#maybe its my poor comprehension skills but

[darabeatha]

/ I say I do not like lb6 yet I have 4 characters that appear in it as muses

[serafilms]

penacony trailblaze mission……. :o you’ve gagged me i fear

[tds-rb]

my eyes copletely skimmed over this im very sorry 💀

one on one, no help allowed (unless we count an extra person for belos to possess. NO TITANS, only just like. a normal fucking guy. maybe a grimwalker.) undyne gets her spears since they're her magic, belos gets his goop and nothing else, this is like after the sigil and before the boop. who wins in a battle to the death?

[hairtusk]

hiii could you elaborate on your thoughts re Sylvia plath’s poetry and antisemitism? or don’t if you don’t feel like it up to you

Hi anon, thanks for the question. I'll definitely elaborate, because most people blindly read on social media that Plath is some 'rabid antisemite' (I'm quoting directly from a 2020 article written by a university student about 'problematic authors' that doesn't feature a single quotation or source to backup its astonishing claims) and accept it as gospel with no further reading, and I'd like to challenge that conception.

Note: I am both a Jewish woman and an enormous admirer of Plath. This is likely the perspective from which I'll be answering. However, that doesn't mean I can't give criticism where it is due, and also, doesn't mean I can speak for all Jews. I will be talking about my personal feelings towards antisemitism.

The main reason that Plath is often accused on antisemitism is due to the Holocaust imagery found in some of her poems (namely those found in the posthumous collection 'Ariel', like Daddy or Lady Lazarus). The imagery is graphic and gutwrenching. This is, however, not the reason that people take issue with her: she is largely criticised for adopting a Jewish 'I' in her poetry, and appropriating an experience for which she has not, and could never, experience. Because Plath is not Jewish, critics say, her writing is inauthentic, and therefore offensive and antisemetic in nature.

The only people who should be able to write about the Holocaust in this manner, they say, are actual survivors (literary critic George Steiner once noted: 'does any writer, does any human being other than an actual survivor, have the right to put on this death rig?'). The argument at hand here, then, is about the use of the 'I' in poetry; if we should only write from first-hand experience, and avoid writing about topics that we have not oursleves encountered, survived, etc.

However, it is incredibly reductive to view Plath's poetry as appropriating the Jewish identity for herself just because the poem has a Jewish speaker, a Jewish 'I'. While 'Daddy' is often interpreted in online spaces as a poem about paternal abuse, it is also very easy to interpret the poem as a narrative about the relationship between European fascism and its victims, explored through the metaphor of the father/daughter relationship. Similarly, Lady Lazarus can be read as a metaphor for Europe in the 20th century, and particularly in the 1940s. It shows incredibly poor comprehension skills to automatically assume that because a poem has a speaker, that speaker is the poet - and that, therefore, if the identity of the speaker and the poet don't align, the poet is appropriating and causing offence.

Additionally, even if Plath were directly and overtly taking on the identity of a Holocaust survivor in her poems (which I would say she isn't), I don't believe that that in itself is antisemetic. Plath's poetry was interested in the central political concern of her generation: that of nuclear war. The idea of a mass-murder of millions of citizens in one fell swoop has obvious links to the Holocaust: Elie Weisel, a Jewish writer and Holocaust survivor, wrote of the topic that '...once upon a time it happened to my people, and now it happens to all people. And suddenly I said to myself, maybe the whole world, strangely, has turned Jewish.' Plath's poem 'Mary's Song', also widely criticised, makes this direct comparison between the European Holocaust, and potential nuclear Holocaust. Personally, I think this is a very apt connection, and I do not think at all that connecting the two in literature should brand a person as an antisemite.

One could present the argument, as Cynthia Ozick did, that 'Jews are not metaphors - not for poets, not for novelists...' and I certainly believe that this is a genuine concern. However, it doesn't take into account the link between history and subjectivity - i.e., which events enter the public conscience on a mass scale. Where Plath's poems mention the Holocaust (which is, might I add, infrequently) the graphic nature, I believe, allows a contemporary reader to cut through the doublespeak and the softened language that is often used to describe the Holocaust in a way that does not disgust, OR arouse anger. While Plath is vivid in her descriptions, she does so in a way that provokes anger in the reader towards the Nazi regime. It is, in many ways, incredibly sympathtic to Holocaust victims, despite the stark nature of the images. The 'Jewish metaphor' allows space to accurately describe the horrors of the Holocaust, and to incorporate other political fears. It is impossible to 'own' history in a way that makes even the mention of it by the Other forbidden. Writing off topics in literature in this way is limiting in the upmost degree.

I could write reams and reams more on this topic, but I think I've said enough for now (I need to get back to actually doing my uni work on this topic). You're free to disagree with me, but I think, for the reasons I've mentioned above and more, that calling Sylvia Plath antisemetic to be genuinely digusting and anti-intellectual.

[transfemlogan]

There is a special gift that fanders possess and that gift is having a whole fucking plate of a relatively decent explanation on something,,,AND THEN MISSING THE WHOLR POINT.

Janus, at first, he was "introduced" to be villainous and bad, but when an explanation of things on why Janus does the things that he does is given to them, it flew out of every fanders ear and the only thing that stuck was that one minor interaction between him and virgil.

And that was it, that was when he was solidified to exist only for the purpose of shitty virgil angst in which Virgil was some poor pathetic damsel in distress in the hands of Janus and how the other sides (mainly Roman) had to swoop in and rescue him.

And then svs can out and that episode is still such a favourite of mine cause it presented Janus in such an amazing way on what he thinks, what his purpose is, why he does his thing, and above all on how DEEPLY he cares about Thomas to just be happy or at the very least, satisfied.

AND AGAIN THIS GOD FORSAKEN FANDOM BOILED DOWN THE WHOLE EPISODE TO "j,,,ja,nus,,,,manipu,,,late ro,,,roman,,,,🥺🥺"

YEHA NO SHIT! THAT'S HIS PURPOSE! HIS JOB! HIS ROLE! MAYBE IT'S NOT AND IDEAL ROLE BUT SURELY IT'S SOMETHING THAT LETS US KNOW EXACTLY WHAT THEY OF CHARACTER HE IS AND WHAT HIS MORALS ARE WHEN IT COMES TO THOMAS!

The parallels to pre-aa virgil and janus are so directly there yet everyone in this fandom is the equivalent of when velma losses her glasses and is trying to find then but instead keeps tossing it even further and further away.

Anyways thats my 2 cents

4 REAL . ur point on svs is so real. janus' character being EXPLAINED BY JANUS on why he acts the way he does being tossed out bcuz "well hes mean to roman!" (which is how the fans treat. all the characters. Logan is bad because he's mean to Patton. Patton is bad because he's mean to Remus. Janus is bad because he's mean to Virgil. Like theres no nuance or thought going into anything.)

like for the love of god why do none of you have any sort of comprehension skills. its not even comprehension skills its just LISTENING skills. HE EXPLAINS IT. WHY ARE YOU ALL STILL INSANE.

[rin-and-jade]

How does someone know the difference between being a system or just having a really fluid/unstable personality/identity? like In bpd or in any way

In the eyes of the inexperienced, this really is a tough job to know wether a person is a system, or just having an unstable foundation of self (bpd) but thankfully for you, I know how. As a system myself who is a bpd holder, with another friend i have with bpd itself,, i will give you this comprehensively detailed (but compacted) answer:

Am i a system?:

There are some highlights that shows someone is one by having a plethora amount of dissociative symptoms, constant shift in identity, unexplainable memory gaps, people seeing them as inconsistent within various aspects (likes and dislikes, etc), places felt unfamiliar, caught yourself having different accents and handwritings and even walking, feels like you are not control in your body, alters as voices that are consistent with it’s own opinions and preferences.

Do i have bpd?:

While it looks similar when compared by a system, there are some different features it represents itself by unable to be consistent due to not having any genuine value in preference and etc, constantly influenced by other people, have episodes of identity crisis, needing comfort from people, constantly unhappy with its current self, devalues itself thinking it is unworthy of any kindness, fear connections, have a high degree of distrust, lives up to the motto: “i am the problem”, highly likely being passive aggressive and isolating due to no healthy social skills, black and white thinking, can have episodes of “im the best”. The similarities that it can have from systems can be seen by some form of dissociation and or anger issues to cope as well as negative voices.

Do i have both?!:

You absolutely can and thats the least wanted option i could wish for yet still unlucky enough to draw this lottery.. anyway, this is a bonus answer. Be it a holder (like me, which means no one else is affected and im jealous af) or in the genes (the collective is affected) i doubt it has any difference so from my perspective, it can look as having dissociative symptoms as well as cognitive dissonance, obviously have alters, more likely to split due to the nature of bpd’s constant distress and questioning (yeah its a thing, thats me right there), also a general sense of distrust especially due to severe trauma, obsessive with Favorite Person, tend to always rely on someone in filling their needs or helped due to 0 independence (it might be different for others, maybe the opposite by trying to be super self sufficient), still have identity confusion, poor memory alongside with gaps. Basically overlaps the two as the general idea but i did some examples, its not the whole list because its way too many..

Nonetheless, this might still be helpful to you as i believe,, this is my own view of what is a system and or bpd so im still reccomending you to do extra research, and goodluck in doing so! (Im sorry for not writing the whole thing)

- j

[im-a-chunky-potato]

1 - with siglai bc 1am ramblings are very nikolai imo

Ooh you're so right for this! I'm not entirely sure how to feel about this, the pacing is a bit of a mess, but enjoy!

Sigma sighed and looked around the street they were in. When he was told by Nikolai they were doing a simple mission to gather information, he knew this couldn't end well.

What he didn't expect was that Nikolai would end up being so loud and extravagant that they couldn't go anywhere near their targets without being suspicious.

Nikolai giggled. "Isn't this fun Sigma?"

Sigma glanced at his watch. "It's nearly 1:00! This could've been done hours ago if you would stop and be normal for once. Why did Fyodor even trust you to do this?"

For a moment, it seemed like Nikolai was genuinely hurt by this statement, but maybe he just imagined it. After all, Nikolai immediately put on a wide grin and pretended nothing happened.

"Oh, did I not tell you? Poor Fedya seems to have caught a nasty cold. For a rat he does sure have a poor immune system... And as his best friend I must take on his responsibilities!"

Sigma paused and considered his words. "Nikolai... did he even ask you to do this?"

Nikolai smirked. "Thats irrelevant. He mentioned that this person had valuable information, and I decided that I could help him!"

Sigma gaped his mouth open. "Did I even need to come here in the first place?"

Nikolai smiled. "Yes! Your ability will make this so much easier."

It felt like Sigma had been stabbed in his heart. Of course his ability is the only thing that matters. Of course he's being manipulated. What did he expect?

And yet he wanted to be seen as more than his ability. For once he wanted to be seen as human, even if he's not. Even if he's just manifested from the book.

Somewhere he could hear a clock strike one, but he could barely tell. His mind was like a birdcage, and now he was stuck inside.

Sigma's eyes were soon glazed over and Nikolai realized something was wrong.

It was only then he realized the consequences of his words. His face fell into a small frown, and he seemed like he truly wanted to apologize. But he was fighting against himself. Would he really let his mask slip like that?

Nikolai's eyes glanced carefully at Sigma, like he was afraid that he would shatter at any moment. Suddenly Nikolai got an idea. "Alright, it's time for a quiz!"

Sigma's eyes focused on Nikolai's. He opened his mouth slightly, but it was like he was reaching for words that he couldnt grasp. Nikolai took this as a chance to continue.

"Question 1! What makes you amazing?"

Sigma knew the answer to this. "It's my abilty" He said quietly.

Nikolai sighed. "That is incorrect my dear friend. The answer is everything!"

Sigma widened his eyes. How could that be true?

Nikolai smiled. "Yes, it's true! You're quite admirable and hardworking too. The people are undeserving of you."

A small smile appeared on Sigma's face. He had never heard praise like this before.

Nikolai saw this face, and it was like a switch had been flipped in his head. Immediately his eyes softened and a more genuine look appeared on his face.

"You know, you're like a peacock."

Sigma tilted his head curiously. "Why is that?"

"Well people only look at your feathers. But perhaps they should be appreciating the bird as a whole" Nikolai's face turned a rosy red.

Sigma was shocked by this. He had never seen Nikolai anywhere close to blushing before, and as a matter of fact, Nikolai had never even acted this way! Why was he admitting this like it was a secret, like it was something he held close to his heart?

Nikolai stared at him expectantly before sighing in dissapointment. "Do i really need to spell it out for you? Well I guess you really have the comprehension skills of a 3 year old" He said teasingly.

"You're amazing. As dazzling as a bird who spreads its wings and flies into the sky."

Now it was Sigma's turn to blush. "This is a cruel joke to play if you're messing with me, Nikolai" His heart was beating out of his chest though. He hoped on his life that he meant what he said.

Nikolai stayed silent for a moment before responding. "No, I'm not." He gently took off his eye cover and looked at Sigma. His eyes reflected the moonlight, and were full of affection.

Sigma froze. This couldn't be happening. How on earth could he be looked at like this?

But he wanted to reach out to Nikolai. He wanted to be together. He wanted to see Nikolai under the mask he wears everyday.

So they embraced under the moon, a new world opening up for the both of them. Perhaps they hold the keys to each others cages, perhaps in each other they can soar gloriously into the sky.

[vtori73]

Why do I feel like sooo many people lately have been utilizing poor reading comprehension skills. Like... with some of the media I like, I have felt like people aren't doing actual fair thorough analysis of the entire work of art and either only take in part of the story and judge it by those standards or don't consider the entire work has a specific angle it's going at so judging it by the standards of other art like it doesn't exactly make sense/work out.

I'm being vague but an example of this would be many fans and non-fans (but enjoyers of shonen) of Ju.jutsu Ka.isen. A decent amount have been complaining &/or criticizing it for exhibiting misogyny (like every other shonen) and while I'm not going to say it's the best most feminist thing ever what I WILL say is that at best I believe JJK is more neutral than anything else.

People talk about it for one thing because a decent amount of girls/women have died and while they have a decent amount of male characters too it's not seen as even because there aren't as many girl/woman characters and they tend to be connected to men. My main critique of this is that for 1 thing I do think the genre needs to be taken into consideration and since it's a shonen it just isn't going to have as many woman characters as men because it IS inherently supposed to focus on boys. We can talk about how gender conventions like this are antiquated and such but not only isn't this type of criticism unique to JJK OR even Japan at the end of the day the creator is subject to follow what editors say & want to see so whether or not the amount of woman was intentional we wouldn't know 100% considering mangaka don't actually have 100% control over their work. And one thing that I think helps this argument is that in the 1st episode of season 2 we actually get more screen time/new content of two girl characters during this specific arc and helps establish their characters more versus the manga AND the actual creator of the series helped work on this new season.

