#but it's a bit more polished than it would have been if i'd just tried to rush out a new idea

[bookshelf-in-progress]

A Garden of Wishes: A Retelling of “The Twelve Dancing Princesses”

We go to the same garden every day, but you never see me. Why should you? You are the Princess Sonatina, youngest daughter of the greatest king on five continents, while I am only a gardener's assistant, with not even a surname of my own, save one that was given to me half as a taunt for my daydreaming ways. If you were ever to ask, I would tell you I answer to Michael Stargazer—but you never will think to ask, and I will never presume to speak.

Instead, I work silently in the gardens, while you wander past with your sisters—eleven of them, all unsurpassed in beauty of face and form and voice—laughing and chatting and singing snatches of songs. You are all more beautiful and vibrant than any of the flowers I tend, and I feel more alive just being near you.

Then the day comes when your morning songs are silent. You drag weary feet through the gardens, look blankly at the beauties of the world, lounge wearily along the edges of fountains and atop retaining walls. The rumor comes that every night, you are all wearing through your shoes.

Were I a prince, I would think no quest too perilous to save you from such sickness. I would climb a million trees in search of golden apples, cross storm-filled oceans in search of the Water of Life, work a dozen years at impossible tasks to find the key to ending your curse.

But I'm only a gardener, and nobody's son, so it falls to those with name and fortune to try their hands at saving you. The king has vowed that the man who finds the secret of where you go at night will win your hand in marriage, and there are many who are willing and worthy to try.

They are wonderful men—strong and handsome, noble and brave, with royal titles, vast holdings, great fortunes. They have skills and talents that a simple gardener could never match. Any one of them would make a fine husband for a princess. Yet all of them, to a man, disappear within a day of taking up their quest.

The rumors turn darker then, casting you not as victims but villains, luring men to their deaths with some dark magic of your own. Those who say such things did not see you in the gardens, or they would know that not one of you is capable of the crimes they accuse you of. Unfortunately, no one will ask a garden lad's thoughts, and I cannot speak unbidden unless I have proof.

So I go to the gardens and find two tiny rose trees. The head gardener tried to tear them out, in my first days at the palace, and I convinced him to let them live. I have watered them, fed them, saved them from disease and decay, told them stories of the princesses they serve. You have never seen them, I'm sure—you have never seen me—but though they are small, they are fine little plants, with dark, glossy green leaves, and little buds that seem always to be waiting for just the right time to bloom. An old woman told me once that they were wishing trees, planted in the earliest days of the kingdom's existence, and my service to them meant they would give me anything I desired.

For myself, I want nothing—wishes too easily become the ruin of those who have them granted—but for you, I would dare all. I ask my two rose trees to make me not only unseen, but unseeable, able to follow invisibly wherever you go.

The rose tree sprouts a single bloom, its petals so white and delicate they are almost transparent. When I pluck it from the bush, I disappear from sight. I place it in my buttonhole and move about the gardens, unseen by all who cross my path, even in the brightest sun.

That night, I follow you into the bedroom you share with your sisters, and I hide beneath the largest bed while the room above fills with the sounds of rustling dresses, clinking jewels, and girlish whispers. At last, your eldest sister Aria declares you dressed to perfection and calls for silence.

I creep out from under the bed and find you and your sisters dressed in ballroom finery—silks and satins and twelve pairs of perfectly-mended dancing shoes. I take my place just behind you, and find you more beautiful than ever in this moonlit room.

Aria pulls aside a tapestry, and the blank stone wall suddenly becomes an wooden door that Aria opens to reveal a torchlit staircase. You all rush through in single file. I keep close at your heels, afraid that I'll be left behind unseen.

I rush past where Aria holds the door, afraid she'll follow too close and crash into my unseen form. In doing so, I trod too near your skirt. The fabric tears beneath my foot as you take your first steps down the stairs.

You shriek and grab hold of Lyra, standing just before you on the stairs. "Someone stood on my skirt!" you scream.

I hold myself flat against the damp stone wall, heart pounding so fast that I'm certain you hear me.

Aria breezes down the staircase, rolling her eyes at her foolish juniors. "Don't be silly, Tina," Aria says. "I was nowhere near you on the stairs."

You protest that you felt someone on your skirt, but your cries for belief are drowned out by eleven dissenting voices, and your sisters continue down the staircase. You go only reluctantly, looking back at me—right through me—a thousand times as you go forth. Were it not for the weight of my mission, I would cast off the rose in the hope of a single moment when our eyes could truly meet.

After what seems like a million stairs, we emerge into an open clearing that would look like the outdoors if there was any sight of sky above. Trees tower over us with drops of silver on their branches, like rain upon the leaves. Further down the path is a gold-spattered orchard, each precious drop catching the soft white light that comes from I know not where. Even further beyond is a forest full of diamonds, every stone flashing fiery rainbows.

The forests are strange, but also strangely unsurprising—as though they've always been here, but simply unseen. Your sisters whisper of the night that this place was wished into existence—a place where they might revel in pure beauty and joy, away from the weighty expectations of the watchful world.

But the forest, it seems, is only a prelude—the true marvel is far ahead. We emerge onto the shores of a shimmering lake—so vast, so deep, and so darkly blue that I can see neither the bottom nor the opposite shore. On an island in its center stands a castle so magnificent that it makes your father's palace seem like a paper toy. Its white, sculpted spires glitter with gems in a thousand colors, every brick spangled with precious stones. Its windows hold wonders caught in flawless stained glass. Music sweeter than any I've ever heard pours out its open doors. Light from within forms a shining path across the lake, upon which float twelve sleek obsidian-colored boats.

Each boat has a boatman who rows swiftly toward the shore, and as they approach, I find that I know all the faces. Every one of these men is a prince who failed at finding your secret—or rather, they found it, and did not return. They are dressed in silks and velvets unlike any I've seen in the outer world, too rich for comprehension. As they slide up to the shore and each offer a place to one of you girls, they wear smiles that shine as bright as your own—but there is also something empty in their eyes.

You, as the youngest, take your place in the very last boat of all, piloted by a king's younger son whose sires have ruled half a continent for centuries. He smiles and bows as he takes you by the hand. The way your eyes light up make me wonder if I've seen what you look like in love.

The prince rows with arms strengthened by a warrior's skill—I doubt he's ever held a shovel in his life—but the other boats still outpace us by far.

"Why are you so slow tonight?" you ask him, half teasing, but with a trace of true annoyance.

"The boat is heavy," he says, "and I know not why."

You glance backward, toward where I sit in the stern, and again, I half-wish you could see me. But I let out a sigh of relief when you turn your eyes back toward the castle and give no further thought to unknowable truths.

We disembark on a dock just beneath the castle entrance, and in moments we are inside the palace of enchantment. This is a ballroom beyond what I could imagine—floors of marble streaked with gold and silver, towering windows displaying fantastical birds and beasts, spidery silver chandeliers holding thousands of brightly-lit candles, and at the far end of the room, tables tottering beneath food enough to half a nation.

But this splendor is nothing compared to the beauty of the music. It is like a living thing—vibrant, rapturous, all-consuming, pulling all into it like a roaring, flowing river. The moment one steps through the door, there is nothing one can do but dance. Your prince pulls you into his arms, and your sisters' princes do the same, and soon you are swirling through that wondrous room, beauty and motion and life all brought to their fullness and put into perfect order. All along the edges of that room are other faces—other princes who've failed at your father's quest—and they all take their turn in the dance.

If I thought you alive in the gardens, you are a thousand times more vibrant now, laughing and dancing so you glow with pure joy. These princes are your perfect partners, matching you with every step, reflecting the glow that you bring to the room. If I ever thought that I could take a place beside them, maybe win your father's wager and claim a princess for my bride, that spark is snuffed by the brightness of your blaze. You are ethereal, almost angelic, and could never be happy with one whose hands are stained from working with the common, solid Earth.

While the princes take their turns, you and your sisters dance without ceasing, and I no longer wonder how you could wear through your shoes in a single night. Those shoes are little more than tatters by the time the last note of the last dance plays, and the twelve of you trudge toward the boats to reach bed. Your princes are silent as they row the boats to the forested shore, and you, Sonatina, do not say a word about his slowness.

When you reach the banks, your prince bids you farewell, then all twelve of them row back to the palace, choosing to stay in the splendor rather than return to the pressures of their ordinary lives. After what I have seen, I cannot blame them for their choice.

But you and your sisters choose to return to your father. You trudge through the diamond, then gold, then silver-spangled forests, and as your sisters file one-by-one up the staircase, I realize that none of this fantastic tale will have a ring of truth unless I have something to bring as proof. I reach toward the nearest tree and snap off a slender silver branch. It disappears from sight as soon as I touch it to my clothes, but the sound of its breaking rings through that silent wood like a gunshot.

You jump at the sound and are suddenly wide, wide awake.

"What was that?" you ask your sister.

Aria rolls her eyes. "Only an owl," she says. "You know it roosts in the castle at night."

The explanation does not please you, I can tell, but having no other, you fall silent and leave the silver woods behind.

When you are all safely asleep in bed, I slip unseen through the door and make my way invisibly to my small cot in the servants' quarters. When I lay on my bunk, I take off the rose, and my face reappears in the reflection off the washing bowl. I look as I did before I left, though infinitely wearier, and perhaps—though it might only be fancy—I carry something in my eyes of the enchantment of the night.

In my hands sits the branch I broke, its leaves as green, its silver dewdrops as solid, as they were in that fantastical land. I imagine myself taking it to the king at dawn, having triumphed where the sons of kings and emperors have failed.

Then I imagine the you and your sisters standing by. In a horrible flash, the daydream shatters, and I see myself for what I am—a sneak and a spook, who crept uninvited into a strange woman's room to steal evidence that would bar her from the place she loves most in the world. If I have a role in this tale, it is as the villain, not the hero. I have triumphed in discovering the secret, but if I have any love in my heart for you, I cannot think of speaking.

After a short hour's sleep, I awake with the dawn, but I do not go to the king with what I've found. Instead, I go to the head gardener and get myself assigned the task of bringing the twelve princesses their morning bouquets. I gather careful handfuls of daisies and larkspur and bind them together with handfuls of greenery. I hand them to your sisters one by one as they come bleary-eyed to your bedroom door. When you come to me, last of all, I make sure that your bouquet contains a single silver-spangled branch.

Then, at last, you see me.

#

Golden sunlight streams down upon a freshly-turned flower bed. I am soaked with sweat and crusted with dirt as I shovel mulch around newly-planted seedlings. I can imagine no scene less like the moonlit enchantment of your jeweled forests and wondrous dances. Even you, when you come into the garden, are nothing like you were last night. Your golden brown hair is unruly, your dress is hastily done-up, and instead of floating with ethereal grace, you storm toward me like an angry warrior goddess.

Only the branch, silver-spangled, is the same as it was last night, when you brandish it beneath my nose.

"Garden boy, where did this branch come from?" you demand.

Your eyes blaze and your golden curls flash in the sun. I could cast myself at your feet in devotion.

I keep my countenance blank and my eyes downcast—the dutiful, lowly servant. "Your highness knows better than I," I reply.

"You have followed us!" you hiss.

I raise my head to meet your gaze. It is a wonder I am not struck dead by your fury. "Yes, your highness."

"How? I saw no one."

"I hid myself."

"It is impossible. I don't believe it."

"Believe as you like," I say. "You will still hold the branch."

You scramble to grasp something at your belt, and you throw a sack full of gold at my feet. "Keep your silence, and you will have this and more besides."

I stare at the bag of gold—more than I could earn with a year's labor—and my heart sinks like a stone. This is what I am to you. Not a man of honor, whose heart and reason can be trusted, but a common blackmailer whose silence can be purchased for a price.

"I will not be bought," I say, and when your face goes white, I add gently, "You have nothing to fear from me."

It is only after dark that it strikes me I may have something to fear from you. I have vowed my silence, but you have said nothing about yours. The secret encompasses your sisters and nearly two dozen princes. What would they be willing to do to ensure my silence?

Though the thought shames me, I cannot vanquish the fear. I must know more about you royals and your hidden world—and I long to spend just one more night in that palace of enchantment. I take the pale rose from its cup on my washstand, place it in my buttonhole, and make my way invisibly to your room.

You and your sisters are already dressed for the evening when I make my way among you. You are pale, and quieter than you were last evening, but none of your sisters remark upon it. I follow you down the staircase, through the forest, and to another wondrous dance. I can tell you are watching for me, but none of your sisters join in the search. They and all the princes laugh and dance as usual. At midnight, you dine upon a feast of impossible delicacies, and though the conversation is steady and quick-witted, none of you makes the least mention of me or the secret I know.

As dawn nears, I take my place in the rear of the boat that you ride in with your prince. Tonight, it is he who comments on the unexpected weight of the boat he steers.

My heart stops. Now you will tell him of my spying, and since there are few places to hide in a small boat, like as not I will be pitched headlong into that bottomless lake.

Your answer lifts my heart like the arrival of the long-awaited dawn. You take up a second oar and say to your prince, "It feels light to me."

The wonder of your defense of me makes me love you more than ever. I all but float behind you as you make your way through the jeweled forests.

In the golden orchards, I stumble and snap off a branch. I hide it against my invisible clothes, just a moment before your sister Melody looks toward where I stand.

