#like ignoring the fact that THE EFFECT OF THE NATURAL WOOD IS THE WHOLE POINT OF THE STYLE

[amaxantys]

ppl who paint over the trim and wood detailing in american craftsman style homes please id like to have a word with you

[onetruelurker]

Harp Facts for Reference

the likelihood this will reach anyone is nil, but for reference to anyone who wants to draw or write about someone playing a western harp:

High Points

the harp rests on your RIGHT shoulder

the column faces away from you

the left hand plays the low/long strings and the right hand plays the high/short strings (typically)

unless you are playing a traditional wire-strung celtic harp (and maybe Paraguayan harps? not clear on this), the nails are short because you do not play with your nails and long nails give a really unpleasant buzz

correct hand position is palms facing the strings, thumbs up

you do not play with the pinky

Playing while sitting in a chair with arms is annoying as fuck because it interferes with your elbows moving

unless you're doing an effect you pluck in the middle of the string

This got REALLY long, so more under the cut.

Parts of a Harp/How a Harp Works

A harp is composed of individual strings tuned to a specific note (the number of strings varies), like the white keys on a piano, but upright. The strings resonate off a soundboard, which is a thin piece of wood. Shorter strings are higher notes, longer strings are lower notes. The soundboard is attached to a hollow body (there are holes in the back, that's how you change strings). The strings stretch between the neck and the soundboard and are under high tension. The front piece is called the column, and in a pedal harp it has a mechanical component in it. In a traditional western harp (aka folk harp, aka lever harp), the column is purely structural. The column faces away from you as you play.

In its most basic form, the harp has no mechanism to change between keys without re-tuning the strings to the appropriate accidentals (sharps or flats). This is a huge pain in the ass, and harpists have come up with two major ways to get around it: pedals and levers.

Types of Harp

Pedal Harp

Most western orchestral music which includes a harp is written for the pedal harp, which has 7 pedals at the base (one for each note in the western music scale, A-G). Pedals are for changing the notes from flat to natural to sharp, so it lets you play in any key and shift keys while you're playing. This is a relatively new innovation - the modern pedal harp came on to the scene around 1800.

The column of a pedal harp needs to be straight because the mechanism which allows the pedals to shift the string tension and change the pitch runs through it.

Pedal harps are heavy. They usually have 47 strings. People who play pedal harps (not me lol) have dolly carts to carry and position them. Pedal harps are more portable than a piano but less portable than most other musical instruments. They are VERY expensive and always cost >$10k (usually more like $15-20k) because of the complexity of the pedal mechanism, but can be much, much more depending on the wood and decoration.

Folk/Lever Harp

This is a folk or lever harp (mine, in fact! it's a 34-string Rees Mariposa that I love with my whole heart. please ignore the cat food in the back). The lever harp is capable of playing accidentals by flipping up the lever on the neck, which adds the exact change in tension needed to turn the string from a flat to a natural or from a natural to a sharp. This is obviously less nimble than the pedal system, since you have to take a hand out of playing commission for a second to flip a lever, but on the other hand you can switch just one string instead of all A strings or whatever. You also don't have to retune if you want to play a piece in a different key. They're very suited to playing Celtic traditional music.

Lever harps come in all shapes and sizes, from tiny 20-string lap harps to almost the size of a pedal harp, though I haven't seen any models that are bigger than 40 strings (mine has 34). They're generally much lighter and usually more portable than pedal harps. They're also much less expensive, and good ones generally live in the $2k-8k range. Definitely still a hefty chunk of change, but much less than a pedal harp.

Playing a Harp

The lever and pedal harp have very similar technique with the exception of pedal stuff for pedal harps (I don't play pedal harp so I can't comment on that). In general, the harp is tipped back and rests on the right shoulder. Most of the weight of a harp is in the base, so this isn't heavy or uncomfortable and tbh I love the feeling of the music resonating through my shoulder and body.

Pop quiz: the harp rests on what shoulder?

....

The RIGHT SHOULDER

For some reason this is wrong in like 90% of art which features a harpist. If you learn nothing about the harp from this, learn that the harp rests on the right shoulder, and I will be happy.

The right hand typically plays the melody on the higher strings and the left hand plays accompaniment on lower strings, just like the piano. You pluck strings with the flesh of the fingers, not with the nails (except in traditional wire-strung Celtic harps, which will shred your fingers, and I think Paraguayan harpists might play with the nails) or a pick. You usually need short nails as a harpist because nails + harp string = awful buzzy noise. As one can imagine, harpists have mad calluses. Harpists do not use the pinky because it's too short to reach the strings reliably.

When you play, you have your palms facing the strings and slightly tilted toward the floor, and the thumbs are up. The elbows are usually up so you have a smooth line from your elbow to your wrist (and not get wrist tendonitis). The right arm can rest lightly on the body of the harp unless you're playing on the highest strings.

You pluck in the middle of the string because it has the nicest resonance, unless you're doing an effect called près de la table (close to the soundboard), where you play right where the strings attach to the soundboard. This sounds like a guitar.

Harps have HELLA resonance, especially the lower strings, which will pretty much ring forever. You often need to actively muffle strings you don't want to be making noise anymore.

Because the wrist and forearm move together and the elbows kinda stick out, playing in a chair with armrests ranges from "really goddamn annoying" to "not possible."

Other Stuff

If you look at photos of harps, you will see some red strings and some black or blue strings. C strings are red, and F strings are blue or black. These are not training wheels, these are a visual indicator of the note. They're standard and are used by everyone from little kids playing Twinkle Twinkle (which is not a good harp tune, for the record) to professionals.

Low strings are wrapped in wire.

Fun fact, some lever harp makers make double or even triple (the Welsh are wild) strung harps which have multiple sets of strings either in parallel or crossing over. They are very cool looking and I'd love to learn to play one someday.

Harps are pretty delicate like all wood instruments. They get out of tune if you look at them wrong, and because you tune every string separately you spend a LOT of time tuning. I should probably be tuning right now.

[logarhythm-bees]

To Unearth and Back Again; ⛅Chapter 12

Chapter Eleven | Table of Contents | Chapter Thirteen

See ronithesnail's absolutely wonderful art for this story!

Maybe it's not paradise But for the price you're getting Its a deal, you'll have to Knock on wood You've got to grab the moment while the moment's good

-While The Moment's Good, Ultimate Storytime

“Hi!” Thomas said to one of the squirrels that ran across their path.

“Hey!” Thomas cheered to a group of birds chirping in the trees.

“‘Ello!” Thomas called to a groundhog that hopped across their path.

All the time, never sparing a word to Roman.

They seemed to have all unanimously and unspokenly decided to let Thomas lead–the thread had come from him, after all–the others ushered behind, following him like ducklings with unresolved emotional issues.

Virgil held up the back, keeping watch for any danger, and Logan and Patton followed just behind Thomas, almost treating the whole thing like a nature walk. Logan pointed out trees and bird species to Patton, their arms looped together and Patton’s hand supporting the link. He giggled every time Logan mentioned a fact to him, blushing when Logan leaned closer to tell him that the birds were incredible but incomparable to Patton’s beauty, or that the trees were fascinating but Patton even more so, or that he loved Patton so much and they should break up with Janus. Okay, Roman made that last part up. But he was getting tired of staring at boring trees and boring animals and a prince could dream.

“Wait!” Thomas shouted suddenly, and Roman froze, leading Virgil to bump into him from behind. “What!” Virgil shouted, scrubbing his face and looking straight ahead at Thomas, Roman noted, leaning completely around him.

“The trail,” Thomas said, pointing at the thread they’d been following. “It’s splitting.”

Indeed, stepping around Logan and Patton to look, Roman realized that the trail had split from one thread into three. There didn’t seem to be any major differences in the paths, simply that they lead in different directions–one straight ahead, one to the left, and one to the right.

“Let’s split up,” Virgil suggested immediately. “Me and Roman will go to the left, maybe you three can split the other two.”

Roman could not ignore the way his heart flipped in his chest as Virgil immediately shifted close to him and brushed their hands together.

Logan lifted a hand and opened his mouth to argue, but Patton shook his head at him out of the corner out of his eye. Logan closed his jaw and stared at nothing, thinking. 

“I suppose that would be effective,” Logan concluded. “It would take quite a while for us to explore the trails as a singular group, after all.”

“Great,” Virgil said, grabbing Roman’s hand fully and starting to drag him off along the first path. 

“Wait!” Patton called. “How will we know where each other is, or if someone’s found something?”

“That is a good point.” Logan agreed. “We should come up with a signal of some sort to alert each other. In the absence of technology, I propose an audio or visual signal would be the most effective.”

“I’m sure I could figure out a way to create a burst of light with my magic.” Logan said. “Patton-”

“Oh! I have an emergency whistle!” Patton exclaimed, pulling the piece of metal from one of his pockets and blowing into it sharply. Roman felt the way it made Virgil flinch.

“We could probably yell really loud, or something,” Roman proposed, uncertain on an idea. He looked to Virgil, who lit up before tamping the expression down.

“Me.” Virgil exclaimed. “I can use my Tempest Tongue. You’ll probably be able to hear that, yeah?”

“That should be effective, yes,” Logan nodded, Patton slumping a little bit in relief. “I’ll be listening for you guys.”

“I think I should go on my own, while you go with Thomas,” Logan suggested. “I am more than capable of navigating the area on my own with my environmental knowledge. It will be safer for you two to go together and look out for each other.”

Patton looked disappointed at the suggestion, but he nodded. “Buddy system!” He said, looping an arm around Thomas’s neck. “Roman and Virgil can be buddies too, and Logan can be buddies with his brain, because he’s so smart!”

Logan blushed appreciatively and looked away from them to hide his shy smile. Something about Patton’s statement set something uncomfortable in Roman’s chest, aside from his disgust at Logan and Patton’s sugar-sweet sappiness. It just felt wrong, what he’d said, casting his mind back to that morning, but he still didn’t know what it was. Tabling it for later, he followed Virgil’s careful tugging on his arm, off towards the left path. 

“We’ll let you know if we find anything!” Roman called, disappearing with Virgil off into the forest. Virgil made an agreeing noise, but he kept walking and pulled him along faster.

“Be careful!” Patton called, voice fading off into the trees, and then Roman and Virgil were on their own.

[alternamarian]

Separation is what in fact Rochester and Berthat have; they do not live like husband and wife.

bUtbUtbUt hE iS paYiNg sOmEOnE tO LOOk aftEr hEr in his OWn hOUsE!!!1!!1!!!!1!

Yes, because he is trying to be kind, to be compassionate towards Bertha Mason, even after everything that has happened. As has been pointed out, he could have left her in an asylum (in which he knows she would almost certainly have been abused); or he could have left her in Fearndean Manor with even less care than he provided her in Thornfield, and just let nature make her dead. But he chose not to.

the unhealthiness of the situation, in the heart of a wood, made my conscience recoil [...] Probably those damp walls would soon have eased me of her charge, but [...] mine is not a tendency towards indirect assassination, even of what I most hate.

And yes, leaving her in an asylum would probably have been the professional advice he would have received from doctors, and most likely urged by his father and brother. People seem to forget how little human science understands human mental health, even now.

Anyway, yes, I think Bertha Mason was already severely mentally ill during the engagement, and that alone should have made the arrangement invalid. Her family was not exactly unaware:

Her family wished to secure me [...] They showed her to me in parties, splendidly dressed. I seldom saw her alone, and had very little private conversation with her. [...]

There was a younger brother, too — a complete dumb idiot. The elder one, whom you have seen [...] will probably be in the same state one day [...].

Again, I have information about mental health that the characters (and the writer!!) do not. But the Mason family was not at all ignorant, and conspired with the Rochester family to get Edward Rochester to jump through the hoops and thereby wash their hands off of Bertha Mason.

Because even if he tried to prove that the Masons withheld necessary information, he cannot rely on his own relatives for help.

My father and my brother Rowland knew all this, but they thought only of the thirty thousand pounds.

His father and brother wanted to get rid of him, too.

he could not bear the idea of dividing the estate and leaving me a fair portion: all, he resolved, should go to my brother [...]. Yet as little could he endure that a son of his should be a poor man. I must be provided for by a wealthy marriage.

So even if Edward Rochester had been foolish and hormonal enough to have made his agreement with informed consent, even if he'd actually thought such an arrangement would make him perfectly, incandescently happy, his father and brother would not have advised against it — which, by the way, is their responsibility. Instead, they would have cheered him on, because

they only thought of the thirty thousand pounds

(Which is why I actually doubt he is in a condition to re-marry. Like, I think he should live some time as a single man, at least. I also doubt he has learned much / changed / repented for lying to Jane Eyre after the discovery, so there's plenty of reasons for her to leave Thornfield and retain story drama.)

But yes, I would say Edward Rochester is effectively not married to Bertha Mason — and I firmly believe that individuals in both their families ought to have been held accountable for the whole farce, and for the obscene damage they inflicted on him and Bertha alike.

Why Mr. Rochester and Bertha Mason Couldn't Get a Legal Separation; or, the Utter Madness of Marital Laws

So I saw a Jane Eyre post discussing why Mr. Rochester and Bertha Mason couldn't get a legal marital separation. I've thought a lot about this topic, and in order to procrastinate writing the final for my upper-level Brontë class, I've decided to write this sort of convoluted analysis instead. I know many others have written about this subject, but I wanted to explore a bit further on my own.

Preliminary context about me, the Brontës, their Byronic inspiration, etc.: I've learned a lot about 19th century British marriage laws recently in my classes on old British literature, as well as by having studied Byron, whose marital separation in 1816 was a notorious part of his history & also reverberated through 19c literature. He refers to this separation in many of his works, most famously in his notorious poem "Fare Thee Well." Harriet Beecher Stowe, the most famous American female writer at the time, was friends with Lady Byron and wrote a book defending her called "Lady Byron Vindicated: A history of the Byron controversy from its beginning in 1816 to the present time" (the original callout post).

Insanity accusations did factor in to Byron's separation. Many scholars have remarked how the Queens of Byronic Criticism, the Brontë sisters, took significant inspiration from their well-worn copy of Moore's biography Life of Byron when creating their works. The Brontës would have been very familiar with marriage laws not only due to their knowledge of Byron's trainwreck of a marriage, but also due to being well-educated women at the time who knew that marriage was the most important economic decision of one's life and could very well make or break a person. As a result, marriage plays a significant role in their novels.

More relevant preliminary context about the novel: Jane Eyre actually takes place in the Georgian era, despite most adaptations and anaysis presenting is as a Victorian piece due to the novels publication date (this drives me crazy; same goes for the other Brontë books). Marriage laws did not change drastically from the time the novel is set to the time Brontë was writing the novel, but things were a bit different socially. Rochester was also married 15 years before his attempt to marry Jane. According to this very good analysis, Rochester and Bertha probably married in or around the year 1793: https://jane-eyre.guidesite.co.uk/timeline.

Now, here are the reasons why Rochester couldn't separate from Bertha:

1) Insanity wasn't grounds for divorce/separation in the Regency era.

Rochester himself says that he couldn't legally separate from her because of her insanity, which presumably rendered any of her faults null on the grounds of that marital vow "in sickness and in health." This is possibly one of his biggest reasons:

"I was rich enough now – yet poor to hideous indigence: a nature the most gross, impure, depraved I ever saw, was associated with mine, and called by the law and by society a part of me. And I could not rid myself of it by any legal procedings: for the doctors now discovered that my wife was mad — her excesses had prematurely developed the germs of insanity [..]"

2) Divorce was nearly impossible anyway.

There had only been around 300 divorces in English history at the time. Almost all of them were husbands divorcing their wives for committing adultery. Only a handful of divorces had succesfully been obtained by women, and they were only in cases where the husband had committed incestuous adultery or bigamy, and was extremely physically cruel. So technically after his bigamy attempt, Bertha may have had more grounds to obtain a divorce than Rochester would have, if only she were lucid enough to do so. However, in that scenario infertility would have helped their case, and Adèle's existence would have harmed their case if he attempted to seek a divorce before marrying Jane. Though as the novel explains, Adèle is probably not his, she definitely would have been used against him, as would the fact that he kept Bertha's existence a secret in England. But he wouldn't have tried for divorce that late in the game anyway, considering it was one of the most difficult options.

3) Female adultery was your best bet at divorce or separation, and this probably wasn't applicable to Mr. & Mrs. Rochester.

Although some scholars claim that there is subtext hinting that Bertha was adulterous (which some adaptations, like the 2006, include), you needed substantial proof of the adultery, which Rochester may not have had if it did occur. Being a proud man, he also wouldn't have wanted to be humiliated in that way by letting it be publicly known (as shame is one of his main reasons for hiding their marriage to begin with).

However, I lean toward the idea that Bertha may not have committed adultery. If she definitively did, seeing how affected Rochester was by Céline cheating on him (he shot her lover in revenge and left her with a stipend), if he ever suspected adultery on Bertha's part then I'm sure he would have been at court the very next day. I also think Rochester tries not to be too much of a hypocrite, and he is well aware that he himself is an adulterer, so he probably doesn't want to accuse Bertha of a crime he's committed and which he couldn't definitively prove she did.

Rochester does talk about hating Bertha's "vices" when they lived together, citing drinking, arguing, cruelty to servants, cursing, her being "unchaste," a "harlot," etc. - the last epithets, combined with her supposed lack of morality, and her being described as seductive, heavily imply that adultery could be added to her list of offenses. However, if she did truly cheat on him as well, I don't see why he wouldn't plainly tell this to Jane as well. I would imagine it would be his first complaint, and it would probably be considered his most justifiable reason against her by their cultural standards.

I don't see why he wouldn't jump to take Bertha's infidelity as an opportunity to defend his own actions, considering how open he is with Jane about his own adultery and being cheated on by Cèline Varens. While I can see how some of the textual evidence may strongly suggest Bertha's adultery, we cannot be fully certain, and that may be because Rochester himself is not fully certain. I cannot see why he wouldn't have sought legal advice on that account alone.

In short, if Bertha was an adulterer, there must have been no evidence to convict her.

Also: while the double-standard may seem odd and trivial to us, the reason why female adultery held more weight than male adultery has entirely to due with old patriarchal inheritance laws; i.e the risk of a wife getting extramaritally pregnant and passing the illegitimate child off as her husband's heir was considered too great of an affront. A man could have as many bastards as he wanted because he would know they were bastards and were not at risk of inheriting his stuff. One needed legitimate heirs to justify passing on one's ancestral wealth to. Essentially, marriage was a mere economic tool, and the economy was and is inherently patriarchal. I digress.

4) Rochester's lack of social & economic leverage, and risk of social ruin in general.

Only the wealthiest of the wealthy could obtain divorce or official separation, and it often led to social ruin. Rochester is rich, but he has no title and no great network of supporters due to being a younger son and having been abroad for most of the past 15 years (this was the length of his marriage to Bertha, stated by Mr. Briggs during the bigamous wedding attempt). He doesn't have as much leverage as Lord and Lady Byron had.

To continue on official separation, like Lady and Lord Byron obtained. Just like divorce, this was also a messy and scandalous legal proceeding, and required numerous good reasons to obtain, and being well-connected Lords and Ladies really helped your case. You also needed many witnesses and written statements as evidence. Bertha's family, as we see with Mason, would have been unhelpful to Rochester, and due to his shame and secrecy, no one could really testify on his behalf I'm assuming.

5) Unofficial separation would have been inconvenient, especially in regards to living situations.

Aside from divorce, which was extremely rare, extremely controversial, and only for the wealthiest members of society — there were unofficial and official separations. An unofficial separation was simply living apart from one another. I've often wondered why Rochester didn't simply move Grace Poole and Bertha somewhere else, but my main theory is that it would have been cost ineffective, and due to his family who were implied to be shitty, he probably really didn't want to live at Thornfield anyway so thought it would be convenient to place her there. Rochester says it would be dangerous to place her in his other residence of Ferndean:

"[..] though I possess an old house, Ferndean Manor, even more retired and hidden than this, where I could have lodged her safely enough, had not a scruple about the unhealthiness of the situation, in the heart of a wood, made my conscience recoil from the arrangement. Probably those damp walls would soon have eased me of her charge: but to each villain his own vice; and mine is not a tendency to indirect assassination, even of what I most hate."

6) Annulment was likely impossible given their circumstances.

Annulment means evaporating the marriage, acting as if it never existed, that it was a mistake. This was rare and only granted in unique circumstances, and I believe it was more common with aristocracy and royals. I believe you could possibly get an annulment if you could prove that the spouse was insane at the time of the wedding and you did not know. However, Bertha did not begin to truly deteriorate until after they had been living together for a bit. And while Rochester says that he did not know her mother was in an asylum until after the wedding, having an insane mother doesn't mean that you are insane, which Bertha clearly wasn't at that point, at least not in a way that people would have publicly acknowledged, since Rochester says she attended parties and her hand was highly sought after.

Generally, the longer a marriage had gone on, the harder it was to prove why it could not go on. Rochester says that he and Bertha "lived together" for "four years" in Jamaica while her condition deteriorated and he tried to make things work. And again, after the wedding he found out her mother was "mad, and shut up in a lunatic asylum." So we have more reasons for Rochester's difficulty: the fear of Bertha going to an asylum while she was still mostly lucid in those first four years, combined with the fact that they openly lived together and certainly must have consummated their marriage (things which would further prevent annulment), and were certainly publicly recognized as a couple in Spanish Town society, and her family wanting the marriage to continue so she could have children of "good race" i.e. to produce heirs.

