of… arrangement.”

“That’s a high price you ask,” she replied. “And you haven’t done nearly enough to prove you’re worth such an arrangement. After all, it is I who would need to convince the lords of Terrasen to accept you. If you can’t convince me…” Aelin deliberately yawned, and cheered internally as Arobynn gritted his teeth, silver eyes alight with anger.

“If knowledge regarding your own parents isn’t enough to convince you,” he snapped, “then what about information regarding your former lover?”

“It’s quite bold of you to assume I did no investigating when I discovered his body,” she retorted.

“Ah, but I would wager you have yet to learn who bid me send him to Orynth in the first place, and who gave the command to cut his life so tragically short.”

The callous admission that he had passed that command along lit a fire in her veins, and she reached for it before recalling that she was bound in iron. The wildfire fizzled, mere sparks that slipped from her fingers. “And what assurance could you give me, that you would tell me and that you have proof?”

Arobynn stood, and Aelin did finally cringe as he slid two fingers under her jaw to tilt her head up. “My dear, do I look like a man who leaves anything to chance? You’ll have your proof once I have our agreement.”

Aelin jerked her head back, freeing herself from his grip. “That’s a shame, for there will be no agreement until you’ve presented your proof.”

Almost immediately, Arobynn’s casual expression melted into steely anger. “What a shame indeed,” he murmured. “Perhaps you would care to enjoy some more of my… hospitality… first.”

As the man stepped away and opened the door, someone else entered the room. Aelin carefully stood as well, but even with a single glance she knew this wasn’t a fight she would win. Not with her limbs and power both bound by the iron chains clamped around her ankles and wrists.

At Arobynn’s nod, the newest arrival to the room gave her a predatory grin and dragged her toward the wall. Her face made contact with the wall as he shoved her against it with a hand between her shoulders, and while she was stunned by the impact he attached her chains to hooks affixed to the wall. “Do let me know if you decide to change your mind,” Arobynn called, and then the door closed behind him as he left.

Aelin heard the sound of a whip cracking, and as if from a distance she heard herself screaming as fire spread along her back.

~*~*~

Lysandra finally relaxed into her role as she sat beside the prince for the evening meal. True to his word, the captain of the guard had kept him busy for most of the day, giving her time to overcome her nerves at having to pretend to be someone like Aelin. Oh, she had acted before. She had played roles for clients and courtiers alike, and she had certainly changed her face many times.

None of them had felt nearly as important as this. Everything was on the line, completely dependent on Dorian believing her performance as his potential future wife.

It’s only for one day, she reminded herself as her fingers twisted around each other. She had complete faith in Aelin’s ability to execute a plan, as well as Aedion and Rowan’s ability to keep her safe. It was up to her, now, to give them the time they needed.

Dorian’s parents seemed to be completely unaware of the swap, and Lysandra had spent enough time listening to Aelin’s tutors to be able to follow the light political conversation that was taking place. Even Dorian was engaging with her just as he would with Aelin, and when he grinned at an offhand remark she awarded herself another point for her acting.

As the meal came to an end, Dorian looked over at her again. “So tell me, did you want me to do something terribly predictable and show you the gardens? Or can we skip that part?”

Lysandra laughed in reply as Dorian grinned. “Perhaps another time. I still have to read several of the books you’ve loaned to me, if I hope to finish them during this visit.”

Dorian stood, then, and turned to face her with an ostentatious bow. “Then I hope you will grant me the honor of allowing me to escort you back to your rooms, Your Highness.”

Lysandra chuckled and shook her head in what she hoped came across as a fond gesture. “You’re impossible,” she accused.

The prince laughed in reply. “I assure you that I am not,” he said. “I am here, after all. Unless you’d care to discuss the philosophy of such a statement, of course.”

“I rather suspect we would be here all night,” Lysandra grinned back as she stood, allowing him to take her arm and lead her away.

It was easy enough to allow Dorian to escort her back to Aelin’s room after the evening meal, though she couldn’t help a moment of surprise when he followed her into the main seating area. He glanced at the book Aelin had left open on her desk, humming thoughtfully as he read a few sentences. “Ah. I thought so,” he muttered.

“What are you talking about?” she asked, mimicking Aelin’s easy grin as she relaxed into a chair halfway across the room.

He turned to her then, and a chill in the air matched the frost in his eyes. “If I invited you to share my bed tonight, shifter, would you demur like the princess you claim to be? Or would you say yes, believing she’s already given into my charms?”

~*~*~

In another situation, or if he were simply an observer and not a participant in this conversation, Dorian might have been amused at the nearly-comical widening of not-Aelin’s eyes. Instead, though, he only felt a cold rage at the deception.

To the shifter’s credit, she immediately dropped the guise of Aelin and returned to her usual appearance. “I told them this was a terrible idea and we should just tell you,” she grumbled. “What tipped you off?”

“A few things,” he replied, “though the most suspicious to me was that this book is open to where Aelin left off last night when I left. She hasn’t read it today.”

The shifter—Lysandra, if he was remembering correctly—nodded. “I didn’t think you would come back here,” she confessed.

Dorian sighed. “Why don’t you start by telling me exactly what it is you’ve all been keeping from me today, and why the captain of my guard appears to be working with you.”

That was the part that was the most shocking to him, if he were being truly honest with himself. He had never once had cause to question Chaol’s loyalty, and he didn’t want to begin now. He only hoped there was a reasonable explanation for why he had been so eager to ensure he spent as much time as possible embroiled in his training and studies.

As he thought about the possibility that his captain and friend was conspiring with these people, as good as he believed Aelin’s intentions to be, he had to take several deep breaths to stop a layer of frost from forming on his hands. His control over his magic was much better than it had been when it had first manifested, but strong emotional responses still riled the power that slept within him. Unless he wanted to entrust his deepest secret to agents of Terrasen, he needed to keep his feelings in check.

The frost finally ebbed, and the shifter began to speak. “Your captain is only involved insofar as to keep you removed from all of this,” she said quietly. “We provided him with enough information to ensure your safety, nothing more.”

“That still leaves a foreign princess, her most loyal soldier, and a blood-sworn of Doranelle in my capital city, with a purpose of which I am not aware, causing an unknown amount of chaos.” Dorian fought back a sigh at the thought of the headache this would no doubt cause for him, and that was if he was fortunate enough to avoid worse fates.

“They’re… dealing with a threat that could bode ill for you and Aelin both.” The woman was clearly trying to decide how much to reveal and how much to hide, and if he wasn’t the person she was trying to deceive in this manner he would have respected it far more.

“What is the nature of the threat?” he asked.

She sighed. “A former crime lord of Terrasen, who left a few short years before her parents died. He’s created a new home for himself in Rifthold, styling himself the King of the Assassins. She’s been attempting to find him for years, to bring an end to a career that’s gone on for far too long already.”

Dorian sighed. “And I presume if I ask you’ll have absolutely no idea why a crown princess of Terrasen is involved in hunting an assassin, and didn’t simply leave it to her warrior cousin.”

“It isn’t my story to tell,” she replied, looking away.

“Of course it’s not,” he grumbled. “Apologies. I believe you when you imply that this wasn’t your idea and that you’re only involved out of necessity. But this puts me in a… delicate situation.” That was an understatement; if word of Aelin’s actions got out it could be disastrous.

“I understand,” she sighed. “Which is why I wanted to tell you what I could.”

Finally, he nodded. “And when do we expect her to return?”

“By morning,” she answered.

“Very well. I will do what I can to keep this quiet and out of the public eye. But I will be asking Aelin about this later.” It was the best he could offer, and by the look on her face she understood completely.

Without another word, Dorian turned on his heel and returned to his office, asking a guard on the way to send Chaol to him. It appeared they had much to discuss.

~*~*~

“I detest this plan,” Aedion hissed in the direction of the hawk on the nearby roof as the sun began to set. “We should be going after her.”

The hawk took flight, circling the square before landing behind a box and turning into Whitethorn in a soft flash of concealed light. “We have to trust that Aelin can get herself free,” the warrior said. “We’re foreign actors in Adarlan’s capital city. If we break into that building without cause, it puts Aelin and her prince both in a difficult situation.”

It was interesting, how a subtle difference in Whitethorn’s tone was able to so clearly indicate that he wouldn’t mind causing a little trouble for the Adarlanian prince. “You don’t like Dorian,” he realized.

The statement earned him a scowl from his Fae companion. “I have no feelings one way or the other about the prince.”

“You realize my senses are better than a human’s, right? I could hear that you don’t like him.”

Whitethorn’s response was the carefully crafted words of someone used to diplomacy. “I have no reason to dislike him. And we’re not talking about this. It’s almost time.”

Finally. He’d hated sitting in this alley waiting for something to happen. “Time for what?”

“If Aelin is going to keep to her schedule, she’s about to make her next move.”

“You think she can get out of there without us?” It wasn’t that Aedion didn’t trust his cousin’s abilities. No, he knew she was a capable fighter and a powerful magic user. But he knew that she would be unlikely to use her magic unless absolutely needed, given the possibility of a tense political situation if she were recognized.

When he turned to face Whitethorn, the other male wore a small but ferocious grin, eyes positively glowing. “It’s not her I’m worried about,” he responded. “Anyone who crosses her on her way out will deserve exactly what she gives them.” And judging from the look on his face, Whitethorn would revel in their suffering.

The house they watched over was quiet, its occupants likely asleep given that their profession meant being out at all hours of the night. Aedion sighed. “I still don’t like this,” he admitted several minutes later.

“Given that I don’t like it either, I could hardly expect you to.” For all his posturing, and for all the strange glee that had come over him when he had spoke of what Aelin would do to those who crossed her, now the warrior was tense, eyes dark with what Aedion suspected was worry.

Even though the Fae beside him was sworn to a queen that was not his own, Aedion realized he wouldn’t rather have anyone else at his side for this particular mission. He had watched Whitethorn and Aelin grow close over the previous weeks, closer than anyone would’ve suspected. He didn’t know much about magic, but he suspected that sharing it as they could was a rare gift. If he could trust anyone to feel the same urgency he did to ensure she got out of this alive and as unharmed as possible, it would be this warrior.

Suddenly Whitethorn’s head tilted and his eyes narrowed, much like Aedion would have expected in the male’s other form. “What is it?” Aedion asked, only for the other male to gesture for his silence.

Soon enough, Aedion could hear it as well. There was shouting coming from inside the house, at least two masculine voices. He couldn’t make out the words, and based on Whitethorn’s expression he couldn’t either, but something had changed. As he watched, the warrior pulled two knives from his boots and twirled them gracefully around his fingers. It was a good choice, and Aedion went for his own knife as well, knowing his sword would be nearly useless in these cramped alleys. “We stay here,” Whitethorn was saying. “Those are male voices. I haven’t heard Aelin yet, which means they haven’t discovered her. We only go in if it’s absolutely necessary. When she leaves, she’ll come this way. If anyone else makes it this far…” The grim smile on his face indicated their fate clearly enough.

