#responsibility is only a facet of a dream for me. and i am oh so tired.

[orcelito]

i can never show my face to my peers again

[anaveragebibliophile]

He Comes First

Thranduil x Wife!reader x Young!Legolas 

Summary: After finding out some exciting news about your and Thranduil’s future as parents, you begin reminiscing on the all the joys and wonders that this life has given you (especially getting to see your husband excel at fatherhood). 

PART 1 

PART 2: 

https://anaveragebibliophile.tumblr.com/post/659269636241637376/cyclical-love

“Are you one-hundred percent certain, Morwen? I know you are an expert at discerning such things, but I cannot help but still feel the uncertainty reverberating through me,” you said, hands gripping your kneecaps as you awaited the healer’s response. 

“Yes, my queen. All of the signs are there: the nausea, the subsequent morning sickness, the exhaustion. I am positive that I am correct in my diagnosis.” 

“Oh, by the Valar (God),” you responded, your right hand drifting to hold your stomach protectively. “I am with child. Thranduil and I will be welcoming another elfing next fall.” 

“Yes, Queen (y/n). When the leaves begin to fall, you will be holding another blessing in your arms.” 

Walking back to your and Thran’s chambers provided ample time for rumination on this news (because the healer’s quarters were on the other side of the palace). Now, that’s not to say this contemplation was meant to curb any sentiments of regret, resentment, or anger. Not at all. In reality, you couldn’t stop a huge smile from framing your face. You couldn’t help but embrace the elation that was filling every facet of your heart, soul, and mind. Oh, this was a dream come true. 

Obviously, the topic of having another child had been discussed between you and your husband many times (usually on fireside date night with goblets of wine and lots of cuddling). And the funny thing was that the prospect had cemented itself more securely over the last few months. Having and caring for another child no longer appeared to be this unattainable desire, but, instead, it filled you and Thran with this rapture, this thrill. And why wouldn’t it really? Legolas was everything you both could have hoped for, so why not try for that relentless feeling of contentment one more time? You’d have to be asinine not to. 

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Ada, Ada are you awake?” Legolas’ melodic voice asked, breaking through the tranquil haze you’d encompassed yourself in. 

“There is no need to fret, my little leaf. Ada is just resting his eyes. He is tired,” your husband’s deep baritone responded. 

“Of course, Ada, but that is not why I was asking. Would it be alright if I laid on your chest?” 

“You already know the answer to that, Legolas. Climb on up, iôn nîn (my son).” 

And climb on up he did, at least from what you saw through the little crack in the door. Once your little elfling’s voice alerted you to the fact that your two favorite people in all of Middle Earth were in your chambers, your immediate instinct was to rush and join in on the cuddle session that was so obviously taking place. Yet, somehow, right as you put your hand on the doorknob, it was as if your feet were tethered to the floor. You couldn’t move. You couldn’t speak. All because you turned your head. All because of what you were bearing witness to. 

Legolas was sprawled starfish-like on his father’s chest, his little face turned into the right side of Thranduil’s neck. You could see the red, depressed sleep lines marring his face from his morning nap (where he and the pillow became great comrades). And even though that was such an adorable sight, what you saw your husband doing made joy spread through your entire heart in such a way that you thought it might implode on you. 

Sometimes your little leaf struggled to fall asleep at night. Whether it be because of a nightmare or a fear of separation from his parents no one could truly say. His insomnia was variable at best and inevitable at worst. However, regardless of the circumstances, your and Thran’s mission was to get your son some relief, no matter the cost. And you tried everything you could think of: lullabies, rocking, warm milk, literally anything that the rule book on parenting tells you to attempt, but nothing would make any impact. That is, until your husband changed the game. 

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

One night in mid-winter, Legolas’ inability to sleep had reached its peak. He hadn’t been feeling well for most of the day--spending most of it snuggled with you in the sitting room or with Thranduil in his office--and by the end of the night had been sporting a pretty nasty fever. He was miserable, plain and simple. You had hoped that the illness would’ve given him the opportunity to give in to his fatigue, to barricade himself in a dream-like state. Wrong. Instead, the infection chose to create a pain in his ear that wouldn’t abate by any means. No question, it made him absolutely hysterical. 

Despite this, though, he was most at peace with your husband, the man who spent most of that day with his lips pressed in a thin, white line and his stomach in knots. All he hoped for was his son to be improving, but it didn’t seem like Valar (God) was in the mood to grant that wish. So, he did what he was best at: finding a way to take control of the situation. In this case, the problem was Legolas’ discomfort. The little guy was trying to sleep--on his side, his back, in Thran’s arms, in whatever position his brain could conjure up--but would then proceed to hold his left ear and whimper. Anything he did would cause pain to shoot through him.  

“Alright, little leaf,” Thranduil said while rocking his son in his arms for the tenth time that day, “how about we try having you rest on my chest. You might sleep better that way.” And all he got was an almost imperceptible nod from the elfling that was clenching his hand so tight. 

Moving over to the bed, he slowly settled himself in the center, making sure not to jostle his son too much. Quietly humming to Legolas, he carefully moved his right hand up and down his spinal column and left lingering kisses on his forehead. 

“There we go, iôn nîn (my son),” he said. “Hopefully this helps. Gi melin (I love you).”

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Darling, you can come in, you know. This is your space too,” your husband’s voice articulated, a hint of mockery and teasing in his tone (all in good fun). 

Opening the door all the way, you smiled at the treasures that laid before you. One curled into his father’s chest like an armadillo. The other grinning like a fool at said armadillo. 

“My apologies, sweetheart. Once I got here, I couldn’t refrain from letting you have that special one-on-one time with him.” 

Your husband’s right cheekbone lifted up to create an off-centered smile of sorts. “How was your appointment with Morwen? Was she able to give you some herbs to aid your sickness?”

“Yes, she was. But that is not the only thing she mentioned to me. About why I am ill anyway.” 

“What else is wrong? Whatever it is, it is treatable, yes?” Thranduil queried, his voice getting higher by at least three octaves. 

“Yes, honey. It is treatable. I’ll only have to wait about six more months.”

At that, your husband paused, concentration taking over his features. You felt his brain’s agony at the mere thought of analyzing the riddle and attempting to figure it out. Every mechanism was moving to decipher the answer. 

And then it all clicked. 

“If what you say is true, then that means we are….” 

TBC 

[mariaiscrafting]

no, you know what, I’m going to stop vague’ing on the dash. my anger is about to get extremely direct and enraged, so fair warning, but I don’t care about anyone’s comfort right now. I’m going to get fucking mad, and you all will fucking deal.

not a single one of us has the right, or should even have the option, to guess about ccs’ sexualities. I’ve kept my mouth shut when it comes to people analyzing george/dream and guessing they’re some kind of queer, but I’m fucking done. I’m going to go into every single reason “truthing” about ccs’ sexualities is just so beyond fucked.

first of all, this is in response specifically to ranboo and tubbo truthing. being a kid and getting thrown into such a massive spotlight, where you will undoubtedly be subject to some fuck shit eventually because the internet is full of thousands upon thousands of people, is already terrifying and anxiety-inducing and damaging enough. but for their own audiencemembers - their own supposed fucking “fans” - to take it one step further and speculate about their sexualities? oh, for the love of god. I can barely believe I even have to explain how fucked that is. it is one thing to be friends with or close to someone in real life and recognize your own queer struggle in them, to approach them with sympathy and support in case they are questioning. it is another thing entirely to speculate about the sexuality of someone you don’t even know, and to then take it a step further and “truth” about your fucking theories. you are not an expert, you are not their friend, and you are not a fucking oracle. you can guess all you want about a cc’s sexuality, you can comment on how their actions or behaviors or words resonate with you when you were questioning or closeted, but to go ahead and take your own speculation as truth is arrogant, presumptous, and damaging as all hell. 

I can just imagine what it would’ve been like if I’d grown an online platform that ripped me of my privacy when I was a teenager and trying to figure out my own sexuality. if I had a section of my audience analyzing my every social media post, the inflection in my voice and the nature of my laughs, my every interaction with my best friend, you know what I would’ve done? retreated so far into the closet that I would probably have tricked myself into thinking I was heterosexual. I would’ve been so fucking terrified and felt so stripped of any privacy or control I had over my own goddamn thoughts; do you understand how fucking vile that is? have none of you ever been terrified of giving away your own sexuality through your mannerisms and facial expressions and words, while you were closeted? have none of you ever experienced that utter fucking terror when you notice someone start to question your sexuality, the immediate urge to retreat and back up and act and believe the complete opposite just to prove them wrong and go back to the safety and security of them believing you were straight? for fuck’s sake, now imagine that feeling amplified a hundred fold, applied not just to one instance or one person in your life, but to thousands. do y’all not understand just how a) morally fucked it is to inflict this same kind of practice onto someone you supposedly care about and support, and b) potentially psychologically damaging this could be to ccs who are closeted, especially the fucking minors? oh my fucking god.

that isn’t even to point out why people do this shit - which is to project and find solace and derive some kind of enjoyment out of cc’s. that’s what cc’s are there for; they are entertainers, first and foremost, which continues outside of streams and bleeds into fandom culture and the kind of enjoyment fans can make out of interacting with other fans and creating their own fan content. the problem with this fact is that fans take it too far, like 85% of the time. cc’s aren’t just there for our own enjoyment. they are fucking people, oh my lord. they are real people that we will never know, and while we may have our fun with our little theories and talking to other fans and making and watching cute compilations and writing fanfiction and making fanart, we are just deriving entertainment from the parts of themselves they choose to show us. that persona they put on for the stream, that is not 100% them. they are real, rounded, 3-d, full people who we only ever get the privilege of witnessing a small sliver of. and we need to fucking remember that, because we can’t just keep running with the ideas of ccs that we have in our heads and treating them like they’re malleable characters for our own entertainment. 

anyways, specifically about truthing (and mind you, this is the point in the rant where a little of my anger starts to seep out because I’m tired and it’s 1:40 AM and I have class tomorrow): there’s so many things that can be said about gaydar. I’m not here to argue whether or not it exists, or the details of the morality of straight versus non-straight people engaging in the practice of truthing. I’m just here to say that, even if you believe gaydar exists and can be accurate when employed by non-straight people, that still only applies to people you fucking know. what you see of a cc is not “getting to know” them. what you are seeing is one face of a multi-faceted jewel, cut in far more ways that you can ever hope to one day perceive. your theories are just those - theories. whatever you might think of the giggles you heard or the pickup lines you saw uttered or the softness you imagine between x and y, human interaction is far too complex and laced with meaning for some rando on the internet who watches youtube videos and twitch streams to fully grasp from two entertainers working from behind a screen. your gaydar is not going to fucking work through a screen, fuck off with that shit.

another thing that’s fucking bothering me so much is this assumption that comes with being at all open about queerness when you yourself are not queer. ik this is just one of the many factors “truthers” use to justify the findings of their totally infallible, prophetic gaydar, but it’s a factor nonetheless, and it bothers the fuck outta me. someone being willing to express support for lgbt people or donate to lgbt chairities or open to conversations with other lgbt people about lgbt endeavors is not evidence of queerness. to say that it is contributes to the harmful belief that cishets still have that they cannot be any of those things - that is, exceedingly open about and to queerness - without being perceived as queer themselves. 

anyways, and now we are at the bottom line, which is that, this entire conversation wouldn’t even have to be had if people just fucking listened to cc boundaries. ranboo and tubbo do not like being shipped. it is that fucking simple. i know that it is tempting to ship two people you think are cute together. i know it is tempting to indulge in a dynamic you find comforting. but idgaf. temptation is not an excuse. find some fictional characters to ship, and kindly fuck off.

[snackhobi]

how we interface ;

part of the human touch verse (masterlist here)

pairing: android!taehyung x f!reader / word count: 1.7k / genre: fluff, established relationship, light smut (NSFW) / warnings: none?; this is set after the main story

a/n: so here I am, revisiting the human touch verse, finally. thank you to my beta readers @hobi-gif​ and @morndas​, I love and appreciate you both so much 💖 to the anon who suggested a ‘naughty scene’ with android tae, there’s a lil something in here for you! 

The first time it happens, you think Taehyung is malfunctioning.

You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve held hands by now.  You never thought you could be so familiar with someone else’s hands: how their fingers entwine with yours, the warmth of their palm against your own; how their thumb feels rubbing across the back of your hand, tender and soothing and so full of love. But here you are, your hand in Taehyung’s, his in yours, like it’s meant to be there. What once was new and exciting is now a motion of comfort—as practiced as blinking or breathing.

But this? This is new, this sudden sensation of smoothness where Taehyung’s soft skin had been moments before. You glance down. You haven’t been looking at your joined hands, focused instead on the film that flickers across your TV, and there’s a beat as you take in what you’re seeing: the bare white of Taehyung’s android body, normally hidden away underneath the synthetic skin that covers him. You know what androids look like under their skin, the smooth white plastic bodies, but you’ve only ever seen a glimpse of Taehyung’s—a slip of white on his temple when he’d removed his LED, that under skeleton you haven’t seen since.

“Taehyung?” You’re uncertain what to think, equal parts confused and concerned. He doesn’t seem to be in pain; barely seems to register it at all, even, only turning his attention away from the screen at the sound of your voice. Like he hasn’t noticed anything amiss. “Are you okay?”

His eyes fall to your joined hands. “Oh,” he says. “Yes, I’m fine. Sorry.”

And just like that you watch as the skin shifts back into place, creeps from under his sleeve to cover his ivory hand; in mere moments everything is back in place and Taehyung seems unperturbed. As if nothing important has happened. He lifts your hand to his mouth, presses a fleeting kiss across your knuckles, an easy touch of affection that still has you melting, snuggling as close as possible to watch the rest of tonight’s movie.

Maybe it’s an android thing, you think. If it’s important and Taehyung wants to tell you about it, then he will. Until then there’s nothing more to do than to lean into his side and watch as Sophie and the Witch of the Waste toil up the stairs to the palace. You shift, resettle, drape yourself across your love; you feel the way a laugh rolls in his chest, contained, a smile bleeding out across his lips.

“Comfortable?” His voice is so quiet, so low. So achingly soft. 

You can’t help but smile back. “With you? Always.”

The second time it happens, you barely notice it at all.

Too caught up in everything else to really notice the way Taehyung’s arm has gone white, skin receding from his fingers and rolled back, from hand to wrist to elbow and up to his shoulder; too busy gasping for air, eyes blown wide and skin sweat-slick, Taehyung above you and around you and inside you, all heat and pleasure. Both hands pinned to the pillow beneath your head, his fingers entwined with yours as he rolls his hips, watches the way you arch your back and tilt your body towards him, needing more, more, more.

It never gets any less amazing, how easy it is to lose yourself in each other’s bodies. How love can be expressed through lust. How even as you’re losing yourself, you’re kept grounded by Taehyung’s presence—he knows you better than you know yourself, knows your body, knows how to touch you just so, how to throw you deep into the ocean of sensation and pleasure, kept tethered only by his skin against yours. It never fails to leave you breathless, speechless, the only words from your lips a lilting refrain of his name, stuttered and sobbed, a melody of choked whimpers and keens.

Once your body is spent, you’ve all but forgotten that moment where Taehyung’s arm had turned blindingly white—too distracted by the way your peak had been building, entire body clenching hard and tight before you’d tumbled over the edge just seconds after, cumming hard and wet around Taehyung’s unrelenting thrusts. You don’t think about it, how Taehyung’s android arm had been bare to your gaze, unimportant when the two of you had been intent on something else. When he reaches for you, pulls you close, both hands and arms look just as normal: all elegant lines and honeyed skin, reverent as he touches you, drags the pads of his fingers over the tremble of your thighs. There’s no naked metal and plastic. No stark whiteness set against your skin. Just Taehyung’s familiar hand smoothing up and over the curve of your hips.

“Angel.”

You lean towards the pet name, ease into the deep softness of Taehyung’s voice, as warm as the palm that traces across your waist. Too focused on his still-simmering gaze to think about anything else right now. There’ll be time for that later.

The third time it happens, you decide to ask what’s going on.

It’s been a long day, one that leaves an ache throbbing just behind your eyes, your entire body weighed down with it all. But Taehyung is kind and gentle, just like he always is, and it’s easy to unwind in the way he folds himself around you.

(You’re not sure you’ll ever get used to this. To the knowledge and comfort of someone’s love and support, no matter how exhausted you are, how burdened and tired. It’s not something you thought you’d ever find, and even though you have it now—have had it for long enough that you know it’s here to stay, that Taehyung is here to stay—sometimes it feels like a dream. A wild-winged flight of fancy that’s somehow touched ground in your life, become real, and is so much better than you ever could have thought.)

