#if the people who love me and know how important my writing is to me can read it

[chartedterritory]

@inbabylontheywept

I wish the 17 year old version of me had met the 13 year old version of you. I too discovered Ayn Rand at an age where it had a profound impact. However at 17 I LOVED her writing style. In my limited experience with Russian literature - she hit the nail on the head with the grand sense of self-importance that many have perfected with over explained writing. To be fair, for her time, the more you said and the more ways you found to say the same thing in one paragraph, the smarter people thought you were. In the early 2000s, when AIM away messages were creative one line mysteries of teenage angst... I loved a woman who could drag on a whole paragraph to say a character had stooped shoulders. Who doesn't love a good distrack?

Atlas Shrugged was a suggested reading from a high school teacher who thought I was a little too radical for my age (I became vegan at 14 and had strong anti capitalist sentiments). They told me that Atlas Shrugged was the second most popular book read by the Library of Congress. They wanted to give me a new perspective and even out my far left stance.

I hated libertarians tho. I love how you write about what objectivism means. You're spot on. I hated libertarians because they had adopted a philosophy and world view that reflected their individual values but did not read the source material. They had not suffered though Atlas Shrugged. They were posers. I read everything (EVERYTHING) she wrote more than once. They didn't even know where the nonsense they bought into came from. And being a teenage girl - I was kind of radicalized in a way that these grown ass men's whole personalities were based on some Russian woman's writing and they couldn't admit to it. They were intellectually lazy and this made me feel closer to Rand.

It was probably the second reading of Atlas Shrugged that I clocked Rand as "the thinking man's racist" and immediately fell out of interest with her. Her affair with Nathaniel Branden embodies the soul of all that is hypocritical about her, her philosophy, and its followers: unwilling to make a sacrifice but willing to accept one.

Alright. So. I have a confession to share with you. In middle school, I strongly identified as a libertarian. In my defense, I was 13 and I had autism. Against my defense, I was literate, and capable of using common sense. I confessed this to you willingly, so go easy on me.

One thing about this that I can share with you is that I, as a 13 year old boy, read Atlas Shrugged. I read it as someone very committed to the ideology, who wanted to believe it, who wanted to like it, and there are two things I can share with you about that book from that time period.

The writing is terrible. It has the slowest, most boring, most pretentious prose you could possibly imagine. Calling it glacial would be a compliment. It makes glaciers look like Formula 1. There is no description for the pacing outside of hellish torments. It is like being condemned to watch a dog with an itchy ass wear the Himmalayas away only by scooching. It is like counting the grains of sand on a beach while Alexa reads off random phone numbers. It is like dipping saltines into lukewarm tapwater while listening to white noise in a beige room with no doors. It is like wearing a blindfold and being told to guess what a man is painting by sound alone, but there is no man, there is only a dog licking cold vaseline off a window. Forever. It is all of those things and more.

There is a multipage rant about how affairs are Good and Rational that is so insanely desparate that even middle-school-autist me thought she must have been having an affair while she wrote this. And then I googled it, and the answer was yes, she was. She called her philosophy Objectivism, because she believed, like everyone else in the world, that her ideas and motivations were Pure and Rational and Ojectively Correct, but I still find the name accurate, because it was really written with one Objective in mind, and that was finding a way to never admit that Ayn Rand had ever made a mistake in her life.

I was going to rant more about this but I kind of lost my train of thought. The book fucking sucks. It was propaganda of such remarkably low caliber that it actually helped me move out of those circles. Every time someone talked about liking the book, I'd reply with something along the lines of "Yeah, I especially loved the part where she destroyed the post modernists by unequivocally condemning affairs", and if they agreed with me, they would have lost my respect forever, and if they looked very embarrassed, I could at least acknowledge that they had a soul, albeit small and malformed. I had dozens of people claim that they read the book, and only three or four actually passed the test.

And now, goodnight.

[sacr1ficialang3l]

The darker the fruit, the sweeter.𖤐

DEAN WINCHESTER X GOTH!READER (meet her)

SUMMARY: The brothers and reader are investigating a new case when they makes a new furry friend. Dean is not a big fan of him at first, but they both soon find out that they are more alike than they expected. 5.3k

WARNINGS: fem!reader. this is all pretty fluffy and cute. finally getting together.

NOTES: goth!reader is back! I genuinely love writing for her so much. I had a more complex plot for this idea but it was way too long as it is. Maybe one day I will expand it and post it in ao3 instead. Let me know if you'd be interested in that! As always, English is not my first language. Enjoy<3

You hated hunts when you didn’t know what you were dealing with, but they were usually also the most “fun”, as fun as hunting monsters that can kill you can get. 

Because yes, vengeful spirits and vamp nests and werewolves were always easy to recognize, and more or less an easy gig. But when the creature was unknown, it was dangerous. Not knowing what you were dealing with could make the difference between life and death, but the research was just so much fun. 

Reading books and articles of lore about creatures all around the world, Sam and you hunched over his laptop for hours talking about Telkhines, or maybe an unicorn? And What the hell is a selkie?

It was like a big game of Clue where you had to put together who, where, and with what. Just that in this game, you could be the next victim, or Sam, or Dean. 

Anyway, the important thing was, you didn’t know how to feel right now. 

People had been disappearing without any explanation, not a trace of them anywhere. There was no connection or similarities between the victims, all different ages and different genders. It had to be your kind of thing, because the people would disappear from their home, usually at night, but there was never any sign of break-in, and it was very improbable that so many people from the same town had just decided to ditch for no reason. 

That is why, after a long day of talking to victims’ families and going over every police report and lore book available, Sam, Dean, and you return to the motel room with exhausted expressions and slumped shoulders.

The night was cold, and you couldn’t wait to take a hot shower and finally get some sleep, your feet aching from the platform boots you refused to stop wearing and your eyeliner smudged after you accidentally rubbed your eyes three hours into researching. 

When you had checked into the motel room that morning, you were told that there was only one room available. This was something that happened every once in a while, and if you had to be honest, it didn’t really bother you. Yes, three grown adults in one shitty motel room was a little cramped, but you had spent so much time alone, it felt nice to be around people, especially people you trusted as much as you trusted the Winchester brothers. This was also why you never minded sharing a bed. It was… warmer, less lonely. 

So every time this happened, you would swap who you share with. 

Sharing a bed with Sam was fine. He was huge and would eventually push you to the edge of the mattress, but it was fine. 

Sharing with Dean, on the other hand, was an ordeal. 

He would usually try to take the couch, except when the motel was shitty enough to not have a couch or for it to be more akin to a huge rock than a comfortable place to lay down. Those times, you forced Dean to sleep in the same bed with you. 

“It’s not big deal, Dean. Come on, stop throwing a tantrum. It is cold, get into bed.”

That would usually do the trick. You would lay awkwardly next to each other, both of you on your back and facing the ceiling. But then, when the only thing around you was the darkness and silence of the night, you would get more comfortable. Turning around in the bed, facing each other, knees brushing or arms touching. You would listen to the other breath, and your eyes would sometimes meet under the barely-there moonlight filtering through the window, both of you frozen, but feeling more at peace than you ever had. One night, when Dean had an especially bad case of insomnia, you ended up running your hand up and down his back until he fell asleep.

But you were friends, of course.

This time it was Dean’s turn to share, and you were equally excited and terrified. 

It all leaves your mind when you find a huge, majestic doberman sitting down in front of your motel room. The sight of the dog immediately makes all exhaustion fly away from your body, but before you can say or do anything, Dean is taking a step towards it.

“Excuse me, dude.” He murmurs, trying to get around the dog. 

The doberman immediately snarls, snapping his sharp teeth towards Dean. You watch as Dean jumps back, and in a reaction that you know is pure instinct from fighting monsters for years, he gets ready to fight. He doesn’t hurt the dog, doesn’t even try to. But his shoulders tighten in that way they do when he is expecting something to jump him, and he is thinking what the best way to knock it down is. 

Before anything else can happen, you grab Dean’s arm and pull him back.

“Don’t.” You command firmly, quickly dropping to your knees in front of the animal, who was still baring his teeth. You ignore Dean’s warning and you simply make yourself small while quickly taking all of the rings in your right hand off, sliding them into your jacket pocket before slowly, very carefully offering your hand to the dog.

Dean says your name urgently again. “I don’t think you should-”

“Shhh.” 

The doberman, who was almost taller than you as you kneeled on the floor, was still baring his teeth and tense, but he wasn’t snarling anymore. You slowly move your hand closer, palm down, and he growls when you get a little too close. Both Sam and Dean call your name this time.

“It’s okay.” You murmur gently, for both the brothers and the dog. “It’s okay, pretty boy. I won’t hurt you, okay?” 

Your sweet, soft voice seems to calm down the animal, and he moves his snout closer, smelling your hand from a distance. He is careful at first, hesitant, but a second later he is knocking the palm of your hand with the top of his head. 

“There you go, see? It’s okay.” You pet the top of his head, movements soft and slow. When the doberman stops baring his teeth, you scoot closer. “You’re not dangerous.You’re just scared, right?”

By now both your hands are petting the dog, cradling his little (or not so little) face, rubbing up and down his neck, scratching behind his ears. 

“See?” You ask again, but this time you do turn to look at Sam and Dean, who are looking down at you in disbelief. “There was no need to fight, he’s a sweetheart.”

“He looked ready to bite my head off.” Dean grumbles, and you are about to retort when the cold nose of the doberman hits your neck and he starts to sniffle you, from the collar of your jacket to the apple of your cheek. He ends up licking your face and it makes you giggle, leaning your face away and turning back to the giant animal.

“He was just scared, weren’t you, boy?” You ask in your best puppy voice. “The world has been cruel to you, and you learned to bite first.” You whisper as you notice how cold the dog was, how there was no collar around his neck, and the long scar across his right eye. Not to mention the fact that his ears and tail were cropped. “But all you need is a little love, isn’t that right? A little kindness and it all melts away.”

The dog’s nose nuzzles against your chest again and you almost melt from the inside out. You keep gently petting him as you turn back to Dean, who was now looking down at you with dark, unreadable eyes. It leaves you breathless for a moment, and you don’t know what even prompted that reaction. 

You open your mouth to say… honestly, you don't even know what you were going to say, but thankfully Sam, who looks like all the exhaustion has also banished from his body and is now smirking, walks past you and opens the door to the motel room.

You quickly get up from the floor, the doberman following your lead. You walk up to the door, both Dean and the dog behind you. 

“Come on in, boy.” You point towards the inside of the room when the dog– you would give him a name, but then you’d get too attached– stopped right before walking into the room.

“No way.” Dean interjects, arms crossed, and frowning. 

“Dean, it is freezing out here. We can’t let him sleep outside.” 

“I refuse to sleep with dog smell all over the room.” He insisted, and was that a pout?

“I’m team ‘he stays’” Sam announces, still grinning, before making his way into the bathroom. 

You cross your arms too, turning to look at Dean with a challenging look on your face.

“That’s two against one. And if I have to choose between you and the doggy, then good luck sleeping in the Impala.” 

You hold Dean’s eyes for a long moment, not faltering for a second. He looks at you in disbelief before he seems to notice that there’s no arguing with you in this one. You were incredibly stubborn sometimes, like when you refused to leave the cemetery that first night you met.

But that was the reason why you were here right now, so maybe you were right about the dog. He would never admit it, though.

He simply sighs in defeat, shoulders dropping, and a pleased grin quickly takes over your face. You do a little jump, and Dean once again feels impressed by how well you move in those high boots. 

“Yes!” You giggle with that sweet smile on your face, your lipstick faded from the long day out but still somehow that smooth wine color that made Dean weak in the knees. “Now come in, pretty boy.”

The dog, who had just been looking up at you during the conversation, seems to finally be convinced to walk inside the motel room. He still turns around to check that you’re walking inside too, sitting right by your side as you take off your jacket and boots.

It was adorable.

It had been a few hours since you had gotten to the motel. Right now, Sam was doing some more research while Dean called up Bobby to see if he could find anything. You had walked to the nearby grocery store to buy some dog food and some plastic containers. You served the food and some water on them when you and the dog returned from the store, since he refused to leave your side. 

You had to be honest, walking alone at night never felt safer with a huge black doberman walking alongside you. For just one second, you could live out your goth princess dreams. 

Now, the pup was eating his food. The poor thing was probably starving out there in the street. You wonder who could have abandoned such a beautiful animal, and leave him to freeze on the street. The dog was friendly enough, sometimes sniffing at Sam’s shoes but hiding behind your legs when he tried to pet him. He was clearly still scared, and you feel a sense of pride fill your chest at the knowledge that the dog decided to trust you.