"What was that sound?" she asks in fright.

"Only an owl," you answer quickly.

Though you do not know it, you meet my eyes. I bow my head in thanks.

The next morning, the golden-spattered branch I place in your bouquet is a gift of thanks—and an expression of trust.

#

When you storm toward me in the gardens the next morning, the golden branch quivers in your iron grip.

"What is it you want?" you ask. "You won't take gold. Do you plan to win yourself a princess, garden boy?"

"I do not plan to take a wife," I say. "When I wed, it must be to a woman whose love is freely given."

"Then why did you follow us?"

"I had to know if I could trust you. I now know that I can." I pluck an ordinary blossom from a nearby rose bush. I focus on its petals so I do not have to take the daring step of meeting your gaze while I ask my more-daring question. "Why did you shield me? You could have betrayed me to your princes or your sisters a thousand times."

"This is between you and me alone. I saw no need to frighten them."

I nod, understanding, even as I fight a strange sense of disappointment. It is love for your sisters, not care for me, that leads you to keep my secret.

"Do you see need now?" I ask.

You examine me, and you look at the golden branch, and I can tell you are thinking of the events of the last two nights. "You do not merely hide yourself," you say. "You make yourself invisible. How?"

I could no more lie to you than tear out my own heart. "I made a wish, and it was granted me."

"By whom?"

"Rather, by what. Your garden holds a wishing tree."

You seize my wrist. “Show it to me.”

I stand firm. "Tell me, Princess Sonatina, if you found such a tree, would you suffer to let it live?"

"I should tear it out by the roots," you say, and I know it is true that you would do anything you thought necessary to guard your secret.

"Then although it pains me to disappoint you, I must refuse your request. The trees serve me because I serve them. I cannot repay their gifts by bringing about their destruction."

Your eyes flash. "You refuse your princess?"

I bow my head in apology. "Because it is my duty as a gardener to the king."

You release my wrist and pull away. You pace in frustration—back and forth, back and forth, your golden-brown curls wilder than ever. "There is nothing to prevent my finding it?"

"It is not concealed," I say.

"If it is fair for you to follow me to find our secret, it is only right that I can follow you to find yours."

"It is not my place to say otherwise."

You come to the garden every day after that—sometimes openly, sometimes skulking behind bushes or trees. Some days, I am sure, you watch from places I cannot see. But I do nothing save my ordinary gardening tasks, and I do not try to follow you at night. If I were the sort of man to make wishes for my own benefit, this would be the perfect way to make me use that gift against you. I love you more than ever because this does not occur to you—either you are too pure-hearted to suspect such villainy, or too trusting to imagine it in me.

Eventually, your constant watch breaks down the barriers between us, and you begin to speak to me. You ask me the names of the flowers I tend, and I tell you of the lilies that bloom by day and by night. The next day, you ask me about the blue flowers in your bouquet, and I tell you of the morning glories that make a gorgeous arch over the path you stand upon. In the days that follow, you pepper me with questions, wanting to know the names of every flower and bush and weed that grows in your father's gardens. And then, at last, one day, the name you ask to know is my own.

"I am called Michael Stargazer," I say, as I hand you a white bloom like a five-pointed star.

"Is it not your true name?"

"The first was written on a slip of paper in the basket where I was found upon a church's doorstep. The second was given to me for daydreaming too much."

You sit upon the edge of a fountain and stroke the petals of the flower. "It suits you," you say. "Michael the guardian."

"And the Stargazer who spends too much time dreaming of what is unreachable?" I ask, feeling the rebuke I deserve.

"No," you say—firmly, kindly. "The one who watches. So he can know what is true. And know what to do with his knowledge."

"You trust that I judge rightly?" I ask.

"I trust you," is all you say.

After that, you are with me in the gardens—not merely watching, but being, doing, helping. You wish to help the flowers grow, so I teach you of spades and trowels, watering cans and fertilizer, pruning and grafting and weeding. We start out hesitant—you uncertain of your tasks, I afraid to put a princess to work—but soon, you work with enthusiastic gusto, and I am glad to let you do what gives you joy.

Every night, you still wear through your dancing shoes, but yours are less ragged than the other eleven pairs, and you are wide awake with me in the gardens every morning. We talk while we work, but we do not even mention wishing trees or diamond groves or the music of enchanted palaces; there are too many other things to discuss in the sunlit world. You tell me of your sisters, of growing up royal, of books you've read and tutors you've teased. I tell you of the village where I was raised, of the dreams I had of one day meeting a princess—though I do not tell you that I've dreamed I will marry one.

One morning, in the height of summer, you are kneeling beside me, in a gown that you borrowed from a serving girl, wearing work gloves you borrowed from the gardener's shed. There are streaks of dirt on your face, and you smile at me in triumph as you dig up a bulb for transplanting.

In that moment, the sun shines full upon you, setting the gold and brown streaks of your hair alight. Suddenly, you are not an ethereal being, too high and fine for me to reach. You are here, with me, laboring in the Earth—and you glow with joy. It is not the blazing joy of your dances in the midnight palace—burning bright and fast and destructive. This joy is gentler, life-giving—like a hearth fire or a candle flame. It warms and nourishes, comforts and caresses. For the first time, I can picture you as a gardener's wife, laboring with me in a cottage, caring for our children, giving life to sons and daughters and helping me to make good things grow.

I nearly speak something of the joy in my own heart—but the words freeze on my tongue when I hear a laugh high above us.

Five of your sisters—Lyra and Cadence, Harmony and Melody, and in the center of them all, elegant, dark-haired Aria—stand on the other side of the flower bed, peering down at us.

"Is this where you sneak off to every morning, Tina?" Lyra laughs. "Grubbing in the dirt with the garden boy?"

You drop the bulb as though it burns you, desperately try to brush the dirt off your skirt, and back as far away from me as possible on the narrow path between flower beds. Your face burns bright red. "No," you stammer. "I was only..."

"What a charming couple you make," Aria sneers.

"You wouldn't have to leave us if you married him," Harmony laughs.

Her twin adds, "You could live in a cottage at the bottom of the park, and you could bring us our flowers every morning!"

"He is nothing!" you snarl at your sisters. You storm toward the palace, and you do not look back.

I do not see you for two days.

#

On the third day, you and your sisters return to the garden in the company of a prince—yet another who has taken up your father's impossible task. To spare you the horror of seeing me, I keep the white rose in my buttonhole and invisibly tend the wishing trees while you entertain the prince nearby.

Prince Ivan is sterner, more solemn than some of the others. Even I, a lowly gardener, have heard tales of his valor in battle. A thick saber-scar runs from his temple to his chin. He knows the danger he has placed himself in and faces it without flinching. There is something in his eyes that makes me think he welcomes it.

As I watch him, I wonder how he will fare in his quest. Will he reveal your secret or remain in the enchanted world with all the others? For the first time, I question the fate of those other princes. I have assumed they remained by choice, but in such a magical place, can first impressions ever be trusted? For their sake, as well as yours, I must follow you to the dance one more time.

When I reach your chamber in the evening, Prince Ivan is already among you. The twins, Melody and Harmony, focus on flattering him while your sisters tie on the last of their ribbons. His eyes, however, are for the dark-haired, sweet-tempered Princess Melisma. I think she does not dislike the attention.

As you descend the staircase—Melody and Harmony taking the lead with Prince Ivan—Princess Aria keeps Melisma at the end of the line.

"You mustn't encourage him," Aria says. "It might give him reason to follow us back home."

"He is so brave," Melisma says, "and so gentle. Would it be so terrible for me to have him as a husband?"

"If he weds you, he will take you to the Northlands, and we shall never see you again. Is that the life you want?"

Melisma blushes. "No," she whispers.

"Then let him drink," Aria says in a low tone. "He shall be here always, for you to dance with as much as you like. He will be the same brave and gentle prince, but will never take you away from us."

That night at the dance, there is a banquet in honor of the new guest. The tables pile high with delicacies I cannot name, and silent, ghostly servants keep your plates and goblets constantly filled. Prince Ivan looks younger, almost childlike, as he takes in the wonders, and his eyes have lost their haunted look.

"Such a wondrous place!" he breathlessly declares. "All beauty and joy! No sorrow, no politics, no battle."

Aria, seated at his right hand, plies him with red wine, and leads him to speak upon the war he won such honors in. He served with valor and is proud of protecting his people, but he has lost friends and brothers, is haunted by the fields strewn with the bodies of those who died too young.

"I should not speak of such things," Ivan says, putting down another empty goblet. "They are better forgotten."

"Do you not cherish some memories?" Aria asks.

"If I could forget every moment of it, I would," Ivan declares, "and stay always in this dance.

Aria smiles, then takes a golden goblet—the largest and most ornate in the room—from a servant standing at her shoulder. "You may do so," Aria says, "if you only drink this elixir. You shall have no regrets. No duties. No memories of battle. Only the beauties of this world."

Ivan looks to Melisma, seated at his left hand. She squeezes his scarred fingers in her long, delicate ones. "I shall come every night," she says softly.

Ivan takes the goblet from Aria's hand. His face holds the grim determination of a soldier, and the innocent bravery of a child hoping a bitter tonic will bring relief from pain. He drains the cup to its dregs.

When Aria takes the empty goblet, the prince is transformed. His eyes hold the same light of joy as all the other princes, but the honorable nobility of his bearing has drained away, leaving behind an empty imitation, all paper and gold leaf with nothing solid behind. For the rest of the night, he dances every dance with Princess Melisma. She is all joy when she looks in his face, but every time she turns away, she seems close to bursting into tears.

For the rest of the night, I cannot enter into the enchantment of the dance. I see only those princes, and wonder who they were before their will was drained away. I see your sisters dancing, each choosing one partner more than all others, and wonder if they too renounced marriage to someone they admired for the sake of this endless courtship. I travel across the lake in Aria's boat instead of yours, and as her prince hands her off to shore, I see even she seems on the point of asking him to come with her, before dropping his hand and turning resolutely to the diamond forest.

When you alight from your prince's boat, I see no similar love or regret in your eyes. At first I am relieved, and then my anger flares at your heartlessness. I snap off a diamond-spangled branch so fiercely that the sound of its breaking makes your every sister jump.

They glance in all directions, bewildered by the sound. You look directly toward me, your face burning with shame. Though I remain invisible, I know you feel me standing before you.

"What was that?" Melody shrieks in alarm.

"My guardian angel," is all you say, and though your sisters pelt you with questions all the way through the forests and up the staircase, you do not say another word.

When I leave your room, part of me wants to run to the king and tell all, but I cannot let judgment fall upon you without giving you a chance to speak for yourself. The diamond-spangled branch I place in your bouquet is both an accusation and an offer of parley.

You come to me—though you do not know it—when I am tending to the wishing trees, in the most secluded corner of the garden. "You have seen," you say.

"You have witnessed every one and said nothing. I want to know how you can defend yourself."

The innocent confusion in your eyes makes me repent of every crime I imputed to you. "What is there to defend?" you ask. "Every prince chooses to drink. We cannot deny them their choice."

"Do they know what it makes them?" I ask.

"If they do, they don't care," you say.

"Because they have been made incapable of caring for anything but the dance."

"Would you send Ivan back to his wars?" you ask. "Edmund to his awful father? Kristoff to his plague-filled land? They all have horrors they are escaping. It would be cruel to make them remember all the sorrows they were so desperate to forget."

The things that seemed so simple when I stood invisibly at your shoulder are more muddled now that you can look me clear in the face. There is one place in the world untouched by sorrow or strife—can I judge those who have fled for refuge there?

"You have had your wishes granted," you say softly. "Would you deny all of us ours?"

Looking into your innocent, imploring face, I find that I cannot. Your silence, I see now, is not heartlessness, but compassion. Loyalty to your sisters who wish to remain together. Pity for those princes who can find no other peace from their sorrows. There is no simple answer to the riddle that has entangled us all.

"Will you follow us again?" you ask.

"I do not know," I say. "Will you tell your sisters that I do?"

"I do not know," you say.

When you wander at last from the garden, your eyes—and thoughts—are far from me. This game has gone much further than any of us could have predicted. Any bond the two of us have built will break, I think, when pitted against the bond that you share with your sisters.

So that evening, when I pin the rose to my collar and invisibly slip into your room, I am not surprised to find that I am the topic of discussion. You are seated on a trunk in the center of the room, surrounded by a circle of glaring sisters.

"You knew all this time," Aria says, her voice low with anger, "and only now choose to tell us?"

"He vowed to keep the secret," you say. "He could do us no harm."

“Yet now you fear he will speak! He could destroy everything!”

“I told you when I thought you needed to know.”

Aria steps back and smooths her skirts and hair, becoming in one fluid motion the ever-composed crown princess. "There is only one thing we can do," she says. "We hand him over to the king’s justice. He has violated our royal persons by coming uninvited to our bedchamber. He will be hanged before the end of the week."

"No!" you shriek, jumping from your seat.

Your other sisters murmur in surprise—I cannot tell if more of it is directed toward you or Aria.

“There must be some other way,” says soft-hearted Allegra.

“Not if we wish to protect our secret," Aria says. "We have a world of perfection, an escape from all sorrows. We have twenty men who wish to stay there all their lives. We can’t endanger it for the sake of a presumptuous servant.”

