#for the unsuspecting passer-by

[zarzava]

no i didn't cry reading leslie feinberg's dedication to minnie bruce pratt in this foreword to stone butch blues (lie)

[rockingbytheseaside]

✦ How you have contrasting personalities but they drop everything for you anyway

Pierro, Capitano, Dottore, Scaramouche (separate) 

They say love can change anyone, but you have yet to agree with this statement. You never wanted anyone to alter themselves for you, especially if that someone is your beloved. Instead, you always believed that people should stay true to themselves while maintaining mutual love and adoration for each other. And that's how you and your beloved were - contrasting in looks, attitudes, and habits. Yet it made your beloved cherish you all the more, even if it caused unsuspecting passers to raise eyebrows in shock… Maybe it's because your beloved is actually a dreaded Fatui Harbinger, and people didn't expect him to be head over heels whenever you’re in the same room. But what can you say? He always was a softie for you. 

✧ Pierro doesn’t attend public gatherings. Period. Ask any of the high-rank Harbingers and they would tell you how lucky it would be if he were even present for a Harbinger’s inauguration, like when Arlecchino was declared 4th or when Tartaglia received his Delusion. Nevertheless, it is clear that The Jester does not squander his time with social events or benign pleasantries; he’s present only on important occasions.

If you can define what’s important in his book, that is.

An example being was a certain Fatui party. It is not uncommon for the Regrator to organize lavish evenings, especially in recognition if a Harbinger obtained a gnosis, or if another significant mission was masterfully accomplished. The grander was the task, the bigger the event would be. Of course, Pierro never attends those either. 

During one of those organized events - you, of all people, decided to come. Dressed in your finest, glittering lotus flower silk and white silver adorned your figure while you timidly stood amongst the high nobles of Snezhnaya. Your presence was not an unwelcome sight, but you did not strive to bring attention to you either. Expensive parties with Fatui diplomats and Snezhnayan aristocrats were not your usual cup of tea.

Your presence did not bring awning gasps, but Pierro’s did. 

Unannounced, the Director arrived at this sudden party, bringing hushed murmurs amongst the crowds of subordinates and colleagues. Likewise, he wore his most exquisite suit, a mantle-like cape flowing elegantly over his broad shoulders. Before guests and attendees could greet his arrival, The Jester marched straight ahead, not bothering to gaze at whoever tried to initiate conversation. 

No, the man’s attention was focused straight at you, as he passed through everyone and swiftly approached you. With an outstretched hand, a knowing gaze was cast upon you, as he spoke:

“If I may,” - he brought the back of your hand closer to his lips “Would you honor me with a dance?” 

You obliged. Now everyone in the gala was gaping at you two with grandiloquent murmurs. 

“My most cherished, why did you not warn me you’d attend the ball?” - The Jester whispered to your ear, his gloved hand intertwined with yours as the two of you waltzed elegantly. 

“Well, I just thought it would be futile to bother you. You usually hate such occasions.” - you muttered back, overwhelmed at the prospect of meeting his icy gaze; a gaze that only looked at you in tender love and yearning.   

“Then may I inquire on why you decided to attend this one? You avoid them as well.” 

“Okay, just please don’t laugh,” - you whispered. As Pierro kept a hand on your waist, he danced with you across the ballroom, using his broad form to shield you from the unwelcoming gazes of the guests. “You gifted me this fancy attire that I kept hiding in my closet for many months… I simply didn’t have a reason to wear it. So I forced myself to go out just so I could have the excuse of wearing something nice. U-um, that’s it.”  

“And that’s it, love?” 

“...Yeah,” - you nodded defeatedly “Also because I didn’t want to busy you from work.” 

“Oh, my most beloved.” - The Director emitted a hushed chuckle as you two conversed and danced, making sure his words were heard only by you. “I can make all your attires gala-worthy if you so desire. You do not need to be coy, ask and I shall accompany you on any grand occasion." 

Thus, the jester may not attend social events, as he only frequents important ones - the ones you're in, that is. As he whisked you away with a dance and a dip, he kept his hand delicate around you to escape the company of noisy guests who wished to bother you two. But what would be a ball with his lips gently grazing your cheeks at the end of each dance, telling you: 

“Besides, I cannot allow other attendees to assume you are available, now can I? Not while you look so stunning tonight.” 

✧ When Il Capitano was first spotted with you during workout practice, people didn’t even fathom you were his beloved, the only person equal to the Captain. The two of you were simply so…  opposite. The Harbinger was big and imposing, while you were smaller and approachable; which isn’t even a fair comparison, because Capitano just towers over anyone. Everyone looks small next to him! 

Nevertheless, when Capitano had his usual daily practicum along with his rumored significant other, some Fatui soldiers tried to sneak glimpses. Yet what a jarring spectacle it was to see the immovable, assertive Harbinger dismiss his commanding tone in favor of being patient and attentive. 

“My dear, you’ve already run a set of laps and tried to outbeat me during pushup exercises. You are putting too much strain on your ankles after your previous training. We should-” 

“No, we can still go for another round! Fight me!” 

“But, my love-” 

“Fight me!!!”    

Anyway, the fight abruptly subsided. Not because you lost, but because Capitano swiftly lifted you into his arms the instant you launched yourself onto him, consequently refusing to put you down. Therefore, you find yourself being carried by your partner's muscled arms while your feet dangle.

“Aw man, not fair…” - you mumbled, settling to rest on Capitano's forearms. “It's not even a duel if you're just lifting me like a toddler. Set me down, Cappy!” 

“It’s an effective tactic, one that easily neutralizes a hotheaded opponent like yourself.” - Capitano explained calmly. In reality, his body moved with pride as he held onto you securely, as if you were his prized reward for today's training. 

The captain set you down, his armored hands trailing down to your leg, sending a tingling graze onto your skin. And indeed, his punctilious gaze spotted how you tried to hide a limp when exercising. 

“You sprained your ankle,” - Capitano stated.

“Listen, it's not a big deal. Just a strain, I had worse happen.” 

You tried to defend yourself, but The Harbinger already expected your excuses. The man knew better than to argue with you, and instead settled on removing your footwear and gently checking on your injury.

“This is no condition to continue training, my dear. If I let you continue, you'd stubbornly reach Celestia with bloodied knuckles and broken limbs.”

“Yeah! And you bet I'd win!’” - you retorted brightly. At the sight of your confident smile, Capitano chuckled deeply, his pitch-black helmet pressing into your forehead with tender motion.

“I am certain you will, my love. You'll drag The Heavenly Principles by the ear, and have them weeping by your gaze alone. But now, we should get you to rest and apply some ice to your ankle. Shall I carry you?”

You sighed deeply, having no option but to let your beloved's experienced hands help you with your soreness. “Oh well… fine.”

Capitano's training could wait. There was a more crucial matter at hand, literally. With his massive yet calm form carrying you away, your gaze remained fierce but forbearing. 

If some Fatui soldiers witnessed today's event, they'd have to conceal their inconspicuous glances and smiles. After all, the sight of Il Capitano being the big, loving teddy-bear, while you being a menacing gremlin was undoubtedly shock-inducing.  

Nonetheless, who else is worthy of being carried by the 1st Fatui Harbinger and pampered by him? Only you, of course.

✧ Il Dottore is a destructive, stern man. Hunched over the examination table, his gloved hands were tainted in blood while his jaw clenched in aggravation. His hours of working in the lab easily make him irritated, and this irritation further increases whenever certain scientific experiments do not bear fruit. A tense air of suspension was now lingering in his lab; a sign of an upcoming violent outburst.

“Lord Harbinger…” - one of Dottore's lab assistants began, trying to muster the courage to speak without shaking. “This experiment requires another round of testing, w-we might need to start over,”

The Doctor remained still, but the dangerous clutch of the scalpel in his hand didn't go unnoticed. “Perhaps I did not make myself clear?” 

He straightened his shoulders, his masked expression gleaming with malice and murderous intent with each syllable hissed.

“I have given you one simple task. Bring me the results. If this experiment is not completed by tomorrow at the earliest, I will have to remind you how brittle, and puny your useless bones can be-”

Suddenly, the lab door slams open. From the heavy metal doorway, a hasty but familiar person quietly saunters in, unknowingly saving the poor soul that was about to be Dottore's next target. Of course, the person in question is - you. 

“Dottore?” A small murmur escaped you. You stepped closer to Dottore and tugged at his sleeve. “I’m sorry, I can't sleep…” 

An abrupt silence settled in the lab. 

The unnerving tension of the lab was diverted as if a switch was flipped in Dottore's brain. The man swiftly set his scalpel aside, discarded his bloody gloves, and turned into a softer tone when talking to you. 

“Hm, is it so late already? I apologize dear, time must've slipped past me. Do you want me to brew us some tea and join you in bed?”

“Yes, please… Chamomile. if you're not busy, of course.” - you nodded, a tender smile settling on your face.

The sight was fascinating. The eccentric, mad scientist was instantly replaced by a doting partner, who would lower himself to kneel before you and put his hands on your shoulders as if all his lab work and blood-stained messes were already forgotten. Dottore's assistants were indeed quite baffled when you entered the lab. But what was more confusing is that the sudden change of attitude was so drastic, that they all froze in silence and subordination. The poor, unfortunate underlings; one minute dealing with their Lord Harbinger's harsh demeanor, and the other witnessing him hugging you and gazing at you like a lovesick puppy. 

“Perhaps it’s time to wind down for today. I was about to finish for today, anyway. I'll make your tea as you like it and accompany you in bed, dearest.” - Dottore's hand gently rested on your back, as he leisurely ushered you to leave with him. 

“And as for the experiments,” - just before the Harbinger could leave with you in his arms, he sent an ominous glance towards his assistants, one that even through a mask portrayed lethal resolve - “deal with it.”  

Oh well. Someone is staying overtime in the lab. That's how The Doctor was with his work - cruel and unattached. However, unbeknownst to people, when he's back with you in bed, that man is clinging to you throughout the night, groaning about his research while burying his head against your chest. His face takes refuge against the warmth of your body, arms encircling you in a needy embrace around your torso. 

Sometimes, he just needs a good squeeze from you when you cuddle him, that's all.  

✧ A day cannot be concluded if there wasn’t a single instance where Scaramouche’s grumbles weren’t accompanied by your bright grins. Scaramouche has a reputation for his sour disposition whenever he is discontented, that much is known. What isn't known is that the only person who tolerates his cynicism is someone as bright and cheerful as you. Like two sides of the same coin.  

“Hmph, Pathetic. Just because some flowers are blooming doesn’t mean it requires a whole festival to be commemorated for.”  

“Oh, come on, Scara. You accompany me to every Hanami event.” - you smiled back in response to the Harbinger’s scoffs, but the 6th crossed his arms. 

“They are no different each year. Same cherry blossoms, same food stalls you drool over.” 

“But Scara…! The Dango!” 

That’s how the two of you wind up in a narrow cobble street, protected under the soft shadows of cherry blossom, while cascading pink petals gently fall around you. Well, that is how you wind up here, while Scaramouche was naturally dragged by you. Arms linked with one another, the Puppeteer kept his iconic look of displeasure, a huge contrast to your joyous one. One would assume The Harbinger could easily flee your torment and make you scram, but on the contrary: 

He is the one who makes sure your hand is intertwined with his, says “To keep you from running away like a child in a crowd”. 

He is the one running his thumb over your skin, his hand squeezes yours, and says “Don’t get too excited over the food stalls.”      

He is the one rushing with you to find a good secluded spot, away from the crowd, while his hand pulls you closer by the waist, and says “It’s too loud. Here, stay closer.” 

And of course, he is the one buying your favorite Hanami Dango and says “You asked for it so you better enjoy it. And make sure to chew it properly - dango is sticky.” 

For someone who underlines his disapproval vocally, he sure pampers you with no objection about your interests. You’d muse and tease, saying that it was his way of enjoying flower viewing without saying it. However, before you could utter the words, a strong gust of spring wind blew past the street, sending a plethora of flower petals blowing into everyone’s faces. You shielded your eyes, whereas Scaramouche gently tugged at his ichimegasa hat, pulling you closer to further shield you. 

“See? I told you this yearly custom is a nuance.” - he lamented, but his words came out more as a murmur than a groan, perhaps because he held you directly in his proximity. Your faces were closer, and the veil of his hat served as concealment from any public eyes. 

You’d smile. He sure complained a lot, and Scaramouche didn’t like sweet deserts like you did. But whenever the opportunity arose, he’d make sure he had you under the veil of his hat, pressed flush by the hip to him. And if he was lucky, he might taste the sweetness of Dango through your lips instead.  

Listen, I'm a sucker for fluff, okay?

[obae-me]

The Devil's Desire

Nothing like trying to come back from a long hiatus with more Luci content. It's always him, I can't escape.

Warning: This fic contains a makeout scene but nothing explicit, so 16+.

Disclaimer: I am NOT bashing religion, nor am I calling out any specific faith, denomination, etc. It's written to be mostly generic on purpose, and is simply based on a real life experience I have had before. Don't take this seriously, please.

Word Count: 2.3k

With that out of the way, please enjoy some Luci romance!:

To lie with the devil is to wake up in hell. Tender lips stained with debauchery embrace nothing but lies. Tainted is the temporary vice. Lost is the lamb who leaves the flock. Damned is the devoured; the ones drowned in their own sins, plunged into the fires, entombed in brimstone. The cries of pleasure now ones of wailing. Of gnashing their own teeth. Made to suffer an eternity of eternities for shunning the light.

At least, that’s what they say.

And by they, right now you meant the very adamant woman standing in front of you, brandishing pamphlets like they were her very own Ten Commandments. If only 'Thou Shall Not Harass Unsuspecting People on the Street' were one of them. If you had your own rules, that would make it into the top five for sure.

Unfortunately, the lady slowly singling you out from the rest of the passers-by did not share your same sentiments. She was on a mission. Her mission? You. The goal? To wear you down and pester you long enough to join whatever group she was promoting. You’d seen these things enough before to see the danger signs in advance. A clipboard so they could take your name and number. A promotion selling tickets that you’d inevitably have to use your email to register for. All in an attempt to get your information so they could track you down in a less stalker-y sort of way.

“Oh, hello, dear. How are you today?” The hunter was closing in, two teens carrying signs at her side working on sequestering you- the weaker link- away from the pack.

“I’m good, how are you?” Damn your polite force of habit! Curse you, customer service default settings!

She grinned, knowing that if she played her cards right, she could probably keep you trapped here for a while longer. She spoke, and due to the survival instinct in your brain, you were capable of tuning her out for the most part. Something something, for the greater good, something something, special soul. They never meant what they said, or even if they believed their own words, it was undermined by their intentions. You’d been in this boat before. You kept waving your hand and nodding your head, explaining to her that you were busy and had someone you were meeting.

As you stepped backwards, she approached again. “Just one minute of your time! One minute could save your soul from Lucifer’s clutches!”

Without entirely meaning to, the drop of that name made you pause. Every once and a while, you forgot that the person you had come to know so well was such a prominent- albeit infamous- figure in the human world. Although, the way he tended to be described made him seem more like a boogeyman rather than a demon capable of Armageddon, scaring children across different nations and cultures into behaving. Perhaps you should be insulted on his behalf. Perhaps you should share some of the stuff you had seen. Tales of ivory wings and the blinding glow of a fallen angel whose twisted voice now told beings to Be Afraid. With a haunting beauty so enveloping, you openly fell further into the nightmare. That being said, you almost laughed in her face, wanting to tell her that the man she was so afraid of had been fretting over what kind of coat to wear this morning. Black was classy. But blue made his eyes pop more. But red was his color. Thirty minutes he pondered over this. “I’m not all that worried about it.”

Maybe you hadn’t contained your amusement as well as you thought you did, because for some reason, a righteous fire had lit under her sandy open-toed wedges. “You should be! Whatever promises the devil gives you, it will only bring you misery in the end! He cares nothing for you! Only HE can give you the joy you seek.” Her pointer finger raised up while she gazed to the clouds like she could peer into Heaven from down here. It was hard to tell if the dramatics were more for you or her. When she glanced at you again, she appeared spooked, clutching pearl hands at the ready.

An arm snaked around your waist, a hand settling on your hip. If the touch wasn’t so familiar, you would’ve jumped. “I don’t know. I think I bring plenty of joy, wouldn’t you say, love?”

Speak of the devil, in a quite literal sense.

Relief flooded your body, the tension you’d unknowingly built in your shoulders loosening. Even posing as a human, Lucifer was intimidating. At the very least, no one bothered to approach him out of the blue. This party buff seemed to extend to you as well. This lady seemed much less interested in trying to convince you of anything now. She cleared her throat and thought about potentially leaving you one last message of warning, but the man in your company wasn’t having it. He scoffed under his breath before he gestured to some of the other sign bearers in the group, tilting his head slightly to the side.