You change into your pajamas and lay on the bed, groaning as your tense muscles finally relax against the almost comfortable surface of the shitty mattress. You hear the sound of paws hitting the floor and you turn your head to look down the edge of the bed, where the doberman was staring up at you with– there was no other way to describe it than puppy eyes.

You chuckle, and get more comfortable on the bed before patting the spot next to you once, and that was enough for the dog to jump. 

“Oh, come on! I gotta sleep on that bed.” Dean complains, but you ignore it in order to laugh when instead of the big space next to you, the dog decides to climb on top of you, laying his head on your chest and making you groan at the weight on your stomach.

“Seriously, dude?” You ask the dog, who only licks your cheek once and seems to get even heavier. 

You lay there on the bed, a giant puppy on top of you with no way of moving and no heart to push him away. 

You hear Sam laugh and you try to look at the brothers past the big fur ball resting right in front of your face. You catch sight of the younger one’s smirk and Dean’s unimpressed face. He looked almost offended, and it was hilarious. You laugh, and it causes the doberman to tilt his head and look at you curiously. Your heart aches, and you remind yourself not to get attached.

You sigh, starting to pet the dog gently. You distantly hear Sam and Dean chat and bicker about something, but you focus on the puppy on your chest. You scratch behind his ears and boop his nose with yours, murmuring sweet nothings under your breath. 

Humans were complicated. You had realized from a young age that not many people felt as much as you did, not everyone had so many emotions that they threatened to spill out every time they opened their mouth. Your heart was too big for your body, your mother used to say when you were a kid. But she didn’t say it as a good thing, because it made you too vulnerable, too weak, too much like her. So when you were confronted with the cruelty of this world, when you discovered how awful people could be, you learned to keep that part of yourself hidden, locked away in a little box on your chest that only opened up when you were writing poetry or when it was time for your monthly crying session. 

Or when you were in the presence of animals. Animals were pure creatures, sweet and loving and unjudging. When you found a stray cat in a cemetery, or when you encountered some critter while foraging, or when little moths landed next to you in the abandoned house you used to spend your time in, that little box opened up and you let all the words stuck in the back of your throat come out. Because animals were the only creatures that deserved them. Or that’s what you thought, until some green-eyed hunter, who at first looked at you with the same seemingly angry but actually scared eyes as the doberman had, had made his way into your heart and was now threatening to break the lock that kept the box closed.

You brush your thumb over the long scar across the dog’s eye. It is healed, but it also looks recent. 

“You’re so beautiful.” You murmur to the pup, giggling when he pushes his head up into your hand for more ear scratches.

“Aw, thank you.” Dean places a hand on his chest, as if he was actually touched by the compliment. He was now standing on the side of the bed, looking down at you with a teasing grin. But there was something in his eyes, an edge that you couldn’t recognize. “I knew you wouldn’t resist my charms.”

You laugh at that, shaking your head. Noticing that your attention wasn’t on him anymore, the doberman turns his head towards Dean, and he snarls again. 

“Hey, nuh-uh.” You scold the pup firmly, tapping his snout softly twice. It stops the snarling, but the dog is still baring his teeth. “Dean is a friend, okay? He is amiable, even if he doesn’t look like it.” You can’t help but tease Dean, making him roll his eyes.

The doberman’s eyes stay wearily on Dean, but he doesn’t make a move to attack. You try to sit up on the bed, but the dog seems to somehow push you down into the mattress. You laugh, accepting your fate and extending your hand towards Dean instead.

“Give me your hand.” Dean looks at you with wide eyes for a second, but then he places his hand on yours. You ignore the feeling of his rough skin on yours, how warm he is in comparison with how cold you always are, how his silver ring feels against your palm, how much you wanted to intertwine your fingers with his. 

Instead, you move both your hands closer to the dog’s nose, slowly.

“If the mutt bites me, I’m gonna kill you.” Dean warns, but he sounds a little out of breath. 

The pup lets out a low growl, and you move your other hand to scratch behind his ear. 

“It’s okay, I promise. He’s a friend.” Your reassuring tone seems to calm him down a bit, and he slowly leans in to sniff at your joined hands. You slowly move your hand until it is holding Dean’s wrist instead of his palm, letting the dog smell only Dean. He apparently deems the human acceptable, because he stops baring his teeth and leans the tiniest bit forward. You guide Dean’s hand to the top of the doberman’s head, letting it rest there softly for the hunter to pet him. “See, puppy?” you whisper towards the dog, but your eyes move up to meet Dean’s. “He may be a little rough around the edges, but he’s actually harmless.”

That makes Dean snort, eyes darting down to the dog still laying on your chest while he scratches his head, and you think his cheeks flush a little. 

“There are several creatures, both human and non-human, that might disagree with that.” He jokes, but his voice is softer and low. It is your time to snort.

“Well, I was never known for agreeing with the general public.” Dean meets your eyes again, and something passes in between you two. Your breath hitches at the rawness in his gaze, and then your fingers bump where you were both petting the dog. “I always had a soft spot for what others consider scary.”

A long moment of silence, your fingers brush against his again, Dean opens his mouth.

And then the doberman is licking your cheek and almost all the way up to your forehead. You let out a surprised shriek and you turn your face further to the side, laughing and trying to get away from the dog’s wet kisses.

“Hey! Stop, boy. Sto– ah!” You are trying to push the pup off of you, but there is no way of pushing him away. You try to turn his face away with your hand but instead he gives you a little bite. 

It is playful, a barely-there nip with his front teeth. You look at him with an offended look in your eyes, and you can almost swear the pup is grinning. Dean starts laughing at the scene, and you pout, turning to Sam for help. The younger Winchester is useless, simply giving you a shrug and going back to his research. You stare at the ceiling and start to question your life choices.

“How did I end up trapped in a motel room with three insufferable boys?”

Dean ends up not letting the dog sleep in the bed. You somehow manage to move him from on top of you and lay down a couple of blankets and some of your clothes on the floor next to the bed for the pup to sleep in. 

It was late into the night already, and you were half asleep already, lulled by Dean’s warmth. Because you gave one of the blankets to the doberman, now Dean and you had to share the other one. He complains about it for like an hour, and you had to admit the night was cold enough for one blanket to not be enough. But once you threaten him with letting the dog on the bed and sending him to the floor, Dean accepts sharing the blanket.

It turned out to be as much of a bad idea as it was a good one. Not only did it force you to be even closer to each other to fit in, but it also gave place for a lot more physical contact. Now when your knee brushes his thigh, it is skin on skin instead of over the covers, when his fingers brush your lower back, it is right where your Type O Negative shirt has lifted up. It was a magical kind of torture. 

At some point when you are more asleep than awake, you feel a new weight on the mattress. You are too tired to even register what it is or what it could mean. You just scoot to the side, giving the creature more space and pressing closer to the figure next to you. You would think that by this point, your hunter’s instincts would be more developed, but you weren’t very smart when you were sleepy. 

You quickly fall back into unconsciousness completely when the heat radiating from both your sides now envelopes you. You were cold almost all the time. Even in the summer, somehow your hands managed to find a way to stay icy. On low temperature nights like this, it was worse. You didn’t mind it, you enjoyed the cold, but the boys constantly complained when you touched them with your freezing hands. But right now, with two extra-hot bodies pressed against either side of you, you sleep through the night like you haven't in years.

The next time you wake up, it takes you a few seconds to understand where you are. The bed feels smaller than it did when you went to sleep, and there is a new weight on your waist. It isn’t until you hear two different snores that you finally open your eyes, confused. In front of you, curled up in the little nook created by your torso and bended knees, is the doberman sleeping peacefully. He somehow got into the bed at some point in the night, you register, and now he is taking up half of the bed. One of the snores is coming from him, but the other one comes from behind you, as well as the pressure on your middle.

A little panicked, you turn your head around slowly. As you feared, Dean has an arm around you, his chest pressed against your back. He too was fast asleep, mouth slightly open and his grip on you firm. You turn to look at the other bed, but you find it empty. Sam had probably gone out for his morning run, and you let yourself panic for a second. 

The little grunt that Dean lets out when you try to move and the way his arm tightens on your waist make you feel a little dizzy. You slowly, very slowly, slide down the bed. It is a miracle that Dean doesn't wake up, he must be really exhausted for his instincts not to alert him of the movement. The puppy also stays asleep, and you quietly scurry to the bathroom. You wash your face with cold water when you notice how flushed your cheeks are. You aren’t a high schooler, you can handle a little cuddling with a close friend.

But Dean was more than that, wasn’t him?

You brush your teeth, cursing yourself for forgetting to bring a clean set of clothes so you could shower. You mentally prepare to walk outside for them, repeating to yourself that Dean was asleep the whole time, he probably didn’t even notice what happened. It was fine, you were fine. 

(It had been years since someone had held you like that, it wasn’t fine.)

You step out of the bathroom in the hope that Dean would still be asleep, but you’re not that lucky. Instead, you are met with two sleepy boys staring at you from the bed. Both the doberman and Dean were now sitting on the mattress, Dean with messy hair and half-lidded eyes, the dog with a strikingly similar drowsy demeanor. They turn to you when they hear the sound of the bathroom door opening, and at the exact same time, they tilt their heads to the side in confusion. 

You stand there, staring at the big bad dog and big bad hunter in front of you, who are now soft and sleepy and pouty (at least Dean was) while they stare back with questioning looks. Almost as if wondering why’d you leave the bed, but that was probably wishful thinking. Like this, the resemblance between them was uncanny. 

“Good morning?” You ask tentatively when Dean doesn’t say anything.

The pup seems to finally snap out of it at the sound of your voice, and he jumps off the bed to say hi to you. He wags his tail and presses his head to your hand until you give him a good deal of head scratches before he is moving to where the food and water bowls are on the floor. 

You turn to Dean after that, and he looks a little more awake at least. His eyes are squinting and his eyebrows are furrowed, as if he is trying to remember something.

“Did the dog sleep with us in the bed?” You ignore the way his voice was even deeper after waking up.

You giggle, nodding. “Yeah, he got up at some point in the night. I don’t know how we managed to all fit.”

Dean chuckles at that while he rubs a hand over his face, and you beg that he doesn’t remember anything else. 

“Did he sleep next to me? I swear I could feel something pressing against me through the night, but then I woke up and he was laying down pretty far away from me.”

That makes you freeze for a second, but you just shake your head nonchalantly.

“Nah, he slept right when you found him all night. Maybe it was a Succubus” You joke casually while you move to grab a clean set of clothes. You had never been happier to see Sam than when he walks into the motel room right at that moment. Your eyes meet for a second, and you take in his post-running state at the same time he notices the clothes and the toiletry bag in your arms before the two of you both rush towards the bathroom.

“Not fair! I am all gross and sweaty.” Sam complains when you get there first.

You giggle, closing and locking the door behind you without saying anything.

“I could swear I was hugging something.”

You had finally solved the case two days later. As it turned out, the creature that was kidnapping people in town was a skinwalker. The reason why you hadn’t figured it out yet is because this one, instead of feeding on people’s hearts and leaving the bodies there for you to find, was actually dragging people from their homes and “storing” them in some abandoned house outside of town. You are able to discover all of this because your new friend, as you discovered that same day, was actually the pet of one of the people kidnapped. The scar over his eye had been made by the skinwalker the night it attacked his owner, and the puppy was able to track the scent of it once Sam, Dean, and you had found some fur in the house of one of the victims. 

Once you entered the abandoned house, you had found most of the victims still alive, all tied up in chains and waiting to have their hearts eaten out. Apparently, as the skinwalker told you and the brothers in his best attempt at a villain monologue, he had been exiled from his pack and forced to become an outcast. Having lived all his life in a pack, he could barely fend for himself alone. He had gone hungry, almost starving to death. That was why now, in an almost feral state, he was making sure to have enough food stashed. 

As weird as this was, it was good news. You were able to kill the skinwalker and free all of the survivors. It was always nice when you were able to save more people than you had expected. In between the freed people there was the doberman’s owner– some guy in his forties with long, wavy black hair and a whole tattoo sleeve. Yeah, it fits. You watch as the guy and the dog meet again, how it was so clear that they loved each other, and even if you’re happy for them, you can’t help the way your heart aches at the knowledge that you would have to say goodbye to the pup.

The doberman runs towards you after he finishes saying hello to his owner, and Sam quickly explains to the guy the dog’s stay with you while you kneel in front of the doberman and whisper your farewell. The puppy licks your cheek again and it almost makes your eyes water. The owner thanks you for taking care of Billie Joe –of course the dude named the dog after Green Day– and they both leave.

