#sorry for the lame tags i just want it to find its audience and i don't wanna post on reddit!!!

[brilokuloj]

recreation of a dream I had where my friend sent me this video and then apologized for not watching it first because it "wasn't funny"

[euphoricfilter]

For the drabble game could you write fluff with youtuber bf jk ? I am not creative so I couldn’t think of a sentence sorry😭 but maybe he does one of those 24hr streams, I love your writing!

youtuber boyfriend! kook headcanons:

tags/ warnings: none. just a lot of fluff and feelings <3

notes: when i got sent this idea ages ago i got so excited. and i wrote three fics for it but hated them all and then made sure they were to never see the light of day. so my solution is to write some cute boyfriend headcanons instead to make up for it!! simply because i absolutely love this idea and i need to write anything for it to sate the need within me.

notes 2: this got slightly longer than i’d intended LMAO sorry 🕺

𓇻 i feel like jungkook’s channel has a plethora of videos, though he specializes in gaming.

𓇻 its probably one of his biggest passions. though i do see him dabbling in commentary, or even review type videos. maybe he’s a bit of a collector as well and goes on hour long rants about rare items or hauls of what he purchased over the years.

𓇻 i see the both of you probably meeting at one of those second-hand game and film stores.

𓇻 maybe you’re just milling around. more content to browse the movies than the games because you only own an old console (something cute like a nintendo DS) but they don’t really sell the game cards commercially anymore

𓇻 and jungkook loses track of why he was even there in the first place when he spots you. slowly scooting towards the corner you’re in.

𓇻 jungkook might not exactly believe in love at first sight, finds it a little hard to imagine loving someone so soon. but he definitely believes in destiny, even fate. and some small part of his mind had convinced him that surely this was just that.

𓇻 he’d be a bit shy about trying to approach you, mouth opening only for nothing to come out because what was he supposed to say? and maybe he accidentally startles you, offering to pay for the few dvds you had hugged to your chest as a lame sort of compensation

𓇻 he’d be the one to ask for your number, he’d be the first to text. you’d tell him later on it’s because you didn’t want to come off too head-strong. worried you’d scare him off messaging only hours after meeting. and then he’d tell you he had worried about the same thing

𓇻 jungkook wouldn’t straight out tell his audience he’d gotten into a relationship. it’s not that he was embarrassed about you, quite the opposite; he’d love to flaunt you to the world. it’s just he’d worry about the reaction from fans.

𓇻 he’d have a pretty hefty audience, a well established one even. and he wasn’t blind to the mean comments that would occasionally show up beneath videos or social media posts. he, himself, never found much issue in dealing with them, on occasion he’d get a little down but he knew that really he put himself up for this. he chose to show his face online, and with that would come some backlash. however, that didn’t mean he wasn’t worried about you or how shitty comments would effect your well being.

𓇻 definitely the “in a relationship but it’s private” sort of photos would slowly creep their way onto his IG posts. maybe of little date nights— candles on the table with a dinner you’d cooked together (2 glasses, 2 plates and 2 sets of cutlery), or your favorite cake he’d tried to bake himself with the lego flowers he’d spent the previous evening trying to make (because at least you could look at the lego ones forever and they wouldn’t die). or maybe even your hand snuck in a photo or simply your silhouette beneath a sunset.

𓇻 maybe a few of your own collectible items had made their way onto the shelf in his studio. an obvious beanbag in the corner (you’d often sit there and read as he went through emails or scripted videos). valentines cards that he’d never thought to take down, or posters of yours that never exactly fit in the bedroom

𓇻 it would become apparent that he was in a long-term relationship when he’d film a moving video. so much of your stuff mingled with his own, split seconds of the shared rooms he’d add to the video before showing his audience his new office space. the extra shoes and cute little additions to his home; soft cushions on the couch, ceramics you’d begged him to buy. your hoard of plushies that took up half the bed or the stupid amount of skin care products stacked up in the bathroom. all a sure way of telling his fans that he was serious about you, even if they had no idea of your name or face

𓇻 maybe with enough comments he’d make a little announcement at the end of a video.

𓇻 “i know you’ve all probably guessed by now, but i am in fact, in a relationship”

𓇻 and then proceeded to talk about you for 7 minutes because really he wanted everyone to know how much he loved you. and truthfully he never knew when to shut up when it came to you, not when you were what’s on his mind most of the time. he’d tell them how you’d met, and how he had been absolutely enamored by you almost instantly. he’d show everyone the matching bracelets you’d made. grinning as he showed off the receipt he’d kept in his wallet from your first date together at a small cafe in town, mentioning how he kept a baby photo of you in the back of his phone too.

𓇻 the first time you’d show up in a video, he’d plan for the both of you to do some crafts together one afternoon. a hobby you’d been trying over the last couple of weeks, and jungkook liked to indulge you. loved to watch you sprawled across the floor of an evening with glue coating your fingers and way too much glitter imbedded in the carpet.

𓇻 he’d have been worried at first. asking you over and over if it was truly okay for you to be on camera, and after your reassured him with a kiss, he’d settle down slightly. though his anxiety had still clung to him, eyes flitting your way throughout the afternoon

𓇻 he could tell how shy you’d been, and had reassured you that really you didn’t even need to address the audience. he’d do all the silly little things you giggled at him for. and all you had to do was sit there and be pretty for him. you’d been a lot quieter than usual; itching to give him a kiss each time he was just so awfully jungkook. eyes like those of galaxies when he got something right, or the happiest smile on his face when you asked him for help

𓇻 the day he did a 24 hour charity stream would be when his audience sees you the most. milling around the house, making sure your boyfriend was fed and watered. maybe even sitting down and reading the chat when he wanted to shower. or answering questions while perched on his lap. he’d want to smother you with even more love when you’d catch his eye— a silent question if you were doing okay, that you answered all the questions correct. and he’d squeeze your thigh in reassurance, head resting over your shoulder as he listened to your voice, humming to let you know he was still listening

𓇻 you’d startle him at 4am, a little pouty that you’d had to fall asleep alone. dragging a chair from the kitchen to sit on as you watch him play a game you’d never seen before.

𓇻 “go back to bed, baby” he’d coo, “you’ll fall asleep sitting up and get a bad back”

𓇻 and maybe after that he’s a lot more open to showing you on camera. filming you on beaches, eating cakes and ice creams from a million different restaurants or dancing around hotel rooms or sitting on the balcony with the sun warming your skin when he takes you on holiday. short films dedicated to you with your favorite songs playing in the background

𓇻 maybe he even makes a playlist on his youtube channel, titled “my love” for every video that he includes you in

𓇻 idk just very much in love boyfriend kook who wants the world to love you almost as much as he does (because in all honesty, no one would ever love you more than he does)

[keichanz]

Toss a Coin

so today i had the insane, intense urge to write a scene from Netflix’s The Witcher and well *shrug* if you haven’t watched it yet, you probably shouldn’t read this if you don’t want any spoilers, but then again, who the hell am i to tell you what to do hahaha. 

but anyway it’s basically the Inuyasha version of this scene where that one guy is like “HE DIED” Jas is like “eh he’s fine” and then fucking Geralt just crashes through the door because perfect timing. Obvi Inuyasha is Geralt, and Miroku is Jasiker because god it’s just too fucking perfect lmao

anyway, i don’t plan on making this a thing. i just really wanted to write this one part and it wouldn't leave me alone until i did. and I am eternally grateful to @noyourenotreal​ for having the stroke of genus to write an Inuyasha Witcher AU because i would be tempted to do it myself if they hadn’t and I don’t have the time hahah. their fic is called Of Monsters and Men and it’s so good guys check it out!

originally i was going to use the dialogue word for word, but at the advice of a friend and further thinking, i nixed that idea and gave it my own flare so i can stay true to Inuyasha and Miroku’s personalities. I think i did alright.

a random note: basically during the entire time i watched this show i was screaming “INUUKAAAAAAAG” because OMG the inukag is STRONG with geralt and yennefer it is riDICULOUS 

note: a translation of what the man in the first part is saying can be found at the end of this oneshot. he speaks in a Scottish dialect and I realize it can be difficult to understand. 

oh and also tagging my ladies that expressed an interest in reading this ;D @lemonlushff​ @hinezumi​ @tsukinohimeusagi​ 

“It's th' truth, Ah teel ye,” the portly man rasped, his blood and dirt streaked face twisted into a troubled expression and his gray eyes holding a wealth of shocked disbelief, “It main hae swallowed th' bludy village whole! Nary a bain, scrap ay clootie— naethin' was left!”

