#but i think i sound forced and disingenuous which sucks.

[cloudd-nyne]

To people @ ing me and like. Just in general trying to involve me: i love you, im sorry im very bad at engaging and replying rn my social abilities are basically dead i genuinely love and appreciate it so so much yes you reading this i appreciate YOU so much plz do not think i hate you i swear i do not i just. Suck at soical anything rn. Replying to messages is hard. Reblog games are hard. Reading fic is *extremely* hard right now.

I know i sound like a dick bc i come on here and gush and post tons about my ideas and ships and i should be giving back if i want engagement. I know this. Im trying i swear. I appreciate you all. A lot.

[dinkbear]

camp camp s5 e1 review (MAJOR SPOILERS!)

yea i thought it sucked

i just watched the new cc episode and i thought it was....not great

the pacing was very off, i feel like they had the potential to tell an emotionally complex story regarding max's feelings to returning to camp and seeing so much different, but that's difficult to do in 15 minutes, i feel like it could've worked better if it were even just 20 minutes. also, in "With Friends Like These" i thought max's new VA sounded practically the same as his old one, but in this episode he just sounds...off. again, a lot of the lines felt forced, when i hear this new guy i don't hear the little shit-stain max i just hear Some Guy™. i understand WHY they changed the va, but as a poc myself i genuinely could not care less if a white actor voices a poc character esp in an adult cartoon. it actually really brought me out of it when max was snapping at the obstacle course because it just felt like nothing, like i didn't care.

i. hate. CJ. i think he's unfunny, i don't like his design, i just...don't like him. hoping and praying that gwen stays and he LEAVES or there's some crazy twist or SOMETHING i just do NOT like him. also, why does he have the authority to deny the campers food??? is david not his boss??? DO SOMETHING BRO

david also felt off, i know that now he knows the campers better and he's had character development but he just seemed disingenuous

the bit with nikki freaking out over max possibly being mad had so much potential to be built on and have something done with it but it just...didn't. it was just that one line and that was it, i was excited for some crazy conflict that didn't happen.

i thought the thing with neil's clip on earring was hilarious and im sad that it'll probably only be in that one episode </3

UGGGGH they CAN tell heart-wrenching stories, they CAN expand on these characters emotionally, they CAN DO SO MUCH and they HAVE....but, for me, a big part of what made episodes like "The Order of the Sparrow" and "Parents' Day" so moving was that it was out of the formula. i LOVE LOVE LOVE shows that set themselves up as being episodic/formulaic/sitcom-y and then slowly introduce lore and show that the characters are 3-dimensional and have conflict, etc, etc. but in this episode and in "With Friends Like These," the emotional story-telling feels forced. it's not set up like its a regular camp camp episode where something unexpectedly emotional happens, its set up to be the unexpected thing...which makes it expected and lose its value. especially because, back when i was SUPER hyperfixated on this show like 4 years ago, post watching "Parents' Day" or "The Order of the Sparrow" or whatever, when i rewatched other episodes i saw more to these characters hidden in little aspects of their behavior or their reactions or their dialogue that was there the WHOLE TIME, but seemed like it was just a regular old episode where regular old things happen, but now it seems as though they are straying away from that and instead having the emotional development and storytelling be completely unsubtle and on the nose. i suppose it is the writers' choice and they have every right to do that even if i don't like it.

speaking of on-the-nose, i wasn't a fan of how they just flat out said "max is upset that things are different," in the episode he said how he didn't like that everything was changing over and over and over again. and like.....take "Parents' Day" for example, max was being an extra asshole to everyone subconsciously before realizing and admitting the real reason, which was great and how kids work (because remember, max is 11) but in this episode it was pretty much "GRRRRR EVERYONE IS DIFFERENT AND IM MAD ABOUT IT!!!!!" and i know it was supposed to be like 'well WHY is he so mad about it :o" which could've been good and interesting if there were...buildup...or anything...and not "This camp sucks, but you know what else sucks? Life out there. Family, school, a crumbling society?" and "You're just as lame as before, which is why you didn't have any friends back home to begin with." its just like....come on. was that REALLY the best way to get that across??? THEY CAN WRITE SUBTLY SO WHY DON'T THEY!?!?!?!?

i feel like there is SO MUCH potential to exploring max's emotions but they just seem to keep being unsubtle and on-the-nose about it, which an emotionally neglected kid would NOT be. we have to remember, they're kids. i feel like the earlier seasons did a great job of making that obvious- making them little rascals, oblivious to things, mischievous, full-of-energy, little devils, the line "I saw it on TV!" from s1 e4- but in these newer episodes its treated as though that aspect is not important (note: i have never rewatched s4 because i didn't like it, so i am not going off it for reference bc i barely remember anything that happened) max wouldn't know that he's upset with them changing because of how lonely it is, and i know he was supposed to be projecting but the dialogue felt so forced it didn't even feel like projecting it just felt like admitting. i don't expect the writers to have a phd in child psychology or something, but if they want max's emotional reactions to have power and be meaningful, i feel like they should be a CHILD'S emotions.

granted, this is all my opinion. i'm sure for the reasons i disliked the episode, someone really loved it for the same ones. i would give it a 3/10, but there was no jasper, so it gets a 0/10. very excited for the next episode, the post-credits trailer made it seem like it'll be good.

[mymoonagedaydream]

Part 9

Pairing: Biker!Bucky x y/n

Word Count: 2.5k

Warnings: Language, anti-religious sentiment throughout, references to domestic violence

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5 / Part 6 / Part 7 / Part 8

---

You made yourself some coffee while you waited for Bucky, usually you were ravenous first thing in the morning but your appetite had been replaced by an uneasy knot that sat in your stomach like a rock. You had so many questions for him. It was troubling, really, how little you know about his increasingly complex past, but your determination to get him to spill his secrets was now stronger than ever.

You heard the door downstairs click open and slow footsteps crept up the stairs. Bucky appeared in the kitchen a few seconds later, looking like he was ready to call it a day on any and all matters involving deep emotions. Well, tough.

“Thanks for that,” he cautiously moved towards you, “although she does seem to think we’re all happy families over here.”

“Yeah, sorry about that. It was just easier if I went along with it, plus it seemed to cheer her up a little.”

He was trying to smother a smug smile as he leant against the counter in front of you. “S’alright, it cheered me up too.”

A brief silence fell, the sound of your teaspoon clinking against the inside of your mug resonating around the whole apartment. Your mind was occupied trying to think of the most inoffensive way to compose your next sentence.

“Buck, do you mind if I asked what happened between you and your mom? You said you barely speak but, I don’t know, your relationship seems pretty good.”

“It is. I just… choose to stay away.”

Christ he was fucking cryptic, it was like trying to crack the enigma code.

“Right. Just, from the way you spoke about her, I thought maybe it was drugs or something.”

“Nah. I mean she drinks like a fish, but she’s not nearly as bad as my dad.” He glanced over and saw you raise your eyebrows at him, prompting him to continue, which he did with a sigh. “She just won’t leave him, no matter what he does. I’ve tried everything.”

“I see.”

“I love her and I help her out when I can, but it’s too hard to just stand by and watch how he treats her. I gotta keep a distance or I get sucked back in.”

“That must be really hard.”

“Don’t worry,” he forced a smile, “I’m used to it.”

“Well, I’m glad you told me. It’s good to talk about these things.”

“Nah, you don’t need all my shit piled on top of yours.”

He dropped his keys on the counter and moved to walk away, but you swiftly reached out and grabbed hold of his arm.

“She’s really proud of you, Buck.”

The disingenuous smile was slowly swallowed as a beaming grin spread across his face. He turned and took your hands in his, pulling you towards him, looking pleasantly surprised at your lack of resistance. He was definitely still in the doghouse, but you were ready to cut him a little slack.

“She is? No idea why.”

“Cause you’re a good guy,” the slack was used up faster than you’d expected, “when you’re not throwing punches and getting yourself arrested.”

He chuckled and cautiously wandered his hands up to your waist, ready to be swatted away at any moment. That boy could do an entire figure-skating routine on the thinnest of thin ice and not fall through.

“You’re just gonna keep bringing that up, aren’t ya?”

“Yep.”

“You ever gonna forgive me?”

“Maybe, but only after I’ve had my fun.”

“As long as you stick around you can chew me out whenever you feel like it,” he slid his hands around your back and pulled you closer to his chest, “you can try to push me away but I’m not going anywhere.”

“Fine, but if you ever pull that shit and make me crawl back to my parents again I’ll chop your balls off.”

“That’s fair.”

You just stood there for a little while, eyes closed, head resting against his chest, savouring the contentment and safety you felt in his arms. These moments of peace were so rare for the two of you, when they came along you had to hold on to them for as long as you could.

Your serenity faded after a few minutes as you found his mother’s words bleeding into the front of your mind. You wanted to look after him, you wanted to heal and care for him the best you could, but you knew there was nothing you could do to make up for his past. You couldn’t fix it.

At least now, you thought, you were able to realise that everything he’d ever achieved, he’d done completely by himself. All his life he’d had no help, no support and no real reason to outgrow the life that people like your mother expected him to lead. At the very least, you were determined to change that.

Your eyes fluttered open when he eventually piped up.

“You hungry? I thought we could order food, there’s a really good-”

You cut him off by throwing your arms around his neck and pressing your lips against his, apparently shocking him a little, because it took him a few seconds to reciprocate. He eventually tightened his hold around you and tilted his head to the side, deepening the kiss while you moved your hands to cradle his face. You only pulled away when you had to catch your breath.

“-pizza place nearby.”

His stupid grin made you giggle, the grip around you staying firm as you strained to reach over to the drawer with the takeout menus. It was him who suggested ordering out but you weren’t able to read more than two words at a time before he’d insist on pulling your attention away.

The two of you ate in front of a movie before settling down and curling up on the couch for the evening. You were still holding onto this moment of peace, savouring every second, trying your best not to worry about how long it would last.

It was nearing midnight when Bucky’s phone started buzzing. He picked it up, giving you another forced smile and making his way over to the kitchen when he saw that it was his mother calling.

You tried your best not to eavesdrop but it was difficult in such a small apartment. He didn’t say much, he was mainly listening to her, but as the conversation progressed you could tell he was getting more and more agitated. You dreaded to think what she was saying. The only thing you could really gauge was that, at one point, she asked him for money. He told her he was pretty broke at the moment and didn’t have any to spare. You had no idea if that was the truth.

It was heart-breaking to experience the toxic side of their relationship in practice, especially after seeing all the love that his mother was capable of. He eventually said a short goodbye and trudged back to the couch. You waited for a second to see if he’d share willingly, but he just huffed, heaved his boots up onto the table and necked the rest of his beer. You were going to have to do this the hard way.

“Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, fine.”

He gave you a short, tight smile and reached for the remote. You caught his arm. You didn’t want to force him into divulging more than he was comfortable with, but there was no way in hell that continuing to bottle up his problems would do anything other than make his anger worse. Being broke as hell just meant that you had to be each other's therapists.

“Buck.”

“It’s nothing, just…” He let out an aggravated sigh and rubbed his eyes. “She’s not pressing charges.”

“That’s not nothing. That’s a pretty valid reason to be upset.”

“It’s not like I expected anything else, this is what always happens.”

“Doesn’t mean it sucks any less.”

You shifted closer and interlaced your fingers with his, rubbing his forearm with your free hand, feeling some of the tension in his muscles settle under your touch. You were still very much testing the waters as far as talking Bucky down was concerned. You were sure that he’d calm down himself given enough time but, if you were going to move in here properly, you’d prefer not to have walls full of holes.

“Like I said,” he lulled his head backwards and let out an exhausted chuckle, “used to it.”

He was defeated. You weren’t sure if that was better or worse than angry.

“She’ll realise you’re right, eventually. She just had to take that first step herself.”

“Mhmm. I just hope she does it before…”

He didn’t have to finish the sentence, you both knew how it was going to end, and it wasn’t worth thinking about. You just needed to take his mind off it for now.

“You know, for someone who doesn’t know when to shut up half of the time, you’re surprisingly hard to get information out of.”

He let a reluctant smile spread across his face. “Good job you’re a ruthless interrogator then.”

---

The next few days were surprisingly calm. You were actually able to spend some quality time together and unwind a little, just about managing to ignore the sixty-four missed calls from your parents and the texts inquiring about spare money from his.

Bucky went out to work whenever repair jobs came up, leaving you with free reign of the flat for hours at a time. He never noticed the subtle changes you’d make while he was out. The decoration wasn’t particularly bad, it just didn’t really… exist. It was your typical bare bones bachelor pad, you were convinced he hadn’t made any significant changes since moving in apart from a pile of magazines and a couple of suspicious stains on the carpet.

When your parents finally gave up, and when enough time had passed since the visit from Bucky’s mother, it felt for the first time like maybe everything could turn out alright. All the problems you’d faced seemed to be receding further and further and you hoped they would no longer be able penetrate the walls of this cosy little life you’d built.

So it was all the more disappointing when that turned out not to be the case.

---

You woke to the sound of Bucky’s alarm. Stretching a little, you shifted and felt his body pressed up against the back of yours, arms firmly wrapped around you. He reached over to shut the sound off, groaned dramatically and buried his face in the crook of your neck. He did this every morning.

“Man, I do not want to leave this bed.”

His words were muffled against your skin. You rolled onto your back and brushed a few strands of hair away from his forehead, smiling at the deep marks left on his cheek by the creases in the sheets. The two of you must’ve slept like logs, barely moving all night.

“Stay then.”

“I’ve got places to go,” his head disappeared as he ducked down and started placing soft kisses below your ear, “there’s a big job today, could be a few hundred bucks.”

You frowned and abruptly grabbed his head, lifting it away from you. “Hundreds?”

“Mhmm.”

“Jesus Christ, go.”

“Didn’t peg you as a gold digger.”

You scoffed and tried to push him out of bed, eventually relenting when he ferociously clawed his way back to you. “You could use some restraint, Barnes.”

“I’m not a saint.”

His hands dove underneath your shirt and you gasped at the sensation of his cold skin against yours. He smiled, eyeing you intently, and you just melted under his gaze. It must’ve been fifteen minutes later when he finally got up and headed to work. You guessed it was that long, anyway, but you hadn’t exactly been counting.

You had a day of solid lounging around planned. You thought maybe you’d take a walk into town later, but you were only willing to risk it during the hours you knew your parents would be working. Bumping into them would be the cherry on top of a fucking stressful couple of weeks.

Maybe you’d just stay in.

---

Midday came and went. Bucky had been gone for hours, you’d cleaned the whole apartment and were swiftly making your way through the pile of dirty laundry when the doorbell sounded. You shuffled over to the window, straining to try and catch a glimpse of your guest. All you could make out was the top of a head. They pressed the doorbell again.

Psyching yourself up with a deep breath, you tiptoed downstairs and cautiously inched the door open. It was the blonde from the bar, the one who got Bucky thrown in jail.

“What the hell do you want?” The severity in your voice shocked you a little.

“Calm down, suburbs,” he gave a smug chuckle, “I wanna talk to Bucky.”

“About what?”

He narrowed his eyes and stepped forward, stretching his arms out and bracing himself against the door frame. You instinctively shrunk back, tightening your grip on the open door, ready to slam it shut at a moment’s notice.

“I’d rather just speak to him, sweetheart.”

“He’s not here, but if he was I’m sure he’d just tell you to fuck off.”

A sinister, calculating look spread over his face. “You’re here all on your own?”

The shift in his tone made your entire body tense up. You immediately defaulted into fight or flight mode, forcing the door closed as quickly as you could. Somehow he moved faster, shoving his foot into the gap and letting out an irritated grunt when the door slammed into it. You felt him pushing against the other side of the wood.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” you saw his fingers emerge through the gap and curl round the edge of the door, “I just wanna talk.”

Summoning strength from god knows where, you stomped down on his foot with all your weight. When it jerked out of the gap, you rammed your shoulder hard against the door, hearing the cracking of fingers followed by loud yelp. He pulled his hand free and you swiftly turned the lock.

He was still shouting and banging on the door as you scrambled upstairs, your shaky knees collapsing underneath you as you burst back into the flat. Crawling over to the window and peeking out, you saw him limping away down the street, cradling his injured hand against his chest. You breathed out for what felt like the first time in ten minutes, remnants of your adrenaline rush making your head spin.

Despite your overwhelming panic, you couldn’t help but feel a little pleased with yourself, cause that was pretty fucking badass. You felt like you could take on the world.

You considered calling Bucky, but figured that as long as you didn’t answer the door again, you should be alright until he finishes. You didn’t want him to rush home and miss out on a couple hundred dollars for no good reason. It would be much easier to fill him in after you’d had some time to think about it and to calm down a bit, anyway.

---

Part 10

---

[besidesitstoowarm]

"Utopia" thoughts

unironically one of my favorite episodes of the davies era and the only reason it's not my fave of season 3 is that "blink" is in season 3

i LOVE the pacing of this one. i was so tense throughout like half of it, plus the doctor got to be cunty which is always a highlight. we see the return of cap'n jack tryna fuck and suck his way through the heat death of the universe. respect

alright let me get all my notes about the plot out of the way so i can talk about these characters. so the tardis takes them 100 trillion years into the future and "not even the time lords came this far" which is interesting, the doctor totally out of his element. they're on a dead world, the ruins of a society. the architecture left behind reminds me a lot of pre-contact indigenous cities out west. the sky is black because all the stars have burned out. there's a lot of places named in this ep that all sound like nature, "the wildlands" "the dark matter reefs" yana was found abandoned on a coast. the doctor makes a comment about if yana would have trouble navigating without the stars as a guide. it just felt very "the terror" i guess, very 19th century. and the futurekind felt very "the time machine" so we're at the edge of the universe, the end of everything, and there's all these little callbacks to the age of exploration. the beginning and the end of it all. i can't remember if it's contradicted in the next ep but for now i love that the rocket gets away and then that's it, we don't get an update. did they make it? is there a utopia, or anything else beyond the edge of the universe? it's up to you babes <3

jack gets to be very gay in this one, flirting like crazy. "oh, don't start" the doctor is trying to cockblock like his life depends on it. "i could meet myself/only man you'd ever be happy with" yeowch. i don't remember anything about torchwood so this is where we (viewers of the good show only) get to find out that jack can't die and it's bc the bad wolf brought him back too hard. "the last act of the time war was life" there is so much going on there

we get a lot of rose talk, obviously, jack and the doctor discussing what she did/where she is/what she was like. it's all good stuff and i like to see it but it keeps cutting back to martha's disappointed face and while i said a few writeups ago that i didn't like her romantic interest in the doctor, even without it she's still clearly the "rebound" companion for him. i honestly don't know how it would have been possible to avoid that; it would feel disingenuous to not bring her up or have her loss affect the doctor, and i've said before that i don't think any one companion has been so important to any one doctor than rose was with ten. she defines him, her loss and her life and her love. the tenth doctor without rose tyler doesn't make sense, her absence is as obvious as her presence when it comes to him. even companions that define their doctor's era (jamie with two, even rose with nine) don't have the same hold over the doc like she did. i maintain this is bc their love forced his regeneration and so he's imprinted on her. while this is very interesting, it basically left martha completely in the lurch. s4 avoids this by 1. basically having the doctor recovered from his heartache until the end and 2. donna has such a big personality that she commands space in the doctor's attention. this is not a slight against either martha or donna. martha deserved better that's all

the "hermits united" line is incredibly funny and i'd completely forgotten about it. the "indomitable" callback was nice to see as well. i found out just today that yana's outfit was inspired by the first doctor and that davies specifically told the costumer designer to "hartnell him up" which in addition to the indomitable bit feels like linking us to classic who in a subtle way, easing us along. using elements of the first doctor's costume to reveal the master, it's a little narrative link of how long these two have been in each other's lives

the slow buildup to yana's reveal, him talking about his past, martha noticing the watch, telling the doctor about the watch, realizing there's another time lord that survived, realizing he doesn't have to be alone, realizing "you are not alone" was the key all along. he opens the watch. the sound of drums is deafening. derek jacobi is amazing, i wish we'd gotten to see him as the master for longer. john simm is great but still. "use my name" "the master" what is going ON with you guys. we are so fucking back

this was really rambling but i love this episode so much, there are so many layers. i'm so hype for the two-parter and hobbit doctor <3. i love when the master says he was killed by "a girl. how inappropriate" we love a chauvinist <3

[olderthannetfic]

I'm a Chinese, nationally and racially. Racial projection seems to be a common practice in western fandom, doesn't it? I find it a bit... weird to witness the drama ignited upon shipping individuals with different races, or the tendency to separate characters into different "colors" even though the world setting doesn't divide races like that. Such practice isn't a thing here. Mind explaining a bit on this phenomenon?

--

Sure, I can try. But of course, fish aren’t very good at explaining the water they swim in.

Americans aren’t good at detecting our own Americanness, and a lot of what you’re seeing is very much culturally American rather than Western in general. (In much of Europe, “race” is a concept used by racists, or so I’m told, unlike in the US where it’s seen more neutrally.) Majority group members (i.e. me, a white girl) aren’t usually the savviest about minority issues, but I’ll give it a shot.

The big picture is that most US race stuff boils down to our attempts to justify and maintain slavery and that dynamic being applied, awkwardly, to everyone else too, even years after we abolished slavery.

There’s a concept called the “one drop rule” where a person is “black” if they have even one drop of black blood.

We used to outlaw “interracial” marriage until quite recently. (That meant marriage between black people and white people with Asians and Hispanic people and others wedged in awkwardly.) Here’s the Wikipedia article on this, which contains the following map showing when we legalized interracial marriage. The red states are 1967.

That’s within living memory for a ton of people! Yellow is 1948 to 1967. This is just not very long ago at all. (Hell, we only fully banned slavery in 1865, which is also just not that long ago when it comes to human culture.)

Why did we have this bananas-crazy set of laws and this idiotic notion that one remote ancestor defines who you are? It boils down to slavery requiring a constant reaffirming that black people are all the same (and subhuman) while white people are all this completely separate category. The minute you start intermarrying, all of that breaks down. This was particularly important in our history because our system of slavery involved the kids of slaves being slaves and nobody really buying their way out. Globally, historically, there are other systems of slavery where there was more mobility or where enslaved people were debtors with a similar background to owners, and thus the people in power were less threatened by ambiguity in identity.

Post-slavery, this shit hung around because it was in the interests of the people in power to maintain a similar status quo where black people are fundamentally Other.

A lot of our obsession with who counts as what is simply a legacy of our racist past that produced our racist present.

--

The other big factor in American concepts of identity is that we see ourselves as a nation of immigrants (ignoring our indigenous peoples, as usual). A lot of people’s families arrived here relatively recently, and we often don’t have good records of exactly where they were from, even aside from enslaved people who obviously wouldn’t have those records. Plenty of people still identify with a general nationality (”Italian-American” and such), but the nuance the family might once have had (specific region of Italy, specific hometown) is often lost. Yeah, I know every place has immigrants, and lots of people don’t have good records, but the US is one of those countries where families have on average moved around a lot more and a lot more recently than some, and it affects our concepts of identity. I think some of the willingness to buy into the idea of “races” rather than “ethnicities” has to do with this flattening of identity.

New immigrant groups were often seen as Other and lesser, but over time, the ones who could manage it got added to our concept of “whiteness”, which gave them access to those same social and economic privileges.

Skin color is a big part of this. In a system that is founded on there being two categories, white owners and black slaves, skin color is obviously going to be about that rather than being more of a class marker like it is in a lot of the world.

But it’s not all about skin color since we have plenty of Europeans with somewhat darker skin who are seen as generically white here, while very pale Asians are not. I’m not super familiar with all of the history of anti-Asian racism in the US, but I think this persistent Otherness probably boils down to Western powers trying to justify colonial activities in Asia plus a bunch of religious bullshit about predominantly Christian nations vs. ones that are predominantly Buddhist or some other religion.

In fact, a lot of racist archetypes in English can be traced back to England’s earliest colonial efforts in Ireland. Justifying colonizing Those People because they’re subhuman and/or ignorant and in need of paternalistic rulers or religious conversion is at the bottom of a lot of racist notions. Ironic that we now see Irish people as clearly “white”.

--

There are a lot of racist porn tropes and racist cultural baggage here around the idea of black people being animalistic. Racist white people think black men want to rape/steal white women from white men. Black women get seen as hypersexual and aggressive. If this sounds like white people projecting in order to justify murder and rape... well, it is.

Similar tropes get applied to a lot of groups, often including Hispanic and Middle Eastern people, though East Asians come in more for creepy fantasies about endlessly submissive and promiscuous women. This nonsense already existed, but it was certainly not helped by WWII servicemen from here and their experiences in Asia. Again, it’s a projection to justify shitty behavior as what the party with less power was “asking for”.

In porn and even romance novels, this tends to turn up as a white character the audience is supposed to identify with paired with an exotic, mysterious Other or an animalistic sexy rapist Other.

A lot of fandoms are based on US media, so all of our racist bullshit does apply to the casting and writing of those, whether or not the fic is by Americans or replicating our racist porn tropes.

(Obviously, things get pretty hilarious and infuriating once Americans get into c-dramas and try to apply the exact same ideas unchanged to mainstream media about the majority group made by a huge and powerful country.)

--

Politically, within the US, white people have had most of the power most of the time. We also make up a big chunk of the population. (This is starting to change in some areas, which has assholes scared shitless.) This means that other groups tend to band together to accomplish shared political goals. They’re minorities here, so they get lumped together.

A lot of Americans become used to seeing the world in terms of “white people” who are powerful oppressors and “people of color” who are oppressed minorities. They’re trying to be progressive and help people with less power, and that’s good, but it obviously becomes awkward when it’s over-applied to looking at, say, China.