Three men burst through the door of the building, exchanging panicked instructions before departing in different directions, and Aedion and Whitethorn crouched behind a cart to conceal their presence. One man ran for the alley they had chosen for their hiding place, and before Aedion could do anything the Fae warrior was already in motion, clutching the man to him in a twisted parody of a lover’s embrace before drawing a blade across his throat. “They’ll notice when this one doesn’t come back,” he whispered as he dragged the man behind their cart. “We don’t have much longer.”

A slim figure stumbled out of the door next, and Aedion grinned. “We don’t need much longer. That’s Aelin.”

She was almost unrecognizable, golden hair turned red with blood and darkened with ash, but there was no mistaking the eyes that met his, pained but determined. Then those eyes shifted away and he knew she had seen Whitethorn standing beside him. From the sharp intake of breath at his left he knew the warrior had seen her as well, and soon he had abandoned all talk of secrecy to cross the small crossing in several quick strides.

Aelin moved, trying to meet him halfway, but her motions were fumbling and clumsy. She said something to the warrior that Aedion couldn’t quite hear, smiling up at him…

And then as he watched, she collapsed into the male’s arms.

Whitethorn quickly lifted her, carrying her into the alley and out of sight. By the time they reached Aedion she was already unconscious, either from pain or from exhaustion. Judging by her face, Aedion suspected it was a combination of both. “Get her out of here and back to the palace,” he said quietly, adjusting his grip on his knife. “I’ll stay here and make sure you’re not followed.”

Green eyes met his, clearly searching for something. Aedion didn’t know what the warrior was looking for, but finally he nodded and adjusted his grip on Aelin.

Before he could get far, though, Aedion called to him again. “Oh, and Whitethorn?”

“Yes?” he replied, expression tight with concern.

“Take care of her.” And then Aedion turned his attention back to the house with a grim smile. He didn’t know what its inhabitants may have done to his cousin, but he had absolutely no problems with delivering justice to any of them foolish enough to come his way.

~*~*~

Tagging:

@ireallyshouldsleeprn @queen-of-glass @fangirlprincess09 @sassys-world @morganofthewildfire @superspiritfestival @perseusannabeth @sis-it-dont-add-up @jlinez @julemmaes @emilyoftheshadows

[muertawrites]

Two Halves - Chapter Three (Zuko x Reader)

Part Two

Word Count: 2,450

Author’s Note: Something very important to note about this series is that in it Zuko has very long hair. I’m talking like feudal era Japan hair (use this post from @frogydraws​ for reference. It is *chef’s kiss* gorgeous). Also, I feel like I’m missing people who asked to be on the tag list - if you asked but don’t see your name, PLEASE direct message me so I can fix that! Other than that I don’t have much else to say about this chapter. It’s mostly exposition but who doesn’t love some good plot speculation?

~ Muerta

Everyone gathers in a sitting room in Zuko’s personal wing of the palace, clustered in groups or pairs in an attempt to create some sense of comfort after the night’s discord. Katara, Aang, and Sokka gather in the center of the room - their typical formation, still very much a reflex due to years of working as a team. You sit with Iroh and Toph to one side of the room, Iroh sharing a chaise with you and Toph seated on the floor beside you, one hand laid protectively over the top of your foot. Zuko stands at the room’s fireplace, passing a ball of flame between his hands; you watch him closely, already innately drawn to him as your partner, noting that while the others (mainly Katara, Aang, and Sokka) discuss the evening’s events, attempting to formulate a plan for whatever should come next, he remains silent, secluded deep within his own thoughts. He looks every part the leader you’re now married to, in a way you hoped you’d only see much later in your relationship. 

“It had to be someone within the palace,” Sokka states. “The gates were too heavily guarded for anyone to get in from the outside.” 

“But how could they commit a murder without being seen?” Aang wonders. “There were too many people around for something like that to go unnoticed.” 

“That’s just the thing,” Katara counters. “There were enough people to create a big enough distraction that nobody saw until whoever did it wanted us to.” 

“And we’re absolutely positive it was that specific guy who was the target?” Sokka proposes. “It wasn’t just a random attack to make a statement against the whole government?” 

“No,” Zuko chimes in. “They meant to kill him. When I proposed making someone from outside the Fire Nation queen, he was the only one in favor of the idea. He convinced the rest of the board to support me.” 

“Do you think maybe they wanted to make a statement against just you, then?” Aang asks. 

“It wasn’t just a statement,” you tell him, speaking for the first time since entering the room. Everyone turns their heads towards you; the only one who doesn’t show any surprise is Zuko. “It was a threat, meant for both of us.” 

“And probably on behalf of Ozai or Azula,” Toph adds. 

“Do you think he’d really still have followers within the palace?” Katara questions. “Everyone who served him was imprisoned after the war.”

“It’s possible,” Zuko responds. “My father radicalized more people than we could possibly know of. I expected his resistance at some point.” 

“If Ozai intended to stage any resistance, he would have done it much more gruesomely,” Iroh interjects. “He wouldn’t have wasted time with threats. He would have killed one or both of you, if not everyone in attendance tonight.” 

“But who else could hold that much of a grudge against not only the Fire Nation, but the alliance with an outsider?” Sokka asks. 

“It could be someone from the Water Tribe,” you suggest. Your words are deadpanned and grim. “It’s very possible they see this as another form of colonization.”

“Nobody else from either tribe is here, though,” Katara says. “It’s just me and Sokka.”

“I don’t think they’d be here officially if they planned to kill someone,” Aang reasons. “If it was someone from the Water Tribe, they’re probably in disguise.” 

“They couldn’t have been,” Sokka replies. “They’d have to have been inside the palace, and nobody got in without official documentation.” 

“Our concern right now should not be the manhunt,” Iroh speaks up in his firm, tepid way. “It should be the safety of our loved ones; our lord and lady especially.” 

“He’s right,” Toph agrees. She stands, placing a hand on your shoulder. “I think she should stay with me tonight. I have the best chance of seeing someone and stopping them before they can do any harm.” 

“She’s staying with me,” Zuko quips. 

The entire room falls into a heavy silence, the air itself seeming to drop to the floor. Everyone stares at Zuko in shock, yourself included. 

“We’re married,” he explains. “It’s our responsibility to look after each other. She’ll stay with me in my chambers.” 

Five sets of eyes shift to focus on you. You meet Zuko’s gaze, the steely determination within them only serving to remind you of the bond you now share. You nod, keeping your eyes locked with his as you speak. 

“It’s okay,” you affirm. “I’ll stay with him.”

After a few more minutes of deliberation, everyone parts ways for the night - Sokka is sent with Katara and Aang to provide them extra defense, and Toph goes with you and Zuko, moved to the guest chamber just outside his sleeping quarters so she can monitor any movement that happens during the night. 

You follow Zuko into his rooms, arms linked together in a mutual nervous embrace. His chambers are divided into three spaces; two rooms connected by a sitting room and a large, covered porch. Zuko leads you down a short hall off the right side of the sitting room, opening a set of doors to reveal an ornate bedroom - your things rest at the foot of the four poster bed, your sleeping clothes already laid out on the mattress. 

“This used to be a sunroom,” Zuko tells you. “But I had it converted into a bedroom. I figured it would be weird sleeping together, but also weird keeping you in your own wing across the palace, so… this seemed like a good way to be close to each other without making it too awkward.” 

You squeeze his arm in a gentle, appreciative hug, turning to look up at him. 

“Thank you,” you say. “I really appreciate all you’ve done for me.” 

Zuko nods, laying one of his hands over where yours rests on his bicep.

“Let’s get changed,” he murmurs. “I’ll call for some tea and we can try to have a normal night.” 

He leaves you, and you draw the curtains of the room’s sweeping windows so you can dress in peace; one side overlooks a garden courtyard, while the other gives a view of the ocean beyond the palace’s farthest wall. The sights are stunning, but the suspense you feel building in the pit of your stomach makes it hard to enjoy them in full. 

Your hands shake as you undress, letting the layers of your wedding robes drop to the floor and leave you naked at the foot of the bed. You stare down at your night dress, the pristine white fabric glaring virginally up at you. You warily slide yourself into it, then cross the room to the vanity that’s been set to the left of the bed. 

You can hardly control the shiver of your fingers as they work the beads out of your hair, taking the freed locks behind your head into the single braid you typically sleep in. You stare at yourself in the mirror, clutching the totems Katara gave you to your chest; your eyes are wide, your cheeks sunken, your knuckles white. A small voice, somewhere in the far reaches of your mind where the sound can hardly carry, tells you to have faith in your new husband; he’s treated you with nothing but kindness since even before the moment you set foot on his soil, and has showed nothing but the utmost respect for you - he wouldn’t be the man your family loved and trusted with your life if he shifted his behavior in such a sudden, drastic way by forcing you into his bed. 

Despite these cries of reason, all you can hear is the voice of the beautician who prepared you for tonight - she hovers behind you in the mirror, her face contorted into a heinous, scowling grin as she cackles with laughter. She reminds you of the children you’re meant to bear, her nails digging into your shoulders as she goes on to tell you that, as the Firelord’s wife, he’s entitled to all the pleasure your body can give him, and will take it at any cost. 

Your terror turns the man who’s been so endlessly sweet to you into a monster. 

Through the bedroom doors, you hear a servant enter with a tray of tea, followed by Zuko’s gentle voice thanking them. You swallow, taking the strands of beads in your hands and twining them together, forming a necklace which you place over your head and tuck into the front of your night dress. After a few deep, quivering breaths, you stand, making your way out to the shared sitting room. 

Zuko sits on the side of the room closest to his bedroom, head turned towards the now lit fireplace and eyes lost within its glow, his gaze distant and glazed with worry; he snaps back to the present when he notices you enter, giving you a faint, slightly defeated smile. His military uniform has been replaced with a simple set of pajamas and a robe, his long hair free from its knot, now hanging loosely about his shoulders and down his chest; he’s even more handsome this way, his features contoured by the darkness of the room and the light of the fire. You feel a rush of lightheadedness as you lower yourself across from him, nervously returning his smile. 

“Uncle took the liberty of preparing our tea,” Zuko greets you. His voice is soft and welcoming, tinged with a mirth that feels almost ironic given the circumstances. “He didn’t want to subject you to my awful cooking skills so early in the marriage.” 

You huff amusedly, sharing a genuine smile with him as he serves you. You sip the scalding liquid slowly, letting it ease down your throat and warm you from the inside out; it relaxes you, the shaking in your limbs disappearing. 

“I’m glad we have him,” you say. “I don’t think we’d know what to do with ourselves otherwise.” 

Zuko chuckles, his grin causing a manic tremble to erupt in your chest. 