Another thing I want to point out is that JJK is one of the few that doesn't actually sexualize its characters compared to other shonen. It's something most shonen fans expect to see because shonen is made for boys (straight boys) in mind so fan service is kind of normal (not saying it okay or something just what is expected) and while maybe one or two characters are sexualized within JJ.K that doesn't exactly take away from it because this happens very rarely and out of 1/2 of the fan service like scenes its more so is used to establish one specific character as more "sexual" then others (what I'm basically saying is it isn't just there to be fan service but to establish some personality/traits of a specific character). And, I shouldn't have to point it out but one instance shouldn't automatically tarnish a piece of media just because of its existence.

My next point is that what people don't take into account is JJ.K isn't a cheery happy go lucky piece of media or shonen that relies on the power of friendship and hope and power alone it's much more realistic in its portrayal of kids being foisted into dangerous positions so it would be... odd and out of place for the woman characters to barely die if there are few to begin with and again, the point of the story IS the tragedy of it all, of what being a sorcerer entails, of what being a kid with cursed energy in this world entails and how much it ends up effecting you into adulthood.

The series also has established that sexism is a THING within its world on more than one occasion and even one of the more major characters has a literal arc dedicated to a woman character who takes revenge on her abusive patriarchal family. Some who watch/read JJ.K dismiss this however as being a one time thing and shouldn't speak for the whole work but I think that does a HUGE disservice and isn't actually fair to do AT ALL. This arc makes it a point to follow a girl character who wanted more from her life than to be in service of the men in her family AND wanted that for her sister and decided to go off on her own to train and become stronger to become the head of the family despite being born a non-sorcerer/lack of cursed energy & continued harassment & meddling of her family who eventually even attempt to MURDER her and her sister and succeed but was saved by her sister who in turn dies instead who makes a promise to her to destroy their clan in which she not only fulfills but fulfills EASILY and ends up becoming on of the most powerful characters in the stories world... and this all happens in a SHONEN, a piece of media that is meant to focus and cater specifically TOO BOYS. The existence of this character and her eventual arc is a big deal regardless of its length because at the end of the day it is treated seriously and as important to the story and characters like this are important for young people, especially boys, to see. Not to mention she also at some point in the story is horribly scarred and these scars don't go away, some could argue against it (extreme violence against women is bad) but I honestly think it refreshing & progressive to see a woman character who ACTUALLY ends up taking damage from a fight and doesn't look "conventionally" attractive anymore, they even make a point of pointing this out with a specific sexist character she was up against who says she no longer has her looks anymore (who she ends up defeating and killing).

There is even a scene in which this character is frustrated because she isn't able to reach her full potential (yet) and is helped by a random sumo wrestler enthusiast who communicates through a sumo match with her about what exactly is going on. To anyone unaware of the culture this doesn't seem like a big deal but traditionally women aren't allowed in the ring so this further shows the story going against and spitting on "tradition," within the culture of having this guy who is big into sumo invite her to a match and afterwards Maki is able to reach her full potential and finally beat the sexist character. I also find this refreshing and think it's kind of a big deal that we see two random sort-of-powerful-but-more-so average men who make it a point to help HER, a teen girl, to become EVEN more powerful, to surpass them, basically, and arent in anyway bothered or emasculated by this. We don't see a lot of men just supporting powerful girls/women characters and help them to become even stronger and I think that's an important thing for boys to see.

I believe I had a bit more arguing to do for this whole thing BUT I spent way too much time on the above and now I can't think of anything else, lol. So, maybe I'll come back to this to argue more but for now this is it. The only thing I do remember that I wanted to add was that again I do see JJ.K as more neutral because I DO have some complaints and mainly that is with one dynamic in the story/specific character because so far we have only gotten two extremely strong woman characters and one of them was killed off and ALSO had very little screen time. I WOULD like to see more powerful women who match the men within the story BUT considering it's almost over (the manga) and that again, it's a shonen, so I doubt that is going to happen BUT despite that I still do have positive feelings for JJ.K as a whole and think it is decent and disagree with people who consider is sexist and especially lump it in with most other major shonen.

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One thing I wanted to add but wasn't sure where, I also think it's... weird/odd that despite all these fans of anime who regularly partake in media that is culturally different and know this and learn a bit from it ALSO don't bother with ever questioning their thought process & critiques on the media. Or basically, I feel westerners don't bother to ever think that MAYBE there is more than one way to view something and that THERE perceptions and what they see/deem as good or progressive isn't going to 100% be the same as what is actually seen as good and progressive there.

[nanowrimo]

Contentedly Creating Comprehensive Characters

We all get stuck on our characters eventually, but maybe all we need is a fresh reminder on how to make those iconic characters. Luckily, writer Cyra Blue has a guide for how to create in-depth characters:

Chances are, if you’re reading this, you have a story (and by extension, some characters) mucking about in your brain. But how to make your forgotten prince stand out from among the many, many others of his kind, shape your villain into something more than a cardboard cutout of Jafar, or give that side character a personality other than “quirky alchemist”? I’ll give you a hint: it’s going to take some planning.

Put away your pitchforks, impulse writers. As a “pantser” myself, I know the urge to spit out your story without really thinking is great, but often comes at the cost of poor storytelling, confusing plot points, and bland characters. A bit of planning will help with that (and might even end up being fun!).

So, characters. Step one is to figure out what the character is doing in the story. Stop styling their spiky black emo hair for a second and pay attention, this is the most important part. In Plato’s Poetics (which is an excellent guide to writing tragedy, by the way), he emphasizes that the plot is the most important part of the story, and characters are intertwined in that, meant to carry the plot to its completion. Therefore, your characters must have a place somewhere in the plot, otherwise, well… they don’t matter. In creating characters for a story, ask yourself: 

“What impact does this character have on this story, and how do they help move it along?” 

If your adorable kitty girl doesn’t really do much for the gritty fantasy murder you’re writing, it’s time to make some cuts.

Now that you know what your character is doing with their life, you need to give them a personality. The easiest way to go about it is to pick up your cousin and drop them into the story without warning. Seriously. In my experience, I find the character creation process becomes much simpler if you have a good base to start off of. I can’t tell you how many times my brother has made it into my stories, whether he’s the main character or some weirdo walking down the street. The trick is, though, you don’t want to put the person in exactly as they are, especially if they’re going to be reading your story. Rather, you should take them as a base, stripping away all the identifying features until you get to their bones… that is, their personality. From there, you can add details until your new character is fully formed.

Think of it like casting roles in a play: you want the best possible person to play each part. For example, say your best friend is usually cheerful, but works hard to achieve their goals and is motivated to be better by their failures. You can very easily turn that personality into a character just by adding the necessary details, and all of a sudden you have the perfect character type for that extremely important old woman who raises the definitely-not-prince.

Alright, now we get to the part everybody likes: the details. My favorite way to do this is to fill out a character sheet, a myriad of which you can find with a simple Google search. There, you can finally give them their emo hair and favorite food, as well as a backstory, a family, goals, weaknesses, epic karate skills, and whatever else you desire. Looking for more help with their personality? Take a Myers-Briggs personality test as your character to get a feel for how their mind works.

And that’s it! If you follow these steps, you should end up with a good idea of who your character is and what role they play. Now, get out there and try it for yourself. Best of luck to all of you! 

Cyra Blue is currently a student at Thomas Aquinas College, where she is pursuing a degree in the Liberal Arts, which should explain the Plato reference. She does not have any currently published works, but is simultaneously working on an anthology detective series and a fantasy novel that may or may not involve a cat girl. In her free time, she enjoys acting in musicals, fooling around with art supplies, and keeping up with way too many cartoons. You can follow her on Instagram @ceruleancyra.

Top Photo by Alice Dietrich on Unsplash  

[arcticdementor]

The University of California system is getting rid of its SAT/ACT requirement. More will follow.

There’s a lot to say. First, we must distinguish between two types of tests, or really two types of testing. When people say “standardized tests,” they think of the SAT, but they also think of state-mandated exams (usually bought, at great taxpayer expense, from Pearson and other for-profit companies) that are designed to serve as assessments of public K-12 schools, of aggregates and averages of students. The SAT, ACT, GRE, GMAT, LSAT, MCAT, and similar tests are oriented towards individual ability or aptitude; they exist to show prerequisite skills to admissions officers. (And, in one of the most essential purposes of college admissions, to employers, who are restricted in the types of testing they can perform thanks to Griggs v Duke Power Co.) Sure, sometimes researchers will use SAT data to reflect on, for example, the fact that there’s no underlying educational justification for higher graduation rates1, but SATs are really about the individual. State K-12 testing is about cities and districts, and exists to provide (typically dubious) justification for changes to education policy2. SATs and similar help admissions officers sort students for spots in undergraduate and graduate programs. This post is about those predictive entrance tests like the SAT.

Liberals repeat several types of myths about the SAT/ACT with such utter confidence and repetition that they’ve become a kind of holy writ. But myths they are.

1. SATs/ACTs don’t predict college success. They do, indeed. This one is clung to so desperately by liberals that you’d think there was some sort of compelling empirical basis to believe this. There isn’t. There never has been. They’re making it up. They want it to be true, and so they believe it to be true.

…

2. The SATs only tell you how well a student takes the SAT. This is perhaps a corollary to 1., and is equally wrong. They tell us what they were designed to tell us: how well students are likely to perform in college. But the SATs tell us about much more than college success. Let me run this graphic again.

…

3. SATs just replicate the income distribution. No. Again, asserted with utter confidence by liberals despite overwhelming evidence that this is not true. I believe that this research represents the largest publicly-available sample of SAT scores and income information, with an n of almost 150,000, and the observed correlation between family income and SAT score is .25. This is not nothing. It is a meaningful predictor. But it means that the large majority of the variance in SAT scores is not explainable by income information. A correlation of .25 means that there are vast numbers of lower-income students outperforming higher-income students. Other analyses find similar correlations. If SAT critics wanted to say that “there is a relatively small but meaningful correlation between family income and SAT scores and we should talk about that,” fair game. But that’s not how they talk. The routinely make far stronger claims than that in an effort to dismiss these tests all together, such as here by Yale’s Paul Bloom. (Whose work I generally like.) It’s just not that hard to correlate two variables together, guys. I don’t know why you wouldn’t ever ask yourselves “is this thing I constantly assert as absolute fact actually true?” Well, maybe I do.

In general, progressive and left types routinely overstate the power of the relationship between family wealth and academic performance on all manner of educational outcomes. The political logic is obvious: if you generally want to redistribute money (as I do) then the claim that educational problems are really economic problems provides ammo for your position. But the fact that there is a generic socioeconomic effect does not mean that giving people money will improve their educational outcomes very much, particularly if richer people are actually mildly but consistently better at school than poorer for sorting reasons that are not the direct product of differences in income. That is, what correlation does exist between SES and academic indicators might simply be the metrics accurately measuring the constructs they were designed to measure.

And throwing money at our educational problems, while noble in intent, hasn’t worked. (People react violently to this, but for example poorer and Blacker public schools receive significantly higher per-pupil funding than richer and whiter schools, which should not be a surprise given that the policy apparatus has been shoveling money at the racial performance gap for 40 years.) All manner of major interventions in student socioeconomic status, including adoption into dramatically different home and family conditions, have failed to produce the benefits you’d expect if academic outcomes were a simple function of money. I believe in redistribution as a way to ameliorate the consequences of poor academic performance. There is no reason to think that redistribution will ameliorate poor academic performance itself.

5. SATs are easily gamed with expensive tutoring. They are not. This one is perhaps less empirically certain than the prior two and on which I’m most amenable to counterargument, but the preponderance of the evidence seems clear to me in saying that the benefits of tutoring/coaching for these tests are vastly overstated. Again, a simplistic proffered explanation for a troublesome set of facts that then implies simplistic solutions that would not work.

6. Going test optional increases racial diversity. This one, I think, must be called scientifically unsettled. However both Sweitzer, Blalock, and Sharma and Belasco, Rosinger, and Hearn find no appreciable increase in racial diversity after universities go test-optional. “Holistic” application criteria like admissions essays almost certainly benefit richer students anyway. What’s more, we have to ask ourselves what “diversity” really means in this context. Private colleges and universities keep the relevant data close to the vest, for obvious reasons, but it’s widely believed that many elite schools satisfy their internal diversity goals for Black students by aggressively pursuing wealthy Kenyan and Nigerian international students, whose parents have the means to be the kind of reliable donors that such schools rely on so heavily. I’m not aware of a really comprehensive study that examines this issue, and it would be hard to pull off, but the relevant question is “do various policies intended to improve diversity on campus actually increase the enrollment of American-born descendants of African slaves?” I can’t say, but you can guess where my suspicions lie.

…

All of that is prologue to the bigger point: the controversy over college entrance examinations stems not from the examinations themselves, but from the fact that they reveal profound differences in human capital that make progressives uncomfortable. The SATs don’t create inequality. They reveal inequality.

…

The racial achievement/performance gap is a curious thing even in the context of an American political discourse that seems to get more bizarre by the day. That the gap exists is, on balance, not controversial. Gaps in performance are observed on essentially every measured academic metric, though the size of the effects vary from context to context, and the general distribution is Asian American students at the top, white students next, then Hispanic, then Black. The Black-white gap in particular has shrunk from the era of (explicitly) segregated schools but progress has not been consistent or linear. Most people in academia and politics admit it exists: prominent Black politicians like Barack Obama and Kamala Harris reference it, every major think tank and foundation operating in the educational space identifies it as a major priority, and the NAACP used to address if often, though their Education and Education Strategy pages have recently disappeared so it’s hard to know where they stand now. These things are faddish but once upon a time every other dissertation written by someone getting a PhD in Education was about the gap. We can observe it even outside of reference to controversial tests, such as noting that the white high school graduation rate is 10% higher than that for Black students. The achievement gap is a thing.

