#but people gatekeep adults from words as well so its not “about the children” its people in general.

[autisticlee]

the whole "you shouldn't identify as X, don't form an identity when you can't/don't know yet, you're too young, what if/you might change your mind!" etc etc. it's so silly when you think about it. what's wrong with changing your mind anyway? why did we all decide that gender/sexuality identity has to be static and can never change? why did we decide that it's a bad thing to change? because the old generation tells us change is bad? because they (mostly conservatives) want to conserve "the good old days/the way things are supposed to be" in their minds???

WHO CARES if someone says they're gay then realizes 5 years later they're bi. WHO CARES if someone says they're a girl and realizes after trying it out they're not. let people explore who they are until they figure it out even if they go through every lable available to them! maybe none fit and they make up their own! who cares! who cares if they change it every year for the rest of their lives! humans change. that's the only constant about us! why is it a bad thing, even taboo, to accept change and exploration within sexuality and gender specifically?

there's always so much shame that comes with someone realizing they were wrong, changing as a person, or discovering something new about themselves. i've seen people afraid to explore themselves more or afraid to talk about a change in identity, for fear of the queer community pushing back on them the same way they're afraid to come out to the cishets in their life who are trans/homophobic. that's just not fair that their own community can become hostile towards them, too. being in a closet within a bigger closet essentially. everyone is always told to figure it all out first before claiming an identity, because then you're locked in it for life, apparently. you can't change your mind after that. why though? what's the point of that really? why can't we embrace fluidity a bit more? why can't we accept that humans do change all the time? why is making and trying to prove that these identities are static/unchanging/innate the only way to validate them? why can't they just, I don't know, BE VALID. without reason. why must we jump through hoops to be valid when we should just automatically be valid because we are human. stop letting the cishets gatekeep everything, leading to us gatekeeping each other!

I am sometimes very hesitant to talk about my own identity. I identified as a gay/biromantic trans guy for like idk 8-10 years? transitioned and everything. then like a year or two ago, I realized/decided that doesn't fit right anymore. now i'm a nonbinary, but also kinda fluid, aroace person. sometimes I don't like to talk about that because of the stigma behind changing your gender/sexuality identities. but you know what. i'll talk about it anyway and people have to learn to accept it.

what were the consequences and bad parts about changing my mind/identity like that? none. absolutely none. (outside of people being weird about it for no reason) but the benefits are feeling more comfortable with myself, and that's no one else's business.

[ch3rryb0mb3rr]

Tldr; please put warnings on smut and have it below the cut and stop sexualizing minors in media. Especially if they just came out of middle school thats weird. Write what you want but tag and put warnings when needed.

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I get so pissed when im going to read something about my favorite character, and it's smut WITH ZERO WARNING.

No 18+, no NSFW, no MDNI and it isnt even in the fucking tags. I dont wanna read that shit. Put the damned warnings there for the love of all that is green on this earth it takes two seconds. maybe a bit more, but if you could pump out 3.4k words of pure porn, I think you can handle a couple of tags and warnings

I am a minor, and i use those warnings, so I dont read straight-up porn!! I also dont need to read about incest accidentally because there was NO warning, and it was NOT in the tags!!

(And for those of you who do put warnings, i thank you and wish the best in life!)

(I am also well aware that a lot of people dont listen to dnis like that, but it's helpful for the people trying to avoid reading stuff like that)

Also, while im on the subject, let's not sexualize minors in media. Yeah their hot, i can see that. But i dont want to see the start of an NSFW alphabet for a 15/16 year old. Aged up my ass. Just put the beginning below the cut?? And not after the first four letters??

I do NOT need to know a fav characters preferred body part is the tits thank you very much. I definitely do not need to accidentally read that they wanna suck on it like a damned bottle.

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'This character as your friend is soo perverted he wants to steal ur panties hehehe' NO HE DOESNT. HE'S A TEENAGER AND LIKES CATS. TF?? theres adults in the majority of the show that are reasonably attractive. Write that shit about them.

'Oh, they have this list of kinks,' and its shit only someone who has read hardcore smut would have. They are 16 and most probably haven't had sex because the creator cant give them a fucking break from trauma.

'He would be soooo toxic and blahblahblah [insert romanticised assault and abuse and trauma]' NO. that boy is my age and is a nerd. Motherfucker wants to study at princeton and has absolutely no flirting ability. You're only saying that because he's black, most of that shit reeks of racism.

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These characters are kids, CHILDREN, and you as an adult (if you are one) should not be writing smut about them, aged up or not. You should not be thirsting over a sophmore when theres PLENTY of good looking adults that you can be.

Theres a difference in growing up liking a character and having a crush on them and growing out of it when you're an adult. And being an adult thirsting over a teenage boy. It's not cute. it's not 'oh, it's fine because he/she's not real'.

Its really fucking gross actually.

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At the end of the day just tag your stuff correctly. That way its easier for everyone else to find EXACTLY what they wanna read. Because at this point im just gonna start reporting fics with no warnings at the beginning.

Someome younger than me with no parents looking through their devices could stumble on that, and not know what it means, read it, and be scarred for life.

I was reading that stuff way way way too earlier and its fucked up my mental state a bit so if we collectively start putting in the effort to help prevent this from happening to another 11 year old or younger than we should do so.

--

Start gatekeeping fandoms like creepypasta from young kids, start tagging shit correctly

Another child does not need to end up somewhat hypersexul with very violent intrusive thoughts by the time they hit high school because their parents wouldn't look out for them, and the fandom did NOTHING to try to prevent it.

Its not your job to parent the kid, and to look over their should. Thats not what im saying.

It IS your job to, again, tag shit correctly, put warnings for gore, bluring violent images, saying outright that a certain game/book/story/etc your recommending is NOT for kids due to its violent nature/sexual content/etc. Reporting accounts of children under the age limit for social media (i.e., a 10 year old with discord or instagram) (it is breaking the T.O.S)

Act like that one lgbtq+ chat room website I was on for a couple weeks where all the adults kinda looked out for me a bit. And supported me figuring out who I was and collectively riped a guy to shreds after I blasted him at a failed attempt to groom me. (And told me I had done exactly the right thing in this situation. Also, hi, if you know who I am from there!!!) (Story time if ya'll want I look back and think its the funniest thing ever how I dealt with him 💀)

[meandmyechoes]

i think a lot of frustration i have with the mandalorian (watching it real-time the first time) is unfairly redirected from my timidness to interact with "mainstream" star wars fandom. I'm jealous of the attention it's getting.

our local fandom is already small, and traditional in its making-up of middle-aged men. I joined a few facebook groups in observation, both local and global. Outside of tumblr, the original fandom activity is centered on either swordfighting or toy collecting. While I appreciate the talent shown in customization and diaoramas, it's not as satisfactory for my experience as it would about creative work and literary criticism.

I also feel kinda prejudiced to catch all fans as "mindless fanboys" but that has been consistent with my observations so far but as always i've been biased and looked down on everyone— Even though I'm interacting with the Ordinary Male™ and they are always less intelligent than I am— Either way it doesn't sit well with me

On the forum, where I have more anonymity, I'm braver to voice out even if the userbase says really sexist things sometimes, (fortunately not overlap with star wars posts). It's okay becuase it's grassroot humour. It's also not okay because at my least observant, I'd still be reminded to "why so serious". I'm definitely exaggerating here because last times I post several long metas the reponse has been wholly positive — I can't place the origin but I just feel very out of place with the local community :(

The weird thing is the attention there isn't even something I need? I have a very satisfactory fandom life here (that's why I come to the uniqueness of this platform in the first place) but I'm instead dwelling on a first-world problem

Like, of course I'm happy more people are liking Star Wars and now curious about my era, I'm slightly gatekeeping?

No that wasn't the issue. There was this party-pooper right-wing man in the group that is the worst. His repeated, insensitive word choice, craving attention. I think there are valid criticisms regarding Disney's treatment of the sequel trilogy and their hypocrisy at diversity versus telling good stories but this guy's wording and attitude comes off so hostile it feels like even if we have common ground, I'd still be labelled as a brainless leftist Karen. But it's really just that one guy and it's not like he's even that influential I think? All the same it makes me feel very uncomfortable talking about certain issues without disclaimers every time. But I'm definitely over-thinking in this respect because it's not out of necessity we interact even if we share the same platform. And he's just one outlier case.

I think the root of the anxiety is coming fron as an Animation fan, and we've been receving the short end for years. As a universal trend Children-oriented media has always been despised and receives blame for being "too kiddy". But what they don't realize it's that there are very important messages to be sent through these shows and making them palatable for children and adults alike is no easy task, and those shows that succeed should be praised and taught with. What's important is that the violence and trauma depicted is enough to springboard children into their own research, raise their awareness and tell them there's a big world out there.

It's so infuriating how in the Kamen Rider fandom, those complaints come not only from man-childs, but actual 14-year-olds who think they're too cool for school. I mean if you don't like the direction of the show, you can just, drop it?

The most common excuse I've heard about people missing out on the shows is they just don't have time, which is reasonable, and relatable, for a 133-episode show. There are more dismissal towards Rebels but always accompanied by comments in its defense. So I think those who are passionate enough about Star Wars to join the local online community, are not entire jerks to animated canons but instead are too busy or not their favourite era to focus on, which is totally valid! The thing is I've heard mostly positive comments on Clone Wars (albeit horny ones from time to time, luckily I'm 18+ now), but I'm still very cautious about revealing myself as a female fan, and that of the animated shows, and that who knows little of the OT or swordfighting. I think I'll be more comfortable if I could dm someone and get a concrete sample of the audience before I feel more confident to put myself out there. It's definitely not like they're bad people, but there's a discrepancy in our fundamental paths of enjoying Star Wars and that may lead to a rocky start. It's like having different majors :/

Another point is involving myself there could be my most sexist experience yet. Yes, even more than a woman in STEM. I'm mature enough to handle even more tinted lenses thrown on me I just won't be very used to it. The other close encounter I had was visiting a warehouse sale a few months ago. The owner was obviously surprised to see a girl visit such a niche event and gestured me the Leia toys. He was friendly in every way but I immediately sniffed the stereotypical assumption. 1) Nobody loves the Prequels and 2) Girls only like girl characters. It was a brief conversation as I rushed to Maul's side and started checking out the clone troopers. Though no hard feelings, the incident adds to how I've been consistently right about my generalization of the (male) fandom.

And it comes back to a vicious cycle about how such anxiety hinders representation, and the lack of familiar voices fuels that anxiety. It's easier here because this is my personal blog and not everything is meant to induce a response. I feel more comfortable speaking things aren't designed to be understood or to communicate here. But out there with a bunch of elders instead of peers (whom I respect even if they haven't seen/don't like Clone Wars, because I hold them to the same expertise in their era as I do with mine), it's tricky to navigate between condescension and firmness, humility and shamelessness. I do feel compelled to "prove" myself if I'm even to share a post in the group. You know? The feeling of working extra hard just to be judged without prejudice?

P.S. Since I mentioned the Right-wing Guy I should also mention the only active female member I saw in the group. She definitely sounds like an older adult and obviously a Disney fan, and just, very stereotypically a "Hong Kong Gal" (-ve intonation), in her obsession with Disneyland and Pandoa bracelets. And I'm unnecessarily disappointed by that because I too look down on capitalism and corporate monopoly.

**********

On a tangent, let's take the opportunity to briefly talk about sexualization of The Clone Wars.

A baffling phenomenon I noticed coming back is the explosion of reader fics, nsfw reader fics. Now I'm not a fanfic person first and foremost so I'm even more baffled by the necessity of the existence of such fics. I am utilitarian on this matter. While I personally do not enjoy them, there's nothing morally corrupt about the bloom and it honestly stays just beyond my alert of annoyance.

I attribute the bloom to first, how like me, the first generation of tumblr users (and thus its majority) are now adults and would like to explore the indulgence. But I just take a step back and imagine the tight, tight frown on my 16-year-old self had she seen the clone wars tag flooded with nsfw fics. She'd flee the site and bleach her eyes so bad.

But that definitely isn't a problem. Although it caught me off guard, the insert writers I've come across are passionate people who abide by tag etiquette, so it's all good, and safe.

On the other hand…

Sexualized Ahsoka isn't my first rodeo. Actually, it probably was my first rodeo with many more in the decade that came. 2009 was the time when even official art sexualized her horribly, let alone the power of Google Images. To this day, it's still easy to find ani//soka fanart (pregnant fanart, in the 2011 deviantart flat colour) outside here (on top of the usual hellship *sigh*). But if you don't go look them up, it's mostly okay.

but yeah, winding back to the "mainstream" entry problem I've been ranting about, I keep seeing fetish threads/comments regarding Ahsoka and it's just very uncomfortable to have my exposure in that accumulate. It's a little bit better here than mainland which I've shunned away totally becuase they just, takes nothing seriously. Of course I do agree Ahsoka has grown into a beautiful young woman and her badassary is off the charts but maybe, one can keep inappropriate thoughts to themselves?

Joking about physical attraction towards a fictional character is… so trivial I ain't even gonna bother (and the age issue really don't need to be repeated) — the joke got old. But seeing men comment on female figures like that, with no mindfulness that they are on a very public forum is just pathetic. It really shows you how deep men can sink.

(and those horny but appreciative comments is only tip of the iceberg from that too explicit one i wish to delete from my mind. I really hope that doesn't become a recurring issue when Ahsoka is live-actionized ﾟ･｡(´Д⊂ヽ)

It's totally gonna become an issue.

[docholligay]

Pharah/Mercy, Swingset.

MY FIRST FLUFF OF THE DAY! I hope you like it, 1600 words. 

Love Like an Inheritance

Angela Zeigler thought many things of her wife, and would have described her in many different ways. Protective. Loyal. Reliable. Dedicated. Principled. Intelligent. Thoughtful. But never, in her life, might she have described her wife as ‘spontaneous’ or ‘goofy,’ and yet here she was, with a wide grin, suggesting that Mercy get on the swingset as they passed by the park on the way home. 

“I’ll push you.” she nodded, hands in her pockets against the chill, the slightest glint of the beers they’d had at Emily and Tracer’s sparkling in her eye. Not drunk, for Pharah was rarely that, but more than she usually drank and with a hint of careless merriment that was both unusual and charming. 

Mercy looked back to the swings, a small smile creeping across her own face even as she shook her head. It was for children, she thought, and they should be getting home anyhow, it was turning late and the October cool was beginning to settle in, that London fog creeping quietly about their ankles, hanging damply. 

“I have not been swinging since I was…” she thought for a moment, “I don’t even know, Fareeha, a child.” 

“Did you like it?” Pharah tilted her head, “I used to push my cousins, when I lived with my aunt, Zeina. My littlest cousin, Ruqayya---” Mercy laughed, and Pharah wrinkled her nose, “What?”

“Just remembering Ruqayya at the wedding,” Mercy laughed again, “how she was teasing you,” she slipped her hand into Pharah’s pocket, intertwining their fingers, “We should have her to London, again.” 

It was Pharah’s turn to shake her head. “She would never come in the winter. A true desert fox, Ruqayya.” She gave a cheerful scowl. “You are distracting me, Angela. Did you like it, when you were young?” 

“I am not thinking that I ever was young.” 

She had said it off the cuff, but it hung fragile in the air like a spun glass ornament, too true and too bright to look at directly. It had not been a lie, as Mercy was not a liar, and not given to dramatics overly much, but it was true in a way she had never meant to say. She had been a prodigy from the first, in college before she was allowed to ride her bicycle to the store alone, orphaned before she ever had a bat mitzvah. Perhaps they had this in common, grown too soon, and for all the differences others saw in them, and how they laughed at the odd couple, Mercy had always seen the same heart beating in their chests. Old souls who wished for nothing more than to make this world better than they left it, too eager to give themselves over in the service of the greater good. 

Pharah squeezed her hand. “Then be young now.” 

“You spend too much time with Lena.” She looked away, but blushed. 

Pharah chuckled. “I would never argue that.” 

Mercy pulled at her hand and brushed a stray hair from her forehead. “Oh, you enjoy Lena plenty.” 

“I never said that I didn’t,” Pharah followed after her, “I said I spend too much time around her.” 

Mercy stopped as they approached the swingset, gleaming bright silver in the pale moonlight, and stared. Her own reticence surprised her. Mercy was not a woman overly concerned with her own appearances, and it was late enough besides that the only people passing by were on their way home themselves, or bouncing from pub to pub, and would have no idea that a Nobel prize winner was swinging away. Very likely they would not idea who she was, how arrogant to assume that a casual person might have any idea of her work. 

Besides, she didn’t want to think about her work. Even those who knew of her had the unfortunate quality of regarding her as a God, when Mercy was all too cognizant of the fact that she could struggle and pull and plead at the gates between life and death, but she was not the final gatekeeper. 

Pharah wrapped her arms around her, and put her head on Mercy’s shoulder. “Go on. Get on the swing.” 

Maybe it was the schnapps she’d had herself, or Pharah’s strange quality of playfulness that only came out every so often, and mostly only in Mercy’s presence, or maybe it was the play of the moon peeking out from the clouds, but a warmth filled Mercy and she found herself climbing into the swing as Pharah placed her hands on her back and began to push. 

“It was a good night.” Pharah said, as Mercy slowly began to sway back and forth. 

“Yes,” Mercy looking up to the clouds, knowing that the stars must be twinkling their best behind them, “wonderful.” 

And it had been. Tracer was in bright spirits, as ever, and Emily seemed delighted and besotted with her new wife--it made Mercy smile to remember how she and Pharah had been when they were only married half a year--and the meal they’d made had been warm and comforting, if nothing fancy, Tracer, as always, having a excellent selection of drinks and a cake from her uncle’s bakery. Mercy hadn’t expected to laugh so much in one night. 

A stronger push, and Mercy went higher, lifting toward those hidden stars. 

“You were beautiful, of course.” 

At this Mercy nearly laughed. Her hair was simply piled into a clip at the back of her head, like always, the pink sweater and white plaid skirt well worn in deference to Mercy’s gentle refusal to buy anything new for herself unless under duress. She’d put on a bit of foundation, she supposed, and a quick swipe of mascara, but nothing more intricate than that--Tracer and Emily had known Mercy long enough to not be surprised by what she looked like--and so there was nothing very special about the way she looked tonight. 

“I am not knowing anything about that.” She turned to look back at Pharah for a moment, her dark eyes with their own stars, unclouded. 

Pharah gave a decisive, commanding nod, well practiced. “You were. You never see yourself, in the candlelight, when Emily troubles with it,” another push, higher still, “It makes you...even more beautiful, than you are, always.” She laughed as her hand connected with Mercy’s back again, “I am no poet, Angela, you know this, but you were particularly beautiful.” 

She was no poet, she often said, in a gentle balance between self-deprecation and Pharah’s upright honesty. Why then, did Mercy’s heart race when she said things in her simple way, more than with the finest verses of the Rilke her father loved. How shall I hold my soul so it does not touch on yours, no match for Pharah’s straightforward, “I will love and follow you, whatever you decide.” Ah, you were the gardens, ah I saw them with such hope, could never hold a candle to, “I understood what being loved felt like, when you did it.” 

“I am not needing a poet,” she called into the sky, “I am not wanting one.” 

Indeed, all the poetry she ever needed was carried in all the ways Pharah showed her deep and abounding love. The way she made Mercy’s coffee every morning, and brought it to her in bed. The way she gently nagged over the subject of lunch, when Mercy was poring over papers and results. The small patch of concrete that was their ‘patio,’ cleaned and decorated as a space for the two of them to read and sip coffee in the evenings. The way she looked at Mercy, with a great tenderness her own soldiers might have been forced to smile at. 

“Excellent,” Pharah gave a chuckle, “Then I have nothing to fear.” 

Rising up above the fog and the clutter of London, eyes fixed to the sky, Mercy imagined what it might have been to have been a normal child with a normal life, if she hadn’t been full of such promise, if she hadn’t been thrown into adulthood without anyone to help her be a child at the age of twelve, if she hadn’t spent so much of her life feeling so utterly alone. Might she have giggled and blushed over girls with the others? Might she have learned to like shopping and had a bustle of friends, not simply colleagues? Would she have wanted to? Would she trade knowing wha she had done for this work and, she thought, what this world had given her?

She dragged her feet on the ground, stopping herself, and looked back to Pharah. 

“I would change nothing.” She shook her head as she continued to study the earth-rich loveliness of her straightforward, good, wonderful wife, “You are all I never could have known to ask for.” 

At this, even in the darkness, Pharah seemed to blush herself, and took hold of the chains at Mercy’s sides, pulling them away from her, kissing her with a childish zeal and an adult assuredness. 

They were never young, Pharah and Mercy, except in small moments. But here on a playground, late at night, they could find a way lay the bricks of innocent, perfect joy that had been taken from them too soon. As they kissed, the world still wavered with the trembles of instability, the buildings across the street were still bullet-scarred, Tracer’s hands still shook from time to time, Reinhardt and Jack still lay dead, and poverty still paired with greed to inflict misery on those who missed its boot. But these things hardly mattered, for even in the chill nothing could kill that verdant garden Rilke spoke of, the one where Pharah and Mercy kept their perfect, bright love. 

The clouds parted, and the stars glittered like bubbles in champagne glass, toasting them.

[ddaenggtan]

from eden | myg + jhs

you've been in the dark a long time, overworked and exhausted. the only bright point is your gatekeeper, hoseok, your closest friend and the man you love but can't have. you've accepted that loneliness is inevitable for you. when a voice calls to you, though, and moves you so deeply that you rip open the earth to help them, you meet a mint-haired boy that changes everything you thought you knew about your prison. | monsters and gods pt 1 (masterlist)

pairing | yoongi x reader x hoseok

genre/warnings | greek god au, hades!reader, thanatos!hoseok, persephone!yoongi, fluff, angst, smut, mild depictions of violence, mentions of blood (well, blood equivalent, bc gods), pining, depictions of abusive parenting, v v brief panic attack (seriously, I don’t go into a ton of detail, but it’s enough, pls don’t read this if that triggers you at all), love triangle (kind of), polyamory, , mutual masturbation, oral (female receiving), face-sitting, fingering, dick-riding, double penetration, unprotected sex (gods can't get sti's but u can! Wrap it b4 u tap it!), creampie, everyone hates Zeus but what's new, demeter sucks and is the literal worst

word count | 15.6k | cross posted to ao3  monsters and gods masterlis

a/n | hello! i’ve renamed this fic at least ten times, but it’s here!! the first part of monsters and gods!!! i keep seeing hades!yoongi (who i LOVE, don’t get me wrong, seriously you should check out @/seokoloqy’s hades yoongi fics because they’re PHENOM) and while I love hades yoongs, I also keep seeing him in flower crowns and being soft and sweet and, as we know by now, I am ultimately a slut for soft bangtan. so this happened. and then i thought ‘wow this mc is dark af i need some contrast here’ and that’s how thanatos hobi happened, also i couldn’t stop thinking of his Judgement Face, which is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen, and how fast he switches between that and his smile, plus.....sope, I mean. c’mon. sope. and then it all kinda spiraled into a whole series of fics, only one other of which is even started tho its close to being finished whoops lmao so yeah!!!! pls tell me what u think, i’m not used to writing angst at all, so it may not be suuuuuuper prevalent in this, but i tried!!! also i really recommend listening to hozier while you read it bc i had his first album on repeat while writing it and from eden fits this pretty well imo!!!

It's dark when you open your eyes. You've spent so long down here, you're used to it, but the shadows always seem to make the air colder than it should be. Though you suppose the land of the dead isn't supposed to be warm.

You stretch and wince at the crick in your spine. Another night sitting at your desk, greek fire burning through the hours so that you can scratch away at the papers in front of you. Your siblings always enjoy doing whatever they want, using mortals and throwing them away however they please, cleaning up after each other whenever they can spare the time.

No one ever seems to think about you, nor do they remember the chaos up top only worsens your constant migraines.

No, instead they start their wars and slaughter their enemies and are absolutely oblivious about the fact that the Meadow is at 80% capacity as it is, with more souls arriving each day. Thanatos did well at his job, as did Charon, and you were always sure to be thankful to them, but you wish, not for the first time, that there was someone - anyone - to help with your work.

Your brothers have the naiads, the winds, and the lesser gods to help them with their oceans and skies. Gods of vengeance and retribution help with war, while the fertility goddesses and the muses aid the lovelorn.

And yet here you are, still alone after all these years. Millenia, you've been stuck down here, forced to live out your days in the cold darkness and manage the dead mortals. You've always been introverted, even before you drew lots with your siblings, but never like this. You've tried to leave, of course; at first making short visits to Olympus or the mortal realm, just to speak to another living soul again, someone else who understands what it's like to be trapped in your own life. It seems like every time you came back, though, the underworld had gotten smaller and smaller, nearly suffocating you in an attempt to keep its claws in your skin. And then, of course, came the curse.

