#ill be perfectly fine and then suddenly the feeling that a certain group is watching me

[sk3l3t0n1n]

i wanna feel safe again...

[robininthelabyrinth]

Either a prompt, or just an answer! But based on your post about JGY and using microaggressions, what do you think would have happened if it had been LXC who caught him in one of his manipulative stunts and realized it was all a trick, rather than NMJ? I almost feel like he'd talk himself out of believing what he's seen, or let JGY talk him out of it, and then neither of them might have guessed at his true nature.

Lan Xichen did his best to like most people, to give them the benefit of the doubt whenever possible – truly, he did. He even thought he was mostly successful at it, purposefully looking at Sect Leader Yao’s boorish nosiness as well-meant although ill-executed sympathy or Sect Leader Ouyang’s tendency to follow the crowd as a sense of fellow-feeling taken to an extreme.

And yet –

He was certain that there was something wrong with Meng Yao.

The seeds of doubt had been planted the first time they’d met – or rather, the first time he’d seen Meng Yao, he supposed. The man had been travelling in a caravan of merchants, heading towards Qinghe; Lan Xichen, on the run from the burning of the Cloud Recesses and utterly exhausted, had abandoned his initial campground and hidden himself in a tree.

He’d intended on simply continuing onwards, ignoring his tired feet (what right did he have to be merely tired, after all, with uncle injured and father likely dying and Wangji taken away by the Wens to be abused…), but something he’d stuffed into his mouth earlier had disagreed with him and he’d just hidden in the tree instead, thinking it’d be nice to see the faces of some fellow humans, even from a distance.

He’d seen Meng Yao then, though he hadn’t known it was Meng Yao, and the way he investigated the campgrounds with a slight frown that turned into a pleased smile, as if something had worked out according to plan –

They’d bumped into each other again a few days later, when Lan Xichen was even more tired and hopeless and fleeing a badly timed set of Wen cultivators out on a night-hunt, only Meng Yao had been alone.

Alone, and with rations to spare, and a story that he’d left Lanling after his terrible disgrace to travel all on his own.

Lan Xichen had been starving at the time, too busy to think twice about it or ask about the other merchants he’d seen with Meng Yao, and it wasn’t until later that night that he opened his eyes and looked up at the moon, bewildered by the one flaw in the otherwise truly piteous story.

If Meng Yao had merely parted ways with the merchants, why lie?

The seed of doubt remained only a seed, then, and they travelled together some ways before parting – after all, Lan Xichen had assured himself, in some ways it could be said that Meng Yao had saved his life; it would be impolite, churlish even, to question him on something he clearly didn’t want to talk about.

It wasn’t until later, when Lan Xichen began to act as courier between the sects during the Sunshot Campaign, that the seed bloomed into a flower, and then began growing even more rapidly than a weed.

A weed like Meng Yao, who was brilliant enough to piece together information and yet selfish enough to use it for his own benefit instead of the benefit of all.

Lan Xichen hadn’t realized it at first, too busy lecturing himself on his pointless suspicion of his benefactor, but the information he collected – some too late to be helpful – suddenly put certain things in context.

Certain battles that didn’t have to happen, but did, and the way that they did threw Meng Yao’s merits into sharp relief – he wasn’t the best at battle, but he was excellent at clean-up, especially in aiding the common folk, but for that to happen the battle had to take place somewhere where they would suffer.

And then there were certain groups of people, Nie cultivators or otherwise, that died shortly after crossing Meng Yao – one survivor telling Lan Xichen that he hadn’t known some critical information that Lan Xichen was certain that he’d conveyed to the Nie sect in time.

He’d been about to go demand answers from Nie Mingjue when the survivor had let slip that it had been Nie Mingjue’s so-capable deputy that had given them the briefing – and that the deputy was Meng Yao.

Lan Xichen had fought with himself, not wanting to believe it. He had no solid evidence, after all, merely suspicions, and Nie Mingjue was delighted by Meng Yao, praising him as virtuous and capable. Nie Mingjue was not a man to praise people lightly, so this was evident evidence of his esteem, and a sign that Meng Yao had managed, somehow, to get in through the usually standoffish sect leader’s guard and into his heart.

But once the suspicion was there, the signs were there, too – things that Lan Xichen would have written off if he hadn’t been looking, things that he would never have noticed.

How facile Meng Yao’s face was, how responsive to his will, and yet how different he was when around different people. Lan Xichen had had to learn to read emotions from the smallest of signs to understand Wangji, prided himself on it, and when Meng Yao was around him, the little things – the crinkle of his eyes, the pursing of his lips, the quivering of his cheeks – all accorded with his words. In other words, he was sincere and true, as far as Lan Xichen could tell, and the only deviation was when he so-nobly tried and yet failed to avoid talking about the occasional injustices that he suffered, and yet those were subject that he had brought up himself, or which Lan Xichen just happened to walk in on.

It was precisely the sort of person he most liked, straightforward and sincere and just a little piteous, someone combining the best parts of Nie Mingjue and Lan Wangji and yet also reminiscent of when Lan Wangji was a child young enough that Lan Xichen could actually do things for him, to be the protective and indulgent big brother in a way Lan Wangji hadn’t needed in years.

If he wasn’t already suspicious, Lan Xichen was quite sure that he would be as enchanted by Meng Yao as Nie Mingjue was.

After all, Nie Mingjue was good with reading emotions, too – only his favorite type of person wasn’t the honest-but-shyly-pitiful type, but one who was straightforward yet restrained, who was hurt by the slights of others but who held his head high regardless, who had a spark of mischief and humor hiding behind his solemnity.  And when Meng Yao didn’t know Lan Xichen was watching, that was exactly the sort of person his face said he was: his eyes dancing in amusement at Nie Huaisang’s latest antics even while his mouth remained stern, his chin lifted a little as if he didn’t even notice when other men spoke ill of him…not shy, not subject to coaxing, still young but in a different sort of way, a happy and energetic way that was reminiscent of Nie Huaisang’s younger years (and, indeed, of his current ones) rather than Lan Wangji’s solemnity, his hidden pain and earnest striving to be good.

A first-class manipulator, Lan Xichen concluded after months of study. Meng Yao’s preferred mask was a display of weakness perfectly tailored to the interests of others, and he wielded that weakness as skillfully as Nie Mingjue wielded his saber or Lan Xichen played his qiao – and as ruthlessly, too.

He was a dagger hidden in the dark.

Lan Xichen tried to warn Nie Mingjue, but to no avail: Nie Mingjue was a stunning fighter, a brilliant general, and there was none better when it came to understanding how the quirks of his enemies would translate into strategic and tactical decisions that could be used on the battlefield, but outside of that context he had always been a little naïve about human nature.

It was something Lan Xichen should have known – Nie Mingjue had never understood, not really, why the other clans would allow themselves to be insulted by the Wen sect, trod upon, why they would selfishly turn their face away from the cries of the innocent to preserve themselves, as the Nie sect had only not declared war because it was too busy helping others – and most of the time he found the almost child-like innocence and inflexibility extremely cute.

Not right now, though.

Nie Mingjue simply couldn’t conceive of someone he was close to lying to him like that. His exterior was fierce but his heart was warm; once he was convinced you were one of his people, he would never turn against you no matter how harsh his tongue might be.

So when Lan Xichen told him he needed to be wary of Meng Yao, he tried, in deference to their old friendship and the trust between them, but he just couldn’t do it. He tried to be wary, tried to watch him, and then something more important distracted him and he fell back into his old habits of trusting and relying on him – no, until Nie Mingjue somehow saw with his own eyes what Lan Xichen put together through clues, he wouldn’t be able to believe that the man was a scorpion rather than a friend.

And while he didn’t say it, the distressed look in his old friend’s eyes suggested to Lan Xichen that Nie Mingjue was worried that he was the one affected, that his suffering at the Cloud Recesses and thereafter had injured his kind and trusting nature, and that he was merely being unduly paranoid.

It was a fair point, so Lan Xichen turned to the one he trusted most.

Lan Wangji listened solemnly to his suspicions, to his concerns, and promised to investigate, agreeing that there was enough there to merit justified suspicion even if he wouldn’t commit to a final decision until he’d had a chance to determine it for himself.

That was fine.

Lan Xichen was sure that there was a problem, even if no one else in the world believed him – but he had Lan Wangji at his side, capable and earnest, and that meant he didn’t have to be the only one in the world. They would unravel the riddle of Meng Yao and shine a light into the dark spaces he preferred to hide, and they would do it together.

[bitter-sweet-farmgirl]

Halw Galabî

Part 15 of ‘A Deep Misunderstanding’.  Link to Series Masterlist.

Thorin falls for a Dwarrowdame raised by Elves, and tries to make know his feelings, but accidentally offends her, which leads to another and another misunderstanding between the two.

Based off of @immawriteyouthings​ ‘Falling Stars’

Note:  If you wish to be tagged for certain stories, just let me know and I can add you to a tag list!

Tags:

@kumqu4t​ @pixierox101​

MASTERLIST

OC(s) Used: Estel

Word Count:  1,900

Warning(s):  Mention of time of the month, curse word(s)

Translation(s): Halw Galabî:  Sweet Words

Zirizkhîe:  My Gold One

Gaihithe:  My Little Dove

Sasakhabiya abnâmul:  You look beautiful

Ra sasakhabi abnâmul:  And you look handsome

Amrâl:  Love

Karkith:  Little Raven

Nê akhshum:  Don’t worry

Sindarin:

Mae loboth:  Furry rabbit

~~~~

I hated walking with every fibre of my being.  Eru, it was an unnecessary action; especially when I was currently bleeding profusely.  

Stupid periods.

A scowl decorated my downcast face as I walked behind Thorin on the open terrain of the meadow we were tromping through.  Not even the beautiful flowers planted by Yavanna's hand; swaying slightly in the vague gusts of wind could brighten my mood with their vibrant colours.

"Zirizkhîe, come here."  Thorin's rich tones brought my head up to look up into sapphire blue orbs; orbs that displayed a concern I was used to seeing these past few days.

Letting out a disgruntled sigh, I quickened my pace till I was by Thorin's side, shooting him a sideways glance.  "What do you need?"  I grumbled, and Thorin let out a soft laugh.

Cheeky bastard.

"I just wanted to talk with you.  Do you want to stop for a moment and rest?"  He asked, slipping a hand around my waist to gently grip my hip.  Merciful Manwë, his touch had my grouchiness fading just the littlest bit.

"No, I'm fine.  The faster we walk, the faster we reach the place where we are camping tonight."  I said matter-of-factly, leaning my head against his furry shoulder.

"I cannot argue with your logic there, Gaihithe."  Thorin said, giving me a look that sent butterflies throughout my stomach.  His sapphire blue eyes flickered over my body, sending little shivers down my spine.  "Sasakhabiya abnâmul."  He murmured, and I raised an eyebrow.

"Ra sasakhabi abnâmul."  I countered, and Thorin grinned, giving my hip a gentle squeeze.  

"Would ye tone it down?  None of us want to watch ye get all cozied up!"  Dwalin growled from behind us, and both Thorin and I turned to shoot a glare at the tattooed Dwarrow.  

Catching sight of each other doing the exact same thing, Thorin and I shared a look and began to laugh.  

"By the Valar, I've been spending too much time around you..."  I laughed, and Thorin gave me a frown that I saw right through.

"Maybe that's not a bad thing, Amrâlimê."  He said, and I elbowed him in the side, disappointment filling me for a moment when I didn't elicit a response from him.  Eru, it wasn't fair for him to be so muscular and tough!

Seeing my furrowed brow, Thorin gave me a cheeky grin.  "Did you really expect to hurt me, Amrâl?"  He asked, and I shrugged.

"Perhaps..."  I murmured, and he let out a rich, baritone laugh.  

"It'll take a bit more than that to hurt me...  I thought you said you were strong?"  He teased, and I glowered at him.

"I am!  It just doesn't seem like it when I'm up against a Dwarrow that's a few inches taller than me, much burlier, and of the opposite sex!"  I defended, crossing my arms over my chest and giving Thorin a petulant look.

Thorin raised his hands in a show of surrender.  "I apologize for offending you, my lady."  He said solemnly with a stiff nod, and I fought against the laughter bubbling up within me.

It wasn't fair how easily my emotions were swayed right now.

Losing the fight against it, I began to giggle, staring at Thorin and marveling at the twinkle his eyes took on when he smiled.  By the Valar, it made me fall harder for him.

But then the amusement in his eye was replaced with wide-eyed shock and he began to reach out a hand towards me.  "Estel, watch out for--"

I didn't hear the rest of his sentence due to the fact that I stumbled over something, and fell face-forward onto the ground.  Eru, this mirrored the occasion when we ran from the Wargs...

"Owww..."  I groaned, grimacing as I pushed myself onto my knees.  Looking down at my hands, I made a face as I took in the scrapes they'd gathered upon bearing the burden of my fall.

"Karkith!  Are you hurt?  Let me see your hands..."  Thorin dropped to his knees beside me, gently grabbing my hands in his large ones to look them over.  

"They just got scraped up...  I'll be fine, Thorin."  I said, trying to tug my hands away from Thorin.  "Really, it's just a few scrapes that'll heal up in a few days.  Nê akhshum."  

"Amrâlimê..."  Thorin murmured, looking at me with blue eyes that were alight with worry.  "I cannot help but worry."

A few groans emanated from the group around us at Thorin's words.  "Oh Mahal, there they go again..."  I heard someone mutter, but I ignored them.  

Gandalf appeared suddenly overheard, and I tilted my head up to look at him.  "Bilbo has some ointment that is good for scraped hands."  He said, and I shot a look at Thorin, finally pulling my hands away and standing up.

"I'll go see if I can borrow a bit of that then.  Thank you Mithrandír."  I said, nodding to Gandalf and turning away from Thorin to go find Bilbo in the crowd of Dwarves.

The Hobbit was easy to find--mostly due to the fact that he'd heard his name mentioned--and was quite willing to give me some of his ointment.

"Thank you, Bilbo."  I said gratefully, gingerly spreading the salve over the palms of my hands.  Perhaps it would be wise to find a pair of gauntlets that didn't just cover the tops of my hands.

Bilbo just nodded in reply, his gaze focused on my hair.  "Why do you wear beads in your hair--if I may ask."  He asked hesitantly, and I gave him a reassuring smile.

"Of course you may.  They are kin beads and show that I'm courting someone."  I explained, and Bilbo nodded, understanding flickering in his eyes.  

"May I have a closer look at the beads?"  He asked, motioning towards the braid in my hair.  I nodded, taking a seat on a nearby log and turning my head so that he could easily grab the beads to look at them.

Turning my braid in his hands, Bilbo murmured to himself as he looked it over with curious eyes.  "Aquamarine, blue jasper, citrine, clear quartz, garnet, howlite, lapis, moonstone, rose quartz, emerald, ruby, sapphire and opal...  Interesting."  He mumbled, and I pondered over the name of the gems he was reciting.  Some I had heard of; others I hadn't.  But why were they 'interesting'?

"MASTER BAGGINS!"  An outraged bellow sounded behind me, and both Bilbo and I jumped at the sudden noise.

Turning quickly, I saw Thorin striding towards me, dark brown hair flowing behind him as he walked swiftly.

Manwë help the Dwarrow if he was going to complain about Bilbo being too close.  I didn't have any patience for his 'possessiveness' today.

"Thorin?"  I called softly, but he blew right past me, glaring furiously down at Bilbo who inched away from him.  "What in Eru's name is your problem?"  I asked, standing up to stand beside Thorin and lay a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"He was touching your hair."  Thorin growled, and I gaped at him in disbelief.

"Touching my hair.  You're that mad over him touching my hair?  Oh Eru, I don't believe you."  I groaned, resting my hands on my hips as Thorin turned his body towards me.  

"He was touching your courting braid!"  He said, shooting a withering scowl over at Bilbo who seemed to want the ground to swallow him whole.

"I'm sorry, she said it was okay--"

"NO!  It was NOT OKAY!"  Thorin bellowed, and something inside me snapped.  I was sick and tired of having to deal with Thorin's supposedly 'perfectly justified' outbursts.  

"What the bloody hell is your problem?!  Why do you care so much that Bilbo was touching my braid?!  By the Valar, you act as though he's doing something sacrilegious!"  I yelled, giving Thorin a harsh look.  "Bilbo wasn't doing anything wrong; he just wanted to look at the beads in my hair!"

Thorin took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose.  I could see the fight visibly draining out of him, but I didn't care about that.  I was all fired up, and wasn't going to let him draw back so easily.

"Halwûna..."  He began, but I shook my head.

"NO!  Don't you sweet talk me, Master Oakenshield!"  I growled, and Thorin let out a sigh.

"Estel, in Dwarvish culture, touching someone else's hair or braids--particularly if they're courting or in a relationship of any sort--is practically a crime."

I scoffed, "well that's stupid."

A grin tugged at the corner of Thorin's mouth as he struggled to remain solemn.  "Perhaps, but we still take our hair very seriously, Amrâlimê."  He turned to look at Bilbo and nodded to him.  "I apologize deeply for yelling at you, Master Baggins.  I overreacted, and I'm deeply sorry about that."  He murmured, and I watched him in disbelief.

Oh Eru, was he ill?  Why else would he be voluntarily apologizing--quite genuinely at that--to Bilbo?

Bilbo just gave him a shaky smile, waving away his words.  "It's fine, perfectly fine..."  He stuttered, edging away from the two of us nonetheless.

Turning back to me, Thorin eyed my expression apprehensively.  "I apologize to you as well, Estel.  I forgot that you didn't know about that particular custom."  He said, and I raised an eyebrow.

"Uh huh.  Perhaps next time you'll keep that in mind before you go around yelling at people."  I said dryly, and Thorin ducked his head, laughing.

"If only Dís could see me now..."  He muttered, "she'd have a good laugh over how tightly you've got me wrapped around your finger."  

"Of course--Wait, what do you mean I have you wrapped around my little finger?  Does it mean what I think it does?"  I asked, and Thorin just smiled slyly at me.

"You'll have to figure that out for yourself, Amrâlimê."  He said, motioning for me to follow him as he turned and walked away.

Trotting after him, I quickly reached his side and looked up into his darkly bearded features.  "The gems in my beads...  Bilbo was naming them off.  Do they have some sort of meaning?"  I asked in a soft voice, and Thorin looked down at me, his expression guarded.

"Yes, they do.  The same goes for the beads you've put in my hair.  I'll explain them to you soon, alright?"  He said in voice so tender I wanted to melt like a snowball on a hot day.

"Yeah, that's fine."  I mumbled, moving closer to Thorin's side as we began to walk again.  "Perfectly fine."

Thorin laughed beside me.  "You sound like the Hobbit...  Do I scare you?"

I smirked, glancing over at the Dwarrow walking beside me.  "Not a bit, you mae loboth."  I said, and Thorin turned to look at me, confusion furrowing his brow.

"What did you call me?"  He asked, but I just shrugged, laughing.  

"That's for me to know and you to never find out, Halwûn."  I giggled, and Thorin smiled back at me, shaking his head.

"Oh Mahal, I love you..."  He said, ignoring the mutters rising behind us at our words.

They'd just have to deal with it for awhile longer; till we set up camp.  Then they could disperse and leave me and Thorin to our sweet words.

And something told me they couldn't wait for that to happen.

[genshin-impact-fics]

To Protect

Pairing: Kaiser x Albedo (OcXCanon)

Warning: If you haven't done the "We Will Be Reunited" chapter of the story know that this fic is kind of spolierish.

A/N: It's been a while since I've written a fic so I'm a lil on the rusty side. I'm also thinking of writing an alternative route/ending of this story which will go one of two ways I have in mind :3

It seemed that the Abyss Order was hunting down any sort of lead of powerful beings that the prince/princess could utilize to rid the world of the archons and gods alike from this world. It seemed like their latest target was a certain alchemist that spent his time up in the cold mountains of Dragonspine.

Once again Albedo was up in the harshly cold mountains working on a new experiment that should enhance a person’s resilience to the sheer cold in Dragonspine. If he could manage to create an effective formula then it would make traversing the cold land a little bit easier especially the knights that needed to be there; however the traveler was away doing commissions which meant he’d have to look for someone else which thankfully Albedo was able to once again request the help of his fellow knight member and friend Kaiser. The two were currently standing by a fire nearby the open area where the cyro hypostasis resides. “I’m not going to get sick from this one will I,” Kaiser asked while examining the liquid contents within the vile as last time he had her assist with an experiment, they quickly discovered that she happened to be very allergic to energy nectar. Albedo still felt terribly about that incident as he never wanted to harm others with his experiments though there just seemed to be some things that were out of his control; since then he’s made sure to not give her anything with any nectar in it, not wanting to see her suffer like she did again.

“I promise you that you shouldn’t get sick from this as I’ve taken the liberty of trying on myself first to ensure your safety. But because I don't get too bothered I needed someone who would best benefit from this,” he reassured her as yes after a prolonged amount of time he’ll get very cold so the data he’ll collect from this trail should give him a good understanding of where to go from there. “Right,” she said, opening it and drinking it all before handing back the empty vile. “So all I have to do is stay in the cold for however long until I feel like I’m freezing,” she reiterated to clarify what she was doing exactly. Giving a firm nod he gave a ghost of a smile before saying, “Yes you��re correct. I’ve mapped out areas with groups of hilichurl camps that you can take care of. If at any time you’re getting cold or don’t feel well we can rest at a safe spot and go over my findings.”

With that the two set out as Albedo led the way to the locations he plotted in advance. Things were going smoothly thus far as currently they were at the fourth location and Albedo watched in the short distance observing Kaiser fight the last frostarm lawachurl. Her movements swift and flawless, truly a beautiful sight to witness: the way her long black hair flowed in the chilled winds and flakes of snow, how the electricity she admitted danced around her, even the precision of her swordsmanship with her rapier. Albedo had the urge to take the time to draw this very moment to capture the elegance he saw in Kaiser, but stayed focused on keeping notes as he certainly had taken notice that her normal speed rate was decreasing possibly due to the cold most likely starting to take effect.

The frostarm lawachurl was finally defeated as Kaiser walked over rejoining Albedo and now that she was much closer he could easily see her cheeks and nose were a soft pink color. “How are you feeling,” he asked immediately as he was thinking of possibly calling this a stopping point so she could warm up not wanting her to over do it. “Feeling pretty cold but it isn’t unbearable. Shall we head to the next location? You said there were two more right so let's head out,” she said, turning to walk off but by instinct he quickly grabbed her wrist to stop her from going any further to which she seemed to instantly glance back at him with narrowed eyes. “I think we should at least to take a break and get you warmed up; you’ve surpassed the estimated time I initially hypothesized,” he voiced his opinion to the slightly taller woman. Letting out a small sign a puff of air came from Kaiser as she glanced at his hand that was holding her wrist before glancing back to him; he really was lucky she liked him because if this had been any other person she would have most likely beat the crap out of them by now. “I’ll be fine, besides it shouldn’t take that much longer right? Let’s just finish up and then I’ll rest,” she said persisting that they continue forth with the experiment. Much to his displeasure he decided to listen as he’d be sure to keep a little closer in case he needed to step in and finish the fight so he could get her somewhere warm and possibly mend what injuries she sustained.

For the fifth location they ended up in the open area that had a once active fighting mechanism as there happen to be a few hilichurls still hanging around. He watched as she went over to repeat her process of fighting enemies. His note taking didn’t last much longer as finally he succumbed to his urges of sketching Kaiser and even including the astonishing serpent made out of electricity that went around attacking the hilichurls. When it seemed like she finished off the last one suddenly more came running out of nowhere to attack. Not wasting a second he tossed his clipboard aside to assist her in fighting as surely she had to have been at her tolerant limit.

“I had it perfectly under control. I didn’t need help,” Kaiser said, looking over to Albedo after the last one fell. Her face was much more redder in the nose and cheeks as he could see how she tried to refrain from shivering; letting out a sigh he shouldn’t be surprised, she really does do everything to finish a job by any means necessary. Letting out a small sigh he now stood in front of Kaiser as he was grateful for her hard work but he also worried for her well being. “Yes I know but the way all those hilichurls came out of nowhere was very strange almost as if-” he was saying now holding his chin as he was speculating until suddenly there was a large and strange portal that opened up a couple feet away from the two knights. The two exchanged glances before looking at the portal as two abyss mages came floating out and another one came out that they’ve never seen before: a very tall being dressed in full armor that was dark blue stood between the two mages. “So it is true that the prince of chalk walks these lands. My highness will be pleased with our findings,” the armored being spoke.

Albedo was confused by what this being was saying, but regardless it didn’t sound good. Gripping her rapier tighter in her grasp despite the violent chills running up and down her spine she was prepared to fight. “You’re in no condition to fight,” Albedo said as he knew this fight would be pretty much unavoidable yet he feared that at this rate she’s at a high risk of falling ill and even possibly fainting during battle. “I’ll worry about it later,” she simply said before she was gone in a flash of purple electricity for him to see her already attacking the tall figure with whatever full force she had left in herself. Quick to join the fight he could only wonder if this was the same being that Jean mentioned from the incident that took place in Wolvendom not too long ago. The mages were the easier ones to take out; however, it seemed that even with the two of them against what they learned was to be an abyss Herald was surprisingly difficult. It was when a large burst of water sent them flying back some leaving a couple of feet that separated the two. In a fit of coughing Kaiser slowly pushed herself back up; her body feeling like she fell in the cold waters that surrounded the area, at this point it felt so cold that it was burning. Albedo also recovered from the knock back looking over to check on his dear friend who seemed to not be faring well and how the Herald was staring in her direction, that didn’t sit well with him. “What an interesting display of power,” the Herald said before turning his attention onto Albedo before continuing with “But onto more pressing matters.”

The Herald was beginning to speak in an old language chanting some sort of spell that soon enough right underneath Albedo a circle with various symbols began to appear in a glowing purple color. The glowing beneath him caught his attention causing his teal eyes to widen in surprise; his body standing still instead of moving to get outside of the mysterious circle trying to read the symbols. The glowing only seemed to grow stronger as more purplish mist came from the ground, he might have just left himself in a bad situation. The sound of running boots crunching in the snow didn’t register to him until he was broken out of his thinking when feeling hands harshly pushing him away as he heard, “Move it!” Feeling the cold snow that he landed in it fully brought him back to earth; the sound of rattling chains rung in his ears.

Quick to look over where he once stood to see what happened his eyes widened in terror; Kaiser was trapped completely binded by chains that had that eerily purple mist around it. “Kaiser,” Albedo called her name as once again she protected him from a dangerous situation. His stomach turned feeling nauseous and his chest stung as if it was being twisted. Kaiser looked like she was trying to struggle against the chains yet it was clear she didn’t have much energy to keep up the struggling for too long. “How unexpected,” the Herald said without much of a change in it’s tone. “Get out of here,” Kaiser said looking over to him from the corner of her eye wincing out of pain from trying to breath. Looking over to her he couldn’t believe what he was hearing, she was asking him to just… abandon her here? Shaking his head in a quick no manner he loudly claimed, “I simply cannot just abandon you here by yourself! I will do no such thing.”

“I’m not asking, I’m telling you to leave me here and head down the mountain!”

“But-”

“Can it! Go and alert the others, I’ll try to hold on for as long as I can,” Kaiser said internally knowing it wouldn’t be for that much longer before she blacked out. He’s never felt so useless in his life before yet here he was unmoving from his spot on the snow covered ground unsure of what to do. He was starting to blame himself for everything and there wasn’t a thing he could do to save the person he deeply cared about.

“For someone who holds so much animosity towards the world you still protect its people. Why? Why oppose the Abyss Order,” the abyss Herald asked as Albedo looked at Kaiser. He knew of her past from the stories she’s trusted him enough to tell him and so he understood her anguish… But he never really realized how deep the anger she harbored truly ran. “Just because I hate the world… Doesn’t mean I- have to hate… Everyone in… It,” she managed to speak through her teeth.

Out of nowhere did a tornado come flying through hitting the abyss member and causing him to be pulled away a bit. “You leave our friends alone,” the familiar high pitched voice of Paimon could be heard as much to Albedo’s relief as the traveler had shown up just at the perfect time. Watching the traveler fight against the Herald was outstanding. While the fight was progressing Albedo noticed the chains suddenly disappearing around Kaiser and her body starting to fall over he was quick on his feet and stopped her from falling into the snow. Landing on his knees he held her close feeling her trembling unconscious body against his. Her already pale enough skin now looked almost porcelain white, he couldn’t waste any more time; he needed to get her back to the safety of the lab. Adjusting her and picking her up into his arms he made a hasty escape, the two of them wouldn’t have been any help to the traveler in their condition, they would have just gotten in the way.