He looked around while the patrons gasped and murmured in horror, but when he spotted a familiar face gazing back with skepticism, his gaze hardened into a glare. The nay-sayer, a scrawny little weasel named Noliff, narrowed his eyes in return.

“Aye, quite it wi' 'at swatch, ye wee jobby,” he growled, bracing his hands on the table as he leaned forward. “Ah ken whit yoo're thinkin'. We hud wee choice but tae caa heem.”

Abruptly he stood up, his chair scraping against the wooden floor as wild eyes scanned his rapt audience.

“The White Wolf.” With every gaze on him and expressions varying from horror, shock, and excitement, he continued, recalling in vivid detail the fate of the notorious White Wolf. “Ah can still see it—he stuid in th' middle ay 'at frizzen loch lake he kent th' beest was comin’.”

Silence all around as the patrons listened intently with undivided attention, he immersed himself in his storytelling, his eyes going wide and his voice laced with the genuine fear he’d felt just hours prior.

“Th’ ice cracked wide open,” he said, gesturing with his hands as his wild gaze swung around the room again. “An' a selkiemair shot it! Och, yoo’ve ne'er seen a body, but it’d tak' doon a ship wi' its cavernoos gob foo ay devil’s teeth!

More gasping and murmurs of astonishment followed that proclamation, and there was a wild, far-away look in his eyes as he regaled with vigor, “An’ it…swallowed…that Witcher…whole!”

With hands clasped together, the man bowed his head, expression contorted into one of deep, intense sorrow as the villagers speculated amongst themselves, whispering and muttering and exchanging glances.

“Yes, this is wonderful!”

The man faltered, blinked, and slowly turned to glance down at the bard sitting to his left who had, this entire time, been furiously scribbling down his tragic tale of the Wither and the selkie.

Miroku glanced up at the portly man, did a quick double-take, and then paused his written recounting in his parchment book.

“Apologies,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. “It’s just Inuyasha is never so generous with the details. He always makes it sound so boring.” He shrugged and went back to his documenting while the storyteller, and everyone else, gaped at him.

“Now then. Please, continue, my good man. What happened next?” he asked, glancing back up at the man with a patient, inquisitive look up on his face.

With a frown, the man diverted his gaze back to the table and brought to mind what had happened next. He swallowed once, twice, and the look on his face was deeply troubled as he appeared to struggle saying what came next.

“He died,” he revealed, head bowed and eyes closed. A collective gasp echoed around them.

Miroku stared blankly at him for a moment and then said, “Bah. He’s fine.”

Completely unconcerned, the bard turned back to his scribbling, seeming to ignore the man as he turned his frown on him, looking a mite affronted.

“Listen haur,” he began, his tone urgent as he jabbed a finger at him. “Ah was thaur. Ah saw it wi' mah ain—!”

The door to the tavern crashed open and as one, everybody – save Miroku, who, calm as you please, continued to nonchalantly write in his book – turned around with gasps of exclamation. The storyteller’s mouth dropped open as a few bystanders not so subtly lifted a hand to cover their nose and mouth with varying looks of disgust.

“See?” Miroku drawled, not looking up from his writing.

Standing before the two men, clutching his sword and completely covered in blood, guts, and other questionable matter that dripped from his hair and clothes, Inuyasha regarded them with a look that was difficult to decipher beneath the bloody sludge on his face. The scowl, however, became apparent as he schlepped forward, the patrons backing away the closer he got and giving him a very wide berth.

While Miroku laughed merrily, the storyteller looked completely aghast as he stared at the Witcher.

“Och,” he breathed, looking truly astonished to be staring at the man who he had witnessed be swallowed whole by a savage beast. “Whit is 'at reek?”

Golden eyes slid his way. “Selkiemore guts,” Inuyasha supplied matter-of-factly while behind him a man gagged and the patrons not so discreetly edged away. “Obviously. Fucker swallowed me whole so I gutted it from the inside.” He snorted. “So, you gonna pay me or what?”

Absolutely delighted, Miroku stood with a grin and sang, “Toss a coin to your witcher, O, Valley of Plenty!”

Nodding frantically, the man reached into his shirt and withdrew a bag of coins before tossing it to the man, the Witcher who had miraculously bested the odds against him and survived being eaten by a monster.

Inuyasha caught it, expression deadpan as Miroku continued his ditty and everyone joined in, raising their pints at him as they sang a tribute to The White Wolf. Unimpressed, he snorted and turned away, ignoring everyone as he bypassed them to unceremoniously drop his sword on the bar.

“You’re welcome,” Miroku chirped over his shoulder while the villagers cheered and Inuyasha only spared him a brief glance before snatching up the pint set in front of him and knocking it back. “Now then, my good Witcher friend, I think now would be a good time—”

Inuyasha abruptly turned his head to the side and spit out the vile tasting concoction that was supposedly passed off as beer around here. He scowled and carelessly tossed the empty pint onto the counter.

“…To repay your debt,” Miroku finished lamely, cocking a brow. Inuyasha glared at him. Clearing his throat, Miroku tired a jovial smile and continued, “Ah, you’re wondering what the in blazes I’m talking about, yes?”

Inuyasha ignored him and reached up to scratch at his ears in irritation. Damn, but the guts were starting to dry and his ears were itching like fucking crazy.

“I have made you famous, Witcher,” the bard supplied point blank with raised eyebrows, undeterred by his apparent disinterest. When still he didn’t receive a response, Miroku shrugged and said, “Rightfully a small percentage of your wages should be mine to claim. However, because I find myself fascinated by your charm and strong, silent type demeanor—”

Inuyasha groaned and dropped his elbows on the bar before dropping his head into his hands.

“—instead I would like to swap out any monetary earnings for a small…tiny little favor.” Miroku tipped his head back and gazed innocently up at the ceiling as he sipped his own beverage.

“Fuck off, bard,” Inuyasha growled without preamble, not interested in any of the favors he was asking for.

“Just hear me out, my good man. Er, half-man,” he corrected and aimed a charming smile when amber eyes cut his way. “Just for a single night of service – just a few hours, really – the rewards would indeed be worth your while, a cornucopia of earthly delights, if you will.”

Inuyasha snorted his opinion of that and counted his money.

“The greatest masters of the culinary arts crafting morsels worthy of the gods,” Miroku tempted. “And the women…” He sighed and the Witcher mused that the dopey smile on his face suited him rather well. “Beautiful, enchanting maidens with their shapely bodies and plump bosoms and perfect bottoms… Ah, truly a sight to behold!

“Not to mention there will be plentiful, sweet drinks to imbibe,” Miroku continued, oblivious to his companion’s departure, until he tossed an impish smile his way and discovered he was talking to air. He spun around and easily spotted the man stomping toward the exit.

“Food, women, and wine, Inuyasha!” Miroku crowed in a last-ditch effort since apparently his waxing poetic did not ensnare the half-demon as he’d hoped it would. He should have known; the Witcher was as tough and gruff as they come, so it made sense poesy would not appeal to him.

Inuyasha stopped and for the first time actually seemed to be considering the bard’s proposition. The women part he didn’t particularly care for, but if there was even a small chance he could get his hands on some half-way decent booze…

He turned, looked over his shoulder, and when Miroku waggled his brows at him with that stupid grin, Inuyasha groaned and muttered, “Fuck.”

