#so many have died so i could walk with some sort of freedom for so long

[rooftops-are-for-towels]

ahhhhh every day i want to detransition and kill my self in ways that keep me alive.... yet the sun shines on and i still go to class (for now) and share info about the student worker union.... day by day, night by night

[crypticminx]

Enemies to lovers au ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

Felix Catton was a popular student body that seemed so utterly artificial to you.

From his lean, supermodel like body to his outrageous facial piercing and even his ridiculously expensive clothes—everything seemed to irk you to no end.

Even the man’s whole life and every teeny bit of information you heard from gossip sounded like something that sprung from an unrealistic movie.

What made it even worse was his attitude, one that wasn’t too far off from the cocky cliche types you had no patience for in high school.

While you would sit and mind your own business, your mind attentively focused on the information in your textbook, you’d see him happily stroll on by—his hand always intertwined with a girls, of course. It almost infuriated you how those girls would chase him around like love sick puppies, a poor character trait on their part.

There were so many other men on campus, but only one Felix and that was the problem.

Felix this and Felix that, couldn’t you escape him for just one second?

It appeared not, as when you found yourself smoking a cigarette to escape the party filled atmosphere for a quick minute on the balcony of a flat, which belonged to someone’s name you didn’t even know, in walked the man himself.

“Got a light?” he asked you, interrupting the peace that was supposed to be your only moment of freedom from the obnoxious drunks inside.

Taking a minute to observe his flushed face, a result of one too many beers, you hesitantly handed your lighter to him after fetching it from your purse.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, taking a few clumsy seconds to light the cigarette poking through his lips.

In perfect unison, you both painfully stood in silence, keeping your distance from each other as nicotine would slowly trail down both yours and his throat and release with each exhale. The two of you creating quite the cloud of foggy smoke.

“I’ve seen you around, y’kno,” he took a small drag, gently tapping off the ash growing on his cigarette.

If this was his way of starting a conversation as an attempt to bring you home with him, he was doing a miserable job.

“I’ve seen you too,” you replied, sounding disinterested as you continued to face the distance ahead as opposed to Felix.

“Always got your head in a book, drinking beer by yourself,” he slowly dragged his feet as he circled around you. “…giving me dirty looks whenever you have the chance.” You couldn’t see it, but you knew he had to be sporting one hell of an arrogant grin.

No, he wasn’t trying to take you home, he was flat out insulting you.

Rolling your eyes with a disdainful expression, you tossed the remaining cigarette to the stone cold ground, crushing its entirety in one stomp.

Okay, if he wanted to play this game, so be it.

“What’s your point,” you questioned him with hostility, feeling your blood boil when his face was sporting the exact look you pictured it to.

“My point is,” he swallowed, his structured jaw clenching, “even with all the drinking I’ve done, I can sense you don’t like me.”

You found it comical, not even ten minutes with him and he was getting to all the nitty gritty. You absolutely pitted any girl who spent more than twenty minutes with him. you could probably name a few.

“And do I need to like you, Felix?” You inched yourself closer to him, not caring if you crossed some sort of stupid boundary that was created between the two of you.

“No no, of course not darling,” he shook his head while you cringed at the subtle name calling. “But nobody likes a bitch.”

Oh, he was a fucking piece of—

“However, you’re the fine exception.”

Your eyes squinted with confusion, finding yourself surprised that you weren’t about the cuss the tall man out. Instead, pure tranquility roamed through your composure as your mouth didn’t budge.

“What if I kissed you?” He interrogated you, his voice was loud and serious, not one ounce of alcohol collided with his system to say the things that flew out of him. “Would you still dislike me then?”

“Excuse me?” You aggressively spat out, starting to feel more frustrated than full of your previous rage.

“I said, what if I—“

“I heard you!” you profoundly interrupted him, coming to your senses that all your douchey assumptions about him were right.

“Wait,” he called out, almost sounding desperate like he had some good point to be made.

You refused to let this silly conversation continue for any second longer. Dashing straight for the the door, but one swift tap of your shoulder and suddenly you found your back against the brick wall and Felix’s lean arms alarmingly barricading you from exiting.

“I also know that you’ve got the highest grade in our lit class.”

Great, so he was gonna make some joke out of that too.

“And when I read your work that was on display, I found myself in love with how beautiful your writing was.”

It was a simple assignment. A poem based on a classic Shakespeare play, you just happened to have chose a midnight summers dream. Felix’s favourite.

“You….,” confused eyes scanned him up and down as you tried to picture him reading any sort of literature, “like poetry?”

“I like pretty girls who can write,” he flashed a confident smirk before his body mindlessly pushed him to do something he hopefully wouldn’t regret.

He leaned his tall frame down to the perfect level of letting his lips slowly embrace yours. The second you felt the softness from them, you wanted to pull away with all your might, but a weak part of you felt curiosity win you over.

As his tongue danced away with yours in circles upon circles, the taste didn’t stench of alcohol. Instead there was some sort of sweetness to it, something that made it all seem worthwhile.

Closing your eyes in an amused way of defeat, you savoured the moment from the long kiss. Soaking up his touch that maybe felt too alluring once his hands smoothly made way to your hips. You could feel the ambience of enjoyment twinkling it’s way in the air and you wondered how the hell you got here.

Felix was as good of a kisser as he was an asshole.

Breaking free from a passionate kiss turned make-out, you witnessed a side of Felix that almost made every negative aspect of him vanish from the depths of your mind. You trailed back to the very feeling that was his lips on yours and you wanted to possibly continue as you noticed Felix looked just as stunned as you.

Until—

“Felix, mate,” a man with piercing blue eyes and dark locks popped his head out the door, looking at the two of you dusting yourselves off while trying hide your sheer content that sprouted in the form of rosy cheeks. Luckily, his pal didn’t seem to pay any sort of mind. After all, this was typical Felix behaviour.

“Been looking for ya, get your ass inside and have a shot with me!”

“Duty calls,” Felix whispered in your ear, holding your soft hand for a quick second before letting go, even though it was clear he didn’t want to.

As he was about to part ways from you, he stopped before he turned to you for one last time before the two of you would go your separate ways into the long night ahead.

“See you around, if you’re not too busy with all your books.” He blew you a cheesy kiss.

You didn’t say anything to his antics, instead you tossed him your final smile, while on the inside, you were squealing with foreign joy.

Fetching another cigarette to help you process what just happened, maybe he wasn’t so bad after all…

[oltammefru]

To Theresa, Kal'tsit sort of represents the vastness and wonder of the world, the fact that she can do so much and be part of so much and yet not be tied down by it.

From the way Theresa writes this (in a really flowery and romantic sort of way), this seems like an aspect of Kal'tsit which she greatly envies, how Kal'tsit has done so much and seen so much and is still unfettered. Perhaps it was only a dream of hers that she would never get to experience, but I get the impression that deep down she wanted to be able to witness the vastness of the world and see all the sights of the world that Kal'tsit had told her about, and have the same sort of freedom that Kal'tsit had, and she specifically wanted to do it "alongside you (Kal'tsit)."

Meanwhile, Kal'tsit is in some sense a deeply lonely person. She feels that she has no place that she can call home, and she feels that she has "none of the same kind."

I get the impression that Kal'tsit is similarly sort of envious of what Theresa has, that she has a place to call home, that she has close ties and responsibilities to the people of Kazdel, and she has a family that she is close to.

For Theresa, I sort of interpret that much of the ties and connection to her home she had was a sort of burden for her. Perhaps not necessarily in the sense that she actively regretted having all these things that tied her down, but more in the sense that, given her personality and ideals, they would ultimately and inevitably lead to her death. The Black Crown and the entire weight of Sarkaz history that comes with it (for which it is implied that eventually the crown will cause its holder to become overtaken by like the collective anger of previous Sarkaz). This, combined with her duties and her desire to avoid as much death as possible, led her to decide to pass the crown onto "not a Sarkaz" Amiya and face her death with a smile, in order to bring about peace.

For Kal'tsit and Theresa, both of them saw what they desired in each other, but ultimately, Theresa's life ended in tragedy, and as much as both of them tried to provide to the other what they wanted, neither of them really got what they wanted in the end. (Except for brief glimpses of it through the other. Perhaps that would have to be enough.) Theresa, although her goals were to unite Kazdel and furthermore all the other nations of Terra under one banner, and to see what the rest of the world was like, she was never able to experience a life outside of Kazdel. Similarly, although Theresa had tried to provide a place for Kal'tsit that she could call home, she never really thought of Kazdel or Rhodes Island or anywhere else as a place she could call home after Theresa's death (although this is sort of changing with the way the current story is going.)

One of the things about this that intrigues me the most is that the Kal'tsit/Theresa dynamic is a sort of reversal of how the Sarkaz are often framed in story!:

It's mentioned in quite few places that Kal'tsit has "special feelings" for the Sarkaz. There's quite a few reasons for why this is, a major one has to do with how the Sarkaz are often framed as "rootless people"; their homeland has been destroyed over and over, many of them have been forced to leave Kazdel, and because of this she feels a sense of kinship with the Sarkaz, because she has a similar sort of rootlessness.

The way that a Walk in the Dust seems to frame it, in some ways, the Sarkaz still have it better than Kal'tsit does. One of the ways in which AWITD examines its theme of "homeland" is that basically every character interrogates the concept of one's home or homeland in some way, and what it means to them. Old Isin is searching for the lost glory of his homeland, everywhere the Emperor's Blade stands is the dominion of Ursus, the Sarkaz mercenaries think of Kazdel as they die, the Duke thinks of his motherland Ursus as he dies etc. In explicit contrast to all of this is Kal'tsit, who has no place she calls home at all. The way AWITD frames it, the Sarkaz mercenaries may have never been to Kazdel, but they still have somewhere they consider home. Kazdel might be a "nation of rootless people", but it is still a physically existing, (mostly) extant nation, and it still has people to belong to it and consider it their home, but Kal'tsit, she has nothing, nothing at all.

In contrast to Kal'tsit, Theresa defies the concept of Sarkaz rootlessness. What ultimately caused her death was that she was too weighed down by her ties to the Sarkaz and the weight of thousands of years of Sarkaz history burdening her down. No matter how much she might have wanted to run away and see the world, or how much she daydreamed about otherwise, there was nothing else she could do but face her end at the hands of her own people with a smile.

[softdedue]

I remember as a boy asking my father about the conflict in Israel and my father—who is a world expert on international relations, who has literally written the textbook on these sorts of genocides, who never shies away from a discussion—told me: we don’t talk about that. It’s complicated. Being a child, I listened.