“Strange weather today, isn’t it? You might want to help retrieve your things,” Lucifer announced. Eyebrows raised. The weather was quite nice today, albeit a little cold. Curiosity got the better of her. Just as the woman turned around, a heavy gust of wind blew over you all, making pamphlets and signs fly upwards and into the streets. Subtle. People scrambled. The lady hiked up her skirt and ran to the edge of the sidewalk. Cars screeched to a halt and honked, people stopped to gawk at the calamity, all the while, you felt yourself being tugged away.

Lucifer’s hand remained on your waist for a few minutes until he was certain the annoyance was far behind you. How much of a mess was the scene now? You turned your head to look over your shoulder, but only saw darkness as a gloved hand covered your eyes. A slight huff sounded off to your side.

“Leave it. This hesitancy of yours is what got you caught in the first place.” The hand moved from your eyes to the top of your head, making you look up at him with a twist of his fingers. “I leave you be for a few moments, and you once again find yourself tangled up in nonsense.” His narrowed eyes flitted over your form as if checking for signs of distress or injury, like the woman was a master of combat with pamphlets as her weapon of choice. Always the worrier that one. He’d have still a similar reaction if you found yourself lost in a grocery store…

A frown crossed over your face. “I did try to leave. How many times do I have to say ‘no thank you’ before someone leaves me alone?”

He tisked, his posture straightening as he fixed the scarf around your neck. The plush fabric was rubbed against your jaws. “There’s your first issue. Manners are all well and good until someone takes advantage of it. At some point, you have to drop the politeness and just say ‘no’. With your entire chest.” All of a sudden, he took two pointer fingers and manipulated your cheeks and lips to mouth some words. “N. O. Just like that. Can you say it with me? Nnnn…ooo…”

You narrowed your eyes a bit at his teasing, batting his hands away. “Knock it off, Luce…”

“Hmm. Maybe I should go get one of those eccentrics and tell them we changed our minds and—“

“No!”

“Ah, see, you are capable of it.” Someone was mighty pleased with himself. Anytime he found himself in a place where he was free from his responsibilities, he always got shockingly more playful. It would be cute if it weren’t so frustrating right now. His hand started running over your head. “Good job.”

“That’s not funny. You heard how they were talking about you… I hate listening to it.”

At your words, his teasing smile faded. Rolling his eyes, he lowered his hands. “I would much rather you save that vexation for yourself and how they treated you. All the humans in the world could despise me and I would not bat an eye.” Suddenly, his finger tapped your chin, trying to regain your full attention. “I only care what one of them thinks about me.”

Something about the sudden sappiness in public snapped you out of things. You turned a bit on your feet and started walking. “Did you check us in already?”

“I took care of it. Did you want to head in now or wander around the town a while?” His partial pout at ignoring his romanticism could almost be felt physically as he matched his pace with yours.

“I think I’ve had my fun for now.”

A hum, and his hand found your own. Clasping it, guiding you to the hotel as you both walked. It was astonishing how such a move cast a level of camouflage over you two. Suddenly, it was as if you both were a normal couple following the regular flow of foot-traffic, keeping each other warm in the crisp air with the heat of each others close proximity.

If the devil was so callous, why were his hands so tender?…

The rest of the walk was a bit of a blur. The people, buildings, spoken words, all unimportant compared to the sensation of having him near. The elevator ride jostled, giving you some more awareness to your surroundings. A short walk, a brandished key card, and he opened the door for you, the very picture of a perfect gentleman.

If the devil cared not for you, why would he bother with chivalry?

The “room” was huge, with an entire kitchen, walled off bathroom, closed off bedroom, and separate living area. This was more an apartment than a simple hotel room. The luggage was already brought inside, Lucifer’s portion already opened and put away. “Leave it to Diavolo to save you the biggest, fanciest suite in the hotel. If the tub has jets, I’m never leaving.”

“Do you expect the Avatar of Pride, the right hand to royalty, to expect anything less?”

“You’re funny if you think Diavolo wouldn’t give you something like this regardless of your gilded titles. Careful, your sin is showing.” You rolled your eyes and gave him a playful nudge.

He swiveled on his feet and poked your ribs. “You dare push me?” His voice rumbled in amusement deep in his chest. “Rather bold to do to such a dangerous demon.”

“Oh? Is that a threat? Going to take my soul? Well, you’re going to have to get through me first.” Fake punches flew through the air, striking at his chest and face with no force. Although you knew real punches would have the same utterly useless, painless outcome for him.

The world tilted, some of the air leaving your lungs in a giggling gasp as he scooped you up over his shoulder. He twisted, spinning around occasionally to leave you somewhat disoriented until you were plopped down on top of the bed, the whole mattress bobbing. Lucifer hovered over you. “You cannot hope to win, human. You’re mine now.”

Something in your chest fluttered at that. “So you win then, is it? How would you like my soul? Grilled? Blended? Braised?”

One of his hands worked on removing the scarf from around your neck, the back of his index finger tracing the outline of your chin. Just a breath away from being in contact. “Let me see…” Adjusting, rubbing his nose against yours, he waited for that tell-tale sign of permission, of you closing some of the distance. Temptation struck you, flooding in your heart. The plunge was too alluring. You bit of the fruit, and the devil wrapped his clutches around you.

Watch out for the schemes of the devil, who prowls like a beast, waiting for the moment to strike and devour- lips whispering inner desires. Raise up your guard to save yourself from being pulled into darkness, into his embrace, limbs aching and craving. For his claws shall tear and shred in eagerness, unable to contain themselves as they remove the body of protective vestments. He will take the very breath from your lungs. Crush the bones with a heaving chest. Partake of your flesh.

Lucifer raised his head for a moment, letting you both catch your breath. Your thumb traced his bottom lip, puffy and scarlet where you’d nipped it. Red was always a good color for him. That’s why you picked the crimson coat for him today. It matched his cheeks, the end of his ears, his longing eyes.

“Authentically,” he said, answering your question you felt you asked two lifetimes ago. His mouth covered yours as his broad hands squeezed your shoulders. “Slowly…” You could almost feel his hum in the back of your throat as he spoke between kisses. “Bit by bit…” His teeth grazed you top lip. “Over the course of a lifetime…” His affection moved on, venturing out and exploring your cheeks and gently over your eyelids. “So you’ll be right here with me… exactly like this… for a very-“ a searing mark was placed right under your earlobe, against a tingling part of your neck, “…very long time.”

To lie with the devil is to wake up wrapped up in braids of limb and cloth. Tender lips stained with last night’s embrace whisper saccharine words. Cherished is the temporary stillness. Beloved is the lamb who measures the meter of the heartbeat of the wolf. Blessed is the enamored; the ones drowned in their own affection, plunged into the fires of passion, entombed in each other’s chests. The cries of pleasure echoed with ones of mirth. Of declarations and vows held tight between their own teeth. Made to persist an eternity of eternities for existing as the other’s light.

For it's his desire.

[emmyinjapan]

Spotted on Kuzzoko-dori: Betabeta, the Pebble Spirits of Okawa

While exploring Okawa, I stumbled upon these delightful painted pebbles. You’ll often spot them along Kuzzoko-dori and tucked into hidden corners—tiny guardians with beaming faces.

Locals paint these little faces on stones and leave them around town—both a playful nod to the folklore and a friendly greeting to unsuspecting passers-by. Keep an eye out for them on Kuzzoko-dori—it’s like a tiny, magical scavenger hunt, with a sprinkling of spirited tradition and kawaii territory! Total Ghibli vibes!

—Emmy

[cynicalmusings]

Please dont stop with the socrates!reader, its just too good

i was thinking, do you think anaxa would indulge in reader's constant questioning? of course, they'd claim to know nothing, but test anaxa's aswers at every given moment

also, do you think reader would be the type to call him by his full name? have a nice day

anaxa would absolutely indulge in their questioning. he loves having his ideas challenged—he says as much in one of his voicelines—not to mention that his greeting and parting voicelines are legit something like ‘oh, do you have questions? ask away’ and ‘no more questions? ok bye then’. there’s barely a day that goes by without the two of them getting into an intense discussion about the nature of knowledge, reality, morality (epistemology metaphysics and ethics baby)—and most of these probably arise from the most mundane conversations, too, like asking what the other had for breakfast the other day.

i guess the thing about the reader is that it doesn’t matter who they’re talking to when they challenge someone’s ideas; whether it’s a professor or a poor unsuspecting passer-by on the street or a titan, as long as there’s a discussion to be had and assumptions to be challenged, they’ll take it, which is part of what makes them so able and willing to engage with anaxa. he’s also similar in that regard, which he appreciates. moreover, lots of people, including his own students, are put off challenging him because of his reputation, or his attitude, or they’re afraid of making a fool of themselves or saying the wrong thing.

with regards to the full name thing… honestly? i think they would, most of these time. the reader is incisive and direct in their questioning, but they’re not actually disrespectful as a person; they’re pretty polite, and it’s mainly their tendency to question that turns people off rather than their attitude. if anaxa has requested to be called anaxa, they don’t see an overt reason to go out of their way to not call him that. (also, the name isn’t that hard. like. come on. /lh)

but they are also a relatively mischievous person, so they would occasionally call him ‘anaxa’ just to get on his nerves (and give him a little bit of an ego check when he needs it).

[astraphone]

the stubborn grace of being loved regardless

2.2k, blackwall/amber cadash. for as long as they’ve known each other, blackwall and inquisitor cadash have been keeping secrets from each other and from the world. when blackwall’s secret comes to light, amber feels it’s only fair to reveal a truth of her own.

Inquisitor Cadash is no stranger to lies.

Before she was the Herald of Andraste, before she was anyone at all, she was a kid in the slums of Ostwick trying to drum up whatever extra coin she could from unsuspecting passers-by. She was always a charmer, with a knack for convincing anyone that whatever useless trinket she was selling was worth buying. It was all but inevitable, for a surfacer with few other prospects, that her talent would catch the attention of the Carta, using that honeyed tongue to smuggle and sell lyrium to the highest bidder.

Not much has changed in the Inquisition, really. She’s still selling lies to anyone who will listen, just packaged differently and with much higher stakes: yes, I’m the Herald of Andraste. Yes, I’ve been chosen by your god, and yes, that makes me someone you should follow.

She’s not particularly proud of it. But she’s learned by now that what she believes is much less important than what the people around her do. Trick them into thinking you’re something holy, and they’ll move mountains.

As any good liar, Amber knows another when she sees one. She’s always known that Blackwall harbors some dark secret, and of course she’s wondered, but she’s never been one to trouble herself much with people’s pasts. There has always been an implicit understanding between the two of them—one without which she doubts they could have ever attempted a courtship—that their pasts are their own business, and she’s been content to leave it at that.

This, of course, all changes when the bastard goes and turns himself in.

When she goes to see him, he won’t look at her. He glances up briefly as she approaches his cell, just enough to see that it’s her, then returns to staring at his hands from where he kneels on the floor.

A cold panic has been building within Amber since she stood in the crowd before the gallows and heard his confession. He’s going to hang. He’s going to hang for something he did years before he met me, and he’s here on purpose, and he never said goodbye. Some of it recedes as she stands before him, the worst-case scenario of him being lynched by a mob of angry Orlesians not yet come to pass, at least.

“You weren't supposed to find me. You were just supposed to think I was gone.” His voice is a ragged, utterly broken thing.

“So I gathered. I wasn’t supposed to know where you went, or what happened to you, or why you abandoned me in the middle of the night without a word. Too fucking bad, Blackwall.” She’d intended to come in with more empathy for the man who’s certainly having one of the worst days of his life, but her worry for and fury at him have been warring in her mind since his disappearance.

He flinches as though she’d struck him. “I never wanted to hurt you. For what little that’s worth. I thought you’d be happier thinking I was a noble man, a Grey Warden, instead of this.”

She takes a careful step forward and sits cross-legged in front of the bars, easily close enough to touch him. She doesn’t, but he shrinks back anyway, like he’s afraid she might. “Well, I’m here now. You may as well tell me the rest of it.”

He sighs, visibly relaxing by a fraction when she makes no further move towards him. “I suppose it can’t get any worse.”

She sits silently as he tells her all of it. It’s a long story, and her focus slips once around the middle, but he knows the signs of that well enough by now, waiting patiently for her to regather her attention.

When he runs out of words, she’s quiet for another moment, not speaking until something like a plan has formed in her mind. “Okay. This isn’t ideal, but we have a few options. Storming the jail outright is probably unwise, but doable worst-case. Leliana could probably sneak you out, but… I know people who make a living off jail breaks. We’ll just need a delay on your execution, which I’m sure Josephine can arrange…”

She trails off as she realizes that Blackwall is staring at her, disgusted disbelief written plain across his face.

“Are you mad?” He jerks forward, rattling the bars of his cell. “Haven’t you been listening? I deserve to rot in here.”

There’s something almost feral in his eyes, but she doesn’t back away. “Listen to me, Blackwall. Or—” she falters, silently cursing her memory as she struggles to recall the unfamiliar name.

“Rainier,” he mutters.

“Rainier. Whoever. You came here to stop an execution. And that was very brave, and you succeeded, and you dying here isn’t going to make a single thing better. So now I’m going to get you back to Skyhold, and we’ll figure the rest out from there.”

She hadn’t for a second considered doing anything else. This isn’t the first friend Amber has had to break out of jail, or the first lover who’s confessed a crime to her. This, after all, is why she agreed to join the Inquisition—leverage to keep her people safe, no matter the circumstances.

“There’s nothing to figure out,” Blackwall snaps. “You know it all now. There’s no future for me outside this cell, and I was a fool to ever pretend there was.”

Every time he’d warned her they had no future together, she’d assumed he’d been referring to the Warden’s Calling. She’s almost insulted as she realizes that it’s been this all along—this, as if she doesn’t also have blood on her hands.

“You think you’re the only murderer here? I spent twenty years in the Carta. Would you see me hang for it?”

“You left that life behind.”

“So did you.”

“I ran from it, like a coward, and I left my men to die in my place.” He rises suddenly, like he’s unable to bear kneeling in front of her anymore. She stands with him, though he’s so much taller that she has to crane her neck to look at him properly.

“And I didn’t leave the Carta until an opportunity fell into my lap.” Despite her best efforts, her voice is rising to match his. “Let me be clear. I am very fucking angry at you right now, because, again, you left me and went off to die without a damned word. But I know what it’s like to have a past you’re not proud of. Maker, Blackwall, I married into one of the worst Carta families there is. You think I’d turn my back on you over this?”

“As I understand it, your marriage didn’t work out.”

“Because of the future she wanted. Not the past she’d already lived.”

“I’m not a good man, my lady.”

As if she’s a good woman. As if that’s ever been a prerequisite to her heart. “I love you. I don’t care.”

She’s never told him she loved him before, at least not in so many words. She’s certain he already knew, but he flinches again anyway. “You should care.”

“Well, tough shit! Is that a problem?”

“It’s not right! You would drag yourself down with me. You would drag the whole Inquisition down with me if you allowed me to return. You’re better than that, better than using your criminal ties for a traitor and a killer.”

“You—you—” She’s starting to stammer, as she tends to when she’s agitated, and she can’t help the tears of frustration that well in her eyes. She forces a breath, pulls her words together. “You put me on a fucking pedestal, you always have, and you’re wrong. You talk like I’m corrupting the Inquisition for my selfish means, but the Inquisition was built on my selfish means. Do you—do you want to know a secret, Rainier? You told me yours, so it’s only fair. This whole thing is a sham.”

In the end, it’s far easier to say than she thought it would be. One frustrated outburst, and the truth she’s guarded so closely all these months is out there in the world, no taking it back.

“What do you mean?” Blackwall asks slowly after a few agonizing seconds of silence.

“I don’t believe in any of this.” It’s a relief to finally say it out loud; some of the pressure in her chest that’s been there since the Conclave eases, just a bit. “I don’t believe in the Maker, I certainly don’t believe I’m the Herald of Andraste. I’ve been lying since I woke up in Haven, because I saw a chance for a better life and I stole it.”

“But you've always—” Blackwall’s eyes go distant, likely recalling everything he’s ever heard her say about her so-called faith. “What, truly?”

“Truly. And now you’re the only one who knows. So, what will you do? Expose me for a fraud? I won’t stop you.”

“No, I—of course not. I’m just…”

“Rethinking every conversation we’ve ever had?”