Here's an important passage that to me suggests that Rochester and Bertha not only had an initial flirtation but likely consummated their marriage, likely had a passionate sexual relationship for some time, and likely implies his feelings for her were more complex than we'd initially assume, making annulment not so clear-cut of an option to him at the time:

"My father said nothing about her money; but he told me Miss Mason was the boast of Spanish Town for her beauty: and this was no lie. I found her a fine woman, in the style of Blanche Ingram; tall, dark, and majestic. Her family wished to secure me because I was of a good race; and so did she. They showed her to me in parties, splendidly dressed. I seldom saw her alone, and had very little private conversation with her. She flattered me, and lavishly displayed for my pleasure her charms and accomplishments. All the men in her circle seemed to admire her and envy me. I was dazzled, stimulated: my senses were excited; and being ignorant, raw, and inexperienced, I thought I loved her. There is no folly so besotted that the idiotic rivalries of society, the prurience, the rashness, the blindness of youth, will not hurry a man to its commission. Her relatives encouraged me; competitors piqued me; she allured me: a marriage was achieved almost before I knew where I was. Oh, I have no respect for myself when I think of that act! — an agony of inward contempt masters me. I never loved, I never esteemed, I did not even know her."

7) Spousal abandonment wasn't possible, and on some level he honored his legal and financial obligations to her and the Mason family.

Bertha's family likely refused to house her for legal and personal reasons, and spousal abandonment was forbidden due to the husband's financial responsibility as well as the law of coverture (a wife became her husband's full legal responsibility; some say "property"). Like we see in Anne's Tenant of Wildfell Hall, if a woman ran away from their spouse they would have to live in obscurity and be at risk of being sussed out. You couldn't just abandon your partner. Still, people did, because it was the easiest route to take.

But the more upper-class you were, and the more financial entanglements you had, the more inconvenient this was. We know that Rochester and his family became enmeshed with the Mason family, and he got a lot of money from Bertha, so her father likely would have taken him to court. At any rate, Rochester was legally bound to bring Bertha with him to England when he left Jamaica. If he attempted to abandon her in Jamaica, the backlash it would have brought would have brought him social ruin and foiled his chances at getting away with any bigamy attempts.

All this brings us to a further notice of Bertha's family situation. Based on Charlotte Brontë's positive comments about Rochester's character (https://www.tumblr.com/burningvelvet/731403104856195072/in-a-letter-to-w-s-williams-14-august-1848) I see no reason to suspect him, like many feminist critics do, of being an unreliable narrator or of lying about Bertha Mason's history. Everyone is entitled to their opinions, and in mine, that is simply not the novel Charlotte wrote. By her own admission, she wanted his narrative to be a path to further goodness.

It makes no narrative sense for our explanation of his and Bertha's history to be full of lies when he's trying to make ammends with Jane, who never suspects him of lying during his admission, but who does critique him and figure he'd tire of her like she was one of his many mistresses. Jane wonders if Rochester would lock her in an attic too, which he refutes on the basis that he loves her more than he loved Bertha when she was sane, and so he would care for Jane himself. Jane also tells him that it's not Bertha's fault that she's mad. So in my opinion, if Charlotte wanted us to believe Rochester was lying about his and Bertha's history to make himself look better or Bertha look worse, I don't see why she would have been vague about it, and I don't see why Jane wouldn't have called it out like she does everything else. I don't think Rochester is really a villain who locked his harmless wife in the attic for giggles; I think he weighed most of his options and found, like most people back then and even today, that keeping his problems locked up and ignored was the best solution.

Now, on with the point. I have often wondered why Rochester didn't simply "unofficially separate" from Bertha by leaving her with her family when he left. Why did he take her to England? Why didn't he just run away? It wasn't because he was an evil villain who wanted to keep her as a trophy. It's because 1) I don't think her father would have let him, as he was so quick to marry her off, 2) he felt obligated to her, and 3) it was criminal for men to abandon their wives, and it would have attracted publicity, which is what Rochester was avoiding by taking Bertha to England and sheltering her in secrecy.

Many claim that Rochester's adultery is a betrayal of his wife; and while religiously, narratively, socially, we can accept this statement, it was not legally a crime. While Rochester does honor his financial and legal obligations to his wife and her family, he does not take the religious part of the vows into account, and that's why he's cosmically punished and only rewarded after he repents, as he explains toward the end of the novel.

Another interesting point is that when Rochester recounts his decision to move back to England, he tells us that Bertha had already been declared insane in Jamaica and that she was already confined there (presumably around the 4 year anniversary before they left), meaning her father probably knew about confinement:

"One night I had been awakened by her yells (since the medical men had pronounced her mad, she had of course been shut up) — it was a fiery West Indian night; [..]"

Locking away "insane" people was standard procedure then, and if this was done with Bertha's father's knowledge, considering he locked his own wife away in an asylum, then this further absolves Rochester of a lot of the blame in my opinion. It more than likely wasn't his idea to lock her away, but the advice of "the medical men" and presumably her father's consultation as well.

8) Even if he divorced or separated from her, he couldn't remarry. Attempting these, or getting caught attempting abandonment, would have brought negative publicity that would have likely prevented the success of any future bigamy attempts. To him, secrecy and bigamy seemed better chances at securing happiness than the social ruin and likely failure the other options would have brought him.

Aside from Rochester's own explanation (which I supplied in #2 re: the separation veto inherent to Bertha's insanity), the other biggest reason as to why Rochester wouldn't seek a separation/divorce even if she hadn't been declared insane and even if he were willing to accuse her of adultery truthfully or not, is due to the fact that one could not legally remarry upon separation or divorce (unless you were Henry VIII and got God's permission lol). Rochester's impossible dream is that he wants to be married to someone he really loves, and if secrecy and bigamy are his only options then he is willing to succumb; this is shown in numerous passages:

"[..] I could reform — I have strength yet for that — if— but where is the use of thinking of it, hampered, burdened, cursed as I am? Besides, since happiness is irrevocably denied me, I have a right to get pleasure out of life: and I will get it, cost what it may."

"I will keep my word: I will break obstacles to happiness, to goodness — yes, goodness; I wish to be a better man than I have been; than I am — as Job's leviathan broke the spear, the dart, and the habergeon, hinderances which others count as iron and brass, I will esteem but straw and rotten wood."

"Is there not love in my heart, and constancy in my resolves? It will expiate at God's tribunal. I know my Maker sanctions what I do. For the world's judgment — I wash my hands thereof. For man's opinion — I defy it."

Closing remarks on the above's validity: I can't cite all my sources because a lot of this stuff I learned from lectures via my professor who specializes in 19th century English literature & history. But here's some recently published information from a historian, taken from "Inside the World of Bridgerton: True Stories of Regency High Society" by Catherine Curzon (2023):

"And if you were one of the newly-weds, you really did hope things would work out, because in the Regency till death do us part wasn't just an expression. As the Prince Regent himself had learned when he separated from his wife within eighteen months of their marriage, obtaining a divorce in Regency England was no easy matter. He never achieved it, and for those who did the stakes could be high and the cost ruinous in every sense."

"Until the passing of the Matrimonial Causes Act of 1857, which legalized divorce in the civil courts, it was governed by the ecclesiastical courts, and the Church didn't end a marriage without very, very good reason. Even these divorces didn't allow a couple to remarry, though, and they were more akin to what we would today call a legal separation, with no shared legal or financial responsibilities going forward. It was freedom, but only to a point."

"The only way to obtain a complete dissolution that allowed for remarriage was to secure a parliamentary divorce, and these were notoriously difficult to obtain. They began with a criminal conversation case, because they relied on adultery by one of the parties to make them even a slight possibility. If a woman committed crim. con., her life in polite society was over."

[robininthelabyrinth]

Strange Creatures Brothers Be (aka WWX & NMJ sworn brothers) - Chapter 5

AO3 or part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4

-

If Wei Wuxian had been asked to guess, he would have said that the visit to the Lotus Pier would be difficult and the Unclean Realm easy, and instead it turned out to be the exact opposite, which he supposed demonstrated exactly how poor of a fortune-teller he would make.

The Jiang sect forces, led by Jiang Cheng and Wei Wuxian, had taken over the Lotus Pier some time before the final battle, so it wasn’t as if he hadn’t already had the emotionally devastating moment of returning to see it covered in Wen suns – to see the devastation that had been wrought upon it, all the old beloved places violated and irrevocably tainted with the blood of his friends, his shidi and shimei, Uncle Jiang and Madame Yu…

It looked much better now, in truth. Jiang Cheng had stationed lots of disciples there to protect their home while they continued to fight on the front line, ordering them to begin repairs at once, and while the entire place smelled of renovations it at least did not stink of blood and viscera. They had torn up and replaced most of the flooring as the first priority, so that they wouldn’t have to look for strange stains on the floor as they stepped, and if they still didn’t have a dining room, an entrance hall, or a private laundry, then at least they had a kitchen, and the memorial hall had been fully restored.

Jiang Cheng must have asked them to prioritize that, Wei Wuxian thought, and felt a stab of guilt from the fact that he didn’t know for sure.

He’d always known that he would need to figure out a way to stay distant from Jiang Cheng after the war – there was no way to explain why he wasn’t helping to train their new disciples, why he wasn’t standing by his side with Suibian the way he had promised time and time again to, not without touching on subjects that must forever remain taboo – but he hadn’t quite realized just how much responsibility he’d abdicated before now.

He hadn’t even been helping out with the paperwork, and that was something anyone could do.

The Nie sect techniques he’d been practicing the past few days focused on mindfulness and consideration of consequences, on habituating oneself to force in a bit of contemplation before any action was taken – not exactly natural to him, but then again the Nie sect techniques were all designed with the assumption that the practitioner was a reckless hothead – and it threw everything into stark relief for him. Wei Wuxian had only pulled away from Jiang Cheng because he didn’t want to hurt him, didn’t want to stain him with his demonic cultivation or reveal to him what had been done for him, but wasn’t this hurting him, too? Having to do all of this alone, without Wei Wuxian at his side - wouldn’t Jiang Cheng feel disappointed in him, maybe even betrayed?

It’s like having a mountain at your back, keeping you steady, he’d said to Jiang Cheng, about Nie Mingjue.

Don’t you know you’re just the same to me? Jiang Cheng had told him.

He wasn’t acting like very much of that right now.

Wei Wuxian had to keep distant, he knew that; he couldn’t tell Jiang Cheng the truth, he knew that. And yet – something had to be done about this unpleasant and untenable state of affairs, where Jiang Cheng tried to respect him but also hint to him how much he needed him and Wei Wuxian ignored him and pretended not to care while also tearing himself apart inside…

He’d tell Nie Mingjue about the whole thing soon, Wei Wuxian promised himself. His big brother would know what to do, somehow, or at least he’d have something to say on the matter.

Nie Mingjue was a foundation of rock, steady and unwavering, and after the terrible uncertainty of the war it was utter bliss to find something upon which one could rely. And not just for Wei Wuxian himself, who would very reluctantly admit that he clearly actually did need a bit of a steadying hand the way everyone had so irritatingly always insisted he did, but also for Jiang Cheng and Jiang Yanli as well.

Wei Wuxian could tell from the way they looked at Nie Mingjue, and he didn’t blame them one bit.

Not when Nie Mingjue walked through the Lotus Pier and praised them for the work they’d been doing, sparing but sincere in his compliments; when he offered not only suggestions for improvements and food for thought but also concrete promises of trade deals that would benefit them both – Qinghe timber and metal in exchange for Yunmeng cloth and dye, meat and dairy for fish and poultry, upholsterers to go help the Unclean Realm return from its status as a fortress and masons to come to reinforce the walls of the Lotus Pier so that they were never attacked again.

Not when he patiently sat with Jiang Cheng as they went through the endless paperwork and decisions he had to make as the leader not only of a sect but of a Great Sect, pointing out subtleties in the requests from their affiliated sects and reminding him of considerations that didn’t immediately spring to mind, helping lay out risk and reward alike while leaving the decision entirely in his hands.

Not when he talked, with some restraint, about their parents, which he had known well through his role as sect leader. He had a completely different perspective on them, from his additional age and his more distant position; for all that his stories were usually short and to the point, he could nevertheless drive them all to tears of laughter over hearing about how their parents were with their peers, strange as it was to think of Nie Mingjue as such – he really had come on his role far too young.

After one night when they’d lit incense and done all the rituals they could and wept all the tears that they had left in them, they’d shared several jars of wine with him, and by the end of the night they had learned to start anticipating how his stories would generally end with “and then I wanted to punch them in the face”. Though they couldn’t quite figure out whether that was because of their parents’ flaws – Nie Mingjue was not subtle enough a diplomat to leave those details out, and they wouldn’t have wanted him to – or because of his own disposition, it still, as Jiang Cheng said while giggling terribly on at least two jars of wine too many, make for a very good punch line.

Wei Wuxian had expected to have to spend his entire visit to the Lotus Pier avoiding Jiang Cheng and trying not to think of all he’d lost.

He hadn’t expected to be swept up in the minutiae of rebuilding, arguing loudly over what type of wood they should use for the entrance hall and whether they really need to restore the sect leader’s chair exactly as it had been (Jiang Cheng was of the view that it was tradition, Wei Wuxian and Jiang Yanli were of the view that it looked really dumb, and Nie Mingjue removed himself from the conversation on the grounds of laughing too hard to answer) or teaming up to bully their vendors into revising their delivery estimates into something a little more reasonable.

“A-Xian, maybe your reputation would improve if you stopped threatening to throw a fierce corpse at people who disagreed with you,” Jiang Yanli said, hiding her smile with her sleeve.

“Maybe his reputation would improve if he started offering other people the opportunity to pelt a fierce corpse at disreputable merchants,” Jiang Cheng sniffed. “Hey, Chifeng-zun, you interested?”

“More than words can say,” Nie Mingjue said solemnly. “Tell me, do you also sell a mechanism for the throwing part, or are the corpses sold by the weight? Not everyone can hurl a corpse as far as I can.”

“I wasn’t going to actually throw a corpse at him!” Wei Wuxian protested, grinning widely. “Do I look like I just carry corpses in my sleeves?”

“Possibly if the corpse was the size of a pheasant?” Jiang Cheng said. “Hey, Wei Wuxian, can you resurrect pheasants?”

“He’d better not,” Jiang Yanli said, giggling helplessly by this point. “That’s our lunch!”

Here in the Lotus Pier, Wei Wuxian could help out with important matters, could be trusted and not held at arms’ length unless he wanted to be. Here in the Lotus Pier, he could hug all the people he’d known from before, the survivors who had escaped or who had been away, he could shout out encouragement to the new disciples to balance out Jiang Cheng’s scolding, he could make himself useful by drawing talismans or correcting the postures of would-be archers. Here in the Lotus Pier, he could tie Suibian to his belt the way Jiang Cheng wanted if he wished, without being afraid that someone would try to make him draw it, or else he could leave his sword behind in his room and it would be seen as natural – who carried their sword when they were at home?

Here in the Lotus Pier, he was at home.

He’d missed home, Wei Wuxian discovered. He’d missed having a safe place to call home – and the Lotus Pier was finally safe again.

At least for the moment.

At least for the moment, now, when he had a good reason to avoid spars or training or anything that required the use of a golden core – injured, he sang out any time someone raised it, still injured, sorry, can’t help you – and even if that made his visit here bittersweet, knowing that he still hadn’t resolved the underlying issues that would eventually tear them all apart, it was still sweeter than anything he had any right to. He wouldn’t have exchanged one second of his time there for all the world.

And then they went to Qinghe.

They rode there, taking the scenic route in order to sweep up whatever demonic creatures had popped up as a result of the war, and when at last they arrived at the Unclean Realm the Nie sect was out in force to greet their sect leader.

At the head of them all was, of course, Nie Huaisang, who immediately ruined the whole grandiose effect by throwing himself forward into his brother’s arms, wailing, “Da-ge, you’re back, you’re back! You evil creature, you left me here with all the paperwork and all the decisions and everything, how could you? You have to come deal with it at once, I don’t know what I’m doing at all – oh, Wei-xiong! It’s good to see you, too!”

As unstoppable as a hurricane, he’d promptly plucked the qiankun bag in which Nie Mingjue had stored the presents he had purchased for him at the Lotus Pier out of Nie Mingjue’s sleeve and then disappeared back inside, fanning himself furiously and complaining of the heat of the sun, the chill of the wind, the unseasonable temperature…

Nie Mingjue sighed, a great big heaving breath. “Don’t worry,” he said to Wei Wuxian, “I’ll talk to him,” and then he strode inside after him.

Wei Wuxian blinked. “Did I miss something?” he asked one of the Nie sect disciples that remained by his side, an older man who had clearly been assigned to assist him if the way he remained while the others immediately began to disperse was any sign.

“Nie-er-gongzi isn’t a very formal person,” the disciple, who introduced himself as Nie Zonghui, said, sounding somewhat apologetic. “The way he referred to you…”

“…what about it?” Wei Wuxian asked, now even more confused. “He called me Wei-xiong, just the way he always does – I don’t mind it at all.”

Nie Zonghui looked even more apologetic. “That was when you were friends,” he said, and – what? Weren’t they still friends? What was Nie Huaisang supposed to call him, exactly? A-Xian? Or…

Wait.

For us in the big clans, we can’t even distinguish our relationships with our own relatives, much less any others, he remembered Nie Huaisang ranting, all the way back in the Cloud Recesses. Wouldn’t it be better to just call everyone more than two tiers away aunts and uncles, or even brother and sister -

“Knowing what I know about Nie-xiong,” Wei Wuxian said slowly, thinking it through, “if he were really happy to see me, he’d have started calling me er-ge at once, wouldn’t he? Since I’m his brother’s sworn brother and all, and older than he is.”

Nie Zonghui nodded.

“He probably would’ve asked for a first-meeting gift, too.” Even back at the Cloud Recesses, he’d always observed how shameless Nie Huaisang was about gifts. “Possibly several.”

Nie Zonghui nodded again.

“He’s pissed off at me,” Wei Wuxian concluded.

Nie Zonghui nodded a third time.

“But why?”

“Perhaps you should ask your sworn brother,” Nie Huaisang said, appearing as if out of thin air right behind him and making Wei Wuxian jump. Nie Huaisang was not an especially scary-looking individual – he was short, and his face still gave off a feeling of roundness, suggestive of either baby fat or indolence or both – but there was an expression on his face that reminded Wei Wuxian of Nie Mingjue about to enter a battlefield. He hadn’t previously known that Nie Huaisang was capable of making a face like that. “Especially since he swore brotherhood with you without even asking me first.”

Nie Zonghui smiled very fleetingly at Wei Wuxian before disappearing down a nearby hall, and oh, apparently he hadn’t been here to show Wei Wuxian around at all, he’d just stayed to watch the show.

“Nie-xiong, about that -” Wei Wuxian said, meaning to be placating, but then Nie Huaisang took a step forward with his eyes narrowed into slips and he actually found himself taking a step backwards.

“I told you how good my da-ge was, didn’t I?” he asked, and no, actually most of his words were about how awful a tyrant his da-ge was, making him study and train and do all sorts of things like that, only maybe perhaps by implication one could argue that he’d said anything good about him at all, but given the way that Nie Huaisang jabbed his finger into Wei Wuxian’s breastbone like a saber Wei Wuxian thought it might not be good to mention any of that now. “And then the first chance you get, you go off and try to steal him?”

“I didn’t mean to steal –”

“We,” Nie Huaisang hissed like an angry mongoose, “will be having words about this, Wei-xiong.”

And then he stormed off.

Wei Wuxian stood there, abandoned and blinking after him in utter confusion and not a little bit of admiration – it would have taken some gall to scold him when he was just Wei Wuxian, head disciple of Yunmeng Jiang, and now that he was a fearsome demonic cultivator, the leader of the destruction of the Nightless City, no one dared to speak to him like that.

Except, apparently, Nie Huaisang.

“Would Wei-gongzi like to be shown to his rooms?” Nie Zonghui – making a belated reappearance – asked politely. The apologetic look was gone, replaced by a look of deep amusement. “We’ve made sure that they’re in the family quarters.”

“You’re trying to get me killed, aren’t you?” Wei Wuxian asked indignantly. “You’re trying to get me murdered! What did I ever do to you?”

“Nothing,” Nie Zonghui said. “But it’s about time our second young master took an interest in dismemberment.”

“An interest in – I refuse to be anyone’s training dummy for murder! Do you hear me? I refuse!”

Nie Mingjue would probably make sure that nothing like that happened.

…right?

[katnissmellarkkk]

Angst #9

Hahahaha, so uh... you wanted angst? You got it. It may not be exactly what you wanted but it’s what came to mind when you sent this prompt. 

This turned out wayyyyy longer than I intended but 🤷🏼‍♀️. I always overwrite 😂💁🏼‍♀️🤦🏼‍♀️.

Context I think necessary to know for this prompt is that it’s set four years Post-Mockingjay, three years post “so after”, and I think that’s all you need to know? 

Oh yeah, and I should also mention that I definitely took creative liberties here. And also, trigger warning for choking.

Prompt: Angst “Did it mean anything to you? Did I mean anything to you?”

"Peeta," I yelp as he playfully splashes me. "Stop."

"Get in here," he demands, pointing to the water his whole body is immersed in.

"No," I refuse, laying on my back, maybe a little teasingly. "I just dried off."

Today was a particularly sunny day, with the bright light from outside our windows rousing us from bed even before our usual wake up time. I know the people of Twelve will be disappointed they can't get their bread and pastries today--especially seeing that Sunday is the most popular day at the Mellark Bakery--but I just couldn't pass up a lazy day at the lake with Peeta.

Still though, I didn't get as much sleep as I've grown accustomed to and after hours of swimming in the lake—and, jokingly, teaching Peeta to find katniss roots—I'm lethargic. My exhausted body is perfectly happy to lay in the grass with the sun beating down on me, either darkening or burning my skin.

But Peeta, it would seem, has other plans.

"Don't you dare," I hiss as his cacophonous footsteps approach. Even without the noise he still makes when he moves, the sound of dripping water would have given him away.

Not listening to me and definitely not heeding my warning—either he's grown fearless in the four years since the war or I've lost my bite and grown soft on him—Peeta reaches down and grabs me up by the waist, easily hoisting me up into his arms.