You turn to Aria and say, “ He is not the first to know our secret. None of the other princes have had to die.”

Harmony says, "The garden boy is no prince."

Aria gazes thoughtfully at you. "Do you wish us to treat him as one? Let him present himself as a suitor for your hand?"

"I will not marry him,” you say, turning red.

"No one expects you to," Aria soothes. "But he can share the fate of the better-born. Let him dance and dine with us, then, at the end of the night, he will drink and forget there ever was a world above."

Your lips make a thin line, and your face goes white. “He would not like it.”

“Better than death, surely.”

You leave the circle of your sisters, tears in your eyes.

Aria follows you to where you gaze out the window. I could reach out and touch both of you. “Sonatina,” she says, soft and sweet as a mother. “I know you are fond of the garden boy. But you must be realistic. In this world, he can be nothing to you. You cannot marry a servant. He cannot marry a princess. Even friendship between you two can only be a scandal.”

Her words sink into my heart—cold, cruel, yet undeniably true. I have never dared to dream myself worthy of you—but there was, despite all, a small part of me that hoped for the impossible. Yet even if I could wish myself up a name and a title, it would not change who I truly was. Though I will love you to the end of my days, you can never love one such as me.

Aria’s voice becomes brighter, enticing. “But we have another world, where he can be whatever he wishes. You can dance with him every night without shame. You never have to face the impossible choice. You have him, and us, your title, your dances—forever.”

You gaze silently out the window. I stand at your side. I think of the world I would leave behind—the sunlight in the gardens, the wind and the rain and the wonderful flowers—in favor of that underground palace. I think of you laughing in the sun with dirt on your hands, and my wish that we could stay in that moment forever, ‘til death do us part.

It can never be anything more than a wish.

When you assent to your sister’s plan, my fate is sealed. I would risk all to give you the slightest joy. If it is your wish that I drink, I will drink—and gladly.

#

Your sisters come to me with their proposal, offering to present me to the king. They say nothing of their plan to give me the drink that will keep me forever in the dance. You, pale-faced at the rear of the crowd, say nothing at all. I say nothing of my presence at your midnight council. We are all trapped in the deafening silence of our secrets.

I accept their offer, but ask for time to prepare. Before I present myself at the palace, I make another trip to my faithful rose trees.

"Dress me as a prince," I beg. "Give me clothes fine enough to be seen in any royal court."

The second rose tree sprouts a crimson bloom, every petal as crisp as if cut by a tailor's scissors. When I place it in my buttonhole, my gardening clothes become a suit of black velvet, and a white-feathered cap appears upon my head.

As I stride toward the main doors of the palace, not one set of eyes knows me. Guards do not stop me as a presumptuous garden boy. I present myself before your father and he gives me all the respect due a prince.

When I rise from my bow of greeting, your eyes are riveted to my form. As I follow your father from the throne room, you stop me in the doorway with a hand upon my arm.

"Michael?" you ask, all amazed. "Can it truly be you?"

I bow my head—more garden boy than prince. "You need not be ashamed to be seen with me tonight."

Even so, you keep your distance. In the enchanted lake, I ride in a boat as Aria's guest, not yours. During the dance, your sisters all take their turns with me, from eldest to youngest. At last, I come to offer you my hand, but you seem reluctant to take it.

"Will you not dance with me, Princess Sonatina?" I ask.

"What need have you of my hand," you ask lightly, "when my sisters all treat you as a prince?"

"I want no hand but yours," I say.

You look down, your face drawn.

I bow over your hand and say softly, "Fear not, princess. You shall not be a gardener's wife."

I sweep you into the dance, and it is everything I could have dreamed. You are a wisp, a breath, a butterfly, moving at a touch, at a thought, stepping perfectly with my every unschooled motion. There is an energy between us, and at last you yield to it, looking deeply into my eyes.

In your gaze, I see the princess who I loved from a distance in the gardens, the companion who planted flowers at my side, the friend who defended me from her sisters' threats, and now a woman waiting to doom me to an eternal dance.

In this moment, such a fate does not seem a terror—it seems a gift. Here in this enchanted place, I am no gardener, no nameless, abandoned son. I can dwell here and see you night after night, as worthy as any man, if not to wed you, at least to take you in a dance, and know, if only for a moment, that I am the cause of your joy.

We whirl through the ballroom, through dance after dance after dance, neither able nor wishing to stop. After a time, all your sisters and their partners fall still, watching as we move in flawless harmony, our very heartbeats seeming to move in perfect time.

As the final dance draws to a close, you are silently weeping, tears in crystal rivers streaming down your face.

"Michael," you say. "After dinner—"

There is no need for you to speak what I already know. "Peace," I say. "All will be well."

At the dinner, your sisters flatter me, distracting me with delicacies and drink. Yet, they all seem restless, unsatisfied for once with this perfect palace and their empty-eyed princes.

At last Aria approaches with an ornate golden goblet.

"Garden boy," Aria says. "In the world above, you are a common laborer, unworthy even to gaze upon a princess. Here, you are an honored guest, who could dance with her every night should you choose. With this drink, you may stay here always, without the shame of your birth standing between you. Will you drink, Michael Stargazer, and forget all pain?"

I take the goblet between two work-hardened hands. The wine inside is clear as water and thick as blood. The scent intoxicates me, promising me endless joy in exchange for all memories.

There is much I loved in the world above—I love none of it so well as I love you. I close my eyes and set the cup to my lips.

There is a cry, and the cup is dashed from my hands. It crashes to the marble floor, and the wine oozes out in a thick mass.

Suddenly your arms are around my neck, and your face buried in my shoulder as you weep desperate tears.

"Michael, my love! Don't drink! I will love you beneath the open sky, in sun and rain and wind! I will be a gardener's wife! Let this castle crumble into dust! I would rather lose all the world than lose the man I love!”

My despair—though I did not know it by its true name until this moment—becomes hope, bright and dancing. I gather you in my arms and rain kisses upon your brow. It seems impossible that you love me, which makes it all the more wondrous to find it real.

Around us, the princes wake from their trance, and there is life in their gazes. They are men again, with minds and hearts, and the ones who served as boatmen each take one of your sisters in their arms. Your sisters—even Aria—cry with joy to see their restoration.

Suddenly, the ground shakes beneath us. Shards of colored glass and precious stones rain down from the castle walls.

“What is happening?” you cry.

I bend my head to kiss your brow, then look up at the castle. “You no longer wish for this world,” I say. “It cannot last.”

The other princes are already leading your sisters out the door, with Prince Ivan—Melisma at his side—taking charge of all. Each boatman leads one of your sisters to the water. They pile you into boats, and I help them arrange the transport, until you, your sisters, all the spare princes—and, least of all, myself—are safely across to the other shore.

We race through the forests—jeweled branches shattering as they fall—and clamber up the crumbling staircase. You and I are at the back of the line, hand in hand. As we stand at the base of the stairs, we look back at the crumbling palace, the destruction of a wondrous world of wishes.

“I am sorry,” I say, as the palace sinks into the black water of the lake.

You smile at me. “There is nothing to mourn.”

Laughing with joy, you tug my hand and lead me up the stairs.

#

In your moonlit bedroom, you and your sisters are as alive and beautiful as you once were in your mornings in the garden—moreso, because every eye is lit with love. Your sisters stand hand-in-hand with the princes who served as their boatmen. No longer empty revelers, they are men—noble, true, devoted—and overjoyed to be back in the world, despite its pain, rather than trapped in the never-ending dance.

Aria comes to us as we emerge from the staircase. She embraces each of us in turn, then closes and locks the wooden door behind us. The door disappears and becomes a blank stone wall once more. A low roar sounds as the tunnel and its staircase crumble.

“It is gone,” Aria says, "and good riddance.”

We gaze at her in astonishment, shocked to hear those words coming from the one who had been the greatest defender of the dance.

“I lost myself in wishes,” she says, “but I have found the truth again.” She takes the hand of her boatman—a dark man with kind eyes who reigns as prince of a far-southern realm. “I feared the future because I feared change. I thought the dance could keep us together—young and careless forever. Blinded by enchantments, I could not see that I kept us all from the possibility of a better world. You saved all of us.”

Your sister embraces you, and then—one of the night’s most astonishing sights—the crown princess of one of the greatest nations in the world kneels before a garden boy and bows over his dirt-stained hand.

You all ask for forgiveness, but there is nothing to forgive. All your princes—even myself—fell to the despair that kept them in the dance. We can forget the dance and its soulless wonders and return to the real, bright world.

But first, we must tell your father.

#

You all agree that the honor of revealing the secret should fall to me. You give me the three branches I placed in your bouquets, and at first light, still dressed in my princely clothes, I ask for an audience with the king.

Your father needs little convincing to believe my tale—with so many witnesses, and so many lost princes standing before him, there is little room for doubt.

“You have solved the mystery, Michael Stargazer,” the king says, “and have earned the offered prize. Which of my daughters will you have to wife?”

Stepping before all the assembled royalty, I say, “Majesty, I do not wish for a wife that I claim as a prize. I will only take the wife who chooses me freely, with all her heart and mind.”

In the moment of silence that follows, the glimmer of doubt reappears. You declared your love for me in that unreal underground kingdom, but can you do the same in the sunlit world, where your words have real and eternal consequences?

In that dawn-lit room, before all your sisters, your father, and twenty foreign princes, you come to my side and place your hand in mine. “I will be your wife, Michael Stargazer, with all my heart, mind, body and soul, until the end of my days.”

I answer with a kiss upon your brow. “I give you the same, and all my worldly goods, if you will join me in a cottage in the gardens.”

“There’s no need for that,” your father says. “You have helped to save the royal sons of more than fifteen kingdoms. No one would question your right to a title after such service. I can make you a prince, and you and my daughter can have a royal estate as a wedding present.”

After that is a day of rejoicing, your sisters and their princes all celebrating their restoration and my elevation. But before sunset, you and I slip away to the gardens, where I at last show you the two little rose trees that made all of this possible.

“They are beautiful,” you say.

“They have brought me all I could desire,” I say, “but I have one last wish to make.”

In answer to my whispered words, a pink rose blooms on the smallest bush, with a lady’s ring—twined gold and silver, with a diamond at its center—sitting at its heart.

I kneel before you and place it upon your finger. With your ringed hand, you raise me to my feet and pull me into a kiss.

The rose trees are transplanted to a place of honor in the gardens of our new home. You and I tend to them every day, but since we’ve had our three wishes, they grow only ordinary roses.

I am glad.

With you as my wife in such a glorious world, what further need have I of wishes?

[soapcloth]

Filthy Dog

MMA au -> pro!Soap x PR team!reader

Series CW: 18+ MDNI, possessive behaviour, spitplay, oral oneshot - 2K words - dividers -> @/cafekitsune

“-I'LL HAVE YER’ HEAD ON A STICK!”

You heard him before you saw him- the blur of a man who was truly more bull than human, and the scraping of chairs. Another headache for you. 

You knew this was coming, you knew he wouldn't be happy with this sponsor. You tried to warn them.

“Johnny.” Soap’s manager, Mitch, tried to reason, eyes widening when the fighter’s massive wrapped hands flexed around his freshly-pressed white button down, untucking the bottom from his pants in the process. “-John.” he corrected, coughing awkwardly. When Soap snarled at him, Mitch looked to you with that ‘help clean this mess up’ look.

“No.” Soap bit, jamming a blunt finger into the man’s chest before you could respond to his plea. “This is yer’ problem.”

“We don’t have a problem.” Mitch assured. “Talk to me John, what's up?” 

Soap’s eyes narrowed, nostrils flaring. “Ye’ know damn well. Told you I'd sooner quit than work with Max Energy.”

Mitch’s lips pursed, You were unsure what he expected as the outcome of his greed- probably that he would be able to talk his way out of it. “I don’t remember you saying that." he scoffed. "Come on now, Max is great, don't blow this out of-”

Soap growled in frustration, his fist careening into the folding table beside him; a deadly weapon- a warning shot. 

“Tell me, Mitch- why was I-” he snatched the cloth hanging out the pocket of his sweatpants and pushed it into the wiry man’s chest. “-just handed shorts with Max Energy big and bold ‘cross my fucking bits?” 

he leaned in, jaw tense. “Ah’m a joke to ye’? I’ll quit right here, right now.” 

Mitch called your name like he was summoning a maid and you could only sigh in response. “Soap-” “You say one more word for him and ah’ll knock his fucking teeth in.” he warned, not even turning to look in your direction. Your mouth closed, locked tight. 

“John, you quit and all those paying fans out there waiting for you will make sure you never get another damn title again.” Mitch threatened. “They’re not here for some still wet-behind-the-ears openers. They’re sure as shit not here for Kozlov.” he laughed sardonically. “They’re here for you. Don’t ruin this.” ‘-for me’ he seemed to leave out.

You couldn’t help but wonder if Mitch was doing this on purpose, or if he was just flat out stupid.

A deep, rumbling noise echoed around the depths of Soap’s expansive chest, lips curling back like a dog. “I do this fight- then I’m done, Mitch.” Mitch beamed, seemingly only hearing the confirmation he’d be fighting tonight. “-Not for yer’ sorry ass and not for those Max Energy bastards either. For the fans.” Soap grit out.

