#ennie you good there pal-

[loveleftbehind]

𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 ?

the broken lover

you are a mess, but a beautiful one. you feel like you destroy every relationship you touch, and people hate you for it. but they don’t really, honest; i don’t know why i said that. still, no matter how hard you try, if you can’t mend the cracks in yourself there’s no way you���re able to heal someone else. there’s always a part of you that likes how broken you are when it comes to love—it feels more poetic this way. and it is, of course it is. but this isn’t a fucking poem (though perhaps one day it will be); it’s real life. so just be careful, okay?

Tagged by @heartheaded

Tagging: @heamvir @pvremichigan

[lorelune]

part o - part iii

|| diluc ragnvindr x f! reader || E/18+ || hurt/comfort, fluff, post-trauma || wc: 16.2k  || ao3 || masterlist || NEXT →

You return to Mondstadt after many years away, sick, with an feeling that's all-too familiar and unwelcome.

❁ my heart, your song - @firein-thesky ❁

minors & ageless blogs dni

a/n: AH!! here it is :'^) the diluc fic!!!! thank you so much to @itoshisoup for beta reading (along with my non-tumblr pals han & ennis as well!!) this section contains four chapters, separated by partitions. if you'd prefer to read this fic with the chapters/parts separated, it will be posted as such on ao3!

this fic is a collab with the lovely cielo (@firein-thesky)!! our fics share a mostly canon compliant universe :3c give it a read!! it's linked above!!!

...

tags: alcohol use, descriptions of vomiting, reader with chronic injury, reader is referred to as 'little sister' by kaeya (not related), unreliable narrator/reader, soggy soggy SOGGY diluc, protective diluc, diluc and reader were childhood friends to lovers, reader is a healer

PART o: kismet

Once, on one of your several trips to Sumeru, you visited the Akademiya. You only went to poke at dusty books and sit in on a few lectures as a wanderer who liked a good story and a bit of learning. There, you met a scholar whose name didn’t stick with you, from the Rtawahist darshan.

They had the far-off look in their eye of someone who had seen a bit too much, for who they were. You knew that some scholars went mad in their pursuit of knowledge. Saw things that they couldn’t cope with even if they tried. Your new friend looked to be close to such a threshold.

Perhaps, in an act of pity, you took this scholar out for a drink. Or two. Or seven. The exact number of cups and goblets escapes you now. But what you do remember, as you sat together on a terrace high above Yazaha pool, legs swinging, was their ramblings. 

“There’s a map of everything, up there.” They gestured wildly to the sky, twinkling and bright, with the moon as company. “Deciphering it... Well. That’s another thing. But it’s there. And if we figure it out, fate will be in our hands to know.”

They continued, stretching their hands to the cosmos above them, as if their fingertips could decipher the orchestration of the Gods with nothing but passion, wine, and will. It was admirable, in your drunken state. Perhaps foolish to your sober mind. 

Nonetheless, such an idea stuck with you. Even after you departed from your bygone friend, and continue your wanderings, you think about it. You laid on your bedroll more than once, staring upward, and wondering—

Why did the gods mosaic the sky? 

You are just a mortal, how are you to know? You tried not to dwell on that specific thought. The one you find yourself coming back to, in your worst nights—

(If I could read the stars, and foresee a tragedy, is there any way for a calamity to be stopped? If you knew fate’s charted course, the crest of its fortune and the wake of its tragedies— could you circumvent them?)

(Could you have stopped your calamity?)

It was a self-deprecating thought, and it dragged you back to a place and time that was both unpleasant and unnecessary to recall. 

There’s no way to change the past, you reminded yourself. You could only move forward. Never back. You only balked at the stars in your weakest moments and pondered such ideas like fate and destiny. You could live in the illusion of carving your own destiny as you traversed Teyvat. One where you wrapped gauze around wounds after the disaster had passed. Heal sullied ground. You could do everything you could to help people. That was enough, you decided early on in your travels. 

You’d help people (and avoid the nation Mondstadt). Simple enough.

One foot in front of the other.

PART i: there’s a puzzle we crafted

You’re tired. 

So tired. 

It’s a merciless type of exhaustion that you rarely, if ever, let yourself slip into. To wander Liyue’s peak and narrow paths in such a condition is dangerous, even if the Millelith and Guild did a decent job keeping settlements of Hilichurls suppressed. In general, you can take down slimes on your own— except when you find yourself this deliriously tired. 

Normally, you don’t even bother traveling in this state. You would drag yourself to the nearest village, throw some mora at a layperson and set up shop wherever they had space. Be that an inn, back room, or stable— you aren’t picky. As long as you could rest for a few days, perhaps help out the village in your spare time. 

Your most recent wanderings, however, took you far onto the Yaoguang Shoals for several days, and by the time you returned to solid, proper earth, you were desperately low on essentials. Your nearest respite was an old village crawling with Hilichurls. Your next best option would be a miniature expedition onto the shores of Dragonspine and hope the cold wouldn’t kill you before you could find shelter and stoke a fire.

So, you keep going.  

All the way past Stonegate and the quarries beyond it. You’re only half-lucid as you wander into Mondstadt for the first time in years. 

You roost in an abandoned cottage some ways down the road. Finally resting for the first time in days. Never mind your still-damp bedroll or the structural unsoundness of the ruin. You practically fall to your knees and pass out, given your state.

(Running has made you tired, hasn’t it?)

When you awaken, you ache. (Familiar). You nibble on the last of your rations and it hits you—

You’re back in Mond, aren’t you?

Archons.

You should leave, really. It’s your first thought when you realize where you are. You shouldn’t be here. You’re not even near the city proper, but a panic unfurls in your chest like you’ve been struck. You immediately begin to pack up your things—

Two things hit you then:

One: You’re far lower on supplies than you had thought. 

This isn’t a new development, however. It’s just far worse than you thought. You paw at the contents of your bag, realizing that the dried zaytun peaches and jerky you had for breakfast were the last of your rations. The weather had been poor across Liyue in the past weeks, and many of the normal markets you would’ve run into were shuttered because of it. Regardless, you didn’t think you were on your last fucking morsels. 

Deep in your bag, all you have is a torn, unusable tarp and a pitiful handful of the crystalline shards you used to purify water. 

You don’t even need to look at your medicine kit to know the paltry state it’s in. Far too many empties. 

Two:  A burning sensation that splits you wide open and threatens to eat you alive. 

You barely twist your foot the wrong way. Hardly at all. Regardless, something like liquid electro shoots from the twisted (broken, mutilated—) parts of your right foot, up your thigh, and shakes you down to your bones. 

You stumble, using the wall for support and keeping your weight off the injury. It shouldn’t be aggravated this early in the day. You shake it off from your ankle, lowering yourself to the dirt floor to massage out any of the tension and subsequent pain that you can. You’ll be able to walk, surely, but it’s getting harder and harder to deny that the old injury isn’t worsening over time. 

You remember, vaguely, hearing tell that there was a skilled healer in Mond once again. Younger, a Vision-bearer in the Church, maybe? 

You know enough about the Church of Favonius that they would at least look at your injury, if this half-remembered healer really does exist and is affiliated with them. 

You hate that Mondstadt seemed like the best option. 

(Later, you’ll realize it’s all a bit like fate, pushing you toward that stupid city.)

You find yourself at a loss, shake your head, and sigh, “... I guess it wouldn’t... really be so bad to visit.”

You’ll just stay for a day or two.

...

Mondstadt’s front gate is so familiar it nearly hurts. The guards have different faces than the ones you remember from your youth. Their demeanor is the same— kind, open, like how people from Mond tend to be. They don’t hound you too much as you pass, and you enter the city without issue. 

Midday sun lights Mondstadt proper when you arrive (your journey from the quarries took a bit longer than necessary, considering your route went wide around a particular plot of land that you refused to go near.)

The city bustles with noise and activity. Merchants line the streets, carts and stalls overflowing. Seafoam banners and floral wreaths hang along the stone arches and walls, while garlands of fresh flowers stretch from building to building. The scent of fresh flowers, baking bread, and sweet wine envelopes you.

Windblume, you remember. It is spring, after all.

You hope the crowds of the festival will help you blend in as you meander through the city. You keep your head down, counting cobblestones and being quick with your purchases. Better to get in and out, probably. If you can snag a new tarp and bedroll, you could set up across the bridge for the night, and be gone by morning if you could track down that healer within the afternoon too. 

As you walk up the main run of Mond proper, toward the fountain and the smell of warm spiced meat, someone, archons, gasps from behind you and says your name.

(Later, you’ll recall this moment. Perhaps kismet turned on its axis for you to still and—)

You freeze, going stiff. You’d know that voice anywhere. Sweet and teasing, curling down your spine in a way that feels both ambiently flirtatious and horribly familiar. 

Part of you screams to ignore her. Let her think she has the wrong person and continue your journey in Mond unimpeded by an old specter. You could be out the gates in a number of hours, if not minutes if you really need to (run, run, run).

But, there’s a temptation. It breathes itself alive, from the back of your mind to the front, entirely unavoidable. 

(How long has it been since you’ve seen a familiar face? One that you know instead of just recognizing?)

You turn slowly. “... Hi, Lisa.”

...

And, somehow, you end up in the Knight’s of Favonius headquarters, with a perfectly warm cup of tea in your hands, nestled in a library you hadn’t been inside for nearly a decade. It smells of old parchment and leather. Steam rises from your cup, fragrant with Sumeru rose and Guili cinnamon stick with black tea leaves. You recall the scholars of the Spantamad darshan favored this blend; you shared more than a cup or two during your visits to the Akademiya. 

Lisa settles in the seat across from you, with a small box of pastries that look sticky and sweet. Your mouth waters. 

“How have you been, dear?” Lisa gives you a soft look. “It’s been so long.”

So long, you add to yourself. Sitting across from Lisa is giving you a gut-twisting sense of deja vu that has your palms sweating.

“I’ve been well,” you say, gently. “Travelling, still.”

“Oh, how exciting.” Lisa smiles and lays her cheek on her palm. “What was your most recent destination?”

You hummed. “I recently went to Natlan’s capital, just for a few months. I ended up staying with a smith who gave me odd jobs in exchange for housing.”

“Oh, wow,” Lisa preens for you. “And before that? I apologize, dear, I’m not caught up with your journeys.”

Ah, the lack of letters.

“I apologize.” You rub your forehead. “I haven’t been writing lately. It’s been... hard to keep track of things, though it’s not an excuse.”

“I would disagree.” She flashes you a sympathetic smile. “You’ve been crisscrossing Teyvat; it makes perfect sense why you would struggle to keep in touch with folks. I’m sure you’ve met plenty of friends on your travels, too. I imagine you have lots to juggle.”

Lisa is partially correct, you suppose.

“You continue to give me so much amnesty— too kind,” you laugh, and lean back in your chair. 

Lisa looks a bit wistful as she puts down her cup in exchange for one of the pastries. You recognize the expression on her. You’ve only seen her wear it once before.

“How long are you staying in Mond?” Lisa asks, nodding down to the box. You leave the treats untouched.

“Not long.” You refuse to look at her as you answer, “Just for the day. I needed some supplies and Mondstadt was the most convenient.”

It’s a clinical answer. One you say intentionally, perfectly, so she can’t poke holes in your logic. You hope, pray, she doesn’t push back on your short visit. Any longer, and you might accidentally run into more faces you don’t wish to see. Lisa was tangentially related to... everything, but she was the least obtrusive person you could have run into. Still, you’re in the lion’s den, in the Ordo’s HQ, for a cup of tea, praying that you can slip in and out undetected outside of Lisa.

(It’s easier like this, you tell yourself. You can’t get twisted up in this place again.)

Lisa examines you, tracing you up and down with her gaze in a way that’s horribly disarming. If it was from anyone else, you’d think they were checking you out, especially with the sweet, upward quirk of her lips. But, this is Lisa, and you had forgotten how astute she is.

“Only a day? That’s a shame.” She sighs, sitting back and stirring the tiny spoon perched in her teacup. “It's Windblume. You should stay.”

“I could,” you muse and give her a sympathetic smile. “But, I don’t think it would be wise. It would be better if I got on my way quickly.”

She raises an eyebrow. “How far back would a few days in Mondstadt put you on your travel plans?” 

‘Plans’. 

You nearly bark out a laugh, but you keep it lodged in your throat. 

“Not terribly far, but I... I don’t want to stay, Lisa.” You reach across the table and squeeze her free hand. “It isn’t good for me to linger here.”

The look she gives you breaks your heart. Her brows wilt, her eyes get a little sadder, and she grips your hand unyieldingly. “... Are you sure, sweetheart? I’m sure the Knights could put together some lodging for you—”

She presses, and you hate the feeling of it. You know her kindness is not misplaced, but it makes you roll around in your skin regardless. Archons. You interrupt her with a tight smile, “Truly, Lisa, I am grateful for the offer, but I will be on my way come tomorrow morning. Perhaps another year.”

“Perhaps.”

You sip your tea in silence for a moment. You stew, barely, not at her specifically but circumstance. It boils just underneath your skin, just as it has been since you entered Mond’s border. Speaking to Lisa has only made the feeling grow and burn. 

You can’t meet her gaze— you can’t. You can feel it on you regardless. You know you’ll see more pity and maybe that familiar bite of anger she wields so well. 

“Why don’t you tell me when and how you got that Vision then?” She nods low, down to your waist. Your dendro Vision hums there, tied to you with a fraying, braided string that desperately needs replacing. 

There isn’t a problem with indulging a bit of... this, is there? You’re only sitting to chat. Drinking some tea. You can hunt for that healer and duck out of Mond’s walls by sundown. Easy. You pluck one of the buttery-looking pastries from the box and plop it on your plate. 

“Sure, but only if I can get a refill on this tea.” You smile and raise your cup.

...

You lose track of time, talking to Lisa. 

You do tell her how you obtained your Vision, and of your subsequent journey through Snezhnaya to its port following your graduation. She tells you some of the new gossip of Ordo Favonius, and that she’s been thinking about picking out a ring to give to Jean (though, she has a hunch the other already has one in mind. Lisa thinks it'll be fun to meddle with whatever precise plan the Acting Grand Master (nice) has in place.)

She continues to pour you tea and push more baked goods onto your plate. You enjoy them, and her company. It’s a rare treat to sit down for so long with nothing more than chatting on your mind. 

“How was studying in Snezhnaya?” Lisa asked, eyeing your various bags. “Cold, I imagine?”

“Very.” You grimace, fishing around in your satchel. “But, worth it.” 

You pull forth a palm-sized metal insignia. You keep it tucked away, most of the time, only flashing the thing when necessary. You only need legitimacy every so often.

“Oh, wow.” Lisa gawks a bit. “May I see?”

You hand it to her. “Be my guest.”

She studies the metal, running her fingertips along the edges where the different colors meet. Vibrant blues meet greens and whites, with pink and purple flowers cast around the bottom edge. The shape resembles something between a shield and wheel, with each one of its seven portions having some meaning for the institution. They escape you now. 

“I’ve heard that the Tselostnyy School is quite the place,” Lisa says. “No one at the Akademiya seemed fond of them, but I imagine it was out of some sort of insecurity.”

You snort. “Probably. Folks at Tselostnyy actually teach healing— not just study the human body for the sake of some academic pursuit. The two schools have opposing goals.”

It was one of the main reasons you declined to apply to the Akademiya at all. 

“I’m glad you found a place to study— I know it was hard, after Teacher passed away.” Lisa reaches out as she speaks, going for your hand. 

You withdrew your own from the tabletop, hiding it in your lap. “It was. But I managed.”

‘Managed.’

Lisa gives you a look that drips pity. She looks as though she’s going to reply, just as the door to enter the library clicks open. 

Your gut drops to the floor and your shoulders stiffen. 

“Lisa? Could you proofread this draft for me? I’m afraid I sound too formal again—” It’s Jean, it’s Jean.

It’s her voice, the distantly familiar click of her hard heels against the wood flooring. You bunch the fabric of your trousers in your fist, forcibly reminding yourself to breathe. Jean walks from behind you, rounds the table, stops at Lisa’s side and looks at you. 

Jean’s eyes widen.

“Oh, sorry sweetheart— I’m a bit busy with a friend right now,” Lisa says easily, oblivious (seemingly, probably not.) She gestures to you and winks. “I can take a look after lunch, if you can take a break with me.” 

Jean says your name— gasping it more or less, tightening her grip on the document in her hands. 

“... Hi, Jean.” You give her a little wave. “How have you been?”

It’s bittersweet, the feeling that curls and grows in your chest as she brightens and pulls up a chair next to Lisa. It’s familiar and rotten, all the same.

...

The commotion in the library brings other visitors.

Lisa wears a smitten smile as other knights make their way into the library. Aramia and Flyn— they look older, long grown out of their adolescence and more into their skin. Hertha has crinkles around her eyes that grow tight when she recognizes who you are. 

The Spark Knight barrels in the room being lazily chased by—

Kaeya.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck— 

He scoops up the little knight and turns to the tea table, now surrounded by familiar faces, and you can see he has his lips pursed for some sort of teasing quip. Probably at the expense of the Ordo’s acting Grand Master and Librarian.

Then, Kaeya sees you. 

You watch his jaw snap shut. Whatever clever thing he had to say dies on his tongue and you watch it. It’s a little satisfying after all this time. You’ll cherish this moment, you think. The split second of confusion, the realization, the shock and— the guilt.

He wipes the expression off his face easily, as if it were never there to begin with. But you’ll revel in his discomfort. Your own little revenge, several years too late.

“Oh, wow—” Kaeya whistles, clicking closer and settling Klee on his hip with a bounce. He says your name almost breathlessly. “Little sister, it’s been quite some time. We’ve missed you.”

“Did you?” You tilt your head. “That’s surprising.”

You hold your tongue. You dig your teeth into the sides of it, forcing yourself quiet. The feeling that’s boiling in your chest won’t be extinguished by verbally thrashing Kaeya in the middle of the Knight’s HQ— but, Archons—

It’s tempting.

“‘Sister’?” The little knight’s nose scrunches. “Mister Kaeya, you said you only had Diluc, who’s only kinda your brother. No sisters!”

“He’s teasing me,” you placate her, voice sweetening. The little knight looks at you with wide eyes, a little awed. “‘Mister Kaeya’ is an old friend of mine, we played together lots when we were little like you.”

An oversimplification, of course. Little Klee doesn’t need to know what happened after the sun-swept days of sword fighting and house ended at the winery. Kaeya’s air quickly fades as Klee squirms down and asks kindly for a hug. You don’t think she can remember you— you only held her once, when she was so small— but you know her kind age and remember so differently from your own.

“Why are you in town?” Kaeya asks. “I thought I’d never seen you within city limits again. Color me surprised.”

You lock your jaw, as Klee bounds away from you and wrestles her way onto Jean’s lap, “Passing through, is all. I’ll be gone by morning.”

“... So, you’re not staying for Windblume?” Kaeya sits, pouring himself a cup of tea. You think you might hate him. “That’s a shame.” 

“I’m not,” you clarify and roll your eyes. “Though everyone is insisting that I do.”

“You really should.” Lisa takes the opening and insists, “It would be lovely to have you.”

Of the group that has congested in the library, you only hear agreement. Jean has a bright look in her eye that makes you shy away. 

“I... I really shouldn’t.” 

“Why not?” Kaeya grins, foxlike. You think he just likes making you squirm.

“Do you have somewhere to be?” Jean inquires, setting her chin on her fist.

“Well, no—” There’s always somewhere for you to be. You can’t stay. You shouldn’t even be here now. 

“Then, stay.” Eula leans against the doorframe, entered at some point. 

You’re being thoroughly peer-pressured, it seems. 

“...I’m being bullied into staying for Windblume, aren’t I?”

“Perhaps.” Jean gives you a sheepish grin. “You’re missed, Windblume is just an excuse.”

You ache. 

“Stay in the city, enjoy some wine,” Lisa insists. “Catch up with folks. I’d love to see more of you while you’re here. I’m sure you have stories to share of your travels.”’

You barter, “... If I do stay, I need to find a healer. I heard that there’s a skilled one, living in Mond. A Vision holder.”

Jean opens her mouth, but Kaeya speaks first. “Done.”

You consider. 

You’re fully aware that your arm is being horribly twisted into staying for Windblume. You know this is unwise. But—

(There’s something to it. Something you can’t admit it to, not aloud, not yet— but being in a room full of people who do not see you as a stranger, but rather an old friend. They know your name, and you know theirs. There’s something to knowing the streets you will walk if you stay. Familiarity is a wretched comfort.)