Just what the hell was he getting into?

Scotsman’s translation: 

It’s the truth, I tell ya. It must have swallowed the bloody village whole! Nary a bone, a scrap of cloth—nothing was left! Aye, quit it with that look, ya little shit. I know what you’re thinkin’. We had little choice but to call him. I can still see it—he stood in the middle of the frozen lake like he knew the beast was coming. The ice cracked wide open. And a selkiemore shot out! Oh, you’ve never seen one, but it’d take down a ship with its cavernous mouth full of devil’s teeth! Listen here. I was there. I saw it with my own—! Oh. What is that stench?

[ladynestaarcheron]

Like Pristine Glass - Chapter Eleven

ao3 - ff.net - masterpost (ff.net isn’t working for me rn, so i’ll update chapter eleven there probably tomorrow)

(tagging these cuties: @humanexile @skychild29 @rhysandsdarlingfeyre @candid-confetti ​ @rhysandsrightknee @missing-merlin @azriels-forgotten-shadow @books-and-cocos @sezkins79 @city-of-fae @someonemagical @dusty-lightbulb @messyhairday-me)

hey hey hey!! i’m back with chapter eleven after only two weeks!! i was actually procrastinating writing my poetry essay and working on my novel by writing this, so that counts as productivity, right?

thanks to my fantabulous beta @thestarwhowishes and thank to you all for reading!! i am just floored by all of your support, it means so much to me!!

(and psst!! if you like my writing maybe try out my sideblog where i post original content @liorzoewrites)

anyway, chapter eleven! enjoy!

---

November 2 - 4 years after

 When Hazar finally arrives at the shop, Maz, Amir, and Xeyale start to tell the whole staff what happened at Amalike Orchards’ berry fair.

“Chokecherry already had booths set up when we got there,” Maz says, grimacing. “With Morrisey’s new novel.”

“And they had agents with them,” Xeyale adds.

Adil frowns. “What do you mean, agents?”

“Publishing agents.”

“They were signing authors at the fair?” Hazar asks, disbelief all over his normally cheerful face.

“Not exactly,” Xeyale says.

“They were taking in manuscripts,” Amir says. “For short stories, we think. We think their plan is to publish a collection of them.”

“And that’s their brilliant archiving strategy?” Nesta says. “Just taking any short story from any writer who shows up at the berry fair and tying it all together into a book?” She shares a look with Adil.  No one appreciates the art of literature anymore.

“It is a brilliant strategy,” Hazar says, reluctant to admit it.

“We think so, too,” Amir says, and Xeyale nods behind them. Before any of them can protest, Amir raises their hands in surrender. “Look, you’re all archivists. Readers. Some of you are writers. But from publishing and marketing standpoints...it goes faster. If one author writes a three hundred page novel, that one author has to have a good idea and a good execution. Or people won’t buy it. But if you get ten authors each writing thirty pages...even if four of them aren’t that great, people will still buy it for the sixth.”

“Or one big name author with a few other smaller ones,” Hazar says. “That’ll sell just the same.”

“But the same number of books get sold,” Adil says. “Don’t they lose money, with all the authors they have to pay per book?”

“More books get sold,” Hazar says.

“It suits a larger audience,” Nesta realizes. “So more people buy it.” Because those six authors they’ll buy the book for are different authors for everyone.

Sometimes Nesta hates individual taste. Especially if it’s poor.

Adil puts his head in his hands. “How many publishing agents do they have?”

“Not many,” Maz says. “We only saw three at the fair.”

“For all those new authors?”

“I imagine the authors aren’t treated very well,” Hazar says, frowning slightly. “But they might not care, if they get published quickly.”

“That’ll be bad for them in the long run, though,” Leyla says, speaking up.

“I agree with you, but again, they might not care.”

“Do we have to start publishing short story collections?” Zeyn asks.

Nesta thinks about what would go into that. They would need to find so many new authors. Sugar Books--and Adil--believes in the separation of genre, so they couldn’t just cram any random ten stories together. It would go against their idea of what the literary world should be. What would that take, to find a variety of authors who write on the same subject, with the enough of the same general style to create harmony, but each unique enough to justify its presence in the book?

She shivers involuntarily, very thankful for Cassian’s shared account.

"We’ll definitely have to start signing more authors,” Adil decides. “We’ll...send out scouts.”

“To Chokecherry?” Maz says.

“No,” Adil says. “But everywhere else. Where authors frequent. We’ll have to go overtime on reading manuscripts. But we will not--” he slams his hand down on the table quite suddenly, startling them all “--compromise on the integrity and quality of literature.”

“Hear, hear!” Zeyn calls, and Nesta suppresses a smile. He catches it and winks at her.

“We’ll split up. Xeyale, Amir, and Nesta, you’ll stay and run the shop. Hazar, you stay here, too, and wait for our new clients. Miri and I will go to Berries’ Rivers, Maz, you go to Privet Falls, Leyla, Wintergreen Glen, and Zeyn, Juniper Hills. We’re talent scouting. Find places authors frequent, approach them, if they’re any good, send them here.” He looks at them all intently.

Zeyn and Nesta exchange a glance.

“Ah, Adil,” Zeyn says, rather timid. “You do know that that’s insane, don’t you?”

“I don’t want to hear it,” he says, already making to leave the room and go back to his office.

“All the gods,” Hazar says, standing up. “I’ve got to go get a cup of coffee.” And he leaves too.

“I mean, that’s insane, right?” Zeyn says.

“I think we’re all in agreement of that, yes,” Leyla says, nodding.

“I think it’s a good idea,” Miri says.

They all look at her.

"Maybe it’s time for a change,” she defends. “Maybe this is the way to do it. This is what they do in the acting industry, right?”

“But this isn’t the acting industry.”

“He’s really stressed about this,” Miri says. “He doesn’t want this place to lose anymore than Chokecherry has already taken from it.”  He doesn’t want any of you to lose anymore than Chokecherry has taken, she doesn’t say, but they all see it in her eyes. “I think it will work.” She stands. “And at any rate...it’s what we’re doing.” She leaves.

“I hate what this is doing to everyone,” Maz complains, and Nesta hates to agree with him, but she does too.

“I can’t believe I’m going to be the only archivist while you’re all off turning into the acting industry,” she says, shaking her head.

Zeyn and Leyla laugh.

"Don’t worry,” Xeyale says, grinning at her. “We’ll be here to keep you company.”

“A real comfort,” she says dryly. She stands too. “Well, I suppose we’ve got work to do. We need to find all the places...authors frequent.” She rolls her eyes.

“Yeah, in a fifty mile radius,” Maz grumbles. “This is never going to work.”

“Don’t say that,” Zeyn says lightly. “It might. And wouldn’t it be great? To discover new talent like that?”

Nesta knows the question isn’t directed at her, but she wonders anyway--what would it be like? In publishing? She didn’t think she’d like archiving before she started; she thought reading was the only thing she enjoyed.

That’s not something she can explore now, though, and that’s why Adil is having her stay here. So she shakes herself and goes to find maps of the surrounding towns.

---

November 20 - Year of

 She avoided him for days after she snapped. He caught her in the living room when she came back from work one day.

“Wait, Nesta,” he said, jumping to his feet as soon as she walked in.

Nesta stifled a groan. She didn’t want to have this conversation.

She didn’t like that tentative, detached politeness. She was angry.

(And Cassian was anything but tentative and detached. It felt abnormal sharing that with him.)

“Please,” he said. “I just wanted to apologize.”

Nesta said stiffly, “Don’t worry about it,” and tried to push past him.

“No, Nesta,” he said, raising his hands and blocking her path to the hallway. “Not for breakfast. I mean, yes for breakfast, but also...for everything. For bringing you here. For...leaving  you here.”

She froze. He did too.

She moved her eyes from his face. She couldn’t look at him.

Why was everything so hot all of a sudden?