Thank the archons that he managed to get back to his lab in the cave safely, but this wasn’t the time to take it easy. Quickly but carefully laying Kaiser at a safe distance from the fire he rushed to get the first aid kit and whatever medicine he had on hand that could help with her recovery. Never had he felt this… Frazzled in his life. Albedo was always so calm and collected he usually was always able to think logically, but now his brain was racing. Cleaning and mending her wounds he wrapped her in two layers of blankets that they kept just in case for the nights if anyone was staying for the night to help warm her up. Sitting beside her to observe her condition though so far she was doing well: the color in her skin was slowly coming back, her breathing didn’t seem to be too strained or shallow, and thankfully nothing appeared to be broken though she may have a bruised rib or two at most. Gently running an ungloved hand over her cheek before brushing some of her black locks away from her face. “Oh Katherine, what am I going to do with you,” he softly questioned himself using her actual name; he thought her name was beautiful and befitting of her yet she didn’t agree.

Hours had passed until she finally awoken as a soft groaning escaped her lips. It took her a moment to register where she was as she tried to recall what happened since the last thing she remembered before passing out was a vortex of wind hitting the abyss Herald. “Please refrain from getting up. Your body needs rest, you put yourself under a lot more stress than you should have,” Albedo advised her while walking over to kneel by her to check on her. She didn’t heed his words as she proceeded to carefully sit up feeling the soreness of her body. “Katherine your wounds won’t heal if you don’t take the time to rest.”

“What did I say about using my name?”

“Well you did say that I can be permitted to call you as such when it was just us Katherine,” he said in a matter of fact tone unable to contain the soft sigh. “I hate when you do that,” she said with a soft narrowed look as though she may have sounded annoyed, but it didn’t match the slightly amused expression on her face. A soft chuckle left his lips as he felt a little bit better seeing she wasn’t acting much different from how she usually did so at least that was a good sign. The two ate the meal Albedo cooked for the two of them as he filled her in on what she missed and how he sent the traveler to go ahead back to the headquarters to report what happened to Jean. After having finished eating and her taking medicine the two sat quietly in front of the fire. The only sound to be heard was the crackling of the fire and the whistling of the cold winds outside of the cave.

“You can’t keep doing this,” Albedo’s words breaking the silence between the two, looking over to her with a soft expression. Looking over she raised an eyebrow confused.

“Doing what?”

“Almost getting killed for protecting me.”

“Albedo if I didn’t save you when I did you would have been captured by the abyss order for whatever they’re planning! One thing for sure is that they’d turn you against us,” she rebutted as sure being in dangerous situations was something she was used to before being brought into the Knights of Favonius. “E-Eh, hey wait why are you crying,” she said in a slightly panicked manner as never in the time she’s known him has she seen him cry; actually she was pretty sure that he had just about never cried yet here he was. He hadn’t fully noticed the tears falling from his eyes as he felt a rippling pain in his chest listening to her as the events from earlier replayed in his head.

“Even if they did capture me I’d at least know you were safe. I wouldn’t have been able to forgive myself if that creature had taken or killed you,” he honestly spoke as calmly rubbing one eye and the tears just didn’t seem to stop. Surely he would feel even more guilty if he had been the reason behind her and everyone else he cared about suffered, but he knew if it came to that Albedo had faith that the traveler or Kaiser would stop him. The slight irritation she felt from the conversation at hand subsided while listening to him talk. Letting out a sigh she carefully moved herself before reaching her arms out to grab him as she said, “You idiot, come here.” Hugging him around his neck she held him close as there was a moment of hesitation until he wrapped his arms around her completing the embrace. “Everything is fine now, we’re both alive… I’m sorry that I overdid things again. If I had just listened maybe we wouldn’t have gotten into that mess,” she said, speaking in a much softer tone than her usual cold tone, her face turning a light pink color.

Albedo pulled away to look at his beloved friend who he had come to cherish so much; how the fire gave her a soft orangish red glow to her figure. “It wasn’t your fault, you were just helping me as neither of us knew that attack was going to happen… I really do value the time we get to spend together, so please promise me that you’ll continue to stay by my side,” he spoke freely taking one of her hands into his own feeling the slight roughness of her hand. For someone who almost never made any kind of expression that showed his emotion, the faces he made were pretty cute. “... Yeah, I pinkie promise,” she said letting out a small chuckle before leaning in to give his cheek a kiss before resting her head on his shoulder feeling the tiredness kicking in again.

“A pinkie promise?”

“Hehe, what can I say; us Snezhnayans take our promises very seriously.”

“Is that so? I’d be interested to hear more if you’re willing to share,” he commented as it was comfortable being cuddled up like this by the fire, Albedo found it very pleasant to be this close to the female knight. The rest of the night Kaiser shared the old nursery rhyme and stories of her past along with the things she’s encountered during her travels in the past until the two of them fell asleep in each other's arms.

[juliabohemian]

Why FACTS do not seem to matter to the United States

Just a few commonly held misconceptions that interfere with people’s ability to appreciate facts:

1. You only have value if you are productive.

This completely disregards children, the elderly, the disabled and the mentally ill. It suggests that anyone who isn’t productive is a drain on the system, and therefore expendable. This is a product of capitalism, which benefits profit over quality of life.

This is also why people feel guilty for just relaxing. Like it’s not okay to just take some time to decompress. We’ve turned productivity into a fetish. Being busy is considered some kind of accomplishment and even used as a measurement of someone’s social or professional prowess.

2. Your accomplishments don’t count unless you suffered for them.

This is a concept perpetuated by the rich, in order to justify the mistreatment of those who keep them rich. It is a product of the Christian-based romanticization of suffering as an inevitability of life. It discourages believers from questioning those who keep them poor, or from trying to change their own circumstances. If you aren’t sure what I mean, Google Joel Osteen.

Suffering IS a part of life. But it doesn’t necessarily have to be.

Thoughts and prayers.

3. Anything you need in life has to be earned.

This is also a product of capitalism. Basically, the notion is that you’re entitled to nothing. Not even a roof over your head or food to eat. It doesn’t matter whether you need it to survive. If you don’t have the cash to pay for it, your life is expendable.

4. If you work really hard, you can achieve anything.

This particular concept was first conceived during the early days of colonialism. But it really took off after WW2 when, due to the economic rebound, it was actually possible for someone to survive off of minimum wage. People who experienced those conditions firsthand are extremely unlikely to believe that the same isn’t possible for everyone, regardless of any evidence to the contrary. If you just pull up those darn bootstraps, you can make it happen!

This belief also completely disregards the ways in which systemic racism and bias against other marginalized groups separates them from the resources they need to succeed.

4. If you are poor or homeless, it’s probably your fault somehow.

The purpose behind this is to relieve us of any responsibility to care for those around us who are struggling. When we see a homeless person, we have an immediate reaction. Whether it is guilt about what we have, or guilt because we have no intention of giving them cash, or guilt because we know we are in no position to help them. People relieve that discomfort by falling back on the belief that the homeless and the poor are irresponsible, lazy, stubborn, mentally ill, or on drugs. That way it is okay not to care about them. It’s okay to vote against programs that might benefit them.

5. If we just stop enabling the poor, they will stop being poor.

This is based on the misconception that people are poor by choice. The belief is that if we remove programs that are helping poor people, the poor will stop being so stubborn and quit being poor.

It completely disregards the actual reasons why people are poor.

This same concept also applies to LGBT, the disabled and the mentally ill. As there is also a widely held misconception that these things are all the result of personal choice and therefore, can be altered at will. Taking away the rights of these groups will magically force them to conform to the norm (straight/Christian/Caucasian).

6. Poor people/immigrants/people of color don’t “care” about education.

This is like paying someone with Monopoly money and then getting mad at them for not spending it. It might look, on the surface, like it has value. But it doesn’t.

If your personal experience with public education is that it does not lead, in any way, to upward social mobility, it is unreasonable to expect you to value it. If you want members of marginalized groups to place more value on education, then you need to make it more useful for them. The burden is on us, as educators, to do that. Not on the students and their families.

7. Whiteness = Normalcy

This belief is even held by those who might think of themselves as being liberal, but who use such unfortunate terms as colorblindness. “I’m color blind!” they will say, proudly. Which, on the surface, might seem like a good thing. But it isn’t, because it completely robs any non-Caucasian of their identity, suggesting that their goal should be to blend in with us instead.

Fans of colorblindness are “fine” with black people, as long as those black people straighten their hair and abandon their ghetto vernacular. 

Further evidence of this belief is seen through all of the white people who love to watch NFL football, but got their panties in a bunch when Colin Kaepernick dared to protest against police brutality when his sole purpose for existing was to entertain them. How dare he ruin their enjoyment of football by bringing something to their attention that they’d rather ignore. It’s perfectly okay for black people to occupy certain spaces, as long as they serve a purpose for white people while they are there. They second they use that space to try and benefit their own people, they are cancelled.

Sadly, many people of color actually subscribe to this notion (or more like surrender to it) which is basically a form of Stockholm Syndrome. Most likely because they have subconsciously come to the conclusion that if you cannot beat someone, you might as well join them. And you really can’t blame them for doing whatever they have to do to survive.

8. Policemen can do whatever they want because they are heroes.

I hate the word hero. A person can be heroic. They can do heroic things. A person cannot BE a hero. Because it suggests that they are defined by their title, as opposed to their beliefs or actions. And that’s not how reality works. People have free will and are therefore not bound by their titles.

This notion of cops being heroes has always been around in the United States, but it really took off after 9-11. It was a dark time and we were desperate to feel safe. So, we put our faith in the first responders. And there were plenty of fireman and cops who did great things during that event. But suddenly, after 9-11, ANYONE in a uniform was a hero. It didn’t matter what they did or why. Their title and uniform were all the qualifications they needed to be considered a hero in the eyes of the people.

Unfortunately, that shift encouraged a wave of completely new people to become cops. Most of whom should not even have access to firearms, let alone a free pass to do whatever they want, without any sort of legal accountability. They saw becoming a cop as an opportunity to fight back against anything that they interpreted as a threat to their perception of what America should be.

The second thing that contributed to the elevation of cops to hero status was the invention of smartphones. In the early days of smartphones, many people genuinely believed that having video evidence of law enforcement, brutally beating unarmed people of color would make some kind of difference. Bizarrely, it has had the opposite effect.

Imagine Dorothy reaching OZ and seeing with her own eyes that there is a guy behind the curtain with a microphone and choosing to continue believing in the wizard anyway. That’s how many right wing Americans have reacted to seeing evidence of police brutality. It only strengthened their faith in law enforcement.

Every time another person of color is murdered at the hand of police, someone will inevitably offer an excuse or explanation on their behalf. The victim had a criminal history. The victim reached for a weapon. The victim was acting suspiciously. Policemen have hard jobs. Policemen are under stress. Really ANYTHING to avoid coming to the conclusion that a police officer did a bad thing, on purpose. Because that would never happen, right? People are bound by their titles. Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.

Really, unless we actively seek to determine the source of these misconceptions (public school curriculum, news media, fictional media etc.) so we can dismantle them, we will forever be quoting facts to a people who care not for logic, and who will cling desperately to their bias until they take their last breath.

[reynesofcastamere]

Thrown Gauntlet[Ω]

(A/N: Sooooo....I’ve decided to start another series of fics that I will be marking with [Ω] in the titles: To disinguish them from both the main series (which I am still working on) and the [β] drabbles (which are all over the place in terms of timeline, setting, universe, etc.). Essentially a very self-indulgent AU where Savage, Maul, and Feral all get adopted by Clan Wren. This installment takes place in 20 BBY, so Ahsoka is around 16 and Maul is about 34. However. I want to state outright that the dynamic is intended to be a verrrrry slow build and that nothing romantic and/or sexual will be occurring between Maul and Ahsoka until MUCH later. If what I’ve described does not sound like your personal cup of tea, then by all means, feel free to give this fic and/or series a pass. This is getting a bit long, so to sum up: No trigger warnings, Obi-Wan is an Incurable Flirt, Rex is Flustered, and Maul is about 100% Done With Everyone’s Nonsense. Unbeta’d)  The Jedi Temple is buzzing. Not literally, of course, but Ahsoka can feel a strange vibration in the Force. Excitement, or maybe irritation? There’s definitely quite a bit more whispering amongst her fellow Jedi and the clone troopers she passes on her path to the east hangar. Master Anakin had told her to pack for a long trip, which she can only assume means they’ve been assigned another mission and he’s withholding the details so as to ‘surprise’ her appropriately. Typical Skyguy.

She spots Rex near the door, sans helmet. “Good morning, Captain.” A proper salute, quickly returned, though her tone is light. “Morning, Commander. And-er, yes, it certainly is.” He actually seems to be fidgeting a bit, and his face- “Rex, are you...blushing?” “N-no. No. Just-ah...Finished up my workout routine. Took more out of me than I expected. You know how it is; One day you’re all shiny-new and the next you feel older than General Yoda.” “Reeeeexxxx....Come on, whatever it is can’t be that bad.”

“The Clawbirds arrived about an hour ago. Captain Wren’s refusing to do much of anything until he finishes repairs on General Skywalker’s ship.” Rex caves, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “Master Anakin can’t be too happy about that.” Ahsoka observes, knowing just how...particular he is about his personal projects. “Should I be worried?” “Er...maybe? It’s kind of a toss-up. Depends on whether M-” He begins, before a subtler voice cuts in. “Captain, there you are. I was hoping to speak to you.” The speaker is a male Zabrak with soft golden-yellow eyes and skin, the latter of which is liberally patterned in brown markings. Unusual enough, but he’s also clad in full Mandalorian armor, helmet tucked under one arm and carrying what looks like field medic gear along with the standard jetpack and arsenal of weapons. And he’s glowing; a defined Force signature radiating Light and positive energy like a solar lamp. How-? “Medic Sergeant Wren. They are still getting along, right?” “Oh yes. He’s in a much better mood than last time. Apologies, am I interrupting?” “Thank the Maker. And no, um. Commander Tano, this is Medic Sergeant Feral Wren.” Rex looks like he’s in danger of heatstroke with how red he’s gotten. It’s not hard to see why, especially when Feral gives a smile that could melt half the ice on Bahryn. Rather than salute her, he stretches his right hand out so that they can clasp forearms briefly, a greeting from one warrior to another. “It’s a pleasure, Medic Sergeant.” She smiles back. Ahsoka can’t help it. He’s just...She’s fighting the urge to hug him like some kind of stuffed animal toy. Which is bizarre and will most definitely not be happening anytime soon. “Tano...Oh, you must be ‘Snips’. It’s almost a shame Savage volunteered to help the younglings train, we’ve both wanted to meet you for some time now.” Wait, what? “Tranyc’vod [Sunny(star-burned) brother] Anakin hasn’t been able to call as often, but he’s very proud of your accomplishments.” Feral remarks, genuinely pleased even as her head spins with the implications. Her Master has a lot of explaining to do. “Speaking of which, I’d better not keep him waiting much longer. I look forward to talking to you again, though. See you later, Captain. Maybe you should ask the Medic Sergeant about those stamina issues you’re having?” She can’t resist ribbing Rex as she departs, watching him splutter as Feral, like any good medic, starts making inquiries about his ‘condition’ while looking him over. And placing a hand on his chestplate, apparently. Huh. Maybe her friend’s obvious crush isn’t quite as one-sided as she’d thought. Ahsoka navigates her way through the semi-organized rows of ships. Even if Anakin’s presence in the Force wasn’t abnormally strong, she doesn’t need to focus to find him. Not when he’s talking loud enough to be heard across half the hangar. “-last time, it’s fine! You’re just being paranoid, as usual.” “Every ship I have been forced to borrow from you has either crashed, suffered a critical malfunction, or was confined to the scrap heap mere hours after landing. No one is setting a foot on this poorly-constructed death trap until I am absolutely certain it won’t spontaneously combust mid-flight.” And that must be Captain Wren. He sounds...irritated, to say the least.

“My ships run perfectly, thanks. Must hurt that Mando pride, knowing a Jedi is a better pilot and mechanic than you, Captain.” She’s not quite within visual range yet, but she knows her Master is smirking. “How sad that as a Jedi, you cannot recognize your own failings, General. Perhaps you should conduct a survey of your ‘victims’ instead of this poor attempt at distraction. Mir’osik adiik be’kyorla hut’uun![Dung for brains child of (a) rotten coward!]-” “Ouch. What, did one of your horns get caught in the hydraulics?” “Hilarious. Make yourself useful by grabbing a towel, or something from Kenobi’s closet. I’m coming out.” “Ah, Captain Wren. I thought the general ambience had improved. What were you saying about my clothing?” She hadn’t been aware of Master Kenobi’s presence before this. Either he’d used a secondary entrance or had been waiting for his chance to join the exchange while the captain was busy. “Kenobi.”

