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potteresque-ire · 4 years

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Hi! I have been reading your posts and responses to anonymous and I am inclined to comment on your broadly realistic views and detailed analystic answers and let us not forget your ability to be warm in putting forward your opinions. I am truly a huge fan. Thank you for being a station for various answer seekers.

If you have time and patience, please elaborate on the situation GG is still facing post 227. Recently I read various comments insinuating GG copied DD for Douyin night which is absurd but the implication that only one party is still being targeted unnecessarily raise hackles of a lot of solo fans. And I, under any circumstances, DO NOT believe the involvement of the other party. Firm believer of BJYXSZD.

My point is what is being done to stop these antis from targeting GG. Since one of the motive to target GG is to severe the relationship of GG and DD, IMO at least. Does constant attack (external stimulus) on GG (belittling him by comparing him to DD) may have the possibility to effect their relationship (internal reaction)? Objectively yes, but given your perception of their relationship, what is your opinion in this matter, however subjective it may be?

Moreover, how much extreme and sometimes irrational analysis done by bjyx community can lead to harm to both of them especially GG?

Also, I have seen DD being the captain of BJYX in various circumstances but also throwing off people from their old predicted/maintened theories especially in case of Kadians. I am not sure how much to trust these 'candies' since he has a reputation of not giving a f*** of others opinion. So why would he post GG related or non-related content with same kadians. I mean if he posts private content with GG related kadian then why post promotional content with GG related kadian. Does it imply that kadians are related to GG or not or he doesn't care and we are thinking too much. I am not sure what I am writing now, maybe multitude of thoughts poring out here. I am extremely sorry for that.

I do not know whether people believe or not but 1st post by GG yesterday had initials YB in the circle. Not at all explicit, and depends on believers but I felt like he was just trolling BJYX, it may be good naturedly but after his promotional brand picture of shrimp in bunny's hand. I do not know I just felt, dissappointed/bitter/unsure about all of this. I think it is normal to feel this way from time to time even for SZD because along with emotional investment we have rational perspective which is necessary to scrutinize evidence(maybe) from time to time.

I whole heartedly apologize for writing an essay length ask, this is the reason I wanted your patience 😅.

If any other blogger wants to add or comment on this please feel free to do so. Your suggestions are highly welcomed. 🙏

Hello Anon!

I take it that your questions about safety are concerned about the behaviour of c-solos and c-turtles? International fans aren’t likely to put Gg and Dd at any risk. That said, however, frequent fighting among i-fans would likely drain Gg and Dd’s international fanbase, as many fans do not enjoy being a combative atmosphere (I, for one, will run away as quickly as a turtle can run!). Lost i-fans can’t be easily replenished, whether they’re turtles or solos ~ The Untamed, as a foreign language show so beloved that fans are willing to scale tall language and cultural barriers to understand it, isn’t something that comes around often. (stanning Gg and/or Dd does take a lot of work!)

About the arguments. I probably only know about a fraction of them since I do not interact directly with fans outside Tumblr . As far as I can tell, however, recent arguments among c-solos and c-turtles have been ordinary fights, and also, fairly “bi-directional” between the solos (ie. I don’t think Gg or Dd has been relatively exempt from attacks compared to each other).

These arguments can be heated and some of the attacks may sound vicious, but there’s nothing much to worry about from a safety angle, as they haven’t caught the attention of those outside the fan circles.

The theorising by turtles are also not inherently dangerous. c-turtles have mostly been careful about keeping their discussions among themselves. The only risk it may lead to in the future, that I can think of right now, is the associated YiZhan content on China-based websites (ex. Bilibili, Douyin), which has become fairly plentiful. YiZhan candies used to be relatively obscure given the guidelines of CP fans to keep them among themselves (they call this practice 圈地自萌, literally, drawing a circle on the ground and have fun in it by oneself). These days, however, anyone who’s curious can get a good sense of YiZhan’s story by browsing Bilibili.

This probably contributes to the continued growth of the turtle population; however, some of this content is created by non-turtles who seek viewership and have little concern over Gg and Dd’s safety. They are the ones who re-upload the BTS, for example, despite the repeated pleas and warnings by the “站姐”s—the superfans who take/purchase these videos—as well as the turtles to not do that. If these content creators go overboard, there’s a possibility that YiZhan content may get caught in the government’s “Eradicating Pornography and Illegal Publications”（掃黃打非) movement. The movement originated in the mid 2000s, and its recent waves have been used as pretext to remove LGBT+ and BL content on line (I will eventually set up a post re: those events). Just last month (2020 Dec), Bilibili has been explicitly named by the government for hosting questionable materials, which means it’s already under scrutiny. Sweeps performed on an entire website are usually broad-based enough that no specific individuals are targeted; however, the government also encourages, with financial incentives, the reporting of specific content and has set up a dedicated website for doing so. While all YiZhan content has no direct relation to Gg and Dd, removal of such content may cause an over-reaction from fans, which can, in turn, lead to accusations of poor fan management by Gg and Dd. Most people will also assume the YiZhan content to be created by turtles.

(Another example of how an alleged turtle mis-step can get the YiZhan fandoms and Gg and Dd tied to the 掃黃打非 movement: a few days ago, a Weibo post showed a photo of a hardcover version of an explicit BJYX fanfic, reportedly sold for profit, and GG haters were calling for an arrest for “illegal publication.” So far, there’s minimal noise on the issue, so it isn’t something to worry about. It can also be fake news, which is so bountiful on the platform and on every aspect of daily life that most die a very peaceful, very well-deserved death.).

Whether fan arguments / theories may affect Gg and Dd’s relationship (assuming they’re in a relationship) … my guess is, not much. Gg and Dd are busy people, unlikely to closely follow their fans’ discussions. Again, I expect effects to be felt only if the arguments get out of hand ~ as in, if they begin to involve the public and/or the government.

As for the question about what is being done to stop Gg being targeted: fan wars are incredibly common in China (as in everywhere else), and Gg and Dd’s aren’t special in that sense ~ it’s just that as turtles, we know about those surrounding Gg and Dd and they feel significant to us. No individuals can stop a fan war ~ all we can do is to not join these wars ourselves.

Personally, I think the international fan base of Gg and Dd, as solos and cpfs, have more chance to achieve peace than its Chinese counterparts — if they choose to want that. Popularity in China is not only quantified (which is likely true everywhere, by marketing departments), but very visibly so. Sales numbers, votes, traffic attributed to each idol are frequently released to the public, possibly to foster competition among fans and drive these numbers further upward. c-turtles’ demonstrated strong performance in pushing these metrics has made them a target to those who wish to have usurp their consumer power. They, therefore, have good reasons to be wary of anyone who try to sway them from their “turtle-ship”, whether to turn them into solos or to lure them into an entirely different fandom. The swaying messages are also not always obvious, not always a direct “your cp suck”. They can be subtle, many even come from netizens who appear to be fellow turtles, who may say “oh, maybe we (turtles) are wrong” or “we have to be realistic; Gg and Dd will never look at each other publicly again”—messages that cast doubt and sink morale in a fandom that’s already running an uphill battle. Remember: traditionally, CP fandoms are not expected or welcomed to last, and solos have been happy to (correctly) point out that the BTS, the origin of the most solid “evidences” of BJYXSZD, are getting older by the day. c-turtles can’t expect anyone else to help defend their ship if something happens, given CP fandoms’ lack of respectability, given YiZhan being a real person M/M pairing that is often frowned upon. So it’s understandable, to me at least, why c-turtles are on guard, and occasionally, clash with those who they feel may be trying to take away what they love.

i-turtles, I feel, don’t have that many reasons to fight. We don’t really have other fandoms (for example, the up and coming danmeis—the adapted BL dramas) vying for our attention (and wallets). No one can put an expiration date on the YiZhan communities except ourselves.

Another way to see this is: we—as in, the combined Gg + Dd international fanbase, the solos + CPFs—are lucky in a way the fans in Gg and Dd’s home country are not. Collectively, we’re much further removed from the pressure to perform as fans, which is immense in China with their fan circle culture and fan economy. i-shrimps and i-motorcycles ~ some of you are reading this, I think? (hello!) ~ here are my humble thoughts: the solo/turtle ratio of Gg and Dd’s international fans doesn’t make much of an impact on Gg and Dd’s star status, on the popularity metrics that matter. Our spending power is limited outside China’s borders, and while Gg and Dd likely love us equally as fans, our adoration for them doesn’t really matter much, if at all, to the production/media/commercial companies that control the trajectories of their careers.

Along this line, the turtles’ “double loyalty” doesn’t have much of an ill effect, because there are few popularity contests here that mean much; few times (if any) when the turtles must face the dilemma of whether to vote for Gg or Dd because only a single vote is allowed; few situations where they have only x amount of dollars and must split it equally between Gg or Dd’s endorsements. There’s also much less cause to worry that i-turtles may draw the attention, or ire of the Chinese government ~ the whole international fanbase is too far away, too spread out to destabilise the regime in any way.

What the turtles do have in common with you, the solos, is their knowledge, their love for Gg/Dd. Knowledge, in particular. The people who know about Gg/Dd are still far and in between—at where I am, at least, and my guess is, it’s likely true for many of you too. Think of the turtles as people who you can talk to about your favourite star in places where few people know about him, can help promote The Untamed far and wide—many people still haven’t heard of the show, and they deserve to.

For the turtles ~ no one can take away our turtle-ship identity, as long as we don’t give it away. No one can report on the our communities to the government and get them dissolved. Our votes, our spending habits are no one else’s business but ours here.

So, Anon, here’s what I think, and these are all very personal opinions, very personal decisions on how to navigate fandom …

I truly hope that we, as the international fanbase, can try to use this luck that we have. Make our communities not mere copies of their (combative) Chinese counterparts but something different, something with our own flavour, something with more peace and less fighting.

Specifically, I see little cause to try to persuade/dissuade anyone to be a solo/turtle. I find them… not the best use of time. Why? Because frankly, neither solos nor turtles have a better grasp of who Gg and Dd are. Neither solos nor turtles have a truly good grasp of who Gg and Dd are. These discussions are therefore bound to end up with more ill will than conclusions, since both sides are short of facts.

We’re all short of facts as audiences, who’ve all only seen a tiny sliver of who Gg and Dd are as human beings.

I don’t mean Gg and Dd’s star image is fake ~ it’s just that, their star image is their “work face”, and even I, a lowly turtle, must act somewhat differently in my own office. It’s part of being professional.

Gg and Dd’s star image are their professional face, and no professionals worth a salt truly ignore other’s opinions, especially when the profession is being an entertainer whose job is to face and hold the attention of the public.

This is true for Gg; this is true for Dd.

Social media accounts are also part of Gg and Dd’s professional face ~ whatever is posted on there will be scrutinised by millions of fans, and they know that. The posts do provide some insights about Gg an Dd’s personalities, but they can’t be expected to show a complete picture. No parts of these posts, therefore, whether it’s the content or the kadians, are sufficient evidences for / against any aspect of their personal lives (especially as private an aspect as their romantic lives). Anon, you mentioned promotional marketing materials, and here’s my understanding of them ~ ambassadors such as Gg and Dd have minimal control over their design. The shrimp-holding bunny you’re referring to, for example, is very likely provided by the company.

However, may I also add this? Please try to not think of the shrimps / motorcycles as enemies of the turtles. Millions of people are behind each of these labels, and true for any group of this size, a fraction of its members are bound to be annoying. A small fraction may be awful, even. But they don’t represent the entire group. The shrimps are not only Gg’s fans, many of them have supported him longer than any turtle (since turtle-ship can’t be older than 2018); they’re also the reasons why Gg is in the industry ~ they voted for him in X-Fire. Likewise, a subset of motorcycles have been with Dd since UNIQ; they were there when the Korean ban effectively dissolved his group; they stuck with him when he was attacked for taking on the role of LWJ.

We’re all Gg and Dd’s fans, if you ask people outside the fandom. Remember: few outside China understand why heated arguments can occur between a bunch of shrimps, turtles and motorbikes. (It sounds a bit kafkaesque, just typing it out.)

It’s important not to lose sight too, that Gg and Dd’s social media accounts, where many new candies are found, primarily function as bridges of communication between them and their fans. These accounts do have different degrees of “professionalism” ~ Weibo and the official accounts being more formal, and Oasis, Douyin being more laid back and intimate; still, they all serve similar purposes. They’re not candy generators, or a script Gg and Dd have an obligation to follow to confirm / refute BJYXSZD.

Also: these accounts are accessible and watched by the public, not all of whom are friendly to Gg and Dd.

Re: Gg’s drawing on Oasis. He used the account as it’s intended for—to interact with his fans (the caption of the first draft was an unspoken invitation to shower him with ideas) and maybe, to show off a little (it was a very nice piece of artwork ~ a comment that I, sadly, haven’t seen much of). I doubt he posted his drawing because he wanted fans to carpet-search for traces of Dd in it (even though he probably expected that would happen); I very much doubt he posted his drawing because he wanted his fans to fight over scratch marks or black dots.

If these fights keep happening, I can imagine a possible outcome. He’ll stop showing us his drawings. His social media accounts will become less and less personal, as they already have.

I’ll share with you my thoughts about candies too, while I’m at it. These are probably not-so-popular opinions, so please take them all with a grain of salt.(Salted caramels? 😊 )

I haven’t looked at why candies are called candies, but I find the name appropriate for how I think of them ~ candies are 1) neither evidences or truth, 2) sweet, 3) treats (non-essential, not like the main course).

The first point is, perhaps, the one I try the hardest to keep in mind. There are posts out there claiming the candies as made-beliefs—generated from edited pictures or videos, exaggerated translations, and their interpretations forced by “guidances” in the annotations/narration. There are also posts claiming that turtles are deceivers, or have been deceived by brainwashers who maliciously created these make-beliefs. A turtle may assume these posts are all lies, all made by antis.

But, speaking turtle-to-turtle, I’d venture to say this … there’s some truth in the *first* statement. Many candies do, indeed, taste different if their taster returns to the original source—not necessarily unsweet, but less sweet. Candies, remember, are generated by fans like you and I. Same for c-candies ~ they aren’t endorsed by Gg and Dd, aren’t necessarily closer to the truth just because of the relative proximity of their birthplaces to their leads.

Candy generation is The Tradition of CP fandoms. It’s a celebrated skill, and who doesn’t want to generate a candy that will be talked about, that will be part of the BJYX canon, for as long as the fandom lasts? Some fans are, therefore, also more … efficient in the “marketing” of the candies they generated — in persuading others that their candies are evidences, the truth. “Guidance” photos and videos (which pinpoint the place to watch, sometimes with appropriate sound effects for emphasis) have come about that way, and because they’re easy to digest—especially where language barriers exist—they end up spreading to i-fandoms.

These photos and videos may look more professional / trustworthy, but they often have an additional layer of subjectivity ~ on top of the already subjective opinion of what makes a candy. Translations (of BTS, fake rumours house content etc) also introduce a subjective element. Word choices can significant modify the tone of a conversation; speakers of different Chinese dialects may also have different interpretations of the same phrases. Example: I, as a non Chongqing/Sichuanese speaker, can guess the literal meaning of the “puppy” term Gg used for Dd — 狗崽崽 (gou zai zai) — but I also had to rely on others to tell me how endearing the term is; me being a Chinese speaker actually doesn’t make my interpretation any more valid, or authoritative, in this scenario, because my dialect doesn’t use this term at all.

It doesn’t mean the people who’ve put in the work have any less-than-good intent; the vast majority of them come from a place of deep love. It’s just that we all carry our own perspectives, and as fans, our strong emotions in our fanworks.

This is why candies are often insufficient as good “points” for arguments, why they fail to convince non-believers, sometimes to the disappointment of some turtles. As evidences, they aren’t objective enough; they’re also often touch upon the assumption that’s mark the fundamental difference between solo and cp fans — the assumption that Gg and Dd are (not) together. Take, for example, this segment from a (polite) ask I got from an anon solo:

All the matching clothes, jewelry, shoes etc. Stopped being valid candy when I realized that the brands have popular stars "endorse" their products. The lightning pendant? Other actors have also worn it. Does that mean they are in a 3-way with (Gg) and (Dd)? Probs not.

Solo anon was correct! Brands have star endorsers, and other entertainers have, indeed, worn the same lightning pendant. The implied argument is also valid: people who don’t care about, don’t even know about each other can wear the same things. Most of us do that on a daily basis with our mass-produced garments.

However, a counterargument can also be made to the statement above, and easily: even the most precious, most beautiful wedding rings (say, from Tiffany!) are not exclusive to the first RL couple who bought them. It doesn’t mean the first RL couple is sleeping with all the couples who bought the same rings afterwards, doesn’t mean those rings aren’t significant to every one of these couples as romantic mementos. More often than not, couples wear matching things not because these things are exclusive to them—because how often can one find things that only exist as a single pair in this world? They wear matching things because they want to see something on themselves that remind them of their significant other and so, as long as the things aren’t so prevalent that everyone is wearing them, they can already serve their purpose.

But you see, Anon, that arguing over this would’ve been a waste of time? Because the solo came in with the assumption that Gg and Dd were not a couple, and the counterargument was made with the assumption that they were. The pendants alone are insufficient to prove either side correct or wrong. No one knows why those pendants ended up on Gg and Dd’s necks, except Gg and Dd and their teams. If I were to argue with anon solo, we can go on and on and on until we’re both left with bitter tastes in our mouths and WWX-red in our eyes, and forget the one thing that really matters: we’re both Gg’s fans.

(We could’ve spent the time talking about how that scene in The Wolf with Ji Chong throwing Zai Xing in the water is ❤️.) (I can’t believe the script waited 30+ episodes to do it. 😂)

This leads to my second point, Anon. Candies are meant to be sweet, and they’re meant to be sweet for you. In Chinese, a term for an expert candy person is a 嗑學家 (the candy-eating in CP fandoms is called 嗑糖 (ketang) ～ with 嗑 ke denoting a specific form of eating that requires breaking something open first with teeth—such as watermelon seeds; a 嗑學家 is a 嗑 (ke)-ologist). A 嗑學家 isn’t someone who can recall the longest list of candies, or spread the most candies around, or convince the most people that the CP behind the candies is real; they are those who can find their own candies in a source material, and be overjoyed by the sweetness of their discoveries without outside help. To me, at least, this term encapsulates the subjective nature of candies ~ what’s right for you may not be right for me and vice versa, and that’s perfectly all right. In other words, there are many candies out there but you’re not required to believe in all of them; instead, you’re free to choose candies to your own liking, compose your own version of the BJYX canon that you love, that you find sweet.

Wait, but you may say. Doesn’t that make my canon fantasy? Yes and no, because candies are based on real events. They’re interpretations, which sit somewhere between reality and fantasy. They’re like … opinion shows on news channels.

But what if I need to convince people of my canon —

Your “opposition”’s canon is as fantastical, and as real as yours — maybe it isn’t, but neither of you have a way to prove it one way or another.

Wouldn’t solos call me delulu, or clowns?

Maybe. But one step outside the fandom, and all of us fans—solo and cpfs—are delulu, clowns.

(That’s why while I’ve used the cpn label, I haven’t called myself delulu, or a clown. Anyone who thinks I have the truth about the love story about a pair of idol I haven’t met from thousands of miles away … the joke’s probably on them, don’t you think?)

Of course and again, Anon, this is only my take! I like candies precisely because I like to watch the real-time generation of candies, which ones different people claim as their own, which candies fall away and which stick around in the fandom over time. As a fic writer, this ship has gifted me with a treasure trove of information ~ what do people think of as romantic gestures, as give-away signs of love? The fun/amazing part of BJYX is that candies are available for so many different answers to these questions. Some people think of longing gazes and sweet smiles; some think of touches that can’t be helped (the many, many, many “fights”); some think of service (buying foods, designing clothes); some think of caring about the other’s well-being (throat candies and dumplings + noodles + crackers); some think of being The Other’s One and Only Exception (Dd being so talkative around Gg, Gg being so … fussy around Dd); some think of expressions through the arts (songs, drawings, dances); some think of grand gestures (the wave heart in the ocean); some think of matching clothes and symbolic accessories (rings); some think of birthdays and anniversaries (314, 622, the first snow); some think of sharing life’s hassles and small tidbits (fake rumour house); some think of … just looking VERY good together. Etc etc.

Some think of a subset of these, some think of all of these…

(Personally, I’m a very picky candy eater. I know about many of them, but only a small fraction impresses on me.)

(Still, I love watching candies. I love watching the joy of people sweetened by them ~ or, when c-turtles exclaim kswl! — the short form of ke si wo le! 嗑死我了! I “ke”ed so much I’m dying!)

This gets to 3), Anon, and I apologise to you too, for answering your not-essay-at-all with an essay! Candies are, to me, treats, and I don’t expect them to come at any frequencies higher than treats do. The reason isn’t because I don’t like candies ~ I enjoy watching them, as I said, even if I don’t eat many of them; the reason is because I don’t expect anyone’s romantic love to leave a trace in everything they do. For example, if I truly find myself in a SZD/SJD discussion re: Gg’s drawing, I’d say the lack of Dd in Gg’s self-portrait doesn’t really mean much. Even if Gg and Dd were head-over-heels in love with one another, Gg doesn’t have to put Dd in everything he touches. Likewise, Dd doesn’t have to present a consistent, or decipherable story with his kadians. This is true for the real-life couples around us too, isn’t it? They don’t perform every single act in life leaving a noticeable trace of their significant other. And the misunderstanding that couples do that — that their romantic lives take over who they are as individuals — IMO, partially explains why people who choose to not to date or marry, people who’re aro-aces, often have a difficult time convincing others that they’re complete humans. Romantic love is, of course, very, very important and can be life altering, but it also isn’t everything about a person ~ especially not if a person who has a career as exciting as Gg’s and Dd’s. Gg and Dd who also have friends, family, (many) talents and interests …

(And lots of ugly icons on their cell phones. Yes, I’m talking about you, Gg. That long-armed Pepe from your 2018 snowless Beijing post will give me nightmares…)

#pie metas #pie answers #yizhan #BJYX

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rpbetter · 3 years

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Hey, can I get some advice on improving my descriptions / becoming more literate? I feel like I'm really dull when it comes to my writing and would like some advice! Thank you!

You absolutely can, thank you for asking! I apologize it took me a bit to get to this, tumblr didn’t show me notifications and I’ve been rather busy. Hopefully, I can offer some good advice!

Please, keep in mind that, as always, it is just my advice. If these things do not work out for you, don’t feel bad about it! You just need to find what does work for you. And, if you have anything that jumps out at you that you wish me to elaborate more on, or even that simply occurs to you more specifically to ask as you read, please, do ask! I am always happy to have those questions, of course.

Being more literate in itself can help. It can also be a hindrance, however, as we tend to compare ourselves to others negatively. I’d say not to do that, but it’s something you have to unlearn, not something you can simply stop doing. We’re taught a lot of self-criticism by comparison in both the educational system and our society. You’ve got learn to approach material you enjoy as just that, something you enjoy, not a standard you need to uphold. All writers should be unique, they’re all individual people! I think the death of a good many unwritten works hinges on that, honestly; the writer couldn’t live up to their own expectations, born of comparison to their literary heroes.

That being said? Read.

Read new and diverse things, and revisit old favorites. Learn as many words as you can in whatever way works best for you; through reading alone, through word of the day apps, or looking up novel words you run across/looking up words as you write to compare them to synonyms. I know, tumblr has gotten really nasty in recent years about writers who seem to have “regurgitated a thesaurus.” There is always a bad way to do something good, there are always excesses when you’re passionate about something. Don’t replace every third word with an exotic one simply because you think it looks better. Do replace words that are, legitimately, better in how they evoke the setting or mood you are going for. Remember that word flow is important, perhaps especially when it comes to descriptions.

If you do not tend to read much material that is description heavy, I’d suggest doing so. Try to find works that are still descriptive, but fit with the genres you like to both read and write the best to get you started, but don’t stay there exclusively. It doesn’t need to be something like...let’s say, Tolkien. Not to piss anyone off, I’m not anti-Tolkien or anything, but I could never get into his works, regardless of interest or effort, because they’re so description heavy, and in ways that don’t pique or hold my interest much. So, if you find that you are not into description laden works, that isn’t a poor reflection on you! It’s more likely that you simply aren’t into those specific works, you need to find something that is more of interest to you, personally.

If you do tend to read many works that are descriptive at all, take up a few of your favorites and pick some passages within them that you enjoyed the most. Ones that you could feel. When they described an outfit, you not only saw it, you saw the way it moved on the character, knew what it would feel like to touch it. When they described a setting in nature, you had a sensory experience there as well; you could smell the hyper-specific scent of wildflowers on a warm breeze, or the electric chill of a sudden summer storm moving in.

