#but i have no idea what specific point/color pattern she falls under

[aedelia]

I went into the bathroom to refill my brita pitcher at the sink and Lucy was in the cat basket and noticed she had something...

Me: Hi Lucy!

and then, "I didn't put that there, that's not yours!"

At some point she stole a pair of underwear from the laundry pile about a foot away and dragged it into the basket to roll on.

A picture of the criminal:

[yourdeepestfathoms]

tooth and nail

ask and you shall receive ;) @denpine14 @strawberrygem21

in which the Dimitrescu daughters exhibit cat-like traits

---------

“Dear Mother Miranda,

The girls have grown well, though there are some complications. Bela seems to have some form of anxiety and very low self-esteem, Cassandra has anger issues, and Daniela, I believe, has some type of hyperactivity disorder. Despite all of this, I love all of them dearly.

However…more strangely…they have…feline-like habits. I expected the hissing and growling, but the other things… Well, I’m not too sure how this has happened, as they were born from insects, but they weirdly act like little kittens in the most absurd ways. These mannerisms include, but are not limited to…”

“…headbutting…”

“Oof--” Alcina blinked in surprise and looked down as Bela headbutted her leg. “Yes, my darling?”

Bela giggled and headbutted her again. Alcina rubbed her head, which triggered a strange sound to fill the air.

“…and purring…”

Purring. Her daughter seemed to be purring.

Alcina’s heart swelled with love. She couldn’t help the smile that came to her lips.

Later that day, Cassandra and Daniela did the headbutting thing, too, both of them bonking her in the legs while giggling adorably. When she scratched along their scalps, they purred, just like their big sister had.

--- --- ---

“…staring when they want something…”

“Yes?” Alcina asked, raising an eyebrow at the trio of girls staring at her. If it weren’t for their different hair colors, it would have been difficult to discern them from each other with their matching black gowns and hoods. She made the mental note to give something to them to help make them out better.

Her daughters continued to stare.

“Is everything alright?”

Still nothing.

“Darlings?”

Cassandra reached out, swatted at her dress, and then they all took off running in different directions, their sock-clad feet making them run in place for a few seconds before they gained traction and streaked away in blurs of black.

--- --- ---

“…and also staring at nothing at all, as though they are seeing ghosts…”

Alcina blinked. Her daughters were staring intently at the wall, their eyes wide and shiny, like they had just witnessed the secrets of the universe. She tried to see what they were looking at but could spot nothing at all.

“What in the…?”

--- --- ---

“…pushing random things off of surfaces for seemingly no reason other than the fact that they like to…”

A loud clatter echoed down the hallway, and Alcina was quick to hurry to the source of the noise: the parlor, where Daniela was perched on one of the tables inside, staring down at a fallen candelabra. Luckily, none of the wax sticks were lit, as they would have sent the red-and-gold carpet over the floor up in flames. Daniela looked up at her, her eyes awestruck and shiny.

“Did you knock that over?” Alcina asked.

Daniela stared back. Then, slowly, reached out her hand and swatted over a cup.

--- --- ---

“…causing utter destruction…”

“Hey! Hey! Hey!” Alcina snapped, shooing Cassandra away from the blinds. Her daughter leaped back, her claws ripping out of the fabric she had been sharpening her talons on. “No. Do not scratch things up, Cassandra.”

Cassandra inspected her claws. “Then what am I supposed to sharpen them on? Look at how blunt they are!” They showed them to Alcina.

They were sharp enough to gut a human in one swipe.

In amusement, Alcina said, “How about tree bark? It’s rough enough to hone them.”

Cassandra considered it, then nodded. “Alright!” She bounded away to go destroy one of the trees in the garden.

That same day, Alcina found Daniela chewing on a branch in her bedroom, creating a small pile of woodchips beneath her jaw. She seemed to be doing the same thing as her older sister: sharpening her natural weapons. Alcina left her be.

--- --- ---

“…sudden hyperactivity…”

The loud sound of footsteps suddenly burst throughout the hallways, rebounding like thunder. They would stop at random, then begin again, seemingly in a sporadic pattern. When Alcina finally stepped out of her bedroom to investigate, she barely caught a blur of black as one of her daughters, she couldn’t tell who, whizzed past her like lightning. She spun around, blinking.

“What--”

At the same moment, one of the others came from a different direction and skidded to a stop in front of her. She whirled to them and saw that it was Bela.

“What are you three doing?” Alcina asked.

“Playing,” Bela answered blithely. She stepped forward, headbutted Alcina lovingly, then zoomed off again, slipping on her socks as she went.

--- --- ---

“…getting startled at the most mundane things…”

The parlor had been peaceful at one moment; Alcina was drinking her tea, while Cassandra and Daniela played chess and Bela multitasked reading and watching the game. It was then that Bela’s thread bookmark fell out and she swiped at it to pick it up. However, when the string seemed to catch on her claws, she got frightened, leaping at least five feet up into the air. Seeing their older sister so unsettled, Cassandra and Daniela did the same, nearly jumping out of their skin and scattering the game of chess as they scampered away in terror. Alcina laughed loudly as her daughters huddled against her sides, shaking.

--- --- ---

“…bringing me dead animals as gifts…”

Alcina was cleaning up for bed when there was a knock that filled her bedroom. She walked to the door and opened it, only to see no one. When she turned around, she saw Daniela clinging to her window sill, a mass of fur caught between her teeth.

“Daniela!”

Alcina quickly opened the window, and Daniela hopped inside. She presented the thing in her mouth to her with great pride: a rat.

“For you, Mother.”

“Ah-- thank you, my dove.”

Daniela purred as her head was rubbed affectionately.

The next day, Cassandra padded up to her, her chest puffed in pride, a large snake pierced by her fangs.

“A gift, Mother.”

“Thank you, my sweet.”

And then, that evening, Bela came to her door with a bird in her mouth.

“Here, Mother.”

“Thank you, my darling.”

And then the bird jerked away when Bela set it down and flew off down the hall in terror. They both watched it go.

“It was too pretty to kill.”

Alcina chuckled. “I see.”

--- --- ---

“…laying on my things when I need them…”

Alcina stared tiredly at the stack of girls laying on the folded clothes on her bed. All that space on her giant mattress that was made specifically for her size and they chose that exact spot. On her clothes.

Well. They were much too cute to wake up.

--- --- ---

“…laying on me and keeping me from getting up…”

��Maiden,” Alcina whispered.

The maid passing by stopped and turned to her instantly.

“Get me a glass of blood. I can’t get up and I am thirsty.”

The maid eyed the form of her youngest daughter stretched out on her lap, asleep, and then nodded, whisking away.

She hadn’t moved for three hours.

--- --- ---

“…they have no concept of personal space…”

Alcina was awake that night, her girls piled on top of her to the point where they were practically smothering her, Daniela and Cassandra under arms and Bela on her chest. Every time she twitched, they would move closer, snuggling in deeper to her heat. She wouldn’t be sleeping very comfortably, but at least her daughters were warm.

--- --- ---

“…sitting in strange places…”

“Are you comfortable?” Alcina asked, laughing.

Bela looked up from where she was reading and wedged inside a basket that was meant for quilts. Despite her small, wiry frame, it technically wasn’t her size, but she managed to curl herself inside, piled by the blankets and indulging herself in a good book.

“Yes,” Bela said, smiling.

Alcina would also go on to find Cassandra napping haphazardly on the banister of the upper hallway balcony, which she picked her up from and placed her back into her bed in fear of her falling off, and Daniela hiding in one of the cupboards in the kitchen.

However, none of these things beat when she found all three of her daughters crammed in a box, murmuring and giggling to each other over something.

--- --- ---

“…did I mention the purring? Because the purring is absolutely endearing. I do believe it has healing properties…”

Alcina wasn’t quite sure what she had come down with that day, but she woke up feeling exhausted and achy all over. She didn’t even think to get up and alert her girls to her condition, choosing to rather wallow in her bed, so it wasn’t a surprise when her room was soon filled by three worried bug-spawn creatures.

“Mother?” Daniela’s small hands were set on her shoulders.

Alcina stirred.

“Mother?” That was Bela, now.

She rolled over and blinked tired eyes at the worried-looking faces of her daughters.

“Hello, my darlings,” she croaked.

“Mother,” Bela said again, her voice thick with concern. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, yes,” Alcina nodded, though her mind was wavering, shrouded in a heavy fog. “I am fine. Just a little unwell.”

“Can we help you?” Cassandra asked, her hands twitching.

“Don’t worry,” Alcina answered. “I’ll be fine.”

Her daughters exchanged looks. A moment later, they were climbing onto the bed, curling up around her.

“We’re helping,” Daniela said.

Alcina had no idea how cuddling was supposed to help her, but then she heard the soft churring that filled the air. The purring in itself did little to actually heal her sickness, but something about the soft sound and the presence of her precious daughters soothed her. Bela, with her head on her chest, filled her heart with a gentle rumbling. Daniela, curled up right next to her, chirred gingerly in her ear. Cassandra, stretched out over her stomach, resonated a soothing burr throughout her body.

She chuckled tiredly. “Thank you, my loves…”

--- --- ---

“…and, at least when they were newly reborn, absolutely hating when I go into a room without them…”

She was just taking a shower. That was all. And yet, she could hear her young, one-week-old daughters on the other side of the door, yowling and screaming and scratching their claws into the wood.

“I’m just bathing!” she snapped.

They wailed louder.

--- --- ---

“…to wrap the letter up, it is certainly a strange phenomenon to the experiment, but I am not complaining at all. They are much more entertaining and endearing this way. I wouldn’t have them any other way. I would like to thank you again, Mother Miranda, for letting me have such sweet daughters.

That will be all for now. I will follow up in another letter if anything new comes up.

-Alcina Dimitrescu”

[belfrygargoyles]

*whispers* I would like to hear what you have to say on reader inserts in the SW fandom because I too have a problem with them and I feel like not enough people are calling it out 👉👈

I’ve made a few posts about it in the past but I think it’s high time I actually Do This and really get into it.

Before I start: 1) This will be in specific reference to fanfiction written for the Star Wars fandom, particularly tcw and the mandalorian eras, 2) A lot of the issues come down to racist fetishization of men of color by white women; I am white, so there is much that is simply not my place to make statements on. What I can speak most on is my take from the gender side of things.

I’d honestly recommend reading this post by @nibeul with addition by @clonehub first, as they discuss the core issue with reader inserts in the Star Wars fandom.

And 3) some of this will involve discussion of sexual acts (as they relate to fanfiction) and sexual fantasies. These discussions will be non-explicit, and no pornographic text or content will be displayed.

Also. I’m GNC and nonbinary. I’m also a very feminine looking person that falls under the generalization of “small and petite.” I don’t have dysphoria, I like my body and the traits I have, and treating them like inherently female sends me into a blind fury. This is, unfortunately, important.

For the sake of making sure I come across as clearly as possible, I will be writing as though the reader of this post has never read or is broadly unfamiliar with reader-insert fanfiction.

Without further ado.

Hey, Star Wars reader insert fic writers? Please get your shit together.

INTRODUCTION

I’ve been reading reader-insert fanfiction since I was a grade schooler waking up early to check Quizilla. I love it! It got me into fandom, kept me engaged, helped me make and develop some of my oldest OCs, and it’s just fun to read and write- it’s like a self-indulgent little gift you can give to a bunch of people all at once. Because who doesn’t like the idea of starring in their own little adventure, usually alongside some of their favorite characters? It can be fun, immersive, get you attached in ways other ways of fandom interaction may not, make you feel just a little bit special, or be a way to express some feelings you might have about canon and the way the story went.

Like any form of fiction, it ends up saying more about the author’s feelings than anything else, whether the author realizes it or not. For many, many authors of reader-insert fanfiction, the primary enjoyment comes from writing “themselves” into the story- before the readers, the author most often makes the “reader character” someone they, themselves, can relate to and substitute for themselves. They write to live out a self-indulgent fantasy they have, and their readers can come along for the ride.

Some writers do actually try to write as diverse or as vague of a reader character as possible- as few details about the body, identity, etc. as possible so anyone could superimpose their image without the narrative directly contradicting it. This is not the kind of reader insert author I will be discussing.

The kind of author I will be discussing is the one most common in the Star Wars tag on Ao3: White, AFAB, cisgender, gender-conforming, able-bodied women who assume all of their readers are also White, AFAB, cisgender, gender-conforming, able-bodied women. Yes, you can tell.

ISSUE: fetishization of men of color

Again, this post puts it in the best words, but there is a rampant problem with Star Wars reader-inserts, particularly those involving the clones, Boba Fett, and Din Djarin, fetishizing characters played by men of color as either “physically aggressive and threatening, hypersexual and dominant, big strong men who are scary because they do violence and fuck constantly when they’re not” or “completely inexperienced baby who doesn’t know anything about things and needs a gentle nurturing guiding touch to introduce him to the mere idea of a vagina.” The former is common across all of them, the latter most common among clone trooper fics or Din/Reader.

I went into the Boba Fett/Reader tag on Ao3, because I like him and hoped to find something alright. Here are some stats I tallied up (give or take some) based solely on tags, summaries, and warnings:

There are 284 works in the Boba Fett/Reader category as of the time of this post.

198/284 are rated E for explicit sexual content. 69.7% of all Boba Fett/Reader works are sexually explicit.

259/284 are in the F/M category. 91.2% of all Boba Fett/Reader works involve an explicitly female or AFAB reader.

24/284 are tagged with or mention “Age difference,” “Older man/Younger woman,” “Innocence kink” or “Virginity kink.” 8.4% of all Boba Fett/Reader works are written explicitly with an age gap, with Boba Fett as the older party

26/198 E rated fics are tagged with or make reference to “Daddy kink” or involve the reader being called some variation of “little girl” by Boba. 13% of all E-rated works under Boba Fett/Reader are daddy kink fics, or allude to Boba Fett being a daddy dom/sugar daddy.

102/198 E rated fics are tagged as, make reference to, or suggest in the summary that Boba Fett takes a dominant sexual role with a submissive reader involving rough or painful play, or make reference to Boba Fett being frightening, physically intimidating, having a power dynamic over the reader, or being possessive or violent. 51.51% of all E-rated works under Boba Fett/Reader portray Boba Fett as sexually dominant and/or enacting use of physical force or pain play.

Just using this as an example, because it’s the easiest stats I can gather and also what made me realize there was a pattern.

The problem isn’t even necessarily that people write explicit fic about Boba- it’s that 1) over half of all fics in the category are explicitly pornographic, and 2) the way those pornographic fics are written. The two things compound on each other. They’re dominance fantasies projected onto a character of color in which he becomes extremely sexual, physically rough with the reader, possessive, and demeaning towards a reader character who is always written as White, AFAB, and petite.

This brings me to the next issue.

ISSUE: The way sexual relationships are portrayed.

Let me clarify so there is no chance of me being misunderstood: sex is good. Liking and wanting and enjoying sex isn’t bad. It is not bad if you are AFAB and have submissive fantasies. It is not bad to be sexually attracted to a man of color. You can write about sex even if you haven’t had it. Writing about sex can be a good way to express some more complicated feelings you could have about certain things. It doesn’t even have to be realistic. It has its time and it has its place.

This being said.

Sexual relationships as they are portrayed in the vast majority of E-rated Star Wars reader inserts are… not great.

The reader is always AFAB. I can think of maybe one fic off the top of my head where an AFAB reader was written with they/them pronouns and not just she/her.

The reader is almost always submissive, the dominant character is almost always portrayed as cis male. Even when the characters are supposed to just be having spontaneous casual sex, D/S or BDSM aspects will be introduced with no prior discussion or talks about it afterwards. Sometimes characters will start using dirty talk and it just does not fit at all, but it’s what the author thought was hot.

Sometimes, it just reads like a quick smutty oneshot. More often than that, it reads like the author doesn’t realize that sex… isn’t always a dom/sub thing. Or that someone can take the lead in sex and that doesn’t automatically make them a dom.

It’s not bad to be inexperienced. It’s not bad to have preferences or kinks or specific turn-ons.

But it gets… tiring to read, over and over and over and over, because that’s all there is.

That and… I dunno, it just has me a little worried? It doesn’t make me feel good knowing so many people can only portray a sexual relationship if it’s dom/sub. I don’t know why it makes me so uneasy.

Vanilla sex isn’t a bad thing I promise. It's this feeling of insistence that something "spicy" absolutely has to happen for it to be worth writing that gives... some weird vibes.

I’m going to move on to the next Big-

ISSUE: Every “reader” character is exactly the same

By which I mean the following:

Always cis AFAB female

If a character is written with gender neutral pronouns they will always be AFAB and written like Girl Lite

I have never seen an explicitly stated nonbinary/gnc reader character unless it was a request specifically for a nonbinary reader

I have never seen a gender neutral reader insert fic where the reader was AMAB

I have seen a grand total of 1 cis male reader fic and 1 trans male reader fic. The trans male reader fic was about dysphoria.

The reader is allowed to have one of the following backstories: slave/runaway, mechanic, medic, ex-Rebel, secret Jedi, bounty hunter.

The reader is allowed to have one of the following personality traits: throws knives, babysitter, completely civilian, WOMAN, says curse words.

The reader is never written with any narrative agency- things only ever happen to the reader character or around the reader character, they are never written to take charge and actually affect things on their own. Essentially the sexy lamp trope.

Remember when I said the majority of people writing Star Wars reader-insert fanfic on Ao3 were White, cisgender AFAB women who are gender-conforming and able-bodied? This is how you can tell.

It’s at this point where you can tell they’re really not meant to be reader-inserts, but author-inserts with the names removed- they were only meant for a very narrow selection of readers.

I’m nonbinary, I’m gnc, and I’m a very feminine looking person, generally speaking. I’m used to people looking at me and assuming oh, girl. I’m at peace with that.

I can barely stand reading some of these fics just because of how much the author emphasizes that the reader is FEMALE shes a WOMAN with BOOBS and a VAGINA and FEMININE WILES. There’s barely ever even a chance to give myself room to mentally vault over all the “she”s and “her”s because then I’m getting hit with Din or someone calling the reader “girl” or “the woman.” It’s unbearable, and I even fall into the general description every fucking fic author uses for their generic protagonist!

Even with the “gender-neutral reader” fics, it is just. Painfully clear that they just wrote a female character and changed the pronouns- no, there is no such thing as “male behavior” or “female behavior,” and I quite heartily rebel against the concept of gender essentialism. And honestly, I can barely even begin piecing together how I know it and what it feels like, because it’s just one of those vague conglomerates of cues and writing patterns I can’t consciously pick up on but I know it’s there- it’s frustrating, it’s demeaning, and it feels like you’d have to threaten these authors at gunpoint to get them to write a reader character who was any major deviation from the same three cutouts they use every time.

It seems like they can’t possibly force themselves to write a reader character who isn’t meek and submissive or has the sole personality traits of “mean and can hit things”- you can actually strike a balance between “absolutely no personality” and ��fleshed out oc” you know? And you don’t actually have to tell the reader what their hair looks like or how full their figure is

It’s like 2:20 AM and I started this at like 8something PM but.

I’m someone who loves reader-inserts. I enjoy them. I still check for new ones regularly. I’ve been reading them for well over half my life now.

So many of these authors are just locked in on exactly one way to write things and it fucking shows. It’s like a self-feeding loop, they just keep writing the same things and the same dynamics because they see each other doing it and they never think about taking a step back.

It’s… exhausting. I’m exhausted. If you’re a reader-insert fic writer and you want to improve your reader character inclusivity and have also read this far, you can DM me or shoot me an ask.

[elliethesuperfruitlover]

I’m So Baked (says the pie)

A/N: So I’ve been paying more attention to Topazi (mentally) and I realize that I need more shenanigans between her and Klaus..so here we are.

Warnings: some suggestive material

Tag List:  @joz-stankovich, @misskittysmagicportal, @badsext, @super-unpredictable98, @the-freckled-luba, @magic-multicolored-miracle, @ghouls-buddy, @maerenee930, @frogs–are–bitches, @neuroticpuppy, @forenschik, @bisexualnathanyoung, @robert-sheehan, @firstpersonnarrator, @salvador-daley, @lokis-rock-n-roll-chick

“Klaus, what happened to your hand?!” Topazi asked, as her partner walked in, his hand held far away from his body, almost as if it had offended him greatly.

“I was trying to get inside of the house and the patio door shut on my hand. We need to get that fixed at some point.” he said, putting a generous amount of dish soap on his “Hello” hand before putting it under the tap.

“I’ll put it on my list to get to. Do you know when Allison and Claire are supposed to be coming over. I need to make sure I have time to get the flowers done beforehand. And I need to make sure there’s no extra snails in them, like I’ve let slide recently.” she added, getting her tools gathered on the floor of the living room.

“Uh, I think she said around regular dinnertime, 6-7ish.” Klaus replied, and Topazi let out a sigh of relief. That’s plenty of time to construct and reconstruct her design.

  It was a simple bouquet, really. Allison hadn’t asked for a specific type of flowers, but she wanted to get a specific message across. Maternal love and affection. Claire had been through quite a lot, and she wanted to be sure that her kid knew that she loved her very much. Material objects only do so much as well, so Allison planned to write a letter, and just generally try to spend more time with her kid, and be there for her more.

“That’s valid.” T remembered saying, as she picked a few cinquefoils, as well as a few carnations from her collection, looking back at her sketch.

  It reminded her in pieces of a sunflower, actually, how it looked. There wasn’t a darkness in the center, but she chose yellow cinquefoils, and yellow carnations, with regular greenery on the outside, so she’d need to change something up a little. She worked away for some time, and made multiples of the same bouquet, trying different combinations of the flowers.

  In the kitchen, Klaus was looking at a recipe book. He wanted to make Allison one of her favorite desserts, a key-lime pie. He was sure that there were limes somewhere in the house (or if the neighbors have some). There had been multiple occasions where he wished to make a specific dish and lacked a few ingredients. Topazi had mentioned, in passing, of her wishes of having a fruit orchard. That would help with the fruit issue, lest Klaus decide to become a full-time baker. It may not be a huge one, but she wanted to provide for herself. Plus, who doesn’t want to take care of plants?

“Now where is the microblade?” he asked himself as he rumbled through the cabinets, trying to make sure he didn’t let anything drop too loudly.

“I don’t even know if we have one.” Topazi replied, eyes focused on trying to properly tie a ribbon on one of her bouquets.

“Ah, here it is!” Klaus exclaimed, extracting the microblade from between the cheese grater and a plate.

   He finally went into the fridge after a few more minutes of glancing over the ingredient page, and withdrew a few limes from the bottom drawers. Soon enough, Klaus began working on the crust, and took some of his anger out (mostly at the sliding door) pounding the graham crackers to crumbs. A small part of him wanted to taste said crumbs, but then he remembered that it was for his sister, not him. (although her giving him a slice isn’t completely out of the question) He pressed the crumbs into the side of the pie plate, making sure to press from the bottom, going up. He put it in the oven, took note of the time, and got started on the filling.

“T, why do you like flowers so much?” Klaus asked, zesting a lime. He knew the obvious answer, “They’re pretty, and a lot of people like them.” However, he wanted to hear his partner talk, as the sound of the cicadas outside were beginning to annoy him.

“I like them because what’s not to like about them? In a sense. They’re pretty, and were historically used as a means to communicate, when people thought it rude and insensitive to discuss such things in public. Everything about them is made so carefully, down to how they look microscopically. Even though plants themselves aren’t sentient, they still live, and have their own systems to maintain, and how they work. If one was to extract a piece of DNA from a sunflower, specifically one that gives it its color, our perception would be completely different of it.” she stops for a moment to collect her thoughts.