It’s just the two of you in the kitchen, in your own world of soft quiet as Taehyung makes you tea; something warm and soothing. You watch as he moves, meticulous and smooth, and you can’t help but smile and reach out, fingers brushing across his wrist. Wanting to feel, always.

He turns at the touch. Angles his body and his smile towards you, turns his hand palm-up so you can lock your fingers in place, every inch of you gone mellow, ochre yellow sunlight. Taehyung’s smile is subtle in his lips but obvious in his eyes—set deep in the dark of his gaze.

It’s easy, this time, to feel the way his skin subsides from his fingers. His hand is still warm (it always is) but it’s smooth and unyielding, now.

“Tae? How come your hand keeps doing this?”

A soft pause. Taehyung unravels the weave of your fingers so that you’re not holding hands any more but instead are mirroring each other, his palm and fingers against yours, held in the air in front of you. A mirror’s reflection in position.

“It’s how androids interface,” he says. “We can share information and memories like this.”

“Oh,” you murmur.

Now that you get a chance to look, really look, you notice the level of detail in Taehyung’s android body. The little dips of his joints, the darker lines that cross the unblemished white; the flush of blue across his knuckles, the soft glow of the thirium that powers him; his entire arm is alabaster apart from that blue glow at his knuckles and elbow, so pretty. Still beautiful, of course. Every part of him.

“I can’t help it.” Taehyung’s still smiling at you, at the way you’re staring at your hand against his, how they’re both similar and yet so different all at once.  “It’s an intimate thing, I think. Wanting to share with you and let you see everything. It happens without me even realising.”

You hesitate as a small breath catches in your throat. Then:

“Does it bother you? That you… can’t interface with me like this?”

Your voice comes out small. You know that Taehyung’s been concerned about his android nature, that the fact he’s a robot and not human might one day become something that bothers you. That you might find him lacking. You’ve felt the same, though, even if you might not have put a voice to it—that being human might become a barrier, that it means you might not be able to connect with him the way he wants. 

(That your two experiences in life and living are fundamentally too different and that it might all fall apart because of it.)

Taehyung’s smile doesn’t falter. “Does it bother you that I’m an android?”

“Of course not.” The answer is immediate and honest, even in the midst of your uncertainties. You’d love Taehyung whether he was an android or not—because he’s him.

“There’s your answer.” He’s looking at you with such an aching fondness, and his response is easy; relaxed. “Being an android or being a human doesn’t affect how I feel about you. I love you.”

He says this often. Reminds you daily of that unrelenting love for you. And no matter how many times you hear it, your heart swells—full to bursting with so many more emotions than you think you could ever put a name to, but with love the resounding echo throughout it all. 

He pulls his hand away from yours so that he can cup your cheek, and though the sensation of his android body against your bare skin is unfamiliar, the adoration behind the touch isn’t. Just because you interface differently doesn’t make it any less fulfilling, you think. Doesn’t make it any less real or amazing (because you are amazed, every day, that someone like Taehyung could ever love someone like you).

“I love you too.” 

The words don’t feel like enough to express every glittering facet of love you hold in your chest, but you hope that Taehyung feels it anyway. You hope that everything you do expresses that love, that it shines through, always. He deserves it. He deserves everything.

And when he smiles even wider at your words, uses the smooth hand against your cheek to tilt your head into a kiss—android or human or otherwise, you’ve never been happier.

taglist:  @beyoncesdragon​ @vensulove​

[singlemamachronicle]

Latinx Heritage, The Takeover of Spaces, and Thoughts of Many Firsts

This month was extremely special for me. In person meetings are back and trying to get into the groove of things has been...interesting. But it's also been exciting, and anxiety-inducing, and an opportunity to continue to feel grateful and proud of being in this space.

Twenty-eight years ago I came (back) to the states. As a daughter of an immigrant, born here, I was sent back to El Salvador while my mother made a life, got her papers, and saved money to legally bring my older siblings here. While I never physically crossed that border, my entire life I have felt the effects of the trauma my family faced. The need to make yourself smaller around white people so they don't get mad at you, the pressure to work twice as hard for less money without complaining and being grateful, the importance of keeping our traditions alive. All of it is transferred and I always felt more like an immigrant than a true "American." And because my momma had worked really hard, and I messed up and became a young mama, I had a lot more making up to do.

So here we are two and a half decades later and I'm in spaces where many of the times I'm the only Latinx in the room, and if not, the only Salvadoreña. Sometimes, I want to really call up my mom and tell her about my day and I think about how I'm going to translate it all,

"Mami fui a la Casa Blanca para reunirme con el consejo de politica de genero para hablar de como cambiar legislacion y polizas que puedan incluir madres jovenes - como un dia fui yo."

I think about some of my work and the spaces I am in and how I'm living out the dreams she crossed for, but it's so wild that even if I do share the words would escape me because even I find it hard to believe this is my life. The responsibility that comes with being first generation is real, exhausting, overwhelming; but it's an honor too. Walking the halls of the Capitol, talking to Congress reps and staffers and working to make this a better world is not something I take lightly. Every day I wake up grateful for the opportunities I've been granted, committed to work hard, and dedicated to ensuring that no other Brown girl feels like they don't belong.

The older I get, the more I realize that as much as I celebrate others, I need to celebrate myself. I'm so proud of the accomplishment, and I am so humbled to know that I get to learn every day from people who make me a better person. My Latinidxd holds value, wisdom, strength and magic, and as we close Latinx Heritage Month I want to take a moment to remind my circle that our lives are complex, multi-faceted and oh so colorful. Let's keep celebrating and uplifting each other - there's a lot of work we still need to do.

[emerald-amidst-gold]

WIP Wednesday

Is it just me or has this week been going kind of slow? It feels like Thursday, but no! It is WEDNESDAY! >:D That means it’s time to shaaaaaare! X3

So, I’m finally getting back into writing, but I’m doing bits and pieces at a time. I think I may have put too much pressure on myself, so everything I wrote and then read looked..bleh. 

However! Due to an ask that @the-dreadful-canine sent me, I found some inspiration! >:D

Thank you @noire-pandora for the tag! I send you all the hearts in the world! <3

Halamshiral brings out the best in the both the wolf and the dragon~ >:3

"She was friendly.", Fane said, face blank, arms crossed as he let his eyes follow after the elven servant that had just left where he and Solas were against the walls of the Winter Palace; the two of them keeping to the shadows and niches the soft darkness held.

He had sought out the Elvhen man, thankfully without much interference, to mention another spike in the air around them. There was magic somewhere in the palace, but he couldn't pinpoint its exact placement. Solas had agreed with his assessment after the first time, and the few times Fane had passed through this particular hall, the one lining the small courtyard, he had noticed his sky's brow furrowed slightly and his eyes glued ahead as if he were listening for something.

So far, neither of them had had any luck determining a focal point, but it had to be a rift; his mark proved that. It wasn't flaring violently, but the pulse was deeper than usual and his arm burned as the magic scorched through his veins. It was why, even after notifying the other about the fluctuation in the Veil, he had lingered.

Now, Fane wished he hadn't as his eyes continued to watch the retreating servant girl, her cheeks rosy and her eyes shining with something he knew all too well: infatuation. That would be fine on it's own, he wasn't one to judge or condone another's feelings as his very nature encouraged them to blossom, but the person that gaze was directed towards…

That was another story entirely. Why did he feel so...bitter? This prison of marble, gold, jewels, and stone was infuriating and confusing.

Solas chuckled, his eyes, too, following after the young woman, but they were still, clear, uninterested, but yet, Fane felt odd. "Indeed she was. Many of the servants have been. I believe they find my presence intriguing, and perhaps, comforting.”

"Makes sense. You have a certain air here. More relaxed, even if every shadow holds a knife. Confident, really. Makes you approachable.", Fane muttered out his observation absently, glancing down to be met with questioning orbs of blue-grey; the color was mixed due to the shadows dancing within and around them. They looked midnight in hue and they were trained on him now; no one else. “The responses to me have been the exact opposite. Not surprising, but annoying. I tried to question a pair of them outside this hallway, and they shooed me off.”

Solas gave him a small, but reassuring smile. “So I saw. Merely a precaution, I think, vhenan.”, he said, casting midnight orbs around once more, essences of lavender glinting from starlight. They landed upon a small group; three servants, each elven and they appeared to be wholly uninterested in ferrying about between the nobles. “Servants have long walked within the halls of power, unnoticed, but ever-watchful of those who see them only as inconsequential. Wariness is their greatest weapon against those who flaunt without reservation. The elves along these walls and in these dark corridors know what you represent, and so they keep you at arm’s length. ”

Fane hummed, pursing his lips a bit. "So, they’re fearful of me. Again, not an uncommon reaction.”, he said. albeit a bit bitterly. Typical. He should have known that was the case. Dressing a wolf in sheep’s clothing didn’t not make it a wolf, after all.

Except, he was a dragon. A dragon playing politics, playing with power. Fane was surprised he hadn't combusted as soon as his boots had touched the inner gate's threshold. The night was young, though. Sadly. Unfortunately. Miserably. How his sky, who was now leaning against the pedestal of a bust, appearing calm, collected, and enthused as eternal irises gazed up at him had done this almost day in and day out was baffling and honestly? Terrifying.

Solas shook his head. “No. Not of you as you are, my dragon.”, he denied simply, glittering jewels of deepest blue shifting like the sky just visible through the windows they stood beside. “They’re fearful of the power you possess. Elves have long been the victims of misused power. They wonder if you are the same as the Grand Duke, the Empress, the Duchess, or any here that have dealt a heavy hand without provocation.” A sigh and a warmer smile, midnight shifting to the paleness of moonlight. “However, I have seen gazes begin to linger among the groups each time you pass. They hold hope; a dream of opportunity. You are proving you are not the same, ma’isenatha. Unlike many, who believe themselves entitled. Continue to do as you’re doing, and a society will open up to you. Be patient, be mindful, and be true in a place rife with lies.”

Fane raised an eyebrow, keeping their gazes locked. “So, continue being a near ass to every atrociously dressed fop and priss that gets it in their head to waltz up to me?", he questioned before growling in the next moment. "The last prick I had the misfortune of walking within sight of nearly got a claw up the ass when they touched my arm.”

The mage smirked,  but it seemed...dark, eyes sharpening like metal at his last statement. “I would not call how you’ve been carrying yourself being a ‘near ass’, vhenan. It is far more nuanced than that.”

“Oh? How would you label my attitude then?”, Fane asked, keeping his eyebrow raised before a light of mischief and nostalgia flashed within blue, turning his curious expression into a blank slate. “What’s that look for?”

Something about the air was shifting due to this conversation. It wasn’t magic or anything, but it was...heightening, taking on a heady blend, power and emotion, present and past mixing with odd harmonies. Solas had mentioned something like that when they first arrived...

Solas hummed, eyes taking on a softer edge, primal darkness dispersing in both the curve of his mouth and the depths of his eyes. “It is nothing.”, he dismissed, the glint of nostalgia apparent upon every sharp line and curve of his sky’s face. Razor sharp eyes of blue steel shifted away casually once more, a single finger beginning to tap against where hands overlapped. “Suffice it to say, I am...pleased with this side of you as I am with every facet of personality you gift me with. The evening has been full of surprises, and hopefully, it will end on a high note."

Fane scoffed, leaning back a bit to rest against a windowsill; the marble was cool against the back of his legs and it helped soothe both his mind and the scars upon his legs. The material of his pants were better than most, but not what he was used to. “You’re just tempting the world to answer with that call, my sky.”, he said with a sidelong glance in Solas’ direction.

Solas responded with a sidelong glance of his own. “And what if I am?”, he retorted. There was something...cheeky about the elf’s tone and it wasn’t something Fane heard often, if at all. Yes, things were shifting, but not detrimentally so.

Fane kept his face blank, but he felt..light; a feeling of warmth in his chest apparent. “Then I would have to intervene on its behalf.”, he quipped, dropping his voice a few octaves and narrowing his eyes. These words falling from their mouths, mixing with shadow, candlelight, hushed whispers, and quiet refrains were interesting. They came with ease, they fell with grace…

...they sang with pride. That would usually terrify Fane, one of seven sins that could, but right now, with the sky gazing up at him from the side, body lax and garbed in black much like his own was, and expression titillating, ethereal, he was anything but frightened.

He was enthralled.

Solas hummed, eyes tempting with silent wishes. “My voice would harken a dragon to respond, would it?”, the mage pushed, or rather, pulled him in with that hushed question; the silk that Fane associated with his sky’s voice wrapping around his hearing like a gossamer sheet.

Fane shrugged a bit, bringing his arms up to cross them as he did so with his legs a bit; boots scuffing against pristine marble. He leaned back further against the ledge of the window now, but part of him wanted to inch away, ascend to the sky gazing up at him from hooded lids. “Wouldn’t be the first time. Remember,”, he began before pausing, a tight feeling of warmth ensnaring his chest as Solas’ eyes flashed with quiet indigo and so he pressed back with velvet. “...Fen’harel?”

*screeches* Why do I love these two being suave fools?! The brain worms are strong in this Chili’s tonight! 

Tagging (with no pressure, but all the court intrigue! >:3): 

@oxygenforthewicked @the-dreadful-canine @little-lightning-lavellan @varric-tethras-editor @dreadfutures @dungeons-and-dragon-age @blueheaded @drag-on-age @shift-shaping @cartadwarfwithaheartofgold and anyone else who’d like to share and revel in the court! *cackles* 

[lmjupdates]

Lauren Jauregui on her Sense of Self, the innate magic of spirituality, & her upcoming EP

Portrait by: Halie Torris

Portrait Reference Photo by: Munachi Osegbu

Interview by: Isabella Vega

Photos by: Tristian Hollingsworth

One of the most surreal moments of my life was sitting in the Zoom room, waiting for Lauren Jauregui to enter. There was a plethora of thoughts swirling in my head, mostly nerves - I had never met someone who I had such a deep cosmic connection with, someone I'd spent the last eight years following and looking to guidance for.  What if they weren't all I thought they would be? Then, I spotted the Lauren Jauregui Edition of Coup De Main on my desk shelf, and that's when it hit me: I had manifested  this entire conversation. God put this person in my path for a reason, all those years ago, and I was about to find out why. As I let her into the Zoom, I had no idea the emotional journey the next forty five minutes would lead me. What unfolded was something I always dreamed, and somehow, almost predicted: that in meeting the woman I had spent a lifetime loving and learning from, in truly baring our souls and sharing our life philosophies, a few of my internal puzzle pieces would click together with every laughing breath and anecdote dripping off of her with intellect and authenticity. I present to you: a candid conversation with Lauren Jauregui - how she describes her Sense of Self, her ideas on the current mental health movement, and her upcoming EP.

Isabella: How would you describe your Sense of Self in one sentence?

Lauren: I guess my sense of self is just kind of… This is complex now that I’m sitting and thinking about it! I’m like ‘what does my sense of self mean?!’ I guess it’s just kind of the awareness that I’m embodying. Yeah, like, how much I’m showing up for myself and the self care aspect of all of it. That’s usually when I feel the most sense of self, when I’m aware of my body and my mind and my heart and how it’s feeling, so self-care.

Isabella: Now more than ever, there seems to be a growing awareness/spread of information on mental health, a sort of movement throughout social media platforms. Is there any facet of this growing movement that you would want to change or is there anything you would like to add to the conversations?

Lauren: I mean, I think there is always room for improvement in how we approach things. Again, this is a topic that is new to all of us as a collective, we’ve been under the oppressive thumb of capitalism, imperialism, and colonization for a very long time, and we still live in a settler-colonial state. I think that the disparities between how mental health affects different people is definitely a nuanced conversation. I think that acknowledging state violence can not just be talked away is important, and I don’t think that we talk often enough about how people of color’s mental health suffers because there are systemic things in place to oppress them and to hurt them. That are still in place and that we still debate and that we still have to have conversations about, which has been centuries of people talking about whether or not it’s ok to brutalize people of color.  I think bringing that into the conversation a lot more - state violence’s impact on our mental health. A lot of the time we are just, like “Oh, I’m traumatized because my parents treated me a certain way” or “I’m traumatized because this person did something to me” but what we don’t really address is those behaviors of other folks like parents - something I’m trying to acknowledge is saying “I know my parents didn’t have the tools, and that’s something I’m learning through my mental health journey.” That’s not something I understood off the bat. I thought that the things that had happened to me in my life were the reasons why I was this way.