Ask yourself what does this for you so that you can experiment with doing it yourself. Is it the words, the word flow? Is it what the author isn’t saying, leaving the reader to automatically fill in with their own sensory recollections? There are so many ways of being descriptive in writing, as many as there are writers, and as many as there are things to be descriptive about.

So, it’s, again, a bit of a situation of finding what naturally pulls you into those descriptions yourself. While there are always good rules that can apply across the board with writing, it is a creative art. If you’re only following the rules others have set down, you can end up feeling negative about the process, yourself, and the product...or your readers/RP partners feel like the work is lacking or boring. Even when people can’t quite put their finger on something, forced work feels forced, unnatural, or lacking substance.

Diversify what you consume.

I know, I just said that thing about the familiar stories! Once you’re better able to identify what it is that stands out as evocative to you, though, you can better feel that in unfamiliar works. You can get a better idea of how language itself works as a living thing. Read some things out of your usual genres, ask for recommendations from friends or family who read, check out some older works, and even follow some blogs that post a variety of poetry quotes or full poems.

Reading song lyrics and a variety of other spoken-word style things like slam poetry and rap is helpful as well. They’re all doing the same here, evoking imagery and emotion. That is what you are trying to do as well! These formats, additionally, use highly evocative words to describe in a shortened way. They are great for realizing unique ways that familiar words can be paired.

By going outside of your usual bounds, you may encounter words, writing styles, and other descriptive qualities you hadn’t considered before. If you don’t, you still end up with a fuller grasp on writing itself. Everything is a potential learning experience if you are willing to approach it that way! Use it to play around with words and styles, Use this as experimentation, and realize that it is perfectly alright for it not to work out. That’s part of the exercise of finding what works for you; realizing what doesn’t work.

When you have some ideas of what makes you experience the things being described, practice. Pick anything. In fact, incredibly mundane, irrelevant things are perfect for this. If you can describe a sock in good detail, in a way that isn’t either inaccurate or boring, giving it relevance and life, you can describe anything.

Use ask memes and writing prompts, and write them out from your character’s perspective.

Even if you are not writing a first person account, it helps you to use narrative language that the muse might use, or that gives the reader a intuitive feeling for the muse. Don’t try to fill the whole thing up with descriptions. Sometimes, just simplifying is a good thing, and will help more relevant details stand out.

For example, I will often use things in the environment around my muse to help pair with, further denote, and give the reader a feeling for the muse’s emotions, psychological state, and so on. If that muse is in a hectic state, I’m not going to describe something in the environment that isn’t, like a peaceful meadow. I’m going to describe the seeming chaos of some ants in the grass taking apart their food, the erratic seeds or spores on the wind, or the clatter of an old farm truck on the roadway that breaks up the peace of the surroundings.

It’s a very different effect than describing the entire meadow in high detail, in ways that are perceptible to my muse and not, down to a blade of grass or a rock. It then takes over too much of my reader’s imaginative process and agency without giving them anything of nonnegotiable importance about the scene or the muse. Details that reflect a state of internal distress, like the ants, seeds, or truck, then fall by the wayside of this massive scene-setting I’ve done. And, as unfortunate as it is, if you are writing RP especially, your audience is looking for details that are pertinent and impactful. They’re likely to, intentionally or otherwise, skip several paragraphs of descriptions no matter how beautiful they are.

Since you just said “descriptions” and “writing” {nothing wrong with that, I just want to be sure I’m covering as much as possible that might be of help to you}, I’m not sure if you are meaning external descriptions or more internalized, character-driven ones, and not sure if you are writing only RP, only traditional writing, or a combination thereof.

As I said above, using descriptions that reflect things about the muse is useful and interesting, regardless of how or what you are writing. So, even if you were not meaning internalized descriptions, doing the things I’m about to talk about relating to this will still be helpful!

Internalized descriptions include things like: mood, thoughts, memories, and sensory perception.

To do these things any justice, you have to really know your muse, be able to experience things from their unique perspective and not just your own - or just what you wish the reader to experience through them.

If you didn’t have inspiration for the muse, you wouldn’t be writing them, but inspiration isn’t the same as knowing them as well, maybe better, than yourself. To do that, it is a process of learning and experimentation...and practice.

Those memes I mentioned above? Those are useful here, too! It doesn’t matter if it isn’t an ask meme you want to reblog, or if no one sent you anything from it; you can find a variety of memes, save them, and ask yourself the questions.

On sentence memes, or “starter memes,” ask yourself what your muse’s internal reaction to having that sentence said to them would be, how it might externalize (or not), and if these things are true, or just your perception/what you would like to have happen. If you’ve developed this muse from scratch or spent time learning them from canon, you should have some pretty good ideas as to how they’ll feel. Expand on that instinctive or learned idea. Does it change if a different muse or character type says this? Say it is an inflammatory sentence, something accusatory, derogatory, or pushy. Do they react the same way if a loved one says it instead of a stranger? How about a person who is obviously intoxicated, or a person who is under the influence of youth, so to speak? Take that, and write out two different scenarios.

On ask, or “headcanon/development memes,” pick a question and answer it yourself. Just answer it in depth. Now, have your muse answer that question. You may notice that the muse didn’t want to answer as clearly, is lying or omitting things, and/or had other thoughts generated by that question. If you didn’t already do it this way, answer the question again as a story in which your muse goes through those thoughts. Describe their emotions using words that carry the same emotional resonance, not all descriptions need to be lengthy if the right words, right word order, are found for optimum impact on the reader. Write out the thoughts they are having, just as messy as they are naturally having them.

Outside of memes, you have yet more options for helpful exercises that get you in touch with your muse and your writing.

Try out photography and inspiration blogs. Pick a some pictures that drew your attention, and write about them descriptively. Write out how the picture makes you feel, what it makes you think about. Practice not just describing how something looks, but how it would feel to be there. Using the same pictures, write as your muse in the same way. Put them in this scene to give their experiences. It helps you get a grasp on putting impressions and experiences down in creative ways that allow others to experience it the same way, and it helps you more easily step into your muse’s mind and experiences.

Seeing things through your muse’s eyes (through the lens of their life experiences, preferences, biases, emotions, and thoughts) is critical in giving authentic descriptions. To do more of this, you can practice in every day life. Even if you cannot write it out, or write it out yet, you can consciously think as your muse. If your muse was watching this TV show or hearing this song, what would they think? Don’t just answer as, “they would/n’t like it.” Answer as to why they would or would not, what it makes them feel and think. You can continue doing this with your muse’s impressions of different environments and people.

You can even simply contemplate an emotion and how your muse feels and expresses it.

Adding on underlying and overarching emotions to the mix as you go along; emotion, and thought, is complex. We very rarely are only angry, sad, or happy. We are very rarely only thinking of a single thing, and even rarer, thinking of it out of nowhere. It’ll help you identify the way your muse experiences emotion and thought, as well as how best to describe these things.

For example, I write a muse that can easily present as simply being quiet and angry. Additionally, as the character develops, his actions and general behavior can seem to not match well with his overall, genuinely kind nature. It’s necessary for me as a writer to identify where the anger comes from, what its components are; it isn’t just anger. It’s built on the things anger so often is; frustration, sadness, and fear. It gives the reader insight and helps delineate the muse’s expression of “anger.” When the anger is coming more from a place of insulation and protection than it is frustration, it presents differently.

I describe the sensation of the most obvious emotion, the anger, but also the underlying states that have led to it being apparent. How it really feels to be a wounded animal in a corner. I describe an experience or two pertaining to the emotional pain and fear, keep it relevant throughout the text in callbacks (what set him off is related to those experiences in some way, and during or after the experience of anger, those other situations are referenced again). Maybe it is an outright flashback, maybe it is less thematically stated. The descriptions I use, again, of his surroundings-not just his expressions, tone of voice, or movements-denotes that he is in this particular state of mind. He might notice similarities in the environment relating to a previous bad experience, since he is in that mindset, or he might be noticing things in a more critical way than he normally would. Things he might see every day are being processed as hateful in some way; garish or otherwise visually displeasing, might be seen as outright harmful, or even menacing. Bold colors, sharp lines, stand out. Things come into high relief and are painted in large swaths of color, the minute details missing suddenly.

Further, you can think of things that make your own similar state of mind so much worse in these situations. Is there a repetitive sound in the background? Is the person he is speaking with seemingly blowing him off in some way? Is he hungry, tired, thirsty, in physical pain? I then write those things throughout as additional, building irritants.

Using your personal experiences isn’t a bad thing, I really wish tumblr hadn’t gotten into that mindset. Unless you really have written a 100% self-insert character, they shouldn’t experience things exactly as you do, no. However, you have a basis to go off of already when you are describing their inner life; your own.

Maybe you have never been so wracked with grief that you collapsed, but you have been caught up in a significant loss of some sort that you can build upon. If you can better imagine what your muse’s experience is, you can describe it not only better, but also in a way that reads as legitimate. It’s not a description of grief that you could have gotten from anywhere else, doesn’t have cliché lines in it about grief, such as, “though he was drowning in an ocean of loss, he knew he had to be strong for his friends, so, he put on a brave face.” (There are other issues with that, but that’s a whole other post!)

My point is, you have the tools of accurate inner life within you, and you should use them to build that accuracy in your writing. Again, play with the words and structure, make sure you are building the feelings or otherwise being immersive about them. Keep them throughout the thread, do not have a muse magically become the opposite of what you’ve described because it is no longer convenient, and do not forgo little reminders that the muse feels the way they do, no matter what their actions might be saying.

When you describe your muse’s actions that are being influenced by an emotion, good or bad, use words that evoke the emotion while describing those actions.

If the muse is very sad, do not use words that bring to mind vivacity and passion. Don’t use metaphors that bring to mind those same things. Your muse doesn’t slink like a jungle cat to the table when depressed, but they might move in a daze, like a shadow, or a have to put maximum effort into their every step as though heading to their own execution.

I don’t think anyone should describe, let alone to an extreme, every action their muse undertakes, but when you are imparting these things with emotional tone or thought processes, it really shouldn’t be done. It’s exhausting for you to write, and just as exhausting for your reader, who is very likely going, okay, we get it, she’s angry. Like the descriptions of the surroundings, try to keep it to important and telling actions. You needn’t describe your muse’s every eye movement, but if they are so embarrassed they’re having trouble keeping eye contact, or so annoyed they glare, that is a description you want to add.

Writers never seem to forget facial expressions or dramatic body movements, which is reasonable, considering how visual a species humans are, but quite often forgo tone of voice and word pronunciation entirely. These are great ways to denote what your muse is feeling. Consider how your muse speaks most often, whether they work at proper pronunciation and hiding an accent, or if they simply let their most natural speech flow. Then, consider how different emotions might impact that. I’m not talking about the only go-to many muns on tumblr have, the “my muse speaks -first language here- when angry” thing. I’m talking about your muse entering into any emotion strongly enough to drop crisp pronunciation, outright mess up familiar and easy words, stumble, stutter, or pause. Write emotion into your muse’s speech, and don’t keep it to adding things like, “said angrily.”

That’s telling, not showing, and is the death of descriptive writing of any sort.

Doing any of the above in a document is highly recommended. Not only are you less likely to encounter tumblr eating your drafts as you work on them, you have more freedom to open it up later and play around with the structure. Additionally, writing directly on the platform can be distracting in more ways than just the desire to dash scroll! It can make you feel like you need to be doing what you owe instead, need to be responding to messages, posted memes, comments. Taking it off site feels more like your own space and time for experimentation.

I know this was long, and covered many points (though, it could always use more). So, I’m going to kind of rehash some below!

For learning and inspiration:

read things both familiar and not in order to figure out what sort of descriptions speak to you, then practice doing them yourself

read a variety of works, not just books, and not just new books; oftentimes, the lessons in older books will stand out to you even more for using descriptions that are no longer common. Those lessons still hold, like the very act of using common, highly recognizable objects and settings to describe a person, place, or thing. In those cases, see what you can rewrite that would give the same feeling using things that are currently so recognizable

don’t count out things like music and poetry, they flow with emotion and it is imperative that they give emotion and setting in unique ways

use ask/starter memes, pictures, and even common situations occurring around you to experiment with both writing descriptions and getting into your muse’s mindset

think on your own experiences with your environment and emotions

consider how your muse’s perceptions may change based upon thoughts and emotions, and/or how you can describe the setting to reflect and drive home these factors

really get to know your muse by exploring headcanon memes, giving yourself a refresher on their canon (yes, even if you wrote it), and comparing and contrasting your experiences with your muse’s on the same topics

experiment with new words, their use, and their flow

seriously, practice! Outside of writing you intend for anyone else to ever see!

Things to Remember:

you are unique as a person, therefore, you are unique as a writer...and that is a good thing, you just need to find what works for you

describe things that are important in setting the scene in ways that are not just visual; be emotive, and pick things that have bearing on the immediate topic

don’t forget that your muse’s voice and spoken words use can, and should be, impacted by thoughts and feelings

just like you, your muse is unlikely to see the same objects in the same light under any manner of strong emotional influence

also just like you, who is saying something and in what context is extremely important in how your muse reacts internally and how that is presented externally; if your muse feels and reacts the same way no matter the other party, they’re a little cardboard and you’re not being descriptive or thoughtful enough

listen, if you just really need to describe something utterly irrelevant to live another second? That’s fine, but you need to make it relevant. Perhaps, your muse noticed the cracks on that rock because they’re in an altered state - be that by way of a substance, or an emotion

there is a reason why we use clichés, and I am not going to say they should never be used, just that you should try to be more creative with them, and they should always be viable ones that truly match the mood

the same is true of words, we have some words that are just so commonly expressive of sensations and emotions that they come up quite often, but again, try to find something similar if possible, and always make sure it’s still evoking the right thing

I repeat: get in touch with your muse, even if you do not write them from first person. The language you use as a writer to describe them and their world is better if it feels like them

no support for tumblr’s anti-wordiness, but huge support for optimizing word use for maximum impact

to that end, if you’re a RPer, even a fic writer, please know that your desire to write descriptively isn’t going to be appreciated by some people. That’s their fucking loss, and you are better off without them. You will find the audience that will properly appreciate what you’re doing!

I hope some of this helped to give you some starting points you might not have thought of!

#rp advice #writing advice #descriptive writing #Anon E. Mous #answered

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wickedmilo · 3 years

Photo

BASEBALL AND SPIDER MONKEYS | MILO & ORION PART 1

PLACE: Orion’s house TIMING: 11:12 PM SUMMARY: Orion hosts a vampire movie night to help Milo feel better about the changes in his life WRITING PARTNER: @3starsquinn CONTENT WARNINGS: Some brief NSFW humour

Milo wasn’t sure what he had been expecting. Rio wasn’t the type to lie, and had been pretty clear about living in a large property alone. Maybe he was developing trust issues, because standing in the kitchen now, staring out at the expanse of space, he felt guilty for ever doubting his friend. It was a large property, a nice one too. He was glad he had somewhere decent to stay. If anybody deserved that, it was Orion. The fact that he had put himself on the line, had created such a permanent rift between himself and Dani, for the sake of keeping him safe… it was something he still considered when he allowed his mind to wander. He wasn’t sure he was ever going to be able to repay him, though showing up for movie nights felt like a pretty good place to start. He had a sneaking suspicion Orion had organised this particular watch party in an attempt to make him feel more grounded, to make him feel more at ease with his new life… or death. But he was really hoping his company had something to offer Rio in return. It must get lonely sometimes, such a big house with nobody in it.

Turning his attention back to the popcorn as it began to pop in the microwave, he leaned heavily against the kitchen counter. The smell was already overwhelming, but he had been the one to insist. It wasn’t a movie night without popcorn, and something about the mundane routine was incredibly comforting. “So,” he said, turning briefly to Rio who was sitting beside him on the kitchen counter. “What did you say was on the list?” Still watching the timer as it continued to count down the seconds, he used his fingers to tick off the list of franchises he had been given by his friend. “Twilight, of course. But you said The Vampire Diaries, right? Specifically episode one? Did you make this list? Or did you steal it from a teenage girl’s tumblr account? Be honest with me.”

Sitting on the counter, Orion listened to the microwave’s buzzing as the kernels slowly started to pop. For once, the sound of the microwave and the distant sound of the pool filter wasn’t the only thing to keep Rio busy. He wasn’t sure anybody had been in the house to hang out with him since Skylar had left. It was such a relief to have somebody occupying space in the kitchen with him again. Even if this was only temporary, it was worth it. For just today at least, he wouldn’t feel so alone in this house. “Stop looking like that.” Rio warned, catching his eyes as they floated around the place, “I know what you’re thinking. I’m not a real housewife or whatever those rich people shows are. All of this was purely by chance. And it’s not mine. I’m just staying here for now.” Rio smiled, but he truly didn’t want Milo thinking the wrong thing. He didn’t know why he hated the idea of people thinking this was actually his house, but something about it felt wrong. Like he was living a facade. It was partially true, but not because of this house.

“Not necessarily in that order.” Orion checked his phone for the list he had compiled. Most of the media he had never consumed himself. His parents had never been fond of their children watching such inaccurate depictions of supernatural creatures. They didn’t want Athena and Rio to get the wrong idea of what they were weak to, but more than anything else they didn’t want them romanticizing the idea of what they considered monsters. Clearly, something had gone wrong along the way with Rio. “I did my research from multiple sources.” Rio countered, not necessarily disclosing where those sources came from. “I never got to watch this stuff growing up, so I’m going in just as blind as you. But I have seen some scenes from Twilight. Personally, I think it could have been worse.”

Milo laughed, unable to help himself. “I’m not looking like anything.” He insisted, holding up his hands in surrender. “I am, however, wondering who your sugar daddy is and how I can get in on the action.” His eyes were shining with mischief as he teased Orion. He knew his friend wouldn’t mind, and sometimes he just made it so easy. “Oh, because the order is important?” He asked, sarcasm dripping from his tone. “Trash is trash, Rio. Sometimes you just gotta sit back and enjoy it.” Pulling open the door to the microwave as the alarm began to sound, he shook the bag of popcorn before emptying it into the bowl he had ready. His fingertips burned with the heat. It was strange no longer needing to worry about that. “Multiple sources being tumblr?” He raised his eyebrows, chewing absentmindedly on a piece of popcorn. The taste was pretty close to how he remembered it, only dull, and one note. Wrinkling his nose, he took another piece for the sake of it.

“Wait, you never got to watch vampire movies?” He had wrongly assumed Rio’s childhood largely consisted of vampire movies, and scary supernatural YA. It made sense considering what he was, what his parents were hoping he would grow up to become. Realising that may not be true was a reminder of just how much he didn’t know, just how much they still had to talk about when Orion was ready. If Orion was ready. “Wouldn’t that be like… homework for you?” He was genuinely curious to know. He hadn’t been allowed to watch much TV because his own parents had made it very clear they wanted him to study in his free time. But surely watching shows about the supernatural, learning about the supernatural, was studying for a hunter. “I guess we’re in it together then. Maybe we should start with Twilight after that glowing review.”

“I know you’re joking and that you don’t actually think I have a sugar… dad.” Orion scrunched his nose at the thought of saying the word. He didn’t have the emotional capacity to have a relationship like that. “It was a very specific and weird order of events that led to me being here. Including but not limited to my parents sucking, invading a girl’s privacy, getting attacked by a man eating watermelon and eventually the only person I’ve ever dated and I breaking up.” He was shortening events obviously, but this provided a very small glimpse of the life that Rio never disclosed to Milo at the comic book shop. They had never talked much about personal lives there, avoiding it altogether to chat about comic books instead. “My sources prefer to remain undisclosed.” He crossed his arms and pouted, abandoning Milo in the kitchen with the popcorn to head to the living room.

“It’s not really considered homework when it’s not accurate.” Rio spoke normally, but figured Milo would be able to hear him from where he was in the kitchen. Rio started setting up the tv to get their first pick of the night ready. “Not to say all of them are inaccurate, they all get a little bit right. But they thought it would do more harm than good.” Rio still found time to watch a few when he could. Whether it was through the movie theater or at the Scribrary when he not so formally moved in there. “Besides, vampires were never my families focus anyways.” He nodded in agreement with Milo on the movie pick and found the movie, starting it up before pausing, “Ready when you are.”

“But am I joking though?” Milo teased, laughing at the term Orion chose to use. “You can say daddy, you know. It isn’t going to kill you.” He laughed again, surprising himself with how easily the sound escaped him. Hugging the bowl of popcorn to his chest, he couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so at ease, couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so warm. “Was the specific order of events signing up to a sugar daddy website? Going on a date? And then securing a sugar daddy?” Falling silent when Rio began to elaborate, he was reminded not for the first time of just how strange his life had been. Nobody who hadn’t grown up with the supernatural could ever drop a carnivorous watermelon into the conversation as though it was on the same level as a break up. “Huh, no kidding about the complicated…” He muttered, deciding not to ask any further questions. He didn’t want to bring the mood down, but he also didn’t want to make his friend uncomfortable. There was a time and a place for serious conversation, and the start of a trashy movie marathon didn’t feel like either.

Chewing on another piece of popcorn, he didn’t immediately follow Rio to the living room. Instead, he took the time to enjoy the moment, observing the mundane aspects of the kitchen, and appreciating them in a way he never had before. His life had been turned upside down, for a month before meeting Harsh he had spent his time between the abandoned buildings, the streets of town, and the woods. No kitchens, no bathrooms, no comfortable living space. It felt good to be back, to be grounded again. Listening to Orion as he explained why his parents had kept him away from certain shows and films, he could almost understand the logic. Not knowing whether Hunters had hearing on par with his own, he finally wandered into the living room to reply. “I guess that makes sense… though I can think of a few films that would probably help if they were trying to make you see these people as monsters. I mean basically every horror movie ever, let’s be real.” Raising his eyebrows at the mention of vampires not being the family's focus, he set the popcorn down on the coffee table. “Oh, yeah?” He asked, dropping onto the couch, making himself comfortable without any kind hesitation. Couch surfing in the years before his death had left him more than capable of relaxing in other people’s houses. “Do I want to know what your family’s focus was?” Nodding towards the screen, he let Rio know he was ready without potentially interrupting an answer to his question. There was still so much he needed to learn.

“I really feel like it could kill me. For my own sanity I’ll just avoid saying it altogether.” Milo was saying the word daddy way too many times for Orion’s sanity. Was this what Rio had set himself up for when he stayed in Skylar’s house? Sugar daddy accusations? The idea might be a bit less shocking if normal, no strings attached sex didn’t terrify Rio to his core. He couldn’t even sleep with his ex, who he adored. He couldn’t say he was surprised when Milo didn’t ask for any elaboration. Life here was complicated. They wouldn’t actually get to watch anything if they waited around for Rio to tell his life story.

“They had plenty of stories all on their own.” Rio remembered his parents' stories vividly. They spared no detail of the gore they had witnessed. They liked to talk about the death and destruction werewolves or fae would leave behind. Though they never spent as much time talking about what they would do to it in turn. Ironically, the ending always included some kind of heroic intervention. Their parents or their grandparents swooping in at the perfect time and serving justice. His sister used to fall for those stories every single time. Rio used to be afraid of those stories. It wasn’t until he got older that he realized exactly what he should have been afraid of. Rio pressed play on the movie and let it get started, but continued talking with Milo. “Depends on how much about the supernatural you want to know. Both of my parents came from different families of hunters. So Athena and I got to focus on two things growing up. Werewolves and Fae. But my… abilities were always focused towards werewolves.”

Milo made a big deal about pouting in disappointment. “Is that because you’re only allowed to say it in Daddy’s company?” He asked, before raising his arms in surrender. “Okay, okay- I’ll stop now, I swear- I couldn’t resist.” His smile fading as the conversation became serious once again, he leaned back against the cushions behind him, listening intently to what Orion had to say. His own parents had been strict, and rigid. Growing up, their expectations of him had been unreasonably high, and in his opinion, put him under an unnecessary amount of stress. But they had been loving, and caring, and they had never resorted to scare tactics. He couldn’t imagine the trauma Rio might be carrying from being intentionally scared by the people who were supposed to protect him. Had they really told him stories equal to the horror movies he used to binge watch? Surely it had to be worse if they were based on the truth? On experiences they had been through?

Laughing quietly, he reached forward again to pick up the popcorn bowl, somehow feeling more comfortable when he was holding it. The smell reminded him of watching movies with his parents, as did the action of occasionally eating some, even if the taste wasn’t quite there anymore. “I mean, it isn’t as though I can just ignore it…” He pointed out. He could bury his head in the sand, but there were too many things out there he had a feeling he should know about. Supernatural life had to be easier when you understood the full extent of the world you were living in. He wanted that to be true, at least. “Huh… so werewolves really do exist.” He muttered, more to himself than to Rio. It was something he had suspected for a while, but his friend was now the first person to confirm the fact. “Fae?” He echoed, realising he wasn’t familiar with the term. Pausing for a moment, recognising the way Orion hesitated, he chewed thoughtfully on a piece of popcorn, offering the bowl to him as though it might remind him he was in a safe environment. “So, forgetting the- you know, the bad stuff, what can you do?” He asked curiously. “You’re different, right? You told Dani you barely counted as human so… are we talking Spider-Man backflips? Or is it something else? Was one of your ancestors bitten by a radioactive werewolf?” He wanted to give Orion the chance to talk in a playful way, in a way that almost trivialised the darker aspects of his life. Rio had begun to make vampire jokes, and the relaxed environment they created helped to lift some of the weight from his shoulders. Maybe, just maybe, he could return the sentiment.