“It’s also how people work, too. I like flowers because they’re easy to maintain, if you know what you’re doing, and don’t forget they exist, or run out of energy. And they’re so nice to look at. You’ve seen me stop in parks to just admire how flowers are placed in the mulch, or soil. They planters may have had the littlest idea of how I would view them, even down to what order they put them in, but they’re there. I find it so worth it to just pause for a moment, and to think, and indulge in the true meaning of something, even if it wasn’t meant to be. That’s why I like flowers. It’s completely fine to just see the surface when someone gets you flowers “Ah, they got me something pretty, and thought of me to give me this. It’s a meaningful gift.” But I want to pick apart every part of it. Because there’s so much more to so many things than what you see.” she responds, and jumps when she looks up to see Klaus leaning over the kitchen island, his face in his hands.

  His hands have small bits of pulp on them, and the “Kiss the Cook” apron that he wears has abstract juice drippage on it.

“I fuckin’ love you T.” Klaus whispers, and bends over to capture her lips in a gentle kiss, and he feels her smile into it. Her hands carefully come to wrap around his neck, making sure not to get any of the stem juice in his hair.

“Love you too.” she whispers back, pulling away “Your crust smells just a smidge burnt (pronounced buent), by the way.” she says, picking up her phone to refresh her memory of other flower requests. A small look of panic passes across his face before he pushes himself off of the counter, practically ripping the oven door off to check on his crust.

  It, fortunately enough, wasn’t too terribly damaged. It wasn’t too crisp, or burnt. He set it on the stove to rest for a moment, and he grabbed the yogurt from the fridge, and sweetened condensed milk from the pantry. He poured the juice, zest, yogurt, and sweetened condensed milk into a bowl, and whisked to combine.

“I never thought I would be so turned on by a man cooking, and the pie isn’t even for me.” T admitted, looking at the way Klaus’ arms flexed while he continued to mix the ingredients together.

“Oh, is that right. I’ll be cooking a lot more then, if your response is openly admitting your horniness to my non-conformity to gender roles.” he said casually, blowing a stray hair out of his face.

 Topazi looked up, and stared Klaus straight in the face, and put a finger up, opening her mouth, only to close it, and put her finger down.

“I’m not sharing my thoughts with a malewife like you.” she uttered, shaking her head in mock disgust.

“And this malewife puts it down every evening for you, willingly that is, and this is how I’m treated, ugh, the gumption.” he mutters, putting a hand to his chest, feigning disgust.

  Topazi and Klaus look at each other once more before breaking out in laughter, urging Minnie, who was sitting on the floor, to wake up from her nap. Klaus snorted, hand gripping the counter. Topazi had to put her head down to prevent any excess spittle from getting on her flowers. Once they caught their collective breaths, Klaus poured the filling into the crust, and put it into the oven to bake. He washed the dishes that he had, and dried the bowl, due to needing it for the topping.

“Okay, good, I just need to write these cards, then I’ll be done with this.” T said, grabbing them, and grabbed a permanent marker.

“These look really good T!” Klaus exclaimed, his eyes shining with glee.

“Thank you love.” she said, dragging a hand across her face. She stood up to stretch, and her back cracked loudly, mildly surprising her. She walked over to Klaus and wrapped her hands around his waist, her head resting on his back.

“Every time you put your arms around my waist like that, I swear I gain 10 more years of life.” he said, wiping his hands on his apron. She felt the vibrations of his speech on her face, and she took a deep breath before responding.

“I wonder what happens when I hug you then.” T said, walking away to put the flowers in their designated “T’s flowers, do not touch nor smell.” place in the fridge.

“I’m so smart, I know.” he retorted, pouring the heavy cream into a bowl, along with a few tablespoons of confectioners’ sugar. T jumped at the sound, and shook it off. 

  She had mentally took note of the time Klaus put the pie in, and took an oven mitt off of the hook, (patterned with tiny cookies on it) The top looked set enough, and she set it to rest on the counter. She turned the oven off, and watched as Klaus finished whipping the topping, holding it upside down to check if it was ready. It didn’t fall on his head, so he put plastic wrap over it, and looked outside for a short moment, looking up the tree in the front yard. 

  He took a breath, and thought for a second. Maybe a bit too long. His mind fluttered back to what it took for him to be where he was. How much it physically took out of him, his siblings, hell, even the timeline for him to be able to have a peaceful life (for the most part) and a loving partner. A tear slipped down his face, and he thought of how silent the ghost had been recently. He still had his powers, but the ghosts seemed to respect his current want for peace. And he loved that. He would float around the house if his feet were tired, and sometimes even do a side gig of being a medium if he felt inclined to. However, something about knowing that he couldn’t physically see Ben anymore, (his Ben, he thought, now with his newest collection of siblings, with a limited edition Sparrow Ben). He still even missed the cult, even with its downsides. He never got the right type of parental love, or familial love. At times, he doubted his siblings’ love for him, even though they’d made it pretty obvious that they’d be there for him, lest he need it.

  “Hey, Klaus, the- are you alright?” Topazi asks. She had been calling a few clients back from her home office, telling them that their bouquets had been completed. She got a random craving for cookies, and planned to go to the kitchen to make them, but she found Klaus in tears, hand covering his mouth. He hadn’t even noticed her there.

“Yeah, yeah I’m fine. I was just thinking too much.” he explained, letting her wipe the tears from his face.

“You sure?” she asked, and he nodded before taking a deep breath, and releasing it. “I was just coming in here to A. make some cookies, and B. tell you that the pie is good and cooled, and it’s time for it to be topped.” she said, rubbing his back gently.

“Okay. Thank you T.” he responded, gathering the willpower to put the whipped cream on the pie, and adding small lime slices and spare zest on top. He smiled at the completed job, and put it in the fridge to finish chilling.

“Go take a nap darling. You’ve been on your feet for a while, and you look tired. I’ll let you know when Allison is here. Or at least 5 minutes before.” she whispered, kissing Klaus’ cheek. She looked at him for a moment more, and cupped his cheek with her hand. The light scruff that covered the bottom of his chin tickled her hand, and she had the urge to scratch her palm. She however, resisted said urge, and took her hand away. Klaus smiled at her once more, and trotted up the stairs, with Minnie in tow behind him. Topazi went back to the kitchen and gathered her ingredients. She spun some vinyl as background music, and got to work on her cookies.

  A couple hours pass, and Topazi is drying the last cookie sheet she used for her cookies, putting it back in its rightful spot. She stretched again, and checked her phone, seeing that Allison had texted her a few seconds go, saying that she was on the way, which gave her about 30 minutes to get Klaus awake. She headed up the stairs, and ended their bedroom, where Klaus was sprawled across the sheets Minnie resting on his pillow. T gently shook him awake with one hand, and giving chin scratches to Minnie with the other.

“Come on, it’s time to get up Klausie.” she mutters, watching as her partner came to slowly, more of his hair having escaped from its confinements.

“Hmmm, I’ll be more up in a bit. You smell good, hon.” he whispered, rubbing his eyes.

 The sun was shining in his face, and although it may have been mildly uncomfortable to wake up to, he looked absolutely stunning in it. His hair seemed to glow, and his skin, albeit a little pale, seemed to reflect every bit of sun that hit it. His eyes though, seemed to be pools of emerald and gold. Topazi admired him from afar, and she ignored the strong urge to climb into bed with him and bask in the sunlight together.

“You’re staring love.” Klaus says, leaning on his arm in bed, petting Minnie, who was beginning to wake up as well. She meowed gently, and purred at his touch.

“Oh, hush. Like you haven’t stared at me in the sun before.”

“.....You got me there.”

“Yeah, mhm.” Topazi said, jokingly side-eyeing Klaus.

“Come here mama.” Klaus teases, pulling T’s arm towards him. She falls into Klaus’ arms, her head resting right below his. He bends down and kisses her lips, breaking away, before Topazi reciprocates the gesture, taking a small handful of Klaus’ hair in her fingers. Klaus smiles, and chuckles, letting his mouth fall to her neck. He nuzzles into it, and they sit there for several minutes, before coming to a realization.

“Oh shit, I forgot that Allison and Claire are coming over.” T said. “I’ve got to get the cookies in the jar...and I need to fix the bed too.”

“Ah, calm down. It’s fine. She’s not going to come up here and see where we engage in sinful activities, is she? No. However, I would love to join you in the cookie jarring.” Klaus mutters, smiling at her.

“Fine, you can help. But so help me god if I find even a crumb on the freshly swept floor.” Topazi said, closing the bedroom door behind her.

  T worked quickly to get the cookies together, and Klaus took a very short shower, as he knew that it would help wake him up, and he could go back to bed without having to worry about showering again. The doorbell sounded, and Topazi almost slipped trying to get to the door. She checked herself in the mirror once more before letting her niece and sister in law into the house.

“Hey Allison! And little miss Claire.” Topazi said, giving the respective people their own hugs.

“How’ve you been T?” Allison asked as she was welcomed in, shoes taken off at the door. She was also carrying a dish of some sort, covered in Aluminum Foil.

“I’ve been good. The business has been going well, and I’m thinking of making an orchard.” T replies, leading them both to the living room. “Let me get that for you.”

“That’s good. Claire’s been begging me to let her go visit the shop, but it’s always been at a bad time. Oh, thank you! I brought dinner as a bit of a treat.”

“It’s much appreciated. I like seeing you both, and having you two visit would never be a hassle.” she replies, petting JJ, the other cat, who just so happened to be waiting for attention.

“IS THAT MY SISTER AND MY FAVORITE NIECE?” Klaus yelled from the top of the stairs, quickly running down them to give his sibling a hug.

“Uncle Klaus!” Claire exclaimed, giving said uncle a very big hug around his middle, only to be picked up.

“How’ve you been, Allison, smaller Allison?” he asked, setting his niece back on the couch before taking the place next to his partner.

“We’ve been good.” Allison says. “We’ve been doing really good.” 

  The four of them sit and converse for a while, and eventually dinnertime comes around, signaled by Klaus’ stomach growling loudly. Allison had brought a very large amount of lasagna, and Topazi immediately dug in, which shocked Klaus, but he’d bring the cause up at a later time. Claire did, however, get a pre-dinner cookie (Topazi’s request because “That’s how you teach kids that good things come to people who deserve them.”)

“So, I do so happen to have a bit of a surprise for the both of you.” Klaus says, standing up and opening the fridge.

“Ooh, what is it?” Allison asks excitedly, and Claire matches her mother’s expression.

  Klaus pulls out the pie, and T moves to gently give Claire her bouquet, asking her to hold it a specific way as to not jostle the flowers, or change the position of the ribbon.

“That’s so pretty, T! Oh my gosh, I need to ask you to make more things for me, I swear I’ll pay you in whatever you want.” Allison exclaims, looking at the bouquet, leaning forward to smell some of the flowers.

“Thank you! The meanings of the flowers, and ribbon placement are on the card. Also your brother made a whole pie...by himself......we need to eat it before he does.” she teases, sticking a pointed thumb back at her partner, who already had a knife out to cut said pie.

“Klaus, it’s my favorite! Thank you so much.” Allison says, taking another bite of the pie.

“This is really good Uncle Klaus.” Claire states, looking across the island at him.

“Why danke. It was made with love. Both the pie and the bouquet, actually.” he said, kissing T on the cheek. She smiled against him, and took a piece of the pie for herself, trying to resist eating the rest of the pie it all of its entirety.

  The night came to an end, and Allison and Claire said their respective goodbyes, and drove off. T and Klaus lay in bed that night, with a book and knitting needles in hand, respectively. Klaus feels a weight against his shoulder, and Topazi had fallen asleep, small breaths escaping her lips. He put a marker in her book, and took note of note of where he stopped in his stitches. It took him some more time to get to sleep that night, probably due to his earlier nap, but he got to sleep, so peacefully. Something he’d wished for many a day, and now it seemed that he was finally getting it answered.

Masterlist

Key Lime Pie

[twdmusicboxmystery]

Deer Theory - Tractor Add On

Okay, I’ve wanted to post this for a while and am just now getting around to it. This is actually something I owe to @frangipanilove​ for figuring out. She has a whole theory about the Finlandia song and flags and tons of stuff. But I’m just taking one of the things she said that REALLY gave me a lightbulb moment concerning the deer symbol.

First off, let’s recap the deer theme. I’ve always believed that dead deer = live person, and live deer = dead person. The deer carcass Daryl saw in Them represented that Beth lived. We can trace this pattern back to Carl in S2. The deer died, and while it was touch and go for a while, Carl lived.

On the flip side, in 4x14, The Grove, Mica and Lizzie both died, but the deer lived. We specifically see Carol staring at the live deer after she kills Lizzie. This is the deer that she tried to get Mica to shoot, but Mica refused. The idea, I think, is that if Carol could have toughened Mica up enough to shoot the deer, maybe she could have defended herself against Lizzie. But Mica was too sweet and innocent, and therefore had no chance against a homicidal maniac, right?

Some things I’ve struggled with about the deer theory: Carl’s death. There is what looks like a deer underneath him when he gets bitten. The deer is dead, which means Carl SHOULD live, but obviously he didn’t. So, I didn’t so much doubt my theory so much as struggle with how to interpret that particular instance. I figured there was an explanation, but I didn’t know what it was.

Well, @frangipanilove has finally given one to me. In order to explain, I need to briefly switch gears for a minute.

I want you to remember 7x05, Go Getters. In this episode, the Saviors push a green gremlin into Hilltop with music blaring from it. They do it so walkers will go in and get the Hilltoppers. Maggie and Sasha jump into action, and Maggie ultimately crushes the Gremlin with a huge, green and yellow tractor.

So, we automatically saw tons of Beth symbols here. Green gremlin. Which is pretty much a music box on wheels. There was even a metal flip-off finger on it. And for various reasons, it could represent Beth (the music box) being left or trapped in a car.

The thing I struggled with was how to interpret Maggie crushing it with the tractor. If the Gremlin represents Beth, it’s almost like Maggie killed Beth. And I truly don’t think that’s what the writers are going for here. But, much like the deer at Carl’s death, I simply struggled with how to interpret it.

Well, @frangipanilove pointed out that this tractor is probably meant to be a John Deere tractor. No, we don’t see that logo anywhere, but that may be because of legal/copyright issues. If TWD didn’t have permission to use the logo, they’d get sued for doing so. But the colors are right and many TWD sites list it as a John Deere tractor because that’s so obviously what it’s meant to be.

So…tractor = deer. This tractor is a representation of the deer symbol, and the two are probably synonymous.

Why is this important? Well, Maggie used the tractor (deer) to eliminate the threat. She crushed the Gremlin. And what was the threat? Walkers. The music was drawing them.

This was my massive lightbulb moment. Because it put me in mind of 7x12, where Rick falls from the carnival ride, Michonne assumes he’s dead, but he escapes. Why/how did he escape?

Because of the deer.

The walkers munched on the deer, which allowed Rick to escape. 

In fact, as I write this, it makes me think of the Glenn/Nicholas situation in S6. Both Glenn and Nicholas fell into the walker horde, but the walkers munched on Nicholas, allowing Glenn to escape. 

And heaven knows there were RIDICULOUS amounts of Beth symbolism around Glenn. It was a template for what happened to her. So was Rick’s in 7x12.

Another example of this, that doesn’t actually involve a deer, but rather a horse, was with Buttons in 5b. The walkers ate Buttons, rather than focusing on Daryl and Aaron.

Now, I think the whole Buttons situation can be interpreted on about twelve different levels. This is only one of them. But it does make me wonder if horse and deer are somewhat synonymous. 

We’ve seen horses show up to save people multiple times. In 9x05, the white horse allowed Rick to lead the horde away from the communities, saving his people, much like Maggie used the tractor to save Hilltop in 7x05. Morgan found a white horse in 6x16 and used it to save Carol’s life after she was shot by taking her to Hilltop.

But I digress.

So, what does this whole deer = how people are saved from walkers thing mean? Where Beth is concerned, I think it means there will be a deer involved somewhere that allowed her to live. Wherever they left her (probably in a car), how she got away probably has to do with a deer, which distracted the walkers, and allowed her to escape. Just like with Rick.

We’ve always wondered how, exactly, Beth would escape the horde. If she was in the car/trunk and got out, but was surrounded by walkers, how does she get away? 

And it doesn’t really matter. That question doesn’t keep me awake at night or anything. Because it’s whatever the writers came up with, right? Maybe someone saved her. Maybe she climbed a tree. Crawled under the car (like in the Daryl/Aaron/wolf trap situation). 

But I’ll bet there’s a deer involved somewhere, such that the walkers turned to eat the deer, allowing her to escape. That would line up with Rick in 7x12, and also with situation in 7x05 with tractor = deer being the thing that knocked out the danger (coming walkers) and saved everyone.

And THAT means that the deer Daryl saw in 5x12 has much deeper symbolic value than we ever realized. He saw a dead guy near the carcass of the deer, with what looks like bullet wounds to the forehead. This guy is dead, and the deer is dead, but that means that somewhere else in Atlanta, a deer was actually saving Beth.

How about Carl’s death? What does this mean for him?

Well, the deer was already dead when he and Siddiq arrived on the scene. If it had been alive, it probably would have distracted the walkers and Carl wouldn’t have died. He and Siddiq probably wouldn’t have even needed to fight the walkers at all. The walkers would have been occupied and they could have just walked right past them (much like Aaron and Daryl did in 5b when the walkers turned on Buttons).

The idea is, the thing that would have saved Carl was already dead. (A very Shakespearean/Hamlet theme: the only thing that could have saved you already being long-dead, which means you have no hope of triumphing over the situation.)

Okay, I know this is very thematic and cerebral. Sorry about that. But this is the first thing I’ve found that makes the deer at Carl’s death make TOTAL sense to me.

It doesn’t really change any of our Beth/TD theories except to say that I think a deer will be involved somewhere in Beth’s escape. 

Of course, it’s always possible that for her, the deer could be symbolic rather than literal, but I kind of doubt it. It was literal for Rick and Carl and in most of these other situations. Not so much in Go Getters, but if the tractor and the deer (and possibly the horse) are all synonymous symbols anyway, then it hardly matters. Thoughts?

[dragonherder2030]

Smaugust Day 9: Galaxy

I’m leaving tomorrow morning, my sister is going to look over the farm while I’m away. Echo Bel and Kory are coming with me, they can help with transportation and have separation anxiety. Xandra is showing me her camp, she has many followers, I’m going to be the first lizard to join it. That fact will be kept secret from the rest of the “humans” as to not cause hysteria, she has done the same with herself, hiding herself as an amphibian. I’m bringing my journal, I need to be able to write my thoughts

See you soon, Niki~

*we find out who the narrator is 👀. Another first person written segment, hopefully this one won’t be as long XD. Also, if by the end of Smaugust I feel there are some odd unintended plot holes or threads that need to be resolved I’ll make sure to do so. Ik it’s confusing right now, but I will continue right where we left off on the last writing segment for easiness*

Half my tea was gone in under a minute, it was jasmine green from what I tasted and was made very well.

“Please do explain what you mean by non-lizard kind though… Are you talking Amphibious sentience?” I ask, leaning back on the couch I had been placed on.

“No not sentient Amphibians that walk like us, I mean a species on another planet called Humans. They are a scaleless race with no tails, and can grow fur at an alarming rate. They can be dangerous to us, but not all of them. If you join me you can meet them, but many of them do not have the best interests of the dragons in mind.” Her creature tightened itself onto her neck. Has it experienced these “humans” before?

“Does that planet have dragons too? Also how do you, uh, go to another planet? Do you have access to a rocket?”

“No, I have something much better and easier to fuel… but you have to commit before learning of that. Keep your questions to a minimum till I finish explaining please, it will be easier.” Saying with a small hand wave. I nob in agreement.

“The planet is called earth and is very similar to ours. But dragons do not live naturally there, and have been brought there by a lizard who wanted a new environment for sport hunting, and didn’t get them all… They ended up breeding and creating homes for themselves, few and far apart. I used to monitor and catch some of the dragons to bring them back when I could along with my brother. When he passed I couldn’t do it by myself anymore, so I seeked the assistance of other lizards to return the dragons to their natural habitat. Not many believed me, and those who did I knew didn’t have the intentions of the animals in mind. So, I decided to start recruiting humans using my magic-“

“Wait wait wait, you have magic abilities?” I ask, needing to know more about this.

“Yes I possess magic, I’m no lizard, but we don’t need to know about that for now. All you need to know is that I can give objects the ability to transform a human into a lizard or amphibian sentient if worn, that’s what I can do,” Xandra says with a sigh. I speculate what she could be, and remember a legend about the creation of our world, something similar to that happening, where a being gave sentience to all of the lizards, and later some of the amphibians. There was another part of it where they wiped out a different race beforehand but I couldn’t remember it too well.

Xandra continued her explanation, “I chose humans because they would do the best capturing dragons in the human planet, since they are not killed on sight when seen… The humans I choose were specifically selected by my familiar, Davey here,” She pointed to the amphibian around her neck, it seemed to smile in admiration of its role.

“They are small enough to avoid detection from the humans, and not popular enough to be sought out, and they are very fast. Easily able to escape a human. I’ve gotten quite the following from animal lovers around earth, and luckily most of them speak English or know sign language, Davey doesn’t go far from our camp.”

“What do you guys Uh, do? Do you go to the human world and just, catch the dragons? And why don’t you just tell the humans that the dragons are an invasive species and, I guess take them back?” I ask, confused what I would actually be doing and why the humans are a problem.

Xandra’s calm demeanor shifted, and her eyebrows furrowed, “Most humans want the dragons, but I know they aren’t safe there. They would be hunted for sport and put in cages. I’ve watched them for thousands of years, they will never accept the dragons as any more then a fantasy creature for decoration. And for some reason now there are more being found, species that weren’t brought to earth from that initial leak. There’s another source, someone from this planet that has access to Earth and is exploiting it to bring dragons there. You can help me find them, and allow me to have more allies on this side. Plus the place I’m keeping the dragons isn’t safe anymore, I need somewhere here I can put them with someone to take care of them.” Her voice had raised slightly, this is a subject she is angry about. She must have witness terrible things. I think it’s an amazing idea, I have the whole farm I could keep the dragons. Acres of land I’m not using right now could be put to this. I didn’t care if she was legit or not, I believed her.

“Ok, I’m convinced… I want to help. I have a farm that can serve as a holding place for the dragons until we can bring them to their rightful places,” I say, trying to hide the excitement in my voice. She smiles at me, looking satisfied.

“My camp, it is all humans, they do not know of our reptilian existence, to them they are the last of the reptile kind. So to them, your just another new human recruit. That means,” Xandra gets up, walking towards the closet I had noticed before, “that means that you have to pick out an accessory to simulate the effect of you being a fake lizard.”

I stand up and walk to the closet as well. Xandra escapes into the inside of it, I follow closely. The inside wasn’t meant to hold more then one person, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Along the walls is an array of shirts, jackets, pants, hats, bracelets, necklaces, etc. in every color imaginable.

“Take your pick, it doesn’t matter what it is, other then u will need to be able to wear it for long amounts of time,” she says, picking up a hat and dusting it off, then hanging it back up.

I look around the room, spinning in place, then think of something, “Do you have a piece? How do you hide that your not a lizard?”

She thinks for moment, “Davey helps me with that too, as you know they are my familiar, and they aren’t just any normal dragon either. They become a wonderful necklace whenever I need them to. And when I wear that, I become what they would be if they were a sentient Amphibian,” she explained to me. So far she has shown me no proof of the magic she claims to have, and this seems like a simple test. Even if I was all for the cause, no reason not to speculate.

“Could u show me?”

“Of course,” Xandra said, glancing at Davey. The creature climbed to the front of her neck, then sitting still right there for a few seconds. I await the transformation. Then, they stiffen and fall loose, a small chain connecting to their mouth and tail holding them onto Xandra’s neck. Her body poofs into one of an sentient Olm, her body much longer then previously. I stare up at her in awe, it all must be true.