You haven't felt the sun on your skin in nearly a thousand years, and while you've always been one for the shade, you miss it. You miss the smell of the flowers in the temples, you miss the sound of the river as it babbles past, you want to feel the warm summer breeze ruffle your hair as you stand in the middle of a marketplace. You're tired of the Fields, you're bored of walking the streets of Elysium with the weight of their stares at your back, sick of standing at the steps to the Isles and wondering if it is, truly, euphoric and if any mortal would ever find out. You don't wear your sandals around the palace anymore; you don't want to hear the footsteps echo. It's just a reminder that you are, truly, alone.

Even the other deities in the Underworld have stopped calling on you. The aura that surrounds you is enough to wilt most any plant, unnerve most every animal, and the gods are no exception. The only exceptions are Hecate, who makes it her personal mission to bribe you into visiting the Meadow if only for a moment, and Thanatos when he can slip away for longer than a moment to distract you from your work. They rarely succeed, but it's the thought that counts, you suppose.

You muse on this as you walk, bare feet skimming lightly over the soil of the Meadow as you make your way to the Gates. You could probably just shadow-walk, if you wanted, you do enjoy giving your Thanatos a fright, but you figure the walk would do you good. There’s no one to bother you as go, thankfully. The dead wander aimlessly around you. There's no acknowledgment as you pass; there's never any recognition of anything in the Meadow, the price mortals pay for being so utterly inconsequential and mundane.

You smile when you see that your friend is busy, and you give a silent command to Cerberus not to alert the man to your presence. The dog whines a little, but sits back on his haunches, shaking the ground as he does so. You're silent as you move up behind the judge.

"You wanted me to tell you my judgment and I have," Hoseok says firmly. "You could have gone straight to the Asphodel Meadow and existed in relative peace for eternity, and instead you request a hearing, and then have the gall to question my decision?" You grimace slightly; perhaps putting Hoseok in charge of judging the souls was not the best idea, but he has yet to be wrong about someone.

"Please, sir," The mortal whimpers. He's on his knees, suit crumpled and dirty where he sits. "I was only doing what I thought was best, please, surely that matters."

"You used children!" Hoseok says in shock. "As slaves! It's 2019 and you had nearly a hundred seven-year-olds sewing clothes together in a cramped warehouse with one bathroom. You seriously expect me to give you leniency because you thought that was best?"

"Their families would have starved without that money," The mortal says. He's on the verge of tears, which has always made you uncomfortable, so you stay hidden for now. "I kept them all fed and safe, didn't I? What would they have done without me? Gone to work in some factory, with dangerous machines and cruel managers, whipped every time they needed to eat?"

"You used children as nearly free labor, barely allowed them time to piss, fed them once every twelve hours, and you expect that to be okay because they could’ve had it worse," Hoseok says. Disgust drips from his voice and you’re inclined to agree with the sentiment. "I respect your opinion, but you are to be punished for your deeds fittingly." Hoseok snaps and two of the Bones come over. These two are in desert camo, one barely tall enough to be an adult judging by the skeletal build, but their grip is unforgiving as they cart the mortal off to the Fields. You don’t even need to mold together a punishment for him; the warehouse you sent others who’d done the same wasn’t quite crowded enough yet.

"Well, that was fun," You call, and delight at the way Hoseok jumps nearly a foot in the air. He glares at you as he turns and you don't bother to hide the smirk on your face. "Child slavery, huh? In this day and age?"

Hoseok tsks. "I know we used to allow some crazy shit back in the old days, but you'd think that people would know better by now. Using children like that, kids…” He trails off, still fuming, and you nod.

“I know.” You pull a piece of lint off his suit with a wrinkle of your nose. “You made the right decision if it helps.”

“I know I did,” He says with a smirk. “I always do.” You roll your eyes and turn away from him, watching the lines of souls head through the gates to their eternal blandness. It's the best way to hide the flush he brings to your cheeks. “What brings you out here, though? Aren’t you supposed to be doing something important?”

“Don’t I wish,” You mutter. “All I’ve got to do is figure out how to expand the realm again without Zeus’ approval.”

“Wait, he didn’t approve the expansion?” You shake your head and step closer to where Cerberus is laying, all three heads focused entirely on you as you rub his middle nose. “Where does he think we’re going to put all of the souls, up your ass?”

“Clearly,” You spit.

“I know it’s not exactly great down here and that they would all rather be thrown into the Pit than visit, but they need to sometimes. If only to see what it’s like. I mean, honestly, what do they expect us to do, just toss everyone in the Meadow and call it a day until there are so many that they’re tripping into Elysium? What the f-”

“Thanatos,” You say quietly, and Hoseok stops. It’s not often that you call him by his title rather than his name, preferring the familiarity of his friendship over the detachment of your positions. “Even here, the gods have ears. You know better than to criticize them like that.”

He huffs but nods his head. You press a kiss to Cerb’s middle nose and coo at him until he starts wagging his tail. When you turn back around, Hoseok is stumbling to keep his balance on the shaking ground. You laugh, which he does not appreciate, but before he can say anything in his defense, another soul is escorted to him by a Bones. The guy is already pleading with Hoseok, who’s returned to the stony mask he usually wears. The silver aura that surrounds him always brings you comfort, reminding you of the moonlight that bathes the surface world, but it has turned colder and is as deadly as mercury. You envy the way he can switch back and forth between his professional mask and the bright, loving man you know; if only it were that easy for you. Without so much as a wave, you weave the shadows around you once more, ignoring the soul's cries to you for mercy, and let yourself disappear into the darkness.

When you emerge from the shadows, you settle at the base of your garden tree. The only living thing that would grow down here, the sole reminder of the world above. Its branches show that it should be close to the harvest soon, maybe a month away at the most. You reach up, weaving through the darkness to pluck a pomegranate from the tree. You don't even like pomegranates anymore, you think as you inspect it. Ripe, juicy, and utterly disgusting; the gods' idea of a joke. The thing that brought about your isolation, your solitude, yet it continues to be the only thing that grows in this wasteland.

You laugh bitterly before tossing the fruit up in the air, letting it fly through the shadows to land beside Hoseok, whatever he's doing. He always appreciates your little gifts, the only real thing you can do to show that you aren't cross with him and are glad for the work he does. He's long been stuck here with you, but the fruit doesn't turn to bile on his tongue the way it does yours. Perhaps the willingness he had that first time made a difference.

Please.

You glance around, looking for the voice that suddenly echoes around you. It's soft, a memory of a whisper. It's not rare for you to hear the voices of the dead in your realm, but this is different. This one strikes you to your core, for this…

This one sounds hopeful.

The prayers that make their way to you are never hopeful. They are sad or angry or scared, always filled with tears and regret and more than a little hesitancy, but never do they have any shred of hope in them.

You stand, eyes narrowed as you look through the darkness for whatever soul may be calling to you.

Please. I don't want to go back. Don't let her take me.

Without thinking, you reach into the shadows. The blackness swirls around your fingers, unsure where you're trying to go. You don't know yourself, and you wish you did. You aren't sure why you're doing this; you rarely answer prayers, least of all the ones that don't mention you specifically, but something in this voice calls to you. It resonates in your chest, shakes your very being because you remember that feeling. You remember the way it felt to be free, standing in the sun and clawing at the earth as Gaia dragged you back down to your post, tears mixing with the dirt as you pleaded, begged her not to take you back down there.

With a jerk, you pull the shadows apart, and the ground quakes above you. You watch, anxiety pooling in your gut, and it's only the intensity of your focus that lets you see it: a figure, falling limply through the earth that you've opened. The string of curses you let out would make even Ares blush, and it's with a rush you haven't felt in millennia that you weave the shadows together into a net and toss it upwards. The figure falls into it with ease, shadows wrapping around the body to glide gently downwards until they can deposit the person with ease at the roots of your tree.

Your breath catches in your throat as the darkness recedes, revealing soft mint hair with flowers woven into it, pale green robes that are sliced nearly in half at the back and caked with mud. The man is beautiful and soft and bright, every inch the antithesis to your own black and grey clothes. You hesitate to even look at him, too afraid of dulling that sun-kissed skin with the death you carry on your fingertips.

His brow furrows and he winces, though his eyes remain closed. You blink owlishly before guiding the shadows around him once more; when you're sure he's secure, you pull him along behind you until you reach the only spare room you have in the palace. You situate him on the bed there, fluffing pillows and smoothing blankets until you can almost pretend he fell asleep there of his own accord. With pursed lips, you assign three of your Bones to watch him; one just inside the door and two outside of it, just in case whatever he was running from attempts to come for him.

You don't want to leave him, but you have work to do, and the land of the dead cannot rule itself.

It's dark when he opens his eyes. There is Greek fire in the corner, and shadows dancing on the walls around it, but he cannot make out much else. When he sits up and slides his feet off what feels like a bed, he hisses. The marble is cold and unforgiving against the bare skin of his feet and he doesn't know of any feeling like it. He's too accustomed to the dirt and grass from his mother's domain, and even the white marble of Olympus was warm to the touch. This is different. Alarming. New.

He eventually works up the nerve to stand fully. Looking around, he doesn't see any kind of light sources other than the brazier in the corner, so he grips one of the coals in his palm and uses that bit of light to find the door. The fire tingles against his skin, but he's long since grown used to holding fire in his palms for his mother. The warmth is comforting for a brief moment before the image of his mother flashes through his mind. He flinches at the memory of her face, twisted with wrath, and the stone drops out of his grip before he can catch it.

The marble of the wall is cool against his back as he slides to the ground, knees brought up to his chest and his eyes screwed shut against the darkness. There's a vice around his chest and he can't breathe and he can't see and he doesn't have any idea where he is or if he's even alive or if she's stuffed him somewhere he'll never be able to escape and the thought makes his head spin as the air catches in his throat and gods don't even truly need to breathe and yet he can feel the cold claws of death tighten around his throat and all he can see in his final moments is the horrifying face of his mother's anger and he can feel the vines and roots around his ankles once more and-

"Who the hell are you?"

He looks up, pushing the sweat-covered hair out of his eyes. There's a man, in the darkness, who exudes a faint silver light around him that illuminates the walls and black marble floor. The man doesn't seem angry that he's there, or even all that surprised; just curiously resigned. There are so many questions on the tip of his tongue, so much he wants - needs - to know but only one makes it past the rock lodged in his windpipe.

"Am I dead?"

The man frowns and shakes his head. "I seriously doubt it, since you didn't cross the river." The man looks him over, taking in the flushed skin and sweat beads and the purple robes he donned the moment he decided to run and seems to decide something. He crouches down so he's eye level, poised on the balls of his feet with his elbows on his knees, and even in a full suit, he looks impeccably put-together. "I'm Thanatos. You can call me Hoseok. If you'll let me, I'd like to take you to someone who probably has a better idea of what you're doing here." All he can do is nod, and Hoseok extends a hand, which he uses to bring himself to a shaky stand.

"I'm Yoongi," He says, hesitant and quiet. "Um, I'm Kore. Or, Persephone. Either one."

"I think I'll stick with Yoongi," Hoseok says. His smile lights the hallway that Yoongi stands in, and it eases something inside him, though he isn't sure what. Hoseok doesn't let go of his hand as he guides Yoongi through the corridors, and talks to him the entire time. He speaks of his duties there, souls he's judged that day, ones he wished he could do more for, comforts Yoongi when a walking skeleton in Roman armor passes him and explains that those are the security force of the palace. By the time they make it to a large room, lit on each side with braziers of Greek fire that give the room an eerie glow, Yoongi has a fairly good idea of where he is, and who Hoseok is taking him to see.

The large ebony throne at the end of the room and the black-robed figure sitting atop it only confirms his fears.

When Hoseok enters the throne room, you're only slightly surprised. It wasn't entirely uncommon for him to take a break from his judicial duties, and so long as there were plenty of Bones to watch the gates, you had no issues. Years would sometimes pass before Hoseok needed to return, relieving the judgment council once more and returning them to their own afterlives.

To see him shadowed by the mint-haired boy you pulled through the earth, however, is a shock.

You set the papers you'd been writing at to the side. Your robes, woven from shadows and dipped in the Styx, swirl around your bare feet as you move to sit correctly with your back straight instead of lounging as you'd been doing before. The darkness you’d brought forth to cushion your chair, plump and fat and soft underneath you, shifts as well, keeping the hard edge of the marble from digging into your skin. Hoseok stifles a smile at the sight and you narrow your eyes at him. You wish he'd say something about it, the punk.

"What can I do for you, Hoseok?" You eventually ask as he and his companion reach the steps just below your throne. Even now, you can barely bring your eyes away from the boy behind him; he's radiant, the light in the room seemingly drawn to him despite the way he's slouched into himself.

"I was just wondering if you knew how this young man came to be in the underworld, my lady," Hoseok says. Your eyes dart back to him and you can't help the way your heart softens at the soft silver shine around him. You look to the mint-haired god again; his eyes dart around nervously as if he expects something to jump out at him, and he's close enough to Hoseok that if the other were to step back, they'd both likely fall to the floor.

You lean forward in your throne, doing your best to project a calm and friendly air to the shorter of the two gods. "Do you not remember?" You ask quietly. Your eyes don't leave his big brown ones, and you can see the moment the panic sets in. "It's fine, you don't need to answer me. Just know that you're safe here."

"Yoongi?" Hoseok says quietly, drawing the boy's attention. "Hey, it's alright. We're not gonna let anything happen." It takes several minutes but eventually the boy - Yoongi, apparently - nods. He hasn't relaxed at all, but he doesn't seem like he's about to bolt out of your throne room, so you consider it a success.

"You were praying," You tell him softly. "You asked for my help, so I gave it, as best I could. I don't think you meant for your words to reach me, but they did." Yoongi frowns ever so slightly as he takes in the knowledge. There's a hint of anxiety in his face, his brow furrowed adorably, but he doesn't startle when Hoseok rests a hand on his shoulder. He looks up, though, and the two of them seem to have a silent conversation. Something settles in your stomach, seeing the ease with which Hoseok interacts with him, and you swallow down the lump in your throat. It's ridiculous to feel anything like this; Hoseok is your subordinate and friend, and you've hardly known Yoongi for five minutes.

"He can stay here, right?" Hoseok asks. You look to Yoongi, wondering if he even wants to stay, if he even wants to be here at all or if he wished someone else had answered his prayers. Hoseok calls your name softly and your gaze flicks to him. "Can he stay?"

You find that you're debating with yourself. Yoongi clearly doesn't belong here; he is soft and sweet and gentle and completely at odds with the harsh, depressive atmosphere that lingers in your palace. He looks terrified even now as he takes in the room, eyes lingering on the bones that were fused together to make your throne. And yet...you cannot escape the fear and hope that had echoed in his prayer, the sheer desperation that someone would help him. He had been running and terrified, which could only mean that he was being chased by something or someone, and you couldn't force him out if he was in danger.

"If you would like to stay," You say after a moment too long, "Then you are, of course, more than welcome to do so." You rise from your throne, shadows dissipating as you do, and take a couple of tentative steps toward the pair. He doesn't shrink back in fear, which you take as a good sign. "The guest quarters will be yours to do with as you please. Hoseok can show you around the palace and grounds, so you don't get lost, and the Bones can bring you anything you require." You move to press a hand to Hoseok's arm, and you level him with a careful look.

"Of course, my lady," Hoseok says. He turns to Yoongi with a radiant smile. "And you can leave whenever you'd like."

"Of course," You agree quickly. "Hoseok can take you back and forth across the river as you wish. Charon can be quite fussy about it." Several times, your guests have been stuck on the wrong side of the river until someone brought your ferryman his payment. Yoongi looks slightly less terrified, and in the emerald glow of the fires, you notice how wide his eyes are. "Oh! You're from the surface, of course, I forgot."

With a snap of your fingers, the sconces along the walls light themselves, and the candles ringing the large chandelier in the center of your throne room surge to life as well. Yoongi startles a little, stepping closer to Hoseok.

"Ah, I forget you surfacers can't see as well down here," Hoseok mutters. "We'll get you a candlestick as well, just in case." He nods to you, Yoongi copying him in a most adorable way. They're halfway out of the room when a thought occurs to you.

"Yoongi?" You call after him. He turns, and the green halo around him makes your heart falter. "Don't eat the pomegranates. Not even the seeds." His brow furrows in confusion but he gives a hesitant nod before he turns and hurries after Hoseok.

As much as your chest aches for him, you won't subject him to this life. You watch him go and wonder how long he'll last in this hellscape.

When their shadows have long disappeared from the walls, you turn and retake your seat on the throne. With a wave, a small team of Bones appears in front of you - the same uniforms, with the same unit numbers, stamped on their dog tags, and the same haunted look where their eyes once were - and you do a quick count. Ten should do fine for what you need.

"Scour the earth. Do not speak to anyone. Find out what he was running from, and if it still searches for him. Don't let anyone see you, and don't let anyone know why you're looking. Return if you're in danger. Report to me immediately." They salute, and you watch their forms slowly disappear, becoming more and more transparent until they glide upwards and through the cracks in the ceiling.

You sit back and wonder how long it will take for you to get answers, and if it will be before or after Yoongi realizes he's too good for this place.

Yoongi is quiet. That's the first thing Hoseok notices about him. He doesn't initiate conversation, really, instead content to listen to Hoseok talk about the various souls he's judged and the occasional escape attempts someone has made. At first, when Yoongi speaks, he's quiet, like he doesn't really want - or expect - to be heard, and he always looks pleasantly surprised when Hoseok answers his question or responds to his comments.

It makes his heart ache, and he wonders what exactly Yoongi has gone through to make him so shocked that anyone would actually listen to what he has to say. It takes weeks for him to warm enough to Hoseok to start speaking more often, to ask questions about his day, to actually request specific things. The day Yoongi asked Hoseok, soft and hesitant, if he could show him the Meadow and the tree, Hoseok almost cried. Yoongi was so obviously ready to be told no, fully expectant for Hoseok to decline such a simple request, and it only reinforced Hoseok's need to give the god everything he could ever want.

"What are you doing, Yoongi?" Hoseok asks when he looks up. They're at the gates, Hoseok in the usual position, eyes roving over the lines of souls slowly shuffling forward, and Yoongi sitting nearby. Cerberus is curled up behind him, dwarfing the god with his massive body, all three heads snoring and slobbering as they sleep haphazardly on top of each other. Yoongi glances up at Hoseok as he grabs another flower from the basket beside him.

"I'm making Cerb some flower crowns," Yoongi answers as if it was obvious. Hoseok frowns.

"Flower crowns?" He echoes. "What's a flower crown?"

Yoongi gives him a disbelieving stare. "It's a bath salt. What the fuck do you think it is, Hobi? It's a crown made of flowers." Hoseok is caught off guard by the sarcasm, as he has been every time Yoongi has spouted off some kind of sass to him. He strides over and crouches beside the mint god to watch him.

Yoongi's fingers are sure and steady as he weaves the stems of the flowers together. It's already half-dozen, Hoseok thinks, the crocus blossoms blending together prettily and not straying in the slightest from where he places them. Hoseok hasn't ever seen anything like it, and he's entranced by the way Yoongi's fingers move and the way the flowers seem to just do whatever he wants without much coaxing on his part.

"I had the Bones bring me back a basket from their last excursion," Yoongi says. "Since none grow here." He stops with one last crocus and eyes it critically before apparently deciding it was good enough. Hoseok can't take his eyes off the thing, enraptured even as Yoongi sets it gently on his head. Hoseok can feel his eyes widen and his cheeks flush red.

"Thanks," He says after a second, one hand darting up to steady the crown as he shifts his weight. He smiles, unable to help himself and poses. "What do you think? Does it suit me?"

"Ugh, you wish," Yoongi says. Hoseok can see the smile in his eyes and is satisfied with the mirth threatening to bubble past Yoongi's lips.

"Y'know," Hoseok says after a while, hands in his pockets as he watches Yoongi make the second crown for Cerb. "I bet if you planted some seeds near the pomegranate tree, they'd grow." Yoongi's hands stop moving, his eyes drifting up to look past Hoseok. Something similar to excitement hides behind his eyes, and Hoseok wants nothing more than to bring it out to shine. Yoongi cocks a brow as if to say 'really' and Hoseok nods.

The gummy smile he gets in return, full of hope and light that the underworld hasn't ever seen before, is well worth the potential scolding you may give him for suggesting Yoongi fiddle with the tree's courtyard. And the way he keeps the flower crown nearby, hanging off a hook on the gates long after the blossoms have wilted and died, is worth the shy smile Yoongi gets every time he sees it.

You don't see Yoongi for the first few weeks he's there. Not really. You catch glimpses when he passes through the palace halls with Hoseok, and he sits with Cerberus while you visit Hoseok at the gates, but he makes no effort to seek you out, and you respect that distance. You can't bring yourself to force your company on him. You're an acquired taste; Hoseok has been in this realm for so long that he's accustomed to the darkness that follows you, the aura of death and despair that usually surrounds you. He's been surrounded by the dead almost as long as you have, so you know he can't be affected by it. Yoongi, though…

Yoongi is life. He's the springtime blossoms in a summer breeze, he's the sound of birds chirping in the treetops, he's vibrant and fresh and lovely and you cannot ruin that. You can't watch him wither away like a winter garden, you can't watch the color drain from his skin until he's just as much a ghost as the souls that wander the Meadow, you can't let him become just as dead as everything else in this cursed place.

So you leave him be. You offer curt nods when you see him with Hoseok and polite waves because giving any more of yourself to him without letting yourself get closer would be too dangerous. Even with the distance you keep, your chest tightens with every smile that graces his lips, you ache to hear his voice even just once, and it's too much. It's too much for someone you haven't even had a real conversation with. Someone who looks at you with apprehension and anxiety, yet brings undeniable joy to the man you've always held in your heart.

It's too much for you to feel like this for someone who makes Hoseok smile as if he's seeing sunlight for the first time in thousands of years. You love Hoseok too much to stand anywhere near them.

You've been avoiding both of them for days. You can't bear to see Yoongi's gummy smile and Hoseok's adorable dimples as they gaze at each other, and you're busy enough to make a decent excuse for it. Expansion isn't difficult, but keeping it quiet is. Plus you've been on the hunt to figure out what had been after Yoongi with such ferocity that it sliced right through his robes and had him praying to anyone who would listen.

You had a few helpful leads, but nothing concrete, and it was more than a little frustrating. Which is why you find yourself stepping out of the shadows of the pomegranate tree, hopeful that it could help to ease even just part of the emotions rolling in your gut.

The sight of Yoongi surprises you, even more so when you see that he's on his knees beside the tree with dirt covering his hands and a smidge of something on his cheek. He looks absolutely wondrous, like everything you've been missing from the world above, and it would bring tears to your eyes if you let it because he's so far out of your reach.

"Hi," You say after a long debate with yourself. Yoongi's head shoots up and he fixes wide eyes on you. He reminds you of the ones who come to you with no memory of what's happened to them, scared and alone and about to get the worst news of their lives. "What are you doing?"

"I'm sorry," He says immediately. "I didn't mean to, not really. You just said not to eat them, and I'm not, so I thought it would be okay. Hobi suggested it and you two are so close that I figured he'd know if you'd be upset."

"I'm not upset." Your voice is as gentle as you can make it. "I'm just curious. Hoseok didn't mention anything to me, and no one really comes here."

"Oh." The relief is palpable as it courses through him, and he looks back down at the ground in front of him. "I'm just planting some flowers so I can make more crowns for Hobi and Cerb. The others died so fast, and I don't want to keep sending the Bones out to get more if I don't have to."

"Oh, you made the flower crown for Hoseok?" You'd figured as much. No one else in the underworld knew how to make them, and Yoongi was the only consistently around him. "He showed me that, it was gorgeous."

"Obviously, it was made by me, after all," Yoongi spouts. You gape at him, and he gives you a contrite grimace. "I'm sorry, my lady Hades, I forgot who I was with for a moment. It won't happen again."

"It should," You say before you can stop yourself. He glances at you curiously. "I don't mind if you're relaxed and casual around me. I've never been one to enforce the rules that Olympus has. Hoseok is proof enough of that. And you can use my name, I don't mind."

The way he whispers your name, almost as if he's practicing it to himself, makes your heart flutter in your chest. It's so dangerous to be around him like this, relaxed and casual; it's so easy to forget that it's Hoseok that gets this, that deserves this small piece of sunshine.

"Well," Yoongi eventually says. "In that case, you can get to work. I've got an entire basket of seeds left to plant around this thing, and I can only work so fast. Plus I'm getting hungry."

"Oh. Okay, show me what to do." You don't hesitate to mirror his position, robes bunching under your knees in the dirt as he points at the small holes he's carved out of the dirt with the trowel and rake the Bones nabbed for him.

Yoongi is patient, you learn. Not extremely so, but he walks you through what you need to do with clear directions. The seeds are small in your hands, which amuses you to no end, and there's an odd delight in packing the soil around them and dripping water down onto them after. You're smiling for the first time in...you don't know how long, and the feeling of Yoongi's hands around yours as he shows you how to use the trowel is something akin to paradise.

