#like yeah going 'generally white men tended to go red' makes sense

[elprupneerg]

i'm pretty sure not all of the ballots are counted yet. like last i heard they're still counting in a lot of places. so it feels very strange to me that people are trying to put out detailed analyses of who voted which way by what percent and why, since we don't have the complete data

[marzipanandminutiae]

Hey Marzi could that black silk afternoon gown from 1875 that you reblogged be considered a mourning dress? I’m still trying to figure out how mourning attire worked

This one?

Could be, yeah! In a certain context only, though.

So, the way Victorian mourning often seems to have worked in practice was kind of like...having a black cocktail dress that you could wear to your aunt's funeral but also out for drinks with friends. It's very dependent on context and accessories, because black was a popular color for women's clothing in general (just like it is now).

Really, despite what listicles often want to say, there are a VERY small number of extant gowns that could only ever have been For Mourning SpecificallyTM. The rules varied, but it tended along the lines of "in the first, deepest phase of mourning, you wear only black with no other accent colors and nothing shiny or sparkly, including shiny silk-satin." People often forget the No Shiny rule in rushing to label all black dresses Mourning. Then later on, you could start adding back in shine and accent colors, generally white, purple, mauve, and sometimes red depending on where and when you lived.

Except those were also popular accent colors for non-mourning black clothing. And non-shiny black dresses existed in other contexts, too.

Yeah. You can see where this gets confusing for modern researchers.

Accessories played a big role in showing mourning- important, because the whole point of formalized mourning was to convey "be gentle; I'm going through something hard." Matte black jewelry, as from bog oak, jet, or sometimes hardened rubber later on in the 19th century, especially with certain symbols. Anything with a willow and urn motif. A hand holding a wreath. A piece of jewelry marked with someone's name and their age/the year when they died. Sometimes, but not always, jewelry with skulls and skeletons (sometimes that's just because they thought those motifs looked cool). Wearing a veil was also a great way to show mourning, in context with everything else- it's now often associated with especially widows in the mid-19th century.

(It was even harder for men at times, since black suits were wildly popular. Sometimes a black armband would be worn, or strictest matte black in all jewelry like collar and cuff studs. But I've actually read etiquette manuals that are like "it's really hard for men to show that they're in mourning; oops.")

I feel like the idea of formalized mourning is so foreign to us now that we've gotten a little bit overexcited and forgotten that, if it doesn't make sense to us to buy a whole new wardrobe when someone dies, that was probably true back then as well- and if we like black clothing in non-mourning contexts, they probably did, too. You can find advertisements for retailers selling mourning clothes, so people definitely did buy new things for the occasion at times- but they also made good use of what they already had, just like we do now. And wore those same outfits with different contextualizing accessories when mourning was over.

Oh, and the notion that there was a strict, specific term of time you HAD to mourn for different losses in your life, and everyone knew the term and was keeping score? Not as much a thing either. I've read a few books that do proscribe a specific term for different relatives or loved ones who've died, but most also specify that mourning is highly personal and the length that one might mourn varies from person to person. Also, no, widowers were not only required to mourn for a year while widows mourned for two: I found that in a couple of books, but far more that advised the same minimum length of mourning for both losses. There might be judgmental people who thought you Hadn't Mourned For Long Enough, but that's not quite the same as a strict, universally-accepted rule.

And there were all sorts of exceptions- a bride was generally advised to cast off mourning for her wedding day (although one could get married in a black dress, so I guess that just means accessorizing in a more normal way), keeping children in mourning for too long- or sometimes at all! -was believed to be too hard on their little minds during a time of stress...it was all a lot more malleable than we often think nowadays.

Hope this helps!

[saints-helen]

MORE HEADCANONS!! YIPPIE!!

(Except more general ones this time😅)

(May make a part two... In six years or so-)

Smaller headcanons!:

- Human Dream has some sort of skin condition due to being trapped in stone. He doesn't want the public to know of any "weaknesses" of his so he hides it behind layers of makeup and clothing, the former of which often only makes it worse. To help with it he bathes regularly, occasionally using one of the plethora of medicinal bathbombs and soaps that blue buys him (he feels guilty about wasting his money).

- Human Nightmare has long hair, Human Dream has short hair. (we know why the latter is, though, don't we Helen~)

- Human Cross is albino! So is human Epic! Albino besties!!! They bond over it, one red eyed, the other purple.

- Human Epic has long, stark white braided hair, it reaches his ankles and is So pretty when he moves, the top of it is all cut up boyishly, so it looks like the braid is coming out of nowhere.

- Human Ink is intersex, usual ink is Definitely intersex so, why wouldn't human him be, too?

- The dreamtale twins' eyes can also turn to star shapes, much like blue's. They get that from him.

- The twins aren't identical twins. Bone structure wise they are carbon copies (of blue and each other), but appearance wise, especially as humans, they don't look all That alike.

- Dream has joint issues from being stuck in stone, and he loses the ability to properly grip things randomly and has to just wait for it to pass.

- Dust is probably selectively mute.

- Cross definitely has some form of psychosis, you don't see your dad somehow know everything about you and everyone else and be low-key an omnipotent god without developing Some kind of paranoia about being watched (will have a follow up post later... Probably)

- After blue decided to parent adult twins (god knows they need it) he began learning Spanish to better talk to them. Having had no one genuinely care for them for so long, (people always hated nightmare and everyone always wanted something from dream), it shocked both of them.

- Blueberry sans is an outcode, as his entire existence came about solely due to people's misconceptions about blue and he Is very much just a child. The love of the people around him, (the ones there initially when he first popped into existence, aka, his original caretakers. Not the Entirne multiverse is affected) is dependent on the fandom's view of him. So if the fandom loves him, he gets doted on. But if the fandom hates him..

Yeah.. as far as he's aware, one day he woke up and everyone hated him and didn't tell him why. It really fucked him up. He's convinced that if he could just Know what it is he messed up, if he could just be Good enough, fix it, everything will go back to normal (it won't) and people won't hate him anymore.

- Both human twins have freckles from being in the sun so much, however nightmare's can't be seen due to being under the corruption, and dream's have faded from being in stone.

- The twins can both sense the emotional intention of man-made things, and the emotions associated with them. If they enter a room, they can tell if it bore positive or negative memories, same with foods, objects, etc.

So when nightmare first ate a homemade meal made by blue, cooked specifically for Him, he nearly choked on the amount of pure Love poured into it.

Love.. for Him.

- Swap sanses tend to be a bit taller than classics, and swap papyri shorter than classic papyri.

- Passive probably got chased by some drunk young mens' hunting dogs once.

- Cross likes and listens to lofi music.

- On cross's bad days, his hands shake in the kitchen because he's getting water without permission.

- Cross has no concept of weekends, as every day is a weekday for him. XGaster didn't even let him Know such a thing existed until he was school age, at which point the man had no choice but to tell him.

- Epic buys multi-coloured bandaids instead of the brown beige ones. It's to add a sense of silliness and whimsy to his life, yes, but it's also to help (force) cross to get back small bits and pieces of the childhood he'd never had.

- Sometimes cross says no to epic asking to kiss him because he doesn't feel like he's earned it that day.

- Ink's body runs so cold your fingers will go numb if you hold his hand for too long.

- Error is the opposite, worst case scenario, cuddling him gives you first degree burns, so layer up, babe.

- Nightmare is cold in the way something that may or may not be wet is cold, it's like, Really confusing for your senses to touch him.

Like slime,,, iykyk.

- Dream in warm like sunlight, just enough to be comforting, Very nice to be felt, to be around.

- Shattered is Hot (ha, we been knew 😏) no but seriously, he's hot in the way magma is hot; Thick like lava and dripping very slowly.

[vi-sigoth]

how did you come to be able to trust and believe in men not to betray, hurt, or degrade you over time? i've never been in a situation where i was surrounded by "cuck" leftists as you say, and while i agree those men are awful in their own way, i'm also wary of right leaning men that tend to hide a general sense of contempt for women. a common example i have on my mind often is higher IQ men who willingly marry women who are significantly or at least noticeably lower IQ because they don't believe or care if there are women closer to them in ability, and they enjoy having such control and influence over their wives or live-in girlfriends. there's more but i don't want to throw you a wall of text lol

So, there’s really no good answer to this. I can tell you my own experience, but my life and yours are probably very different.

I have absolutely noticed a lot of conservative men marrying women who are lower IQ, (and tons of “racist” white men marrying poorer Hispanic, Asian, and even black women, which…we don’t have time to unpack all of that).

I would say—keep your heart open. But have your hand on the gate, ready to slam it shut and lock it when you see a red flag. I think a lot of women, because we tend to be more agreeable and less inclined towards hurting feelings with men maybe are afraid of asking the more difficult questions towards the beginning of the relationship (although I think that both men and women nowadays suck really hard at communicating with each other). There are some things you need to ask about that people don’t like—because they’re pragmatic and not very romantic, but in my opinion, women should be asking—

1. What are your religious/moral/ethical views?

My husband and I are the same religion. He and I discussed it very soon after meeting each other. I know that some people like to say that people who are extremely religious probably don’t get divorced because they’re afraid of the shame and stigma, blah blah blah, but I don’t buy that entirely. I think people who’s religious views (which inform your morality and ethics) don’t get divorced as much as non-religious people because their worldviews simply align more and because of that, they’re able to build more harmonious marriages. Going back to Conservative men marrying lower IQ women — I’ve noticed a bizarre trend, mostly with the older generations, of Conservative men marrying liberal women, or marrying women that have a different religion than them. It’s because those men in particular don’t care very much about their wife as a fully-fledged human being. Who cares, let her have her silly worldviews, as long as dinner is on the table; women are stupid anyway, I’d only talk politics with the boys down at the bar—type mindset. Make men tell you their religious views. How do those views inform the way they think about women and the treatment of a wife?

2. What are your thoughts on sex? Is it appropriate to go to strip clubs? To look at porn? Will you ever ask me to swing/have a threesome? How kinky are you in bed? Do you like doing anything in bed that would be considered outside of the norm?

Now this—people REALLY don’t want to talk about this. I’m going to be mega-cringe and cite Jordan Peterson here, but he was absolutely right when he said that nowadays, young men and women do things in bed that they can’t talk about with each other. But you HAVE to talk about sex with each other. I promise, it’ll save you massive heartbreak down the road. Can you imagine being nineteen and staring deep into the eyes of your boyfriend and thinking about how much you love him, only for him to completely blindside you and ask you to have a threesome? Haha. Yeah. (I said no). Talk about sex now, even if you are waiting until after marriage, you can absolutely discuss the act even if you haven’t done it yet. How many times a week does he expect sex? My now husband and I discussed this, and we both unequivocally agreed that strip clubs are out of the question, as is porn watching, and neither of us want to bring other people into our bedroom. We are also on the same page about which sex acts are fine, and which ones are gross and never happening. If guy is pissy about any of this or unwilling to answer or discuss this, major red flag. What it typically means is that he’s already doing those things or wants to do them in the future and doesn’t want to make a promise that he won’t do them knowing full well he won’t keep it. Don’t ever let a guy make you feel like you’re crazy, stupid, or nagging for putting your foot down about pornography and strip clubs. He engages in that shit? Drop him. Men need to be behaving better, but we, as women, also need to be more active in punishing men for bad behavior. Also, ask how will he feel if for some reason you’re sick or recovering from childbirth and you can’t have sex with him for a few months? He understands that there might be periods of time when that happens, yes?

3. How will you contribute domestically? What will our split be?

Whichever person works less hours out of the house does more housework. Period, the end. He knows how to do dishes, do his own laundry, cook reasonably well, and clean a bathroom, right? He better. You also need clear affirmation that he understands that just because a woman stays at home, doesn’t mean they just sit around and do nothing all day. If you are a stay at home mother, he’s going to step in at night when he gets home and parent his children to give you some downtime, and he’ll help you with household chores at night that you might not have been able to get done because you might have been too tied up with taking care of kids? The answer to that better be yes. Make sure he’s not one of those guys that think that all he has to do is go to work and come home, and NOTHING else.

So yeah, I would say, I came to start liking and trusting the men around me a lot more by making sure that I was thoroughly vetting the ones that were interested in me romantically. My husband showed me that he was loyal and trustworthy while he was still my boyfriend because, not only he did he agree with me about all the above things, but he showed me by his kind, sweet, and thoughtful actions. Not only does he agree with me about splitting domestic labor (we both work the same hours outside the house at the moment) he actually does it. He helps with grocery shopping, making our lunches, making dinner, taking care of my cat, as just a few examples. A man who loves you will always show you.

[charmixpower]

Ik ur inbox is prob flooded rn but

Specialists fashion style hcs and shopping tendencies..? 👀

Uhhhh UMMM

Men's fashion....ahhhhHHHHHHH

Sky:

Usually dresses like just some guy. Yeah he's some dude, please don't look at him too closely, he's normal. He promises

Jokes aside, he isn't all that fancy with his clothes. He dresses pretty boringly all things considered

He likes to dress in pastel/mid tone cool colors, generally avoiding warm colors, with lighter accents

He really likes jogging suits/track suits tho which tends to make him stand out slightly more bc jogging suits tend to have louder patterns on the than Sky usually wears

When he gets fancy he tends to dress in all white, which he looks weirdly good in. White jeans are a fashion choice he would make

There's also his royal clothes that he doesn't like all that much? Much of his childhood was a four way glaring match between himself, Diaspro, and his parents (while Brandon sighs in the background), so he tends to associate thoese clothes with tense uncomfortable situations....which might be the main reason he's primarily dresses very causally

He doesn't give that much of a shit about fashion, he does like his two tone jeans (not split down the middle like Riven and definitely not as much as Riven, but he likes to have a little fun with his pants) and his sectioned shirt

Ends up buying clothes every time he goes to the mall, there's never a moment when he really needs to go shopping bc he's kinda just constantly doing it—and he also gets gifts from Diaspo and his parents (at first) of new clothes (he does the same for Diaspro, the gifts are really petty and back handed on both of their ends but the only way you could tell is if you knew them really well)

Very slightly more interesting than usual casual wear, a jacket here and there, he's guy shaped

Brandon:

Jester. I thought we were friends. I trusted you. Why the fuck are you making me explain what ever is going on with Brandon's fashion sense this is a fucking nightmare /j

There's his prep era (s1+4??) and his actual fashion sense (s2-3)

Let's start with his prep era bc Brandon is apprently a idol who has eras jfjsne

It's like acidemia and prep fashion mixed together

Brandon would never wear a turtleneck, he's not that far gone, but he's trying his best to give rich boy

Button up shirts tucked into slightly high waisted corduroy pants with brown belts, some very unfortunate sweater vests (like truly tragic), and ascots

Imagine the shapes and clothing styles of acidemia, with the colors of the preppy style

I'm thinking he'd wear suit jackets once he realized how fucking stupid he looked in sweater vests

Brandon dresses like he wants to be punched face for being pretentious, Sky takes great offence at the implication that this is how royalty dresses

Yeah, he's just doing this bc he's overcompensating for his lack of royal training in pretending to be Sky. If he dresses like the most obnoxious rich kid ever then no one can question him right?

In my hc he'd dress a little more toned down than the original (the plaid pants, I'm going to attack him) just bc he doesn't want to push it quite that far but still

After his prep era his formal fashion goes fucking hard tho, he's figured out he looks REALLY good in trench coats and suit jackets/vests and he is not afraid to use this information for evil (flirting)

Brandon will suddenly be wearing a suit vest and pants out of fucking no where and destroy everyone on impact

As for his usual fashion, I'd decribe it as what my mom used to try and dress me in middle school—

Brandon is the hot one, that's just how everyone sees him form the characters to the fans, and fucking yet— Look at his fringe and his outfits??

Anyways I'd decribe Brandon's fashion in one word

Loud

Like jfc this man loves his bright colors and patterns, even his swim wear can't escape bright red and having a pattern on the front. He's just like that

If your wondering what loud means in this context, visually agressive, it's eye catching, visual noise, their clothes that demand attention. It also tends to mean obnoxious

If the outfit doesn't hurt my eyes, would Brandon wear it? Probably not—

Colorful men's summer wear (because Brandon is the opposite of a chill baby) that tend to be matching (there is not jacket so it's not a jogging suit but the top and bottoms usually go together, he likes two piece outfits what can I say)

And of course, crop tops. He's not crop tops all day every day (like Riven) but local man REALLY likes showing off his body ok? He's nature's gift to eyes and who is he to deny the everyday person walking down the street a chance to see him? He's not a monster

Brandon tends to be more out there compared to Riven when it comes to crop tops because Brandon has never even made eye contact with shame before in his entire life

Btw he finds out about crop top vests and goes fucking insane for a full week because he can combine his fashion styles into one monstrosity, Sky is going to physically fight him

Usually just ends up shopping the same time that Sky does bc he's there

Timmy:

Can I just call him a fashion disaster and move on?

Please look at his s1 outfit and realize that his over shirt's sleeves are nomrally drawn like it's tucked in somewhere and oh my god it looks so bad I want to commit a violence

Please look at his mess of a camping outfit. A crop top that meets exactly with baggy high waisted sweat shorts. Help him

No but I don't think Timmy even has a fashion sense out side of "I like the color green and orange" and "showing any amount of skin is terrifying"

He's just a stereo typically nerd

Musa (and Riven) got their hands on him once and turned him into an e-boy and Timmy nearly died

Timmy tends to cover up his skin and layer outfits. Not because he's easily cold but as a form of subconscious armor

He is the only one who benefited from s4 putting everyone into their prep era, getting a very dope looking glow up that I would of loved to see at the end of his character arc of being less of a coward that he didn't have

Really, why does Timmy get to escape with his shirt not tucked in. The designer of the boy's s4 outfits was a Timmy stan, smh

Of course that's immediately followed by the tragedy that is his s4 date outfit and I just *points and laughs*

Timmy is the only one who has consistent good in character outfits in every season (not including s8, bc I refuse to look at s8) good for him

Let the man vibe in his baggy white shirts and the more colorful shirt he layered on top of it. Also, shorts. Timmy really likes his shorts

And let's be real

He shops online

Riven:

Pop punk. I refuse to back down on this. Riven's weird little wrist cuffs are too alternative for most other styles. Um pop punk is (the style of my favorite band) like if a rainbow threw up on nomral punk. You get all the usual things like many belts and wrist cuffs, but you also get a fuck ton of colors.

As for shopping headcanons.... Riven's shopping is a mix of thrifting, upcycling the things he's thrifted, hunting down good deals, and saving up money for something he really wants bc Riven is one of the guys that really care about fashion. He doesn't tend to throw away clothes when he grows out of them but upcycle them, often making them more good looking (to him) in the process by mixing and matching colors

Riven really likes his colors ok?

