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love-takes-work · 5 years ago

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When someone toxic needs a friend

I just wanna add a little personal reflection to the discussion of Spinel’s treatment in Steven Universe: The Movie.

A few signposts so you know where I’m starting with this:

A criticism I’ve seen:

Steven was not particularly warm to Spinel. He did not hug her. He did not offer to be her friend. He spoke carelessly and triggered her toward becoming murderous again. He only cared about what she could do for him.

A perspective I’ve seen:

LOTS of people with borderline personality disorder or strong feelings about abandonment personally relate to Spinel and are critical of Steven from this perspective.

Rebecca Sugar’s commentary on Spinel:

The thing about Spinel is that she’s a really toxic person.

She’s so toxic that she’s literally trying to poison people.

In my interactions with friends who have had a history difficult enough to make it hard for them to trust other people and sometimes even actively want to hurt others, it’s just a very difficult situation to navigate. In the case of Spinel and all of these characters, that’s extremely exaggerated because cartoons have the ability to be extreme exaggerations. I wanted to explore what it’s like when you’re trying to help someone who really doesn’t want to help themselves, who wants to embody the negative feelings that they have about themselves. I think that’s something really real. I hadn’t seen that in a cartoon before.

Spinel, unlike many other characters, actually has the goal of hurting people, which is new territory for the show. She really wants to hurt Steven, and there’s a reason that she does—because she’s in so much pain. I just wanted to explore all the dimensions of that.

I also think Steven has his way of trying to handle and dissolve conflict. It’s not necessarily a good way for him to handle this situation. It really leaves him in a difficult state, and I think what I wanted to show in the way that they interact is that at a certain point, when you can’t help someone, you have to be able to protect yourself.

Ultimately, he can’t really convince her to change. It’s something she’ll have to want for herself. But what he can do is protect himself from her, making it impossible for her to hurt him.

It’s sort of up to you if you would like to love her. If you watch this movie and she, you know, frustrates you, that is totally fair. I want that to be a big part of who she is.

[From the AV Club interview]

So here are a few things I want to shed light on.

It’s very interesting that Rebecca intended Spinel to be read as “a toxic person” because so many fans fell in love with her, said they’d be her friend, hated intensely on Pink Diamond because of what she did to abandon the poor Gem, and sympathized with her directly. But Rebecca was looking at Spinel from Steven’s perspective. And that’s also what I did.

I’ve been Steven. I have VERY much been Steven.

When you meet someone who was done dirty, when you recognize the horror they’ve been through, when you see how much pain they are in and agree they have the right to be angry, it’s natural for empathetic people to offer themselves as comfort.

But when you’re Steven, you also know it isn’t YOUR fault either. Before you have the ability and experience to set boundaries, you can get sucked into other people’s stormy waters and think you’re helping if you drown in solidarity with them. What’s really important to preserving yourself is learning that you can stand on the boat and toss a life preserver. That it doesn’t ACTUALLY HELP to jump in the water and sink with them.

Some folks are angry that Steven didn’t jump right into sacrifice himself on the altar of friendship in the service of an intense, literally murderous stranger who tried to poison him and his planet and lash out at his friends, robbing them of their rich pasts and their relationships because all of it hurt HER so much. It is SO easy to understand WHY SPINEL WAS ANGRY. But nothing she was doing to Steven, his friends, or the Earth was going to fix her problems, and furthermore, she FULLY UNDERSTOOD that it was NOT THE FAULT of any of the people she took her anger out on. It was irrational, yes, and that is part of her dysfunction. But also, in these situations, what helps explain it still does not excuse it.

Some have railed at Steven saying he somehow forgave genocidal tyrants like the Diamonds but couldn’t be friends with a damaged Gem like Spinel who just wanted friendship. The big difference there is that Steven got involved with the Diamonds when both parties believed he was a different person. The Diamonds believed he was the lost Pink Diamond, and Steven has also spent much of his superhero life believing he WAS his mother and was therefore obligated to accept punishment for her crimes or to clean up the messes she made. Now that he knows he is not her and that she did some pretty horrible stuff, he also wants the right to stop feeling responsible for every person Pink hurt in the entire region of space.

Steven gave Spinel basically compassionate treatment. He did not abuse her. He did not insult her. He occasionally coddled her when it seemed important (and though some said he was too businesslike while he pursued his mission, he was literally looking at the world ending within two days if he didn’t solve the problem). And most importantly . . . .

He let her leave the garden.

Spinel stayed in the garden all those millennia because Pink Diamond told her they were playing a game. All that time, she had visions of Pink returning so she could see her smile, hear her laughter. We see a sequence where she tried to follow Pink out of the garden and Pink manipulated her into staying willingly. We watch those feet leaving and one pair of feet staying behind. We see Pink disappear.

When Steven goes to leave the garden, Spinel follows in the same manner. Some have criticized him for letting go of her hands.

But he invited her out of the garden. He didn’t say stay. He said come with me.

As he sang about her deserving someone better, he was sincere. But he did not say the person to make her feel found should be him. He did not want to take on another person with thousands of years of baggage who would require a specific brand of attention and so much tenderness to avoid snapping. He did not allow her to be held by the hand and led out. He recognized that she needed encouragement to leave this place because of what was done to her, but he wanted her to take the steps.

Compassionate people are crushed all the time under the weight of needy people who make it hurt to love. People like Steven can acknowledge that Spinel deserves love and deserves to be happy without accepting that it’s heartless to stop short of personally doing it. Especially when you literally have to take physical, mental, and emotional damage as a general consequence of offering support and counseling. It is sometimes just beyond what you can do.

I made the mistake several times of getting very close to someone who treated me poorly while taking comfort in my presence. I cared that they were hurt and I didn’t know how to say “You deserve love” without stepping in and loving them. In EVERY case I was involved with, the person went from initially grateful to “why don’t you help me more?” shockingly quickly, and two of them deliberately tried to create situations where I would be trapped with them and isolated from others.

I could get very personal here but I don’t think I need to. Those of us who relate all too well to Steven wanting to help others will have been in this situation. Your heart hurts for people who live with pain that has never touched you, but when they’ve made it clear with one of their first actions that they feel satisfied at the idea of ruining your life, trusting them could mean the end of you. Especially if they demand that you risk life and limb to fix and save them before you’d dare to call it love, and especially if they want to be fixed without feeling responsible for initiating any of it. Some people mistake suffering for working hard toward a goal. Both can hurt but only one is constructive. If I’m expected to spend extensive resources on someone, I need some partnership in the goal, and I can’t accomplish that with someone whose wish for companionship manifests as “I want you to feel as bad as I do, and will take steps to hurt you so I have someone to cry with.”

Steven risked his actual life while he didn’t have powers so he could go talk to Spinel, and he wouldn’t fight her when she wanted to fight. He protected himself while she spent her anger. He STILL put himself in the line of fire far more than a less compassionate person would. He took time and tenderness to listen to her story and sympathize with her, tell her she deserved better, bear witness to what she’d become after being treated like a discarded plaything, and bring her hope with promises of a new future and a way to feel found.

Sadly, Spinel flipped back to being murderous at the first sign that Steven might be about to prioritize someone other than her, reframing his reasonable needs as if he was planning to abandon her, isolate her, discard her. This was a trauma reaction, yes, and she isn’t entirely to blame for being upset because she was worried she was just being used and none of her actions were logically thought through.

But does someone ever “deserve” the friendship of a specific person who can’t feel warm toward them because of their OWN bad experiences?

No!

Steven has a big heart but he has his very own huge storehouse of trauma, and being physically attacked with his family and planet put in danger over the actions of his mother is at the top of the list. Instead of assuming that the person who has trauma the loudest is the most hurt, can’t we just acknowledge that Spinel’s and Steven’s respective traumas make them NOT the best match for friendship?

The ending of the movie, with Spinel going off with the Diamonds, might seem a little disturbing with all the codepencency floating around there, but if you want to talk about compassion, I think this is a good place for Spinel to start.

She just wanted to make Pink Diamond laugh and enjoy her life. She longed to do that for so long and then it all ended when she found out she would NEVER GET TO DO IT. I think bonding with the other Diamonds and having a familiar, safe place to experience the kind of love she’s used to will be a good FOUNDATION for building herself into a person beyond that. For now, she needs comfort. I hope they treat her well.

#steven universe #steven universe the movie #gif #long post #spinel #su analysis #my su analysis #myblog

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plus-size-reader · 3 years ago

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Company

Huck Finnigan x Plus size!reader

Word Count: 2340 words

Warnings: none

Summary: Huck developing feelings for the reader, a patient who is equally as unsure of herself as he is

—————————————————————————————————

You woke up today as you did every day, in your room at the Lucia State Psychiatric Hospital, the light blaring in through the sliver separating the curtains.

It wasn’t a remarkable life.

If anything, it was boring and routine but at the very least, it kept you from hurting yourself. Besides, living in a facility like this wasn’t always bad. The food wasn’t too bad and you were allowed to bathe yourself, as long as you behaved.

For someone like you, it was an easy life. You had been hospitalised there due to a general diagnosis of melancholy, which made your family fear for your safety. Though, you always thought they just wanted to find somewhere to send you off to.

A young woman like you, unmarried and without prospects, was little more than a burden.

Some may have been upset about being sent off to stay in an institute like this one, taken away from everything they knew and left to die, but you didn’t see too much wrong with it. For someone like you, it wasn’t awful.

You were well taken care of, and even you had to admit that you were happier within these walls than you had been out there.

Not that all that change came from staying here alone.

In all the time that you had been staying in this place, you had found quite the interesting friend in a young orderly by the name of Huck Finnegan. He was interesting to you, as he was the sort of man who took care of other people even when it was difficult.

You knew that you didn’t have that much patience in your little finger, but he didn’t seem to have a problem with it. In fact, Huck seemed to get a special kind of joy from taking care of other people, including you.

He really seemed to like coming to see you.

He was constantly coming to visit you during the day, checking on you and making sure that you had everything you needed, which might not have seemed so strange. After all, it was his job to make sure that the patients here were taken care of.

However, while you thought that he was just doing his job at first, taking his turn to do the rounds, eventually, it was hard to believe.

It just didn’t seem plausible.

You knew for a fact that no one else ever took his place and when his visits came so frequently, it was becoming harder and hard to dismiss it as anything other than what it was.

Huck was sweet on you.

You didn’t really understand it, of course, and you weren’t entirely sure but there didn’t seem to be too many more reasons to be so attentive to another person. You certainly had never paid such close attention to someone else, unless you cared about them.

...And while it was possible you were way off base, it was a thought you couldn’t shake.

As far as you were concerned, someone like Huck would never be interested in you.

It didn’t make any sense to you, because you didn’t have anything to offer him. He was selfless and kind, thinking about others at all times and if the rumors were to be believed, he always had been.

Compared to all the things he’d done and all the people he’d saved, you looked like little more than a petulant child.

All things considered, you couldn’t have imagined him finding anything about you to love but in the months that you’d been here, something had certainly developed between you. While you weren’t sure what it was, it didn’t really matter.

You didn’t mind the company.

As far as the folks in this place went, you could have done a lot worse than a handsome war veteran.

If nothing else, he was a good person and talking to him was going to be much better for your mental state than the other patients.

Then, as if thinking about him had somehow encouraged the man’s entrance, there was a knock at your door.

“Good afternoon, can I come in?”

His words came as similarly as they did every day, meeting your ears in tandem with his knocking on the door. Technically, he didn’t have to do you the courtesy of knocking on the door or asking for entrance at all, but it was kind of him to do so.

It was a very human gesture, one that none of the other orderlies or nurses offered you.

Still, just as you did every day, you called out in affirmation, glad to see that Huck was one again coming to check on you. Of all the staff in the Lucia State Psychiatric Hospital, he was by far your favorite.

He was just so nice and polite.

...And it certainly didn’t hurt that he was more handsome than any man you’d ever seen.

Huck’s attractiveness went much deeper than his skin, which wasn’t altogether unattractive to begin with. It was just that the person he was, the person that lived within the skin was far too darling to ever let go of.

You really weren’t sure if you’d ever met a more wonderful person in your life.

“How are you today?” he asked, stepping into the room as casually as he could and closing the door behind him. You knew that this was one of those friendly visits, because you’d already had all your checkups and medicine that you would for the day.

He didn’t have any real reason to be here, but you were just as glad to see him anyway.

“I’m as good as I could be '' you shrugged, caught somewhere between being happy to see him and wishing that you could have met under different circumstances. When you really thought about it, you must have been crazier than any of them to think he could actually like you.

You were a patient of his.

You were out of your mind.

A man like Huck would never be interested in a chubby sad sack with nothing more to live for than walking around the hospital and doodling on your arm in pen. He was a hero, a beautiful soul, and someone you couldn’t have hoped to entice.

He was too good for you.

“Yeah? You’re doing alright? No distasteful thoughts or negativity this morning?” he hummed, doing the same thing he did every day, starting at the door with his arms folded behind his back. These visits always started off as clinical and professional as possible.

Though, before long, you knew well enough to know that Huck would be cracking jokes and smiling as if the two of you were little more than lifelong friends, catching up.

It was just the way this whole thing went.

“Nope, all good here” you teased, putting on your best cheesy grin as if that would somehow convince him. You did seem to be in good spirits today, compared to when you had a bad day, but that didn’t mean you were completely out of the woods.

If it was that easy to convince him, you wouldn’t have been here in the first place.

“Really, cause you kinda have that far off look in your eye again today” he prodded, relaxing a little further, just enough to let himself sit down on the far end of your bed.

It was a more intimate stance than he would ever take with another patient, not that he was going to tell you that. There was just something about you, and he felt really comfortable when he was with you.

Naturally, that kind of comforting energy made him much more calm and casual than he may have been otherwise.

Damn it.

You really didn’t want to tell him about the dreary realization you had just made but you knew well enough to know that Huck wasn’t going anywhere until you opened up and told him what was up.

By this point in your residence here, he knew you well enough to know when you had something on your mind.

“It’s no big deal. I just thought something was happening that wasn’t” you tried, keeping it as vague as you could while still telling him enough to satisfy him. Considering what you were here for, it was much better to just talk to him than it would be to talk to everyone else.

Nurse Ratched tried her best to be understanding of your condition, much more than Bucket ever had, but they didn’t come close to the bond you shared with Huck.

You knew that he wouldn’t judge you, for even your most embarrassing secrets, and thoughts.

He was a real friend in that way.

“Tell me” he prompted, using the guiss of his profession to get you to talk to him, though you both knew that this was more of a personal suggestion than a professional one. He wanted to bond with you, to help you be better in a real way, but it wasn’t really that easy.

Getting you to open up to him in that way would require him giving away all of his own secrets.

You sighed again, of course.

The two of you had a lot of history between you in all the time you’d been living here but in regards to the feelings you shared for one another, you just didn’t talk about it. It was much easier to just dance around them, avoiding speaking it into life at all costs.

Both of you were too terrified of rejection to put yourselves out there.

“Why do you come here to see me every day? I mean, you don’t bring anything or need to take the time out? What is it about me?” you asked, trying your best to keep your wits about you, desperately avoiding making a fool out of yourself.

From where you were sitting, it seemed like Huck could leave at any time and never come back. It just seemed like you were reading too much into this and you were scared that you were going to ruin the whole relationship you had going.

You were friends.

If you made some kind of suggestion here that offended him, there was a good chance you would hardly see him around here at all.

Huck seemed taken aback by your question at first, partially because he hadn’t been expecting it, and mostly because he wasn’t sure how to answer. After all, he knew exactly what it was about you and why he was sitting here right now, but putting it into words was hardly easy.

He hadn’t been expecting to get into this today.

“I guess I like your company” he decided, figuring that would be the best way to say it without offending you somehow. Huck wasn’t blind to the reality of what he was, or what he looked like, and he was terrified to suggest what he was thinking.