His hands are rough; calloused and weathered and wonderful against the softness of your own. You start to talk freely to him, asking him about each seed you plant and what they are and how they look. He tells you about each one, the deep timbre of his voice like music to your ears. He rolls his eyes at every joke you make, despite the way he smiles, and hits back with several quips of his own. He listens as you tell him, voice shaking, about the pomegranate tree, and how it curses anyone who eats its fruit to stay trapped in the underworld forevermore. He talks and listens and jokes and laughs and it's only after you've made a particularly ridiculous joke that you realize your mistake.

"You've spent too much time around Hobi," Yoongi says. "He made the same joke yesterday." He's looking down at the last few seeds, plotting where in the courtyard to put them, and doesn't see the way the smile dies on your face. You'd forgotten. For a brief time, you'd forgotten that this is just pretending.

You don't get to keep this. You don't get to stay here, in this courtyard, with Yoongi and his rough hands and the mint hair that falls in his eyes and his gummy smile. This isn't yours. You don't get flower crowns and jokes and soft kisses, no matter how much you want them, just like you don't get Hoseok's bright grin or his dimples or his long fingers intertwined with yours. Your heart aches for these two beautiful boys, both of them everything you could ever want in so many different ways. And yet you have neither of them, you don't get either of them. They are each other's, and there is no room there for the death you bring in your wake. You kill everything you touch; the mortals whisper about the cold grip of your hands on their neck as they pass over.

You look back over the seeds you've helped Yoongi plant and wonder how many you've killed before they even lived.

You stand and brush the dirt off your robes. "Well," You say, careful to keep your voice level. "I've got some things to do. I trust you'll be alright on your own." You can't bring yourself to look at Yoongi, can't bear to see the dirt that smudged along his cheek, can't stand to see the way the orange robes drape along him and remind you of the way the autumn leaves looked coating the grass in the meadows.

He doesn't even get a response out before you flee, but you feel his eyes on your back long after you've hidden in the shadows and sunk down onto your bed.

It's astounding, you think as you rinse the dirt off your hands later, how a single afternoon planting seeds with someone can be so detrimental to the walls you'd put around your heart. Tears blur your vision and your fingers are trembling, but you keep scrubbing until the phantom slide of his hands against yours is gone and there is no more evidence of the planting you'd done. When you finally stop, your skin is raw and throbbing, and there are tears running down your face.

You had long accepted that Hoseok could never be yours. You were in two different positions, and he was much too bright to want to be with someone like you. Your shadows would have suffocated him, so you resigned yourself to being his friend. Friend is safe. Friend is good.  

You’d known the same when you met Yoongi. Bright and colorful amidst the darkness of the underworld, you wouldn’t dare to get any closer to him, too familiar with the fluttering of your chest and the jumping in your stomach every time you saw him. Just being friendly was enough, ensuring he is safe and happy is fine with you.

But this? Watching the two of them grow closer and closer, able to love each other so wholly while you stand alone in your darkness, watching their bright smiles and soft looks, all directed only at each other, for eternity? This was too much for you to bear. Being hopelessly in love with one man you can’t have is bad enough, but two of them…

You wish for the first time that you were not immortal, but a meager human upon the surface, unaware and blissful in your ignorance.

He never expected this. Not from the moment he woke up, not when he was sprinting through a forest to escape his mother, not for a single heartbeat could he ever imagined everything that has happened to him since he arrived in this cold land.

He’s been alone for so long, hidden away in his mother’s garden with only the rare visit from Artemis or Hestia as he learned how to do anything and everything his mother wished. He’s never had friends before, he’s never had the subtle inside jokes that he shares with Hoseok, familiar enough that even just a quick glance can have them both bursting with laughter. He’s never known a goddess like you, able to weave together the darkness into something tangible, something useful, something real. It’s like nothing he’s ever seen, and Hoseok’s uncanny ability to bend the environment around him and use his silvery aura to turn almost invisible to the naked eye never ceases to amaze him. The two of you are so powerful, so utterly awe-inspiring, and every single thing his mother had told him is so far from the truth that it almost hurts.

Neither you nor Hoseok is standoffish, really; he can see the hesitant friendship in every smile you send his way, and Hoseok’s primary concern at any moment is making sure he’s happy and safe. It warms Yoongi in a way he could never explain, not even in a million years, simply because he’s never felt this way. In all the books he’s read, the plays he’s seen, every mortal he’s watched, he’s seen this.

He’s seen how they turn red with just a look, how their hearts stutter when hands brush, how they smile, soft and private when they think no one is looking at them. He’s seen this feeling, the bubbling in his chest that he gets every time Hoseok laces their fingers together while walking and the moment you step into the courtyard and see the kaleidoscope of colors that you helped plant. He never would have guessed that he would feel it, though, too isolated from the rest of the world until he came here. Until you pulled apart the earth itself to help him escape, without even knowing why or who he was.

The feeling grows inside of him, thorns pricking into his every breath because he knows it can’t last. He’s seen how you and Hoseok look at each other when you think no one is watching, can feel the pull between you and the years upon years of familiarity that lie between you. The two of you are closer than he could ever get, two sides of the same coin, and more suited to each other than he would ever be.

And he can’t stay.

That’s the worst part. He knows it, knows that she will find him before long and wrap her claws around his throat and drag him back into that gilded cage she calls a greenhouse just to leave him. It’s for the best, my dear, she’ll say, it’s to keep you safe.

Yoongi doesn’t want to be safe, though. He wants to be happy and free, and he’s found that place here, surrounded by death even as he carves out his own little area of life. With Hoseok’s warm grin across from him and your own cool fondness beside him. With flower crowns atop his head and Hoseok’s, and the small buds are woven into your own crown of bones and grief as a small reminder that even in death, there is life.

But she will find him. She always does. And though he cannot bear the thought of leaving you, he will, if only to keep you safe.

Yoongi's been there almost a year when you summon Hoseok to dine with you. By the time he gets to your office - a very understated term for the sprawling library - you're already sitting at your usual desk, food pushed aside and forgotten in lieu of the papers stacked in front of you.  Even with your head bent low and bags under your eyes, you're the most beautiful person Hoseok has ever seen.

He remembers the first time he met you when Zeus had assigned him to be the gatekeeper for the underworld. You were so young, so skittish and worried that you were going to be a terrible ruler as if the dead could be disappointed in you. You'd been beautiful then, too, but not in the same way. You've grown into yourself since then; you're no longer afraid of being a bad queen. You know that you're competent and capable, you know you can do this, and you frequently prove wrong any Olympian who says otherwise. You're mature now; strong and confident and brilliant, and even with the bags under your eyes and the shadows that lick lovingly against your skin, you are absolutely radiant.

Hoseok is so in love with you that it physically hurts him, and every time he looks at you, he is reminded of how you are just out of his reach.

He clears his throat and you look up. The tired smile that graces your face warms him, and he settles into a chair on your left with practiced ease. This isn't the first time you've asked him to dine with you, and it won't be the last.

"What's the occasion?" He teases, delighting in the way you roll your eyes and gesture to the food and nectar that sits in front of him.

"How is Yoongi?" You ask. It doesn't escape him that you don't answer, but you always have your reasons, so he doesn't call you on it.

"Well. He wanders around on his own and doesn't seem to jump at the slightest sound anymore. He came with me the other day when I judged and managed to pick fifteen people for Elysium in a row." An expression passes over your face that he can't decipher. He continues anyway. "He still won't talk much about what happened, but he also doesn't seem to be in much of a hurry to leave. I imagine he'll get bored eventually, and we'll need to give Cerb extra treats when he does, but I'm not concerned just yet."

You nod and Hoseok starts to eat as you rifle through a few more papers. "You know he's Persephone?" You ask, and Hoseok nods. He'd forgotten to share that knowledge with you, but clearly, you had your own way of finding things out. "So then you're aware that his mother is Demeter."

Hoseok pauses for a minute. He swallows the food in his mouth and really looks at you for the first time since he sat down. The bags under your eyes are more prominent, and you're wearing your Hades expression. The one that stays professional and controlled and tells people nothing of your true thoughts. Well, people that haven't known you for more than a thousand years.

"Hoseok, he can't stay here forever," You eventually say. "She's been looking for him everywhere. The humans' crops are ruined, ice and snow have covered the earth, more people are dying than we can hold right now. She won't stop."

"And that means we kick him out?" Hoseok hisses. You close your eyes and he can feel the sigh you're holding back. "You said yourself that he could stay as long as he wants. You can't just rescind that because some wheat goddess is going on a rampage. We still don't know what he was running from, or if it's still out there, and I won't watch him-" He stops, frozen by the way you're pressing your tongue into the side of your cheek. It's the only tell you have and he rarely sees it, because you rarely keep things from him. "What do you know?"

You don't answer, and he repeats the question, louder this time, as he surges out of his chair.

"I was running from her," Yoongi's voice echoes through the library. You and Hoseok both turn to see him standing in the door, and Hoseok's heart swells at the sight. He's in soft, muted pink robes that Hoseok knows he made himself. His cheeks are rounder, and he's no longer curled in on himself. He looks stronger. Confident. Unafraid. "I was running from my mother. That's what you found out, right?" Hoseok looks to you, and the regret in your eyes just confirms it.

"I'm sorry, Yoongi, I was only trying to make sure you were safe, I didn't mean-"

"It's alright," Yoongi says as he moves to run his hand along your cheek. "I know." He smiles at you. Hoseok looks between the two of you - Yoongi's hand resting lightly on your cheek and a soft smile on his lips while his eyes crinkle with rare happiness, your own eyes wide and full of what can only be described as pure, unadulterated love - and his stomach rolls violently. Even after all the time Hoseok has spent with you, and with Yoongi, and the times he's entered a room to find the two of you in comfortable silence, he never expected this. He should've, he realizes; the two of you are a perfect match, complementing each other to near perfection, each fault being smoothed over by the other's strengths.

How could he have thought you wouldn't fall in love with Yoongi? Soft, kind Yoongi, who had just enough snark inside of him to make every word out of his mouth an unexpected joy. Yoongi who braids flower crowns with the flowers he's started to grow in the courtyard, surrounding the pomegranate tree with the beautiful blooms. Yoongi, who encourages Hoseok to judge more and more souls, ones that don't request it, who can somehow pick the good people from the bad just by looking.

And how could he have ever expected Yoongi not to fall for you? Strong and intelligent, determined and kind. You who opened your home to him in his most vulnerable moment and never expected anything in return. You who did everything in your power to find what was chasing him, and find a way to stop it. You, with your lonely smile and your bare feet. You, who Hoseok himself has been in love with for tens of thousands of years.

How could he have expected either of you not to fall in love in the months that you have known each other when Hoseok couldn't even stop himself?

“I’ll go back to her,” Yoongi says softly, finally dropping his hand from your cheek and turning the radiant smile on Hoseok. “She’ll have no reason to continue this if I return.”

“I can’t ask you to do that, Yoongi,” You say immediately. ““You were desperate to get away from her, and...what she almost did to you, that’s unacceptable.”

“Let her rage,” Hoseok agrees. “You’re safe here, no one can get to you without getting through the two of us first, not to mention Cerberus and the Bones. No nature goddess will last in this place, not with our full force around you.”

“Thank you, Hobi, but no. I can’t ask you both to do that, not when it could end so badly for you. You don’t know what she can do, it’s not-”

“You aren’t asking us,” You say. Your voice is as quiet as always, but there’s a firmness there that Hoseok recognizes. It’s usually saved for the throne room when some mortal has been particularly annoying or stubborn, and it’s a shock to see it directed at Yoongi. “We are offering. Let us protect you, Yoongi. At least let me speak with Zeus about this. I may be able to convince him to intervene.”

Yoongi hesitates, the indecision is written all over his face, and Hoseok leans to lace their fingers together. It’s a familiar gesture, done so often to prevent Yoongi from getting lost that it’s second nature at this point.

“Please,” Hoseok pleads when Yoongi looks at him. “Please, Yoongi.”

The reluctant nod is all the confirmation needed. You’re already scribbling out a summons for Hermes to carry to the lord of the gods, and Hoseok is halfway through the halls to reinforce the gates and ensure Cerberus knows his task. He tries not to think about the way Yoongi lingered behind, one hand on your shoulder as he watched you write and the other caressing the flower-riddled braids he’d made earlier that day.

He doesn’t think about it, because in the end, it doesn’t matter. Hoseok is so deeply in love with the two of you, so grossly enamored, that he would go to the end of time itself if it meant keeping the two of you safe and happy. Even if that meant watching you love each other and not him.

“What do you mean, he won’t help?”

You massage your temples without looking up from the letter Zeus had sent back with Hermes. He was, unsurprisingly, not helpful. Hoseok had appeared not long after the messenger had left, and is, also unsurprisingly, irate.

“According to him, he has no dog in this fight, because Yoongi isn’t his son, he’s Demeter’s, and if he were to get involved, he’d side with her since the humans are dying so quickly, which isn’t exactly good for worship numbers.”

“Are you kidding me? He seriously said he’d take her side in this?”

“Not in so many words, but yes. And I get it, Hobi. His job is to keep the peace between everyone in Olympus, and without actually coming here to give me an audience, all he has is Demeter’s side of the story.”

“Which is?”

“That I kidnapped her son and am currently holding him captive in a dungeon down here.”

“That’s absurd. He’s not captive at all, he’s happier here than he ever was up there, and you didn’t kidnap him!” You give a slight nod to show that yes, Hoseok, you’re aware of the truth. “Does he know what she does to him? How she treats him?”

“Hoseok, please,” You mutter. The weight of Zeus’ words is like a blade against your throat and you want nothing more than to help Yoongi. Clearly, the Fates have decided against that. “You know how he is. Do you honestly think he’d care? She has a claim to him, despite what he wants, and unless we find a way to get Zeus down here or go there ourselves, our lord won’t be able to hear any other side of this story.”

“Then we’ll...we’ll go there! We’ll make them listen! You could talk sense into him, make him see that he needs to help.”

“You know I can’t do that, Hobi.” Hoseok flinches, as if just remembering that you are as captive here as the souls you keep. You’re glad, not for the first time, that Death Itself cannot be contained, so that Hoseok, at least, is free to come and go as he pleases. “And before you say it, no, we can’t ask him to go. It isn’t safe. The second he sets foot outside this realm, she’ll pull him back. We’re lucky that he hasn’t already told her where Yoongi is.”

Your statement is punctuated with a muffled thud, and the anxiety that runs through you is mirrored in the look Hoseok gives you. Another thud echoes through the palace, the ground rumbling under your feet, and you stand.

“Where is he?” You ask, already pulling the shadows around you.

“Just past the gate, walking through the Meadow. If we hurry-”

“Go.” You disappear into the blackness, never more glad that Hoseok can sense the living in your land. When you step away from the shadows, Yoongi is there, confusion written across his face and fear in his eyes. “You have to run.”

“No,” He says. “I’m not going to keep running from her. I’m staying here, she can’t take me back.”

“Yoongi, please,” You beg. He’s too vulnerable here, too open, too easily seen with his spring green robes billowing around his feet and flowers woven into a crown atop his head. He takes your hands in his and pulls you close, and you’ve never seen a fire like this in him. It burns hot and strong and it makes your chest ache for what could have been.

“I won’t let her hurt you while I hide away like a coward,” He whispers. His thumb wipes away tears you didn’t know were there, and determination floods through you.

"Please, Yoongi. Let us help you. Let me help you. I-" The words choke in your throat, but Yoongi nods as if they made it out.

"I love you, too." His voice is soft, barely audible over the shaking ground and the deafening sound of hooves slamming into your gates. You feel more than see Hoseok land beside you, and his hand rests on the small of your back without hesitation.

"Take him," You tell Hoseok. "Go to the palace. You'll be safe there. Don't let him leave."

Hoseok's eyes are fire-bright as he wraps an arm around Yoongi's waist. The god's protests fall on dead ears, even as you let your hands brush over the softness of Hoseok's ink black wings. Just one moment, that is all you want, just one single second to pretend.

"I'll see you after, my lady," Hoseok says firmly. You don't have the heart to correct him, nor the time, so you just nod. Yoongi's screams echo in your ears even as you turn, the blackness that lingers at every corner of your realm swirling around your feet and ready to be whatever you need. You let one last year fall from your eyes as the gates crumple, and the furious eyes of Demeter fixate on you and the black-winged figure carrying her son away.

Hoseok flies faster than he ever has, determined to get Yoongi into the palace and relative safety. The god sobs in his arms, still struggling to get back to where you stand in the Meadow, the massive form of Demeter towering above you, but Hoseok doesn't relax his grip. You gave him an order; he hadn't disappointed you yet, and he isn't about to start now. Not with Yoongi caught in the middle.

He doesn't hesitate when he touches down in the palace, wings retracted and brushing ever so slightly against the black marble floor. He turns to the nearby Bones and orders them to the doors, summoning as many others as he can spare from the gates and Fields to help barricade the palace from the goddess.

"Hobi, you have to go, you have to help her," Yoongi sobs. "She's gonna...I can't, Hobi, please, you have to keep her safe."

"I have to keep you safe," Hoseok replies. He's got a vice grip around Yoongi's arm as he pulls him deeper into the palace, doing his level best to avoid any window or door to the outside. "That was the order she gave and that's the order I shall obey."

"How can you say that?! Don't you care that she could-"

"Of course I care!" Hoseok spits, rounding on the shorter god the second the words leave his lips. "Do you think this is easy for me, Yoongi? Do you think I enjoy choosing between the two of you like this? Because I don't. I want nothing more than to be helping her right now, but I can't...I can't leave you alone here. It's too dangerous."

Hoseok isn't stupid; he knows exactly how he feels about you, and Yoongi, and he's not oblivious to the way the both of you look at him. Still, the two of you are powerful deities, worshipped and loved, feared and prayed to. He's just a guardian, content to sit in the background and watch for threats. Yes, he loves you, with every fiber of his immortal soul, but he also loves Yoongi, and he knows you love Yoongi, and you gave him an order.

"Hobi," Yoongi whispers, eyes wet and red and beautiful. "Hobi, please, you have to help her. She needs you. I can manage, I can hide, but she needs you. No one else can help her."

The fact that he's even considering this shows just how easy it is for Yoongi to manipulate him. Hoseok understands now, what you meant all that time ago. Yoongi's voice is rough and lingering and fearful but it carries so much hope that it digs into Hoseok's skin like a hook. He curses and bundles Yoongi into the corner.

"Stay hidden. Don't make a noise. You can't let her find you." Hoseok hesitates for a split second before pressing a quick kiss to Yoongi's forehead. "I will see you after this."

"I know."

It's never been harder for him to turn his back on someone, but Hoseok manages, with only one last look back before he takes to the air and surges forwards to where you stand, keeping Demeter back with every piece of your power.

Yoongi runs. He runs and runs and runs, the bare skin of his feet silent on the cool marble. The braziers have long since gone out, but he stopped needing them months ago. He knows where he is, even as he tucks himself into a small, nearly invisible niche in a corner. He hardly dares to breathe, too scared that the sound will alert his mother of his location. The palace is silent, not a single sound in the entire thing, and it's deafening in the aftermath of the rumbling screams that signaled your battle with her.

He isn't sure how he managed to convince Hoseok to leave him, whether it was the obvious love the god felt for you or the sheer desperation in his own eyes, but he could only pray the two of you made it out. As gods, you're all difficult to kill, but it's not impossible. Not for other deities.

Come out, little flower.

Yoongi stifles a whimper, panic coloring his vision white for a long while before he can breathe again. Memories flash behind his eyelids and he pried them open just to stare into the darkness.

You can't hide forever, little flower. You know that.

Her voice echoes against the marble. It makes her sound like she's everywhere and nowhere at once, able to find him even as he hides. He clenches his teeth and reminds himself that you and Hoseok are the only ones that know this palace better than him.

You're making me very angry, little flower. Why do you run? I only want the best for you, and you insist on causing such a fuss.

The sound of her sandals reaches him, reverberating off the walls and telling him that she's far too close. He slips silently out of the niche and pads across the floor on the balls of his feet. He doesn't make a sound, something he perfected in his time with her, and just as she slips around the corner, he's darting down another hallway.

Look at what you've done, little flower. All this mess, and for what? Do you like it when I'm angry? Do you enjoy this game of ours?

He slips into another hall just in time. Exhaustion has made him slow. The marble of the wall is cool against his heated skin, and he wonders where you are. Where Hoseok is. If you're alright or if you're laying in the Meadow, golden ocher pooling around you. The thought enrages him, and for the first time, he can feel power at his fingertips; real power, not the simple gardening magic she taught him as a child. He's ready to use it, he thinks. He's so tired of running, so tired of being afraid, and he's so fucking angry that the people he loves have had to fight his battles for him.

Found you, little flower.

Warmth circles his ankle and pulls before he can jerk away. Her nails are sharp than before, like sickles at the end of each long finger, and he scrabbles uselessly at the smooth stone floor. She's speaking but the sound of her voice - wind whispering through a field of wheat, a brook babbling in the summer - is drowned out by the blood pumping in his ears.

"No, I won't go back, you can't make me," He hisses, kicking at her hand with his free leg. He doesn't feel the cuts on his soles, doesn't register them at all until he sees the gold dropping onto the floor; the adrenaline masks the pain. She says something else and he stops kicking, though he doesn't know what she's said. He isn't listening, too busy thinking of a way out of this.

It comes to him, all at once, and he relaxes in her grip. His chest heaves in a sob, because he knows exactly what he has to do, and you will never forgive him for it.

"Alright," He says flatly. Demeter stops in her monologue. "I'll go with you. Just leave them alone." The smile that splits her face is more grotesque than any corpse he's seen in the Styx, but the way she releases his ankle is a blessing. He keeps himself hunched and downtrodden as he pushes himself up, into her waiting arms. The hug is bruising and brings vile to his throat, but it is necessary.

It's with a flash of green as he pulls away from her that he makes his move. The flower crown previously atop his head has morphed, grown into thick, thorny vines around her arms and keeping her in place.

Yoongi is gone before she can so much as screech, sprinting as fast he can through the halls to the one thing that can help him. He feels it when she rips through his flowers, his very soul shaking at the pain that rips through him, but he's determined. He's made good ground, he only had a little further to go.

The vibrant colors of the courtyard have never felt so welcome. He's halfway through, blossoms crushed under his feet as he tears through the carefully tended flowers, when she catches up. The blade of her scythe rips through his back, but the adrenaline masks the pain. He's bleeding, he knows, but he can't bring himself to focus on anything but the way the bark feels under his grip, branches reaching down to help him reach his goal.

She tears him out of the tree violently, no longer wearing the carefully sculpted mask of love. The scream that she unleashes when she sees him shakes the entire realm, soft pebbles falling from the ceiling of the cavern miles above his head, but he doesn't care.

The pomegranate is ripe against his tongue, juice tinting his lips pink, and the weight of it against his chest has never been more welcome. Demeter screams for what could be centuries, but Yoongi does not care, because he has won, and he has never tasted anything so sweet in his entire life.

"Come to bed," Hoseok pleads, not for the first time. You look at him with a sigh. His wings are gone, hidden away until he needs them again, and his arm is free of the bandages he's been wearing. It has taken so long for him to heal, and you still aren't sure he should be up and about. There's a small, barely perceptible scar along his forearm, the faintest reminder of what the two of you survived.

"I have to finish this before he returns, Hobi," You tell him, also not for the first time. Hoseok scoffs and comes around the desk to stand behind you, eyes roving over the documents in front of you.

"It's been over six months," He whispers in your ear. "Zeus has approved your expansion requests. I'm fine. You're fine. Yoongi will be back from Olympus soon."

"Hoseok," Your tone is warning despite the way he whispers your name. You deflate, falling back in your chair and letting him rub your shoulders. "I just miss him."

"I know. I do too." You're both quiet for a while. It has been six months since Demeter crashed into your world and rampaged through the Meadow to find Yoongi. You remember it so vividly, the way you struggled against the unbridled fury she had, the way Hoseok screamed as she broke his wing, the pain in your chest as you'd crawled to him and just held him in your arms until the Bones had made it to the two of you and carried him to the palace.

You had been, and still are, vastly proud of him and Yoongi for fighting back, but that didn't change the fact that they had both put themselves in immense danger by doing so. Even with the - admittedly brilliant, if stupid - plan that Yoongi had come up with, things never really worked out for you. Hoseok had been bedridden for weeks, unable to even more because of the pain in his wing. Hermes has helped with the healing process, which you were unendingly thankful for, but Yoongi had been carted off to Olympus almost immediately for negotiations.

Zeus, benevolent leader and incompetent moron that he is, had decided on a compromise: Yoongi would stay with you in the underworld after the harvest was finished, free to do whatever he liked, but until then he had to stay in Olympus. The letter had mentioned something about reparations to the mortals for the utterly obscene amount of crops they had lost - which was ridiculous really, they were doing their level best to kill the planet and you are gods, since when do gods pay reparations to mortals? - that Yoongi was required to use his abilities to help with.

