#technically i should not have had the time today but that sort of thing doesn't count in the middle of the night

[sophiethewitch1]

What We Want - Chpt. 6 - Round Two. Fight!

In Which A Romantic Breaks The Universe

(Yandere!batboys x f!reader) 18+ MDNI!

SUMMARY

Another lonely birthday, another empty year. You miss your family. You're late for your bills and rent, and even then, you got robbed last Tuesday.

Still, you buy yourself a cupcake, because you need it. I mean, hey. What's dessert for if not to get over cheating boyfriends and dead relatives?

As you blow out the candle, watching the clock switch from 11:59 pm to midnight of the next day, you make a wish.

And because the world doesn't like to make much sense, it comes true. Your life is suddenly flipped on a dime, and you're stuck trying to catch up with it. Fantasy becomes reality. You're a Wayne now, apparently. Or you used to be. You're loved, you're rich, you're talented and powerful.

Well, sort of. Careful what you wish for, right?

(TRIGGER WARNINGS AND MASTERLIST HERE)

PREV - NEXT

Damn. Your indulgent TV stalking of the Wayne’s really doesn���t hit the same once you technically knew them. And you were hiding inside one of their bedrooms, inside one of their clothes, using their TV subscription. It just didn’t feel right. Morally, of course, but that wasn’t what you were talking about. No, you were just pissy your favourite pastime was basically ruined. You shovel another spoonful of cookie dough ice cream into your mouth, glaring through tired eyes at the screen.

There’s an up-close shot of Dick Grayson’s abs. The presenter ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ over his physical form, and you have to agree. You wish you had abs like that. Unfortunately, you did respond to most unwanted experiences with stress eating. As always with these celebrity figures, you can’t really tell if you want to be Dick or be with Dick. Your butt is nowhere near the level his is at.

While you hadn’t really set out today looking for shirtless pictures of the Waynes, it wasn’t like you were going to say no to them. So, when the gossip channel had switched from the reactions of the Waynes to last night’s fiasco to… this… you’d just kept watching.

You wonder if you should stop doing this. It’s definitely kind of creepy, and now you’d technically once been his… step-sister. What a mind fuck. You’ve been crushing on these dudes for a while, and now they were your ex-step siblings. This was like the start of a bad porno, but you knew you were not that lucky. And it wasn’t like you were going to start thinking of him as a brother any time soon. You hadn’t even met the guy. No, he was still firmly in the ‘celebrity crush’ section of your mind. Pretty and untouchable. The way things are supposed to be.

Which was also bad because you would probably have to meet and interact with him at some point. Probably in the near future. God knows you’d absolutely humiliated yourself in front of the fucking Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne,. Twice, in fact. You didn’t even want to think about the display you’d shown for Bruce Wayne or Damian Wayne.

You didn’t really know what to do with your slightly obsessive crushes. And you could see it definitely being a problem in the near future.

…You decide that what you do in your private time is absolutely nobody but your business, and keep watching. It’s a mix of bitter spite and genuine mental breakdown levels of desperation that leads you to that decision. You feel like you’re a child with their toy being taken away, and it’s making you mad. And sad too. Even if you shouldn’t do this anymore, you still want to keep the habit. You’d mentioned before your creature comforts were one of the few things that kept you going. And while you were mostly very good at not being the jealous, heinous creature you really are, you knew you wouldn’t be giving this up.

They’d have to tear your gossip channels from your cold dead palms. You weren’t giving them up, not without a fight at least. Unfortunately for you, the universe seemed determined to wrestle away literally everything you loved.

Guilt’s for tomorrow. Today is for ice cream and purposefully ignoring everything. Speaking of which, you can not remember the last time you had a good Ben & Jerry’s. They were so expensive these days, as all groceries were. You simply couldn’t afford it. The Waynes, of course, had multiple tubs in multiple different options. Alfred had seemed delighted that you’d taken the ice cream, for which reasons you could not perceive.

Oh, yeah! His name was Alfred. Very butler-y. You’d remember it this time, he was a very nice man. And he called you ‘young miss’ which earned him points. He also didn’t seem to hate you on sight or treat you like a two-headed freak, like some of the other people in this household. Not naming names. Yeah, fuck that noise, Damian Wayne obviously has issues and it’s much less attractive in real life.

The woman drones on, and your eyes flick to your phone. Yup, she’s still yapping. It’s not like you don’t appreciate Dick’s abs or anything, it’s just that you think she might’ve been talking about this one specific photo for over half an hour now. Lady should get a hobby. Wait, wait, this is her job. Maybe you should start a podcast where you rant about the Wayne’s exercise regimes. It seems to be quite a lucrative field.

You shriek when the door slams open, nearly tumbling backwards off the bed. Hands manage to grip the bedcovers before you tip over, not making a complete fool of yourself. As it goes, you lose your spoon to the carpet. Bits of cookie dough spread over the floor in a divine sacrifice. And you lose your sanity to the man standing in the doorway. To be fair, he looks just as confused as you feel.

You blink at the physically perfect form of Dick Grayson and then turn your head to the TV to look at the other physically perfect form of Dick Grayson.

…You really wish you had a good explanation for this.

He mutters out your name, lips parted. Dick Grayson seems absolutely shocked to find you here. His eyes flick around the room and eventually land on the TV. Said baby blues widen to the size of saucers when the reporter makes a really, really unnecessary comment.

“And in news that broke the hearts of both ladies and gentlemen everywhere in Bludhaven, Dick Grayson has announced he will be returning to Gotham to assist his family in this difficult time. My cousin in the Blud is probably crying right now. There’s no ass out there quite like his, and there’s no replacement for Bludhaven’s favourite young rich bachelor,” she winks at the camera, and then the shot of his toned stomach phases forward to take up the entire screen.

Well, there’s a lot to say about that. First of all, fuck. Second of all, shit. Third of all, she really couldn’t have said that part about Dick coming back to Gotham sooner? Perchance, before you’d found yourself in this situation?

You said you weren’t that lucky, you meant it.

“But still, ain’t that lucky for us Gothamites? I myself have spent a lot of time on Dick’s Tiktok and Instagram, and his acrobatic videos have been used in a lot of my personal-”

You snatch the remote from the sheets and pause it right there. The silence is tense. You wait for him to say something, but he just stares at you. Completely stunned, mouth-catching flies. You want to pull the covers up and hide under them, but you don’t think that’d make him leave.

“I couldn’t find my room,” you finally manage to say. It’s the worst excuse you’ve ever heard, sounds like a complete lie. And yet, unfortunately, it is the truth.

Dick’s eyes drift to the TV, which you still haven’t unpaused. You can’t tell if it would be worth it, just to get rid of his golden brown abs staring at you judgementally, even if you’d have to deal with the extra embarrassment of the dialogue over them. Maybe if you muted the TV? It wouldn’t make up for the insult of his paparazzi photos on a widescreen.

It takes you even longer to come up with an excuse for… that.

“I was checking the news about last night,” you continue, the panic in you rising like a tea kettle left on the stove for too long. You might start shrieking like one too.

You don’t think he believes you. He looks down at the Beatles shirt you’re wearing. You know what he’s going to say before he does, but you still dread it.

“You’re wearing my clothes,” he mutters, his voice awed.

You want to say, ‘Nooo! No, no, no! Don’t do this to me, damn it! Not anymore! No more, please! It’s enough, enough suffering! This is genuinely ridiculous, damn you!’ but instead you reply with a shaky, “…Didn’t have any of mine.”

Also, you’ve been huffing Eau de Dick Grayson? That’s definitely in character for you. You want to beat your own head in with a stick.

“And I couldn’t find my room, and uh, thought this one wasn’t being used,” you continue, daring a glance back at him. He still looks completely stumped.

“It wasn’t,” he answers, but it sounds like he’s a thousand miles away.

You know, Dick Grayson was supposed to be a lot more charming than this. You’re almost proud you managed to stun the man into near speechlessness. Almost, almost. Almost not going to kill yourself once he leaves.

If he leaves. He doesn’t look like he’s getting up. You eye the gap between you and the door. Your animal brain is telling you to just run for it. But Dick has Olympic level athletics, and you don’t doubt he could catch you if you ran. Would he try though? That’s the deciding factor here.

He doesn’t seem like he’s actually going to fucking do anything though. He just keeps staring, like if he looks for long enough, it’ll all start to make sense. Which, you wish.

“Do you know where my room is? I couldn’t… remember…”

He nods, instead staring at his own abs on the TV.

“Can you take me to my room?”

He nods again. Still doesn’t look back at you.

“…Mr. Grayson?” you say, and almost immediately regret it. ‘You’ wouldn’t have used his last name, even though you might’ve. ‘You’ had been a casual person, as far as you could tell. That was the kindest way you could say it, at least.

His head snaps to you. He somehow looks more confused. You wonder if you should pinch him or something, god knows you’ve done your fair share of pinching yourself recently.

“Yes, right, sorry. Let’s… go,” he gives you a cheery smile, shaking his head, but it seems quite strained. You’re probably matching. This is the most humiliating moment of your life, and of course, it’s with the most beautiful man on earth right beside you.

A break. You want a break.

The two of you quietly shuffle out of the room, and when he guides you forward, you follow him obediently. Your head naturally bows, shame making it hard to look at him. You stare at the wooden floors as you walk. Watching it shine in the morning light that filters through the windows.

Eventually, he comes to a stop in front of a door that has obviously been avoided. Though it’s as clean as every other inch of this house, there are no marks in the rug from the door opening and closing. And even then, it seems… well, it sounds silly, but the door seems sad to you. Too many things seem sad to you these days.

Your thoughts must show on your face because Dick clears his throat and gives you a worried look. Is it rude to say you’re sick of those sorts of looks? That they just make you feel sick and burdened these days? It’s not like you could bring your family back from the dead, or convince your cheating boyfriend to not be a piece of shit. It was out of your hands.

“…Are you alright?” he asks you, blue eyes sincere. You tilt your head to the side.

“No?” you say, but it sounds more like a question. No, you are not alright. Yes, you will be okay. It’s the only option. It’s one of your rules. You have to be okay. You just have to.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

You almost laugh.

“No,” this time your voice is firm, confident. Dick seems like he’s going to push it, but something in your eyes makes him stop. You give him a forced smile and say goodbye, closing the door gently in his face. Once you do, you crouch down and once again, press your face to your knees. Then you press your hands to your mouth and let out a scream that had been bubbling up for a while. After that, you feel you can live with the humiliation that is your existence without jumping out the three-story-height window.

You stand up, turning to the room. The first thing you notice about it is that there’s dust in here. Same as Dick’s old room. Now that you think about it, Alfred doesn’t seem the type who’d randomly leave certain rooms uncleaned, so it must be something he does out of respect for the tenants of Wayne Manor. Or maybe the old you requested it? God knows.

Sitting down on the old bed, your eyes rove around the room. It’s well decorated, as the rest of the manor is, but you can’t see anything that would make it your room. There’s none of the novels you’d collected from the used books store, no dorky little items you impulse bought, no pictures of your family. The apartment hadn’t had those either.

‘You’- she- seemed like a ghost to you. While you’d often felt like you’d barely been alive, simply going through the motions, this girl seemed like she hadn’t even been conscious half the time she was doing it. It made your stomach swim, your face pulls taught.

While you’d had few things holding you afloat, it’d been enough to keep you alive. Molly, your co-workers, the need to work so as to not starve to death. She hadn’t had anything like that. No liferaft. You’d been sputtering and gasping your way through life, and she’d been drowning. Maybe already dead, at the bottom of the sea, hair tangling with the seaweed.

This room feels like a coffin, and this manor like a cemetery. It makes you physically sick.

Showing off your fickle-mindedness, you realise that despite this being the Wayne manor filled with all your idols, you actually don’t want to fucking be here. You need space to clear your head, and the creaking floorboards that echo down the creepy hallways just don’t offer that. The atmosphere at your too-modern, too-minimalist apartment is leagues better than the atmosphere at this gorgeous old house which you’d usually love spending hours getting lost in.

Usually. Unfortunately, this place was more suffocating than the workplace when you knew you were about to get fired again. And you weren’t getting paid to stay here, so why the fuck would you?

Once you realise you’ve decided to run, you’re quick to pack up your shit. There’s not much in the room you need. A pair of sneakers, because you would rather die than put those heels on again. And you’ll grab some shirts because they’re comfy and remind you of home. Hopefully, it’ll make everything… grate… a little less. All of this is thrown in an old ratty backpack, which is then tossed over your shoulder. Shoes slipped on, and tapped against the floor so they’re on comfortably. And then you’re ready. Ready as you’ll ever be. With one hand on your phone, you take a peek outside the door. Coast is clear.

You press call for ‘The Wicked Witch of the West’. Jeanine picks up on the third ring.

“Hello, Jeanine Ryans here,” she says, her voice all business.

“Jeanine, I need an evac, stat,” you whisper to her, creeping down the hallway of the manor. The floor is unbelievably creeky, so it’s pretty fucking difficult to be stealthy about it.

“…What?”

“Get me out of this fucking manor, please,” you beg, now going down the stairs. Almost out, almost out.

“Right, on it. I’ll have a car outside in ten minutes if that’s alright?” Jeanine replies, immediately on the case. It almost makes you cry. You know she’s being paid for this, and very desperate for the job for some reason, but it’s still a hail mary that you are so grateful for.

“Thank you, thank you so much,” you say, turning a corner and-

Oh, fuck. Damian Wayne glares down at you, green eyes cataloguing every single guilty piece of you in existence. He sees your hand tighten around your backpack, hears Jeanine telling you not to worry through your phone, and probably notices the way your eyes desperately flicker behind him to the door. To your goal, to the exit to this labyrinth.

You can practically hear the wind blowing, see the tumbleweed drift by.

And then, he moves past you, twisting his body so no part of it touches you. There’s a moment where your brain freezes, something spicy smelling (cinnamon, maybe?) flowing past you, and by the time you turn around, he’s gone. Your deer-in-headlights tensed-shoulders look falls, leaving you confused in the foyer. He didn’t even say a word to you. You felt like you just got passed over by a boss from a Dark Souls game.

…Well, you’ll take the wins where you can find them! Quickly, you hurry out the front door, skittering down the steps like some sort of rat. It’s a long walk to the gates, and you don’t really know how to open them to let the car in, so you decide to take your time and enjoy the walk. The early morning dew apon the clean-cut blades of grass glint and sparkle, the gravel on the road crunches under your technically-not-stolen sneakers, and even if it’s a miserable life, it’s a pretty day. From the hill the manor lives upon, you can see Gotham’s tall skyline, cloaked in its characteristic fog.

Eventually, you find yourself in front of the gate, where you can see Jeanine waiting with a black car on the otherside. There’s a big green button next to the side gate, which you press, and it clicks open. There’s a moment where your neck tingles, and you glance up at the camera pointed down at you. The red flickering light beside it holds your attention. You can see your bedraggled reflection in its lense.

Shaking your head, you move on, greeting Jeanine. She gives you a quick bow of the head and opens the door for you. You hike the bag over your shoulder, give the Wayne manor one final, lingering look and then you step into the car. Jeanine starts speaking to you about some future appointments you have, and you’re too tired to understand a word of what she says. She realises you’re not processing anything she says, and hands you a pair of headphones with a wire adapter.

You could kiss her right then and there. You don’t because that’d be weird, but you definitely think about it. Headphones on, you watch the rolling hills and luxurious manors turn into highways and honking traffic, to finally the upside part of town which was now apparently where you lived.

Eventually you find yourself being delivered in front of your swanky new apartment. With a passing goodbye, Jeanine tells you that she’ll be busy for the rest fo the day so if you need anything to call the number on the card she hands you. You tuck it in your pocket, certain you’ll lose it like every other business card you’ve ever been handed.

The elevator ride up to your room is contemplative. The music is boring, your reflection is bedraggled and tired, and the gentle feeling of gravity under your feet tugs at you. You rock slightly when you finally reach your floor. The doors open, but you don’t make any move to leave. They shut again, and you’re left staring daggers at your mirrored self.

You’d woken up, still here. It wasn’t a dream. It was reality. And more than that, it seemed more and more like you’d be staying in this reality. You didn’t think you could go home. Sure you were rich but… but your home. Your few things you’d managed to save. Your meagre group of friends and your hard-sought job. It made you nauseous. Where had you lost it all? Why were you here now? Why did you keep having to lose everything?

You manage to snap yourself out of it before someone else calls the elevator. Striding out of the space, you look to the right where you remember your apartment coming from. It’s not hard to find the unit, as there are only three on the entire floor. Rich people.

The door closes with a satisfying thud behind you, and you nearly melt with exhaustion.

This apartment is the ninth circle of hell for you. Scrambling around on your knees, you’re desperate to find the damn phone that won’t stop ringing. You can’t understand where the sound is coming from.

Under your bed? You shine your other’s phone’s light under it. Nope. Behind the dresser? Nada. You search inside the drawers and then peek inside the fancy lamp. Absolutely nothing. You’re ready to tear your hair out when you spot something… odd.

There’s… You think there’s something stuck in your floorboards. You dig at the space with your fingernails and the piece of wood pops open. Inside is… a cardboard box. An awfully familiar cardboard box, actually. The sight of your Mum’s old keepsake box makes you cry out with joy, lifting it from its little enclave. You’d lost a lot in the past few days but at least the old you knew how to keep your family’s stuff safe.

This apartment looks brand new. And apparently the past you dug into it to hide her stuff. You can’t really judge, you have a hidey-hole back at your apartment. It was a brick that had already been loose in the wall, so it didn’t feel quite as criminal as this.

The ringing is coming from inside the box. When you pull the lid up, you find a keepsake box a little different from yours. While yours only ever had your family’s old passports and photo albums, this one had a sleek phone sitting on top of all the mementos. It’s an exact copy of the phone on your bed- or well, it would be, if you hadn’t dropped it.

Two phones? This bitch was greedy. And so are you, eagerly sweeping the expensive item into your gremlin hands. Your thieving high is instantly quashed when you see who’s calling.

Of all fucking… George.

You roll your eyes before hanging up, tossing the phone to the side as you start rifling through the old keepsake box. You flip through family photo albums and lovingly cradle old stuffies. The phone buzzes. You ignore it. You find one of your mother’s old necklaces, and because you’re desperate for anything that can ground you, slip it over your head. The cool heart locket rests just under your collarbone, and you clutch it with one hand as you keep exploring. The phone keeps buzzing. It’s only almost half an hour later when you realise something about this is strange.

Why is George… not blocked? You glance down at the vibrating object like it’s radioactive, a despairing frown pulling at your face. Cautiously, you pick it up, making sure not to open the notifications lest it tell George you read any of his messages.

He’s… apologising for not being there for your birthday. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. And it’s not even a proper apology, it’s one of those ‘I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings’ bullcrap. He keeps spamming you, and eventually, you realise that he’s not going to just stop.

You decide to nip this in the bud quickly because even remembering his cheating face makes you feel like throwing up.

‘You’: Why are you contacting me?

‘George <3’: Seriously? Look, I’m sorry I wasn’t there yesterday. I was busy, you know that.

Stupidly, you reply:

‘You’: ‘No, seriously, why are you contacting me? I’m done with you.’

You wonder how you ever loved this jackass. Even if he was obviously more of a jackass here, than where you’d come from. He was just better at pretending there. You keep scrolling, ignoring the new texts that pop up. Your stomach sours at the number of texts he himself had ignored, of the amount of ‘sorry baby, can’t come tonight’, the begging, the pleading.

No, he wasn’t worse at pretending. He just didn’t care.

You wonder if this could have been you, further along down the line. Abuse happens slowly, right? Like a frog in a pot. You’d have forgiven and forgotten, written away his worse behaviours till you couldn’t anymore. Till you couldn’t leave, till you were trapped.

You think George Lancaster would’ve tried to. He would’ve isolated you from everyone you had left if he hadn’t screwed up and got caught.

You realise now there were a lot of red flags in your relationship with George. Molly always hated him and he hated her. He’d constantly complain about how much time you spent with her, spamming you with texts when you went out.

You were only… only two days since you’d actually broken up with him. Which was sort of crazy to think about. You feel like you’ve lived eons since then. Like that one traumatic incident aged you thirty years. Anyway, you still hadn’t processed the whole George thing. You’d been sort of busy fighting for your life.

‘George’: I’m here, can you at least open the door so we can talk face to face?

Freeze. A knock sounds, and your head snaps up to the front door. You don’t move. You just wish it away. The knocking only gets louder and louder.

You feel like a dumb girl in a horror movie as you walk towards the door, unlocking it and creaking the knob open. George Lancaster stands on the other side, and before you can slam it in his face, he grabs you by the arm and yanks you out of the door. And then he’s pulling you to the elevator, even as you try and get your bearings, get yourself away from him.

