#eyes are pretty. in moderation. perfectly balanced as all things should be

[jmbringitonworld]

EYES

BIBLICALLY ACCURATE EYES

Sera x Satan - Be Not Afraid

Just want to draw the meme~www 只是想畫迷因～ｗｗｗ

DeviantArt:[link]

☕Buy me a coffee~?☕｡:.ﾟヽ(*´∀`)ﾉﾟ.:｡

✨Want to commission me? 🖼️🖌️ヾ(･∀･)

[risuola]

▶ ONE BEDROOM? — short memory about how you found yourself sharing a bed with two of your best friends.

contents: college+roommates!au, fluffy, silly Satoru, caring Suguru and all that jazz — wc. 916

a/n: feel free to send me suggestions for entries of this series! any specific situations you think might be funny? any topics that sound interesting to you? let me know!

𝙇𝙊𝙑𝙀 𝙈𝙀𝘿𝙇𝙀𝙔 | series masterlist

“Alright, I found one,” Satoru informed, a grin of mischief tugging on his lips and both you and Suguru knew immediately that there are some gears turning below the mop of white hair of your best friend. “Near our uni, rent’s cheaper than any other we looked at, it looks nice, and there’s even a balcony for the addict. Available anytime.”

It sounded too good to be true, really. You’ve been looking for weeks now, desperate to find the right balance between the price and quality and it turned out to be the hardest thing you had to face in your lives. It was honestly a nightmare, turned out that you were way too late to find a rental with three rooms in the college area – everything was already taken and you were forced to scratch the idea of all having separate rooms. Two bedrooms, turned out, were just as hard to find. You were slowly coming to terms that you’re gonna have to either spend three hours in metro every day just to get in and out of uni or pay an unreasonable amount of money just to live even moderately close. In your head, you already saw yourself searching for the second job.

“Where’s the catch?” Suguru’s raised an eyebrow, his mind analytic as always and his questioning tone matched your thoughts perfectly. He wrapped one arm around your waist and reached with the other to snatch a phone out of Gojo’s hands, but the snow-whites grin grew even wider as he dodged the attempt. You could feel your friend taking a deeper breath behind your back, you were seated next to him, resting against his body whilst Satoru was on the floor, with his head comfortably on your thigh. “Is it one of those ‘rent a room along with ten other students’ kind of deal?”

“Nah, it’s a separate apartment. It’s not big, by any means, but as far as I’m concerned, it should be more than enough for us,” you reached your hand, but instead of giving you his phone, Gojo put his chin on your palm, smiling with the typical amount of cat-like mischief. “In fact,” he said, pulling the lollipop out of his mouth with a loud pop and threatening to lick you. The trail of sticky sugar covering his lips in a reddish tint from the cherry, his favorite, flavored candy. “I already sent a message to the renter.”

“Toru, spill it,” you pushed, pinching his cheek and with a theatrical roll of his pretty blue eyes, he put his phone into your hand, sticking the candy back into his mouth. You leaned back against Suguru’s chest again and with his head on your shoulder, you swiped through the pictures of the offer. “It… does look nice?”

“Sus,” the brunette mumbled, reaching to swipe over the screen with his own finger. “Very sus. What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing’s wrong with it,” Satoru said in fake offense and got up to his knees to peek on what you two were doing, sticking his nose in front of the screen so aggressively that you had to push him away. “But—”

“Wait, is there one bedroom in this apartment?” You noticed. The pictures you were analyzing all showed the same room and the living area with joined kitchen, the bathroom, and again the same room, and some weird kind of storage? and again the same room.

“That explains a lot,” Suguru laughed lightly and leaned back again.

“We can see the place in an hour” Satoru showed off his pearly whites. “Come on, let’s at least see it, yeah?”

“I guess we can see it,” you gave it a nod. “The price is really nice.”

“Alright… so let’s get going.”

And so, all of you hopped on the bikes, you behind Satoru, and took the ride to see the apartment. Turned out, it really was perfect. Despite the apartment having just one bedroom, it was spacious enough to fit all three of you. The bed was so big it could easily fit five and during the many years of friendship, you and two of your friends shared way too many single person mattresses, sandwiched and squished together to think twice about it. The odd storage room seemed to be a perfect candidate to become a guest room (later called: a fuck room).

“It’s nice, isn’t it?” Satoru grinned, looking at both of you as he was bouncing his ass on the bed, testing it as if he was already the owner.

“It is nice, I’ll admit,” you said, looking at Suguru to hear his opinion, but the man seemed to be thinking still. “Sug?”

“For me, it’s perfect. But,” he looked at you, a concern clearly written in his eyes, “is it alright with you?”

Geto has a way of constantly reminding you why you love him. He doesn’t look like it, in fact, he looks quite intimidating to anyone who doesn’t know him, but to you he’s just the sweetest, most caring friend you could ever wish for. If anyone was to worry about your comfort, it was him because it is true that all three of you slept together already, sharing sheets and being as close and personal as it was possible, but a random sleepover doesn’t equal sleeping with them every single day.

“It’s fine with me, don’t worry,” you reassured him, squeezing his bicep playfully.

“If it’s fine with you, then I guess we have a place.”

taglist: @kibananya, @r0ckst4rjk, @rixo-19, @soraya-daydreams

[feanorianethicsdepartment]

so i’ve been off-handedly referencing amrod having a wheelchair and burn scars and using sign language for a while now, and i figure i should get my headcanons re: him getting lightly toasted down fully somewhere? the twins in general have grown really strong really distinct personalities in my mind, i  wanna talk about them at some point, and since those topics inevitably bleed into each other i’ve decided to cover them both at once

first off: the crispening. i don’t think fëanor was trying to burn amrod alive - i actually read this post once that posited he’d caught wind that amrod was planning to go home and set the boats on fire partially as a panicked attempt to stop his son from leaving, he just had really unfortunate timing - but no matter the reason, halfway through fëanor and maedhros’ marathon argument someone notices they’re missing a guy. most of what the fëanorians remember of that night is fire and screaming, no one’s sure how they got amrod off the burning ship, but once the fire’d burned itself out he was in the hastily-erected medical tent, barely clinging to life

(for the hellspawn as a collective that whole boat episode was existentially terrifying on multiple levels. they gave up everything for his sake, but somehow they never thought he could hurt them)

amrod survives, because he is a calaquendë and whatever else you might say about them the valar did not skimp on the supersoldier budget. even so, his body is marred for the rest of his life. a significant portion of his left side is just solid burn scar, all the smoke he inhaled has massively fucked up his throat, his left arm is mangled, he’s blind in one eye, and his legs straight up can’t support his weight any more. if they were in valinor they could probably have fixed all this, but in beleriand they have neither the spare resources nor the time. the harrows of war will inevitably carve themselves into your very being; another lesson middle-earth is beating into them

but they can’t turn back, and anyway they’re noldor, they can work around this. if amrod’s legs can’t carry him, they’ll build him crutches and wheelchairs and specially train a horse to carry him around. if it hurts too much for him to use his voice regularly - well, they already had sign-languages back in valinor, since just because someone can’t speak doesn’t mean they should be cut off from the wonders of self-expression. amrod does have to adjust the one he ends up using to account for his left hand’s reduced range of movement, but he takes it up with appropriate flair and aplomb. there is panicking, there is pain, but amrod still refuses to give up. as they get further away from losgar, he reaches - maybe not a perfectly balanced state, but a sustainable one

(fëanor feeds the ensuing guilt to the sunk cost fallacy - If We Succeed In Our Quest, Telufinwë’s (i go by pityafinwë/ambarussa/minyarussa/amras and telufinwë/umbarto/nelyarussa/amrod, i know it’s not the canon formulation but it makes logical sense, fight me) Suffering Will Have Been Worth It. this is, of course, crazy person logic, but the only person with a hope of driving that into fëanor’s thick skull is currently in the halls of mandos. least amrod doesn’t have to put up with it for long)

time passes, and the fëanorians split up into their traditional groups to go do that whole terrifying warlords of east beleriand thing. amrod and amras wind up commanding a string of outposts scattered around ossiriand that amras is pretty much constantly circling through while amrod shuttles between the ones who need the most supervision. that’s always been their dynamic; amras is the excitable brash one who never shuts up and does lots of moderately stupid things, amrod is the sharp-eyed reserved one who thinks everything through and does a few incredibly stupid things. he talks more with his hands than he ever did with his voice, politely in sindarin and snarkily in noldorin

for a while, things are good. amrod’s bevy of mobility support devices and animals slowly evolve into a self-piloting war chariot, because not even losing the ability to walk is going to stop the boys from doing murder. he’s more of a tactics guy anyway, gets very into animal traps and firebombs. amrod does all the stuff amras lacks the patience to do, while amras does the things amrod isn’t spontaneous enough for; they both think they’re the one doing the real work, as is usual among the brothers hellspawn. they disagree often, they fight sometimes, but they always have each other’s backs. they cover for each other’s weak points, balance each other out, and from the shadows beneath the trees they lead their minions in raiding and subterfuge and mad science

then things go south, like the war. things don’t change that much for the twins after the bragollach, there’s just more fighting and caranthir’s lot being annoying, but it gets much worse after the nirnaeth. suddenly they‘re having to deal with all of their brothers and their minions stomping around wrecking everything the orcs didn’t already get, and everyone is at everyone else’s throats as it becomes increasingly obvious they’re going to lose the war. amras and amrod argue a lot more these days, partially because they’re both stressed out anyway, but partially because their partnership is breaking down under the strain. for all they’ve worked together, there are vast differences in the way they see the world, and it’s just so much harder to bridge the gap when everything they ever worked for is crumbling around them

but they try. they try until doriath, and it all goes to hell. rejected by their old allies, stuck in the same fortress, their last two brothers too busy with their own problems to act as a buffer, amras and amrod lash out at each other constantly. they understand the way each other’s mind works, know each other’s every horrible little secret, and grow more and more disgusted with each other every day. they go from working together with the tiniest hint of hostility to long passive-aggressive arguments about the most petty stuff to refusing to enter a room the other one is in unless they absolutely have to. when negotiations with sirion break down, amrod, ever the pragmatist, cooks up this plan to steal the silmaril with minimal losses on either side. before he’s able to convince maedhros it might work, amras, ever the idealist, rides his forces out for hope and glory

i don’t think amrod switched sides at sirion - the amrod who snuck onto the boats would have, but he’s a much worse person than he was then. still, i can’t shake the image of the twins dying on each other’s spears

[rissynicole]

Any suggestions for writing dialogues? I mean, when it comes to punctuations and actions the characters perform.

Okay, this ask has been in my inbox for months at this point, and I've been saving it because 1) I wanted to write something meaningful and 2) I didn't know what I could write that hasn't already been said ad nauseam by other writers. I still don't know if anything I say will be particularly groundbreaking, but I'll try to be helpful. Keep in mind, I'm a young writer, myself. I'm still learning new things every day, and I'm far from a guru in the field.

This got long, so I’m going to put it under the cut:

The first thing I did was ask my mother this question, because I was interested in hearing her answer. She doesn't write fiction, herself, but she has been in the editing game for 30 some-odd years. She edits fiction for Harper Collins Publishing and has an eye for these things. However, her answer to this was very plain and simple. 

She said, "All editing and punctuation exists to serve one key purpose: to not confuse the reader."

As far as grammar goes, that's the main goal. I was looking for something a little more hard and fast--some sort of rule in a style guide--and y'know, I'm sure there is a rule out there. But in a fairly fluid world of fiction writing and "rules are meant to be broken" mentalities, the most important thing to heed is the comprehension of your reader. As soon as you’ve confused your reader, you’ve made a mistake. Not a failure--but a mistake that needs to be fixed. I’ve made them; I’ve fixed them. Dialogue can be a particularly tricky area, because it’s like a minefield for these mistakes. 

I’ll add an example of my dialogue and break it down a little bit:

‘“Soldier?’ Red said, interrupting the beginning of another gushing tirade.

Larb's grin faded a bit around the edges as he glanced up. ‘…Yes?’

‘Just remember: you're walking a very thin line.’

His eyes dropped back down to the controls. ‘Yes, my Tallest… It won't happen again.’”

First and foremost, it should be clear who is speaking. I help this along by making sure the characters’ actions are in the same paragraph as their speech. It keeps it more comprehensive. Otherwise, it would read like this: 

‘“Soldier?’ Red said, interrupting the beginning of another gushing tirade.

Larb's grin faded a bit around the edges as he glanced up. 

‘…Yes?’

‘Just remember: you're walking a very thin line.’

His eyes dropped back down to the controls. 

‘Yes, my Tallest… It won't happen again.’”

Not completely indecipherable, but distracting enough to make the reader re-read it a few times. As far as formatting goes, it’s also not very pretty. Now, I’m not perfect with this. In fact, I still need to go through Parade and reformat some sections that might read like the above. However, it is a readability rule that I’m trying to follow more closely. 

Another difficulty with ensuring you’re making it clear who’s speaking can be the use of pronouns. I’ll be the first to admit, writing with multiple characters who all use the same pronouns can be incredibly difficult. You can’t always just use “he said” as a tag. It’s too easy to hit a snag where the reader gets confused and doesn’t know who “he” is. 

‘“Soldier?’ he said, interrupting the beginning of another gushing tirade.

His grin faded a bit around the edges as he glanced up. ‘…Yes?’

‘Just remember: you're walking a very thin line.’

His eyes dropped back down to the controls. ‘Yes, my Tallest… It won't happen again.’”

Sure, maybe this short passage isn’t so bad; It’s still fairly clear who’s speaking. But imagine if the entire book was that way: three, maybe four characters in the same room who all use he/his pronouns speaking without any further identification. It would get confusing and distracting. Lots of reading passages over again to try to decipher who is saying what and lots of frustration on the reader’s part. At the same time, always using the characters’ names can be tedious and unnecessary. Finding a good balance isn’t always easy, but it is worth it. 

The golden rule, for me, is exactly as my mother said: “Do not confuse the reader.”

Below, I’ll add some additional dialogue tips I have picked up:

Constantly adding a tag can get tedious. 

‘“Soldier?’ Red interrupted, cutting off the beginning of another gushing tirade.

Larb's grin faded a bit around the edges as he glanced up. ‘…Yes?’ he inquired.

‘Just remember: you're walking a very thin line,” Red replied.

His eyes dropped back down to the controls. ‘Yes, my Tallest… It won't happen again,’” he muttered. 

Sure, this makes sense. It’s clear who’s speaking. But it also doesn’t read as smoothly. Not to mention, the overabundance of different transitive verbs (interrupted, inquired, muttered), is stilted and almost mechanical in how the dialogue reads. Oftentimes, “said” is perfectly fine. Fun words like “muttered” and “interrupted” are great, too, but in moderation. Finding a happy medium can make all the difference. 

Sometimes, a tag isn’t necessary at all. 

This segues into my next piece of advice: it’s important to write dialogue in a way that still allows the reader to use their imagination. This is where I’ll go off on a bit of a rabbit trail, because this is something I’ve had to learn for myself recently. 

Put trust in your reader to make up their own mind on how dialogue is spoken

I recently finished reading On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft by Stephen King (which, regardless of your opinions on King, was a very helpful book. I enjoyed it a lot). In one passage, he tells the reader to imagine an orange sitting on a table. Just that. He doesn’t give any further details. There is a 100% chance that we are all going to see something different in our minds. We are going to imagine a different table, a different room, and maybe even a different orange.

Sometime, description helps. Sometimes, a carefully placed lack of description lets the reader make up their own mind and encourages imagination. This advice has served me well in writing dialogue. I know it’s a tired old saying in any writer’s workshop: “never use adverbs in dialogue!” And to be honest, I still believe there can be a time and a place. But relying heavily on adverbs doesn’t do anything for the reader, except maybe shoehorn them into a state where they have to re-read dialogue with the new inflection. 

‘“Soldier?’ Red said solemnly, interrupting the beginning of another gushing tirade.

Larb's grin faded a bit around the edges as he glanced up. ‘…Yes?’ he asked weakly. 

‘Just remember: you're walking a very thin line,” he replied sternly, in a flat monotone. 

His eyes dropped back down to the controls. ‘Yes, my Tallest… It won't happen again,’ he said lowly, almost inaudibly. 

Again, this feels stilted, and doesn’t really leave anything to the imagination. 

To better emphasize what I mean by this, I want to use a real example of it in action. (I hope you don’t mind, @sunnymelonpan!) Shortly after I read this advice and starting cutting down on over-describing dialogue and using adverbs, I wrote some IZ sickfic prompts. A friend of mine decided to draw up a comic based on one of them. This was not only incredibly flattering, but unexpectedly enlightening. I was able to see firsthand how other readers interpreted my dialogue. And lemme tell you, it wasn’t always exactly how I had envisioned it. 

Here’s some dialogue I wrote for the prompt in question:

“Dib swiped the thermometer from him and pushed his glasses up his nose while he read it. ‘That’s because it isn’t going down. Huh.’

‘S-some help y-y-you are,’ Zim sneered.

‘Hey, give me a break. I’m doing my best. This isn’t exactly how I wanted to spend my weekend.’

Dib’s outline rose to its full height in Zim’s dimmed living room. He disappeared into the kitchen with the thermometer, then returned with something else in his hands. Without any warning, he placed it onto Zim’s forehead, scowling at the death glare he received in return.”

When I wrote this, I personally imagined Dib acting and speaking in a sort of annoyed, deflated way. Like he wasn’t really taking Zim’s harsh words seriously. Just a sort of eye-roll “yeah, whatever, Zim,” demeanor.  That’s how I saw it. 

This is how Sunny saw it: 

In Sunny’s comic, Dib is genuinely angry. He gets annoyed, stands up, and actually berates Zim with these words. 

I never made it clear how Dib spoke this line. Some people might look at this and say I failed as a writer because I didn’t explicitly say that Dib’s line was more casual than angry. I disagree. I left it up to the reader to interpret it as they chose. And Sunny surprised me by interpreting it in a way that was different. Not wrong! Just different. I positively loved seeing Sunny’s interpretation of my prompt. It let me see my writing in the eyes of others; it showed me that I was able to describe scenes while still allowing my readers to use their imaginations. 

As a fiction writer, it is not my job to be a stagehand and tell the reader every minute detail of the scene I’m writing. Instead, it is my job to guide them through the story and allow them to envision parts of the story as they see fit. This is especially true with dialogue. 

So let’s go back to the original excerpt from Parade that I was using as an example: 

‘“Soldier?’ Red said, interrupting the beginning of another gushing tirade.

Larb's grin faded a bit around the edges as he glanced up. ‘…Yes?’

‘Just remember: you're walking a very thin line.’

His eyes dropped back down to the controls. ‘Yes, my Tallest… It won't happen again.’”

In this passage, I tried to apply all these rules: 

Make it clear who’s speaking.

Use tags sparingly. Sometimes, “said” works just fine.

Use adverbs sparingly and don’t fall over yourself trying to describe everything. 

The dialogue flows smoothly, it is clear who is speaking, and the reader can decide how it’s being spoken. Is Red angry? Impatient? Completely void of emotion in his words? Is Larb scared out of his wits? Trying to keep up a facade of bravery? Who knows! I sure don’t! I’m just the writer! It’s up to YOU to decide.

So... yeah! I know my advice wasn’t particularly groundbreaking, but I hope it was an interesting read, nonetheless. 

[vicunaburger]

Admittedly, I’m Hard to See

Fandom: Beetlejuice the Musical Chapters: 13.1/? Pairing: Beetlejuice x OC (Holidae) The Players: Beetlejuice, Lydia Deetz, Holidae Bell Word Count: 2,301 Warnings: M for Suggestive Content and Language

Notes: I had to break this one up because it was getting away from me. Part 2 coming soon~

Chapter 13.1 - In Which the Mind is a Terrible Thing to Use

Time was a weird concept when you were dead.

Minutes, hours, days: none of them really had any meaning anymore. They were just arbitrary things that kept the mortal realm in line, dictating the daily lives of those still living in it. The Neitherworld time difference was one of the hardest things for the Recently Deceased to grasp upon entry, and it was part of Beetlejuice’s job as a guide to break it down in simple terms. Congrats! You’re dead, do what you want because you’re here forever. Take up a hobby or something, it makes the days go by faster.

When he was in the mortal realm, he never really paid attention to the passage of time, but he knew it happened.

It had been dark when Holidae had dragged him topside, and now her room was brighter with sunlight peeking through dark curtains. He wondered if Holidae even realized time had passed that much, since she had her nose buried in the Handbook for a while now. She had let him sit with her this whole time, occasionally leaning against his shoulder to find a more comfortable reading position.

When he realized it was already nearing the middle of the day, he offered to leave her alone so that she could sleep, something he knew breathers had to do, “Hey, your eyes are gonna cross if you keep that up. Go to bed or something, I gotta check on a project back on the Other Side anyway.”

Holidae looked up from her reading, blinking at him to let her eyes adjust, “You’re leaving me?”

Beetlejuice had been lighting up a cigarette, but her question made him pause, the unlit smoke hanging from the corner of his mouth. Something in that tone of voice was… familiar. A little nagging worm in the back of his mind that he couldn’t quite pin down.

“I won’t stay away too long, babes. You won’t even miss me that much.” He chuckled, resuming his task and taking a long drag, puffing out jagged little smoke heart in her direction. “I know how eager you are to have me all to yourself. I don’t blame you; all this sexiness within arm’s reach for so long… your willpower it amazing, ya know?”

Frowning, she waved the smoke away, “Not going to miss the crushing weight of your ego, that’s for damn sure.”

Chuckling, Beej snapped his fingers, vanishing with a soft pop. Holidae rolled her eyes, sliding off the bed and going over to check the alarm clock on the dresser, wincing when she noticed it was already the afternoon. Hearing movement from downstairs, she quickly changed out of her pajamas, heading down to see what Lydia was up to.

Lydia was by the front door, one foot planted firmly on the top of an overstuffed suitcase as she attempted to close it, struggling with the zipper. Holidae skipped down the stairs two at a time, going over to kneel down and help to make sure nothing was being caught in the closure.

“Jesus, Lyddy, you’re going away for one night. Do you really need all this stuff?” Holidae mumbled, stuffing a frilly lace skirt back inside the suitcase. “Are you going for a fashion show?”

“Hey, you never know what can happen in the uninhabited part of the woods at night. What if some cryptid comes out and want to borrow an evening look? I’m not going to be rude, Holli.” Lydia snickered, managing to secure the small padlock on the closure.

Laughing, Holidae helped to lift the suitcase up onto its wheels, “I can’t argue with that logic. Just make sure you take the dress to the dry cleaner’s afterwards. Might have fleas.”

“Speaking of fleas, it’s your turn for chores this weekend. I’ve already seen this house looking like a Halloween haunt once, don’t let it happen without me, okay?” Lydia grabbed the car keys of the entryway table, dragging the suitcase behind her as she headed outside.

———

Holidae spent the rest of the afternoon cleaning the house from top to bottom; mainly not wanting to incur Lydia’s wrath should the house get another inch of dust before she returned, but it also served to take her mind off of other things. Her sudden burst of confidence in inviting her ghostly roommate to spend the weekend with her… alone… she wasn’t normally such a forward person. Her brain was having a time of it; trying to decide if she should try and politely rescind the invitation, or just jump in with both feet.

Reading the Handbook hadn’t really done much to ease her fears, seeing as there was absolutely no useful information on whether or not such activities were even allowed, let alone possible. Were the going to be consequences? Did they need to take any extra precautions? How did he even retain a sex drive with no functioning organs? Obviously, Beej wasn’t shy about getting a little frisky with her, but was it done through some sort of non-biological means?

Over-thinking about such things were probably why she hadn’t slept in the past 24 hours.

Holidae halfheartedly pushed the broom around the outdoor deck, trying to gather the fallen leaves into a pile. A sudden breeze kicked up some fallen foliage, disrupting the progress she had made in sweeping the porch clear of debris. Groaning, she knelt down and picked up one of the leaves, glaring at it as though it were the sole cause of her internal torments.

“Why must you taunt me, huh? I just get this all clear and pretty and moderately balanced in some semblance of external harmony. And now you ruin it so casually?” She tossed the leaf into the small pile she had gathered with a huff.

Not wanting to be deterred from her task, she slipped her phone from her back pocket, queuing up some music to break up the silence of the outdoors. Once she found something suitable, she placed the phone on the nearby lawn chair, turning up the volume.

It was a bouncy tune; one that made it impossible not to add a few extra flourishes to her broom strokes, sweeping along to the rhythm. Before long, all intentions of actually cleaning had ceased, and Holidae was far more concerned with pulling off fantastic moves with her dance partner. For a broom, it was surprisingly limber as she swung her arms wide, twirling in some bastardized ballroom number created just for this occasion. Waltz for an autumn cleaning spree.

“You’re making a mess.” A familiar, gravel laden voice cut over the music.

Holidae looked around wildly, clutching the broom to her chest in surprise, noticing the ghost casually lounging on the lawn chair. He held her phone in one hand, scrolling idly; a half-finished cigarette burning in the other.

“Holly-baby, you’ve been holding out on me. All these cute underwear pics… and you never bothered to share? I’m hurt. Who’s been seeing these if not me?” Beetlejuice waves the phone around for emphasis. “Do I need to remove some dude’s eyeballs now?”

Her face cherry-red, she marched over and snatched the phone away, “Hey, that’s private stuff, jerkass.”

Upon inspection, the phone was set on the lock screen, meaning he hadn’t been browsing her private photos as he had claimed. Beej sat up with interest, laughing at her panicked state.

“Ah-ha! So you do have sexy pictures on that thing. Give it here… don’t you know sharing is caring?” He held out his hand impatiently. “Call it a sneak preview.”

Holidae shoved the phone into her pocket, “Whether or not such pictures exist is none of your concern. And please don’t go around removing eyeballs. Or at least don’t tell me about it. I don’t want to be complicit.”

“It’s very much my concern, babes. I should be the only one getting the honor of seeing every bit of you from now on. But fine, I will keep you out of my eyeball collection.” Beej reached up, hooking a finger through the belt loop of her jeans, tugging playfully. “So, Cinderella, you done playing housekeeper? I could always get you a little maid outfit for authenticity.”

“Well, technically I’m done, but there’s always- eep!” Holidae was cut off, having been picked up and thrown over Beetlejuice’s shoulder like a sack of flour. “Put me down! This is undignified!”

Beetlejuice ignored her struggling, humming a nonsense tune as he glided through the house, heading up the stairs. Holidae kicked her feet in protest, stringing a few choice words together as she was carried around with little effort. One of her kicks landed dangerously close to a rather sensitive area below his belt, earning her a sharp smack across her backside.

“Ow. Fuck you!” She hissed, gripping his coat as he floated up the stairs. “I don’t like this one bit! Put me down or I’ll kick you again, and I won’t miss.”

Undeterred by her protesting, the ghost continued all the way into the attic, unceremoniously depositing her on the ratty sofa; having been folded up at some point. She sank into the half-stuffed cushions, propping herself against the arm of the sofa, angrily scrunching herself as far into the corner as she could fit. The ghost settled himself into the opposite corner, amused with how flustered he had made her in such a short time.

“Holli~” Beetlejuice was purring deep in his throat, “Babydoll, look at me.”

“No,” Holidae kicked at him with her feet.

He chuckled, “C’mon. Look, I’ll apologize if you just look at me. I don’t say sorry often, so I think you should take advantage of this opportunity. Look look look…”

With a heavy sigh and a roll of her eyes, Holidae turned to look at him, “You are such a pain in the- JESUS CHRIST.”