--

Now... fandom...

I find that fandom, in general, has a bad habit of holding things to double standards: queer things must be Good Representation™ even when they’re not being produced for that purpose. Same for ethnic minorities or any other minority. US-influenced parts of fandom (which includes a lot of English-speaking fandom) tend to not be very good at accepting that things are just fantasy. This has gotten worse in recent years.

As fandom has gotten more mainstream here, general media criticism about better representation (both in terms of number of characters and in terms of how they’re portrayed) has turned into fanfic criticism (not enough fics about ship X, too many about ship Y, problematic tropes that should not be applied to ship X, etc.). I find this extremely misguided considering the smaller reach of fandom but, more importantly, the lack of barriers to entry. If you think my AO3 fic sucks, you can make an account and post other fic that will be just as findable. You don’t need money or industry connections or to pass any particular hurdle to get your work out there too.

People also (understandably) tend to be hypersensitive to anything that looks like a racist porn trope. My feeling is that many of these are general porn tropes and people are reaching. There are specific tropes where black guys are given a huge dick as part of showing that they’re animalistic and hypersexual, but big dicks are really common in porn in general. The latter doesn’t automatically mean you’re doing the former unless there are other elements present. A/B/O or dubcon doesn’t mean it’s this racist trope either, not unless certain cliched elements are present. OTOH, it’s not hard for a/b/o tropes to feel close to “animalistic guy is rapey”, so I can see why it often bothers people.

A huge, huge, huge proportion of wank is “all rape fantasies are bad” crap too, which muddies the waters. I think a lot of people use “it’s racist” as an easy way to force others to agree with their incorrect claims that dubcon, noncon, a/b/o, etc. are fundamentally bad. Many fans, especially white fans, feel like they don’t know enough to refute claims of racism, so they cave to such arguments even when they’re transparently disingenuous.

--

Not everyone here thinks this way. I know plenty of people offline, particularly a lot of nonwhite people, who think fandom discourse is idiotic and that the people “protecting” people or characters of color are far more racist than the people writing “bad” fic or shipping the wrong thing.

But in general, I’d say that the stuff above is why a lot of us see the world as white people in power vs. everyone else as oppressed victims, interracial relationships as fraught, and porn about them as suspect. Basically, it’s people trying to be more progressive and aware but sometimes causing more harm than good when those attempts go awry.

[cathedreal]

𝔽𝕠𝕣𝕓𝕚𝕕𝕕𝕖𝕟 𝔽𝕣𝕦𝕚𝕥 ℂ𝕙𝕒𝕡𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝟙 ℂ.ℍ

ೄྀ࿐Corpse x Female Reader ೄྀ࿐Genre: Dark Academia ೄྀ࿐Warnings: Mention of: blood, knife + small wounds inflicted, alcohol, smoking/cigarettes, a toxic relationship (not with Corpse) ೄྀ࿐Word count: 3.1K+  ೄྀ࿐Summary: Willow Creek Academy is full of mysteries, or so you find out when you are unwillingly iniated into a secret society with none other than your boyfriend’s best friend, Corpse. Secrets are kept, tensions rise high, and you are in the middle of it all. Together with Corpse, you have to find a way to leave the society and make it out alive while staying under the radar when you find yourselves the primary suspects in a murder case.

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AUTUMN, SEMESTER 1

 “Where the fuck am I?” you mumble, your voice loud in the silence of the room. Warm skin brushes against your own. It makes you shiver. A blindfold is tightly wound around your eyes and your arms are restrained in front of you, trying to move doesn’t help so you stay seated on your knees. 

 The air is stifling and you wonder if it’s because of your panicked state or because of the dustiness of the room itself. It smells like spilled wine, cigarette smoke, books collecting dust on the shelves. You wonder if you’re in the academy’s library but you doubt it. The librarian would have never agreed to holding hostages in there, the books were too precious to risk ruination.

 Your boyfriend, James, had invited you to meet him under the big oak tree on the campus’ edge in the late evening. You often study there, a red pen between your teeth for taking notes, the grass pricking into your thighs familiarly. James rarely sits with you there to study; he finds the grass stains not worth the peacefulness of the rustling of the wind through the leaves, the birds happily chirping in the background to keep you company. He rather studies elsewhere and you wonder if this was the place he frequents.

 You should have realised that when James asked you to meet him there, it was suspicious behaviour. But you had trusted him wholly and now you’re here, on your knees, another person next to you in probably the same position. You wonder if James had something to do with this. You don’t have to wonder for long. The blindfold is ripped away from your eyes and you blink rapidly to get rid of the spots that float in front of them. You don’t see much but hooded figures looming over you dangerously, objects in hand that you can’t quite make out. You glance to the side then and make out curly hair, a collared shirt with a chain dangling against the brown sweater layered above. It glints in the light of the candles surrounding you. 

 “Sol Omnia Regit.”

 “What is happening?” you ask, thrashing around a little in your restraints. A hooded figure suddenly leans close and shushes you. There is a split second where you think you recognise the figure’s eyes but then the person is moving away again, leaving you with a pounding heart.

 Someone leans forward again, sticking out a hand behind themselves to signal something. An object is pressed into their hand and then held out to you. For second, you think it’s a knife or a gun, something to kill you with. There was no other explanation for why you were here but some crazy ritual that you fell victim to. But then...

 "Drink," the person tells you and a crystal glass filled with a dark liquid is pressed to your lips. Blood? you think but when it’s finally pushed past your lips and tilted so you can’t do anything but drink, it proves to be wine. The bitter taste doesn’t leave your mouth even though the glass does.

Another figure crouches down in front of you then, something long glinting in the candlelight. It takes you a few seconds to recognise the object but it’s unmistakably a knife and it’s inching closer to your bound hands. You look up to the hooded figure in panic and the familiar eyes are back, this time they’re closer than before and you can place them easily. “James?” you whisper, your voice hoarse and shaking. James would never hurt you, right? He is your boyfriend, he loves you… 

 Does he? 

 Did he ever? 

 Your mind races as your hands are tugged up so your wrists can rest in the familiar hand which you hold daily. It usually doesn’t feel quite as malicious, sometimes it does, never with other people around.

The person next to you, Corpse, you’re guessing, is holding his breath when you hold it. He can probably see the knife too, twisting expertly in James’ hand. Without deigning you with a response, James cuts into the palm of your hand and you hiss at the sting, You want to say that it is stupid to cut someone there, the palm of a hand has too many nerve endings and you could do a lot of damage but the deed has already been done. 

 Your palm is pressed against a sheet of paper with writing that you can’t quite make out and you realise that it is a contract. It’s unethical, you try to protest, you can’t make someone sign something they haven’t read, but you’re pushed back again and Corpse sucks in his breath next to you.

 "Welcome to Sol Regnum, Y/N and Corpse. You have completed your initiation."

 The lights are turned on and you squint against the sudden brightness blinding you. It takes you a few moments before you can finally look around again, the figures clad fully in black with golden threads running through the mantels they’re wearing finally take off their hoods and James is smirking down at you both.

 “My girlfriend and best friend, finally initiated,” he says, opening his arms as if he has just won the greatest victory. It feels nothing like that. 

 You exchange a look with Corpse, one filled with confusion and worry, before you let your eyes wander around the room. Heavy curtains hang in front of the tall windows, blocking out every possible source of light from the outside. Even the moon can’t shine through. The room is cast in shadows from the now dulled lighting. Your eyes are used to the light again and it is not as bright as it was when someone had snapped them on. The lights have a yellow cast over them, making everyone look just a little bit sick. There are books strewn around the room, the bookcases, which run along one big wall, are all stuffed full so the makeshift piles of books in the corners are there not for aesthetic purposes, but for necessity. Broken busts sit on the floor sadly, some missing a nose, other half of their head. You wonder if it’s a metaphor for something, if the busts represent the brokenness of the secret society you were now initiated in. 

 Everything is starting to make sense now. How James had often disappeared at night, leaving you alone in his bed, wondering if he was with another girl. How there were whispers in the hallway wherever you went as of late, something you had blamed on your own insecurities haunting you rather than real people doing so. How James had looked at you in a way that sent shivers down your spine and not in a good way. It had felt malicious, like there was something waiting for you that you didn’t know anything about. But he did, he probably planned the whole thing.

 Corpse is back up on his feet before you are and he rounds up on James, pulling him into a corner of the room with a firm hand. You blindly follow, avoiding the glances that the other members of this society throw you. It feels like they’re evaluating you even past your initiation. You want to scream at them that you never asked for this, that you didn’t even want to be initiated in a society that you know nothing about. You were forced here but you doubt they would care.

 “No warning, nothing,” you hear from the corner. Corpse’s hand is still pressing into James’ shoulder, his other hand drumming restlessly on his thigh. There is a lone cigarette sticking out from Corpse’s curly hair, balancing dangerously on his ear. You step closer, take your place next to Corpse where it usually was next to James. You’re on Corpse’s side in this matter, though, and James can know that, no matter what the repercussions were.

 You shake your head at James as he laughs good-naturedly. He is the star of the university, the golden boy, the popular guy everyone wants to either have or be friends with. After a year or so of being in a relationship with him, however, you know better than to trust his charismatic laugh, the crinkle in the skin next to his eyes that solidifies his position as the good guy. There was danger in his smile, a certain sense of disingenuousness in the sound of his laughter. 

 You step closer to Corpse.

 “I agree, James. What were you thinking? You never even ask-”

 “Why would I?” James asks and steps closer to you, the shadows casting over his face are making him look like he is the villain of a big play, ready to kill the main character.

 Corpse, cast as the hero, places himself in front of you, half-shielding you with his body. Corpse’s hands are shaking next to his sides but he’s still there, back straight, shoulders down, his head raised which gives him the advantage of a few inches over James.

 “She’s right, you should have asked if we even wanted this.”

 “It’s the opportunity of a life-time! This society will ensure that you will have a good future, something to pass down to your children.”

 You let a hollow laugh escape and the both of them turn to you. “We’re rich, James. All of us are. There was no need for a fucking society, we’re ensured a good future whether we even graduate or not.”

 James shrugs and your hands clench into fists at his nonchalance. You gasp softly when you feel the wound in the palm of your hand. When you open it again, blood rolls from your fingers and drips onto the carpet, just barely missing your shoes. “I’m going back to the dorms,” you say, desperate to get away from the claustrophobic feeling this room gives you. James shakes his head, though, and you stay in place, waiting for him to come up with one good reason for you to stay.

“The party is just getting started,” he says and music begins playing. It sounds as if it is played from an old record, the scratchiness that you would appreciate in other situations doing nothing but grating your ears. James pushes past you and Corpse both and returns with three glasses of the same wine you were forced to drink just minutes ago. It’s pushed into your hands before you can protest. The other members raise their glasses, their eyes on you and Corpse who twitches uncomfortably next to you. It’s a toast but it feels more like a warning of what is to come.

 “Come on, Y/N,” James says and wraps an arm around your waist. You shy away from the touch a little but his grip is hard, his fingertips possibly pressing bruises into your skin. “Corpse?” he adds, waiting for Corpse to hesitantly fall in line next to him. You briefly wish he was on your side instead of James’ but shake it off again. There were more important things to focus on.

 James insists that they meet the others but every person you meet is not the type of person you would want to be friends with. Arrogance and coldness roll off of them in waves, sending you the clear message that you’re not wanted here. From the way Corpse barely answers the few questions they have for you both, you realise that he feels the same. 

 You met Corpse when you started dating James. He is James’ best friend after all, or was, depending on how Corpse feels about this all. He was a little shy when you met him, didn’t say a lot but when he opened up a little, he was charming, funny. Most notably, his voice is low, something that is whispered about in the hallways of Willow Creek Academy. Despite what others say about his voice, to you it’s not weird or unusual, it’s soothing, like melted chocolate. A balm for the soul.

 Minutes pass by and as the alcohol flows freely, the inhibitions of people are lowered. There is a couple making out on the couch next to you, hands roaming each other’s body in a way that seems too private to be doing in front of a room full of people but nobody even bats an eye.

 Corpse is nowhere to be found for a little while but eventually comes back to the loveseat you’re sitting on, pointedly taking James’s place next to you. “When can we leave?” he asks, sipping his wine. You wonder how many he had but you can’t fault him for drinking. You wish you could stomach it yourself.

 “I don’t know, soon, I hope,” you answer and look around. There are people dancing to imaginary music that doesn’t match the one playing, people laughing in corners, hands pulling others behind furniture so they are just barely out of sight.

 You hear Corpse curse and when your eyes meet his again, they look slightly panicked. There are manicured hands roaming down his chest for a second before Corpse is standing again, holding out his hand to you in a clear message that you happily read correctly.

 Corpse helps you up and let’s go right away, something you unconsciously mourn. You would have liked to have Corpse’s hand in your own for a little bit longer. The touch of someone semi-familiar in a room filled with strange people would keep you from freaking out as you wade through the partying people.

 Something in this all reminds you of a bacchanal; wine, freedom, ecstasy. It seems to live in the various people here, even James isn’t untouched as his tie is halfway down his chest when you find him, his body moving close with someone else. 

 You rarely get jealous but something about this leaves a bad taste in your mouth.

 “We’re going,” Corpse announces and tries to pull away when James reaches out to catch his arm, he’s too slow. James whispers something to Corpse and you watch as his expression changes. You don’t dare to ask when you are led back outside. Corpse’s expression is thunderous and it only relaxes when he pulls out his cigarette from behind his ear with shaky fingers and lits it.

 You watch as the smoke bellows and floats up to the sky in figures you try to form recognisable shapes out of. Corpse passes his cigarette to you and you happily take it, feeling the pressure of an impending migraine disappear a little.

 “That was… Something,” you say for a lack of better words. Corpse nods but doesn’t say more. He doesn’t need to. You both know that it was insane what happened, you’re both scared for what this secret society will bring in the future, you both worry about the contract you couldn’t read in the privacy of your own minds.

 Corpse passes the house which holds the male dorms and keeps walking next to you to the other end of the campus. You thank him softly, he nods in recognition. No place is safe for a woman to walk alone and with Corpse you feel strangely safe.

 The early autumn leaves crunch under your shoes when you walk, your footsteps loud in the quiet of the evening. Your pace matches Corpse’s, though you feel like he’s letting you set the pace so you can keep up with each other.

 The building of the women’s dorm is becoming more and more visible the further you walk down the path. It’s sitting stately behind a lush garden you often tend to in your free time, as do the other girls in the building. It brings liveliness into the place which is made solely out of brick outside of it. It’s an old building, you don’t know for sure what it was before it became a campus but you think it must have been a guest house on the castle grounds. 

 Corpse walks you to the door and takes a step back when you retrieve your key. You almost invite him up to take care of his hand. Instead you make him promise to take care of it himself.

 “What do we do about the society thing?” you ask, stalling a little. You’re scared to be left alone with your thoughts right now. Corpse seems to guess it and leans against the pillar that holds up the front of the house, making no movement to leave.

 He shrugs a little and looks off into the distance. You follow his gaze but there is nothing there. “Not much we can do. The contract, though… We need to know what was on there. Maybe we can get out of it.” “I doubt it,” you laugh humourlessly but you nod anyways. “I’d rather see it first than give up immediately. I’m just not sure how to get to it.”

 “We could ditch class,” Corpse suggests, a smirk now growing on his face. You know already that Corpse didn’t attend half of the classes that he should but you laugh a little anyways, this time it’s genuine.

 “You’re an idiot,” you mumble and Corpse’s smirk grows wider, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “A smart one, though. I don’t think any of them will skip classes, even after a party like tonight.”

 “What can I say? I’m a mastermind,” Corpse jokes and pulls out his phone, handing it to you demonstratively. You put in your number on automatic pilot. “Text me when you wake up, we’ll decide on a class together then.”

 You accidentally leave a smear of blood behind on Corpse’s phone but he either hasn’t seen it or doesn’t care enough to mention it. “I’ll text you,” you promise and open the door fully now.

 There is still laughter in the hallways, soft voices that make you relax a little. You suddenly feel bone tired now that you’re in a place that signifies comfort and rest. Corpse notices and waves you inside.

 “Goodnight, Y/N. Take care of your wound.”

 You watch Corpse walk away and become one with the darkness before you finally step inside. You sluggishly climb the stairs and make your way to your dorm room, an action that takes longer than it should have. You shrug off your coat and drop it somewhere, you’d care about the crinkles you put in it in the morning. You find your first aid kit in the bathroom and pour some alcohol on the wound. It makes tears spring in your eyes but it’s necessary so you get through it on pure willpower alone. After bandaging the wound, you shed most of your clothes and finally climb into bed. You don’t even have the energy to put out the light before you fall asleep, nightmares dragging you down with them.

𝕋𝔸𝔾𝕃𝕀𝕊𝕋  𝕆ℙ𝔼ℕ: 

@headcannonsforlife @katyasrussianaccent @boiled-onionrings @satanhauntedourcats​ @ravennightingaleandavatempus​

[captainmazzic]

Happy Halloween.

So it’s about time I gave a real fucking update instead of just dicking around being cagey about shit. I’ve mentioned a new project repeatedly. So let’s sit down and actually talk about it, friends. Pull up a chair, grab yourself some hot cocoa and strap in. Welcome to Sarc’s emotional roller coaster.

Bear with me. This is hard to talk about for so many reasons, but mostly because I’ve been belittled and ridiculed so many times in my life for liking “cringy” things or wanting to do things that other people think are stupid or childish. I hear the voice of my father telling me to “make something of my life” and “don’t squander your talents”, I hear the voice of my mother telling me I have “so much potential” and “one day I hope you get some ambition”, I hear the voice of my ex telling me to “stop wasting time with stupid shit” and “nobody is interested in failures”. I hear old teachers telling me honor roll students should go to college and study high-demand majors and anything else would be lazy and detrimental and won’t contribute anything worthwhile to society.

It’s the same shit that prevented me for a long time from posting art online. From posting writing online. From making ocs and showing them to other people. And now it’s preventing me from starting this project, and I’m so, so tired of it.

My biggest fear right now is that once I start talking about this project I’ll lose this tiny little community of people vaguely interested in my stuff that have somehow stuck around. External validation and sharing the things I love are my primary motivations with everything I do online, and while screaming into the void is all well and good, I need feedback and interaction and community. I need it so, so badly. I wouldn’t post jack shit – ever – if I didn’t need that, to be honest.

So anyway.

When the pandemic kicked into high gear earlier this year I got laid off for a few months. It gave me a lot of time to think about who I am and where I wanted to be in life, what mattered to me, what dreams I still had and which ones had fallen by the wayside.

Some of them are huge – once upon a time I was very religious. I went through seminary, got my minister’s certification, and was slated to be an associate pastor in a mega-church and rake in a six-figure income within 3 years. But I lost my faith and couldn’t stand the idea of being disingenuous.

And there was also a time when I received a full-ride scholarship to a very prestigious university that would have spanned a 12-year program and resulted in me having several doctorates and masters degrees by the end of it, in the fields of geology, palaeontology, and cladistics. But the scholarship program that was supposed to sponsor me went bankrupt the very semester I was supposed to capitalize on it. I was still accepted into the school, but the $1.2 million price tag would have all been out of my own pocket. So obviously that didn’t happen.

Those were the “acceptable” dreams. Those were the ones that parents and teachers and the general outside world approved of and thought were worthy goals. But neither of them panned out, and all I have left are the cringy ones. Like homesteading and sustainable living (can’t start without land, can’t have land without money). Like making comic books and doing art commissions for a living (it has to be steady to support myself, and I’m far too slow an artist for things to be steady). And like… playing video games.

Ha.

What’s funny is I can already envision the eyerolls and hear the snorts of laughter. What kind of dream is that? Only a handful of famous youtubers and twitch celebrities play video games for a living, and breaking into a field like that is pretty much impossible unless you already have friends in famous places.

Yeah, but… it would be so much fun. Right?

It WOULD be fun. I don’t have to become a super popular celebrity for it to be fun, right?

I don’t have to make it my day job and rake in piles of cash for it to be fun, right?

… I don’t have to actually be successful for it to be fun… right?

… Right?

:/

… I love video games.

I’ve loved them ever since I tried and failed so many times to win The Empire Strikes Back on Atari 2600. I’ve loved them ever since I played Mortal Kombat with my cousin in his basement with the sound down super low because it was ultra-violent and I would have been in so much trouble if mom caught me playing it. I’ve loved them ever since I tried and failed to finish Strife and Hexen and Heretic without the computer crashing and rebooting to DOS. I’ve loved them ever since I had to cheat-code my way through Jedi Knight: Dark Forces II just to get past the first boss fight but then no-clipped through the wall and died anyway. I still love that game.

But I stopped playing video games for a very long time. I was intimidated out of them by an ex and a somewhat toxic friend group who were Real Gamers™. I was brought to LAN parties but not allowed to play, because I slowed down the team and didn’t know the controls. I was banned from commenting on other people’s moves or cheering people on because it was distracting and I could cost them a win. I was even kicked out of their online D&D campaigns because I couldn’t be serious enough or roleplay well enough for their standards. Even if I was playing a game on my own, I couldn’t play with anyone else in the house because I’d be ridiculed for dying a lot, or for going the wrong way, or for picking the wrong game because only certain games are “good” and most of the ones I wanted to play were “stupid” or “trash” or a “waste of time”.

That kind of thing sits with me for a very, very long time. I didn’t really play games at all for over a decade. Even after I ended up on the opposite side of the country, with a new circle of friends, I couldn’t bring myself to play much of anything.

And then I had an extended visit with a friend of mine, and he introduced me to an early version of a ridiculous little game called Minecraft. My friend was an avid gamer but also a very kind one. In the ten years before this, I had told myself that I just preferred to watch other people play games instead of playing them myself (a lie. I mean, I absolutely adore watching other people play, but I also want to play too lol), my friend saw through that and very gently encouraged me to take a stab at playing Minecraft myself. He moved his laptop over to me, and I played a whole ten minutes with him watching before my nerves failed me and I promptly died. But miraculously it wasn’t a big deal to him. It was just a game. I might have cried in relief, I don’t remember.

After my visit I shelved playing video games for like another year, despite buying a whole mess of them because other friends online loved certain titles and wanted to talk about them with me. (I never played them, just bought them. I couldn’t even handle the thought of playing by myself in my own house). But for some reason I mentioned to my brother-in-law my old visit to my Minecraft-loving friend, and he just… up and bought the game for me. My brother-in-law is also an avid gamer with a lovely and patient disposition, and he suggested I just play in creative mode and build things to start. So I did that (behind a locked door in the RV that I lived in by myself, with the lights off and the sound down low) and Minecraft was my sole video game for another several years.

Then a couple years ago another friend of mine (hi Char) introduced me to Star Wars: The Old Republic, and I fell in love. It sparked a renewed interest in video games that I thought I would never really have the opportunity to satisfy, because games were still intimidating.

Let me clarify: I… SUCK. At video games. I’m terrible at them. Learning controls is a nightmare and a tunicate evolving its own brain would learn faster than me. If I’m aiming, I can’t hit the broad side of a barn. I have the direction sense of a whirligig beetle on the back of a drunk pigeon. I die fast and I die often. I can count the number of games I’ve actually finished on one hand. Even less if we don’t count the ones I had to use cheat codes to get through. But none of that diminishes my love of experiencing them, and over this whole pandemic and quarantine thing I’ve had a lot of time to unpack and mull over my thoughts and feelings and passions about them.

… I moved my RV to a new spot literally the day before the lockdown in my state first initiated. Before this I was in a spot that had no internet other than what reception I could get on my phone, with severely limited bandwidth and patchy, unreliable service. The new spot has a steady wi-fi connection, and while upload speed is utter shit, downloading and streaming video are just this side of manageable. So I spent the first three months of the quarantine lockdown doing pretty much nothing other than watching Jacksepticeye, CrankGameplays, and Markiplier play video games on YouTube. (I honestly had no idea before this that people even did let’s plays. My internet access/speed has been shit for so long I’m totally out of the loop).

It… for fear of sounding utterly stupid yet again, it inspired me.

Like. These people really love what they’re doing. They just. Play video games and have fun with it, and I mean yeah they make money hand-over-fist doing it but the main thing is they HAVE FUN doing it. They have fun! Playing video games! In front of people! It’s wild. And the thing that REALLY got me was… they have feedback on it too. They have a COMMUNITY. They have people they can talk to about it. They have people that they can play games WITH, even, who don’t yell at them or tell them they suck every five minutes or tell them they can’t play with them because they’re worthless as teammates. They can fuck up in a game and their friends are laughing along with them on Discord instead of screaming at them to get it right or get out. They can play games by themselves in their house and then upload videos on the internet and then they can talk to other people about it! They have fun! It’s awesome! They have fun!!

I just. It meant so much to me. It meant so much to me to see these videos of these three, and then another dozen or so that I’ve followed since, play all these games and have such a good time and also be such a positive and kind and encouraging source of energy.

I know all of this is not exactly about video games specifically. It’s about coming to terms with how I’ve been treated as a person and as a friend, about how other people respect someone’s interests and passions, about how it’s okay to share your interests with other people and it’s okay to like things that other people might not care about or think are important.

And I’m so, so tired of not doing the things I love because I’m afraid of what other people will think.