When you start going into the journey, and when the journey involves the spiritual element of the journey. That’s another thing, I would love to have more conversations about spiritual illness. Where the lack of faith and the lack of belief in self is the root cause of a lot of depression and anxiety. That disconnect from God and the disconnect from the belief that reality can be what we manifest it. We have to take responsibility for the way that our world looks right now, and the way we look, and the way we operate and hold one another or don’t. It really has to come down to every individual person wanting to show up for themselves more and understand themselves more.

I would like to have more conversations about the connectivity between everything, the intersectionality between this stuff.

Isabella: I love that. As someone who’s religious and has a very strong spiritual connection to all of that, that’s what I love about you so much - a lot of people are scared to talk about religion and spirituality, whilst you just go there, and talk about something that is so foundational to our beings.

Lauren: Yeah. I’ll challenge that a little bit and say it’s not necessarily religion. I feel like religion can be an instrument used to pin us against each other. It’s about spirituality because God is a reflection of us and lives in each of us. That’s why God looks so different everywhere because everywhere you go, God looks like the people there, because God is self. Self is God. As far as, like, when you think of the higher self, when you pray, whoever you pray to - this being is here for you, and you see yourself in them. Whilst you can understand that they are there for the rest of the world, as well, that connection regardless of religion, that understanding that there is something greater than yourself, is benevolent?

Isabella: Yeah.

Lauren: And that’s so important. I think we often forget about that, and I know that my darkest times were when I forgot that God existed. And when I didn’t trust in God and their vision for me. A lot of times, we feel like things are happening to us, but really, they’re happening for us.

Isabella: So, I’ve heard whispers through the grapevine of there being an EP in the works. Congratulations! I’ve been waiting!

Lauren: Hahaha!

Isabella: How do you plan on continuing your pure self expression through the release of a shorter form project and an eventual album?

Lauren: Well, I think that music is where I am the most self-expressive. It’s my safe space. I think writing in general, whether that’s my journal, or if that’s my notepad, or wherever. I used to just think a lot, and thinking a lot really messed me up, it gave me a lot of anxiety, and I used to think in loops, which I still do, but I’m better at catching myself now. That self expression is just a pertinent element of why I do music. I feel like I naturally just wanna talk about feelings! I’m just an emo shawty, I really love to put my stuff into words, and I feel like the challenge of putting it into a three minute or four minute song is kind of dope, because you get to kind of get it out. You don’t have to think about all of the things, you have to curate what you’re talking about and how you get the audience to understand your storyline in a concise, intentional way. Whether that’s short form or long form, it’s definitely my approach to making art.

Isabella: I love that! So, I don’t know how much you can say, and it’s alright if you can’t say much! I just wanted to know - what’s the vibe? I know you’ve worked in the past with the brilliant Kid Harpoon, who helped make Fine Line by Harry Styles, which is my favorite album of all time and saved me in so many ways, so will you two be working together on this project?

Lauren: On this specific EP, I am not working with him. I have other songs with him, because he and I make beautiful music together. I love Kid Harpoon. He’s a good friend and a really beautiful collaborator. On this EP, nothing’s produced by him on it, that’s not to say that we won’t work together again or the songs that we made won’t be released in some other format, but this one, I’m almost done with mixing now.

Isabella: Oooo!!!

Lauren: Yeah! I’m just in the process of getting all of the visuals together and making sure everything is packaged nicely and looking good for everybody!

Isabella: I’m so excited!

Lauren: Yes! I think it’s very close, and while I totally understand why everyone is expectant of something from me - I get that and I totally understand - this process of making this music has been WAY more profound than just the music itself, it’s been a huge rediscovery of self. It’s been unlearning like no other. It’s been a messy and painful and joyous process in all kinds of different ways. To me, it’s been so much more than what I can give people. That’s the beautiful after effect to me, so people feel seen, heard, and safe, like there’s someone else who understands where they're at. I focus a lot on the things that I think about, so I hope that whoever listens to it can feel the potency of the self-discovery that went into this and realize why it took so long. Self-discovery isn’t something you do in a couple of weeks, especially everything that I’d been through. I’m a very sensitive soul, and everything that went on really shifted my perception of self into a very toxic place that I needed to come out of, I really needed this time. Everyday, it’s made me trust more in God and God’s plan. Everytime I thought I had it figured out, ready to release, every single time, God would derail and say “Wait, there’s something bigger.” Every time, I was like “God! Let me put out this freaking music!” Isabella: Hahaha!

Lauren: And God’s like “yeah, yeah! I know! But people have to know who you are! And YOU don’t know who you are! When you know who you are, then we can give it to the world!” I know who I am now!

Isabella: That’s amazing to hear. I really hate when fans try to claim the intimacy of “knowing you” when we only know the public version of you, but I’m a very big empath, especially with the public figures I vibe with, I choose them very wisely. I’ve followed you for a very long time, so I can see the change from “Expectations’'' to “50 Ft.”

Lauren: Right!?

Isabella: Yeah! You’re a new, spectacular whole, and I hope you know how proud I am.

Lauren: Thank you!!!! I’m proud of you, too! You’ve been on this journey with me.

Isabella: Thank you! I really think I have! It’s taken a while for us to put this interview together, and I really feel like God put us together at the perfect moment, because mentally, I feel like I’m in the perfect place to meet you.

Lauren: God’s timing is something else!

This introduction and interview has been condensed for the online format. The full interview appears  in Issue 2: Rumination, open for orders until June 10th. If you've read this whole thing - I love you to actual pieces - use code 333 at checkout for a special discount!

https://www.senseofselfzine.com/product-page/issue-2-rumination

Source: https://www.senseofselfzine.com/post/lauren-jauregui-on-her-sense-of-self-the-innate-magic-of-spirituality-her-upcoming-ep

[ryqoshay]

Tri-Arame: A Break? No Way!

Primary Pairing Trio: YuuAyuSetsu Words: ~2k Rating: G Time Frame: Sometime during the 2nd trimester of their 2nd year? Later? Story Arc: Stand Alone

----------

Author’s Note: How many detours will I take? How many WIPs must I start before I can finish one? Will I ever finish any of the works I started over the last couple months? Only my µ’s muse knows.

Anyway, this chapter was born entirely out of a single comment from myon as we discussed the new songs for the Nijigasaki girls. I don’t want to spoil it entirely, so I’ll include it in the followup post.

Also, the girls of R3birth have not made their anime debut, so they will not be appearing in this scene. Perhaps I may come back and make changes later if they are introduced in the second season.

Summary: It’s time for everyone in the Nijigasaki School Idol Club to have a new solo! And Yuu is going to help them all.

----------

Movement at the edge of Ayumu’s focus caught her eye and she looked up.

“Are you alright, Yuu-chan?” She asked the twin-tailed girl beside her under the kotatsu.

“I’m fine.” Yuu offered a smile that was nowhere near its normal power.

“You’ve stayed up late every night this week.” Ayumu reminded. “It’s fine to take a break.”

“A break? No way!” Yuu shook her head. “I need to help you guys.”

“I believe Ayumu-san and I can take care of anything else tonight.” Setsuna joined from her spot opposite Ayumu. “We’ve made a lot of progress thanks to your help, Yuu-san.” She smiled, though Ayumu noted even hers was not as brilliant as usual.

The three girls had been working together for hours since arriving at Ayumu’s place after school, breaking only for dinner. The project was a pair of new solo songs for Ayumu and Setsuna for an upcoming Live being planned by the school idol club. Although, together may have been a little bit of an overstatement, as Ayumu and Setsuna had each been primarily focused on their own song while Yuu assisted as needed.

And on the topic of Yuu’s assistance, she had been helping the rest of the club as well all week. Thus, all the late nights. She had actually ended up staying at Rina’s, Shizuku’s, Karin’s and Kanata’s places after missing the last train the first couple nights and not bothering the next two. Tonight, it was Ayumu’s turn and they had invited Setsuna to join them.

“Are you sure?” Yuu seemed more than a little dejected.

Whatever Setsuna was about to say in response was interrupted by a yawn. “Mm…” She ended up humming and nodding after.

“It seems we should take our own advice and turn in as well.” Ayumu decided. “We can continue later this weekend. But for now, you and I need to rest up for tomorrow, Yuu-chan.” She reminded her friend of the plans they had with her parents. “Or today, actually.” She corrected, noticing the clock on her headboard.

“I suppose.” Yuu sighed and crawled over to Ayumu’s bed before pulling herself up and under the covers.

“I’m sorry, Setsuna-chan.” Ayumu suddenly apologized. “I got so wrapped up in our work that I completely forgot to set out a futon for you.” She stood and moved to her closet to retrieve the bedding.

“I’ll help.” Setsuna assured, sliding the table a little to make room before getting up to retrieve a pillow.

“Oh, and one more thing.” Ayumu stepped over to her plushie display and grabbed the pink rabbit before turning and handing it to Setsuna.

“… Right… Thank you.” Pink dusted the raven-haired girl’s cheeks as she accepted.

----------

Ayumu opened her eyes to an unfamiliar sound. Soft, almost imperceptible scratches sounded from somewhere in the room. Then a sound she recognized; a page being turned. She sat up and immediately spotted Yuu setting the table, scrawling away at the paperwork for the songs they had worked on last night.

“Yuu-chan?” She murmured, keeping her volume down as she realized Setsuna was still sleeping behind Yuu.

“Mm?” The girl with green tips looked up from her work, set a hand down for support and twisted her shoulders around to face the redhead. “G’mornin’ Ayumu.” She offered a smile that was barely more energetic than the prior night.

“How long have you been up?” Ayumu asked, sliding out of bed, stepping over Setsuna and making her way to her normal spot at the table.

“Dunno.” Yuu admitted. “I dreamed up some good ideas for almost everyone and needed to get them out on paper before I forgot it all.”

Ayumu couldn’t help smiling. She loved Yuu’s unwavering support, even when it lead to hyperfocus and nigh-all-consuming obsession. And while she wished Yuu would take better care of herself, she had long since vowed to do what she could to fill in where needed when it came to her health and wellbeing.

“Are you going to be alright coming along with us today?” She asked.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Yuu nodded. “I love hanging out with you and your parents. I can take a nap afterward.”

Well, at least she recognizes she needs more sleep. Ayumu conceded to herself.

A knock came at the door, followed by Ayumu’s mother’s voice. “Are you girls up? I’ll have breakfast ready in a moment.”

The sound caused Setsuna to stir, so Ayumu was no longer worried about waking her.

“We’ll be out in a few.” Ayumu responded.

“Oh, Setsuna-chan, good morning.” Yuu greeted the other girl as she slowly sat up and yawned.

Setsuna stretched. “Good morning, Yuu-san, Ayumu-san.”

“Good morning, Setsuna-chan.” Ayumu added.

“I had a bunch of new ideas,” Yuu continued “though we probably can’t fit them all into just these songs, and probably shouldn’t try, but maybe we’ll be able to use some in the next set? Anyway, take a look at it later today and let me know what you think.” She held out a stack of sheets.

“Thank you, Yuu-san.” Setsuna accepted and slipped the pages into her bag.

The three then rotated through the bathroom to wash their faces and get ready for the day.

----------

ScarletStorm: Ayumu-san

UeharaAyumu: What’s up Setsuna-chan?

ScarletStorm: I wanted to contact you privately so as to avoid possibly embarrassing Yuu-san.

UeharaAyumu: Yuu-chan?

UeharaAyumu: What do you mean?

ScarletStorm: I believe she mixed up some of the paperwork for our songs.

ScarletStorm: A lot of it, actually.

Oh? Ayumu crawled over to the table to check what was left there. Sure enough, much of it was for Setsuna’s solo.

UeharaAyumu: That appears to be the case

ScarletStorm: I can stop by later tonight so we can swap them.

UeharaAyumu: No need to make a special trip

UeharaAyumu: We’ll see each other again Monday morning

As soon as Ayumu sent the second message, she realized what Setsuna was probably going to reply.

ScarletStorm: I was hoping to work a little more on it tomorrow.

And there it was. Yuu wasn’t the only workaholic when it came to school idol things. Ayumu laughed lightly to herself and shook her head. She was about to agree and set up a time to meet when a different thought occurred to her.

UeharaAyumu: Perhaps we can use this opportunity to help each other?

UeharaAyumu: Look at what the other has done from a different perspective and maybe do some editing or offer some advice?

UeharaAyumu: A little like what Yuu-chan has been doing for us, but we both have different perspectives than her

UeharaAyumu: And each other

ScarletStorm: That’s a great idea, Ayumu-san!

ScarletStorm: It will a little like our Shuffle Festival from a little while back.

ScarletStorm: Actually, no, not really.

ScarletStorm: We’re not covering the other’s song, just helping them write one.

UeharaAyumu: Well there’s no reason we cannot add a little of our own influence to the other’s song

UeharaAyumu: I’ve always admired your style, Setsuna-chan

UeharaAyumu: So I wouldn’t mind seeing what influence you might have on a song that I might sing

UeharaAyumu: Then on the other side, I would like to see what I can add to a song of yours

UeharaAyumu: And on the topic of the Shuffle Festival, I actually kind of hoped I would end up with CHASE! instead of Kasumi-chan

UeharaAyumu: Yuu-chan still likes to play it on her piano every so often and I can’t help humming along when she does

UeharaAyumu: After all, it was the song that inspired me to become a school idol and her to join and restart the club

There was a noticeable pause before Setsuna began typing again. Then another pause. And another.

ScarletStorm: Thank you, Ayumu-san.

ScarletStorm: That song has always meant a lot to me.

ScarletStorm: As such, I am very happy to hear that you and Yuu-san continue to enjoy it.

ScarletStorm: That said, I also enjoy your style.

ScarletStorm: However, I believe Emma-san was a better pick than I for covering Yume e no Ippo.

ScarletStorm: At least she was then.

ScarletStorm: My time with Ayumu-san and Shizuku-san in A・ZU・NA has allowed me to experience many more facets of being a school idol than I would have otherwise on my own.

ScarletStorm: You have allowed me to expand my knowledge and skills of being a school idol.

ScarletStorm: It would be an honor to sing a song in homage to Ayumu-san’s style in exchange for her singing one in mine.

Ayumu smiled.

UeharaAyumu: I’ll let Yuu-chan know we’re trading notes for a little while when I check on her later to make sure she’s taking the break she needs

UeharaAyumu: And speaking of breaks, don’t you be staying up to late working on my song

UeharaAyumu: Both you and Yuu-chan have a bad habit of overworking yourselves and it makes me worry about you

Scarlet Storm: Thank you for your concern, Ayumu-san.

ScarletStorm: I will be sure to go to bed at a decent time tonight.

UeharaAyumu: Alright

UeharaAyumu: See you at the station Monday morning

ScarletStorm: Yes, see you then.

----------

“Wha~?” Kasumi exclaimed, planting both hands on the table and leaning toward two of her seniors on the other side. “Ayumu-sempai and Setsuna-sempai are trading songs?”

Ayumu laughed lightly. “Just trading some influence in style.”

“And learning new ways to look at our songs,” Setsuna added excitedly “how we share them with our fans and ultimately grow as school idols.”

“Kasumin wants to grow as a school idol too!” Kasumi whined. “Senpai!” She turned toward Yuu. “Help Kasumin make her songs even cuter!”

“Yuu-senpai has already helped you a lot, Kasumi-san.” Shizuku pointed out from beside the ash blonde. “I believe what is being suggested here is a little different.”

“It sounds more like our recent Shuffle Festival.” Karin observed.

“That’s what I thought at first as well.” Setsuna acknowledged.

“But what Setsu and Ayu-pyon are doing is trading influence on creating songs, not just covering the other’s songs.” Ai spoke up.

“Exactly.” Ayumu agreed.

“Sounds fun. Ai’m in.” The blonde grinned.

“I would like to try something new as well.” Rina stated flatly. “I would like to discover new ways to connect with my fans.”

“Hmmm…” Emma considered “I enjoyed singing Ayumu-chan’s pure song during the Shuffle Festival, but I wonder how it might feel to sing a cool song like Karin-chan’s or a dramatic one like Shizuku-chan’s.”

“Or a cute one like Kasumin’s?” Kasumi asked.

“I think everything Emma-chan sings would end up being cute.” Kanata’s voice was slightly muffled by her pillow before she turned her head. “Wouldn’t you agree, Karin-chan?”

“O… of course.” Karin didn’t seem to have expected to be asked such a question.