“I...should have known this wasn’t the right thing to do,” he said, slowly, carefully. Nesta could tell he was thinking hard about each word before he said it. “To bring you here and leave you alone. Here, of all places. We thought...I thought it would be good for you. I thought...you would have space and maybe you would want to train and that would be a good outlet for you the same way it is for me and you’d get....”

Better, he didn’t say.

“I’m sorry,” he said. His voice was hoarse and Nesta was scared to look at him so she didn’t.

He sat back down. “That’s...all I wanted to say,” he said lamely.

Nesta kept her eyes averted as she nodded slightly and ducked into the hall, into her room, shutting the door behind her.

He apologized. 

She wasn’t sure what she was expecting, but it wasn’t that.

And he certainly seemed sorry--just by his voice, of course, because she hadn’t seen his face.

He’d thought she might want to train...he didn’t know her at all, clearly. And he hadn’t mentioned all of it; not all that happened in Velaris and the fact that  she was this thing now, but she was glad of it, because all he did say was nearly too much to bear.

And she couldn’t spend the rest of her night going over everything, playing it all back in her head until she knew the words by heart, so she tried to best to put it all out of her mind.

Because...was she supposed to forgive him now?

---

November 2 - 4 years after

 The staff is gone later that day, as Adil is determined to discover five brilliant new authors before the month is over. Nesta is glad Miri is going with him; she might talk some sense into him.

“Does he actually think Gilameyva’s just bleeding ingenious writers?” Leyla had muttered to her before they all left.

Nesta laughed a little. “He’s just anxious,” she said, echoing Miri.

"I can’t believe I have to go to Wintergreen Glen. It’s so boring.”

"Well, maybe you’ll find a whole new world to fall into.”

"Right. I’m sure we’ll find the next Morrissey in Wintergreen Glen.”

"Why not?” Zeyn had said, appearing next to them. “Morrisey’s from Privet Falls.”

And Morrissey, Nesta thinks to herself as she walks back home, isn’t even that great of a writer.

She doesn’t have to pick up the children from nursery because Cassian’s already got them. It’s quite nice, actually, to be able to spend a little while longer at work locking up and stop for a coffee from Jamal’s without worrying too much.

Aysel is there, too, and she walks back with her. “So,” she says to her, eager to get to the point after what was surely a painful exchange of pleasantries for the town’s resident busybody, “I hear that Cassian of yours has been staying for quite some time.”

"He comes and goes.”

"He’s been here a week.”

“That’s true,” she says.

“I saw him today. He picked the children up. Oh, they’re so cute, you know. Just the sweetest little things.”

“I agree with you.”

“You do such a good job with them!”

“Thank you, Aysel.”

“I remember when they were born. Ooh, Ollie was so tiny, do you remember?”

“Their birth?” Nesta laughs. “Vividly.”

Aysel laughs too, in that hurried way she always does. “Of course, of course. He’s so big now.”

“He is,” she agrees. She can’t believe it, sometimes, how much they have grown in three years. Especially Ollie; he had been so small.

“And his father,” Aysel says, in a tone she thinks is supposed to be sly. “Well, he’s not small, is he?”

“He’s tall,” Nesta says neutrally.

“ Very  tall. Probably the tallest person in Sugar Valley, ever.”

“We had some tall people in for the last Berry Fair.”

“Tallest one now.”

“Probably.”

“How tall do you think your boys are going to be?”

“I don’t know.”

“And Ava?”

“Taller than I am, I hope.”

“Oh, don’t say that, dearie. You’re such a darling height.”

They reach their street then, and Nesta might’ve invited her for strawberry tea and jam, but she’s not going to. Confirming personally that Cassian is her children’s father to Aysel is one thing, inviting her inside to meet him is quite another.

“Well, have a good evening, Aysel,” she says.

“You too, dearie. Kisses to the babies!”

 She waves at her over her shoulder and strides up to her porch.

She might’ve guessed something is wrong by the fact that she can’t hear any noise from the inside, but she knows for sure because Cassian rips the door open as soon as she reaches it. His face is pale.

Nesta’s heart drops. “What is it?” A million different scenarios run through her mind, each one worse than the last.

“Come inside,” is all he says.

They rush up the stairs, Nesta’s pulse going faster than it ever has before when he leads her up the stairs and to her children’s bedroom. She braces herself as best she can for when she goes inside, but she knows there isn’t a good way to prepare.

But they’re all there...whole. In three perfect pieces. Nicky and Ollie laying in the beds, Avery standing in between them, her hand on Nicky’s form.

She looks at Cassian, his face still ashen. “What?” she asks.

His eyes widen. “They’re sick!”

Nesta throws a hand to her forehead. For mercy’s sake. “Don’t,” she says, rubbing her temples, “ever deliver news to me that way.”

Her heartbeat back to normal, she joins Avery in the middle of her sons’ beds. She settles herself on her knees and pulls her close. She doesn’t feel hot.

"How are you feeling, ladybug?”

"Good,” she says, slightly muffled against Nesta’s body. She looks up at her. “Nicky and Ollie are sick.”

"Yes,” she says, nodding. Then she looks at Cassian. “It’s flu season.”

"Emilia’s sick, too.”

"Yes,” she says, still looking pointedly at Cassian. “Probably the flu, poor thing.”

He glares at her, but she can see his coloring darkens slightly, which probably would have delighted her once.

She doesn’t hate it, now.

She puts her hand on Nicky’s forehead and then Ollie’s. A fever, each of them. Ollie is sleeping soundly, and Nicky seems like he’ll fall asleep soon.

"Mummy will bring you something to drink,” she whispers to him, dropping a kiss on his forehead.

She leads Avery and Cassian out of the room.

“I don’t want to be sick.”

“You won’t,” she assures her. “You’ll be fine.”

“I don’t want my brothers to be sick.”

Nesta feels the same rush of overwhelming emotion she always does when her children express how much they love each other. “Don’t worry,” she says to her, smiling. “They’ll be better soon. Why don’t you go play outside for a bit?”

“Are you out of your mind?” she says to Cassian when she’s gone. “Do you know what went through my head?”

"They’re sick!”

“Children get sick! People get sick! They’ll get better!”

“Well, I’ve never had children get sick before!”

Nesta softens at the fear in his voice, shining through his eyes as well. “They’ll be fine,” she says in a more gentle tone. “It’ll be a few days...it’s properly miserable to see them, but they’ll be fine. I only don’t want to keep Avery here...I don’t want her to get sick, too. Normally I’d ask Miri and Adil,” she says, talking more to herself. “But they’re gone, and I can’t ask Amorette. I guess I’ll keep her in my room. Oh, and I’ll have to stay here. Oh, but I’m alone at the store....”

"You’re alone at the store?”

"Yes, Adil’s got everyone traipsing around the country, looking for authors,” she says, waving a hand. “Unless...when are you going back?”

“Not before they’re better.”

Nesta straightens. That was the right answer. “Well, could you watch them during the day?”He nods, his expression casual, but Nesta can tell he’s terrified.

"It’s really not that big of a deal,” she says. “I’ll show you which medication to give them, how often. I’ll make soup. They’ll need fluids. Oh, and Nicky can’t have plain water when he’s sick, he’ll need tea...I’ll write this down for you...but it’s not like I’m going to be leaving you alone,” she adds at the sight of him. “It’s not like I’m going anywhere. Just work.”

“I know,” he says. Hesitates. “I just...”

“What?”

“I’m...worried.”

Nesta puts down the pen she’s picked up and crosses the room to his side. She moves her hand to take his, but thinks better of it. “You don’t need to. They’ll be fine. So will you. You’ve been...” her eyes dart around the room, but she meets his gaze when she says, “very helpful. This week.”

His head lifts slightly, and that all-too-familiar cocky grin appears. “Yeah?”

“Yes. In fact...” Now Nesta hesitates. “Maybe...if you would feel comfortable...you could spend the night with Avery at Miri’s house?”

