#vs the desperate and scared Black teenage girl

[spartazia-blog]

The Polin fandom (over)reaction and discussion around the Marina plot always blows me away because people are so over the top about it. Like, I also didn’t love it, but I sense for incredibly different reasons.

For me, the issue is more that it doesn’t treat Colin as his own character and rather just as the plot device that exists to develop Marina and mostly Pen. Colin gets basically zero POV and *that* bugs me. It could be a great story for his development but he’s essentially forgotten. He’s betrayed by the first woman he believes himself in love with and is exposed to that truth along with everyone else in highly public and humiliating fashion. That would rattle a person’s confidence in their ability to trust their own instincts to the core! And now it’s going to happen again! He’s going to fall in love with someone who is keeping a massive and potentially life-altering secret from him. How would he not see and have to grapple with that parallel? But none of that matters to the majority of the Polin fandom.

For a lot of people, it seems to be more about the fact that Colin is supposed to “belong” to Pen and him having any interest in someone else makes him lesser. Him and how he was impacted matters way less than that it made Pen sad to watch it.

Hence why so many want Colin to have to “watch Pen with someone else like she had to do” Which completely ignores the actual story that played out with Marina and how, while I understand and empathize with her, she was not an actual LI for him?

Side note: That also kind of reflects in how the fandom casts Marina so often as the villain/punching bag but rarely is that focus on her impact on Colin. It’s almost always about Pen and how *she* felt. People care more about one unkind moment, done out of fear and desperation, of Marina towards Pen than they do about the totality of Colin.

I also think, and this is the most controversial part, that people do know deep down that how Pen handled things with LW wasn’t great but, despite complaining that no one accepts her complexity, they don’t want to grapple with her choices or actually allow her that complexity. Hence, Marina bad but also somehow Colin bad so they must suffer for causing Pen pain (however indirectly) while we must brush past the impact that LW and Pen’s choices had on Marina and will continue to have on Colin. It’s also why Colin’s pain and how he was impacted only really seems to come up when people want to make Marina look like a villain so they can argue that Pen did nothing wrong. All initial discussions about the Marina storyline centre Pen and how it made her feel.

It’s why, again, people are so ready for Colin to “suffer” and uplifting some random plot device character (I have not and will not bother to learn his name.) Because, at the end of the day, even though the person actually most hurt and impacted by Marina *and* Penelope’s choices was Colin, he committed the ultimate sin of liking someone before Pen and that matters more to most of this fandom. Because, if most of us are truly honest, Colin doesn’t matter to this fandom other than as an extension of Pen. He is her prize and not his own worthy of development and complexity character.

P. S. If you don’t believe me, spend 2 minutes perusing the Ao3 page for Polin. How many stories are about Colin truly grappling with everything vs him being ‘punished’? And how often does that ‘punishment’ feature Marina cheating on/mistreating/abusing him but still focus mostly on Pen? Spoiler: it’s a huge chunk.

[ladyeliot]

“Your stupid spider”

Superhero vs Villain!Reader Prompts

Request: Anonymous: Hello there! Could you write a Superhero vs Villain, where the reader is Peter Parker's best friend but also his enemy? You can use #3 if you want. By the way I love your stories and your writing. Lots of love.

Prompt #3: Truce? 

Pairing: Superhero!Peter Parker x Villain!Fem!Reader

Summary: Peter Parker is your best friend, and Spider-man is your enemy. You finally discover that they are the same person.

Warnings: Violence. 

Word count: 2446

A/N: Sorry for my spelling and grammatical mistakes, English is not my native language, I am learning.

"If you are really interested in how I discovered the identity of my greatest enemy, please read on."

You. An ordinary girl, born in Brooklyn to a single parent family who had moved into a small flat in the Queens area with her mother. No drugs, no alcohol, no tobacco, your obsession was pancakes and syrup. You didn't do any chores, and you didn't sneak out of the housework. After school you went home with your friends to do your homework. You liked reading, and you listened to music with headphones so as not to disturb the neighbours. In short, a teenager that many parents wish they had.

However, your persona wasn't all rosy, just because Y/N was like that, didn't mean your alter ego was too. You had a secret, everyone has secrets, you might think, but it wasn't just any secret, it was "The Secret", and no one knew it. That's why you could say it was the best kept secret in Queens, or at least that's what you thought until he came along. Spider-man.

Everything went smoothly, it took you a while to assume your powers, your teleportation, but when you got it you enjoyed your solitude in your night outings. You discovered the reality of New York City, the nocturnal and dark atmosphere of being hidden in the shadows, that is to say, you had fun as only you knew how to do. Nevertheless, since the arrival of that Spider-man, your fun was over. That man had in mind to destroy the true essence of the city and that was something you could not allow.