That, of all things, gets a snort out of him. “You know the feeling, do you? What a pair we make.”

“Frauds and liars both.”

He sinks back to the floor of his cell, his manic energy apparently spent, and she follows him back down. They sit there quietly for a moment, watching each other from either side of the bars. She wants, so badly, to reach out for him, but she keeps her hands at her sides.

“Was it to get away from the Carta?” He asks finally.

She nods. “I didn’t agree to stay until Leliana promised to bring Ingrid to Haven. I thought being such a… prominent figure would give us some protection if they came looking for us. I never expected it to go this far.”

“You wanted a better life for your daughter. There’s no shame in that.”

“Sure, fine. My reasons were good. But I’m, I’m important now, right? The things I say have weight in the world. And I’m pretending that’s a gift from a higher power and not dumb luck.” She shrugs. “Not saying I mind it, necessarily. Or that I wouldn’t do the same again. But I’m not going to pretend it’s noble.”

“What you do now is noble, though.”

“That’s my point. Look, you told me once that you signed on to the Inquisition because of the person I am, not who I was. One liar to another, maybe that’s what matters. Who are now, and who we want to be.”

And damn it all, she does want to be something better than she was, doesn’t she? However this whole mess started, she’s in too deep to back out now, and she doesn’t think she would if she could.

“You didn’t kill anyone for your lie.” Blackwall, stubborn ass that he can be, is still trying to argue the point.

“That’s not really true, though, is it? People follow me into battle because they think I’m blessed by the Maker. Some of them don't come home.”

“People follow you into battle because they see a woman worth following.”

“And if I weren’t the Herald, they’d see a lyrium-addled Carta thug who can’t think straight half the time.”

He looks aghast. “Surely that’s not how you see yourself?”

“No. But I know how people looked at me before all this. And I’d rather them see something else, even if it’s built on a lie.”

Blackwall’s hands twitch, like he’d been about to reach for her but reconsidered at the last second. “Your people adore you, and not just because you’re the Herald. Your mark closes rifts, but it’s not what makes you a leader, and they know it. Andraste herself could disavow you, and they wouldn’t stop believing in you.” A pause. “I wouldn’t stop believing in you.”

“See, you say things like that to me, and then you wonder why I want you around.” She says it lightly, but he scrubs a hand over his face like he’s just barely holding himself together.

“I—” he breaks off, voice strangled, “I didn’t want to leave you. But you deserve better than this.”

“Damn what I deserve,” she says fiercely. “I want you.”

The sound that comes out of his mouth at that is half-laugh, half-sob. Tentatively, Amber reaches her hand up through the bars to touch the side of his face. He closes his eyes, leaning into the touch.

“You are remarkable, my lady,” he says, barely above a whipser. “And you’re doing good, no matter the reason why you started.”

“So are you.”

He reaches up to take her hand in his, pressing a kiss to it before releasing it back to her. “What happens to me, if you get me out?”

It’s not quite acceptance, but it’s close enough for her to work with. “I haven’t thought that far ahead,” she admits. “But I’m not leaving you to die here.”

“That might not be your choice. Whatever you may want for me, Val Royeaux wants my head on a pike.”

“I wouldn’t worry. I'm the Herald of Andraste, remember?” She winks at him and he finally, finally, gives her a ghost of a smile. “I tend to get what I want.”

Whatever happens next, there are two fewer secrets between them today, and despite the rest, she feels lighter for it.

[rip-quizilla]

Impossible to Hate You ~ Part 4

Pairing: Eddie Munson x fem!Reader

Summary: Summer brings feelings to the surface; maybe not enough to bloom, but certainly enough to grow.

Word Count: 6K

Divider was created by the lovely and talented @hellfire--cult❤️

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Part 4

Summer, 1983

Summers are for (fill in the blank).

For you, summers were for stuffing your piggy bank. For Eddie, summers were for spending his time doing whatever he wanted to do rather than what someone else told him to do.

For Robin, this summer in particular was for keeping score of every time she caught Eddie staring at you from across the corridor in Starcourt mall. He had a clear view of Scoops Ahoy’s serving counter from his checkout counter at Radio Shack, which seemed to be a double-edged sword; he could see you perfectly, with no obstructions other than the odd passers by, but this also meant that Robin could see him ogling you clear as day. 

She had bought a dry-erase board specifically for the purpose of keeping track. The words “Stalker Score” were scrawled across the top in black, sporting a tally mark for each time that she’d caught him staring at you, enraptured by the way you just…Eddie wasn’t sure, exactly. Existed? Moved? Smiled? Glowed? 

Dial it back, Munson. 

Eddie shook his head, dark curls that had escaped from his ponytail swishing around his fluorescent-lit face. The vignette that had formed around you in his mind, blurring out any surrounding details in his periphery, cleared away until he registered Robin Buckley grinning smugly at him from behind your unsuspecting frame. She glowered in the little window behind you, brandishing the white board that now showcased six tallies. 

Shit. He needed to work on his subtlety. 

So far this summer, it had become apparent to Eddie that Robin was under the impression that he had a crush on you. It was ridiculous- was Eddie really the only person at his school besides you who believed in platonic male/female relationships? Was everyone else that small-minded? 

Duh, he reminded himself, you’re in Hawkins. 

Eddie pulled himself out of his reverie when he felt a hand give him a friendly clasp on the shoulder. “You’re good to clock out, Ed, we’re slow enough that I think I’ve got it from here.”

Half-smiling with his eyebrows raised, Eddie turned toward his boss excitedly. “You sure, Bob?”

Bob- Eddie’s manager- smiled kindly, sending a conspiratorial nod towards Scoops Ahoy. “I know you’re going straight over there anyways once you’re done. If you want to thank me, you can bring me over a vanilla shake.” 

Bob was probably the only kind of manager that Eddie could see himself keeping a job for. When you’d suggested he apply for the new Radio Shack opening up across from Scoops at the mall, he’d actually cringed. Like, physically cringed when he pictured himself in a polo and khakis. However, when he thought about how nice it would be to have some money to throw Wayne- not to mention play around with for himself- he’d actually seen more pros than cons. When Eddie had actually been offered the job, he was surprised by how much he actually enjoyed the idea of working over the summer. Part time employment meant his shifts only lasted about five to six hours, and because the location was new, Bob had been happy to accommodate Eddie’s request to line his schedule up with yours. 

Because he was your ride to work. Not because he was some kind of stalker or anything. 

Eddie grabbed his things from a small cubby in the back with his name on it, hopping into the staff restroom/supply closet to change out of his uniform. Summer was a respite from daily encounters with asshats who seemed to think close proximity was the only reason they needed to beat him up. Eddie wasn’t about to stroll out of his place of work in khakis and a firetruck-red polo and give said asshats a different reason to make giving the freak a black eye their summer pastime, too.

Your smile when Eddie entered Scoops was sunlight after an afternoon bathed in artificial light. Surrounded by the overwhelming and tempting scent of vanilla and waffle cones, he wondered whether the sudden increase in his heart rate was a sugar rush he was getting simply from the sight of you. Was it possible for something to look so sweet, it spiked your blood sugar?

“Bob let you off early!” you said, cheerily. You were shoulder-deep in a tub of rocky road, scraping the last delicious bits of chocolate goodness from the crevices at the bottom before replacing the tub entirely. 

A small boy stood with his mother at the counter, waiting patiently for you to finish scooping his ice cream. Eddie didn’t miss the way the mother looked at Eddie- his ripped black jeans, his Iron Maiden tee, his bag that sported pins and patches displaying various offensive words and quite a few hellish creatures drawn in sharpie on the canvas material by Eddie himself. He saw her eyes harden in disapproval as she tugged her kid protectively closer to her leg. 

You, however, smiled at him like he was the most harmless thing in the world- and to you, that’s exactly who he was. Harmless Eddie. Familiar Eddie. Couldn’t hurt a fly even if he tried Eddie. 

He was okay with you seeing him that way. It meant that you let your guard down for him- it was like you had a fence around the real you, the parts of you that he had never really seen before this year. Eddie was harmless, so you trusted him with those parts of you- and now that he’d been allowed behind that fence? He never wanted to leave. You were becoming his favorite exclusive, VIP-access-only club. 

“Yeah, and all I have to give him in return is a vanilla shake.” Eddie leaned against the counter, batting his eyelashes at you as he gave you an award-winning smile. 

You raised an eyebrow, nestling a perfect sphere of rocky road into a cake cone and handing it to the little boy over the counter as the mother handed you a five. “Well sure thing, one vanilla shake, coming up!” you opened the register and handed the mother her change as your eyes landed on Eddie, “That’ll be $2.50.” You punctuated your sentence with the mechanical sound of the cash drawer closing. 

The mother was quick to take her son by the hand and turn tail to exit, but not without throwing one last disapproving glance in Eddie’s direction. He thought about flipping her the bird, but with you here, he felt like taking the high road. Eddie met you at the register, setting his elbows on the counter and pouting. 

“But what about the best friend discount?”

Robin appeared in the window behind the counter as if summoned on the spot. “Excuse me, the what discount?” 

You replied to Robin without looking, keeping your eyes on Eddie. “Robin, a person can have multiple best friends, this isn’t the fifth grade.” Unbeknownst to you, behind your back was an ever-so-smug Robin Buckley, adding a tally to the Stalker Score. 

Eddie shook his head, lips pressed tightly together. She was quick to hide the board when you glanced over your shoulder to see what Eddie was shaking his head about. You shrugged, smiling wryly at Eddie. “I’m assuming the ‘best friend discount’ is free?”

He smiled widely, nodding ‘yes’ with eyes that reminded you of a toddler begging for a cookie. You tried to hold your ground, you really did… but those eyes were your kryptonite. 

You sighed, shaking your head exasperatedly as you began scooping vanilla ice cream and dropping it into the blender bowl. 

This was how most days went now- without school to hinder either of you from spending your time how you wanted to, you both spent the majority of your time with each other. Sometimes Robin was there too, or some of the Hellfire guys, but you were always together. At first, the reason for that had been your lack of a car- but the third week of summer vacation, you’d received a call from the mechanic that your old sedan was finally road-ready. Eddie had driven you there to pick it up, and if he was being honest with himself, he’d been genuinely afraid that this meant the end of your constant company. He’d been surprised when he received a call from you the next day asking why he wasn’t parked in front of your house, ready to drive you to work.

“You aren’t driving yourself?” He’d asked, confused. 

Your voice was crackly over the phone, but he could still hear your frustrated sigh. “We work across the hall from each other, Eddie, we save on gas if we carpool.” 

Relief washed over him like summer rain. It nurtured the soil, helped his confidence grow taller. 

“I’m not sure you’ve ever even offered to split gas with me, ace.” Eddie leaned his shoulder against the wall, fiddling with the telephone cord as a smirk got cozy on his lips. “Is this you offering?”

You huffed out a laugh. “I walked right into that one.” 

Eddie shook his head, cheeks hurting from the size of his smile. “Sure did.” he chuckled. “But I would never ask you to pay, seriously. Just throw me free ice cream every once in a while.”

“I will do no such thing, that’s against company policy-”

“I’ll be at your house in five!” Eddie chirped, interrupting you completely, “If you can have a scoop of cookies & cream ready for me at the end of my shift, that’d be great!”

He snorted upon hearing your scoff across the line. “Oh, it’d be great, huh?”

“And do you guys do that chocolate fudge dip thing? Yeah, if you could just drench that fucker in chocolate sauce too, that’d be spectacular, ace.”

“Since when am I ‘ace’?”

“See you in five, ace!”

Even though you didn’t need to catch a ride with Eddie, you still did. Your car worked perfectly fine, and yet you barely drove it. You enjoyed those precious moments with him too much to give them up. He drove you to work. He drove you to Robin’s. He drove you to Gareth’s whenever he had band practice (you loved tagging along, even if it was just to sit and listen. Sometimes you brought a book and pretended to read it. Sometimes you didn’t have enough self control, and just stared the whole time- Eddie getting lost in the music, you getting lost in him.)

When the temperatures got unbearably hot, Eddie drove you and Robin to Lovers’ Lake. The three of you would make a day out of it, bringing towels to lay across the sun-bleached wood of the dock and a cooler filled with sodas even though you all knew you should probably be drinking water- but you were young and stupid in little, non-life-threatening ways. You let yourselves get drunk on the sun and each other’s company.

For Eddie, lake days were dangerous. 

He had always known that your body was not a difficult thing to look at- he wasn’t blind. But there had always been a barrier between Eddie and the understanding of just how not difficult to look at you were. That barrier had been clothes. 

The first lake day, you’d climbed into his van wearing trendy, high-waisted shorts and a cropped tee. Safe. Basic summer clothes. Eddie hadn’t thought much of it. 

Then, once the three of you had set up all of your things on the dock, you kicked off your flip flops, brought your fingers to the waistband of your shorts, and unbuttoned. Then, Eddie heard the sound of your zipper. And he just…froze. Because he knew what happened next, and in the back of his head he knew it made sense that you were taking your shorts off in front of him, out here in the open- you were probably wearing your swimsuit under there. You were at the lake, so of course he was going to see you in a swimsuit. Duh. It wasn’t a big deal. 

But then your ass just… popped out of your shorts. 

You brought the shorts down over your hips, and that ass… he saw a lot of your ass. You were the kind of girl that kept up with the trends, and the current trend was a very high-cut hip. You delivered. Your hips were front and center, accentuated by the cut of your suit. The morning’s movement had caused the fabric to wedge itself further…up. In? Eddie didn’t know which preposition to use, but he knew he was thankful for it all the same. Your back was bare, save for just about an inch of fabric that made up the strap of your top. He saw more skin than fabric, more skin on you than he’d ever seen. His brain was short circuiting. 

You turned. He forgot to look away. When your eyes locked on his, you smiled shyly. You’d hoped he would look at you. You had bought this suit despite your better judgment- normally you didn’t show this much skin, but for Eddie you wanted to. You wanted him to see you and want you. 

And want you he did. Eddie did everything he could to hide it, but oh… every time he laid eyes on you, he never wanted to stop looking. It was a problem. Specifically, his problem was that little fleshy part where your hip became your thigh, where your fat folded just so and formed a little sideways V-shaped crease. He wanted to touch that spot on your skin, wanted to grasp it, palm it, lick it, bite it. 

This was bad.

Eddie wasn’t supposed to see you that way. That wasn’t part of the plan- you were his friend, he wasn’t willing to jeopardize that friendship just because he saw you in a bikini and liked what he saw. Liked it a lot. Platonic, guy-girl friends were all he would ever let himself see the two of you as, because anything else came with a whole lot of complications that he really didn’t want to have to navigate. Was terrified to learn how to navigate.

Besides- friendship was simpler. Comfortable. It almost scared him how comfortable it felt, being around you. Eddie had never been good at romance; never allowed the warm fuzzies and butterflies to evolve into anything more than pulling a girl’s pigtails or swiping his sweaty palms on his thighs.

Or dressing up like Jason and scaring girls through their bedroom windows. 

Whatever. Eddie could handle this. He was mature enough to simultaneously want to squeeze the skin of your hips and know that he shouldn’t. Won’t. 

He was mature enough. Seventeen years old, practically a grown-ass man. 

Growing ass man. Definitely an ass man. Growing harder by the second, staring at that ass. 

Good lord. Horny bastard, calm the fuck down.

You giggled out a girlish squeal, shielding yourself from the splash of the lake water from Eddie’s cannonball that sprayed you where you sat on the deck. Eddie hadn’t had much of a choice- you and Robin would only see his burgeoning boner while it was above water, so underwater he went. 

When his head popped above the surface, however, he accidentally gasped water into his nose and lungs when he realized he was eye-level with where you sat on the deck, dangling your toes into the water. He hoped his coughing hid the effect you had on him, a vision of midwest summer decadence. 

Knees, shining with sunscreen that glinted in the sun. Thighs met hips. Hips met love handles, creasing into a little dip that made his dick go from halfie to hard-on.

You were not going to make this easy on him. It was almost like you were trying to get him to break his vow to keep things platonic, because the things he wanted to do between those thighs right now were not platonic. Were you doing this on purpose?

Eddie escaped underwater, and you giggled smugly in his absence. 

Yes. Yes, you were.

“He was staring at you so hard, I thought he was going to set fire to the deck.”

Ever since Eddie had dropped you and Robin off at your house, she had been spending the better part of an hour trying to get you to admit that there was even the most remote possibility that Eddie might like you back.

You’d finally admitted it to yourself before the end of the school year; you were head over heels for Eddie Munson, fallen victim to a crush of the highest degree. You were aware… but that didn’t mean you were ready to admit it to Robin, especially after an entire few months’ worth of time repeating to her over and over that you and Eddie were “just friends”.