After all, a woman like you had no real reason to ever give a man like him the time of day.

He had seen himself in the mirror. Huck was well aware of what he looked like, and he was hardly a male model. At this point in his life, he considered himself lucky to be alive, and didn’t think too much about what he looked like, until now.

Where you were concerned, he was painfully aware of his outward appearance.

The two of you had that in common, because you couldn’t imagine any man, let alone a wonderful man like Huck ever falling for someone like you. It seemed as if, at this point, the only thing you two could agree on was the fact that you couldn’t admit how you felt.

It was hardly ideal.

“Well, I enjoy your company too” you smiled, content to leave it at that. However, Huck wasn’t quite ready to just call it there.

As terrified as he was to do what he was about to do, it seemed like if there was ever going to be a time to do it, it was now.

The two of you had been doing this whole thing, dancing around your feelings for each other for months, and he didn’t want to do it anymore.

He had to know if you felt the same, and your admission just now seemed like the push he’d been waiting for.

“This might be a little forward, and forgive me if it is, but would you like to join me for dinner tonight?” Huck tried, fidgeting light with his fingers as he did his best to get the words out.

This feeling was new for him.

He was used to being uncertain sometimes and uncomfortable with certain situations but this was something else entirely.

It actually felt like his heart may burst out of his chest, it was beating so fast.

...and you weren’t much better.

The idea of what he was asking you was insane. It wasn’t like you didn’t want to, of course, dinner with Huck sounded amazing.

There was just one problem.

You couldn’t exactly hit the town whenever you felt like it.

“I would love to, but you know as well as I do that I can’t just waltz out the door” you reminded, once again put in your place.

Huck could go out and get anyone he wanted. It just didn’t make sense that he wanted to wait around here with you. You could hardly imagine how something like that would even work.

Thankfully, Huck was already way ahead of you.

He already spent more time here than he did anywhere else, and making a few adjustments to his plans on your account wasn’t going to kill him.

If it meant that the two of you could be together, he would do whatever he had to.

“You let me worry about that” he hummed, not even bothering to hide the huge grin on his face. After all this time, he’d finally done it.

Huck got the date.

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donutdrawsthings · 4 years ago

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NO THIS POST IS NOT A DISCUSSION FORUM. EITHER KEEP SCROLLING OR VIBE WITH THE REST OF US

I thought I had already been clear on what my stance was on the matter, but after today I feel like I need to yell it off the top of my lungs. I SUPPORT ROETVEEG PIET AND BLM. LISTEN TO BLACK VOICES AND ACKNOWLEDGE YOUR WRONGS.

(Information about the Dutch holiday and why it’s racist under the cut! includes extern sources and images!)

Summary

Sinterklaas is a Dutch tradition that starts at the first Saturday after 11 November and ends at 5 December. A figure called Sint Nicholaas comes on a boat from Spain to the Netherlands to celebrate his birthday on the 5th with his little helpers, the Zwarte Pieten. The Zwarte Pieten give candy to the kids and on the 5th kids get a gift from Sinterklaas.

The Racism (Black Pete)

All sounds fairly innocent, until you see what the Zwarte Pieten look like.

These are the traditional Zwarte Pieten (it translates to Black Petes btw). These individuals are usually played by white people and are purposely darkened to black with red lipstick, black curly hair and sometimes golden earrings. I have always been told the dark skin was to represent “soot” from the chimneys, however, up until recent years there was no effort made to actually appear as smeared. In fact, a lot of effort was put into making sure not a single speck of light skin was visible because that could ruin the illusion. (the illusion being, hiding your identity behind blackface.)

These characters are also played to be playful, hyperactive, carefree, happy to do their work and often praise Sinterklaas himself. Which are all traits often depicted alongside the “happy slave” stereotype from way back when and the S*mbo stereotype.

other racist depictions are also on display in stores and houses (often on display near a window for kids to see) in the form of little Black Petes, most of them resembling the G*lliw*g. (first image is a common window prop during Sinterklaas, the second image is the racist G*lliw*g)

This very outdated depiction of black people only really started being questioned in the early 2010′s. However, support for questioning Black Pete only started to become somewhat acceptable around 2016/2017... And even then the public has been largely Pro Black Pete until 2020, after the Black Lives Matter movement also started to become a valid topic of discussion in the Netherlands.

The Transition

Between 2010 and 2020 a lot happened since Black Pete officially got taken into question and talk about whether or not Black Pete should be changed started to become a genuine topic of discussion. When the question first rang, the majority of the Dutch folk were against the change. I was against this change as well. I think I should note that I was around 13 at the time and it is a very common phenomenon for kids to mimic the opinion of their parents and teachers. But this indeed a genuine opinion I had at some point and I acknowledge that with full responsibility.

The main reasons everyone was against this change was because we did not see it as racist and were convinced the “goal” with this movement was to entirely remove Pete from the holiday or remove the holiday as a whole from the list.

I would also like to note that the Dutch folk’s opinion on what is and isn’t racist is very outdated as well. (As I write this now in 2020 it is still not a whole lot better but around the 2010′s it was definitely worse.) As this topic gained attraction, jokes about black men having huge dicks (the m*and*ngo stereotype), “watering the Africans” and much more were made to me and other people regularly enough to be normal or at the very least, were seen as a bit of a cheeky thing to say. And despite being a multicultural country, Asian people were still referred to as “Chinese”, Native Americans as “Indians” and Islamic women as “Penguins” as well.

But back on the topic. As the years went on, more and more protests against Black Pete gained attraction and by now parents started to use these protests as another reason to be against the change because “they are ruining it for the kids” White parents would also start to praise the word of their 1 black colleague/friend for being against the change as well.

When the topic started to become more prominent, people made the attempt to change the Black of a Black Pete to another colour. This created the short lived bizarre creation of Rainbow Pete. (also seen in the picture above)

Rainbow Pete was a very short lived idea and was considered weird by many. However, I personally do believe this was an important step in the transition. Rainbow Pete took the depersonalisation tied to Black Pete and quite literally, showed its true colours. It’s ehhh hard to explain what “A Pete” is in English. But growing up I never considered them as human, nor were they ever explained to me as ACTUALLY being human. They are just described as a Pete, and a Pete is all they are. They aren’t people who can have other jobs in Spain or can travel the world to find something else to do. They are a Pete, and therefore they will always be with Sinterklaas in Spain, making toys for us, giving us candy and then going back to Spain with Sinterklaas again.

And that’s why I think this odd colour change was so important. Because by making them green or blue or pink it properly showed how ALIEN Petes felt. Like a whole other species. It tied a certain uncomfortable environment to the depersonalisation and after it’s short lived appearance, Soot Smudge Pete was a much easier step to make

Soot Smudge Pete, or in Dutch known as Roetveeg Pete, is the most recent and most inclusive variant of the Petes. This Pete only requires a few dark smudges to mimic actual soot and can be played by all races.

in 2018/19 Soot Petes started to become more present in the official parades, which a lot of parents were rather disgusted about. I personally think this is the period in which a lot of people just straight up outed themselves as racist, actively being against “White Pete” and actively longing for the “Real Petes” to return. Even with these Petes slowly becoming more popular, it is still not safe for most people who are against Black Pete to discuss the matter with Pro Black Pete individuals in this time period. Pro Black Pete individuals (often family or coworkers) more often than not become very heated when the topic arises and I cannot say I’ve ever seen the same attitude from people who are against Black Pete.

Present Day

In 2020, thanks to the Black Lives Matter movement, it has become way more socially acceptable to support Soot Smudge Pete. Parents who are still Pro Black Pete are still vocally voicing their disgust every time Soot Petes are present instead of Black Petes and much like what happened to me back then, their opinions also seep through onto their children. With these people still present in Sinterklaas spaces it also sadly occurs they press their believes on Soot Petes by giving them too much soot and still giving them a black, curly wig.

However, with the way things are going right now and the positive, multicultural depiction present in the media, I believe we are finally on our way to a more positive environment for kids of all kinds of backgrounds!

Afterthoughts

This whole post sparked after I dealt with a nasty situation myself while playing a Soot Pete at my old Elementary school. I really wanted to play this role to tie a more positive view on Soot Petes with all the parents creating such a negative environment around the Sinterklaas times and thought I could take matters into my own hands. However, I was Sooted up by a Pro Black Pete mother and thus, nearly got as dark as my brown hair. (besides that I also have gender issues and despite the school knowing I’m called Josh, put me in a dress outfit,, but that’s a more personal issue) I was able to wipe most of it off by the time the kids came in, but not without sharing some discouraging words with my mother, who told me to “just suck it up”.

It’s really important to me for people to know how Bad stuff like that still is in this country and I just... don’t understand why people would still support Black Pete after all this time. These people are either friends, family, or just kind people I know and love who around November open their mouths to say the most vile things and create such a sour situation for everyone involved. And after Black Pete is proven to be racist time and time again, still supporting it... It makes me wonder if this has to do with pride more than anything.

No one wants to be called a racist, but is it really that hard to acknowledge some of the shit you said and did was just plain wrong to the point that you’re taking your opinion to new extremes and decide to die on a sinking ship..?

I’ve said racist things. I have compared the curly black hair of a Black Pete to black classmates. I have compared Black Pete to black classmates. I have joked about them not needing to be face painted to be just like Black Pete. I have made those connections and I’m ashamed I did. But you do what you can to deal with it and become better for those around you. You listen to black voices, support black artists and black businesses and become better as a person. We need to start acknowledging how much our society is actually structured to belittle and undervalue black people and you can’t do that when you’re THAT far up your own ass.

phew... anyways. Black Lives Matter! Don’t use tradition to defend racism! Fijne Pakjesavond!!

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spiltscribbles · 4 years ago

Note

Oooo it’s my birthday today and I neeeeeed my sweet boys, is it too greedy if I ask for you to write something absolutely adores like you always do. I can wait there’s no rush. It would really make my day a whole lot better

~Notes: HI HI BABY!!! I’m so so fucking sorry this is like two days late 😭😭😭 I am a piece of shit and I had an idea and then I scrapped it and then I came up with this crack shit! But I included singling like you wanted!! And ILU endlessly!!! I hope your birthday was at least filled with sunlight and friends and all the adoration you deserve🎉🎉🎂🥳🎈🎈🎈🎊🎊🥳🎁. And I hope this isn’t a shitty gift!😭😭

Send Me A Prompt<3 | A Reblog is like a hug!!!!

The 4 Times People Suspected About Remus and Sirius, and The One Time They Called It By Name

~I~

Peter notices it first.

He doesn’t know quite what it is, or what it means— Peter doesn’t understand what it entails when he’s watching the way Sirius gently thumbs at a high patch on Remus’s cheek while he’s sleeping on the hospital bed after the first full moon of fourth year, a fraught look in his stormy eyes. Or how Remus’s gaze always search Sirius out first after he’s made a wry comment in the expense of the Slytherins, going alight with the other boy’s laughter. Peter doesn’t comprehend the way it sometimes seems like he’s caught in some sort of static— a negative space that makes him feel out of bounds— when he’s alone with only the pair of them. When they’re all huddled around the common area or their dormitory while James is probably skulking in search of Lily Evans or cajoling the other chasers to have another lap around the court. With Remus lounging on his fourposter, or the sofa, reading one of the infinite books he’s got tucked away in his trunk, and Sirius is quietly sat by his feet, toying with a non-magical contraption he’s found in Muggle London after sneaking out from his ancestral home while his folks were having a row. And Peter is ordinarily just fiddling with a scroll he has to finish for one of the tougher courses from a bit away, intermittently glancing at them side long, just waiting for an excuse to leave the suffocating ambiance that feels like it’s been fitted for just the pair of them and not another soul.

But the most peculiar part about all of this is that Peter is accustomed to feeling like the spare, the cast off who’s clinging to the glimmering forms that are James and Sirius, and their ravenous appetite for any and all attention that’s given over because that’s the sort of boys they are— affluent and prominent and radiating with a sort of spark that’s all there own— the sort of boys that others find doubtless that they are something miraculous. But when Peter’s around just the pair of them, in the corner of the galaxy that the marauders have carved for them to rule like kings— It never feels quite so stilted, so weighty. Sirius and James have a gift of making everyone in the room feel like they’re in on the joke, that they could be showered with that same granger just as long as they play in the tableau. Remus and Sirius together feels the contrary of that, like there’s something pregnant lying between them, waiting to pounce. Like there’s an understanding that no one else gets to glimpse at, and no one else should try. An understanding that’s personal and private and crackling with an energy that is far beyond anything between mere friends, beyond anything Peter could fathom with all his fifteen years.

Idly, over supper after an entire two hours being stuck between that strange tension simmering beneath the surface of Remus and Sirius, Peter wonders for the umpteenth time on whether he should ask James about this development in their small brotherhood, should ask him if he’s detected the difference there. And if he has, Peter will listen to James’s plan to ensure this doesn’t ruin anything. How whatever is brewing under the surface won’t absolutely ruin them.

But then, from the corner of his eye, Peter sees Sirius— none to gently— piling Remus’s plate with an abundance of the potatoes that Moony likes best, dipping down to whisper something in his ear— something surely lecherous— before tousling his curls in that brash, bombastic way of his that he does with Peter and James too, even if he ends it by gingerly cupping the nape of Remus’s neck with a surreptitious squeeze that ends just as quickly as it began, falling back into conversation with James and Marlene about the Wasps’s chances against the Harpies this Friday night as if it was just an innate action, even if it’s one Peter’s only ever witnessed him doing to Remus.

And even though there’s another full in two days, and even though Remus looks like a walking inferi— pale faced and exhausted posture and circles the color of midnight smudged beneath his eyes— Peter watches the ends of his lips quirk up into the best approximation of a smile Peter’s ever seen on him so close to the wolf breaking through the surface of his body that’s all skin and bones, and he isn’t sure if it’s a trick of the light or not, but Remus actually looks like he might be glowing over the strange attention that Sirius’s only ever paid to him.

So no… No, Peter doesn’t think he’ll ask James quite yet, reckons that if anything can help his moon plagued friend, that it must be something good, something that shouldn’t be tempered with.

They can figure out how the strange string pulling Remus and Sirius together will alter their brotherhood later on, there’s still time. There’ still a possibility that it won’t devastate everything.

~II~

Lily’s suspected for a while.

The thing is that she’s known about Remus since the end of third year, when he rebuffed the advances of an eager Heleen Abed, and Lily found him on the ledge of the largest window in the vacant common room— the same one that they regularly commandeer with Mary McDonald to discuss the finer points of Muggle politics and current events, separate from the melting pot of their Gryffindor class that’s composed of either pure bloods or those with their closest Muggle relative being a long dead grandparent. And it was definitely a dangerous, knife’s edge she was playing at, but Lily had sat besides the boy who she’s cultivated a real and true friendship with— one beyond pleasant platitudes and fodder about their course work— and she told him about her cousin Joey with green spiked hair and a mischievous smile adorned with a sparkling stud and how she and Petunia had caught him holding hands with one of his friends from sixth-form in the garden of her Aunt’s cottage, and how even the sneer on her older sisters lips hadn’t deterred Lily from thinking anything but mild indifference about the situation. Only wanting her cousin to always live in that easy effervescence she’s always known when it came to him.

And nothing else was exchanged between them, but Remus had grinned in that barely perceptible way of his, and Lily had nudged his shoulder with her own and then fished out her final handful of chocolate frogs for them to share while they revise their notes for the transfiguration exam coming up.