So I, uh. I invested all of the stimulus money I had into a new rig and equipment like a camera, lighting, acoustic panels, all that shit. I dug out all the games I bought but never played, I made accounts on all the big gaming services like Steam and Itch.io and GoG, and I made a YouTube channel. And I’m going to be making my own let’s plays. And it will suck, and it will be cringy and awkward and badly done, and it won’t make me money or be a valid career option or be anything but another very expensive hobby, but it will be mine, and it will be something I can share with people and (hopefully) have fun with, and it will (hopefully) be an avenue for some of this positive social interaction I’m craving.

I know YouTube can be toxic and super negative and full of trolls and cancel culture fanatics and people just waiting to find something to tear you down for, but like. Come on, y’all. I’m posting this on tumblr dot com. Toxic is everywhere anyway. I just want to try, you know?

I just want to love video games again.

Someone famous that I look up to so, so much told me – without knowing that I was even listening, without even knowing that I even exist – that if I enjoy doing something, to just go for it. To just jump in and do it, and if it works then it works, and if it doesn’t, what have I actually lost?

And I’m lucky enough to have four whole offline friends that I’ve mentioned this idea to, and each of them has said encouraging things like I’d have a good voice and face and style for making let’s plays. I honestly don’t know how true that part is, but on my good days I believe them. And they also said that I should go for it, to just try.

So that’s… that’s what I’m doing, I guess. I just want to try.

I know it’s not Star Wars fanart. I know it’s not Star Wars fanfiction. I know it’s not Star Wars meta or essays or ranting about the Sith and the Jedi and the Force. I know it’s not what y’all want from me. And that’s utterly terrifying. I’m bracing myself to be alone on the internet again, because I know that when I dive headfirst into this thing, it’ll eat away into the time that I normally might be spending doing writing or art, and it’s going to be something no one else wants to see and no one signed up for. And that’s partly why it’s taken me so very, very long to get started.

The other part is more physical. Of course as soon as I decide that I’m going to put my face on a camera is when my entire face goes to shit. I’m currently waiting on a potential diagnosis for mouth cancer, while already dealing with a severe jaw infection that’s causing my teeth and gums to rot inside my mouth. They already took part of my jaw, I’m missing teeth, others are turning black, if I open my mouth even just a little it is so obvious and I look like a very, very literal zombie. I have never been more grateful that masks are socially acceptable. I have a series of twelve appointments scheduled to treat this shit now that I have dental and health insurance (goodbye paycheque), and I might qualify for reconstruction surgery too. But that doesn’t really help how I look right now.

So I just can’t bring myself to start this project just yet. I’ve been sitting on it for months now with all the other pieces in place, but I just. Can’t. Start. It’s driving me crazy, because I want to start so badly. I feel like I’m wasting time. I feel like I’ve already wasted so much time, because I haven’t even done anything else in the meantime. I haven’t done hardly any art or fanfic, nothing. My anxiety is spiking so high right now because I have all these expectations of myself, but I can’t do anything about it. I’ve been told that I could just start without a camera or wear a mask on screen, and I’ve actually done some recording doing exactly that, but I just… can’t seem to make anything I want to finalize.

It’s also frustrating because I have no way of uploading anything at home. I’ll have to go over to my partner’s house which is nearly an hour’s drive away in order to get internet good enough to upload videos, which means that upload schedules are going to be shiiiiiit and that’s also frustrating.

But. But. BUT. I want to do this.

I want to do this so badly. I want to share let’s plays and experience a love of video games with other people. I want to actually play games with other people too. I also just acquired a piano keyboard, and I want to play again on the regular because I miss it so much. I used to play piano for hours every single day, it’s so relaxing and fun, maybe I can post that too. Maybe I can post let’s draws or something, where I ask y’all what to draw and then make a video of me drawing it while bullshitting to the camera I don’t know it sounds like fun. Maybe I can post videos of my cooking because the shit I make seems to be everyone’s favourite thing on instagram, and maybe I can take my camera with me when I go to the ocean or hike up into the middle of nowhere in the mountains and film how beautiful everything is up there. Or maybe I can do none of that and just focus on one thing, I honestly have no idea what I’m doing or how to do it, but I just… I want to try. I just want to try.

I don’t know where any of this is going anymore. I’m sorry I haven’t responded to messages, or opened up commissions. I’m sorry that this isn’t what y’all wanted. I’m still going to continue drawing and writing, I’m still going to be around, I’m not going anywhere, but I have no idea how prolific I’m going to be and I have no idea even when I’ll start uploading videos, to be honest. But I just. I’m just gonna try. It might still take me a while but I’m gonna try. Wish me luck. I love y’all.

[bazypitchandsimonsnow]

Mages Don’t Meddle

Rating: M

Genre: Angst/Mild Fluff

Word count: 16091

Summary: In a world where magic users must fear each other, Baz Pitch, a British born hex hiding in the 19th century American southwest, is just trying to stay alive. But when he meets a fellow British hex, his world is turned upside down in the most awful, amazing ways possible. PLEASE READ FIRST AUTHOR'S NOTE!!!!

Read on AO3

AN: Alright some of you may know that my favourite book series of all time is The Hexslinger Series by Gemma Files. It’s a gory but brilliant horror/dark fantasy weird western trilogy about gay cowboy wizards fighting Aztec gods. (It's also where my AO3 username comes from). I've been writing this AU on and off for like two years now lol. So when I saw this event, I saw it as motivation to finally finish it. And I did! Idk how many people are gonna like this, considering the obscurity of the books. The mythos is a bit complicated so here are the basic rules of the Hexslinger world:

1. Magic users exist, called "hexes" or "hexslingers” by most English speakers. They’re commonly known of and feared by some humans because of their immense, usually unstable power. Their magic is usually called "hexation" and a common descriptor for anything to do with them is "hexacious." Being a hex can either be passed down from parent to child or appears randomly. Most are children of a hex man and a human woman as pregnancy for a hex woman can be very risky to mother and child, but it's still possible.

2. Hexes aren’t usually born having magic. Their powers manifest at some point later in their lives except in very rare circumstances. For women it usually appears after their first period, while for men it’s usually after some sort of grievous bodily harm, e.g getting hanged or beaten. Before manifestation, some hexes show no sign of magic at all, while others have hints like perfect aim or weirdly good luck. It depends on the person and their power level.

3. Hex magic varies between people based on personality, culture, family history, and power level/type. For example, an experienced Chinese born hex with refined power will have a very different kind of magic than a newly manifested American born hex with more chaotic power. (That’s literally just from the original books lol.) Even hexes similar in multiple aspects can be completely different in the way their magic is expressed.

4. The only universal trait between hexes is that they all have the urge to feed off each other’s magic. They’re like magic vampires (wink wink). If they get too close to each other, they have the immediate urge to absorb the other's power and kill them. It’s completely instinctual and very hard to resist. Hence why hexes can’t be around each other. Or, to use the common phrase from the universe, “mages don’t meddle.”Okay that's the basics. There's A LOT of other stuff but I think that's all you need to know for this fic imo.

TRIGGER WARNINGS: So there's some period typical racism scattered around due Baz being brown in the 19th century American south. It's not too harsh imo but I still want to warn people. I hope I handled it alright, considering I'm a white af Canadian Irish-Jew, but if I didn't I'm very sorry. There's also a bit of period typical homophobia at the start. The closest I get to slurs is the use of "red" and "Indian" in reference to Indigenous people, "queer" in a negative context, references to sand because Baz says he's Egyptian, and Baz being called "darker folk." I felt it would be disingenuous to not include bigotry of the past and pretend things would be all okay for a queer POC like Baz. Especially since Hexslinger itself has major themes of homophobia, racism, and not being accepted in the majority of society. A few mentions of suicide, self harm, and torture too in relation to hex powers emerging too, which is also major in Hexslinger. The series itself is pretty brutal and dirty with lots of bigotry, blood, guts, and death. So those elements have gotten in here. There is some flesh burning stuff but I don't think it's that graphic, feels pretty typical for Carry On imo. Hopefully this all works well/makes sense.

As always, big thanks to Raegan of @carryonmylovelies Now with that all out of the way, enjoy!

———————————————

I gingerly take a sip of my whiskey. It's a horrible rotgut shite, but there’s worse stuff out in the wild west. This Slipfoot Joe’s seems to be okay by my now very, very low standards for this area.

“Well well, if it ain’t a pretty red boy,” the man behind me croons. His voice makes evey inch of my skin crawl.

I let out a deep sigh. I’ve been expecting this, but I’m still not pleased. “Piss off, arsehole.”

“Oh! Didn’t know Indians could sound English!”

“I’m British Egyptian, you twit.”

The man leans on the bar, smiling wide. It’s easier to count the few teeth he has than guess how many he’s lost. “What brings your sandy ass to our great country?”

The Call. The unending Call that signals all of us to come here.

I take another long sip. “Your gorgeous face, obviously. How much do you charge? I’ve heard American men are cheaper here than in England.”

The man reels back scowling. “You think I’m some queer?!”

“Well, I assumed so. Considering you were just flirting with me, a man.”

He snarls, whipping out his pathetic little pistol. The barrel shakes nonstop. “You got some nerve, boy!”

I finish the whiskey and delicately place the glass rim first on the filthy bar. “And you’re a racist bastard. You don’t see me getting all pissy.”

The gunshot happens in slow motion for me. I don’t even need to turn. I simply hold one hand in front of me and let my magic pour from me like a dragon’s breath. It curls out in front of me, a circle of blacks and charcoal greys and burning scarlets. Every hex’s magic is different. Mine is like a constant roaring fire, always threatening to consume me.

The bullet hits the shield with a tinny clink. Racist Man is frozen with wide, terrified eyes. I turn to him, orange and red reflecting in my grey eyes.

“You- You’re... a hex?!” He splutters.

“Thought that was pretty bloody obvious. Now go, before I drink your blood.”

Racist Man and his buddy scamper out of the tavern. I let the force field dissipate, crackling and popping in the air like a dying campfire. Joe, the bartender and eponymous Slipfoot, sighs as he cleans another glass.

“You know,” Joe says, “I’ve met other hexes. They’re stupid reckless assholes but they ain’t ever drank blood. Just suck each other’s magic.”

I chuckle. “Well they don’t know that, do they?”

“No, lucky for you. What’s a Brit like you even doin’ here anyway?”

My mouth presses into a thin line. I envy him. He can't hear The Call from that damned Hex City. I heard it all the way in Washington, and before I knew it I was on a train southeast. The only reason I haven’t actually gone to the horrid place is sheer stubbornness.

“I’m a hex. Where else would I be going?”

Joe freezes. He stares at me with more concern than fear. “I’d be careful, son. Those hexes I met? One of them was Reverend Rook himself. He’s beyond bad news, ‘specially with that heathen goddess by his side.”

“I know.” I trace my finger on the old wood, trying to focus on that instead of the ringing in my head. “But what choice do I have?”

———————————————

1867, two years after America’s bloody civil war, and it seems they’re about to be plunged into a new one. Except it won’t be slavery versus abolition this time, but humans versus magic. 

The news has spread like wildfire. In the final days of the war, a confederate soldier and unofficial chaplain named “Reverend” Asher Rook was sentenced to hang for abandoning his regiment. But he survived, and the suffering of the ordeal caused his hex powers to emerge. Rumour has it one Bible verse from his lips can level an entire town. Rook decided to use his new powers to steal and murder his way through the west, aided by his ruthless gunslinging lieutenant (and rumoured lover) Chess Pargeter.

He should’ve been just another hex outlaw for those American Pinkertons to take down. But somehow, a mere month ago, Rook made a pact with an Aztec goddess. And together they’ve created New Azteclan, or Hex City to the common man. According to the magical homing signal I hear, that every hex hears, it’s a place where hexes can lose their insatiable urge to feed off each other’s magic. We’ll no longer have to be loners by nature, picked off one by one by humanity. We could be together. We could be safe.

But at what cost? Nothing in life comes without a cost. I know that too well. My magic cost me my home, my family, and a good part of my sanity. I’d do anything to not be a danger to others anymore. And the possibility is right there. All I need to do is go further south and cross the border into Mexico to reach Hex City. But once I do that, there’s no going back. The temptation of the Call will be too strong. And whatever price The Reverend wants, he’ll get it from me.

I sit at the fire, chewing on some absolutely horrific jerky. I’m trying to focus on the flames instead of the voice in my head. I’m not sure whose it is. Maybe Rook’s, maybe his witch goddess’. It doesn’t have a discernible tone, just sort of an indistinct everyman sound, or a thousand voices speaking the same thing. Either way, it’s very annoying.

Come, it whispers. Come seek out Ixchel, the Mother of Hanged Men. Come stand before Her priest-king, to offer up your service. Come to build the First City of the Sixth World- the world of wonder, the world of power. Come, and join New Azteclan.

“Shut up, shut up, shut up!” I shout into emptiness, slamming the side of my head with my fist.

“I haven’t said anything yet,” someone replies weakly.

I bolt up. My magic roars to life inside me, a fireball forming in the palm of my hand. “Who said that?!”

The man slowly steps out of the darkness. He must be no older than myself, with his young, round freckled face. He has curly bronze hair, capped by an old second hand cowboy hat. His brown leather coat, plaid shirt, riding boots, and jeans are all filthy with desert dirt. A horse with saddle bags stands behind him. His blue eyes are wide and nervous. I notice a smell on him. Like green fire and smoke, with a strong scent of something brown and sweet. He smells like something I would gladly eat.

He’s a hex.

“Don’t you dare come any closer, you prick,” I say between gritted teeth. “I won’t hesitate to burn you to a crisp.”

The other boy shakes his head. “I’m not here to drain you. I...I just wanted to ask for some help.” He sounds British like me, but more rough and nervous, stumbling over his words.

“Yeah, right. Do I look that gullible? ‘Mages don’t meddle.’ We’d all drain each other dry if we were given the chance.”

He sighs heavily. “Well, of course I want to by instinct, but I’m not going to. I was just wondering if you had any food. All of mine got stolen by some angry humans.”

I consider just turning him away, or draining his magic and leaving his dried out corpse for the vultures. But he looks so desperate. How long has this young man been out here alone? My aunt had always warned me to be wary of all other hexes. We’re a bloodthirsty species, Basil. Never trust another hex, ever. Not even me. But I’m not my aunt.

I sit down again. “Fine. You can have some jerky. Just don’t come too close alright? I’d like to keep my magic and soul where they are, please.”

The man smiles (he has a nice smile) and sits opposite me at the fire. I throw a bag of jerky, and he catches in one hand. He shoves it in his mouth like a ravenous animal.

“So,” I say, “what’s your name?”

“Simon Snow,” he rep;ies, mouth still half full. “Your’s?”

“Baz Pitch.” Simon chuckles a bit, and I frown. “What’s so funny?

“Well, Baz Pitch is a pretty ridiculous name.”

“No more ridiculous than Simon Snow,” I snap. “What, were you named by circus performers?”

“Maybe. Not sure, actually.” Snow looks at the fire, but it feels like he’s looking right through it, his gaze very far away.

“Why’s that?”

Simon shakes his head. “Hey, are you going to Hex City?”

I huff, blowing some loose, dirty hair out of my eyes. I’m too tired to stop him from changing the subject. “I don’t know. Are you?

He shrugs. “Maybe. So far I am. The stories and Call do make it sound so wonderful.”

I scoff loudly. “Of course they do. Rook wants people to come. Then we’ll get there and be sacrificed to his bloodthirsty goddess. That’s probably what happened to Pargeter. No one’s heard from him lately, according to the locals.”

“But we’ll lose the hunger! What if the Reverend just wants us to be safe? Y’know, as a kindness to his own people.”

“No one does anything out of kindness, Snow. Least of all hexes.”

“You gave me food out of kindness, didn’t you?”

I glare at him over the flames. He shrugs with a faint smile. Fuck. He has a really nice smile.

 “I’m going to sleep,” I mutter. “But I’m putting a shield around me. Touch it and you’ll be burned alive. So don’t get any ideas about taking my magic.”

Simon throws his hands up in innocence. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

I lay down on my pallet, throwing up my force field. The crackle and hiss of magic around me distracts from the beautiful mage no more than seven feet from me. Whom I’m not sure I want to kiss or kill. Maybe both.

———————————————

I wake when the sun's centre in the sky. I’m breathing, so this Simon Snow hasn’t drained me dry. That’s good, I guess. 

I sit up bleary eyed. Snow is passed out on his own cot, drooling profusely with his mouth wide open (mouth breather). He’s put up his own shield, of course, (at least he’s somewhat sensible). It sort of looks like an electrical explosion, white bolts constantly combusting around him in bubble form. He smells so powerful. It’s taking all of my willpower to not hurt him. To not submit to my basic hex desires.

I take my sweet time to pack my things and douse the fire pit, secretly hoping Simon will wake up before I run out of excuses. Luckily, with a very loud snort, Snow bolts upwards. There’s terror in his eyes, and his breath is uneven and shallow. I know that look. I’m no stranger to nightmares myself.

“A good morning to you, Snow,” I say.

Simon lets out a long breath, waving a hand to dissolve his shield. “You didn’t kill me.”

“And you didn’t kill me. What a miracle.”

“I’ll say. Are you leaving?”

“Obviously.”

“Where to?”

I sigh heavily. “Well, my map says, there’s a town southeast from here. I haven’t been there before but it probably isn’t too bad. I was going to hide there for at least a bit.”

Simon picks at his nail beds, even though they’re already ragged and bloody. “Can I...can I come with you? I haven’t been around anyone in so long, y’know. It’d be nice to have someone to talk to”

I look at him with the most neutral gaze I can muster. “Are you going to kill me?”

He shrugs. “Haven’t killed you yet, have I?”

“There’s still time.”

Simon stands up, brushing the dust off his pants. “Alright, then I’ll make myself very clear. Baz, I’m not going to kill you. I’m not going to fight you at all, alright?”

I must admit that I’ve been lonely these few months in the desert. Hell, I’ve been lonely for the past few years. I’ve actually missed the company of others. But it’s not like humans or hexes want to be around me. Except for this one, it seems. Maybe this wouldn’t be too bad. If we don’t kill each other first that is.

“Alright, fine. Just don’t try anything or I’ll burn you from the inside out.”

Simon keeps smiling. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

We mount our horses and ride off. I try to keep my eyes ahead instead of on Snow.

———————————————

“I can’t believe the food here,” Snow says. “It’s so much more spicy than in the North.”

“We are closer to Mexico, Snow,” I reply. I’m trying to figure out our route, while also listening to Snow when he’s more than six feet away. The hunger is manageable from this distance. Mostly.

“Well, yeah, but it’s so insane! Why can’t the north people get some spice from here? It would make their chicken more tolerable. London street food was awful but at least it had some flavour!”

That makes me snort out a laugh no matter how much I try not to. Snow grins at me, and his face is literal sunshine. Why must he be so perfect? It’s not fair. “London street food? You mean fish and chips? Those aren’t half bad, if I’m remembering correctly.”

Snow’s tawny face gets a little pink. He rubs the back of his slightly sunburnt neck. “Y-Yeah, they weren’t too bad. Just...other stuff was terrible...”

“Like what?” It’s not late at night now. I’m less inclined to let his dodging go. Call me crazy, but I’d like to know about the man I’m travelling with.

“Um...” He looks down at his horse’s neck. “I-I lived on the London streets, literally, until I was old enough to work for room and board. Finding anyone who would house a hex though, that was a challenge.”

His laugh is tinny and hollow. My heart, or what dark horrible mass we hexes have in place of one, twists at the words. I wish I was surprised. His story is all too familiar.

“You don’t need to be ashamed,” I say firmly. “We all have our own rough pasts. It’s practically required for hexes, in my eyes.”

Snow doesn’t look up, but his (pretty) plain blue eyes flick over to me. “Really?”

I nod. “Yes, of course. Hexes are usually shunned and harmed. Finding one who hasn’t been in a dire situation is more rare.”

“Have you met a lot of hexes?”

“Some. Mostly, I’ve heard stories. Far too many are like your’s.”

“Is your’s?”

My grip on the reins is so tight my knuckles are going pale. Memories rush through my head no matter how much I want to stop them. The darkness, the pain, the fire, then the stench of burnt human flesh, all capped off by years of trying to survive on my own.

“Unfortunately, ye-”

“What the fuck?!”

Simon’s screech is ungodly in volume and tone. His horse lets out a similarly panicked bray. She bucks up, but can’t get very high with the red vines tangled around her legs.

“Oh fuck,” I hiss. I try to pull back my own horse, but his legs are similarly wrapped up. The vines circle up and around us. I kick and stamp them with all my might. The blood red flowers look like the gaping mouths of monsters.

“What the fuck are these things?!” Snow bellows. He tries to rear his horse back, but nearly throws himself backwards off his saddle instead. “Fucking shite!”

“Don’t do that, Snow, it won’t help!”

“Then what should I do?!” 

“Just stay still!”

Thankfully, Snow does as I say. Not thankfully, I’m not sure what to do. I know that human blood gets rid of the Weeds, but even if I count as human in this regard, you need a relatively large amount of it. So unless I want to pass out, I’ll need to think of something else. But what else can curb evil bloodthirsty Aztec plants?

“Baz!” Snow’s horse pancis the more the weeds wrap around her, which makes Snow panic in turn. He looks at me with desperate wide eyes. “Baz, do something!”

Oh, fuck it. I’ll solve this the way I solve my other problems.

I reach deep within myself, down to the flames that burn in what’s hopefully my soul, or at least what hexes have instead. I grab that power and let it out through my arm. Fire roars to life in the palm of my hand, and I unleash the full force of it on the Weeds. A tidal wave of blackened-red flames engulf the plants.

“Jesus Christ!” Simon shouts. The plants don’t burn per se, I’m not sure they even can. But they still shrink away from us. I keep pushing more magic out until they Weeds a good distance away. 

“Run,” I say, “now!”

Snow and I both wrench our horses 180 degrees and run like the wind. We ride fast and far with no destination, but we keep each other in sight. Only when my pulse is no longer hammering in my ears do I start to slow down. Snow follows, and eventually we stop near a large tree. All four of us are breathing hard.

“Bloody hell,” Snow says. “W-What the fuck were those?”

“Red Plague Weeds,” I reply, dismounting my horse. “They’ve been popping up all around here. No one knows where they come from, but we’re all pretty sure they have something to do with Rook and his witch goddess. Just like every other bizarre thing nowadays.”

“How come I haven’t seen them before in the towns?”

“Because the way to get rid of the Weeds permanently is blood, Snow.”

Snow’s eyes go wide with horror. “Blood? Any blood?”

I sadly shake my head. “No, only fresh human blood. I’ve heard a bowl full collected from the townsfolk is good enough. I don’t even know if hex blood counts. No one’s ever tried, as far as I know. We’re extremely lucky we got away.”

“So I gathered,” Snow sighs. “Now what? We’ve gone a good way backwards now, if I had to guess.”

“Agreed. We’ll have to try and move around the Weeds. If we’re lucky, the town will still be reachable.”

“No one has ever called hexes lucky.”

We both laugh a little. Sometimes laughter is the only way to deal with our horrible existences. I pull the waterskin out of my bag and take a deep, long drink. “Let’s stay here for a moment, though. That blast took a lot out of me.”

“Y-Yeah, that makes sense. Um, I’ll just...”

He turns his horse to the side, trotting away from me. My stomach drops out. Where’s he going? Am I going to be alone again? I’ve only been with Snow for one day. That’s nothing compared to the last two years I’ve been on my own. But now I can’t imagine going back to that crushing, never ending loneliness.

“Heading out, Snow?” I keep my tone neutral, holding back the desperate tremor that threatens to bleed out. “Suppose I’ll see you around, then.”

Snow whips his head around. If I were a more hopeful person, I’d say he looks even more panicked than when we were tangled in the Weeds. “W-What? No, I was just gonna go a little further away...”

“Do I smell that bad?” I probably do. Hygiene is not a priority in these parts.

“No! The opposite, actually...” Snow looks to the side, a little red on his face. “You used a lot of magic before. I can still smell some of it. I, uh, want to keep my promise...”

Oh. Right. I should count myself lucky that he didn’t drain me the minute we stopped. “Yes, yes, of course, makes perfect sense.”

“Unless...you want me to go...”

I gulp down the massive lump in my throat. “Do you want to go, Snow?”

Snow scratches his neck. He points his thumb to the side. “I’ll be waiting over there, until we’ve both cooled down. Alright?”

I would never admit how much relief that brings me. “Alright. We’ll set off again in an hour or so.”

“Okay.” Snow trots over to a good distance away. His brown, sweet smell still lingers in the air, but it fades just enough for me to rest properly. I sit back against the tree, drinking a good portion of my waterskin. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Snow doing the same. I try to not watch him. But it’s very, very hard.

———————————————

Nightfall hits before we reach the town. Snow can’t ride very fast, and I’m still more than a bit drained. So once again, I have to sit opposite the man who will most likely kill me soon.

He fidgets endlessly, picking at his nails and sleeve. It’s infuriating. He gnaws on the jerky like a crazed cat or something. I huff and shake my head. Snow looks up at me.

“What?” he says through a bite.

“Do you ever stop moving? We’ve been sitting here for over an hour and there hasn’t been a single moment of stillness from you.”

Snow snorts. “I don’t see how that affects you.”

“It’s annoying.”

He snorts again, but there’s a small smile now too. “Maybe this is the real reason hexes don’t interact. We're all arseholes.”

“That is hardly a hex thing, Snow. I’ve known humans and hexes alike that I can’t tolerate.”

“Am I one of them?

I hope my face doesn’t flush too hard. “You’re still here, aren’t you?”

He chuckles quietly and goes back to eating his jerky, with far less fidgeting this time thankfully. We sit in silence for a while. I keep sneaking looks at him, then tearing my gaze away every time. The firelight makes Snow’s tawny skin almost glow and his bronze hair sparkle gold. He’s a constellation of moles and freckles. He’s a gorgeous mess. Just looking at him, I can almost forget that we’re supposed to be enemies.