You stare at their figures as they walk away in silence for a moment, not being able to help the pout that forms in your face. Sam goes to talk with some more of the surviving victims, while Dean stays by your side. 

“You know, maybe dogs aren’t that bad. Even if that one could barely stand me.”

You chuckle softly, It’s subtle –Dean wouldn’t make it obvious– but you know he’s trying to lift your spirits. You shake your head, turning to look into his eyes. 

It always shocked you how beautiful Dean could look even after a hunt, when he was covered in dirt and all bloody.

Then again, you always had a thing for hot guys covered in blood.

“I think you two were just too much alike.” You tease, bumping his shoulder with yours. 

He laughs, but it’s softer than usual– quieter, less guarded. His usual edge is missing, replaced by something warmer, more open.

“Maybe.” He shrugs, looking at the ground before his gaze returns to you, taking in the way your smudged eyeliner made your eyes pop out, the way your black hair looked almost blue under the street lights, how gentle your smile was even with your sharp teeth and spiky jewelry. “You seemed to like him, though. A lot.”

A long silence follows the comment as you two stare at each other. The tension, simmering under the surface for weeks now, threatens to boil over. The memory of Dean’s arm around you while sleeping comes back to your mind, and you decide that if there was anyone you could trust with the key to the box in your chest, it was him.

“Yeah, I did.” You admit, barely louder than a whisper. “I never could resist a good train wreck.”

The next thing you register is the feeling of Dean’s lips over yours, and for a moment you wonder if this is why poets write. Because the sensations that travel all through your body as you wrap your arms around Dean’s neck and his hands wrap around your waist, the taste of his tongue, and the smell that clings to him are all so otherworldly and hauntingly magical that you feel compelled to delve into the entire English language to find the perfect words to describe it, but you just know that nothing will ever be able to convey what it was like to be held in Dean Winchester’s arms.

“Does this mean I can convince you of adopting a dog now?”

“Don’t even think about it.”

“What about a cat?”

“No. And there is no amount of kissing that can change my mind.”

“What about a raven? Or a spider!”

“God, what did I get myself into.”

NOTES: I am not completely satisfied with this so I might revisit it some day. Still, I hope you enjoyed it.

TAGS: @littlesoulshine @mostlymarvelgirl @pink-ghost666 @h8aaz @otteropera<3

If you wanna be tagged in future works, let me know!!

[lurkingshan]

Thoughts on ThamePo

I finally got some time this weekend, so I decided to go ahead and binge ThamePo, a show many of you seemed to enjoy and that quite a few people have told me is one of the more solid to come out of GMMTV's BL lineup in awhile. I told a few friends I would share thoughts when I watched it. Let’s go!

The TL, WR: I had a fun time watching this show and agree it managed to avoid a lot of GMMTV shows' worst pitfalls, but I also found the writing around the core plot to be an inconsistent mess. I'll break down the good, the bad and the huh from my perspective, so only read on if you care to know. Disclaimer: I am not a LYKN fan and in fact knew almost nothing about them before watching this.

The Good

The show looks fantastic. As soon as I turned it on I said "is this a Parbdee production?!" And it sure was. It seems GMMTV picks one BL a year that it's willing to actually fund high production values for, and ThamePo was the lucky winner of this round. It was quite a startling contrast having just watched My Golden Blood.

The flirting between Thame and Po in their talking stage was a lot of fun. I don't think it made me swoon quite as hard as some of you, but I was charmed. Is memorizing someone's phone number the new height of romance?

Drake and Sammy were here! And looking cute! I was happy every time they showed up.

Nano's colorful sweaters. I want every single one.

All of episode 10, which was my personal favorite of the show. It was the only episode where I felt like they had a strong episodic plot and theme that they executed well and that showed a realistic sequence of events around how idols are treated by their fans.

Baifern learned something about how to love and support her idols without crossing boundaries. This girl made me so uncomfortable for the whole show and I was glad they had her realize she was wrong and speak directly into the camera about it. GMMTV owed us that after the disastrous handling of this issue in Only Boo. Plus, Baifern growing meant I could enjoy the absolute comedy of her reaction to finding out who Mr. B was. Ciize is so funny.

Noble idiocy was given the respect it deserves: none.

I liked the resolution for the romance, and that ultimately what Thame and Po wanted was just an ordinary relationship where they could spend time together and pursue their careers on their own terms. It was wonderfully straightforward and low drama.

Contra GMMTV's usual pattern, this show's strongest run was its last four episodes, and I actually thought the finale was strong given the story they had set up for themselves. I appreciated that rather than indulge in the fantasy ending of Only Boo, MARS had to suffer real consequences for choosing their personal lives and orchestrating a breach of contract. They had to reckon with the fact that being idols was directly at odds with the way they wanted to live, and make a choice. Kudos to the show for that.

The Bad

It feels like this script was written by someone who doesn't really understand the idol industry or how anything works. Much of the plot for MARS and the business machinations of managing them was nonsensical and contra how idols are actually managed in the industry. It was extra jarring to then cast a real idol group and have them act out this weird incorrect version of their reality.

Relatedly, the writing for Pemika was all over the place. We are supposed to see her as a smart businesswoman who knows what's best for their careers even as she is very unkind to them as humans, but the way she handled Thame throughout the show was ludicrous. First of all, it is the industry norm for idols to do solo work while staying in their group, so for her to insist on dismantling MARS so that Thame could go solo made no sense, and the entire plot hinged on this! It's not only bad artist management--she is deeply pissing off and damaging her relationship with her most important performer--it also just doesn't make sense from a revenue standpoint. Why kill MARS, a popular idol group with a large fanbase, when you could just negotiate with Thame for a solo album in exchange for another MARS album and keep both revenue streams? Pemika's approach was counterproductive. I was intrigued by what they tried to do with her in certain moments, but it didn't hang together because there were too many logic gaps.

On that note, I think the biggest problem with the way the MARS plot was constructed is that if they are already a successful group, most of the plot does not make any sense. Agencies don't destroy successful and profitable groups just for the hell of it, and if Thame is the leader of a successful group with a powerful fanbase he should have more power than the show implied. The whole story makes a lot more sense if MARS was struggling to break out and didn't actually have fans yet, but the show tried to have its cake and eat it, too.

This is a matter of personal preference, but I personally did not care for Thame's characterization as an extraordinarily selfless idol with no ego who only cared about his friends at the expense of his own career. Please, show. A little more nuance and complexity to his motivations would have been nice.

The whole subplot with Jun pretending to hit on Po was just stupid and I found it to be a very frustrating diversion that was mostly there to stall getting Thame and Po together. They already knew they liked each other and his interference did not accomplish anything except making me wonder why Thame considers that asshat his friend.

Must GMMTV continue to stab me in the heart by making me listen to the Last Twilight OST over and over again?? Write a new song!

On that note (look away stans), the music performances in this show were just unforgivably bad. I will not go into further detail so as to not hurt anyone's feelings (but you can come sit by me in the DMs if you want to talk shit).

The Huh

I don't understand why Thai idol dramas keep making getting recruited to Korea the standard. Not only is it deeply unrealistic to suggest that an industry already teeming with talent is eager to recruit middling talent from elsewhere, but if your goal is to promote the tpop industry, focus on tpop!

On top of the business plot not making sense, the way they presented the group and their roles was just strange. Idols all have to have baseline competency in singing, dancing, and rap--you don't have one member who does each like the show kept saying. I got confused every time the show reverted to this framing. Don't even get me started on the concept of Nano, the successful idol who *checks notes* doesn't know how to sing.

Let me not also forget that these are supposed to be famous idols, yet they are constantly casually hanging out in public spaces with no fans approaching them. Every time they sat around as a group in a park I wanted to scream.

Which of course leads me to my incredulity that so much of Thame and Po's flirtation happened in public, outside, in front of tons of onlookers, and somehow they were not spotted every time despite Thame being famous. As fucking if! The way the story ignored this reality for the first 2/3 of the show really undercut the final arc when they suddenly remembered idols can't date. And right after the group handled Pepper's scandal, Thame was back to holding Po's hand outside again. I felt like I was taking crazy pills.

I was also salty about Pepper directly encouraging Thame to pursue Po only to turn around the next episode and tell him idols can't date. Sir, what the fuck.

The whole thing with Mick was kind of a miss for me. They made a big deal about his incompetence in the first few episodes, then he functionally disappeared for half the show, then they revealed he was pretending to be bad at his job as some roundabout way of helping them, I guess? It was a half-baked idea poorly presented.

Since I mentioned Only Boo up top, it would be remiss of me not to mention that if ThamePo takes place in the same universe as the cameos imply, this plot makes even less sense because Moo already broke down this barrier and idols can now have boyfriends with no consequences! (Seriously though if you're gonna have them cameo at least let Moo speak I love that boy).

The show should not have been in the bubble. So much of the romance plot and the contrast between Pepper/Gam and Thame/Po would have been strengthened if their sexuality mattered.

Lastly, I'll just say that I found this plot a strange one if GMMTV's intent was to use the show as a vehicle to promote LYKN. The entire plot is that the agency thinks Thame is the only talented one and the rest of the group is holding him back, but he's a Good Person so he will stay with them anyway. If I was anyone else in LYKN I'd be side-eyeing this plot big time.

In conclusion: This was a fun binge but I am still waiting for the Thai idol BL of my dreams starring Daou and Offroad. I will write the goddamn script if I have to!

[raaorqtpbpdy]

This is such a short-sighted take.

Copyright exists and is essential to protect creators. The fact that it gets exploited by companies is a problem that needs to be solved but not by getting rid of copyright completely. If it were abolished, no artist of any kind would be able to reliably make a living on their art ever again.

Without copyright, every album a band released could be copied outright and sold cheaper by a third party with no consequences. Visual artists would have no recourse if someone stole their design and made hundreds of dollars selling T-shirts with it without the artist seeing a cent. And authors like myself? We'd be completely fucked. Book piracy is already a serious threat to authors, even traditionally published ones with a big company behind them.

In a perfect world where everyone respects creators, maybe we wouldn't need copyright laws. But we don't live in a perfect world. I know the above commenter means well, but ownership of ideas absolutely does matter when money changes hands.

A prime example of this is Emily Gwen, the creator of the "sunset" lesbian flag, currently the most popular lesbian flag. She waived her copyright rights by releasing the flag as a public domain design. Partly because of that she currently lives in poverty. Individuals, not just corporations, sell things with her design on it all the time, and no matter how much credit she gets, she doesn't see a cent of their profits because she chose to forego ownership of her idea.

That was her choice which every individual is entitled to, but it's my understanding that she regrets not choosing a creative commons attribution rather than public domain which would have prevented capitalizing on her design. Because there is a copyright attribution that allows anyone to use an idea as long as no money is made.

And don't give me any of that "but but but fan creations" BS, those are completely legal under fair use, which is part of copyright law. Copyright law doesn't need to be abolished just so you can write your fanfics without fear. You can already do that as long as you're not charging money for it.

And if you are wanting to make money off fanfic, get a real job. Write something original and maybe you'll appreciate the protections of copyright law more. I appreciate that writing fanfic is hard work, I write it myself, but profiting off other people's ideas without them getting their share is wrong, even if you credit them. Creators living in poverty don't want credit, they need money, and without copyright their ability to get it would be even more limited than it already is.

If you genuinely advocate for the complete abolishment of copyright law, I can only assume you have no respect for artists or their work. In which case I will be advocating for copyright even harder to protect creatives from people like you, who obviously don't understand their value to our society and the importance of their protections.

What you actually want is for corporations to no longer be legally classified as individuals so they can no longer hold individual copyright. What you actually want is for it to be illegal for copyrights to be bought and sold so that people other than the original creator of something can be needlessly litigious "protecting" something they didn't create but now "own". What you actually want is for corporations to be regulated, not for copyright to be abolished.

I'm pro copyright because I love cool things and I want the people who create them to be able to make a living off their work instead of dying in obscurity while someone else makes millions off a slightly altered version of what they made. Incidentally I also think all corporations should be regulated and restricted to the ninth level of hell and back.

being pro-copyright is like a cartoon "i hate cool things" political stance

[thecircularsystem]

I wrote up a post last night as I've been thinking a lot about recovery, the DID community, and as always, syscourse (ugh).

I think that people... overestimate how much DID really matters in my life, while simultaneously underestimating it, and I think that folks do that to recovered systems (or systems in recovery) a lot.