Two summers have past since then—they’re in the midst of their final term of fifth year now— and she thinks that they’ve become even closer, that the frequent late nights in the library for their impending OWLs and their countless prefect rounds has helped forge a real and true bond— especially that whole snag earlier in the year when they had realized they were both snogging Leon Bennett on alternating nights behind greenhouse three. But all of that withstanding, Lily knows that there are still secrets Remus keeps tight to his chest, ones that Lily’s analytical mind— the mind of a potions expert and future healer— has suspected to do with the thin, silvery scars running down his strong hands that are all tapered fingers and slender wrists, and another across his right bicep that she saw when he had changed his robes for a jumper in front of her, and the one cutting down from the bottom of his ear and nearly across the entire length of his neck, ending at the corner of his sharp collarbone. But Lily suspects he’ll tell her about that soon enough, what she isn’t so confident about is him admitting that particularly dazed look he gets when around Black, of all people. The way he stammers his words occasionally and the way he worries on his bottom lip while averting his glance when Sirius is chatting up a very pleased looking girl, and the way he flushes when Lily is ribbing about him in particular. And Lily knows that the foursome of Gryffindor boys had a falling out of sorts before winter hols, that there’s a hairline fracture between them and Remus now— one that she’s sure no one else can pick up on after the way they had seemingly come back together in late January, right before her birthday funnily enough. But Lily’s always been the analytical sort— the sort to absorb the barebones of a situation so she could conjure a hypothesis that she could prove after careful study.

So Lily knows that it’s something deeper, and she can see how Remus is reticent around them in ways she’s actually worried won’t be shaken off anytime soon— which is all levels of bazaar considering she’s been telling Remus for years that he needs to shrug off his rowdy mates like a snake shedding an old coat. But before, when she’d barb as much he’d only stick out his tongue and tell her what happens to busybodies, and how she doesn’t really know them at all. But now days, he just looks particularly hurt, and more than a bit put out, and Lily catches him flickering over to wherever Sirius was holding court, longing in a way she couldn’t possibly articulate out loud.

Honestly Lily thinks it’s really quite gracious of her to have dropped the subject completely, rather, she takes up the mantel of his friend that can distract him from all those sorts of woes, biting her tongue over his lingering feelings for Sirius that are more than likely far beyond a passing fancy. And she thinks that maybe that’s a good call, maybe it’s good for Remus to beat down those sorts of emotions that he’s harboring for the wanker. She knows Remus, and she knows he wouldn’t hold a grudge— even such a quiet one— for no reason at all. Besides, she doesn’t really think it’s her place to tell him how when he’s glancing away, Sirius is holding vigil to him with that same sort of fervor. That Sirius is the one who collects the notes for all his classes on those conspicuous absences of his when Remus is feeling poorly in the infirmary. That Sirius occasionally looks so very gutted when Remus is wilting away from them, when he seeks Lily’s company instead.

She has a heavy suspicion that Remus might already know all of those things— that maybe they’ve already discussed it at length, that maybe the falling out in December has caused a full stop of anything that could’ve potentially blossomed between them. And she just wishes she knew the entire story so she could decide on whether she should be jinxing Black’s face to a putrid orange color, or pushing Remus to actually give him a chance.

Lily just wishes she could read Black as easily as she can Remus, maybe that would help in this experiment she’s testing, because for now she’s just confused as all hell over what exactly Black feels towards him. Well that is until it’s a fortnight before Remus’s birthday, and she’s being bodily dragged into a closet on her way to charms.

“Oi— What the bloody—“

“Language, Evans,” the annoyingly familiar baritone of Sirius Black tsks, lighting up the cupboard with his wand and smirking in that jagged way she’s heard countless girls tittering over, and the one that makes her want to pop him one right against his ridiculously smug face.

“Black,” she says, caustic as all get out with her fists clenched against her sides and her brows making a really resilient effort to meet in the middle. “You’ve got thirty seconds before I hex your bollocks off.”

“Pff, and Jamie thinks you’re some sort of saint.”

“Twenty-eight. Twenty-seven. Twenty-six.”

Sirius pulls a face at her, but must understand the credence in the words, because it’s not another moment more before he pulls out a bedraggled looking slip of paper from his robe’s pocket, and thrusts it at her face. So with an indignant huff, Lily opens it up and begins scanning the words— becoming all the more confused when she sees measurements and things like coco powder and melted butter, instead of whatever the hell else she was preparing herself to read.

“I’m being pranked, aren’t I? You’re trying to distract me so you and Potter can do something horrid to the Slytherin’s common room.”

“We’ve actually already done that today,” Sirius jeers, raising up his hands in concession with a cluck of the tongue at her scowling face. “’s from Moony’s mum, all right. I asked her to send me the recipe of this chocolate cake she use to make him for his birthdays before Hogwarts— I just thought… It might be nice is all, and you can sod right off if you look at me like that, Evans, with the soft eyes and all that rot. Are you going to help me or not?”

Lily resolutely ignores the pang to her heart, because God, this really is such a sweet gesture. “And what? you thought I could help you because I’m a bird?” She asks in the most scolding inflection she could muster in the face of this incredibly soppy gift he wants to give Remus.

“None of that, blimey, Evans.” Sirius snarls, obviously diffident, and combined with the faint flush to his cheeks, Lily suddenly realizes why he’s considered one of the best looking blokes in the entirety of their school. “There’s a whole load of Muggle mumbo jumbo, so it was between asking you, or McDonald, and I adore Mary and all, but she has got such a mouth on her.”

“You should know,” Lily counters with a leer. “She couldn’t stop going on about your date back in October.”

Sirius’s brows hike, and he actually smiles at her— one that’s vacant from all his bravado from his upbringing in his pretentious, pure blood home, and one that isn’t trying to show off. And Lily can’t help but favoringly liken him to an excited pug. “Oh you’re wicked, Evans!” He shrills delightedly. “Oh this is great, you’re just as depraved as Remus, are all prefects like this?”

Lily snorts, shaking her head at him, indulgent. “Never mind that, Black. Most of this stuff can be found in the kitchens below, I’m sure the house elves won’t mind us borrowing anything.”

“And the ingredients that won’t be down their?” He asks worriedly.

“Well, good on you planning this so far ahead of time, we’ll just have to experiment.”

Sirius groans in retort, muttering things about Muggle potions and James thinking he’s getting off with his future wife and other ridiculous things that Lily doesn’t bother to stay and listen to. Though, when Remus’s birthday does roll around, and she sees his countenance go a thousand shades brighter as he bites into the pudding, and Sirius’s grin stretch just that much more across his face in response— their eyes meeting across the room and past the crowds— Well Lily suspects Sirius never really minded any of the things he was whinging on about, not at all, not as long as the result was a beaming Remus.

~III~

Regulus hears about it in the halls.

He’s not much for gossip or that sort of dribble, doesn’t have much patience for anyone outside his house if he’s being at all frank— and even then, it’s not as if he doesn’t frequently find himself escaping to his fourposter for a moment’s quiet. It seems that everyone in this bloody castle are just dimwitted, daft idiots, and Regulus’s never been the sort to offer allowances for that kind of behavior. He’s been raised in the home of a family as close to royalty as Wizards permit, a prince among men. And he was told that he should have patience for the dull folks beneath him, just as long as they have the correct ideals, but sometimes he can’t help but wish they would all just let him be, sometimes feels like he’s being carted around Hogwarts as the perfect pure blood, like he was nine years old again and being shown off in the parlor of his home when guests came to call, watching from the sidelines while his mother rave about how splendid of an heir Sirius is turning out to be. How his tutor calls him a genius for any age, and how darling he looks in Slytherin green, and how he’s already mastered three romance languages to help in his spell work.

And Regulus can’t help but scoff at those contemplations now, thinking of the past summer when his dramatic and brash brother had made a whole production of leaving behind the values that gave him everything he has. How he escaped to that Potter git’s home the way he’s been doing for nearly every holiday since his second year, how he offered Regulus to come along as if he’s a trader just like him. What a risible excuse for an heir.

But Regulus won’t commit such follies, he’ll make his parents proud— even if his father is nearly never paying much mind and his mother goes from raving to sickly in a blink of an eye. It doesn’t matter, because he’ll carry on the Black legacy, something that his oh so perfect brother never could’ve done. Regulus is only a fifth year, will be turning sixteen in only two months after Sirius’s coming of age, and sure, this might mean he’s still young enough that the Death Eaters don’t find him adequate to fight on the line of fire, but he’ll do it eventually, feels the weight of the letter from Bellatrix praising him for as much resting heavy in his pocket. And if Regulus finds them all a bit too vicious or a bit too excitable and completely lacking a deft hand to make the changes they’re searching for, he shrugs it off. He knows what he must do, and as he stares at his brother from across the valley cusping the lake, he’s only that much more steadfast in the conviction of the fact.

Sirius is sitting and laughing with a group of his Gryffindor mates, the mudbloods, and blood traders that had warped him from the brother he knew to the stranger he is now. And there’s a dark skinned Ravenclaw bird— Meadowes if he remembers correctly from his prefect meetings— and she’s telling some sort of long winded tail with hand gestures and loud cackling coming from the group as she goes on. And Sirius is tossing around a quaffle with Potter— the glint of a handsome, silver watch on his wrist catching in the dying sunlight. And Regulus wonders who had gifted him such a personal passage to adulthood, but is soon distracted by spotting the way Sirius nearly gets smacked in the face with the ball because he was too busy gawking over at Lupin in such a stripped down, cautious way that it makes Regulus squirm.

He doesn’t know much about the elder Prefect, only that his name had come up nearly as much as Potters during that first year when Sirius would send him correspondence on a frequent basis because he knew how lonely Regulus would get while stuck in Grimmauld all by himself. And then when he began attending Hogwarts, Regulus never could get a good reading on him. He knew Potter because of how his family is infamous for their liberal views and nouveau riche attitudes, and Pettigrews family owns a hokey herb shop in Diagon. All he’s found out about the Lupins is that his father is the son of half-bloods and his mother is a Muggle, and that this mudblood is a reserved, carefully aloof bugger, and that somehow he’s seemingly captured all of Sirius’s attentions that he’s not giving Potter or the clinger ons who follow him around like mindless fools. Beyond that, Lupin and Regulus have only traded a hand full of words whenever their roles of prefects would force them to intermingle, and it’s always been punctuated by Lupin giving Regulus a witheringly cold look anytime they were in close proximity, which is admittedly impressive considering that half the time the sickly bastard looks like he’s about ready to keel over.

So no, Regulus doesn’t know much about him, but he’s heard the rumors. He knows that it’s basically an open secret between the Gryffindor class and selected friends. The fact that his brother is probably shagging the mudblood, convincing Regulus that Sirius really has never given a toss about the decorum and standards befalling them as the only two Black males of their generation. And he hates his brother so scathingly right then, hates his little munblood lover probably even more.

And when he watches Lupin straying his gaze from the novel he was reading while that red haired Muggle born was resting her head in his lap, and Regulus saw the way both of their expressions went a peculiar sort of tender— well that’s the last straw, so he stands up in a huff— so unlike himself— and he cuts the story Mulciber was crowing on about, and he tells them he needs to complete a scroll for Slughorn.

And while he prowls away from the sight of his brother continuing to ruin everything, Regulus plunges a hand into his pocket, and crunches Bellatrix’s letter in his grasp, promises himself to write her back soon, and ignores the ache in his chest that’s only been growing larger since Sirius had left permanently.

~IV~

James’s always known.

Perhaps that’s an over reach, but it’s true enough. He’s known for years, on some level, that the thing between Sirius and Remus is something completely foreign to him. Something completely separate from how Sirius licks his face when James is over sleeping and he wants to be a general nuisance. Separate from how he and Remus have begun discussing anything and everything in the wee hours of the morning, with a spot of tea between them and a blanket on their legs, because Remus can’t sleep from the moon and James has never been able to sleep through the whole night without feeling guilty over it. He thinks it stemmed from when he was younger, when his parents were feeling sickly, and before they were gifted a house elf by a family friend who recognized that the elderly Potters needed just a bit more assistance.

James never knew whether it was obvious to him because he’s always considered Sirius as his bastard brother since Christmas of first year, and that he’s always trying to make sure that Remus is all right after finding out just how impressively the bloke can keep secrets once Sirius figured out his furry little problem. So he’s not sure what others know, or even what Remus and Sirius know of what’s happening between them, honestly, there have been so many almosts that James has picked up on over the years. And he still shutters thinking about the near total break that happened with the prank, still isn’t quite sure what had past between them to get Sirius and Remus speaking with each other once more, but he does know that Remus staying with James, Sirius, and Peter the past summer after Sirius escaping the twisted place he was suppose to call a home, is what helped indefinitely. And now, a year separate from the prank, things finally feel normal between them.

Well— Erm, not normal per se. Those idiots are still blustering and bumbling and bashfully avoiding one another when anything close to romantic comes up in a discussion or when their hands touch over the Great Hall table or whenever James makes a pointed remark when he catches one of them staring a bit too slack jawed at the other in the midst of something totally bloody innocuous in the eyes of a normal person— EG: Sirius gathering his hair— that’s nearly to the bottom of his neck now a days— into a small knot on the back of his head, or Remus sucking idly on a sugar quill while he’s revising. And sure, James has to deal with the kicks at his ankles, or a spare jinx if one of them is especially pissy, but Lily’s come to join him in the ribbing, so it kind of makes everything all right. Especially when she levels her beautiful, forrest green eyes with his own brown ones, and she actually looks sort of endeared.

Yeah— that’s a fucking amazing feeling all right, and it’s probably the memory of that happening only a few hours ago that has got James all jittery now, far past midnight. So with a tired sigh, he slides open the drapes of his fourposter, is ready to go downstairs for a kitchen raid if Remus isn’t awake— Though once he sets his glasses on, and blinks a few times over to get acclimated with the dark, he’s only a bit stunned to find the shapes of Remus and Sirius crowded on the former’s bed— and they’re really not much more than suggestions beneath the shadows, but it’s enough for James to see Sirius’s head bent low, resting it against the crook of Moony’s neck and shoulder, while the shorter boy has got his arms wrapped around Sirius’s torso. And it’s nothing obscene, not really— it’s not like they’re nude or anything— but Sirius is shirtless, and Remus does have this blissed out expression painted over his features, that James would bet good money is the same one Sirius has got on if most of his face wasn’t covered by his hair.

And in another breath, Remus’s honey colored eyes flap open, widening exponentially when he catches sight of James, and wiggling around as if he wants to move away from Sirius completely, which is of course stunted when Sirius makes a low noise under his breath, and presses closer so that his mouth is quite literally right against Remus’s neck, and his arms tug him closer.

And James is definitely convinced that he’s the best mate any bloke could ask for when instead of chuckling at the obvious show of territorialism, he just shakes his head indulgently at them, mouthing an “About time plonker,” to Remus, who replies in kind with a hefty, two fingered salute.

This time James has to bite down to prevent his chuckle from spilling out.

“And here I was, about to offer you a snack from our dear house elves.” He whispers, hopefully quiet enough so that only Remus could hear.

“Oh, just bugger off,” Remus retorts, smiling with such mirth that James can’t even feign to be affronted over it, only follows the playful command and tries figuring out just how to give the ‘If you hurt him I’ll hurt you’ talk to the pair of them without it coming across insincerely.

~+I~

Millie was bored until she saw them.

The only reason why Millie got this boring job in this beyond posh restaurant is because her folks reckon that she needs to learn some form of responsibility before university, and she hates it. The pay is absolute shite, and most of her coworkers are all levels of boring, and the patrons are not nearly entertaining enough to try and make up some secret back story of tumultuous affairs or secret agents from the MI6, or a royal from some country on the continent meeting their star-crossed lover.

It’s all just painfully ordinary, and she’s cursing her parents while she chomps on her gum, reading some stupid note by an ugly old fart who left her his number on the receipt.

Scoffing while she bins it, Millie glances over to the newly occupied table in her section, heart immediately leaping once she gets a good look at the pair of blokes sitting down.