I went away to college, to a good Jewish school, trying to reconnect to my roots. I asked my Rabbi: what is so complicated about the conflict in Israel? And he said, we don’t talk about that, it is too complicated. Not being a scholar of such things, I listened.

I asked my friend, a political sciences major who was studying to one day become a rabbi themself: why is it that no one will speak about Israel? And they said, it is complicated. You are German; would you like it if everyone who walked up to you asked you your opinion on Hitler? And I thought, that is no answer at all.

And then I moved to Tigard, and I met Muna, who would become a mother to me in many ways. “Habibi,” she would say. “Can you come download this new app for me? My daughter wants to play some new game.” And we went from working together to caring for each other, and I met her family—few enough of them blood, but built together out of the shared experience of coming here to this hostile country that did not like their scarves and their prayer and their accents. My Arabic is poor, and heavily accented, but the fact that I knew any at all—and wanted to learn more from her, and was willing to listen—was enough to get her to welcome me in, and we had known each other for less than a year when she began to tell me stories of home.

My Muna was born in Jerusalem, and she immigrated here when her daughter was only five years old, trying to escape the constant bombs. Every single day of the Israeli occupation she was afraid for her life, and her family’s lives, and they were the lucky ones: they got out, and they came here, and she and her husband had been able to find work and support their family in spite of all the prejudice they faced. Many of their loved ones were not so lucky. She couldn’t tell me how many people she knew who had died, and that was before the current conflict.

I knew then that it had never truly been “complicated”. The plight of my people is complicated, yes, and it always has been, but that has never—and will never—give any of us the right to displace other innocent people from their homes in the name of claiming some sort of god-ordained holy land. “God said we could have it” has never been a rightful claim for anyone. Jewish people across the world have been blinded and misled by Israeli propaganda, as have others of all religions, but it truly is just that: propaganda.

I stand with justice. I stand with freedom. I stand with Palestine.

[holocene-sims]

next // previous

august 17, 2021 4:00 a.m. paradise hotel

three hours later

[grant] you know, i didn’t get a good start to dealing with the whole “my body is broken” thing.

[henry] huh? oh, sorry, i'm awake and heard you; i was just surprised.

[grant] the first time that, um, i got really sick after my sister died, everyone just thought i was mcfucking mentally losing it. i mean, i was, but also i could not get out of bed, could not walk, couldn’t hold a toothbrush even because my hands wouldn’t move…

[grant] and my parents, who are medical professionals, wouldn’t take me to any doctor because they thought i was melodramatic.

[henry] you missed two months of school. we went different schools but i remember that. i didn’t see you for that two months either.

[grant] they only ever took me because they got tired of dealing with me, and they were getting in trouble for me being truant. and what do you know? like every other kid with something wrong, the answer was growing pains. you're tall for your age, so that's it!

[henry] doctors are stupid sometimes.

[grant] tell me about it. i lived with two idiot doctors for eighteen years. the proof is in the pudding.

[grant] and then, uhh, there’s the whole…

[grant] the whole college thing.

[grant] did i ever tell you how i became an addict, bud?

[henry] you’ve never wanted to.

[henry] i assumed it was because people try to numb childhood trauma. and i could tell something was not right with the college hockey team situation, but i didn’t know what or if that was connected at all.

[henry] it could have come from anywhere. most everyone in college does drugs. i smoked a lot of weed.

[grant] it’s both of your assumptions. there were a lot of things i needed to suppress, and i didn’t know how to control myself after tasting the slightest bit of freedom from my parents. but also…

[grant] the dudes on the hockey team hated me except sebastian. i just didn’t click. i wasn’t the right kind of person to fit in that very dudebro jock locker room.

[grant] so, on one hand, i started on a bunch of party drugs and alcohol because i figured out that when i got fucked up out of my mind, they finally found me funny, and you know how i am.

[henry] you are really desperate for people to like you and for you to not feel like you're imposing.

[grant] it’s totally true. i need to be liked. and need is the right word. it’s not as bad now, i've grown out of it a bit, but still, the feeling is there. i need to be liked and to not be anyone's burden.

[grant] yet that’s not the whole story.

[grant] i was, um, well, also illegally prescribed a lot of painkillers.

[grant] by the team's medical people.

[grant] my health issues were already there, but playing a contact sport made it worse. i'm gonna be honest, i don’t remember what happened, but i got some kind of back injury, and i went right back to that state i was in after my sister died.

[grant] seriously, same stuff. couldn’t really get out of bed, couldn’t function. at least not without...

[henry] oh god. i don’t like the way this sounds.

[grant] i was naive enough to hope that people might do the right thing for me once in my life, so i told the medical staff, like, hey, i'm suffering, and i need help. and they just kind of, uh, waved me off and said their job was to patch me up so i could be on the ice, not fix me.

[grant] i was already trouble in all the staff's eyes because i was the odd one out in the locker room, and that's not looked upon well. so, in hindsight, i should have seen literally all the red flags or should have been brave enough to just break down and see a real doctor elsewhere again, but i didn’t.

[grant] anyway, the team staff offered me opioids and i gladly took them. and they kind of sort of barely worked. so i took more. and more and more, and i mixed them with all kinds of other substances. like, i should probably be dead from the amount of mixing i did or from just the sheer volume of drugs i took. also, no one gave a fuck how many times a week i came in to ask for drugs as long as i played hockey good enough.

[henry] and you were good.

[grant] still, the pills never genuinely made me feel better. they just got me high enough to forget about suffering. that makes sense now because i have a diagnosis and have heard nothing but anti-inflammatories are going to really work on resolving the whole pain thing. too late for that, though. i'm an addict. yes, am, not was, even if i'm sober. so, i won't touch them now. i haven't in years.

[grant] but there you go! there’s the story.

[grant] that feels supremely embarrassing to have told, but i wanted to get it off my chest. you are my best friend. more than that. you're family. you're my brother. i don’t have to be afraid to tell you anything and you deserve to know the truth.

[grant] especially because you've never shied away from honesty and you stuck with me that whole time. i don’t think most addicts are lucky enough to have friends and family that patient. and i tried many, many times to push everyone away so i could destroy myself in peace. i wouldn’t blame any of you if you had given up on me.

[grant] yeah. it's not very kind of me to receive that much, um, grace and love and forgiveness, and not at least reward and thank you with the truth. the full and honest truth, even if you didn't ask for it. oh, and a window into why i am the way i am, why i keep my mouth shut.

[sitp-recs]

hi Liv! do you know any fics (drarry or rarepair) that have themes of queer identity or lgbt community please? 🌈

What a wonderful ask, I love stories exploring coming out, queer identity and the sense of community 💜 I listed below some personal favorites, I’m sure I’ve read more but I didn’t want this post to get too long! You’ll notice that Writcraft is mentioned one too many times - I highly recommend checking their full catalogue as queer themes are strong and recurrent in their works.

Drarry

what draco does on thursday nights by @ihopeyoubothstaysafefromharm (G, 1.5k)

harry didn't know what draco does on thursday nights. until he mistakenly comes over with takeout. OR, draco has a queer writing group.

Pride by @writcraft (E, 9k)

Harry and Draco form an unlikely friendship after the war. Even as the friendship becomes more, Draco is quick to push Harry away before they become too deeply involved. As Harry fights to save an iconic wizarding pub and gay safe-haven from being closed down, circumstances force Draco to confront his true feelings head on.

the way you make me glow by @softlystarstruck (M, 11k)

In a cottage next to the sea, love blossoms. Or perhaps it’s been there all along.

When You Kiss Me (What A Lovely Way To Burn) by Femme (E, 22k)

A drag fairytale of New York in which Draco wears red lipstick and Potter can’t get enough.

Welcome to the Broom Closet by incapricious (E, 23k)

Harry thinks he knows how his life will go: Become an Auror. Marry Ginny. Have a family. But then he sees an advertisement in the paper that no one else can see, and his life is turned upside-down. The Broom Closet: you can be anyone you want while you're there, but you won't remember it in the morning.

The Light That is Blinding Me by leontina (E, 23k)

After Flourish and Blotts stop stocking the books of Harry’s favourite author, he is directed to a queer bookshop and discovers it’s owned by none other than Draco Malfoy, who has more in common with Harry than either of them realise.

Harry Potter and The Bisexual Awakening by Writcraft (E, 23k)

Harry is perfectly content being single, heterosexual and living in Godric's Hollow with his very clingy rescue dog, Snitch. When Draco Malfoy turns up on Harry's doorstep demanding that Harry teach him how to drive, things quickly become a lot more complicated.

Dragons Don't Know Paradise by @teacup-tai (E, 51k)

In 2004, when Remus spends two scary weeks in the ITU due to complications of pneumonia and his HIV condition, Sirius walks around the house like a ghost and Harry finds comfort and strength in Draco through a chat in an online LGBT forum. Harry falls for him, but Draco has a lot of secrets and, before long, will need to come clean—even if he believes that no one is able to understand a dragon.

The Beauty of Thestrals and Other Unseen Things by Writcraft (E, 63k)

Harry has terrific friends, an amazing girlfriend and his job as Head Auror enables him to work on challenging cases and Ministry reform. He just wishes he could work out why he’s been so out of sorts. When Draco Malfoy is arrested for gross indecency, Harry’s comfortable life begins to unravel. He’s forced to decide if it’s worth risking everything for love in a world where following his heart is a criminal offence.

Little Compton Street by Writcraft (E, 65k)

Draco is lonely, Harry hates the press and it won’t stop raining in London. Harry discovers a magical street that’s close to disappearing forever and Draco realises he’s one rainy night in Soho away from finding everything he’s been searching for.

Out and the Open by HenryMercury (M, 75k)

The war is over, and Draco finally has the courage to decide who she is. The war is over, and Harry finally has the freedom to decide what she likes.

Little Deaths and How to Avoid Them (or Draco Malfoy's Guide to Stop Dying and Start Living Instead) by nerakrose and dustmouth (T, 96k)

Malfoy is way too interested in coroner reports for somebody who's definitely not looking for ways to die, Harry wants to be friends with him, and Ginny wants to break up with Harry.

Pages of You by @wolfpants (E, 101k)

Summer, 1980. Harry is floating between university and becoming a Real Certified Adult. He's not ready. He really isn't. In a desperate attempt to have the Best Last Summer ever, he takes a casual job at his godfather's bookshop in London, starts an illicit pen pal affair with a wordy posh boy that he's catching feelings for, all while dealing with the son of Sirius's business rival, one Draco Malfoy, insufferable know-it-all extraordinaire.

Rare pairs

With a Look by earlybloomingparentheses (Ginny + Deamus, E, 5k)

Now, twenty years old and done with boys and looking forward very much to putting her hand down some lucky girl’s shirt later this evening, Ginny looks at Dean Thomas’s gold-painted fingernails and feels heat pool between her legs.