My parts, amnesia, and dissociation all impact my life greatly. Hello, reason I have a diagnosis in the first place? But the issue is, I don't really think about it 24/7. Sure, my blog talks a lot about these things, but in my daily life? It's just... life. I go to work, I do my job, I come home, I write, I eat, I go to bed eventually. Usually put some grading and some gaming in there. People tend to overestimate how much DID is impacting my daily life because it really doesn't. And I get people telling me how I'm an inspiration for being "openly a DID system" and how they can look up to me -- and I get it, I really do, I feel the same way about a lot of recovered systems. But I worry about this... pedestal that recovery gets put on. I worry about how much people attribute my life's work... to "A DID system's work" rather than "Circ's work."

I might be somewhat publicly multiple -- and yes, I plan to increase my visibility in that regard, cause it is important to me... but I'm reminded of a piece of art by Anna Daliza, titled "Artist Bio."

How many people think of "Circ" as a circle on a screen? How many think of "Circ" as a system in recovery? How many think of "Circ" as a syscourser, and that's it? I know that the original artistic intention was surrounding the culture of prioritizing identity politics and tokenized diversity in popular culture/media, but.. I'm feeling it. How much of my work is valued, not because of the words they say, but because of the person who is saying them being on this beautiful pedestal of "Recovery"?

I think people look at that word and guess that it's like... Some sort of ideal in some ways. They inherently place emphasis on the DID by placing emphasis on the recovery.

But that right there is where the underestimation also comes in. Because I talk a lot about where I'm at in recovery, and how I find joy in my DID, and how DID isn't really impacting my life negatively anymore... and people seem to take that as not impacting me... at all anymore.

DID is part of my identity. It is part of who I am. I am not just me; I am 15 people in a trench-coat trying to sneak into a movie theater. And as I sneak in successfully, I laugh with my partner about the huge deal I got on tickets, because now it's so cheap for 15 people! I tell my friends jokes about the people in my head. I discuss things with other parts and hear them fucking around in my brain. I crack jokes at work that slip under the radar because they don't know, and I find joy in that.

I also equally struggle. I lose time, I have panic attacks, I argue with myself and my own cognitive dissonance. I can't sleep, can barely eat, can barely take care of myself many, many days. I still have hardship due to my disorder -- it disorders my life, after all. And it feels like mentioning this is somehow taboo in some way, now.

It is a vital, huge part of my life, even while not being on this ever-present pedestal. I cannot ignore it; it will never go away. And I don't... really want it to. I love having DID, I won't lie. I love myself, and I love who I am. But it's loving my life just as much as I love the disorder I have; it's loving who I am just as much as the disorder. My recovery is not on a pedestal; I am, for the work I have put in, and since my DID is part of me, it's here too.

People seem to look at recovery as if it's a cure. As if the DID is somehow no longer bothering me at all, just because I've slapped a label of "in recovery" on myself. And worst still, there's like a silent (or not so silent) judgement from parts of the community if I begin struggling visibly, or even just loudly having my disorder. Like having this disorder inherently means I can't recover.

I mean, for fucks sakes: the amount of times I see others mentioning that final fusion can "fail," for instance, and "you can still split again" when discussing how DID is a lifelong disorder...

How could one look at someone's recovery and say they failed?

And in that case, it's considered a failure... to struggle. To experience a coping mechanism that is built in due to the disorder. To... experience fucking DID.

Almost like still having DID impact you is, somehow, a failure. A bad thing. Something that needs "fixed."

Speaking up about any impact it has on me seems to go against the ideas of recovery the community has, because they look at recovery in such a way that they underestimate the impact DID has on me.

My therapist and I recently discussed my role in my system now, since I used to be around solely to... hate everything, but mostly myself. I was a depression holder, and labeled myself as such or similar. But in recent years, my role has completely changed. My title is currently "Pride Alter," though I don't have that shown off because I'm a bit shy about it I won't lie. Like. That seems like a huge badge of honor, but a lot of... scrutiny comes with it.

I'm almost ashamed that I love my disorder. That I love who I am -- not despite what's happened, but because I love myself, disorder and all. I've accepted my disorder as part of me. And it feels like I'm surrounded by others who... hate me for that. Not directly, not to my face, but... needless to say, the concept of loving yourselves is foreign in a lot of the community. And I was right there with you, very much so not long ago... But now I feel like I'm intruding, somehow, because I'm breaking the expectations.

I'm either allowed to be blatantly and overtly a person who happens to have DID loudly, and people overestimate how much it impacts my life due to that...

Or I'm allowed to struggle, even a little bit, and people underestimate how much it impacts my life...

And in both of those cases, I feel like the community ignores those like me who are in recovery. Who are working hard to improve their own lives. People that I look up to for the work they've put in also seem to share these sentiments, from what I've seen (though please feel free to correct me if I'm wrong!), so like.

What's up with that, I guess?

[laylajeffany]

Break Even | Melissa Schemmenti-Centric Multichapter Story

Summary Melissa has always been a gambler. She is a pro at knowing when to hold her cards close to her chest, or when fold and give in. On top of it all, she has been walking away from whatever tugged on her heart for the last decade.

…And everything about her life both in and out of Abbott is telling her to run.

Determined not to let her chips fall, Melissa goes all in, playing every dirty move she has until the day she runs out of aces.

Melissa-centric, focusing on her relationships with the full Abbott crew - her acceptance that they’re more than just a work family, dealing with the dynamics of her biological family, the district actually coming through for Abbott to have a counselor three days per week (future femslash slowburn), and all the reasons that Melissa has a difficult time opening her heart up to love that can’t be explored in a sitcom without it becoming a drama

Read on AO3! Chapter one features Melissa missing her roommate after Jacob spent the summer away, arguing with her sister, leaning on Barb, needing to do something about her unhappy relationship with Captain Rob, and the Abbott crew reuniting before the new school year kicks off.

Info for anyone new to my writing below the cut!

POV I only read and write in third-person passive voice, so there is no x reader content - which is what it seems like most of the Melissa fandom likes, lol. I'm so sorry - but I literally cannot scribe or comprehend fictional text in anything but third person POV. (I had a meltdown reading Amber Brown is Not a Crayon in front of my second grade class in the late 1900s and learned that anything but third person, passive voice was not for me.) Romance For a big project that is centered around a single character's POV/development, romance is generally the C plot at most. It's important, and I wouldn't be able to drive the story forward or have a satisfying conclusion/story resolution without it (it's often also a plot device), but it's not the focus of the story. Romantic relationships help spur the individual development of the main character, not define them.

Word Count Egregious violations of word economy principals are my passion. I write a lot. I write excessive detail. I love to add extensive slice of life content in addition to the main plot; it's what makes characters feel like real people to me. Every chapter has an outline - and the length of the chapter just depends on how long it takes to get through the main points plus add the slice of life elements that make the world feel complete. For multichapter fics, my chapters tend to be 10k at minimum, but might average as high as 50k+, and have been known to get up to 76k. (I have previously broken AO3's character limit.) If the thought of reading a single chapter of a fanfic that is longer than the entirety of Mary Shelley's Frankenstein is overwhelming to you - my writing might not be your style, lol.

Original Characters I do love an OC in a world where there isn't a character that matches what I need to drive a plot forward. I spend a great deal of time building their character, getting to know them in pages upon pages of notes about their backstory/interests/hobbies/personality/catch phrases, etc., so that they feel like as much of a real person who belongs in an established universe as the actual characters do. Across fandoms, my OCs have generally been well-established and beloved enough to even earn their own fanart, so I'd like to think I do a good job at developing them. That said - I'm fully aware, OC's aren't for everyone.

Unique to Abbot I've written a lot of stories that contain school settings in my 20+ years of writing fanfic, but nothing that I think hits so close to home as Abbott will. Having worked in underfunded public elementary schools in large cities in the United States for the last decade, I have an extremely in-depth understanding of the very specific setting that Abbott is. While Philly has not been my teaching home, the parallels from incompetent leadership to rodent infestation to being unable to send children home with highly contagious infectious disease are coast-to-coast teaching realities in America. I look forward to releasing some work-based tension with this story! The only thing I find unrealistic about Abbott is the fact that all the teachers get a lunch break every day (and at the same time, at that), and regular 'free periods' (what I assume they mean is planning time sans children) because that simply hasn't been my experience teaching in America, lmfao - they love to violate our contracts. I think it's a planned psychological experiment to see how long we can take it before we have complete mental breakdowns. I've seen a few - teachers up and leave in the middle of the year...I guess some of us are either content hostages and/or just suckers.

[weaveandwood]

The Snake and The Crow: Devotion

Pairing: The Viper x Female Rook (Bianca, an Antivan Crow mage) Words: 6.4K Rating: NSFW

Summary:

Ashur and Bianca are reunited at last on a rainy night on a Minrathous rooftop.

AN: This is it, the end of my little story! I can't explain how much it means to me if you've made it this far. I've loved writing Ashur and Bianca's story, and to know that people have loved reading it has been so special. I didn't expect when I started writing a smutty one-shot about my Rook and The Viper hooking up in secret that it would turn into this epic tale of longing, grief, and love. So once again, thank you so much from the bottom of my heart.

Comments and reblogs are appreciated!!

Read on AO3! Previous Chapter

A day passed, a week, a month, he could not tell.  From the moment he saw the explosion of lightning and fire in the sky, all Ashur knew was pain. He drifted in and out, only a vague perception of his surroundings. A room, small and windowless with candles providing the only light. He heard visitors, voices he recognized during brief bouts of consciousness—Tarquin, Dorian, Mae, members of the clergy who were trusted and sympathetic to their cause. His innermost circle. He was empty, hollowed out, a shell of himself filled only with the pain of flesh knitting back together where once there was only blight. 

They should have let him die. 

The fevers were the worst part. His body worked overtime to heal itself, his magic combining with the magic of others overheating him as it reconnected destroyed pathways within him. He was on fire at all times with little relief. He repeated verses of the Chant to himself during the worst of it. He clung to the Canticle of Trials, a deep kinship with the verses forged in the fire of his recovery as his thoughts latched on to what was important to him in an effort to keep him tethered to this side of the Veil. 

In the long hours of the night when hope has abandoned me, I shall see the stars and know your Light remains.  

Lucidity came and went. The days were long, and the nights were unbearable. Someone was always with him, talking to him, talking at him, bringing news of the cleanup or simply reading to him. He was grateful for the noise. After so many long months with the blight’s song in his head, he couldn’t bear the silence. 

Slowly, he became more and more present. The spells and healing potions took hold and he was almost whole once more. He tried to sit up in the bed and winced with pain, his once strong muscles fatigued and weak from disuse. 

“You’re awake,” a familiar voice said.

“Tarquin. How long?” he whispered, his voice weaker than he would have liked. It felt like an eternity had gone by since the threat was over. 

“A month, Ash,” Tarquin said, leaning forward. “A month of me being worried sick you were going to—” he cut himself off. Ashur knew what he was thinking. He should have died. 

“Can’t get rid of me that easily, I’m afraid,” he joked, wincing again as he shifted in his bed. “Minrathous?”

“A fucking mess. We’re trying to clean up the blight and clean out the last remaining Venatori, most of the magisterium traded their lives for Elgar’nan’s false promise of power, and our friend Dorian has been made the new Archon. So at least there’s one bit of good news.” 

“I’ve missed so much.” Too much, he’d missed too much. “How did the Chantry excuse my absence?” 

“They didn’t.” A double, then. Of course the Chantry would never admit the Divine was blighted and fighting for his life. It would make him seem weak. It would make them seem weak. Vulnerable, in a time when the Divine was necessary to help Minrathous and the Imperium itself heal. Can’t have that, he thought as he looked around the room, his eyes landing on the table beside him and seeing her letter. It was still folded neatly like it had been when he put it in his tunic pocket, the closest place to his skin that day. 

I had already started falling in love with you. The line burned through his memory, the words a song he never wanted to forget.

“What about…” he looked at Tarquin, seeing the templar’s brow already lowered at him. 

“Maker’s balls Ashur, you’ve been awake for ten minutes and you’re already thinking about her?” He didn’t want to tell Tarquin that in between screams of pain and hallucinations, he dreamed of her and it was the only time he knew peace during this last month. So he just shrugged. 

“I’ve been a little busy here. Last I heard, Rook was still helping in Minrathous but I haven’t seen her. I’ll have someone check. Not because I somehow suddenly approve, but you called out her name more than a few times during the worst of it.” His voice softened as he looked at Ashur. “I guess I didn’t realize she was so important to you.”  

Important was an understatement. She was the reason his heart still beat in his chest, the reason breath was still in his lungs. She was everything.

“Thank you, Tarquin. For…for all of it. You have walked beside me down the paths where a thousand arrows sought my flesh. You have stood with me when all others have forsaken me.” 