“If you need lodging, the knights could easily put you up in the dormitories,” Jean offers.

“No, I—” You sigh, scrubbing a hand down your cheeks. “I appreciate the gesture, but if I do stay I’ll camp outside the city.”

“So you’re staying?” Klee’s eyes shine. 

“I—”

“In that case, come out for drinks tonight,” Kaeya insists with a sly smile that makes you want to eat glass. “I’ll buy a round.”

“Wait—”

“Angel’s Share does bring out its Windblume vintage tonight—” Lisa says enticingly. 

“Absolutely not.” You smack your hand on the table, far louder than you intend. 

Kaeya cocks his head, amused. Lisa and Jean share a look, and the rest of the knights look a bit bewildered. You hate to raise your voice, but Archons, this crowd can be pushy.

“I’ll stay. But I’m not going to Angel’s Share.” Never ever again.

Lisa does seem to notice her error in suggesting it and gives you an apologetic smile. She reaches for your hand and squeezes. You feel a bit lighter.

“Diluc won’t be there,” Kaeya states. On the nose. “He doesn’t bartend on weeknights, even during Windblume.”

“... Really?”

“He doesn’t,” Eula corroborates. “I have knowledge as well that he is in the middle of merchant deals with a group from Natlan. There is no reason to think he’d be at Angel’s Share this evening, if that’s your concern.”

You pick at the skin around your nails. 

“I’ll think about it.”

(You agree, by the time you leave Ordo HQ. After many other promises of free wine and dancing, you find it hard to refuse. It doesn’t hurt that you confirm with multiple others that Diluc doesn’t bartend on weeknights. That he’s been caught up in business, and hasn’t been in the city much at all.)

...

You had enough mora for a few nights of lodging. You figured that Goth may have even given you a discount, as an old friend of his. Archons know how many times you worked odd jobs for him and his sons, patching up walls and the occasion twisted ankle or jammed finger. 

After some searching, you find Goth in one of the many gardens of Mond proper. As happy as he is to see you, he regretfully informs you that he has no free lodging. 

“Windblume has booked out all of my short-term properties,” Goth sighs. “Unless you’re looking for a minimum six-month lease, I don’t have any rooms available.”

(Goth explains to you that the goddamn Fatui has rented out the entirety of his hotel... indefinitely? Upfront? Hence the lack of a room.)

You tell him it’s no trouble, wave off his concern. You don’t mind a few more nights of camping. The only allure of an inn or hotel was the possibility of consistently bathing and a soft mattress. 

You pick a spot outside of Mondstadt proper to set up your camp. There are many tents already set up— travelers, like yourself, here for the festival. You recognize colors and fabrics from all over Teyvat. It warms something in you, that you aren’t alone in being an outsider here.

(Such a thought feels wrong, because it is, isn’t it? You aren’t an outsider at all. This is your home. The only place you’re not an outsider.) 

You struggle to set up your tent, and decide to leave it for later. Wandering around Mond for the afternoon aggravated your injury, and you instead take the time to poke around in your medicine kit for a quick tincture. Something to settle the—

(Burning, screeching pain that tracks up your leg. You’re grateful the other travelers aren’t watching how you collapse against a pile of discarded crates, barely holding back a hiss of pain.)

(It’s getting worse, isn’t it?)

Teacher always said that nothing was harder on sickness and wounds than stress. It was a wisdom you remembered but barely heeded.

You use the dropper and place the tincture under your tongue. It tastes bitter and coats your throat as you swallow. 

...

The sun rains gold on Mond as you meander toward the Angel’s Share. Liquid amber that coats the buildings and cobblestones. It’s nostalgic in too many ways, and it makes something behind your ribs ache.

(You’re hit with the distinct urge to run. To turn tail and leave Mondstadt forever, again.)

You shove it down, swallow it whole, and bear it. Bear it. Not forever, just for a few days. You can catch up with some old friends, leave any old scores unsettled and untouched (undisturbed, unthought about—), and depart. Maybe even fix up your foot in the process.

You hesitate outside of Angel’s share.

It looks different than you remember. The door and its frame have been replaced, the door and its frame hardly ached. There’s a message board outside that you can’t recall being there previously. A wreath hangs on the door, woven with blue and white flowers for Windblume.

You want it to be different. You do. Because if things are different, walking into Angel’s Share wouldn’t feel so daunting. You could pretend that this horribly familiar tavern was someplace else entirely. Maybe even delude yourself into thinking that this little building was its own, unique, carved-out square during one of your travels. A fantasy where you’ve never been here before.

(The warmth under your disgust wouldn’t feel so misplaced then.)

You enter.

It’s lively, bustling with patrons of all types with the festival beginning so soon. You recognize clothes and people from all corners of Teyvat, and it comforts you once more. You blend in easily, lingering near the door, and peek at the bar.

Diluc is nowhere to be seen. Another barkeep mans the kegs, barrels, and bottles. You don’t recognize him— which brings you some relief. 

It would be easy. To be delusional about this whole thing. That Angel’s Share could be just a tavern in the middle of nowhere and the faces that are around you have no chance of being familiar. You’re in a sea of folks who are travelers, just like, or mostly unfamiliar. You could, couldn’t you? Tell yourself that this isn’t a place where—

(You had your first drink. Learned how to mix cocktails with Crepus. Play fought Diluc and Kaeya in the rafters on the third floor. Where you last saw Diluc—)

You clutch a hand to your chest. Who knew that emotional pain could be so violently physical? 

Jean calls your name from across the room, pulling you from your stupor. You meet her eyes, and the smile you force to meet your eyes feels a little more genuine.

With the call of your name, several other patrons look up and gawk for a moment. You get a few more ‘oh hello!’s and ‘I didn’t know you were in town!’ thrown your way and you give them all sheepish smiles. Faces you can’t place very well. Features and familiar expressions mutilated by time and a botched memory. It makes you feel sick to your stomach— archons, and you haven’t even sampled this year’s selection of thousand-wind’s wine, have you? 

Jean flashes you a sympathetic look when you finally make it to their table. The table is flushed full— intimidatingly so. The knights have come out tonight. Lisa and Jean cozy up on the same bench seat, while Kaeya (die) and Albedo sit across from the two. You offer the alchemist a timid wave, which he returns in kind. Some of the other knights have spilled out to the tables around you, chattering away with wine-stained lips.

And the night’s still young.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d show,” Kaeya practically purrs (choke) and leans closer to you on an elbow. “Were you able to find some lodging for the festival?”

“Yeah, I found something that will work.” It’s not technically a lie. Besides, they don’t need to know where you’re sleeping.

Kaeya raises an eyebrow and Albedo elbows him politely in the ribs. You make a note to buy him a drink later.

“I’ll get this round,” Lisa says, standing and grabbing you by the arm. “My treat. A welcome home present.”

You let her tug you through the crowd.

You end up seated properly at a barstool while Lisa orders. She wove her way through the crowd and up to the bar so easily, like liquid. You hardly have to wait at all before a drink is passed to you across the bar top.

You gulp half the glass down, greedily.

You, notably, have chosen not to cessate from dandelion wine in your absence. It was a rare treat to come across outside of Mond and Liyue, so when you could get your hands on glass, you let yourself partake. Whatever melancholy it brought with it could be tempered with more of it anyways.

It goes down easy— it always does. Thicker than other wines, sweet but bodied, with some type of nutty and berry note to it. You never understood the process of winemaking, despite so many years spent at the winery. When Crepus or Diluc or one of the staff attempted to explain, it all easily went over your head. 

The tannins sour your cheeks. You swallow down another mouthful, greedy, and slam down your empty goblet. Lisa looks at you wide-eyed.

“I don’t recall that you were ever much of a drinker,” Lisa remarks as she flags down another glass for you. She sips her own, mischief in her eyes. 

You shrug, nodding to the barkeep who fills your cup. “I indulge, occasionally. Forgive me for needing a drink in this environment.”

You gesture to the carousing around you. A lyre and fiddle play in the corner, and you distinctly hear two different bard songs. One is significantly better than the other, and you may have even enjoyed it if you could hear it fully. 

Being near the bar forces you to see changes. They’re hard to not notice. The signage behind the bar has changed. An old menu and drink list have been changed out for something sleeker. Paintings and their frames replaced. The glass you’re drinking out must be new, along with the tankards that the barkeep washes whenever he has a free moment.

There are still ghosts in the corners.

“Gods, you look like a wet towel.” Kaeya’s shouts, nearly in your goddamn ear, as he slips into the empty seat next to you. He drapes an arm over your shoulders like you’re old friends and not the byproducts of a dissolved relationship. You think about shrugging his arm off, but decide against it. 

You throw back the rest of whatever is in your glass and shout for another.

Kaeya catches your eye for a moment with a nearly unreadable expression. You recognize it (and concur that you need to be far more drunk than you currently are in order to survive the evening.) His brow lays smooth, lips in a not-quite smile, and his posture is a bit too rigid. You know he’s picking you apart, albeit quietly.

The expression disappears a moment later, and he has a new bottle of wine in his hands (“For you, little sister.”) Your cup fills yet again, and you drink.

The world begins to feel fuzzier, easier, and the pain in your foot and leg dulls. God, you try not to indulge in drinking too often (it’s simply a recipe for reliance, given your condition. Regardless, you're a physician who knows better than to turn to the bottle rather than medicine), but you feel the temptation of it occasionally. 

It’s an easy friend to indulge in under these circumstances.

One of the bards, the one with loose braids, strikes up a conversation with Kaeya, looping you in with an exchange of introduction. Your cheeks warm when you notice the slur of your words, sipping your cup to disguise any embarrassment. The bard must be drunk, with how much sweet wine he drinks, but he hardly acts it. Poised.

Lisa pats you on your back after your fourth glass, seemingly pitying you in your stupor. 

The good bard, at some point, leaves Kaeya’s side. Kaeya’s back to leaning into yours, the furs of his outfit prickling your nose. If you were sober, you’d be spewing curses at him. But in your drunken mind... it was fine. Fine. Maybe the warmth of him against your side wasn’t entirely unwelcome either.

You loosen up, whether you want to or not. 

Lisa drags you out of your stool after your fifth drink, to take pulls off a pipe a traveler offers and to dance with her in the main room of the tavern. The bards play a duet now, in tune, though the good bard from earlier carries the performance.

You laugh as she twirls you, dipping you near the floor. Some of the patrons cheer and whistle at the move, and you let loose a giggle that never would’ve left you in your right mind. Her face swims before you. Your insides are warm. Things are okay, maybe. For now.

So, you dance.

You dance with Jean and Kaeya, even dragging Hertha in for a round. Eula refuses, though apologetically. She’s a bit too drunk herself, and Amber insists on staying by her side to nurse her with water and pyro-warmed pets to the back of her neck.

(Do you envy them? Maybe. The skinship of it seems nice. They’re so familiar with each other, even from a distance. So lax and tender with each other even within such a setting. You cannot imagine receiving such treatment.)

Kaeya spins you back to the bar and buys you another glass.

“You dance better than you used to,” he croons in your ear. “even with that dreadful limp of yours.”

You bark out a laugh and punch him in the arm with hardly any force (you’ll regret not making it hurt more, later). “Wow, and here I thought wine curbed your silver tongue.”

“Unlike some, I can hold my liquor just fine.” He shrugs and sips.

You, on the other hand, turn the corner from ‘tipsy’ to ‘blasted’ as you hit the bottom of your goblet. Your stomach churns, spelling a hangover that will rot your stomach and the space between your eyes come the morning. The room doesn’t spin, not quite yet. 

You lay your forehead on the bartop. 

“Aw, had a bit too much?” Kaeya tsks. “How unfortunate of you, to not know your limits, even after all this time.”

You grumble something unintelligible. 

He sets a cold hand on the nape of your neck and your ground yourself on it.

(You can regret it in the morning.)

You have absolutely no idea what time it is, though the tavern is still rowdy. You imagine late, at least near the high moon if not into the early morning. Windblume was a celebration of drinking after all. Angel’s Share stays lively, despite the hour, though the drone of voices and folk songs becomes lost on you as your eyes slip shut.

Amongst the din, there’s a firm thud— the sound of wood on wood. Another sounds just after, though much closer and more shallow. You only make out the sound because of its old familiarity. The sound of the counter flap falling and straining its hinges. It must be one of the only pieces of original hardware from the old Angel’s share— the sound is identical to the one in your memory (maybe, you’re drunk, you may just be nostalgic—)

The barkeep (Charles, he told you his name though you didn’t give him yours) shuffles away, maybe, based on the thump of feet amongst the roar of the tavern. A shift change.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d show.” Kaeya’s hand leaves you. You can hear the grin in his voice.

There’s a huff from behind the bar. The clink of a glass. A squeak as it’s dried and shined with a rag.

“Do you think I’m unreliable?” 

Your eyes stretch open, wide, in a flash. Horrible, wretched familiarity (with the way a voice can bring you so much anguish and warmth in tandem.) You don’t look up. You stare down at the floorboards, count the grains and notches in the wood. Steady your breathing. 

You know that voice.

You look up, slowly, against all better judgment. If you were sober (Archons, if you were fucking sober—) you would’ve turned, held your eyes shut and ran out of the bar without looking back. You would’ve never dared to peak and pull the thread that dangled in front of you.

He’s blurry, but he’s there. A trim waist that leads up to broad shoulders, arms that bulge more than you remember, scarlet hair that falls in waves from a high-tied ribbon. Scarlet eyes, cut and polished like rubies. 

It’s Diluc, who meets your gaze for the first time in almost a decade. Just as shocked and wide-eyed as you are. 

The glass slips from his hands and shatters.

PART iii: the World (born)

You met Diluc Ragnvindr when you were just children, doing what children do best— playing while the adults talked.

Your parents— traveling merchants— and Crepus Ragnvindr sat down for wine and sweet rum after a lavish supper. Your parents shooed you off. They didn’t need you clinging to their legs while trying to discuss the intricacies of a potential (and lucrative) contract with Dawn Winery and its splendid dandelion wine.

Crepus takes you under his wing a bit, showing your parents to a fine vintage and you to his two boys.

“They like to play in the vineyard this time of day,” Crepus says, a bit wistful. He leads you by the hand. “The crystalflies soar lower when the sun dips beyond the hills, and the fireflies come out.”

You like fireflies.

He shows you out to the courtyard, and you catch sight of two boys scampering around amongst the greenery. Crepus calls them and they both dutifully bound over, the way young boys do, enthusiastic and fast. The one with the pretty blue hair follows the one with the pretty red hair.

Crepus introduces you. Kaeya. Diluc.

Diluc has round cheeks and a soft jaw. He carries baby fat still, pudgy in his arms and legs and round in his belly. His cheeks are flushed with the late summer’s heat and a day of play. He has a brush of freckles over the bridge of his nose and cheeks. His hair is shorter than it will become, but long enough that you think your mother would envy him.

His eyes widen when he sees you. You’ll never be sure why.

(Kismet turned for him earlier, maybe. All it took was you.)

You spend the evening with your side wedged into Diluc's, watching the lazy flight of anemo crystalflies by the water. You tell the boys about the constellations you know, and make up a few that you don’t. You trace them in the sky with the tip of your pointer finger. You ask to braid Diluc’s hair and he lets you. 

Crepus finds you all, just after dusk, dozing as the fireflies begin to dance.

...

Your family visits the winery several times each year. You enjoy the visits immensely. You’ve grown quite close to the Ragnvindr’s, and Kaeya too. You always barrel off your family’s wagon, running ahead of them to greet the boys, who are always waiting for you too.

You play swords with them, though you aren’t any good at it. You always bring them trinkets from wherever you and your family have been. You like to gift Crepus a book or two as well, though you don’t know what they’re about. You choose them based on the covers.

Diluc lights up when you hand him a little shell from Liyue’s shore. You tell him about the cliffs where you found it, and how you’ll go there together some day. You’ll show him the geometric columns of stone that seem to climb all the way to Celestia. You will show him where the sand bars become one with the sea, and how to dig for crabs and shells with your bare hands. 

Diluc likes you, you think. He always lets you slip into his room after the manor has fallen asleep. You sit across from one another on the velvet window bench. You hug a pillow while he tells you about how he’ll start training as a knight soon. He holds a vision now— he pats it with pride. 

(He tells you how he obtained his vision in your absence. The first time he picked up a sword against an adversary, it appeared to him. It’s a grand thing, brave. He was protecting one of his favorite stray winery kittens from a boar near the edge of the property. He raised his rubber training sword and he was granted Celestia’s blessing.)

You think he’s lovely.

...

The boys start training with Ordo Favonius. They practice with the Gunnhildr girl, the older one, who wears a ribbon in her hair and has eyes like midday sky. She’s a few years older than you, and intimidates you with her maturity, but she’s kind. 

The older knights let you watch their training when your family visits. You post up during their drills, watch their forms, their blunders, and their successes. A knight named Varka always takes Diluc aside to teach him how to best wield his vision with his weapon of choice. 

(A greatsword. A claymore. It’s almost your size, probably. The one Diluc uses during training is Favonius issued, smithed with their crest near the base of the blade. You know the one he’ll really use. A family relic that Crepus brought up from storage for him— a rectangular blade, metal cast in black and red, with an elaborate furl stretching from the hilt. Crepus asks Diluc to wield it when he’s ready.)

Kaeya offers you his sword, one day, at the end of training. The junior knights soak in their own sweat as you take the blade from Kaeya. The knights make it look so effortless to wield such weaponry. They carry it at the hip like it's an accessory and not carved metal. When you wrap your hand around it, the weight shocks you. You barely heft it up, struggling with the balance of it. The trainees rib you a bit for it, and it makes you blush hot and hard.

Diluc scolds Kaeya, taking the blade from you when it's clear that brandishing it one-handed as intended is close to impossible for you. You feel some relief when Kaeya takes it back and shrugs. 

“You won’t have to worry about wielding a weapon like that— ever.” Diluc says on your way home (home, home, home, it’s becoming your home—) that day. “Especially a sword.”

“Why?” You ask.

“I’ll make sure you never have to.”

“Hm... what if I want to?” You try to be cheeky with him.

He gives you a playful shove and you bump into Kaeya. The latter groans and makes a choking sound.

“You don’t,” Diluc replies, flashing you a smile. “If you did, you would’ve played swords with Kaeya and I more when we were little. You always liked to watch.”

“It’s more fun that way!” You hip check him. “It’s interesting to see all of it, rather than participate.”

“Yeah, sure,” Kaeya chimes in. “I’m sure it has nothing to do with how weak your arms are.” 

He squeezes your bicep and you shriek at him, chasing him ahead down the path. You squabble all the way home (home, home, home), rolling down the hills back into the Winery’s valley. You belly laugh together, tears in your eyes. It’s good. 

You only go silent when you notice your family’s wagon, packed and ready for departure, idling in front of the winery. 

...

You don’t travel well, you never have. 

Your parents had informed Crepus of this during your first visit (“Never well, even when my wife my pregnant— the little thing gave her the hardest time on the road.”) Despite this, you had always meandered with your family on their circuit from Liyue to Mond. 

One of your visits to the winery, just around the turn of your childhood to adolescence, you fall ill.

Your parents brush off your complaints upon arrival. Chills, aches, and a cough— “It’s from the rain. Your clothes are still damp.”. Your usually lively arrival was dulled. You barely touched the dinner Crepus provided before retiring to your favored room.

You hate being sick. You hate how your gut churns and you feel so cold, despite the fire one of the maid’s stoked in the big fireplace. You sniffle and snot over the back of your hand, fighting tears. You fall ill so frequently, but it doesn’t make it easier. Even your softest clothes feel scratchy against your tender skin— you feel horribly breakable. 

There’s a gentle knock on your door before it opens. Diluc joins you by your bedside, kneeling, watching you with wide ruby eyes.

“My father told me you’re sick,” he says gently. “You don’t look well.”

You give him a wilted look. “It happens.”

“... It shouldn’t,” Diluc says with a conviction that your fever forces you to miss. “He says that you get sick often.”

“I don’t travel well.” You parrot what you heard your parents say a thousand times, to innkeepers and merchant-folk alike. “It’s alright, Diluc. I’ll be well in a few days.”

Your teeth chatter. You bury yourself deeper in the covers.

Diluc looks unconvinced. He disrobes as much as is proper, and asks quietly if he can join you. He’s warm, from his pyro vision, he tells you. He can see how cold you feel.

Whether he had such a vision or not, you would’ve said yes.