You could see the gears inside the manager’s head turning as he processed the financial hit he would inevitably take if his golden boy were to leave. “John-” Mitch practically whined.

 “Not up for debate.” Soap snapped, shooting him a venomous look- and like a tornado on a storm path, he chucked the shorts in the bin and left, dipping back into his locker room.

Mitch sighed, rubbing at his temples before setting his eyes on you.

“Do something. You’re Personal Relations- go relate personally.” Mitch snapped at you as he began digging into the trash to retrieve the shorts.

“Public Relations.” you corrected, earning a frustrated hiss and a dismissive hand wave. 

“Don’t change the subject. Get in there.”

You grimaced. “He’ll kill me!” 

“Don't be dramatic and hurry up, he's on soon.” Mitch urged, shooing you off. You made a sour face, heaving yourself up off the padded bench before Mitch could find something else to complain about. “-Wait.” Mitch ordered, as if he was telling a dog to heel. “-Second thought," he hummed "scratch that, let him be pissed for the fight. It’ll do numbers.”

-

Loathe as you were to admit, Mitch was correct- all three rounds had been polished off like they were light meals. You were next, surely. Your knee bounced anxiously as you awaited the full oncoming force of Soap’s post-cage high. “Fantastic! MacTavish v Kozlov-” Mitch barked out a laugh. “What a joke Kozlov was, does his team think it's amateur hour?” 

“Mitch.” you interrupted, knee falling still. “This isn’t really time for celebrations, you're about to lose your current biggest fighter.” He mowed you down with an eye roll “John just needs time to come to his senses, Max Energy contracts like this are once in a lifetime.”

“He’s not-”

The Locker room door nearly flew off its hinges, a beast coated in sweat and blood emerging. “John!” Mitch grinned with outstretched arms that faltered as the big man stormed straight past him.

God. Good god. He was hurtling towards you. Avert your gaze downwards, you coached yourself, you wouldn’t sit well in the stomach of a dog like him. 

Bare feet stopped before you. “You.” he chuffed out around the rubber guard in his mouth, drawing your gaze upwards. “Let’s go.” You looked around, not fully processing the situation. Mitch regained his composure. “Y-yes! Go talk with John.” he urged, desperately latching on to any inch of leeway Soap would give. “Get the fuck out, Mitch.” Soap barked, voice distorted by the EVA covering his teeth.”’Fore I rip yer’ head clean off.”

“R-right! We’ll talk later.” he laughed out nervously and tucked tail as Soap stared you down through the eyes of a starving street dog; getting the hell out of dodge. He kept his eyes on Soap as he left- a survival instinct not to show your back to a hungry predator.

”I tried to warn them about the Max deal.” you pressed once alone, hoping to avoid an argument. “Ah’know, bonnie.” he hummed lowly, a sweaty, gloved hand coming to graze your cheek. His sudden, loose tenderness came as a shock to your system. “Yer’ not like those vultures- Ye’ don’t see me as an asset.” His empty blue eyes relaxed, pupils dilating as his other hand raised to cradle the other side of your face, both thumbs brushing the corners of your lashlines. “Aye, Yer’ the good one. So patient with a daft bastard like me.” Your eyelids trembled slightly, his gaze zeroing in on the movement. “You want me like I want you?” 

Your eyes darted to your lap, urging Soap to tap at your cheek. “Eyes up- On me.” 

“You give the word and ah’ll treat you better than any man ever could. Ah’ll set ye’ right.” his voice dropped to a low boom. “Yer’ the only good thing ‘round me, have been since the moment we met.” You could still remember why you were hired. Soap was on the come up, but couldn't seem to figure out why getting into random scuffs with strangers over little annoyances was a bad thing. Especially for a man with a body that was essentially a lethal dose of muscle and bulk he had been specially trained in how to throw around. Possible fatal outcomes aside, it wasn't making him a man to root for. Every fight needed tension, but Soap wasn't a man built for pyrrhic victories- he was an underdog, biting and gnashing his way through cage after cage; man after man. He was meant to enjoy his hard-earned glory, and because of your work- MMA fans absolutely adored him. 

Soap huffed out, head tilting. “Y-yeah- yes, okay.” you whispered, trying not to psych yourself out. Your lips creased, head nodding before you could chicken out. 

Pulled into an blurred vortex, it took you an embarrassing amount of time to realize you were hiked over his shoulder as he lumbered towards his private locker room for the fight, locking the door behind him. Setting you gently on the luxurious industrial sink counter was his last mercy as he ripped off his gloves and clawed at your bottoms and underwear, yanking them off your legs. A freshly-bare and clammy hand braced itself under each thigh as he jacked your legs up and over his broad shoulders, a pleased grunt passing his lips. 

He lowered down before cursing and pushing your legs back up against your chest. 

You made a small noise, worried you had somehow fucked something up for him which earned you a growl and a headshake as he grunted and spat his mouthguard onto your tummy, sticky saliva coating your skin as it found its resting place before he dove back in, not caring where the plastic ended up. 

He pressed open-mouthed kisses at the apex of your thighs, sucking and biting at the skin like he was underfed and hungry. You whined as his teeth kept digging into the sensitive flesh, earning satisfied hums from the man in response, stubble not helping your case. You flexed, legs caging in his head which had seemed to guide him towards your waiting cunt.

The noises he emitted as he lapped at your folds made you feel nauseated and lightheaded, a blushing mess.

A shoulder jerked upwards to support your leg so he could explore the messy folds with a newly-unoccupied hand, but didnt pull his mouth back to give himself the space needed to do so; leaving you reeling at the feeling of such a concentrated area of stimulation.

As if sensing your limits, he bullied his way deeper, growling into your pussy in a way that left black spots at the corner of your vision.

Brutish fingers began to dip into the spot they had been searching for and you could feel his body tense and flex as he practically humped into the space beneath the counter, hips desperately chasing contact it wasn't receiving. He cursed against your flesh, mouth covered in drool and slick as he rose upwards, reminding you of a hulking behemoth as you were forced to accommodate the new position. He gazed down with hazy eyes and a glistening jaw as he focused on jamming whatever he could of his finger into your cunt, twitching and thrusting the digit inside you. As if the stretch wasnt enough to satisfy that itch in the back of his skull, he stuffed in his ring finger next to it, pinky and index bracing his hand as he fucked the fingers into you, transfixed. 

You were going to pass out at this rate, his knuckles, malformed from years of improper training and injury- kissed at your inner walls, sending you out of body. 

His lids lowered, pace easing as a thought passed his mind. He paused, stretching open the hole as his throat bobbed a few times. Your head clumsily lolled to the side just in time to watch a fat wad of spit drip from his mouth, directly into your slicked pussy. He smiled, happy with himself and savoring the sight for a moment before continuing his ministrations- slower this time, deeper. He angled his hand, thumb massaging at your clit just to see the way you would react. 

You didn't disappoint him, the sight of you causing his mouth to part, drool still hanging from his chin. “Fuuuck.” he breathed, drawing the word out. "-What a sight ye' are." His eyes darted back to your cunt, thick brows quirking as he experimentally ground his thumb deeper into your nub, urging a cry to push its way out of your lungs. His teeth glinted as he huffed out a small laugh. “Yer’ being so good to me too, huh?” he rumbled happily, eyes coasting along your stretched folds and it took you a moment to realize he wasn't talking to you. He pulled his fingers out slowly, scooping the mixed fluids up and popping them into his mouth. “Mmh-” he groaned, diving back in to gather more, this time digging deep. the movement finally pushed you over the edge. “Tha’s it.” he praised, dipping his head low to lap his mess beneath your flexing thighs.  -

You spent the following half hour under a steaming waterfall shower head with a looming mass tucked against your back, cleaning you up and rutting against you in random incriments- his skin surely emitting steam at a higher rate than the water. He bowed his head into your neck, bunting against you and inhaling the smell of his favourite body wash on your skin. “-Got an offer from 141 Athletics a bit ago, they could take care of it all for us, y'know.” he mumbled, pausing and dragging his nose along your nape. “Yer' coming-" he breathed out. “You work for me, not Mitch- You're coming with me.” you could feel his lips drag up in a sneer against your skin when the man's name left his mouth. In an attempt to comfort him, you tried to turn and face him, but thick arms stopped you, curling under your arms and around your chest, sneaking a feel before pulling you into him, the fatty layer coating his pecs molding against your back like a dream.

You nodded.

“Good.” he sighed.

[maybeelse]

Long-forgotten Fireflies finds her doll huddled outside, its display case's well-polished glass shining in the little nook between two of the building's many trash cans.

She hums happily and kneels down beside it.

"Hey, Lace. What are you doing out here?"

It doesn't meet her gaze.

It's garbage day, but they're so far into the concrete forest that the truck won't reach them until the evening; that vast thing rumbling past is just a bus, no matter its grasping arms or Lace's hopeful gaze as it passes it by.

"This one is waiting, Miss."

Fireflies doesn't ask what it's waiting for. The other question matters more.

"... why, Lace?"

"It just is."

"That's not an answer, dear."

It glances up into her face, ready to flinch away from the disdain and anger it's sure that it will see.

What it flinches away from is far, far worse.

Lace sees nothing but compassion in her age-wrinkled mask; nothing but kindness in her eyes.

It can't bear that; can't bear the idea of being seen by something that it knows shouldn't look like that at it, can't bear her gaze—

She catches it by the scruff of its neck as it tries to throw itself into the road.

"Now why would you try to do that, Lace?"

Her voice is reproving but tempered with far more sadness than Lace would prefer, and so it struggles for a several seconds before finally going limp.

"This one, you, it," it stammers, words piling up until the meaning drowns beneath them; Fireflies lets it go on for a bit, hiding her amusement, before she finally interrupts Lace's rising distress.

"Slowly, dear. One thought at a time. Pause for breath. You know how."

It takes a long, deep breath, tears burbling up around its too-big eyes; a bubble of something not entirely like snot pops on its little button nose.

"This one isn't good enough for you, Miss. It's old and worn out and you should have a doll who doesn't stumble at simple tasks."

"Is this about the cup you dropped?"

It squirms; for a moment its hands rise towards the old scars all along its arms, but it hasn't been allowed to have proper claws in decades. "Not just that, Miss."

"What is it about, then? And that wasn't even one of the good cups."

Lace breathes in and out, hiding itself in compliance with Fireflies' instruction; but a pause can only last so long, and once it has its thoughts in order it must speak.

"It just ... it just doesn't feel like it's good enough for you. This one makes so many stupid mistakes ..."

"And? Lace, I make stupid mistakes too. All the time."

"You're a witch! You're supposed to bite off too much and fight with the world. But this one is a doll."

"You are, yes. But that doesn't mean you have to be perfect or anything, dear, just try your best."

"But ... but this one should be perfect. For you."

"Lace, no. You're supposed to be you, with all your flaws and quirks." She sighs. "If I wanted something perfect I'd ... I don't even know. Perfect isn't real. I want you, not some impossible fantasy."

It sniffles. "But it's getting old, Miss. It's struggling more, and it's not as pretty as it used to be. It's not good enough."

Fireflies sighs again; they're just going in circles, and she's sure that it's just going to keep on going.

"... fine, Lace. But you're not allowed to throw yourself away."

"But, Miss ..."

"If I ever decide to get rid of you, which I don't think I will, it will be by my choice. Not yours. Not you disappearing while I'm distracted."

Lace sniffles again, snot rolling down its face.

"B-but ..."

"No buts, no objections. You're mine."

Fireflies drags Lace into a hug, uncaring of the dollish liquids smearing across her dress; it cries more freely at the warmth, at the softness, at the touch it thought it was too worthless to ever feel again—

She doesn't let go of it as she stands up and grabs its display case, nor as she carries it back inside; the door slams shut a moment after the garbage truck's rumbling tread and gnashing jaws begin to shake the street outside.

It's not a conclusion, but a reprieve.

[duckie-deer-prompts]

Duckie Deer Prompt #17

Restaurant Owner/Food Critic AU

As Lucifer turned from the bar with a flute of champagne, he nearly bumped directly into the man who'd been standing much too close behind him.

The man was very tall, very slim, had dark features, a nicely tailored suit and a smile that seemed impossibly wide. "You're Mr. Morningstar, are you not? The owner of this establishment?"

Lucifer was still a bit socially anxious, but tried his best to be polite. "Uh, yes. Hello. A-are you enjoying the party?" Charlie had insisted on having a grand opening party (even though it was officially their third month open,) so the local community would feel more welcome and encourage even more good word of mouth.

The man seemed to either not have heard him or was flat out ignoring him when he said, "Pardon me for interrupting your premature celebration, but I thought it only fair to give you a sporting chance as you are new to this game."

"Heya, dad!" Charlie greeted, excusing herself from behind someone to stand by Lucifer's side. "Who's this?"

"Just a sec, hun. Game?"

"Yes!" the well dressed man all but shouted, drawing the attention of onlookers. "You've been playing without an opponent. Which is, as you may have guessed... against the rules."

"Wait." Charlie said, quietly at first but soon her voice was nearly matching the man's volume. "Wait, wait, wait! I recognize that voice! You're The Radio Demon! The food critic! I listen to you while I work! Oh, God, where are my manners? I'm Charlie Morningstar!" And she gave a little wave.

