#namely now that i no longer have space for more ponies so my collection will end here

[ponylandarmoire]

•The Sugarberry I've been looking forward to has finally arrived. In rather good condition in the price range I found and without the need to pay customs!

[cravetive]

Photographs| Harry Styles

Author: @cravetive​

Word Count: 1,877

Rating: 18+

Warnings: smut, strong language 

Summary: there's more temptation when the person you want is behind the camera. 

you set your make up brush down as you looked at yourself in the mirror, you had always been the model that preferred a ‘natural’ look but today was a special day. the decision was made with out your consent and after had been said and done you could do nothing to escape the business affair. you wondered if he had been behind this, he always made it his mission to have the upper hand, he was probably the one to even suggest it and since no one ever said no to harry styles. harry was still in the band when you started dating, the pressure of dating someone in the spotlight like that became too much for you, became too much for you both, it brought your relationship to its demise. truth is you and harry had became strangers long before the relationship ended and often so, strangers don't see each other again, that is until today.

saint Laurent was launching its spring lingerie collection, all the fashion sites & reporters were talking about it, how beautiful it would be. the lace fabric sat tight against your curves, the see through bra & panties with floral print leaving little to the imagination, your skin had been oiled for a more ‘dewy’ appearance. you swept your curtain bangs to the side and grabbed your robe, stepping out from the dressing room and into the photo studio. the saint Laurent personnel ran around fixing the lights and background for your photo shoot, nerves growing from the pit of your stomach.

you never thought you would see harry styles again. sure you were a model and he was a pop star and you both had made pretty big names for yourselves but in your mind you had imagined seeing him at an event, fully clothed, with a man by your side to show him you never needed him, you wish you could say you were no longer feeling petty but the break up hurt, shit, you cried for 6 months straight. you took in a deep breath and walked into the lights, sliding your robe off as you stopped on the marked x. you looked around nervously, expecting to see him prepping but he was nowhere to be seen. “uhm please excuse Mr. styles, Y/n he is running a bit late” his assistant spoke. you rolled your eyes and wrapped your arms around your figure “of course he is” you muttered to yourself.

you got your makeup retouched twice before he entered the studio “hello everyone” he cheered, his thick English accent leaving echo's in the wide space. the staff greeted him, grabbing his belongings and offering him coffee and other amenities. you wanted to grab one of the lights and throw it as his head, his perfect head and his perfect curls. “sorry to keep everyone waiting, there was a bit of traff” he trailed on as his eyes landed on you, your exposed skin and you disgruntled stare, the way your hair fell in waves past your shoulders and the way the lights made your skin glow. you felt as though you were already naked the way he was eating you with your eyes and you could not help but feel uneasy.

“the camera is prepped and the lights can be moved to your desire mr. styles” one of the assistants spoke as he passed on the camera into harry’s hands, god those hands that used to wrap around your neck and leave you a mess those nights, you cleared your throat removing the rather annoying thoughts from your head. “very well, we can begin” he assured, he held the camera to his face, snapping the first picture, you stood completely still “i-i was not ready” you muttered. he leaned his head to the side and smirked “i know”.

you posed, your hands sliding down your body as you smirked into the camera, the sound of the camera clicking away relieving some of your nerves, you glanced shy looks into the lens, biting your lips and gliding your hands down around your neck, you could feel his stare on you, beyond the pictures he was taking, you could feel him take in every inch of your exposed skin, the thought of him spreading your legs open in the middle of this studio clouding your mind. he walked closer instructing one of the assistants to adjust the light.

“a fucking masterpiece baby” he muttered, his words causing goose bumps to rise on your skin. the camera clicked a few times before he came to a half leaving you to stand still “please leave us alone, i would like to snap some relaxed pictures” he glanced over at the assistant, who looked back at the editors, who seemed speechless at the request. “mr. styles we are-” they began to elaborate. he glanced back once more and without any other words, the staff was exiting the studio. 

you grew nervous, the two of you left alone inside the big space, he turned to look at you, his eyes filled with desire, he snapped a picture of your flustered state “come closer” he instructed and you did as told. your heels leaving echos around you. he analyzed your skin and slipped the camera onto the floor, before slipping his hand under your hair and grasping it there. you whimpered slightly “fuck darling you look so good” he muttered. “harry-” you began to protest but his lips fell on yours like velvet, leaving you no other options but to kiss back, your lips melting into each other’s like butter. 

his hand wondered your exposed skin, his fingers playing with the seams of your thong, his lips fell onto your chin and traveled to your neck where he left small love bites, your knees quivering under you. “h-harry” you gulped “i dont want to do this only because you miss it” you looked down at him, his face buried into your breasts. he looked at you, his cheeks flustered, his glozzy eyes looking into yours “aint nobody taking my baby” he whispered. his hand slipping inside your panties as he slid his tongue down to your belly button.

you moaned at the feeling of his cold rings touching your clit, you threw your head back as he drew circles against it. “you got me so hard honey, i want to fuck you so hard” he moaned before snapping your panties off, the quick aggression leaving you gasping. he picked you up and placing your thighs on his shoulder, your pussy pulsing against his mouth. you moaned out loudly as he gripped your ass as he slid his tongue slowly up and down your folds. he stood up, walking towards the love seat that was used as a prop. 

his tongue slipped inside you as you fucked yourself with his mouth. “oh harry” you moaned, you needed him so bad, ever since he walked into the studio you wanted to fuck his brains out and there was no shame in that, he laid on his back slowly as you were now in the position to ride his face. you moved your hips, your hands falling onto his mess of curls. you gripped them tightly as he flickered his tongue over and over against your clit. you could feel the familiar burning sensation in the pit of your stomach, you knew you were going to become undone soon all thanks to Harry’s tongue. 

his hand came slamming down onto your ass, the sting causing you to yell in pleasure, if there was someone standing by the exit, there was little to be left to the imagination. you grinded harder and harder, carrying yourself to your first orgasm of the evening. he licked his lips as he moved you, your thighs trembling around his hips, the belt buckle pressing against your sore clit. “fuck baby” he muttered “you taste so fucking good” he wiped the sides of his mouth with his thumb and licked it as if he had just ate a five course meal. you were a heaving mess, he gripped your waist as he undid his belt, your needy hands, helping him push his pants off.

his hard dick popping out his underwear, pre cum dripping from his pink head. your mouth watered at the view, your hands sliding down his shaft, a soft groan falling from his red lips. you slipped his dick in your mouth, the saliva from your ready lips falling down the sides of his cock. he whimpered as you gagged as he reached past your tonsils, you looked at him, his whole cock now in your mouth, you popped him back out, a hiss falling from his mouth. 

your hand aided you as you put him back in your mouth, your head falling up and down as you worked his cock, he moaned loudly, his hands grabbing your hair into a neat pony tail which he pulled on as you sucked harder. your free hand fell in-between your legs where you drew circles against your clit, moans being chocked back by his cock in your mouth. “yes” he moaned “just like that”. you had no idea how you ended here but you needed him all over you.

you looked up at him with tears running down your cheeks, his cock ramming into the back of your throat, he threw his head back and moaned in pleasure, the view pushing you to your second orgasm. he pulled you away from his cock, his thumb wiping away saliva from your lips, he flipped you over, your eyes fell on the camera “smile” he moaned as he slipped himself inside you, the feeling of him stretching you out drawing whimpers from your lips, his hand fell to your pussy, his thumb pressed against your clit as he trusted in and out of you. 

“fuckk” he groaned, he buried his head in your neck as he pounded into you now, the sound of your skin clashing against his creating clapping echo's inside the studio. you felt your legs burning, your third orgasm nearing, his hand came down hard against the skin of your ass, a hiss leaving your lips at the harsh sensation, your pussy becoming wetter against his girth. “harry” you moaned, he quickly pulled out, swiftly laying you down on the couch, he laid ontop of you, slipping inside you, his hooded eyes consuming your naked skin “i want to see you when you cum” he moaned, his rosy lips leaving pecks on your neck “i want to take a mental photograph” he picked up his pace as he fucked you fast, his hands gripping onto your hips. 

you threw your head back in pleasure, your orgasm causing your muscles to loosen, your whole body trembling with complete bliss. “oh god, you are so fucking beautiful” he moaned as he came. you brushed your hands through his now relaxed curls, both your bodies exhausted & sore. “i think i got it” he spoke, you furrowed your eyebrows, confused at his comment. “what do you mean?” he laughed “the pictures, i think i got it” you blushed as you looked over at the camera “i know those wont be on the cover”.

[orangegreet]

Photo by Peter Chiykowski on Unsplash

It was an impulsive decision she made, veering off the road.

Trotting her tired pony through the bog, Alina thought to reach the pond directly by cutting through the grounds.

She only realized the graveness of her error when the beast whined, its hooves stuck in the thick mud.

Alina cast a glance above at the unforgiving sky.

Meaning only to get the weary little pony a drink, she ended up stranded in the treacherous earth between road and house where few could notice her.

In earnest, she raised pleading cries toward the manor—pleas which were lost as the rain began to fall.

All that could be heard were the sheaths of water which fell in cascading waves over the grounds.

The vast estate around her might have been beautiful with the help of the sun gleaming down on its features but in the gloom of autumn dusk and the haze of rainfall, everything was colored into shades of gray and black.

How terrible this journey had become. A sickly old pony for a sickly little woman. Together for a week of travel from their coastal home in the south and up into the ever-dreary wilds of the north country. It had been a long, arduous journey.

Only now to be nearly swallowed by the grounds of Blyth Fell? It was a poor omen.

How deeply troubling to be so far north from everything she had ever known and completely at a loss for what to do next. Would she die here, helpless and sodden?

The thought throttled her heart and she melted into a shroud of self-pity.

No one would hear her. No one would see her what with the rain and the closing of the day. She would surely catch her death within the hour.

Or perhaps she would grow so weak as to slip off her horse and become pulled into the earth herself where the mud would expand into her ears, her nose, her throat.

Drowning in sludge on the eve of her employment—it would be a fitting end to her tragic little life.

When her tears began to fall, she was thankful they could blend in with the rain drops running down her face; the tears and droplets would be fast friends in their wallowing.

So preoccupied was she that when two large hands clamped around her waist, she shrieked in fright and kicked at her assailant.

“Calm yourself, blamed woman!” The gruff voice shouted above the din of the storm.

Sharp eyes cut into her own, black and menacing to her enervated state.

“You are in need of assistance and I am unfortunate enough to be passing by.” He told her. Water covered his face and dripped from his nose and his jaw.

Alina was dumbstruck by his beauty.

Enough that her tears abated for the moment.

“I will have to set you by the carriage.” The man continued.

Her eyes lingered on the dark, wet locks curling from under the brim of his hat. She nodded in acquiescence though he had already begun to tuck her over his arm like a paper doll and trudge up the hill.

A great, black carriage stood at the top of the slope, door ajar and horses nudging at the road in impatience.

“Inside.” He commanded, setting her down with haste. Alina stepped into the shelter obediently and watched as the man worked his way back to the front of the coach.

The driver already had one of the horses unhitched and together the two men trailed the steed back down the hill toward her distressed pony, stopping just short of the bog land.

Alina tried to watch their progress through the carriage window, eyes squinting through the bleary haze.

After a few minutes she thought she saw her that her pony had drifted further away even as the black stallion veered back.

The window fogged. She wiped it away with her wet sleeve and pressed closer. Her sweet, dear little pony was now very deep in mud. The base of its hauches no longer visible.

The carriage door swung open and she shrieked.

The dark haired man cast her a haughty look and then shifted into the carriage, moving across from her while he rummaged in his belongings beneath the bench.

“Ah, there.” He was holding a long musket aloft with one hand and stuffing the muzzle with another.

“Should be quite fine.” He leveled the rifle and, as if remembering her existence, looked up again, “Ah, yes. I’m afraid the beast will need to be put down. Look away, if it please you.”

It did not seem to make a difference for him.

His eyes skipped right over the horrified look on Alina’s face and he swept out of the coach again, door rattling in his wake.

The black tails of his coat billowed behind him in the wind and she swore he adjusted his hat into a perfect tilt as he balanced the firearm and aimed.

Bang.

Even the tragic sound of mercy was muffled by the rain.

Alina was too shocked to make any noise. Mouth agape, she watched the blurry figures through the window as they slogged back up the hill to reattach the black horse to his harness.

She was too shocked to do more than shuffle away from the door in a daze when the man stepped inside again.

Saddle bags dropped at her feet and he reached into the bench seat to remove a rag.

He tapped the front window once seated and the carriage took off again.

The pause in their journey suddenly felt as natural as if they had made a stop-off to pick wildflowers.

The man eyed her warily as he cleaned his gun.

Alina opened her mouth to speak and closed it several times, the carriage jostling her as she floundered for words.

“I never intended to…that is, I meant to...It seemed prudent to get the pony some water. We do not—that is to say…I never fathomed such terrain…” her hand covered her mouth in shame before she could continue.

“Hmm.” He smirked and returned to his task. “Well in your desire to care for the poor beast, you quite ensured it’s doom.”

Though tears sprang to her eyes at the condemnation, she found her anger at last and glared.

He chuckled in surprise. His face crinkled with mirth. Even in cruelty, he was beautiful.

“You are most welcome, by the way. For coming to your rescue.”

Great thanks indeed. The man was more monster than gentleman in her view.

Manners won out eventually and she mustered a gracious nod. Her words were still heavy in her chest.

The dark eyes remained on her, studying her features even as she forced her gaze back to the window.

“Pardon me, sir. My wits fled me for a few moments and now I am unsure. Could you deliver me to Blyth Fell? I should like to have walked from the road so as not to be an inconvenience. Or if your coachman would be so kind as to stop here, I can find my own way.”

Alina shifted to pick up the saddle bags which contained all her belongings. Everything left to her in the world.

“You are an orphan, are you not?” He was smirking at her again.

“How did you…” the cruelty of his smile cut through her question.

“I told my staff I wished for an orphaned governess this time.” He said, simply. “Our last one was far too home sick. All her free time spent holed up in her room writing letters to her sister or someone similar. I did not heed the particulars closely, you see.”

He examined the shine of his gun as he buffed. “Only her misery. That which she spread about the hall like a plague. It was a relief when she resigned her post.”

The way he looked at her was as a predator to cornered prey. Alina gulped.

Did he just kick his lips? A trick of the mind, surely.

Her words bubbled up from the tangle of her insides, “Then you are Lord Kirigan.”

He blinked and then smiled again, “Indeed. And your name, miss?”

“You know I am an orphan in your employ and you have yet to learn my name? I am hired to be governess to your children, am I not?” The venom with which the words whipped out of her mouth astonished them both.

Apparently, the little pony was not as forgotten to her as it was to her companion just now.

Alina reddened in her cheeks and ears while Lord Kirigan stared dumbfounded for a moment.

“I apologize, sir. It has been a long journey on my own and I have quite forgotten myself.”

He adjusted his collar and seemed to right himself at her admission. “Quite right. As if I am allotted the time to learn every detail of someone whom may or may not withstand the trial period in my employ.”

Alina’s heart raced under the threat. Enduring the long journey back south as a disgraced ex-governess was not comforting in the least.

She collected herself, straightened her posture and introduced herself.

“Miss Starkova.” The Lord held her name in his mouth a moment longer than usual and she was struck again by his dark eyes, watchful as they collected the details of her across from him.

“Unusual name for this part of the world. Am I to assume your credentials are adequate?”

A retort rose to her mind and she bit it back, nodding and listing off the education and training she accomplished in Weymouth. Alina would need to tamp this urge to defy him if she intended to keep her employ beyond the carriage ride.

As if she had manifested the ending with the thought, the carriage came to a stop.

Her head tilted as she looked up at the manor through the window. Lord Kirigan made no move to leave, watching her first with open curiosity and then a scowl.

The coachman opened the carriage door and Kirigan exited.