“What part of England are you from anyway?” Snow asks through a mouthful of dried out meat.

“Hampshire. Though if you asked the people here, they’d say I’m from Buckingham bloody Palace.”

Snow throws his head back laughing. It’s a ridiculous, wonderful sound. “Damn true! I’ve lived on the streets of London for the past ten years and an American asked me if I’m related to the bloody queen! They have no idea about accent differences. They think every Brit is royalty.”

I freeze. Snow’s laughs slowly subside. He must notice the utter panic in my eyes. “You lived on the streets of London for a decade? That long?”

He pulls in, curling his thin body in on itself. This Simon is a hex like me, a terrifying being filled with unimaginable power, yet right now, he looks so...small. “Well, not the whole time. It’s been on and off. I found some places to live for a bit but they never lasted. Thank God for magic. Or thank the Devil, if the humans are right about us.”

He chuckles nervously. I shift uncomfortably in my spot, trying to hide the way his laugh makes me face heat up even more. “I guess so. It’s taken care of me since-”

There’s a crack. It’s small, far off, almost indistinguishable from the regular sounds of the desert, but it’s there. My aunt always said I have the ears of a bat. I swing my head around.

“What is it?” Snow says.

“Hush! I think I heard something.”

Slowly, I stand up, crouched over with my fists clenched. My magic sizzles and sparks inside me, begging to be used. I see Snow stand too at the edge of my vision.

“Die hex scum!”

The man launches himself out of the darkness, jagged knife in hand. He knocks me flat down to the ground. All the breath is forced out of me as my back hits the sand.

“Fuck!” I wheeze.

I push at him with both arms, thankfully keeping my pretty face out of his slashing range. He writhes and struggles like a rabid wolf. His dirty crazed smile, missing most of his teeth, looms over me. I recognise him.

“You,” I growl. “Did you really follow me all the way here from Slipfoot’s, you pig?!”

“Die!” He says that like it means absolutely anything, like I haven’t heard it a hundred times before.

Racist Man has no technique. He just screeches and flails with his knife. Aunt Fiona’s words come to my mind immediately. “Every self respecting hex needs to know how to defend himself, Basil.” She said just before pinning me to the ground in one move. I hook my leg around his and flip him onto his back. He gasps and lets out a rattling cough. I hover over him, knee on his chest, pinning his knife hand to the ground.

“You don’t deserve to live, you sand demon.” He spits at me, splashing against my cheek. I flick it off with ease.

“Such an original opinion.” I feel the fire blazing in my gut, threatening to consume myself and everything around me. “I should scorch off all your skin.”

“Course you would. All you hexes, just filthy murderers. No wonder y’all are fleeing to Rook’s heathen paradise. Your kind don’t belong around civilized folks.”

I growl again. First he despises my skin colour, then he thinks he knows anything about hexation. This bastard, so stupid and ignorant. We’re only monsters because we have to be. Because men like him come at us with knives and guns and nooses. There’s no holding the fire back. My hand heats up around his wrist. He screeches as his skin sizzles under my fingers. He drops the knife, but I don't stop. All my rage pushes out through my hand and onto his increasingly scorched skin.

“Get off me!”

I turn to see Simon, struggling against another man. His fingers spark and sputter uselessly as he pounds against the guy with a hand around his throat.

“Better save your man over there,” Racist Man hisses.

I give him one last good death stare. I see him shiver just slightly. At least he has some good sense. “Run fast and far. If you come near us again, so help me God I’ll melt through your entire brain.”

The look of terror in his eyes is enough of an answer. I jump off him and run towards Snow.

“Oi! Off him, now!” I roar.

The other man turns to look at me. He has the same crazed look as his friend. “Or what, you piece of devil shit?!”

“Or this.”

I turn to the fire. With only one hand outstretched, my magic wraps around it, and pushes my power into the very core. The flames shoot nine feet upwards, illuminating the vast dark in blinding light. I turn back to the terrified human. With one swing of my arm, the pillar slams into him. He’s sent flying in a shower of flames and skids on the ground, tossing up a cloud of dustin his wake. I start to march towards him. But Snow throws up his arm to stop me.

“Let me,” he growls.

The tone of his voice stops me in my tracks. Simon stomps towards him, his entire hand now covered in tiny sparks like fireworks. His assaulter sits up, panting heavily.

“You better run now,” Snow says.

He sneers. “Don’t tell me-”

“GO!”

Snow’s magic explodes like a fucking bomb. It’s a bolt of violent and powerful energy that hits the assailant square in the chest. He flies back even farther. I stumble from the sheer force of it. The magic disperses as quickly as it appeared. Snow is panting, bronze curls still staticy with stray sparks. The human scrambles and runs away into the darkness.

We’re left there, breathing hard in the darkness, the embers of the now dead fire our only light. Simon tries to pull out the crackling electricity still clinging to his hair. It curls around his fingers and won’t dissipate no matter how much he shakes his hand out. Finally, I find my voice again.

“That was...”

“Awful?” Snow mumbles. “Yeah, I know. Half the time my magic doesn’t work, the other half it explodes. Pretty fucking annoying.”

I turn to look at him properly, still trying to dust off the little sparks. “No, it was incredible. I’ve never seen magic that powerful, or beautiful.”

Oh fuck, why did I say that? I’m going to explode myself any second. Simon freezes, then turns to me. His lovely plain eyes are soft. Half of his mouth pulls up into a smile. My pulse is pounding in my ears. “N-No one’s ever called it beautiful before. And...no one’s tried to save me either.”

He starts to reach out to me with his spark kissed digits. I see the little bolts pulling towards me like I’m a magnet. My own magic flares to surface, reaching back towards him. Tiny flames from my fingers curl around the lightning. And a part of me, that horrible instinctual part, desperately wants to grab his hand and add his beautiful, terrifying energy to my own until his body is nothing but an empty husk.

I take a large step away, hands behind my back. Simon does the same. His eyes are wide with terror now. We both know how close we came to giving into temptation.

“We should go to bed,” I mutter.

Snow nods furiously. I speed walk to my side of the dead fire. We both lay down and pull the blankets to our reddening ears. The only sound for ages is the desert wind whistling through the cacti. Until Snow decides to speak up again, God help me.

“Baz?”

“What, Snow?” I snap. I can’t talk to him anymore, it’s too damn painful.

“Have...Have you ever actually fully drained anyone?”

Oh. I wasn’t expecting that. The question hits me in my heart. All that comes to mind is my aunt’s face as I saw her for the first time in weeks. Her happiness turned to utter horror in seconds. The memory still aches deep inside me. I can almost feel that horrible hunger when I first manifested. I squeeze my eyes shut and take a deep breath. “No. But I’ve come close. You?”

Snow pauses too. I can hear his shaky breathing clearly. “I had a hex friend back in London. Penelope. She was really good at magic, like you, so she tried to help me. We could only see each other for an hour a day for safety’s sake, and it worked for awhile. But one time, my magic got so out of control that I came this close to draining her.” He makes a loud sniffing noise. I hate imagining the tears I know are rolling down his face. “She told me it wasn’t my fault but I didn’t care. I didn’t want to hurt her. Next day I got on a boat to America. That was almost a year ago. I’ve been alone ever since, and it’s awful.”

“Is that why you want to go to Hex City?”

“Yeah. I mean, I just want to be able to have some choice, you know? Not make choices because of this power I never asked for. Don’t you feel like that?”

I think about my mother, who lost her life because of what we are. Or my six weeks of torture by that madman. Or how I had to run away from my family in fear of what I’d accidentally do to them.

“Yes,” I whisper, closing my eyes, “all the damn time.”

———————————————

We ride leisurely under the blistering sun. The desert has melted into more of a hot, grassy plain. Surprisingly, the climate and terrain actually gets less tortuous the further south you go in this awful state. I’ve only gone this far south once before. The Call somehow gets even stronger here. It threatens to fill every nook and cranny of my brain, but I beat it back. No disgraced Confederate chaplain or Aztec witch woman gets to decide what I do.

Snow is mumbling to himself about it being too hot. My head is whirring with a terrible, awful idea, but it won’t go away. My eyes keep drifting towards his beautiful face, and my mind keeps thinking of his beautiful magic. I got only a taste of the endless, consuming feeling of it, and it was exhilarating. If only he could control it.

I groan. “Snow, stop your horse.”

He looks at me confused, but does as I say. “What is it?”

“Get off. I’m going to help you with your magic.”

His eyes bug out of his skull. “What?! Why?”

“Because as incredible as your magic can be, I’d rather not have you explode when you sleep ten feet away from me.” 

It’s a convincing lie. Honestly, I want him to be able to protect himself. I don’t know exactly how long it will take to get to the south, or what could happen before then. Simon might’ve been killed if I wasn’t there. And I don’t know how long I will be with him.

I swing off my horse and Snow follows. We walk out into the empty plateau. He shuffles his feet nervously, chewing at his nails.

“Stay here,” I say.

I walk out and place my old empty flask on a cactus (it’s rusting anyway). Snow looks at it confused. I gesture to the metal bottle, then put my hands behind my back. “Hit that with a blast but avoid the cactus.

“O-Okay...” I watch his throat as he gulps. God, I want to touch that throat, I want to touch everywhere. But I’ll kill him if I do. It makes me hate my magic even more.

Simon raises his hand and takes aim. Small sparks dance between his fingers. One by one, they begin to increase. A small ball of lightning collects in his palm. Snow curls his fingers in, but they seem to be struggling. The ball starts to grow larger and Snow clenches harder. With little to no warning, a lightning bolt shoots out and hits the side of the flask. A blackened mark is left in its wake, but that’s nothing compared to the cactus. A massive chunk has been blown out of the top. It’s charred remains lay strewn on the gras.

“Fuck,” he groans. “Sorry, I was losing control, I had to let it go. Would’ve been much worse if I didn’t.”

“That’s alright, Snow. You technically did hit the flask.”

Snow scoffs, running a hand through his beautiful, sweaty hair. “Sure, I guess...”

I pluck the flask from the half destroyed desert fauna. Another horrible idea is coming to my mind, and I just might be mad enough to do it. “Maybe you need a greater motivator for staying in control.”

“Huh?”

I place the flask on my hand and hold my arm out to the side. “Hit the flask, but not me.”

Snow goes wide eyed again and inhales sharply like he’s been kicked. “A-Are you serious?! You just saw what I did to that cactus, right?”

“Well, you’re going to have to be accurate, unless you want me to end up like said cactus”

He pulls at his curls anxiously. The tiniest of parks fly off the ends. “I don’t know, Baz. I don’t want to hurt you...”

I try to ignore my rapidly beating heart. It’s been so annoying this past week, trying to get what it can’t have. I just flash a smirk at him. “Well, I believe that you won’t. Care to prove me right?”

A red colour spreads across his face. Part of me hopes that’s not just the sun affecting his pale, freckled complexion. “Alright, I’ll try.”

He rubs his hands together. His skin simmers with magic once again. It smells intoxicatingly good. Snow holds his right hand out, palm flat. The electricity builds on the surface. He keeps his hand clenched, but the energy threatens to spill over his fingers. I resist the urge to run in as fast as I can. I didn’t lie, I do trust him. But living on my own for almost three years has given me quite the self preservation instinct.

Sweat prickles Snow’s brow. He uses his opposite arm to keep the other one steady. “C’mon, Simon,” I whisper. “You can do it.”

The jagged white bolt shoots from his skin, far less formless than the last one. It zigs and zags, but in the end hits the flask straight on. The bottle explodes in a shower of jagged metal. I throw up a makeshift shield just in time. When I look at Snow, he’s flat on his ass, panting hard.

“Holy shit,” he says.

“‘Holy shit’ is right,” I respond with a chuckle.

He looks at me with a wide grin. It shines brighter than the midday sun. “I did it! That’s the most controlled my magic has ever been! Thank you, Baz.”

I nod. “You’re welcome, Snow. My aunt always said danger is a great motivator to learn. Especially when it comes to magic.”

Snow lays down on the grass, panting hard. It seems he’s not going to get up any time soon. “Your aunt, was she the one that taught you about magic?”

I kick at a piece of rusted shrapnel, my back to the resting Snow. “Yes, before it manifested, obviously. She wanted me to be prepared just in case. Her whole side of the family has a history of magic. It only appears every few generations or so. We both drew the short ends of the bloodline straw I guess.”

“You’re lucky with that, y’know. I never had anyone to teach me properly. Penny tried, but we never got far enough to make a difference. When I first got magic, this guy called the Mage offered to help. But it turned out he just wanted to drain me. I killed him by accident when he tried. I really didn’t mean to hurt hum, but he wouldn’t stop...”

I turn to him. There’s far too much pain in his eyes. “You had every right to defend yourself. Don’t feel bad.”

He lifts his head up. His smile is sort of sad, but it’s still gorgeous. “Thanks, Baz.”

I smile back as best I can. “You’re most welcome, Snow.” I place my hands in my pockets, desperately clenching my fists in hopes to keep my emotions at bay. “Unfortunately, I’m out of flasks. But we do have an oversupply of fauna. Want to try and not destroy a cactus this time?”

“Okay.” Snow nods, breathing steadily. “Okay, I’ll try.”

Snow takes his stance across from another unfortunate cactus. I watch him and give advice, but slowly have to back away as Snow’s sweet scent permeates the air. I try not to imagine being close to Snow, not having to fear him, him not having to fear me. Oh, what a life that could be.

———————————————

After another week of dodging the Red Weed, we finally get to somewhere. Covent Gardens, a town I suppose is named after the London borough. It’s sizable enough to have a slightly good inn; as in none of the panels are falling off and the sign is missing only a single letter. That’s practically a palace in these parts. I walk in with gusto, making the shutters rattle, Simon following behind me with his head.

Everyone looks at us. I’m not sure how obvious our hexation is, but I suppose we look enough like trouble. Plus my skin tone isn’t an asset here. Or anywhere, honestly. So I sneer and most turned away.

“They’re afraid of us,” Simon mumbles.

“As they should be,” I reply deadpan. I go straight to the barkeep, a bulky white man with truly horrific mutton chops. “I need two rooms.”

The man crosses his unnaturally large arms. “We don’t serve... people like you.”

I grip the bar lip, nails digging into the half rotted wood. “Like me how? Hexes or brown people?”

He sneers at me. “Neither.”

The fire blazes in my eyes. Wood blackens under my skin. “Now listen here, you stupid bastard, you better rent us a room or-”

“Now, now, Basilton,” a familiar voice says, “no need to be so rude. I’m sure we can come to an agreement.”

“Hello, Nicodemus.”

Nico moves to stand next to me. His suit is cheap, the stitches fraying at the seams. He’s still got that sort of menacing look, but he looks tired too.

“Fancy seeing you here, Pitch. How’s your aunt?” He smiles, showing off his missing eye teeth. It makes me want to punch him in his stupid face.

“Why would you care, Petty? You’re the one who left her after everything she did for you.”

He hangs his head back with a groan. “Still defending your family’s honour, I see. Ain’t my fault I wanted to realise my full potential.”

“What, by getting your teeth pulled out so you could get magic? Even when my aunt warned you what a curse being a hex was? You’re still an arrogant idiot then.”

Nicodemus growls and grabs my wrist. His magic reaches out to clash with my own. It’s slick like oil, wrapping around my fire like a snake. But there’s a roughness to it. A sort of mangy, wild energy that I remember all too well from the hex duel with my aunt. Now, I can smell the acrid tang of it too. It leaves a sour taste in the back of my throat. I’m not surprised his magic is as disgusting as he is.

“Looks like you went through some shit too, Basilton,” he hisses. “You’ve got the same fire as dear old Fi. What, the guilt of letting your mum die finally get to you? Try to end it all? Too bad, you just became the monster she never wanted you to be instead.”

His power gnashes at mine, trying to rip it apart and eat it. But Nicodemus has made a fatal assumption; that he’s more powerful than me. I push back against him hard. The fire rushes through my every vein. I revel in the way Nico’s eyes go wide. My hand shoots up to his throat and I shove him down so hard his back bends against the wooden bar.

“You bastard,” I growl. “After all these years you still don’t know how to keep your bloody mouth shut.” I hold his throat even tighter. His eyes bug out of his skull. “Maybe I should shut it permanently.”

I open the gates within, and his magic begins to pour into me. It’s the world’s greatest adrenaline rush. I’m invincible, powerful, a bloody god. Nico gasps and tries to push me away. But I’m still stronger. He could never stop me.

“Baz!” Snow shouts. “Stop it!”

I turn to him with burning eyes. Everything I see is cloudy, like a smoke screen or rippling water. “Why?!”

“Because,” his voice is desperate, and maybe even caring, “we shouldn’t be the monsters they think we are. Just look at them, Baz!”

I still have enough sense to hear what he says. The patrons cower in fear, eyes wide with terror as they look at me. It’s not an expression anyone wants to be subjected to, or cause. And though I hate him, Nicodemus is right. My mother never wanted me to be this. Another terrible, murderous, evil hex.

With all my strength and good sense, I find the will to let Nicodemus’ neck go. His power rushes back into him with a sputtering gasp. I glare at him as I pull away, fingers still trailing with flames.

“Leave,” I say flatly. “Now.”

Nicodemus runs faster than I’ve ever seen a man run before. I take a few deep breaths. It takes a moment for my magic to balance out. It still yearns for Nicodemus’ power, but I beat it back into submission. I won’t let the hunger control me. Then I walk towards the now terrified barkeep.

“Rooms still not available?” He shakes his head frantically. “Good.” I slap down some American money. “Two rooms, please. Also throw in some whiskey. I need a drink after all that.”

The man picks two keys out of a box, then a bottle and glasses from the shelf. He shoves them both forward on the bar and takes two large steps back. I snatch them up with a tip of my ridiculous cowboy hat.

“Cheers, mate.”

Snow and I take a table in a corner. No one dares to look at us. I pour drinks for both of us and shove his glass to the other side of the table. We’re as far apart as we can be but it’s still risky. My power is still hungry. And Simon still smells delicious. But I won’t hurt him. I can’t.

“So,” Simon says, vowel drawn out, “who was that?”

I throw back the whiskey. It’s sour and burns my throat, but it's better than Slipfoot’s at least. “His name is Nicodemus Petty. He and my aunt Fiona were friends growing up. They bonded over their mutual family history of hexation. But when my aunt and his sister, Ebb, manifested magic as teenagers, Nico was jealous. Fiona and Ebb both tried to tell him that hex magic was far more of a curse than a blessing, but he never listened. He wanted the power. When I was about nine, he finally succeeded in activating his own latent magic.”

“By having two of his teeth ripped out...”

“Mhm. First thing he did was stumble all bloody mouthed to my aunt’s flat.” I clench the glass so hard I nearly break it. “The bastard attacked her by surprise, and tried to steal her magic. He almost killed her, but Fiona got a lucky shot and threw him out the window.” I take a deep breath, trying to stay calm. “As you can guess, I was there. It wasn’t pretty.”

“I can imagine.” He pulls in, picking at his nails nervously. “Um, if you don’t mind me asking...w-what was he talking about? With your mum?”

I pour myself another helpful shot of whiskey. I want to drown my brain in the stuff, honestly. I’ve never talked about my mum, it’s too painful, like ripping out a fingernail. But Snow has shown so much of himself to me. It seems unfair to hide. “My aunt and I aren’t the only hexes in our family.”

His eyes go wide as the revelation hits him, “Your mum is a hex too?”

I nod slowly, then drink the alcohol in one gulp. The warmth tingles in my veins and loosens my tongue. I stare at the glass, watching the light refract through it’s bends. “She was, but my father is human. They loved each other enough to not be scared, I guess. They never meant to have children. I was an accident, but my mother wanted me in spite of the risks. My father said she cried with happiness when she saw I was a boy. She thought if she kept me safe, I’d never become a full hex.” I flick a paint chip off the table with more force than necessary. “Then she died protecting me, doing what she promised.”

“How? Was it another hex?”

“Even worse, scared humans.” 

Snow’s face falls even more. He takes a long sip from his own drink. “So they tried to kill her?”

“They tried to kill all of us. Someone heard of my mother’s hexation, and they rallied a group together to fight our family. It wasn’t a real fight though. The cowards snuck in and tried to stab us. My mother killed almost all of them quickly” My fists clench so tight it hurts. “The last one nearly got me, but my mother stepped in front. He burned to ash just after he stabbed her through the throat.”

“Oh. Not even a hex could come back from that kind of wound...”

“I know,” I say between gritted teeth. “I know that very well, Snow.” I delicately place the glass down with a strained hand. “I...I tried to stop the bleeding but there was nothing I could do. I had no magic then. Even so, I doubt my powers could’ve helped.” A little flame pops up in my hand with barely a thought. Making fire is more natural than breathing for me, after all. I watch the scarlet snake dance between my fingers. “My family’s abilities have always been better at destruction.”

Simon takes another long sip, polishing off his drink. “I don’t know what my family’s like, but I hope they’re not like me. This power...it’s too much for anyone to have. I’d give it up in a heartbeat.”

“We all would, Snow. That’s what the humans don’t get. Most hexes are just as scared of themselves as humans are.” I pour my third drink. It’s been awhile since I’ve drank so much in one sitting, but if I’m going to get sozzled, tonight is a good time. “But that’s not up to us. We’re born like this. Nothing we can do but try to survive.”

“Believe me, I know that. All I’ve ever done is survive. In the orphanage, on the streets, here in America.” He lets out a small, sad laugh. “Hexation is how I ended up on the street, actually.” Snow looks directly down at the table. “When I was 11, I, uh, had a dream that I was exploding. When I woke up, the entire orphanage had been blown to pieces. Luckily no one was hurt, but the matron couldn’t very well keep a hex among other children.”

“So she thought sending you to roam among other humans was safer?”

He shrugs. “I don’t think she cared as long as I was far away from her.”

I scoff, swinging the glass between two fingers. “Sounds about usual for humans. What made you manifest? A particularly bad paddling from the matron?”

Snow chews on his bottom lip. His fingers drum the wood slowly. “I, uh, actually didn’t have to suffer. I’m one of those rare cases of sudden manifestation, apparently. That’s what Penny called it anyway. She said it was rare but possible.”

My grip on the glass gets even tighter. A sudden jealous rage consumes my mind. So Snow just exploded one day at eleven. That’s awful, of course, I’ll never deny that. But all I can think of is the coffin. The endless night of being trapped in that box, waiting for a relief that wouldn’t come, until I finally broke and became the last thing I ever wanted to be. I went through absolute hell. Of course I assumed Snow had to, like all other male hexes. But he didn’t. He’s never had the acute kind of torture I did. It’s not fair.

“Excuse me,” I say more harshly than I mean to, “I’m tired. I think I’ll turn in.”

Snow’s pretty plain eyes go wide. “O-Oh...okay. Good night, then.”

“Night.” I snatch the bottle up and leave the key for his room. Then I stomp up the stairs with irrational anger still burning me up. I know it’s stupid, but I can’t get past it. Male hexes get their magic through suffering. It’s a well known fact. How could Snow be like me without the same kind of pain? How could he ever fully understand me the way I thought he could?

The second my room door is closed, I drink down the last of the whiskey bottle. I’ve tried to avoid alcohol over the past few years. It would be far too easy for me to drink away the pain, the memories, the horrible guilt. Eventually, I’d drown myself in a bottle. That’s not a way I want to go. But one night of indulgence will be fine.

I wobble towards my bed, shedding my outer layers as I go. I collapse face first onto the old mattress. Whiskey clouds my mind. And when I finally pass out, all I see is empty darkness. I’m not sure if that’s better or worse than the nightmares.

———————————————

“...safe?”

“Out cold...”

The voices stay patchy as I slip in and out of consciousness. I try to force my eyes fully open, but the pounding in my head is too much. Indistinguishable figures move on the edges of my blurry vision. There’s little to no light. It must still be night, maybe only a couple hours since I passed out.

“Is..right thing?”

“Hex...Rook and Pargeter...dangerous...we...safe.”

“Fine.”

Something grabs both my wrists and my ankles. I try to struggle but I must still be too drunk. I can’t get my limbs to move save for some squirming. I try to summon my magic, but my mind can’t concentrate. It’s no use. Bloody hell, I’m trapped.

“Night night, hex,” a horrible voice says. Something soft is pressed hard against my face. I can’t take in air, I can’t breathe, I can’t fucking breathe. It’s like the coffin. No, I can’t do this again. I try to thrash harder and scream but it’s still no use.

Oh Lord, I’m going to die here. I wonder if I’ll see my mother on the other side. I wonder if I even have a soul to go to the other side. And I wonder how if Snow is okay. Christ, my last conversation with him ended in anger. If I had known, I would’ve said everything I’ve wanted to say this past week. But the first thing would be ‘I’m sorry.’

I’m sorry, Snow, for everything I said and thought. And I’m sorry for leaving you alone.

“Hey! Get off him, you bastards!” That voice is familiar even in my half drunken state. Thank whatever gods are listening that he’s okay.

“It’s the other one!” one of my assailants shouts. “Wasn’t Garth supposed to take care of him?!”

“That damn idjit fucked up!”

I hear the telltale signs of punches and kicks thrown about. One of the hands on me pulls off. All this excitement has thankfully sobered me up some. I kick some stupid bastard right in the stomach.

“Fuck!” they wheeze. The other humans are wise and let go of my wrist. I’m on my feet in a second.

“Bloody humans,” I growl out, still slurring slightly. “You can’t even let me fucking sleep?!”