Your first meeting was at the top of Rockefeller Center, a night like any other after the end of one of the most intrepid police chases in Midtown West. There you were, watching the chase unfold, and there he arrived. Remarkably, due to the concealment of your costumes, neither of you could figure out who the other was, and your voice-impersonation skills helped you never get caught. All in all, that was one of many encounters you would have in the wake of Spider-Man's popularity. But still, your life went on.

"Are you telling me you're going to stand me up this afternoon for helping your aunt bake a cake?" you asked Peter between complaints. "You know we have to study for the chemistry test on Friday. And that I'm nothing without you in chemistry."

Although you tried to show him the most apologetic face in the whole world, Peter was not immune to it. 

"Sorry Y/N," he closed his locker after grabbing his books. "I promised May last week, it's very important for her to give a good welcome to the new neighbours."

You rolled your eyes but finally came to terms with your defeat.

"Okay Parker," you gave him a little push. "But you've been letting me down in the afternoons for three days now. You'll make it up to me."

You winked and Peter's cheeks quickly turned pink, he gave you a shy smile and nodded goodbye. He was adorable. It was actually good to be free in the afternoons, since Spider-Man had gotten in your way, you had a complex relationship, playing cat and mouse, trying to hinder each other's actions, and it was interesting that week.

Like the previous days, after finishing your chores at home, you put on your black suit and disappeared. Your power was complex, you didn't fully understand it yet and you knew it would take a while, but you weren't scared. You could teleport to a specific place, teleport to another person or object, and even open portals to other places. But these superpowers had played tricks on you, sometimes you appeared in places you didn't recognise and then didn't know how to get back, or you had to return home by taking public transport. Everything has its drawbacks.

Dusk was falling over the island of Manhattan, it was a busy spring evening in New York, big businessmen were leaving their offices, dog walkers were wandering into Central Park and a group of elementary school students were leaving the Museum of Arts and Design. You caught your gaze on the broad clock of a prominent building and instantly there he was, coming from 8th Avenue.

You smiled, you were in the mood for fun and what better way than to open a portal right in front of him to get rid of Spider-man and send him a few blocks further south.

"Woah!" he exclaimed, stepping into the portal and disappearing, not for long.

You started laughing, he always fell into your trap and yet he was still funny to you.

"Hello Miss Holes!"

Within two minutes it landed next to you throwing a spider web which you dodged opening a new portal.

"Too slow, stupid spider," you said with a grin hidden under your mask.  "And too predictable to be the mascot of the Avengers.

The two of you began a small battle on top of that building, as if choreographed.

"Hey!" he exclaimed somewhat offended, dodging a new portal. "I'm not the Avengers' mascot."

"Then why is it your turn to do the dirty work?" you ran off, shaking off his cobwebs.

"What...?" began Spider-man somewhat confusedly pausing over the rooftop antenna. "What dirty work?"

You let out a small laugh and in an instant you teleported to his side.

"You know," you began to lower your tone."Robbing old ladies, selling drugs in the neighbourhood - oh, you even helped a woman yesterday who didn't know where to find the underground," you squinted. "Spidey, you're so bored that the most exciting thing in your life is meeting me."

You were so lost for words that you didn't see it coming. In that instant a spider web, a bit slimy for your taste, wrapped around your mouth like a gag silencing your every word. You quickly tried to get rid of it with little luck.

"Thank goodness!" exclaimed your opponent alejándose de ti. "Much better. Sorry about that, but we'll be doing us both a favour."

You touched solid ground again, and raised your hands in the direction of the satellite dish, teleporting it in the direction of Spider-man, who quickly dodged it. From that moment on, your rage intensified, increasing the tension of the fight, which usually ended without a clear winner, only exhaustion won out.

"Woah! That was a close one!" he exclaimed, leaping ten metres above you.

Your throat squeaked, but no sound escaped because of the gag. You tried to get rid of it by teleporting it away, but it wasn't possible. At that moment you would have made it disappear forever if you could, but finally you stopped throwing objects at it, to disappear from there yourself.

It wasn't being a good day for you, maybe it also had to do with the fact that you were sure that your best friend didn't have to make any cake with his aunt May, nor did he have to accompany her to dance classes or anything like that, they were all excuses and you didn't know why he was making them.

In milliseconds you were back in your room, rummaging through your things to get rid of that gag and remove the mask from your costume. Nothing was any good. You had no idea what that spider's web was made of, but nothing could break it.