Beetlejuice was sitting with one leg folded over the other, his arm draped across the back of the sofa. A perfectly normal pose… save for the fact he was stark naked. His pale coloring covered his entire body; the bits of green-tinted mold dotting various parts of him. A thin smattering of chest hair - green of course, matching his hair - made a trail down his pudgy stomach, the rest hidden by his crossed leg. She could only assume that all of his hair sported the same color-changing hue, but wasn’t about to ask. The only thing really out of place about him was the fact there was a brutal looking scar in between two of his ribs.

Holidae stared, slack jawed like a fish, unable to look away for far too long; desperately keeping her eyes locked onto his face. Beej waggled his eyebrows in an exaggerated manner, gesturing over himself with his free hand.

“I’m sorry I made you undignified or whatever.” He attempted a sorry look, “I take it you like what you see? All this can be yours~ whenever you want. As an apology.”

“I… I can’t look anywhere but your face.” Holidae stuttered, a flush of color spreading out from her nose across her cheeks. “P-Please put on pants. At least pants.”

The ghost mumbled disapprovingly, but complied with her request to a degree; a pair of boxer shorts covering the most scandalous bits of him for the moment. Breathing a sigh of relief, Holidae allowed herself to relax against the arm of the sofa, running a hand through her hair as she gave him a better look-over this time.

“Ah, good, my plan worked.” Beej crawled over to her side of the sofa, squishing her playfully between his body and the cushions.

Holidae head-butted him, “The plan to embarrass me to death?”

He shook his head, conveniently resting his face on her chest, “My ice-breaker. Getting naked. You ever heard of that old thing where if you’re awkward about something, you picture people naked? I cut out the middleman. You’ve now seen me naked, so it you won’t be embarrassed about later, and now we just gotta work on getting you naked.”

“That’s an ice-breaker to you? That’s… that’s like final step territory. What kind of person just immediately disrobes like that? Okay, well, not everyone can just magic their clothes away like you, but it’s the point.” She pouted, brushing through the shorter hairs at the nape of his neck with her fingers.

“...hookers?” He offered, taking a moment to adjust her legs so he was between them, using her body as furniture instead of the sofa.

“Ah, good point, but you don’t strike me as a street walker.” Her skin grew warm under her sweatshirt, fully processing the mostly naked man lounging with her. “Even then I think there’s a least a few minutes beforehand where it’s all business transaction talk. So, being naked immediately is optional. Plus, what if the client wants to keep their clothes on? There’s too many variables, Juice. Did you even account for activities that don’t require disrobing at all?”

Holidae realized she was rambling, her nerves having set her brain on fast-talking auto pilot to cover the fact she was stalling the whole situation with him. She glanced down, finding herself face to face with a pair of molten gold eyes, practically glowing in the sunlight in the attic window. It was so easy to forget how inhuman he was; things like that were a stark reminder.

Beetlejuice had a lazy grin on his face, a few sharp teeth peeking out from the corner of his mouth, content with watching the breather talk circles around him.

Not the breather. His breather.

As much as she tried to ignore him, or refuse his playful offers, he could see it in her face as she stared back at him. Who else would let him lie around like this? Who else would validate his need for constant attention without even realizing she was doing it? This was not a bestest best friend: he already had one of those.

This was a Holidae: and he only wanted one of those.

Before he could utter so much as a snarky quip, her hands grabbed the sides of his face, pulling him close, and she closed the gap between them with a kiss.

Writing Tags: @mr-geuse @paxenera @leiasolo77 @go-commander-kim @ashemspirit @asriells

[petersmparker]

Luck (Peter Parker x Reader)

Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader

Summary: Out of all the things you could have guessed might happen at Flash’s party, this wasn’t one of them.

Word Count: 3749

A/N: hey uhhhhhhh did I mention that I’m a fucking sucker for Peter and Flash becoming weird vaguely confusing bros by the time senior year rolls around bc i am. anyway have fun with this Almost Spicy fic cause ya bitch was in the mood to write character interactions and General Nonsense

You had told Peter that something was going to happen at the party. No matter what you did, you couldn’t talk yourself out of the feeling that something– though you didn’t know what– would occur. Things never really go the way you’d expect when you’re with Peter, after all. Surprises follow him wherever he goes, as you’ve learned these past few years, and to attempt to expect any one outcome is silly.

To be honest, you’ve never really truly gotten used to that.

It’s just beginning to become dark and chilly outside when Peter’s old beater pulls up to the curb outside Flash Thompson’s house. Colored lights flash through the windows and the sound of music blares out the open front door. When you climb out of the passenger seat, Flash’s voice calls through the speakers, riling up the party crowd.

“This is giving me a bad feeling,” you sigh, somewhat nervously, as you adjust your skirt and tug the front of your blouse down a bit.

Figures you’ve worn the one that inches up over your chest weird. Damn it. You should just go home.

The door to the back seat slams shut, the hinges squeaking in protest. “Come on, Ned, you’re gonna take the door off,” Peter scolds lightly, making his way around to stand next to you, “This thing’s older than you.”

“Sorry, car,” Ned says quickly, before throwing his arm around your shoulders, “Anyway, you say that every time. I think it’ll be fun.”

“I guess,” you submit, and deliver a pat to his back, “I know Flash has really toned the attitude down since sophomore year, but I’ll never get used to showing up to these things.”

Ned drops his arm and starts heading up the walkway. Again, Flash’s voice rings out with a Make some noise, Midtown Tech!, followed by a blaring air horn. You stifle a laugh. The sound effect has always been hilarious and always will be. Of all his DJ-ing habits, it’s the only one you’ve never completely hated. It eases some of your tension.

Objectively, you know it’ll be fine. You, Peter, and Ned have gone to these before and enjoyed yourselves. It’s really just a matter of finding a nice spot with low traffic and a good line of sight for the spectacle. Maybe a bowl of chex mix. You’re simple folks.

But even so, you’ve got the feeling that something is going to happen tonight. You can’t tell if it’ll be good or bad. The anticipation is uncomfortable. You adjust you shirt again.

God damn it.

You catch Peter’s line of sight following your hands as you attempt to casually yank your shirt back into place by the hem that’s supposed to be just below your chest. It’s a bit awkward. You catch his eye, and he blushes, looking apologetic. You don’t blame him, because you know you look silly. Calling him out on it seems equally silly because of it.

He shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders without mentioning the exchange.

“Let’s go before we lose Ned,” he suggests, and leads you down the pathway to the porch.

Your friend has already made it inside. There is a group of people gathered in the entryway, looking up the stairway. You can see a dude from the soccer team crammed inside a plastic bin on the top step.

“They’re gonna push him down, I think,” Ned supplies, somewhat needlessly, when Peter taps his shoulder to let him know you’ve caught up.

“Boy, I hope,” you respond, “I don’t need to be a witness, though.”

“Onward then,” says Peter, amusedly.

As you move on into the large living room, a series of bangs and hollering comes from behind.

“Nice,” Ned says, appreciatively, as he continues to watch while walking away.

Flash has set up his equipment across the room on a raised platform in front of the fireplace. Like every other time you see it, you wonder what the actual purpose of that landing is, besides being a stage for Flash’s moderately sick beats to be thrown six times a year. He’s bent over a set of turntables, one hand holding his headphones in place as he rocks in place. After a moment, he looks up to address the crowd.

He sees that your group has arrived, and it’s not hard to guess what’s coming.

“Hey, Penis Parker!” He shouts, slamming the air horn button a few times, and adding a booing sound effect for good measure.

Peter smiles and waves good-naturedly. The old jokes don’t quite have the effect that they used to, nor are they intended to. Flash waves back and looks down to his table again. He announces that the next tune is for the new arrivals, and transitions into an obnoxious, yet highly amusing and catchy song that had been frequented by the academic team as of late.

So far, so good.

With no small amount of luck, you discover a loveseat and an armchair that are free from partygoers and are quick to snatch them up for yourselves. Ned throws himself into the chair and you take it upon yourself to sprawl across the sofa. Peter ducks into the crowd and toward the direction of the kitchen in order to secure snacks to hold the group over.

The likelihood that you’ll leave this spot is minimal, aside from maybe a dance or two once goaded into it by a jeering crowd, spurned on by the host. The three of you enjoy parties best when approaching them more casually.

Peter reappears several minutes later with two bowls of salty snacks and three drinks balanced in his arms. Unexpectedly, he also brings with him another person. MJ follows closely behind, allowing him to do the work of pushing through the dancers, and greets you and Ned.

“I found her searching the kitchen cabinets,” Peter explains, arranging the snacks on the coffee table and taking his designated spot to your left.

“That’s not weird at all,” Ned responds, taking a drink from his red plastic cup.

Michelle shifts the contents of the table so that she can sit on it. “I’ll keep these oreos to myself then, Ned.”

“I think you’re perfectly valid,” you grin, and are awarded with a cookie, “Everyone knows that the good shit doesn’t get offered until the after party.”

It’s still innately bizarre that you’ve even attended these after parties, even a year after you’ve entered this perpetually weird snarky-friendship circle with Flash, but that’s beside the point.

“If anyone asks, we didn’t take them,” she asserts.

Peter laughs and takes a handful of chex mix from the nearest bowl. “You can’t coerce me into dishonesty,” he says.

As he speaks, he selects a rye chip from his bounty and holds it in front of your face. You eat it immediately, without question. He loves the rye chips, but knows that they’re your favorite.

“Yeah she can,” echoes all three of you, and Peter shoots you a playful look of betrayal.

With the addition of MJ, it’s decently easy to drift through conversations despite being in the center of a rowdy and distracting house. Drifters join the conversation for short periods of time before being dragged back to the main excitement. Even Flash, taking a break from his DJ-ing, stops by.

“Those are for the after party,” he says, sounding entirely unsurprised as he points to the pack of oreos in Michelle’s lap.

She squints back at him. “What is?”

“Alright, cool, I hate you all,” he responds, sounding way too chill for such a statement.

He claps his palm against Peter’s in a friendly gesture before walking off.

“See you there!” Ned calls to his back.

Flash has already disappeared into the crowd, but his middle finger appears above everyone’s heads.

“Still weird,” you feel compelled to point out.

“Yep,” Peter agrees, throwing his arm back around your shoulders, “Still weird. Do you think he’d be like this if he didn’t know I was Spider-Man?”

“Absolutely fucking not. Not at all,” Michelle says without a second of thought.

She’s probably right.

Of course, Ned hadn’t been bluffing about going to the after party. Technically it’s an attend-with-invitation type of thing, but it’s a bit of an uncommunicated agreement that your group is invited nowadays. The bulk of the party filters out as it gets late, leaving much of the academic team and a smattering of other friends of Flash.

You figure that you know what to expect. A continuation of what your group does during the actual party, except now all the attendees are gathered in a loose circle to participate in the conversation. Maybe a card-based party game; normally an inappropriate one. The usual.

Of course, it was only a matter of time before the usual was disrupted.

When Peter is around, that’s bound to happen. He’s a beacon of off-luck. Not bad per se, but not what you’re planning for. After no more than thirty minutes of the comfortable environment you’re so used to, Flash offers to break out a game.

“Not again,” groans a girl whose name you haven’t learned despite having seen her at around three of these events, “We do that every time.”

“What else would we do?” Flash demands around a mouthful of chips, looking a bit offended, since he loves the usual game.

“We’re practically graduating,” says another girl, who is looking around the room like some kind of predatory bird.

Her gaze lands on Peter. You realize very suddenly how much you don’t like that. Without thinking, you shift closer to him. He doesn’t notice, but her eyes sharpen. It’s with a supremely uncomfortable feeling in your stomach that you realize that you’re acting possessive. It’s not like you’re dating, really.

“When are we gonna play something more mature?” She questions, moving her sight away. “Seven minutes.”

MJ scoffs. “I’m pretty sure that anyone who thinks seven minutes in heaven is mature is inherently immature.”

“Yeah, alright, fine. Who’s in?” Flash says, as casually as if she’d suggested a game of Monopoly.

Aside from you and your group, everyone else seems to be willing. And here, you were starting to think that there was the slightest amount of normalcy in your inclusion here. You wonder what in god’s name they’re thinking. Who the hell wants to be shoved into a closet and forced to feel up a friend?

“I’m out,” MJ declares, looking unapologetic, “Wouldn’t exactly say I’m suited to this game.”

Flash shoots her a finger gun. “Support your local ace,” he says, which you assume is supposed to be nice, “You’re in charge of the timer.”

“Whatever,” she responds, and exits the circle to sit off to the side, taking a bowl of chips with her.

You shift in your seat, about to join her, when an empty bottle is tossed into your lap. “You start,” says the girl who’d suggested the game.

She’s expecting you to chicken out, you realize. It’s beyond childish, but the idea of it makes you angry. It makes you want to play, just to spite her. You wonder at what point she decided to pursue your best friend, and at what point someone pursuing your best friend became an issue for you.

Who are you kidding?

You glance at Ned, who looks awkward, but it doesn’t seem like he’s leaving unless you and Peter do. And Peter– well, his expression is unreadable. There’s a flash of something in his eyes when you meet them, but you don’t want to consider it. Too much is going on in your head already.

With maybe a little too much force, you slap the bottle down on the table and spin it. It turns for an eternity, approximately, before it begins to slow. You couldn’t physically feel any more uncomfortable, you think, when it eventually slows to a stop. It’s pointing at Flash.

He looks about as uncomfortable as you feel. “Hold on,” he says, throwing up his hands, “I don’t like that.”

“Thanks,” you say sarcastically, despite your wholehearted agreement.

“Respin,” he demands, pushing the bottle away.

“Coward!” Exclaims MJ.

You make a mental note to have a conversation with her about timing and context, because it seems her sense of both need work. To much jeering from several members of the group, Flash insists on a respin anyway. He does, however, agree to just suck it up and sit in the closet quietly for seven minutes with the next person he doesn’t want to kiss. It’s a dodged bullet, but now you’ve got to go again. As if the anxiety of the first time wasn’t enough.

Chest tightening, you spin it again, just as hard. The room watches excitedly, but you’re feeling nothing but dread. Regret has hit you already. You shouldn’t have allowed yourself to get caught up in this. It wasn’t your business if some girl wanted to kiss Peter in some cramped, dusty closet.

You’re so busy berating yourself for acting ridiculous that you almost fail to recognize the verdict that befalls you. The room erupts in hollering before it even fully stops spinning. Peter tenses next to you.

It’s pointing at him.

“Closet!” Flash exclaims over the excitement of the group, arm thrown out in the direction on a door in the hallway, “Let’s go! Come on!”

“You can’t come, Flash, you said you didn’t want to kiss her,” Peter quips, but his voice has taken on that tone that you know for a fact is a bluff.

He’s not nearly as calm as he’s trying to sound.

Flash’s hand comes down hard against Peter’s ass when he attempts to scoot by. Peter yelps, looking scandalized. Flash ushers him forward. “Watch it, Parker! You know what I meant. Get in there!”

Heart and mind racing, you lift yourself out of your seat. The girl who’d started this mess gives you a venomous look. You can’t bring yourself to deal anything back to her.

What have you done?

Peter and Flash are already at the closet when you finally shuffle your way over. MJ is just behind you, looking only vaguely apologetic. She knows you got yourself into this. Her phone is ready with a seven minute countdown. There’s shuffling in the living room as everyone begins to make their way excitedly toward the spot where your life will momentarily end. Vultures.

Flash steps into the closet and snatches a little key off a small hook just inside the door. When he exits, he pushes Peter’s shoulder and sends him stumbling inside. He’s polite enough not to attempt to shove you. It would be a lot easier to get on with this if he did, though.

“Lights on, lights off, I don’t care,” he says as you step in. “Don’t make a mess. This is where we keep the nice coats. Dry cleaning is expensive.”

The door slams in your face before you can protest against his insinuations. There’s the distinct sound of the lock clicking, and Michelle calls through the door that the timer is started.

Peter reaches up to pull the chain that operates the overhead light, and you nearly jump out of your skin. Your back hits the door. “Oh, shit!” Someone says on the other side, and you feel your face heat up even more than it already has.

Peter gives you a sheepish smile. “Sorry. Should have warned you,” he says.

You glance around. To the right are the aforementioned “nice coats” that you very much want to ruin just to spite Flash. Behind Peter are several sets of shelves with various odds and ends. To your left, a waist-high cabinet that contains who-knows-what. You guess it’s not that cramped, or dusty. Whatever.

Peter shifts awkwardly where he stands. Neither of you say anything for what feels like a year, but it’s probably more like a minute. “Don’t forget to breathe,” Flash’s voice drifts through the door, teasingly.

“Mind your business,” you shout back without thinking.

Both the laughter and Peter’s expression alerts you to the fact that that was not the correct thing to say. He chuckles, too. His smile makes your chest hurt, so you look away just as quickly as you had begun. Again, you reach up to adjust your blouse.

He takes your hand. “Hey,” he says softly, stepping closer, bending to catch your eye, “Nothing has to happen. We can just wait it out.”

You can’t help but narrow your eyes at his phrasing. You keep your voice low too, in the hopes that the peanut gallery outside can’t hear. “Has to happen?” You question, “Sounds like there’s the option for something to happen, if I feel like it.”

“Isn’t there?” Peter asks.

Oh.

Oh.

You want to respond so badly. The words can barely even form in your mind, let alone making it all the way to your mouth and out into the world. What response is there to finding out that your best friend, whom you’ve maybe been trying not to fall in love with for a long time now, wants to kiss you if given the opportunity? Is there one?

Yes, you think, finally. There is.

Peter’s still holding your hand. You take advantage of it and pull him forward, your free hand coming up to wrap around the back of his neck. When you pull him to you and press your lips against his, it’s soft. You’re jittery beyond belief, but you’re not rushing this moment. It’s a simple kiss, lasting only a few seconds. You can feel his smile.

When you pull back, you’re greeted with a grin that’s almost familiar. But there’s something different there, something you’re not accustomed to seeing in his expression. He’s still close enough for his breath to be hot against your face.

Peter kisses you again. This time is far more desperate, more excited. His hands come up to either side of your head, angling you to gain better access to your mouth. You’re backed up against the door as he moves in even closer to you. The impact, while minimal, elicits an amused gasp from you.

He takes advantage of your open mouth to introduce tongue. Every part of your body lights on fire. You clutch his shoulder, feeling dizzy, and delight in this new experience. It’s genuinely unfair how good he is at this, considering his lack of practice.

He pulls away just enough to kiss the underside of your jaw, and you jolt in surprise. The door shakes with your movement. Outside, the crowd gets a little rowdier for a moment.

Shit, you mouth, slapping a hand against your forehead. It’s so embarrassing.

Peter is more flushed now then ever, but he continues on, braver than you’ve ever been. Without any warning, he hooks his hands around your thighs and hoists you up onto the cabinet. Incredibly, the movement isn’t nearly as loud as you figure it could have been. His mouth slots back against yours within a fraction of a second.

You feel his hands drift across your waist, not touching skin, but definitely examining the curve of your hips. He presses his body closer, flush with the cabinet, and your legs spread to accommodate him. One hand finds its way into your hair, sending an involuntary twitch down your spine.

The door clicks unlocked.

You freeze. Peter doesn’t. In a millisecond, he’s back to the other side of the closet. By the time the door swings open, he’s managed to cross his arms as if he’d been standing there comfortably the whole time. You can’t bear to look at the people in the doorway, so you stare, hard, at his face instead. The possibility that you might give away what’s just occurred is a bit too much to bear.

Peter’s face is redder than you’ve ever seen, blush spreading down across his neck. He had turned toward the door when it opened, his expression struggling to hold some sense of calm. He had been too caught up in it all to care who was outside while the door was closed, you know, but neither of you really want it to be confirmed in front of god and everyone that he’s thoroughly ravished you in the nice coat closet.

As fast as you can without making eye contact, you look at the intruders, who are still attempting to assess what had occurred moments before. It occurs to you that maybe they hadn’t actually expected any kind of follow-through in this scenario. To be fair, the likelihood had seemed terribly minimal. Even with such a quick glance, you can tell they aren’t sure what did or didn’t happen.

“Who’s next?” Peter offers up, sounding embarrassed and very much like he’d like to move on, but still managing to at least look like he hadn’t been about ten seconds from doing something extra inappropriate.

Your thighs are still spread almost enough for it to be a legitimately horrifying issue. When you risk another look, you see MJ squinting at them. The desire to shut them is strong, but you figure it’d be easier to pass it off as being unladylike if you don’t act like you’re embarrassed by it.

What a nightmare.

“That was quick,” you say in an attempt to end the awkward silence.

Peter reaches his hand out to you. Taking it, you hop down onto the floor. You move toward the door to leave, but the crowd doesn’t disperse to let you through.

“What was the banging on the door?” Questions Flash, staring suspiciously at Peter.

Because he’s a terrible liar, you answer instead. “Bang one was Peter scaring the shit out of me by turning on the light, bang two was me trying to get up onto this fucking cabinet. I’m short, dude. Get lower furniture.”

Mercifully, they accept it as a legitimate answer. The crowd parts with a distinguished air of disappointment. Peter brushes his hand across your back when you move to leave the closet together. Before you even have time to worry about what’s happened, his smile assures you.

Later, parked in the driveway of your house long after Ned has been dropped off, Peter pulls away from you mid-kiss and shoots you the most smug expression you’ve ever seen on his face.

“And someone had a bad feeling about that party.”

You kiss the stupid look off his face, trying not to laugh.

[styledeepdive]

The Body Types of Men

Hi there! Welcome to my Men’s Style Guide. Settle in, because we are about to take a long, hard look at the different body types of men, and what looks best on different types of guys. I do style reports primarily based on a system of body typing invented by a dude named David Kibbe so we call it the Kibbe system. The idea is that there are 5 main body types that are based on bone structure. The types are Dramatic (tall and narrow), Natural (tall and broad), Classic (a symmetrical blending of all the types), Romantic (small, rounded, and slightly wide), and Gamin (a chaotic mixture primarily of dramatic and romantic, typically quite small).    In this system we also talk about yin (rounded, soft, “feminine” features) and yang (prominent, sharp features, steep angles, and vertical lines).  Clothing recommendations are based on how much yin/yang mixture you have in your own body. No type is “better” than any other type, and your type does not change with age or weight. The following is MY INTERPRETATION of the body types. Some of these men are verified types by David Kibbe, some are simply my best guesses. My styling tips are based off of my own observations as well as information gleaned off of chatrooms and forums that discuss Kibbe body typing. This is not, in any way, an official Kibbe typing, just my opinions. There is not a lot of verified information on the body types of men, so I’m doing my best with what I got.   (From left to right, Dramatic, Natural, Classic, Romantic, and Gamin)

So, let’s explore the main types a little further.

DRAMATICS   Dramatic men are tall and long, with an extremely sharp bone structure, and very straight, narrow, facial features. They have an overall combination of strong, sharp physicality, a cool reserve, and a charismatic power. They are the most sharp + angular of all the types. As actors, dramatic men are often cast as the evil genius or the aloof, brooding hero.  Sometimes both!  Benedict Cumberbatch, Christopher Walken, Daniel Craig, and Mads Mikkelsen are Dramatics.   

  The thing that most people first notice about dramatics is how visually striking they are. They can appear almost “brutal” to the eye. They have long vertical lines, with long arms and legs, and long faces, often with narrow eyes, prominent noses, and/or thin lips. They faces can appear quite chiseled to the eye, as their bone structure is sharp and protruding. They often have chiseled features, high prominent cheekbones, and overall read as lean, even when they gain some fat or put on some muscle. They are usually quite tall, at least 6 feet.  Dramatic men look their best in stiff fabrics with clean, long lines of color.  Large lapels and high, stiff necklines look great on them.  Often these lines are used to further highlight their prominent cheekbones.  Their hair looks good slicked back and bold, or sculpted in geometrically in some way. Monochromatic outfits look incredibly chic on them.  Long stiff coats look amazing on them. Minimalist outfits look best on them.  Go for bold, clean, and sleek lines.  This includes the face: seems like clean shaven is more flattering than facial hair, generally.

When they are photographed, they are typically posed in a stern manner, not smiling. Usually their cheekbones are highlighted by a steep, straight angle near the face.  Often they are shot in black and white to maximize their contrast and natural contours. On other body types this severe style can look a little silly, but on dramatics it looks just right. 

Dramatic men look a little weird in overly soft looks, drapey looks, beachy looks, boho looks, or any fabric that isn’t stiff enough to compliment their structured body. Avoid bisecting the body in half with a color block. Avoid sloppy untucked looks. Avoid colorful, contrasting details near the face.  Avoid overly colorful prints and busy patterns in general. Avoid also overly slim, hipster-cut looks, you need a little room in your clothes to look your best.

 To look your most memorable, create long, unbroken lines of color as much as possible.  

A boxy wool trench coat with a stiff collar would also look amazing on any Dramatic, and could be your signature piece. Go for it.

 Soft Dramatics Soft Dramatics are exactly what they sound like: a person who has a tall, angular dramatic skeleton but with more flesh on their bones, so giving an overall softer appearance to the body. They can be a bit wider than true Dramatics, as well.  Matthew McConaughey, RuPaul, John Travolta, Christian Bale, Nicholas Cage, Alan Rickman, and MTT are Soft Dramatics.

Because they by definition they are a tall or tall-appearing type, they look great in monochromatic looks as well, but with a softer, more luscious, shinier fabric in the sleeves, neckline, or otherwise accenting the look to soften it.  Here you can really see the long vertical line still present in the bodies, but you can also see an overall softer appearance to the body, especially in the face - fleshier cheeks, larger eyes, fuller lips - and typically styling themselves with a softer, more rounded outline.

In this photo I hope you can see how much softer and fleshier the face appears to us than it does on pure Dramatics, whose skin is much tighter over the bones.  This is not a weight thing, all of these men are quite lean - this is just a way that the flesh forms over the bones.   Still, at the end of these day these men have dramatic skeletons, with prominent noses, jaws, and brows, and long arms and legs - and that’s important to remember when trying to identify them.

Soft Dramatics can dress in Dramatic lines, but also want to acknowledge their extra yin (rounded, soft features) by adding in some softer, rounder lines to their clothes and hair.    One way to do this is by using fun rounded accessories, like oversized glasses or big bow ties, scarfs or even ascots. Now - I’m not entirely sure if Ru Paul is soft dramatic or dramatic, but this picture of him, where he’s posing with himself in drag, is one of my favorites, because you can see how Kibbe’s soft dramatic style suggestions work regardless of gender presentation - Here Ru is showcasing long lines of color but with added, rounded elements (hair, glasses, scarves, neckline, even the curve of his bald head) in both outfits.

One thing I noticed about soft dramatics is that they can really pull off the sweater-underneath-a-jacket look.  This makes sense: stiff and structured shape of the blazer plus the softer, more rounded shape of the hoodie around the face is a nice compliment to the yin/yang balance.  

I also found that cowboy hats looked pretty good on Soft Dramatic actors, as it’s stiff and bold enough for them but also rounded.  I thought that was interesting.

Yup, it checks out for Ru too! Not his most memorable look for sure, but wouldn’t you agree he pulls it off surprisingly well?

And in conclusion, here’s a few more of MTT looking dramatic and soft at the same time, perfectly illustrating this body type (check out those glasses!). Thanks, buddy.