You pull away the duvet, inviting Diluc closer. It’s innocent, a sharing of heat. You press your forehead to his chest and he lets his arms fall naturally to your waist. It cages you. It feels safe and warm, and you don’t think you’ve felt that before.

You give him the smallest ‘thank you’, voice burnt and charred with fever. Diluc chases off the chill and embers alike, replaces them with the hearth that he will become to you, and you think that kismet might’ve shifted for you then, too. 

...

You leave, a few days later, still sick. 

You return, several months later, still sick.

Whatever cold you had during your last visit had metastasized— or so your parents say. They seem moderately unconcerned as they sort through the inventory they’ll be taking for their run.

Crepus doesn’t look convinced. 

Diluc helps you inside. You barely hold yourself on two feet, and need to stop and catch your breath several times. Kaeya loops his arm over your neck and Diluc hoists you by the waist, and the two nearly drag you to your room. 

A doctor is called, a healer from Mond that knows the Ragnvindr’s well. Diluc and Kaeya stay by your side as the healer draws up tincture and grinds down herbs and oils into a soft balm to slather on your chest. 

Diluc lays with you in bed again that night, over the covers, not daring to touch you. You seem so fragile, only half-there in the room with him. He resents your parents horribly for allowing you to carelessly decline in such a state. It shows in the way his expression twists into a scowl whenever they’re within his vicinity.

...

Crepus offers his home to you— no, rather he insists.

You’re still ill, lungs gunky and fever hardly waned, by the time your family deigns it time to leave. They plan to cart you along, never mind your condition. Diluc, if he had less restraint, would’ve cursed them out in the winery’s foyer. 

(The wet sound of your breathing. The little whimpers when your fever spiked, signaling that it was time for more of the tincture the healer left behind. The way you balled your fist in his nightshirt during the worst of it.)

Crepus says it’ll be no trouble to house you, for however long you need. You’ve always taken to the winery easily, and clearly need a stable place to recover from your illness. He enjoys taking in a stray or two. One more, especially one he thinks so fondly of and that he knows his boys adore, is simply a blessing, not a burden.

...

Diluc ascends to cavalry captain of the Knights of Favonius just around the time that you make a full recovery. 

It takes months— for both of you. Diluc patrols and trains with the knights when he’s not by your side. He’s incredibly well-regarded by Mond, beloved by his fellow knights and the townsfolk as well. He has ample support from all around, and his father glows with pride. 

(Diluc bears the weight of his father’s expectations well. You don’t even notice Diluc squirm under the pressure of it. It all seems to come naturally to him— being a hero.)

You see your healer every few days, drink your teas and diligently rest while you recover. The illness sticks in your lungs and you take to reading up on medicinal plants and potential treatments. It gives you some understanding of the remedies that your healer makes for you. Your healer finds you promising, despite your sickly state, and offers you an apprenticeship, if you choose to pursue such a profession.

It’s success after success, a time bathed in thick gold sun that feels as warm as it tastes.

You and Diluc dance at his ascension celebration. He holds you by the waist, clumsy like the young man he is, but you don’t mind. You loop your arms over his shoulders, memorizing the blush that paints his cheeks, and the dimples that carve them. You twirl him under your arm and laugh up to the sun and moon alike. You pull the ribbon from his hair so it unfurls over his shoulder. You run your hands through it without a care.

(Diluc looks at you, when you’re not looking at him, with such a reverence. You can’t see it yet, but it’s a burgeoning thing. Love and devotion caramelized by innocence, by want and need intertwined. He doesn’t know how to say how he feels, not yet; the feelings are still loose and undefined. But smoldering kindling he is.)

...

Crepus offers his home to you, permanently. You have taken to it so well, and his boys— his boys adore you. The staff does. You have so much growing for you in Mond, it seems silly to pack up your belongings small and tight so you can ride out on merchants circuit once more. Only to return sick once more.

You accept, hesitant at first. It’s a scary thing to give up the life you’ve known, even if the one Crepus extends to you is far more comfortable. Your parents have no qualms. You think they enjoyed your absence too much. They seem content to leave you at Dawn Winery, promising to continue their circuit, so you’d see them a few times a year.

It makes something in your ache and cry, but there’s many things to balm it in the manor. A warm fire and Adelinde’s recipes, along with whatever new tarts and sweets Crepus brings home from Mondstadt proper— they all make it easier. Good company too. Kaeya always has new ideas for schemes and little adventures. Crepus brings you gifts and makes sure you’re settling in well to your new space. Diluc is ever-dutifully at your side, whatever the circumstance, and you at his. 

You still sneak into Diluc’s room in the late night. You nestle up, side by side, on his plush window bench. You link pinkies and talk about everything.

...

“I thought this one was a bit boring.” You look up to Diluc, backwards, craning your neck. “The love interest was a bit shallow for me.”

“I agree,” Diluc answers from above you. He shuts the book deftly with one hand. “This author’s pieces usually have a bit more depth to them. This one was a bit flat.”

You tend to come to the same conclusion on the stories you share.

The Small Study (ow, ow, ow, ow) is a room most near Crepus’ wing of the manor. It’s exactly as it sounds— a small study. Something Diluc’s mother made sure was constructed for him, prior to her leaving. Floor to ceiling bookshelves line the walls, with a long table slicing the room in two. When you were young, very young, you, Diluc, and Kaeya would sit at the table and write your own stories. Color with paints that Crepus bought for you from Snezhnaya on recycled receipts and old ledgers. 

These days, the table is mostly bare and a bit dusty. You use it more than Diluc, though most of your studying with your teacher happens at their cottage, in Mond proper. Diluc and Kaeya have a training room a few doors down, one that Crepus constructed, with mats and straw targets, and more armaments than Ordo Favonius probably knows about. 

Most of your time in the Small Study is spent in the corner, tucked close to each other. You have amassed an impressive number of spare sheets, pillows, and blankets, and have constructed what could only be called a nest. You and Diluc take to lounging on it in the mornings and evenings, when you both have the time. You read together. Sometimes you aloud to him, and sometimes him aloud to you.  

Diluc’s voice has taken to breaking lately. You find it adorable and can’t help teasing him about it.

“I’ll have to hunt for a new novel at the markets today.” You sigh. The sun is rising above the cliffs, bathing the shelves and columns of dust ichor gold. You throw your hand up, watching the beam soak your skin warm.

Diluc catches your wrist and brings the back of your hand to his lips. 

Little things, skinship, he likes. He never says anything much about it, only asks quietly if it's alright that he keeps such proximity to you. You eat it up, his heat, his presence— you want all of it. You’re gluttonous in your youth (you have yet to know starvation.)

“Be careful on patrol today, okay? I’m helping Adelinde make that sweet bread you like before I visit Teacher.” You huff, maneuvering to you’re at his eye level. You tug his cheek, still soft with baby fat. “You better not have any extra bruises when I pick you up today.”

“I’ll try.” He rolls his eyes. “Even if I do, you’ll patch me up, won’t you?” 

“I could have Teacher do it,” you huff. “I know you don’t like how rough they can get with you.”

Diluc scoffs, “They don’t like me—”

“They like you plenty—” 

You squabble, soft in your chests, because it's all easy and slow. The romance novel gets tucked away into an overflowing shelf, bulging with others that you’ve already finished. 

Kaeya is shining his blade in the armory, and you collect him before heading to Mondstadt proper. It’s a routine, each day, one that you enjoy and cling to. You enjoy your training and you feel only pride seeing your boys bud and grow in their strength. You fight, like young ones of your age do, but it's all in jest. Simple. Your squabbles get settled with wrestling by the river or when Crepus intervenes and fathers the three of you.

It’s good and you never want it to end.

...

Diluc grows into himself. He’s gangly in his teen years— long arms and bulging shoulder blades he’s yet to grow into. The pudge he’d had around his belly has disappeared, sucked away by a growth spurt or two. He grows a bit more into his frame, each year closer to adulthood that he gets. Muscle building on muscle. 

Teacher says you’re doing well with your studies. You pour over books on medicinal herbs and medical techniques during the day, and watch Teacher heal when patients are around. You become adept enough to see patients on your own, for small injuries. 

You fix up Diluc whenever he comes home to you. Cuts. Bruises. The odd fracture or two. He’s the person you ever stitch a wound together for. He doesn’t flinch. So trusting.

...

Crepus gets odd, at some point. You’re almost old enough to be considered an adult. He starts asking you questions you know the answer to, but it seems like he’s seeking something other than the truth. Sentiments that he wants to squeeze out of you, to satiate something in him that you can clearly see, but don’t know how to name.

(He’s a businessman— is it in his nature to be greedy—?)

(Forget. Forget. Forget.)

...

You wish it had stayed so kind and good for longer. You wish you appreciated it more, but you didn’t fully understand the goodness laid before you until it was so brutally ripped away from you. 

The night Diluc turns eighteen, your world shatters. Burns. Immolates while you lay drunkenly dozing in a friend's warm bed. You don’t greet the wreckage until you awaken. Alone, drowning and with a new pang in your stomach.

PART iii: the stitch the wound the burning

You instantly slam your hands on the bartop. You whip your head around to Kaeya. He wears a wide, awful grin. So fucking smitten with himself.

You hate him. 

“Fuck you,”  you snap. 

You push up, knocking the bar stool over with a bang. You turn on a heel and run from the tavern. Wordless.

(You run. You should’ve run. You should’ve never come back. Ever.)

You know the display caused enough of a ruckus that Angel’s Share fell nearly silent as you left. You know that your vision shuddered out of your control, sending dendro to liven the flowers around the tavern. It felt sick. To know that the blooms would be wider and more beautiful while you ran. Running, running, running. 

Lisa and Jean, maybe, shout your name as you sprint away. You ignore them— you have to. The temptation to turn back and face them drowns in the wine that churns in your stomach. Your breath feels too hot and heavy in your lungs, like lead and steam. You feel like you might die.

(Diluc in the same room as you. Diluc in front of you.  Not a ghost, a breathing body. Flesh. He would’ve been a bit too warm, to the touch. You know him to be. He’d grown so much— how much had you missed? Archons, you miss him—)

You barely get out of Mondstadt proper before you bracing yourself on one its outer walls, forcing your finger down your throat, and heaving your guts out onto the high grass. All of the splendid wine you sampled color the ground blood red, surely staining your lips. Tears drip from your lash line. You feel sticky as you draw your fingers from your throat, spit and dribble sliding down your wrist. 

You curse and shake. 

You wipe your hands down on your trousers and scrub at your lips with the edge of your sleeve. You spit pretty scarlet and nearly hurl again.

The sun has set, and the dark is a comfort. It cloaks you, allowing you to duck easily between shadows and firelight that other travelers warm themselves by. No one looks at you twice. You’re sure you seem like a drunkard, not— Not whatever you are. You drag yourself back to your campsite.

You fall to the ground, drawing up your good leg by the knee and press your forehead to it.

Fuck.

Fuck the healer. Fuck Windblume. Fuck seeing any friends or familiar faces. You discard the plans, crushing them down until you decide they’re not worth it. None of this was worth it. If you’d only ducked in and out of Mondstadt’s market, you wouldn’t have met Lisa. Gotten twisted up with Kaeya. Dared to enter Angel’s Share. Seen Diluc.

You knew the mere sight of him would send you. You knew. You feel foolish. Stupid. If you were a fraction more sober, you would’ve dragged yourself out of self pity and set up camp for the night. Instead you stew. You swallow back dread and bile and clutch your shoulders.

(You always knew this was a risk, coming back here, didn’t you? That’s why you never dared to even get near Mondstadt’s borders. Now you’ve done it.)

You certainly have.

You rub your eyes again, grimacing at the taste in your mouth. Forcing yourself up is a task, especially trying to keep weight off of your (now very) bad foot. You struggle to balance, propping yourself up on a pile of discarded crates and get to work setting up your campsite for the night. You resolve to sleep until dawn, pack up, and be on your way. You’ll head back to Liyue and catch a boat out of the harbor. You’ll go anywhere. Do anything. 

(To be far away from here.)

You struggle with your tent and tarp. It’s infinitely harder to set up your sleeping arrangements when you’re hobbling around on one leg. Emptying your stomach of its content has made you lightheaded (or, it's the panic that is thick and porous in your blood. Burrowing into your flesh. Will you even be able to sleep tonight?) You fight to keep your breath steady as you struggle to stake the tarp into the dirt.

Someone says your name from behind you. Breathes it like it's lighter than air, weighted like a gospel.

You turn, for the second time, against better judgment.

Diluc stands above you, wearing the same shocked expression he had in Angel’s Share. 

Your lips twist, your brow falls. You feel yourself sink. It’s the same feeling you get in your stomach when you’re put toe-to-toe with an adversary out in the wilderness. It’s the feeling you get when you get a patient a little too late and can’t be sure if you’ll be able to drag them back from the brink.

You breathe his name right back.

“... You’re here,” he says. His voice has evened out. Deeper than you remember, and rougher, but barely.

“I am,” you answer as neutrally as you can. You school your expression and turn back to your tarp. “Please leave.”

Diluc doesn’t answer. He’s frozen above you, so close that you swear you can feel the heat coming off of him. 

“Don’t ask me to do that,” Diluc says, like a demand and not a request.

You bristle.

“I’m setting up my camp for the night,” you state plainly. “Then I will be sleeping. I will be gone by dawn tomorrow. I apologize for any disruption I caused at... at Angel’s Share.”

You press your hands over the top of a nail. The iron digs into your palms. You shove at it anyway, until it’s snug against the earth.

“I don’t care about that,” Diluc replies with an edge to his voice that’s unfamiliar. “That’s not of consequence.”

“... Then why are you here?” You crawl across the ground, brace yourself on a crate, and stand. Your weak foot hovers just off the ground. “Why follow me, Diluc? I’m sure you have better things to do.”

You say his name like it's a curse and face him.

(And it’s like coming home.)

(If you had any less of yourself, you would’ve sank into the earth and wept.)

“I don’t,” he says. Arms crossed. Shoulders square. You see him struggle with his words, chewing on the inside of his cheek, just like he used to. “You left so quickly, and Kaeya—”

“Bastard,” you spit. 

Diluc muffles a laugh (a full sound so lovely— you used to do anything to hear it). “He didn’t tell you I would be bartending, I’m assuming?”

“He told me, expressly, that you would not be bartending.” 

“... It is my tavern. Windblume is the busiest time of the year.” He looks a bit wounded. You can’t tell if you’re imagining it. “Kaeya sent word that Ordo would be at Angel’s Share in full force this evening. My presence was called.”

You scowl, “I realize that now.”

Diluc sighs, deep and hard and full, “You left so quickly, and Kaeya told me you were most likely staying outside of the city. I was... worried.”

You let out a breath through your teeth, maybe a laugh, some unholy thing and you shake your head. You can’t bear to look at him for too long, “Well, I’m fine. Promise. I just wasn’t expecting to see you.”

“Clearly.”

“And you weren’t expecting to see me?”

“No.” Diluc sighs. “I... No. I wasn’t.”

You don’t know what else to say to him. 

“Go.” You shoo him off. “I need to finish setting up and get some sleep. Sorry again for causing any trouble.”

You turn away, going to reach for your tent—

Diluc grabs your upper arm. He keeps you steady and upright.

“You didn’t.”

The contact burns. Sears through you like you’re just gossamer and old silk. You tense with it. When did his heat become unfamiliar?

You open your mouth, part your lips just barely, but nothing comes out. Your mind empties.

“Come back to the winery.”

His words cut you from any of your reverie. Your grief forces itself up in plumes, from the base of your spine to the corners of your damp eyes.

“Absolutely fucking not.” You tear away from him. 

He lets you go. (You suffocate the part of you that mourns the loss.) 

“It’s not safe outside the walls.” He takes a step back. Breathing room. “There’s no lodging available in the city, I’m sure you found.”

“I did, and I’m fine out here, Diluc. I can protect myself just fine.” You pat the dendro Vision on your hip. Your weapon remains unsummoned and out of sight.

“It’s going to rain.” Diluc frowns. “And, your tent is torn.”

He gestures behind you, and sure enough, a massive tear runs through an entire side of your tent. You hadn’t noticed. 

(If you will not go where you are supposed to be, perhaps fate will push you there? Align the stars and cosmos just right—)

“I recall that you never enjoyed camping,” Diluc says and it's like a knife to the chest. The idea that he remembers anything about you. “You’ll have a bed for as long as you’d like.”

“Diluc—” You’re near to cursing him out, let the Archons, Celestia and the damn Stars hear it—

“I’m sure Adelinde would love you to see you too.”

Oh.

Oh— Adelinde. When was the last time you sent her a letter? Or read one of hers? You have a stack of them, sealed with purple wax and bound in twine, shoved in your bag. Among your most prized possessions. You’ve hardly let the ink smudge, despite time and condition.

“... She still works for you?”

“Of course.” Diluc’s voice sounds strained. 

“Elzer too?” You ask.

“Yes, he’s been at my side since—”

“Since you came back to Mondstadt,” you answer for him. “Since you returned to the winery.”

Elzer had been at your side too, when you were running the winery in Diluc’s absence. Same with Adelinde.

Archons, you miss them. 

“I’ll stay at the winery,” you say after a beat. “So I can see them.”

Diluc lets out a sigh, shaky and short. He flexes his hands, open and closed. Relieved. The moment of vulnerability passes.

“Will you be able to walk there with—” He gestures to your foot.

“Yes, I’ll be fine.” You put weight on it, swallowing down any pain. You can bear it. 

Diluc offers his arm, and you refuse it, striding past him. 

You walk side by side back to Dawn Winery.

...

It does begin to drizzle, eventually. Nothing close to proper rain, but a thick mist that dampens your hair and clothes. The chill of it sinks into you, unpleasant but not unbearable. You cling to the discomfort of it. You and Diluc do not speak to each on the way back, other than the time or two you announce you need a short rest for your foot.

Fatigue hits you as you stumble down the valley paths leading into the winery’s main grounds. 

You blame the wine. 

The front door looks almost the same, perhaps the wood refinished. Diluc pulls forth a shining brass key (different, than the one that you had during your tenure as ‘master’ of Dawn Winery. That key was thick, old iron. Rusting at its corners. It always felt cold and heavy. An entire year it was tied to you. Tethered to your waist on the very same belt that now holds your vision.)

The lock was replaced.

The interior of the winery is different too, you find. It makes stepping inside less jarring— the floors, once dark, long-planked hardwood, has been redone to intricate patterns of lighter, warm-toned wood. Less candles, more electro-powered fixtures set into the walls and ceiling. The couches look different, brighter and fluffier with fresh cushions. Even the grand carpet that covers the main room, bearing the Ragnvindr crest, appears to have been freshened. Maybe even re-tuffed. It’s generally brighter.

“You’ve... updated things.” Your voice trails off as you shrug off your cloak and hang it on your arm. 

Diluc follows your line of sight to a new tapestry on the east-wall. Not of the family crest, but the vineyard. It’s far more ornate than any you remember; you can see the metallic gold weavings shine, even in the lowlight. The tapestry is ringed by paintings, portraits and some landscapes. You recall Crepus commissioning many of them, or creating them himself. There’s a number of new photographs as well.

“I have over the years,” Diluc replies. “It was necessary.”

You hum, pausing. “... I like it. It’s nice.”

It’s nice because it doesn’t feel quite as much like you’re walking into a still-breathing cadaver. You expected to be greeted with an interior you had seared in your memory. Corners you’d still see ghosts in, picture frames that were askew that you hadn’t been able to bring yourself to fix. You know which floorboards were creaky and which windows had the worst draft. 

This version of Dawn Winery from your memory doesn’t exist anymore, in any way or facet. What’s left certainly isn’t blank or void, but it’s more unfamiliar than you expected. It smells like rose oil and beeswax rather than cedar and tobacco. 

“Master Diluc? You’re back earlier than expected.”

Adelinde breaks you from your stupor. 

She looks much the same— the same uniform, though perhaps her hair’s a bit shorter? There’s new wrinkles around the corners of her eyes, sun spots around her forehead and the bridge of her nose. Her eyes are still kind. They go wide when she sees you, and the mug she’s holding nearly slips from her grip.

Your chest tightens.

She says your name and it’s like you’ve been cut through. Flesh parting around a sharp blade. 

“Hi.” Your voice sounds soft and so much more broken than you can accept it is. 

“Welcome home.” She smiles, all the way up to her eyes.