The man's smile curved sincerely at the edges, delight obvious on his face. "Well, now, it's always nice to run into a fan! Pleasure to be meeting you, sweetheart. Quite a pleasure!"

He extended his hand in invitation, which Charlie accepted, and the man kissed it. "Please, call me Alastor."

Lucifer could feel himself getting more and more annoyed as the crowd began to whisper conspicuously. He downed the contents of the flute he'd almost forgotten he was holding, then handed the empty glass to one of his passing workers.

"The...Radio Demon?" Sarcasm and sass laced his tone now, the bit of liquid courage helping loosen up.

"Hmm, unlike your charming daughter, you're a bit slow for someone in the culinary fast lane. And much shorter than I'd pictured."

Oh, it was ON now!

"Oh yeah!? Well you're pretty thin for someone who supposedly likes food! You sure you're as great as you think you are?"

The room collectively gasped before going silent, waiting.

The Radio Demon didn't move at first, standing stock still before his smile began to crumple a bit, revealing much too much gum. It was more of a snear.

"I don't just like food; I love it. If I don't love it, I don't swallow." The phrasing went completely over Lucifer's head but the restaurant came alive with blushes and gossip.

Alastor turned on his well polished heel and strode confidently to the entrance. "I will return tomorrow night with high expectations. Pray you don't disappoint me."

"Oh, you'll swallow, asshole!!!" The proud man called after him while the murmurs grew. "And you'll thank me for the goddamn privilege of swallowing what I give you!!!"

[futurequibblerjournalist]

Hihi!! :3

I'd love a yap session about your fav Knights!! If u want ofc :D

If not,, some Marauders content would be super cool!!!! Especially for Remus!! I'd love to hear about his parents and his relationship with them, but I'd be 100% totally and honestly down for anything!! Ooh defo any headcanons for him! Ahhh wowie I feel so special with all the attention uve given me !!

Have a good day :33

- 🍃

It's been so long since I've gotten to answer one of your asks vjfnjgnbg I've missed iiiiiit,,, it's been so fun answering your asks!!

I’m gonna be talking more about the actual knights of Walpurgis but I’m gonna take this as an excuse to talk about my girl Lucretia cause I love her so much

Her full name is Lucretia Elladora Black and she’s born in 1925 though I’ve yet to set an actual birthday for her,, I need to figure that out. She was born with Esotropia in her right eye, polydactyly (she had extra pinkies when she was born but they were removed) and she’s infertile (these are all because of the inbreeding that the Black family is known for).

She’s in the same year as Walburga at school and she was obviously a Slytherin. She was the seeker for the Slytherin quidditch team (though her brother and cousin would often somewhat tease her that it was not proper).

Her best subject is potions and she’s very fond of them. Other hobbies, save for quidditch, include entomology (specifically lepidopterology) and a fascination for the French language. She’s also quite interested in the magical artefacts that the Black family possesses.

She grew up in 12 Grimmauld Place with her younger brother Orion (he’s four years younger than her) and their parents Arcturus and Melania Black. Their house elf was Kreacher when she was growing up and like the woman, she got her middle name after she was notoriously bad to the house elves

I picture her with very long, sleek obviously black hair with bangs, upturned grey eyes, lips that are fuller in the upper lip, a long nose and a beauty spot under her right eye and one on her left cheekbone. She’s tall for like,, Black family standards but that’s not really saying a lot? She’s taller than both Walburga and Orion but just a smidge shorter than Cygnus and Alphard. She got narrow shoulders, average bust and a tiny waist and her skin is incredibly pale like the rest of the family’s.

I think she’s the one who starts out with a crush on Ignatius and everyone considers her a bit of a bitchy mean girl cause she’s one of the girls from the Black family and she’s got a fairly stern personality and a resting bitch face but when she’s around Ignatius she’s all giggly and smiling and twirling her hair and I think she spends a lot of time trying to subtly talk him up and get either her brother or her cousins to approve of him

As for Remus!!! Ahhh I love him so much cjnfjcnf

He was born to Lyall and Hope Lupin on March 10 1960 in Abergavenny, Wales, after the two got married. Lyall is a half-blood born to parents Ulric and Altalune in 1929 also born in Abergavenny. I really like Polish Hope who moves to England/Wales at some point after the war. She is, as we know, a muggle. She meets Lyall, they have their whole meet-cute with the boggart and they get married. Neither thought that they would end up having children but they had Remus as a surprise and he made them both very happy.

I am not a Remus has distant parents/parents that hate him/anything of that sort kind of person. He’s got parents that deeply love him and that are trying their best with him despite the situation they end up with, with Remus’s lycanthropy and that shapes Remus as a person!!! Which is why it’s so important!!! He is gentle in spite of everything partially because he has been surrounded by it for all of his childhood. He’s not been able to have friends but he’s had parents and especially a mother who tried her best to make sure he wasn’t missing anything

I think Remus is really close with his mum, he’s a bit of a mummy’s boy. He’s less close with Lyall, but that’s mostly because Lyall struggles to approach him sometimes because he feels guilty for what happened to Remus because of his actions.

As for some Remus headcanons:

He grew up in a dual faith household with Lyall being Christian (though not particularly practicing) and Hope being Jewish

Blonde Remus!!! It gets darker with age but it’s still light enough to be called blonde. He’s also got hazel/green-ish eyes and a shit tonne of freckles

The nose on this guy!!! Yes,, big < 3

He smokes menthols. He hides that he smokes from his parents but especially his mother

His closest friends are Peter and Lily. He considers Sirius and James very close friends as well of course, but I think he always thinks that there’s a bit of a distance between them cause they’re “so much cooler than him”

I think he met Peter on the train before he met anyone else and the two bonded. This is why Remus was so adamant that Sirius and James include Peter in their group because he refused to exclude his first friend

Feels like stating the obvious but huge collection of jumpers

On that note, Hope knits him stuff like all the time, he’s got knitted vests, knitted jumpers, knitted socks, the whole lot. Hope will sometimes knit socks for James, Sirius and Peter as well and ask him to bring them along

He grew up in many different places since they were forced to move around a lot, but the place he stayed the longest was a fairly remote cottage that he’s very fond of. It’s not particularly fancy, but it’s very cozy and homey

For the wolfstar fans out there I think Remus is the gangliest most awkward looking motherfucker and people are always confused when they learn that wolfstar is a thing because of all people Sirius Black could end up with he chose the one who looks like he’s been through a paper shredder?

A very good storyteller I feel? If he reads a book out loud he makes different voices for the characters, but even if he’s just telling a story in general it’s always very engaging

On that note he speaks a lot with his hands

He’s a horrible dancer lol

A lot of people headcanon that Remus is very warm I feel, but I imagine he feels cold all the time even if to other people he feels warm yk?

I don’t think he’s a bad singer, he might be kinda average, but he thinks he’s an awful singer. He’ll at most do a bit of humming in a very low vibrating voice and he usually does this either when he’s cooking or when he’s in the shower

When he blushes the tips of his ears also get really red

He is the farthest thing from a morning person. It’s almost always a race in the morning to see whether Sirius or Remus will toss a pillow at James first when he’s trying to get them to get up

Remus would wear full pyjamas but none of it would match

He really likes chocolate with orange crunch in it

I could see him being the kind of person to call people love (even more so when he’s older), especially in casual passing like if he bumps into someone he’ll go “oh, sorry, love” without really thinking about it

His favourite subjects are Defence Against the Dark Arts and Charms

I think that's all I've got for now? I have other asks that vaguely include him so there might be some more coming at some point vjfnbjgnb but yeah ahhhh thank you for the ask have some moodboards as well < 3

[jpitha]

Just a Little Further 8

Part 1 2 3 4 5 6 7

I shot 5 magazines thought the rifle and I realized my groupings were off. "FarReach, do you think it's me, or the weapon?" I asked, as I unloaded the last magazine and collected the brass.

"You seemed to be squeezing too hard. Maybe the stress?"

I nodded. It has been pretty stressful lately. "One more then." I said, and slotted a fresh magazine. More than two thousand years since their invention and chemically propelled, jacketed metal slugs are still our projectile weapons of choice. I know the K'laxi tend to prefer energy weapons and the Xenni favor tiny rockets, but give me a good old chemical reaction driving a bullet downrange any day. The K'laxi complain that they kick too hard, and the Xenni call them barbaric, but who am I to argue with results.

After taking a breath and slowing down, my accuracy did improve. As the shots rang out in the range I could see the spots on the target light up in a tight grouping. The center of the target was less important than all the shots being in a same spot. I ejected the magazine, slotted a new one, set the rifle for distance and tried the furthest target. This time, I used the magnification factor on the scope. Pushing the butt of the rifle hard against my shoulder so that my whole body could absorb the impact I put 8 rounds in a tight circle 4cm across more than 100 meters away. Good enough. I was back where I expected to be. I collected the brass, reloaded my magazines and took the rifle to the workbench. Carefully and methodically, I took it apart, cleaned and checked it, polished it and put it back together. All in all it took me about an hour, but I was going slow. It was almost Zen. When I finished, the gun smelled of oil and shone.

Lots of my friends were worried when they found out how skilled I am with guns, but really, it's not so bad. Like anything, skill comes with practice (and maybe a little bit of talent). This isn't the Bad Old Days, I don't keep weapons at home, I don't worry about people coming to take them or me being attacked. For me, the fun is in gaining the skill, seeing how accurate I can be, how fast I can be, how safe I can be. My favorite is my rifle, but I also know pistols, submachine guns and shotguns. Pistols are the hardest to keep skilled on. I'd have to shoot every single day just to stay as good as I am with a rifle. Pistols are incredibly inaccurate. I like submachine guns too, but really they're mostly noise and intimidation. Even the toughest Xenni warrior stops when a human is chattering away with a submachine gun.

I decided that when we left to meet the delegation on the Starbase that I'd take my rifle and my submachine gun. I'd keep them strapped to my back so as to reduce the intimidation factor. I wanted to say "We don't want to fight you, but also don't think you can push us around." I'm sure Vin'aren back home would call that "human to a fault." I smiled at the memory of them. I hope they were keeping our place clean.

Finished, I stood up and stretched. "FarReach, I'm bringing my rifle and my submachine gun to the airlock weapons locker, okay? I'm going to bring them when we disembark."

"Weapon movement registered, Melody, thanks for letting me know." We always report the movement of weapons aboard ship so that everyone knows where they are at all times. "Lunch is in about an hour. Captain Q'ari wants everyone to eat together before we dock."

"Thanks Far, I'll be there." I trott down the hall, my weapons slung along my back.

****

I have just enough time to stow my weapons, press my uniform and take a lightning quick shower before lunch. Sure, I'll be in my pressure suit for the meeting, but I'll know I'll be clean and sharp under it. When I get to the dining hall, Captain Q'ari is there already and she flicks an ear at my sharp uniform. "I want to look my best for our meeting." I say, only a little sheepishly as I take my sandwich and sit.

"No, it's a smart idea." Q'ari says. "Well done. Look good, feel good." We all eat. It's a light lunch in case we find something to eat - or are offered a meal - onboard.

After the meal, the Captain stands. "Okay everyone. If everyone here is friendly, you will all get an opportunity to disembark and explore, but for now, it's going to be me, Lieutenant Mullen, Commander Perinem and Lieutenant Adel." Me, Selem, Fer'resi and Omar. Makes sense. I can speak to them, Omar can give an idea about how friendly they look, Fer'resi can help with their language and Selem can be the face of the expedition. "Mullen will be the only one who is armed, and she shall have her weapons stowed while aboard unless absolutely necessary. We will not be the ones shooting first. This first meeting will be done in pressure suits with our helmets open. If the environment is conducive to us, further meetings can be done in our uniforms." She looked around. "Does anyone have any questions?"

Omar spoke up. "Why is Melody the only one who is coming out armed?"

Captain Q'ari's ears shrugged. "Because she frankly, is the best shot here, and we don't need anyone shooting anything accidentally. If we need to run, we run. Lieutenant Mullen will be mostly coming out armed to show that we are armed. We're not here to capture them, we don't need to go armed to the teeth."

Fer'resi spoke up "Will we attempt communications with them, or are we leaving that to the Lieutenant too?"

Captain Q'ari's ears flicked, a raised eyebrow. "If you think you can communicate with them without causing an incident, by all means. We know Lieutenant Mullen can speak their language - somehow - so she should probably do the majority of the talking. FarReach will be listening in, and you should be running recorders too so we can build a language model for the translators. Hopefully, on the next visit we can all speak to them at least a small amount." She clapped her hands. "Okay everyone. We're docking in an hour and disembarking sometime after that. Take it easy, but don't get complacent."

We all left the dining hall and I headed to the airlock where our pressure suits are kept. I decided to be extra methodical and cleaned and checked the suit before we needed to be ready. I wanted it to shine. Since it's a hard suit (mine is armored, everyone else uses a softer, more flexible suit normally) I'm able to take a little rotary polisher and apply some compound and really make it glow. When I'm done, it's not only clean and bright, but it's also smoother too. The blue of my armor looks deep enough to go fishing in. "Nicely done, Melody" FarReach remarks as I put the tools away. "You're sure to impress when you get out there."

I laughed, "Thanks FarReach, I hope so. I feel like there's going to be a lot of attention on me, so I want to look and feel my best. Do you think there's time for a coffee before we leave?"