Orion was mostly happy to ignore the beginning scenes of the movie in favor of talking with Milo. Even if the topic was his least favorite to discuss. For some reason, things with Milo just seemed easier. He could casually talk about topics he would usually avoid unless absolutely necessary. “Sorry to ruin your fun. I’m sure you wanted to find out about werewolves naturally.” Rio laughed, gesturing for the bowl of popcorn and then opening his mouth to see if Milo would try to throw it to him. “Fae are a lot more complicated. That’s a supernatural lesson for another night. But they have their own sect of hunters.” He didn’t need to overwhelm Milo with all of that knowledge. There were too many fae to describe in a single setting anyways. Not that Rio knew all of them as it was.

Rio couldn’t but laugh at the radioactive werewolf comment. The comic humor didn’t escape him, but it was the irony of the theory that made it even better “Oh god I wish. If hunters found out they were actually descended from werewolves I think their heads would spin.” Rio might actually go back to the Silver Bullet if he got to see that. “Yeah. I guess. I have this sort of… sixth sense I guess. If a werewolf is around I can feel it.” The gift that kept on giving. He had never figured out if there was an off switch to it. He mostly just dealt with it until he went numb to the tingling sensation. “I have faster reflexes. I’m kinda strong. I heal a bit faster than normal humans. Oh and I can see in the dark.” Rio tried shrugging them off. He never liked his abilities. No matter how great they might be objectively. “I could probably do a spider-man backflip if I trained. Any more questions?”

“Oh, no. I’ve already found out way too much without anyone to guide me through it. I’m done with finding things out on my own.” Milo assured his friend. In reality, it had been an incredibly difficult, and jarring process, but sitting here with Orion now made it more than easy to shrug off. Raising his eyebrows when he realised what he was being asked to do with the popcorn, he laughed, shifting on the sofa to give himself a better angle before aiming carefully. He so nearly missed, but with a sharp tilt of his head Rio caught the popcorn on his tongue, and he felt a ridiculous sense of accomplishment that definitely wasn’t warranted. Nodding in acceptance of Fae being too broad of a subject to cover without ruining the evening, he shelved his curiosity, ready for another night, another conversation. Offering Orion a grin when he laughed, he was genuinely proud of himself for being able to draw it out of him. He knew him well enough to understand this subject wasn’t one he was overly comfortable with. And he was not only talking about it now, but willing to joke about it. He enjoyed that.

“The ultimate plot twist, right?” He agreed, listening to the description of a sixth sense, wondering if it felt anything like being able to sense the blood pumping through a person’s veins. There were some moments it was all he could think about, hearing their heartbeat, feeling the heat of their skin, the pulse in their neck… he swallowed, pushing away the thought before he could make himself thirsty. That wasn’t going to be productive. And it certainly wouldn’t do anything to help his case in proving to Orion he was the same person he had always been. “So kind of like Spider-Man?” He confirmed. “I was almost right.” At the mention of any more questions, he sat up straight, attempting to look as serious as he could. “Only two. Potentially the two most important questions you are ever going to be asked. Number one; are you Team Edward, or Team Jacob?” He waited for his words to register before continuing, gesturing to the screen where the Cullen’s were entering the school cafeteria. They were walking in slow motion, their skin white, and pale against the film’s dramatic colour grading, and their faces were striking, intense, so obviously intended to be sexy. “Number two;” he added, maintaining his mock sincerity. “Do I look like that now? There’s only one right answer to this question, okay? Don’t hurt my feelings.”

Orion hadn’t exactly spoken about his history with the Scribrary. Or rather, two separate scribe buildings that he had access to now. The drama with Dani and the discovery of the hunter heritage all felt so fresh that RIo didn’t feel the need to pile on top of that with the Scribe history. But Milo might have lucked out in friendship when it came to finding someone with supernatural knowledge. Milo accommodated Rio’s request and tossed a piece of popcorn that Rio just barely managed to catch. The surprise took over, and he shot his arms up in the air in a triumphant cheer, maybe an overreaction but not one he was going to regret.

“I’m not that lucky. My family was convinced that the powers come directly from God. So take that as you will.” Rio was glad Milo was getting such a kick out of this. It was surprisingly easy to talk about it when the conversation wasn’t so… depressing. “Basically. I’m not nearly as cool or pretty as Peter Parker though.” He had gone through a long Peter Parker phase when he was younger, for obvious reasons. Rio was ready for his follow up questions until Milo actually asked them. He rolled his eyes and groaned in response, but felt his posture relax slightly at the change of subject. “I’ve seen enough memes to know the only right answer is Bella’s dad. I mean like… look at him.” Rio pointed at the screen, even though he wasn’t actually on it at the time. His point stood. “What’s so bad about looking like that, huh? I think you’ve always sparkled to me.” Rio laughed to himself and shot an innocent smile in Milo’s direction, “You look much more alive than they do.”

There was something so endearing about the way Rio celebrated his win, that for a few seconds following Milo found himself entirely speechless, overwhelmed by the affection he felt for his friend. “Maybe you are God.” He teased, barely putting any consideration into the joke, knowing Orion would appreciate it regardless. “Maybe you’re going to get older and suddenly inherit your omnipotence. If you don’t know what to do with your powers, please come to me. I have some pretty great ideas, you know. Tequila in every water fountain would be a good place to start...” Laughing at the mention of Peter Parker, he wasn’t sure he had met anyone who hadn’t crushed on the character at some point in their life. Sexual orientation didn’t come into play in relation to Spider-Man. “Hey, don’t put yourself down like that. You’re every bit as great as Peter Parker. I’d choose you over him any fucking day.”

Feeling a spark of satisfaction at the reaction to his questions, his eyes were shining with mischief. He was unapologetically proud of garnering such a response. “Okay, but is Bella’s dad hotter than Jacob, is that what you’re trying to tell me here?” If he had a heartbeat, he knew he would be blushing at the comment on sparkling. It was such a stupid thing to get flustered over, but he was rarely ever the recipient of compliments. He didn’t know how to accept them. “You know…” He shifted on the couch, readjusting the popcorn bowl. “That’s probably a good thing because if you try pushing me into the sunlight it isn’t going to end well. Let me sparkle in the dark, please and thank you.” Glancing back up at the screen, he wondered if the vampires in Twilight had reflections. Surely they must, how else would they look so flawlessly put together? “I do?” He asked curiously, pressing his fingertips to one of his cheeks as though he would be able to feel what Orion was talking about, the difference in complexion, the difference in demeanour. “I guess I don’t really know what I look like anymore… it’s weird only seeing myself on my phone screen, it isn’t like I can use any natural lighting either. The whole thing is just… really fucking weird.”

“You’re getting way too deep for me.” Orion laughed, lowering his victory arms and pull his legs up until a fetal position instead. “I’d have to get old in the first place. Hunters don’t exactly have the same life expectancy as an average human.” Sure, that was mostly due to the dangerous nature of their lives. But Rio had already decided long ago that just turning away from his hunter heritage and trying to live a normal life wasn’t enough. He had to actively try to protect the supernatural. In a way, he might be cutting his life even shorter. He was siding with people that may want to kill by going against those that would protect him. He wasn’t going to be getting much love from either side, in some cases. “I’ll make sure to keep your suggestions in mind though. In case I ever meet them.” Not that he really believed in any of that. “Now I know you’re just being nice. Everybody would choose Peter Parker.”

With a shrug, Rio tried to defend his statement, “I’ve been spoiled on some parts of this series. There’s a lot to be left desired about Jacob. Mr. Swan seems like a nice guy. I mean he’s older than what I would be comfortable dating, but honestly I’m just not comfortable dating.” Honesty was a virtue, or so they say. Rio spent so much of his life lying that when he finally met those he could tell the truth to it seemed to all erupt at once like a volcano. “Yeah. Suddenly the night hang outs make a lot more sense.” Rio considered what Milo talked about. It was so strange, the idea that he could no longer see himself. Something that was so trivial to most people that they don’t think twice about it as they pass by a mirror and check their hair. “Sure. I mean, I’m not like… I don’t know studying your features or anything but…” Not off to a great start, “You just look like… you. The movie seems to over exaggerate the pale features and stuff like that. I don’t think you look much different. Which is nice.” Jesus, his face felt like it was on fire. He thought he had moved past this by now?

“Hm, I don’t think anybody has ever called me ‘deep’ before.” Milo admitted, doing nothing to hide how amused he was. “I kind of like it.” His smile fading rapidly at Orion’s second comment, he suddenly found himself eyeing his friend with an open, and unguarded concern. It was a strange thing to say so casually, especially when it was clearly not intended as a joke. He hadn’t considered the life expectancy of Hunters until this moment, and he wasn’t sure it was something he really wanted to dwell on. Orion was safe, because Orion wasn’t a Hunter, right? How could you be a Hunter when you weren’t actively hunting? He wasn’t stupid enough to believe it was that simple, but for now, he was happy to convince himself otherwise. “Please do.” He said, easily falling back into their banter. “I think Tequila on tap would make the world a much greater place to be.” Offering Rio a warm smile, he needed him to see how serious he was. “Rio,” he said, his voice slow, and sincere. “I promise I would choose you. I mean, fuck Peter Parker. Come on...” Peter had a lot to offer, sure. But in his own mind Orion also had powers, Orion was just as interesting, if not more interesting because unlike Peter, he had actively saved his life. Or… unlife? He still wasn’t sure how that terminology worked.

His smile only growing when his friend proceeded to announce just how much he really knew about the Twilight series, he couldn’t bring himself to tease him for it. Not after the reminder of how grateful he was to be in his company. “Hey, you know what? Neither am I.” He admitted, quite possibly for the first time out loud. You only had to look at his history, at the ridiculous patterns of repeated behaviour for his commitment issues to become apparent. Even he knew he had them, he wasn’t about to deny it. His childhood had been too structured, too rigid. It had left him with a determination to be free. He still wasn’t entirely sure what his definition of ‘free’ was, especially now. But he did know it didn’t include dating. “Honestly, people are probably better off without having to deal with my bullshit anyway.” He absentmindedly took a handful of popcorn from the bowl, eating the pieces one by one before speaking again. “I was always more active at night anyway.” He shrugged off his new limitations. Life didn’t feel all too different in that aspect. The days had always been reserved for sleeping off hangovers and comedowns, the only thing he really missed was working. And Tower Comics usually had late shifts on offer, so hopefully he wouldn’t have to miss it for very long.

Pausing for a moment, hand halfway back to the popcorn, he realised Orion was observing him, carefully taking him in. It made him feel strangely exposed, but not uncomfortable like he might have assumed. There was something about his friend that made him feel so at ease, he couldn’t explain it even if he wanted to. He could only hope the sentiment was shared between them. The relief he felt when he was assured he still looked like himself was unexpected, until the words escaped Rio he had been entirely convinced it didn’t matter, he didn’t care. There was something so grounding about realising his appearance hadn’t changed. It was only further validation of the fact that he was still Milo, regardless of what Dani believed. Regardless of what Hunters and Slayers were taught about his kind. A half smile tugging at his lips, he didn’t hide how vulnerable he felt, because he didn’t want to hide how vulnerable he felt. He wanted to be honest, Rio deserved that much from him. “Thank you.” He murmured, his voice barely louder than a whisper. It didn’t take very long for him to push his vulnerability to the side though, because it became all too easy to make a joke as the blood rushed to Rio’s face. He believed Rio when he said he was over his crush, but he was always going to enjoy watching him blush. “You know, blushing in front of a vampire kind of makes you look like a snack.” He grinned, hoping his play on words would be obvious, and Rio would realise he was paying him a compliment.

“Do you want me to repeat it again so you can hear it more?” Orion laughed, resting his chin on his knees and shifting his tone to an only partially faked form of admiration, “Wow, Milo. You’re just soooo deep. I’ve never met anyone as intellectual as you.” Rio grinned after finishing, leaning back against the arm of the chair, “Hope that helped.” Despite the joking nature of the conversation, Milo seemed all too sincere when doubling down that Rio was better than Peter Parker. As absurd as that sounded, Rio couldn’t help but be a bit flattered. More than that though, he felt embarrassed by the compliment. One that he didn’t exactly know how to reply to. He was always terrible at accepting compliments. Instead, he switched guys. “Right. Well you should be careful who you promise stuff to. It’s a whole fae thing, I’ll explain later. But just be mindful of words like that to people.” Rio had learned the hard way just how dangerous a promise could be in the wrong hands. “But uh… thanks.”

Rio didn’t know how to respond to Milo. Rio wasn’t good at relationships, though maybe for different reasons than Milo. He didn’t know how to tell Milo that he didn’t seem like a hassle at all without it sounding like Rio was trying to date him. He shrugged the question off instead, choosing instead to show minor interest in the movie again until Milo mentioned being more active at night. “Yeah, I guess I sort of am too. I get the most done at night.” Less distractions to worry about, he figured.

Having his red face pointed out to him probably made Rio blush even harder. At the very least, it made his cheeks light on fire. “A joke about eating me? That’s just in poor taste.” Rio couldn’t even pretend to be serious, not with his giggling and the smile that wouldn’t leave his face. If compliments made him so awkward, how come he also couldn’t stop grinning? “Most people think I’m one missed meal away from snapping in half. This town thinks I’m like a saltine cracker or something. Just waiting to be stepped on and crumble.” Was that how Rio avoided dealing with the possibility that the vampire had just called him cute? Definitely.

“Obviously.” Milo countered quickly, tilting his chin in an attempt to look proud, and smug, as Orion elaborated on his intelligence. “Thank you, thank you.” He teased. “I don’t try at all, you know? It just comes to me naturally.” Quickly dissolving into laughter, he caught his friends eye, joining him in sinking back down into the cushions. “Oh, it did.” He assured Rio. “I appreciate the confidence boost.” A frown creasing his brow as he listened curiously to the warning, he hadn’t forgotten their unwritten agreement to put off the difficult conversations, to keep things light-hearted, and fun, and deal with the real world at another time. But he had a burning desire to know more, to understand. He felt as though he had been living in the dark, metaphorically, of course, for far too long now. Orion had become his light. “Okay, how about swearing? If I swear to choose you over Peter Parker, is that going to put me in danger?” He asked, genuinely wanting to know. “Hm, you don’t need to thank me, you dork. Thank Parker for being lamer than you are.” He nudged him with his shoulder, encouraging him to smile. “Who knew that was possible, huh?”

Dropping his head back against the cushions behind him, he turned his attention to the film as Orion insisted he was also a night owl. He kind of figured, given how they had reconnected, but it was a nice detail, one he was very happy to know. With every day that passed he could feel them trusting each other more, getting closer, and more comfortable with being who they were. What they were. He used to have that with Dani… not so much now. And he was so, so grateful he wasn’t alone. Laughing again, even harder this time, he couldn’t help himself. The situation was so ridiculous, so beyond funny that he had to laugh. If he didn’t laugh he would cry, or go insane, whichever came first. “Oh really?” He demanded, his eyes shining as he looked back at his friend. “You started it with the whole pointing out my lungs don’t work for shit, so… do you know how rude it is to tell someone they’re dead? How do you think Edward would feel?” Humming quietly, making his amusement abundantly clear, he chewed on another piece of popcorn. “Yeah, well, the joke’s on them because Saltine Crackers taste fucking great. Hey look,” he feigned surprise, wondering if he could elicit another blush. “Another joke about eating you.”

Orion had to appreciate Milo’s commitment to this Peter Parker debate. He wasn’t Rio’s favorite character by any means, but he was one of the most popular characters in probably all of comics. Being compared to and even rated above him was a surprisingly good feeling. “Swearing is tricky too. Though I guess not for a statement like that.” Unless there were any real Peter Parker’s in the world whose life came in danger soon. “It’s best to avoid any potentially binding statements like that. Just to be safe.” Rio needed to take his own advice. It was pathetic how easily he fell into Lydia’s grasp when he had grown up with two wardens constantly warning him of the dangers of fae. “Well I’m going to make sure my headstone reads that I was less lame than Peter Parker. Probably my biggest accomplishment in life.”

It was so nice not sitting on the couch by himself like he normally did every night. Even if they were watching a movie that Rio didn’t particularly care for. Things could be a lot worse. Right now with Milo things seemed pretty okay. Good even. “That’s old news now, you can’t use that against me!” It didn’t matter that it was barely a week old, Rio just wanted the spotlight off of him again. “I’d like to think that he would have a sense of humor about it.” He paused, glancing at the screen and trying to think of more than once in the entire movie so far that he had actually smiled, “Actually, never mind. Point taken.” Oh god. Did Milo just making another joke about eating Rio? Far past the vampire reference, this made Rio heat up even further. He dug his forehead into his raised knees and curled up into a ball so Milo couldn’t get the satisfaction of seeing his face. “No fair. You’re doing this on purpose!” Rio yelled, the sound slightly muffled from pressing against his jeans.

“Hm, okay.” Milo agreed, nodding as he took in what Orion was telling him. Until the real conversations, until they could sit down and talk about everything he didn’t know, he was going to hold onto the snippets of information he was given. He was smart enough to understand if Rio was telling him now, on their supposed night off from the world of the supernatural, then it was important. “No binding statements, got it. I stand by what I said though.” He added, grinning at his friend. “Only slightly less lame, but, you know... it’s enough.” He didn’t want to imagine any gravestone for Rio, the idea of mortality versus immortality was something he had strictly refused to let himself think about, but he had to admit the thought of the tagline was amusing. “You’re not going to top that, so you may as well give up now.” He teased, catching Rio’s eye and feeling an undeniable rush of affection. He needed this, a reminder that all hope wasn’t lost. There were things, and people, worth living for.

Laughing at the response to the previous joke being dragged back to the present, he shook his head, allowing himself to focus on the now. He got lost in his own head far too often, and he didn’t want to miss a second of this night with Orion. “Nope, that so isn’t how it works.” He insisted. “I think you’ll find I can, and I will.” Laughing again as they both turned to watch Edward on screen, the vampire’s mouth a thin, straight line, his body filled with obvious tension, he couldn’t remember laughing this hard since his death. He couldn’t remember feeling so normal. Who knew Twilight was going to be his saviour? Only tearing his gaze away from the screen to watch Rio hide his face, he playfully reached out to tug at his arms. “Doing what on purpose?” He asked, his innocence very obviously disingenuous. “Doing what? I don’t understand, Rio. My mind is pure, and innocent, and virtuous. I’m only trying to compliment you.”

“I’ll take what I can get. Slightly less lame is just fine.” Orion laughed, revelling in this moment. Where all that seemed to matter was Milo, Peter Parker and the sounds of twilight distant in the background. It was a good moment. “Clearly I’ve peaked in life. No reason to go on from here.” It had been so, so long since he had been able to laugh like that. It almost made him sad, thinking about how lonely he had felt lately. But he pushed aside that butterfly in his stomach. Good vibes only tonight.

Rio wasn’t going to budge as Milo pulled at his arms, refusing to give him a win on this. A small bit of light shone through as his leg shifted and he peaked up to meet Milo’s eye, “I don’t believe you.” Rio pouted, readjusting to shut his leg again. “I don’t think you’re pure, innocent or virtuous.” Eventually, Rio had to end the facade and lifted his head back up. He feigned annoyance, narrowing his eyes at his guest and crossing his arms. “You know if you had ‘complimented me’ like that like a year ago I probably would have melted to the floor right?” He used his fingers to make air quotes. They both knew that was true. Until Rio met Winston and started dating them, Milo was one of the small list of pretty guys that Rio could barely form words around. Another being Ricky and Adam. Thankfully, that had passed. Or Rio sure hoped that it had. The redness in his face seemed to be arguing against that. “Don’t you have a movie to watch? Notes to take? Like about baseball and spider monkeys?”

“Good.” Milo teased. “I would hate for you to be disappointed.” Laughing at Orion’s comment, he gestured to where they were sitting. “I mean, you’re sitting on a couch watching Twilight with a vampire. You’ve definitely peaked.” Picking up a piece of popcorn and throwing it lazily at his friend, he rolled his eyes, splitting his attention between their conversation and the movie. “That doesn’t mean you get to tap out though, asshole, so you can quit with no reason to go on. When I say give up I mean spend your life getting high, and eating pizza. Because we both know those are two excellent motivators for staying alive.” His laughter only coming more easily to him as Rio refused to budge, he eventually let go of his arms, allowing him re-emerge from the darkness in his own time.

“Excuse me, I am all three of those things.” He countered, pretending to be offended by the apparent lack of faith. “But I guess I can forgive you, I’m a complicated person, so difficult to understand.” He was being overly dramatic for the sake of it, but wasn’t that what was so great about this night? They could be young, and dumb, and make stupid jokes. They could shut away the outside world and pretend the only thing that mattered were their ridiculous attempts at humour, and the emotionless, super hot vampires on the television screen. “Yeah, I know, I’m sad I didn’t realise at the time.” He grinned mischievously. “Although maybe that would have driven you away and then where would you have bought your comics from?” Shoving Rio gently when he told him he should be taking notes, the popcorn bowl spilled over, but he paid no attention to the scattered pieces. He would clean them up when necessary, but the whole point of right now was being free, living in the moment. “Yeah? Maybe we should try out for the same team. You’re every bit as weird as I am, you know? With your X-Men Hunter mutation bullshit. We’re in this together now.” He did nothing to hide how much the closing statement meant to him, allowing the warmth of his words to remind him he was cared for, and protected. They both were.

“That’s what you call peaking, huh?” Orion laughed sarcastically, “I’d love to say I have higher standards. Clearly that’s not true.” And it wasn’t. His two best friends now were a werewolf and a vampire. It was like something out of a dream. Or maybe one of his parent’s nightmares. The majority of his friend group was supernaturally inclined in some way. Whether that be spellcasters or one of the supernatural beings his parents tried and failed to raise him to despise. Rio plucked the piece of popcorn from the couch that Milo so rudely launched at him and popped it in his mouth. “I don’t smoke though, so that’s already one reason eliminated. I do love pizza though.” Rio glanced up at the ceiling to consider that prospect. Pizza did sound pretty appealing. Actually, pizza sounded good right now. “Hmm, maybe we should order a pizza.”

“Not right now, you aren’t.” Rio refused to give him anything while he teased him for the crush Rio had before the two were legitimate friends. It felt like a lifetime ago admittedly, though in reality it had probably been less than a year. Rio had a habit of developing feelings like that for just about every pretty guy that spoke nice words to him. At least until Rio moved in with Ricky and Winston and Rio practically fell in love with Winston instead. Rio hadn’t felt anything quite like that since Winston left town. “Don’t be. I wouldn’t have known how to date back then even if I had the opportunity.” He barely figured out how to date Winston, and that had been an entire saga on its own, “And don’t smile at me like that!” Though he detested the idea of being compared to a hunter, he understood Milo’s sentiment and at least appreciated that he veiled it with comic book references, “I’m only going to take that as a compliment because you compared me to the X-Men. But absolutely not. No sports for me.”

“I’m offended by the implication of you settling for my company.” Milo teased. “But I’ll choose to let that slide because I’m comfortable and I don’t want to waste my energy on a dramatic exit.” Laughing quietly when Rio ate the popcorn he had dropped, he carefully contemplated the suggestion of pizza. It was another food he hadn’t tried since becoming a vampire. If his experiences with eating and drinking were anything to go on, it would be nowhere near as enjoyable as it used to be. But wasn’t that what you were supposed to do? You ate popcorn until you were genuinely hungry, and then you decided to order takeout. The familiarity of the routine was too strong for him to say no. “Want to order after Twilight?” He asked, glancing back towards the screen. They had to be reaching the middle of the film, they might even be two thirds of the way through. “Heads up, though. If you put garlic on it, then you’re going to end up on the menu.”

His smile only growing as Orion continued to insist he wasn’t pure, innocent, or virtuous, he finally abandoned his claims. “Maybe not.” He admitted, content to give in now that he had pushed back just a little. He had to at least remain indignant if he was going to accept defeat. Forgetting the makeshift disagreement, he settled further down into the cushions, pulling his legs up beneath him, listening to his friend explain he wouldn’t have known how to date. It was hardly surprising, given what he had come to know about Orion’s quiet, and gentle nature. But if he was being honest, he hadn’t either. Hell, he still didn’t know how to date. They had met just under a year ago, but it was clear a lot had changed for both of them over such a short period of time. “Screw you, I’m allowed to smile at you!” He countered, his tone petulant, but filled with affection. “And yeah, I knew the X-Men talk would do it, you’re very predictable, you know?”