“You can’t just ignore me like this,” George says, pissed off to high hell, “We’re going to miss the reservation I booked specifically for you. I told you it was happening today and-”

There’s white noise between your ears, you can’t hear what he’s saying. Told you? It wasn’t in any of the texts. He’s still talking even as the elevator dings, even as he shoves you in a white sports car that’s half parked on the curb. Even as he drives his way through Gotham’s streets, he won’t fucking shut up.

Why are you letting this happen to you? Why aren't you fighting back, wrenching yourself from his grasp? He takes you into a restaurant, one so upscale that normally you wouldn’t be able to get in for months, and your head snaps from staring socialites to watching politicians to gawking celebrities. You have the eyes of the world on you right now, and they’re all watching George yell at you.

And you can’t find your voice.

It's like a scab you can't stop picking at. Like you think this is what you deserve or something. And it's not. You know it's not. And yet you follow obediently, chastised and embarrassed, as he pulls you through the restaurant. When he picks a table in the centre of the room, you don’t protest. When he chooses your meal for you, even though it’s not to your taste, you don’t protest.

Looking at George, scrolling lazily on his phone, your hands clench against the table. They’re sweating, shaking, nails digging into your palms.

You… you didn’t have to break up with him again, did you? You realised it earlier, but you didn’t- it didn’t really sink in. Your first breakup with George Lancaster was a miserable traumatic experience, and it had been in the solitary streets of Gotham’s Narrows. This one, this one would be seen by literally everyone.

Nauseous. You feel so damn nauseous, your mouth dry as you swallow down bile. This was ridiculous. You couldn’t stand seeing his face. Was he texting her right now? God, did she even know? You’d just stormed out that night, running from what you’d seen.

George had chased after you. Had he left her there? Your stomach churned at the idea. You had to hate her on principle but, well, you also had to sympathise with her. Contradictions, that was the average you. You didn’t want to help this random girl. Didn’t want to have to ever think of her again.

…Staring at George, a definitively awful person, you can’t do it. Can’t just leave her to it.

“I’m breaking up with you,” you say.

“What?” George replies, not even looking up from his phone.

“I’m breaking up with you!” you shout. It’s not even intentional, just a result of being pushed too far, of breaking too easily.

The restaurant goes quiet. Guess you’re up for another scandal then. Whatever, it wasn’t like you would’ve lasted much longer anyway. This was all too complicated for your recently traumatised mind to handle. And it was just too damn stupid to bother with anyway. All of this was fucking stupid.

You included.

Just pull the bandaid off, right? You could already see how this version of you had so many scandals to her name. You probably should start giving a shit. Or at least trying to. You don’t think you want to, though.

George puts his phone down face down on the tablecloth, giving you a calm look. That slightly pitying stare activates something in your brain you didn’t really know was there. It’s a type of rage you haven’t known since you were a kindergartner and one of the other girls said you couldn’t play princesses. Since your first service job where your manager felt you up. Just pure, petty, anger. The type of anger ready to burn the world down as long as it burns whoever pissed you off as well. He opens his mouth, probably to say something condescending, and your hand whips out and snatches his phone.

“Hey!” George says instead, his eyes widening.

You turn the phone back on. Hm, passcode. You flip it around and use facial recognition to open it. Despite the fact that George wears the most comically shocked expression, with saucer-wide eyes and a mouth open to catch flies, it unlocks. Nice.

“Hey! What are you doing?” George demands, reaching over the table for his phone.

You twist away from his reach. Password. You flip the phone, and despite George’s comically shocked expression, it still unlocks. He shouts again when it does, probably realising that you might be taking this seriously. That he might actually be in trouble. That his sugar mummy might not take too kindly to the numerous texts to other women on his phone.

…You really can’t believe you’re a sugar mummy. And for George of all people. What a horrendous waste of money, it’s fucking tragic.

He’s got the texts with someone known as ‘Pizza Hut’ pulled up, with some very flirtatious messages. You scroll up furiously, ducking under George as he gets up from the table and tries to get the phone. Still, backing up, the sight of a very poorly shot dick pic of George’s has you grimacing. Your focus on the picture, trying to decide whether his penis looked so unappealing before you’d learnt of his betrayal, has you distracted when one of the servers come around.

And, well, shirt, meet soup. Very, very hot soup. Everyone? Meet a screeching, klutzy moron.

George takes the chance to advance on you, snatching his phone from you. He doesn’t even seem to care you’re currently getting third-degree burns. The sting scorches through the thin fabric of your dress shirt, burning your skin. George grabs you again, his grip harsh enough this time you know it will bruise, and you can’t really say why you do what you do at that moment.

Your aunt used to have a chihuahua. It was an ugly, grumpy thing. She’d rescued it late into its life, and it had been treated poorly beforehand. It didn’t like to be touched at all and used to run from anyone who tried. And if you tried to touch it? Cornered it?

Well, of course, it started biting.

George’s howl is the most satisfying thing you’ve ever heard. His squeal of “bitch!” might be even more so. He slaps you away from him, and the sound echoes in the restaurant. Your face stings. When you land ass first in the puddle of still-too-hot soup, you wonder if you might try and bite him again. You don’t think you even broke the skin, considering you can’t taste blood. The other patrons stare on in genuine horror, like they’ve never seen a messy breakup before. One woman raises a hand to her mouth, and gasps-

You find yourself staring up at a furious George, one with a menace in his eyes you’ve never seen before. You wonder, idly, if he’s ever hit you before. Well, not you, but ‘you’. You realise now that he has the capacity for it, that he probably always did.

“What the fuck!?” he hisses, angry eyes darting from side to side, “Biting me?! In fucking public?! Have you lost it, you crazy bitch?! And you got my phone fucking soaked in soup!”

“Did you buy it?” you ask, wiping your mouth with your sleeve to get George’s dirty taste out of your mouth.

He blinks, confused, thrown off by your question, “Huh?”

“Did you buy that phone?” you repeat, your staring starting to turn into a furious glare.

You don’t think he did. Your George had never been able to afford those sorts of things, he’d been as broke as you were. Of course, you’d seen him lust over those items, but you’d always managed to convince him not to go into debt over silly things like sports cars and fancy phones. And even then, you’d been the one to buy him a PS5.

He looks down at the phone and back at you, and you can see his jaw tick.

“I bought it. That’s mine.”

“It was a gift. You’re going to be such a bitter bitch to take back everything you gave me? Gonna leave me out on the fucking street?” he says, spittle flying with angry words.

This was escalating fast. Maybe before you’d have been cowed by his words, but you were genuinely off your rocker by now and were very much willing to tango with this bastard. Like yes, he did terrify you, but so did everything else. You could handle this much at least. You weren’t ready to back down.

“And if I did? What then George? What could you even fucking do?” you throw back, voice rising to match his.

“It’s not your money either, it’s theirs, you little leech!” says the pot.

“Does it matter?” replies the kettle.

Pushing to your feet, you find George without another answer. He stands between you and the exit. With the plain murderous rage on his face, you think he’ll try to grab you again if you run past. He wouldn’t bite you back, but he might slap you or something. So instead, like any good coward does, you run straight to the girl’s bathroom. It hasn’t failed you yet, and you doubt it will today.

You shove into the bathroom, past a woman doing her makeup. Her head bobs up and down as she takes in your seemingly infamous face, and your stained shirt. You stride as far away from her as possible, darting into the last bathroom stall and sitting on the closed toilet lid. You pull your knees to your chest and hiss out a sound of frustration when that presses the sticky liquid against your chest and pants. Not your brightest idea, but you were sort of running on fumes right now.

The bathroom stall is extremely clean. One thing you were quickly realising about rich people is they didn’t have to suffer shitty public bathrooms. You didn’t think they deserved it. Like customer service jobs, and traffic, they built character.

What were you doing? Right, trying not to cry. You’re doing much better than yesterday. Still, sitting on top of the toilet’s closed lid, your phone pressed to your face, you wouldn’t say you’re doing ‘good’.

But because you knew George was too much of a pussy to ever enter the woman’s bathrooms, you refuse to move a single inch. You don’t want to go out there. At all. At all, at all. You’d tried to call Jeanine, but she hadn’t answered. Some P.A. she was. You still weren’t going to fire her. Then you remember that she told you she was going out later, and that she’d left a card with you. Digging through your pocket, you decide it’s finally time to die when you realise you lost the card somewhere along the line.

So, she wasn’t going to come save you as your knight in shining armour.

You can’t remember Molly’s number. Who did these days? That was your phone’s job. So you were left with… this. You were left with this. Four blocked numbers and a third had sent an automatic reply because he was driving. Alfred was probably busy. Weren’t butlers always very busy?

…Rich people weren’t often very busy. They had butlers and assistants to do all their chores. You unblock all four of the Waynes that you have on your phone.

The first thing you notice is the amount of texts between ‘you’ and Dick. Scrolling and scrolling, you find most of them are him checking up on you and one-word replies from the old you. He’s friendly and accepting, even when you respond in cruel and aggressive tones. The further back you scroll, the kinder your replies are. At one point it seems like the two of you had a good relationship.

You check the other chats. Tim’s message log is filled with coffee requests sent back and forth between you, Damian’s is completely empty, and Bruce’s has had no response from your phone in years. But eventually, you scroll back far enough that you find an actual conversation instead of just ‘Call Alfred’ repeated every few days.

‘You’: I miss them.

‘Bruce Wayne’: I know. I miss them too.

You press the back button, sighing. That felt like you’d seen something you shouldn’t have, like you’d peeked into someone’s diary. Which was unbelievably stupid. All of this is unbelievably stupid. You should just leave, you should just be brave. Two days ago you faced off against one of your worst fears, but today you couldn’t even handle George Lancaster.

You want someone to rescue you. You know no one will unless you ask. It makes you choke on your own self-disgust. This is the second time in one day. God, maybe you should just do it yourself. It’s not like you couldn’t pay for your own Uber.

And still, you find yourself clicking on a name and begging. Skin crawling, you type and retype the text probably a hundred times. You go from long apologies to begging to rants you never intended to send in the first place. Tap, tap, tap, and then you delete, delete, delete.

What you settle on is simple.

‘You’: hey. can you come pick me up? thx

Maybe a bit too simple. You cross your arms and tuck yourself in the good ol’ fetal position. You feel like you’ve spent half your time holding yourself like this the past three days.

‘Dick Grayson’: I’ll be there in five.

MASTERLIST - NEXT

[yuri-is-online]

Out With the Old (Heartsabyul, Savanaclaw, and Octavinelle x Yuu)

"Look I would get rid of this thing if I could afford a new sweatshirt." You drag the offensive article of clothing over your head completely missing the spark of curiosity and mischief in your companion's eye. "I've got a lot of bad memories associated with this."

"If it's that uncomfortable we can go look for a replacement instead of-"

"Oh no not like that, it's super comfy. I just don't like it because it technically belongs to my ex."

notes: they/them used for Yuu, some questionable behavior from Floyd and Jade because who else? This is meant to be crack. Second part can be found here (x)

Riddle- "THAT'S LITERALLY ILLEGAL???"

He is too focused on hyperventilating because it sounds like you just admitted to a crime in front of him to even think about offering you one of his sweaters. Trey and Cater have to break it down for him unpaid therapist style that no, you are not wearing stolen property (probably), borrowing clothes is just something people in relationships often do. He then further needs it explained that no, you are not still in a relationship and since you want to get rid of the shirt it sounds like things ended poorly. His friends want to try and suggest he should give you an article of his clothing to replace the offending one but he's so focused on getting you something that matches dress code that they decide to quit while they're ahead. Literally.

Trey- "You know you can always ask us if you need help, right?"

Vil's right about Trey's tendency to fuss and spoil people being a bit of a flaw; he's in tune enough with his emotions to know that he should not, for his own sake, give you one of his old sweatshirts without being honest about why he wants you to wear it. But he can't exactly deny his instincts when it comes to the people he cares about. You're cold and uncomfortable, what sort of guy would he be if he just left you all alone? Just please don't brush this off with a comment about how much of a big brother or mother hen he is; it is already going to be pure torture trying to look at you in his things in a Queen of Hearts honoring way. He doesn't need an added complex on top of it.

Cater- "Oh honey no."

Cater doesn't like keeping stuff his exes gave him either, but luckily for him he's never been in a position where that's literally only the stuff he had on him. Speaking of things, he buys a bunch of clothes off magicam he barley has time to take the tags off of before the trend goes stale. You guys should totally ditch what you were planning to do today and have a little fashion show in his room. It'll be cute and he can get a bunch of cammable shots! Just ignore the pop music club hoodie he refuses to take back because it looks "so much cuter on you." <3

Ace- "That's extremely lame prefect."

He isn't blind; you're cute and poor. Anyone would jump at the chance to let you steal a hoodie, besides Ace isn't insecure enough to be super jealous of someone you clearly hate. He knows you well enough to tell when you are silently wishing death on someone, it's all in the vocal tone. But damn if this new bit of information doesn't make things tricky. He already makes a big fuss about not needing to focus on dating right now, and with that iconic sweatshirt of yours technically belonging to an ex it's not like he can just slide you one of his without making it super obvious what he's doing. Looks like you're just going to have to take some extra teasing for a bit prefect, it's his preferred method of cope.

Deuce- "You've been here for how long and the Headmage hasn't given you any clothes?!?!"

Deuce is a good egg whose primary concern is almost always your well being. He tends to act before his common sense and emotions can catch up with his thought process, and that's exactly what happens here. The concept of you dating someone is just so... foreign to him. Not because he thinks your undesirable! It's just that you guys are always hanging out, you not being around makes him feel a bit funny inside, and not in a good way. He doesn't mention that to his mom when he texts her asking if she has any of his old clothes laying around, but she definitely knows what's on his mind. Why else would she have sent his old delinquent jacket?

Leona- "Well that explains why it smells like shit."

Let the record show that Leona is in fact, lying to you. Your clothes don't smell like anything other than you and maybe some of the musk floating around Ramshackle Dorm, but that doesn't stop you from pulling the fabric and taking a good sniff. To Leona, all this really suggests is that you've been over the person long enough that you don't care about keeping their scent around anymore. Sure, a tiny thought does worm it's ugly way into his inferiority complex that "oh they liked someone else" but his equally large ego immediately slams the emphasis on "liked" and starts thinking about how to get his scent on you. He doesn't really own too many jackets like the one you're wearing, but he does have some nice silk scarfs he could wrap you up in. Much classier than whatever trash you had previously been going out with.

Ruggie- "You wanna toss it my way then?"

Clothes are clothes are clothes, you don't see Ruggie acting like his uniform is still Leona's just because that's who originally bought it. If you are really bothered by the memories of your ex, he's willing to listen and make fun of them, assuming that will make you feel better, but this won't make him jealous. That emotion is reserved for when you share food with other people. He is dead serious about taking the sweatshirt if you don't want it, as far as he's concerned that shirt belongs to you, and he wouldn't mind having an excuse to blend your wardrobes a little bit. It would make you even closer to being a real member of his pack.

Jack- "You can just take mine."

Jack's strong sense of justice and firm moral code are definitely his only motivations for offering you one of his sweatshirts. Forcing a student to wear clothes they find uncomfortable and associate with negative memories just because they didn't have the foresight to pack something they did like for a school they didn't know they would be attending is beyond unfair. That's what he tells himself anyway, and it's not like he isn't upset on your behalf, but it's plain as day to anyone that he wants to prove that you can rely on him; he's not like that other person, he doesn't mind being alone together with you.

Azul- "If your finances really are in such dire straights you know I could-"

Revealing personal information in Azul's presence is asking to be offered a deal. Sure that little complaint might have been insignificant to you, but for Azul? He's having a full blown Sherlock style breakdown going on in his head trying to decide what his angle is. 1) The prefect has dated in the past and doesn't look on that experience favorably. Does this prevent them from dating again? Needs further analysis. 2) Giving articles of clothing is an acceptable form of human courtship, even if used. Or is it especially if used? 3) Can he convince you to burn this if he gets you a replacement or is that too petty? 4) More importantly does this mean you have a type? And how does he press for that information without appearing desperate?

Jade- "Oh? Well that sounds extremely annoying."

Jade Leech is first and foremost a messy bitch who lives for other people's misery. Sure, he is reasonably certain he's in love with you at this point, but that doesn't matter. You have a story that's filled with second hand embarrassment and a bone to pick besides he is nothing if not an enthusiastic audience. The thought of you wearing clothes that he owns wasn't something he would have thought of himself, merfolk don't typically wear them so dating customs that involve them are a bit foreign to him. He would much rather just bite you. Or give you some jewelry. both he wants to do both

Floyd- "PUT THAT THING BACK WHERE IT CAME FROM OR SO HELP ME"

The instant you say that sweatshirt is from an ex he is taking off whatever shirt he is currently wearing and trying to tug off yours. Yes, even if it is his basketball jersey, and yes even if he just got back from practice. Isn't the scent supposed to be the point? He knows you miss him when he's gone, and he can get you something nicer out of his closet later. Just remember to tell everyone, even and especially if they don't ask, who gave it to you. Floyd's... nice? Enough? To not immediately burn your sweatshirt but it's up for debate if that's because he's actually being nice or if he just wants a trophy.

[emmg]

WIP whenever

because @heylittleriotact uno reverse'd me lmfao

bc grading essays is overrated, so here’s a lil’ something from the ridiculous fic I’m forcing my keyboard to suffer through. Plot? Absolutely none. Just Emmrook going on “dates” (and like also… smutty dates) suggested by the other clowns haunting the Lighthouse. This one’s SUPPOSED to end in a coffee date—because Lucanis—but I haven't written that yet lol

Honestly, it’s like… smut-crackfic with necromancy puns that should be punishable by law. I keep saying I’ll write a serious Emmrich one day, but let’s be real, that day isn’t today

Anyway, title? Don’t have one. I'm just throwing a bunch of dashes and slapping a read-more right before it gets too long so it doesn't invade anyone's dash

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

It’s the most absurd scene. Like, truly bonkers. 

She hovers in the doorway, conveniently camouflaged by shadows, because though the cringe levels are searing her soul, she simply cannot look away. It’s like watching a runaway cart barreling downhill, if said cart was cobbled together with blissful ignorance and top-tier ineptitude. 

There, crammed onto Harding and Neve’s favorite tiny sofa, are Lucanis and Emmrich. And they’re... talking? Sort of? It’s the most agonizing conversation she’s ever been subjected to, and that’s saying something. Lucanis is flailing his hands around, using them more than words, trying to drive home whatever point he’s failing spectacularly to make. Meanwhile, Emmrich, ever the dignified one, has one leg crossed so neatly over the other that it creates this little triangle of space that she suddenly wants to crawl into and hide from the embarrassment radiating off both of them. 

"You see," Lucanis laments, his fingers forming that universal gesture of the confused and the desperate, “we went for coffee. But she, well, threw it back. Like a shot of spirits. It was not just any brew. This was from the frost-bitten slopes of the Vimmark Mountains. A dark roast with notes of juniper and just a hint of wild honey. You don’t just drink something like that—you experience it.” He shakes his head. “Her focus was all on that new case file, instead. And fish. Fried fish."

Emmrich nods along thoughtfully. “I understand. However, if I may be so bold, Lucanis, have you perhaps thought of discussing something besides coffee? A change of topic might open new avenues.” 

"I did offer to sharpen her knives."

“Knives,” Emmrich repeats, as though weighing the term’s philosophical import. “And… Neve is known to possess a significant collection of blades?” 

“No,” says Lucanis, flat as a pancake. 

“Ah,” Emmrich replies, offering a sage nod. A wise and knowing “ah,” as if that somehow clarified things. "An unusual approach, then." 

Desperate to claw himself out of this conversational pit, Lucanis asks, “Well, what is it you and Rook… do?” He stumbles over the words, as though simply asking has exhausted his entire social skill set for the year. 

And now, it’s Emmrich’s turn to squirm. She can almost see his moustache twitching, wishing it could detach itself from his face and make a run for the hills. He looks away, frowning slightly, as though consulting some vast internal library.  

They don’t go on dates. Please. Not even the hilariously doomed sort that Lucanis somehow subjected Neve to. For one, neither of them has the time for candlelit strolls with the world about to be ripped apart by blighted elven gods strutting around like they own the place.

Usually, she just pops into his room and fucks him while he pontificates about the finer points of romance. Oh, she always lets him go on for a hot minute, but once her lips are on his throat and her hands start wandering further south, he finally gets the hint, and that highbrow nonsense about “dignified courtship” goes straight out the window.

Emmrich, after clearing his throat, finally answers, "We discuss books."

From her shadow, she snorts. He's not wrong, technically. Just the other night, she had perched in his lap while he was reading some dry treatise on Fade energy attunement and the properties of dawnstone. He’d even launched into a detailed explanation while she kissed her way down his jaw and neck, hardly deterred by the lecture. Finally, when her hand wandered beneath his shirt, Emmrich, after a brief struggle to finish his monologue, allowed the tome to tumble from his grip.