“Wow…” I say, stunned by the display. She smiles down at me and quickly exits the closet, since she had taken up most the room.

“I need to show u our transportation tomorrow, since it is getting late. You will be seeing the camp, and meeting the members. You may stay for a couple of days to get familiar with them,” she says, looking out the window. I understand her reasoning, my sister can watch over the farm while I’m gone, I’ll be returning there soon with suitable dragons.

I return to looking at the room and behind a puffy jacket is a bronze glimmer. I walk towards it and grab it, it’s a tail ring. A dragon spiraling around a few times. And it’s adjustable, I try it on, tightening it to my liking. I decide it would be to heavy to stay on, and I don’t really like these kinds of jewelry. Placing it back in it’s spot, I try on a few other things, including a puffy jacket(after taking my shoulder armor off), a muzzle, and a necklace with an odd diamond like pendant on it. Then another thing caught my eye, a blue bandana with a cool looking pattern on it. I tie it around my neck, I think this one will work very well.

Exiting the room I look around for Xandra, spotting her on the couch reading a book. Davey was wrapped around her wrist and she was back in her original state.

“I have chosen this bandana!” I announce, walking towards her. She looks up from her reading and smiles brightly.

“Oh wonderful sweet pea, I only ask one more question of you before you go home to rest up for tomorrow,” she says, putting her book down.

“What’s that?” I ask, holding my shoulder armor tightly.

“What’s your name?”

“Oh- oh yeah you don’t know me very well yet. I’m Niki,” I say with a smile. She smiles back at me.

“Thank you hun. One more thing though, if you have any drakes I would recommend you bring them with you, they would help with the travel aspect. Tomorrow won’t be a walk in the park,” she says, picking her book back up. I nod, looking to my left and realizing the door is right next to the couch. I mentally scorn myself for not realizing this sooner, and exit the house. I know these woods, and have seen this cottage before. It looks worn down on the outside, abandoned… but making my way home is easy. It was evening by the time I made it back.

I call my sister, “Hi Bryn, I need you to watch the farm for a few days.”

—————————

This was fun, writing wasn’t the best, I was kinda zoned out while writing it lol. My main focus was to explain stuff and set up character motivations, sorry if it’s a bit messy, and like, long dang.

[mego42]

hi! a song inside the halls of the dark is an absolute masterpiece of plotting and pacing (and prob my fave fic I’ve read for the show so far), so for the ask a writer meme, I’d love to hear about your planning process(es). the idea of even plotting out something like that, let alone actually finishing it, just breaks my brain lol. do you do a lot of outlining? how much does the outcome end up looking like the ideas that sparked it?

adsfghgsj okay well first off, thank you! that is unspeakably flattering and i don’t know how to cope! my weird robot emotions are misfiring! but also, thank you for this question bc this is the kind of nerd shit i LIVE FOR and up until, idk, 5? 6? months ago my answer would’ve more or less been ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ but sometime in between now and then i leveled up how much of a nerd i am.

okay so, the short answer to your (first) question is yes, i do a lot of outlining though the scale of outline varies based on the complexity of the story. in song’s case, how i outline actually evolved significantly over the course of writing it (see that level up) and if i were to outline it today, it would look very different from what i originally started with.

the short answer to your second question is in song’s case, the original idea was a v short, almost fluffy stuck in a hotel room for a night one shot i daydreamed up while listening to a halsey song (is there somewhere, if you were wondering). obvs what it turned into was uh, v different.

digging into how i outline is going to get long, excessively nerdy and borderline terrifying so i’m hiding the rest of this under the cut, read at your own risk.

I preface everything here with a couple of reminders:

1. i am a crazy person who straight up does not know how to have hobbies like a normal person

2. i am actively trying to push myself and grow as a writer including developing new skills and training myself to practice certain habits bc at some point I would like to push myself out of the nest and try my hand at original fiction one day with a vague goal of maybe seeing if i could get it published. idk if i’ll ever actually do that BUT in the meantime, i do stuff like the nightmare that follows to myself

initial outline / what happens next list

okay so the most basic of my outlines (and how i originally outlined song) are p much just lists of what happens next. i do them as bullet lists bc my brain finds them less intimidating and i just start with one and then ask myself what happens next. sometimes the bullets are v vague, sometimes they get so specific i end up writing what becomes dialogue, i try not to think too hard about it, i just keep asking what happens next.

it’s really specifically about what happens next, not asking myself what i want to happen in the story, bc next implies the bullet before informs the one after, so you end up with an overall picture of what you want with a base level of causality built in. it also gives you room to surprise yourself (i think literally every what happens next outline i’ve done has had me going oh, okaaaaaay at some point).

sometimes, this is all you need. for trade my heart for honey, i started and stopped here bc at the end of the day, the skeleton for that fic is super basic: beth and rio attempt to play pool without tripping over their horrendous sexual tension. they fail. the end.

for your monster looks like mine, i did a version of the what happens next list, but i brought in some of my tricks from the pace structuring method i’ve been honing for the multi-chapter i’m currently planning. instead of mapping tentpole beats by story pace, i mapped tentpole beats for what points i wanted beth and rio to be scoring against each other and then mapped out the lead-up and fallout to connect the two and also what they were doing to each other physically at the same time so i could see how it all played together so the conversation supported the smut and vice versa. it was a TOTALLY normal approach to writing pwp. not over the top at all. 

song’s original outline was basically a SUPER long what happens next list and if i could go back in time i would slap myself upside the head like bitch you have no idea what you’re getting into and you are WAY TOO COCKY ABOUT IT, but it’s okay i learned.

the spreadsheet method

somewhere around when i was in the middle of i want to say ch 9 of song, @pynkhues posted about her outlining process including a super awesome spreadsheet she uses (i cannot for the life of me find the original post, forgive me but know that it was hers) and i immediately jacked a version of it to use as my own and oh my god it changed my whole life. 

iirc hers was a bit more in depth but since i was sort of baby-stepping into it, i stripped it down into the following and did a sheet for each of the remaining chapters (well, ch 10 and ch 11, ch 11 ended up getting wildly out of control so i split it in two and mushed the epilogue i’d been planning onto the end of it as a closing breakout scene:

plot

character

it’s a lot of repetition, tbh BUT once i started using it, i found the repetition was incredibly clarifying and by making myself take the time to go through each column and go through the same stuff over and over, it honed in on the strongest, most relevant bits of what i was planning and helped me see patterns and connections i maybe hadn’t been thinking of on the onset.

when i outlined swear i used this method and added a layer to my chapter overviews where i track the lies and corresponding truths worked into the chapter narratives (bc that’s a key theme of the story), and color-coded the beats that corresponded to the main plot vs individual character arcs vs foreshadowing so i’d have an at a glance visual reference to make sure nothing was getting lost and all of the characters (even minor ones) had stuff happening to them and didn’t just feel like cardboard cutouts coming in and out of the story as i needed them

pace structuring

these are all fine and dandy but one thing they’re missing is pacing! for song’s pacing, i will be real with you, i v much went a lot with my gut. i’ve spent most of my life consuming and paying a lot of attention to stories. i’m fascinated with how they come together and literally cannot shut off the part of my brain that likes to pick them apart to examine the pieces to see how they all fit together. as such, it’s left me with a p instinctive grasp for how a story should feel when it’s working which is fantastic when it is, but really useless when it isn’t bc i struggle to identify where and why sometimes so i can fix it.

for the buffyverse, once i started to realize (with no small amount of horror) the scope of what i wanted to write, i realized p quick i needed some kind of tool kit to help me figure out the arc and pacing bc this was going to be a lot closer to trying to plot a whole novel from the ground up (which is great bc one of the things i want to practice is pacing and plotting out novels from the ground up, hahaha)

i’ve been working with a two main docs (and neither of them are spreadsheets, yet, bc one thing the spreadsheet method taught me it’s that while i find them very soothing, my brain works in bullet lists so i’m starting with bullets and then i’m gonna strain it through a spreadsheet):

1. Thoughts:

just a doc where I word vomit out anything I’m thinking, I don’t worry about keeping it organized, I just throw whatever I’m thinking in there so it’s memorialized and I can sort through it later.

2. Act Timelines / Scene Breakdowns:

basically, i have a basic three-act story structure with tentpole story beats broken out by general ballpark percentages of how far into the story/act they should occur for the pacing to feel right. i use that as the framework i run my plot and character beats through and do it in a couple of passes:

high level: i go through and break out what’s happening in the story for each tentpole beat (what the specific story and plot focus is)

by character: i go through and fill in (at least) one sub-bullet beneath each plot tentpole beat with what’s happening with each main character in their individual subplot, how they got there, what their general feelings and mindset is, if they’re having any revelations, etc (one thing i fucked up with song is not making sure i had stuff going on for all of the characters, the plot was super focused on beth and while i generally knew what rio was doing and why, ruby and annie more or less floated in and out of the story at whim and i hate that, so i’m trying to be better about it going forward)

by relationship: now i go in and fill in a layer of bullllets with how the plot and character beats are shaping relationships and how they’re progressing through each tentpole beat

at this point i’ve got a pretty fleshed out outline hitting on plot, character and relationship development at least in broad, general terms. i can look at it like a map and see how characters are growing and changing throughout the story and look for areas where the plot is pushing the characters vs the other way around and places where it seems weak or poorly connected/supported and i tinker with that for awhile until i feel like it’s in good shape.

next step is applying the what happens next approach to the scene by scene breakdowns. i’m trying an experiment with this one where instead of breaking the fic into chapters first, i’m breaking it into scenes and working out the beats of them so they incorporate all of my outlined stuff and then i’m gonna go back and see where the chapter breaks look like they fall.

I’m like, 75% of the way through my scene breakdown for this particular fic and once I’m done with that, I’m going to take everything and plug it into the spreadsheet I worked with for the last couple of chapters of song and highlight/color code like I did for swear to make sure my chapter breakdowns align with everything I’m trying to do and I’m tracking all of my themes and details and setting things up to pay them off later.

so, you know, an absolutely normal amount of planning for a hobby i do entirely for funsies in my largely nonexistent spare time. 

(sorry this was i am assuming WAAY MORE INFORMATION than you ever wanted or needed to know but once i started i couldn’t stop)

(and seriously, thank you, am truly verklempt that you love song like that 💖)

bts fic writing q’s IF YOU DARE hahaha

[the8gates]

Hi! Could you snswer 5., 9., 11., 16. And 20. For Atsuko from the OC ask game? Ty! 💜

From this OC Ask Game

TW: Mentions of self harm. Nightmares (scary stuff)

Also this got really long so... answers under the cut!

Atsuko Kamiyama

5. Physical Appearance: Atsuko is short. So short, in fact, that by the time Sasuke and the rest of the kids are in their teens, they are taller than her. About 5'2. I compared her face to a puppy at one point, and I still think that is accurate. A slightly upturned nose, pouty lips, and rounder cheeks. She has honey colored eyes and a beaming smile. Some of her mannerisms are very similar to Jiraiya. Her loud laugh and flirtatious nature. Her hair is one of the things people notice first about her. It's wild, thick, and curly (3B curl pattern). It's all black except for a streak of white at the front of her face (thanks, Jiraiya). She's a curvier woman. Big chested and wide hips/legs with a soft stomach to match. In the Shadow Series universe, her body is covered in small scars from life as a Shinobi. In the Burnouts universe, there are self harm scars on her upper thighs and a burn scar on her chest from falling asleep with a cigarette in her mouth once.

9. Your OC is having a nightmare. What is it?

Depends on the universe. In the Shadow Series universe, it's almost always about Sasuke. For months after he left the village, she would have the same one over and over again. She's running through a forrest and she can hear him screaming for her in the distance. It's dark and she can't see him or feel his chakra. The only thing she can do is run towards the sound of his voice. It feels like she's running through a vat of syrup. All of her senses are dulled and she's moving slowly. Eventually, she reaches a clearing and Sasuke is there, lying on the ground, unmoving. He looks so small. The closer she gets, she realizes that his eyes are missing. Someone comes up behind her and says her name in Sasuke's voice, calmer this time. But she always wakes up before she can see who it is.

In the Burnouts universe, she has a reoccurring one where she's driving down a dark road, late at night. There are no street lamps or signs. Just her headlights on the pavement stretching on for miles. There is nothing on either side of the road. Just empty blackness. Her brakes don't work, and she's alone. The radio doesnt work and the car get's faster and faster, but she can't pull her foot off of the gas pedal. It's like she's not in control of her body and just as the panic sets in, she notices there are people standing in the road ahead. She can't stop the car or pull the steering wheel and just as she is about to crash into this group of faceless people, she wakes up. Every time.

11. What does your OC want for their birthday?

Oh, thank god this one is lighter! She doesn't want for much. Kakashi usually gets her flowers and something practical. A new planner/pens. A new winter coat. Something to make her day easier. They give each other things all of the time now. Very 'I saw this and thought of you' so birthdays aren't super special. Sasuke gives her the exact same thing every year. Once, when he was young, Kakashi gave him a bit of money and told him to find Atsuko something for her birthday. He had no idea what to get and thought it was silly. He would passively look at things during his every day activities. Then, slowly, it became an all out mission to find the perfect gift. He grew so disillusioned and aggravated with all of the stupid, cheaply made, trinkets that he made it his personal goal to find something of quality for Atsuko. Really, it wasn't because he loved her or anything. It was to prove a point. Or, at least, that's what he told himself. Eventually, he found what he deemed to be the perfect gift. It was a box of ginger tea from a local shop. The guy running the store had listed it's health benefits and had claimed that this specific brand was imported from the Land of Lightning. It was expensive, and he had to ask Kakashi for a little more money to purchase it, but in his mind it was the perfect gift. Something high class and useful. The shop keeper even through in a hand-crafted, one of a kind, floral printed tea cup with the purchase. When Sasuke gave the gift to Atsuko, he'd been so proud of himself that she didn't have the heart to tell him that both items were cheap knock offs. The tea was a well known brand and she'd seen the exact same cup in a shop window just down the road. Not to mention that she hated ginger tea. She loved the heart that he'd put into it and had praised his gift. Every year after that he gave her the same brand of tea, and despite not drinking it, she couldn't bring herself to throw it away. He never seemed to notice that her the shoe box in her closet always smelt faintly of ginger. She still uses the cup to this day.

16. If your OC could have any superpower, what would it be and why?

In the Shadow Series, I believe she would like to learn the shadow technique the Nara Clan uses. But, she's pretty powerful in her own right there.

In the Burnouts universe, it would 100% be mind reading. She would like to know people's intentions before getting to know them so she could guard herself accordingly. And so she could FINALLY figure out how the kids keep winning Trivia Night.

20. A picture or a gif that describes your OC

[agentrouka-blog]

Can you please give your opinion on Dany n missendei relationship in books? It's much more complicated than show n both characters are young.

So, Missandei. I don’t think about her a LOT but there was a connection to a theme that struck me when I compared her to the Stark sisters and it points to a relationship that is, let’s say, very different from what the tv show chose to do.

Long. Many quotes.

Preface: The talking bird – a lady’s armor – “Valar Morghulis”

I am always specifically reminded of Missandei when I read this Sansa passage.

Sansa could not bear the sight of him, he frightened her so, yet she had been raised in all the ways of courtesy. A true lady would not notice his face, she told herself. “You rode gallantly today, Ser Sandor,” she made herself say.

(…)

He was mocking her, she realized. “No one could withstand him,” she managed at last, proud of herself. It was no lie.

Sandor Clegane stopped suddenly in the middle of a dark and empty field. She had no choice but to stop beside him. "Some septa trained you well. You're like one of those birds from the Summer Isles, aren't you? A pretty little talking bird, repeating all the pretty little words they taught you to recite."  (AGOT; Sansa II)

A bird from the Summer Isles, repeating words.

The concept of courtesy is a lady’s armor is tied to the idea of the talking bird. (Leaving out the obvious talking raven at the Wall for this, because I don’t see Missandei tied to the magical arc. I see her tied to the political one.)

The phrase “courtesy is a lady’s armor” shows up four times:

Sansa felt that she ought to say something. What was it that Septa Mordane used to tell her? A lady's armor is courtesy, that was it. She donned her armor and said, "I'm sorry my lady mother took you captive, my lord." (ACOK, Sansa I)

and

Sansa felt dizzy; one instant her head was full of dreams of Loras, and the next they had all been snatched away. Willas? Willas? "I," she said stupidly. Courtesy is a lady's armor. You must not offend them, be careful what you say. "I do not know Ser Willas. I have never had the pleasure, my lady. Is he . . . is he as great a knight as his brothers?" (ASOS, Sansa I)

and 

“How old are you, Sansa?” asked Tyrion, after a moment. “Thirteen,” she said, “when the moon turns.” “Gods have mercy.” The dwarf took another swallow of wine. “Well, talk won’t make you older. Shall we get on with this, my lady? If it please you?” “It will please me to please my lord husband.” That seemed to anger him. “You hide behind courtesy as if it were a castle wall.” “Courtesy is a lady’s armor,” Sansa said. Her septa had always told her that. “I am your husband. You can take off your armor now.” “And my clothing?” “That too.” He waved his wine cup at her. “My lord father has commanded me to consummate this marriage.” (ASOS, Sansa III)

and 

A lady's armor is her courtesy. Alayne could feel the blood rushing to her face. No tears, she prayed. Please, please, I must not cry. "As you wish, ser. And now if you will excuse me, Littlefinger's bastard must find her lord father and let him know that you have come, so we can begin the tourney on the morrow." And may your horse stumble, Harry the Heir, so you fall on your stupid head in your first tilt. She showed the Waynwoods a stone face as they blurted out awkward apologies for their companion. When they were done she turned and fled.  (TWOW, Alayne)

So here we have a theme that ties the talking bird to something you were taught by a mentor, to lying, flattering, evading offense in a situation of powerlessness. To evading harm by hiding your true emotions.  

So keep that theme of the lady’s armor in mind before we get to Missandei herself.

But there is another pattern of repeated words, and another Stark Sister with clear parallels to Missandei.

"As well ask what good is life, what good is death? If the day comes when you would find me again, give that coin to any man from Braavos, and say these words to him—valar morghulis."

"Valar morghulis," Arya repeated. It wasn't hard. Her fingers closed tight over the coin. Across the yard, she could hear men dying. "Please don't go, Jaqen."

"Jaqen is as dead as Arry," he said sadly, "and I have promises to keep. Valar morghulis, Arya Stark. Say it again."

"Valar morghulis," she said once more, and the stranger in Jaqen's clothes bowed to her and stalked off through the darkness, cloak swirling. She was alone with the dead men. They deserved to die, Arya told herself, remembering all those Ser Amory Lorch had killed at the holdfast by the lake.

The cellars under Kingspyre were empty when she returned to her bed of straw. She whispered her names to her pillow, and when she was done she added, "Valar morghulis," in a small soft voice, wondering what it meant. (ACOK, Arya IX)

Words by a mentor. The phrase becomes a mantra, it is repeatedly tied to her revenge name list and Jaqen’s iron coin and being unafraid. But she never learns what it means until Braavos. She is merely repeating the words, devoid of meaning. Parroting, the same way Sandor accuses Sansa of doing. But like with Sansa, the action serves to strengthen her.

"Valar morghulis," she told the old gods of the north. She liked how the words sounded when she said them.  (ACOK, Arya X)

And..

She was only ten, a skinny girl on a stolen horse with a dark forest ahead of her and men behind who would gladly cut off her feet. Yet somehow she felt calmer than she ever had in Harrenhal. The rain had washed the guard's blood off her fingers, she wore a sword across her back, wolves were prowling through the dark like lean grey shadows, and Arya Stark was unafraid. Fear cuts deeper than swords, she whispered under her breath, the words that Syrio Forel had taught her, and Jaqen's words too, valar morghulis. (ASOS, Arya I)

And..

The captain turned it over and blinked at it, then looked at her again. "This . . . how . . . ?"

Jaqen said to say the words too. Arya crossed her arms against her chest. "Valar morghulis," she said, as loud as if she'd known what it meant.  (ASOS, Arya XIII)

In Braavos, Arya begins to learn Braavosi, a variant of Valyrian. She becomes a multi-lingual servant in the House of Black and White, tasked with becoming no one, but always secretly being Arya Stark inside. A different kind of armor, a different kind of flying creature. Always playing a role.

Not Randomly:

Archmaester Ebrose, who has made a study of all known accounts of the affliction, believes that it is spread by the butterflies that the Peaceful People revere. For this reason, the disease is oft called butterfly fever. Some believe the fever is carried only by one particular sort of butterfly (a large black-and-white variety with wings as big as a man's hand is favored by Ebrose), but this remains conjecture.

Whether the butterflies of Naath are true handmaids of the Lord of Harmony, or no more than common insects like their cousins in the Seven Kingdoms, it may well be that the Naathi are not wrong in regarding them as guardians. (The World of Ice and Fire – Beyond the Free Cities: Naath)

So we have a connection to a lovely but deadly creature of black and white and Naath. A handmaid. A guardian. Let us keep that in mind, also.

Now let us look at Dany and Missandei directly.

This is how Missandei is introduced to us in ASOS, Daenerys II, when she negotiates for the Unsullied.

“Tell the Westerosi whore to lower her eyes,” the slaver Kraznys mo Nakloz complained to the slave girl who spoke for him. “I deal in meat, not metal. The bronze is not for sale. Tell her to look at the soldiers. Even the dim purple eyes of a sunset savage can see how magnificent my creatures are, surely.”

Kraznys’s High Valyrian was twisted and thickened by the characteristic growl of Ghis, and flavored here and there with words of slaver argot. Dany understood him well enough, but she smiled and looked blankly at the slave girl, as if wondering what he might have said.

“The Good Master Kraznys asks, are they not magnificent?” The girl spoke the Common Tongue well, for one who had never been to Westeros. No older than ten, she had the round flat face, dusky skin, and golden eyes of Naath. The Peaceful People, her folk were called. All agreed that they made the best slaves.

“They might be adequate to my needs,” Dany answered. It had been Ser Jorah’s suggestion that she speak only Dothraki and the Common Tongue while in Astapor. My bear is more clever than he looks. “Tell me of their training.”

“The Westerosi woman is pleased with them, but speaks no praise, to keep the price down,” the translator told her master. “She wishes to know how they were trained.”

Missandei of Naath, a pretty bird from the Summer Isles, repeating the words they tell her. But she, too, does more than that. She translates and manipulates at the same time, conveying intentions, hiding discourtesy. A diplomat, wrapped in lady’s armor. A girl of ten. With eyes as golden as Nymeria’s. She is, and the text doesn’t emphasize this enough, extremely intelligent. She doesn’t know Dany but she is able to read her reasonably well, while translating literally and figuratively, simultaneously. She is basically playing a Game of Faces, reading, translating, lying, repeating… She is basically a character that connects Arya and Sansa on the concept of lying and truth.

 His girl conveyed the essence of his speech, more politely. (…)

“Tell her how pretty the pyramids are at night,” the slaver growled. “Tell her I will lick honey off her breasts, or allow her to lick honey off mine if she prefers.”

“Astapor is most beautiful at dusk, Your Grace,” said the slave girl. “The Good Masters light silk lanterns on every terrace, so all the pyramids glow with colored lights. Pleasure barges ply the Worm, playing soft music and calling at the little islands for food and wine and other delights.”

Missandei is a poet. She also echoes another poet.

She pictured the two of them sitting together in a garden with puppies in their laps, or listening to a singer strum upon a lute while they floated down the Mander on a pleasure barge. If I give him sons, he may come to love me. She would name them Eddard and Brandon and Rickon, and raise them all to be as valiant as Ser Loras. And to hate Lannisters, too. In Sansa's dreams, her children looked just like the brothers she had lost. Sometimes there was even a girl who looked like Arya. (ASOS, Sansa II)

Brothers and dreams. Let us keep that in mind, as well.