The sandy haired one is definitely cute in that reserved way her best friend Claire would definitely be mad over— the guy who could read you poetry in French or Italian and then gently kisses the back of your hand. And that’s all and well, but Millie’s every attention is laser focussed on his mate, the one that looks like he can be bloody James Bond with those smoldering eyes and that ink black hair, and God, those cheekbones! Definitely one of those beautiful, Public school boys who’s born and bread by the patrician. And while she takes their orders, she tosses him her most flattering of grins and slips in her giggle that an ex boyfriend compared to silver bells, and is sure to flip her long, chestnut hair enough times so he’d notice, even if she’s pretty sure he’s either pissed or probably more than a bit stoned. (Truly, where the bloody hell would he come up with pumpkin juice? How horrid must that taste).

Millie may or may not spend an unreasonable amount of time spying at them from where the cooks drop off the completed plates to be sent away. He’s just so bloody good looking, and she can’t believe this awful job has finally brought her such an amazing distraction, and the arse doesn’t even pay her much mind, leaving the ordering and the conversing to his fair haired friend.

Maybe he’s sensitive, she thinks to herself. Maybe he’s just a shy soul. And yes, that must be it! The poor, beautiful sod. She’s sure to make her intentions clear next time she thinks it’s appropriate to top off their waters, because she’s so very gracious like that.

“Enjoying yourselves?” Millie asks in her most light hearted of cadences, filling up the shorter one’s glass but smiling fully and exclusively to the boy who looks like he should be starring in some sort of Brook’s Brothers advert.

“Ta,” the sandy haired boy says, sounding a bit amused at her dilemma, but it’s kind enough so Millie doesn’t feel brassed off over it. “Do you mind pointing me to the loo?”

“Oh of course!” She crows, suddenly ecstatic as she directs him, finally getting a chance to be alone with the model. Though when she turns her attention to him once the other one leaves to take a leak, she’s kind of confused how he’s staring after him with a glance she vividly remembers on the face of her ex whenever she’d peer back around to ensure he was watching her go— Though, if Millie’s being honest, the model somehow looks simultaneously eager to watch the back of him, but also already disheartened not to have him around in ways she doubts anyone she’s ever gone out with has ever exhibited. “He’s a nice chap,” she states, instead of marinating on the strangeness of this development.

The practical model starts, seems to have forgotten about her presence all together, but then he glances over towards her with those impossibly flattering, pale gray eyes, and he nods disinterestedly. And yeah, yikes. That is a total hit to Millie’s ego.

“Ahem,” she clears her throat, begins twisting her free hand into the material of her apron. “’S nice you guys came for dinner, you don’t see much friends considering how bloody expensive it is here, hah.”

Millie feels herself going absolutely scarlet at the impassive way he drags his gaze up and down her form before taking a swig of his Bellini. “He’s not my friend.”

“Oh,” Millie practically squeaks out, suddenly wonders if maybe he’s a tutor from his class or something? Maybe the model is just taking the cute one out to dinner as a thanks for helping him pass his A-levels? Maybe this is considered cheap in the circles that the model keeps.

“’S our one year anniversary actually,” he tells her, still in that methodical, blasé way of his. And oh. Oh wow! Suddenly everything is snapping into clarity.

The way the two boys had brushed the back of their hands before being seated, how model had trusted the other boy to order for him, how model never looked away from the cute one’s mouth or collarbones or hands as they spoke. How whenever she came around to ask if they needed anything else, it felt like she was intruding on more than just a couple of mates catching up.

Oh Jesus, she feels like such an idiot, and Millie tells the model just as much.

“I’m sorry, I’m an idiot! I didn’t even put it together.”

Remarkably, the model’s rigid posture goes a bit loose at her apology, and the corner of his thin lips quirk up into a grin. “’S fine, he didn’t want to make a fuss out of it, but yeah— Just feels good telling someone.”

Millie nods eagerly, she can’t understand exactly what he means, obviously not, but she can definitely try to, and if it feels good for him to tell a random bird about something so important, then she’s more than happy to help. “Well the point stands, yeah? He seems like a good sort, you’re lucky to have found each other.”

The model’s grin goes elastic at that, and he looks actually approachable for the first time tonight. “I’m the luckiest bloke in the world that I get to be with him.”

Millie flushes at the intensity embedded into his statement, but thankfully doesn’t have to answer when she hears the sandy haired boy walking closer now, smiling so brightly that there’s a dimple popping up on the apple of his cheek that Millie’s only just noticed— The mirth is a good color on him, she reckons. Makes him look as gorgeous as those boys on the telly dramas her Mum is always gushing about, even his eyes turn more golden than light brown. “You pestering our waitress Padfoot?”

“You know I keep my devilish tongue for you and you alone Moonbeam,” the model—Padfoot cannot be his actual name for heaven’s sake— retorts.

“Lucky me,” the sandy haired boy says wryly as he takes a seat, and while Millie walks away— intending to get them a pudding that’s on the house to celebrate the milestone of their relationship— she peers back around only once and it’s enough to see the tips of their fingers kissing across the table, and their smiles looking like a secret language not meant for anyone else to read.

My Full Wolfstar FIC Masterlist💜

#WOLFSTAR #REMUS LUPIN #SIRIUS BLACK #WOLFSTAR FLUFF #REMUSXSIRIUS #SIRIUSXREMUS #HARRY POTTER SERIES #MARAUDERS #Spilt Ink #I'm sorry if you hate this sugarplum #Like legit #idk what I am on #JFC #I suck #flksadjgaklsgjoewiajfsg

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tlbodine · 3 years ago

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The Great Content Warning Debate

Horror Twitter has been aflame for a few days now with heated discourse about trigger/content warnings, and I keep seeing the same arguments and questions and points come up repeatedly so I wanted to collect all of it into one place because I feel like discourse can only get so far if people keep reinventing the wheel -- so perhaps having the full discussion laid out in one place could be helpful.

Of course, the folks arguing probably won’t see this post, but perhaps there can be some benefit from talking about it anyway. This is intended to be more of an overview of arguments and counter-arguments, collected and displayed as impartially as possible, but of course my own opinions are going to leak in and color some of this.

NOTE: This is written specifically from the perspective of the horror book community, a genre that traditionally is associated with troubling, transgressive, risk-taking and shocking works. There are discussions to be had for content labels on other types of fiction, but as I’m unfamiliar with the norms and expectations of, say, romance, I’m not going to wade too deeply into that here.

So without further ado, the arguments and counter-arguments and discussion points that I keep seeing hashed and rehashed and circled around when the issue of trigger warnings comes up!

If you’re sensitive, you shouldn’t be reading horror

“Horror is supposed to be horrifying! It’s not fluffy bunnies and kittens! You’re supposed to be made uncomfortable!”

There are a few problems with this:

“Uncomfortable” is not the same as “Sent into a panic attack/flashback/relapse” (ie, triggered)

People with PTSD and other issues can and do engage with horror all the time and often love the genre for entertainment or therapeutic purposes

Many people are fine with some types of content but not others; blood and guts won’t affect them the same as rape, or they’re fine with adults dying but can’t handle child death, and so on and so forth

Knowing what you’re getting into can help you prepare/brace yourself so you’re not taken unaware; people with the right warnings can mentally prepare themselves and enjoy a book that they would not have been able to read if they were confronted with it unexpectedly

Trigger warnings are censorship

Some folks have an implicit/kneejerk reaction that “trigger = bad thing” and respond to the request to put warnings on a book as a moral value judgment on the book’s contents. I can see why they might fear that, especially because at a glance it’s easy to conflate the groups asking for warnings with the groups who say things like “if your characters have underage sex then you the writer are literally a pedophile.” But by and large the folks asking for warnings do not seem to be asking for folks to stop writing certain difficult themes, only to provide a heads up for readers about the type of experience those readers can expect from the book.

There is an argument to be made that warnings could affect the sales of a book, in much the same way that an NC-17 film doesn’t get the same distribution opportunities as an R-rated or PG-13 film, and that authors/publishers will make marketing decisions to include or exclude certain types of content in order to avoid this.

Trigger warnings will spoil the book

While some readers will benefit from content warnings, others might have their reading experience ruined by knowing about major twists. This seems especially relevant with a warning like “child death.” It’s very important that people who have, for example, recently lost a child not be unexpectedly re-traumatized by reading about a child dying without warning. But it’s also important that people who want to enjoy the full, shocking impact of such a scene have the opportunity to do so without having it dulled by forewarning.

Any kind of warning system needs to be opt-in for a reader. Some suggestions include:

Placing warnings at the end of a book, where readers can flip to that page to look (not helpful if you’re ordering online)

Placing warnings on the author’s website, where readers can search (not helpful if you’re buying in person)

Given the limitations, a combination of those strategies seems to make sense. It may also be unfortunately true that someone looking for one type of warning (ie, rape) will have their experience ruined if they spoiler themselves for another warning (child death). This may be unavoidable collateral damage.

Authors/Publishers should be responsible for putting warnings in their books

There seems to be some debate over whether the onus of responsibility for providing warnings rests on the author or the publisher. It should be acknowledged that authors may not always have the power to make this choice -- and if the presence or absence of warnings becomes a factor for judging the quality/moral fiber of authors, those authors could be punished by the reader community for a choice that was largely out of their hands (although, there’s still nothing keeping the author from hosting those warnings externally - how successfully that is implemented is another matter).

Additionally, the demand for warnings will be placed more consistently on small presses simply because those presses are more likely to heed the request. This could create a double standard where readers might be more forgiving of large pub works that forego warnings because there’s no expectation that they would have implemented them anyway. On the other hand, this could be a way for indie publishers to differentiate themselves on the market and appeal more to certain subsets of readers.

External groups or communities should be responsible for warnings

There’s a line of reasoning that an author or publisher may not be sensitive to the potentially triggering/damaging things in their work, and some kind of external governing body should manage this work instead. This does sound a lot more like the censorship argument that people are worried about.

Wiki-style sites and places where people can freely tag books (such as Storygraph) also fit this bill to an extent. They would presumably have less power over the market than a ratings board like the MPAA, but could still exert influence over how a book is received.

Demanding warnings will negatively impact marginalized authors

We’re already seeing some evidence that BIPOC and LGBTQ authors are affected more by user-generated trigger warnings on sites like Storygraph, and that these warnings can be weaponized against marginalized authors. Much like review-bombing a book before it comes out can affect its launch, labeling a book with inaccurate trigger warnings could damage its sales.

Similarly, lists of “safe” and “unsafe” authors have already begun to circulate among some groups, and there seems to be a disproportionate number of marginalized creators on that “unsafe” list -- at least according to the anecdotal reports I’ve seen.

Historically, it is true that any attempts at censorship or content moderation will be more harshly applied to marginalized groups (see: film ratings for gay sex vs straight sex).

It’s impossible to warn for everything

One hesitancy that some authors have with tagging their work is they’re not sure what to tag for. Triggers are highly personal, and there’s no way you can possibly guess what might upset a reader.

Here’s a list of commonly agreed-upon things that might make sense to tag for in a given work:

Violence/gore

Suicide/self-harm

Rape/sexual assault

Domestic violence

Child death/endangerment

Animal death/abuse

Drug use/substance abuse

Racism/slurs

That said, it’s still difficult to account for context. At what stage do you warn for something? If a character is drinking a beer, do you need to tag for that? Do you distinguish between the tone things are written in, such as being played for laughs vs seriously? If the rape scene is written artistically/metaphorically, does the same warning apply as if it were described act-by-act in a clinical sense? What if your blanket list of warnings gives readers a false sense of what the book will be like -- is it actually helpful at all, or is it just posturing/virtue signaling to include warnings that won’t actually be effective?

Some would argue that this is dramatically overthinking it, but this does seem to cause a great deal of distress to authors who want to do the right thing but worry about getting it wrong. An argument could be made that trying and failing might be worse than doing nothing, especially if your attempts get you labeled as a “trustworthy” or “safe” author only for that trust to be “betrayed” by a warning you used incorrectly.

On the other hand, many would argue that we all “pretty much know” what needs to be warned for, and that warnings are intuitive. These granular questions could be viewed as a distraction from more common sense issues.

Readers are responsible for managing their own safety

Ultimately, because it’s impossible for every potential trigger to be identified and warned for, readers will need to remain vigilant. Of course, there are already ways to identify the content of a book without any kind of established warning system -- such as, for example, reading posted book reviews, asking a question on a book’s Goodreads page, reaching out to the author directly, asking about the book in a reading group online or having a friend/parent/spouse/trusted person read the book first and report back with their findings.

This is the system we’ve pretty much used as readers for years, before “trigger warning” became part of the common vernacular, and it does have some distinct advantages just because you can get a lot more specific information this way.

It is possible that if warnings become more commonplace for books that readers may become less vigilant about their own safety, which could paradoxically put them at greater risk of finding troubling content unexpectedly.

There’s also the issue of “safe” and “unsafe” author lists. At the moment, while the discourse is hot, it’s perhaps more natural to pick sides and disregard some authors for reasons that may be unfair -- for example, marking an author as unsafe or boycotting her work because she doesn’t want to include warnings, but she wants to avoid warnings because she strongly believes they will be detrimental to a reader’s safety. A reader may or may not agree with that perspective, but it’s certainly not the same motive as an author who would do something actively malicious to a reader (like, idk, emailing a screamer to a reviewer or something. that’s a made up example.)

In the end, trigger warnings are a good idea, but the issue is complex to implement and some people do still have reservations about their overall efficacy.

We simply won’t know one way or another until we try to implement it. But in the meantime, I do think it’s valuable to continue talking about this, as long as everyone involved remains civil and engages in good faith. Once people’s perspectives start getting thrown out the window in the heat of the moment, or strawmen arguments are erected that don’t reflect what anyone involved actually believes, the discussion ceases to be helpful.

#trigger warnings #discourse #twitter nonsense #authors behaving badly #writing advice #writeblr #writing #publishing

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dracothedeatheatingcupcake-ao3 · 4 years ago

Text

Chapter 6 The Problem with Perfection spoilers!!

Hey all!! So, people asked to see the part of the chapter where Mondo was, uh... rude, so I figured I’d post it, since it’s already written. And it’s gonna be a while ‘til the companion piece (which is titled “The Problem with Mondo,” ha) is released, but there are no real spoilers in this section, and the one spoiler there is, I cut out.

The section is below the cut! It’s about 5,000 words, starting right after Mondo leaves the store to find Taka. There will be some things that don’t make sense, since the context was written in earlier chapters of the companion piece, or ins later chapters of The Problem with Perfection (TPWP) so beware of that, ha. Also, since Mondo is far more foul mouth than Taka, there’s a TON of curses in this section, ha. I don’t curse in everyday life, like... at all. Not even when upset. So it may not be super natural, but I did my best.

I will also say there is a warning for internalized biphobia in this segment, so beware that. And, of course, the use of the same slur in the TPWP chapter.

I hope this explains things!!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Quieter than anyone would ever give him credit for, Mondo slips out of the computer store and into the chill late September air. He doesn’t even feel the cold as he looks around, trying to see if he can find Ishimaru hanging around the area, perhaps still crying or some shit. When he doesn’t see him, Mondo turns to the general store across the way, hoping the kid did what he said and went there, and that he didn’t just say ‘fuck it’ and returned to the school. Shit. He truly hopes he didn’t do that. It would make it worse if he decided to leave their class outing just because Mondo was a fucking idiot. Goddamn.

The general store looks exactly the same as every other general store Mondo has ever been in, and with his advanced height, he’s easily able to look over the top of the shelves, his eyes scanning for a very, very familiar frame.

It takes him only a few seconds before he spots him.

Fuck, he looks sad... he thinks to himself, gut roiling. The kid is staring blankly at the shelves, face fucking despondent as shit, and Mondo doesn’t think he’s seen anything that looked so fucking sad before. It makes him want to rush over to the kid, wrap his arms around him, and tell him it’s going to be okay, but it’s a stupid fucking desire so he firmly pushes it away. Besides. It’s not like Ishimaru would appreciate it.