“Oh come now, surely you can muster a more polite greeting than that. You’ve been away so long I’ve had to listen to recordings just to remember the sound of your lovely voice.” “Perhaps I will address you with respect when you learn to stop leering at me, besom [ill-mannered lout].” “Busted. Again.” “You’re not helping, Anakin.” Ahsoka rounds a corner and-Oh. Wow. How far down do those-? She blinks a few times, just to be sure of what she’s seeing. Yep, there is a very shirtless Zabrak with the kind of muscle definition that would make scores of artists weep standing with his back to her and wiping his face off with a towel. She desperately hopes that her jaw is not hanging open as he turns his head to survey her with one vibrant yellow tourmaline eye. She honestly doesn’t know if she wants to draw closer or back away in that moment. His presence in the Force is not a benevolent, harmless light, but rather a controlled fire that sparks and issues dark threads of smoke. This...Ahsoka doesn’t understand what is going on, and it’s starting to make her uncomfortable. “The spy finally shows herself.” He remarks, assessing and dismissing her as a non-threat within the span of a few seconds, continuing to wipe off whatever type of mess had been spattered on him. “Don’t mind him, Snips. Someone shoved a shock baton up his ass years ago and the medics never found a way to pull it out. Tragic, really.” Anakin Skywalker grins, arms loosely folded across his chest and leaning against the outside of his ship. “Ahsoka, this is Maul. We’ll be working with him and his people for the forseeable future.” It clicks suddenly where she’s heard both his name and that of his group before: Captain Maul of Clan Wren and his company are the only Mandalorian supercommandos who will actually work with the Jedi Council. At least, when they’re not busy with bodyguard or mercenary jobs. Part of that involves what is referred to -with some awe and a lot of fear- as ‘running the gauntlet’, a mandatory training course for any Padawans or Knights posted to or intending to spend a considerable amount of time in the barely-civilized regions of space. It’s been suspended since the war started in earnest, but if they’re going to be sticking around for a while...Well, the implications are pretty serious. And Ahsoka has somehow managed to ogle one of the most infamous hardasses this side of the Mid Rim. Fantastic. Really. Maul disposes of the stained towel and turns to face her properly, Ahsoka’s gaze staying determinedly on his face as they grip each other’s right forearms. He doesn’t pull back after a few seconds as Feral had, hand locking in place as he seems to peer into her soul.  “I will say this once. We are not like our evaar’la vod’e[young brothers]. We are not subservient to you, and I do not accept excuses or blatant disrespect.” A pause and a slight increase in pressure, just below the threshold of inflicting pain. “Are you ready, Ahsoka Tano?” “Yes, Captain.” She answers with a certainty that she can feel in her very bones, and is rewarded with the hint of a wry smile when he lets go. Well that’s...something. Master Kenobi clears his throat pointedly. Right. Mission briefing first. Sort out her feelings later. Still, she can’t help but look forward to whatever comes next. (A/N: *cracks knuckles* Well, that’s the first installment. A little vague on the details, but I’m hoping to elaborate on what’s been hinted at here relatively soon. The name of the supercommando company comes from the Legends novel Maul:Lockdown by Joe Schreiber. And yes, for fellow Rebels fans who are reading this thing: In this AU, Sabine and Tristan get three badass Zabrak-hybrid uncles and a fair amount of adopted cousins. (Which is entirely Savage’s doing.) I do believe that Anakin is a gifted mechanic, but also couldn’t resist the running joke of ‘Skywalker’s ships/anything he tinkers with only work for him and Artoo’. Cheers!) 

[eilonwiiy]

Bookends ; A Witchlands AU

Chapter 7

When a relentless Evrane encourages him to be more adventurous, Aeduan explores the possibility of what life might be without Owl.  Meanwhile, Iseult can't help but feel that Safi is keeping something from her.

Summary: Iseult det Midenzi never expected to go to a top university, so when her mother falls ill and she is forced to drop out to make ends meet, life has never seemed so unfair. But when she starts working at the local library and is unexpectedly assigned in the Children’s Room, a certain monosyllabic man and his thrice-damned demon child start showing up and Iseult begins to wonder if the threads of fate have a plan for her after all.

Previous chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6

Ships: Iseult/Aeduan, Safi/Merik, and more… stay tuned!

Tags: modern AU, college setting, family, friendship, humor, fluff, slow-burn, romance, eventual smut

Read on AO3: here

Tag list: (please let me know if you’d like to be added!) @lseultdetmidenzi @twilightlegacy13

*   .   *   .   *   .   *   .

Aeduan prowled the bookshelves in the Children’s Room barely containing his impatience.  The room was unusually busy for the morning.  He’d overheard one disgruntled parent grumble about the schools being closed for a teacher development day and thus every corner was crawling with rambunctious children.  It didn’t help that Evrane and Owl were late.  Or that the main desk was absent one black-haired librarian.

Wherever Iseult was, Aeduan envied her.  The cacophony of electronic bells and whistles and high-pitched prepubescent voices migrating from the computer island was giving him a headache.  Every couple minutes one of the more stern looking librarians would instruct them to keep their voices down, adding to the fray of noise as well as Aeduan’s irritation.  The library should provide headphones, he thought grumpily.

“No books today?” came a voice behind Aeduan.

He turned around and found Evrane and Owl walking down the aisle.

“You’re late,” he said tersely.

“Yes, well,” Evrane breathed happily, clasping her hands together and sharing a look with Owl that he was surprised to see returned by the child, “we were finishing a puzzle.”

“A puzzle?” Aeduan stared at her incredulously.  “Evrane-”

Evrane held up a finger.  “Ah.  Trust.  Remember to trust me.”

They locked each other in a staring contest.  Aeduan held in a breath, impulse strained against his chest-

He conceded with a curt nod.  Evrane smiled.

“So what’s on the agenda this weekend?” Evrane asked as Aeduan knelt down to help Owl into her coat.

Aeduan shrugged.  “The same as usual.”  They had fallen into a post-session rhythm over the last few weeks, usually involving non-threatening topics like weekend plans or the weather.  

“I’ll pick up the girls from school tomorrow and they’ll stay the weekend.  Lisbet has some sort of group project she needs to go to for her science class, but other than that it should be uneventful.”

Evrane nodded, then eyed him more closely.  “And what about you?”

“Me?”

“Yes, you.  Do you have any plans?”  The manner in which she asked this question suggested only innocent curiosity, but bells were going off in Aeduan’s head.  He finished zipping Owl up and stood to face Evrane.  He squared his shoulders.

“I just told you.”

“I mean any plans that don’t involve the girls.  Or,” she added as an afterthought, “those girls, at least.”

“Owl will be-”

“Anyone who isn’t Owl, Lisbet, or Cora.”

Aeduan shook his head, confused.  “Who would I-”

“I don’t know, Aeduan,” cut in Evrane, followed by a single exasperated laugh.  “Perhaps a friend.  Or maybe you’d like to do something on your own.”

Aeduan’s jaw locked.  This was definitely outside of their mutually unspoken established topics of conversation.  His chest swelled with barely controlled annoyance.  “I can’t very well leave Owl at home without someone there to watch her.”  Each word was pronounced with an obvious effort of forced civility.

“No, you can’t,” Evrane agreed brightly.  “The people handling your adoption case will be very happy to know that you know that.”

“Then what exactly would you suggest I do?  Get a babysitter?”

“Yes!”

Aeduan waved a hand between them.  “Look, if you’re trying to offer-”

“No, of course I’m not volunteering.  I know you would never willingly accept my help.  Again,” added Evrane with a flash of her emerald eyes.  Before Aeduan could bite back, she was already herding him back into her line of thought.  “If not me, then someone else.  Perhaps Lisbet.  She’s responsible enough.”

“She’s young.”

“And perfectly capable.”

Aeduan pinched the bridge of his nose.  He was suddenly very tired.  Things had been going so well.  Why was she pushing this?  When he lowered his hand, he planned on asking her just that, but then she caught it with her own and everything inside him went quiet.  The skin was warm and her touch forced his gaze to meet hers.  

He’d seen her every week since she reentered his life, but only now was he suddenly struck by how much Evrane had changed in the last 13 years.  Nothing could take away her beauty, but there were little wrinkles branching out from the corners of her eyes like tree roots. He wondered what she was seeing on his face.    

“I’m only suggesting for your own sake,” she assured him calmly.  She didn’t let go of his hand.  “When was the last time you had a moment to yourself?”

Aeduan swallowed painfully.  “I don’t know,” he admitted finally, the confession rough against his throat.  

“Well,” Evrane smiled and she gave his hand encouraging squeeze before releasing it, “maybe it’s time to start thinking about what you can do to change that.”

*   .   *   .   *   .   *   .

“Goat tits!  This is the worst.”

“If you had done it last night-”

“Iz!”

Iseult hovered by Safi’s shoulder, coffee pot in hand, as her friend tried to scribble down her 9th and final (wrong) answer on a very crumpled looking piece of paper.  Her giant calculus textbook lay open on the table, the polished circular area barely big enough for her other school materials, let alone that monstrosity, as it was meant for coffee, not serious work.  Well, if you could call whatever Safi was doing serious, which incidentally, Safi didn’t.

“You do know all of that is wrong, right?” Iseult asked.

“Of course it’s all wrong!” Safi snapped, hand not stopping its’ frenzied movements.  “What do I look like?  A mathematician?!”

No, she didn’t.  In fact, she didn’t really look much like Safi either.  She’d spent far more time in the bathroom getting ready that morning than she normally did, and the result was a very different image than Iseult was used to seeing at 10 A.M..  Safi’s face was bare as it always was, far too beautiful to be needlessly hindered by make-up, but it looked fresh and clean, and the long shower she had taken had given her golden cheeks a lovely rosy glow.  Her hair was prettily braided and pinned around her head like a crown and, if Iseult wasn’t mistaken, she thought she caught a whiff of fruity perfume on her.  To top it all off, Safi had left her sweatpants and Cleaved Man hoodie crumpled on the floor and chosen to investigate the contents of her closet, leaving Iseult open-mouthed when she came sweeping out from behind the curtain into Jitters wearing a form fitting burgundy turtle-neck and floral corduroy skirt that showcased her long, lean legs and knee-high suede boots.  There was a good chance her calculus professor wouldn’t even recognize her.

“Better to hand something in than nothing and get zero marks though.  This,” Safi tapped the paper with her pencil, “shows I care.”

Iseult snorted.  Safi put the last finishing touches on her (wrong) answer with a flourish, then carelessly stuck the sheet of paper into her open textbook and slammed it shut.  

“I’d say ‘job well done’, but we both know that’s not true.”

Safi grinned smugly at Iseult, looking more than a little satisfied with herself.  

“I think I deserve another donut after all that.”    

“Of course you do,” Iseult said rolling her eyes and turning to retreat behind the coffee counter.  She heard the scrape of Safi’s chair as she got up and followed her.  While she got another pot of coffee started, Safi no doubt went to inspect the pastry display.  A sharp gasp of horror came from behind her back.

“No sprinkles?  What is this? The Grapes of Wrath?”

Iseult, wiping her hands on her apron, turned around.  “You know, after watching you bullshit your way through your calculus homework, it’s comforting to hear you make a literary reference.”

Safi scrunched up her nose at the display case.  “John Steinbeck taking up cranial space in my head doesn’t change the fact that there are no more sprinkled donuts.”

“Reference Jane Austen and maybe they’ll magically appear.”

Safi glanced over her shoulder, raising an eyebrow at Iseult.  “You’re not as funny as you think you are.”

“And you will be fine going a day without a sprinkled donut despite what you may think.  Pick something else.”  Iseult felt like a mother reprimanding her child.

Safi looked back at the pastries with a forlorn sort of sigh.  After a moment’s careful deliberation (for these truly are some of the hardest decisions we are presented with at 10 in the morning) she slid the glass door open and reached for a banana chocolate chip muffin.  

“A sensible substitute,” Iseult congratulated, waving open a brown paper bag and holding it out for Safi to deposit her muffin into.  Safi dropped it in, looking resentful, but Iseult knew she was hamming it up.  Safi had no issues when it came to expressing her anger.

Safi took the bag from Iseult and glared down at its sprinkle-less contents.  The raw judgement burning behind her eyes, all directed at a defenseless muffin, made Iseult think of something.

“Hey, you haven’t run into that guy from the bar on campus, have you?”

The paper bag crinkled under Safi’s hands as she rolled the top closed.  “What guy?”

“That asshole who,” Iseult hesitated, mentally wincing at the memory, “yelled at you.”

Safi’s hands froze.  “Ah,” she merely said, then resumed twisting the paper bag, despite it being well and closed.  “The ingrate thwarted by a single button.”

“Yeah, him.  Have you seen him?”

Safi gave the bag a final twist, then looked up at Iseult, offering her a closed-lip smile.  Her shoulders bounced once and she shook her head.  “Nope,” she said brightly.  She strolled out from behind the counter and back to her table.  “His tits probably fell off from frost exposure and he’s holed up in some hospital somewhere awaiting reconstructive surgery.”

Iseult watched Safi carefully.  For whatever reason, her tone had snagged on something in Iseult and held her in place.  Somewhere wrong.  A lie, possibly.

But never, in all their years of friendship, had Safi lied to Iseult.  And never had Iseult lied to Safi.  They told each other everything.  Safi had told Iseult about her uncle and the years she spent growing up with an alcoholic.  She had told her about Chiseled Cheater and the false kisses they’d shared.  She had told her about her parents and how she missed them and would trade anything to have them back.  Anything, except Iseult.

And Iseult had told Safi about Gretchya.  A childhood filled with loneliness and endless beratement.  She had told her about not being able to make ends meet and needing to drop out of school.  She had even told her that she had never been kissed until last summer.  

Now, suddenly, Iseult was wishing she hadn’t asked about the Nubrevnan.  The snag was no longer a snag, but twisting itself into a tangled web of wrongness with no obvious beginning or end.

“I have a proposition for you,” Safi announced, slicing through Iseult’s thoughts, though, the knot remained fully intact.  A living, breathing thing now.  The shift in topic seemed to feed it, pull it tighter into submission, so that all Iseult could do to contain it was stare at her friend.    

“How would you like to go to a party on Friday night?”

“Well, you know how much I like parties,” Iseult managed to reply deadpanned.

“I know, but it’s at Vaness’ and I’ve always considered her parties more like sophisticated soirees, you know?  She doesn’t put up with the bullshit you get at other parties on campus.”

“I guess.”  Safi wasn’t wrong.  Now busy working on her masters, Vaness didn’t have time to involve herself in the antics of college.  In truth, she never had.  It’s how she’d earned herself the title of the “Iron Bitch” in just the first week of her freshman year.  Even before she graduated, she’d displayed a low tolerance for her peers and the debauchery they would find themselves in every weekend.  Her parties always had an air of opulence around them and were strictly invitation only.  Except for her infamous end-of-the-year party.  That was open to everyone and it almost always ended with the cops shutting it down by sunrise.  At least, they had last year.  Iseult had been so drunk, she didn’t even remember how she’d gotten home that night.

“Are the Hell-Bards playing?” she asked, diverting her mind from racing off to memories she didn’t quite have the mental energy to duel with so early in the day.  

“I said it was going to be a classy affair.  Classy.”

“So, no?”

“No.”

“Good.  At least the soundtrack to the evening won’t suck.”

Safi’s face brightened.  “So you’ll come?”

Iseult relinquished a nod.  “Yeah, I’ll go.  If only to watch Vaness skewer Leopold with one of her nails.”

Safi bellied a laugh as she pulled on her coat.  “I think he rather enjoys it.  One may say he encourages it.”

“You think?” Iseult asked, genuinely curious.

Safi shrugged, then paused.  A dangerous smile crawled onto her lips.  “Jealous?”

“I could ask the same to you,” Iseult volleyed back.  “Don’t even try to deny that you’ve never thought about Vaness in that way.”

Safi feigned insult.  “I wouldn’t dream of it!  There isn’t a soul among us that hasn’t fallen under her spell.”  She started to back away towards the door.  “Are we still on for dinner tonight?”

“Yep!  But hold on, I have a favor I need to ask.”

Safi stopped her descent and took a couple calculated steps back towards the counter.  “A favor?”

“A proposition,” Iseult amended, co-opting Safi’s earlier choice word.

“If it’s for me to ditch class and run away to Marstok with you, then the answer is yes.  You’ve never had a better idea.”

“I was wondering,” Iseult went on pointedly, “if you’d be willing to go to Ryber and Tanzi’s book club with me next month.”

“I already said I would.”

“You did?  When?”

Realization burst across Safi’s face.  “Oh that’s right!  I told Ryber and Tanzi last week.  When we had lunch together.”

Iseult felt the line between her brow form before she could stop it.  “You had lunch together?”

“Yeah, last week.  Tuesday, maybe?  We ran into each other on the way to the dining commons and ended eating together.  They’re really great.  I like them a lot.”

“Yeah,” Iseult was barely able to say.  The image of Safi, Ryber, and Tanzi sitting at the dining commons, laughing together, without her made the knot in her chest from earlier drop into her stomach and melt into something different entirely.  “I like them too."

“When is it again?” Safi asked.

Iseult swallowed hard.  “She said they meet the second Friday of every other month.”

Safi whipped out her phone and tapped the screen a couple times before her eyebrows bounced in surprise.  “Oh.  So, Valentine’s Day?”

“Oh.  Um, I guess,” Iseult replied.  She hadn’t known that.  Not that it made a difference.  She’d never had a date for Valentine’s Day, nor any other calendar day of the year for that matter.  Nothing in the last month had indicated that this year would be any different.    

Iseult noted the small frown that appeared on Safi’s face as she looked down at her phone’s calendar for a moment too long before slipping it back into her coat pocket.  With some effort, she smiled at Iseult.  

“That should work for me.  Unless I get roped into a shift at the Cleaved Man.  Lord knows Stix probably has eight dates lined up for the evening.”  Safi bristled with a resentful huff.  She caught Iseult’s eye.

“So… are we going to Marstok or not?”

*   .   *   .   *   .   *   .

Aeduan’s boots hit the concrete hard, his conversation with Evrane replaying over and over again in his head.  He wished she hadn’t said anything.  He wasn’t angry, but now that the idea was out there, he couldn’t stop thinking about it.  A list was beginning to form with all the things he would do if he didn’t have to keep an eye on Owl every second of the day.  Simple things, like going for a run in the evenings.  Or taking a ride on his motorcycle when he needed to blow off steam.  He missed the adrenaline, missed cutting through the air like nothing could hurt him.  Maybe Evrane was right.  Maybe Lisbet wasn’t too young to watch Owl.  If not her, then who else could he trust with that responsibility?  

A whimper broke out behind Aeduan.  He’d been, without even realizing it, walking much too fast for Owl.  Monster.  10 minutes and he was already forgetting the child.

“Sorry,” he murmured, stopping and kneeling down to make sure she’d heard him.  Passersby walked around them on the busy sidewalk.  He adjusted Owl’s scarf.  Her eyes rolled down to the concrete.  

Avoidance.  She was avoiding him.  

Aeduan’s heart sank, all fantasies of his motorcycle whooshing out of his head.  How much of his conversation with Evrane had she understood?

“What would you like to do this weekend?” he asked her, his big hands curled around her scarf.  “I think it’s supposed to snow overnight tomorrow.  Want to build another fort for Blueberry?  The other one is almost all melted.”

Owl said nothing.

“Or maybe we could have a snowball fight with Cora and Lisbet.  I bet we can take them.”

Nothing.

Aeduan brought his forehead close to hers so that their noses were almost touching.  “Maybe,” he whispered, drawing out the word, “we could make a decision over a muffin?”

Owl sour expression cracked.  Relief flooded Aeduan’s heart when her black eyes made contact with his.  

Stopping at Jitters after a session with Evrane was becoming somewhat of a weekly tradition.  More than once he’d been tempted to pay a visit on days when they didn’t have an appointment at the library.  There was something comforting about starting off the morning with a fresh pastry and hot cup of coffee.  Or maybe he’d mooched off of Owl’s bowl of Cheerios for his own breakfast one too many times.  

It wasn’t long before the bell above Jitters’ entrance door was jingling its welcome, but just as Aeduan stepped inside, he froze.

It wasn’t the grouchy barista from his first trip (though he had, unfortunately, seen her since then).  No, it was Iseult behind the counter.  Wearing an apron.  Pouring coffee.

Iseult.

Her round face shone like the moon, as much of her chin length hair as possible pulled back in a messy bun and a headband resting on top of her head.  Wisps of stray hairs fell around her face and in her eyes as she wiped her hands on her apron and pulled out a pile of receipts from the front pocket.  Aeduan had never seen her so relaxed.  Or with so much color in her face.  Cheeks rosy pink, like she’d just finished with the lunch rush. It softened her somehow.  

The bell hanging above Aeduan’s head stopped swaying and went silent.  Waiting for the verdict.

He could run.  Turn around and leave and the girl would be none the wiser.  He’d have to make up some excuse to Owl, but how hard would that be?

Idiot, he cursed himself.  He was a former police officer.  The son of Ragnor Amalej.  What would his father say if he saw him running for the hills because of a simple librarian?  His mother would have smiled.  She would have told him again the story of another man who was kind and quiet.  A man who had stumbled over words and given her no choice but to fall in love with him.

That woke him up.  He was not his father.  And he certainly did not - and would never - have feelings for this plain girl, this librarian.  That thought was enough encouragement to get him through the door.  

Iseult’s head rose at the sound of the door slamming and the violent jangle of ringing that came with it.  Her expression, so ordinarily cool and unreadable, popped with surprise at the sight of him.  

“Aeduan.”  

His name sounded breathless on her lips.  Had he been paying attention to anything outside of her lovely, pale face, he would have felt the something it stirred inside him.

“I didn’t know you worked here,” remarked Aeduan matter-of-factly as he approached the counter.