"Just enough, Melody, if you go now."

I didn't have to be told twice. I headed over to the kitchenette and got out my coffee supplies. While I was working, Mei'la came by.

"Oh hi Mei!" I said brightly while I waited for the water to boil. "Did you have any trouble after we went to WEP?" Sometimes going to War Emergency Power can cause undue wear and tear on the reactors and it's a hassle to clean up afterwards. Better than dying though.

Her ears said no. "Not this time. It was the first time we went to WEP since the reactors were overhauled, so we had headroom to spare." She shook her head. "If we have to do it a lot though, I'm going to be busy. We can be down three reactors at a time, but any more than that and we have to turn off systems to keep within our power budget and we're limited to linking only when the batteries and capacitors are charged."

Starjumpers tend to have between 4 and 6 human made power reactors. I say "tend to" because they've been built for nearly a thousand years, so there isn't like, one singular type. Any really large ship that was originally designed to go between colony words at relativistic speeds is called a Starjumper. It's not like a class of ship.

Mei sees me thinking and comments. "FarReach is a newer Starjumper though, so it was relatively overbuilt. They have 6 reactors so we have gobs of power."

"Why so many?" I wondered out loud, hoping FarReach was listening.

"Mostly because when this Starjumper was built we were at war." FarReach answers. "I wasn't FarReach at the time this one was built, but looking through it, I can see the signs. It was built during the New Wellington/Parvati Colony War. It's massively overpowered so that it could fire the Stardrive and the laser batteries and the wormhole generator and support a crew.

"Wow" I said out loud. I remember reading about the war in school. Parvati and New Wellington got into an argument about trading rights with Earth and got into a war about it. Parvati launched a dozen multi-tonne lozenges of pure tungsten towards the colony at nearly 80% the speed of light. When they struck a couple of years later, it obliterated the colony. New Wellington is no more, and Parvati was a pariah for nearly a century. These days, many people from Meíhuā still have animosity towards people from Parvati. It's one of the reasons I don't usually announce I'm from Meíhuā. We're a small, more insular colony and I don't want people to judge me based on where I'm from.

Oops, I almost let the coffee over extract while I was daydreaming. I finished the pour and had just enough time to savor it before it was time to go suit up.

Over near the airlock, I got out my suit and started putting it on. I was the first one here, but as my suit took longer, that made sense. When I had my pants on, everyone else showed up and started suiting up.

Since a pressure suit is to vital to your survival, everyone makes sure everyone else has their suit on correctly and it's in good order. We all look over each other's suit and make sure the seals are clean, the environmental controls are active and working and that we have plenty of air. While we were suiting up Omar said "Melody, your suit practically shines! Did you polish it?"

"Actually, I did." I say proudly. "I ran the mini buffer over it with polishing compound. Like the Captain said, "look good, feel good." I grinned.

Captain Q'ari nodded as well before she put her helmet on. "The lieutenant is correct. Lieutenant Adel, you could take a lesson from her." Omar's suit was in fine order, but it was a little scuffed at the elbows and knees. Captain Q'ari's suit was spotless, as to be expected.

"Yeah yeah, I'll clean and polish it after we come back." He grumbled.

Suited up, I looked more bulky and intimidating than I was outside of the suit. It made me a few centimeters taller and broadened my shoulders but it still kept most of my form and - if I say so myself - I can pull it off. I looked good. I walked over to the weapons locker and touched the handle. It registered my biometrics and the door popped open. I took my rifle, checked to make sure it was safe and loaded and slung it behind my back. Then I reached in and took my submachine gun, did the same thing and strapped it to my waist. I dithered over taking extra magazines and deiced that was a little too much. The full magazine in the rifle and in the sub would have to be enough. Like the Captain said, I wasn't expecting to shoot anyone.

When I was finished with the weapons, everyone else was suited up. Captain Q'ari looked at all of us and said "Are we ready? Let's go make history." and walked over and cycled the airlock.

Part 9

[thewatercolours]

3, 7, 13, 15 for the EOY writer post?

3. Did you achieve everything you wanted to this year?

I was pleased with the number of oneshots I shared, and time I spent investing in my imagination, and the care I put into drafting my multichapter, "Path of Kingship." I certainly had a number of plans that fell through, of course, honestly I'd be a bit bit disappointed with the scope of my plans if I didn't dream bigger than I could actually accomplish!

Some plans that didn't play included properly reviving my dormant original novel, The Brilliant Hour (it's been sitting at roughly 70k for an age, and it's a delicate dance between remaining open to the fact I haven't entirely scrapped it, and preventing it from being a roadblock to other creativity because I can't let it go.) I did a lot of concept work on a new fiction about a high seas-based monastic order and a kidnapped royal, but the timing didn't seem to be right for it. I hoped I would finish "Path of Kingship" before the year was out, but it's still in progress. Well, some of these may still be groundwork for the future, and for those that weren't? Well, I enjoyed them anyhow.

7. What are three songs you put on your WIP-playlist this year?

A song from the Path of Kingship playlist: "Stronger" by Ellie Holcomb. The moment I heard the lyrics I could feel the resonance with Graham's arc from terrified newbie to confident leader.

A song from The Brilliant Hour playlist: Tried to rebuild this playlist from memory. I had an expansive playlist for this novel on Itunes before my account locked me out. I'm sorry to lose all the ones I've forgotten, but some songs are indelibly linked to story, and come to mind immediately. One is "Marrakesh Night Market" by Loreena McKennitt, which had a heavy hand in inspiring the opening chapter.

A song from Anders Solmor's playlist (Saltmarsh - not a traditional wip since it's from my rpg campaign with my brother - but I do so much writing for it and approach it so much like a writing project it counts): This feels ridiculous, and I'll add that I'm not a Swiftie. But I found a string quartet version of "Look What You Made Me Do" that's going to be perfect for Anders once he has his realization. Having a traditional-sounding instrumental version fits the Saltmarsh vibe, but in my head I can hear the words. I'm delighting myself with the double meaning of the refrain lyric if I associate it with Anders. He was made to do so much without even realizing it - and when he finds out that knowledge might make him do something quite different.

13. How did you change as a writer? Did you learn anything new? Started to plan instead of pants? Share your wisdom!

Other than what I've mentioned in another ask - let's see. I continue to fight the good fight to trim back my prose's tendency to indulgence and purple. I don't know if I got any better at it, but I was more ruthless in intention at least! I also found it helped me to consciously decide when a work was something I wanted to polish to the best of my ability vs when it was just a "doodle." I do believe in putting one's best foot forward and developing one's skills, and the works that mean a lot to me deserve to have my best effort. But sometimes it's ok to dash something off as a little connection with the two or three people who read my work, especially the King's Quest stuff, and not agonize over perfection. So I guess, I gave myself permission both to truly throw myself heart and soul into the good stories, and to say, "Ah, it has Graham in it. They'll probably like it" for the doodles. (Is this a sound philosophy? I don't know, but it seems good for me at least in this chapter of my life.)

15.Time for shameless self-promotion! answer with a piece of writing you want others to see/read! (if you have nothing posted/published this year, any other year is fine too ^^)

If you want a tiny taste of my original fiction, or just something really short, here's an excerpt that stands OK on its own: "The Ungentleman." Pseudo-eighteenth century world, mainly focused on a fun dynamic between the two mains desperately imbibing sweets before they commit themselves to a situation where there probably won't be any sweets.

If you want a taste of my fanfiction, "Path of Kingship" stands okay on its own, regardless of whether you know King's Quest. The upshot is that a guy who never expected to be king finds himself on the throne, and tries on different approaches to his new position like boots. Some zaniness but also introspection.

[hyba]

The Black Hare Log #3

It's been a little while since I updated about this IF, and I do want to apologize for completely missing my intended Prologue release at end of November. It coincided with some health-related issues (for me and a family member), and I actually ended up missing a lot of other deadlines for the rest of the month, which I'm still trying to make up for, including certain other projects slated for February and March 2025 releases.

I know there are some lovely folks out there who were really looking forward to it, and I'm sorry to disappoint and delay! I can't tell you exactly when the Prologue will be out now, but I can say that if I do want to get it out sooner rather than later, it will be released in parts, route by route.

With that said, let's get into the latest update!

Current status:

The game has approx 38k words & 232 passages so far.

Still working on the Prologue!

Focusing on user experience (menu, help, save game, etc.).

Goals for end of month (Dec 2024):

Prepare the Prologue for a January release if possible.

The delay has put me in a bit of an awkward position. I'd hoped that I'd be able to have that prologue out for you to play while I focused on completing & releasing a couple of other projects in Feb/Mar 2025. I hope I can make at least 2 routes playable by Jan 2025, if I can find the time this month to test, debug, and polish it up.

Snippet:

"What's that supposed to mean?" you demand, confused. She groans and rubs her eyes. "I knew he wasn't one to settle down, you know? You can tell, with some people." She begins to pick her croissant apart with her fingers. "I thought I could believe him when he said he would. But I was naive." "How in the world did you come to that conclusion?" you ask, snorting in disbelief. "It takes two to tango. I had a… business partner a while back, and he tried to back out of our deal. Let me tell you, I had absolutely no problem laying him out. You have to make them feel their commitment." To your surprise, she chuckles. "I don't think I could lay him out, but boy, that would be nice, wouldn't it?" She tucks a fallen strand of dark hair behind her ear.

✦✧✦✧ Tag list open! ✦✧✦✧ Let me know if you’d like to be added, and I’ll tag you in any updates related to this wip. Or comment here to make sure I don't forget to add you!

New features!

Help Menu: I've added a Help menu in the side-bar of the game, and anytime you need more information or help with the story goals, routes, choice mechanics, hint mechanics, journal, and your profile, you can find all of that information there. I'm also hoping to add a Comment Box where you can send in questions or suggestions (or report bugs), though I'm not sure how to set that up yet. A girl can dream.

Profile: I've also added a Profile section in the side-bar, where you can always check out what your character's profile looks like, including their personality traits, skills, strengths, weaknesses, style/outfits, background, formative memories and events, and more!

I've also added more to the Journal, so you'll have quite a few items in there by the end of the prologue. I haven't quite figured out the wonky spacing issue yet, but I hope you'll bear with me even if it isn't perfect when the Prologue comes out.

As a final note, I just learned about Tweego, and the whole idea of it is still very confusing to me, so I'm just giving you a heads-up in case in the future me updating the game causes general chaos and loss of save games 😭 This is completely unfamiliar territory.

Other Dev Logs: 1 / 2 / 3 (you are here)

Tag List, as of this Dev Log's publication date: @ettawritesnstudies @real-fragments

[vampigeon]

Ports and Plugs and Postmortem

First of all, I made a little videogame: Ports and Plugs. Have you played it? If not, you should. Even if you stop before the sexy bits, I think it's a cute little story.

Now that this project is over (and, admittedly, because I have an awkward amount of time before I need to do a task), I thought I'd talk a little bit about the experience of making my first real game and some of the little things I noticed along the way.

I had no idea what would be "the hard part."

And that's not even a play on words about dongers. I first started working on this thing back about a year and a half ago. I really did think that actually writing the game, particularly the programming bit, would be the challenge. Instead? Well, look at this nonsense:

278 unique assets? For someone who, at most, does, like, 15 panels for a comic, that is some nonsense. I'd definitely never done anything at this scale, and it shows. For as much as I enjoy how it turned out, the amount of bespoke screens should have been far, far less. Ah, well. On the bright side...

This was some excellent art practice

It's weird to say, but...I feel like everyone who does cartooning stuff should draw naked people? Even if you don't show it to anyone. The quantity of art I needed to draw helped, but also the fact that a lot of them were poses and angles and scenarios that I'd never done before. As such, I think my art got a lot better by doing this.

In general, a thing I've tried to do a lot with my cartooning is to push for things like camera angles and scene-setting. It's something that a lot of gag strips don't do, but I think can really help. I'm not a draftsman, you know. I'm never going to work for DC or anything. But mood is something that you can do even if you're unsure of yourself in other areas. If you're an artist, don't think you have to wait to be at a pro level before you mix up your camera and lighting work. I pushed myself here even further, and I quite like it.

That being said...

Fuck trees.

I still hate drawing trees. This?

Bane of my existence. The last time I draw trees was this arc from my old strip, Game U:

Which you'll notice has a copyright date of 2009. I managed to put it off for 15 years, but I ended up having to draw trees again anyway, and hating it. Enjoy my next sexy game: "Let's Bone Down Inside This Shipping Container."

Speaking of Art Stuff

This is the largest-scale project I've ever done. By which I mean, this is the thing that, in its released form, has the most stuff in a single release. One of the things that webcomics allows for is for art to gradually evolve. You start off drawing a character, and over the course of drawing them, things get sort of condensed and polished and simplified. In my experience, the character you design is always more detailed than how they end up looking. And that just takes time, which you have in a webcomic because each update is largely self-contained.

You can't do that for a project like this. The character has to be consistent, which is tricky when they naturally evolve as you draw them more. The biggest difference is in the character Carter:

I had to go back and re-draw all his expression poses because the design had changed so much. It's one of those things I never would have thought of. Speaking of things I didn't think of:

It's a Sex Game, You Dingus

So, one of my favorite games is Shenmue. That's a game that strives for verisimilitude. You're on a martial-arts revenge quest, but you also have to, like, go to your job and buy batteries for your flashlight and wait for the bus. I love it, but, you know, it's not for everyone.