“What kind of influence would you want to have on your song, Kanata-san?” Yuu asked.

“I already get inspiration and influence from Haruka-chan.” Kanata drawled.

“Well, this all sounds like a lot of fun.” Yuu continued. “But if we’re going to overhaul everyone’s songs, it’s going to be a lot of work. But…” she leaned over retrieve a sizable stack of sheets from her bag “I came up with a ton of new and random stuff once Ayumu and Setsuna-chan revealed their idea to me. Take a look and see if anything gives you ideas. I’ll be happy to help wherever I can, as always.”

Seven hands reached forward to take random pages and several discussions broke out among the group.

Ayumu glanced at the twin-tailed girl beside her. Looks like it might be another sleep deprived week for Yuu-chan. She worried silently. Maybe I’ll take a night in the middle of the week this time. Oh. Setsuna-chan and I are pretty far along with our songs, so maybe we can all take a break that night. Perhaps an anime movie night, so long as we limit it to only a few episodes and not an entire series.

Someone said her name to get her attention and Ayumu was taken from her thoughts and into a discussion about a possible lyric change. The next couple hours were filled with excitement and anticipation as the girls of the Nijigasaki School Idol Club began looking at their songs in a new light.

----------

Author’s Note Continued in Followup Post

[thewhumperinwhite]

ATTD: The Hunting Party (2)

ATTD Masterlist

I agonized over this for ages bc everybody knows prophecies rhyme, but i am deeply Not A Poet, so like... be gentle with me lmao

@whumpitywhumpwhump @favwhumpstuff

Ongoing TW for this series: the Big Bads here are bug related, so tread carefully if you you have any level of entomophobia. It’s mainly referenced here, but it will absolutely get worse. If you have specific bug-related triggers, you can always message me for a more detailed description of what to expect. So.

TW for: body horror (relating to mummification, and, separately, Bugs); blood-drinking; referenced/implied possession (of a sort); captivity; implied magical torture; lady whump; referenced murder. Also, uh... evil flies. Like not giant. Just evil

----

Awake, at least, Middle Sister had seen nothing but this room for three long months.

The room was of a respectable size—high-ceilinged, not wide but long enough to be properly called a Hall—but far enough underground that the air felt close and stale regardless. The walls and ceiling are polished marble, black with veins the color of old bone. The furnishings—richly carved but sparse—were the same. An altar, bare. Two benches, never occupied. A high-backed throne for her to sit upon, slumped and unmoving.

Middle Sister did not know how long this room had been here. The past was her Sister’s business; for all that Middle Sister know, they might have carved the chamber just for her. Her mark, upon the throne—a sun, inlaid in gold, above her head—would seem to show that it at least had been custom-made.

The chains, hammered into the arms of the throne, and ending in manacles around her wrists, were the same muted gold as the inlaid sun. She was held immobile by other, crueler means—could not move without blood in her veins; the gold cuffs hung loose on her dry and leathered wrists—so the chains were just for show.

She was going to kill everyone responsible—from her captors to whatever craftsmen carved the sun and forged the chains—but she could, at least, respect the commitment to aesthetics.

To keep an Oracle in one’s basement, one needed chains. To leave her without them—even as a dried out husk upon her throne—would be positively gauche. Someone might think they’d left her corpse here by mistake.

The old man—the Emperor’s Advisor—who had no other name than that, and who always brought with him the buzzing of flies, right at the edge of her hearing—was the only living thing she had seen in months.

He was halfway through his usual ritual now. He brought a candle and a golden chalice with him from upstairs, and now he was holding the chalice over the candle and half-chanting in his scratchy buzzing voice, a stream of nonsense about the sun, how it knew all and saw all, and now he wished to know and see all as well.

The ritual was exactly as practical as the gilded chains. The chalice was full of blood, and blood was all she needed.

The old man finished chanting, and stepped around the altar, approached the throne. He put the chalice up to her desiccated lips and carefully poured about a tablespoon of blood down her dry throat.

Middle Sister breathed in, as even this tiny helping of lifeblood wet her tongue and throat and lungs enough to take in the first air she’d had since the old man’s last visit, more than a week ago now. The blood soaked into her heart and filled it out, like a raisin turning back into a grape. The first few beats were always painful.

Part of Middle Sister always hoped that he would measure wrong—bring her two tablespoons someday, instead of one. This blood is enough to bring life back into her mouth and tongue and lungs and throat and heart. Another gulp would bring life back into her arms, enough to tie these stupid soft-gold chains into a pretty bow around the old man’s neck, and drag herself upstairs, to find enough blood to fill her wings with life as well, and away from here, at last.

It wouldn’t be that easy, of course. She was going to have to wait. Sit here like so much salt-dried meat, until she’d gathered enough cards to make a meaningful play.

Then, when she was out, she’d spill enough blood to bathe in.

“I hesitate to wake you so soon after the last time,” the old man was saying, with a hint of irony. “However: It seems we’ve had a bit of a setback.”

With a tablespoon of blood, Middle Sister could lift her head, and raise and eyebrow at the old man, too, with a little effort. Her dried skin wrinkled with a sound like old paper, but thankfully it didn’t tear.

Oh, she said, her voice made more of magic than of air. We have, have we?

The old man smirked, and bowed his head. “Your meaning is well taken,” she said. “The miscalculation was not yours, my Lady. We attempted to act on the information you so generously provided—”

Middle Sister snorted. She had been accused of many things, but rarely generosity. Is that what we’re calling it, she asked airily—her voice dry wind against the old man’s ears—I provide you—generously—with prophecy, and you—generously again—replace enough of the blood you stole, to let me move my lips?

The old man almost laughed. “Again, Lady: Your criticism is understood. I apologize once more for the lack of—creature comforts.”

She didn’t waste energy on rolling her eyes, however much she might have liked to. It’s true that I am accustomed to indulging in pleasure such as blood, and life. She sighed, tipping her head back to see him better. What is this setback ‘we’ have suffered, My Lord Advisor?

“We’ve lost the boy,” the old man said.

Middle Sister blinked at him. Then she half-crumpled forward, using up most of her borrowed blood in painful, dry-heaving laughter.

Lost the—you lost him? You found the boy from Future’s Rhyme and then you lost him?

The old man watched her laugh with bland amusement. Middle Sister collapsed back against the throne, wheezing, already half a corpse again.

Oh, my lord Advisor, she croaked, almost with affection. Your masters mustn’t be very pleased with you, eh?

The old man’s mouth twitched slightly. “They are not thrilled,” he allowed. He did not sound especially distressed.

He was a funny old riddle, the Emperor’s Advisor. There were flies in his head, certainly. But they seemed to have left behind an unusual amount of brain.

The old man bowed his fly-ridden head, with his wrinkled hand over his heart. “Thus, I am instructed to ask you for further direction, my Lady. Any further words from you would be a blessing.”

I’ve none to give you, Middle Sister said, with real pleasure. And I am hardly in a position to be offering blessings, my dear, she added. She was fading fast now, but there was just enough blood left in her dried-up veins for another pointed arch of her brow.

Advisor squinted at her. Clearly he was thinking hard, and—though maybe this was wishful thinking on Middle Sister’s part—he seemed to be looking with own old man’s eyes, and not with the faceted compound ones hidden behind their sockets.

“Perhaps,” the old man said delicately, “in return for further prophecy. I can persuade my masters to come up with some sort of reward.”

And then he gathered up the chalice—empty, now, of blood—and gave her a sly little smile.

The offer was clear enough.

I’ll see what I can do, my dear, Middle Sister told him, and that was all she had the blood to say.

For now.

----

The dream, when it comes again, goes like this:

There is a hall, with carved alabaster columns and tile the color of the sky, or the Wolf-Killer’s eyes, beautiful—but blown open at the sides, to reveal a sky that is not blue, but is a roiling bloody red as though the clouds themselves were cut open and bleeding to death in the dust.

In the center of the hall there is a tree, and the tree grew from a seed, and the seed was born in blood.

Will be born in blood.

The problem with riding Little Sister’s dreams is that it is hard to keep track of one’s tense.

The other problem with Little Sister’s dreams is that they are starting to repeat, which Middle Sister has never known them to do before—

In spite of herself, she thinks of Little Sister, watching this, over and over—how Little Sister always hurt, how it always hurt Little Sister to dream.

(Middle Sister breathes out, in her sleep, relieved: last time, Little Sister was wild with fright, the dream patchy and confused, as Little Sister snatched fitful minutes of sleep; Little Sister was always frightened of small spaces, and the cage was much too small, twisted her wings in around her little body; now she is sleeping out under the air, and her wings are sore but whole, and at least one of them is free.)

Focus, now, Middle Sister tells herself.

In the center of the hall there is a tree, except that now it is not a tree, it is a door, and the door is shut, but—

(a flutter of fear in Middle Sister’s dry and bloodless chest)

She is not sure the door is locked.

Behind her she hears the fluttering of enormous wings and whirls toward the sound, jealousy sour in her belly; she wants to fly again so badly—

Black birds scatter everywhere; although she is not really there she imagines they kick up quite a breeze.

She watches them go, and thinks that as omens go, this is not traditionally a good one. Last time she rode piggyback on Little Sister’s dreams, when she squinted to see past Little Sisters real-life-present fear, it was almost the same—the hall and the tree and the door—but instead of crows she had heard the howling of wolves, about a thousand great grey monsters with sharp teeth and sharper eyes, and ugh, why can’t Little Sister’s dreams just say what they mean.

As she is thinking this she hears, behind her—the clearing of a throat, simple and quiet. She turns on her nonexistent heel to follow the sound.

There is a girl standing in front of the door-that-is-closed-but-is-not-locked. She has long black hair, covering blunt human ears, and—behind the hair she does not have a face.

The words, when she speaks, are the same as last time, but last time Little Sister was too frightened to properly see the speaker. And Middle Sister can see nothing Little Sister doesn’t see.

The black-haired girl speaks solemnly, although she has no mouth. Her voice is full of—sympathy, perhaps. Middle Sister isn’t sure who for.

She says it again—the same rhyme—which seems to so excite Advisor, or at least the bugs that live inside his skull. It doesn’t mean much to Middle Sister, but she listens carefully.

She wants to know what the words mean, properly, before she gives them up.

----

Fatherless brother

Where did you go?

Does your mother miss you?

Does your sister know?

Little boy lost,

Little boy lying,

Little boy scared,

Little boy hiding.

Little boy hurt,

Little boy crying,

Little boy cold,

Little boy dying.

In two worlds a brother,

In one world a son:

You’ve opened the door, boy.

How fast can you run?

[ariadoesntwrite]

There was only one bed?!

Post-game, established relationship. 

rated pg-13 for teenagers being snarky teenagers

Viktoria rested one hand on her hip and sighed disdainfully as she took in her surroundings. “Is it a legal requirement for all hotels to have ugly carpets?”

Tegan dropped his bags and collapsed to the floor with a loud thump.

Viktoria jumped, hands instinctively moving into a defensive position at the sudden noise. “Ew!” She exclaimed. “Do you know how many germs are in these rooms?”

“I don’t care, ‘cause I’m dead,” Tegan mumbled into the carpet, shrugging slightly.

Viktoria let her arms fall and nudged him in the side with her foot a few times.

Tegan managed to remain almost completely still. “Stop desecrating my corpse.”

Viktoria rolled her eyes and removed her jacket, dropping it over the back of a nearby chair. “Calm down, edgelord. Now, wh– Uh.”

She narrowed her eyes and twisted her mouth to the side at the focal point of the room– one queen-sized bed, freshly done up. She frowned at it in disapproval, as if that would make it shift and change before her very eyes, but it did not.

Tegan slowly raised his head, propping his chin up in his hands. He blinked, removed his glasses, rubbed the lenses vigorously on his shirt, then put them on again. “That is… there's one bed in here.”

“Yep.” Viktoria sighed again, then propped her bag against the wall and headed straight for it, yawning. “Well, goodnight Tegan. Sleep well and all that jazz.”

Tegan’s cheek slipped off his hand, nearly causing him to face-plant.

“Hey wait, aren’t you supposed to act all nice and shy and offer the bed to me, at which point I’ll insist that no, really, you should have it? And so on and so forth.” He gestured with his hands as he talked and proffered her a hopeful smile.

Viktoria looked at him over her shoulder and cocked her head, considering.

“Hm, nah.” She flopped facedown and exhaled in relief, then rolled over. “Look, it’s not like we’re sharing the same toothbrush or anything.”

Tegan shuddered, lips pursing slightly. “Thanks’nt for that mental image.”

Viktoria snorted. “Tegan! I’ve shared a bed with friends during sleepovers before, it’s not a big deal.” She tossed her shoes over the end of the bed. “Look, if you’re that worried about me acting untoward, we can make a wall down the middle with the extra throw pillows.”

Tegan slowly sat up and wrapped his arms around his knees. “You’re not the one I’m worried about…”

“Then who, the tabloids? Let ‘em talk. Maybe Tyler will ask me for my autograph, on account of my becoming a mini-celebrity and all.” Viktoria joked as she folded her hands behind her head, trying to lighten the mood.

‘Me,’ Tegan wanted to shout, ‘it’s me! I am the problem! Ever since we met, I’ve been dreaming of premarital hand-holding!’

Viktoria scooted to the edge of the bed and softened her tone. “Look, Tegan, do you want the bed?”

Tegan rested his cheek against his knee. “Yes.”

Viktoria threw her hands up in the air. “So do I. Now, are we building the not-so-great Wall of China, or—“

Tegan scrambled to his feet. “N-no, it’s okay. I— You—“ He gestured awkwardly for a few moments, then covered his face with his hands. “It’s just, uh, do you… Do you actually sleep… Um, totally and completely... You know, with no…

Viktoria smiled and waved dismissively at him, then pulled her hair into a low bun. “Nah, I keep my undergarments on.”

Tegan’s knees gave out. He dropped to the floor as if he had just been shot out of the sky, face frozen.

Viktoria leaned over the edge and reached out for him, face twisted in concern. “I’m joking! Oh good job Vik, you really did kill him this time!”

“I’m… fine…” Tegan managed to wheeze, voice pitched about an octave higher than it sounded normally. He curled up in the fetal position, eyes wide open. “Maybe I will sleep on the floor.”

Viktoria raised her hands in surrender. “I’m done messing with you, I promise. At least for tonight.”

Tegan lifted his arms weakly in her general direction. “Help, I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.”

Viktoria grabbed him by the wrists and, with a grunt of effort, hauled him onto the bed… but now he was straddling her.

“Regret! Regret!” Tegan’s entire body seemed to be trying to run away in five directions at once, which ultimately ended in him flopping onto the unoccupied side of the bed almost unintentionally. “Mistakes have been made!”

He shoved his face into the pillow, completely incapable of facing Viktoria for at least another five minutes. “...aaannd I just said all of that inner dialogue out loud, didn't I.” He slapped the pillow with a defeated tone.

Viktoria blinked dumbly. She didn’t even have time to smirk or wink during any of that, it all happened so fast.

“Hey. Can I touch you?” Tegan sighed, shoulders releasing just a bit of tension. “Yeah. If you want…” Viktoria reached over and ran her fingers through his messy hair, splayed out across the pillowcase in every which way like a fiery halo.

“If it makes you feel any better, I don’t think that’s even the most awkward thing you’ve said to me.” Tegan let out a muffled but still sufficiently loud groan that sounded like the cursed lovechild of a foghorn and a cow.

“Is there any chance we could just forget that that ever happened?”

Viktoria smiled and sat back on her heels. “Forget that what ever happened?” She asked innocently.

Tegan shifted onto his side. “Thank you.” He crossed his eyes and touched his nose with his tongue, attempting to break the tension.

Viktoria grinned and reached out towards his face to straighten his glasses. “You’re adorable.” Tegan propped his head up with a loose fist. “You flatter me.” Viktoria threw the thick blanket back and tucked her legs underneath it, then pulled it up to her waist.

“Is it really flattery if it’s true? Honestly, I think you’re the prettiest person I’ve ever known, and that’s saying a lot.”

Tegan tilted his head, the corners of his mouth turning upwards. “More than Karolina?” “I… crud.” Viktoria scrunched up her nose. “Okay fine, well, she may be prettier than you, but you’re the most beautiful.”

Tegan rested a hand in the space between the two of them and let his legs sprawl out. “There’s a distinction between the two?” Viktoria gave a one-shouldered shrug and attempted to get comfortable.