"Did you say you dared me?"

"Peeta," I try to command, as a last ditch effort, before bracing myself for what I know is coming.

Like clockwork, just as I have my eyes shut and sucked in a breath, Peeta tosses me in the deepest part of the lake before jumping back in himself.

I easily push my head above the surface just as he creates a massive splash of water with his impact.

"You're going to drain the lake," I complain as his hands find themselves on my hips, pulling me in closer. I go without resistance, but remain annoyed he just tossed me back in the water.

His lips find residence on my cheek, trailing lower and lower, underneath my jaw and down my neck, a non-verbal apology.

"Is all this water really good for your prosthetic?" I murmur after a long moment, some of the irritation fading from my body as he kisses down my shoulder softly.

"My leg is waterproof, Katniss," he reminds, chuckling a little.

"Oh yeah," I try to respond but his lips trail down to my chest, pushing me up higher against him, and speaking becomes difficult. "Generous of them," is all I can manage.

He lets out a real laugh this time. "Can always depend on the generosity of the Capitol, can’t we?" He quips just as I capture his lips with my own.

I don't know if in the last three years that we’ve been together I've become a better kisser—I've definitely become more experienced—and I can't say for certain if our kisses feel any different now to him, but I do know for a fact that Peeta has grown leaps and bounds with time. His lips, which were always soft and warm, now move with expertise, now hold a confidence I didn't realize was missing all that time we were putting on a show. Kissing Peeta now is another kind of experience and one I never knew I needed, one I never thought to ask for, before I had it.

Of course, I get some credit here. I am the one who's lips have given him the practice, who's tongue has freely wrestled with his, the one who he's gained all his expertise from.

As we pull apart for air, my face lolling down into his shoulder, burrowing there, I hear a peculiar sound. One I don't cognitively recognize at first but my sense memory captures instantly. It's a sound that makes my stomach twist and lurch before I can comprehend exactly why.

Peeta tenses too, rather abruptly. I feel his hands grip my thighs tighter to him, almost wrapping me around him, as if to keep me protected from whatever is buzzing above us.

The buzzing only gets stronger—so much stronger, in only a matter of seconds—and I have to consciously force myself to breathe as it hits me where that sound is coming from.

Tracker jackers. A whole lot of them.

Someone, somewhere, must have knocked over a nest. Someone must have been both unlucky and careless and somehow expelled an entire hive by mistake.

That's what I tell myself, at least. That this was purely a mistake. That this isn't an attack, set out to hurt us, to endanger us for deadly entertainment labeled a game.

Because unleashing a whole hive of tracker jackers on us, while we're out alone, secluded, in the middle of the woods, is the exact kind of thing the Gamemakers would do.

"Katniss," Peeta whispers, his voice close to my ear now. I can tell instantly that he's petrified.

Of course he's petrified. Tracker jacker venom is exactly what he was injected with, over and over again, in an attempt to destroy his memory, his mind, the very essence of his being.

"Katniss?" He says again, a little louder and a little rougher. But I'm still too shocked to move. I'm useless, completely frozen in place while the horrible creatures, that are deadly in large quantities—just ask Glimmer—finally come into view, circulating above us.

"We need to run," he urges, and I don't have to look at him to know his blue eyes are desperate.

Nodding blankly, I don't take my eyes off of the venomous creatures flying over our heads. Somehow, a very sore, exhausted part of my brain wakes back up and I feel myself go into survival mode.

A mode in which I had wished to never transition into again.

My legs unwrap from Peeta's waist and I interlock our fingers, squeezing his hand as tightly as I can. I swim to the edge of the lake, towing him behind me, and climb onto the grass just as I hear the buzzing grow closer.

Peeta is only inches, if even that, behind me, and we both grab our shirts and pants from the blanket we set out and dress ourselves while moving through the trees. Our soaked skin makes this more challenging but not altogether impossible, and soon I feel Peeta's hand yanking on mine, propelling me forward.

I know he's even more afraid than I am when I realize he's running ahead of me, dragging me behind him. Peeta is by far a slower runner than I am. The idea that there's enough fear in him to compensate for a naturally slower gait and a fake leg makes my heart ache.

I hear the tracker jackers still getting closer though, no matter how fast we move. It's not a surprising, really, as when these creatures were designed, they were made to lock in on a target and chase it down until it died. After all, they were made to be a weapon in the first war.

And they were used as one in both.

I feel myself let out a loud sigh of relief as the sound of the wasps begins to fade away, as we come closer and closer to the edge of the woods.

Still, it isn't enough. It's never enough.

Peeta's prosthetic does better than I cynically imagined but in the end, it gives out just as I knew it would and he goes tumbling face-first down into the dirt and branches. I didn’t see it but I can tell by the way his leg, his only real leg, is scraped up, that it must have gotten caught on the fallen branches strewed across the ground.

"Peeta!" I scream, louder than I intend to. Louder than I know I should.

I kneel down beside him, adrenaline still pumping through my veins like red, hot blood, and I yank and tug at his arm, trying to force him to stand and run again, as my wail evidently alerted a few stray wasps that hadn't entirely disappeared yet.

"Peeta," I cry out now, desperation taking over my entire being. "We have to move." I try to push him to stand, to move forward, but he's shaking his head with a sad, defeated expression.

"Katniss, just run," he orders firmly, his voice surprisingly strong. "Leave me here, I'll be okay."

I give him an incredulous look, so shocked by his statement that I completely ignore the small growing buzz flying closer and closer by the second. "Peeta, I'm not leaving you!" I exclaim, as if the thought is outright offensive. Because to me, it is. "You can't honestly think I'm going to abandon you-"

"Katniss, please!" He snaps now, his eyes getting desolate. "Please, just go! I'll be home as soon as I can-"

"No! You're coming with me!" I demand furiously. Just as I am preparing to quickly stand and drag him by force out of these woods, his baby blue eyes widen fiercely and he envelopes me into his arms, shoving my body underneath his.

It all happens in a matter of seconds. Peeta holds me down the way he used to hold his opponents down in a wrestling match, paralyzing me into place, and I can't move to escape, to try and run and drag him with me.

I don't understand what he's doing though, what his true intent may be, until I feel through him, through his body that is sheltering mine, the vibrations of the tracker jackers' stingers.

I don't know how many times he gets stung but it's not enough to kill him—especially not him, who has such a high tolerance after the abuse he was subjected to—but enough to hurt him. Enough to have an effect.

Enough that only seconds after the creatures fly away, he flings himself upwards, attempting to get as far away from me as humanly possible. Attempting to put as much distance between us as his distorting mind will allow.

"Peeta!" I cry out again, plainly reaching for him. It doesn't click in my head what could be happening. It doesn't seem even real anymore, after four years home without a single episode, after three years of bliss together, that he could ever again become that dark, twisted shell of a person he was in Thirteen.

"Stay away from me!" He hisses and I recoil instinctively into a tree trunk behind me. His stumbles backward and snaps a branch with his prosthetic leg. The sound is enough to set him off and he practically snarls down towards the ground.

I don't know what he's seeing, what terrifying hallucination is taking over his psyche. I can't even imagine where his mind is right now, but I know that’s horrifying.

"Peeta, it's okay," I try again, but my voice is breaking and I must have started crying at some point and my eyes are wide and displaying just how blatantly unnerved I feel and I know I'm of no comfort right now. Still, I can't stop myself from saying, "it's just a tree branch, Peeta. Nothing is going to hurt you out here, I swear."

"Except you," he states, so blankly, so matter-of-fact, that I visibly flinch as he turns the gaze of his cold, dark eyes on me.

The sweet blue sky that live inside his irises are long gone and in their place is a blackened night and I haven't seen it in so long, I actually forgot what it looked like.

"Peeta," I whisper now, knowing it's fruitless to say anything, to try and get through. But I just can't leave him here, alone, when he's been hurt, when he's still suffering from what Snow did to him to destroy me.

His hands shake and he clutches the roots of the tree beside him to the point of pain. As if the wood can keep him in place. As if the wood can stop him from reacting to the venom like his every impulse is surely screaming to.

"Go away," he spats at me, his teeth clenching together so tight I'm afraid he'll chip them. "Would you just go!"

"No!" I yell stubbornly. My legs suddenly find a way to work and the shock must be wearing off because I find myself manically crawling through the dirt and leaves towards Peeta, where he's practically locked himself against a tree.

"You're a stupid mutt," he snarls as I come closer—closer enough to touch. "A mutt created by the Capitol to trick me. Don't touch me!"

I ignore his words and lay my hand on his forearm. "Peeta, please-stop!" I order desperately as he swings his arm in my direction. "Listen to me, please! This isn't real! I swear, this is just a bunch of lies the Capitol told you!"

"The only lies that I've been told were from you, sweetheart," he practically spits at me. "And I'm tired of your lies. In fact, I think I'm tired of you altogether-" He cuts himself off, one of his hands flying up from the branch and smacking him in the face. "Run!" He abruptly exclaims in a different voice. A voice that gives me hope. Hope that he can mentally fight this off. "Katniss, go!"

"No!" I refuse still, my jaw clenching and my eyes locking in on his furiously. "I won't leave you here!"

He squeezes his eyes shut at my words, and when he reopens them, my every hope he would be able to pull himself out of this evaporates. "I hate you! I absolutely hate you! Why won't you ever leave?"

"Because I love you," I hoarsely shout, not caring that he's in no position to listen to me. "I love you, Peeta. I love you and I'm not going to leave you."

I never say these things, even now. Even after the years since the war, I rarely offer sentiments. In words at least. Peeta knows I love him. I know I love him. But there's little need for me to proclaim it every single day and night.

Until now, until right now in these woods, with Peeta and all that he is nearly evaporated, do I wish I had showered him in verbal sentiments over and over again. No matter how unnatural words as opposed to actions are to me, I should have forced myself to speak up more, to say how I feel, to overdose him in it until he's tired of hearing my voice.

Maybe if I had been more vocal, he wouldn't still be so fast to believe the worst. Maybe then he wouldn’t be susceptible to these dark thoughts when the venom enters his system.

I shake that idea off as soon as it comes. This isn't my fault and it definitely isn't his. The tracker jacker venom isn't something we could have seen coming and it isn't permanent, I force myself to remember. This will wear off.

I just have to make sure Peeta doesn't hurt himself before that happens.

"Peeta," I whisper now, seeing his eyes squeezing shut again. I don't dare to let myself hope again he's fighting the hallucinations off. Cautiously, like I'm about to pet a tiger, I lean my hand in to touch his cheek.

He doesn't relax into it but he doesn't snap at me either and I take it as progress.

At least, I do until he opens his eyes.

They're still black as coal and my heart sinks at the realization. But before I can think to do anything else, his mouth opens again, his voice now slow and quiet and pleading. "You're the worst thing that ever happened to me. I loved you so much and you cost me everything."

I feel myself let out an involuntary sob at that, my chest heaving before I can swallow it down. Because it's true. If it weren't for me, if I'd just eaten those stupid berries myself, he wouldn't have been tortured and hijacked. Millions of people wouldn't be dead from the war. Finnick would be playing with his son right now, probably teaching him to swim or fish or tie a knot.

Prim would still be alive.

As if reading my mind, his next sentiment matches my line of thinking. "You destroyed me, just like you destroy everyone. My family is dead because of you. You killed them. You killed millions of people and laughed about it. You even killed your little sister."

And I know he's not in his right mind, but his words still ring true to me and all I can say, while trying to suppress the overflow of tears gathering behind my lids is, "I know."

"But it never meant anything to you, did it? No matter who you hurt or how much pain you inflicted, it never mattered to you."

I shake my head automatically, not even registering that I'm about as good as arguing with a wall here. "That's not true. I do care. I've always cared."

"Liar," he hisses again but it's under his breath, through clenched teeth and I can't respond to it. "You never cared about anyone besides yourself."

"Not real, Peeta!" I frantically try to get through to him. "Not real, not real, not real!"

He acts as if I hadn't spoken. "I always, always loved you. So much." He says it, not as a compliment or endearment, but as a dark fact, as a burden to bear. As if it were a heavy load he was forced to carry. "Did that mean anything you? Did I mean anything to you? Or was I just second best to him?"

"Peeta," I whimper out desperately, wiping my eyes with one hand and reaching out to grip his palm with my other. "You mean everything to me. You're my whole world."

Something flickers in his eyes and he snaps like the branches beneath our feet. "Liar!" He screams again, and shoves my hand off his. "You're a mutt! You're a liar! You’re not going to kill me like you did everyone else!"

"Not real!" I scream on the top of my lungs, giving up every other defense I have, just for the insane hope of getting through to him.

I remember how I got him to cooperate, to see reason, to fight, in the middle of the war. How I kissed him desperately, knowing I rationally should kill him, knowing there was a likely chance he'd kill me for even trying to save him, but how I did it anyway, in the face of all that.

It was different then. He wasn't freshly full of venom. He was already beginning to overcome his hijacking on his own. He was already starting to fight his way back to me.

But that doesn't mean the same methods couldn't be repurposed here. That doesn't mean they wouldn't work again, under different circumstances.

Somehow, in the seconds I considered this method, my eyes had traveled to his lips and my plan was foiled before it could be put into action.

"Don't you dare," he threatens, his voice dripping with fury. Even more deadly than I heard only a moment ago. "You're not going manipulate me like you always do, mutt."

Before I can gather my bearings or even process what he's implying, he forces both his hands to let go of the roots he's managed to maintain an iron tight grip on. His hands come flying at me, knocking me back against the forest floor, knocking the wind out of me painfully.

I feel my shoulder blade take the impact and fight back a wince, just as two large hands wrap themselves around my throat.

They squeeze tight, effectively cutting off my air supply, giving me the same horrible sensation I still remember from his rescue. The horrible day I still sometimes have nightmares about.

This whole entire thing is a nightmare come to life. Just as much as it was back in Thirteen four years ago.

I stare up at him, my vision swirling, my eyes stuck on his. And, in spite of how angry I should be—at Snow or Coin or the Capitol or just life in general—I find myself uncharacteristically hoping. Not hoping that he won't kill me. But rather hoping that when he comes back to his senses, he is able to forgive himself for this. That he is able to forgive himself for all of it.

I stare into his eyes, because if this is my end, I want the last thing I see to be the person I love, even if he isn't himself. I want him to somehow retain the memory of me right now, at this moment. So he can know that I'm not angry with him, that I don't hate him. That I love him. In spite of every reason anyone has tried to create for me not to.

I'm so focused on his eyes that I don't even notice that his grip is weakening. I don't even register his stance changing. All I see, all I register, is his eyes suddenly changing from black to blue and then black again. It's haunting to see up close, like a demon is stuck inside of him and he's having to fight it off from the inside out.

"Peeta," I whisper hoarsely, reaching my hand up to cup his cheek as his irises become a blue ocean again.

But his body language remains stiff, even as he clumsily pulls himself upwards and off of me. He trips backwards once again, and I watch in a frozen stupor as his eyes change once more to ebony.

"Go!" He shouts abruptly, his features wild and downcast and tormented. "Katniss, go!"

And I don't know if it's the fact that he's seemingly fighting off the darkness now or if the tracker jacker venom may be growing weaker inside him or if it's just the plain fact that he sounds like my Peeta again, but I listen this time. I roll over gracelessly and cough and sputter and grapple for a breath before finding my footing and blindly racing out of the trees. Blindly leaving Peeta behind, hoping he'll be able to find his way back to me.

Hoping that he'll come back to me at all.

X.

I crash onto the couch as soon as I step foot into the living room, lying down on my stomach, burrowing my face into the cushions beneath me.

I mindlessly ran from the woods, tripping and falling and unable to catch my breath, my heart racing a thousand beats per second. I didn't stop when Thom waved at me or when Haymitch barked to ask what I was up to now. I didn't even stop to lock the front door.

I wasn't worried about Peeta coming home to harm me. He was in enough control in the woods to hold himself against the tree, to stop himself from strangling me, to yell at me to run. If he was going to chase me down and hurt me, he would have done so in the woods when I refused to leave.

No, I wasn't worried about Peeta coming home to harm me. I was worried he wouldn't come home at all. I was worried that this is going to push him to the edge, that he won't trust himself, that he will insist he has to go back to the Capitol for hospitalization. I was worried that this will cost me him and our life together and everything we've worked so hard to build.

I squeeze my eyes shut to hold in my tears, terrified that the tracker jackers are going to cost me him, even after all this time. That what Snow did to take Peeta from me will finally succeed, even after his death.

Me and Peeta don't see eye to eye on this topic. This topic is one of the few things we can't agree on.

Peeta still gets flashback, on a fairly regular basis. He still grips the back of a chair or clutches a wall, hides in the back of the bakery when a customer triggers some atrocious memory by mistake. He still has insomnia some nights and still paints his nightmares.

Some of those paintings consist of things I never could stand to know. Some of his paintings, so haunting and gut-wrenching, display things that have brought me to tears more than once.

I was looking at them one morning over a year ago when I blurted out the worst possible thing I could have.

"What would happen if you ever were hijacked again? If you ever became the way you were in Thirteen again?"

I honestly expected him to say that Dr. Aurelius has warned him that there is a possibility of that happening and that he has a plan in place and he would have to go to the Capitol again and just about a million things I don't want to hear but I as much as expected.

But instead he caught me entirely off-guard and simply said, "I'd leave. Go out to the woods and probably never come back."

It's only now that I realize his wording, that I realize I left him out in the exact place he specified disappearing and I feel my blood run cold as I process this.

I don't know what I intend to do, as I stand up off the couch. I don’t know if I intend to go to Haymitch and see if he's too drunk to be of any help, to go maybe to Delly or Thom or anyone in the district who cares for Peeta, or if I even intended to just go searching for him myself in the woods, but in the end it all becomes irrelevant.

Because as soon as I stand, frantically trying to stop my shaking and figure out how I planned to find him, Peeta walks in through the front door.

His eyes are blue again and they've lost the cloudy look that have always appeared in his episodes. I don't know why I forgot that until now.

Probably because I black out the things that really hurt me. The things that hurt my heart too much to fully process.

Peeta, the sweetest boy I've ever known, being tortured and destroyed to pay for my acts of rebellion is at the top of that list.

I just stare at him, taking him in now, here, alive, relatively unharmed aside from some scratches. His eyes are clear but they're so sad and so desolate and I open my mouth to speak. To say just about anything that'll convey to him that I'm not angry with him, not in the least. That I just don't want him to leave, that I can't take losing him again.

But all that comes out are choking noises and I don't know if it's the cries I fought off or if it's because his hands were wrapped around my throat not long ago, or if it's just plainly that I don't put my feelings into words well. By any stretch of the imagination.

Either way, it doesn't seem to matter. Peeta just shakes his head slowly, the skin around his eyes already wet and swollen and pink and before I can utter another sound, he's walking forward towards me and falling down onto his knees, wrapping his arms around my waist. His face buries itself into my stomach and suddenly, the most painful, the most wretched sobs fill the room and if I wasn't right here with him, if I couldn't physically see Peeta, the cries would almost be unrecognizable as him.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

I try to resist it, I try to hold it back, I do everything I can to fight it, knowing it'll only make him feel that much worse, but in the end it's a lost effort and it's all I can do to raise my head up to the ceiling just as the tears come pouring from my own eyes. If they're out of shock or fear or pain--or a combination of all three--I don't know, but I do everything I can to hide them from Peeta.

It becomes just one more thing I fail at, as he somehow instinctively notices and squeezes me tighter to him, clutches me like Prim used to clutch her baby blanket.

"Please forgive me, Katniss. Please, please, please forgive me."

I open my mouth to say there's nothing to forgive but once again, the words won't form. All that comes out is a simple sob, quiet but strong, and I feel Peeta squeeze me again.

"I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

X.

"Roll over for me," Peeta whispers softly, his hand as tender as his voice, stroking my hair back attentively.

I do what he asks, rolling onto my stomach, but still manage to say, "this isn't necessary."

He ignores me, his eyes no longer wet but still swollen and bloodshot from the hours he cried. Lifting up my shirt—technically his shirt originally, but we repurposed it as my sleep attire months ago—he slides a cold cloth onto my back, holding it in place for a long moment of time.

There's now a particularly large bruise already forming on my back from where he knocked me to the forest floor. I couldn't care less. I got worse bruises than that from hunting on a regular basis.

But the look in Peeta's eyes when he saw the mark, almost--but not quite--rivaled the look in his eyes when he stood upright and saw my neck. I hadn't even seen at it yet, I hadn't even given any thought to checking for red handprints, but when Peeta stood upwards, when he'd calmed down enough to look me in the eye, his gaze flew there instantly and words can't convey how awful he must have felt.

If there were a way to verbally say how wretched and sick he felt inside, Peeta would be the first one to do it.

Telling him it wasn't his fault didn’t work. Telling him he couldn't have known about the tracker jackers nearby, he couldn't have known what would happen, did absolutely nothing to convince him that he shouldn't feel responsible. Especially not when I'm speaking in a hoarse tone of voice.

Of course, I knew he'd feel this way. I would feel this way. But somehow I just can't stop trying to alleviate his remorse, no matter how useless it may be to attempt. Somehow I just can't stop trying to remove that tragically sad look from his eyes.

As soon as he lets go of the cold cloth, I spin around in the bed and snuggle myself tight into him.

He takes me into his arms willing, wrapping his every limb around mine, burying his face in my hair. His lips press repeated kisses to my forehead, his hands rubbing up and down my spine, massaging my back.

"I'm so sorry," he whispers, probably for the twentieth time.

"Peeta," I all but groan, leaning my head back slightly to peer up into his heartbroken eyes. "Stop. There's nothing you could have done."

He looks like he wishes to argue but nothing comes out of his mouth. Instead he rubs my back again and squeezes me tighter. I shut my eyes against him, breathing him in, a part of me finally relaxing for the first time in hours.