You'd sent Hermes back with several colorful threats of what exactly would happen to the billions of dead you kept here should Yoongi return in any way other than utter perfection, and you've been anxious for days to find out whether you get to follow through on them. It only worsens when you remember that you have a decision to make when Yoongi returns. You remember the way he looked when he said he loved you, returning words you couldn't bring yourself to say, and you remember the elation and subsequent depression that came after the battle at the realization that you could have had him, were he not gone for half the year.

And yet you also distinctly remember the way Hoseok looked, wings splayed over several tables to hold them in place as they healed, vulnerable and shy as he told you that he was sorry for disobeying you. You won't ever forget his face as he explained, the way his lips formed around your name when he told you he couldn't beat to see you hurt, not after so many years spent loving you. The feel of his lips against your skin is like a phantom even now; Hoseok had waited until he was healed to do anything more than press chaste kisses against your knuckles, and even still you've not felt him the way you want, but it hasn't stopped him from trying.

"Come on, my lady," Hoseok says, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. "Just for a while." You grumble under your breath - you really do have work to finish before Yoongi arrives - but you allow Hoseok to pull you from your chair and lead you down the hall to your bedroom.

So lost in your own musings, you don't notice the figure lounging on your bed until he speaks.

"Six months and I don't get even so much as a hello?"

Your eyes shoot up and your breath hitches in your throat. Pale green robes lined in the most beautiful black and silver embroidery pool around him, matching the braided crown that rests atop his head. You didn't know flowers like that existed, let alone that they could look so wonderful on someone.

"I didn't know you were back," You breathe.

"That's the point of a surprise, my love," Hoseok says from behind you, hand tightening around yours. Guilt begins to grow in your chest and Yoongi tsks at you. He rises and comes to stand in front of you, brow furrowed.

"That's no way for a queen to look, is it? What has you thinking so hard?" His thumb smooths the space between your brows and you can't help the glance to Hoseok.

"I can't...I don't want to hurt you." Your voice is barely a whisper, and the familiar sting encircles your heart once more. You couldn't choose between the two of them, not if you tried, not even if it meant getting out of this place.

"You won't," Hoseok tells you with a familiar grin. "Yoongi and I have already talked about what we feel for each other, and for you. The only question now is if you'll have us. Both of us."

Months ago, you would have called them crazy and had them exiled for fear they'd gone mad. You never imagined you could have one of them, let alone both; you had been ready to tell them both that you had been mistaken because having one by your side while your heart still yearned for the other was far more cruel than anything you could put in the Fields of Punishment.

Now? Now you know what the Isles must feel like. It is Yoongi in front of you, thumb brushing lightly against your cheek while Hoseok's warmth is steady behind you, one arm encircling your waist and keeping you steady.

"Both of you?" You echo. Yoongi nods.

"You don't have to," Hoseok says from behind you. "But we know how you feel about us, and we're sure in how we feel for each other. There are stranger pairings in the world, aren't there?"

"Only one of you could be king." You aren't sure why you say that, can't remember why it even matters when Hoseok trails his lips over the shell of your ear.

"I never have looked good on a throne," He says. Yoongi's chest rumbles in a laugh, and you could cry at the sight of that familiar gummy smile.

"Please," Yoongi eventually says. "Please say yes." You search his eyes for any hint of indecision or regret, and when you find none, you turn to Hoseok. He has a soft, encouraging smile on his face, and he holds your crown in his free hand. The cool black metal is harsh against his tanned skin, but what draws your eye isn't the way the bones are fused together or the etchings of historical scenes across each. No, it's the soft pale green blossoms woven in among the metal, a stark contrast to the harshness of the bones, and the silver thread twined around all of it, dipping in and out in various places but clearly noticeable in the light. It's a perfect representation of the three of you and it makes your chest swell.

"Yes," You breathe. They don't move, and your eyes dart between them. "Yes, absolutely. I can think of nothing I have ever wanted more."

Yoongi surges forward, capturing you in a long-awaited kiss. His lips are soft as blossoms against yours, warm and gentle as the hands that cup your jaw and draw you closer. You're aware, distantly, of the soft clink of metal on stone as Hoseok sets your crown to the side, though his arm never leaves your waist.

Hours could have passed with Yoongi kissing you. You aren't sure. Time runs together and blends, a dizzying whirlwind of slow drags of his lips across yours followed by quick, messy bursts of his tongue. You can barely focus on what is happening, mind split between the absolute euphoria of kissing him and the heat that comes from Hoseok's fingers dancing along your waist and shoulders, his breath ghosting over your neck as he watches. When Yoongi finally detaches from your lips, he ducks down to suck at the exposed skin of your collarbone, and Hoseok turns your chin so you face him.

"May I, my lady?" He asks. His voice is rough and deeper than you're used to, affected by the sight of you and Yoongi. His fingers twine with the strings holding your robes together and you give him a nod. It doesn't even take a full breath before the black material is pooling at your feet. Hoseok stifles something that sounds suspiciously like a moan behind you, and you think Yoongi actually purrs. They both run their hands along your skin, basking in the goosebumps that they raise and the shivers that crawl up your spine.

"Absolutely ethereal," Yoongi mutters. You pull him into another kiss, one hand coming up to rest against his shoulder while your other tangles in Hoseok's hair where he's doing his level-best to leave his mark on your neck.

"Please," You murmur. "I want to make you happy."

"You've already done that, my queen," He says. His smile is soft and the glint in his eye is sharp. You huff a little and tap twice at Hoseok's neck; when he pulls away, pouting but compliant, you push Yoongi until he's falling back onto your bed. He goes with no objections, one hand twining his fingers with yours and you crawl up to straddle his hips. "Let me please you, my queen. I've been waiting six months to taste you, and I don't want to waste another moment if I don't have to."

Your breath hitches as Hoseok steps up behind you. The bare skin of his chest is a shock as it presses against your back, and he slides his hands along your sides before beginning to tease your nipples. You stifle the moan, emitting more of a whine than anything, and you think you nod. All you know is the heat between your legs and the knee-deep ache to make them happy.

Yoongi's between your legs in a flash. You can't be sure how exactly he moved so quickly without jostling you, but the thought is all but shoved out of your mind as he swipes his tongue against you for the first time. You're glad Hoseok is behind you because your legs are already trembling where they're curled under you and your head drops back to rest against his shoulder. As merciless as Hoseok is in his torment of your chest, Yoongi is doubly so.

You imagine a man starving and dehydrated in a desert wouldn't be this invested in a sudden banquet laid in front of him; Yoongi worships you, circling your clit several times before dipping down to dart teasingly in and out of your hole. He laps up every single drop of your arousal, dutiful in his mission even as Hoseok begins to whisper sweet nothings into your ear. The heat of his breath has you closer to the edge than you want to admit, but the sheer love that radiates from his words at the same time Yoongi rumbles out a heavenly moan straight into your folds, tongue buried inside of you, is what drives you over the edge.

You aren't surprised when neither of them stop; you get the sense Yoongi is thoroughly enjoying himself between your thighs, based on the growing tent in his robes. Hoseok grinds against your ass, and his own hardness presses against you with every painless thrust of his hips. A pang of guilt shoots through you and your hands drop. It's a bit of an awkward angle, but you make it work as you glide your hands over him. He's thick, that's for sure, and nearly as long as your forearm. How you're supposed to take that inside of you is anyone's guess, but as Yoongi brings you to yet another orgasm with his mouth, you realize that's exactly what they're preparing you for.

The whimper comes unbidden, walls clenching around nothing at the thought of them filling you, and they both shudder. "Please," You gasp, "Please, I need you. Both of you."

Yoongi graciously lets you rise off of him, and when you settle on your back, he sits up to smile at you. His lips and chin are absolutely coating in your slick, the sight erotic and exciting. The feeling is doubled as Hoseok grips Yoongi's chin, turning the mint-haired god to face him.

"How does she taste, my flower?" He purrs. You don't hear Yoongi's response, just the deep thrum of his voice, but you see the way Hoseok runs his thumb across Yoongi's lips, collecting your juices, before sliding it into his own mouth. You moan at the sight, Hoseok's eyes falling closed as he relishes in the taste of you. Yoongi strips out of his robes while he can, and he doesn't seem to miss the way your and Hoseok's eyes watch hungrily.

"Tell me what you want," Hoseok says, pulling you closer as Yoongi settles behind you. "We're here for you, my queen."

"I…" You falter. You aren't even sure what you want now; you've spent six months trying to figure out how to tell both of the men you love that you can't be with either of them and now you have both of them naked in your bed, waiting to please you. You can hardly think, can't focus beyond the feel of their skin against yours and the heat of their gaze, but you know one thing.

You need them to know how desperately you love them, and with the fire burning between your thighs, there is exactly one way you can do that.

"I need you inside me, Hobi," You tell him. "I need to feel you inside of me. Yoongi, too. Both of you." Hoseok's cock twitches and something in his jaw clicks. You don't wait for more of a response, choosing instead to slide across the sheets to straddle Hoseok's hips. His hands rest lightly on your hips, tentative now, and you smile at him. His hands are gentle now, soft as the smile he gives you in return. His cock is dripping and red, a warm heat in your palm as you guide him to your entrance.

The look in his eyes, the small moan he releases, the hitch in Yoongi's breath behind you as you slowly sink down onto Hoseok will forever be etched into your memory. You're so full that you could cry; he feels absolutely perfect inside of you, and it only gets better as he guides you carefully up and then back down onto him. Your moan is felt more than heard and it only gets louder as he speeds up. His fingers are marble against your his, unmoving and firm as he slides in and out. He doesn't look away for a second and neither do you; all the years you've spent thinking about him, the millennia you've ached to love and be loved by him, it has all led to this. Your hips moving against his, connected in a way you've never been before; if it were possible to read his thoughts, you think you could at this moment, because they must be a mirror of your own.

"I love you," You whisper. Yoongi's warmth presses against your spine as he slides a finger between the two of you to rub slow circles into your clit, and you gasp. "I love you, Hobi, so much." The words are a mantra on your lips, and you think there may be tears in his eyes but you can't be sure because you're coming again, shuddering on top of him, and Yoongi is gently pulling you off.

Hands turn you, and now it's Yoongi between your legs, cock red and throbbing where it sits against his stomach. He isn't as long as Hoseok, but he's wider, and you clench again at the sight.

Yoongi opens his mouth to say something, but you stop him with a soft kiss pressed against the corner of his mouth. You slide down onto him, welcoming the slight burn that comes with the stretch. It takes two breaths for you to become impatient and begin to move, grinding your hips down against his. Yoongi isn't as loud as Hoseok, soft pants and whines where Hobi is echoing moans and groans, but it's just as attractive. He moves his hips in tandem with yours, and the muses themselves couldn't have created a better rhythm. The words fall from your lips again; it's easier, now that you've said them to someone, to let them go. They don't ball in your throat, aren't a lump to swallow down anymore, and you revel in the feeling.

"I love you," Yoongi returns, thumbs ghosting over the skin of your thighs. "So much, both of you. Saved me, can't fucking...fuck, can't tell you enough." You nod and loose another moan when Hoseok slides a finger in alongside Yoongi's cock.

"Do you think she can take us both, my flower?" Hoseok asks. His voice is raspy in your ear and you shudder as you orgasm again. There's a moment when you wonder just how many times you can come from the two of them, but it's gone the second Yoongi speaks.

"I think she could," Yoongi responds. "She's certainly wet enough. Absolutely soaked, aren't you, my queen? Do you want that? Both of us in here, filling you up?" He punctuates every word with another thrust of his hips and you nod. You don't think you've ever wanted anything more.

Hoseok is careful as he fingers you, working you open with one, then two, then three fingers as Yoongi slides in and out. You'd commend them both on their stamina if you could spare a single thought to anything but the feeling of them. Yoongi looks wrecked, covered in sweat with swollen lips, panting and desperate as he writhes beneath you.

When Hoseok finally decides you're ready, he slides his fingers out and asks you again if you're sure. You barely have the presence of mind to nod, too close to coming again, but it's enough for him. He slides in, and all three of you are moaning. You can't be sure what it feels like for them, but you're in absolute bliss. Hoseok peppers your shoulder with chaste kisses, murmuring encouragement as he sinks deeper inside. His cock drags against your walls and Yoongi's dick, and the thought makes you clench around them both. You're so full, you may explode, but it's perfection. When Hoseok bottoms out inside of you, you're all still for a while, just getting used to it.

"You're perfect," Hoseok whispers into your skin. "Both of you, you're both fucking perfect. Fuck, can I-?"

"Yes," You interrupt. You're already grinding down onto them, desperate for any kind of friction. "Please, Hobi." He grunts as he starts to move, and Yoongi does the same. They get a steady rhythm after a while, one sinking in as deep as he could get as the other drags outward, only to slam back in at the last second.

A sob builds in your throat, the sheer pleasure rolling through your body too much to handle as orgasm after orgasm slammed into you. There are hands everywhere, two on your hips keeping you steady, two roaming your body and teasing your nipples, on one Hoseok's neck to keep him close as another rests lightly against Yoongi's throat. You aren't sure which are yours, can't tell where you end and they begin, too fucked out to be able to think beyond the drag of their cocks against your walls and the growing ache inside you.

"Please," You gasp. "Please, need it. Fill me, please, need you both to fill me, make me yours, forever. Mark me. I'm yours, always, please, fill me with you." They both groan at that, and their pace speeds up. They're hitting harder and deeper and brushing against the spot inside of you that makes your vision turn white. Something gushes down your thighs as you spasm around them wildly, hips jerking of their own accord, and you feel it as they come together, hot seed spilling inside of you as you ride out your highs together.

You're panting and sweaty and hot and still, you don't think you'd trade this for even a moment of sunlight. They slide out of you and their cum seeps down your legs before you can stop it. You fall to the bed beside Yoongi, chest heaving even as he wraps you in his arms. A wave of your hand creates a small fan near the bed, shadows churning out cool air that feels like ambrosia on your skin.

Hoseok reappears with water for you both, and you thank him. Your voice is nearly gone, but it's worth it, you think. You pat the space beside you and Hoseok climbs in. His skin is hot against yours; the three of you are essentially a furnace at the moment, but you can't bring yourself to care. You can't count how many orgasms you had or how long you spent with them; it could have been minutes or hours or even days. It doesn't matter to you, really. Sprawled between an already-sleeping Yoongi and a Hoseok that's tracing invisible designs onto your skin, you have everything you could ever want.

Later you sit atop the shadows near your bed, chin in your hand as you admire the card between your fingers. Yoongi and Hoseok are wrapped around each other in your bed, lightly snoring as the sheets rise and fall against their naked chests. As you watch them, Hoseok’s brow furrows and he lazily stretches his arm to pat against the bed in search of you. He snuffles a little, and Yoongi nuzzles deeper into the crook of his neck until they’re both quiet again.

Silver foil glints in the light and you look back at the card in your hand. There’s a stack a hundred high beside you, all of them identical to the next save for the curling letters that make up the recipients, but this one is special. This one is your favorite. If you didn’t absolutely have to send it off, you would frame it and hang it above your throne; ultimately, though, you’d rather bask in the aftermath that’s sure to come.

With a small smile, you set it atop the others and wrap the bit of twine around them all. It’s gone with a wave of your hand, no doubt appearing wherever Hermes is. You wish you could see the look on his face when he realizes what they are, but he’s not the one that you really wish you could watch.

The raspy call of your name brings you back to the present, and you look up to find Yoongi watching you, lids heavy with sleep and eyes dark. “What are you doing?” He asks.

“Nothing.” You grin and stand, letting the shadows underneath you fall away. “Just sending out a quick notice.” You slide in beside him and Hobi, the latter still asleep but turning to wrap his arms around you nonetheless. Yoongi presses kisses to your knuckles and you pull a stray flower petal from his hair.

“You’re gloating, aren’t you?” He mutters. There’s a smile behind his eyes, and it warms you.

“Maybe a bit.” You lean over and kiss him, gentle and tender and you hope that it conveys everything you can’t put into words. “Would you rather I didn’t?”

“No,” Yoongi answers after a long pause in which he moves to straddle Hoseok’s hips in order to get close enough to suck marks into your neck. His lips are slow against your skin, tired and lazy from sleep. “I think I enjoy this side of you, actually.” “I, for one, am very much enjoying this side of you.” You grin at Hoseok’s words, smiling down at him. He’s half-hard again, hands resting lightly on Yoongi’s hips and eyes fixed on the bruises that bloom on your neck. “I thought we were sleeping.”

“We were,” You tell him. “You can always go back to sleep if you want.”

“You wish,” He mutters. Yoongi groans against your neck and you look down to see Hoseok palming him, working him up to fullness as Yoongi fucks into his hand. You wrap one of your own around Hoseok and return the favor; the way his moan echoes through the room is better than anything the nine muses could have created.

It’s slow and tired, each of you already spent from your earlier activities, but when you eventually drop between them, chests heaving from your orgasms and already half-asleep again, you think it’s worth it.

When you wake later and find a card sitting on the flower-woven throne - a new addition to the hall, one most welcome - crumpled and half-torn with a thorn sticking out of it, you know it’s worth it.

[juazz5ever]

“cp” problem in art

i wanted to address this topic a long time ago but never dared to bc of the backlash i might get...

we all know how problematic this topic is in the art community and is still very controversial today... about drawing “cp”. I put it in quote bc i do not label that art as such, simply bc it is not. if i ask: is drawing minors having sex morally wrong ? ppl wouldnt think twice and say yes but let me reword it: how it drawing minors having sex morally wrong ? its not. here’s why (and before anyone tries to shame me, i did live csa and i dont need to prove it)

the reason why art like that would make someone uncomfortable is bc of the character’s “ages” and/or appearances. art is very subjective, so from a style to another, its hard to tell what looks like an adult and what doesnt (look at bnha style its very simple and moe) but also, basing only on the character’s look is just...wrong, petite women dont get to choose to look like this, when someone is dating a petite women, they dont get called a pedo (and if you do, you’re shaming that women.. congrats,, they dont like being treated like a child bc they fucking arent) 

for the character’s age, it would make more sense... but also not. the author get to pick the age, so they can pick whatever they want no matter what the character looks like, so even if they look 10 (bc of their style) they can say they’re 40.. so they get a pass ????? makes no sense. aging up characters is just an excuse for ppl to not be bashed for making such art, but they really dont need to bc.. it doesnt change a thing?? (eg giorno is apparently 15, is rippied as fuck, he joins a mafia gang, kills people, become the fucking boss, and ppl will only shit on artists who make art of him fucking... really ?)

so if the appearance and the age dont explain it, what makes “cp” art “problematic” ? csa/cp is problematic bc not only it involves irl children/minors, there is a difference of power (inequality). that’s the real problem. why do you think we put laws about it and tell teens “dont date ppl too old for you, you dont know what they want from you” is bc one will abuse their power on the other. ppl who live csa are traumatized and will never live the same.. but fictional characters fucking dont. so when you draw two teen having sex or a big age gap, this art is not traumatizing or ruining anyone’s life 

it’s just like murder/violence and all sensitive topics used in medias, in a game you kill ppl and even if its bad, you dont say anything.. why ? bc you know it’s not real, you know it dosent involve real people, bc your brain can do the difference between fiction and reality. while yes fiction does affect reality, art like this doesnt hurt any kid nor send any message that cp is okay

this leads me to my another point, i dont remember the article (and i hope it’s not true bc otherwise, its pretty fucking sad) is the ppl trying to report artists about this, this not only bothers/hides the real cases going on, its actually hurting kids who are actually abused bc they will think you wanna file a false report of rick and morty porn art

also treating that kind of art is trivializing the issue. “actually, the art itself is trivializing the issue” no no, the ppl who treats it as real cp are trivializing it bc you’re telling me that few lines/colours on a screen is the fucking same as a child being traumatized/abused for the rest of their life. yes it’s just a fucking drawing dont compare it to someone’s life/trauma

i know there seems to be a lot of grey areas (and yes there is) but art like shota or very realistic.. well they all get a pass bc, its still just art, but i do admit i dont like shota, at all, but i rather let this pass than real cp. BUT for irl ppl that are minor, what is wrong with you? dont ever portray an irl minor in a sexual way, they are kids/teens and you view them as lewd material, you really need help

also you should never judge someone about that bc for a lot of ppl, art like this is their coping mechanism for their csa/other trauma, and you shaming them doesnt help at all. im not saying all coping mechanism are inherently good, but this one is harmless and you bashing them only makes things worse...

i dont think i pointed out everything about that issue, but im open for other opinions.

ill conclude with that, im not telling people to draw that kind of art, im asking for people to stop cancelling and calling out artist “pedo’ over something so stupid (yall made the word pedo so... trivial) but it’s ok to dislike the art, you can hate it, it’s fine, just dont police around

you gatekeepers are the problem.

[deathboundinautumn]

The LoL AU

The sprawling and constantly expanding world of Runeterra is home to many remarkable figures.  Why not add one more?

Character Stats:

Name: Shinjiro Aragaki Age: 25 Birthplace: Tevasa, Ionia Status: Wanted by the Kinkou Order and the Navori Brotherhood Condition: Tormented by the Azakana dubbed ‘Castor’

Background (This is by far the most in-depth AU I’ve ever written so you can pretty much get by with the stats above if you don’t want to read the whole thing):

A native of the First Lands, Shinjiro Aragaki was born at the footholds of the mountain in a small town called Tevasa.  Shortly after his birth the small village was struck by tragedy.  Inexplicably, villagers would just up and leave their homes randomly throughout the day and never return.  Search parties were sent but were quickly stopped when party members would also go missing.  Several children were orphaned in the process, including Shinji.  

Though it was never said, many of the villagers that remained often blamed the recent newborns for the disappearance of the villagers.  It was believed that some lives were to be returned to the land as new ones began, to maintain balance.  Regardless of the teachings, these children were looked down upon and only cared for in the most basic of ways, ensuring that none went hungry and all had a home.

Despite receiving little support from the adults in his village, Shinjiro found solace in his fellow orphans who were largely given free reign over what they did once their daily chores were completed.  Though he never knew his parents, Shinji never felt without family.  For as long as he could remember he’d been best friends with two other orphans Asheru and Mi’rai-Ey, together the three formed their own family growing closer than most blood siblings in the village. 

Everyone lost something during the Noxian Invasion and Shinji is no exception.  When invaders came to Tevasa Shinji, Asheru and Mi’rai-Ey took up arms alongside the rest of the villagers to defend their home.  Amidst the chaos the trio became separated.  Asheru, always too eager to get in the thick of the fight, rushed towards the invaders leaving Mi’rai-Ey and Shinji.  Though the villagers fought valiantly it was clear from the beginning that they’d be no match for the Noxian invaders.  They were a rural farming town, armed with only the most rudimentary farming tools against an enemy brandishing superior steel and tactics.  

Many lives were lost that day, none more significant to Shinjiro than Mi’rai-Ey who died in his arms after an arrow struck her in the heart.  

“Take care of him.  He’s always been a cry baby,” she chokes while a shaky hand reaches for his own. His tight grip around her hand gives her just enough of a second wind to refocus her gaze as she whispers to him “It’s not your fault,” before succumbing to her wounds.

Having lost his sister and fearing the worst for his brother Shinji welcomed death openly.  But death never came.  The battle should have ended with the razing of Tevasa, its inhabitants either killed or enslaved, but it didn’t.

Miraculously, the Noxian Invaders were halted by a single figure emerging from the nearby forest who’s powerful magic completely outclassed the invaders most well-trained soldiers.  Shinjiro looked on, a mix of both awe and horror painting his visage as this wild feral woman with nine long white tails ripped the life essence from Noxian soldiers, seemingly growing more and more powerful with each felled enemy till the remaining troops fled.  Tevasa would later attribute their victory to the powerful ancient Ionian fox spirit the Gatekeeper and would erect a shrine.

In the aftermath Shinjiro was overjoyed to see that Asheru had survived the battle but elation quickly turned to grief as he broke the news that Mi’rai-Ey, their sister, had been killed in the battle.  Together they mourned and remembered their fallen kin and tried their best to move forward.  Overtime it quickly became apparent that, without her, their family was falling apart.  Shinjiro feeling responsible for not being able to protect her and  Asheru growing more and more bitter as news of the war came in.  Asheru never blamed Shinji for Mi’rai-Ey’s death but as time passed the boy could no longer sit in their village while invaders ransacked their home.

“I’m going to get stronger,” he says, “strong enough to protect the people I care about.”  

Shortly after Mi’rai-Ey’s death Asheru left Tevasa to join the growing Navori brotherhood leaving Shinji alone.

Shinji spent most of his time tending to Mi’rai-Ey’s garden; their last moments burned in his mind.  It was his fault.  He could have done something, anything.  It should’ve been him...

A year or so passes and the guilt is too much to bear.  Too long has he spent sleeping in the same hut he once shared with his family, their things remain largely untouched save for the occasional dusting.  Privately he entrusts Mi’rai-Ey’s garden to one of the elders before leaving Tevasa in the late evening.  

With the loss of his family and now his self-imposed exile, Shinjiro spends his life as a vagrant.  Shinjiro keeps mostly to himself, rarely traveling with others unless absolutely necessary.  Despite traveling alone and largely camping outside of settlements, the teen can’t help but hear words of affirmation whispered on the wind that passes through the trees.