And yet I also find a rapidly-congealing social prohibition against talking about these gaps in progressive spaces. If you refer to a racial achievement gap in a lot of liberal or left contexts now, you’ll find that people clam up fast and get visibly uncomfortable, even if you take pains to point out that an academic achievement gap does not imply an academic potential gap. People just don’t want to acknowledge that gaps exist at all; our racial discourse appears to have become such a blunt instrument that the acknowledgement of racial difference is controversial even when you preface discussion with the belief (that I hold) that the gap is the product of innumerable environmental and sociocultural factors rather than genetics or other inherent differences. Simply saying “Black students consistently score lower on tests like the SATs, have lower average GPAs, and have worse metrics on ancillary concerns like truancy” - again, Barack Obama’s position, Kamala Harris’s position, Cory Booker’s position - is enough for people to start launching into harangues about the inherent violence of those comparisons. People just do not want to talk about this stuff.

…

Those concerns with group differences, at least, have some sort of basic political logic and are amenable to complaints that they are the product of systemic inequality. (They are, but not the inequalities that people think, and again the SAT gap is a result of systemic inequality, not a cause of systemic inequality.) More disturbing to me is the rise of resistance within academia to the notion of inequalities between individuals. When I was in grad school more than a half-decade ago, I observed with some considerable unhappiness that it had become increasingly socially unacceptable to speak of some students as simply better students than others, as being more talented, harder working, or more prepared. All of this was seen as inegalitarian and, eventually, as “white supremacist” even if every student being compared in a given context was white. There were many instructors back then who bragged about giving all students As, etc., and I must assume this practice has only grown over time. In the humanities and social sciences especially there is a growing movement to reject assessment, including grading - the means through which we sort better students from worse - as the hand of illegitimate power that “does violence” to the students who voluntarily attend college.

…

Of course, that complicity in the neoliberal machine is not some recent injustice; it is the very reason that colleges and universities are funded by our society at all. If this trend continues, not just eliminating SAT requirements or increasingly refusing to hierarchize students with grades but in rejecting the entire sorting function of the university, academia will collapse. Wealthy parents aren’t paying Harvard to enrich their children in the humanistic sense. They’re paying Harvard to act as a marker of their child’s superiority in the labor market and the social hierarchy. Employers value college because it provides at least some meaningful information about who will succeed as a worker; remove that function and the financial justification for a hideously expensive system dies. I would love if education dropped its association with meritocracy, but that cannot occur within our current system. The professors who self-aggrandize through their rejection of their hierarchizing function, if successful, would cause the doom of the modern university. (These tenured radicals, of course, never are so moved by the inherent inequities of academia that they quit the profession.)

Today, it is somehow controversial to say “some people are smarter than others,” a reflection of one of the simple brute realities of human life and something that has been accepted as true for thousands of years.

Here is the essence of it: hierarchies of relative academic performance are remarkably stable throughout life, due to differences in inherent or intrinsic academic ability of whatever origin, and the SATs and similar mechanisms reveal those differences in a way that liberal America is increasingly unable to accept. This is the source of all of this angst, not the technical details of whether a test is fair or valid or just, but a liberal intelligentsia that is incapable of honestly confronting the fact that different human beings have fundamentally different intrinsic abilities. I believe in political equality, social equality, equality of rights, equality of dignity, equality of protection under the law. But the notion that all people are equally talented, in academics or anything else, is an absurdity, and as much as people will rush to deny intrinsic difference, I suspect that pretty much everybody knows that they are real. When you were a child you casually assumed that some of your classmates were naturally better at school than others, and you did because it was true.

This is the conversation that I tried, and failed, to force with my book: left-of-center political movements, from center-left to radically socialist, cannot achieve the goal of the greater good for everyone, including greater political and economic equality, while pretending that we believe in equality of human ability. The only way to intelligently address various social, economic, and political equalities related to differences in human potential is to acknowledge that those differences exist. The current rending of garments regarding inequalities within our education system has led to certifiably bizarre situations like the movement, currently gathering steam, to teach math as if it is as subjective as literature or art. But this won’t make Black kids or poor kids or girls or anyone else actually better at math. And if the universities really give up their function of creating an academic hierarchy for political reasons, employers will find new systems that do that, or a lot of people will get hired and quickly fired for not being competent. This is not an intelligent policy approach. Getting rid of the SATs won’t make unprepared kids prepared. It won’t make naturally untalented students naturally talented. It won’t make kids who aren’t smart into smart kids. All it will do is hide the reality of those unpleasant inequalities.

[paper-cloud]

i. the crushing weight of what happens next

part of "(there will be a) tomorrow"

fandom: prospect (2018) characters: ezra, cee rating: T words count: ~3K context: post-canon general warnings/tags: see series masterlist warnings/tags for this chapter: ezra's pov. angst. not graphic descriptions of wounds, blood and amputated limbs. mentions of minor characters' death. (probably very) inaccurate but anyways vague descriptions of medical treatments and post-anesthesia symptoms. taglist: @ravensmutty @buttercup--bee @thegreenkid (again, thank you all for your interest and encouragement! :3) @krissology @ezrasarm @bonktime (please forgive my nerve, i won't tag you in the next chapters unless you'll explicitly ask me to! just thought about someone else who might be interested and you guys are AMAZINGLY talented and inspiring "prospect"/ezra writers. it's not my intention to waste precious moments of your time! 🤡

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He'd have thought it was almost ironic – opening his eyes to the light only to see nothing. To feel pain.

He'd have laughed about it, most likely. A bit later, he'd have acknowledged it was a reasonably fair compromise; for him and any other wretch that'd ever dared play dice with darkness and miraculously made it out alive.

And in the very end he'd come to laugh at himself, too.

He knows the drill. Someone who trades their own life with the contract of the highest bidder doesn't see the universe in black and white, let alone is in a position to draw the hypothetical line between the two of them.

Must be an even more wicked universe than he's ever cared about, then.

At least, that's where the struggle of opening his eyes made him stumble upon; when a blade of light thrust through that hint of a gap he'd pushed himself to create in the middle, resonating through the dark coils of unconsciousness like a harsh, unforgiving bell.

A skilled mariner over silky rivers of natural redundancy and rapids of professional edges, Ezra is a man who can appreciate a sharp wit when he recognizes one.

That was too much even for him.

Floundering in between a blinding whiteness and a black hole that wasn't even completely black, but permeated by a thick, suffocating haze that filled every ghost haunting his mind with its stench. With the color of diabolically lush leaves.

Forest— spores— poison— death.

It hadn't been enough to let him dangle in apnea above a roaring vortex of lifeless emerald; take him away from the grey flow whose elusiveness he'd come to appreciate more than he'd ever hated to endure its chaos— from the bubble built on the routine series of one last jobs that, in the end, never really were.

There'd been a moment when, from the higher parts of the room, his pupils tumbled down, tripping over a patch of green discreetly lurking in a corner.

He almost threw up.

It had taken him a while to clear out the misty grit clotted in his corneas— focus on white walls, light wood paneling... a harmless seedling in a pot.

He'd breathed heavily, deeply. He sure hadn't got much relief from it. Still, he'd been able to hear its sound, louder than he'd ever heard it before, the musical, cooling mesh of oxygen particles in and out of his lungs almost begging his fingers to be touched.

Oxygen.

Fresh air.

Had he been less sore – less convinced it was just the residual effects of anesthesia pulling pranks on him –, he would have burst out laughing. Even more so if some poor soul of the medical staff nearby would have called for reinforcements from the other side of the space station before storming into his room.

He'd be laughing now, too. The best he can manage is sitting on his bed, leaning his back on the headboard – which is what he's struggling to do right now— and well, sometimes the room lighting still slightly bothers him. Of course, with all the painkillers and antibiotics they've given him, he wouldn't feel like the wound on his stomach is swallowing the entire arsenal of stitches and bandages.

He just wouldn't like her to get the wrong idea.

He blinks several times, like a man who no longer trusts his eyes. How can he, when they're burning like that, in such a different fire from the one from days before – damp and flickering? For reasons he can imagine, she seems to be faltering. Totally beyond his comprehension, he could swear she's smiling at him. Something inside his ribcage creaks oddly, while the curve of his chest arches upward.

"Birdie."

It's just a huff of breath, weak and hoarse, yet scratches his throat all the same, in a way that its walls feel studded with rock spurs. Actually, Ezra doesn't remember talking since they left the Green behind – which, being him, is saying something – and it's like an eternity has passed since their pod docked up there.

The nurse who let her into his room has just left and Cee sinks her hands into the pockets of her sweatpants. She's still smiling— just the faded shadow of a smile, now that he takes a better look at her.

"How's your wound?"

It sounds a lot less plain than he expected.

She hasn't moved towards him any further, and for now she's not showing any hints at wanting to. In her irises, Ezra recognizes thumping stars and cerulean clouds, all clustered in the black circle cut by the large porthole next to his bed. All before catching the thin mist veiling them. As if she did want to reach those stars, let herself get carried away by those streams of bluish dust, but she had no idea how or what to do there.

He looks down, the borders of the bandages over his abdomen slightly raised under his black short-sleeved tee. He clears his throat.

"S'healin' nicely", he says, with a deliberate lightheartedness that costs him a sharp, bizarre inflection in his voice. He closes his eyes soon after, tilting his head condescendingly. "That's how the nurse feels about it, anyway... S'not like I can feel much more right now."

This reminds him of those vacuous moments between brief, chaotic waking states and delirious dreams. When he'd managed to reconnect some essential key points scattered around in the talks of surgeons and nurses; the weariness he felt from simply gathering he was on a space station due to enter the orbit of Mesos in three cycles and something standard hours. All while his only solid reference point – the only indisputable proof he was still alive – was the sequence of beeps chirped by the medical monitor perched nearby. Constant, not monotonous. Friendly, even. Sometimes, he actually comes to miss it.

"A trust fall to the extreme, I'd guess", he snorts, a sly laugh as weak and heavy as the words trudging out of his mouth. As the whole rest of him.

Whatever answer she's considering, Cee freezes it in a quick purse of her lips – maybe a nod, but for his own good he'd rather be doubtful. Then she starts looking around.

There's a chair under the board firmly anchored to the opposite wall – probably a desk or something he's never needed to test, whatsoever. She grabs it and puts it next to his bed. She sits down, bringing her legs to her chest, squeezing them in her arms.

Waiting for what, Ezra has no idea, and he's afraid she doesn't have any, either.

He doesn't speak, though, nor does he encourage her to do the same. Her pearly gaze roams steadily but unhurriedly from him to somewhere beyond him, her nose buried in the gap between her knees. He studies her carefully, two purple crescents above her cheeks, a few hair strands swinging down her face without her wiping them out. The nights she's slept through haven't been any more peaceful than his.

Trust, he recalls in the meantime.

It sure brings an odd taste to his mouth. Something close to sweaty spacesuits, grimy paths and gone-off ration bars. A single word for two human beings forced to share the same air filter for days; that, and the image of a dead body left to rot miles behind and the desperate commitment not to end up in the same way.

His gaze just happens to trip over his right side, taking in the deflated sleeve over the emptiness that saved his life. When he lifts it back to the girl, meeting her eyes just before they can flutter away, he realizes they were both looking at the same spot. And he realizes something else— something he's already understood, yet not quite.

There is no tube binding them now.

"Why d'you do it?", he mumbles a split second later, almost like somehow the thread of his question has immediately knotted to the one of his previous thought.

He huffs. He shouldn't even have asked her, in all honesty. Seeing her like this, at least he should have put it in another way, danced around it, it's not like he’s never been good at stalling, after all—

"Comin' back", Ezra says instead, and when he swallows, he mainly does it to send his heart back down his throat. If he'd died without being given the last chance to be this straightforward on this matter, he would have probably kicked his ass all the way to the other side. 

This time, Cee doesn't avoid his gaze. He shouldn't be surprised by how collected she looks, given the calmness she handled his infected arm with and then told him about when she used to slip into Jata Bhalu carcasses. But he can't help it when he thinks she can't be much older now than what she was then.

He watches her breathing in, wobbling her pupils here and there, seemingly considering his words. She's not afraid, not any more than what she seemed to be when she walked into his room. Maybe she's just better than him at playing pretend – but this, he can't tell whether it's more of a good than a bad thing. Especially for her.

One thing he can tell is that she's not the same girl who pointed a trembling gun at him before running away into the woods. He knows she's not afraid.

He knows...

So is it the hunter's instinct he has to blame if he feels she is?

"Guess I've seen too much death on that forsaken moon to just... turn my back on one I can help– one I can do something about."

If he was standing in front of an entire mountain crumbling down into the ocean, he wouldn't hear its sound. ‘Wouldn't even be the worst he deserves. She did hesitate before adding the last few words, but Ezra refuses to believe she did that because she was afraid of hurting him. He may be a wretch, but not a fool.

Kevva, for a man who's always managed to untwist himself from far tougher situations with the tangles of his tongue alone, he's sure having a deal of trouble – and he wishes he could put all the blame on his current physical condition.

There is no word he doesn't have to weigh carefully now, to prevent it from taking too sharp edges once out of his lips. He may float around it forever. But once he's let her go without saying anything, he'll hardly find the courage to look within himself again, more than after any other job that hardened his hands with calluses and tarnished his eyes with blood.

He doesn't know for sure. In fact, everything he was sure to know – about the turning direction of the universe and the one of the wheels in his head – has already collapsed in front of him, tracing a flaming tail. An unforgiving meteor following a trajectory far beyond his grasp.

He just knows silence scares him, in a way that a wrong word will never do again. It terrifies him. More than as a talkative person, as a castaway on a hostile moon for too many cycles to keep their count – with the only company of a mute. Silence is green; the green of the most poisonous pollen, lethal in his brain just like toxic spores enveloped in his lungs. The green of snake scales ready to stand and scratch his flesh until liquid crimson pours out of it.

And at the end of the day, this is the only fucking thing he can tell himself to know without having his guts churning and chest heaving a beat later.

"Stop looking at me like that."

It's more of an exhausted prayer than an annoyed remark. Ezra blinks, stunned by the sudden return from the shapeless stream of his thoughts.

"Like what?"

"Like you're looking for the words to thank me", Cee settles back into her chair and this time she lets one leg touch the floor, "Tell me you owe me, and you– you're sorry about what you did."

Ezra sniffles. "Would it be bad?" 

"No, it—". She closes her eyes for a moment, clenching her jaw. "Just no good", she breathes out, calmer.

And the discordant note in those words conjures up ghosts not yet vague enough for Ezra to be able to tolerate them without something twinging inside him— like a violent flutter of wings. Voices groping their way up ravels of compromises. Damon, deep in the forest. Himself, with the mercenaries in the Queen's Lair. Cee, days before that. After he—

She's right— those words she hasn't said yet, but whose shadow he feels looming every time he catches her wetting her lips.