Mondo gives himself a single moment to stare, trying his best to calm his fucked-up stomach, before walking over to the kid, silent as a mouse. He has no idea what he’s going to say, his head too fucking scrambled to even begin thinking of that shit, but it doesn’t matter. He’s mostly here so Ishimaru can get his revenge and feel better already, shit. It would prolly be better if he said something super fucking stupid, to get that fiery hatred to rise in those fucking gorgeous eyes of his.

He knows the second Ishimaru notices his presence behind him. The kid had actually been kind of loose before, even if sorrow and resignation clung to him like a blanket. But the instant Mondo gets close, the kid goes so fucking stiff and rigid it ain’t funny, looking like a statue again. Or glass. Fragile fucking glass...

Knowing he has to say something, Mondo takes a deep breath and just fucking... goes for it.

No time like the present...

“Hey, uh, look, Ishimaru-” Mondo starts, feeling so fucking awkward, but he doesn’t have the ability to say anymore before Ishimaru abruptly cuts him off, eyes blazing as he fucking glares. Not at him, at the display, but shit, it’s still so fucking impressive. God, but if he ain’t so fucking beautiful alive when he glares...

“Look, Owada-kun, I am not in the mood, so if you have any decency in you whatsoever, you will kindly leave me alone!” Ishimaru hisses, eyes like lasers as they glare at the dried ramen on the shelf. If it were possible to set things on fire with a glare alone, those noodles would be toast, he thinks humorlessly. Shit… but damn, he truly fucked up, didn’t he… shit.

Silence falls between them, then, and he sees Ishimaru move on from the ramen, looking so tense and upset Mondo aches with sympathy. And he... fuck, he really should just do as the kid said, just leave him the fuck alone and let him pick himself back up, but he... he just can’t. He still hasn’t apologized, hasn’t let Ishimaru tear him a new one, and he... he just can’t leave now. Not when Ishimaru still looks so fucking sad.

So, Mondo just trails after the boy like a ghost, feeling so fucking awkward, but not really knowing what to say. He can see tears shining in the boy’s eyes and it makes him feel like absolute shit. It might be better to just leave him alone, but fuck if he doesn’t fucking wanna do that. He has no idea why he cares so fucking much about this fucking kid, but... but he just does, goddamn.

Finally, after a few awkward minutes have passed, Mondo decides to say ‘fuck it’ again and just... goes for it. Allowing his voice to sound softer and kinder than it ever has sounded before, his face open and honest should the kid decide to look at him, he speaks, hoping that Ishimaru doesn’t think he’s making fun of him, god...

“You really mean it when you say you’re not rich, don’t you?”

He doesn’t quite know why he says that, of all things, but he doesn’t regret it. Not even when Ishimaru freezes, eyes wide and watery as they look at the styrofoam cups he’s for some reason staring at. He even lets himself speak properly for once, the way his bro taught him, before he then taught him to speak improperly to piss off the authority. He knows his words can be taken in a negative way, knows that it could sound like he’s making fun of the kid, but he... he hopes that Ishimaru can tell he’s being serious, for once. And if he can’t, and he decides to get blindingly angry at Mondo, well... ain’t like he doesn’t fucking deserve it, shit.

When Ishimaru looks up at him, eyes blazing, mouth open to prolly tell him to ‘leave me the fuck alone’ (or, you know, without the curse since the kid is so fucking innocent he refuses to curse ever, shit), Mondo thinks that the second option is more likely to happen here. And while he kind of fucking hates it, he doesn’t blame the kid. It makes him feel uncomfortable to have his face be so open and vulnerable when faced with such anger, especially since he never lets his face look like this, god, but he fights to keep it like that. He wants Ishimaru to knows he’s being serious, for once.

It’s what the boy is fucking owed.

And then... to his complete and utter surprise...

Ishimaru relaxes. His shoulders lose that angry tilt to them, his face stops looking so pinched, and his eyebrows stop being so furrowed they might as well be a unibrow. He turns back to look at the cups, still looking sad and upset, but he... he doesn’t look angry.

S-shit...

Several seconds pass in awkward fucking silence, Mondo thinking the kid will just continue to ignore him until he finally is forced to awkwardly shuffle off, feeling worse than he ever has before, when...

“No, Owada-kun. I am not. Not even close. You... you told me, last week, that I could never understand what it’s like to go to bed hungry. You couldn’t have been more wrong. I often did, my father unable to pay off our debts and feed us at the same time. I often wondered if I’d waste away from lack of nutrition, like the starvation victims I’d see in my textbooks. My... m-my mother, she... she died, because we could not afford her cancer treatment. I... I am not rich, Owada-kun. And it is highly unlikely that I ever will be. No matter what lies I may tell myself to get through the day…”

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

Holy shit!

He... he never would have expected that from the kid. And he’s not even just talking about the words themselves, though fuck is that sad. His ma really died because they couldn’t fucking afford treatment...? Shit, he thought shit like that only happened in backwards countries, like America or something, god fucking damn.

But it’s not just that that has him so fucking shocked, looking at the kid as he stares at the cups, mouth pulled down in the saddest fucking grimace he’s ever fucking seen. No... it’s the fact that Ishimaru told him this, of all people. Why... why would he trust him like this? After all he’s done, all he’s said... why would Ishimaru trust him to not be a fucking douchebag, like he always is? Why would Ishimaru trust him at all, when he’s done absolutely nothing to earn that trust? G-god... s-shit... it’s almost too much for him, and part of him wants to run away. To flee this moment and never have to deal with Ishimaru’s stupid ass trust. He...

He doesn’t deserve it...

But...

But Mondo still hasn’t apologized.

And if Ishimaru isn’t inclined to tear him a new one, and is instead giving him a chance to make things right, then...

Then he can’t fucking ruin this golden chance.

And so, he... he decides to show how sorry he is by showing Ishimaru the same trust that the boy just showed him.

It’s what the kid is owed.

Even if it does make his skin fucking crawl...

“Wow, that uh... that really fuckin’ sucks, man. I mean... freakin’. But I, uh... I get it, ya know? It uh... it was the same, for me. Well, not exactly the same, but... s-see, my folks they, uh... they weren’t exactly the best, heh. Da didn’t exactly hang ‘round long, and ma died not too long after. I barely even remember ‘em, ta be perfectly honest. Just a blur of angry faces and drunken words. My older brother, Daiya, he uh… he raised me. Took care a’ me. We never had much, but as long as I had him, I was good, ya know? But... but I still hated it. Bein’ so poor. Never havin’ even a fraction a’ the things the kids at my run down schools had. I remember gettin’ so angry whenever I’d see one a’ my classmates totin’ ‘round some new gizmo or whatever, not even realizin’ just what I’d give ta have something even half as nice. I... I was always so angry, back then. Still am, heh… ‘specially here, at this school... it... I dunno. S’hard. And you… ya just... I dunno. Ya remind me a’ them. The kids I knew. The ones I hated...”

Mondo pauses here for a second, before he looks up at Ishimaru and chuckles softly.

“But I get now that y’ain’t like ‘em, are ya? You... ya get it. What it’s like. Ta have fricken nothing’ while wantin’ everythin’. Ya know, ya… ya remind me a’ my bro a bit, heh. My bro, he, uh… he started my gang, ya know. Built it up from scratch. From nothin’. Always had big plans, Daiya did. An’ I don’t expect ya ta understand, but it’s all I got left a’ him now. He... yeah. Maybe I don’t like the violence as much as I prolly should, but I can’t just quit. I owe it ta Daiya ta keep the gang runnin’, keep us together. Honor his memory. Or somethin’ like that… shit. Uh, I mean… shoot. But, uh… my point is, while I may be a biker, I ain’t a complete a-hole, ya know? I do got some limits. An’ I shouldn’t a’ said what I did ta ya. Yer right, it’s uh... distasteful, ta talk ‘bout things like that, ‘specially in front a’ other people. I don’t expect ya ta accept it, but I am sorry. Genuinely. It was shitty a’ me ta do that, and if ya wanna hit me or somethin’, I won’t stop ya. I prolly deserve it.”

Mondo stops his rambling words abruptly then, his hands twitching at his sides. He feels so fucking exposed right now, everything in him feeling so wrong and vulnerable. He hadn’t told the complete truth, either, downplaying the way his da and ma really fucked him up, but he’d been more truthful than he’s ever fucking been. He’d even done his best to mind his language, knowing Ishimaru hates it when he curses. And while normally he wouldn’t care, he just... he wanted his apology to be genuine, fuck. Ishimaru still isn’t looking at him and he feels so uncomfortable it’s not fucking funny, but he fights hard to not storm away like he always does when uncomfortable.

It’s so fucking hard, but his restraint is proven to be worth it when Ishimaru turns to face him, a small, wry smile on his lips, his eyes... his eyes full of life for the first time that day, holy shit... and what he says...

“I thought you said that no one deserves to be hit, Owada-kun? Or does that not apply to yourself?”

Mondo cannot help how he blinks at Ishimaru with shock, mind blanking as he hears the kid fucking... fucking tease him, holy shit! He didn’t know the kid even had a sense of humor, but he’d clearly meant the words as a joke, since he’s smiling softly, fucking eyes dancing with a silent mirth.

As he gets over the shock at Ishimaru saying a fucking joke, he finds himself smiling. It’s small at first but grows more and more as he gets used to the idea of Ishimaru joking around with him, realizing he... he actually really fucking likes it. The kid smiling at him, for once, speaking to him almost like they’re friends or something. It... fuck, he has no idea how to describe the way it makes him feel inside, god.

Letting out a soft, relieved laugh, he feels so fucking glad that he didn’t mess this whole thing up. To try and let out the strange buoyancy he feels inside, he playfully shoves Ishimaru, not wanting to hurt him, but just wanting... to be playful and easy, to keep going with the unusual lightness their conversation suddenly has. He... god, it feels so weird, but also so... so nice, acting like this with Ishimaru... f-fuck...

“Aw, shut the hell up, ya nerd! I said no one deserves ta be beat, not hit. There’s a difference, idiot. Now come on. Hit me. I know ya wanna, ya goddamn goody-two shoes. Y’ain’t gonna get another chance like this, I promise ya that!” Mondo says, grinning like an idiot. He can’t help how he’s looking at Ishimaru, marveling at how nice the kid looks when he’s genuinely smiling. It... it’s making him feel so weird inside, and he knows his eyes are too soft, betraying everything he feels inside, but maybe it’s not so bad... not when Ishimaru is looking at him like that, g-god... like he’s not a fucking monster... like he might... might be...

Someone amazing...

He watches, heart pounding strangely, as Ishimaru curls his hand into a loose fist, looking like he’s never thrown a punch before, god. And then, weak as a fucking kitten, the kid, he... he fucking taps Mondo so lightly on his chest that if he weren’t watching it, he wouldn’t have thought the kid had touched him at all. It’s so fucking endearing, Jesus fucking Christ...

Mondo has no idea what is going on inside him at that moment, his insides feeling so fucking weird and squirming. It... it’s almost like fucking butterflies, but he knows it ain’t, he’s not fucking gay, shit. But... but god, it feels so nice... Ishimaru smiling at him feels- feels so nice...

Unable to help himself, he lets out the laugh that wants to escape, loud and boisterous, like he always does when genuinely happy. F-fuck... he’s not laughed like this in ages... unrestrained like this, loud and just... happy. So fucking happy.

Ishimaru... Ishimaru makes him feel so goddamn happy...

What the fuck…

Before he can stop himself, he feels his hand dart out and grab Ishimaru’s hand— which is still hovering over around his chest— and just... shit. Holds it close to him, pressing it right over his fucking heart. He doesn’t know why he does it, he just knows that it feels... natural or something. And the feel of Ishimaru’s hand under his, the flesh warm and smooth under his rough palm, the fingers curled so wondrously under his, it makes him feel- f-feel... shit, he doesn’t even know, he doesn’t know, and he... he doesn’t know what the fuck to do, holy shit.

The kid is staring at him with wide eyes, his cheeks the most beautiful shade of pink he��s ever seen, and his lips are partially open, his breathing shallow and uneven. Something about the look is making his head go all stupid, his brain full of static and cotton, his chest aching but not in a bad way, and it makes him want... w-want to...

“Man, Ishimaru-san, you, uh... you sure are somethin’ else, ain’t ya,” he says softly, softer than he’s ever heard himself sound before. His lips are curled in a small smile, and everything in him is feeling so, so weird. He can feel himself drifting closer and closer to the kid, not knowing why he’s doing it, why he wants to do it, but fuck, he can’t make himself stop. He feels so warm inside, warmer than he’s ever felt before, and his brain isn’t working, and he... he wants... he wants...

His eyes dart down to Ishimaru’s lips then, unbidden. They’re partially open, allowing Mondo to see a hint of a pink tongue sitting innocently passed the bitten lips, and it makes his gut lurch, heat blooming within him. H-holy shit... what the... t-the fuck...?

What would his lips feel like against your own? he hears a voice whisper inside him, making his breath hitch, and he knows he should push it away, should shut it the fuck up, but... b-but...

They look so fucking rough and warm, don’t they... bet they would feel so fucking nice, the kid pressing his body so firmly to you, hands in your hair... he’s always so fucking passionate, he’d prolly be a passionate kisser... maybe he’d even bite your lips to all hell, like he bites his own... and maybe then you can bite his, finally fucking feel those pale lips you’ve been dreaming about for so fucking long under your teeth, listening to the little noises that kid will prolly make, feeling so fucking much, fuck, Ishimaru is so fucking much and fuck is it so fucking hot-

Mondo gets cruelly jolted from the horrible fucking thoughts, holy shit when he feels Ishimaru jerk away from him, his eyes so wide and fucking horrified it’s not fucking funny. It takes him a second to realize what the fuck is going on, what had just fucking happened, but when he does, he... he...

Holy. God. Damn. SHIT.

Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit, holy shit, holy shit, holy shit, holy shit, holy shit, holy shit, holy shit, holy shit-!

What the goddamn fuck had he just- just done... what the goddamn fuck had he just thought?! H-he... he isn’t... he doesn’t... h-he doesn’t want to fucking kis- fuck! No! No, no, no! Nononononononononononono!!!!!

He’s not- fuck! He doesn’t think of- of dudes like that, h-he doesn’t- and yeah, maybe he’s had a couple dreams of Ishimaru and his- his eyes and his- h-his li- but it means nothing! Nothing, nothing, nothing! Y-you can’t fucking control what you dream about, so it means fucking nothing! Nothing nothing nothing!

As he looks at Ishimaru, the kid looking so fucking horrified, looking at Mondo with fucking disgust, Mondo knows he- he has to fix this, has to- has to make sure that fucking little freak doesn’t think he- fuck, it had to have been him! H-he was the one who- who had been drifting closer, who had gotten so close to him, who had almost- almost fucking kissed him, it wasn’t his fucking fault! I-it wasn’t- it wasn’t-!

“What the fuck... w-what the hell did ya... what did ya do ta me, ya fuckin’ freak?! What are ya, some kinda goddamn fairy?! Get the hell away from me, you f*g!”

Mondo can hear the horrified gasp the hall monitor lets out, the boy taking a step back as anger and hatred rise in his eyes. G-good... f-fucking good. H-he hates using that word, always beats the shit out of the sons of bitches who use fucking slurs like that, but he- he had to make sure Ishimaru knew- k-knew that he- he’s not... h-he’s not-

Ishimaru is glaring at him again, so far from the soft and open look from a moment before it stupidly makes him want to fucking cry, but he can’t do that, doesn’t do that, he just- just glares right on back and hopes that Ishimaru doesn’t see the way he’s shaking, his entire body and mind so fucking confused. Because he- he has no idea where the fuck that came from, why he- he had felt like that, why he had thought that, why he... why he wanted-

But no. He hadn’t. Hadn’t wanted, hadn’t wanted, hadn’t wanted at all. Ishimaru must have- have done something to him, fucking drugged him or something, it’s the only fucking explanation, holy fucking shit-

“I- I... you! I did nothing! I-it was you who... and how dare you, use such a word?! I’m not- not... that, but that gives you no right to use such language! You are lucky we are not on school grounds, or else I would give you detention for the rest of the year for using such a vile word! I- I have never been so disgusted before in my life! Y-you... you...”