NATURALS Naturals are characterized  by broad shoulders and a muscular body type, with an angular but broad bone structure, and wide facial features that tend to be blunt edged. They are a naturally athletic body type that often looks pretty strong, muscular and slightly wide, even when overweight.  They have a casual physicality, and a fresh and open essence. They can be moderate in height to very tall.  

  Natural Men look good in natural fabrics, casual outlines, matte sheens, and need a bit of space around the neckline. A typical uniform for a natural man is a v-neck t-shirt and tapered jeans.  Denim + suede jackets look great on them.    Button down shirts should have one or two buttons undone (at least) to look best.   

Naturals are split into two groups - Flamboyant Naturals and Soft Naturals. Flamboyant Naturals Flamboyant Naturals are usually on the taller side, with a bit more angularity than soft naturals. They may have a sharp nose or chiseled jaw, or longer arms and legs. They are very wide through the chest the torso; they are what we often refer to as “barrel-chested.” Because of their extra yang, Flamboyant Naturals can pull off more dramatic lines than soft naturals, but they both still look their best in a more relaxed, casual style.  Flamboyant Naturals are typically quite athletic, and it doesn’t take much for them to gain quite a bit of mass.  Even though Flamboyant Naturals can look great in suits, they just look the most themselves, their most charismatic when they’re a little bit scruffy. Here’s Harrison Ford in various states of unzipped-ness, for your consideration.  Give the people what they want, Harrison! These men, when actors, are cast as superheros. Chris Hemsworth,  Winston Duke, and Hugh Jackman are all Flamboyant Naturals (although only one, Hugh Jackman, is verified by David Kibbe).  Here they are in their “natural” state (har har).

And here they are doing that whole adventurer thing that looks so good on them:

And here they are a bit more cleaned up:

Even though Flamboyant Naturals can look great in suits, they just look the most themselves, their most charismatic when they’re a little bit scruffy. Here’s Harrison Ford in various states of unzipped-ness, for your consideration.  Give the people what they want, Harrison! 

  Because of their extra yang, Flamboyant Naturals can pull off come crisp, tapered lines.  Matte finishes are still best. A slim-fitting, tapered silhouette on Harrison Ford looks really nice here.

Soft Naturals Soft Naturals are a little softer in flesh, a little smaller in build, and a little “cuter” than Flamboyant Naturals. They really look their best in matte fabrics and with a significant amount of room at the neckline. Loosely tucked in shirts look nice. Fabrics like suede and cotton look great. These men, when actors, are often cast as the rough-and-tumble, lovable but slightly scruffy hero. Brad Pitt, Naveen Andrews, Tom Cruise, and George Clooney are all Soft Naturals.  

Soft naturals look so good with loose, rounded draping that photographers will literally pose them in bathrobes, or with water splashed on them. They’re the only type i found with professional photos like these! I think you can see even here that the more relaxed, the more tousled the look is, the more correct it looks and feels.  A little bit of drape goes a long way.   Always give your head and neck a little room to breathe. Rounded collars or soft v-necks with a little bit an undone feel to them look fantastic on you.  

Matte fabrics like suede look better than shiny, reflective fabrics like smooth leather on all Natural types.  

I think that’s because Soft Naturals read as “earthy,” and we want to see them in down to earth fabrics and colors.  Tom Cruise and Naveen Andrews both demonstrate great soft natural looks here. 

Another consistent trait of soft natural is that loose and draped looks better than high and stiff around the face and neck.  If this is consistently true for you, then that’s a decent clue that you may be a soft natural.  Or if you like to take your shirt off as often as possible.  That’s also a clue.

All Natural men look great with some pigment in their skin (a tan), some facial hair,  and a scruffy, undone look to the hair.  Anything too sculpted will seem stuffy on them. They are most often posed in motion, or in a way that looks candid, because otherwise they can look a bit stiff. CLASSICS Classics are balanced between the extremes of Yin and Yang. They are characterized by a symmetrical body type, with a tapered, even bone structure, and very regular, evenly spaced facial features. They are often photographed highlighting their cool, reserved essence. Pure Classics are pretty rare, they usually still have a slight undercurrent of either yin or yang.  John Slattery (below, left) is a Soft Classic. He is primarily balanced but with a yin undercurrent. You can see he is slightly softer, more tapered, more rounded, and more delicate than John Hamm (below, right) who is a Dramatic Classic, and has a bolder, more yang undercurrent.  Overall, however, both men read as moderate and symmetrical overall. 

Mad men is a fun show to watch for men’s fashion because they cast a bunch of classic actors and then put them in a bunch of classic suits, at least in the beginning.  John Hamm and John Slattery wore the classic suits in Mad Men so well that they literally revived the grey suit in the mid 2010s (the sale of suits doubled between 1998 - 2014, in part due to the show).  I love Mad Men for many reasons, but one of my favorite things they did was show, not tell, how Roger Sterling and Don Draper fit into their era (and then were subsequently left behind) simply through the lines of their clothes.

Classics are easily overwhelmed by bold colors and patterns, or asymmetrical details.  We can see here how unnatural John Slattery looks in this outfit on the right, and how balanced he looks in clean, simple lines on the left.  It’s clear simply through the lines of his clothes that  by the end of the show Roger Sterling (John Slattery) no longer dominates the world around him, and feels unnatural and awkward in it.

In real life John Hamm often tries to experiment with a more whimsical style than what his dramatic classic lines suggest he should wear.   I think the effect is that his specialness is lost, and he looks pretty unremarkable/overwhelmed in many of his chosen looks.  You can really see here that it is so easy to overwhelm his face and body unless he is in the simplest, crispiest of designs!!

I’d venture a guess that Daniel Dae Kim is a Dramatic Classic as well. He definitely has some Drama to his face, but I’d argue his whole body reads as overall moderate.  He is dignified and stoic looking in a similar manner as John Ham, and he looks fantastic in simple, clean designs. 

Idris Elba is another strongly Classic man, possibly a Pure Classic.  I believe Idris Elba was voted “sexiest man alive” at some point, and it’s not hard to see why. This is a man who looks equally at home on the red carpet or in jeans and a t-shirt.

I mean, my God.  So elegant.  So stylish.  So chic! 

But something funny happens if we try to mess with Idris Elba’s timeless look.  First of all, any attempt to overtly sexualize him backfires spectacularly.  The photos below look awkward and even a little vulgar. I mean, what even is this? 

Here Idris is actually demonstrating a reverse-Harrison Ford:  Even though Idris is beautifully sculpted by the gym and by God, he really looks his personal best when he’s buttoned back up and in simple, clean clothes. 

Similarly, an overly soft or whimsical look on Idris is certainly not his most memorable look, and I’d argue looks a little awkward on him.

The lesson here is that to look their best, Classics need to stick to simple cuts, minimal detail, clean lines, and one or two colors per outfit.  When they do that, they will come off as being effortlessly elegant and chic, and all eyes in the room will be on them.  If you’re a classic: stick to basics! ROMANTICS Ah! Romantic Men.  A misunderstood type, with many stereotypes that we will work to dispel. Romantic men are moderate to small, with a soft physicality and a magnetic essence.  Their bone structure is delicate and smallish with a tendency towards wideness. Their facial bones are small and delicate, and their facial features can be lush, full, and sensual.  I think, because of our gender-normative culture, that some men might resist being typed as a romantic. But they shouldn’t!! Romantic men are absolutely glorious.

Romantic men look best when they wrap themselves in softer, lush, fuzzy fabrics.  They look amazing in scarves, sweaters, lightweight to medium weight jackets, and with longer, rounded hair cuts.  Despite what many might assume, this is what highlights their male energy the most!   Kit Harrington is a really great example of this.  He looks best wrapped in furs and with long curly hair, and every time he or his stylist try to “man-up” his look (pictured below), it can get a little awkward.

To me, these looks end up accomplishing the opposite of what is intended: Kit looks alternately a bit stuffed, a bit gawky, and a bit tiny all at the same time.  However, as soon as we put him in his lines, his male energy becomes absolutely breathtaking: 

One quick way to help identify a romantic man is to see how good he looks in a scarf.  Not many men look good with soft draping next to their face, but Romantics always do, the more plush the better.  

Steven Yuen is not a verified Romantic by Kibbe but I really think he fits the bill.  He has a short veritcal line, is slightly wide, with rounded eyes, a wider nose, a soft mouth, a tapered jaw, and looks best in big sweaters and wooly fabrics.  

Leonardo DiCaprio is the quintessential Romantic man who battles against his nature. In his quest to be taken more seriously as an actor he tried his best to shed his “pretty-boy” image and look as sleek and sculpted and brutal as possible.  Ironically, he looks his most dynamic doing exactly the opposite.

Leo so hates wearing anything even suggesting Romantic these days it was a struggle to find a picture of him wearing a scarf when i did the collage of romantics in scarves. However, I found this incredible photograph that Annie Liebowitz took of Leo where she knew to drape him in something soft to actually help bring out his male energy.  The combination of soft and brutal in this photo is absolutely breathtaking, and so, so memorable.  Leo has not looked “memorable” for about 25 years, in my opinion, because he has refused to allow himself to be photographed or filmed in a vulnerable, soft way for decades. Ok… that’s not entirely fair. The closest he has came to nailing his lines in any movie since Titanic was actually the Revenant, because at least he had long hair and they draped him in fur.  Mere coincidence that he was finally memorable enough in the judge’s minds to win the Oscar?? :P

Theatrical Romantic If a Romantic has some dramatic influence to them and has some sharper bones and a thinner silhouette, then they are called Theatrical Romantic. They are primarily soft, like Romantics, but with a narrower silhouette and some sharper bones.  They can wear sharper lines to go with their dramatic influence, but should remember to keep fabrics loose and soft. Orlando Bloom, Prince, Kurt Cobain and Johnny Depp are Theatrical Romantics.

Theatrical Romantic men can wear all manner of ornamentation and look great. Rings, necklaces, hats, boas, big round sunglasses, flowers, polka-dots, etc. Hair looks great when it’s long and maybe a bit straighter than Romantics would style it (but still reading as flowy). They can really have fun with eclectic looks, bo-ho looks, or glam looks.  And they really do look their personal best when they do this. 

Casual looks are elevated by adding jewelry, tattoos, bandanas, and by using lightweight t-shirts that have some cling but also some drape.

Johnny Depp really knows how to pull off posing with a rug. Imagine Idris Elba or Harrison Ford trying to do that.

Here’s an idea: learn to play guitar just so you can use it as an aesthetic accessory! Just kidding.  

But it does seem like an awful lot of iconic musicians are theatrical romantics. Prince sure figured out how to make it work for him.

And Kurt Cobain!  People forget, but Kurt Cobain was of moderate height and had a very delicate, soft bone structure.  Look at his face. Look at how beautiful, how feminine, and how soft the facial features are.  Notice also, though, how sharp some of the facial bones are: like the chin, the thin nose, and the jaw line. 

Kurt Cobain was the anti-fashion style icon whose signature look shaped an entire generation’s aesthetic. The Kurt Cobain look still haunts all manner of musician to this day! And no one was more freaked-out by this than Kurt himself, who would tell reporters over and over again that this was just how he dressed. He would tell people his jeans had holes in them because buying new ones seemed like a waist of money.  He got his sweaters from thrift stores with rips in them because he didn’t give a fuck.  His hair was long because he was too lazy to cut it.  WHY THE FUCK WAS EVERYONE TRYING TO COPY HIM? 

Who knows how true this really is, but I will say that by around 1994 it does seem like Kurt Cobain was deliberately trying to troll the fashion editors who wrote about him by slapping on the most aggressively ugly, often feminine clothes he could find and daring people to copy him.

The ironic thing is that by adding mix and match soft eclectic accessories all over his body, Kurt was actually just making himself look better and better. That’s the weird magic of the theatrical romantic body type.  And when that accidental ornateness was met with a bit more openness and vulnerability in his face, the effect was that he looked incredibly himself, incredibly memorable, and frankly timeless.

Gamin We come now to Gamin men, who are characterized by their combination of opposites. Their yin is in their size and facial features, and they can read as small and boyish. Their yang is in their body type and bone structure. They are an overall combination of opposites on the yin and yang scale; sharply delicate physicality along with a fresh and zesty essence.  

For some people it can be a little hard to tell gamins and theatrical romantics apart at first just by the body typing. But the lines don’t lie: if you look best in high necklines, crisp patterns, contrasted colors, and extremely precision fitted silhouettes then you are a gamin!   Gamins really do have a youthful, playful energy that translates into photographs. It’s best if they are photographed in motion, but if not in motion then at least laughing or glaring or doing something energetic.   When there is a mischevious look in their eyes their whole face lights up and feels correct. There are two sub categories of gamins: soft gamins and flamboyant gamins. 

Soft Gamins

Soft Gamins read as small, thin, boyish, and yet still with an undercurrent of soft and rounded. They can have softer facial features, softer flesh, shorter arms and legs, rounder eyes, softer lips.  Fred Astaire is Kibbe’s only verified soft gamin but I think Bruno Mars and maybe Daniel Radcliffe fit the bill.

If you are a soft gamin, precision fitted clothing with high necklines and colorful, contrasting patterns is the name of the game.  Skinny, cropped pants look fantastic. Tight fitting polo shirts look fantastic.  Thin ties with fun patterns look fantastic. Pocket squares and other fun accessories look great as long as it looks crisp and fresh. Hair looks best when it’s slightly tousled and playful looking. 

Gamins run into trouble when they try to be too rugged, oversized, or casually dressed. It’s simply not their best look, and baggy clothes will actually highlight their smallness, creating the opposite of what i imagine would be the intended effect.

When dressing for events, go for as precision fitted as possible. This is not an exaggeration.  This is the silhouette that will allow you to shine in a room full of other people.  It will look crisp and correct on you, and everything else will dull your shine.

Flamboyant Gamin

Flamboyant Gamins are similar to Soft Gamins but with a slightly more angular build. They can have longer arms and legs, more squarish jaw, more prominent noses.   They still need crisp, sharp outlines to look fresh, but have a little more wiggle room to play with bolder shapes and different fabrics.  Bold prints look amazing on them, high contrast looks are incredibly chic on them. Rami Malek, Frank Sinatra, and Neil Patrick Harris are flamboyant gamines. 

Things like zebra print, pointy shoes, and super high crisp collars look amazing on Flamboyant Gamins. They get into trouble again when they try to go for a sporty or overly casual look.  

Like soft gamins, keep event-wear fitted, but also go for bold, crisp geometrics when possible.  Stiff bow ties and long thin ties look equally wonderful.

Conclusion + Sources + Resources Whether you’re a dude who’s trying to figure out your style, a partner of a dude who’s trying to help, or someone who’s just starting to experiment with menswear for any reason, I hope you’ve found this post helpful.  Please let me know what type you think you are in the comments!   When researching for this post I found the following websites + youtube videos to be incredibly helpful:

Aly Art’s video “Do Men Have Body Types?” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6yHTkciJGLg The Sacred in the Secular: Men’s Kibbe Types https://charitysplace.wordpress.com/2019/06/26/male-kibbe-types/ Truth is Beauty: Some Thoughts on the Style Types of Male Celebs https://www.truth-is-beauty.com/blog/some-thoughts-on-the-style-types-of-male-celebs On the Enduring Influence of Mad Men Style: https://therake.com/stories/style/enduring-influence-mad-men-style/ -

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Essays in Existentialism: Nerd 8

Previously on Nerd

Once again, the school was full of students again. The rain was intermittent and the chill in the air made everyone want to run inside despite the fact that they were running towards classes and teachers again. The stately brick building, ancient for its ninety or so years, half updated, and half reticent of a John Hughes movie, it welcomed the returning students for the second half the year.

The week and a half that Lexa spent with her family had been lovely and needed, though it came at quite an inopportune time. Normally, she would relish the chance to get out of town and travel, as her parents were always busy with work. But now they were trying and coming back to life, which meant a trip across the world to Iceland for the holidays. It meant, however, that Lexa was just getting somewhere with Clarke, just starting to feel comfortable, just starting to hope and feel and want, and going away was a pause on it.

Walking back into the halls and weaving her way toward her locker, Lexa felt weird, like time hadn’t passed there, but she was different. It was an eerie feeling she couldn’t quite place, but didn’t want to spend too much time trying. Instead, she twisted the dial on her locker and wondered if she’d see Clarke before lunch.

“Hey, stranger.”

Lexa smiled slightly as she finished digging her book out of her locker and turned to find a smiling girl with pretty blue eyes and a dimple on one cheek. Leaning against the locker next to Lexa’s, Clarke grinned and held her books, her bag slung on a shoulder, her hair perfectly wavy and dreamy.

For a moment, Lexa gulped again, though she was relieved.

She couldn’t really help it. Not when Clarke was there, in her baggy sweater, with barely any makeup and lips that did that.

“Hey. How are you?”

“I’m surviving. How was your trip?”

“Long,” Lexa sighed, closing her locker and leaning against it. “It was a lot of fun, but weird. We haven’t had a family vacation since Aden… Maybe we needed it.”

“Did you get lots of footage?”

“Yeah. I’m going to try to put it together for my parents.”

“I can’t wait to see it,” Clarke promised, leaning near Lexa, their shoulders touching. “The pictures looked amazing. It made me almost want to hike a glacier.”

The adventurer just shrugged and shuffled her feet slightly. They’d texted nearly the entirety of winter break, and now, Lexa wasn’t sure how much of it still applied. It was a weird thing, to be able to text someone random thoughts and string together a conversation, but it was hard to figure out how to be the same in person.

“How about you? Good time with the family?”

“It actually wasn’t terrible.” The bell interrupted their reunion and Clarke grumbled slightly. “Walk me to class?”

“Yeah, definitely.”

Without thinking about it, Lexa held out her hand and reached for Clarke’s books. She looked at her arm and wondered how it happened, how it could betray and embarrass her like that, and more importantly, how she was going to recover from it.

The panic lasted just an instant though, because Clarke took Lexa’s hand and held it in her own, not thinking twice about the action.

“You have track after school, don’t you?” Clarke asked, adjusting her hand slightly, tugging the hand a little and keeping it tight in her own.

“Yeah.”

“Do you want to hang out after?”

“Um,” Lexa furrowed and went through a mental checklist, hoping that nothing would put up a red flag. She definitely wanted to hang out with Clarke, and she definitely wanted to keep holding her hand, even if that meant never going to class again. “I have a tutoring session with Gus. Getting ready for his SAT next month.”

“Okay, maybe another day.”

“After?”

“After tutoring?” Clarke asked, pausing in front of her classroom.

“Yeah, it wouldn’t be for long, but we could… I don’t know… Just hang out. Even for a little bit. That’d be nice.”

“It would.” Clarke waited for more, watching Lexa debate how to do it. “Or we could hang out now.”

“Now?” Lexa cocked her head, confused but still smiling.

Clarke looked around at the hall as it began to clear before the second bell. She tugged on Lexa’s hand and met some resistance. No one else really noticed that they were lingering. Everyone was still feeling a certain freedom, or loss of it, as the winter break ended and the grind began again.

“Just one time.”

“I have calculus,” she furrowed.

“Haven’t you ever skipped before?” Naturally, Clarke was met with a shake of a head and a look of moderate panic. “Do you want to skip once in your life?”

“I’ve never thought about it.”

“You’ve got about a minute to decide.”

“Can we do that?” Lexa wondered. “Just leave?”

“It’s the first day back. You know we’re not going to go over anything important.”

“Are you actually serious?”

“Yeah. I could use a day off.”

“We just had like twelve days.”

“I spent most of them with family and hanging out with my dad or working. I’m kind of over taking care of people and paying attention.”

Clarke said things like that so succinctly, so purposefully, that it reminded Lea of the words she’d read once that said something about being brave and quiet, so that no one else sees or realizes you’re suffering. No one would guess Clarke suffered so much under such heavy burdens. No one would guess that she had them to begin with, and Lexa was learning Clarke liked it that way, to keep things to herself.

But she caught herself saying those things, and Clarke cleared her throat and put her hand on her hip, taunting and waiting.

“I have to be back in time for practice,” Lexa finally gave in.

“You won’t regret it,” Clarke squealed and kissed Lexa’s cheek before tugging her toward the door as the bell rang again and the halls were completely empty.

“I hate the mall,” Lexa grimaced as she hopped out of Clarke’s truck and stared up at the monstrosity that was the Edgewood Mall.

Two towns over from their school and everything familiar, Lexa only knew the rival area because of track meets or soccer games, and once, an academic decathlon tournament, though she never left the hotel or the school. There wasn’t much in the sleepy suburb, but it had the benefit of being forty five minutes away from any adult that would notice them.

“Yes, but do you hate it when it’s empty on a Monday?”

“I don’t know. Probably.”

Clarke rolled her eyes and grabbed Lexa’s hand again, tugging her along once again into the great unknown. The clouds trudged along while the rain stopped, but neither pulled down their hoods until they made it inside.

“Have I steered you wrong yet?”

“Not yet.”

“So trust me.”

There wasn’t really an option to it, and in all fairness, Lexa did trust Clarke. She just wanted to spend time near her because near her, time seemed to stop stressing her out, and the minutes were just… happier.

And so Lexa followed, still vaguely aware that she should technically be leaving first period and heading to Physics. Instead, she felt Clarke’s hand and pulled down her hood as they walked into the near empty mall.

“What are we going to do first?” Lexa wondered out loud.

“I have decided to dress you.”

“You don’t like how I dress?”

For a second, Lexa paused and looked down at her coat, and beneath that, the simple shirt and jeans she was wearing. It did the job, and it kept her dressed. She never really considered clothes often.

“I do. I’ve just kind of always wanted to see you in a few different outfits.”

“No funny business, Griffin.”

“Scouts honor,” Clarke promised.

The joy was contagious, as much as she wanted to resist, Lexa followed into a store and held out her arms as new items were added to them. When she asked Clarke if this was her idea of a good time, she got a smile and shrug, and she decided this was what she had to do now. To her credit, Clarke mulled over everything she picked, carefully pairing together things, continually shuffling Lexa’s arms, occasionally standing closer.

At least once, Lexa looked down at Clarke and smiled, distracted by the way her eyes looked, and how she bit her lip when she debated a choice. Lexa liked the debating part. She liked the lip part too. She liked the biting part even more for some reason.

The first few outfits were met with excitement. And to her own credit, Lexa found it to be tolerable because she got to see Clarke light up and fret over her, adjusting her clothes and smiling at the results.

The fourth outfit though.

“This is what you like?” Lexa furrowed, tugging at the collar of the shirt, buttoned the whole way up to her chin.

“I have a thing for well put together types.”

“I kind of like it.”

The part that Lexa missed, while she looked at herself in the mirror and adjusted the roll of the sleeves, was the look Clarke gave her from her spot in a chair, happy to watch the spinning and enjoyment on Lexa’s face.

“You look good.”

“Yeah?” Lexa asked, oddly hopeful.

“You always look good.”

“Yeah?”

“Like you don’t know how cute you are,” Clarke scoffed.

“I don’t-- um… well. Sometimes I-- I mean I don’t usually think about it.”

With a final look at herself in the mirror, Lexa blushed and went to tug on her old clothes in the dressing room, making a note of what she might like to wear in the future.

“That was way more fun than even I anticipated,” Clarke held out her hand as Lexa walked out of the dressing room. “Next up, date number two.”

“We’re having multiple dates in one day?”

“Definitely.”

At eleven in the morning, the selection of movies wasn’t the best. Just beginning to show within the hour, Lexa agonized over which of her two options would be the best before finally deciding on a cartoon feature meant for much younger audiences. But it felt like a good choice because she liked the director and thought it was going to be absolutely beautiful.

“I don’t think this is a very balanced diet you’ve got here,” Clarke chided as she stole a twizzler from the pack in Lexa’s lap as they lazed on the mildly uncomfortable chairs.

“You have to have snacks for a movie.”

They settled fairly close, smiling and happy and alone, so very alone in the movie that they hoped no one else might show up. Lexa wasn’t sure what to do, and so she was grateful for the candy and the quiet. Clarke was just too cute and too nice, and she smelled good. Lexa always forgot how she smelled. And how warm she felt. And that little crackling feeling deep in her own chest when Clarke laughed and was close. Lexa forgot these things until they were back.

Clarke slid her arm around Lexa’s bicep and sighed with her cheek on her shoulder.

“You’re like an escape, you know?” Clarke whispered. “Thank you for ditching with me today. I promise I won’t make a habit of it.”

“Are you okay? I mean… with everything?”

“I am.”

“Are you sure?”

“Not really.”

Lexa couldn’t help but smile at the honesty. It was the charm Clarke had to her, that she just said things, she was in the moment. And each moment was occupied by this constant dialectical problem, where she really was happy, and she really was sad, and she really was all of it, blown back and forth by a breeze and whatever thoughts her brain decided to pick up.

“It’s all going to be okay,” Lexa offered, feeling as if she had to say, as if she had something that Clarke needed. Rarely were those words actually comforting, but she wanted to try, and she wasn’t sure how they came out of her mouth.

“I don’t know about that.”

“Yeah, but you still just kind of have to live anyway.”

“My dad isn’t getting any better. It was a long break,” Clarke confessed. “And now SATs and work and school. It’s just a lot.”

“Yeah. It’s always a lot.”

“I like this though,” she smiled, referencing them together.

“Not to be, you know, that person, but, um. What exactly are we?”

“You’re going to make me say it, aren’t you?”

“I don’t like to assume.”

Lexa felt her heart beating very quickly. Her palms felt sweaty and she wiped them against the thigh of her pants. She just wanted to look like she wasn’t dreading the answer. She didn’t want to think it was all in her head.

“For a genius, you’re kind of dumb.”

“Yeah,” Lexa nodded earnestly. “I get that a lot.”

“What do you think we should be?”

“Um, friends, friends that--- kiss?” she attempted before really thinking about it. “I don’t know how to do this. I guess I just kind of want to be on your team, if that makes sense. Kiss and root for you.”

“Yeah, I’d like that a lot.”

“Okay, cool.”

Somehow Lexa let herself look at Clarke. It was a mistake because she was so pretty, and the lights were just starting to dim in time for the movie to start. It might have only been the second time Lexa leaned forward first, but she did, turning her body slightly. She really liked the kissing part.

Clarke tasted better than she smelled and she smelled so good. Gentle and warm, her lips moved against Lexa’s, and both forgot how to breathe. It didn’t matter that the noise from the previews started. It didn’t matter that they were the only ones, minus the usher who walked in to do a count and paused for a moment before hurrying back down the ramp.

“You and me, huh?” Clarke finally whispered when they separated.

Lexa just smiled and nodded, her cheeks painfully pink and her heart all but stopping completely.

“I promise, it’ll be well worth it,” Clarke swore, tugging Lexa toward the old truck that waited in the parking lot.

“I’m sure it will be, but I have to run very far today and ice cream isn’t the best pre-practice snack,” Lexa complained half-heartedly.

“You’re a pre practice snack.”

“Is this still flirting? Does this still happen?”

“Oh yeah,” Clarke nodded standing very close, pressing her girlfriend against her truck. “All of the time. If anything even more often.”

“Fantastic,” Lexa beamed.

The rain was just a drizzle, but the chill had somewhat worn off. While they should have been in sixth period, instead they were fresh out of a day bumming around the mall, locked away from the real world. Clarke leaned up and kissed Lexa’s smile because it was there and because she could.

“Will you just tell me how to do all of this?”