“Pretty is usually used as attractive, conventionally, but not much more than skin deep. Beautiful, in my book, factors in all of that plus what’s inside– uh, you know, the emotions of the heart, the capacity of the mind, the facets of a personality, the vastness of the soul…” She trailed off, taking in all of Tegan’s features under the soft yellow glow. “Viktoria…” Tegan exhaled and leaned in. Viktoria scooted closer, heart beating out of her chest. “Yes, Tegan?” Tegan gave her a wry smile. “One of us will have to get up and turn the lights off.” Viktoria looked up and clapped twice into the air. No dice.

Tegan briefly raised his eyebrows, clearly amused. “Well, you tried.” Viktoria threw her head back. “Ugh. I’ll rock-paper-scissors with you.” Tegan rolled his eyes but humored her anyway. “Rock, paper, scissors– shoot!” “Hah!” Viktoria placed her open palm over Tegan’s fist and squeezed his hand. “This game is rigged.” Tegan rolled off the bed with a groan and dragged his feet his entire way over to the light switch.

Viktoria raised her head and squinted at him in suspicion. “Did you lose on purpose?”

Tegan’s only response was to flip the lights, plunging the room into darkness.

“Uh… how do I get back?” Viktoria gestured vaguely as her eyes started to adjust. “Echolocation?” “Do I look like Batboy to you?”

Viktoria shrugged, momentarily forgetting that he couldn’t see her. “Do you mean usually, or just right now?”

Even though she still couldn’t see much, she could tell that Tegan was making that face at her, the one where his eyebrows bunched up in the middle and his lower lip turned out in the most subtle of cute little pouts.

Viktoria took advantage of the darkness to quickly change out of her jeans and into some leggings as Tegan stumbled his way back. Hypothetically, she could just sleep in the oversized T-shirt she had on, but she figured she had tortured him enough for one day.

Tegan yelled a very harsh sounding non-English word as he bumped into the bed and stubbed his toe.

“This freaking hotel is getting a one-star review on Yalp!”

Viktoria braced herself as an incredibly obvious idea popped into her head too little, too late. “Why didn’t you just… use your phone’s light?”

“YOU—” Tegan lept at Viktoria and tackled her, who let out a very surprised laugh in response.

“I did not expect that from you, of all people!”

Tegan moved off of her and wrapped his arms around his torso. “You know what? I’m tired, it’s late, and I am totally over it.”

Viktoria reached up and placed her palms over his cheeks. Sure enough, they were warm to the touch.

“And you assumed that I wouldn’t be able to tell you were blushing due to my impaired vision in the darkness.”

Tegan collapsed with a defeated groan and threw the blanket over his head. “Goodnight, I am done.”

•••

Viktoria woke to a numb feeling in her arm that somehow reminded her of radio static. She slowly blinked awake.

Tegan had her left arm completely pinned underneath his lean (but not weightless) frame and between the mattress.

“Coffeegan…” Viktoria murmured, poking his cheek lightly with her free hand. “Could you be a good boyfriend and move, please?”

“You’re so warm…” Tegan whined, snuggling up closer and wrapping his noodly arms tightly around her waist.

Viktoria flexed her trapped arm, which had gone almost painfully numb by this point. “I need to go to the bathroom really bad, and if you don’t move soon this isn’t gonna be pretty–”

“I’m up! I’m up!” Tegan flopped off of her arm and over the side of the bed with a crash, taking the blanket with him. “Oof.”

“Rest in pieces.” Viktoria leaned over the edge of the bed. This felt very familiar to her, for some reason. “Are you o—“

Tegan threw an arm over his face, which was completely red at this point... along with his ears and possibly his neck and shoulders as well.

“Just leave me here to die.”

Victoria hopped over to the bathroom to take care of business, slapping her arm to get the feeling back in it on the way.

Someone, who she presumed was Tegan because who else would it be, tapped out the rhythm of Shave and a Haircut on the bathroom door. Viktoria went to answer it, toothbrush in hand.

Tegan gaped at her as she opened the door, arm still raised.

Viktoria took a step back and gave him a bemused smile. “What is it now?”

“I…” Tegan hesitated, the fingers of his free hand tapping absentmindedly against his leg.

Viktoria leaned against the doorframe and crossed her arms. “I know for a fact that you’ve seen me without makeup countless times.” She motioned at him with the end of her toothbrush, then popped it in her mouth.

Tegan motioned in the air around his head with both hands. “You look like book!Hermione.”

Viktoria nearly choked. “Oh yeah, that.” She reached up to run a hand over her hair and smiled sheepishly. “That’s kinda what happens when you tend to toss and turn all night.”

“Oh great.” Tegan began examining his easily markable skin. “I better not have any bruises…Tyler and Ellie will never let me hear the end of it.”

Viktoria stood on the ends of her toes and ruffled Tegan’s hair. “Your bedhead is adorable though.”

“Maybe I can just wear a full-body cloak– huh?” Tegan looked up over his shoulder as Viktoria’s compliment finally registered. “I mean, you think everything about me is adorable… but thank you.”

***

“Does it seem strange to you that no one has stopped and questioned the two baby-faced teenagers traveling together?”

“The two loaded baby-faced teenagers traveling together,” Tegan corrected. “Well, one, anyway.”

Viktoria smirked and slowly entwined her arm with his. “Does that make you my sugar–”

Tegan drew his mouth into a thin straight line. “Don’t. even. say. it.”

Viktoria traced a finger down his chest. “How about just d–”

Tegan looked straight down at her. “I swear, if you finish that sentence, I will never hack another database for you ever again. Ever.”

Viktoria slowly raised one eyebrow. “Ok boomer.”

She giggled and turned on her heel in a way that eerily reminded Tegan of Ellie, skipping over to the elevator and nearly taking out a bystander on the way over with the rolling luggage she was dragging behind herself.

‘Note to self, hide those hair ribbons…’  Tegan groaned and threw his head back as he shuffled over to the opening elevator doors at a much slower pace.

To Viktoria’s surprise, they both managed to make it inside the death box— I mean elevator— without incident.  

Viktoria leaned her head against Tegan’s arm and closed her eyes as the doors shut with a soft chime.

Tegan raised an eyebrow. “Is this your way of apologizing?”

Viktoria nuzzled her face into his arm. “I didn’t sleep well last night. I get kinda loopy when I’m tired.”

Tegan snorted and shoved his phone into his pocket. “No, really? I totally couldn’t tell.”

Viktoria half-heartedly elbowed him in the side before closing her eyes again.

Tegan watched the numbers displayed on the side of the doors drop and tapped his foot against the shiny floor. “Fair warning, if you actually do fall asleep, I’m not capable of carrying you out.”

Viktoria sighed and draped her arms around his waist. “Is that your way of telling me to lay off the pasta?”

“Wh– NO!” Tegan sputtered in protest. “I would never– I was just saying because I am–”

Viktoria opened one eye and raised her head just a tad. “Did the lift just stop?”

Tegan sighed to himself and pulled his phone back out. “I really should’ve seen this one coming by now.”

Viktoria ran the two steps it took for her to reach the doors and futilely pawed at the crack. “Oh no no I cannot die in this outfit, I hate this outfit!”

Tegan cocked his head at her. “Then why are you wearing it?”

She whirled to face him. “Because they’re traveling clothes!” Viktoria’s scream reached a fever pitch, the subtle irony of the contrast between their respective outfits completely lost on her.

Tegan winced and pressed his ear to his shoulder as the sound reverberated through the small space.

Viktoria pulled on the hem of her jacket and lowered her voice.

“Sorry. I’m wearing this because if it gets ruined en route, then I don’t have to mourn the loss of any garments I actually care about.”

Tegan stared at her as if she had suddenly sprouted wings. “...Fashion people are weird.”

Viktoria stuck her tongue out at him. “Whatever, Tall Nerd.”

Tegan raised his arm and rested his elbow on top of her head. “Right back at cha, Raspberry Shortcake.”

Viktoria frowned, but didn’t remove his arm. “At least I have cake.”

Tegan scoffed and shifted his weight. “Really? We’re going there?”

Viktoria nodded solemnly in faux seriousness. “Oh, we’ve been there.”

“...yourchestisflatterthanmine.” Tegan mumbled at light speed, staring down at his shoes and wishing that he could fall through the floor.

Viktoria grinned, then leaned over and pressed a kiss to Tegan’s shoulder.

“Well, if we can survive this together, we can weather pretty much anything.”

Tegan lowered his voice dramatically and peered at her over the top of his glasses. “Even… Karolina’s disapproval?”

Viktoria’s whole body seemed to deflate. “Uggghhh, don’t remind me.” She flopped to the side in one fluid movement reminiscent of a rag doll.

“I already know I’m not good enough for you, she doesn’t have to point–“

Tegan grabbed her by the shoulders.

“Hey. Don’t talk about my girlfriend like that.” He forced himself to keep eye contact, even as he was combusting inside.

Viktoria couldn't help but smile at his sincerity.

“Look at us, we’re both slowly getting there.”

She gasped dramatically as the elevator began moving again and the door slowly opened. “Freedom!”

Tegan’s eyes widened. He reached out for her in vain. “No wait—”

Viktoria grabbed the handle of her luggage and ran for the door, but tripped over her own bag. Tegan moved to catch her, but only succeeded in falling on top of her instead.

Viktoria hit the ground hard. She began laughing due to the adrenaline– if she hadn’t laughed, then she would’ve probably started crying.

“Ow, my shoulder,” she gasped out.

Tegan rested his elbow on the ground and propped up his chin with his hand. “Well, at least the security guards are having an entertaining day.”

tag list: @arlingtonssweetheart

[bbq-hawks-wings]

BBQ gripes about fanon Hawks

Not even gonna put this in the character tags aside from the spoiler one I use just for the anime-onlies on my blog. I'm salty. I just wanna vent. I want to keep the general character tags fun because it was awful when I went looking for new content and found so much Not Fun material a while back; and I don’t want to become what I hate. Basic point - my blog, my vent, and unless it’s reblogged (which you are welcome to if you like) this post dies here.

Please know this isn't a callout post or me claiming that others are being fans of Hawks "wrong" because they disagree with me. I am a huge proponent that (with very few exceptions) fiction and fandom should be free to be enjoyed, reinterpreted, or otherwise indulged in however the individual fan prefers; and if I don't like it, I let them have their space and go do my thing elsewhere and leave them alone (hence why this not going in character tags). I just have been annoyed with the rampant mangling of Hawks' canon  personality/characterization - that is, confusing common fanon interpretations of him with how he’s actually written/portrayed and then getting angry (like, actually-angry-spilling-into-publicly-dragging-real-people, not just disappointed) when he acts like canon Hawks in canon. Non-canon is open season and by and large has my blessing, it’s just frustrating when it gets dragged into discussions about the manga. 

This has been going on a long time, but I just want to get it out of my system in my personal space. All this is, is my "Overthinking Tumblr blogger Shakes Fist at Cloud" moment.

#1 Hawks is a sociopath/unempathetic.

I just... I... You can't be reading the same manga I am if you genuinely come to this conclusion about who he is in canon. A man with nothing to gain by looking like this when considering the depths of the suffering inflicted on others that he bears some amount of responsibility in...

...cannot be called unempathetic.

"But he killed Twice and Best Jeanist!"

Twofold counterargument to this one, starting with BJ - we don't actually know he's dead. There's a body, there's a disappearance, and we have no idea wtf happened, but we also don't know wtf happened. It's drastically ooc for Hawks to murder someone in cold blood. For someone who places emphasis on speed specifically "because when two sides keep fighting and won’t give up, someone eventually has to die" it makes no sense for him to not have had a plan and simply ambush a man in his own home - this goes doubly since he was in contact with the HSPC and had time to "premeditate" anyway.

And as for Twice: Hawks ran out of options. He wanted to detain Twice and keep him from escaping and helping the MLA. He was able to do so when alone, but the moment Dabi cornered him Hawks had a choice to make - probably die in the fight and let Jin go or make absolute certain he can’t and still probably end up dying because he's in bad shape and still probably won't make it out of this, regardless. I don't need to harp on this - it's been said a couple different times now by several people. Even in 266 when Dabi initially ambushes Hawks, Hawks thinks to himself that he’ll carry Jin out of the building to keep himself and Jin safe before Twice retaliated and Dabi literally forces Hawks into a corner.

Jin's loss was a blow, but the chips on the table being wagered are human lives, not feelings. Up until that point, Hawks did everything he could despite the weight of his decision. Human life is human life, and Jin’s life isn’t more important than the may more who will be saved by quashing the MLA’s revolution. Simply equating “could kill someone” with “unempathetic” is fundamentally flawed, and mistaking someone who is pushed to kill despite every attempt to avoid it as unempathetic and even sociopathic has missed the point to the extreme - the mere fact he avoided lethal force for so long alone proves he possesses empathy.

#2 Hawks is a compulsive liar.

He is a good liar, but he does not like lying. He does twist the truth, but always when forced to keep a secret. Even then, his lies are predominantly spun from truth and omitted details instead of outright fabrications. He doesn’t gaslight, and he doesn’t make up stories/details if he can help it.

When Hawks told Endeavor his dreams for the future, that was the truth. When he told him he thought he was cool at the hero billboards, that was the truth.  When he tells Tokoyami to focus on his strengths instead of merely covering his weaknesses to be a better hero, that was the truth. When Tokoyami asks Hawks for his weakness and even why he took him on as an intern in the beginning just to ignore him, he tells him the truth.  When he tells Jin he "doesn't belong in a cage" and that he considers him a good person, that was the truth. When he recognizes he’s profoundly wounded Jin for deceiving him for months, he tells Jin the truth. When confronted by Dabi and he doesn’t need to lie anymore in this fight to the death, he tells him the truth despite not actually needing to in hopes to learn the truth behind Dabi and Shigaraki.

I don't have a better segue, so I'll just mention that a lot of folks who believe this also believe the next point.

#3 Hawks is unapologetically emotionally manipulative.

The context makes a huge difference and we need to look at when and why he manipulates others as well as the fact that he does.

At the hero billboards, Hawks plays the heroes on stage as well as the crowd. He's trying to shift the mindset of, "oh yeah, just another hero ranking" to "wake up, mf's, things are changing and you better be ready to change, too!" Rocking the boat is a huge no-no in Japan. Despite being part of his “persona” there is still real social risk involved with this move but one that he deems necessary to turn heads and get gears turning. This is not just an elaborate ploy to get under Endeavor’s skin, but an effort to reach a wider audience while he has them captive.

He does use the public crowd around him and Endeavor before the Hood fight as an excuse for its appearance, but the original intent was to mentally prepare Endeavor for what was potentially (and proved to be) the fight of his life without outright telling him so he could maintain his undercover status. When he realizes he’s part of the reason for Endeavor’s permanent scar and life-threatening injuries, he feels remorse.

He lies to Jin to get information out of him, but linking back to #2, when calls Jin a good person and offers him a way out, he’s telling the truth. He does feel guilt for having to manipulate an otherwise well-meaning person and betraying them, especially given his long-running history of being used and the ongoing issues he suffers from because of it.

When he meets up again with Endeavor to drop his clues about the League’s movements, he squirms when he realizes the interns don’t know him well enough to know he’s blowing smoke because he does NOT want these kids to actually buy what he’s selling. This espionage mission is hard to navigate, and he has to tread carefully lest he setup the dominoes in the wrong places.

This is all to make the point that Hawks is more than capable of emotionally manipulating people, but it’s not in his nature or something he does to any and every person he comes across just because. We haven’t had much opportunity to see him operate outside of the HSPC’s orders which is where the bulk of the instances of his manipulation comes from - those orders requiring him to operate covertly and thus, by nature, necessitate lying, manipulation, and strategically withholding information. 

If anything, when he’s making an appeal to someone else as his own person - not as a hero on a mission- we actually see a level of vulnerability and transparency we don’t otherwise catch.

Though it’s technically canon-adjacent and not necessarily canon in and of itself, in My Hero Academia: Team Up Mission where he works with Bakugo and Midoriya he operates on a level of transparency with them we’re not used to seeing; and my theory is he took it as an opportunity to operate without ulterior motives and build report instead of bucking back against “training up the next generation of heroes” like he initially did with Tokoyami.

Which now actually segues better into the next point.

#4 Hawks never lets people get close to him.

There’s a surprising amount of evidence that Hawks wants the ability to be an open book. Back at Team Up Mission, the restaurant staff note he regularly takes people he likes to their establishment - so we’re basically told outright this is a special place to him reserved for enjoying himself and only people he likes get to share it with him - so we already know what that says about how he sees those two despite their sparse interactions. We already know he’s taken Endeavor there when Endeavor made no move to input as to where he wanted to have the lunch meeting.