In ASOS, Daenerys III, Dany acquires the Unsullied at the “price” of a dragon, and gets Missandei tossed in as a bonus.

“Done,” the slave girl translated, “and done, and done, eight times done.”

“The Unsullied will learn your savage tongue quick enough,” added Kraznys mo Nakloz, when all the arrangements had been made, “but until such time you will need a slave to speak to them. Take this one as our gift to you, a token of a bargain well struck.”

“I shall,” said Dany.

The slave girl rendered his words to her, and hers to him. If she had feelings about being given for a token, she took care not to let them show. (…)

 Dany turned away from him, to the slave girl standing meekly beside her litter. “Do you have a name, or must you draw a new one every day from some barrel?”

“That is only for Unsullied,” the girl said. Then she realized the question had been asked in High Valyrian. Her eyes went wide. “Oh.”

“Your name is Oh?”

“No. Your Grace, forgive this one her outburst. Your slave’s name is Missandei, but …”

“Missandei is no longer a slave. I free you, from this instant. Come ride with me in the litter, I wish to talk.” Rakharo helped them in, and Dany drew the curtains shut against the dust and heat. “If you stay with me you will serve as one of my handmaids,” she said as they set off. “I shall keep you by my side to speak for me as you spoke for Kraznys. But you may leave my service whenever you choose, if you have father or mother you would sooner return to.”

“This one will stay,” the girl said. “This one … I … there is no place for me to go. This … I will serve you, gladly.”

"I can give you freedom, but not safety," Dany warned. "I have a world to cross and wars to fight. You may go hungry. You may grow sick. You may be killed."

"Valar morghulis," said Missandei, in High Valyrian.

"All men must die," Dany agreed, "but not for a long while, we may pray." She leaned back on the pillows and took the girl's hand. (ASOS, Daenerys III)

 Does she have a name. Still careful to guard her words. She will speak for Dany like she did for Kraznys. (Dany = Kraznys.) She has no other place to go.  Valar morghulis.

Honestly, I wonder if Missandei truly did not know that Dany could speak Valyrian, or if the wide eyes and “Oh!” reaction were an act. 

Have two Arya parallels:

"You are," he said, "but the House of Black and White is no place for Arya, of House Stark."

"Please," she said. "I have no place to go." (AFFC, Arya I)

We know how deeply genuine Arya’s devotion to the Faceless Men is…

And bilingual fun.

She said a silent Prayer to the god of many faces, slipped out of her alcove, and flounced up to the guardsmen. Mercy, Mercy, Mercy. "My lords," she said, "do you speak Braavosi? Oh, please, tell me you do." The two guardsmen exchanged a look. "What's this Thing going on about?" the older one asked. "Who is she?" "One of the mummers," said the pretty one. He pushed his fair hair back off his brow and smiled at her. "Sorry, sweetling, we don't speak your gibble-gabble." Fuss and feathers, Mercy thought, they only know the Common Tongue. That was no good. Give it up or go ahead. She could not give it up. She wanted him so bad. "I know your tongue, a little," she lied, with Mercy's sweetest smile. "You are lords of Westeros, my friend said." (TWOW, Mercy)

Dany uses the chance to grill Missandei on the loyalty of the Unsullied.

“If I did resell them, how would I know they could not be used against me?” Dany asked pointedly. “Would they do that? Fight against me, even do me harm?”

“If their master commanded. They do not question, Your Grace. All the questions have been culled from them. They obey.” She looked troubled. “When you are … when you are done with them … Your Grace might command them to fall upon their swords.”

“And even that, they would do?”

“Yes.” Missandei’s voice had grown soft. “Your Grace.”

Dany squeezed her hand. “You would sooner I did not ask it of them, though. Why is that? Why do you care?”

“This one does not … I … Your Grace …”

“Tell me.”

The girl lowered her eyes. “Three of them were my brothers once, Your Grace.”

Then I hope your brothers are as brave and clever as you. (ASOS, Daenerys III)

What other reason does Missandei have to not want to leave? Because she has THREE brothers within the ranks of the Unsullied.  Brothers who have been harmed, twisted, enslaved. Brothers she may want to guard, like the butterflies of Naath.

From the moment we meet her, and certainly after she is handed over to Dany, Missandei serves as a tie to the human suffering on Display with the Unsullied. She explains the gruesome “training". She reveals having brothers among them when faced with the possibility that Dany might order their suicide. 

But she also serves to comfort Dany numerous times in a way that Irri (her “not a sex slave”) cannot.

She sings.

The hours crept by on turtle feet. Even after Jhiqui rubbed the knots from her shoulders, Dany was too restless for sleep. Missandei offered to sing her a lullaby of the Peaceful People, but Dany shook her head. “Bring me Arstan,” she said. (ASOS, Daenerys IV)

She tells her stories of her home.

Do all gods feel so lonely? Some must, surely. Missandei had told her of the Lord of Harmony, worshiped by the Peaceful People of Naath; he was the only true god, her little scribe said, the god who always was and always would be, who made the moon and stars and earth, and all the creatures that dwelt upon them. Poor Lord of Harmony. Dany pitied him. It must be terrible to be alone for all time, attended by hordes of butterfly women you could make or unmake at a word. (ASOS, Daenerys VI)

 Who else serves a “one true God”? Arya, with the many-faced god. With his servants in black-and-white. Dany hears a lot about the culture of the Peaceful People from Missandei. She seems to find it relaxing. 

“Are there many flies on Naath, Missandei?”

“On Naath there are butterflies,” the scribe responded in the Common Tongue. “More wine?”

“No. I must hold court soon.” Dany had grown very fond of Missandei. The little scribe with the big golden eyes was wise beyond her years. She is brave as well. She had to be, to survive the life she’s lived. One day she hoped to see this fabled isle of Naath. Missandei said the Peaceful People made music instead of war. They did not kill, not even animals; they ate only fruit and never flesh. The butterfly spirits sacred to their Lord of Harmony protected their isle against those who would do them harm. Many conquerors had sailed on Naath to blood their swords, only to sicken and die. The butterflies do not help them when the slave ships come raiding, though. “I am going to take you home one day, Missandei,” Dany promised. If I had made the same promise to Jorah, would he still have sold me? “I swear it.”

“This one is content to stay with you, Your Grace. Naath will be there, always. You are good to this—to me.”

“And you to me.” Dany took the girl by the hand. “Come help me dress.” (ASOS, Daenerys VI)

 I think Dany is projecting a lot onto Missandei. Her longing for home, for childhood. For loyalty. And yet…

Daario and Ben Plumm, Grey Worm, Irri, Jhiqui, Missandei … as she looked at them Dany found herself wondering which of them would betray her next. (ASOS, Daenerys VI)

And here Missandei witnesses an interesting turn of events.

Dany thought a moment. “Any man who wishes to sell himself into slavery may do so. Or woman.” She raised a hand. “But they may not sell their children, nor a man his wife.”

“In Astapor the city took a tenth part of the price, each time a slave changed hands,” Missandei told her.

“We’ll do the same,” Dany decided. Wars were won with gold as much as swords. “A tenth part. In gold or silver coin, or ivory. Meereen has no need of saffron, cloves, or zorse hides.” (ASOS, Daenerys VI)

Instead of eradicating slave trade, Dany allows it to wobble back into existence, because she had no better plan. Curiously, Missandei seems to support, even enable this. She turns Dany’s attention toward the Astapori practice. Why? That is.. seriously odd, for a former slave who is supposedly enarmored with Dany’s anti-slavery crucade, and thus loyal to her.

Missandei remains gentle, caring, ever so attentive. As Dany struggles with ruling Meereen, Missandei is there to hold her hand.

She was Daenerys Stormborn, the Unburnt, khaleesi and queen, Mother of Dragons, slayer of warlocks, breaker of chains, and there was no one in the world that she could trust.

“Your Grace?” Missandei stood at her elbow wrapped in a bedrobe, wooden sandals on her feet. “I woke, and saw that you were gone. Did you sleep well? What are you looking at?”

“My city,” said Dany. “I was looking for a house with a red door, but by night all the doors are black.”

“A red door?” Missandei was puzzled. “What house is this?”

“No house. It does not matter.” Dany took the younger girl by the hand. “Never lie to me, Missandei. Never betray me.”

“I never would,” Missandei promised. “Look, dawn comes.”

The sky had turned a cobalt blue from the horizon to the zenith, and behind the line of low hills to the east a glow could be seen, pale gold and oyster pink. Dany held Missandei’s hand as they watched the sun come up. (ASOS, Daenerys VI)

 Dany promises to take her home, Missandei promises to never betray her. Or “promises”? She now knows that Dany is certainly concerned with fear of betrayal. Yet her gentle presence allows Dany to refocus when she was tempted to leave Meereen behind.

“There is nothing to stay for,” said Brown Ben Plumm.

“Your Grace, the slavers brought their doom on themselves,” said Daario Naharis.

“You have brought freedom as well,” Missandei pointed out.

“Freedom to starve?” asked Dany sharply. “Freedom to die? Am I a dragon, or a harpy?” Am I mad? Do I have the taint? (ASOS, Daenerys VI)

Dany ends ASOS choosing to stay, to rule.

Of course, the deterioration of Meereen has a devastating personal effect on Missandei. Her brother is murdered.

She could hear the soft sounds of sobs. “Who is that weeping?”

“Your slave Missandei.” Jhiqui had a taper in her hand.

“My servant. I have no slaves.” Dany did not understand. “Why does she weep?”

“For him who was her brother,” Irri told her. (ADWD, Daenerys II)

(Subtext: Irri sees no difference between Missandei and a slave. Dany does not understand. She does not really comprehend how to MAKE it different.)

Mossador. Dany made a fist. Missandei and her brothers had been taken from their home on Naath by raiders from the Basilisk Isles and sold into slavery in Astapor. Young as she was, Missandei had shown such a gift for tongues that the Good Masters had made a scribe of her. Mossador and Marselen had not been so fortunate. They had been gelded and made into Unsullied. (ADWD, Daenerys II)

I wonder what happened to the third brother? Has he died by this point, as well?

Dany decides to employ torture to investigate the murder of Missandei’s brother and others by the Sons of the Harpy. The torture of a suspect’s innocent daughters, to be exact. Another step toward villainy.

When she returned to her rooms atop the pyramid, she found Missandei crying softly on her pallet, trying as best she could to muffle the sound of her sobs. “Come sleep with me,” she told the little scribe. “Dawn will not come for hours yet.”

“Your Grace is kind to this one.” Missandei slipped under the sheets. “He was a good brother.”

Dany wrapped her arms about the girl. “Tell me of him.”

“He taught me how to climb a tree when we were little. He could catch fish with his hands. Once I found him sleeping in our garden with a hundred butterflies crawling over him. He looked so beautiful that morning, this one … I mean, I loved him.” (ADWD, Daenerys II)

Mossador sounds a lot like Bran. Climbing, fishing.

Compare the images:

The night the bird had come from Winterfell, Eddard Stark had taken the girls to the castle godswood, an acre of elm and alder and black cottonwood overlooking the river. The heart tree there was a great oak, its ancient limbs overgrown with smokeberry vines; they knelt before it to offer their thanksgiving, as if it had been a weirwood. Sansa drifted to sleep as the moon rose, Arya several hours later, curling up in the grass under Ned's cloak. All through the dark hours he kept his vigil alone. When dawn broke over the city, the dark red blooms of dragon's breath surrounded the girls where they lay. "I dreamed of Bran," Sansa had whispered to him. "I saw him smiling."

"He was going to be a knight," Arya was saying now. "A knight of the Kingsguard. Can he still be a knight?" (AGOT, Eddard V)

Asleep in the godswood like Mossador had been in the garden. Surrounded by dragon’s breath flowers like he had been covered by butterflies. Two sisters thinking of their brother, terribly harmed. Where Bran survived, Mossador did not.

“As he loved you.” Dany stroked the girl’s hair. “Say the word, my sweet, and I will send you from this awful place. I will find a ship somehow and send you home. To Naath.”

“I would sooner stay with you. On Naath I’d be afraid. What if the slavers came again? I feel safe when I’m with you.”

Safe. The word made Dany’s eyes fill up with tears. “I want to keep you safe.”

Missandei was only a child. With her, she felt as if she could be a child too. “No one ever kept me safe when I was little. Well, Ser Willem did, but then he died, and Viserys … I want to protect you but … it is so hard. To be strong. I don’t always know what I should do. I must know, though. I am all they have. I am the queen … the … the …”

“… mother,” whispered Missandei.

“Mother to dragons.” Dany shivered.

“No. Mother to us all.” Missandei hugged her tighter. “Your Grace should sleep. Dawn will be here soon, and court.”

“We’ll both sleep, and dream of sweeter days. Close your eyes.” When she did, Dany kissed her eyelids and made her giggle.

 And reading this, I just realized that there is a clear parallel to someone else: Taena Merryweather. Where Irri parallels the sexual abuse aspect, Missandei parallels the “sweet confidant” aspect of her relationship with Cersei. Sharing a bed, telling stories, secrets. We know how loyal Taena was to Cersei. 

Missandei just lost her brother whom she loved enough to weep copiously for, yet she ends up comforting Dany, the exchange becomes about Dany. This reads sweet and mutual, but IS IT REALLY when you keep that turn of the conversation in mind?

Dany keeps projecting onto Missandei, and I think Missandei knows. I think Missandei is very aware of this and using it to stay afloat. Not because she is evil but because she is simply trying to survive and do anything he can to try and keep in contact with her brothers, to protect them. Her connection to Dany is the best way to do that.

 Missandei keeps witnessing Dany’s lower points:

When Daenerys returned to her pyramid, sore of limb and sick of heart, she found Missandei reading some old scroll whilst Irri and Jhiqui argued about Rakharo. “You are too skinny for him,” Jhiqui was saying. “You are almost a boy. Rakharo does not bed with boys. This is known.” Irri bristled back. “It is known that you are almost a cow. Rakharo does not bed with cows.”

“Rakharo is blood of my blood. His life belongs to me, not you,” Dany told the two of them. (ADWD, Daenerys VI)

Interestingly, she is also reading “old scrolls”. Educating herself.

Dany remains happily intrusive in her command over her “handmaiden’s” bodies. It accompanies a very strange exchange between them.

A cool wind was blowing on her terrace. Dany sighed with pleasure as she slipped into the waters of her pool. At her command, Missandei stripped off her clothes and climbed in after her. “This one heard the Astapori scratching at the walls last night,” the little scribe said as she was washing Dany’s back.

Irri and Jhiqui exchanged a look. “No one was scratching,” said Jhiqui.

“Scratching … how could they scratch?”

“With their hands,” said Missandei. “The bricks are old and crumbling. They are trying to claw their way into the city.”

“This would take them many years,” said Irri. “The walls are very thick. This is known.”

“It is known,” agreed Jhiqui.

“I dream of them as well.” Dany took Missandei’s hand. “The camp is a good half-mile from the city, my sweetling. No one was scratching at the walls.”

“Your Grace knows best,” said Missandei. (ADWD, Daenerys VI)

 It is not the Astapori scratching.

For a moment he saw only the blackened arches of the bricks above, scorched by dragonflame. A trickle of ash caught his eye, betraying movement. Something pale, half-hidden, stirring. He's made himself a cave, the prince realized. A burrow in the brick. The foundations of the Great Pyramid of Meereen were massive and thick to support the weight of the huge structure overhead; even the interior walls were three times thicker than any castle's curtain walls. But Viserion had dug himself a hole in them with flame and claw, a hole big enough to sleep in. (ADWD, The Dragontamer)

So Missandei is hearing the warning signs the others are missing.

Dany is trying, but the true cost of ruling – the abdication of one’s most personal choices toward the benefit of the many - chafes hard. Interestingly, Missandei is unusually outspoken on the subject. Downright testing the waters of her influence on the friendship track.

 “Your Grace needs more than wine to break her fast. You are such a tiny thing, and you will surely need your strength today.”

That made Daenerys laugh, coming from a girl so small. She relied so much on the little scribe that she oft forgot that Missandei had only turned eleven. They shared the food together on her terrace. As Dany nibbled on an olive, the Naathi girl gazed at her with eyes like molten gold and said, “It is not too late to tell them that you have decided not to wed.”

It is, though, the queen thought, sadly. “Hizdahr’s blood is ancient and noble. Our joining will join my freedmen to his people. When we become as one, so will our city.”

“Your Grace does not love the noble Hizdahr. This one thinks you would sooner have another for your husband.”

I must not think of Daario today. “A queen loves where she must, not where she will.”

Her appetite had left her. “Take this food away,” she told Missandei. “It is time I bathed.” (ADWD, Daenerys VII)

 Eyes like molten gold. Molten gold, a golden crown that men shall tremble to behold. Ominous.

I wonder what Missandei’s endgame here is. Why does she oppose the marriage? Why did she propose the slave sale tax?

 Dany relies on Missandei emotionally. But Missandei seems to pull back, now that Dany did marry Hizdahr.

Dany flinched. “Who is there?”

“Only Missandei.” The Naathi scribe moved closer to the bed. “This one heard you crying.”

“Crying? I was not crying. Why would I cry? I have my peace, I have my king, I have everything a queen might wish for. You had a bad dream, that was all.”

“As you say, Your Grace.” She bowed and made to go.

“Stay,” said Dany. “I do not wish to be alone.”

“His Grace is with you,” Missandei pointed out.

“His Grace is dreaming, but I cannot sleep. On the morrow I must bathe in blood. The price of peace.” She smiled wanly and patted the bed. “Come. Sit. Talk with me.”

“If it please you.” Missandei sat down beside her. “What shall we talk of?”

“Home,” said Dany. “Naath. Butterflies and brothers. Tell me of the things that make you happy, the things that make you giggle, all your sweetest memories. Remind me that there is still good in the world.”

Missandei did her best. She was still talking when Dany finally fell to sleep, to dream queer, half-formed dreams of smoke and fire.

The morning came too soon. (ADWD, Daenerys VIII)

 Missandei did not correct herself when she used “this one”, like she used to before. She does not enthusiastically agree to stay with her. “If it please you” is a phrase used with monarchs like Joffrey, Cersei, Stannis. Dany used it on Viserys, to placate him. 

Missandei becomes even more openly critical just before the fighting pits open.

“Even if the pits must open, must Your Grace go yourself?” asked Missandei as she was washing the queen’s hair.

“Half of Meereen will be there to see me, gentle heart.”

“Your Grace,” said Missandei, “this one begs leave to say that half of Meereen will be there to watch men bleed and die.”

She is not wrong, the queen knew, but it makes no matter. (ADWD, Daenerys IX)

Once again, no correction on the “this one”. She doesn’t bother anymore. Still she makes a last-ditch effort to use her emotional influence on Dany. To no avail. Why does she not want Dany to go? Is it the principle of the thing? Is it to subvert the union? Is it because she knows something is going to happen? Does she Need Dany on a particular path? 

 Just before she leaves for the fighting pits, Dany has her last interaction with Missandei.

Missandei reemerged. “Your Grace. The king bids you join him when you are dressed. And Prince Quentyn has come with his Dornish Men. They beg a word, if that should please you.”

Little about this day shall please me. “Some other day.” (ADWD, Daenerys IX)

That’s it. Brushed off. Missandei stays behind. Dany goes to the pit.

Next we see her is in ADWD, The Queensguard. She is mostly unsupervised, alone.

The royal apartments were still and silent. Hizdahr had not taken up residence there, preferring to establish his own suite of rooms deep in the heart of the Great Pyramid, where massive brick walls surrounded him on all sides. Mezzara, Miklaz, Qezza, and the rest of the queen’s young cupbearers—hostages in truth, but both Selmy and the queen had become so fond of them that it was hard for him to think of them that way—had gone with the king, whilst Irri and Jhiqui departed with the other Dothraki. Only Missandei remained, a forlorn little ghost haunting the queen’s chambers at the apex of the pyramid. (ADWD, The Queensguard)

Dany and Selmy can forget that the kids are hostages. But Theon shows us that they never forget what they are. Irri and Jhiqui remain Dothraki. And Missandei? What IS she up to?

We gain a few more insights on her interactions in Meereen.

“She might be flying home,” he told himself, aloud.

“No,” murmured a soft voice behind him. “She would not do that, ser. She would not go home without us.”

Ser Barristan turned. “Missandei. Child. How long have you been standing there?”

“Not long. This one is sorry if she has disturbed you.” She hesitated. “Skahaz mo Kandaq wishes words with you.”

“The Shavepate? You spoke with him?” That was rash, rash. The enmity ran deep between Shakaz and the king, and the girl was clever enough to know that. Skahaz had been outspoken in his opposition to the queen’s marriage, a fact Hizdahr had not forgotten. “Is he here? In the pyramid?”

“When he wishes. He comes and goes, ser.”

Yes. He would. “Who told you he wants words with me?”

“A Brazen Beast. He wore an owl mask.”

 Like Arya as a cupbearer, Missandei is both visible and invisible and has the opportunity to fade into the background but also make contact with numerous people while she had Dany’s ear, hypothetically. We certainly know that Missandei disapproved of Hizdahr, as well. Also, she is sneaky and can listen to conversations. We know she reads scrolls. Her outward appearance remains that of a loyal believer.

Selmy immediately decides to make use of that ability.

The worst were those who played the game of thrones. “Can you find this owl again?” he asked Missandei.

“This one can try, ser.”

“Tell him I will speak with … with our friend … after dark, by the stables.” The pyramid’s main doors were closed and barred at sunset. The stables would be quiet at that hour. “Make certain it is the same owl.” It would not serve to have the wrong Brazen Beast hear of this.

“This one understands.” Missandei turned as if to go, then paused a moment and said, “It is said that the Yunkai’i have ringed the city all about with scorpions, to loose iron bolts into the sky should Drogon return.”

Ser Barristan had heard that too. “It is no simple thing to slay a dragon in the sky. In Westeros, many tried to bring down Aegon and his sisters. None succeeded.”

Missandei nodded. It was hard to tell if she was reassured. “Do you think that they will find her, ser? The grasslands are so vast, and dragons leave no tracks across the sky.”

“Aggo and Rakharo are blood of her blood … and who knows the Dothraki sea better than Dothraki?” He squeezed her shoulder. “They will find her if she can be found.” If she still lives. There were other khals who prowled the grass, horselords with khalasars whose riders numbered in the tens of thousands. But the girl did not need to hear that. “You love her well, I know. I swear, I shall keep her safe.”

The words seemed to give the girl some comfort. Words are wind, though, Ser Barristan thought. How can I protect the queen when I am not with her?

 Look at her tickling dragon-killing information out of Selmy while appearing very concerned for Dany.

Afterward, back at the apex of the pyramid, Ser Barristan found Missandei amongst piles of scrolls and books, reading. “Stay here tonight, child,” he told her. “Whatever happens, whatever you see or hear, do not leave the queen’s chambers.”

“This one hears,” the girl said. “If she may ask—”

“Best not.” Ser Barristan stepped out alone onto the terrace gardens. I am not made for this, he reflected as he looked out over the sprawling city. The pyramids were waking, one by one, lanterns and torches flickering to life as shadows gathered in the streets below. Plots, ploys, whispers, lies, secrets within secrets, and somehow I have become part of them. (ADWD, The Kingbreaker)

 Again, reading scrolls and books. Again fishing for information. (Understandably, but also probably not innocently.)

 Next, she is caring for Quentyn Martell on his deathbed.

Missandei sat at the bedside. She had been with the prince night and day, tending to such needs as he could express, giving him water and milk of the poppy when he was strong enough to drink, listening to the few tortured words he gasped out from time to time, reading to him when he fell quiet, sleeping in her chair beside him. (ADWD, The Queen’s Hand)

So she is undaunted in the face of death and physical atrocity, much like Arya. Giving comfort to the infirm not unlike Sansa with Sweetrobin.