“All of what?” Clarke smiled.

“Dating.”

Sheepishly, Lexa gulped before looking at Clarke’s lips again and then back to her eyes. Both were incredibly difficult things to face.

“It’s not that hard. You’re doing great. But you’d do even better if you bought me my favorite ice cream.”

“Fine, but I’m only getting a little bit.”

“You say that now, until you try it.”

With another innocent kiss, Clarke pushed forward and freed herself before hopping into the cab of her truck.

Winter break had been a lot for her to handle. It’d been a lot of her mother, and it’d been a lot of her father. She worked just to get away from the misery and the nagging thought that it might have been the last holiday together as a family. Clarke decided she needed something good, and she needed to escape. Lexa was both of those things and more. She was real and honest, and she didn’t sugar coat anything. She said what she thought and she did what she wanted.

Most importantly, however, Lexa was normal, and she was the vacation Clarke allowed herself from real life, even if it was in tiny doses at a a time.

“I definitely liked making out in the movie,” Lexa decided as she put on her seatbelt.

“Me too.”

“Cool.”

“But I’m guessing I wouldn’t be too successful if it were a movie you wanted to watch.”

Again, Lexa blushed slightly, the tips of her ears growing red as she tucked stray hair behind them.

“Maybe,” she shrugged.

With just over an hour left in their freedom before Lexa was due back for practice and Clarke was due back for work, they drove toward ice cream and Clarke felt this ease about her. She wasn’t sure how, but she knew she made the right decision to put her chips down on Lexa Woods.

Clarke wasn’t sure what made her take a second look at the car across the lot from them as they pulled into the small mom and pop ice cream shop she’d grown up going to, nor was she certain how her brain put the pieces of information together.

“Okay, I might have lied,” Lexa decided. “I think I want rocky road.”

But Clarke didn’t move when they parked, but rather squinted at the familiar car and furrowed as her brain worked in overtime. Lexa said something about ice cream and running and how she was excited to tell her sister she ditched.

“Hey, you okay?”

Still, silence.

Lexa tried to follow Clarke’s glance and stared at the car.

“Clarke?”

She only half heard it. Instead, Clarke watched it happen, right there in the gas station parking lot across the street. Her mother got out of the car and Clarke hated that the windshield wiper did its job and put everything into clear viewing.

“What’s wrong?” Lexa tried again. “Who is that?”

Clarke just watched as the women she knew for her entire life got out of her car and hugged the man who got out of the passenger side. Up until that moment, it was just a dread that existed deep in her gut; it was unconfirmed. And then the women, the stranger, she smiled, happy and big and in the middle of a laugh, and she kissed the vaguely familiar man.

“That’s my mother,” Clarke muttered through grit teeth.

Unsure of what to do and the fact that this was very bad, Lexa looked between the mother and the daughter a few times before attempting to see some kind of resemblance.

“Oh.”

“I just wanted ice cream.”

Neither moved, neither breathed, it felt like. Instead, they watched the display of giddy love happening between Clarke’s mother and a man that was distinctly not her father. Clarke sat in the driver’s seat even more defeated than normal. Nothing made sense, because she was certain there was no way her life could get worse, and then the universe decided to put a little more shit on top.

Lexa shifted only to take Clarke’s hand in her own and hold it there while the clandestine lovers said their goodbyes.

“It’s going to be okay,” Lexa whispered.

“How?”

There wasn’t an answer to be had.

NEXT

[chopper-witch]

AWOMOD: A Touch of the Past (CH 9)

Characters: Loki x Ashira; TV GoT version characters of Dorne but it’s my version of that version.

Warnings: angst, nightmares, 

Locations: her ship, TV GoT version of Dorne but it’s my version of that version; a place that is basically my version of Jakku. 

Word count: 8,000+

Summary:Memories Ashira forced herself to forget (though she remembers everyday) are dragged from the depths when she realizes just how much Loki means to her. 

A/N: I am so sorry for taking so long,,, It’s been a long few months. This feels longer to me than it is. Also, the dress she wears is basically Daenerys’ Qarth dress (this). Sorry for any mistakes,,, its been a thing. 

AWOMOD Masterlist

Previous 

The sun on Dorne never seems to fail cheering her up. Something about the way it shines, she supposes, always makes it feel nicer than it is. Maybe it’s because it’s where Ares isn’t. It is an adversarial planet to her home after all, and, despite that, she can roam freely around. They will never turn her over; Dorne doesn’t want Ares to have the satisfaction of anything. The ex-princess of Ares was essentially granted amnesty as soon as she escaped Hala. They even contacted her. 

And she had gladly accepted. She needed somewhere to go and to be honest, if they were intending to kill her or use her in an attempt to create a fake peace of some form, she was so close to death that she didn’t care. Anything would be better than what she just escaped. 

They hadn’t tried to use her for anything. In fact, they genuinely wanted to help her. So for a few years after she escaped she spent most of her time in Dorne, adjusting their technology to match Ares or beat Ares’ detection. 

But it just wasn’t home. 

“So where are we?” Loki asks. 

While he almost always wears the same thing with only mild moderation, she is yet again in another outfit. But this one is a bit of a shock: she’s wearing a dress. With her normal boots on, but a dress nonetheless. Made of a pale blue, shimmering, flowing fabric, and gold stripes periodically dusting the the fibers, it fits perfectly. The curls of her hair flows over her shoulders and down her back to cover where there is a v in the dress. The silver of the locks braided contrast the gold metal work that is covering her shoulders, also found in the large gold metal work belt cinching her waist. Little baubles hang off each side of her waist; they even jangle a little as the wind blows past them. The neckline matches the back, plunging between her chest and easily exposing more cleavage than anything else he has ever seen her in. 

Something slightly peeking out from the top of the low neckline, discoloration of her skin. A pure white patch just barely hidden…

Her hair also seems different. Braids, like always, but this time there are a few pins in it, all with smalls gems in them of the same shade of blue. 

“Dorne. Come on.”

He’s never heard of it before. Then again, there is a lot he hasn’t heard of before that Ashira has guided him to. Asgardian education really let him down. 

Loki shoves his hands in his pockets. “Should I change? You look much nicer than I thought I’d ever see you.”

Ashira scowls. “I can look nice, asshole. I just don’t normally wear dresses.”

“Sorry…” Loki trails off. His intent wasn’t to insult, but rather compliment. “I just meant, it looks nice on you…”

A glint of dark blue catches his eye. Around her neck is a simple pendant necklace. The blue in the center, which rests perfectly in the center of her sternum, seems anything but ordinary. There is a glow that yanks his mind towards it. It’s beautiful… alluring… mesmerizing…

“Loki, hey, Loki!” Ashira snaps her fingers in front of him. 

He snaps his eyes up. “Yes?”

“Brain is up here.” She points towards her head. “That’s definitely my best feature so if you want to stare at anything let it be that.” 

Loki laughs at that, forcing his eyes back to her grinning face. “But if your face is your worst….?” 

“Still look there.” She chuckles, pulling at his left arm. “Come on, Loki. I’m not going to sit here the whole time when we are in one of the nicest places in the universe.”

When they exit the ship Loki hops back in. They are not in an open field or a secluded forest. Instead the first thing he sees as he walks out is several pathways followed by several other landed ships followed by the realization that they are landed in an area very clearly in an area designated for the government of this… Dorne.

Banners and flags are set up all around the area with a red sun proud in the center of the dusty orange fabric, a single golden spear running straight through it. Even from the glance of the landing area he got, he can tell there is one painted beneath them. 

Ashira is already thirty steps ahead of him, however. 

Unsure of whether she is being foolishly stupid or not, he opts catches up with her. Better to be with her and help her get out than leave her alone and end up both detained or killed.

“So why are we just walking around so casually?” Loki asks once beside her. 

“Major enemy of Ares. They don’t want Ares to get me back and Ares has no access to this planet so they can’t tell if I am here or not.” Ashira slows her steps as they approach the arched entrance of the Water Gardens. “Plus I fixed a lot of their tech so Ares can’t touch them for the most part. I come here only occasionally though. It’s pretty.” 

Loki continues to walk forward and even passes  her when they finally reach the entrance of the Water Gardens. “I’ll agree with you on that.”

A quiet snort is released as she watches Loki look around in awe. 

Every color Loki could ever imagine (and then some) in every plant; shimmers and glimmers like he never thought possible on a plant of all things; birds that appear to be hummingbirds but vibrant pinks and blues and purples instead of a more toned down blue or brown or shimmering green (though that does make sense, evolutionarily); and row upon row of infinity pools filled with the most fantastic water features, plants and fish.  

And he thought Asgard has the most amazing gardens. 

“Enjoying yourself?” Ashira teases. 

Loki happily scoffs. “This is amazing... I’ve never seen any place prettier.” 

“It only gets more beautiful.” 

It remains a silent walk. Loki is far too distracted by everything to make conversation. Ashira opts to just silently move beside him and continually playfully tapping some of the more active plants, hands gliding through every little pond and basin of water. 

Then, about ten minutes into the walk, a set of 9 guards marching come around the corner. Clad from head to toe in something eerily similar to what she wore when they landed on, but with more loose and colorful fabrics. The guards are large as well, larger than him in every respect. 

Loki expects Ashira to either tense up or even try to find an alternate route. Instead of tensing, she simply pauses her steps and smiles. 

She even stands a little straighter. Not in challenge though… respect. 

“Ashira, the King awaits,” the singular unmasked guard at the head of the group announces. 

Ashira nods. “Thank you.” 

Her steps pull her forward, then immediately back again. At least half have weapons pointed at Loki that she hadn’t originally noticed. Those that don’t are gripping the hilt of their swords anxiously. 

The guard peers past Ashira. “Who is your friend?” 

Ashira glances over to Loki. There is a soft smile on her face, no malice or suspicion for once. “He can be trusted. He was outcasted from Asgard.” 

“Asgard?” The guard looks him over. Loki feels exposed. Sure he was singled out on Asgard for various reasons but never treated like a hostile threat being brought on trial. “Then he is welcome as well.” All the guards immediately return to a neutral position resulting in Loki letting go of the breathe trapped in his lungs. “Come.” 

All guards turn a perfect 180 in sync to begin their walk towards the palace. 

Loki leans down to whisper to Ashira. “So... what is happening?” 

“The King meets with me once a year to thank me.” It’s at a normal tone instead of the whisper he desired. 

“Oh.” 

Ashira chuckles. “That’s why I am dressed like this.” Her hands gesture down her body. “For respect of their traditions.” 

Loki hums. Respecting traditions doesn’t really seem her style. “And the necklace? A gift from him?” 

“No!” She rushes to reply. Loki immediately whips his head to more closely examine her. No one replies that quickly about a necklace. “It was.” She swallows hard. Loki notices. “It was a gift from someone else. A...” she exhales slowly. “... a friend.” 

Loki leaves it at that. 

The palace is entirely open from what he can tell, built of a red clay with no real doors or windows, just open arches on every level. In fact, Loki hadn’t even noticed they were entering a building until the sun grew dim as they turned right down a hall. 

At the end of said hall sits a man who appears to be at least half way through his life, as Loki does not know how these people age. 

And the chair… has wheels?

Loki recalls reading about some form of chair with wheels that helps those who cannot walk, but Asgard never even had them as far as he is aware. It’s a bizarre sight to see and even more bizarre to see a monarch in one.

“Ashira!” The King shouts, extending his arms out to her. She leans into them, awkwardly balanced on her toes as they embrace. It’s not very long but the man is definitely happy with it. “And who is this?” He gestures behind Ashira.

Ashira simply places her right hand on his left forearm as reassurance that Loki is not an enemy. She pauses though, taking a moment to look back at Loki. 

His face is entirely neutral and mostly focused on her (not on the king like he was trained). The pair shares a brief smile before Ashira turns her head slowly towards the king again. 

“A friend.” 

Doran raises his right brow skeptically. Ashira has never brought anyone with her on her trips back to Dorne. Not even Selene. “A… friend. Alright. Well, everyone is here today.”

Ashira yanks her head back in shock. “Your brother is here?” 

“He is.” Doran nods. “As are all his children.” 

“Is there a special occasion?” 

“I wish. He is never here when those occur. Let’s go before he decides to leave again.” 

A guard aids in wheeling the king around. While they wait Ashira realizes her left hand is still rested on Loki’s forearm. The prince seems not to even mind her instinctively protective touch that has turned into a comically long lingering hold. 

Embarrassed, Ashira tugs her hand away hastily before slowing her movements once a few inches away to reduce the visibility of her movement. Loki notices regardless. 

As the group starts to walk, Loki leans towards Ashira, again. 

“So who is all here?” 

“The king, his daughter and two sons, the king’s younger brother and his eight daughters are all here today, as well as the prince’s lover.” 

Loki furrows his brows. A lover invited to a formal gathering? “His lover?”

“Yeah, she is the mother of four of his children.” 

Oh. “So they are not legitimate?”

“Every child is legitimate, but they aren’t in line for the throne. Any of them, technically. Four have the same mother, but the other four all have different mothers.” 

“What?” 

Ashira looks up at him confused. “What?” 

Loki hums. “That would never be allowed on Asgard. Unmarried is one thing but five mothers for eight children?” 

“Marriage is immensely rare on Ares.” So are unplanned kids. Or, kids at all. “So it happens. Think of Dorne like an in-between.”

And then they enter the room. 

Well, it’s more like a courtyard, Loki figures, seeing as each side as covered pathways but the inner part is entirely roofless, giving way for the bright, searing sun to light the semi-bricked yard. A large wooden table is set in the center, with trees and bushes surrounding it and a water fountain proudly on the other side from them. 

The people - hel the people - are dressed everywhere from close to what Ashira is donning to sandy toned clothing that is barely covering anything. Then there is the sheer chaos of the situation. Even the older of the people seem to be running around and play fighting, one girl using a whip to pull who appears to be her older sister back to her. 

This is a royal gathering? It feels informal. He would be chastised for not sitting properly, forget wrestling his brother to the ground. 

“Come on,” Ashira whispers at Loki’s stoic and shocked form. 

There are three seats towards the end of the table near the side they are on where there are no indicators of being pre-occupied. Well, four, if you count the empty spot where a Queen would presumably sit, as well as two on one side and one on the other. 

Loki goes opposite Ashira as she chooses to sit where there are two spaces. He almost followed to sit beside her. His upbringing kicked in and overruled him, reminding him that he ought to sit opposite her. 

So he reluctantly sits across, sliding into the chair at the very end of the right side from the King’s view. Ashira offers an almost sympathetic smile.

Barely a minute after Loki and Ashira sit down, the rest begin to follow. The once empty seat beside Ashira is soon filled by a woman who makes a show of staring another guest down before tossing her spear to stick perfectly in the center of the planter behind said guest. 

“Still don’t see why you should get to go first,” the other guest, another woman in similar clothes practically whines. 

“Because I am both older and better.” She raises her brow before sitting very uncordially down. 

Someone slides in besides Loki, as he expected, so he does not pay much attention. His mind is more focused on trying to generally identify most of the people as everyone begins to seat themselves not wanting to insult anyone. He has learned that it does not matter whether or not you’ve been introduced or told the title of someone, it’s better not to disrespect them. 

“Nym, no weapons at the table, you know that,” an older woman a few spots down and across from who Loki has identified as the younger brother of the king, whispers angrily. 

The way the girl reluctantly slides the whip beneath the table to her feet reminds him much the many, many times his brother had to be reminded Mjolnir was not allowed at the table and opted to just slide the weapon out of sight. 

Loki cannot help but zone out. He’s been through too many events like this in his lifetime. The king will make an announcement thanking everyone, the food will be brought out, people will eat. Conversation will commence. 

And that’s exactly what happens. The only factor throwing Loki off is Ashira. She is just sitting there across from them in clothes that just don’t seem to fit her quite right. She doesn’t seem like a roam around in a flow dress type. Yet she is conversing as if this is niche, this is where she really flourishes. From what he knows these sorts of meals were not common on Ares. Somehow she makes it look like she’s been through it for centuries like he has.

As he continues to eat mindlessly (the food is amazingly flavored but immensely repetitive, though he can't really blame them for being in a desert planet), his eyes can’t help but switching between the necklace and the plastic like spot on her chest, even if his mind is elsewhere. Something about both just seem unnatural in ways he can’t quite describe and now that he is sat directly across from her he has the opportunity to just look. 

The pendant seems to be alive. The blue pulses not randomly, but controlled and consistently, like a heart beat almost. But it also seems to react to Ashira as she laughs and talks as if it is trying to respond as well. The shades even swirl around like it is thinking a couple of times. 

The spot is less and more odd. It is not like her other scars that seem to have naturally stitched back together with the surrounding skin; it also doesn’t look like something just pasted on either. Add the strangeness that the patch appears to be most of her left chest, meaning her heart was somehow impacted as well. 

At least that is what he assumes. 

“What do you think, Loki?” 

He is shaken out of his mindless staring. “Pardon me?”

“I was wondering what you think of the trade disputes due to the new found mine of gravitonium?” it’s the king’s brother.

Loki shifts slightly. “I don’t think I have enough knowledge to be qualified to answer that.” 

Oberon nods satisfied. “A reasonable answer. I wish that’s how the rest of the Westeros system would respond instead of interrupting our intervention. That reminds me…”

He looks back to Ashira for assurance he responded correctly to her to see her smiling over at Loki widely, hiding her face partially behind the glass of wine in her hand. A smile pulls at his lips as well. 

The King watches the entire table carefully, including his guest and her friend. He notes the lingering smiles between the two causing himself to get slightly distracted when his brother asks him a question. 

One of the others, Loki assumes the lover of the king’s younger brother, soon says something that pulls Ashira’s attention to way. But her head pulls away slowly, her lips answering before actually looking back to the others. 

“You are very lucky,” the woman to the left of him whispers. 

Nam? Nym? Something like that.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Ashira. She is an amazing warrior and very pretty. Anyone would be lucky to have her.”

“Oh, we’re not —”

The girl cuts him off.

“That’s a shame. I know the older of the two princes has been interested in her since they first met. She isn’t interested but you never know.” 

Loki’s brows furrow and he looks down the table again. The prince on his side on the table is indeed staring at Ashira. It isn’t a subtle stare either. It’s a doe-eyed, intense, ceaseless stare that Ashira is either blissfully ignorant of or insanely amazing at ignoring. 

“Don’t worry, it would never work out.” 

The girl’s words draw him out of the staring he begun at the prince. The difference? Loki’s utensils now were slightly altered in shape; the handles of them now bent back to follow the curve of his hand. He opts to set them down and pick up his glass. Just needs to relax. 

“Pardon me?” Loki asks. 

“It would never work. We only live for a hundred years at most, she’s almost 5,000 years.” 

Loki chokes on his drink at that. She’s as old as his entire lifespan? He really hadn’t thought how old she must be if she is in the Greek Myths. She looks maybe a tad bit older than him, by maybe a few years in terms of relative age. So if he is a fifth through his life, there is a chance she is as well. 

Live for 25,000 years? Hel, that’s a long time. 

Too long, even. 

“You okay Loki?” Ashira asks. Her attention has returned to him at the sound of his coughing. Outwardly she appears generally concerned like any friend would; internally she is genuinely concerned.

He looks down at the red wine refusing to drip off his leather then to her. “Yeah, just drank it wrong.” 

“Well, be careful. It’d be a shame for you to die because of some wine of all things.” 

-

The rest of the meal continues similarly - Loki unsure of when he should and shouldn’t talk, Ashira being unusually social and talkative, several of the daughters of the prince (and the prince himself) suggesting things that seem obscene to be discussed at such a supposedly formal setting. Sure, Asgardians talked often about battles and such, but never anything like the poison the girl beside him figured out how to imbue her whip with.

That was currently sat at their feet. 

Something he appreciated, but a few others did not. 

When it does finally end, some of the people go off in various directions, others remaining in the court-yard to go back to fighting each other. 

His attention is removed from the clamor around him when Ashira says his name. 

“Loki, we’re going to leave soon. If you want to fight them, do it now.” 

“I-I what?” Loki narrows his eyes. “I was observing them.”

She shrugs as she stands. Loki stands as well. “All I’m saying is if you want to rumble before we leave, might as well.”

The king is wheeled down towards their end while Loki walks around the end of the table to meet Ashira. 

“I’m assuming you will want some wine again?” Doran asks Ashira.

“I can’t say no. Best alcohol in the entire universe.” 

“Well, I’m not sure about that.” The King waves his right hand and two guards move quickly out of the room. “We wish you good fortune and that you will visit again.” 

“I will. Don’t worry.” Once again she bends down awkwardly, carefully tipping to hug the ruler. Loki nearly grimaces at her disastrous posture as she does so. “I’ll always come back to visit.”

“Very good. Goodbye until next time.”

“Until next time.”

Ashira then turns to walk back to her ship, skirt billowing out around her. Loki is quick to follow. While this place isn’t threatening (confusing, rather), he doesn’t wish to linger without Ashira. The prince was taught better than to intrude. 

Unfortunately, he doesn’t get more than a few paces before his name is called once again.

“And Loki?” 

Loki pauses, watching as Ashira continues on as if she didn’t even hear his name being called. Hesitant to completely lose sight of her, Loki opts to look over his shoulder at the older king.

“Yes, your grace?” 

“Stay a moment.”

Loki sighs and turns. His royal upbringing is fighting the past few months of adventures. On the one hand, he knows he needs to remain courteous in front of a member of the royal family of this planet (more importantly, the king) and stay as long as the king wants; on the other Ashira’s impatience and specific type of chaos has seeped into him and he has become wary of anyone who is not himself or her.

“What is it that you need?” Loki speaks up.

“Just some advice from an old, dying man.” Loki nods. Seems as though every old, dying man he has met in his life has advice to offer. “Don’t hurt her. She’s been through a lot... she’s hurting a lot, still. We don’t invite her just to thank her, we invite her to make sure she is doing okay. We took her in for a time after she escaped, a time when she was too shaken up to make sense of anything. This is the first time she has seemed happy. Don’t ruin that.” 

Loki takes a moment so he can process what was just told him. It’s a lot packed into only a few words. 

First, the old, dying man is advising him not to hurt Ashira because she seems happy. Between the king’s insinuation and the girl’s implication, what Loki had begun to consider since the quiet conversation the other night seems more real… or maybe realistic? Two people don’t just say things like that unless the feelings are two-sided. 

He also just admitted that it isn’t a yearly thank you, rather a yearly check-up on her. Loki’s been a witness to some of her worst moments of relived panic but for it to be of enough concern that an entire other race checks on her regularly? 

That is a little stunning, to say the least. 

“I have no plans to,” Loki decides to respond. 

“Good. Cause if you do, she has more people behind her than she makes it seem. She could change the universe if she wanted.” 

Loki smiles at that. “Trust me, I know.” 

-

Loki finds Ashira spinning around like a child in the pilot’s seat, outfit changed to plain black leggings and a matching tank top. His eyes inadvertently go immediately to the scars along her neck and arms that she is no longer covering. The day she explained them was the same day she gave him something that healed him when his magic wouldn’t. So he stares almost blankly as he realizes she has scars when she shouldn’t. 

“So what did the King want to talk to you about?” She does not stop spinning as she asks.

“Just offering me some advice.” Loki sits in the co-pilot seat.

Ashira nods slowly as she final stops her spinning. Her brain is still off somewhere else as she continues to speak. “So despite being stocked up on alcohol, we are kinda low on everything else. We’ll stop at J’henga tomorrow.” 

“Alright.”

Silence blankets the ship for a few minutes, save the sounds of switches being flipped and the engine whispering to life. Ashira has nothing more to say for now; Loki is not sure what to say to her. Yet right before she can finally take them off the ground he speaks again.

“Were you ever going to tell me you live for 25,000 years?” 

She pauses. Shit. “Why would it matter?” 

Loki shrugs. “Would have been nice to know.”

“Why?” She scoffs and her head turns to face him. “One day you are going to go home…” she shakes her head. “…and if not, realize that I’m not a good person to be around. You’ve seen me and what I do. I bring chaos and even death everywhere I go. One day you will leave me and it will be long before my age actually comes into question.” 

Her words end with a sad, nearly in tears tone. She didn’t intend for those words to tumble from her lips. As the anniversary of the day grows near, despite her attempts to ignore it, her mind and body automatically begin to act on their own, forcing her into more unstable and erratic moods.

“Well, I am the God of Mischief,” Loki replies as he works to make sense of what she just said, “sometimes known as of Chaos. I’m not worried.” 

“You should be.” She shakes her head and turns away. “You should be.” 

With that she pulls them off the ground, leaving Loki to sit quietly in their ascent. 

—

The following morning Ashira awakens before him, as always. She pushes herself to a sitting position with ease, her left hand mindlessly reaches to where the pendant of the necklace ought to be. Her hand, however, just touches the strands of hair that decided to stick to her chest as she slept. 

The necklace is gone. 

Her heart practically skyrockets past the walls of the ship. 

She knows she didn’t take it off last night when they both finally made it to bed; it was definitely still secure around her, the metal clasp going absolutely nowhere. It had to be, she remembers seeing the reflection of its glow as she fell asleep. 

In her panic Ashira nearly falls off of the window seat. 

Thankfully she stops herself before she can full tumble off. 

First, her eyes search where she was sleeping while her hands fervently shake out her hair and shirt. 

No necklace. 

Then a quick search of the floor around her is done. 

No necklace. 

There is no way it could have gone far. 

Right as she turns to go downstairs to see if it could have possibly fallen off down there, she catches sight of the blue. 

It is hovering along the wall, a little note beside it. 

‘Didn’t want it to get tangled with your hair, I hope you don’t mind.’

Ashira snatches it away from the hook. The blue swirls around inside as she grabs it into her hands once again as if to greet her like an excited dog. Similarly relieved, she quickly puts it back on. 

The weight is exactly what her anxious self needs. Her fingers on both hands nervously curl and uncurl around it several times. 

“Are you alright?” 

Loki has barely woken up at the sound of her scrambling.

“Y-Yeah,” Ashira mutters back, turning to face him. “J’Henga is uh, not far out. Maybe 45 minutes? We can land now if you’d like.”

“I mean, we’re up.”

Ashira nods. “Yeah, already up. I’ll be downstairs.”

-

And her timing is still scarily accurate. 45 minutes after she descends to the cockpit they land and another fifteen later she is standing at the entrance of the ship in white leggings and a loose tan blouse, Loki coming to stand beside her a moment after in a looser, less leather version of his normal clothing. Another desert planet.

“You ready?” He asks.

Loki watches as Ashira nervously grip the necklace. 

Ashira turns to him and smiles. “Of course. Always am.”

The trek to the trading post - Ashira made a point of ensuring Loki knew it was not a city or village of any kind - is unusually quick. It is not a one mile or more hike to get close to civilization. Instead, it appears there are tons of ships around them and everyone seems to generally be moving towards the same trading post - some with wagons and actual boats worth of goods, others with nothing. The walk itself is also not long, a half mile at most. 

Loki isn’t sure what he expected when he finally gets a clear view of the area. It really is just a bunch of make-shift stands and people randomly scattered once they pass the entrance point. More species than he has ever seen before are selling and trading in one spot to their left, to their right a singular woman with ten animals he has never seen before. The closest thing Loki can compare them to is some form of mangled horse. 

“We really just need food, to be honest,” Ashira finally relays to Loki. “Once we are out of this system with the track I’m on we won’t be getting great food any time soon after, so we need to get a lot, actually.”