“Well I’m offended by your attacks on me tonight. And for using my old crush against me to tease me. Both are very rude.” Orion hummed matter-of-factly, “So we can both be offended together. But only one of us gets the dramatic exit at the end.” He didn’t get many relationships like this. Teasing and comfort didn’t come naturally to him. It was hard to find his groove in a conversation when he had to spend so much of it planning ahead and second guessing every single word both before and after it came out of his mouth. Normally, he spent just as much time stumbling through a sentence as he did actually speaking. It usually took a lot of time and a lot of effort and patience on the other parties side to crack through some of that anxiety. Even then, he had only really achieved that sense of ease with a few people. Ariana, Blanche, Winston and Skylar were the first that came to mind. Now Milo too. It was comforting knowing that there were at least some people in town he could be his unfiltered self around. “You don’t have to ask me twice.” Rio shook his head passionately, the idea of pizza far too good to pass up. “Oh ha ha. Very funny. No garlic crust for us apparently.”

A yawn escaped Rio, and he stretched before readjusting on the couch to lay on his bed across it. He kept his knees bent and his head propped on the arm so he could still look over at Milo. “But I like you anyways” Rio reassured the vampire and gave him a thumbs up from his new position on the couch. “You’re allowed to smile at me. Just not like that.” Rio was still joking, but it had definitely been different than the other grins the two had exchanged. Rio didn’t have the energy to try to discern why it felt so different. Besides, he didn’t want to ruin the mood. He kept shifting his view between the movie and Milo. “Being predictable is exactly the vibe I’m going for. Nonthreatening, predictable, totally normal non-hunter Rio.”

“This is your house, moron, so obviously I get the dramatic exit.” Milo pointed out, very pleased they were in something together, even if the comment had been trivial, and light-hearted. It felt good to be side by side with Orion. He knew, to a certain extent, they really were in this together. In everything together. His friendship with Rio was quickly becoming his main source of support, and he couldn’t imagine it any other way. “You don’t need to tell me, I know I’m hilarious.” He added, watching as his friend stretched lazily, curling up on the sofa in a way that stupidly made him want to find a blanket, fetch him a hot chocolate, and make sure he was comfortable. He looked so innocent, it would be impossible to know all of the terrible things he had seen in his life. The struggles he had to face on a daily basis. Turning his attention back to the film, he couldn’t say anything particularly interesting had happened, but he had to admit he had thoroughly enjoyed the viewing experience. Despite not knowing what like that meant, he hummed quietly in response. “Sure, whatever.” A quiet laugh managed to escape him as he made a start on what was left of the popcorn. “I don’t know about labels, but whoever you are, I like you very much. I appreciate your vibes, you know.” He was only half teasing, needing Rio to know he genuinely enjoyed his company, that moments like these meant more to him than he could ever possibly say.

Keeping his gaze fixed on the screen, he didn’t want to embarrass Orion further, even if he was desperate to see his reaction to the admission, so he fell back into a comfortable silence, patiently allowing the end of the story play out. Simultaneously, it felt as though it was over in minutes, and took hours to finally draw to a close, but as the credits began to roll, accompanied by a tacky love song he embarrassingly recognised, he turned back to Orion, ready to ask him whether he still wanted pizza. It didn’t take him long to realise his friend definitely wasn’t hungry, though, and he stared, almost in shock, as Orion slept soundly on the cushions beside him. It wasn’t as though he was surprised he was tired, or surprised he had been lulled to sleep by what he could only assume was a vampire satire. It was the fact that he had fallen asleep next to him. Next to a vampire. Dani had made it perfectly clear he couldn’t be trusted, that nobody should be left alone with him. And although he knew Orion didn’t agree with her, being alone with somebody fully conscious was very different to being alone with them and unaware. Being alone with them and vulnerable. Biting down on his bottom lip, repressing a smile, he shrugged off his hoodie without jostling the couch, carefully draping it over Orion’s form. He could try and find a blanket, but wandering his house without his permission felt too much like a violation, so hopefully the item of clothing would suffice. He didn’t need to sleep, he didn’t need to rest in the same way Orion did, but as he settled back down again, unable to tear his gaze away, he realised he was in a position to protect. To care for somebody he was fairly certain wasn’t used to being cared for. “Night, Rio… I’ll be here when you wake up.”

#c:orion #milo and orion

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darktypeimagines · 4 years

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Hi! I was wondering if you could expand a bit on the ´S/O from Unova´ who travels the world (Specifically Leon). This request is a little specific so here goes; The S/O has a thing for fire types, and while in Galar studies under Kabu (They are a HUGE fan) They have two partner pokemon, an Emboar and a Drifblim. Thank you so much, for your time :)

2nd ask – I assume you saw my message about missing posts and re-sent this. Since the asks have slightly different details, I’ll just combine them into one post

“Hiya! Could you do some HC´s for a trainer who´s mentored by Kabu? To elaborate they´e been a fan since a young child, and also adore fire types. Said trainer has gone to Galar to test their mettle against gym leaders w/ their ace Emboar. After the match, the trainer asked if Kabu could help them specifically w/ fire types.”

So, based on the asks, I’m assuming you want the same character as from the Unovan strategist ask, so I’ll expand on that. I changed up the order of things a little bit. AND OH BOY I WROTE WAAAAY TOO much again. I split it halfway to save your dashes. There’s nothing really triggering, although some people might not be into a relationship with a decent age gap.

———————————————————————————

You were pretty young when you decided to be a trainer, much like many kids. But, unlike many kids, you were hyperfixated on one particular trainer: the fire type specialist, Kabu.

You first became a fan ALL the way back when he first joined the Galar League. Despite being from Unova, you often watched the Galar league because there was just a sense of excitement that was lacking in other leagues. Galar made a show of their tournaments, so their televised battles were watched worldwide.

Once you set out beyond Unova, you decided to head over to Galar. You needed a fresh challenge, and considering it was the Galar League that helped you decide your course in life, it felt natural to head there next

You ended up battling all the other Galar gym leaders before finally heading to Kabu. Might as well save your favorite for last!

Apparently, he heard about you already. News travels fast, especially when the news is about a famous Unovan trainer who’s randomly challenging all of the gym leaders of his region. He knew he’d encounter you eventually.

He greeted you in the gym, rather formally, saying he was expecting you. You were low-key freaking out on the inside, but managed to keep yourself together. For about a minute. Then you lost it. You started gushing, telling you how you watched him on TV since you were a little kid. How you looked up to him. How you became a fire-type specialist because of him. And how, growing up, you wished you could have trained under him. How that was your most common daydream.

And then you stopped. Oh no. You went too far.

Kabu gave you a knowing look, and let out a small laugh. He was used to this; it happened all the time with fans. Although, it wasn’t every day such an accomplished trainer came up to him and told him he inspired them… It was incredibly flattering.

He said he would have loved to train you, but you probably surpassed him by now. He wasn’t sure if you could learn much from him.

WHATAREYOUTALKINGABOUTOFCOURSEICOULDLEARNMOREYOUREAMAZINGYOUHAVESOMUCHMOREEXP- was basically the gist of what you incoherently blurted out.

Kabu was surprised at the outburst, but he just smiled again. Did he blush, or did you imagine it? You’d never know.

Well… in that case. He knew you came to battle, but if you really, really wanted to, he could train you. He wouldn’t mind. He’s still not sure what he could possibly teach you, but he could try to come up with something!

After a bit of mental short-circuiting, you said yes! Of course! It was a dream come true for you, and… it took you a while to feel like it was actually happening.

You stayed at the inn during your training. The first thing Kabu had you do was change your schedule. You had to meet up with him before dawn and then make your way down to wherever you were training that day.

Usually, it was one of the mines or his gym. What surprised you was the content of his training. Often, it wasn’t even battling. It almost seemed like he was training you rather than helping you with your Pokemon or battling…

You had to endure the elements. Snowstorms near Circhester. The heat of the Dusty Bowl. Battling in the pitch-black night.

You jogged together. Meditated. Kabu even talked to you about eating a little healthier.

You asked him when you were actually going to train with battling. And that was when Kabu decided to explain his thinking to you. It was clear that you were a talented trainer. You knew strategy. You knew your Pokemon inside and out. But, what about you? Were you in peak condition, mentally and physically? A battle could occur anywhere, at any time, so you needed to be prepared at all times. Otherwise, there was a chance you could let down your partners…

Plus, as he said earlier, he explained, you seem to have surpassed him in terms of actual battling long ago.

After this, you agreed to continue. Being with him was a dream, even if it wasn’t what you were expecting.

This went on for months. You began to wonder how long this would go on for. Not that you were complaining. And, in that time, the two of you grew closer.

You started having dinner together frequently. Kabu was a pretty good cook, so often the two of you just ended up at his house. Due to the intensity of your training, you often ended up curled up next to Emboar on the floor, passed out after dinner. You always found a blanket on top of you when you woke up.

But, in time, you began to feel the itch to battle. Specifically, against him. So, one morning, when you first met up, you simply asked him.

He smiled, and said sure. If you felt you needed to battle him, then you needed to battle him! So, the two of you headed down to his gym. It wasn’t open yet, so it was eerily quiet, but in a way, it felt right.

He asked if you wanted to battle in a certain way; he knew Unovan people sometimes had battles with three Pokemon, after all. And he knew you didn’t Dynamax. You said a typical single battle would be fine, and that you’d LIKE it if he Dynamaxed! More challenge, after all…

You did agree to have a three on three battle, though, since he only had five Pokemon.

You sent out Emboar; he started with Arcanine. The large dog growled, baring its teeth – the aggression was quite intimidating and seemed to daunt Emboar. You knew its attacks might be weaker and more hesitant now…

But, before Kabu could give an order, you had Emboar use Sucker Punch, catching Arcanine off guard and stunning them. Despite being intimidated, Emboar landing quite the hit!

While Arcanine was trying to recover, you had Emboar follow up the last attack with a Fire Punch. Not a very effective attack type wise, but it would be fast enough for a quick follow up attack.

Before Emboar could ready another attack, Kabu had Arcanine launch a flurry of Extremespeeds. They took their toll on Emboar, and it was difficult for your Pokemon to get back on its feet.

·As Arcanine was about to start another round, you had Emboar strike the ground and use Earthquake. It hit Arcanine before it could reach Emboar, and it fainted.

Kabu sent out Ninetales next. This round was a bit more uneventful, as Emboar got another Earthquake in, which badly injured Ninetails. But then the fox got in an Extrasensory, knocking out Emboar.

You sent off Drifblim next, the balloon ghost rising high on the residual heat from Emboar’s attacks. Most people were surprised that you, a fire type specialist, had a random ghost type on your team. But this was purely strategic. What most people didn’t know is that Drifblim, like a hot air balloon, could rise higher and faster with hot air. You used their lack of knowledge to your advantage.

With Drifblim flying high above, Ninetales tried to launch a Fire Blast at them. Before the move could hit, though, you had Drifblim use Phantom Force. The ghost vanished, making the fire move miss. Both Kabu and Ninetales searched around the arena, but Drifblim was nowhere to be found. Ninetales braced itself for an attack, but didn’t know where to focus its attention.

Moments later, a dark portal appeared behind the fox, and Drifblim flew out, attacking Ninetales. Between this powerful move and the damage Ninetales took earlier, Kabu’s Pokemon fell, unable to battle further.

Kabu sent out his last Pokemon, Centiskorch. Luckily for your strategy, just the fire bug’s presence bought new heat to the arena, speeding up your Drifblim. Kabu immediately Gigantamaxed his Centiskorch, the bug type surrounding itself in energy and quickly taking up the other half of the battlefield.

And you know what? You had a plan to deal with the giant Pokemon. It was a cheap tactic, but you knew it’d work. You had Drifblim use Phantom Force throughout Centiskorch’s Gigantamax time. The giant bug tried to hit Drifblim with Centiferno multiple times, but due to the hot air, Drifblim kept out speeding its opponent. Finally, Centiskorch reverted to its normal sized form.

It hadn’t taken much damage due to its defense boost, but it was far from unscathed. As Centiskorch reverted back to its normal form, Kabu surprisingly had it use Crunch, landing a critical blow on Drifblim.

Drifblim wouldn’t be able to last much longer. It sputtered up and down, trying to keep altitude, obviously exhausted. You felt a little bad doing this… but, you knew it would earn you the win.

You had Drifblim rush Centiskorch, which Kabu didn’t expect. When they were within range, you yelled to your Pokemon to unleash Explosion! In the blast of smoke and fire, you couldn’t see whether or not it finished the job. But as the battlefield cleared, you saw both Pokemon, Drifblim laying on top of Centiskorch, fainted. You had won, with a Pokemon to spare.

After returning your Pokemon, and quietly promising Drifblim a nice treat when you got home, you and Kabu approached each other.

He congratulated you. It had been a while since he had such a fierce battle! With an explosive ending, too! He said he hoped to battle you again someday, and wished you the best along the rest of your journey.

What?

Oh yeah. You were traveling the world. Right.

Honestly, though, being with Kabu reminded you what “home” felt like. You felt comfortable with him. You didn’t want to leave.

And. You broke down and got emotional. Kabu was rather worried, and quickly crossing the space between you, putting a hand gently on your shoulder. He asked what was wrong, although you have a feeling he had an idea.

You told him. You blurted it out. That you adored him, beyond that of a regular fan. You… loved him? You weren’t sure yet. But you knew you had feelings for him and the thought of leaving was a nightmare for you.

It took a moment for Kabu to respond. He seemed to have to gather his thoughts. And then, he said it. He felt the same way. But he felt you needed to move on. After all, how could you improve yourself if you stayed here?

But… While he doesn’t want to admit it, because of the age difference between you two, he, too, had feelings for you. He loved your passion; how you were willing to go to such lengths for your dreams. You looked up to him for so long, and worked your way towards eventually meeting him. And even after you realized how hard his training was, you stuck with him! He admired you. And he also didn’t really want you to go.

After a long talk, which took place at his home since you both needed somewhere more comfortable to work things out, it was decided that you two would give this a shot.

You immediately moved in with him. But, beyond the added romance, the same structure that bought you together remained. You still trained together. You still woke up early together. Only now, you woke up before dawn with a kiss and retired to your home – the one you shared.

#kabu #kabu x reader #pokemon swsh #pokemon sword and shield #pokemon imagines #pokemon #scenario #ask #x reader #darktypeimagines

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satoshi-mochida · 4 years

Link

The Final Fantasy Portal Site has published the first in a three-volume series of Final Fantasy IX interviews in celebration of the game’s 20th anniversary. Final Fantasy IX first launched for PlayStation on July 7, 2000.

The first interview is with Final Fantasy IX event design and scenario writer Kazuhiko Aoki. Volumes two and three will feature artist Toshiyuki Itahana and director Hiroyuki Ito.

Get the full interview with Aoki below.

―Final Fantasy IX is sometimes introduced with the phrase “returning to roots.” Where did Final Fantasy IX sit in the minds of the development team?

Aoki: “The slogans ‘returning to roots’ and ‘return of the crystal’ were there from the start. That’s why the setting of the game also has a medieval fantasy theme.”

―It is true that compared to the science fiction elements of FFVII and FFVIII, Final Fantasy IX made a sudden return to classic fantasy. There were even references to past FF titles, like character and vehicle names. Were those concepts also planned to be included from the beginning of development under the theme of “returning to roots”?

Aoki: “There were some things that were planned from the beginning, and then there were other elements that came about from those in charge of each part of the game during the creation process.

“The newborn chocobo, named Bobby Corwen…smash those names together and you get Boco.

“The foundation is 10 percent, and the remaining 90 percent comes from individual creators putting their own ideas and heart into a project. I think that’s the creation process of not only FF, but all games from Square Enix.”

―Each main character of Final Fantasy IX carries their own background story into the battles they face. Do you have a favorite character? Please tell us your reasons as well, if you have any.

Aoki: “I did my best not to have any favorites, so as not to be biased toward any specific character.

“There were backstories we wanted to elaborate on more, but sadly had to give up on due to time and data constraints.

“At the time I wished I could have developed how Zidane is afflicted by the difference in social status between him and Garnet a little more. Illustrating the breakdown of relations with the nobles in Treno due to their disapproval of Zidane and Garnet’s relationship, Zidane butting up against the social confines he faces and the incredible power Garnet holds as royalty, and how Zidane gets back up on his feet despite all of that—I felt that would have done a lot to help further portray him as a character.”

―The NPCs are also very well developed. What about them?

Aoki: “I don’t have any biases when it comes to NPC characters either. There actually wasn’t any differentiation in my mind between main characters and sub characters. Once the game’s story started to come to life on screen, my drive to develop each character even further – the steadfast reliability of Marcus or Garnet’s internal struggles, for example—only got stronger.”

―The Tantalus members Genero, Zenero, Benero and all their siblings are an unusual bunch. How did they come to be?

Aoki: “There wasn’t a trace of them until right before the game went gold. Not only limited to Final Fantasy IX, each FF series title has a period of about three to four months of quality improvements and brushing up after all elements that will be included in a game are implemented. How can we make it more interesting, what would make it easier to understand, what new discoveries can we find to add to the experience…as a creator you approach the process with a feeling similar to recreating something entirely. Those siblings came about suddenly right in the middle of that final tweaking for Final Fantasy IX.”

―The characters in Final Fantasy IX are built shorter than in previous FF games. Was there a reason for that?

Aoki: “I don’t know the reason for making the characters shorter in stature, but I did often hear that the cutscene team had a hard time making use of the know-how they gained working on Final Fantasy VIII. It was apparently a lot of trial and error.

“The characters in Final Fantasy IX excel at showing a certain sweetness or silliness, but even when they take on a totally different serious tone their expressions are so genuine. I feel that Final Fantasy IX had quite a good balance going in that sense.”

―Final Fantasy IX is known for its many popular and memorable lines. Whose idea was it to put together the loading screen of CG screenshots overlaid with words from the game and art?

Aoki: “The cutscene leader and event staff made that by picking out lines from the game. It was also the manifestation of a strong desire to show what kind of characters these were.”

―There were also many monsters with unique gimmicks, such as Ragtime Mouse’s quiz-style battle. Do you have a favorite monster or gimmick used by one?

Aoki: “I’m not sure if you could call it a unique monster, but my favorite are the black mages who appear in Cleyra. Your party characters don’t do a victory pose even if you win against them. That came from the battle system team’s consideration of the scene those battles take place in. You grow used to the characters celebrating when they win a battle, so I was really surprised the first time I saw that.

“I don’t know if this is still true, but development happened with next to no meetings between the event and battle design teams. Although that’s not to say that those teams didn’t get along.”

―Final Fantasy IX has a lot of mini games, many of which are quite difficult. Are there any you find particularly memorable?

Aoki: “Chocobo Hot and Cold. It came from the director wanting some contents that would allow traveling all over the game world. The concept came together in less than 30 minutes, but the actual creators who worked on the mini-game put a lot of time into it. Every last detail was done with such care.”

―Final Fantasy IX’s soundtrack was handled by Mr. Nobuo Uematsu. We feel that music is another important factor in expressing characters or story. If there are any songs from Final Fantasy IX that really stand out in your memory, please tell us about them.

Aoki: “That would be the song that Mr. Uematsu played for me the first time he worked at the Hawaii office.

“It was in response to me asking if he had any recommended songs from the new game—I got an idea for part of the story the second it came on. That song would eventually be titled ‘You’re Not Alone.’

“I asked, ‘Are there going to be any more changes to it?’ and he responded, ‘Yes, sorry… I’d like to tweak it a little more.’ It wasn’t finalized until the last minute, so I’m sure he really struggled with the composition of that piece.”

―Was there anything during development that was especially challenging or that sticks out in your mind?

Aoki: “The last few weeks were a battle with data restrictions. We had data increasing every day, having to think about where to divide the story so we’d end up with an amount that fit on each of the four discs. That fine-tuning took some real mental gymnastics.”

―If there’s anything else from your experiences during the development of Final Fantasy IX or messages for the many people who still love Final Fantasy IX you’d be willing to share, we would love to hear it.

Aoki: “There were about 300 people at the party celebrating Final Fantasy IX’s completion. It was developed by a team divided between Japan and Hawaii, so about one-third of the faces there I had never seen before…I was surprised all over again at how many people were involved in the project.

“I’m incredibly happy that Final Fantasy IX is loved by so many people; that’s been a huge motivator and confidence booster when facing jobs I’ve had since. I think that’s true not only for me, but also the many creators who worked on Final Fantasy IX as well. It would be nice to celebrate the game’s 20th anniversary with everyone who was at the post-launch party.

“Near the end of that party, there was a moment when the sound effect team went up on the venue’s stage. ‘In Final Fantasy X, there’s going to be this thing called Blitzball, and there will be a scene with the spectators cheering. We’d love if you would all be willing to help with that!’ they said. And I thought ‘…Oh, they’ve already started working on X.’ Just when I thought things were finished, they had already begun a new Final Fantasy. It really hit me being there, this is how the Final Fantasy series continues on forever.”

―Thank you for your time today!

Final Fantasy IX is available for PlayStation, PlayStation 3, PSP, and PS Vita via PSone Classics, PlayStation 4, Xbox One, Switch, PC via Steam, iOS, and Android.

#Final Fantasy IX #Final Fantasy 9 #Final Fantasy #Kazuhiko Aoki #Square Enix #Gematsu #I never did finish IX. ^^;

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gra-sonas · 5 years

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Thanks for prompting me with Malex, lovelies! 💚

who hogs the duvet: Alex, because he's always cold. He prefers when Michael snuggles up close to him tho, he's the much better heating blanket (plus he gives Alex neck kisses, which Alex LOVES)

who texts/rings to check how their day is going: They both text occasionally, Michael likes to send Alex pictures, Alex is a little more formal in his texts. The day he starts adding the 😘❤️ emojis to his texts, Michael feels so loved.

who’s the most creative when it comes to gifts: they are both incredibly thoughtful when it comes to giving gifts. Michael's perhaps a little more creative since he likes to make gifts (though we're not talking salt dough or knitted socks here, we're talking something more elaborate like a bionic leg for Alex that allows him to walk with absolute ease and almost no chafing)

who gets up first in the morning: Alex, still. It's been ingrained into him (first by his father who liked to make his kids do drills before dawn, then it was a terrible habit the Air Force continued to inflict on him). One of Alex’s greatest pleasures in his life is the moment when he wakes up, sees how early it is, turns in Michaels warm embrace and goes back to sleep (well, it’s more like a nap, but it's amazing and relaxing nonetheless). When Michael takes too long to wake up, Alex can get very ~creative tho... 😏

who suggests new things in bed: they both do. The first time Alex properly doms Michael and makes him fly is a revelation to both of them, and they like to explore that side of their relationship further. The first time Alex asks Michael to mark him with a hand print before sex tho? They both end up in tears because having their respective emotions reflected back a thousandfold is so overwhelming, it takes them a long time to calm down. When they do, they look look at each other, stunned by the utter devotion and endless love they see, it's not really a surprise that they utter the next words in unison: "Do you want to marry me?" (It's a YES from both, obviously)

who cries at movies: Michael

who gives unprompted massages: Michael. He just knows when Alex is hurting on days he’s walked too much and needs a massage, even knows where to find the worst knots. Michael’s hands are always tender, yet firm. (Michael will never get tired of teasing Alex for falling asleep underneath his kneading hands on more than one occasion).

who fusses over the other when they’re sick: Alex is rarely sick, but when he is, Michael turns into such a mother hen/nurse, it's almost ridiculous. While it does get a bit intense at times, Alex lets him fuss.

who gets jealous easiest: they don't get jealous at other people anymore, they know that they are it for the other. They do get jealous of circumstances keeping them apart for any length of time though. After his honorable discharge from the Air Force, Alex starts to work as a freelance cyber security advisor. While it comes with the perk of being ridiculously well paid, his job also entails that Alex has to travel every now and then. They are both miserable during those times and send more text messages in a day than they'd usually send in a month.

who has the most embarrassing taste in music: they refuse to be embarrassed about any kind of music they listen to, Alex has probably a more eclectic taste tho.

who collects something unusual: do pieces of an alien space ship console count as ‘something unusual’?

who takes the longest to get ready: Alex, but only because he needs a little extra time to attach his leg in the morning.

who is the most tidy and organised: They both are. Michael's never had that many things to begin with, and the Airstream with its limited space also demanded him to keep things in order. Three years into their marriage, Michael expands the cabin ("I want it to be a home for us, but also maybe... a kid?" Alex has never loved him more than in that moment). The cabin’s still not HUGE and therefore requires for them to keep things in order. That changes the minute they have kids tho, from then on it’s chaos 24/7 until the day their triplets leave for college.

who gets most excited about the holidays: Michael. Holy Santa, the first year they spend Christmas at the cabin, Alex leaves in the morning for an appointment in Albuquerque, only to find Michael has turned into Clark Griswold when he comes home. The cabin looks like it's on fire, there are sooooo many Christmas lights. 👀 When Alex opens the door, Michael is waiting for him in the living room. A fire is roaring in the open fire place and the room is decorated with lots and lots of Christmas themed knick-knacks. Michael is wearing an honest-to-god Ugly Christmas Sweater (it depicts a little green man wearing a Santa outfit, the lettering says 'Ho ho ho, kiss me, I'm an alien') and he's holding up two beautifully embroidered stockings with their names on them. Alex hangs up his jacket and helps Michael to attach them at the mantle of the fireplace.