Rebel Rebel by @teacup-tai (Sirius/Remus, E, 6k)

Sirius has just turned twenty and life is changing around him, blossoming, like Remus wrote in his last letter. This is a story about life and exploration, about feeling lost and finding oneself in other people's bodies, about building love and community. This is a story about hope and sex and growing up.

Independent Love Song by Writcraft (Ginny/Millicent, E, 6k)

Millicent Bulstrode is a tailor and Ginny is losing her mind over a woman in a tweed blazer and burgundy brogues.

testosterone (sounds like a spell) by pauraque (Justin/Hannah, E, 8k)

Justin never returned to Hogwarts after the Death Eaters came. He's found that the Muggle world offers other kinds of transfiguration — a body alchemy far more powerful than any magic spell. Sometimes he wonders if anyone even remembers that once, years ago, he was a novice wizard. As it turns out, one person does, and it's the one person he'd most want to.

Winter of '79 by Writcraft (James/Sirius, E, 17k)

Post-punk Britain is in the grip of another brutal winter, Thatcher is in power and Muggle gay bars keep getting raided for no reason at all. Sirius just wants to find somewhere to go drinking with the best mate he definitely doesn’t fancy. When they’re directed towards a tatty Soho sex shop during a night out, neither James or Sirius expect to find a magical street that will change their lives forever.

Pansy, Rows, and Mutual Wanking by @violetclarity and kysprite (Pansy/Hermione, E, 27k)

Eighth year. Hermione's ready. She's going to study, have fun with her friends, and ignore her new roommate's obnoxious wanking habits. And alright, maybe she wouldn't be so annoyed with it if she'd had any good sex in the past. But that doesn't mean she wants Pansy Parkinson to teach her how to wank… does it?

Friends of Dorothy by Writcraft (Harry/Snape, E, 22k)

When Harry Potter sees Severus Snape on a date with another wizard it sets him on a journey of self-discovery that leads to the Friends of Dorothy Detective Agency and a Niffler called Toto.

How We Were Warriors by Writcraft (Harry/Snape, E, 51k)

A homophobic attack in London’s Soho brings Harry to New York City to discover more about the past. Still haunted by love and loss in the eighties, Severus just wants to forget. In Manhattan’s Greenwich Village, past and present collide, and in one another Severus and Harry find hope for the future.

Play Me Like A Love Song by Writcraft (Minerva/Will, E, 68k)

Minerva McGonagall doesn’t believe in love at first sight, which is why her instant attraction to drag king Wilhelmina ("Will") Grubbly-Plank is so unexpected. War tears apart the wizarding world and as one battle ends Minerva and Will must fight once more, this time for the lives of their friends on Little Compton Street. A love story spanning five decades defined by music, laughter and tears, in which love is not always easy, but it’s always worth fighting for.

[denim-mixtapes]

Aren't We All Sinners? - Vol. I: The Good Girl's Guide to Secular Music

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Female Reader Word Count: 3.4k Summary: Summer 1991, you're home from college and questioning everything you were raised to believe by your preacher father. When another fight leads to you storming out of the house and driving aimlessly, you stumble upon a record shop and a man who would change life as you know it for good. -- OR -- Eddie Munson teaches you that there's more to music than praising Jesus. Warnings: WHOLE SERIES 18+ ONLY! For this chapter, only adult language and a bit of Eddie being a perv. More warnings to come as they become relevant.

[Series Masterlist] [Mixtape Playlist]

It’s a tough pill to swallow, the first summer home after going away to college. The bittersweet sting of dry, over-conditioned air and watchful eye of strict parents after your first real taste of freedom. 

Coming out of your shell at university took some time. Nineteen, fresh off of two years at the local catholic junior college and a lifetime of lectures from your preacher father, you swore you wouldn’t make any waves, you were just there to get an education and that was it. What you didn’t expect was that out there, out from under your parents shadow and influence, you would be exposed to all sorts of walks of life. You found friends in people you never would have expected – or even had the chance to meet had your parents had any say – and your randomly assigned roommate challenged your beliefs and pushed your buttons in a way for which you could never thank her enough. But as soon as your guard started to drop the school year was over and you were shuttled back home to curfews and modesty and God-centered TV programming.

Now, it’s the summer of 1991 and you’re questioning more than ever. Your parents' expectations stick on you just as much as your clothing in the humid Indiana air and every ounce of freedom you tasted at school has been ripped away, landing you back in church four days a week and cooped up at home the remainder of your free time. It’s enough to drive anyone to madness. So when a childhood youth group friend invites you to lunch the next day after Sunday Service you’re thrilled for an excuse to leave the house, hopeful for some sense of normalcy in this newly foreign town. 

That hope dies the second you bound down the stairs on Monday afternoon. 

A tired grumble comes from your father behind the wall of the newspaper he’s reading. “Ain’t no way you’re leaving the house like that.” You aren’t even really sure how he saw you from behind it, but stop in your tracks nonetheless. “Go upstairs and put on something more respectable.” 

“I-I’m just going to meet up with Janie,” you stutter, pulling the frayed hem of your denim shorts down as far as they’ll go. The garment had been a gift from your roommate, one of her many hand-me-downs that she passed on to you when you tried to go to a party with her wearing a turtleneck and midi skirt. “I don’t need to be in church clothes.” 

The corner of the paper folds down, one bushy eyebrow raising at your defiance. “Did I say church clothes?” You want to protest, you want to brush past and just run out the door, but the pout on your lips and slump in your posture earns you another stern warning. “I won’t tell you again, young lady. When you go anywhere outside of this home, you represent the church and our parish, so I don’t care if you’re going to the mall or the Met, you will be covering more skin than that.” 

You respond with a stomp on the bottom step, much more childish than you’re known to be, but if he’s going to treat you like a child you may as well get to act like one. From the kitchen, your mother calls out to listen to your father without so much as a glance at either of you. 

Back up the stairs, bedroom door slamming behind you, you shimmy out of the shorts and into a knee length, fluttery skirt and pantyhose. It’s soft contrasted against your hardened, angry features and billows behind you as you descend the stairs again, not even bothering to hear what either of them have to say before you slam yet another door behind you. 

In your car you take out your anger on the radio, punching at the buttons and silently willing any station to come in, but the antenna has been broken on the God forsaken thing since you bought it, so you give up and opt for shoving the only tape you own into the cassette player. From crackling speakers Rich Mullins croons about how awesome God is, the words settling uncomfortably in your ears, and you slap the eject button just as quickly as you put the tape in. The rest of the drive is shrouded in silence except the engine rumbling under the hood and wind whipping in from open windows. 

The drive is aimless. You know where you should be headed, but with your mood already soured the last thing you want to do is sit through shallow small talk and hang on the nostalgia of Church Camp memories. Janie is a sweet girl, though, and she doesn’t deserve to get stood up, so at the sight of a payphone you pull over and pray that she hasn’t left home yet. 

“Hello, Peterson residence, this is Janie,” she answers, bubbly and polite as ever, on the third ring. 

“Hey, Jane,” you say, voice tight and tired, and identify yourself. 

“Well hi, stranger!” She says, south Georgia twang and sweetness still saturate her voice even after 12 years in Indiana. “I was just headin’ out to meet you!”

“That’s why I was ringing, actually. I think I might have to take a rain check.” 

“Oh no! You feelin’ okay?”

You sigh into the phone, guilt already setting in at the worry in her voice. “Yeah, Janie, I’m fine. I just- the heat’s getting to me and I’m in a foul mood–” neither untrue. The telephone booth is steaming up from your humid breath, sweat beading along your hairline. “– and I don’t think I’d be very good company.”

Her hesitance is clear, but she relents. “Well, I doubt that, but… if you’re sure.”

Making quick work to end the phone call, you’re blessed by a light breeze when you step out of the booth. Feeling the heat trapped under your skirt, you roll the waistband twice to feel more of the breeze on the tacky skin behind your knees and weigh your options. 

It’s hot, and you’re heated. The best option objectively is to head home and enjoy the air conditioning, or maybe take a dip in the pool, but the thought of facing your parents again without any time to calm the storm in your head is more unbearable than the sun beating down on your shoulders, so you get back into your car with a huff and decide to just drive. 

Approaching the edge of town, right when you’re thinking about turning back, you come across a strip mall you can’t recall ever seeing. Surely it’s been here some time with its crumbling brickwork and missing shingles, but growing up you didn’t venture too far outside your neighborhood or that of your father’s church, so this side of town is unfamiliar to you. 

Gravel crunches under your tires as you pull to a stop under a darkened streetlamp and look around. Nothing stands out too much as you wander the sidewalk storefronts. Nothing until Camelot Music. 

Bright white glittering letters hang above the doorway boasting the store’s name, and the bulbs behind the ‘t’ flicker with age. The front door is propped open with a sizable rock, a heavy, thrumming bassline inviting you in to curiously peer at the shelves lined with colorful record sleeves and bright signage. At the very least you can get some new tapes for your car, then this excursion could be considered a success. 

The song changes as you step into the store, an impressive, tinny guitar solo opening up the song. It’s good, not something you’ve heard before but you can’t help but nod your head along as you browse the shelves. You see artists your friends have tried to introduce you to and thumb across the covers, but none of them stand out. Madonna, Cyndi Lauper, Culture CLub, they were all definitely better than the worship music you’re made to listen to at home, but none of them sat with you as well as the song that’s playing over the store’s sound system. 

From the moment you enter his store, Eddie is captivated. Spine straightened and brow lifted with interest. The scent of your perfume came wafting in with the wind, something sweet and fruity and oh, so enticing. 

He doesn’t jump into customer service mode just yet, instead choosing to observe, see what artists you approach. See if you’re sure of your direction before he comes on too strong. 

Watching you wander through what he likes to call the ‘cookie cutter aisle,’ his eyes are drawn to the movement of your skirt, the hem brushing at the soft skin just above your knees, the tension in your calves when you tiptoe to read the titles on the top shelf, the anxious fiddling with the gold pendant on your neck, though he can’t see what it is with his distance. 

He has to get closer. 

“Looking for anything in particular?” A voice from behind startles you. 

Instinctively, your hand goes to the crucifix on your neck, clutching it comfortingly as you jump and turn to face the sole employee of the store. 