Even after he returned home, even after his breakdown, I remained cautious at first. The last thing I wanted was to let my guard down too soon and have the venom—that is surely still working it's way out of his bloodstream—cause him to snap again, to lash out at me or attack.

Just like the last thing I wanted was to make him feel worse, make him feel remorse for something that was done to him, something he didn't ask for and he'd worked so hard and made so much progress in controlling.

But when he'd noticed the tears I’d tried to hold in, down in the living room, the remorse was inevitable.

"Are you sure you're okay?" He whispers now, moving my hair aside carefully, pressing his lips gently to the red marks where his hands had left their imprint.

This isn't the first time he's asked though and despite the fact that I rather enjoy his lips on my neck typically, I can't help but respond with ire. "Peeta, I already told you my neck and back are just fine. Please stop worrying," I say tensely, my voice tired and worn thin.

He says nothing in response, instead placing more kisses against my throat and collarbone. I let out a sigh I didn't even know I was holding in and reach out to stroke the back of his head, massaging where his skull and neck met, where his blonde curls touch his skin.

"You scared me," I whisper finally, the words easier now that I can't see his eyes and he can't see mine.

"I know," is all he can say.

"Not physically," I immediately correct before he can take that and internalize it. "I don’t mean you scared me physically. You... you..." Speaking becomes a challenge all over again, the syllables not wanting to form intelligibly on my lips. But when he pulls back and looks me deep in the eye, his gaze full of love and sorrow, I force myself to just say how I feel. "I was scared I was going to lose you," I whisper, leaving whether I meant lose him physically or mentally up in the air.

Still, he doesn't seem surprised by the confession, whatever way he took it. "I know."

I have to bite my lip to keep an awful choking sob inside, as one is doing it's best to escape from the back of my throat. Almost as a distraction I bury my face into his chest again, shutting my eyes, and I allow myself to be thankful that Peeta's still here and he's my Peeta again.

When he doesn't fill the silence though, I realize I have to or else the tension in the room will continue to linger. "I was so scared," I admit, so quietly it's almost inaudible.

"I know, baby."

I scrub my face against his cotton-made shirt before rubbing my nose with the neckline of my own sleepwear, just as something hits to me. Peeta's words in the woods, even while hijacked, still sting inside my head. Not the cruel things he said, because even though I know they're true, I also know he doesn't truly believe any of them himself. He doesn't think I murdered his family or am an evil person who laughs at the misery of others, and I know beyond a shadow of a doubt, he doesn't think I'm in any way responsible for Prim's death.

But originally, his hijacking was predicated upon his insecurity and uncertainty in our relationship and in my feelings for him. In the last three years I know I've made my feelings clear. At least, in my mind I have.

But a quietly violent voice whispers, and I ache deep inside as it questions, what if I haven't expressed how I feel enough to him? What if he truly still feels unsure of my love for him?

"Peeta?"

"Yeah?"

"I just... I want you to know-" His finger presses against my lips now and he's shaking his head, his eyes forlorn.

"Katniss, if this is about anything I said, just don't. Okay, I meant none of it. I hate that those words even-"

"Peeta, you mean everything to me," I blurt out then, clumsily cutting him off. "You're the only thing that really matters to me an-and," I stop myself then, having spoken too fast, rushed my words and now am stuttering. There's so many things I want to say, so many things I want him to know. So many they all become jumbled up and confused in my head, and it's all I can do to say the simplest, plainest thing that comes to my mind. No matter how unnatural it feels for me. No matter how painful it is to rip down your walls and to physically have to force away an armor you spent years of your young life building up. It's so hard and so painful and I don't even recognize my own voice when I speak again, when I force myself to spit out how I actually feel. How, until today, I told myself he knew I felt. "I love you so much," I try to say but it comes out choked and raw. "I love you and you were never second best. To anyone. You're everything to me and I don't know-I don't know how to convey this right or say the right thing-"

He cuts me off—finally—then and moves his fingers against my cheek comfortingly. "You've conveyed it perfectly," he promises, his lips moving then to press lightly against mine, in a grateful but simple and sweet gesture. "I know you love me, Katniss," he assures again as he pulls back and breaks our kiss. "I've known it for a long time."

As his finger traces the outline of my mouth, I whisper, almost to myself, "So have I."

He gives me a smile, that is full of guilt and devastation, but still somehow warm and hopeful and kind. "Oh, have you?" I know he's feeling better when he teases me.

But my reply isn't sarcastic or cunning or anything but simple and small. Just like me in general.

"Longer than I could ever admit."

[chloroformthelittleb4stard]

Family Relations - Part 3

Summary: Your criminology teacher is acting all kinds of weird, which is the norm, except for the part where his eyes glaze over and he tries to kill someone. Stiles, the hero he is, tries to stop your professor with little avail until he gets some unnoticeable help from you. Stiles seems to find himself with you at the location of multiple attacks, just barely making it out alive. Through the bloodshed feelings, family, and friends mix to create a perfect blend of chaos and calm.

T/CW: Violence, not kidnapping but Stiles takes reader to a place she doesn't know and doesn't like 100% get her consent for it but also she's not upset about it, oh! and one cheeky sexual implication at the end

A/N: I'm about 90% sure I'm slipping into a depression slump and I won't be able to get it fixed for at least another month, so my update schedule - not that I have one - might be a little longer than usual.

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Late night walks weren't unusual for you, you liked clearing your head before you went to sleep and you found that nature was always one of the best ways to do so. You'd been enjoying yourself in peace and quiet when an obnoxiously loud jeep started heading your way, the headlights glaring at you and the muffler failing to do a lot of muffling. You were waiting for it to pass but instead it stopped next to you, Stiles' head popping out of the drivers' side window.

"Y/n? What are you doing out so late?" You ran over to his side, the cool air making the metal of his car freezing to the touch.

"Taking a walk." You hummed, inspecting the vehicle and finding that it was painted blue with a special addition of duct tape on pieces that looked like they should be considered a safety hazard.

"It's 11:00 at night?" The moon shone brightly above you, a cloudless sky making it perfect for a nice outing.

"I like night walks."

"You shouldn't be out alone at night, it's not safe." Suppressing the instinct to tell Stiles that it only wasn't safe for people who couldn't break your bones without touching someone, you gave him a shrug and started walking away. His hand grabbed your wrist lightly, stopping you from continuing your stroll.

"No way. I am not letting you walk around at night on your own. Hop in, I'll drive you home." You gave him a pout and he got out of the car, hand still holding your wrist, to open the passenger door for you. As the door shut, a large gust of what felt like wind pushed the car to the side, the vehicle's wheels screeching in protest as a wide but shallow dent was made along the driver's side.

"You've got to be kidding me!" Stiles' complaints were loud enough for all of California to hear them but you were more focused on what just caused the dent. Getting swiftly out of the car, despite Stiles' protests, you stood in front of it, waiting for something else to happen.

You got your wish when a large vine made its way out of the thick of the brush and straight towards you and Stiles. Within a split second you were in action, bringing up a hand to create a shield, temporarily blocking the vine while your brain worked overtime to think of a way to defeat the plant.

"Stiles!" You called out to your friend, his voice replying from what sounded like miles behind you but in reality he was simply a few feet from where you were standing.

"I need you to duck!" You hoped your yelling was reaching him and you got confirmation when you heard a loud and broken 'what?!' in response to your request.

"Just do it ok, you have to trust me!" With that he called out a hesitant affirmative and you let the shield down for a split second to send a blade of air slicing through the vine, cutting it directly down the center as it fell to the ground. You held the shield up again for another five minutes, waiting for the enemy to return, when you had no response you let it down and quickly went to seek Stiles.

He was crouched behind Roscoe, shaking only slightly with adrenaline and a twinge of excitement. When he heard you call his name he stood up, spooking you accidentally by popping into your line of sight so suddenly.

"Are you ok?" You rushed to as a question before he asked the inevitable one of 'what the fuck is going on?'.

"I'm fine. Are you ok?" His hands were roaming your body, checking for injuries of any kind as he patted down your arms and tilted your head up to look underneath your jaw. You nodded, putting his fretting on pause for now.

"Now you're definitely coming with me." His words were surprising, he didn't even ask what you were or what you did, although knowing a werewolf will do that to you, you supposed. You drove in silence for about three minutes before you couldn't take it anymore, the lack of noise made you want to explode.

"Stiles where are you taking me?" He shook his head and made a zipping motion on his lips, signaling that he wasn't going to give you any information. He was shaking, buzzing with the need to tell you that he was taking you to his pack because that's what he does when these kinds of things happen, but he refrained from it because he knew his chances of actually getting you there would deplete greatly if he gave you even a hint of his plan.

"So, nice car..." He hummed in response, biting his tongue so he wouldn't spoil his mission. You frowned at the lack of communication and slumped back in your seat, head turned to watch as the city scenery whizzed past you.

When the ride was finally over you found yourself in front of an old townhouse, shut off and condemned what you were sure was 100 years ago. Its front was covered in ivy, the windows blocked from the flora that had conquered the structure. One step to the door was broken, the wood split straight through due to some unlucky bastard's step.

"Stiles where are we?" You asked as he opened your door for you, grabbing your hand immediately once you stepped out so you wouldn't escape. Stiles opted to ignore your question entirely and instead led you towards the door of the ancient home, and into its rickety structure. The halls were dark but he managed to sift his way through, muscle memory guiding him, and effectively you as well, towards the door that led to the basement.

He held your hand down the stairs before knocking on yet another door, this time metal, in the basement. When the door opened you had to adjust to the flash of light, taking his opportunity Stiles quickly dragged you into the middle of the pack meeting, standing next to you in the center of the circle.

"Y/n meet my pack, pack meet Y/n." His introduction was vague, but in his defense he was still shaken up by almost being smashed by a vine. Scott was beyond shocked when he saw you standing in the middle of the circle, and you gave him a sheepish wave, one hand still death gripping Stiles'.

"What is she doing here?" Derek cried out, standing to assess your threat level. Stiles pressed a hand to the older man's chest, pushing him away lightly to protect you, even if Derek could overpower him in less than a minute flat. Taking the hint the elder werewolf sat down next to Issac, who was, as usual, wearing his classic scarf and leather jacket.

"Well we were just attacked-"

"Attacked? Oh my god are you ok?" Allison jumped right into nurse mode cutting off Stiles completely, immediately getting up and scanning you for bruises, foregoing an introduction, before moving on to Stiles who waved her off animately.

"Yeah we are, but that's because Y/n did this whole forcefield thing and she told me to duck so I didn't see it but she sliced the vine and it was kind of awesome." Stiles' rambling brought the whole pack up to speed while you stood in the middle of all of them, looking understandably nervous. Your eyes kept flitting from Scott to Stiles, the only two people in the room you knew whatsoever.

"So, what are you?" A ginger spoke up from her perch on a bookshelf, eyes coming to meet yours with a look that screamed that she was on the defensive, despite not having been attacked.

"I'm a witch. I'm assuming that you're all werewolves?" You scanned the eyes of the participants, trying to catch sight of a glint in one of their eyes. When you saw none you internally shrugged before returning your attention to the group before you.

"Can I sit down now or do I have to stand like an exhibit this whole time?" Your nerves didn't stop your annoyance at the situation, you never liked being the center of attention. Stiles squished himself into the side of a chair, patting the spot next to him. You looked around the room trying to find another option, not that you didn't want to sit in his lap, you wanted to sit in his lap doing so many things, you just didn't want it to be weird. Upon seeing no other option you squeezed yourself in next to Stiles, who looked generally very happy considering an arm rest was most certainly digging into his ribcage.

"We're not all werewolves, I'm a banshee and Kira," The ginger pointed to an asian girl sitting next to another girl who looked amazingly uninterested at the entire event.

"Is a kitsune." Kira waved at you, smiling brightly and nudging the girl next to her so she would pay more attention.

"I'm Malia, and a were-coyote. Everyone else is a were-wolf though you're right." She went back to scrolling through her phone and disengaging from the conversation. You took in the information around you, nodding and trying to remember the names that were given. Stiles put his arm around your shoulders, allowing you to lean into him for a source of comfort.

"Well, anyways, we were just talking about the deaths that have been happening on campus and-"

"Are we seriously just going to ignore the fact that a witch just walked into our pack meeting? Is that something I'm supposed to not comment on?" A younger boy sitting on the couch spouted off and you snorted at his words. You were starting to like some of the people here, even if you didn't know their names.

"Hey kid," The boy stared at you before pointing at himself to confirm and you nodded your head.

"What's your name?" He made a vindictive gesture towards you before answering.

"Thank you! That's the kind of thing you do when you meet new people. My name is Liam, this is Derek because he won't tell you his name otherwise, he's moody." Liam pointed a thumb in the direction of the man next to him on the couch who was scowling at his words.

"The banshee is Lydia, and the guy who wears scarves all the time is Issac. Oh, and that's Scott's girlfriend Allison, she's not a were-wolf either she's human like Stiles." After listing off the names of several pack members he sat back in the couch triumphantly, looking over at everyone to see what they planned on doing.

"As I was saying, we just went over the attacks happening on, and apparently off, campus. Do you think this is magic Y/n?" You were pulled out of your head by Scott's question and you shook your head briefly before answering.

"I don't know what else it would be but I can't be sure. I've never heard of a spell or power that makes someone a killer out of nowhere." Your magical knowledge was limited to self defense mostly, something you picked up and perfected back in your hometown. You also had a significant extent of offensive knowledge which you picked up from watching other witches' attacks on you, but it was mostly theoretical.

The room feel quiet and the air became tense as everyone else looked at one another, like there was a joke you weren't in on. Finally Kira broke the silence.

"I don't want to bring this up as much as you don't but we all know this reminds us of the nogitsune." The room fell silent again and you tried to search through your brain for any knowledge you'd have on the unfamiliar word. When you came up empty you sighed, Stiles taking note and looking to see if you were ok.

"Sorry to be so out of the loop but, what's a nogitsune?" This time there was a collective sigh as they all looked at Stiles, waiting for him to explain as much as he wanted about his past with Void.

"It's a spirit, it feeds off of pain. It's immortal unless you kill it, which we did, and it can possess people. When we dealt with it last time it ended up killing a lot of people-"

"It almost killed me." Allison interrupted, clutching her stomach where you assumed there was a nasty scar commemorating the encounter.

"It ended up killing a lot of people with a sword, kind of like with these last few attacks." He finished, looking away and purposely avoiding eye contact as he said it.

"What are you not telling me?" With potential murderers on the loose you had no time for bullshit, and you knew that whatever Stiles said wouldn't phase you, not after tonight.

"It can possess people..." There was dead silence as everyone waited for Stiles to continue.

"It possessed me, and then it looked like me. It did a lot of things with me, it's a long story but that's kinda the gist of it at least." He looked deflated to be bringing up his past and you wrapped an arm around his back in support, rubbing his arm to comfort him and show him that you weren't upset. He turns to you with a hesitant smile, happily surprised at your lack of fear like you weren't just told that at one point a murderous spirit had possessed him.

"Ok, so the nogitsune sounds like our culprit but you killed it. So, what's up with that?" You heard Lydia mutter something about you being obvious and you chose to ignore it in favor of looking around the room to gauge their reactions to your question. The only one who looked slightly worried was Kira, so naturally you asked her your next question.

"Are you sure you guys killed it?" You were directing the question at Kira and she stiffened upon hearing it, sitting up straight as a board.

"Yes we are. Can we move on now?"

"I mean..." Everyone was once again quiet as Kira spoke up, voicing her opinion on the dark version of the spirit that she had.

"We don't know if it's dead. You can't really know, but we did a pretty good job and I don't think it'd have enough power to come back so soon. Again though, I can't be sure." Upon her information Scott stood up, collectively grabbing everyone's attention.

"Ok, does everyone have all their theories out?"

"What about voodoo?" Liam piped up while Scott muttered something that sounded like 'evidently not'.

"Vodou can't do that. Spirit possession isn't evil in Vodou, and actual Vodou dolls can't control people, especially not ones that're alive. I would say maybe it's a zombi but again, the perpetrators were living when it happened. Besides, there's no reason a Vodou practitioner good enough to pull this off would have any interest in murder, they have enough to deal with. Vodou is a practice, not the supernatural." While his idea was deflated Liam looked content with your answer and was prepared to listen to Scott, finally.

"Ok so for theories we have, nogitsune, and witch. Any other suggestions?" Scott gave the room a minute to start talking before he moved on, tired and wanting to get some sleep before the sunrise which was only in a few hours.

"Ok, Kira can you find all that old research we did on the nogitsune? Allison go back to Beacon Hills with Derek and Liam and look through the bestiary to see if we can get any information on witches-"

"Hey!" You interrupted, loudly proclaiming your lack of involvement in witch-related studies.

"Witches who want to kill people Y/n, not you. I think our best bet is the witch idea, unless it's something new entirely, then we'd be..."

"Fucked?" Isaac finished Scott's sentence for him, the action making Scott roll his eyes before returning to his speech.

"Alright, everyone be on the lookout ok? We're done here, let's go home everyone." Allison stood up from behind him as he finished, hands still intertwined. You got the feeling that Allison and Scott wouldn't be very vigilant tonight.

"So, home?" Stiles stood next to you after you both managed to maneuver out of the chair. You nodded and went with him out to the jeep, the night air making you freeze. You shivered when your back touched his car seats and he frowned, reaching behind him to feel around his back seat.

"Should I ask what you're doing?" You chuckled, arms wrapping around yourself to conserve body heat. Stiles triumphantly pulled a large piece of clothing out from his backseat making a victorious noise as he did so before handing it to you. Upon further inspection you realized that it was a hoodie and you thanked him while putting it on. It was big on you, the sleeves coming down over your hands to make little sweater paws and Stiles almost cooed at seeing how cute you looked. You tucked the hood under your head to serve as a neck rest and you closed your eyes as Stiles drove off to the address you listed.

[horansqueen]

Stuck With You - Chapter 6

Chapter 6 : Bruises

🡪chapter 1  🡪chapter 2  🡪chapter 3  🡪chapter 4  🡪chapter 5

College Enemies To Lovers AU

characters // masterlist // instagrams // mood board

You're not alone in how you've been Everybody loses We all got bruises We all got bruises I would love to fix it all for you (I would love to fix you too)

click here to be on the update list

                                                                                            Although I had tried to talk to Niall plenty of times during the visit, he had ignored me the whole time. I wanted to make things right. I wanted to apologize and have a talk with him, but I couldn't force him into it and I knew I needed to respect it if he didn't want to be near me or listen to my excuses. He didn't have to apologize, he didn't even have to acknowledge me, but fuck, that really hurt me.

I tried to focus on the art exposed in front of me but no matter which painting or sculpture I stood in front of, I ended up thinking it was the expression of pain, loneliness or sadness. I knew it was only my own feelings reflecting on these artists' works and it made me want to run away from here. it made me want to go back to my own painting and finish it... or destroy it, I was not sure.

I noticed Niall was scribbling something in his notebook and walked closer to him. He smelled good, I had noticed that in the car and here, despite the unique smell of the museum, his scent reached my nose and made my heart jump slightly. It reminded me of nature, something like wood or a fire... mixed with the comforting  odor of the forest when it rains. I blinked a few times, realizing how stupid my thoughts where, and instead, I let my eyes roam on his neck. He was close and I knew he could sense my presence but the fact that he was still ignoring me made the hole in my stomach get even bigger.

"Thank you for the ride... by the way." I let out without thinking before mentally hitting myself for such a stupid thing to say.

He had insulted me and I had slapped him but here I was, thanking him for driving me to a place where he was going anyway, with or without me. Still, I noticed the traits of his face soften before his expression changed again. His jaw clenched and he looked mad. I held my breath, still staring at him, and he finally just shrugged.

"Louis made me."

Ouch. This confession was clearly made to hurt me and I hated to admit that it worked. I was mad that Louis would ask Niall that because it made me look like the kind of person who couldn't take care of herself. I knew Louis didn't mean anything mean by it but it still annoyed me more than I would admit, especially to Niall. I also felt genuinely embarrassed that Niall felt like he had to agree to his friend's request and somehow, I had the feeling he had argued with Louis to try and get out of that favor.

I was about to answer something but Daxia appeared and I decided that no matter what I was going to say, it was definitely not worth it. I almost forgot we had an actual paper to write and my grip tightened on the notebook I was holding. Nothing seemed to matter at that point, all I cared about was apologizing to Niall and then locking myself alone, but I knew it was impossible.

"Okay so you two can work on the second part together?" Daxia just said, her face twisting into a sorry smile as she looked at me. My eyes got bigger and I frowned, moving my head from left to right slightly.

"What?"

"Asher and I are just so used to work together I mean, we'll work together on the first part, and you guys can just write a few pages about the surrealist painters that changed the world?"

On one hand, it was an incredible opportunity to talk with Niall but I also knew he was probably going to keep on ignoring me and I wasn't too keen about that. I also felt a bit hurt that the new (and only) friends I had made were rejecting me and literally forcing me to work with someone they didn't really like.

Niall sighed loud next to me and pushed one of his hands in his pocket. I glanced at him and he looked even more annoyed than me.

"Sorry Dev, but hey I'll see you at the party on saturday?" she pointed out, making me frown even more. "We can meet the four of us next week to talk about the rest."

I stood there, next to Niall, as we both kept quiet and after a few seconds, Daxia sent me a small smile and readjusted the backpack on her shoulder before leaving.

"Looks like I'm stuck with you again."

Hearing his voice made my heart twist in my chest and I turned to look at him. He didn't smile at me, barely acknowledging me, and finally just sighed exaggeratedly.

"Alright." he gave in. "I guess we need to go to the library now."

I held my breath when he turned around and I ran a little to catch up with him, following him back to his jeep. I took a seat in but remained silent as he drove. I noticed we were going back to the campus and immediately knew where he was heading. I had only visited the library once, with Louis, a few days before, but we didn't really enter it or anything. I knew I would probably spend a lot of time here anyway so I hadn't insisted but now, I had to admit I was a bit excited to go.