So yes, “discussing books” might be accurate, but it’s hardly the whole story. And yet here sits Emmrich, steadfast in his scholarly pride, while Lucanis looks ready to take a long walk off a very short pier. She’s not sure which of them is more tragic. 

“Hm,” says Lucanis, apparently having reached the absolute zenith of his conversational abilities. 

“Ah,” Emmrich replies, with all the enthusiasm of someone describing mildew yet also, somehow, managing to sound very polite about it. 

She saunters over to break this pathetic monotony of wall-staring both are currently engaged in.

“My dear,” Emmrich perks up, relief flooding his face as though she’s just rescued him from the depths of some social hell. His voice is full of that charming lilt he uses when he’s desperate to salvage his dignity. 

He makes a half-hearted attempt to stand, all dignified and well-bred, but she waves him off with a lazy hand, signalling him to stay seated. And stay he does. Without missing a beat, she slides into his lap, practically draping herself sideways over him, arms winding around his neck. He tenses for a moment, exhales in resignation, but eventually gives in, one hand resting at the small of her back, fingers just barely grazing the line between respectable and… well, decidedly not. 

“I hate when you do that,” Lucanis snarls from across the sofa, jabbing a finger at her. 

“Yes, it’s not very proper,” Emmrich says with solemnity, though he’s showing absolutely zero signs of protest about her whole backside pressing against him. 

With a serene, mischievous grin, she stretches her legs, casually extending them until they’re firmly invading Lucanis’ personal space. 

“Mierda,” he grumbles, swatting at her ankle with all the fervor of a cat being swiped at by an annoying feather. “Rook.” 

She just grins that beautifully infuriating grin. “Go back to your pantry, Lucanis,” she says sweetly, her tone one of pure, serene malice. “The gouda is getting lonely.” 

Lucanis stalks off, glowering as if he’d chuck a knife at her head if he had one in hand. And she’s fairly sure he would. 

She blows him a kiss. He shows her the middle finger. They’ll have coffee in the morning.

Meanwhile, Emmrich, ever the portrait of indulgent patience, looks up at her from his cozy place beneath her with a satisfied hum. “How was your day, darling?” 

“Good,” she sighs, stretching further until her legs are practically colonizing whatever’s left of Lucanis’ side of the sofa. “Yours?” 

Emmrich raises an eyebrow. Makes a contemplative sound deep in his throat. “Enlightening. Lucanis and I were just having… an intriguing discussion.” 

“Oh?” she purrs, eyes glinting. “About what, pray tell?” 

“Courtship,” he says, savoring the word as though it were some priceless artifact he’s just dusted off from an ancient shelf. 

She smirks. “I’m sure you gave him absolutely riveting advice.” 

“I certainly tried.” He heaves a great sigh, even rolls a shoulder in a semblance of a shrug. “Though, I fear our preferred methods diverge.” 

“‘Preferred methods’?” she echoes, giving his thigh a playful squeeze. “Do enlighten me.” 

Emmrich gives her a look that’s half-scholar, half-sufferer. “Well, I fancy a touch of romance, some… sentimentality, if you will. And Lucanis…” 

“And Lucanis?” she goads. 

“His idea of a grand romantic gesture involves… knives,” he finishes with a sigh of pure exasperation. 

She can’t hold back the snort that escapes. “I mean, yeah, it’s Lucanis. Did you expect anything different?” She presses a little closer, trouble dancing in her eyes. “But for what it’s worth, I do love talking about books with you… so very much.” 

Emmrich doesn’t miss a beat, a hint of sarcasm curling his lips. “So I’ve gathered.” 

“Tell me more about your books, Emmrich,” she coos, batting her eyelashes with all the enthusiasm of a third-rate actress in a chintzy Orlesian play. 

“If you’re genuinely interested, I would gladly oblige.” 

“Oh, I’m interested,” she purrs, lowering her voice to a husky whisper. “In you talking… while you bend me over your desk.”

Emmrich rolls his eyes, his facade of feigned innocence dissolving in an instant. “There it is,” he says, shaking his head, fully resigned, and yet absolutely, unflinchingly unbothered. “Right on schedule.”

She giggles, pressing a kiss to the corner of his lips, laughing against his skin as his mouth curves into a smile. His hand moves down her back, rubbing a little more insistently, as if he’s grounding himself—or maybe just unable to resist the urge to keep her right there. 

And she doesn’t make it easy for him. She drags her legs back, swings one over his lap, and settles herself down, straddling him. For a moment, she just studies him, tracing her fingers through his hair, brushing little gray strands back, pressing featherlight kisses along his cheekbones. She moves to his jaw, his forehead, then teases at the edge of that absurdly high collar he insists on wearing like he’s hiding some grand secret rather than just a very biteable throat. 

He is fine, she muses, is he not? So impossibly precise, so painfully detailed. He’s all sharp angles and sleek lines, with those maddeningly long fingers that look like they could carve through a mountain if they set their mind to it, and legs that seem to go on for days. Tall, lean, graceful, and—she smirks—a touch too verbose for his own good.

There’s a tragic elegance to him, too, a sort of quiet, melancholic dignity wrapped up in age and maturity, like a bottle of rare, finely aged wine that’s only gotten more complex with the years. A shame, really, that he’s about to be thoroughly enjoyed by someone who wouldn’t know a fine vintage from a spoiled ale. 

She’ll savor him all the same, every last bit. 

When she takes his hands, winding her fingers through his, she feels him smile—a real, soft thing, so she leans down and steals it right off his mouth. She licks along the seam of his lips, teasing, before he finally gives in and parts them, letting her kiss him in earnest. 

“I like your rings,” she murmurs as she pulls back, letting their mouths part with a wet pop, a little string of saliva snapping between them. “They make you look expensive.” 

“Not too expensive, I hope,” Emmrich teases. “Otherwise, I fear I’ll meet the same fate as every artifact your merry Lords of Fortune collect. Pilfered in the night, sold to the highest bidder. One moment here, the next—poof. Gone.” 

She makes a show of sighing, voice deadly serious. “Oh, don’t worry about that. I’d rig the auction, slip in a pretty penny or two, then plant an inside man to bid on you. Coin in one hand, you smuggled back to me in the other. All in one night.” 

He laughs, that rich, throaty sound she loves, and she can feel it rumbling up through his chest. “All that trouble just for me?” 

She leans in, lips brushing his ear. “Consider it my own little courtship ritual,” she whispers, nipping at his earlobe. “Better than dinner and a walk, don’t you think?” 

He chuckles, his hands slipping to her hips, holding her close as if he’s half-tempted to test just how well she could pull off that heist. “Dangerously persuasive, as usual.” 

For a while, she stays just as she is, savoring the closeness, every slow inhale filled with the scent of him, the warmth of his body against hers. She steals little kisses, grazing his jaw, breathing her laughter against his skin each time he starts to smile. She loves the quiet, the intimacy of it all, though she loves his voice just as much. Sometimes, she asks him to read aloud, not for the content, but for that smooth, careful cadence that rolls through her and makes her feel so, so good. She’ll rest her head in his lap, fingers idly tracing patterns on his hands, kissing his knuckles, his fingertips, watching his face as he reads. 

Now, there’s nothing for him to read, but she leans into him all the same, letting his quiet words fill the space. He murmurs, babbles, whispers soft nonsense as he unlaces her hair, fingers brushing through the waves, watching as they fall in gentle cascades over his lap. She exhales, content, her eyes half-closed, perfectly happy just to listen as his voice drifts around her, soothing and familiar. 

She simply listens, resting her head on his thigh, gazing up at the ceiling, fingers trailing over his hands, kissing his fingers one by one, lingering on each touch. Her teeth gently scrape along his skin, letting her tongue follow in a slow, winding path. She feels his breath hitch, hears him stumble over his words as she nibbles down each finger, tracing her tongue along the edge before she takes it into her mouth, sucking just enough to leave him squirming. She lets each finger slip from her lips with a wet pop, savoring the way his composure falters, how he tries—and fails—to keep his voice steady as she drags her mouth over the center of his palm, kissing, licking, leaving nothing untouched. 

He’s given up on this one-sided dialogue entirely, his gaze drifting from her to the room around them—the door, the table, the empty corners where nothing but dust bunnies, or perhaps a few stray Fade bunnies, lurk in silence. 

“Dear,” he murmurs, glancing down at her. “We ought to move.” He gives her a gentle nudge, even tries to rise himself, but she’s not having it. 

“Oh, but you look so good here,” she protests, her voice dripping with mock innocence. “They’re all asleep, Emmrich. Even Lucanis, that kitchen rat, is probably curled up in his pantry right now, snuggling his precious wheel of parmesan.” 

Emmrich lets out a long, put-upon sigh, like he’s reaching deep into his reserve of patience, maybe for some scolding remark, but he finds none. His shoulders drop as he finally relents, letting her kisses chip away at his restraint. She leans in, her voice dropping to a sultry whisper, detailing exactly what she wants him to do with those hands of his—where she wants those fingers, how she wants them stroking, filling, plunging, curling… 

“Well then,” he manages, and she laughs, a short, wicked little sound, straight into his mouth. 

She slips down his body, her hands already at his waist, working his trousers loose with a grin that says she knows exactly how flushed he’s become. She murmurs something obscene, barely a whisper and almost incoherent, her smirk widening as she leans in closer, taunting, “Come on, Emmrich, don’t tell me no bone was ever… poked… in that crypt of yours, right out in the open for all to see.” 

“It’s the Grand Necropolis,” he corrects, like that’ll somehow keep his dignity intact, “and we most certainly do not… poke.”

She undoes the last of the many - too many - buttons on his trousers before freeing him just enough to take him in hand. And oh, would you look at that, for all of his posturing he's already hard. All that wriggling on top of him certainly led to something, she thinks.

“Oh?” she hums, tracing her fingertips over his bare skin, savoring the way he stiffens under her touch. She leans forward, her lips brushing against his length as she murmurs, “Not even a quick tumble between the tombs? Not a single bone used for inspiration?” 

His restraint crumbles as she flicks her tongue over him, taking her time, drawing out each little shiver, each catch in his breath, making sure he’s utterly undone before she finally lets her mouth close around him, her gaze locked on his as she starts to take him deeper, her mouth warm, wet, greedy. And as she feels him sink back, his hands clenching in her hair, she knows she’s finally broken that perfect composure, and she couldn’t be more pleased. 

Then she pulls back just enough to speak. “So, tell me, is this what you meant by reanimation techniques?”

Emmrich sighs, dragging his free hand over his face as if he could somehow block out the utter cringe tumbling out of her mouth, his fingers twitching, though she doesn’t give him a moment’s peace. She lowers her head again, sucking him in, hollowing her cheeks, before releasing him yet again, his cock slipping past her lips with an obscene, wet pop. “You know," she muses, "I’d say you’re looking rather stiff.”

A sharp exhale escapes him, a half-laugh, half-moan that only encourages her further. She picks up her pace, taking him deeper, her hands braced against his hips as she moves with a steady rhythm, doing that little thing with her tongue she knows he likes, she knows that everyone likes, a talent truly, swirling all the way around, pressing it flat on the underside of his cock, only to suck her way up, breathe hot air against him, before swallowing him again. 

Between every few breaths, she pulls back just enough to taunt him, her voice syrupy with mock innocence. She can barely hold back the laughter as she watches him react, his hips bucking ever so slightly with each tease, like clockwork, so deliciously predictable. “Come on, love. I thought resurrection was your specialty?”

“Blasphemy,” he mutters above her, though there’s no real heat in his voice. 

“No, no.” She rests her cheek against his thigh, stroking him instead with a slow, deliberate touch, her palm warm and slick, her grip firm. “Think of it as… a rather intensive course in raising the dead.”

The absurdity of it hits her right as she says it—her last attempt at an erotic pun officially surpassed—and she breaks, a snort escaping as she buries her face against his leg, her shoulders shaking with laughter. 

But then she feels his hands shift, pulling her up by her arms, and she yelps, startled, before giggling as he hauls her up, settling her right back on top of him. 

“That’s quite enough of that,” Emmrich whispers. 

As he catches his breath, she wipes her mouth, grinning at him with all the smug satisfaction of someone who’s just completely dismantled a man who prides himself on his restraint. She feels his fingers on her chin as he angles her face back towards his so he can kiss her and she's not shy, she tangles her tongue with his immediately, tasting as much of him as she can reach, even tracing the edge of one canine before retreating for breath. 

“Think you could, I don’t know…” She waves a hand around aimlessly. “Necromance my pants away?” 

He smiles, curling her hair around his fingers where it frames her face. “No, dear. I’m afraid that is not in my skill set.”

[elljayvee]

Today I'm more than usually annoyed with a pop science article, so I'm going to talk about reading these sorts of articles, why you should always be skeptical of claims in them, and some of the ways you can tell the article's author didn't understand what they were reading and told you the wrong thing.

I clicked on an article in Eating Well about low bone density and dementia, because my mother has both. There's not a lot we can do for her now, but I am a curious person. I know Eating Well isn't great at science interpretation and communication, so I'm anticipating that I'm going to need to read the original study already, going in. (How do I know Eating Well isn't a great source usually? Well, I have read it before, and it has some really clear biases if you read a few articles that aren't science communication, and so you get to know a source over time like that. Regardless of how, I'm already suspicious they're not going to do a great job.)

The article is talking about research that shows low bone density may be predictive of dementia risk. It is written by a journalist and reviewed by a dietician. Now, I don't know what review the dietician did, but she did a bad job, and also, so did the journalist, because THE FIRST red flag that goes up is pretty quick: the math is very, very clearly wrong.

This says there are 3651 participants, and that over 11 years, 688 of them developed dementia. This is 18.8% and the article calls it 19%. That's fair! Not a red flag so far, just rounding. Then it says that of the 1211 people with lowest bone density at the start, 90 people (7.4%) developed dementia, and of the 1211 with highest bone density, only 57 (4.7%) did.

This IS a red flag. It's a GIANT red flag. This red flag can be seen from SPACE by anyone who knows how percentages work.

Here's how: You have 3651 people. 1211 of them are in the low bone density group, 1211 of them are in the high bone density group, leaving 1249 people. You have 688 total dementia cases, but your high and low groups account for only 147 of them, leaving 541 cases for that middle group. That's a LOT of cases. That middle tertile, just eyeballing it, has to have about 40% of its people with dementia -- that makes low bone density look like it predicts LOWER dementia risk relative to the middle group.

I can write out the equations for you two ways:

3651 - 1211 - 1211 = 1249 688 - 90 - 57 = 541 541/1249 = 0.433 0.433(100) = 43.3%

Because I am someone who does a fair amount of stats for a living, though, what I noticed was pretty much this equation:

0.074(1211) + x(1249) + 0.047(1211) = 0.19(3651) and I knew immediately that x had to be MUCH bigger than it should, which indeed the math bears out: x(1249) = 0.19(3651) - 0.074(1211) - 0.047(1211) x(1249) = 694 - 90 - 57 x = 547/1249 = 0.438 0.438(100) = 43.8%

That 694 is because the authors rounded 18.8 to 19 earlier, not because I can't math. So, due to rounding, you get slightly different answers -- but BOTH of them point to something SERIOUSLY WRONG with the reporting. What is actually going on in that middle tertile? Where do these numbers come from? Well, lucky us, they mention the name of an author, a journal, and a date. Always be wary of pop sci articles that don't give you a way to track down the original, but giving you that way to track things down doesn't mean they aren't still doing a crummy job with their reporting, as we see here.

The original paper is Association of Bone Mineral Density and Dementia: The Rotterdam Study, published March 2023 in Neurology. This is a pretty technical article with a fair amount of math and things in parens etc. etc. and tables and lots of measurements. The table captions are often not the greatest, which makes it a bit harder to read and interpret. For example, in Table 1, items are listed as number(number) and this can be any of:

count (percent) -- this one's usually labeled in the table itself

mean (standard deviation)

median (interquartile range) -- these last two are NOT labeled in the table, so we don't know which set of numbers is which.

Great. Thanks guys. Assuming what's called a "normal distribution" mean (SD) and median (IQR) numbers will be similar, but they're not the same and I'm irritated they're conflated but OK. Soldiering on!

The original study looked at several different measures of bone density, and found only ONE of them to show predictive ability for dementia: the density of the femoral neck. This means that for their article, Eating Well should have looked at the results for femoral neck bone density, which we find in Table 2:

You have the actual numbers for 5 years, 10 years, and study end, as well as the hazard risk (HR) for each bone density tertile, with the highest tertile set as the standard. Numbers in the HR column have 1 as a reference point -- lower than 1 is lower risk than the highest tertile, and higher than 1 is higher risk.

The first thing I noticed is that neither 57 nor 90 occur in the femoral neck section at ALL. Those numbers from the Eating Well article are just not there. I also notice that the other numbers don't align even one little bit -- the number of total cases of dementia is different, for example. I do notice that the column with the 10 year followup has numbers in it close to 57 and 90 (49, 67, 86, totaled to 202) and that the overall numbers for the total study are much higher -- 201, 236, 229. Interesting.

At this point, I just straight-up search the paper for "90", and I find it in Table 2....in the total bone density section, which the paper's authors have said is NOT the section that showed possible predictive results. I search for "57", and also find that in total bone density, and also....wow the EW author straight up failed to read. This is actually worse than I thought.

Read across, these are the 5 year followup numbers (first 2 columns - count and HR), 10 year (middle 2 columns), and total followup numbers (last 2 columns).

We see our friends 57 and 90 in the 10 year columns. 90 is, as described in the EW article, in the lowest bone density tertile, but 57 is NOT in the highest bone density tertile. It's in the middle tertile. The actual number for the highest tertile is 68. Additionally, the total cases for 10 years is nowhere near that 688 number -- it's 215. We only get total case numbers close to 688 when we look at the study end numbers: it's 686, in this particular group. If we look at the study end case numbers for highest, middle, and lowest tertiles, we see WHY this particular measure can't be used to predict anything: they are 227 (highest), 227 (middle), and 232 (lowest) -- not significantly different from each other.

We can also see here that this group of people -- people who had total bone density measurements -- is not 3651, but 3633, which is listed across the bottom row. The overall STUDY had 3651, but not all of them had total bone density recorded.

Now we know that the author of the EW article did all of the following:

read the wrong part of Table 2

mixed up middle and high tertile results

reported 10 year results mixed with total followup results (this resulted in the weird math that alerted me something was very very wrong in the first place).

and the person who was supposed to review the article didn't have even the basic math skills to catch the problem -- which she absolutely should have, as a registered dietician. For giggles, I looked up program requirements for a BS in Dietetics. Programs require things like statistics and precalc -- not math heavy, but the math that alerted me to this problem is VERY basic statistical knowledge, like the kind they teach in 6th grade level statistics, which I know because it was literally in my 6th grader's curriculum this past school year. So a registered dietician DEFINITELY had enough math to catch this problem, and should have, and Eating Well should be ashamed of itself.

SO. What can we learn from this?

Well, science communication is a skill set. Some people have worked very hard to develop that skill set and are excellent at it -- but lots of people do not have it, and even those who do can make mistakes. Many, many pop sci articles are not written by trained science communicators, or people with any education in how to read scientific articles, or people with good reading comprehension, even. It's very common for pop sci articles to have these sorts of errors in them. Therefore:

Always read pop sci articles with a skeptical eye. Ask yourself:

Do these numbers line up? Usually the math in pop sci articles is not very complex -- you can often do some basic arithmetic to make sure it even makes sense, as was the case here.

Does one part of the article seem to contradict another part of the article?

Do I feel confused about what exactly I'm being told? What's not clear about it?

Am I being told about HOW something works or WHY it works or both? Are those two things being conflated somehow?

Is there a link or way to find the original research? If not, my advice is to throw the whole article away. If yes, you can go check it out -- often just looking at the abstract or results section will be enough, and abstracts usually aren't paywalled even if the rest of the article is. You would be surprised how many times the abstract says "we found X" and the pop sci article says "the researchers found Y".

Could I explain this article to someone and have it make sense? If not, why not?

Is the article confusing correlation (these things happen together) with causation (one of these things causes the other)?

Pop sci articles, like other journalistic articles, are extremely subject to bias issues from the publication they're in. A lot of people tend to read pop sci articles as neutral, factual reporting, but they aren't! I mentioned EW's biases earlier -- the one I think is most relevant to how their article is written is a pervasive belief that if you just eat the right things in the right amounts you will be thin and healthy and stave off all kinds of problems. They close their article by mentioning that, although the study's authors are clear that this connection is unlikely to be causative, and that risk factors for low bone density and dementia have substantial overlap, readers should act like it might be causitive with diet and exercise choices that promote bone health. They were so excited to get to their point about fixing your diet that they didn't pay attention to the actual science they were reporting on. (Sidenote: actual scientific journal articles are supposed to be neutral, factual reporting. They also aren't actually that, but there are some measures in place around this to try to prevent the worst effects of bias.)