“He’s definitely the romantic one in the family,” he agrees. “He hasn’t stopped talking about you since he met you. I think if he were forty years younger, he’d have married you before I could.” 

You giggle, a timid blush coloring your cheeks. 

“I never thought I’d be so popular among Fire Nation men,” you tease. 

Zuko smiles, wistfully and exhaustedly, letting out a soft breath of laughter; you can tell the nights events anchor his thoughts. 

“I’m sorry tonight ended the way it did,” he tells you. “I wanted your arrival to be a source of happiness for our people. Maybe I was too hopeful.” 

You sigh heavily, running a finger along the brim of your teacup as he meets your eyes; you can tell he blames himself for what happened. 

“A hundred years of hatred doesn’t end in a decade,” you console him. “It isn’t just here, either - many people in the Water Tribe feel just as divisive as people do here.” 

You cautiously reach forward and take his hand, letting your thumb stroke over his knuckles. His fingers tighten around your palm, and you can feel every callous and scar that marks his alabaster skin. 

“We have to stand together,” you say. “We have to show the world that we can overcome the past; that things are different now, for the better.” 

Zuko nods, raising the back of your hand to his lips and pressing a light, tender kiss to the knuckle of your forefinger. He smiles faintly, letting his mouth linger on the bone for a long moment before placing your hand back where it was on his knee, still twined with his. 

“I really did make the right choice in a queen,” he muses. Heat spreads across your skin, your lips curling up slightly at his endearing remark. 

“It’s late,” Zuko says after a beat, letting his fingers slip away from yours. “We should both get some rest.” 

He stands, leaning over you and placing a docile hand at the back of your head. Your heart leaps from your chest and into your throat, your fingers curling to grip the skirt of your night dress as anxiety rushes to your head. You deny every instinct you have that tells you to fend him off. If this is when he chooses to take you, you have no choice but to go willingly - you can’t form any rifts in a relationship that’s already somewhat fragile, especially when doing so would mean driving a wedge through the center of an already divided country. 

Zuko lowers himself and rests his lips to your forehead, etching the phantom of a kiss just below your hairline; he parts almost as soon as he arrives, leaving you dazed and flustered in his wake. 

“Sleep well,” he murmurs, offering his arm to help you to your feet. You accept it, feeling much smaller beside him than you did only hours before. “I’ll see you in the morning.” 

You each return to your respective bedrooms, your legs floating towards your bed of their own accord and dropping you backward onto the mattress. You stare up at the sheer, billowing canopy hung from the ceiling as the shivering in your limbs returns, your body completely unable to accommodate with what your mind can barely seem to process. 

He didn’t force himself onto you. He didn’t violate the comfort between you simply for the sake of tradition and lineage. The extreme relief you feel is overwhelming, so much so that you think you might throw up or faint. 

You fall asleep to the sound of the ocean beyond the palace walls, the danger that looms within them doing little to deter the peace that washes over you as you drift into a pleasant dream.

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[aspenflower17]

Finding You (Part Fourteen of ??)

Hey everyone! I hope you’re all having a good New Year so far! I have a bit of an update after the chapter for y’all.

Edit: Oop! I forgot the link to Part One for any new people! My bad!

Tags (ily all!):  @simpingforsatan @naimena @hachimochi @wrathandgreed @magi-minminxiii @rensphilia @a-dream-at-night @chloelikesobeyme @getbehindme-satan @theuglypugling @oofthelazyweeb @mammonismyfirstman (as always, if you’d like to be put on the tags list, juust let me know in a comment down below, or a DM)

Word Count: 1,961

TW: None? I’m pretty sure?

Mc didn’t know what she was expecting from the song Satan’s brothers pressured him to play, but a gorgeous melancholic love song was not it, though she should have guessed it was a love song from the title. She was entranced from the first couple notes, and the lyrics pulled her in further. They spoke of someone experiencing love for the first time, though they were afraid of their Love fading away and leaving them. She smiled at the cat lyrics, finding herself not surprised Satan would write about them. He seemed like a cat lover, though she had no real basis for the belief.

 Satan’s singing voice was just as nice as his speaking voice and she found herself impressed. It also held a lot of emotion, enough that she was surprised it didn’t affect his singing. Though she had never heard the song before, it seemed extremely familiar. Though, it was a fairly universal concept, so it probably just seemed she’d heard it before. She hadn’t realized she was crying until Mammon offered her a handkerchief. When he finished, everyone clapped, and he started on another song.

“I never thought I’d hear tha’ song again,” Mammon spoke to Mc in a low voice.

“Why?” she asked.

“Oh… Uhhh… Well, it’s about a lost love of his. Once she… disappeared… He played it one more time and then said he’d never play it again.” 

Mc felt her throat constrict a bit at the revelation, “He must be doing better then. When he got his next… lover, he probably started feeling better.”

“He… Uhhh... '' Mammon floundered for words, and Mc found herself eagerly awaiting his next words, “I don’ think he’s dated anyone before or since her. If nothin’ else, she is his firs’ and only love.”

“Did she hurt him?”

“Huh?”

“I just ask because I’ve seen a lot of people, well, humans, who had relationships go sour and closed themselves off emotionally. I was just wondering if that’s what happened to him.”

“Not… Not exactly… She was human and she… died…” Mammon seemed really anxious at this point, and Mc decided not to push the subject further.

A human? Really? Well, that adds another layer to the song. It’s the most permanent level of “leave” there is. He knew going into the relationship it would end. But… If she had been corrupted enough by him, wouldn’t she have gone to the Devildom? Then they could’ve been together… Does that mean she went to the Celestial Realm? Do I know her? Or… Did she get stuck as a wanderer? Either way, why would he play it now? Mammon said he’d sworn off playing it ever again… The questions swirled around in her head as she watched Satan play.

“Ooooo! Ooooo! My turn!”

“Asmo, you can’t play piano,” Satan sighed, already getting up.

“But I can play music off of my DDD now can’t I?” Asmodeus said, waltzing up to what had become a stage.

As Asmo scrolled through what Mc could only assume was his list of songs, Satan came and stood next to her. Mammon even moved over so he could. Mc gave him a small smile and then turned her attention back to Asmodeus, who was gushing about the song he’d found to sing. She was still thinking about all the unanswered questions she had when she felt a breath next to her ear “What did you think?”

Mc almost jumped, but instead found herself glued to her chair, “Of the song? Or your singing?”

“Hmmm… Both.”

“You play and sing wonderfully. The song was beautiful. I could really feel your emotions.”

“Thank you,” Mc felt Satan retreat back to a standing position, and she found she missed his presence.

A huff from the other side of the room caught her attention. Looking over, she caught the tailend of Michael watching Satan with narrowed eyes before turning back to Asmodeus. How strange.

When Asmodeus finished, Lucifer was both begged and forced to play by those in the room. While Mc had to admit he was definitely in a league all his own, she found herself preferring Satan’s playing to Lucifer’s. She cocked her head slightly at the realization.

“Excellent Lucifer! Just exquisite!” Diavolo boomed, giving the Avatar of Pride a standing ovation, “I can’t remember the last time I heard you play!”

“Well, it has been awhile,” Lucifer smiled. His pride seemed to have recovered enough he could properly interact with people again. Mc was happy she was able to avert a crisis, not interested in finding out how a brawl between Michael and Lucifer would go. Though… Would either of them actually get into a physical altercation?...

Mc was so caught up in her thoughts, she didn’t realize the brothers were leaving until they were all asking if she would come to the House of Lamentation at some point.

“... And I would love to paint your nails,” Asmo prattled on, grabbing her hands, “And I know the Devildom’s lack of light can make your skin lose some of its radiance, but I have a moisturizer that can help with that. Oh and-”

“Asmo, come on! Ya want Mc to come visit or not?” Mammon interrupted,

“Mammon, you don’t understand the nuances of keeping yourself looking perfect.”

“Uh, yes. I do. I’m a model. Ya been smellin’ too many of ya fancy products and it’s melted ya brain?”

“I think you’re thinking of yourself, though it was probably when you were trying to con those witches into buying acid, and you drank some.”

“Oi! How do ya know about that?”

“Ugh, there they go again,” a head rested itself on Mc’s shoulder, and she almost jumped until she saw who it was, “Seriously though Mc. You should come over.”

“Yeah. You’re even welcome to bring Luke,” the one brother who she hadn’t talked to added, “Barbatos told me he’s gotten even better at baking.”

“Of course I’ve gotten better at baking! I’m also very good at cooking too,” Luke said, having joined the conversation.

Mc watched at Beelzebub, which is who she figured he must be through the process of elimination, actually started drooling, “Does that mean you’re actually going to come over then?”

Luke smiled fondly, a look Mc wasn’t sure she’d have ever thought he could have for a demon, “If you’d like Beel, I could probably make that happen.”

Beel rushed over to Luke and pulled him into a huge hug. Belphegor removed himself from Mc, walking over to Beelzebub, “Beel, you need to let go of the chihuahua or he’s going to suffocate. Luke can’t make you food if he’s been squished.”

“I’m sorry. I hope these idiots haven’t been bothering you too much.”

“Not at all Lucifer. They were just inviting me over sometime.”

“Well, I suppose it’s time for us to head out,” Lucifer said, starting to gather his brothers.

“You are welcome anytime you want to come over,” Satan’s voice came from behind her.

“I… Thanks. I would really like that.”

“Satan! We’re leaving.”

“I’m coming Lucifer,” Satan called, rolling his eyes, then back to Mc with a smile, “Bye.”

“Bye,” Mc called after him.

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

Mc sat in her room hours later, the events of the evening still running through her head. Though she knew Michael wouldn’t approve, she found herself much more at ease and even happier around them than she did around most angels. There was a non-judgmental kindness they all exuded (well, all except Lucifer) that made her feel like she belonged. She found herself excited about the prospect of spending more time with them at the House of Lamentation. She had to laugh a bit, the fact she didn’t fit in with the rest of the angels never more clear than it was now. 

Simeon had told her his time in the Devildom had been extremely enjoyable, the less structured lifestyles if the Devildom a welcome change from the Celestial Realm. She had read his work from that time and it was obvious he had felt a lot more creative in the Devildom, even though he had school responsibilities at the time. While she hadn’t doubted his words, she had always figured the change was mostly due to the fact he had been able to communicate with his lost brothers again. Now she understood what he had been talking about. 

Simeon generally gets along with the other angels too. What would they all say if they found out I prefer the company of the Fallen to them? Everything is just more natural with them. It’s almost like I already know who they are, as strange as that sounds. Especially Satan, though I’ve felt connected to him since I got his letter. Speaking of which, who was it that he mentioned? Lil… Lilly? Lillah? Lillian? Hmmm… I can’t remember. I do know I’ve never heard that name before. Whoever it was seemed to have a great impact on all of the brothers. It can’t be someone they Fell with. I’ve read all the literature about the Fall and I don’t recognize the name. Though there’s a lot about the Fall the Celestial Realm doesn’t talk about. But... Simeon’s also never mentioned anyone with that name before… Maybe it’s time for me to do some more research.