Bonus: On Christmas morning, Alex sneaks out of the bed and shortly after Michael wakes up to the sight of the sexiest naughty elf (the mistletoe was completely unnecessary btw, Michael just wouldn’t stop kissing Alex)

who is the big spoon/little spoon: It depends. If Alex is cold (and he often is), there's no question that Michael is the big spoon. When Alex takes Michael apart tho, it's him who'll spoon up behind Michael afterwards to keep him safe until Michael returns to earth.

who gets most competitive when playing games and/or sports: Alex is extremely competitive when they are playing charades with their circle of friends. Neither of the aliens are allowed to mark their partners with a hand print before so they won't cheat via that connection, which makes Alex is even more eager to win ‘naturally’ (they often do, they are just so in tune).

Michael's pretty competitive from the sidelines of their one daughter's softball games, and there's one memorable incident where Michael disagrees with a referee at their other daughter's soccer match. Their son isn't too fond of sports, much to Michael's dismay. "Dad, Mara and Nova are your sports buddies, I'm Papa's coding buddy." Michael smiles and ruffles his son's curly hair. "I know, nugget, your Papa loves to code with you." "Daaaad, stop calling me nugget." "Alright, nugget."

who starts the most arguments: they don’t really argue anymore. They'll have minor disagreements like any couple, but a short and mature discussion will sort things out quickly, otherwise they are on the same page.

who suggests that they buy a pet: when Michael learns about Mimi's prediction, he comes home with the most adorable beagle puppy the next day.

what couple traditions they have: they are not big on commercialized traditions like Valentine's Day, they prefer to do other things. The most important rule for them is: never leave or go to bed if either of them is mad/upset about something. They’ll talk it out and won’t part/fall asleep without an ‘I love you’. Apart from texting, they also love to hide little hand written love notes for the other to find (shirt pockets, wallet, etc)

what tv shows they watch together: they don't watch that much TV tbh. They tried to watch the most obvious show together (X-Files), but it didn't really click. Upon scrolling through Netflix one day, Michael mentions that he's never seen Star Trek or Stargate, and they enjoy watching every iteration of these shows immensely. Even though Michael sometimes does get riled up about technical specifics his scientist's brain just won't allow him to let slide. “It’s sci-fi and I’ll cut them some slack, but this is ridiculous.” Alex can’t help but laugh and kiss Michael silly until he forgets what he was mad about just a minute ago.

what other couple they hang out with: When Jenna returns to Roswell, her and Kyle get together and they like to spend time with them a lot. There are also family gatherings where they see Max and Liz with their kids, and they have a standing invitation for Sunday bbqs at Isobel and Maria’s place.

how they spend time together as a couple: when they get together for good, they first go on a long road trip across the US. Michael's never really left New Mexico and it makes Alex so happy to see Michael visit places he’s only known from pictures win wide-eyed wonder. Apart from traveling, they enjoy star-gazing in the desert, making music together (Alex sings, Michael plays guitar) and once they have kids, they are the most devoted dads who just LOVE spending time with their little ones.

who made the first move: Alex, it took Michael a moment to catch up. 💕

who brings flowers home: neither, they prefer to look at the flowers growing in their garden.

who is the best cook: they are both decent cooks who can do basic stuff. When Michael builds an annex to expand the cabin, they get a bigger kitchen. When the kids are old enough to help, they enjoy cooking meals as a family. And there’s of course The Great Guerin Bakeoff each year prior to Christmas.

#malex #alex manes #michael guerin #roswell new mexico #malex headcanons #long post is long #'tis a meme #nonnie asks #lire-casander #lilascosmicdixon

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michelles-garden-of-evil · 5 years

Text

Episode 18 Review: Making Biscuits

{ YouTube: 1 | 2 }

{ Synopses/Recaps: Debby Graham | Bryan Gruszka }

{ Screencaps }

Early morning on Maljardin. Exhausted from a day of shock and disbelief at the arrivals of her mother and Reverend Dawson on the island paradise(?) of Maljardin, Holly sleeps on the couch in the château’s great hall. Quietly, a fully dressed Jean Paul descends the grand staircase and stops behind the couch to cover her with a blanket. “Hi, Dad,” she says. “I had a dream. I thought that-”

I know that she’s probably a bit creeped out, but, honestly, I kind of envy Holly in this scene. There are days that I wish that I could wake up to see Jean Paul Desmond at my bedside. I know he has all kinds of issues and personality flaws, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t find him cute and charming.

She tells him that she was dreaming about waiting for her father at home. “I know the feeling only too well,” he responds. “ Sometimes you know when memories haunt dreams, nightmares can follow.” I know that he is probably referring to nightmares about Erica’s death and/or to that freaky dream sequence with Raxl from the end of Episode 5, but still, I have to wonder if he, like Holly, lost his father at a young age. They reveal a little about Jean Paul’s father in the third and final arc of the show, but I don’t recall them discussing the specifics of his death beyond one thing that would be a spoiler to mention at this point. It would have been interesting to learn a bit about Jean Paul’s father in the Maljardin arc, but, unfortunately, we don’t.

So gallant! <3

We cut to a scene of Dan waiting impatiently for Jean Paul at the French Leave Café while talking to Vangie. Mostly, this scene exists so that Vangie can elaborate on why Maljardin is so hard to get to. “That channel is a cross between a tide and a continual tornado,” she says. “It's full of rocks and shoals. Actually, it’s never even been properly charted.” (Except probably by one of the des Mondes.) This is the only new information we get in any of the scenes between Dan and Vangie in this episode; the rest is nearly all recap, so I’m going to skip over most of it.

We return to Maljardin, where Holly and Jean Paul are sipping coffee from some dainty little cups. Before leaving for the main island, he asks her to attend Erica’s funeral, but she is reluctant because her mother and Reverend Dawson will be there. He advises her essentially to suck it up and go--which, as she points out, sounds like something "the good padre” would say. And then this happens:

I...don’t think that’s the generator.

Holly goes running upstairs and, just after, Jacques reveals that it was indeed he who tampered with the generator:

Love Jacques’ sarcasm in talking about the importance of the Holly portrait and how Tim and Holly may be “finished” before it is. And yes, the good Jacques portrait is back!

Next, we get what has to be the single most painful line of dialogue that the usually witty Jacques gets on the entire show: “Dear me, it does pose a dilemma,” says he about the situation with the Holly portrait that Boring Artist Tim is painting. “Pose, portrait, dilemma. A little play on words.” He snickers, indicating that at least he thinks the line is funny. “But I assure you I'm not playing games.” As Paflad would say, “BADOOM, and indeed, TSHHH!“

After the bad pun storm is over, he tells Jean Paul to bring Dan back with him to Maljardin because “[Jacques wants] to be sure that he doesn’t work against [him].” Cut to the second Dan and Vangie scene, where they recap nearly all the most important events on the show so far. It’s not all recap, however, as we do hear Vangie’s interpretation of the King of Wands, one of the Tarot cards featured last episode:

Vangie: “This way, a man of immense wealth and prestige and power in the world.”

“Reverse him, and he becomes the traditional card of ill-omen, a devil himself. Jean Paul Desmond...or Jacques Eloi des Mondes.”

And now onto the scene featuring the Matt-Holly-Tim love triangle, which feels endless because I can’t stand this subplot. I’m planning on writing a post someday explaining everything that’s wrong with this subplot and exactly why it doesn’t work, but I want to wait until after I’ve reviewed at least three more episodes featuring it. Nothing important happens in this scene, but we do get these lines:

Holly: "I wish my mother was on canvas instead of always on my back."

Be careful what you wish for, Holly. Someday you could have a portrait of Elizabeth Marshall that speaks to you constantly and manipulates you into doing things that make no sense to other characters. (Not a spoiler.)

The best Tim line on the show, and it’s a line flub. Go figure.

After the seemingly endless Tim scene ends, we return to the main island, where Jacques possesses Jean Paul while he is meeting with Dan. (He takes Jacques’ suggestions an awful lot, and I’m not sure if it’s because he actually agrees or because Jacques is manipulating him and he finds it too hard to resist.) We start with this shot of Jacques with ever-so-mildly creepy lighting:

Not scary, but it successfully conveys the message that Jacques has just taken control.

This scene makes up for the mediocrity of the rest of this episode. Jacques is his devilishly charming self, impersonating Jean Paul and making a fool of him by behaving far too cheerfully for a man in mourning. When Dan questions him, he insists that he’s only putting on a brave face and inwardly grieving, but Dan remains suspicious.

I must admit that I found this Jacques line--cheesy as it is--pretty funny.

Jacques, of course, takes advantage of the opportunity to troll him. Why not? For the first eleven episodes, he stuck to aiding Jean Paul and mostly just did things that they both wanted to do, with just a few exceptions like killing Dr. Menkin and giving Alison romantic dreams about him. Since Episode 12, however, he has been regularly screwing with Jean Paul’s life, trying to undermine nearly everything he tries to do in some way unless it also benefits him. By now, Jacques is in control of Jean Paul even when he’s inside the painting and so he probably feels he can get away with anything.

Anyway, remember when Jacques fired Dan in Episode 15? Well, he’s re-hired now and invited to Maljardin. He’s also more confused than ever, particularly because Jacques (who he believes is Jean Paul) keeps making faces like this:

BISSITS FACE!

For those of you who haven’t read my review of Episode 4 or who don’t remember it, Bissits Face™ is the name I gave to the cartoonish faux-innocent face that Jacques likes to make, where he opens his eyes extremely wide and purses his lips in a very cute way. The name comes from its resemblance to the face my cat makes when he makes biscuits, or “bissits” as I call them in baby-talk. I know the name is silly, but it is a silly face and probably not one you’d make in real life if you genuinely wanted to appear innocent--which is further evidence that Jacques thinks that he’s smarter than everyone else (and is probably right).

If his wrists weren’t crossed, he’d look like he was getting ready to make biscuits on that table like a cat.

Meow?

Of course, this isn’t his only bug-eyed expression, and he does keep those gorgeous blue peepers open quite a lot. I think that Colin Fox intended for Jacques to look “crazy,” which would explain all the wide-eyed expressions he has him make. Crazy eyes are, after all, pretty much standard acting technique for playing characters who are mentally disturbed to some degree. There’s an old French actor named Gérard Berner whom I’ve nicknamed “Crazy Eyes,” because, in the two miniseries I’ve seen him in (La dame de Monsoreau (1971) and Le roi qui vient du sud (1979)), he played characters with anger problems and, when said characters got enraged, he opened his eyes so wide that you would swear they were about to fall out of his head. This scene from Monsoreau is a good example, as is the one that follows it (Berner is the man with the longish hair and the silver doublet). Obviously, the intended meaning of Bissits Face™ is “I’m pretending to be innocent” and not “I’m angry,” but it’s still the same technique.

Gérard Berner (right) as François d’Anjou in La dame de Monsoreau (1971), demonstrating the crazy eye technique in a very different context.

Anyway, after Dan leaves to get ready to sail to Maljardin, Jacques and Vangie exchange a few words. By this point, she knows for certain who he is and that he will bring death to the island.

A rare instance of the subtitles getting Vangie’s name right.

I really like this exchange, so, as with many other exchanges that I really like, I’m going to post a full transcription:

Jacques: "Did you hear it all, Vangie?" Vangie: "Enough to make me wonder if I shouldn't contact the newspapers and let them find out the kind of man you really are."

Jacques: "You wouldn't do that, because you're afraid of my...power." Vangie: "In this world...or the next?"

Jacques: "Next world?" *laughs* "What are you talking about? You've been playing cards too much. It's dulling your senses." Vangie: "My father is dead. I am now the Conjure Woman. My senses are greater than ever. There is evil roaming on Maljardin. It must be destroyed."

Getting nervous, Jacques?

Jacques: "Vangie! You and your witchcraft. It will be the death of me yet.” Vangie: "I'm after the Devil."

Yup, definitely nervous.

Jacques: "And he's after you!"

And then we have a marvelous little credits scene where Jacques sits down in the big wicker chair, looking enormously pleased with himself. He puts his feet up on the table in front of him, grins, polishes his ring, all while looking incredibly self-satisfied. I love this comment about it on YouTube: “I can imagine the director telling Colin at the end credits,'Ok Colin-Baby, now just sit there and look smug...that's it...more smug-more smug...annnnd got it!'”

Smug.

Smugger.

Smuggest.

This episode is typical of Wednesday episodes on this show: light on plot and heavy on recap and character interaction that may or may not be filler. The only important things that happen in this one are (1) Jacques brings Dan with him to Maljardin and (2) Vangie reveals to Jacques that she has become the Conjure Woman and therefore a powerful opponent. But neither of these happen until the final scene, so, in all honesty, one could skip over most of this episode without missing much save for Tim’s hilarious line flub.

Coming up next: Reverend Dawson holds Erica’s funeral and Holly discusses an interesting nightmare she had about her mother.

{ <-- Previous: Episode 17 || Next: Episode 19 --> }

#strange paradise #gothic soap opera #week 4 #episode 18 #ian martin #review #maljardin arc #bissits face #the blue suit of sexiness #crazy eyes #creative line interpretation #the damned holly portrait #jacques putting his boots/shoes on furniture #la dame de monsoreau #tarot #strange title i know but i couldn't think of anything better

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rottweilerrr · 6 years

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ROTTWEILER;

+ DOMESTIC ABUSE

I've already talked about this subject on several instances (especially regarding his co-dependent relationship with Mark, gender roles, personal boundaries and helping others, and a drabble describing his upbringing), but was recently reminded that I’ve actually never made a concise post about it, which is what I’m going to do now.

I. Rejection and withdrawal of parental affection

One of the most formative experiences of his early childhood is the lesson that seeking out people’s affection is not only unwelcome, but also punishable – be it emotionally (through intentionally hurting him, such as mocking, name-calling, insulting or humiliating him, and the latter especially and purposely in front of other people, or denying his existence altogether) or physically (such as pushing him away or slapping him, usually accompanied by some sort of verbal degradation as well).

Ultimately, this has lead to largely inhibited social behavior: He finds it difficult to form relationships (and especially friendships) and almost never approaches anyone first to do so, and if so, only very hesitantly. It also means that if he’s rejected once, there is little chance that he’s going to try again since it would mean exposing himself to the same kind of humiliation again. This especially applies to instances where the nature of the rejection resembles the examples above, regardless of whether or not it only happened in jest.

II. Susceptibility to further abuse

Now, exactly because he craves affection but at the same time knows that it is unattainable to him, he is not only incredibly sensitive to rejection (which evokes strong feelings of sadness, shame, despair and powerlessness), but also vulnerable to emotional manipulation and blackmail. In the past, this has lead to him being gaslighted repeatedly, most notably by his ex-girlfriend. She, among other things: used to constantly switch between dismissing and demeaning him and demanding affection, only to deny him said affection as soon as the initiative came from him, accused him of cheating while openly flirting with other men herself, “kept tabs” on him and insisted he let her see his phone, arguing that “if he didn’t have anything to hide, he wouldn’t have anything to worry about either”, spread rumors among his friends and acquaintances that he was either physically abusing her or otherwise involved in serious crimes, thus trying to alienate them from him and rally them against him, and lied about trivial things just to make him question his own perception.

After he finally broke up with her, she started harassing him via text and often called him drunk, insulted him on the phone and even showed up at the pub multiple times specifically to wear him down; he never did anything about it except changing his number.

His mother tends to fall into similar patterns, though less consciously so. Most of her aggression toward him started developing after her husband’s death when she found herself in the situation of having to raise a child all by herself that she was overwhelmed with to begin with.* And without his emotional support – and they were extremely close; the way they treated their children is not at all reflective of how they treated each other – and a child that she was, at this point, almost completely estranged from, things fell apart very quickly. In her own helplessness (and a good portion of denial that she and her husband were, in fact, largely responsible for the current situation), she eventually started shifting the blame of how he turned out on him and Mark, one of his few trusted people at that time, which alienated him even further.

After he moved out and contact ceased almost completely, she began clutching to him instead and often tried to enforce that by guilt-tripping him and generally making him feel bad for cutting ties (i.e. “How could you do this? I’m your mother!” or “I don’t have anyone else but you.”). Besides being highly manipulative, those attempts are not genuine either: She doesn’t want him to “come back” because she’s actually interested in making amends and rekindling their relationship, but to keep face. Additionally, she expects financial advantages from staying in touch: There have been several instances where she called him under the pretense of just wanting to chat, but then subsequently asked for money and immediately turned on him once he turned her down or said that he couldn’t spare anything right now (and mind you, he’s still in debt, too).

The outcome of those events is almost always the same: Either he doesn’t defend himself at all or he simply tries to shuffle himself out of the situation, usually by hanging up or leaving the house. There have only been very few instances where the situation actually escalated into a legitimate fight, which raises the question how and why he reacts to certain things in the way that he does.

III. Fight or flight?

Though previous elaborations might indicate otherwise, his passivity in cases like the above (post-breakup and post-moving out) does not stem from the hope that they will change or maybe still like him back if he only behaves compliant enough, but from the conviction that “there is simply nothing to be done about it” as help outside of his own capabilities virtually does not exist. If you cannot help yourself, it cannot be helped at all. This also means that there is no one you can really trust or rely on but yourself, which most significantly shows in the way that he often does not make the distinction between mocking or teasing someone in jest and doing so in earnest. Due to his experiences, he interprets both as “saying one thing but doing the other” and acts according to it. (Though it needs to be said that this primarily applies to people he doesn’t know well; he has a higher tolerance with those he actually considers his friends or feels comfortable around.) Hence his trust, as easily as it can be won through the right measures, can be lost again just as quickly.

Now, apart from either victory or defeat as a last consequence, his reaction to situations as described above (e.g. attempts at manipulating him, taking advantage of him or degrading him) varies strongly: It can range from silent withdrawal to avoid further hurt to open confrontation and aggression. But as a rule of thumb: The more he feels treated unfairly or attacked/provoked out of the blue (particularly by someone he doesn’t know well), the more likely he is to defend his boundaries and/or demand respect by lashing out. However, this usually happens gradually and follows a very specific pattern:

Verbal confrontation: He reacts to the seeming unfairness or provocation either by mirroring it (= retaliation) or by pointing it out (= defense), whereas it may vary how obviously or directly he does that; however, the more something actually gets to him, the louder or more agitated he tends to be. He’s not very subtle in this regard.

Threat and intimidation: Pretty self-explanatory: If you don’t stop, I’ll show you what happens and I guarantee you you won’t like it.

Physical intimidation: He’s a big guy and he knows it, so purposely overstepping people’s boundaries by physically invading their space (and thus giving them “a taste” of how it’d be to get into a physical fight with him) is one of his go-to tools when all else fails. He resorts to this very obviously here by literally leaning over their table and subsequently waving his hand into Ryan’s face, and here after Eggsy has gotten up from his chair and he makes it a point to not draw back.

Physical violence: The severity of usually depends on the other person’s disposition, on how big or strong they are, whether or not they are a skilled fighter and how much he expects them to fight back. Violence for violence’s sake is rare since his main goal is “to make them stop” – now and in the future, which can, in certain cases, lead to excessive violence should he be under the impression that this is the only way to achieve that goal.

This dichotomy between withdrawal (= avoiding conflict) and confrontation (= seeking out further conflict) is actually exemplary for how he tends to deal with conflict in general: it either does not get solved at all or it gets “solved” through violence, be it verbal or physical. And this is a learned behavior. This is how they used to handle conflict at home and this is how he and the people in his surroundings handled conflict later in life, which, unfortunately, also means that he has barely any conflict resolution skills apart from that. It is incredibly difficult for him to just “talk things out” or even explain what bothers him, particularly so since he’s not used to actually being taken seriously in his needs or concerns.

IV. Passing on the abuse

As I’ve already mentioned in II. and this meme, Rottweiler has a very strong mindset of “If you do not help yourself, no one will”, and combined with the experience that you have to fight for everything lest it will be taken from you,** this can result in situations that are difficult to understand from an outside view.

a) Refusing to help

With the exception of his close friends (Gina, Donald, Poodle) and individuals who cannot properly defend themselves (children, animals), he does come to anyone’s aid despite his own experiences. On the one hand, this has to do with the overall attitude that it is better to not stick your nose into other people’s business or it might fall back on you, but also, and more importantly, with the fact that admitting that you not only need help sometimes but are worthy of receiving it, too, would mean acknowledging the actual extent of his own abuse and the injustices he’s faced.

And considering that he’s built his entire reasoning on those two principles – you are alone and responsible for your own misery – he literally cannot do that without a catastrophic loss of meaning in and of his life. Not to mention that it would increase already existing feelings of helplessness and powerlessness, which would make him feel at other people’s mercy even more.

Eventually, this is why his attitude toward Michelle and Eggsy on the one hand and (canon age) Daisy on the other is so vastly different: he considers them “old enough to take care of themselves” and if they fail to do so, then that’s their own fault. Which is the complete opposite of his stance toward Daisy, who he’d help in a heartbeat if she were to face the same abuse as Michelle and Eggsy.

b) Trauma and abuse

Apart from the matters already discussed, there are other things that “trigger” traumatic events (respectively the memory thereof) and that he often tries to fight in a way that may be considered abusive as well but that he fails to recognize as such:

Avoiding him for no apparent reason (applicable only to people he actually sees more or less regularly): Evokes the same negative feelings as rejection and tends to spill over into aggression quickly if he’s already on difficult terms with the person in concern. His solution usually consists of an attempt to force them into acknowledging his presence and/or telling him why he’s being shunned (i.e. confronting them when they’re alone, chatting them up even though it’s clear they do not want to talk to him, generally seeking out their company), which, at least with other men, is prone to escalate into physical violence.

Not looking at him and/or ignoring him when he’s talking to you: (see above).

Talking over him: (see above, though here the factor “disrespect” plays into it more strongly, so he tends to get angry rather than sad).

Touching him against his will: He doesn’t mind being touched even without his permission – he actually enjoys physical contact a lot, platonic or not –, but he gets incredibly angry when people do it after he’s already told them no.

In regards to the first two, this cycle of abuse is best broken not by telling him off, but by telling him off and why you do not wish to associate with him (even if its not actually the truth, he’s not going to question it anyway): It’s the uncertainty about people’s motives and intentions that makes him bounce off the walls, not the fact that somebody doesn’t like him. So if he knows what’s going on, there is no reason for him to insist on his previous behavior, either. In fact, it is best to be very straightforward with him in general as he tends to struggle with picking up certain social clues.

V. Social isolation and picking up clues

Whereas Rottweiler is good at recognizing people’s moods, he’s significantly less skilled at recognizing the cause of said moods. The reason for this has, again, to do with the environment he grew up in, which demanded being able to see what mood people were in in order to avoid conflict, but at the same time made it difficult to grasp why people were in that mood to begin with – there was simply no one who actually talked about those things, so he was left in the dark about why people did what they did. On top of that, he was, for pretty much the entirety of his childhood and teens, extremely isolated from people outside of his own neglecting family, which impacted the development of proper social skills even further. It is still difficult for him up to this day to identify and distinguish the nuances of interpersonal relationships and interactions. Or put differently: If you want him to understand you, tell him clearly instead of dropping hints.

VI. Last but not least: Displaying affection and other random facts

As inhibited as he may be in the beginning, he’s actually very affectionate and open with his feelings once he’s sure that they are being returned; he loves showing people that he likes them and that they are important to him, regardless of whether or not it’s only platonic. On the flipside, I doubt he’d mesh well with someone who doesn’t like that at all.

He doesn’t smile much, though, let alone laugh, and it takes a lot to make him so. It is therefore a bad index of whether or not he’s having fun or enjoying the current situation, so you might need to read between the lines.

He’s actually not jealous and trying to make him so tends to alienate him instead, as it resembles too much known patterns of emotional manipulation.

Similarly, teasing doesn’t really work, sexual or not. It has so be VERY obvious or with someone he actually expects this kind of behavior from for him to “get it” and maybe play along.

He doesn’t hold grudges. His mother and the two guys who got Sheila killed are the only ones he’ll never forgive. Maybe the kids who bullied him in school, too.

Having grown up in a both emotionally and physically violent environment where violence had exclusively negative connotations, he is very averse to any play-pretend of it, too. He may be kinky otherwise, but BDSM is not up his alley at all.