Which was true, but that didn’t mean you wanted things to stay that way. 

“He’s a teenage boy and I was next to naked,” you said, trying not to grin like an idiot (and failing). “-of course he was going to look. That doesn’t mean he like likes me.”

Robin raised an eyebrow. “He was like liking you so hard, I think I saw him drool.” Throwing herself onto the edge of your bed, she grabbed the magazine you’d begun half-heartedly flipping through and flung it to the floor. 

“Hey! I was reading that!”

“Bullshit, you’re avoiding your feelings.” Robin leaned in, burning a discerning, focused stare into your retinas. “Look me in the eye and tell me you’re not crazy for that dingus.”

You wanted to meet her challenge, you really did… but instead, you squeezed your eyes tight, sighed heavily, and let the words rush out at a rapid speed that rivaled your pounding heart. “I can’t, I am crazy for that dingus.”

“I KNEW IT!”

You clutched desperately at her knees, which were tucked excitedly up to her chin to frame her giddy expression upon hearing your admission. “You can. Not. Tell him.” You pleaded, desperation in your eyes.

Robin was cackling in the face of your pain, still high on the feeling of being so incredibly correct. “Oh I’m not telling him anything.” She giggled matter-of-factly. “You are.”

You blanched, taken aback and immediately defensive. “Like hell I am!” you screeched. “I am doing no such thing, thank you.” 

“What’s the harm? He is so blatantly in love with you, it’s hard not to laugh when I see his big ‘ole ridiculous goo-goo eyes-”

“Whoa, I think ‘in love’ is a very strong way to put-”

Robin’s eyes were comically wide. “Because the way he feels is very strong!” Her arms were flung out to either side, flabbergasted at how blind you could be to something that, from her angle, was clear as day. “Eddie Munson feels very strongly about you, if he feels any stronger, he’s gonna combust. You might combust.”

You rolled your eyes. “That’s a massive exaggeration.”

“Or…” A smile crept onto Robin’s lips, eyes narrowing slyly. “...you both just get so pent up that you combust together-”

Whatever might have followed that sentence was cut short by a pillow thrown into Robin’s face, met with muffled cackling on her end and helpless groans on yours. “What am I going to do?” you whined, flinging yourself back onto your mattress and smacking your palms over your eyes as if applying pressure might just ease the anxiety in your chest and the butterflies that fluttered lower when you thought about her insinuation. What might that look like- combusting together? 

“Well, the way I see it,” Robin chirped, entirely too happy about your situation, “-you have two options. Either you make the first move, or you sit and wait for him to do it.”

You remained unmoved, eyes covered in your anguish. “What about a third option, where I keep on doing the same thing I’ve been doing and acting normal and just crushing so hard I want to cry while I pretend that everything is fine?”

Robin was silent for a few long moments before finally jabbing you in your side and causing you to yelp and convulse away from her. She knew you too well- your subtleties, your tickle spots, and especially when you were in denial. 

“One of you is going to crack eventually,” Robin said, “and unless you want to wait around for Eddie Munson, lord of avoiding his problems- another way that you two are a match, by the way, you’re masters of evasive action- then I suggest you make the first move.”

You considered her words- Eddie was a serial procrastinator. If Robin was right, and he did like you back, he would probably rather wait around for you to say something about it before making any moves himself. 

So the question was, were you willing to bring it up? To change your whole friendship, flip everything you two had built since the spring, based on the hope that he might return your feelings? 

“Worst case scenario,” Robin continued, “he doesn’t like you back.”

“And he stops talking to me.” you added glumly.

“I don’t think he could if he tried.” Robin smiled. “Look, whether it’s romantic, sexual, platonic, whatever-” you exaggerated a shiver at the word sexual in the context of Eddie Munson, even though the two of you knew quite well that you were anything but disgusted by the idea. “-he’s crazy about you. Whatever you think that means, it’s probably right.”

You grinned shyly, ducking your head lower to avoid Robin’s eyes. “I’m pretty crazy about him too.” 

Now it was Robin’s turn to smack you with a pillow. “Yeah, no shit!” she guffawed. 

The two of you descended into giggles, and for the rest of the evening Robin continued to pester you with quips about Eddie and your massive crush on him. Each time you pretended to be annoyed, but in actuality each joke about how you loooooved him just solidified the idea in your mind of the two of you as an item. You imagined Eddie holding doors open for you in a boyfriend way. Stopping by your work to pester you, but the way a boyfriend would. 

Boyfriend. Boyfriend. Boyfriend. 

Eddie Munson, your boyfriend.

You wanted to speak it out loud, just to taste it on your tongue. 

To capture it in a polaroid. To feel it in your hand. His hand, yours. 

Boyfriend. 

Eddie cared a lot about his clothes. 

You knew this, it wasn’t a surprise to you. Everything about him projected the type of man he wanted to be perceived as, so his appearance was- unsurprisingly- carefully curated to his tastes. 

Now, he seemed to think that his own personal aesthetic needed to extend to you as well. 

“Eds, I already have enough shirts, why do you keep handing me shirts? I need shoes-”

Your sentence was cut short by Eddie piling yet another T-shirt and a matching flannel into your arms. You were sure that whatever the limit was for how many items you could bring into the fitting room of this store at a time, you were pushing it. 

“Come on, just try them on for me? Please?” Eddie’s hazelnut eyes rounded out in a pout that you knew would be the death of you one day if you weren’t careful. “I don’t know if you’re ever gonna let me pick out your clothes again, the opportunity to dress you up like a paper doll is just too good to pass up. Humor me?”

You sighed heavily, making your way to the fitting rooms and hoping Eddie wasn’t perceptive enough to notice that you were a little too happy that he was so excited to look at you in any capacity, even if it was technically the clothes he was excited about and not necessarily you. 

If Eddie could hear your thoughts, however, he’d argue that you couldn’t be farther from the truth. He didn’t want to dress just anyone up in a wardrobe of his own design- no, he wanted to see you in clothes that he picked out. 

See, Eddie had been fantasizing about you more and more lately. Not in a weird way… just in a ‘it would be kind of cool to see my best friend wearing the kind of clothes that I like to wear’ kind of way. Was that weird? Regardless, Eddie had convinced himself that it wasn’t weird. 

So there you were, shoving a plethora of denim, flannel and T-shirts into a fitting room. Sure, you owned a flannel or two for when the weather got chilly, as well as at least one pair of black jeans. You had a trusty denim jacket. Why was Eddie so hell-bent on seeing you in these clothes specifically?

You understood once the clothes were on. 

“Eddie?” 

“Yeeees?” You could tell from his voice that he was smiling on the other side of the fitting room door. 

Unable to hold back a smirk as you assessed your reflection, you replied, “Was it your intention to turn me into the female version of you?”

Eddie’s heart just about skipped a beat. His palms were suddenly clammy, his face hot. Why did the idea of that turn him on so much? It’s not like they were his clothes. 

You in his clothes. Now Eddie was picturing it. Picturing it… then shaking his head hard enough to make the image fall out his ears. Focus, Munson.

“Bold of you to assume you look as good in black as I do, ace-”

And then you opened the door. 

Black jeans with rips at the knees. Forest green flannel tied snug at your waistband. Tight black cotton hugging your curves and puckering at your chest. A denim vest hanging loosely over your frame, allowing bare shoulders to peek out the sides. 

Eddie’s heart just… stopped. You looked adorable. Fierce. Terrifying and brilliant. You somehow took all of the things he associated with himself and had turned them into things he liked. On him, these clothes looked rebellious to Eddie; they were like armor, meant to scare- keep those who might harm him at a distance. On you? They looked beautiful, striking-

“Amazing.”

Eddie saw your eyes light up and quickly realized he’d said that last part out loud.

 “Amazing!” he repeated, this time, slightly less aghast and more enthusiastic, as if he’d known the whole time that you would rock the metalhead look even better than he did. As if the sight of you in a denim vest that looked an awful lot like his didn’t have this effect on him. “But you’re missing something.”

And then his hands were brushing the skin of your shoulders, pushing the denim vest down your arms. You didn’t fight him as he worked, focusing on the way your arms shifted behind your back, the way your chest inflated forward with the motion just enough for the peak of your chest to kiss the lapels of his leather jacket. If he noticed, he didn’t show it. You hoped that he couldn’t see the evidence that you’d noticed through the fabric of your black tank top.

Haphazardly folding the vest and placing it on the floor of your fitting room, Eddie then began to remove his own jacket. He slinked behind you and held the black leather as if to drape it across your shoulders, but stopped just short of letting the body-heated lining touch your skin. You realized he was waiting for you to reach your arm back and thread it through the sleeve, so you obliged. 

Eddie’s face was so close; you felt the stray baby hairs at his shoulders tickle your chin when you barely turned your head. As you worked your other arm into the sleeve, he exhaled a little heavier and you felt it as it blessed the back of your neck. You reveled in the goosebumps that rolled down your arms; wanted to know what that breath might feel like everywhere else- anywhere else.

He bent to pick up the vest and hand it to you, but then stopped short as he caught you looking at the new and improved outfit in the full-length mirror. You stared at yourself, decked out in black and plaid but infatuated with the fact that you were wearing a part of him. 

Eddie dropped the vest back to the floor, standing up straight again behind you. He didn’t move away, didn’t move to step back and relinquish your personal space- something about seeing the way your eyes couldn’t leave the black leather in your reflection was acting as some sort of visual pheromone. He couldn’t look away, wanted to melt into the light that he’d never noticed refracted off the surface of that jacket until you were the one it clothed. He wanted to drape himself over you the same way the jacket had, wanted to beat this jacket’s record for square inches of your skin being touched at the same time. 

You had no oxygen left when you saw the way his face had slotted itself in the right angle of your neck and shoulder, had no resolve left to put on a brave face and pretend you weren’t molten beneath these foreign clothes. Your jaw went slack, eyes wide and wanting. His gaze was…possessive, if you dared to call it that. With it, he painted you in his image and signed his name in black leather. 

You would be a willing canvas if only he asked. Was this him asking? Dressing you up like his own personal paper doll? 

Eddie Munson’s doll. You liked the sound of that.

“I’d get it if you didn’t want to walk around school in my jacket,” Eddie said, his voice barely more than a whisper. “If anyone recognized it as mine, you might get some…”

“...unwanted attention?” you finished for him. 

Unwanted. Of course that’s what you thought it would be. Eddie moved to take the jacket from you, but your hand flew up to stop him. 

Your fingers curled around his hand, a vice on his skin that begged like a child pleading for five more minutes. “Can I keep it on, actually?”

Eddie froze, confused. Hadn’t you just admitted that you didn’t want the attention that would come with wearing his jacket around?

“It’s cold in the mall.” You looked at him with wide eyes that shone in the fluorescent lights, and for a second he let himself believe that maybe you wouldn’t mind being seen with him; wearing him. Of course people at school knew that you hung out with him, but wearing a boy’s jacket told a different story, sent a different message. Did you know that? Would you mind that?

“Uh, yeah… you sure?” Eddie breathed the words like smoke, exhaling them into your air after holding them in to mull over until he was sure about them. However, the smile on your face when you answered knocked any air left from his lungs.

“Of course I’m sure…wearing it feels like you.”

His lips revealed a smirk that you’d been sorely missing. “Feels like me, huh?” his hand darted out to squeeze your side, causing you to squeak as your waist went concave, bending away from his fingers on instinct. You giggled, breathy Eddie! Stop!s bouncing out of you as you avoided his hands that made to take advantage of the tickle spot he’d long since figured out. 

“What’s the matter, ace? Thought you liked the way I feel?”

His fingers wiggled mischievously, and you retreated into the fitting room before closing the door in his face. “No,” your voice rang through the door, “I like the way your jacket feels.”

Bullshit. Eddie had heard you. No amount of saving face now on your end would be able to wipe the joy from his smile. 

Feels like you. Wearing it feels like you.

You changed in silence, Eddie separated from you only by a vinyl door about one inch thick. On your side, you pulled his leather jacket back on, pulling the collar up around your neck until it enveloped your skin the way you wanted Eddie to. You quietly inhaled the scent of the well-loved leather, smiling at the way his jacket so eagerly melted into your reflection, like it had belonged there the entire time.

On the other side of the door, Eddie leaned against the wall dividing your fitting room from the next. One tennis-shoed foot rested up against the wall, propping up his knee. Hands slotted into his jeans’ pockets, face tilted upward- he would have made the perfect picture of nonchalance had he not been smiling like a lovesick fool at the ceiling. 

When you finally emerged, the two of you walked toward the counter to pay for your new clothes until something caught your eye, bright enough to stop you in your tracks. 

Platform Chuck Taylors. Canvas dyed a gorgeous stewed-cherry shade of red, the soles still shiny and new- a whole two inches thick- with that trademark black stripe down the middle. Eddie watched as you stared at the beautiful shoes, and he could have sworn he saw the pupils of your eyes turn to little hearts.

And then he watched you check the price tag.

A pained hiss came from your lips as that little sticker on the bottom of the shoe dashed your wish before his eyes. Eddie winced, slightly afraid of the answer. “How bad?”

You shook your head sadly. “They’re $45, which is absolutely ridiculous. A regular pair is only twenty!”

Even twenty dollars for a pair of shoes was pushing it for Eddie; he was a thrifty guy, excited to find a new-ish pair of sneakers at the secondhand store for less than $5. However, Eddie wasn’t going to tell you that. He took pride in what he wore, kept his things clean and in good condition for as long as they would serve their purpose. He was raised by Wayne to be that way.

You wound up purchasing a classic white pair of Chucks instead. “They’re just shoes,” you’d said, “and how often would I really have worn platforms anyways? I’ll get much more use out of these.” But Eddie didn’t miss the way you glanced longingly back at the cherry-red dream shoes. They’re what tugged on his heartstrings enough to make him do something stupid. 

Back to school shopping with Wayne was one of the old man’s least frugal times of the year. First impressions, he’d always said, are everything, boy. Start the year fresh, and you wipe the slate clean. It’s a new year, so you’ll need a new pair of shoes, brand spankin’ new. 

Each August, Wayne would hand Eddie a twenty dollar bill. It was meant to go toward a new pair of school shoes. And this year, they would still go toward that. 

They just wouldn’t be Eddie’s.

In the middle of your lunch at the food court, Eddie pretended to go to the bathroom. He was gone a little longer than what would usually be considered normal for a restroom break, and he knew that you’d give him shit for taking a shit when he got back. But it would be worth it.

In actuality, he had the sales associate at the store hold the red shoes for him. He’d return to purchase them after dropping you off at home, and he rationalized this decision by saying he’d just give them to you in a few months as a Christmas present. He would have bought you one eventually anyway… what was the harm in spending the money a little early?

His face hurt from smiling. Funny, he’d been smiling so much more this year that he was surprised that the muscles in his face weren’t used to it by now. You did that to him- you, the girl who’d run around the playground in red mary janes. You, the girl who’d chased him down on Halloween. You, who’d somehow gotten him to think a little higher of himself and start believing he might be worth a damn. 

Looking up as he re-entered the food court after securing those red chucks in his name, his grin went from subtle to blinding when he laid eyes on you once again. 

You, the girl who wanted to keep wearing his jacket because it felt like him.

Part 5

Taglist: @emma77645, @rustboxstarr, @sheneedsrocknroll92

[furorsopher]

wanna see a magic trick?

Two Of The Same

CHAPTER ONE

“Hamilton!”, Meade called, waving a letter in his hand. “For you, from a… uh… well, you have to decipher this not me”, he shrugged, vanishing back into the main tent they had set up station in to write when Washington was away.

The called man sighed in annoyance and rolled his eyes, but gave into the request, sauntering in direction of the tent entrance. Since Laurens had departed, he had become more and more irritable, the others liked to tease him about it, calling him ‘lovesick maiden’, especially Meade. Despite Hamilton not being able to disagree with them entirely, it was embarrassing how much his emotions were dependent on his dear friend’s presence - or absence in this case.

He had written quite the letter to the other not long ago, and then had regretted his spilled feelings thoroughly, but when he had realised this it had already been too late to catch Meade on his morningly way for the post office.

When he opened the flaps of the tent with a little more force than necessary, he slipped on the muddy ground. Luckily he could avoid the chair that stood only a foot away in his path, presumably having been placed there to hold the fabric and let air in though the resulting opening, but it had failed along the way somewhere and now just blocking the entrance like a trap to unsuspecting and aggressive passer-throughs. Unluckily though, avoiding crashing into the chair meant landing face first on the few wooden boards that were hurriedly placed to give the ground at least some stability in the dirt.