In desperation you tried again to teleport it, but you were unable to concentrate all your attention on it. You had only one hope left, Peter, he would surely know how to get rid of her, although you would owe him a lot more explanations. You closed your eyes, instantly you were inside his room, luckily he wasn't there, nor was he inside the house, everything was silent. So you assumed that he was not baking a cake with his aunt.

A couple of hours passed, just enough time to come up with a plan before Peter arrived.You had taken a handful of sheets of paper, you knew that when he came in he would be scared and might scream, so you summarised your story as best you could on those sheets of paper.

You heard the front door close, Peter was talking to May and heading towards his room. You took the sheets of paper and positioned yourself in the middle of the room, waiting for him to come in, as if it was the movie "love actually". It was an embarrassing situation.  You watched as the doorknob turned and there he appeared.

It took a few moments for his eyes to settle on you, but at that very moment both of them widened like saucers.

"How the hell...!"

You quickly raised your hand, trying not to make your friend squeal or panic, and pointed hurriedly to the sheets of paper you were holding.

Peter closed the door behind him with a stunned look on his face.

"Please don't shout," he began, reading the posters in a trembling voice. "I'm not going to hurt you."

You dropped a sheet of paper on the floor.

"It's me, Y/N," Peter's voice dimmed, and it took him a while to react. "WHAT?!!!!"

You quickly raised your arms again in a way to stop him from screaming.

" Whoa, whoa, whoa!" exclaimed Peter again. "What are you saying?!"

Dejaste que los carteles se cayeran al suelo y saltaste sobre él intentando cubrir su boca con tus manos. En aquellos momentos estabas segura de que su tía May entraría en la habitación en segundos debido al ruido. Peter seguía gritando cosas inentendibles bajo tus manos, con sus ojos castaños abiertos como platos mirándote. Decidiste destaparle la boca, ya que no servía para nada y volviste a por los folios para ponérselos nuevamente frente a él.

“¡Esto es una locura!” se llevó las manos a la cara, pero continuó leyendo los folios. “Spider-man me ha lanzado una de sus telarañas,” cambiaste de folio. “Y no puedo deshacerme de ella, tienes que ayudarme.”

Peter stood still watching you, his eyes were red with nervousness and his nostrils flared every time he took in and released air from his lungs. You knew it was going to be a shock to your friend, but you didn't understand how it was affecting him so much. You raised your arms, quickly pointed to the spider web gagging your mouth, you needed to get rid of it and then you would give him all the explanations he needed.

A blushing Peter slowly approached you, stepped around you and in an instant you felt no more pressure. At last you could rest, your jaw and mouth were sore, but it was no surprise to you, what was surprising was that your friend had got rid of the restraint in a second.

Puzzled, you turned to him, who was still in shock and looked a little frightened. He carefully brought his hands to the top of your mask and slowly lifted it, exposing your face.

"I can explain," you said calmly. "I..."

"Oh my god," Peter interrupted you, sitting up in his bed.

"Listen," you shook your head and sat down next to him. "I understand your reaction, it's crazy, I should have explained it to you a lot sooner, but- Wait, how did you get that obnoxious fabric off me so fast?"

Peter put his hands to his head and sighed.

"It's synthetic spider silk," he explained without looking at you. "It's got the gigapascals augmented, with its web you can hold even a car in the air, but-"

"Wait," you stared at him.

Your mind worked fast enough to grasp enough information and connect it in a couple of seconds. You slowly rose slowly from his side and looked at him with a frown.

"What?!" you exclaimed this time. "That's impossible!"

"Yes!" exclaimed Peter getting up and holding his hands to his head. "That's what I was thinking! It's impossible!"

At that instant the door to the room opened revealing a smiling May.

"Peter yo - Hey Y/N!" she greeted with a frown.  "I didn't know you were here. Are you staying for dinner?"

"Hi, May. No, no," you said quickly in a bit of a daze. "Thank you very much, but my mother's expecting me for dinner."

"Okay," she smiled looking you up and down. "Nice suit!" your cheeks took on a ruddy colour. "Peter, dinner in half an hour."

"Thank you May," Peter replied a little shyly.

His aunt closed the door again.

"That's why you were always making excuses for me in the evenings!" you reproached him."And the Stark scholarship! How could I have been so blind?" "And the Stark scholarship! How could I have been so blind?"

"I know, I know," said Peter, as he paced around his room next to you. "By the way, your powers - they're awesome!"

You motioned for him to lower his voice again. This situation was crazy, you didn't know whether to be relieved, to teleport, or to teleport him to a place far away. You leaned your back against the wall, closing your eyes so you could think clearly.He was your best friend, had you been hating your best friend all this time?He was your best friend, had you been hating your best friend all this time? He was your best friend, had you been hating your best friend all this time?  Peter stood in front of you.