The rain had morphed into a light drizzle. The Lord straightened his coat before turning back to the carriage and offered his hand to the new governess.

Hesitating for only a moment, Alina’s fingers slid over his warm palm.

Once more, her eyes met his. A heartbeat of energy or perhaps merely her pulse could be felt in the space where they touched. He narrowed his gaze at her and then wrenched his eyes away, dropping her hand after she descended the carriage.

“Ivan will see to your bags.” Lord Kirigan called over his shoulder as he entered the house. “Welcome to Blyth Fell, Miss Starkova.”

Alina watched him recede into the dark entry before her, unable to look away even as the drizzling rain collected at her brow and ran down her face.

[atxlxs]

Beyond The Veil: Chapter 1

Society as a whole has the same collective belief. If you can’t see, hear or touch it, it doesn’t exist.

Funny how by that logic, Eras shouldn’t be alive.

Not that they were alive, by average standards at least. Even with quirks they're kind of an outlier. Muska had made it a point to joke about that fact ever since they realized it over breakfast a few years ago. Not that either of them ate breakfast. It was more of just a shared space to feel the dread of wakefulness and drink their coffee. Early morning just didn’t agree with the thought of food, or whatever metallic smoothie Eras decided to blend that day.

Now they're getting off topic.

Anyways, society as a whole doesn’t actually know about the world behind the veil. A convenient name for the sheet drawn over the existence of those that were beyond what defines as ‘human’. Muska and Eras were prime examples of people from “beyond the veil”.

Muska was a witch. Not the stereotypical black hat broom witch. That's just offensive. No, she’s the altar having, spell making, wary of the fae witch that knows everything and anything a witch should know. Eras always felt bad but she really just didn’t know a lot of what witches actually do besides the obvious that she sees every day. She does, however, make a point to note any shiny rocks or glass bottles that seem interesting. She may not understand what Muska does but she will make damn sure that she at least helps out when she can. Also, Muska- despite her prowess- was a former regular human. Thus she appeared like one. She has a quirk and everything, but she gave up on being completely human to become something slightly different. Those ‘beyond the veil’ are shaped by what they see afterall.

Eras is an entirely different species.

Black hair that's cut just above the shoulders would reveal pristine snow white hair underneath if jostled or blown by the wind. Arguably, since the dawn of quirks, that was the most normal thing about her. To keep that normality when she needs to visit society, two sets of sharp and longer than normal canines are just a mutation. Cat-like slits in black eyes that will glow a vibrant and toxic green during certain circumstances become a sign of quirk activation despite not having a quirk or quirk factor. Certain special abilities of course get played off the same way. That was how people like them decided to fit in with the normals of society. Life becoming safer under the disguise of being the same.

Muska had asked, after they revealed their actual self during the early years of their friendship, what life was like before the quirk wars. Eras had responded with a simple sentence that they packed all their feelings into and delivered with a deadpan.

“Like getting dropped off in hell to become Satan's personal whore, only to discover that he not only has a foot fetish, but also enjoys weird shit like my little pony.”

Safe to say the cackles that followed, when Eras passed a phone with my little pony on it to Scout after explaining that it was a pre-quirk show for children, were expected.

It was a familiar start to their morning, Eras waking from a ‘sleeping’ state and using the rope to come down to the ground from their ceiling wide hammock and Muska groaned loud enough to be heard through her door as the sun probably hit her face from the window.

Tibbles, Muska’s familiar, was sitting poised on the kitchen table. Right underneath the cabinet that carried the cat food and treats. Reaching up, Eras grabbed down the food and pulled over Tibbles fancy food plate that was bought because “he deserves the best”.

After quickly dishing out the familiars breakfast, Eras was thanked with an allowed head scratch and Tibbles went on to ignore the world in favor of food. Eras would always lament about not being able to hear Tibbles talk like Muska.

Walking over to the stove, gas powered thank you very much (electric stoves are a lie to all that is holy like cooking and making espressos), Eras pulled out the moka pot and coffee beans. Grinding the coffee into a fine espresso powder, she set it up to boil the water and brew the coffee.

Despite receiving no nutritional value from everything not blood related, coffee is one of the few things she continues to enjoy. She likes the taste. Pouring the now brewed coffee over ice in one cup and nothing in the other, Eras set up the two coffees to their designated people's expectations.

Halfway through the process, her keen ears (slightly pointed like a half elfs) picked up the telltale sign of a door being pushed open and the soft footsteps of fuzzy socks on wood making their way to the kitchen.

“Coffee’s almost done, want anything to eat in the next hour or 2?” Eras asked, not looking up from the task at hand.

“Crepe” was the only word from her best friend and roommate.

A snort escaped at her dead to the world tone as Eras finished up the coffees. Placing the iced mocha in front of Muska, Eras went back into the kitchen and started to grab the ingredients out for crepes. How the vampire who doesn’t eat human food became the chef was beyond understanding at this point.

The morning was a quiet affair as usual. Neither feeling the need to speak besides a quick question or too about specifics wanted in the crepe. Placing said food in front of her friend, Eras sat in the chair opposing Muska around the round table that was settled in a place surrounded by windows on two sides, vines and moss growing up the sides of the actual house gave accents to the view as Eras stared out at the forest that surrounded them.

The pine and moss covered forest was a peaceful background as they sat in companionable silence. Both with coffees and one with actual food. A phone rested in Muska’s left hand as she ate, probably scrolling some social platform or website.

Eras sighed in contentment, an unneeded action since she doesn’t need to fucking breathe at all but its the point behind it that matters. This was until her best friend, the light of her undead life, the pizza to her hut, decided to speak and say some cursed shit.

“I want to take the UA exam to join the hero course.”

Eras took another sip of her coffee, avoiding the inevitable for a short moment, before they returned their gaze to their friend. Who was still causally reading their phone. As if they didn’t say something ‘life’ changing.

“Why?” Eras finally asked, and really, just why?

“I want to get control over my quirk since I haven’t really used it despite having it for 2 centuries now and well, Recovery Girl is at UA.”

Well, Eras thought, that makes a little more sense. Sighing again, this time in resignation, Eras nodded.

“Sure, I’ll set up an identity and pay for it. The exam is in around 4 months so you’ll have to work out what kind of abilities you're gonna show off and I’ll update your quirk registry with it.”

“Energy manipulation, just tag me under that hotline.” Muska said, a small smirk appearing on their face as they turned to look up. Eras just sighed heavily once more for the dramatics.

“I won’t be joining with you know.” Eras said, slightly shifting with nervousness that she rarely displayed. She hasn’t been comfortable with the thought of a highschool, any kind of school that was physical, since she had to hide everything that made her, well, her. She despised the thought of schools and she had several degrees. 5 PhD’s and a handful of masters and bachelors. She didn’t need school.

A look of understanding invaded her friend's mischievous gaze as she nodded.

“I didn’t expect you too.”

And that was that.

@baguettehead

[mintdrop]

Home Sweet Home // 2073 words

"Are you sure this is the right place?" If you looked up disgruntled in the dictionary, you'd find a picture of Estinien at this very moment, very aggressively wrestling with a tree branch that managed to hit him square in the nose. One arm kept itself hooked around the strap that held the bags with their belongings, while the other shielded his eyes; he wasn't losing a pupil today. Leading him, in absolutely no fear of angry greenery, was his Lalafellin companion.

"I'm pretty sure it's around here... Unless he moved out of the Shroud after..?" A twinge of guilt strummed at Mint's heartstrings like a harp at the thought, and she picked up her pace as they made their way further into the Central Shroud. It took only a few moments more before the roof of a small house peeked between the curling branches, and her face lit up near instantly. "Estinien! It's over there!"  She pointed as she beamed at her partner, who sighed and removed his makeshift goggles to pick her up and seat her on his right shoulder.

"I'm not going get down on the ground to see where you're pointing. Where?" Estinien's eyes followed the arm that was now at his eye level, eyebrows raising as he now saw the thatched roof. Keeping one hand firm across Mint's lap to keep her steady, he readjusted the back on his back before beginning the short hike towards the house, dead leaves and twigs crunching underfoot. He stopped just short of the house when he noticed something -- a person? -- rummaging around on what could only be the front porch; Estinien couldn't really tell from all the foliage covering it. He opened his mouth to call out, but was shocked silent when the Lalafell on his arm leapt from his shoulder towards the thing. Was she crazy?! "Totomi--!"

"Daaaaaaaad!" Propelling herself through the air by sheer force, Mint landed right between the shoulder blades of the unsuspecting person; a Miqo'te, judging from the ears that sat atop a head of red hair. The man stumbled as the bombshell of a Lalafell hit him, his arms scrambling -- and failing -- to grab whatever had assaulted his spine while he regained his balance. Mint dangled from his neck, her smile as bright as the sun as her face just barely peeked over her father's shoulder. Bewildered eyes from the man quickly turned into a gaze of joy as everything finally registered, and he swooped up the Lalafell into a big hug.

"Issat my lil' vanilla bean? I was startin' t' think I'd have t' leave before y' got here!" His accent heavily Lominsan as he spoke, he gave Mint a big squeeze before finally noticing the Elezen rummaging through the brush towards them. "And y' brought a long vanilla bean too! Are y' just collecting white-haired friends at this point?" The Miqo'te looked Estinien over as he spoke, who appeared only slightly bewildered that he was being compared to a bean again. At least now he understood where Mint picked the term up from.

"Estinien Wyrmblood. I'm your daughter's... I'm one of her companions." He glanced down at Mint, unsure that he should admit they were lovers. He didn't want to let something out of the bag if she hadn't already. His caution was met with a stifled laugh, however, and she waved her hand at him.

"This is the man I told you about in my letters." Mint spoke matter-of-factly as she let herself down from her father's embrace, realizing it was probably a mistake as she now had to crane her neck to look at either of them. "Estinien, this is my father, A'rhen." The two men shook hands, the Elezen becoming alarmed at the strength of the Miqo'te's grip. His face was smiling, but he was clearly trying to send a message, wasn't he?

"Pleased t' meet ya, Estinien. We'll have t' save the embarrassin' stories of Tomi for after I get back." A'rhen broke the handshake first, turning back to the porch of his small home to pick up what seemed to be an expensive-looking fishing rod and a large tackle box. When he turned to face the two again, his eyes were practically sparkling. "Th' next ship for ocean fishin' leaves at th' crack of dawn, and I'll be a wrinkle on a mole rat if I miss it!" He knelt down to give Mint one last hug, and nodded to Estinien as he rose before grinning and taking off down the path the two had come from.

"Your father is quite an... interesting character." Estinien watched him for a few moments before turning back to the Lalafell, bending over to pick up the bags he'd relinquished to the forest floor earlier.

"He sure is. I can't imagine what my childhood would've been like if he wasn't like that, though." Mint grinned as she spoke before turning to the house, hiding her face from view as she climbed the stairs. "I'm just glad he's okay."

Though she spoke at a lower volume this time around, and more or less trailed off at the end, Estinien tilted his head. He swore he heard something, but he couldn't place the words at all. "Totomi? Did you say something?" Mint shook her head, looking over her shoulder with her trademark smile.

"Nope! We should get inside, we probably have a lot to do in there if this porch is any indicator." Her head drooped, already knowing what awaited the two of them from the dead leaves and branches that crunched under her feet with every step. Inside the small cottage was no better; dust littered most surfaces and random clothes lay scattered about the floor and the couches of the main room. Dirty bowls and cutlery filled the sink of the small kitchen area to their left, and curtains on every window seemed to be sinking in on each other. "Oh, dad..."

The door clicked behind her as Estinien entered the house, unloading the bags near the small table in the center of the kitchen. He wanted to make a comment, but judging from Mint's tone of voice, he concluded that it probably wasn't the best idea. "You weren't lying about a lot to do. I'm sure the size of the cottage is contributing to how much clutter there seems to be."  Of all the that he saw, the only things that seemed to be kept in order were the small family portraits that hung along the walls; in fact, they looked as though they were dusted and polished each day. He snapped out of his daze when he noticed Mint lifting the heavier of the two bags they'd brought. "I'll get it. Where do y--"

Mint cut him off with a waggle of her hand, grinning. "It's fine, I can do it. I was the one who packed this bag, y'know?" Lifting with both arms, she hefted the bag onto one of the chairs around the table, attempting to push its contents onto the table itself. When Estinien noticed that she could barely push it past the edge, he made his way over and began taking the things she pulled out. Several types of cleaners, multiple handrags... a mop? How did she even manage to fit it in the bag? Believing it to be a portal to some astral pocket as she continued to hand him things, the table was soon filled with enough cleaning supplies to put a mansion's entire maid staff to shame. "Do you mind starting the dishes while I gather up all the loose... everything that's lying around?" She pointed to the bottle of heavy duty soap and the rags that seemed to have a rough side for tough stains, and he nodded.

Morning soon turned to evening as the two tackled every corner of the house at Mint's direction, breaking only for lunch. Every room had been dusted and mopped, clothes and linens gathered up for tomorrow's laundry excursion. Fresh curtains lined the windows, dug out from a small closet that Estinien couldn't even see until Mint had opened it; it was perfectly sized for a Lalafell. With her hair tied up into a pony tail to reduce the amount of heat against her neck, Mint wiped at her forehead. "Alright, there's only one more thing. Follow me."

Digging back into the magical bag of never ending space, Estinien expected an entire vacuum to emerge. Instead, she pulled out a small bouquet of white lilies. Gently cradling them, she made her way towards the thin hallway that separated the two bedrooms of the house, which looked like it ended in a dead end to Estinien - perhaps due to the lack of lighting. In reality, the "wall" was a door, it's windows covered by a dark curtain. Mint pulled it open, Estinien following to see a small grave nestled directly in front of them, the name "Liliana" engraved on it. It was covered with all types of flowers, some seemingly left there for months on end with how dark their petals were. He stood motionless at the top of the stairs that led down to the grave, watching only in silence as the Lalafell moved the wilted and dead flowers off to one side, eventually to be discarded later.

She knelt in front of the small tombstone, placing her flowers in the center of it. "When I was in Doma, I got a message from Krile that my father was frantically looking for me. He gave no reason, instead begging her to tell me to come home." She paused for a moment, letting down her hair so that it once again shielded her face. "I couldn't find a way back until it was too late. Garlean soldiers and Ala Mhigan resistance were consistently battling in the Shroud. A few times, they were only yalms from their windows."

Estinien stepped over to her as she spoke, kneeling down beside her. "Conjurers in Gridania said it was stress. Her heart had always been frail since I was a child, and it became too much for her. I think dad thought I would be able to fix it if I had been able to make it home." Though she was smiling, large tears began to well up. "I wish I had.. but I think it's better I didn't. My magicks aren't miracles, y'know? He was so distraught when I made it back, and vented his anger at me. But if I had been here, and couldn't save her.. it would have been worse."

Mint paused, wiping at her eyes. "He apologized after the funeral. I knew he hadn't meant it, so I never held it against him. I wish I could have stayed with him longer. But the scions kept calling for me, so I left. I loved my mother dearly... but not nearly as much as he did. The way he left the house was no surprise to me." She took in a deep breath, letting it out with a heavy sigh; the tears she had hoped to keep confined to herself ended up spilling over. "I think he took this trip to fix his broken heart. He loved taking her fishing; he brought her along a trip as their first date."

The setting sun began to shine its final orange lights through the trees before the moon took over for the night; Mint sniffed before standing up, turning to Estinien with a sad smile on her face. "I guess I should do the same, right? I think she'd be upset if she knew I was still grieving like I did the day I found out." She turned back to the stone, wiping the tears from her cheeks. "It's alright, mom. I'll take care of dad for you. We both know he can't figure out his arm from his tail."

Estinien stood up beside her, lifting Mint into his arms. "And I'll take care of Totomi. She may not need it, with how well you raised her, but I vow to be there if she needs me." The words he spoke caused Mint to choke on her own, and she simply let herself cry as Estinien carried her inside.