His fashion in s1 is at his most boring half because he doesn't really wanna waste his money on clothes when he has other things to worry about (like never returning to his dad's house), half because he's low key embarrassed about how much he cares about fashion

After s1 however Saladin puts him on missions, which is amazing for him, which means he feels wayyyy less bad about spending money on clothes he likes

Still spends a lot of time just sewing his one pairs of jeans bc all the normal ones are too boring for him

I know I've been talking about his pants a lot but I need to inform you that Riven is fucking allergic to covering up his chest. He will either cut the shirt into a crop top of find a WAY to make sure his abs/pecs are showing. He's obnoxious like that

He's pretty responsible with his money but clothes are his weakness. Yes he needs that pair of bright pink jeans and he needs them right the fuck now. Like his room is pretty sparse but his closet is full...mostly with very colorful jeans

Helia:

Transmasculine that didn't change his style after transitioning

Doesn't care that much about fashion but is dedicated to his aesthetic

His flower child and Flora's flower child are very different. Flora is more high femme fitted clothing floral print, while Helia is more like flowy/puff shirts, earth tones, no prints, ya know???

Flora is more cottage core and Helia is more boho(??). Yes there is a difference, no I cannot explain it

Helia also seems like a bit of a chill baby (aka he gets cold easily) to me, so he usually wears long sleeve and no crop tops here

You'd think this would mean he'd wear more sweaters and jackets but honestly no, he doesn't like stuffing his giant sleeves onto those. He normally just wears a warmer shirt. If he can't do that, then he'll wear a flowy ass jacket

Helia also seems like the type of person to walk around in the house with a blanket over his shoulders, chill baby, I'm saying it

Many many many peasant blouses

Tends to dress more feminine? He doesn't give a fuck. Helia has gender

Helia is also fucking allergic to formal wear, he will wear a fitted shirt on his fucking death bed, fuck you. He thinks their uncomfortable and he feels like they make him look stupid and he hates them some how more than Riven (who also hates suits) which is an achievement. They might also make him feel dysphoric bc they look obviously wrong to him (and only to him)?? Idk it's the vibes

As for shopping, Helia only shops when he knows he needs new clothes and he really doesn't give that much of a fuck about fashion. He usually buys things in one trip until he grows out of them/they get destroyed then he goes out again. It is a horrible process to him

Plus, bonus Nabu:

Nabu tends to dress very traditionally until he's going out when he dresses as fashion forward as the best of them

He usually just gets clothes from his parents (traditional) and shops online (trendy)

He tries to avoid loud colors and patterns in his more modern outfits bc he usually wears those and he also looks good in dark colors thank you

He's either very traditional or chill and casual......

Wait a fucking minute Nabu (Traditional outfits nomrally, with some modern clothes) dresses the opposite of Musa (nomrally modern clothes, with some traditional outfits). What the fuck

[yhwhsdaughter]

pairing: trevor belmont x fem reader

content: forced vampirism, monster slaying, main character death, pining, angst, mention of animal death, usage of the word ‘assault’ to refer vampires feeding on reader

- this was meant as platonic soulmates but it can be seen as romantic too

“It hurts…”

Feet dragging across the rocky ground, you heard screeches of pain from behind, though they soon diminished. You could only focus on the pulsing sensation at the side of your neck; it was like fire rushing through your veins.

Preoccupied with your agony, Belmont was able to sneak up. He raised his whip, ready to kill off the last of the creatures when you suddenly turned, and with glossy eyes you said, “Help me…”

The whip managed to leave a thin horizontal line across your cheek as he pulled back, causing blood to drip out slowly. Now illuminated by the moon, Belmont saw the damage on you. Skin exposed by the ripped clothes showed multiple bite marks. Blood stained the corner of your lips.

She’s been infected..

Belmont didn’t see a monster but a scared woman who’d just been assaulted by vampires. He knew what she’d turn into, but he couldn’t kill her… not when she looked at him like this. Sunrise was approaching so he had to act fast.

Draping his cloak onto your form, Belmont proceeded to carry you into the nearest building, which so happened to be where the carnage had occurred. Upon recognizing the place, you began to panic, shaking and looking at him with distrust. “You’re safe. I killed every last of those bloodsuckers.”

The two of you stayed like that for a while, in that shitty stinking room. Eventually tiredness overcame your senses; Belmont felt weight settle on his shoulder. He wonder how a vampire could look so innocent whilst sleeping.

“Hungry…”

You felt parched; it felt like your throat had dried up, barely able to utter a word.

“I know.”

A rabbit was placed in front of you. Blinking at it, you directed a confused glance at the man. “I’m—this is.. for me?” He nodded. Taking the animal with traces of disgust, you raised it to your mouth. Blood gushed into your mouth; feeding made a horrible slurping that would certainly haunt you but there was relief amongst those troubling feelings.

You gulped every last drop, draining the poor creature of its life. Still, your hunger and thirst weren’t satiated. Biting your lip, you pondered on the next move. Because this man had saved you, daring to kill him or even feed off him seemed… rude. Not to mention, he seemed way stronger than you in terms of experience. Prior to this, you were a regular citizen. Maybe you could run away?

“Here.”

Trevor could see your turmoil. Most vampires needed to drain at least one human every time they fed—if they were being generous. They could survive weeks without blood but it made them weaker. Besides, it was older vampires who had this kind of self control. Newborns tended to be more unstable.

“Just take it before I change my mind.”

You did as told, though you were still unsure. Hesitating, you licked your lips before nearing towards the vein on his wrist.

Trevor let out a grunt when your fangs pierced him. Although you tried to be gentle, it was an uncomfortable feeling nonetheless. As he became lightheaded and you full, the mouth that was attached to his wrist removed itself with a ‘pop’.

After making sure he was alright, you asked for his name. “Trevor. Trevor Belmont.”

“Oh..”

“……”

“Oh! I’m (Name) (Surname).”

─── ☾☼☽ ───

“It’s dangerous.”

“I still-still want to go!”

The last remnants of sun were gone. Ever since your first encounter with the rugged monster hunter, you refused to part from him, following the latter like a lost puppy.

“I’m not much of a fighter.. b-but watch this!”

On cue, you punched the nearest tree, cracking it and making a sizable hole. You looked back proudly towards Trevor; except when you tried to pull your hand out, you were having difficulty.

“Ah. It’s stuck.”

Trevor couldn’t help but chuckle, walking away, clearly amused with your display of power. You pulled harder, “Hold on! Don’t leave me alone! It’s scary..” you muttered the last part while chasing after him. Despite being a creature of the night, the world and its evils still frightened you.

At the sound of a branch snapping, you yelped, grabbing a piece of Trevor’s cloak for security.

It shouldn’t have come as a surprise to Belmont when you punched a head clean off, practically decapitating one of the attackers. He might have been seriously injured if you had not intervened.

“Trevor.”

Gazing at you under the moonlight, he saw the hunger in your eyes as you held a man whom was still alive but struggling. His neck was exposed. Even so, you waited.

The Belmont turned away, giving you privacy to feed.

He knew that by allowing you to live, you would continue to take blood from others. Normally he wouldn’t feel soft towards a monster but whenever he thought of you, it was different.

His guilt was lessened when you drank from scum. Before putting the lives of innocents in danger, he would offer his own.

“Are you done?”

The corpse of the man was dropped unceremoniously as you joined Trevor, a light skip to your step.

─── ☾☼☽ ───

Despite adopting a nighttime lifestyle, Trevor was still human and had to conduct business during daylight hours.

He’d left your lodgings, which was an abandoned cottage, for a while. Nobody really passed through there anyway, so he thought you were safe. Worst came to worse, you could handle yourself. But as your self proclaimed protector, Trevor felt uneasy leaving you alone.

Maybe he should’ve listened to his gut because when he arrived, the door was wide open with dirty footprints leading in all the way to your coffin.

Two men had opened it—staring at the peaceful expression on your face, unaware that they were here to end you. To them it was obvious what you were. Even with that frilly white dress that made you look somewhat angelic, they couldn’t be fooled. As they raised their weapons to strike, Trevor used his whip. His sudden entrance startled them but it gave you the chance to wake up.

Eyes snapping open, you jumped onto the other man, taking both of you to the ground. His screams echoed shortly as you tore into his throat. The remaining one had no chance; Trevor left the room, closing the door on his way out, killing the light that entered and cutting off the way to escape.

Left alone with your prey, a smile crept up your face.

When you opened the door again, the dress which decorated your body was now stained red. There was hardly a clean piece on the material. Even so, you greeted Trevor with a hug.

“Trevor..”

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

“M-me too..”

─── ☾☼☽ ───

Forty years passed in the blink of an eye.

“You should retire.”

“Belmonts don’t retire. The only rest they get is when they’re dead.”

“Well I don’t want you to die.”

“I have to, someday.”

“No you don’t.”

It’s been like this for the past few years; Trevor was sixty now. His body didn’t look that of an aging man, but the expression on his face did. He’d seen too much and as time passed, it was harder to fight monsters by himself.

Of course you’d noticed that and suggested turning him. It was an ongoing discussion; Trevor didn’t fancy the idea of living an eternal life but the thought of leaving this earth without you was disheartening. He didn’t say it but the situation tore him apart.

There was also the fact that he was too old for you; forty years to be exact. You’d maintained your youth, looking lovely as ever. His doubts were shot down when you immediately said that you didn’t care about that.

“I just want you.”

He always kept pushing the conversation away and you were patient. Trevor supposed that you could’ve taken him by force if you wanted and when he inquired, you told him it would be like violating him, robbing him of the choice you were never given.

As understanding as you were; the time would come for him to decide and confront you about it.

That time was now.

He should have been more careful, but there was nothing to be done about it now. Trevor watched as the sun slowly descended. Would you make it here before he passed? Would he die without seeing you one last time?

When you woke night had already fallen. Trevor wasn’t home; he’d been late plenty of times before but this occasion felt different.

Upon stepping outside, the smell of blood hit you. It reeked, staining the very air. You immediately recognized the source—how could you not? You’d fed from Trevor countless times.

Rushing in that direction, you prayed to whatever entity was listening to keep Trevor safe. The world and its gods could condemn you, but not him.

Not him.

You found him sprawled on a big rock, a creature hovering over his crumpled figure. Without thinking, you tore it to pieces. Blood rained as his mangled body flew to various parts of the forest.

“Trevor!!!”

He let out a groan, which would’ve made you sigh in relief but his visible injuries proved otherwise. You were no doctor and even if you could carry him into town, it would be too late. There was no other option. If you didn’t do anything, you might lose him.

“Trevor. Let me do it.”

Still conscious enough to reply, “I don’t want to become—”

“A monster?”

“I cannot become what I sought to destroy..”

Tears escaped your eyes, blurring the image of the person whom you treasure most. “Please.. please please please..! Don’t leave me alone!”

You begged, knowing it was unfair to pressure him in such way but you couldn’t bare the thought of existing if he wasn’t present. He was your salvation, your companion…your world. And yet, he was being robbed from you.

So soon… It’s too soon!

You always imagined Trevor living well into old age, spending the remainder of his life with you, being happy. He was destined to die peacefully, not like this. Not in this shitty place, by the hands of a shitty monster!

“I can’t. I’m sorry..”

Grabbing his hands, you lowered your forehead on them, crying your heart out. It was unfair. Life was unfair.

“Kiss me.”

Despite the pain that he was in, Trevor found it in himself to smile. For you. “Kiss me one last time.” Tears dropped slowly as you heard him. Shaking your head; you couldn’t kill him.

“I want it to be you..”

His words struck a chord.

Lifting him by the neck in a gentle manner, you pushed the collar of his shirt aside, exposing his carotid. As you bit into his familiar skin once more, your other hand caressed him, trying to make this goodbye as painless as possible.

With every sip you took, tears fell down.

I love you! I love you! I love you!

His warm hand turned cold.

You held him in your arms like he once did to you, with the outmost care, with the love he deserved.

Since Trevor didn’t say where he wanted his body to be buried, you chose the nicest spot. It was a secluded place where it wouldn’t be dug up by animals or people—but not so hidden either.

Whilst cleaning the blood that covered his body and face, you found a piece of cloth with writing on it. Staring at it, you recognized the Belmont insignia. Turning the material, you managed to read the words…

Take this. Go to Alucard.

Trevor must’ve written that in his final moments; probably in case he didn’t make it before you arrived. The letters were sloppy because of the blood but you could read it well.

Clutching it to your chest, you sobbed until the light of day began to burn. For a moment you wished to stay there and disappear. Perhaps you could join Trevor.

Together even in death..

─── ☾☼☽ ───

The journey was rather long.

Looming in all its glory, Castle Dracula. You looked at the last piece of your beloved, holding it tighter in your hand.

“Okay. Let’s meet this Alucard.”

[pilothusband]

A lit torch to the woodpile high (part 2)

A Paz VIzsla Bartender!AU

Rating: T (for now)

Pairing: Paz Vizsla x F!Reader

Warnings: Alcohol, pining, some vague descriptions of wanting to be plowed, vague threats of violence

Word count: 2.7k

Description: More pining ensues, we see a lil skin (@softdin​ 👀), something eerie happens, two idiots who don’t know how the other feels. 

Author’s note: Let me know what you think!! Please go here to be added to the taglist!

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

The next few weeks passed by without incident. You still hadn’t seen Orso since he initially hired you on, which was kind of strange, but you figured it was because he was busy and had other ventures he had to keep an eye on.

So far your favorite part of working at Bear’s Den was working with Harlow. When it was slow you would pass the time chatting and getting to know each other better. You found out that Harlow was in the middle of getting her Master’s in Business Administration at the local school. She wanted to open her own bakery someday and worked at the pub to help pay for her degree.

Dillon was a little more frustrating to work with. In other words, he was lazy and he tried flirting with you (and every other woman around his age) every chance he got. It was harmless, but after a while you couldn’t help but roll your eyes at him. 

Paz was almost always at the bar, but it seemed like he was busy most of the time. In fact, he had barely said a word to anyone all day, other than grunting a short “hello” as he stormed in.

“What crawled up his butt?” Dillon asked after he had slammed the office door. You and Harlow looked at him and shrugged. He seemed pretty surly in general, from what you could tell, but this was a whole new level, even for him.

A little while later, some customers had trickled in and there was a low hum of conversation around the bar. You were wiping down some glasses that had come out of the dishwasher. The damn  thing never dried the glasses completely, and Donny never dried them himself before carting them out to you.

Harlow came out from the back, coat and purse in hand. You instantly deflated, realizing she was heading home for the day.

“I thought you were closing up with me tonight?”

“I was going to, but Paz switched with me. Said something about a meeting he had later on anyways,” she said, applying chapstick.

Oh, just great.

“Don’t worry,” she said, almost like she could read your mind. “I’m sure he’ll be less grumpy once Madge brings him some food from the kitchen later,” she laughed.

“Yeah, he could use a Snickers or two.” You both dissolved into giggles.

It was as if Paz’s ears were ringing. As soon as you had made the comment, he stepped out of the office. He still looked pretty angry, so you figured whatever was bothering him hadn’t gotten any better. Harlow could sense his mood and all but ran out the door, throwing a quick goodbye behind her shoulder.

You waved after her, distracted for a moment. That’s when you heard your name being called, rather impatiently. You whipped back around and walked over, not wanting to sour his mood any further.

“Sorry about that, what’s up?” You asked, looking up to make eye contact.

Big mistake. You could feel your stomach clench up with desire as soon as his eyes met yours. You could have sworn you saw his expression change momentarily, but as quickly as it appeared, he blinked and it was gone.

“I have a meeting later today. If you see a couple guys wearing matching white coats walk in and I’m not out front with you, come out back and get me. Don’t talk to them.”

You bit your lip and nodded. Paz’s gaze followed the movement and he swallowed heavily. You didn’t catch yourself watching his Adam’s apple bob up and down until he cleared his throat.

“Remember. Don’t talk to them.”

“Roger,” you said, turning on your heel to get back to the bar.

You had no idea how to feel about that interaction. He either didn’t trust you enough to talk to some important business associates, or something else was going on. You felt a little uneasy, but chalked it up to Paz’s fowl mood.

Was Paz involved with some bad people? Did this have anything to do with Orso not showing up to the bar for weeks? More customers were trickling in, distracting you from all the wild conspiracies your brain was coming up with. 

Orso and Paz were in a secret society and were plotting to steal an important government document. Orso and Paz secretly swapped faces and were living each other’s lives.

You really needed to stop watching Nicolas Cage films before bed every night.

After a while, Paz came out of the office to tend the bar with you. He wasn’t much of a conversationalist, but it was almost hypnotizing to watch him pour drinks. He knew the layout of the bar like it was the back of his hand. There was no hesitation to look for the correct liquor types when a customer ordered a cocktail that required a vintage bourbon. He didn’t struggle to remember which spout to use for cranberry juice vs. orange juice (like you did).

There was a point in the night where he was serving 5 customers at the same time, when you struggled to juggle just two of them. It was almost embarrassing, to be honest.

You heard a woman’s voice in your peripheral, snapping you out of a detailed and vivid daydream where Paz bent you over the bar to have his way with you.

“Excuse me, can I get a glass of Merlot?” She was probably in her mid-50s, wearing a slinky black dress that looked stellar on her, with leopard print heels. Basically, you wanted to be this woman when you got older.

“Of course,” you said, turning to the shelf.

Before you could even ask for Paz’s help, you heard him in your ear.

“Red wine?” 

You had to suppress a pleasant shiver. 

“Yes, please. The Merlot,” you looked over, giving him a sheepish grin. His face was still close to yours, you could see the flecks of amber in his deep brown eyes.

You stepped back, allowing him room to get to the shelf, and tried not to drool as he reached up towards the shelf, his shirt riding up his back with the movement. Time seemed to stop as you caught a flash of skin, toned and smooth. 

“Here you go,” he said, handing the bottle over to you. “We’ll keep it over by the register in case she wants another glass.”

You nodded, your mouth too dry to come up with words. Once the bottle was opened and the glass filled up, you handed it to the woman as she handed you her credit card.

She gave you a wide-eyed look as you accepted her card.

“That man is an occupational hazard,” she said, taking a big gulp from her glass.

You laughed, but didn’t say anything in response.

“Do you want me to open a tab for you?”

“Yes, I think I’ll stick around for a while,” she said wiggling her eyebrows.

Later on that night, it was about 15 minutes past closing time and all of the customers, as well as your bouncer Rick, had long left for the night. 

Paz had gone out back to count the till and you were organizing the liquor bottles when two men entered through the front door, which was strange because you could have sworn you had locked it.

They were wearing long, cream colored trench coats with some sort of emblem on the front pocket. It looked like a cog with six spokes. Something about it made your blood run cold. You had every intention of running out back to tell Paz they were here, but something about these men had you frozen in fear.

They weren’t like any men you had seen before, with short, cropped hair that was slicked back and eyes as gaunt as their thin faces.

Good evening,” the taller man said as he reached the bar. He gave you a smile, trying to appear amiable.