* Though there was personal selfishness playing into this (i.e. putting their own interests and needs above the ones of their child as the rule and not the exception, generally failing to acknowledge that they are not only responsible for this child existing altogether, but also have the duty to take care of it – or at least make sure someone else is –, hence treating it like a nuisance and very much making this known to him as well), they were also both in a state of lethargy and apathy even before they had children (which, by the way, were both unplanned). At least his mother was/is in serious debt pretty much since her early twenties and his father not only had frequent health issues (mostly due to smoking and drinking excessively for the better part of his life), but probably also got into trouble with the law more than once. On top of that, they generally struggled with getting by and everything that comes with living on the breadline, which made it even more difficult and personally taxing to look after someone who isn’t them.

** Especially during his early childhood, he has made the experience that everything can and will possibly be taken from you: They got seized multiple times due to his parents’ horrendous debt and simply not paying their bills and his mother pawned his Christmas presents and other of his belongings more than once. Additionally, the police showing up at their house was not only a frequent occurrence but also an incredibly invasive and terrifying one, even though he probably doesn’t even fully grasp that himself. Them eventually taking his dog and putting her down was just the final straw.

#❛ criminal record. ⤿ headcanons #very long but very important.#domestic abuse tw #abuse tw #violence tw

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cryptid-science · 6 years

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Shadow People

They usually come at night. Maybe you're reading or watching TV or just lying in bed. He's most often a man, and may be wearing a hat or a hood. A lot of times you'll only catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of your eye, as he flits across the wall or disappears through a doorway. Sometimes he's just a shadow, a flat projection sliding across the wall or ceiling; but other times, especially in the dark when you least expect it, shadow people appear as a full-bodied black apparition, jet black like a void in the darkness itself, featureless but for their piercing empty eyes.

The foggy Santa Lucia Mountains run along the central coast of California, and for hundreds of years, the Chumash Indians and later residents have told of the Dark Watchers, shadowy hatted, caped figures who appear on ridges at twilight, only to fade away before your very eyes. A visit to the Internet reveals hundreds and hundreds of stories from people who saw shadow people in their homes, on websites such as shadowpeople.org, from-the-shadows.blogspot.com, and ghostweb.com:

I opened my eyes and looked towards the middle of the room. I saw a large shadow in the shape of a person. It had no facial features that I could see and it wasn't moving. It was just standing there looking at me... I blinked and then it was gone.

I felt like someone was watching me so I turned to look toward the hallway and there it was in the doorway... It was a black figure. I could only see from the torso up. I felt it was a male and could feel that it was looking at me... I started to walk towards it and it disappeared back into the room.

There, at the foot of my bed, was a tall dark figure like a shadow. It appeared to be almost 7 feet tall with broad shoulders and was wearing what seemed to be an old fashioned top hat and some sort of cape... I watched as it glided past me and out the door of my room.

Correction: Further research suggests that the Chumash did not necessarily have any legend that reasonably corresponds to the Dark Watchers, and thus this link is probably the invention of 20th century ghost story tellers. - BD

It goes without saying that skeptics have long-standing explanations that, from the comfort of your armchair, adequately rationalize all the stories of shadow people. These explanations run the gamut, all the way from mistaken identification of a real shadow from an actual person or object, to various causes of optical illusions or hallucinations like drugs or hypnogogic sleeping states, even simply lying and making up the story. I think that probably everyone would agree that these have all happened, and therefore they do explain some people's experiences. But here's a fact: Try to offer any of those explanations to someone telling you about a specific sighting, and it will likely be immediately shot down. "I was not asleep." "I know the difference between a regular shadow and what I saw." "What about my friend who saw it with me?"

The truth is that it's probably not possible to explain most sightings. If it was some mysterious supernatural noncorporeal being who flitted through the room, no evidence would remain, and thus there's nothing to test or study. It's so trivial to fake photos or video of something as vague as a shadow person that when these exist, they're interesting but practically worthless as far as empiricism goes. Only in the rare case where an actual physical cause can be found, and you're able to consistently reproduce the effect at the right location and the right time of day and in the right lighting conditions, are you able to provide a convincing explanation. Most of the rest of the time, all you have is conjecture and hypothesis, and the eyewitness is likely to reject these.

When I was a kid we once lived in a house where if you walked up the stairs and one of the upstairs bedroom doors was open a crack, you might see a flash of movement inside the room from the corner of your eye. I saw it a number of times, and other people in my family did too. I thought it looked like someone threw a colored sweatshirt across the room. But: I never saw it whenever I walked carefully up the stairs and kept my eyes on that crack; it only happened if you weren't looking right at it and weren't thinking about it. The more you learn about how the brain fills in data in your peripheral vision and blind spots, the less unexpected and strange this particular experience becomes. I have no useful evidence that anything unusual happened, and I have good information that can adequately explain what was perceived. I personally am not impressed enough to deem it worthy of further investigation, but others might be, and that's a supportable perspective. But unless and until some substantial discovery is made, the determination that it must have been a shadow person or ghost is ridiculous. Nothing supports that conclusion. And yet my story is at least as reliable as 99% of the shadow people stories out there. I was not on drugs, I know the difference between a shadow and what I saw, and other people saw it too.

Enthusiasts of the paranormal offer their own set of additional hypotheses about shadow people. One proposes that shadow people are the embodiments of actual people who are elsewhere but engaged in astral projection. This is not an acceptable hypothesis. Like shadow people themselves, astral projection is an untestable, undetectable, unprovable conjecture. Explaining one unknown with another unknown doesn't explain anything, and the match itself cannot be made, since neither phenomenon has any known properties that you could look at and say "What we know of shadow people is consistent with what we know of astral projection." We know nothing about either, so there's no logical basis for any connection.

The same can be said of another paranormal explanation for shadow people, that they are "interdimensional beings". Let's make an outrageous leap of logic and allow for the possibility that interdimensional beings exist. What characteristics would they have? How would we detect their presence? What level of interaction would they have? How would they affect visible light? Since these questions don't have answers, you can't correlate interdimensional beings to the known properties of shadow people. Neither one has any.

But there are phenomena to which we can correlate these stories. We know the details in the eyewitness accounts, and we know the psychological manifestations of conditions like hypnogogia and sleep paralysis. A hypnogogic hallucination is a vivid, lucid hallucination you experience while you're still falling asleep. You're susceptible again eight hours later when you're waking up, only now it's called hypnopompia. But this seems such a cynical, closed-minded reaction. When you suggest hypnogogia as a possible explanation to a person who has witnessed shadow people, many times their reaction will be understandably negative, if not outright hostile. "You're saying I'm crazy" or "You're saying I imagined it" are common replies. Hypnogogia is neither a mental illness nor imagination, and to dismiss it as either is to underestimate the incredible power of your own healthy brain. Too many people don't give their brains enough credit.

I had a dramatic demonstration of the power of hypnopompia — the waking up version — when I was about 10 years old. Early one morning, the characters from Sesame Street put on a show for me in the tree outside my bedroom window. It had music, theme songs, lighting cues and costume changes: A full elaborate production, and it lasted a good hour. To this day, I have clear memories of some of the acts. I even went and woke my parents to get them to watch, but by then the show had gone away. I knew for a fact that I hadn't been asleep. I'd been sitting up in bed and writing down some of the songs they sang. Those writings were real, on real paper, and even made sense when viewed in the light of day. It had been a completely lucid, physical experience for me. But it only existed inside my own brain in a hypnopompic state. My brain had composed music, performed the music, written lyrics, and sang them in silly voices for some director who must also have come from within me. The skits were good. The actors were rough-sewn muppets, independently moving and climbing about, even swinging through the swashbuckling number, on tree branches representing the lines of a great pirate ship. Yet through it all, I'd been conscious and upright enough to actively transcribe the lyrics. That's the power of a brain.

But many believers reject the idea that their brain has such capabilities, and instead conclude that any such perceptions can only be explained as visitations from supernatural entities. One such believer, Heidi Hollis, has gone on Coast to Coast AM radio a number of times with suggestions to defend yourself from shadow people:

Learn to let go of your fear.Stand your ground and deny them access to your person.Focus on positive thoughts.Use the name of Jesus to repel them.Keep a light on or envision light surrounding you.Bless your room with bottled spring water.

Interestingly enough, such actions may actually work (although it's not the techniques themselves that are responsible — plucking a chicken or beating a drum could work just as well, if you think it will). Sleep disorders in the form of disruptive episodes such as these are called parasomnias, and the primary treatments for parasomnias are relaxation techniques, counseling, proper exercise, and the basic lifestyle changes that contribute to better sleeping habits. True believers who reject any notion suggesting their experience was anything but a genuine visit from a supernatural being, but who apply any such remedies as Hollis suggests, do indeed have a good chance of finding relief, when the process of applying the remedy brings them some peace of mind. Even though these remedies are rarely going to be as effective as professionally guided treatment, the fact that they can sometimes work only reinforces the true believers' notion that the shadow person was in fact an interdimensional demon, and that sprinkling holy water around the room did in fact scare it away.

These experiences are weird, and can be scary. But they're also fascinating, once-in-a-lifetime opportunities to experience the true power of your brain. To conclude that it's a supernatural being is to rob yourself of the real wonder of what's probably happening. Fa

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hencethebravery · 7 years

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TITLE: CS 0155 Data Witchcraft, 1/1 (Ao3)

SUMMARY: All the books and movies seem keen on operating under the assumption that magic is supposed to make your life easier. But apparently it was all lies, because being in one’s 20s seems to suck no matter what kind of spells you’re prone to casting. Emma Swan and Killian Jones, while “blessed” with the gift of magic, are certified emotional disasters—it’s a relief to know that at least they’ve found each other. A Contemporary CS Witches AU.

CONTENT WARNING (RATED M): Contains brief mentions of childhood sexual abuse; swearing; casual, non-depressing drug use; implicit and consensual sexual content between adults. The sexual abuse is mentioned in passing and not described in explicit detail. If you need further details before reading, feel free to send me a message!

AUTHOR’S NOTES: This was a story that I planned on finishing with about 9k. It ended up being completed about 41 words under the 15k limit, and imo it should probably be longer, but since that’s not an option, this is what we’re left with! I’d like to thank a few ppl that made this possible: @the-reason-to-sail-home, @pritkins-little-witch, @initiala, and @wellhellotragic for all of their time and helpful thoughts. This fic ended up being far more challenging than I had anticipated and I couldn’t have done it without y’all. Especially Tessa and Kat, you are both my shining stars. Thank you for never letting me give up on myself. Literally incredible freaking artwork that I cannot stop staring at provided by @clockadile and @princesse-swan, both found here and here (respectively). If you’re interested in listening to the soundtrack I made to suit the particular vibe of this story, you can listen on 8tracks, here.

“Watch carefully that magic that occurs when you give a person enough comfort to just be themselves." — Atticus, Love Her Wild: Poems

i. ugly_duckling

Emma Swan learns about magic the same way that most children do—slipped in between the pages of a book. She is not granted the privilege of enjoying a conversation typical of most children; that of parents soothing the inevitable disappointment with the truth that magic is not real. The parents might, for the most part, keep the dream alive for a certain number of years. And so, for that certain number of years, the child will be allowed to live in a world where magic exists. That child will spend a few blissful years staring a little too hard at the creepy house at the end of their street; that child will throw a packet of salt over their shoulder, even at the risk of being yelled at by their parents after the fact. Most children will grow up feeling afraid, and not much can be done about it—but to be able to quell that fear, at least temporarily, with the suggestion that there’s a magical world at the heart of it all, waiting to be discovered? That kind of thinking might make the pain of all those unknown variables worth it, at least for most children.

Emma Swan was not most children. She was “most children,” in the sense that she wandered into a library and plucked a book off the shelf with a flying girl on the cover (she rode a broomstick and wore a black hat). She was “most children,” in the way she jumped off picnic tables and prayed that her feet would never touch the ground. But she was not “most children,” when she brought the book home and showed her new “mother” the particular book in question.

“Oh, you silly thing,” Mrs. Swan had so gleefully informed her, a sharp smirk on her stiff, something not quite right about it face. “Hasn’t anyone told you? There’s no such thing as magic.”

In the Swan household there was no such thing as magic. There was a roof over Emma’s head, and a hot meal three times a day, but in all other matters of importance, it may as well have been another orphanage. To make matters worse there was Betsy Swan’s husband, Mitchell Swan—a man who, on his very best days, could hardly summon the courage to lift his ass from the couch, and on his very worst, slip into Emma’s room every other night when his wife was asleep.

As a child, Emma would disappear into her own head, creating elaborate escape attempts from her supposed home. Sometimes she would don her own pointy black hat, put a spell on her own boring broomstick, and turn Mr. Swan into some small, nasty insect she could crush beneath her shoe.

When Emma turns seven, the Swans buy their first computer. It’s a Power Macintosh G3, which matters little to Emma at the time. At first, when she overhears them talking about it, Betsy mentions something about a mouse, and she finds herself unnaturally excited at the prospect of there being an actual animal in the house. That is until she actually sees the thing, and becomes confused and disappointed at the sight of this small, oddly shaped piece of plastic attached to a length of cord. She stares curiously at the blackened screen for a few moments until Betsy returns, yelling at her to get her “behind” away from the most expensive thing in the house.

Like most major developments that might occur within the pages of any generic fantasy novel, Emma makes her first acquaintance with the digital universe in the dead of night. Closer to midnight, if we’re being specific. A clock chimes from the dining room, and the Swan house is blessedly silent as she sneaks down the hall, past the flickering light of the television, the soft sounds of Mitchell’s snores emitting from his armchair.

The machine sits quiet and imposing atop the desk in the office; the light from the moon casting an eerie glow about the room, the dark screen a seemingly infinite void staring back into her wide, curious eyes. She sneaks a glance back towards where she came, expecting to hear Mitchell’s heavy footsteps, or Betsy’s cruel laughter, but she’s only greeted with silence, the odd creak of an old house.

When she finally works up the nerve to power it on there’s a kind of yawning, high-pitched static that hits her ears in a not entirely unpleasant way. It’s just enough that she finds herself overcome with the urge to open and close her mouth comically wide, like when your ears pop inside the cabin of an airplane and you have to re-adjust all the loose air inside your head. There’s a sound afterwards, a low hum that would never really go away. In later years, she would come to understand that there’s always a vague humming associated with most electronics. What was different in Emma’s case was the sound beneath the hum, or rather, the sounds.

She would learn to ignore them after a time, picking and choosing the most relevant or useful voices. Sometimes they were people, other times they were… something else. The first night she boots up the Power Macintosh, it’s all white noise, and she assumes it’s a thing that everyone can hear. It’s a lot of excited whispers, so hushed and quickly spoken that she has a difficult time making out any one word or phrase.

“Hello?” she utters quietly, still silently praying for the Swans to remain asleep and unaware of her trespassing. “Is there anyone out there?”

The humming cacophony of distant voices and dissonant beeps are the only answer, as if her own voice has gotten lost in the din, and her eyes search the desktop until they land on an oddly familiar image of a piece of paper. It is unlike any other piece of paper she’s ever seen, this bold, flat image outlined in blocks of color—untouchable, and with no discernible smell or texture. She has stumbled upon a word processor, a blank document with a blinking, vertical line that waits and waits.

The moon grows a bit brighter in the wake of her excitement, but Emma is too eager to notice the way the darker corners of the room become less so; even the way in which the computer itself has begun to emit its own soft, illuminated ring of greenish light, as if the office has been submerged in water.

“Hello,” Emma writes slowly, one key at a time. With each selection of every letter beneath her fingertips sounds a satisfying clunk, and she grins as she continues, “My name is Emma Swan.”

The silence that follows in the wake of all those voices is nearly deafening, but there’s a clear answer that sounds from within the four walls of her newly christened safe haven; murky and quiet, getting comfortable from her place seated at the bottom of a pool, “Hello, Emma Swan. It is very nice to meet you.”

As it turns out, there is quite a lot about the Swans’ Power Macintosh G3 that they are not privy to. The Swans, in point of fact, seem to be ignorant of a great many things occurring out in the world and even in their own home about 99% of the time. They have never heard the hum of voices coming from the computer room, nor do they seem to receive the same kind of unsettling, predictive programming that Emma can suss out from within the apparent blankness of a darkened television screen. It’s a blessing and a curse. While it’s nice to know she’s not quite so alone as she used to be—while it seems as if she’s been able to lift a veil and spot the real world underneath, there’s still the reality of the Swans always hovering in another room, at her back, or in her bed.

Betsy catches Emma on the computer late one night about a month or so after her first midnight rendezvous, and the subsequent consequences are about as bad as she assumed they would be. There’s a harsh smack to the back of the head, even harsher words, and a rough tugging of her arm towards her bedroom door, tossing her inside and slamming it shut before Emma can say a word in her own defense. She cries and seethes, the tightness at the back of her throat a painful and vicious reminder of the fact that she is little more than a prisoner.

And while Emma stewed inside her room, her small feet pacing back and forth from door to window and back again, Betsy Swan had tried and failed to turn on her new computer after it had shut off quite unexpectedly. It’s screen remained stubbornly dark, and there was Betsy, angrily and futilely attempting to turn it back on, only to give up about 20 minutes later, returning to her own bedroom, mumbling to herself about how they would have to lug the fucking thing back to the store.

It’s all a bit of a different game after that. Emma has to be more careful about how and when she visits that place she’s found behind the curtain. She’s sure to cover her tracks online, deleting files or browsing data as if she had never been. She spends the next few years doing her best to become a ghost—in both of her lives. Within the walls of her “home,” in the hallways at school, and in the cold, impersonal well of the Internet. She studies everything as carefully as she can, but does her best to leave as little an impression as possible. She excels a little too well in her typing class at school, earning her some impressive marks from a teacher, so she fumbles a few weeks later and drops down a grade.

It goes on this way for two or three years, and it’s about when she starts yearning for more that she obtains a bus pass and starts regularly visiting the library. It is during these regular visitations that she meets Lily Page, and wonderfully, her life is never the same.

Emma is close to turning eleven when she gets a private message from a user called “spyro-huntr3ss” on a public message board. At first her instinct is to block the user—she’s been around long enough to know that people are scum wherever you go, even in this digital world where she had felt so safe at first, this place she had decided to call her own.

“I know what it is you’re trolling for,” her mysterious new contact, likely trying to get her age, number, or address had sent, followed by, “and I can help you find it.”

From what Emma has been able to discern thus far, most people using the Internet were just as oblivious as the Swans, which was disappointing. She had been hoping, in vain it would seem, that once she’d been able to locate more users that they might be able to help explain it. The humming, and the voices, and the stories in the static—the songs lost in the high-pitched chorus of a dial-up tone. Unfortunately, it wasn’t to be. Most people thought she was being metaphorical, or just plain paranoid. Message boards were a breeding ground for those folks made of cracks and dark places; lost people looking for patterns and meaning where there were none to be found.

The unsettling shiver that shrieked down the length of her spine had her head swiveling atop her thin, spindly neck as if she were some kind of anxious, wide-eyed owl; her mouth going dry at the sight of her own name staring back at her in bold, black text. To her profound relief, the library appeared to be just as empty as it had been when she walked in that morning. Not many people would brave the snow-filled streets a few days before Christmas to hang out in a public library, but then again, not many people had the Swans waiting for them at home.

Emma felt her heart beat anxiously in time with the blinking cursor inside her text box, a taunting slowness that seemed to be daring her to refuse the offer. She glimpsed at the library entrance and observed the snow falling heavily atop the empty city streets, tried to ignore the sickeningly sweet melodies of holiday cheer emanating from the head librarian’s office. The truth had been all she ever wanted, wasn’t it? From the very first moment she’d realized that she had come from nothing, that no one had wanted her, and could that be true? From the feeling of Mitchell’s hands and eyes where they shouldn’t be—wondering if all fathers were like this. From the first time she’d booted up the Power Mac, the ghostly chorus ringing in her ears, always ringing, ringing, ringing—

Lily’s “truth” is every bit as exciting as Emma’s painfully beating heart had hoped it would be. That yes, Emma Swan, there is a world behind the world and you have been invited to be a part of it. The people who are “in charge?” Those people that have hurt you, that have convinced you that you don’t matter, that what you might want for your life doesn’t matter—those people are powerless here. But not you, Emma Swan, not us. We’re the powerful ones now.

It takes her some time to truly trust her new informant, “spyro-huntr3ss,” who, while forthcoming about the realities of this world, the potential for what they could do, of what was waiting for them a few years down the line, was quite tight-lipped concerning personal details of her own life. Which was understandable, if not a bit frustrating, especially since she had known Emma’s name without having asked for it.

According to her new source (Emma’s not certain “spyro-huntr3ss” will ever be a friend), there are ways to pick apart the cacophony of sound constantly washing over her in dizzying regularity. There are also, blessedly, ways to tune out the noise. “Invest in a good pair of headphones,” had been one of the first things she’d advised, and after Emma, not yet a teenager, trapped between the freedom of the web and the reign of her parents, had quite logically argued that she had no money for such things, Lily had “laughed,” a peaky mechanical noise echoing in Emma’s ears.

Despite the fact that she was still technically a child and living under the Swans’ supervision, Emma had never in her life felt so independent. If not for her inconvenient need to eat and drink every once in awhile, the Swans might have forgotten she was there at all. There was of course the unfortunate recurrence of Mr. Swan; still coerced by some dark, unspoken perversions that it was his God-given right to appear by Emma’s bedside every few nights. Until Lily had learned of it, of course. It had been a secret Emma had always kept to herself, except for that first night she had run to Betsy, hoping for a savior and finding a stern hand instead. A disgusted voice of disbelief, calling Emma the sick one, the wrong one. “Mr. Swan would never do that you wicked little thing,” she had hissed into Emma’s small, red face. “You’re lucky I don’t send you right back to the orphanage for this disgusting stunt.”

And of course, Mitchell had found out, because the dutiful wife informs her stalwart husband of every single thing going on in their house, and he had made damn sure that Emma never said a word of their “visits” to anyone, especially not Mrs. Swan.

They had been messaging one another back and forth for about two years before Lily discovered her dirty little secret, and Emma was quite happy to finally be able to think of her as a friend. Even still, she had never been tempted to reveal the truth—she was embarrassed and ashamed, and she assumed that Lily would never speak to her again should she ever slip-up. Ultimately, it had been Emma’s penchant for frequently keeping extremely late hours, coupled with her recent cell phone acquisition, which she had been keeping underneath her pillow.

Emma had only recently started cursing, and found that it was one of the few things she genuinely enjoyed. It made her feel like she was older than she was, and the older she was, the closer she was to being free of this fucking place.

When she wasn’t getting lost within the dark, less than reputable corners of the Internet, Emma learned that she loved to read. Lately, she seems to have gotten into the habit of reading the same kind of story—the same kind of journey, over and over again. She’s read these stories so many times, in point of fact, that she’s begun to seek out these same patterns as they might appear in her own life. Is this beginning? She might ask herself, stepping off the bus and colliding with a polite stranger. Is this the end? She would nervously wonder, thinking she had heard footsteps outside the door to the computer room.

Staring at Lily’s direct yet subtle offer on the screen, she knew that this must be one of those moments; the moment where the story is about to take a turn, and no amount of deus ex machina, or praying, or wishing will ever bring back the life you had once lived.

Mitchell Swan is stunned to find an ungodly (and almost certainly illegal) amount of money in his bank accounts the next day, and he arrives home from work in an alcohol-fueled panic. Emma watches the two of them, quiet and unbothered from the darkened hallway as they titter and yell at one another like a pair of screeching birds. Her phone feels warm in her pocket, and she smiles at the thought of what’s in store—all those atrocious, sickening pictures hidden away on his work computer. What will the world think of you, Mr. Swan?

ii. [email protected]

Killian Jones often feels trapped by the city—little more than a lifeless, concrete prison; he despises nearly everything about the place. And to make matters worse, he has the misfortune to have been cursed with the burden of having too reliable a memory. It is far too easy to be able to slip back, back, back—all the way back until he’s suddenly standing in the middle of his mother’s garden. Until he can hear her voice in his head, laughing, singing, scolding. In these brief yet harrowing moments of nostalgia he can almost always hear her tears as well; her cries of pain that he had been helpless to alleviate. Logically, he knows he had been little else but a boy when she had first fallen ill, but it matters little. He feels responsible for her illness, even more so for her eventual death, alone and searching for a son that was no longer there.

Killian and Cordelia Jones owned a farm about five hours north of the city. Mr. Jones is long gone, and Killian, while in possession of an exceptionally good memory, remembers little of the man who his mother assures him was his father. She maintained his innocence for many years, wanting her son to know that he was loved, but as he approached a certain stubborn, righteous age, she had been forced to admit that no, he was not the man that Cordelia had hoped he would be.