She assumes the role of confidant for Selmy, as well. Seamless.

The tiny Naathi scribe looked up at his approach. “Honored ser. The prince is beyond pain now. His Dornish gods have taken him home. See? He smiles.”

How can you tell? He has no lips. It would have been kinder if the dragons had devoured him. That at least would have been quick. This … Fire is a hideous way to die. Small wonder half the hells are made of flame. “Cover him.”

Missandei pulled the coverlet over the prince’s face. “What will be done with him, ser? He is so very far from home.”

“I’ll see that he’s returned to Dorne.” But how? As ashes? That would require more fire, and Ser Barristan could not stomach that. We’ll need to strip the flesh from his bones. Beetles, not boiling. The silent sisters would have seen to it at home, but this was Slaver’s Bay. The nearest silent sister was ten thousand leagues away. “You should go sleep now, child. In your own bed.”

“If this one may be so bold, ser, you should do the same. You do not sleep the whole night through.”

Not for many years, child. Not since the Trident. Grand Maester Pycelle had once told him that old men do not need as much sleep as the young, but it was more than that. He had reached that age when he was loath to close his eyes, for fear that he might never open them again. Other men might wish to die in bed asleep, but that was no death for a knight of the Kingsguard.

“The nights are too long,” he told Missandei, “and there is much and more to do, always. Here, as in the Seven Kingdoms. But you have done enough for now, child. Go and rest.” And if the gods are good, you will not dream of dragons. (The Queen’s Hand)

Child he calls her, and yet…

“Ransom,” said Ser Barristan. “Each man’s weight in gold.”

“The Wise Masters do not need our gold, ser,” said Marselen. “They are richer than your Westerosi lords, every one.”

“Their sellswords will want the gold, though. What are the hostages to them? If the Yunkishmen refuse, it will drive a blade between them and their hirelings.” Or so I hope. It had been Missandei who suggested the ploy to him. He would never have thought of such a thing himself. In King’s Landing, bribes had been Littlefinger’s domain, whilst Lord Varys had the task of fostering division amongst the crown’s enemies. His own duties had been more straightforward. Eleven years of age, yet Missandei is as clever as half the men at this table and wiser than all of them. (The Queen’s Hand)

 He takes political advice from the eleven-year-old translator. And he never stops to wonder what else she might be up to. Missandei is no sweet, innocent follower. Missandei is brilliant. She is a patient player. And she hides it so well.

 In Dany’s mind, Missandei remains ever her loyal handmaiden.

 Jhiqui and Irri would be waiting atop her pyramid back in Meereen, she told herself.

Her sweet scribe Missandei as well, and all her little pages. They would bring her food, and she could bathe in the pool beneath the persimmon tree. It would be good to feel clean again. Dany did not need a glass to know that she was filthy. (ADWD, Daenerys X)

and

As the world darkened, Dany settled in and closed her eyes, but sleep refused to come. The night was cold, the ground hard, her belly empty. She found herself thinking of Meereen, of Daario, her love, and Hizdahr, her husband, of Irri and Jhiqui and sweet Missandei, Ser Barristan and Reznak and Skahaz Shavepate. Do they fear me dead? I flew off on a dragon’s back. Will they think he ate me? (ADWD, Daenerys X)

Does she want her alive or dead? And what path does she want her to follow? Missandei’s specific goals are a mystery to me.

But I am loving this.

That relationship is one giant cauldron bubbling away. A big sign saying “Watch this Space”. I am excited for this. Considering the parallels to the Stark sisters, especially Arya, but also to Taena Merryweather, I am fairly certain Missandei is going to betray Dany and play a role in at least a significant setback for her. I do NOT think that Missandei genuinely cares for Dany. The details of her aims are fuzzy to me, but I suspect it’s going to prioritize her brothers.

Considering she was the last to care for Quentyn, I would be especially excited if she somehow came into contact with Dorne, especially Arianne and Aegon, before the end.

 So yeah, those are my thoughts on that relationship.

[starr-fall-knight-rise]

Humans are Space Orcs, “Behind the Door.”

Stay for the ending of this one guys :) Very exciting :) 

Here they were with bags over their heads again. This happened a lot, to the point where Sunny found that neither of them seemed to care much. They had been traveling since the early hours of the morning having met their targets outside the airfield. Of course, the two Tesraki had insisted that the fake couple wear something over their heads, so they would not know where they were going. The commander had been fine with that considering he had a tracking implant welded to his ribs courtesy of the good doctor:, a tracking beacon that would send off an emergency alert if he was knocked out or in significant distress.

It certainly wouldn't have gone off that morning as, yawning the two of them stumbled up the ramp and onto some sort of transport. They weren’t tied up or anything, but made to sit in a set of relatively comfortable seats. The commander ended up falling asleep against Sunny’s shoulder as the roaring of the engines added a slight ambiance and gentle rocking motion to the shuttle. Of course Sunny let him rest there, humans needed their sleep, and she would alert him if anything changed.

Absently, she stroked the back of his hand with her thumb where she held it resting on her lap. It was going to be interesting when this was all over. For the past few days they had been in perpetual constant contact, awake, sleeping, eating, planning. It was to the point at which it was almost normal.

Off to her side the commander pressed closer in his sleep head resting even more heavily on her shoulder. She put an arm around him to keep him from falling over and waking up. The bag on her head smelled a little funny, but she supposed that was the least of their worries. It had not crossed her mind that they might have been found out and were being taken to execution. It’s not like the two of them were very good at undercover work. They hadn’t bothered to change their names for instance, not that it would have entirely mattered. 

There were so many humans named Adam and so many Drev named Sunny that changing their names would be almost pointless as well. Either way someone was about to get arrested, either for attempted kidnapping and murder, or for genetic tampering.

The ride too longer than Sunny would have liked, and she couldn’t tell which way they were going, or even if they had gone out of atmosphere.

At her side the commander stirred, maybe an hour or two into their trip lifting his head up though he couldn’t see anything due to the bag, “Any idea where we are?” He murmured.

“No clue.” Sunny whispered back.

“Still on noctropolis I see.” He muttered 

“How can you tell.”

“The rumbling feeling. It’s the engines fighting against the atmosphere. It would have been a lot smoother if we were in space, plus this is how noctopolis always feels when we fly. Seems Like we are heading north too.”

“How can you possibly tell that.”

“From where we were there is a specific wind pattern that takes us north, and it generally feels like this.”

“For all I know you could be just making that up.” 

“I might be, but you would never know the difference.” He rested his head back down on her shoulder listening to the rumble of the shuttle engine and feeling the vibrations under his feet, “Automatic pilot.” 

“Don’t tell me, you can feel a disturbance in the force.” He snorted, “No, but a ride this smooth is characteristic of an automatic pilot.”

“Than why use pilots?” She was mostly goading him

“Because Automatic pilots are for smooth civilian transport and not for cool badass aerial stunts.”

“Mmm, sure.” The two of them rocked forward a little as the shuttle decelerated and then began it’s descent. Voices came to them from the back of the craft, and two sets of footsteps approached.

“We are almost to our destination. Prepare yourselves it is a little cold.”

The two of them nodded, and after a moment the shuttle landed with a sharp bump against the ground, and they were helped to their feet. Sunny kept tight hold of the commander’s hand, not trusting them to not get separated.the commander seemed to be just fine with that and together they were walked to the end of the shuttle.

There was a slight whirring as the doors opened up, and both of them were hit in the face with a blast of cold air. The commander inhaled sharply and Sunny grunted with discomfort as a powerful blast of wind. She put a hand over the holes at her neck trying to keep them from cracking and drying up in the harsh air.

The wind whistled and the cold grew more piercing. The commander began to cough as sharp needles of cold bit into his throat. For a moment, sunny was convinced that the two of them were going to be kicked out of the shuttle into the freezing cold blast of wind where they would eventually freeze and die while the Tesraki flew away laughing at their stupidity for being so obvious.

However, that thought was dashed as the shuttle doors opened, and they stepped out and downwards boots thudding over the metal  ramp. Voices and engines roared around them as even harsher wind whipped past their faces.

Something rumbled over the metal ground just to their side, and Sunny thought she felt a few wisps of snow brush against her skin. She was so…. Very...very cold.

Inside her heartbeat sped up desperate to pump warm blood through her body.

At her arm, the commander was already shivering Uncontrollably.

She pulled the human closer partially to warm him up and partially because she hoped that he might be warmer than her, “You ok?’ she whispered.

“You’re asking me if I’m ok… not to, bring light to a situation sunny, but your naked, at least I have a jacket, which I would totally offer to you if you were smaller or I were taller.”

That made her laugh, but luckily for them they ad stepped inside some building by that point and the wind was cut off.

They could still hear voices, the thudding of feet on metal and the running of machines all around them. There was a sharp metallic hiss, and they were led inside with a sigh o relief as warm air washed over them.

The bags were drawn from their heads, and they found themselves in a nice little waiting room with a reception desk at one end and chairs with magazine lying around on low-lying coffee tables, “You two take a seat, we will be right back.”

They did as told surprised to find themselves sitting across from another couple, this one also Human/Drev, except in their arms they held a very small bundle. Commander Vir craned his neck to see, and noticing the two of them, the human female holding the bundle rotated it so he could see, smiling.

The tiny face was of a human baby, or so it seemed, though it’s hair was shockingly pearl white.

Both of their eyes widened.

“IS that….” He trialed off 

The human nodded smiling, “Our baby, yes! We just came in for a one-week checkup to make sure the DNA splicing went well.

The commander stood up, “You mind if I…. Get a closer look?”

“No not at all.” The Drev responded motioning the two of them over.

They came and sat down close by looking down at the sleeping baby. One of its arms had been brought up to the chin, and there they could see how the skin glittered sort of white in the light above.

“Wow…. pretty. What’s their name?”

“We named him Daklan.”

The commander and Sunny exchanged looks of surprise, “Amazing … that’s the translation isn’t it.”

She smiled, “You speak Drev?”

He cleared his throat, and took Sunny’s hand, “Of course I do.” 

“Are you two here for a consult.” 

Sunny pulled him closer, “Yes we…Well we admit we were a little  skeptical.” She looked down at the baby, “But now.”

A door opened on the other side of the room a door opened, and the two Tesraki stepped in, “Why don’t you two come on and follow us.” They paused waving goodbye to the other couple and then stepping into the room behind the Tesraki.

“Admiring one of our success stories I see.”

“Yes…. are there not success stories?”

There was a sigh, “Afraid not, in the early years of developing this technique we had some pitfalls. There were a lot of children who came out deformed or with strange medical conditions. It turns out that genetic testing is best done beforehand to see what sort of underlying conditions the parents have since they can manifest in very strange ways when paired with other species.” 

They were walked into a nearby office and sat down.

“Hold out your arms.”

They did as instructed wincing as the needles pierced into their skin.

“We can harvest from any piece of genetic material we want and splice them together by pulling the DNA string from the nucleus. IT took a lot of hard work, but we have automated the process that checks the sequencing for abnormalities even as it runs probabilities on each genetic combination. Let us demonstrate.”

He passed the genetic codes into the machine and let them spin around for a while as the monitor worked.

About ten minutes later, they had results.

“Ah, see here.” he glanced at Sunny, “Your genes are almost perfect, until we get to the combination that contributes to height.”

She sighed, “Of course.”

“IF we were to pair that with human DNA we would probably et a creature that is no more than three to four feet tall, not dwarfism, just a very, very small human Drev hybrid. So what we would do in this case, is we would pull the height genes from the father instead.” They turned to Adam, “You are carrying a recessive allele on the TYR gene that can lead to certain types of albinism in humans.”

HE blinked in surprise, “I am?”

“Yes, now this is not normally an issue unless your partner has the same matching recessive trait. However, if you pair this particular gene with a Drev gene, you can get some pretty unfortunate consequences. This will make the Drev child completely blind where it only causes visual issues in humans, not to mention bu it will make the Drev child extremely susceptible to UV light based of how Drev coloring and carapace tends to interact. So what we dofrom here is we take the healthy genes from both parents and splice them together and then our software creates a realistic rendering of what the offspring would look like so you can more effectively choose, however that option does cost more.” 

He turned to the monitor, “You have four options male/female and humanoid or Drev like.”

Four images flashed onto the screen, and sunny was surprised at the tiny human with golden hair and skin. She recognized that gold color, she also recognized the starry purple color on the little Drev girl.

Her parents colors.

“So, what do you think.”

“I…. wow…. This is a lot to take in.” Adam Squeezed Sunny’s hand, “I don’t know if this is too much to ask, but might we be able to see the process before we make our decision.”

“Of course, right this way.” The two of them stood leading the couple out and back into the hallway. The commander leaned close and Sunny dropped her head in to listen, “Well at least we know if we ever had children they would all look like anime protagonists.”

She snorted as they continued their way down the hall.

A door at the far end opened, and they were pulled into a small viewing room overlooking a massive factory sized floor.

They looked around with wide eyes.

It looked a lot like the prodigum factory with rows upon rows of test tubes set up to contain growing fetuses of all shapes and colors. Some of them were almost done while others were only in the early stages of development. A good portion of the factory was mostly dark except for red light, “Can we get a closer look?”  The commander wondered 

“Yes, I suppose we can go down onto the floor.”

The commander gave Sunny a look and she nodded. They walked along the floor staring at the tanks and the tiny creatures growing inside them.

“What’s behind that door?” 

“Simply equipment, nothing important.”

He squeezed Sunny’s hand, and she stepped in front of him as they passed by another tank. She felt his hand drop from hers as he slipped behind a row of tables ducking into the darkness where only the red light glowed. She pretended to be mesmerized by the tubes even though they were absolutely disgusting.in her opinion.

Behind her, commander Vir ducked through the darkness pressing himself up against tables and machines trying to stay out of the glowing red lights.  He made it across the room silently and paused by the closed door. Glancing over his shoulder to check and make sure no one was there, he backed through the door and into the next room with only the barest of noises. When The door shut he turned around,

What he saw made him freeze in place.

His mouth dropped open and his chest tightened with intense horrific anger.

The Adaptid’s bodies hung from hooks in the ceiling as their genetic tissue was harvested. Soft moaning came from cages all around him, and he turned in a wide circle pausing when his eyes over the cages.

His heart hammered in his chest, and he thought he was going to be sick. The anger intensified as his eyes fell on the last figure in the line of cages. His hands grew cold and his entire body began to tingle. His vision tunneled.

He raced across the room straight to the cage wrapping his hands around the bars, “Vicky!”

The hybrid-human adaptid turned her large dog-like head to face him. He found himself staring into soft gray eyes., “Vicky.” He whispered through a strangled throat.

The adaptid mewled piteously sniffing at him ears perking up when she recognized his scent. She pressed up against the bars, and he reached through running a hand along the soft skin of her neck. She mewed again, “Shhh, shh its alright, I’m here now, and I’m going to get you out, I promise.”

His hands were shaking against the bars as he concealed barely unbridled rage. 

He understood now, understood how their process was working where the prodigum’s did not.

And with that realization came the desire to do nothing more than annihilate this entire facility and every mewling coward inside. 

[whump-town]

Quantico  Hope

Based on the text post created by @criminalmindsgonewrong so lots of praise goes to her (if not for the idea than because she’s a queen and I love her content). All of my medical scenes came from E.R, Grey’s Anatomy, or Chicago Hope so don’t come for me. Hotchniss is the main ship, warning for language

Emily Prentiss wakes up in a stranger’s bed. The comforter is thick, soft but the pattern is something only a bachelor would choose. It’s a flannel pattern, blue flannel. Knowing that no woman would willingly buy it is a small comfort. She’d never done it on purpose but she can still think of more than one occasion in which a one night stand came to a crashing halt as a spouse made their existence known. She had been chased from quite a few apartments half-dressed.

Topless, she wraps the sheets around her breast as she sits up. Her John is laying on his side and she has to lean close to see his face. She peaks over his shoulder but her quick movement catches nothing but thick brown hair and a five o’clock shadow. It does nothing to spur her memory so she places a hand on his hip to stabilize herself as she leans over him. 

“Fuck,” she grunts, pushing herself back away from him. 

On her back, hand slapped on her forehead she breathes out a shaky sigh. “No, no, no,” she rolls off the bed. Blindly scooping up her things on the floor. Waking up in a stranger’s bed can be disorienting but waking up in a bed that is unfamiliar with your best friend sleeping right beside you- so, so much worse. This is all Jennifer Jareau’s fault. Her and her stupid sentiments about how one more drink can’t possibly hurt. 

She hears a groggy groan from the bed and she winces as she draws her arms to her chest. It’s instinct to squint her eyes, her subconscious encouraging the childish idea that if she can’t see him he can’t see her. As still as she can, frozen in her spot she waits for him to move.  

She is beyond relief when he sighs and settles back down. 

This time, she tiptoes, now far more conscious of the noise she’s making. Her eyes sweep the floor, searching for her lost bra. She’s missing a sock too but she can leave a sock here and not think twice about it but a bra? 

Last night is mostly a blur. She has a faint memory of his hand cupping her bare breast. 

“Hotch,” she breathes against his neck. She’s working his belt off, letting him attack her neck. “Jesus,” his pants fall to the floor, weighed down by his useless belt. Her mouth opens to make a comment about how hard he is but the rough pads of his fingers cup her breast and she arches into the touch.

“Are you sure?” He whispers. “I don’t want you to-”

Both of her hands wrap around his neck, pulling him into a kiss. “Trust me,” she says, breathlessly. “I want this.” She’s wanted it for as long as she’s known him but he was married. So, she stuck to being his friend. His sounding board. “God,” she’s standing in his room, his rough hands pulling her panties to the side to work a finger inside her. 

He pushes her onto the bed, laughing that silly laugh that makes her chest ache, and for the first time in her life, she’s able to kiss him. She shares his goofy joy and she can feel him smiling as he kisses her tenderly. It occurs to her that their quick drunk fuck isn’t going to be so simple. His eyes are sober and his actions are soft.

His lips start to wander and her stomach flutters as he kisses her hip bones. He looks up at her suggestively, his hands spreading her thighs. He kisses the inside of her thigh, smiling as she can’t control the way they shake. 

“Aaron!”

Emily shudders as she’s pulled from the memory, heart pounding as he groans from beneath the mound of comforter he’s curled under.

The sheets rustle and Emily turns from the door to watch Hotch bolt upright in the bed. He’s on his feet in a flash, stumbling to the bathroom. He’s not of the state of mind to shut the door behind him so she hears as he gags and vomits into the toilet. 

She closes her eyes and curses him. She can’t leave him alone and if the clock on his nightstand is right, she’s got three hours before she’s due for rounds anyway. Which means, she’s just an awful friend to leave him like this. 

“That was gross,” she leans against the bathroom door frame. “You got a little-” she pats the side of her lip. She’s grinning ear-to-ear at his expense. He may be her best friend but it’s still far and in-between when she gets to see him so human. Without the white coat and stoic frown, he can be himself. He can be the stressed-out single father, going through a tough divorce, who spends nearly all of his waking hours depriving himself of comfort.

He drops his forehead against the cool toilet lid and groans. Wrapping a hand around his stomach, he curls his long legs beneath him. “Why are you being mean to me?” He rubs at his mouth, disgusted when his fingers find a bit of vomit on his lip. It makes his stomach roll with a vengeance that makes his head pound mercilessly. He ends up, gagging miserably again, nothing coming up. 

“Alright,” Emily steps in, rubbing at his back. She stands beside him, rubbing his back until he pulls his head up. “Let’s get back to bed,” she hooks her arm under his. It takes a moment, he doesn’t want to let her help him. She doesn’t relent and he caves, allowing her to ease him to his feet.

She’s pretty tall for a woman but getting him to his feet is nothing short of a small feat. "Jesus, " she grunts. He stumbles, leaning heavily on her. Everyone had noticed the weight he dropped after Haley filed for divorce. She can barely keep him on his feet now, she'd hate to have had to do it three months ago. "You're heavy!"

Hotch stops, glaring down at her. It’s a mystery to her how he can look exhausted, nauseated, and angry at the same time. He puffs like an angry little fish, strangely cute. “Are you saying I’m fat?” He makes a failed attempt to stand up straighter, making a soft grunting noise as his stomach revolts against the idea. 

Emily rolls her eyes, drama queen. “No,” she pushes him onto the bed. “You’re just a giant.” He bounces as he sits, frown set right in place. “Aaron,” she puts her hand on her hips and frowns right back at him. “Just take a nap, nurse your hangover, and remember to be in at ten when your shift starts.” She pats his shoulder and plants a kiss on his forehead. “I’ll bring you a coffee, huh?”

He yawns, grimacing as his head and stomach both protest. Sleepily, he rubs at his eyes, laying back on his bed. “I gotta…” he yawns mid-sentence. “Going to a parent-teacher meeting.”

She tries very hard not to look completely devastated. “Oh,” so no coffee. “Okay, I’ll see you after that then.”

He nods, “and I’ll  bring the coffee.”

__________

Last Friday when Aaron had cornered Dave and asked him to cover some basic stuff for him, Dave imagined he’d be doing some rounds, picking up after an intern, or fussing with an attending. He hadn’t expected a very specific, in-depth list of things for him to do:

8 a.m. take Reid to check-in on patients (keep communication at a minimal)

8: 30 a.m. bust Savannah Hayes (the nurse from the Emergency Room) and Derek Morgan in the second-floor on-call room

8:45 a.m. bring Garcia a non-fat almond milk vanilla lattee--

The man has stones… and that wasn’t even half the list. There are annotations, they came color-coded with sticky notes on additional pointers. Thumbing through the several pages worth of notes and instructions, Rossi shakes his head. Of course, he knows his old prodigy is a busy man. As much as he would like to think he’s what keeps this hospital on its feet… Aaron has a lot to do with it, too.

He’s got a knack for running into trouble just as it’s happening and juggling fixing the problem with making sure it never happens again. Which, in this hospital,-- a cesspool of one night stands, rule-bending, and overbearing masculinity-- makes him a very valuable member for the good side. Good meaning one of the few members of staff without his hands in another staff member's pants.

The problem is, Dave’s hardly got the time to comply with the whole list of nonsense demands Aaron wants him running about doing. He loves Aaron dearly, the boy is like his son but he’s a bit anal-retentive and Dave just… well, he doesn’t want to do all of this stuff. The hospital isn’t going to fall apart if he doesn’t meet every single thing on this list.

Well… hypothetically, right?

“Where’s Hotch?”

Rossi steps out of his office and finds Reid standing on the other side, weirdly close. “Woah,” he takes a step back when the genius doesn’t. He shakes his head, folding the list in his hand in half before regarding the doctor in his doorway. “Reid,” he acknowledges, stepping around the genius, and shutting his office door behind him. “I believe we’ve got rounds to attend to, correct?”

Brainbox is what a few members of staff have taken to calling the young genius. Hotch had made a point to talk to the other leading heads in departments to make sure they weren’t calling Reid that and for the most part, that had slowed down the spreading of the nickname. Dave understands why Hotch got ahead of that problem but on the same hand, it’s kind of fitting.

Reid nods, looking around Rossi and into his dark office. “Yeah but Hotch always takes me.” Technically, taking Reid on rounds is supposed to be Dave’s job. Hotch just made time for it. If Hotch times everything just right, he can get Reid on the second floor near the on-call room to bust Derek and Savannah with enough time to get Garcia her coffee and have time to swing by the cardiac wing and say hi to Emily.

Speaking of--

“What are you two doing down here?” Emily and JJ are standing where Dave is supposed to be, a smooth-talking Derek and meek looking Savannah standing between the pairs. Which means that the pair busted the couple before Dave could. It burns Dave. That skinny little runt. That bastard. Hotch has Emily on the same hunt as him because Hotch doesn't think Dave would do the list.