“Um, hi. Paz is out back, I can go get him for you,” Paz was going to lose his shit when he found out you talked to them.

“We’re looking for Orso Van, actually. Do you know where he is?” 

“I haven’t seen him for weeks. I can go get Pa–”

“I don’t want to speak with his whipping boy,” he interrupted, his tone growing cold. “I want to speak to Orso. Now.”

You were grateful at Paz’s immaculate timing as the back door swung open.

Paz looked more formidable than ever. He seemed to grow even taller, if that was even possible.

“As I told you last week, Dax, no one’s seen him in weeks.”

The silent man who was not Dax scoffed.

Paz continued, “and I thought I told you never to speak to my staff.”

Dax gave Paz a sickly, unnatural smile. It didn’t look like it belonged on his face. “I figured she might know something, seeing as she showed up right as Orso disappeared.”

You felt as if your entire body had been plunged into ice cold water. A deep, dreadful feeling took over the pit of your stomach.

These men have been watching us.

“Leave her out of this, she has nothing to do with any of it.”

He stalked towards the men threateningly.

“Now, if you want to talk to me, we can go ahead and talk in the office. Otherwise, get the fuck out of my bar.”

The other man scoffed again and nodded towards Dax.

“Come on, let’s go. We’ll be back next week to check on Orso’s whereabouts. If he doesn’t show his face soon, you know what will happen.”

They turned, their pristine white coats whipping behind them. The door swung shut with a bang.

You could only gape after them, so many questions spinning through your head. You weren’t sure if you wanted to know the answers to any of them.

“I’m going to drive you home tonight,” his tone left no room for argument. You weren’t about to object anyways. Even if you had to endure a tense car ride, you were a hell of a lot safer with him than by yourself.

You both locked up as quickly as possible and made your way to his truck, slamming the doors shut harder than necessary.

The air was thick as a blanket, filled with so many unanswered questions. If you weren’t so rattled from earlier, you would have realized this was the closest you had ever been to Paz.

“Are you going to tell me what that was about back there?” You asked, already knowing his answer.

“No.”

“If I’m in danger, I want to know why,” you told him, voice trembling. Your pulse was going a mile a minute.

“The less you know, the safer you are,” he said. His tone was still final, but not nearly as hard as you were expecting. 

He looked over at you. All you could do was stare back at him, mouth agape. His face was half bathed in the moonlight, painting his face in a pale blue light that contrasted with the dark that surrounded you.

“I won’t let anything happen to you.” He said quietly.

You felt like your lungs couldn’t get enough air, as if the wind had been knocked out of you.

“Okay,” was all you said back. You weren’t sure if Paz even wanted to be here with you right now, but you trusted him.

He regarded you for a moment, seemingly trying to read your expression that gave way to any trepidations you had. You looked back at him, having every intention to tell him you trusted him, but the words died in your throat when you saw his expression. He looked so open, so raw.

You let yourself bask in this moment, in the dark cab of his truck. There wasn’t an opportunity before now to just look at him freely. He had a scar below his right eye, and his nose was just a little crooked. You wondered if it was from getting in fights. You wondered what, or who, he had fought for.

He was quite beautiful, in a hard, unrelenting kind of way. You wanted to find out why he had built a thick wall around himself. You wanted to trace the lines of his jaw and feel the contours of his lips. 

His lips. Your eyes were laser-focused as his tongue came out to wet them. You found yourself thinking about what it would be like to taste them, to chase his tongue with yours.

He let out a shaky breath, snapping you back into the reality of the moment. You looked away, staring out the windshield, still watching his movements in the corner of your eye.

“We should go,” you wanted to flinch at the anxious edge to your voice.

Paz looked down at his lap and nodded.

“I’ll need you to navigate.”

You were grateful that Paz had stuffed a wad of cash in your hand last night before he dropped you off at your front door, mentioning to use it to Uber to work the next day. That meant you didn’t have to rush getting ready this morning to catch the bus to work, since you had left your car there.

It only took one tense night of locking your doors and windows, double checking the locks, drawing up your curtains and checking the locks again, followed by tossing and turning for hours on end only to fall asleep an hour before your alarm went off. It only took that one night for you to overthink everything.

It’s not that you were thinking about the creepy men that came in after closing. You had spent enough time to fret about that while you were trying to force your amped up body to relax last night.

This morning was spent overthinking every single interaction you ever had with Paz. He already had so much weight on his shoulders, running a business while his boss was off doing fuck knows what, while some seedy men were breathing down his back and basically stalking him at work.

Why should you add yourself to that list of responsibilities?

You had every intention to say good morning to him when you first saw him. He was walking out from the office, looking just about as exhausted as you were. You must have looked like a deer in headlights, because his eyebrows were raised in question, his head cocked to the side.

“I um, I was just going to the kitchen,” you said in an almost robotic voice.

You hightailed it out of the room before you could see the expression on his face.

Your heart was still pounding as you burst through the kitchen doors. This crush on your boss was really getting out of hand, and it only got worse after being in such close proximity last night. God, you probably looked ridiculous right now.

“What’s got you bursting in here like a bat out of hell?” You almost jumped out of your skin. Had Madge been next to you this whole time?

“I um, need coffee?” You said, accidentally wording it as a question. “If you have any extra, that is,” you added quickly.

Madge smirked, seeing right through your lie, but she didn’t question it.

“Just brewed a fresh pot. Knock yourself out.”

A little while later while you were back out front, stacking glasses between sips of coffee, you saw a plate slide into your peripheral.

“You look like you need this,” Madge winked. You looked down, mouth watering at the large pile of french fries.

“You’re a fucking saint, Madge.” You deadpanned. She cackled all the way back to the kitchen, throwing you another wink.

You didn’t see Paz much that day, and you were kind of grateful for it. Every time he entered the room you found some way to keep yourself busy to avoid his gaze.

He could probably tell you were being extra squirrely. Hell, everyone could tell. 

Donny had taken you aside earlier and offered to let you take a hit of his cousin’s homegrown, to which you politely declined. Dillon remarked on how tense you looked and offered to massage your shoulders, to which you told him to fuck off. 

Harlow didn’t say much, but she looked concerned. You pretended not to notice the sideways glances she was giving you.

A little while later, you were hunched over the bar, in the middle of writing out a supply order when you heard a throat clear from above you. It was a distinctly male sound. You almost dropped the pen in surprise when you looked up and saw Paz was standing before you, arm resting just a few inches from where yours was resting on the counter.

“I um,” Paz trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just wanted to see how you– how things are going out here.”

He sounded unsure of himself. He was standing a little less tall today, with his shoulder slumped over. Weary to the bone.

“I’m great, so good,” you babbled. “Nothing going on with me. Feeling peachy.” 

“Uh, cool, yeah. Okay, I’ve got to uh...” he removed his hand from his neck and gestured towards the office before making his exit.

You collapsed, letting your head hit the bar with a thump. God, you hoped no one saw that go down.

“So, what the fuck was that?” Harlow said, walking over. 

You sighed dramatically, your entire body feeling like it was being held down by bags of sand.

You lifted your head up a little, giving Harlow the most pathetic look you could muster.

“It was nothing,” you told her. You stood back up fully and busied yourself with organizing the coasters on the bar, hoping she would let it go.

“That didn’t look like nothing,” she said, trying to hide a smug smile.

You had two choices here. Tell Harlow about the sketchy men from last night, which was not an option, or tell her about the pathetic crush you were harboring for your boss.

You turned around to make sure no one else was around. Thankfully, Dillon was on his lunch break, Paz was holed up in the office, and Donny and Madge were both in the kitchen.

“Please don’t tell anyone–” you started, but were interrupted with a squeal.

“Harlow, shhhh!” You admonished her, desperately trying to reach out to her to clap a hand over her mouth to no avail. She danced away, wiggling like a toddler at a birthday party.

“You guys are totally fucking,” she whispered, her brown eyes wide as saucers.

“I– what? No we aren’t.”

“Come on,” she scoffed. “I saw that little trainwreck of an interaction back there.”

“No, really, we aren’t,” you told her, and added with a whisper, “though, I kind of wish we were.”

“Well,” she said, chewing on her lip in thought. “Judging by the way Paz was bodysnatched back there, he’s in the same boat.”

You rolled your eyes. No, that was absolutely because of the threatening men from last night. He just felt guilty you were now in the middle of all of it.

“Don’t roll your eyes at me, missy,” she admonished, good-naturedly. “He totally looked scared shitless back there. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

You frowned in thought. He must be really freaked out by those men. You felt bad that you hadn’t noticed.

“No, I think it’s just a big misunderstanding,” you told her. “I think he thought he offended me last night because I was in a bad mood.” You were kind of impressed with the lies pouring out of your mouth at the moment. “I’m going to go talk to him.”

“Okay then,” Harlow  said, smirking at you. 

You charged towards the office and barged in before you could talk yourself out of it. It was Paz’s turn to look like a deer caught in headlights.

This was the first good look you had at him all day. The scruff on his chin was longer than usual. His eyes, despite being open wide in surprise, had dark shadows under them.

“I’m sorry, I should have knocked,” you said, turning to leave.

“Wait–” Paz reached out, grabbing your shoulder. He let go almost immediately, as if the touch burned him. “Come in.”

“I just wanted to see how you were doing after last night. I didn’t ask you how you were doing and I– I’m sorry.”

“That’s why you’ve been avoiding me all day? Because you feel bad for not asking me how I’m doing?”

You blanched. Yeah, you felt bad but that definitely wasn’t why you were avoiding him.

“I guess, yeah,” you said, huffing out a laugh.

“I wish I could tell you more, I really do.” Paz said, sitting on the edge of the desk. It immediately groaned in protest, so he stood back up. “I don’t want any of the staff here getting involved with Orso’s bullshit. The less you all know the better.”

You nodded in understanding. You really did understand it. But something nagged at you.

“But what about you?” You asked him. “You’ve already been dragged into it.”

The sad, fleeting look on his face was devastating. You could tell he wasn’t used to others worrying about him. He must have caught himself, because his expression hardened in resolve a moment later.

“I can take care of myself,” he said. “I’m working on getting a hold of Orso. Once he’s back they’ll leave us alone.”

You weren’t sure if you believed him, but you let it drop for the time being. You would just need to keep an eye on him in your own way.

“You should get going,” Paz said, changing the subject. “Your shift was over 10 minutes ago and I’m sure you need to get some sleep.”

“Yeah, I really do,” you said, giving him a tender smile. “Make sure you get some sleep tonight too.”

“I’ll try,” he said, his smile matching the one on your face.

Taglist: @tenderclio @softdin @maybege @recklessworry @cannedsoupsucks @pocket-pudding @simping-for-clones @gallowsjoker @idiotonastar @seratoninforyouseratoninforme @devanthus @legally-a-bastard @my-awakened-ghost 

[i-did]

hi hello i couldn't sleep last night so i was scrolling thru all ur asks and stuff and ur opinions and analyses are so interesting!!! and then afterwards i was thinking about what u were saying about mlm smut and i'd also been thinking about such things a little bit recently bc like.....at a certain point it becomes quite clear that the vast majority of smut-writing is just imitation. like there's the sex noise verb list and all and the whole general mechanics of the sex and those things just .... replicate over and over. and the whole thing w people writing mlm vs wlw smut regardless of their own sexual orientation..... like i feel like a big part of that is just a self-perpetuating thing. like if u have not had sex and u r getting all ur (pleasure-related) sex ed from fandom (even if u do watch porn, that doesn't rlly tell u how to describe stuff? idk) regardless of What fandom , the majority is going to be mlm smut. which is itself majority imitation of other mlm smut, imitating and imitating back to whoever knows what the first smut fanfic was etc. there's just way More to mimic than there is on the women side of things. which then becomes a self-perpetuating thing, bc the mimicry continues and generates more and more. and---if there are fundamental misunderstandings of anatomy involved---those self-perpetuate as well. and maybe even exaggerate. and yeah. does this all make sense? idk i was just thinking about it. like all the stereotypes and stuff continue bc writers are getting their inspo from other writers rather than their own brains. or something. idk!!!!! it's just all... divorced from reality? bc words. or something!! i hope u get what i'm trying to say. just thoughts i've been thinking. anyway i think ur thoughts are cool. and ur writing. ok bye have a good day!!

Okay yeah this is kinda messy but hope u see this, uhh yeah I think you're right about the echo chamber effect fr about stuff. I think it's a mix of projecting too sometimes. talk more under the cut and also link to a video essay since I love video essays.

Here’s a video that sort of touches on this topic: 

“Gay fanfiction” by Sarah Z. (has CC)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H8E_C00dKwI

This video begins to talk about fetishization at the end, but also… not really. The words “gay fanfiction” is used as a catchall, when really gay fanfiction is largely mlm written by non-mlm.

Fandom is a largely women's space dominated by the female gaze in a media industry world that is dominated by men and the male gaze. I'm really glad women have this space to explore creativity and queerness, and I don't expect the female gaze to go away, but I am still ultimately bummed out I can’t read most fanfic or interact with most fandom spaces without having fetishization in my face. 

So about 80% of fandom is women, and most of those women aren't straight, but 90% of those women prefer mlm ships. Why don’t they prefer wlw ships? Well definitely part of it is the fact that queerbaiting is centered around white straight men, and then there is also the fact that women tend not to be written as well charcter wise. But the fact still remains that you get jerjean getting priority over Layla and Alvarez who are in canon just as much and are a canon wlw couple who actually interact as well as Alvarez could likely be a woc because of her Hispanic last name. Korasami doesn’t get nearly as much hype as zuko and saka, despite the fact that they are 2 fully dimensional characters who canonly kiss and hold hands, something the creators fought for and ended up having to sacrifice another reboot for. 

I do believe the fandom echo-chamber is largely responsible for… a lot of things, like you're saying. But what's interesting is that the complaints I've heard about visual porn from non mlm in the fandom space is that they can’t get off to it because its for the male gaze and misogynistic usually. But they also don't seem to notice how the mlm smut circles has the female gaze and is also… almost always mlm. If it was a pure anatomical not knowing thing, I get that, but I also think that leads to the question of “then why the male body for porn, and not your own? The one you know and are familiar with?” 

I know some people want to get outside of their own body for porn and don’t want to think of their own anatomy at all, but overall I'm still uncomfortable. If an anglo said “well I watch porn of only Mexicans so I don't self insert” I'm gonna be like … hhhh in a similar way. I understand people “like what they like” but I wish they also noticed said patterns in the first place. I understand the t4t tumblr porn circle, and how it's different from cis people who only watch trans porn. 

I actually wished that instead of fandom focusing on mlm ships where some asshole guy hits on bottom troupe charcter for top troupe character to save, was instead… a wlw character experiencing said shitty getting hit on and other wlw swooping in. what's interesting is fandom writes a lot about misogynistic experiences without often realizing it. Ive read fanfic where guys get called sluts for sleeping with people or called bitch for speaking their mind, these arent things men usually experience, but rather women. Fandom has a lot of internalized misogyny and also queerphobia imo. Women characters often get pushed to the sidelines and men become the canvas for female fans to project onto. 

There is this natural inclination to mlm. When people are talking about “gay shipping” or “gay books” or “gay feels” or even just “gay” mlm is what’s largely in mind. I honestly am kinda saddened by this because if gay fanfiction was really solely about writing more to feel represented, then you would see a lot of bi and ace and lesbian rep, but this isn't the case. Queer women are seriously underrepresented, and I want to hear their stories and read them in fanfiction as well as published. 50% of lgbt literature is mlm, and of that its largely written by women. Becky Albertalli, Rainbow Rowell, Maggie Stiefvater, are the YA big names and are all women writing mlm. Red white and royal blue is written by Casey McQuiston and Captive prince (which is not YA) is written by C. S. Pacat, who is non-binary, but is also TME and not mlm. These are all the big names in mlm lit, behind them is some gay men, but honestly their stories aren't preferred, they're not the right “flavor” for the consumers usually, who are largely women. In general YA consumers and authors are women, but I wish that they… just wrote about women too. I think there is a certain… snowball effect to the overrepresentation of mlm representing the whole LGBT community that leads to fetishization, as well as misogyny playing a factor in: less women characters being written well to write fanfic on, when they are written well they're taken less seriously or the audience struggles to relate to them, they're less marketable then men. 

Idk I never feel “seen” or “represented” by any of the books above, which don't address boyhood and manhood and queerness intersecting really, and AFTG doesn’t either. I relate to AFTG as a trauma victim who has experienced a lot of what many of the characters go through and have gone through in the EC as well as them just overall being very well written characters, but I don't relate to it as a mlm really. I've never seen like.. gay voice or being straight passing or femphobia or how boyhood can be affected from a young age by those around you sensing you're ‘other’ or if you didn't experience this you feel outside the mlm community. Let alone sub cultures like bear and leather and pup, at most you see the word “he's such a twink” in fandom which... i fr hate non mlm using that word because it's usually used to replace the f-slur essentially, used derogatorily or to call him “such a bottom” and stuff like that. It’s like a joke or an insult.

Long story short, idk mang this was a ramble and I think I'm coning down with something. I wanna see more queer women rep and women authors writing about being a queer woman too. I think it's a complex web of fetishization and a bit of forbidden love yaoi culture (or it used to be in the BOYXBOY days) as well as misogyny on an industry level, creator level, as well as reader/consumer and fandom level. I don’t think it’s inherently wrong to explore other peoples stories and what we read has to be segregated, “only mlm are allowed to read and write mlm, only wlw are allowed to read and write wlw,” but I also think author’s intent and audience and background is telling, as well as overall statistics. Like about an hour ago I was looking for cookbooks in spanish or in english, and I was looking for some mexican food cook books, but I had to look for them using words in spanish because otherwise what came up was a bunch of “fiesta party, easy as uno dos tres authentic cooking!” and I was like… hm. Since I could tell they were marketing to anglos. (also the author’s last names were like michelle smith, james cooper, and this could be for a variety of reasons, but I trust Hispanic names more tbh and deadass would look at the authors pictures and if they had other books in Spanish or what their specialties were.)

anyways. not sure how to end this. uhm if anyone has any book recs (my to read list is like 500 books tho no joke) preferably not YA white mlm written by a white lady, hopefully queer women written by queer woman, LMK, I need more wlw and queer women stories on my list. I have a decent amount but always looking for more. I kinda wanna link my goodreads or my storygraph but I also don't want to get doxxed and it has my legal name on it so.

Also, I'm dyslexic and using spell check but if there's like some wild typos my b.

[general-mahamatra]

This is very specific but do you have any headcanons about double dates between Jeanbilee and Silvercyclops? That or how do you headcanon Charles and Erik’s sexualities? I think of Erik as pan and Charles as gay.

Hehe... Oh I can do this. 

For Charles and Erik’s sexualities, I definitely agree. Charles is gay and Erik is either bi or pan (that one I’m not too solid on).