If you were a little more weak, perhaps a few months more weathered— you would’ve broken then. You would’ve fallen apart in the foyer of Dawn Winery, drowning and hungry and soaked to the bone in something colder than rain water. You hold yourself together, barely, thin threads wound around you to the point of constricting keep you upright. Sure-footed. Almost-whole.

But, Adelinde knows... doesn’t she? She must. She has an uncanny ability for these things. It’s because she watched you grow, watched your toils and supported you. Mothered you when needed. You counseled and consoled each other, during the worst of it.

It makes you feel less guilty, less ashamed, when you nearly throw yourself at her. You wrap your arms around her shoulders and smother your face in her shoulder.

Adelinde hugs you in kind. She still smells like pine-cleaner and that jasmine perfume she imports. She wraps you, in herself, squeezing so hard you’re afraid she’ll undo the strings binding your heart together. 

“H-How have you been?” you ask. Tears sting your eyes.

She strokes the back of your head, through your hair. “I’ve been well. And you?”

You smush your face into her shoulder. You don’t know what to say to her. Instinctual honesty climbs up in your throat— you suppress it. 

“I’ve been better,” you say, softly. You hope only she can hear. “Excited to sleep in a real bed. Take a bath.”

Adelinde goes still, slack— then she almost crushes you. You feel her heartbeat and your lip wobbles.

“I’m glad you’re home, then. Let me fetch you a cup of tea. I’ll make sweet bread in the morning.”

“T-That sounds nice. Thank you.”

Diluc, who has been silent and watchful, clears his throat. “They can take whichever room they like.”

“I’ll prepare the west wing guest room.” (Far from your old bedroom.) She whispers to you. “There was a Fontainisian merchant we were hosting— she left all of her luxury skincare and bath supplies here.”

You pull away, narrowing your eyes, “Are you implying something?”

“Not at all.” She gives you a good-natured smile. “They’re yours. Let’s get you settled.”

You nod and she guides you with a hand on your lower back, up the stairs, to the west wing. Diluc has made himself scarce, seemingly disappearing into thin air to the northern wing of the manor. You only half notice.

Archons, you’re tired.

Adelinde helps you settle in. She sets your bag on a vanity stool, shows you a newly renovated bathroom with a tub that could easily fit you and a Rishboland tiger in it. The rest of the details of the room fade. Something stickier and older than fatigue works its way up through your bone marrow, leaving your body as a yawn.

Adelinde gives you a sympathetic smile when she brings you a cup of lavender and chamomile tea. 

The world is blurry when you crash into the pillows. They smell like the herbal detergent you suckered Crepus into buying during your teen years. Diluc liked it. Whatever potential revulsion you could have has wilted with your exhaustion. Instead, something warm brews in you. You shove your nose into the silken case. The feeling is good. You don’t mind it. 

(Fuck, maybe you even need it.)  

...

You sleep for three days. 

You don’t mean to, and it’s not continuous. You rise for your promised sweet bread, tea, and a much-need, thorough bath. You’ve spent the past few months using communal bath houses or washing in rivers and lakes, quick and rarely relaxing. You indulge in the massive, stone tub for a private soak that leaves you pruney and smelling like rose oil and Natlani bright grass. 

The position of the sun feels arbitrary. You just sleep. Like the fucking dead. No dreams, thank the gods. Thick curtains keep your room dark and you relish every moment. You hadn’t realized how deeply fatigue had woven itself into you. You’d become so acclimated to exhaustion, it only hit you when you finally had a (safe and) quiet place to sleep with no end date. 

Adelinde brings an armful of clothes at some point. (“We put these in storage, when you left. I’m sure some still fit.”) Some do, thankfully, and you’re grateful to have more than four garments, especially when they go together. It’s nostalgic to slip into skirts and trousers you haven’t worn in so long, and you decide they’ll suffice. Unideal, but comfortable. 

The tiredness is an odd blessing. You feel too blurry and foggy to really pick apart your feelings. All of them. You’re aware of the knot that’s formed somewhere between your ribs and gut (or rather, revealed itself), and you ignore it for as long as you are able to. No one comes to you except Adelinde, who never presses you. 

(You don’t know what you would do if she did. Adelinde knows discretion, she knows wounds and scrapes and bruises, and knew yours once. Well and thoroughly. You think she can see all of your ills now too.)

(You’re glad she doesn't pry at you. In your moments between wakefulness and sleep, you tend to dream more loosely. You imagine what you might say to Diluc, had you... the opportunity without damage. What would you say to him? The you that’s mostly a dream screams at him sometimes. Enraged. Sometimes you cry, asking questions that neither your sleeping or waking mind has answers for. They’re not... unfamiliar dreams, but they’re unwelcome. They’re more vivid now that you’re staying in the Winery.)

They feel more real. Diluc is only rooms away at any given time.

(He’s not a specter.)

On the third day, you awake midday to a frantic knock on your door. Adelinde, you assume. Stumbling from bed, and pull on a dressing gown and nothing more, and pull open the heavy oak door—

It’s Diluc. Of course it is. In working trousers and a loose, white top. Dirt stains his knees and the tips of his fingers. Pretty red hair spills from its loose tie, bouncy with a fresh wash. He tenses, when he sees you. Fists balling at his sides and shoulders going rigid.

Your jaw locks and the air in your lungs suddenly feels heavy and too hot. Your throat bobs with a swallow, and you gather up the satin of your robe before it has a chance to slip down to the crook of your elbow. 

(Just seeing him sends you. Into a rage. Into a fit of grief. The visage of him forces you to reckon with something more awful and sticky and molten than you know what to do with.)

(You wish it was more avoidable.)

You freeze.

Your several days of rest afforded you the time to... ignore Diluc. Hide from him, and the knot that you desperately don’t want to unravel. Despite sleeping in one of his beds and eating his food, you need distance. It feels like you’ll explode if you don’t have it.

“The child of one of the vineyard workers is injured,” Diluc says, maybe a little out of breath. “Can you take a look?”

“Of course,” you reply without hesitation. A hurt child takes precedence over most things.

The child and his mother sit in Diluc’s foyer, you can hear them as you approach. The girl sniffles and clings to her mothers sleeve with one hand, the other limp in her lap. One of her legs splays the wrong way, equally limp. 

You approach easily, introducing yourself. The air has an edge of crisis to it, but you wade through it easily. If anything, it’s comfortingly familiar. To be calm and confident in the face of serious injury or illness is often medicine in and of itself. 

You set your large, leather-bound caboodle beside you and take to the floor. Your Tselostnyy insignia is pinned to the outside. The mother’s eyes dart to it as she pets over her daughter’s hair, and she relaxes at the sight of it. A qualified stranger, you are.

The mother is younger, someone before your time as the Winery’s temporary master which is a relief. Diluc lingers behind you, watching you work, probably.  You attempt not to care.

You scooch forward, on your knees, knitting your fingers together and hover them over your patient. You focus on the spiral of dendro through muscle and bone, reading the injury:

Two clean breaks. Closed fracture of the left ulna. Closed fracture of the left femur.

It’s a miracle that the child isn’t shrieking in her mother’s lap. 

“How did you get hurt?” you ask the child directly. 

She sniffles. “I f-fell outta’ the big tree by the water. I was trying to climb it.”

Her mother almost scolds her, but you beat her to speaking. “That’s a hard tree to climb. The oaks by the stables are much easier.”

It’s just a slip of the tongue, to be so familiar.

You turn to the child and school a smile on your lips. “I’ll be able to heal your injuries with my Vision. You’ll get some medicine as well, and it needs to be stirred into juice. Do you have a favorite kind?”

The child looks unsure, and her mother answers for her: “She likes apple best.”

“Apple, master of the house.” You wave a hand behind you. “Can you fetch some?”

“Of course,” Diluc answers without missing a beat and you hasten him away.

Knitting your fingers together once more, you begin to work on her injuries. The child is holding up quite well, despite the immense pain she must be in. You work quickly regardless, but keep in mind you do have the luxury of time. There’s no one more broken or more sick just beyond her who needs to be treated as well.

Dendro sews together her bones. Encourages new flesh and muscle to grow where it is needed. 

When Diluc returns, you instruct him further, gaze never straying from the knitting bones, “Take the third vial from the right on the top row of oils, will you? Stir half a dropper into the juice and stir for a minute. If you see oil on the top, keep going.”

“What’s the medicine for?” The girl asks. 

“Relaxation and sleep,” You reply softly. “This type of healing is very effective, but it takes a lot of energy out of the person who is being healed. You’ll be tired once I’m all done, but you may have trouble resting since your body is still reacting to the shock of your injuries.”

The mother lets out a sigh of relief. Perhaps too wordy of an explanation for a child, but her mother seems grateful for it. 

When the child’s healed into proper pieces again, you unknit your fingers and fall back on your heels. Diluc wordlessly passes the goblet of well-mixed apple juice to the child, who shakily gulps it town. The medicine doesn’t have much of a taste, more of an oily texture to it that requires it to be drunk quickly after being mixed. The juice must be from one of Diluc’s best stashes because the child beams after chugging it.

“... That’s it?” She asks. 

You nod and crack your knuckles, now stiff. “That’s it.”

“... Nothing else?” 

“Nope.” You crack your neck. “Other than the fatigue, but a few extra hours of sleep should remedy that. She’ll be back to normal after a nap.”

“Thank you,” The mother says and your chest feels sticky and warm. “I know that Barbara from the Church has similar skills with her Vision, but I’ve never seen healing like yours. Mondstadt could use a physician like you, you know.”

The feeling goes cold, but you keep your smile. Bear it.

“I’m sure they do.” Teacher’s shoes hadn’t been filled, apparently. And you’d departed to the Tselostnyy School and never returned. 

The mother and her child give more thanks before leaving and you keep your facade up until they’re out the door. The girl’s no doubt ruffled still, even with the light sedative. The mother frazzled. The last thing you’d want to do is burden them with your own misplaced ire. They can’t know. They wouldn’t know.

Diluc, however—

He’s been the silent spectator to this whole affair. He idles by the couches and the hearth, arms crossed, still-dirtied from whatever vineyard work he’d been doing prior to fetching you. You’re sure he was working in the fields, heard the child shriek, and rushed to their aid. Typical.

Diluc stares at you like he could immolate you alive.

“You’re incredible.” He says it like it’s the simplest thing in the world. Like the sentence doesn’t implode something in you. 

Your fists shake at your sides. “Hardly. It’s just my profession.”

Diluc works his jaw and considers his words. You note the way he looks stumped and lost. It’s not intentional, if you’re being honest— so there’s no harm in enjoying the way he stumbles to speak around you, is there?

(It’s only fair. Diluc had always been so sure-footed and sturdy with his words. To see him flounder now reminds you that he’s changed too. Something in him has paled and been mutilated, just like you. Two wounded. His suffering isn’t what you revel in, but the knowledge that he’s affected. Neither of you came out unscathed and you’ve spent the last years refusing to imagine how Diluc might’ve coped.)

“Will you have tea with me?” Diluc asks, the words ringing off the glass chandelier in minor key. “You don’t have to if you don’t want—”

“I will.” 

...

Adelinde kindly brings you both tea, by the hearth and its embers. It’s served with a few small cakes and rounds of steaming sweet bread. Diluc takes his tea just as he did when he was young— a heavy dash of cream and a spoon and a half of sugar (“the half is very important” he had always said). Adeline leaves you a carafe of coffee and shoots you a gentle smile before leaving the two of you be.

You rest on one of the couches, leg pulled up beneath you and blow over the rim of your mug.

Diluc sits adjacent from you, in a resplendent mid-morning sun beam. The chair is high-backed, upholstered with the red and gold pattern of the Ragnvindr clan. He looks regal, like a king from the stories you used to read together. Sunlight halos the frizz in his hair and the dust that shifts around him.

He sits with one heel propped up on the opposite knee, cupping the tea cup from the bottom, unbothered by its heat.

(He’s pretty, just as beautiful as you remember. Maybe more so.)

It makes something in you feel rotten. You pick at your nails and curl over your core. 

He glances at you and you look away into the hearth, into the small flames that eat at the last of a birch log. 

Having Diluc in front of you is uncomfortable. Maybe worse than uncomfortable, as discomfort is bearable and the sensation crawling up from the back of your throat isn’t. It makes your skin itch and feel too tight. Your palms sweat. Maybe you want to puke.

(It’s dread, or something like it. Like just seeing him put you on a precipice you had convinced yourself didn’t exist.)

“When did you start drinking coffee?” Diluc asks, breaking you from your spiral. “If I recall correctly, you hated it. Too bitter for your palate, or something like that.”

Ah—

“In your absence. In the year I stayed here, when you left.” It’s the truth. “ Lots of paperwork. I got used to the flavor after a while.”

(You used to prefer tea, favoring some black variety that Crepus painstakingly imported from Natlan’s volcanic cliffs. The first time you tried to drink it following his passing, you retched it back into your cup.)

You both shift uncomfortably. 

“I see.” 

You pretend not to notice the way Diluc’s grip goes white-knuckled for a moment. Your chest feels tight, too tight, and you squirm under your skin. 

“I don’t know how to face you,” you blurt out. 

(You never thought you would have to.) 

Diluc looks away from you, into the fire. “If you don’t wish to ‘face me’, then you don’t have to.”

“Are you suggesting I simply ignore you?”

“If that’s what you would wish to do.”

“That’s not what I asked.” You frown, something burning between your ribs. 

Diluc chews on his words for a moment. “Allow me to clarify. I have no expectations of you while you’re staying within the Winery.”

“So, if I simply ate your food and slept in one of your beds, ignoring you, you’d be alright with that?”

“If that’s what you wish, then yes.”

(The answer hurts to hear. You refuse to think about why.)

“Alright.” You take a long sip of your coffee. You’re not sure when your stomach began to ache.

“You’re unsatisfied with that answer,” Diluc guesses.

“Entirely,” you reply. “You’re basing your wants off of mine. It’s bothersome.”

“It’s the truth. As I said—“

“You ‘have no expectations of me’,” you parrot. “Would you truly be satisfied if I didn’t speak to you at all while I’m here?”

Diluc chews the inside of his cheek (a new habit you don’t recognize). “My satisfaction isn’t of consequence.”

“Idiot,” You snap— you don’t mean to. “Of course it is. I don’t want to make this any more unbearable than it already is.”

“Do you think this is unbearable for me?” 

“… Yes?” You feel yourself shaking. “Maybe? I don’t know.”

(It’s worse than unbearable. The feeling in your chest is blooming, radiating out into your arms and legs, down to your hands. There’s a buzzing in the base of your skull.)

“I understand that it’s difficult for you to be here,” Diluc grits out. “I do not want to make that any worse by some expectation or assumption you think that I carry. If you wish to enjoy the festival and ignore me, that’s more than fine. If it would be easier for you to stay here and think of me as only some type of… concierge, I wouldn’t resent you for it.”

(You hate it. You hate him. You hate Diluc Ragnvindr endlessly, perhaps. You want to burn Dawn Winery to the ground.)

“Do you really think I could ever think of you as anything other than yourself?” You spit, intending to. “It’s insulting— a fucking affront to think that I could view you in such a way.”

“I don’t know how you view me.” Diluc’s voice wavers with what you can only assume to be anger. “I’m trying to make this easier for you.”

“In what way?!” You stand. “Do you think ignoring you would be easier for me?”

“I am making a well-intended inference based on the fact that you haven’t returned to Mondstadt for years.” Diluc stares at you like he wants to— “I am assuming you’d like to continue to ignore me, given that you’ve never given any indication otherwise.”

“… You’re the one who left first.” You spit the words, like how a sword cuts through air. “You’re the one who left and gave no ‘ indication’ of returning.”

Diluc swallows, thick and hard with a bob of his throat and he rises to his feet. You instinctively take a step back. He opens his mouth, then closes it with a snap of his teeth. The fire cracks and a log loses its structure, tumbling in the hearth with a flurry of embers.

He looks lost for words. You let loose a laugh, something awful and torn that you wish you could stuff back down your throat.

“Nothing to say?”

“It was a long time ago—“

“Ah, it’s irrelevant to you. I see.” Archons, you don’t want this. You should’ve never come back. It can’t be worth it, can it? It feels like your ribs are being broken, one by one. 

(How wretched it is, for him to have such a power over you.)

“Don’t twist my words.” Diluc rises, taking a step toward you. “I only meant to say—“

“I am well-aware of what you meant to say.” You want to vomit, maybe. “It was so long ago, so it’s easier, right? If I view you as nothing more than a doorman with a familiar face, and if you view me as a guest to be treated with pleasantries.”

(Let’s forget all the history. Etch a lie onto a slate that’s already been shattered beyond repair.)

Diluc’s expression twists. Your hands shake and you cross them over yourself, wrapping your arms over your own shoulders and squeezing. He looks… hurt. Gutted. 

“Do you think me cruel enough to ever think of you in such a way?”

“Yes, actually.” You laugh with a shake of your head. “Not even a letter, Diluc? Couldn’t even spare me a thought, could you?”

(Meanwhile, you clung to the hope that he’d arrive home through the front door of the Winery for months. How many did you sit in front of this very same hearth, wrapped in his old blankets and left-behind clothes and pray to any God who’d listen that Diluc would return?)

The admission guts Diluc. You can see it in his face, the way his expression tears open and he balls his fist and he almost seems to shake with it.

(Despite everything, it hurts to see him hurt.)

You step away, almost toppling into the couch. Diluc catches you by the arm with a lurch and keeps you upright. The contact burns like you’re too close to a roaring fire. You feel singed. 

“I can’t forget, Diluc.” You laugh, shudder in his grip and you feel the bits of you fray even further. “I— I don’t know. I’m sorry. I resent you. I hate you. I look at you and I’m struck by the feeling that I’m looking at a ghost.”

You watch Diluc’s jaw lock. “Pot, kettle.”

“Pardon?”

“You left Mond as well, dear.” Diluc says the pet name and then flushes. An old habit, unearthed by sparring. You maybe would swoon if you weren’t feeling light-headed. “You’re a ghost to me as well. Maybe something worse.”

“... Am I? ” you spit, writhing in your skin. 

His expression tightens and you see the hurt. A crack. His lip twitches and he stands. He has to look down at you and you feel the height. 

“Do you think I haven’t been haunted by you?”

Oh, it’s like being punched in the gut. You’re being flayed, surely, on his great room floor. If you’re not careful, your entrails will spill and you’ll die here. You’re sure. 

“Don’t lie to me.” 

“You’re impossible,” Diluc says, grip almost bruising. “Do you truly think I’m lying?”

(You don’t.)

You swallow and step away from him. The moment you pull against him, Diluc lets you go, and you stumble back. 

(You’re too frayed for this. Burnt. Cinders at a masquerade.)

“I need some time,” you say, fire in your voice is gone. You burn down so easily. “I’m sorry.”

Diluc stays silent for a moment. You can’t be sure what he’s thinking.

“Take all the time you need,” he says, before striding past you to his office. You hear the door nearly slam. 

[davidmann95]

What Are Your Dream Supermythos Projects?

* Put Fraction on that Webtoon thing for a Superman strip. He was talking about conversations with DC for post-Jimmy Olsen projects, this would need real talent behind it to not immediately die on the vine, and his formalist kick means he'd probably have the best chance of anybody in DC's rolodex at adapting to scripting for the vertical scrolling format.

* Have Yang and Reis continue their momentum with a The Life & Times Of The Son Of Superman miniseries. Someday somebody's gonna do 'here's Jon's whole journey in one book', they have the pedigree, and Yang's the best DC has in terms of who could nail the obvious central concept of Jon as a second-gen immigrant learning about his background, the forces he'll face in the world, and growing up to make different decisions from his dad about how to be a part of that world and how to help it.

* A proper Lois Lane ongoing, or at least her fronting a Daily Planet book.

* An anthology mini for Jon; I'm sure you could get plenty of creators interested in doing a few pages with their spin on Lois and Clark's kid across the assorted stages of his life.

* Okay so I just now started reading On A Sunbeam and yeah let Tillie Walden do literally whatever she wants with Superman if that would happen to be something she would care to do.

* An ongoing anthology for the Superman family ala Batman: Urban Legends.

* A Lois and Clark romance book from McKenna Jean Harris.

* Superman and Superboy meet All-Might and Midoriya.

* If Morrison is in fact consulting on the Superman books beyond doing the bare minimum to line up Authority, given PKJ is using the House of El already a big Superman Squad story based on the abandoned All-Star spinoff, since the ideas for the other two became Morrison's Action Comics and The Just.

* Once the current runs are done, give Action to Brandon Thomas and Son of Kal-El to Dan Watters.