As the door closed behind them, the sun's final rays framed the tombstone, and had anyone been there to see, they could swear they saw the visage of a smiling Lalafell, with white hair blowing in a non-existent breeze.

[lainelannister]

I have been off Tumblr for a few days and now I have SO MUCH LAINE FIC TO CATCH UP ON, WHICH IS JUST SO EXCITING!! Okay so HERE ARE MY PROMPTS, choose whichever strikes your fancy! Crazy enough, they're both show-verse: 1) Some sort of encounter between Jaime, Cersei, and Sansa after Jaime rides back south to Cersei, or 2) Jaime and Cersei escape the sack of King's Landing :D

Title: Binding with briars my joys and desires

Author:  lainelannister

Ship(s):  Jaime/Cersei

Rating: M

Trigger Warning(s): None

Brief Summary:  The one-time Queen of the Seven Kingdoms flees to the Free Cities with her twin, to live the unencumbered life Jaime always wanted.

Notes: The title of this story comes from “The Garden of Love’ by William Blake.

When she gives herself the space and permission to recall her early childhood, Cersei Lannister remembers nothing so keenly as the fragrance of the Sunset Sea. The salt wove through the air, infusing the gentle breezes with brine, carrying the sensation of freedom, of exploration, of possibility.

But the heavy stench of rotting fish and water-sodden waste, the thick, adhesive humidity, the queasiness and the nausea she experiences now- none of this feels familiar.

The one-time Queen of the Seven Kingdoms curls her knees into her chest, silently cursing the abrasive straw-tack pallet for rubbing a violent crimson rash into her formerly smooth and alabaster skin. They’re stowed in the brig of a trading dinghy, heading east…to Braavos or Pentos or Myr…some godsforsaken place where their pasts carry no weight, where the Lannister name holds no significance.

The boat jerks with every swell and release of the tide, and she’s sure she’ll be sick again- between the erratic motion of this miserable vessel and the child growing in her womb, she’s constantly at the mercy of some discomfort or another.

But Jaime wraps his arms around her waist and gathers her close, his whiskers tickling the back of her neck as he brushes soft kisses up and down the nape- his breathing feels even, rhythmic, contented…envy seizes her gut, but she forces it aside for the time being, pressing her back flush against Jaime’s chest and willing her inhales and exhales to match his in perfect time.

.

They exit the boat on a hot and dusty pier overlooking a bustling marketplace. The sun glares down vindictively, and she’s sure that she’ll soon find ugly blotches of scarlet staining her cheeks and neck and collarbone. The thought unnerves her, and she feels her lips twist into a sullen scowl.

But her brother clearly doesn’t share her disdain for this new environment. He breezes through the market with a levity she hasn’t seen since his youthful tourney days, his posture erect and his eyes radiant. He’s invigorated, alive- free.

And although she’d love to share his enthusiasm, to revel in the potential of this unencumbered new life, she still recoils when he leads her to a jewelry broker and asks her to hand over the baubles she carried overseas. They’ll need coin, he explains- they need to buy a house and set themselves up in a comfortable manner. Reluctantly, she slips off her diamond pendant and ruby rings and onyx bangles and gold hair combs-

(Jaime removes his gold hand and sells the piece without hesitation, and she tries and fails to quash her own irritation at the sight of his smooth, unconcealed stump.)

At the last, Jaime asks her to hand over the final ring in her collection, the priceless golden lion that had once belonged to their mother. The merchant seems especially keen to get his grubby hands on this piece- “It’s worth more than the rest combined,” he insists.

Hot tears sear Cersei’s eyes as she forces the lion ring over her swollen knuckles and drops it in Jaime’s palm. He discusses pricing with the merchant, and she finds that she cannot be privy to the conversation- she slips away and braces her back against a nearby stucco wall, deriving some small satisfaction from the scrape of plaster on her skin as she slides down, down, down.

.

They find a small sandstone villa just steps from the water, with lemon trees in the front courtyard and a small stable to house the ponies Jaime purchases for them. The master bedchamber overlooks a green lawn, vertiginous palms, a crystalline blue sky-

“Finally,” Jaime sighs as she rides him, using his left hand to guide her hips in a circular pattern as he tucks his stump beneath a pillow.

He’s blissful, beautiful, drawing her down to his mouth and smiling beatifically against her lips-

His gaze remains fully riveted to her face, to her body- but she can’t help but allow her peripheral vision to wander the room, taking stock of its plainness, the lack of refinement, the surfeit of valuable possessions-

Simple. Uncomplicated.

Empty.

.

Dark, dense blood drowns her flimsy smallclothes, and she crumbles on the floor of the privy chamber, horror, confusion, and shame colliding in her mind, fighting for dominance.

My baby is gone. Another lost child, another demolished dream-

(And in the crevices of her own conscience, she’s forced to wonder whether this unborn Lannister ever truly existed at all, whether she’d merely willed him into being, whether the swelling of her belly and the early-morning queasiness were a mere construct of her imagination, a desperate manifestation-)

She shares the news with Jaime when he returns from the fishing piers, and he immediately sweeps her into his arms, stroking her hair with his good hand, using his lips to clear away the tears staining her cheekbones and under-eyes.

“There will be others, Cersei. We can have other children…we can do anything we want here.”

He thinks he’s consoling her…but as she observes her brother’s face, she wonders whether he understands the implications of the wrinkles creasing both their brows, the grey streaking through both their hair.

Of course, he’s a man, and it’s all different for men. He could take a young wife tomorrow and have a passel of children with her, and none would question it for a moment…

Four children dead. Four children torn from this earth, torn from their destinies…and she’s no longer young, and there’s so little time-

She doesn’t realize that she’s angling her body as far from Jaime’s as possible until she catches a glimpse of her reflection in his pained and shadowed eyes.

.

News from Westeros creeps in bit by bit, morsel by morsel. She gathers what she can from the marketplace- the Dragon Queen dead, Rhaegar Targaryen’s boy exiled, a Stark monarch in King’s Landing and another in the North, her dastardly dwarf brother still wearing the Hand’s badge-

She needs a long walk by the water to parse through this information, to digest her own disappointment.

And what have I to claim? No kingdom, no leadership, no goals, no pursuits…

Nothing but Jaime.

And for the first time, she allows herself to truly acknowledge what she’s known for years, possibly forever-

He simply isn’t enough.

.

She acquires the tiny and deadly vial from a peculiar shop wedged at the end of a dim alleyway. It’s a suspicious locale, perfectly designed for its purpose, and she takes no small amount of satisfaction from the fact that the liquid she purchases there comes in a rich and vibrant red- blood red, Lannister red.

When she returns to the villa, she pours two glasses of chilled Dornish wine. Jaime doesn’t care for the beverage, but he’ll never refuse it, not when she makes the offer.

She tilts the small bottle into the goblets and smiles when the crimson poison and the crimson wine meld together in flawless unity. A quick swirl of her glass and a deep inhale- there’s no unusual odor, nothing to arouse suspicion.

Her twin reclines on a settee on the grounds behind the villa, the sun radiating off of the golden planes of his bare chest. He’s peaceful, relaxed, softly smiling…and his smile grows wider when he hears her approach, when she brushes the fingers of his left hand with the fingers of her right as she gives him the goblet.

She slides her body onto the settee and cushions her head in the curve between his neck and shoulder. He scatters kisses on the crown of her head, on her brow, on her eyelids-

She takes a long drink from her goblet. There’s a sweetness to the poison, and as it coats her tongue, she watches her brother tilt his own glass toward his lips.

Scarlet wine, golden hair, scarlet mouths, golden skin-

It could only ever end this way- we could only ever end this way.

[rainnawarmcuppa]

Captain Envy (1/?)

Summary: Steve Rogers hadn’t met anyone more beautiful than Peggy Carter. Until he met Rose Tyler, that is. All Events occur after Winter Soldier. Steve/Rose Centric. Mentions of Tentoo/Rose. 

Steve Rogers X Rose Tyler

This chapter: ~1710 words, Teen

Notes: I started this story some time ago, but recently picked it back up again after seeing the more recent Marvel movies. I’m hoping to actually finish it this year.

AO3

Steven Grant Rogers didn’t often get shot at by women, but when it had happened (which had only been twice) it was of a notable occurrence. The two times that it happened both women had been beautiful, English, and extremely angry.

He remembered agent Peggy Carter picking up a gun in a bunker and firing at him immediately after he had asked her what she had thought of his shield choice. He hadn’t realized then that it had been out of jealousy, taking it to be one of those odd quirks that women had that men just weren’t meant to understand. In fact, it wouldn’t be until after he had been resurrected from his icy tomb that he would understand. Even then, Tony Stark would be the one to explain it to him while Thor and Clint laughed at him.

The second time that it happened he was caught just as off guard as the first, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

The first time he met Rose Tyler was before she was even a part of their team. He was doing his run around the capital, laughing every time he passed Sam Wilson, when he noticed her honey-colored ponytail swaying as she jogged into their trail. He’d been too slow noticing her to stop himself from colliding with her, wrapping her up in his arms instead to protect her from the rough tumble.

He lifted himself above her, an apology formed in his throat but died at his lips as he looked at her. Her lightly glowing gold eyes bore into his own light blue as she caught her breath. Her hair fanning about her slightly sweaty face as her brow creased in a perplexing manner, “Are ya gonna move?”

He scrambled to get up, tugging her with him, as he realized the scandalous position they were in. He blushed when he took in her hot pink sports bra and tight black capris, he still wasn’t used to the change in women’s clothing style.

“Sorry about that ma’am, I get into my own world sometimes. I find it especially hard to concentrate around a beautiful dame like-“ he cut himself off and took in a sharp breath as he rushed out and apology, "I am so sorry! I didn’t – not that you aren’t of course, beautiful I mean.” He was interrupted by her tinkling laugh, a beautiful tongue in teeth smile on her slightly flushed face.

“Thank ya for the compliment, Cap.” She began jogging backward and away from him, “Best get a move on, your friend has got quite the head start now.”

He watched her for a moment, darting his eyes towards Sam before trying to call out for her, “Wait! Wait, I didn’t get your name!”

“You’ll see me again!” She said as she turned around and continued her jog.

“What if I don’t?” He yelled at her retreating form.

“Well, then I’ll see you first!” She yelled over her shoulder, taking off at a run and not waiting for his response. Not that he had ever expected her to really.

He shook his head, a smile on his face as he took up a light jog to catch up to Sam, Today might be better than anticipated.

That assumption wavered when he had been called to Stark tower, body rigid and nerves on edge as he made his way to the top floor where he was sure that the man himself would be waiting. So, he was wholly surprised when he stepped out and saw the whole team awaiting him.

They were all seated or standing around a large conference table, Nick Fury stationed at the head, “How nice of you to finally join us, Captain. We thought we were going to have to get this pony show started without you. Now, would you kindly mind sitting down so I may begin?”

He narrowed his eyes as Stark sniggered off in his corner, casting a disparaging glance at Natasha as he took a seat beside where she was propped against the table, “Might I inquire as to why we’re here?”

Fury stood, his stature intimidating as he began to circle around the table and click through slides on the three-dimensional program running at the center of it, the first being of the now shut down S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters, “As you all know, we have recently lost SHIELD, not for lack of trying to save it on my part.” A heated glance was cast in Steve’s direction, “Unfortunately, we no longer have the backing of the American government. Now, this may come as a surprise to you overly entitled heroes, but we are nothing without funding. So, I have taken it upon myself to reach out to an overseas company that is willing to get its hands dirty for a good cause.” He paused, bringing the hologram to its next slide of a ‘T’ in a hexagon.

There was a deep sigh from across the room as Tony fell into a chair and spoke, “Are you kidding me?”

“Do you have something you would like to say, Mr. Stark, or am I allowed to finish?” Fury asked, leaning against the table with his one good eye boring into the billionaire harshly.

“Torchwood?” Tony asked brusquely.

“Yes, Mr. Stark, Torchwood.” A voice responded from across the room.

Steve felt like he could hear the collective turning of heads as everyone moved to find the source of the feminine voice. Though, As surprised as everyone else seemed to be, he was sure that he had been much more surprised.

“Jogging girl?” He stood quickly, more out of formality than shock.

“Hello again, Captain.” She smiled a soft smile, one that didn’t nearly reach her eyes, before letting it drop as she stared angrily at Tony, “Do you have a problem with my company, Mr. Stark?”

Tony was laughing as he responded, not even slightly deterred by the angry looks that both Steve and Bruce were giving him for being so rude, “Your company? I’m sorry, but I have studied up extensively on Torchwood and I don’t remember it being run by a twenty-something, bottle blonde.”

“No, you wouldn’t. I try to stay hidden and apparently it’s worked since you don’t know who I am.” Rose replied, her eyes slanted in a glare.

The Captain watched her, captivated by the authority she commanded (and maybe a little bit by the tight fitting black catsuit she wore). She certainly didn’t look like someone who could run a company, but he didn’t look 94 either.

“Team, this is Rose Tyler, codename: Bad Wolf. She runs a very deep underground company known as the Torchwood Institute. Agent Tyler here founded the Institute several years ago to help with any issues that should arise of the alien nature.” Fury switched the slide again to show an image of a green monster, “I’ll let agent Tyler take over from here to explain her facility and the help her Institute is offering us.” He finished, handing her the small remote before moving to the side.

“Thank you, Agent Fury.” She stood at the head of the table for a moment, unnerving them all with her eyes before speaking, “My Institute has state of the art facilities-“

“I’m sorry.” Bruce said as he stood up at the far end of the table, “But you honestly want us to believe this?”

“Want you to believe what, Mr. Banner?” Rose asked wearily.

“You. I hate to agree with Tony, but you can’t be more than 23 and I don’t see how-“

“Right, So I suppose I should dig into information about myself before I begin speaking about my company.” She said as she took a seat, her hands resting gently on the table in front of her as she stared between all of them and started speaking again, “I’m not going to get deep and personal here, you don’t need any of that. What you do need to know is that I can see the whole of time and space, every single atom of your existence, and I can divide them. I see everything, all that is, all that was, all that ever could be and I’m choosing to do as much good with that as I can.”

“What do you mean you can see ‘every single atom and divide them’?” Natasha asked her hand at her hip, ready to pull a weapon.

“Exactly what you think I mean.” Her hand moved in a sweeping motion, startling the red headed woman when her gun erupted into golden dust in her palm, “I am nearing 200 years old, you all look like children to me.”

-:-:-:-:-

He had been intimidated by her at first, even he could admit to that. Though, he knew he wasn’t the only one. Stark and Romanoff had been the first to state that they didn’t trust her as soon as she had left, both of them looking heavily chastised by the words she had spoken to them.

Sure, her power had been pretty frightening, but it wasn’t as if they hadn’t faced something this startling before. Thor was pretty ancient and powerful himself, maybe not in a ‘can see the future and destroy matter with the swipe of my hand’ sort of way, but he was still much more powerful than they were.

Steve was quick to point this out in the middle of the heated argument the group was having. He suggested they give her a chance. Better to have someone that powerful on their side, rather than batting for the other team.

“All I’m saying is that if she’s bad then it will be easier to keep an eye on her if we at least stay in her good graces.” Steve said, his palms up in surrender as they all fixed glares in his direction.

There was anger in their faces as they soaked up his words. As if he should be the last one to speak on this matter since he’d taken down their original backing in the first place. He had stopped speaking altogether after that. It all came down to Fury, and he had made his decision before the conference had even started.

[scaryscarecrows]

Good Influence

Jonathan yawns and rolls over, blinking sleep from his eyes. He has no idea what time it is, but it’s still dark outside. Damned early, then, or damned late. Or somewhere in the middle.

He shuffles downstairs for a glass of water and gets the shock of his life when Granny rasps, “What are you doing down here, boy?”