‘it’s your fault’ ‘you deserve to be alone’ ‘you could have saved her’

Every waking moment is plagued by these thoughts until it becomes so regular it barely bothers him at all.  The only time he can seem to quiet his mind is in sleep and eventually that respite is soon taken as nightmares poison his dreams.  Though every nightmare is different the malformed, twisted humanoid creatures in them remain the same until one nightmare he is no longer tortured by three but one: A pale rider impaled on his own sword riding a one legged horse that hunts him relentlessly.

 The vagrant would wake in the middle of the night in a cold sweat gasping for air and clawing at his chest.  After a while the waking and dreaming world often blur together, making him question which was which.

After two years of wandering and torment both in the waking world and dreaming Shinjiro is ambushed by a group of bandits.  Despite fighting valiantly, incapacitating three of the eight, their numbers are overwhelming and they beat the vagrant within an inch of his life.  As the would-be killing blow comes down the teen collapses to the ground writhing in agony.  Its as if thousands of needles are piercing his brain all at once.  A familiar haunting whinny cuts through the blood pounding in his ears and the apparition of the pale rider can be seen through swimming vision.

He looks on in horror as the horseman charges forward impaling one bandit on the horses’ head-spike while the rider cleaves through another two.  Smoldering eyes burning crimson with hatred turn to the remaining two bandits that have started to flee in terror. With a sharp tug on the reigns, the horse leaps high into the air and as it begins its descent Shinji can’t bear to watch any longer.  Though his eyes are shut tight the weakening cries of agony and sickening crunch he hears over and over are more than enough to paint a clear picture in his mind.

 Eyes are forced open when he feels two large hands tightly wrapped around his neck lifting him into the air.  The pale rider’s.

“You’ll die when We say so”

Shinji wakes with a scream in the middle of the night next to the dying embers of a campfire nowhere near where the supposed mugging took place.  Was it all a dream?  He could have sworn it was real.  It all felt so real.  Yet where there should be cuts and bruises from the mugging he finds nothing.  As time passes, Shinji goes without another incident as severe and just assumes it was a one-off.

At the age of twenty, Shinjiro encountered a Kinkou Acolyte, Selune, who immediately recognizes that something isn’t right inside the vagabond.  Shinjiro’s Essence is being strangled and poisoned by a large amount of dark spiritual energy unlike anything she’s ever seen before.  Upon hearing this and desperate for some respite, Shinji discloses what he’s been experiencing since leaving Tevasa four years ago and the two decide to travel together to learn more about why this dark spirit energy hangs so heavily around him.

After a few weeks of observation Selune gathers that Shinji’s spirit is occasionally being pulled into the spirit realm while he’s sleeping and the things he’s been experiencing in his “dreams” are what’s ripping apart his soul.  She informs him that if this continues his soul will diminish until there’s nothing left, killing him.

As weeks turn to months the two grow close despite Shinjiro’s best efforts to remain acquaintances and after three months of travel he warily (and never to her face) considers her a friend.  During this time, Selune formulates a plan to sever the dark spirit energy from Shinjiro’s soul via a ritual involving her Spirit Blade and after a few days of preparation the day long ritual begins.  

Neither of them are prepared for what would happened. 

The first few hours go well, Shinji feeling a great deal of weight being lifted from his heart.  However, six hours into the ritual Shinjiro begins to break out in a cold sweat.  The blood in his veins like fire,  heart racing as breaths get shorter and shorter before the pain becomes so excruciating that he cries out in agony.

As he writhes on the ground in the sealing circle the outline of the pale rider that’s plagued his nightmares begins to manifest.  Selune looks on in shock that quickly turns to terror as realization dawns on her that what’s tethered to Shinjiro’s soul isn’t just dark spiritual energy from the spirit realm, its a full on demon and it’s powerful.

In an attempt to sever its connection to Shinjiro, Selune takes her spirit blade and plunges it deep into Shinji’s chest.  This only further enrages the demon and it is only then that she realizes just how powerful the demon really is.  It’s had five years to fester deep within is his soul and was now, finally, powerful enough to interact regularly with the physical realm.

Shinji chokes out a desperate cry for her to leave him as pain wracks his body leaving him incapacitated.   The last thing he sees before consciousness fails him is the demon pulling the sword from its own chest and charging at his new companion.

“Foolish boy.  You couldn’t save her either.”  

The low gravelly voice cuts through the unnatural silence rousing him from unconsciousness.  The demon looms over him, picking him up by his head and throwing him towards Selune’s lifeless body.  

“It’s your fault.  It’s ALWAYS your fault.  You made US.  Anytime somebody tries to take you from Us we will ALWAYS be there to stop it.  Your life is OURS,” the demon taunts before disappearing.

After a few hours recuperating from the ordeal, Shinji begins the difficult task of laying Selune to rest.  

He never should have involved her. She was dead because of him   

As he goes through her belongings he discovers her journal.  It’s contents contain the bulk of her research from the past few months of their travels.  From the journal he learns that he’s been playing host to numerous tiny demons, or Azakana, ever since the Noxian Invasion.  These demons have been feeding off his negative emotions for the past five years and the longer they’ve gone unchecked the stronger they’ve become.

Suddenly the nightmares and invasive thoughts he’s been hearing ever since the invasion make sense.   The whispers reinforcing his own guilt for not protecting Mi’rai-Ey, his unyielding sorrow at the loss of his friendship with Asheru and his own fulminating self-hatred.  Those feelings attracted separate Azakana and as time went on and how normal those feelings started to feel caused the three demons to become one; A conglomerate of his worst feelings made manifest and much more powerful together than any single one of them could have been alone.

As he continues to read her journal he learns that not much is known about exorcising these demons as they only started appearing after the Noxian Invasion.  She is able to assume however that, like all demons, an Azakana cannot be harmed by conventional means and only powerful magic or spirit weapons like her Spirit Blade are able to harm/ kill the demons.

Strangely enough after being fully recognized as real by Shinjiro, the demon begins to communicate more directly and when asked for a name it responds: Castor.  As the two talk Shinji learns that Castor emerges when Shinjiro is threatened  to ‘protect Their kill’ and even encourages Shinji to take Selune’s Spirit Blade to summon Castor on command.  When asked why Castor would encourage taking a weapon that could kill the Azakana, Castor responds 

“You’d never kill Us because We know this is the fate you deserve.” 

A few weeks after the death of Selune wanted posters issued by the Kinkou begin popping up in the territory searching for Shinji for the murder of a Kinkou Acolyte.  This gains the attention of the Navori Brotherhood who’ve been at odds with the Kinkou since the Noxian Invasion.  With eyes all over the countryside its only a few short months before he encounters his old friend, someone he hasn’t seen in years, Asheru.

Overjoyed at reuniting with his friend, the two spend their first night back together, drinking and reminiscing about their shared past but those feelings don’t last.  

“Join us.  We could use someone like you.  Someone with experience.  It’s not everyday someone kills a member of the Kinkou.”

Shinjiro walls up almost immediately, stating that Asheru has no idea what he’s talking about and that it’s much more complicated.  As their conversation turns to argument a deep sadness wells within his heart.  Asheru, his brother, was not the same boy who left Tevasa all those years ago.  

War had hardened his heart and Asheru’s quest for power had blinded him to the reality of what it was the Navori Brotherhood was really doing.  But Shinjiro witnessed it anytime he passed through towns, sometimes first hand.  The way members of the brotherhood would act more as thugs than protectors;  Collecting weekly taxes from those already struggling to get by for their ‘protection;’  The random beatings and ransacking of homes for ‘the cause;’  How they’d ‘borrow’ daughters and wives to ‘relieve stress.’  

He never would have believed it, but seeing Asheru now...was he like that too?  Realizing that Shinji would never join the Brotherhood, Asheru leaves Shinji with a few parting words that confirm Shinji’s worst fears 

“For the sake of our past I’m letting you walk away.  Can’t say the other members will do the same but if you stand in our way then I’ll see to it myself to hunt you down and kill you.  If you’re not with us then you’re against us.”

It’s been four years since he last saw Asheru.  Now twenty-four, the vagabond is wanted dead by the Navori Brotherhood, the Kinkou Order and Castor.  As time passes it grows harder and harder to resist Castor’s influence and it’s only a matter of time before he’s captured and executed by the Kinkou/Navori or he succumbs to Castor’s influence. 

[orenonahaichigoda]

I had a rough day, and came to a realisation. I will say a bit about my own experience, and then, after having to lay the groundwork of explaining 400 things about Japan because American schools and media think the whole world is the US, Western Europe, and places to blow up, making explaining necessary, will tie it to Ichigo, or at least how I portray him.

I'm Post Dankai Juniors, growing up in Japan. So's Kubo, actually. The boundaries of this Japanese generation are roughly '75 to '85, Yutori, the following generation that's always translated and localised as Millennial, pretty solidly set as beginning at '86. These things are always fuzzy because you can't vivisect living brains and find the part that likes char siu buns and the part that likes jazz fusion. I *majored* in Social Science. You'll have teachers who say "it is absolute that we date people who are similar to us because we're all actually narcists." (It *might* be because they're like our beloved family or community. Narcistic Personality is not universal) But it really just is fuzzy, and that teacher/book author is an idiot. Anyway, Yutori is always translated as Millennial. I don't know the end boundary. Post Dankai Juniors covers almost totally a debated throe for Germanic nations (I know Britain, Germany, and Nederland use the same generations as America, and their languages are Germanic) because of how fuzzy it all is, though.

Anyway, so since coming to the US, my interactions with other Asians, again, how is this defined when China, Mongolia, Japan all border Russia and West Asia includes Jordan and Saudi Arabia, South Asia is India's area, Southeast Asia is Laos, Thailand's area, I mean, find the Arabic kanji. I don't think Thailand even uses soy sauce. What the heck IS Asia, really? (Or "Middle East" when half of that's Africa and the other half shares plate with Europe? )

Anyway, my experience with Asians that are Boomer ages tends to be people who immigrated as adults, who more identity with a generation like "Dankai" or "Sirake." My experiences with Latinos older than me... I've never actually asked if the generational labels are even the same.

The thing about that is that when the name is the same, it means enough cultural traits are shared.

My biggest experience with people who grew up under the term "Boomer" are Black and white.

I've noticed a unifying trait.

If they're something oppressed (Black, gay), their attitude tends to be"it is mandatory to stand up for *my* demograph...but kicking the person behind me on the ladder in the teeth is wholesome, pure, and fun."

Outing me to large groups and saying I "speak Asian" seem to be the most common two. Calling me "Chinese" long after I've cleared this up for them is a close third.

I mean, don't get me wrong--my experience with Italian Americans past GI generation has been that now acquiring the "white" label, just like biphobic/aphobic/transphobic cisgays, they're more often staunch priveledge defenders than cishet people of Anglo descent! And it's just as true for X and Y as it is for Boomer (for the latter, one need only look at NYC destroyer and trump defender Giuliani) I actually don't really identify with my Italian side at all because I was kinda locked out of making any meaningful connection.

But back to my point that even in so-leftist-it's-almost-not-America Bay Area, Boomers are still like this!

The kind of stuff that flows out a X/Y TERF's mouth, or the mouth of an X/Y person with a Confederate flag on his wall, American-raised Boomers say with ease regardless of their alignment! It's banananas.

(Please note that I also just have not met a whole lot of Native Americans, period, nor enough people significantly older than me from any one place in Africa, that was an omission of lacking data, not intended as erasure)

How I tie it to Ichigo--

So Kubo avoids specifying birth years for anyone.

When I see something like this, I generally assume date of publication, as do most people in most fandoms (which of course gets screwy when you have something endlessly rebooted like Superman or Batman or something eternally unchanging like Detective Conan)

Anyway, the first Bleach something published was the comic in '01.

I generally assume it was supposed to be the start of a new school year, as Ichigo doesn't know many of his classmates until at least the first test scores come out. So it's probably April or something.

If Ichigo was 15 then, he'd also be Post Dankai Juniors, just barely. If Ichigo TURNED 15 shortly after, during his adventure, he'd be undebatably Millennial.

Now, there is still something up with Dankai and Sirake. PM Abe is the latter, b. 1954. A lot of his age-peers are behind him. This is the guy who supports remilitarisation and was caught funding a private militarist/fascist high(?) school that teaches that people from countries Japan conquered during its brief phase of trying to beat colonial Europe are less than dogs.

Now, I left there as a teen. Clinton was US president. Scandals still got people kicked out of public office in Japan. I hadn't figured or come out yet. Sure, I got bullied for being mixed, but kids will pick if you like different singers than the "cool" ones. They'll pick based on what's in your lunch. That data is sausage.

I'm not 100% sure what Ichigo would face day-to-day sociopolitically as he grew up/aged. I haven't had living family since'95 there, and friendships don't get deep enough to ever last distance until at least high school. For me, adulthood.

But I've kept/caught up enough (you try keeping up in the South before the internet was more than ten University sites!) that I know he'd face fascists (c'mon, the guy takes on a martial law government to save a new friend--that's anarchist, he just doesn't seem anarchist in his own world. He only fights humans in defence) I'm not sure how he'd feel about the JSDF, but he only fought the sinigami's war out of feeling like it was his responsibility because the adults around him kinda made it so. I super don't see him being for *starting* wars. In a human war, I see him actually being like Sugihara Chiune, a historical figure who died when I was a kid who I majorly admire. He worked at a Japanese embassy in Nazi territory, and when the embassy was evacuated,he continued throwing passports to Jewish people to go to Japan from the train he was departing on,and is hidden from Americans in the same spirit that Martin Luther King is...pulled the teeth out of. (PS, speaking of,go Google Steven Kiyosi Kuromiya)

Also, Ichigo's whole schtick is defending those worse off than him. He's not someone I see defending Yamato Japanese priveledge. Heck, I could see him joining Uchinanchu efforts to get Parliament and the US base to leave them alone. I can easily see him sticking up for a Filipino domestic worker he met thirty seconds ago.

To this end, I think regardless of what he is, he'd have a large rub with Japan's equivalents of Boomers.

Not to mention that Abe supporters tend to be very sexist and queerphobic, which isn't even homegrown but imported from Américanisation. I mean, there were female warriors--assasins, which is what Yoruichi and Soi-Fon are styled after, and go look at some Ukiyoe, like Utagawa Kitamaro. Quite a few artists in the 200-ish years of the Edo period depicted life in the queer districts. I've also had people posit that Noh might've been a welcoming draw for trans people the same way drag was all over the US in the twentieth century and still is in rural areas, where there's less cisgay gatekeeping. But this isn't something I can reasonably research without access to plenty of older and not well known dusty documents, and lots of time, and I live in the US many years now. And do you know how much round trip airfare alone is!? Also, the language changed so much and I can't read anything before Meiji without dropping words. Rukia, Byakuya, Yoruichi all have made for TV old-sounding Japanese like period dramas. Actual 18th Century Japanese would be unintelligible to the unspecialised.

So this stuff isn't really native, but Abe and a lot of people his age support all these -isms.

I super don't see Ichigo being happy about this.

(I also feel like Issin's old enough to remember before these -isms, but that's my own thing. In my project, he was in those districts, but that's me)

At the same time, I'm still writing this through my own lens. Also, not still being there, I just don't have enough data on Yutori in adulthood, or the grown Yutori lens. Honestly, even most other immigrants I meet are older than that. Or older than that and their adorable three year old children. So I have no clue.

In the early 2000s, I got myself from the South to CA and began to reconnect, but began to is the key phrase. I can tell you right now that Abe is as much of a second phase of Nakasone as trump is of Nakasone's buddy Regean. But what shifted when, I can't say. I'm not entirely sure how Koizumi ran the ship, as it were. I know some things, but not enough to say.

But whenever things shifted however, and whichever year Ichigo was born, I just cannot imagine him being any more on board with current events than really anyone in my area not born between 1946-1964 and raised in America.

I feel like he'd probably be too tired or self-effacing to fight for himself, but he'd take on, loud and proud, any bigotry against *others.*

I...also can't really say I'm much different, except my joints are held together by the power of wishes, so I'm more like "get the victim to safety" than "give the attacker plenty of regret." So, I can only do anything in limited ways.

Ichigo is also entirely fuelled by the power of love. Lost his ability to protect and feels like his sinigami friends ditched him? Mondo depressed, however much he wants no one to notice--which most do a great job of ignoring! Everyone in his world turned against him for a guy who has attacked people close to him? Terrified, and murder can now be an answer. (Fullbring Arc)

I was going somewhere with that. I've forgotten, but I'll leave it.

But anyway, I feel like he really only comes close to fighting for himself when others are taken away from him in a way that's also wronging them.

So yeah, I super don't see him happy with current events or Sirake gen.

I'm not sure how much I see him fighting for himself as mixed panromantic grey-ace. I mean, we know he fights people who are about to punch his face in for his looks, but what else can you reasonably do at that point? Get your head bashed in? I'm not sure how much I see him fighting hateful words pointed at him versus resigning himself to "people are the worst." I mean, when he talks about being picked on, he kinda seems resigned, or at least like it's a fact, like shoes being for outside or something.

I guess I tied it to Ichigo a lot better than I thought!

But also, the struggle against people born just after the war is not just you, and not just America. It's a major problem.

And it's likely that Ichigo would agree.

[jamlally]

Hung with care

This was written for the 25 days of Christmas Challenge that is hosted by  @panicfob .  The Day 23 Challenge prompt was Stockings over the fire place

Warnings: Fluff, hints of sex and a special guest appearance 

Pairing:  Tony Stark x OFC (Belle Porter)

Summary: There is a history behind almost every tradition 

“We’re missing a decoration” Belle called through from the living room 

“What” Tony called back from the bedroom where he was currently losing fight with the tie he had chosen.  Belle rolled her eyes before heading back in his direction.  She leant in the doorway fro a moment watching him get frustrated with the tie before moving in to help him 

“I said” she brushed his hands away. Smoothed down he tie and then started to fix the mess “We are missing a decoration.  An important one at that” She ran her hands down the rest of the tie smoothing it as she lined up the knot properly

“Really and what pray tell would that be?”

“The stockings were hung, by the chimney with care”

“Well baby we don’t need a chimney, and the burning of fossil fuels is ineffective and generally considered to be environmentally unsound”

“Not the chimney you ass hole” Belle gently slapped Tony on the chest getting a smile from him

“Look if you want more decorations then you should get what ever you want.  Honestly this is the most I’ve decorated up here - well ever”

“Well ok, I mean I guess maybe one of the others can come with me” Belle wast sure that Tony was really happy with her adding more but she knew she had to trust him

“Sounds like a plan, I trust you.  If you want to turn up here into something that looks like Christmas vomited its contents then you should do it. I mean I will be spending more time in the lab, but if that’s what you want then you should have it” Tony strode to the kitchen where he found a travel mug already filled and waiting for him 

“Tony that’s not how relationships work, there needs to be balance in all things, that includes the decorations”

Tony was mid swallow so held up his hand  “Thank you for the coffee. I understand what you were saying about balance but I want to work on that with the important things, not the Christmas decor”

Belle nodded “Ok I can accept that.  I will make sure that it doesn’t look like Christmas vomit” She moved over to kiss his cheek “Have a good meeting and I’ll see you later”

Belle took her time drinking her own coffee and checking the news for any updates that she would need to highlight before heading down to her office.  There was a pile of reports that needed analysis and categorizing before risk assessments could be undertaken.  Pulling her hair back from her face and tying it back into a ponytail she pulled out her seat and started with the first file

FRIDAY let Belle know when it was an hour before lunch so that she could take a brake and grab some water.  

“FRIDAY which members of the team are in the compound today”

“Everyone is currently out or booked in meetings until 3.30 when Captain Rogers will be free until 4.30 when he has a scheduled gym session”

Belle puffed out a breath “OK thanks. Can you let me know if that changes at all please”

“Of course.  Is there anything that I can help you with Snowflake?” Belle rolled her eyes at the AI’s use of her nickname

“No thanks - I guess I’ll just look online or head out myself”. Glancing back at the reports she squared her shoulders and went back to work.

Seeing as there was no one around Belle grabbed lunch from the canteen and brought it back to her desk.  Looking over the images on her web browser she thought about how else she could refine her search, she needed less glitter and something more adult and refined.

“It is interesting to me that even here on Midguard you still observe some of the same traditions from my home”

Belle gave a squeak of surpass as she spun her seat to find a large, dark skinned, gold eyed man staring at her.  Her breath caught in her throat.  How on earth had someone gotten this far into the compound.

“FRIDAY, initiate breach lockdown protocol “

The man stepped back his hands raised to shoulder height.  The learning lights blinked to red for a handful of seconds before going back to green

“What the fuck! FRIDAY initiate…”Belle didn’t get a chance to complete her command as a more familiar voice spoke over the top of her 

“My Lady Belle, there Is no need for alarm. We simply came to deliver Yule gifts”. Thor strode into the room, clapping the other man on the shoulder “Ah Heimdall I see you have met the wonderful Lady Belle.  She helped me learn a great deal about the customs here.  She is the one I told you about”

“Snowflake! Whats the problem, where are you, I’m going to head your way” Tonys voice burst through the speakers, the panic clear

“It’s fine Tony, Thor popped in and brought a friend, he just didn’t introduce him” She raised an eyebrow at the blond God who seemed largely unbothered

“Just a flying visit Stark, no need to worry” he chipped in 

“”Snowflake, I’m going to have FRIDA monitor things, any problems and I’ll be there in second.  You hear me ?”

“I hear you Tony, and thank you” the crackle of the speaker died and she knew that Tony had rung off but that his AI would be keeping an eye on her 

“My apologies Mr Heimdall was it?”

The tall man smiled.  He had, she thought, a nice smile, it was war and welcoming “Just Heimdall”

“Ok Heimdall.  You are a friend of Thor’s”

“He is a good friend and the gatekeeper of Asguard. He sees and knows all” Thor seemed very proud to know the man 

“Please sit” she gestured to the chairs she kept when some of the others came to visit in her office “So things are good at home?” 

“Oh yes, the people have liked many of the new ideas I brought back, the food and the snowballs especially”. 

“It was interesting to see how you all celebrate here, but it looks like some of the traditions you follow are as on Asguard” Heimdall’s voice rumbled deep and low

“Yes you said but I am afraid I don’t understand.  Would you be willing to share?” 

“Of course” the smile she received could have lit a room, Heimdall’s golden  eyes seemed to sparkle and his joy seemed so genuine that Belle was set right at ease

Leaning forward he pointed at the images of the stockings she had on her screen “Those look a lot like the boots that we have the children place out by their fires at Yule.  They would fill them with carrots, sugar or straw as an offering for Sleipnir  the mighty war horse of Odin.  He would be sustained by the kindness of the people.  Odin was a generous ruler and would reward his people for looking after the mighty beast and would fill the now empty shoes with candy and gifts”

Belle was sure her eyes were the size of saucers as Heimdall shared the information. “That sounds just like the tales that we have about Father Christmas!”  She settled in and began to tell them about the beliefs that earth people held, being sure to explain that Father Christmas did not in fact actually fill the stockings.  Heimdall had been delighted that in the Earth version of the tale, Father Christmas also received a treat 

“That would be something Odin would be most enchanted by.  Can you imagine” he looked at Thor “How full the old man would be at the end of the trip” 

Thor had roared with laughter and clapped the other man on the back “Indeed he would.  Mother would be most displeased”

“Why is it that you are looking at these fake boots?” Heimdall still seemed bemused by the fake part.  They had debated for some time was to why actual boots were not practical

“These are called stockings, like you would wear on your feet inside your boot.  I guess they are a cleaner prettier option.  I wanted to get a couple for Tony and I, but everything I have seen is too much”. Heimdall nodded in agreement

“You will give us a few moments and I will make sure you will have something far more fitting.  As a thank you for sharing more of your customs”

“Heimdall no! It was an honor to share traditions with you - this isn’t something you repay!”  Belle was mortified that he would think he had to 

“Perhaps payment is the wrong word.  A gift of thanks perhaps.  I have enjoyed our visit and perhaps at another time I could visit again and we could share more”

Belle nodded “I would love that”

“Excellent, I will look forward to it.  Now we will be back soon” He held up a hand “Remember my lady I am the seer and I have already seen you accepting” 

“I think you use that as an excuse to get your own way, but I will see you both soon”. She accepted a hug from Thor and an arm clasp from Heimdall, and then both men were gone as easily as they had appeared to start with.

Belle paid no attention to the time as she settled back into work quickly becoming absorbed. When she next sopped fro a break it was nearly four and she was surprised that the Asguardians had not been back. 

“FRIDAY where can I find Steve ?”

“Captain Rogers is currently in the gym.  Mr Stark also wanted me to let you know that he will be back by 6 this evening”

“Thanks FRIDAY - please direct any calls to me when I’m away” Belle left her office and headed to see Steve.  She was surprised to find him still dressed in his suit from earlier meetings that had been on his docket, usually he was out of it as soon as he was done

“Hey Belle, I heard you had some visitors today” 

Belle returned his smile “I did -  it was surprising but a lot of fun.  How did the meetings go?”