Some things just can't be split evenly.

"This is not the Green", she states, suddenly more confident but no less exhausted. "If you're going to hang around just because you need to, once we reach Mesos¹ you'd better be on your way."

Ezra doesn't interrupt her. A faded echo starts making its way into his ears. A former prospecting partner, many years ago. An easy job on a forgettable Fringe moon.

Gems don't have an expiration date. Deals do. Strike 'em if you need to, get rid of them as soon as you can. Unless you care to dig a quicker way to your grave.

He didn't pay attention to it, then. He'd thought it was just the empty rhetoric prospectors drop absentmindedly to fill the time between an unrewarding digging and the next. All the more so under the rickety advice of a couple too many.

His eyes still wide open, hands shaky, he merely reciprocated the awkward bottle lift of his partner, whom he didn't know more than the meanders of that quarry. A toast to a faceless future – a nothingness still more reassuring than what was all around and behind them. Not to the darkness of the cave, basically unbreakable if only for the red halo thrown by the twinkles of sharp, sinister Prystines². Not even to the two poor bastards that had set out with them, ending up skewered a few hundred paces behind – one by mistake, the other to return the favor of saving him from the clutches of a furious Aiu³.

Like an idiot.

Several contracts later preventing him from missing a beat in front of similar hiccups, the logic of that statement no longer sounds so absurd to Ezra. Luckily for him, Cee understood it long before him.

"I was just lookin' for the words to tell ya you'll be better off without me—"

Half a truth. Half a heartbeat. After all, she isn't the only one of them who knows how to sell it.

He leans his head back against the headboard, eyes half-closed, a sly grin baring a couple of his upper teeth. It would almost be intimidating, except that the glint hitting them doesn't quite match the dying one in his eyes.

"—But you beat me to it", he finishes, and he sounds like he's about to fall asleep.

He slowly turns his head away, looks through the porthole. His gaze clutches to the passing asteroids outside, distant nebulae spraying the sidereal black with hues of purple, blue, red— then green, again. A climbing plant squeezing him from the inside, discomfort starts creeping on him an inch of his body – what's left of it – at a time.

He doesn't want her to think he's angry at her, and it's the only concrete foothold emerging from the fluid, magmatic chaos in his mind.

How could he be, when she came back to get him?

She didn't have to.

She doesn't have to be here, either...

"I'm sorry", she suddenly blurts out.

He meets her eyes again, a mix of bewilderment and disapproval shading his own. He shakes his head.

"Don't."

"I just—". She starts fiddling with the extra fabric created by the folds of her sweatpants. Then she sighs deeply. "I have no idea what I'm gonna do now."

He snorts. "Not that it's s'pposed to make you feel any better, but... neither do I."

He doesn't have a hazy helmet choking the glimmer in his eyes, an air filter breaking some frequencies in his voice— maybe just those making him sound sincere, while saving those trapping him into the swamp of self-loathing.

He was nothing but honest when he told her the rules of the game on the Green. When he openly admitted he was a killer, and when he assured her he wouldn't trade her for the Sater's Aurelac. And she's always seemed to believe him, maybe for that kind of desperate inertia that washes over people when they need something to cling to. Whatever the case, Ezra can only hope she wants to believe him now. But she doesn't speak, and for a moment his fear of not saying enough overcomes that of crossing her boundaries.

"But w—", he immediately bites his tongue, "—you still have three cycles to figure things out. Someone up here will be able to help you. Even so, please know you'll always have my most sincere gratitude."

The effort of lining up all those words and so few pauses to catch his breath casts a thick fog over his ears. His eyes suddenly hurt again and he finds himself squinting.

What happens next, he just records it, hardly managing to follow each cause-effect relationship. A series of events softly raining on him without making a noise, while he can quite imagine them to be way more prolonged in time. Cee leaning towards the lighting panel on the wall, sliding her finger counterclockwise, and the white coating the walls turning less painfully bright; her getting up, walking away, dwelling just before the door. "I'll come to check on you tomorrow", she says, sniffling.

She tilts her head, holding his gaze in her watery one for an agonizingly slow while – Please, don't ask me why.

He blinks once – Of course.

Then, the automatic door is once again engulfed by the wall, closing behind her with a metallic rustle.

Tomorrow.

His heart is taken by a spiraling jolt that leaves an empty cave behind. When it falls back into place, Ezra finds something has tripped in there, shapeless and quivering like the nucleus of a newborn star.

Hope, terror and everything that lies in between. 

___________________

NOTES:

1) Mesos — Invented planet. Its only raison d'être is that "mésos" in Greek means "middle" and my intent was to frame this story in a moment of transition (after those of movies) for both Ezra and Cee. 2) Prystines — Invented kind of crystals. They're implied to be huge, red and very sharp, thus endangering the path through the cave. 3) Aiu — Invented predator, ideally a big feline.

A/N:

Yeah, uhm... at this point, if someone was ever to give me any kind of feedback, constructive criticism or random thought, I think I'd just melt into a puddle for the attention alone. And to all those who came all the way down here, your bravery shall not be forgotten. ♥️✨

In my defense, it's (almost) all P**** P*****'s fault & of his habit of taking orphans under his wing from one planet to another.

I know people in the fandom generally tend to make Ezra and Cee go along straight away after the movie, so this will be a slightly different take on things, I guess... But even if I don't know if I'll keep this series going atm (life & maturity exam suck), a final reconciliation is definitely on the way. ;)

Oh, and any beta reader that should feel like helping me out for when I'll have the next chapters ready is warmly welcomed! My DMs are always open and I swear I don't bite! :3

[alittlewhump]

Unbidden - Act 1, chapter 4

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Content warnings: fantasy violence, death mention, fantasy religion

They had travelled for another half a day before reaching the remains of the little town. It had been thoroughly sacked, most of the buildings now just burned out husks. Blaise was staring down at the body of what had presumably been one of the inhabitants. Morgan could tell she was distressed, and she was also sending signals of anger. It was becoming apparent that anger was a standard underpinning of most of her other emotions. Her hands were balled into fists at her sides.

"He was just a kid."

Morgan didn't know how to respond. The boy had been prepubescent, the small size of his body accentuated by the large and ungainly prosthetic leg still partially attached under one knee. The forces of darkness did not discriminate, equitable in their ruthlessness. That would not be the correct thing to say right now. He ventured a soft "Yes," to which Blaise did not respond. He raised a hand, thinking to lay it on her shoulder in a gesture of sympathy he'd seen many times, but then let it fall back to his side. She would likely only take offense, not comfort, from that action. He didn't particularly like touching other people anyway, if it could be avoided.

Morgan squinted instead toward the ruined town, looking more with his mind than with his eyes. There were more like the boy, all adults but recently deceased, their bones partially scattered above the ground. It was most often undead that left their victims this way, torn asunder carelessly. They were slow enemies whose movements were easy to predict. Should be simple enough. Hopefully the scholar they sought had been fast enough to hide himself away or make an escape.

Morgan's skeletons turned in unison, raising their swords in challenge. He often relied on their perception to fill in the gaps where he wasn't paying attention. There was a yelp, and a small red demon scampered out from behind a ruined building. It didn't make it far. Before the skeletons had a chance to charge, Blaise had planted an arrow between its shoulders. Its dying cry echoed through the remnants of the town, prompting a rush of activity. It seemed a number of demons had settled in. The undead had simply been scavenging, then. That could complicate things.

Morgan urged his skeletons forward, taking a step back as he started on a clay golem. He'd managed to get the time down to about thirty seconds, but it was evident that wouldn't be fast enough for most combat situations. He would have to keep working at it.

Blaise was proving to be an extremely skilled archer. Her shots were both quick and accurate, devastating to the smaller demons. It wasn't just the imps, though; there was a group of larger demons as well, goatlike bipeds wielding wicked-looking glaives. They moved to flank the invading humans, but Morgan spotted the maneuver and commanded his minions to intercept the closest ones. Their awareness was reasonably comprehensive, but his own let him down. If the goatman behind him hadn't bleated as it raised its weapon to strike, it could easily have finished him with a single blow.

He twisted sideways, narrowly avoiding the strike. Drawing his sword was easier from the far hip after all. He plunged it blindly into the demon's middle before it had a chance to raise its weapon a second time. Accuracy wasn't paramount at the moment, just so long as he got the point far enough in and wrenched to the side with sufficient strength. He jumped back, avoiding the spray of viscera that followed his blade as the demon fell.

He should have been checking for other threats instead; if he had, he might have noticed the small one creeping up behind him, emboldened by the presence of the stronger demons. It swung its blade with a battle cry, slicing into the flesh of Morgan's thigh. He cried out in surprise and pain, lashing out with his shield to gain some distance. The demon was already backing off, its fit of courage fading. It was watching him so intently that it didn't notice the skeleton behind it. A single well-aimed thrust saw it fall with a gurgle.

Morgan pressed a hand to the cut on his leg. The blade hadn't severed anything crucial, but the pain would hamper his mobility and the wound was deep enough to warrant treatment. He ordered the skeleton closer as he felt around in the pouch on his belt, fingers seeking a familiar shape - there. He uncorked the small bottle with his teeth and downed its contents. The taste of the potion lingered on his tongue, but it was mildly sweet and herbaceous, not at all unpleasant. It would only be a few minutes before the injury was fully healed. It already felt a little better.

The few remaining demons had incapacitated the other skeleton but they were fleeing now, not that it was doing them much good in the face of Blaise's arrows. She was merciless and efficient. Morgan could see why Kashya had chosen her for the task. Something was amiss, though. He couldn't quite put his finger on it. He looked around again, and his eyes fell on one of the deceased civilians. That was it - the body showed signs of undead interference, but they had slain only demons. The two types of creatures often coexisted peacefully, so it wasn't likely that one group had driven out the other.

"That's the last of them," Blaise announced, lowering her bow. "Now let's hope we can find this guy quickly so we can leave. I don't like this place."

"It looked like there would be undead, so be - oh, look there-" Something was stirring, far enough away that Morgan couldn't make out exactly what it was, but the movement wasn't promising. He pointed with his sword, his minions already on their way to investigate. Blaise nocked another arrow and raised her bow.

An enormous zombie staggered toward them. Had it been... hiding? Or just somehow unaware of the skirmish? It was surprisingly fast for its size. It was also unexpectedly strong, Morgan realized as it shattered the skeleton's skull with a single powerful strike. Blaise was on the retreat, peppering it with arrows that didn't seem to be having much effect. The clay golem made it stumble with a blow to its side, but it struck out in retaliation with such force that the construct crumbled to pieces. Morgan weighed his options quickly. It was too fast for another golem. A new skeleton might be fast enough, but it would only be able to serve as a momentary distraction. With his injured leg he wouldn't even be able to outrun this one if he fled, never mind what that might mean for Blaise. He had to find a way to separate the head from the body, or destroy the brain. Not ideal, given his limited physical capacity, but then again neither was dying.

Blaise called out, "Some support would be nice!" Yes, it - oh, she meant from him. The zombie was focused on her as the only aggressor. He did have the weaponry better suited to dispatch it, if only he could reach its head. He struck the hilt of his sword against his buckler and shouted, hoping the noise would get its attention. It did not. If it was going to ignore him, maybe he could use that to his advantage.

Morgan darted in, intending to strike at the zombie's knees. Joints were always vulnerable, good targets for incapacitating an enemy. He was too slow - it finally turned toward him with a fierce swing of its arm. He managed to get his shield up in time, but the blow still lifted him off his feet. The uneven terrain and his injury made for a poor landing but an idea sparked as he stumbled, falling into a crouch with one hand braced on the ground.

He sent a tendril of magic shooting forth through the soil, just a small one for the sake of speed. If this didn't work, he might not have the time for a second try. The earth in front of the zombie rose up and curled back to cover its feet. It was not coordinated enough to avoid the crude trap. Morgan picked himself up as the undead fell to its knees, finally bringing its weak point within range. He quickly positioned the tip of his sword at the base of its skull and gave it a hard thrust, pushing with the force of both hands. There was a snap as the spine gave way, and the body collapsed.

That had felt a little too close for comfort. Morgan summoned another skeleton and sent it to scout for any more undead. Another surprise like that would be disastrous. If he kept a steady trickle of magic flowing between himself and the skeleton, he would be able to tell immediately if it had been damaged or destroyed.

"All right, now let's look for your man Deckard. Carefully. There had better not be any more of these big fuckers lurking around." Blaise nudged the body gingerly with her foot.

They moved through the town warily at first, growing more relaxed as it became apparent that they had fully cleared out its new inhabitants. A few of the buildings had cellars dug out beneath them, but they had all been empty. It was starting to look like there had been no survivors at all when Blaise spotted something.

"Wait, is that him?"

Morgan followed her gaze to a crudely constructed cage leaning up against a building. He had assumed the prone figure inside it, half hidden by rags, had been another body. But when he reached out, first with his mind alone and then with an extended arm to better direct the magic, there was no response - no bones he could use, unlike the rest of the unfortunate townsfolk.

"That one's not dead," he said, moving in closer. The pale figure was unconscious, yes, but still living. It looked like it might be an old man.

"How do you - ugh, I don't want to know, never mind." Blaise made it to him first, reaching through the bars of the cage to check for a pulse at the old man's throat. She must have found one, since her next move was to shake his shoulder gently.

He startled awake, eyes wide. "Back! Back, foul demons!" he cried out.

"Whoa, hey there, it's okay. Don't worry, my name is Blaise and I'm here to help you. The demons are gone. Are you all right? You hurt at all?" Her voice was reassuring, soothing. Her features had softened into an expression of genuine concern.

"You... oh, thank heavens! It's so good to see a friendly face. No, my dear, I'm a little worse for the wear but I'm not injured. I don't suppose you might have some water to share, would you? I'm absolutely parched."

Morgan had reached the cage by that time, and passed his waterskin through the bars. Blaise moved to examine the lock on the cage, giving it a very brief examination before fishing out two slender metal tools from her pack. "I'll have you out of there in no time," she reassured him as she began working at the lock.

The scouting skeleton hadn't encountered anything of note, but the earlier surprise was still troubling Morgan. He decided to raise another golem to join the perimeter guard, just to be on the safer side. To his surprise, the old man brightened as the shape began to take form.