* Sarah Leuver did some DC work so hey, give her a book to play with.

* Publish Superman & Lois: Ignition.

* I wouldn't have thought of Dan Schkade when thinking naturals for Superman, but after David Lynch's Superboy give him something stat.

* Someone somewhere do something interesting for once ever with Conner Kent.

* Give Maggin a Black Label book to do whatever he wants with.

* We're talking pure dream books, let Marguerite Bennett do a full Superman of Remnant spinoff mini or oneshot from RWBY/Justice League.

* An all-ages ongoing, good lord how long has it been

* Absolute Action Comics, with the assorted artists coming back to redraw the armor as the real suit.

* T-shirt Superman is out there wandering the multiverse, do a mini or oneshot or something with that guy.

* Mandatory 'whatever Doc Shaner, Al Ewing, Dan Mora, Jamal Campbell, Bilquis Evely, Christian Ward, Garth Ennis, Mike Huddleston, Tula Lotay, Chris Samnee, Jonathan Hickman, Fiona Staples, or Juan Ferrara would want to do with him'.

* In terms of pals nowhere near the big two I'd love to see get their shot anyway, Deniz Camp and Charlotte Finn.

* The heck with the AAA studios, do The Lego Superman Game.

* We're about to have Hoechlin, Jordan, Calle, Routh, Cavill, and whoever'll be in the Coates movie operating at around the same time, do a Superman Beyond movie.

* A big animated movie to go with Spider-Verse and Lego Batman. Maybe an anthology thing.

* Superman & Lois but moved to HBO Max and with Todd Helbing removed as showrunner. Really any prestigey ongoing Superman show, but I'd trade the prestige for keeping Hoechlin and Tulloch.

* An Adult Swim Jon Kent series aimed at older teens.

* Do the Tartakovsky short.

* More Superman novels! It's Superman! shouldn't have been a one-off in swinging for the fences there.

* Someone dig up/restore The Multipath Adventures of Superman.

[le-amewzing]

Staccato

Some Parknight softness. ;w; *Note: Set any time after s19e17, "Starting Over." This was also a request by justtopostmyfic on AO3, asking for a Parknight wherein Parker has a panic attack and Knight uses her REACT skills to calm him.

Fic: "Staccato" [FFN] [AO3]

Pairings/Characters: pre?Alden Parker/Jess Knight, Timothy McGee, & Nick Torres

Rating: K+

Words: ~1,520

Additional info: hurt/comfort, romance, 3rd person POV

Summary: Parker thought he was getting used to NCIS' brand of action these days. But, after a particular case sticks with him, Knight uses her skills and some improvising to bring him back to his senses.

      Parker pinches the bridge of his nose and then gestures to McGee. "All right, catch us up," he says. He leans against the front of his desk, ignoring a subtle, curious glance from Knight to his left as he crosses his arms in front of him and McGee mans the clicker.

      "Our missing is Naomi Ennis, five-year-old granddaughter of our retired sailor," McGee begins, clicking and showing smiling photos of the little redheaded girl, her grandfather, and their extended family on the plasma.

      "Culinary Specialist Nathan Ennis," Torres supplies from McGee's other side. "He was a favorite sous chef across several ships two decades ago. He helped cook for dozens of crews as well as our politicians and foreign dignitaries over the years before retiring from active service eleven years ago."

      McGee nods. "So one naturally wonders why go after Ennis' family, especially if he's no longer in contact with anyone important. If I were the kidnappers, I would've targeted the head CS, if anything."

      "Or maybe he did make contacts the head CS didn't," Knight supplies. Her eyes dart to Parker again when he frowns, but she plows on, "They always say people in power never pay attention to what they say around the little guy."

      "Ahh, what the maid or the janitor heard," Torres says, catching on. He shrugs before his expression turns dour. "Good point. And, considering Naomi Ennis has been missing for ten hours with no ransom call or note, a deep dive there is a good start."

      "Especially since the parents' financials came up clean," McGee reminds the team, walking back to his computer to double-check his work.

      "We're not going to let them make a political statement out of a little kid," Torres growls under his breath before snapping the file on CS Ennis shut.

      At that, Parker runs a hand over his mouth and scratches a nonexistent itch along his jawline, straightening up. "Sounds good. Torres, deep dive Nathan Ennis' old pals—see what names his last employers can cough up. McGee, run Ennis' financials, too, if you weren't already. Knight, coordinate with Metro regarding any tips or ransoms called in." The itch moves from his jawline, feels more real as it travels along his throat, and Parker blinks and pinches that same point again, where his brow and the bridge of his nose meet. "I'll…be right back," he mumbles. He doesn't wait for any response before taking two steps backwards and making as if to excuse himself to the men's room.

      Except the last place he needs is to hide out in the bathroom, where people come and go and someone undoubtedly will find him.

      No, as the itch turns into a rampaging, panicky pulse in his throat, Parker ups his pace, taking another turn down another hallway. It's quieter here, darker here, and sees less foot traffic. Which is good. This way, no one will see him doubling over, hands on his knees, one hand scrambling to undo an extra button on his shirt.

      It won't last long. It can't last long. He will get his breathing, this damned pulse, under control, and he will march back in there and lead that team and they will find Naomi Ennis safe and sound and—

      But the mere thought of the missing girl jacks his pulse up impossibly more. Not just his chest but his whole body feels tight, tense, because it's not just this case. It's another case. It's another case, with a kid involved. Bad enough they had last week's case, with the teenagers—

      He freezes, feeling heavy as the memories from that case crash over him, weigh him down as his pulse goes crazy and his breath comes out in little spurts. Because that case, that had been bad. Children of a naval commander getting mixed up with petty theft until one began running drugs with a friend the deeper in they got.

      One kid ended up in juvie.

      The other ended up shot by the suspect.

      And Parker had to shoot their nineteen-year-old friend who'd roped them into it all.

      In another life, that would've been Parker and Billy. He and Billy could've been those kids. Hell, they were those kids. Billy lost his nephew to a similar crime. And now look at where Parker stands.

      But these cases. These cases.

      Naomi Ennis. The commander's sons. Kayla Vance, kidnapped on their watch. Victoria Palmer, nearly orphaned because of their work.

      Who the hell knew there'd be so many cases with kids?

      Her light footsteps are the only warning Parker gets that he's not alone, but Knight's soft little gasp when she finds him also gives her away. "Parker." His name is a whisper on her lips.

      He shifts his weight to one hand, feebly raising the other in a disarming manner. "I'll be fine," he wants to say. But, between gasps for air, all he manages is, "I—"

      Knight crouches down. She angles her head to get a good look at him. "Parker, hey. Hey, just breathe. You're here. You're okay." The hand that hovers over his shoulder she finally rests there, trying to steady him, to anchor him.

      But it's no use. It doesn't help. Every time he thinks he's going to gulp air like a normal human being again, the cases flash before his eyes and Parker grits his teeth.

      Knight's grip on his shoulder only gets tighter. "Parker, listen to me. Stay on my voice. You are present. You are with me. You are all right." She pushes on his shoulder, slow but forceful, trying to unfurl him.

      She only gets him to halfway slumped. Otherwise, Parker's breathing can't be tamed. He briefly meets her eyes and shakes his head.

      But she won't give up on him, not yet. With words initially failing her, Knight draws him into her arms and holds on for dear life. Her grip is tighter than before, but she doesn't shush him. She keeps talking, mostly repeating her sentences, sometimes throwing in other soothing items… Everything is four short beats, accompanied by a rhythm she taps on his back.

      The rhythm.

      Four short beats, a pause, repeat—it's something for Parker to focus on, and it's harder for his brain to tune out when Knight's fingers tap it and the beat thrums through him for a moment. And Knight does it endlessly, until Parker's choked gasps turn into ragged breaths turn into exhausted exhalations.

      He always knew he liked a good beat. He just never expected it to be used in such a way.

      Satisfied that he's calmed, Knight pulls away from Parker, her eyes roving over him. It doesn't miss his notice how damp her eyes are, glittering in the light coming down the hallway. She looks at him with frightened concern as she asks, "…has this happened before?"

      Parker swallows the lump in his throat. There's no lying to a trained negotiator. "…not so bad."

      She waits for his elaboration.

      "It's just—this case. Another kid, Knight." But he sounds so weak, admitting that it gets to him, so he shakes his head again. "I'll be fine," he manages at last.

      "Parker."

      He squeezes his eyes shut and grimaces at Knight's tone. "I know, I know. You're going to tell me to speak to Palmer or make another appointment with Dr. Grace—"

      "Actually, those sound like great ideas. But," she says, waiting for him to open his eyes so she can offer him a small, comforting smile, "really I was going to say, if this happens again, just come to me first."

      Parker furrows his brow, but Knight's smile turns more sympathetic.

      "Hey. If you're crumpled against the wall, you're not going anywhere. But…if I can draw you back to the present, to me, then that's a start."

      He can't deny that she has a point. His mantra is "baby steps," after all.

      Knight doesn't budge, her eyes roving over him a little more as if verifying for her own sanity that Parker is, indeed, all right. Only after do her eyes settle on his. She seems perfectly content to stare.

      And Parker would, too…if they didn't have a job to do, a little girl to find. The reminder of the Ennis case makes him tense, but he hopes he has the rest of today's panic attacks under control. He even nods to Knight, showing that he's got this for real and that he hears her.

      Her eyes crinkle when she smiles and pats his cheek, pleased. Then she turns to go.

      Instinctively, Parker catches the cuff of her sleeve, stopping her and catching them both by surprise. But his surprise wears off quickly as he interprets the subconscious action and feels his pulse quicken at the mere thought of returning to the bullpen yet. "I…need just another minute," he confesses.

      Knight blinks and shakes off her shock. She smiles quietly and draws him gently back to her then, her fingers tapping away that staccato beat once more against his arms while Parker rests his head in the crook of her neck.

TT-TT You ever see a prompt or a request so perf it just…the fic just forms completely the moment you see it? Yah, that p much happened here. X'D Once I figured out what could possibly trigger panic attacks in a seasoned agent like Alden Parker, the fic flowed p well. AND THEN. Seizing on that lil' golden nugget Fornell gave us in s19e2, about Parker having played drums for the Bureau's band…well. How could I leave that unused? ;3c So taking justtopostmyfic's request of Knight using her hostage negotiator skills to calm him actually blossomed quite a bit from there, with this idea that words alone wouldn't be enough, but her words plus the beat would seal the deal. I just. I love their coziness. I love Parknight's potential. I love how soft they can be. This also fits well, having seen e17, too; Parker needs to open TF up, but I have a feeling it'd do him a world of good to open up to Knight, like PLS. GAH. I think I need to draw to the hug from this fic now… But I loved writing this! Tysm for requesting this, jtpmf! :'D

Thanks for reading, and feel free to leave an anon/unsigned review via the FFN link or comment via the AO3 link at the top of the post, especially if you enjoyed this!

~mew

[im-like-if-a-girl]

*THE* mean-girl-dean-girl's Supernatural reboot MEGAPOST!

I'm gonna stick a little "keeping reading" here because hoooooo boy, this is a very long post.

Let's start with

Plot

Season 1

Dean kills John while they are out on a hunt in a crime of passion, but Dean doesn't remember because he blacked out. Cue Dean going to Stanford to get Sam and tell him "Dad's on a hunting trip... and he hasn't been home in a couple days."

The audience doesn't know what happened to John, but slowly figures it out with Dean and Sam as Dean slowly remembers what happened that night.

The entire first season, the boys are following the trail John left and fighting monsters as well. They find out Dean was with John, Sam realizes Dean has an unreliable memory, they have heart to hearts about their childhood and the fire, they find John's body, "how could you kill Dad?" but maybe Dean didn't kill dad, whooaaaaaa, misdirection.

It was actually good ole yeller eyes (Azazel) and he made it look like Dean killed John.

Okay, now let's move on to the first episode

Not sure how the opening would work, I would like the story of the fire to be revealed over the course of the first season, but maybe the opening scene could be a little bit of an establishing character relationships and backstory, idk, I haven't thought that far yet.

I'm thinking maybe it's like, Dean gets back to a motel room covered in blood and he listens to a voicemail on his phone from John saying he was on a hunt or something, I don't really know lol.

HOWEVER

I do know that after the intro rolls, we get a scene of Sam waking up to his alarm and "Nine to Five" by Dolly Parton starts playing.

Y'all know where this is going.

Cue a montage of Sam's normal Stanford college life (him sitting through lectures, walking through the campus with friends) spliced with scenes of Dean absolutely slaughtering a nest of vampires (or some other monsters, whatever works best.)

But

Now onto

Characters!!! (And descriptions)

Dean Winchester

Some lovely person on this site made edits of Dean with platinum blond hair and it made me feel some kind of way so we're doing that, homie's gonna have platinum blond hair

Side note about the hair, later when the brothers are running from the FBI he dyes it a dirty blond/light brown (insert jackles hair color controversy here) as a disguise.

He also gets tattoos because we were robbed.

Speaking of tattoos, concept: when Dean comes back from Hell, all of his tattoos are gone. His body is a clean slate, devoid of tattoos, scars, etc. So he gets his tattoos done all over again, which he doesn't mind because he made some bad, drunk tattoo decisions in his youth.

(And before you ask, yes, he does get one for Cas, either a bee or Cas's name in enochian, something cute.)

Dean goes to therapy after Sam gets sent to the Cage.

It's actually court mandated because he got in trouble, lol, he would never go to therapy on his own.

Along with the hair, Dean gets to be the grade A twunk we all know he is.

Sam Winchester

His hair gets longer in every scene he's in

No jk, but imagine

King of Microaggressions

Sam starts off like the sweetheart he is in season 1 but in later seasons he starts enjoying killing a little too much...

It's that demon blood, ba-by!!!

He brings up issues of morality to Dean, i.e. killing monsters who aren't hurting anyone. (Yes I know this is contradictory to my previous statement, but these two facets of Sam can and will coexist.)

Sam and Jess's relationship is explored further, meaning we'll need to start with a different inciting incident, but that's fine, I think everyone can agree fridgings are *(thumbs down)*

Sam doesn't truly know what happened the night of the fire until later, and then he understands why Dean is so protective of him.

Jess

She gets to live beyond the first episode

She is also trans

No, I don't feel like I have to explain myself and I won't 💜

She urges Sam to join Dean in a search for their brother, kind of gets pulled into the hunter lifestyle by association lol.

She dies on a rusty nail after fighting vampires on a routine hunt with Sam

No jk!!!

But imagine....

She's amazing and I love her and Lucifer also uses her as leverage against Sam and possesses her because I think that'd be cool.

She supports Sam 100% and also she and Dean are buddies, pals if you will.

She meets Cas Thee El and immediately she Knows, that is a homosexual.

She dies still so that we can have a Saileen Endgame but she's not dying the first episode or in a fridging. Not on my watch.

Castiel

He gets to keep his raw, light-fixture-exploding power.

I want more of that "I pulled you out of hell, I can throw you back in" energy except over dumb shit like Dean not cleaning up after himself.

He looks like a Dilf in every scene he's in, yeah, that's right, dilf with a capital D for *(GUNSHOTS)* *(gets sent to horny jail)*

Claire

She gets pink hair

And more time with Cas

And maybe a nose piercing

Feel like she should be able to kill a couple angels onscreen, punch a couple homophobes

She gets to meet Jack and teaches him swears and fun slang words.

She deserves it.

Jack

I says "that's my baby and I'm proud."

Jack starts off as a baby, but like Amara he grows up super quickly.

Like, baby to 11 year old in a couple days or less.

This is because Jack's emotional age on the show is on par with that of a 5th grader.

It's at this point when he's a young kid that he runs away from the Bunker and shenanigans ensue.

It's also at this point that Dean threatens to k*ll him.

(Still not sure if I want that in my Supernatural (threatened infanticide? In my Supernatural? It's more likely than you think) but we'll see. We'll see.)

Throughout a majority of season 13, Jack is like an 11 y.o. kid

Season 14 he's like a 16 y.o. teenager

Season 15 he's 21, you get the picture.

Listen, I love Alex Calvert a lot. He's great.

But Jack is a child and should be a child.

Kelly Kline

Kelly, baby, stay right where you are, you're perfect.

Eileen

SHE DOESN'T DIE

SHE GETS TO BE IN THE FINALE BECAUSE SHE'S AMAZING AND I LOVE HER.

BLURRY WIFE WHO? I ONLY KNOW SAILEEN ENDGAME!

She teaches Claire and Jack swears in sign-language. Castiel is not impressed.

John

J*hn W*nchester stans, DNI.

He's dead.

We only see him in flashbacks and only sometimes hear his voice in voice overs.

He's not "down the road" from Dean in Heaven, in fact he instead gets to wander around in some Purgatory like Hell for the rest of his time :)

People who get to say "fuck" on the show:

Cas (but only Once)

Jody

Bobby

Now onto other things

I want more of

Ghostfacers

(they need more screentime because I love them)

Dean/Benny

We know they had a thing.

They definitely had a thing.

Demon Dean

Again, I feel like more should've been done with this. All that build up for what, 2 episodes? was not utilized well at all.

Dean's Bisexuality

Straight Dean truthers DNI, my Supernatural is a show about love and being true to yourself

You think Supernatural is a show about 2 straight brothers fighting monsters?

Naw bitch, this is a show about the Gay Experience

He will get to have relations with men on this show.

Of course, only after John dies does he, y'know, display it. Maybe he kisses Cas on his dad's grave just to fuck John over, make him roll in grave.

We all agree John would be/is a homophobe piece of shit, right?

Okay, glad we're on the same page.

Dads

3 men and a baby with Jack is what I'm saying.

I love it when the Trio are father-figures to younger troubled characters they see themselves in, even better if it's like reluctant-but-loving father figure, oh, that trope gets me every time :'^)

Dadstiel and DadDean are my favorites, but I like it when Sam plays "Uncle Sam" to kids too lol.

"Fellas, is it gay to want a tight knit family with your husband, his son, his vessel's daughter, your brother, his wife, your cop mother figure and her wife and their adopted daughters? Asking for a friend."

Garth

Biggest flaw of Supernatural was underutilizing Garth.

I will never not be bitter that Garth was only in like, 7 episodes out of the whole 15 season series.

Every episode with Garth gets immediately 5 times better.

I love Garth.

Follow ups on characters who had entire episodes featured around them and then just... vanished???

This is mostly about Jesse, the magic kid whose imagination ruled an entire town like, his daddy was a demon and nothing came of that kid??? Only one episode about him?? No follow up???

KID CAN MANIPULATE REALITY AND WE'RE NOT GONNA GET A FOLLOW UP ON THAT?????

Uh, there was that one episode with Ennis the guy whose girlfriend was killed by a monster? I think?? Who we never see again, that was weird.

Tamara from season 3, episode 1.

And of course-

Cassie

She was so cool, and then we never saw her again :////

She gets to be a badass.

Religious imagery

As a former Catholic school student who has become for the most part, disillusioned with religion, religious imagery in TV shows like Supernatural make my brain go "brrrrrr."

Fun episodes!!!

Like, after season 6 or so, there's a drop in funny episodes

I'm talking Changing Channels, The French Mistake type stuff. (Scoobynatural is an outlier and should not be counted.)

So anyway

In my version we would have more fun episodes

I'm thinking

GENDER-SWAP EPISODE, BABY!!

(why they didn't do that in the original, we'll never know.)

An episode where Dean gets to wear eyeliner

That's it, end of post.

I want less

Racism

Yeah I feel like this is self explanatory, nearly every reoccurring character in SPN is white, and black side characters normally die in the episode they first appear in, or they'll be featured as a villain (Uriel, Raphael, Billie, etc)

Also there's a lot of... uh... asian fetishism featured in the show (what with "Busty Asian Beauties) that's really gross, also Kevin was a bit of a stereotype...

Also also it's super yucky how they kill the gods from other religions like???? Uh??? That's super disrespectful, let's not do that????

I know Supernatural is like, inherently racist because monsters are a separate race that are seen as some dangerous "other" that must be eradicated by hunters in a form of genocide-

Okay we won't get into that but

Still

Stop killing all your POC

Fridgings/Unecessary murders of female characters

I know Supernatural starts with a fridging, so this will be a hard thing to remedy, but

One death that really pissed me off was the death of Charlie

Yeah, that was pointless and we're not doing that. Charlie gets to live and be an awesome aunt to Jack.

And also Claire

Charlie Bradbury Superiority

Charlie and Garth get to meet because they're nerd/geek solidarity.