All signs point to danger with this man. Long, dark, unruly hair hangs in his face as he leans toward you, a hand on the wall beside your head and a smirk on his lips. Snug, ripped jeans and tee shirt with a devil on it cling to his frame, no sign of a uniform except for the name tag that reads ‘Eddie the Banished’ and he’s weighed down with silver. Countless heavy rings and chains adorn him, a stud through his eyebrow and a hoop in the opposite nostril. Ink stains most of the skin you can see. He looks like mischief personified, but he’s looking at you with the biggest, softest brown eyes and his expression softens when he notices your tension. You swear you can see his eyes fall to your chest, but when you smooth the cross back into your skin and drop your hand, those round eyes flick back up to yours. 

“Oh, uh,” you stammer, then point toward the ceiling. “Yeah, actually. Who is this? I really like it.” 

Shock paints his features, his brows shooting up with amusement and he laughs. “What kind of a rock do you live under?” Your shoulders rise and fall in a soft shrug, your arms wrapping around your middle defensively. “It’s Guns N’ Roses, here,” he beckons you down the aisle, past a few genres, and stops in front of a sign marked Hard Rock. You follow his gaze as he scans the shelf before finding the tape in question, plucking it off of the rack and pressing it into your hands. “Appetite for Destruction, their debut album. Sweet Child O’ Mine is the song on now, but the whole record is pretty fuckin’ good.” 

Eddie takes note of the way that you flinch at his swear, but still offer him a smile in thanks, and banks it in his memory alongside all of the other things about you that drew him in. The gold crucifix that rests against your collar. The bruise on your thigh that he shouldn’t be seeing, but he is, because your waistband is rolled and bunched up, shortening the skirt. The way your chest heaves rapidly, the way he can practically see your anxious pulse in the vein running up your neck. The tiny dart of your tongue as you wet your lips nervously. 

You’re a total stranger, a ship passing through, and he wants to ruin you.

“Cool,” you mumble, looking away from his stare and at the shelf of tapes. “Do you have any other suggestions that are similar?” 

A ring clad hand comes to rest on his chin as he thinks, a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat. “I could come up with a ton for you if you give me some time to think, but off the top of my head...oh!” He snatches another title off of the wall and hands it over, “Mötley Crüe. I’d recommend anything of theirs but this is their best album to date.” 

You look down at the cassette in hand, bold, red letters titling the album Shout at the Devil. You have half a mind to put that one back, already hearing your father’s claims of devil worship and sin swimming around in your head, but ultimately decide to just go for it. You nod to the man, Eddie, in appreciation and brush past him toward the counter. 

He prays you don’t feel his eyes on your backside, or the skin exposed by a run in your stockings and the way the material cuts into your skin, making a little roll that he can’t stop thinking about sinking his teeth into. He stands back, distracted, until you reach the counter and turn his way again and he hurries to join you behind the register. 

Register beeping as he types in your items, he asks, “So why the sudden interest in rock, hmm?” He prompts, bagging your items and pushing them toward you. You hand the cash over and he continues, “Wham! just not doing it for ya anymore?” 

“I don’t…know who that is,” you admit sheepishly, savoring the laugh it draws from him, even if it was at your expense. “No, um, actually, hold on.” Digging in the bag, you open both tapes and peel the paper from inside the cover, shoving the crumpled cardboard across the counter. Eddie stares on, appalled that you would deface these albums so quickly.  “Can you throw that away for me? My parents will lose their minds if they see that I’m listening to anything other than worship music. That’s…why I don’t know anything about music. I’m not technically allowed to listen to secular music.” The man before you pales as you speak, straightening his posture from the flirtatious lean he had on the counter to a cautious, respectable distance. He may be a horndog…some may even go so far as to call him a pervert, but he’s not about to put the moves on a fuckin’ teenager. As you continue ranting, however, his internal monologue heaves a sigh of relief. “It’s like – I’m 20 years old for Pete’s sake. I could be living across the God forsaken country if I wanted to, but because they’re paying for my college and I’m under their roof, it’s like they think they can control my every move like a child.”

As you complain, he studies your face. The rosy, heated hue to your cheeks, the heaving of your chest as you get more and more worked up, the way your hands flutter around your face as you rant. The smirk from before takes over his face again as he leans his elbows on the counter, and you feel yourself shrink under his scrutiny. 

“Sorry,” you mumble, taking the bag from the counter. “You didn’t need to know all of that. It’s just…frustrating.” 

Christ, he wants to bite the pout that rests on your lips. Shaking the thought from his head, he says, “no worries. Listen, if you want more recommendations I’m happy to help. Music is kind of my thing.” 

You study those big, brown eyes cautiously, and you’re met with an intriguing cocktail of promise, sincerity, and a little bit of a warning. It’s a surprise to both of you when you nod. “Yeah, okay, thanks.” 

“Great,” he grins, waving as you back up toward the door. “Give those a listen and tell me what you think, I’ll have more for you next time you’re in.” 

You spend the rest of the evening driving around Hawkins. Wind from the open windows whips your hair around your face, lip gloss staining the straw to your coke. Accompanied by the hum of cicadas, Axl Rose serenades you through fuzzy speakers, bringing goosebumps to your skin. 

When you pull into your driveway, the sunset has painted sherbert tones across the sky, and you sit and wait for the track to end before stashing the tapes in your glove box and heading inside. 

Not even the scolding from your mother for returning home after sundown can bring you down from the floaty mood you’re in.

On your next visit you’re eager to tell him your thoughts on both albums, and he presents you with Led Zeppelin IV. “An oldie but a goodie,” he claims, pressing the plastic into your hands and then guiding your fingers closed around it with his own.

You’re back every few days, always discarding the packaging as soon as you make your purchase, always strutting around the store in those damn skirts and knee socks, soft pink and off white tops and shiny lip gloss, innocence and purity and daring him to steal a glance at parts of you he shouldn’t. Eventually, Eddie starts inviting you to stay and listen in store, instead of spending all your money. It’s not a great business tactic, but he loves the idea of you coming around more often and staying longer, and he loves getting to see the blissed out look on your face when you’re enjoying his selection of the day even more. Besides, you always end up buying at least one new album for yourself every visit anyway. So now you spend your afternoons on the little wooden stool behind the Camelot Music counter, feet kicking back and forth beneath you, making small talk and getting a heavy metal education from Eddie Munson. In between albums he inquires about your upbringing, usually through shock that you don’t know 90% of the musicians he references. He teases you for your aversion to swearing, and promises that one of these days he’ll get you to say ‘fuck.’ You inquire on the meaning behind his tattoos. Sometimes there is one, sometimes the meaning is that he had extra money and thought it looked cool. For the most part, though, you just listen to music together and talk about the parts you liked and the parts you didn’t care so much for, passing smiles across the counter and between stacks of tapes.

On your sixth visit, he sends you on your way with his own personal collection of Black Sabbath tapes, his top 3 favorites, claiming that they mean more because they were borrowed. You’re about to walk out of the store when he stops you with a hand on your forearm. 

“So, these guys are a little heavier than what I’ve been giving you, but I know you can handle it,” his eyes flick down to where you worry your lip between your teeth. “But they’re one of my favorites. They’re a huge inspiration for my band.” 

“You’re in a band?” You ask, though you’re not at all surprised. 

“Sure am,” he boasts, thumb thrust over his shoulder at a flier on the wall that reads Corroded Coffin. Washed in grayscale, an elevated version of the Eddie you’ve come to know stands at the front of the group in a fishnet top and leather pants, electric guitar slung low on his hips and dark makeup lining his eyes. Normally you’d laugh at the sight of someone you know dressed like that, but on him it works. “We’ve got a gig out at the Phoenix in Muncie this Saturday. If you end up liking Sabbath you should check us out.” 

“Oh, I’m-” you shake your head, laughing at your own hesitation, “is it 21 plus?” 

“Oh shit,” Eddie says, and you blink at the word. He shrugs, “don’t worry about it. They don’t usually card, and if they do I’ll tell them you’re with me.” The statement is accompanied by  a wink and a squeeze to your shoulder that has you nodding dumbly. 

“O-okay. I’ll be there.” 

With a stare fixed firmly on your behind, shameless in his attraction now that he’s gotten to know you, Eddie calls out to your retreating figure, “countin’ on it, sweetheart!” It’s only when you get to your car that you realize he’s given you four tapes. The three Sabbath ones you knew about, but tucked into the front pocket of your purse is a fourth tape, a mixtape, the title of which has you blushing and shaking your head as you pop it in and watch the permanent marker scrawled “The Good Girl’s Guide to Secular Music” disappear into the tape deck.

[unstablemotions]

having nightly nightmares about my cousin dying from medical maltreatment. i spend hours every morning to get over these nightmares trying to figure out if it happened or not, since my dissociative disorder makes it hard for me to tell the difference between dreams and reality. it's really hard because i have no idea what i can do to help her. i've tried reading up on the law, but what i find is bleak. it says that if a doctor has judged you to be psychotic, they can decide if they can use force to treat you. my cousin has an ME diagnosis, but it is from a private practitioner whom the public health care system are preventing her from seeing making all sorts of excuses, such as it costing too much money when they are not the ones paying. it is a common thing here that you get punished medically by the public healthcare system if you go private for some of your treatment, sadly. idk why, since the only reason people go private is the long waiting lists or being rejected treatment

i want to just travel to the place my cousin is and stop the psychiatry from entering her room, but that might just make it worse, since they might then involve the cops and it could stress out my cousin more. also she's too sick for visitors and she's also struggling with texting. i've tried to ask her if there's anything i can do, but so far she's just given me a link to a petition. i don't know if medical personnel here is gonna take it seriously since they are already so quick to reject the diagnosis from her private practitioner and also reject the recent psychiatric evaluation where they said she was not psychotic

when i studied psychology, we were taught that is was important to first rule out any somatic explanation for symptoms before giving a psychiatric diagnosis, but here it seems like they are just calling her psychotic, because they don't believe in ME being an actual disorder. i am so confused because i've grown up with a psychotic mom. i have psychotic friends. my cousin is not showing any of the same symptoms that they have - especially not enough to take away her freedom and forcefully treat her with strong medication and electroconvulsive treatment. she has seizures already. how tf is inducing a seizure gonna magically cure her?? i really hope they won't give her ect, but they've mentioned it to her so im scared. she can't fight back other than say no. even if she could fight back, if you're diagnosed psychotic, they can just sedate you and give you whatever treatment they think will help you by force. i know many people who've been forcefully treated either by being restrained or coerced. the psychiatry is horrifying

like i get that they think they are saving my cousin or whatever, but like why tf aren't they listening to her doctor or to her or her family/friends when they say that she's been improving through the treatment the private doctor gave her? yes, it's slow, but she's severely disabled with multiple things, so ofc she's not just gonna magically not be disabled and go back to work and uni. don't they think that if she could, she'd be out of bed? i get that delusions can make you think you can't do things that you actually can do, but you can't just call someone delusional before making sure that they are not suffering from a physical illness and actually cannot fucking walk. yes, some conditions get better if you push yourself, but not ME! lots of physical conditions get worse if you push yourself. but they won't listen to her. they won't listen to her doctor or the scientific consensus on ME. it is horrifying. she's not the only person i know who's been medically maltreated for their chronic illness - especially not if you're a woman and you experience chronic pain. they do not take you seriously. someone i worked with almost died from appendicitis because they didn't take her pain seriously. she's sterile now because they only took her seriously when her dad came and shouted at them. my mom was not taken seriously when she suspected she's got diabetes ii and was then fatshamed when they finally agreed to properly test her and it turned out she was diabetic. i know more chronically ill people, who've been struggling to be taken seriously. im so lucky i was taken seriously only because it's a fairly common genetic disease that runs in my family and it is recognised as real in my country, but so many people receive medical maltreatment and it is sometimes permanently damaging to them if not lethal. it is at the very least traumatising and takes years away from their life where they could have taken an education, got work experience, saved money for a home, build a family, ect.