The burly barkeep scowls at me. My would be murder weapon is still in his hand. “Eat shit, you demon.”

I scowl right back at him. “Oh, you want a demon? I’ll give you a fucking demon, love.”

The fire blazes up in me, all shining black and scarlet, and I make little effort to contain it. I let the flames fly out and encase the man almost completely. He screeches as his skin bubbles and burns under my powers.

“Stop it!” a woman yells. She comes at me with a knife raised. A whip of fire forms in my hand instantly. With one crack, it wraps around her wrist. She screams in the exact same way and lets her weapon clatter on the floor. She goes to her knees, clutching her blackened, blistered skin.

“You bastard,” she cries. “How could you?!”

“How could I!?” Even more fire plays over my hands. “I could ask you the same thing, human.”

“We’re trying to protect ourselves, monster!”

In that moment, in her eyes, I see every human who’s hurt me. The people who mocked me, who killed my mother, who turned me into this. All sense leaves my mind in an instant. “I’m a monster only because of you!”

With one wave of my hand, she’s thrown against the wall hard enough to make it shake. I spin around to see a man trying to crack Snow’s skull open with a butcher’s cleaver. One well aimed blast sends him flying as well. Another casts two aside. They don’t move much afterwards, but I find myself caring little. Let them die like my mother did.

“Baz, stop it!” Snow shouts. I ignore him as I send the last assailant against the wall, listening to their screams as I burn their chest. “Baz!”

“Fuck off, Snow!” I roar. “I- Ack!”

Pain rips through my shoulder. I clutch it and my hand becomes wet with what I assume must be blood. I fall forward. My nose cracks against the floor. I scream in pain and flames roar out of me in a massive plume They hit everything, including my shooter and the walls of the room. I can feel the whole space burning around us.

“Baz!” Snow’s voice is beyond panicked. I hear his footsteps rush toward me. His hands hover over me but won’t touch. He can’t touch me.

“Get out, Simon,” I rasp , turning my head to the side to look at him. He’s covered in bruises and ash. Yet he’s still so beautiful. “Run before more of them come.”

“Shut up, arsehole! I haven’t turned my back on you yet, and I’m not going to start now!”

If the world weren’t literally on fire right now, I’d find that touching. I close my eyes. At least my dying image will be of him. “Don’t be an idiot, Snow.” Surprisingly, the bastard fucking laughs. My eyes snap open again. The bloody back of his hand is pressed against his mouth as he giggles. “What the fuck is funny about this?”

“You,” he laughs, “called me Simon before.”

My face heats up, and it’s not from the fire. “No I didn’t.”

“We’re fucking dying and you can’t admit you used my first name?”

“I’m dying. You’re being an idiot and not running away like you should!”

“You’re too stubborn to die, Baz, and we both know it.” He jumps to his feet. “Get up, we’re getting out of here.”

“Snow-”

“Or are you too much of a yellow belly to get up and try?”

Oh, this bastard. In only two weeks, he’s learned me too well. I scowl at his stupid pretty face as I push myself up on my good arm. At the same time, thundering footsteps can be heard from the stairwell.

“That route is out of the question,” I say. “Where are we to go, Snow?”

“This way.” He holds his hand and in a mere two seconds, the opposite wall is blown to pieces in a rain of spark. “Now let’s go!”

“We’re on the bloody second floor!”

Snow runs towards the gaping hole and throws himself out. I rush to the edge, blood pounding in my ear. No, Snow cannot die, I can’t let him die. But to my utter shock and awe, Snow is floating his way down to the ground. He stops and starts and still hits the ground in an uncoordinated roll, but he’s okay.

“Oh, Snow, you brilliant moron,” I whisper.

“They’re probably still in there!” someone shouts from the hallway. I take a few steps back, breathe deep, and run off the splintered edge just as the humans burst through the door.

Instead of sending my fire outwards like usual, I keep it within me. I will my body to rise high like flames from a candle. My legs move slowly like I’m running in the air. Fuck, this is actually working. Slowly, I let my flame flick and die down, lowering myself along with it. I reach the ground with my own thud but stay on my feet. Snow grins at me. In all this horror, that is the greatest thing to see.

“Let’s get the horses and get out of here, Snow.”

“Agreed, Pitch.”

We sprint to the stables and thankfully find our steeds unharmed. I count ourselves lucky that our attackers didn’t consider them demonic too. Mounting is difficult with my left arm fucked up, but let it never be said that a human bullet could stop Basilton Pitch. I hold the reins with one hand as I spur him into a dash.

The wind whistles in my ears. Snow and I run even faster than we did from the Red Weed. Our kind is always good at running. It’s our natural state.

———————————————

Snow and I ride until it’s nearly dawn. The sky turns purple then crimson with the rising sun in front of us. When I see orange, my horse finally starts to tire out. Snow’s does the same. We slow down then stop.

“Think we’re far enough away?” Snow asks, breath short and strained.

“Yeah,” I reply, sounding the same. “I think they would’ve caught us by now if they were still after us.”

“Good point, good point.” Snow leans forward, putting his forehead on his horse’s neck. “God, I’m fucking knackered. I barely slept.”

“Me too. We should both sleep.”

“What if someone comes after us?”

“Point. Sleep in shifts?”

Snow nods. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

“Good.” I slowly dismount my horse, but get my footing wrong and start to fall. I grab the reins with my left arm and practically scream in pain.

“Baz!” Snow rushes towards me, but stops when I raise my good arm.

“Don’t...” I pant, “don’t come any closer. I’m injured, Snow, and my self control is severely weakened. So unless you wish for death now after just barely escaping it, back away.”

“Oh, yeah, right...” Snow backs far away just as he should, but my heart still aches. “What are we going to do about your shoulder?”

“I can fix it, but I’m going to need your belt”

Snow’s brows shot upwards. “My belt? What for?”

“Just throw it to me, Snow, for Christ’s sake.”

Thank God he doesn’t ask another stupid question. He just unbuckles the belt and does what I ask. I try to not let my hands shake as I fold the belt in half. The last time I did this was three years ago, when I sat in a London alleyway after a drunkard broke my leg, a mere four days after fleeing my home for good.

“Baz, what are you-”

“Snow,” I say firmly, “I need you to do me a favour.”

“Okay...?”

I sit on the ground, belt held tightly in my hand. “I need you to stay right there no matter what. Don’t move, don’t try to help. The best way you can help is to stay fucking still.”

“What the fuck is-”

“Promise me you won’t move, Simon.” I look him right in his blue eyes, my mouth a thin, serious line. “Promise me.”

Snow gives me a once over, then thankfully nods. “Okay, I promise.”

“Good.” I put the belt between my teeth. When I check on Snow, he looks beyond panicked. “If it makes it easier,” I say clumsily between the leather, “you don’t have to watch.”

“Baz-”

I slap my right hand over my left shoulder, and it feels like I’m burning from the inside out. My magic scorches my body as it wraps around my injury. The buck shot is pulled through my muscles and skin, ripping and tearing as they go, and I can feel every bit of it. I can also feel as my tissue and bone stretches to knit back together piece by agonizing piece. It’s an indescribable kind of pain. It’s what I imagine hell must feel like. I scream, I can’t help it, but luckily the belt is muffling as well preventing me from biting off a chunk of my tongue. Snow gasps in horror but he doesn’t move. He keeps his promises. I knew he would. He’s a far better man than me.

The burning fades as the skin finally seals shut. I cautiously move my hand, shaking off the shrapnel and gooey viscera that trails between my fingers. God, it's a nasty scab, mangled and uneven and horrifically inflamed. I can only hope the scar won’t be too bad. The one on my calf has faded overtime.

“Are you-”

“Not yet,” I say, cutting off a frightened looking Simon. “This one won’t take as long though.”

I touch my nose, feeling for where the breaks are. I squeeze my eyes shut, and with a horribly painful crack, I move it mostly back into place. I let out a short yell, but just pant and seethe as the bone and cartilage knit back together. I try to wipe the bloody snot from my hand but it's no use. Disgusting, but better than a broken nose. I feel around to make sure things are okay. Well, the tip is a bit crooked, but I can live with that. Right now, I’m thankful to be alive at all.

“Okay,” I sigh, finally taking the teeth mark covered belt out of my mouth, “now I’m done.”

“What the fuck was that?” Snow’s voice is somewhere between fascination and absolute horror. In short, a proper reaction.

“Something my aunt taught me. Hexes are essentially manipulators of energy and matter. And what are bodies but living energy and matter? With practice, you can fix any part of yourself.”

“But isn’t it painful?”

“Was that not obvious?” I snap. But Snow’s genuinely worried face softens my demeanor. “Yes, it’s excruciating. Hence why I try not to use the technique as much as I can.” I massage my still aching shoulder. “Today it was unavoidable, unfortunately.”

Simon runs a nervous hand through his dirty hair. “Fuck...”

I cough out a small laugh. “Yes, that sums it up pretty well.”

He laughs too, just as shaky and sad. “Sums up the whole night.”

The two of us keep chuckling softly in the wee hours of the morning. The ascending sun hurts my tired eyes. Using so much magic has taken everything out of me. I let out a long, deep yawn.

“You sleep first,” Snow says. “I’ll keep watch.”

“No, no, I can-”

“Baz.” He sounds firm, but also tired, and maybe even a little fond. I’m probably imagining that last one though. “Go to bed. I’ll wake you up in about eight hours.”

If I weren’t sleep deprived, magically drained, and recovering from grievous injuries, I would protest more. But Snow is damn lucky today. I simply sigh and stand up to get my cot from my saddlebags. I count our lucky stars we didn’t bring in too many of our supplies to the inn. Maybe God hasn’t completely abandoned us heathen monsters.

“I don’t have the energy to put up my shield,” I say, hoping my tone conveys enough.

“Okay,” Snow replies, “I’ll stay away, don’t worry. I keep my promises.”

My pulse flutters involuntarily. A smile creeps across my face no matter how hard I try to stop it. “I know you do, Simon.”

Snow gifts me one of his sunshine smiles. That’s the last thing I see before turning over and letting myself rest.

———————————————

Snow lets me sleep longer than eight hours. I’d be more mad if I wasn’t so exhausted. In return, I let him oversleep too. We’re both passed out by the time it’s dark again. Even hexes with all our inhumanity need to rest sometimes. Snow and I are lucky we get the chance this time.

In the morning, I reluctantly go to the next closest town. We did leave some of our things behind sadly, including most of our clothes. I’m damn well not going to keep roaming around the south of Texas in my bloody socks, and neither will Snow. I get us some new jackets, boots, and hats, ignoring the strange looks I get from the lily white shopkeeper. 

I grab us some more of that disgusting jerky too. If only good food could keep in these horrific conditions. When I reach the counter, the shopkeeper frowns at the things I lay out.

“You can pay for all this?” she asks. I scowl deeply. I’m too tired for this shit.

“Are people like me not allowed to have money here?” I snap.

“Ya can now, but in my experience, y’all darker folk are better at stealing my stock than paying.”

Bloody hell, I’m too tired for this racist shite. I slam two bills on the counter. “There. Hope I didn’t dirty these up too much for you.”

She glares at me hard. As she reaches for the money, I deliberately brush my finger on hers, and she yelps loudly. The edge of her index is red and inflamed. An undeniable burn mark, but far too small for anyone to believe it came from an evil, bloodthirsty hexslinger.

“Oh dear,” I say deadpan. “Your register must have gotten in the sun. Do be more careful.” I shovel the supplies in my bag as she looks at me wide eyed. “Have a nice day, ma’am.”

I can feel her scared eyes on my back as I leave. I get on my horse and ride out fast. No reason to stay in this shithole any longer. And I need to get back to Snow, where I belong.

———————————————

“Everything okay in town?” Snow asks.

I toss the bundle of clothes at him, along with a bag of jerky. “No one attacked me, if that’s what you mean. I didn’t get made for a hex. But I did get some flack for my skin tone.”

Snow’s face falls a bit. There’s something far too close to pity in his eyes. “Oh. I’m sorry-”

“Don’t, Snow. You’re in no place to apologize for some racist American bastards, it’s not your responsibility. Sorry from you means nothing.”

“But-”

“Would you accept an apology from me on behalf of all the rich men who have treated you like trash before?” Snow’s gaping mouth slowly closes. “Exactly. Now get those on. They’re slightly less dirty than our current garments.”

Snow nods and does what I say. I unbutton off my bloodstained shirt and wince as the tacky fabric peels off my skin. The scab has gotten a little better. That’s something I suppose. My eyes slowly move over to Snow without realising it. I steal a glimpse of his broad, bare back, golden like the rest of him. There are some jagged pink scars but they take nothing away how brightly he shines. I look away before I’m too tempted by what I can’t have.

“Much better,” Snow sighs as he slips on the new boots. “I’m surprised my feet haven’t been ripped to shreds yet.”

“Me too. I’m glad though, I didn’t want to do any more healing.”

“I don’t want you to either, fuck.” I hate how his concern makes me feel so good inside. “I’ll start setting up the fire. It’s going to get dark again soon.”

“By all means, Snow, do all the work. I won’t stop you.”

Snow snorts out a laugh, giving me a cheeky smile I can still see at this distance. Christ, I’m on fire, and for once it’s not from my magic. It’s so much better. I have to look away again before I do something ridiculous and deadly.

By the time the sun is down, Snow has made a wonderful small fire for the two of us. We both warm our hands from opposite sides. I don’t need to do it too much. My magic has almost fully replenished, for better or worse. And I’m so hungry that I actually enjoy the extremely salty bison jerky. Bloody hell, I’m turning into an American.

“Where are we going to go next?” Snow asks, mouth still full. “I’m guessing we should avoid any more towns.”

“Agreed. I don’t know about you, but I’d rather not jump out of another building.”

“We certainly agree there. Christ, I was worried I was going to die.”

“Me too, Snow, me too.” I nervously fiddle with the string on my cloth bag. The words are coming out, and I can’t stop them. “I’m sorry, Snow.”

His brow adorably furrows. “Sorry for what?”

“Sorry for the way I acted that night, before I went to bed. I was very rude to you and I deeply apologize.”

“Oh...okay. Thanks.” He looks down, rubbing the back of his neck. “I-I was confused. Did I do something bad?”

“No, Snow,” I sigh, “you did nothing wrong. It was all me being stupid.”

“Okay...”

I sigh again. God, I can’t dance around it anymore. I have to tell him. After putting up with me for this long, he deserves to know.

“I was angry and...somewhat jealous of you.”

His eyes get very big. “Jealous? Of me?!”

“Yes, in a way. Because...you didn’t have to go through the same kind of suffering I did when I manifested. Which isn’t fair, because you lived on the streets while I grew up in a bloody mansion. It’s just not the same suffering I had, and I was angry I had to go through it when you didn't. Which is absolutely ridiculous, and I’m sorry I pushed that on you.”

“If you don’t mind me asking...what happened?”

I stare at him for a long moment over the fire. He holds my gaze, eyes round with worry and care. It hurts me in the most exquisite way. “It’s not a pretty story, Snow.”

His mouth pulls into a sad, slight smile. “Weren’t you the one who said that all hexes live through hardship, and we have nothing to be ashamed of?”

I chuckle and shake my head. “Using my words against me, a tactic of a true devious hex.”

He shrugs, still wearing that little smile. “What can I say? I can live up to our reputation sometimes.” Snow’s face falls again. “So what happened?”

With a deep sigh, rubbing my forehead, I start the horrid tale.

“My family always knew there was a chance I could be a hex,” I say. “But since my aunt couldn’t sense any magic on me pre manifestation, we assumed that I wasn’t too powerful, and manifestation could be avoided if we were careful. So I lived in the aforementioned secluded mansion all my life and I was never allowed to leave the grounds. All my time was spent reading, doing school work, or learning about hexation from my aunt, just in case. Everything in my life revolved around my mere potential to be a hex. I could never do or see anything. I felt like a prisoner. And when I was 18, I had enough.

“One evening, I snuck out of my room and went into the nearby town. I just wanted to see what was outside my home. But I was a naive sheltered kid. Of course I got lost on my way there and went into an area I never should have. Someone had knocked me out cold, and next thing I knew, I was in a cramped, dark box.”

“A box? What do you mean a box?”

I clench my fists tight until the shaking stops, then slowly let go. “It was a coffin, Snow. I had been trapped inside a coffin.”

I can almost feel the way Snow’s stomach must drop out at those words. I know, mine did the same when I realised where I was that night. “W-Why?!”

“It was hard to hear him through said coffin, but I got the main idea. He came from some old witch hunter family but had never caught an actual hex, until me. He’d heard the stories about my mother and had been secretly spying on me for months. When I escaped, he took his chance to kidnap me.”

“So he took you just to taunt you from outside a coffin?”

“I wish that was all he did,” I grumble. “He told me that the coffin was a test. There was a chance the hexation had skipped me over. If I was a hex, being stuck in the coffin would make me manifest, then he could kill me in good conscience. If I wasn’t and didn’t manifest, well, as he put it; ‘there are always casualties in the war for righteousness, boy.’”

Snow’s jaw drops to the grassy ground. “So even if you were human, he would’ve killed you anyway?”

“Mhm, mad bastard.” 

“How long did he keep you there before you escaped? A few days?”

I take long, steady breaths, beating back the old fear that creeps up my throat like bile. I can almost still smell that unique rotten scent from the coffin. I’ll never forget it. I never can.

“Snow,” I say slowly, “I was in that coffin for six weeks.”

And I thought he looked horrified before. Snow drops his jerky bag, hands shaking. I want to grab them, hold them still, comfort him in whatever way I can. The urge is almost stronger than the Call.

“S-Six weeks?! How are you still alive?”

“Thank the witch hunter,” I grumble. “He drilled very small air holes in the lid, and gave me enough food and water to keep me alive but starving. I think, hex or not, he wanted me to suffer because I was my mother’s son. A hex’s child was just as guilty of sin in his eyes.” I rub the bridge of my nose. It aches with the pain of my past. “At the time, I had no idea how long I was in there. It was just one endless night of torture. I begged and pleaded with the hunter to let me go, but he only laughed and called me pathetic hex scum. After six weeks, well, he finally got what he wanted.”

“You manifested.”

“Almost as violently as you did.” I trace the lines of my hand, the skin rough from my fire. I remember my mother’s hands being the same. “The details are blurry, but I remember enough. It started as just a tingling in my gut, but soon it became a burn. And then it spread as quickly as a forest fire.”

“Is it always fire with you?” The corner of Snow’s lip quirks up. The bit of teasing lilt in his voice makes me feel a bit lighter. I can't help but smile back a little.

“Usually, yes. It's always run very strong in my family.” I bounce a flame between my fingers. The movement is strangely calming to me. “I quickly learned I was no different. Before I knew it, I let out a massive ring of fire in every direction. It blew the coffin apart, of course, and turned my captor into a charcoal husk.”

Snow scoffs, a surprisingly vicious expression on his face. “Better than he deserved.”

“Agreed. I have no idea what happened to his body. I left almost immediately, though I wasn’t fully conscious. Six weeks in the coffin had deprived me of most of my mental faculties. Luckily, he kept me not far from home, and I could wander back on pure muscle memory. But going home turned out to be a terrible idea.” I grab the small fire and snuff it out in one go. But my fist stays clenched. “My aunt had been staying there while everyone searched for me. The second I walked through the front door, I could easily smell her. She was overjoyed to see me, until she smelled me too. And as I said, most of my mental faculties were gone.”

“So you attacked her on instinct.”

I chuckle sadly. “Quick study there, Snow. I didn’t even know what I was doing. I was just so bloody hungry all of sudden. I can’t even describe it.”

“You don't need to describe it to me, Baz.” He brings his knees under his chin. “I’ve felt hex hunger too. It’s...awful when you’re in the middle of it.”

“And when you’re not, you try to drown it out or distract yourself. But deep down, you know one day you’ll give up and listen. Then it will take over.”

Snow nods, looking at me in the eye. I’ve seen so much profound sadness in a person’s face. “And you’ll hurt someone, no matter how much you’ll regret it later.”

If I have a soul, it’s aching horribly. How could fate be so cruel as to give me Snow? So wonderfully brave and kind to a fault, and who actually understands what my life is like. The perfect man. And someday soon, he’s going to kill me. There’s no doubt I’ll be the one to die. I won’t kill him, not ever. I’d let him take everything from me before I’d kill him.

“Did you hurt your aunt?”

Thankfully, I can shake my head to that. “No, not at all. She was an experienced magic user, while I was a starving, half crazed newly minted hex. She took me down in seconds. When I woke up again, I was cleaned up and in my room. It took a second to regain my bearings, but I soon remembered what had happened...what I had become. There wasn’t any debate in my mind. Within an hour, I had packed my most practical clothes along with any small valuables I could pawn. Then I ran away and never looked back.”

“Which is how you ended up in America.”

“What better way to protect my family from me than by putting an ocean between us? At first, I stayed in an empty little corner of the American frontier. I just wanted to live out my lonely hex existence as long as possible. I didn’t expect the Call or this looming hex war.”

“No one did,” Simon sighs. “Hexes working together has never been possible before. Who could’ve imagined some American preacher would team up with an Aztec goddess to do just that?”

“Fair point. But now he’s made our existences much harder in a way. Look what those humans tried to do to us at the inn. They were even more scared because of Rook”

“Yeah...”

I groan, pushing my face into my hands, rubbing it up and down. “I never asked to be like this. I tried my hardest to avoid being like this. Then that choice was ripped away from me by some madman. Now I’m trapped between murderous humans or a bloodthirsty witch goddess. Why am I here? Why do I have to be here?!”

“Baz-”

“I don’t want this,” I choke out through my building sobs. “I want to see my family again. I just want to go home!”

I breathe hard and fast, holding back tears with all my strength. No, I refuse to cry. I swore to never cry again after the coffin, because I wasn't sure I could survive falling apart again. Yet here I am. I thought I had shed every tear I have there. I’m so pathetic.

“It’s okay,” Simon says. His voice is far louder than before. “Whatever you’re feeling is okay. It’s...it’s okay if you’re not.”

Slowly, cautiously, I lower my hands, blinking away the tears that had collected. I inhale sharply. Snow is less than two feet away from me. I can count the moles on his face, see the golden highlights in his bronze. But worse, his unbelievably delicious scent fills every cavity of my nose.

“You really shouldn’t sit so close, Snow,” I whisper. My eyes fall down and become completely fixed on Simon’s plush lips.

“I know,” he says under his breath, “but I don’t care.”

He touches my hand, and I feel his magic run through me. That explosive sensation pulses through my veins so hard it almost makes me gasp. The instinctual part of my brain goes fucking mad. It wants me to grab his throat and drain every drop of his magic, his essence, his very soul. My breathing gets shallow and laboured.

“Simon...” I say.

And then he kisses me.

It’s cautious and shy. His lips barely brush against mine, but I feel it everywhere else, especially in the way our powers rise to meet each other. The magic collides, but doesn’t clash. They meld and twist together at our points of contact, desperately needing to connect.

Snow opens his mouth, turning the kiss into one of pure heat and hunger. I gladly do the same. He grabs either side of my face and shoves his tongue down my throat. I grip his collar and push back against him. My entire body is filled with endless energy. I’m a star going supernova. And I want to explode with Simon. My nails scratch viciously across his neck. He clenches his fist in my hair, pressing our faces closer. I shudder as Simon bites hard on my bottom lip. I’m wrapped in cold heat, wrapped up in him. I feel so alive. It feels so right. But it’s wrong.

With all the strength I have, I shove Snow off me. We both fall back on the ground, breaking our closed circuit of feeding on each other simultaneously. Simon scrambles further away panting. I’m similarly out of breath. Both our lips trail white smoke, like they’ve been singed by ice. My magic readjusts after being sucked away and added to all at the same time. A bit of Snow’s explosive energy still sits in me, swirling around like a miniature star. We just stare at each other wide eyed for a long time.

“Shit,” Simon whispers.

I sigh heavily, running a shaky hand through my hair. “Well said.”

“We nearly killed each other.”

“Mages don’t meddle, Snow. We both know that.”

Simon groans, clutching his hair in his fists. “I know, I know. I almost killed Penny last time and I swore it would never happen again. But look at me now. Of course I fuck up.” I can see tears forming under his eyes. “What’s the point of being an all powerful hex if it means being alone forever?! I can blow up a building with my mind but I can’t even bloody kiss you! It’s not fair!”

I pick at my shirt sleeve with shaking fingers. “Maybe God is punishing us.”

“We didn’t ask to be like this, Baz!”

“That doesn’t change what we are, Simon! We’re freaks of nature, cannibalistic monsters!” I nearly rip through the fabric of my shirt. I'm so angry and so fucking tired. “Maybe we truly are devil spawn or something, like all the humans say. Maybe they’re right to be scared of all of us...”

I turn away from him, just staring at the fire. The sting of the smoke keeps me from sinking too low into my self loathing. Snow moves in my peripheral. We sit side by side. My skin prickles as he hovers his hand over mine. It takes every bit of my will to not try and drain him again.

“There’s somewhere we can go where we aren’t 'Devil spawn,'” he says.

I tense up. “Simon, that’s risky. It could all be a farce.”

“I don’t care if you think it’s just a farce, Baz! It’s still a chance. For you and me, for us.” He lightly brushes one of my fingers. I have to rip my hand away before I hurt him again. His pretty eyes are filled with pain. “See? Wouldn’t you like to stop doing that? Isn’t it worth the risk?”

I’ve been running for most of my life. I ran from my mother's legacy for as long as I could. I ran from my family when I feared my own hunger. And I could run now, from Simon and the fear of killing him. But I’d also be abandoning the chance for some sort of happy life. It may not be perfect, but it would be far more than my ancestors ever had before. Can I sacrifice that for fear?