British Men of Letters

I fucking hate these guys

They're "litcherally" the worst.

The worst part is that the actors they have playing the British AREN'T. EVEN. BRITISH.

And you can tell

Uh, and that's all for now, I'll add more later.

tag list for people who liked my "if this post gets one like I'll post my SPN reboot masterpost" post.

@darianyunidi @sarasidlesaid @crazybananaalpaca @playfulpanthress @ultfreakme @fififeelsmellow @heller-char @luna8eaton @princessmeganfire @insanebot109 @queenofnightsnow @mongoose-underthehouse

Thank you for the support, hope the wait was worth it.

[paddingtonfan69]

12, 17, 21, 29 pls!

12) Who is your favourite character to write for? Why?

Oh man, this is such a hard one, I love all my children equally etc. etc. It often changes depending on what mood I'm in, but I will always have a soft spot in my little heart for writing April Stevens. The first fic I wrote for TBH was very April-centric, and she's this very fun combination of incredibly smart and has this sharp sense of humor, but can be a sweetheart underneath if you peel that back. I also think I have a tendency to make characters immediately talk about their shit and hash it out and be soft, and you have to EARN that with April, so I think writing from her perspective has helped me grow as a writer too!

17) Post a line from a WIP that you’re working on.

okay speaking of my girl April, one of my favorite things to do is to expose her to gay pop culture, so here's a scene (much longer than a line, oops) in a WIP where I somehow get her to watch Brokeback Mountain. Makes more sense in context, but who needs context!

It’s not like April hasn’t seen movies with gay people in them before - one harrowing evening she slept over at Ezekiel’s, he secretively put on Call Me By Your Name, which was somehow both boring and infuriating, not to mention all the times she’s opened up different lesbian movies on an incognito window on her laptop when her parents were out of town - but it’s different, incredibly different, to watch this movie on the couch with her mother.

Also, it’s just a good movie. Heartbreakingly so. She only really knows about Jake Gyllenhaal from his work inspiring Red, but the way he smiles at Heath makes April’s heart seize up, the way he brings out a soft side of him, a playful side that no one gets to see. Until, of course, they can’t be together anymore, because it’s the 60s and it’s Wyoming and they’re gay and that’s that.

She’s doing an okay job of keeping it together, but then there’s a scene toward the end where Jack tries to get Ennis to commit to something more, to the idea them going off and getting a ranch together, just the two of them, but Ennis shuts him down, because the world isn’t like that, they don’t get to just go off and be happy, not when they’re both men. And the pain on Jack’s face after Ennis says that, the pure agony of it, somehow looks like Sterling Wesley’s face on a bench four months ago.

21) Tell me about another writer(s) who you admire? What is it about them that you admire?

Since I'm on my TBH shit, one of my fave writers in the fandom is my pal @dclarkadmin! they do this thing that I super admire, where I feel like one singular sentence can contain so much emotion and detail. I love stories where it feels like every word is intentional and that's very apparent in their work! Also always manages to be so funny - even in sadder works, a sense of humor shines through and always just gets me!!!

29) Do you have a story that you feel doesn’t get as much love as you’d like?

I feel like I have been very lucky to mostly have people being super sweet and lovely to what I write, so for the most part, I do not feel a lack of love. (I could end it there, lol, but we are being self-indulgent in the asks as always!)

That being said, a side effect of mainly writing in a fandom for a show that aired one season almost a year ago (time moves so weird!!) that not many people watched and was abruptly cancelled, is that the audience will naturally dwindle over time. I'm really proud of everything in this series, and there's a egotistical part of me that's like, "why doesn't this get as much love as earlier stuff!!!" but it's just because of timing, and also, people are still being absolutely wonderful in the comments section, so I can't really complain!!! But hey, if you wanna read some good found family shit, go forth!!

[existentialburden]

1 through 10?

1: what do you identify as and what are your pronouns?

I’m “officially” out as an aro trans dude but I’ve been toying with other labels- when it comes down to it I don’t much give a shit anymore as long as I’m not seen as female. I go by any pronouns but some days certain ones are better than others and I don’t like using she/her at all- xe/xim’s a personal favorite of mine that makes me feel comfortable.

2: how did you discover your sexuality, tell your story?

dated a girl I was pals with for a while and then quickly discovered that romance was NOT for me. it’s. hard to explain. just feel uncomfy the moment actions turn romantic.

3: have you experienced being misgendered? what happened and how did you overcome it?

oh yeah. all the time. I just correct with he/him cause it makes it easier for other people to swallow. if it’s an interaction with someone working I don’t bother to correct because it’s not gonna be an ongoing problem. now what gender people think I am depends entirely on whether or not I’m wearing a coat tbh.

4: who was the first person you told, how did they react?

the first time I came out it was to @wolfa542​. first time I came out as trans was to my then-gf, I think? think I came out as aro to @rowan-at​ first. kinda hard to remember sometimes but either way most of the time it was to one person and then more in quick succession.

5: describe what it was like coming out, what did you feel?

nervous as fuck each time. was scared that I was gonna get called a faker or told that I was just doing it to be trendy. tru$cum rhetoric really got to me back then even though I have dys. there was the same amount of nervousness for people I knew were lgbtq+, people who I knew weren’t, and people who I wasn’t sure of. scary.

6: if you’re out, how did your parents/guardians/friends react?

friends reacted mostly positively- cut ties with one because of uhhhh transphobia but every other pal was super chill about it. my dad was cool every time I came out but my mom had some Issues with me coming out as trans- she gets it now, but it was... rocky.

7: what is one question you hate people asking about your sexuality?

“why do you THINK you’re aro?” bro I am aro. get off my fuckin back. more generally, “why do aros wanna be oppressed so badly?” and “why do aros always go ‘what about us’“ like bud..... yikes........

8: describe the style of clothing that you most often wear.

dark and bright colors, t-shirts, skirts or sweatpants, the occasional shitty button-up. casual babey!

9: who are your favourite lgbt+ ships?

hmmm. I’m not much of a fandom shipper but I have some for C9 (and Nobel 808 ;) ) because ofc I do so

Aila and Lyla are p cute ngl. Hope and Lyla are ALSO ADORABLE and actually canon. Juli and Cece own my entire heart, absolute snarkfest. Cece and Enny is a guilty pleasure ship. do Enny and Nuad count bcause they ain’t straight? yes. top-tier ship. Enny and Jess are also guilty pleasure ship tbh just because like. overworked gals who don’t know how to relax. Ulfort and Fern and Rita are adorable too aaaaa. also! Theo and Bark and Jack & Fate and Bark and Jack are so good. rip to Omid but they’re sappy. also super fond of June and Orca because it’s wild af.

10: what does makeup mean to you? do you wear any?

it’s just another way to accessorize for me! I don’t wear any regularly but I’m really fond of eyeliner, and eyeshadow’s always been fun for me. I want to do more with it for character cosplay!

[reading-while-queer]

This month on Reading While Queer, I’m doing something a little different! In order to try to direct more attention toward indie web fiction and short stories, I’ll be doing a series of Indie Spotlights like this one.  This month’s review covers two short stories, both queer retellings of folktales, both free to read online.  The first is “With Roses in Their Hair” by Ennis Bashe, a retelling of Tam Lin.  The second is “Tristan” by Lucy Hughes-Hallett, a retelling of Tristan and Isolde.

Rating: Great Read Genre: Short Story, Fantasy, Science Fiction Representation: -Lesbian protagonist & love interest Trigger warnings: Violence, injury, body horror, parental abuse metaphor, colonialism metaphor Note: Just on the edge of being YA-appropriate, but on the sexual side.

“With Roses in Their Hair” is an f/f retelling of Tam Lin, the Scottish folktale about a woman who rescues her love from the Queen of the Fairies.  Bashe’s spin on the original tale takes place in an apocalyptic world which has been reorganized by the Visitors - aliens with a striking similarity to fae, both in nomenclature (even calling themselves changelings, etc) and in the fae-like laws they rule themselves by.  The Visitors control how many humans can enter a public place, issue identical clothing and rations to all, and are only opposed by the small resistance living underground in the subways.

I found this premise delightful, if confusing at first.  Reconciling the many names the Visitors have for themselves (Visitors, changelings, fairies) with the fact that humans can also have fairy wings (though mechanical), and differentiating clearly between the two factions, took some time.  I liked that Bashe didn’t hold the reader’s hand, which would have been more unpleasant than taking the time to untangle the threads of worldbuilding myself. 

The Visitors are one of the best visualizations of aliens that I have read - the fae interpretation is ingenious, and really drives home their fundamental difference, making the Visitors much more frightening. These aliens are so strange that they aren’t even governed by the same physical and chemical laws as humans are - rather, their version of the laws of physics are the laws of deal-keeping.  Shape-shifting and light-bending they can do, breaking a bargain they cannot. The magic-science of this world is accomplished beautifully, reminding me a little of Annihilation by Jeff VanderMeer, but ultimately, all its own.

Sometimes Bashe’s worldbuilding, beautiful as it is, does not quite support its own weight - it is a very rich sci-fi world built on fragile stilts.  As much as I love how sparing the stilts are, the richer the world, the more stilts you need, or else the reader ends up having a decidedly Fantasia-like experience.  I was delighted by the style of the story, the on-the-page description of the Visitors, of Jennet, the human resistance fighter, and of Tamburlaine, the changeling she falls in love with.  The old subway car that Jennett calls home, the horses made from light-constructs - I could go on.  But we were missing a few stilts, and so I was never really sure of the rules, or why what I was reading was happening.  Part of this is a problem of adaptation.  Bashe sometimes leans on the reader’s prior familiarity with the Tam Lin folktale in order to patch issues of character motivation.  “Why does the Queen of the Fairies do x?” is not so much addressed by the story itself as by the context of being a retelling.  The Queen of the Fairies acts as she does because that’s what the Queen of the Fairies does in the original story.

Despite scattered motivation and worldbuilding issues, what makes the original Tam Lin a compelling and timeless story shines through in this retelling as well.  I wasn’t sure about the hard sci-fi pivot to an alien invasion story, but I came to really appreciate that angle and what it brings to the table.  Rather than humans and fae being two separate, parallel worlds which find themselves at odds over Tamburlaine, the alien invasion adds a colonial aspect to the story.  Fae-aliens with seemingly nonsensical laws, violations of which are punished swiftly and ruthlessly, make a brilliant allegory for settler colonialism.  A culturally strange group of invaders may as well be aliens - or the fae! Or both! The allegory is there if you choose to see it, but nothing more than a gentle undertone, which was accomplished well.  

The romance between Jennet and Tam is well-developed, with a natural-feeling progression that is difficult to accomplish in short form.  However, in a short story with so much ground to cover, it’s no surprise that it has taken me until the end of the review to even consider the romance.  There is so much to sink your teeth into, that “With Roses in Their Hair” hardly needs to be a romance at all.  In fact, my favorite parts of the story had nothing to do with Jennett and Tamburlaine’s growing feelings for each other.  The value in this story is multi-faceted: between the romance, the parental abuse metaphor of the relationship between the changelings and the Visitors, the colonialism metaphor of the alien invasion, and the retelling of Tam Lin, one could even say “With Roses in Their Hair” is a shape-shifter itself.

“With Roses in Their Hair” is free to read on Xanwest, here.

For more from Ennis Bashe, visit their website here. 

Rating: Great Read Genre: Short Story, Literary Fiction Representation: -Bisexual leading characters Trigger warnings: Ableism & ableist slurs, drug abuse Note: Contains overt sexuality, not YA

“Tristan” is a short story billed as “Tristan and Isolde but make it queer” - that tagline is what got me to click the link to Electric Lit where the story is hosted.  However, “Tristan” is a lot more than a retelling.  Rather than a straightforward retelling of the medieval romance between the knight Tristan and the princess Isolde, “Tristan” takes a left turn into “She’s All That” territory.

Hughes-Hallett sets the tale in the modern day with quippy dialogue that brings to mind British romantic comedy of the early 00s.  This literary style makes an amount of sense, considering the 00s were well and truly laden with rom-com retellings of English literature, from George Bernard Shaw to Shakespeare.  “Tristan” slips easily into a “pop” style of storytelling without sacrificing any of its poetry, making for a very interesting read. The trimmings of the modern retelling - from Tristan doing a tab of acid in the park to his boss-slash-boyfriend Cornwall running a private museum of antiquities - were fun, and they provide a sharp complement to the meat of the story, which is more pensive study on the nature of love than rom-com.

As much as I liked “Tristan,” I had a bad first impression.  The story opens with an extended scene of expository dialogue between Tristan and Cornwall as they arrange for Tristan to pick up Cornwall’s wife-to-be, Isolde, from the airport.  Dialogue is “Tristan”’s Achilles heel, an obvious and fatal weakness that almost made me write off the whole story. There is an invasion of poetic (convoluted?) language in the dialogue that breaks suspension of disbelief, and between the poetry and the lack of any dialogue tags to offer tone cues, one is led to read the dialogue as stiffly-acted soliloquy.  What are the characters doing? How are they speaking? Do they exist in the world, or are they standing center stage? The real crème de la crème of my initial dislike of “Tristan” was not the style of dialogue, however, but the content.  Within the first page, Tristan questions why Isolde needs to be picked up from the airport - is she [insert ableist slur]? How about [other ableist slur]?  Some aspects of the quippy, sarcastic 00s I could do without.

I continued to be underwhelmed by Hughes-Hallett’s dialogue throughout “Tristan,” but this was almost entirely made up for by the remarkable writing of every other part of the story.  First, the premise itself defied my expectations for a queer retelling of Tristan and Isolde.  The passionate romance between Tristan and Isolde is not gender-bent to make it between two WLW or MLM; rather, Tristan himself is bisexual, and Cornwall’s casual lover before Isolde enters the picture.  Where our story begins, Cornwall doesn’t like how attached Tristan is getting to him, and is ready to settle down with Isolde, his email pen-pal who he’s never met.  I was genuinely delighted by this creative choice as an interpretation of the “how to queer medieval literature” exercise.  It doesn’t take the easy way out, and recognizes that the value of a bisexual character doesn’t lie only in stories of same-gender romance.

I also liked that “Tristan” wasn’t a romance, not really.  Despite the similarities one can draw to the 00s rom-com (for good and ill), the meat of the story is not feel-good fluff at all, but a discussion of passion versus love: a prolonged meditation on loving someone who ostensibly loves you back, but whose feelings do not compare.  This discussion peeks through Hughes-Hallett’s beautifully detailed work; from intriguing descriptions of the antiquities in Cornwall’s gallery, to the otherworldly presence of Isolde, to the skillful weave of one sentence to the next, “Tristan” is scattered with gems.  One must only sift through the sand.

As a retelling, “Tristan” more than accomplishes its goal of “Tristan and Isolde but make it queer” - it also asks the reader to think about the very genre of romance.  Tristan and Isolde being a 12th century romance that is so culturally ubiquitous as to have mothered the Arthurian tradition and captivated the imagination for centuries since, it was the perfect groundwork for the story about the nature of love that Hughes-Hallett wanted to tell, (with characters that just happened to be queer.)

“Tristan” is free to read on Electric Lit, here.

For more from Lucy Hughes-Hallett, visit her website here.

[about-faces]

This is the end of an era, and also a great loss of something that cannot be replaced. Not exactly.

DC started making comics "for mature readers" (one's definition of "mature" may vary) in the early 80's, starting with Alan Moore's run on Swamp Thing which then directly spun off or influenced titles such as "John Constantine: Hellblazer," Neil Gaiman's "Sandman," and Grant Morrison's "Doom Patrol." The person credited for shaping the post-Moore DC with a new wave of UK-import writers was Karen Berger, who then built upon these successes to give them their own line. Thus, Vertigo was born.

While the pre-Vertigo DC books took place in the DC Universe, superheroes rarely showed up, focusing instead on the dark fantasy, horror, and human drama in a less technicolor fashion. This was especially important in the early 90's, when comics were taken over by a sensibility of style-over-substance that was so aggressive, the biggest company at the time was literally named Image Comics.

With the establishment of Vertigo, the lines between it and DC proper were firmly established. Swamp Thing very, very rarely went back to DC proper for about fifteen to twenty years, and when he did, it was thus a brief and remarkable occurrence. Otherwise, Vertigo was the playground for these creators to use these characters--both DC originals and their own OCs--free from the constraints of DC's stranglehold status quo.

Vertigo then went on to tell a number of original stories, set outside of the shared canon of Sandman/Hellblazer/etc. I'm sure you've heard of a few, like "Preacher," "Y: The Last Man," and "Fables." Vertigo was the best mainstream showcase for books like these, reaching audiences that never would have found them before.

To be sure, there were a lot of stinkers too. There always are. It's comics, after all. But even these were often, at least, INTERESTING stinkers. Over the past decade, DC started chipping away at Vertigo. They brought Swamp Thing and John Constantine back to the DC proper, having them pal around with superheroes in PG-13 antics. When Karen Berger was fired, we all saw the writing on the wall. I'm amazing it took this long, given that DC has wanted to do this for so long now.

This isn't the death of all imprints. Gerard Way of "My Chemical Romance" and "The Umbrella Academy" fame has his own imprint, where I assume he's carrying on the Morrisonian traditions of Vertigo. Other creators may get the same special "pop-up imprint" treatment.

But otherwise, DC will now be in three different sections: a young readers title (an essential idea that they've consistently fail to nurture and cultivate), the regular PG-13 DC Comics, and their mature readers imprint, DC Black Label. You might think "Oh, okay, so the name is just changing, but it's the same thing, right?" Except it isn't. Black Label has been for one thing and one thing only: darker DC Comics stories, almost entirely about Batman, the Joker, and Harley Quinn, set out of continuity and free to say "fuck" and show tits. A notable example of "Batman: Damned," where Bruce Wayne's penis was shown, and Harley explicitly tried to rape Batman.

For "mature" readers indeed.

Thing is, maybe we don't need Vertigo anymore. These days, several companies are putting out truly great, creator-controlled (and often owned!) "mature readers" comics. In a twist, one of the best companies is Image Comics, of all places! These places allow more freedom than the WB-controlled DC would have otherwise granted, which is almost always a good thing (an exception being what uncensored Garth Ennis does for laughs). It's probably for the best that they're spread across different publishers with a variety of styles and sensibilities. Perhaps Vertigo has already done its job and passed along the torch.

The real loser here is DC itself. By focusing entirely on their superheroes, with their vary narrow ideas of what constitutes "mature" superhero storytelling, they continue to circle the drain of relevance in favor of comics where Batman can say "fuck."

There will still be great stories. And if Two-Face is in them, I know I for one will be happy. But there's no place for the future "Preacher" or "Y: The Last Man" books at DC. There's the poorer for it. And maybe we are too.

[tryingherbxst]

❣- A memory that leaves them laughing For Lena!

;: There wasn’t a bone in her body that struck with bitter and anger already. She didn’t want to be here. Only thing making this bearable is Leonard, as always. She looked like a scared child compared walking with the other units. They walked in lines, weapons in hands or hips, masks black and fatigues in camo, and there she was; Hugging the arm of the Guardian.

Even though it was a simple area check, they did have to go far for it. Good Heckler’s was in the far corner of the land of Suntint City. The more built units were setting up camp, others were setting on food or starting fires. Helena simply sat on a stump, knees on the edge and hugging herself as usual. She stared carefully at newly set up flame. Thinking, she could be a help but these are the United Units we are talking about. Sleezebags can do it themselves, not like they would accept it anyways. Leonard came sooner than later, with a basket of fruits and a good rack of meat.

“Lenny!”

“Hey there, girlie. Oi, oi, oi-! Careful, don’t want them to be pissed.”

She impulsively hugged him, and she came in like a force.

“I...Right.”

“I know, I know, they’re boneheads. If I could do something, I would. For you, of course. And, with reason.”

Helena laughed and blushed, infatuation was high with him. She felt that maybe it was too early to trust again, to cling to someone again. She just couldn’t help it, he wasn’t like the other units. He has compassion.

“Unit 12. Stop slacking. Get ready the feast.”

“No rush, big guy.” Leo sighed, and gave a nod goodbye to Lena for now.

Back to hugging herself and frowning.

“This SUCKS.”

“Why don’t you do something then, baby girl.”

“Work is for headasses, Unit whatever number.” Helena heard a chuckle. It couldn’t be. It was from Lenny! She can work with this.

“I’m no baby girl to you, pal. This ain’t a day off.”

The strongman turned around to a smirking teen girl.

“Excuse me?”