this is just a rant for my own peace of mind really. i just need to get this frustration off my chest a little by screaming into the void. i have no idea what to do to help my cousin. all i can do is say i'm here if she needs me

[bonefall]

The experience of just casually reading Warrior Cats and something like the Bumble scene just comes out to metaphorically whack me in the head and make me ask what the hell just happened. I’ve been mostly enjoying Dawn of the Clans, been liking most of the characters, but the Bumble just feels so out of left field. It’s also really confusing narratively as well. A conflict where Tall Shadow wants to protect her cats against Clear Sky’s cats could be really interesting, and some sort of mind game subplot with Wind could be interesting as well, but the Bumble scene is just such a contrived and poorly written way to convey whatever the hell is happening.

Considering the new story team took over during this part of the arc, I can imagine that so many things got bungled plotwise. The mountain cats being kind of wary of things associated with the twolegplace due to dogs and monsters and the supposed untrustworthiness of twolegs as well as the death of Shaded Moss is something I’d at least be willing to buy as to why they would be at least a bit wary around Bumble, but every previous indication of their feelings about kittypets felt more like “I don’t get why cats would stay with twolegs” rather than “kittypets all suck actually.”

Also I think the whole Bumble situation goes against a large theme of the arc about a group of cats from different walks of life banding together, and the trials and tribulations they face. Given the rapid pace of Warrior Cats’ books releases, I’m not surprised stuff like this slips through the cracks.

I completely and utterly reject that this is a problem of the new writing team. I hear that in just about every 3rd comment about DOTC's awful writing. This sprawls back just as far as Sun Trail and you can't hide from it-- Sun Trail was the exact moment of onboarding for the team as confirmed by James Noble, with them having enough influence on this arc as to push Gray Wing's death off at least 2 times.

And everything shitty about Gray Wing goes right back to Sun Trail

Possessive of his love interests and where they go? This trait of Gray Wing starts in Sun Trail, with Storm, and eventually with Turtle too when she decides he's treating her like ass and Bumble's making a good offer.

Excusing his brother's garbage actions, completely ignoring the tone of wider scenes? Starts in Sun Trail, when he has a casual chat with Clear Sky after almost being murdered by Fox, killing him, being disavowed, and Storm evaporating

Misogyny? Storm AND Bright Stream were fridged in the same book.

Abuse apologia? Storm is in an argument with Clear Sky, her movement and freedom being restricted, in the very scene we find out she's pregnant. "He's just being protective" passed all around, leaving because he's being godawful, and her dying horribly because he was right all along about Her Needing Him. She dies apologizing to him.

Xenophobia? The Tribe cats distrust kittypets almost immediately, even being attacked by rogues, with Gray Wing hating Bumble the second he sees her (probably because she makes Turtle Tail happy).

I don't remember if he calls Bumble fat in Sun Trail but if you make me go back into it for evidence I'm going to Hunt an Erin

Sun Trail has a high note near the end, with Gray Wing announcing he is Thunder's father now. It's one line, not actually showing us anything about how good their relationship is. It's already strained by Thunder Rising. Gray Wing learns the same lesson about his brother being the devil at the end of every book and it never sticks

It was never good about families, it was never good about ableism, or abuse, or misogyny, these cats were jerks from practically the beginning.

And no I also completely reject that this arc at any point, let alone as a "Larger Theme" was about "cats of different walks of life banding together." When?? When they gave Wind and Gorse a ridiculously hard time about joining? When the Tribe cats pressured them to change their names to 'fit in'? When the Moor group was pissed off that Turtle spent the winter in Bumble's house and almost didn't let her back in?

When Clear Sky was shown as a Big Savior for kindly bringing civilization to all these lawless rogues, or was it when he was being portrayed as a bully who "didn't care" who fights for him when Snake and his stinky breath come on screen?

Or was it when they were fighting One Eye and Slash, two pure evil foreigners they had to conjure out of the ether because they decided that Clear Sky's sooo sorry now, getting rid of their main antagonist because they REFUSED to have a member of the Good and Wonderful Tribe cats remain a villain?

No, no no no no. The Bumble Debacle isn't out of left field, it's the whole goddamn arc. It's just the most egregious, undeniable moment of DOTC's ghoulishness and the part that puts its flaws on full display

[magpieinstitute]

From the big city he came, with his scriptures, and his high brow judgement. With his perfect teeth and hands that - despite the wear of travel and the frequent wielding of butcher's tools - were clearly those of a man foreign to honest work.

In a small village like mine, where the men from the city bring nothing, he is the sort you don't turn your back to. He is the kind who takes and offers nothing in return. Who thinks that coin will buy him food, boots, and people's hearts alike. The kind that silences the tavern when he enters, because your words turn to poison in his ears and he can take what he wishes. We were right to fall silent, and to gruffly shut him down. The damage he still did was more than enough. Of course he got to Cara, she didn't have to hide among us, so she wasn't hard to find for his prying eyes. I suppose that is a lesson for us. She will be safer now.

Cara they call her, though we all know that's not her true name. All's fair though, a name has power and she's a smart woman for keeping it close to her. She wraps it up most days, but all in the village knows of the brand on her forearm. She's property, or used to be once. Don't think she bought her freedom, so I suppose she still is. Not that any of us would rat her out, all of us owe something we can't pay to a lord who'd see us dead for less.

I was knee-high when Cara came to the village. I remember it clearly, because a storm had knocked good branches off lord Farragh's trees, and they'd fallen in our fields. If we were faster than the lord's footmen, we'd have enough fuel for months without facing the hunt for poachers. It was lucky that we were out there early to find her, shivering in her rags by the fencepost. We took her back, poured some hot broth and ale into her and wrapped a blanket around her shoulders near the fireplace. When she'd stopped shivering, she asked for shelter. She could work, she said, had done for years, farmwork. She was thorough, she said, and we could use an extra pair of hands.

She hadn't promised too much, she worked hard and she worked good. All through winter. She patched roofs, she mended the fences with us, and she clearly understood the animals better than we ever could. Come spring, we found out what she really was, and by then she'd already earned our loyalty, so she had no reason to be afraid.

She'd been careful about it, but I was there with her, I was the first she confided in. We were watching one of the cows, she'd been laboring since midnight, keeping me up with her lowing, and when Cara came that morning, she took a single look at the poor beast and turned on her heels. I'd already started to lose hope for the cow when Cara returned, carrying a small bundle. She was never a woman for many words, but she put her finger to her lips and made me swear not to tell anyone. I swore.

She opened the rag and retrieved a few items. A bundle of dried herbs, a smooth chip of bone with a symbol carved in it, and a piece of red string. She lit the herbs, and ran it once, twice, thrice across the red string before tying it to the piece of bone. She put it around the cow's neck and walked around the animal, moving the smoking bundle with quiet intent.

I didn't understand the words that left her lips, but I understood their power. When Cara finished speaking and bade me to help her, the cow had stopped panting, and her lowing was a rumble that sounded more determined than desperate to my ears. She gave birth to two healthy calves that morning, even though I knew she shouldn't have. I wasn't going to cry foul at this though, losing the cow could've meant hunger for us, so my family gave Cara some of the cheese we kept, despite her protests.

From then on, no cow died before their time. The plagues that haunted the chicken pens were gone when she hung her little shards of bone or metal on the fences, or laced a ribbon inscribed with red ink around a horse's bridle.

She cared for us too, took away fevers, and soothed birthing pains. Without her, the plague that swept the countryside two winters ago would've devastated us, but she taught us how to cleanse our hands and keep our faces covered. She spoke her incantations over the boils that formed on our skins and she made the tinctures for those who lost their sight. Only three deaths, and Cara was pale and shivering after each of those, whispering profuse apologies even though none of us would blame her.

The men from the city come to us with tales of the Radiant God, and his Bright Saints. Of women and men martyred with glorious purpose, tortured and senseless. We know better than to believe those tales. We see the compassion of bone and blood and ancient word. We know the value of honest hands and tongues that know power, and it doesn't demand tithes, and sacrifice, and confession. All it asks is kindness and a helping hand.

The man who calls himself Witch Hunter would strike us for speaking such words, so we kept silent when he came. But he found out anyway, he saw the charms, and though his heart is rotten, his mind is sharp, so he found Cara's homestead. He came to her late at night.

When we woke the next morning, we found he'd bound her to the Springdance Pole with heavy rope that chafed her wrists. Her dark hair was caked with blood, and her clothes were all but torn from her body. She was shivering, and in a flash I saw her sitting by the fencepost again, wearing nothing but rags. The rage that went through all of our hearts was palpable, and by no order, we all came with the tools we needed for the day's work. Tools that could as well break bone and tear flesh as they could turn hay and mend buckets.

He was grinning ear to ear, believing the gathering crowd to be out for blood. He was right, though it wasn't the witch's blood he was after. We stood frozen, listening to his poisoned words as he smugly pronounced the sentence over her, produced a noose, swung it from a tree branch at the square's edge. We only moved when he laid hands on Cara again.

Had he walked, he would've lived. I wasn't raised a cruel woman, I even try to avoid slaughtering a chicken if I can, but the rage that pulsed through me as I heard Cara's cry of pain tinted my vision red as blood. I do not know who started it, only that by the time we were done, the man's teeth were no longer perfect, and he could barely keep his head up well enough to curse our heretic souls. We hung him, and his tongue would not speak vile words again.

We buried him deep, so not even the dogs could find him. And when a party came with questions, we only shrugged.

"No witches here, m'lord," we'd say.

"We hung the last one, no evil in our midst."