“I’m tired, Snow,” I say weakly. “We should both get some rest.”

“But Baz-”

“Let me sleep on it, alright? Please?”

Snow takes in a deep breath, and lets out a long sigh. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

I want to kiss him so badly right now. Just grab his gorgeous, sunshine face and kiss him goodnight. Since I can’t, I smile as genuinely as I can at him. It’s not easy for me, but I mean it with him. “Goodnight, Simon.”

Snow stares at me for a long moment. But slowly, a smile creeps across his face too. The fondness threatens to melt me, “Goodnight, Baz.”

We keep our eyes locked for as long as we can. When I finally lay down, putting my crackling shield around me, the image of Snow’s wonderful face relaxes me into sleep.

———————————————

I bang my fists against the wood over and over, ignoring my already numerous splinters.

“Help!” I yell. “Someone help me! Please, get me out of here!”

All my pleas fall on deaf ears, as usual. No matter what I do, no matter how loud I scream. I’m stuck in this damned coffin. I scratch at it until my fingernails tear from their beds. Blood drips into my mouth, leaving an iron taste in the back of my scream sore throat.

“I’m not a fucking hex! I just want to go home!” I sob so hard I nearly choke on my own breath. “Just let me go home.”

My aching arms finally fall. I curl in on myself as much as I can within my confines. I close my eyes, but there’s little to no difference in the endless pitch black. Tears run hot down my face. They leave small trails in the dirt that’s accumulated over...however long I’ve been here. I don’t know anymore. Time is meaningless where there’s no sunrise or sunset. Life is meaningless in here.

“Baz?”

His voice is far away, but it still rings clear. My eyes slide open. “Simon?”

“Oh lord. Hang on, Baz! I'll get you out!”

I can only hear as Snow desperately tugs at the coffin lid. It should be impossible, the thing is nailed shut, but somehow Snow rips it open. The light is dim yet still hurts my eyes. I can't help but hiss at the pain.

“It’s okay, Baz,” he says in that unbelievably soft tone.

His hand reaches to me through the blinding light. Slowly, I reach back. And when I hold it, I know I’m supposed to be in pain, but I’m not. Instead, I’m just calm, happy, safe. Snow slowly pulls me out. His arms snake around my back, holding me up. He looks me over, taking in my decrepit, decayed state from ages in that damn box. And miraculously, he smiles. Even like this, he looks at me with such care.

“You’re alright now, Baz. I’m here.” He cups my face. “I’m here for you.”

Emotions clog up my throat and tears run down my cheek, but this time they’re for a good reason. I put my own shaking hand on his golden face. He’s so warm. “Yes, you are. And I’m here for you too, Simon.”

He’s still grinning as I lean forward, pressing my lips to his. But this time there’s no fear I’ll kill him. There’s just the utter joy of being with the one who understands me best, the one I want the most.

Oh, how I want this.

———————————————

I blink awake slowly. The morning sun is just rising over the horizon, turning the grassy landscape violet. I sit up and see the now familiar body on the other side of the fire. Snow sleeps in a knot, arms and legs pulled in. The furrow in his brow says he’s in the middle of a nightmare too. Though mine wasn’t one by the end. Not when he was there.

My mind is made up.

Once again, I’m packing my things lowly, waiting for Snow to wake. Luckily, he stirs while I’m only halfway through tying up the cot. He rubs the sleep from his eyes in such a terribly adorable way.

“Morning,” I say.

“Morning,” he yawns. “Are we going now? Or...are you?”

My heart seizes, but only for a moment. He’s right to be concerned. The fact that we’ve travelled together for two weeks without killing each other is a miracle among hexes. After last night’s close call, a sensible man would leave and never return. I was once a sensible human man. But I’m a deranged, bloodthirsty hex now. Why not act like one?

“You should get up and start packing, Snow. If we’re going to make it to the Mexican border before nightfall, we’ll have to ride fast.”

His eyes go rounder than a full moon. “You mean...”

I pull the pack tie tight. “We’re going to Hex City.”

“What changed your mind?

I sigh heavily, then walk over to him. I stay at a safe distance of course but Snow’s magic pulls me to him, my body begging me to take it. Instead, I simply hold out my hand to him. Snow stares for a moment but does catch on. He offers his own to me. Once again, our magics reach out to each other, wisps of fire and lightning twining together. It sends a faint whisper of that explosive adrenaline through my veins. So incredible and so wrong.

I snap my hand away, fists clenched hard. “Because of that. If I were a more selfless person, I would simply leave, but unfortunately I’m not. Are you?” Snow looks me over. His eyes pierce me in a way no one’s ever has before. He slowly shakes his head. “Exactly. I may be scared of Rook and his goddess, but I’m more scared of hurting you. There’s only one place where I won't.”

“Hex City.” He chews on the corner of his bottom lip. “What if you’re right though, and Rook’s price is too high?” 

“Then at least we’ll pay it knowing we tried to have a real life, instead of running like we’ve always had to.” I stand straight with my head held high. No matter the fear, I’m sure of this. “I think we’ve both suffered long enough, Simon.”

The way Snow’s face relaxes means the world to me. I love seeing that, seeing what he looks like without the heavy burden of hexation on his shoulders. Maybe I’ll be able to see that more in Hex City.

“It’ll probably be nice there,” he says. “I mean, a city made for hexes by hexes is going to be weird, but I bet it’ll look amazing in it’s own way.”

I chuckle and nod. “Agreed. Buildings and roads made by magic will certainly be interesting.”

“Penny would probably want to study them.” He sighs, but there’s a lightness to. “Maybe Penny will come one day, and I could see her again.”

“Maybe. I would love to meet her. I might be able to see my aunt again one day, too. I could introduce you to her.”

He beams so bright at me I fear I’ll get sunburnt. “I’d like that a lot.”

“Me too, Snow. So let’s get going.”

We finish packing very quickly. Snow gets on his horse as clumsy as he usually does. I snort at the way his American cowboy hat nearly falls off his head. The death glare he gives me has little impact, what with the way he’s grinning. He hasn’t stopped grinning almost since he woke up. I can’t blame him. I have trouble controlling my smile either.

“Ready?” he asks. As if he even has to. I’ve made my choice, and I’m sticking to it.

“Ready,” I say. “Let’s go.”

Snow and I both send our horses into gallops. We soar across the grassy plain, the Texas sun illuminating our way. The impending hex war still looms over us. But I will fight until my last breath to keep any happiness Simon and I can find.

I can almost see our future. Soon, we’ll reach the terrifying and wonderful Hex City. Rook will ask for his price, and we’ll pay, because it’ll mean a freedom we've never known before. We’ll be able to hold hands, kiss whenever we want, sleep in the same bed, simply be around each other with no fear of our hexacious hunger. It’s more than I could have ever dreamed of even a few months ago.

For once, I’m going to run towards something good, instead of away from the darkness inside me. I cannot wait.

———————————————

AN: And that's all folks! I hope people enjoyed that, even if y'all have never read Hexslinger. If you wanna read the books, I highly recommend them, tho be warned they require trigger warnings for all the stuff here and more. Almost anything that usually needs a trigger warning is in those books. I'm okay with reading it, but I also completely understand others not liking that shit.

In the positives, it's an extremely interesting and complex series dealing with survival, discrimination, identity, the pain that can come with love, and the unlikely bonds formed between people. The world building is amazing and the magic system is super cool. What I love the most are the characters, who are all very interesting and complex. No one is 100% good or evil, they're just people trying to find ways to achieve their goals or simply live. What actions they take are up for moral debate, but a lot of the time they're at least understandable. There's a lot of period typical bigotry, and it's much more vicious than what I wrote here, but what I love is that there a lot of diverse characters who say "fuck that" and fight back against the shit they get. You've got queer, Indigenous, black, latinx, Chinese, and Jewish main characters in a wild west story who are all well rounded and interesting. That's pretty awesome imo.

Okay enough gushing about Hexslinger lol. Hope this story was good. No guarantee when my next fic will be out. Work and school are killer. Until then, see you later!

[medranochav]

my moms been living with us for 4 months now. her stay was initially tolerable but is now triggering and I find myself regressing in a lot of ways. Her grief has evolved into torment and per her m.o. she'd like for her issues to take first priority. Except, my sis and I are grown now, and as a therapised household (literally we've all been in counseling, babies included) though we still lean on each other for support, we ultimately don't function codependently.

And beeecause that's not how we grew up, I think my mother is now having to contend with the reality that she has to do the emotional work of surviving her many traumas (and currently her many dramas) on her own. We support her but we can't fix it for her.

Currently, it's a crisis a day and she's spiraling into mini catastrophic states everytime. Which was sufferable at first because despite my labored support, I still maintained my boundaries and didn't adopt her distress as my own. The problem now is the increasing frequency with which these crying spells are taking place. Not to mention the fact that she's been doing so in front of the kids; something that would normally be acceptable because my sis and I make space for feelings (even our own) in our home. The difference being, we do so responsibly. We listen, we talk, give affection and/or space but always with the fundamental knowledge that our emotions belong to us individually and only we can be accountable for them. A gentle reminder that though part of a unit, they still have agency and accountability.

This interdependency makes way for a more compassionate exchange. Whenever they see us cry or be vunerable, the kids have the wherewithal to approach us without attaching themselves to our emotional circumstance. It's an empathy that perceives our emotional reactions as relatable but still not their responsibility. I've seen our work proven time and time again.

One example is when my sister's [redacted] died and the boys spotted her crying on the couch. Without being prompted, they approached her independently, commiserated, hugged and kissed her and shortly after went back to playing on their electronics. It was such a graceful display of emotional validation that demonstrated their love for her without sacrificing their own desires in doing so. Truly remarkable, that at ages 5-8 they maintained boundaries while still being there for their mom.

They're also there for one another but it's seldom a sinking ship. And when emotional support is rejected they respect that as well, without taking it personally [tbh that has more to do with concepts of mandatory consent that we impart on them, but as is evident, it applies. #intersectionality] It's an ongoing practice that I'm proud to be a part of, considering the kids have codependent figureheads in both their maternal and paternal families. WE'RE TRYING TO BREAK CYCLES HERE.

Yes, our home is a safe space for emotional processing but always leveraged with the emotional balance of self reliance, awareness and resiliency. The kids have proven to have the capacity for this and through teaching them, so do we.

It's human to have outbursts, but my mother's pattern is proving to be less intrinsic and more deliberate. She needs an audience in order to experience catharsis. A potentially reasonable behavior except for it's her only one. So it's imbalanced and seeks refuge in the reliance of our total empathy.

Furthermore she's disingenuous in her emotional performances. When approached out of concern, she responds with the proverbial, "I'm ok." Like, its subtle but super manipulative to say that, when we can CLEARLY see she's not. The kids see and hear her, the least she could do is not gaslight them. And I'm not saying her tactics are successful but it exposes the bby's to unnecessary dysfunction and covertly teaches them to assume the responsibility of communicating her emotion for her. She's also non verbal and unpredictable and tho not at her best rn [like, literally who is? this year has wrecked us all] she and we deserve proper communication.

The mind games are soul sucking and triggering for me in a way that is not for my sister. Though we share a mother, the repective versions of her that we experienced as children differ greatly.

My sister's the eldest and spent the first couple years of her life as the only child to a very young mother living alone in America after being displaced by the civil unrest in her native El Salvador. By age 3, with the addition of a new baby sister (my moms 2nd) she was sent to a country fully at war. My sisters would spend the next half decade of their lives in sunny wartorn tropics, watched over and raised by our family of four women. A blissful antithesis to their future with our mom. Upon the return to their forgotten country of origin (USA) and severed from the only family and community they've ever known, the girls were whisked away by a mother they barely remembered and a baby brother they had never met... marking the beginning of my mom's descent into single motherhood.

My mom resented having a brood of kids, namely her 2nd and 3rd, who's father was abusive and absent. Don't know much of the facts outside of what she would ritualistically berate my siblings about during her brutal tantrums -as if it were their fault they simply existed. The second born, my other sister, left home at 12 and has been estranged ever since and the third, my brother, has recently severed bonds abruptly claiming a new life with a woman he's known barely a year yet now calls wife. Proving that despite being raised by the same woman we all had different mothers.

Since my siblings endured a childhood with a volatile, violent woman who managed her emotions thru physical abuse... when she wasn't, she was neglectful of them, turning her attention onto me... the youngest (four years removed from the rest of the pack). I bore witness to said abuse until I was 5, when it was litigiously exposed, forcing her to abandon corporal punishment and rely solely on mental/emotional abuse. That's the version of my mom I got.

I was 10 when my sister left for college. Just my brother and I remained. Similarly to each other we both lived in service to our mother. Whereas his duties were more physically laborious, mine consisted of full on emotional labor. I spent most of my childhood navigating a homelife that was so saturated and occupied by my mother's opera of a life, that there was no room for my feelings, thoughts, desires or identity. I was her plaything, a person sans agency. My age and vulnerability proved advantagous when grooming me. I learned to behave in ways satisfactory to her needs. I was made to react to (and collect) her emotional distress, endorse her judgements of others, perform well in school as a testament to her rearing, and accept her violations of me as normal. I was a shackled spectator, whose own emotions were mere reflections of her dramatizations. I was tailored to be the MOST convenient. So I kept secrets and coped alone. I knew just enough abt myself to remain human but lacked the vision to actualize it. And because emotional abuse is so insidious in its indoctrination, I was really none the wiser until I too moved away years later.

I'm almost 30 now and I'm a mess. I can't establish enduring relationships, I'm fat, I'm broke, I'm debilitatingly avoidant, socially inept, codependent, confused and lack significant self worth. I spent the past decade delving deep into undoing all the work done to me to keep me a reliable supply for my mother and coming to terms with all the time lost in doing so. I've had glimpses and proof of another life but this year sent me back to old coping mechanisms and devastatingly familiar relationships. I read that by its very nature, all pandemics have to end and I thought I was strong enough to share a definite time&space with my abuser for the foreseeable future.... but with no end in sight, I kind of really wish I had established a clearer version of myself and where I stand in this family, to her.

Similar predicaments flung us both to the south and having her here is like a screen forging images of the same dysfunction I exhibited upon my arrival 7 years ago. There's so much I wish I could tell my former self, namely, "it's not your fault. you're not alone. you don't have to try so hard and tomorrow is another day" And perhapz it's this layered vision of myself as seen thru her that compels me to want to save her, but doing so requires me to get too close to a flame I've yet to extinguish. Im not foundationally sound enough to go up in flames and rebuild afterwards, I need a few more rounds of therapy for all that. I'm a stitch away from coming apart at the seams. Weak construction, but I'm still standing. I have more life to live and can't risk the breeze of my mother's chaotic whims to topple what's taken years to forge. I love her, because she's the only mom I got and because she's the kids' only access to our motherland. How can I reconcile this version of me with this version of her?

[durrzerker]

Taskmaster: The Line. Chapter 2: Babysitting

Hey everyone! As promised, I’m releasing a new Chapter of my Taskmaster fanfic every Tuesday. This week’s Chapter 2: Babysitting can be found at Archive of Our Own, but I’m also releasing it in text format below for those who don’t want to go to AO3:

Chapter 2: Babysitting.

The pouring rain was battering the roof of the toppled APC with enough force to echo loudly throughout the interior, but Taskmaster didn't even notice. His eyes never left the group of children huddled within, and when Black Ant started to speak, his voice was only a distant droning in his right ear. It took nearly ten seconds for the senior mercenary to snap himself out of his fugue, regarding his partner with something akin to shock.

"...Tasky--TASKY! Hey! Damn, buddy. We lose you for a second?" Black Ant looked confused, and Taskmaster couldn't blame him. In all their time working together, the size-shifter hadn't ever seen his former mentor so stunned. "What are we gonna do, man? We're in the middle of Bagalia's most dangerous district, and there's a bunch of brats stashed away?" Turning his head to the kids, Eric lifted a hand. "No offense, brats." Unsurprisingly, they didn't respond; they just kept regarding the pair with wide eyes and shaking bodies.

"Waterfall's dead, right? Not trying to...I dunno, crawl away or nothin'?" Taskmaster asked. There must have been something in his tone, because the normally snarky Eric actually took the time to peek around the back of the truck at their fallen enemy.

"Well, he's smoking and not moving. I'm gonna say yeah! Probably dead."

"...Gimme a sec. Watch the kids." Circling the vehicle until Jason's body came into sight, Tony reached down to his hip with his left hand. He didn't like guns; found them not particularly sporting, far too loud, and a little inflexible when it came to live captures. Right now, though, he was glad he had one as he drew it in a blur, emptying twelve shots into the body on the ground. Each bullet tore another piece out of the dead man, leaving him visibly riddled with holes and bleeding out by the time the skull-masked killer was finished. Reloading the gun, Tony seriously considered emptying another clip inside of him...but this was his last one, and you never knew what the day would hold. Reluctantly, he re-holstered the pistol and approached the APC again.

"Hey, kids...don't worry about those sounds. My partner's just working out his deeply repressed anger issues, you know? I promise--augh! AUGH! TASKY, HELP!" Eric's voice rang out in a panic.

Taskmaster broke into a run, nearly slipping on the wet road as he flung himself around the corner of the armored truck. "What is it, lil' buddy?! Reinforce--" Well, he was not prepared for what he saw. No sooner did Taskmaster return to Black Ant than he saw four of the five children they had just found jumping him, assaulting Eric with their small fists and feet. Eric was holding them off, flinging one away and shielding his face before lifting his knee to block another, but Taskmaster didn't need photographic reflexes to realize what was off here; these weren't normal kids. They were -trained-.

"What is that...is that fucking -Red Room-?" Taskmaster asked, shocked. One of the children, a mousy-looking girl who had to be maybe seven or eight, caught sight of Taskmaster. With a fearless howl of anger, she lunged at him, assaulting the mercenary with a kick that he immediately identified as the martial art of Savate. "Hey, watch it--" Taskmaster replied as he nudged his shield to intercept. She had good technique, but she was so small - and clearly starved - that there wasn't much power behind it.

"RED ROOM, BLUE ROOM, ONE FISH! TWO FISH! I DON'T CARE GET THEM OFF ME! I don't wanna hurt these kids, but I wanna be hurt by them even less!" With two of the children battering the red lenses of his mask and a third pummeling at his groin, Eric wasn't having a good time of it. To his credit, Tony could tell he wasn't actually fighting back, at least not seriously.

"Quit panicking and just grow, O'Grady!" Taskmaster barked to Black Ant. "They're already half yer size; make 'em even smaller! Or get small yerself...heh; talk to them on their level -- ow!" He winced as, while he was distracted, the girl who had been assaulting him punched him square in the stomach - right where Waterfalls had cracked a few of his ribs. "Hrgh...you lil' shit! I'm on YOUR side here!"

Glaring up at him, apparently suspicious but judging it worth exploring, the child stepped back and lifted a hand. She was apparently the leader of the group, because as soon as she did so, the others leaped off of O'Grady - who was now nearly ten feet tall and growing in an attempt to get them off him - and fell into line behind her. Even battered and all skin and bones, they looked intelligent, focused, and deadly; the 'wide-eyed terror' from before was gone; clearly nothing but an act. "Only five of you jumping us like weird little gremlins," Tony remarked. "Where's the sixth?"

The brown-haired girl jabbed a thumb over her shoulder towards the APC as Black Ant shrank back to normal. "Hurt in the crash, broken leg," she replied. "Your doing, I assume." Taskmaster didn't get a hint of a Russian accent, but those were pretty easy to hide for Red Room trainees. He'd have to ask if he wanted to know the truth. Rubbing at his ribs, he tested the damage with a series of small pokes. One definitely broken, another cracked; the rest just felt extremely bruised.

"Yeah, it was. Sorry; we didn't know they were transporting...live cargo." Just the words made him feel sick to his stomach, but even worse was the fact he knew that he'd considered using a bigger arrow for this task. What if he'd pulled a wide-band particle explosive, like that one he'd used years ago when dealing with The Thing? He could have killed them. He could have killed all of them. Would that have bothered him? The fact he legitimately didn't know certainly did.

"...Look, you kids are clearly trained to fight. You mind explaining the situation? I happen to be SHERIFF 'round these here parts--" Using his sword, he tapped at his badge. They couldn't see it, but he was smiling with genuine pride behind his mask. Then again, the skull face he wore did have a strange flexibility to it; at times it really did seem to reflect his expressions beneath. He chalked it up to good craftsmanship.

"--Oh my god," Eric interjected.

"--And I consider it my responsibility - no, my PRIVILEGE - to aid you in these dark and troubled times."

"I will tell you nothing. You are The Taskmaster," the girl said, jabbing a thumb behind her. "And that is The Black Ant. Gun-thugs for hire, loyal to nothing and nobody."

"Hey, we're famous!" Eric chirped, planting his hands proudly on his hips.

"...And you are to be TRUSTED with nothing and nobody, least of all my people. Get out of our way. We will escape on our own." Snorting authoritatively, the girl started back towards the APC. "Akeja! Load Sven up for transportation, fireman's carry." A slightly larger girl with half-ruined braids climbed into the vehicle, grabbing the wounded boy inside. "Got it, Commander!"

Exchanging a look, the two mercenaries watched the children methodically address their wounded comrade. "God, it's like an Oompa Loompa war film," Black Ant mused.

"Yeah, wait - that girl, Akeja," Taskmaster commented. "That was a Wakandan accent. Now I -really- gotta know what's going on."

"Better figure it out quick, they're leaving."

"To hell they are." Taskmaster set out to block the path of the children, who unanimously regarded him with threatening looks; even little Sven, blonde and blue-eyed, hanging across Akeja's shoulders like a limp weight.

"Look; I get it. You don't trust us, and I don't blame you. But if you know who we are, you know -where- we are. This is Bagalia; you can't go two blocks without stumbling onto supervillains, and they aren't even the worst people in this town. You think whoever was paying Waterfalls to transport you is going to let this go? He was high-end muscle; you all represent a significant investment."

"And you want to collect on us yourself," their 'Commander' responded. "You'll have to kill us all! We're NOT going back! Not for anything!" Her voice, which had made such an attempt at cool arrogance only a minute ago, was starting to break. She looked and sounded legitimately scared, and with Taskmaster's ability to read body language, he could tell that as she tensed up, she wasn't preparing to attack; she was trying to keep from collapsing.

Taskmaster greatly preferred to speak off the cuff. He had an extremely poor memory and he didn't like to come off rehearsed, but right now, he felt the rare need to choose his words carefully. He didn't bother squatting down in front of the kids; it felt disingenuous, plus he was pretty sure they were still thinking of jumping him and he didn't want to be off-balance. But he DID place his sword back at his belt; he'd just been using to to show off his badge anyways. "Look, I get it." He could do this. He could, just this once, actually take this seriously. "Yer wounded, tired, hungry, and scared -- don't gimme that look, there's no shame in it -- Ya been through a lot, and now you got someone who's famous for doing anything for money extending a helping hand. It ain't right, is it? Havin' to try and figure out what to do, not just for yourself, but your people? Being a leader sucks; trust me, I've been there. But I ain't asking you to follow me through the mean streets of Bagalia and hide out at my safehouse so I can turn ya over to someone else, alright? Wherever you six are from, whatever happened to bring you here; I wanna fix it. I -do- take my duties as Sheriff seriously, even if ya might not think I should. Just because this place has no laws don't mean it can't have -ethics-."

The children regarded him for a moment, then turned to their commander; then, they all turned inwards to whisper to each other in a language that even Taskmaster didn't recognize, and he spoke almost a dozen himself. There were hints of African, Chinese, Russian, and South American dialogues - but it all fused together into something that he suspected only these six kids could understand. This was -their- tongue. While they conversed, Taskmaster glanced up to check the skies. All grey, and the rain wasn't letting up. This was unpleasant, but it was also useful. Rain was easier to hide in.

So easy, in fact, someone else was doing it too. If not for the fact he was cycling his mask's thermal imaging systems out of sheer habit, he would have missed it. Next block over, in a sedan that had parked around the corner. Interesting.

Finally, their leader turned back to him. "...I am Mara," she said after a moment, "And we are the Scions; refugees from programs all over the world that exploit children as soldiers and killers. I will not explain more in public like this, but as you can likely surmise, we are highly sought after by the respective organizations that are pursuing us. We are placing our trust in you - however unwisely - at least until we can escape Bagalia. Will you help us, Taskmaster?"

"I will, but I'm gonna need some help. I gotta contact The Hub. They'll have an idea for how to do this quietly. Wait...Wakanda's training child soldiers?" He asked.

Akeja stiffened. "How DARE you! Of course not; I was stolen away from my home!"

"Yeah, yeah, just checking."

Mouthpiece and organizer for The Org, the mysterious criminal organization that facilitated mercenary work worldwide, The Hub served in many ways as Taskmaster's handler. The enigmatic woman was nothing more than a voice on the other end of the earpiece he was always wearing inside of his mask, the only number he always kept in his phone, and yet he trusted her more than anyone else alive. Even Tony wasn't sure why; she just...made him feel something, and he'd learned long ago to trust his gut.

"This...Hub can be trusted too?" Mara asked warily. "Will they not sell us out to other mercenaries?"

"No, no, Hub is good people. Promise. Come on, let's get out of this fucking rain while I call her." He ushered the children to follow him, but when Black Ant began to join them, Taskmaster intercepted him. "Eric, I got another job for you."

"What? You're cutting me out, old man?!" Black Ant threw his hands up. "You better not be about to sell these kids behind my back. I put up with a lot from you, but -- OW!" He doubled over as Taskmaster socked him in the gut. "You son of a..."