DIDN’T EVEN KNOW SHE WAS DOWN HERE CRAP WHAT DO I DO

“A-a glass of water.” he stammers out. “I couldn’t sleep…”

“Come here.”

It’s dark down here, but he can just make her out, sitting at the dining room table and staring off into space. She’s gotten herself a glass of iced tea (it is too early) and he wonders how long she’s been down here.

He wants to go back upstairs and hide until morning.

He sits are far away from her as he dares, wondering what she wants and if she’s going to ask him, in that calm tone he knows so well, to explain the books in his backpack.

Or worse.

“You’re not sick, are you, boy?”

“N-no.”

Forget the water, can he go now?

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, Granny.”

“Come here.”

Every fiber of his being is screaming DON’T YOU DO IT, but that’s suicide. And although he might stand still and let himself be run over, he wouldn’t actively leap in front of a car.

“Bend down. You’ve gotten tall.”

He doesn’t feel it. Not next to her.

Birdy hands cup his face and it’s a monumental effort not to pull back.

“You’re sure.”

His throat decides to close up and he nods as best he can. She finally lets him go and he tries not to flee back to the other end of the table.

It’s not his fault if he has long legs and therefore takes little time to get there.

The china cabinet looms over him like a mouth and he vows that next time he needs a glass of water, he’s going to suck it up and stay in bed.

When she doesn’t say anything else, he gets up and shuffles to the sink. The pipes gurgle and spit and hack out lukewarm water that tastes ever-so-slightly of rust. He likes the taste of rust, he suspects-the water bottles at school taste like nothing and it’s weird.

“I-I’m going to go back to bed, Granny.”

She doesn’t answer and he’s just reaching the doorway when she croaks, “Jonathan.”

THIS IS HOW I DIE.

“Yes, Ma’am?”

More silence. Then-

“Sleep well, child.”

Oh god, she’s laced the cup with poison. Or something. He’s not going to wake up, that’s what she’s implying.

“Ah, you too, Granny.”

He’s halfway up the stairs when he hears her get up, and he may or may not run the rest of the way up.

* * *

Granny bans him from the house because she has a headache. He takes the opening and grabs a book, heads to the weed-filled No Man’s Land between them and the Richardsons. It’s less oppressive out here, far away from Granny without being so far that she’ll yell at him for going somewhere without permission.

It’s also far enough away from the chapel that the crows shouldn’t take offence to his presence. That’s the important thing here.

He’s nearly finished with his book (it’s thin-The Turn of the Screw) when Kitty calls his name.

“Jonathan!” He raises a hand and tries not to be surprised when she plops down beside him. “Why are you out here?”

“Granny has a headache, so I came outside.” He sticks a scrap of paper in his book and tilts his head to look up at her. “Why are you out here?”

“I was going to go exploring.”

Exploring? Seriously? There’s nothing to explore.

“Why.”

“Bored.” She reaches over and plucks a strand of grass from his hair before he can dodge her. “Want to come?”

Not really, but with her luck she’ll fall into a ditch or be kidnapped by a wandering salesman or something equally horrible.

“Let me put this back.” he says grudgingly (and it is grudging, this is for her safety, not because he wants to), rising to his feet. Ow. He’s been lying on the ground for too long and he missed several rocks when he cleared his spot.

She eyes him and he really should see it coming, but-

“You might wake your grandmother.”

“I won’t.” If there’s one thing he’s good at, it’s not waking Granny. “Just stay here, I’ll be-”

She swipes the book from his hand and takes off running, shouting, “Catch me if you can!”

What? Wait! He didn’t…he just…

“That is a library book, it doesn’t want to explore!”

God dammit.

She had a head start and she’s out of his line of vision, which means it takes him longer than is usual to catch up with her, halfway down the road.

“What was that for?”

“If you woke her up, she might say no.” Likely. “Besides, it got you to smile.”

No it didn’t. He is not smiling. That is an involuntary…

Oh.

That’s not fair.

She looks at the book (it’s unharmed by its kidnapping) and hands it back.

“I like that one.”

“You’ve read it?” This copy’s hardly touched. Someone donated it to the school library, but since he lives in a town of idiots, it’s been read maybe once.

“Yeah, my mum’s got a copy in some anthology.”

Well, well. Somebody else in this town is literate. It’s like a dream come true.

Because nobody else reads, is all. Not because it’s her specifically.

“Well, you got me up. Now what.”

“I dunno.” She twists a loose strand of hair between her fingers and he’s tempted to stick it behind her ear where it belongs. Or give her a hair clip, since it’s always that strand that’s escaping. At least, she’s always messing with it, so he presumes it’s that strand. “Any more haunted bridges?”

“No.” It is that strand, because if she’s not playing with it it’s making a little brown line on her face. Which he knows because she sits across from him in history, is all. He can’t not notice, at that angle. “But we could go see if Old Man Wicker’s out today.”

She blinks at him and that strand is really starting to annoy him because it’s out of place why won’t she put it back.

“Old Man Wicker.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You’re putting me on.”

“I am not! That’s his name.”

“That’s what’s on his birth certificate.”

“Wicker’s on his birth certificate and he’s old. Come on. He’s interesting. He shot at me once.”

She snorts and for a second he thinks she’ll roll her eyes and go, oh, please, don’t lie, but then she gestures.

“After you.”

He sticks his hands in his pockets to keep one of them from fixing that damn strand and continues down the road with some vague idea that he’s going to regret this.

* * *

The Wicker place is really more of the Wicker shack, but that doesn’t have the same ring to it. It’s ways back off the road, surrounded by weeds, with its back to the woods. Well, such as they are. A large collection of spindly trees.

Now, Jonathan lives in the house that kids refuse to go near (they used to ring n’ run, but Granny caught one of them once). So he’s not…scared…of Wicker’s shack per se. Healthy apprehension? Oh yeah. And it’s justified. The old bastard shot at him when he was eleven-accidentally took a few too many steps over the property line. Scared him half to death, too, when he came tearing around the corner of the house hollering, “Git off my property, ya damn bastard brat!”

Now, though, nobody’s seen the old man in years, and judging by the weeds, he’s too decrepit or too dead to be a danger. So it’s safe to show Kitty their local Angry Shotgun-Wielding Resident, so long as they stay well on this side of the spindly little fence.

“Does anyone even live there?”

“Uh-huh.” Maybe, anyway. It’s not like anyone wants to go check on the guy. For all they know, he could be a decaying corpse out back. “About killed me when I was eleven.”

“You weren’t joking?”

“No! He really did shoot at me. Barely missed me.”

At least, he’s pretty sure that’s what happened. There were gunshots, and he’s pretty sure one whizzed by his head, but he’d been sprinting for home at the time.

“Why?”

“I trespassed by accident.”

“There’s a fence.”

“There wasn’t a fence at the time!”

She gives him a deeply unimpressed look (that damn strand has gotten loose again, put it back) and turns back to the house.

“Are you sure someone lives there?” she says, hands gripping the splintery wooden fence. “Because it looks abandoned.”

Why is she touching the fence? That can’t be good.

There’s no gunfire and no shouting, though, so she’s probably fine.

“Well, he used to live there. He could be dead.”

No.

No, no, he didn’t mean to say that! What has he done?

“Either he is or he isn’t.”

“He’s not! He’s not. Just a local legend.” Please let it go, please let it go. “He’s not out, now, though, so we should just…”

“What if he’s dead in there?”

“He’s not. Trust me, he’s not. But he is temperamental, so let’s go.”

“What’s he look like?” She lets go of the fence and he breathes a mental sigh of relief. “Is he all horrible and missing an eye or something?”

“Not exactly. But if he sees you, he’ll yell all sorts of clichés at you.” At least, he used to. Jonathan doesn’t make a habit of coming down this way. Used to be Wicker had a big dog that would come sit by the fence and growl at passerby. The dog is surely long dead, but that thing had to be part mastiff or somethin’.

“Why I am I not surprised.”

That wasn’t so bad. It was actually…kind of nice. To get out, he means. Go for a walk. With a friend.

Thirty seconds later, he finds himself mistaken about the dog-it comes around the side of the house.

“Is that a dog?”

“Uh-huh.”

Either it hasn’t seen them, or it doesn’t consider them a threat. Jonathan would like it to stay that way.

“Come on.”

“That’s a damn pony!”

“About the size of one. Come on.” The dog comes a little closer, hesitant at first, then it starts loping across the weedy field. “Kitty.”

“Okay.”

The dog hasn’t reached the fence before they’re gone.

[cal-puddies]

When You’re Ready || calum hood || pt 2

Cal was, not surprisingly, right, and you fell asleep rather quickly. You woke up closer to noon and in extreme pain and panic. Pain because you’d woken up on your broken ribs and panic because you weren’t quite sure where you were, a side effect of the possible concussion they’d warned you and Cal about.

Once you calm yourself and see Duke looking at you from the door, you remember staying at Cal’s and in his room. You slowly get up and make your way down the hall to where Cal is making slight noise.

“Hey.” You say meekly, finding him in his kitchen.

He immediately sets to action, grabbing some Tylenol and a glass of water. “Hi, how ya feelin?” He asks, handing them over.

“Like I got hit by a bus.” You take the water and pills from him. “Thank you…” you swallow the pills and drink the water, “I think they were right about the mild concussion last night.”

“I thought they might be.” He agrees, now going to the freezer to grab a couple ice packs. He throws them on the counter and grabs a couple kitchen towels and wraps them. Watching him almost makes you sick to your stomach, it’s become so second nature to him. He grabs the larger one and an ace bandage off the counter. “Lift the shirt.” He murmurs. You do as he says and he straps the ice pack to your ribs. He hands you the smaller one, “for your face. 20 minutes and we’ll take em off. I’m gonna make some breakfast.” You hold the ice pack onto your nose and enough to cover the stitches on your cheek. He looks you over, “might need a bigger one for those black eyes.” He kisses the side of your head as he walks around you.

“Fuck, that bad?” You ask.

“Worst I’ve seen.” He mentions, pulling ingredients together for breakfast. “Oh!” He slides your phone across the counter. “This has been going off since I plugged it in.”

You press the center button and see all the texts and calls from Mark. “Can you turn it off, I don’t want to deal with it right now.” You slide it back across to him and he nods his head.

“Sure thing.” He gives you a little smile and does as you ask. You sit at the counter and aside from whatever Cal is whipping up and some humming from him, there’s no sound.

He’s sets a plate of food in front of you and then a cup of coffee. He gently grabs the ice pack you’re holding to your face and he sees your upset, but doesn’t ask about it yet. He taps your side and you lift your shirt, while he’s unwrapping the ace bandage tears start to fall from your eyes. He doesn’t say anything, just rubs your back, trying to comfort you. “Why do I keep letting him do this?” You whimper.

Cal lets out a little sigh, he rests his hand on the back of your head and pulls you in so your head rests on his shoulder and he holds you while you cry. “I dunno baby. I keep asking the same thing.” He whispers, resting his cheek on your head. He holds you like that until you calm down.

“I feel like I don’t know who I am anymore.” You sniffle. “I wanna be done... I wanna press charges… Calum, I’m not this girl.”

“Hey.” He puts his hand on the side of your face until you look up at him. “I know you’re not. Sometimes we just get caught up. But I’m here to support whatever you wanna do, like I said last night. You want to press charges? I have the cards the cops gave me. We can call them.”

“He’s gonna kill me, Calum.” You whisper.

“He’s not gonna touch you. We’ll call, let them know you wanna press charges and then when he’s arrested we’ll get the guys to help get your stuff.” He puts his other hand on the other side of your face, and You sniffle. He feels tears slip from your eyes. “Everything is going to be ok.” He whispers. You look back at him again and nod your head and then push yourself into his arms. He easily engulfs you, he pulls you onto the chair with him. “It’s ok baby.” He soothes.

“I’m sorry I’ve put you through this.” You whimper against his skin.

He rubbed your back and shushed you, letting you cry it out. “I hate it, sweet girl, but I can handle this. What I can’t handle is losing you.” He presses his lips to the side of your head. “Let’s call and tell them you wanna press charges ok?” You nod your head and Cal gets up and let’s you go. “I’ll get the card and my phone. Eat something.” You sit back in your chair and pick at your food.

Cal notices you haven’t really eaten when he comes back in but he doesn’t say anything. He’s worried about you, but he also knows you just made a big decision. He sets his phone and the card beside you. “You’ll stay right here?” You look up at him.

“F’course. I’ll be right here.” He let you wrap your casted hand around his fingers as you picked up his phone in your good hand. You quickly unlocked his phone and dialed the number on the card.

The officer went over what was likely going to happen and made sure you had a safe place to stay. He also thanked you for giving it more thought and said he’d let you know once Mark had been picked up so you could go get your stuff. He figured it’d be later in the afternoon, as they needed Cal to send the photos he had and get the ones that had been taken at the hospital from the previous night.

Once you were done with that, you ate a couple bites of food and then got up to grab your phone. You had countless texts and voicemails from Mark already and you’d read through just the recent few, they went from angry to apologetic quickly. You handed it to Cal. “Delete everything, change his name to something I won’t recognize, and block him. Please.” He nods and sets to work. Half watching you eat and half taking care of what you’d asked of him.

Once it’s done Cal sets your phone on the counter. “I wanna take a shower.” He mentions. He rubs his fingers along your scalp to the pony tail you have it up in. “You’ve got dried blood.” He makes a disgusted face.

“I feel like half of my body is still covered in dried blood.” You sigh.

“You need a shower too then.” He says matter of factly.

“And I need help.” You say, holding up your hand on the cast.

“Lucky for you, I am excellent at hair washing.” He jokes.

“I actually know that about you.” You laugh. And it makes Calum smile because it’s the first time in a while you look almost happy. But you did know it to be true, back when you and Cal met and would hook up and shower together whenever, he’d always been willing to help.

“Let’s waterproof you.” He smirks. Cal tapes off your stitches and finds something to put over your arm. He washes your hair for you and helps you get all the dried blood off.

You go through the spare clothes you keep at Calum’s for clean underwear. “Can I borrow a shirt?” You ask, looking at him.

“Sure.” He tosses you one. “You look exhausted.” He murmurs, coming close to you once he’s dressed and you’ve pulled the t shirt on. You nod, “Let’s nap. I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night either.” He kisses your forehead. You end up on the couch, your face pressed to his bare chest, legs tangled together, a blanket over you as you sleep on him. Cal actually loved these moments, he liked you close and he knew you were safe.

You are both awoken late in the evening, the cops were calling to let you know they’d picked up Mark and it would be a couple days before he was processed. The officer also offered to be at the apartment when you went to collect your things.

Cal coordinates Luke and Ashton to show up in the morning, but Mikey had said he was out since him and Crys were traveling.

Ash shows up first, promptly at 11 am, as he was asked. You figured that Cal must have made it sound important. You’re in the kitchen with ice packs again.

“What the fuck happened to you?” He asks, gently pulling at the ice pack on your face.

“I’ll tell you when Luke gets here so I don’t have to say it twice.” You grumble.

“Ice pack back on your face babe.” Cal mentions as he comes in after Ash. “Thank you.” He replies after you put it back.

Luke is exactly 15 minutes late but he brought coffee and muffins, so you didn’t mind. Ash let him in while Cal was unwrapping the ice pack from your ribs. “Hey… whoa, what happened here?” Luke asked, gently brushing his fingers across your cheek.

You looked at Cal, he’d just pushed your shirt back down, and then at Ash and Luke who just wanted answers. “Um Mark happened to me, for the last time.” You shrug.

“Excuse me? I’ll fucking kill him.” Ash immediately responds.

“Well… we went to the hospital on Friday night and I got checked out and gave a statement and the cops picked him up last night. So I just need help getting my stuff and figuring out what to do with my car. I don’t want him to be able to find me that way.” You pause and you can tell Ashton isn’t any calmer, you haven’t even looked at Luke, but when you do, he looks a little confused and he’s looking at Cal.