His grin slides off his face.

“If it’s too soon,” she says quickly, “then--you know what? Forget--”

“No!” he says. “No, I can! I can--sure. At Miri’s...yes. I can. I know what she needs. I can...yes.”

“All right,” she says, relieved somewhat. “I’ll...make you a list.”

“Okay.”

“And...she’ll have flying lessons tomorrow. Maybe you’d like to go with her? And I’ll stay home with the boys?”

Nesta’s never seen his eyes light up the way they do now.

---

November 12 - 1 year after

 She didn’t feel exactly ill, but she felt off. Like the world had been tilted a few degrees. She had been hungrier than normal for her the past week or so, but it’s not till that day she wondered if something was wrong with her.

Only briefly. Then she pushed the thought aside. Things were going well, and she didn’t need to look for something to be upset about.

"Good morning, Nesta,” Zeyn greeted her cheerfully. How was he always so happy all the time? It was jarring.

"Hello, Zeyn,” she said, rubbing her temples.

“Headache?”

“No...” she said, because her head didn’t hurt, it just felt...weird. “Just tired.” Perhaps that was it.

“I’ve got a lot of new books today. Maybe you’d like to read one. Do you like mystery?”

“It’s all right,” she said. Most mystery novels were predictable to her. “I’ve got to finish mine, though.”

“How have you been with all those?” he asked, following her to the back room.

All that is Holy, she thought. “It’s going well, thanks.” It was reading. And fixing up books. And setting a price. As long as you could read, it wasn’t hard.

“I just get so overwhelmed sometimes,” he said. “You know, all those books. In such a short amount of time. And how do you set a price!”

“Length and demand,” she said, frowning slightly. How else would you set a price?

“Yes, but it’s hard to foresee demand at a store that sells used books,” he said. “I imagine it’s even more so for you, because human-authored books are so unpopular. Not that they aren’t good! Just so, I guess, uncommon. Yes, that’s the word. It’s rare to come across one. But now that the Wall is down, we might trade more. It’d be really fascinating, don’t you think, to see what books are popular with humans. Don’t you think? Nesta?”

“Just...” Nesta said, “I. Oh. Oh, I have to...” she trailed off, not being able to hear herself suddenly.

“Here, lie down.” She could feel a pair of warm, strong hands lower her gently to the ground. Oh, it felt so-- wrong , to be touched like that. By another male’s hands. Oh, she didn’t like it...

The room was spinning. She could hear more voices. Emerie was yelling. No, not Emerie. Not Emerie, right? Who was that? Who was speaking?

Someone was saying her name. Someone...but she couldn’t hear.

And then she couldn’t see.

---

November 2 - 4 years after

 Cassian’s still has yet to regain his power of speech, but it doesn’t matter, because Ava keeps the conversation going on her own.

“And I will put my horse here, and I will put my dog here, and I will put my owl here...” she sing-songs, placing her stuffed animals in various spots on the bed he has set up for her in Miri’s house.

She’s ready to go to sleep, after being fed  and bathed at Nesta’s house. But she wants to set up the room the way she likes it first.

"And I want...my giraffe.”

“Your giraffe?” Cassian repeats, looking around. “I don’t see...”

“Nicky has it.”

“Nicky has it?”

“Yes.”

“But Nicky’s at home.”

“Let’s go get it.”

“Well,” he says, wishing Nesta were here, “we’ll go home tomorrow morning, and we’ll bring your giraffe then.”

Ava looks outraged. “I want it now!”

She hadn’t mentioned this. Nesta didn’t say anything about a giraffe. And he’s never been out with Ava before; how was he supposed to know? “But...we’ll let Nicky have it. Because he’s sick. Just for tonight.” Maybe that tactic will work?

Ava considers it. “Tomorrow I will get my giraffe?”

He’s nothing if not strategic. “Yes. Tomorrow.”

“Not tonight?”

“No, not tonight.”

Ava thinks some more. “All right, tomorrow.”

Cassian breathes a sigh of relief. Ava’s been throwing crisis after crisis at him. He feels like a novice, back when he did simulations. When his commanders had given them every possible thing that could go wrong, all at the same time. There was an Illyrian expression that loosely translated into “difficult training makes for an easy battle”--but there is no training for parenting and it is by no definition an easy battle.

“Tell me a story,” she orders him when he finally convinces her to get into bed.

Cassian nods. Nesta had told him one as they packed, reciting the important lines a few times over for him to memorize. “I’ll tell you the one about Jack,” he says.

“No, I don’t want Jack.”

Fantastic.

"Well,” he says, trying to keep a level head. “What...story do you want?”

“Not a Mummy story.”

“What’s a Mummy story? Oh, not one of Mummy’s stories.” She wants one of his? Nesta wouldn’t like him telling any Illyrian tales...and he doesn’t think it’s a particularly good idea either. “Maybe...” Cassian rack his brain.  He has stories, doesn’t he? One of them must be child-friendly. Or he can edit it to make it so.

Had he ever gone on some sort of quest that didn’t end in bloodshed?

“Not too long ago,” he says, in the way Illyrian tales always start, realizing as he begins that it’s quite eerie, but no matter, “there was a male who loved a female very much. And the female loved...very much...more than anything in the world...chocolate.”

Ava laughs. “I love chocolate!”

“You do? Well, the female loved chocolate so much, but there was one type of chocolate she loved more than all the others. But she hadn’t had it since she was a little girl, and she now lived very far away from the place where they made it. One day, she was very sad...and he knew only that chocolate would make her happy again. So he decided he would travel to find it.

“He had to cross an ocean and many lands, for only one tiny little town across the world made this exact kind of chocolate. When he got to the tiny town, he searched and searched for the chocolate shop. And then...he found it. And he bought some chocolate...and he brought it home...and then the female was happy again,” he finishes lamely.

Ava looks at him, unimpressed. He doesn’t blame her. Although in his defense, it had been more exciting when it had actually happened.

“Tell it again!” she says.

He does, trying to make it sound better this time around, but he isn’t very good at it. He might’ve laced the story with bits and pieces of other (real) quests he had been on, but he isn’t sure what he’s allowed to say.

After the second time, Ava looks at him thoughtfully. “That was not a good story,” she tells him.

He laughs a little. “I’m sorry. Should I tell you the story about Jack?”

“Yes!”

He recites the story Nesta had told him, exactly the way she had instructed, and Ava is thrilled. She laughs and claps along.

"Again!” she says when he finishes. And again and again.

Until he says, “It’s time for you to go to sleep, now, Ava.”

"So let’s go home.”

“We’re sleeping here tonight, Ava, remember?”

To his horror, her eyes well up with tears. “I want to go home with Mummy and Nicky and Ollie.”

“Don’t cry,” he says, fretting. “Don’t--it’s okay, don’t--oh....”

“I don’t--want--to stay here,” she sobs. “I want to go home!”

“I’m sorry...we’ll go home tomorrow, Ava.”

“I want my giraffe!”

“But we said we’d let Nicky have the giraffe tonight, don’t you remember?” he says desperately. But Ava doesn’t care. He can’t quite make out exactly what she’s saying and he doesn’t know what to do.

So he picks her up out of bed and lays her against his shoulder. “It’s okay,” he says, trying to bounce her. That’s how to calm children down, right?

“I don’t want to stay here all by myself!” Her cries are muffled against him.

“Well, you’re not all by yourself,” he says. “I’m here. I’m staying with you.” Would that be enough?  Please let that be enough. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if that’s not good enough for her. Just for one night.

She sniffles a little and lifts her head, looking up at him with his own eyes. Except so innocent, so pure. “Can I sleep in your bed?” she asks, voice still wavering.

Relief crashes over him. “Sure,” he says. “Of course.”

The smile she gives him is vibrant, and he marvels at how little he loved her at the beginning of the week compared to now.

---

November 30 - Year of

 She’d told her sister, once, that the last thing she would want would be to be remembered as a coward. She felt like one now.