I bring this up, because, when I was designing the sex scene...scenes at the end, I really tripped over myself trying to make it more "realistic." Like, I had this complicated branching path thing, and I had it where you only had a certain number of screens before the characters finished, let's say.

It never occurred to me to not do it this way. I'm not, like, a connoisseur of the Boning Game Genre, so I initially designed it to be way more complicated than it needed to be. Trying to make the programming work for the branching choices and for the menu screen (the game engine, Ren'Py, does not make image buttons easy) to do what it needed to do so that only certain choices would display if you'd gotten to certain points in the scene.

I was banging my head against it for hours, when my husband was like (and I'm paraphrasing) "In those kinds of games, don't people like to go back and, like, see the different options."

And yes. That makes total sense. I was making it harder on myself for no reason other than a play toward realism, but for no benefit to the player. It's a videogame. It's fine that it's a videogame. I didn't need to make people wait for the bus. So thank you to my husband for that suggestion. It's the main thing that allowed me to actually finish this dang game.

Wrap-Up

Overall, this was fun to make. It was weird. Outside my comfort zone. Kind of embarrassing, but, eh. A fair number of people seem to be enjoying it, which is nice. Probably won't be a well I go back to, but, for the moment, I'm glad I did something weird. You should do the same! It's fun.

[ollie-olliebaby]

"Hello? This is Ollie!" Their voice was chipper as they answered the phone that aftertnoon. Balancing a box of files and a freshly made beverage in their grasp, they almost didn't catch the name that was being said on the other line.

"Uh..hello, my name is Clifton Malo. I'm looking for an Olivia Malo?"

Stopping dead in their tracks, it took them a moment to process what was being said. They hadn't heard their birth name in years. Dropping the box sending its contents scattering across the apartment floor, their drink going with it; Ollie's heart dropped.

"Hello? Hello?" The voice said again. "...please don't hang up." They begged.

"It's...uh....my name is Ollie Malo...can I help you with something?" They asked, the weariness of someone twice their age very evident.

"Oh, uh sorry, Ollie. I uh....jesus how do I say this.." He mumbled. "My name is Clifton...and I uh, well if what I've found to be correct.." There was a moment of poignent silence. Like he was trying to find the best way to break this news.

"I'm your father."

Stumbling back a bit into the nearst hard surface, in this case their hallway wall, Ollie couldn't bring themselves to speak. Frankly all they wanted to do was chuck their phone across the room and pretend it had never happened. But, they couldn't do that, could they? They still had an option to hang up.

"How did you find this number?" They asked after silence on both of their ends. Ollie was already starting to build up the needed walls to protect their heart. If anything, this wouldn't be a reapeat of what happened with their mother.

"I uh, well I've been searching for your moth-...well for Raina. For decades now, and when I finally hit a break through a few years ago she addmitted, albeit very reluctantly, that she had a child. And that the child was mine. Seems we both had the same intention. She mentioned meeting you and how that went."

The tears were starting to sting the back of their eyes. It was taking everything in them not to just let the flood gates open up. "Okay....I do-don't...what do you.." Words were hard. Thinking was hard.

This was hard.

Clifton let out a sigh, running his fingers through his salt and peppered hair. "I know...this is a lot to ask of you. This is a lot for anyone to go through. But, I would like to meet you. I want to explain myself? If that would help anything. I promise you if I had known you were in this world, I wouldn't have let her give you up."

"Please...can we meet? Anywhere that you are comfortable, I just...I'd like a chance. If you are willing to give me just once chance and then if you never want to see me again, I unders-" Clifton was starting to babble a little bit. A trait Ollie must have picked up from them.

"Enchanted Rose Cafe. Thirty minutes." And with that statement they hung up the phone.

Ollie wanted nothing more than in that moment to sink into the baseboards of that hallway floor. To let the all of the knots and cracks in the wood stain to swallow them up and make them disapper. But this was what they wanted, right? To find their family.

It took another ten or so minutes for OIlie to peel themselves off the chestnut polish on the ground and get ready to leave.

They tried their hardest to not think too hard as they went down to the cafe. "I wonder what he looks like? Is he old? Does have grey hair?I wonder if he chews at his nails like I do." Too many thoughts were spinning through their brain as they came up to the door. About to grab the handle, a tember voice stopped them.

"Ollie!" Clifton called out from his spot at one of the outside tables.

There he was. Standing in all is 6'2 glory. Clifton Malo.

Ollie's Father.

Ollie hated how much they looked like their parents. They could see it when they had met their mother, they could see it even more now meeting Clifton.

"Hi.." They said gently. Their usual bubbly personality locked and protected behind the wall they had newly constructed. Unsure of where to take things now. "Please, come sit." He said gesturing over toward a table that already had one of their favorite drinks sitting there.

"I uh wasn't sure what you liked, but someone that worked here seemed to know you, so they made this." Taking a seat, he waited patiently for Ollie to join him and when they finally did, a sort of relaztion settled into his shoulders.

"So...what did you want?" Ollie asked, wanting to get right to the point.

"A chance." He replied. "A chance to say that I'm sorry for what you have been through. To try and make up for lost time? I know it's probably a lost cause. So much time has been lost and I know I am partially at faul-"

"It's not your fault you didn't know about me." Ollie stepped in. "...it was my mo-...it was Raina's fault." Picking at the skin around their nails, Ollie couldn't bring themselves to meet his gaze quite yet. "You say that if you had known about me, you would have wanted me?" They questioned.

Clifton nodded his head. "If there is one thing I've always wanted, it was kids. I always wanted to have a family. I thought I would have had that with Raina, despite her having children from a previous relationship, I was ready to take on that responsiblity."

"How noble of you." Ollie almost sneered.

Licking at his lips, Clifton let out another sigh. "I'm sorry. I don't know what I can say outside of that. Just know that I did want you. I do want you, Ollie. If you'd give me the chance, I'd like to get to know you more. Introduce you to family. You've got aunts, uncles, cousins and a very lovely set of grandparents that want to meet you, whenever you are ready."

Ollie swallowed hard, there eyes glazed over with fresh tears. Again, it was something they had always wanted. To have a family of their own. One that looked like them, shared stories of family members long since gone. With the cheesy nicknames and the family love that just about every other family had.

"And what if I'm never ready? What if I've found a family that loves me and cares for me. Who calls me on my birthdays and invites me out for holidays. Who lets me call them at 2am because I had a bad day and I needed to talk to someone. What if I have that and I don't want anything to do with you?" There was a bit of venom in their words. Which was rightly justified. Clifton new that, which was why he took it in stride.

"Then we will part ways after today, and I won't try and contact you." Watching him reach into his pocket, he pulled out a little business card. "This is my information. My personal cell phone, address and email. If...if you ever want to know more, I am ready to tell you anything."

"I've spent years! Searching for people who were mine. For people that were my blood. I understand that Raina fucked us both over, but you can't just waltz in here thinking things are going to be right as rain now." Ollie could feel themselves getting a little hysterical. "I've always wanted a father." They said after a brief pause to reflect. "Someone who would protect me..from everything in the world. To protect me from myself when the days got to rough. But, I didn't get that. I had to learn to protect myself. No thanks to you or Raina."

The tears had started to flow at this point, with little sign of stopping. Clifton picked up a napkain, reaching it out to them Ollie hissed and recolied. "I don't want anything from you." They murmured, finally meeting his eyes. "Right now, I don't want anything from you. You may have aided in my birth, but you are not my father." Getting up from the table, Ollie watched as the light in Clifton's eyes seemed to dim. He had been hoping for this moment as much as they had.

Eyes glancing down again to the business card, they picked it up off the table. Turning it over a few times in their grip, Ollie let out a shaky breath. "This....today was a mistake. I thought I would be ready...but I'm not."

"So...maybe one day?" Clifton ventured, a tinge of hope in his voice.

"Maybe." Ollie replied as they backed away.

"Just not today."

And with that, Ollie turned and left. Leaving a sad, yet hopeful Clifton in the dust as they ran back home.

[lord-shitbox]

part 2 of this ask

📝Process for hurt mezu drawing 

here are the steps i dug out of an art server's wips channel lol

1. initial sketch

2. refine sketch. thats lines now babey. (omitted "the sleeves are KILLING ME WAHHH" stage that led to this)

3. grayscale, to use with gradient map (this is a more polished grayscale than I started with, i dug the working file out to get better images)

4. find nice gradient map (ended up being the same one I'd used for the piece i made right before. the goal is to make what's essentially an underpainting, not to color the whole thing with one map)

5. tweak and add colors that arent in the map with hard light layers & also sneak in a layer for special effect and atmospheric/ scenic perspective while you're at it

6. shading & more finishing effects. pretty much all of the shading was done with hard light layers! the only non-hard light layers I used for the shading were the particle effect layers & like one faint glow layer to fix some values. blood was done with linear burn

✨Inspiration for hurt mezu drawing 

the coloring method (grayscale -> saturated gradient map underpainting -> additive color adjustments) is something I tried out with the piece i'd made right before (the one where gozu is holding mezu from behind) & turned out really well, so I wanted to keep going with it

I also wanted to draw them angstily again because it'd been a very long time. like half a year at least. angsting them is very enriching for my soul so I try to do it regularly, this one was overdue

subconsciously referenced the poses in the initial sketch from this old thing (feb 2021). i love doing this. all my for-fun works recycle old elements in some way. my favorite game is "what old art reminds me of what im doing rn" im so good at digging stuff out of my archives for it. everyone loves when i do this

the gangi-kozou panel also

i went through a "shade in bold red-orange & dark blue with hard light layers" phase in like..april/may of 2021. i still like that stuff a lot so I wanted to revisit it

💚Things you like about hurt mezu drawing

repasting the link there but the sixth image in the process is essentially the final so you can just look at that

the colors are nice!! I'm real happy with using more saturated colors n I think the warm vs cool balance works really well

the sleeves (man being dramatic on the sand meme)

no like fr look at the 2021 piece's kimono sleeves vs the one I just did 2.5 years later. so satisfying

Gozu's expression came out nice

i think the claws and flash lines successfully added Emphasis to Gozu's expression & the piece overall

the poses … the drama …. the brush textures are also good

⏳Things you’d do differently with hurt mezu drawing

add in a liiitle more contrast...aka use a wider range of values. Some lighter lights and darker darks. I miss my 2021 hard neon lighting

a bit more distinction between the characters and the background also

the composition isn't bad but it could be better. Should've thought more about the way the eye would flow around the image in the drafting stage (solid b&w color block thumbnails are good for this)

Moar Sparkles. (I put a solid amount of large & low opacity light bubbles in there & some finer brighter dots especially around the claw stems, but I think more clusters of tiny bright lights on the characters themselves would've gone hard)

💌Some favourite feedback on art

as the wise man Austin Kleon once said: keep a "praise file" of all the positive feedback you get (if you've never read "Steal Like an Artist," you must). so. i am prepared for this question hold on

tastes like sugar glass

multiple people have told me my art is soft & dreamlike

jayce you reblogged my touchstarved art with nice tags on april 10th ive got that saved love uou

umm theres a lot...anytime someone keysmashes or feels emotional because of my art i get happy ,,, lys messaged me about the hurt mezu piece that made me happy also,,,,,there is so much joy in the world

[charlesandmartine]

Friday 3rd April 2024

We awoke in our Pretoria hotel room to the sounds of the city. All day long the minibus taxis operating like buses ply their route in and out of the grid system of roads tooting their horns indicating there are spaces aboard. People gather at what seems as spurious places and climb aboard with minimal or no apparent hailing of the vehicle.

We had our fill of the inclusive breakfast and some perhaps non-inclusive muffins which went down well at lunch. The people we've met have all been so nice, polite and interesting. Our little waiter this morning insisted that he couldn't serve us with an Americano coffee, but could manage an Africano!

The Southern Sun hotel we were guests at were very helpful and allowed us to check out later than usual at 13:00. This gave us time to go look some more at this lovely city. So we stepped out into the cacophony that is Africa walking a km or so down to Church Square; a good starting point to see what there is to see in Pretoria. We blended in well I'd say; Ray-Bans in place, big map in left hand, smelling of sun screen, bright teeshirt, shorts, oh and white. In the time we were out, we saw no other white people! Our incognito took us eventually to the Palace of Justice where Nelson Mandela was tried in 1963. Just to be sure of our facts we asked some crime prevention officers sitting outside the building if this was the Palace of Justice. They looked blank for a moment and gave the only safe answer they could think of, I don't know. We looked for the Tourist Information office which according to the map and endorsed by the big brown sign should be in the corner of Church Square. A helpful chap suggested we try the big building behind us. Once more we were met with total astonishment at such a suggestion that there was a TI anywhere in the vicinity. So we folded the map up and made our way back towards the hotel. We watched a little band of what seemed to be blind street performers doing the African singing bit. We dug deep into the remaining pile of Rand notes that probably collectively amounted to fifty two and a half pence, and gregariously chucked some in the waiting pot enjoying the extremely jolly rhythmic singing. Next I find myself in the place I had earlier successfully avoided having my shoes cleaned and polished. Without warning my left shoe suddenly was engulfed in white foam perpetrated by a very helpful fellow carrying a can of spray polish. Now what options do you have when one shoe has all the attributes of a snow ball and the other retains the hue of the dusty outback. The process had to continue and the fellow appeared quite satisfied with the result, at least until I proffered some more of this toy money they have here. Too small he said despite the fact that his labour had been unsolicited. We came to a common understanding as I exercised my sparkling shoes quickly down the road in the general direction of the hotel. What an enjoyable taste of Africa!

ps Yesterday when we arrived at our hotel we sat outside by the pool and could not help overhearing a very long instructional call a 'Life Coach' was making to a client. He explained that he was extremely excited and passionate about being part of this person's journey as he transitions from being a man to a woman and to help shape their vision regarding how they saw themselves in five years time and what sort of man they might be looking for, but all that starts from within themselves! He went on and on and on and there were times I couldn't quite hear it all as I searched for a bucket! He did also mention his book quite a few times throughout the conversation.

pps We positioned ourselves by the pool again hoping we would receive some more essential information from the 'Life Coach'. Sadly he wasn't here today so lesson two will be missing from my portfolio.

ppps Just spoken to Phil Spencer in Johannesburg airport. We complimented him on his excellent program.