“You can leave your car at my place.” Ash says. “He knows where I live but he also knows you don’t stay with me… at least until you can trade it in.”

“Which were gonna do tomorrow.” Cal says.

“Yes. It’s all part of the plan before he gets out.” You look at Cal.

Suddenly you are engulfed in Luke’s arms from behind. “Why wouldn’t you tell us? How long has this been going on?” It’s the most helpless you’ve ever heard him sound.

“Emotionally? About a year and a half. Physically? About nine months... And I told Cal. He’s been my safe space and it just… I need it to stop. I don’t know me anymore.”

“And I can’t watch it anymore.” Cal states matter of factly.

Luke holds onto you longer. “I dunno what we would have done if it was worse, babe.” His lips press to the top of your head.

“M’sorry Luke.” You say quietly.

“No… no no no.” He responds, letting you go and standing in front of you. “Don’t apologize for a fucking thing. You don’t need to apologize.” Luke put his hand under your chin and pulled your face up to meet his eyes. “I’m so fucking glad you are ok and you are getting out of it. Thank you for trusting us.”

Everyone is silent for a bit, before Cal springs everyone to action. “Ok, so, she’s not gonna be much help, she’s got broken ribs, her arm is broken and her nose is broken, so she pretty much needs us to help grab stuff. I figure we can all drive separate so there’s more space and we can get done faster.”

“I don’t have a ton there honestly. Most of my stuff is still up north at my dads. So it’s gonna be clothes and a few odds and ends.” You shrug.

“And she’s gonna stay here with me, for the time being.” Cal interjects.

pt 1  ||  pt 3

[girl-in-the-library]

Thoughts on Fandom

Lurking in the Deltarune tag, I see the Undertale fandom coming back to life. Some people are celebrating and some people are groaning, others are still fearful that the fandom might return to the mess and wank it was full of before.

And it just makes me think more about fandom in general. The idea of fandom is endlessly fascinating to me. For some it's a place of fun, or a safe space, or a space of casual interest. For others it's an obsession, or a place to assert themselves, or be important. But it's my philosophy that, as long as you're not hurting others or yourself, it's impossible to do fandom wrong.

This got much longer than I thought so I'm putting it under a cut.

I have run a panel at Anime Boston for the past two years, and I hope to run it again, called "Fandom as Coping" - in it, I discuss some of the positive aspects of fandom, using it as a coping mechanism for a myriad of reasons, but also discuss how it can become maladaptive and do more harm than good. Fandom is a double edged sword like that. But curating your experience in fandom is the best way to keep it as a healthy, positive influence in your life. When it comes to causing harm to yourself, be cautious of using fandom in an obsessive way. I know what it’s like for fandom to be literally the only thing getting you through the day. In January 2018, and again in August 2018, if I didn’t have Yuri on Ice to come home to, I might literally be dead. It was the only thing getting me through the day. And while that’s a more positive coping skill than say, self-harm, if I continued that way and hadn’t gotten the help I needed (partial and full hospitalizations, in January and August respectively), using fandom to ignore my problems and try to keep going when I obviously couldn’t would have been to my detriment. The people who you interact with in fandom can also be a big part of this.

Fandom communities can be wonderful and uplifting, but they can also be an echo chamber of toxicity. If you interact with friends you know irl, or make friends on a one to one level, it’s easier to find the positives. That’s not to say that larger groups or communities can’t be supportive. But if you find yourself in a place where people are constantly putting you down, or if everyone is stuck in a spiral of depression, it might not be the healthiest place for getting better. Of course, you may need a place to vent, a place to feel like you belong, or a place to escape. Fandom can do all of those things. But you need to be careful. If you get stuck in a community that is not healthy, it can be hard to escape, especially if you feel like it’s the only place where people understand you. If you are having trouble irl, and trouble online, it’s likely that you need to seek professional help. If you are having trouble in only one of these places it’s still likely you need to seek professional help. Therapy is not a weakness. 

Though fandom ISN’T just a negative place. You can find very supportive communities, and make long lasting friendships. And even if they’re only temporary friendships, they might be what you need at the time, and that is still positive! In fandom, you can find people who share your interests, people who will help you cope, help distract you, and a place to belong. You just need to be able to judge whether or not you’re in a healthy space, which can be hard to do.

For me, fandom has almost always been positive, and that's largely due to the way I interact with fandom. When I have bordered on using it maladaptively, that was more due to my mental illness causing obsessive and compulsive tendencies than because I was interacting with anything or anyone in fandom in a toxic way, so that's a little more personal. But fandom can be maladaptive as a coping mechanism OR just generally a bad influence in your life, if that’s how you’re using it. If you get stuck in a negativity spiral, it can be hard to get out of it. Sometimes you just need to take a step back, and sometimes you need to start over.

This is all on an individual level, and based largely in creating communities. But fandom is also a collective, and the works involved (fanfiction, fanart, cosplay, meta, et cetera) play a big role in how fandom works, and often create drama and wank.

My fandom experience has been largely defined by interaction on an individual level with specific people, getting lost in the crowd at conventions, and sometimes cosplaying or writing fanfiction. Because of this, I have avoided a lot of wank and drama that seems typical in many fandoms. Though I have gotten into an ill-advised argument on a forum once or twice, my fandom experience has been largely positive because of this way that I interact.

Now, I know that not everyone can choose to simply interact like I do. Big Name Fans, for example, get involved in drama whether they want to or not, simply because they wrote or drew or cosplayed or meta'd something popular. They become voices for the fandom, and people love them for it and hate them for it. But still, BNFs and other popular fans are still just fans. They're people who have opinions about the works they love, but get embroiled in controversy because they happen to be popular. Of course, there are fandom famous, or fandom infamous people who are toxic, who do hurt others, and who deliberately stir shit. These are not the people I'm talking about. You'll find people like that in any fandom, in any part of life if we're being realistic, and the best thing to do in those situations is to just not interact. It's hard to walk away sometimes, I know, but shit-stirrers need an audience, they need people to preach to and get riled up. Without that, they'll (hopefully) fade away. But for those famous fans who are here to have a good time and share what they love - share with them! It's okay to admire them, to strive to be a better writer or artist or what have you, but they're still people who just want to interact with their favorite media.

Now, I'm not anywhere near a BNF, I'm a mediocre writer and cosplayer, and I just do it for fun, so I've never been put in a position where I've been forced to interact with a negative side of fandom. I know it's not easy to ignore in those cases. I guess my point there, in general, is don't be an asshole to anyone, and be excellent to each other.

The other biggest complicating factor that I see is the age disparity in fandom. I'm not even going to talk about something like My Little Pony right now, because that's more than I can tackle, but I'm thinking, for example, of when I was in the Homestuck fandom.

I was 18 when I started in the Homestuck fandom, and it was about 2 or 3 years old at that point. If I had started reading at the beginning of when it came out, I would have been about 15. I don't know what the audience of Problem Sleuth was like, but my first year in the fandom seemed to me like it was primarily people in my age range who were the most involved. Of course, I can't know that for certain, and I'm not even sure what I'm defining as my age range here (15-25???) But the thing about Homestuck is that it got bigger very quickly. The older fans were getting older and new fans were coming in younger and younger.

The Homestuck fandom had one of the widest age ranges I had ever seen, and that made it difficult, it many ways, to interact. The best thing for adults in fandom to do is tag their content, and do whatever they can to keep kids from getting to what may be inappropriate. But it's not the stranger's responsibility if a kid seeks out vore inflation a/b/o or whatever the kids are seeking, as long as it's tagged appropriately. That's the parent's responsibility. And to an extent, the kid's as well. If a kid wants to see boobs on the internet, almost any kid these days knows how to find boobs on the internet. Depending on the kid's age, it's up to the parents to put up parental blocks or monitor a kid's usage. With safe search as the default on Google nowadays, it isn't like the "olden times" where a quick search for a whoopie pie recipe brings up nothing but porn. But if you type in "boobs" you still get boobs.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that kids aren't 100% responsible for their own fandom interaction because, depending on their age, they might not know any better yet. Now, there's a difference between a 16 year old and a 9 year old. A 16 year old knows what they're doing, and if they want a/b/o inflation porn, they're going to find it, and they might even get mad once they do because it's adult content and they're still kids, who want to be treated as adults. At that point, they're likely curating their own internet experience, and that's a gray area that's still being worked out. A 16 year old is still a minor, but when it comes to the internet, at least, they’re generally minors who are left to their own devices. Teenagers at that age are also notoriously contrary and rebellious, so if you put tags and say, “Minors do not interact!” they’re quite possible going to say, “Fuck you” and interact anyway. You can’t control them. You can only control yourself, so that’s what you need to do. Don’t interact with them, if you can avoid it. If they start confrontation, walk away. And it’s true, you can’t always tell a 16 year old from a 9 year old from a 40 year old on the internet, or any age from any other age, but my advice is still the same. Avoid interacting with negativity, hate, and confrontation in fandom. Just walk away. 

(There are some situations where this doesn’t apply, of course, but I think that in fandom, where the primary purposes are to have fun and interact with other fans of things that you like because you like the same things, walking away from confrontation is a good idea. When it comes to things like politics, for example, I think you need to avoid the trolls, but standing up for yourself and others, even if it means confrontation, is a different story. But this isn’t about politics, this is about fandom, and not all places on the internet are created equal. Politics is of course relevant in fandom, but if it’s JUST about fandom, you don’t need to start flame wars or ship wars, or even fight in them. You CAN just walk away, even if people yell at you or make fun of you for it. Just keep ignoring them. But I digress.)

9 year olds, on the other hand, need help on the internet. You can't control what they do either, but again, it's not the stranger's job to curate the kid's experience, but the parents. Just make sure you tag your stuff so if a parent is looking for something appropriate for their kid, they don't unknowingly give them something inappropriate. A 9 year old, especially in this day and age, knows how to use the internet. And if they’re looking for boobs, they’re probably going to find boobs. But just because they’re looking for boobs doesn’t mean they need to find a/b/o inflation vore porn. If they click on it anyway, it’s highly likely they won’t know what half that stuff means, but they still might be disturbed by it. Again, it’s not that stranger’s responsibility, as long as it was marked and tagged appropriately. 9 year olds still need to be supervised, both in general, and on the internet. Just because they’re tech-savvy doesn’t mean Stranger Danger rules don’t apply. Parents in this day and age should be teaching their kids safe internet skills, too.

My experience with fandom, and my ability to create the experience I want with it probably stems from the fact that my parents did curate my online presence when I was young. I was only allowed on sites like Nickelodeon.com and Disney.com until I was 10 or so. When I first got on fanfiction.net, I was 13, I think. And of course at that point I started sneaking around and reading "M" rated fics, but that was my choice. I was old enough to know better, and if something made me uncomfortable, I would click out of it. At that point, I read so voraciously as a kid and a young teen, that I was reading books with erotic content, and I could find the same thing online. My parents never censored what I read when I was old enough to choose for myself what I could read, but they made sure they knew what I was reading. Only once did they ever consider taking a book away from me, and that was when I was 12 reading Dan Simmons “Olympus” - I liked science fiction, and mythology, and wanted to read harder books so that seemed like a good choice. But like any story tangentially related to Greek Gods, there was A LOT of sex. Very, very descriptive, pornographic, literotic, sex. I told my parents about it and we talked about it. They asked if it made me uncomfortable, if I thought that they should read it first before I continued and judge whether or not I could handle it. I said I was okay, we talked about it a little more, and that was that. Even though I may not have been old enough for the content, I was old enough to know what was going on, and to make the choice. The same thing applies to the internet and fanfiction. Tag your fics, tag your art, make your blog 18+ if you are going to primarily post adult content, but parents need to talk with their kids.

A side note, but I once got a CD from my parents for my birthday. It was a Green Day CD, I was maybe turning 11 or 12? And I had expressed interest in Green Day because my friend in middle school played me one of their songs and I liked it. The CD my parents bought me was "Dookie," even though the newest album that had just come out was "American Idiot" - because “American Idiot” had a parental advisory sticker on it and “Dookie” did not. The reason for that was “Dookie: was released before it was necessary to put parental advisory stickers on albums. Thus, they had no idea what they were getting into when they handed their daughter a CD with a secret song titled F.O.D. Tags are important, but they don’t always function properly.

Green Day is still my favorite band.

Regardless, with all the rambling and digressions, my point is CURATE YOUR FANDOM EXPERIENCE. There are situations that make it hard, because you can't always choose who interacts with your content, but what you CAN always choose is the content you interact with. And when it comes to people interacting with YOUR content in a negative way, walk away when you can. (If you think a minor is negatively interacting with your 18+ content, I don’t necessarily know what to do, but my only thought is to block them so they can’t see your content anymore.) Interact with others in a positive way, and for the most part, I find, others will do the same with you.

Fandoms can be great places. They can also be toxic cesspools, because there are bad and toxic people in the world. But if you can, choose your own adventure.

I had a great experience with Homestuck, even amidst all the disaster and misbehavior at the height of Homestuck popularity because of the way I treat fandom.

One of my favorite people is big into Hetalia, and still is! It's one of, if not her number one, favorite fandom. And there's always been a lot going on there, but because of the way she interacts, it's been a great, healthy place for her.

And if Deltarune is giving you feels like it's giving me feels, then by all means, jump back into the Undertale/Deltarune fandom! And don't let hate scare you away.

There will always be bad places on the internet, and sometimes, you can't avoid them. But do your best, and try to create an online fandom experience that will bring you joy, not one that will cause pain to yourself or other people.

[luninosity]

Little fluffy fic with dragon!Seb and neighborhood witch!Chris, for @thebestpersonherelovesbucky, as a pick-me-up! <3

##

“Um,” Chris said, “I heard a dragon had moved in,” and then wanted to cram his entire foot into his mouth. “Not that I wouldn’t—I’d come by to say hi anyway—but you’re not a, a, are you, never mind, wrong apartment—”

 The heartstoppingly gorgeous person who’d opened the door of the penthouse apartment kept on staring at him. The person had soft-looking dark hair that stood up quizzically, as if ruffled from sleep into bemusement by the appearance of the local witch. The person had very nice shoulders and a slim waist and lips that looked as if he knew how to smile, though he wasn’t currently. He also had lovely eyes, a kind of impossible rainy-day topaz, blue and grey and pale and surprised, framed by dark lashes.

 Which Chris had now been gazing at, entranced, for far longer than any first meeting should warrant.

 And the man kept right on gazing back. Maybe he was looking at Chris too. Maybe he didn’t speak English. Maybe he thought that Chris looked nothing like a traditional local witch, not that there was any such thing; witches came in all shapes and sizes, and Chris’s beard and jeans and tattoos shouldn’t make a difference, and therefore the man shouldn’t be silently judging him, thank you.

 Maybe the poor man was simply trying to figure out who the hell Chris was, because as he reviewed his own sentence he discovered that he’d forgotten to include his name, his profession, or any actual relevant information.

 He actually groaned. Out loud.

 Those impossible enchanting eyes got concerned. “Are you all right?”

 “Oh…you do speak English—sorry, sorry, fuck—”

 “I speak five languages. Six including sign.” The beautiful man raised eyebrows at him. Chris got the impression that this was more teasing—in a bashful curious way—than boasting. He also had the impression that one of those hands had very nearly reached out to assist him in his supposed time of need. “Why were you looking for a dragon, and do you need help?”

 “I’m fine! I mean, I’m a fuckin’ idiot, but that’s not new. Sorry about bothering you.” He was. The person was kind and compassionate and apparently brilliant on top of being beautiful, and Chris had possibly woken him up and certainly disrupted his day, and someone so obviously fantastic did not deserve to be disrupted by Chris’s flailing and failures. He sighed. “Look, I’m the local witch, I heard we had a dragon moving into this apartment building, I thought I’d stop by and check it out, but obviously this’s the wrong building or—”

 “What were you planning to do?” Crossed arms. One shoulder propped on the door-frame. An odd tension, poised between at least two reactions, though Chris couldn’t figure out which ones. “If you found your dragon. Call a hero, cast a spell, stab it through the heart—”

 “No!”