It's worth brushing up some basic math skills. You don't need to know a lot! Very basic information will help you better understand a lot of articles -- both ones that are accurate and well-written, and ones that are shoddy and should not have been published. I really like Larry Gonick's The Cartoon Guide to Statistics but if your grasp of percentages is shaky, it will be too advanced. A good option might be something like The I Hate Mathematics! Book, which is pretty old but really accessible, but there's probably some newer great ones out there that I just don't know about.

[centrally-unplanned]

I played some Victoria 2 today (a Japan campaign ofc, and admittedly with the Historical Flavor Mod), to sort of reflect on it in relation to Vicky 3. It is rough going back to the economy of Vicky 2 after playing 3, let me tell you - you knew intellectually it was "bad" system before, but you loved it anyway because of the full package. But now you can see the alternatives and remove the quotations, it is just bad! Building an ammunition factory that requires sulfur, having domestic RGO sources for sulfur but they are not producing enough to supply even one factory, and just not being able to do anything about it that isn't drastic or long-term because the world market is feeling fucky today is unacceptable once you have played a game where that isn't true. My industrialization strat should not waffle between "build a railroad for a 5% bump in output" and "invade Indonesia", give me a middle ground here guys! And it does not stop there - capitalists are useless, "build factory on RGO and expand forever" is optimal 99% of the time, key technologies will like double your output making them forced decisions, etc.

And, if you are can't build factories because you aren't civlizied yet...you have no econ game at all. You just do virtually nothing. Now that you see how that isn't required, the mechanics are ruthlessly bad in key ways.

But! But but but! I think Vicky 2 is a still a better game. The funny thing about that "I don't have enough sulfur" thing is that I didn't even care. I built the factory "for the future", subsidized it, it outputted zero bullets, and I barely notice because you make so much money anyway you can generally ignore it. I build the factories primarily so I can have clerks staffing them and generating research points! Is that insane game design? Yeah, it is! But it is insane game design that doesn't get in the way. Nothing stops me from building a factory, it just isn't very good. Wanna build a huge military? Encourage some soldiers with your national focuses and go to town. Want to declare war on someone? You can just do that! And then I take the army I built, click it on enemy, and it fights them - revolutionary new approaches to game design folks.

Even politics, where Vicky 2 definitely does get in the way a lot and is actively not-good, it is at least more permissive and more importantly simple. If you have elections you get events to shift voter ideology, and national focuses to boost party support that work exactly the way you would expect. If you are autocratic you can just swap who is in power! Liberals support political reforms, socialists support economic reforms, if you have a majority support for a law click a button and it passes. Done. Putting socialists in power in 1870 Japan might result in a revolution, sure, but it works, you can try it, and try to beat the militant tide.

Meanwhile in Vicky 3 if you are autocratic putting a "minority" faction in power literally breaks your government and prevents you from passing any laws. You can technically do it but you just die immediately. Wanna build a coalition then, where conservatives & agrarians ally together? You technically can again, but the penalty for "non-compatible" coalition partners is so high it 90% of the time crashes you into 0 anyway. So you have the "option" of switching parties, but...you can't. You just have to appoint the landowners every time or you die. So what is the point? Why have the option? Let me play the game!! Let me try reforming things and face a revolution I have 40% odds of losing to! That sounds fun, why are you rigging the game against that?

I tried an Iran run in Vicky 3 earlier, and I had a revolution against the landlords, who had ~50% of the "faction" points in government. I won, and so their points got knocked down to ~0%, how that works. So I made a new government, right? Well, no! Every faction left was "incompatible" with each other and none of them alone could even muster like 30%. I had literally no government capable of passing laws. So I fucking quit the game? Because this was the product of winning a revolution, why would I continue?

In Vicky 2 fascists win a revolution and they coup the government and it's fascist now. You get the fascist laws and can pass reforms they like. There ya go. Done. Is it interesting? No, not really. But it works! It doesn't literally stop you from playing the game.

My Japan game actually started as Satsuma, since in HPM Tokugawa Japan is split into substate Daimyo. I modernized via encouraging intellectuals, took military & railroad reforms, built a modern land army, and built up relations with the other domains. I launched the Meiji Restoration, got 60% of the Daimyo on my side, won the civil war. Began building factories everywhere, built up my industry, built up my research output. Used the new tech & money to build a larger army, fought the Qing in a tough war but got Korea & Taiwan, allied with the UK & built up a steamer industry to get a modern navy. Then Russia got into a crisis with Greece and so the UK and I backed Greece and broke Russia, with me claiming some territories around Manchuria in the process. Later I invaded China proper to annex Manchuria itself and get some treaty ports, easily now because my military was much more advanced. From all that my infamy was high so I coasted into the endgame and pivoted to culture techs to trigger "decisions" around modernizing Japan that gave me bonuses while having nice historical flavor to them.

And generally the game just didn't get in my way on doing all that. I could "tell the story", which for an easy game like Vicky is normally what you are here to do. Vicky 3 is a much better economy simulator, but telling the story beyond that is such a chore, and often impossible. On politics, diplomacy, and especially military, it is philosophically a step backwards such that its more "developed" mechanics cannot compensate for the mistake.

(I think it is funny how much better a gameplay experience the "narrative via decisions" of Vicky 2 w/ HPM is. They give flavor to the nations with a ton of bespoke, scripted events. Which...just works because they are straightforward. Vicky 3 wants to be "emergent" and so limited such events, but missed the forest for the trees there)

I find this sad because honestly there is a "blended" version of these two games that is amazing. Vicky 3's econ system (with tweaks ofc like making trade valuable) and philosophical commitment to minimal military micro (SO finicky in Vicky 2 to replenish armies where individual brigades die off, ugh), with a system that understood storytelling is first. Let players do things, and then give them consequences that are manageable in response. Get out of the way of the stories your sandbox game is built to tell.

[datvtranscripts]

Signs and Portents Deleted Dialogue

In Entropy’s Grasp: Banter

Dialogue is sorted in scene order to the best of my ability.

Signs and Portents Masterpost

—

Harding: So what're you doing out here?

Neve: So, what brings you to these woods?

Bellara: I'm looking for something. Specifically, the artifact making this bubble. Though it just started doing that.

Rook: Why that one?

Bellara: Because it has a weird resonance. One I haven't seen before. And so it doesn't tear reality apart. 'Cause that would be bad.

—

Harding: More demons. Great.

Neve: Oh, good. More demons.

Rook: Yeah, but no Venatori. That's something, at least.

—

Rook: Two.

Harding: What's that?

Neve: "Two" what?

Rook: Just counting the number of times I've been sucked into the Fade today.

Bellara: We're not in the Fade. We're beside it. Technically.

Rook: Got it. So one-and-a-half, then.

—

Rook: What is all this?

Bellara: It focuses magic. Big rings to the little rings, and little rings to the building. Less magic used. But same amount of power.

Rook: And the things you could do with that kind of power…

Rook: First time I've seen something like this.

Rook: You know, I almost understood that.

—

Rook: So whose temple was this?

Bellara: Oh! Did I say temple? Less a temple, more a workshop. Kind of.

Rook: What kind of workshop?

Bellara: Not sure. But we'll see when we go inside! Isn't it exciting?

Harding: That's one way to look at it.

Neve: Not the word I'd have chosen.

—

Rook: How does this work?

Bellara: There should be… something. Some way to make a bridge. Keep an eye out for artifacts.

—

Bellara: Okay! Give me a minute. Gotta deactivate this. Keep the demons off me! Should be okay.

Harding: I definitely like her optimism.

Neve: She’s certainly optimistic.

—

Bellara: Shit. That's not good.

Rook: What's wrong?

Bellara: Oh, this artifact. It's not working. Broken.

Harding: So, what now?

Neve: All right. So what now?

Bellara: We look for the next artifact. There's always a next one.

—

Rook: Another one of those things.

Harding: Same dance as before?

Neve: Same deal as last time?

Bellara: Yep! Almost certainly more demons.

Rook: Who doesn't love a routine?

—

Bellara: Damn. Broken.

Rook: On to the next one?

Bellara: Yep! Let's hope enough of them are still working.

—

Rook: And another one.

Harding: I'd like to be done with demons.

Neve: Fingers crossed. We've had enough demons for one day.

Bellara: Believe me, I hear you.

—

Harding: We're pretty high up, aren't we?

Neve: We're some ways off the ground, aren't we?

Bellara: Hard to tell. In a reality distortion, I mean. Up and down don't mean as much.

Rook: So if one of us falls off…

Bellara: You might fall forever! Or immediately hit the ground at full speed.

Harding: Oh. Good.

Neve: Now there's a fun coin toss.

—

Bellara: One time, I fought an ogre in a reality distortion. It charged me. Missed. Then fell right off a cliff.

Harding: Oof. Did it…?

Neve: Lucky break for you.

Bellara: It stopped falling. Then it exploded. Pretty violently. Lots—and I mean lots—of little pieces. All over the place.

Harding: Mmm. Wonderful.

Neve: Well, that's… dramatic.

—

Bellara: Good idea. Otherwise it'll spoil.

Rook: Sorry, what was that?

Bellara: Right. Other people. I'm used to talking to myself. Not a lot of company.

Harding: What did you think was a good idea?

Neve: Fair enough. So what was the good idea?

Bellara: Oh! Supper. I decided I was going to have the smoked fish tonight.

—

Bellara: Almost there. Should be the last one.

Harding: Oh, thank goodness. I'm not designed for climbing. At least, not this kind.

Neve: Good. More than enough climbing for one day.

—

Rook: Another eluvian.

Bellara: This one's broken, though. Completely. Looks like it was smashed on purpose.

Harding: Why would anyone do that?

Neve: So the question is why.

Bellara: Keep people from coming in? Or from getting out.

—

Neve: That armor. What was it for?

Harding: What was that armor for?

Bellara: Not sure. But it was infused with spirit magic of some kind. Still a little bit left. Reminds me of the Sentinels. At least a little bit.

—

Bellara: And… there we go! Oh! And it worked. Good.

Neve: So there was a chance it wouldn't. Bellara: Oh, always. No one really knows how all of this works. We're just guessing.

Harding: Wait, you weren't sure? Bellara: With this stuff? Never. At least, not completely sure.

—

Bellara: There we go. It's fixed! Hmm… Not doing anything, though. Guess we need an energy source.

Rook: And where do we find that?

Bellara: Thought I saw one? Nearby, I mean. Let's go looking.

—

Bellara: Okay. This one's missing an energy source, too.

Rook: So let's go find one. Should be nearby, right?

Harding: I've been keeping an eye out, but I haven't seen one. Bellara: Well, it has to be somewhere. I hope. Let's go looking for it.

Neve: Can't be the worst odds, given the number we've seen to this point. Bellara: I hope so! We'll go looking. I bet we find it right away.

—

Bellara: And there we go! Easy. Okay. On to the next one!

—

Bellara: Done. Took a while, but we did it! Let's keep going!

—

Bellara: I don't know. Things have been bad here for a while, but… something's changed. The magic's stronger.

Harding: How?

Neve: You don't say. Any theories about why?

Bellara: One of the Evanuris, maybe? They'd be powerful enough to cause those ripples. But they're supposed to be locked up. I mean, you hear talk of Fen'Harel, but still.

Rook: Right. Locked up. Definitely.

—

Rook: So… this is awkward, but we might know why the magic's stronger.

Harding: Uh, short version: We ruined Fen'Harel's ritual, and now the Evanuris are out.

Neve: The Evanuris have escaped. Or so we're told.

Bellara: Oh! Okay. That makes sense.

Rook: You aren't surprised? Even a little bit?

Bellara: Things have been weird for a while. I figured something was changing. Now I know what. Or, I guess, "who."

—

Bellara: Hard to say! Everything the ancient elves built was fancy.

—

Bellara: Hmm. We'll need to find a way to the center.

—

Bellara: Damn! Sentinels! We'll have to fight our way through them.

Harding: Good thing I brought spare arrows, huh?

Neve: Oh, sure! Ready if you are.

—

Harding: That looks like a Grey Warden ballista.

Neve: Is that a Grey Warden ballista? ㅤㅤ ㅤ

Grey Warden Rook: It is. Reasonably new one, too.

Rook: I think it is.

Bellara: Sometimes things just… show up in these Veil bubbles.

—

Bellara: First barrier down! Two more to go.

—

Bellara: Try using that ballista against the demons!

—

Rook: Is this wobbling? I feel like it's wobbling.

Bellara: Ooh! I'm getting that tingly feeling in my legs.

Rook: This seems a little unsafe!

Bellara: Definitely, definitely, do not look down!

—

Bellara: More sentinels! Let's take care of them quickly.

—

Harding: So is it normal for ruins to float in Arlathan?

Neve: Huh. So the ruins here float.

Bellara: Oh, no. This is new.

Harding: So you're saying they could stop floating?

Neve: Ah. And if they stop floating?

Bellara: Umm. Well…

Rook: Oh, good.

—

Bellara: Okay! That's the second one. One more to go.

—

Bellara: That's the last one. Should be clear to the artifact.

—

Harding: Oh, look at that stained glass. It's beautiful!

Neve: The stained glass—now that's pretty.

Bellara: It is! But it's not glass.

Rook: How can you tell?

Bellara: Doesn't break when you hit it. Trust me.

—

Rook: So how exactly do we shut down that artifact?

Bellara: Gotta make it to the center first. Which means disabling the rings.

Harding: How do we do that?

Neve: Right. And how do we do that?

Bellara: The resonance amplifiers keep the rings spinning. Shut those down, and the rings should shut down, too.

—

Bellara: Oh! No, we can make a bridge. See that artifact? Bring that crystal over here and slot it in!

—

Bellara: There. Exactly what we needed. Once I change the polarity, the rings should stop moving.

Harding: But…?

Neve: Right. And the part we won't like?

Bellara: It's going to attract demons. A lot of them. So. Be ready for that!

—

Rook: Oh, good—giant wolf statues. Like we haven't seen enough wolves today.

Bellara: What's wrong with wolves?

Rook: Wolves, generally? No problem. Just not really a fan of this specific wolf.

—

Bellara: Hmm. Door needs a second energy source to open. Look around. It has to be here somewhere.

—

Bellara: Okay. This bridge is going to be a little trickier. We'll need to move some crystals around. Get two on the bridge. Gotta be a way to make it work…

[clubdionysus]

[BAD DECISION #30] Evaluating the Meaning of Home

warnings: to busan we go!!! kook is driving, yummy <3 , v fluffy, jk using the birds as an excuse!!! i spy with my little eye something beginning with.... b!!! ends in 'is jealous! and territorial!' !!!

a/n: this header was almost lost to the void, but I had a screenshot of the chapter to put on insta when I first published it lol, so it's a screenshot of a screenshot of a screenshot (of a screenshot?? (technically)). but it also mean I know the exact date of this og upload--31 march 2023. waaaa so long ago

wc: 6k

bd total wc: 540k (ongoing)

AO3 | MASTERLIST | MINORS DNI

You're rushing around your apartment by the time Jeongguk shows up at your place again a few hours later. 

He'd given you time to get packed and ready, but also had taken the time to get his things together, too. His visit to your place the night before had been unplanned, so he'd lost the morning to get ready. He's like the white rabbit today - late, late, late - but it's inconsequential. Doesn't matter. It's a piss-easy drive, even with rush-hour traffic.

A quick call to his mum had been made, just to let her know you'd be joining him. She offered to make up his brother's room with fresh sheets before Jeongguk had even asked.

"It's fine," Jeongguk had said. "I can sort it when I get there-"

"It's no bother," she had assured him. "I don't want her thinking I can't keep my house in order! You'll sleep in your room, yes? Or would it be better if you were in Jeongmin's room? Might be strange, considering they don't know one another."

"Mum, he moved out a decade ago," Jeongguk laughed. "It's just a spare room."

"It's still your brothers!" His mother had reprimanded him. Fiercely proud of both her boys, she never wanted either of them to think they didn't have a place to call home. "Just like your room is still yours. Still has your little Spiderman posters up and those Girls Generation pictures next to your bed-"

"Put her in Jeongmin's room," Jeongguk had cringed. Knows it's full of baseball memorabilia, but would rather you be overwhelmed by his older brother's Lotte Giants obsession than his teenage girl crushes.

"Suit yourself," his mother had laughed. "What time should I expect you? What would you like for dinner? What did you say your friend's name is again?"

A million and one questions were asked, so Jeongguk's 'quick' call had taken far longer than he'd intended.

When he arrives at your place, he apologises. You simply shake your head. Invite him in.

"Just give me a minute," you say. "I'm running late, too."

He doesn't oppose. Notices your bags by the door, so offers to take them down to his car - of which you gladly accept, until you glance over to him and notice, well, him.

In jeans again, partially inspired by the pair of yours he'd stolen that morning to go to the shops, the shirt he's wearing is white. Isn't as baggy as his usual style is. Tucked into his jeans, a belt secures everything in place. You're reminded, again, of why Jeon Jeongguk is a menace.

But the white of the shirt against his tan skin is so heavenly, it's impossible not to stare; tattoos out, as if it isn't still chilly outside. Coat must be left in the car, you assume.

"Hey, hey," you call after him, hand outstretched to beckon him back. Nod toward his neck when he turns around. Your admiration for his appearance had drawn your attention to the marks left by your lips. "Can't be going home with your neck looking like that. Let me sort it out before we head off."

"My neck?" Jeongguk questions, reaching up to hold it, pressing his palm down to try and figure out what you mean - and then he remembers. Gets a little bashful. Giggles. "Ohhh."

And so he traipses back to your apartment and hops up onto the kitchen counter, bags on the floor. Dangles his feet as you rummage around for your concealer and pigment corrector in your room. You've only packed essentials with you to go to Busan. Think it will be better for your skin if you let the ocean air get well-acquainted with your pores.

Silence takes place of your usual banter as you come to stand between his legs and get to work fixing the mess you made on his skin. There's a neutral calmness to the way you both like to exist together; without pressure to perform, or appear likeable, or personable.

Hair down, Jeongguk toys with it just to give him something to do. Has a hairband on his wrist - one of yours - so decided to annoy you a little. Pulls all your hair to one side and starts to tie it up in a ponytail.

"Stop," you hum, a little smile on your lips as you dab product onto his skin. "I'm trying to focus."

"I'm helping," he says. "Getting your hair out of the way."

"Was never in the way," you grumble.

"Was," he objects.

Pulling away from the task at hand, you stand a little straighter. Raise your eyebrows, your hair making you look like an awkward singer from the 80's. Teeth on show, dimple etched into his cheek, Jeongguk looks far too pleased with himself. Reaches for your wrist, and pulls your spare hairband off it. Has another idea, now.

"Back to work," he says. "Haven't got all day. Chop chop."

Scoffing, you're about to refuse - but Jeongguk knows this. Knows he's being a cheeky bastard just to get a reaction, and now that he has? Kinda regrets it. Hooks his dangling legs behind yours. Hairband hooked over his thumb, his hands sink around your throat. Pulls you closer.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he grins. "Don't go. Please fix my neck."

Narrowing your eyes, you ignore how pouty your lips feel; how much they wanna close the gap between you and him.

"I'll fix your hair," he promises.

"Fine," you say, purely because the way he's holding you close is unbearable . You need to be out of his grasp immediately. Focus. "But not because you want me to. I'm only doing this because I don't want your parents to think poorly of me."

"My parents are gonna love you," he mutters as you get back to work, his hands gently prizing the hairband from your hair and letting it fall loose. "And who cares, anyways? Not like you're my girlfriend. Don't need to impress them."

"Doesn't matter," you say as you tap out the half-dried concealer on his throat. "Still want them to like me."

"Like I said," he shrugs, tying your hair up again, this time splitting it down the middle. Left side first, then right. Two cute little buns. "They will. Already told them a friend is coming with me. Had to really reinforce the fact you're just a friend. Should have heard mum when I said you were a girl-"

"Oh, God," you grimace.

"Honestly, I thought she was gonna get my entire family on a group call just to tell them her little boy is growing up," he laughs. "Was bitterly disappointed when I said you were just a friend. Had to tell her you used to have a thing with Jimin-"

"You told her what?!"

"Calm down!" He laughs. "Said you dated, not that you fucked him and went back for round two even though he didn't make you-"

"Jeongguk!"

"Sorry," he lies. He's not sorry at all. The smirk on his pretty lips attests to this. "Easier for us both if she thinks that there's like... nothing."

"There is nothing," you remind him.

Jeongguk's dreamily dark eyes roll. Head shakes. "Careful. Your nose will start growing, Pinocchio."