“Goodness, Hamilton!”, he heard a familiar voice. Strong hands grabbed his arms and pulled him up sooner than he could right himself. When he rubbed the shock out of his eyes, he saw a pale, freckled face with eyes that looked like windows to the sky leaning over his figure.

“Laurens…”, he whispered, perplexed. The young man lifted him to stand.

“Are you quite alright? You did not hit your head, did you?”, the blond quickly scanned his hairline for any blood or immediate bruising.

“Come, sit”, he was led to another chair at the table in the center, seeming gigantic in the small room. He could only stare up at the other, who was still looking a little worriedly at him.

Then he was suddenly pulled out of his stupor, feeling his face redden with embarrassment at staring at the other for so long.

“Oh, Lord, Laurens. What are you doing here, I thought you had been sent on business.”

The blond pouted in faux-offence: “Are you not glad to see me? And I could ask you exactly the same!”

The shorter - of course - took this way too seriously, stuttering an apology that he was of course happy to see him, while Laurens broke into loud laughter.

Oh, how he had missed that laugh. It shut Hamilton right up, now just sitting and smiling at what he had now realised as small jest.

Then he heard a amused snort from the other end of the table that surprised him so much he nearly fell backward with the chair, if it were not for his friend behind him catching him again and now laughing even harder at him.

He had never met the two men before him. They both looked like people he had definitely seen in St. Croix. One with black hair and the shadow of facial hair looked eerily similar to one of neddie’s father’s captains, the other looked like any other mixed child he had seen around, especially in the families around their shop at the port. What did not fit into the Nevis-ness of them was their uniform. It did look quite similar to their own, but there were some differences - mainly that their own were never quite as clean as the others’. They both looked amused at the scene before them.

Hamilton immediately stood - fighting against the usual wave of dizziness that came with it - and extended his hand to them both.

“Excuse me, gentlemen, Alexander Hamilton, at your service”, he introduced himself as they shook hands.

“John Laurens”, the brown haired one said. The ginger glanced in the direction of the blond namesake, but did not seize to smile politely. John was a very popular name, and Laurens (or Laurence or similar spellings of the same pronunciation) were quite common in the colonies as well.

He had to keep up appearances at any cost. He had already been too impolite in not acknowledging them immediately, too open in the few moments they had seen him look at John. Are you not supposed to be above making stupid mistakes, he scolded himself in thought.

“Alexander Hamilton”, the other said and their handshake slowed. A strange coincidence. Very strange indeed. But despite this, Hamilton still tried to save his first impression to be a good one as always. He stepped back to Laurens’ side.

In any case, however eerie the sudden appearance of his dear friend hundreds of miles of where he thought him to be and two other men, and the disappearance of Kidder was, he had a letter to open and Meade to insult for disrupting his previous task.

“John, do you might know where Meade has gone? He was the one who called me here… a letter”, he asked, but the other only shrugged.

“Hamilton, I do not even recall Meade or yourself accompanying us south, so no, I do not.”

“What….”

“I had meant to enter my tent and found myself here in this one instead, soon after Mr. Hamilton and then Mr. Laurens arrived, and immediately after, you.”

The ginger looked confused. How could this be?

“My story isn’t that far off from Mr. Laurens’ I meant to enter the general tent and came out here”, the other Hamilton suddenly spoke. The other Laurens made a noise of affirmation at his side. Well that didn’t explain anything.

“Have you not tried to simply… leave?”, he tried, but the reaction of the others were immediate ’NO’s. Hamilton put his hands up defensively.

“There’s… nothing… outside”, the other Laurens said. The other two nodded grimly.

After a short moment of silence, Hamilton sat down again, three other chairs being pulled out a moment after.

“So what shall we do?”, it came from his Laurens. Oh, this double names was too confusing for his already barely hanging on brain, so he settled to simply call his Laurens ‘John’, at least for the time being.

“Wait for somebody else to arrive?”, the other Hamilton - Goodness Gracious, there were too many names… maybe he’d just call himself Alexander for now - proposed. All nodded in approval.

Another long, awkward moments silence.

“So!”, Hamilton put his fists on the table with a visibly nervous smile.

“Another Hamilton-Laurens alliance? Funny to meet you.”

The way Hamilton spoke irked Alexander somehow. It seemed… too casual.

John on the other hand didn’t seem to be bothered by the newcomers tone more than being described as in an “alliance” with Alexander, and the shorter of the pair could see a slight tint of pink in his cheeks and an unsavoury expression in his eyes.

After a moment of silence, Hamilton turned to Laurens and looked at him weirdly, Laurens shrugged.

Goodness, his head hurt from this. It all went to fast, he could not keep up and these strange people were just…

“Who are you”, Alexander asked curtly. The two looked unsure for a moment, young. They seemed more their age than the ancient, stone-cold look in most young men’s eyes in this chaotic time. They seemed to have retained their boyishness into adulthood, and did not seem bothered by it. Alex had to admit himself a little jealous.

“We are who we said we are”, Laurens started slowly.

“No, I know that. I want to know who you are, where you originate from.”

They gave each other that suspicious look again. John put a gentle hand on his shoulder, which made the high-strung man jump.

“Alex… what are you doing”, he asked quietly. He decided to pointedly ignore the blonde.

“I’m an orphan… I hail from the Caribbean”, the boy answered, smiling awkwardly. Alexander sat in awe.

Then the other took initiative to fulfil his ask: “South Carolina, my father is Henry Laurens.”

Now John’s hand on Alex’s shoulder tightened, he looked back at him. The blond leaned back in his chair with a furrowed brow and an unbelieving expression. Good Lord, how had he missed that handsome face… but he could not dwell on it long, as the confirmation of his suspicion fully set in.

There was one more of a person than usual.

————————————————————————

@transmascmarypoppins maybe you’d appreciate this? :D

@oddly-gendered-siren you wanted to be tagged :3

[cellarspider]

30/30 One last thing.

(Previous) | (Index) | ⛬

⛬

We have come to the end of Prometheus. But depending on how you’re feeling about death of the author right now, it’s not. Not quite yet.

Because Ridley Scott had some things to say after Prometheus came out.

Two months after the movie's release, Ridley Scott gave an interview. Its original home has succumbed to link rot, but it’s still available in a couple places, in the Internet Archive and within the corporate acquisition mass that is Fandango, featuring a weird note of brand revisionism in the relabeling of the interviewer’s affiliation.

Now. Let’s begin by saying this: A movie is a movie. The things around a movie are not the movie. This seems obvious, but it’s to say that a single creative work can be viewed entirely free of outside context, and in most cases it’s best to assume that it will. If a director comes out later and tells people what their intent was, then that’s not part of the movie.

…But it can still sit in your brain for years, leaping out to ambush unsuspecting passers-by.

So! This interview. Ohhh, this interview. I’d forgotten most of it, because the final lines of it just knocked the top of my head clean off, so we’ll be discovering bits of this together.

We start from the end of the movie, with the interviewer asking about the openness of the ending to a sequel. Scott, among other things, said:

“I’d love to explore where the hell [Dr. Shaw] goes next and what does she do when she gets there, because if it is paradise, paradise can not be what you think it is. Paradise has a connotation of being extremely sinister and ominous.”

This came across well in the movie, though it was festooned with the random bit of organic bigotry from Shaw toward David. A short answer won’t capture everything, so I still have no idea if Scott intended for that to be so brayingly insensitive, this is the guy who was fine with Joel Edgerton as Ramses II. In any case, Paradise might be ominous, but Shaw’s not bringing along ideas that will improve it by any means.

This isn’t really the film we eventually got from Alien: Covenant. Is that bad? Honestly, I don’t know that either. Shaw as a character did not have a lot of depth in this movie. Noomi Rapace ended up playing her hurt very well by the end of it, but if that’s your standard of quality in horror acting, then Josh Stewart’s leading role in the grungy Saw-adjacent movie The Collector (2009) will serve you well.

I think they could have built something out of her character, but they didn’t. David is definitely the stand-out character from Prometheus, and they do at least focus on him quite a lot. But I’ve yet to watch Covenant, partly because the structure of it does not interest me. Also, because I’ve heard about what David does when he shows up on the new planet, and bad things happening to crowds are one thing that can make my brain wig out something awful.

Speaking of the Engineers, Scott speaks about their character:

“they’re such aggressive f**kers … and who wouldn’t describe them that way, considering their brilliance in making dreadful devices and weapons that would make our chemical warfare look ridiculous? So I always had it in there that the God-like creature that you will see actually is not so nice, and is certainly not God.” 

Again, we find ourselves at the casual gnosticism of the movie, in which the Engineers are kind of the demiurge in this context. Some christian-influenced people assume that if there is a true god, it must be omnibenevolent, and find the violent and threatening behavior depicted in the Old Testament to be at odds with their understanding of divinity. A lack of benevolence is seen as a sign that the figure depicted must be something else, something that may think that it is a god, but it is not truly, regardless of its role as a creator. Hence, the gnostic idea of the demiurge.

But Scott also seems to confirm my suspicion that he’s not aware he’s recreating gnostic cosmogony through Prometheus, because he doesn’t reach for any of the older sources or the language around him. He instead invokes a rather surface reading of Paradise Lost:

“ In a funny kind of way, if you look at the Engineers, they’re tall and elegant … they are dark angels. If you look at [John Milton’s] Paradise Lost, the guys who have the best time in the story are the dark angels, not God. He goes to all the best nightclubs, he’s better looking, and he gets all of the birds. [Laughs]”

Setting aside the fact that Paradise Lost ends with all the fallen angels having a bad time because God’s turned them into snakes, I will give Scott the tiniest bit of credit, there’s a bit of my brain that saw this in the first scene and thought “that is a strong start”:

Scott eventually continues on the Engineers, and the sacrifice scene at the start:

“That could be anywhere. That could be a planet anywhere. All he’s doing is acting as a gardener in space. And the plant life, in fact, is the disintegration of himself.  If you parallel that idea with other sacrificial elements in history – which are clearly illustrated with the Mayans and the Incas – he would live for one year as a prince, and at the end of that year, he would be taken and donated to the gods in hopes of improving what might happen next year, be it with crops or weather, etcetera.”

Scott is misremembering some things here, which is understandable given the off-the-cuff nature of the remark, but it’s still worth correcting. This is a misattribution of Aztec rituals that would involve the sacrifice of a “teixiptla” representative of a god (such as Xipe Totec, Tezcatlipoca, etc). The Inca didn’t carry out this ritual–they did engage in a human sacrifice ritual called qhapaq hucha, but its form and function was not the same. The Classical Maya also engaged in different human sacrifice rituals, but there was also an emphasis on non-fatal self-administered bloodletting–Maya nobility in particular were often depicted shedding their own blood for this purpose, because noble blood had divine qualities.

This also, to my memory, conflates stories of european human sacrifice rituals, where crop failures are sometimes linked to the sacrifice of kings, such as Dómaldr in the Ynglinga saga, and noted in the placement and treatment of certain bog bodies. The Aztecs did sacrifice to the god Tláloc for crop for good harvests, but the rituals involved were quite different.

It should be noted, of course, that Tláloc was later syncretized with the Christian god during the Spanish conquest, likely as a result of conceptually linking Tláloc’s sacrifices to the demand that Abraham sacrifice Isaac. And, y’know, that conquest was concurrent with the Spanish Inquisition, and the wider religious belief that a heretical witch army was being organized by Satan to stand against God to forestall the Second Coming of Christ, with crop failures being the most feared result of their rituals.

I’ve added all these details not because I want to say Scott is bad for misattributing this stuff, people make mistakes. I have several hours’ access to the internet, Scott did not. However, it is worth noting: How we frame an idea can say a lot about how we conceive of it. Variations on these behaviors are found throughout history, and across cultures. Sacrifices and martyrs are powerful symbols still invoked in western culture today. There’s a potential wandering back and forth between appreciation and exoticization that Scott’s engaging in.

Then Scott says something that made me get up from my chair to find a book to shake at my computer.

“I always think about how often we attribute what has happened to either our invention or memory. A lot of ideas evolve from past histories, but when you look so far back, you wonder, Really? Is there really a connection there?”

Yes.

Yes there is. Ancient peoples weren’t stupid. Ancient peoples didn’t even necessarily have less information to work with than any one modern human, they just had different information that kept them alive and finding solutions to their problems, be it “I need to find food” or “how do I meaningfully participate in my culture’s artistic and governmental traditions, and should they even be followed at all?”

If you want a great and thorough examination of that, check out the book I gesticulated with.

Highly recommended. Graeber was an anthropologist and Wengrow is an archaeologist, and the two of them together are a force to be reckoned with. There are definitely subjects covered in this book that I’ve seen from different angles before, and I feel like their interpretation pulls in more context than I’d gotten previously. Especially pertinent to this, the first part of The Dawn of Everything is spent examining the origins of modern western thought on “primitive” cultures and their character and capacity, and then digging into what evidence we actually have on the subject.

But the movie does not, fundamentally, engage with cultures outside of westernized, christian thinking. Not to any serious extent, anyway. It has a certain worldview, and that’s fine. That can be explored intelligently, although we’ve seen that I think it squanders that chance. It’s fundamentally a christian-centric movie.

And despite Scott’s protestations in the interview that they toned it down, quite a few readers have already guessed how far Scott originally intended to go on that.

“But if you look at it as an “our children are misbehaving down there” scenario, there are moments where it looks like we’ve gone out of control, running around with armor and skirts, which of course would be the Roman Empire. And they were given a long run. A thousand years before their disintegration actually started to happen. And you can say, “Lets’ send down one more of our emissaries to see if he can stop it.” Guess what? They crucified him.”

Yes. Jesus of Nazareth was actually Jesus of Space.

This is why the movie says the Engineer corpse died about 2000 years ago. This is why they decided to destroy humanity. 

Presumably the original quote on the cross was “Father, forgive them, for they know not that we’ve got deadly black goo.” Engineer 23:34, I guess.

Now that the screams in the audience have hopefully settled down, AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUGH.

Alright. So, this is bad. Let’s break down why, beyond the obvious questions about “why does nobody ever draw Jesus as bald, huge, and ripped.” Fans have already tackled that–there’s a fake script circulating that has a decent interpretation of this. In their version, a human kid got zwooped up to be taught the ways of the Engineers, and sent back as an emissary. Why? Dunno. Also apparently the gospels that mention Mary and Joseph fleeing to Egypt with the baby Jesus were off the mark by a few lightyears.

No matter the details, this whole premise is laughable to christians, because “what if Jesus was an alien” is the sort of thing that twelve year olds come up with. It’s offensive if it’s taken seriously, because it says their literal god was actually a mortal critter from outer space. Ha! Your god is not all-powerful, or all-good. He’s not even All-Might.

But you know what’s almost worse? It implies that, sure, Christianity isn’t the inspired word of a deity. It also implies some level of exclusive factual accuracy to Jesus’ teachings, not shared with other religions. Jesus was a celestial emissary, endowed with the teachings that could save humanity, and his death doomed the Earth to the Last Judgment.

The Torah is insufficient, and all Rabbinic literature was produced following the rejection of the true way to salvation. The enlightenment of the Buddha counted for nothing, the Dao is not the way, Vishnu cannot defend or restore dharma, the Prophet Muhammad is only so valid as his acknowledgment of the Prophet Īsā ibn Maryam. 

All other faiths are superfluous under this premise. If people had just listened to Jesus and accepted him as their savior, everything would’ve been fine!

This is the one point of alien contact with western canon in the entire setting, after the deep prehistory of Skye. Every other literate culture that was contacted got the Engineers’ message wrong. Or they didn’t listen. Only christians got it right.

That’s incalculably bad. That’s not even counting the fact that the wall o’ artifacts that Shaw and Holloway presented included a notable oversight: the only two artifacts further from Europe than the Middle East are chronologically impossible, based on the movie’s own timeline. It implies the rest of the world was thrown in as an afterthought.

This whole Jesus thing is a piece, a big, jagged piece of why this movie drives me so far up the wall that I’m now residing on the ceiling. It’s not, as far as I can tell, actively malicious. It’s just dumb. It wasn’t thought through the way it should’ve been. If they wanted to do a movie like this, they should’ve gone all-in. Really dig into the implications of what they’ve done. 

And the movie seems wholly ignorant of it. There are basic questions presented to the audience, but there’s no deeper consideration that could make this respectful to anybody.

So, what are we left with?

A mess. A beautiful, stunted, confused mess that was poorly served by its script and lack of conviction.