 “…no?”

 “No. Come on, fuck, no, what kind of a witch do you think I am?” Chris waved arms about indignantly, nearly collided with a very attractive shoulder, yanked arms back, and ended up performing some sort of bizarre interpretive dance of minor annoyance and simultaneous apology. The man blinked at him. Twice.

 Chris winced. Babbled more. “It’s my neighborhood and my people, so I was gonna check it out, yeah, but just to talk. To see what’s up. If everything’s cool, we’re cool.”

 “You’d…let a dragon…most witches wouldn’t. Most heroes.” That voice was lovely too, soft and velvety around the edges, introspective with a somewhat startled edge. Astonishment in enchanted forests, green and brown and richly textured. “Everyone knows dragons can’t be trusted.”

 “Do you actually know any dragons?”

 Those lips seemed to be inclined to laugh, though the man hid it quickly. “Do you?”

 “Not personally, so I’m not gonna judge. That’s just rumors and stupid shit that people believe. Dragons are as smart as selkies and firebirds and, y’know, us, so yeah, of course there’s gonna be bad ones, but there must be, like, good dragons too.”

 The man blinked at him again. Chris was starting to wonder if this was some sort of secret code, or if he really had somehow offended a brand-new inhabitant of his neighborhood by proclaiming radical opinions about the morals of magical creatures. If so, the man could just damn well put up with it. Chris’s neighborhood remained open to anyone, any species, fur or feathers or skin or scales, as long as they weren’t a threat to anyone else in the city. He’d keep it that way. Whatever charms or spells he had to invoke. The power in his own body. His fingertips.

 Right now he mumbled, deflated in the ebbing of his own passion and the lack of reply, “Anyway, sorry, I’m just gonna go, but I’m Chris and if you, um, need anything—herbs or healing or protection charms or just, like, help unpacking—not that you’d want my help, I guess, after—I’m going, I’m leaving you alone, I swear—”

 The man put out a hand. Caught his elbow.

 This time Chris ended up staring, bespelled into place by only a touch.

 The man said, “You believe in good dragons. And you offered to help me unpack. And you’re my local witch.”

 “Yeah, sorry…”

 The pretty eyes turned into wide surprised oceans. “For what? You’re why I’m here.”

 “I’m what?”

 “Not in a creepy stalker warlock way! I swear! Oh, fuck me.” The man let go of Chris’s arm in a hurry, as if afraid this might be giving the wrong impression, and then did more or less what Chris himself had done earlier with the clumsy windmilling of hands and words. “Sorry. I just, um, your reputation. Was why. Being kind.”

 Chris, standing in his doorway, found himself drawn into those eyes as they met his; he had to stop himself from asking a too-personal question about needing kindness, about a story he thought he could glimpse trembling behind opalescent labyrinths.

 He said, instead, “Anything I can do to help you out, just let me know, I mean it.”

 “I believe you.”

 They kept looking at each other, after that. The air quivered, hallway-framed and holding unexpected honesty.

 “I’m Sebastian,” the man said finally. He was doing that almost-smile again: evanescent and sweet. He had a face made to wear emotion, in eyes, in those lips, in a head-tip and a breath. Chris wondered what he’d look like when he laughed. Like artwork, probably. Bright and alive and warm. “I should tell you something.”

 Your phone number, Chris thought. Your favorite food. Whether you like going to museums on a first date, and if you do, whether you might maybe possibly go to one with me, there’s a new history of space exploration exhibit opening, do you like space.

 Sebastian might or might not like space, but no doubt at this point would not like Chris, who’d interrupted him, perplexed him, lusted over him, and offered to be a friend, all within the space of five minutes. Fuck.

 “I’m your dragon,” Sebastian said.

 Chris, wallowing in self-inflicted misery, started to say without really processing the sentence, “Of course you are—” His brain caught up, wrote the last word in white-hot letters across his thoughts, and bolted.

 He got stuck trying to make sounds.

 “Um,” Sebastian tried, now blushing, because evidently dragons blushed. “I’m not a…I mean, my family is…we’re not the kind who…I won’t be any trouble. I promise. I promise, Chris.”

 “You’re a what,” Chris said.

 “If you want me to leave after all—just give me a day or so, I can—”

 “I don’t want you to leave!”

 This time he’d put a hand out. It landed on Sebastian’s shoulder. Got those enormous aching opal oceans looking up at him again, not ducking away in resigned regret. Felt good: his hand right there, with Sebastian’s breath of an inhale, as the weight and the grip and the words all made themselves known and real.

 Sebastian said, very very quietly, “Oh.”

 Chris wanted to slide the hand up. Wanted to cup his cheek, to draw him closer, to find out how he felt, and whether he’d offer up the same soft astonished sound of happiness if kissed. He thought maybe Sebastian was thinking that too. From the movement, the tiny lean into being touched, the parted lips, he thought that might be true.

 He said, “What kind are you, then?”

 “…what?”

 “Of dragon?”

 “Oh!” Sebastian’s grin gathered up the whole universe and flung it out again, radiant. More than Chris had even imagined; he ended up grinning too, swept along. Sebastian added, tone someplace between flirtation and lingering hesitance and sudden conspiratorial secret-sharing excitement, “I can show you, if you want?”

 “Totally, yeah, go on.” His hand somehow slid into Sebastian’s, as he got tugged inside the penthouse. The hallway beamed at them through the closing door.

 Sebastian, still holding his hand, said, “Of course you can probably guess—” and laughed: cheerfully self-mocking, open and unguarded, having decided to trust Chris Evans, courageous and amazed and giddy as Chris’s heart felt.

 He agreed, glancing around at his dragon’s hoard, “I think I’ve got an idea…”

 Books spilled out of half-open boxes. They leapt from crates and onto shelves. The shelves, so far the only furniture other than a pillowy blanket-nest by the window, carried their priority proudly. Spines shimmered: tattered paperbacks, elegant hardcovers, slim and fat, gilt-edged and jewel-toned, antique and brand-new. Biographies, science fiction, philosophy, music histories. Shakespeare and popular physics. Fairy-tale collections and screenplays and cookbooks. They formed a riotous symphony of color and stories across the expansive space, over joyous dark wood floorboards.

 Books lay scattered around that blanket-nest, too. They decorated the folds like treasure.

 Sebastian, smiling, took a step away—let Chris’s hand slip, though not in a distant way, not with the way his eyes warmed—and shivered and rippled and shed human loveliness for gleaming scales, sinuous and quick. His jeans and sweater hit the floor.

 Sebastian in draconian form stood about the size of a very small pony or very large dog; he moved in dark shimmers, rapid feline flutters of joy around his lair and books and Chris. Wings spread. Bolting up and down shelves. Twining himself around a pillow. Launching upward and then divebombing Chris, laughing a dragon-laugh, jaws open. He flung himself into books, peeked up out of them. He had swiveling ears, and long eyelashes, and those same recognizable sparkling blue-grey eyes.

 He unburied an Asimov volume or two from a box with his tail, and then came over and sat on Chris’s foot, grinning up.

 Chris gave into the impulse. Scratched his head, right behind the little feathery crown of scales. Sebastian couldn’t exactly talk, but the impression that turned up in Chris’s head was of pleasure, purring rumbles, a thrill like sunrise.

 “Yeah,” Chris said aloud, “y’know, this neighborhood could use a bookwyrm, I’m thinking, maybe you could even help out at the local library, if you’re looking for a job,” and petted him more, and Sebastian leaned against his leg.

 He added, mostly teasing but also meaning it, “I like your bed, kinda looks like mine,” and sent over an image: his messy unmade bed from that morning, navy-plaid sheets and the stack of memoirs and travel stories on the bedside table.

 This time Sebastian’s mental touch felt a lot like a series of exclamation points. Chris laughed.

 Sebastian said, bed? And then, getting better at shaping proper words, a radio tuning to the right frequency, connecting them, hmm.

 Hmm? He himself wasn’t bad at empathy—he worked through touch a lot, sorcery tangible as rivers, water he could scoop up and divert—but Sebastian was the one doing this, easy as breathing. And it was effortless, and wonderful, and magical. And Chris wanted more.

 If I transform back now, Sebastian said, eyes all limpid and wide, shyly cheeky and tentatively hopeful, I can make you coffee and we can talk about books, only, you know, I’ll be naked.

 “Will you,” Chris said, laughing more, laughing because he had a bookwyrm sitting on his foot and making him smile, because dragons could be good and also adorable, because yes, yes to this beginning, yes to everything, yes, “yeah, I said already, totally yes, go on.”

[airadam]

Episode 139 : Safe & Sound

"Give your mama enough money to bury ya."

- E-40

We've just about dragged ourselves to the end of the year whose name shall not be spoken, and we're not out of the woods just yet. The winter is drawing in, and so we have not a festive selection, but one which in many parts sonically fits the season. There are some deep album cuts, B-sides, and mixtape tracks here, making it one of those months where pretty much everyone is going to learn at least one new tune! Get those headphones connected and let's go...

Twitter : @airadam13

Twitch : @airadam13

Playlist/Notes

E-40 : I'ma Teach Ya How To Sell Dope

The title of this track from "Revenue Retrievin' : Day Shift" wrong-foots you, because this is A-grade "B-side of the game" material, as Ice-T would say. If you ever thought the drug game was glamourous, E-40 lets you know that it's a dangerous, paranoid, and depressing dead-end - even for the few who live long enough to make a bit of money. 

The Cool Kids : Tires (Instrumental)

This had just the right slow pace, boom, and space to form a bridge between the tracks on either side. The vocal version appropriately comes from the 2009 "Merry Christmas" EP and features Boldy James, but this instrumental is available as part of the "Gone Fishing : Instrumentals" mixtape (despite not being on the "Gone Fishing" album, so far as I'm aware!)

Jane Child : Loot$ville

Take the rhythm section alone and you could imagine someone like Above The Law or The Dogg Pound getting busy on this track. It's been a very long time since the release of the "Surge" LP, the last from Jane Child, but it still stands up! Child's production and playing skills, alongside those of Cat Gray have this instrumental growling along at the low end, and then her vocal elevates the whole package into a quality song.

Jay-Z : Where I'm From

A clear standout from "In My Lifetime, Vol.1", this is one of the tracks for the streets, and a stark contrast to the many songs on the album that were obviously aiming for mass appeal. Jay lays down the facts of life in Brooklyn's Marcy Projects over a menacing beat from D-Dot and Amen-Ra, with DJ Premier contributing the cuts.

Scarface : The Fix / Fixed

I decided to blend the opening and closing tracks from Scarface's "The Fix" LP here, since both are excellent, but also very short. Scarface and Mike Dean handle the production, and it would surprise many to know that Scarface is also the singer here! This musical motif was re-used by the great Pimp C for UGK's "Still Ridin' Dirty", which also featured Scarface - another track to check out.

Sean Price ft. Buckshot and General Steele : Apartheid

This tune from "Imperius Rex" is the exact kind of darkness and coldness that matches the current season, especially in a year like this. Crummie Beats provides the score, and Sean is accompanied by two of the absolute foundation BCC members to go all the way grimy with it. Check the video - as well as all the artist guests, Sean's wife Bernadette and daughter Shaun both make appearances.

Mad Cobra ft. The Geto Boys : Dead End Street (Instrumental)

From the early 90s, when all sorts of Hip-Hop groups were trying to add a little Jamaican flavour (to wildly varying effect), there were a few artists from JA with the budget to cross over the other way. This 12" had multiple versions of the GB-featuring gun tune headed by dancehall don Cobra, and this is the thumping instrumental to the main mix.

Bronx Slang : Copy That

Jerry Beeks and Ollie Miggs are back with a new single, which just had to be shared here. Beeks has been doing his thing for a long time and continues to tweak and refine his approach - his flow here is alternately conversational and then more dense, and shows a real level of comfort expounding on serious subject matter on the mic. Grab this either as a single or on the "Bronx Kill" mixtape!

Ghostface Killah ft. Trife : Be Easy

The horns on "Copy That" brought this track to mind, and it's a worthy follow-up. One of the big singles from "Fishscale", it's a triumphant Pete Rock blast flipping "Stay Away From Me" by The Sylvers (this info is already out there), and Ghost leading the charge over the top with an assist from Trife in the hypeman role.

Phat Kat ft. T3 and Black Milk : Danger

All the Detroit on this cut, which has appeared in a few places - Phat Kat's "Carte Blanche" LP, Black Milk's "Sound Of The City", and even the "Saint's Row" soundtrack. As "SOTC" was released two years before the Phat Kat album came out in 2007, I guess that kind of makes it Black Milk's track and may explain why he's on the first verse - although Phat Kat is a beast on the third verse cleanup. Black Milk is on the beat, of course.

Dilated Peoples : Clockwork

I'd somehow forgotten that DJ Premier had done this beat for Dilated, but it's a great bi-coastal collaboration between him and this LA crew! The "Expansion Team" LP, their second, is full of heavyweight production, with Alchemist, Da Beatminerz, and JuJu from The Beatnuts among the boardsmen on the project. This track bumps but has a kind of thriller film soundtrack energy at the same time, and Rakaa and Evidence do it justice on the mic.

Fingathing : You Fly Me

The pairing of bassist Sneaky and world-class turntablist DJ Peter Parker was not the kind of thing that was at all common when they started out, but their original concept went from sensational live performances to quality recorded output. This number comes from the first full album, "The Main Event" (which was preceded by the "2 Player EP"), and is a glorious mix of bass and strings with some jazzy drumming action.

Zo! ft. Phonte : Everything She Wants

Now this is how you do a cover version! The last track recorded for "...just visiting three", this was a left-field idea from Zo that Phonte loved, as he'd always loved the original Wham track and wanted to remake it himself! It's much slower than the original, and as Zo points out, it helps to maintain the focus on the lyrics, which were some of George Michael's best from that era. The multi-talented Phonte kills it on the lead vocal (as well as some choice ad-libs), and Zo has the beat sliding and slumping, with a great switch-up at the end if you go and get the full version... 

Freeway & Jake One : The Product

I hadn't played "The Stimulus Package" for ages, but it's still really good. When this was released, it seemed like an idea from a bygone era to pair one MC with one producer for a whole album, but one that was very welcome. Philadelphia's Freeway's addiction-themed lyrics are pretty much timeless, and as is usually the case, Jake One's beat nods to tradition while not being bound by it.

Sadat X & El Da Sensei ft. Bumpy Knuckles : 3 Rounds To Spar

Wall-to-wall rugged MCs right here, with the pairing of Sadat and El joined by the king of the third verse, Bumpy Knuckles for a pure mic workout over some heavy boom-bap (which is never a perjorative round here) by Divine Drummah - a producer I could only find this one credit for, but who definitely cooked up a track with the appropriate weight for the MCs on it. If you check the full version from the "XL" album, you can enjoy the intro where you hear the main sample in a more open form before the chops and drums come in.

Boot Camp Clik ft. Twanie Ranks : Smile In Heaven

This one probably snuck past most of you, as it was buried on the end of the Black Moon "Rush" 12" and didn't appear anywhere else except the "Collect Dis Edition" compilation in 2003. It turned up when I was digitising vinyl and I thought it was a fitting one to play mood-wise, with the contemplative street lyrics and the sombre vibes of the Beatminerz' instrumental underscoring it all. Twanie Ranks adds to the whole with his reggae-styled vocals at the end of the hook sections.