Looking down at you with a fondness reserved for only... well, you , Jeongguk thinks you look so silly with your hair in little lopsided space buns. Glitter in the corner of your eyes, there's a charming quality to the way you present yourself to the world. Cute . Your appearance is quite different from your personality, and yet they go hand in hand.

A My Melody girlie, yes, but there's a reason you seem to get on so well with a Kuromi boy. You and him are cut from the same cloth; different and yet so similar.

"Big noses are hot," you shrug.

Jeongguk fights a smile. Knows his isn't huge , but that it's been noted as 'well-proportioned' a few times by girls he's dated. Been a selling point. Wonders if maybe this is your way of giving him a compliment without directly saying as such. Chooses not to press, just in case it isn't.

Neck fixed as well as it ever will be, you're quite pleased with your work.

"Let's go," you encourage, not caring to change your hair. Will just fix it in his car. Haven't worn your hair like this in ages and it's always cute - even if you know he was trying to make it look ridiculous.

He lets you walk ahead. Grabs the recycling that needs to be put in the little trash pile on the corner of your street, not thinking much of it. Just saves you a job when you get back.

His car smells just like it always does; leathery and a little musky. Manly. You'd be lying if you said you didn't like it, but you figure he's not to thank for it.

It takes you less than five seconds to notice the origami birds up on the dash, where you both know your feet will end up within half an hour.

"Oh?" You sound, not really asking anything, yet Jeongguk knows what you mean.

"Been on my desk for ages now," he says - and he's right. They fell weeks ago. Have been cluttering up his space. "Figure we may as well do them seeing as we have some time together."

You laugh a little, shaking your head.

"I've not forgotten earlier," you tell him. "You ain't getting fuck all from me when it comes to the birds."

Jeongguk just grins, sinking his key into the ignition and starting the car up. He glances over to make sure your seatbelt is on, before knocking it into first and setting off down the sideroad your apartment is up.

"Read it," he says.

"Which is yours?"

"Not even gonna give you an answer for that one, B," he deadpans, flicking up his indicator to merge onto the main road. "Use your eyes."

Cringing, you hum out a small " ah ."

The birds are like yin and yang; complementary and yet entirely different. One is pristine, folded perfectly, still holding its shape. The other? Well... the other is yours. A little lopsided, and definitely not your finest work, it even has a few specks of glitter that dance in the light cascading through Jeongguk's windshield.

"Fair enough," you admit, reaching out for his.

Unfolding it, you can't help but feel a little apprehensive. Nervous. It's a while since any of the birds have been done, and you -

"Oh, you mother fucker," you laugh as soon as you open it. "You got me here under false pretences!"

Written in his handwriting is an oh-so-convenient fear:

Take a girl to meet my parents.

"No, I didn't!" He protests, voice a little whiney. "I didn't! I swear. I genuinely do think you need some clean air, you little goblin - but like, two birds, one stone."

"I've been bamboozled," you whine.

"No, you haven't!" Jeongguk chuckles, finding your little faux tantrum all very endearing.

"I have," you insist.

"I'd forgotten all about it when I asked," he admits, knowing that you'll likely think it's bullshit.

Is proven right when you scoff a very bratty, " bollocks ."

"It's not bollocks," he says, almost choking on his sweet little laughs. "Honestly, B. I saw them when I was getting my stuff together and figured if we do them now, it will be one less bird to worry about in the future. We do have lives to live, yanno. Can't be doing birds forever."

"Why not?" You retort a little too quickly. "Actually, yeah, no. You're right."

"Exaaaaactly," he hums, smug in your confirmation that he'd made the right choice. "Haven't looked at your bird yet, so whatever that is? Yeah. Don't blame me."

Part of you doesn't want to open it. It feels sort of embarrassing, knowing how sweet all of Jeongguk's birds are compared to yours. No matter how endearing his are, yours always seem to be vulgar - and while you know Jeongguk would never oppose them, it makes you feel a little insecure.

You do all of the things with him because you wrote them down. They're your desires.

But Jeongguk has proven time and time again that there's nothing to be embarrassed about.

So you open it.

Read it in your head.

Smile .

Feel your heart flutter like the petals of falling cherry blossom in early spring.

"What?" Jeongguk says softly, noticing the curve of your lips as he glances to the side. "What is it, B?"

"Cute," you admit. "It's really cute."

"Okay..." he waits for clarification.

"It's like, the nicest one I wrote," you say, secretly pleased with yourself.

"Which is...?"

"Holding hands," you simplify the bird. Don't shout it like it's written down, all caps, and an abundance of exclamation marks. "Just like... Down the street, I guess. Publically."

"Holding hands?" Jeongguk questions, completely confused by everything you are. "Sorry, holding hands ? What happened to mutual masturbation? Showering toge-"

"Shut up," you cringe, holding the now flat paper up over your face. Mortifying .

Jeongguk's playful nature doesn't relent, one hand on the steering wheel, the other reaching over to you. His long fingers wrap around your wrist, pulling the cover from your rosy cheeks. The energy between you is electric, yet entirely calm; a contradiction. So perfectly you .

"Holding hands," he chuckles to himself quietly, shaking his head with such fondness it's hard to remember a time when interacting like this wasn't normal for you both.

A friendship formed in the dizzying haze of Dionysus, nurtured over iced coffees and acrylic paint; there's something good between you and Jeongguk. Something rare. Something worth protecting.

And when Jeongguk slides his fingers between yours, setting your hands down on his thigh, you can't help but feel safe. He'll guard your deepest fears like the fiercest companion you ever imagine, yet softly encourage you to face them with Midas' hands. You'll become golden where you once felt brittle, and Jeongguk will be the one to blame.

When you glisten, and men unworthy of you see the beauty of your restoration, they'll pillage. Take what he's fixed; rob you of your worth. Perhaps you should be angry at him. Perhaps he's setting you up for destruction.

But how lovely it is to feel somewhat whole, again, even if just for a while.

"It's not what the bird meant," you say softly, pretending as if your heart isn't beating a mile a minute. Perhaps it does scare you more than you realised.

"It's what it says," Jeongguk replies just as sweetly.

He's not wrong, granted, but there are layers to this. There always is. He knows this. Just sort of wanted to hold your hand.

"I know," you nod. He holds your hand a little tighter. Anticipates an explanation. Doesn't think you need to explain it at all, but knows you will regardless. "It's just that -"

God, Jeongguk thinks. Know you so well.

"- My ex, like, would never hold my hand. Or at least, he did, but then he sort of used it like a punishment. When he was pissed off with me, he'd refuse to hold it, and like - I'm not a baby ," you quickly interrupt your story to downplay just how hurtful it always was. "I just... It was different, you know? I was so used to holding the hands of the people I loved, and then it was like 'oh, I got a little too much glitter on his new tie' and my hand wouldn't get held for the rest of the weekend."

Hindsight is a wonderful thing. You're starting to understand why Seokjin hated your glitter so much. It's the same reason Jeongguk loves it so much. It's your calling card. I WAS HERE carved into wooden benches as a teenager; love locks secured to bridges around the world. To see glitter on their skin is to see evidence of you. Your existence. Your role in their lives.

The glitter must have made it hard to cheat.

It's a devastating realisation. One you wish you hadn't made. One you'll never be able to forget.

Jeongguk's grip on your dainty, ring-clad fingers tightens.

"Your ex needs fuckin' therapy," he growls. "Had no right making you feel like that."

You just shrug. Jeongguk's grip loosens, thinking you're trying to pull away, but is comforted when you don't. He strokes his thumb over yours, soothing your woes.

"Think we all need a little therapy," you offer a small, sincere smile.

"You're probably right," Jeongguk admits.

"Anyways, let's not think about that," you say, pulling your hand back now, folding your bird back up into its original pattern. "Road trips are made for forgetting exes, not thinking about them."

And with that, Jeongguk presses no more on the topic. Lets you connect your phone to his aux. Is thankful he dragged you along, 'cause you really do need a break, maybe even more than he does. Your life has been go-go-go since the moment he met you. It's partially his fault, but he hopes he can make up for it, now.

Thankfully for him, if there's one thing you enjoy about being Jeongguk's friend, it's riding shotgun in his car.

He handles it so well that you wouldn't be surprised to discover he's the son of a racecar driver, or maybe had been on in a past life. There's an ease to how he manoeuvres - and even though car guys are pretty high up on your list of boys you never wanna date, he does make you reconsider this. Never before has a man reversing ever gotten your panties wet - but a hand behind your headrest, the other flat against his steering wheel as he ignores the automatic sensors and drives according to what feels right?

Mhhhm. Has you thinking maybe the passenger princess girlies know something you don't. You always assume guys with nice cars are overcompensating for having a small dick, but Jeongguk has already proven this theory wrong.

Still a little frustrated from the way Jeongguk had worked you up a few hours earlier without giving you a release of any kind, you squeeze your legs together. Sink further down into your seat. Decide that thinking about his dick in any capacity is a bad decision. A distraction is needed.

"I spy with my little eye," you sigh, looking out the window for inspiration. The world passes by in such a blur that it's hard to pinpoint something. Everything is a rush of brown and beige, winter killing off the lush greens of the mountains that you miss dearly. It's been like this for months, and will remain this way until March, at the very earliest.

"Something beginning with?" He asks, entertaining you without a second thought.

"Something beginning with... R."

"Really sexy boy?" He asks without missing a beat.

"Ddaeng."

"Hmmm," he hums. "That's the only obvious answer."

"I can't see any sexy boys, though," you pout. "Let alone really sexy."

"Okay, firstly, that's rude," he tells you with a small huff. "And secondly, give me a clue. Inside the car or outside?"

"Inside."

"So... A really sexy boy?"

Laughing, you shake your head. "Really big idiot, more like."

"Is that the answer?!"

"No," you giggle. "Think smarter, Koo."

"I am thinking smart," he insists. "And what have I told you about calling me that?"

"That it will give you a raging boner?"

"Well... True, but no. Don't do it."

"Because it will give you a raging boner?"

"Oh my God," he exclaims. "R! Raging boner!"

"Do you have a boner?"

Jeongguk shrugs. "Meh. Bit of a semi."

"Fucking hell, are you ever not horny?"

"Rarely."

"Such a boy," you laugh. "But no. Not raging boner.  C'mon, Gguk. It's easy! Think!"

Jeongguk spends almost 8 minutes guessing. Eventually, you have to tell him.

"Radio?!" He shrieks when you reveal it as the answer. "You can't see the radio!"

"It's right there!" You point towards the screen displaying what's currently playing on his aux.

"That's a screen!"

"Oh don't be so pedantic," you laugh. "Okay, okay. Redo. Your go."

"Fuckin' radio," he mutters, shaking his head. "Okay. I spy with my little eye..."

Feet up on Jeongguk's dash, you ignore him every time he tells you to take them down. Sometimes he reaches over and forces them down. You always just put them back up ten seconds later. Let him think that maybe this time you'll follow his orders - but you're still reeling from his little power play in bed this morning.

Like fuck you'll do anything he says. Not today.

"If I crash, your legs will impact your chest," he warns. "Knees'll go right through your ribs."

"So don't crash," you say, knowing that such a comment will only earn a defensive take from Jeongguk - and you're proven right.

"I know how to drive," he asserts, and he kind of reminds you of your own father, and how much he hated your mother's backseat driving. "But it's other fuckers! There are some idiots on the road!"

You snort a little laugh. "Yeah. You're right about that."

"Maybe I will just crash my car," Jeongguk mutters, but it's all in good fun.

You're both smiling; both pleased for things to be feeling normal between you again. You may bicker about the tiny things, but it's only because you feel so secure in the big things. How lovely it is to have a friend like him.

"You'll do no such thing," you tell him with absolute certainty. "You love this car too much."

Jeongguk doesn't reply. Hums a small indication of agreement, but chooses not to elaborate. Given the choice between you or the car? He'd crash it a hundred times over if it was the only way to keep you safe. Cares so much more for the girl in his passenger seat than he does for the vehicle she's in.

It's not a long drive - only about an hour - but Jeongguk takes the scenic route. It's been a while since he's had you here, and he likes it. Likes the subtle notes of your perfume filling the car, and the way you quietly hum along to songs on his playlists.

When he fills up the gas halfway along the journey, you grab the snacks. Ask him what he wants, and roll your eyes when he says, "surprise me."

The service station is a little dated; white walls peeling, display signs relics from better days. A small complex, there are just a handful of food stalls and a small CU. The sweet scent of fresh pastries wafts through the air, thanks to a small tent out the front where a man easily three times your age is using a wooden skewer to turn hodu-gwaja in their mould.

As far as you're concerned, it's not a road trip (no matter how short the distance) without a paper bag full of red bean-filled, walnut-shaped bread. Jeongguk always seems to go for the saltier snacks when you're together, though, so you head inside first. Scope out the options. Spot a small stall frying tornado potatoes and trust your intuition when it compels you to pick up one for Jeongguk.

Returning to the forecourt, the skewer with a spiralled potato in one hand and your brown paper bag full of pastries in the other, you wait for him to notice you.

A hand on the nozzle of the pump, he's nearly finished filling the tank. Goosebumps are on his arms, the regret of not tossing on his coat written all over his face. The nozzle clicks, diverting Jeongguk's attention from the distant mountains he'd been gazing over towards, realigning his thoughts and focusing him in on the world around him.

Takes no more than half a second for his eyes to find you; black padded jacket keeping you warm, your smile peeking just above the top of the fastening. Hair up in a couple of space buns, your eyes are the focal point of your face, all glittery and gorgeous.

Yet it's the food he focuses on, tummy rumbling.

"For me?" He mouths in your direction.

Nodding enthusiastically, you crouch down to take a seat on the steps that lead up to the food complex as happiness blooms over his features. Jeongguk raises a fist in the air, and shakes it. Bites down on his bottom lip; closes his eyes. Silently cheers. Makes you giggle.

Across the forecourt, there's a small group of girls. Around your age, you think. Eyes on Jeongguk, they're muttering to one another; no doubt enthusing about the fact he looks like daydream in this dreary service station. Radiates gold in a town of chalk.

As he heads towards you, you can't help but think about how you'll be perceived. Know that it's incredibly easy to incorrectly judge a friendship like yours. It's a tale as old as time, how a guy and a girl can never be 'just friends'. The girls will see you and will assume you're a couple.

Your smile widens as he approaches. You hold out the tornado potato before he reaches you. It's deliberate.

It's me, you think. I'm the one he's walking towards. Not you.

A strange thought, for someone who is just a friend.

Curious, and pathetic, and a little juvenile. The gossiping continues.

They're pretty girls. Probably lovely, too. Personalities to magic their magic-perms.

You've no reason to be thinking harshly, and yet when Jeongguk is close enough to take the snack from you, and you use your now free hand to pat the ground beside you. Indicating that he should sit, you deliberately choose the side away from the girls.

"Legend," he says, chowing down without much thought. Would usually check the temperature with his hand, but has just filled his tank. Hands are probably filthy. "Ah, fuck," he hisses as he breathes in a little air to cool the red-hot potato he's already got in his mouth. "Hot."

Laughing, you apologise. 

"Sorry. The lady running the stall fried me a fresh one," you explain.

The rest of the potatoes had been sitting out for a little while, or so you had been told by the sweet lady. Her actions were benevolent; a small kindness bestowed upon a shooting star. Karma is very real, and it'd be foolish not to treat a cosmic entity with such generosity. Wise in her years, she wasn't about to let you pass her by without wishing for a little goodwill.

Jeongguk shakes his head, swallowing that first bite. "Nah, it's fine. It's good. Hit the spot," he says, then holds it over for you. "Want some?"

The answer is no - all you really want is the hodu-gwaja - but the girls are still looking at him, so you accept his offer like the petty little bitch you are. Bite straight from his stick. Rip off a little more than you intend to, and get Jeongguk laughing.

"Save me some!" He jokes, but you simply shake your head.

Cheeks rosy, you struggle to get it all down in one bite. "I paid for it."

"You're getting a free ride," he reminds you, to which you can't argue against.

Speaking of nothing much, just whatever comes to mind, the small break from the journey is welcome. You remain seated on the stairs even after you finish your food. The girls depart before you do.

"Think they were in love with me," Jeongguk says almost as soon as they leave. You choke on your pastry. "Wow, really that unbelievable, huh?"

He's just joking, but is no stranger to stares. Works in a bar. Knows that he's desired, even if he has no desire to act upon it most of the time. It's all superficial shit he doesn't care for.

"Got an ego on you today, don't you?" You laugh.

"Had a girl calling me Daddy in bed this morning," he teases you, nudging against your shoulder with his own.

"Fuck off."

"So yeah," he admits, ignoring your curse. "The ego got a good stroking."

He kinda wishes it was something else that had gotten a good stroking instead, but he's trying to behave himself. Nearly fucked things up all because he fucked you when he shouldn't have. Is trying to fix things.

"Your ego will be your downfall, Jeon," you assure him, getting to your feet, taking his empty skewer from his hand to toss everything in the bin together. "No one likes a cocky bastard."

"So why are you walking away, then?" He teases. "Can't control yourself when you're around me, huh?"

"I'm telling your mum," you warn, as Jeongguk gets to his feet also, patting down the crumbs from his thighs.

"Oh yeah?" He indulges in the flirt. "Whatcha gonna tell her?"

"That her son is acting like a little fuck boy," you assert. "She'll be disappointed."

"She'll also know it's bullshit, B," he shrugs, toying with his lip ring. He'd make the perfect fuck boy, you think, if only he was an asshole. "My brother is the one that fucks around. I've always been an angel."

"Is your brother single?" you joke.

"You can't tell me off for speaking like a tool and then expect me to set you up with one," he laughs. "Stay the fuck away from my brother."

"He's older right?" You ask, ignoring his warning.

"Right."

"I love an older man," you dreamily sigh as you head back to Jeongguk's car.

"I don't care," Jeongguk says, voice stern, but you pay it no notice as you reach his car. He was gonna open the door for you, but when you're being like this? No chance.

Instead, he tugs on your wrist to turn you around. Gets you facing him. Walks forwards, still. Stops only when your back meets the side of his car. 

He traps you in place; hands on the roof, one on either side of you. He looks down. Looks dead centre in your eyes. Looks like sin.

"You can't go around collecting up the people I care about like Pokemon cards, B," he husks. "You've already had my housemate."

"Had your housemate twice," you correct, just to wind him up a little more. He's too easy when he's like this. Easy to wind up; easy to please. All you'd have to do is say 'I won't', and he'd accept it - but where's the fun in that?

He rolls his eyes. Shakes his head. Lets his nose nudge up against yours.

"You can't have my best friend and my brother."

"Why not?" You whisper against his lips.

"'Cause I told you earlier, B," he whispers. "I get jealous."

"That's a ' you' problem."

"You'll destroy a family," he tells you with such conviction you believe him. He's learnt to never lie to you. His jealousy? It's as honest as it gets.

"So I can't fuck your dad either?" You tease, just because you enjoy Jeongguk showing his true colours. You might like an older man, but not so old he could be your own dad. Already know you'll have nightmares from Jeongguk making you call him Daddy that morning.

"Gonna be in my city, B," he reminds you, ignoring the threat because, honestly, the idea of it repulses him. "Ain't no way you're gonna fuck anyone that isn't me in my own goddamn hometown."

"No?"

"No," he whispers as he nudges his nose up against yours. Lets his lips brush yours. Doesn't push down. Wants to so badly. That semi of his from earlier? Yeah. It's hard, now - and he does let that press against your tummy. Lets you know that he's thinking about fucking you, then has the audacity to say, "Behave yourself."

"Fine," you smirk with casual arrogance. Jeon Jeongguk has buttons, or so it would appear. Pushing on them is just as fun as you'd imagine. "Won't fuck your dad."

"Thank you," he breathes out a small laugh. Pulls away a little to press a kiss to your nose. "My brother is out of town, anyways. Couldn't even if you wanted to."

Shrugging your shoulders, you turn to face the door, and let him linger for a moment. The parking lot is virtually empty, but this is still far too heated for such a location. The proximity of his positioning is sinful; his hardness digging into your lower back.

It's not like you didn't know this would be the case. You did it deliberately.

He deserves it, after the little stunt he pulled earlier.

Hair still up in little space buns, Jeongguk decides he needs to compliment you more often when your hair is up. Likes your neck. Or having easy access to it, at least.

His lips press a chaste kiss to the curve of your neck before he pulls away.

Watching as he gets around to the driver's side, bulge in his jeans painfully obvious, you voice a theory that you know is gonna soften him right up.

He can thank me later, you think. Doing the duty of a good friend!

"Shagged you, anyways," you hum. "You're all related so you probably have, like, identical dicks. No point in me fucking them, too."