He’s right but… still, it kinda hurts. 

Emily isn’t wearing her signature smirk. For once, she’s got a one-up on him and she’s not biting. Something’s got her down. She offers a simple tight-lipped nod. “Hotch has me trailing you,” she informs him and Rossi understands exactly what it is that’s bothering her or better yet <i>who</i>. “He just doesn’t want the hospital burning down.”

So much for Dave’s earlier sentiment of Hotch keeping his hands to himself. Now, what’s he to do? He’s pissed that Aaron has hurt Emily but they’re both like his kids. What he needs to do is strangle for being stupid. Aaron for never outright telling anyone how he feels and Emily for letting men hurt her.

God, they just… The little idiots get under his skin like nobody else. 

“He’s a tight-ass,” Rossi mumbles, shaking his head. And a dumbass if he’s right about Emily. He puffs, “this place isn’t going to fall apart just because he misses a few hours.” Dave has been doing this for a long time. He didn’t get Chief of Surgery dicking around… well, he did a little bit but that’s not the point being made. 

Emily smiles, even if it looks a little forced. “Tell him that,” she offers with an eye roll. “I’m just not going to waste my energy with that argument.” Arguing with Hotch is a very taxing and pointless excursion. Especially, if the subject at hand goes against his paranoias and anxieties. So, in other words, the idea that the hospital won’t burn down without him.

Rossi can feel the mood shift and Derek must too because he kisses Savannah's cheek and excuses himself. “I’ve got my own rounds to attend to,” he admits. “Pretty boy,” he calls Reid to him. “Care to join me?” Morgan can handle a little responsibility. He won’t let Reid’s work slack on account of him.

Reid looks between Dave and Prentiss, unsure if he’s allowed to agree with Derek. Ultimately, he sees no qualms being raised by either of them so he nods and his head. He tucks his hands in his pocket and stands by Morgan’s side. Waiting for the plastic surgeon to leave.

“I’ll catch you later,” Derek says with a wave of his hand. Fully intending to make good on that promise at lunchtime where he’ll attempt to tear down Emily’s walls to get her to talk about whatever is bothering her right now. With any luck, it’ll be something juicy.

Rossi turns and watches the pair walk away, wondering how many more chores he’s been left to do. “I should probably--” he lets his voice wander off as he pulls the list from his pocket. He motions to with an air of defeat, rolling his eyes good-naturedly. “Can I trust you two to behave?” 

JJ smiles, “I think we both know that the only pair you should be worried about just walked off to do rounds.” Her smile broadens as she considers all the mischief Reid and Morgan can get into. “However, if I were you, I’d go investigate what they’re really off doing because I’ve never known Morgan to do his work on time and not last minute.”

Dave is obviously not buying her diversion but she’s planted the seeds of fear in his mind. Unable to think of anything aside from whatever Morgan and Reid are out ruining, he lets them go. Besides, he’s certain he’ll figure it out sooner rather than later anyhow.

As soon as Dave turns the corner, JJ turns back to Emily. 

“So,” the blonde inquires knowing they’re both working on a tight schedule. “You and Hotch?” 

Emily nods. She doesn’t regret it. That’s what she’s learned from her morning full of nothing but introspection. She wishes she regretted it because then she’d be able to tell JJ that she's not madly in love with him. “We were drunk,” she tells her because somehow that makes it okay. But then she remembers how he kept asking if she was okay. 

It’s the bare minimum but… no one’s ever actually done that before.

“I’m surprised he could,” JJ admits. “He had a lot to drink.” They’d been celebrating… something. Reid and Garcia were celebrating, actually. The rest of them were just drinking away another miserable day at this hospital. 

Emily nods her agreement. It’s unusual for Hotch to drink let alone get drunk enough to have sex with her. “He was very sweet,” she admits.

JJ smirks… What else was she expecting? Hotch can be an asshole but the majority of the time he really is a gentleman. Unless you incur his wrath and if you do… well, that’s your business. He’s a bit of a hothead but it does take a lot to get him worked into yelling. 

Besides, Hotch is nothing but a sweetheart to Emily. They can act as blind as ⅔ of the three blind mice but that doesn’t change the heart eyes they exchange. It still leaves a lot to be desired on a lot of their exchanges, though. The way he reaches over and, without prompting, opens boxes or bags for her. The way Emily creeps into his personal space and he doesn’t comment or even step back.

“I don’t think it’ll work out, though.” Emily takes a long sip from her coffee, eyes thoughtfully trailing off. Actually, she’s not sure it won’t work but she’s about thirty percent sure he doesn’t love her and she needs someone to tell her that she’s not making it up. 

JJ scoffs at that. 

Emily stops walking, eyeing her friend up. “What?” Of course, she wants to know exactly what’s warranted that reaction.

JJ rolls her eyes, “Emily, I have watched you two make some of the most disgustingly adorable faces at each other for the better part of the last year. I’ve seen Haley watch your every move.” JJ picks her pace up, leaving Emily in her momentary frozen state. “He’s hopelessly in love with you Emily and if you don’t feel that way back then you’re lying to yourself and to him.” JJ turns around, walking backward so that her words are met with Emily’s full attention. “And you both deserve better than that.”

__________

Penelope Garcia is certain that someone is leaving her out of the loop.

For starters, Derek and Spencer are giggling in one of her observation rooms. Meaning that they’re not being watched… as they should be.

Emily and JJ brought her coffee this morning.

Dave has been MIA, besides coming down here half an hour ago to ask where Morgan and Reid had “fucked off to”. She would have happily informed him of the shenanigans, no doubt, happening in her emergency room, but Morgan had gotten to her first. Who is she to say no to her Chocolate Thunder so of course, she told Dave she hadn’t seen him yet this morning.

“MVA with three vics incoming!”

Garcia sighs, standing up from behind her desk. She looks over the doctors and staff floating through the emergency room. “Charlotte,” she calls the baby nurse over. Baby being the term she’s using because Charlotte is all of about twenty-three. She finds it adorable. “Honey, do you know where Hotch is?”

Another nurse, Savannah Hayes, steps up to the station. “Uhm, he’s on call.” There’s something about her knowing smile that tells Garcia exactly why Savannah knows that: Derek Morgan. “Off to a-a…” she snaps her fingers as she tries to recall what Morgan was telling her earlier that morning. “Parent-teacher meeting,” she recalls. “He’ll be back later though.”

Garcia frowns, making a mental note to ask about the meeting later. She’s about to ask how Morgan is since she hadn’t seen him that morning when the emergency room’s doors open and the EMTs run-in with the first victim.

“Forty-year-old car crash victim, head-on collision.” The EMTs come in running, shouting out information to whoever will listen. “Pressure is 50 over palp, his respirations were shallow in the field.” The stretcher is relinquished to the closest E.R. doctor. “Pupil dilation was equal and reactive at sight. ”

Garcia pulls herself together, clearing her throat as she steps up to the stretcher. “I want--” the order dies on her lips. The man on the stretcher is pale, paler than normal. His black hair plastered to his scalp, not in it’s usual combed but contained mess. His brow isn’t furrowed and he’s not looming and glooming but she’d know him anywhere.

Her brain blanks. Training and training and protocol and protocol but… It’s not very often she gets a friend in here. “Uhm,” she can feel the emotions taking over where she should be calm. Hotch needs her to be calm. “I need you to take him to--” her mind blanks but her pointing finger guides the seasoned EMT well and the two separate with a business-like nod.

“I need someone to--” Garcia turns and Charlotte is right there. “I need you to call the Chief down here and-and Derek and everyone!” She doesn’t look back or check to make sure she’s understood, she follows Hotch into the next room. There are ethics and protocol and so many things running through her head as she grabs her boss’s hand but there’s not a chance in hell anyone’s pulling her away.

Once in the room, she sets about doing her job. Looking up only as the curtain is thrown back and she finds David Rossi looking back at her.

“It’s Hotch.”

Garcia cuts through his shirt, the thin Hanes material giving like butter with her scissors. Tears sting her eyes, “oh, my liege.” She looks up and Derek and Spencer are right behind Dave, everyone filing in. It takes them a moment, just as it did her before they throw themselves into their jobs.

Rossi pulls the cut shirt away, shaking his head. “Chest movements are paradoxical,” he informs them, moving his hands to palpate Hotch’s abdomen. “Abdomen is rigid, too.” He places the stethoscope on Hotch’s diaphragm, sighing. “I need to place a chest tube, get me a cart.” He throws the stethoscope cord back around his neck, stepping to the side.

Out of the corner of her eye, Garcia sees Rossi going for the tools he needs for a chest tube. She doesn’t want to say they don’t have time for that but… “Pulse ox is 82,” Garcia informs them. “It was just 88.” Her hands are trembling as she moves around them, a flurry of movement all of them trying to do their jobs. “Oxygen is dropping.”

Morgan curses, “I need to intubate him.” The utensils are already gathered in his hands-- muscle memory to reach out for the tools that are cold and familiar in his palms. “Do you want to be the one to tell him he’s got heart damage or worse because we let his oxygen drop to below 80?”

Reid, standing by Hotch’s head, interlaces his fingers and shakes his head. His anxiety is sky high, it’s all too much. “Can’t,” he mumbles, shaking his hands out. “If a patient with pneumothorax or other indication for tube thoracostomy requires intubation and mechanical ventilation, the chest tube should be inserted first to avoid creating an iatrogenic tension pneumothorax.” He presses his palms into his temples. All the noise, everyone shouting is overstimulating him.

It’s why he doesn’t work in the emergency room.

“I just need a second, dammit!” Rossi’s hands are shaking, “let me get the chest tube in!” The scalpel in his hand trembles over Hotch’s skin. He’s pale from adrenaline and clammy to the touch. The emergency room feels different without Hotch looming over them. He’s not shouting out orders into the chaos or guiding anyone through procedures with his scarily calm voice.

“Dave? Come on, man!”

Rossi shakes his head, clearing his dismal thoughts. He clenches his jaw and makes the incision into the fourth intercostal space. “Clamp,” the cold metal is pressed into his palm and he places it inside the area. “Dissecting the pleural space,” he mumbles, working the clamp under Hotch’s skin so that the area can accept the tube.

Hotch’s body jerks away from Rossi, a soft grunt coming from his mouth. Reid steps back to his head, clicking his penlight on. “Right pupil is five millimeters and reactive,” Reid hovers by his friend’s head. He guides the light to Hotch’s left eye, yelping when the man jerks his head away from the light. “Hotch?” His eyes blink open, his head turning from the penlight. “He-He’s conscious!”

Rossi stands up from his spot, pulling his bloodied gloves off. He moves to Hotch’s head, “Aaron? Aaron, can you hear me?” He presses his warm hand to Hotch’s cheek, guiding Hotch’s attention to him. “Can you hear me, son?”

Hotch’s eyes are jerking around the room, his mouth open but silent as he writhes in pain. He can’t breathe. His chest is heavy but he’s only thinking about one thing: <i>Jack</i>. The strangled sound that leaves his mouth is inhuman, he doesn’t recognize it. The pain becomes excruciating.

“Sedate--” all too familiar with that word, Hotch turns his head towards Derek. The other man is red in the face, his anxiety bubbling into rage. Profanities litter his speech but Hotch’s mind is too exhausted to nitpick out the words. For now, the only one worth thinking about is sedate.

He pulls away from the bed, a burst of energy leaving him trembling but upright in the stretcher. “N-No!” Jack. Jack was in the back seat. He couldn’t reach Jack. He has to get to-- Something cold runs into his arm and looks down, body suspended by his friends and coworkers, and it’s Reid. In his hands is the syringe Garcia had gotten out. Hotch feels his chest tighten-- he feels betrayed.

“Easy, son.”

Hotch feels himself falling back but he doesn’t hit the hard surface of the gurney beneath him but rather hands. Gently, he’s guided back down. Sweat sleeks his hair to his face and he’s limp in the hands as Derek steps towards his head. They’re talking-- words he understands but…

Derek cranes his neck back, Hotch can see his lips moving, but he’s not taking in any of the words. He <i>knows</i> they’re asking him to do a simple task: blink on command to questions or offer a thumbs up. His inability to do these tasks, to even focus on anything other than the cold air on his exposed flesh is the reason they keep moving around him. Shouting as if he isn’t really there at all.

A thumb presses on his chin, forcing his jaw open. He grimaces as cold metal slides into his throat. Floating between conscious and unconsciousness, he gags and feels himself twist to get away from the tube pressing into the back of his throat.

“Easy--” someone comforts as hands press his shoulders down.

Air fills his lungs, it hurts-- every muscle, bone, tendon, <i>everything</i> hurts. He can breathe though, full lungfuls of air. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the ambu bag, bright blue, and in Reid’s hands. They make eye contact and Hotch watches as Reid syncs their breathing. The young genius’s shoulders rise as Hotch’s lungs fill and fall as he exhales.

There was once a time when Hotch had stood by Reid’s side, his hands covering Reid’s over the ambu bag. He’d always been able to be more patient with Reid than he was with many other students. Reid’s just a kid. So he made a point to remember that in every interaction he had with the genius.

And he’d grown to appreciate Reid’s unique sense of humor. He’s a good guy.

A good kid.

“Hotch?” Reid’s throat tightens as he watches a pained grimace come across his boss’ face. He’s uncomfortable and in pain but Reid can’t do much besides keeping the ambu bag moving at a steady pace. “Garcia?” He feels a flutter of anxiety knotting his heart up. “Can’t you do something? He’s in pain.”

Morgan interrupts whatever Garcia’s going to say with a shout, “just pulled a positive tap!” A second later, the metal starts hitting the table with a clatter. The wheels of the stretcher unlock, the guard rail going up. “He’s got blood in his abdomen, he needs to get into the OR, now!”

Dave takes a stumbling step back, his arms raised above his head. It’s muscle memory to pull them away from the field-- the field, of course, being his friend's bleeding body. His heart sinks to his feet but follows in the direction that Derek is pushing Hotch. His voice barking out orders that echo down the hall.

Dave watches them go.

“Sir,” an attending waves him down. “Hotchner’s wife is gonna need heart surgery.”

Dave’s got another job to attend to.

He has Savannah call Emily to the OR. He meets his team in the room. They’re working with silence. “If you can’t pull yourself together,” his voice is harsh because they’re past life and death. “Get out of my OR.” He looks around the crowd of faces, nurses and doctors he’s known for years. There’s a solemn understanding.

They wait on edge.

“Prentiss won’t know,” Dave tells the team. His eyes move to the woman on the table and without a word, he draws back the blue cloth over her eyes. The room stands in silent shock. All of them recognize her.

Haley Hotchner.

They’ve seen the evolution of the divorce. The way Aaron came into the hospital fresh-faced and new. Haley used to bring him lunch and Dave used to catch them in the on-call room. They’d gotten pregnant, had their ultrasound a floor down from where Haley now lays. Had their boy, Jack, and fallen into a pit.

Haley stopped kissing him between visits to the hospital.

She stopped visiting altogether.

Then Emily had come.

“Prentiss can’t know.”

She won’t know.

Emily Prentiss has mastered the art of chugging hot coffee and running, which is what she’s currently doing. Emergency heart surgery, she’s thrilled. Even more so when she steps into the room and things are already in motion.

“Dave,” she greets the older man as she steps into the operating room. Her hands are raised, waiting for a nurse to place gloves over her hands. “What’re you doing in here?”

It takes every ounce of his self-control to keep his voice steady. He clears his throat, “thought I’d watch the master at work.” Sure, Dave, win her over with flattery. Maybe then she won’t hate you for lying. “That alright with you?”

Emily shrugs, “I don’t mind dazzling you.” Gloves snapped into place, she adds, “but I do prefer Heart Goddess. You know, for future reference.” She turns to Savannah, who she recognizes behind her mask. “What do we have?”

Savannah glances at Dave. For a moment, Dave’s certain the cat’s about to be out of the bag but before he can fill the silence, Savannah clears her throat. “Thirty-five-year-old female with a suspected arterial wall collapse.”

Emily frowns as she walks past the patient, eyes scanning over the ultrasound that’s pulled up. “Suspected?” she repeats. She doesn’t like the sound of suspected but she’s not complaining. It could certainly be worse. She shrugs it away. “I’m gonna time myself,” she announces. “Have you started her on L.R.s?”

“Two liters L.R. and a unit of packed cells.”

Emily nods her head and moves back to the patient. “Alright, sounds good to me.” She extends her right hand, “ten blade.”

They all watch in baited silence as she sets to work.

“It’s a goddamn…” the frustration in her voice is clear. Her brows furrow and she falls silent.

Dave tries to keep himself calm but taking a deep breath doesn’t settle his nerves. He leans over the operating table, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth as he watches. “How’s it going,” he asks. He’s a damn good surgeon himself but it’s been a long time since he was running a heart surgery like this one. His specialty runs more towards general.

Emily shakes her head. When the monitors sound in alarm she doesn’t look up to see what it is, the curse she lets out says she already knows exactly what’s wrong. “Her…” Emily pauses as she works. “The inferior vena cava is completely collapsed. I don’t know how she’s--” Both of their heads snap up as the heart monitor sounds out in alarm.

Emily pulls her hands up, shaking her head as she works. “I can’t do anything,” she tells Dave. “Everything’s a mess. She’s bleed dry and I’ve maxed out the dopamine ....” Emily blows out her breath, letting herself think. “Let me try…” she leans back over Haley.

Whatever she’s doing, causes the monitors to get louder. “Dammit!” Emily keeps working, asking for different tools as fast as the nurses can hand them to her.

The monitor flatlines.

Emily pulls her hands out and she looks over at Dave. “There’s nothing I can do,” she admits. “The heart was shredded.”

Dave refuses to believe this. “No,” he tells her. “There has to be something.” His attention snaps up as Derek steps into the room adjacent to the operating room. He’s come for news but Dave can see his eyes travel to the monitor. His shoulders sag and his mouth opens in disbelief.

Dave looks to the ground, “go talk to Derek.”

Emily frowns at him, “what is your problem?”

He doesn’t mean to. It’s nothing against her. None of this is her fault. He stood right here. He saw. She did her best but sometimes there’s nothing you can do. “Go, Emily!”

Sulking away, looking more like a pissed-off teenager than an award-winning surgeon, Emily pulls her gloves off angrily. Making a point to throw them away where Dave can visibly see how hard she throws the limp latex. She shoves her way through the door and shakes her head at Derek. “What the hell is his problem?”

Dave watches through the window.

Derek starts talking, his hands gathering near his chest as he gestures and tries to work around telling Emily the truth.

Emily takes a step back, shaking her head. She argues with him, disbelief. No. Then her head turns to Dave and to the woman laying on the table. To the sandy blonde hair she just barely recognizes until Dave reaches down and moves the blanket draped over Haley’s face.

Dave can hear her muffled shout. Her voice grows frantic and angry as she accepts Derek pulling her to his chest but her fist hitting him. Fighting with everything she’s got for this not to be true.

For Haley to be alive.

Dave begins the slow process of pulling his own garments off. Someone’s going to have to tell Aaron.

He assumes that job is going to be left for him as well.

__________

It takes Dave a minute to find JJ. She’s lost in a sea of children, crouching so that she’s level with them as she speaks. Judging by the bandanna wrapped around her forehead, she’s got them into some game. Which explains how she’s oblivious to the news he’s carrying.

“Hey, kiddos.” He tries and fails to appreciate the youthful hope written across the snotty faces beaming at him. “I’m gonna need to steal Miss JJ for a moment, okay?”

JJ looks up and tells him to wait a moment, before she manages to wiggle out of the grasp of a rather small snot nosed child. Still, she gives the kid a pat on the head before stepping to the side with Dave.

“Aaron was in a car accident--” he tells her everything. That he lied to Emily and that Haley is dead. She takes it in stride. Nodding and inquiring about the surgeries. About Hotch’s outcome. 

“But you think he’s going to be okay?” she asks.

Dave hesitates before agreeing. “His intracranial pressure is being closely monitored but… they all worked to the best of their abilities and--”

JJ nods, right. They’ve got great surgeons under this roof. Hotch would be safer no place else. 

“I need to ask you a favor, though.” He rubs at the back of his neck, sheepishly recalling his short-circuited shout at Emily. 

JJ already knows, “I’ll take care of her.” She steps to the side, attempting to make good on her promise. 

“She’s with--”

“Aaron,” JJ finishes. “I know.” Because where else would she go? When Emily seeks comfort, she goes one to two places. To JJ or Hotch and considering Emily hasn’t been on the ward, the children love her so she’d know she must be with him. 

It doesn’t take long for her to find Hotch's room. JJ steps in, feeling her light bubble pop under the pressure of the blood not completely wiped from Hotch’s face. The additional loom and gloom do not help. “How’s he doing?” The room is devoid of all things light and cheerful. Sucked through the dark whole of her friends’ current moods. 

His vitals are good. A steady resting heart rate of seventy-two. He’s alive and that’s more than they can say for other victims of the crash. 

“He won’t wake up.” Emily stands up from his side. Uncurling her long legs from underneath her as she stretches out. Muscles ache and joints pop as she moves for the first time in several hours. She doesn’t look at him for too long, it makes her chest tight and her throat hurt to see him like this. 

She prefers the medicine of everything. 

She can understand pulmonary edemas, kidney failures, pneumothorax, and flail chest but… The comparison is medicine makes sense. Show her a blocked artery and she’ll work around it. Bypass isn’t an option? No problem. The surgery is over. Vitals are steady. There aren’t chest to crack or hearts to massage. All she can do is sit back and take watch. 

Her best friends sitting in a hospital bed hooked up to machines and she can do nothing. 

“Of course, he isn’t,” JJ grumbles, walking over to the light switch and turning on the lights. Bathed in the dark room, windows shut to cut out all natural light, and surrounded by artificial sound it’s no wonder he’s not waking up. They haven’t given him a reason to. “Emily, you’ve shut out all the natural light. Half of recovery is atmosphere and, if I were Hotch, I’d feel like everyone had given up on me.” 

JJ pulls open the blinds, the bright light making Emily recoil. The room, though, brightens, and JJ can feel the warmth in her chest. It occurs to her that maybe Hotch isn’t the only one who needs some looking after. While they can rest assured that Derek, Penelope, Dave, and Spence will cycle through the room periodically. Each of them checking sutures, drain tubes, and reflex responses. 

No one’s checking on eachother.

“Em,” JJ places a hand on her friend’s shoulder. Emily’s shoulders feel rock hard under her palm. “When was the last time you showered or ate?” 

Emily’s too tired to even think of numbers. Instead she leans into JJ, allowing her head to rest against the space between the blondes neck and shoulder. She’s fighting tears before JJ even hugs her back. “Are you sure you don’t want to run away with me?” she asks. “We can run away right now and do gay crimes and leave all the men in our lives right here.” 

JJ cups the back of Emily’s head, rubbing her back as she considers the offer Emily has been making a lot here lately. After a moment, JJ decides that she loves her best friend with all her heart and that gay crimes sound thrilling but she can’t. Besides the fact that she knows how good Emily is at sex and the gay crimes would be very gay and very nice… Neither really want to leave. “I think we’d better stay here, love.” She kisses Emily’s temple, “besides, I can’t leave in good conscience while Hotch is like this.”

Emily pulls away from JJ, moving her body so that she can lean into the smaller woman. She’s accepted with open arms and they stand leaning and silent as they watch Hotch breath. 

It’s artificial and that comes with it’s own sort of sting but it’s still him. 

“I killed his wife,” Emily whispers after a long moment between the ventilators hissing. 

JJ knows. Dave had come to tell her the minute Haley’s heart stopped the first time on the table. 

“She’s not going to be able to save her,” he’d whispered, hushed and frantic. “It’s going to crush her.”

Now, as JJ feels Emily sobbing silently beside her, she wonders how Dave knew. Emily’s never taken losing well. She’s heavily competitive. So, maybe this is the worst kind. Emily didn’t just fail… she let her best friend’s wife die.