“Excuse you! Get your fuckin’ ears checked. Do they not have check-ups in the United Units, god damn.”

“I can kill you right here, little girl.”

“You better. It’ll feel better than seeing a nerve touched there.”

A good thirty minutes later, bruises and first-degree burns and a drink for Helena, really got her laughing. Sure, she wasn’t about the life as much anymore, but she was accustomed to it! Fighting was really fun for her anyways too.

“Did you really have to bite him that many times?”

“Lenny! He left his choke mark on my neck, the least I could do is return the favor! I’m all about hospitality.”

[cmyknoise]

Comfort - Part 2

Words: 1755

Relationship: If you squint maybe platonic LAMP? Platonic Anxiet? Kinda

Warning: Sympathetic Deceit? Angst I guess but not much.

Characters: Virgil, Deceit, Roman, Patton, Logan, Thomas. ‘Carefree’, ‘Pride’, and ‘Envy’

Prev. 

Next. 

Fic under the cut!

Anxiety soon grew used to those he lived with. He learned that the one in yellow was Deceit. He never gave a straight answer for his name, but he seemed to enjoy giving names of his favorite musicians. Everyone called him ‘Dee’. The green one was Envy, and he only let Dee call him ‘Ennie’. The taller orange one he had seen was Pride. Dee and Envy seemed to call him Tiger Face. He seemed to be the lead in the household.

Pride reminded him of the dark blue one from the light. Well dressed, smart, glasses,  though Pride had a huge ego. He cooked them food on occasion, but was mainly found reading or writing alone.

Envy reminded him of the red one from the light. His outfit had been almost identical if not for the complete color swap. He even wore a bare vine crown sometimes. A black prince like outfit, with golden accents and a green belt.

Dee’s personality most reminded him of the light blue one. For being Deceit, Dee was horrible at lying. He often slipped up and told the truth, he had to think about his lies, and it was obvious when he lied. It didn’t take long for Anxiety to find out that he could shape shift. It was spot on how much it looked like he was looking into the mirror when he opened the door. The only difference was a forked tongue, blepped past Dee’s lips.

He found out more about himself. He seemed to heavily rely on the fight or flight system, having no real control of whether his body decided to fight, run, or freeze up. He also found that in high states of anxiousness, panic, and fear that his eyes went white. Plus, Dee had been right. He had scales right under his eyes. Something he didn’t remember having until he left his room. He didn’t remember the sides in the light having those either.

Anxiety hadn’t seen the light for awhile… He did find out where to look. His window peered straight into the light, but it had just...been awhile. He hadn’t seen those strange eyes either, though thinking back...they were awfully similar to Dee, Envy, and Pride’s eyes. The thought made him curious. Had they been watching him as he...developed? Or had they been guiding him? It was something he would rather not dwell on.

Anxiety heard a knock on his door. He only had so many guesses as to who could be there, and he no longer worried or was scared. This was his...home. As much as he had hoped and dreamed of being on the light, being surrounded by these three wasn’t all too bad. They were a bit over dramatic and...extra but they were good company. He twisted the handle, opening up the door to see a certain snake, grinning at him.

Anxiety chuckled, opening the door to let Dee in.

“Do you ever have a light on, Anx?”

“Nope. At least, never the main one.”

Deceit groaned and found his way to Anxiety’s bed, throwing himself on it. The purple clad side chuckled and sat beside him. They both had been having a rough week. Thomas started his sophomore year not long ago. The stress of homework and tests were getting to Anxiety, and Deceit had to come up with a lot to make Anxiety and the rest feel better.  

“Why don’t we go to the imagination?”

“Imagination?”

“Yeah! It’s a real bore, Anx. It’s really not that cool.”

Anxiety chuckled softly. Dee was really bad with his lies.

“Sure. Let’s go. I have no idea how to get there.”

“I planned on showing you. There’s an entrance in my room. Thomas got his ability to act from somewhere.”

“Mhm. Come on, show me.”

Anxiety got up, offering his hand to Dee, who grabbed his hand. Anxiety pulled him up, and Dee rushed to the door, dragging the purple side along with him. This...scared and excited Anxiety at the same time. It had felt like weeks, and yet at this point he and Dee had been pals for years. It seemed that time only slowed when Thomas was in big bouts of distress. He wondered now if that’s how it was for everyone.

Dee drug him into his room, past the snake patterned door, and into an...equally snake filled room. Deceit’s room was extremely warm, his bed covered in blankets. He had plenty of light, that could be dimmed if Dee felt it was needed. Tanks were on practically every desk and table, housing a snake, or in one case, a chameleon. Those clearly weren’t the focus, as Dee drug Anxiety to the back of his room, opening up his closet. Was this really some Narnia sort of thing?

Dee pushed aside the clothes in this closet, revealing a door behind it. He stepped in and pushed open the door. Beyond the door, locations shifted across it. A forest, an ocean, a river, a...school? Several places flashed, but it stopped darker looking forest with some mysterious glows. Deceit looked to Anxiety, whose eyes were slowly growing dull. The fear of the unknown started to kick in. Deceit gently squeezed his hand, giving him an assuring look taking a step past the door, hand still holding Anxiety’s.

They stepped through the door and it closed behind them. The two were left in a dark forest, but it was absolutely gorgeous. It was littered with glowing flowers, plants that looked straight from a fairy tale. Dee pulled him off, Anxiety was too focused on the fantastic surroundings to care where they were going. He...trusted Deceit. He thought back to his past while Dee drug him off into the forest. He had already made the connection of the orbs that once watched him in the void, they must’ve been the side’s eyes. Was this...why he found the yellow and brown ones so comforting? Because they were Deceit? From the beginning it seemed that Deceit stuck to him like glue. Envy was fine, so was Pride, but it was Deceit who eventually lulled him from the dark cave of his room.

He was once curious on why there were two sides, one in the light and the other shrouded in the dark. Pride had told him that it was because they were the main sides of Thomas’s personality. Logic, Morality, Creativity, and Care-free. That’s why they were in the light, they had a job to do. Pride had seemed bitter about the subject, and it was quickly changed. Anxiety never brought it up again.

Deceit stopped, taking Anxiety from his thoughts. They had stopped in a pretty open clearing, surrounded in dark trees, odd plants. Dee sat down in the soft looking grass, and Anxiety followed in suit, sitting down beside him.

“So why...are we out here?”

Anxiety’s voice was quiet and low, he was pretty calm. Dee gave a sly grin, looking at Anxiety and then at the dark forest surrounding them.

“Dunno Anx. Thought it’d be boring, thought you’d hate it.”

He chuckled and lent back. Anxiety rolled his eyes and looked around. The place was cool, quiet… He liked it. He didn’t know they could reach the imagination directly like this and...go places. A weight was felt on his shoulder and the purple clad side looked over to find that Deceit had rest his head on his shoulder, tongue stuck out past his lips. He gave a soft chuckle and closed, his eyes. He could get used to coming to this place.

A rustle of leaves and snapping of twigs alerted the two. Anxiety tensed up and got up quick, Deceit followed and stood up with him, looking around. Anxiety knew right where the noise was coming from, and he stood in a protective stance, stance, staring on into the trees. There was a glint as a blade came down on heavy thorns and shrubbery, and from behind…

Anxiety’s eyes widened and his heart rate picked up. It was the red, prince side.

Dee scowled, “Why are you not here, Creativity?”

Creativity looked up, staring at Deceit, then Anxiety. His eyes looked confused, lingering on Anxiety. The prince held his sword at the ready, and Anxiety moved over, almost blocking Deceit.

The prince completely disregarded the question, looking straight at Anxiety, “Carefree…? Is that you?”

Panic shot through Anxiety, and he quickly shook his head, hair moving, revealing his scales. Dee gave a hiss toward the Prince. Creativity’s eyes narrowed and he gave a growl, raising his sword. He almost growled, completely switching from caution to aggression.

“What did you do with Carefree?” He glared down at the two sides with the scales. Anxiety didn’t know what he was talking about. Deceit held his mouth shut and shook his head. The Prince muttered something about the ‘Dragon Witch’ and their minions before bringing his sword down, swinging at Anxiety only to clang… Anxiety had his hand up, a thin, light purple..shield of sorts, protecting his hand from the blade. His clouded white eyes widened and he looked to Deceit, before gripping his arm. Fight or flight- and he was not fighting Creativity. He grabbed Dee’s arm and the two popped out, leaving Creativity in the imagination.

Anxiety had his arms tightly around Deceit in a protective manner as they just appeared in his room, his heart pounding. Creativity was left in the imagination, just as confused as he was furious. How dare...how dare those monsters, those villains. The imagination crumbled down around him, and he was off, returning home.

Deceit clung to Anxiety, frozen in shock. Not a word was spoken, but it seemed they silently agreed not to go back into the imagination, certainly not any time soon. They both fell to sit on the floor.

Several minutes passed before they slowly unlatched from each other. Deceit looked at Anxiety, eyes wide.

“Since when could you conjure a shield?”

His voice was hushed and airy, he still sounded terrified and in shock. Anxiety just shrugged some, he still couldn’t find his voice, and his eyes were still clouded a bright white. Maybe...those sides in the light weren’t as nice and happy as they seemed. Dee made Anxiety promise not to tell Envy or Pride, which he promised not to. Envy would throw a bossy fit and Pride would’ve been pissed more so at the others. They kept what happened a quiet secret.

[hungarian-words]

Hungarian slang & everyday language: #1 general stuff

 Most things on this list are slang, but some are just words or expressions used commonly in everyday speech. It includes sample sentences, and, if possible, also the non-slang versions of those.

hali - hi

mizu - mi újság? - what’s up? (nowadays used rarer) Mizu is also a name of a very well-known 2011 song. So well know that my classmate put it on in 2016 and 80% of us sang the first verse without a mistake. That doesn’t mean it’s good, it was popular back then, and it left so many deep scars that ppl still remember this. Here, go watch it: Mizu The lyrics: dalszöveg

mém, mémek - meme szleng - slang

- Te egész nap csak mémeket nézel? - “Are you spending the whole day looking at memes?”

csávó, csávók - guy; non-slang version: fiú, fiúk srác, srácok - guy; non-slang version: fiú, fiúk csaj, csajok - girl, the female version of “guy”; non-slang version: lány, lányok

- Az a csávó tök jól tud táncolni! - “That guy can dance really well!” - A srácokkal itt vagyunk a buszmegállóban, ti hol vagytok? - “We [the guys and me] are here at the bus stop, where are you (plural)?” - Ismered azt a csajt, akinek lila haja van? - “Do you know that girl who has purple hair?”

non-slang versions: - Az a fiú nagyon jól tud táncolni! - A fiúkkal itt vagyunk a buszmegállóban, ti hol vagytok? - Ismered azt a lányt, akinek lila haja van?

nőci, nőcik - woman; non-slang version: nő, nők

pasi, pasik - man; non-slang version: férfi, férfiak OR fiú, fiúk pasi can also be used for teenage boys, BUT it highly depends on how old you are. For example, I think  girls started calling teenage boys pasi at around 13 years. They also called them fiú, srác, etc, but the point is: calling teenagers that are approx. the same age as you pasi is fine. Calling a teenager pasi who is very younger than you is just weird.

faszi - guy , but fasz (penis) is a cuss word!, so be cautious when using it (unless you want to be rude, or come off as vulgar); plural form not really used; non-slang version: férfi tag - guy , literally “member” (the club-member kind of meaning); plural form not really used; non-slang version: férfi

- Látod a nőcit, akinek kék táskája van? - “Do you see the woman who has a blue handbag?” - Nem mindegyik pasi szereti a focit. - “Not every guy likes football.” - A faszi azt se tudta, milyen évet írunk. - “The guy didn’t even know what year it was.” - A mikulássapkás tagról beszélek. - “I’m talking about the guy with the Santa hat.”

non-slang versions: - Látod a nőt, akinek kék táskája van? - Nem mindegyik férfi szereti a focit. - A férfi azt se tudta, milyen évet írunk. - A mikulássapkás férfiról beszélek.

tesó, tesók - in this context: bro or dude, otherwise: sibling; tesa, tesák - more vulgar version of bro or dude haver, haverok - male friend; non-slang version: barát, barátok (male/gender-neutral friend) or barátnő, barátnők (female friend) elmenni valahova a haverokkal - to go somewhere with male friends; non-slang version: elmenni valahova a barátokkal (but this one is gender-neutral) haverkodni - to be chummy with someone, to get friendly with someone; non-slang version: barátkozni összehaverkodni valakivel - to pal up with someone; non-slang version: összebarátkozni valakivel bírni valakit - to like someone, can be platonic or romantic; non-slang version: kedvelni valakit (this one leans more towards the romantic feelings tho)

- Tesó, ezt tudnod kéne. - “Dude, you should know this.” - Tesa, ezt te sem gondoltad komolyan! - “Dude, not even you could mean this seriously!” - A haverod szeret olvasni? - “Does your friend like to read?” - Este megyünk Pestre a haverokkal. - “We’re going to go to Pest tonight with the guys.” - Bulikon nem szoktál haverkodni? - “Don’t you get chummy with someone during parties?” - Tegnap haverkodtunk össze. - “We paled up yesterday.” - Nem bírom az ilyen embereket. - “I don’t like people like this.”

non-slang versions: - Ezt tudnod kéne. - Ezt te sem gondoltad komolyan! (side note: without the tesó/tesa address, these two can sound agressive) - A barátod/barátnőd szeret olvasni?* - Este megyünk Pestre a barátokkal. - Bulikon nem szoktál barátkozni? - Tegnap barátkoztunk össze. - Nem kedvelem az ilyen embereket. * barát/barátnő: in Hungarian these are used for both platonic and romantic relationships. if someone says to a guy “barátod” they usually mean “male friend”, if they say to him “barátnőd”, they mean “girlfriend”, and vice versa by girls. people have this “everyone is heterosexual" mindset, so the language is used like that too.

pasizni - to pick up guys csajozni - to pick up girls doesn’t 100% translate to picking up guys/girls, - it’s true that if valaki pasizik/csajozik they want to have a contact, but that’s not always the pick-up way. most of the time, but not always

[- Mit tervezel ma estére? - Megyek a csajokkal pasizni./ Megyek a csajokkal csajozni./ Megyek a haverokkal csajozni./ Megyek a haverokkal pasizni./ “csajokkal” can be replaced with the following: lányokkal "haverokkal” can be replaced with the following: fiúkkal; srácokkal both can be replaced by names too, e.g. csajokkal - Rebekáékkal/Liliékkel/Timiékkel/stb. with Rebeka/Lili/Timi and the others csajokkal - Rebekával, Lilivel és Timivel with Rebeka, Lili and Timi haverokkal - Norbiékkal/Boldiékkal/Laciékkal/stb. with Norbi/Boldi/Laci and the others haverokkal - Norbival, Boldival és Lacival with Norbi, Boldi and Laci “What did you plan for tonight?” “I’m heading out with my female friends to pick up guys.”/ “I’m heading out with my female friends to pick up girls.”/ “I’m heading out with my male friends to pick up girls.”/ “I’m heading out with my male friends to pick up guys.”] 

tök - very, a lot; adjective; lit.: pumpkin; non-slang version: nagyon dumálni - to talk; non-slang version: beszélgetni duma - bullshit* *I don’t know how inapproriate English considers bullshit, but duma is actually the nicest way to say it in Hungarian.

- Ez tök jó! - “That’s so good!” - Ezt a számot tökre szeretem. - “I like this song very much.” - Most akkor dumálunk, vagy nem? - “So, are we going to talk or not?” - Srácok, fejezzétek már be a dumálást! - “Guys, stop the talking!” - Ez duma! - “That’s bullshit!”

non-slang versions: - Ez nagyon jó! - Ezt a számot nagyon szeretem. - Most akkor beszélünk, vagy nem? - Fiúk, fejezzétek már be a beszélgetést!

jó fej - lit. “good head”; meaning depends on your own definition of jó fej, it can mean someone is friendly, someone is funny, generally if someone says this about a person it means they like them (in a platonic way) [- Milyen volt Zsófinál? - Nem volt olyan rossz! Kiderült, hogy tök jó fej! “How did you feel at Zsófi’s?” “It wasn’t that bad! It turned out she’s cool!”]

cuki - cute; more commonly used by girls and women, boys and men use it in the same manner rarer (unfortunately they use it more in a mocking tone)

[- Kérsz csokit? Nekem nem kell. - De cuki vagy! Igen, kérek. “Would you like some chocolate? I don’t want it.” “You’re so cute! Yes, I would like some.”] - Tök cuki ez a ruha. - “This dress is very cute. - Hogyhogy nem bírod azt a csajt? Tök cuki. - “How come you don’t like that girl? She’s very cute.” - Az a srác tök cuki! - “That guy is very cute!”

non-slang versions: [- Kérsz csokit? Nekem nem kell. - De aranyos vagy! Igen, kérek.] - Nagyon szép ez a ruha. - “This dress is pretty.” - Hogyhogy nem kedveled azt a lányt? Nagyon kedves. - Az a fiú nagyon jóképű!

gyökér, gyökerek - an adjective that’s a mixture of stupid, insane, and asshole; literally: root; will translate it in sample sentences as stupid for it to be easier to read

- A Meli az gyökér! - “Meli is stupid!” - A Marci? A Marci az teljesen gyökér! - “Marci? Marci is completely stupid!” - Ne legyél már ennyire gyökér! - “Don’t be so stupid!” - De hogy lehet valaki ennyire gyökér? - “But how can someone be this stupid?”

tuti - surely; non-slang version: biztos/biztosan tutira - surely; non-slang version: biztos/biztosan

Used: “tuti, hogy” or “tutira” “biztos, hogy” or “biztosan”

- Tuti, hogy ezt mondta? / - Tutira ezt mondta? - “Is this really what she said?” - Tuti, hogy ide kellett jönni? / - Tutira ide kellett jönni? - “Is this really the place we were supposed to come to?”

non-slang versions: - Biztos, hogy ezt mondta? / - Biztosan ezt mondta? - Biztos, hogy ide kellett jönni? / Biztosan ide kellett jönni?

suli, sulik - school; non-slang version: iskola, iskolák doga, dogák - test; non-slang version: dolgozat, dolgozatok (not adding more school vocab because that’s for a separate post)

- Miért kell suliba járni, mikor konkrétan semmi értelme nincsen? - “Why is it mandatory to go to school when it literally makes no sense?” - Remek, akkor németből is írunk dogát! - “Great, then we’ll have a German test too!”

non-slang versions: - Miért kell iskolába járni, mikor konkrétan semmi értelme nincsen? - Remek, akkor németből is írunk dolgozatot!

zabálni - to eat, vulgar; non-slang version: enni kajálni - to eat; non-slang version: enni vedelni - to drink, vulgar; non-slang version: inni

- Úgy zabál, mintha két napja nem evett volna. - “She’s eating as if she hadn’t eaten in two days.” - Mikor kajálunk? - “When are we eating?” - Nem kell ennyit vedelni! - “It isn’t necessary to drink that much!”

non-slang versions: - Úgy eszik, mintha két napja nem evett volna. - Mikor eszünk? - Nem kell ennyit inni!

séró - hairstyle; non-slang version: frizura/haj

meló - work; non-slang version: munka melózni - to work; non-slang version: dolgozni btw our word meló comes from the Hebrew melacha.

- Jó a séród! - “Your hairstyle is great!”

- Milyen a meló? - “How’s work?” - Bocs, nem érek rá, melóznom kell. - “Sorry, can’t make it, I have to work.”

non-slang versions: - Jó a hajad! / - Jó a frizurád! - Milyen a munka? - Bocs, nem érek rá, dolgoznom kell.

The post was created around late 2017/early 2018. Depending on when you are reading it, it may be outdated.

[davidmann95]

So, Superman, Action Comics, Justice League, Superman: Up, Up, and Away, and other titles... how do you feel about Superman's place right now?