Steve shrugged “They were the same as always, long and resulting in me saying no I won’t do that.  Your visitors stopped by a few minutes ago - I was actually going to come and see you before I got changed.  There was some kind of issue coming up at home so they had to hurry back, but they left this for you” He turned and picked up an unassuming box handing it over.

Belle grinned at him before peaking into the box. Inside were two beautiful stockings, embroidered with gold, each with a small eight legged horse charm hung from them.  Taking the lid off fully she turned to show Steve who looked impressed

“Are those from….”

Belle nodded “I think so, they look handmade, and they feel like they’re made of some kind of soft pelt”

“You must have made a hell of an impression”. Belle just looked at him wide eyed “It’s a good thing Belle, relax”. He clasped her shoulder before moving to shrug out of his jacket

“I’ll let you get back to getting ready.  Thanks for holding these for me” She held up the box 

The stockings looked amazing in the lights of the Christmas tree hanging from the mantle above the gas fire.  Belle found it hard to look away from them.  She adjusted the belt on her gown and smoothed her hair. 

She heard the door open and the tap of Tony’s shoes, turning she greeted him with a smile

“Hey baby, FRIDAY and Steve said you had an interesting day.  Is everything good?”

“Yeah everything is great actually” She watched as Tony’s eyes scanned her body, his tongue coming-out to lick his lips 

“It certainly is”. His gaze moved to the mantle “Ah and this is your godly gift”. He moved to look more closely at the stockings his hand softly running over the “Now aren't they something special”

“They most certainly are” She agreed. 

Tony’s eyes were back on her “As stunning as they are they don't hold a candle to you” His  touch was as reverent when it ran down her arm.  His wonder was just as pronounced.  

“It seems that there is more than one type of stocking on display tonight, and these are my favorite type - silk”

Belle laughed as he pulled her into him lips claiming hers. 

Later that night a second pair of stockings graced the mantle

[rallis-fatalis]

The River Over

There are many things that separate people in life. From the intangible such as differing views, ideals, and rules, to the physical mountains overhead or oceans at your feet, it seems there's always some force at work striving to force people away. However, sometimes those forces inadvertently bring people together to become the best of friends or mend breaking bonds. Maybe it's fate. Or maybe it's Rallis tired of being told what to do.

"You will not continue running away from me!"

"Leave me alone, bookman!"

Rallis hissed at the royal librarian, Reldo, chasing her as she stomped through the Varrock dig site. The workers and students gawked as the two crashed through the site. Anyone who stood in Rallis' way was met with a furious snarl. She was tired of seeing people and their annoying faces.

"Rallis, you are acting childish!" Reldo scolded, trying to catch up to her. They had gotten into one of their usual arguments but this time it grew heated and Rallis had stormed off in anger, librarian hot on her heels.

"First you call me beast, now you call me child!"

"No I said you were acting like those things, not that you are them!

"Same thing!"

Rallis cornered herself at the shore of the dig site, the students panning for gold tucking tail and fleeing at the sight of the furious dragon. Reldo was thankful she had nowhere else to go. Hopefully they could talk now.

"Rallis, I am sorry I offended you, but even you have to see how you were acting was inexcusable! Problems are solved with words, not fangs and claws! We have rules that have to be followed."

"Rules, rules, rules!" She stomped in the sand angrily. "I'm tired of rules! I'm tired of the way all you fan-see humans treat me! Thinking you're better! Looking at me like I'm bad! Everyone in that stupid city wants me gone, so I'll be gone! Now you leave me alone!"

Reldo thought she had nowhere else to run. There was nothing behind her but the River Salve after all! But no, he was wrong. She did indeed have somewhere to go. Without warning, Rallis sprinted and dove into the water, making her way to the land on the other side. Reldo was in shock. She was so quick he didn't have a chance to catch her. "You--! Rallis you get back here right now!"

She paid him no mind, continuing to swim across. She was an incredibly fast swimmer, he had to admit.

"Rallis, come back!" he tried again. "It's not safe across the river! Morytania is dangerous! It's full of murderous beasts!"

"Oh then I bet I fit right in!" she shouted back and blew him a raspberry.

"Now you are acting like a brat! You come back here this instant!"

She ignored him and swam on. She vanished into the murky fog of the swamp across the river without another word. Reldo buried his face into his hands with a frustrated sigh. "What am I supposed to do now?" He whined by the shore as he thought of how to get her to come back, and silently hoped she would toddle home before he had to do anything.

_______________________________________________________

The sky grew darker the closer Rallis swam toward land. She looked up to see the sun shrouded behind thick greenish black clouds and layers of some kind of smelly fog. She hopped onto the first bit of land she could find and looked back. She could hardly see a few feet across the river.

'Huh. It didn't feel like I swam far.'

She figured it was the effects of the perpetual fog and moved on.

The new world Rallis found herself in was dark, green, and stinky. She gagged and covered her nose as an abrasive noxious smell clouded around her. Before her lay rotting trees, sticky weeds, pools of bubbling green ooze, and really really big snails. She couldn't remember ever setting foot in one, but something nagged in the back of her mind and produced the word 'swamp.' The earth beneath her feet was soft and squishy and Rallis giggled a she sank her toes into the soggy ground and pulled moss and weeds away with her claws. It was certainly fun to squish into. She ran off eager to explore, following the river north.

The gross stink of the swamp began to fade the farther north she went. She eventually reached a gate guarded by a terrified gatekeeper, a white haired man in plain brown robes. Rallis strode through with a smile and said hello. The gatekeeper jumped back with a yelp and rubbed his eyes.

"I must be seeing things!" he exclaimed. "It must be the swamp gas! Monsters like that don't live out there!" He rubbed his eyes once more and blinked to find Rallis still present and smiling. "Are you not an illusion?"

"That means something you can see but is fake, right?" she thought back to Reldo's vocabulary teaching. At the remembrance of the librarian, she hissed, angry to forget she was supposed to be mad at him for a moment. "No, I am not a fake sight! I am real! My name is Rallis and it's nice to meet you!"

He was shaking at her introduction, as if unsure she was someone to be trusted. He seemed a rather easily frightened individual. "What is the nature of your kind, monster?" he said as he shakily gripped his sickle. "Are you friend? Foe?"

Rallis scowled at the way he spoke. It was rather annoying and reminded her of what she was trying to run away from. "Friend, I guess? I'm just exploring. This is my first time in More-Eat... Moree...? Whatever this place is."

"Morytania," he corrected with a sigh of relief. "You must be from across the river then if this is your first time here." Rallis nodded. "Why anyone would willingly come here is beyond me, but welcome. This place is full of nothing but death and monsters. I'd watch your step if you're keen to 'explore.'"

"Well you called me a monster too so I'm sure I'll be fine. You don't happen to have a map or something, do you? I don't know where anything is."

"I do not but the nearest town is a short walk to the east. It is called Canifis. I'm sure you can find something like that there. Just be careful! Werewolves call the place home and they are brutally vicious!"

"Perfect! Thank you for the directions, Mister Gatekeeper!" She skipped toward the town with a giggle of excitement, completely unworried about his warning.

Canifis confused and wowed Rallis the moment she set foot into the town. She didn't know what a werewolf was, but she pictured some kind of wolf. Instead there was nothing but humans that smelled like dogs. Perhaps that was what werewolf meant? The conflicting sights and smells confused her, but the small town was otherwise very cool. There were many shops of interest, including a bar half the town seemed to call home for the day. Rallis was almost tempted to join them they seemed so happy, their howls of laughter bouncing all throughout the town. One shop Rallis poked her head into had stuffed creature heads mounted on the walls and skinned pelts on the floor as rugs. She paled and left immediately. There was a great deal of ruckus coming from the rooftops as a trio of children straddled long wooden sticks atop one of the roofs and tried leaping to the next rooftop nearby. The sticks floated for a while with magic, like a witch on a broom. Rallis clapped and cheered at the display, and the three bowed as they floated down to their next rooftop, giving each other high fives as they nailed the landing. An adult stomped out of their store to yell at them for causing a racket and the three ran off laughing. Rallis smiled. She already liked this place.

Asking around the town for a map netted her one. It was crude and torn and even a bit soggy, but it was better than nothing. The residents were even kind enough to offer her food, but she was done with the days of eating meat raw, and thus politely declined. Not a single person was scared or made fun of her appearance, most just eyeing her curiously as if they had never seen a dragon before. Considering how the humans across the river would scream or ready for a fight at the sight of her, this place was a nice change. Map in hand, Rallis happily pranced around the dark soggy wasteland to see everything she could.

The sky never seemed to grow darker or lighter here and so Rallis couldn't tell how long her adventure had been going on for. But with the excitement of all the new sights, she quickly stopped caring about the time. She passed a scary dark castle not far from the town, and followed the road to a farm that housed undead chickens and cows. She may have liked to eat chicken but even she wasn't going to ask for a bite of one of those. They were green and rotting and even a bit oozy. She came across some kind of glowing icon by the eastern coast. It was housed in its own building like some holy figure, but she couldn't ask for information. The place was run by ghosts and she didn't have her amulet to speak with them.

As Rallis skirted a town of ghosts she wasn't allowed in to, the road continued again. She was starting to get a bit tired from all the walking, repeated shooing away of the local fauna tiring her out as well, and as if the world could read her mind, a tavern came into view beside the road. Rallis wasn't one for drinking but a place to sit down away from all the aggressive leeches and other such beasts for a minute would be nice.

The tavern was a quaint cute place called the Ruby Harvest. Its sign was painted black and red and had a beautiful red butterfly carving after the name. Against the never-ending groggy green, the flash of red was a bright and welcome sight. Rallis walked in and looked around. It was simple inside, wooden tables to eat at and stools by a bar counter. Little red wooden butterflies fluttered on the wood and stone walls, scarce enough to be tasteful and not overbearing. It was rather dark inside, the occasional lantern hanging from the ceiling to light the way. There weren't many customers, just a pair of pale creatures that looked human but didn't smell it, and this time they didn't smell like dogs. Their red eyes glared at Rallis, making her wish she could shrink away into nothingness to avoid them. A woman of similar pale skin and red eyes stood behind a wooden counter, wiping it down. Her hair was just as bright red as her eyes and was tied back in a long ponytail that moved back and forth as she worked. She had on a white apron with many pouches and a few stains from the day's work. She finished her task and wrung the rag out and tucked it away.

"Welcome to the Ruby Harvest, foreigner."

She spoke well and had an air of formality despite being a waitress.

"I speak well for my position because of where I hail," the woman behind the counter told Rallis. "I am also not a waitress, I'm the owner. And no, I am not a mind reader."

"Whoa, are you a--? WHOA!!!" Rallis excitedly bounced over to the bar and hopped onto a stool in front of the woman. "You know what I'm thinking or gonna say before I do! That's so cool! Are you magic then?"

"Nothing of the sort. I've simply been around long enough to read people, foreign, human, or otherwise. What brings a foreigner to my humble restaurant?"

Rallis smirked. "Wanna guess?"

The woman thought for a moment. "Hmm... Running away from something, I believe. You needed some time to yourself and came here. You must have been desperate if Morytania is where you would flee to."

Rallis stopped bouncing on her stool and melted onto the counter. "Wow you are good."

The two customers grumbled and hissed at the noise Rallis was making as they stalked out of the bar. The owner looked like she wanted to hiss back. Instead she turned around and began to clean some dirty cups. "Do you not like them, Miss Red Lady?"

"Not particularly. All they ever do is loiter. Never once have they deigned to pay for my space and services. And my name is Elvira Grimro, but please just call me Grimro."

"Grimro... Nice to meet you! I'm Rallis!"

"Is there anything I can get you, Rallis? Wandering through Morytania is a tiring endeavor. I'm sure you must be hungry."

Rallis' tail wagged, making her wobble on the stool. "I would love something! What do you think is best?"

"Well, I pride myself in my fish dishes." Grimro glowed with a smile. "I would even dare say they are the best in the region. Though I suppose it isn't much of a competition around here..."

Rallis smiled. "I love fish! That sounds good! Sir-prize me! As long as it's not an eel."

Grimro nodded and headed off to what Rallis presumed was the kitchen, leaving the dragon to her devices. While she waited, she drew the route she had walked so far on her crude map and even drew in things she had seen along the way. She had grown so caught up in her drawings she hadn't noticed Grimro come out with food until the plate was in front of her nose. It was a grilled bass with lots of herbs and a lemon slice. The smell had her drooling in her lap.

"Whoa, that was fast!" Rallis pushed her tools aside and dug in.

"The singular joy of having a slow day." Grimro noticed the childish map and studied it. "I'm sure it wasn't as short a time as you were thinking. You seem to have been occupied by something, making it seem as such. I take it this is all you've explored?"

Rallis gave her a muffled yes, mouth full of food. "Oh my god this is so good. My compul... com-plum... The chef is good."

Grimro hid a smile. "The chef accepts your compliments. Always glad to see someone enjoy my cooking."

"You made it?! It is very good! So you do everything here? Are you alone?"

Grimro slid a glass of water Rallis' way, right before the dragon was about to ask for some. "I am. This was my venture and mine alone. This place used to be an abandoned hovel and I turned it into this. No one wished to join me, thinking it a pointless waste of time, and most around here don't like my kind anyway, even my own. No one would wish to join me and I'm perfectly content that way."

"Your kind?" Rallis questioned. "Aren't you human? Everyone seems to like humans."

Grimro eyed her curiously. "I used to be. I'm a vampyre now."

Rallis took another bite of the food. "What's a vampyre?"

Grimro stared at her, eyes wide. Was she playing some kind of joke? Even foreigners visiting Morytania knew what vampyres were and how to identify and stay away from them. Most people even walked around with Saradominist symbols or garlic in their pockets. Rallis began to wonder why she went so quiet.

"My apologies, the silence was rude of me. I've simply never met someone so... well, ill-informed as you. Vampyres rule this land as kings and queens do the river over. Most of them are foul heathens that cause needless suffering." She hissed and Rallis could see fangs, though they certainly weren't as long as her own.

"What makes them different from humans? You look like a human."

"There is quite a bit. We can not eat food or be near certain objects, the sun hurts quite a bit, and most of us do not age. Some of us can turn into other creatures as well. Most vampyres look human because they once were, like myself. Honestly, I'm still quite shocked you never heard of them before crossing the river."

Rallis shrugged. "No one really talks about this place in Varrock. All I hear is it's bad and full of monsters and it used to be good, or something. I think it's pretty cool here myself!"

Grimro snorted. "'Cool.' I think you mean cruel. I would kill to leave this place. Any of us would."

"Why don't you?"

"The river traps us here. It has been blessed and we can not cross it. If we try to, we'll die. And as you can see..." Grimro placed Rallis' empty plate behind the counter to be cleaned and brought the rough map over. "The river surrounds us on all crossable sides. Where the river is not, the sea is, and unfortunately I can not cross a sea either. This place has been my prison for countless years. I simply made my jail cell more tolerable."

"It's a prison across the river too," Rallis grumbled with a pout.

"Is that why you ran off?"

"Yeah... Over there, it feels like prison. All I get to do is stay put and get told everything I do wrong until humans tell me I'm good and take me somewhere else to do the same thing. All I do is listen to humans, do chores for humans, get yelled at by humans, get shut in rooms by humans, get in trouble because of humans. I hate it."

"It's not much different over here, though here if you do not listen, you die."

Rallis' ears drooped. "That's not good. They do that across the river too but only if you're really bad. Like killing good people bad. Or if you do something called tree-sun, I think. I still hate it though. Everyone across the river calls me a monster and sure enough the first human I met here called me the same thing! Sometimes I wish I never met humans and all their stupid rules and mean words."

"You're angry their ways do not allow you to be yourself, is that it?"

Rallis was startled at how dead-on she was. "Are you sure you don't read minds?"

"Vampyre mind reading is a false superstition," Grimro waved off. "Like I said, I'm simply good at reading people. Why don't you tell me what's so terrible about their rules? It seems you need to."

"I just don't like how everyone has to listen to some stuff old men in a castle decided was right, and how if you don't you get in trouble. I got tired of being yelled at for not listening, and I think I was right!" Rallis slammed her hand on the counter at that. "I got yelled at for helping someone! Because the way I did it was against the rules! I saw some man hurting a girl and making her cry and beating her so I stopped him. I bit his hand off so he couldn't punch her again, and then when he tried to cut me with a knife, I fought back. Defending myself! Defending the girl! But because she was his daughter and I almost killed him, I'm the one who gets in trouble!" She growled. "All those humans' stupid faces looking down at me like an evil beast, telling me I was bad and wrong and calling me a monster, saying I shouldn't get into family problems like that, calling me a...a savage! I had enough and ran."

"That does sound rough," Grimro sympathized. "It was a good thing to help the poor girl, but even you must realize there were better ways to handle the situation. Disarming or restraining him, for example. I have no doubt you believe what you did was right, and for the most part you were, but perhaps think the consequences through. And even though the incident has now passed, an apology and earnest explanation never hurts. It seems you have someone you need to make amends with."

Rallis pouted. "I guess... Where I'm from, we kill those who do such bad things. They should be happy I didn't do that this time. I just wish they'd see I tried to do something good. Even you did and you're a stranger! I just get so tired of everyone treating me like an animal and looking at me all scared and angry when I try to be good. I guess I could say sorry... You're right, I do have someone I'm angry with and don't wanna be." Rallis then began to blush in embarrassment. "Oh I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to dump my issues on you! That was rude."

"I don't mind, and you're certainly not the first to do so. Many come in here for food and stay for the therapy. My customers say I'm easy to open up and talk to."

"You do seem like you have lots of answers. You'd probably be fine over there. You seem smart and you don't look as scary as me. No one would yell at you like they do to me."

"If anyone learned of my origin, they would do a lot more than yell. I'm sure they would stake me on the spot," Grimro huffed. "But it's still preferable to being trapped here all my life. To travel and be free to do as I wish, I would accept all the risks across the river if it meant my freedom."

"Humans would really try to kill you?" Rallis whined. "But you don't seem bad."

"That's just how they are, and I can't blame them. My kind has done terrible things. I hope one day they change for the better, but I do not feel I am the one to cause such change. For now I remain trapped here and at the very least strive to make other people's lives a bit more safe and comfortable."

"I say you're doing a very good job at that!" Ready to pay, Rallis pulled out a rough pouch and began to dump the contents on the counter. There were some platinum tokens, gold pieces, and many runes. "Sorry I keep everything small in the same pouch. I really need to get a money pouch." She sorted the money from the runes and pushed the coin Grimro's way.

Grimro took a great interest in the runes. She had seen some before but in Morytania they were quite rare. The ones with what looked like a blue scale on them piqued her interest. She had never seen one like that before. It burned slightly when she touched it, thankfully not enough to leave a mark.

Rallis noticed her eyeing the runes. "You never seen a rune before?"

"I have, just not all the ones you have here. You can't easily get runes in Morytania. And magic seems to be a lost art here. At most, you will find vampyres using haemalchemy, blood magic and science. Even I know a bit of blood magic." She picked up the blue rune carefully. "What is this one?"

"That's a law rune. They're used for teleporting. Reldo always makes sure I have at least one teleport back to Varrock in case I get lost."

"So you mean this little stone could let you appear across the river in a moment?"

"As long as I also have these, yeah." She fished out some fire and air runes. "It's funny these are so new to you! I saw kids in Canifis using magic. Were they not using runes?"

"Likely not. Those learning magic there do so in a much different way. I suppose they hope to fly across the river on a broomstick. It won't work though." Grimro marveled at the runes. "But these might."

"Oh true! You could leave with these! You can have some then. I have enough to get home."

"You should really be more cautious about who you give these to over here," she warned, but took the runes nonetheless. "Most of us here are monsters who wish humanity's downfall."

"Do you?" Rallis asked innocently.

"No. I've nothing much personal against humans. I just want to leave."

Rallis believed her and decided on the only acceptable course of action. "Then I'll teach you how to leave!" she cheered. "If you can't cross the river though make sure you have a way back here just in case. I can give you as many runes as you want later so you can always leave again."

"Thank you, sincerely." She smiled and looked around her restaurant. "Perhaps I can find recipes over there and bring them back. I have always wanted to make this place a haven in this wasteland, and now I can. How wonderful it would be. I may not be able to give those trapped here freedom, but perhaps I can at least give them a taste of it."

"Yeah! You can try all kinds of food and bring it back!"

"Ah, actually I can't actually eat. Vampyres live off blood, not food. That's usually how my customers pay me as they have no money. I'll have to have someone else try my cooking."

"You eat blood?!" Rallis stuck out her tongue. "Gross! You're not gonna take mine, are you?"

Grimro chuckled. "No, you've more than paid your dues. And I only take if the customer allows it, unlike the others. Besides, your blood smells wrong. I'm sure I'd be sick, no offense."

Rallis didn't take it to heart. "Alright, since you've never done this before, I'll teach you. In order to teleport somewhere with runes, you have to have the correct type and know where you're going. You don't know where you're going." She flipped over her badly drawn map and began to draw Varrock square. "This is where you need to think of. It's a market with lots of shops and a pretty fountain in the middle." She drew every last stall and store and even the statues by the fountain. It all looked like a child's drawing with its scribbled nature and incorrect proportions. The dragon even rambled on with some stories about the place, describing everything in great detail. Those helped the vampyre paint a better picture than just the cartoonish drawings. Grimro hoped it was enough to visualize her destination.

"Just close your eyes and think where you wanna go and poof! You're there! Make sure you have everything you wanna take with you first!"

Grimro sprinted through a door behind the counter and Rallis could hear her run upstairs and rummage around. The vampyre certainly was eager to leave. In moments, she came back down with a pack of essentials including a way back to the restaurant that didn't require crossing the Salve.

"Ready?" Rallis asked, bouncing excitedly.

"More than."

"Then let's go!" Rallis cheered and held up her hand and the runes crumbled to dust. She was gone in a second. Grimro closed her eyes and tried to picture Varrock.

'Fountain, stalls, castle walls, statues, stray dogs...'

It was certainly hard imagining a place she had never been to before, but she tried with all her might. She could feel the runes crumble in her hand as she felt like she was thrown through the air though her body stayed put. A whirlwind of colors greeted her as she opened her eyes, swirling in a neon rainbow. Just as suddenly as the colors came, they vanished, replaced by the shadow of night. She was kneeling on stone, the sound of trickling water breaking the still silence of the quiet night.

"Oh wow it's late. I was gone for a while."

Grimro jolted up and nearly bumped into Rallis. The dragon smiled. "Welcome to Varrock."

The vampyre looked around in wonder, taking in every stone, every tree, everything from the dirt in the cracks between the stones to the glowing moon and wisps of clouds in the sky. It was all so immediately different. It didn't smell like death and swamp gas, there was no feeling of evil eyes staring at her from above, the floor wasn't stained with blood, and the sky was beautiful and clear. Being able to see all the stars in the sky and breathe in something other than the smell of death and decay was so simple yet so overwhelming.

While Grimro took everything in, Rallis nicked a paper from one of the stands and handed it over. "There's a map on here," she explained. "It only shows a little bit in every direction but it should at least help you decide where to go." She handed over a fistful of runes as well. "And these should get you back here a few times if you get lost. If you ever need more, plenty of shops sell runes."

The vampyre was still at a loss for words, barely able to mutter a thank you.

"Where you gonna go now?" Rallis asked as she rocked on her heels.

That seemed to give Grimro the ability to think and speak again. "I'm not sure. I suppose I just want to explore for now, see what catches my eye." She looked to the map. "Morytania is east of here, is it? Then I'll be heading west, as far away as I can get."

"Oooo good idea! And if you go super west, there's a fishing town called Catherby. I bet you can find tons of fish recipes there to try!"

"That sounds like a plan. Thank you for your help, Rallis. You've given me freedom at last. May you also find yours."

Rallis couldn't help herself. She hugged the vampyre tight. Not used to such interaction, the woman simply stood still and let the dragon do as she wished. "You're pretty great! I hope you have fun here. You better let me know when you go back to your restaurant! I wanna say hi again and hear about everything you did!"

"Alright," she smiled. "I'll be sure to have something new for you to try as well."

After some final goodbye wishes and luck, Grimro ran off, hoping to get on the road before any humans or the sun could stop her. Rallis was glad she made a new friend. She really liked Grimro even though she only knew her for a few hours. There was just something about her that made her happy and feel like she could trust her. And perhaps she wanted to find good in something humanity considered a monster, just as she knew she was good too despite humanity seeing her as a dragon willing to kill and only pretending to be tame. She slunk back into the royal library, hoping to hide under a desk and sleep. Unfortunately someone was camped out at said desk. Reldo was hunched over in his seat, a glass in his hand, a bottle on the table, and glasses slipping off his face. Rallis quietly came closer.

"That doesn't smell like tea."

"It's not." Reldo took a sip from his glass and set it down. "Needed something a bit stronger after today. Welcome back." He sounded grumpy and tired. His face was a little red too. "I almost expected you to be gone longer."