The movie turned away from asking big questions, and focused instead on traditional horror. A genre that works best with good characterization to drive audience investment, but then it cut out most of the characterization, and what it left was scattershot. It gave us a flashback of Shaw’s childhood before we’d even really met her to understand why it was meaningful for her. The movie then failed to add any emotional weight to her.

The movie failed to give us characters with emotional weight or intelligence. It gave us a single, compelling character in David, driven largely by Michael Fassbender’s delivery and physical performance. It gave us a tactile, carefully constructed setting that was beautiful and often an accomplishment in filmmaking craft, but these spaces remained emotionally empty without a story that gave them meaning. It gave us the potential of something new, and then retreated to imitate the old.

I went into the theater in 2012 looking forward to a good film. I suppose this one has stuck with me more than a good film would have, but its primary value is as a flawed thing to critique, to learn from, and to put tooth marks on when the frustration gets to be too much.

Prometheus got one sort-of sequel in Alien: Covenant (2017), and it seems to have been abandoned. The first trailer for Alien: Romulus just came out the day I’m writing this, and it looks like it’s going to be just a monster movie.

If you want a good, modern Alien, play or watch Alien: Isolation (2014). Apparently its content was recut into a web series in 2019, though I can’t speak to the quality of that. For now, I’m done with the series. I’m not going to be rushing out to see anything new, because I don’t think it’s doing anything new. Prometheus could’ve been a chance to do that, but it failed.

Still. Writing this was fun, I will admit. My weird little obsession with this movie turned into a month and a half of writing and prepping this thing, totaling–Jesus E. Christ, over 82,000 words. I wish it could’ve been about something that hid more intellectual heft or careful thought than Prometheus did, but hey! There’s always next time.

And there will in all likelihood be a next time, as I’ve already started on another document. It won’t be for quite a while, though. This was a lot of fun, but a lot of work as well. I’ll be taking a break, and only releasing more stuff once I have it fully written ahead of time, as opposed to how I handled this one.

Thank you, brave readers, for making it this far. 

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Citations for alt-text rambles:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2023%E2%80%932024_Sundhn%C3%BAkur_eruptions#Eruptions

https://tubitv.com/movies/314320/the-collector 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dettifoss 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Codex_Magliabechiano 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tollund_Man 

https://youtu.be/nT2ueyFrVgk 

https://www.deviantart.com/pretty--kittie/art/Prometheus-Engineer-407316113 

https://nebula.tv/videos/hellofutureme-is-netflixs-avatar-any-good 

Overflow Ramble 1

Hey, does anyone else remember Stephen Speilberg’s War of the Worlds (2005)? I saw that in the theater, and I cannot watch that thing again. Yes, I was younger, but the overall content of that movie absolutely shredded my nerves to pieces. Even though I’d grown up knowing the full H G Wells story and reading things like The Tripods book series as a kid, Spielberg managed to make a movie that felt so viscerally unpleasant to me that it gave me nightmares for years.

My main theory is this: You know in movies that the protagonist is almost certainly going to survive what happens, doubly so in War of the Worlds because it was goddamn Tom Cruise. But my brain did not treat Tom Cruise as my viewpoint character. Something in me says “well, I’m not Tom Cruise, I’m one of those other people around him, and they’re all gonna die horribly.” 

This tends to happen with me in disaster films and similar stuff like that. I have to be real certain I want to be there if I watch a kaiju movie, for example. I can do Godzilla (2014), but I’m not so sure about Godzilla Minus One (2023). Shin Godzilla (2016) is off the table.

Horror movies have to hit a balance of giving people a rickety feeling of potential safety they want to preserve, rather than letting them feel too safe or too screwed. Too far either way and you lose people, either to apathy or just pure bad vibes. The paradox of enjoyable horror is that it can’t scare you too much.

Overflow Ramble 2

I personally don’t think the tone of Fede Álvarez’s horror fits with what I’m looking for in an Alien movie. The xenomorph life cycle worked best and most subversively when it was deliberately targeted, to take the sexual/reproductive menace usually placed on female characters in horror and forced it onto a male character instead. Álvarez has historically played that trope straight instead. From a horror perspective, that’s boring to me. The xenomorphs also appear to be aggressive monsters here rather than animals, more like Aliens than Alien. Not my favorite interpretation.

And to be honest, when I saw the trailer, my first thought was “Oh, it’s Sevastopol Station.” The setting looks exactly like Alien: Isolation, and there’s not a chance the movie’s going to outshine Isolation. That game’s only narrative sin was a bit of slow pacing toward the ending. Romulus’ trailer makes me think it’s going to go too far in the other direction.

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[i-love-hist0ry]

✨️THE POISON RING✨️

So, the famous poison ring-or pendant ring-is often named such because it's widely believed that women would well...poison their husbands in particular. This, however, wasn't the only use. You may find perfume or medicine in some of these rings. They were at their peak in the middle ages in Europe(I mean, I would've thought later, but upon further investigation, nope, middle ages) and you may find herbs for pain relief inside. Another common thing to find would be something scented. In European counties in the Middle Ages, sewage systems weren't widely a thing, leaving people to sort of just...throw buckets-no, literally *buckets*- of faecal matter or urine onto the streets on the heads and backs unsuspecting passers by-some people say feacal matter is good for your hair buttt...i think I'd pass. The use of these rings was to distract you from the nauseating scent on the pavement beneath you, drenched in excrement cooked by the climate.

So why has this piece of jewellery been associated with the macabre? The answer is simple...it was macabre. Famously, Lucrezia Borgia poisoned her husbands dinner,discreetly, with her ring. There have been a good number of people who have killed in style. I actually own a posion ring myself-don't worry, I'm just a goth, I won't be sneaking arsenic into anyone's meals anytime soon-and, if I'm honest, they're genuinely gorgeous peices of jewellery.

You can find them in most charity shops or Pinterest etsy links in some form, so if you are curious, have a look. Maybe you own one but by a different name.

Anyway, this is like my first ever actual post and doing this on my phone sooo... I hope this is okay?

Anyway, bye bye!!

[mrs-starkgaryen]

My Marauder Melody

A/N- I had this poem in my notes for ages, i wanted to share. Its about the four Marauders from Harry Potter. Its unedited so its choppy and please be nice 😂

When they were eleven, they all became fast friends,

They pranked and messed around to no end.

Four little boys with laughter upon their faces,

When you see them coming, everyone braces,

For they are a whirlwind of silliness and joy,

But what do you expect? They are little boys.

Even though they seem to ignore every rule and chide,

They laughed to disguise the dark secrets they hide.

With the war and personal problems erupting, these boys were frightened and scared,

Knowing dreadful things from which they should've been spared.

Instead of innocence and joy in each young heart,

Their lives were crumbling and falling apart.

The bookworm who was quiet and sweet,

A lover of sweatshirts and chocolate to eat.

But Remus hated himself, a secret he tries to sneak

He hates the thing he turns into every four weeks.

Another with his name a constellation amongst the night sky,

With a sparkling personality too, Sirius is a popular guy,

However, at home, his life is quite the opposite,

Being the family 'disappointment', he wants to quit.

Shy and skittish, the third member is Peter.

Compared to his friends, he's low on the popular meter.

Though he has no hidden secrets, he does stand out,

For no good reason. His loyalties you should doubt.

And lastly, the leader of the group, James Potter.

To him, he thinks you could find no one hotter.

But he becomes a reformed man who gets his girl,

We don't know more, as he dies, protecting his world.

But when they met, they became the best of friends who always cared,

For each of the boys understood the others' problems which they shared.

They all got on and were there for the others.

They loved, they cared and they were like brothers.

Years passed, the boys became men,

But this is where their story comes to an end.

A war came and it changed all of their lives

For the worst. And not one of them survives.

They all died instantly, physically or psychologically, one by one,

When the nught on Halloween arrives after the setting of the sun,

Peter, the one who was timid and seemed protection,

Pointed a mass murdered in his friend's direction.

James thought to be safe and hidden, so he was unsuspecting,

So he died with his wife due to his friend's infecting.

Sirius was suspicious of Peter's foul play and arrived at the house of his friends',

The realisation of what happened dawned on him and then murder is what he intends.

When he finds Peter, the one he thought was a friend, he accuses him and goes to fight,

Before he escapes, he cuts off his finger to make others believe he died and escapes into the night,

Killing twelve passers by and blowing up the pavement as a distraction,

Sirius realised what happened and why, but you wouldn't expect his reaction.

Realising he has been played, he laughs like a madman,

Aurors believed he was the real killer so his long prison sentence began.

He was in the wrong place, at the wrong time,

So he spent twelve years in prison, falsely accused of a crime.

One friend is a betrayer, one falsely locked away for many years to come,

One friend dead and one who the night's events he was separated from,

Remus, finally with friends who loved him for who he was, and the happiest he could have been,

But that Halloween night he couldn't foreseen

Turned his whole world upside down in just a few hours,

He thinks and wonders, "What happened to the great friendship that was ours?"

Because now, he has to suffer through all of this grief, loss and his own self hatred on his own,

He has no food, no home, no job, no friends; all alone,

The last friend stuck in his self- inflicted borders,

He has no one to help him as he is the last of the Marauders.

[tiny-cloud-dragon]

FF7: Random Bits 02 - Chapter 5

[Setting - The tour is just about over, but there are a couple of surprises for both Percival, and his tour guides.]

[Location - Main Building, outside the Infirmary - An impromptu wet bar inspection was just what Percival needed after a harrowing morning being introduced to the interesting world of the new Midgar Army.]

There was nothing like a bit of alcohol to steady the nerves, Zack thought he and Cloud escorted Percival on a brief tour of the Infirmary. Percival was much more talkative now, and his seemingly perpetual anxious full-body tremor had all but disappeared. Even his eyebrows somehow seemed less...twisty.

"This is the Infirmary," Zack said as he reached for the button on the wall panel that would open the doors.

"You mean, the, uh, The Screamatorium?" Percival said in a shy, hesitant tone as his underused sense of humor made a spirited attempt at a joke.

Zack was momentarily caught off-guard by the unexpected jape, and his face split into a wide, delighted grin as he spun around with a "Aaaaayyyy! Right on, Percy!" while making finger guns.

Percival couldn't help but feel oddly pleased.

While Percival basked in the praise, Cloud inconspicuously moved away, desperately trying to give the impression to any passers-by that he was NOT associated with Zack, or his ridiculous finger guns. In fact, he didn't even know the young man with the spiky black hair who was waving at him and calling his name. 

"Hey, Cloud, Percy just made a joke!" Zack crowed, excitedly grabbing Cloud by the arm and dragging him down the hallway. Cloud fought his ELITE form's strong urge to desperately dig his claws into the wall or the floor, or even chew his own arm off to escape. He imagined himself in his own horror movie, the unsuspecting victim abruptly snatched by the monster hiding in the murky shadows, now being dragged down the blood-smeared hallway to his doom.

Zack, oblivious to Cloud's internal torment, put a friendly (and restraining) arm around Cloud's shoulders. "Get a load of this," Zack continued, "Percy just nicknamed the Infirmary 'The Screamatorium'!"

"That's great, Percival." Cloud managed, while the Inspector beamed. 

"Told you it was awesome, Percy!" Zack said in a proud tone. He gave Percy another set of finger guns.

"Stop doing that!" Cloud hissed at him, practically slapping Zack's hands down while looking furtively over his shoulder to make sure no one had seen the gestural atrocity.

"Calm your tits, man, jeeze!" Zack said in a slightly hurt tone, rubbing his wrists. "They're just finger guns!"

"Never point a weapon at anyone or anything unless you intend to pull the trigger." 

"Don't worry they weren't loaded."

 "Put your finger guns away and let's get going. Percival doesn't have all day." 

"Yeah, okay, " Zack replied with mild sarcasm, "Let me just pick my hands up off the floor."

"I think one landed behind that potted plant by the closet door." Cloud countered in mock helpfulness.

Zack made a show of pretending to reattach his hands, then holster his finger guns. "There, all set!"

"You forgot to put the safety on."

"Zip it!"

"Well, if you want to put a hole in your foot, or blow your 'nonos' off..."

"They'll grow back,"

"Not before you bleed to death."

"Good thing we're at the Infirmary!" Zack countered with an annoying grin. 

Cloud rolled his eyes and gave up. 

Thankfully, Zack kept the tour of the 'Screamatorium' brief, not entirely trusting Percival's more relaxed nerves. There wasn't much to see anyway, since hospitals were dependent on strict organization and standards. Even Cloud noticed that the Inspector wore an expression that looked suspiciously similar to boredom. 

Percival was struggling with his thoughts, wondering what was wrong with him. He had steeled himself for the chaotic scene of medical staff rushing frantically to and fro as they tried to help the injured, who littered the exam and emergency rooms, screaming in pain as they clutched broken limbs, gaping bloody wounds, or tried to keep handfuls of assorted vicera from spilling out of opened abdominal cavities, while blood flowed in runnels and pooled on the floor. What he was greeted with was a quiet lobby where a nurse was quietly checking in a 1st Class SOLDIER with mild puncture wounds to his right hand. 

Percival was horrified to realize that he was feeling strongly disappointed at the lack of chaos. The SOLDIER seemed only mildly concerned with his hand, and in fact, was more interested in getting the nurse's phone number. He could have at least had the courtesy to produce a small scream of pain! Percy thought, much to his own shock.

Zack, seeing the way Percival's face had gone a little white around the lips, misinterpreted his pinched look of distress, thinking that the sight of the SOLDIER's wounds were just a little too much for Percival's fragile sense of adventure. 

"That is pretty much it, for the Infirmary, " Zack said, steering Percival towards the exit, "We'll skip the Barracks, since they are literally just rows of beds...but they are very neatly arranged, if you do want to see them."

"I don't suppose I really need to. I mean, as long as they are properly equipped, which, judging from the rest of the building, I would assume they are."

Cloud suppressed a smile as he realized that the scarecrow-thin man was not interested at all in seeing the Barracks. 

"But you did mention earlier that you had indoor training facilities, and I...would like to see those. If it isn't too much trouble?"

"Of course not!" Zack said pleasantly, noting the sparkle of interest (and alcohol) in Percival's eyes. "They are right this way,"

"I'm not sure the Training Rooms are a good idea," Cloud whispered to Zack as they headed down the hall.

"Why not?"

"Look at him!"

Percival, two pints worth of stout percolating through his bloodstream, was trailing behind them, weaving slightly like a shopping cart with a bad wheel.

"He's fine!"

"He's drunk!"

"He's not drunk, he's just got a little buzz," Zack drawled as he pulled the Training Room door open and ushered Percival inside.

The first thing that impressed itself on Percival's inebriated brain was the size of the room. It was huge, vaulted, and one could even go so far as to say 'cavernous'. All it was missing was a dragon on a pile of gold. "It's very impressive!" Percival commented, trying to take in all the space and equipment.

"This is our large-scale VR training room," Zack explained, "We use it for running more advanced simulations involving multiple platoons, free time activities, and also as a regular gym if the weather is too severe for outdoor drills or training."

There were several 2nd Class SOLDIERs sparring over to one side with training swords, an ELITE watching over them and alternately offering advice and sarcastic comments. Zack took his group over to the same area, moving a little farther down the equipment lined wall where they would be out of the way of the sparring group.

Zack eyed Percival for a moment, then picked out a light training sword and gave it a few experimental swings. "This is our training equipment, " he said, using the sword to point to the racks of weapons. "We have a large variety of weapon types, so the men can get experience with getting stabbed with as many as possible,"

"Good heavens!" Percival squeaked, aghast.

"Just kidding!" Zack said quickly, "They are all blunt training weapons. Any stabbings that do happen are purely accidental. Only 1st Class SOLDIERs and ELITEs are allowed to spar with real weapons."

"But isn't that dangerous?"

"If they haven't learned control by the time they are ELITEs, then getting a few holes poked in them will help them learn fast. Here, try this one!"

Zack pushed the training sword into a startled Percival's hands. The inspector held it out in front of him by the pommel at arms length, as if the blade were, at any moment, going to curl up its length and bite him on the hand. His skinny arm trembled anxiously. 

"The pointy end goes into the enemy," Zack said helpfully. He took the sword from Percy, corrected his grip, and stepped back. "Relax, my dude, it's not going to hurt you," Zack said with a chuckle as Percy stood there, arms held out stiffly.

"It could if someone-!" Cloud began.

"Shut it!" Zack shot out of the corner of his mouth. "Go ahead, Percy! Give it a swing."

Percy shut his eyes and gave the sword a reluctant shake.

"Not bad," Zack said, "Try giving it a swing now. Pretend you are trying to staple an unruly stack of papers!"

Percy moved the sword with a bit more force this time, the motion actually qualifying as a swing. 