The Witch Hunter has done it, he has caught an authentic witch. Pushing his prey over into the gallows for the villagers to see, they gathered around carrying farming tools and weapons. He was about to put the noose around her neck when he realized they weren’t there for her, but for him.

[instablamwriter]

A3! | CitoGuy | fathom

Rating: G

Summary:

Guy and Citron finally talk.

A/N: my 2nd gift to Jacob for #A3PrideExchangeEvent2024 !

Also on Ao3

An instance is all it can take for one to realize that the life they’ve come to know is a total lie and they’re stuck having to navigate through the revelation and how it colors the way they view life now.

So many of these instances occurred right after another that it’s only now that he’s back in Zafra, after saving Citronia, that Guy has realized that everything from his dismissal as a servant to his realization of his humanity to joining Mankai Company to preventing a coup happened within 2 months. It’s a lot of information to take in and answering the questions of the curious many drains his energy more than he expected.

He finally gets to excuse himself two hours into the celebration held to commemorate the announcement of a new heir. He leaves using a secret path he used to traverse through as Citronia’s aide, leading to the balcony of Citronia’s quarters.

Much to his surprise, even though it shouldn’t be unexpected, Citronia stands on the balcony, the moonlight highlighting his complicated expression.

Shouldn’t Citronia be happy that he can now live his life freely? After all these years of trying to maintain his princely image?

But why does he look so…

“Guy.”

Without missing a beat, Guy walks up to Citronia and kneels. “Yes, Citronia?”

“No need to kneel to me, remember? I’m no longer your future king. Even if I’m of royalty, we are now friends of the same standing.” Citronia huffs a laugh, looking away from him. A light breeze rustles his untied hair.

“Indeed.”  Guy stands up again. “What is it you needed?”

Citronia turns to him, smile not reaching his eyes.

“I’m happy you guys came to get me. But you would have made it easier on yourself if you hadn’t gone through all the trouble.”

“How could I leave you when you have given me so much?” From when they first met, Citronia had shown him more care than anyone else had. Guy still does not understand all of Citronia’s intentions, but he can see that each order had been meant for Guy’s sake. Concealed as a selfish act to keep a servant, Citronia saved him from becoming an on-field agent that would have most likely died without anyone to bury him. And as an act of giving Guy his own freedom and getting the chance to find the truth about himself, he was vilified as a criminal barred from entering Zafra.

While Citronia can say harsh words to him, his actions betray his thoughtfulness. How can he not want to repay that?

“Stupid Guy. I had chosen my own path.”

“You’re always thinking about everyone else.” He truly is the most princely man he’s ever met.

“I was thinking that it’ll be good if at least one of us would be happy.” The words ‘even if it were not me’ go unsaid, but Guy hears them anyway.

“Citronia…” Guy’s heart sinks into the vast ocean. The kindness of Citronia cannot be measured in any capacity. He puts on the act of a fool to make others laugh and be happy; he takes on the weight of the crown even though no part of him wants it. He wants harmony and still loves his wretched brothers despite everything. How can such a man exist? How can such a man do so much for him?

Citronia smiles, as if he understands the heaviness in Guy's chest, as if he knows that Guy can only fathom so much.

“You have such a stupid look on your face. What are you thinking now?”

“Thank you, Citronia. I am so honored that we are friends. If you need anything at all, you have me at your disposal.”

Citronia clicks his tongue. “Don’t talk as if you’re some sort of trash.”

“I apologize.” Citronia shakes his head and sighs.

“Friends...” There's a look that Guy does not understand, a longing he's never seen. Isn't this what Citronia desired? Their friendship finally being acknowledged?

“For now, it's enough. I can’t expect you to understand so easily.”

Guy cocks his head in confusion. Once again, Citronia says things full of hidden meaning.

“Enough. Let’s go back to the party. Tangerine must be waiting.” Citronia gestures him as usual, leading with a confident stride.

Guy stops in his tracks. “Citronia.”

Citronia looks back at him, questioning. Guy smiles. “Will you save a dance for me?”

There’s silence for a second before Citronia goes back to him and takes his hand, face full of amusement.

“Alright.”

[letters-left-unread]

Smite, I wrote something thinking of our time.

It's the middle of summer here. I'm wondering if I can die from overheating. Preferably in my sleep. I imagine it's painful but I imagine all deaths are. I'm scared of pain. What if ghosts aren't real and I don't get to see him again even in my final memories. But the weight of survival is reaching unbearable levels.

For all my trying. Struggling. Fighting. I have done so much damage. Hurt people. I never thought about it much before. Many of the people I hurt was in response to how they treated me. I was trying to get better. Trying to improve the situation. So many resources poured into my existence. For what? Things to constantly go wrong?

I am a curse. How I exist is too much. I can't escape myself. Since I was a child I believed that people are better off without me. So I pushed people away. Finding just enough cruelty to keep them away. But I didn't really want that. I knew I would just keep reaching out to try fix things. I ask too much and then blow up. I was trying so hard.

One day I wanted to wake up. I would get to see him. I had the rhythm down. I had worked so hard to be able to engage with healthy habits like these. I was happy. It lasted 6 months. Then it all came crashing down. A car crash and trapped with omega over the worst of lockdown.

I thought I was okay. I thought I could finally engage with people. Things weren't great but I proved I could do it. But one of the friends I had made preyed on me. Trying to get me to be with them in some capacity. Tearing into the relationship between Smite and me carefully. I was a fool. Easy to convince that I had been betrayed. After that things were never the same.

I tried to fix things and didn't know how. Clawing to not be at such a distance. I saw less and less of him as time went by. And I would get sad then angry. He would just say sorry but would never tell me why. Eventually I figured he'd be better off without me too. I said the cruelest things. And a greater distance was kept.

I couldn't walk anymore. I lost my job. The job which meant that I could save to bring us together. The legs that were my freedom. I didn't handle that well. Then more death came indirectly. Someone I knew a time ago but didn't like. Reminding me of the people I already lost. My mental illness was set to max and my baggage came through in full force to weigh us down.

I'd been starting to get more mobility back before he died. I'd started to realise that I was being stupid and should apologise. I tried. I figured I needed to talk to him about everything. But I didn't know how. I wanted to see him. But I panicked during the conversation and don't remember what happened. Now we'll never know.

I got a call letting me know that I'd been referred to the physio. It was on the same day I got confirmation that he died. One of the things that I had been trying to sort just felt so meaningless. It took months to get there. For what.

I feel that weight. The weight of everything that has been done wrong against me. The weight of all my mistakes. I still don't regret much of what I did before meeting him. So much of it feels justified. But him. To me he was nothing but kind. His anger gave me hope. I saw the destructive tendencies and I felt safer than I'd ever been.

I thought we were fighting to be better. Talking to doctors and such. We both seemed to feel the other would be better with someone else. So I said we should try be better then. Somewhere along the way it seems we got lost.

I still love him. I just wish he hadn't left me behind.

I wonder what you would think of this all.

Yours faithfully and forever ♥️ Sammiches x

[juliehamill]

Grief is essential, but it doesn’t have to be the end

I'm doing some author events, but before I tell you about them, let me tell you the insight that my books rest upon, which I call little visits.

I confess, I have a very active mind.  It’s crazy at times, with many cars in many lanes going in different directions, their boots bulging with stupendous ideas. In the past I’ve been described as quirky.  I’ve been asked what planet I’m on.  I’ve seen expressions of exasperation when words have spilled out of my mouth that were meant to be kept on the tongue.  Oops.  The truth is, I let my imagination travel where it wants to, sometimes too far and over the edges of the earth, but I consider this freedom of mind as a sort of gift.  It leaves me open to let other ‘outside’ thoughts in, and one big outside belief is that I’m sure that two people, who are both no longer alive, send me signs to let me know they’re still around.

The first is Gillian.  

Gillian and I were lifelong friends from school, sharing passions and daftness. We were always giggling, listening to music, going out and talking about boys.  For forty years we laughed, cried and loved, and then, aged forty-seven, she was diagnosed as having a brutally painful cancer, and died six months later. The last few days I spent with her were precious. She passed away five years ago, but Gillian has many ways of telling me she’s okay.

Recently, as I was catching up with Gillian’s sister, Fiona, on the phone, I entered a cafe to buy a coffee.  Right then, Lloyd Cole came on in the background.  Gillian and I were mad about Lloyd Cole, and managed to climb on stage beside him at a Glasgow Pavilion gig in the 80s.

‘Can you hear that?’  I said as I held out the phone for Fiona to hear Lost Weekend.  

‘Oh my God it’s Lloyd Cole’, she replied.  

‘She’s listening to our call’, I said.  

‘She knows we’re talking about her!’

‘She’s saying she’s here too!’

We smiled for a few seconds.  A tiny moment of comfort, momentous in its power to connect.

The second is Bridget.  

My late mother-in-law was the most generous, soft, kind and rapturously funny woman I have ever met. We were very close when the children were babies.  She lived around the corner and was round in a flash when I needed her.  She loved her grandchildren, and I know she loved me, because she’d insist I take a nap when the children took theirs, and I’d wake up to see all the dishes done and washing folded.  Long after she died, my husband, her beloved son, had to refurbish her house.  On a walk around her empty bedroom upstairs, I said, ‘So what do you think?’  And her voice entered my mind, ‘Well this is absolutely beautiful’, she said, ‘I can’t believe what you’ve done with the place!’  Again, I smiled, feeling her close.  I told her I couldn’t take the credit, it was all Gerard’s work.  ‘Well that’s a first!’ she said.

I see Gillian and Bridget in my dreams.  The dreams are always vivid.  I see them clearly and they’re telling me they’re okay.  Sometimes when I’m dropping off to sleep I ask them to visit me and they do.

I suppose, you could say, that I don’t have to believe they’re present or talking to me. You could say I’m bringing all this nonsense on myself.  You could say it’s the strength of my imagination, or my grief, or just a strong memory.  I could choose to think I am just quirky, like they say.  However, if believing helps me feel a little less sore in myself, then where’s the harm in it?

Ever seen a robin land in your garden?  It could be a little hello.  When a white feather floats down, they could be thinking of you.  When a dream feels so real and vivid, maybe you had a visit.  If you hear the voice in your head and it joins in the conversation; clearly answering.  You can visualise them, sitting in their chairs, walking in the park, standing by the kettle, having forty winks.  Hear their favourite songs and know they are still connected to you.  Love and search their photos, and wish you had more.  Feel the sun after the rain, enjoy rainbows and washing drying quickly.  Treasure the foot prints they left on this earth.  Let the outside thoughts in.

Of course you don’t have to believe any of it, but doesn’t it help a little bit when you do?