With the double date, catch me putting this in a modern setting. It’s under the line since there’s a lot

Individuals

Scott

Scott was definitely against the idea of a double date

Why? Because it’s kind of awkward to go out on a double date where the other couple... one of them is your ex

Yeah he’s still good friends with Jean! He’s just not sure how to handle going out to an event with her in a sort of romantic setting. Especially because there’s that slight problem that you KNOW he’s kinda anxious. Like what if people who knew him when he was dating Jean finds him all close and romantic with Peter?

Of course that’s not gonna happen. Man’s just anxious

But Peter managed to convince him and assure him that it would be alright

“It’s just a movie, Scotty. No one’s gonna care,” Peter had said. “Literally it’s dark and the seats are set up in pairs, you don’t need to worry.”

Scott protested immediately with, “but what if--”

“I’ll pay for the popcorn and treats. And the drinks. I’ll pay for it all for you.” 

Scott caved pretty quickly

Except he didn’t know that before the movie the group was going out to dinner because for some reason his mind completely omitted that information. By the time they got together, he remembered, but oh man. He was not prepared

Yeah he was dressed up because Peter was really insistent on him wearing something decent, but the fact they were going out to dinner skipped his mind entirely

He was antsy during the dinner at first. Really shifty-eyed and such and was overall just visibly nervous

But he cooled down fast

He had a lot of fun at the dinner, even if he was a bit awkward with Jean at first

But he loosened up. He found himself enjoying the event much more as time went on and he even managed to calm down enough to comfortably interact with Jean just like he used to

It was actually kinda refreshing

He had whole conversations with the ginger. While Jubilee and Peter were going off about their crazy ideas and plans and things that have happened to them over the past weeks, Scott and Jean were just talking about... life. Catching up on what they’ve missed since they split apart and inevitably pulled away from each other (Scott moreso than Jean)

It brought a sense of closure to Scott that he didn’t realize he needed

He found himself warming back up to interacting with Jean and was... happy with it

Peter

Oh Peter was excited for the double date

Ever since Jubilee ran up to him and proposed it to him he was completely on board. Hell, he even helped plan it out with Jean and Jubilee at times

It was actually Jean’s idea for Peter to convince Scott that things would be alright. She knew he was worried about it, even if it was all irrational. She also knew that he was their best bet on helping Scott out and getting him comfortable with the idea

So Peter did just that

He actually did a lot more than just blatantly tell Scott that he was going to pay for everything at the movies

Peter did a lot of minimal prodding. Stuff to get Scott to talk in a way that wasn’t too intrusive or anything (it’s honestly a special ability of Peter’s). It helped him understand what he was gonna have to do to help his boyfriend out

Because Scott had never been on a double date before

And Peter actually found that kinda funny

But when it came to the date itself, he was completely down for it. He wanted to do it since the moment Jubilee told him about it and he decided he was going to put about as much planning effort into it as her. After all, it’s not different from other... events they’ve planned in the past. They have a perfect system

The movie was his idea

He deemed it “necessary after eating at some dumb fancy place. Because who in their right mind is gonna go out to eat and then just head home at like, 7pm?”

(Peter was also the reason they didn’t end up going to a restaurant where you had to dress up SUPER fancy)

(Granted he wasn’t entirely successful. Jean shot him down and made him settle with having to dress up a little. She wasn’t going to drive them all to dinner if it was gonna be some fast food shit)

Honestly, him and Jubilee are on the exact same wavelength for the date

Jean

Jean was definitely the TRUE brains behind the double date

She was the one who mentioned the idea to Jubilee who then took the idea and ran with it, making it a true plan

She did it because, well, she’s always wanted to have a double date. It was only possible now that she was with Jubilee and her other friends were together

Besides, she like anyone else was aware of just how close Jubilee and Peter were. It was honestly a perfect plan

Scratch something off her bucket list while also getting the two away from their peers so everyone could actually catch a break from their high energy

Actual perfection right there

That and she could tell Scott was awkward around her, even if they’ve been broken up for almost an entire year by this point

There were a lot of times Jean tried to reconnect with him and get him to loosen up but nothing really worked until she came up with the double date

It would give her the opportunity to get her friend back while also allowing him to be in a sort of comfortable environment (she’s noticed the way he tends to cling to Peter whenever she comes around. She isn’t sure if she should be hurt by it or not but she knows he doesn’t mean ill will)

She has to admit though, Peter’s idea of a movie after was a great idea. It’s not something she would’ve put forward or even thought about

Then again... she wasn’t expecting the duo to take over the planning and make it a lot more “light” than an actual “true” date

Jean was looking to reserve them stuff out at a true fancy restaurant. Maybe get them to all dress up and put them in a romantic setting but she was quickly put in her place by Jubilee and Peter’s insistence that it’s a double date, they don’t need to be in a super romantic area

And honestly, they had a point

But she refused to let them make the event completely casual. If she was going to be involved in any planning, they were gonna go somewhere where they have to dress up at least a little

She won that argument easily

Jubilee

OH MAN 

Okay yeah Jubilee was definitely the front runner with the planning and setting everything up

Even with the double date originally being Jean’s idea, Jubilee took it upon herself to plan it all out mostly because she wanted to treat her girlfriend

(You act as thought Jubilee doesn’t know her own partner’s bucket list. Jean literally has it written out in a notebook under her pillow, Jubilee has gone through it multiple times)

She wanted it to be perfect

Which is why she went to Peter

Jean was the one who planted the idea of going on the double date with Scott and Peter but let’s be real, Jubilee would’ve chosen the boys anyways. They were the best bet

Either way, she was ecstatic

She literally has so much experience with planning from the pranks and events she’s set up with Peter, she knew exactly what she was doing when she got with him to plan everything out

Jubilee was actually the one who chose where they were going to dinner

It was a nice Hawaiian themed place. A seafood restaurant with a tropical theme and generally considered a 4 or 5 star restaurant. It was a perfect place, especially with its looser “dress code” (it was basically a sort of business casual, for lack of better terms. If she tried to describe it she would just point to Scott wearing a nice button up with no tie and Jean wearing a cute blouse and flowy pants to match)

(The really funny part is her and Jean low-key made it out to Peter like super fancy restaurants require you to wear formal clothes just so he would cave and “go somewhere less strict”)

(He never found out)

But if she was going to be honest, her favorite part of the double date was the movie afterwards

It was the newest Men in Black and she was losing her mind throughout it

Did she tune out the boys while they were nerding out quietly to her right? Yes, yes she did. She was much more focused on the humor and action and experiencing it with her girlfriend

Overall

Not gonna lie, Scott definitely clung to Peter at first

Like that much is obvious, but it really wasn’t that... obvious? It was if you looked closely at how he hovered closer to the older boy or how his head always seemed to be turned slightly towards him during conversations as if looking to him for stuff to say

Peter noticed it for sure, just as Jean did

Both of them let it happen. Because even when Scott loosened up as the night went on, he still wanted to stick close to his comfort and they didn’t want to pull him away from that

Man just doesn’t handle break ups well

Honestly though, the dinner was wonderful for the entire group. There was so much laughter and chatting and catching up, especially since they aren’t consistently hanging out together anymore

Jubilee convinced Scott to try some really spicy squid dish that he couldn’t remember the name of for the life of him and Peter just... kept ordering more chocolate milk

(They quickly learned that he forgot refills aren’t free)

(That didn’t stop him)

Outfits

Scott: Nice blue button up and black slacks. Honestly really basic typical “oh that guy looks cishet” kinda look, especially with the very plain uniform look to him

Peter: Black button up with white specks across it that look like stars and some slacks as well except his belt was a bit more... decorative than Scott’s. (It’s colorful)

Jean: A cute, loose blouse with a nice white and red floral/watercolor sort of pattern that sits nicely on her frame with some flowy pants and flats. Her hair was done into a braid

Jubilee: A nice long sleeve sweater-like yellow top and a short white skirt with a pair of flats as well. She had her hair down and man was it nice and curly

Honestly everyone was dressed so nicely, it was almost a miracle

During the movie, the couples sat together. That’s a given. But the way they interacted was definitely different from each other

Jean and Jubilee were vibing in their seats. They had chocolate and slushies and popcorn and were overall having a great time just enjoying the movie. There wasn’t too much commentary other than them laughing together or making fun of something they saw on screen

(Jean one time did yell at someone for having their phone on in the movie...she’s that person)

Jubilee was constantly touchy with Jean whenever something crazy happened or there was something intense. Hell, she ended up wrapping around Jean and crying when her favorite character died

Jean took it and honestly... it made her soft

She didn’t know it was possible to fall even further in love

Peter and Scott, though, were different. They too had all the treats and candy and such like the other couple but they were much closer than the girls. They were BASICALLY cuddling (Scott will never admit it). Like come on, you know it’s true

Scott was curled up against his boyfriend. Like head resting against Peter as the older had his arm around him. You know the drill

Again, Scott will never admit to it

But the entire time they were geeking out. Both of them grew up with sci-fi, especially MiB. And BOTH were excited for the newest movie and were having a great time pointing out the aliens and all that stuff and just overall having fun

After the date, the drive was both full of energy and calm. It was 10 by the time they were leaving the theatre and honestly... it’s an experience none of them would give up for the world

...they planned another one for the future

[lisarichardsonbylines]

How to Tell Your Husband You’re a Witch

Witches we need you. Now more than ever. In the time of COVID-19 we can find respite in place-based reverence, plant magic and the divine feminine. So writes Lisa Richardson, who came to witchiness with nothing but white hetero straight-lacedness and a crush on a yoga teacher.

Lisa Richardson | Longreads | April 2020 | 15 minutes (4,084 words)

On a Friday afternoon, pre-COVID-19, my husband dropped some ice-cubes into glasses, ready to make us screwdrivers and cheers to surviving another week of working/parenting/wondering where the hell the years were going, only, the vodka bottle was empty.

“Oh yeah,” I said, my eyes sliding sideways, trying to not cause a fuss, “I used it for medicine.” The previous week, the kitchen counter had been cluttered with a giant mason jar full of oily plant matter. “Balm of Gilead!” I explained, brightly, as he wiped away the breakfast crumbs around it.

“But what is it?”

“Cottonwood tips in oil.”

His eyes had flicked, then, over to the brand-new bottle of extra virgin olive oil that was now nearly empty, as I enumerated the medicinal benefits of this old herbal remedy (and all this from a tree in our backyard!). Twenty-four years together means I could hear the abacus in his brain clicking, as he wordlessly calculated the cost per milliliter of a gallon jar of plant matter masticating in top-shelf olive oil, against the cost per unit of a bottle of generic aspirin tables, overlaid with the probability of me losing interest in this project.

First the olive oil. Now the vodka for dozens of little jars of tinctures — garden herbs and weeds soaking in now-undrinkable booze. My midlife quest to attune more deeply to the rhythms of the natural world was starting to incur unexpected, but real, costs.

He was quiet, as he opened the fridge and pulled out a beer instead.

* * *

In my defense, I could have pointed my finger at Natalie Rousseau, a yoga teacher living in my 5,000 person village, who I’d first encountered leading a solstice yoga class billed as a way to survive the madness of the holidays (in slightly more gracious language). Thanks to her offerings of insight I did survive the commercial horror of the “festive” season, and a few months later, as the new moon entered Aries (whatever that actually means), I plonked down $200 to subscribe to her online 13 Moons course — my foray into “slowing down and being more present,” as I pitched it to my husband when he inquired about the strange entry on the credit card statement.

But I did not deflect the simmering tension between us by naming Natalie as the instigator of these “kitchen witch” experiments. Even though I am not a member of any kind of coven or cult, (I don’t think book club counts), I know deep in my bones to never throw another woman onto the fire for helping you. That has been done too many times.

But there it is. The word. Witch. The wound.

* * *

Every day, after COVID-19 entered our world, Natalie Rousseau has responded with an offering, a teaching — a meditation, an ancient mantra of protection, a yoga practice for managing anxiety, a how-to video on harvesting poplar medicine. It’s as if she’s been resourcing herself for this moment to develop the richest arsenal imaginable, to navigate, not the public health crisis, but the billion personal crises each of us is forced to confront as life as we know it slams into pandemic mode. It’s not what I thought a witch would do, if I ever thought about them at all.

Natalie doesn’t look like a witch either — not in the way I conceived it for last year’s Halloween costume, with my long black skirt, dollar-store pointy hat, and heavy black eyeliner, walking alongside my 6-year-old vampire-werewolf. Natalie is petite, just a few inches over five feet, her long blond hair still evoking the decade she spent living in a west coast surf town, her chest and lean muscled arms bright with full sleeve flowery tattoos and Mary Oliver quotes. She moves like a dancer, demonstrating yoga poses as if she’s transcending gravity. As a teacher, she speaks exactly, even in Sanskrit, and guides movement precisely, padding gently and soundlessly through the room, making an adjustment here, offering an instruction there.

So, I was surprised when she used the word “witch” to launch her new online offering, The Witches Wheel. The lure was irresistible. Natalie was claiming the word “witch” without flinching, without anger, without provocation, not as a way to reclaim feminine power and stick it to the men, warranted as that may be: It was essentially an invitation to observe the cycle of the seasons.

A threshold beckoned.

* * *

Natalie, a recent empty-nester, lives with her husband Paul and two dogs in a modest townhome, with a creek and a dozen rogue gardens installed by various residents running behind it. The garage is full of motorbikes. The porch is swept clean on the day I visit, six months into the 13 Moons program, wanting to talk with her about this radical word and why, in a world still unsure what to do with powerful women, she’s not afraid that she’s exposing herself to pitchforks and fires, haters, and trolls.

Even though I am not a member of any kind of coven or cult, (I don’t think book club counts), I know deep in my bones to never throw another woman onto the fire for helping you. That has been done too many times.

A tea blend of her own mixing — vanilla chaga chai — is brewing on the stove in an open saucepan. She tends to it, as I settle in, sneaking glimpses around the room, looking for evidence of witchcraft — pentagrams, cloaks, bottled frogs. Nothing. The space is uncluttered, a throw-rug on the armchair, a couple of stark white deer skulls are mounted, European-style, on a wall against a reclaimed barn board — definitely more Soho chic than occult-goth. Her husband returns from town, where he has picked up fresh croissants for us. He’s tall and strong, with a tightly cropped red beard — he looks like a guy you’d run into at the gym, at the surf break, at the hardware store.

“So, what’s it like living with a witch?” I ask him as Natalie attends to our tea, a light-hearted question sprouting out of the great compost of fears I am thinking. Is it impossibly hard to be with a woman who comfortably claims her own power, magic, cycles, voice? What kind of a man can love and honor a witch? And lurking deep beneath it all: Will my husband be one of them?

Paul rolls his eyes, overly-dramatically, pointing up to the light fixture in the kitchen — light bulbs housed in mason jars of all sizes, evoking summer cabins and fireflies and Kinfolk magazine dinner party lanterns. “I made this for her because everything ends up in jars. Have you seen inside these cupboards?” He walks around the house, in faux-exasperation, opening doors to reveal neat stacks of jars, full of dried petals, leaves, syrups, tonics, salves, salts. “And there’s more upstairs!” If it hadn’t been for the dinner party they’d hosted the previous night, most of their apartment’s horizontal surfaces would be covered in jars, he tells me, and the front porch would have housed a dead raven and a dead Cooper’s hawk.

“She’s always sending me out in search of dead things,” he jokes. He picks up roadkill in case she can salvage feathers or skulls.

“When he first met me, I was already a skull collector, and now he goes and finds them for me and brings them back,” says Natalie. “He’s gotten really good at living with witchy stuff.”

The two of them are remarkably self-sufficient — an animal lover (“he loves animals more than people”), Paul realized veganism left him tired and undernourished, so took up hunting to procure his own meat humanely; one of the deer skulls mounted on the wall was harvested this fall, its meat now fills their freezer. They grow a garden, wildcraft, eat well. There is an ease between them — a tidal push and pull as they navigate their modest shared space and the morning routine, without evidence of fake niceness, of power trips or struggles.

Witchcraft, in Natalie Rousseau’s mind, is too non-dogmatic and non-hierarchical to submit to a single all-encompassing definition. “As a practice, it’s so highly individual,” she says, “but across the board, it is very place-based, land-based and body-based. For me, it’s about cultivating a relationship with your own body, your own mind, your emotions, and subtle sensing faculties. It’s learning how to trust your intuition. It’s about reclaiming your own instincts, but also being able to feel: this is what stress feels like in my body, this is what relaxation feels like, this is what it feels like to say yes to something out of a sense of obligation or pressure, this is what it feels like to have a boundary. This is what it feels like when I’m safe. These cues come to us from our bodies. It has to be, for it to work well, otherwise, you’re always reaching outside yourself for another authority.”

This is what she wants to help women, particularly, to reclaim: their sense that they are the first authority on themselves, that they can trust their bodies’ wisdom.

“The biggest thing I want to share with people,” says Natalie of her teaching and online courses, “is how to trust themselves. Everyone can very easily make the medicines that their household would need for common household complaints — colds and flus and chest colds and menstrual cramps — so many basic things that anyone can make very simply, quite affordably. I’m not anti-pharmaceutical. There are many medications people have to take daily to live. And if I have a serious infection, I’m going to take antibiotics; if I am seriously ill, I am going to go to the doctor; if I have any kind of trauma, I’m going to be so grateful for that form of medicine. But I believe the role kitchen medicine has is in the maintenance and prevention of illness.”

One of her biggest laments, though, as she makes videos and handouts and shares them with her online community, is that even people who have paid to do her course don’t feel that they have the time to take it into their kitchens. “Making a tincture is literally pouring vodka over plant materials and leaving it on your counter for four weeks!” she says. But it is easier for most people to just buy one online and have it delivered to their doorstep. “I am saddened by how easily women give their power over. This is the biggest thing I’ve noticed as a teacher in the past couple of years — how quickly women will say, ‘but how do you do this? I don’t know how to do this! I’m afraid to try this because I might not be good at it, I might be doing it wrong. I’m an imposter.’ I really struggle with this. Where is it coming from?”

But she knows. We have relinquished our power, over a thousand years or more, of wounding, of witch-burnings, of patriarchy either convincing us we have none or forcibly stripping it away, (hello Harvey Weinstein), until all we feel empowered to do, now, in 2020, is consume. And we’ve been doing that with all our might.

We override the listening, we ignore the nudges, we push through, like good soldiers. “Most people are running so hard,” observes Natalie. “Our culture is so focussed on productivity. We are so overly heroic — it’s all or nothing. I can’t do something unless I’m an expert. I don’t want to try. But this is a craft. It’s a path of education.”

Natalie’s invitation is gentle, and she’s crafted her online course to serve that: Start with one plant and learn its taste, its smell. Spend five minutes a day on meditation or in conscious ritual and begin to notice what’s going on in your nervous system, in your mind, in your body.

“When he first met me, I was already a skull collector, and now he goes and finds them for me and brings them back,” says Natalie. “He’s gotten really good at living with witchy stuff.”