“Oh don’t go getting all Divine on me, you would do the same thing for me. Or at least you better. Get some rest, you still have a long way to go.” He patted Ashur on the shoulder before leaving the room. 

After that, everything was a blur. He was finally able to sit without wincing. He could stand—first using the bed and Tarquin as support, then on his own. Every report he got about Bianca still showing up in Minrathous every day encouraged him, giving him an intense focus toward his recovery. He would see her again. He walked—slow, tentative steps near his bed at first, then around his small room, then down the hall of the safe house he was sheltered in. His magic was weak, still recovering from months of constant use fighting the blight and then fixing him. He never tried to push it, to reach farther than it was willing to go, but he couldn’t stop laughing once he was able to make snowflakes fly around the room right into Tarquin’s face. He was coming back to life.

A month passed in the blink of an eye and Ashur was, for all intents and purposes, back to normal. He was given a clean bill of health that afternoon from a healer, their magic flowing through his body and prodding every last corner for any sign of blight remaining. The invasion was worth it—there was no blight to be found. He was free. Everything was good, finally. 

At least it was, until he saw the look on Tarquin’s face when he walked into the safehouse that night.  

“Ash, I’m sorry. Someone overheard Bianca saying this was her last day in Minrathous.” 

He didn’t even realize he had left until he was running on the street, rain pouring down in sheets and making him wish he had at least grabbed a coat and his hat in his haste to get to her. He felt naked without his masks, but he was not The Viper or the Divine tonight. He was simply Ashur, and he knew exactly where Bianca would be. He only hoped it wouldn’t be too late. So he ran, testing the limits of his healing as he made his way through the streets and into Dock Town until he came to the base of the ladder they had climbed together all those months ago. He stared up at the roof, memories of pain, grief, and sadness flooding him. This time would be different. 

He started his ascent, hoping beyond all reason that he was right and that she would be there still. 

I have faced armies with you as my shield, and though I bear scars beyond counting, nothing can break me except your absence.

His breath caught in his throat when he stepped onto the roof. There she was, standing near the edge where they had so many heartbreaking conversations. Even from behind, in the dark, soaked with rain and looking up at the moon, he would recognize her in a heartbeat even if he didn’t feel his sparks surging forward, urging him to be near her. So, he took a step forward. Then another. He saw her still, her hand clenched by her side, like she wanted to turn around but couldn’t. Or wouldn’t. 

“Bianca,” he said, his voice stronger than it was a month ago, though not nearly as commanding as it was before. It didn’t matter. He was using it now only for her and she wouldn’t care. She turned around, gasping as she saw him for the first time, and fell to her knees sobbing. 

He ran, closing the distance between them and crouched in front of her. He desperately wanted to reach out, to touch her, to hold her tightly against him, to tell her everything he wanted to but never did. He didn’t know what was causing his hesitation—was it the dark circles under her eyes? The tears that streamed down her face matching the ones that now fell down his? The fact that he had caused her so much pain? The guilt alone was eating him from the inside, a new blight taking form within his soul. 

You have grieved as I have. We are alike in sorrow. 

She reached out her hand and touched his face. He leaned into it as he always did, then pressed his lips against each knuckle. The strings they both so desperately tried to break were back in full force, wrapping around each of them, binding them together in this new world. Maker , how he missed her touch. He missed her so much over these last months that he didn’t know how to communicate it. How do you even start to tell someone that the only thing that made him fight the blight some days was the memory of her voice? That the only thing that got him through the trials of being healed was the thought of feeling her hands touch his skin once more? He was at a loss, overwhelmed with feeling. 

“How?” she said between her sobs like she didn’t believe he was there in front of her. He almost didn’t believe it himself. But he was here, he was alive, and he wasn’t wasting any more time. 

He leaned forward, closing the distance between them to kiss her. She gasped, surprised at first, but her lips parted easily as he pressed against their boundary. He missed her lips, he missed her taste, he missed her . Their tongues slid together, falling back into their well-practiced rhythm as if no time had passed at all since that night before the dragon attacked Minrathous. He felt her hands grasping at his shirt, pulling him closer to her. He groaned into her mouth as she pressed against him, the feeling of her body against his awakening feelings he hadn’t felt in so long - ones he thought he would never feel again, yet was glad beyond measure that he did. The sparks and frost in his body stirred, coursing through him and coalescing wherever they were closest. 

He wanted her. Every part of him wanted her—body, spirit, mind. Heart. 

He broke the kiss, pressing his forehead to hers. Rain fell in steady sheets, soaking them as they cried and laughed and smiled, unsure if what was happening was real or some trick. 

“I can’t believe you’re here…your letter…” Bianca said. His stomach dropped. He hadn’t even realized he lost it from his heavy coat during that final fight, but it explained so much. She had thought he died. A slight panic went through him as he remembered what else he wrote in his near-death state. She knew all of his secrets, things no one outside his innermost circle knew. She knew he was the Divine, she knew he was in love with her, she knew it all. He had laid himself bare in that letter, and still she kissed him back. 

“There’s so much I want to say, that I need to…” he said before kissing her once more, cool rainwater streaming down their faces. Thunder sounded in the near distance, a hint of worse weather on its way. “Maybe out of the storm though.” His lips moved to her neck, kissing lightly as he reacquainted himself with the taste of her skin. He felt a slight shock from her sparks as his lips touched her body for the first time in months. He wondered if her magic surged within her the same way his did. If her sparks were there, just beneath the surface of her skin, ready to eagerly flow to wherever he touched. The soft sigh she let out sent another wave of desire through him. 

“Lighthouse,” she breathed as his mouth hit that one spot she loved. “It’s just me there—everyone else has moved on.” 

“Lead the way,” he said. 

They ran the short distance through the streets of Dock Town to the Shadows hideout, a place he hadn’t been since meeting her right after the dragon attack. While it was empty now, he took in the slow progress they’d made on the cleanup. The eluvian room was still untouched, a reminder of the wreckage and chaos caused by both the dragon and the Venatori raids. The mirror somehow remained firmly in its place after all this time, resolute and unmoved by both dragons and would-be gods. He’d be lying if he denied that a small thrill went through him as they stood in front of the eluvian, the soft white glow shimmering across the surface as Bianca stood in front of it. 

“What does it feel like, when you go through?” he asked.

“You know, it’s hard to explain. It feels like a gentle tug of the magic in my body, like scratching an itch. Weird at first, but now I hardly notice it.” She reached over and grabbed his hand, her thumb running along the edge as their fingers entwined. “You’ll be fine.” 

He smiled over at her before they stepped through. “Of course I will, I’m with you.” 

By the time she shut the door to her room in the Lighthouse, he was coiled so tightly with feelings that had been bottled up and buried these last long months. Desire, lust, love—all of them were begging to be let out, and he couldn’t stop himself from pressing her against the nearest wall as he kissed her once more, his hands on her waist. Her hands wrapped around him, pulling him closer until there was no space between them, just her body against his. 

He never thought he’d feel it again. 

“Ashur…wait,” she whispered between kisses. He pulled away. Did she not want this? Did she not want him?

“Is something wrong?” 

“No, no, it’s just…I thought you were dead. You were so close to being lost to the blight the day we fought Elgar’nan. How are you here? How are you fine?” Her hand rested on his cheek once more, still fighting the feeling that this wasn’t real. He leaned into it, closing his eyes for a moment as he remembered the torment of those first few weeks. 

“A lot of pain, a lot of magic, and a lot of unwavering support. I should be dead. At the beginning I wished they would have let me die. As painful as being blighted was, healing from it was somehow worse. But now I’m standing here with you, and I find I would get blighted and healed a hundred thousand times over if it meant kissing you just one more time. I don’t want anything else in this world.” He watched her eyes dart back and forth between his as they glossed over with unshed tears. “I meant what I said in my letter, Bianca. Nothing has changed since then except my mind is even clearer and more resolute. I love you. I loved you before being blighted, I loved you after, I love you now. I will always love you.” 

“I love you, too,” she said, her voice cracking with emotion as those tears she was trying so hard to blink away started to fall easily down her face. “There hasn’t been anyone else. I just…I couldn’t give up on you. Even after I was given your letter, I still looked for you. I don’t know if that makes me irrationally stubborn or maybe just stupid,” she laughed. “It’s always been you.” 

He brushed a tear away with his thumb, fighting his own. She had seen him at his lowest, she knew all his secrets, and yet she loved him anyway. “You have seen me when no other would recognize my face. You composed the cadence of my heart,” he said softly. 

His mouth was back on hers in an instant, kissing her with a need he didn’t realize he still had the capacity for. He threaded his fingers through her still damp hair, pressing his hips against hers when a groan escaped her lips that sent the sparks in his body flying throughout him. His fingers went to the buttons on her shirt and fumbled with them as he cursed their existence—he much preferred her robe with its simple fastening that was much easier to remove. 

“Problems?” she whispered, though he could hear the teasing tone in her voice. 

“Out of practice,” he smiled. It wasn’t a lie, he had favored wearing simple clothing during his recovery, and hadn’t done a lot of fine movements with his hands. He could cast simple spells but some things were out of his grasp for now—more intricate spells, writing missives in his elegant script, and apparently tiny, frustrating buttons. “I have a few things to work on, still, it seems.” 

“Well, we will just need to keep trying and trying then. For now, let me,” she said with a soft smile but without any pity in her voice. He thought he could have fallen in love with her all over again for that.  

He watched her fingers, nimble and graceful, slowly undo each button to reveal more of her skin. He followed her hands with his, tracing over the dips and divots of her scars, between her breasts, down the smooth skin of her stomach. He slowly slid the shirt off her shoulders, letting it pool behind her on the floor. She quickly undid the laces of her pants, pushing them and her undergarments off her hips and stepping out of them. 

“Maker , you’re beautiful,” he said, his fingertips reverently tracing the contours of her body—the curve of her hips, the underside of her breasts, the peak of her breasts, her collarbone, the column of her throat. He was intimately familiar with every inch of her body, but it was as if he was seeing it for the first time. 

He pressed her against the wall, one hand in her hair, the other on her breast, feeling her nipple get harder under his palm. The way her body reacted to him drove him wild with need. He wanted to turn her around and take her quickly against this wall before laying her over the arm of the sofa to take her once more, just like he’d done so many times before. But this wasn’t before, this was after. An after where they were alone, they were out of immediate danger, and they had each other. He kissed her once more, deeply, slowly, both of their tongues moving in the same languid pace as they seemed to finally realize that they both had what they longed for since the beginning—time.

He slowly lowered himself to his knees in front of her, his lips tracing the path his fingers had completed mere moments ago. He took a hard nipple into his mouth, flicking it with his tongue before sucking on it, biting it gently. She let out a soft sigh as he kissed her stomach, decorated with new scars since the last time he saw her like this. He wondered if anyone had to force her to take a potion, and if she remembered how it felt when his magic coursed through her veins, knitting her injuries together. He pressed a kiss into each one, vowing that these would be the last ones she received, one way or another. He kissed her hip bones, then her upper thighs, his hands running over the curve of her hips and around, feeling the firmness of her backside. He could touch her all night and be completely satisfied. 

“Ashur…” she whispered. “Touch me, please…I need…” 

He didn’t need to be asked twice. His fingers found her center, parting her and finding her swollen clit. He rubbed it in gentle circles as he rested his head against her hip bone, kissing the crease of her thigh. He lifted her leg, placing it over his shoulder as he had done time and time again—he needed to taste her, needed to feel her hands on his head and her hips rocking against his face. He slid his fingers down to her entrance and let out a soft moan at how wet she was for him already. One finger entered, moving slowly in and out before smoothly adding a second, a soft gasp escaping her lips. He lapped at her greedily, quick flicks followed by slow drags of his flattened tongue, his mouth and hand working in tandem to bring her closer and closer to the edge. Each time she said “ More, more…” he sped up. She had her hands on his head, using it as leverage as she moved her hips in time with his hand. Her breathing picked up, and as he looked up, he could see her arched against the wall, her head thrown back and looking at the ceiling. She was close and he wanted to feel her come. He curled them gently, rubbing the spot he knew after all this time would drive her crazy and it was like she unraveled before him, gasps and moans reaching his ears as  he felt her pulse and flutter around his fingers. It was a shame no one else was here to listen to him bring her pleasure, he thought briefly. 

He looked up at her again as he pulled his fingers out and placed them in his mouth, licking her slick desire off of them. She was panting as she came down from those blissful heights, and laughed softly. 

“I missed that.”

“I’m just getting started,” he said, standing up and kissing her, letting her taste herself on his lips. She pressed into him, and he knew she could feel how hard he was for her in his simple clothing without all the layers of cloth and leather and belts. She reached down and rubbed him through his pants, her mouth blazing a path along his jawline to his ear. 