"I can leave again if you want."

"You know that's not what I meant, Rallis." He sighed deeply. "What a day... At least you look safe."

"Morytania was fine. Not dangerous. The monsters were nice to me and I even made a new friend. They didn't look at me like I was evil like everyone does here."

The librarian was ashamed at himself for being part of that everyone. He looked away for all of a minute when they were out for a walk some days ago, and once he turned around he found the dragon with her claws sunk into some stranger as she gnawed his hand off. That kind of violence wasn't something he was exactly used to, especially not from someone he knew. All the blood and screaming, it was feral and terrifying. She was feral and terrifying. Even still, he knew she was doing what she thought was right. But that still didn't save either of them, primarily him, from the bureaucratic headache that followed. It had been such a challenge to convince the King she hadn't gone mad and decided to kill everyone, and now a good few days later he was still getting his ear yelled off for the incident. It was frustrating to say the least. Though if he was honest, he was more frustrated at himself for slipping into the mindset everyone around him was starting to have since that day, thinking of her as just another monster that was simply trying to lower people's guards by walking and talking like them, only to kill them when they began to trust her. He knew she wasn't and he was mad he had ever thought such a thing.

"I know you're not evil, nor are you a monster. I'm sorry for treating you like one lately."

Rallis slid over and sat on the floor next to him, resting her head in his lap. "I'm sorry too. I'll try to be better. And I shouldn't have run off. What did you call it? Being a brat?"

Reldo snorted and pat her head. "Yes, a brat. I suppose everyone has been lately. Just promise me next time something like that happens, you'll think before you act. It'll save us both a headache." She may have been tired of the librarian yelling at her, but he was tired of the King himself yelling at him.

"Okay, I promise. I'll even do all the work tomorrow, no complains."

"Complaining," he corrected. "That sounds wonderful. If you still want to sleep under the desk, I'll leave in a moment." He tried to fill his glass again. "I just need some more of this before tomorrow starts."

Rallis stopped him before he could drink the rest of the bottle. "That's not good, bookman. Can't teach if you drink and wake up sick."

"I suppose you're right," he grumbled. "'Til tomorrow then. You do all your work and tell me how your adventure across the river was. I'd love to hear about this miraculous friend you managed to make in Morytania of all the cursed places. Afterward maybe we can even go out, get away from the city. How does that sound?"

"Very good!" Rallis chirped.

Rallis moved so he could leave and curled up under the desk. After the day's adventures, she was quite exhausted. She drifted off to sleep with a yawn, glad things were better with an old friend and happy with making a new one. Hopefully she wouldn't have to swim across a river and wander a swamp to find the advice she needed to mend a relationship again.

[zimboxl]

Jargon Tourettes

Top 10 Overused Jargon 2018*

Overused Jargon (OJ) tells us what the media savvy think is relevant, useful, and popular. In some ways jargon is a gatekeeper, a cliquish code to separate those who get it from those who don’t. My selection is indicative of general trends with a bias towards the African arts and development worlds. These words are not sacred, and they need to be satirized and tested so that they don't become enshrined, unconsidered, shallow symbols of in-group identification. Perhaps this can help to prevent the alienating and misleading effects jargon can have. Consider this a satirical vaccination against sophistry and let’s hope for a better tomorrow where cryptic condescension gives way to shared comprehension.

Innovation

The elder states-person, the OG of OJ. 'Innovation' has somehow managed to remain atop the charts in spite of becoming a caricature of itself over the years. It also feels like we've been innovating for decades now, we might be due for some consolidation and refinement. Innovation's longevity is a product of its flexibility (it can mean many things), its vapidity (it can mean nothing), and the novelty-chasing tech-centric culture du jour.

Eg. “The Innovation Initiative was initially based on the premise that all change is good. It later became The Department of Unexpected Consequences.”

Engagement

Whether it's measured in links clicked, or viewing time, engagement is usually a euphemism for 'keeping an audience's attention more deeply for longer periods of time'. There's nothing necessarily wrong with this in itself, any creator wants their work to be engaging. Unfortunately, truly valuable engagement is about quality of experience, not just stats. It also turns out that trolling, click-bait, bot-baes, and other tricks work just as well, if not better than creating compelling, meaningful content - assuming that pure statistical engagement is the goal here. Even eliciting hate and outrage in the audience is preferred to eliciting the dreaded indifference.

Eg. “Once middle-aged super-users started gouging their own eyes out the e-ghetto slum lords sought to maintain high levels of user engagement by injecting digital crack directly into user’s blood streams via a fleet of nano-drones.”

Unpack

It's not mansplaining if you preface your long-winded speech with, “let me just unpack that before we move on...”  Poetic allusions to heavy baggage give this bit of OJ an ironic edge. Have you ever felt burdened by verbose unpacking? I have.

Eg. “As the morning's first speaker, I unpacked the topic of discussion at such length the moderator had to stop me so we could break for lunch.”

Girl Child

A steady climber over the years. Indicative of gendered global SJW trends, the Girl Child™ is now the holy grail of target demographics and beneficiaries. The term is particularly popular in development circles where its feminist paternalistic slant strangely fits the industry-wide vestigial-colonial vibe. Besides, 'Starving African' just feels so 1900s.

Eg. “Emergency! The ship is sinking! All women, girl children, and gender-non-binary-human-meat-sacks may board the life rafts first! The rest of you can fuck off.”

Decolonization

An up and coming term with the potential to rise even further in the charts. Its ceiling depends mostly on whether or not it remains a trophy word spoken in seminars and galleries. If it matures into active programs that directly enact de-colonial agendas the word may have to share the stage with other relevant but unsexy terms like 'supply chains', 'resource redistribution', 'local staff', etc. It also has immense potential as a linguistic camouflage for bad art. Those who criticize 'de-colonial art' may easily be shamed and dismissed as colonists, apologists, or sympathizers. The thoughtful critical landscape is pretty thin so similar strategies may be applied with other identity-centric words to shield questionable work from honest criticism.

Eg. “The former farm invader liberator had diversified his portfolio to include decolonizing luxury resorts, one free vacation at a time.”

Afro-Futurism

This once exciting term is at risk of becoming nostalgic dross due to how much it's been bandied about in African arts circles. It's a victim of its own success. A tell-tale marker of when a term becomes OJ is that it inspires satire of a higher quality and awareness than sincere works.

Eg. “Afro-futurism enables us to imagine a future where our collective conscious, aka Wakanda, has morphed into a touch screen cell phone that purifies drinking water, and cures HIV.”

Beneficiary

If a heroine feeds a starving village and no one sees it, did they all just starve instead? There can be no benefactors without beneficiaries and they must be documented, preferably smiling in situ despite the squalor that surrounds them. As a citizen of a country where most adults are unemployed I'd argue that employed development professionals should also be counted among the so-called beneficiaries. There's no shame in getting paid if you do a good job.

Eg. “As I saw the tears of unrestrained joy flow from the beneficiaries' eyes I knew my genocidal ancestors' crimes had been forgiven in full. If anything, I'd earned some extra credit for future generations.”

Toxic Masculinity

The shortest way to describe a Tarantino movie. Some people seem to believe that all masculinity is toxic, but we unfortunately don't have a popular catch phrase for them yet. Many men try to camouflage themselves by borrowing the props, costumes, and behaviors of their perceived superiors, essentially flaunting their overseer's whip. You know it when you see it.

Eg. “The game show host gave Chloe a choice between experiencing an unspecified act of toxic masculinity and ingesting mercury; Chloe chose mercury.”

Curate

Curating used to happen in museums and galleries, ideal environments for  showing others you have better taste and ideas than the unwashed masses. Now it's everywhere. Seemingly overnight the jargoneers stopped simply 'choosing things to sell in their shops' and started 'curating bespoke collections for their boutiques'. It’s the same thing, but with bougie overtones.

Eg. “The fuel station manager curated a collection of limited edition off-white sequined jerrycans for his most discerning customers.”

Interactive

I know what this word means to me, but after being assaulted by many misuses, and making many concessions for the sake of conversation and civility, I no longer have a clue what it means to the general public. I do know that in digital art circles it signifies 'cool', 'cutting edge', and 'dynamic'. At worst I've seen it used to describe a fixed work that people looked at without influencing in any way.

Eg. “The curator  of 'The Bricks are Present' was puzzled when the audience didn't transform into pro-bono builders despite the presence of the interactive bricks in the space.”

Conversation

Habitually misused by talking heads who would have you believe their one-sided monologues somehow constitute a conversation.

Eg. “Popular Instagrammer @Philosothot69 had an ongoing conversation with her thirsty horde of male fans wherein she mused about being more than just her looks while they sent her flaming eggplant emojis and tagged their friends.”

Problematic

Increasingly just a trendy way to add an air of faux-academic objectivity to ones' personal opinions and preferences. A newb might say, 'I didn't like District 9', but a true OJ guzzler will declare that it was problematic. Like many such words its rise began sincerely within relevant contexts, but it has since been taken up cynically in other contexts. In a few years it may just be something glib people say about petty things in the ceaseless quest to sound woke.

Eg. “When eventually Phil voiced his critical opinions about the concept sketches for the mural, Kuda quickly shushed him, reminding him that, generous funding aside, his uppity whiteness was problematic. Thus Kuda attained her black belt in the dark arts of juggling feminism and racial politics.”

Triggered

Triggered once referred to panic attacks that traumatized war veterans suffered after hearing loud noises or other shocking stimuli. Originally rooted in early studies of Post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), or shell-shock as it was known then, triggered can now be trotted out to describe how you feel when someone is wearing the same outfit as you at the grocery shop.

Eg. Overzealous auto-correct and my aversion for proof-reading ruined my broadcasted Annual Christmas Party invitation message. I got so triggered I like literally died.

* by 10 I meant 13.

[beckytailweaver]

Coco thoughts lately

This is (mostly) in response to @anotherweepingwoman and This Post but also some other things in general I’ve been reading (and you will probably recognize it if you’ve read the same things). It’s separate here because I didn’t want to hijack other people or Great Wall of Text so badly again. XD I’ve tried to be coherent but this will likely drift around a lot! It’s a lot of thoughts all muddled into one space.

(Disclaimer: I only got to see Coco in theater once. For the rest I must resort to vid clips that may or may not decide to load on my slow internet, until I can buy the disc. It's a good exercise in my memory skills.)

Héctor is a liar, but oftentimes he's apologizing for his lies. When I go into my headcanon-framework for his background, these fibs that come out may be old habit from an orphaned childhood. If he was raised, say, in an orphanage by strict caretakers, it would have been to his advantage to know how to put on a good-little-boy face and say whatever was needed to divert attention or stay out of trouble. If he was more of a rangy little street rat type, then white lies would have been a stock part of his survival kit. I think this habit of evading the truth would have worn down a bit once he had a stable home with Imelda (and she would insist on teaching their daughter honesty), but after decades of desperation in the bottom of the afterlife he's definitely back to street rat mode.

Ernesto lies too, and we've seen where that went.  I don't think Héctor has ever lied in such a way that was meant to harm anyone. Little fibs to his advantage, a disguise here or a sparkly promise there; never damaging gossip or deliberately hurtful untruths or a promise that could get someone killed. But he is a liar, and anyone who's known him long would know that. (This might also explain why Imelda seems so eager to believe he'd run off and never come home, whether or not Ernesto told her anything. Héctor is slippery and she knows it, but she'd dared to hope he would not be dishonest to her.)

Héctor acts his age, largely, I think because you are sort of frozen the moment you die: You get a skeletal representation of your body at the moment of death, with some decorative additions to give you individuality and mark who you are. Skeletal children don't grow, the old are forever elderly. While the visual/physical form of the body is bones, there has to be some kind of force to animate them, to process what goes on around them. Invisibly, I think, a sort of ghostly/energy echo of the body remains, and part of that is the echo of a brain (how else could they think and remember things?) which for Héctor is an imprint of a 21-year-old brain with its not-quite-complete neurological maturity. While he can learn and gain experiences, the structure of that brain is still going to process things in a 21-year-old way. Experience can shape his thinking and grant him wisdom, but at his root he's still young in personality. (Young people can be tired, cynical, and hopeless too.)

Héctor is a father, but he has never been a parent to a child older than 3-4. (Young parents grow with their first kids and learn things!)  "Rubbing shoulders" with Miguel may just be the only way he knows how to interact with young boys older than his daughter was. He does seem to be comfortable around kids and isn't flustered by dealing with them, which makes me think he was around a lot of them growing up (orphanage?) or ended up being That Kid in their small town who is all the children's favorite bro. He is the fun, gentle sort of person that children flock to, so it's likely he would sing and play with the neighborhood kids even up into his marriage. He seems pretty active and playful himself (when not desperate or on the clock, but you still see flashes of it), despite the crippling of being Forgotten.

Miguel wasn't mimicking Héctor to mock him, but because he wanted to walk "like a skeleton" and his nearest, dearest example happened to have the Forgotten condition of loose bones and an awkward limp. Miguel will imitate his new cool big bro! But in this case, Héctor is so used to being mercilessly ridiculed for everything that he takes it poorly on reflex, without realizing (perhaps not until he stops and thinks about it later) that Miguel meant nothing bad by it. The shove in response isn't really that severe for the horseplay that young boys can get up to. (It wasn't a punch or a slap or a kick or a grab, which angry men are certainly capable of.) But it is reactive in a somewhat immature way, same as his snappish responses to the musicians later on.

He let out that grouchy "how come he didn't invite you?" comeback to Miguel in the rehearsal area, but Miguel wasn't hurt or upset by it.  Kid didn't even blink.  (It was a pretty legitimate question from Miguel, even!) But I think the subconscious drift into familial familiarity made it more like the kind of snark Miguel gets at home all the time and he doesn't even pause.  It's Rivera snark, it just happens, nobody's really injured by it, on to the next subject.  They may use it to cover up their soft spots, and they all know how to take it as well as dish it out. Miguel had the proper Rivera response as well: Let it go.  He didn't keep digging in or teasing on this.  He might react with disbelief to some of Héctor's statements about knowing a famous guy like De la Cruz, but that's because he's already recognized Héctor as a consummate embellisher and knows better than to believe every word from his mouth. He never uses the lack of party invitation as a weapon or even brings it up again.

Héctor's poor actions as an "adult and disciplinarian" after Poco Loco can be attributed to, yes, his mental youth, and also I think to those edges of desperation that crop up many, many times all night long. That desperation, knowing that tonight is probably his last, is a poor help to an already-impulsive young man's mind. It makes his Ready-Fire-Aim even worse. It short circuits a century's worth of wisdom and (after)life experience in favor of urgent, sometimes thoughtless rushing. Yes, he is very deeply concerned with himself and his photo right now; he can't help it. He's dying and he's desperate and he needs to do this now, and however much he likes Miguel this dumb kid is on a clock too and doesn't even know what's important here!  Despite that he's usually a nice guy I definitely don't think Héctor is a total pushover in personality.  That whole night prior to the cenote we're probably looking at the shortest his fuse has ever been. And he still manages to be in general kind and supportive to Miguel (who has been alternately delighting him and giving him hell all evening).

I have a somewhat different headcanon about Héctor watching Miguel's slow fading to bone over the course of the night. I think Miguel did discuss his time limit with Héctor during or just before the face painting early on, but initially Héctor is understandably more concerned with his own deadline. As he comes to know Miguel better, he cares more. But he also may forget now and then, in his own urgent situation, until a look over the kid's shoulder reminds him that two hourglasses are trickling down, not one.  And he does care, potentially a great deal: "Your life literally depends on you winning!" He didn't even mention the photo until after, when the family thing came up.

Genuine Héctor...definitely makes numerous appearances through the night. Most of his performance-art is for guards and gatekeepers, wheedling to people he needs to get past who might cut him some slack. Héctor being all super extra nice to Miguel during the face paint and explanation is definitely performance. He does a lot of performance with the Shantytown Crew, putting on a happy-go-lucky face. His Frida impersonations are absolutely performance, quite deliberately so!

However, Genuine Héctor comes out surprisingly fast around Miguel. The kid worms his way into a position of camaraderie pretty darn quick. Perhaps this is due to Héctor's loneliness making him open to someone who could be a real friend, or maybe it's genetic similarity gently drawing them to trust more easily. Most of the Genuine Héctor moments are in Miguel's proximity, possibly not only because the kid is the other leading character of the film; a lot of his genuine moments aren't just in proximity to Miguel, but in response to him.

Genuine Héctor generally doesn't come with the overbearing grins, theatrical body actions, or higher, wheedly tone of voice.  Genuine Héctor is in the casual questions, exasperated eye-rolls, short-tempered grumps, dramatic sighs, epic grouchface, snappy comebacks, freely teasing, warm encouragement, playful dance teaching, melancholy stillness, angry desperation, grieving rage, tearful hopelessness, clear relief. Those moments when Héctor is not keenly watching the people around him as targets he needs to con. (There's a difference in his gaze; keep your eye on it!)

Not all of his performance is negative or self-serving, either; sometimes it's just because a nervous kid needs a pick-me-up and Héctor can put on a smile for that.

Face painting scene—lots of performance, but some real warmth. Walking with Miguel, the shove—no performance, pure grumpy. Talking to Ceci—plenty of performance for deference, Ceci is a gatekeeper. Rehearsal studio—mostly genuine; no point in faking the musicians, they treat him like crap no matter what he does. Going down to Shantytown—performance, especially off the ledge! With Chicharron—started as performance, became genuine real fast. Trolley to the plaza—performance to get around truthtelling, but also to act encouraging. Waiting for a turn onstage—no performance until okayokayokay and he goes into another encouraging spiel.

Some of Héctor's best genuine moments are on the Poco Loco stage. Sure, he's performing, but that's genuine Héctor, not a performance. Not during the song. He's not watching the audience—he's watching Miguel. And then he's playing with him. There's no con in that music. That was all Héctor and Miguel having fun with each other.

Afterward, the argument...no performance. None. It's all very real exasperation and anger fueled by the same old desperation. The argument hurts both of them because it tastes like betrayal. ("I told you I needed to cross tonight!" "Well I told you it has to be De la Cruz!") They both pulled lies on each other (taste of your own medicine!) and ran face-first into a mirror.  Shortsighted demands and lack of explanation, and the whole thing goes down the drain.

As a kind person, we never see Héctor use force to get across the bridge.  He did not grab or physically coerce Miguel in any way to take his picture there; he used only words. Even when things came to a head and he was angrily trying to drag the kid back to his family, it was half-hearted at best (and no more than we've seen anyone in the Rivera family do with recalcitrant children) and Miguel slipped out of his grip in a heartbeat.  (Maybe he's getting too weak to hold on; maybe Miguel is too heavy for him to drag without lifting.) I'd bet money that Héctor has never threatened physical injury or actively harmed anyone in his pursuit of crossing; that he's never used a weapon or taken anyone hostage to try to force his way across. I doubt such things would even occur to him!  His entanglements with the crossing guards have all likely been evasions and brief tangles where he's trying to disengage. I'd wager that night that Ernesto is the first person he's actually attacked with intent to harm in a very, very long time—if ever.

One of the saddest things is how Héctor has been denied musical joy for so long.  "Stupid musical fantasy" is mainly because his turned out to be.  He's also lost perspective on this: To a child, these things are huge. Like, music is everything. Miguel has his family, but they're...in a way, background, they've always been there, and in his mind always will be.  He doesn't want to leave them for music, he wants to find a way back to them with music on his own terms.  Family should support you, but Riveras have made music into an all or nothing deal. (What would they have done, if the LoD journey hadn’t happened, if truth hadn't come out and Miguel refused to give up music? Would they have disowned him or otherwise banished him?)

Héctor likely had little or no family before the one he made for himself, and going back to them would not have meant giving up music altogether.  I think at the point of their argument, Héctor failed to realize (or had not been informed of) the position Miguel is in.  Héctor was giving up a fond dream of musical fame to go back to his small town family and find a local job he could do while continuing to play music for recreation and additional income.  It's really not the same as Miguel going back to (or being forced by curse conditions) an existence centered around a shoemaking family defined by its enforced silencing of music.  In that sense, Héctor was giving up fame and money (Ernesto's priorities), not music; Miguel would be losing music entirely, for the fame and money afforded by the Rivera shoe reputation.

It puts a different spin on their respective stories to think of it that way.  They both love their families and giving them up permanently isn't even part of the equation.  The real culprits/sacrifices here are wealth/reputation and music.  And before we get into "But Héctor left his family!" let's just pause: Héctor did not abandon his family, he went on a business trip!  He fully intended to return, and the fact that he didn't—sooner or later—is entirely due to Ernesto's choices.  It's incredibly sad that Ernesto decided to kill him, and equally as sad that Imelda was so eager/willing to believe that he would abandon them.  Poor guy just can't catch a break at any point in his life (or afterlife).

As a somewhat related postscript: I think it's a bit funny that people like to bring this up, since "Go for your dreams!" is a big motif in modern (especially American) society. We're pretty much expected to leave our families behind to achieve what we want. Big education, big job, big house, the spouse we desire, the city we want to live in, the generation gap we can't abide...basically the whole point (so far as I was told) is to grow up, move out, leave the old folks behind (call a few times a year, and visit on some holidays), and achieve our dreams no matter what.

What Héctor was doing—going on a business trip for a job or potential job—is absolutely nothing unusual to what goes on every day: People with spouses and children temporarily leave them to go on business trips, they go on military tour, they go on band/performance tours, they commute or move to another city for half the year for work...and this is considered normal. Not ideal, but pretty normal.  (Even when Héctor was alive, people would at times have to go far away to make money to send to their families.)  Maybe it wasn't favored in Héctor's time either, but I find it rather ironic that people give him hell over it now!

[deehollowaywrites]

If there’s a thing sports fans seem not so keen on, it’s the use of the word “fandom” to refer to their passions. Whoever heard of being in the Mets fandom? Fair enough–the word is a newer coinage, comes with all sorts of attendant baggage, reasonable and less so–but it’s easy shorthand, especially when you are a fan beneath the broad umbrella of a sport but without tendencies useful for identification. I can’t really say, for instance, that I’m a horseplayer. I very rarely play the horses, “playing” (betting) being considered the common denominator among racing enthusiasts and the form of participation most recognizable to the public.

(Sidebar: this came up in recent weeks, since the only press Thoroughbreds get in the US is middling-to-bad press. But Diana, you cry, didn’t some horse just do that thing horses try to do every year? Sure, but it’s only been two years since that thing happened last, which makes it less worthy of note or something.)

Coming from the arenas of Star Wars, comic books, and fantasy literature arms a person with certain expectations for engagement. Reams of thinkpieces have been written about how the Internet transformed human interaction, particularly that which relates to entertainment. Did you know there are dating apps based on a person’s favorite media? (You probably did; there’s a dating app for everything.) Put in the title of your favorite book and watch the possible matches stack up. Of course, this almost never works anywhere but on paper–a common interest in a band does not mean that I have more than a handful of positive interactions with strange men at metal concerts. Female fans of all kinds expect gatekeeping, derision, and calls to prove themselves, especially within fandoms that are perceived as male-centric. Don’t be hanging out on the paddock fence unless you’re ready to give your opinion of race five’s lineup on demand. Why would you be sitting at the bar with a form if you aren’t betting? Tell me why you belong here. Show your work.

How many Robins are there? Six, I say, bracing myself for the guy who manages to forget Carrie and Steph.

I really enjoy David Hill’s writing (and horseplayer analysis, as heard on the 6/2 episode of The Winners Circle). I love Alex Evers’ photography (and enthusiasm, and attention to jockeys, and the way he uses multiple exclamation points in every paragraph). My favorite racing!Twitter threads usually involve multiple participants talking about memories, or firsts: one of the delightful aspects of this sport is longevity, since there are many still-active participants, fans and photographers and trainers, who have an uncashed ticket from Secretariat’s Belmont sitting in their jewelry box at home. But the common thread, beyond the horses themselves, seems to be that very longevity… and to newbs, it’s an intimidating atmosphere. A person my age is a fan because their parents were, or grandparents, because someone took them to the track when they were seven years old, because they grew up that way. The industry side of racing is chockful of dynasties. Fathers and sons race horses together as trainer and jockey; riders marry each other; breeders’ and trainers’ children turn into analysts and bloodstock agents. Even the newer acolytes reminisce about the Preakness being on TV in the background of some family party when Rachel Alexandra won. There’s a world in which people just put on horse racing, even if only for the big days. Alien.

That Evers could be looking through a grandparent’s belongings and discover a commemorative scarf from the inaugural Breeders’ Cup is a baffling and beautiful and very foreign idea.