Don’t get so distracted by the word witch, that you fail to notice that it is connected to craft. Witchcraft, for Natalie, is a path of learning “how to trust and problem solve, from within, knowing that we are in a system of power that, for better, for worse, will strip us of any ability to trust ourselves and to always feel empty so we have to keep buying more stuff.”

When she says this, a deep thrill of recognition hums in me, accompanied by a shiver of fear. Those are revolutionary things to say out loud, to cast into the open air. I recognize it viscerally as the kind of talk that gets people in trouble.

* * *

Last summer, before I met Natalie, I had stepped from my backyard patio stones onto freshly cut grass and spied the sinuous form of a wandering garter snake. I leaned in quickly, excitedly, about to call my 6-year-old over to glimpse the garden visitor before it shimmied away. But it was eerily still. Ugly slash wounds marked its body. It was dead. Innocent victim to the ride-on lawnmower. Obliterated by our oblivion.

“Oh no,” I muttered. “I’m so sorry!”

I had already begun to wake up to the natural world, it’s rhythms, it’s offerings of medicine, it’s otherness, but it had come with a shadow side, a growing despair at what we were doing to the world. Even without a malicious intention, I was causing death and destruction — just mowing the lawn, drinking my coffee, wiping my ass: My actions, all our human activity, had compounding impacts that were destroying the snakes, the ocean, the atmosphere, the forests, the icecaps — beyond repair.

I wanted my garden to be a habitat. I wanted the bees to waggle-dance directions to my sunflowers to their hive-mates, I wanted the wandering garter snakes to nest in their hibernacula through the winter and bask in the long grass in the summer, I wanted to lie on my back and watch butterflies dance through the flowers and the hummingbirds zoom in and out, I wanted to inhabit innocence again.

I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry. My penitence froze me in place, scared to make a move for fear of ruining something else. Then, regret overriding my squeamishness, I fetched the flat-bladed shovel and edged it under the dead snake. I carried her body over to the vegetable patch, and in a space between the beds, where the mower never goes, I laid her down. I picked marigolds and calendula from around the garden, where they’d been planted to keep the snails away, and lay the bright orange blossoms in a circle around her.

Grandmother snake, I whispered, hoping that some force that exists beyond the definitively dead snake at my feet, might spread the word among the entire species, “I’m sorry. We didn’t mean it. I will try to be more careful.”

It was a made-up ritual, the kind that a kid might perform deep in her dream world at the bottom of the garden, and it made my 44 year-old-self feel a little bit better. At least I’d made a gesture of repair, had expressed my desire to return into balance with the living world around me. If it had any effect, I’d never know. I went back inside, said nothing.

A few days later, out in the garden, my husband tripped over the skeleton of a decomposing snake, ringed by wilted flowers, half consumed by ants.

“That was spooky,” he confronted me. “What’s going on? Are you some kind of witch?”

* * *

* * *

Natalie has always been comfortable with the word. Now she’s having fun inviting people to consider the archetype, circle it, unpack it, stumble upon some kind of recognition: Wait a second! Maybe I am a witch!

“It’s cool how people in the western world can take a description that has been used mostly as a slur, and turn it around to use as something empowering,” she says.

For thousands of years, witch was a term used to incite violence against women. By the most conservative estimates, half a million people, mostly women, were executed in the European witch craze between 1300 and 1650. Accusations of witchcraft were used against women, says Rousseau, “in ways that were extremely dangerous and terrifying. It was really about getting power from them, and getting land back. So, to use a word like that in an empowered way, even today, you have to know you’re safe to do it. And it’s important to realize that in many places in the world, it’s still not safe for women to say that. But if we can, in safe places, take that word and turn it around, that, to me, is extremely powerful.”

I wanted the bees to waggle-dance directions to my sunflowers to their hive-mates, I wanted the wandering garter snakes to nest in their hibernacula through the winter and bask in the long grass in the summer, I wanted to lie on my back and watch butterflies dance through the flowers and the hummingbirds zoom in and out, I wanted to inhabit innocence again.

Natalie herself embodies empowerment. Not in the traditional way I have come to recognize power — as someone standing over, dominating someone else, her source of power comes from within.

She doesn’t need to take any from her partner.

“Do you find this relationship at all emasculating?” I joke to Natalie’s husband.

“I don’t. Not at all. No,” he replies.

“We’ve always given each other space to be ourselves.”

But that’s not always a guarantee of safety.

If it is dangerous to be an empowered woman in the world, then it’s dangerous, too, for the men who love them.

Lyla June Johnston is an author and activist of Diné and European heritage. Her inquiry into her disowned European heritage led to a realization: The millions of women burned alive, drowned alive, dismembered alive, beaten, raped and otherwise tortured as so-called, “witches,” were not witches at all. They were the medicine people of old Europe. Her lens, as a contemporary indigenous woman, and as a survivor of sexual violence, helped her identify that those were the women who understood the herbal medicines, the ones who prayed with stones, the ones who passed on sacred chants. And the all-out warfare of the witch burnings didn’t just harm the women. It had a profound effect on the men who loved them, their husbands, sons, brothers. She recognizes the echo of this in the story of her own time, of her own people. “Nothing makes a man go mad like watching the women of his family get burned alive. If the men respond to this hatred with hatred, the hatred is passed on. And who can blame them? While peace and love are the correct response to hatred, it is not an easy response by any means.”

How many men have kept their women down, tried to keep them at home, have become the handcuffs that the women fought against because they were answering to their own unarticulated primal instinct to keep them safe?

Natalie Rousseau speculates, “I am sure historically you had lots of husbands telling their wives to tone it down, not because they didn’t respect their power, but because they were genuinely afraid. I’d apply that to any women described as uppity — getting involved politically, or getting involved in local stuff that’s happening, fighting for the environment: Stop getting noticed so much. This could be dangerous.”

Some dangers are too great to be able to protect each other from. And so we turn the fight on each other — little domestic power-trips that distract us from the fact that we’ve relinquished all our power any way to the Great Machine.

* * *

My tentative inquiries into witchcraft, becoming fluent in my own moods and emotions, and paying attention to the seasons, barely prepared me for the abrupt slow-the-fuck-down order that came when COVID-19 landed in British Columbia, in my village, as school broke for spring break. The emergency handbrake was pulled. Everything came to a squealing stop — all my plans, canceled; all the stores, closing; the whole damn world, under house arrest and in a panic. The whiplash from the stunning speed of that shift has left my whole being hypersensitive to any sudden movement, to being jerked around. But the first things I have staked my trust in, in that space of uncertainty, were Natalie’s teachings: First, trust your body. Pause. Listen.

In self-imposed isolation with my husband and just-turned-7-year-old, I dance with anxiety and curiosity and disconnection and too-much-information. The well-trodden pathways we have all been racing along, flexing our power and exercising our entitlements as consumers, are suddenly bordered up with emergency tape. This invitation that Natalie has been dripping out, month after month, takes root. There is far more potency available to us, than shopping, driving, holidaying, consuming, endlessly moving around the planet.

There is potency in all the feelings that have been showing up at my door. Oh, good morning frustration. Ah grief, yes, I suppose you’d like a cup of tea. Hello there, existential terror, I wondered when you’d pop by. There is potency in sitting with my back against a huge cedar tree and listening, in slowing down so much that I can give my 7-year-old my full attention. There is potency even in my words, when I soothe him down from a tantrum by saying, “you know, this is a really hard time for everyone in the whole world right now because no one knows what’s going to happen and no one can play with their friends. I’m really proud of you.” And I can feel his body relax into this space of being acknowledged in his struggles and his efforts.

I don’t know if there are any medicinal properties in the tincture of St John’s Wort and valerian that I drop into water and hand my husband, to gentle his nervous system. Or in the jar of immune-boosting oxymel, that I brewed up with grated ginger and turmeric and orange peel, and shake every day. But even if it’s a placebo, there’s a relief for me in feeling I can do something, can offer my people some kind of healing intention in a little glass, that I can acknowledge that this is hard for my husband too, and that acknowledgment isn’t a concession that takes away from my own sense of struggle.

For decades, we’ve bought into the illusion that our power is as consumers. Now that stores are closing and the shelves are emptying and we have to stay home and not immediately indulge every whim that arises, we all feel powerless. But that was never our truest source of power. There’s another source that we can all plug back into, our deep relationship and interbeing with the life force. Maybe, this is our threshold moment. Maybe, this is a chance to craft a few little spells, to speak the words of the world we long to inhabit — a place where the currency of kindness and wonder flow, where humans return to a deep memory of belonging among the plants and creatures, and to brew up a cup of tea, light a candle, and dream it into existence. Maybe it’s an invitation to say, “I’m sorry, we didn’t mean to, I will try and be more careful,” and to build a little altar, even if you feel kind of cray cray doing it. Let your nervous system settle as you invent some small ritual, (just ask your inner 5-year-old for guidance, she probably remembers exactly what to do), and make a gesture of repair.

“I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have on my Apocalypse team,” I tell my husband, the night the global virus countertops 400,000. He’s been chopping wood, auditing the pantry, getting our kid across the finish line of the LEGO project that has absorbed him for four days. My husband was a farm kid. He’s always been practical, my polar opposite. Even when we have battled each other, (am I giving up too much of my power to him? If I acknowledge his pain and his needs, will that cancel mine out?) I’ve always known he would do anything to keep me safe. “Not that I can request an upgrade now,” I joke. “But I bet you’re glad to be stuck with me. One always wants a daydreamer at your side in a pinch.”

“Oh yeah,” he spoofs me: “’ The stock market is collapsing, let me just go check my Tarot cards.’”

We laugh. And hold each other. We can’t buy our way out of this. None of us. Our entire species, our global community, is being vividly reminded that we are all in this together, inextricably connected, epidemiologically entwined, in our vulnerability and our sweet potential. We didn’t need Amazon and airlines and online shopping to know what the witches have been telling us all this time. All the power we need is right here — between us, around us, within us. We just have to remember it.

* * *

Lisa Richarson

is a senior contributor to Coast Mountain Culture magazine and a columnist for Pique newsmagazine and edits the hyperlocal websites,

TheWellnessAlmanac.com

and

TracedElements.com.

She’s deep into a decade-long mission to slow the fuck down, but still optimize life for happiness and productivity. Born and raised in Australia, she has lived as a guest on the unceded territory of the Líl̓wat Nation since a ski vacation went rogue 20-odd years ago.

Editor: Carolyn Wells

Posted by

Lisa Richardson

on

April 8, 2020

https://longreads.com/2020/04/08/how-to-tell-your-husband-youre-a-witch/

[dottiechan]

Spare bunk

Pairing: Captain Rex x reader

Word count: 2008

Warnings: TCW S7 spoilers below cut

Summary: After discovering a strange signal at the cyber station on Anaxes, Captain Rex calls an old ally for help.

Having just arrived back to Fort Anaxes from the Separatist cyber station, Rex feels drained. Drained might actually be a poor description of what he is going through – being overwhelmed by all his newfound feelings might be a better way to capture his inner sufferings. Sufferings he cannot share with anyone truly. No one who would understand, no one who would fully believe him.

Because he knows Echo is alive, damn all who think otherwise.

Tup, Dogma, Hardcase and Fives are all gone – no more than distant memories and smiling faces on holo images tucked away carefully in crates of 501st military gear and equipment. Cody is injured, moaning incoherently in his sleep while his face is scrunched up in pain despite all the kolto circulating in his bloodstream, with Jesse and Kix tending to him, watching over him.

There’s General Skywalker, of course, but one need not be Force sensitive to feel he’s reluctant, filled to the brim with disbelief and concerns to his own. And the Bad Batch may have proven themselves as allies and warriors, but none of them knew Echo. None of them would share his pain, feel his grief, and support his blind hope.

There is one another, his mind reminds Rex as he sits alone in his barracks, the white-blue shells of his armour lying discarded on the floor more carelessly than how he usually leaves them, knees hugged tightly to his chest. Another who’s survived the Citadel, another who was broken by the loss of Echo, so broken she walked straight out the Jedi Order, maybe even the Republic. Another who could potentially help, potentially understand. Also across the Galaxy, probably, but that is beside the point. Rex is aching to hear her voice, feel her compassion, feel like something, anything that isn’t just plain miserable. Anyone who says clones are engineered to not be afraid, to focus only on duty, can go straight to hell according to the Captain.

Rex moves slowly, not trusting his limbs as he unravels himself, plants his feet firmly on the ground as if he didn’t trust his own body. He pushes aside the pieces of his chestplate to fish out the utility belt underneath. There’s an encryption only he and her know, the one he constantly aches to use and yet never once dared to actually use to make a call. Now there is no hesitation in his fingers as he keys it into his holoprojector and waits for you to answer on the other end.

...

Sskoora growls, but you know him well enough to decipher the meaning behind the Trandoshan’s hisses – the one he emitted just now is the equivalent of a sigh, and you know you’ve won when the hunter brushes past you to enter the cockpit of your ship.

“Scorekeeper won’t accept droids as Jagannath points. A waste of time; a hunt not worthy of our time and our talents.”

But your old friend is already entering the coordinates of Fort Anaxes into the navicomputer and you can’t help but smile softly. He isn’t like most Trandoshans. He is a seasoned warrior, but he has honour, and the friendship you established over the last year after surviving the harsh sands of Tatooine together is one you will cherish until you die. Your attachment to Sskoora is yet another reminder why you kept failing as a Jedi. And another is waiting for you at the end of your destination.

“I owe you one, old friend.”

“You owe me a hunt,” he corrects you calmly, his red scaled face a mask of perfect tranquillity.

“Find the burliest rancor by the time we’ve rescued my friend, Sskoora.”

The Trandoshan wants to say he knows it’s about more than just Echo, more than just a friend lost and found again. He knows you want to be reunited with your mate, but he keeps his mouth shut. You’re still young in his eyes, and he will respect the rashness of youth just like the wisdom of old age.

“The burliest I will, little hunter.”

...

When a Trandoshan appears on the ramp of the ship that just landed in Fort Anaxes, all the perimeter guards are on alert, guns aimed and ready to fire. Until a Jedi appears behind, waving her arms to show their harmlessness. It takes General Skywalker to break the state of emergency, but the great hunter seems to be regarded with distrust even afterwards. Anakin is upset when he finds out why you’re here, but he cannot truly be mad. He stalks off in the night after showing you the direction in which Rex’s barracks are. You bring back too many painful memories – the Citadel, the way you got out of the Order to live your life, the same way Ahsoka did. You don’t blame him for not wanting to speak to you more. So you send Sskoora back to the ship and ask him to prepare for a fight, pacifying him enough to know his preparations for the hunt will quell any desire in him to cause trouble. And then you take a deep breath and go, trying not to reach out with the Force so eagerly to where you suspect Rex to be. The man you so innocently loved as a Jedi, and then agreed to let go for the sake of the Republic.

You’re not a Jedi anymore. And though you wish nothing more than to throw your arms around him like he used to allow you, what you truly wish is to make him happy, to console him, to trust him when no one else does. You tell your little heart beating so fast that the man asked for your help only to bring Echo back, not for any other reason, and the sour lie helps you restrain your emotions as you enter the dark building.

“I got your message. Rex?”

You can sense him – his anguish and thoughtfulness draws your focus immediately, but you cannot see him until he moves. He’s partly in his blacks, the circular emblem of the Republic visible on his chest. His kama and boots are on, however, and you’ve caught him in the act of fastening his belt around his hips.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come, if I’m honest.”

“Oh... I can wait outside, if you’d like.”

“With our shared history?” Rex snorts, shaking his head. “You’ve seen more while you were still a Jedi.”

“A fair point,” you admit, usurping a bed and perching on top of it cross-legged. “Why weren’t you sure I’d come?”

“That message encryption we cooked up was during... well, you know,” he sighs, sitting across from you as he fidgets with his bracers.

“Yeah. I know,” you breathe, voice quiet and strained.

It was during the prime of your love, before you both agreed to put an end to it for the greater good. Not long after, the mission to the Citadel came, and all your hopes of ever loving him again where shattered by the most painful decision you’ve ever had to make. Echo was a friend, a member of your weird little family, and you realised you were tired of losing them all one by one under your command, as you led them to countless battles knowing full well many of them would die. Echo’s death was the last straw, the awakening you needed to stop being a hypocrite by enslaving an army of clones and spouting wisdom about the wrongness of oppressing the weak.

You never lost hope and you never stopped helping wherever you could, wherever the Republic would still let you, but you mostly did it for the same reason you didn’t delete the encryption from your datapad all this time – Rex. It is well beyond your capabilities to say no to the man, to do anything that would harm him, anything that would go against his beliefs. Even if those beliefs in the GAR and the Senate had shaky underpinnings at best these days.

“I haven’t seen you since you left,” he says suddenly, eyes not rising to meet yours, but voice so full of suppressed yearning that it makes your head spin.

“I hope you understand why it had to happen this way, Rex...”

“You never told me. So no, I don’t really. But you’re not a Separatist, so I wouldn’t mind hearing you out.”

“I left because of you.”

“Me?” he asks, looking up with a face full of shock that makes the corners of your lips lift into a small smile that disappears quickly from your face. Rex’s eyes chase after it, wishing it lasted more than that split second.

“In a way, yes. I refused to be part of an Order that would willingly enslave you and your brothers, forcing you to fight in a war you have nothing to do with. And I don’t see a way winning would make your situation any better. You’re men, and yet you’re treated as property. So much for the Jedi values.”

“It’s the Senate, not the Jedi,” Rex argues back meekly, knowing your words to hold more truth than he’d like to admit.

“Well, now I’m not bound to either. Speaking of being bound, I have a spare bunk on the ship... Sskoora takes up two, but the top bunk is all free,” you joke, trying to lighten both your moods momentarily. It works for a little while as Rex snorts, shaking his head a little as he concentrates on slipping his gloves back on.

“Sharing sleeping quarters with a Trandoshan sounds fun, but I might just pass on that.”

“You could share mine. Captain’s quarters are quite spacious, you know. More comfortable, less... Trandoshan, I suppose.”

“Now that is a tempting offer. Think you could extend it to the end of the war?”

“Let’s just extend it until we find Echo now,” you sigh, both your moods souring considerably as you think of your friend. “You really think he’s out there?”

“It was his voice. I know it. It couldn’t have been anything else.”

You slowly stand and sit next to him, casually letting your elbows touch. When Rex doesn’t pull back, you let your shoulder lean against his, a small encouraging smile gracing your lips as you lean closer. “I believe you. We’ll find him tomorrow. I’ll help. Even if the Republic does not want me to. You just send me the coordinates, and I and Sskoora will be there on Skako Minor to back you up.”

Rex, struggling with his tears at the prospect of seeing Echo again, and moved by your devotion to him, stares at his fingers and nods. “Thank you. For believing in me.”