K-Def : The Final Thrill

One of those guys you could describe as a producer's producer, New Jersey's K-Def quietly has an amazing discography! I went back to his "Willie Boo Boo" album for this one, which is so short I had to loop it up a bit to make it long enough to work here - that said, there's no downside to hearing a beat like this for a little longer :)

Tribeca : Charlie Hustle (Pony Express)

With a sample that almost everyone will recognise, even if you can't name it, Tribeca does double duty as MC and producer on this 2003 12". On the mic, he takes on the persona/viewpoint of the former baseball player Pete Rose, who was banned from the major leagues for gambling, and as such is also excluded from the Baseball Hall of Fame (the "Cooperstown" you hear mentioned). When it comes to the production, he pounds the MPC in his characteristic fashion to supply the low end to complement the piano track. 

Please remember to support the artists you like! The purpose of putting the podcast out and providing the full tracklist is to try and give some light, so do use the songs on each episode as a starting point to search out more material. If you have Spotify in your country it's a great way to explore, but otherwise there's always Youtube and the like. Seeing your favourite artists live is the best way to put money in their pockets, and buy the vinyl/CDs/downloads of the stuff you like the most!

Check out this episode!

[toffeebuzz]

Animals Are Way Smarter Than We Think

Since adolescence, https://real-123movies.best/other-brands/watch32 I immovably accept that creatures are path more intelligent than we might suspect. What's more, that we people, as an animal categories, are simply being excessively self-important. Logical proof demonstrates that our planet isn't the focal point of the close planetary system, however today it likewise shows that we are by all account not the only focus of insight.

However, what are viewed as levels of insight? How and who characterizes them? Do you feel that a few creatures are route more brilliant than certain individuals?

All through my encounters, I do accept so. Because creatures can't talk or peruse, for example, doesn't consequently demonstrate that they can't think or feel. When contrasting one types of creatures with another, or even to people, we can see various levels of knowledge.

Along these lines, we are beguiling ourselves into feeling that, for a huge number of years we are more shrewd than the remainder of the animals of the world collectively. Furthermore, that, notwithstanding developing proof these days to the inverse. Obviously, I don't reject that we, human creatures, are savvy with regards to doing what should be done to endure. However, different species might be path more brilliant than we are, accept or think.

Knowledge is Relative

Various creatures have excellent minds, however the vast majority absolutely misconstrue huge numbers of their capacities. There are currently realities that crows, canines, octopuses or koalas, just to give some examples, uncover prevalent knowledge. It is inescapable truth in the set of all animals. At times, creatures have more noteworthy thinking resources than any individual. Along these lines, some of them are most likely way more brilliant.

Also, a portion of their activities or practices can't only be viewed as impulse. At the point when we take a gander at different creatures, we frequently can't do what they do. Now and then, the manner in which they act or the things they do are extremely muddled, similar to a bat flying in obscurity. These animals can catch flying bugs in midair legitimately with echolocation.

Thus, it doesn't just takes impulse yet a great deal of mental ability to acknowledge such accomplishment. However we don't focus on these sorts of things since we think it is unessential. The vast majority don't assess the abilities of creatures, but instead contrast them with our own in term of knowledge. However long they can't reason, talk, or read, at that point they should not be as splendid as we seem to be.

Illustrating Who is Way Smarter

Through the ages, the decision classes, from religion to researchers, do rehash that equivalent conviction: "We, people are exceptional in light of the fact that we are the cleverest being in the collective of animals." They additionally imagine that creatures have no spirit or sentiments. Notwithstanding, science and life show us that creatures do have sentiments, a spirit, and thinking resources which makes them path more brilliant than we might suspect.

Along these lines, this conviction of reasoning that we are unrivaled in knowledge returns about 10,000 years prior. It began when man made horticulture, ranches, and taming of animals. It at that point picked up energy with the convictions of religion, which viewed people as the essential species in creation.

However, does it imply that our insight is at a more elevated level? Obviously not; they are simply of various sorts. At the point when an outsider attempts to converse with you utilizing a blemished, defective or broken rendition of your language, your initial introduction is that they are not extremely savvy. Yet, the fact of the matter is altogether extraordinary.

The Unconditional Love of Animals

With regards to creatures, they are path more astute than what we will in general give them kudos for. They are simply keen on their own terms, which frequently look in no way like yours or mine. I accept we can gain so much of things from them, for example, love, sympathy, and empathy. So when they give it a second thought, you can observer that they really do; it isn't only a phony camouflage like people do.

Of the animals of the world collectively, a portion of these creatures love people genuinely. In any case, many individuals actually mishandle and abuse such love. When something transpires, creatures don't put us down, push us aside or abruptly choose not to cherish us any longer. That disposition just shows that they are path more astute than we are.

Regardless of the conditions, they are there next to us until the end, and time and again, we underestimate this. However, a few people have no issue disposing of a creature when it doesn't accommodate their life or plan any longer. Also, we should be the most astute species on this planet; reconsider!

The Intelligence of Animals

Consistently, our pets speak with us through their requests and cause us to do things they want. The creature world is substantially more muddled than we appear to accept or think. My dad is a racehorse mentor, so I developed around ponies and lived for a long time in a condo over a racehorse stable. Felines and canines were likewise a fundamental piece of my life like with any standard equine animal dwellingplace.

During the 60's, there were no cell phones or modern cameras to make recordings in a moment or two. In any case, an amazing entirety, I saw practices, knowledge and memory stunts from creatures. The accompanying story is an ideal case of it.

At some point, my dad purchased a racehorse named "Murdoch" from another city, twenty miles away. Following a couple of days, he took the pony to the track to prepare him. While running, a farm hauler made a tremendous commotion which terrified the animal, and its rider tumbled off. The pony, at that point alone, ran over the track and hopped over the boundary vanishing into the forested areas.

A Story of Being Way Smarter

The time had come to get in the vehicle. I rode along, at my dad's side, to search for the pony. We looked all over the place yet without any result. A couple of hours after the fact, on our re-visitation of the outbuilding, the previous proprietor called. In awe, she told my father that the animal was at her farm.

Thus, it implied that the pony jogged over streets and through woods to return to his past horse shelter without a solitary scratch. Some way or another, he figured how to complete twenty miles of obscure domain and return where he originated from. The pony did this, but since of cameras around the farm, we had the option to perceive how he entered the pony ranch.

While showing up at the front passageway, the creature saw that it was shut. So it went around the back, pushed the little door and climbed the means hindering its. At that point found an open slow down, entered it and held up there, realizing that it was the main home he knew.

Creatures Are Way Smarter

Creatures are astonishing and merit as much regard as individuals for their memory, insight, constancy and unrestricted love.

Ponies, canines, and felines, among numerous species that invest energy around individuals, can perceive non-verbal communication signs that you or I don't focus on.

Primates, for example, chimpanzees can without much of a stretch beat individuals at recollecting a progression of numbers that they saw for a small amount of a second.

Octopuses figure out how to open childproof covers taking drugs bottles, which huge numbers of us can't open.

Bats do delineate space with echolocation and sonar.

Fowls sort out and comprehend the unpredictable mechanics of flying and landing.

Crows, envisioned with sickening dread films for inept reasons, are among the most savvy winged animals, however they are path more brilliant than most animals. They can achieve undertakings that three and four-year-old kids experience difficulty doing.

Creatures Have Feelings

While they have diverse cerebrum structures, specialists gauge that creatures, for example, crows and chimps handle and utilize a mix of mental devices. It even incorporates creative mind and the desire for possible future functions so they can tackle issues.

Once more, I saw a few crows figuring out how to utilize vehicles for separating nuts. They stand by persistently at convergences while keeping watch on the traffic signals. Thus, when the traffic stops they recover a nut that vehicles squashed, which they have put before out and about.

Besides, it is presently obvious that elephants lament. Most well evolved creatures feel euphoria, love, and misery or languishing. Once, in Ukraine, my relative brought home a lost feline that was living on an emergency clinic ground. It was anything but a little cat however a totally mature feline. The feline was currently living with her wide open house fifteen miles from the medical clinic, and he looked miserable.

Give Animals Credit

At some point, she opened the entryway, and the feline flew by her, fleeing into the fields. After ten days, imagining that she lost the creature everlastingly, it appeared on the clinic ground. The creature had lost a great deal of weight and appeared to endure a minor physical issue, however he was alive. He had discovered his path home through fields and against extraordinary hindrances.

Along these lines, individuals need to stop this fixation of contrasting creatures with human inclination. We pick things that we are acceptable at, similar to innovation or language. Also, we at that point partner it with insight to different types of our reality. Be that as it may, creatures are route more brilliant than we might suspect. In this way, how about we reconsider prior to making any presumption and give them the credit they merit.

[askstevethepony]

Party crashers and the Resolution Chapter:

Time felt as if it stood still as Reginald stood before the changelings, they here hungry and they were angry. The chitter of their teeth and the hiss emanating from their tongue, brings back Reginald's memories of the war against these foul creatures, hungry for the love of those held dear. Reginald's eyes filled with anger and determination, these beasts will not have Steve, even with foam swords, he has had less and still came out victorious, and he shall win again against these three changelings...

If only it remained as so, but Reginald saw more changelings come, soon their numbers doubled, then tripled, then quadrupled. Reginald and Steve were surrounded, and as their numbers grew, Regnald's options became more and more limited. He could fight but the risk of the changelings acquiring Steve is too great if he left his side... A protective shield could keep his friend safe, but it takes energy that he may need... They could run and teleport away, but who knows how far this chaos has spread across canterlot if they were able to reached the palace in such numbers, they could just end up in another horde of changelings... What to do, what to do. Reginald's time had run out, the changelings chose to make the first move, and force Reginald to do only what he knows best. Fight! And give his all!

The changelings charged, however they were immediately halted as Celestia's pegasi guards came like a blessing literally from above, placing themselves between Steve and Reginald and the horde of changelings in a circular formation, wielding riot gear instead of swords and spears. This struck Reginald as odd, "Are they trying to only subdue the enemy?" he thought. However he had no time to ponder further as a pegasi Captain of the guard caught Steve and Reginald's attention. "You two! Come, we are here to evacuate you to safety!" the Captain instructed with a clear and ordering tone. Reginald wasted no time Following those instructions as he pulled Steve by his side and followed the Captain, guards clearing a way as they pushed back and took down changelings. The room was filled with changelings and guards of every type. Fighting one another for control, but looked to be a uphill battle as guards took down and subdued changelings. Some changelings were even trying to make an escape but were also quickly apprehended by pegasai who pursued.

The Captain guided Steve and Reginald out of the main ball room into a hallway, and from there an odd feeling overcame him. He looked out one of the windows that overlooked Canterlot and everything was, normal, there was no mass fire lighting the streets, just the fire from the street lamps illuminated as they should, no pony in panic or running in terror, they were still roaming freely in the markets, and most certainly no changelings... "What in the blazes?" Reginald was left only more confused and once again, his pondering was interrupted as the Captain spoke in a calm but urgent tone. 

"Gentlecolts, if you will please, head down this hallway and take the door on the left at the end, you will regroup with the rest of the party guests where you will be safe." with that said the Captain turned to go back into the fray behind the doors they just came from but Reginald reached out."Captain, if you will please, explain what is going on?" Reginald asked with a perplexed look upon his face. The Captain looked back to Reginald for only a moment."It is a changeling attack, we are currently trying to keep it contained. Now please escort yourselves to safety." he requested before turning back to take his leave and vanishes through the doors where guards and changelings still fighting.

As the doors closed Reginald was simply stuck, none of this made sense... Steve stood by quietly calming down from such a frightening ordeal, he turns to Reginald."R-Reginald... W-W-We should go... T-The Captain shaid sho..." he said with a stutter in his voice from the nerves. Reginald takes a moment to collect himself and with a deep breath, and a heavy sigh, he looked back to Steve, with a soft smile on his face. "Yes my dear Steve, let us regroup with the others where it is safe..." he says calmly. Steve and Reginald find the room with the rest of the guests, many were terrified, some comforting others as everyone conversed amongst themselves quietly. They find themselves a open space by one of the walls and sat down. Reginald turning to Steve who sat there looking down to the ground. Still as a statue if it was not for the shudder of his body as he breathed."Are you ok Steve?" Reginald asked, knowing the irony of the question within itself after the ordeals that they had just gone through. Steve looking up trying to give a brave face as he forces a smile. "I-I'm ok, itsh jusht-... I-... I'm glad you were t-there... I wash... I wash..." Steve fumbling his words as he tried to speak, tears welling up in his eyes before Reginald reached out a hoof and pulled him close, comforting him with a hug as he spoke softly. "I know my dear Steve... I know... But everything is going to be ok, we are safe now, we have nothing to fear. "Steve reaches up and hugs Reginald back accepting his comforting words as they waited out these turns of events.

Time passed as to what felt like hours, the room had quieted down except the murmurs of those who still conversed with regular discussions. Since entering this room the outside was all but quiet and thankfully, remained uneventful. Steve was fast asleep beside Reginald. His head resting on his vest that he had taken off, Reginald removed his as well and used it as a makeshift blanket for Steve to keep him warm. Reginald was still thinking over how all this had unfolded, with finally all this time to think, it was all for naught as he just could not put his hoof on it... The doors opened to a line of guards who entered with the same Captain that had aided them in their escape, and the Captain spoke to everypony in the room with a speech expressing their apology about the attack, assuring that the changelings have been contained, and everypony is safe to leave but must go through one final inspection through the doors to ensure no changelings tried to hide in the group. With some concern and some commotion the crowd moved into a long line to the exit. Unicorn guards used their magic to cast over ponies one by one scanning them in a way to determine who was pony and who was not.

Reginald left Steve who still slept on the ground and approached the Captain who was off to the side overlooking the inspection line. "Captain, a word if you would be so kind." Reginald asked catching the attention of the Captain who nodded in agreement as the two walked to the corner of the the room for better privacy. Reginald turned to the Captain and spoke quietly."First thing, I would like to give you my thanks for saving Steve and I, But how did this attack happen in the first place?" he asked. "There is no need for thanks Reginald, I was simply doing my duty." the Captain responds taking Reginald aback "You know my name?" "Yes, as well as who you are and the position you hold, sir..." the Captain said. Reginald sighing before looking back to the Captain more stern in his tone."Then would you please tell me how these events unfolded the way that they did tonight..."

The Captain pauses before leaving a hefty sigh himself. "There was a small band of rogue changelings that have been sited in Equestria attacking small towns harvesting love, however they have heen difficult to catch because they disappear after their attacks and they hit towns at random..." the Captain explains."Then how come you were prepared for it to strike here?" Reginald Inquired. "S-Sir?" the Captain stammered at such a direct question. Reginald continued on. "Your timing in countering the changelings invasion could not have been better, however to have such a large number of troops on hoof and to be that well coordinated, can only mean they were prepositioned and this counter offence was well premeditated meaning you knew this attack would take place, tonight at the Gala... Far too accurate for an attack that was unpredictable..." Reginald explained his line of reasoning his eyes almost piercing coldly into the Captain who could only stand frozen, stunned by how accurate Regnald's perception was.

"I-I... Well... You see sir... *sigh* You are correct... We anticipated the attack, and made preparations to subdue the changelings." the Captain explained defeatedly. Reginald not breaking his interrogating gaze as he asked."How..." The Captain looked over to the line of ponies who were still shuffling through the line to leave before looking back to reginald gesturing his head to them. "The Gala...We knew the changelings would not be able to resist the amount of love that came from throwing a celebration." Reginald holds a calm posture but could only quietly grit his teeth as he inquired more. "You mean you used all these ponies here... As BAIT?" He asked angrily but still keeping his voice low. "They were used as a LURE, to attract the changelings into a trap and catch them..." the Captain retorted keeping his voice low as well trying to justify the means. "And who, might I ask authorized this motion..." Reginald asked coldly. "The Royals... Sir..." the Captain answered. Reginald paused and could only break his gaze from the Captain, looking with a thousand yard stare through the wall they faced.