A Tweet that I can no longer find, of course, because the Devil rain down brimstone upon the ‘Things Your Friends Liked’ feature, talked about the rarity of queer people growing up in a queer family. The reality remains that, once teenage or adult, a queer person generally has to discover their own family, create a circle from scratch, find a community and a place for themselves within it. It’s probably not coincidental that fandom spaces, especially online, are a beehive of queer connection, media, and thought. Plenty of people, especially those of us in digital-native demographics, explore identities through media and fanworks before bringing those ideas home to ourselves. In this mode, being a late bloomer has done me no favors. I don’t really have queer friends outside of the Internet; I’ve never frequented a scene in any of the cities that I’ve lived in, because until recently I didn’t believe I had the right to be there. A woman at a queer mixer put on during a recent writing conference flirted with me and I didn’t know what to do–I had never been in a room where it could reasonably be assumed that I was not straight, because nobody else was either. The mental and social framework is not in place. I am, quantifiably, not queer enough.

One person among many spectators on the racetrack apron can reasonably be assumed to be a racing fan. A few questions may be enough to unveil them as faking.

How many tracks have you visited? Two. What’s your biggest win? $12.

Try explaining to someone with an uncashed Secretariat ticket how it is that you woke up one day changed. Try coming from the feminized side of fandom, transformation rather than curation, and encountering a strange gate with familiar keepers. Try loving a thing, and being told that you can hate it as long as you’re good at it; recall the concept of being good at enjoyment. Try immediate attraction to everything except the thing that matters, the fulcrum, the sport’s raison d’etre. Try watching, in real time, your heart expand to bursting, knowing that even this will be unconvincing. Impostor syndrome is all well and expected in the career realm, but what is it doing poisoning my downtime? There’s a strange wriggle of pleasure in being invited to offer picks for a big race day on a fansite. It compounds when my pick wins, and then I wince in advance of someone asking how much I scored. Is it cheating if you pore over the PPs and then don’t place the bet?

You playing Gulfstream, says that old guy in the bar at Tampa Bay–you know the one–barely a question because who isn’t playing Gulfstream? Who we picking for race four? Luis Saez on turf, I say. He’d been having a good winter, as you may recall. Twenty minutes later, the old-timer gets up: What, you not going to the window? You bet online?

I didn’t bet at all. I just like Luis Saez, and turf.

I will never be queer enough. My pain is not overt, my sexual history is not gay, my presence leaves no mark. If it’s indeed possible to be bad at liking a sport, I’m terrible at loving horse racing, with my $2 show bets on big weekends that offend the sensibilities of true believers. Oh, you had some grand explosion of self-discovery at the ripe old age of 28? Great, congratulations, you’re now The Gay Cousin at family reunions. Oh, you decided to get into sports, like a good American, and instead of going for a comfortable, obvious underdog--the Browns, perhaps--you picked a hidebound archaism in its probable death throes? Godspeed!

I couldn’t have planned this better if I tried.

[televisedbirdwatching]

A Picnic against Harbor Drive: Neighborhood Associations and the Fight Against Freeways

In his book “Portland in Three Centuries,” historian and PSU professor Carl Abbott writes: “On a summer day when the mountains and coast beckoned many Portlanders, 250 adults and 100 children spread their blankets and opened their coolers and baskets on a barren strip between four lanes of busy traffic on Front Avenue and an even busier four lanes on Harbor Drive.”

This postcard shows Front Street to the left, a grassy median, and Harbor Drive plus offramps. Steel Bridge in the background. From here.

The picnic took place on August 19th, 1969, organized by a fresh group of political activists. From the 1950’s through the 1970’s, traffic planners got a little highway crazy: a 1955 report by the Oregon Department of Transportation recommended the construction of 14 new freeways in the Portland Metro area. Even after Interstate 5 was constructed on the east side of the river, city planners wanted to expand Harbor Drive on the west side of the river, completely cutting off pedestrian access to the Willamette downtown.

Harbor drive no longer exists- today, we know of it as Tom McCall Waterfront Park. Though the park bears Governor McCall’s name, we can thank the efforts of a few civic-minded Portland families hosting a picnic on a busy median on a summer day. They called their group Riverfront for People.

Here’s a photo from one of the picnics. From here. 

The picnic was the first of a number of such demonstrations over the course of that summer. The protest was organized by Allison Belcher and her husband Bob. Allison said, “I was ironing clothes, as was the wont of females to do of that time and I heard on the radio that the Highway Commission was going to put this road right down through where the Oregon Journal property was along the river, so I called up Ira Keller [chairman of the Portland Development Commission—one of the city’s most powerful, mercurial figures] on the telephone and I said, ‘what are you doing, why are you doing this?’ He said, ‘You shouldn’t be bothered—you’re just a housewife.’” This quote and many of the other quotes from the RFP organizers come from an excellent interview conducted by Tim DuRoche, here). 

Allison started making phone calls, reaching out to people she had met through a shared interest in the upcoming 1970 City Council election. In the meantime, her husband Bob got in touch with his architect coworkers- folks interested in the historical preservation of west-side waterfront buildings and folks with a vision for a more vibrant Portland than the east side riverfront’s maze of concrete represented. 

This is an image from a 1932 planning report by Harland Bartholemew. Notice the riverfront green space on both sides of the river. During the war, the eastside riverfront would be lost to industrial uses and freeway I-5. Notice the “city beautiful” style buildings. City of Portland Archives. 

This gif from this bikeportland article shows ODOT’s proposal to widen I-5 along the eastbank of the river even further, creating a ridiculous overhang over the eastbank multi-use path. 

The picnic worked. The Riverfront for People organizers got the attention of Governor Tom McCall, who, even before the picnics, had spoken about his hope of creating a public greenspace along the waterfront. The alliance between the regular folks- the 350 people who showed up to have summer picnics on a highway median- and the political establishment built a powerful coalition able to resist the 1970’s hunger for more miles of concrete.

However, despite their new and powerful ally, Harbor Drive wouldn’t officially close until 1974. That’s five years of difficult political work to achieve their goal. This political work helped inspire a new generation of citizen leaders in Portland politics. Carl Abbott writes: “The process of neighborhood planning between 1957 and 1967 was as straightforward as its content. City Planning Commission reports make no reference to neighborhood groups or citizen involvement. They were prepared by city employees for their colleagues in city hall.” 

However, as part of the Harbor Drive campaign, Belcher and others began showing up to city hall meetings, demanding to have their opinions considered in the decisions that shape their city. Belcher said, “It was something new for Portland to go down to City Hall and testify—everything had always been run by these people who’d been in power for a long time and they didn’t discuss it with anyone. There really hadn’t been much change or access up to that point.” PSU professor Ernie Bonner notes that 120 people attended the January 14th, 1970 meeting of the State Highway Commission, where a closure date for Harbor Drive was officially set. 

Harbor Drive helped usher in a new era of citizen engagement in local issues. Allison and Bob Belcher protested alongside Vera Katz (namesake of the Eastside Riverfront Recreational path) and Gretchen and Steve Kafoury (Parents to commissioner Deborah, and longtime political officeholders themselves) to demand that the City Club of Portland allow women as members. Bob Belcher: “What began with Model Cities and then Neil Goldschmidt coming on to Council … was part of this something wonderful that was happening in Portland of that time. It was post-Kennedy—there was a huge energy in the air … there was a lot going on, all that turmoil in Vietnam, but there was an underlying current of all these things on a national level. …Our great virtue was the times energized us—it was a hopeful time. We were pretty outraged and we were young enough that we thought we could make a big noise about this.”

Their ‘young outrage,’ ability to build connections with establishment politicians like McCall, and savvy campaigns for councillors Anderson, McCready, and Goldschmidt would create the initial energy required to defeat the proposal for the Mt. Hood Freeway when it came up  in 1975, and would then help to divert the funds necessary to create the first branch of the MAX light rail line in the metro region. Activists were also successful in defeating a plan to build a 12-story parking garage on the site that is now Pioneer Courthouse Square.

A picture from the early days of the Marquam Bridge. Photo here. 

The west side of the city, with Harbor Drive. Look at all of that open space between the Standard Insurance Building on 5th and the riverfront! Photo Here. 

In 1973, councilman Goldschmidt became Mayor Goldschmidt, and created the Office of Neighborhood Associations. This plan helped formalize a pathway for democratic engagement in city politics. However, the neighborhood associations could be an institution that’s beginning to show its age. In 2019, Commissioner Chloe Eudaly picked a fight with the neighborhood associations in Portland. Quoting from this article in the WW, she argues “Eudaly says neighborhood associations too often represent white homeowners and exclude renters, people of color and immigrants. And, she says, they serve as gatekeepers who stand in the way of denser development and the construction of more affordable housing.”

Eudaly proposed an ordinance that would help bring new voices and interest groups to official budget, land use, and development discussions; discussions currently limited to the formally-recognized and geographically-based neighborhood groups. The WW notes “currently, six identity-based groups—including the Urban League, the Latino Network, and the Immigrant & Refugee Community Organization—receive funding,” but are not currently invited to participate in those discussions. Eudaly’s ordinance hoped to change that. 

2019’s Eudaly v. Neighborhood Association title fight portrayed the neighborhood associations as the white, home-owning, baby-boomer villains: a political vanguard keeping people with younger, fresher ideas out of the traditional channels of political access. These, of course, being the same villains who once organized to stop the expansion of two freeways, created a key downtown greenspace, forced the city to adopt a progressive view of transit planning, and helped establish systems for democratic engagement in city government.

The Portland west side waterfront today. Photo. 

In his interview with the Belchers, DuRoche asked “if we were in danger of becoming complacent or resting too much on the laurels of past successes —and forgetting how to organize and coalesce around neighborhood, regional issues—I was greeted with a rousing, “Yes.”

“I would frame it this way,” Bob Belcher elaborates. “With this event of 40 years ago, this was kind of like our neighborhood—downtown. We lived in Irvington, but in a way, we worked downtown, we played down there, we just wanted it better. …These days we’re grappling with a regional project [the Columbia River Crossing] that has a misunderstood impact on this city and surrounding, adjacent neighborhoods and all kinds of ramifications that we can’t begin to understand. It’s ended up to be not just a simple neighborhood issue that a lot of us in the past could identify with and get rallied to, with an Allison Belcher haranguing us to get out and go to the picnic. It’s far more complex … how do we make the point these days?”

The Columbia River Crossing is no longer the Freeway Fight du jour: attention has now shifted to the I-5 freeway expansion through the Rose Quarter. It’s worth taking another look at Bob’s words above: are freeway projects today really more difficult to understand, ‘far more complex,’ and not just ‘simple neighborhood issues?’

In my last article, I wrote about the Seattle Labor Temple; at one point, a bustling center for labor activism; today, nearly empty. Less than a mile away, three glass domes built by Amazon serve as a new kind of temple to the American Worker. It’s clear from these features of the built environment that the nature of labor has changed. Perhaps labor activism needs to change as well. Considering Bob Belcher’s perspective, how have the fights against freeways changed? How does transportation activism need to change? How do the traditional methods of civic engagement need to change?

However, I think the other thing to consider is the effectiveness of Allison Belcher’s simple protest- a picnic in an unlikely place- and the spirit of activism it inspired in the Portland community. At the end of the day, said Belcher and fellow organizer Jim Howell, it was really about giving their kids a chance to get to the river. If we let the freeway take over the riverbank on both sides, they couldn’t have that chance. “It wasn’t political,” said Howell. “It was Civic.”

-----

I tend to get deep into research holes while writing these. This is part bibliography and part recommendations. 

Carl Abbott’s book “Portland in Three Centuries.”

Carl Abbott’s book “Politics, Planning, and Growth in a Twentieth-Century City”

https://www.pdx.edu/usp/planpdxorg-riverfront-people

https://metroscape.imspdx.org/a-riverfront-park-runs-through-it?print=print

https://www.wweek.com/news/city/2019/09/11/chloe-eudalys-neighborhood-war-the-populist-commissioner-hits-back-against-critics-who-say-shes-strangling-portland-democracy/

https://www.portlandoregon.gov/archives/article/24741

http://rebelmetropolis.org/the-portland-riverfront-that-almost-was/

https://portlandtribune.com/but/239-news/463929-376278-learning-from-portlands-harbor-drive

https://www.cnu.org/what-we-do/build-great-places/harbor-drive

https://www.cnu.org/publicsquare/2019/04/12/chance-repeat-history

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The Name of the Rose

Directed by Jean-Jacques Annaud, The Name of the Rose is a mystery film set in 14th Century Italy. Starring Sean Connery as William of Baskerville and Christian Slater as his apprentice Adso of Melk, the film shows their respective efforts to uncover the secrets lying within this mysterious and ominous abbey. With a dead body mysteriously being found, the Abbot (Michael Lonsdale) wants to urgently get to the bottom of this before the Pope will need to send his inquisitor Bernardo Gui (F. Murray Abraham) to investigate. Thus, the Abbot calls upon William to conduct an investigation. However, in this mysterious and deeply ideological web weaved by the film, William and the hand of justice are forced to wait to ensure the work of the Church is undisturbed by the goings on of this abbey. Creepy, mysterious, and relevant to this very day, The Name of the Rose is a terrifically engrossing film that may be slow, but rarely misses a beat.

From the very beginning, Annaud creates an absolutely spell-binding mood and atmosphere. Bolstered by James Horner's tremendously ominous score, The Name of the Rose walks the viewer through the various rituals of the monks. From gutting pigs to whipping themselves and renouncing laughter, these robed men who sit in the dark renouncing Lucifer and his trickery on Earth are a truly unsettling bunch. Annaud portrays them as a deep and wickedly evil occult-esque group who may claim to love God, but the love of God is far away from this place. With overcast skies perpetually lingering over the abbey, peasants forced to fight one another for the limited supplies given to them by the monks, and more men turning up dead day-after-day, this abbey is not a place one would look to spend a lot of time. Much of this is attributed to the mood conjured by Annaud via the events depicted as well as Horner's score. However, the film deeply medieval production design certainly does no harm in this regard with many depictions of demons or other deeply off-putting and unsettling figures lurking in the sculptures on the walls of buildings. This is an abbey where the work of Satan can really take hold and spread fear through the glum and vulnerable populace with the light of God nowhere to be seen in this ominous village.

What leads to this light of God being snuffed out is also what lies behind the mystery of these murders: there is no joy or happiness in this abbey. With much of the library being banned to everybody but the librarian and his assistant, nobody in the abbey is allowed to read its vast collection of knowledge out of fear that they will accumulate too much knowledge. Once knowledge is accumulated, it is impossible to get it out akin to opening Pandora's Box. Out of fear of this effect, the men in charge of the abbey seek to limit the intellect of those in their charge to not just maintain power, but to ensure that the masses do not begin to question their authority or the existence of God. Allowing them to read to books or learn about laughter, they will be lifted out of their fear of Satan that had been instilled in them for so many years and either decide that there is no need for God now or go the opposite route and bask in the light or Lord. However, for those in the Church, fear and having an impersonal relationship with God is crucial. If that fear or distance is removed, then there is no place for the Church as the gatekeeper and judge. It is why these men repress themselves so greatly and punish themselves via whipping for impure actions and thoughts. Though there is rampant sexual deviancy in the abbey, the men nonetheless actively preach avoiding temptation and pleasure out of fear of being tricked by Lucifer into betraying God. The end result is a miserable, dark, and ignorant existence that made this abbey into the ominous and lifeless place it has become.

This repression of themselves leads to a great amount of dissidence among the monks who engage in sin willingly. As a result, women are treated with great venom in this film for being encouragement for men to sin, as if men were not culpable in their own sinful behavior. Done under the cover of darkness, many of the monks are sinners in spite of their teachings, mostly due to their own spiritual ignorance. Their own unwillingness to experience life and to learn more than they are taught by their elders has rendered them incapable of living. In many ways, these monks are akin to children raised today who grow up in deeply religious and conservative homes. There is nothing wrong with either value system unless it is done in seclusion. Exposure to worldly elements and things that make one come to a decision of their own volition is the only way to ensure that they will grow up into responsible and smart people. Godliness is largely incidental to this and may grow or may not, which is far better odds than the sexual repressed and worldly immature adults that stray often and willingly from the word of God with no understanding of how to actually come to have a relationship with God. They made no decision to love God and it has become nothing more than a tedious way of life for the monks in this abbey, and it is often the same case with many people today. There is no passion, just repetition. Thus, this reclusive, silent, and glum place is the natural result of the repressed, guilt-ridden, and largely dull existence led by its inhabitants. In the end, too much of one thing harms the soul, even if that one thing is God. One must be tempted to know how to say no, and that is the key lesson to take away from The Name of the Rose and any other religious experience. The events of the film may not have been prevented, but the men would have been able to protect themselves from sin and the slow descent into darkness undertaken by their community had they allowed in knowledge, laughter, and joy. Without them, they walked in Lucifer's den with no armaments.

If the monks or parishioners begin to question what they have been taught over the years, the Church will lose its hold on those who follow its beliefs. In many respects, this is a very timeless approach to depicting the Church that has clear and ominous parallels to the way in which the Catholic Church has operated of centuries. In many church communities now, there has been a push towards anti-intellectualism and declaring anything you do not believe in as “fake news” or “against God”. By painting the opposition as nothing more than a group of heretics seeking to profane God and remove Him from all walks of life, it is easy to instill fear in the believers. Over time, as an increasing number of outsiders are written off as heretics, the community begins to only trust its leader and their judgment as to who can and cannot be trusted. This is a deeply troubling development in America today, even as somebody who is a Christian. Cognitive dissonance is something we should not seek to avoid, but rather to embrace. Without it, we not only give into pushing our beliefs onto others but lose sight of when and where the line has been crossed. Belief in God is a great thing, but militarizing and politicizing it to try and create an iron-tight grip on those who also believe in God is not a good thing. It is using the word of God to push one’s own agenda and inherently sinful. Yet, many today give into this just as is done in The Name of the Rose. By limiting access to books and disregarding the possibility that books encouraging laughter (against message) exist, the Church in the abbey ensures that it is the only resort for knowledge, which they carefully curate to further their hold on believers. Whenever one does not listen, they are branded a heretic or possessed by Satan to ensure that the brainwashed believers write off anything they will say without even bothering to hear.

In The Name of the Rose, this mainly comes into play regarding the actions of Bernardo Gui. Ignoring the pleas of innocence from the men and women he accuses of heresy or witchcraft, Gui’s main goal is not to find the truth with these mysterious deaths. His goal is to stamp out dissidence and conjure up a sense of fear. If the parishioners refuse to fear Satan and his trickery on Earth, then they will fear stepping outside of the guidelines set forth by the Church. It is the ultimate power move and one that is not just chilling to watch, but ties into the anti-intellectualism on display in this Church. With the inquisitor holding final say over innocence or guilt (and having already made up his mind), it is punishable by death to disagree. Yet, the system in places instructs the inquisitor to ask two others to judge alongside him. If either offer a dissenting opinion, they too will be seen as heretics and killed. As an ambassador for the Church, which proclaims to be ambassadors of God, the inquisitor is seen as extension of God. Therefore, to question one is to question God and questioning is not on the menu for those that live under the Church’s thumb. Blind acceptance of every statement made, no matter how logical, is required with the risk of a painful death looming over those who do not follow this order. At the end of the day, sweeping these deaths under the rug and accepting the easy explanation (Satan did it) is the path that will be followed. For those that refuse, they are charged with refusing to listen to God. With a mesmerizingly chilling turn from F. Murray Abraham as the inquisitor, Annaud captures this intimidating presence perfectly with Abraham’s Gui seeming to tower over every proceeding in which he is involved. Through him, we feel the pride and sense of divinity possessed by the Church that, for both them and Gui, proves to be their undoing.

On first glance, the title “The Name of the Rose” may seem largely incidental to the plot. However, for Adso, it is anything but incidental. Narrated by Adso as an old man, the film ruminates on many experiences for him in the abbey including losing his virginity to a young peasant girl (Valentina Vargas). A sexual servant for the monks, this young girl quickly comes onto Adso and the two have sex. It is no surprise when, afterwards, he tells William of the event, his guilt over it, and his love for the girl. At the end of the film, however, he admits to not even knowing her name, even if he did and still loves her. Using the final words of the film to express this, it comes across as though Annaud is attempting to highlight the audience to the film’s true message. Adding in other elements of the film to this, it becomes rather clear what is intended. In the Bible, roses are seen as the “most perfect flower” with some even calling Jesus the “rose of Sharon”. For many, red roses symbolize love or passion. Combined with the events of the film and the ideas regarding anti-intellectualism held by the monks as well as the oath of purity and to not laugh, it becomes clear that The Name of the Rose is a very existential film for Adso and Annaud in regards to religion. Believing in God is a great thing, and it is something Adso turned into his life’s work, but it should not be the only thing in your life. Allowing love, knowledge, and laughter into your life, makes it easier to then love God. If one rejects all worldly elements out of fear of Satan, then they have not truly lived or utilized the life that God gave them or truly loving and honoring God. They are merely following orders blindly and without feeling beyond fear of retribution for not following those orders. There is no connection or relationship with God. He wants us to question and to learn more, as it firms our belief in Him and our relationship with Him. Instead of just shutting down our minds and blocking out anything “nefarious”, it is best to approach all new occurrences and feelings as something to learn from. This way, we become more educated and can use it as a possible route to strengthen our relationship with God. If we shut our eyes and plug our ears out of fear of retribution, then there is no love between us and God, only fear. If that holds true, then the monks in the abbey are right: Satan has won. Except, for the monks, it is very much a self-fulfilling prophecy where their devout nature has instead given birth to a breeding ground for Satanic worship and murder due to their negative and fearful co-existence with their Lord. In essence, to truly love and honor God, one must let themselves enjoy life and be tempted by evil. Without either, how will one truly know they love God if they do not know the joys he gave them or the other possible route they could take? In essence, it is best to live in the world, accept sin as part of that world, and learn how to cope with it instead of living in a bubble where sin will still slip in through the cracks and you have no idea how to cope.

Throughout the film, Annaud creates what is quite often an incredible visual spectacle. Visually, when they first meet Salvatore the hunchback (Ron Perlman), the film takes on a truly ominous note with the man lurking in the shadows. Horner’s score helps a ton here to be sure, but the visuals often take center stage as Adso quickly feels surrounded and panicked in this dark corner of the abbey that Salvatore calls home. In the library, the confounding labyrinth makes the place a true gem of production design as it often comes to become a visual motif for how lost Adso and William are with the crime. The more assured they become of the fact that they know what happened, the easier the labyrinth becomes for them to decipher. Yet, with the cinematography, Annaud often finds his most decisive victories. The final establishing shot of William and Adso riding off in the distance in this snow-covered open area is the absolute peak of the film’s visuals. A long take of the two riding off, the camera soaks in the beauty and simplicity of the moment in an oddly spiritual fashion. As elderly Adso narrates, the camera never budges. Instead, it stands pat, simply enjoying the view along with us as these two men begin the journey of the rest of their lives. While no shot adds up to being quite as good as the final one, The Name of the Rose is nonetheless a very strongly shot film with Annaud creating stirring and lasting images through its runtime.

Matching these outstanding visuals is the film’s truly engrossing plot. With William and Adso arriving at this mysterious abbey to investigate the death of a monk, The Name of the Rose plays out like any whodunit. Cunning, smart, and always ahead of the curve, William constantly tosses out ideas and possibilities regarding who could have killed the monk. When bodies keep turning up, his beliefs and ideas change to adapt with the new set of facts. Though the film may be a bit cliché in its depiction of its murder mystery, it makes the film no less compelling. Hiding its secrets very well, the film consistently feeds off of the creepy atmosphere conjured up by Annaud and Horner. With secretive characters – the librarian, the assistant librarian, the abbot, and any blind guy – popping up constantly, it seems as though William and Adso face pushback from every corner of the abbey. This eventually leads to the question: are they hiding their own sins or afraid of what William will find out about their abbey? With so many competing interests and intentions at play in the film, it is near impossible to decipher who is responsible or if it is even possible that one single person is responsible for killing these people. The Name of the Rose’s depiction of murder and where to lay the guilt is always messy and confusing, which is both accurate and a true testament to the film’s strong premise. It may not rewrite how to make a whodunit, but its constant red herrings and obfuscation of facts and intentions leads to a mystery that has a resolution, but is highly unpredictable, shocking, and more than worth your time.

Jean-Jacques Annaud's The Name of the Rose is a film that, on the surface, is an excellent whodunit. With a great mystery and good detective performances from Sean Connery and Christian Slater, The Name of the Rose's central mystery is one that really grips the audience and defies expectations consistently. However, to write it off as nothing more than a whodunit would be selling the film incredibly short. Playing as somewhat of a psychological thriller at times with a great atmosphere created by Annaud and composer James Horner, The Name of the Rose winds up being a searing critique of the monolithic "Church" and its pursuits in keeping knowledge out of believers' hands. Driven by fear of believers beginning to question their faith via their new knowledge and out of fear of losing their power, the Church teaches people to fear Satan and act out of that fear instead of devoting their life to loving and honoring God. As a result, a darkness hangs over this small abbey in Italy, one that is devoid of the light of God or of life itself. It is a truly sinister environment that breeds sin and silent dissidence. As a setting for a murder mystery, there are few better than this small abbey. As a film, this fact and the other aforementioned qualities of the film contribute into making The Name of the Rose a truly great, smart, and well-rounded work.

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