“Ex-wife,” JJ corrects. Because that’s what Hotch and Halery were. Separated. Anybody with two eyes could see they still loved each other but the job always came first for Hotch. Haley… she wanted more. “She was his ex-wife.” Besides that, the distinction is important.

Emily knows it doesn’t matter. “I still killed her,” she replies. “He’s never going to forgive me.”

JJ looks at the man on the bed. There’s nothing she wants more than to reassure Emily that’s not true. She’s seen the way Hotch looks at her when no one else is watching. But she can’t really know. “Let’s go clean up,” she deflects. “You’ll feel better.”

God, Emily hopes she’s right.

__________

“We’re having a party.” Penelope Garcia is standing in front of her family, sans Hotch, with her hands on her hips and enough conviction in her tone to convince them that’s a solid plan. “JJ’s right,” she informs them. They had lunch together like they do every day. It may be normal to have one or two of them missing-- general surgery logs Hotch random hours and heart and brain surgery tend to run on the long side-- this is the first time any of their own have been on the table. 

The first time Reid wasn’t at the table because his hands were meticulously placing holes in Hotch’s head.

“This place is way too gloomy,” and she’s right of course. Even with the light funneling into the room from the blinds JJ pulled up, Hotch is still surrounded by their dismal moods. “We’re having a party.”

After a long moment, each of them rolling this idea around Dave speaks. He’s not against the idea but he’s not exactly going to give it the go-ahead, not yet. “Aaron would hate the attention,” he deduces because that’s the truth. Hotch wouldn’t even talk to them about the divorce.

The papers for which were delivered in the middle of the workday. JJ had been the one to go get Hotch. He was in the middle of a surgery… one that someone else had to finish. 

“He won’t even know,” Garcia informs them. “Reid’s keeping him in the induced coma for another night.”

This is, of course, news to the rest of the room. Reid had gotten out of the surgery and gone to collapse in bed. Exhausted. Emotionally and physically. 

Emily speaks up for the first time since the meeting had been called. “He could--” she realizes how helplessly hopeful she is as soon as the words start to come out. “He could still wake up.”

He could. Reid had decreased his dosage a little post-operation before he’d gone home but before Reid could even leave the hospital Hotch’s intracranial pressure had increased. 

“He could,” Garcia agrees. “That’s why, if he does. He’s going to be surrounded by us. Having a good time.”

And if there’s one thing that rings true through-out that hospital… If Garcia says it, then it’s Gospel.

“I feel stupid,” Emily grumbles, sitting still but not going through the party process as well as her friend would like. She’s in a dress because Garcia wants this to be a fancy party. Full of drinking and music. Emily knows Hotch would be just as happy if she were barefoot and daisy dukes. 

JJ taps her cheek, a small soundless reprimand for moving away from the eye-liner JJ is so meticulously placing on her eyes. 

Emily sits for the remainder of the make-up JJ paints onto her face. She can’t actively see it going on but she still knows it’s a lot.

“Oh my God,” Garcia beams when she sees Emily. “You’re gorgeous.” She looks at JJ, “I love it but we’re not trying to shock the man into another coma when he lays his eyes on our total bombshell babe!” 

Emily rolls her eyes and shakes herself loose from Garcia’s grip. “I’m not sure I can do this.” She admits, sinking back against her chair. “How am I… I couldn’t… I couldn’t fix Haley and I can’t fix my own heart… so, what am I, JJ? Because a heart goddess certainly isn’t it.”

JJ drops her knee, ignoring the way her own dress rides up her thigh. “Emily, you’re the heart Goddess whether you like it or not.” She cups the side of Emily’s face, wiping her thumb across a tear that dares to fall from her friend’s face. “Dave had you do the surgery on Haley because you’re the best surgeon in the damn county.” She shakes her head, “hell in the nation, probably. If you couldn’t save her then no one could and her best chances were when she was on your table.”

Garcia offers a hand on Emily’s shoulder. She squeezes lightly, “you did you best, Em. You tried to save Haley but now we have to go save Hotch.”

Emily nods, caving to the idea. “Fine,” she mumbles, “but I’m not dancing.”

She lasts four seconds because as soon as she steps through the door, Dave sweeps her up. “Dance with me, bella?”

It’s mostly shifting back and forth but she can feel the tension leaving her body as she accepts Dave’s proximity. After a moment of listening to Reid and Morgan’s bickering, Dave clears his throat. “I wanted to apologize for everything that happened earlier,” he tells her. They step closer to one another so that they can hear each other over the sound of the music and monitors. 

“It’s okay,” Emily whispers back, leaning her head on his shoulder. “I know…” she sighs, she’s not sure what she knows.

Dave rubs her back, keeping them moving. “At the very least,” he offers, “I shouldn’t have yelled at you.” 

She pulls away from his embrace just enough to stand on the tips of her toes and press a kiss to his cheek. “I forgive you,” she promises. 

Air cleared and feeling a little better Dave looks over to Hotch. The kid looks better. It’s hard to tell if that’s a placebo or the truth. “Is it just me,” Dave asks, “or does he seem to be getting more popular?” He shakes his head in disbelief. “Maybe I should go into a coma.”

Emily snickers, “Dave, if you went into a coma… how would we ever know?”

Dave stops dancing, mouth open in shock. “I--” he shakes his head. “I can’t…” He shuts his mouth with an audible snap, “I can’t believe you’d say something like that!”

Behind them, Morgan and Reid are still in the heats of an argument about plastic surgery.

“Anybody can--” Morgan flusters, “it’s called aesthetic awareness, pretty Ricky. You don’t have it. It’s a fine-toothed skill and you can’t even color inside the lines.” He looks at Savannah for back-up but his girlfriend doesn’t offer it. “Never mind your mismatched socks. You just don’t have it, kid.”

Before Reid can offer a rebuttal on the matter, Garcia calls his name out.

“He’s waking up!” She dances at Hotch’s side, motioning them all over with a hurried flick of his wrist.

The music is turned down as Reid pulls out his penlight. 

“Hey, kid,” Dave greets softly. He takes Hotch’s left hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “We’re all here. Reid, JJ, Garcia.” They watch as his eyes open, it’s just a sliver but the soft brown of his eyes greets them back none-the-less. “Morgan and Emily.”

A shiver goes down Emily’s back as his eyes turn over to her. She steps up, feeling awkward as the other’s part to let her through. Garcia lets go of his other hand, letting Emily takes his hand. “Hey,” she greets softly. She smiles, unable to contain her tears when his finger slowly crawls back around hers. 

“You’re gonna be a-okay,” Dave promises. “We’re all here, okay? You can get some sleep.”

His eyes flick over to Dave for a second before returning to her.

Emily looks around the room, uncertain… but her gut is forgotten by her heart as she leans over and places a kiss on his forehead. “Get some sleep, Aaron.”

Dave takes a step back, “good night, kiddo.”

She holds his hand until his eyes slip back shut. Waiting for another moment, just to be sure.

“He’s going to be okay,” Reid reassures her.

Emily steps back from the bed and nods. “I hope you’re right.” But Reid is never wrong and she holds onto that hope with everything she’s got.

@ssaic-jareau @emilyxprentiss @purple-scarf-mistress @blatant-attitude @torimea @jetaime-jespere 

[ghostsofmemories]

CHARACTER PROFILE: RAMONA BENNET (Insect Poison)

woahhh here she is!! if you want to catch up/don’t know who Ramona is, check out the insect poison WIP intro right here. anyway, on with the content!

origin of character: Ramona has existed as long as Robert has, since I wrote There Was a Falling Out in 2017. She wasn’t even close to a fleshed out character, her only personality traits were that she collected rocks and got murdered. I believe her name in the original book was Ruby, which I changed because I don’t like it anymore and her hair is a ruby-ish color and feels too obvious of a name.

birthday: May 13th, 1974 (taurus) (the younger twin)

mbti: intj

sexuality: honestly, it never came up and she never had a crush so literally just whatever vibes you get from her

physical description: average pretty much all the way around in terms of weight/height/etc. Deep red hair that when she’s young, she wears in braids and when she’s older, she wears straight down. She has bangs as well.

personality (as a child/teenager): she’s extremely quiet, and knows how to use her silence to make people uncomfortable or do what she wants. She desperately wants to be an individual and do her own thing, but needs instruction and direction from other people, which is why she’s constantly gravitating toward Robert even though she doesn’t want to be around him. She wants friends, but mostly so she can ignore the other things in her life. She cares about people but will deny it, and to make it seem like she doesn’t, she’ll go directly against them. Of the twins, she was the most likely to be able to have a redemption, but oops she died.

personality (as a hallucination/ghost): still sort of Ramona in pattern and sentence structure, but more talkative. Her answers to questions are vague and she seems to have pity for people, but bad intentions regardless. Somehow omniscient, or pretends to be.

a little excerpt: Ramona wasn’t sure whether the words clawed their way out of her mouth due to politeness or pollution—and the idea of seeing Martha again pulled vomit from the back of her throat. This could very well be the beginning of a bad habit, of sneaking vodka out of the cupboard and watering it down for good measure, of eulogizing innocence in a way that didn’t begin with almost. Then again, anything was better than setting a house on fire.  

richard siken quote that was made specifically for her: Everyone needs a place. It shouldn’t be inside of someone else.

a lot of song lyrics: skeletons, skeletons, what do we have here/hiding from the mirror/say it once, say it twice, try to be nice/well, let's not lose ourselves (snow, ricky montgomery)

when I am dead, I won't join their ranks/’cause they are both holy and free/and I'm in Ohio, satanic and chained up/and until the end, that's how it'll be (saint bernard, lincoln)

I am a rock on top of the sand/I am a fist amidst the hands/and I break it/just because I can (wrecking ball, mother mother)

if wellness is this what in hells name is sickness?/but business is business, and business runs in the family/we tend to bruise easily/mad in the blood (runs in the family, amanda palmer

taglist + rambles under the cut

ahhh! I did a whole two character profiles and making the moodboard took longer than anything else, who would’ve thought. I’m going to post an update either today or tomorrow, but I’m currently trying to figure out if I want to put all 11 chapters in one update or split it into two (I’m leaning towards two, the book is over 16k at this point and only one update to cover 16k worth of content is insane).

Ramona is one of my favorite characters just because she contradicts herself so much and is so interesting. I hope you folks like her too!

Insect Poison Taglist (message/comment/ask to join/be removed):

@coffeeandcalligraphy @alicewestwater @fliiik-art @wolf-oak @shaelinwrites @hellnar​ @nsanelyawkward​ @oceancold​ @aetherwrites​ @keira-is-writing​ @bookpacking​ @chloeswords​ @feverdreamwritings​ @samirahs​ @isherwoodj​

[oopcio]

Could I request an HC of the main 6 with an MC that is sorta dense and just REALLY oblivious about the LI having a crush on them? MC still reciprocates their feelings, they just suck at telling whether or not someones flirting with them. If you're up for something extra to add: LI confesses to having a crush on MC, but MC thinks that they are under some sort of love spell and so they start freaking out and trying to “reverse” the spell.

yes omg pls this is me

asra:

as much as it pains him to feel like his feelings are unrequited, he knows you better than anyone and that you, with all due respect, are a bit dense. don’t be mad! he still loves you though! it got to a point where, he inwardly proposed, that he could blantantly say he was deeply in love with you with every fiber in his being and you’d turn it right around, somehow. oh, it was so cute, though... was it possible to fall even more in love with you? if so, he definitely did. “even the cards are telling me that the person that you’re destined to be with... is right across from you.” he watched as your dumbfounded expression landed on the stove salamander in the middle of the table, and laughed the hardest you’ve ever heard him laugh.

but when the signs kept pouring in, he saw no use in trying to defy fate any longer. so he decided that he would close up shop and go stroll through the market and grab some bread from your favorite baker, find yourself walking through town square into the shopping district where you’d both goof off and wrap one another in scarves and hats that were as big as you just to put on stupid, silly accents to make the other laugh. no matter how childish, it was one of the best nights of asra’s life. and then it came time for the main event.

“mc, i have something to tell you,” he started out, his tone serious for the first time today. you urged him on, and that’s when he spilled the news. “i... i really love you. i’ve been in love with your for a long time - actually, ever since i first saw you, truth be told.” he reached out and grabbed your hands, looking deeply into your eyes with nothing but adoration for you and only you. but there was only one thought in your mind.

“did the baker put something in the bread? no- wait- did you drink something you weren’t supposed to before we left? cast any spells?” he chuckled and cut you off, ceasing any words that were going to leave your throat. “i can assure you, i’ve not done anything of the sort. i’m serious; and i’m far more responsible than that, i’ll have you know.” you laughed nervously and played with the hem of your sleeve, suddenly feeling the pressure. “wow, that’s reassuring. i feel the same way, actually. i... i never saw this coming, though.” this set asra off into a giggle fit, leaving you clutching the hem and rolling it under your fingers. “i’m... actually not surprised by that.”

nadia:

she finds your oblivion absolutely adorable, especially when she feels as if her crush is so clear. she sends fine jewelry to decorate your nightstand, has extravegant clothes specifically tailored to you, taking everything possible into consideration - quality of the cloth, your measurements, your favorite colors and patterns, occasions you can wear the garments to, etcetera. “i apologize, i couldn’t help myself. when i first seen this, i just knew it would look so perfect hanging from your wrist. don’t you think? oh, the diamonds sparkle so beautifully, it truly brings out your skin tone. hm, i was going to save this to present to you at the masquerade but... here, earrings to match.” she was more impressed than anything at how you managed to make even her most embarrassingly obvious actions seem... well, not obvious.

when the day came she decided to be open and honest with you about her feelings, she was so nervous and rosy the whole day, waiting for the absolute perfect moment because you deserved nothing less. you’ll walk through the palace gardens until you reach fhe gazebo, and nadia will promptly urge the both of you to enter. while you admire the flowers that decorate the beams holding the structure up, she speaks. “the view is beautiful out here, don’t you agree? i could certainly get used to this... hm, and the flowers are quite lovely too, i suppose.” you feel her long, slender fingers pull your hair back as she stands behind you.

you turn around quickly to face her, your eyes immediately fixating on her flushed face. “what do you mean? i’m not sure i understand.” she smiles and reaches for one of your hands, putting in in hers as she speaks. “i mean that, even among the variety of rare blooms in season and the sight of the city far peering behind the vines and trees, the most delightful sight i can see from here is you.” she carefully raises your hand to her lips and presses the most delicate kiss to the back of your hand, but not before making sure you were okay with it. “and, if i may ask and if you’re comfortable answering, how do you feel about me?”

you had an internal panic before raising your free hand to nadia’s cheek, and then her forehead to check her temperature. “nadia, have you accepted any drinks from anyone untrustworthy? oh, no, could it be one of the servants?! this can’t be,” you sigh, ready to storm back into the palace and interrogate every servant before nadia laughs and catches your wrist. “i can assure you i’ve not had any drinks spiked if that is your concern, mc. rest easy in knowing that.” you anxiously laugh and rub your forearm in self comfort, blushing and avoiding her eyes at all costs. “then, i guess it wouldn’t hurt to tell you i feel the same way?” even when you muttered, nadia seemed to light up and clutch her chest. “ah, wonderful. what a joyous day this has amounted to be. tell me, darling,” she says, gently grabbing your chin to pull it upwards, so you can no longer avoid making eye contact. “shall we go back to the palace and celebrate?”

julian:

he is certainly in the same boat as you. he is whipped for you, head over heels - he loves you so much his heart aches at the mere thought of you, but he is completely unknowing about your reciprocated feelings. it was a miracle how long no progress had been made because both of you are (respectfully) too dense, even when the most blantant phrases happened to slip from him. as flirtatious and grandoise as he is, he’s blinded by his own feelings and thus cannot see yours. he can easily make flirtatious jabs and not be affected by it, but if you ever did, he’d flush and hide his face at all costs. “what’s on the agenda today, mc?” / “world domination.” / “ooh, ambitious, aren’t we? can i be your... partner in crime?” / “sure but, you’re my world.” / “OH!”

honestly, it took a lot, and i mean a lot of convincing from portia for him to admit his feelings to himself, and then he had to do the same thing over again but, this time, to you. so he planned on doing so while you both would go out to stroll around vesuvia, wherever you wanted to go. and, if nowhere in particular, he’d take you to the docks and sit with you there while you had lunch, letting your legs dangle in the water. he was so nervous and it was obvious - he was as stiff as a stick in the sand. you’d ask him what’s up, why he looked so tense, and he’d finally sputter it out.

“i-i really... i like you, a lot, you know. i know i’m probably a lot to handle, and you’ve put up with me for so long already, so i-i’ll understand if you don’t feel the same, you know? i just wanted to get this off my chest, it’s been eating me up for so long now, i-“ but you were already frozen, only breathing and kneading your hands through the cloth that laid over your lap. “oh, i shouldn’t have said anything, i knew this was a bad idea!-“ but you cut him off before he could finish. “did you take any potions from the shop or anything? anything that made you feel weird after?” he froze.

then he was breaking down in laughter. “a potion? mc, what do you take me for? a thief?” then you send him a look and a nudge and remind him of how the two of you met. he nods his head bashfully after granting you that point. “wow, i thought that you were going to reject me. i’m kinda glad that you asked me that question instead, though. unless, this is the part you reject me?” the look on his face as he asks has you grabbing your sides, nearly falling into the water from the intensity of your laughter. julian visibly eases and holds you, making sure you stay balanced. “are you kidding? can’t you see how much i like you?” he blushes, color creeping over his cheeks and even towards the tips of his ears. “i... didn’t know. if i did, i wouldn’t have tortured myself this long.” / “yeah, because that’s my job now.” he clasps his hand over his beet-red face, frantically looking around in hopes no one heard you. he certainly wouldn’t complain, though...

muriel:

it’s really a miracle that you ever get him to let something about his crush slip. he’s like you in the way that he couldn’t realize your feelings for him, and in that sense he was very thick. but, he still kept it to himself - not because he didn’t want anything to happen, or because he was afraid of whatever your reaction might be, but because he didn’t want (what felt like) his burden to become your burden.

he didn’t have anything planned the day he told you. honestly, he didn’t plan on telling you in the first place. it just... came out. before he could stop it. inanna laid under the table as the both of you sat across from each other, each working on your own projects - muriel, his widdling, and you, embroidery. you told him it was just something to do to occupy yourself, but, really, you were making him a gift basket, and this little embroidered pillow was one of the gifts. there was no occasion - you just wanted to give him something since he’d always tried to be so nice and open with you. a bit of a ‘thank you’, you suppose.

you finished perfecting the pillow and stood with it, turning to leave the hut. you had a basket outside with all of his other presents, hiding behind a rock that was near the creek that ran beside the hut. once you’d gotten it and placed the pillow inside, you plucked around until you were happy with the placement of all the items inside. and then, all you had to do left was give it to him. you walked in and placed the basket on the table, making muriel look up at you and halt his widdling. “what is this,” he asked as he sat his things aside, so he could give you his full, undivided attention. “surprise! i made you a gift basket. are you surprised? look inside!” you could hardly contain your excitement; you’d worked on this for over a month. there were pressed flowers, homemade candles and soap, a little painting of the forest, and a handwritten letter.

finally, he grabbed the letter after examining all the other items thoroughly, you could see a small smile teasing the corners of his mouth as he read it. a few silent moments later and he finally spoke, folding it back up. “thank you. this is really nice. really cute. reminds me of you.” he placed the letter back inside, not realizing what he said until it was already out in the open. “n-nevermind, i-“ but you were already interrupting him. “did asra give you something? did you drink anything weird, muriel?” he would have laughed if he wasn’t so embarrassed. “no, i meant it,” he grumbled. what was the use in denying it now? you wouldn’t let him live it down. you were so shocked, snapping out of it only moments later when you stepped forward to play with his hair softly. “awh, muri... you’re the cutest.” while you were distracted, he looked down at his lap to smile, just a bit. inanna looked up at him, knowingly. “liar.”

portia:

as adorable as she found your ability to turn even her riskiest flirt into something small or dismissable, it was quite frustrating. not because she didn’t respect you and the possibility that you might not return the feelings, it was more being frustrated by not being able to convey her feelings in a way that you would understand it’s severity, so you can make the decision from there.

before long, enough was enough for her so she decided to plan out a whole day to spend with you so she could finally tell you how she felt. first, you were going to have breakfast at her cottage by her window with the sun shining on your faces, then water on the garden a bit, and after that, go to the markets and look around. finally, she’d bring you back to the cottage where she would tell you everything. and, unexpectedly, she had a sudden great idea when her gaze fell on a bottle of ink while at the markets, and it might have taken some buttering up for you to agree, but no less, you agreed. and the minute you got back to the cottage, your fingers were smeared with ink as you both drew on one another.

you drew a shaky sketch of vesuvia on portia’s collarbones, and she told you that what she was writing on your hip was a ‘surprise’. you were more excited than anything else, you didn’t expect anything out of the ordinary, after all. today was just you and portia goofing off, per usual. only this time, ink was involved. “hey, hey! that’s cheating! you’re just tickling me now!” you were both laughing so much, the finger-painting was half of the fun. “uh oh, you caught me.” when you were both done, portia grabbed your wrist, rubbing ink all over your forearm as she dragged you to her bedroom, showing you the mirror that hung over her dresser. you played rock, paper, scissors to see who would go first. portia won.

“awh, mc! this is so cute! you’re so talented!” she cooed, and you knew she was just slapping it on at one point. the painting was all shaky and smudged from how hard you were laughing while making it. finally, she stepped aside and gave you enough room to reveal yours. you caught a glimpse of portia biting her lower lip and wringing her hands as you pulled your garments aside just enough to see her artwork. it read ‘portia ♡ mc’. you stared at it for a while, jaw slacked and silent. “i tried to find the best way to tell you, but it was hard. when i seen that ink well in the market today i got the idea, and it wouldn’t quite be me confessing if it wasn’t fun and silly, would it?” you looked over at her to see her still chewing her lip, only now paired with a blush on her face. “are... are you serious? are you sure you haven’t drunk anything... weird?” you ask quietly, only to recieve her most genuine confirmation. “nope, i’ve felt like this for a really long time. i just wanted to let you know how i felt.” you smile and return to looking at it in the mirror, finding it cuter as the seconds pass. “i feel the same way,” you told her, carefully placing your garments back in a way where they wouldn’t rub the ink. she ran up and brought you into a hug and you both stayed embracing one another for a long but comfortable while. until; “hey, um, are you ready to wash these off yet?” you shook your head, pulling back to look into her eyes. “i think i want mine tattooed,” you both giggled.

lucio:

you are not allowed to be oblivious to his feelings. he could say “wow, i really like you,” and you would say “yeah i like you too, you’re a really neat person.” cue the face where his eyes are all big and his mouth is open in an eternal screech. “no, mc, i really enjoy spending time with you, i like buying you the finest jewelry and exotic gifts just to give you something that you’ll enjoy wearing and know that it’s from me.” / “oh, cool! like friendship bracelets?”

and the day finally came where he decided he’d take you out to the palace gardens for a pleasant walk and a picnic date, so he could finally confess his feelings. after taking a little stroll and finding a nice spot to sit, complaining about all the little bugs and itchy pieces of grass tickling him, he’d break it to you. and not easily. “i really love you. i could seriously see us being together for the rest of our lives, couldn’t you? how do you feel about me? uh, mc?”

you were already freaking out. no way he was serious right now!!! was he? no!!! don’t be silly!!! this is obviously the work of... a love potion! “where did you find a potion, lucio?! did someone give it to you? you couldn’t have found it, right? oh no, did you drink something when we visited the shop the other day?!” he scoffed and pursed his little lips, crossing his arms like an angered toddler. “what on earth are you going on about? you’re talking about potions when i, the count of vesuvia, have confessed my undying love to you and proposed that we grow old together while i shower you in gold and exotic animals, and you’re thinking about a potion?!?!”

it was certainly quite silly once you heard it from his perspective, but you couldn’t help but laugh at his hopeless expression. “well, when you put it like that...” you start quietly, picking at the blanket laid beneath the both of you, seperating you from the most of the grass. “i feel the same way about you. i guess i just never noticed, until now.” he cooed, immediately throwing anything he might have had in his hands aside so he could wrap his arms around you, pulling you against him. “oh, how cute! let’s start planning the wedding. let’s have doves, and how about some rare, expensive wines and glassware, and...”