"Ah, geomancy! It's been a rather long time since I've seen that particular school of magic. And so sombre, too - would I be right in guessing you to be followers of Rathma?" The old man pulled himself upright, leaning on the cage bars for support as the lock cracked open in Blaise's hands.

"Just me."

"Just him."

Blaise seemed surprised by their response in unison, but it didn't appear to faze the other man at all. "Well," he said, "whatever your origins, I'm grateful for the rescue. My name is Deckard Cain." That was excellent news. A stroke of luck that the sole survivor was the man they had been looking for. He kept talking as he stepped out of the cage. "When the demons descended, I was sure I was not long for this world. I can't imagine what possessed them to lock me up in there, but it certainly saved me from sharing a fate with everyone else here." He looked sadly at one of the human bodies, a woman who appeared to have died in the street, reaching toward the door of a house. "I only wish there was something I could have done to prevent this tragedy. These were good people. They didn't deserve this."

"I could give them their final rites," Morgan suggested. Nothing could undo what had happened, but at least the dead could be laid to rest properly. It might give some measure of comfort to the old man as well. All things considered, it felt like an acceptable delay.

Cain laid a hand on Morgan's shoulder. He flinched only slightly at the unexpected contact. "Thank you, friend. It is kind of you to offer, and I can think of no one better than a priest of Rathma to lay these people to rest."

Blaise coughed. "Are you sure about that? You... you know what they do with skeletons, right?"

"My dear, I assure you there are none more suited to care for the dead. I visited a temple of Rathma once for several months in my younger days, far to the southeast..."

Morgan half listened as he stowed his shield. It was a simple enough line to draw, though it seemed unlikely that Blaise would be interested in the particulars: bodies that had been consecrated, no matter the particulars of the faith that informed the process, felt different than ones that had not received that treatment. They were easy to sense and avoid, and besides that, they were considerably harder to raise. Powerful practitioners were capable of such feats, but despite their reputation, priests of their Order gave the dead every courtesy they would afford the living. It wasn't uncommon to meet resistance even in the dead that had passed on unremarked; in these cases, a necromancer could either leave the spirit be or pass it through the veil as they deemed appropriate. Morgan preferred the option of assisting with the passing on, though he hadn't ever personally had the opportunity. It felt like it would be better than just leaving them to linger.

The first stages of preparation for this particular ceremony didn't require much concentration, just some physical effort to collect and lay out the deceased. Including the boy from the outskirts of the town, there were six bodies to inter. There was a good spot near the central part of the town, likely once a market of some sort. It seemed unlikely that anyone would be rushing to rebuild the town any time soon, he reasoned.

"Excuse me, young man." Morgan stopped to look at Cain, who was wearing an apologetic smile. "I hate to be a bother, but..." He gestured toward the remains of the enormous zombie. "This gentleman is... or was, rather... Griswold, the town blacksmith. Stone deaf but a heart of gold in him. He did great things, in life. Is there any way you could include him as well?"

"Yes, of course." Morgan considered the body for a moment before calling his golem back over from where it had been patrolling the area. Even with its help, it was difficult to maneuver the corpse over to the others. But they managed eventually, making him the seventh in the line. Cain chattered on to Blaise the entire time, but clearly he was also paying some attention to Morgan.

"That's everyone," he confirmed before Morgan had even opened his mouth to ask. "It saddens me to see this lively town reduced to so little. Rest well, my friends."

That was a recognizable cue. Morgan began by consecrating the zombie, drawing a small phial of oil from his chest pocket and anointing its head and hands. The oil glowed faintly as he said a brief incantation, an ancient prayer. The first step completed, he switched to a different oil and drew a simple sigil on the forehead of each of the deceased. This anointment was to help guide the spirits up to Anu. As he recited the liturgy, he was surprised to hear Cain's voice joining his own during the repeated segments. He filed that away to consider later. Right now he needed to concentrate.

Seven was a lot of bodies to inter, but if he let the constructs fall and paced himself he could probably manage. He knelt by Griswold and touched the earth. Carefully, slowly, it parted beneath the giant of a man. Once the body was several feet deep, the dirt filled in on top of him, leaving a small mound on the surface. The effort left him slightly winded. It had been a good idea to start with the largest. The next two were easier, but the cumulative strain was growing faster than he'd anticipated. Sweat was beginning to bead on his forehead and he'd lost his breath again. Better to pause now than to have to stop in the middle of an interment, he decided.

He took a small bottle from his belt, uncorked it and tossed back the bitter bluish liquid in one motion, kneeling again before the dizziness set in. The familiar buzz of magical energy crackled through him. It itched under his skin. He would have preferred to rest instead of taking the potion, but interrupting the ceremony was not an option. The whole point was to respectfully lay them to rest; stopping for a break would have felt disrespectful. He had to press on.

Despite his measured approach, Morgan was trembling with exhaustion by the time the last body was safely entombed. Seven had turned out to be too many. The potion had helped, but its borrowed energy left as suddenly as it came, and the body shakes it left in its wake were uncomfortable. He fell into a cross-legged position, elbows braced on his knees, head hanging as his chest heaved. Meditation wasn't going to cut it after this. He was going to need real sleep. Still, it was satisfying to feel he'd done a good job of the burial ceremony. He was also grateful that Blaise had elected to keep watch during the proceedings. He'd been forced to abandon his minions to save energy. Had he been alone, safety would have been a serious concern.

Blaise cleared her throat. "Not to kill the moment or anything, but we need to start going before it gets dark. It's a long way back to the Sisterhood."

"Perhaps I can help with that," Cain said. Morgan raised his head to see him produce a small scroll from the pockets of his robe. "This is a scroll of town portal. Have you ever used one before?" Blaise shook her head. "Oh, it's very simple. You just need to picture a place in your head as you read it, and it will open a portal to that place. It only works for human settlements, and the place has to be within a certain distance. But if your description is accurate, as I'm sure it is, the Sisterhood of the Sightless Eye should meet those requirements." He held the scroll out for Blaise to take. "I must admit I've never visited, so I can't use this to get to our destination."

Blaise took the scroll and opened it, peering at its contents. Nothing happened. She turned it sideways, then upside down. No portal materialized. She looked up at Cain. "Am I missing something here? I thought this was supposed to be easy."

He frowned. "It should be. Let me look - no, no, the scroll is in order. It should work for you if you're following the instructions. Unless - well, there are a few reasons it might not be working. It could be a matter of lineage, for instance. Were your parents both human?"

Blaise stared at him as though he'd just grown another head. "What else would they be?"

"I've used those scrolls before," Morgan said, rising unsteadily to his feet. He had used the portals fairly regularly, running errands during his training. A throbbing ache was building behind his eyes, and he wanted very much to rest. He was seriously considering curling up in one of the ruined buildings at this point. But that wouldn't take the other people into consideration. Assuming the portal scroll worked, it would be the best course of action to take.

Blaise held it at arm's length. "If you can make it work, go ahead. But if not, we start walking."

Morgan took the scroll, scanning the familiar runes. It wasn't reading, exactly, but they started to glow all the same. He thought about the rogue encampment, focusing on the spot just outside the gates where he'd first waited for Blaise. A shimmering blue circle materialized in front of him, the image of the camp faintly distinguishable in its centre. It stretched until it was big enough to walk through. No problem with the scroll, then.

"Magnificent!" Cain clasped his hands together. "It will be wonderful to be amongst people again. Please, after you."

Morgan would have preferred not to be the first one out of the portal, but Blaise wasn't moving to enter and he didn't have the energy to try to sway her. He stepped into the portal. It was like walking down a short hallway, the distance to the destination collapsed into a few steps. As he stepped out of the portal, he found a sword pointed at his face. His hands came up automatically in a gesture of surrender. Of course the rogues would be suspicious if they weren't accustomed to using this type of magic. That was precisely why he hadn't wanted to lead.

"Oh, it's you." Kashya lowered her sword. "Where's Blaise? Did you find Deckard Cain?"

"They are following," he said, letting his hands fall as he stepped to the side of the portal. He hoped they were following. He was too tired to explain if they weren't.

Sure enough, Cain emerged a few seconds later, peering around. "So this is the Sisterhood of the Sightless Eye! I've heard much about you. I wonder if you would indulge an old man's curiosity. I have some questions for you..." He had honed in on Akara without hesitation, taking her by the arm. She appeared surprisingly amenable; something about him seemed to put people at ease.

Blaise came through shortly after, straightening when she spotted Kashya. "Ma'am."

"Give me a full report."

The commander turned on her heel, going back into the encampment, and Blaise followed her. Good. That meant nobody wanted to talk to Morgan, and he could get some rest. He tore the scroll in half, disrupting the magic holding the portal open. Only living humans could use these portals, but it still felt safer to close it behind him. Unlike the others, he did not enter the encampment. Now was not the time to solicit an invitation. He'd noted a large, sturdy willow tree outside the northern corner of the rogues' camp. He dragged his weary body over to it, nestled in against its trunk, and promptly lost consciousness.

[hookedonapirate]

I’ll Hold On To You

Summary: When Emma said “a onetime thing,” she didn't think he'd take it so literally.

A/N: This happened because of all the Neverland smut talk on Discord and because I wanted to contribute to the wonderful collection.

I was listening to Don't Give Up On Me by Andy Grammer while I was writing this and it reminded me of Killian, especially in the episode, Dark Hollow, so that's where the title comes from.

Hope you enjoy :)

Rated: Explicit because, well, it’s basically pure smut ;)

Also available on: AO3 I FF.N

I will fight I will fight for you I always do until my heart Is black and blue

  And I will stay I will stay with you We'll make it to the other side Like lovers do

    I'll reach my hands out in the dark And wait for yours to interlock I'll wait for you I'll wait for you

  —Don't Give Up On Me by Andy Grammer

  There’s something about the way he constantly stares at he—the way those damn drowning blue eyes hold such a blinding intensity that gives her goosebumps, the way his tongue darts across his lips so obscenely, it should be illegal, the way he doesn’t even try to hide the fact that he’s staring at her—which makes her want to throw her damn promise out the window. 

A onetime thing is what she’d said. 

So why does she want so much more than that from him? Why does she want to peel away all that leather until he’s standing before her glorious and naked, his manhood hard and throbbing and aching to fill her to the brim and why does she want to wrap her legs around his hips so snug and tight, allowing him to drive into her so hard and deep and fast until she’s seeing stars and screaming out his name, until she’s falling apart in his arms? 

She wants to hate him; she wants to pretend that kiss never happened, but now she knows what his mouth tastes like and that his tongue feels like soft silk against her own and how warm and firm his body feels pressed against hers. Now she’s screaming on the inside, fighting an internal battle, fighting for her sanity when she’s supposed to be finding her son. But she can’t help it. She craves Hook with every fiber of her being and she’s afraid all the walls she’s built up so high will come tumbling around her with just the right look. But she knows the burning desire between them will only fade once she gives in to the allure of it all, and then she will be able to find some sort of semblance again. She’ll be able to breathe again.

Or so she's convinced herself.

The sun had sunk below the horizon an hour ago when they set up camp and now they’re sitting around the fire and they’re running low on wood. Emma had avoided sitting by him because she was afraid the fire wouldn’t have been the only thing heating their campsite if he were too close. But now he’s looking at her from across the dancing flames, and she knows that look too well. But this time there’s much more heat behind his stare than there was before their kiss—there’s more intensity, more hunger—and she has to bite her lip when her eyes connect with his. She has to resist the temptation of giving in when all she wants to do is give in. She wants to be touched by him. She wants to be ravaged by him.

His gaze is so intense she can’t hear anything—not the critters of the night or the crackling of the fire or the other people chatting around her as she stares back at him. She can engage in this staring contest with him all night long since she probably won’t be able to sleep a wink tonight anyway, but then he does the one thing she knows will break her. Make her succumb. He wets his lips, that sinfully delicious tongue emerging from the seam of his mouth, and that’s what does her in. She has to swallow the moan threatening to claw its way up her throat as she thinks about how good that tongue would feel between her thighs.

Mmmm…

She stands from her spot, never once taking her eyes off Killian, and does her best to sound as subtle as possible. “I'm going to gather some more wood. Hook, want to give me a hand?” 

The most ridiculous grin creeps over Killian’s face, not helping her situation. It’s certainly not going to dry her panties. “Is that a joke, love?” he teases, throwing her own words in her face.

“Sorry, poor choice of words,” she apologizes, offering a small smile. She’s waiting for Killian to stand and join her, but Neal beats him to the punch. 

“I’ll go with you, Ems.”

Killian shoots up from his spot, gritting his teeth and glaring daggers at Neal. “I believe the lady asked me to come with her.”

Neal shrugs. “I just figure she could use more hands.”

Hook's jaw twitches as he steps up to Neal with an almost murderous look in his eyes. “Trust me, mate, I can do more with one hand than you could ever do with eight.”

“All right, all right, that’s enough,” David interjects, trying to diffuse the obvious tension brewing between Neal and Killian. “Why don’t you both go so Emma doesn’t have to go venturing off in the woods in the dark.”

“I’ll be fine,” Emma assures him. “I was a homeless orphan on the streets when I was a child, I can handle myself in the woods.” Emma immediately regrets her words when she sees the sad, regretful look on her mother's face. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that.”

Mary Margaret shakes her head, waving off her words. “No, you're right, you're more than capable of looking out for yourself.”

  “Okay, so it’s settled; I’m going, but I don't feel like getting lost in the woods and, Hook, you know the island more than anyone so you're coming with me.”

“Hey, I know this island just as well as he does,” Neal argues defensively.

“Well, I didn't ask you to come with me. I asked Hook,” she states firmly, not in the mood, nor does she have the time or patience to put up with Neal's petty arguments. She just wants some alone time with Hook, but he and Neal are too busy having a stare-down to notice her shoving past them. “Let's go,” she says to Hook. 

“As you wish, love.” 

A faint smile pulls at her lips as she walks away from the site, her heart fluttering in her chest. She'll never get tired of hearing him say that.

She walks ahead of him until they're far enough away from the others, until Emma's sure they won't be able to hear her or Killian. When he starts picking up sticks from the forest floor, Emma has to suppress a laugh. He actually thought she pulled him away to grab more wood. Well, she supposes she escaped to grab wood, she just had a different kind of wood in mind. “You do know that wood is going right back to the ground, right?”

Killian rises after picking up another stick, and eyes her inquisitively. “Is that not the purpose of escaping camp and coming here?”

Emma saunters to him, planting her hands on her hips and tossing him a saucy smirk. “Oh, we'll be coming all right.”