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

Mc stretched, and checked the time on her DDD. She had been in Diavolo’s personal library for over three hours, and she still hadn’t found any mention of the mysterious “L” person. She found plenty of references to Lucifer though. It seemed he and his brothers had been instrumental in helping Diavolo establish order when the old King had started his slumber. What caused this slumber, why it happened, or if it would end was not covered. Mc wanted to research the topic further, but she couldn’t get distracted until she had answered her initial question.

There was a knock at the door, and Barbatos came in carrying a teacup on a saucer, “I thought you might be in here.”

“Oh, hello Barbatos.”

The butler entered the room, and set the tea down on the table Mc was studying at, “I thought you might like some tea.”

“I would actually, thank you. If you would like to, you can take a seat.”

“I suppose that’d be alright,” Barbatos smiled, and sat down in a chair. His eyes glided across the books strewn around Mc, “You’ve got some heavy reading here.”

“Well, I’m trying to figure something out,” Mc sighed, sipping her tea.

“Perhaps I can be of assistance?”

“Maybe, though I don’t remember what it is I’m looking for exactly,” Barbatos simply cocked his head slightly until she continued, “Satan was telling about… Well, a personal experience, and he mentioned someone. I don’t remember their name, but it was someone very close to all the brothers and they had passed away. I was just trying to figure out who it was.”

“You seem very interested in this person,” Barbatos’ tone wasn’t accusatory, but he seemed to expect and answer.

“... I guess I’m just trying to understand them better. Him better,” The last part slipped from Mc’s mouth easily, surprising even her.

“I think I may know who you’re talking about. If I’m correct, you won’t find any references to her in these books. It’s not my place to explain the situation to you however. You should probably go speak with the brothers about her…” the butler paused for a second before continuing, “I believe Michael also knows a lot about the situation, though he doesn’t know the full story,” with that, he got up and pushed his chair in, “I must continue with my duties, but I appreciate the short reprieve. Good night.”

“Night,” Mc called after him. Huh. Michael knows?

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

Part Fifteen

 I wanted to let you all know that as it is January, ever since 2014 the first moth of the year has been terrible for me. So far, we are 3 days into 2021, and I have already gotten a near constant tooth ache meaning I’m going to have to go to the dentist, and have gotten sick. I don’t know what else this month has in store for me, but I just wanted to warn you all, if my updates get sporadic or short, that’s why 😬 

[varyen]

home is wherever i’m with you

I wrote a little Childe x Zhongli fic last night. Here’s the AO3 link. Under cut because of lenght. 

It’s the rain, Zhongli thinks, the rain does something to people, especially at night. It has a way of washing away facades and lies and oftentimes brings out confessions between people … — lovers.

The rain is heavy in Liyue this night. 

Zhongli doesn’t remember when the rain started nor does he know when it will end — in his humble opinion, it shall not. There is something peaceful about the rain, the steady sound of drops hitting the soil and the soft smell of rainwater lingering in the air. It’s something so simple and yet so eternal — the rain has always been while the rest around him evolved and changed. 

The streets are empty and cold in Liyue this night, the rain and the freezing wind keeping the people in their homes, tucked away behind their fireplaces and spending the time with their loved ones in privacy rather than out on the streets. 

It’s the same for Zhongli; he likes to believe himself to experience something mortal this night. The simplicity of it; it crawls under his skin.

The window is cracked open just a bit but there are no noises coming from the outside; there is no turmoil, none of the busy noises that usually go hand and hand with Liyue Harbour, the sound of the crowds and people and work. Tonight, there is just the rain. 

 Zhongli sits on the bed, a cup of tea on the nightstand next door to him, the book in his hands open but both long forgotten. 

His attention lies on Childe and Childe alone — the Fatui Harbinger of danger and wrath, sleeping peacefully next to him, his breath even and his legs tangled with Zhongli’s. He’s relaxed against Zhongli and his body rises and sinks in a slow rhythm. His slender fingers are wrapped around Zhongli’s wrists softly, barely holding on.

The delicate sound of the rain falling outside and Childe’s deep, rhythmic breath creates a melody in Zhongli’s head so full of yearning and love that the Archon almost can’t recognize himself.

Is this mortality?, he wonders, his eyes wandering over Childe’s relaxed features, a faint smile covering his face. 

Is this what mortality will be like? Moments so precious like this — in all of his long life Zhongli cannot remember being soft. He’s always been as hard as stone, had to be, even with peace among the land, he has been hardened and formed by centuries of war and slaughters. Softness was never a luxury Rex Lapis could afford — Ah, Zhongli stops himself, a faint smile on his face; but he no longer is Rex Lapis. The burden of his Gnosis, the burden of his name, the burden of the divine; it was all lifted off his heavy shoulders. It finally feels like he’s able to breathe. 

And now, with Rex Lapis deceased and bygone, will he, Zhongli, be able to afford the luxury of softness, of vulnerability? Maybe, he thinks to himself and eyes Childe.

“Your tea still warm?” Childe’s sleepy voice rips Zhongli softly out of his thoughts — the Fatui has one eye open, staring at him with sleep still smudged all over his face. 

“I’m afraid not”, Zhongli answers, his lips still carved up slightly enough for Childe to recognize his smile. 

He yawns and turns around, resting his head on his hands. His eyes are sharper now, more perceiving but his face is still made soft by sleep. “It’s late, Zhongli. You should go to sleep.” - “I find much more rest in watching you”, Zhongli replies and finally closes that book in his lap and puts it away — he’s lost his interest in it as soon as Childe fell asleep. 

“It’s a peaceful night”, Zhongli adds, his head making a slight movement towards the open window. The rain hasn’t stopped or decreased and Childe hums in acknowledgement, his everblue eyes throwing a quick glance outside — the orange light of the lanterns is almost magical in the wet night, clashing against the dark, warm and yet cold at once, a paradox that cannot be explained — just like either of them, Zhongli and Childe, in their own ways, and without so much as having to look at each other, they know that they’re both thinking the same thing. 

Childe leans upwards, his hands running over Zhongli’s arm like a faint whisper. “I don’t know for how much longer the Tsaritsa will let me stay”, he whispers against the rain. Childe’s voice is tainted. 

The night is peaceful until Childe decides that it isn’t.

Zhongli’s eye twitches but the rest of this face remains as neutral as he can manage. It’s the rain, Zhongli thinks, the rain does something to people, especially at night. It has a way of washing away facades and lies and oftentimes brings out confessions between people … — lovers. 

Zhongli tilts his head — in all his long, long life he’s never met quite a challenge like Childe — everything about him is surreal; his decisions impulsive and his emotions reckless in a way that it moves something deep within Zhongli — he can’t quite grasp it, he can’t quite comprehend it. It must be love, Zhongli thinks to himself. It must be the kind of love only a god can give.

 “What about you?” Zhongli asks, looming over Childe like a dark shadow, eyes narrowed. 

Within Childe, something seems to crack — his features derail and he looks away, as if ashamed, and suddenly he’s much smaller. 

“I wish I could stay”, he whispers so quietly, Zhongli almost mistakes his voice for the rain. 

“You can”, Zhongli replies simply. There is a certain warmth in the Archon’s voice, a certain tone that rings right through Childe and punches a dagger in his heart. 

Childe looks up to him, eyes wide open, cheeks flustered and his mouth slightly agape. 

“And if you cannot, well… I can follow you to Shneznaya. I am no longer bound to Liyue”, Zhongli stops for a second and smiles again. “Home is wherever I am with you.” 

Childe just stares back at him — the Harbinger looks so vulnerable in this moment, so fragile, Zhongli is sure he could break him with less than his fingers. He could swear that Childe’s eyes swill up with tears but the Harbinger blinks away quickly. 

“I have nothing to offer you”, Childe suddenly breathes, his fingers wrapping tightly around Zhongli’s wrists. 

Zhongli is quiet for a moment, processing what Childe just said before he chuckles low. Really, Childe is one of a kind but Zhongli knows a thing or two about patience. 

“I have been worshipped, Ajax”, Zhongli starts and Childe’s eyes open wider as if he’d only now realize who Zhongli is and what power he holds, still, even without his Gnosis. 

“I have been worshipped in blood and sacrifices and many more things worse. I have slaughtered and taken. I have led and protected.  I built Liyue and watched over it for thousands of years. The people have given me everything over these millennia and there is nothing I want except you.” 

His hands slowly cup Childe’s cheeks, his thumbs pressing into the soft skin underneath the Fatui’s eyes. 

“You never will have to offer anything to me. Quite on the contrary, I offer myself to you.”

Childe inhales sharply. 

“Will you accept the devotion of an old man like me?”, Zhongli doesn't smile but Childe recognizes a faint glow in the Archon’s eyes that gives his amusement away anyway.

“I desire nothing else but the gift of your love”, Zhongli adds, and he leans toward to press a gentle kiss against the corner of Childe’s mouth. He can feel Childe’s heart skip a beat, his breath shuddering in his throat. 

Childe groans, his fingers pressing hard into Zhongli’s skin; like he would float away if he didn’t hold on tight enough; or like Zhongli would slip away from him.

“You will be the end of me”, Childe whispers. “You’re killing me.” 

Zhongli’s eyes light up on that, like the eyes of Morax, clear and sharp Amber. Yet another reminder for Childe to not forget who Zhongli is — or was. 

“Do not think about the Tsaritsa now. Instead, think about me and what I can do — Gnosis or not.” And after six millennia of being a god, there is a command in Zhongli’s voice which is undeniable and, more importantly, not negotiable with. His words have been the law for a very long time and who is Childe to disobey the God of Justice, the God of War? 

Childe swallows and all he can do is nod. 

Deep within himself, underneath layers and layers of lies and betrayal, Childe knows, he knows, that if Zhongli called, he would answer. His devotion to the Tsaritsa started to thin in the very moment Zhongli gave his Gnosis up — without a fight he handed it to Signora, freely, and he seemed almost relieved to be rid of it. Childe knows this in the very abyss of his soul; and so does Zhongli. 

“Will you still require blood and slaughter?”, Childe asks, half joking, half serious. “I can give you both.” 

Zhongli snorts which catches Childe so off guard that his jaw drops — he never heard Zhongli making such a sound.

“The times of war and battle have long passed. I am no longer an Archon. I am no longer the god that I needed to be. I may not be as mortal as you are, my love, but mortal enough.” Zhongli turns to look outside, the rain still heavy, still falling. 

“In all this time of being alive I never felt so alive.” 

His gaze flatters back to Childe but he remains silent then. Childe’s heart pounds so fast and so loud that he’s sure Zhongli can hear it. His blood rushes through his veins like a wildfire and ignites something beyond passion and desire.