Though he kept Tokoyami at arm’s length initially, we have at least three canon instances of him sharing personal interactions with him with other canon-adjacent indications he cares for and values his intern. We’ve readily established that while Endeavor may not consider himself close to Hawks, Hawks does hold Endeavor as near and dear to his heart. While his only mission regarding Twice was to get information out of him, he still made a genuine effort to help and save him because he wanted to and considered him a friend despite the circumstances.

We still don’t know very much of Hawk’s past, his personal relationships outside of work, etc.; but despite the HPSC’s extensive efforts to strip him of his identity he not only possesses a faceted, complicated personality but seems to want to share that with others readily when and in the ways he’s able. Getting into the truly squishy, vulnerable parts of him may take a while, but on a scale of closed to open, he seems to lean towards open.

#5 Hawks is hopelessly in love with Dabi and will abandon everything up to this point for him.

This isn't to throw general DabiHawks shippers under the bus. Most of them know VERY well at this point that canon has sunk that ship, and they're just having fun with it at this point - and you know what, power to you! They look great together! In another life, the character chemistry could have been incredible. There’s a lot of great DabiHawks shipping content I thoroughly enjoy despite not shipping it myself.

It just isn't canon. It never was and never came close. Even now, with the Endeavor reveal being very much imminent, Hawks' view of Dabi is one of a lying, malicious, callous, murderer. Though he’ll likely be crushed at the revelation of what Endeavor’s done, that doesn’t equate to him defecting (especially not immediately) and falling into Dabi’s arms.

And Dabi hates Hawks just as much.

Again, this is not anything against the ship or the shippers - just an annoyance I have with some who were so wrapped up in the ship they were genuinely mad when the ship sank and they dragged that frustration out into the real world against real people when canon didn’t align with fanon. 

Ships are some of the most stupid things to rail against creators and fans over, and the amount of harassment they receive now over shipping has me ripping my hair out when I know it’s a mere fraction of the total pool of shippers who are frothing at the mouth while the rest are super cool and happy doing their own thing and keeping to themselves.

Ship what you want, regardless of “validating evidence” and have fun. Don’t make it others’ problem when it isn’t canonically validated.

#6 Hawks is a dirty cop.

Only half upset with this one because it comes down to the nuance and lack of precise definition of this phrase I have a problem with. Lots of people hate cops for very real, legitimate reasons. Police forces - being a voluntary, government-employed force enforcing government rule - are notoriously prone to corruption of every kind.

It's implied the HPSC is itself corrupt, though to what extent we don't know. (Granted, buying a young child from his family to raise as your personal puppet is pretty high up there.) By continuing to follow orders from the HPSC and not vehemently fighting back, many see him as reinforcing a corrupt institution and at least partially liable for their continued hold on society. 

Fair enough, but... The issue I have with this is it reduces Hawks to his job.

I believe a huge chunk of this take comes from my experience as an armed service member spouse, but it's easy for me to empathize with a guy

Who was promised the moon for himself and his family in exchange for his service not realizing what was actually being asked of him

Is praised outside the organization for "being a hero" and "upholding this country's core values" while first-hand witnessing the corruption of it when inside

Is viewed as a cog valuable only in services rendered instead of being treated like a human by said organization and worked into the ground because of it

Is frustrated by the insistence to keep the status quo instead of improving procedure/infrastructure/environment because egos need to be padded over real, human problems being solved

Has his autonomy or otherwise ability to operate under his own judgement restricted in favor of maintaining organizational control at the cost of effective action

Has DEPENDENTS who rely on his continued work to provide for them and is thus unable to refuse an order, even when it's morally reprehensible and even outright illegal

Whose cries, both those calculated and desperate, to the organization (who have placed themselves as the sole resource he can turn to) for help (even for his own body/mind) fall on deaf ears until he breaks to the point of becoming unusable or dangerous - and even then minimal effort/responsibility is taken in favor of keeping him functioning in the organization as long as possible.

Hawks fights back against the HPSC constantly. He raised concerns over letting civilians suffer to get him in with the League of Villains and then still defied orders by reducing casualties to zero. Despite orders to keep his mission top secret, he's informed Endeavor of his motives/movements independently from the rest of the heroes. He had long refused to take an intern (read: fresh meat for the machine) to train until this year, and even then sought to minimize his encouragement of Tokoyami for as long as possible until he realized Tokoyami was made of the real mettle people needed in a hero and not just another youngster endangering himself on a pipe dream.

He even takes initiative to keep his personal to-do list from the HPSC to a minimum by squashing problems before they come knocking asking him to fix it for them. He knew of the League of Villains and anticipated the escalation of their movements immediately after the USJ incident as well as has a network of informants and connections with local police forces to stay in the know.

His methods for apprehension of criminals are, and continue to be, to react and detain them so quickly they can't retaliate or endanger others in the struggle, thus minimizing human loss and injury despite the insinuation the HPSC has told him that gloves are off in the current situation.

He might be "a cop" depending on the definition we go with, but he isn't a dirty cop. He doesn't plant evidence. He doesn't shoot first and ask questions later. He doesn't blindly take orders. He largely doesn't see "villains" as dirt under his shoe but as people pushed to extremes. He's a morally convicted individual trying to rebel within the system instead of tearing it down outright. He may be wrong in the assumption, but he genuinely believes he can do more on the inside of the system than outside.

#7 Hawks is a manwhore.

Ok, this one is not serious and actually just to end this all on a lighter note after ranting until I'm blue in the face. 

I'm 100% guilty of this myself. Something about that chicken makes me and many others salivate - either for themselves or to watch him with someone else. We love dressing him up slutty, portray him as flirting unashamedly, and placing him in as many overtly sexual scenarios possible.