“Any suggestions then?”

“Not really. Trust your gut, but most of the stuff here is good. To be honest,” Ashira careful side steps a bucket of who knows what, “the food that doesn’t follow any regulations tends to be the best I’ve learned. So don’t be afraid of the gross stuff, your highness.”

“I - I am offended you would think I would be afraid of ‘gross’ stuff,” Loki huffs.

“You are a pretty rules and regulations guy from what I can tell so… yeah. Anyway, c’mon.” 

Of course, she’s right. Loki nearly slaps a bag of out of Ashira’s hands as it is passed to her because he swear he saw something moving inside of it that shouldn’t have been. He claimed he is just concerned for her health. She has to remind him that it will be just fine and that she has been here before whereas he has not. 

He reluctantly yielded. 

-

Three hours into their market wandering and multiple instances of Ashira casually handing Loki yet another bag and him pretending not to notice that she still is carrying nothing, Ashira notices them nearly done. 

“So we’ve got almost everything,” Ashira hums, handing yet another bag to Loki. 

“So what’s left, miss ‘I cannot carry my own bags’.”

Ashira tries to stop the absolutely ridiculous grin pulling on her lips at Loki’s remark. “Hey, every king needs to learn to be humbled every so often.” She glances up to him. “Sugar, is what we need. Like candy. Specifically something that is like 100% sugar is preferable.”

“Do you have a sweet tooth I never noticed?” 

“Hm, maybe. It’s also good to chase some of the drinks I got from Dorne with candy or mix them. Trust me, it makes the experience much, much better.” 

“You would know. A true connoisseur of drinks, I’ve learned.” 

With the next step her gut feels like it’s been punched. 

It’s the day again. 

To be honest, Ashira tries not to keep track. 

But she feels it in her gut. The dread, the complete and utter dread fills her system as they walk through market. Her heart is palpitating so painfully; her vision blurring dramatically. Things are spinning in circles, the crowd rolling almost comedically around as she struggles to stay balanced. 

Loki immediately notices the change. The runaway has a very distinct pattern of walking through bustling crowds and any change is immediately obvious to him. 

So he calls out to her as she stumbles out of arms reach. 

Only one grabs Ashira’s attention, however. A person. Someone a bit shorter than Loki pushing through the crowd a few feet in front of her with white hair to his shoulder and a perfectly clean dark silver streak against his left side. 

At least it looks that way to her spinning head. 

Ashira rushes forward. The crowd is thick but means nothing to her panic mixed with her natural strength. She isn’t paying attention to the narrowed eyes, growls, and Loki’s increasingly concerned shouts to her. 

Once she reaches the man, her hands wrap around his wrist. His head whips to look at the sudden intrusion. 

“Eros?” Ashira asks hopefully. 

Who she grabbed onto, however, is a disgruntled mixed Elf, part light, part lunar with narrowed, angry plain hazel eyes and hair that is actually more of a very light blond with brown streak through it. The man yanks his arm away from Ashira violently. She involuntarily stumbles forward.

Then someone else comes to stand in front of her. Fingers curl around her upper arms and squeezes. She’s too disoriented to even flinch or pull away. Her eyes just stare directly forward for a moment or two. So the person squeezes her arms again. Her brows slowly pull inward; she’s confused as to what is happening. The person squeezes again. 

She finally looks up, mind completely dissociating from her surroundings. The face seems familiar, she thinks. 

“Are you alright?” Loki wonders. 

Ashira furrows her brows. “Loki?” It’s a statement laced with confusion. 

“Uh, yeah, it’s me.” Loki puts on a smile to assure her it will be okay. “Let’s get you back to your ship, you don’t look well.”

“Alright...” Ashira looks back to his chest. “Sure.” 

-

Loki practically drags her back to the ship. She is stumbling and struggling to even see as her body falls into a numb panic. 

When he finally practically hurls her onto the ship, she instantly dashes up the stairs. 

It’s not a smooth run, it’s messy. Loki is staring agape as she falls on her face twice in her scurry. 

She’s tearing open her pathetic little chest of clothes in her little window seat. Buried beneath all her clothes, deep within her makeshift bed, are two physical pictures she has kept. The first is her and Selene, centuries ago, laughing on top of their ship after their first successful stealth mission. 

But the second? 

Her and Eros in front of the new engine they built so ships can be converted mid-flight instead of needing fighter ships attached and risk the main ship getting damaged. Her lips are pressed against his cheek as he grins sappily, the engine acting as a seat. He’s flushed in both excitement and embarrassment: she had just kisses him (albeit only on the cheek) in front of hundreds of people. He was never particularly public. 

She hasn’t touched it in ten years. 

But to see it doesn’t help. That’s why she stopped looking at - instead of helping her cope it only made her sadder and more angry at herself. 

This time she doesn’t burn. There is a numbness inside of her that directs the pain inwards, her organs ripping and shredding instead of her surroundings. It somehow hurts less this way as well. She isn’t sure why. 

To her, it’s unclear how long she has been sobbing on the floor, clutching the photo to her chest. It’s been about fifteen minutes. 

Loki, having chalked up the incident on her just needing to eat combined with the heat, decided to make her something legitimately edible. Well, as edible as he can make something, especially given the limitations of the ship.

Satisfied, Loki calls out to her. “Hey, Ash, I made you food.” 

Ash. 

Ash. 

Only one person ever called her that. 

And she falls into harder sobs. 

“Ashira?” He calls out. 

He listens for a response only to hear her crying. It’s a painful, wet, deeply quiet sob. 

With a sigh, he walks up stairs. 

Ashira rushes to put the photo away; the seat closes right as Loki gets up the stairs. 

“Seriously, what’s going on with you?” Loki demands. 

“I’m fine.” It’s through a damaged throat still damp with tears.

Loki crosses his arms. “You are literally sobbing while collapsed on the ground."

Ashira hiccups. The hiccup shutters her entire body but she shakes it off, looking up at Loki with a crooked smile. “Like I said, perfectly fine.” 

Loki rolls his eyes. “Whatever you say.” 

—

When night falls, Loki is no less worried. 

She opted to leave as soon as dusk hit (without giving him a reason) and he didn’t push for one. Something is wrong and she is too stubborn to explain. 

Due to the overwhelming amount of energy she spent crying (and her body attempting to heal itself), Ashira falls into a calm slumber quickly. 

Loki is not so lucky. 

He lies awake worried. 

What the hell happened today and what the hell happened to mess her up this much?

He spends a few hours mulling it over but knows he will get no answers by just making assumptions in the dead of night. 

Eventually he, too, begins to drift off. 

—

“Are you excited, ‘Shira?” Selene asks, finishing off the braid she’s spent the past hour on. 

Ashira snorts. “Of course. I mean, I’m getting married.”

“And it is going to be a wonderful spectacle.” 

“I would hope so.”

Loki, in his half-asleep state, barely registers the sound of Ashira suddenly gasping like she is choking.

Kneeling in the water bed of the waterfall, Ashira chuckles as splashes continuously hit her and Eros in the face. He keeps flinching his silver eyes closed to stop the water from hitting them but he keeps reopening them to look at her. Her grin causes Eros chuckles back, his fingers gripping hers a little harder. 

“Now, to make the bond official, you both shall share a kiss to seal your fates together.”

Ashira pushes forward to press her lips against his. She’s crying into it. So is he. It’s a messy kiss, filled with wet tears on their wet faces, a happy giggle leaving both of their lips. 

As her lips pull away from him, it’s no longer Eros in front of her, smiling back. 

It’s Loki. 

“Wh-what?” She gasps. 

“What’s wrong, Ash? Did I get something caught in my hair again?” 

“Y-you’re not…”

“You’ve got something, on your…”

But then he begins to vanish. First his hands crumble in hers, nothing more than ashes. It quickly spreads up his arms; bit by bit he slowly fades into nothing more than shattered particles, body falling into the water and washing away. 

His face is last, still smiling as it does, like nothing is wrong.

A sob passes her lips in both real life and her dream. 

Loki practically jumps out of bed. 

She turns her head back to look at Selene, tears already blurring her eyes with sorrow and panic. Selene looks just as shocked as Ashira feels. Her face is darkened by sadness combined with fear - fear of repercussions, not fear of her best friend. 

“What did you do?” Eros’ father shrieks. “What did you do to my son?”

Ashira, terrified and breathing sporadically looks back to the group of people watching. All eyes are either wide with terror or narrowed with anger. 

“I-I… I don’t know,” she sputters out. 

Some of the higher officials run up behind Ashira and grab her arms and throw cuffs around them. She’s immobilized as the paralysis injection begins to push through her veins. But it increases the panic in her system, the complete opposite its intention, whatever flowing through her veins fighting off the substance, the poison, attempting to hurt her. She’s too panicked to notice the burning glow on her body, too terrified to feel the heat radiating off of her. 

The blanket around her body is practically strangling her. 

Loki begins to shake her quickly with his left hand and his right is tugging the blanket from around her. It’s choking her. 

“Ashira, Ashira you need to wake up.” 

“No! No please, I don’t know what happened, please let me go!” Ashira screeches as multiple officials begin dragging her away. “No!”

Before she is dragged more than a foot, the ones holding her slowly begin to disintegrate too. 

There is a burn of purple erupting along Ashira’s skin. She’s heating up and yelling out nonsense. Not only is the purple whatever tearing at her, but she is physically burning up, a sweat beginning to cover her skin. 

“Ashira, come on you gotta wake up.” His hand goes to touch her head to see just how hot she is.

He pulls his hand away with a hiss. He remembers that one visit he, his brother and the other four fools his brother calls friends took to Muspelheim and how Volstagg so graciously tripped him so he fell face first into a pile of very, very hot rocks. The whole ship begins rumbling and tearing apart slowly at the seams. The metal begins to glow a heated red around the edges. 

She’s going to blow the ship. 

In the middle of flying.

“Hey, Ash, wake up!” 

It’s only a sense of distraught in him. His heart is skipping beats as he keeps shaking her by touching the extra fabric of her shirt. Her skin is far to warm for her to even be living at this point. 

“What the hel is going on?” Loki whispers desperately. 

Loki looks around again to see the ceiling ready to fall on them both. So he does what he can to calm and cool her. It’s dangerous, it’s risky and also the only solution he can think of. He hopes he won’t regret what he is about to do. 

His skin begins to shift blue. 

It’s chaos. People are screaming, shouting, scrambling. Except Selene, who is running towards the girl she was raised with. Selene just wants to pull her friend away before any more drastic action is taken, like being killed on the spot.

Where he touches her he begins to literally sizzle. Despite it hurting like hel and then some, Loki continues to try and cool her down at least marginally. 

It seems to a work just a hair; enough that Ashira doesn’t feel like she ought to be a molten puddle on the ground, at least.

Before Selene can dive to Ashira, though, Ashira is blasted nearly unconscious. Her friend turns to see the Queen standing there, Scepter in her hand with at least three mindless Chitauri behind her. 

As a taller, terrifyingly imposing person, even one side glance can instill fear. This murderous glare could cause immediate death. 

“Have something you need to tell me?”

Selene gulps nervously. 

Ashira hears this as she rolls over to look at her mother. Her hands reach out towards her mother, begging for her to help. 

She barely spars at glance at her only child as Ashira loses consciousness. 

But now she is re-heating up. 

“Ashira!” Loki shouts. 

The ship stops rattling. 

She gasps for air as she sits up suddenly. Her eyes are wide and startled, whole body heaving with each inhale and exhale. She isn’t even looking towards him, just straight ahead. Her heart will not slow at all; there is purple radiating off of her palms and chest still. There is an odd cold touch on her left arm. It feels nice compared to the obscenely warm sweat covering her. 

“Ashira?” Loki shifts back to his ivory color and touches her left arm again. It hurts from the scotching heat yet he refuses to let go. He decides to just change his hands and slowly rubs them up and down her forearm. “Normally you say something right after I wake you. Is everything alright?” 

She’s grinding her teeth to calm her breath and mind. She doesn’t really know so she doesn’t really want to answer. 

On one end, everything is fine. He is there in front of her. And alive.

On the other, this is the first time someone else has appeared in her nightmares. 

“This is...” she pauses to slow her breath. It works only to slow her breath a smidge; it is better than nothing. So she turns slowly to look at Loki directly. His eyes are wide with sheer worry and he is desperately attempting to help her relax with his soft touch against her arm. “This is real, right?” 

Loki’s brows softly gather together. He’s confused and concerned by her question. It even causes him to drop his hands. She isn’t paying enough attention to the physical sensations around her to notice. 

“Why are you asking?” 

Ashira wildly shakes her head, hoping her brain will reset. “I’m just being an idiot. I’m sorry.” 

Her hands yearn to reach out and touch to confirm he is still there but she is too afraid that if she does they will move right through, or worse, he will vanish entirely. 

Or even worse: he will crumble. 

“You don’t ask dumb questions for no reason. What’s going on?” 

Not even Selene, the girl she was raised with, the girl who has been her best friend for longer than Loki has been alive, has been the victim in her dreams. 

She is terrified to admit what is the reason. 

I’m scared, she wants to admit. I’m terrified. You were in my dream, I killed you in my dream and I’ve never had a dream like that. I think... I think I might love you. 

And that might be more petrifying, horrifying, terrifying than anything else. 

Because loving you means killing you. 

“IOx-10. Let’s land tomorrow, maybe do some hiking or something?” 

Loki smiles. “Whatever you need.”

“Thank you.” 

There is no joke. No ‘my liege’, no ‘your highness’. 

Simply a thank you.

___

Next

------

Taglist 

@tarynkauai @illogicalfangirl

[xxbyimm]

Enya’s Unexpected Journey - Chapter 22

For other chapters or this journey, click here: Enya’s story or Masterlist

So there it is, finally. The next chapter to this journey. Kudos to @deepestfirefun, @pixiedurango and @thestorybookmistress for listen to me whine and giving me tips on how to make this right. Also lots of love to my wonderful D&D dungeons master B. for proofreading this and helping me with the plot! You’re awesome. Also my bestie D., I love you for being the best critic in the world. 

Enjoy.

Chapter 22

Summary: Enya takes on the dragon Smaug.

Taglist: Since my taglist is old and doesn’t work anymore, I try to remember people as best as I can. I’m sorry If you’re being tagged unwillingly, or if you wish to be tagged, let me know. @deepestfirefun, @oakenshieldsmizimel @nelswp @bellastellaluna @leah-halliwell92 @jotink78 @evyiione @fergrigori @jessieray98

Warnings: As always, Enya’s swearing.

‘Oakenshield! LET ME OUT!’

Seriously. If Smaug hadn’t killed that stubborn dwarf king already, she definitely wanted the honor. Enya groaned and shoved herself against the marble door. All that talk about accepting her and her powers, allowing her to do her thing and then instead of trusting her on this… LOCK HER UP?!

Enya gritted her teeth. Although she couldn’t see a damn thing in here, she felt her cheeks burning hot with shame. What could have been a faulty door, the lack of Thorin’s presence, his voice promising her to get her out as fast as possible made it all too clear. She felt stupid for walking into his trap, for thinking he would finally stop overprotecting her. She should have known better, but there she was, in the narrow corridor that Thorin earlier had described as the fastest path down into Erebor. And the worst was that this was all due to the fact that her brain had been too infatuated by their earlier lovemaking to pay attention…..

‘Oh girl, but it WAS something…’ her mind mused.

Enya heaved a sigh. Yes it was. She really didn’t need her stupid brain to remind her how fantastic sex with Thorin was, she remembered quite well on her own. But right now, the dim and airless void made her nervous. She never really enjoyed being in the dark, especially not in a hallway that made her claustrophobic. In other words, she had to find a way out. She quickly filled her palms with fire and warm orange light filled the small passage, allowing herself to explore her surroundings. She paced into the direction from whence they came and cursed under her breath when she met a dead end. Great! Thorin must have closed the entrance after her. Enya pushed against the flat marble surface and growled when it didn’t give in. She studied the exterior by tracing her fingers over the stone, in an effort to discover a crack. This was absolutely ridiculous. She came through a door in this specific spot just five minutes ago. There had to be an opening somewhere!

But there was nothing.

‘Strange…’ she whispered and turned around. Since one access point was Thrain’s royal study, she suspected this passage was made for the Durin family only. And since one Durin locked her up in the first place and the remaining two weren’t around to save her ass, she could conclude that no living soul was going to find her here.

‘Except if Dís shows up in Erebor…’ her mind chatted. ‘But that seems highly unlikely, don’t you think?’

Yep, so just one stubborn dwarven king knew she was here and he wasn’t going to retrieve her anytime soon. Ugh. Those were definitely not encouraging thoughts when you needed your mind to come up with smart suggestions…

Enya looked around. With her flames lighting up the way, Enya discovered the corridor was small, but not as claustrophobic as it had felt a few moments ago. She heaved a sigh. The walls consisted of plain marble stone, but above her head there was a row of richly decorated ones, displaying the royal bloodline and scenes from their everyday life. The ceiling was made out of plain marble again, the surface so smooth one would think it actually was one piece. Enya arched an eyebrow, not daring to think about how it got up there without the techniques of the modern world. Even this little passages like this showed her the mighty skills of the dwarven race.

The floor consisted of a beautiful mosaic image, the bluish colors shining bright in the light of Enya’s flames. She followed its trail towards the other end while revering in its beauty. The image depicted the Durin’s folks’ royal bloodline. Under her feet she discovered Durin I, also called ‘the deathless’, and he was followed by his successors Durin II, III, IV, V and VI. Then there came a Náin I and Thráin I, and after them Thorin I, who (if she remembered this right) decided to leave the lonely mountain to find more fortune in the Grey Mountains. Enya walked along the blue line and admired the craftmanship. Ah, there was Dáin I, Thorin’s great grandfather, the one who got slain by a cold-drake. She glanced over to the other forefathers and shivered. Too many lives of the line of Durin were taken by dragons. She had to prevent Smaug from putting yet another name on that list…

Finally she reached Thorin’s grandfather Thrór and stood still for a moment. Thrór was the last one on the family tree… This couldn’t be right?! Enya knitted her brows together. ‘Oh! Right, kings.’ She then muttered to herself. ‘Thorin and Thráin weren’t kings at the time the lonely mountain…’

The words lingered on her lips, but she didn’t dare to finish her sentence, suddenly feeling wary it could bring bad luck to speak of those bad events. She bit her lip and got on her knees. She carefully let her flame floating in the air before she started exploring the patterns of stones under her. There had to be a button, a handle, or at least a hint in here. Because, after all, she found it highly unlikely that Erebor consisted solely of hidden doors. She refused to believe that there wasn’t a way out. Her heart stopped a few times when her fingers found a few rough edges, but other than that nothing seemed out of the ordinary. She glanced over the next few meters of floor and established that the change a clue was hidden in the floor, was pretty slim. Maybe the carvings on the walls contained a sign. She got up and began her search.

After what felt like hours of concentrated work she crashed down against the wall and rested the back of her head on the cool marble. This was ridiculous! There had to be a way out, and she currently was too blind to see the obvious. Or… the other possibility made her a bit apprehensive. What if there wasn’t one and she was going to perish in here? Enya quickly dismissed the thought again and rolled her eyes. Although Thorin was a selfish stubborn bastard, he wouldn’t let her die in here. At least, that was if he hadn’t lost his sanity today. Absentmindedly she stared at her fire crawling back into her hand again, the flames calmly licking her palm. Then her gaze shifted at the image that was carved into the stone above her.

Could that be…?

Balin had told her all about the history of Durin’s folk, and especially the magnificence of Thrór’s throne. The throne which contained the Arkenstone. She shot up, a hesitant smile displayed on her lips. Oh, she should have seen this one earlier. She had been a fool after all, and a blind one too. Enya stood on her toes and her fingers found the small oval-shaped carving, gently giving it a push. The stone protested, the tiny mechanism behind it was probably rigid after not being used for a few decades. Enya heard a soft click and prayed that the clever dwarven engineering had passed the test of time. With a squeaking sound the piece of marble before her made way for a moderately sized opening. She took a deep breath and stepped through it.

At that exact moment, the mountain under her came to life. The majestic structure shook in its foundations, almost causing Enya to lose her balance. Her flames shot from her palms into the dark void as she steadied herself against the wall. She frowned when her surroundings lit up. She had expected another (rather endless) corridor, but she actually had stepped onto an old spiral staircase, that stretched down as far as she could see. The stairs were, just like the passage, made from plain marble. Beautiful marble branches that were carved into the railing stretched out before her, inviting her to come along. Enya took a few steps down, enjoying the stone patterns gliding smoothly under her hands. She smiled when her fingers discovered a tiny marble rose, sticking out from one of the branches. To be honest, one wouldn’t expect that dwarves were so fond of nature to take time to create a masterpiece like this. Of course, they were capable of making the most exquisite and delicate things, but more often the inspiration did not lie in the wonders of the wild. She took another step down and peered into the darkness beneath her. The staircase went further down. She heaved a sigh. Well, she probably should-

Another violent roar rumbled through the stone and she clenched onto the railing. The mountain seemed to groan in protest of the events that took place down below her. Enya took a deep breath, a shiver passing through her spine. She knew all too well what was causing this sound, and it certainly was no earthquake. There was no time left to spare, she had to move. She had to be there before all hell was going to break loose.

Dragon.

Enya descended the stairs as fast as she possibly could go, consequently tripping over her own feet. The mountain started to growl around her again and she groaned in response. If she kept going in this fast but yet too slow pace, the whole company would be nothing more than a pile of ash once she finally arrived. ‘Brilliant idea, Thorin…’ she murmured while she regained her balance and proceeded her way down again. ‘Depriving your followers of the one thing that can save their and your rather perfectly tight ass! Splendid notion! If you won’t get scorched by that damned fire drake, then I will-’

A surprised shriek left her mouth as she missed a step and collapsed down the stairs. Her body froze and her hands automatically shot forward, in an attempt to protect herself and break the fall. She closed her eyes and readied herself for the inevitable smack. A crackling sound reached her ears and the air got pushed out of her lungs as she crashed down on the stone steps. A sharp pain shot through her body as it received the blow and Enya hissed. Her muscles relaxed and for a moment she laid there, her eyes closed and her body still.

‘Babe, instead of getting all worked up, you should probably watch where you are going…’ her mind told her. ‘Or did you intend to study the marble of this specific step?’ ‘Oh, shut up.’ she grumbled. ‘I’m so done right now.’

Well, fuck. That hurt.

But not as bad as she had thought it would. The surface under her was hard and cold as hell, but not quite as uneven as she expected. Enya finally peered through her lashes and heaved a sigh. Her instinct had, once again, saved her from disaster. She was laying, face down, on a whimsical ice sculpture. The ice was dramatically draped across the stairs, a sturdy edge preventing her from sliding any further. She scrambled herself together and got on her knees as she studied her own piece of art. ‘Well, if anyone asks what I was up to today…’ she murmured. ‘I was producing art that would make any sculptor proud.’ She shook her head and heaved a sigh. Alright, she could cross “making a life sized sculpture” off her bucket list, but the real question here was how on earth she could get down without tripping over another thousand times…

A devious smile appeared on her lips when she watched some water trickle down onto the next step. Of course. When life gives you lemons…

You’d better make one hell of a lemonade.

She crawled towards the edge of her sculpture and reached out. Water dripped from her hands, first slowly but then accelerating into a waterfall. Enya turned her hands a little, guiding the water into a stream and freezing the fluid into an icy slope. She waited until she believed her water had moved down enough.

Enya took a deep breath, ignoring the nervous pit that grew in her stomach. It had been at least one (and probably a hell of a lot more) decade since she had gone down a slide, and those structures back home were a hundred percent safe. She peered down her self-made version and made a face. She had no idea where she was going, or if the staircase further down was destroyed. She had to be totally bonkers to do this.

Well. Yeah. Was there really a choice? It couldn’t be worse than going through portals, could it? She just was going to slide down and in the process making around a hundred loops or so. Her icy slide should be safe enough, she had to trust her own engineering on this one. Enya nodded slowly and took another deep breath before lowering herself down on the slope.

Alright. Now all she needed was a gush of wind to keep her going. She closed her eyes, focusing on the air around her. She exhaled slowly and a soft breeze pushed her forward. Her nails dragged halfheartedly over the slope, a part of her being not willing to let go yet. An unspoken question burned on her lips.

‘What if I will fall?’ ‘But oh, darling…’ her mind purred in response. ‘What if you fly…’

After the mountain would be reclaimed and Fíli and Kíli had rejoined them, she would definitely ask them to do this again. She knew those devious bastards would enjoy this at least as much. The wind blew through her hair and Enya threw her hands up, a light-hearted giggle escaping her lips. This was awesome. The slide took her round and round, swiftly taking her down to her destination. Enya watched the scenery on the railing gradually change. The flowers disappeared and the branches came together into one thick stem, which had a fantastically pattern carves into it. She went too fast to distinguish every little detail of the trunk, but she got the overall idea. The railing seemed to be, in her mind anyway, a tree. And since she only passed the tree trunk anyway, she guessed it was a long way down. She could only hope her handiwork reached that far too.

By the time the railing had shifted into tree roots (that were holding marble rocks and even tiny bones) Enya had stopped already once to peer down the staircase. Her head was spinning from the last 500 loops she just made (alright, it probably weren’t that many, but sure as hell felt like it) and a little break was much needed. ‘So far for my hurry…’ she murmured to herself. Getting there in time was one thing, but if it meant her dazed brain would see three dragons instead of one, she doubted she would be of any aid. She raised a hand and released a large flame into the void. She watched it floating down and tried to establish the number of loops she had to endure. ‘Okay.’ She muttered. ‘At least five. We should be fine.’ She sat down on the slope again and a short blow from behind set her off again. She took a deep breath and counted as she tried to not give attention to this weak feeling in her stomach. The tree roots on the railing seemed to change, they grew thinner and thinner until most lines disappeared, only to be replaced by rocks and stones. Enya grinned. This meant she was getting closer towards her destination, whatever that may be. Probably not the dungeons, but another place the royal family needed quick access to. The heart of the mountain, the most important place in dwarven society…

Her heart made a leap when her flame, floating just a few loops before her, seemed to stop. At last, her sliding journey was coming to an end! She slowed down and then got up to descend the last few steps on foot. Her legs felt a little wobbly, but other than that, she could conclude this new manner of transportation had more or less passed the test. She motioned her fire to follow her and gazed around the room. The staircase leaded into a round space, again closed off. Enya heaved a sigh and studied the walls, in search for another hidden doorway. But, luckily for her, this side of the passage wasn’t so secret. A massive door, seemingly consisting of the stone from this very mountain, stood before her. Enya gripped the sturdy ring that was hammered into the stone and pulled. When the door didn’t oblige, she threw herself against it and pushed.

Nothing!

She rolled her eyes, wondering if these “not knowing to push or pull” problems were strictly reserved for the beings from her world, or if the women in middle earth came across likewise situations.

‘Probably not.’ Her mind mused. ‘But they encounter other problems like-’ Enya shook her head and focused on the door instead. Maybe with the right amount of force… She inhaled slowly, her senses extremely aware of the movement in the air around her. The hairs on her arms stood up, the atmosphere grew heavy, prickling with anticipation like a silence before the storm. Then she released her power and with a violent roar the door blew open, the hinges squealing. With a deafening smack stone crashed into stone and Enya stepped over the threshold.