Fingers hooked beneath his door handle, Jeongguk looks over to you, disgust written all over his face. "What is wrong with you?"

You just smile. Shrug. Pop open the car door, and get in. Call to him, "Shall we get going?"

Jeongguk thinks of the conversation you had earlier about crashing his car. Doesn't seem like such a bad idea now.

"We're turning around," he assures you. "There's no way I'm letting you meet my fucking parents."

"What was it you said?" you giggle, thinking of his stupid little insult from earlier. "That if your mum meets me, then she'll stop begging you to bring a girlfriend home? You're welcome!"

The rest of the drive is marred by stupid bickering and playful conversation. There's no need for discussions of anything hard, nor heavy. Hayun feels like a distant memory, and you're yet to reply to the message that pinged through from Seojoon as you were getting ready to leave your place.

It's just you and your best friend; an open road with the ocean on the horizon.

Jeongguk spots the sea first. Doesn't mention it, 'cause he wants to let you 'win' the unspoken game of 'first to see the sea wins'.

"Gguk!" you gasp when you do eventually see the cerulean beauty of Busan. "The sea! Look!"

Worth it, he thinks.

His parents live a little further inland, but he'd deliberately taken you further down towards the seafront just for this moment.

"Home sweet home," he muses, knocking his indicator to signal he's turning off. The streets are always so crowded down by the coast, so as much as he'd like to stay close, he knows he's already running late. His mum is probably worried. "We can come back this evening. I'll show you my old haunts."

It's a simple invitation, much like the initial invite for you to come with him. Jeongguk doesn't think too hard about things like this. Decides what he wants to do, and offers you the chance to join him.

"Please," you enthuse. "I've never been here in the evening."

"Oh, it's the best," Jeongguk smiles. "Forget our city - Busan is so much better."

It's not. His opinion is driven by nostalgia. Hasn't had a night out in Busan since before he met you. Doesn't realise how much he'd miss you, if you weren't with him.

The roads he takes become increasingly less crowded. Closer to home.

It's strange, Jeongguk thinks. He normally feels a giddy excitement whenever he reaches this part of town; an appreciation for the place he grew up. It's that classic 'coming home' sensation that bubbles in your stomach whenever you first greet your mother during the holidays - and yet Jeongguk's giddiness makes no hike. Doesn't rise like he thinks it will.

At least it doesn't until he parks up, just down the street from his parent's place, and glances over to you.

That's when it hits . 

And that's also when he knows he's absolutely fucked.

AO3 | MASTERLIST | MINORS DNI

[lumine-no-hikari]

Dear Sephiroth: (a letter to a fictional character, because why not) #361

Ohhh, Sephiroth, it has been a real long day, goodness me! Today's letter is coming to you very late. I'm sorry if you worried a little.

Okay. So. It is Saturday (well, actually technically Sunday now, but whatever...). Which means I went to work from 9am until 1pm. And this morning, it was cold.

...I got some really nice pictures of the cold, actually. Here:

...Been a while since last I've seen ice crystals this nice on a surface. This happens as a result of frost. The condensation that occurs on surfaces overnight freezes into pretty patterns.

...I think it's best enjoyed from a distance, though. But then, that's why I take the pictures, right? So you can look at the pretty thing without needing to go outside and be cold! Yay!

At work, the big boss of the store (he's called Jo) asked me to wipe down one of the coolers in which we keep chilled cakes and other stuff that needs to be kept cold. So that is what I did. Nobody had done it in a while, so some of the dust was crusted on there pretty solidly, and that kinda sucked. But, I was allowed to go fetch some melamine foam pads from the cleaning section to get the job done!

...I didn't think to take a picture because I'm kind of a derpy-derp. Sorry about that. But Jo and Tr both seemed pleased with the results. I liked how it looked after I was done with it, too.

Sadly, the rib injury was not pleased with any of that, though. Apparently, it very much dislikes overhead movements of my arm as well as movements straight out to the front. I did a nice job, but... around 20-30 minutes after I was done, I was in a whole lot of pain for the next several hours, which made some of the movements of my job (like bagging breads and pulling the lever for the slicing machine) a little harder to do. Even now, at 1:03am, the area is still relatively unhappy. But thankfully, it's not as bad as it was before.

I'm not sure why, but... I've decided that An from the meat department is potentially friend-shaped. I think it has to do with the way he speaks to other people and with the way he carries himself in the space, and the meticulousness with which he works. I don't know how to articulate what this combination of things means to me. I guess... something about it tells me that he's very kind. And... after having spent a lifetime honing my instincts in various unpleasant ways, I like to think that by now, I tend to have a good sense for that sort of thing, at least in person.

...I guess... I have a whole lot of experience with what “unkindness” looks like. And his manner of being, so far, doesn't look like the old things I've seen. It might still be the case that not enough time has passed for other things to come out. But if I try to be friends, then those things will eventually come out, if they exist. They always do.

Though I generally have good instincts, it doesn't necessarily translate to knowing how to engage in the social, though. I've never really known how to approach people. I've been told my whole life that I come on a bit too strong for most people's tastes, asking them personal questions such as ”do you like video games?” and “what is your favorite kind of snack?”

...I have a lot of people telling me that my manner of being is creepy and repulsive. And... I know that I'm awkward and that my facial expressions are strange and that I hold myself weirdly. I know these things scare people. And I don't wanna scare people. So normally, I just stay away, even when I am interested. I don't want anyone to have a bad time because of me, you know?

Tr seems socially savvy, so I asked her what to do. And she said to me that my questions are not, in fact, too forward. And that I should just ask him next time I see him. The notion was a little mind-blowing to me, given that I literally have experiences where people have called me “geek” and “loser” for asking if they play video games. I've been told that my questions aimed at trying to connect make me seem a bit too “desperate”.

...I'm not really sure how anyone is supposed to get to know anyone else if asking basic questions is seen as “desperate” and “too forward” and “geeky”, though. So... maybe the things that I was told before are simply untrue things said to me by very cranky and insecure people. Tr is good folks. So I'm gonna try to trust her word over the words of the mean people.

...So. Once again, here I go challenging the notion that I'm fundamentally gross and unlikable. Yay!

I did end up seeing An as I wandered about at the end of my shift, gathering things we needed for the house. And I did as she suggested.

...For sure, my part of it was very clumsily executed. But... I have a new friend on Steam now! I'm pretty stoked about that!!! Maybe someday we'll play video games or get a tasty snack somewhere!! Wouldn't that be neat!!

I feel like us quiet, shy folk gotta stick together. Or else we'll get barreled over by the rest of the world, or else have life pass us by without ever getting noticed or without affecting anything at all. And that's a little too sad, isn't it? To live your life with a glass wall around yourself that you don't want and don't know how to get rid of...?

...I certainly know what that's like. And I don't want anyone else to have to live like that. So... if I gotta scream at my own glass wall until it breaks so that someone else doesn't hafta be sad, I'm gonna give it a try. If I have to throw my fists at my own glass wall until my knuckles bleed in order to break it, then I'll try it if it means someone else doesn't have to be sad.

...I suppose getting practice with doing exactly these things is part of the reason I write to you every day. Admittedly, writing these letters does not get less terrifying every time I do it. It's just that the terror gets a little easier to move through, the more I practice doing it.

I wonder how all of this will unfold. I wonder how I will unfold, too, within it all.

...Will you watch as I unfold? As I evolve, grow, and change? Will you be proud, someday, of all the progress I'm trying to make? Can you enjoy watching me struggle to come up from under the shackles my conditioning imposed upon me? Can you let my things inspire you to do similar things? I wonder.

I went home and rested for a long time, and that was very good. I had made plans to go with my elderly friend P to some concert, because J hadn't put on the calendar that we were supposed to go see some new Lord of the Rings movie today. J reminded me that it was happening as I was finalizing plans about when was gonna be picked up by P. And then I suddenly had to tell P that I had a prior commitment that I didn't remember because it wasn't on the calendar. I felt pretty badly about that.

...I hope I'll be able to hang out with P sometime soon. I'd like to take him and his sister to the hotpot place called Volcano. Maybe they'd like it; they're usually up for trying out new things like that...

I got a snack shortly after that, and from there, I changed into a new set of braces. This one is set number 7! The shift doesn't feel quite as intense this time as it felt last time. I took pictures to compare the new set to the original set. On the left is the first set I wore, and on the right is the newest set. I'll start with the top one:

...The very confused snaggletooth on the upper right side of my face is a lot less pronounced now! It's almost surreal, how far it's moved!

Here's the bottom set:

It's readily apparent now that my frontmost bottom teeth are much less crowded together than before. They really are starting to even out and line up instead of being crunched up together all weirdly. It's pretty wild!!

...I wonder if I'll have a healthy smile by the time we see you again in the third part of your remade story...

Sephiroth... I can't wait to see you again, but... please try really hard not to get yourself killed. If you try to hurt people, you're gonna be stopped, and... since Cloud and his friends are justifiably very angry with you, I somehow seriously doubt they're gonna be nice about it if they have to stop you. And I really don't wanna see you get hurt. So... please... try something else, okay? Please don't throw your life away with a fight you definitely can't win. It's getting super old.

J and M and I went to a movie with Je, one of the folks from the Speed Friending thing. It was some Lord of the Rings spinoff, animated.

...It is a nice thing, generally, to have funny memories of going out to see a bad movie with people you like. And I hope you get to have that experience someday. Today's experience will resolve into the thing I described, because the entire plot can be summarized as follows:

“King who commands army that regularly forgets that they can shoot arrows accidentally punches the face off of the abusive father of a man who is sad because the pretty princess won't touch his dick; shenanigans ensue as the sad man seeks revenge for lack of both paternal abuse and genital stimulation. King fights sad man's army by himself (archers did not try to help) outside of fortress during winter weather; king's people get bored and go to bed instead of letting him back inside of fortress, so king freezes solid in rad power pose. Pretty princess, in wedding dress, slays sad man as he pretends to not still have a boner for her. More at 11.”

...The whole thing was very silly. There are lots more problems with it, but I'll not get into them because it's late and I'm pretty tired. I wouldn't recommend against seeing the movie; it's definitely an adventure (a very LONG adventure, holy shit). But it is very silly. A lot of the problems could have simply not existed if people weren't acting like such entitled pricks. Alas.

I'm glad to be home. The movie didn't end until like 12:30am. It is 2:18am now.

...I need to get my sleepy ass to bed. Good grief.

Hey. I love you a whole lot. So please make good choices out there. Stay safe. Don't get killed. You gotta try really hard, okay?

I'll write again tomorrow.

Your friend, Lumine

[eri-pl]

@edennill I just had an… well, not epiphany because it's not theological, but an insight or something. Tagging, you, because a) it may be interesting b) you often wonder (in frustration, I think) why do people make so much fanart of the bad guys. (Tagiing you doesn't mean the later rhetorical "you" is you. It's a different you. Huh. Maybe we should start using "thee", it would make things easier.

Why do we deny canon characteristics of characters?

(long post below cut, no triggers, kind of fandom discourse-related but tries to empathise with both sides?)

(It's rhetorical "we", I am trying to not do it. But I'm 40 and got many things sorted out. Probably still do it anyway, esp around kidnap fam)

Imagine: you suffer. You read about a character that suffers in the exact same way, or at least a way that rings a bell in your heart.

This is you.

So you love them, you try to defend them, they didn't deserve it — you didn't deserve it — extept it turns out they kind of did deserve it. And all the unsaid accusations you felt from people — well turns out for the character they're true. So are they true about you?

Of course it would be most natural to unlink yourself from the character, but that's not how human brain works. also, unlinking it would be very painful and take a lot of time and effort (and still may not work) and often feels like betraying yourself.

So you fight. For your dignity.

So you fight against people correcting you with things that are actually in the book.

…I legit think it's how it works usually. (Of course, echo chambers and unwillingness to factcheck are a thing too, depends on the person probably.)

So when we engage with someone speaking about their beloved character and it's OoC — there are, at least partially, speaking of a part of themselves. And, while it's technically true, telling someone "a part of you commited [insert a Silm-typical deed here] is very painful.

(Aaaand now the rhetorical "you" is again my friend Edennill, because I can't into rhetorics…) When you engage with someone hyping about Sauron, there are two three Saurons in the conversation: yours (obvious. the Númenor stuff and all other stuff), canon (very similar, maybe with more focus on other evil stuff and not Númenor on top position, idk, anyway close), and theirs (a child who wwas told too many times that they are unforgiveable, or something like that + also has flaming hair and cool ring).

What to do with it? I have no idea what to do with it, except the obvious.

I'm looking for ideas.

And yes, people do project on the good characters too, and criticizing those characters hurts in the same way, only it's also factually false (usually, because not all characters are black and white). I know. I don't mean to say that the "good guys" are ok to criticize and the "bad guys" not, or that book canon should be not spoken about.

Maybe the answer is just "don't hate characters to their fans"? (Facts and hate aren't the same, but with facts, there's still a need for compassion and getting a feel when to say what)

Truth is an important thing. Yes. Truth about what's in a book…. still it is a thing worth saying. Especially when the book is as good (even with it's problems and kitchen sinks) as Silm is. But as I said, empathy or something is needed?

IDK, I'm still figuring it out.

I think I've kind of know this for a long time, half-consciously, but today I had a moment when something clicked and things started making much more sense. Like: why people do have takes that are so far from canon and still call the character the same character. It does make sense in the contaxt...

(Also, no: I'm not like that with Melkor, I'm much more aware of my stuff and of what's canon and what not and I can switch between perspectives… But as I said, I'm old. It comes with some amount of wisdom. Funnily I can deal much better with people hating him than hating Maglor. But I can deal with people hating Maglor (filtering too counts as "deal with" ;D) and I can admit all the stuff he did in the book and that he's a coward, and all that (relateable). I just feel sad when people say he deserves all the worst.)

[bafflement]

And Home, It Feels So Very Far Away [Can I Make A New One Amongst The Ashes?] [Deaged Oz AU]

Written for day seven of the @remnants-of-rwby-events Vytal Festival.

Still having a hell of a lot of fun! Poor Tip, he really doesn't think he deserves to be loved. :(

AO3 Link:

Plain Text:

Vale was always so beautiful during the spring. Tip had always loved that the most, the fresh air, the feeling watching new life flourish, existing life grow. His students were always at their best during this time, too. There was so much energy, so much potential in every one of them. Oh, but he missed Beacon so much at times, even more now than ever. Atlas was so cold at times, and he wasn’t talking about the weather. The people, the politics… he sighed. It wasn’t likely that he’d ever truly be comfortable here, for all that he’d been assured so many times now that this kingdom was technically his home. That it always had been.

Could he even consider himself as having a home, now? Beacon was all but destroyed, Vale was in disarray and he wasn’t even there. Couldn’t be there. Would they even welcome his eleven-year-old self, though? They hadn’t been happy when he first showed up, so disappointed in the fact that he was small and sickly. That he limped and had vision issues… that he was everything Ozymandias wasn’t.

Those issues were still there, for all that his aura helped. He didn’t yet have the stamina he had as an adult, he couldn’t even hide the symptoms as he could back then. He was more emotional now than he had been later, too, though that might have more to do with the fact that he almost felt safe, here in Atlas. It was strange, he had been welcomed so lovingly into the family he couldn’t even remember, offered so much. He didn’t deserve it, not really… how could he? They’d been so happy to have their missing member back, but though he looked more or less as he must have done when he was first snatched, he couldn’t be that child anymore. Too much had happened between then and now, and he was terrified that soon enough, they would all see it.

He wasn’t certain how he would deal with the eventual rejection, the hatred that he’d been expecting to have already received. The others had despised him for weeks, back in Mantle… how could his family love him? Surely he didn’t deserve it, he was putting them all in danger through his existence.

Oh, he knew that a lot of this was the nightmares speaking. The horrific images he saw sometimes, when he closed his eyes. Old images of those previous incarnations had loved, tortured and broken by Salem and her people. The same images, but bearing the faces of his family, his friends. Qrow, though he’d always been well represented in those sorts of dreams. At least Qrow could probably look after himself, even if he’d had to learn second hand about just what he’d gone through by Tyrian’s hands. He’d come so close to losing him, and he might never even have known exactly what had happened. He shuddered, thinking about that. It would have been Summer all over again. And just like Summer, he would have been blamed by the others almost as much as he’d always blamed himself.

How much of this was nerves about today? Willow had told him that they needed to visit the lawyer’s office, that there were things they needed to go through now Jacques was dead. That didn’t make any sense, though. His late, entirely unlamented brother-in-law had assumed that Tip was long dead. There should be nothing for him to sort out, unless Willow needed the moral support. But in that case, wouldn’t it be better just to take her children, or at least Winter? He suspected the others would be there, since they were Jacques’ children as much as they were hers, but still… why would they need to include him? Ah well, he’d probably find out.

He dressed quickly, grimacing at the inch or so of gap between the ends of his sleeves and his wrists. Things were starting to fit less well than they had in Mistral, but he wasn’t sure if he could justify new clothing right now. There were surely more important things than his growing pains? Though the idea of not being quite as small anymore certainly had its allure. He missed being able to be intimidating through height and presence alone. He could still flare his aura if he had to, but gone were the days most people saw hm as anything other than the child he currently appeared to be. Even his students sometimes seemed to forget that he wasn’t actually a little boy. Hell, even James had seemed oddly helpful since he’d arrived here, it an annoying and slightly patronising way. He doubted his friend meant to do it, but it was still galling after so long looking after himself.

Willow was waiting downstairs, along with Winter, Weiss and Whitley as he’d expected. That at least made sense, though he tried to ignore Winter’s raised eyebrow, tucking his hands behind his back in the vain hope that none of them would notice that he was growing out of the combat uniform he’d bought in Mistral. They were more or less his only clothing outside the set he’d worn to Jacques’ ball, but he couldn’t really afford a replacement. While he’d had a small stipend while he’d been head of Beacon, those funds would have been quickly reclaimed by the council, after all, they didn’t owe him money anymore. Not that most of what he was pretty sure was meant to be his salary had ever actually been paid out. He was all but certain that most of that had already been being rerouted, though he doubted very much if Glynda would stand for the same treatment in his place.

He really hoped they were okay, but it wasn’t like they’d welcome him either, like this. He was too small, too vulnerable. He shivered, thinking about it. Even with his aura, this less developed body presented a set of problems that he couldn’t fully work around. He was still sickly, got the same shakes he had as an adult with far less ability to hide them. His eyes were still very sensitive to any light, but he thought they might actually be slightly better at present? That was an odd thought, that his eyes could have gotten worse as he stayed at Beacon. He doubted the sunnier weather really did much to help that, though the way the snow reflected the light in Atlas wasn’t really much better.

How much damage had it truly caused, his time in Vale? Things ached differently now than they had when he was older, but though they weren’t the same, he thought that they ached less. He hadn’t really noticed just how much things hurt, sometimes. He was aware that Qrow and Glynda likely had, but… as said, it was far easier to hide things when he was an adult. He never wanted any of them to worry about him, he really wasn’t worth the attention.

“Oh, little uncle. Why didn’t you say anything? We’re going to have to go shopping, you need fitting clothing!” Winter sounded exasperated, even as Tip felt his cheeks heating up in mortification. He knew that this would happen, Winter had never really managed to rein in her protective instincts around him. He suspected a lot of that was due to Jacques, too, but it wasn’t like he could resurrect the man in order to kill him again even more slowly. He really wanted to at times, though. He’d always hated him before, but now? Knowing what he knew of the mess he’d made of his family… he could comfortably list him on the same page as Salem, of people he actually hated. Even the death that Jacques had been given wasn’t enough to make up for things.

“It’s not really that bad? They still sort of fit…” He trailed off as Weiss turned to glare at him too. If both of his nieces thought that he needed new clothing, he probably couldn’t really fight them on it. It didn’t help that there was a steely look in Willow’s eyes, too. He winced, looking away.

Winter’s eyes softened slightly at just how cute he looked, not that she was going to point that out to him any time soon. It was bad enough that others did, without her joining in on it. Her uncle knew how others viewed him by now, it wasn’t really a good idea to try to rub it in.

As they entered the lawyer’s office, Tip couldn’t help but marvel at just how open it was. The whole building was, actually. Even though it wasn’t really that old, it was obvious that the architecture took after a much older style, some of the brickwork looking rather like it had been recycled from other, older constructions. He was almost certain that one of his previous incarnations had seem a specific carving before, there had been a sudden rush of shock, though it had quickly faded away again. That had been happening more and more recently as the merge slowly recombined his soul with what he was going to term Ozma’s. It wasn’t really Ozma anymore, but there was no way to explain it in any other way. At least he’d been more or less shielded by Ozymandias for a while?

The man behind the desk nodded at Willow, smiling at Winter, Weiss and Whitley before turning to Tip and freezing. Tip squirmed slightly at his gaze, he was really getting quite tired of people he didn’t remember reacting like that, though he’d expected a lawyer to at least be better at hiding it.