Moments passed before the Captain spoke up "Look I-" the Captain was cut off by Reginald who raised his hoof. "You, no longer need to justify nor apologize Captain. You were following orders, and executed them with such precision and coordination that I expect you had no casualties... You should be commended for this, not berated..." the Captain's head hung low looking to the floor still not proud of this ordeal, reginald looking back over to him. "I am sure this was not an easy choice to be made by the Royals, and certainly not an easy task to accomplish for a plethora of reasons, but if this was not done, they would have just attacked yet another unsuspecting town again and again. Who knows how many more they would have taken, if not for your actions." Reginald reassuring the Captain as he placed a hoof on his shoulder. The Captain looked back up to Reginald nodding softly. "Thank you sir..." 

Reginald nodded in return taking his hoof off of the Captain. "Now, if you will excuse me I will be taking my leave with my friend." he said to the Captain. "Very well, I understand you were the VIP to the Royals?" "The Plus One of the VIP yes." Reginald corrected."If you wish to get your friend you can meet me by the door and I'll have you both taken to a carriage that will take you both back home." the Captain informs. Reginald nodded and gestured an expression of gratitude before leaving the Captain and approaching Steve. 

Leaning in close he nudges Steve softly. "Steve, it is time to get up..." Steve stirs but does not wake, as he clutches his makeshift pillow. "N-Not yet, i shtill have-~" Steve mumbles in his sleep his words quickly becoming inaudible before he lays still, deep in his dreams. Reginald softly chuckles, smiling softly as he rolls his eyes. He uses his magic to lift Steve's small frame gently from the floor and places him on his back before carrying Steve towards the door passing the line to meet the Captain before another unicorn guard steps in. "Just a moment sir, I just need to check you two before you proceed." The guard informed Reginald who nodded, consenting to the serch. 

The guard casted his magic over both Steve and reginald but what he observes causes the guard to gasp in shock and draw his sword. The Captain standing beside, intervened placing his hoof on the hilt of the guard's sword before it even drew an inch from its sheath. "Stand down soldier..." The Captain instructed, keeping his voice low not to draw attention of the other ponies in line. "B-But Captain-" "I am well aware soldier. Now. Stand. Down... That's an order..." the Captain demanded his eyes piercing with almost the same intensity as Reginald had before. The guard releases his magic from his sword and stands aside softly responding. "Y-Yes sir. Sorry sir..."

The Captain giving a nod to Steve and Reginald, Reginald nodded back before taking his leave. Reginald soon heads back to the ledge where they arrived by going through the main room of the Gala where the chaos had unfolded only hours ago, but now remains clean, barren, and empty almost untouched save for the shattered glass ceiling. Reginald soon arrived too the cart that would take Steve and Reginald home. Though it is smaller with only two bat ponies leading it instead of six. Reginald sits himself down before he rested Steve across his lap and once settled they take off. Reginald only laid back trying to relax as he stroked Steve's mane as he slept. Looking down he thought of all that was risked what would have happened if Steve was actually taken. The thought leaving a bitter taste inside. "Never again, will I be so unprepared..." he thought as the carriage vanished into the night.

//End//

Written by: Mod @askstevethepony

Proofreader: @testerslab 

Pre-Arc: Party at the Gala (The End)

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Story Arc List

[chipotle]

Micro.blog, LiveJournal and community

I’ve mused before on whether the world needs—for certain values of “need”—something like a modern LiveJournal: a social network that fills the space somewhere between tweets and blogs. On a recent episode of Originality, co-host K. Tempest Bradford noted that when she switched from LiveJournal to WordPress, she wrote less. LJ felt comfortable for posting any old thing, whereas WordPress made her feel like she had to be writing something “important.”

Sure, this is kind of arbitrary—you can post any old thing to WordPress, too. Blogs that feel most like communities have authors who post without much regard to either topic or perceived weightiness. (Bradford called out John Scalzi’s Whatever as one such place.) But I’ve felt that weight myself over the years, despite hosting the original Coyote Tracks on Tumblr.1 Twitter has the opposite problem; it’s optimized for ephemerality.

Micro.blog is, at first glance, much closer to Twitter than LiveJournal—it’s right there in the name! But appearances deceive; you can post any length post to Micro.blog. It uses a simple algorithm for determining how to display that post on your timeline:

If the post has a title, regardless of length, then it displays the post’s title and a link to its URL. (That’s what you’re seeing on this post.)

If the post has no title and it’s under 280 characters, it displays the entire post.

If the post has no title and it’s over 280 characters, it displays a truncated version of the post with a link, like “Tweet Longer” services do for Twitter.

Simple, but clever.

There are things I loved about LiveJournal that Micro.blog doesn’t handle relating to engagement and privacy. Most notably, there should be a way to block webmentions from people you don’t want to engage with. (That needs to happen on the protocol level, not as something specific to Micro.blog.) But what I’m seeing on Micro.blog that I didn’t predict is sustained, thoughtful conversation, of the sort that I remember from LJ comments. I’ve seen it in blog comments, yes, particularly in the science fiction community. I have some blind faith that if I went back far enough in my Twitter archives it would be there, too. But I genuinely don’t remember it to the same degree. I haven’t found it in Mastodon yet, either.2

So what about Micro.blog encourages that? I’ve already talked about technical differences between it and the other services. Philosophically, Micro.blog is heavily focused on “owning” your content. But I don’t think it’s either of those, exactly. Instead, Micro.blog has attracted an initial community of people who want a “nicer” alternative to Twitter to take off. What separates them from the Mastodon community, who presumably want the same thing? A couple thoughts. First, nearly all Micro.blog patrons have paid for it, either through the initial Kickstarter or through ponying up for monthly service fees (or both). Also, there’s the very different UX decisions I talked about in my previous post. If you want someone to know that you liked what they posted on Micro.blog, you have to reply to do it, not just tap the favorite button. And, so far, civility has bred civility. I’ve seen conversational topics that would have immediately gone flameward on Twitter stay cool and collected over day-long threads on Micro.blog.

I’ve been thinking about my own blogging lately. I suspect if I’m going to blog more, I need to give myself permission to blog about, well, less consequential things. I don’t want to dive into the dreadfully personal topics that LiveJournal’s privacy controls allow (hi, future prospective employer trolling through this unprotectable posting). But I have to stop thinking about this as if it were a technology column that I need to post perfectly-crafted articles on.

In theory, Coyote Tracks is set up to allow those title-free “status” posts (or, as LiveJournal would have had it, “(No subject)”). If I start doing those with any regularity, I’ll set up the RSS feeds to let you be more selective in what you get. (Right now you can get feeds for just “tech” and just “writing” posts, as well as the everything RSS feed. If I start making status posts regularly, I’ll add an RSS feed that excludes those.)

By the way, if you’re reading this on Tumblr or the Tumblr RSS feed (tracks.ranea.org), you should probably switch over to coyotetracks.org if you can. In part this is because I can’t guarantee how long I’ll keep crossposting, and in part this is because I can’t guarantee that the now Verizon-owned, founder-less Tumblr will continue being hospitable. ↩

I suspect this is not a universal experience on Mastodon, but compared to Micro.blog—and even Twitter—it has notably more “shouting into the void” to it for me. ↩

[kateyes224]

Independence Day

A/N: Fourth of July fluff and nonsense, inspired by some anons I’ve gotten recently about whether Mulder is capable of giving Scully a meaningful gift.  Timeline:  Post-IWTB, Pre-Revival

Mulder knocks on her door and goes to straighten his tie before he remembers he’s not wearing one.  Hasn’t worn one in years.  He tries not to fidget, suspecting she may be eyeing him through her peephole, but he ends up shifting back and forth on his feet the longer it takes her to answer the door.  

He triple-guesses his outfit for the eighteenth time that night, and berates himself for it, feeling ridiculous for feeling ridiculous.

He hears her soft, even footfalls as she approaches the door, then a long moment of silence. She is peeping.

When she opens the door, her apartment seems to exhale at the exact same moment he does.

“Hi.”

“Hey, Scully.”  Scully in her angular new suits and jewel-toned scrubs seems a completely separate being from this creature.  This woman’s hair is pulled up and away from her face and off her neck.  She’s wearing a sky-colored sweater that deepens the blue of her eyes to a dark violet in the low light, and jeans that he knows for a fact have been worn in from years of washing in hard water. He’d washed them a few dozen times himself. She’s hardly wearing a stitch of makeup.

Fuck losing nine minutes.  For a moment, he thinks he might have lost a quarter of a century.  “You look good.”

She knows. Blushes anyway.

“Thanks.  You look pretty good yourself.”

“Ladies always love a man in a polo.”

He keeps his eyes trained on hers, deliberately not looking over her shoulder.  I need a space of my own, Mulder, she’d said, a little over a year ago now.  He’d hated her for it then but he’d respected it just the same.  He still hates it, and he still respects it.  He doesn’t want to taint it by seeing it without her say-so.

“Would you like to come in for a minute?” A polite and completely insincere invitation.  She hadn’t even wanted him to pick her up tonight, he reminds himself.

“Nope, I think we can just go.  Otherwise we’ll be late.”

She looks cautious, but grabs her purse and her jacket from the table by the front door.  “Late?  I thought we were just going to grab dinner?”  

Mulder waits while she turns to close the door.  Her old housekey for their country home jangles on her keyring next to the one she uses to lock up.  

He doesn’t have a key for her new place.  

“We are going to grab dinner.  But I have a surprise later tonight and we’ve got to get a move on or else we’ll miss it.”

She makes a show of slowing and sighs audibly, predictably skeptical and apparently willing to play her old part for old time’s sake.

He walks her out to the pickup truck and circles to her side, opening it for her and handing her in.  She chuckles. “Mulder, you’ve never been this solicitous. What have you got planned? Not another haunted house, I hope.”

Closing her door, he smiles down at her through the half-closed window.  “You know I only save those for Christmas, Scully.”

He drives them back out of town the same way he came, threading his way from interstate to highway to two-lane country road before stopping to pick up dinner. She smiles when he pulls in front of her favorite barbecue joint and hops out of the truck to pay for a couple of messy brisket sandwiches dripping in tangy sauce and wrapped in foil and white styrofoam containers of coleslaw and baked beans.  Two thick slices of cornbread are immediately set upon by Scully when he returns to the truck, and he laughs and slaps her hands away.

The sound of her giggle bouncing around the cab of the truck before it’s snatched out the window and into the night air nearly wipes the smirk right off of his face. He’d been almost sure he’d never be able to make her laugh again.

Another twenty miles past the house he’s still trying to think of as his and not theirs and he pulls off the main road and into a dirt lot that is already filled with cars.  They’re a few hundred yards from where the local high school campus sprawls out in the dark.  Mulder grabs a blanket from the bed of the truck and ties the handles of the plastic bag of food into bunny ears. At her questioning look, he nods in the direction of the football field glowing under floodlights in the distance. Smells and sounds from booths selling all manner of deep-fried food, kettle corn, and funnel cake waft towards them in the heavy July air.

A dunk tank, a pony ride, and a small petting zoo are set up in the home team’s end zone.  An emu is being walked around on a leash, to the delight and horror of many small children.  And just beyond that, a wooden stage and dance floor. A band of morose young teens is going about the serious business of setting up their equipment, plugging guitars into amplifiers and strumming chords that twang offkey.

The lead singer and DJ, a girl with a shock of a bright turquoise pixie cut, stands in front of the speakers and clicks around on her laptop in the meantime. The dance floor is almost full with couples swaying back and forth to an unpredictable mix of R&B and country.  Children of all ages dart in between them in an endless game of tag.

“Mulder, what are we doing here?”

Mulder keeps walking just beyond the stage where other families have set up their own circles of chairs and picnic blankets.  He makes a show of unfurling the Navajo blanket on the ground, smooths the wrinkles before setting the plastic bag of food in the center.  “Just make yourself comfortable. You want anything to drink? Some funnel cake? We have about twenty minutes before the show.”

Scully crosses her arms and stares up at him. “Mulder,” she repeats, “what are we doing here?” She sounds, for all intents and purposes, like she’s just surveyed a crime scene and found it conspicuously lacking in what he’d once half-ironically referred to as a distinct paranormal bouquet.

“What, you don’t trust me?” Mulder asks, blinking down at her, and he nearly chokes on the question like a popcorn kernel has lodged itself in the back of his throat when he remembers that no, she probably doesn’t.  Not anymore.  Mulder shakes his head when it takes her a second too long to answer. “Don’t worry, Doc. Have a seat, I’ll go grab us a drink.”

Scully purses her lips at him and glances over her shoulder as the band strikes up a rousing, if overly-metal, rendition of Yankee Doodle.  “Hurry back,” she murmurs, then bends to sit cross-legged on the blanket and starts untying the plastic bag.

Mulder hustles off, taking a wide berth around a game of cornhole to where a keg and a cash booth have been set up.  He pays $10 for two light beers in red Solo cups and turns, almost knocking over a man and his wife in their late 30s.  

“Mr. Scully?” the young man asks, hesitant.

 Mulder sputters, trying to hide it by taking a sip of his beer.

“Uhhhh, no, I’m Fox Mulder. Dr. Scully is my…” Shit.  This was always the hard part.  “...my partner.”  It’s never not been true.  “Are you Mr. and Mrs. Fearon?”

The young man nods and glances at his wife, who smiles up uncertainly at Mulder.  They both turn. Behind them sits a boy in a wheelchair. “And this is Christian.”

Christian is pale, with huge, almond-shaped blue eyes and a tangle of messy brown hair.  He’s got a crocheted afghan tucked around his legs and a beanie on his head despite the humid July heat, but two rosy spots color his cheeks, belying a fragile bloom of health.

Mulder smiles down at him, bends to look into the boy’s eyes.  “Hi, Christian.  My name is Mulder. I’m a friend of Dr. Scully’s. She’s been wondering about you.”

Christian’s eyes crinkle, a grin lighting up his face. “I’ve been wondering about her, too.”

Mulder leads the way back over to where Scully is sitting on their blanket, the Fearons following slowly but surely behind him. Just as he calls out to Scully and she turns, the lights around the makeshift fairground all dim simultaneously, leading to whoops and hollers and lascivious catcalls.  In the dark, Mulder settles in on the blanket next to Scully and hands her a beer.

“Mulder, who was with-”

“Shhhh, Scully,” Mulder whispers, just as the band gets going with Ray Charles’ version of America the Beautiful. The drummer starts military cadence on the drums and the teen girl with the turquoise hair starts belting out the first verse in a honeyed alto.

Oh beautiful, for heroes proved, In liberating strife, Who more than self, our country loved, And mercy more than life

Just as the chorus gets going, the first pops and whistles of fireworks start echoing from a couple of hundred yards down the way.  The crowd draws in a collective gasp as blue and green and red and white sparks erupt overhead.

Scully’s eyes are trained on the sky for a long moment before she turns back to Mulder.  The wide smile on her face lights over him just as the next round of fireworks explode in a shimmer and a pop of noise. But her eyes slip past him and catch sight of the profile of the young boy who was trailing in Mulder’s wake. Christian’s hands are planted firmly over his ears, transfixed by the showers of color blazing overhead.

“Christian?” Mulder sees her mouth silently before looking up at him, confused.

Mulder bends close to her ear, loud enough that she can hear over the gunshot blast of the next round of fireworks.

“Last week, you got a voicemail at the house from his new treating physician, a Dr. Rajkumar. She thought you’d want to know...he’s been doing well enough as result of your treatment plan that his parents were going to take him to see the fireworks this year.”

Scully can’t seem to tear her gaze away from the boy’s face. His eyes, saucer-wide, haven’t left the sky, and his smile can’t get any bigger.  

Mulder watches Scully watching Christian for the next ten minutes, as the fireworks and the band get louder and more intense.  When the final crescendo and the finale culminate above them, she looks up at Mulder, whispers her thanks, and wraps an arm around his waist.

As she settles into a spot that feels more comfortable than it should for going without the weight and shape of her for so long, he hopes she feels free, if only for tonight.