“I never stopped doing that, and I never will. Oh come here, you,” you sigh, drawing him in for a hug which he gratefully accepts. Despite all the heartache, the war, the constant terror the Galaxy lives in, you find peace in Rex’s arms, and he in yours. It’s both extraordinary and just so natural at the same time, your minds joined in a synchrony you’ve terribly missed. Even if he cannot feel it through the Force, there’s a bond that intertwines your fates so much that there is no escaping one another.

“There was a time I would have scolded you for even suggesting something like that, you know. About the spare bunk thing. But now all I’m saying – no, all I’m asking – is that you hold onto that question until we find Echo and win this war. And then I’ll say yes, if you still want me. Stars know I’m more than ready for that.”

You nod against his shoulder, letting your heart rejoice at the notion that the man you used to love, the man you still do, has grown so much in your absence. Maybe your separation was not for good, but only a temporary setback, a lesson for you to learn that there is no life without one another.

“I’ll be waiting patiently until then. Like I have been all this time.”

[tarithenurse]

Nightingale - 14

Pairing: Hatake Kakashi &/x Fem!OC Contents: References to fighting, killing, non-con, and general trauma. Nothing graphic. A/N: Well...it’s gonna get dark for a while but at least it’s a longer than usual chapter. As usual, ASK or REBLOG for tag!

Ch. 14

For once, Kakashi is at a loss on how to explain all of this to the Hokage but for the moment, the elderly man merely nods to Anko who leaves again and then he goes to sit down, facing the bound woman. He may look old with wrinkled skin and liver spots, white hair, and a gait that only hints as the strength he still possesses...but the eyes are clear and observant as they study Mei.

"You must truly be dangerous, miss," he concludes, "if Kakashi has decided to incapacitate you like this."

There's a question hidden in there, Kakashi knows, and he recognizes the slight tug of a smile on the girl's lips that proves she hears it too. "It was not my idea, to be honest." Now the questions aren't even given sound. "This is -... Certain -..." pausing again, he feels the pressure to formulate a coherent sentence. "The proper explanation is a bit convoluted but the gist of it is that M-this woman only is willing to reveal her identity under these conditions. I do not, at the present, have any reasons to suspect that she is or has been intending any harm."

Somewhere under the wide rim of the hat, the Hokage lifts an eyebrow in surprise. "You know each other?"

"...partially..."

More brows arch at the unsatisfying answer, forcing Kakashi to begin his version of the events preceding this odd presentation. He has to start over early on to accommodate the arrival of the two elders, Anko, and a few other jōnins (including some of his former ANBU colleagues) but at least no one interrupts or asks questions until he has finished and even then it's clear they are deferring to the Hokage to take the lead.

"Your name is Mei?"

"No, Hokage-sama." Knew it. "My name's Minami Uguisu...although, I've not been allowed to use my family's name for many years."

The sadness the white-haired jōnin has noticed before is present again even if she bows her head to hide most behind a waterfall of blue hair. He hates it. Hates that he's standing with a rope tied around her neck while she's passively kneeling. He has to suppress the urge to crouch next to the mysterious woman and protect her from whatever is haunting her...but he has already broken protocol by refraining from reporting it the moment he first realized something was going on.

"Not permitted...by whom?"

There's a breathless moment of anticipation in the room before she returns the Hokage's gaze calmly. "Orochimaru."

Yeah, I'm in trouble. Around them, people have drawn weapons and switched into battle stances as if the bound woman suddenly could break free of the bonds – the way she’s tied, she can’t use her hands to sign nor does she have wriggle room to get to her feet – but every ninja await the orders of the Hokage who hasn’t moved at all.

“You haven’t come here on his orders...?” the old man wonders rhetorically. “Perhaps this will all make more sense if you start at the beginning, Minami Uguisu.”

Any shinobi in the village is willing to lay down their lives if the Hokage sees it necessary to protect their home and the civilian citizens. This time, they only slowly disarm and sit in a circle around the stranger, and Kakashi who still is holding on to the noose.

“Mei...Uguisu...?” He knew she was hiding something but nothing has prepared him for this.

She doesn’t turn her face to look at him. “I grew up in a tiny village...a cluster of homes, really, at the end of a valley to the north somewhere. A handful or two of smaller families who would help each other out to the point where we were more or less self-providing. Some of the men worked further up the valley at the quarry, but in our end...it was quiet. I knew nothing but peace until I was...12...I think.” Uguisu’s voice is steady, void of intonations just like her body is unnaturally still. “I remember waking up in the night and the light coming from outside was red from fire -” she swallows -“the smoke itched my nose. The screams...the screams cutting off quicker than they were supposed to, and I rushed to find my parents and my mother...she grabbed me, dragged me to the kitchen where she shoved me into a cabinet and told me to stay hidden no matter what.”

Kakashi can feel his breath shortening at the anticipation of the horrors to come because what else could possibly await? He hates himself for holding the rope tied around this blue-haired girl’s throat even if he now understands why she had insisted he would find them necessary once she explained. Orochimaru...she joined him?

“I tried to block out the sound of my father yelling and my mother’s cry. Hands covering my ears, head between my knees. I had just started over again, whispering the lullaby my mother always sang, when I was found.” A shudder ripples through ex-Mei. “He was...kind. Caring. The man with the pale face explained...he and his people had chased away the bad guys and I was safe again. He’d take care of me.” Bitterness laces each word, encouraging Kakashi to cling to the hope that maybe his gut feeling hasn’t failed him. “Orochimaru. He took me away, promising that someone stayed behind to tend to the injured and bury the dead...and I believed him. All he wanted at first was for me to sing sometimes. We rarely stayed at the same place to begin with,” a dry laugh escapes her, “well, he would often not even be there at all...however when he was, he would spend time training me. Orochimaru Sensei...he even helped me develop my jutsu – a task that grew easier when we eventually settled down and the ranks of followers started to grow.”

Looking to the Hokage, there’s nothing Kakashi can see that betrays the leader’s thoughts. Does he already know? For his own sake, though, the jōnin needs a bit more information that just that.

“How old were you then?” he demands.

“I’m not certain but around 16.”

Maybe ten years ago. Relapsing into silence, the room awaits the continuation of the story.

“Eventually, my protector and teacher didn’t leave the new home as often. He would spar with me or have me train with other talented ninjas. Mostly, though...he kept me somewhat isolated. Not as if I was a prisoner, but rather...a prized possession. Someone or something important. Orochimaru had explained long ago that there was a hidden war brewing – one of the pieces of evidence was the attack on my childhood home – and so I was not surprised that he wanted to keep me safe from both physical danger as well as the tactical meetings. Still...sometimes he needed my kekkei genkai to get the truth from prisoners of war or to ensure the full co-operation of someone.”

“He was not capable of that himself?” the Hokage interrupts for the first time.

The slightest of shrugs unsettles the waterfall of hair. “Not the way I could. Any prisoner would wish to obey my demands as soon as I spoke to them.”

The noose! The rope prickles under Kakashi’s fingertips. If at any point she tries to do that... All it would take would be a sharp tug and no air would escape her lungs. Uguisu has, the jōnin realizes, truly given herself over to the mercy of Konohagakure by preparing the exploitation of her weaknesses. Glancing to his friends, he can see they have reached the same conclusion although he has no doubt they are considering it a bluff meant to lower their guards. This kekkei...is she using it? Unsure how it would work, Kakashi considers repelling it but sees others are already trying with no other result than confused glances towards the bound woman.

“One day, I overheard a conversation not meant for my ears...” Uguisu pauses to release the clench of her jaw. “Some of the men who had been with Orochi’ since before he found me were drinking and talking, boasting of past victories, bragging about people they had killed. In summary...that included the people in my home village. All of them.” This time, the careful inhalations and exhalations aren’t enough to stop the bound woman from clenching every muscle. “There had only been one force...Orochimaru had come, ordered the slaughter, and only demanded for me to survive. I didn’t want to believe what I heard...I tried to push it away even if later events suddenly made sense and that evening, at dinner, he must have sensed I was upset so he asked what bothered me...”

“You told him,” Anko guesses. Her eyes are big, betraying the ghosts haunting her own past.

“Yes. And he didn’t deny it.” For a moment, the girl leans her head back as if a weight has fallen from her and she finally can stretch. “Even told me it was because he’d heard of me and my skill...you don’t get to be the one negotiating at the bigger town’s market at a young age without rumours spreading.” Uguisu laughs dryly at the memory.

Sighing deeply, the Hokage asks that water is brought to the prisoner before returning his attention to her. “Intending to use you jutsu to establish his power and force his will upon anyone refusing to accept him as their leader.” He receives a nod. “If he had treated you as the prisoner you were, then he might not have ensured your co-operation...however, if he could form a bond with you, you would feel indebted to help him...and maybe even be his most devoted follower.”

“It might have worked if he had gotten to me at a younger age,” she agrees, “if I couldn’t remember much of my past. Instead, everything he had build crumbled at the revelation and I tried to leave.”

Anko growls. “You can’t make me believe he let you.”

“Of course not. I tried to fight my way out, unsuccessfully, while he idly toyed with me. Amused by my tries because I still had much to learn. He stopped playing when I tried to use my kekkei genkai...”

Years have passed since, but Kakashi can see the effect it has on Uguisu still: head low, body tensed in a futile attempt to become smaller than she is. The ropes strain around her limbs and prevent her from curling up with the knees to the chest, and he knows it must be painful but releasing her at this point in time is not an option. Instead, he has to watch in silence while she regains control of her breathing.

“He...he always experimented,” she resumes, “he had found a way to resist my voice so I couldn’t stop him when rage overtook him and he attacked. He...” her voice croaks, but she pushes on, “he sou-ought to break me. To -...he was vicious! Wanted -... Relentless, try-trying to destroy my...my...everything. Soul. M-mind. Body. And he bit me...”

The chill rolling down Kakashi’s spine settles in his guts as a roiling urge to vomit. A flashing memory of this girl sitting on his bed, hugging his pillow, smiling...until he joked that he wouldn’t bite. That’s why you ran. Glancing at Anko, he sees a similar, pained realization: Orochimaru’s bite leaves a Curse Mark.

“His...taint...” Uguisu’s voice is a broken whisper, “everywhere. He -...it -...what he did...” she has to pause to let out a quaking whimper, “the pain was o-one thing but he...” Everyone can hear the gulp of the dry swallow. “It took weeks to recover. Often he’d...refresh the wounds. But he was pleased because I did not fight anymore. He’d make me use my skill on larger groups of people and it would trigger...it’s like he’d be in my mind and body all over and it would burn.”

The silence is deafening. Listening to the foreigner’s tale, no one doubts a word she’s saying and many have lost the stoic faces of elite ninjas. Even the Hokage is averting his gaze, face hidden in the shadow of the hat.

“Hrm...” the old man clears his throat. “Perhaps we should continue this at a la-”

“No.” Finally lifting her face, Uguisu stares at him. “There’s not much left, Hokage-sama, allow me to finish.”

He nods slowly. However, as he returns to the passive position of someone who listens, he catches Kakashi’s eyes and within the gaze lies an unspoken message for the jōnin to decipher. One of pity for the girl, of a demand matching the instinctive urge the man who brought the stranger to this room already feels. I understand, the answering nod promises, her scars are deeper than even the Mark. Bile threatens to rise in his throat. Before him, kneeling on the floor, is a woman who has decided to trust in him and Konohagakure despite betrayal, violence, mind games, and rape.

“I began to test my limits despite the circumstances. I waited...played the role of the defeated.” The smile on Uguisu’s lips doesn’t reach her eyes. “Then finally he left on some mission and I grabbed my chance. I managed to get away and although I ran blindly at first, something eventually carried me to a valley I recognized and the ruins of my old home. No one had been buried...l-later, as I knelt by their graves, I swore an oath to oppose Orochimaru with all that I am. I remembered hearing the name of this place as the subject of his hate and my goal became clear.”

The white-haired jōnin is impressed by the woman’s tenacity to reach the end of the tale in her current condition: shaking, ropes digging into her flesh, tears dripping onto the floor and her lap. Somehow, though, she still manages to make her raw voice heard in the entire room.

[witchesoz]

What we know of Oz: Book 1, Good Ol’ South

We did the East, we did the West, as well as bits of the North… Next direction is of course the South! And I will begin immediately with its Witch, for once. # Glinda. The Witch of the South, or the Good Witch of the South. 

The heroes decide to go see her after the Wizard fails to carry away Dorothy with him. Even though at first they don’t think about her – for Dorothy it is understandable given that she only heard her name mentioned briefly at the beginning of her adventure. The Scarecrow can’t possibly know her. As for the Lion and the Tin Woodman, it is unknown why they don’t think of her… the Tin Woodman in particular knows very well about the Wicked Witch of the West, and that since the beginning of the adventure. She is probably not the most well-known public figure in Oz at the time… Anyway, it is the soldier with a green beard in the Emerald City that informs them of her existence. He mentions that she can help because she is “the most powerful of all Witches”. He also mentions that she rules over the Quadlings (clearly, she is the queen of the South) and that she lives in a castle built at the edge of the desert (which leads him to assume that she may know a way to cross it). And when asked if Glinda is good, interestingly the soldier doesn’t answer right away, he merely says that the Quadlings “think” she is good, and that she is kind to everyone. So he doesn’t say that she is a Good witch, but that she apparently looks like one (even though we know that she is a Good Witch thanks to the Witch of the North description of her). He also adds that Glinda is a beautiful woman that looks young, but in reality is old if not ancient, and that she merely knows how to “keep young despite the many years she has lived”. Once they arrive in the Quadling Country, our heroes go to the castle of Glinda, located at the most southern part of the country. Her castle is said to be very beautiful, and guarded by “three young girls in handsome red uniforms trimmed with gold braids”. Glinda herself is found in a big throne room, sitting on a throne of rubies. She is described, as said previously, “both beautiful and young”. Her hair is a rich red in color, falling in flowing ringlets over her shoulders. Her eyes are blue and kind, and her dress is pure white (because remember, white is the color of the Witches). Glinda is indeed kind and benevolent, making sure that Dorothy’s companions go home, revealing to Dorothy that her shoes are her ticket back (Glinda seems to have the most knowledge about magic, along with the Wicked Witch of the West), and even kissing gently Dorothy upon first meeting her. However, when you look at her dialogue with adult eyes, you realize that Glinda is actually deeply ironic. Snarky one would say nowadays. She keeps making subtle jokes. Speaking of the Scarecrow she says that “It would be a shame to deprive the Emerald City of such a wonderful ruler” and when he asks if he is really wonderful, she says “You are unusual” ; and to the Tin Woodman she says “You are brighter than him (when polished)”. Small jokes that fly over the characters’ heads, but that are certainly not cruel or wicked. But yeah, Glinda apparently always dreamed secretly to be a stand-up comedian Xp # As for the South in itself… The land of the Quadlings, the red country, the South of Oz. Interestingly, the characters only take three days to arrive there, contrary to the longer travels they previously had (it was probably a way to shorten the book at this point, because this is actually their fourth travel). The soldier mentioned that the road to Glinda is very easy, it is a straight road to the South – but it is “full of dangers to the travelers”, which is the reason why none of the Quadlings ever come to the Emerald City. It is quite weird given that the soldier previously said that he knew what the Quadlings thought of Glinda… maybe people from the Emerald City went to the South? Among these dangers on the road he mentions “wild beasts in the woods” and “a race of queer men who do not like strangers to cross their country”. Of course, we will meet both. I personally think the land of the South begins at the episode of the “fighting trees”, because previously it was just the Emerald City territory, so I’ll begin here. The first obstacle our heroes meet is a thick wood with “no way around it” because it extends as far as can see, and when they try to enter it the trees actually move their branches – they bend down, twine around them and fling them back, tossing away whenever they try to pass. These are the trees that are remembered in Oz lore as “the fighting trees”. However, the Woodman manages to pass under one after cutting one of its branches – the tree “shakes as if in pain” but it can’t prevent anymore the heroes from passing underneath. Behind these fighting trees, the rest of the forest is actually absolutely normal. As a result they deduce that only the “first row” of trees can bend their branches like that, and that they were given wonderful powers to act as the “policemen” of the forest, keeping strangers out of it.