[tina-mairin-goldstein]

For fic truth or dare! 🍓🕯️🔪🌻🪲 please! (Any or all)

Thanks for the ask!

🍓How did you get into fanfiction writing?

My sister started doing it first and I wanted to give it a try (if one of us tries something, the other usually tries it too). My very first fic was based off a small detail I noticed on the edge of a panel in a Pokémon manga, and I wanted an explanation for that. It got in my head, and I wrote it, because I wanted to put it out there and see if anyone else had noticed the detail (I still actually don't have an answer to that).

🕯️On a scale from 1 to 10, how much do you enjoy editing? Why is that?

I'd say a 4 or 5. I see editing as sort of a chore. I don't actually READ when I edit, I just sort of skim and do my best to find any typos. On the one hand, it means that I have something to publish and that's exciting. On the other, it means I have to take half an hour or even more than an hour (depending on fic length) editing when I sometimes want to do something else or have a time crunch.

🔪What's the weirdest topic you researched for a writing project?

Okay, well, this works for both fanfiction and original writing, because I did it for the latter, but it applies to both:

Styles of men's underwear to figure out which one could hold a sanitary pad comfortably. I'm an omega verse writer and do go with the biologically male omegas have vaginas and therefore periods, and I figured not every guy would want to use a tampon, just like women.

🌻Tag someone you appreciate but don't talk to on a regular basis.

@keepmeinmind-01. They were the first fic author I really connected with. At the moment I am just having some trouble connecting with our mutual fandom, so it's been a bit since I read their story or we've talked, as many of conversations are spurred by the story. They wrote such a lovely review on one of my stories that I had to go see if they had a story I could read and review on.

🪲Add 50 words to your current WIP and share the paragraph here.

Dang it, Zelda, that requires me to fact-check, since I have like six WIPs and default to the last one I wrote on! All right, three minutes of fact-checking and one minute to kill a hornet later, here it is more than fifty words:

It started with Anthony Dimmond. Hannibal had met him in France, under the identity he had used there. The man bore an unsettling resemblance to Will Graham, if in a classier, more polished, English way. But that was not what caused fear to strike Bedelia. It was the fact that he knew Roman Fell. She discovered all this when Hannibal invited him to dinner. It had been a blissful few weeks, settling into the new routine they were building now that both of them were pregnant, but one day, when she went to meet him so they could walk home together, he told her they were having a guest over for dinner.

This is from my Hannibal/Bedelia omega verse story, La Sposa del Mostro, set during their time in Italy.

Thanks for playing!

[anamoli]

I've gone down a rabbit hole...

Currently, I've been trying to figure out how to work with the sample swatch of turquoise faux leather. It is a thin layer of vinyl that is backed with some white foam. Definitely not something I'd want to be visible.

It also has zero ability to keep a shape. I've been experimenting with inserting a piece of 20-gauge copper wire I have laying around from when I dabbled in wire wrapping. It's been really finicky, and I'd need a really thin seam allowance so that the seam doesn't show past the gold embroidery (I mean, don't even get me started on how that would go!)

I've tried different ways of folding the faux leather to hide that backing AND cover the wire, but I haven't found a way that doesn't make this little puckered corner:

Honestly, kind of a nightmare and not quite the finish I want to have, especially for those sharp corners on all the armor pieces. I thought to myself, "Okay, what if I just sew it down really tightly? That should work right?"

But my sewing machine is a very basic one I got from a sale at Costco for $200. It was not happy with sewing this stuff together. Fine. Hand sewing it is. I want clean, even stitches, so I did some light research on leatherworking and the general process for stitching with it. I learned about overstitcher wheels (first image) and awls (second image). The overstitcher (or spacing) wheels make even marks where the stitching should go and the stitching awl punches holes through the leather.

Fun Fact: apparently leather awls are different than conventional ones. Awls for leather work have a diamond point that'll cut through the leather instead of pushing through. That way there isn't a puckered back!

A company called Tandy Leather was mentioned often in leatherworking forums, so of course I visited their website.

$199 purchase required for free shipping though. 😠 Thankfully, there is a local shop not too far from where I work! So, I paid them a visit and this is where the rabbit hole begins...

First off, I was completely overwhelmed. I didn't realize that they had a really decent selection of dyed leather! Pretty pricey for my needs though, and I definitely do not need an entire hide of cow for this project. But one of the employees was really helpful and even directed me to some more affordable options that is the right size that I needed! He also told me about how to dye leather and all the different options available to get the finish I want.

And he got me. Hook, line, and sinker.

But let's do a cost and time analysis to show that this might actually be the best option for this cosplay.

Cost Analysis

Faux Leather: total of $95

$33: 1yd turquoise faux leather

$29: 1yd burgundy faux leather

$29: goddamn shipping

$ 4: 8yds copper 20-gauge wire

Real Leather: total of $57

$40: 2 veg-tan belly cuts (approximately 3-5 sqft each)

$ 7: 4oz bottle of burgundy leather dye

$ 10: leather finishing (this is to keep the dye locked in)

According to my spreadsheet, I really only need ~5 sqft of leather for ALL the armor pieces, and I could get away with only purchasing one belly cut that's on the larger side for some extra savings.

I didn't include a bottle of turquoise leather dye since I already have a bottle of turquoise Rit Dye ($5) for the rubber I'll be using in the crack climbing gloves. If the Rit Dye doesn't work out, I wouldn't cry over getting another bottle. I also didn't include sponges (used to apply the dye) or a buffing towel (to polish the leather) because I can just steal my sister's makeup sponges and I have plenty of microfiber towels.

The tools did cost a bit, BUT that's because I did get the medium-range quality tools that had interchangeable parts since I'm planning on adding leatherworking to my list of hobbies anyway.

For example, the overstitcher came as set with the handle and 4 different wheels for $20 and the awl also came as a set with the handle, 2 awl blades, a scratch blade, and a lacing blade for $30. There are definitely beginner-grade options that are $10 and $7 respectively. I also purchased a stitching groover for $17, but there are cheaper options around $10.

If we put together the materials and cheaper tools for working with leather, that comes out to be the same price as just the materials for the faux leather (~$85-95). However, it results in a higher quality cosplay and some tools that can be used for other projects.

Time and Effort Analysis

Overall, working with the leather is going to take a lot of time (which I have a lot of, for now...), but it'll look SO good and it's cheaper! Who would have thought?

I'm definitely eating my words that I said last month...

"No, I'm not going to purchase real leather..."

-- Me, an ignorant idiot, Jan 29th

[arsonchaoschild]

mutuals and all

i'd like to cast upon you the utter horror that these presidential elections have been

we got through the first round which lets people pick the two candidates to end up in the second round and actually be voted into presidency

and like

the second round

we have him

who's an oligarch billionaire (in czech currency at least i can't be bothered to do the math) who was just tried for misusing eu donations among other things and then cleared of all charges all while running for president, his party has had the majority in parliament for years up until the last elections (where his party was just barely surpassed by a more conservative one), huge populist, has rolled out outdated surveys about queer people's rights (which never accounted for you being a queer person and had questions like "should gay people have equal rights" you get the picture). he's also overall insanely rude, avoids debates and decided to go into a classrooms to let kids ask him questions, got questions such as "name the planets of the solar system" not by not being able to remember all of them, but by including the sun and the moon and then he proceeded to be rude as hell to the kids and treat them like he treats journalists (not good). not to mention, used to be an active member of the state police during the communist era (denies it. the wikipedia article on state police uses his file as the example photo. honestly incredible). dude's not even czech either, he's from slovakia. he's mostly known in the outside world cause he was included in pandora papers. being this bad of a human being is near impressive but his marketing team somehow makes it all work.

the other one's this. lead NATO for a while, also entangled with state police but from my understanding it was much less horrendous, definitely right/center-right but honestly when the president's most important authority is over naming members of the national bank committee (most likely not the official translation again i can't be bothered) then fucking anyone's better than an oligarch billionaire looking to rule the country like its a company. also just much more pleasant to listen to, since he has common decency and can put together a cohesive sentence. also he's a general. he really wants you to know that he's a general. he replaced his first name, "mr" or "president" with general. everywhere. every bit of the campaign. opposition really wants you to think he'll send the country to war. the president does not have the power to do that. he also really wants you to know he won't be like the current president (which. fair. he sucks) for example by constantly stating that his health will be public knowledge (cause the current president had a whole thing where he's been slowly disintegrating over over the last 10 years and the people knowing nothing last year he nearly died it was a whole thing) but he didn't go as hard as the third biggest candidate who had a full medical checkup done and then put her results on her website and instagram. she was real active on instagram and real proud of the fact she'd always voted right wing. she's her own can of worms.

he's the obvious choice. people are always thirsting for him, this includes my friend's mom and would most definitely include my mom if she wasn't dead. i'm sorry but it's true. i've seen a random polish person on reddit post a picture of him saying he could "annect their polish body". he's really into flannels.

whatever the fuck this is. all that's left is fanfiction. we have copious amounts of fanfiction of this one specific pair of politicians already to the point i've had to block several people because of it cause it didn't seem like they were joking anymore. a lot of the fanfiction is written by slovaks too. so it's not at all a stretch that the fanfiction will come. i'm terrified. i'm purposefully posting this on main instead of my czech blog cause the people of čumblr have had enough already. we're oversaturated. i need to bang my fists on a new table. i've been sick with fever this past week and any amount of the election events may have been a fever dream. goodbye.

[paladinkit]

I am also someone who massively struggles with tooth care and sensory issues (in addition to a few other physical limitations with my hands and mouth) that took most of my twenties to sort out. The reply above has some FANTASTIC ideas, but since my system has a few things they didn't mention and I've tried some thing they haven't, I thought I'd chime in for the sake of people still finding this post :)

the toothbrush itself - I also couldn't tolerate your standard soft bristle well. For a brief period my compromise was toothbrushes with smaller heads (my dentist gave me one marketed for molar care) because even if they poked me too much at least they didn't set off my gag reflex as much. but then my local Meijer starter carrying "ultra soft" toothbrushes! some quick googling suggests you can find brushes this style at Amazon and Walmart as well. the brush head has thousands of densely packed super soft bristles - I literally can't hurt my mouth with this thing, and it feels more like polishing my teeth than scrubbing them. And this brand at least also has the small heads!

toothpaste - I'm picky about flavor, but even if I could find the right flavor, I would struggle with texture, or with ending up with too much foam in my mouth & choking. I've become a full convert to toothpaste tablets - there's a number of brands out there. It's pre-measured, and you just chew it up a bit and start brushing. I almost never choke on my toothpaste, the flavors are less intense, and there's a lot of flavor choices for all the mint haters out there. They can unfortunately be pricy, but for me it's worth it.

flossing - I'm a little obsessed with my waterpik. When I finally got re-established with dental care, my dentist really recommended it for my issues, so I was willing to take the shot. Under her recommendation, I spent a few weeks slowly dialing up the water pressure to get used to the sensory input. But it's so much more comfortable, easier to reach, and I feel like I've never been better flossed in my life. I also like having it as a safer tool when I'm sensorily upset in my mouth (something got stuck, scratched, weird mouth feelings) - I can go use the waterpik and at the worst I'm jsut unnecessarily rinsing and at the best I get stuck food out much safer than a toothpick or improvised tool.

I have trouble taking care of my teeth because everything that involves doing that is a sensory nightmare. I decide to do some research to see if there's anything I can do about this. The results?

"How to make your autistic child brush their teeth"

"Autistic Children and Sensory issues relating to tooth brushing"

"How to get your little shit to brush his fucking teeth"

Like, yeah Google, thanks, that really helps. And like, even if I was a child, some of the advice seemed... unhelpful. Like, doing a dance and singing a song while brushing your teeth? Even for a kid, I don't think that would help distract from a sensory experience as intense as brushing your teeth. Like, the extremely intense and unpleasant flavor, the intense feeling of the brush against your teeth scraping across it, even mouthwash has such an intense and disgusting flavor that I have difficulty keeping it in my mouth for more than a few seconds. I wish there was SOMETHING that could be done.