Childe closes his eyes and lets his head bump against Zhongli’s shoulder. 

“You’re right”, he says then, finally giving in,  his lips trailing over Zhongli’s skin. “It’s a peaceful night.”

Zhongli finds himself leaning into the touch, into the warmth, and he hums. He presses a kiss on Childe’s forehead. 

“It surely is. And we have many more ahead of us.”

[stellahibernis]

Lan Wangji: Armored in Silk and Lace

AKA Lan Wangji’s costumes in the Untamed, part 3/9

Today it’s time to discuss the outfit that’s definitely in contention for the title of Most Extra™. As usual, I’ll talk of the costume both in terms of what it consists of and how it ties to what’s going on in the plot.

Lan Wangji wears this outfit during the evil summer school in episodes 11 to 14, and is furious for about 90 % of the time. He also confesses his love, only for Wei Wuxian to pass out without actually hearing it, so things are going just great for him all in all.

The Costume

This was a fun one to analyze, because it looks fairly simple at a first glance, the silhouette is much like his first outfit, but when you start to really look at it, you’ll spot a lot of detail going on. Also for some reason getting good screencaps of this one was a nightmare, but I think you’ll get the gist even with what I got.

This outfit is notable for a couple of reasons; it’s his first completely white outfit (excluding the forehead ribbon and waist ornament, those are the same as always), his other fully white outfit is the next one. It’s also the first time there’s no cloud embroidery anywhere, the other time is the outfit he wears when they go to the temple in the end. I’ll talk of the in-universe reasons in the context section, but the fully white look is a very wise choice also from the costuming perspective.

As you can see above, the silhouette is once more a formal one, with the wide sleeves and the robe falling freely over sash. The color is pure white, as opposed to Nie Huaisang’s off-white in comparison, but you might go back and look at the first outfit for example, and notice the white here seems warmer than in any of his other white outfits. Usually, while the white fabric in LWJ’s costumes is always pure white rather than a tint of any kind, it takes a little of the blue hue from the inner robes. It obviously doesn’t happen here, and the fabrics used are also somewhat less shiny than in his other costumes, which helps it reflect the warm tones back (as opposed to the next, also all white outfit, which is made of shinier fabrics).

From costuming perspective the choice makes sense, because this outfit is worn outdoors under sunlight, in Qishan with its reddish light, and in the cave in firelight, all of which are environments where the full white works at least as well (natural sunlight) or better (Qishan and the cave) than with the blue underlayer. The textures of the fabric also look great especially in the dim light of the cave.

Now let’s get to the details! The most obvious thing is of course the lace overlay on the outer robe which is not only gorgeous, but a relevant factor in consideration whether this is the Most Extra™ outfit. I also love the texture of the fabric on the lapels and sleeve ends, with the same fabric also used in the layer below. In the title I called this outfit his armor, and it is so for him psychologically, which I’ll talk about later, but it’s also reflected in the very structured cut of the second robe, which has much starker pleating than his outfits usually do. There’s also a bit of lace in the panel on the front, and the sash is similarly criss-crossed as it was with his previous blue outfit.

I had to settle for a screencap of him crouching to get even a half decent look of the bottom of his robes, because mostly you can’t see half of the detailing. First, there is the panel of lace that continues all the way down in front, and you can also see the pressed pleating. Also, if you look at his right knee (resting on the ground), you can see yet another fabric that has a sort of circular texture going on (may have to zoom in on this one), again something that you’re likely to miss on the screen, but must have been great for Wang Yibo to know that every bit of the costume was as elaborate as LWJ’s should be.

And finally, my favorite detail and the one that in my book yields the title Most Extra™ for this outfit, the boots! Sorry about the awkward cropping, I didn’t want to have the leg wound visible, since that’s potentially a less than great surprise in a costume post, and this was pretty much the only scene where you could get a good look at the boots.

I mentioned in part 1 that it's a hell of a power move from the Lan Sect to have white boots in general, but look at these. Boots made of white brocade? Truly incredible, and obviously used here since we get a good look at them by virtue of LWJ’s leg wound. Once again I applaud the costuming department for commitment.

The Context

LWJ is back in white, which broadly means that he feels drawn to his duty to his sect more keenly, and in this case I’d argue it’s mixed with mourning for the burned Cloud Recesses and the loss of his home, hence the all white outfit. He’s also terribly vulnerable and alone when we first see him in Qishan, he’s escorted in by the Wens rather than arriving with an entourage like the others, he’s been questioned and beaten for who knows how long by that point, he’s injured and has to use his spiritual energy just to walk upright, and he’s worried about his family. Of course, he’s not going to let the Wens see it’s getting to him, and his outfit is one of the few things he can control, so he does, to a degree at least.

The lack of cloud embroidery might in-universe be because he was not allowed to have it, considering the embroidery acts as a talisman that can protect the wearer from some forms of harm (remember how in episode one the puppets didn’t like them).

They may be made of silk and lace, but his robes are his armor right then, the very formality and how impeccable they are despite everything is giving out the signal that even in these circumstances he’s still the Second Jade of Lan. It’s costing him though, and he again has drawn a wall around himself and doesn’t spare a glance at the others, including WWX, he’s laser focused on Wen Chao with all the fury he has. Of course, the day ends absolutely miserably with them having to relinquish their swords just to add insult to injury, and giving him even less things he has control over. (This is not a weapon design post, but Bichen is really pretty.)

There is a huge difference in the way he now interacts with WWX compared to where they left off in Qinghe, even taking into account that LWJ didn’t actually let WWX see quite how much he’d softened toward him, but now the barrier is fully up again, and WWX is doing his best to batter it down once more. He can of course see it’s different compared to how their early interactions were, now LWJ isn’t annoyed at him but just ignores him, likely at least partly out of necessity because he has no energy for anything else, but also because he’s so aware of representing his sect in this dangerous time, and he can’t afford to be distracted. WWX of course finds out only later what has happened since their parting, and then understands better why LWJ behaved as he did.

Of course, LWJ might be on his last legs and tied by his duty, but the fact he cares about WWX hasn’t changed, and while he can ignore both the questioning and the antics, he won’t just stand by and let him be hurt. This, of course, is a mutual feeling for the two of them, as we see later during the walk toward the cave. In fact, they’re on something of a mirrored journey right here, having to think of their duties toward their sects, but when push comes to shove, they will always help each other.

When they're left behind in the cave there is a brief lull in the push and pull conflict going on in both their hearts, and for a bit they can just focus on surviving together. WWX pulling LWJ’s ribbon off is a neat symbol for it, as if removing the duty for a bit, and the conversation following is fully personal even though their worry for their families is there at the back of their minds at all times.

There’s also the only moment of peace for LWJ while wearing this outfit; when he falls asleep and WWX gently covers him with his robes, and later in the morning puts his ribbon back on. LWJ really had no defence against falling in love with WWX, when assaulted both by the fact WWX isn’t at all bothered by the icy aloofness he portrays, and the casual caring acts.

After the relatively calm night it’s back to no fun times to be had, with WWX nearly dying in the aftermath of the battle. Here we get perhaps the most pointed example of how LWJ is at this point in his life pulled into two directions. He sings the song he composed and named after the two of them to WWX, even saying the name aloud and practically confessing to his feelings, and then leaving without waiting for WWX to wake up when they’re saved, because he knows that since he can, he needs to return to his family and see what they can salvage of their home. A “fun” thing for him to contemplate, by the way, is whether things would have gone differently when they reunited in episode 20 if he’d stayed at least to see WWX back awake. Who knows.

Next time we’ll have another fully white outfit and LWJ not having a particularly good time wearing it. Hopefully there’ll be plenty of scenes from which to get good screencaps, it feels like struggling with both the angst and difficulty of capturing should be too much to ask. 😅

(You can find the rest of this series via “lwj costume series” tag below, or through my blog contents page. I’d link for ease of access but the links make it disappear from tags, so. 😒)

[gigilberry-wips]

if wishes were stars

This is my secret santa gift for @kirkwords​!

It’s a bit late, but technically I got it done on time sooooo here you go! I hope you enjoy this and I wish you and everyone here a very, very Happy Holiday!!

Word Count: 3,071

AO3 link

･ﾟ✧*: ♡ ･ﾟ✧ *:

In a secluded street of a nondescript town, there lived a run-down little toy store. What was special about this store was that it was owned by a man named Nicholas St. North, otherwise known as Santa Claus.

Not that he admitted to such a thing. On first glance, he didn’t much look the part either – instead of a fat and jolly little grandpapa, what you were met with was a tall, imposing wall of a man, with a rumbling, earth deep voice and tattooed arms that had likely lifted a reindeer or two in their time.

But the jolly part was still there, twinkling in his eyes. And every toy he made seemed to hold a touch of that fairytale magic.

A whispering, fluttering little thing, beating deep inside.

Thump … thump … thump …

Thump

A pair of cloth eyes blinked. They blinked again.

Looking down, they found two pudgy, cotton-stuffed arms. Those arms led into the puffed sleeves of a faded dress that might have once been pink but through age and time and the general negligence of items left behind and forgotten about had eventually faded to a dull, stained beige.

On one corner of the dress was a curling, embroidered word. Rapunzel. That was her name.

Rapunzel sat up. From where she was on the floor, there was not much to see beyond the wall of cardboard boxes. The dust motes hardly stirred in the dim lighting, and the few spiders spinning their webs ignored her presence entirely.

But in the distance was noise. Things moving around, talking, what might have been a few strains of music. Was it a party? Rapunzel liked parties.

She toddled up onto her stout little feet and followed the sounds. The boxes were not all uniform; every now and then they let through shards of light. Rapunzel made sure to pass through each of them – or at least she tried; some were too high up for her to reach. Occasionally she would stop and stare at how they lit up her dusty skin, or made the occasional stray glitter sparkle on the ground.

When the wall of boxes ended, Rapunzel did not find a party. But far above her head were strings of sparkling lights, enclosed in clear glass spheres. They looped in and out of the shelves that lined the isle, creating a woven canopy of brilliant yellow light. Large work tables occupied the space within the isle, pushed against the shelves and stretching up so tall that Rapunzel couldn’t see where they ended or what they held.

Rapunzel wandered amongst them. Her feet made prints in the dust that covered the floor, but she didn’t know that, not when her head was craned up and her sight was filled with floating lights.

She was so caught up in them that she didn’t notice when someone noticed her. She didn’t see it when that someone climbed down to reach her. And she definitely didn’t hear them until they stuck out their hand and said: “Hello!”

Rapunzel yelped. To her right was a towering pile of junk heaped under a table. And crouched on an outcropping was a colourless boy.

That is, everything from his clothes to his skin was coloured stark, pasty white, even his hair and cheeks and mouth. The only thing time and wear had done was fade his once fancy looking clothes to old cream and add several moth holes and tattered strands to it. The hand he held out was made of segments, smooth and hard as marble.