At the edge of this wood, they find the China Country. (As a small note, many people think that the episode of the China Country was added later, once the book was finished, due to how out of place it seems, and due to a slightly different writing style which really denotes this part). The China Country is a “stretch of country” with a floor as smooth, shining and white as the bottom of a big platter, and surrounded by a high wall of white china, smooth and higher than the heroes’ heads. This time the heroes could go around it, but they try not to, out of fear of losing their direction. This country is actually populated by people made of china, or precisely by the china figures used in “our” world as ornaments and decorations – small china houses in the brightest colors, china barns and animals, and even a china church, all populated by milkmaids, shepherdess, princesses, shepherds, princes and clowns. We actually know they are THE china figures we collect because, as a princess explains, whenever one of them leaves China Country, they lose the ability to speak and move and can only “stand around and look pretty”, ending up on mantels and cabinets, paralyzed but apparently alive (yeah, that’s creepy). It also shows that the China Country seems to be an enchanted place (or a cursed one) giving them life. Due to being made of China  these people tend to be very fragile, and break easily (this is why they don’t like having non-china beings walk around us, and also probably why the wall was built – there is a strong sense of “secluded and protected communities” in the South of Oz). However they can be mended (there is a “mender’s shop” somewhere in town) but in general they dislike being mended because it is “not pretty”, and apparently being mended too much in the head leaves one “foolish”. We also know that to cross this country, one needs roughly an hour. Right on the other side of the China Country there is a “disagreeable country” filled with bog and marshes, and covered in a tall grass and thick underbrushes that actually hide muddy holes. Right after this country, solid ground comes back and we enter in another forest – with trees bigger and older than anything our heroes saw previously (which means the Munchkin forest and the Fighting trees one). Our characters think that the forest is gloomy and “wilder than ever”, all except the Lion that absolutely adores this forest, especially the softness of the dried leaves and the “richness and greenness” of the moss – this is the forest he will want to live in. This is actually the forest of the wild beasts the soldier mentioned before, and we see them in the middle of a council, terrified because a monster installed itself in the forest, devouring them. I will jump a bit the animal descriptions, keep them for another talk about animals in Oz, but I will stay a bit on this monster, probably of the same nature as the Kalidahs since animals don’t often refer to other beasts as abominations. This one is said to be a “tremendous monster, like a great spider, with a body as big as an elephant and eight legs as long as tree trunks” (note that while this monster is referred to as the “great spider”, in its description it is always said to be a monster “like” a great spider). Its body is covered in coarse black hair, it has a great mouth with sharp teeth a foot long, but its main weakness is its neck: between its head and its “pudgy” body (it has been noted that the beast feasted on numerous animals ever since its arrival, hence why it may look quite fat), its neck is actually as thin as a “wasp’s waist” and this is how the Lion kills it, but cutting off its head (while it sleeps). We also know that this beast arrived quite recently in the forest, so it is not some sort of ancient evil dwelling there for a long time. And, next to the forest, is the ultimate obstacle of the South: the hill of the Hammer-Heads. It is a steep hill, covered from top to bottom with hundreds of great pieces of rock, and behind each rock is hidden (or lives) a Hammer-Head, the “queer men” the soldier talked about. The Hammer-Heads are short and stout men, with big heads flat at the top supported by a thick neck full of wrinkles. No female is mentioned and they also lack arms. Their danger is that their neck can stretch out extremely fast, “as quick as lightning” and thus they can throw their heads flat-side first to hit people with a great strength and send them tumbling down the cliff. And they do that with “boisterous laugh” to anyone that tries to cross their hill because, as they say, “this hill belongs to us and we don’t allow anyone to cross it”. They are not even afraid of the Lion’s roar, which says a lot. The characters again don’t want to go around the hill out of fear of losing their way, and only can cross thanks to the Winged Monkeys intervention. # Now… a big question: what is exactly Quadling Country? This is a big one, especially in this book… In later Oz books, it is considered that each of the four regions make up all of Oz. Aka, everything in the West is Winkie Country, everything in the South is Quadling Country, everything in the East is Munchkin land… However in this book, while at first we believe that the fighting trees, china country and hammer-heads hill are all part of the Quadling Country, Dorothy and the narration keep repeating that the Quadling Country actually begins behind the Hammer-Heads hill, and that everything before that is not Quadling land but… something else. Which is quite interesting, especially when compared to the other regions: as soon as the heroes set out to the West they immediately entered the Winkie lands, and in the East, while the great forest is at first implied to be part of the Munchkin country, at the end of the travel there is a distinction made between the Munchkin land and the forest… So yes, you can either chose to consider that the South Land is indeed all of the South of Oz, but that the Quadlings Country is merely the most southern part where the Quadlings live proper, a region of the South Land, or you can consider the Quadling Country to be the name of all of the South of Oz. Anything is possible. The Quadling Country proper is described as beautiful, rich and happy, “field upon field of ripening grain, well-paved roads running between, pretty rippling brooks with strong bridges” (note that this is the only country with the mention of bridges, you can find them nowhere else in Oz). The favorite color of the Quadlings is red, and thus the fences, houses, bridges and clothes are all red, “bright against the yellow grain and the green grass”. The Quadlings themselves also appear mostly as farmers. Like the rest of Oz they are described as short and “good-natured”, but they also have a specific trait: they are all “fat” or “chubby”. (This lead to some artists interpreting the Ozian races as all having a different body type, the Munchkins being small, the Quadlings fat, the Winkies muscular, etc… an idea that I personally quite like). There also seems to be an explanation for the Quadlings’ fatness hidden in the text: when they are welcomed inside a Quadling house and share their supper, it is mentioned that the Quadling family serves the protagonists “three kinds of cakes and four kinds of cookies”: it seems that the Quadling diet involves a lot of desserts, candies, treats and other sugary things. No wonder they all end up with some extra-padding on their body...

[sakuwriteshere]

Pretty Little Liar: Chapter 2

General warnings (for the whole story): Fluff, comedy, angst, sexual innuedos, roommates AU, Ketch is a douche

Beta reader: @irebloggbecauseiappreciateyou.

Words count: 4238 words

PLL Masterlist

Main Masterlist

*******************

Chapter 2:

It’s finally time for Y/N to properly meet Dean’s only woman he truly cares about: Baby, aka his car. There’s really something about men and their cars, her own father named his, and the few men she dated did just the same. She has to admit that the black muscle car is a beauty. A piece of collection and Dean does take good care of her, she’s sparkling and still in brand new condition. As she’s sitting down on the passenger seat, Y/N lets her fingers brush against the leather reverently while Dean puts the last of their bags in the trunk. The old car creaks and dips as Dean slides on the driver seat.

“Ready to go, Sweetheart?” Dean asks her in a huff, both hands roaming over the steering wheel. “I thought a pet name would make this thing more realistic.” he justifies himself when she frowns at the nickname.

“Do you prefer something else? Honey? Or Princess, maybe?” He suggests and can’t help himself but chuckles when she’s making a disgusted face with the last suggestion.

‘Princess.’ Y/N never liked that nickname, it sounded… cheesy as hell and now she despises it since it reminds her of one of her ex-boyfriends.

“Sweetheart is good. Let’s just stick with the basics.” She suppresses a shudder as one last memory from her ex crosses her mind, he was such a mistake.

“What do you want me to call you back, then?” The engine roars to life, muffling her voice.

“Babe? Oh wait, I know!” She exclaimed, a mischievous smile widening her face. “Bean!”

It’s Dean’s turn to make a sour face making her laugh heartily. Once her laughter subsided, they both agreed to stick with ‘Babe’. Dean is surprised with how good the nickname sounds in her voice. Shaking his head to focus, he finally drives out from his parking spot.

***

The Winchesters don’t live far from their sons, Dean informs Y/N it’s just a two hours drive which gives them enough time to learn the basics stuff about each other. It starts easily with their favorite colors and type of food, the conversation slowly drifting towards their taste in music, both having a soft spot for classic rock, before they end on more private facts.

“Speaking of which, I don’t really know what you do for a living.” Y/N says while watching the scenery flying through the opened window, the hot air blowing on her face.

“I’m helping my father with the family business,” Dean replies plainly.

“I know that.” Y/N states, giving him a bitchy face. “You own your own garage. It’s just I’ve never seen you coming back from work covered in grease and things like that. Don’t you get dirty when you’re repairing cars?”

Dean shrugs some more, his eyes flicking to her for a second as he licks his bottom lip. He’s not very fond of speaking about his job. Dean loves what he does for a living, he’s even proud of it but people tend to judge him once they really know what his job is.

“I own several businesses, the garage is one of them.” He starts to explain, knowing that he needs to tell her more if he wants to make his parents believe they’re a couple. “The coffee shop you’re working at, I own it too and a few other things.”

“What?” Y/N’s gaze abandons the scenery from outside at the revelation, her eyes fixed on Dean who chooses to keep his eyes on the road. 

“What?” Dean parrots as Y/N is strangely silent.

Slowly, she brings the pieces together, how easy and quick it was for Rachel to accept her days off.

“You ordered her.” She whispers more to herself than anything, but Dean hears her anyway. “You told her to let me leave for the weekend.”

Dean huffs, his body tensing at her accusation. “I own shops, Y/N, not people. I don’t give orders.” Despite the need to keep his eyes on the road, Dean glances at her a few times, searching for her eyes, he needs to show her he’s telling the truth. “I simply asked her to give you whatever you asked if it was possible, that’s it.”

“You’re rich…” She deduces in a whisper, her eyes staring at her lap.

Dean groans at her statement. Here it goes! Every time people learn about his real job, they start to act and treat him differently and Dean hates it.

“We’re healthy, yeah, but it doesn’t define who I am.” His grumpy voice resonating in the car.

It’s Y/N’s turn to be mad at him. Who does he think she is? She’s not going to treat him differently just because she learned he’s her big boss. “I know that. You’re still my neat-freak roommate.” 

Dean cools down at her indignant tone, his tensed shoulders relaxing in the process. “But?” He tries when he feels she has more to say. She lets out a heavy breath, clasping her hands on her lap.

“But...let’s just say I’m not really the type of girl your parents would expect for you.”

The defeated tone she’s using surprises Dean. Among everything else, that’s not what he thought would bother her.

“We’re not really a couple, you know that?” He reminds her, his hands turning the steering wheel as he approaches his parents’ house.

“I’m aware, thank you!” Her face is blushing hard at the reminder. “But I don’t want them to look down on you, even if it’s fake.”

The tires roll over the gravel, meaning they have reached their destination. Dean parks the car in the shadows in a little corner. They’re both silent for a moment, Dean watching her while she’s keeping her eyes on her lap, her knuckles turning white the more she clenches her hands.

“Hey, look at me,” Dean says quietly, his hand wrapping around her tensed fist. The physical contact forcing Y/N to look at him. 

“Yes we’re healthy but it hasn’t always been the case. We don’t forget where we came from. My parents- my whole family is pretty laid back so there’s nothing to fear, alright?” Green eyes searching her own. After a beat, feeling he’s being honest with her, Y/N forces a tiny smile and nods. Dean squeezes her hand one last time before getting out of the car.

Y/N inhales sharply, telling herself that she doesn’t need to prove anything. Dean and her are going to spend the weekend together, pretending they’re madly in love and by Monday everything will be back to normal. Yeah, there’s nothing to feel bad about, it’s going to be easy!

Her mouth slacks open as she gets out of the car, her eyes finally falling over the huge house in front of her. ‘Laidback people’ my ass! She thinks before she notices Mary Winchester appearing behind the opened vibrant red main door. The blond woman waves happily at them while Dean fetches their bags in the trunk.

“Alright, Sweetheart. Ready to shine?” Dean announces, one hand holding the bags the other one intertwined with Y/N’s one.

“Not even a bit.” Y/N replies between clenched teeth, a huge smile plastered over her face as they walked towards the main entrance.

As soon as they have climbed up the three little steps, Mary engulfs them in a bear hug.

“Dean. Y/N. It’s so good to see you. How was the drive?” Mary’s genuine intrigue can be heard in her voice. Her eyes drift between Y/N and her son, a hand pressed over her heart as she smiles at them. “ Sorry. Sorry.” Mary chuckles when she senses the awkward tension around them. “You look so cute together.”

Guilt creeps through Y/N’s veins. Mary is really happy for her son and doesn’t suspect the fraud, not even for a second. Is Y/N ready to lie right in front of her face? Maybe it’s better to tell Mary the truth before the lie escalates some more?

“Come in, please. You must be thirsty, it's really hot today. Dean, sweety, can you leave your bags in your old room?” Y/N’s trail of thoughts is broken as Mary pushes her into the house.

Y/N’s looking at him with dread and Dean gives her an apologetic smile as he climbs up the stairs leading to the second floor, where the bedrooms are, while she’s escorted by the Winchester’s matriarch into the living room. She wasn’t expecting to be on her own the minute right after they got in.

Fortunately, two familiar faces greet her as they enter the living room. Sam Winchester, Dean’s little brother, and Jessica Moore, his girlfriend, are already there. Y/N had met them a few times already, Sam and Dean being particularly close.

“Y/N?” The shock on Sam’s face is obvious as he recognizes the newcomer.

“Sam. Jessica. It’s so nice to see you again.” Y/N greets, easily accepting Jessica’s hug. It’s good to have something familiar with her, something to keep her nerves on track.

“You’ve already met?” Mary asks, a bit surprised that her youngest son didn’t mention Dean’s new girlfriend before.

“Yeah,” Sam confirms, giving Y/N a light hug as well. “Y/N and Dean are roommates.”

Panic raises within Y/N, Sam knows nothing about the lie, she needs to think about something to say and quickly.

“Dean and I weren’t a thing yet the last time we’ve met.” Y/N tells Mary, a shy smile on her lips, and doing everything she could to ignore Sam and Jessica’s questioning looks.

Looking everywhere to find a distraction, something white and fluffy catches Y/N attention. The awkwardness she was feeling a few seconds before flying out through the window as she spots the cute little puppy on the couch behind Jessica.

“Oh my god.” Y/N’s high pitched voice catches everyone’s attention as she walks towards the couch. “Hello there.”

Kneeling in front of the couch, she watches the Samoyed puppy rustling with the plaid cover wrapped around its tiny body. Her heart melts when she hears the puppy’s tiny barks.

“Aaaww look at you. You’re so cute.” Y/N says in a baby voice. Jessica kneeling next to her, using the same kind of voice.

“We found her on our way here. Went to the vet but it seems like no one claimed her, yet.” Jessica explains, one slender finger stroking the top of the puppy’s head.

“Does she have a name?” Jessica shakes her head no at Y/N question. “She needs a name. Oh, I know! Snowball! Because you just look like a cute, tiny snowball. Yes, you are.” Y/N proposes while stroking the newfound Snowball’s tiny belly. Every time an animal crosses her path, Y/N is a goner.

“Why do people speak with a baby voice when they’re in front of a puppy?” Sam asks his mother, a smile covering his lips when Jessica’s wonderful laughter rings in his ears.

“That’s because we can’t help it,” Mary replies with a baby voice, joining the girls near the couch, welcoming Snowball into the family.

As Sam rolls his eyes, feeling suddenly lonely he spots Dean coming in, his older brother looking down at the strange scene in front of him.

“What’s that thing?” He asks Sam, pointing his index finger at the little white bundle on the couch.

“Apparently it’s Snowball.” Sam sighs, knowing that Jessica didn’t forget what the vet said. If within two weeks no one has claimed the dog, they have the right to keep it. Seems like Sam just got a new dog. “Can I talk to you a second, Dean?” Sam’s lips forming a thin line as he forces a smile.

The two men leave the living room, moving into the main hall for a bit of privacy.

“Since when you and Y/N are dating?” Sam’s quick to ask the question that his mind was burning to ask.

“Er... a couple of months?” When he had picked Y/N as his fake girlfriend, Dean had totally forgotten about the fact Sam knew her already. He just needs to make up another lie, nothing too hard.

“And you didn’t tell me because…?”

“Because it’s none of your business.” Dean groans, not liking his little brother’s interrogation. Sam doesn’t bulge and Dean knows he has to say something more to convince him.

“I… I think this is it. She’s the one, Sam. And-and I don’t want to blow up whatever we have so I preferred to keep it a secret for a while, to go slow, you know?” Dean doesn’t mean any word at all, it’s just an act but he knows he’s little brother is a real sucker for that kind of romantic crap.

“Dean...I-I don’t know what to say.” Sam’s voice sounds apologetic enough to let Dean think he said the right things. The look Sam’s giving him is making Dean a bit uncomfortable, it’s been a long time since Dean had seen that glint in his little brother’s eyes, it’s a mix between joy and pride.

“I would say we’ve all found our perfect missing part, boys.” A deep, throaty voice booms behind them as strong hands tap their backs, startling them in the process.

John Winchester pushes his boys slightly so they can see what’s going on in the living room. From their spot under the doorframe, the three men watch the women kneeling around the puppy and gushing over it in pure wonder.

“Look at them,” John’s voice is softer now, as if he’s scared of disturbing the beautiful scenery in front of him. “They’re getting along so well, as if they have known each other for years. I’m proud of you boys.”

Getting a compliment from their father is like winning the jackpot at the lottery. John Winchester is a good father, he did his best to raise his sons while building an empire for their future, making sure they would never lack anything ever again. But he’s also a reserved man, very demanding, especially with his two sons, so whenever John compliments them, they know he means it.

A particular delightful sound breaks Dean from his giddy state. A sound as clear as crystal and soft as silk to Dean’s ears, Y/N’s laughing heartily as Snowball licks her nose. For a moment Dean’s looking at her like it was the first time, the way she throws her head back as she laughs, her face so opened and free from doubt and shame, her eyes full of life as they’re shining with mirth. He has never seen her like that, she’s always been a discreet and nice roommate until now, and Dean surprises himself with thinking how he wouldn't mind hearing her laughter more from now on. Y/N really blends in his family, it’s so easy that it scares him.

***

After some long arguments about Snowball and a promise that the dog would still be here later, Dean finally convinced Y/N to retreat in his bedroom, the room they could let their guard down a bit during the weekend. Behind the closed door, they don’t need to pretend they’re madly in love and after the disturbing revelation Dean had earlier, he needs some time to relax. They have a few hours to kill before they need to get back to fake dating.

“Can we have a dog?” Y/N asks, unzipping her bag in the bathroom, her voice loud enough for Dean to hear.

“We’re not having a dog, Y/N,” Dean says in a strained voice as he lays across his bed, thumb and index finger massaging his tired eyes.

“But why?” She whines coming back into the room, a brush clutches into her hand and pouting at him even though he’s not looking at her.

“Because I don’t really like dogs.” He lies, hopeful it would end the argument right away.

Y/N’s speechless, her mouth hangs open as shock is written all over her face. “Dean Winchester, I’m fake breaking up with you right now! There’s no way I’ll love a man who doesn’t like dogs, even if it’s fake love.”

“I’ll think about it.” Dean sighs, knowing that it’s easier to lie than to keep on arguing with her. It seems to work because nothing comes back at him and lifting his head slightly in her direction, Dean sees the satisfied smile over her lips, making him smile back without knowing.

“So about the bed arrangement…” Y/N starts to speak, her voice suddenly unsure about what they previously agreed on. “I know we were ok with sharing a bed but I wasn’t thinking it would be so small.” She voices her concerns, eyeing the bed warily.

“It’s just for sleeping, I think two grown-up adults can fit inside without anything happening.” He chuckles before adding “It’s not like I haven’t seen you in your pajamas, already.”

A loud gasp makes him lose his playful smile and he watches Y/N rushing back into the bathroom, all of her clothes flying around her.

“No, no, no.” She exclaims and when the last piece of clothes is out from the bag, a long whine comes out from her throat.

“What now?” Dean asks, being prepared for the worst.

“I forgot my pajamas.” Her eyes shut tight, slapping her face in her mind at her stupidity. “That’s why you don’t pack a bag the night before your departure, Dean! It’s the best way to forget something.” She turns towards Dean, pointing an accusing finger at him but the later doesn't see her as he’s busy shuffling into his dresser.

“Well, I packed this morning and didn’t forget anything. Take these, I think it’s your size.” Throwing an old t-shirt from when he was younger, Dean looks at Y/N’s blushing face as a soft ‘thank you’ falls out of her lips and realizes that the girl he knew, back at the apartment, was still here.

She has a strange persona, really. Most of the time she’s quiet and keeps to herself, but Dean had seen her earlier, smiling and laughing genuinely.

“What?” She asks him in a whisper, her gaze cast down as she clutches the t-shirt against her chest.

“You seem different,” Dean answers her without thinking, lost in his own thinking. Hearing himself, he knows his words can hurt her, so he’s quick to add “A good different. I don’t know it’s kind of...refreshing.”

Her grip around the material loosen, her fingers now playing with the grey tee-shirt and she shrugs, her gaze still fixed on her bare feet.

“It’s just...Your family is nice, I feel free to be truly myself.” Her voice is no lower than a whisper.

Using the same kind of tone as her, Dean has to ask, her words hurting him in a way. “You’re not at ease in our apartment?”

“Yes of course!” She’s quick to answer him, her eyes zeroing on him, a determined glint burning in them. She doesn’t want him to think he’s making her uncomfortable, because Dean has truly been a nice man, she’s very lucky to have him as her roommate.

“It’s just since...I don’t know even myself so how can I explain it to you?” Her shoulders slump, defeated because she truly doesn’t know why she can’t let herself be most of the time.