I felt like a kid who didn't know what she was doing but I just followed him inside and waited as he asked for access to the basement and once again followed someone else who opened the door for us. They left us and I heard the sound of a door close behind us but I was too amazed by what I was seeing to think a about it. The couch, the table, the chairs and even the tapestry seemed to come straight from the victorian era and I've always loved how packed those kind of rooms looked. It felt warm and classy at the same time, which was, in my opinion, a rare and intense mix.

"Are you gonna let me do all the work?"

I blinked a few times and turned to look at Niall who was raising his eyebrows at me. I suddenly felt a bit stupid and cleared my throat before nodding. I don't know how long we worked in silence but when I looked at my phone, it was already late and I closed my book with a loud noise, catching his attention again. He looked up from his paper and his eyes met mine, making me press my lips hard together. We hadn't solved anything. In fact, I felt like he was even angrier with me and at that point, I had no idea what I could do about it.

"What time is it?"

I stared in his eyes for a few seconds and finally looked away, feeling slightly embarrassed without really knowing why. Or perhaps it was just him and the effect he had on me, now that he was pissed at me.

"Almost nine thirty."

He chuckled and shook his head. "Funny. Really though, what time is it?"

"I told you. It's almost nine thirty." I repeated with a frown. "Why would I lie about that?"

"Fuck!"

I watching him jump up from his chair and rush to the door. Slowly, I did the same and when I got there, he was hitting hard on the door with the side of his fist and I frowned more.

"Hey, hey, relax!" I let out, grabbing his wrist gently to stop him. "What's wrong with you?"

He turned his head to me and frowned too, shaking his head slightly. "You know this fucking library closes at 8pm, right?" he asked, staring at me and raising his eyebrows.

I felt my heart jump up so high that I felt it in my throat. This couldn't be true, could it? I couldn't be locked in a library with the only guy I knew who despised me more than anything else in the world! My face suddenly changed from confused to scared and he sighed,

"She finally gets it." he mumbled meanly before hitting the door one last time.

"I-It's okay, we can just call someone."

I searched for my phone in my pocket and almost dropped it as I tried to turn it around. When I finally opened the screen, I realized there was no signal. Once again, my heart jumped up but this time, it seemed to drop back in the pit of my stomach. It was a joke, right? I knew it was useless but I still tried to call Louis without success.

"Forget it. Nothing passes here. We're stuck."

He cursed a few times and walked back to the table, letting himself fall back on his chair with a loud sigh. I gave up and let both my arms fall on each sides of me before walking back nonchalantly to my chair, too.

"Fuck, tell me there's a bathroom."

Niall rolled his eyes and pointed a door to me, making my head turn in the direction he pointed before a feeling of relief washed over me. That would have been way too embarrassing for me.

"So, what are we gonna do?" I asked low, licking my lips.

"Starve to death, probably."

I grabbed my bag and pushed my hand inside, trying to find some food and sighed when I pulled out two sandwiches in a bag. I always kept some stuff in my bag just in case and I sighed, searching through my bag again before letting a few chocolates and a bag of candies on the table.

"So there's candies, chocolate, and two peanut butter sandwiches." I pointed out with a sigh. "We can share."

"Haute cuisine." Niall joked, making me chuckle. "Let me check if I have something, too."

He searched through his bag and I felt my lips curl slightly at his sight. He didn't seem as pissed as he was and I liked to believe he was not mad at me anymore. The problem was, Niall seemed to have weird mood swings that I didn't understand and it made him even more fascinating to me, as toxic as it seemed.

Unsurprisingly, he took a water bottle out of his bag and put it between us, on the table.

"That's pretty much it."

I chuckled and rolled my eyes before taking out the sandwiches from the bag and handing him a piece. He stared at it and then looked back in my eyes before sighing and grabbing it from my fingers. I watched him as he pushed half of it in his mouth and started chewing on it. He seemed to evaluate the taste and finally shrugged with a nod and pushed the second part in his mouth.

"I'm gonna have to work out for hours after that meal." he pointed out, grabbing a chocolate and unwrapping it quickly.

"You don't need to work out, you already look good."

I felt my heart skip a few beats at my words and suddenly started seeing spots. I couldn't believe I had told him something like that but instead to laugh, he just shrugged a shoulder.

"I look like that because I work out." he explained, leaning on his chair and putting his feet on the table before crossing his ankles.

I let my eyes roam on his chest, thighs and legs until it reached his blue and yellow snickers and I just cleared my throat, leaning against the back of my chair too.

"I'm sure you'd look good even if you didn't."

"Maybe, I don't know, but it makes me feel good."

I looked up at him just as he was finishing the second piece of his sandwich and I smiled. Who would have thought I'd once again be stuck somewhere with Niall Horan? It had barely been over a week since I had met him and it seemed like destiny wanted us to be locked together somewhere.

"I'm sorry I slapped you, Niall." I let out, feeling my heart beat unsteadily for a few seconds. "I really shouldn't have. And I won't ever do it again."

He started chewing more slowly and finally licked his lips with a sigh, reaching for his pen and scribbling something in his note book, his feet still on the table.

"I'm sorry I yelled all that crap at you. I probably deserved it."

"No, you didn't." I quickly argued. "Physical violence is never the solution."

He looked up in my eyes and his lips curled before he chuckled. "You're really something else, Devon Eaton."

"Uhm, thank you."

Niall rubbed his eyes and sighed and for some reason, I felt like he was about to say something important. I tried to stop moving and I even held my breath until he started playing with his fingers nervously while staring at them. His smile was gone from his face and he looked pensive.

"Look, I get pissed when you mention Louis because... let's just say I had feelings for a girl and he 'stole' her from me." he had made quotation marks with his fingers when he said "stole" and it made me frown. Was that the story Louis had mentioned before?

"Wait, you mean Louis dated the girl you love?"

"Loved. And I wouldn't use the verb 'date'."

I stared at him, noticing he was now looking at me and he finally raised his eyebrows. I immediately understood and my lips parted. "Oh."

"Yea."

To me, it didn't make much sense. He was obviously still friends with Louis and even if that was something he hadn't forgiven Louis for, what did it have to do with me? Why did me mentioning Louis had anything to do with Louis having sex with the girl he loved? I didn't understand but asking about it seemed a bit awkward and I decided against it.

"I told you a secret, it's your turn now, Devie."

I had so many secrets it was tough to pick. Not because I wanted to share them all, but because they all seemed too important yet insignificant to share. I reached for the water bottle but instead to drink from it, I started playing with it, twisting it in my hand as I stared at it.

"I fell in love with my one of my teachers at my old college." I let out with a shrug as if I wanted to prove that it was nothing. "That's why I came here."

I wanted to tell him that he had to keep that information to himself. I wanted to beg him to keep my secret, but somehow, something was telling me that Niall was the kind to keep your secrets no matter what, so I remained silent.

"Wow, okay." Niall nodded. He seemed surprised and I was not sure why. "I didn't expect that."

"What did you expect?"

He sighed low and moved intertwined the fingers of both his hands together, putting them behind his head as he leaned more on his chair. He always seemed to spread his legs and arms to get into an horizontal position and once again, it troubled me. Perhaps it was only because he looked good but I felt like there was more than that. Sure, Niall was hot, but hotness had never destabilized me like that before.

"I don't know. Unrequited love from a popular guy who didn't deserve you. Or a misunderstanding with a teacher. Or perhaps just that you didn't like the school." he explained. "Now I'm even more intrigued."

I felt my lips curl despite myself and felt my cheeks burn. I didn't know why his words had this effect on me but I couldn't help it and cleared my throat. I didn't know how to talk about something else and I glanced at his notebook, close to me on the table.

"Uhm, well, maybe we should keep working on our paper?" I let out quickly, reaching for his notebook. "What do you have so far?"

His eyes got bigger and I thought he was going to fall off his chair as he took his legs back and reached for the notebook in my hands. I only had time to read a few words but I was pretty sure it had nothing to do with our paper.

'Since we're alone, you can show me your heart.'

I blinked a few times, staring at my hands, exactly where his notebook was a few seconds ago, as the words he wrote kept appearing whenever my eyes were closed.

"That's not... that's... that's personal." he stammered. closing his notebook and putting it quickly in his bag. "I guess we can work a bit more on our paper if that's what you want."

He was avoiding my eyes and once again, I felt like I had caught him naked. Not physically, but it felt like I had seen a small part of his soul after reading what i guessed were lyrics.

"Uhm, yea, maybe an other half hour or something."

[joontier]

sa ilalim ng kalawakan | drabble

translation: underneath the galaxy

synopsis: besides gazing at the night sky, you and your husband find other ways to celebrate your honeymoon under the stars 

pairings: seokjin x reader

rating: R (18+) 

au: established relationship!au; newly weds!au; honeymoon!au; inspired by BV4 in new zealand!!| genre: floof, smut, slight humor

warnings: swearing, exhibitionism, unprotected sex, cunnilingus, oral (f receiving), slight edging, also i put in one slap in there ONE SLAP PEOPLE

word count: 1.9k

request: by @rookiegukie​ “silakbo ft. seokjin + newly weds 👉🏼👈🏼 ” HERE YOU GO DARLING ILY <3 i hope you like it!! hehehehe 

g/n: this is part of The Paraluman Playlist - a drabble game we’re holding for the whole month of August!!! Send in your requests lovelies!!! (i’ll also be making this as part of my ‘between the lines’ collection heh 

navi. | m.list |  between the lenses navi.

“Kim Seokjin!” 

“What?!” 

“What did you do with the firewood?” 

“What do you mean by ‘what did I do to the firewood’?” He continues with cutting the pork belly into strips, refusing to meet your eyes. You continue staring at him though, fully aware that he knows you’re still looking at him. Narrowing your eyes, you take your eyes off your husband as you study your surroundings. 

 Aha! You spot the half-empty bottle of olive oil hiding behind the legs of a cot. “You’ll never catch him slipping,” they said. Pfft. If only you had a penny for all the times you’ve proven that wrong. 

 “Why won’t the wood light up then?” Testing him, you bend over to grab the bottle of oil, wanting to see if Seokjin’s finally going to confess and admit having thought of cooking oil as an alternative for kerosene. He deliberately ignores your question, taking a quick glimpse at the glass container in your hands under the guise of stretching his limbs and admiring the view. 

 Tsk-ing at him, you roll your eyes, placing the bottle of oil back where you found it. Might as well hide the only evidence of your husband’s ‘supposed’ boy-scoutedness. 

 “Can’t believe I married a bloody idiot,” you mutter under your breath, huffing as you replace the oil-covered wood with new ones. Your husband of a week inhales exaggeratedly, incredulous features on his face as he slowly turns toward you. The leaves beneath his shoes rustle loudly with each movement of his. “You’re calling me, the one and only Kim Seokjinius, an idiot?” he drawls, emphasizing each word with every step he takes towards you. 

He trudges until his face is mere inches away from yours, chests almost pressing against each other. Smirking, he leans forward, breath fanning against your ear as he whispers, “I am your idiot though. Learn to deal with it, missus.” Your own breath hitches in your throat, goosebumps forming on your skin. Surely, Seokjin saying the words ‘idiot’ and ‘missus’ in one breathing wasn’t supposed to have that kind of effect right? 

Leaning back to look down on you, a devilish smirk plays on his lips. That can’t be good. His hands shoot out to poke at your sides, tickling you out of your wits. “Seokjin!” you squeal, trying to get out of his grasp. For some miraculous reason, you do, running away from him as you circle the camp site. 

Your husband quickly manages to catch up without having to exert much effort, taking you in his arms. The impact of his collision pushes you downward, and with Seokjin’s quick instincts, he twists his body just in time to take the fall - thankfully though, he just lands on grass. Seokjin still winces a little at the fall, and you quickly check up on him to make sure he’s alright. He assures you he’s just fine, confirming it by reattaching his grip on your sides. 

Writhing under his grasp for the second time tonight, you breathlessly plead for the release of his hands on your waist. Heeding to your request a minute later, he collapses beside you, pulling you closer with the hand he has under your shoulders. 

“It’s beautiful out here, yeobo,” you comment, slightly breathless in awe at the sight of the night sky. You had opted to revisit New Zealand for your honeymoon, partly because being one with nature brought you the tranquility that could never be afforded by your apartment back in Seoul. 

Now, as you gaze at the stars above, while lying down on the grass, the cold breeze softly hitting your face, with your husband by your side - this felt like the summit of ‘relaxation’. You felt like this was the only time you had even paused to take an actual breather after a year of wedding preparations, pre-nuptial events, the ceremony itself… it was all delightful, admittedly, but boy was it tiring. 

“Don’t call me that,” Seokjin murmurs, propping himself up on an elbow to look at you. “You don’t like it?” 

“Nope. In fact, I love it. I love it very much.” Slowly, he leans toward you, pressing his pillowy lips against yours. Seokjin cups your face in one hand, drawing you closer as he kisses you deeply. Returning the kiss with just as much fervor, your skin starts to prickle with goosebumps and you’re certain it’s not from the coldness of the night.  

As Seokjin suggestively plays with the hem of your shirt, he lets the pads of his fingers trail slowly under your shirt until he cups your breast in his cold hand. Gasping at the sensation, your grip on his forearms tighten as you push your chest against him further to goad him on. 

You feel your husband smile through the kisses he first places on your neck, then your jaw, slowly but surely traveling south. Seokjin tentatively lifts your shirt up, and getting bolder by the second, you feel his fingers dance lightly on your skin, eventually trailing higher to cup your breasts and knead them slightly. 

Moaning wantonly, Seokjin ruts his hips against yours, feeling his erection straining in his sweatpants. As he Seokjin latches his lips on that weak spot on your neck, you pry your eyes open to watch your husband. All of a sudden, you’re reminded that you are not within the confines of the campervan, nor are you inside the cabin just a five-minute walk away. “Jin, baby, we’re outside…” 

“So?” He asks, not looking up from your chest, “...does it bother you?” You’re genuinely surprised at his answer, not knowing he had a closeted exhibitionist inside of him. He’s also relatively quiet during sex, so this newly discovered side of your husband is definitely something for the books. 

“You mean you don’t mind at all? What if people will see us? What if some sick pap tryna get us caught?” Your inquiries finally get his attention, momentarily pausing his ministrations. Sometimes you had to remind him that he was still one of the biggest celebrities in the world, and it doesn’t really matter if he’s in a secluded place like this campsite, he’d still be recognized somehow. 

“________, darling. I really don’t mind. Unless you do?” Seokjin asks, blown-out pupils boring into your own. You shake your head no at once. “Well, that’s settled then. Plus, we just got married a week ago, this is bound to happen at some point. And besides, if somebody will try to snap a photo, well...that’s a story we’re gonna tell Kim Seokjin junior, who’ll be headlining the news even before he was made.” Your husband’s reasoning, albeit out of this world and downright scandalous, is enough to convince you that nothing bad was going to happen. But, wait! Your dinner…

 “Jin!! The samgyupsal though!!” 

Seokjin pushes himself upward, “Are you honestly trying to kill the mood here babe? You can just say the word, you know.” he deadpans, completely unamused.

“No, I mean, we’re still having dinner afterwards, right? I just wanted to make sure you at least covered the food so we won’t have to fight with other creatures for our dinner.” 

“Of course, darling. Now, where were we?” 

Seokjin unzips your jacket with a newfound sense of urgency, and you let out a squeal as he rips your shirt in half, your lace bra along with it. He takes off his jacket as well, and as he sucks on your pert nipple harshly, causing you to arch your back for more, he slides his jacket underneath you for comfort. 

He continues his assault on your breasts, leaving purple bruises littered across your chest. Languidly, he peppers wet kisses down your torso, already thumbing the waistband of your leggings in the process.

Discarding your bottoms just as quickly as your tops, Seokjin lets your leggings loosely bunch up around one of your ankles as he kisses you hungrily, hands busy pushing your legs further apart. He detaches himself from you, sitting on his calves as he studies to sight of you ready and open just for him.

“Fuck, I could just have my dinner right here, right now,” Seokjin husks, taking his bottom lip between his teeth. Without any further warning, Seokjin dives in, licking a bold stripe against your folds. The sensation makes you squirm underneath him, but your husband holds you still by keeping a hand on your stomach. Seokjin licks in wide, slow strokes to explore your nether lips, soon using fingers to hold them open and put pressure on your clit.

Languidly sliding his fingers against your sodden folds, Seokjin slowly inserts a finger inside you, finally breaching your entrance. He takes his time in indulging you, reveling in your responsiveness. Endless moans of pleasure fall from your mouth as your hands find purchase on his temple, pulling on his hair when you feel his teeth graze against the swollen bud. You feel the pressure building up in the pit of your stomach, and just when you were about to orgasm, Seokjin pulls away, leaving you a heaving mess on the grass.

“I want us to climax together…as… as you know…husband and wife?” Your face crumples at his request, heart likewise swelling with affection inside your chest.

As Seokjin finally pulls his sweatpants down to free his length, you sit up, wanting to pleasure him just as he had done to you. He waves you off quickly, too much of his blood rushing down south to even form a coherent sentence, “No…just…you, now.” He helps you to shift to all fours, wiggling your ass in the air just to tease him. He delivers a slap on your bottom as punishment.

He starts to enter you from behind, groaning as he feels your walls clamp around him tightly. Continuing to slide in until he bottoms out, Seokjin shudders as you clench your pussy around his cock. “You’re always so fucking tight,” he comments, exhaling shakily as feels himself snugly fit inside you. 

When you push backward to urge him to move, Seokjin starts to move his hips, beginning with a steady pace for a few seconds until he starts to relentlessly fuck you from behind, steadying you in your position with his hands tightly gripping your waist. Cries of pleasure fall from your lips with every thrust, while your elbows are threatening to give in under his weight. Fuck, you feel wilder than the other creatures that are probably lurking around the area. Your husband probably hears your thoughts, settling an even harder, faster pace than before as he chases his high.

That familiar knot is starting to coil inside you for the first time since your wedding, and as Seokjin feels you tighten around him, his thrusts start to slow down, this time reaching deeper than ever before; his cock hitting your g-spot wonderfully with every movement of his hips. He pulls you both up, standing on both your knees.

Nestling you snug against his chest, Seokjin guides your hand to rest on his nape so he can gain access to your breasts. Massaging them sensually, he brings you both to your highs with his caresses and whispers of love and passion in your ears. With all your senses heightened and your husband deliciously sliding in and out of you, you finally orgasm, Seokjin following seconds later.  

“Thanks for fulfilling my deepest fantasies, love,” Seokjin whispers, collapsing back to the grass after pulling his sweats back up, likewise covering you up with his jacket as he apologizes for your torn clothes. 

“Oh, you’ve always wanted to do it under the stars?”

“Close, but nope. You, princess, are my deepest fantasy.”

© hhyungz 2020. All rights reserved.

[littleeyesofpallas]

I think in my hurry to get through the one core rant without getting distracted, I didn't actually outline the Hero's Journey's whole proposed psych model in the first place. I don't want to get too into each of the 17 steps, but the idea of the process it reflects is this:

A boy on the cusp of adulthood must leave the comfort of parental protection/provision, whether he wants to or not. He must seek out the "magic" of an older mentor who has seen and mastered the unknown, and through that mentor they learn an entry level skill that will allow them to navigate the world of adults; but this is not "mastery" and it is not "understanding" it is only the bare bones functionality of mimicry. Understanding comes later. This happens, often, while still in the comfort of the "home" realm, where the dangers of the unknown aren't in play yet. Then they leave for real and confront the shock of an unfamiliar world, of autonomy, and responsibility; for the first time in their life, if something goes wrong, no one is there to help them.

Campbell himself posits this next step can go a few different ways. His standard format suggests the Belly of the Whale, the descent into the darkness of not knowing happens at the threshold itself, comes first. That upon confronting the unfamiliar new reality of adulthood the immediate reaction is to be overwhelmed, and only after addressing that immense pressure and aimlessness does the boy get to proceed out into the world at large with the understanding that out here, he can actually die.

But the alternative to this is that the boy goes from the crossing of the threshold directly into the Road of Trials, putting at his his magic aide's skills to use, and learning new ones, until that momentum of that growth and learning plateaus, and then THAT is the moment in which the hero is consumed unto the Belly of the Whale, not when he first confronts a reality that is beyond him, but when he first realizes that it's beyond him; when the arrogance and ignorance of youth gives way to humility. Here he has been facing danger and challenge but only now does he confront the inevitability of death; he cannot keep conquering the unknown forever.

I prefer the Belly-second format, because unlike the Belly-first form's processing of the idea that he can die, this is the fact that he will die; and then what legacy does he leave behind? And this directly motivates his shifting attention toward...

The Goddess Reconciliation is my problematic fav of this whole thing... Campbell and Jung believed deeply in this old fashioned notion of Anima and Animus, that there was some nearly mystical bioessentiallist quality of explicitly segregated Male and Female psyche, and a lot of that doesn't scan great these days. BUT! Of note is that their fixation on this duality came largely out of the idea that the two, being innately separate and at odds, needed to be balanced for a healthy mind to exist. In the psychospiritual spiritual approach to myth this means the Goddess is in fact a man's inner feminine aspect that need to be appeased and made peace with. And that's actually pretty cool, weird inner-cosmological premise to that aside.

But in regards to the myth as guidance, this is also the step in the journey that I just call Respect Women. Because that's what's being taught. This is the moment that the young boy/young man, until recently high on his own power and accomplishments, and his ongoing conquest of the unknown is confronted by a woman of great power. She resides in a realm above him, and for the first time in his quest he cannot conquer his way through this. He MUST speak with, negotiate, and empathize with this woman and her needs in order to win her favor and approval, and sometimes very literally hand in marriage.