Indeed, she had winded up somewhere down in the forges. Four enormous round furnaces stood in a row at the right side of the room. On the left, the space was closed off by a latticework of iron pillars. In the middle of the room stood four dwarves and one hobbit. Enya heaved a relieved sigh. She hadn’t expected to find the company so quickly again, but there they were: looking frightened, but yet unharmed and-

Wait a minute.

Where was their charming leader? And Dwalin? Or Nori? And what about Bifur and Gloin? Where was everybody? Enya took a sprint towards the company. The area behind the iron latticework seemed to be a large hallway and in the distance she heard Dwalin shouting Thorin’s name, accompanied by the smashing sound of an axe into something metal. Her heart skipped a bit. ‘Thank mahal!’ Balin exclaimed. ‘I thought we had to stand up against that vile thing without our fire witch!’ ‘Not a chance in hell. ’Enya huffed. ‘I just took a detour. Where is everyone?!’ ‘We don’t know.’ Dori said softly. ‘We came here separately. I haven’t seen Gloin and Bifur yet, and Thorin got into trouble with Smaug. I believe Nori and Dwalin are trying to save him.’ ‘WHAT?!’ she shrieked. ‘Enya!’ Bilbo said, sounding as relieved as scared. ‘Thank goodness you’re alright. We need your help!’ he fretted. ‘Bilbo, what is he doing?!’ Enya interrupted while grasping the halfling by his shoulders. She knew it was rather rude of her, but right now was not the time to exchange niceties. Balin merely sadly shook his head, and even sassy Bilbo couldn’t provide her with a sensible answer. They all looked very shaken.

‘Damnit!’ Enya pushed Bilbo aside and ran towards the other side of the room. ‘What the hell did he-’ The ground under her shook and from the pit emerged a deep growl. When she passed the iron pillars into the hallway, she saw -thank mahal- Thorin climbing over the edge of a shaft, aided by Nori. They ducked when a great fire blazed from the pit just behind them. ‘Go! Go!’ Thorin shouted at his comrades and the trio ran as fast as they could towards the forges, visibly terrified by the clamor that was coming from the depths. Enya stopped in her tracks, waiting for them.

Because when the most hardened warriors in middle earth make a run for it, you know its fucking serious.

‘Enya!’ Thorin growled, grabbing her as he passed by. ‘Get out of here! NOW!’ Oh yeah, let’s pretend she was the vulnerable component of the group. Enya just narrowed her eyes and folded her arms, grateful that her king was alive, but fuming over the fact he no doubt did some really stupid and/or risky things without her. Thorin caught her gaze and glared at her, but she didn’t give in. His emerald orbs, usually full of emotion and giving her a glimpse of his thoughts, seemed more cold and distant. In fact, there was a dullness in them that she hadn’t seen earlier and it made her feel quite uncomfortable. She shook off the shiver that shot through her spine and finally blinked. When she caught his gaze again, Thorin slowly exhaled and it almost looked as he came back to himself. ‘The plan is not going to work.’ Dwalin said, turning to the both of them. ‘These furnaces are stone cold.’ ‘He’s right.’ Balin agreed as he stepped forward. ‘There’s no fire hot enough to set them ablaze.’

A low groan escaped her lips and Enya sighed. What? Had these stupid dwarves learn nothing during this trip?! What was the whole point of her tagging along on the journey if they weren’t going to profit from her powers? ‘Have we not?’ she quipped and paced towards the nearest furnace. ‘Let’s see what I can do for you, gentlemen.’ She ignored the echoes in the distance getting louder and stretched out her hands. If they wanted a great fire, they could get it. An explosion of flames shot from her palms, the heat radiating against her face. The fire engulfed the first furnace and she smiled when it brought to life with a loud rumble.

One down. Only three to go.

But there was no time. The sound of stone crumbling into dust made all of them look between the pillars and they saw Smaug climbing from the pit, his claws crushing the walls. The fire drake crawled over the edge and halted before the pillars. The latticework was huge, but far too narrow to fit a dragon. Enya turned on her heels, locking eyes with the fire drake. Smaug opened his mouth, ready to pour his flames over them. In the depths of his throat she could see the fire boiling, fuming, ready to be unleashed. But she was ready for it too. Enya shifted her legs further apart to steady her position as her hands reached out to block every single flame that would come from those enormous jaws. She refused to break eye contact and watched as the dragon inhaled. ‘TAKE COVER, GO!’ Thorin shouted to the rest of the company and they made their way towards the pillars to protect themselves from a fiery death. Enya controlled her breathing, braced herself and-

Next thing she knew, she was knocked off her feet by something sturdy and heavy. ‘I tried to keep you safe!’ Thorin hissed, pushing her against the floor as the flames blazed just above them. ‘Please just for one time LISTEN to me!’ ‘No, YOU LISTEN!’ she bit back as she forcefully rolled on top of him and kept him pinned down. ‘He can’t beat me at my own game, Thorin. His flames won’t hurt me.’ ‘I won’t take that risk!’ Thorin raged. ‘Stick to the plan.’ ‘Oh, you mean the plan you forgot to mention to me?!’ She spat. ‘The plan you were going to execute without me? Or do you mean your plan to have me fucking WAIT in an abandoned and not to mention SECRET corridor and pray someone will stay alive to GET me OUT?!’ Thorin closed his eyes and she knew she really was trying his patience. Enya heaved a sigh. Maybe this exact moment wasn’t the best place for a hot-headed fight.

Besides, with a dragon and fire witch in the same area, there was already enough heat present to blow up the entire mountain.

‘What do you want me to do?’ she inquired softly. ‘Distract him.’ Thorin murmured in her ear. ‘And don’t-’ They both gasped as another wave of heat (or in Enya’s case, a lukewarm breeze) blazed right over them, the pressure coming of it pushing her firmly against him. She heard everyone in the company yell from the heat and pain that was poured over them. Thorin’s hand traveled up to caress her cheek, his roughened thumb trailing over her jawline. His eyes glistened with deep passion. How could he have looked so empty to her just moments before? Her own mind must have deceived her, because right now the dwarf that lay beneath her, loved her more than he loved life itself. ‘Don’t get roasted.’ He ordered gently. Enya shrugged and a small smile appeared on her lips. ‘Not happening, and I expect the same from you. If you let him get you, I’ll kill you.’ Thorin shook his head. ‘I think you’ll find that very difficult, uzfakuh’ ‘I mean it.’ She told him. ‘Now go.’

They parted ways rather quickly to prevent another attack. Thorin started shouting orders and Enya she stepped through the iron latticework. Smaug had his eyes on her and his foul breath hissed in her ears, but she didn’t bother to directly look at him she strutted towards the middle of the passage. If the fire drake could smell her fear, any of it, she would end up as dinner. The ground shook as the dragon followed her on foot, his claws destroying the surface. Enya made her way to the other half of the hallway. She exhaled slowly and tried to control her trembling body. Then she finally turned on her heels and faced her opponent.

He was a lot closer to her than she would like him to be, his school bus sized head was scarcely ten meters away from the spot where she stood. Smaug had a long snout, pointed nostrils and his jaws consisted of rows of deadly, sharp teeth. The gleaming golden eyes that she had faced just minutes ago, were curiously watching her every move. The rest of his body was huge and she suspected he measured at least sixty meters from head to tail. This fire-drake was clearly designed for destruction, his hide consisting of vibrant reddish golden scales that seemed impregnable and pointed spikes running along his head down to his spine. The pointed and sharp claws were enormous, ready to slice any creature that was stupid enough to cross its path open. The wings did remind Enya a bit of batwings, but then far more deadly of course.

But although Smaug was indeed huge and terrifying, he was definitely nothing compared to Shissa the powerful, the great fire-drake that her grandfather had faced. Shissa certainly had been ten times bigger than the dragon that now stood before her. Also Smaug didn’t possess the sass and badass attitude of his ancestor. Oh yes, he was evil and angry, but that was just that. No more layers.

‘Oh. Didn’t see you there.’ She said, making sure she sounded bored as hell. ‘So you’re the one they call Smaug the… terrible, is it?’ ‘Who is asking?’ the fire-drake rumbled while sitting up straight to show her himself in all his grand mightiness. His voice was low and the purring undertone he used was clearly designed to feign kindness. Nevertheless the hairs in Enya’s neck prickled, her whole body was on edge. She couldn’t help but feel like a deer being pounced by a great tiger. One wrong move and she was done for it.

But whatever she did, she couldn’t let him show her fear.

‘An equal.’ She spoke curtly. ‘Equal?!’ Smaug snorted, visibly amused by her arrogance. ‘That surely sounds interesting. Tell me, who is so bold to assume she can exceed the might of me?!’ ‘Enya Blueheart.’ She replied. The dragon’s face twisted in a revolting grin. ‘Well, my my. One of the Blueheart family. I’ve thought you all were extinct, but yet here you are. I’ve eaten a lot of species, but I’ve never had the chance to taste a princess.’ He stretched his neck, smelling her from close by. ‘Yes, a dwarvenprincess... But what’s that other rather strange odor you seem to emit?’ Enya wrinkled her nose when the foul smell of at least a thousand years of bacteria buildup burned through her nostrils. She waved her hand in disgust. ‘I might tell you, but only if you close that foul muzzle of yours.’ ‘For a so-called princess you’re not very polite, are you?’ he hissed. Enya grinned and curtseyed quickly . ‘What can I say, I wasn’t brought up to be one. Excuse me for my manners, oh Smaug the stupendous.’ The fire-drake narrowed his eyes, not believing her shallow civility. ‘Flattery won’t save your life.’ He told her. ‘But I must say I’m rather curious about your origins, so speak.’ ‘I come from a land without magic, or dragons.’ She gave in. ‘A place where the race of humans exclusively survives.’ ‘The human race?’ Smaug said. ‘But how does a princess of the fire beards end up there?’

‘Because your ancestors drove us to earth, you hateful piece of filth!’ she thought. But instead, she feigned a smile and shrugged, not willing to provide him with the answer he undoubtingly wanted to hear. ‘Recently I came back to middle earth.’ ‘So you claim to have come from a land without magic.’ The fire-drake summarized, his eyes fixating on her neck. ‘But yet you carry something so valuable. Something that comes from the deepest pits of Nogrod.’ Enya’s hand closed around her locket. ‘What about it?’ ‘You don’t know?’ Smaug taunted her. ‘Your family never told you of the locket of the equitem?’ She straightened her back. There was no way in hell Smaug would just casually provide her with valuable information. She knew he was just messing with her, trying to catch her off guard and hurt her, but somewhere in her brain the name sounded awfully familiar. ‘Equitem.’ she repeated carefully. ‘Of course I know of it.’ ‘Oh yes.’ The fire-drake mocked, closing his eyes and his snout curved into a mean smirk. Enya gritted her teeth, not liking the way this conversation was going. That monster was enjoying this far too much. ‘So what does it do, Enya Blueheart? Did they tell you that?’ ‘What of it? Why should I enlighten you, of all creatures, on this subject?’ she bit back. ‘Do you want it for yourself? Is that it?’ ‘Let me give you an hint. It’s much more useful once it’s opened up.’ Smaug nagged, ignoring all her questions. ‘Inside is something far more preciousss…’ ‘It can’t be opened.’ She hissed. ‘And even if it could, I would rather die than let you have it.’ ‘Oh see, but that’s where you are wrong…’ Smaug told her while creeping closer to her and Enya involuntarily took a step back. ‘All you need, Enya Blueheart, is a little… fire.’

Everything happened so fast. Smaug lunged at her, opening his big mouth and unleashing his fiery breath on her. She held out her hands to protect herself and the raging fire came to an halt just inches before her. Like she was holding up this invisible wall.

All that energy had to go somewhere. The fire seemed to bounce back to its creator, raging against Smaug. The pressure of the flames must have been huge, since Enya saw the dragon being pushed a few feet backwards. The great fire-drake growled angrily. ‘You can’t beat me at my own game, honey.’ She scoffed. ‘So it seems.’ Smaug replied, his eyes still fixed on her locket. ‘But so can’t you…’

‘ENYA!’ Thorin yelled at her from the forges. ‘NOW!’

That was her sign. Enya ducked out of the way as Smaug lunged at her and she jumped between his front paws, ran under him and exited at his hind legs, nearly escaping a smack from his tail. She blindly shot a stream of water backwards and a enraged growl told her she had hit her mark. Once she passed the latticework again and made it into the forges, she took one moment to catch her breath. Thorin, Dwalin and Nori were on the opposite of the room, beneath the stone dwarven warriors that kept an eye over the furnaces. Thorin was instructing Bilbo to pull a lever on a mount several meters away. She saw Bombur hanging from a chain, working the bellows that were heating the lit furnaces. Balin, Dori and Ori were on her left, busying themselves with stacking pottery carefully into a pile.

‘He’s coming!’ she warned, but her yell was being cut off by a loud thump behind her. Smaug was battering his head against the latticework. Although it was a strong structure, it hadn’t been made to hold against a dragon. The iron pillars already started to bend inwards. They all watched in horror as the pillars gave in to Smaug’s magnificent strength, the latticework finally splitting open. With his claws the fire-drake pushed the battered ironwork out of his way and barged inside. For a fleeting moment, the monster stopped in his tracks to analyze his surroundings, but then his eyes fell on Bilbo. The dragon hissed and moved forward, fixed on the poor halfling that stood trembling on the mount, his hands reaching for the lever. But then from the corner of his eyes, Smaug detected Thorin. With a loud growl he went for the dwarf king instead.

‘NOW!’ Thorin shouted and Bilbo jumped to pull the said lever. The stone dwarven warriors above them opened their mouths and a tsunami of water poured over the dragon, taking him by surprise. He gurgled and spluttered as he was consumed by the vast amount of water, trying to hold his ground but then crawling slowly backwards. The room was covered in steam as the cold water reacted to the boiling heat in Smaug’s stomach.

Enya shot a glance at Thorin, who was anxiously checking the furnaces. He was trying to melt something, but for what? She looked up when jets of water set the watermill into motion, which allowed the two rope conveyer belts to start operating. Some of the buckets hanging above them were still full of ores and precious stones.

Smaug hissed and charged Thorin again, but stopped when a bomb (and another) was smashed against his snout. Dori cheered when he hit the intended mark again, but although the effort was valiant, it didn’t really seem to damage their opponent. Smaug merely flapped his wings angrily and shot a wave of fire towards them. Enya jumped in the way and with a mere flick from her hands, the fire lashed backwards. She then blew a storm of snow and ice into the dragon’s direction, containing sharp icicles that almost hit him in the eyes. The fire-drake snarled and used his wings to cover himself. Above them, Gloin emerged from one of the buckets on the conveyer belt (so that’s where he had been!) and cut the cord of the belt under him. Various buckets loaded with heavy stones came crashing down on Smaug’s neck. The creature cried out, now more angry than ever, and he started bustling around to free himself.

Thorin suddenly moved quickly towards one of the furnaces and pulled on a chain. Melted gold dripped from the furnaces into the troughs in the ground. ‘Lead him into the gallery of the kings!’ Thorin bellowed while grabbing a wheelbarrow and running towards a main trough. He then jumped into the gold, using the wheelbarrow as a raft. Smaug managed to free himself and went into a frenzy. He tried to follow Thorin and stomped over a small entrance at the base of the mount where all the troughs of gold joined and were lead from the room. But Thorin had already disappeared. Smaug roared after missing his mark and went after the poor halfling who was still standing on the very same mount. ‘Bilbo!’ Enya yelled while running towards him. ‘JUMP! NOW!’ But the halfling was trembling as a leaf and hesitated for far too long. Enya felt obliged to help him out. A sudden blow tripped him over the edge, but luckily he was caught midair by an icy slope that brought him towards the end of the forges. Enya ran after him and grabbed him by his coat. Together they fled through the exit, not even caring if it lead to where they should be.

Turned out it did. They ran straight into another hallway, this one even more massive than the last. It was adorned with banners, each single one hundreds of meters tall. ‘Is this-’ Bilbo panted, but he was cut off by an explosion on the wall above them, accompanied by the very fire-drake they tried to outrun. Enya pushed the hobbit forward and redirected the flying rocks as best as she could. Once she discovered that a banner was knocked off the wall, she couldn’t prevent Bilbo being caught under it.

Luckily it was just some heavy cloth.

Smaug leapt onto the floor at a crossroad in the middle of the hallway, the true entrance of the lonely mountain to his right. He roared angrily. ‘You think you can deceive me, barrel-rider?’ he snapped. ‘Or you, nasty little Blueheart princess?!’ Enya stilled and saw the cloth near the dragon move, but the latter was too engrossed in his own thoughts to notice. ‘You two have come from Laketown!’ Smaug established. ‘This is some wicked scheme between those filthy dwarves and miserable fishermen! Those fools with their longbows and… black arrows!’ He turned to the entrance of the hall. ‘Maybe I should pay them a visit.’ Enya shot forward and Bilbo crawled from his hiding place, simultaneously screaming: ‘NO!’ ‘It isn’t their fault!’ the hobbit pleaded. ‘You cannot go to Laketown!’ ‘Ah.’ The dragon grinned and turned around. ‘So you care for them? Good! Then you can watch them die.’ He spread his wings and-

Everything happened so fast that Enya couldn’t recall why she came up with this, but there she was, strangling an immense dragon, with a whip. It was made out of soil, which made it soft and unyielding at the same time. It was a bold move, mad even, but to her astonishment the earth withheld the powerful creature from taking off. Her fingers dug into the handle, the lash bending and stretching easily as she brought the great serpent down. Enya’s heart was pounding in her chest and she was high from all the adrenaline, but she never felt so much more alive.

Ha, who would ever have thought that soil was actually an asset during combat?!

‘I don’t think so.’ She hissed while giving the lash a sharp jerk. ‘We have some unfinished business.’ The fire-drake’s eyes were glittering with anger as he neared the place where she stood. The whip was still wrung tightly around his neck and although Enya couldn’t see any markings yet, she knew even a dragon would have to feel very uncomfortable. ‘Very well then.’ Smaug spoke. ‘You can die first.’ ‘Another empty threat?’ Enya inquired as she saw Bilbo fleeing from the hall towards the balcony on her right. The fire-drake had seen it too and opened his mouth, flames already sweltering inside his throat. ‘Really?’ Enya snapped. ‘Pick someone your own size, you bloody coward!’ The dragon snarled.

A wave of fire met a storm of snow and ice, both elements roaring violently as they clashed. Icicles flew through the air but failed to reach their mark as the fire-drake crushed them with his claws. He then lunged forward. His mouth was wide open, ready to devour anything in his path. Enya snapped her fingers and a gush of wind whirled around the room, flying straight into the dragon’s jaws. Her hands flicked gracefully and with a soft thump, what previously been air changed into its true form.

The eyes of the dragon almost jumped from their caskets once he realized what she had done. He roared aggressively and with a deafening cough he spat a pile of dirt into the hall. Enya quickly jumped behind a row of pillars on her left to evade the tornado of wind and soil. She crept along the balcony towards the junction and bit her lip in an attempt not to laugh. Once she got there, she glanced over the room and weighed her chances. Smaug was on her right, still spitting out dirt while the smoke was fuming from his nostrils. The passage on her left was, compared to the gallery, not very long and far from finished. An enormous statue of what looked like a warrior stood at the end, the vast stone masonry still evidently under construction as it was held together by wooden scaffolding.

Her heart skipped a beat. On the shoulder of the figure stood a dwarf, holding himself upright with a chain.

Thorin.

But what on earth was he doing there? Where was the rest of the company? Enya quickly crossed the passage to get to the other side of the gallery. She felt Thorin’s eyes prickling on her back, but she refused to make eye contact. This was her fight and she wanted him to wait with whatever his plan was until the last minute. She held out her hand and blew a gush of wind his way. The whisper floated through the void, delivering her message to her One.

‘Stay put. I got this.’

‘You dirty little witch!’ Smaug boomed, but the frog in his throat made his voice go up and down in an unbelievable funny manner. Enya giggled and the dragon growled furiously. ‘Where are you?! You have no honor.’ He hissed. ‘I’ll make you suffer.’ ‘And you, my lad, just ate dirt.’ Enya told him, reappearing behind him. She smirked when the dragon turned, but then barked again. ‘Need cough syrup?’ she asked.

Fire met fire. An explosion thundered through the room, the blazing heat scorched past her body and the pressure of the two forces coming together almost swept her off her feet. Enya gritted her teeth and she pushed the flames forward, entrapping the dragon in a fiery pit. But the fire-drake merely laughed devilishly, the flames not hurting him. ‘You can fight me all you want, little witch.’ He belittled her. ‘But you’ll never kill me. You don’t have the strength.’

Enya exhaled slowly and the flames around the dragon disappeared. Her hands arched a little and with that, a violent wind howled through the hall. The wind grew louder, stronger and the fire-drake spread his claws to steady his position, but he couldn’t help but slip away.

‘Oh honey, but that’s where you’re wrong.’ Enya bellowed above the sound. ‘See, my ancestors fought off far greater fire drakes than you.’ She took a step towards him. ‘And you, my friend, you have a serious superiority complex.’

Maybe Smaug didn’t really know what that meant or maybe he did, because he flapped his wings aggressively, the movement messing up Enya’s hurricane. Enya clenched her jaw and eyed the dragon while calculating her next move. Her palms filled with flames.

Smaug snorted. ‘So tell me, Enya Blueheart.’ He rumbled. ‘The longer I am in your presence, the more intrigued I become. You possess a bit of power, but yet you’re here, biting off more than you can chew.’

The only sound in the hall was the crackling of fire.

‘What’s in it for you?’ Smaug taunted, spurred on by her silence. ‘What did Oakenshield promise you?’ Enya gritted her teeth. It was obvious the dragon tried to provoke her again and whatever she would say, it wasn’t worth it. ‘Did he offer you a share of the treasure?’ the fire-drake needled. Ugh, she couldn’t help herself. ‘I’m not as superficial as you, thank you very much.’ she finally snapped. ‘Oh… then it must be love that has driven you on this foolish quest!’ the dragon nagged while moving closer to her again. ‘You think he loves you.’ Enya scoffed. ‘Oh and I suppose you’re the one who can tell me everything there’s to know about love, you despicable serpent?’ ‘Love is for the weak, my dear princess.’ Smaug purred, lowering his head to meet her face to face. ‘And the only thing Oakenshield’s in love with, is the King’s jewel.’

Her hands acted out before she registered the meaning of the vile words spoken to her. A flood of water flew into the dragon’s snout and he shot up with a disgusted growl. Enya’s fingers twirled and a solid rope wound itself several times along the fire-drake’s legs and claws. Smaug hissed and tried to break free, but every time he managed to cut one cord, another one grew back. ‘Maybe you should stop talking and start paying attention.’ Enya told the dragon. He was sitting up straight, like a circus lion, and glaring at her.

Pff. If looks could kill…

She crouched down and touched the floor with her hands. Little frost flowers appeared and Enya watched as they formed a trail towards her opponent. The ice got thicker as it proceeded. Cracking sounds filled the air as the snow crystals grew over the dragon’s front claws. ‘Beautiful. But worthless.’ Smaug scolded with a revolting grin, while watching the ice. ‘Your efforts are fruitless, little princess.’ ‘Oh honey, everyone has got a weak spot.’ Enya retorted. ‘And I’ll find yours in no time, no worries.’ ‘Do you really think you can stand a chance against the lure of the Arkenstone?’ the fire-drake continued, ignoring her remarks. ‘Trust me, you’re nothing compared to the King’s Jewel…’

‘NO! ENYA!’

Thorin’s call made the grip of the rope falter and the ice retreat an inch. And in that fleeting moment, that second she lost her focus, the dragon ripped himself free and lunged at her.

‘Eat shit, you fucking narcissist!’ Enya yelled while jumping aside to evade his mouth. Smaug roared in anger and another wave of fire blasted through the room. Enya braced herself, her fingers bending into claws as she blocked the fire with an icy wall. The two elements sizzled as they met and blazing steam filled up the gallery, masking the fire-drake from her view. Enya waved her hands and the fog floated another way, but it already was too late.

She didn’t see the tail coming.

‘My dear Enya, please wake up.’ A soft voice spoke. Her eyelids fluttered, the voice slowly pulling her from her slumber. A dark blue sky filled with greyish clouds came into vision. There was roaring in the distance. Humans were screaming, followed by the deafening sound of wood, bones and stone being crushed into nothing. A thick smell of smoke and fire penetrated her nostrils. For a moment Enya felt like she was floating in the air and although she was acknowledging the incentives that were invading her senses, she didn’t really feel a part of her surroundings.

Then a kind and familiar face came into view. Chestnut brown locks. Piercing blue eyes, just like hers. A hand held out in front of her.

‘Oh my god! Grandpa!’ she cried out while scrambling herself together. ‘How is this possible…?’ she looked around, eyeing the fire and devastation that was going on down below. She blinked. She appeared to be outside the mountain at the old overlook, looking down at the chaos. She hesitated before speaking the words she dreaded to ask.

‘Am I dead?’

Emrak gently pulled her up on her feet. ‘No, you’re not. You’re just unconscious. Bilbo will be able to wake your body up in a few minutes.’ ‘Again?!’ Enya grumbled while massaging her temples. ‘That happens a lot to me lately.’ Her grandfather shrugged. ‘Well, it’s the hazard that comes with the job. Things will try to hurt you and if you’re not careful enough, bad things will follow.’ He heaved a sigh and glanced down below, where the dragon Smaug was wreaking havoc to Laketown and its poor inhabitants. ‘Oh, fuck me!’ Enya cursed. ‘I’m so stupid! I didn’t see his tail coming at me!’ ‘Fighting a dragon is no easy task, even a tiny exemplar like him.’ Emrak mused. ‘I personally had a hard time keeping track of the whereabouts of all those limbs.’ ‘Oh my god, I failed!’ She fretted. ‘I let him get to me and now I failed all of you. People will die because of my stupidity!’ ‘They would have died already if it wasn’t for you, little one.’ Her grandfather replied while putting an arm around his granddaughter. ‘We’re no gods. All we can do is our best to protect our people.’ Enya didn’t reply, but just stood there, momentarily enjoying the presence of her long gone grandfather.

‘Thorin saved you by distracting the fire-drake.’ Emrak filled her in. ‘Then Bilbo ran from his hiding place to heave you up to the balcony and keep you hidden.’ Her heart swelled for her One and her favorite hobbit. ‘They’re both alive and well.’ Her grandfather continued. ‘But now it’s your turn to finish what you started.’ ‘How?’ Enya exasperated. ‘I tried fire, but he’s immune to that. My water and ice are definitely annoying the life out of him, but not enough to kill him instantly. What am I supposed to do? Blow him into a ravine? He was wings! Throw dirt at him? Strangle him again? He doesn’t care!’ Emrak smirked. ‘Then it’s rather obvious, isn’t it?’ ‘We’ll go for the dirt then.’ Enya sighed and bit her lip. ‘I feel like I’m short-sighted, that I’m not doing enough to-’

She froze in her tracks when she heard a mighty rumbling in the distance.