Iseult’s features smoothed back into place.  “Yes. I work here and-” Her gaze fluttered up to the ceiling for a second, then back down.  She brushed her hair out of her eyes, possibly a nervous tick.  “And at the library.”

Aeduan nodded.  She was staring at him thoughtfully.  Expectantly.  He was here for a reason, wasn’t he?

“I was at the library today.”

“You were?”

“Yes.”  Aeduan paused, then thinking that perhaps he should say something else, continued.  “I wanted to get the next book in the My Father’s Dragon series… but you weren’t there.”

A small frown crinkled at the edge of Iseult’s eyes.  “Was Hilga there?  Or Rosa?”

“I-”  Well, this was more than a little embarrassing.  Good thing she didn’t know he was a former cop, top of his precinct, destined to make detective, and incapable of finding a book.  

“I didn’t have time to ask,” he lied.  

“Oh.”  Such a small word.  It carried the weight of thought that could not be read on her face.  “I can look for it tomorrow.”

“You don’t have to-”

“It’s no trouble-”

“We’re only a couple chapters in-”

“I really don’t mind,” Iseult insisted.  She hesitated, then added, “I can give you a call and let you know whether or not it’s in.”

“Oh.  Well...”  Aeduan took a bracing breath and tore a napkin from the basket on top of the display case, then grabbed one of the pens from the chipped mug sitting next to the register acting as a pencil holder.  He clicked the top of the pen with his thumb, bent over the counter, and started writing.  When he was finished, he slid it across the counter to Iseult.  

“My number,” he explained.

Iseult peeled the napkin from the counter and held it up with both her hands.  The way she held it made it look fragile, like it might break if she were to drop it.  Her lips rolled inward, and for the first time since meeting her, she seemed to have trouble meeting his eyes.

“Thank you,” she finally said.  Finally looking at him.  “But I have your contact information at the library.  From when you registered for a card.”

Aeduan could practically feel the inferno of embarrassment that ignited in his blood.  He half-expected her to shove his number back to him or, hell-gates, what if she crumpled it up and tossed it in the trash?  But instead she surprised him: she folded the napkin carefully and slipped it into the front pocket of her apron.

“Is there anything else I can help you with?”

Aeduan swallowed.  Once.  Twice.  Then shook his head.  “No,” he muttered, his voice little more than a rasp.  

Iseult blinked.  Confused.  “You don’t want anything?”

“Want?”  It took a moment for her meaning to penetrate his abnormally thick skull.  “Right.  Yes.  Hot Coffee.  Medium.  And two blueberry lemon muffins.”

“To go?”

And away from this devastating conversation?  “Yes.”

There would be no more attempt at conversing from his end.  He was spent.  While Iseult prepared his coffee, Aeduan busied himself with observing the cafe even though he’d seen it a dozen times before.  It was emptier than usual.  The same nondescript instrumental music played from the old stereo behind the counter.  The only thing out of place was the smoldering mound of charred wood and ash in the fireplace.  The normally popping fire seemed to have died and was in need of more wood.

“Do you want hazelnut?”

Aeduan jerked his head over his shoulder.  “Excuse me?”

“Do you want hazelnut with your coffee?  I sometimes like to top mine off with it.  It goes really well with this blend.”

Aeduan split his gaze between Iseult and the small jar of ground hazelnut in her hand.  He wasn’t even sure why she was asking him, but without his permission, his mouth was forming a succinct ‘sure’ and he returned his attention back to the cafe.  

“Oh!”

Aeduan swung around at the sound of Iseult’s startled gasp.  She wasn’t there.

Taking an urgent step forward, he braced his hands on the counter and craned his neck over the display case.  “Iseult?”

“I-I’m alright,” a muffled voice came and a split-second later, she popped back up from behind the pastries.  Color had blossomed on her cheeks, fanning out across the bridge of her nose.  “S-she just startled me.  That’s all.”

Aeduan’s eyes narrowed.  “Who?” he demanded. And then he noticed Iseult’s downturned gaze traveling to a place next to him.  Oh. Oh.

Owl was looking more red in the face than Iseult.  It was alarming how much tension those two chubby cheeks could conjur.  He knew this look.  It was the same one she gave the car seat the moment before he would force her down in it and buckle her up.  

Well, no time like the present.  They’d been to the library enough times that he supposed it was time for a proper introduction, so he scooped her up in his arms, then angled them both to face Iseult.

“Owl, this is Iseult.”  Iseult.  He’d never said her name out loud before.  It poured like honey from his mouth.  He licked his lips; it took him a moment to form more words.  “She works with Evrane at the library. She’s the librarian who picked out all your books we’ve been reading together.”  When Owl made no show of having understood a word he said, he tried to coax some reaction out of her with a gentle bounce on his hip and an encouraging, “Wasn’t that nice of her?”

Owl twisted her head and hid her face in the crook of Aeduan's neck.  

Well, it was a reaction.  Just not the one he was hoping for.  

He shifted on his feet and forced himself to look at Iseult.  “Sorry,” he apologized gruffly.  “She’s… shy.”

“That’s alright,” Iseult murmured, and Aeduan could have sworn he saw her lips harbor a small smile as she fidgeted with the strings of her apron.  “I’m shy too.”  Then, her lips quivered.  “Is s-she... your daughter?”

No.  

That’s what he was supposed to say.  It was the truth, wasn’t it?  Owl was nothing to him unless the adoption succeeded.  Yet nothing had felt so wrong to him.  

No.  

The word stopped his heart.  Sent his stomach to roil.  

“I would like her to be,” Aeduan heard himself admit.  A slow rasp.  Like something heavy being dragged over concrete.  “I… I’m applying for adoption.”

Aeduan watched Iseult’s pupils dilate.  The tremble in her lips quieted. Then: “That is admirable.”

Aeduan exhaled.  Warmth spread in his chest.  He didn’t know what to say.  He didn’t even notice Iseult tapping the keys on her register.  He barely understood what she was saying when she said, “Your total comes to $5.79.”

Numbly, Aeduan pulled out his wallet from his back pocket with one hand while his other arm was full of Owl.  He managed to pull out several bills and handed them across the counter.  When she handed him back his change, he dropped it into the tip mug next to the register.  

Owl seemed intent on staying hidden in his neck, so he did his best to pick up the bag of muffins and his coffee with one hand without dropping everything.  The transaction was over, but Aeduan found himself staring at Iseult, her staring back at him, her hands folded over each other in front of her as though it was taking some effort not to fidget with her apron strings.  It relaxed him somehow, seeing those delicate pearly white fingers locked together.  She was nervous; he wasn’t alone.  

Aeduan's wrist rolled at his side.  He sucked in a breath.  “Do you-”

The bell jangled as the entrance door swung open and a stick figure of a boy came flying in.

“Sorry, sorry I know I’m late!”

He was a blur of gangly limbs and patchwork colored skin - some dark, some light - as he skidded to halt behind the counter, heaping apologies onto Iseult like his life depended on it.  On and on it went and Aeduan just stood there, despite the fact that he had nothing to do with whatever this stranger was babbling about.  In the midst of the boy’s mounting hysteria, his voice pitching higher as it went on, Iseult’s eyes slid to Aeduan’s, her expression as quiet as ever.  Something passed between them, but Aeduan wasn’t sure what.

“It’s alright, Cam,” Iseult finally interjected over the boy’s apologies.  Again, she glanced over at Aeduan.  She looked like she wanted to say something.  But for some reason, Aeduan spared her the chance.  He forced a rough cough from his lungs and, giving her a brusque nod, spun away from her entirely and made a beeline to the cream and sugar station.  Behind his back, the boy’s voice piped up again, and Aeduan heard the shuffle of feet and voices trailing away as though they were moving their conversation to the back.  Iseult obviously had her hands full with an incompetent employee.  There was no reason he had to trap her in another staring match that would inevitably go nowhere.  

Those eyes.  Aeduan gritted his teeth as he uncovered his coffee thinking of them, how they had looked at him when she’d called him admirable.  Him.  Admirable.  She had no right calling him that.  She didn’t even know him.

Well, he reasoned, stirring cream into his coffee and watching the flecks of hazelnut Iseult added spin around and around and eventually become swallowed by the whirlpool, she hadn’t exactly called him admirable.  She was only commending what he was doing with Owl admirable.  Admirable.  That was one word for it.  Or stupid.  Impulsive. Completely insane and beyond his reach.

The bells over the entrance door tinkled and Owl, who had been glued to his side for the last 5 minutes, stirred slightly in his arms, her tiny frame expanding and drooping with a sleepy sigh.  

Hell-gates, what was he doing?  Trying to adopt a kid?  Who was he kidding?  It didn’t matter who his father was or what family he came from or that Iseult thought it was admirable.  He was still Aeduan Amalej.  He may not wear the badge or carry a gun anymore, but he still had his reputation as the demon of his precinct who had given up his soul for the cause, for justice.  That was something he couldn’t shed so easily.  

Aeduan popped the lid back on his coffee cup and his hand froze.  Cold crawled across the back of his neck like a spider.  It was only when a familiar voice spoke from behind him did he know why.  

“Well, well, if it isn’t my partner in justice.”

[latter-day-saint-nick]

That Time Nikolai Stayed at a Finnish Mental Hospital

I decided to make my own post, because this turned obscenely long. It includes descriptions of Finnish health care, personal details about my mental health and some journal entries I wrote back in the day.

This was in April of 2010. Less than a year earlier I had uprooted my life to move to a country where I didn’t speak the language, just so I could live closer to my boyfriend, who strung me along one minute, just to reject me the next. I was extremely depressed, and I finally reached the point where I didn’t feel like I could take care of myself anymore, so one evening I called the emergency number to tell the operator that I was suicidal, that I didn’t want to be left on my own at home and that I needed to be hospitalized. The operator told me that the emergency services don’t deal with this kind of thing. He asked me not to hurt myself tonight and to make a doctor’s appointment in the morning.

So the next morning I packed a bag with some necessities (toothbrush and so on) and headed to the doctor’s office. I told the nurse at the reception that I was suicidal and needed to be hospitalized. She made an appointment for me, and I got to see a doctor. I proceeded to tell the doctor the same thing I had told the nurse, but they told me that they didn’t have the authority to send me to a mental hospital, so they sent me across town to a psychiatrist instead. I then told the psychiatrist the same thing I had already told three different medical professionals before. I don’t really remember much of the meeting, because my brain was in such a depression fog at this point that everything seemed slightly unreal. The one thing I do remember is that the psychiatrist left the room at some point to check availability at the hospital and when he came back, he just sat in silence for a seemingly endless time, and I was terrified he was going to send me home. But he finally agreed to have me admitted to the mental ward.

I never saw this psychiatrist again, by the way. He didn’t actually work at the mental hospital, just near it, and he had nothing to do with my further treatment or medication.

Anyway, I finally got to go to the hospital. This is what I wrote about it on a slip of paper that passed as my journal for the moment:

“Who would have thought it would come to this? A year ago I was an intelligent, independent, brave young woman. And now I’m in the nuthouse. Actually, it makes me chuckle now. I was terrified when I talked to the psychiatrist. I feared that he’d decide that I wasn’t ill enough to go to the hospital, and that he’d send me home to continue soldiering on and battling my demons on my own. But I was also afraid of coming here, of being away from home in a strange environment. Besides, I hate hospitals. This place doesn’t seem as much like a hospital as like the nursing home I worked at when I was 19. Of course, that’s pretty depressing in a different way.”

Even though I wasn’t locked up and could come and go as I pleased, I noticed that my room was designed a bit like a prison cell, which intimidated me at first. The window was fairly high up and barred and the door was big and heavy, with an observation window in it. I don’t know if these things were relics from a bygone age or something, but, as I said it, we were never locked in our rooms or spied on by staff through the observation windows, so there really seemed no reason for this layout.

The furnishing was perfectly fine. There was a bed, a night table and a wardrobe. I think there may have also been a bedside lamp on the night table. I don’t quite remember the bathroom situation. I seem to recall that double rooms had bathrooms with toilets and showers attached, but the occupants of single rooms had to go a bit further down the hall. In any case, we could lock the bathroom doors for privacy.

There was a common room, with chairs and tables and a TV. That’s also where we had our meals. On the other end of the hall, there was a small sitting room with a selection of books on a shelf.

I immediately felt better about the situation after I had some friends come over to give me a priesthood blessing. As far as I remember, there were no set visiting hours, so friends and family could come and visit at more or less any time of day, just like in a normal hospital. I frequently had people come to see me, so I didn’t feel abandoned. The one time there was a bit of an issue was when my boyfriend came to visit and the nurses weren’t happy about us being alone in my room together. That struck me as needlessly puritanical. We weren’t planning on having sex, but even if we were, so what? We were both adults. Other than that, I was allowed to have the visitors in my room for privacy, rather than in a common area.

Not only were we allowed to leave the hospital during the day, but we were actually encouraged to do so, especially when we were invited to hang out and socialize with friends. After all, being with friends is good for your mental health and isolating a suicidal person is only likely to make things worse. There was a curfew, however. The front door was locked during the night, so we had to be back before a certain hour (I don’t remember what it was - 9 or 10 maybe?) if we wanted to be let back in.

The worst part was that we weren’t allowed to have computer devices. This is another rule that seems pretty unnecessary to me. Maybe they worried that we’d look up online how to commit suicide, but since we were allowed to leave the hospital during the day, it’s not like we couldn’t access the internet in other places, so it doesn’t really make any sense. My laptop wasn’t exactly forcibly confiscated. I was just kindly told that I would have to leave it at the reception and I could pick it up later. Not having my laptop meant that I ended up socializing more with the other patients than I probably would have otherwise, but I still don’t think that makes it okay. I think I got to keep my phone (it wasn’t a smartphone, so no internet), but was encouraged to use the landline at the reception to call people, rather than calling them from my own phone in my own room. I’m really not sure what that was about.

I got a little bit nervous about having other things confiscated, so I hid my razor from the nurses, just in case, even though it wouldn’t exactly have been easy to cut my wrists with it. I just really don’t like having body hair. When I say I hid my razor, I just mean that I kept it out of sight in my bag, only taking it out when I went to take a shower. It’s not like we had our bags or our rooms searched for illicit items. So I guess if I had wanted to smuggle in something I could self-harm with, it wouldn’t have been too difficult. But why would I have? None of us were forced to be at this hospital. We were all there because we were seeking help and wanted to get better. Anyway, none of my other personal items were ever confiscated.

There was a bit of a routine, I guess, but not much. Meals were at set hours and were announced with a bell. I think I overslept and missed the breakfast bell a couple of times, but usually I got up for breakfast and then went back to bed for a nap afterwards. At some during the morning, I would have to get up and leave the room, though, to give the cleaners a chance to change my sheets, make my bed and do other cleaning. I’m pretty sure we were also administered our meds at set times. I only had two pills - an antidepressant in the morning, a sleeping pill at night - but there were probably others who were on more meds. I don’t think there was a set bedtime, but, as I mentioned, there was a curfew and I think we were supposed to stay in our rooms after a certain time, so we couldn’t just stay in the common room all night watching TV, but nobody came in to make sure that we were asleep.

Not having to worry about feeding myself was to me one of the biggest benefits of staying at the mental hospital. My depression made it very difficult for me to do chores, so when I was at home, I often went all day without eating, because the prospect of making food was just too much to handle. So I liked having my meals provided for me and not having to worry about cooking or cleaning, instead focusing on my mental health.

Another thing I liked about staying at the hospital was being able to share my experiences with the other patients. As I wrote in my journal: “It seems so easy to talk about my problems with the other patients, because we all know what it’s like to be weak and scared. That’s why we’re here.” At another time I wrote:

“I went to the hospital’s common room to watch TV, and found Jonna playing cards with two other patients; a man and a woman. I joined in the game, and as we were talking, laughing and playing, the woman suddenly interrupted and said to me, ‘Excuse me, but I have to say this: you are so beautiful! You have such a beautiful smile, and a beautiful laugh, and a beautiful personality. If you were a boy, I’d flirt with you.’ [I didn’t know at that point that I was, in fact, a boy, which strikes me as pretty funny now.] It was such a nice and unexpected compliment that I hardly knew what to say. I don’t even know what to say about it now, except that it made me feel happy.”

We did have regular meetings with doctors and nurses. Other patients had group therapy sessions that they went to, but because of the language barrier, I couldn’t join in on those and there weren’t any English groups. My meetings with the doctors weren’t particularly helpful, and mostly consisted of repeating the same information over and over.

Here’s another journal entry from a week after I was first admitted to the hospital:

“I’m at home right now. This is because I had a meeting with a doctor today, and she decided to see if I could spend a night at home. Tomorrow I’m going back to the hospital. It hasn’t been too bad to be at home, although I’ve been feeling rather melancholic. The future still looks big and scary, even the near future. The doctor also asked me a lot of questions, and some of them were rather uncomfortable, like the ones pertaining to my mother. In the end I started crying.

“I also had a meeting with a medical student who was doing research or something. I don’t know. This meeting went a lot better, I think. She asked me questions about my life, and I was able to answer calmly without breaking into sobs. She also seemed to understand me better than most doctors when I told her things like that sometimes I’m afraid to go outside because there are monsters out there.

“I feel like I’ve told my life story about a dozen times this week.”

About a week later, I was made to switch rooms for some reason, so I now had a roommate. I wrote about her:

“She’s nice, but she’s more messed up than I am. The doctors are still going to send her home on Wednesday. That worries me. I may not have known her for very long, but I don’t want her to hurt herself.”

She told me about a time when she attempted suicide by overdosing on prescription medication. She was rushed to the hospital, but discharged immediately and given another prescription for the same medication she had overdosed on. We both felt let down by the system. She didn’t want to go home and be on her own yet, but didn’t have a choice in the matter. I was pretty sure I’d be discharged soon too, even though I didn’t feel ready, so I could sympathize.

Another excerpt from my journal:

“Today I’ve been feeling very anxious and depressed. Half the time I wasn’t even sure why. It might be because I’m meeting with the doctor tomorrow, and she is most likely going to send me home. I don’t feel ready to take care of myself again. The thought scares me. It also brings back all my other fears about the future. I’m afraid of having to stay on my own [in] my home. I’m afraid that I’ll have to get a job I won’t be able to handle. I’m afraid that I will never be successful and happy. I’m afraid that I might not have a purpose. I’m afraid that I made the wrong choice when I came to Finland.

“There are some fears I don’t even want to write down, because just thinking about them makes me want to throw up. Damn, I’m so scared!”

I did end up getting sent home, feeling miserable, but I was readmitted a few days later when I failed to show up for a routine check-up and a nurse called me to ask about it, to which I responded that I was afraid to go outside. That convinced them that I still wasn’t well enough to be on my own.