Like a coward and angry and hurt, perhaps, more than anything. Which made her feel stupid.

Sometimes Nesta thought she felt too much.

After Cassian had apologized, she’d fled to her room and avoided him successfully for over a week. It was made easier by the fact that he did have to leave a few times during the week, to one of those neighboring camps he always went off to.

She didn’t want to think about it. Especially the pain. Because if he had hurt her...she didn’t let herself finish the thought.

But one afternoon, at work, while counting out jackets in the back, she heard Emerie say, “What are you doing here?”

And then she heard him reply, “I came to see Nesta.”

She nearly dropped the jacket she was holding. She normally felt him before she heard him. Where had that gone? It was of no use to her when they were both in the house, and now it was too late to sneak out the back, because he was coming.

"Nesta,” he said, pushing open the door.

“The sign says ‘employees only’,” she blurted out, which she knew was the stupidest thing she could have said, but it was too late.

“Emerie said I could go in.”

Traitor.

“I needed to talk to you.”

“It couldn’t wait? I’m working.” Perhaps he’d make some snide comment about working in a clothier as opposed to being the Night Court’s Emissary and then she could pick a fight over that and kick him out of the shop and they’d go back to the way things were when she got here. Except she’d have Emerie and her drinking habit more under control, so it’d be better. 

But he just said, “I know. I’m sorry, it couldn’t wait. I’ll be leaving again soon. For about five days, I think. Maybe longer. And I couldn’t go without...” he trailed off. Ran a hand through his hair and let out a frustrated sound. “I keep doing things wrong with you, Nesta. 

She averted her gaze. She couldn’t do this. This was too much. And if he mentioned...that day...the battlefield...she didn’t know what she would do.

But he did.

“I promised you time, once,” he said softly.

No. No, she could not do this.

“I have to go,” she managed. She pushed past him, quickly, careful not to touch him.

“Wait, Nesta, please--”

“Nesta,” Emerie said, turning as she entered the room. “Where are you--?”

But Nesta didn’t stay to hear her finish. Instead, she ran.

---

November 3 - 4 years after

 This time it is Nesta who rips open the door as soon as she hears Cassian approaching.

“Mummy!” Avery calls, reaching her arms out for her.

“Hi, ladybug,” Nesta croons. She holds her tightly against herself. “I missed you so much.”

She had regretted sending Cassian out with her the moment they had gone. She hadn’t spent a night away from them, ever. She had never not tucked them into bed. And now...Avery had had a night without her. It felt like she should look different. There should be some mark upon her face.

But her daughter looks just as she did last night, just as cheerful and chattery. Cassian looks relatively unscathed, too, if a bit tired.

“Did you have fun?” she asks her as she ushers them inside.

“Appa told me a boring story,” Avery says, and wiggles out of Nesta’s arm onto the ground. “I want some orange juice in my purple cup, please.”

“Boring story?” Nesta says to Cassian.

“She didn’t want yours. And I didn’t want to tell her something you wouldn’t approve of. She still asked for it again, anyway,” he says defensively.

Nesta looks at him. “And you told it to her?”

“Yes.” Now he looks unsure. “And then she wanted yours...so I told that one, like, three times.”

Nesta shakes her head. She looks at Avery. Her daughter knows how to get what she wants, that’s for sure. “Did she ask to sleep in your bed, too?”

“...is that bad?”

Nesta rolls her eyes. Avery wraps everyone she meets around her little finger. Why should her father be any different?

“How are Nicky and Ollie?” he asks.

"Still ill,” she says. “The main thing is just to keep them on a constant stream of fluids so they don't dehydrate. Soup, if they feel up for it. Talk to them if you can, but they might be too tired.”

“Shouldn’t we take them to a healer?”

She hadn’t realized how much she’d appreciate hearing him say  we . “We don’t need to,” she says. “It’s the common flu. They’ll be fine.”

“So...you never take them to the healer? If they have the flu?”

“It’s not necessary if it lasts only a couple of days,” she reminds him, “for adults and children both.”

“Infants--”

“Not the same,” she explains patiently. “They can digest medication. Infants can’t.”

She finishes putting Avery’s breakfast in front of her. “When you’re done, Mummy will take you to nursery.”

“I want to say hello to Nicky and Ollie.”

“Finish your breakfast and then go,” she says to her. Then she says to Cassian, “Well, other than that...how was it?”

“She cried,” he admits. Then he grins. “But I calmed her down.”

“By letting her sleep in your bed.”

“Why is that not allowed?”

Nesta shakes her head again. “You were only with her. What if they all wanted to sleep in your bed?”

“What then?”

“They would kick you out and you would end up on the floor.” Nesta had thought moving them into their own beds would be a hard step, and it was, but as soon as she woke up from her first night alone in over two years, she didn’t miss it anymore.

Cassian laughs. “I can take them.”

Nesta hides a smile. “Finish up, Avery,” she says. “It’s almost time to go.”

She busies herself around the kitchen with nothing in particular, just feeling his eyes on her.

---

November 12 - 1 year after

 She could hear everyone around her before she could see them. Low, hushed voices. Some whirring sound, too. She shivered from the cold and from something else.

“Oh, she’s waking up,” she heard someone whisper.

“Nesta?” another voice said. Miri, from Sugar Books. What was she doing here?

Nesta opened her eyes. Where was here, exactly?

Here was a small room Nesta didn’t recognize. Pale blue walls decorated with tiny sugar berries; the sheets on the bed she was lying on the same design. The curtains on the window were a cheerful yellow and the expressions on Zeyn and Miri’s faces were anything but.

“Can you hear us, Nesta?”

Nesta struggled to sit upright. “Of course I can hear you,” she said, grumbling slightly. “What are these?” She shook her arm as she spoke, at the needles prodded inside her. She was in an infirmary of some kind. She vaguely remembered blacking out at the store, but since she could feel no pain, she assumed she was fine. Probably just dehydrated. After all, she had been Made. The epitome of perfection, was she not? She didn’t get sick anymore.

“Fluids,” Zeyn said unhelpfully.

She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Of course they were fluids. But Zeyn was harmless, if annoying, and she didn’t want to start an antagonistic relationship with the coworker who clearly liked her best.

“You blacked out,” Miri said, her wide dark eyes searching Nesta’s face. “We brought you to the clinic. A healer is seeing to you. Her name’s Amorette. She’s fairly new here, but I’ve been told she’s very good.”

Nesta nodded. “Thank you for bringing me here,” she said, hoping they’ll hear the dismissal.

They do. “Feel better, Nesta,” Zeyn said, reaching her hand to squeeze it. She tried not to flinch.

“We’ll be by to check in on you,” Miri said.

Oh, for the love of all things Holy. “That’s very kind of you, but I’m sure I’ll be fine.” She smiled as she spoke, hoping she did so normally.

Cassian used to make fun of her forced smiles. You look like you’re in pain.

Why was she thinking of him all of a sudden?

They left as the healer stood in the room. She looked to be about Nesta’s age--although with Fae, you couldn’t really tell, could you? But at any rate, a pretty, High Fae female, with light blue eyes and blond hair that kept tied at the nape of her neck.

“Good afternoon, Miss Archeron,” the healer said. “I’m Amorette Dadashov. I’ll be your healer today. May I come in?”

Nesta raised an eyebrow. “Sure,” she said, pleasantly surprised at the healer asking permission.

Healer Dadashov closed the door behind her. She was holding a notebook in her hand. “I can see all your vitals have returned to normal,” she said, without checking them like a mortal nurse would have to. “All things considered.”

"All things considered?”

“Yes,” she said, flipping through the pages of her book. “I understand you’re new in town?”

What on Earth did that have to do with anything? “Yes.”

“And, forgive me, you’re here alone?”

Nesta’s eyes narrowed. “Yes.”

“And you’ve not been to our clinic yet, correct?”