“I’m looking forward to it,” she whispered before nibbling on his earlobe and kissing down his neck, paying extra care to where it joined his shoulders. He let out a soft groan, his sparks flying to where her lips touched and her teeth scraped. He hoped, selfishly, that she would leave a mark, one he could look at over the next few days and remember this night. Her hands snaked under the hem of his still-damp shirt and the sensation of her fingertips on his newly healed skin caused him to gasp. She stilled. 

“What is it? Did I hurt you?” she asked, pulling away from him. He could see the worry in her eyes, and he was desperate to alleviate her fears. 

“Not at all,” he said, pulling off his shirt, then pushing down his trousers and undergarments with a smile. “See? Perfectly fine. No one has touched my skin outside of healing since the last time we were together. Another thing I’m out of practice with, I’m afraid.” He watched her eyes rake over his body.

“Your scars are gone,” she said softly, tracing the spot on his chest where they used to be. “Because of the healing?”

“Most of my body was covered in blight, in some shape or form. I’ll spare you the details, but when I said healing from the blight was worse than being blighted…” he took a deep breath, closing his eyes against the memory of him screaming in pain, the raw agony of flesh made anew forever imprinted with perfect clarity in his mind, unsure he would ever forget. “I was basically an open wound. The healers worked a miracle on me.” 

“Well, I look forward to learning everything new.” She took his hand and led him the short distance to the sofa, pushing him back until his knees hit the edge, causing him to sit. “Starting now.” 

He looked up at her from his seated position and knew with every fiber of his being that living was the right choice, that being healed was worth it. Backlit from the aquarium in her room, she was nothing less than perfection. He would spend his days worshipping her, of making sure she knew how committed he was to her and only her. She climbed onto his lap, her legs straddling him and kissed him, the taste of her plush lips against his the sweetest communion. Her hand wrapping around him as she slowly lowered herself onto him brought his thoughts away from holy devotion and back to mortal pleasure. He grasped at her hips, feeling her give around him as he entered her inch by blessed inch, the warmth from her core threatening to set him ablaze once he found himself fully seated inside her. 

“Bianca,” he whispered as he pressed his lips against her shoulder, muffling his moan with her skin. 

“Well, this feels just as good as before,” she laughed softly. She started to rock against him, her laughter quickly giving way to soft gasps as their bodies adjusted, fitting each other perfectly. She moved in a slow rhythm as if she was savoring the moment, lifting almost off and sheathing him again with each movement of her hips. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer to him. He needed to feel her skin against his, to know that this was real, even as desire and pleasure coursed through him alongside his swirling magic. If he thought he was coming back to life before, he was fully alive now. She was the missing piece and he would never let her go again. 

He watched her, eyes closed, and head thrown back to the ceiling as she continued her slow ride. He traced a line down her spine, feeling the edges of her wings before his hands settled on her hips, leverage against his as he met her rhythm. The sounds she made were a miracle on par with his healing—something he never thought he would hear again, something he never wanted to be without. 

“I love you,” he whispered.

“I love you,” she responded. 

He was overcome with how easily and quickly her response came. In one smooth movement, he wrapped his arms tightly around her, moving her off his lap and onto her back, her head resting on the small pillow he assumed she used to sleep. She smiled up at him as he settled between her parted legs, grasping himself at the base and sinking back into her easily. She arched her back against the sofa, moaning as he lowered himself over her to kiss her. He thrust into her slowly, deeply, just how he remembered she liked it. Her arms wrapped around him, fingers digging into the smooth skin of his back. He wrapped his arms around hers in kind, the two of them clinging to each other like everything would disappear the moment they parted. He had to fight the urge to take her quickly, a habit he was happy to break. Each slow roll of his hips was met with an answering rock of hers. 

Slow, aching thrusts soon quickened, her soft requests for “More, Ashur, more… ” against the shell of his ear driving his desire higher and higher. Each time her nails scratched his back, he was sent closer and closer to the edge of that precipice he had almost forgotten about these last long months. How glad he was to be finding it once more with her. 

Tension settled low within him, a blaze that threatened to melt the frost within him as he pressed deeper, needing to be as close to her as possible, deliberate and driving strokes he knew would bring her to her peak. Their bodies were slick with sweat, and he dropped his head to her shoulder as he continued his rhythm, in and out, in and out, until her moans were echoing off the walls of her room and her body tensed up beneath him. He raised himself on his arms, needing to watch her as she came, her face flushed and eyes closed while nails dug into his back and she shattered around him. The sound of his name falling from her lips as she pulsed and fluttered around him sent him careening toward his release, a desperation to fill her taking him over as he thrust into her quickly, roughly, before crying out and spilling inside her. 

“Did you miss that, too?” he teased, panting, before kissing her softly. 

“Very much,” she said after kissing him back.

He sat back on the sofa, grabbing her hand and pulling her up onto his lap, so she was facing him. He couldn’t be parted from her just yet. Both of them held tightly to each other as they came down from the highest of heights. Their bodies relaxed, molding against the other, like this was how they were meant to be. Maybe they were. Ashur looked at Bianca as she looked around the room—she was still flushed, breathing a little heavier than normal, and her curls were everywhere, but he would never think she was anything less than the most beautiful person he had ever seen. He tucked a curl behind her ear, letting the point show for once. 

“I was planning on saying goodbye to the Lighthouse tonight, I guess that’s as good of a send off as any,” she smiled, looking at the trinkets she had accumulated over these last months. All memories—some good, some painful, but all a part of her journey. 

“So what’s next?” he asked, a small shock of nerves running through him. What if she didn’t want him in her future? 

“I was planning to go back to Treviso, for a bit at least, but now…I’m not so sure,” she smiled, running a fingertip down his chest. “I think Minrathous could use more help, don’t you think?” 

“There is still much work to do,” he nodded solemnly. “Tarquin has kept me in the loop on the progress and what still needs to be done. You would be a great help to the city and its people, as you have been since the dragon attack and before.” His mind started turning, making lists of everything that needed to be done. 

“Any….particular people?” she smiled softly. 

“There are several safehouses that need to be repaired. If we can get those back in livable order I think—” He was silenced by a finger on his lips.

“Ashur. I meant you,” she laughing and rolling her eyes at him. “I want to stay for you, with you, that is…if you want me to. With you being The Divine and The Viper…I wasn't sure.” 

He laughed loudly and freely, the first time in so long he felt all his troubles disappear. “What a ridiculous thing to ask, of course I do.” He placed a hand to her cheek. She leaned into it, her eyes closed. “We will figure it out. I am not alone. Even as I stumble on the path with my eyes closed, yet I see the Light is here,” he whispered. 

“I guess I should get used to hearing the Chant, shouldn’t I?” she teased, pressing a kiss into his palm. “Comes with the territory?”

“This one, maybe. During my recovery, whenever I recited this one I thought of you. You are the Light, Bianca, and as long as you are in my life, I can do anything. It will be challenging being with me, being who we are, but I will always fight for you, and I am done keeping this in the shadows. I want to love you freely, openly, and damn anyone who tries to get between us. You’ve been fighting for me for so long when I was ready to give up, even if I didn’t know it. It’s my turn to fight for you. For us.” 

A tear fell down her cheek, and she started laughing before kissing him fiercely, her arms wrapped around him.

“We will fight together.” 

MINRATHOUS, ONE YEAR LATER

The sunlight streamed in through the small window of her even smaller apartment much earlier than she wanted, but Bianca couldn’t bring herself to care as she rolled onto her side and looked at the face of the man sleeping beside her, bathed in the pink glow of the early morning. She smiled to herself as she traced the shell of his curved ear down to the sharp angle of his jaw to his perfect lips. She remembered the way he looked up at her the night before, their bodies illuminated in moonlight as she rode him slowly. She was tempted to wake him up and demand a repeat, but he looked so peaceful and relaxed she couldn’t bear to disturb him. 

She yawned. Coffee—they needed coffee. She sat up, stretching and scanning the room for her robe, seeing it discarded unceremoniously in the hallway the night before. He came over most nights, her apartment chosen for its convenient location between both the Divine Manor and the hideout, but every time they met felt like it was both the first time and the last time. She supposed that when you went through what they did, every moment counted. And they did. She started to get up, only to feel a hand on her wrist, pulling her back to his side. 

“You didn’t think you would be able to just leave me without a good morning, did you?” he asked. His voice was gravelly and somehow even deeper when he first woke up and Bianca found it incredibly sexy. Even more so that she was the one who got to hear it. 

“I was just going to make us some coffee,” she laughed as he took her hand in his, threading his fingers through hers. His other arm wrapped around her shoulder, pulling her tightly against him. 

“Coffee can wait. This is more important,” he smiled. 

“You’re right, this feels too good. I may never leave this bed.” She hummed, his finger tracing lazy circles on her shoulder. She could stay here like this forever and be completely satisfied. As long as she was with him. 

“I love you,” he said after several quiet moments. 

“I love you, too,” she said, placing a kiss on his chest. 

“I want to spend the rest of my days with you.” His voice was serious, a rarity when they were together. It made her sit up and look at him, meeting his eyes—those brilliant teal eyes that could see right through her. She was certain he could see her heart fluttering in her chest like it was a butterfly trying to escape. 

“I think we’re making a pretty good run of it so far,” she said slowly, trying to conceal the way her breathing was picking up, the way she felt her magic sparking within her. 

“Marry me.”

“What?” she said, her heart now pounding in her chest, a single butterfly replaced with a swarm. She was convinced she heard him incorrectly. Her thoughts were much the same—so many questions flying around, all at once. 

“Will you marry me?” he asked, interrupting her chaotic thoughts. He said it with such a vulnerability, rarely shown, that it quieted the buzzing inside her and drew her from her mind back to him—the man she loved, laying in her bed, who just asked her to be his wife.  

His wife. 

“Marry the Divine? And what would that make me?” she smiled, teasing him as she always did. 

“That would make you my Divine, but you already knew that,” he said, smiling as he pulled her on top of him. “Will you?”

“The Divine marrying an elf would be quite the scandal. The magisters will have a field day with this, you know that right?”

“The Divine is marrying the Savior of Minrathous, defeater of gods, ender of blight.”

“And an assassin, don’t forget that,” she said. She had heard Tarquin’s concerns after he caught them coming back through the eluvian together that night a year ago. They stuck with her to this day. 

“An ex-assassin. And very personal bodyguard, if need be.” 

“Ok fine, so the magisters are taken care of but what of your parents? I bet they’ve had someone perfect picked out for you since you were a child. I know how it is with you altus mages…” She had honestly been surprised he hadn’t been married off already when they met.

“Made irrelevant once everyone saw that lightning and fire blast. They’re still talking about it, I think.” He looked up at her, smiling as he tucked a curl behind her ear. “You’re amazing, incredible, powerful… you’re perfect.”

“Alright alright, enough of that,” she laughed. 

“I could go on, you know. All day, if I must,” he said before pulling her down to kiss her. “Bianca, these are valid concerns to have, but all that matters is you and me. Everything else will fall into place. Besides, I’m the Divine, the Maker’s voice on earth, and after everything we've been through? The Maker wills this. I know it, I can feel it. Now, quit avoiding my question. Will you?”

The smile that lit up her face outshone the sun streaming in from the window. 

“Yes! Yes!” she laughed, tears falling down her face. “I will marry you.” 

The sun was high in the sky and the city was in full swing by the time the two left their bed that day, the sounds of celebration and pleasure echoing off the walls all morning. They would take on their roles as The Viper and his Crow the rest of the day, but for now, they were simply Ashur and Bianca. No secrets, no masks, just each other.  

And there was nothing else they’d rather be.

[forthegothicheroine]

Now on Archive of Our Own

John,

I hope the heat has died down with me gone. English Arthur (I still call him that in my mind, though not to his face) lied to everyone and said I was some sort of rich oilman’s son, and you’d never believe how fast everyone bought it. Micah ought to half-murder some more aristocrats for me to save and leave grateful, I guess.

I’ve tried to write this letter over and over, and that paragraph is the only one I’ve been able to keep. I don’t know how to say the rest of it, but I have to say it to someone in the old gang. I understand Dutch, now. There was a girl named Lucy, and I loved her more than I thought a man could love. I wish you could have met her, even once. She was kind and honest and of course she was beautiful- god, she was beautiful- but most important of all, the moment her mother wasn’t watching, she would sparkle like the stars and make you laugh and smile along with her.