Dean nods at that, knowing it’s more complicated than what it seems and they’re not going to talk about it here. Instead, he’ll use the weekend to let her enjoy herself, and maybe she’ll trust him enough to stay that way even when they will be back at the apartment. Dean hadn’t realized until now, how much he didn’t pay attention to the little details. When he thinks about it, they barely see each other, except in the morning during breakfast and at night before they go to bed in their own room after a quick dinner. 

The weekend just gets more interesting as Dean promises himself he’s going to learn more about his roommate: Y/N  Y/L/N.

***

Later in the evening, the whole family is reunited around the table which is overflowed with delicious meals. Mary outdid herself once again, as she did every time her little family was gathered. As the years go, the family is getting bigger and bigger, and Mary can’t be more grateful for that. Lovingly she grabs John’s hand that rests on her right, intertwining their fingers as she watches her sons discreetly.

Sam and Jessica are chatting playfully, Sam’s being as smooth as possible as he feeds Snowball under the table from time to time. Y/N’s scolding Dean for his bad manners, the later not in a position to argue back as his mouth is full. She then shares a look with her husband, thanking him for giving her this family, John doesn’t need to speak to convey his own happiness. After 40 years of being together, you don’t need words to speak with the one you love. Mary only hopes that her sons will be as lucky as she is.

***

Groaning, Dean lets his body fall heavily on his bed. It's been a while since he ate this much, but he couldn’t help it, his mother is the best cook in the world. Rubbing his stomach, Dean eyed the slice of pie waiting for him on the bedside table. He ate more than the half already but Mary made his favorite, how could he not eat all of it? It’s a crime in his books, so he brought another slice sneakily into his room. There’s always room left for pie. Always.

The bathroom door opened, revealing Y/N in only Dean’s old tee-shirt. As expected, it was her size, the material large around her shoulders and covering her modesty perfectly. The faded logo of Led Zeppelin adorning her chest, Dean sits straighter in his bed, thinking how good she looks in his clothes.

“The bathroom is free.” Y/N’s offer not reaching his ears as he zones out. It takes several tries calling his name before Dean comes back to his senses, blinking twice.

“Are you alright?” She giggles and Dean feels sick in his stomach.

“Y-yeah.” He clears his throat and jumps from the bed, striding towards the bathroom. “I think I ate too much.” He mutters before closing the door behind him.

“Shocker.” She breathes, shaking her head. She told him he was eating too much, but did he listen to her? Noooo. As she lays down on her side of the bed, Y/N prays that he won’t puke on her during the night. The day has been so eventful and exciting that she’s out like a light.

In the bathroom, Dean’s looking back at his own reflection, hands clutched around the ceramic bowl. That is surely it, he ate too much, what else could it be? His brain is right, it’s just a stomach bug, nothing else. So why is his heart beating faster than usual? And more importantly, why is his nether regions telling him the exact opposite of his brain?

He has to admit, she looks very good in his t-shirt. And Dean is just a man, he loves the ladies, so of course he’s attracted when he can get a glimpse of skin. He can picture perfectly from the view he just had a few seconds earlier, how her thighs seemed smooth, her bare legs slightly covered with his tee-shirt. Great, now he has a boner! There’s no way he’s going to slide next to her with a boner, what will she think of him?

“Shower.” Dean orders to his own reflection, nodding at himself. He can take care of it in the shower, it wouldn’t be the first time he blew up some steam in the shower.

***

As the door creaks open, Dean’s glad the bedroom is plunged into darkness, meaning Y/N is already asleep. He wouldn’t feel at ease to look at her while he slides into the bed next to her. Carefully, Dean crawls on his side of his bed and finally lets go of his breath he’s holding once he’s securely laying down. She’s facing him, sleeping on her side, her hands tucked under her chin and against her chest. Dean is scolding himself, stopping his stupid brain to think about another part of her anatomy. The handjob he just had into the shower is already enough. 

Rubbing a hand over his face as he thinks about it: he just masturbated thinking about his roommate. Y/N! How fucked his mind is? This is wrong. Granted, it’s not the first time he’s fantasizing about her but usually she’s not sleeping right next to him. A rustling sound next to him breaks his trail of thoughts and Dean watches with horror, Y/N arms sneaking over his torso, the rest of her body following and getting closer. She sighs happily as her head rests over his arms, preventing him from moving. What happened to the one rule they agreed on ‘having each other's personal space?’ God, she smells good. Why does she have to smell good on top of that? And why does her body fits perfectly against his?

“Awesome.” Dean mouths ironically.

Pour Toujours tags:  @drakelover78​​​​​, @akshi8278​​

PLL tags: @eliwinchester99​​, @paiswhite​​, @vicmc624​​, @metalfangirl

[ask-sincerely-sea]

A rundown of the Mermaid AU

Here’s a bullet list of my Mermaid AU and most of the content I have imagined for it! These are taken from three different posts on my main blog, but for simplicity, I compiled them all here! It is long, but feel free to read and get a feel for this universe!

All the Murphys are sharks, but they’re all different types of sharks.

Science doesn’t exist in my world so don’t expect genetics and aquatic ancestry to be something that is strict. Most families tend to stay within the same family and/or genus.

Connor is a Shortfin Mako Shark.

Zoe is a Blue Shark (Fun fact: Blue Sharks are a species of Requiem Sharks).

Cynthia is a Whale Shark.

Larry is an Oceanic Whitetip Shark.

Evan and Heidi are both octopus.

Evan is a Coconut Octopus.

Heidi is a Mimic Octopus.

Alana is a Pacific White Sided Dolphin.

Jared is a White Spotted Pufferfish.

Although intelligent like humans, mermaids will exhibit behaviors akin to their aquatic ancestry.

Evan being a Coconut Octopus will hide within ocean debris as a form of camouflage. This is often triggered by spikes in anxiety, but he also uses it to avoid interaction.

Jared absolutely puffs up. It’s usually caused by elevated emotion. Sometimes he’ll puff up because he’s upset, other times he’ll accidentally cause himself to puff up just from laughing too hard.

The Murphy family is a family a predators. They all have an acute and accurate sense of smell. Larry, Connor, and Zoe are active hunters, and when they are in hunting mode it’s hard to break them out of it until they are satiated.

Merpeople do form societies and interact with each other. They don’t hunt each other and unlike their aquatic ancestors, they don’t all follow migration paths. Some merfamilies will migrate.

Now I’ll give you all the cute and fun and interesting stuff…

Connor loves to explore any wreckage he can find. He’s super fascinated by human life and loves finding shipwrecks, plane wrecks, and even leftover skeletons.

He frequents the wrecks of military vessels most often and collects dog tags from fallen soldiers. He refurbishes them as much as he can because he likes to see the names of the men and women lost.

He often spies on humans who are boating as well. Be it a wedding boat, fishermen, or just vacationers, he just loves watching them from afar. However, the moment they spot him (usually only his dorsal fin on his tail), he dives away

.Hes accidentally becomes and ocean cryptid when a group of divers got a photo of him, albeit it fuzzy/blurry.

He’s obviously not aware of human cryptid culture.

Redditors think his viral photo is photoshopped.

Zoe isn’t as curious about humans. She is curious of the sky above and loves to watch birds as they fly around and feed on fish.

She goes stargazing a lot against her parents wishes. It’s dangerous at night and her parents (and most merpeople) fear poachers.

Zoe collects starfish on her tailfins. Since they are living creatures, she always communicates with them and makes sure they are okay with it.

Connor will leave jewelry and funky human artifacts he finds in Zoe’s room. She doesn’t know Connor is the one that leaves her random items and just assumes it’s Cynthia.

Cynthia is fascinated with human artifacts and frequents a lot of merpeople who are traders for human trinkets.

However, she is terrified of humans and doesn’t dare go near them. When she was younger, she got tangled up I’m a fishing net that belonged to poachers.

Larry is also fascinated with human trinkets, but not as much as Cynthia. Being an Oceanic Whitetip, he loves the tale of the USS Indianapolis.

He and Connor used to search shipwrecks together, but they’ve since grown apart and haven’t hunted or scavenged together in a long time.

I already said a bit of this in my last post, but being a Coconut Octopus, Evan uses physical objects to hide in and behind as a form of camouflage.

Though camouflage isn’t really necessary for merpeople being that they are able to fend for themselves and create/use tools, weapons, utensils, etcetera.

Evan’s camo is more of a reflex with his anxiety. If he’s nervous, anxious, or embarrassed, he’ll find the nearest Evan-sized object and fold himself up to fit. His tentacles can fold together tightly, he just has to account for his upper body not being as flexible.

Heidi is a Mimic Octopus as uses her camo as more of a fun party tricks. Mimic Octopus are able to disguise with many backgrounds, but are also able to contort and arrange their tentacles to resemble other species.

When Evan was little, they would travel to shallow banks along islands where the sun shone through the water really brightly. She’d contort her tentacles and do little shadow puppets of other species for him on the sand.

So, Jared is a pufferfish and not a porcupine fish. He has spines, but they’re very small and thin. They usually only show up when he’s inflated.

He HATES being inflated but it’s happens a lot.

Basically any elevated emotion inflates him. He’s angry? Puff! He’s playful? Puff! He’s excited? Puff! He’s sad? Puff! He’s [redacted]? PUFF!

He doesn’t care too much about human culture, but he is aware of this cursed video. He was hanging around a boat with a bunch of spring breakers and slipped a phone for a few minutes, stumbling across Youtube. Connor thinks it’s the funniest thing ever.

Oh, yeah, so merpeople don’t have any sort of electronic technology, but some of the most curious ones will snatch devices from boats. They are aware they don’t work underwater, so it’s usually like a dramatic spy scene of mermaids hanging out by boats with phones and tablets and messing around as much as they can for five to ten minutes.

Alana is super social and during vacations from school she’ll travel with merpeople and regular aquatic life and migrate around the world.

She’s traveled literally everywhere and has been doing it since she was a child. Her whole family used to go, but now it’s just her. Her parents trust her to be alone.

Alana has come across Sea World and other marine parks with Orcas and it makes her incredibly angry. There have been a few instances where animals in captivity have… Mysteriously escaped back into the wild…

She does have a super playful side and is very curious of humans despite often having a negative judgement/attitude towards them. When she just wants to have fun or relax, she goes bow riding along the wake of boats. She’s clever enough to not be seen.

Yes, there is merpeople high school because why not.

Again, science doesn’t exist and this au honestly doesn’t have rules.So just go ham and make mermaids, y'all!

I’m still deciding on how I want to portray Miguel, but right now I’m thinking Red Lionfish or Pacific Seahorse.That boy is something very colorful and proud!

So previously I mentioned there being an education system for merpeople as they do form societies.

So all the teens (minus Miguel) go to school together.

Their school, as well as most of the buildings in their particular society, is made up of scrapped parts from shipwrecks and other human debris. There are also some buildings and landmarks carved out of the landscape, but they gotta keep it fresh, keep it interesting. They’re still discovering and learning technology, but in their own unique ways.

(Okay, you probably didn’t even care about that fact but as an enthusiast for a “rebuild from the remains” aesthetic, I have to sprinkle in my little funky twists.)

The particular “town” of merpeople they live in isn’t very large and is constantly changing size and population due to some mers moving in and out.

Evan broke his arm over summer break in a coastal accident.

Seeing that merpeople don’t fully abide by the living standards of their aquatic ancestors, they tend to mix, mingle, and migrate without too much structure. Obviously certain families with stay together and there are some pockets of merpeople who live by more strict cultural rules. But for the sake of au, Evan and the gang live in a more relaxed mer civilization.

So, over the summer Evan was working with a group of mers that focus on coastal wildlife. Evan in particular focused on coral health and how it was being affected by human activity.

But our boy is depressed and lonely, so one day he strays from his usual group of coworkers and ventured toward a cluster of fishing boats. The general rule is don’t go near humans, especially when on the job.

He noticed that some of the boats were anchored, so he grabbed one of them from the seabed, hoisted it up the surface, and launched it above water for his to come crashing down with force behind it.

His arm got pinned under the anchor, thus breaking it.

Now, the rest of the AU at the moment is more freeform and doesn’t follow the plot of the musical, but I did want to included how Evan broke his arm.

Connor is not dead in this particular version of the AU, but feel free to craft multiple storylines and arcs with different outcomes!

Connor does paint his nails!

As previously mentioned, he is very fascinated by human society and like to get a little too close.

So, one day he came across some spring breakers and watched as they went about their activities sunbathing and painting their nails. As soon as they looked away, he stole several bottles.

It’s rare for him to find nail polish, especially since he ruined his first bottle by opening it up under water and losing the contents. But whenever a party boat or a boat of spring breakers rolls by, especially with a bunch of girls, he always has to check.

He quickly learned that whenever he wants to do his nails he has to make a whole thing about hauling himself up to surface and propping on a rock or a beach for some time.

He’s collected his signature black as well as a metallic purple, glittery pink, and bright turquoise. He wears the black and purple the most. He loves the other two colors, but poor baby is insecure and wearing nail polish as a mer is already enough to cause stares.

Jared also thinks that human legs are hot.

When Jared is puffed up, other mers will bop him around like a volleyball. It’s an unfortunate thing for any and all puffers.

Evan’s dad is a Barracuda mer, which for a Barracuda and an Octopus to mate is incredibly rare. It’s a wonder that Evan didn’t come out a totally wack and new sea monster.

But like I said, science doesn’t really exist here! Anything goes! Be whatever mer you wanna be! Love whatever mer you wanna love!

[dyaz-stories]

Inukag week: Day five — Jealousy

For @inukag-week

I’m telling you, there are not enough canon jealousy stories involving Hojo.

It was all her grandfather’s fault.

Kagome didn’t understand everything Hojo had told her, because she had long given up on following her grandfather’s excuses, which, by the way, were getting increasingly crazier. She didn’t know why he insisted on finding new ones each time. Couldn’t he have found one really good one and stuck with it?

Still, apparently, it had something to do with her legs. Maybe she should have guessed at the long look Hojo had given her when she had walked into school. Her own friends hadn’t even bothered asking her about her illness — or injury, apparently, grandpa’s fertile imagination had probably failed him this time — but Hojo was always so… considerate.

He stopped right next to her on his bike as she was starting to walk home.

“Higurashi!” he called, managing to sound both happy to see her and mildly horrified at… Well, yeah, at what? “It’s horrible what happened to your cruciate ligament!”

…Huh. Wasn’t expecting that one.

“You really shouldn’t be walking home,” he said, sounding more concerned than angry, and she had to admit it was kind of cute, as opposed to someone else’s behavior. “Let me take you!”

“Oh, that’s really nice, but it won’t be nec—”

“Of course, she would love to go!”

Kagome rolled her eyes. She couldn’t tell who had spoken, of Yuka, Eri and Ayumi. Maybe the three of them. One of those days, she would really need to have a conversation with them about making decisions for her.

That was, if she ever stayed long enough in this era again to actually have a conversation with them, which she actually felt less and less inclined to do each time they behaved like that.

Anyway, next thing she knew, she was sitting on the carrier of Hojo’s bike, and he was joyfully riding towards her house, which thankfully wasn’t very far. It was very nice of him to get her home, probably, and Hojo was very nice guy in general, but… But she really could have walked. She would have to say a word to her grandfather about not inventing stuff that supposedly rendered her incapacitated.

With that and last month’s “sudden myopia”, it was starting to become ridiculous — she didn’t even wear glasses!

Hojo hummed lightly for the entire ride, and Kagome couldn’t help but smile. Hojo was a nice guy, and a really good friend. He tended to overdo things, sure, but it was because he truly cared, and she liked that.

Still, she didn’t feel much when she was with him. She didn’t feel angry, sure, but she also certainly didn’t feel… Any of those other things that she felt when she was with Inuyasha.

She jumped of the bike the second they arrived in front of the steps of her house.

“Thank you, Hojo!” she smiled. “I guess I’ll be…”

“You can’t be serious, Higurashi!” he protested, quickly setting his bike aside. “There is no way I’ll let you climb this! Don’t worry, I’ll take you, just get on!”

He immediately turned around, kneeling, offering her his back, and Kagome winced. That didn’t feel right.

“No, I’ll—”

“I—I know this is a bit, erm, daring, but I promise to be a gentleman.”

Yeah, that really wasn’t the problem— Though what was the problem then? She did that stuff with Inuyasha all the time and it had never bothered her.

Oh. That was why. Because she did that with Inuyasha.

“No, thank you Hojo, but I’d much rather climb the steps myself.”

“I can’t let you do that! You’ll hurt your leg! I know you’re not that kind of girl, Higurashi, but I still have to insist!”

Something seemed to arise inside of her. “That kind of girl?” What was that supposed to mean?

She would probably have chewed him up right this second if Inuyasha hadn’t landed beside her, fortunately while Hojo wasn’t looking.

“You’re late, wench.” He eyed Hojo darkly as the student stood up again, quickly dusting his pants. “And who’s that?”

“A friend of yours, Higurashi?” Hojo asked at the same time, frowning at the sight of Inuyasha. Those white hair, those red clothes… Surely Kagome wasn’t into that sort of men. And had he just insulted her? There was no way Hojo would let that go that easily.

“Yes, actually!” Kagome replied, grabbing Inuyasha’s arm, feeling almost relieved by his arrival. “He’s the one who gets me up there,” she explained. “He was just a little late since you took me home.”

“He took you home?” Inuyasha’s voice was low, with a dangerous edge to it, and Kagome didn’t blink as she elbowed him harshly. They could not have a Koga scenario right now, especially not with Hojo.

Poor boy wouldn’t stand a chance.

Hojo seemed to study them for a few moments. The boy with the red clothes, the white hair, the golden eyes, the purple cloth on the head, and ridiculously long nails; and the lovely Kagome Higurashi with her bright smile, holding on to his arm. A sight he had a hard time making some sense of, until it finally hit him.

“Oh, he’s your cousin! Sure, I’ll leave you with him. Just be careful up the stairs!”

“I ain’t—”

“Bye Hojo!” Kagome interrupted Inuyasha, waving at the young man, and waiting for him to disappear on his bike in the sunset.

She had no idea how he always managed to do that.

She let out a relieved sigh once he was gone.

“And who was that?” Inuyasha asked then, an unsettling tone in his voice.

“That,” Kagome said, “was Hojo. My grandfather apparently said I had a problem with my knee so I wouldn’t have to get to school…”

“Why did he say I was your cousin?”

She did noticed the slightly dejected way he said it, though she couldn’t quite explain why to herself.

“I have no idea. The girls do know you’re my, erm…”

He would have been very interested in knowing what he was to her, but apparently, she had a coughing fit right then, and she had lost her train of thought when she managed to breathe normally again.

Too bad.

“Need me to take you up there?” he asked, pointing at the temple.

Kagome shrugged and shook her head. “No, really, I’m perfectly fi— Ah!”

Without warning, he’d lifted her up in his arms, and he started jumping up the stairs at his inhuman speed.

“’m the only one who can do that,” he mumbled, so low she almost missed it.

It made her smile.

Most importantly, he was the only one who she wanted to do that.