The best part about all of it, though, is that it’s almost the exact opposite of how he dresses/conducts himself in canon. His clothes are loose fitting and high-coverage. He’s personable, but never gives any indication he’s romantically/sexually involved or interested in anyone. The asscourse is real only because we cannot confirm either way due to his baggy clothes. His overall figure/body shape has been hinted at, but only recently confirmed; and his jacket had to be literally be burned off to get a good look at the pattern of his shirt under it!

~~~~~~~

And with that, I release the frustration and move on. 

Enjoy fanon as much as you like - even I do! Just be aware of where canon and fanon diverge, and definitely don’t take the difference out on real people. Please also be aware of how others hold their favorite characters dear before flooding the general tags with negativity and creating a hostile environment for them. People latch onto their “comfort characters” for a plethora of reasons, and when they lose that character to the plot, the fandom, or otherwise, they should still be allowed to grieve and celebrate what they had in a safe environment. 

Retaliation in response to others coming against your favorite is also not acceptable behavior. It sucks, but the most mature thing to do is step away from the general fandom, stick to blogs/spaces you know are safe, and let the storm blow over. Comfort characters do not justify mistreating real people no matter how much they may mean to you.

When “canon gets it wrong” is where fanfiction and pockets of the fandom community comes into play. Leave those people alone and let them be. For those who aligned themselves with canon, they are not free game to take personal frustrations out on. Leave those people alone and let them be. Unfollow the people/tags you need to for your own sake and others’, and the fandom will be a better place all around over time. Venting belongs in controlled spaces away from the rest of the fandom and with enough warning for those who not only don’t want to endure it but who for their own safety shouldn’t.

Fandom is a community, and healthy communities do not endorse members lashing out when they don’t get their way.

[gloomdritch]

0039

Purple and you look at each other, exchanging a silent communication. He nods silently. 

“We should at least try to look for Evets while it’s not too dark yet,” he tells the young goddess. “Take a torch... so it’s not too dark?”

Hyacinth passes a hand through her hair— no, it’s not hair, isn’t it? She seems weary, but she nods with confidence. “Alright.” She climbs to her feet again, stretches, and smiles at Purple. “We cannot let the villagers know, though. They would look for me. We can light a torch further from the village.”

She slips back outside, and— none of the villagers noticed Purple, and nobody at all noticed you, so she’s the only one who needs to sneak out, uh. She crosses the boundary of trees, lets Purple through, and smooths the fern gently. Her magic glows emerald, soothing, and then it’s as if the greenery was never disturbed.

Her pace isn’t slow despite the thick undergrowth of the forest, which is a little difficult for you to follow. You’re not as tired as you should be. How many hours has this dream lasted? No weariness glows through your limbs, yet a hunger gnaws at you with increasing intensity.

Once Hyacinth decides you came far enough from the village, she stops. She caresses the trunk of a tree, and a low branch cleanly breaks off, a gift.

The wound on the tree scabs over and heals in seconds. You can’t see her face properly, but you think Hyacinth is smiling.

She holds out the branch, and under your eyes, a strange growth bursts out of it— some sort of mold, a devouring moss that glows with a soft blue hue. So this will be her torch.

Purple seems entirely enraptured by the display. You’d call him a nerd, but you’re also impressed.

Hyacinth doesn’t even pretend to need a hat or a wand. You’d thought it could be because this is a dream— but your gut tells you this is the real deal, as absurd as it is. Mancers are really cool when they’re not responsible for plaguing you with horrible visions! Yayyy.

“I need to ask you again. Do you have a clue about your friend Evets’ location?”

Purple hums and shakes his head. “I’m very sorry...”

“There is no need to be. I will simply...” She raises a hand, and the forest bristles around her. “—rely on my own eyes.”

Her eyes glow green, oh so briefly, and you feel weak in your arms and leg. Your mouth is dry, forcing you to swallow. There’s a sudden pressure on you, pushing you down with a force that makes you want to fight back against it.

“Rylie?” Purple hushes, “Are you alright?”

You nod silently. Perfectly fine! Could probably use a snack and some water, even though you don’t actually feel dehydrated. The open forest air is just working your appetite up. Probably. Probably.

“I believe I may have found them,” Hyacinth interjects. She stands straighter, and her voice sounds more... distant. “There is a strange presence, north of here...” She rotates on her heel to face a new direction. “A distortion... if you are not supposed to be here, then perhaps this is where they landed...”

Purple frowns. “A distorsion?”

Hyacinth starts walking without another word. Both Purple and you hurry after her. She marches straight ahead, no longer tiptoeing around fragile plants; the night seems to have brought a Hyacinth that demands all plantlife part from her path. Is she not as gentle as she seemed to be? Or are you simply seeing a different facet of her here?

You reach the edge of the forest faster than you expected, even scrambling after a goddess. When you look behind you, you can’t recognize the path you’ve just taken.

While you weren’t paying attention, Hyacinth’s torch lengthened until it became staff-life. “Purple,” she says, tapping it on the ground to demand Purple’s attention. “We are here.”

If nothing else she has a sense of style.

Curiously, the grass stops shortly after the line of trees. Ahead is a clearing of rock and dust instead. You can see trees again some distance away— It’s like a physical barrier had refused to let anything take root in this wide circle. Is this the distorsion she was talking about?

Hyacinth suddenly sways as if dizzy, or waking from a dream.

“Hyacinth?” Purple holds out his hands, unsure of whether the goddess needs support. She doesn’t lean on his offered help, relying on her makeshift staff instead.

“I am alright.” Purple doesn’t stop looking at her with concern, and you realize that right now, he is older than her— she’s your age, or around it, and you know how yourself are prone to hiding your feelings.

Hyacinth smiles. “I promise. This isn’t— I am in no danger. This power... easily makes one lose sight of what’s in front of them. I try not to rely on it more than necessary.”

She glances back at the forest. “We had a lot of ground to cover. It was much faster to use this way...” She speaks so low you think she must be speaking to herself. “Nevertheless.”

Her bare feet leave shallow footprints in the dust. “Something is wrong here. Something is interfering with my power... it saturates the earth. Nothing can grow.” She gazes upwards. At least in this clearing there is a perfect view of the stars.

You can’t see anything in this plane of dust, though. It’s just a flat, empty space. Or... should be?

You lick your lips.

Purple walks forward, scanning the clearing for footsteps or any sign of life. Maybe this place has nothing to do with Evets at all. There’s nothing to see here—

The night flares to life, a spiderweb of purple light crackling through space.

“Wh...what?”

Purple takes a step back, and the cracks fade like a dream. Holds out his hand— whatever he’s touching, it lights up like a candle whenever he’s in contact with it.

Hyacinth smiles. “Fascinating...” She holds her hand out as well, but nothing happens.

Purple doesn’t seem surprised anymore, but he doesn’t comment, either. “Could Evets be inside..?” he mumbles to himself, biting his lip.

You hope he’s safe, if he is... whatever this inside might mean. Is this crack a portal of some kind? Is that what distorsion means??? You’re going to need to sit down and needle Purple later—

They’re gone.

What.

One moment, Purple and Hyacinth are fiddling with that crack in the air, and the next, they’re gone. What kind of bullshit? Hello? Just leaving you behind like that? Where did they go?

...

“Did you know it could do that?”

This voice you don’t recognize, and yet you do. It sounds young, not too sweet, but not acid, either. Tastes like cool apple skin against your tongue, if you had to pick.

“No.” This voice you do recognize with certainty.

You whip around. There’s a teenager sitting in the dust, eyeing the lingering fissures with suspicion. Evets stands next to her, arms crossed.

You found him!

Except now Purple is gone.

Urgh.

They haven’t noticed you yet— should you try to make yourself known? But what if they can’t see you, like Hyacinth couldn’t..?

Or should you try to go after the other two through the crack between the stars...?

The number is 0040.

[rallamajoop]

Inception: A Fannish Retrospective

For a while now I’ve found myself craving a fic of a particular hard-to-define quality – something with a bit of grit and maturity – not graphic or grim, but perhaps the kind of seedy underworld setting you might find in the better parts of Tarantino or Guy Richie’s oeuvre. The kind of fic that lets me believe that if the author toned down the slash and published it as a mainstream crime or espionage thriller, I’d still be enthused about reading it. Cord Smithee’s work is a particularly good example, for the UNCLE fans out there, but you can only reread those fics so many times, and fic of that quality has been especially sparse in the last few fandoms I’ve drifted through, and so the craving lingered.

Then it hit me: hey, you know what fandom used to be really good for that kind of fic? Inception.

And after all this time in Venom fandom, it was hardly a big jump to more Tom Hardy, so.

Maybe the bigger wonder is that nearly ten years on, most of the fic is still just as good as I remember it being. Mirabella’s Towards Zero remains one of the most satisfying things I’ve ever read in any fandom, and delires’ chav!Eames AU is better than any idea that cracked has any goddamn right to be, and (at least as long as you’re into the juggernaut ship that is Arthur/Eames) you are spoilt for choice ­­for more.

But revisiting a fandom this much later and binging this much fic, you notice things. We’ll start with…

The Film

Still holds up on rewatching today. It will never be nearly as smart a film as I’ve seen some claim: totems, for one, make no fucking sense (they’re objects with details known only to you, but if Cobb can unintentionally bring a carbon copy of his wife into a dream, why not a top that falls over when spun? And why does it keep spinning indefinitely in dreams, anyway?), and for all the exposition on ‘kicks’, why the kicks need to be synchronised to work under sedation is woefully under-explained, to the point I’m always by distracted trying to make sense of it in the middle of the third act. (Do not even get me started on the ‘it’s actually about filmmaking!’ theory – the mental gymnastics required to explain how Yusuf or Mal fits in or why we’re so fixated on the importance of the set designer, of all roles, is laughable. Some of the parallels are moderately entertaining, but don’t try to tell me you’ve unlocked the secret meaning of the film – Inception is not a movie that makes you work that hard to find its main themes.)

But the film works despite its plotholes because it’s not, ultimately, a story driven by its mechanics: the endlessly spinning top may make no sense, but film is a visual medium, and it’s such a good visual gimmick it’s gets a pass. The practical stunts are still as impressive ever, but what really lifts Inception so far beyond your typical action/heist film – for me, at least – are the characters, and the huge emotional payoffs at the end. Fischer’s reconciliation with his father is no less moving for its falseness, “We did grow old together” has gotten a sniffle out of me time and again, and the final “We’ll be young men together” scene is wonderful in so many ways I could only dream there was the Cobb/Saito fic to live up to. It’s not for nothing I’ve got Inception mentally filed in my very short list of humanist action movies along with Mad Max: Fury Road, Terminator II, and precious few others.

And then there’s…

 The Fandom

Film fandoms are always an interesting beast, peaking as they do when the film is still in theatres, when most folks writing fic are working off imperfect memories of having seen an hour or two’s worth of canon maybe once or twice at most. Fanon can go feral in far less conducive environments, is my point here – inevitably, there’ll be the details that get analysed to death or flanderised to the point of parody, and the details that get altogether forgotten. Here’s just one example that hit me on a rewatch: I have lately read god knows how many different theories on just what it means that Arthur knew Eames was in Mombasa – none of them the least bothered by how everything in Cobb’s behaviour in that scene suggests he already knows exactly where he’s going, and may even be right now leaving to catch his flight. We could talk about the artefacts of clunky exposition being shoehorned into the dialogue, or the actual intent of that exchange, but shipper-goggles give you some powerful tunnel-vision (and I say this as someone who ships it like burning).

Binge as much fic as fast as I have in the last few months, and you begin to notice trends. Common themes and popular fanon that have ascended to gospel, and facets of the original film I’d love to see explored that fandom seems to have collectively missed altogether (and the sad lack of decent Cobb/Saito is only one). Below, in no particular order, are some of those observations.

Since most of these come across as critical, I want to emphasise that I have had a ball revisiting the fic in this fandom, and there are probably multiple fics guilty of everything I touch on below which I have loved to bits. It’s only the repetition that really starts to make you sit up and notice.

1.       The Cobb-bashing, oh my god the Cobb-bashing! I had forgotten just how much this fandom hates Cobb. In the film, Cobb’s plan is the only reason Arthur and Eames ever end up in the same room at all – yet in fanfic, Cobb has been recast as the only thing keeping them apart. I’m not kidding there – fic with that exact premise is almost its own genre. In Inception fanon, Cobb is crazy and cares only about himself, and Arthur has wasted years of misplaced loyalty keeping him alive. Fanon!Eames hates Cobb for monopolising Arthur’s attention (in the film, Eames seems underwhelmed to learn Cobb is still working with Arthur at all). Fanon!Eames only works with Cobb at all because it’s an excuse to work with Arthur (in the film, they’re barely capable of having a civil conversation). Fanon!Eames never forgives Cobb for concealing the level of sedation they were under Inception job, and nor does Arthur (in the film, no-one even mentions Cobb’s deception after they leave the first level, and Eames’ main disappointment at the end is that he won’t get to see the Fischers’ big reconciliation, but why let that douse a good hateboner?) Meanwhile, Yusuf’s corresponding betrayal and Arthur’s equally-disastrous research-fail are rarely referenced. It’s not every fic, but the base level of Cobb-hate around these parts is pretty astounding. There’s nothing new about fans bashing the main character for having the gall to take screentime away from their OTP, and I’d be the last to play down Cobb’s real failings. But when one finds oneself tempted to leave enthusiastic comments on decade-old fic, praising the author for giving Cobb a minor scene or two where he gets to be a total bro to Arthur for a change… I promise you, it’s not me, it’s this fandom.

2.       For all that Eames is basically the single biggest reason I’m reading in this fandom, his fanon characterisation leaves something to be desired. I do get the appeal of flirty!Eames or pining!Eames – it’s just that once in a while, you find yourself longing for fic about the guy who was actually in the movie – y’know, the one who’s first response to Arthur’s name was, “Arthur? Are you still working with that stick-in-the-mud?” I am totally down with the idea he was feigning indifference– maybe for Cobb’s benefit, maybe he’s actively in denial himself, whatevs. But fanon!Eames characterisation typically ranges from “hopelessly in love with Arthur from the moment they met” to “a walking sexual harassment lawsuit in action,” and neither of those guys could convincingly feign indifference to save their lives. It’s also a shame we don’t see more of the side of Eames that got so genuinely, unashamedly invested in what they were doing for Fischer – quite beyond the money and the prestige, Eames loves that they get to fix Fischer’s relationship with his father and reveal Browning as the rat that he is, and it’s a wonderfully humanising side to such a shady character. There should be so much scope in there to cast Eames was a guy with a real idealistic streak, or more conscience than he’d usually admit to, or just an abiding love for melodrama – the possibilities go on and on (and if you can’t think of a dozen ways to tie any of those in as fuel for his rivalry with Arthur for bonus shippy fodder, you aren’t even trying). But that part of Eames never does seem to have found a place in the fandom’s collective headcanon, because hell if I can find any exploration of it in fic, le sigh. (Cynically, I have to wonder if it’s because it clashes with the fanon where Eames spent the Inception job furiously hating Cobb and focused on Arthur, but even that seems somewhat lacking as an answer. Who even knows?)

3.       As a corollary to the above, remarkably few fics make any attempt to deal with the fact that Arthur and Eames a) basically hate each other, b) for reasons that do not entirely revolve around how Arthur won’t put out. Obviously, this is a ‘hate’ that covers a much deeper well of underlying respect, but these are two guys who only stop taking potshots at each other when they’re being shot at for real, and to me that is 95% of the fun of the pairing – why does no-one even seem to try to recreate that dynamic in fic? Even 99% of Eames’ infamous ‘flirting’ would be better described as him pulling Arthur’s pigtails. Yet virtually no-one seems to want to tackle their antipathy head-on – even fic that acknowledges it as a past phase of their relationship isn’t set during that phase. I’m all for seeing them eventually end up friendlier, but you’ve got to show me how they get there first – that’s the good bit! Why does everyone skip over it? :((((

4.       This fandom has SUCH a thing for underage!Arthur. Fics will go on and on about how young he looks, or theorise that he was actually underaged when he first got into dreamshare, or at least looked it. Seriously, the idea of Eames having mistaken Arthur for a teen when they first met is, like, the accepted pan-fandom headcanon as to why they don’t get on (unless we’re in military-backstory land, in which case it’s that Arthur had to deal with Eames hitting on him during the time of DADT). Then there are the many (MANY) AUs where Arthur really is a teen, hitting on the much-older Eames – there’s that one semi-parody where even twenty-something!Arthur gets cockblocked by his own looks, and there’s even at least one that flips things so that Eames the one who was underage when they met, just for variety.

It’s a real Thing, and I only wish I understood where it comes from, since (to me) Arthur has always looked like the 29yo man JGL legitimately was back when Inception hit screens – I don’t think he’d even passed as a Hollywood!teen for a solid half a decade at that point. So… are there really that many people who thought JGL looked that young when the film came out, or is this just one of those fannish meme things? I may never know.

5.       No-one (by which I mean almost no-one) gets how limbo works. Fic after fic treats it as basically just a garden-variety coma, and colleagues can spend days or months moving the victim, gathering a team and planning a complex rescue. Rarely is it ever remembered the whole point of limbo is that you can age and die trapped in your own mind in no more than hours in the real world. When Eames talks about being ‘trapped in limbo until our brains turn to scrambled egg’, I think it’s safe to assume he’s being pretty literal. Basically, if you’re not treating limbo as the temporal equivalent of the Total Perspective Vortex, you’re probably doing it wrong.

6.       No-one does anything interesting with Ariadne. This, I have some sympathy for: it’s hard to know where to go with someone who ends the film where she does – her push-pull relationship with the world of illegal dreamshare is not a contradiction that can be easily resolved in a subplot, if at all. But the Ariadne who so quickly had Cobb picked as a loose canon never seems to appear in fic either, and nor does the Ariadne with the guts to sneak into his dream to find answers, or the prodigy whose last-minute moment of inspiration saved the whole job. No, Inception fic is more likely to give you an Ariadne who giggles and drags her teammates out partying than any of that, which is absurd to the point of being genuinely offensive. Seriously, that is some A-grade “all we remembered about her is that she’s female”-bullshit. Even when she’s not saddled with OOC giggle fits, fic!Ariadne also remains frustrating static: years after the film, she’ll still be doing extractions with the Inception team, despite seeming no more at home in their world. Where’s the Ariadne who embraces the underworld wholeheartedly and reaches Arthur or Cobb levels of badassery? The Ariadne whose natural gifts and overconfidence get her into Cobb-levels of trouble? Who takes the Inception job as inspiration to go into therapeutic uses of dreams? Who finds legitimate dream-related work through Miles or Saito, but still lets the old team drag her back into extractions every once in a while (because she’s easily one of the most reliable architects in the whole shady business, and there’s a part of her that still kind of loves it)? WHERE?

The obvious rejoinder to all this is that it’s hardly surprising Ariadne doesn’t get much play when you’re mostly reading Arthur/Eames fic. So (because the land of fic is still terrible at cataloguing character-specific gen) I had a dig through some Arthur/Ariadne fic for comparison – only to run into much the same frustrations all over again. No-one takes her character anywhere very interesting.

So you can imagine my surprised delight when I tried a couple of Arthur/Ariadne/Eames fics on a whim, and almost immediately found not one but two different stories willing to dive headfirst into the questions surrounding Ariadne’s future in the world of illegal dreamshare (plus multiple stories which made a very convincing case that Ariadne should absolutely celebrate their successful Inception by having a threesome with her colleagues, I mean, damn).

I have absolutely no idea what it says about fandom that I had to go looking at threesome fic to find real character development, but at this point, I’ll take it.

7.       So, I get why everyone reads Eames as queer (duh), but having discovered two quite excellent straight!Eames fic (which is to say, fic which utterly sells the idea that Eames considers himself straight or had no experience with men until long after meeting Arthur), the fact no equivalent seems to exist for Arthur baffles me. Sure, there’s one or two stories where one smile from Eames is about all it takes to make him change his mind, and one great kink meme fill that might have been just what I was looking for if it had ever been finished. But otherwise, the idea that Arthur (a guy who snogs Ariadne and is given no other obvious sexuality) -- the same Arthur whom every other fic portrays as seriously emotionally repressed – the idea this guy might not be experienced and comfortable dating men just… doesn’t seem to have occurred to anyone. Which is so weird.

Is there not enough RL evidence that Tom Hardy can and does make straight guys reconsider their preferences? Is the idea of an Arthur who’s repressed that side of his own sexuality not a juicy enough explanation for the tension between them? How on earth did we wind up with a fandom where Eames is more likely to be the designated “straight” one at the start of the story than Arthur? The mind boggles.

Holy shit, you’re still reading? Damn! Have some more recs as thanks for listening to me ramble at so much length.

Recs!

Here’s those two from the top again, because I really do love them that much

We Can Do This Until We Pass Out by delires Disturbing London, baby, we about to branch out. (The one where Eames is a chav)

Towards Zero by Mirabella Five levels down, and five to dig yourself back out.  Arthur met Eames' projection long before he met Eames.

Where the Dead Live also by Mirabella There's a monster in Arthur's basement.  Maybe he shouldn't have invited it in. It’s the vampire!Apocalypse, and this one is intense. Utterly brilliant, but equally unapologetic about the implications of its premise. So, for a somewhat-lighter take on monster!Eames, I will also throw in:

Cthonical’s demon!Eames verse Unfinished -- arguably never even properly started, just a series of ficlets from a ‘verse that never quite got written, but they are scorching hot and still well worth a look.

That’s a lot of darker fic though, probably time to lighten the mood a little.

Anal [Inception] aka Not Now Cobb We're Doing BGs also by cthonical Arthur and Eames both play WoW. They kick ass at Warsong Gulch, and when they team up they’re nigh on unstoppable.They don’t know they’re playing with each other.

Champion Sound by pyrimidine Prompt: Arthur is a DJ, Eames is a bartender.

London Bridge by sorrynotsorry Arthur loves whiskey, and maybe strippers. 

My two favourite Arthur/Eames/Ariadne fics