Still don’t know how to say this part. A man hurt her, real bad. She couldn’t speak about it until it was too late, her mother made it so clear that she was never to worry anyone. Until you saw that woman smile, you’d never know how awful it was to see her fall apart. When I knew the truth, I could have slit my own throat for my failing to protect her. Big dangerous outlaw Quincey Morris, and I couldn’t even save the woman I loved from a devil who attacked her.

She’s dead now. The devil wouldn’t let her escape him, in the end. Hold Abigail tight and never let her go, because you don’t know how that can kill you while you’re still alive.

I don’t know if you’ll ever see me again. I’m hunting that bastard down, and he’s got money and power- you wouldn’t believe the kind of power- and I won’t kid myself that I can walk away from this. All of you with me, maybe I could have, but the friends I made in England are good and clever people but they aren’t killers. At least, they weren’t killers until very recently. That monster hurt another woman, and her husband went crazier than a man in a fever, but maybe that’s what his wife needs.

I don’t even know if I want to live. I just know that I can’t die until I’ve finished what I need to do.

For context, THE DEAD WALK! Sorry, I should have started with that, but I figured you’d think my whole letter was a joke. It ain’t. The dead walk, and they hunger for the living. If you get bitten, you get infected, but it’s not too late so long as you know about it, and you can be restrained from biting anyone else until it’s taken care of. I’ve attached a document written up by my friend Professor Van Helsing, and it has all the details of how it works. Please read it in case it ever starts happening in America!

Quincey Morris

---

“God damn it,” John muttered.

Everything after the words “For context” was totally unreadable, soaked through by the mud where the pages had fallen. This was the last time the gang ever let Bill pick up the mail. Maybe it was just as well, that first page was already so frightening.

If Dracula takes place some time in the late 1880s or early 1890s (a few years before it's published as a book), and if, as an outlaw, Quincey Morris was at all affiliated with the Red Dead Redemption 2 cast around the turn of the decade, he could have sent Arthur Morgan a letter saying "VAMPIRES AND STUFF EXIST!" Sadly, nobody took this letter seriously, leaving John Marston unprepared for Undead Nightmare.

[gingermintpepper]

As usual I read your tags always and so you said Apollo did not ask for resurrection of Asclepius and Hyacinthus so i just wanted to share this. About Asclepius death I read it on theoi.com, that earlier authors don't make him resurrect as a god but that's a later development mentioned only by Roman authors like Cicero, Hyginus and Ovid. But still Apollo has a role in Ovid's version

Ovid, Fasti 6. 735 ff (trans.Boyle) (Roman poetry C1st B.C. to C1st A.D.) : Clymenus [Haides] and Clotho resent the threads of life respun and death's royal rights diminished. Jove [Zeus] feared the precedent and aimed his thunderbolt at the man who employed excessive art. Phoebus [Apollon], you whined. He is a god; smile at your father, who, for your sake, undoes his prohibitions [i.e. when he obtains immortality for Asklepios].

So here it is actually because of Apollo the decision was taken to resurrect him as god. And with Hyacinthus, I don't think I've read about Artemis playing the primary role. I know in Sparta there was a picture of Artemis, Athena and Aphrodite carrying Hyacinthus and his sister to heaven.

This is not on theoi.com but I saw on Tumblr it's from Dionysiaca by Nonnus

Second, my lord Oiagros wove a winding lay, as the father of Orpheus who has the Muse his boon companion. Only a couple of verses he sang, a ditty of Phoibos, clearspoken in few words after some Amyclaian style: Apollo brought to life again his longhaired Hyacinthos: Staphylos will be made to live for aye by Dionysos.

So since he is singing inspired by amyclean stories it probably means in that place it was believed Apollo was the one to bring back his lover to life.

Apollo as god of order was very important so i think it shows how special these people (and admetus too) were to him that he decided to go against the order for them 🥺

ANON!! Shakes you like a bottle of ramune!! BELOVED ANON!!!!! I'm littering your face with kisses, I'm anointing you with olive oil and honey - you absolutely made my night with this because, not only did I get the pure serotonin shot of having someone interact with my tags (yippee, wahoo!!) I also got to have that wonderful feeling of "oh wow, have I misunderstood something that was integral to my understanding of this myth/figure this whole time or is this a case of interpretational differences?" which is imo vital for my aims and interests as someone who enjoys mythological content and literature.

I'll preface my response with this: Hyacinthus is by far the hardest of these to get accounts for because his revival itself, as you very astutely point out, is generally accounted for in painting/ritual format which muddies the waters on who interceded for what. I wasn't actually familiar with that passage from the Argonautica - and certainly didn't remember it so thank you very much for bringing it to my attention!

That said, what I've come to understand, both about Hyacinthus and about Asclepius is that in the accounts of their deaths, Apollo's position is startlingly clear.

For Hyacinthus, it is established time and again that Apollo would have sacrificed everything for him - his status, his power, his very own immortality and divinity. Ovid writes that Apollo would have installed him as a god if only he had the time:

(Ovid. Metamorphoses. Book X. trans. Johnston)

Many other writers too speak of how Apollo abandoned his lyre and his seat at Delphi to spend his days with Hyacinthus, but they also all agree that when it came to his death - he was powerless. Ovid gives that graphic account of Apollo's desperation as he tries all his healing arts to save him to no avail:

(Ovid, Metamorphoses Book X. Apollo me boy, methinks him dead. trans Johnston)

Bion, in one of his fragments, writes that Apollo was "dumb" upon seeing Hyacinthus' agony:

(Bion, The Bucolic Poets. Fragment XI. trans Edmonds)

Even Nonnus in the Dionysiaca speaks constantly of Apollo's helplessness in the face of Hyacinthus' fate where he writes that the god still shivers if a westward wind blows upon an iris:

and when Zephyros breathed through the flowery garden, Apollo turned a quick eye upon his young darling, his yearning never satisfied; if he saw the plant beaten by the breezes, he remembered the quoit, and trembled for fear the wind, so jealous once about the boy, might hate him even in a leaf...

(Nonnus, Dionysiaca, Book 3. trans Rouse)

And the point here is just that - Apollo, at least as far as I've read, cannot avert someone's death. He simply can't. Once they're already dead - once Fate has cut their string - all Apollo's power is gone and he can do nothing no matter how much he wants to. And this is, as far as I know, supported with the accounts of Asclepius as well!

Since you specifically brought up Ovid's account, I'll also stick only to Ovid's account but in Metamorphoses when we get Ovid's version of Coronis' demise, he writes that Apollo intensely and immediately regrets slaughtering Coronis. He regrets it so intensely that he, like he does with Hyacinthus, does his best to resuscitate her:

(Ovid, Metamorphoses Book Two. Apollo's regret)

And like Hyacinthus, when it becomes clear that what has happened cannot be undone, Apollo wails:

(Ovid, Metamorphoses Book Two. Apollo wept.)

Unlike his mother, Asclepius in her womb had not yet died and so, with the last of Apollo's strength, he does manage, at least, to save him.

(Ovid, Metamorphoses Book Two. Apollo puts the 'tearing out' in Asclepius.)

But it goes further than even that because Ocyrhoe, Chiron's daughter, a prophetess who unduly gained the ability to directly proclaim the secrets of the Fates, upon seeing the baby Asclepius, immediately prophesies his glory, his inevitable death and then his fated ascension:

(Ovid. Metamorphoses, Book Two. Ocyrhoe's prophecy. trans Johnston)

Before she too succumbs to her hubris and is transformed by the Fates into a horse so she can no longer speak secrets that aren't hers to share.

These things ultimately are important because it establishes two very important things: 1) Apollo can't do anything in the face of the ultimate Fate of mortals, which is, of course, death and 2) even when Apollo is Actively Devastated, regretful, yearning, mournful, guilty or some unholy combination of all of the above, when someone is dead, he accepts that they are gone. Even if he is devastated by it, even if he'll cry all the rest of his days about it - if they're dead? Apollo lets them go. In Fasti, when Zeus brings Asclepius back, he does not say Apollo asked him to - Zeus, or well, in this case Jove, brings Asclepius back because he wants Apollo to stop being mad at him.

(Ovid, Fasti VI. Apollo please come home your father misses you. trans. A.S Kline)

Even Boyle's translation which you used above in your findings hints that Zeus made Asclepius a god because he wanted Apollo to stop grieving. (i.e 'smile at your father', 'for your sake [he] undoes his prohibitions')

And like, Apollo was deeply upset by Asclepius' death - apart from killing the Cyclops in anger, in book 4 of the Argonautica, Apollonius writes that the Celts believe the stream of Eridanus to be the tears Apollo shed over the death of Asclepius when he left for Hyperborea after being chastised by Zeus for killing his Cyclops:

But the Celts have attached this story to them, that these are the tears of Leto's son, Apollo, that are borne along by the eddies, the countless tears that he shed aforetime when he came to the sacred race of the Hyperboreans and left shining heaven at the chiding of his father, being in wrath concerning his son whom divine Coronis bare in bright Lacereia at the mouth of Amyrus.

It all paints a very clear picture to me. Apollo did not ask for either of them to be brought back. Though bringing them back certainly pleased and delighted him, they are actions of other gods who are moved by Apollo's grief and mourning and seek to mollify him. Him not asking doesn't mean he didn't want them back which I think is a very important distinction by the by, but it simply means that Apollo knows the natural order of things and, even if it hurts, he isn't going to press his luck about it.

Which, of course, brings us to Admetus. And I'm really not going to overcomplicate this, Admetus is different because, very vitally, Admetus is not dead. Apollo can't do a thing once Fate has been carried out and Death has claimed a mortal but you know what he absolutely can do? Bargain like hell with the Fates before that point of inevitability. And that's what he does, ultimately for Admetus and Alcestis. He sought to prolong Admetus' life, not revive him from death or absolve him from death altogether and even after getting the Fates drunk, he's still only able to organise a sacrifice - a life for a life - something completely contingent on whether some other mortal would be willing to die in Admetus' place and not at all controllable by Apollo's own power.

All of these things, I think come back to that point you made - that Apollo's place as a god of order is very important and therefore these people are very special to him if it means he's willing to go against that order but, I also wish to challenge that opinion if you'd let me. Apollo's place as a god of order is very important and therefore, I would argue, that it is even more important that it is shown that he does not break the divine order, especially for the people that mean the most to him. The original context of my comments which started this conversation were on this lovely, lovely post by @hyacinthusmemorial which contemplated upon Asclepius from the perspective of an Emergency Medical personnel and included, in their tags, the very poignant lines "there's something about Apollo letting go when Asclepius couldn't that eats my heart away" and "you do what you can, you do your best, but you don't ever reach too far" and I think that's perfectly embodied with the Apollo-Asclepius dichotomy. Apollo grieves. He wails, he cries, he does his best each and every time to save that which is precious to him but he does not curse their nature, he does not resent that they are human and ultimately, he accepts that that which is mortal must inevitably die. There is nothing that so saliently proves that those who uphold rules are also their most staunch followers - if Apollo wants to delight in his place as Fate's mouthpiece, he cannot undo Fate. And, if even the god of healing and order himself cannot undo death, what right does Asclepius, mortal as he is, talented as he is, have to disrespect it?

The beauty of these stories isn't that Apollo loved them enough to bring them back. The beauty is that Apollo loved them enough to let them go.

[feroluce]

For reasons to be expanded upon at a later date (because I love the little bits about Boothill and possible paranoia/betrayal canon gives us so very dearly HNGH) I think Boothill like... He won't let himself fall into disrepair or anything of course, but he reeeeeeeeeeally does not like letting other people poke around at his body. It's a necessary evil to him. He does whatever maintenance and repairs he can himself. He started out with a massive knowledge deficit, simply because he didn't really have any exposure to that kind of technology until he left Aeragan-Epharshal, but he's taught himself a lot since then, he worked really hard at it!

Anyway, the point being, Boothill generally isn't super trusting of people.

But I think he would come to make an exception for Himeko, since he trusts Dan Heng a lot, and Himeko is one of Dan Heng's once-in-a-lifetime dearly beloved companions.

Himeko is so unflappable, I don't think she would even bat an eye about anything he throws at her, either. Like she enters the Parlor Car one morning (she's always the first one up) and Boothill is already there, waiting for her.

"Mornin', Madam Navigator."

"Good morning, Mr. Boothill."

And despite the fact that he blatantly broke into the Express (Pom-Pom is NOT happy about this JDKSAJDSKL), Boothill tips his hat, greets her politely, and is nothing but respectful when he says he has a favor to ask of her. Except it won't stay a favor long, of course- he has every intention of paying it back.