"Why are you shiny?"

The boy blinked two black pinpricks he had for eyes at her. He tilted his head. "... Pardon?"

"Your face, I mean. It looks a bit shiny where the light hits it." Rapunzel gently touched his hand with her soft mitt. "And your hand, why is it hard? And why is it shaped like this?"

"Oh ... I guess that's because I'm made of clay." The boy touched his face. His fingers made a light tap-tap sound. "My hand is like this because I'm a puppet ... I was a puppet. I'm not anymore. I'm free. Do you know why?"

"Why?"

"Because I gave myself a name." He pointed to himself. "I’m Jack. I like the name so it’s mine now. What's yours?"

"My name is Rapunzel."

"Is it really? How do you know?"

"My dress has my name on it." Rapunzel held out her dress and showed off the embroidery. Surely he'd never seen stitching this pretty before, and it spelled her name so that meant her name was pretty and good, too.

"Do you always listen to what your dresses tell you? You're funny." He went to poke it but Rapunzel batted his hand away.

"Well, if you don't like it-"

"I didn't say that. It's nice - really, it is!" Jack laughed, even as Rapunzel sulked. "In fact, I've got a friend who's playing dress-up right now. She'll tell you it's pretty, too. Do you want to meet her?"

"You have friends?" So there were other dolls there. Then another thought hit her. "Can I be your friend?"

"Sure you can!" Jack shook her hands. "There! Now we're friends. Come on, let's go meet the others!"

At first Rapunzel thought that Jack was going to make them climb up the junk to get to the table's surface. But instead, Jack led her down a winding path through the debris, until they heard a raised voice and the sound of laughter.

The heart of the junk pile opened up to a cleared space. A desk lamp off to the side illuminated two figures.

The laughter was from a wooden soldier. His paint was chipped and peeling, and where he should’ve had a black boot to match the one on his right leg, there was instead a rusted nail jammed crookedly into the wood.

While he sat on a pencil box and held his sides, a girl doll twirled in the middle of the space. Her long, puffy hair was a shiny red and she wore the most outrageous outfit Rapunzel’s button eyes had ever seen. The bedazzled purple headpiece didn’t even match the rest of it. The moment she caught sight of Jack and Rapunzel she brandished a sword bigger and wider than the spindly arms that wielded it.

“But hark! What is that I spy?” She declared. “A rascal! How dare the miscreant show his face?! Doest thou wish for a flogging, foul knave? For I shall bestow it myself!”

Jack ran up to her and dropped to one knee, flinging his arms out. “Why would I fight such a fair princess when we could dance the night away?”

She waved her sword at him and threatened to chop his head off. Meanwhile, the soldier sitting off to the side laughed even harder.

“… That’s not … how … it goes … at all …” He wheezed helplessly.

The girl tossed a grin at him. “Close enough, right?” She hung the sword in a makeshift shawl-turned-belt and raised a smug eyebrow at Jack. “You hear that? That’s the sound of success. You’re not the only one who gets to be funny around here, Jackie boy. Eat it and weep.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not how that goes either.” Jack stumbled up, his joints knocking together.

She rolled her eyes. “Whatever. Now tell us who your new friend is.”

Rapunzel wandered up to the group. She did a shallow curtsy. “Greetings, all. My name is Rapunzel. I’m happy to meet you.”

“And we’re happy to meet you, too.” Jack pointed to the toy soldier. “That is Hiccup Horrendous Haddock the Third. There’s a really long and windy story about how he chose his name.”

Hiccup shrugged. “I’ll tell it to you if you want to hear it.”

Rapunzel skipped over to him and shook his hands. “I’d love to! I love stories! Please tell me whenever you like.”

“Uh, wow. Thanks?” Hiccup chuckled. “It’s nice to meet you too?”

“Okay, okay, okay. That’s enough of that.” They both looked over at Jack. Jack grinned. He swept his arms up and showcased the shiny girl in the shiny dress. “This is Princess Merida of Clan DunBroch.”

“Not anymore I’m not!” Merida swatted at him, and he spun out of the way cackling.

Pulling her sword out again, she swung it up. “No longer am I Princess Merida. From now on, I wish to be the warrior queen Boudica! Hyah!”

She did a spin and a leap, making the layered skirt swirl in her wake and the headdress fly off. She landed in front of Rapunzel, knelt on the ground and sword pointed at Rapunzel’s chin.

Rapunzel obligingly clapped. “Very good!”

“Thank you, thank you. All in a day’s work.” Merida brushed herself off and stood.

“Why don’t you want to be Merida anymore?”

“Because I’m one of several dozen Merida princess dolls.” Merida rolled her eyes. “I don’t want to be the same as them. I don’t even know who this ‘Princess Merida’ is. I mean, sure, the name is fine, but does it really need a Princess in front of it? I’d rather just be Merida, and not-” Merida shook her outfit out. Rapunzel giggled. “-this, you know? That’s why I’m changing my wardrobe.”

On the other side of the clearing were racks of doll clothes and a large changing station. Many of the clothes were strewn about on the ground. Half of them were almost as outrageous as whatever Merida wore, the rest not looking like they’d even fit on her. These friends must have been here for a while.

A warrior queen, was it? Rapunzel had never heard of that, or much of anything really, but that didn’t mean she wanted to miss out on the fun. “Can I help, too?”

“Would you? Fantastic!” Merida looped her plastic arm through Rapunzel’s. “Let’s get to it. To start, I was thinking we’d look into something green …”

They did eventually find a dress that Merida liked, after many more dramatic outfit changes and general silliness. Granted, it drooped around the shoulders and she had to kick out the skirt to walk in it, but she said it was ‘comfortable for movement’ and ‘blending into the surroundings’. Rapunzel and Jack also dug up a proper belt for Merida to store her sword on.

“I think this calls for a celebration.” Rapunzel tugged the belt more securely and straightened up.

“What’s the occasion?” Jack asked.

“Because why not? Because we found a new dress for Merida. Because I met all of you and because we’re here together. Let’s do something nice.”

From where she admired herself on a plate, Merida smiled at Rapunzel through her reflection. “I think that’s brilliant.” Giving her hair one last flounce, she spun around. “What do you suggest we do? Shall we do a dance? A play? Want to go exploring?”

“I have an idea.”

They all looked towards Hiccup. Laid at his side was a trumpet about as long as he was tall that Rapunzel hadn’t noticed before. He used that to slowly pull himself upright and started walking into the junk pile, using the trumpet like a cane. “Follow me.”

They wound their way down one of the twisting paths until they came out to find a giant table leg. Unlike the others, this table leg had a strange device attached to it. There was a large box – what it was for, Rapunzel didn’t know – with long strands of belts tied to it. Those belts went up, up, up so high it passed above the table and out of sight.

The box had a little door that Hiccup swung open. “Get in here.”

Jack and Merida easily walked in, while Rapunzel craned her head up at the structure.

“What’s this supposed to do?” She asked. She almost missed the door and walked right into the side of the box when Hiccup caught her arm.

“It’ll take us up. Look.” Next to the box was a large red button, bolted onto the table leg. Hiccup pushed the button.

The button lit up bright red. Something hummed above their heads, and then the belts began to move. And they moved the box with it.

Up they went. Rapunzel gripped the rim of the box, which came up to her belly, happy as could be. The ground grew further and further the higher up they went, until they reached the table top and the ride met its end.

There were many things scattered on the table. But what caught Rapunzel’s eye was the structure right in the middle of it. It was a dollhouse. It was very large, at least three stories tall, and made of sturdy, unpainted wood. The best part was that it had a flat roof, with a few chimneys growing out of the corners.

Without a second thought, Rapunzel ran to it and started climbing it. The roof had a much better view of the lights, and she spun around and around and made them all blend together, bumping into Jack or Merida along the way and laughing with them.

The lights went dark.

They blinked at each other, button eyes and plastic and paint.

“… Where’s Hiccup?” asked Merida’s voice.

The door to the roof swung open. “Here.” There was Hiccup. “How do you like it?”

Rapunzel stumbled forward until she found his hand. “Why’d the lights go off?”

“The lights are connected to the outlet over there. I unplugged the wire.”

“Aww that’s not fair.” There was Jack, bumping into both of them. “We were having fun!”

“Look – no, no. Not at me. Look up.”

Rapunzel looked up. With the lights gone, it was easy to see that the ceiling above was made of glass. Through the glass was a blanket of starlight.

The dolls huddled together, hushed by the sight. Something about the light of the stars and the quiet of the room and the darkness that shrouded them made them keep close to one another.

On occasion, one would murmur a thought, or another hum a tune. Some thoughts led to others, which led to strands of conversation.

They passed those conversations between each other, lying on their backs and staring at the sky.

“Of course I remember how I came here.” Jack scoffed. “I escaped.”

“Exciting, I’m sure.” Even in the dark, Merida’s voice carried her eye roll.

“Shush, you. It was either that or they sent us to the scrap pile.” A sigh in the dark, followed by shuffling noises. “I remember hearing them talking, alright? I was supposed to be part of a set. But the other puppets, they said … that we came out wrong. Apparently, we were supposed to have bigger heads or something, be- what was it … exaggerated. We were supposed to have ‘exaggerated features’. But, well, here I am.” Jack waved his arms in the air, so that they showed up black against the sky. “I don’t know what happened to the other puppets from my batch, but I didn’t want to go so soon. So I escaped when no one was looking and ended up here.”

“… Okay, so that’s mildly interesting.”

“What about you, princess? What got you to come here?” Merida gave him a half-hearted shove. He went with it, and then rolled back to flop an arm on her.

“… Just me being myself, I guess.” Merida hummed. “I was up one night with the other dolls. The other Merida ones were alright, and I think … some of the other princesses, too, maybe, and a few more. But the rest of the dress up dolls were so annoying! All they wanted to do was comb each other’s hair or have tea parties or sing songs and that’s it. And like, those things are fine. I don’t mind them. But there should be more to life, shouldn’t there? Like going on adventures and fighting monsters and saving the world.”

“… Like in a story.” Rapunzel said.

“… yeah. Like in a story. Just like that.” Merida reached over Jack and squeezed her hand. Jack made a protest of being smushed, but Merida blew a raspberry at him and Rapunzel patted his head.

It was nice, being like this. Friends were nice.

“Do you remember how you came here?” Rapunzel turned her head to the right, where Hiccup was.

A pause, interrupted by a distant bell chime. “I remember … I remember waking up around books.”

“That’s how he knows so many stories.” Merida said.

“You’re the one who’s been here the longest, I think. Longer than me.” Jack’s voice went softer. “… that’s a long time, isn’t it?”

None of them answered. It wasn’t easy to tell what time was or wasn’t, when one was a doll.

“… Can you think of any story right now?” Rapunzel asked, to fill the silence.