“But it has not a thing to do with you, my love,” she said quietly, allowing him the benefit of thinking she hadn’t noticed his tears. It was truly astonishing that she never once raised her voice to the boy, especially given his behavior in later years. It was almost always at a level tempo, calm and direct, with just a hint of an Irish brogue that her own mother had possessed, although Killian had never actually met the woman.

“She wouldn’t have put up with your nonsense for a single moment.” Shaking her head at the sight of a broken lamp, or a carton of milk left to spoil on the counter. “You are one lucky lad.”

His mother insisted that the Jones’ were a lucky family. But as an adult he would come to believe that they had never been anything other than cursed. It would always be unclear to him exactly why that was, but he assumed it had something to do with the magic. That was always the case, wasn’t it? “All magic comes with a price,” says every single fantasy novel he had ever read, every magically-inclined film he had ever seen. Their downfall, in later years, seemed to him inevitable. If his mother were still alive, he would have asked her, “Did our family make a deal with the wrong demon?”

His bitterness, however, would still take a few more years to develop. As a child, he was enthralled with the sight of the vines and the flowers crawling their way inside the house. The way his mother would reach her hands deep within the soil and a few moments later, up would sprout the stubborn seeds. Cordelia made their living with her magic, often receiving visitors from the surrounding towns looking for quick-fix solutions to their various troubles. They would often come late at night, or when he was out in the fields, trying to make things grow or flourish, or wilt, as the case may be. But when he would see them walking nervously down the drive, quietly knocking on their aged blue door, he would drop whatever it was he was working on and try to sneak a peek at their meetings.

“What do they ask you for?” he wondered one night as she tucked him into bed, his eyes wide and curious, bright with all kinds of vivid imaginings. “Love,” she answered happily, bringing the blanket up to rest beneath his chin.

“Love?” he asked with a grimace, as if he were about to become infected with a terrible disease at the mere mention of the word. “And sickness,” she continued, chuckling at his obvious disapproval. “And loneliness. Or success in their businesses.”

“Can I help?” he asked sleepily, feeling the effect of the chamomile tea his mother had made him drink every evening before bed.

“One day,” she answered, kissing him on the forehead. “Soon.”

Ten years later and he’s not so sure how she would feel about the kind of man that he’s become. What he’s been using his “gifts” for. The harshest parts of him imagine telling her that heis helping them—helping them forget how terrible the world can be; the blissfulness of ignorance. And if he makes some extra money in the process? Well, then so bloody be it. He can almost imagine himself cruelly bragging of it even, taking pleasure in the heartbroken, disappointed look on her thin, pale face.

It hadn’t started this way, to be sure. Initially, the plan had been to go to the city temporarily, to make some extra money to afford the kind of medicine that would keep her alive for longer than just a few months. Of course she had been lying to his face when she had suggested it. Made him think that there was even the slightest chance that she would live another six months. Unbeknownst to him, she had apparently contracted an illness that even magic couldn’t cure (wasn’t supposed to cure, according to her).

“Then what good is it?” he had yelled despairingly, trying to ignore the pitying look on her face from where she was laid up in bed; small, weak, and complacent. No, not complacent.

“Accepting,” she had sternly tried to correct him. “Magic is not meant to prolong that which should end. You know this, Killian.”

But he had been too angry, too determined to seek out a cure, and Cordelia Jones, knowing her son, knowing his stubbornness, his inability to give up, to grapple with the helplessness of being human, had suggested that if he went to the city, used his abilities to make some extra money, perhaps they would be able to afford the medicine that could save her life.

“And take the cat, would you?” she had asked on his way out the door, shakily calling after him from where she dozed. “I want to make sure she’s well-looked after.”

Chammy was a calico with poor eyesight and an even poorer temperament. Most of the time. If you gave her some extra food or a good brushing she might deign to sit with you on the couch for a bit, but most of the time she was content to sit on a ratty armchair that he had pulled in off the street, her ears and tail flicking at the stray vines or weeds when they would grow too close.

The plan had always been to return. As soon as he had stepped foot off the bus, he had felt suffocated. By the polluted air, the distracting, flickering lights, the sounds and smells of too many human beings packed into one place like sardines in a tin. With Chammy’s crate in one hand and a packed duffle in another, he had wandered angrily through the streets until he’d found the shitty apartment he had managed to rent from a property owner who lived nearer to the farm.

“It’s not much,” he had warned Killian, clearly uncomfortable with the knowledge that Mrs. Jones was wasting away at the back of the house somewhere, “but it’ll do for a time.”

“I’m certain it will,” Killian had answered with a bitter grin, “Thanks for your help.”

Dealing in illicit substances hadn’t been the plan at first either. He had seen the kinds of services his mother provided; there wasn’t really a “modern” term for what she practiced other than “holistic medicine,” which wealthy business people in coastal cities seemed to love opening their wallets for. Unfortunately for Killian, he had never had much of a head for such things. The plants he had managed to cultivate back home, for himself and his friends, the kinds of things the local cops had busted him for on more than one occasion, those were the kinds of things he was good at. However, getting scolded by the cops back home was one thing, winding up in a city prison was quite another.

It had taken many frustrated evenings of trial and error, and even a few angry customers, before he was forced to admit to himself that the “healing” part of it was simply not where his true talents lay.

“This is good shit,” one of his recent acquaintances (the people you sell to should never really be considered anything more) had told him late one night from their perch on his fire escape, “You could make some good money with this.”

And that’s where it had all started; a steady stream of high quality product, and more than enough people willing to pay top dollar for it. He had been just about ready to afford the medicine, the whole reason he had moved to this awful city in the first place, to retrieve the cure and bring it back to his mother, when he had gotten a call from his landlord that Cordelia had passed in her sleep.

“I’m sorry for your loss, son,” he had said quietly in a grating tone of pitying condescension, “you should come back soon, collect her things. Figure out what to do with the place.”

“Yeah,” Killian had barked back, his vision going fuzzy and his throat tightening, “Thanks.”

And he had planned to return home for the burial. He knew that was what he was supposed to do. He had even gone so far as to get a babysitter for Chammy, had bought a bus ticket and packed a bag. Only he had smoked a little bit too much one morning (in preparation for the nightmarish journey home) and when he returned to himself a few hours later, found that he had missed his bus by several days. There were a few voicemail messages, mostly from people back home who had watched him grow up—some of them angry and scolding, others sympathetic and patient, reminding him that legally the farm was still his, that he could take as much time as he needed.

Days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months, and suddenly it had felt too hard, and he was too much of a coward. So, ten years later and here he was—still trapped in his box like every other human-shaped sardine he would often glare at on the subway. He has managed to turn the apartment into something of a home, bringing in some potted plants that he had encouraged to grow a bit above their station. It’s something of an oasis in an otherwise barren hellscape, and while it is rare for him to not feel the occasional pang of regret and longing for what his life should have been, there’s still the nagging cowardice that has left him paralyzed in a life that feels unnervingly unfinished.

If he’s awake before sunrise, odds are whatever he thinks might be at his door at such an hour is more than likely a figment of his imagination. Especially if that figment is a grumpy, petite blonde who looks suspiciously like a Daria reject. Most of that blonde hair (imaginary as it is) would seem to be stuffed into an old, slouchy beanie in desperate need of stitching, but a few stray hairs have escaped to fall across her charmingly furrowed brow.

“Well, I must say this is a surprise,” managing to speak despite the dry mouth and still being half-asleep. “What do you say we continue this meeting at a more reasonable hour? Or preferably never? Never also works well for me.”

Normally he might not be so inclined to such rudeness, but a figment is a figment, and he needs his eight hours if he’s going to be remotely personable throughout the day. And drug dealers are famously nothing without their personalities.

One of the admittedly lovely, yet sadly fictional, woman’s eyebrows shoots quite delicately upwards, and he makes note of her especially twitchy fingers moving restlessly against her folded elbow. “Are you always this rude to potential customers?”

“Only when they interrupt my beauty sleep, darling, now if you’ll excuse me—”

He goes to close the door, only he’s found it blocked by a smallish, military-booted foot stuck between it and the frame, the ends of said boot all soft and scuffed; an experienced leather shoe on a tiny blonde female with impeccably groomed eyebrows. He should probably start laying off the more experimental strains. This was an unusually vivid hallucination.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re very pretty,” she says hurriedly, her own tired eyes trying desperately to meet his, “but I haven’t slept in about three days, so, could you maybe help me out?”

“I’m not in the habit of selling to imaginary wom—ow! Bloody hell, what on earth was that for?”

Her fingernails are painted a formidable shade of black, which was an odd detail to have stuck in one’s mind when they’re in the midst of pinching your chest hair unexpectedly viciously. Her eyes were also a little less tired, a lot more manic, and a particularly vivid and enticing shade of green. It made him think of something—a specific memory, locked away somewhere at the back of his mind where it was supposed to stay .

“I can assure you, I am very real,” she says on a grin, her hand still twisted up in his flannel. “And like I said, I am also very tired. So, please?”

It was the sudden, gentle note of desperation in her voice, paired with the residual nipple pain at the very least, that had his circuits re-firing a little bit better than they had earlier. A familiar kind of exhaustion, an intriguing feeling of despair that he had often felt stirring painfully within his own heart. It was the fact that, while he had only known this woman to be real for a few seconds, he knew that the gentility of her voice, the sudden nervousness—that these were hard things for the slight girl with the pale hands and heavy boots.

“My apologies. Please,” smiling and opening the door wider to allow her entrance, he gestures a hand inwards as she walks into the living room. Staring at the stiff slowness of her movements, the way she filled the space around her—that was when he had suddenly remembered. The sight of the farm in the heat of late summer and the dramatic, end-of-day light that would cast the garden in a fiery glow. The smell of the dirt under his bare feet, the warm flesh of ripening tomatoes. And was that his mother’s voice, calling his name from the porch?

“What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t,” she answered, no doubt distracted by the unusually green and “lively” look of the place. Not to mention Chammy’s guttural chirps at her feet. “It’s Emma,” she said, extending a thin, still hand. “Emma Swan.”

“Emma Swan,” hoping his grin was a little less frenzied than it felt, “Killian Jones.”

iii. vwthi3f

From the outside looking in, most people would probably suspect that the soul-crushing heartbreak, betrayal, and subsequent imprisonment would have left Emma Swan yearning for the so-called “carefree days” of her youth—but those people would be wrong. It would be safe to assume that those same people had probably lived fairly standard, mediocre lives, and there’s nothing wrong with having lived such a life. Mundane lives such as these, they’re usually of the pain-free variety. Aside from the occasional missed birthday, disappointing grade, or sneaking liquor from the cabinet before they’re able, childhood tends to pass quickly and blissfully. It’s one of those things that adults often recall with fondness; they imagine that if they could go back in time to an age before bills, home ownership, and a number of regretful sexual encounters, that they might be truly happy again. Emma Swan had dreamed of the mundane life even before she had started living with the Swans, and certainly afterwards she had desired it moreso. She wished that her pain (and even now, the labeling of her past as “pain,” felt pitiful and tiresome) was the kind of story you didn’t mind sharing, instead of the harsh, ugly thing that she preferred most people not know. Even if they were your friends.

From her prison cell, she often tries to make a list in her head of all the good things that have happened since leaving the Swans. Those times when she’s feeling a bit lonelier than usual, or after she’s spent a little too much time thinking about his smile. As if breaking one’s heart was the worst thing that could happen to a person. And sure, prison is pretty miserable, but it’s not a foster home, and it’s not the Swans. Prison has designated computer time, and there’s no sneaking down darkened hallways at night. And the prison system, unsurprisingly, knows very little of magic, which is how she so easily bypasses the archaic security software, reaches out across the void, and finds the comforting, if not vaguely biting, words of an old friend.

At the very least, she is gracious enough to avoid coming right out and saying “I told you so.”

One of the first things she notices about Lily Page (and isn’t that just irony at its finest) is her hair. It’s long, dark, pin straight, and some of the thickest she’s ever seen. She always threatens to chop most of it off, but never does (and never will), despite Emma’s playful needling. Unsurprisingly pale, with deep red lips and black, wet eyes that always make it appear as if she’s on the verge of tears. “Ask me if I’m ‘okay,’ one more fucking time, Swan,” she would frequently threaten before fleeing the room. She would eventually, and begrudgingly, admit that being on the receiving end of someone else’s “concern” made her feel slightly nauseous, which Emma had found to be pleasantly relatable.

Lily had been living in a very small studio at the tip-top of a tall, post-war building in the financial district. It was a charming place to live, but not particularly well-suited to housing two people, so they found another. As Emma had already been led to believe, money wasn’t much of a concern when most of it was digital these days anyway, and while they couldn’t go for something especially lavish (so as not to draw too much attention to themselves), it was still a nicer home than Emma could have ever imagined as a child.

The feeling of safety and comfort in her own home is one of the good things on her list. If nothing else, one of the very best. Having the security of a door with a lock on it—a roommate who always knocks. The first night in their new place she has the best night of sleep she’s ever had, and when she woke up in the early afternoon the following day, her blankets unmoved from the night before, her door still blessedly shut, she had to muffle her relieved sobs with the absurdly soft pillow beneath her head, lest she force Lily into an awkward moment of interpersonal comfort she often found distasteful.

“I’m better online,” she had humbly conceded after an awkward, consolatory pat on the back. But it was okay. She was still the best friend that Emma had ever known, and besides, she wasn’t great with people either.

Their apartment was a veritable hive of high-end, up-to-date tech. The walls practically hummed with it all, the various cords trailing in and out between rooms, framing windows and doorways. Another thing to add to the list; the small touches that made it both a home and impenetrable fortress from which they might change the world if they had a mind to. She’s got the friend, never really had one of those before, but on top of that, she gets a teacher—she gets power. A lot of it. She also gets an iBook G4 with 1.5 GB of memory (that she manages, with some magical prowess, to enlarge to around 3 or 4). She loves that it fits in her lap, that she can feel the warmth of it against the tops of her thighs when she hasn’t powered it down for 48 hours. The sounds of the keys beneath her fingertips, loud and decisive, wary of her at first, but after a few weeks, craving her touch.

“We all have different strengths and weaknesses,” Lily had explained over coffee, twirling the length of headphone cord round and round her finger. “You seem to be especially adept at Research.”

Emma huffs. “Couldn’t anyone be good at that?”

“Not when it involves talking to corpses and seeing the future.”

“I don’t think they liked to be called that,” Emma had said uncomfortably, turning the sound down on the phone in her pocket. “Well,” Lily answered smartly, forcing down her cold coffee with a grimace, “that’s why I’m not so good at it, isn’t it?”

Emma eventually learns that when Lily says “Research,” it doesn’t necessarily mean traditional forms of information gathering. She could hop on Google and find an article, probably quicker than most, sure, but what Lily really means is communication and knowledge; she means dipping her fingers into the void and coming back with Truth. Apparently there’s a whole freaking dictionary of witch-related vocabulary that she’s missed out on, and funnily enough, it’s not online.

“Where anyone could find it?” Lily explained, dropping the aged, poorly bound manuscript onto Emma’s lap, “Analog has its uses.” Knowledge is good. Answers are good. The world is vast and old and it’s all in one place, just waiting for her to hit the power button.

It sounds stupid, but she could eat ice cream whenever she wanted. It’s one of the good things, and as Lily had informed her, it’s also one of those things that kind of made her just like everyone else. “Most people enjoy the privilege of being able to eat ice cream whenever they want,” she said, distracted with something or other on the screen in front of her, “congratulations, you’re finally normal.”

There was a note of sarcasm in her tone (surprise, surprise), but Emma couldn’t suppress the grin that had appeared on her face at the thought of being just like everyone else. If one were to totally ignore the “tech-savvy witch,” thing, obviously. Eating ice cream, “just like everyone else,” while a good thing at first, would ultimately return to bite her quite firmly on the ass, but for a while it had been Rum Raisin and Moose Tracks whenever the hell she wanted. Mercifully, it was sold cheap at the corner bodega and sometimes she would wander out of the apartment mere hours before the sun was due to rise and buy herself one or two pints (even though there were several unfinished sitting in the freezer). She met Neal Cassidy during yet another trip to the store in order to indulge in one or two flavors she hasn’t had the pleasure of trying yet. Like Cherry Garcia or the one with the caramel-filled chocolates shaped like fish. Lily had referred to the fish-shaped chocolate as a “crime against nature,” but she could be a tad dramatic sometimes.

“Gotta cure those night-bites somehow, I guess, right?”

Emma Swan dislikes and distrusts men as a general rule. So when she heard a distinctly male voice at her back, had sensed the way he stood over her, she had felt uncomfortable almost immediately. Her phone started to buzz quite incessantly in her pocket, despite the fact that she had left Lily sleeping and no one else had her number—she had, mistakenly, ignored it.

Emma had never entertained the prospect of a romantic relationship before Neal. At that point in her life she’d been getting closer to 18, so she knew it was about “that time,” but it had never really been something she wanted to pursue. She had only just started getting used to the feeling of Lily sitting next to her on the couch; the non-threatening way she might bump their hips together when she moved past her in order to get to the fridge. And it’s not like he managed to get under her skin quickly (if anything she remembers noting that he had quite the punchable face), but there was something about him she had found charming, and unfortunately she was not quite as repulsed as she might have expected herself to feel.

“What?” she had asked with some confusion, hoping her facial expression was not quite so dumb as she imagined it to be.

“Late night cravings,” he clarified, nodding at the ice cream in her hand, “I know the feeling.”

She managed to surmise he was talking about being high, not that she would have really known. But she nodded anyway, finding herself in the familiar predicament of having to pretend she’s “in on the joke,” so to speak. She had never done any kind of drug at that point, but she had preferred he assume she knew what he was talking about and let her off the hook, rather than come off as some kind of dense pre-teen. Luckily for her it had worked, and he simply smiled and walked off, snagging a candy bar and shoving it into his pocket as he went. Despite the obviousness of the lift the clerk had failed to notice, and Emma rolled her eyes, finally pulling the buzzing phone out of her pocket.

Idiot, read a text from an unknown number, the less frenzied hum of a few dozen voices scrolling in the darkness of her closed eyes, infinite, vertical rows of ones and zeroes. That’s a walking prison sentence if we’ve ever seen one.

Emma stares up at the ceiling of her bleak, unremarkable prison cell and thinks about how she might yell at those numbers now, if she could. Thinking they’re so smart all the time just because they’re dead. Or, ya know, “untethered by their human forms,” or whatever the fuck. In yet another teachable moment, Lily had tried to explain that while most of the time she was in conversation with the dead, sometimes she was just reaching out to other Techies wandering around in the same playground as her.

“You shouldn’t trust everything they say,” Lily had warned, “I know it seems like they know everything because they’re ‘one with the machine,’” her eyes rolling, “but most of them are just as lost and fucked up as we are. There’s no power greater than your own instinct.”

It’s too bad Emma never really got around to the whole “trusting herself” thing. Especially when it came to Neal Cassidy—the first boy to make her feel special. The asshole who had given her a taste of what it meant to love and be loved only to rip the still beating heart out of her chest and squish the particularly sensitive parts between his toes. Not that she had known that at the time. At the time she had simply been relieved to know that she wasn’t completely broken. That someone could care for her, that she could care for them in return. That she could bear the feeling of his hand wrapped around hers (ignoring the fact that she was often bothered by the unusual sweatiness of his palms).

When she’s not walking in circles around the prison yard or in the computer lab, she’s replaying her memories of the last year as if they were disassociated segments of a silent film—a distorted, desaturated mess of key scenes that would ultimately lead her to this very moment, to this hard bed beneath her back. That’s usually when the bad begins, when she goes back to adding good things to the list.

The dead ones always want to know because they’ve forgotten, and they’re hoping that she’ll be able to help them remember what it was like, being alive. Please, Emma Swan, please bore us with the details.

It’s not quite so bad at first. They flirt a lot, which Emma finds fun despite never having really done it before, and then there’s her first kiss, and the first time having sex she actuallyenjoys, and running through the darkened city streets without a care in the world. There’s sharing her story with someone who seemed to care, a lover and not a friend; who upon learning of her abilities got a gleam in his eye that she would live to regret ignoring. There was getting high for the first time and trying not to feel hurt when he had laughed at her obvious inexperience, despite having promised that he wasn’t going to. It was stupid to ignore the hint of warning in Lily’s eyes when she started spending more nights at Neal’s place. Not to mention the dozens of ominous text messages from unknown numbers.

Emma had become defensive and snarky almost immediately. Taking offense at the suggestion that she couldn’t handle herself in her first grown-up relationship, as if she wasn’t a smart, experienced woman with a good head on her shoulders.

As it turned out, the “babysitter” probably would have been helpful. Maybe the babysitter would have been able to stop her from transferring all of those large, traceable funds into Neal’s accounts. When she has a difficult time conjuring up another good thing to add to the list, his smarmy voice pops into her head instead, reassuring her that “no one would ever find out.”

Three years and one prison sentence later she often finds herself haunted by her own words. Disgusted with herself for betraying the one person who had never been anything other than kind in a world full of monsters. “All’s well that ends well,” Lily had said in greeting upon picking her up from prison, her face hidden beneath the shadow of a baseball cap. “Breathe in that sweet, sweet freedom.”

The only useful thing that Neal had managed to leave in his wake, aside from a renewed sense of disgust with humanity as a whole, was the innocuous drug habit. She didn’t consider herself to be an addict by any means, not that an actual addict would admit to such a thing, but she certainly imbibed more frequently than she might have predicted a few years earlier. The problem (if you had to call it that) was using it for normal human things that most people were able to accomplish without the chemical assist—things like sleeping.

Emma has always had trouble sleeping. It was unsurprising given her history, but as it turns out, staring at screens almost 24 hours a day doesn’t really help the situation either. She had tried a handful of other remedies over the years: a hot cup of chamomile tea before bed (that always made her have to pee right on the edge of sleep); some user generated playlists comprised of soothing instrumentals (except for that one “experimental” song at the end that left her heart racing); charge and cast spells left waiting in her camera roll, various hand drawn sigils or long strings of emojis (while effective, often accompanied by odd dreams). For whatever reason, the weed had been the most helpful. She had felt ashamed at first; good little girls don’t use drugs after all (sounding suspiciously like Mrs. Swan in her head), but it was like Lily always said, “If it works, it works.”

4: [email protected]

While their first meeting had undeniably fallen on the rougher end of the friendship spectrum, there’s something about her that insists upon a second. Especially after he’s had more sleep, and his charm is significantly more effective. He’s held her hand for an almost inappropriately long few moments before he comes to his senses and asks after her problem—what is it she’s in the market for? It’s as she’s said, “trouble sleeping,” and he reminds her that his product, while almost exclusively well-received is a bit, shall we say, “stronger” than the usual fare.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asks, glancing suspiciously around his oddly lush studio despite it being midwinter.

“My methods can be a bit,” pausing for effect, a bit of vague handwaving for emphasis, “unusual.”

“‘Unusual,’ like laced, unusual?”

“Good heavens woman, no,” he says hurriedly at the angry look on her face, frustrated with his seeming inability to form sentences this morning. “Let me show you.”

Normally, he might not be so inclined to reveal his “gifts” to a new client, but as he surmised from their awkward yet brief conversation at his door, there was just… something about her. And for whatever reason, he got the sense that she wasn’t about to be shocked or frightened by his admission. He leads her over to a large, round window that looks out over a dismal alleyway. The tops of other apartment buildings with decrepit looking antenna rest precariously on their respective roofs. The glass of the window is warped, evidence of the building’s rather respectable age; dotted with air bubbles and flecked with dirt and pollen. The window itself, while framed by some aesthetically pleasing distressed brick, is also encircled by a rather impressive wreath of thick, green vines.

Beneath the window he’s setup his appropriately named “Alchemist’s Table,” complete with ceramic pots and glass test tubes, even an old microscope he had acquired at a middle school auction. “You some kind of mad scientist?” Her words sound a bit sharp, but they’re nowhere near harsh enough to hide the curiosity and wonder in her voice, and he plays along with a bit of a “mad” grin.

“After a fashion.”

He shows off a bit after that, there’s no denying it, sticking a finger into a pot of soil with a small sprout peeking out of the dirt. A young and fragile thing. Emma watches, entranced, as it begins to grow and stretch itself into being, and after a few seconds, a small, pale green strawberry appears. “It’ll be ripe enough to eat in a few hours,” he says casually, reining in his laughter at the look of shock on her face, “if you’d like to stay for a bit.”

While he’s used to women finding this particular trick alluring, he finds himself quite surprised at what she ends up saying instead. “You’re one of us.”

“Sorry, love, one of who?”

“Us!” she says happily, her hands clapping gently together, “I’ve never met a non-Techie before.”

“A non-what?”

“Do you not know?” she asks, suddenly sobering, her head tilted endearingly to one side. At the blank look on his face she smiles softly, her earlier fidgeting having evaporated at the prospect of revealing this apparent truth. She leans close enough that he can smell the sweetened coffee on her breath, and an oddly familiar floral scent that seems to stem from the blonde tips of her hair.