How to Cure Insomnia by wonderfulwrites When she called Arthur for advice on how to deal with the unexpected insomnia - okay, fine, on the pretense of asking for advice – she hadn’t expected to have to wade through a sea of bodies to see him. But then, she also hadn’t expected Eames’s cheerful but surprising, Just come, Ariadne. You can sleep when you’re dead.  Or Eames, at all, really. The Wind on the Mountain by Starlingthefool Something in her rebels against this casual, passive seduction. God knows why, but she’s sitting up in the water, taking her foot back from Eames and dislodging Arthur’s hands from her back. She stands, wet underwear clinging ridiculously to her, and says to Arthur, “All right. Your turn.”

Aaand let’s have a few more straight Arthur/Eames to round it out.

Untitled and Untitled, redux by Helenish -- two variants on a theme, and do not let the lack of proper titles put you off, they’re both great.

Unexpected Plot Twist by ethrosdemon Post-Inception -- long and (as promised) twisty, and a very solid read.

Four Corners by Mithrigil In Eames’ line of work, a first impression means nearly everything. It’s always a pity when he doesn’t get off on the right foot.

Kiss With A Fist  by cmonkatiekatie Because apparently, to find real Arthur/Eames antagonism, I have to go looking for hate sex. (Not complaining, this is some amazing hate sex.)

And also basically Everything by Wiltling There’s a darker vibe to their work, but it rarely gets oppressive -- just generally a lot of great fic.

[hecallsmehischild]

(TLDR) I sewed three patches on this couch two days ago.

Today I watched one of the high school graduation ceremonies taking place across the country. I was surprised at how many bitter and resentful responses I had to swallow down as the video rolled on. I can’t put my finger one hundred percent on why, but I think it had a great deal to do with the emphasis on success and making a huge impact, and the laying of this expectation on the shoulders of those who were graduating.

I graduated from an earlier iteration of this particular high school. What I treasure most were the memories I made with friends there, and the good teachers I encountered. I graduated with a 3.7 GPA and two AP classes (Psych and English) from a private college prep Christian high school. Despite how reserved I tended to be, I somehow won “Most Memorable” in the yearbook, and anyone who took English with me knew how much I loved to write. It was pretty obvious I was going to succeed in my... goals? Eh, we’ll figure out goals later, because anyway I was pretty sure to be a total success wherever I chose to go.

Goals. Be a writer, right? Some degree in Creative Writing, maybe land a job as an editor at a publishing house? Right? That’s what’s supposed to happen? I guess? I went two states away to go to a college that offered better financial aid and had a good Creative Writing program... what, I should have asked, even constitutes a good Creative Writing program?

The next two years watched me slowly flush my 3.7 down the toilet. Granted, it would have helped if I understood that I was contending with Bipolar 2, and not just Depression, but I don’t think that would have changed enough to save me. I had no idea what being an adult looked like. I didn’t understand the "units” I was supposed to accrue at college (they somehow landed in the “abstract” section of my brain). I’m supposed to shape my own course, now? How does that work? But I didn’t even have the language for my confusion and everyone seemed to KNOW these things. And then, out of nowhere, something would happen in a class and my brain would throw up an utter blockade against the idea of ever returning to class A, X, or C ever again because I fell asleep too often/couldn’t face the peer review board/didn’t understand what the hell they were trying to teach me/couldn’t MAKE myself finish that 8 page paper that should have been a cakewalk for someone like me.

I failed. I utterly and completely failed, as my classmates continued on toward their bright, shiny college degrees and plans for Masters.

In a Christian High School, one of the extra expectations laid on you is that you go out and do great things for the Kingdom of God. I am so divided about this statement, because I have to believe it is handed out with good intentions, but I believe it misses something very important about the very Kingdom it wants to represent. By coupling this with graduation and talk about success and “dreaming big” and all those grand speeches, it makes representing God out to be exclusively a grand endeavor, with a whole string of unspoken footnotes attached. Your ministry must be notable, your actions seen and discussed (as favorably as possible), you must emulate Jesus (but only in the aspects of his excellence, not his counter-authoritarianism or radical table-flipping if-you-please), you must be sure to leave your mark on this world so you can hear those oh so coveted words, “Well done, good and faithful servant.” Live a good life, waste no time ever, always strive for above and beyond, don’t be controversial, don’t struggle for too long in life, try to have a good marriage and family and don’t embarrass us too much. Take what I say, here, with a grain of salt, this is the jaded observation of a slightly embittered graduate of a class of ‘07.

You know. My parents have been in ministry almost all my life. Thirty years, and nearly all of those years, their tiny ministry has not been able to pay them full salary. Thirty years of striving and strife, shattering into a thousand pieces over and over and slowly re-knitting each time. Thirty years of trying to walk in Jesus’ footsteps and stumbling every step of the way. Thirty years, and I’d still wager most people don’t know about Improbable People Ministries or A Tour of Roses the way they know names like Joyce Meyer or Billy Graham. (I’m not, here, knocking those people. I’m pulling up a comparison of names to make a point) That they aren’t as well known isn’t what galls me. What galls me is that there’s some unspoken criteria that if they aren’t that universally known, then what’s it worth to God and His Kingdom?

And I turn and I look at me. Two days ago I sewed three patches onto a couch. We ripped it during the move, two years back. I didn’t have any confidence in my sewing skills because, well, I don’t really sew. Every now and then, we’d make the rips worse, and comment about either patching it up or replacing the couch. And I thought, I’ve done so many other things in this house that I didn’t think I could do, maybe I could do this. So I picked out a fabric with birds all over it, to nest among the flowers on the couch. I got two yards, much more than I needed because I had no idea what mistakes I might make. I cut out approximately the right size and shape, plugged in an audiobook, and got to work. Roughly two and a half hours later, I’d done the thing. A professional reupholstery person definitely would have done it better, but I fixed it. I put my touch on it, and now my husband will smile every time he looks at the couch, and it will quit ripping whenever we lean back.

Where am I going with this whole couch bit? Well. I think sometimes God does his work through big names, like Billy Graham or Mother Theresa, and in that way He reaches a lot of people. But I submit that success and visibility and        I M P A C T       is not the only way it works. These days, I go sit and talk with the one neighbor I have energy to visit. I sweep and mop the floor. I push for one more fix to the house, or get adventurous and try to fix it myself. I make fresh meals at home, sometimes with cookies or bread. I hug my husband and chase him around the house (or get chased). I write fanfiction. I make pretty and silly things. I read books, to myself and aloud to others. When I’m struggling, I’m trying more often than not to STOP myself from thrashing to get things done, so that I can pass through the period of depression or downswing with fewer internal lacerations.

Some people will shoot for the stars and land there and do great and grand things. And that is well and good. But the Kingdom of God is not limited to those things. I don’t know what He has for me in the future, but for now I tend to what is at hand; myself, my husband, and this house. And I think that this is work He has given me to do right now. It is a small thing, but it is my thing, and it is not lessened by the fact that it’s for a very limited number of people. And the marvelous thing is that while this work is good for those around me, it also is stretching and teaching me new ways relating to the world. This “small” work is also healing me. And that, in turn, overflows back onto the people around me.

I reiterate: I sewed three patches on this couch. It’s a ridiculously tiny thing in the grand scheme of things. As is assembling a cabinet, or replacing a toilet seat, or learning how to paint a wall. But I took YEARS to come out from under the belief that my decisions were always going to end in disaster, or that I was riding everyone else’s wake because I couldn’t own my life choices. I’m still horribly afraid of screwing up in some areas, but that fear is lessening its grip on my life one area at a time. I think I will be flailing through life my whole life long, and they don’t talk about that in graduation speeches because they want to send you off feeling super confident. But I wanna say, to any fellow flailers who may not feel all that confident, or who had that confidence shattered, you aren’t less.

I know... that I’m speaking as a Christian, here. And that not all of you reading this are. And that’s ok, I’m not here to change you. But whether you are or not, I wanna say that the way I’ve seen God work in my life and my family’s lives is that nothing is wasted. Small things we never would have deemed important became lynchpins down the line. Areas of our lives metaphorically burned to ashes are in continual process of bearing unruly wildflowers. And I believe He sees all those small things in your lives, too.

The other day I sewed three patches on a couch. And healed a tiny bit more. And brought a fraction more peace and joy and laughter to our surroundings. And that is one facet of the Kingdom of God.

[intothestarkerverse]

Reunion - Starker Week (Day One)

Summary:  For @starkerweek Day One’s prompt ‘Reunion’.  I have submitted for your pleasure a medieval AU involving a Grail quest and our otp...

The Quest for the Holy Grail continued, and it continued without the Red Knight.  

Sir Ironside, as he was called by the peasantry, was famous for his performance in tournaments.  He had yet to be unseated a single time, even when he was struck full force by his opponent’s lance.  Some blamed magic.  Some blamed alchemy.  Some claimed it was his skill.  In the end, it didn’t matter.  The crowds loved the knight whose reputation for his sardonic wit was only outmatched by his renowned tendency towards reckless self sacrifice.  He was the people’s champion and the people loved him...even if he did not understand why.

In all of his time at court, though, Sir Anthony of Stark Tower had never taken a true squire.  Oh, he had hired a squire who served to help him dress and care for his weaponry, but ‘Happy’ had never had designs upon being a knight.  The Red Knight had never been tasked with teaching a young would-be hero the basics of combat and chivalry…probably because chivalry had never been his strong suit.

That all changed the day young Peter came to court.

The boy was smart.

He was quick with observations that escaped the notice of almost everyone else.  Everyone but Anthony.

He was brave. 

He walked onto the training grounds and faced other squires several times larger than he was, always without fear.  Every time he was knocked down, he pushed himself back up and fought until the knight overseeing the training that morning called an end to the match out of fear for the boy’s safety.

Anthony found himself watching young Peter more than he should.  He was so petite, it was a wonder he could lift a sword at all…and the idea of the lad helping a knight don his armor for battle or tournament was laughable, much less the idea of him one day wearing the armor himself.  Anthony’s chain mail probably weighed more than the boy did soaking wet.

None of the knights would train him.  As other squires were taken on by knights of the court, Peter remained alone.  Still, somehow, he never allowed himself to look discouraged. Anthony found that he could not watch the beautiful boy suffer alone any longer.

“Come along, Peter.”

The boy looked up from his work furiously polishing another knight’s armor.  “Many pardons, Sir Anthony, I did not realize you needed my assistance…”

“I do not need assistance, boy, but you need a knight and this is me offering.”

Peter’s cheeks took on a rosy hue as he stumbled to his feet and the chest plate fell to the stones with a clatter.  “Sir?”

“Did I stutter, boy?  You need a knight and I happen to be one.  So, come along…we are going to begin by finding you a sword that you can actually lift.”

He would never admit to anyone how much he enjoyed the time he spent with Peter.  The boy was so eager to learn.  He took ridiculous risks, and more than once Anthony was forced to drag him off the field of battle and bring death upon the bandits or dragons or opposing knights who dared to threaten even a hair on his boy’s head.

Peter devoured every story Anthony told him about his past exploits.  He listened with wide honey brown eyes, asking questions whenever the knight paused for breath or dramatic effect, gasping and cheering in all of the right places.

Peter’s brilliance proved to be more valuable than his bravery.  When Anthony showed him the lab in which he dabbled in alchemy, Peter was only too eager to join him there as well.  Together, they created a metallic alloy that they used to forge a sword and armor that was light enough for Peter to wield while still being sturdy enough to endure an onslaught of attacks from heavy iron weaponry.

For a long time, Anthony pretended not to see the look of longing Peter cast in his direction whenever he thought the older man was not watching him.  He couldn’t have him.  Couldn’t touch him.  Couldn’t even think about how wonderful it would feel to explore every inch of the boy’s nubile young body.

Oh no.

The wizards at Court had determined that purity was needed to access the Holy Grail.  These new, young knights were to remain virgins.  Chaste.  Pure.  Good.  Then, when they were ready, they would be sent forth to find the Grail and return it to their king.  

It did not matter what lascivious thoughts crossed the knight’s mind as he watched Peter attacking a sparring dummy with a nimble succession of moves that had become his own signature style of combat.  Oh no, if the Grail wanted purity and goodness…than Peter was going to be the one to find it.

Anthony tried to hide his disappointment when Peter proved himself ready to join the Grail Quest, when the King knighted him.  Anthony did not see the questing party off.  The Red Knight wasn’t welcome to join them, because when it came to goodness and purity, everyone knew that Sir Ironside was at a deficit.

Six passages of the full moon.

They were gone for six months.

Anthony felt every day of their quest like a knife to his gut.  He spent countless hours in his alchemy lab trying to ignore the fear that had settled over him like a shroud.  If Peter died…he would take the boy’s death as his responsibility.  He had not taught him enough.  He had failed as a mentor.  Was the Grail worth risking Peter’s life to attain?  Anthony hardly felt that it was.

When the trumpets sounded distantly, barely audible through the thick stone walls, Anthony did not leave his lab to investigate what they were announcing.  He hardly cared.  He would care about nothing until Peter was safely returned to Court and all was well.

He had no concept of time within the lab.  He did not know how much daylight had passed between the trumpets and the soft voice that startled him from the lab’s doorway.  

Peter’s voice.

“Sir Anthony?  I thought…I thought you might have been with those present to welcome us home…I should have known you would rather be here.”

Anthony looked up, relaxing for the first time since Peter had left his sight several months ago.  “You survived.”

“Yeah, looks like.”  Peter glanced down at his hands, then back up at Tony with a flush of pleasure.  “We succeeded, too.  The Grail.  The king has it…”

“I am proud of you, Peter.”

The boy smiled.  “Gratitude, my liege.  But…that is not why I am here.  Or at least, it is not the main reason I am here.  If the Grail is ours…we no longer have to guard our virginity.  The other Knights have all departed to their chambers with eager ladies of the court…”

“And you came here?”  Anthony could not hide his incredulity.

“And I came here.”  Peter looked at the man expectantly, head canting to the side slowly.  “I…I thought I understood the looks we shared, the words unspoken.  Was I wrong…”

His question was cut off as the knight crossed distance between them in a few simple strides.  He seized hold of Peter’s waist and dragged him across the floor.  Mouths met with a clash of lips.  Anthony’s tongue licked against Peter’s mouth as the young man moaned.  His fingers clawed at Anthony’s back at the older man’s accompanying growl of possession.

“I have never been so happy to see a quest end.”  Anthony’s voice came out in a raspy purr as his lips moved down the creamy expanse of Peter’s throat.  One arm reached out blindly, knocking away parchment and instruments from the nearest table so that he could lift the boy and sit him down against the wooden work surface.  “There will be nothing pure about you when I am done with you.”  

“Good.”  Peter had been dreaming about his homecoming for too long.  The entire length of the quest, all Peter had wanted was to find the Grail so he could be free.  He had hoped that Anthony would be happy to see him, that they would spend his first few hours home in the throws of passion.  Though he’d never been allowed to partake in carnal pleasures before, Peter had spent no shortage of time imagining what it would be like to open himself up to the older man.

Peter’s cries shook the lab several times that night, ringing every drop of chastity from him as Anthony introduced him to a variety of pleasures some of which he had not even dared to dream about before now.  He had not known that Anthony could use his lips to set his body on fire in so many different ways, nor that he would enjoy it as he burned.  When he was finally fully claimed by the man, they were both exhausted and spent, laying on the floor of the lab before the fire draped in an animal skin rug.  “What will we do now, Sir Anthony?”  He could not help but ask the question.  He was no longer a squire.  He could not arguably spend time with the man alone like he once had without arousing suspicion…and there were those who would not smile upon this new facet to their relationship.

Anthony grinned, turning the boy’s hand over in his own before lifting it to his lip to kiss the knuckles.  “We will find a quest…one that will take us far from court and require us to adventure for a very, very long time.”

“When we finish that?”

“Another.  And then another after that.  There are no shortage of quests, Peter, and we will have no shortage of reasons to partake in them.  I let you leave my side once…I have no intentions of every allowing that to happen again.”

[soulvomit]

My 25 year adjacency to arts culture as a woman, and how it informs me being anti-anti

When I first started my art-making, in roughly about 1994, I was a young Gen Xr who liked zines, underground/edgy comics, magazines like Juxtapoz (which back then covered a lot of lowbrow and outsider stuff but now is pretty slick and commercial), and the stuff you saw at old school coffeehouses and used record stores. Later, Rocky Horror, Night Flight, and Spike & Mike’s Sick & Twisted Animation Festival entered my vocabulary. I taught myself enough art to start sketching out a horror comic about a suicide victim whose soul just jumps into another body, who has no memory of the life he had before. A kid who’d never fit anywhere - because my parents never fit anywhere - I found a home in liminal spaces. I was going to my entry level middle class job in the morning then spending my free time in grungy shops along the beach boardwalk that were run by ex-hippies.  A majority of my friends were guys - a mix of old school nerds/geeks and pot-smoking guys who hung around. (And a couple of oldschool hippies.) It’s my guy friendships that largely shaped my artistic vocabulary; they encouraged me with stuff like “oh yeah, add that eyeball, that’d be sick, dude.” Everything that made me anxious, I put on the page. Everything scary or odd in my environment, I put on the page. Then at 21, I started taking art classes. Where I found, universally, that creative content is very heavily policed by gender. And that creative content is very heavily gendered in and of itself. There is work that men are allowed to create, and work that women are allowed to create. I also discovered that people saw women visibly involved in youth or alternative culture *very* differently, and very much more negatively, from how they saw young men. And I discovered that men were the universal creative voice but women were expected just to create for female audiences. Men could create anything they wanted and not get policed about it (unless the thing was so overtly hateful that it didn’t even make the much lower bar of 1990s social acceptability), men could create “adults only” and dominantly created all the teenage material, men could portray disturbing or distressing subjects or “gritty real life.” Women on the other hand, couldn’t. Anything non-generic that we drew, resulted in intense analysis of whether or not we were “good” or “bad” women. And it was mainly women policing other women. Not nearly as many of the men actually gave a shit. I found that men were encouraged to be original and have a “voice” but women were expected to fall into line and draw the same content as hundreds of other women. I observed that art teachers - ESPECIALLY women art teachers and ESPECIALLY the “feminist” ones - gave different types of encouragement to male students than to female ones. I found that in order to not alienate women art teachers or women classmates, I had to do art the “right” way. It had to be one of the following: * Boats, kittens, flowers, or some other totally non-threatening, wholesome, cozy subject matter, completely safe for old church ladies and young children. (This is honestly why the “twee” and Manic Pixie Dream Girl/cupcake culture of the late 00s and early 10s, really set my teeth on edge. Just more of the same, in a new package.) * some kind of leftover 60s-70s style white liberal We Are The World crap.  * feminist art, which was a niche, was the only acceptable space to be “edgy” in, as long as one was edgy in the specific way that was prescribed. However if you did feminist art, you were never going to get a showing or make any money off of your work. But it was a “noble” kind of poverty. (That’s a thing about white feminist culture of the 90s, it was still heavily dominated by Boomer hippie mentality and heavily discouraged female ambition while accepting male ambition as an immutable fact of life that we were “better than.”) And the pressure was even heavier on marginalized women artists because you weren’t allowed to paint and profit from any part of your own marginalized experience. ALL of the social capital was on the part of affluent and or white people talking about groups that weren’t theirs. If you talked about someone else’s experience you were a Good Person but if it was your own experience then you were either a dangerous militant and probably a commie, or you were just seen as a big whiner. The pressure then was to get commercial graphics training and do production work for the creators who were permitted to create. Work that had nothing to do with you (which is what I ended up doing because it was the Prescribed Middle Class Path in art). And then once in commercial graphics, there was another two-track system: men got to do bigger projects and self-promotional work. Women were almost always socialized to stay small with everything. The attrition rate of women designers in my generation and older is EXTREMELY high, because you can’t build a competitive commercial portfolio on church bake sale ads. People blamed male-preferring employers but nobody would ever take responsibility for the ways women are socialized or trained much earlier in our career and schooling lives.  One of the big problems is that many of the traditional acceptable male topics, which get the most attention and visibility from passersby, are unacceptable from women creators. Men are encouraged to create huge wall-sized works but women to stay small and cozy.  Also, marginalization was only an acceptable topic as long as white male artists were portraying it. Otherwise you ran into the anger or talking-back-against taboo that pretty much everyone but white cis het men are subject to.  Then there was this. If you were a woman and didn’t paint cozy pastoralia then automatically your work was branded feminist by the mainstream. But that didn’t protect you from the most harmful parts of a lot of proto-TERF 80s/90s analysis. The Personal Is Political meant that everything you did was held up to the light for political analysis in ways that white male work never was. I’m careful to point out race here because I do feel like race came into it. A lot of the benefits given to men here are specific to affluent white men. When poor white men painted, it was called lowbrow art. When people painted who were neither of those groups, and it wasn’t one of the 3 or 4 allowed “safe” topics, then it was called “dangerous militant propaganda” at worst or just “crackpottery” at best. And the art of mentally ill people? Forget it. Once you have a mental health diagnosis, everything you do is seen as a facet of your mental illness. You aren’t a human being anymore. It doesn’t help that artists who come into art via the medicalized culture of mental illness, via art therapy, are seen forever as art therapy patients and not artists. Even though many artists who are mentally ill are subsistence artists, and many artists who are mentally ill have an art practice that predates their diagnosis, and many are subsistence artists who can’t hold other work.  tl;dr this is the background I come from with regard to why I’m never going to support anti-culture or cancel-culture. It is dominantly at this point a culture of policing based on extremely gendered social rules, a lot of it is based upon what women/marginalized people are specifically allowed to create and say about our own lives, and I am never going to be here for it.