It wasn’t really that much longer until I was discharged again, but this time I was in a somewhat better mental state. My depression wasn’t gone, but I wasn’t feeling suicidal anymore and I felt more capable of taking care of myself now. It took me another year to get my life back on track, and I wasn’t really getting a lot of help from the Finnish healthcare system during that time. I saw a therapist, but not all that regularly. She was okay. She listened to me, but didn’t really help me much either. Everything seemed understaffed and underfunded. I once had to sit in a hospital waiting room for several hours, just to get a doctor’s note about my depression for my school. The room was full of people sick with the swine flu. Many of them were bent over with pain so bad that they could barely walk, but they still had to wait.

I complained about stuff like that back then, when I felt like I wasn’t having my needs met by the system. I now live in the UK and there are many things I complain about regarding the medical system here when I feel like I’m not having my needs met. And I have every right to complain, because mentally ill and disabled people deserve better. But I’m still glad I don’t have to deal with the US system.

On a brighter note, when I opened my old journal to get all the details correct, I found a hand-drawn card in it that I’m sure I’d never seen before. It turned out to be from Emilly. I remembered that several years ago, before we were even dating, I’d once lent her this journal, because she was having a rough time, similar to what I’d gone through a few years previously, and I wanted to share these experiences of mine with her, both the good and the bad, because I thought that might help her. She must have put the card in there when she returned the journal to me, but I never noticed it until now. The card reads:

“To [birthname]

“...just open your eyes, and see that life is beautiful

“While reading your journal one of the things I realised is beautiful is you. Hope you have a great birthday,

“Love [Emilly’s birthname]”

[paladin-andric]

Jotober, Day 9: Precious

A bit of a happy short for you all, featuring a favorite character of mine...

Wind gently breezing, the beast moved through the sky. The winged lizard moved toward the city.

A dragon.

The people had been debating about this all day. The old empire had been destroyed, individual towns, villages and cities ripe for the taking. What the other races didn’t conquer or reconquer, the dragons took. With no real system of law in place besides cultural norms and taboos, the dragons all rushed about the humans’ lands, taking whatever uncontested land they could and declaring it theirs.

The humans living there were their property, in the dragons’ eyes. Most of them, at least. They COULD exterminate them, but the populations of the cities had already been slaughtered so much that there weren’t many left in the first place. Most new dragon “lords” treated the populace as a source of income, and nothing more. They taxed and taxed, bleeding the people dry to gather their own personal hoard.

Well, there were a few exceptions. The dragons, though united in their conquest, were now bound to no law or leader. Completely operating by their own merits and ideals, their treatment of the people varied, from brutal oppression to benign neglect.

With the dragon overlords came conflict. As more and more territory was claimed, the “free” cities and towns were becoming very low in number. Draconic norms and codes of honor had resulted in peace thus far, but there were more dragons than towns. Some arrogance and rivalries would result in bloodshed, eventually.

It was these things the council debated. They were a major city out in the open, thus far unclaimed. What would they do when a dragon came? Arguments all the way from fighting to the last man to groveling for mercy were brought up, but they had their consensus now.

They would ask for partial autonomy, showering the dragon in gifts and treating it with honor if the beast accepted. If a hike in taxes was the only difference in city life, they would just have to deal with it.

If the beast murdered randomly and tormented them however, they would resist. Likely fruitlessly, but there were some things no human being would tolerate.

Now, a dragon approached, their plan put into action. A few people came outside to greet it, with archers on the walls. They were told to ‘go for the eyes’, the only thing not covered in impenetrable scales.

The dragon landed. It had black scales...a horrifying realization. These were rumored to only feel emotions when relishing in torturing and killing. This was the worst possible outcome. Out of any type of multitudes of dragon in the known world...they just had to get a black dragon.

Were negotiations even possible?

They noted that the dragon was very small...by draconic standards anyway. It was either just barely reaching adulthood, or was still near the end of adolescence. Well, that was...good? Maybe it wasn’t experienced in diplomacy. They could make it think it was getting a much better deal than it was, perhaps.

A man approached, offering a bow. “Greetings. Welcome to Pasir.”

The dragon seemed to be, well...appraising them, eyes running over every person there with vested interest. What did it plan? Were they all about to die?

Nervous, the man continued. “I am Vercan. I represent the mayor of Pasir. I’m here to negotiate with our new...ruler.”

More silence. A smile slowly formed on the dragon’s face. What horrid torture fantasies were running through its head?

“Ah, we, had some propositions on the shifting of power, and your lordship. Perhaps you might like to hear some of these proposals…?”

The grinning dragon finally spoke. “Lordship…?” its voice was shockingly soft and gentle.

“Err, yes. That is why you have come, no? To claim this land as yours?”

The dragon let out a soft chuckle. “First of all, that is LADYship to you, sir…”

“O-oh! Terribly sorry, Lad-”

“And secondly...I suppose, while technically true...I have no interest in being your mistress. You may put me down as the ruler of Pasir on parchment, but...I am not here to tell you what to do.”

A few people looked at one another in confusion and surprise. The diplomat, Vercan, retorted. “The people may need your clarification...what is it you intend? We had a reorganized legal system made to incorporate your rule ready for you to review…”

“I just...wanted to learn more about you all. I am certain you can tell, but...I am very young and inexperienced,” she gestured to herself, “I have never met humans before, and well...I just had to see for myself! And my goodness, are you so precious!”

Everyone was taken aback by this. Even the militiamen on the walls lowered their bows and looked at each other with both amused and incredulous looks on their faces, as if saying to one other, “Can you believe this?”

“Err...I’m sorry?”

“Oh you are just so small, and yet courageous, facing me plainly! I do so admire your resolve! You impress me, good sirs!”

“I...thank you?” Vercan, experienced in diplomacy as he was, couldn’t keep a straight face. He shook his head in disbelief.

“I would just love to learn more about you all! I would like to stay and speak with you daily, learning of your activities and culture! Could I do that? Would that please you?”

The dragon had a look of anticipation and excitement on her face, as if a child who had just been told they would be getting sweets.

Vercan, recovering, put on a false smile, still inwardly in disbelief. “Nothing would make us happier, Lady…?”

“Ah! Oh, goodness! How could I forget to introduce myself! How rude! I hope you will excuse this slight. I am...Gira!”

“Well, Lady Gira...you said you would be taking the mantle of Lady of Pasir, correct? Yet you also said you don’t want to rule...what is it you WOULD like, than?”

Gira scratched her chin with a claw. “Hmm...oh, I know! Do you have any sick or injured? If so, bring them to me!”

Vercan managed to hide his shock and fear, though some broke through the facade. “Are you...culling the weak?”

Gira look horrified. “N-no, never! I would never harm a hair on any of your lovely heads, humans! I promise, I am only trying to help!”

The diplomat grimaced. He wasn’t sure that was true, but to maintain good relations with their new “ruler”...

“...very well. I will speak with the people.”

A few people emerged from the gates, two groups carrying two different people. The first was an older looking bearded man, covered in bandages all over. There were even wraps over one of his eyes. The second was a young woman, covered in pustules and slick, greenish skin. Her eyes were vacant, as if she was unaware of everything around her.

“Oh, no! What is this?” Gira asked, looking at the two with concern written on her face.

“This is Mikkos,” Vercan pointed at the man, “He’s an herbalist. He was out foraging when he was attacked, and then mauled by a wolf. Gregory, a hunter, heard his screams and just barely got there in time. He’s been ruined, and the poor man’s lost an eye.”

“Oh dear!” Gira cried, genuine sorrow apparent in her eyes.

“And this is Rhea,” Vercan announced, pointing to the woman, “She came down with...some kind of horrid pox. No one knows what it is, but she lives in agony. We fear it to be contagious as well, so...these brave volunteers that brought her to you...whatever it is you’re planning, I hope it was worth it.”

Gira gasped. “Oh, no! Please, you fellows, place the two on the ground before me! You bringers of Rhea, stay as well! I shall aid you all!”

The two groups complied, bringing the two close and laying them in the grass before the dragon.

“Wonderful! Now...this may be frightening for you, but just remember that there is nothing to worry about! I am here to help, this I swear!”

Varcan frowned. “W-what is it you’re planning on doing, Lady Gira?”

“Just trust me!” the dragon exclaimed happily, “And please...just Gira will do! Now...” She lowered her gaze to the sick woman and injured man, those that had brought them standing beside the two. The dragon, for the first time, didn’t have an excited or joyful expression.

If he could place it, Varcan would wager she looked...determined. He wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.

Suddenly, she reared back, moving back and then forward as she opened her maw. For a split second, Vercan thought they had been had, and she was about to devour the two. Why she wanted to eat a diseased peasant, he didn’t know.

Instead, she leaned close and blew a strange, blue mist over the group. As everyone watched, the boils on Rhea shrank, and shrank, and shrank, until they were all gone, and her skin was back to the normal, pale complexion that it had been before the illness.

Both her and Mikkos sat up, suddenly fully awake and energetic. The man tore at the bandages on his face, revealing...a perfectly fine, functioning eye! As he tore at the rest of his wrappings, he found no slices or gashes, and no scars...it was as if he was never attacked in the first place.

Gira looked to be absolutely beaming with pride and joy as everyone else stared with gaping mouths.

“There! See? I told you all that you could trust me!”

“W-what…? How…?”

Gira continued grinning. “My father was a black dragon, and my mother was a white dragon! Though I completely inherited my father’s scales, I inherited the healing breath of a white dragon! I can only help you with this power!”

She pointed at the citizens that had carried Rhea. “And you! If you did happen to catch anything from bringing the fair Rhea here...my magic has surely purged it from your systems!”

As Mikkos and Rhea stood up, looking up in wonder, Vercan approached, bowing. “L-Lady Gira, on behalf of the Council and People of the City of Pasir...I offer you our deepest, sincerest thanks.”

“Oh, it is nothing!” Gira said shyly, “I just...like helping you, is all!”

“It is NOT nothing, Lady Gira...if there is ever anything we could offer you…”

“I said Gira would do!” the dragon cried, eyes averted in a show of timidness, “I-I am not your mistress! I do not mean to turn this into obedience! Please, I will take you up on this offer, but...I only ask to be allowed to stay beside the city, allowed to speak with your fine people as I reside here!”

“...of course. If that is what you want, you are more than welcome to stay wherever you wish...Gira.”

A sudden roar in the distance grabbed everyone’s attention. Far up in the sky, another dragon approached...headed right for Pasir!

Gira’s head shot up in alarm. “Quickly! Get behind me!”

No one asked questions. Everyone moved behind the admittedly small, black dragon as she turned and stood as imposingly as she could, facing the newcomer.

The other dragon, red in color, noticed her, quickly shifting its flight to the side, passing by Pasir in search of different territory.

Everyone was silent as this happened, until the red dragon was finally gone over the horizon.

Gira turned back and smiled. “There! We are safe! Do you see now? As your technical ‘ruler’ I show the other dragons that these lands are considered occupied, and so they are not allowed to impose on you!”

Vercan shook his head. “You can heal all of our people, and turn away other dragons, sparing us all from their tyranny and wrath...and you ask for nothing more than to live here in return?”

“Correct!” Gira said happily, “I am simply dying to meet you all, and learn more about all of you! You can do whatever you want, I will not be dismantling whatever old system you had in place, surely I would only muck up the effectiveness of it!” she said with a laugh.

“So...you do not want to divert the treasury funds to your own collection?”

“Oh, how silly! What use do I have for coins?” Gira asked, “It is not like I will be buying tomatoes from a market! I will sustain myself, and you will do, well...whatever it is you do! I just want to be your friend and helper, is all!”

She looked over the crowd. Those humans, all looking amused and in awe…

Goodness, how precious they are!

Tag list: @thereisnothingwrongwithbeingmad, @lady-redshield-writes, @paper-shield-and-wooden-sword, @sheralynnramsey, @the-true-shadowmaster, @tawnywrites, @writer-on-time, @oceanwriter, @zwergis-spilledink, @fluffpiggy, @elliewritesfantasy, @homesteadhorner, @laurenwastestimewriting

[idolizerp]

[ LOADING INFORMATION ON VIVID’S MAIN DANCE MOON MONA…. ]

DETAILS

CURRENT AGE: 23 DEBUT AGE: 16 SKILL POINTS: 15 VOCAL | 15 DANCE | 00 RAP | 10 PERFORMANCE SECONDARY SKILLS: Multi-instrumentalist (guitar, piano)

INTERVIEW

debuting fresh off her sixteenth birthday, moon mona was perhaps an atypical choice for the group. they came onto the scene with an image that began already rather sexually charged, veiled in short bloomer style shorts and pastel colors, as if that were less affronting, less obvious, as if there weren’t suddenly and immediately eyes all over the young girl, surprise that she was a minor, that someone so young could look like that.

in fact, she probably shouldn’t have debuted that young at all. there is something inherently damaging in entering the public eye that early. the scrutiny wears at you, an endless tide beating against crags and cliffs until they wear smooth as sea glass.

many times, this is how mona feels.

a wild child plucked from the streets of jeju, from backroads where sand blows over the asphalt on the breeze that carries with it the scent of the ocean. maybe this is why she so easily melts into the role of summer goddess when it is bequeathed to her. she has the energy and power of the ocean, she thinks fondly, when she watches herself dance. this is what they capitalize on. she has a sensuality beyond her years, a grace that defies age, a presence that commands attention.

it disappears offstage into a flurry of eye smiles and half hidden laughter, tucked behind a hand that trembles just a little bit, nervous still under the direct glare of the camera, the lights. she’s young when she debuts, and foolish, and the image that they have her selling - relatable, girl next door, but impossibly hot - is one that both suits her and stifles her.

she isn’t the strongest at either skill. she doesn’t have the range to sing main, with her voice lending itself to a certain mellow, husky timbre. as she gets older and her voice continues to change and develop, it moves further into this range, and farther from the expected idol falsetto filled soprano. but she manages within her range just fine. her live performances are stable and day by day, more and more, she commands attention. she draws eyes. it covers her shortcomings, the way she can move, the look in her gaze. they chalk it up to a natural sex appeal. mona could wear a potato sack and still look like a million bucks, still have fans knocking at her door, that’s what they say.  

at eighteen, nineteen, even twenty the comments make her uncomfortable. by twenty one she doesn’t really watch her parts in their videos anymore. she knows what they’ll focus on, how the camera will pan over toned thighs or the curve of her ass, or her chest, she knows the look in her eyes because she’s spent hours practicing it in front of the practice room mirrors. it all feels so hollow, but it sells like hotcakes. as their concepts become more sexual, mona shines more and more, despite herself, reluctant to capitalize on something that makes her feel so uncertain, like the weight of eyes sinks beneath her skin to make it crawl.

she can feel herself changing, day by day, under the weight of a thousand eyes, purposefully smoothing out the rough edges of herself, until she is polished and shining and pristine. effortless in her casual charm, in her relatable silliness, in the way she can so naturally shine with a sincerity that doesn’t seem half so manufactured as it is.

maybe it’s not. maybe this is who she is now, changed by the constant weathering of the sea. featureless and shining, polished until she is devoid of anything, a mirror held up to reflect the image men want to see in her. because let’s be honest, she was placed in the group  not for her outstanding talent, but for her visual appeal, even then. curves in the right places, a warmth and charm that drew in the viewer, a gap between on stage and off that compelled fascination. mostly, mona is just glad they can’t see that she’s tired of this. of the same sultry themes, the same lurid movements; suggestive but tasteful, they claim. she’s very well trained, she thinks, because she never rolls her eyes half so hard as she might want too.

and she gets the sort of rumors that the hypersexualized type tend to get, and then some. she takes a hiatus due to a bout of pneumonia contracted from the flu gone untreated, and there are malevolent rumors that she’s gotten an abortion, rumors the company finally, this time, steps up to smack down, to sue those who are propagating them. but even after, the menial ones continue.  is she dating this one or that one, is she posing like that on purpose? did she get her boobs done, are they real, is she showing them off? why does she try so hard, doesn’t she know this is trashy, isn’t this inappropriate? can’t she do anything but dance and make those faces, doesn’t she have anything else to show us? isn’t it always the same?it is, mona wants to tell them. it is always the same, because that’s what you all wanted. that’s what’s selling my albums and my merchandise. that’s why i’ve had a dietician and a trainer since i was sixteen years old, that’s why i spent my childhood smiling at leering middle aged men. and now you want me to do something else?

she’d like too, sure. she dreams of an artsy, lo-fi album. something folk inspired maybe, just her and a guitar and some producers to fill in the gaps. but the company knows no one wants that, they tell her. no one wants that from moon mona of heaven. they want a toned body and a bright smile and a mischievous twinkle in her eyes, they want long hair in artfully done waves that suggest she might just have left the ocean. and she can give that to them, so why risk anything else?

but she does. god, does she want to risk it. hones skills that aren’t hers to advertise, practices her vocals until she could rival the other members, maybe, if anyone would give her some lines. if anyone would let her sing. she works her way relentlessly towards the distant promise of a solo career, towards her desires to produce music she can be proud of. with their contracts arriving at expiration soon the company begins to yield to her desires, but alway sin their own way, always in their own manner. she’ll take it, she thinks, she’ll take whatever she can get.

and so mona is seaglass. weathered and unchanging, polished to a smooth shine. featureless but beautiful, meant to be admired, touched, and then put away again to keep for another summer day.

BIOGRAPHY

MOON MONA is born at the stroke of midnight, which might have meant something magical and mysterious in another story, but in this one, it means only that her mother had a little tidbit of a story to share about her midnight baby. The seaside hospital was perfectly well equipped and her mother faced no difficulties with the delivery, other than the usual. Her father was - and remains - quite typical of his generation.  Fifteen years older than her mother, he was smoking outside when Mona was born, and would remain sort of blandly absent for the remainder of their relationship. Mona holds no ill will here. In a rapidly developing society, he is undoubtedly the product of his time and not of her own. Not even of her mother’s, somehow.

Her mother is a lecturer at a nearby school - a small affair, nothing notable. She teaches biology to freshmen and an upper level botany course and Mona is surrounded by flowers and the sea from birth. The young girl is tangled in them, in the smell of fresh cut grass and salt spray, flowers braided into her hair during long hours in the fields on the edges of town, only a bus ride away.

She loves the bus, loves to stare out the window as it rattles and lurches through the town. When she gets older, her indomitable will and unstoppable energy demand trips to the nearby city to go to dance classes. She’s grown tired of the basic fare offered her in her smaller town, and so an hour off she rides, thumping along the road and dozing between stops. As she grows older and her interest refuses to wane her mother expresses gentle discouragement and her father nods in distracted agreement in the corner.

Perhaps the most attention either of them pay to her, she thinks later, is when she skips school to attend auditions for the first time. They’re furious of course, at the call from the school, at the fact she hadn’t answered her phone, at the fact she dared run off to audition at all. What a stupid pipe dream, they tell her. Do you think we moved to Busan for this, so you could gallivant off to the capital and do whatever you want?