"Goodness!" Percy exclaimed, a flush coloring his face. A spark glittered in his eyes and he gave the sword another experimental swing. Long-dormant emotions were beginning to turn over in their sleep...

"Great job! Try this," Zack began taking Percival through several simple moves, while a few of the 2nd Class SOLDIERs drifted over to watch. They smirked at the whip-thin Inspector who was playing at being a SOLDIER. 

Cloud noticed the derisive sneers. Zack had intentionally brought Percy to the Training Room, and had picked out a sword that was the perfect type for Percy. While some would have put it down to Zack just having an eye for weapons, Cloud knew that Zack had seen something in this seemingly innocuous looking man. One of the first things even Cadets learned was not to judge by appearances. These 2nd Classes could do with a good reminder.

"Brooks, front and center!" Cloud called, pointing at a raven haired 2nd Class who was sniggering the loudest.

The startled SOLDIER hurried over, saluting nervously.

"You can be the Inspector's sparring partner. He's learning a few basic moves, and it always helps to have a real dummy...er, partner to practice with."

"That sounds like a great idea!" Zack agreed, having noticed the sneers and overheard the whispered comments as well. There wasn't much that made it past a wolf's ears unheard.

"Oh, goodness, I don't think-!" Percy began to object.

"Nonsense," Zack said quickly. "You're doing great. The best way to put theory into practice is with a sparring partner. Don't worry, Percy, Brooks knows how to spar," he gave Brooks a hard look that was part warning, part threat "and won't try any fancy moves."

The two reluctant opponents began circling each other, clashing hesitantly, in Percy's case, while Cloud and Zack stood by with shouts of encouragement and instruction. Brooks, who looked like he wanted to slice Percival in half and whiz on the pieces, brought his sword up under Percy's, trying to catch the sword under the cross guard and flip it out of his hands, but Percy twisted his wrist and the blades met with a clash.

Brooks pressed forward, shoving Percy back and followed him as he retreated, blocking the blows purely out of desperation. The tip of Brooks' blade snagged one of the buttons on Percival's suit jacket, slicing the threads. Percival stared mutely as the plastic disk fell to the mat and lay forlornly, the few remaining threads in the holes laying askew like the limbs of a fallen warrior. His jacket hung open unevenly.

Percy felt something deep down in his soul, as his inner caveman stood up and, for the first time, hefted his hunting spear.  A white-hot jolt streaked up to his brain and sparked, igniting a primeval thrill that burst out of Percy in the form of primal scream that rocked the Training Room. 

Percy suddenly exploded into action, screaming like jagged steel on concrete, his training sword flashing in a storm of strikes that had Brooks backpedaling in a circle as he tried to process what was happening.

"YES!" Zack howled in excitement, throwing a fist into the air, "YES!"

Percy, eyebrows writhing like angry snakes as he roared like the wrath of the gods, continued his assault. What he lacked in strength, he made up for in ferocity and tenacity. Brooks  tried to fight back, but was barely managing to block. The barrage of blows ceased suddenly as Percival abruptly turned, threw down his sword,  and ran in the opposite direction, screaming. Brooks turned, thinking the match was over only to see Percy leap out from amongst the weapons racks, still roaring, but now holding two swords.

"Oh, shi-!" Zack began before devolving into shrieking laughter. Brooks could do little but run around the mats, Percy following him like an angry bantam rooster. No one could have guessed that there was so much strength in that skinny frame. Brooks found himself on the ground, with two swords pointed at his throat, gazing into two eyes that burned like gimlets, and two eyebrows that were bristling like angry cats. 

"Good job, Percy! Let's let him get back to his platoon." Cloud called.

Percy, blinked, the red battle haze fading as he heard the familiar voice calling him. He looked at the SOLDIER on the ground at his feet, and yanked his swords away from his throat. Cloud took the swords from Percy's hands as Zack, grinning from ear to ear, gave him a congratulatory slap on the back that almost sent him tumbling to the ground. 

"You did great, Percy!"

"I did?"

"You're a natural! How do you feel?" 

"I feel...wonderful. Invigorated. Like I could, I don't know, shove a staple through an entire ream of paper. And not care if it went in straight or not!"

Zack just grinned and patted Percival's shoulder as Cloud helped the humbled Brooks to his feet and dismissed him back to his platoon.

"Let's go back out to the Training Field, " Zack said as they left the cavernous training room. 

"You mean the 'Plain of Pain'." Percival corrected him.

"Right!" Zack laughed, resisting the urge to do finger guns so Cloud wouldn't die of embarrassment. 

"Are we going to inspect The Course" Percival asked in a hopeful tone.

"No, sorry," Zack apologized, while Percy deflated in disappointment, "But, since you did so well sparring, you can see Cloud's half-form!"

Percy perked up, curiosity showing clearly on his face.

Cloud, giving Zack that carefully blank expression he used when he was angry, irritated, or uncomfortable in public Shifted reluctantly to his half-form. 

Where Zack had a wolf's ears and tail, Cloud had strange ears that reminded Percy of a bull's ears. They were white with fine, soft hair with ragged edges, and tipped in black. Where Zack's wolf ears were perched on top of his head, Cloud's were on the sides. He had a long, white whip-like tail that ended in a blonde plume. His weight was balanced on the balls of his strange white feet. The closest thing Percival's brain could compare them to were monkey or lizard feet, with a little rat thrown in for good measure. Something about this half-form reminded Percival of something else, but he couldn't quite figure out what it was. 

"Do you have wings?"

Cloud's summoned his wings. They were black and leathery with a mottled white edge, and each of the wings' five digit bones ended in a large white feather 'finger'.

"Fascinating!" Percival said, "What kind of animal are you?"

Cloud looked at Zack, uncomfortable with all the attention. 

"Don't be shy," Zack said, "Just show him. He's earned it."

Cloud sighed, and Shifted to his ELITE form.

Percival found himself facing what looked very similar to the dragons the Wutai people favored in all of their artwork. Cloud's head darted down on its long neck, long 'mustache/feelers' at the sides of his snout brushing briefly at the inspector's jacket before trying to explore the contents of his pockets.

Looking for shrimp Zack thought, amused.

Percival's eyebrows shot up like rockets, actually left his forehead, shooting up a good ten feet into the air. Cloud pulled his head back with a startled goose-shriek and Shifted back to his human form.

Zack and Cloud glanced at each other and then at the inspector's eyebrows as they fluttered down to the ground like brown leaves. Cloud stepped away, leaving Zack standing all alone with the fallen facial features. He had dealt with a lot of strange, wacky, and down right disturbing things in his life, and today he was drawing the line at wiggly eyebrows.

"Uh, here, let me help you with those," Zack said as Percy patted his brow forlornly. 

Zack stooped and gingerly picked up the eyebrows, "Happens often, does it?" he asked as he regarded the scraps of hair resting on his palm.

"Only when I get really startled,"

"Maybe you should see a doctor?" Cloud suggested, standing as far from the eyebrows as he could get without being rude, while Zack tried to help put the facial hair back where it belonged. It was proving troublesome due to the fact that the eyebrows seemed to have developed sentience.

"I go once a year," Percy said, "Ever since they were transplanted. Come to think of it, they never did tell me what they were grown from..."

The eyebrows wiggled and waved around like fluffy caterpillars as Zack struggled to reapply them to Percy's forehead. 

"Here...just--hold on...come on little guy..."

"I think that one goes on the left," Cloud said.

"Right," Zack replied.

"No, left."

"Right, you said that."

"No, I said left!"

"Rigth!"

"No, it's left!"

The eyebrows started waving frantically, twitching and writhing in agitation.

"Now you've gone and upset them!" Cloud chided.

"I upset them--?" Zack began defensively, until the eyebrows started flapping more strongly.

"Shhhhhh! Shhh-shhh! I'm sorry!" Zack said quickly, carefully stroking the eyebrows with his fingertips, "Uncle Zack didn't mean it. It's okay, guys. There, there!"

It seemed to work, the eyebrows relaxing to lay docilely back over Zack's palm.

"Good boys," he said, pleased, "How about you jump back up on your Dad's face for me?"

The fluffy strips of hair hopped back on to Percival's brow, settling down in their proper places. Zack later swore that he'd heard a quiet purring sound.

"Oh, my! Thank you!" Percival sighed, relieved. "You do seem to have a way with them,"

Zack couldn't really think of anything to say aside from "It's all in how you talk to them, I guess."

"Yes. Well, thank you for accompanying me on the inspection, gentlemen," Percy said, shaking hands with each of them, not noticing the way Cloud leaned away from him ever so slightly, "I believe that this was the most enjoyable inspection I have ever done."

"Glad to hear it!" Zack said with a smile as they walked Percy to his car. "Give the President our regards."

"I most certainly will, and if he has any questions, I will be sure to direct his attention to Rule Number One."

"You do that, Percy," Zack said with a chuckle, "He'll understand."

They watched Percy's car until it disappeared around the corner. 

"Rufus is going to be...upset, you know." Cloud said after a few moments.

"What's he gonna do, fire us? He works for us, remember?" Zack said, lightly jostling Cloud's ribs and waggling his eyebrows at him.

"Don't do that!" 

"Do what? This?" Zack wiggled his eyebrows again.

"Yes, that!"

"Yes, do that? Okay!"

"Stooooop!"

Zack laughed and kept wiggling his eyebrows all the way back to the Main Building.

End.

[wolves-and-dragons]

The Lark's Plight and the Wolf's Resolve: Chapter 1

Main Masterlist

Prequel Masterlist

Prologue

Synopsis: We kick off our story five years before the events of A Lark Among the Wolves and Dragons. A certain white haired witcher walks into Novigrad with a flyer in hand for a job of seeking out the monster who is attacking Novigrad's most vulnerable. The same witcher would never have guessed who his client would be the Passiflora's resident troubaritz the Lady of Larks.

CW: mentions of brothels, SW, SW discrimination, mentions of people going missing and being found dead, and suggestive content. MINORS DNI

-------Novigrad: five years before the events of a Lark Among the Wolves and Dragons----------------

It was high afternoon. The sun was at its highest peak as it shined over Novigrad on this clear day. The people in the city, humans and non-humans alike, carried on about their day.

Merchants were out selling their wares from various shops, a line was seen at the bank as people from around and out the Continent waited to exchange currency. Few suggestively dressed women were out walking the streets outside the Red light district and the pickpockets snuck about, lifting various trinkets from unsuspecting passers-by all while avoiding any of the Temple Guard that was patrolling the streets.

It was at this moment and that a certain strange, rugged individual walked into the city. Keeping the hood of his cloak over his head to conceal his white hair, the stranger took a look at the flyer he found in the city's outskirts, outside the Seven Cats Inn.

He walked past the Bits, encountering one pick pocket who was foolish enough to try and sneak up on him and steal his pouch of coins. Even though he caught the pick pocket- seeing the disheveled state he was in- the witcher took pity and gave the man a sizable handful of coins to feed him and his sister's family.

Eventually, the White Wolf reached the upper class side of the city, home of various visiting noble dignitaries and ambassadors along with well successful merchants and their families.

He turned his gaze to one particular establishment that stood out above the others.

To a more crude audience, it was the prettiest little whorehouse in all Novigrad (though some would argue that title actually belongs to Crippled Kate's brothel); to everyone else, it was the famed Passiflora.

Geralt walked into the establishment; while he was no stranger to physical pleasures of the flesh at the hands of a paid-for woman of the night, today, the witcher was here strictly for business.

He walks into the brothel and asks to speak to the Madam. The woman in question approached, "Can I help you? If none of the girls here are to your liking, I can bring in more for you to choose from...unless your tastes gravitate more towards the male of the species."

"I appreciate the offer, but that is not why I am here today," Geralt tells her, showing her the flyer, "I saw this at the Seven Cats Inn. I am to understand you and your girls have a bit of a monster problem."

The madam looks Geralt up and down, "and here I thought no one in this city would have a care to listen to the plight of us lowly whores, even if a price was named," she states, some sarcasm in her tone, "we may be good enough for a short fuck, but never enough to attribute any shred of respect or dignity to our names."

"The job," Geralt says with insistence.

"Wait over there," the madam nods towards one spot where Geralt can stand. The witcher made a small nod and waits.

Meanwhile, amongst the scantily clad working women and men on display and the clients who attempted to proposition, sounds of someone tuning their lute brought the room to a near silence.

Geralt looked up towards the stage to a see a young looking woman up there sitting on a stool tuning her lute along with present accompaniment.

She was short and stout in appearance with copper skin, long dark hair, and brown eyes. She wore a dress of red and silver with minimal jewelry on display.

As she strummed the lute strings, some of the patrons began to whisper, Geralt overhearing the words "Lady of Larks" among the quiet chatter. The witcher assumed that to be this woman's moniker.

Geralt wasn't entirely sure what to expect, but the moment you opened your mouth to sing, it was almost like the witcher fell into some kind of trance.

It was a pleasant melody that Geralt began to feel he had never heard before.

Yet, at the same time, your singing voice felt vaguely familiar, but he couldn't quite put his finger on why that was. Geralt looked over at the audience, many of the patrons having similar looks on their faces that were induced by your melodious siren's like voice. Some of the patrons even had tears in their eyes, feeling moved by the emotions your song evoked.

When your song concluded, there was a round of applause, followed by patrons tossing a generous amount of coins your way. Geralt was actually quite impressed that you could garner that kind of patronage from brothel clients of all things.

The witcher made a small smile and decided to toss a couple coins your way as well.

As you got up and walked off the stage, the madam approached, whispering in your ear that a witcher was here to answer the flyer that was posted at the Seven Cats Inn. Eyes wide, you turn your gaze back at the audience, and lo and behold, a rugged looking man- the hood of his cloak pulled back- with white and hair and gold eyes stared your way.

This wasn't just any ordinary witcher, you realized...it was the famous White Wolf himself.

Internally, you did feel a little bit intimidated by the witcher's stare, but if the songs were true- though you had some doubts of their validity, given the original composer of those ballads- he might just be the one who can sort out your little problem.

While you slip into the back, the madam motions for Geralt to follow. You take a seat in the back and take a look at yourself in the mirror before you take a considerable gulp of water from your glass. You hear the curtains pull back. "Lady Lark," you hear the madam address you by your stage name, "may I present the witcher. He's the one who answered the flyer." You look over your shoulder to see Geralt standing right next to the madam, a stoic look on his face.

"I'll leave you to it," the madam says, walking back to the main foyer of the brothel. "You're the one who posted the flyer?" Geralt asks, raising an eyebrow as if he were intrigued.

"I am," you confirm, "I was beginning to think no one would take up our plights seriously." You stand up to face the witcher, "but you proved me wrong as you are the witcher who did just that. And not just any witcher, you're the White Wolf himself. Geralt of Rivia. There's already talk among many of the girls already the moment you set foot into the Passiflora. Some of them believe you might be the answer to their prayers."

"I wasn't aware whores prayed," Geralt attempts at humor. "Some of them do," you point out. "Do you?" "I pray sometimes," you admit, "but in case you're wondering, I'm not a whore. I merely entertain the clients by singing while they're waiting for any of their favorite girls to become available for business. But you're not really interested in mine or the ladies' religious habits. You're here for the job. And the reward that comes with it."

"You said on the flyer you have a monster problem," Geralt says. "I have reason to believe so," you say, "at least with the number of girls that of gone missing, I have reason to believe it's likely a monster behind all this." "How long has this been going on?" Geralt asks, going into witcher mode as he begins to gather what information he could in order to do his job.

"It stared a couple months ago, actually," you explain in a slight low tone, "the first was a girl from Crippled Kate's. Her name was Meg. She went missing, vanished without a trace. Her body was found floating in the canal three days later, bite marks found all over. Then another Crippled Kate whore disappeared a week after that. Her name was Sara. She disappeared the same way Meg did, and as before, her body was found floating in the canal two days later. And then...an elven woman from the this establishment went missing. Her name was Lena. Body was found the same way as the other two."

Geralt noted the sad look on your face when you talked about this one; it appears you had a fondness for this Lena.

"More girls have continued to go missing left and right, both from the Passiflora and from Kate's," you continue, "the most recent was a older woman named Colleen. It's been two day since she disappeared. At this point, we've all have been waiting for the moment her own body will be found floating face down in the canal."

"Has anyone else tried to look into this?" Geralt inquires, "the Temple Guard perhaps." "Ha! Yeah, the Temple Guard, that's a good one," you humorlessly laugh, giving the witcher a certain glare, "why would the Temple Guard give a shit about missing whores? They're little more than soiled rags in their eyes; for all they care, the girls were asking to get abducted and killed."