“Correct.” Shouldn’t that all be in her book? Why is she asking all this?

“So your options have not yet been explained to you?” Dadashov looked Nesta in the eye as she spoke.

Nesta’s patience was wearing thin. “Look,” she snapped, “I really don’t know what you’re talking about, and I’d very much like if you could just tell me what happened and what I have to do so it doesn’t happen again and let me go. Please,” she added as an afterthought. It didn’t sound very gracious.

Dadashov’s eyes widened. “Miss Archeron,” she said, not quite stuttering but certainly with none of the confidence she’d had before. “You do...I mean...you know that you’re pregnant?”

Nesta’s favorite book as a child was about magic. It wasn’t called magic, of course, for in the tiny human section of their island, magic was shunned. But that power to manipulate nature; that was what it was. The heroine was a girl named Avery, and Avery’s villain was a woman who could make things vanish. The most terrifying part of the story, in eight-year-old Nesta’s opinion, was the part where the villain made the floor vanish right from underneath Avery, and she fell and fell for miles until she could get her magic working to pull herself back up.

Nesta felt that. But there was no one to pull her back up. Because she was alone. There was only falling.

“I...can see you did not know,” Dadashov said softly. “All right, well...” She pulled a chair towards the bed and sat down. She gripped Nesta’s hands, hers a warm peach next to Nesta’s stark white. “It’s going to be all right,” she said soothingly. “The clinic is very well prepared for any option you choose. We have three healer’s for female reproduction, myself included. We’re all more than capable of treating you in whatever...oh, dear. Here,” she said, passing her a wad of tissue paper.

“Oh,” Nesta said, taking some and wiping her eyes. “Oh, er, tha--” 

But she choked on her words.

What was she supposed to do?

“I can’t be pregnant,” she whispered aloud. Because she couldn’t. Then she realized--she truly couldn’t. “This...can't be possible. I haven’t...been with anyone in months.” Even with the gravity of the situation, Nesta still felt a slight blush creep up on her cheeks. Perhaps she had not entirely thrown out the excessive modesty of her upbringing with her few months of numerous partners in Velaris, and the few months living with Cassian.

Oh,  Mother.  Cassian.

“It’s...possible for a female to get pregnant months after intercourse,” the healer said slowly, carefully, like Nesta was an idiot.

“It is?” she replied, feeling like one.

“Yes.”

Of course, Nesta thought, thinking it through. Because her cycle was so slow...and that meant her whole system was so slow...and if pregnancy once would have occurred a few days after sex, now it happened months.

And she had stopped taking the potion. Because she had stopped sleeping with people. But that didn’t matter, because it had only been...Nesta counted backwards in her head...a month since she had last slept with Cassian.

(A month? Had it really only been a month?)

Nesta put her head in her hands. “All right,” she said, summoning her nerve. “Tell me about the other two healers.”

“Well,” Dadashov said, slightly taken aback, “there’s Huseyn Por--”

“Male.”

“Er, yes.”

“No. The other one.”

"Marya Kamal. She’s brilliant, one of the best in the field. We’re lucky to have her. Her studies--”

“How old is she?”

“Er,” Dadashov said, eyes darting around. “I believe...twelve-hundred, or so?”

“No. You, then. All right.” Nesta paused to take a deep breath. “I don’t know anything about faerie reproduction. I wasn’t born faerie. And I...can’t have this baby.”

Eugh, why did she say baby?

Dadashov’s eyes go even wider.

She’s a patient from Hell, she imagined. But Healers liked a challenge, didn’t they?

---

November 3 - 4 years after

 The day spent with his sons is miserable. He sits with them all day, talking to them while they’re awake and running his hands down their backs while they sleep. Nicky seems to be doing a little better towards the late afternoon, and sits up to have soup, but Ollie barely takes the water Cassian makes him drink.

He’s beyond relieved when Nesta and Ava come home.

Ava rushes up the stairs ahead of Nesta. “We’re going to flying lessons now, Appa,” she sing-songs. “We’re going now, we’re going now, we’re going now.”

"Hi, angels,” Nesta says, coming into the room and sitting by Nicky. “How are you feeling?” she asks him, putting a hand on his forehead.

“Better,” he says, but his voice is still so weak.

Nesta kisses the top of his head and hugs him. “What about a bath? Would that make you feel better.”

He shrugs into her.

“I think it would,” she says, standing up. “How’s Ollie?”

“Sleeping, mostly.”

“Poor angel,” she sighs. “All right, you go on to flying lessons. Have fun, Avery. Say hello to Madam Sabina for me.”

“Bye-bye, Nicky! Bye-bye, Mummy! Let’s go now, Appa!”

Ava takes his hand and starts dragging him towards the door. “Bye,” he says over his shoulder. “We’ll come back soon.”

“Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go now!”

Ava keeps up variations of her chant until they arrive at one of the parks where flying lessons commence. The children all look to be around her age, accompanied by a parent or two. They’re all various types of lesser fae, none of the likes of which he’s seen in the Night Court.

Madam Sabina is a round, pink female with large, feathery wings. 

“Hello,” he says, introducing himself. “I’m here with Ava.”

“You’re her father?”

“Yes. Nesta’s at home. With the boys. They’re sick.”

“Ah, flu’s going around. All right, then. Normally I fly with the triplets, but good. You’ll do it. Wonderful. Are you excited to fly with your Daddy, Ava?”

“He’s my Appa,” she says. And then she starts singing again, “We’re at flying lessons now, we’re at flying lessons now.”

Madam Sabina shrugs. “Excited enough, I guess. All right, students!” she cries, clapping her hands. Let’s all gather around in a circle--mummies, daddies, uncles, let’s get behind them. Let’s start our stretching exercises.”

"Hi,” says the female next to him in the parents’ circle. “I’m Nuray, Zehra’s mother. I’m a friend of Nesta’s. You’re the triplets’ father, right?”

He nods. “Cassian,” he says.

“Nicky looks so much like you,” she says. “Where are the boys?”

“They’re sick,” he says, wondering how many friends Nesta has here, or if everyone who has a child in the same age group counts as a friend. “The flu.”

“Oh,” she says, clucking. “Poor dears. Well, it’s going around. Nice that Nesta’s got you here now, to help out. Especially with Zeyn gone.”

“Oh, yeah,” he says, struggling to maintain a casual tone. “Good stretching, Ava,” he says to her.

“All right, now, let’s just flap our wings. Just like that. No, Fidan, not too fast! We’re just flapping, we’re not flying! All right, good!”

Ava grins up at him. “I already know how to fly,” she tells him.

“Oh, do you?”

“I’m so good at it.”

“I bet you are.”

“We’re not allowed to fly until Madam Sabina says it’s okay.”

“That’s right.”

“Because we have to stretch first because it’s very important.”

“It is very important, you’re right.”

“And, now we’re going to run all the way over there and then back again, all right? Go!”

Ava shoots off as fast as she can, making him laugh in delight. He feels a rush of gratitude towards Nesta for giving them such a beautiful, quiet place to learn to fly.

"I think it’s great that you’ve moved back in,” Nuray says. “In a town like this, people talk, but they’re good. People talked when my wife and I separated, but now we’re back, and people stop talking, you know?”

"Er,” Cassian says. “We’re not--I mean, I’m not--I don’t...live...here.”

“Oh!” Nuray brings a hand to her mouth. “Oh, I’m sorry! I just...assumed. I’m sorry.”

“No, that’s all right,” he says, eyes darting around. This is so--weird. Sugar Valley is so weird. People he doesn’t even know congratulating him on moving back in with Nesta. No one here knows who he is. No one here has served in any military. He’s not even sure Gilameyva has a military. It’s so detached from Prythian, so different.

“Well, at any rate...I think it’s great that you’re stepping up.”

“Thanks.” Is this a normal conversation?

Thankfully, Ava comes back then.

“All right, everyone,” Madam Sabina announces. “Pair up, pair up. We’re going to go up! Stand by your partner!”