“You’re not the only one,” she divulges in an excited whisper, and he becomes abruptly alarmed at the likelihood of falling in love with this strange woman who ended up being undeniably real. “There’s more.”

The smoke tastes sweet on his lips. She’s not sure if it’s magic or something else. Something unique to whoever or whatever he is. They kiss on the first day they meet and she’s not quite sure what that says about her. She’s fairly certain that it says more about him—that perhaps there is something a bit irresistible about a man who has briefly wondered whether or not you truly exist. Which is ironic, because for the first half of her life it was all she could do to make sure that people knew she was there, but that was mostly so someone would feed her or give her a place to sleep. It was only after she had stopped feeling so hungry that she had hoped she would disappear.

“I have a question,” she starts, taking a hit off of his “free sample” while trying not to marvel at the trail of pinkish smoke that escapes from in between her lips. “If you were so sure that I wasn’t real, why did you even talk to me?”

When he exhales the smoke is blue rather than pink, and when it meets the colorful cloud above their heads it blends together in shades of vibrant purple. She can’t help feeling like she has stumbled into a scene from Alice in Wonderland, having found herself in a strange land with an excitable man (who likes to leave empty mugs scattered about his home), as well as the literal toadstools and the rather odd sensation akin to falling down a rabbit hole.

“Rather pretty for a figment, I suppose. Wouldn’t do to ignore such a lovely, imaginary thing,” crushing the the last of the joint against a small, porcelain plate, “might hurt her feelings.”

Her phone buzzes in her pocket and she almost ignores it. But it was hard to forget about the nightmare that had ensued when she had ignored it the last time, and she pulls it from her pocket with a polite “give me a minute,” gesture.

She snorts at the sight of the word “airs,” her mind conjuring a 16th century French courtesan in a dramatically large dress, and silently warns her heart not to get it’s hopes up. Me too.When she looks up from her phone his head whips away too quickly for him to have been doing anything other than staring at her, and she wills the inevitable blush from her cheeks.

“We should exchange numbers,” she says suddenly, “for when I need more.”

Thankfully he ignores her rather abrupt request and pulls a most surprising device from his pocket that has her temporarily forgetting the way he had been so obviously observing her earlier. It’s a Motorola Razr V3 (launched in 2004), and the only thing funnier than the phone itself is the offended look on his face after she bursts into loud, obnoxious laughter at the sight of it.

“I’m doing my best not to feel quite so hurt right now, Swan.”

“I’m sorry,” she gasps in between her embarrassing bout of giggling, “I just didn’t think you could even get your hands on one of those things anymore.”

“It may not be your ‘high-tech’ nonsense,” he goes on proudly, “but she’ll do in a pinch.”

“Oh, Killian,” she says sweetly, “I’m sure she will.”

They start texting with a frequency far more reminiscent of an honest to goodness friendship rather than that of a business relationship, and Emma finds herself having to reassure the small, frightened girl inside of her that the whole thing won’t end in disaster. He’s not Neal, she thinks desperately, trying to trust in the hopeful parts of herself without succumbing to the bitter voice inside her head that struggles to forget the less admirable parts of humanity. What’s another potential stint in prison for such a pretty face, after all?

The first night she tries what he recommended, a strain he refers to as “Sailor’s Delight,” she dreams of the ocean. It’s an especially vivid dream, unlike anything she’s ever experienced—she can smell the sourness of low tide; taste the salt on her lips, and feel the warmth of the sun on her face. First thing in the morning she reaches for the phone beneath her pillow, her fingers flying across the screen.

She hesitates briefly before sending that last text. While it’s true her mind feels calm and her body re-energized, her heart hammers wildly inside her chest—the tiny fists of an anxious child warning her of the inevitable. While her own nervousness is enough to give her pause, she does try and take comfort in the fact that her “ghostlier” comrades would seem to have taken a backseat for the moment.

His texts often arrive in the form of mini paragraphs. Full sentences and words bundled together and sent to her as if they were handwritten letters. She can see his fingerprint on each and every one, a dirt-stained brand that conjures some unknown, vast greenery made of hills and fir trees, winding back roads and cloudless skies.

“He better not track any dirt in here,” Lily warns her the evening before he was supposed to be coming by to drop off another batch. It was to be his first visit to their apartment, and Emma could not be more nervous if she tried. She’s been back to his place a few times since that first visit, but allowing him to come here had been an unexpected offer on her part. Not that it matters, she thinks calmly, what do you care what he thinks?

“Don’t be such a snob, Lil.”

Lily’s mouth is full of frosted flakes as she leans against the refrigerator, glaring at the back of Emma’s head. “This shit’s expensive, and I don’t have time to fix anything he manages to break.” She suspects a note of jealousy in Lily’s ire, so she decides to cut her some slack, pressing a kiss to her cheek with a guaranteed dirt-free visit.

“It’ll be fine,” she says, heading towards her room to straighten up for no other reason than the fact that it has been a while. “Besides, aren’t you curious?”

A playful shout at her back, “Not nearly as curious as you, my little thief!”

The next morning he’s standing at her door holding a potted plant. “It’s a succulent,” he says happily, his hair sticking up in all directions. He smells like the city after it’s been sanitized by a particularly cold frost, and she wonders how he’s managed to keep warm in a half-buttoned flannel and a knitted scarf. “Notoriously hard to kill,” he assures her, shoving the thing into her hands, “I’m sure you’ll get along famously.”

The brief facade of confidence he had displayed while foisting the plant upon her departs rather suddenly at the sight of her apartment, and he looks all kinds of adorable and confused at the otherworldliness of it all. She supposed it would look rather intimidating to a person like him, surrounded by all those green things. Not that the wires and the screens were any less alive—they were just better at playing dead.

He does have some dirt on his fingertips and beneath his nails, but Emma finds herself quietly charmed by the sight of it; the deep impression of his prints highlighted by the dark soil permanently staining his skin. It’s been getting harder and harder to pass off their brief moment of intimacy as a one time thing. Especially when she can’t seem to stop thinking about it. Especially when she does stupid things like noticing his hands and trying not to recall the pleasant sensation of their roughness against her cheek.

“Don’t worry,” Emma says teasingly at the awed look on his face, “this is the most secure room in the city.” With a few magical fortifications no one and certainly no obscure, supernaturalthing was getting past the barriers they had implemented when they had first moved in, and it had only gotten stronger over the years.

Lily pops her head in from the kitchen, most likely with the intention of embarrassing her only friend. “Hey, Sprout,” she says, glaring at Killian from behind her thick curtain of hair, “don’t touch any of my stuff.”

“Don’t worry about her,” and Emma takes a moment to stick out her tongue in Lily’s direction. “She’s trapped in a state of perpetual grouchiness.”

“I heard that.”

There’s something incredibly momentous about the occasion of his entering her room. Lily had only hung out in there a few times, and Neal had never even been inside (she had spent all their nights together at his place). It’s her favorite time of day, which helps. Late afternoon, which often brings a light that seems warmer than at any other time—and with those big windows, the ones she suspects Lily had a hand in ensuring were a fixture of the apartment, the light falls and frames the room in a buttery yellow that makes winter feel that much further away.

In a probable attempt to diffuse the tension of Lily’s condescending nickname (and subsequent scolding), he laughs and runs a hand through his hair, making it bigger than it already was.

“Well, she’s charming.”

“She’s a good friend,” Emma says quickly, irritated with her sudden urge to leap to Lily’s defense as if he had said something wrong. Which he hadn’t.

“I’m sure she is, Swan,” he reassures softly, “it was only a joke.”

Then comes the urge to apologize, which she knows she has no reason to, and fuck, there is no reason why this should be so hard . He takes a seat in a large armchair she’s tucked away into a corner of the room, his eyes making quick work of all the unfamiliar equipment. The curious awe with which he observes her space gives her pause—takes her back to the day when she had first seen the Swans’ new computer in the room at the end of the hall. Forbidden, yet waiting for her all along.

“Make sure you keep her in the light.”

“Who?” Confused by the pronoun and wondering if he’s been seeing imaginary women again. “The plant,” he explains, gesturing towards the small, green twig in her hands, “make sure she gets a decent amount of sunlight.”

A part of her wants to remind him that she’s shut up in the dark most of the time. That was why she needed the drugs in the first place. Aside from the few short hours pre-sunset when she would, occasionally, open the curtains. But he looks so hopeful, she doesn’t really have the heart to deny him. “Sure. Sunlight.”

In the days following Killian’s visit to the apartment, all of the various cords and sundry start growing towards the sunlight as if they were starving for it. She even starts to notice some small weeds pushing their way through her keyboard. It doesn’t seem to be a problem at Lily’s end of the apartment; her equipment seems to have stayed blessedly put, but Emma’s room is another matter entirely. She even goes so far as to make a post on a message board where other witches have been known to frequent, despite the fact that they usually have terrible advice and she’s generally better off not having spoken to them in the first place.

She attaches a picture and hopes for the best, but unfortunately no one seems to have a clue. Someone does suggest watering them and seeing what happens, but that seems incredibly stupid, so she deletes the post and moves on. Or she tries to at any rate—pretends that there is nothing at all odd about her frequent compulsions to text him anytime a meaningless thought enters her head. The way she starts opening her curtains for a few more hours each day; the feeling of the sun on her skin becoming a welcome part of her routine, as opposed to a cruel reminder of the world that exists beyond the walls of her bedroom.

Their odd, somewhat unlikely friendship grows and flourishes like one of Killian’s plants. It is not without the occasional thorn or weed, like most relationships. The both of them are not without their mutual baggage that stings when you poke at it. Neither one of them can help messing with the other’s wounds, it would seem. Emma had always been under the impression that picking at the thing made it worse, but Killian insists on acting as an infuriating salve that alleviates the pain and leaves the injured place stronger than it had been before.

Beyond the niceties of being one’s drug dealer, getting to know another person can be quite difficult, which had been expected. From the very first, Emma had betrayed an innate desire to keep parts of herself hidden from others. Her passion for witchcraft—the excitement with which she had explained her kind to him that first meeting, it was a good trick, but it wasn’t long before he would come to realize that Emma Swan would rather place a curse upon herself than share the sordid details of her past with anyone.

It had been in the aftermath of his own unburdening—his sudden desire to finally reveal to her all of the messy details of his own life. About his mother, her passing, how maybe he was living a life she had not wanted for him. Emma had been nothing but understanding in the face of his admission, just as she suspected, their unexpected kinship made his pain an easy pill for her to swallow, but that didn’t mean she was necessarily ready to reciprocate.

“I barely tell Lily things about my past,” she had shouted angrily, her arms folded defensively in front of her chest, “why the fuck would I tell my drug dealer?”

“Oh, is that all?” Spoken into the sudden, sucking quiet of his apartment, forcing himself to ignore the painful look of regret on her face. She could wish away her words all she liked, he refuses to be anyone’s whipping boy, no matter how damaged they are. “Then you’ve gotten what you came for,” he said, patiently opening his front door for her convenient departure, “and you let me know should you require my services again.”

Her facial expression could not have been more pained—a fervent desire to take back what she had said, to offer an apology and admit to him the facts of the case. The fact that he had, quite unexpectedly, become one of the more important people in her life. The fact that she often daydreamed about the hour or so in which they had forgone the illusion of platonic friendship. The fact that she often considered the Killian-shaped hole in her future where he would almost undoubtedly be. But, alas, stubbornness won out, and she stormed away, so swiftly and in such a rage with herself that she left her jacket behind. A weathered, burgundy leather number, soft to the touch and smelling vaguely like an electrical fire. At least she’d have an excuse to see him again.

He waits a few days. Keeps his phone buried in a drawer beneath all of his socks and underwear, resisting the urge to send her a text, to wonder if she had sent him one. Eventually, he returns the jacket with a proposition. “Come with me,” he says, not quite begging, but with a breathlessness that he does find mildly humiliating. “Please.”

They take a bus upstate, far enough away from the farm that he doesn’t feel claustrophobic, but with enough distance between themselves and the city that he feels like he can finally breathe. They wander through small, sleepy towns full of charming coffee shops and bookstores, grabbing a cheap breakfast before venturing further into the countryside, stumbling through various trails and parks suggested to them by the locals. “There’s a particularly nice spot,” remarked the older woman who had served them coffee, “right here.” Marking up the paper map that Killian had insisted they buy.

It is a bit nippy further north, and despite the fresh smell of earth and rain, their noses still turn pink as they walk through the woods. The “nice spot” in question is a ledge of rock that overlooks a large, clear lake that sparkles in the sun. A light mist hovers over the top, and when he takes a quick peek to gauge Emma’s reaction, he is momentarily stunned at the way the sunlight has fallen across her face—how it has betrayed the sheen of wetness that seems to be gathering at the corners of her eyes.

“Swan?”

“It’s not a nice story,” she begins after a few moments of quiet. “I don’t like to tell people. Because it’s just not…” She huffs in frustration, turning away briefly to face the sun, staring out over the water as if it will be able to finish this conversation for her. “I don’t want people treating me differently.”

He hesitates before gently pulling some stray hairs from her chapped lips, and when she looks back at him it feels as if he’s been punched in the gut. Having never seen this particular look on her face before; perhaps moments away from arriving at this emotional plateau, only to shutter it away at the last moment. It is glassy eyed and fragile, her nose wrinkling and her hands fidgeting with the ends of her sleeves—it is a choked admission of all the horror she has known; of her adoptive family, her villainous “father,” the computer at the end of the hall, the young girl waiting at the other end who had stormed the tower and rescued her from a cruel fate.

When the tale is finally done, and he pulls her into his arms, the sun has moved higher into the sky. The fog has evaporated completely from the surface of the water, and now it merely shimmers. Their legs dangle over the rockface, and he presses a firm kiss against the side of her head. “I swear,” he whispers against the shell of her ear, “you are still the same person you were before. And if it seems as if I look at you differently—” He considers his words carefully, her fingers tapping nervously against his upturned palm, “It’s because I am more in awe of you then I was before.”

Her kiss is a salty, stinging thing against his tongue, and he can still feel the occasional soft hiccup resonating from the back of her throat. “I’m tired,” she admits quietly, her head rolling against his shoulder.

“Aye, love,” giving her another squeeze, a brief kiss to her cheek that reddens under his lips. “Let’s go home.”

It’s the fact that he never actually asks that makes her want to do it. That and the fact that he has bared his soul to her on multiple occasions and asked for so little in return. And quite honestly, there’s not much left he could do to her, given the fact that she’s spilled her damage all over him anyway.

Their feet hang over the fire escape out Emma’s window, the chilly spring air keeping it brisk yet refreshing. A hint of warmth that reminds the world of the impending season. “If you could,” she begins gently, taking a sip of their shared beer, “would you want to talk to her?”

He nibbles at his lower lip in response, an infuriating and distracting movement that has her discreetly pinching the top of her own hand. “I’m not sure,” he admits quietly, looking a bit like someone who feels ashamed by who they have become. Although, if she had the strength, she would have stopped him in that moment, reminded him that there was nothing to be ashamed of. That he was every bit the sweet, loving man his mother had suspected he would become. “Not sure she’d very much want to speak with me, if I’m being honest.”

Her heart breaks at the sound of his nervous, self-deprecating laughter, but she keeps her earlier, enamored thoughts to herself. While he’s lighting a cigarette she pops back into her room quickly, grabbing her laptop and returning to the ledge to face his sadness; the light and sound of a sleepless city, awaking slowly from a long, hard hibernation.

“I can’t guarantee anything,” resting the quiet machine on her lap, trying not to twiddle her thumbs, “but we can try.”

When she boots up the laptop, a soothing hum ignites in her fingertips and rushes through her veins. Now this, this she can do. She can feel his nervousness from over her shoulder, can see his fingers peeling the label away from the bottle out of the corner of her eye. “Relax,” she says softly, closing her eyes, her fingers flying across the keyboard. She’s not sure how much time passes, but at some point, in the midst of all the chatter, she hears it—a song that sounds familiar even though she is certain she’s never heard it before. “Do you hear it?”

He doesn’t seem to, not at first, not until she increases the volume on the laptop and slides it carefully onto his lap. “Take as long as you want,” pressing a kiss to his temple before standing and returning to her room, “I’ll be right here.”

It’s hard for her not to let her mind wander, to consider the particulars of a conversation that he’s been waiting to have for years , a voice and a face that he’s been tortured by everytime he closes his eyes. She had never even really considered looking for her own parents. What would she even say to them? Thanks for the childhood trauma, I have multiple lifetimes worth of debilitating baggage and it’s all thanks to you. And what would they do, anyway? Apologize? Fat lot of good that would do.

When he comes back inside she’s petting the soft edge of her succulent, somehow still flourishing regardless of her complete lack of knowledge as to how to properly care for the thing. His eyes are red and wet, and he tries to smile when he sees her obviously worried expression, only it crumbles as soon as she touches him, her hands coming up to frame his face with a gentleness she had not been sure she possessed. “Killian—”

“I’m quite alright, Emma. Thank you.”

It hurts to call the look in his eyes “love,” but she doesn’t know how else to describe the way he admires her with words of gratitude on his lips. It doesn’t matter what it is he’s thanking her for, whether it be the opportunity to speak with his mother one last time, her physical presence, or something else, it seems to encompass all of these things and more. The weight of this realization leaves her grasping for how to react, and in a moment of panic and a heavy, painfully beating heart, she presses her lips to his; aligns their bodies so firmly and precisely together that any suggestion of space between the two of them ceases to exist.

“Real enough for you?”

“Yes,” he rasps hotly against her lips, and the shiver she feels traveling down her spine and between her legs allows the terrifying rush of unwanted thoughts skittering elsewhere. “You are the realest thing I have ever known.”

The sun shines bright and disarming the following morning. Having left her curtains open the night before, he is able to admire the sight of her eyelashes dusting atop her cheeks in the cleansing light of a new day. The world feels different. The only other time he can recall feeling this way was waking up the morning his mother had passed, sensing that something fundamental had changed, that his life would be forced to take a direction he had not expected. For the first time in years, he can picture the farmhouse in his head as if it were a photograph. Can smell the aged wood, the cooling stove, the chamomile tea brewing on the counter. Time to go home, he thinks suddenly, staring at Emma as she twitches mildly in her sleep.

The way the blankets have come to rest beneath her breasts, her hair splayed over the pillow, she looks not unlike some unnamed renaissance painting one might see hanging in a museum somewhere. Her skin smooth, soft, and warm, he can’t resist the temptation to run his fingers gently over her ribcage, observing the slight, sloping arcs of her.

“Hey,” she says quietly, stretching her arms above her head. “What are you thinking about?”

In the days, weeks, and months following this morning, he will freeze this moment in his head. The way she had looked at him, with a contented yet desirous look that had almost convinced him to put off the conversation for a few hours. Oh, how he wished he had. Perhaps, if he had waited just a bit longer, if he had considered how she might respond with greater care—if he hadn’t been quite so excited by the change in the wind.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said with a smile on his face, “that it might be time for me to return home.”

Hell, if he had even relayed the thought in a way that implied his wish for her to come with him. That he was by no means planning to abandon her , that in all of his visions of the future,of course she played a starring role. But in his haste to share the news, to embark upon this journey that he had awoken to find simmering beneath the surface, he had failed to consider the fragility of her heart. A vulnerability she often hid well, but to his eyes, not well enough.

“Oh,” responding with a deceptive pleasantness, leaving his side quicker than he would have liked. “That’s uh, that’s great, Killian.”

“I think you’ll like it,” he continued, oblivious to her discomfort, a point which he would absolutely kick himself for later. “Might take a bit to get the Internet hooked up, but—”

“Wait, did I miss something?”

For someone with so remarkable a memory, all of the words they throw back and forth seem to grow a bit fuzzy after that. Their voices grow louder and crueler than he can stand; they twist and turn inside the labyrinth of his mind with all the gentleness of a machete hacking through a jungle—sharp, incomprehensible things that end in one undeniable fact: he leaves, she stays.

A year passes. In the city, a year passes in rides on the subway. It passes in television shows and which bars you’ve decided to stop going to. Some new diet you’ve decided to try in lieu of really examining oneself as a person. On the farm, it passes in sunsets—in which vegetables take root at what time, and will they make it? Maybe, and he can hear his mother’s voice, if it’s their time. It passes in whether or not Chammy has decided if she’ll be sleeping at the end of his bed. Can he feel her small, humming warmth atop his feet? Winter. Has he lost track of her hungry chirps each morning? Spring.

The months without Emma Swan are dimmer than he can stand. Desaturated, cornerless days of trying not to think about the jagged edges of her hair. Or the way she smelled, or how she had curled around him in sleep with a fierce, desperate grip. Please, stay. Winter is hard, since winter was when it had all began. With beanies and boots, and pale hands reaching for his. He will wonder, occasionally, if she’s managed to keep the plant he had given her alive without his reminding her to water it. And then, inevitably, his mind will wander to the shape of her face, or the color of her eyes—and the months apart feel more like years. He writes a lot of e-mails that he never gets around to sending. Some of them biting and cruel; others quite obviously lovelorn. Pathetic.

Sometimes, when he stands in his cold kitchen waiting for the fire to take the early morning chill out of the place, he imagines his mother’s voice in the silence. Come now, Killian, she remarks playfully, it’s not all bad is it? And then the sun will shine through the bare trees, and Chammy will scratch at the door, and he’ll take a breath. No, not all bad. The only time he hears the honk of a car horn is when he drives into town for supplies. His lungs never feel as if they were in danger of collapsing (unless he’s thinking about Emma Swan, in which case, he finds himself yearning for the gritty, polluted haze of the city); and his feet feel rooted to the earth.

Life goes on—it grows.

Emma Swan returns to him in midsummer. All solid flesh and sinew, with striking green eyes that appear almost golden in the pre-evening sunlight. She walks towards him in the same boots she had worn the morning they met, only with more tape wrapped around the toes. She walks with a lightness that he had only managed to catch a glimpse of—that day at the lake, when her blessed history had come rushing through her lips like a waterfall after too much rain.

It feels like another year has passed when she comes to a stop in front of him, her bag falling heavily off of her shoulder. The both of them staring at the ground as if it will save them, her bag and his feet, toes wiggling in the dirt.

“Your hair,” he says finally, admiring the sight of the freckles that have begun to bloom across her cheeks. “I like it.”

Grown past her shoulders in the months following his departure in long, soft waves that he has often dreamed of running his fingers through. Only he’s not dreaming now, and has grown sick with waiting. “Thanks,” she begins to say, only he finds himself overcome with the sound of her voice, and before she can complete her thought he has snuck a hand against the back of her neck and pulled her mouth to his—all of those beautiful words waiting in the lovely depths of her soul, and he is ecstatic at the prospect of being able to hear each and every one.

Eventually, he leads her by the hand towards his front porch, newly sanded and finished, replete with antique rockers and potted plants lining the steps. He thinks it might be polite to offer her a drink, to ask her about her trip, but he’s finding it difficult to do anything other than stare at their joined hands—his browned with the sun and the dirt, her’s just as pale as he remembers, only her polish has turned a friendly blue as opposed to the chipped black he can recall with such fondness.

“Lily says ‘Hi,’” she says, her voice thick with emotion.

“I have a hard time believing that.” His heart thumps at the brief, shy smile she sends his way, her knee moving up and down with a familiar degree of anxiety that he knows he still loves—even still, he knows, and although there are few things he knows, this he can say with certainty, he loves her. He places a hand on her knee and she stills, her eyes roaming over his features with a gaze so hungry he finds himself struggling to breathe.

“I’ve missed you,” she says softly, and he can practically feel her nerves buzzing around them as if they were sitting beneath a hornet’s nest, “I thought that, maybe, everything would just go back to the way it was, like always, but—”

Her hair lifts in a warm breeze that seems to engulf them in an almost eerie, magical quiet, and while he wants nothing more than to ease her fears, to reassure her that no matter what she says, he will never let her go again, he lets her speak her piece, her eyes meeting his once more. “I didn’t want it to. I don’t want things to go back to the way they were before you.”

When their foreheads meet, he thinks he might catch a flash of their future. In the next few minutes, they might move inside to find a bright, well-ventilated kitchen that he has renovated with his own two hands. She might meet Chammy with a pleased hum, cradling his old companion in her strong, steady arms. Would she then relax in the garden with him? Snapping pictures of his bare, freckled back with her phone, laughing and sending them to Lily even though she held little affection for such things. Installing wires and cables and slipping them beneath the persian rugs in the living room in order to maintain the illusion that she has fully embraced the country life.

Holding one another tightly each night, perhaps recalling the loneliness, the anger they had once felt and marveling at the seeming improbability of finding each other in such a vast, concrete sea. But for now he makes her tea. He tucks some strands of that new, thick hair behind one ear as they listen to the final, evening chorus of the birds, the water boiling in the kettle. “I am so very happy to see you,” he admits with a smile, relishing in the sight of her flushed, joyful face, “Emma Swan.”

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