Next time you see that Robin, say hello.

‘June’, the concluding part of the Life and Soul trilogy by Julie Hamill will be published on October 31st, 2023. The theme of the trilogy is grief, love and loss within a Scottish family.  The stories are set during the 1980s and 1990s and have won high praise from critics.  Pre order June from Amazon on Kindle or paperback here 

Order Frank (part I) here

Order Jackie (part II) here

Talking events

Julie Hamill will be hosted by North Lanarkshire Libraries on 30th October 2023 at 12pm as part of a special online presentation with readings and audience Q&A.  Register for a free place here

Julie Hamill will be appearing at The Dublin Castle, Camden November 2nd, 7.30pm for Q&A, book signing and music from the 80s era, free entry, all welcome.

[szftzy]

such a sweet person❕

[一]

your duties as a superior being usually were crowded but this time, you finally had time for yourself, however. was it really worth it?the touch of warmness has not been in your reach for many years, it would be an in vain attempt to try to bring it back, though when you saw the nations citizens? they were so peaceful, for once said warmth clouded your heart.

for thousands of years, and ever since the creation of the world that was named ‘teyvat’, you had been watching, aware of anything and everything that was happening and teyvat. So why hadn't you took action..?

Well, ever since the archon war and the loss of many mortals life, you felt as if every duty you did under your name as a god mattered not. It was useless, you thought of yourself as a shame and an embarrassment to everyone.

you had simply thought that it would be over and no one would be endangered, but oh were you so wrong.. you hadn’t made an attempt to save the multiple lives that have died under the hands of many others, However, from that day forward when the archon war came to a stop (which you may or may not have been the one to do so)

you swore that until the day you drop, you wont miss the opportunity to save anothers life from being taken. sure they could die from natural causes but any huge war will not be seen out there for long.

you entered the gates of liyue, it was no surprise they let you in easily, you hid yourself as a normal citizen with a normal background.

you wandered the said nation, viewing the joyous children and animals, along with people just doing what they love doing most, it brought warmth to your heart, however;

you stood still as people of liyue passed by, one by one, you slowly drowned the talking of citizens out of your ears, that feeling. It was replaced by nothing more but loneliness, loneliness of the reminder: that you don't belong

for many centuries, you had buried yourself with duties. although people worshipped you, and you answered them. You couldn't bring yourself to think that you actually are worthy of anything

you were treated as a high superior, you didnt want others to treat you as if your something higher, your not. you just want to feel the warmth that a normal person can feel, without anything coming in the way, for once, just this once..

departing in inazuma was, not easy to say the least? the gates were closed; ideally they wouldnt let you in without some sort of verification your permit to be here.

this once, you decided. You could visit the nations, and see how much they have grown.. however inazuma still stays the same, such as the archon living up to her ideals of ‘eternity’

she was a cruel woman to say the least, you arent going to suddenly go against her of course, you had already been a burden enough to everyone, especially the mortals, they definitely dont want you standing up for them as you have already failed your job to protect them last time..

looking at the people of inazuma, hurt your heart. The lack of freedom? you wanted to desperately save others from the pain you were in, but that was a duty for another time, for now you just wanted to wander around

seeing that atleast the children are joyful made you feel the slightest better—

you felt a water drop hit your head, what? Did i get too lost in my emotions? I must’ve been real dramatic.

you did, well its no surprise- you took place under an open roof where the rain wouldn’t get you. your eyes traced over the bypassers walking along the street, holding umbrellas.

its similar. Its the same scenario as in liyue, well. I think its time to flee out of here.

arriving in mondstadt, well it was a pretty sight to say the least, you loved the dandelions there! they glowed in the dark when nothing else is reluctant to, it shines in the morning light when its most active, its quite literally the most popular type of flower in mondstadt—

I got too invested into my thoughts there, this is really starting to manifest into a bad habit..

i started to focus my eyes on to the vast numbers of people holding umbrellas, some trying to find shelter in the cold weather, securing them from rain. Meanwhile I didnt care much, sure i could get a cold but its less important then what i have to worry about.

the water drops hit the cold hard grounds of the city, the noise sounding like a cry of help. In the meanwhile all i wanted was for someone to pull me out of this sea of pain, but yet no one noticed, mainly because i dont show it.

then and there, standing in front. i still don't feel anything. taking my leave, seeing as i have saw enough.

[ 一　means: number one in japanese] anyways, idk why i made this trashy piece of angst, but i submitted this idea to a blog, and then I saw it as a good series so i basically decided to entertain the thought!

[TDLR: god reader feels lonely and unworthy seeing as their a burden for not taking action in the archon war, resulting them to have lost many mortal friends, they feel helpless, basically depressed reader lol dont mind me self projecting!!]

[emjiroki]

I love your theme by the way and the header is so cute KJSDNgjer also I copied and pasted the whole list then erased some lmaooo so you have a bit to answer but I hope you don't mind <3

😅 What's a story or scene you've created that you're a smidge

🦅 Do you outline fics or fly by the seat of your pants?

🤗 What advice would you give to new fanfic writers that are just getting started?

💞 Who's your comfort character?

🤩 Who is your favorite character to write?

🤲 Would you please share a snippet of a wip?

🤯 What's a genre you struggle with as a writer (ex. romance, action, etc.)?

💔 Is there a fic of yours that broke your heart?

🤭 Do you have a favorite tag to use when posting your works?

🥰 How do you feel about reader interaction? Are you open to receiving questions about your fics?

I definitely don't mind!!! (Thank you for the compliment on my theme btw! I just LOVE valentines day and all it's pretty colors 🥰)

I'll put this under a cut so it doesn't get too long 💕

😅- well honestly I deleted my cringest story about a year ago and it is now archived somewhere deep in my Google docs. It was a Hawks x Reader x Endeavor fic that was three parts. The title was cringe and the whole thing just wasn't planned out very well

🦅- I try my best to outline! Trying to have some organization helps me keep things in line but most of the time the characters and scenes have a mind of their own, I'm just along for the ride.

🤗- advice I would give would be don't limit yourself! Write whatever you want and don't put yourself in a box. Writing something you enjoy truly is key to having a successful story because you put your all into it. And it's not all numbers, just because something you wrote and posted didn't get a lot of likes does not mean it wasn't good! Don't be discouraged!

💞- oh wow I have so many lol Shoto, Mikey, Enji, AngelDevil and Aki and lots and lots more. (Um also Simon "Ghost" Riley from COD but I don't talk about him that often)

😍- Favorite Character to write is probably Enji. I got labeled as a top Enji writer pretty quickly (and unexpectedly) and he's just fallen into the muse category. I feel alot of freedom writing his character and hopefully don't make him to ooc lol

🤲- Hmmmmm well I guess I could.... Knight Enji WIP it is

 Enji had a direct view of the door to the chapel from where he stood posted to the King's left beside the window, and he thinks he might have been the first to see you in the doorway. It was suddenly very hot underneath his heavy armor and he was thankful that he didn’t need to wear the helmet because he might have fainted. Was that his heart hammering behind his eyes, through his fingers tips, and toes? He was sure he died and somehow made it to heaven, broke down the pearly gate, and clawed his way through the clouds to get a glimpse of the angels as you walked through the held-open doors and seemed to suck the air from the room. The closer you got to the alter the more dry his mouth grew, the more his big hands shook, the more his stomach knotted. The stained glass of the church windows glimmered against your skin. Red, Blue, Green, He traced your features in every color, etching your beauty into his memory as a keepsake forever. He would crave it into his flesh if he could, down to the bone so after he’s dead and gone even the worms would know his devotion.

🤯- Genre I struggle with is any sort of mystery. I really don't know why I can't think of good plot twists to save my life. I usually have to talk out my plots with my husband

💔- an old Levi fic I wrote that I never released and is still archived in my docs. It's bittersweet and I just love him so much it hurts (also Oni's Heart pt 3 after readers been taken and Enji is depressed for a bit. Sad.)

🤭- em writes ✍️ is my go to tag for my fics so I can organize and em talks 👄 is my most often used I think

🥰- I LOVE reader interaction!!!! It makes me so happy! And YES PLEASE ASK ME THINGS! I'm always open to questions! And love discussing characters and plots and stuff! MY INBOX IS ALWAYS OPEN 💕

[delimeful]

you cant go back (2)

warnings: fear, miscommunication, guilt, mentions of theoretical gore/injury, dehumanization, referring to a person as 'it', general angst

-

For the fourth day in a row, Lady Macbeth had spurned him.

Roman frowned, pulling the strap of his messenger bag over his head and tossing it over the back of a kitchen chair.

Lady was old, smug, and occasionally very cranky, but she wasn’t deaf like Ophelia-- she always came prancing over once she heard his keys rattling in the lock, delighted at the opportunity to smear cat hair all over his pants and get her claws stuck in his shoelaces.

Yet here he stood, catless.

For the past few days, too, she hadn’t been in the house at all when he got home. He’d been downright worried that first day, uneasy until she strolled back in at dusk.

They had an expansive backyard that their younger cats took delight in frolicking in, but their second-oldest cat was a rare visitor to the outdoors. Lady was first and foremost a homebody, and she preferred a warm body to sit on. Their squishy heat-generating human bodies were the only reason she hadn’t assassinated them all in their sleep by now, according to--

Roman cut the thought off sharply, feeling familiar grief pit up in his throat. He shook his head, the motion harsh enough to make his neck twinge. There was no time for standing about and pondering! He had a cat to locate!

A determined jut to his chin, he grabbed what supplies he would need for this perilous journey-- cat treats, a catnip toy, even a tempting cardboard box-- and strode confidently out the backdoor.

For the next half-hour, he wandered around the acres of their property, greeting each of the goats and chickens by name as he checked all the most common cat hidey-holes.

He’d almost given up by the time he stumbled across the old barn, pant legs covered in burrs and the beginnings of a sunburn across the back of his neck. Whatever delightful cat secrets Lady was so busy with, surely he could discover them when it wasn’t the middle of summer.

Just before he could turn around, though, he noticed that one of the doors was just slightly ajar.

Roman felt his brow gradually scrunch up the longer he stared at it. It had been locked up after the last of the old supplies had been moved from it, hadn’t it? The last big storm had proved it wasn’t weather-worthy, his dad had plans to take it apart for timber, ones that had seemingly been forgotten after… afterwards.

Petty inconveniences of getting there forgotten, Roman crept closer on light feet, grip tight on the catnip mouse in his hand. The wind died down at an eerily perfect moment, and he strained to hear beyond those old wooden walls.

Not everything is a grand conspiracy, a voice in his head reminded him, sounding suspiciously similar to Specs, it could simply be someone without housing that took the opportunity for shelter provided by the abandoned barn.