Ava stands in front of Cassian, beaming up at him.

“Okay, just high enough to their heads. Now...up!”

Ava kicks herself off the ground--it isn’t graceful in the least, but he’s so proud, prouder than he’s ever been in his life.

“And now we’re all going to do a lap around the park together. No higher than six feet, parents! And uncle!”

Ava takes his hand as they fly together. He’s going abnormally slow, but he doesn’t care at all.

---

Chapter Twelve

[maverick-werewolf]

Just some werewolf (and writing) thoughts

I had another moment tonight. I get these moments sometimes. This one actually stems from my writing.

Why can’t people take werewolves seriously anymore?

I’m going to just clip this here because this is going to get very long and inane and now you’ll find out why I’m going to have to just tag some posts as “rambling.” Keep reading if you’re curious as to what’s bothering me. But if you don’t want to drown (seriously you will drown, I didn’t hold back) in unorganized walls of text, wait for this Wednesday’s werewolf fact instead.

Whether werewolves are from the beginning or turn into one, they’re jokes. Whether the person telling the story intended it or not - jokes. Ha ha, dog jokes. Sometimes that’s fine. I enjoy it, I even dabble in it myself. I’m not completely innocent of that, and I’m not completely bashing everything that does it. I think it’s fun and it can be really super cute and entertaining. Especially if it’s reached at a point later in a story or a relationship (I know some of you you know what I’m talking about).

But the problem is that werewolves have been degraded into just something funny, or something average. They’re just one of those monsters you randomly throw at your players in a tabletop session, or they’re a boss fight in a video game. There’s an evil pack of them your heroes have to slay. By default, no one takes them seriously.

Where’s the depth? Where’s the meaning? Where’s the horror, the torment? The challenge?

That’s another thing. They’re almost “normal” by the standards of a lot of settings they’re in. It’s “normal” for a guy to turn into a horrible man-beast that eats people. Yeah, that’s not really that scary, I’ve seen those before and killed like half a dozen. It’s not too uncommon out here in [insert setting/region], the only hard part is figuring out what werecreature the person is turning into while they’re seizing around in throes of desperate agony.

Let’s fight something bigger, badder, scarier. Werewolves are so blasé. And it’s not a setting they’re in, it’s werewolves as a whole - in popular culture. It’s part of the reason why we see all these people trying to “change” them in some way or another, to try to make them “different” or “unique” - and we’re back to bigger, badder, scarier.

Say for example you run a zoo. Someone sells you a tiger. A TIGER? But tigers are NORMAL! We’ve all seen tigers before. These enormous, endlessly majestic animals that can easily kill a man with a single effortless swipe of its massive paw, with teeth longer than your forefinger, whose tawny hide has since time immemorial stricken a primal fear into anyone who sees it - as it should. Yeah, those are boring. They’re not good enough anymore.

Let’s genetically engineer dinosaurs and bring them back instead. Tigers are so blasé.

Only then dinosaurs aren’t good enough anymore. A fucking tyrannosaurus rex? That’s not very scary. We’ve seen those now. Let’s amp it up a little more. Let’s genetically engineer a big freaky albino auto-cloaking horror monster dinosaur straight out of your nightmares because we’ve reached a point now where, to modern audiences, a T-rex is normal, and we need something - what? Bigger, badder, scarier.

And as for werewolves, where’re they? Down there on the bottom of the totem pole somewhere with the “lowly” tiger.

(note: this isn’t a dig at Jurassic World or its plot, I’m just using that general idea as an example :P)

Anyway, I love Jurassic Park with all my heart and soul and that isn’t even a very good comparison as to what exactly is bothering me.

So what do you mean, Mav? What’s got you so upset tonight?

I’m upset because I feel like no one will ever take werewolves seriously again. Not really. Yeah, some things might try, but they won’t get very far. Because in the end, werewolves will always be relegated to what they are now.

Werewolves are essentially one of the most primal and terrifying concepts that have captivated the imaginations and nightmares of mankind in some way or another for the entire existence of humanity, even since the days of cavemen. Throughout our collective history and across every single region of the world, we have werewolves.

But now the average person struggles to care about a story if it focuses on werewolves. What a silly, cheesy fantasy thing. Tell someone your story has werewolves in it and you’ve probably already lost them, because to them, the word “werewolf” carries a lot of connotations and assumptions that are premeditated and inescapable thanks to this greater hive-mind conception of them shaped over the years by overwhelmingly bad media, with far too few diamonds in the rough to change most anyone’s opinion about anything.

Because, to the average person, what are werewolves? They’re B-movie monsters. They’re old news (despite never really being much news at all). They’re some shirtless romance model. They’re a random encounter, or just that one boss fight earlier in the game.

They’re paranormal romance novel material or something similar that serious authors won’t touch with a ten-foot pole, because the second you have a werewolf in your story that isn’t just a one-off, lame, monster-of-the-week creature (hi, “Silver Bullet”), your story acquires a very, very specific audience and becomes one of four things: a young adult paranormal novel ala Harry Potter, a romance novel ala Twilight, a standalone horror quick-read, or a book no one wants to read because you can’t quite fit it into any of those specific boxes, and those are the only boxes in which werewolves are now meant to exist.

Oh yeah, or straight-up comedy.

Bring up werewolves in a conversation - what do you get? Any number of, or all of, these responses: Oh yeah, I saw [insert horrible movie here], it was really funny. Haha, [dog joke]. Hey what about were[whatever]s. Let’s talk about all these other wacky werecreatures and make endless jokes about those instead. How about wereannelids and werehumans? Oh I’m sorry, were you trying to have a serious conversation? Well then how about you answer this completely off the nut question instead? What would happen if a werewolf swallowed silver? Wouldn’t that be funny!?

What about discussing them in relation to some particular setting? Oh yeah, it’s just that ONE setting that treats them that way, right? No. No, it’s not.

My whole life, I’ve just wanted to find some way to encourage people to take werewolves seriously again. I don’t know why or how this became my passion, but that’s what it’s always been.

This blog has actually helped a lot. So thank you all.

But here’s my problem. And now things are about to get personal and move away from broader territory. I’m about to talk about writing fiction.

My primary means of showing the world that werewolves can be awesome, I had always planned before, was to write some novels about them and attempt to tell a story as deep, as moving, as powerful, and as emotional as I think one could tell with a werewolf protagonist. Those novels were going to be called The Prophecy of the Six, set in my world, Wulfgard. And my protagonist? My once favorite character I’ve ever made, Tom Drake. But now I’m struggling to love these things again, to the point of being deeply and emotionally upset with myself.

Because in my mind, he isn’t even “the werewolf” anymore. He’s barely even a scary monster anymore. Which, in my world, he is supposed to be all of those things. He is my ultimate werewolf, and beyond that he is the ultimate monster. Or at least he was/is in theory. For quite a while now, he hasn’t been. There are other werewolves, and for some reason or another or in some way or another, they’re better at being werewolves. They’re, put simply... better werewolves.

And I have to be reminded time and time again that werewolves “aren’t even that scary.” Which I know is a statement bred in the pop culture we have to work with today, and it’s statements like that that should - and sometimes do - spur me on to work even harder. But when I’m down, it’s hard to deal with. And there’s not really much to stop all of these things from coming close to breaking me. Breaking my spirit, in terms of the werewolf thing, and breaking my heart, in terms of my personal issues with Tom right now.

So next time you leave a comment on some story you read online that you really enjoy? Thank the writer simply for writing it. It’ll mean a lot to them. It’ll mean the world to them.

Being a writer can tear you apart. Being a writer is very, very hard.

And on top of that, next time someone talks to you about something that they’re truly and deeply passionate about, no matter what that thing is, do me a big favor...

Don’t shoot them down.

Even if, yes, their passion is trying to prove to the world that something as “silly” as werewolves holds a much deeper and more profound meaning than your average direct-to-DVD horror flick is going to convey.