Killian arches a brow and clutches the wood tighter to his chest, still oblivious to her intentions. “Coming where, love?”

Emma purses her lips and surveys their surroundings until her eyes land on an acceptable surface behind him. It's really the best they can do, given the circumstances and lack of space. “Against that tree will do.”

He turns his head to see what tree she's referring to while she waits for him to get it—to understand what her words are implying—and honestly, she expected him to catch on much quicker than this. He is a three-hundred-year-old pirate after all. Maybe he understands, but he's playing dumb because he's afraid to get his hopes up. She told him that kiss was only a onetime thing so maybe he took it to heart. 

He takes a full moment—a moment of scratching being his ear, of quirking his handsome features and furrowing his brows—before it finally dawns on him, before the comprehension finally flickers in his eyes, before the wrinkles in his forehead finally smooth over and his mouth falls agape as he processes her words.

But they've already wasted enough time and her parents are probably wondering what's taking so long. So she acts quickly, grabbing his face and capturing his lips, earning a surprised groan from his throat and relishing the way the sound reverberates through her body. He's taken off guard at first, but it doesn't take long for him to move his lips against hers, to toss the wood to the forest floor with a thump so he can thread his fingers through her golden locks of hair, pulling her closer as she wraps her arms around the back of his neck. 

His tongue is just as pliant and warm and skilled as she remembers, plunging into her mouth so greedily, moving and flicking and pressing deliciously against hers. They're breathing each other in every time their lips change angles, and they're fighting for dominance, the dual of tongues and teeth making her head spin. He's pushing her back up against the tree she had mentioned earlier, and her heart is racing as he presses into her and swallows the gasp she makes when she feels how hard he is against her. God, he feels good, like heaven and sin; she can tell he's big, her clit is pulsing and she’s aching to have him inside her.

She sucks his tongue into her mouth, earning what she can only describe as a primal growl from his throat and she doesn't want the kiss to end (she didn't want the kiss to end last time either) but she needs him. She breaks the kiss to tug her shirt over her head and toss it to the ground, and when he doesn’t voice a protest (as if he would) she pulls off her white, lacy bra, adding it to the pile. His eyes go big and wide and he's staring at her breasts like it's Christmas morning (even though she doubts he's ever experienced one) and he takes them in his palm, kneading her honey-soft flesh and caressing softly. They fit perfectly in his hand like they were made for him, and her head falls back, landing softly against the tree with a moan. Her panties are fucking soaked. 

His arms tighten around her as he kisses down the column of her neck, and she's closing her eyes, relishing the way his lips feel, the way his teeth nip her skin as he makes his way down, reaching her chest and mouthing her breasts. He draws a soft, pink nipple into his mouth, licking and teasing and moving his tongue around until her nipple is hard and swollen before he switches to the other one. A moan escapes her mouth when he’s suckling harder and lifting his hook to her other breast, the cool metal circling her nipple. Her breaths come out in shallow pants as he caresses her nipples with his fingers, his tongue, his hook and God it's amazing, she could come if he keeps this up.

“Harder...” she breathes, her words wrecked.

He eagerly complies, pinching a little harder as she pulls his face to hers and resumes their sloppy kissing. She removes her hands from his cheeks to reach between them and struggles to undo his pants. 

God damn it, why does he have to wear so many clothes all the fucking time, especially in this godforsaken humidity? She finally unzips his leather pants and shoves her hand inside to find what's waiting for her underneath all that leather. She wraps her hand around his length, and strokes him gently, letting his cock slide easily through her fist, and oh God, he's even bigger and thicker and harder than she'd imagined. Every time her hand drags down his impressive length, she takes his balls in her palm, gently caressing and massaging them before making her way up his shaft again.

Killian’s eyes roll to the back of his head, and he melts into her and buries his face in the crook of her neck, whispering into her ear, “You keep that up, you’re gonna make me come.”

Her walls clench at his words and as much as she wants to finish him like this, she wants his cock inside her. She needs him like she needs air to breathe. “Then you better hurry up and fuck me, Captain.”

When he lifts his head to gaze into her eyes, searching for her genuine consent, she’s donning a lascivious smirk. “Are you sure about this, love?”

She tightens her grip around his cock, stroking him harder and faster until he won’t be able to do anything but give her what she wants. But the look in his eyes already tells her he would go to the end of the world and back for her. “Yes, please…” she begs, not caring that her voice is cracking with desperation. “I need... I need—”

“I know what you need,” he growls and quickly pulls off his jacket, letting it fall to the forest floor before yanking her leggings and panties down as she helps him, adding the clothes to the pile. Once she's completely naked, he looks like he wants to devour her from head to toe but there's no time for that, so she has other plans in mind. 

She pulls him to her and he's wrapping one arm around her waist, lifting her slightly off the ground. She's eagerly snaking her legs around his hips and guiding his weeping tip to her entrance. He’s slowly rocking back and forth, invading her tight sheath, letting her walls expand and accommodate to his girth, groaning as he succumbs to her heat. With one hand around the back of Killian’s neck and the other on his shoulder, she can’t stop the moans erupting from her mouth as he captures her lips and sets a delicious rhythm, thrusting in and out of her so perfectly, her nails digging into his shoulders. She’s bobbing up and down on his cock every time he slams into her, pushing her against the tree. When he releases her lips and buries his face in the crook of her neck, she can hear him cursing and feel him panting against her skin. 

God, she feels so full. Then Killian pulls out until the head of his cock is still inside her and just when she's about to protest, he thrusts into her again.

“Killian… fuck...” She can feel his lips widen against her neck before he lifts his head, donning a ridiculous smirk. She tries to furrow her brows at him while he’s fucking her, but he feels way too good, her mouth falling open when he’s hitting the perfect spot inside her.

“You called me Killian,” he gloats between shattered breaths, his eyes gleaming with excitement. “I’ve never once heard you call me by my actual name before.”

“Don’t get used to it,” she mumbles, and her attempt at an eye roll just leads to her eyes rolling to the back of her head as pure pleasure consumes her.

“As you wish, love,” he says cockily, knowing fully well he has her exactly where he wants her. His hand is still curled around her waist as he continues to invade her body, and Emma can only hold on to him for support as she rides his dick for all it’s worth.

Their skins smack together, loud enough for anyone around to hear as he cups her ass in his palm, holding her up as he tangles his hook in her hair, tugging just light enough to expose her neck so he claims her lips for a bruising kiss.

Their amorous activities in the middle of the forest, coupled with the Neverland humidity dampen their skin with sweat. And she’s wondering why she’s the only one naked here. Killian’s pants are pooled around his ankles, but he still has his shirt and vest on so she fumbles for the buttons and rips them off, sending buttons flying. He’s too consumed by her tight sheath to be mad as she pushes the fabrics from his shoulders, and he lets them fall to the ground. 

Her breasts feel hot against Killian’s toned, bare chest, his heart beating wildly against hers as she glorifies in the sight and feel of him, running her hands through his chest hair, finding it to be softer than she’d ever imagined; she’d itched to feel his chest hair between her fingers from day one. Dragging her nails down his ribs to his washboard stomach, she loves the way his abs ripple under her touch.

She really wants this all to last, but she knows her parents are already looking for them, and Emma and her lover are bound to get caught in this compromising position at some point. But right now she doesn’t give a fuck. If her parents catch them, they’d probably just turn around and sneak back to camp without Emma or Killian hearing them. That’s the best-case scenario. The worst case is David pulling Killian off of his daughter and giving him a good pounding with the pirate’s cock still out and glistering with Emma’s arousal. She shakes those thoughts away and focuses on the good pounding Killian’s giving her. She feels so wild and dirty and swears she grows wetter every time he rams into her. 

Knowing how soaking wet she is for him, feeling how easily his cock slides in and out of her heat brings him to the brink of madness. He tugs on her hair a little more, baring her neck to him so he can kiss her there, sucking love bruises into her soft, pale flesh.

Emma moans a little louder than she’d intended and she grips at his shoulders to keep from falling as his thickness plunges into her warmth. 

She’s so damn close.

He lowers his head from her neck and draws her nipple into his mouth, lapping it with his tongue and kissing each rose-colored tips.

As soon as she feels his teeth nipping at the stiff bud, her back arches and her entire body convulses, and with a long, drawn-out scream, her walls flutter and her nails dig into his back as she comes around his glorious cock, her orgasm washing over her in waves. “Killian…” His name tumbles from her lips like a broken prayer and she doesn't even care.

But this time he's not even grinning as he lifts his head; his mouth is too busy hanging open as his irises disappear into the darkness and his eyes roll back once more as her walls tighten and squeeze his cock. “Bloody… fucking... hell,” he growls, and she loves that phrase used in this context, she loves how the shattered words tumble off his tongue. She loves it because he normally speaks so confidently and impeccably—such a smooth talker he is—but when her walls are wrapped around his cock, he’s a complete mess.

She tips her head, her back dragging against the rough texture of the tree, Killian’s smooth body against hers providing a welcoming contrast. Just as she’s floating down from her high, Killian rubs her clit with his thumb as he picks up speed and vigorously pumps his cock into her, chasing his orgasm as he takes her with him.

Her nails almost draw blood into Killian’s back as he slams into her rough and hard, and God, it hurts everywhere, but in the very best way. She’s already coming again. She wraps her legs tighter around him, buries her face in his neck and bites his shoulder to muffle her cries as she lets herself explode once more.

As if it were even possible, her walls grip his cock tighter than before. With one last thrust, his arms securely wrapped around her, his muscles convulse and he comes with a deep, guttural groan, his hips slowing as he whispers, “Emma…” in her ear.

She shudders as he fills her up with his hot seed, his cock pulsing inside her.

They stay in that position for what seems like an eternity until he can barely hold them up anymore. He helps Emma to her feet but clings on to her just in case, and she's grateful because her knees feel like jello. Her legs are trembling from the aftermath of her two orgasms and she can feel his hot come dripping from between her thighs and down her legs. 

He caresses her face and places a soft, gentle kiss on her lips, not like the kisses they shared just minutes ago. But somehow a quick kiss turns into a long, heated one and before she knows what’s happening, they’re tumbling to the ground, she’s on her back and Killian’s forcing her legs apart and burying his face between her thighs so all she can see is the unruly, dark hair on his head as he laps up both their essences coating her folds with his tongue. She lets her head slump into the dirt, her chest heaving and her hand clenching his hair as the pleasure courses through her body once more. 

She’s trying to be as quiet as she can but that’s probably a lost cause by now. She can hear Killian’s lips smacking against her flesh and the little groans he provides as he eats into her like she’s his very last and very best meal. She can also hear her heart pounding mercilessly in her ear and the sound of a branch snapping from a close distance. Realizing they’re not the ones making the sound (they’re not even near the sticks Killian had tossed to the ground) she cranes her neck toward the direction the sound came from. 

She gulps when she sees Neal watching them from behind a bush, his eyes filled with lust as he sees his ex-girlfriend writhing on the ground with her legs spread wide, her skin flushed pink as Killian’s face is buried in her cunt. She hates to admit it, but she knows that look. She knows Neal is aroused as he watches his former lover being completely devoured by the dirty pirate. Emma gives into the little smirk tugging at her lips as she rolls her head back to give Killian her undivided attention. She wonders how long Neal has been watching them. Knowing he’s only a few feet away makes her feel so naughty, yet emboldens her more than she cares to admit. 

“Mmmm, I love the way you taste… so sweet,” Killian groans against her glistening folds. 

She tugs on his hair and arches her back as the pleasure builds again. “Killian, make me come again! Make me yours!” she screams, making sure she’s loud enough so Neal can hear her. So he knows that, even though he was incapable of doing so when they were together, she actually can have an orgasm. Multiple in fact.

But Killian doesn’t have to try very hard. He already knows her body more than Neal ever did and this is their first time together. He already knows how to plunge his fingers into her heat at just the right angle and speed and that if he sucks her clit into his mouth as he finger-fucks her, that's all it takes to push her over the edge. He already has her entire body shaking as another orgasm rips through her body and she’s screaming out, “Oh, Captain… Fuck!” She turns her head to sneak a peek at Neal, and he’s palming his crotch. He’s certainly not big but she can tell he’s hard, and a proud smirk overtakes her face.

As she falls from another high, she's wondering if Neal's jealous he could never make her finish this way. Not that he tried very often. He mostly looked out for himself so he could get his rocks off before he tried to pleasure her (tried being the keyword here) just for the sake of making it look like he was trying. Needless to say, their sex life left a lot to be desired. 

She can't say the same about Killian, though; he's already made her come more in one evening than she ever had during the whole time she was with Neal. 

Killian licks his fingers clean and collapses beside her, wrapping her up in his arms as she basks in the afterglow and the feeling of his firm body tucked under hers as she drapes a leg and arm around him, both of them sighing contentedly. She gazes at the stars, dangerously close to falling asleep before they have to head back to the others. She wonders if Neal will run his mouth off about what he saw, but she doubts it. He’s probably too busy feeling sorry for himself. Or maybe he will tattle on them knowing David wouldn’t be too happy about it.

After a moment of recuperating, Killian looks at her, a smug brow raised, and a cocksure smirk gracing his lips. “So, I guess the first kiss we shared wasn't a onetime thing after all, was it, love?”

Emma finds herself blushing and smiling, not nearly in a position to deny her feelings for him any longer as she combs her fingers through his chesthair, thoroughly enjoying herself. “Well, obviously not. We did a hell of a lot more than kissing, but I shouldn't have to tell you that since you were there,” she points out sassily.

“Aye, love,” he chuckles, “I was there indeed,” he says with a smirk. “And what about what just happened between us? Was that a onetime thing too?”

Emma doesn't reply with words at first, but gazes into his eyes and leans in for a slow kiss, hoping to express everything she feels for him with her lips. Then she curls her hand around his cock and whispers dirtily in his ear, “Yes, a onetime thing,” she answers, lifting her head to throw him a wink, which translates to, definitely not a onetime thing, I’m just not brave enough to tell you that. But the smile he offers and the blush tinting his cheeks tell her he knows exactly what she means. Open book after all.

Finally, they rise and start collecting their clothes from the ground. Once they’re dressed and at least somewhat presentable (she’s just glad it’s dark and her flushed cheeks won’t be so noticeable) they head back and are almost to the site when she realizes something and curses under her breath. “Damn.”

  “What's wrong, love?” he asks in concern.

“We forgot the firewood.”