Comics-wise? Superman’s in an incredibly positive place right now! Action Comics is generally being regarded as a really solid book. Superman: Up Up and Away is largely I think going to achieve deserved perennial status even with the one truly bad chapter weighing it down that’ll be reprinted in #3. He just had an absolutely phenomenal showing in Justice League in that book’s best arc since the Morrison years with The Sixth Dimension!, with by all appearances more quality Superman content to come from that corner. And while even as the official Bendis Superman liker I’m ready for the Unity Saga to be done in Superman proper, I’m still enjoying it and I’m incredibly excited by the descriptions of upcoming stories suggesting it’ll tap back into the promise of the first issue by dealing with the likes of (rot13) na rivy Ybvf Ynar pbzznaqrrevat gur Sbegerff, gur Yrtvba neevivat gb erpehvg Wba, naq Fhcrezna'f arj wbo qrfpevcgvba bs Cerfvqrag bs Rnegu. Fuck, I’m even one of the two weirdoes who thought Superman: Year One’s first issue had worthwhile elements. Throw on Lois Lane and Superman’s Pal, Jimmy Olsen, from what I understand Supergirl being merely forgettable rather than actively bad at the moment, a AAA Legion of Superheroes relaunch on the horizon with at least one major connection back to him, and Superman serving as the spiritual linchpin of the Wonder Comics line, and this is the best his lineup has been since the mid-00s, if not in fact in decades.

That all being said:

Anonymous said: Will Superman ever truly escape the shadow of the Jurgens mediocrity and the latest Tomasi mediocrity (with a renewed dose of Jurgens) in the long term? Or are we doomed to more Doomsdays and dull text lacking ambition, imagination and execution, which keeps reasserting itself in the place where greater texts (read Morrison Action, or Maggin in general) oughta be?

Truthfully, much as I rag on the both of them, they’re symptoms rather than the issues themselves. It’s from an editorially-enforced popular conception of Superman - one most easily traced back to John Byrne and the Donner movies, but its roots are in his vague public image period - as fundamentally a simple character inhabiting a simple world, whether that’s considered his charm, his damnation, or the simplest way of dealing with him on the part of those who don’t really give a shit. And damn it, it’s successful up to a point, and it’s safe. Which makes it potentially more corrosive to his image in the long-term than even the try-hard faux-deep darkening of his world, since that tends to receive immediate, severe backlash.

Bendis has his Bendis-isms I know rankle people, same goes for King, but ultimately they’re writing fairly classical takes on Clark himself. The scope of the backlash beyond the very fact of their names I think comes down to that there’s flavor and there’s risk to what’s being done with Superman at the moment, that it’s about stuff other than how great he is and how great he makes us feel, and a whole lot of people find that antithetical to his whole deal or at the very least a warning sign of doom to come. In a post-Snyder world folks are wary and looking for the next incoming blow, but even that aside there’s a whole lot of people who think this is all there is to Superman…

…and plenty believe that’s exactly how it should be.

(Fuck I hate that page, all the failings of What’s So Funny About Truth, Justice, and the American Way? and Secret Origin amplified and condensed into a single moment of square-jawed, smirking, condescending ‘wholesome’ small-c conservative Americana lecturing us cynical modern city folks on how you just gotta be nicer and love the problems away - I suppose it’s actually perfect Manchester Black is the final villain of the run and that arc specifically.)

Add that a lot of the best creators such as Maggin, Busiek, Waid, and Ennis are either thoroughly in the rear-view mirror or have scattered/sporadic/relatively little work with him, or both, and that Morrison’s Action was swept up in the same issues as the above? And that the last Superman story smacking of rocking the boat that still went on to generally widespread acceptance and acclaim in American Alien almost immediately became one we by and large Do Not Talk About Anymore because of, y’know, all that stuff? While meanwhile the very fact of the simple takes on Superman being simple means they’re easy to repackage? I actually don’t think the Rebirth years will have much staying power outside a devoted few given they’re roped pretty heavily into continuity shenanigans, but Death of Superman is sticking around forever.

The boring, impossibly difficult solution is “do really good stuff with Superman for decades until that becomes the predominant image of him”. Somewhat more practically even if it’s still by no means simple, what the dude really needs - much as I’m enjoying the current status quo and will take it for as long as I can get it given the general alternatives - is something akin to a Ewing and Bennett on Hulk, or Hickman and company on X-Men. An impossible-to-overlook new injection of vitality into the title/s by creators with both the skill and fandom clout to get away with that sort of thing and be widely embraced for it, who can do something Big and New and Exciting that without twisting away from what it’s always been about at heart show it’s more than worth taking the leap towards something more nuanced and energetic and bolder. Not that that would stop plenty of crap Superman comics being made, comics even that would actively, consciously work to undo whatever such a run brought to the table to return it to the glory years of Jurgens and Tomasi. But it would make the sort of impression that means that eventually someone would be dedicated to recapturing those ideas and that spirit, in the same way that no matter how many crap comics Daredevil or Batman might get in a row there’s an understanding now that they simply won’t be permitted to go too long without a major fan-favorite run under their belts. Not a perfect solution, but we don’t live in a perfect world.

[aureliasaid]

Billings, Beartooth Pass, Yellowstone River, Big Sky

Montana - August 12-18, 2019

 Monday, August 12

Flights were perfect coming into Billings, the largest city in Montana. Unfortunately that was not the case on the ground when a massive hail storm the night before left no cars at any car rental place. Hm. Let’s think about our options over lunch at local brewery called Uberbrew as recommended from our local transplants sending advice from France. We rented a car from a local rental/used car dealer in town and headed to Red Lodge and our same local family’s vacation cottage on Hauser St. Got the last car at AA&A Car rental in town and set off to Red Lodge. TIp: if in a pinch, look at the app Turo, an Air BNB for cars type thing.

 Red Lodge - Cute little town with everything to do such as skiing in the winter, mtn biking, hiking, etc. Fav hike is the Glacier Lake hike. Our pals home is a super cute old clapboard historical home complete with pot belly stove with Broadway, the main drag of Red Lodge, an easy walk. Because of our travel woes, our time to do anything active was consumed, so it left little time for anything except to actually consume at shops, bars and restaurants. Darn. Here is the scoop from our fav local:

 Hey Aurelia!

Bear spray is a must if you go hiking. The Beartooth Market is down the street towards town if you need anything. There is also a nice little gourmet food and wine shop, Babcock and Miles, 105 12th Street West, that also makes good coffee, but not open until 9. That is also a fun place to pick up picnic items if you need lunch for a drive up the Pass. For breakfast, we like Regis Cafe at 501 South Word, open at 7 am. It’s nice to sit outside in the back if it’s good weather. The Cattail Bakery, 203 Broadway, is good for picking up baked goods. They are open early and close when they run out of croissants.

Mas Taco is a short walk from the house, on the other side of the main street, Broadway. It is great for a quick lunch or dinner, closes at 7 pm. Our other favorite is Prerogative Kitchen at 104 Broadway, fun atmosphere and serves small plates that you order at the counter. (Our choice and it was excellent!) There is a pop-up Sicilian restaurant at Ox Pasture (7 Broadway). The atmosphere is wonderful, and the staff is mostly Italian (they come for just the summer)...It’s good, but not fabulous. It is a fun experience, though. We think the Sicilian specials at the top of the menu are the best choices. You might need a reservation. Carbon County steakhouse on Broadway is good if you want a steak. They also own Natali’s Front Bar next door, good for a drink on the patio. (Yep, we did.) The Pollard Hotel is a historical landmark, Calamity Jane and such hung out there back in the day. I do not recommend the restaurant, but their pub is pretty decent and sometimes has live music. Best ice cream is Jubilee, close to Prerogative Kitchen and the Roman movie theater on Broadway.

If you want an interesting something to take back to your daughter, Paris Montana on Broadway has unique, funky “western” clothes and accessories. The owner designs and makes a lot of the items herself.

 Tuesday, August 13

The Beartooth Pass Drive is incredible. It takes about an hour to drive up to the Pass at 10,497 ft. You can make a loop out of it by coming back to Red Lodge (or Billings) as was the case for our hail storm dictated journey) through Wyoming on the Chief Joseph drive through the Sunlight Basin. All together this was about a 5 hr jaunt with minimal stops. Probably 4 if you go back to Red Lodge. We got picnic supplies at the Beartooth Market and left at 8am after breakfast at the Honey Cafe.

The Beartooth is fantastic with incredible 360 degree views of the jagged Beartooth Mtns, and the other ranges in the distance. Alpine lakes are everywhere at the top and you level out onto grassy plateaus. There are hikes along the way, lots of scenic pull offs, Beartooth Lake rec area and the Top of the World stop for snacks, gas and outhouse. Really gorgeous.

The terrain on the Chief Joseph scenic drive is not as dramatic as the Beartooth Highway, but full of vast valleys, grassy plains, igneous dikes and rocky plateaus. The highlight is the Clark Fork Yellowstone river and canyon that runs through most of the Basin.

Would have liked to have gone on to Cooke City, but we had return to Billings to return our local yocal car rental. Luckily, Enterprise had a car for us so off we went to Pray, Montana and the Sage Lodge in the Paradise Valley below the Paradise Range.

The Sage Lodge, which clearly is geared around fishing as it is a partnership of Sage fishing gear along with other fishing brands, sits high on a grassy plain and is quite nice with spa, gourmet restaurant, casual restaurant, hot tub area, mtn biking trails, and lots of fishing stuff. We hopped on two bikes and took a 5 mile ride around the property before having dinner in the grill.

 Wednesday, August 14

Fly fishing on the Yellowstone. A beautiful day starting in the 50’s and up to the low 80’s quickly. Craig Boyd was a spectacular guide with lots of fish tales while being a good instructor and oarsman. It was an A+ day as we snagged probably 30 fish. Mend, strip out and strip in, set that hook were all terms of the day on a 12 mile float from to Side ?? to Livingston. The Yellowstone River is a gorgeous, wide river, which interestingly flows north to the Missouri River, with some nice small rapids, but generally a swift current, but gentle feeling river going through the Paradise Valley.

After our float, we explored the area visiting the famed Chico Hot Springs Lodge, which is quaint and historic National Park feeling with the hot springs contained within a swimming pool setting. The bar has lots of character and the food is supposed to be James Beard material. We were glad to see it and glad to be staying at the Sage. Also drove over to the Yellowstone Valley Lodge which could be a good option for staying with cabins overlooking the river and a well known gourmet restaurant. (Book way in advance.) Ended our touring with a cold Rainer beer at The Saloon in Emmigrant, a “suburb” of Pray....Soaked in the scenery in the hot tub and a lovely dinner at the Fireside Room.

Thursday, August 15

It’s a car tour day as we cruised to Ennis, Montana which is a beautiful drive through the Madison Valley and beside a gorgeous Madison River, which is very similar to the Yellowstone. Ennis is a cute little town with typical Main Street full of fly fishing shops and s smattering of restaurants. With some time to kill, we decided to drop in on some friends and their Ruby RIver Ranch near Alder, Mt. A lovely compound of log cabins and main lodge right on the Ruby River which is a large creek known for its fishing and tubing. A bonus is going through Virginia City and Nevada City, which are historic gold mining towns that are still so authentic western looking that I thought I might be on a movie set.

We headed back to Moonlight via the private shortcut on Jack Creek Road and landed just in time for dinner at the Moonlight Golf Club.

 Friday, August 16

Enjoyed a few days at Moonlight & Moonlight Music Fest! 

 Other good areas:

Boulder River Valley and Big Timber area are great for fly fishing. (Red Lodge to Timber is 1.5 hrs) Paradise Valley near Livingston is good as well. (Red Lodge to Livingston is 2 hrs and another hour from Livingston to Pray.)

[titleknown]

I wrote something in a Youtube comment addressed to someone mentioning that people were still fans of Jontron because of the whole “separate the artist from the art” thing, and I made a response I thought I might as well preserve:

I can kinda get that mindset, but I'll say that I can't really get behind that because of all the people I know of who have at least one story of being preyed upon while those around them did nothing to help, and of all the people who've been let down by the world when they've been preyed upon by e-celebs, and I feel like complicity because "they do good work" has been what's let the world in general get to such a rotten state, see also how many people defended Harvey Weinstein and Roman Polanski (Including some of my favs sadly).

And, BTW to clarify, when I say "Arin pals around with scumbags,"[Note this was something I mentioned in an earlier comment on why I’m not comfortable watching Grumps] I mean his and Suzie's association with people like; say; Shadman; a pedophile who represents himself as a skull-headed Nazi and draws porn of real kids and who's basically an IRL Garth Ennis villain.

Tho, the post I learned it from also had some really horrifying details on other internet favs (I dread the shitstorm when Indivisible comes out), so take that as you will.

Like, while callout culture and shaming is bad, I can't help but feel they evolved because of our cultural inability to give justice to victims against the crimes of the powerful, going mad with vigilantism and vigilance because they feel like nobody else has their back...

So yeah...

[torontoarenas]

my take on every trade deadline trade

as you may have heard, several trades happened today. here are my comments on all of them. just the trades that happened today, though. if you came here expecting to see my opinion on, like, Washington giving up a third-round pick for Ilya Kovalchuk, you’re outta luck, pal. that trade happened yesterday.

aw, heck, tell ya what, I’ll give you that one for free (”seems fine”). anyway, let’s get started.

Detroit trades Mike Green to Edmonton for Kyle Brodziak and a 2020 conditional fourth-round pick.

I don’t know if Mike Green is still good (though given his age and the team he’s played for in recent years, I have a pretty good guess), but at the low acquisition cost of a mid-round pick and some guy I didn’t know was still in the league, it doesn’t matter too much.

Ottawa trades Vladislav Namestnikov to Colorado for a 2021 fourth-round pick.

on its face, this is a mostly inconsequential trade, but I’d like to take this space to point out that Ottawa traded their own 2021 fourth-round pick for him earlier in the season, which means they likely downgraded a draft pick for “a few months of Vladislav Namestnikov in a lost season.” cool.

Ottawa trades Jean-Gabriel Pageau to NY Islanders for a 2020 conditional first-round pick, a 2020 second-round pick, and a 2022 conditional third-round pick.

that’s a bit rich for my blood. J.G. Pageau drives play pretty well, but he typically doesn’t score at a very high rate. what’s his shooting percentage this season, by the way? 17.8%? ok, yeah, that makes sense. I see why Lou traded a first and a second for him now, and immediately extended him for six years. look, any time you can buy high on a 27-year-old who’s shooting nearly double his career average shooting percentage and then lock him up long-term at a price point commensurate with the assumption that he will continue to produce into the future at the same rate he has this year, I guess you have to do it.

Florida trades Vincent Trocheck to Carolina for Erik Haula, Lucas Wallmark, Chase Priskie, and Eetu Luostarinen.

hmm. is there any reason why Florida would want to trade a reasonably productive, play-driving centre who’s signed at a decent cap hit for the next two seasons for a return best described as “a collection of spare parts”? is it that his on-ice save percentage this season is .877 and Dale Tallon’s a dumb guy who’s bad at his job? nah, that can’t be it. oh well, guess we’ll never know!

Montreal trades Nate Thompson to Philadelphia for a 2021 fifth-round pick.

not worth it. Thompson stinks. why give up any draft picks at all for him, even one as low as a fifth?

Toronto trades Michael Hutchinson to Colorado for Calle Rosen.

oh, hey! Calle Rosen’s back! I have no other commentary to offer re this trade.

San Jose trades Patrick Marleau to Pittsburgh for a 2021 conditional third-round pick.

hey, sure, why not. would’ve preferred to see both Marleau and Thornton join the same contender, win a Cup together, and then kiss, but I guess that’ll just remain confined to my fan-fiction. for now.

New Jersey trades Wayne Simmonds to Buffalo for a 2021 conditional fifth-round pick.

look, if you insist on lighting a draft pick on fire in the frivolous pursuit of a playoff appearance that isn’t gonna happen, it might as well only be a 2021 conditional fifth. who cares.

Anaheim trades Derek Grant to Philadelphia for Kyle Criscuolo and a 2020 conditional fourth-round pick.

I tried to have an opinion on this trade, but I just can’t muster one. sorry.

Montreal trades Michael Peca to Ottawa for Aaron Luchuk and a 2020 seventh-round pick.

in my day job as accountant, we have this phrase we like to use during audits and reviews. basically, if the balance of a given account is so small that it wouldn’t be worth our time to test it, we note that in the file by saying “trivial. no further work performed.” that’s this trade and about 70% of all trades on deadline day.

Anaheim trades Nick Ritchie to Boston for Danton Heinen.

this trade seems pretty reasonable for both sides. I don’t have much else to say about it other than “lmao remember how Don Cherry wanted the Leafs to draft Nick Ritchie instead of William Nylander”

Detroit trades Andreas Athanasiou and Ryan Kuffner to Edmonton for Sam Gagner, a 2020 second-round pick, and a 2021 second-round pick.

two seconds is a little pricey for a guy who is very bad defensively and isn’t a superstar offensively, but also the Oilers desperately need players who can score when McDavid and Draisaitl are off the ice. Athanasiou should help with that a tiny bit. I give Edmonton a grade of “not great, but mostly forgivable” and I give Detroit a pat on the back and a supportive “attaboy!” re this trade

Ottawa trades Tyler Ennis to Edmonton for a 2021 fifth-round pick.

decent low-cost pickup by Edmonton

Buffalo trades Evan Rodrigues and Conor Sheary to Pittsburgh for Dominik Kahun.

I’m puzzled. I was under the impression that Rodrigues and Sheary were both pretty good. so’s Kahun, I guess, but did Buffalo just want to shed salary? am I missing something here?

Dallas trades Emil Djuse to Florida for a 2020 sixth-round pick.

who

New Jersey trades Louis Domingue to Vancouver for Zane McIntyre.

trivial. no further work performed.

Philadelphia trades T.J. Brennan to Chicago for Nathan Noel.

hey! T.J. Brennan’s still kickin’ around! neat!

Montreal trades Nick Cousins to Vegas for a 2021 fourth-round pick.

hey, sure, why not.

Columbus trades Markus Hannakainen to Arizona for a 2020 conditional seventh-round pick.

trivial. no further work performed.

Anaheim trades Daniel Sprong to Washington for Christian Djoos.

I hope Sprong can earn a permanent NHL job some time soon and retroactively prove me right for wanting the Leafs to draft him back in 2015

Anaheim trades Korbinian Holzer to Nashville for Matt Irwin and a 2022 sixth-round pick.

Holzer was a sub-replacement-level defender for the Leafs five years ago. how on Earth is he still in the league and why is anyone trading for him?

Los Angeles trades Derek Forbort to Calgary for a 2021 conditional fourth-round pick.

♫ some things you do for money / and some you do Forbort bort bort ♫

hope you liked that joke because it’s the only thing I can think of to say about Derek Forbort 

Columbus trades Sonny Milano to Anaheim for Devin Shore.

Devin Shore plays the same position as Sonny Milano and is older, more expensive, and not a clear improvement. not sure why Columbus would make this trade, but it doesn’t really matter all that much

San Jose trades Barclay Goodrow and a 2020 third-round pick to Tampa Bay for Anthony Greco and a 2020 first-round pick.

wait a minute Tampa Bay traded WHAT for Barclay Goodrow?!

Chicago trades Erik Gustafsson to Calgary for a 2020 conditional third-round pick.

yet another trade that makes me shrug my shoulders and say “hey, sure, why not”

Calgary trades Brandon Davidson to San Jose for future considerations.

“future considerations” is a lovely euphemism for “nothing,” don’t you think? I wish it had more applications outside the sporting world

New Jersey trades Sami Vatanen to Carolina for Frederik Claesson, Janne Kuokkanen, and a 2020 conditional fourth-round pick.

say it with me now: hey, sure, why not

Toronto trades Jordan Schmaltz to NY Islanders for Matt Lorito.

trivial. no further work performed.

Three-way trade between Chicago, Toronto, and Vegas: Chicago receives Malcolm Subban, Slava Demin, and a 2020 second-round pick from Vegas; Toronto receives a 2020 fifth-round pick from Vegas; and Vegas receives Robin Lehner and Martins Dzierkals.

this is a great trade for Vegas. they’re a dominant team at 5v5, but their undoing this season has been wretched goaltending from Marc-André Fleury and Malcolm Subban. Robin Lehner’s been much better than those guys, obviously, so it makes perfect sense. I feel much better about my earlier prediction that Vegas would make the 2020 Stanley Cup Final now.

in addition, I’m impressed that Stan Bowman was able to recognize that his team stinks and, therefore, holding onto Lehner past the deadline would’ve been pointless. congrats to him.

from the Leafs’ perspective, getting a fifth-round pick for eating a little bit of salary ain’t bad either.

Edmonton trades Joel Persson to Anaheim for Angus Redmond and a 2022 conditional seventh-round pick.

trivial. no further work performed.

NY Rangers trade Brady Skjei to Carolina for a 2020 conditional first-round pick.

I dunno if Brady Skjei moves the needle enough to be worth giving up a first-round pick, but it’s far from the most egregious asset management I’ve ever seen