The move had upset her, honestly. Stealing her home away had been the most intolerable cruelty for a girl of thirteen, had unleashed a rebellious fury only the unbridled ocean and other parents of teenage girls with strong wills and fierce eyes could imagine, or hope to match.

So at thirteen Mona’s willful teenage form of rebellion is to pursue a pointless dream, spurred on by her fondness for the likes of SNSD and the Wonder Girls. She copies choreography, she practices singing, begs her way into continuing vocal lessons. She skips after school classes to put in more hours dancing or singing, she spends her time making faces in the mirror and wielding a hairbrush, as so many do.

The difference is that one day, someone sees something in her.

She’s promising they tell her. She has a look, a vibe, and how old is she right now? They don’t seem deterred by her confident answer of fourteen, just take a step back to examine her, ask if she can sing, or dance maybe, and are pleased when she answers to the affirmative. She should have known then, taking the card, turning up for the audition, that they’d been more sold on her face, her figure than anything else. But she was young, and she was foolish, and she had a silly little dream, as her mother might say.

The second time her family really, really notices her is when she explains she’s thinking of moving in with her aunt while she trains.

Her father is distractedly horrified, perhaps more because he should be than because he’s actually unhappy about it, and her mother has sort of just given up on the idea of an academically inclined daughter, a daughter she could maybe relate too, in some way. There isn’t an attempt to meet Mona at her level, to get to know her, or why she loves dance so much. They dismiss these things as childish whims, tell her to come home when she’s ready.

She debuts instead.

In an instant her life changes. Immediately she becomes frozen in time, it seems. Mentally she feels still as though she never quite left that moment of being a naive sixteen year old, practicing choreography designed to put more than mildly inappropriate thoughts into the heads of viewers, thrilled because this was her big chance, her big break. Foolish, ultimately, but not untrue.

She has made it, after all. At twenty three she’s established a name for herself, a brand. That brand might not be one she wants, nor one she is comfortable with, but it sells. Sex always sells, and until she hits that magical age at which women cease to appeal to men sexually on a general level, and then she’ll retire and do something like mediocre acting or variety or nothing, just get married and fade away. She’s done things that make her sick, has lived experiences that make her ill, producers with wandering hands and comedians and hosts who think it all too acceptable to push advances on her based only on an image portrayed on screen, assigned her by the lustful masses, faceless commenters that feel it acceptable to nitpick her body, her styling, her sexuality, her appeal.

Mona is seaglass. She would like to be a flower, taking root and blooming, growing day by day, flourishing, flowering. But Mona is not life and greenery, she is not reaching and seeking. She is sea glass, polished and glimmering, appealing in the moment and ultimately discarded.

[ladytimedramon]

Random Ramblings on Choices: The Royal Romance 1 and 2

I’ve been having a lot of random, rambling thoughts especially after the latest chapter of TRR.

Something bugs me about the whole MurderKing/MurderQueen scenario. With all the dedication towards the stability of the throne, and after watching too much stuff on the History channel, I’m wondering if there might be a third group sprung on us, either at the end of book two or at the probable beginning of a book thee.

What I’m picturing is some sort of “secret society” – sort of an Illuminati/Mafia cross – that so long as the ruling monarch lets them do what they need to do behind the scenes, all is peaceful but once certain “lines” are crossed, they send in their people.

Let’s look at Constantine’s 3 queens. Leo’s mother “couldn’t handle court pressure and left” (I don’t know why but I suspect or thought I read somewhere that she actually died – I can’t imagine Leo having no contact with her once she left for his entire life, if she was still alive – he seems to be the kind that would have looked for her during his wanderings). Liam’s mother, apparently a popular queen, was murdered. Then we have Regina, who steps in, doesn’t have to have children since there is an heir and a spare, just do queenly duties. She is apparently “perfectly groomed” to be the queen.

Now let’s look at the next generation. Leo is to be king, Liam is the spare. Madeline spends a lot of time with the royal family, apparently being groomed by Regina as future queen because Adelaide seems to be a bit of a “loose cannon” to raise the perfect future queen. Olivia is there but she is a wild card. She’s someone that Regina most likely can’t control other than teaching her “social graces”. Olivia is still allowed to be in the mix because Liam, at that point, isn’t heir. Madeline sails through Leo’s social season with the queen’s support, possibly aided by the fact that Leo doesn’t want to be king, and he isn’t interested in any of the other women enough to actually favor anyone himself (in the end letting Regina’s “choice” of Madeline sail through).

Then Leo abdicates, throwing a wrench in all of the plans. Madeline is “out” as fiancée. Liam then has to endure the social season and Olivia, as a childhood friend, is high placed for being his most likely choice. But Madeline could possibly still squeak through since there seems to have never been any romance between Olivia and Liam. The MC comes from absolutely nowhere, making all plans go awry. After what happens with Leo and the ROE MC, Regina decides (or is told) to approach this situation more cautiously, observe, and feel her out.

Suddenly Constantine decides to abdicate. The MC is still too unknown and Olivia too much of a wild card. Madeline has to be queen, hence the attempts at blackmail. As a member of the nobility, Olivia takes the threat seriously and backs out while the MC doesn’t take it seriously.

And then, here we are.

Bringing Drake into the mix, he is Liam’s best friend, but he’s also to a degree seeing Bastien as a father figure. Bastien very easily could have brought Drake into full on training to be a royal bodyguard and set him up to be Liam’s personal bodyguard. Instead he keeps him out of it. If there’s a background power pulling the strings behind the throne, Bastien is probably very aware of it and by not getting Drake into guard training leaves Drake free and out of the loop to really be by Liam’s side. Drake is free to act in Liam’s best interests and move as Liam’s best friend – he’s not subject to the whims of king, queen, or any possible secret society.

I wonder if the assassination attempt on Liam was actually a “warning message” to someone. “Keep in line and no one gets hurt.” It’s a very strong message. At the time Bastien is still assigned to Leo and needs someone he both he and Liam trust implicitly – that’s Drake.

The MC’s setup at the hands of Bastien would have come at the request of this society. It’s possible even that Olivia’s parents were part of the society, then murdered when they refused to take orders. The society could have/would have the blackmail material on them easily. Not so simple with the MC. It’s possible there was an “or else” involved with regards to Bastien’s orders to set up the MC. Bastien isn’t married and doesn’t have children (that we know of) but there could be a sibling or parent in danger if he doesn’t comply – or even possibly a threat towards Savannah (since he was a father figure to Drake and her after their father died and it’s possible he also knew where she went/what happened).

It’s even possible that Constantine’s retirement is coming about because of this “secret society”. Perhaps they “ordered” it so they could get a very early grip on Liam. Or perhaps he’s ill and trying to escape it, even if that leaves Liam at their mercy before he’s ready.

I know that for some the MurderKing/MurderQueen scenario seems most likely, but something just makes me feel that it’s too easy for that to be the situation. Even Madeline’s comment about women knowing their place makes me feel like there is some sort of group behind everything. It almost reminds me of “Dune”. I don’t know if anyone has ever seen the movie/read the books, but in the end the Bene Gesseret are the women behind the power, providing women who become queens and consorts while still being loyal to the society and its directives. Their main thing is the bloodlines, not the actual ruling, but setting up the queens to help maintain power in the kingdom seems like a secret society thing. I’m sure if the situation were flipped and Constantine had 2 daughters, the society would’ve provided a “prince consort” groomed by them instead.

Madeline’s only driving force is being queen. She doesn’t care about love. Her duty/job is to become the next queen. She’s so matter-of-fact about it that it’s creepy. It doesn’t matter whether it’s Leo or Liam. She’s not interested in them, let alone a relationship. Which then makes me wonder about Regina’s relationship behind the scenes with Constantine. Were they in love? Did she even pretend to be in love with him or try to win his heart? Or was it a “business arrangement”? Leo shows her respect as his father’s queen but she’s obviously not a close stepmother. Liam doesn’t even really seem to be that “close” to her as if she always kept her stepsons at arm’s length. Like I said in another thread, I suspect that Madeline is fine having the MC as Liam’s lover because perhaps she also has no interest in sleeping with Liam or even having children. The MC’s presence could give her an excuse to say “Unfortunately I am unable to bear children but the MC has kindly offered to be a surrogate so the kingdom will have heirs,” and then later allow her to be ‘Nanny’ so Madeline doesn’t have to be involved in that part of the title ‘queen’. I wonder even if she prefers women or is asexual, but she knows her “duty” is to become queen so her personal preferences don’t even matter.

Anyhow, these are just my thoughts, random ramblings as they may be.

[27dragons]

@tisfan wasn’t feeling inspired by this prompt, but I had an idea, so I stole the prompt and ran away with it, giggling madly. You can read it here or on AO3.

Prompt: I saw that you avcepted prompts and i had one in mind for winteriron. Person A and a group of friends own a haunted house.Person A works as one of the scarers.Person B comes to visit haunted house for fun. Person B hands up punching Person A when they make them jumpscare too hard. -- from @giftedofthealfheimr​ 

“This year’s haunted house is going to be the best ever,” Tony enthused.

Rhodey finished nailing a support beam into place as if he were entirely oblivious to Tony’s quivering excitement, the bastard. Finally, he turned to Tony with an ill-concealed smirk. “Is it?”

“It is,” Tony said. “Ask me why.”

Rhodey’s eyes narrowed, and Tony tried to project innocent delight. It wasn’t something he was very good at, but Rhodey was a sure thing, anyway, so he didn’t try very hard. Finally, Rhodey sighed. “Why is it going to be the best, Tones?”

“Oh, dear, you shouldn’t have done that,” said a hollow, ghostly voice.

Rhodey jumped and looked up at the speaker over his head. “What the hell--”

“Hell, indeed,” the voice said, and chuckled wickedly.

“Okay, now that’s just creepy,” Rhodey said, taking a not-so-surreptitious step back. “But you know, Tones, we’ve tried having tailored ghost voices in rooms before, but it doesn’t work that well once everything’s dark and the usual spooky soundtrack is playing. It’s hard to discern--”

Tony waved it away. “This isn’t a voice actor,” he explained. “Rhodey, meet Just Another Vanishing Insane Spectre, or JARVIS.”

“Tony. Did you make an AI specifically to scare people? Seriously?”

“Actually,” Tony said, “I made him to keep watch. Remember last year, we had that one kid who fainted and nobody noticed for like fifteen minutes? He could’ve really gotten hurt if he’d fallen wrong! JARVIS will watch for people who get too freaked out and dispatch one of the staff to rescue them. He can monitor breathing and heart rate, core temperature, pupil dilation, all kinds of things!”

Rhodey eyed him suspiciously. “Is that right?”

“It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Rhodes,” JARVIS put in politely, without any echo or reverb on the voicebox this time.

“...Okay,” Rhodey said. “So what’s with the spooking?”

“Well, haunted houses are supposed to be a little scary,” Tony said. “JARVIS has a range to work with -- if someone gets over a certain threshold, he’ll call for rescue. But if they’re under a certain threshold, he’ll up the ante for them. I’m trying to figure out how he can alert the actors in each scene for performance levels as a group comes in, you know, or who the jumpscare guys should target.”

“You’ve put entirely too much thought into this already,” Rhodey said. “When did you start working on this?”

“September third,” Tony said.

“Of last year,” JARVIS not-so-helpfully supplied.

“Okay,” said Rhodey. “We’ll give it a try for the first few dry-runs, anyway, see how it goes.”

[Mobile readers, mind the break, or skip over to AO3 to finish reading!]

“C’mon, Rogers, what are you, chicken?”

Steve had pulled to a stop as soon as he’d realized their destination. “No,” he said, staring at the house at the end of the block. “I’m just not sure you know what you’re doing. We should start with something a little less--”

“Give it a rest, wouldja, Stevie?” Bucky whined. “I’m sick of letting the damn brain goolies run my life. I can handle a damn haunted house.”

“Buck, this is literally the scariest haunted house on the campus-- no, in the whole state.” There was a sign on the lawn proclaiming exactly that, with a quote attributed to a local paper.

“The engineering department,” Bucky scoffed. “I’m sure it will be technically amazing, but it’s not like they really know what they’re doing. I skipped the theater department’s house.”

“Which took second place,” Steve pointed out, “to, yes, the engineering department. Because the theater people have stagecraft and great actors, but the engineers have Tony Stark.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “I’m going in the house, Steve. Are you coming with me, or not?”

“Fine,” Steve said, groaning. “Someone has to keep your traumatized ass out of trouble.”

Bucky resumed walking. Six months, he’d been back. Six months with only one arm and nothing to do but skulk around Steve’s place and do fucking PT and go to fucking counseling sessions and fucking occupational therapy. Six months of having to learn how to do shit with only one hand, six months of “working through the anger,” six months of the goddamn nightmares.

He wanted to do this. He wanted to do it because he’d always loved haunted houses as a kid, because he knew the blood and gore would look fake (he knew what real gore looked like now) and because he wanted to be scared and know there wasn’t actually a threat.

The good kind of scared. Not the split-second I’m going to die scared he’d felt when he saw the explosion begin to blossom, or the horrible and unending I’m never going to be normal again scared he’d endured for those weeks in the hospital. Just... startled, and then laugh it off.

The line for the haunted house stretched all the way down the block, though it moved at a decent clip. They saw more than a few groups of students leaving the house, still chattering excitedly about their favorite parts. None of them seemed traumatized.

“Last chance to back out,” Steve said as they approached the ticket booth that had been set up by the front door.

“Fuck you,” Bucky said, and stepped up to the window. A sign on the booth said that proceeds from the haunted house were going to sponsor the students’ trip to Washington for a Battle Bots tournament in November, and everything after that was going to several local charities. The Battle Bots line had been crossed out and someone had written in, Achievement unlocked! Bucky handed over his five bucks and grinned toothily at Steve. “Come on, Steve, do it for the kids.” He tapped the name of the children’s hospital on the list of charities. Steve was a sucker for kids.

Steve rolled his eyes, but turned over his five bucks as well.

They walked into the house, and a pleasant zing of excitement and nerves ran down Bucky’s spine. He could totally do this.

The first couple of rooms were impressively built but basically warm-up rooms -- spooky but static scenes with eerie music and a slightly crackly soundtrack. Bucky leaned over the ropes to look at all the fine details that had been put in, and found himself chortling at the underlying signs that the place was a student house -- graffiti on the walls, suspicious stains that weren’t fake blood, a pizza box that someone had shoved under a couch.

There was a jumpscare from a guy in a vampire costume on the way to the third room that made Bucky’s heart lurch. The way Steve laughed nervously made him think Steve wasn’t unaffected, either.

The third room was the first live scene -- a pretty redhead being menacingly seduced by a guy dressed like a devil. It was creepy, but not especially scary. Especially not when Bucky caught sight of the devil’s perfect bubble butt. “That is not the kind of thrill I was expecting,” he muttered under his breath.

He might have said that a little louder than he meant to -- Steve didn’t seem to have caught it, but the devil suddenly broke the fourth wall to look straight at him. The devil’s eyes caught the mood lighting and seemed to glow in the dim room as he gave Bucky a seductive smirk. It seemed like exactly the wrong thing to do -- but then Bucky realized that the girl had slumped to the floor, eyes staring sightlessly, and suddenly Bucky was trapped between fear and wanting, and his heart was pounding in the best kind of way.

That little spike of adrenaline seemed to carry perfectly through the next several rooms -- a chainsaw murderer standing over dismembered and gory bodies who suddenly turned to swing the saw at them; an impressively-engineered convocation of mostly transparent ghosts; and a howling and slavering werewolf that tipped its head and then lunged at them just when Bucky had started to catch his breath again.

That was the secret, he thought giddily -- not the technical execution, though that was excellent. But someone had done an amazing job of engineering the timing and rhythm of the scariest scenes and jump scares.

There was a long, winding passage in complete darkness, then, only their hands on the painted foam walls to guide them. The weirdling music and spooky noises from the first couple of rooms was playing here, and that faint scratching sound suddenly seemed ominous rather than amateur. Was it Bucky’s imagination, or was the passage getting narrower?

It was.

He and Steve had to go one by one, and then they had to turn sideways, and then squeeze into the foam until it was pressing against them, and there was plenty of air but Bucky was gasping anyway.

“I see a light,” Steve called back to him, and Bucky nearly groaned aloud in relief. He pushed through the foam, following Steve, and they found themselves in a blacklit room, fluorescent shapes darting around wildly. Okay. Okay, this wasn’t so bad--

And that was when the disembodied voice started talking to them.

The hottie was definitely not dating the blond bombshell he’d come in with, Tony surmised, because not once had they reached for each other’s hands, or hugged, or shown any affection aside from the occasional friendly punch in the arm. That was good. Tony wasn’t enough of a dick to hit on a guy who was already dating someone.

Tony made JARVIS keep him updated on the hottie’s progress through the house and willed the clock to move a little faster -- it was only minutes until his break, and if he moved fast, he’d be able to catch up with the hottie and flirt him into a date before he had to go take over random jumpscare duty from Bruce. Finally, Clint and Natasha came into the Seductive Devil Room to relieve Tony and Pepper. (Natasha made an even better Seductive Devil than Tony, though Clint rather oversold his Innocent Victim schtick.)

“I’ll catch up with you later,” he told Pepper.

She kissed his cheek. “Have fun,” she said, and made her way down the hall toward the secret door that led to the kitchen.

Tony dashed through the main house, knowing JARVIS would tell the other performers that it was just him and not to bother. Though Rhodey, in the Werewolf Room, still growled at him. Tony grinned and flashed a thumbs-up before slipping into the Narrowing Hallway and jogging along, one hand trailing on the wall. JARVIS didn’t bother pushing the walls together for him, though as he got closer to the Whispering Room, the voice in his earbud said, “Sir, I might suggest--”

Tony didn’t pay any attention to JARVIS’ suggestion, whatever it was, because there was the Whispering Room, and there was the hottie, still with his friend.

Seductive devil, he reminded himself. He slipped up behind them. “Welcome to my lair...”

The hottie whirled around and Tony’s world exploded in light and pain.

“Oh shit!” Bucky gasped. His heart was still pounding, his breath whistling in his lungs, but he’d--

It was the devil, the cute devil with the great ass, was on the floor, hands clasped over his face where Bucky had punched him, oh shit.

“Oh my god, shit, I’m so sorry,” Bucky said uselessly.

Steve was on his knees, urging the devil to roll over, to let Steve look at it. When had the normal lights come on? The weird noises had stopped, too, and--

The werewolf ran into the room, closely followed by Frankenstein’s monster. “Tony!” the werewolf barked, diving for the devil. Jesus, how had they gotten the word so fast?

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

Frankenstein’s monster eyed Bucky, then took him gently by the arm and pulled him a few steps away. “Hey, look at me,” the monster said. “Are you okay?”

Bucky had a hard time dragging his gaze from the devil -- Tony? -- but when he did, he found that the monster had hazel eyes and a forehead crinkled with worry under the makeup. “I’m... I was...”