“I think there’s one about the stars? You’re supposed to make a wish on one and it’ll come true.”

“Well, there are plenty of them here so that means plenty of wishes, right?”

“No, um … I’m not sure that’s how it works, Jack.” Hiccup shook his head. “It has to be … there’s supposed to be some other condition to it. Something special about it. Or about the wishing.”

“I know what I’m wishing for.” Rapunzel said. With one hand in Hiccup’s and another in Jack’s, Rapunzel spoke to the stars. “I wish that we can all stay together.”

A moment of quiet, with only their thoughts and the strange fluttering in their chests.

“… For how long?” Merida whispered.

“For as long as we’re friends. We’re friends now, right?”

“… we are.”

“We’re friends.”

“Friends for good.”

Friends to keep. Friends to stay.

In the dark where no one could see it, Rapunzel smiled.

She smiled for the moment and the company she had. She smiled for the lights she’d seen before and the stars she saw now. She smiled for the promise she’d made on the stars.

The stars. What beautiful things. To every corner of the room, to every corner of the sky, they breathed their glittering, infinite light. Like a promise of forever in an ever changing world. That was such a strange concept for lost, little souls, who had no place of their own but where they were, with no perception of yesterday or tomorrow, only the present. Only now.

In the sky, the stars carried wishes. Of things lost and things found.

In the dark, the night carried dreams.

[thoughtsofanexcitedspacechild]

Writing Tips (Pt. 3): Writing Believable and shippable relationships in literature.

Hello friends! First of all, let me say a HUGE thank you for the support on the Kataang post! I worked really hard on it and it means so much to me all the little notes you give it and reblog it! I know it’s not at a huge number of notes, but I like knowing that people took time to read through the endless rant and reblog it! I’m planning on doing another full analysis on Zutara and why specifically it doesn’t work. I’ll make it respectful though as I know that a lot of Kataang fans are REALLY defensive and anti-zutara. I promise I’m not one of those people, and believe that no matter who you ship, your opinions on fictional characters are your opinions and you are FULLY entitled to ship and like whatever you want (as long as it’s not incest or a huge age gap. PLEASE don’t ship that stuff lol. U nasty mfs know who u are.) Speaking of ships, let’s talk about writing them. Writing ships for movies, books, shows, etc. can be surprisingly hard. Writing characters themselves can be hard enough as it is, but writing a pair of characters that fit together like a puzzle piece can feel impossible. Nevertheless, I’m here to make that process a little bit easier. When I’m trying to set up a relationship that’s going to happen, here are some things that I keep in mind to make sure that I and the audience of my writing  ship the characters I have end up together. 

DISCLAIMER before I get a’rantin: I am by NO means telling you how or what to write and am by NO means a professional writer of any sorts. I’m doing this mostly because I write a lot and speak from my own personal experiences with writing and because these are just the things that I found work best when writing my own stories. I also read and analyze a lot of others work on my own personal time, and these are just the details that I pick up on that I find makes a piece of writing effective. With that in mind, remember that writing is and art form, and the beauty of that is that there’s no one right way to do it. Ever. You can read the same thing as another person and interpret it in a completely different and unique way. 

1. Complementary Characters usually work out best. 

This is more than the classic “opposite’s attract” theory, and characters don’t necessarily have to be opposite to be complementary. Some things to think about when thinking of and writing complementary characters:

-Complementary doesn’t necessarily mean complete opposite in every single way. Often times I find it much more helpful to have characters share a common interest in hobbies, upbringing, childhood trauma (that one’s a bit overdone these days), etc. so that they’re not butting heads all the time. Just like yin and yang, theres a bit of darkness in the light and vice versa. To keep the balance harmonious, you can’t have characters be polar opposites and have no common ground. That leads to what many people consider a toxic ship, and will either lead to an unrealistic balance that inevitably leads your characters to be fighting all the time. 

-Keeping common interests in mind, often times the paces where character’s contrast is in their personalities. (Shy and bold, heart and head, bubbly and brooding, quiet and gregarious, etc.) Different personalities often are able to balance each other out and hold each other accountable for their weaknesses.

-Going off of that, one character’s strength is another’s weakness, and all traits are both. A character’s empathy can lead them to be loved by many, but may cause them to starve themselves and drain their cup so there’s none left to take care of themselves. A character’s logic may lend them top of class or calm in stressful situations, but can lead them to be insensitive to others and even their own emotions. Your characters should balance each other out and work well together, and part of this is helping each other grow from their weakness. 

-This one isn't as important, but what I also find super compelling, especially in film and tv shows is when the authors/writers deliberately choose to give the characters complementary color palettes. (I dove more into this on my Kataang analysis so go read that if you’re super interested.) If the character’s look ascetically pleasing together, it makes shipping them a whole lot easier. Focus on orange and blue, yellow and purple, red and green, and any variation of those colors together. 

2. Buildup

Often times one of the biggest critiques of ships that just don’t work out is that there’s not enough buildup or foundation to have a romantic relationship. It seems obvious, but if you’re going to have them end up together, there’s going to need to be some buildup or else the entire relationship will feel wrong and contrived no matter how pleasant you make it. 

Some tips for increasing and establishing buildup:

-Have your otp spend time together as friends first. I personally find that the healthiest and most successful ships are friends before they’re lovers. This is why Kataang specifically works so well, but Korrasami, Romionie, and Liesel and Rudy from the Book Thief are all good examples. If you observe these ships, all of these characters spend time together as friends first. Korra and Asami were able to bond and become friends over a toxic guy (cough cough MAKO) and eventually developed feelings for one another. Ron and Hermione weren’t romantically interested in other people and were friends until they started seeing other people and found out they liked each other. Liesel and Rudy were best friends before anything else and Liesel didn’t realize her feelings until it was too late. 

-Time together. When your otp spends time together, make sure that whatever time is being spent together is time that they both enjoy. No, the activity itself doesn’t have to be enjoyable to both characters, but the time spent together should be. If the characters really aren’t enjoying the time spent together, then it’s never gonna work out. I’ll use the ship that I’m writing as an example. Currently, I’m in the process of writing a third atlas series and we’ll use my characters Liang and Hana. (Yea I used my own name for one of my characters. I think it suits her bc she’s basically my clone, just, she’s the avatar. I’m going to change both of their names once I do more research and can find culturally and historically accurate names.) Liang REALLY loves pro-bending matches. Hana, not so much. She still goes with him to see matches and attends his matches when she can. On the flip side, Hana really loves going to her favorite tea shop. Liang vastly prefers a strong cup of coffee, but he goes with her anyways. Why would they choose to do something that they don’t necessarily like? Because that’s more quality time spent with each other and doing something for the other person. 

3. Romantic Gestures

Going off of my last point, we have the art of romantic gestures. These can range to things anywhere from a hug, to an elaborate firework display, to a locket with both of their pictures in it. Make sure that the romantic gestures are there! It’s gotta be clear that both characters are thinking about one another and consciously choose to do something for the other person. Here are some fun ways to do it:

-Remembering a gift the other character wanted. This one’s cliche but it works, because often times the best way to show affection is through physical gifts and objects. Think coffee from a favorite shop, handwritten notes, that piece of clothing the other has been eyeing, etc. 

-~symbolism~ *add chime here* By that I mean have an object to symbolize their relationship with, like Korrasami’s iconic hair pin or Liesel’s book that Rudy retrieved for her. This way, the readers not only have a visual representation of their favorite ships, but the object can physically link characters together and make a vague relationship full cannon. (I know for sure that someday when I get a tattoo, I want the hairpin tattooed on my wrist, ankle or side of my body.) 

-PDAs. Works best in film and visual stuff, but still applies for everything. I’m talking cuddles, kisses, falling asleep in each other’s arms, the whole shebang. I mean how much clearer can you make it than a pda?

-Love languages. Each person loves in their own unique way. Have characters figure out and learn each other’s love language. It really shows and adds a whole other layer to the cake. This one can make a ship that feels a little bland have more depth and realism, because in the real world, healthy relationships are formed and aided by learning and applying each other’s love language. 

4. Dialogue. This one can be hard to master, but once you do, it’s a breeze. First off, I recommend getting all your ideas out, and editing. DON’T EDIT AS YOU GO! This is often tedious and super annoying, so get everything out first, and go from there once you have a decent amount to work with. Dialogue is tricky, because dialogue in and of itself is meant to communicate and express feelings. Here are some tips and steps to at least get a start: 

a. Know EXACTLY how your characters feel about one another, and make that evident through communication. It seems obvious (again) but this really helps and I find that putting myself in the character’s shoes for a second and really thinking about it helps to decide exactly what they would say in a given situation, especially if the scene you’re writing involves confrontation about feelings for one another. 

b. Dialogue is more than just talking. Body language, tone, facial expressions, etc. are all part of dialogue too and are SUPER important! In the real world, humans communicate through more than just words, and sometimes a playful grin, grimace, crossed arms, or pout is much more effective than a character outright saying something. 

c. Once you’ve written the dialogue out, be concise and smart about your dialogue and pare it down as much as you can. Often times, adding too much dialogue can make a scene boring and flat. Use your words sparingly! The purpose of writing is to covey a story or message and often times this can be done effectively with less words rather than more. The main point in dialogue itself is to provide necessary context and information. Otherwise, don’t use it.

d. Make sure the conversation is two sided. This (say it with me now) SEEMS OBVIOUS, but make sure that both people are talking/communicating. it’s a conversation, not a speech. (Unless it is a speech or declaration of some sort.)

Before I go: A QUICK (Long) PSA ON TOXIC SHIPS: 

The concept of a toxic ship is very common in a lot of literature. Often times writers choose to include elements that may be toxic to heighten romantic tension in a story. While I do recognize that this sometimes may be a stylistic choice, there are MUCH better and effective ways to create tension that having something be toxic. Toxic relationships in my opinion share one purpose, and that is to establish a relationship’s toxicity and ineffectiveness. I don’t recommend writing these into a story unless it’s an obstacle for your characters to overcome, and having a character forgive the toxic actions of another character and still end up with them isn’t the right move because it completely disregards and diminishes the effects of what happened previously.

One of the best examples I can think of is Reylo from the new sw trilogy. I did touch on this briefly in a couple of my earlier posts (The Effect Of Modern Day SW characters and My Tips for Writing (In General) which I highly suggest you go read bc they both took me a bit of time and state the purpose more in depth) but I think I’ll quick reiterate and say that it wasn’t a good choice on the writer’s part to have some of the dialogue be so intense and vicious and then have them end up together. I still like the idea of Ben Solo and Rey together and ship them together out of cannon, but in cannon, it’s the perfect example of an ineffective ship. There was little to no build up, the dialogue was often spiteful and sharp, and it escalated a bit too quickly. I would’ve liked to see more of Ben Solo (NOT Kylo) and him feeling sorry for and repenting for the bad that he’s done before he and Rey end up together. Yes, we’re all suckers for the enemies to lovers trope, but PLEASE make sure to filter out the toxins before boarding your ships and watching them sail. 