"Shut up," Tony hissed, leaning down. "Someone's watching us, two streets over. Probably backup for Waterfall's crew. I'm gonna hit you again, like I'm screwing you over here; I need you to go down. After we leave, they'll come to try and collect you. Surprise them and figure out who they're working for."

"...Okay, but you owe me for this."

"Yeah, sure."

"I mean it, you 'new car' owe me for this!" Eric whispered before collapsing as Taskmaster kneed him savagely in the stomach. "Too...real."

"Thanks, little buddy." Taskmaster turned and pursued the children with that, joining them as they ran into a nearby alleyway. It was still pouring, but the awnings of the adjacent buildings meant that the soaked kids were at least not still getting rained on. Taking the lead, Taskmaster crossed the alley and pointed at a large, black building a few blocks away. "We're heading there. Used to be Zemo's mansion before Punisher ran him out of town. Hub will likely want us to meet her people there to get you extracted."

"Fine," Mara replied. Taskmaster pressed a button on his phone, a 'hotdial' for The Org that connected to his mask. In the distance, he could hear the car approaching where he'd left Black Ant. He hoped he hadn't put Eric up against someone who was too much for him. Waterfall had been no joke, despite the name.

"Taskmaster," came the familiar female voice. Immediately, he relaxed despite the situation. She just had that effect on him. "Looking for work? Things are a bit slow right now, but for my best operative, I always--"

"--Sorry to cut ya off, Hub, but I'm actually already busy. I need an extraction." He felt weirdly guilty interrupting her.

"An extraction from Bagalia? I'm surprised anyone could drive you out of that hive."

"It's not for me. There's some...kids. Bunch of them."

"Oh, no, Tony," The Hub replied. "You didn't have anything to do with this, did you? Are your memories acting up?"

"What? No! NO!" He barked, offended. "I -saved- them! Jeez! You know I don't take work without running it by you. And I didn't -- look, don't worry about it. It's related to the King Shark gig. They were the...'cargo' he was overhearing." Wait. Did she just call him Tony? They never used names.

There was a pause, the kind he never expected. As professional as she was, The Hub almost never hesitated. "...Okay. I'll look into it, and I'm sending someone. Get them to Zemo's old helipad...stay safe, Taskmaster."

"Yeah, already on the way. Thanks." Cutting the call, Taskmaster glanced back over his shoulder to the children. "Alright, let's go back out. Try to move, but not -too- fast. That damned Hydro Man wannabe busted up my ribs somethin' fie--er...hi."

The children had already scattered, fleeing back towards the street. They were hiding behind another figure who'd just appeared, a small woman who nonetheless had the strength to hurl an unconscious Black Ant at Tony's feet.

"I knew you were low, Taskmaster...but this is bad, even for you."

Laura Kinney, the Wolverine, was blocking the only way back out of the alleyway, and wearing an expression of complete disgust.

[brooklynislandgirl]

83. Have you ever wanted to have sex with someone but knew you couldnt for any reason? Why?

Once Bitten || Accepting

“No.”

The single word and the way she says it is both true and disingenuous at the same time.

She also doesn’t look up at Anakin as he quietly drops the question, all sharp edges and shot through with that specific kind of anxiety that is endemic to him, predicated on the experience of how other people treat him; either listening and completely disregarding his genuine need for guidance or clarification, or...ignoring him altogether and misunderstanding what it is he’s looking for. Anyone else, anyone not her, would have decided he wants to know out of some twisted sort of vengeance for the myriad questions she tends to ask at the most inopportune times. For the curiosity that sometimes eats her alive and knowing he won’t deny her an answer even if once given it isn’t nearly close enough to what she’s specifically trying to ask but is absolute truth all the same. It’s complicated. The way they dance around each other some days. Because they have to, because there isn't any other way to get by.

There is something very noble in his small acts of self-betrayal. In the way that he reaches into himself and pulls out parts of himself for her to examine. Turn this way and that under the bright light of scrutiny, see the lustre that exists in even the smallest kernel of his wishes. Which, she notes and not happily, have over the years dwindled down to a handful of sweet and simple things. How she hates that they have taken the rest from him. She wishes she could give them back to him. One by one. But she's just as powerless as he is. So tightly bound by rules that it's so hard to even breathe. The best she can do is to still herself. To carefully gather up the things she doesn't say and spread them out before him, let him pick and choose which he would like to keep.

Emerald shifts from dark to light and back again in a single flare when she finally looks up, dares to grace his visage with a questioning gaze. Brows knitted above her eyes. Mouth pursed just so. Makes the way the tip of her tongue probing the space between her upper teeth and the inside of her lip unmistakable for anything else. A thing she sometimes does when her thoughts become treacherously deep. When she's reluctant to divulge whatever she might find in them.

She's trod these paths that stretch out before winding back on themselves in an uncultivated mess of would-bes and mights with Anakin before. Usually under a controlled indulgence of alcohol and sugar that was only permissible under the auspices of a mission or investigation. And far, far away from the walls of the Temple. Similar but different now because the focus is on specifics about herself, about her reasonings behind it. And she's already put one foot forward with a single word. Turning back isn’t an option.

"No."

She begins again. She could ask him what his definition of sex is. They could set up artificial parameters, constructs that pass for qualification into this arena but it would hardly matter. Their only reference about it came from holovids and carefully hoarded novels, at least she thinks so. From sublimely ridiculous flower petals and wine, soft music and candle light to near animalistic acts of brutal sensuality, the only goal of which was to find release in whatever fashion it could be obtained. Expanded only by furtive whispers between clan-mates the few times they gather in leisure when they aren't being overseen by their Masters. Sex isn't explicitly forbidden by the dozens of codified rules of the Order but love is. It is attachment at its purest. Attachment is forbidden because it leads to fear and jealousy, to selfishness which is the root of all things in the Dark Side.

"To be honest? Sex doesn't interest me in the least. It's bio-mechanical, a simple physical act, instinctive enough that any animal can do it. The idea of it ~impractical, impersonal~ only for some kind of occasionally unobtainable gratification...just feels gross to me. For decades we have wrapped ourselves up in tunics and under-robes. Outer layers that swallow us whole and obscure our skin, make us one and the same, like a uniform. Not only do I not like the idea but also...it sort of scares me...to just strip down and use someone else for this purpose. 

“For years, I thought maybe it was because I might not be compatibly built, though eventually that myth was dispelled. But I still don't want to be groped and pawed at. To lay down and spread my thighs and hope that in those seconds and minutes I can derive some kind of pleasure with someone I wouldn't sit and eat with, whose name and face I only know in passing. That sounds like a nightmare to me, Anakin. I couldn't do it. Would rather go for self-gratification if it came down to it."

She shudders almost delicately, but in a rare moment, she withdraws from him, from the conversation, possibly even from herself. Her elbows drew closer to her ribs, and she enfolded her hands into the bell sleeves of her robe, not unlike he's done a thousand times. There's no evidence that she's twitching in the sheltered dark, or plucking at the seams or herself but maybe the worst part of it is that she shrinks from him in the Force. Thins out like a wisp of smoke, more ephemeral than she can possibly be, closed off.

Her lips half purse. Hesitation. A lick of nervousness so ripe that as it sweeps up her spine and makes her flesh burn under its auspices, so too does it threaten to reach across the bond they have always shared that it might immolate him, too.

Her breath hitches despite how hard she tries not to let it, and she slowly sucks in her lower lip until it becomes nearly perforated by the points of her teeth, the mild pain of her own nip reminding her to let it go.

“There is...someone I want to...I want to make love with. And that’s the difference, isn’t it? It’s more than being naked. It’s slowly unwrapping so that inch by inch there are no more boundaries. There is already love and connection and an ocean of feelings recognised and never spoken of, but there. Known. Every attachment, fear, scar, beauty. Every hope and desire reciprocated, the act itself of delving into one another is because there’s already no separation but the physical. A lick or a kiss is only words made into touch. Finally surrendering to the passion and the need to join together is because we can’t stand to be two different beings, that it hurts NOT to be one entity, where you forget where one starts and the other ends.

“I can all but feel it sometimes, the trembling of a gorgeous, long fingered hand writing broken Huttese poetry across my skin. I can taste the suns and the salt on his skin, the sting of copper because of a tiny bit too indelicate bite. Or the way his bliss eases down into the back of my throat, the way he looks when he glances up from the apex of my thighs so careful, so afraid that something isn’t right because all we want to so is share this boundless joy. Of his hands on my hips, as I’m looking down at him through strands of my hair as we finally come to that moment, every question and desire we’ve ever had about to be answered and there’s no secrets, no walls, just the purity of us in the physical and in the Force and....” And she realises that as she speaks, she’s picturing it in her mind. So starkly vivid, so exact down to the smallest detail that he cannot possibly not share the image of it. And her face...falls. Eyes damp and crystalline with the horror of saying it out loud where she could be overheard, over-felt. Mouth parted in vague horror that makes her breath reedy sounding in the strangled way it comes out of her and the sudden disruption in the Force that can only be described as a panic so close to total systems-collapse.

“But..a.h.....ah... You know...you know the reason that can’t be, ever. We are Jedi and it isn’t permissible and ...uh.” To her credit she tries to recover herself, eyes darting anywhere at him while waves of shame and fright continues to roil through her.

“We...in the general term, of course. I wasn’t meaning you specifically...just...” Liar. She did mean him. Has always meant him. Cannot imagine anyone else she would share something so intimate with, or would want to, even across a thousand galaxies, spread out over the most infinite of time. And how can she even know he’d feel the same way? Anakin is sought after, maybe for all the wrong reasons, but the Republic loves him. Those few people he considers his closest friends, love him. If he wanted to...he could have whomever or whatever he wanted. “Well, I mean, you asked...and...” She suddenly finds herself praying to the Force, to her four moons, that she’s stricken dead right there on the spot before he can say a word and kill the dreams she has.

[bardofv0id]

Meat vs. Candy: Meat

Here’s the thing.

I’m hearing two main arguments online... a lot of people saying the epilogues are Terrible, for various reasons, and a few people saying they're Good, with a smaller but vocal subset of those people arguing that if you don’t like them then you’re obviously just expecting to be spoon-fed a fluff ending in which the Character You Like gets a wish-fulfillment storybook epilogue.

There are probably some people who are mad about not getting that. However, I think misrepresenting the range of anger various parts of the fandom are experiencing as being purely some kind of childish knee-jerk tantrum at not getting the toy they wanted is disingenuous, at best, and parallels some of the mistakes of the epilogues themselves.  Note that this in no way excuses or justifies people sending the writers or anyone else death-threats or whatever the hell else has been going on.

Honestly... the Meat ending was pretty good writing, in my opinion.  It wasn’t comfortable or happy or flattering in any way to a number of characters who I recognize people care deeply about, but it was nothing really worse than I expected from Earth C, based on the fundamental narrative of Lord English’s giant closed-loop system.  The loop had to close, in order for Homestuck proper to occur at all.  That means that Earth C is where Calliope and Caliborn hatch and grow up, far, far in the future. And that means that universe, like the others, will be destroyed by a SBURB session one day. Sorry, folks.  It was never meant to be a 'happy ending'.

Meat was deeply metatextual. It was gristly and greasy and discomfiting.  It raised questions about what it means to have a narrator, and whose biases are implicitly included--and I think those are very interesting questions to raise, whether or not they are particularly satisfying to someone who is also reading for the characters.

Spoilers beyond the read-more, for obvious reasons.

That said, there were elements that did surprise me.  The removal of the other kids from different points in different doomed timelines, to fight with John against LE, rather than being his teammates from Earth C--but from John’s perspective, it doesn’t seem like there’s much difference.  Either way, they’re not fully ‘real’ to him (and barely feel real to us, as quickly as they appear and then die). He’s from the Game Over timeline, he’s battling depression, and nobody in the retcon timeline is really quite authentic to him, either--just as to many fans, they didn’t feel quite authentic, when the retcon happened and we had to suddenly let go of the characters we'd watched grow and change, replaced by funhouse mirror reflections and could-have-beens.

I’ve also seen some reasonably interesting arguments that a lot of Dirk’s narration, in the Meat route, either sounds eerily like Vriska talking or flips back and forth between Vriska-mode and Dirk-mode, well before alt!Calliope ever gets involved.  I’m prepared to believe some Serket element (whether that is potentially Vriska, or the Aranea who was abruptly displaced from her attempt at wresting control of the narrative by John) was involved there, and Dirk was not acting entirely of his own accord.  I’m also prepared to shrug and say “okay, maybe it was just a narrative parallel--Homestuck does that a lot”.  Some narration, especially when Terezi is involved, doesn't sound at all how I would expect a Serket-influenced narrator to sound with regards to her, in particular.  It doesn’t particularly grind my gears to think some version of Dirk, in the right environment, might make a series of choices that leads him to behaving like this, entirely on his own.  I recognize that it’s upsetting to DirkJake fans in particular to see their favorite pairing written like this, but it doesn’t feel wholly out of character to me for either of them to develop in these directions, given the right (or wrong) pressures and external situations. This Dirk is the culmination of a very wide multiplicity of Dirks, including at least one if not more who ended up directly subsumed in Lord English and/or under his explicit influence.

I’ve heard that some people were attacking the Meat route on the grounds of transphobia, which... I think is a rather weak argument, given that it’s recognized in the text itself, as pronoun changes are handled respectfully by one narrator-character and inconsistently by a second, who is being set up as the villain of the story. That seems like a pretty solid metatextual rejection of the action, no?  Like, if a villain does a bad thing, in a story, while the hero is fighting them, do you argue that the story itself advocates for that thing? There has to be some kind of distinction between ‘character does X’ and ‘author of story advocates X is Morally Correct’, or we would never have any villains at all. Dirk's dismissiveness toward Roxy's agency grows, the further toward 'villain' he slides.

Were there some things I liked, in Meat?  I guess.  From a sociopolitical and cultural standpoint, the shitty repercussions of the way the retcon gang set up a planet, dumped a bunch of chess people and clone grubs, then left them to do all the work of creating its society and waiting for their eventual 'godly' return... were pretty logical. I'm actually happy that it was acknowledged, instead of just brushed off as inconsequential.  It was interesting, too, to see some of the kids playing with notions of gender identity as they grew, and how their companions adjusted. It was telling (in terms of Dirk's character development) how he thought of Roxy and Calliope's gender explorations as something he could choose to 'allow' or not. Also, with how truncated most of the gang's personal development (and plot development) was in Homestuck proper ('thanks', retcon!Vriska), I think it kinda made sense how stunted and incapable of like... dealing with regular life in a functional way a lot of them seemed. Jumping straight to teenage 'godhood' didn't make them experienced or smart. It's sad that all of them just kind of... stagnate there, but Earth C has always felt incredibly stagnant to me.

Retcon!Vriska getting swallowed by the black hole was at least thematically fitting, though I'm wondering why she is using such Seer-themed language, suddenly. I also like that the wallet is finally back in play. Rose and Dirk's philosophical debate about individuation and free will is delightfully creepy, given the themes of the story. There are moments, within the story, that the turns of phrase and the humor just hit me full in the teeth and remind me this is Homestuck, and I do love those moments.  And of course, my xenobiological worldbuilding interests enjoyed that apparently, earth onions are quite toxic to trolls.

Were there things I didn’t like in Meat?  Yeah, of course. I don't particularly like that John, an Heir of Breath--one who is innately positioned to awaken Breath, freedom and motivation in the people around him--callously shoves an unresisting teenager he's barely met into a refrigerator and just leaves him there, apparently convinced he deserves it.

Did some of the things I disliked relate to the storytelling itself, rather than just how characters were characterized, or what actions they took?  Yeah. Why are we still out here queer-baiting with Dave and Karkat?  Years have passed.  They have spent literal years sitting 1.5 feet apart so it's 'not gay'? I sincerely don't think this pairing is actually healthy or beneficial to either of them, the way it developed in canon, but come on. Then, they still balk and drag their feet unless it's being narratively pushed on them by someone else. It's just painful to watch.

I also take a certain level of personal offense as a Tavros fan when the narrative goes out of its way to repeatedly harp on Tavros being useless and no one giving a shit what he's doing.  Ghost Tavros was awesome, okay, and was personally responsible for gathering the ghost army, so fuck you, Vriska-coded narrator. You have bad judgment. But that is not a crime of writing, if it is an intentionally biased perspective and not just writers taking cheap shots at a character they don't happen to like. I'm just incredibly tired of it being done habitually and collectively, as a fandom, to that character in particular. Furthermore, I'm really discomfited by the way Tavros's development (am I the only one who remembers him dancing and telling Vriska to suck it?) is completely ignored and de-legitimized by having him immediately fawning on her, trailing around after her, hiding against her shoulder, etc.  Tavros was a victim of emotional and physical abuse, at Vriska's hands.  Can we just agree to stop narratively forcing victims back into contact with their abusers, period? It's not a good look.

Moreover, there's the whole misogyny angle.  When does a story about misogynistic characters (and narrators) doing misogynistic things while misogynistic shit narratively happens start being a critique of misogynistic tropes rather than a tired old rehash?  Every step Jane (allegedly a strong, independent woman, though also stepping into her dictatorial role as 'Heiress') takes is either dictated by Dirk, sent into a complete tailspin that upends her confidence by Jake, or verbally decried as factually wrong and/or stupid by Dave and/or Karkat.  Rose and Kanaya both have their agency overwritten and end up separated from each other through the actions of Dirk, and Rose becomes an extension of Dirk, losing her very selfhood.  Jade is treated as an accessory to the DaveKat trainwreck, simultaneously discounted as actually emotionally relevant and blamed for its ludicrous problems.  She, of course, also ends up having her agency overwritten as she's plunged into a coma and possessed, prevented from actually having reactions to the things that are going on, or taking action for herself. Borrowed!Rose and Jade are KO'd almost instantly in the fight against Lord English, and become either literally erased, or dead weight for a male character to drag around until it's no longer convenient. Terezi admits to wasting a huge amount of time trailing around after Vriska--who was an emotionally abusive gaslighter to her, on the retcon!meteor. (And we're back to victims being constantly evaluated according to their proximity to their abusers again.) Then, she's on to redirecting herself into some quest on John's behalf, instead. She's still not living for herself. Finally, you show me an Aradia who would ever, ever be concerned about 'saying more embarrassing stuff' around Dave, or thinking of him as an ‘outrageously cool dude’, and I'll show you a bridge I'd like to sell you.  That ain't any Aradia I've ever seen. So who’s narrating there, Dirk again? A third party?

Other weird things: apparently Jane's kidnapping in the snapchats just... never gets explained or referenced again? I went back to reread those, and they connected to Meat even more than I realized at first.   I guess Jane grew up to be... exactly what she was raised/groomed to be, which is *uncomfortable* but not particularly shocking.  I feel bad for people who were hoping for happier endings for the human kids, but I don't think I ever really expected Homestuck to serve up happy endings.  I don't buy that things in the snapchat were just thrown in at random, though.  Those elements were there for a reason, and arguing that everything in the snapchats were connected to the epilogues EXCEPT that one major extended plotline doesn't make sense.  Especially when it visually and narratively seems to be a direct link to the events of the Meat storyline. 

Also, where the fuck are the sprites?  We never see or hear from Jasprosesprite, Gcatavrosprite, or the Nannasprite(s?) again. I’m not sure anyone cares, but. Uh. Yeah.

I have other thoughts regarding the classpect-coded language that crops up pretty frequently in the epilogues, but I think I will devote a separate post to that, if I get around to it, given that this *is* at heart a classpecting blog.

So anyway, Meat ends, it's depressing and futile and grim, I get it. I don't like every element, but it hangs together as a story with a narrative, overall.

Then we get to Candy.

Hoo boy.

I’ll tackle that one next, but as it was considerably more upsetting for me to read, rereading it for fact-checks and commentary is going to be a lot harder for me.  I’ll get through it here sooner or later, though.

[rkxsungwoon-blog]

☆ MGA5 EPISODE TWO ; JULY 4 #5008 HA SUNGWOON ; interview

much like the last episode, the ceos retire to discuss the results of the performances while the contestants are ushered one by one into private rooms to be interviewed on the day’s events. sungwoon wonders if this will become a staple from now on. if so… he’s not entirely sure how to feel—the interviews broadcasted last week were interesting, to say the least. he supposes it adds some excitement to the broadcast along with giving viewers a glimpse into the personalities of the contestants. it also feels like russian roulette, like the producers are waiting for someone to inevitably say something damaging during their interviews and metaphorically shoot themselves in the foot.

but maybe the moment of reflection is a good thing too. sungwoon appreciates getting the chance to reorient, to breathe and consider the day’s events and performances in one go. he never truly struggles to answer, so his complaints are probably less valid than most. rather than being truly worried, he’s eager to get this over with and get to the results. 

when his name is called, sungwoon rises and gives his friends a double thumbs up before following the staff to the interview room. a quick touch up of his hair and makeup later, he’s seated in a familiar chair in front of the interviewer in a set-up not much different from last week. he greets the interviewer with a smile and makes some idle small talk about the weather and how their day is going so far until the cameraman indicates it’s time to begin.

showtime.

so, welcome back, sungwoon. you’ve managed to survive the first cut, but what did you think of the results last week otherwise?

ah. he expected this one. cutting fifty people from the competition at one time is a lot. of course they’d be asked about it. “i didn’t expect there to be quite as many eliminations from the beginning, so it was a little nerve-wracking, to be honest.” sungwoon is grateful his friends survived alongside him, but admitting as much might sound like rubbing salt in the wounds of people who were separated from their friends.

he decides to keep it neutral. “all my predictions for who would make it to the next round came true, though! well, except one.” poor chan. sungwoon really thought he was good, but his opinion doesn’t count for much when it comes to rap. “i guess that disqualifies me as a psychic? unless i make sure to include a disclaimer that there’s a 16% error margin on all predictions?” he laughs, embarrassed as he realizes his mental math might be a little off. “actually, don’t fact check me on that number.” math isn’t his strong suit, but he refuses to be make a fool of himself over numbers on national tv.

shaking his head slightly, he taps his fingers against his knee in thought. “it was disappointing to see so many talented people go home,” sungwoon adds slowly. “but it’s a competition and, well, i have to believe the ceos made the decisions they did for a reason.” they clearly know what they’re doing, and it’s not for him to question them yet. 

how did you feel when you realized you were through to the next round?

“i was relieved, mostly,” sungwoon admits readily. a sigh escapes his lips as he thinks back to the moment his name was called—he’d felt weak and weightless at the same time, even more so when the others made it through safely. sungwoon would like to say he never had any doubts, but that isn’t entirely true. there’s always room for doubt. “i would’ve been mortified to get eliminated so early in the competition.” honestly, he’d be equally mortified to get eliminated now, but it feels unnecessary to add that into his answer. “it also felt right, you know?” he continues with a sheepish smile. “i felt acknowledged by the judges, and that went a long way towards boosting my confidence for today’s performance!”

many people have expressed concern about the number of previous mga contestants participating in this season. as one of the people highlighted as a former contestant during the episode, how does the backlash make you feel?

well, this is one he didn’t expect. of course sungwoon is aware of the backlash—the previous episode literally broadcast one of the contestants’ thoughts on the subject, and the netizens seem united in the opinion that this year has too many old faces. and as one of the old faces, his opinion on the subject should be pretty clear: it sucks, and he doesn’t agree that just because they’ve been on the show before, they have no place on it now. he’s not sure why the interviewers would ask this, unless they’re hoping he gives them something juicy to air? sungwoon is determined to avoid that trap, to think carefully over his response before he gives it.

honesty is the best way to play this, in his opinion. “it’s not the greatest, i’ll admit.” wringing his hands together, he shoots the interviewer a distracted, what can you do, kind of smile before raking his fingers through his hair. “i think it’s disingenuous to act like being on the show one year means we can never come back or to claim we’ve used up our one and only chance. it’s not like we stopped dreaming just because it didn’t work out the first time.” for many, including sungwoon, participating in the mgas increased his desire to stand up on stage.

“i also believe people might be under the impression that we’ve had tons of opportunities for success following the show last year?” being on tv might’ve brought a little bit of localized fame for a brief period of time last year, but all that is gone now, leaving old contestants as forgotten relics of a different time. “but i can tell you that’s not really true—personally, at least. no companies were looking to sign me, and i didn’t have any other prospects.” a bitter pill to swallow, but there it is! he chuckles and rubs the back of his neck. “compared to a lot of other competitions, the mgas are accessible, so yeah, i gave them a shot again, but because this might be the only way i ever make it. i’m sure others feel the same way.”

god, he said a lot more than he intended to. sungwoon takes a deep breath and shakes his head, forcing a smile he hopes looks natural. “if the new contestants are worried about facing the old ones, well, a little healthy competition never hurt anyone, right?”

i see. moving on, how do you think you did this week?