“Yeah, you were at the top of an adrenaline spike,” the monster said. “He added to your stress level at exactly the wrong instant, it sounds like. Are you okay now?”

“I... think so,” Bucky managed. He looked past the monster at Tony again. “Is he okay?”

Tony was sitting up now, the werewolf hovering protectively over him. Steve got up and went to the entryway -- which looked like a normal hall now, and not the foam hell Bucky’d had to squeeze through earlier -- to meet a woman dressed like a vampire, who handed over a cold pack.

“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” the monster said. “Come on, let’s get you somewhere a little calmer until you’re ready to head out.” He tugged gently at Bucky’s arm. Bucky didn’t resist -- being kicked out was the least he could expect after attacking a cast member; he’d be lucky if they didn’t sue him for it.

They hadn’t gone three steps when Steve appeared. “Are you kicking us out?” he asked, right on the verge of belligerent.

“Stevie,” Bucky said. “Don’t.”

“Not at all,” said the monster. “I am getting you off the main floor, though, so we can resume operation.” He pushed aside a curtain and opened the door that was behind it. “In here.”

“Here” appeared to be a dorm room, unmade bunked beds against one wall and a pair of desks opposite them, piled high with books and laptops. A drafting table stood in one corner, a half-finished technical schematic taped in place. The monster pulled out a desk chair and swiveled it toward Bucky. “Here, have a seat. Catch your breath. When you’re ready, you can--”

“Bruce!” The door burst open to reveal the devil. Tony. He was still holding the ice pack over his face, but the other eye was wide and frantic. “What did you-- Oh, you’re still here, good!” He traded a few words with the monster, who shrugged and left. Tony turned back to Steve and Bucky. “I wanted to apologize.”

Bucky blinked. “What’re you apologizing for? I’m the one who hauled off and decked you.”

“Sure, but I should’ve known better, JARVIS tried to tell me you weren’t up for any more, and I didn’t listen.”

“No one could’ve known,” Bucky argued. “I didn’t even realize how on-edge I was until it happened.”

“I knew,” Steve put in, and prudently stepped back before Bucky could kick him. “You’ve been on edge for months, Buck. I told you a haunted house was a bad idea.”

Bucky groaned and put his face in his hands. “It was fine until...”

“Until I burst in and dropped that last straw on the camel’s back, huh?” Tony guessed. “Come on, let me make it up to you. Coffee?”

“Nah, I’m not s’posed to drink coffee anymore; the caffeine--” Steve kicked the chair Bucky was sitting in.

Bucky glared at him. “What? That’s what the doc said!” Steve raised an eyebrow and tipped his head toward Tony pointedly.

Tony, who behind the devilish makeup, was really cute. And had a hopeful look on his face.

Oh.

Coffee.

“I, uh, I mean, they’ve got hot chocolate and tea, too, though, right?” Bucky recovered lamely. Steve rolled his eyes, but forbore kicking the chair again.

Tony beamed. Huh, that fussy little goatee looked real. Bucky wondered if he’d grown it specially for the haunted house or if he always wore facial hair. It looked good on him, or would once the red facepaint had been cleaned off. Tony fished a phone out of his back pocket. “Let me just...”

Bucky fumbled out his own phone and they traded information. Maybe after they had coffee, Tony would let Bucky offer his own apology, in the form of dinner.

One Year Later

Jim Rhodes pulled his lip back in a convincing snarl, and Bucky made an effort to dodge, to run-- but it was too late; the werewolf had leapt on him and was enthusiastically gnawing at his shoulder.

Bucky wailed and thrashed to disguise him unhooking his prosthetic and puncturing the little bag of fake blood hiding at the top of it. One good yank, and a roll, and--

The trio of friends watching the tableaux screamed as Bucky’s arm came free, “ripped” off by the werewolf’s brute strength and razor-like teeth.

Bucky kept thrashing so they wouldn’t get a good look at his stump until the light went out to encourage the group to move along to the next room. As soon as they were gone, Bucky pulled off the top layer of the protective cloth and threw it into the trashcan disguised as a tree stump, and fitted another prepared cap over the end of his arm.

While he did that, Rhodes kicked the fallen leaves over the fake bloodstain to hide it and scrambled back into the shadows from whence he’d pounce.

Steve was in the kitchen; he didn’t like being “on stage”, but he had a real knack for gloriously gruesome makeup that looked distressingly real in the blacklights and strobes in the main part of the house. He was the one who’d come up with the quick-change caps for Bucky’s prosthetic to make it look like a real, bleeding arm when it “fell” off.

“Ten second warning,” JARVIS said into Bucky’s earpiece, and he jammed his hunter’s hat onto his head and snatched up the fake rifle, trying to suppress his grin. Working the haunted house was tough, but so much fun.

Of course, it would be even more fun after the house had closed for the night, when Bucky could hunt down his devilishly handsome boyfriend. After hours of being gnawed on by a werewolf, Bucky was looking forward to getting his mouth on Tony.

The End

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[seiten-taisei]

A Seiten-Taisei Rant about the new Saiyuki Blast anime: AKA: Why I’m not as excited about the new anime as I could be

For awhile now I’ve been holding back on posting on tumblr my thoughts on the new anime. I didn’t want to tie my comments to another post, so I have decided to do it’s own post.

Let me be clear, this is why /I’m/ not excited. This post isn’t meant to make anyone else less excited. I’m not here to stomp on someone else’s happiness. You may disagree with me, or you may agree. I welcome comments on the matter.

Because there may be some spoilers, I will put it behind a cut.

Why I’m not excited for the new anime:

There’s not enough content.

I’m getting to this point right away.

As we all know Kazuya Minekura struggles with releasing chapters because of poor health. As of writing this on February 27th, 2017, the last chapter we got was in late October 2016. This is not uncommon. We often see hiatuses that range from a couple months to nearly a year.

We understand, she is ill. That’s not the problem.

My fears first began when we were told we were getting an animated adaption for Blast. At the time we were barely 3 volumes into Blast, and months later we have only gotten about 2 more chapters.

Even if the anime is only 12 episodes there’s not a whole lot of content.

Why is this a problem? Let me take you back to the early 2000s.

Saiyuki Reload had ended and now we were knee deep in Saiyuki Reload Gunlock. The anime had just completed the Against the Stream arc, yet it was still continuing. Curiously, I continued watching. Even a worm was being animated, but there were only about 4-5 chapters released at the time.

We had no idea EaW was going to span nearly 6 volumes.

Apparently neither did the anime, and we got a mess of an animated adaption that many find to be terrible. The art suffered, the boys were off character, and the story was abysmal. So much good character development and amazing reveals were missed out on...

The new anime is coming too soon

Here’s another problem the continues on from the point above. Reload Blast is only getting started. There are a lot of questions that are being raised with each chapter, and the problem is that more than likely many will be unanswered. Maybe this is good to get readers into the manga, but therein lies another problem:

As I said Minekura has health issues and it’s not uncommon to go 2-6 months without a chapter. How will new fans react to that? Will they be accepting and patient as many fans currently are? Or will they drop it once the realize the sporadic schedule?

It would have made more sense to wait close to the end of the manga to generate sales for the entire series. This probably also puts pressure on Minekura to try and release chapters as quickly as possible when she should be focusing on her health. I can’t imagine how stressful this must be for her.

If the latest arc was longer and close to finishing, I can see them adapting that and it would be fine, but the way I see it: The first episode will no doubt be the first ‘arc’, where the guys are introduced and they save a village. This chapter is about 60 pages, 1/3 of a volume. So we’ve already gone through a ton of content leaving only about 2 1/2-1/3 volumes of content left to adapt into 11-12 episodes.

Now maybe they will animate sky burial and a filler episode with body switching. Maybe not. If they do then they can stretch that out a bit. If not? Expect slow pacing or fillers. Something the Saiyuki Anime are plagued with. The other problem? An ending that cuts off suddenly or a ‘gecko ending’, meaning the animation company comes up with a non canonical ending to the arc.

Neither are ideas I’m happy with, but I’m expecting to happen.

The current arc isn’t a good introduction for new readers/watchers

The new arc is good, but not to show to new fans. Why?

A lot of action, not a lot of character development.

Once the guys reach India things start moving fast. Not a bad thing, however it doesn’t allow us time to get to know our boys. The newest arc hasn’t been the best to see our boys’ personalities and their complexities.

Even a worm would have been a fantastic arc to start with. It’s a complex plot thanks to a certain professor who is revealed to be a major instigator in problems our boys must face. Even a Worm had some major character growth, primarily in Goku and Sanzo, but had some very good interactions with Gojyo and Hakkai.

The antagonists, Hazel and Gat, had much more depth than what Gunlock provided and the main villain, Ukoku, is incredibly fearsome.

Plus let’s not forget some of the most anticipated and brutal fights, Seiten Taisei Vs Youkai Hakkai and Ukoku Vs the Sanzo ikkou.

Many people were looking forward to the fights, the reveal of Youkai Hakkai and Ukoku. Sadly it looks like we wont be getting that, even though it would fit quite well into a 26 episode season.

And on to my next point:

Even a worm will, more than likely, never be properly animated

Ever since the Seiten Taisei vs Youkai Hakkai fight I wanted to see this arc animated. Gunlock in no way does this arc justice. It’s obvious that Seiten Taisei is one of my favorite characters, but Even a Worm also shows how incredibly mature Goku has become. Many still think of him as a ‘kid’ who just likes to eat and fight, but he grows up so much in this arc and learns that the problems and solutions of the world aren’t always black and white.

Seeing the character art for Kanzeon and Kougaiji give me little hope that this arc will be animated as they don’t really appear much in Even a Worm but are prominent in Blast.

There have been folks hopeful that it could be adapted into an OVA, but that wouldn’t work as those tend to be 2-4 episodes, no where near the time needed to cover such a massive arc.

Saiyuki Gaiden was 3 episodes (+1 special) that was pulled from 2 volumes. Even a worm is about 6 volumes long. Definitely long enough for at least 13 episodes.

If only the Blast anime is adapted that gives me little hope for Even a Worm. It would be silly to animate Blast, then go back and animate the arc prior to it. Which means it probably will be skipped over.

I have dreamed of Even a Worm being animated for over 10 years, since we saw how much more complex and engaging the plot was. Yes Sanzo left the group in both adaptions, but his motives are made even more clear in the manga. Hazel’s characterization in the anime was horrid, and he was much more charming and interesting in the manga.

All I know is, if Ukoku appears in the new Anime somehow, it’s going to be strange. Nataku’s appearance alone will make little sense unless you’ve read Gaiden. There would have to be something added in to show Goku’s relationship to Nataku, how he’s an amnesiac.

What would have been nice would be a full series reboot done in this new style, from beginning to end. We have so many series and so many different art styles. 

I’m perfectly happy with the new art style, though. I was worried because Minekura’s art is so detailed it’s hard to animate. This looks like a decent style.

Now let me end with this:

If you’re excited for the anime, stay excited. Don’t let my pessimistic attitude derail you from your own happiness and excitement. And I will continue to support the manga and encourage people to watch the new anime (unless it ends up being bad). 

I love this series. I’m incredibly passionate about it. I have met amazing friends thanks to this series. So that’s why I decided to type this all up.

Again, feel free to tell me your thoughts. Or send me a message if you want to comment. 

[roleplaystorageroom]

A man, a doctor, and a song.

“And that's why I think treatment could be concluded here and I'd be fine,” Kieran finished. A lengthy speech, no doubt long prepared and rehearsed of all the improvements he had made and why he would be so much better off without therapy.

Christian listened attentively but ultimately shook his head.

“No, I don't think so,” he said.

“What?” Kieran frowned. “What do you mean you don't think so, I'm… I'm right!”

“I'm afraid I disagree. Yes, you have made great improvements. You get out of bed, you function throughout your days, you maintain your relationships much better than before we started our work together. But does this mean there is nothing left to work through? Not at all.”

“I don't understand,” Kieran said, shaking his head with a deep frown remaining on his face. “I'm doing really well, like you said I manage to do the things I'm supposed to do and I'm---”

“Yes,” Christian interrupts, “but do you do them gladly? Do you wake up with lightness in your shoulders most of the time? Does food taste as it should most of the time, do you manage to express yourself when necessary most of the time?”

With that, Kieran remained silent. He stared at his therapist, hating him for bringing up the lack of perfection.

“I am not saying you have to be perfectly balanced and thrilled constantly. No one is,” Christian continued, as though he was really able to read the other man's mind, “but it's about  feeling alright most of the time, instead of now and then. The fact that you do feel alright at all is fantastic and a big leap forward from where we have been. But this is not the end of the road, Kieran.”

Kieran let forth a deep sigh. He looked out the window, at the view that was now so familiar.

“In fact… I'm somewhat worried about you.”

“Why?” Kieran asked, looking at the man across the desk from him. “I'm doing fine, Simon and I are finally in a good place, Mason and I are, too. Sebastian is improving, and I--”

“You are defining how well you are doing based on your relations with others, no yourself. Do you see that?”

Again, Kieran was silenced by Christian's words. That's not how he thought about it at all, but he saw the man's point as it was shown to him. Still, he didn't agree, but he knew better than to start arguing. It would end up with him getting angry, and he didn't much like himself when he was angry. He looked at the long-haired man a while longer, then looked out the window.

“This is exactly why I am worried about you,” Christian said after a pause. “You never fight anymore.”

Kieran frowned. “You want me to fight with you?”

“I want you to show some passion about things. Lately you say very little in our sessions unless I drag it out of you and despite deliberately provoking you on occasion, the most you will do is clench a fist and stare out the window.”

“I thought controlling my anger issues was supposed to be a good thing.”

“Controlling the anger is not the same as denying it, Kieran.”

With a noise of frustration, Kieran pushed his hands into his hair. “I don't know what you want from me.  Nothing I do is good enough. It's never right, it's never – I can't be anything but a fuck-up if you can't tell me what you want me to do!”

Christian put his notepad down and leaned forward with his elbows resting on his desk. “This is not about what I want from you. Why do you think that?”

“Because--” Kieran's face twisted with dismay. He got up, paced toward the window which he pushed open. “Because I feel like you have this box you need me to fit into or I can never stop coming here. And I'm trying to fit into that box so fucking hard, Christian, I'm trying.”

“I do not want you in a box,” Christian explained calmly. “I want you to be yourself, but a mentally healthy version of yourself.”

“That doesn't help me. I don't know what to do with that, I thought I was… I thought this is what you-- what I should be doing. But you're telling me it's wrong.”

Christian let out a breath through his nose and sat back again, fingers laced together in his lap. “That isn't quite what I was trying to say. All I mean is that you should not be censoring your feelings. Be they anger or anything else, they must be allowed a way out. The manner you used to express yourself was not healthy – but neither is completely suppressing any form of expression.”

Kieran breathed in deeply of the air flowing in through the window. Filled with the fresh scents of spring, it brought an ache to his heart he didn't quite understand. He eventually turned to Christian again and folded his arms over his chest as he leaned on the window frame. “I don't know how to achieve that.”

“Yes you do. You start by talking to me again. Say what you're keeping inside. Say something… meaningful, something about what you're trying so hard to hide from me. From yourself and everyone around you.”

“I'm not trying to hide anything,” Kieran said defensively, but even as he said it he found himself distracted. In his mind, the faint traces of a melody was starting to form. On the rare occasion he didn't need Mason to help him find the actual melody to fit his lyrics, this is how it started. A group of words put together in a certain order triggered some musical corner of his mind. He must have been staring off into space for a while because he suddenly became aware of Christian saying his name rather firmly.

“Kieran! Are you still with me?” A certain undertone of concern was in his voice. Kieran only noticed it because he knew him so well by now that those nuances stood out to him whether he meant to notice or not.

“I'm sorry, yes… Yeah, I'm here. I think a song started to form.”

“A song? Music is a good form of expression.”

“Mm… It was something you said, not my own words. At least not at first.”

Christian watched the man with an intense, searching stare. This was an interesting first, being the witness to the man's artistic process. He wanted to make the most of it, and pulled a stack of blank parchments from one of the drawers in his desk. He held the stack out along with a pen, and made a beckoning gesture. “Go on, take them. Write what comes to mind.”

Kieran took the stack and the pen and walked back to the narrow sofa to sit. He laid the papers down on the table and began scribbling, occasionally drumming his fingers against his thigh. It was coming together, the melody in his head, at least part of it. He sat back after ten minutes, chewing the inside of his cheek.

“I want you to help me,” he said eventually and looked at Christian. “I know you write poetry.”

“I… do. But not always lyrical poetry.”

“Not 'always', but you do. So, help me. P-… please?” The word came out so very reluctantly when he looked at Christian, but he managed to formulate it. “You got this process started, now I'm stuck.”

“Hrm,” Christian grunted. He got out of his chair and went to sit down next to Kieran to read the lyrics he had written so far. “So you want to talk about what it's like coping with your illness and the pressures that you feel come with it at times?”

“I guess so… I guess-… I kinda want it to be about this. My therapy, with you.” Kieran looked almost embarrassed but as soon as the thought had wedged itself into his brain he couldn't get it out. This year of therapy, with a man he truly never liked, had been so difficult, so filled with internal and external conflict. The psychologist wanted him to express himself… why not start expressing himself about the difficulty of expressing himself, right?

Christian looked at Kieran for a while. Certainly was an unorthodox form of therapy. But did he, the first sex therapist in all of Tyria, the first to even bring that up as a term needed in the field at all, did he really have any right to say what was unorthodox therapy anymore? Not really. If the patient wanted to write collaborative poetry about their therapy, well… by all means.

They sat together for four hours, working on the one year history of their therapy together. How Kieran felt, how Christian viewed and interpreted. Even things Kieran felt about himself, about his situation beyond their therapy were included in the lyrics. Things were revealed, perhaps even chasms mended and bonds forged. That might have been overstating things but lyrics for a song that Kieran later went to record – with Christian in the studio – was the product of their work that day.

These are those lyrics:

If I could speak I'd tell you all my fears and deprivations If I could feel I'd take away your pain If I could bleed I'd show you all my scars and imperfections If I could breathe I'd hold you in my veins You've got me feeling like an animal Beat down in fear and paralyzed You've got me feeling like I have no other hand to hold In this assisted suicide So say something beautiful Say what you're keeping inside This anticipation I will only let you down Say something meaningful Say what you're trying to hide This anticipation I will only let you down If I could breed I'd show you all my infantile obsessions If I could sleep I'd hold you in my head If I was strong I'd keep you close and render you defenseless If I was gone I'd hope you'd take my place You've got me feeling like an animal Beat down in fear and paralyzed You've got me feeling like I have no other hand to hold In this assisted suicide So say something beautiful Say what you're keeping inside This anticipation I will only let you down Say something meaningful Say what you're trying to hide This anticipation I will only let you down So say something beautiful Say what you're keeping inside This anticipation I will only let you down Say something meaningful Say what you're trying to hide This anticipation I will only let you down