Mondo feels a spike of absolute pain stab him then, making him want to gasp, but he can’t, can’t show weakness, oh god, so he just glares, letting all the anger and hatred he feels come to the surface as he glares daggers into Ishimaru. He masks the pain and the confusion and he just glares.

He listens as the kid trails off, as his eyes get shiny again, his lips (oh god, his lips) pulled down in the harshest grimace he’s ever seen, but he can’t let it sway him, oh god. After a moment of tense fucking silence, he hears the kid fucking sob, tears bright in his eyes, before he turns tail and fucking bolts. He strides away so quickly he might as well be running, and as soon as he reaches the door, Mondo sees through the window as he actually runs. He’s fast as a fucking bullet, like a fucking marathon runner, but Mondo can’t focus on that, fuck, he just can’t-

Mondo is stuck in place, his body fucking frozen in space, no idea what to do, until he sees the owner of the store storming over to him, looking pissed. Putting on his most menacing, ‘don’t you fucking even look at me’ glare, he only has to look at the old man once to make that fucking coward’s eyes widen and make him back off. Seeing as how he’s prolly gonna head to the phone to call the cops, which would just make his fucking day so much better, he decides to just fucking bail. He- he doesn’t want to be here anymore anyway, he just- just wants to be away, god-

He doesn’t realize he’d actually moved until he feels the chill late September air attack his face again, making him gasp harshly. Goosebumps are alive on his skin and he feels so fucking sick inside and all he wants is to get on his fucking hog and ride. Ride far from this fucking school, far from this fucking moment, far from- from what he- he had almost... almost done-

Mondo is moving before he realizes again, mind so fucking confused it’s not fucking funny, feet taking off in the opposite direction he saw Ishimaru go. He can distantly hear people calling to him, Leon saying his name, but he ignores them. And then he starts walking faster, not quite running since his endurance for running is fucking shit, but he definitely is going fast, his long legs helping him for once. Pretty soon he’s out of the fucking mall and he doesn’t quite know the way back to the school, but he’s always had a good fucking sense of direction, so it doesn’t take him long to see streets he recognizes that allow him to make it back to the school right fucking quick. He keeps his eyes peeled, making sure that no one fucking approaches him (and that he doesn’t accidentally run into the one person he wants to see the least), which thankfully doesn’t happen, thank fuck.

Before long he’s in the school parking lot and as soon as he’s there he makes a beeline for his baby, hopping on without a single fucking thought, keys already in hand to turn her on. He doesn’t wait a single fucking second before peeling out of the parking lot, not caring about speed limits or traffic as he speeds towards the highway.

He doesn’t know where he’s going. He has no fucking idea where he wants to go, or what the fuck he’s going to do; all he knows is that he has to be away, away, away. H-he can’t stand being in that fucking school, fucking surrounded by that goddamn fucking hall monitor, slowly losing his goddamn mind, shit! He... he just can’t!

At least while he’s driving, he doesn’t have to think. He just drives, faster and faster, avoiding the other cars without any fucking problem. He’s going far over the speed limit, pressing 160 KPH, but he doesn’t fucking care. If the cops try to pull him over, he’ll just lead them on a chase, fuck that would feel so fucking good right about now. It’s risky doing that shit when by himself, his plates on, but he just doesn’t fucking care, god! He just doesn’t care! He wants to fucking stop feeling like this, his body and mind fucking frozen in that moment, wondering what would have happened had Ishimaru not pulled away, had he erased those last remaining centimeters, had he been able to actually fucking kiss those fucking kissable looking lips-

Mondo drives faster. He drives faster and faster and faster, as fast as he fucking can, not caring where he’s going, just knowing he needs to be away.

(This part is cut out because there are ~~~~spoilers oooooo~~~~ Just know that Mondo is outside somewhere now. And he has alcohol, somehow that I can’t say because of spoilers, ha. There are some mild spoilers for the rest of TPWP in this next section, but nothing super major.)

He takes the cap off the whiskey bottle and he downs half the bottle in one fucking gulp. It makes him feel so fucking sick but he doesn’t fucking care, he doesn’t care, he just wants to not fucking think-

He’s not fucking gay. He’s not, he’s not, he’s not, god, he’s not! He hadn’t wanted to- to do anything with Ishimaru, he fucking despises Ishimaru, he has never hated anyone more! Fuck, even the thought of that fucking fairy makes him want to kill someone! Ishimaru could fucking die and he wouldn’t fucking care! He wouldn’t! He wouldn’t! He fucking, goddamn WOULDN’T!

You’re such a goddamn liar, Owada, such a goddamn fucking liar-

He drinks. He drinks. He drinks and he drinks and he drinks, until the ache in his chest is gone, until he can’t feel anything anymore, until all he feels is fucking numb.

Ishimaru means nothing to him. Absolutely nothing. He doesn’t know why he’s felt so weird about him before now, but like fuck is he ever going to allow himself to show that motherfucker any hint of mercy now. It’s decided. His life’s fucking goal is to make Ishimaru as fucking miserable as possible. He will do everything he can to break that motherfucker, so that he never fucking thinks he can get that fucking close to him again, so he fucking knows how disgusting and pathetic he is. Mondo isn’t gay. He’s not gay, and he has no problem with people who are gay, but he does fucking have a problem with Ishi-fucking-maru.

He’s not gay. He’s not gay. He repeats the words in his mind, staring blankly at the stars, not knowing when the sun had set and night came, but not really caring. He isn’t gay, he can’t be gay. He has nothing against gay people, and if he were gay, it wouldn’t be a fucking problem, but he’s fucking not fucking gay. He likes chicks. Breasts. Pussy. When he looks at a naked chick in his porno mags, or when watching porn, he gets so fucking hard. He jerks off every night to the thought of himself fucking pounding into chicks, of chicks blowing him, of him eating chicks out. He likes chicks, he’s fucking attracted to chicks.

He doesn’t like dudes. He just- he doesn’t. He fucking can’t, because he already likes chicks, and Daiya always told him he could only like one. Chicks or dudes. Dudes or chicks. Whichever he chose, Daiya would support him, he was a good fucking brother, but the one thing he always told Mondo was that he had to choose only one.

Their old man liked both. He’d have men over, sometimes, and do things with them. While their ma was in the next room, sobbing her eyes out, Mondo staring wide-eyed at the wall, not knowing what any of it meant, he’d been so fucking young. His da apparently did shit like that before Mondo was born, too, even when things had been better for their little family, before Mondo ruined everything with his birth. Daiya always hated it, said it was fucking despicable, and he told Mondo he had to choose one. He had to be faithful, monogamous, and you can’t be faithful if you like both. Daiya never said that aloud, but Mondo could fucking read between the lines.

Mondo likes chicks. He’s fucking allowed to like chicks. He doesn’t like dudes. He just... he doesn’t.

He is not his goddamn old man.

He doesn’t like Ishimaru. He hates Ishimaru. Him and his fucking wide, watery eyes, and his sad fucking smiles, and his lonely fucking demeanor. He’s never hated anyone more, shit. If he never saw Ishimaru again, it would be too fucking soon, because he’s a goddamn nuisance, who needs to be fucking put in his goddamn place. He needs to be brought down, needs to be reminded how worthless he is, needs to- to know that Mondo isn’t, that he hadn’t wanted, that he’s not fucking gay-

Mondo will never admit it, not to himself, but his cheeks are wet. He prolly spilled some whiskey on his face, or maybe it started raining, but whatever, it doesn’t matter. He stares at the stars, feeling so goddamn sick, wishing that he weren’t fucking alive. That Daiya hadn’t pushed him out of the way that day, that he had just let that semi ram into him, that he’d been the one who died and not-

His cheeks are wet, but it’s just from the rain. It always fucking rains, even though there’s not a cloud in the goddamn sky.

Mondo finishes the bottle, and he wants to die, but before he can die, he falls asleep. He knows he shouldn’t, it gets so fucking cold overnight, but maybe he’ll freeze to death and that will solve all his fucking problems. It’s not like anyone will care. Leon doesn’t care about him, he just wants Mondo around to make himself seem tougher. Fujisaki wouldn’t care, she was just trying to be nice to him earlier, humoring him so he wouldn’t hurt her. He doesn’t fucking know anyone else at that goddamn school, they all avoid him like the plague, so fucking scared of him, so they wouldn’t care. And... and Ishimaru...

He’d prolly be happy. If Mondo died. If Mondo went missing and no one ever found the body. He’d prolly be so, so fucking happy.

Mondo sleeps and he dreams of bright red eyes, drowning him with the accusations they always contain, the hatred and disgust sharper than any knife he’s ever felt.

He wakes with wet cheeks.

Goddamn rain.

#My fic #The Problem with Perfection #Mondo's POV #The Problem with Mondo preview #Danganronpa #Mondo Owada #Kiyotaka Ishimaru

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mybg3notebook · 3 years ago

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Lore: The Netherese in 1492 DR

Disclaimer Game Version: All these analyses were written up to the game version v4.1.104.3536 (Early access). As long as new content is added, and as long as I have free time for that, I will try to keep updating this information. Written in June 2021. Detail: BG3 takes place in 1492 DR.

To understand what's the context around "Netherese magic" and, let's hope, its nature, I think it's of vital importance to know a bit about Netheril and what happened in recent years.

The game does a good job in showing us what happened with their fall at Karsus' hands. I explained in the post of "Well-known Characters" a good amount of information about him. His desire for godhood was a bit more complex than just wanting to be a god, even though the game shows it as blind arrogance and ambition: so far we know, it was Mystra who commanded her priests to spread this version of Karsus' Folly, as if he only wanted power alone.

After Karsus' folly, all the floating cities of Netheril fell to the ground, destroying their population with them. However, only three cities were saved since they were too high in the air: their fall gave enough time for Mystra to be reborn in minutes and saved them. A fourth enclave, ruled by Telamont Tanthul—also called Lord Shadow—was teleported to the Shadow Plane (now called Shadowfell) days before the catastrophe. This was possible because Shadow Lord had been experimenting with the Shadow plane energies for a while. When he returned to Faerûn to see the aftermath of Karsus' folly, he recognised the need to stay in the other plane and gather strength to rebuild Netheril. After 1700 years, he started his plan for the return of his Civilisation in 1372 DR.

This is the context in which the trilogy of The Return of the Archwizards is set. This also belongs to 4e, which is one of the concepts that have annoyed more players, since this return made the Shadovars the Big Bad Evil everywhere. Maybe WotC wants to clean this aspect in the game. Maybe not. We don't know for sure. But we may suspect that Netherese people are returning in BG3: many details ingame keep giving context about them: Gale's explanation about Karsus' Folly, Excavation of the Enclave of Nhalloth (book), The Approachable East: Vol5 (book), and then the presence of Netherese magic not only in Gale's "orb" but in the tadpoles.

I think it's worth checking the ingame book called “Excavation of the Enclave of Nhalloth”. Nhalloth was a Netherese city floating above the Sea of Fallen Stars in Faerûn. After Karsus' folly, it sank into the sea, claiming for some underwater creatures. As a consequence of the Spellplague, the geography changed, the waters lowered, and allowed a bit of exploration. Little was found, and explorers reported odd feelings and ghosts around it.

What do we know about the Return of Netheril in 1372?

These new Netherese people started to spread their influence in Faerûn, looking for Netherese old artefacts and spying on people and places that could possibly hinder their ultimate goal of creating a new Netheril in their image. But, were these people truly Netherese? The question comes from the fact that living creatures can't stay in the Plane of Shadow (currently merged with the Plane of negative energy which transformed it into the Shadowfell) without being affected by it. So, in an attempt to be short but still provide important facts I will numerate vital details of them that may become handy in BG3:

This floating city used to be called Thultanthar, and after its return, it's more commonly referred as the City of Shade.

Somehow, the Netherese people survived, and became more united and secretive.

Over 1700 years, each generation of these netherese people become more and more attuned to the shadow plane, some of them even turning into Shades: twisted, dark, humanoid creatures with longer lifespan than humans. Lord Shadow was still the main ruler of the City of Shade because he is now a Shade.

A big percentage of their population are worshippers of Shar.

The archwizards (ruling class) in the highest ranks are called Shadovars. Not every Netherese or Shade person is a Shadovar. Despite this, most folk refer to all Netherese as Shadovar nonetheless.

Most Shadovars are followers of Shar.

Shadovars are masters of Shadow Magic. It's a common mistake to think that Shadow magic is the same as Shadow Weave magic. Shadow Magic is magic using the energies of the Plane of Shadow. This can be done using Weave or Shadow Weave. Since most shadow casters are evil-aligned, Shar tried to offer them the Shadow Weave as a means to cast their magic without using the Weave (an element of a neutral-good aligned deity). This is related to the effect of worshipping without consent: Using the Weave is always a way to worship Mystra even if the caster wants it or not. This always gives power to Mystra. Shar created the Shadow Weave as a way to divert all those evil-aligned casters into her own worshipping. More details in the post of "Mystra and her Chosen ones"

With the return of the Shadovars, they tried to corrupt the recently recovered Weave and turn it into Shadow Weave.

In 1487DR, Lord Shadow tried to gain the power of the Mythal of Myth Drannor, but Elminster killed him and the City of Shade fell upon Myth Drannor, destroying both cities.

However, this was not the end of the Shadovar. We may have some information about how they are in 1490s DR (let's remember BG3 is during 1492 DR):

Lord Shadow may be part of the Weave now (I have no idea why Ed said this. Lord Shadow was not a Chosen of Mystra, why would he be a weaveghost now?)

Two of his daughters and a Netherese arcanist survived: The sisters Lelavdra and Manarlume and the arcanist Gwelt have been calling themselves "The Three".

The Three have been collecting Netherese and others loyal to the Shade Empire from the ruins of the Citadel of the Raven in the western Moonsea region since late 1487 DR. They had collected at least 60 low level arcanists and 20 low born Netherese within a short period of time.

Gwelt was leading the hunt for others calling their group "The Court of the Three."

Their goals were supposedly to collect other Netherese, make allies, identify foes, take command of the remaining floating Netherese cities, and find a remote location to regroup and plan their re-emergence. It is unknown how far they have come.

Why all of this may be important?

Because part of this canon material may or may not be part of the story of BG3.

It's true that Larian has already changed some very consistent canon facts, such as the spell of the Hag eye (Ethel justifies her spell as a very personal customised one) or—the most impressive change—the Ceremorphosis process: Gale explains that the normal process removes the personality of the person in the sixth day after the infection, when in Forgotten Realms canon it should happen few hours after the infection. So my expectations for them to follow all canon material are not blind. They will change canon concepts as they think suitable, which is how DnD works. Still yet, it seems reasonable to read about all this in order to have a better context of what we will see, since the canon context is undeniably there.

Personally I always saw the presence of Netherese/Shadow Magic in the tadpoles as the intervention of Shar, but I never could find a group of mortals who would do that work and have such specific knowledge. We know that, with the exception of Mystra, contact with mortals is forbidden to all gods; therefore, Shar could not be the one to have approached these Mind Flayers. Now, the presence of the Court of the Three, working alongside or co-opting The Three Dead's plan seems a more reasonable possibility for me.

So far, what we know is that

Shadow Magic is equivalent to Netherese Magic ( EA, Ethel's words)

Shadow Magic is magic related to the plane of Shadows. This plane was altered by Shar when she merged the negative energy plane with it, causing the Shadowfell. The Shadowfell was Shar's realm for a while.