Himeko never agrees to things blindly, but she does bring up that all the knowledge Boothill contributed during the Charmony Festival was essential to preventing the universe from being pulled into Ena's Dream. And they were able to hold onto the Jade Abacus because Boothill used Tiernan's burial relic to summon the Galaxy Rangers instead. The Astral Express owes him a debt of gratitude, and besides, he's a friend of Dan Heng's. Of course she'll try to help him.

Boothill fidgets a bit, quickly brushes off the thanks, and tells Himeko he's having a problem with error codes. He keeps getting the same one, seemingly at random times, but the darn thing has no obvious cause. Dan Heng mentioned Himeko had been the one to rebuild the Astral Express. He knows it ain't the same, but it's not like he's askin' for any major repairs or nothin'. He was wonderin' if she could just take a look, maybe offer him some insight, since she seems to be somethin' of a mechanical wonder.

So Himeko walks him back to a another car, where she goes to tinker with machines without them crowding her bedroom. It's all neatly laid out and organized, and it only takes a second for Himeko to locate some specific device with a long cord. Instead of plugging it in herself, she holds the end of it out to him, like an offer rather than a demand, and Boothill visibly relaxes a bit. He still eyes it just a little warily for a second, but he accepts and plugs it into the port on his side.

Himeko pulls up the list of all recent errors, and they really are all the same. Boothill has had multiple temperature alarms over the past couple of weeks since the Charmony Festival, and they know it's not the environment, because Penacony is mostly dreamscape and kept mild year-round. The long-forgotten natural deserts are too far away.

Boothill is staring from the corner of his one good eye, so Himeko turns the hologram to let him see what she's doing easier. They don't appear to be false alarms. His internal temperature spikes and then slowly lowers again, high enough that if it lasted it would eventually cause damage.

One option is for her to start rooting through personal data, figuring out what he was doing at the time of each code, and tracing cause and correlation.

Instead, Himeko reads out the timestamps, and asks Boothill if he minds sharing what was happening around him when it occured.

Two weeks ago: He and Dan Heng went to explore Dreamflux Reef and found a bar- nice place, good atmosphere. Woman runnin’ it was a doll. Boothill left fer not even two minutes to get them drinks (Dan Heng knows like nothin’ about liquor, Madam Navigator, can you believe this guy) and when he came back, someone had already stolen his seat and was hittin’ on Dan Heng! Dan Heng didn't even care, just shooed ‘em off. Boothill laughed and said not to let him get in his way if he wanted to meet someone. Dan Heng looked at him like he'd grown a second head. Why would he want to leave with someone else, when he came here to be with Boothill?

Twelve days ago: While laying low- er, just rustlin’ up some grub- in the Moment of Blue, Boothill passed Dan Heng with March and Caelus playin’ on the beach, buildin’ sandcastles and the like. When he passed by again almost two hours later, they were still out there, with Dan Heng pullin’ March through the water on her inner tube and Caelus hangin’ off the back of it. He swam so fast! You'd think he was part water snake or somethin’. He looked happier ‘n a cat in a sunbeam… He has a nice smile, doesn't he?

Eleven days ago: Boothill was killin’ time in Dreamflux Reef when he turned the corner down a shady alley and saw Dan Heng, surrounded by three men demandin’ “protection money.” None of ‘em stood a chance, they were all on the ground before Boothill even blinked! So cool! Boothill wants to see that spear of his closeup- Anyway, Dan Heng stepped on one of ‘em on his way out, hahaha! Boothill stepped on the same guy a second time as he hurried to catch up.

Eight days ago: Here on the Express, actually. Boothill had mentioned bein’ curious about the archives, and Dan Heng personally invited him.

(“I remember that day, I saw you in the hall.” “Was there any problem with the heating that day?” “No, none. I don't think the temperature has anything to do with these error codes. I have a different theory, keep going.” “If ya say so.”)

Boothill was fascinated by an entry on aeons, and from a single question he asked about Lan, the two of ‘em ended up talkin’ fer hours. About aeons and Paths and Emanators, Acheron and Self-Annihilators, the Sea of Nihility, Tiernan, the Nameless and the Galaxy Rangers, their burial relics and their customs. Dan Heng finally just started writin’ and editin’ the entries in real time, with Boothill pointin’ things out and tellin’ him what to add in. They were at it so late that Boothill ended up sleepin' on a couch in one of the cars.

He'd figured there had to be something to make Dan Heng chatty- he'd caught just a glimpse of it that first night they met, sittin’ at the bar in the Reverie together. He'll have to ask about the archives more often, if it gets him all revved up like that.

One week ago: After that night of energetic discussion, Dan Heng was apparently hyped up, because after he'd downed some of Himeko's coffee (“You had some too, right? What did you think of it?” “It was great, even better'n chewin’ bullets!” "Thank you! That was my newest brew, I can't wait for everyone else to try it.") he actually asked Boothill to go hunting with him. Boothill asked who their target was, and was surprised when Dan Heng pulled out photos that looked like they were from March's camera, of all things, instead of a bounty or wanted poster.

And as he sat there, studying these pictures, Dan Heng explained that he wanted to hunt down these specific memory zone memes to record them into the archives. Planets with so much memoria are a rarity, especially with the Stellaron's activity thrown into the mix, which has surely affected the local “wildlife.” He might not get another opportunity like this for a long time. And Boothill had talked last night about his extensive expertise in tracking and hunting, so he should have plenty to offer here, Dan Heng would like to learn from his experience and see how he does things!

And oh, Madam Navigator, by the time Dan Heng was done speakin', his eyes were practically sparklin'! Just lit up like the sun! Boothill could scarcely believe it! The two of them couldn't even wait another day, they set out that very morning. It had been a long, long while since Boothill had tracked someone- er, somethin’- without the intent to capture or kill. It was…actually really nice. Nostalgic, but in a good way. It might even have been his favorite day on Penacony…so…far…

Boothill trails off as a couple of realizations crash into him. All the temperature alarms he's spoken about thus far- they've all happened in the company of Dan Heng. And now that he's thinking about it, he's pretty sure even the ones he hasn't yet talked about were with him, too. Dan Heng has been responsible for all of his error codes, every. single. one.

The screen in front of Himeko suddenly refreshes to the top of the list, displaying a new notification for the current time. Alert! Core temperature above normal range.

Himeko's knowing smile is sly as a snake.

Wwwwwelp, would ya look at the time, Boothill has some errands to meet, people to run, y’know how it is, he should really get goin'-

“Oh, Mr. Boothill? About that favor.” And Boothill jolts to a stop in the doorway because fudge, he can't just leave without hearing her out. He'd given his word. He has no problem running out on someone he thinks deserves it, but Himeko really had been kind to him to try and help him out. Her voice is just as knowing as her smile, Boothill can't turn around to look at her, or else he knows he won't be able to disguise the sound of his cooling fans kicking on.

“Don't make Dan Heng wait too long, ok~?”

“Y-Yes, ma'am.”

[thirstkanaphan]

Please don't worry! You didn't come off any particular way at all! I loved reading your thoughts and I think we're pretty much 🤝on the subtle but important role Yunho plays in regulating *fan* perception of their relationships, a point you nailed in your first post.

(also, please don't apologize for your English - you're a great writer and I totally understand what you're trying to communicate)

I don't think you implied anything negative about Yunho and other ships "distancing/being distanced" but you made some really good observations about how Yunho seems to be very perceptive about Ateez's popularity as individuals and as units. His live videos with atiny are filled with him giving us knowing looks and making sly comments about how attractive we find him. Whether or not this is a recent development I cannot know for sure, but it sure seems like Yunho recently really began to understand and harness his sexual appeal to the fandom, and I don't think it's coincidence that he also began instigating more interactive/suggestive moments between him and other members. I think Seonghwa is particularly game for these moments.

I totally agree with you about Yunho's awareness of things - and I think you're also right that KQ is usually not far behind. I love that you have identified Yunho as your alarm bell. Mingi serves a similar purpose for me, as Mingi has become my emotional bellwether for Ateez. You can tell when the group is tired, overworked, frustrated, or moody because he is incapable of concealing those feelings even when they are on camera.

To clarify my thoughts re: Yunho's "choreography," I agree that he's not trying to exert any kind of power over the members but given his own personality and expressed desire for everyone around him to be happy, I think he's very good at clocking a situation and making the necessary moves to ensure that people are smiling, laughing, and charmed - and since he already loves and cherishes the members, he can create those viral moments with seeming effortlessness. I agree that it's not a dark!yunho thing, but it's a facet of his personality that I think is very much aligned with KQ's business-minded sense of their idol image.

I think a lot of people share your reaction to those SanSang moments (which is not a bad thing! Everyone's comfort level with physical affection is different) and I do think a lot of the amplification of negativity towards Yeosang comes from parasocial fans who believe a) yeosang "broke up" woosan and b) yeosang is ungrateful because he rejects from san what he stole from wooyoung.

As someone who was introduced to Ateez via shipping (and as a long-time consumer of rpf content since my hockey rpf days) my initial understanding of these relationships was also refracted through the lens of the fandom. It's rare for me to move from "fanon" to "canon" like I am with Ateez, where I'm catching up on all their content, vlogs, and interviews and trying to understand them as "real" people, to the extent that anyone can ever know an idol. Like, I am now streaming and voting in addition to reading fic! I'm no longer lurking but actively participating as a fan! This is a whole new phase for me in my 15+ years of being in fandom.

This is why all the recent meta has been so good for me to write and consume! Thanks again for sharing your thoughts. Let's keep talking!

I've never seen this clip in its entirety; only the kiss/not kiss and San backing away in shock. It's REALLY something. And the aftermath! Wooyoung wiggling from the audacity of what he just pulled off on stage at a fanmeeting; San buffering; Yunho the Yaoi God holding back a smile.

I want to study this like an ancient text because THIS is the moment many WooSan shippers point to as the turning point...apparently Bouncy-era WooSan flew too close to the fan-service sun and haven't been paired up as a unit since (unless you count an OT3 with Yeosang for It's You).

[meownotgood]

I'm going back to bed the moment I post this but I've been having a super rough and stressful night... so for whatever reason I went back to read some of the kind asks I've received since I saved a lot... some since the first time I started writing... and I got so emotional and just began sobbing haha.... I can't believe how lucky I am...... I love writing so much.........

[marimbles]

i miss carpisuns sometimes </3

[doctorwhoisadhd]

hmm thinking about the idea of love songs. i think the idea of what a love song is that we have in our culture is inherently a little bit flawed because we have the idea that any song written about romantic feelings is a love song and im thinking thats not exactly true because there is a difference between "romance" and "love". what i'm saying is not that love is a broader category and applies to things that are not romantic in nature. this is in fact true, but it's not what makes the important distinction here. the true distinction between "romance" and "love" is that romance is a societally defined type of interest in another person, whereas love is, essentially, a promise that you make when you build a relationship.

as such, what i call "love" here might be better defined as "care", as that implies more time and effort, but that's a different suitcase to unpack and largely unimportant to my point here, which is more about the societal conventions of what we call love songs. the point is, relationships can be built with other people, yes, but also animals, places, organizations, ideas, so on and so on, whereas romance requires another person, hence the difference between the ideas of "romance" and "love".

with that in mind, there are two types of songs we in western, english speaking, society call "love songs":

1) songs that are about a person's romantic interest in someone that is either definitively known to be unrequited (existing monogamous relationship, sexuality that doesn't align, etc) or simply not requited (aka romantic interest being unknown); and

2) songs about an existing relationship (keeping in mind my points about relationships not just being with people, but also places, things, etcetera) as is.

(some examples of the latter category: mountaintop by relient k, which defines the relationship in question as non-romantic; or i miss my mum by cavetown, which is - as the title implies - a song about the singer missing their mother.)

now, the thing that makes distinguishing these two difficult is the fact that songs about an existing relationship CAN be about wanting certain aspects of that relationship to change. in these cases, determining that a song is one or the other will hinge either on a) authorial intent or b) whether the song is more about what the singer wants (thereby implying #1) or the lack thereof in that relationship (which would imply #2).

to get back to the subject at hand: the term "love song", as we think of it, is an umbrella term that include both of these two categories, and i think that perhaps it is reductive to do so. with that in mind, i think perhaps it would be more appropriate for "love song" to mean only the latter, whereas the former is a category of its own. WHICH is not to say that the two can't overlap — just that if a song is about a person with whom the singer has no relationship, it cannot be considered a love song due to the fact that it is a song about infatuation, not love.

(another interesting wrinkle this provides is the fact that a song might start out in the first category and, as the writer develops a relationship with a person, might move into the second category as they write more.)

[tanicus-caesareth]

guarana drama, damage control

[xxplastic-cubexx]

Sigma overwatch is sexy

god