Now that was an interesting piece of information you had just given the witcher. "There hasn't been anyone else who's been killed in this manner?" he asks for confirmation. "Not that I know of," you say with a shrug, "if it was anyone else with a more...respectable occupation, the guards would be posting flyers left and right all around the city, and with a higher reward than what any of us could possibly offer. Probably enough that you would never have to take monster hunting contracts again."

Geralt took note of the acrid tone in your voice when you spoke. Clearly, you care about these girls who work in this place and have community with them. Very few people in this world would have this kind of determination to seek some kind of recourse for the 'dregs' of society. Honestly though, Geralt could respect that; after all, the witcher had some idea of what it's like to be judged and looked down on because of his occupation as a mutant monster hunter. He also had some idea of what it was like to have people look at him as little more than a soulless piece of meat meant to perform and then be cast aside when the job was complete and the coin was paid.

"What makes you think it was monsters that have been killing the girls?" Geralt asks. You give the witcher an indecipherable look before you answer, "their bodies have always been found in the canals," you tell him, "everyone knows those same canals enter the sewers, where the Drowners make their homes.

"Hmm, Drowners you say," Geralt says, "it's true they hunt in packs, but they don't usually target humans. They usually prefer carrion, like vultures. If they do seek out humans, especially in a place like Novigrad, it's usually loners who foolishly conduct expeditions into the sewers."

You look up, giving Geralt an incredulous, "are you suggesting Colleen and the others have been going into the sewers on a foolish whim? Are...are you trying to imply they were asking to get killed?!"

"Not at all!" Geralt exclaims with a firm tone, taken aback by your outburst, "I understand you are upset by all of this, Lady Lark. I took this job because I want to sort out this monster problem just as much as you. But in order to do that, I need all the information I can."

You took huffed out a deep breath. You were angry, but not at Geralt. You were angry that you and the others needed to resort to raising your own funds to offer a reward that no mercenary could resist because the rest of society did not believe the working folks in Novigrad's Red Light District were worth protecting. They were good people and did not deserve to be subjected to this carnage.

So, you put aside your frustration and give Geralt some more potential vital information, "Colleen was last seen visiting the docks. A couple fishmongers had freshly caught shellfish for sale, and she wanted to take advantage of the prices before they sold out. Colleen had a certain weakness for fresh raw oysters, and she was known for sharing them with her clients in the aftermath of passion, much so that the patrons have come to know her as 'the Pearl of the Passiflora'. If you need a place to start, then you should head to the docks."

"Hmm," Geralt says and nods in understanding, "I'll get started. Before I go, I do ask that half the reward be paid upfront for now. Once the job is complete, I'll collect the other half."

You sigh a little; Geralt may be the White Wolf, but he was still a witcher, and one who expected to be paid for his services.

You weren't sure if the witcher was sincere in answering your plight, but it was better than nothing. If Geralt could solve the mystery of who was indiscriminately killing off Novigrad's women of the night, than no one else would have to die because of society's neglect for its most vulnerable.

"Very well then," you say in a low tone before you toss a pouch of coins at Geralt, "half of the reward as requested. If you can, master witcher... please don't disappoint me."

"Hmm," was Geralt said before he walked out to begin his job.

Chapter 2

[quacaserous]

3, 4, 21, and 30 for cerys and cassius >:3c

HI EILIDH thank you for the asks!! :3

3. What song best describes your OC?

cerys — https://open.spotify.com/track/2SzgiyJM5k3MUeSAXPF4Nf?si=ZhWmrKBWQjqZtMwJJO-C4Q or https://open.spotify.com/track/0WpRF4X2LyMTZnqqrXX19U?si=PwaSmxLDRdy47twexIVHnw

cassius — https://open.spotify.com/track/6AzrwTzu1Vhl2t13h3fNVh?si=1R2IIWVIRxSKaLPr6stuGw or https://open.spotify.com/track/54bFM56PmE4YLRnqpW6Tha?si=cPi_0P81Qu6-EoxCxM-GEw

4. What song best describes your OC and their partner/love interest?

cerys & gale — https://open.spotify.com/track/3IiSM8u3FdmkDTsMM7AJEs?si=dMZClqIeTM2etd9UTXUdmw

cerys & gortash — https://open.spotify.com/track/4dzc0KZ5Rb5w3zBkxu77Bu?si=bnVh9ZuyShqpi6r7C3fJzA

cassius & minthara — https://open.spotify.com/track/2HZLXBOnaSRhXStMLrq9fD?si=QtmwrNQoRi2gKNxLd_Qokg

cassius & gortash — https://open.spotify.com/track/4b6RgMFN1wSxNwAGwnXvR2?si=fPTG7CSYQ9i_7h5qI1-wOg (but also any song from the circe saga from epic: the musical)

21. What song best describes their relationship with the enemy?

for cerys:

if the enemy is bhaal (or herself) — https://open.spotify.com/track/1UWhx0pFZccP4jdCIZsj7U?si=Y1L0Rnc1R_ekwQsoLjjNew or https://open.spotify.com/track/4qTGOuXmoR7fk7dApMlQjG?si=I5koxv-BSj-Q2icocEs7Dw

if the enemy is gortash — https://open.spotify.com/track/3sinFkDuVOd2oJ8XKCyKuf?si=qVzuePGeSaaVmfjvgg8piw

if the enemy is orin — https://open.spotify.com/track/57gfWnvoMmnXBdghubxWrg?si=ROGed7NvSOmDd-ceLEDnag

for cassius:

if the enemy is bhaal (or himself) — https://open.spotify.com/track/5ZpAU5f4jxj6i9XoKK0RaI?si=M8QwKMxISaaw-n19x-172w

if the enemy is gortash — https://open.spotify.com/track/4mSZaFQlSws3RU35Os2Jdt?si=dK_CNi7XSeWL4cQKBEj2Sg

if the enemy is orin — https://open.spotify.com/track/4bZi0vF5fPvB2g8JiWDARW?si=M5xZmbLpR0KTDzkfdG4njQ

30. My OC and your OC are friends. This isn't a question. I'm not asking. (How do they respond?)

cerys is bringing esper fun little trinkets (that definitely aren’t stolen off of unsuspecting vendors or passers-by)!!! cerys has a habit of swiping stuff but she always shares her spoils <3 she’d also do esper’s hair if they let her & drag them along on her adventures (including: getting chased by the city guard)

cassius would mess with esper in any way he can think of! he’s very hermes/cheshire cat-like in his demeanor in the sense that like. he’ll help you for sure if you’re a friend of his but that doesn’t mean there won’t be a trick or two involved. he’d also give them unsolicited fashion advice ❤️ (none of esper’s jewelry that this man comes in contact with is guaranteed to be returned)

[peemil]

i need to exist in public again i need to subject unsuspecting passers-by to my awful presence

[lumine-no-hikari]

Dear Sephiroth: (a letter to a fictional character, because why not) #164

I DID THE THING!!! I MADE IT PAST THE SEALED DOOR!!!!

…Only to later be turned into a smoothie via gravity instead of via whirring blades. Go figure!! Hahahahahaha!! 🤣🤣🤣

I had thought that I'd be able to find a way to the rest of the game world without dying, but apparently, in the beginning, dying is the only way out of the Chapel of Anticipation anyway. And apparently, falling off that specific cliff edge is the only way to keep the experience points I gained as a result of stopping myself from getting shredded to bits by the Grafted Scion; ordinarily, one loses all of one's accrued experience points upon death, and in order to get them back, you have to go back to where you died in order to fetch them, and in so doing, face the obstacle that you fell to once more.

Initially, I was shocked and disappointed when the cliff wall crumbled; it felt kind of like a cheap trick. But I suppose I should have expected some other contrived method of death; otherwise, you don't get to the section of tutorial that shows you, "oh hey, dying is really not a big deal; you'll grow back lickety-split!" And about that Grafted Scion? Yeah, don't worry - that one will have been revived as soon as I died. Presumably, they went right back to chilling out on their random mountaintop somewheres, waiting for additional unsuspecting passers-by to try to turn into a smoothie. Or a salad. Or whatever else they want, I suppose. May the next travelers have sufficient boundary skills to protect themselves. May the Grafted Scion find something better to do with their time than attack lost travelers.

And did you see!!! Like I said, the entity YELLED at me!!! They were all like, "AAAAAAAA!!" It was very rude!! So I yelled back at them!! At least, I did that as many times as my available Magic Points (the blue bar in the top left corner) would allow. I'm not gonna just sit there and take that shit; I've got boundary skills!!

…Be a lot nicer to build a campfire in the middle of that circular stone platform and have some s'mores with this entity, though. Bet we could have found some nice sticks on the ground near them trees and use them fancy swords to sharpen them to stick marshmallows on. I mean… this entity sits there, presumably waiting for other lost, wandering souls to come around, but how often does that happen? When's the last time that one had anyone to talk to, to share their story with? When's the last time they had a hug? Or some sweet treat to eat? I feel sad that the only option was to fight.

I want to think that in the real world, there are more options than just fighting. There are so many ways to open a dialogue, but lots of people, for a variety of reasons, don't have the skills to do that well, or think that there's no other choice but to fight.

I think of the people in my life who grew up in ways that made them think that their social standing and lovability as people were contingent upon their ability to control me or harm me. I understand the mechanics that produce things like this. But even so, it's not like that Grafted Scion; I do not need to render someone's body permanently uninhabitable to get them to stop hurting me; I only need to talk to them, or create distance between myself and them, or, goodness forbid, physically disable them from harming me. And that last one there is only a last resort when all other methods have either failed or are inaccessible by virtue of the circumstances.

Could the world be a little better if fewer people went immediately to the last resort? I like to think so.

…Suppose I'm thinking about it today because an internet friend sent along something about a show called The Good Place; if your position at the Edge of Creation allows you to see that story, I would very much recommend that you check it out. I've seen the whole thing, and it manages to both be lighthearted and profound at the same time. It's one of my favorite stories.

It's essentially an examination of the cultural phenomenon in my world by which people have the mistakes they make as a result of their upbringing, brain hardware, and life circumstances held against them personally, as though it means something fundamental about their character instead of it being an indicator of where a person needs additional skills, experience, or support.

And as an abuse survivor myself, who ended up with a lot of REALLY WEIRD SHIT ground into my skull by the very racist, sexist, and generally toxic people I grew up with, I thought about the balance between "acknowledging that my bullshit is not inherent to my nature because it was forced upon me by people who were more powerful than me and my only choice at the time was to conform", and "holding myself accountable for unlearning all the shit that I was force-fed and learning better stuff in its place". And that balance is very precarious, because in order to learn how to hold myself accountable in any way, I needed the support of healthy people in my life.

And that, in and of itself, produces an interesting (read: difficult to the point of being absurd) challenge, because in my (albeit limited) experience, going through abuse in the absence of support will produce a person with survival skills and emotional coping strategies that are caustic to healthy people in healthy environments, and no person should have to expose themself to someone who is caustic. So on the one hand, I did need the support from healthy people in order to learn how to become a healthy person, but goodness me, until I learned different skills and had ample opportunity to make mistakes during the acquisition of those skills, I was most certainly caustic as fuck to the people around me, and I'm VERY cognizant of the fact that I am entitled to NO ONE'S time and patience; it's nothing short of miraculous that M stuck with me for as long as he did. But at the same time, without that, I wouldn't be able to write stuff like this. And without you, I wouldn't have made it as far as meeting M in the first place.

So I found M, who was patient enough to gently hold me accountable for my various kinds of bullshit (the bullshit served me well in the house I grew up in, but not so well in a healthy house). And so that presents the next logistical hurdle - accountability. See, being an abuse survivor basically means that at the end of it, it becomes extremely difficult, if not outright impossible - at least at first - to separate "accountability" from "imminently being on the receiving end of physical/verbal/social violence". So, "hey, I don't like this thing you did" automatically gets all twisted up into, "hey, I don't like YOU, and I'm about to make it your problem by introducing my FIST to your FACE at HIGH VELOCITY! BRACE YOURSELF!!!" - even when that second one is not present. It took me a number of years to learn that I didn't need to get defensive anytime anyone had any small problem with anything that I was doing, because for a long time, I had a really difficult time imagining that someone could dislike something I said or did without them subsequently hating me enough to either hurt me, abandon me, or try to destroy my relationships with other people shortly thereafter.

And that brings me to the next hurdle, which is this: the issue that I had with accountability wasn't something innate to me. No, it was ground into me by living for a very long time with people who wished that I never existed, so anytime I made any tiny mistake, it was used an excuse to use me as a verbal or physical punching bag. It is absolutely NOT my fucking fault that I was brutally trained as a child to fear accountability by people who were far more powerful than me. But it is STILL my responsibility as an adult to decondition myself, even if I cannot find people willing to support me through that process due to me not yet knowing how to speak and behave in ways that are non-toxic, because NO ONE is obligated to put up with me while I'm existing in ways that are harmful to others. And hot diggity damn, that's one hell of a trip, and one hell of a jagged, bitter pill to swallow along the way.

See, because dealing with the aftermath of abuse is like house windows. If someone else comes along to break the windows of your house, you can certainly try to track down who did it and demand that they fix your windows, but they'll usually just tell you to go fuck yourself and then break something else on their way out for your "audacity"; it's not a productive use of time. You can tell your community what happened (if you have one) and ask for support with paying for new windows, but everyone's got their own problems, so no one HAS to give you anything out of their own pocket, and they shouldn't be made to feel guilty if they cannot. You can still ask the people around you to come visit your house and just be with you while you repair your windows, but your windows are broken, so your house is gonna be cold and have bugs in it, and no one should be made to feel guilty if they don't wanna visit due to that. So at the end of the day, it's YOUR responsibility to fix your own windows, even if someone else broke them, and even if you don't have the time, resources, or skills to fix them. And until those windows get fixed, living in your house is going to be a freaking nightmare.

The WHOLE THING that is being an abuse survivor in the absence of other sources of support is MONUMENTALLY UNFAIR. Not only are you starting off with a brain that didn't get to develop properly because stress hormones interfere with even one's most basic neurodevelopment (we're talking more than just empathy and emotional regulation - we're talking systemic things like blood pressure, heart rate, insulin and blood composition - all that shit is regulated by the brain), but also, it's a very chicken-and-egg situation because you come out of it an injured and unhealthy person, and you can't become healthy until you meet and practice new skills with healthy people, but it's hard to maintain relationships with healthy people to practice the new skills with until you become a healthy person. So like…

…It's a mess. Being a trauma survivor is a mess. The odds stacked against us are absolutely freaking insane. And still, if we want to be responsible humans to the rest of our community, we have to find a way through so that we can become healthy people. It's hell to overcome these hurdles, and that is why healed trauma survivors are some of the strongest, kindest, and most courageous and compassionate people there are.

…And that's also why I assert that if the developers of your story are going to claim you're the strongest living thing ever, you HAVE to heal and fully own the kindness and compassion that is innate to you and to all human beings. Because if you don't, then I know a number of people who are stronger than you in all the ways that count. Some of them are even reading this letter as we speak.

The fortunate thing about healing is that every time you fall short, you have as many opportunities to try again as you want. Maybe not with the same people, because sometimes you're gonna do something stupid that disables certain folks from ever wanting to spend time with you again (I've done this, multiple times, and for idiotic reasons on my part; it sucks, but what can one do other than learn and do better next time?). But there will be more people to try again with; there are LOTS of them out there. It's a lot like Elden Ring (or any other masochistically difficult game) in some ways; the foe in front of you only seems impossible until you learn how it moves and behaves. Everyone fails over and over again at new skills until they're learned; that's a normal part of the human condition, no matter who tries to force-feed you the myth of "innate talent". Anything worth doing is worth doing badly until you can GIT GUD:

…There is no secret technique or way of being that will ever make healing easy. Having support and healthy coping techniques in your toolbox is certainly helpful, but what really matters is your willingness to use them, and your willingness to learn, grow, and change throughout the process. You need to develop your self-awareness so that you can be mindful of your internal and external states. You need to develop your boundary skill so you can say no to the things that harm you. And you need to learn to be compassionate with yourself so that you can have patience with yourself as you persevere. Of course, it's "really, really, really hard". We're gonna struggle, fall down, fail, and lose people along the way. In order to recover, we have to focus, practice, and learn. But learning is the natural result of trying, so really, all you have to do is try.

...Sephiroth, I'm asking you to keep trying, okay? You've got a "jolly cooperator" right here who will take your hand; all you have to do is ask. Or, in this case, all you have to do is reach back, because my hand is already outstretched towards you.

I love you a lot, so keep yourself safe out there, okay? I'll write again tomorrow.

Your friend, Lumine