Shar was a great loser in the last edition. She could not change the Weave into Shadow Weave and become the greatest deity of magic as she planned. So she may want to counter-attack now.

Shadovars—who tried to help Shar in turning her into the Goddess of Magic—are masters of Shadow Magic and Shadow Weave magic.

The Shadow Weave was not destroyed, it's recovering at a similar pace to the Weave.

The tadpole can't turn the host into a mind flayer because Netherese magic (the dream person) attached to it works as a stasis process. ( EA)

The Netherese magic—aka dream person—seems to restrain the Mind Flayer transformation while having strong connotations of Bhaalspawn essence. ( EA)

These small details may suggest that maybe the Shadovar are returning, or the three dead are using Shadovar's knowledge or vice versa. The possibilities are many and it seems hard to decide which ones are more likely since EA gives little information for such estimation.

Sources:

2e: Sea of Fallen Stars 3e: Lost Empires of Faerûn 4e: The Return of the Archwizards, The Herald, Grand History of the Realms Article: After the Fall by Ed. Greenwood: https://dnd.wizards.com/articles/features/after-fall

Ed Greenwood Twitter

This post was written in June 2021. → For more Gale: Analysis Series Index

#bg3 meta #bg3 lore #lore #shadovar #netherese magic #bg3 early access #FR lore

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friendandphoe · 4 years ago

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okay the formatting on this is gonna be a lil weird bUT!! have this figuring it out/something to last revamp that’s been sitting in my brain for the last few weeks @ahbonjour @museumlad @creativeskull95

There’s no way in hell she’s ever looking Professor Keelson in the eye again. “I’m sorry,” she croaks for the thousandth time, and finds a tissue being pressed into her hand.

“Quite alright, my dear,” Professor Keelson says soothingly, leaning back in his chair with his hands folded over his round belly. “Wipe your face, now, there you go. I’m — well.” And he rubs the bridge of his nose, just under his round wire glasses. “I can’t say I wasn’t expecting this, unfortunately.”

She nods numbly, ice trickling down her spine.

You ruined everything.

“I’m sorry,” she tries again, because it’s all she can think to say, but the professor waves her off with a weathered hand and pushes himself to his feet, leaning heavily on his cane as he makes his way to the mini fridge he keeps under the bookshelves.

“Now, now,” he says, almost scolding, and pulls out a clementine, a bar of chocolate, and a bottle of water. “Don’t you start that with me, Ms. Ochoa. This is not the first time I’ve had students crying in my office, I daresay it won’t be the last.” And he sits heavily back down in his chair, setting the snacks in front of her. “Eat, drink. Now, I won’t press on what’s been troubling you, but you know, these tired old eyes of mine do still catch a few things here and there, and I have seen you — well. I don’t like to use the word struggling, but you know, perhaps it is a bit more apt than anything else I could think of.” And she knows he’s looking at her, knows those beady black eyes well, but just focuses on unwrapping the chocolate bar as quietly as she can.

What makes you think we want you around?

“You’ve had a rough time of it, this year.”

It’s not a question, but she still finds herself nodding confirmation. “I don’t know what happened.” She says hoarsely, and reaches for the water bottle.

Leave us alone.

“I’ve been wanting this for years, I worked so hard to get into this program, I just—” and she has to press her mouth shut to keep the lump in her throat from escaping.

Leave us alone!

“Some… stuff. Uh, came up, I guess.”

They sit in silence for a minute, then softly: “The human mind is a wonderful, confusing little thing.” Professor Keelson says. She dares a glance up at him, finds him — thank god — staring out his office window. “It tends to block out anything unpleasant we might not want to hear, and often that negativity will build and build and build until, one day, the weight becomes too much to bear.” He sighs and scrubs a hand through his short white beard, messing the hairs out of their orderly style. “And then we must face the unfortunate truth that sometimes what we thought we wanted is, in actuality, not at all the path we should be taking."

She drops her gaze back down to her bouncing knee. “Is it stupid?” She blurts out, watching her leg blur under her rising tears. “I just — this is a good school, a good program, and I’ll have so many job opportunities when I graduate—”

A weathered hand stretches out across the desk, just reaching to where her pinky would've been. “And yet,” Professor Keelson murmurs. “It won’t make you happy.” He sits back in his chair, looking every inch the benevolent Santa Claus his students know him to be. “And given how miserable you’ve been this year, Ms. Ochoa, I daresay your ultimate happiness is worth far more than any graduating job offers.” His smile drops for a half-second. “Though I can’t say I won’t be sorry to see you go. You’re already one of my best students, you know.”

You're an embarrassment to my name and reputation.

A wet little giggle chokes out of her throat, and she wipes down her face one more time. “Don’t tempt me, I’m half-considering staying,” she admits. “Even with all of this.”

“Ah, but if you do, what sort of state will you be in once you graduate?” Professor Keelson says, raising a bushy brow. “All you young folk are the same. You’re young, you have that wonderful, limitless energy, but you must learn to take care of yourselves now, while you have the space to do so. Won’t do you any good to drive yourselves into the ground every night when you’re my age, you know!” He looks at her appraisingly, then smiles wide. “And you know, my dear, there’s great strength in being able to admit you were wrong. I’ve always admired people who are strong enough to chase their dreams instead of following the easy path. Do you have an idea where you’re going, yet?”

Don’t ever come back here, you little—

“There’s a performing and visual arts conservatory,” she says hesitantly. “River Park, downstate. They’ve got really good photography and filmmaking programs, and, um.” She pauses, unsure how to explain how right it had all felt when she’d been reading about it online. “Well, I have an interview on Wednesday, so.”

Professor Keelson’s smile widens. “River Park! My partner studied illustration there, years ago when we were both young. You’ll do wonderfully.”

She can’t help but feel like his faith is ever-so-slightly misplaced —

I didn't want you.

— maybe it’s just the existential crisis talking, who knows —

Do you understand me?

— but she can’t quite bring herself to argue against the sparkling excitement in the professor’s eyes. She lets him press another chocolate bar and tissue combo into her hand as he shuffles her out of his office, with strict, cheerful instructions to come see him before she leaves for her interview.

You were a mistake.

Tuesday night comes in the blink of an eye; she’d barely dumped her meager wardrobe back into the suitcase she’d kept under her bed and her sticky notes are still haphazardly slapped to the wall above her desk. She’s not exactly sure where the time went — it’s not like she went to any classes. Or ate much. Or was sleeping, really. Granted she did try, but the third time in the same night she woke up sobbing because her blankets had twisted around her leg, trapping her in an all-too-familiar heat vortex—

window won't break it's too hot it hurts to breathe window won't break it's so fucking hot she can't think window won't break but it'll slide get out of this goddamn heat get out get out crunch fuck ow hurts hurts ow fuck hurts her toes shouldn't be ow fuck fuck fuck pointing that way hurts hurts fucking hurts can't feel her knee fuck fuck where's papá—

— she kind of gave up. She doesn't even bother pulling out her shitty, half-broken headphones to try and watch something on Netflix to try and pass the time, she just lays in bed and listens to Rebecca softly snoring five feet away. The ceiling is infinitely more interesting than anything else she could’ve been focusing on, anyway.

Except maybe her portfolio. Which. She hasn’t really. Looked at.

She’s so fucked.

Still, she drags herself out of bed nice and early at 7 am Wednesday morning, beating her alarm by the customary 4 minutes, and actually manages to gather the energy to sift through her remaining clothes to dig out something — well. She doesn’t really have anything “nice,” per say, but she does have an oversized sweater that’ll pass as a dress once she puts on some makeup and a belt and ties her hair up, and that’ll have to be good enough.

You show up to my door looking like that?

River Park is going to laugh her right out the door.

Everything she might need is already shoved unceremoniously into her backpack — wallet, keys, wrist brace, student ID, laptop, flash drive (in its place of honor in the tiny pocket), knee brace, fruit snacks, water bottle — but her eye catches on her DLSR just as she’s finished tying the laces on her most comfortable boot, and she hesitates. She hasn’t really looked at her portfolio much recently — she knows she’s got some old pictures from Manhattan, and maybe some from various campus events that might be good, but it’s been a little hard to go out and take nice shots when she’s been drowning in depression soup for the past four months. Four years. Whatever. Either way, she doesn’t have much to show for herself, and inspiration hasn’t really hit lately.

But River Park is — well, she has no idea, really, she hasn’t seen it in person yet, but the photos online are gorgeous, all glass-and-brick buildings framed by forests and gardens. Very much a college town, from what she can tell, the campus map isn’t really a map so much as a general directory pointing out which buildings were associated with the conservatory, but there was something that felt weirdly homey about seeing those pictures. Maybe it was the layout of the buildings, maybe it was the way they described their classes and professors, maybe it was just the simple fact that everyone in those pictures was genuinely smiling, but she’d gotten this weird, longing ache just below her collarbone that had made her close down all her other college-related tabs and email River Park’s photography and filmmaking department.

Something feels good about that campus. And maybe, if she gets there a little early, she can—

You don't get to come into my life and — and ruin everything I have here.

It’s only seven forty-two. Her interview’s not until one, and the train ride downstate should only take an hour. She’s got time.

Which is how she finds herself knocking on Professor Keelson’s office door, DLSR hanging around her neck, about two hours earlier than she’d been intending to be there, praying to who and whatever might be listening that he’s actually in and she didn’t just horribly fuck this up like she’s been fucking up, oh, who’s to say, just about everything she touches these past few months.

You’re not a part of this family. You never will be.

“Come in, come in!” She hears just beyond the door, and she cautiously peeks in to find the wizened old professor crouching over his printer, staring at it suspiciously as it slowly spits out some document. “Hello, dear. Wasn’t expecting you this early!”

I think you should leave.

“Sorry,” she manages, hovering in the doorway. “I just — change of plans.”

Professor Keelson nods, collects his papers, and creaks over to his desk. “Yes, very good.” he agrees, shuffling the papers into two piles. “Take a seat, I promise I won’t keep you very long. You look nice, by the way.”

She sits, already relaxing in the warm familiarity of Professor Keelson’s overstuffed office. Maybe this is why he’d wanted her to visit before she went, just to make sure she wouldn’t vomit on the interviewers. “Thank you, sir.”

“You’re very welcome. Now,” he says, stuffing one pile of papers into a folder. “These are all your important documents: transcripts, transferable credits, disability accommodations, et cetera. Pardon my overstepping, but you did seem a little, ah, frazzled, shall we say? Last you came to speak with me and I was almost positive that you wouldn’t have thought of pulling the paperwork together.”

Which is absolutely true, she hadn’t, and she can’t even bring herself to feel insulted that he’d assumed she wouldn’t. “Thank you very much,” she says, trying desperately to seem calm and cool and collected and not crush her very expensive, very precious camera in her white-knuckle grip.

A mess. You're a mess.

Professor Keelson’s face crinkles into a smile. “You’re very welcome. You’ll be happy to know that, since you’ve already completed all your core classes and general requirements, all of those credits will easily transfer between the schools. There may be a class or two you’ll have to make up, but you should be able to jump right in with your major-specific classes. Now, this,” he says, folding the other papers into an envelope. “Is your letter of recommendation. I’ll put it in the folder with everything else, but I wanted you to know that you had it.”

Oh, fuck, she might start crying again. “Professor—” she starts, but he’s already slid the folder across the desk to her.

“Ms. Ochoa, if I may.” Her mouth snaps shut, and he continues: “Our time together has been short, yes, but you have been one of my favorite students to ever come through these doors. Barring your obvious intelligence, passion, and work ethic, you’re also relentlessly kind, despite everything you’ve gone through.” His gaze fixes on her cheek for the briefest of moments, tracing over the lumps and bumps of her scars, but his eyes are as soft as they’ve ever been. “I don’t presume to know your history, but I know bits of your present, and the person I’ve seen would make a valuable asset to any school she goes to. If you approach your new classes and projects with as much determination as you did mine, I’ve no doubt your new instructors will be as proud of you as I am. I let them know as much.”

...

She numbly takes the folder, desperately blinking back tears. “Th-thank you, sir.” She manages, thick in the back of her throat. “I-I’ll do my best.”

Professor Keelson takes up his customary position, hands laced neatly over his belly. “You will.” He agrees, smiling. “Now, you should be heading out soon. I’d hate to make you miss your train, especially if you want to get there early.”

“Yes — yes.” And she gets up on autopilot, sliding the folder into her backpack as carefully as she can manage. “Thank you. Thank you so much, professor, I can’t — I can’t tell you how much this means to me.”

She’s halfway out the door when she hears him call: “Ms. Ochoa, one more thing?”

She turns.

The professor smiles benevolently at her from his chair. “Don’t give up on yourself before you’ve even gotten started.”

And with that, she’s on her way.

Get out.

So, update: maybe deciding to take her portfolio pictures on her way to her college interview was a stupid idea, but to be fair, a lot of her stupid ideas have worked out pretty decently before, so. It’s fine.

Probably.

She definitely doesn’t almost miss the train by snapping shots of the mostly-empty station, but in her defense, the morning fog hadn't quite dissipated yet, and the spooky air of possibility that the tracks had been extending and disappearing into was just begging to be captured. And she absolutely doesn’t continually hop seats throughout the hour-long ride to get different angles of the seats, the blurry towns and roads whizzing past, or even a couple of self-portraits here and there. It’s not like there are people around for her to bother, anyway, so it’s fine. (Probably.) It’s a little hard getting a satisfyingly dramatic shot of her staring out the window, but she thinks the one where they’re passing through a tunnel and she’s locked eyes with her shadowy reflection might be a winner. She won’t really know until she opens them up on her computer, which will probably end up being just before the interview, with her luck, so. Who knows, she might just be wasting her time and battery life.

It’s the most fun she’s had in a while, though.

And. Fuck, maybe it makes no sense, but she's still got that feeling in her chest. It's creeping up to her ponytail, at this point, tugging on the ends of her curls, ordering her to pay attention.

Capture this.

It's important.

Last time she felt like that, she won an award, so. Y'know. Fuck her if she's going to ignore it.

She cuts herself off when there’s ten minutes left in the journey, just to be sure she’s not scrambling to put herself together as she’s pulling up to the station, but ten minutes, it turns out, is both much longer and much shorter than she thought it’d be. Just enough time to run down the list of all the possible ways this could (and would) go wrong, but not enough to steady her racing heart before the train’s slowing down.

You're delusional. This isn't one of your little fairy tales. This is — it's not going to happen.

Don’t give up on yourself before you’ve even gotten started, she remembers, taking one last breath to steel herself, and swings herself up onto her feet and out the doors.

The station is nice enough, but not terribly different from the one she’d started in besides being a little cleaner, so she shoulders her backpack and makes her way down the stairs and into the town proper.

Which.

Wow.

Maybe it’s just a seasonal thing, maybe not, but all the buildings she can see are draped with hanging lights, and even the curving street lights have extra strands hanging over the sidewalks. She almost wishes she’d scheduled her interview later in the day, just to be able to get a shot of those lights against the dark sky, but contents herself with snapping pictures of the incredibly aesthetic sidewalk and shops. She spots an art supply store with a cheerful blue door sandwiched between a movie theater and an apartment complex that frames up nicely, and there’s a coffee shop with swirling, festive winter-y designs painted on the window with pots of poinsettias framing the corners that’s a — no pun intended — picture-perfect paragon of coziness. She stops maybe a little too long to zoom in on the red leaves and flawless paint, making sure to keep the actual inside of the shop out of focus, because as cute as the beanbags and mismatched armchairs are, she doesn’t really feel like going in to ask if it’s alright for her to take pictures of the small handful of people both in front of and behind the counter.

One last shot of the poinsettias and she moves on, turning her lens to the last few, dying flowers in their garden beds, then to the display window of a bookstore that proudly announces its support of the LGBT community with various painted flags, then to the churning river that cuts through the town and the elegant bridge that arcs proudly above it.