Roman sidled halfway through the ajar door, and froze at the sight of an upright humanoid figure only a few meters away. Something about it wasn't right, instantly putting him on edge. He kept staring, waiting for his eyes to adjust.

(“I’m telling you, these lights were strange even by my standards! Almost… alien.” An unsettling grin that was a beat late.)

The figure’s head was dropped forward, but he could tell even from this distance that it wasn’t human, with shiny purple-grey segmented skin and legs with knees facing the wrong way. It had spiky shoulder joints, but its arms seemed to be tucked behind it.

(Roman had shoved him off the couch, sour about being taken in by one of his tales, and he hadn’t brought it up again.)

Most alarming of all, there were four long, spindly limbs stretched out into the air behind it, seemingly spawning from its back. The legs were spider-like in nature, but shiny instead of hairy, and each one ended in a sharp point. As he watched, he could see the limbs shifting slowly, pairs of them lifting and falling in odd synchrony with the creature’s slow breathing.

(Roman had been freaked out, and his brother had dropped the subject. He should’ve asked, he should have known something was wrong--)

“Miaow.” A plaintive voice called, nearly startling Roman out of his skin.

He tore his gaze away from the (alien) mystery intruder, and felt his jaw drop as he took in Lady Macbeth’s current position. Loafing on the feet of an insidious intruder?!

For shame, he mouthed silently at her.

Lady blinked slowly and continued to purr, unbothered by his accusatory stare. One of those spider limbs shifted again, making Roman swallow nervously. He really didn’t want to see what sort of automatic reaction an extraterrestrial’s stabby-arms would have to finding a cat in its space.

He waved the catnip mouse enticingly. Lady gave him the bland look of a cat who had preferred those expensive feather toys for as long as he had known her. Roman resisted the urge to facepalm.

The insanely dangerous method it was, then.

Putting all his sneaking skills to use, he sidled further into the barn, dropping into a crouch and beginning to creep across the dirt floor as slowly as possible. Each step was carefully placed, almost entirely silent, and whenever those freaky appendages twitched, he froze in place for a full thirty seconds.

The alien’s head remained lax (asleep?) as he drew closer, but Lady refused to entertain his desperate motions for her to leave her ill-chosen bed. At this rate, he’d have to pick her up off of it, and hope that she didn’t complain too much on the way out.

He shifted his weight forwards, and suddenly all four of the arms were still, almost taut in the air. Only a couple feet away, the alien’s head bobbed slightly. His time was up.

Clenching his teeth, Roman made a gamble.

He tossed the little mouse toy directly at the space above the alien’s head and dove for Lady.

There was a whistle, like a whip or an arrow sliding through the air, and Roman made the mistake of glancing up as soon as he had his hands securely around Lady’s body.

All four of the spider limbs had jabbed into the same point, skewering the toy from several different angles. The alien was certainly awake now, and it had four times as many eyes as any one person could reasonably need. Between one heartbeat and the next, those huge dark irises went from staring at the poor mutilated toy to staring at Roman.

Terror shot through him and he gave up on subtlety, throwing himself back as hard as he could and hoping that he made it out of range.

He landed on his back with a whomp that knocked the wind out of him, and flinched as that terrifying whistling sound split the air again, ending in a muted thump. He was so wired with adrenaline that he couldn’t tell if he’d been hit or not. Locked in his arms, Lady writhed and complained loudly.

“Not going anywhere,” Roman wheezed, “you little fiend, con-- consorting with the enemy.”

There were several more whistle-thumps, which was either very good or very bad for him. He rolled to his side, pushing himself up on an elbow and taking stock of himself, braced for the worst.

The alien was still standing there against the central support beam of the barn. Half a foot from Roman’s leg, it's very sharp extra arms had left holes pierced in the hard-packed dirt of the barn’s floor.

“But no holes in me,” Roman cheered weakly, and then shifted Lady to the crook of one arm and flipped the alien off. “Nice try, Space Invader.”

The alien made a deep clicking rumble, but stopped trying to impale him. Instead, it moved to hold all those limbs high up in the air menacingly, ready to stab down at any point. The remains of the toy mouse sat near its feet, cotton innards spilling everywhere like a grim warning.

Roman got to his own feet, wincing at the feeling of Lady’s claws poking into his ribs as she attempted to kick her way to freedom. He took a moment to stare once he was back upright.

The alien’s skin plates had gone completely pitch-black, only the slightest hints of purple between the plates to prove that there’d ever been any color to it at all. Roman was abruptly glad that he hadn’t encountered it in the dark of night.

Its eyes were just as dark, with only the slightest difference in shades of black to indicate the difference between iris and sclera. Despite his artistic eye for color differences, even Roman couldn’t tell where its pupils were. If it even had pupils.

It also was still stuck in one place, despite its legs seeming totally operational. Roman slowly shuffled to the side of it, making sure to keep a few good steps clear of stabbing range, and found that it did in fact have normal arms and hands.

Well. Mostly normal. There were five fingers, but they were all way too long and ended in thick, claw-like points. He thought they also maybe had one or two too many joints.

More to the point, the alien couldn’t do anything with these arms because they were bound together at the wrists and tied tightly to the central support beam of the barn. It was stuck there, and going by the aggressive rumbling it was doing, it knew it.

Roman pulled out his phone and managed to take a shaky video of the alien, circling around it to both get a better angle and prompt it to threateningly twitch those back limbs some more. He knew his sci fi tropes, including the one where the alien mysteriously disappears the moment the plucky protagonist tries to tell anyone about the danger. He wasn’t going to be called crazy again.

Once he was content with the amount of evidence he had, he made the trek back to the house at a near-sprint, the cat in his arms protesting all the way. He burst through the back door, letting the screen fall shut behind him, and finally allowed Lady to walk on the power of her own four paws. She beelined for the screen door, stood up on her hind legs, and rattled it expectantly.

“Absolutely not,” Roman told her firmly, nudging her away. “I don’t know what it is with you and courting death via Xenomorph, but you are henceforth banned from the outdoors.”

If angry little kitty looks could kill, Roman would be as dead as King Duncan.

Shaking his head, he went over to the ancient landline phone in their kitchen, lifted the phone from its cradle, and paused.

Who was he going to call?

He’d had some half-conceived notion of calling his parents, or that infuriating police officer, or even just 911. What would he even say? ‘Hello operator, my emergency is that I have an alien in my barn, I promise this isn’t a prank’? Even the dial tone wouldn’t believe that.

And what if they did get someone out here to verify that there was a real alien? There was little doubt in his mind that law enforcement and then the government would quickly step in, whisking the evil version of E.T. away into some distant Area 51 lab. Roman would never see it-- or get any answers from it-- ever again.

He hung the phone up with a solid click, and turned to face the kitchen.

If he was going to interrogate a hostile alien, he needed to arm himself.

---

Shockingly, when he returned to the barn, the alien was still there.

He had crept up quietly again, hoping to catch it unawares, but this time it had been staring unerringly at him from the moment he peeked through the door, those smaller, rounder eyes wide open under its main ones.

He pushed the door open further with a dramatic flourish, pretending like he hadn’t been sneaking at all.

“Alien scourge,” Roman greeted, wincing at the crack in his voice. He cleared his throat, ignoring the way the alien’s dark gaze sent chills down his spine. “I don’t know how you ended up here, but I do know that you’re going to give me the information that I need.”

He pointed the end of his weapon of choice for emphasis, and the alien recoiled with a hiss, quickly jabbing out at it with those back arms.

Just as he’d hoped, however, putting vegetable oil on the already-slick plastic handle of the kitchen broom had made it basically impossible for those single-pronged limbs to stab or grab it. He grinned triumphantly, poking the alien with the end of it. The playing field had officially been evened.

“Now, unless you want me to introduce you to the Earth concept of piñatas, you better tell me what you’re here for.”

The alien was entirely silent, watching him with those shiny, pitch-black eyes. Behind it, its spider arms were vibrating with tension, probably in preparation to stab out the moment he slipped up.

“I’m serious,” Roman warned, poking it a little harder and getting exactly nothing for his efforts, not even a glare. “I know what I saw that night, and there’s no way it’s a coincidence that now you’re here. It was an abduction."

He paused for effect, and the alien let out a series of clicks and low, warped sounds that sounded like meaningless nonsense.

"I don't speak alien." Roman frowned. "Tell me what happened. Why were you-- or, your-- your brethren or your shipmates or whatever, why were they taking people? Where did they take them?”

The alien made what sounded like the same exact series of noises. Roman groaned in frustration.

“In-- In English! You understand what I’m saying, don’t you? If aliens are real and have the technology to infiltrate Earth without being detected, they have to have some way of communicating! An insta-translator or telepathy or math nonsense or something!” He threw his arms out in frustration, making the alien twitch.

He paced back and forth for a moment, before coming to a stop in front of the alien again and leveling it with an accusatory stare. “You’re faking it. I don’t believe that you can’t understand me.”

The alien just kept staring at him, flat plates where its mouth should have been, not a single expression visible on its face. It was about as convinced by Roman’s argument as everyone else in his life, which was to say, not at all. He felt a surge of white-hot anger, and levered the broom at its neck threateningly.

“Tell me, right now!” he demanded, stinging tears building up at the corner of his eyes. “Tell me where my brother is!”

He shoved the broom further forwards, and the alien snapped its limbs forwards and knocked it away, startling him into stumbling back. It hissed at him again, stabbing at the ground like a warning. He scowled, swiping at his face with a sleeve, and swung the broom handle at it sharply.

The swing went wide, more than a foot from touching any of it, but the alien showed the closest thing to emotion he’d seen so far, half of its eyes flinching closed in anticipation. Roman felt a sickening twist in his gut, some odd mix of guilt, anger, and vindication, and he turned away sharply.

Not for the first time, he wished he’d been the one that had been taken.

Remus wouldn’t care if the stupid cops didn’t listen to him, if their parents didn’t believe him, if the whole town thought he was insane. He would know how to convince an alien to talk, would threaten to-- to crush its extra eyes or cut off limbs or do something Roman was too squeamish to even think up.

If it was Remus, it wouldn’t matter if he didn’t know what to do. He’d at least do something.

He wouldn’t be going through the motions of life like everything was the same.

Pretending had always been Roman’s specialty, after all.

Roman cast a furious glare over his shoulder at the alien, resentful that it was still staring at him even as he was in the middle of a breakdown, and tossed the broom into the corner.

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” he said, swallowing back the thickness in his voice, “and every day after that until you tell me.”

Threat delivered, he stormed out of the barn and slammed the doors shut behind him.