This power she holds over him is often pretty literally the ability to have children, tying back into the newfound need to secure legacy that I mentioned in Belly of the Whale. But it can also be inheritance of fortune, positions of power and rulership, etc... in the realms of mythological and fairytale narratives. But it also reflects the internal idea of the joining of Anima and Animus, in that this marriage in one way or another, material or not, must bring him peace of mind.

Then there's the Woman as Temptress phase, which is woefully underused. Granted it can come across as a bit sexist and cliche in many narratives, and it's easy to see how that doesn't feel "essential" to most Hero Journeys, but I think this is incredibly important. Again, I prefer the Belly-second model in which the hero's conquests naturally lead to arrogance (he's on a winning streak, and he is still just a kid doing all this for the first time; he's never known defeat, so how does he even know when to slow his roll?) and this is a repeat of that; he's learned to please one woman, why not use his tried and true method of learning new skills and putting them to use to please more women? And so his loyalty to his Goddess must be tested in order to teach him moving forward.

This is the trope about Prince Charming being a playboy because his only trait is seducing women, not being good to them --see: Utena's Touga, or Into The Wood's Prince brothers. This is where a man learns not to be a fuckboi.

And then the confrontation with The Father. The legendary big Vader moment. But it's not always a violent confrontation, and it's not always innately negative; at times it can even be a somber affair. A boy must learn to stop idolizing his father, and make peace with the truth that his father is just a man, full of flaws like any other. And by reconciling his father as infallible patriarch and the hero's own process of growth, a boy must learn that to succeed in life he must be more than his father is/was. And this tends to become a violent or literal physical conflict when the father in question is both still alive, and the very literal authority that must be overcome in the name of progress. The patriarch has established a system of order that he sees as preserving the safety and security of the world of the known, and he will protect that system even as it begins to fall apart. And as a man, not longer a boy, but a peer to his father the hero has to show the father that he is no longer the unquestioned arbiter and effectively take his place.

In this the boy becomes man, hero attains some kind of enlightenment, sees some deep truth to the world and now knows with some clarity what is best for the world. An arrogant assertion to be sure, but internal to the journey at hand it makes enough sense... Because with this understanding the Hero also discovers or distills the mysteries of this wild realm of the unknown into The Ultimate Boon: a tool or a symbol of the skills learned, that can be replicated or utilized even without the hero's personal level of understanding. And this thing must be delivered back to the mundane so that the next generation of children can use it to expand their realm of the known further into what had before been unknown; each subsequent generation of hero expanding the collective knowledge and understanding of the community as a whole.

And Hero must also often learn selflessness. This kind of comes into play more often when there isn't the innate establishment of a desire to foster a legacy that will out last him. In this case the Hero needs to be talked into going home, because the alternative is that he continues to dwell in this state of perfection. But if he lives out his life like this, he will die as just a singular man rather than the Hero of a people. This in turn motivate the Rescue in which someone has to break into his little bubble of personal accomplishment to bring him back. Yet again his ego must be tested, and he must be humbled.

And then he goes back home, he's a Master of Two Worlds, the known and unknown alike, and he delivers The Boon to the common people so their lives can be made better by it. He earns the Freedom to Live and melds back into a mundane civilian life, as a productive member of his society, as a father, and eventually as a new hero's Magical Aide and old wizened mentor.

Shit.. I let this get away from me and shifted my whole rhetoric halfway in... >:/ My point wasn't to outline the mythic structure but the psychological one. So let me try to just summarize briefly now:

A boy needs to leave the comfort of home. He has to learn many new skills, starting with being taught by a teacher. He has to learn his limitations, finality and fatality. To secure a legacy he seeks a wife; to get a wife he must respect women; to keep a wife he must not be a fukboi. He must be a better father than his was. He must learn to want to give back to his community, and then return with knowledge and/or resources to better said community. He assumes a mundane life, he has kids who will grow up as he did; he'll be their father to overcome, and their mentor to learn from in time.

↑This is the Hero's Journey that Campbell became so fixated on, and that George Lucas maybe kind of oversold and muddled with film savvy, but that the original Star Wars still managed to embody and launch into the public consciousness. This is the Hero's Journey I wish more people would talk about and engage with, rather than the color-by-numbers nonsense that it's been reduced to.

[sirspud]

The Daring Ducks: Orcs on the Road

Previous, Next

The first couple of hours on the road are marked by complaining and excitement.

The complaining is made exclusively by Louie, specifically in regard to how heavy his equipment is. Everyone is at least somewhat encumbered by their gear, but poor Louie is struggling along, weighed down by his backpack of stuff and already sore in every part of his body. A mere thirty minutes of travelling like this, and he's already whining and complaining about how he can't be travelling a whole two days like this.

His complains go largely ignored.

Webby makes up the excitement, gushing facts about Silas and the McDuck family, the wealthiest and most powerful noble line in the land, made up of famous adventurers, skilled warriors, and the finest generals this side of the Seventh River. The brothers watch her with interest and confusion as she gushes about all of these facts, seemingly unencumbered by her equipment and giant weapon. She's completely unlike any girl they've met before.

Admittedly though, they haven't really talked to many girls.

The party march in a square-like formation. Dewey and Webby take up the front, with Huey and Louie at the back. The two novice warriors quickly find common ground in talking about their weapons. Dewey shows off his uncle's longsword, the grey metal gleaming in the sunlight, exclaiming that he found it in a locked chest in the attic. Webby proudly shows off her greatsword, keenly polished with tiny red gemstones embedded into the hilt, claiming that it was she was found with it in the woods where she was abandoned a child!

There's an awkward pause after she mentions this, but she doesn't seem to notice.

The road winds through the raking claws of the trees, the leaves that once hung from their branches crunching loudly under the party's march. Their journey comes to a pause, however, as they encounter their first obstacle - a large tree trunk, felled over and blocking the road. The party approach the trunk warily, Webby sniffing the air and baulking, smelling a foul odour.

Suddenly, without warning, a trio of snarling humanoids jump up from behind the log, all greenish skin and fearsome tusks, bellowing vulgar challenges as they charge with greataxes in hand. The party is under attack!

Webby is the quickest to act (Initiative Check: 22), dropping her backpack and readying her sword. She waits for the creatures to approach, preparing to dodge the first blows swung towards her. Louie follows suit (Initiative Check: 20), heart in throat and terror in his heart. He recognises these creatures for what they are - orcs (Knowledge [local] Check: 14). Warlike and cruel, the bloodlust of these barbarians is so strong that not even lethal injury can stop them once they're in a frenzy.

The orcs are quick to show their violent side, charging into the fray and immediately attacking the front two ducks in the party (Initiative Checks: 17, 16, 14). Two massive axes are swung towards Webby, and one comes careening towards Dewey. Though taken off-guard, the two warriors manage to duck and parry aside the blows, taking no damage.

Dewey acts next (Initiative Check: 11). He knows dropping his backpack would just leave him open to attack from these killers, and he instead opts to make two attacks with each of blades at the orc in front of him.

Or at least, he plans to. But when the first of his strikes cuts through the neck of the beast in front of him, he's overcome with shock - even more so when he sees that the warrior's almost unfazed by the lethal injury.

Huey acts last (Initiative Check: 8), dropping his rucksack and immediately casting a virtue cantrip on Louie. Calling upon the mercy of Athena, he grants Louie protection in the form of a single temporary hit point.

Webby takes initiative, swinging her greatsword into one of the orcs in front of her, cutting through his armour and slashing through his stomach. The violence causes her to pause momentarily, a strange fear welling up inside of her. Louie, seeing Dewey about to be overwhelmed, gets it into his head to try and take one of the orcs assaulting his brother by surprise, moving up to try and get behind the humanoid.

Unfortunately, Louie underestimates the orc's awareness. The warrior notices him trying to move up, and swings its greataxe towards him.

The attack takes Louie by surprise. He doesn't dodge in time. The blade buries itself into the duck's stomach, knocking him down with a bloody gash along his midsection.

Cold horror worms its way into Huey and Dewey's hearts.

But the orcs aren't finished yet, keeping up their attack. Two more blows come swinging towards Dewey and Webby, and only quick reflexes protect them from the axes. One of the orcs backs up and roars at Huey in an attempt to intimidate him (Intimidate Check: 9). Huey ignores the orc, too scared for Louie to care what the orc has to say.

In anger and fear, Dewey swings his blades into the orc in front of him. Neither blow lands, the orc actually catching Dewey's shortsword with the curved end of its axe. In the resulting scuffle, Dewey's second sword is sent to the ground, disarming him.

Huey acts quickly, casting a stabilise spell upon Louie to stop him from bleeding out. Knowing that fighting for much longer will result in a horrible fate, Huey moves behind the orc fighting Dewey while the two are struggling over the shortsword, hoping that the orc will at least be distracted enough to give Dewey an advantage.

Webby turns to the orc directly in front of her, a bubbling rage building up in her gut. How dare these bastards harm her new friends so horribly! With a primal scream, she swings her greatsword into the orc, cutting off his head in a shower of crimson.

There's a noticeable delay, however, between the swinging of her sword and the injury actually appearing upon the orc's body. She blinks in confusion as the creature's body falls to the ground and upon the dry autumn leaves - leaves that, strangely, do not crunch upon the orc's impact.

The truth suddenly hits her in the face. Whirling back to the party, she cries, "Guys! They're illusions!"

"What?!" Louie shouts back in disbelief. He pats his injuries, suddenly realising their illusory nature as he realises that the pain he's in isn't real.

The orc facing Dewey whirls around, swinging its axe literally through Huey. The eldest triplet yells in fright, then in shock as he realises the truth of Webby's claim, only seeing the injury come into being a second after the impact of the orc's weapon. Another one of the orcs swings its illusory axe through Webby, to no practical effect.

Dewey, however, can't believe Webby, embroiled in conflict with the illusion. He slashes apart the illusion with his longsword, believing that he's doing damage, while Huey experimentally pokes the illusion with his shortspear. The orc falls dramatically to the ground, apparently dead.

The rest of the party take a step back from the "conflict", watching as Dewey charges towards the last remaining orc, still convinced that it's real. It takes few more rounds of combat for him to realise the false nature of the orc, noticing the delay between him slashing the creature's leg and the appearance of the wound. Once he realises, the orcs - and the wounds caused by them - suddenly vanish, leaving the scene completely untouched.

Webby suddenly realises that this was a test by the village to see if they were ready for the crypt. A trial of combat to test their teamwork and mettle without actually putting them in danger. Relieved, she dusts her hands and says, "No harm done!"

Louie begs to differ. Angrily, he says that he felt those wounds, he felt himself start to die. He doesn't care that they weren't actually in danger, whoever came up with this "trial" was a sadist.

But if Louie is angry, then Huey is furious. That was real fear that he felt for his brother's life back there, and he is far from amused about it being essentially part of a practical joke. Unable to properly vent his anger, he grabs his backpack and continues marching, fervently swearing that once they get the Everflame back, he is going to file a thorough complaint to the mayor.

Louie follows suit after his brother, leaving Webby nonplussed behind them. Dewey shakily admits that while the fight was kind of cool, it would've been better without the illusory blood. He briefly complements her fighting ability, before running to catch up with his brothers. Webby scratches her head, not quite getting the worry, before she picks up her backpack, gripping the silver lantern as she does. She sniffs the air again. The foul stench of the orcs disappeared with the illusion, but there's something else in the air - the faint smell of pipe smoke.

Not knowing what it means, Webby just frowns and follows after the boys. The crypt awaits, and the day was still young.

+100 XP.

[mysterious-prophetess]

Review: Red Shoes and the Seven Dwarves

It’s finally out in my region so I was finally able to get my hands on it to watch without risking my computer.

Not that I would resort to such....less-than-legal means... <.<

Anyway, I’m glad I did buy it officially. It was every bit as cute as I thought it would be after I saw the new round of trailers and comments by others on tumblr. 

I’ll give my spoiler free thoughts now and go into more details under a read more.

So first, I have to compliment the animation. It is so beautiful. The characters all looked great and none of them looked uncanny at all. My favorite character design of the humans was Snow sans shoes, but Merlin in his normal form is a close second. It’s their eyes. 

My favorite non-human character design was the magic mirror. 

The magic effects were also nicely done.

The plot’s pacing was decent. There were times where it almost felt like they had built in commercial breaks for an eventual network airing from how some parts would cut to black and start a new scene. It wasn’t often and it didn’t really detract from the film. 

The characters were all consistent and Snow White/Red Shoes was down right relatable for me. Merlin and the other six Princes were fun and played off one another, though the trio of Pino Noki Kio almost felt like they didn’t need to be three characters since they never acted independent of one another. Whereas Jack, Hans, Arthur, and Merlin all had their own distinct personalities.

Even the Evil Queen had some good moments. 

Prince Average felt like an after thought.

The moral of the story, while done before and nearly to death, was given a fresh spin in this film. 

Over all this film is charming and the marketing team that screwed them over with the fat-shaming like ad campaign should never be hired by these guys ever again. There is no fat shaming in this film directed at Snow White/Red Shoes. 

The lesson is instead a good one. 

I heartily recommend people watch this movie. There are some semi-Shrek like elements on occasion (like out of place pop culture references) but overall the film has its own identity. 

Another nitpick aside from the weird commercial breaks that kept seeming to happen and that’s the over use of the movie’s main pop song. I liked it the first time but after a few other reuses it started to get a little stale. 

Otherwise I loved the music of the film. 

Snow White’s journey was one that I loved. She had one mission and one mission only: find her father. In fact her desire to be herself contradicted the shoes magic. She was perfectly happy as her normal self and not the magic enhanced version the shoes transformed her into. That’s a powerful message to send to girls who aren’t skinny or traditionally pretty. Though, Snow White is down right adorable as her true self.

I also liked that the perfectly pretty form wasn’t something Snow White necessarily liked but was willing to use to her advantage to help find her father. I also liked that it had drawbacks as Snow White in her normal state was actually a physically strong woman but as a dainty pretty girl all that strength she had and liked having was gone. Furthermore, the movie showed that Snow White was decently athletic as her real self, which was a refreshing take for a heavier character. Large doesn’t equal flabby, weak, or out-of-shape. 

Snow White’s struggles with taking off the magical shoes were reflective of the times where she got insecure about herself. Despite loving who she was, she did sometimes accept the pretty dainty form because of how much nicer people were. 

The Magic Mirror was surprised she could even take them off because it meant there was something she wanted more than being pretty. The first time, at Risky Rock in the Fearsome Seven’s house, it was her desire to be herself. In the alleyway, it was a desire to escape the goons. In the river it was her desire to save Merlin. Yet, whenever she wanted to take them off other times, things had happened to make her hesitate on giving up the conventionally pretty form that had made it so others would help her.

As someone who is not conventionally pretty and definitely not skinny, I really empathized with Snow White about this. 

On no occasion was Snow’s true self ever treated like a joke. There was the scene after she’d taken the shoes off where guards were harassing her where it almost looked like Merlin and Arthur would ignore her peril because she wasn’t her Red Shoes form, but Merlin came back and helped her.  He was even kind of nice to her. 

Never even when Merlin finds out about the shoes versus her real form does he call her ugly or make comments about her weight despite being still kind of fighting his own ego while learning the lesson at this point. 

Speaking of Merlin (and the others of the F7). 

Merlin being the main male protagonist does get the most screen time. Arthur get the second most. Then Hans and Jack, and then the Pinocchio Trio. 

At first their dynamics were all clashing and Arthur seemed like a bully and Merlin seemed like a very shallow impulsive jerk. Let’s be clear, all the guys are shallow. Even the trio who are more obsessed with their inventions half the movie. It’s what got them cursed by the fairy princess in the first place. Considering it was a fairy they pissed off, being turned into green dwarves when anyone (who isn’t a magical creature) looks at them was actually getting off mild. 

I was surprised that each Prince actually has to break their curses one at-a-time. It’s not a “break the curse for one and you save all” which was a new take on a collectively applied curse. Which was why they were every-dwarf-for-them-selves when it came to trying to woo “Red Shoes” and get a kiss from her. 

Merlin’s character journey was one that is usually reserved for the curse breaker in fairy tale movies where a curse indeed is in play. In that he was the one who had to learn to look past appearances. I love that Snow White calls him out on that at one point in the movie too. 

Merlin learning to let go of his obsession with looks (his own included) was what allowed him to see Snow White as the most beautiful woman in the world (in his eyes) which was what let her second kiss at the end break his curse. Because he saw her inner beauty which mattered more than any physical appearance she had.

The characters grew and them ending up together at the end felt natural and not forced because the time they spent together always felt like they had chemistry which is hard to pull off.

Moving on to other things: Regina, Magic Mirror, and Average. 

Honestly? Average felt like a real waste of time. It was through his lines we got the most Shrek-like throw-away references, it was he who had the least impact on the plot, and he who could have been written out of the flick almost all together. Yeah, Merlin recognizing his tree-i-fied form did hint at what Regina had done to others (and it was after he and his two not-the-Stabbington-brothers-goons became evil ents that I figured out King White was that wood bunny because it was large and cute and that was the White Family’s designs overall). 

Average was a throw away character. In many ways he wasn’t even mediocre let alone average. 

The worst thing about him is he can be easily written out of the movie. 

As the stepmother of Snow White, Regina is queen of the kingdom and all the scenes where soldiers go after Snow White and the F7 could have been her sending people to do her dirty work to spare her magic usage. 

Average’s two goombas? Hired thugs who’d never seen Snow White before. Take him out, shuffle a few things around, make a captain character be his replacement in the attack on Risky Rock scene, and nothing of value would be lost in his removal. Average is the film’s only major mistake. He was a dead end that could have been easily written around and the screen time would have been better spent on Snow White and the F7 or maybe fleshing out Regina a little more.

Magic Mirror and Regina both played well off one another. Patrick Warburton as any character will always be an excellent casting choice. 

Regina’s schemes made sense from a shallow perspective. 

I saw someone compare her to Mother Goethel from Tangeled  in a youtube comment on one of the trailers and kinda? 

They had the same sort of vanity-wanting to keep their youth and maintain their beauty-and their penchant for cloaks was the same but, Regina to me....was more like Mother Goethel and Triss Marigold from Witcher 3′s fusion. Her younger form reminded me WAY more of Triss than Goethel as did her gown. Plus, it’s canonic in the Witcher-verse that sorceresses use magic to keep young. Also, she’s not the first evil queen of a Snow White retelling to even be obsessed with youth to the point she goes to extreme lengths to maintain it. See Snow White and the Huntsman’s queen. 

Regina stands out as her own character despite sharing a name and role with Regina of Once Upon a Time. She’s ruthless, and able to manipulate others with either her words or illusionary magic (though it costs her like the witches from Stardust). She’s also absolutely cold. She just kind of falls flat compared to the Magic Mirror.

No offense to the voice actress or the writers, but up against Patrick Warburton’s Magic Mirror/tree character, Regina is a little less memorable to me. He has more sass and more pure threat to him than Regina does. Sure, she has magic that can turn people into strange tree monsters, but it’s the mirror that gives the F7 the most trouble throughout the movie, and they fought off something that looked to be a whole platoon of guards/soldiers armed with heavy artillery (canons). Granted, it was a close call that relied on their wits and other skills, but they still had less trouble with that fight than they did against Magic Mirror. 

Some More Things:

The humor was nearly overplayed but they managed to tow the line between going too far and just right.  Mostly this was seen with the F7 and their attempts to get Snow White to kiss them and break their spells, especially Arthur. 

They did give him more of a character beyond loud bully, which was that he had a sensitive side and a lot of pride (which was easily bruised). In fact, only he and Merlin felt like they had characterizations compared to the other five. Hans was obsessed with cooking and Jack with jewels and the trio with tech but that’s all they got beyond having their friends’ backs whenever it really mattered and being awesome badasses. Since these other five were mostly side characters, this is more of a nitpick than an actual problem since the film was setting up Arthur vs Merlin for Snow White’s affections. 

The fact that Snow White brushes all the attempts of flirting off so easily was very amusing to me and a nice way of showing how she was focused on finding her missing father throughout the whole film (despite the fact that she had already found him). Hilariously, in hindsight, she really had seen him in the woods. If she’d been herself, who knows if he’d have even attacked her.

Finally, I’ll end on what had seemed like an inconsistency but now I realize is a loophole because the fae have those in everything. The guys have to be alone or have the person they’re with close their eyes to be their true selves, except Merlin is still his true form even though he’s not alone with the Magic Mirror or the wood rabbit/King, or the three wood bears/children. 

Turns out, once I thought about it, the fairy’s curse was if “people looked at them” which meant, the ones doing the looking had to be people and the wood creatures-despite formerly being people-were considered to be people no longer. The Mirror was probably never a person, which mean he’d never counted as a part of “people” so he could look all he wanted (which was his thing as a mirror). It’s an interesting loophole. 

Long story short, I really enjoyed this film. It was very cute and it was done so dirty by its marketing three years ago. 

Good film. Good messages. Go watch it! It’s not like we’ve anything ELSE to do at the moment (and it’s not like there are any other worthwhile films coming out right now). Support this film, and this studio.

[twilightgoddesshylia]

The Incident

Read on Ao3 Here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23375077

This is. Entirely the fault of @linkeduniverse-incorrect

Ranger gives me IDEAS at oh-god-o’clock in the morning

+++

“Who let this happen.”

Time stood with his arms crossed, glaring the boys before him. The one eye always somehow made his stare so much ore intense, and they all shrunk under the force of it.

Warriors stepped forward, and they all held their breathe in wide eyed fear.

“Its my fault. I know how rash my sister is, and I still let the girls rush off on their own. I take all the blame,” He stood at attention, a good soldier ready to face his failure. Time’s cool stare didn’t budge.

“Wait no!” Wild jumped forward, flinching under Time’s attention. “I was the one who told her about it, I knew she would rush off, and I let myself get distracted, and then she was gone, and I’m sorry, I should’ve been guarding her, and I didn’t mean to but its my fault and-”

“It’s Twilight’s fault.” Despite the collective gasp Legend remained completely unrepentant, looking Time evenly in the eye. “He was with her the whole time and did nothing to stop it. He’s definitely one hundred percent to blame here, don’t listen to the self-sacrificing idiot team.” Legend crossed his arms, effectively ending his testimony, ignoring the other’s side eyes.