That’s it for now! I hope this helps a little when writing shippable characters! I’m always free to rant to and to critique. I’m going to start posting as much as I can, because these guides help me too! Check out my other ones if you’d like to know tips for writing in general and I made another one on how to write characters. 

[artoodeeblue]

A Lady on Paper

Find the French version along with my other original writing on this blog!

I can barely remember my birth. My first one, anyway. The cornerstone. It is shrouded in mist, cloggy like the swamp of my cradle-town. Someone must have fathered me – towers and spires rarely sprout up unannounced, I have gathered. In the echoes of my nave, I still hear the scratching of quill over parchment, the heavy bangs of the hammer, the heaving of my creators’ breaths.

The little details give me real life. I take my first breath when Gaultier chisels his initials on one of my rib vaults. His upturned tongue sticks out, almost touching the freckles on his nose. The light bounces through his walnut hair and lands on my freshly-carved stones.

“Hello,” I whisper, gently caressing his mind.

“Hi.” He smiles. Wipes the sweat from his forehead. His voice is tentative. He doesn’t quite know what he’s doing, but his tender name glows, etched into the millennia.

“Pleased to meet you, Gaultier.”

With a professional hand, he scratches another layer of mortar on his stone. In the growing mass that will become my visitors, the sound is both grounding and appeasing. Painfully, heavily, I rise.

“Me too, my Lady.”

Someone must have sired me, but my loyalty has always been to my children.

 They give me jewellery and thorn crowns, which I accept like a mother concedes to her child’s present. I don’t need them, but if they reassure them – if they can feel less alone in this world – I can carpet my walls with a thousand tapestries.

Gaultier is long gone, but his laugh still echoes in the choir. It spins around, playfully blowing out candles and raising my children’s hair. His parting gift to the generations.

 They give me eyes. I count three, round and gleaming. They flash with pastel, sketched with a delicate mix of stone and glass. With them I see my cradle-town. I see the steaming chimneys, the palace, the paved dampness of the city. I finally see my children, immersed in pink and blue light. Kneeling, muttering, singing. Confessing. They come in processions, light candles most cannot afford, speak a language I do not understand. I pray as well – that they find the answers they ask of me.

They add more intricate buttresses, for fear that I fall. I chuckle. Of course I will fall. I will burn down and crumble and fade until I am nothing more than a lady on paper. But Raymond will have none of this. He gives out orders, holding his parchment, counting steps and scratching on his board.

His touch is firm and steady. He pats me like his pet, running his fingers in the tiny creases between the stones.

(He misses Gaultier’s carvings, which I hide covetously.)

“You will become the most beautiful temple ever to stand upon this earth,” he tells me. His pompous language never fails to pry a laugh. “You will be thin as a sheet of parchment, yet your towers will stand strong until Judgment Day.”

“My sisters have not,” I try again. “Can you not hear their screams, as they fall to pieces and flames in the East? Only their ruins will see the sun rise on Judgment Day.”

“Not you,” Raymond insists. “You are better. You are good. You are holy.”

“Holier than the entire civilisation your people slaughtered in the name of God?”

His blue eyes glint with stars and hubris. He jerks his chin upwards. “Yes.”

My children are strong, and proud, and will burn themselves for a touch of the sun.

  I wonder if this was how my sisters felt in the East.

They plunder my crypt, behead my kings and saints, but I never knew them anyway – they are all mere faces tattooed without my consent. Fake jewels. Kings never come to say hello; they just waltz in, kneel, smirk, and declare war over heretics.

Julien’s little kick is nonchalant, patronising.

The pavement is coated with a thick layer of blood. It swirls around me, inside me, churns my stomach and stares at me. They don’t do much to me – maybe, underneath the harsh gaze of the Raymond they so despised, they can hear Gaultier’s murmurs of hope. I never really understood hate, but I know it quickly dissolves under permanence.

“Not so powerful now, huh, girl?”

He wears a blue and red tricorn which awkwardly frames his childish face. He cannot be over twenty, yet his tongue sticks out as if he had finally brought a lion to its knees. Still, it has been decades since I have spoken. I nudge him back.

“Never,” I answer.

Julien smirks, and waves his little flag. “We control you now,” he gloats. “You’ll never hurt anyone else again. You’ll be forgotten, just like every other part of the Old Regime.”

“So will you.”

With a giant, heaving swing, the rod comes smashing towards St Thomas. His head explodes, and the fragments scatter through my bowels.

“I despise you,” he snarls. His breath is ragged, and his chiselled jaw twitches in its socket. “You’re everything that’s evil in this world.”

I am only rocks, I want to tell him. How can stone, oak, mortar and carved initials rival with the bloody smoke-trail of a musket?

But he is already gone, running on the pavement, carried by youth and homicidal optimism.

They change my name – it belongs sometimes to Reason, sometimes to the Supreme Being, sometimes to Liberty. My children are creative, and fickle. Anything to prove that they have changed.

But a few chopped off heads do not change the tell-tale glimmer in your eyes.

  A man with almond eyes and a high forehead like mine pushes through my heavy door. His steps break my trance-like slumber, and I stir. Shy sunlight cracks through my unused eye. I blink. Slowly.

Gaultier’s laugh is no more than a whisper now. It has lost its music – has grown as lethargic as mine. Raymond’s promise flies over me like the angel of Death.

The man blows, sending a streak of fresh air over the piers. Dust materialises in the diffused rays. He stumbles around the half-ruins littered on the floor.

Electricity courses through his fingertips as he brushes my stone. I shudder. I haven’t been touched like this in centuries.

There’s an aura around him. Not divine – not like the few priests who still roam my sleepy aisles. Something rich and brown, scented with paper, ink and starlight. His eyes seek, blink, and dart in rhythm with the turn of the earth. His feet are posed firmly on the checkered tiles, yet his posture is light and dream-like. Grounded, physical, yet full of wonder. Not broken – not yet.

He smells so intensely, decidedly human.

I take a breath, and guide his hand towards the tiny alcove I made. It hides in the joint between walls, covered by dust and inconsequence. His breath gets caught in his throat, Adam’s apple bopping up and down. He religiously traces around the tired G, the sloppy H. It stings up to my spire, but tickling nerves feel much less lonely than numb inattention.

“Six hundred and fifty years,” he murmurs. “We must look like insects to you.”

I brush his skin, watching his eyes light up with Muses. Deep in the bowels of my bells, a slow rumbling comes to greet him.

“I think you look like giants, Victor.”

 Out of everyone who said hello, he’s the only one who comes back broken.

“Look at you, all pampered,” he says. “You’re a proper lady on paper now. On your way to your old beauty.”

“It is your doing, my love. Your beautiful story set the spark.”

Victor smiles, a weary, tentative thing that contrasts with the navy bags under his eyes. His back is hunched, shoulders drawn tight under his jacket.

Sometimes, Victor reminds me so much of myself it sends sparks of pain down to my crypt.

“I am so very sorry, my dear.” I send him a tender sunray, but he recoils – flinches – away. He takes a shuddering inspiration.

The clangs and thrusts of the renovation scaffolding reverberate inside the nave. Victor’s knee fidgets back and forth, up and down, synchronised with my heartbeat. His breath comes in long, trembling sighs. He dips his head a little more, letting his brows cloud his gaunt expression with shadows too old for his age.

“She was…” Victor falters. “My Leopoldine, she was only nineteen.”

He whimpers, shoulders trembling. Never in his life could he withhold emotions from his features. My Victor has always felt everything so viscerally, so fiercely, that the force of a hundred hell fires could not possibly restrain him.

His hands are linked together and his eyelids close – a small, awkward attempt to connect to something far above my spire. I stay silent.

“You’re supposed to know everything.” His mouth moves, yet his voice comes from another realm. His brow twitches. “If you’re so omniscient, can’t you at least tell me… Tell me why?”

That is the one question I cannot answer, that I can never answer.

“Why can’t you bring her back?”

His broken sobs do not echo. Neither do Gaultier’s laugh, Raymond’s hopes, Julien’s fire. They are absorbed in the scaffolding above, in the heavy oak framework, in the centuries-old mortar.

 Sometimes I wish I could speak to God. After all, am I not named after his mother?

Perhaps I am condemned to share her fate, forced to watch my children break and die, suspended to the cruel post of Time.

Demain, dès l’aube, à l’heure où blanchit la cathédrale… Je partirai.

  It feels…strange, to say the least. I am smaller, lower. Reduced.

Smoke and ashes fly from my spire over my cradle-town, my beloved light-city. My children are cut from me, staring powerless behind murmuring firemen. They pray, they sing, mutter words of comfort that I barely catch over the screaming in my mind.

It aches. The intricate carpentry consumed, the flames licking up my roof, the crashing water relentlessly boring into my shoulders. The tireless wind ramming against my walls, whistling between my towers. It carries the bystanders’ collective gasp as they watch my spire crumble and impale my flank.

A young fire woman fixes her gaze on the brazier, a stoic jawline firmly maintaining her illusion of control. I can barely discern the tell-tale glimmer of her eyes through the smoke.

“You must be in so much pain.”

Maybe, but my pain is not unbearable. My children’s is.

“Don’t worry. We will protect you.” Her voice is wobbly, with a higher pitch than usual, yet her hand on the hose could not get any steadier.

 When the sun rises over my still smouldering body, I hear relief, and I hear grief. The city, my radiant, proud, boastful people, hang in exhausted silence. It drapes over me.

My close call to destruction caused thousands of individuals to turn their heads towards an old remnant of the Regime.

“We will rebuild,” they say. From my undamaged eye, I spot their leader, surrounded by a shifting mass of microphones and cameras. “We will restore Our Lady to her former glory, and make her even more beautiful. We will make these stones alive again.”

Raymond’s voice resonates through millions of television sets. His eyes bore straight through the country.

I think of Gaultier’s sweat-filled affection, of his cheery compassion.

Of Julien’s anger at the vices of the world, of the passionate curve of his eyebrows.

I think of Victor the writer, of his beautiful smile and his magnificent tears, of his unconditional love for humanity.

I think of the three or four billionaires I have never met, who will claim to adore me by bedecking me with fake jewels, by cajoling me with impersonal wood and long-dead cold stone.

I think of my other sisters in the ocean, in the forests, in the air. Cathedrals that will never be rebuilt nor remembered, in the small scheme of political power. Monuments older than my cradle-town disappearing with the snap of two fingers, never to be seen again. Killed by hubris, disdain and general disinterest.

 My stones do not make me alive. Just like you, they decay, wither, and burn.

No. I do not remember the placing of my cornerstone.

I took my first breath when a young, gap-toothed bricklayer chiselled his initials on the slabs of my rib vault.