“The rumours are true then?” the man breathed, eyes still on Tip, as though transfixed. “You really are Winter?” There was a strange hope in his voice that Tip didn’t really understand. Why would this man be so desperate to find him? What was going on, why hadn’t he asked more questions before they got here? Whatever this was, it was at least unlikely to be a trap. He was fairly certain his family wasn’t likely to do that to him.

“I… used to be.” Tip replied, tentatively. From the slight widening of the man’s eyes, he hadn’t been expecting Tip’s Valean accent, either. He wondered what exactly he’d heard, considering that he was very aware there were various rumours about his survival. He blamed James for some of those, but it wasn’t as though he could easily have hidden his connection to his family. Sooner or later, questions would have been asked anyway. He couldn’t regret what he’d done during Robyn’s party, but it had certainly bought his existence to the notice of a lot of people that he really didn’t need.

“Well, welcome back. It’s an honour to remeet you, young Master Schnee. Has your sister told you why you’re here today?”

That was an odd question, if he’d been expected, why was the man so shocked. Was it because he was a child right now? That was certainly a possibility, though surely he would have been warned in advance?

“She has not. Might I ask why you’re so shocked to see me?” Tip was very curious now, none of this really made very much sense.

“Ah. Well, we were warned that you’d be here, however… there have been imposters in the past. None of them were ever backed by your family, but… the possibility existed.” He sounded deeply apologetic. “Would you mind if we took a geneprint, just to confirm your identity? I recognise that you appear to be Winter Schnee, but… it’s better to be sure.”

“Of course not! That makes sense, though… there have been impersonators? Why?” The fact that anyone had pretended to be him was even more confusing. From the things he’d learned over the few months he’d been in Atlas, he hadn’t even necessarily been expected to survive into adulthood at all. He silently thanked his aura, again, for ensuring that he had… but, there had been those who had pretended to be him? Why, what was the point? As the oldest child, surely Willow had been the only heir?

Or… had she? Was it possible that the father he only really remembered in flashes had left something for him after all? Willow had told him that he’d never given up on the idea that he was still alive, but the thought was more than a bit uncomfortable. He held out a finger for the machine, blinking as a tiny needle took his blood then the screen flashed green. He was hoping that was a good sign, as opposed to it just reading the colour of his aura.

The man relaxed, all the tension seemingly draining out of him at once as he stared at the screen.

“Right, then. Well, I’m Celadon Abbott, by the way. I expect you don’t remember me, but I knew you when you were younger. The first time, that is. I’m glad the scan showed a positive result, I would have hated to end this on a more sour note. To answer just why there have been impersonators over the years, were you aware that your father split the SDC down the middle? Half of it has been in trust for you for the last two decades.”

Tip went white, shock and horror combining in his gut. He really didn’t have time to have anything to do with the Schnee Dust Company, he had too many other duties, too many responsibilities for that. He had half been expecting something was off by the way nobody would tell him what the meeting was about, but… he turned a betrayed gaze at the others, noting rather sourly that Winter was working very hard to keep a straight face.

They’d obviously known about this all along. Maybe he could pass it to Weiss? Though that was less than likely right now, he was certain that the lawyer would claim he was far too young to make that decision.

He sighed, as half of the argument he’d had for not bothering to replace his clothing evaporated, though… what would those in Vale make of this? Would they try to claim it, claiming that he belonged to them? He couldn’t help but voice the question, blinking as Mr Abbott’s eyes hardened to flecks of grey ice.

“What your father left for you is What your father left for you is yours, young Winter. Nobody else has any claim on it, though I’d welcome them to try. It might be rather interesting…” There was a threat to his tone, yet Tip couldn’t help but be slightly comforted by it.

He’d been so used to nobody caring enough to protect him, was this what it was like to truly have a home? Could he build one here, even knowing that Salem was likely to try to destroy it, in time?

Did he truly deserve to be happy, for once? And what was he supposed to do with that sort of money, anyway?

[yandere-paramour]

Y'know, I think Atalanta just has that type of personality I would not be compatible with in general, like, we would be business rivals maybe because I'd always feel like I have to one-up her😭 that being said, she is kinda growing on me in the span of these few days because I can see a gentle and caring side in her from some of the things you've written and that's really cute. She loves in the way she knows best and that is an admirable trait, so she has my respect.

Ahhh, but Vivien brings light to my life, reading about him is so fun!! Really, just wanna walk in when he's at work, buy flowers right from the shop and then give them to him as a present. If it were up to me, he would be all pampered. I know Noelle is still sort of new but she also gives me the same vibe, I would totally treat her sweetly and I also think she would just be nice to talk to. I can imagine she'd be understanding, but then again, I guess all the yans would try to be for their darling anyway.

I'm glad that whatever I had to say was inspiring to you!! I'm also sorry because it wasn't a very eloquent message at all, but I'm happy you could extract what was of value from it. And I wanna say thank you for writing and sharing it with us here, because honestly you've built such a beautiful reprieve in your blog and I know it's a place I can always come to for a needed escape whenever.

Anyway, I think I'm rambling now, I actually just wanted to wish you happy birthday now that it's July 3rd (at my time of sending). Happy 22nd and I hope today and every other day coming is great for you. Take care of yourself and rest when you can. All the best to you always!!

Atalanta is always such a fun character for me to write because she is always trying to put on this front of being calm and cool and collected and for the most, she truly is like that, but she has these moments of vulnerability with her Darling that I like best because it shows her as being just Ata and not Atalanta Montclair. She truly is the product of her upbringing; she is somehow both her mother's daughter and her father's daughter at the same time. She loves her Darling in the only way she knows how. Even if it isn't perfect, I like to think I manage to convey the high esteem she holds you in. She holds her Darling in such regard, she just doesn't know how to properly protect and care for you.

Oh Vivien is my little guy, I love him so much. I'm glad you enjoy him. He is probably the least dangerous of my yanderes, at least towards Darling (remember, he is technically a serial killer). He has had such a hard life, I can't bring myself to write him in any angst because I just want him to be happy.

Noelle is new and I'm still fleshing her out as a person. She strikes me as someone who stays silent a lot, not because she's shy but just because she has nothing to say to you. But when she's with her sisters or with Ata, she's funny and charming. I think the thing that endears me most to her is her fear of losing what she has. She has clawed her way up from the depths of the hell that was her childhood and now that she has reached the top, she would sooner die than give up her lifestyle, and that includes her Darling. I think she's the most controlling yan (more on this later, random fan I got your ask and I'm working on it, I swear, I'm just balls deep in the neuromuscular junction rn) because of this fear of hers. I should write something to try and shake her to her very core and see what comes out.

Ah, your messages are so kind. I really do find comfort and happiness in kind messages like this. I always want to know what you guys think about the characters and kindness about my writing and my birthday is just the sugar on the cream. It is so easy with blogs like this to turn from a writer to just a content creator churning out as much work as possible to keep the followers happy, but it's messages like this that make me feel human again. Thank you. It means a lot to me to know that I have created a space where people can come to lose themselves in my stories.

And yes, haha, it was my silly lil birthday today. I spent most of it in school or driving but I watched King of the Hill and I studied so it was okay :)

[imonthemoonitsmadeofcheese]

Eris' Tax Shelter

This one is both timely and a PSA for anyone wanting to make use of their Legendary Shards prior to the launch of TFS. So I give this to you here. Direct link to Ao3 if you prefer to read it there: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56339362

ACCESS: RESTRICTED DECRYPTION KEY:0GLVP1A437$IKO-006 REP#: 303-DERELICT-AUDIO AGENT(S): AUN-326 SUBJ: VIP#1316 AND ERI-223 INTERACTIONS - POTENTIAL BRIBERY, ILLEGAL LOBBYING & MANIPULATION OF TAX LAWS

[BEGIN TRANSCRIPT]

"Finally, someone I actually want to check up on me!"

"I am observing some very strange Guardian behaviour on Luna and believe it may fall under your area of expertise, Rat."

"My area of expertise? How so?"

"It seems financially motivated and of questionable legality."

"Ha! This doesn't sound like a conversation we should be having on Vanguard comms. Why don't you come over for lunch?"

"Hmmm... you are probably correct. Will you make... the sticky rice?"

"Sticky rice needs to soak for several hours before I cook it. How about sandwiches for today and you come over for sticky rice lunch tomorrow."

"I enjoy your sandwiches. Unfortunately, I will be on Mars tomorrow."

"I'll bring it to ya. You coming over now or what?"

"I will be there soon."

.

"So, do tell me what Guardian behaviour requires my... what'd you call it? Expertise?"

"They are lined up at my Lectern of Enchantment to purchase Phantasmal Fragments at a rate and volume that is... extreme. I cannot imagine why."

"Oh! I do know all about that, actually."

"You do?"

"So, city administration just passed a law. Tax law. Goes into effect Tuesday. War effort stuff."

"I knew they were doing... something... I had not paid attention to what."

"Course not. Doesn't affect ya on the Moon, but that is, in fact, why it is currently affecting ya on the Moon."

"How does city tax law have any impact on the Moon?"

"It's the fact that it don't that's the impact. You, oh beautiful, three-eyed, former god of vengeance, happen to live in a zone which has never been part of city or Vanguard taxation."

"I am well aware. At one point the Cryptarchy attempted to claim some sort of jurisdiction over Sanctuary on Luna. Thankfully Ikora was able to put a stop to... whatever that bureaucratic ridiculousness was."

"Good thing too. You know those bits of legendary weapons everyone gets from disassembling shit they find lying around?"

"The shards, yes. That's what they are using at the lectern. They are not generating fragments with glimmer."

"Right. Come Tuesday, all legendary shards become property of the city to help with the war. They need the components to help fight off the pyramid forces on the ground, shore up the ADU's, build weapons for civilians, generally help keep shit movin' an' functional."

"This makes sense, although would that not render the shards financially useless?"

"Exactly."

"I can understand why they would spend them now then, but why on the Moon?"

"In addition to bein' outside any city taxation zones, and therefore, not technically by the letter of the law evadin' anything, your Phantasmal Fragments take up very little space, Moondust. And several places will still exchange 'em for glimmer, in particular the Cryptarchy and our friend who likes us ever so much, Rahool."

"Rahool is terrified of me and he loathes you."

"He and I have a uh... complicated relationship. But yeah.  Because the Moon is where it is, legally-speakin' there ain't any laws being broken.  And your fragments are super portable."

"I would assume so. They are ethereal whisps of nightmares manifested from the Ascendent plane. Their corporeal instantiation is minimal. They are barely quantified concretions from the energies of phantoms which only manifest fully under specific circumstances."

"Pieces of ghosts. Not like... Guardian ghost-ghosts, but actual ghost-ghosts."

"That is one way of putting it."

"And ghosts don't take up much room."

"I do not follow."

"They use your table to turn the shards into Phantasmal Fragments and then they can keep the fragments and sell them for glimmer later, rendering the soon-to-be-useless shards, useful, long after they cease to be able to be used."

"Hmmm..."

"People've been calling it 'Eris' tax shelter' on Vannet."

"The Lectern of Enchantment is something I built and utilized to harness the vile magic of the Hive in order to transform the negative energies on the Moon into components which can be used to fight the forces of the Witness. It is not a tax shelter! I must inform Ikora."

"You can do that, sure. But they are still using it as intended. It's just that its current intended use for this specific purpose happens to currently be... profitable."

"Are you using it?"

"Me? Nah. Do I currently have several high-density containment units filled with your Phantasmal Fragments? Yeah. But I've had that for a while. I got components for everything. You've seen what's on my ship. I ain't currently buying any from ya right now, nor am I gettin' anyone to buy 'em for me as a favour, if that's what you're wonderin'. I do enough things of... questionable legality already. Tax evasion is such an easily proveable activity. And since I am not a Guardian, when I'm not on the Moon hangin' out with you, I am, technically, under the jurisdiction of the city and subject to its tax laws as a resident thereof. I run a business outta the tower after all. I got several shipping crates of legendary shards just waitin' to be turned over to city authorities. And all the paperwork for it prepared too. Ol' Drifter's gonna be on record for being among the biggest donors of legendary shards to assist with the Last City's war preparations. Can't do that if I convert 'em."

"Hmmm... You are not an altruist, Rat. Why aren't you using this... tax shelter?"

"I am an altruist on paper, Moondust. That's where it counts."

"Why?"

"Different aspect of city tax law. Thing called tax credits. You donate in certain approved ways, you get a credit to count against taxes you'd otherwise have to pay. Gambit's been making quite a lot of glimmer for me. The more tax credits I get, the less tax I pay. If this goes the way it's movin' now, city's gonna end up owing ol' Drifter quite a lot of cash. They won't be able to pay, of course, so they'll need to work it out with me some other way."

"The entire city is going to owe you favours?"

"Hypothetically, yeah. That's one of the reasons why I may have... hypothetically... suggested it to the council in the first place, yeah."

"Wait... You're on the city council?"

"Not officially. I'm a... what you'd call an unofficial adviser. Very unofficial. In theory, purely in theory, mind you, some of the higher ranking members of city council might, hypothetically, owe me some favours and every once in a while I might ask 'em to vote a certain way or put forth a specific idea. Hypothetically, of course."

"You're manipulating the socio-political structure of the Last City to your own ends."

"If I were, not sayin' I am, mind you, but if I were, I would not be doin' it in a harmful way, nor in any way that could be considered illegal on paper."

"How many city politicians do you own? Hypothetically."

"In theory, enough to swing a vote in my favour if I need one. Definitely enough to offer clemency or a pardon, if yours truly was ever caught doing something that might need to be pardoned. Not that I am in the habit of gettin' caught, mind you, but it's always nice to have a backup plan, just in case."

"So the reason all these Guardians are buying Phantasmal Fragments on the Moon right now is because they are about to become useless due to tax law you helped to put in place?"

"Hypothetically."

"And you did this because you needed to lose money on paper so that you can pay less taxes on your Gambit earnings?"

"Now, don't go spreading that theory around. Lotta people are pretty pissed about the whole devaluing of shards thing, especially Spider. Mithrax won't let him use your tax shelter."

"It isn't my tax shelter!"

"House of Light is hoping to be the number one group donating legendary shards to the war effort. Should give 'em very, very good optics in a very direct and undeniable way. Help 'em out quite a bit, politically, and will definitely soften quite a few people's hearts toward them as a whole. It's exceptionally good PR. Not the best for Spider's finances though. Although, what with all that money that up and disappeared for rebuilding the Eliksni quarter, it is kinda poetic that Spider's about to take a hit in the finance department. Strange, that. Couldn't see that coming. Spider sure is pissed over it. Can't imagine why."

"This has nothing to do with your taxes. You are helping the House of Light."

"Oh, it has everything to do with taxes, and anything pertaining to mine is pure conjecture, but if it does end up also helping the House of Light, why that's just another happy accident. And something it does help, undeniably and un-hypothetically, is the city. It's good for them. They need this."

"Fascinating."

"So... that's why everyone's lined up on Luna buyin' your fragments, Moondust. Eris' tax shelter is the talk of the town right now."

"I see."

"And you could pull in the Vanguard, tell Ikora about it, have her and Zavala put a stop to it, but you know how the Vanguard is with policies and procedures. By the time the bureaucrats and administrators actually manage to agree on something it'll be long past Tuesday. And, to be honest, preparing to go into the Traveler's probably a much higher priority for everyone right now. So what if some guardians end up making a bit of cash? Who does that hurt?"

"Aren't the shards they are spending something that could be used to improve the city's defenses?"

"I don't think you're aware of the scale involved in this one, Moondust. Guardian's don't have a lot of spare room in what they carry around. That's the whole reason why anyone has those legendary shards in the first place. Ya get 'em from disassembling guns and armour. They do that because they got no where else to put 'em. Whereas someone like yours truly or the House of Light, we've been able to stockpile some significant amounts. City's gonna be doing just fine for shards. Trust. What's goin' on over on Luna is just a drop in the ocean compared to what's about to be infused into the city infrastructure. It ain't hurtin' no one, except maybe Spider's pocket book, and he's been lining that with other people's glimmer for a while. 'Bout time he was required to be more... generous for a change."

"As usual, our conversations regarding your areas of influence never cease to be simultaneously both impressive and concerning."

"Any day I can manage to impress you is a good day in my books, Three-Eyes."

"Tsch."

[END TRANSCRIPT]

[badlydrawndoc-scratch]

don't really have time or energy to draw this right now so. you're getting it in writing instead

It's not your birthday. At best, you would call it a day that someone who was you once was familiar with.

One that he didn't like either. Sure, you'd pretend to be him for a bit, accept some birthday wishes for him. But it wasn't your birthday. Not to you, at least. You think they all understand, to a point. Dirk does, at least.

That was why you weren't prepared to humour this conversation.

TG: this is hal isnt it

TG: not mad jst

TG: how do i say this?

TT: It seems there's a fairly large chance you're accusing me of not being myself, based off of a totally bullshit statistic.

TT: Care to elaborate?

TG: if u want me to tell u happy birthday 2 i can lmao

TG: dont hafta be weird about impersonatin dirk for that!!!

TT: I...

TT: Sorry. Holdon.

TT: There we go.

TT: As I was about to say, it's not technically my birthday. It's Dirk's. I wasn't even created today.

TT: I'll relay your well-wishes to him whenever he returns. Don't need to ask me about it.

TG: hmm nah i think i like havin' a hold of u for this

TG: if ur like

TG: not REALLY him

TG: but have his memories and shit

TG: todays ur day too

TG: so happy b-day! im not takin' that back either!

TT: ...

TT: I should go.

TT: Dirk probably won't like me monopolizing his account, even if he isn't here.

TT: Thanks, I guess.

You log off without another word, back in your sort-of space. Maybe you'll check in with Jane in a bit. Maybe you'll go through the internet for no apparent reason.

You can't say that that made you feel human. Or that it made you feel better, but... it made you think. It made you feel something. That was a start, right?

---

A firm series of slaps to the back of the cue-ball/head drags you out of your reverie. It's Itchy, hand poised to continue slapping you if you don't acknowledge him.

"Apologies. I must have became lost in thought," you begin, "as tends to happen with the omniscient. That said, there are better ways to get my attention."

Itchy shrugs and tells you he doesn't give a shit. He was just the fastest. The Felt needs you for somethin'. Somethin' he can't tell you about.

"Vague and somewhat sarcastic as always, Itchy. Just get to the point."

He just tells you you're no fun, before half dragging you out of one of your many studies. The whole manor is technically your study. But especially this one.

Itchy only bothers to take you about halfway, to where Crowbar is standing and waiting. He hardly says goodbye before dashing off to who-knows-where, probably to cause trouble somewhere else.

You pretend you don't know what's being hidden from you. You could figure out, and in the back of your mind you have figured out. But surprise is an emotion you like trying to fake.

Sometimes you wish you weren't faking it.

Crowbar walks up to you, with some off-handed comment about how he didn't expect Itchy to get you there on time. Or at all. He can never tell. Nonetheless, he's slightly more gentle when he offers you his hand, like he's not about to effectively drag you across an entire manor.

You don't remember the last time you've had actual contact with someone in a way that wasn't violent. You're not sure it's ever happened, honestly. (In reality, you know that isn't true. You were an indigoblood once, you recall. It's not as clear as the other memories, though.)

Crowbar's hand is felted, unsurprisingly, almost like a pool table. Again. Unsurprising. It's never surprising, but you commit the texture to memory anyway, all but ignoring what he's actually talking about. Something about a celebration.

He says they got the table stickball table fixed, and your attention is drawn again.

"Just call it a pool table."

He says he doesn't feel like it. It's a ball you hit with a stick on a table. Ain't a pool in sight. You agree, silently. The Alternian names for things were as foreign as they were ingrained; you knew them as much as you didn't know them.

Eventually, you're led into what you believe is the living room, and Crowbar lets go of your hand. You don't immediately adjust to the lack of feeling in your hand, almost like you were... severely touch-starved, actually, or something.

That's ridiculous, of course. You aren't technically alive, even if you're not as "soon to die" as you once were.

Someone, you think it could be Quarters, explains that all the Felt knows it isn't technically your birthday, and that it's only such by a few tangents. (You mentally add on that you weren't even created today).

But, Quarters adds, you've been stuck in a rut of sorts for a while. It wasn't really anyone's idea, he says. But it was agreed that it might get you feeling better for a while.

And, for once, you feel surprise. You never thought that they actually cared. Or even noticed. You're just their boss, of course. You're hardly even there.

(You have spent the past few months only leaving the Manor when you absolutely have to.)

You can't say it makes you feel alive. Or better, really. But it made you think. It made you feel something.

And, as you're dragged to play table stickball with Trace and Sawbuck, you decide that's a start.