“like i said, i’m never satisfied.” he feels like this will be a familiar refrain if this question continues to come up again, but it continues to be true. he needs the persistent buzz under his skin, the nagging voice that tells him he can do better. it drives sungwoon to improve, and that’s worth the temporary discomfort. still, his feelings towards today’s stage is largely positive overall. “i know my performance wasn’t as exciting as some of the others. that’s always the risk when you do a ballad, right?” sungwoon was well aware of it from the beginning. “and for once i didn’t play an instrument. that was nerve-wracking, let me tell you.”

he straightens up in his seat. “but i wanted the focus to be on my voice today.” no bells and whistles, just sungwoon showing the judges what he’s capable of. “so i chose to sing a korean song, one that ended up becoming pretty personal for me. i think… i did all i could up on the stage, and i hope it resonated with everyone who listened. that’s all i can really ask for.”

who do you think is the best under each skill?

oh, now that’s an interesting question. sungwoon wouldn’t have been able to answer it last week due to the sheer number of people performing, but after watching the episode and sitting through today’s stages, sungwoon is in a better position to judge the rest of the contestants. the interviewer catches the grin spreading across his face and asks him if he’s thinking of naming himself, to which sungwoon responds “oh, no. no,” with a laugh. he wouldn’t dream of it. “i’ll try not to name only empty enigma members either, but you can’t blame me if a few slip in.”

for singers… sungwoon feels like quite a few of them are strong. this is the only category he feels qualified to talk about at length, in any case. “i think heejin is a strong singer, maybe the strongest in the competition. i enjoy her vocal color, and i think her voice is powerful. she has a strong stage presence too, so i definitely think she’s someone to watch for.” he wants to mention a few other singers as well, but he’s determined to keep his picks to one each this time. or… maybe two. two picks, maximum. “hyojin too! he sang one of my favorite day6 songs, and his range is insane. i can’t wait to hear more from him.”

dancers are harder to comment on; sungwoon doesn’t know enough (or feels confident enough) to choose the best in this category. “uh, i think i’m only qualified to talk about who i liked the best, so take all this with a grain of salt.” he probably shouldn’t say park woojin, but the first name that comes out of his mouth is—”park woojin, for sure. though to be clear, i would pick him even if we weren’t friends. his performance was powerful and captivating—i think he’s easily the best dancer here.” he wants to mention kenta as well, but he doesn’t want to come off as too biased either. “i also think yugyeom is a good dancer. i don’t know how i feel about him in general, but i won’t deny talent when i see it.”

rappers are possibly harder to talk about than dancers, so sungwoon takes his time running through the list of performances before answering. “i think the number of female rappers in the competition this year are pretty cool, so i’d have to pick one of them. sakura, maybe? i was surprised by her performance, but in a good way.” his second choice is so obvious, sungwoon wonders if he even has to state it out loud. “and mason, obviously. he’s a good rapper, maybe one of the best, but that’s a given.”

were there any performances you liked?

sungwoon hates questions like these, mostly because he never has enough time to mention everyone he wants to. just saying ‘all of them’ would save a lot of time, but he’s pretty sure that isn’t allowed. also, it’s not truthful either. there are performances he definitely didn’t enjoy. the question is about ones he did, however, and sungwoon runs through the ones he remembers well enough in his mind before blurting out the first one that stayed with him. “daniel’s!” wait, that really isn’t going to help him sound less biased. his face warms and he scratches his cheek while rushing to gather his thoughts. “okay, honestly. i know he’s not the best of the rappers, but he wrote his own rap and the lyrical content was straight fire. his performance had me hyped up. how can i not mention it?”

aside from daniel, there are a few others he wants to mention. “eunji’s dance was… i know i mentioned her last week as a talented singer, but she’s a phenomenal dancer as well. her performance was really powerful and compelling. park jinyoung—i liked his voice, and i thought his song choice was very appropriate for his tone. personally, he’s one to watch for me as well.” pausing, sungwoon leans back in his chair and rubs his chin in thought. “yeji? i thought she did a great job too—really, a lot of the girls have been killing it this year. i wish i could mention them all because they deserve it.”

were there any you didn’t like?

“guys, seriously,” he laughs, letting his arms fall to his sides. “have people answered this?” how many have taken the bait and actually said something negative about their fellow contestants? the interviewer won’t answer that for him, so sungwoon is left wondering when he should bite or not. maybe he should, but gently? “there were a couple of performances i was let down by,” he admits. “kyungsoo, for one. i really enjoy his voice, but i wasn’t sold on his song choice, so i think that colored my opinion of his performance.” toxic isn’t a choice he’d make personally, and while he respects it, sungwoon isn’t sure it’s appropriate for this stage of the competition. “i also enjoyed suwoong’s performance last week, but not as much this week… i don’t know, i think he could’ve taken it a bit more seriously?” sungwoon shrugs. “they’re both good performers; just not my cup of tea.”

is there anyone you are certain will move onto the next phase of the mgas?

“is it time for sungwoon the psychic’s predictions again?” he taps his forehead, thought he’s… not exactly sure why. “uh, well, i think everyone i mentioned as the best of their categories will go through. special shout out to mason, because he’s going all the way to the finale! mark my words.” he doesn’t know if he has any solid picks outside of those. “yuri? she has a powerful voice and the necessary star power.” hm, maybe that’s all? no, wait, he remembers one of the dancers leaving an impression and struggles to pronounce her name properly. “jieqiong? she’s pretty and talented; i would expect her to go through.” sungwoon figures he’d better stop there—or he’ll end up naming half the contestants in the competition. “let’s see how many of these work out! remember, 16% error rate!”

is there anyone you are certain will be eliminated today?

“my third eye broke; i can’t answer that,” sungwoon says, completely straight faced. several moments pass before his expression cracks into a distant smile. “no, seriously—i’m not sure what criteria the judges are basing their assessments on, so i can’t answer. you’d think it would be straightforward, but someone who’s average in a skill can get far based on their sheer charisma and stage presence, right? so i think it could be anyone’s game.” he won’t speculate further; it’s not his place. and he’s worried that if he does start to consider who might be eliminated, a few familiar names could potentially pop into mind.

that’s all for now. thank you!

“thank you! you’ve worked hard.” sungwoon rises and bows to the interviewer and the staff before returning to his seat. he steals a bottle of water from one of the empty enigma members and polishes it off with a cheeky smile. “i need this, guys. i talked a lot,” he complains when they ask. when do you not? someone answers, and sungwoon glares at them playfully before promising to buy another bottle during their break. it’s much easier to stick to smiles and lighthearted conversation before eliminations, and sungwoon does his best to keep the atmosphere cheery.

it’s all he can do for them right now.

[koszmar-zycie]

💎 18. Is there anything you really wish you could do, character-design-wise, that you feel is outside your current skillset? A concept that you wish you could pull off but are uncertain about?n✒️ 11. If you have characters that embody certain traits of yours—good or bad—has writing them changed how you view those traits? Has it affected you in any way? 📌 7. Do you have characters that you know you’ll never use, but can’t bear to get rid of/recycle?

💎 18. Is there anything you really wish you could do, character-design-wise, that you feel is outside your current skillset? A concept that you wish you could pull off but are uncertain about? - 

It’s kind of funny, because I feel like I’m capable of a decent amount, but at the same time, I see a lot of characters and types that other people do, and I feel like there’s no way I could handle them. I feel comfortable with brash girls and classy guys, and nearly every trope character-wise, but there are those that elude me. One I can think of is probably seductive characters. At least in the sort of expected sense of seductive. I have a Succubus character that’s bound to Koszmar, and she’d tried for ages to seduce him, but he wasn’t weak willed enough to care, so her wiles never worked.

Which story-wise is great because it fits, but it also was an unintentional “get out of jail free card” for having to write her. - On the other hand, if anyone wanted to RP with Koszmar, especially someone with magical, and namely warlock based power - then she might appear, and I’d sort of be forced to. lol I think I’d be afraid that it would sound disingenuous. And for RP, especially for such a character, the disconnect is solid, I wouldn’t want her writing to sound cheap and not committed to her nature, or as though it was copied from other similar characters.

✒️ 11. If you have characters that embody certain traits of yours—good or bad—has writing them changed how you view those traits? Has it affected you in any way? - 

I’ve mentioned a couple times before that most of my characters have me in them in some way or another, but a few sort of embody certain parts. Taima, for example, is the down-to-earth, new age side of me. Koszmar is sort of my core persona (carrying most of the negative as well :\ ), Rahab has a lot of my looks, oddly enough (only handsome lol) and my pride. Being proud of who I am and unrepentant about my efforts and positivity, while also bearing some judgement. (nothing serious, of course, but that kind of “why can’t everyone just stick to their word, not be petty, etc - which of course, he bears less hypocrisies than I, being fictional!)

And it somewhat has changed me, I’d say. The benefit to having yourself in your characters when in an RP, is that writing with someone else lets you experience their character’s reaction, which is often more fluid and natural, since you’re getting someone else’s perspective on that trait or traits. Even if it’s not that person’s own perspective, their character’s perspective and opinion is obviously being written by someone else. That lets you understand a different angle on the quality or trait. Something that can easily be skipped when writing solo, as you’re just writing everything on your own. 

I definitely value my RP partners quite a lot for that as well. Even if we don’t talk, or don’t talk often. I try to be a friend, and I appreciate getting to look at things differently. Since whether it’s meant to be in depth, or just a casual RP, you can learn some interesting things by just having fun with a buddy.

📌 7. Do you have characters that you know you’ll never use, but can’t bear to get rid of/recycle?  - 

I hate to say it, but probably Tirithon. He was based on my DnD character I had for yeeeears(/have), and I really love the Hell out of his mog and character. But I think he’s fallen pretty far out of favor and the limelight, and probably won’t be used. On the other hand, I like him so much, that I couldn’t just leave him out.

Reason that it sucks, is because for most Horde interaction, it’s Koszmar, Taima, or Willow. (sometimes Xiuying, but in reality she’s only ever interacted with @jadeblossom-journeys. Which is nice, due to the Pandaren nature of them all!) For Alliance, Haytham is my star. I love that Gilnean to death. That said, even though Tirithon was and is a top tier favorite, I just don’t see him being used. There’s sadly no call for it. D:

Anyhoo, thanks so much for the asks! <3 I really appreciate it, @foxfictioncentral!

[webcricket]

Looking Glass

Chapter 25 - Corollaries

Pairing: CastielXAU!Reader

Word Count: 1683

Summary: Tragedy derails halcyon days in the bunker and forces everyone involved to reevaluate their notions of safety. Warning for minor (canon in ep 13X23) character death. I’ve decided to stop pretending I know how many chapters this beast will end up being - this isn’t the final chapter as I originally intended (mostly because I want to keep them at the original 2K word limit and there is too much story left to cover and clearly I have no concept of what will make it beyond the final edit).

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Raining cats and dogs. Under the weather. Flying by the seat of one’s pants. Speak of the devil.

Castiel never fully appreciated the expressionistic origin of idioms peppering human speech until he glimpsed the vibrant magenta of your jacket fitted to a lifeless female form lying on the leaf-littered trail ahead and he experienced the resultant  precipitous leaping of his heart into the upper echelons of his throat.

Swallowing hard against the ‘What if it were you? What if I failed to protect her?’ rise of anxiety to relocate the obstinate organ back into his vessel’s ribcage where it belongs, he closes his eyes in concentrated effort; in the lidded distancing from the light of day, he reminds himself the shattered shell, limbs limp and radiating residual heat, crumpled in the mist of cooling rain belonged to some other unfortunate soul, not you.

He left you safe in the bunker’s kitchen, breathing, physically intact, and very much alive, as you helped prep a mass lunch for the multitudes mere minutes ago. The knowledge, the fresh imprint in his mind’s eye of the slight questioning smile hovering on your mouth soundlessly saying you expected to hear the story later as an agitated and secretive Sam dragged him away from the task of scrubbing dishes to help handle a situation – this situation – however comforting in recollection, barely makes a diminishing dent in his reflexive fright at the sight of your jacket and the scent of you still lingering in the damp cloth mingling with the unmistakable odor of raw death.

The hitch and pause in his gait, the sharp gasp and blanching of pink lips as they press tautly together – the outer projections of disquiet as he battles to suppress his rebellious nerves and rapidly beating heart – presents the split-second opportunity for Jack to sprint past the distracted seraph.

“Maggie!” the boy shouts. Surging ahead, he circumvents Mary and Bobby on the well-worn path where they stand sentinel, gravely watching over the dead girl. Ruddy cheeks paling, his sneaker slips in the mossy earth, smearing through bloodied mud as he stumbles around the boulder where she drew a final breath and collapsed.

Sam’s lengthy stride and rational senses move him to the site in time to prohibit Jack from disturbing the scene further; grappling with the Nephilim’s shoulder to hold him back from kneeling to take the girl up in his arms, he manages to keep the boy from eroding what little detail remains that might clue them in to what happened.

“I-I said I’d protect her, and,” Jack’s guilty lament suspends fog-like in the air as he speaks, fingers uselessly flexing and balling into fists, “Sam…”

Cas forces his feet to convey him closer to the carnage. Blinking between Jack’s anguished aspect and the waterlogged coat, he tears his focus from the more personally emotionally unsettling elements to study the statically fixed girlish features of Maggie’s corpse; the peaceful ghostly skin-shade of pre-rigor smoothing the minute muscles of her face is perverted by brightly painted crimson where the bone cracks cleanly at her temple; rivulets of blood and rain mat her hair, the latter diluting the congealed edges of the fatal wound.

“Stop, Jack. This isn’t your fault,” Sam consoles in the rain-pattered hush, stating what they all – save the grief-stricken Jack – are thinking.

A pang of empathy at Jack feeling personally responsible for whatever befell her resonates in Castiel’s heart; the angel knows from long practice it’s often easier to assume self-blame and contend with the tangibility of failure in place of the seemingly unsurmountable impossibility of accepting that senseless tragedies do happen no matter how many vows one makes to prevent their occurrence. For all the fight for a righteous cause, free will and destiny coalesce into unpredictable outcomes. It’s a hard lesson to learn – one with which the angel constantly grapples and one made bearable by the bonds of friendship and love.

“What happened to her?” Dean huskily murmurs the question as if uttering it aloud will provide an instantaneous answer.

At the thought, Cas casts his blues skyward at the roiling grey abyss of clouds above; tiny droplets of rain smatter and collect on his unshaven cheeks, blending with the brimming brine of unshed tears to pool in the divot of his chin when his gaze again drops to settle on the distraught boy. If he could, he’d take this pain from Jack; he knows, in their way, Sam and Dean feel the same; since that feat is not within the realm of possibilities, perhaps Dean’s on to something and they can relieve the burden some by figuring out what really happened here.

“I don’t know. Doesn’t look supernatural,” Mary supplies to flesh out the unknowable.

Cas silently concurs with the assessment; someone, not something killed Maggie. Given the ambient air temperature, the wicking capabilities of water to rapidly cool core body heat, the angel determines the girl can’t have been left here more than a handful of hours ago.

Always ready with a surly remark in any incarnation, Bobby pipes in, “Looks like some son of a bitch beat on her until…”

“Who would do something like this?” Interrupting, regard drawn once more to the magenta fabric, remembering your walks together on this very same stretch of trail, the solitary outings you’ve taken since trusting in your safety, Castiel masks the fear in his tone with anger.

A lesser being might call it a tragic case of mistaken identity; for Lucifer, it was a fairly typical Thursday evening with a dash of prodigious fate thrown in for fun. The single regret clouding his glee and veiling the red glow of his pupils as the girl’s skull broke with a satisfying pop and an even more gratifying gurgle against the unforgiving mass of the boulder on the third strike was that – although she initially tricked his senses into thinking she was you wandering in the wilderness on account of outerwear absolutely reeking of his brother – she was not actually you.

Unfortunate for fulfilling his nefarious need to revenge an innocuous smack upside the head back on the bus, certainly; although he wouldn’t characterize it as a mistake. He knew before he throttled the scream in her throat and flicked her – sputtering for air like a boneless fish – onto the ground he had the wrong refugee. Too bad for her, on he devil’s non-existent moral compass, wrong exists as just as compelling a direction as right.

Finishing up the last of the dishes in the sink, you lay a gleaming plate carefully on the pile with a clink to dry and swipe the wetness coating your hands across the towel tucked into the waistband of your jeans. At the familiar bass angelic utterance of your name, you turn toward the doorway.

“Cas!” The smile skirting your mouth falters into a frown at the serious etch of lines hardening his countenance. Yanking the towel free and tossing it aside, you navigate the counter between you with an arm extended to meet him halfway. “What happened?” Your fingers delve beneath the hem of his coats, flattening to the rigid plane of his torso.

“We need to talk.” He peers beyond your fretfully widening eyes at the two other apocalypse expats currently inhabiting the space to aid in lunch clean up. One of them averts her inquisitive gaze back to the tabletop she’s polishing. “Leave us,” he growls; the order emerges significantly less kind than he is capable of being. “You too.” He gestures at the young man organizing a shelf.

“Cas,” you hiss chidingly under your breath, prodding his side. You’ve made great strides these past weeks in terms of angelic PR and here he is throwing everything out the window with rudeness.

He rolls his eyes almost imperceptibly. Almost. There isn’t time for niceties given the circumstances, although he knows you’re right. “I need to speak to Y/N alone. Leave us, please,” he amends and softens the request, punctuating his words with a strained smile for their benefit. It’s disingenuous, yet you appreciate the effort.

You mouth a polite thank you to your nodding cohorts for their understanding as they abandon their chores to slink out into the hall.

Upon their exit, Castiel engulfs you in a hug.

“Hey, I’ve got you,” you whisper, acquiescing to his tender demand for contact; rubbing circles into his back, sliding a palm to comb the chestnut curls at his nape, you wait for an explanation for his strange behavior.

Standing there, he lets the heat of you sink into his shrouded skin; he listens to the steady thrum of your heart and shallow respiration of life moving in and out of your lungs until nothing but the grounding succor of your body and soul quiet his senses. Exhaling a sigh into the crook of your neck, he shudders against you and pulls away to look into your eyes. Grey glints of somberness gild his irises. “Maggie’s dead.”

“Wh-what?”

“Mary and Bobby found her body in the woods, on the trail leading to town. That’s what Sam-”

“An accident?”

Regard falling to the sliver of space between you, he shakes his head.

You suck in a juddering breath. Choking on a wave of guilt, you remember your conversation when she took over your living quarters. “I-I told her it was safe here. I promised her-”

“This isn’t your fault. This isn’t anyone’s fault.” Repeating Sam’s earlier assertion to Jack – the words sounding no more reassuring to his ears than before – Cas folds you to his chest, tangles his fingers in your hair, and angles to kiss the top of your head. “We need your help. You’ve gotten to know these people better than any of us – is there anyone she was close to? Anyone who would know why she was out alone?”

“Yeah-” You nod in the solid casing of his embrace, sniffling back tears– “Allene. They’re friends.”

“Good, that’s good.” He balances a prickly cheek on your crown; feeling the warmth of your tears saturate his shirt, he resettles his arms to envelope you tighter.

Next: Ch. 26 - The World Ender (Final)

[dancing-sword]

Athal-Pati and the Fold

Kinda sucks that tumblr’s gonna compress the hell out of this image so it might be hard to see that small Halona in the foreground. This is some Balatog concept work I had started way before the “map” I did and is connected to an important character to Balatog.

Since this is probably one of the last posts I’m gonna be making for my plane, I wanted to do something special for it. There’s a little short story after the break that goes along with the picture and a write up throwing out my thoughts and troubles I was having with the this whole leg of creating the custom plane and story. Hopefully I’m able to get the next and last post for Balatog out quicker than this one.

Halona’s small boat, barely a raft, coasted gently through the calm and clear water. Nestled in the gravel bed of the shallow water were crystals of all colors, glowing and fading as the boat came and went casting a soft rainbow spotlight from underneath, the only source of light in the inky black, never ending darkness around her. She knew she was underground, far farther than she thought was possible, but the only ends to the water she ever found were the entrance she took and her destination and the only sounds she could hear were her own breath, the soft ripple of the water, and the occasional creak of her boat in the void.

The gravel rose in a subtle, painfully slow pace that, after a near eternity of drifting, ground the boat to a stop. As she hopped out of her boat and continued her journey trudging through the now ankle deep water, the scattered crystals at her feet became more and more sparse as a source-less shaft of light slowly started to shine down from above following her. Eventually the gravel bed became a gravel beach and that too soon thinned and broke into solid stone. The water and her boat disappeared into the darkness behind her as the stone disappeared into the void in front. Still, she continued on her path.

The landing itself eventually started to vanish as well, thinning first slowly into a road before coming to a point. She stood near the cliff’s edge, the light gray outcropping jutting out into the vast ever present nothing that had accompanied her through her journey so far. She took a second to compose herself, her eyes wandering as they found less than nothing to focus on. She took a long, full breath before calling out at the top of her lungs.

“Athal!”

For a long moment there was only silence, not even her voice echoed back at her. Then she heard it. It started as a low hum, a silent almost inaudible thrum that reminded her more of a distance machine than something natural. It started to build into a rumble coming from all directions as the stone at her feet started to shake. Two points of light suddenly appeared in the distance, widening slowly into long thin lines and hissed liked arching lightning. Cracks of bright light spilled from the growing lines turning the darkness into a cracked black mirror as a howling and buffeting wind kicked up. With each sudden fracture, the world around her strained under the unseen force and the unnatural base-filled groan of miles of rock around her pierced her skull and shook her to the very core.

The world settled into a moment of silence, but Halona already knew what came next. The two lines suddenly opened in all their splendor, one last gust of wind blasted forth and almost made her stumble back. Two eyes stared down at her, shining bright as they seemed to vibrate with color. Although there was no way for her to judge distance in the darkness, her gut told her they had to be more than a hundred paces from her and yet it was near impossible for her to keep both in her field of view.

Legends say when Balatog was sealed and hidden, the world’s guardian pleaded with the land, the sea, and the sky to protect it in their absence and Athal-Pati answered. Athal-Pati the Waking Dream. Athal-Pati the Ever Watcher. Athal-Pati the World’s Voice. Halona composed herself once again, standing tall and defiant in front of the behemoth. She cared little for their titles and they had much to discuss.

The Setting

The original spell cast over Balatog was not a singular spell done at a specific time. Instead, the original planeswalker had taken centuries studying multiple planes; the Ban of Ulgrotha, the fold over Ravnica, the split planes of Theros and Kamigawa, the Shard of Twelve Worlds, and even smaller occurrences like Zhalfir’s phasing and the hedron prison on Zendikar. Each time they would take a bit and add it to their spell, weaving and layering a thicker barrier over the plane. The layering of hundreds of spells made the barrier redundant and practically impenetrable, but its shear immensity distorted the plane.

The Fold is the edge of this distortion. It is essentially impossible to planeswalk into, similar to Theros’s Nix, although it does have many entrances on the plane’s surface, a few permanent, well guarded ones and many more that appear and disappear seemingly on their own accord. Inside, it appears as a seemingly endless underground lake surrounded by a black void with the only landmarks inside being the entrance and a single long cliff extending out into nothing. The distance between the surface and the lake always seems to change, but the distance between any entrance and the cliff almost always stays the same.

The Idea

When Halona first returned to Balatog, several months and many planes after her first planeswalk from her home, she didn’t appear back at her home town like she hoped and instead found herself on the cliff inside the Fold. She didn’t have much time to be confused however as Athal-Pati appeared suddenly and struck at her, unleashing a torrent of spells and raw magic on an unthinkable level and power to her. After a tense moment, Halona humbled by the display and Athal confused by her resilience, Athal started their questioning. Athal eventually calmed down after finding out more about the young walker and after some deliberation, revealed a deeper nature of the world.

As Halona had guessed, Athal-Pati was the legendary monster from the old legend, a formless guardian connected on a metaphysical level to the plane left to protect the world when the old walker had disappeared. Athal seemed to have most if not all the old walker’s knowledge and power believed they had the plane figured out. However, Halona’s first planeswalk had damaged the Ban in someway, a fact that Athal had trouble wrapping their proverbial head around, and because the Ban had been so integrated into the nature of Balatog, the damage had a rippled out. The natural balance of the plane had been upset and as far as Athal could tell, could lead to near apocalyptic damage to the world.

The main premise would be that Athal and Halona had teamed up after this to safe the plane. Athal tasked Halona with not only keeping the plane secret, hoping to minimize any further damage, to replicate their creator’s experiments believing that the relatively recent Mending had changed enough of the Multiverse that some new information could be gleaned from it. The main conflict was supposed to be that on one side, Halona did not truly believe in this cause. She was not sure if fixing the Ban and sequestering Balatog was the best path and keeping the secrets from her friends hurt her deeply. On the other hand, Athal wasn’t as confident with their plan as they tried to seem. They didn’t have the perfect knowledge they thought they had, not knowing what happened to the old walker, the full extent of the spells they cast on the plane, nor how the further inner workings of the plane worked. In truth, they were unsure of their own path, but did not think any other way was viable either. Halona would eventually try to go behind Athal’s back and discover deeper truths of her world.

The Problem

I think the first problem, which I talked about in a previous post, was that the kind of setup I was going for just didn’t work out. Writing and acting as if it were some long form D&D or comic couldn’t mesh well with the kind of work flow and audience I have. Trying to set up the story in role playing just felt disingenuous and quickly felt like it was trying to force Halona as “the main character”.

The second problem was that having Halona stress over if what she was doing was right, trying to decide if having Balatog be free versus having Balatog be safe, seemed less relevant as she grew as a character. When the story’s original plot was created along side Halona, it made more sense, but as I wrote and drew and role played her, it didn’t feel like something she’d struggle with as much. Now, she’d probably have made her decision pretty quickly and wouldn’t think that free and safe had to be mutually exclusive.

The final problem was that I couldn’t really nail down what Athal-Pati nor the actual damage to the plane were going to be. Was Athal a piece of the plane’s worldsoul, the plane’s own consciousness? What were their actual power limits? They were a more or less formless being, but were they aware of everything going on on the plane? Could they even be tricked? What was the actual damage to Balatog going to be? Where the aether storms just going to get out of hand or was something much worse going to be? Would the damage to plane change Athal? Ultimately, I never really could hammer out a definite answer to these questions.