Tagging some lovelies who might be interested: @onceuponaprincessworld @teamhook @kmomof4 @nikkiemms @jamif @revanmeetra87 @artistic-writer @ilovemesomekillianjones​ @laschatzi​ @hollyethecurious​ @cluttermind​ @iamemmaswanjones​ @melly326​ @iam2307​ @resident-of-storybrooke​ @biefaless​ @andiirivera​ @captainswan-shipper88​ @ultraluckycatnd​ @gingerchangeling​ @roseyflush​ @kiwistreetswan​ @julesep3026​ @ lfh1226-linda @i-love-books2014​ @xsajx​ @itsfabianadocarmo​ @darkcolinodonorgasm​ @officerrogers​ @tiganasummertree​ @donteattheappleshook​

[rigelmejo]

listening reading method updates

Some updates because I’ve done Listening Reading Method maybe 10-15 hours within the past week and wow is it worth doing (for me) if done properly:

First some notes of what “properly” means for me: It means I’ve done step 2 at some point (since I’m using all books I have at least vague prior context for whether its this past year or in life I’ve seen them before). It means I do step 2 first. Then I do step 3, with parallel text so I keep my place OR do it in Pleco (doing step 3 in Pleco is strangely super effective for me).

So, I’ve been testing my general listening comprehension. How I’ve tested it: listening to some audio file of a chapter I did with L R method, and see if I can understand it better. So no text aid. Also generally some time gap (at least a few days) between when I did L R, and when I listen to test my comprehension.

Limits of test: this is not new material - I have both prior context of the plot, and doing L R method on the material before means I have intensively studied that audio material with L R method at one point. I’m trying to find some ‘totally unknown��� stuff to test with too we’ll see.

Benefits of the test: its easy to compare my progress, because I’ve listened to these audios many times so I know where my ‘comprehension’ of them was at a few months ago. I can more easily compare.

---

So anyway, has L R Method helped listening comprehension? YES god oh my god. 

I listened to Chapter 9 of Guardian’s audiobook just falling asleep, because I didn’t feel like full on L R Method the chapter (I have done Listening Reading Method for chapters 1-8). I could understand enough to follow the entire main plot and all the main scenes - a few descriptive sentences lost me, but I got all the action-related (touched reached stood cried shouted left side pocket held objects movement and set phrases priest uses for certain expressions), key emotion related (like sad cold warm kind sharp worried investigated pushed shivered and set phrases I remember priest using for certain expressions) details, and got all of the main dialogue (this part context helps for though since words like reincarnation and sundial are fairly new to me and I only understand since I already ran into them in previous chapters I’ve done L R Method with). 

I was freaking FLOORED I could just listen and enjoy the story, so today I listened to chapter 1 again. And YEP - same thing applied. I could follow all of the main plot, main scenes, and certain details. I totally missed the part where he talks about his aunt/uncle but I heard his bad grades, got the letter for a job notice, how he hates phone calls, his plan to go, him getting to the place, what the place looked like and Wang Zheng and all the scenes at the job - so like I mentioned, actions/emotions/real objects being interacted with I can mostly follow. The paragraphs of description background (like Guo Changcheng’s upbringing and how his uncle got him a job) are harder for me to catch everything - I am guessing because there’s more description phrases and less straightforward action=response. (For example - xiao guo sees Lao Wu, they respond, so its easy to follow, or he sees Wang Zheng and faints, or he walks into the courtyard and reads the address - all of these moments directly focus on things and react which is easier to follow). 

For the first time I can say I can listen to just the audiobook and follow it enough to enjoy the plot and what’s mainly going on without any text aid. And I’ve only done the listening reading method for 8 chapters! That’s 40-50 minutes a chapter, around 360 minutes or 6 hours. 6 hours spent Listening Reading Method Guardian, and I already see a huge boost in what I can comprehend in listening! (I also did some random L R method chapters of other stuff so add 1-2 hours - that’s still like 8 hours total... that ain’t much). 

Last time I listened to guardian audiobook without any text aid (a few months ago), I could hear some words I knew and some phrases, and had a vague understanding of when he got to the job (heard courtyard and si ming hao), met Lao Wu (i heard him report for duty), when he talked to zhao yunlan and got generally welcomed, met Wang Zheng and thought ‘he has no feet’ and got scared. No fucking details. The vaguest impression of the main plot mainly because I’ve read the chapter before and knew the scenes coming. But that was still eons better than Before That - around 6 months ago i listened to chapter 1 like 5 times until i could hear some phrases instead of just isolated words. 

This time, I could follow things because I could HEAR what was actually going on, not just because I heard some keywords. I could clearly hear the details about Guo Changcheng entering the courtyard, reading the address and special investigations name, go up to Lao Wu and report in and Lao Wu greet him warmly and excitedly mention how lucky it is he came today that their boss is there! And fawn over how cool the boss is, and all the specifics of the convo with Zhao Yunlan (and half of his appearance like how he’s handsome and heroic looking and had a hand in his pocket and seemed cold until he noticed them and smiled and acted warm and friendly). And all the scenes were like that - like with Wang Zheng I could hear all the details of Guo Changcheng freaking out, eventually noticing her head had been cut and it wasn’t a necklace it was like sewn on and how he passed out. It was soooo much better ToT. The amount of comprehension is sooooo much higher than the last time I tried to listen! It shocks me how much better! This is enough comprehension to actually listen and just enjoy it. ToT

So yeah, I’d say Listening Reading Method, as I’m doing it right now, is making noticeable improvements in my reading skill and listening skill. 

So yeah I’m super curious how listening comprehension is gonna be 20 chapters into Listening Reading Method. 

What I do think this would be good for, if you were studying short term? If you wanted to understand a specific audiobook - doing L R Method with the book until you can listen to the rest. It would probably take a short enough amount of study to do within a month if you already have some skills in the language (since this is with 6-8 hours of study). I saw someone once do SRS Flashcard study based on a show they liked in a foreign language, and within a month they could watch that show they liked without english subs and follow the main plot. I think L R Method with a novel works kind of similar - its intensive study on one story. So within a reasonably short amount of time (10-50 hours maybe, something that can be done within a month) you can get enough comprehension skill of that One story to understand it ok. 

I imagine you need to do L R Method longer, and with either a word dense material (lots of varied vocab) or else multiple stories (ideally different authors and genres), in order to get broader listening skill improvement. Like right now my listening skill in general seems to have improved somewhat... but its more like ‘listening to a show without subs’ is now easier. Not like I can turn on a brand new audiobook and follow it this well. So some slightly easier listening activity is now easier, but for other audiobooks I am probably comprehending more but the listening skill improvement is NOT as drastic as it is specifically with Guardian. 

Testing listening comprehension with materials I have not L R Method with:

Alice in Wonderland (story is shorter/simpler than novel): I can follow it mostly when listening only. I can follow it near entirely (know exactly what’s going on just a few words I don’t recognize) if I’m looking at the video (since it has pictures for context - like watching a show). My listening comprehension drops noticeably if I do NOT look at the video visuals for an aid - since I am used to Alice in Wonderland hitting the original novel beats, not this shorter movie-based version. This level of comprehension makes sense, as its written simpler than Guardian so I should have an easier time following details in this. But lack of context means I have to put more effort into figuring out what scene is what if I don’t have any visual cues. So easier ‘written’ audiobook material is much more comprehensible now (easier than Guardian even since I know most words), but I still need context like an image or prior awareness of the overall plot or else I need to pay more careful attention to follow everything: https://youtu.be/HqCg5y8Nwhg

Sherlock Holmes 血字的研究: Some benefit just like Alice in Wonderland in that I have broad context (I know Watson and Sherlock live and work together to solve issues, Watson is a verteran and doctor). First 5 minutes I can vaguely tell its probably Watson narrating, that he lives in London, that before he might have been injured (I heard bing like sick or?) - I’m truly not sure what happened, and now after 5 minutes I heard ‘great friend’ and ‘touched shoulder’ and ‘gaoxing’ so happy. So I’m guessing Sherlock and Watson are interacting now. What improvement in my listening comprehension I can Notice - is that words stick out, phrases, and sentence structures (like finally, since, therefore, actions). So I feel if I paused I might be able to look up some words I notice but can’t understand, to follow along better. As the 2 of them have their conversation I can catch SOME details and I could probably follow what’s going on IF I had some prior context (like what the general case is about). But I only hear - its a pity, what happened last night, poor lad, fangzi, destination. So i’m not sure if someone died or was hurt or what happened the other night?? But again, conversations seem to be the easiest part to follow. For this particular audiobook I almost feel like if I just kept consistently listening or re-listening, I could understand more... like I probably know more words than I’m catching, but since my brain’s working on trying to catch the main gist plot right now its not grasping any details I might otherwise be able to notice. No prior context of plot, no image - hard lol. Unlike guardian, I cannot follow most of it. But I can catch bits of each scene, most clear are the dialogue parts (but cause I have no surrounding contexts I’m still pretty lost). Also the clear action parts are easier to follow (he spoke, moved, reacted to something). Mostly the lack of context is what’s making me struggle. In the descriptions I hear a lot phrases and words I recognize, but I’m struggling to comprehend them together. Unfortunately context is mostly in the description parts I can’t figure out lol. https://youtu.be/J1sbP6_3680

I suspect an audio DRAMA might be a little easier now. Since they’re mostly dialogue, and dialogue seems to be what I’m finding the most improvement in (from very vague to some of the clearest comprehended parts). I listened to tian ya ke audiodrama a few days ago and it was doable to follow along with - but that was before more Listening Reading Method, and of course my prior context (having seen the show/read part of the novel) means it was muchhhh easier to follow cause I had enough context to guess which scene each moment was supposed to be - so I didn’t have to figure out overall context, just details. 

[skeptycats]

Vicky Archives #4

CODE OF THE CLANS - A little light humour

Vicky Holmes, the former editor of the Warriors series, has been doing short extract readings on Facebook since the start of the UK lockdown back in March. There’s some really cool anecdotes hidden within some of these videos, so I decided to begin penning them down for posterity and easy reference.

I won’t be transcribing filler, hedging and false starts but I’m including some amount of preamble just to be comprehensive.

A little short one this week! My health is a little poor at the moment so it’s a couple days late anyway, but I hope you enjoy!

#1 Into the Wild | #2 Forest of Secrets | #3 The Darkest Hour | #4 Code of the Clans | #5 Firestars’ Quest | #6 Twilight | #7 Long Shadows | #8 Leafpool’s Wish

---

Hello! It is Tuesday, March the 31st, last day of March, and I’m in a bit of a down mood today, I’m sure a lot of us are. The realities of lockdown are setting in, I’m bored, I want to go shopping - and I never want to go shopping! I’d just like a change of scene.

I decided today to go for some light relief. I’m going to do a reading from Code of the Clans, which was I think the first book I wrote completely on my own, so I storylined it, brainstormed it, and actually did all the writing on my own. It’s a lot harder without Kate or Cherith to help because obviously I was responsible for all of the words, but I was also able to play with the Erin Hunter voice myself. It was lovely, and I really enjoyed it.

Code of the Clans is something which we call non-fiction. Obviously it’s still fiction, but it was delving into the world behind Warriors. The structure, the heritage, the religion. It was just a pure exercise in fantasy, it was a delight. 

I’m going to read a short section from Code #11, which is ‘boundaries must be checked and marked daily. Challenge all trespassing cats.’ I’m going to read a short scene in which Whitestorm teaches border tactics to some familiar faces when they were apprentices. I can remember when I wrote it I was smiling, and giggling to myself. I’m probably going to do the same now, so forgive me for effectively laughing at my own jokes. We all need a bit of humour today. 

Is every cat here? Firepaw, Graypaw, Ravenpaw, Sandpaw, and Dustpaw? Dustpaw, stop trying to push Firepaw into the brambles. I’m not blind; I can see what you’re doing. Firepaw, go to the other end of the line. Sandpaw, he does not have fleas! Stand still, all of you.

As Lionheart told you, we’re going to practice border defense today. You can be the patrol, and I’ll be a deputy from another Clan who’s crossed the boundary. Who’d like to lead the patrol? Don’t look so terrified, Ravenpaw. I won’t make you be the leader if you don’t want to be. Graypaw, why don’t you have first turn? If you could just pick up that stick in your mouth and use it to draw a line across the sand, we’ll call that the border. Sandpaw, it doesn’t matter that the line is wobbly. Boundaries aren’t whisker-straight, code are they? So, you’re on that side, walking along on a dawn patrol. Off you go, patrol!

Did you really need to yawn like that, Graypaw? Oh, I see, it’s because it’s the dawn patrol, and you’re tired. Well, let’s pretend you all had a really good night’s sleep and are full of energy. Now, what should you be doing? Yes, sniffing, tasting the air—what for? That’s right, Sandpaw. ThunderClan border marks. And what else? Yes, Firepaw. The border marks of the other Clan. But only where the two borders meet. Beside the river and the Thunderpath, it would be bad news to find any scents of RiverClan or ShadowClan, because it would mean they’d crossed over from their side. So keep sniffing.

Maybe not that much, Sandpaw. Have a good sneeze and you should get the sand out of your nose. So, border marks, border marks. Can you smell both sets? Good. But what’s this? A cat from another Clan has ignored the marks and stepped over your border?

No, Ravenpaw, I didn’t mean we were actually being invaded. The cat from the other Clan is me. See how I just stepped over the line in the sand? What are you going to do about it? Wha . . .whoa! Stop treading on my ears!

Well, yes, Dustpaw, launching an attack and knocking me back across the border is one option. But is it wise to take on a cat twice your size? Or a trained warrior with more experience than you? The purpose of a patrol is to assess the situation and report back to your Clan leader. You won’t be able to do that if your pelt is clawed to shreds at the farthest part of the territory from the camp. Any other ideas?

How about asking what I’m doing? I might have a valid reason for crossing the border, especially if I’m alone. That’s right, Graystripe: [TN: Vicky points out the name error here] What do you want? is a good way to start. Don’t be too hostile: Remember, you are in the stronger position, because this is your territory and you have the right to defend it. Unless I have a very good explanation for crossing your border, I don’t have any rights at all. What do you think my reply might be?

Yes, Ravenpaw, I might need your help. My Clan might have been invaded, we might have serious trouble with prey, or we might have sickness that needs your herbs. All these reasons would mean that I am weak, so you can allow me into your territory but never out of sight.

If I am hostile, then meet me with hostility—which isn’t the same as aggression, Dustpaw. You’ve started with a strong challenge—What do you want?—and now you need to give me some sort of warning. Ravenpaw, what would you say?