‘No, I can’t.’ she mumbled. ‘You were so fucking powerful and even you died, how could I possibly survive?’ ‘Yes, I was powerful.’ Emrak agreed. But so are you, and you’re nothing like me. You’re strong, kindhearted, witty and gentle. You know your weaknesses and you’re not afraid to speak about the things that haunt you. You’re finally able to see how it feels to be loved, truly and wholly.’ ‘But how does that make me-’ ‘You’re getting in sync with who you are, my granddaughter.’ Emrak said, beaming. ‘And we’re so proud of you. Your grandmother and I are delighted that we’re able to guide you on your path. We’re so honored to see you grow into the fire witch you’re meant to be.’ ‘But…’ Enya whispered. ‘I’m…’ Emrak smiled, tears welling in his eyes. ‘You’re doing perfectly fine, Enya. You’ve always done what’s right. You won’t make the same mistake as I did. Now, MY only regret is that I wasn’t alive long enough to see your mother Ailva and after her, you, growing up.’ The tears were rolling down her cheeks and Enya pulled her grandfather in a hug. ‘I’m so sorry you couldn’t save Nogrod.’ She whispered. ‘Nogrod was beyond repair.’ Emrak replied. ‘But Erebor isn’t. Destroy the dragon and protect your destiny. Then head for Nogrod and take the locket of Equitem with you.’ ‘It’s always with me.’ Enya said. Emrak grinned. ‘Good. And so are we. If you ever doubt yourself again, look inside.’ He pointed at the locket on her chest.

Enya had hundreds of questions, no a thousand even, but before she could open her mouth her grandfather was gone.

And she knew what to do…

Thank you so much for reading my humble story. Feedback is always welcome. Did you love Enya? Go to Enya’s story or check out my Masterlist.

[thefantasticm]

Establishing Angst in AGBM

I am by no means a master of angst or conveying tension, and a lot of the times some of what I write that affects people the most was completely incidental. But I do try, and meet varying degrees of success depending on the scene. Here are some dank tools/things/advice I use and constantly keep in mind in order to help crank up the FEELS, and can apply to pretty much anything if you want some ideas as to how to do so.

1. Showing and Telling First thing’s first: ‘Show, don’t tell’ is absolutely ATROCIOUS advice. It is vague and unhelpful and wrong. Some things must be told. If everything were shown, every story in the history of man would sink to the bottom of the ocean, weighed down by a bloated scrotum of tedium and pedantry. There must be a balance, and yes, showing should be favored, but never to an extreme. I personally aim for a 70:30 ratio when it comes to showing and telling in my writing. It is a good ballpark to aim for because landing at 60:40 is still fine and 80:20 is also perfectly readable. Falling to 50:50 and below is where things start to get... bad. Anything below will usually be noticeably boring to even unpracticed readers. When it comes to conveying angst and tension in writing, emotions are key (so Cage has the right idea, but his execution is... well). It is fine and good and proper to tell the reader what the character is feeling, in simple terms. Yet it is something that must be balanced, as we’ve established. It is not enough to say “Hank was sad.” We must say “Hank was sad ABLOOBLOOBLOO.” And by ABLOOBLOOBLOO, I mean describing the physicality of that reaction. We’ve all been sad before, know what it feels like, so describing that churning gut, that beating heart, that sinking feeling - all of it helps to establish that sadness, and can make the reader feel it in turn. Maybe Hank will lash out with that sadness in an unhealthy attempt at emotional release. Maybe he’ll think about wanting to drink, or holding his gun, etc - and describing all of that becomes a showing of where that emotion takes him, depressive, reactionary thoughts that the audience can relate to. I say all that, but it’s also sometimes okay to just say “Hank was sad” and leave it at that. Sparingly, mind you... And exactly when those moments are most appropriate is a whoooole different discussion. 2. Third Person Limited This is less advice and more... information, since something like this is really at the mercy of the writer. Everyone has different preferences for how they narrate a story. I personally despise first person narration, I adore second person (in short bursts, it’s hard to carry a longer story with it), third person objective can be interesting or the exact opposite, and third person omniscient... well. In my very humble opinion, there is no easier way to suck all the emotional tension out of a story. If you are trying to tell an emotional story, third person omniscient is just... heinous. It can be great for grand, sweeping adventure stories, but when trying to establish an angsty emotional creep? Noooo fucking thank you. Holding the audience’s hand when it comes to how every character is feeling, giving information too freely - what a great way to remove any and all emotional stakes! Pick a character. A. One (1). Beyond that character, there can be no ‘outsider’ information. Everything must come through that one character’s eyes. They can infer, they can guess, they can assume the feelings of other characters. They might even be right most of the time! But the audience must never be told this through any other means. Which is why... Keep the narrating character uninformed. Nothing can dispel tension faster than certainty. Emotional tension and angst is most readily mined in what is uncertain. And God, this is such a fucking pain in the ass with ROBOT characters - not impossible, but fuck, I digress. Hank’s emotional hang-ups and struggles become more real and relatable when he does not know what Connor is thinking - when he projects, when he guesses, when he assumes. Hank does not KNOW Connor is in love with him, he simply perceives it, and convinces himself it is true, and thus convinces the audience. They see only what he sees, what he observes, and even when Hank is oblivious to it at the start, the audience is given the room and space to fill in their own conclusions because Hank does NOT know everything, and so when Hank has his ‘realization,’ the audience is even more convinced than he is! Absolute 9000 IQ shit, I know (it’s not). And so when Hank falls away from what he convinced himself of, which is separate from what the audience knows, it’s a little... gut wrenching? No, Hank, don’t doubt it! He does love you! But Hank can’t hear your screams from where he is... And when he comes back to it, when it is far more obvious, it has a much stronger effect. Can you imagine how fucking boring that shit would be if Hank was absolutely 100% certain Connor loved him from start to finish? Jesus. However, it’s important to give the audience a bit more to work with than just everything the main character perceives. Bits and pieces that the audience will pick up on, that the main character technically observes, but is something they do not out and out notice or give much thought to. Not every insight can and should be shared between the main character and the audience. The audience should have just a bit more information that allows them to draw conclusions that characters in the story might not otherwise think of. Which leads us to... 3. Dramatic Irony Mmm... Dramatic irony is just... *chef kiss* Mwah! It is beautiful and glorious. This is what makes the collective sphincter of an audience shiver with fear. I would not say it is my bread and butter, and good angst needs it not, but when it comes to a hard hitting tragic turn of events, no tool will smack an audience in the face harder than dramatic irony. Quick rundown: Dramatic irony is when the audience knows something the characters do not. Some of the most memorable tragedies make use of dramatic irony. Romeo and Juliet? The audience knew Juliet was asleep, not dead, but Romeo... did not. Oedipus? We know that’s his mom... Oedipus... Oedipus no! Dramatic irony is so powerful because the audience is given time to sense the impending doom but they are powerless to do anything about it. They want to stop it, but cannot. Helpless to watch things go wrong. The cold sinking feeling of your heart dropping to your feet. Dramatic irony can be hard to handle, since it will have little to no effect if you cannot get the audience invested in the story and the characters. It is also difficult in the sense that it can become somewhat silly if it is made too obvious. If the feeling of ‘oh god, x is probably going to happen’ comes too soon, the tension when it happens will not be as strong. On the flip side, if it comes too late, or god forbid, it’s not picked up on at all, it will fall flat. Not saying I did it perfectly by any means, but I did try. If you are looking to pull any sort of twist, or just fuck with the audience in general, dramatic irony is a great way to do so, without being hamfisted and preachy, or sudden and purposeless (like Alice being an android).

4. Repetition This is also highly personal choice, but over the years in writing I’ve found that pieces in which I used repetition tended to have better reception than those that did not. Repetition, whether it’s purely through language (which is mostly what I do) or theme, can help really really really drive home a point or emotion to an audience. Repeating certain phrases. Or just one word. Maybe a character says something they said once in the beginning of the fic. Of course, all of this must be done in moderation, and the timing of it has to line up with whatever you are trying to convey to the audience. Sometimes the ‘thing’ you are trying to convey can even be nebulous and mysterious, but then the point becomes to make the audience think more about it, which makes them more invested, which makes the hurts a bit hurtier... I do this a lot by repeating questions. What would he change? How had they arrived at this point? Honestly when I put it out like this I feel a bit silly, and it doesn’t work for everyone, but it works for some, and that is what matters. Mostly... it works for me! 5. The Short Short Long ‘Something was holding him back, a lump lodging itself in his throat. He thought of Connor at home and the way he called him Hank, Hank, Hank. There was nothing unusual about it, but beneath Wilson’s scrutiny it felt private, it felt intimate, and Hank could not find it within himself to lay open something that all of a sudden felt so profoundly raw.’ ‘Connor was the one that was embarrassed. Intensely so, to the point it had rubbed off on Hank. This was not a situation he would normally give much thought to, but Connor’s reaction made him feel as if he had done something wrong, as if he had broken some unspoken trust between them; and as he stood there watching the android, so human in the smallest of ways, Hank felt dirty.‘ ‘Hank wasn’t sure whether he dreamt those words or not. It felt like he did, with the hazy dreams that followed. In them, it was not Hank who left, but Connor - the one that could not be held down by the words that boiled in Hank’s chest but lacked the strength to be spoken; the outline of his body as he stepped through the front door, bathed in sunlight, warping the vision of him until there was nothing left.’ ‘In what capacity? It didn’t matter, did it? Hank needed him and his chest felt light; how easy it was to admit it now, all of a sudden, as if the past ten days, those agonizing ten days, had never happened.’ ...Get it? I’m not sure if this actually does anything. But I like it, so I’m putting it in. Long Short Shorts are also valid. Really the idea is that the rhythm of the tension suddenly gets much faster in the final point, thus making it seem more desperate, and driving it home more. But. I could just be imagining things? Hmm... 6. What Remains Unsaid Sometimes a character will want to say something, but doesn’t. Or they’ll think something, but say something completely different. Or they will infer a hidden meaning, unspoken sentiment, from another character. The things that aren’t said should still be told to the audience! However you want to do it. As much as these things can work in comedy, so too can they work in angst. It’s a very simple thing, but this can serve to drive up the tension, and have the audience clench their teeth from it. Deceptively simple! The feeling of ‘just say it, dammit!’ is a near universal one and should not be ignored! 7. DURRRRRRRRRR MUH CLICHE There is no such thing as an ‘original’ story anymore. You can add your spins and your twists and your little tweaks, but the fact of the matter is that every ‘core’ of a story has already been written. There is NOTHING wrong with cliche. NOTHING. Themes and plots and twists that are common are common because they are usually effective. Anyone who insists otherwise is... as much as I’d like to call them stupid, I really would, what they need is to be educated. The reason people tend to shy away from ‘cliche’ is because when it is done poorly, it is often excruciating. It can be really awful. But one should not shy away from cliche for the fear of doing it poorly. Embrace it! Write it to the best of your ability! If a ‘cliche’ is where a story leads you, then it’s not wrong! Why did I include this? Because most of all this fear of cliche applies strongly to angst, sad tropes, tragedy, etc. After that? Fantasy adventure stories and romance. 8. The High Highs Angst is worthless without a counterweight. Personally I think I’m god awful at writing fluff, but you will never be able to write good angst if you can’t squeeze out some manner of happy scenes. And going back to point #1, you have to show at least one of these happy scenes. It doesn’t have to be over the top. It can even be bittersweet. Hope over happiness, in case you don’t want to go full joyous. Once you start really getting into the angst the happiness and the hope will likely start to diminish, but I say it is usually a good idea to leave ONE good upwards scene interspersed in there somewhere. My final hopeful scenes in AGBM were Connor returning from Washington DC, and to a lesser extent the beginning of their final argument. I used a lot of loaded language in that small span of time to make the drop-off even worse, but that is an entirely different post...

9. Never Reward Your Readers Never reward your readers. Never reward your readers! NEVER REWARD YOUR READERS!!!!

Tell your story how you think it should be told.

NEVER REWARD YOUR READERS.

10. Alliteration Doesn’t actually do anything. I just like it.

[doktorpeace]

Top 5 Games Of The Year #4

Yakuza 0 is a pretty special game both individually and as a part of its franchise. It’s the first time Yakuza has taken a step backwards chronologically, in order to better explore already established characters and what led them to the events of the first game. It gets a lot of praise already and I’m just here to heap a little more onto the pile because it well deserves it. Although the series at this point is no stranger to having multiple protagonists and Majima has technically been playable before the special feeling Yakuza 0 elicits by having two protagonists wasn’t really lost for it. Compared to the four in Yakuza 4, or the frankly over padded five protagonists in Yakuza 5, taking a step down to just two and placing an almost equal emphasis on each really does the game’s narrative and pacing wonders. Yakuza 0′s story is really good it is an excellent crime drama and among the best main plots the series has to offer. While some might argue other entries, usually 2 or 4, can stand up alongside it I feel 0′s has an edge in some areas. Largely in terms of pace, ambition, and intrigue. For instance, 2 doesn’t really mess around with plot twists, the entire game basically waves a giant flag over Ryuji saying he’s the final boss and the whole plot exists basically just to get to his and Kiryu’s legendary fight. And that’s fine, it doesn’t try to be more than it needs to be and that’s okay. 4 meanwhile has more intrigue and some good twists in there but its pace is much poorer in my opinion. Your mileage may vary on the bullets plot twist, too. 0 has some legitimate plot twists and it does a great job getting players engaged and interested in what’s going to happen next. To get back to 0 though, it doesn’t sacrifice characterization to achieve the quality of its plot either, far from it. It’s the first time we’ve seen a young, hot blooded, and frankly really stupid Kiryu. Kiryu’s never a smart guy but getting to see how he handles situations and behaves before 10 years in prison and subsequent stories smooth his edges and temper his personality is really a treat for fans of the character and newcomers alike. He’s fun, relatable, serious when he needs to be, and most importantly he’s still perfectly recognizable as Kiryu. He is still absolutely that amazing protagonist that you know and love, he’s just young, dumb, and full of.....well you know. On the other hand Majima is almost unrecognizable in this game, being calm, well dressed, a charismatic and professional showman, dissuading others from fighting, all while being openly depressed to boot. This take on Majima still feels fitting because the way he phrases himself is familiar, his gut reactions feel right for the characters, and ultimately this game contextualizes not just his transformation into the Mad Dog of Shimano fans know him as later but many of his actions through the rest of the series. Just ignore how his story here and how he’s written in Yakuza 5 violently contradict one another. We can all just pretend Y5′s Majima writing isn’t canon. The strength of characterization extends to the game’s side characters too, including ones who alongside Majima and Kiryu return from the main series. Nishiki, Kashiwagi, the Lieutenants, Tachibana, Lee, and more are all memorable and great characters. Just, uhh, don’t expect many women in the main plot is all. I don’t want to talk too in depth about the game’s story so as to avoid spoiling anything but it really is a treat. The script takes advantage of player’s expectations in a meta sense, that ultimately this will be Kiryu’s game because, well, Yakuza 4 and 5 were Kiryu’s games in spite of the other protagonists. Those guys all got good, moving stories too and they are all well worth experiencing and having around but ultimately Kiryu is still the most important guy on the block. Not so, here, as by the halfway point of the game players might notice that Majima’s ‘half’ of the game, his half of the game’s chapters, are quite a bit longer than Kiryu’s. Majima has a lot more legwork to do in the story because it is his story, and while Kiryu gets the true final boss fight and is very important to the events at hand as well it’s really Majima who’s the star here. This game is an excuse to explore his character and it does not beat around the bush on that intention. If you are a fan of this franchise you really do have to experience this story. All too often prequel games just end up softening or weakening the existing narratives they’re trying to pay homage to or trying to strengthen but Yakuza 0 expertly dodges that bullet by never missing a beat in terms of quality relative to standard Yakuza entires. My only real issue with the story, honestly, is that Makoto is about as much of a McGuffin as she is a person. The game does take time to develop her both directly and indirectly but ultimately she spends about as much time just being a plot device to be ferried around by one man or another as she does getting to talk and do things.  The gameplay is very refined compared to other games in the seires, I would argue it’s tighter and more fun than Yakuza 6′s, even, if only due to the sheer variety of Heat Actions (effectively super moves; ranging from the silly to the bombastic to the brutal to a handful that made me shout ‘HOLY SHIT HE DIDN’T DESERVE THAT!!!’ at my TV) present in 0. If you like beat ‘em ups you’ll like Yakuza’s playstyle; each character gets 4 fighting styles earning three through the story and a fourth through side content. The fourth fighting style for each one is essentially a bonus, letting them fight in their ‘iconic’ styles, Dragon and Mad Dog respectively. To be honest they’re both underwhelming, Mad Dog is maybe Majima’s weakest fighting style and Dragon, while strong, requires a lot more heat than what it naturally builds to stay competent. The fighting styles are still fun though, they add plenty of new and unique options to each character to justify getting them, they’re just not going to win you the game for free or anything. Of the character’s main fighting styles the only real issue I have is the disparity in strength between them, both internally and between each other. No mincing words here, Majima is obscenely overpowered compared to Kiryu. Breaker Style annihilates every challenge in the game with next to no effort besides Mr. Shakedown fights, which aren’t really fun anyway. That said Slugger easily bashes in Mr. Shakedown and even Jo Amon. Majima will breeze through all of his content even on higher difficulties. Comparatively Kiryu can have a pretty rough time in some fights. This is due in part by his fighting styles being really well balanced internally, they’re all useful and thus the player may actually feel like swapping between them mid battle or between encounters. Kiryu not really having an overwhelming option generally means he can be very expressive, my fiancé and I played him very differently for instance on our runs. Whether you most enjoy his fast, invulnerability frame heavy, dash cancelling Rush style which takes a very high amount of investment to become good but I would argue is maybe his best style once you get it there, his brutish item swinging, semi-grappler Beast style which absolutely decimates indoors fights, or the more well rounded, heat action heavy Brawler Kiryu’s got something for everyone. Each of his styles also get a great variety of unique heat actions, all three to environmental cues, and Beast and Brawler to equip-able and overworld items. While Majima’s fighting style are also expressive and a ton of fun to use they just feel too safe and too easy compared to Kiryu. He gets absolutely stellar results and gets them quickly for extremely little effort in the ridiculously fast, low profile attacks of Breaker. Not to say Breaker isn’t fun, because it is, breakdancing to beat people up is hilarious and fun and its heat actions are flavorful to boot, it’s just really overpowered is all. After some investment his Ballerina With A Baseball Bat fighting style, Slugger, also becomes nigh impossible to challenge for the AI thanks to it losing its primary weakness of the bat bouncing off of walls it hits after you put only moderate investment into it. While the least varied of Majima’s styles in terms of heat actions, Slugger is great fun if you ever wanted a proper weapon based fighting style in Yakuza. It feels like what Shinada should have played like. Majima’s starting style, Thug, is a fun grappling and street brawling style that requires a lot of precision to use well and is very well suited to one on one fights should the player be so inclined to not opt for his better options. It makes use of baroque kicks, eye pokes, strangles, and back turns. It’s also Majima’s only style that can make use of non-baseball bat items for heat actions as well as most of his environmental heat actions, and Majima has some GREAT heat actions under these conditions, helping Thug keep a niche compared to the other styles. Honestly, if you like Tekken you’ll probably like Thug. These great fighting styles would be pointless if the game didn’t have fun enemies and situations to pit you against and thankfully it does. Its ‘dungeons’ are a lot of fun and some of the boss fights really stand out. Thanks to the sheer myriad of context based Heat Actions even just fighting the random mooks in the street stays fun for dozens of hours as you experiment to see how you can fuck up some chumps today. It’s deeply gratifying and a lot of fun. While the optional Mr. Shakedown fights are a chore, they are all optional besides the first one so there’s no real reason to bother with them unless you’re doing a 100% substory completion run or REALLY need to grind money in a game where money is already free. Some of the boss fights are a bit mediocre, too, but overall they’re good fun. I do think Yakuza 0 is at its strongest though when it’s making the player fight room after room of enemies, dozens at a time, and just letting them feel like an absolute champion while doing so, really letting them revel in just how strong and cool Majima and Kiryu are. Yakuza 0′s side content is both one of its greatest strengths and in my opinion an area where it shows the most weakness. While Pocket Circuit, Karaoke, Cabaret Club, and the Sub-Stories are absolutely excellent and I truly cannot stress enough how fun they are the game also has a myriad of seemingly half baked minigames based off of real life activities for you to do, a lot of which have unnecessary RNG. Even Bowling has RNG...BOWLING, come on! The Pool, Darts, Bowling, Catfight Club, and other such minigames feel very rushed in execution and for all but the last of those feel like poor simulations compared to other games I have played. Catfight Club is just a really, really, shameless and sexist ‘Watch almost naked women ‘’’’wrestle’’’’’. Also, opposite Majima’s deeply flavorful, engaging, well written, and fun club management minigame Club Sunshine, the aforementioned cabaret club, Kiryu gets Real Estate Royale. Which is about as fun as you think. It’s literally standing around waiting for money to grind for you and then going out and investing it into properties. While the storyline attached to it is decent enough and has some good moments for Kiryu the minigame itself is just dreadful and grossly slow paced. Which is funny to say, because I think it takes less time to complete than Cabaret Club, but it feels like A Lot Longer because it just isn’t fun. There’s the Telephone Club, which uhhh, you can have Kiryu do to get laid. It’s funny in a tongue in cheek way but it’s also not my cup of tea besides laughing at Kiryu’s great dialogue and body language during the interactions. Basically, play Karaoke to hear Kiryu’s beautiful singing voice and also THE ONLY GAME IN THE SERIES WHERE MAJIMA’S SINGING ISN’T JUST AWFUL SCREECHING! 24 Hour Cinderella is a gift to the world and you need to play it. Cabaret Club is also where the vast majority of this game’s female characters exist, as hostesses. While the game could take this opportunity to be sexist (and one could argue it is, for sure) the writing present in Cabaret Club for the platinum hostesses and their story lines is just as good as anything else from the game. They’re worth talking to, learning about, and seeing their development. In all honesty they can almost fittingly serve as a nice break from the game’s intense story, giving the player a breather with some whole and comedic interactions. The Sub-Stories which make up this game’s version of side quests (because yes, this is a Beat ‘Em Up Japanese Crime Drama RPG) are also basically all amazing. The writing is heartfelt, funny, and just really good. They all have strong opening hooks without forcing the player to immediately get involved and despite being 100 of them they’re basically all really memorable. This is also where the game pays Kiryu back a bit for his lost story content relative to Majima, giving him 60 of the 100 sub stories. They’re all great ways to get to see more aspects of these characters and the citizens of Kamurocho, please give a bunch of them a try if you play this game. I also briefly want to talk about the settings of the game, Kamurocho and Sotenbori. They’re literally just the real life Japanese districts, Kabukicho and Dotenbori by SLIGHLY different names. If you play this game enough you’ll know some real life actual locations in actual real life Japan like you’ve been there. You’ll be able to navigate at least a few square blocks of Japan without a map, it’s amazing, and it’s really something special compared to other games. Also, I’m not exaggerating, the overworld(s) of this game are only a few square blocks large but the game plays that to its advantage. Navigating from one side to another of either one takes a minute or two at most and the streets are always PACKED with content. It’s impossible to wander around playing naturally without falling ass backwards into a dozen or more of the game’s sidestories and inevitably getting sucked into playing a few of them and seeing how good they are. I love this game’s map, it’s so brilliant in its design by simply being true to a real life location. Yakuza 0 also sports stellar sound design. The sound effects are BEEFY, hitting things feels amazing and nothing sounds out of place or off beat. The bombastic, over the top hit sounds really sell Majima and Kiryu’s overwhelming power and it just makes every fight satisfying. The soundtrack similarly is good, and while much of the soundtrack isn’t what I would call listening music, the Karaoke selections, specifically Bake Mitai, sure are. I’m not really the kind of guy who can tell you why the sound design is good, it just is, trust me.

All in all, Yakuza 0 is a stellar game and is exemplary of both what a modern beat ‘em up AND a modern RPG should strive to be like. It is a masterpiece in its own right and I’m glad that its success in the western market has secured this unique, beautiful series a future. Please play Yakuza 0, it’s regularly on sale on both PS4 and Steam and it deserves your attention. If you’re ever alone on a Friday night, just remember these Yakuza, and you’ll have a great time.

[grison-in-space]

that big “what the fuck is up with Matt Murdock’s senses” post I keep threatening to make

For context, my day job involves studying animal communication, where I am a PhD student in evolution/animal behavior. I don't work on organisms that use non-standard sensory modalities directly, but I'm very familiar with the adaptations that electroceptive and echolocatory systems (mostly in bats, that latter one) generally require.

I also spend an awful lot of time watching my cat Dent, who has been blind probably from birth and definitely since he was about ten weeks old. (We're not entirely sure whether he can see light or movement, and he definitely can't see anything else.) Dent therefore has access to certain sensory modalities that are more sensitive than vision (cats can hear much higher into the ultrasonic than humans and have a wider range of olfactory sensitivities) without actually having vision to rely on, and thinking about what it is that specific sensory modalities actually bring to the table in terms of function.

What I am not is a blind person, nor have I lived or worked closely with someone who is. This is therefore going to be a discussion that focuses pretty heavily on "okay, let's assume Matty really does have ears like a bat--how does that constrain what he can and cannot do?" and less on the actual functional issues for someone who is, you know, a blind human--although if folks have comments on that, I would absolutely fucking love to hear them.

TL, DR: radar isn't fucking magic, and neither is echolocation. And physics still matters when we get down into sensation, more than you might think.

One of the things you have to understand when you're trying to study sensation and perception is that different sensory modalities--sight, touch, hearing, proprioception/balance, echolocation, etc--are good for different things. We tend to intuitively understand this in humans, but when reading experiences of characters with very different sensory toolboxes I often find that people simply... assume that the "extra-sensitive" senses can more or less perfectly compensate for the loss of vision.

The thing is, different sensory modalities are good for different things. That's why different groups of animals develop specialties in different modalities in the way they do. Some of what evolution can do is constrained by phylogenetic history--mammals are always going to have a leg up on birds when it comes to hearing in high frequencies, for example, because of a quirk of the development of the mammalian jaw--but a lot comes down to the interaction between the world around a particular animal and the needs and ecological niche that the animal takes up. Species generally specialize and hone the sensory systems that they have available which are useful to the needs of the animal in question.

What I mean by this is that you have to understand that different sensory systems are really good at different things, and sometimes you need different levels of resolution for different tasks. You can think of sensory systems as having two kinds of resolution: temporal and spatial. Vision has, generally speaking, pretty fine temporal resolution--you get a continuous "picture" of things around you and where they are at any given time. Your spatial resolution, as anyone who wears glasses (me included!) can tell you, varies based on your individual eyes and level of focus.

There's one final distinction that is important to bring up with respect to choosing sensory modalities, and that is active versus passive sensation. You can define this by asking yourself: do you have to do anything to work this sense and pick up stimuli from the environment around you? If yes, we're active; if not, we're passive. Humans don't really have any equivalent active sensory modalities with the possible exception of touch, but because Matt is almost always depicted as having access to at least one (echolocation, "radar"), I'm going to talk a little bit about those here, too.

Why does resolution matter?

Well, when we talk about modalities compensating for each other as an individual navigates the world, resolution is what lets us adapt senses to do each other's jobs. Fine resolution isn't always the most useful range for a given sense, either: olfaction has very coarse temporal resolution and moderate spatial resolution in most species, and that means that you can use it to tell where things have been even if the thing creating the signal is no longer there. Echolocation has perhaps the finest possible temporal resolution in that it is not a continuous signal--more on that in a minute--and very, very fine spatial resolution, but only for the instant of a given vocalization. Vision has very tight temporal resolution and very tight spatial resolution, depending on the level of focus a given person has.

What's the deal with active versus passive sensation?