Time looked each one of them in the eye, before sighing, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Well Twilight. What do you have to say for yourself?” Time turned, facing his protege, as well as the . . issue at hand.

Twilight finally gave the group his attention, pulling away from the scene.

“I would sincerely like to see y’all do better. Frankly, I don’t know what the problem is.”

An observer, might note that, at this point, the eldest hero had developed a twitch in his eye.

“The problem,” said hero began, “is that this situation is in no way sustainable. We’re on a very serious and dangerous quest, we never know where we’ll end up next, or when a hoard of monsters will attack, and we certainly,” Time was near actually raising his voice at this point, “do NOT. Have the room, time or resources to keep a Hylia damned PEACOCK!”

Silence reigned, briefly, and then-

“WUUAAAWK! EEEHH! EEEHH! EEEEEH!”

The “issue” was this: Hylia, had made a friend. Twilight, had been with her when Linkle- and it was still odd to think Warriors had a twin; how did that work with the hero’s spirit?- had bounded up and asked if they wanted to see a something even cooler than a cucco. Now, had he been more familiar with his friend’s sister, he might have been more wary. Or not. He did love animals, even the ones that frightened him, like cuccos. The point being, that one might have considered what exactly she might find more interesting than a cucco.

The answer, was, naturally, the biggest peacock Twilight had ever seen. Not that he’d seen many, but there were a few in the castle gardens, that were terrible gossips when he was in wolf form. This one however, was significantly larger than those. Hylia’s size, or lack thereof, was made very obvious next the over sized fowl. A giant, white peacock. Because of course it was white. Really, what happened next was truly an inevitability, a design of fate.

They were supposed to keep there distance, as Linkle warned them of the disturbing level of aggression the Peacock had displayed, and they did! But, the bird had other plans. It waltzed right up to where they sat at the edge of the wood, and plopped itself in Hylia’s lap.

She had thrown her arms around the massive bird, and looked Twilight straight in the eye, declaring, “I love him, and I’m keeping him.”

Their fate was sealed.

Now, Time stood, attempting to wrangle some sense into the situation, while the others looked on but Twilight knew it was futile. Hylia made ordonian goats look compromising when she dug her heels in, and the peacock might actually be worse.

“We can’t keep it.” Time was actually attempting to stare down the goddess who faced hatred incarnate. No one could ever call him a coward, but clearly he still had something to learn about picking battles.

“Archimedes has decided to accompany us, and quite frankly, I don’t see how you can stop him.” Hylia mirrored Time’s crossed arms. She was absolutely mocking him. The newly dubbed Archimedes found this hilarious, bugling happily.

“You..Named it.. what.” Time’s voice could not have been flatter. Archimedes also found this amusing.

“Archimedes Ranger Hyrule. The first. He’s quite intelligent, no need to be insulting.”

“. . .”

At this point, Twilight was certain his mentor had broke. The absurdity of the situation was too much. They were arguing with Hylia, white goddess of Hyrule and time itself, about whether or not she could bring a giant peacock named Archimedes, along on their mysterious quest through time.

That is A Lot.

Hylia, finally taking pity on the poor man, pranced up and squished Time’s face with her hands “Oh don’t be such a worrywart; He’s a giant, wild Peacock, he can take care of himself. He can hunt, he doesn’t need bedding, and he can easily keep pace with us. It certainly won’t trouble us; in fact, birds make wonderful guards, especially the larger fowl. Think of Archimedes as big breathing alarm.” she beamed, and well. Twilight didn’t see how anyone could refuse that smile.

Time closed his eye “I’m not winning this, am I.”

Hylia giggled standing tiptoe and tugging his head down to place a kiss over his scar. “Absolutely not.” She pulled away, and faced the others, beckoning them closer to her and the bird.

“All right boys, come properly meet Archimedes; don’t crowd him now, he likes hugs but only on his terms. . .” The heroes were relieved and curious about their new companion.

Twilight clasped Time’s shoulder. “He really is a decent beast.” he tried to reassure him.

Time eyed the group were Archimedes was allowing a hug from an enthusiastic Wind “We never stood a chance.”

“Not even a little bit.” They looked at each other and shared a chuckle, before joining the group.

All’s well that ends well.

Though, this wasn’t even close to being the end.

[awintersrose]

ObiKabu for kinktober #15 would be interesting.

Kinktober Prompt 15 - Impact Play (From this list of prompts)

This one is more rated M...

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His skin is the first thing to draw the eye, genetically unique and begging for adornment. Adornment is something Kabuto can easily give. 

The true challenge is the pride in the older man's eyes, his stance, the line of his spine. It would require building up, breaking down. Exploration, study, and a trained hand. 

Working over a submissive is quite like a complex dissection at times - taking a specimen apart using the very building blocks of systemic response and release. Only these specimens, both precious and conscious, have the benefit of learning who they are, who they could be, who they would be under his control.

Kabuto is well accustomed to bestowing such gifts on deserving targets. 

From the moment he sets eyes on Obito, the decision is made, the plan formed, right down to the implements, namely a sweetly crafted leather martinet gifted to him by his first master.

Learning from the best has had its benefits. Namely exposure to Leather culture steeped in tradition and protocol, most of which he’s adopted as part of his chosen play style. The rest is all his own, and that’s what leads him here, with an especially wondrous specimen all too willing to be tied and plied with pain and the prospect of pleasure.

“I bet no one’s ever used that on you before.”

Kabuto pauses. There’s no need to allow anyone to see him ruffled by such a statement, and really, it’s a silly one.

“I was mentored by a leatherman, and thus spent a lot of time in that community. I’ve bottomed before.”

“Yeah, but did you enjoy it?” Obito’s lips quirk in a slightly cocky smile.

It’s annoying. It’s entrancing. It feels a hell of a lot like a challenge.

“I don’t see where that’s of consequence. It was educational, as it was meant to be. I take it you think you can do better?” Kabuto loops jute rope around Obito’s chest, threading the ends through the bight.

The taller man stoops slightly so that his mouth is close to Kabuto’s ear. “I know I can.”

Definitely a challenge. One that Kabuto would be apt to ignore were it not for the hairs standing on end along the back of his neck and the curiosity that runs rampant at a single thought.

“Then I suggest you put your money where your mouth is. Prove it.” He smirks, letting the rope fall. “I presume you know what you’re doing, yes?”

Somehow their positions are reversed against the wall and Kabuto’s not quite sure how it’s happened. All he knows is that Obito is very warm and very close, with fingers poised at his chin - staring him squarely in the eye.

“I know what I’m doing, cutie. Take your clothes off and I won’t ask you to call me Master.”

“I would have undressed anyway,” Kabuto grumbles, unbuttoning his shirt and laying it aside, followed by his pants. “And you’ve not earned the title so that’s a moot point.”

“Well now you get to undress for me. Same limits as we discussed, or do you have anything more I should avoid?” Obito’s right hand spans Kabuto’s throat, tracing the fluttering pulse there and noting its urgent beat.

“No, my list was comprehensive. I’ll safeword if I need to.” Kabuto peers up at him, rendering a dare of his own. “Shall we begin? Show me what you were so confident about.”

“Oho, aren’t you demanding? I will. One thing first,” Obito traces his jaw then deftly removes Kabuto’s glasses, setting them aside. “Now turn around and put your hands up on the cross.” He gestures to the St. Andrews cross nearby.

Effectively blinded, Kabuto reaches up to hold onto the rich mahogany with a slight sigh. The relief, however, is short lived as leather falls run the length of his spine, then pure warmth presses flush against his back. 

“If you safeword or take your hands down, I’m going to stop. Understood?”

“I understand,” Kabuto replies.

It takes active effort on his part to suppress the shiver that lingers somewhere around his spine, but when a hot exhale rushes across the nape of his neck, his ear, his reactions are rendered involuntary. He can practically hear Obito smile.

“I’m not going to expect you to count, but I am going to expect you to feel every. Last. Bit.” That teasing voice turns darker, almost purring, as if the man has become another person entirely. “And maybe, just maybe you won’t keep those sharp teeth gritted the whole time.”

At once, there is cool air at Kabuto’s back and the first strokes fall, criss crossed lashes laid one at a time across his shoulder blades, their warm points of impact radiating outward. The sensation steals his breath for all that the strokes are light. 

He’d nearly forgotten what a good flogging feels like. The martinet’s falls are shorter than is usually optimal, but they are lavish and well tooled - and they bring Obito closer in proximity. Besides that, Obito wields it well. 

Kabuto does own twin bullhide floggers that would be even more appropriate for the task, but as additional strikes are laid with almost mathematical precision several times over, he forgets all detail of the implements - too focused on the here, and the now. Obito seems to read his reactions in an instant, switching the pace, increasing it, laying incendiary stripes down the muscles of his back and his hips with near flawless technique.

Each fall leaves a mark, even if invisible, stealing away a piece of his sanity, his resolve. It’s as if the dark stranger is weaving a spell wrought in pain and slow-burning pleasure, turning Kabuto’s very nature against him. He had no intention of truly surrendering to his chosen submissive, merely enduring this little challenge, and yet he hears Obito laugh softly in response to something. 

It takes him a moment to realize it’s because he’s uttered a sound. 

“Kabuto - it’s alright if you like it. Let me hear you.” Obito’s broad hand runs the length of Kabuto’s spine and hot lips brush the skin of his neck just below his ear. “I want to.”

The unexpected softness leaves him reeling just before Obito draws away and lays another series of deft strokes across his buttocks and thighs, the martinet whipping through the air so swiftly that Kabuto can hear the tell-tale sound in anticipation. 

Like it? Is that what’s happening? He could yank his hands away from the polished wood, call red and stop the scene in its tracks. Could, but doesn’t. The way that his mental capacity is drifting slowly from his grasp is alarming to say the least.

As leather makes contact with skin, another sound, a gasping sort of cry, gets bitten off in his hearing. The husky voice behind him still urging him on confirms that he is in fact the one guilty of the utterance, and the slight humiliation makes him feel as if he’s teetering on the edge of something.

He just might fall.

It’s strange. Nearly discomfiting. A soft haze lingers short of his inner sight, blurring the edges of sensation and emotion - a bit too far to reach. This is just as well when he’s not so sure he wants to relinquish a logical headspace. Yet as the scene meets its pinnacle, it seems it’s no longer his choice; everything becomes gently fuzzed over, less sharp… better than he imagined. 

So, this must be subspace.

Obito’s hands, now free of the implement, trace the fiery heat glowing upon Kabuto’s skin, as if to soothe, never losing contact as they glide up his shoulders and slowly toward his wrists. His chest meets Kabuto’s back as he guides both hands away from the posts and secures Kabuto in a solid embrace. And just like that, the scene is over.

“Such a good boy.” Obito’s whisper is nearly tender, an unexpected anchor. “Thank you, Kabuto.”

Being called anyone’s boy should rankle and twinge, but somehow it doesn’t. Perhaps in combination with the play session, this is something to be documented in full, perhaps tested once more for the sake of confirmation. Being thanked, on the other hand, feels just right, and as he leans back against Obito, he turns to give him an imperious look. 

“You’re welcome. I admit your technique was satisfactory - you didn’t lie. But next time - I get to do as I like with you.”

A smug grin crosses Obito’s lips as he leans in closer, brushing lips against Kabuto’s cheek. He can feel his new play partner’s breath stutter in his lungs. “Something tells me we'll see about that.”

AO3 Collection

[lligkv]

a starting point, not the sum total

The magazine Harper’s recently published a feature in which a bunch of writers talk about “life after Trump.” They cover various topics: reality, tabloids, movies, relationships, manners, imagination, gold, conversation, punctuation, apologies, golf, literature, and Trump himself. Some of the writers are covering their usual beats: “literature” is covered by the book critic Christian Lorentzen, “movies” by film critic A. S. Hamrah. And some writers cover topics that I know from Twitter they’re already interested in: I’ve seen a number of tweets from Jane Hu, for instance, with quotes on Adorno’s thoughts on punctuation, which also opens her Harper’s piece. Other writers speak to subjects that seem more random, like Liane Carlson’s examination of the decline of the public apology that we saw so often in the early 21st century (with Bill Clinton, Eliot Spitzer, Anthony Weiner, and their like) or Yinka Elujoba on gold: the color, the substance, why it appeals to a certain brand of aristocrat in a certain type of declining empire.

A few of the pieces are inane—showing what can happen when you assemble a piece by giving a bunch of writers a topic to just do whatever they want; different people take mandates differently, and they won’t always be deep—they won’t always be hits. For instance, there’s not much to “Golf” by David Owen. Basically: golf was staid and boring when he first took it up in the early 90s, then it became kind of cool with Tiger Woods’s fame in the late 90s, or at least something people knew about and many people watched, and then all that was undone by Trump’s love of golf the last four years. And that’s well and good, but who cares. Ultimately, Owen’s contribution registers as a marginal blip in the midst of more robust discussions.

But the most inane entry might be Eileen Myles’s contribution to the feature. It’s ostensibly about “relationships.” What it’s actually about is Myles’s feelings. We’ve established before how much I’ve come to distrust writing about how we feel about major developments in politics or about disasters like climate change, rather than the developments and disasters themselves. And at least Elisa Gabbert’s The Unreality of Memory is a genuine attempt to explore something, even if there are moments when the essays in it drift into ponderousness or sentimentality. In fact, I’ve come to feel less harshly about Gabbert’s book as I’ve thought about the pandemic the last few weeks—how unreal a number like 400,000 deaths feels to me, and how I struggle to know whether this is a natural response. Is a pandemic, with its enormous scale of death, a hyperobject, a phenomenon so vast it can’t really be countenanced by a single human mind? Do large-scale tragedies ever feel real and not abstract to those living through them, when they’re this diffuse? Or is this flatness I feel unique, a sign of some special psychic damage in those of us who are alive today, from social media or the ubiquity of news in the times we live in? I’m more willing to grant that this, how to countenance disaster, is Gabbert’s question; she certainly engages it thoughtfully.

Myles is not thoughtful. It’s striking to read their contribution after you read, say, Hamrah’s brief, potent account of the streaming services’ ascendance in the COVID era, now that we’re all stuck at home and at the mercy of whatever pricing schemes the streaming giants want to set for the movies they release if we want any (legal) entertainment, and how this reflects similar moves last century by studios to force theaters and theater-goers to pay for shit movies as well as better ones. Or Mike Jaccarino’s recent history of tabloids: how Trump depended on them to inflate his image in the 90s and aughts, and how the dynamic reversed over the course of his presidential race and term, with the task of tracking changes in Trump’s image now sustaining them—revealing again the inversion of structures like the media over the course of neoliberalism’s evolution and aftermath. Myles’s piece, so focused on them and how they felt about Joe Biden winning the presidency in 2020, is just so narrow by comparison. Even Charles Yu’s account of the damaging effect the Trump presidency has had on (consensus) “reality” is more interesting. It’s flawed, to my eye, because it so often presents what Trump supporters or QAnoners believe as merely an inferior narrative, a fiction they’ve subscribed to at least somewhat consciously and don’t want disturbed, as though they were all ostriches sticking their heads in the sand rather than people inhabiting the same physical space as Yu himself. And you’re never going to succeed at changing someone’s mind if you’re just convinced they’ve subscribed to a false and inferior narrative—because, as Lauren Oyler notes in her contribution to “Life After Trump,” differences in opinion often come down to different interpretations of the same facts. But even Yu’s contribution is interesting, because it’s not just Yu talking about himself as though his own experience is ours.

Myles’s piece, on the other hand, is just “I, I, I, I, I.” “I was crossing lower Broadway to look at a show,” they write: “I’m a fan…of the work of the artist named Sky Hopinka,” “I had allowed that monster”—Trump—“into my body,” “I went inside the gallery,” “I could hear [the spoken parts of the Hopinka exhibition] pretty well,” “I was in Texas during the earliest parts of COVID and I stayed there for a while and I was keenly aware that this was the first true crisis I had missed in New York”—and on it goes.

And Myles is so irritatingly convinced that their “I” is heroic, or part of a heroic “we,” standing in opposition to Trumpists and to the people in Chelsea, bourgeois and apolitical, who aren’t happy when they see a friend of Myles’s, Joe, pumping up the crowd at the election celebration:

He put his Biden-Harris T-shirt on which was brilliant. Everyone cheers when they see him. He’s like a sign. He starts acting like a sign, saying yay to everyone. Women always say yay, some couples won’t. Or they say a little. Not everyone in Chelsea is happy. They’re doing their Chelsea thing. Shopping, getting some food. This is a disruption. It’s like they didn’t even know there was an election.

I’m not on the side of the Chelsea shoppers here. I’m not on the side of anyone who’s indifferent to their environment, or who sniffs at a public display of any kind of emotion, enforcing some arbitrary idea of seemliness. But how radical is an election, really? How much does this one ultimately change? It’s a minor fluctuation in a long interregnum. I see these lines of Myles’s and I think, If you were really radical, you’d know that. You’d know that, and you wouldn’t devote this piece that professes to be about relationships to celebrating yourself and your milieu as though it speaks for the Chelsea shoppers’ or for mine. You’d think about the world you were in. The whole world, not just your part of it.

Some of the frustration of reading “Relationships” in the larger context of “Life After Trump” is the frustration of watching someone practice a mode that’s been outmoded as though it were still revolutionary. It’s part of Myles’s project as a poet to write from their own perspective. And it was likely groundbreaking or at least interesting when they first began writing: a way to speak to the experience and subjectivity of artists and creatives in late 20th-century America and make that real to those who did not know that world. Or a way to speak to those who wanted to join that world. It’s a poor mode now, in this time. Artists have long been integrated into the mainstream and the market—they’re no longer a vanguard. They’re not even people whom the mass media organs of the culture consciously turn to for a reflection of what life looks like now and what it could look like in the future. (Here, I’m thinking Sontag, Mailer, Dwight Macdonald, whoever—a small and biased set of examples, but the ones that come to mind.) The work of artists now feels like just another kind of content you might prefer to consume, just another piece of fodder for an identity (say, “literary person”) that you can espouse—and the presence of even critical artists and creatives is a marginal one that you, again as an individual consumer, can pay attention to if you like or just as easily ignore.

What’s more, in a time marked by widespread use of social media, everyone’s a poet of Myles’s type today. Everyone’s a relentless “I,” broadcasting their feelings and impressions of situations and history, talking about what everything and anything that happens feels like for them and what it means for them. I’m doing it right now! And I read magazines like Harper’s and Bookforum and the London Review of Books and more for a break from that mode—or a practice of it in which the “I” is a starting point, not the sum total. That is, when it comes to writing about the culture, I’m looking for writing that goes beyond the “I” to say something genuine about the world we’re in. Something that helps me understand that world better and then to change it.

[inventors-fair]

Costume Change - Commentary

Maybe if I just slip this in quietly, nobody will remember how long they’ve been waiting. Right? Right.

@emmypupcake – Mysterious Murders // Rumorborn Ravager

Cohesion: Cohesion is this card’s toughest sell, as the excellent flavour of the front face doesn’t really get delivered on by the back. The use of death triggers and rumor counters creates a really evocative effect, but the back half tries to redefine rumor counters in a way that just doesn’t feel like it comes together.

Complexity: The complexity here is fairly reasonable. The front face doesn’t do anything except transform itself over time, which is probably fine. The back side using rumor counters probably isn’t necessary; this could simply be a 5/4 that puts +1/+1 counters on itself, and you would almost never see a difference mechanically.

Clarity: The play pattern on this is pretty straightforward, which is great. I think the only qualm I’d have is that the tap ability for what is essentially a +1/+1 counter feels strange on a creature this large: normally if you’ve got a big evasive attacker, you’re not going to want to take turns off attacking to grow it slowly instead.

Color: Interestingly, the only ability on the whole card that has a strong color identity is menace, which leaves it in red or black. I think the design is probably most natural in black, though in the type of set it’s likely to appear in seeing it stretched to red makes a lot of sense. 

Overall: I think this one does a great job of showing how much flavour small elements like counter names can carry. I’m a big fan of the feeling this card creates.

@fractured-infinity – Tollus, Erratic Reflection // Tollus, Avatar of Change

Cohesion: This is essentially a transformation tribal card, and both sides succeed in playing heavily into that theme. Ironically, this card may push its cohesion too far, as I think it’s reasonable to ask whether a card doing things this similar really wants to be double-faced. Differences obviously exist between the sides, but those differences don’t necessarily feel transformative.

Complexity: This is at best on the far upper end of the complexity I would want to see in a DFC: it has two different copy-except effects that work differently and two different activated abilities that transform other permanents at instant speed. Its biggest saving grace is that it doesn’t transform back, meaning that once you manage to get it transformed, you only have to worry about half the card.

Clarity: This is where the choice not to have a built-in transform ability really hurts, as the card doesn’t convey very well what it’s supposed to be doing. The abilities don’t quite work together the way you’re hoping (while copying another card that can transform will allow you to transform Tollus, the effect that made it a copy initially will still be in place so it won’t actually change anything), but even ignoring that the fact that you have two similar copy effects that work differently (one side retains its name and legendary status, the other doesn’t) is likely to lead to a lot of confusion and misplays.

Color: The only part of the card with an established color identity are the copy effects, which (as written) are unique to blue. Transforming targeted creatures isn’t something we’ve seen a lot of, though I can certainly buy that kind of shape manipulation as blue. The activated ability on the back side is five-color mostly just for Commander, though it’s splashy enough that that’s probably fine.

Overall: Transform ‘tribal’ commander seems like really neat design space to play in.