Hmmm. If you’re going to threaten to claw a cat’s ears, you should try not to look so terrified at the prospect. Firepaw, would you like to try? Ah, yes, I like that you indicated the rest of your patrol. It’s always good to let the enemy know they’re outnumbered. Sandpaw, put that fire ant down. No, I don’t care that Firepaw might not know what it is. Now is not the right time to show him—and he certainly doesn’t need to get bitten by one.

So, you’ve challenged the trespasser, warned me that there’s a whole patrol here that can take me to your Clan leader if that’s what I wish; what next? That’s right, Graypaw, let me—the intruder—speak. If I can’t give you a convincing explanation for what I’m doing on your territory, if I don’t ask to be taken to Bluestar at once, then chase me off with no more questions. Don’t provoke a full-scale war—chasing means chasing, not catching and clawing. Just make it clear that you will defend your boundaries from any kind of invasion, even one paw across the border. A good warrior is always ready to fight, but only if it’s absolutely necessary: A good warrior will seek a peaceful, claws-sheathed solution first.

You will all make good warriors one day. Don’t look so doubtful, Ravenpaw. You need to find only a little more courage to be as good as your denmates. Your hunting skills are excellent— Dustpaw, you’d do well to watch him. Who knows? You might even lead this Clan one day!

Now, back to camp, all of you, and leave this old warrior to enjoy the sun in peace.

BEHIND THE SCENES

That was fun. Always cheers me up to revisit some of the humour, and there was a lot of humour in Warriors. Both Kate and Cherith excelled at introducing some comedy, especially around kits interacting with the older cats.

That’s something I was very aware of when I was writing the ‘non-fiction’ books like Code of the Clans and Battles of the Clans. It’s very easy to think of Warriors as super intense and super involved and traumatic and emotional, but you can’t sustain that. It’s exhausting to write and it’s exhausting to read, just as it’s exhausting to live. I think at the moment there’s a danger that we’re all sort of living on a bit of a knife’s edge, living on our nerves, and I’m certainly starting to feel that. It’s okay to take a break, with your writing and with your general day-to-day life. Laughter is the best medicine, literally. Writing about kits just gives me the giggles every time. And yes, it feels self-indulgent to laugh at my own jokes, but hey, I’m on my own, I have to make my own jokes.

It was very interesting there because of course I spotted a typo - one of my famous errors! - that Graypaw had been referred to as Graystripe. Obviously I wrote Code of the Clans when we were probably on series two at least, if not three, so I was thinking of these cats as their warriors names, and obviously forgot I was supposed to be calling Graypaw ‘Graypaw’ there. I have obviously made lots of mistakes over the years. I think my favourites are the fact that Heavystep died and comes back to life several times, and Rowanclaw started off as a she-cat and then pops up as a tom. So we could perhaps claim the first transitioned fictional cat? But it was an honest mistake.

One of my fondest memories from going on tour is when I would turn up in a bookshop and some very earnest little child would turn up with a book full of post-it notes, and they’d solemnly say that they’d pointed out all the typos and errors in the book and marked them with post-its, and would I like to take the book away so I could do the corrections. No, is the short answer. I’m sorry for the mistakes, but it’s not up to me to correct them. That’s the publishing, that’s further down the line. We have corrected errors in some books, but it has to be big mistakes, you have to go in and change the printing plate. All I can humbly say is ‘I’m sorry’. I’ve written a lot of words, they’re not always going to be the right ones. 

[demiromance]

“Thankful” (happy ending AU Reddiefic, Secret Santa gift!)

Hi there @pawprinterfanfic! I’m your secret santa for the @itfandompromptssecret santa gift exchange! I’m sorry its almost midnight, I was at a holiday event with my family, but I had such a wonderful time writing this for you and I hope you have an absolutely blessed holiday season! With all of my love and warm wishes, enjoy! Summary: The Thanksgiving after Pennywise finally goes to wherever evil killer clowns go, The Losers have a lot to be thankful for, Richie and Eddie most of all. (Happy ending AU where Stan went back to Derry, and because of that, they all lived.) Rating: T, because Richie has a mouth on him.

It snows on Thanksgiving in Derry. Richie Tozier forgot how much he hated that shit. He’s sulking around Mike’s (admittedly incredible and way more spacious than he’d realized at first,) apartment over the library, and he can feel two pairs of eyes on him - Eddie, from his now customary, since coming home, finally, from the hospital, place on the window seat by the round window that looked out over the town square, and Sprinkles, the cat that Richie was unsure if Beverly had actually adopted from the shelter in town for Mike, or had merely found on the street and claimed as theirs. Ben would be the first to tell you, she definitely had a way of taking in strays. 

“What exactly are you two doing to that poor thing?” Eddie calls, book long forgotten, and Sprinkles, who has made herself comfortable in his lap, makes a quiet little mrrrr noise of curiosity of her own. 

Still squinting at the cookbook open in front of him, one hand menacingly clutching an entire stick of butter that’s melting rapidly in the heat of his hands over the turkey, resting on a bed of potatoes and carrots in what he’s been told is called a ‘roasting pan.’ Richie is not, nor has he ever been a great cook, but he and Bill will be damned if they can’t figure out what Martha Stewart called the “idiot proof” turkey earlier that day on television while the others are rushing about doing the rest of the things required for the day to be perfect.  And the day would be perfect, damn it, if it was the last thing Richie did: they had so much to be thankful for. He felt the familiar flood of emotion in his chest when it hit him again, just how grateful he was. Pennywise was gone, for good, and Eddie’d lived. He thought he’d known fear before they went into that cistern, or when he saw those massive spider legs, or what he saw in the deadlights, but he had never known fear like the blur of minutes of carrying Eddie from that awful place, turned to the hours of sitting on the floor in a hospital hallway, Eddie’s blood darkening on the front of his shirt, turned to the days of waiting for him to wake up. He also thought he’d, at least at some point in his life, known happiness, and relief, but he hadn’t, until finally he was roused from sleep by the hand he’d held for so long, wishing and hoping and even praying, curling around his. 

That’d been July, it was the end of November now and everything between that was a blur. That first night, everyone slept on chairs in the hospital, but eventually bags were collected from the Townhouse and migrated to Mike’s. “No friends of mine are going to keep living in that shithole for god knows how long,” the librarian had harrumphed at them, making up his sole guest room (never used,) pulling out his couch, and sending Ben to buy air mattresses. If Richie was smuggled there, ‘home,’ to sleep in those early weeks, he doesn’t remember. He remembers being absolutely unwilling to let Eddie out of his sight, lest he disappear, lest this not actually all be real, lest this be some fever dream in the deadlights, but then eventually he remembers waking up with the golden light of a late summer sunset falling over him, bundled under a pile of blankets in that guest room, Beverly sitting next to him, watching tv.

“I need to get back to the hospital,” he’d rasped at her, reaching for his glasses.

“You need to go back to sleep,” she’d murmured, brushing his hair out of his eyes with sisterly affection.  He had.

The weather grew cold, and the leaves turned the brilliant colors of fall in Maine, something else Richie had forgotten, and forgotten that he’d loved. One day, between the hospital and home, when Stan’s wife, Patty, who he’d begun to think of as the group’s tiny little blonde guardian angel, ushered him into a Halloween store to find Eddie “something seasonal to brighten that room up!” Richie realized that…none of them had gone home.

“Wait!” he surprised Patty by how quickly he sort of…grabbed her. She responded by turning and giving him a tight hug, to which he replied, feeling like a dunce, with “Don’t you all have lives?”

She blinked up at him, “Hm?”

“You flew all the way up here the second Stan called you. Audra came out. None of you have gone home. What about your jobs? Your houses? Your lives?”

“You’re family. Eddie’s family. You all need us.”

“Yes, Patty, and we love you very much, but the logistics-”

“We all figured, we’re…established, enough,” she shrugged, “We’ve all done well, Trashmouth. We’re in a position to be here, so we are. And besides,” she giggled brightly, “Ben is loaded.”

He laughed. She laughed. They left with a stuffed monkey dressed up as a mummy. Eddie would hate it.

The week before Thanksgiving, they sprung him. Until you really got to know Eddie Kaspbrak, Richie explained, he was a charming son of a bitch and had somehow convinced the nurses that that was his true nature.

Eddie, seated on the edge of his hospital bed as Richie stooped to tie his shoes for him, groaned, “Yes, Richie. I love you, too.”

Eddie got the guest room after that, which meant that Richie, who’d insisted on an air mattress and that someone else take that bed, was back in that cozy room, and for the first time since that awful day on Neibolt Street, since the nights before, hiding, sneaking from one room to another, Richie slept with Eddie in his arms, the cold sweating of nightmares gone, beaten back by the warmth, the solidity of the other man. Eddie was there, Eddie was real, and Eddie was alive.

So yes, even as he stood there, holding a half melting stick of butter that he was pretty sure that he was about to unceremoniously shove up a turkey’s ass, Richie Tozier was grateful.

“Rich? Hellllloooooooooo. Earth to Richie,” Bill waved a hand in his face, “Psst. You in there?”

Richie shook his thoughts clear, “Yeah, uh..yeah. I’m here. Sorry. Shit. What do I do with this?” 

Bill looked back at the cookbook, then at the butter, then back to the cookbook, and sighed with relief, “Thank fuck. We rub it under the skin-”

“It puts the lotion on its skin or it gets the hose again!” Richie couldn’t help himself, voice and all. 

“Jesus Christ, Richie.”

“It’s so the turkey doesn’t get dry!” Eddie called from the window seat, “Please don’t make me get up and come over there.” 

“The turkey is not going to be dry, Eduardo!” Richie called back, and passed the now slippery stick of what surely was not butter but felt like pure grease, and was probably, in all actuality, the margarine that Eddie tried to convince them caused cancer if eaten literally ever at all, unceremoniously to a very confused Bill. “Here, you handle this, Big Bill,” he said, and wandered off to entertain Eddie and the cat before the former could offer any more unsolicited advice. Bill blinked at him, and sighed - some people never change, not even almost three decades and a murdered clown later. He was definitely going to need a drink.

+++

It was margarine and the turkey was dry (due, however, more to Bill getting a little tipsy and not setting his timer for the right amount of time after he stuffed the turkey into the apartment’s small-ish oven, than to any lack of comprehension from two grown men of at least above average intelligence but very little usable kitchen skill about what to do with butter on Thanksgiving when cooking,) but they were all too wrapped up in the warm glow of the occasion to notice once they all finally sat down to eat, Mike doing the honors of carving the bird expertly for someone who, the night before, had confessed that he not only hadn’t done a real Thanksgiving in twenty seven years but was also a vegetarian. Patty led the table in a round of applause as he took a small bow before sitting down, his grin wide and bright. 

Everyone looked expectantly to Bill, at the head of the table, always their leader, who looked, lost to his wife. Audra chuckled and gave his hand a squeeze under the table, “Should we say grace?”

“I will! I will!” Richie offered, to only mild protest, “Everybody hold hands, c’mon, pretend like we like each other, c’mon, c’mon.” The Losers, and their now honorary members, Audra and Patty, obliged, and Richie cleared his throat, bowing his head, “Dear Lord, we uh…thank you for…this day and these people and stuff and for that time that Jesus kid was…in Turkey and he…did some stuff-”

“Richie we’re Jewish why are you talking about Jesus,” Stan muttered. 

Richie, unfazed continued, “Or maybe today we just have turkey, maybe he wasn’t in turkey, wait…is that why we have turkey, is it-”

“Heeeeeeeey, I have an idea,” Ben interjected, “Instead of…whatever that was, why don’t we all just say something we’re thankful for? It’s been one hell of a year, and I have a lot I’m thankful for now.”

“Great idea!” Bev lit up, smiling up at him, “I’ll go first. This year, I’m thankful for all of you, and I’m thankful for Ben, and,” she peeked under the table at Ben’s large German Shepherd, his bowl already emptied between his paws, waiting for table scraps, “Scout down there, and Sprinkles, wherever she got to.”

“Same,” Ben seconded, “All of you and Bev and…our freedom.”

Patty raised her water glass, “I think that’s worth toasting. No more clowns!”

To the clink of glasses, they echoed, “No more clowns.” 

“I’m thankful for Mike!” Bill went next, “I mean, yes, I’m thankful for all of you. Audra, Stan, all of you, I mean that. But Mikey…dude, you st-stayed here f-f-for us. You remembered.”

“And then you took us all in!” Beverly added. Mike ducked his head, “Thank you. I’d do it again. I’m thankful you all came back.” 

“I’m thankful that Bill called me, after Mike did,” Stan said softly, “I was in a bad place and…about to do something drastic,” his voice was barely audible at the other end of the table, “And I would have never gotten to see us all this happy.”

Patty wrapped her arm around his and kissed his shoulder, “I’m thankful for that, too. And that you’ve all let me be a part of this family.”

“Same here,” Audra offered. A chorus of ‘we love you’s and ‘of course you’re part of this family’ went up to the both of them. 

“I’m thankful to be alive,” said Eddie, “I’m thankful that I get to…actually live my life now. I feel like I went from my mother to Myra and-”

“I’m thankful for divorce attornies,” Richie muttered.

“Beep beep, Richie,” Beverly muttered.

Eddie continued as though he hadn’t been interrupted, “Like, yeah, I almost died which is extremely fucking weird to say or even…think about…but…I get to live now. I’m not under mom’s thumb. I’m not under Myra’s thumb-”

“You just have me wrapped around your little finger,” Richie’s smile, for once, wasn’t wry or sardonic, but warm, and gentle and his eyes were so soft as he looked at the other man. 

Under the table, Eddie slipped his hand into Richie’s and squeezed it three times: I love you. “You love it.”

“I do.”

“And what about you, Rich?” Stan asked, beaming, “What are you thankful for? Besides Eddie’s divorce attorney, I mean.”

“A lot,” Richie was surprisingly quiet, and reverent, “Everything? All of you? That…I finally get to spend the rest of my life next to this weird little gremlin-”

“Hey-”

“Who I love more than anything in the world. Who I never stopped loving, not for a second. Who my heart always remembered.” 

Their eyes met, Eddie’s filling with tears. 

Ding, ding, ding! Patty tapped her spoon on her glass, and soon the others joined her, “Kiss! Kiss!” 

That cold, snowy Thanksgiving night, in a warm apartment in Derry, Maine, filled with love and friendship, Richie Tozier kissed Eddie Kaspbrak, and everything was absolutely golden.