There’s not a lot of people walking around right now, but she can definitely see kids around her age up the street, chatting and laughing amongst themselves as their breath puffs out in front of them. A cute dog bounces over to say hello before its owner tugs it away with a sheepish smile, and even without their leaves, the trees interspersed along the sidewalk stand tall, proud, and lovely.

She’s got that weird ache in her chest again — stronger this time — that indiscernible pull that draws her to stay, and she puts her camera down, puffing out a shaky breath.

What made you think we want you here?

“It doesn’t matter.” She tells herself sternly, leaning up on the sides of the bridge. “It doesn’t matter unless you get in.”

Speaking of. She pulls her phone out of her pocket, fully intending to double check the email she’d been sent with instructions on where to go, but her eye catches on the time.

Twelve forty-six.

So. Maybe not the best idea to go gallivanting around a campus she doesn’t know, especially when she has an extremely important interview to get to, but even as she’s scolding herself, she knows the pink flush in her cheeks isn’t just from the cold, and she’s got more energy now than she’s had in months, so.

Worth it.

Thank god E.A. Archer Hall is straightforward enough to find; Google Maps tells her it’s a seven minute walk in a mostly straight line from where she is on the bridge now, which she just about manages even though it’s cold and her stump is starting to ache. The building is emblazoned with the name right on the side, so it’s impossible to miss, but she needs a keycard to get in, and somehow she thinks her current school ID isn’t exactly going to fly here.

But someone, somewhere, is smiling on her, because she’s only just gotten to oh, shit before a tall woman with vitiligo and long box braids strides towards the door, pushing it open.

“Alejandra Ochoa?”

“Yes, ma’am,” she says as smoothly as she can behind her chattering teeth, and the woman smiles.

“You're right on time. Come on in, let's get started."

#I HAVE A LOT OF THOUGHTS ABOUT HOW DIFFERENT FIO/STL WOULD GO NOW SO IM REWRITING IT #i dont wanna spoil things bc i am in fact working on the next bits but here are some minor thoughts:#1: alexa starts out as an architecture major then switches schools to go into photography/filmmaking spring semester 2nd year #((not to toot my own horn but the way her major reflects her emotional arc is actually very clever of me if i do say so myself))#2: alexa and jaimey are half siblings through their dad and there will in fact be more Jaimey/Juno development than ive ever done before #((i have a lot of thoughts about their relationship and how it would grow and develop over time so. lowkey Jaimey redemption arc))#3: alexa obviously nails this interview and she hangs out on campus for a lil while afterwards to take pictures #((3.5: she does end up going into the coffee shop and there is in fact a Very Cute Barista and she gets Nervous))#4: the little interjections are things that have been said to Alexa somewhat recently but not all by the same person #thats about it i think anything else would be spoiler-y #n e way i cant wait to loredump all my new thoughts on yall im so sorry in advance for all the notifications you're about to get #im workin on some AU stuff too but lately ive been wanting to write about Normal Kids doing Normal Kid Things so here we are #i hope you enjoyed #movie house #alejandra ochoa #alexa darmond #my writing #shut up phoenix

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blinkaftermidnight · 3 years ago

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no need to apologize! i’m totally with you. i get the knee jerk reactions from folks who are attached to this show and these characters and want to see them done right, but the amount of negativity at this point from people who haven’t even seen the season yet is kind of frustrating? like… at least wait until the season’s actually out and you’ve seen it for yourself before you start @ ing everyone involved in the show and telling them how disappointed you are?? like once again i get the initial response but at this point we’ve been aware of the boys for ages and complaining based on a handful of reviews isn’t gonna magically get us a different season 2 on friday, lmao. i’m still looking forward to season 2. i’m sure i’ve watched and enjoyed far worse tv, i used to exclusively watch cw tv shows lol. have a good one!

I agree 100% and I haven't read any reviews, but I also don't care what reviewers have to say. I'm not trying to actively ruin my enthusiasm for season two; my real life can do that just fine without me adding to it. If I don't like season two, I'll deal with that after I see it. And if I really hate it (idk how likely that is), I'll just...stop watching? I'm here to have fun and take a break from the actually stressful things in my life, and you know, write some stuff as long as I can enjoy it. And hey I hope you have a good one too!!

#Anonymous #and believe me you are not the only one to have watched and enjoyed bad tv #idc if it's bad as long as i'm having a good time

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musette22 · 4 years ago

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Minnie, I’m loving TFAWS and how it’s developed Sam and Bucky’s dynamic just proves how well Sebastian and Anthony Mackie get on in real life. Sam deserves the Shield and Bucky deserves to live his life. Also a massive appreciation for any fan artists out there because they have created some incredible stuff, Im studying art and design atm and I’m in love with what people create!!! But what I really don’t like is the fact that there are some people in the fandom who basically use the storyline and events in the show to drag Steve through the mud because of Shitty writing by the directors and make him the ultimate bad guy. It makes me sad because it shows how easily influenced shitty writing of a character affects the rest of how things play out and how it seems some didn’t really understand Steve’s character at all. We saw how close all of them were and how they gave us relationships between them were written to play off one another really well. Does it make me bad that I’ve basically not been going on social media when a new ep comes out because of this? Yeah probably but the discourse around him is something I’ve told myself not to get involved with, it seems to be everywhere because I know people don’t want to listen and I’ll probs end up ruining my day. The Stucky tag was always a good place to go for finding new blogs and enjoying new content that creators love putting out about Steve but lately (sigh)...I loved Steve’s character and I’ve been in the fandom since the first Iron Man film so long enough to have a good grasp on understanding what the characters and decisions are like in the MCU. I was heartbroken by so many decisions made in EG because of the directors writing, many people I’ve spoken to who are obsessed said it was an alright film but some things were out of character or did not make sense (I’ve got a whole list of you’re interested). People are moving on and growing with the content we are given but I just wish that shitty writing doesn’t define a character in the eyes of others, truly loving a character is understanding them and recognising that they were done dirty not by defining them by one thing that’s happened. The negativity is really off putting. Thank goodness for Ao3 and YOU, Minnie, this is one of the blogs I can turn to and live in the moment, I love your content because you haven’t let anything stop you from posting and plus the Evanstan stuff is such a bonus as I mainly get updates from you!! Love you Minnie and I hope you take care of yourself both Mentally and Physically. Xx

Hi darling!! Thanks for your message! I’m so glad to hear you’re loving TFATWS so far! Yeah you’re right, there are definitely folks out there who are figuring out that EG’s ending was bullshit and who are now condemning Steve as a character for it, instead of the creators. That’s incredibly frustrating, but there’s not too much we can do about that. Fortunately, there are also still plenty of people who can see the two things as separate, though! And don’t forget that a lot of people are not as invested as we are, and while they might now be saying “god that Steve was actually an asshole for leaving”, in a few months time they’ll be dressing as him again for the next costumed party, you know? Steve’s legacy lives on, while at the same time there’s now space for a new, equally unique Cap. Which is wonderful, and I believe the two will coexist just fine eventually!

The same goes for the Stucky tag, by the way: right now it’s obviously a minefield, but it’ll look very different in a few months’ time. It’ll be similar to what happened after EG, most likely (although of course I know things get a little bit harder with every setback - but this fandom isn’t going to let itself be crushed any time soon!)

In the meantime, good for you for looking after your own mental health and avoiding topics or discussions that make you feel like shit! That absolutely does not make you a bad person, I promise ❤️ You do you, enjoying the show and also reading those happy, fluffy Stucky fics (or whatever takes your fancy!) and reblogging a bunch of domestic Stucky fanart, if that’s what makes you feel good, darling! I’m glad you’re finding some comfort and a happy place in my blog, that makes me very happy too! Hope you enjoy the final two eps, and take care of yourself, okay? Lots of love! 😘

#fws opinions #anti endgame #steve rogers #stucky #minnie answers #Anonymous

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thehouseofvs · 4 years ago

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[RP Journal - 1/20/2021] Valeria Camena: Gifts, Truths, and Consequences

I suppose this is going to become a thing now, isn’t it? The idea of keeping a journal like this still seems rather silly to me, but perhaps my thoughts will change as I continue writing. That said, I guess I should provide an update since my last entry. That’s how these work, right? After Rae-Hann and I boarded our flight out of Kugane, the trip went by relatively quick. At least, quicker than it would have, if we had decided to depart by ship as originally suggested. Though, perhaps that might have been the better option, given how anxious the airship flight seemed to make Rae. It’s actually rather amusing; I thought nothing seemed to phase the Mystel, but heights appear to have accomplished the impossible. Thankfully, we were able to take a small break with a brief lay-over in Limsa Lominsa. At least, enough for Rae to be at bit more at ease before we took off again for Ul’dah. The journey was uneventful, honestly - but we spent the time with brief discussions, moments of quiet, whatever Rae-Hann seemingly wanted to indulge in...not that I minded, honestly. He has been through a lot lately, so I did not want to bother him too much. With our arrival in Ul’dah, we temporarily stopped by the Quicksands to purchase a couple of rooms for the night...though, frankly, neither of us wanted to stay for long. Rae-Hann had to go and take care of the business he had originally come to the city to do, and I...well. The Quicksands is a rather filthy place - by far the dirtiest hub I’ve seen in Eorzea. I do not know how Mistress Momodi stands it. No, I preferred to be on my way.

And what was my business in Ul’dah? Well, certainly nothing like Rae-Hann’s. I decided to stop by the Goldsmith’s Guild, to see if I could have a piece of jewelry prepared. Back during Starlight, Rae-Hann had gifted me a crystal infused with his own aether; a source of color that was separate from himself. It is such a beautiful magenta hue...

To my pleasant surprise, the artisans at the Guild were very helpful - albeit for a price. Fair is fair, I suppose. I wanted a swift job, and they wanted swift coin. That’s the nature of things. One of the goldsmiths presented me a necklace design that would suit the crystal, and after approving and paying, all I had left to do was wait. With that business taken care of, I also took the chance to contact my handler, Rikotsu. He was one of the first people I met after fleeing Garlemald, and while I wouldn’t exactly call him a ‘friend’, he has been a reliable contact of mine who had helped me get started as a mercenary. He had been kind enough to watch over Anemo while I was away in the East - I informed him of my return to Eorzea, and that I would swing by to collect Anemo after some initial business. To my utter lack of surprise, Anemo was a good boy...a happy griffin indeed. Other than that, the two days that I had to wait until Rae-Hann was finished with his task were...uneventful, to say the least. I tried to spend a little time in the Quicksands’ bar area, but after the fifth lewd gentleman...and gentlewoman...caller, I decided to leave. The rest of the time was a blur, as I took the time to explore the city. Despite coming here many times, I’d never attempted to really look at Ul’dah. It has quite the beauty of it’s own, though I did find myself wondering how different it’d look if it were any other shade than gray...

At the end of the second day, I had gone to collect my necklace from the Goldsmith’s Guild - and conveniently ran into Rae-Hann on my way out with my new prize. He seemed pleased with the new look to the crystal, so I was happy that the both of us could appreciate it. When I looked him over a bit, he did not seem to have changed, or be hurt, or anything like that. Honestly, I do not know what I was expecting, exactly. Only that when we spoke in Shirogane, he said he might be ‘different’. Whatever it was, he wasn’t willing to share until we were beyond the city’s walls. Which was fair enough, given the nature of his...dealings. So we agreed to head further in-land, towards Drybone in Eastern Thanalan. And, of course, we teleported...Mother, I despite the aetheryte system. Always leaves me feeling queasy. And Rae-Hann knows that, too, and takes pleasure in my discomfort as a tease. Well, we’ll see how much he’s laughing when he’s forced to fly on Anemo’s back...

When we arrived in Drybone, the first thing we agreed to do was find a spot where we could talk without being interrupted, so we settled on the local tavern. Most of the folks here tend to mind their own business, due to the number of travelers that pass through. So we went inside, found a place to sit, and Rae began his retelling of the last couple of days’ events. And of course, as he typically does, Rae-Hann started by dropping a shrapnel charge; apparently, Siannault had come to visit him last night, but he was not certain if it was real, or some sort of vivid hallucination brought on by consuming Una’to’s blood. Needless to say, all that strung together gave me considerable worry, but I allowed him to continue his tale. Thankfully, he explained that beyond a decent dosage of Void-tainted aether, he had not undergone any other changes to his being. And when I examined him, he was right...mostly. The aether certainly did not appear to be reacting negatively to his own, but the once-vibrant magenta that I knew to be his own aether had become murky with that ill, sickly purple hue that I knew all too well. For him to willingly do this to himself...it hurt, thinking what would bring him to take such lengths. So I asked why.

According to Rae, recent events had made him reconsider his position in the world. He did not see himself as normal, like the other people in his life, so in some strange logic, he thought that by consuming the rest of Una’to’s offered blood, he’d change in a way that would make people recognize his differences from them. And he mentioned a name, ‘Skadi’. A necromancer...the one that had his soul. In his usual fashion, he tried to deflect from the conversation by having us go and see what jobs lay in store for us here in Drybone. But I wasn’t having it. I wanted him to talk to me, to open up...and I wanted to know more about this Skadi. Yet another damned monster who took advantage of a man through his suffering, and knowing that Rae-Hann was a victim of it made my blood practically boil. In the past, Rae had tried to convince me that not all Void-related entities were ‘evil’, but if this is what his associates were prone to do...well, maybe I’d have to make a visits when our journey has concluded. At the very least, the intervention of several parties over the last few days had apparently inspired Rae-Hann with the will and desire to live - to prolong his existence, and avoid the inevitable prison that waited for him after his death. We discussed of ways to prevent that from happening, but beyond convincing Skadi of revoking the contract, or simply killing her, our options were limited - not to mention we would have to wait until she contacted him again, anyway. I hate necromancers.

We didn’t have much more to talk about after that, so we decided to take out our mutual frustrations on some of the local creatures in Thanalan. Fortunately for us, the locals here had a never-ending list of problems - and we ultimately settled on clipping a few imps of their wings, and clubbing a few of the walking dead near the Invisible City. With our destination in mind, we had set out. But, of course, things couldn’t be as simple as that. It never is. When Rae-Hann tried to summon forth his aetheric pegasus, Kurda, it instead transformed into a gnarled beast neither of us had seen before. It lashed out at both of us, and we were forced to put it down. After we decided that it would be best to keep such summonings to a minimum until further notice, we headed for the ruins, and handily disposed of the roaming ashkin that had made it their abode. It wasn’t a particularly difficult task, honestly, but it helped us relief some pent-up stress, and filled our pockets with a bit of gil. So, a win-win.

With our work finished, a heavy rain started to pour down onto us. Without a doubt, we were soaked by the time we got to the Golden Bazaar, but at least the man who put out the job notice also owned the local inn, so we were given a free night on top of the pay. Once in our room, we discussed where we would head off to next. Given our current location, the South Shroud seemed like the best choice, considering that Quarrymill was a prime destination for adventurers looking to catch their stride. Not that either of us were fresh to this sort of work...but dealing with a few bandit gangs might be fun, I think. As for sharing a room with Rae-Hann, well...I can’t say that the idea isn’t nerve-inducing. But I know he is not the type to do anything. I will just wait until morning to change, I guess...I still want to talk with Rae about some things. Particularly, some of these new memories that have begun to resurface in recent nights, with the usual nightmares that come with them...but am I ready to share these memories? Aurelian...if you were in my position, what would you do? You’d probably be handling things far better than me. You were always the stronger of the two of us. I guess that’s why- -No. Not tonight. Maybe tomorrow. @yokasaris

#AThousandMalms #RaeHann #ValeriaCamena #SiannaultTavard #VoidThings #IHateNecromancers #I'llCutABitchISwear #UnrequitedAffection

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