@grornt – Earthrender Larva // Skyburner Moth

Cohesion: The core of the design seems to be growing the front in order to take advantage of the evasion on the back. Sacrificing a land feels like a pretty big cost to tick up the size of your creature slightly, though the mana ability on the back face tries to help recoup some of that cost. As it is, this design has multiple interesting angles that seem to be pulling it in different directions; I think the design as a whole would benefit from picking one of those angles and really committing to it.

Complexity: This seems appropriately complex for a rare DFC. The abilities are mostly time-limited, and none of them significantly increase board complexity either. The fact that the counters persist from one side to the other is a little easy to overlook, but I imagine that space is too attractive to rule it out altogether, it’s just a point of confusion to be conscious of.

Clarity: While it’s clear the gameplay pattern intended to transform the creature, there’s not a clear throughline between what one side is doing and the other. Leaning in to the point above, I would actually like to see something on the back face refer to counters to help signal to players that those counters do stick around, making it a little clearer what the payoff for the design actually is.

Color: Sacrificing lands to grow is a pretty red thing, and red can produce one-shot mana (even if it’s off-color). Flying is probably the biggest bend here, as red mostly gets flying on either dragons or phoenixes, though enough exceptions exist that I wouldn’t rule it out altogether. It does seem like kind of a strange payoff for a mono-red card though, since flying isn’t particularly red itself.

Overall: Metamorphosis was a good thought for transform space that hasn’t been thoroughly mined yet.

@hypexion – Mazamat the Endless // Mazamat, Undying Cinder

Cohesion: Most planeswalkers are designed to be loosely cohesive value engines, which can make it difficult to create double-faced planeswalkers because they have to balance the demand for a higher level of cohesion with the need to be a general value engine. This one has several abilities that play in similar spaces (milling and recurring cards from graveyards), which feels like it’s intending to be the core mechanical identity for the planeswalker character. With 5/7 of the card’s abilities referencing the graveyard in some way, it feels like it may have leaned in a little too heavily.

Complexity: Planeswalkers are already the most complex card type by default, and this one has seven (!) total abilities on it. What’s more, it flips back and forth between both sides, meaning you have remain aware of what all seven abilities do throughout the game, and with several abilities that are similar but not the same, it feels to me like a recipe for a lot of confusion while playing it. It is both hard to remove and has 3 other graveyard recursion abilities, which sounds like it’s going to lead to a lot of very, very repetitive gameplay.

Clarity: While I’ve touched on these points already, the sheer number of abilities and the similarities between them make it pretty difficult to develop a clear sense of what the card wants to do and how to play it. Even with seven abilities, none of them are an ‘ultimate’, meaning there’s no immediately obvious goal to work toward within the card itself.

Color: You played it relatively safe with colors, and these are all abilities that blue and black can easily do.

Overall: The idea of an undying planeswalker is really cool, I just suspect the final version would wind up looking much more conservative than this one.

@i-am-the-one-who-wololoes – Thiaban, Soul of Fabacin // Alesthia, Tomb of the Soul

Cohesion: The card has several abilities, but it’s a little difficult to see how they all connect. The hexproof ability is very powerful and is the focus of the front side, somewhat discouraging you from risking the creature in combat to keep the ability; the reverse side has an unrelated protection ability, which is also attached to a removal effect. While I’m confident you had some story in mind while designing it, that story doesn’t really come through in the final version.

Complexity: Repeatable on-board tricks always drive up the complexity of board states, and this card has three different such tricks spread across its two sides. The front side will blank much of your opponents’ removal and make combat difficult, while the back side complicates attacking and blocking on multiple angles. And that’s without even getting into the implications of a land that is a repeatable removal spell, which will lead to a lot of grindy, un-fun matches entirely on its own.

Clarity: While I think the land is probably the more powerful of the two sides (and thus the payoff) it’s not immediately obvious that that’s the case, and the card doesn’t do a very good job of communicating it if that’s how it’s expected to be used. It’s fortunate that the design ensures you generally only need to be aware of one side at a time, but that only does so much when each side requires you to be aware of so much on its own.

Color: All the abilities of the front face are pretty squarely in green, and the back side has black in its activated ability’s cost to cover the creature destruction.

Overall: I’m a little surprised at how many ‘When this dies, return it transformed’ designs we saw. Must be exciting space.

@ignorantturtlegaming – Aeryn, Lost in the Woods // Aeryn, Apex Hunter

Cohesion: This definitely feels more like two cards stapled together than a single holistic card. The front half is a flash-matters creature that cantrips, while the back face cares about none of those things. I suspect you had an idea of what the character you wanted to portray was, and this is a good example of how trying only to be faithful to a character often creates designs that look a little scattered.

Complexity: While the number and type of abilities on this card aren’t problematic, some of the specific design choices create complexity in ways that aren’t beneficial. Adding the ‘opponent’s Forest’ part of the cantrip effect doesn’t do much for the design, and both random discard and creature removal are effects that you generally don’t want to see made repeatable.

Clarity: The front face strongly implies I want to play the card in a flash deck, but the back face offers no real payoff for doing so. It does have the plus sides of the transformation being one-way and the front face being virtual vanilla apart from its transform trigger, meaning it does signal pretty clearly which side you want the card to wind up on.

Color: This is a couple pretty heavy color pie breaks, as green doesn’t have access to the discard or creature destruction abilities on the back face. Like I mentioned in the blog this week, since there’s no black mana required in any of the card’s costs, just the black color indicator is not enough to justify giving the card black abilities.

Overall: Good to know she found her way out, at least.

@machine-elf-paladin – Ringbound Sparksurger // Inert Remains

Cohesion: There’s some symmetry between the two sides, one clearly all-in on attacking while the other is clearly all defense. It is a little unclear which deck wants both of these cards, especially since red can generally get a 4/1 attacker for three mana without all the hoops this expects you to jump through.

Complexity: It’s a little strange that this design chooses to transform each upkeep rather than each end step like most one-turn attackers would. Additionally, the damage prevention ability really doesn’t seem like it’s doing much, and the activated ability should absolutely just read “Transform CARDNAME” – there’s no reason to pretend it does anything else.

Clarity: I think the idea behind this card is to use incidental damage to flip it without having to activate it, though it doesn’t communicate that particularly well and the payoff for doing it doesn’t seem all that exciting.

Color: While the damage prevention is a little unusual for red, I don’t think it’s doing anything that it strictly shouldn’t do, just taking advantage of some novel space.

Overall: This is a pretty evocative concept, and I’m a fan of what you were trying to do.

@mardu-lesbian – Bumbling Illusionist // Omnipotent Sorcerer

Cohesion: The two faces of this card don’t really share any elements, relying more on flavour to justify being part of the same DFC. Mechanically they don’t interact in any real way, even having a separate mana cost to make it effectively a modal double-faced card, more than a transforming one.

Complexity: The complexity is pretty reasonable on this pair: the front face is quite simple, and the most complex part of the back face is just turning it back into the front. The cost reduction ability feels like it’ll only occasionally be anything other than one mana, but it’s possible that complexity is justified by the few cases where it’ll do slightly more.

Clarity: I saw some discussion about which face of this card really wanted to be the front, and it’s a worthwhile question. I think if you’re going for the ‘big reveal’ scenario that the concept is referencing, it would probably be correct to put the finale on the back face. This specific design is closer to an MDFC anyway, but most transforming DFCs treat the back face as the payoff for the front, and the ‘man behind the curtain’ was conceptually the payoff for the Great and Powerful Oz.

Color: Drawing a card on a die trigger is interesting in red; every color is allowed to cantrip so it’s not strictly a break, but it’s certainly unusual. Everything else (including the death trigger, indirectly) is gated behind blue mana instead, and they’re all things that make sense for blue to be doing.

Overall: Unless Masquerade does a lot more with transforming than this particular design indicates, it feels like you’d be better off using MDFCs and finding other workarounds (like flickering) for changing between sides.

@misterstingyjack – Unassuming Frog // Knight of Lilies

Cohesion: The two effects of this card seem reasonably intertwined, one triggering when you lose an enchantment and the other returning your Auras from the graveyard. Both sides provide a body for your Auras to go on, though neither offers anything that makes them a particularly good Aura target.

Complexity: Neither of the effects here are exceedingly complex, though it feels like it does take advantage of extra room in the text box. I’m not totally convinced that the counter improves the gameplay significantly over simply triggering on any enchantment leaving – they’ll be identical in most cases, and the few cases where they’re not the flexibility is probably welcome. Repeatable recursion is always a red flag, though the worst I’d expect from this is recurring something like Choking Restraints.

Clarity: The throughline on this is pretty clear, and I don’t imagine anyone struggling to figure out how to play the card correctly.

Color: The recursion effect is definitely a strong bend in Green: green returns permanent cards to its hand and can recur lands and occasionally creatures from its graveyard, but there’s not much precedent for doing it with Auras, though that is the kind of bend that hybrid or DFC cards occasionally make. I think returning the Auras to hand might be safer both in terms of balance and in terms of color pie.

Overall: It would be terrible if someone were to figure out that I absolutely adore frogs and started submitting frogs into all of my challenges. Would be a real shame.   

@naban-dean-of-irritation – Challenge of the Hunt // Reward of the Hunt

Cohesion: This design has four abilities, none of which quite line up with each other, but are doing similar enough things that they probably belong in the same decks and archetypes. Both sides want you to have creatures that line up well into opposing creatures, and encourage aggression by making blocking difficult. There’s some cute synergy between the Gold token the front face generates and the activated ability on the back face, though it does feel otherwise strange that that ability introduces an artifact matters theme to the design.

Complexity: Most of the abilities are designed well to avoid needlessly complexity, with sorcery-speed and turn-based triggers. The activated fight effect can make combat a little hard to read, though that is gated behind both a transformation and untapped artifacts, so perhaps that confusion is acceptable.

Clarity: This is where having similar-but-not-the-same abilities can cause trouble. Designers have a tendency to look for clever answers, but sometimes it’s cleverest just to repeat yourself: it makes it easier for players to remember, and makes the themes of the design more solid. Rather than splitting your message between forced blocking, ‘stalking’ and fight, I think you’d be better off trimming one or two of those and consolidating the effects around whichever one plays best. Additionally, because these are able to trigger each other explicitly, there’s an implication that they’re better in multiples that the back face doesn’t really deliver on: they count as artifacts for each other, but otherwise the second copy of Reward doesn’t have any relevant abilities at all.

Color: You played it pretty safe with monogreen abilities on a green/colorless card, no problems there.

Overall: This feels like it’s trying to be part of a cycle, or a broader subtheme of a set. That’s pretty hard to pull off with DFCs, but the interesting combination of types and the story it tells definitely feels like they could lead to something.

@nine-effing-hells – A Hero Rises // A Hero Falls

Cohesion: This card has eight different abilities that are operating on a lot of different axes. It somewhat suggests that it wants to be played with a small creature, go-wide strategy (chapter 3 on the front face), but most of the other abilities don’t really reinforce that theme. As cool as it looks, it’s just hard to imagine the deck that wants all the things this card is doing enough to keep it playing on a loop.

Complexity: This card has eight different abilities, which can make it very difficult to keep track of what it’s doing at any given time. At least four of those abilities impact the board directly, making it important to be aware of them constantly. Normal Sagas are a relatively complex permanent type with only three chapters, so designing an eight-chapter Saga was always going to be an extremely ambitious goal.

Clarity: This card has eight different abilities, only half of which are visible at any given time. Perhaps if there were some kind of symmetry to help hint at what the order of the abilities on the other side was, it would be a little easier, but as it is this card will have players flipping it over and checking the reverse every time they need to plan a turn or two in advance.

Color: This card has eight different abilities, which is a lot to cover even with three colors to lean on. Every ability on the back face is a pretty severe bend, and while bending can be expected on this kind of design, it’s something that has to be done carefully. Multiple small bends can add up to a break, and this card features multiple big bends – as well as some good old-fashioned breaks, like the back face’s third chapter (Hurricane hasn’t been in Green in over a decade).

Overall: This card has eight different abilities, y’know? The idea of a double-faced Saga is honestly a really clever idea, but making it work would involve a much more conservative design approach than this one took. In particular, you probably should’ve taken advantage of the fact that multiple chapters of a Saga can share the same effect. Doing so would’ve allowed you to make a design like this with only 4-5 unique effects, which would’ve been much more manageable.

@bluebread-mage​ – Dovin, Planar Surveyor // Dovin, Reprogrammed

Cohesion: Well, the back face doesn’t do much, so it would be pretty hard not to fit in with it. The two loyalty abilities synergise as the first fills your hand and the second rewards you for keeping it that way. The front face’s transform ability isn’t something you can control (and almost certainly wouldn’t, if you could), and won’t be relevant in the vast majority of games the card is played in.

Complexity: This feels like an example of something that probably doesn’t need a second face: rather than transforming it, you could simply take away the card’s abilities as long as an opponent controls a Dimir creature, and achieve nearly the same result. Neither of the loyalty abilities are all that complicated on their own, though the power level on the potential draw two each turn and the counter-everything emblem are both pretty concerning.

Clarity: You never want this card on its reverse side, what could be clearer than that?

Color: There isn’t much that’s white about this card. The taxing ability arguably could be, but blue is better at it and is already represented. It’s not breaking anything, but they try not to print multicolor cards that could be only one of those colors.

Overall: I definitely applaud your commitment to keeping a character you love around.

@partlycloudy-partlyfuckoff – Surreptitious Shrub // Moldgraf Man-Trap

Cohesion: This design has pretty obvious intentions, swallowing opposing attackers and then digesting them for life and card advantage. Two of the three abilities depend on things you can’t directly control, making it hard to build a dedicated deck for this card, with the only real synergy it allows is the sacrifice in the transform ability.

Complexity: Instant speed transformation can complicate combat, though since it’s something that should only happen once it probably makes for a reasonable on-board trick. I’m not certain the counter on the exiled cards is necessary, as the back face can simply refer to cards exiled with itself (much like Tomb of the Dusk Rose). The upside of letting them digest each other’s food doesn’t seem particularly valuable. I think making the draw/lifegain ability require a tap would help avoid 

Clarity: The abilities of the two sides are connected intuitively enough that you won’t need to check back and forth, and it’s easy to see how the card is expecting you to play it. Kudos.

Color: I’m not totally convinced permanent exile effects are a monogreen thing. It’s a pretty significant bend up from deathtouch, and green removal is generally supposed to demand bigger, better creatures. This one at least requires the plant to survive combat, so perhaps that’s enough. I think the card draw and life gain is probably reasonable in Golgari colors – black usually has to bleed for its card draw, so it’s a bit of a bend, but I think the setup covers it.

Overall: I do like what this card is doing overall, and I’d be happy to Seymour like it.

@reaperfromtheabyss​ – Smoldering Corpse // Hellsoul Puppet

Cohesion: Both sides pretty clearly want to attack, the front with evasion and an attack trigger, and the back with trample and a saboteur ability. This implies a slightly aggressive deck, though the saboteur effect seems like it would punish most traditional aggro builds. It’s a little hard to imagine the archetype that might want a slow-burn Ball Lightning that’s also a board wipe, but maybe it’s out there somewhere.

Complexity: Named counters on creatures are generally a risky proposition: because formats are only allotted one type of counter for creatures, a fate counter format likely wouldn’t have (much) access to +1/+1 (or -1/-1) counters, which is a pretty real cost. The abilities are mostly straightforward, though I think there’s an argument that the damage trigger should sacrifice the creature and then deal damage, as many (especially new) players won’t immediately recognize that that’s what it’s intended to do.

Clarity: Again, the parts of the card largely tell you what the card wants you to do with it. It’s not immediately obvious that the third attack transforms the creature while it’s already attacking, though I suppose for a rare that’s an acceptable play pattern to have to learn. It does put it in the slightly awkward position of occasionally needing to double-check the back side before you attack, especially since the utility of the sides is significantly different.

Color: Red doing what red does, no problems here.

Overall: I’m honestly such a sucker for Ball Lightning variants.

@snugz​ – Clumsy Maiden // Magical Battle Maiden

Cohesion: A 0/4 that can’t block comes pretty close to doing nothing; as much as I understand that’s the theme, it makes it difficult to determine how cohesive a design is when one side is effectively blank. The trigger conditions are mirrored to send a clear message, but what they’re signaling is something you generally can’t control. All of the abilities on the reverse are just ways to un-transform it, meaning this is essentially just a cheap 5/5 if your opponent has big creatures as well.

Complexity: None of the abilities are exceptionally complex, though perhaps still a bit more than necessary. The replacement effect instead of a dies trigger seems unnecessary, and I can’t immediately determine a reason why the ability taps the creature when it brings it back. Also, the way the stats line up is pretty awkward: if this gets into combat with your opponent’s only 4-power creature, it’ll un-transform at the end of the turn with 4 damage still marked on it, and immediately die. I’m not sure that’s an interaction most players would predict.

Clarity: For what it’s worth, the play pattern is fairly straightforward. 

Color: This doesn’t feel exceptionally red or white, though there’s nothing explicitly about it that would keep it from being those colors. Apart from transform conditions and a ‘can’t block’ clause, it’s basically just a vanilla creature anyway.

Overall: I get what you were trying to do and it’s pretty cute, though I’m not totally convinced this card – as designed – really wants to be double-faced, over just a 0/5 that gets +5/+0 as long as an opponent controls a big creature.

@starch255​ – The Cursemaster // The Masterful Curse

Cohesion: Both sides make some mention of Curse cards, so it’s clear what the synergy you’re intending to play into is. The back face also offers some added value for playing creatures, which I suspect is just intended to be more generally useful.

Complexity: Returning creatures as noncreature enchantments is a bit of weirdness that I’m not totally shocked to see, though throwing it onto the same design as an enchantment with a tap ability is asking quite a bit. The fact that the card transforms both ways adds a fair bit of complexity, and one of those abilities is both instant-speed and free – your Curse freely turning back into a Cursemaster in response to enchantment removal is going to ‘get’ a fair few players.

Clarity: The two sides operate on slightly different axes, one rewarding you for playing (and sacrificing) creatures, the other paying you off for having lots of Curses (including those reanimated creatures). It’s not immediately obvious in the abstract which side is better – it may be slightly more obvious on differing board states, but it’s important especially for a card that jumps easily from one face to another to be able to tell when doing so is advantageous.

Color: There’s not a lot that’s obviously blue or red about the whole design. I think it’s intended for commander, where they occasionally add colors just for the sake of color identity, but adding two full colors just for that is probably still a bit much.

Overall: I think a singular card with the enchantment’s death trigger and the creature’s upkeep trigger would be plenty interesting, even with only one face.

@whuh-oh​ – Haunted Relic // Curse of Phantom’s Vengeance

Cohesion: The biggest thing this card demands of you as a player is evasive creatures, to guarantee that you’ve got someone to pass the relic off to an opponent. The reverse side gives you a steady supply of evasive creatures – though it gives most of your opponents creatures that can block them as well. I’m not sure whether the end step ability actually encourages you to lean into a go-wide strategy or not; it kills the cursed player really quickly, but doing so turns off your token engine. 

Complexity: The hardest part of this to parse is exactly how long it’ll take to pop; if everyone attacks the player immediately after them it goes quickly, but if they’re attacking the player immediately before them it can take much longer. I’d be pretty tempted to move the counter removal effect to the end step, since that guarantees that the player stuck with it will have a chance to attack and pawn it off before it flips and curses them. As it is, this is probably best used by holding onto it for a few turns before slipping it onto an opponent with an unblockable creature.

Clarity: This one sends a pretty clear signal that you don’t want it stuck to you when the timer goes off, so players often aren’t even going to worry about the exact text of the reverse side until it’s face-up – which is good, it keeps it from needing to be checked repeatedly. The one issue I have is that this sends the message of a cool multiplayer card that switches hands a lot, but as soon as it transforms it very quickly just kills the player it got stuck on.

Color: Colorless can do just about anything, though the correct rate for a card like this is pretty difficult to guess at without playtesting – just comparing it to older jinxed cards, this looks significantly above rate. The back face feels black while remaining more or less appropriate for its colorless costs, though making the tokens white didn’t seem particularly necessary.

Overall: I’ve always got such a soft spot for cards that create their own minigames, and this one plays the haunt-potato schtick pretty well.

@wolkemesser​ – Rat, Chatterbox // Aktos Tarr 

Cohesion: There have been a few different double-agent cards in the history of Magic, but the idea of putting one on a card that is literally two-faced is actually quite clever. The abilities themselves are a little spread out, with a protection ability on each side, an evasion ability for the opponents, and a remove one for the owner. There isn’t much about the card that conveys precisely what kind of deck or archetype you’d want it in.

Complexity: This card doesn’t offer a lot of space for interaction, with shroud and protection ensuring that most things can’t touch it in the first place. That said, the activated ability on the back face is repeatable removal, which is always a bit of a red flag, though the fact that the card also gives your opponents an unblockable creature that it can’t remove might make that more acceptable. Maybe.

Clarity: The card dictates pretty explicitly how it’s used, and none of its abilities are so hard to track that I can imagine needing to flip the card back and forth to check what it’ll be after transforming. I’m not a huge fan of the dissymmetry between shroud on one side and hexproof on the other, and I’d probably recommend committing to just one, perhaps ‘can’t be the target of spells or abilities its owner doesn’t control.’ The roles of each face are each different enough that this is one of the few cards that transforms both ways and doesn’t lose any clarity points in the process.

Color: Using the blue-green overlap of shroud/hexproof was pretty clever, and the assassin ability is believable in black even though it is thoroughly red. Great job using color overlaps to create a card that feels like both of its color combinations.

Overall: I don’t really know the character, but the card itself feels like it gives a lot of personality.

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Thanks for participating this week, everyone! I tried to make sure I didn’t skimp on the commentary, since I did make you wait for it. Also tried out aligning my commentary more explicitly with the content from the blog earlier in the week. If you’ve got any feedback on it, feel free to reach out either here or over Discord!

~Mod [ @3smuth​ ]