(a/n: 1. i just wanna say i can def picture y’all’s wedding n lucio putting the ring on ur finger n u go ‘but like, just as friends, right?’ just to tease him AHAHA and 2. wow i’m so sorry this took me so long!!! been loaded with work & life so i wanted to perfect this and it rlly stressed me out when i accidentally lost muriel & portia’s first draft but oh well. i’m too tired to proofread so i’ll check it in the morning. hope you enjoy!!!)

- jiah 💖

[romioneficfest]

Constellations

Title: Constellations

Prompt/Day: Day 13 - Rings

Tumblr name: 

Rating: K+, but with a brief mention of sexual interaction near the beginning

Brief summary: Hermione’s obsessed with the freckles that dot Ron’s back: she can’t help but stare every time he’s shirtless around her. But when she realizes they’re a bit like constellations, she has an idea— an idea that involves Ron laying flat on his stomach on their bedroom floor, and that involves her handling paint and paintbrushes to bring a galaxy to life on his back.

Tags: brief, nonconsequential mention of sexual interaction near the beginning (not important to the actual story)

Hermione is accustomed to seeing Ron’s bare back. That’s the ins and outs of couple life: she’s seen it in settings as intimate as in a shroud of sheets, his bare skin against hers after they’ve made love, and she’s seen it in settings as innocent as when he pulls off a sweater and his shirt rides up with it. It’s just a part of getting to know his body, but no matter how many times he’s caught glimpses of his back, she’s still transfixed by it. It’s strong, rippled with muscles (a collateral benefit of how physically demanding it is to be an Auror, no doubt), the skin soft and supple, a faded scar right under his shoulderblade from when he fell off Charlie’s broom when he was six, and an ocean of freckles splayed across every square inch of his pale white skin. It’s always the freckles that get her— she’s always trying to pick patterns in them, discern an order for them, pinpoint specific ones to single out as her favorites. It’s like they’re stars, and she’s always trying to arrange them into constellations.

That’s what gives her the idea.

“I still don’t know what we’re doing,” grumbles Ron, laying shirtless on his stomach on a frayed old towel on the wooden floor of their bedroom.

“You’ll see soon,” says Hermione, who’s straddled him to sit comfortably, making sure not to hurt him, atop the small of his back, where his butt begins. She has an assortment of paint jars next to her, standing to attention like colorful soldiers, as well as an array of paintbrushes of different thicknesses and a small plastic container filled halfway with water, sitting on a paper towel. Luna lent her the paint— she was elated when Hermione told her what she was planning.

“I don’t like this,” he keeps complaining, nestling his chin more comfortably into his folded arms, still refusing to lay down wholly. Hermione dips a thick paintbrush into a jar of deep purple, tapping it lightly against the mouth of the jar to cast off any excess. “I don’t like this one bi—”

Ron’s complaint dissolves into a pleasurable sigh as Hermione strokes the paintbrush across his back. It feels good: the coolness of fresh paint, overlaid over the soothing caress of the paintbrush’s bristles, makes for a sensation his skin can’t help but cry for. “Merlin, Hermione, that’s good,” he groans contentedly, nestling his head into his arms like a pillow, finally allowing himself to relax fully.

“When am I ever wrong?” Hermione quips back, now laying a stroke of ocean blue against the violet already on his back. Ron wants to make a witty retort, but he’s too overwhelmed by the feel of the brush against his skin, so he decides to let it slide just so she won’t stop doing whatever’s making him feel so good.

Hermione works as diligently as she does in anything: even knowing there’s nothing at stake, she’s too much of a perfectionist to allow anything to slack. The familiar crease of concentration appears between her eyebrows, and her tongue sticks out a bit from the corner of her mouth, an adorable display of how much focus she’s devoting to this. Despite having never seriously painted before (she’s never been the artist, and when she was smaller she refused to do anything she wasn’t immediately stellar at), she pays attention to every single detail as she would to the last gram of a potion’s ingredients, her hand as steady and masterful as when tracing out delicate runes on parchment paper. The paintbrushes dip in and out of the paint jars —magenta, lilac, sky-blue, navy, mauve— and leave streaks across Ron’s back in their wake, blending naturally as they mix on his skin.

“What is it you’re painting?” Ron pipes up all of a sudden, his voice slurred with a mix of sleepiness and bliss, just as Hermione begins tracing a circular outline in ochre, with a thinner brush.

“I’m taking inspiration from Astronomy,” Hermione says, pleased at how perfect her freehand circumference has turned out.

“Leave it to you, Hermione Granger, to draw a bloody star map on my back and call it art.”

“It’s not a star map,” Hermione says defensively, beginning to fill in the circle with more ochre paint. “It’s a galaxy.”

“Never got around to seeing too many of those,” mumbles Ron, his eyes closed. “But I suppose when your Transfiguration teacher takes four Stunning shots to the chest on the night of your O.W.L, there’s a good reason why you don’t end up doing the N.E.W.T.”

Hermione laughs shortly, delightfully, and Ron smiles to himself as he nestles further into his arms, a tuft of hair falling across his forehead.

She finishes filling in the planet she’s outlined, in a nice shade of ochre, and she now dips the thinner paintbrush into a milky-yellow hue of paint to begin tracing the rings around the planet— she hadn’t realized it, but she’s unwittingly painted Saturn. The rings are her favorite part: she remembers when she was eight or so, and her parents gifted her a book about space for Christmas, and she spent hours poring over it trying to understand why some planets had rings. She doesn’t remember much about it now —Astronomy took on a different character when she entered Hogwarts—, but she still feels a predilection for those planets with rings around them.

“When you said you were going to paint me,” Ron says, distracting her from her memories, “I thought you meant you were going to draw a picture of me, not use me for a canvas.”

“I’m full of surprises,” she replies, filling in the rings with the same milky yellow and a few thin lines of greyish black.

When she’s done with her galaxy, Ron’s back is filled with color: blueish hues dance and mingle as the backdrop, with Saturn standing radiantly against it. But there’s only one thing missing to make it a proper galaxy: stars.

The paint layer is thick enough to create a cohesive painting, but thin enough that she can still faintly make out Ron’s freckles. She knows this is going to be the most painstaking part of this— but it’s why she’s doing it in the first place, isn’t it?

She takes the thinnest brush she can find, dips it into the white paint, and carefully dots Ron’s back with it, placing a “star” over every freckle she can make out. Ron seems to like that, because she feels his muscles lose even more tension, but she can’t lose sight of her work: every freckle must be painted over, a star for each kiss she’s ever wanted to press to each little spot.

When she’s finally done, she looks at her work with satisfaction: it’s a proper galaxy now, speckled with stars and perched majestically on Ron’s back. She stands up, dusts off her hands, and places her hands on her hips to observe it from a different angle.

Ron stands up too, his hands awkwardly by his sides so as to not mess up the painting. “So? How’s it look? Can I look at it now?”

“Not yet,” Hermione says softly, lifting her wand from her nightstand. “It’s not quite finished.”

Wordlessly, she points the wand at his back and gives it a little tap, careful not to smudge any of the paint with it. The galaxy comes alive: Saturn revolves around its axis, the hues in the back conglomerate and dissipate like clouds, and the rings oscillate around the planet with a gravitational tilt. But best of all are the stars: they dance around Ron’s back, arrange themselves into shapes and formations, they seem to play with one another as they shoot across his skin. It’s as if Van Gogh’s “Starry Night” had come alive, but so much better: it’s a cosmic dance, a galactic performance for her eyes only, and it’s everything she’s ever imagined Ron’s freckles to be. Finally, they’ve made the leap from mere stars to the constellations she’s so often pictured.

“So?” comes Ron’s voice again, with a hint of his trademark impatience. “How’d it turn out?”

Hermione lets her gaze sweep up and down the body of the man she loves again. Every curvature of it, from the sturdiness of his thighs up to the strength of his back to the delicateness of his nape, crowned by a cascade of orange-red locks she loves to tangle her fingers in. Merlin, she loves him.

Her answer comes without a trace of hesitation: “It’s perfect.”

[ganymedesclock]

Dead Cells and the weight of small lives pt.2 (NPCs, the dead and alive)

Continuing from part 1, now that I’m refreshed, rested, and ready to continue this monster post. I finished off last post talking a bit about the way Prisoner acts onto NPCs and interact-able bodies, so this chunk is picking up with that in earnest.

Here is the thing. If you punt the corpse of an executed prisoner, that’s generally a dick move, so this is another place I feel like I can understand why people might get the takeaway Prisoner is kind of a jerk. But I feel like it’s worth examining, in detail, the kind of interactions he has.

The mechanics of Dead Cells are very focused on scavenging, looting, and a limited amount of buying your way forwards- and, spoken as someone starting to dip my toesies in the higher Stem Cell counts- thus, more difficult runs- any random encounter you can get items from is a godsend.

It’s also where you get a lot of the lore of the game, in random events- some of which will show up in multiple areas, others unique- that tell you about the world.

It’s in these interactions, mainly, that I see Prisoner characterized as a fairly compassionate guy with a morbid sense of humor, and I struggle to see him as a total uncaring asshole. To gloss over a large number of interactions, here’s some common threads:

Prisoner is fairly flippant about death / used to seeing corpses. He will also sometimes kick the bodies with his bare feet to make them drop items, which, as a fairly tactile sensitive person, the thought makes my soul depart my body. Kicked bodies are seldom visibly disturbed from their position by this, though they do drop items. 

He is not opposed to looting said corpses / prying useful items out of their hands, though he may comment on riffling through someone’s stuff being a social no-no while doing so.

At the same time, he far more often uses “personlike” language rather than “objectlike” language to describe the bodies (“this guy” “her” “him” “population”) with the main exception being interacting with a bloated, waterlogged corpse.

You can virtually always examine a lot more than what has money or weapons and Prisoner will have salient thoughts about it suggesting he is proving keenly observant and not specifically looking for loot and ignoring all else.

From here, I’ll go into several incidents I think are pretty noteworthy. 

A fair warning that these are quite morbid and discuss/depict the kinds of things people do when everything is falling apart and people are dying all around them, so, not exactly gentle reading.

1. The Flower Loving Prisoner

This is a fairly common encounter you can find in the Prisoners’ Quarters and Promenade, possibly other places. It is a small cell, with several points of interest, mostly being the large number of potted flowers and the small window. Poking around will have Prisoner note that the flowers “have been a bit underwatered recently” and that the fabric of the mattress was torn up and used elsewhere.

Specifically, for a noose- the person occupying this cell hung himself, and his corpse is holding a single flower in its hands.

For the room, Prisoner remarks “looks like this guy loved flowers.” For the body itself,

“Guess he wanted to choose the time of his death. He’s holding a faded flower between his fingers. A moment of silence… NAH! I’ve got better things to do!”

The “nah” is punctuated by him kicking the body, causing it to drop a necklace- but not the flower it’s holding.

So here’s the thing. This is a flippant action. At surface pass, Prisoner is disrespecting this person who is characterized by growing flowers in a prison- and holding onto this small thing of beauty, even in death.

The thing is though, someone who doesn’t care at all wouldn’t, of their own accord, independently air the idea they should have a “moment of silence” for this person, even to veto it a second later. Nobody is here to see or care what Prisoner is doing.

Also to someone who doesn’t care at all, the entire rest of the room would be of no interest; it would be trivial that flowers were important to a dead person.

So this creates an interesting duality. On one hand: Prisoner very clearly doesn’t care much about bodies. This is a repeated pattern. The main time he’s particularly shocked by corpses is when they were someone who was alive the last time he checked (as is the case of the Tutorial Knight). He has a calculated angle and he’s interested in what he can get from them and how it can prevent him from dying, again.

On the other hand... Prisoner equally clearly cares about people. He thinks a lot about what people wanted, felt, what choices they made. He shows a lot of interpersonal intelligence and even to people who he has every reason to not listen to, his responses tend thoughtful and he socks this information away as important in a context where he is, by necessity, otherwise rigidly focused on survival. He hates the King, but will also talk thoughtfully about the way the royals of the island lived.

And of the two elements in this juxtaposition, while survivalism and gallows humor are clearly strong threads in him... it’s clear the caring part is the larger factor of the two. It persists, while his cheerful morbidity sometimes just utterly fails.

2. The Stilt Village family

In the fishing hamlet, you can find a small house featuring a hanged woman. A letter by her feet, that the Prisoner notes are probably her last words, reads:

“The Malaise won’t get us. I’ll protect you… I’ll protect you.”

The Prisoner, our usually quite chatty protagonist, has almost nothing to say here. The closest he gets is, on examining the woman’s body, notes she “opted for the fast method” and aforementioned observation that the note is her last words.

There is also a bed in the room. Two sets of small feet poke out from under the blankets. If you examine it, Prisoner only says “throats slit.” and nothing more.

There is nothing in the room to loot, no jokes made, and the overall attitude is deeply, crushingly somber. There are closed drawers, but there’s no prompt to go through them.

If Prisoner didn’t care, this would just be more of the same, what’s three more bodies, right? But it’s clear that he isn’t just idly curious about the way people live and what they thought and felt- he has a certain amount of compassion, so that faintly nauseous feeling we get as we creep through this room is probably simpatico with our protagonist.

These people are strangers. He never knew them. They’re villagers of a fishing hamlet that was a hotbed of rebellion, and disrespectful of the king; they are small lives. They are “irrelevant people”. Mechanically, you have no gameplay incentive to stand here and look around.

But it’s clear this encounter affects Prisoner a lot emotionally. He doesn’t know who these people were, never met these kids or their presumed mother- but it’s clear he didn’t want this to have happened to them. 

In particular Prisoner seems to be disquieted by young corpses any time he finds them; the closest he comes to joking is finding the executed body that he notes is “either a dwarf, or... no more than seven or eight years old. ...Let’s... say she’s a dwarf.”

Another half-joke, also in the Stilt Village, is he finds a desperate letter to the Alchemist, written by villagers pledging their bodies to his research and begging him to save them. Prisoner notes that it’s partially damaged by water and hard to read, and then frankly follows with “I don’t think I want to understand what I read.”

This is worth noting, in particular, because we find a lot of the Alchemist’s grimoires, and he mentions his “volunteers” often- the kind of things that happen to them in particular tend to be fatal. One setup in High Peak Castle notes that those exposed to the experimental cure became twisted half-plant beings, and then as a near afterthought, notes “the subject failed to survive.”

So Prisoner- who’s just trying to save his own hide at best- is pretty strongly depicted as more upset at what happened to the villagers than the Alchemist who was trying to work on a cure. This is significant, when we happen to know said Alchemist becomes the Collector, who basically spends the entire game using Prisoner to harvest resources from corpses (the titular Cells) in exchange for better equipment. The Collector also makes it quite clear from the start he knows who Prisoner is, but is not interested in disclosing this information.

(And, if you, like me, don’t think Prisoner is the same person as the King given the wild discrepancy of personality and other evidence- when he finally does “fess up” it’s in the form of lying to Prisoner’s face)

3. Moments of anger

This is actually not one moment but several. Part of what Dead Cells does with its dialogue is convey tone and intensity by changing colors. Most text comes in blue boxes- when it’s lit in red, it’s almost always for emphasis. Especially if the textbox shakes slightly and the text scrolls faster than usual, giving it a sense of slamming into place on the screen.

In several areas- the Promenade or the Ramparts- you can find a setup of “live target training” in which a human prisoner was chained to a post, and then shot at by archers. This is at first perhaps a bit morbidly funny, given the wall behind the prisoner is littered with arrows- but, overall, it’s just dark.

In particular, a single arrow has struck the shackled prisoner. When Prisoner observes this, he notes “Only one arrow hit the target.”

Then, in shaking red text, “Right in the head.”

He then turns and faces the empty stand where the guard stood, and flashes a thumbs-up that I struggle to read as not rather scathing in its condemnation. Again- to someone who doesn’t care or thinks of this as funny, that kind of emphasis doesn’t make sense.

But even some things he says calmly seem to suggest Prisoner’s pretty angry about the whole situation- sometimes, upon finding a large gallows section, it will have an order pinned to it:

By order of the King, all persons presenting behavioural disorders or noticeable deteriorations in their appearance... shall be imprisoned, and hanged by the neck until dead. ...(If the prison doctor confirms the diagnosis of infection.)

There is a distinct beat before the last line is read, and then Prisoner’s commentary ensues:

“Glad they added that. For a second there I really thought we were talking about genocide.”

He also at one point responds to a desecrated statue of the King, defaced with “We’ll skin you alive!” by calling it a “brave and courageous statement,” and seems mildly impressed that someone peed on a royal order in the Stilt Village relatively high up. Besides that, a lot of the area flavor text talks about the abuses of the guards, and in particular in High Peak Castle, it’s noted the royal guard were pulled back into the castle when the rest of the island needed them.

In a way, the way that Prisoner uses humor often trivializes his own anger, which again, ties back to what I said in part 1: everything the game says about small lives- about the “irrelevant little people” that suffered in the wake of the plague emphasizes that Prisoner’s perspective is that he is one of those little people. In the sewers, examining a strange cocoon, Prisoner seems to have a full-on crisis about what he is and why he’s here before interrupting himself with a joke.

Someone who thinks they are important and is used to demanding others’ attention and validation doesn’t treat their own genuine anger and revulsion like it’s something to shrug off.

[fidelandrada]

Syllogism: Reasoning and Fallacy

Syllogism is a form of deductive reasoning where you arrive at a specific conclusion by examining two other premises or ideas. 

Hello, my name is Fidel Andrada. Syllogism derives from the Greek word syllogismos, meaning conclusion or inference.

Some syllogisms contain three components:

Major Premise

Minor Premise

Conclusion

For example, all roses are flowers (major premise). This is a rose (minor premise). Therefore, I am holding a flower (conclusion)

Types of Syllogism

The type of syllogism that typically contains these three components is a categorical syllogism. However, there are two other major kinds of syllogism. We'll discuss each one here, plus enthymemes and syllogistic fallacy.

As we know, our first example about roses was a categorical syllogism. Categorical syllogisms follow an "If A is part of C, then B is part of C" logic.

Let's look at some more examples of syllogism.

All cars have wheels. I drive a car. Therefore, my car has wheels.

Major Premise: All cars have wheels.

Minor Premise: I drive a car.

Conclusion: My car has wheels.

All insects frighten me. That is an insect. Therefore, I am frightened.

Major Premise: All insects frighten me.

Minor Premise: That is an insect.

Conclusion: I am frightened.

Conditional syllogisms follow an "If A is true, then B is true" pattern of logic. They're often referred to as hypothetical syllogisms because the arguments aren't always valid. Sometimes they're merely an accepted truth.

If Katie is smart, then she will get into a good college.

Major premise: Katie is smart.

Minor premise: Because she is smart Katie will get good grades.

Conclusion: Katie will get into a good college.

If Richard likes Germany, then he must drive an Audi.

Major premise: Richard likes Germany.

Minor premise: Richard likes all German things.

Conclusion: Richard drives a German car.

Disjunctive syllogisms follow a "Either A or B is true, if it's A, B is false" premise. They don't state if a major or minor premise is correct. But it's understood that one of them is correct.

This cake is either red velvet or chocolate.

It's not chocolate.

This cake is red velvet.

On the TV show Walkikng Dead, Claire's husband is either dead or alive.

He's not dead.

Claire's husband is alive.

An enthymeme is not one of the major types of syllogism but is what's known as rhetorical syllogism. These are often used in persuasive speeches and arguments.

Generally, the speaker will omit a major or minor premise, assuming it's already accepted by the audience.

He couldn't have stolen the jewelry. I know him.

Major Premise: He couldn't have stolen the jewelry.

Minor Premise: I know his character.

Her new purse can't be ugly. It's a Louis Vuitton.

Major Premise: Her new accessory can't be ugly.

Minor Premise: It's made by famous designer Louis Vuitton.

In an enthymeme, one premise remains implied. In the examples above, being familiar with someone or something implies an understanding of them.

Some syllogisms contain false presumptions. When you start assuming one of the major or minor premises to be true, even though they're not based in fact - as with disjunctive syllogisms and enthymemes - you run the risk of making a false presumption.

All crows are black. The bird in my cage is black. Therefore, this bird is a crow.

Major Premise: All crows are black.

Minor Premise: The bird in my cage is black.

Conclusion: This bird is a crow.

The scenery in Ireland is beautiful. I'm in Ireland. Therefore, the scenery must be beautiful.

Major Premise: The scenery in Ireland is beautiful.

Minor Premise: I'm in Ireland.

Conclusion: The scenery is beautiful.

Of course, not every black bird is a crow and not all of Ireland is beautiful. When preparing a speech or writing a paper, we must always make sure we're not making any sweeping generalizations that will cause people to make false presumptions.

Rules of Syllogism

There are six known rules of syllogism. However, they mainly apply to categorical syllogism, since that is the only category that requires three components: major premise, minor premise, conclusion. Here are six rules that will ensure you're making a strong and accurate argument.

Rule One: There must be three terms: the major premise, the minor premise, and the conclusion - no more, no less.

Rule Two: The minor premise must be distributed in at least one other premise.

Rule Three: Any terms distributed in the conclusion must be distributed in the relevant premise.

Rule Four: Do not use two negative premises.

Rule Five: If one of the two premises are negative, the conclusion must be negative.

Rule Six: From two universal premises, no conclusion may be drawn.

Further Examples of Syllogism

Syllogisms make for colorful literary devices. They explain situations indirectly, affording readers the opportunity to practice reasoning and deduction skills. Shakespeare was a master of many things, including syllogism. Here is an example of a syllogism fallacy in The Merchant of Venice:

Portia was a woman desired by many men. It was arranged she would marry the man who could correctly guess which of three caskets contained her portrait. One casket was inscribed with, "Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire." One man concluded that, since many men desired Portia, her portrait must be in that casket.

He was wrong. His assumption falls under the category of syllogistic fallacy. One cannot deduce that, since this casket contains what men desire, it's automatically the portrait. Men also desire fortune and power, for example. There wasn't enough evidence to leap from premise to conclusion here.

Socrates is the subject of one of the most famous, and easily understood, examples of syllogism in philosophy. Note that it clearly follows the rule of three components.

All men are mortal. Socrates is a man. Therefore, I am mortal.

This draws a clear picture of how one statement, when known to be universally true, should point perfectly to another clear claim, thus drawing an accurate conclusion.

Keep syllogisms in mind when viewing advertisements. Many leaps are made in advertising, skipping either a major or minor premise:

Women love men who drive a Lexus.

Get ready for an enthymeme or syllogism fallacy. A blanket statement such as this skips one of the two required premises. Every time a woman likes a man, it can't be assumed he drives a Lexus.

Persuasive Speeches and Writing

Understanding syllogisms will help you create masterful persuasive speeches and essays. They create a formula for you to abide by, in order to ensure your main point is flawless.

Syllogisms also allow you to test your theories according to syllogistic fallacies. When examining your main argument or point for discussion, be sure you haven't made any presumptions that your audience might disagree with.

Maybe some women won't like Lexuses. Perhaps they prefer a good 'ol fashioned Jeep! Just keep your eyes and ears open while you allow syllogisms to drive your point home with clarity and truth.