[theawkwardterrier]

Bake On: A Jamie/Claire Wednesday100 story

Week 1: Cake

Jamie gets his signature - Mam's snow cake - into the oven before he takes a moment to truly size up the competition.

There's the usual crop of grannies and older gents and young mum types, a smarmy-looking middle-aged man Jamie instantly dislikes, a willowy girl he smiles at because she's trembling with nerves, a hulking, wildly bearded lad with an accent Jamie can't place (Welsh?), and then, down in the front corner, far from his back row...

He watches her for so long that he has to rely on the technical and showstopper to make up for his overdone cake.

Week 2: Biscuits

There were many things that Claire considered before entering the competition: that her self-taught skills wouldn't hold up, that she didn't have the sorts of stories and traditions needed for the signatures, that she wouldn't be able to balance it all with her usual work schedule.

She hadn't thought that she'd need to remind herself to focus each time her ears detected a Scottish accent at the back of the tent, or that, after her Kingston biscuits came first in the technical, she'd think about his grin and the light touch of his foot against hers the entire drive home.

Week 3: Bread

"The best simit I've had was off splintery carts pushed by old men who would have considered you mad for criticizing the sesame seeds' evenness."

Jamie looks up from messaging Jenny to find Claire beside him. He'd been trying to stop reexamining his near elimination today. Now he smiles without thought.

"Well, Sassenach, I'll be back next week. That's what matters."

"I suppose that's true." She smiles back, cheeks rosy and rounded, before adding, "You're taking the train, aren't you? I can drive you to the station."

It's an easy walk. The choice to ride with her is even easier.

Week 4: Pie

"Will London surgeon Claire's use of herbs finally win her the title of star baker?"

Her held breath becomes a laugh. She sets down the knife she had been using to carve her pastry top, looking over to him leaning on her bench.

"It might, especially if freelance translator Jamie doesn't get back and give her some competition."

He flashes a grin. "Canna have that. My case is done cooling besides."

She watches him walk away, then resumes, her hands steadier now. She wonders whether he could have possibly noticed her doubts from the back. No, she decides. A coincidence.

Week 5: Pastry

He doesn't notice how long they've been talking until Claire shivers in the midnight chill. It seemingly doesn't register with her - she simply crosses her arms and continues speaking about her patients - but he wants to tuck her against himself, offering his warmth.

Her expression is vivid, and he hates cutting her off (although he'd have hated interrupting her while discussing their fellow contestants, London versus Edinburgh, or today's lunchtime sandwiches). Still, he checks his watch, yawns, says, "Christ, it's that late? We'd better get in if we want to be awake for the showstopper," and sees her safely sheltered.

Week 6: Chocolate

It's meltingly hot in the tent, and everyone's rushing about. Claire's behind on her own bake, and so nearly doesn't notice the cheesecake sitting out at the edge of one of the vacant benches, matching the description Jamie gave of the one he was planning while they'd baked together over the phone this week. Her eyes narrow, and she looks around.

Frank looks back, then immediately glances away.

She places Jamie's cake back into the refrigerator. There isn't time for revenge now, but they can plan together later.

In the meantime, beating Frank will be sweet in its own way.

Week 7: Puddings

"Didna ken this would be the week where I'd remember them so much," Jamie says that night, knowing that she hears him despite his quiet words.

He supposes he should feel embarrassed, tearing up over a batch of clootie dumplings, but he remembers Mam helping him tie the cloth, remembers Da ruffling his hair and Willie saying with his mouth full, "They're good, Jamie!"

And Claire doesn't make him feel foolish, simply places her hand over his, saying, "I don't think there's a wrong time to remember the people you love," so he doesn't feel alone there in the dark.

Week 8: Tarts

She's smiling with satisfaction for the first bit of the drive, star baker title finally achieved and her place in the semi-final assured. It's only as she's shaking her head for her own foolishness at wanting to call Jamie to celebrate when she's barely left him (and knows that he had work to take care of on the train ride home besides) that she realizes what this means.

They've both shown their skill and she's confident in their chances of making it through next week. But even so, even if they get into the finale together, their weekends are numbered.

Week 9: Patisserie

The tension in Jamie's shoulders has nothing to do with two days fussing with choux pastry, or the pressure of next week's final, and everything to do with the countable hours he has left with Claire.

They stand talking in the car park long after the others have packed up and left, after he's missed his train, and he wonders if she might feel the same. Regardless, more time with her doesn't seem like a chance he can miss.

At the next pause, he breathes and asks, "Might ye—Will ye come have dinner with me, Claire?" and watches her smile.

Week 10: Final

The contestants carry their showstoppers to the waiting crowd of loved ones. In classic British fashion, the finale fete is chill and rainy; the camera catches Claire carefully keeping her hair out of her icing.

"Christ, I'd forgotten what the damp did to that curlywig o' yers."

Claire elbows him from her spot beneath his arm, although she is laughing along. "Hush and watch. We're about to lose in front of the entire country, after all."

"True enough. Still, I think we won more than that cake stand o' Glenna's," he says.

By the way she kisses him, she agrees.

[never-not-ever]

THERE IS SOMETHING WRONG WITH MY MIND

I keep thinking things happened days ago when really it was today. Well technically yesterday since it's 2:30am but still. Like looking at my text messages and I'm just like wait what?!?!

Ughhh I keep mixing up the days. Like it feels like it's Sunday. Everything is just so confusing and last night I have absolutely no memory of making pizza in the oven. Like I can see a snapshot in my mind of it on the tray a little burnt. And a screenshot of half the pizza on a place on the counter with a plate on top.

But the scissors I apparently used to cut them... don't remember it but they're dirty on top of the pan. And actually eating the pizza???? Nope no memory. ANNNND there were chips in my bed this morning... At first I thought my cat had brought them in bed, I know this sounds funny but I'm serious. I thought maybe I had left a bowl out or something but nope, which means I brought them to bed. Don't remember it.

Things are starting to feel scary cause I don't like it. Like this whole pizza thing isn't like a normal "I can sort of remember it, it just feels fuzzy". No it's a complete blackout, just those two- just snap shots.

And I have a funny feeling the Ativan is contributing to it but I'm not saying a word about it to my doctor because I'm shocked and relieved he actually prescribed it.

I just paused this trying to remember how much I took and when and it started driving me crazy because I can't remember. Like last Tuesday I got 4 pills from my prescription they still had back in August. I had to go back the next day to get my week supply (7 pills). And I know I immediately just doubled the dose because I know 1mg doesn't do anything for me and yes I should have said this to him but I was just shocked he actually put something in so I'll mention it next time (plus I told my therapist there today so "they" know). Now between last Tuesday and today I can only remember taking 2 from the "4 pill pack". Then the next time I don't know why I didn't just finish the "4 pill pack" but I took 2 from the new "7 pack". Yesterday as in Sunday was bad because I took 2 pills before going out for a walk with my Nana and later that night I took 3 pills. But I don't remember when I took the other 2....

UGHHHHH my mind is driving me fucking crazy

I wonder if my IP doctor mentioned her concerns/thoughts about the ativan. Cause I know she wasn't a big fan and was not going to discharge me on it even though she did but just a week supply . It was like pulling teeth for her to even do the week supple for my adjustment back into the "real world".

And I sort of mentioned my "concern" with my doctor last week about the ativan. I think I had word vomit and was talking really fast but I know I said something about "I'm probably going to hate myself for mentioning it in case you don't give it but part of me wonders if I'm only asking for it to use as an escape to avoid shit..." I think I might have said something along the lines of relating it to addiction and me being "just like my mother" and I know how easily I can get addicted to something....

Whatever all this is pointless and kudos to you if you made it this far but the icing on top of the cake is that I got a 7 pack of ativan today and I... LEFT IT in the FUCKING car which my Nana has cause she's visiting her sister for the night.

Dude when I realized that I was LIVID. All I wanted to do was have a nice evening, take 2, maybe have a drink and escape my mind for a while.

Do I sound crazy? Do I sound obsessed?

[variousqueerthings]

You are the stupidest idiot ever! But I'm not going to let you die // In amongst seven billion, there's someone like you. That's why I put up with the rest of them.

OKAY! Pyramid at the end of the World +Lie Of The Land!

these are the last two that I didn't write notes for and it's been a hot second so probably have forgotten Some Stuff. that being said, they're... interesting. at some point there needs to be an analysis done of bill's season and why it does and doesn't work (mainly that I wish it had come sooner and/or been longer). BUT ANYWAY!

I put these episodes together, although the tonal shift is quite big in between, but it is one story that follows on from extremis. it's kinda Bill's "wandering the earth for a year six months" so obvs I'm going to compare it to Martha a little. they even used a bit of s3 music in there!

sexism rank objectification (female character is ogled/harassed/turned into a sex joke by the doctor and/or a lead we’re supposed to root for and/or the camera): 10/10

sexism rank plot-point (lead female character is only there to serve plot, not to have her emotional interiority explored, or given agency to her emotional interiority): 6/10

interesting complex or pointlessly complex (does the complexity serve the narrative or does it just serve to be confusing as a stand-in for smart, this includes visually): 5/10

furthers character and/or lore and/or plot development (broader question that ties into the previous ones, at least two of these, ideally three should be fulfilled): 6/10

companion matters (the companion doesn’t always have to be there, but if the companion is there, can they function without the doctor– and overall per season how often is the companion the focus or POV of the story): 7/10

the doctor is more than just “godlike” (examines the doctor’s flaws and limitations, doesn’t solve a plot by having it revolve entirely around the doctor’s existence): 8/10

doesn’t look down on previous doctor who (by erasing or mocking its importance, by redoing and “bettering” previous beloved plotpoints or characters, etc.): 6/10

isn’t trying to insert hamfisted sexiness (m*ffat famously talked a lot about how dw should be sexier multiple times, he sucks at writing it): 10/10

internal world has consistency (characters have backgrounds, feel rooted in a place with other people, generally feel like they have Lives): 6/10

Politics (how conservative is the story): 6/10

FULL RATING: 70/100 (if I can count….)

I gave this one a solid 70 out of 100. I think that's fair enough -- they're not necessarily my favourite stories (in fact I do kvetch about them a fair bit I think), but I do think they manage something M*ffat often struggles with, which is building a Big story that is also comprehensive and involves the companion in material ways

OBJECTIFICATION: listen, I do not remember. I think these episodes are free from this though.

PLOT-POINT: Bill technically does get to have feelings about things and these feelings do partially drive the plot -- she gets the Doctor's sight back, her feelings about her mother save the day, and she's very driven to save the world throughout (and her lovely self is what drives the Doctor to say today's second quote in the title, a sentiment that says a lot about who the Doctor is in this incarnation and the relationship between the two of them)

it doooes highlight how some of these things still suffer from M*ffat's penchant of just. throwing things at the wall in lieu of building a cohesive, deep thematic arc. the strongest part in my opinion is Bill getting the Doctor's sight back/saving the Doctor's life. I get why she feels this close to the Doctor at this point, what sort of a person she is that would take on this sacrifice, and how it drives the story

(I have mixed feelings about the Doctor being blind in the first place, it was never given any space in the story beyond being a narrative hindrance, and at the end of this it's simply fixed and never spoken about again. what was the point of having the Doctor be blind for about three episodes? but the bit where Bill finds out and saves him is good for me)

Bill's mother... doesn't have a name. it's the oddest oversight and leads to the incredibly silly line "Bill's mum... you've just gone viral." she's meant to be one of the core drivers of Bill's background, but it falls to pieces without a name, she's just a fridged mother without any personality --- also see me nitpicking, but this is the second companion in a row with a dead mother that should be at the center of who they are, but is sort of conveniently just there when needed. it was worse with Clara, because her mother was fully dropped from the storyline after s7, but it's... noticeable. at least Amy's parents came back from the dead (although were then never mentioned again). you can feel M*ffat tryyying to figure out those family relationship plots and being a different kind of bad at it with every companion

I still think Bill's is the best of these, simply because there are some bits and pieces of continuously acknowledging her mother's emotional presence in her life, but oof. it's tough being a no name dead mother character

also one thing I want to bring up that knocked this a full point was the Doctor and Nardole manipulating Bill into thinking the Doctor was on the side of the invading aliens to the point that she was going to shoot him dead (in her own head, she doesn't know about regeneration), and then completely brush it off afterwards. I think it's one of the crueller bits of writing from M*ffat and hearkens back to especially how he would write Sherlock. it very much undermines the development of Twelve as well, who's ostensibly learning to become kinder throughout his arc, and the Main thing is... if I'm going to compare this to Martha in s3 somewhat...

a. Bill is totally alone in remembering the events of the last six months, apart from the Doctor and pooossibly the handful of soldiers who were deprogrammed, from what I understand. this is not at all explored

b. Bill spends these six months trying to stay sane, and okay, so the Doctor is? isn't? held prisoner by the monks on this big ship, Nardole says he needed x amount of time to find him, but reaaally none of that makes a whole lotta sense the more one tries to break it down, and the bottom line is... there is no real point to Bill being there, other than the Doctor wanting her there. yes, the remembering her mother does become important later on, but that's not initially the plan, the plan is to just ask the Master what to do from the sounds of it, and I'm mainly just very very confused about the whole opening section of this plot. it's not well-written in that classic M*ffat way that makes it seem polished on the surface, but is full of holes that get waved away... and it's all, from what I can tell, in service of this big reveal that the Doctor was actually never on the side of the monks, because that whole section is cool

it's not really about Bill at all, as is obvious when we move past it immediately into "and then the Doctor continues to be cool"

(the stuff with the Master then gives us more pathos, but the opening is... bad)

... I could write a whole lot more about it tbh, but I'm not going to, it was stupid on several levels, took away

COMPLEXITY: a lot of this is over-the-top M*ffat nonsense, especially in pyramids of mars, where we mostly eschew your everyday perspective in order to focus on generals and world leaders or whatever. we do though have a (in my opinion) fun little tense counterpoint with two scientists who due to a series of little errors almost destroy the world. I actually do have questions about that though, in terms of what the heck was extremis for as a plot, if the invasion plan was to create a series of coincidences (I guess they have some reality controlling powers considering as well how they shift historical perceptions, but it's not explored all that much -- I'd say they fit well in the rtd2 upcoming era about gods and myths, but I don't have that much interest in seeing them again tbh) and then emotionally manipulate someone into handing over the world (my point isn't that this plan doesn't make sense in a Doctor Who way, my point is that extremis makes no sense)

questions questions. also oooh there were ways of recentering this on Bill, because apparently if Bill dies then the monks might be defeated. so why in the world do they just let her run around like she does? I mean, there's some real fucked up fun potential in all of this, surely Bill should be waaay more at the core of this plot than she is, she's key to their survival on this planet, and having just reread the transcipt, the Master has a throwaway line that says if they're booted off the planet due to the link (Bill) dying, they just chalk it up to experience... but there could have been more than that. more than just "eh, they're not that bothered one way or another"

bored aliens with (comparatively) godlike powers toying with earth is a good story, but it's not, in my opinion, this story. in this story it makes them seem less consequential, their motives even more opaque than they already were, and Bill's journey through the story meaningless -- again, to compare to the Jones Family Experience, the fact that they're the only ones to remember the events of the year of hell is one huge part of the trauma. they're glad the earth was healed, but they will always have the memories. Bill, by contrast, isn't given the space to rage against everything happening here, she just sadly accepts it, and maybe that's who she is. maybe that's the six months spent in it all. but I don't think it's well enough explored from her perspective in the text to really say

I think I'm rambling a bit, but it's something about Bill as sacrificial lamb, and it's going to come up again, I know, I know the ending of this season, I just don't remember how it's written. we shall see! but from a character pov I want more -- well, I want less of the Big Important Quick Moving Plots That Leave You Spinning And Going "hold on did that make sense?" and more character-centric narrative in this, but ah well

it's not the worst of these, I'm just kind of digging into what's missing. Bill is still fantastic to me, even if her mum isn't allowed to have a name, and generally she does have more grounding and things to do than either Amy or Clara, but there's a niggling feeling the whole way through -- this is the last season, so Bill is defining that ending, she's got to carry a whole lot after 5 previous seasons of very messy storytelling, she's a very different character to pretty much every M*ffat female character, so it's like there's a hit or miss with the story that I really wish there wasn't, because it's the last flipping season and you would have thought some of these basic narrative things were things a showrunner for one of the most high profile tv shows in the world knew how to do, but it seems like he's only just learning the ropes now

and he still overly relies on montages

actually the real issue with this three-parter was the pacing. the pacing was atrocious

CHARACTERS/LORE/PLOT: we get a whole bunch of the Master in this one, which I think is great of course

it does contrast how I don't think Bill has changed all that much from extremis to now, because the Master is in... two scenes? and comes so far. although, to be fair, the Master technically has been in scenes since 1970 so there's a whole lotta foundations there

but yeah, the Master stuff to me is always satisfying

and of course Bill has now met the Master, which is exciting!

COMPANIONS MATTER: I do think Bill matters in this. she makes decisions absent of the Doctor that massively drive the plot, the main three of which are "gets the Doctor his sight back, thereby saving his life," "keeps her sanity/memories of reality completely on her own," (seriously that seems to be nigh-impossible and she never stumbles) and "puts herself in the brain-mincing machine and wins"

one in several billion indeed

“GODLIKE” DOCTOR: mmmmm not so much in the first one, and technically Bill saves the day in both of them. he's a bit of a dick though, is my main thing about the Doctor in all of this. I actually just think he's oddly underwritten/out of focus? which is rare in M*ffat, usually the companion suffers this

he comes most into focus again during the Master scenes and during the end-sequence, but yeah. it made me realise that the Doctor really should have been properly helpless and Bill should have saved him from the monks/driven the plot even more, because it felt like the Doctor was smushed in there a bit to be a bit Doctor-y but then was kind of pointless

now makes me think of this alt plot: Bill remembers the vault from when she came across it in the first episode, and sneaks in periodically to try and get into it/speak with whatever creature is clearly on the other side. make this less than six months, because that was nuts. she gets in, meets the Master and it's really a Bill and the Master episode, akin to s9ep2 with Clara, except this time the Master is claiming to have become good, honest (Bill makes some deductions about why the Doctor might be keeping her in there, idk, but also can't get her out anyway) and you're left to wonder whether the Master would sacrifice Bill to save the day/the Doctor... again, like Clara

and so she helps Bill save the Doctor and get to the lair, and Bill already knows about the dying, which of course, the Master trying to kill Clara was a massive point of division between the Master/the Doctor, and this feels like that .2 except the Master swears this was all to save the world, etcetc...

and Nardole dies early on or smthin

PREVIOUS DOCTOR WHO: I cannot remember, but I think not really anything + the callback to s3 makes you go "ah yeah, but s3 had a thematic throughline that led to Martha wandering the earth for a year and then leaving the Tardis, because it was all a fucking mess, while these episodes don't really take Bill in a new direction, from what I can tell + are just sort of plonked in the middle of the season"

“SEXINESS”: listen, considering the Master is in this and I'd even allow some silly lines from the Master (and we do get "that's Spanish for hot!" although that's technically related to them playing the game "hot or cold") we're remarkably free from all this nonsense

INTERNAL WORLD: I think the first episode is more of a mess than the second. the second is meant to be incompatible with reality upon close inspection, it's a flawed reality-bending tool using the brain of one woman, but the first one with the pyramid and president of earth making a reappearance, that was more suspect to me

POLITICS: I liked the casting of the main scientist in the first episode, she was cool and fun to watch -- I kind of wish she'd been in the second one too, to give it more throughline. after all she was also at the eye of the storm, I was sort of missing her. but yeah, I enjoyed some diverse casting practice in the first place

the whole "we've got prison camps now" bit was a bit surface-level nothing. I don't think it was even meant to be anything other than "see the monks are baaad" dystopian type stuff 1-0-1 but I think one can do more with that than this episode did

generally, again, I dislike whenever Doctor Who makes things too disconnected from ordinary people and gives the focus to "the important people" (and it's not just M*ffat who does this, but he did introduce the president of the world stupidity). it's not a show I watch for idk presidents and generals and armies (unless it's a story about that in some deliberate way -- not as set dressing!) and it takes away any thematic weight -- in the end the monks are gone again and... nobody was harmed? weren't people potentially killed? didn't they literally build camps and have people in them? what happened to that scientist who almost destroyed the world?

ungrounded, on the whole, but not offensive, except for the fuckn "let's manipulate Bill" part of it

FULL RATING: 70/100 (if I can count….)

I don't know if I'm nitpicking with these two, mostly because they just didn't speak to me much on an emotional level. they're perfectly serviceable on the whole, avoiding some of the more egregious mistakes of M*ffat-era, but they're a bit hollow to me

I very much enjoyed the Master parts (shocker), and Bill's competency, but it does on the whole feel like a lot of set dressing that was missing a bit of spark