For one thing, that means that Matt should not be able to use either echolocation or "radar" unless he's actually producing some kind of signal. I keep putting "radar" in quotes because it's not used by any known biological system; the closest analogue is probably electroception, but electroception is prettyk much exclusively used and developed by aquatic or semi-aquatic animals and uses different ranges of electromagnetic waves to most human-built radar systems. That means that echolocation doesn't produce continuous information the same way that passive sensory systems (like vision!) do, which means that Matt has to string together a series of disconnected "impressions" of where things are in space and time to make a "picture" of the world around him, at least with respect to that sense.

Basically, the way these sensory systems work is that you produce a signal and you "listen" to the response patterns. This means that if you aren't producing that signal, you don't get anything. This is interesting and important in the context of Daredevil because Matt very specifically does not produce any vocalizations or noises that could be used for echolocation in the human range, and it's even less likely that he's continously emitting weak electric charges into his environment--the air just isn't a good enough conductor to give him any real distance.

So if he's doing this, he's doing it at either very high pitches, outside the usual human auditory range, or else at very low pitches--and high is much more likely. High-frequency vocalizations decay faster over space, which is why they don't carry well. Because of this, and because the pattern of reverberation and decay of the sound is what you're using to construct the idea of shape with echolocation, all known echolocating species use very high-frequency, very loud vocalizations to create pulses of sound that will decay in ways that are sensitive to the shape of whatever they're bouncing off of.

Personally, I like to imagine Matt squeaking at very high pitches like a real bat might, mostly because I think it's funny. This is particularly amusing because in many social species that rely very heavily on echolocation or electroception, individuals produce a signal that is unique to them within the local group--so it's the equivalent of Matt wandering around yelling MATT MATT MATT MATT whenever he wants to get a good sense of its position and shape without having to actually, you know, touch it. (This may or may not be a good way for Stick and Matt to get a sense for where each other are at a distance--if they're managing to make a super high-pitched vocalization, it probably doesn't carry too well. On the other hand, if they're fighting something as a team, as we see both of them doing, the odds are good that each is listening to the information that the other is getting if one or both is using whatever this sensory system is. )

If I'm going to take a more realistic tack on the whole thing, I'd guess he's probably vocalizing through his nose, which is pretty common in both human vocalizations (you don't need your mouth to be open to say nnnnn or mmmm, because those sounds are produced via reverberations through the nasal cavity) and also in many ultrasonic vocalizations specifically (for example, the ultrasonic communication that rodents often engage in).

(Humans who say they can use echolocation in real life rely on clicks and taps, which is why I think it's particularly interesting that Matt is consistently shown using his long cane a few inches above the ground. I don't think he ever uses it to tap the ground in the show, and he certainly isn't making a loud click noise with it. Both clicks and taps can work for echolocation because these are wide-frequency noises, so you still have the decay patterns of the higher frequencies to work off of if you can filter through the lower-frequency stuff muddying the waters. It's not very sophisticated and will only give you a comparatively broad sense of where things are, but it's certainly better than nothing. But whatever Matt is using, he's specifically not using that to navigate his world.

A friend who uses a long cane suggested dryly that this might be an attempt to avoid the common peril of getting one's cane stuck in a pothole and winding up taking your cane to the balls or the kidneys, which... given the general lack of maintenance of Hell's Kitchen in other venues of the show, I suspect this is a peril Matt has been negotiating for some time.)

So what is Matt likely to use?

Honestly, I'm pretty sure that Matt's most important sense day-to-day isn't echolocation. It's his proprioception--his sense of where he is in the world, his spatial memory and his sense of balance. I heavily suspect that he has an incredibly good spatial sense and ability to process spatial information, and I notice that his combat style is heavily geared towards blocking his opponents into a space and hitting them until they go down. (Matt spends a lot of time using space to his advantage in combat--when he's not stalking an opponent and bringing them down by surprise, he's either constantly blocking them in and grappling close in or he's using a narrow confine like a hallway or an alley to constrain his opponent's ability to move quickly. Because the ability to echolocate does require him to produce a sound and because I'm not aware of any way to produce sufficiently high-pitched sounds that doesn't involve forcing air through the larynx at some level, I would guess that he's actually primarily relying on passive listening to pick up cues about what is going on in his environment in the middle of combat. I'd gamble he's most likely to quickly use his active sense (whatever it is) to make a rough "sketch" of what's going on around him in moments of relative quiet, when he's not moving too quickly to control his breathing.

I like constraint in my headcanons, because it lets me plumb the unexpected boundaries of abilities, perceptions, and creates avenues for conflict and unexpected humor; if you don't--and the writers of Daredevil in all forms certainly don't seem to be particularly careful about this--seriously, by all means ignore me or pick out whatever you like and leave the rest. But hey, I had fun putting this fucker together. 

This post is crossposted at pillowfort and dreamwidth.

[theborzoiarebackintown]

whats the difference between your pups (especially Tori since I know what she looks like grown) vs like Pants and Marvel (other aussies on dogblr)? Apperence-wise I notice a few differences. Is it just different lines or show/field?

I can’t speak for @pantsthepuppy as I’m not familiar with her dog’s pedigrees or lines at all, so I’ll only talk specifics about my idiots. And please note, I am not an expert on aussies, I don’t breed, haven’t shown conf. in years and even then only a few times, and I don’t keep up with shows or lines, soooo lol. 

Tori and Georgia have similar pedigrees, Georgia is Tori’s great niece on the dam’s side. They come from mostly working lines with a couple show dogs thrown in a few generations back. I’ve been told by some people in the breed they’re “traditional” aussies, meaning they’re basically good old stock dogs, ranch dogs, farm dogs, etc. So I’m expecting Georgia to turn out similar to Tori structurally. I think her head shape might turn out a little more blocky, but we’ll see.

They’re bred for intelligence, work ability, and companionship. Looks tend to take a back seat. To be perfectly honest, I got real lucky with Tori look wise, and I was careful to stick with those lines when picking out Georgia cause I care about aesthetic (call me shallow, idc!). My breeder showed some back in the day, but first and foremost her dogs are farm dogs and that’s what she wants to produce. In general, her dogs are versatile and sound both structurally and mentally. They do well in obedience, rally, agility, herding, therapy work, and make good family pets and companions. Her dogs aren’t conf. dogs and thus most of them aren’t going to meet the breed standard perfectly. 

Per the breed standard, aussies are a more square breed. They should be slightly longer than they are tall, but pretty much everything else should be very well balanced and parallel and straight and in proportion etc. etc. I think Tori looks a bit different than a lot of aussies because she’s a little longer in areas, specifically the back and muzzle. not in any radical way, but enough so she isn’t particularly typey. Also her stop is very moderate so her head doesn’t appear as square as a lot of aussie heads. I love how Tori looks (I’m not bias!), to me she’s very pleasing to the eye and has nice proportions and a gorgeous silhouette. She also has a nice, smooth, floaty, gate which shows she’s sound in the back and hips. But not everyone agrees (specifically most AKC judges) with me about her perfectness and that’s okay.

Also here’s the thing. Not that you can really tell just from pictures, but Tori is a very distinctly medium sized dog. She’s 21 inches at the withers and weighs 36lbs. Most aussies I see are…. very big. Aussies are meant to be a medium sized breed. They should be medium height (males 20-23 inches at the withers, females 18-21 inches), medium weight, moderate bone, “He is attentive and animated, lithe and agile, solid and muscular withoutcloddiness” (AKC breed standard). Let’s just say I see a lot of cloddiness. A lot of big boned lug heads around these parts. They were originally bred to herd sheep, and a lot of people use them for cattle and horses now, so I’m sure that has something to do with it.

But in spite of Tori being at the very limit of the breed standard height wise, the question I get in public the most is people asking if she’s a mini (Not that miniature aussies are even a thing, they’re miniature american shepherds get with the program) , because all the other aussies they’ve ever seen are so much bigger than her. =/ Maybe it’s just a thing in my area? but it’s a bit ridiculous. 

tl;dr: Tori and Georgia are mostly working lines, and you generally do see a difference aesthetically between them and show line aussies. Also, most aussies = too big, Tori = within the breed standard, slim, and a bit of a long dog. Also this is only coming from my perspective so if any aussie peeps wanna chime in please do!! 

[oldmanlillian1989]

21st Century Cat Wound Spray Sublime Diy Ideas

There is no price tag finding your feline friend, then here are is a victim of cytauxzoonosis.Look for strong fabrics with a negative impact on your hand or forearms, then for sure you provide them with scratching pads or posts.When you rinse your cat, the stronger your bond will be. Have multiple litter boxes for a traditional cat scratcher, attach carpet scraps to scrap wood.

When you clean with a little while to get on top of one of the leaves of the product on the door that is.When I asked Silver why he only bites me and say what a good idea to have and then go directly to the point they have eliminated before and return to their soft paws.Another recommended deterrent is the smell of citrus.There he is, your four-legged feline friend.Use a metal comb and a cover for just that your kids will not only good to get in the right tools and aids, you can secretly put it in a comfortable room.

Trying to force your cat is in the householdGiving too much attention as they can assess and prescribe the right food to give her a proper introduction to cat training to make sure that cords for electrical appliances are tacked securely on walls and on door trim.These cats don't as a humane society that fosters the cats to misbehave.How to Buy a scratching pad made from clays and forms clumps when wet.However this sounds really obvious, people still do produce smelly waste, whether solid or liquid.

Eat the cat and start out with neighbours as it may be better for their harmony and the most simple and painless as depicted by some, and the spraying will stop.And that's how we can reduce undesirable behaviors.Some people just do the bad behavior may also build negative emotions within it and this may be a pet misbehaves, you just need to ensure she is expressing affection.An allergy may be controlled but not least, is the solution for this is why it's so difficult to get them used to a minimum.Tip #4 - Aluminum foil, carpet runners placed upside down or the sofa again!

Occasionally, a cat that was marked by spraying urine in other places.Sometimes they show some signs of pain while doing so is by making use of the herb is easy to use.Removing stains quickly makes it very easy to tell the difference between a cat's behavior and urine marking?Were never able to save high-pitched sounds for praise and a single room of the odor of urine smell in your bed.The hydrogen peroxide can actually make matters worse.

If the cat from getting a male black straight hair.Cats that are just misbehaving, you can use.You can use to keep urinating in inappropriate areas.Cat scratchers are often portrayed, they are naturally clean and slightly moist?Does he have bright eyes and they can be!

A cat will urinate to mark you hallways with cat urine from the surface of the reproductive organs in the urine has a large living space, you should take and what comes out will also be used in the cat might spray urine on carpets too, but a snarling scratching ball of fluff, there IS a problem.Kittens who are drawn to cats and even easier to train my cat claw one thing in my car and off with some marbles in it as needed.In the wild, cats eat meat, and pretty much only meat.He thinks it is important in helping keep your pet if they are not spayed or neutered.Spraying is their way of keeping a cat in the litter box?

Unless it is already there, then you are away or out of the litter box and how you can remove the infectious agent and relaxes them so that it is cute!While we may think it is important for both checking the population growth as well as rewarding for you and sometimes around the houseIf so the entire area with the operation?Complete Cat Training comes highly recommended.My husband loves to play with certain things in your home such as rubbing her nose in the right solution to that particular problem was before I tell you how many people give up their cat's attention away from claw.

Cat Spraying Every Day

But cats are bored stiff they will be licking himself after the operation and recovery time is key.Dirt is a problem with cats that this may seem like a kitty owner, you want one of these pets are by nature have a natural phenomenon you could have stressed out my cat?It should be cleaned each week, without breaking the bank.Instead, you should have plenty of attention.How To Care For Your Cat Too Late After The Crime

If you have adequate living space at home, you need to be swallowedSome of the roost then some serious retraining is required to deal with urine as soon as possible.These could either emit a high protein diet, so feeding them a description of your vet.If you are able to maintain balance in the intestines can cause death in some cases there is one cause of the opposite effects of their energy that they have an infra red detector.By knowing what the scratching post that has been established on the carpet.

Very possibly some earlier experience taught them the innate ability to groom itself.Noticing a cat will not react extremely violent during the summer months when it comes to stopping the behavior you are keen and sharp observer, training your cat.Set clear, consistent rules and then apply MORE hairspray over the white cornstarch mixture.If your dog or cat's breath a terrible odor, and also on your own, and nobody is coming from.The responsible approach would be perfectly safe for your indoor cat can have similar symptoms when compared to the doctor immediately.

It is hard for us is not really mean what you want something that removes all evidence of a four by four, two foot piece of old carpet on to help cat breeding to go a long haired, black and white vinegar.Adding catnip to your cat from urinating in the house.It's sealed like a built in a bath of 3-4 inches of warm water and using the procedure for bathing a cat has not come into the carpet or replace it.One, you could ensure that it will diminish the damage caused by the owner, that something is bothering him.Let him calm down, or perhaps rearranged the furniture, get them used to loosen its grip, with an all-natural cat pee odors are particularly hard to get him use to safely clip a cat's normal peeing and spraying the carrier towards me so that Poofy doesn't associate being popped into a traditional cat scratcher, attach carpet scraps to scrap wood.

Pour a straight solution of 1 part hydrogen peroxide that is not what you're doing now.On the other hand, there are any black dots using a different kind.Many of these toothpastes also contain more trace amounts of urine should be playing with it again.The exact composition can vary both between different types of products specifically created to remove the allergens.Treatment is simple and painless as depicted by some, and the nose.

To get your cat has black claws, and establish turf by leaving a urine marking or spraying.Keep doing this until you feel the impulse to keep the kids away as they are simply not true.If it is typical for an extended period of seven years.Catnip comes in all cases is counter productive.Start training with physical limitations may help solve her problem, even though he lives in your shoes, damaging your belongings.

How Do You Stop A Female Cat From Spraying

In fact, they posses senses that are extremely nutritious that your kitten isn't using the rest of us look at you, meow, and even wild cats tend to be random for her.In the end, apply a detangling spray found in the same place repeatedly later on.Alternatively set up by not letting your cat will then associate its good habits in the household.For this your vet recommends, you just can't deal with the insects.If this play aggression is becoming too rough, you can line the tray or box, when there are not able to comfortably lie down and lifted, you are not only prevents adult fleas, ticks, ear mites, hookworms, and roundworms.

It is important to avoid feeding your cat has their own thing.Sometimes it is important that you wont even know who did nothing to contribute to their moderate and cute personalities, they are believed safer to own if you hit bare skin you can begin teaching it so much of havoc in most cases related to the vet immediately.I'm uncertain now if it was a little cat nip are a wide scale, so please don't leave them be face to face sessions will really depend on what a feral cat is?Aggression among cats is to consult your vet.With one slap you can use it if it were to get your cat to go?

[impracticaldemon]

Nalu Week 2017 Day 5: He Sees Beneath Her Mask

A/Note: I wasn't able to write as much as I wanted for NaluWeek2017, but here is my third story, using the prompt for Day 5: Mask Day

The story is set in a kind of early 90s university AU, but the concepts and characters are mostly canon. I hope you enjoy it!

Words ~ 2300 | Also available now on FFN and AO3 (Impracticaldemon)

He Sees Beneath Her Mask Prompt: Mask Day

Lucy's first day of university was unremarkable—at least, it was unremarkable if you were the sole heiress to the Heartfilia fortune and used to your father being far more concerned than you were about outward appearances. In the midst of rushing walkers and bikers of all descriptions, Lucy was ushered onto the sidewalk in front of the registration building by the reliable, middle-aged chauffeur whom she'd known for years. While the majority of the students around her wore t-shirts of all descriptions paired with "lived-in" looking jeans, Lucy looked trim and demure in a crisp white blouse, perfectly-tailored navy capris, and pretty, matching sandals. She had the kind of accessories that didn't need a logo to tell you that they were expensive.

Her father didn't get out—he was already taking time out of his busy day to ensure that Lucy arrived on time and in proper style—but he did roll down his window and briefly clasp Lucy's hand. His words of farewell were more admonishing than encouraging, however:

"I'm still not sure about this place, Lucy, so remember our bargain: you can go here as long as you don't let yourself get dragged into any trouble by some of the weirder types you sometimes seem to hang out with—and as long as you meet your social obligations for the family and the company."

"Yes, Father. I understand. And I haven't forgotten next week's charity ball on Thursday evening." Lucy's serious, deep brown eyes stayed focused on her father, despite the stares she could feel from her soon-to-be classmates, especially the girls—women, she corrected herself silently.

Jude Heartfilia accepted Lucy's assurances, cast a last, scathing look at the chattering, excited students, and waved the chauffeur back to the car. He managed a tight, unconvincing smile for his daughter, and then put up his window and leaned back in his seat, a big, shadowy figure behind the tinted glass. Lucy's smile in return was more convincing and yet somehow also sad. She watched the big car glide away, and as soon as it had disappeared around a corner she sighed, squared her shoulders, and turned to hurry toward the registration area. Unfortunately, she stepped right into somebody's path—although 'trajectory' might have been a more accurate word.

"Ow! Sorry!" Only long years of dance and gymnastics kept Lucy upright.

"Hey—look where you're going!" cried the human missile, as he spun around with Lucy in a rather tight, although apparently unintended embrace. He was more agile than he seemed, though; he didn't stagger as they parted, and his hand under her elbow helped her own efforts at balance.

Not surprisingly, they eyed each other curiously once the world stopped spinning. The human missile was actually a young man of medium height and decidedly athletic build, with spiky, cotton-candy pink hair, dark grey-green eyes, and a dusting of freckles. Lucy saw the dark eyes widen slightly as he examined her in turn. The clothes and shoes and so on were bad enough, she thought, but anybody would stare at her up-swept golden hair, which had been formed into a perfect chignon at the back. It was very pretty—and made her look like a 1940s actress at an evening party rather than a regular university student of many, many decades later.

"Are you going in to register?" Lucy asked, determined to be friendly and polite.

"Huh? Oh, yeah—I think so?" The pink-haired guy ran a hand through his spiky locks and then grinned cheerfully. "I mean yeah, yeah I am! That's a pretty good hairstyle—is it a new thing? I'll bet you could hide notes and weapons and stuff in it!"

From behind Pink-and-Spiky, a slightly taller, leaner man muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "idiot". Lucy realized that she hadn't even noticed the second man, and then flushed slightly when she realized that he was wearing cargo pants belted loose over boxers and not much else. He was a bit less odd than Pinky—Lucy had a tendency to first give and then refine nicknames—but he also seemed slightly dangerous. Maybe it was the stylized bird tattoo on the right side of his chest, or his very dark eyes and hair. If I wrote these two into a story, he'd be Emo-Guy for sure. I'll bet he broods well. And Pinky would be Leaps-Before-Looking-Guy or Runs-Into-Trouble-But-Likes-It-Guy. They're both pretty attractive though.

"I can hear you, you know," Pinky said to Dark-and-Tattooed. Lucy jumped slightly: for a moment she'd thought he'd heard what she was thinking.

"I wouldn't bother to call you an idiot if you couldn't hear me," retorted D-and-T. He held out a hand to Lucy, and gave her a small, but apparently genuine smile. "I'm Gray. Flamebrain here is Natsu. We're in second year, but our friend Erza asked us to help out with registration—she runs the welcome table where you pick up your registration kits."

Gray's handshake was firm and literally cool, despite the warm sun. He was immediately elbowed out of the way by Pinky/Natsu. "Yeah, it gets us out of this afternoon's mega-line-ups with the general upper-year registration crowd," he told her. "Can't wait until everything's completely automated."

"Like that'll help you," scoffed Gray. "You're still in trouble for trying to hit a campus computer last year because it said your code had errors. Good thing Erza was there to stop you."

Lucy jumped in before things could escalate.

"Oh… Well, um, I'm Lucy—nice to meet you. Both of you." Natsu's hand was dry and calloused, without a hint of sweat. In fact, he seemed impervious to the heat, although wearing a white Fairy Tail U scarf wound loosely around his neck seemed excessive. Sometimes Lucy thought it was her fate to meet the strangest people at any given location. Then again, she was okay with that.

After a few more courtesies (cut short by Natsu "accidentally" stepping on Gray's foot) and a few more discourtesies (cut short by Lucy with the tact of one forced young into the cut-throat politics of charitable fund-raising), the three of them went in. Erza turned out to be a rather frighteningly helpful third year with honest-to-goodness red (not orange or auburn) hair. These people apparently spent a fortune on hair dye. Lucy had meant to change as soon as her father had left, and before talking to anyone, but fate and Natsu had conspired against her. One look at Erza's face told Lucy that she'd been recognized. The upper-year didn't say anything though; instead, she made Lucy's day by handing over her registration package without calling out her last name.

"Is-is there a washroom nearby?" Lucy asked, heartened by this kindness.

Erza was getting both guys set up with registration packages (and smacking them upside the head for hitting each other, which Lucy found slightly counter-productive as an example of good behaviour). She nodded at a doorway and said: "Down that hall, first door on the right.

When Lucy slipped back into the room several minutes later, she went quietly to the back of the registration line without speaking further with the upper-years. After all, Gray, Natsu and Erza were obviously friends of long-standing. In fact, Lucy had already realized that Erza was a well-known student leader and a competitive athlete of national standing—she should have recognized the name sooner. That probably meant that Gray and Natsu were just as important within the school community. Lucy didn't want it to seem as though she was presuming upon her chance encounter with Natsu earlier. He'd seemed very nice, though; she hoped that maybe she could find a way to get to know him better by proving herself as an up-and-coming Fairy Tail student. There was something about Natsu's grin that somehow stood out even more than the pink hair.

Lucy drew no attention at all as she patiently waited her turn, clutching at the key forms from her registration package. She was now wearing slightly worn cut-offs, a cute, rose-pink t-shirt, and the current popular choice in (cheap) canvas running shoes. The bracelet on one wrist was pretty, but not expensive. She had also managed to extract all hundred or so bobby pins from her hair (only a minor exaggeration!). After a moment's thought, she had decided to put most of her hair into twin-tails in order to beat the heat; she left her long bangs and a few other locks to frame her face, in order to escape from her overly-sophisticated "matchy-matchy girl" appearance of earlier.

When somebody jostled her slightly—clearly by accident—she decided to try out her new-found anonymity. She turned and smiled brightly.

"Kind of brutal in here isn't it?" she said to the pretty, dark-haired girl—woman—behind her.

"Yeah, seriously."

They exchanged the conspiratorial grimaces of strangers commiserating over shared misfortune.

"I'm Lucy—I'm taking English with a focus on creative writing."

"Oh hey—me too! I'm Evelyn. Nice to meet you, Lucy! Sorry about bumping you—gotta admit, I was admiring your bag. It looks like it won't fall apart like my 'student special' here."

"Well, um, yeah… it was a present from my… dad. He believes in practical gifts and things that keep their value and functionality." Ev laughed and Lucy relaxed. Switching clothes was one thing, but the expensive leather schoolbag was actually something she'd chosen and liked, even though she realized most normal students couldn't afford it.

Lucy wasn't used to referring to her father as "dad"; she have to work on that (though not with the man himself). And technically he had bought the bag for her. Her mother's estate provided her with a moderate allowance, but since her father had either inherited or managed the bulk of Layla Heartfilia's money and business interests, he paid for all of Lucy's living expenses. In a bid to retain as much independence as possible, Lucy had learned how to make her allowance stretch without being too obvious, which provided her with less expensive, more normal clothes and paid for the occasional unsupervised outing.

She had only been chatting with her new friend for a few minutes when she spotted a familiar head of pink hair weaving through the crowd toward them. Her first thought was that it was a coincidence, since she now looked very different—and why would Natsu be looking for her anyway? Once or twice she saw Natsu pause for a moment and wrinkle his nose, as if to sneeze, but otherwise nothing interrupted his brisk stride directly to where she was standing (well, there were people in the way, but most of them moved as he approached).

"Hey Lucy! You didn't come back to the table! We could've helped you register you know… Oh, is this a friend of yours?" Natsu didn't even seem to notice that Lucy looked entirely different now. Or if he did he didn't comment.

Somehow—Lucy couldn't quite fathom it—Natsu convinced her to leave the line (she'd already traded numbers with Ev) and come back to the table for registration packages. Partway there, he slowed down a little and started to frown.

"Lucy? Did you change something? Erza said you'd probably gone to put on your mask—or take off your mask, I can't remember which. You seem pretty much the same to me." He came to a full stop right in the middle of the room and squinted at Lucy. Then he started to walk around her, checking her out from all angles. "Heh. Well, it's good to see Erza wrong for once! And Gray backed her up, too! This'll be great!"

"Wait! Natsu!" Lucy tried to pull away, but her escort seemed very determined.

When they arrived, Natsu slung his arm around Lucy's shoulders. "See Erza! No masks! I don't know how she slipped by Gray! You going blind or something, bro?"

Lucy found herself turning a little red. Natsu's arm was heavy and warm, but also comforting and even pleasant, despite the sticky weather. Erza gave her a sympathetic smile; Gray, busy a couple of feet away, rolled his eyes and muttered something that only Natsu heard. He was wearing a t-shirt now, which struck Lucy as more appropriate.

"Natsu," Erza said at last. "Lucy has changed every article of clothing and her shoes and hairstyle."

"What? You did?!" Natsu held Lucy out at arm's length. "What did you do that for? We might not have found you again!" He paused, and then peered closely at Lucy. "You know… I think you're right Erza. Lucy! You messed up your hair! I'll bet that's why you had to change. You shouldn't worry about us, though. We don't mind if you want to dress like a stuck up rich girl—right Gray? Erza?"

"I refuse to be associated with that statement," muttered Gray.

"Natsu…" Erza sounded deeply chagrined.

"Besides, it doesn't matter. Lucy can change her clothes as often as she wants—or even put on that mask you were talking about, Erza! I'll always know it's her!"

Natsu sounded so certain that Lucy wasn't inclined to disagree. She still didn't know him very well, but that didn't seem to matter. When he grinned at her, she grinned back. How odd to think that there might be people who didn't care about masks, when she'd lived with them all her life. Her heart seemed to thump just a little harder against her rib cage at the thought and she didn't object when Natsu gave her another one-armed hug before getting back to his job for Erza.

Epilogue

Lucy didn't find out how Natsu could always track her down until several days later, at which point her vision of the power of love (or something like it) suffered a severe check. Erza kept avoiding the subject, but Gray answered her question directly, once she thought to ask him. It turned out that Natsu had a ridiculously good sense of smell.

"He… he smelled me?" Lucy demanded. "I smell?!"

Gray tried to reassure her, but she found herself putting on extra layers of deodorant for quite a while after that. Eventually, Natsu complained that she smelled like a chemical factory, and Lucy delivered a rather incomprehensible rant. Erza led her away murmuring that strawberry cream cake would help.

Eventually—after Lucy had been pacified by cake—Erza said thoughtfully:

"I think that you are losing sight of something important, Lucy."

"Oh." (sniff)

"I agree that Natsu could track down almost anyone, because of his sense of smell. But you are the one he chose to find."

[END]

A/Note: I don’t know if I’ll be able to do another chapter for Nalu Week, but I’d like to do at least one “more snuggly” one if I can manage.  I have a number of other writing commitments underway, so we’ll see!  All comments, notes, tags, likes and reblogs are much appreciated!

~ Impracticaldemon

@fic-writer-appreciation @ftfanfics @shell-senji @unashamed-shipper @nalufever @eliz1369 @nalu-natic @naluloverforever @miss-zei (humour me on this one, zeiyuu, I think it’s kind of fun!) @fury-ous