"Hey..." he whispered caressing your cheek, the place where your spider web had passed. "If I'd known... If you'd stayed a little longer I'd have taken it off."

You crossed your arms over your chest and looked up at him arching an eyebrow. "This is too much."

You looked straight into those brown eyes, they had been a weakness for you since fifth grade. Besides, his gaze accompanied with the caress of his fingers on your cheek lowered your defences.

"Please stay for dinner. If you want, we can study chemistry later," Peter said almost pleadingly.

"Really?" you asked in confusion. "You want to study chemistry after everything that just happened?"

"Truce?" Peter arched a somewhat hopeful eyebrow.

"You're one of a kind, you stupid spider," you said, unable to hide a grin.

"You stupid spider."

Requests/Taglist Open (DM)

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[meta-squash]

Brick Club 2.3.8 “Inconveniences Of Entertaining A Poor Man Who May Be Rich”

This chapter is so long. Here goes.

Is it normal for Cosette to have to knock to get into the house she lives in? Or is Hugo just using that as a vehicle to make Mme Thenardier meet Valjean first?

It’s times like this that I desperately wish I knew more about biblical stories and fables and things. This, a rich man in disguise as a poor man being treated poorly by innkeepers and taking something from them, sounds like a bible story or a similar type of fable. But the only two bible stories I know with similar themes are the nativity story and Sodom and Gomorrah and neither of those seem quite right. Still, this entire episode reads like a fable or fairytale.

We’ve already seen how Evil the Thenardiers are re: their treatment of Cosette. Now we are seeing their Evil in the form of treatment of the poor.

You know, that’s an interesting thing that I’m not going to get into in this longass chapter. Javert’s evil and Thenardier’s evil are different because I feel like Javert’s evil is a lot more muddied or obscured by morality and duty and things like that. Where are the Thenardiers are bad but the badness of their actions is much more black and white. I think it’s also because, technically, they never have social power over anyone unless they are manipulative, whereas Javert always has the social power. I’m not sure where to go with either of these ideas but I will look back on it for a shorter chapter.

Cosette is ugly because she’s sad. It’s like the exact opposite of Roald Dahl’s description of ugliness. I called it on the orphanage thing and kids looking years younger than they are; she looks 6 when she’s 8. That doesn’t seem like a huge difference when you look at it written down but the difference between the size and maturity of a 6 year old vs an 8 year old is surprising.

In the way that the description of the doll was a distant echo of young Fantine, the description of Cosette here is a faded echo of dying Fantine.

“Fear was spread all over here; she was, so to speak, covered with it; fear squeezed her elbows against her sides, drew her heels up under her skirt, made her shrink into the least possible space...” I’m sure this description comes from Hugo observing children in his lifetime, but I also wonder if any of this comes from his brother who had schizophrenia and was institutionalized?

“The expression on the face of this child of eight was habitually so sad and occasionally so tragic that it seemed, at certain moments, as if she were on the way to becoming an idiot or a demon.” What an interesting pair of choices. Fear and sadness either stun and numb you completely or they turn you aggressive and evil. Hugo said the same thing before when talking about Valjean’s prison time. Again, like I said before, Cosette here is Valjean when we first met him: exhausted, scared, sad, numb, hatefully terrified of the people around her; the difference is that she still has hope. She had that moment of hoping someone would rescue her, she had the moment of pausing and wondering what the doll’s paradise was like; when we met Valjean he was past that kind of hope.

(Funny that Mme Thenardier doesn’t suspect the trick Valjean just pulled, despite Valjean “finding” a 20 sous piece instead of 15 sous piece.)

I love the description of Eponine and Azelma because it’s so innocent. They as little human beings aren’t morally bankrupt at the level of their parents yet. They’re still pretty and glowing. Partly because they are well-cared for unlike Cosette, and partly because they are still innocent.

“Eponine and Azelma did not notice Cosette. To them she was like the dog. The three little girls did not have twenty-four years among them, and they already represented the whole of human society: on one side envy, on the other disdain.”

Ah, human microcosms. Hugo loves those. The Thenardier children and Cosette are the pared down, simplified version of society. It’s also an excellent example of how Privilege works in layers. The girls’ doll is worn and old and broken, but the fact of them having a real doll and Cosette having nothing is already a layer of privilege Someone else, another little girl with wealthy parents and a new intact doll would have privilege over the Thenardier girls. There are layers.

I really love this passage too because it shows the start of the zero-sum game between Eponine and Cosette. At no point are Eponine and Cosette able to be equals. But the important thing is that neither of them are aware of this. Later, when Cosette and Eponine encounter each other again in the Gorbeau house, Eponine doesn’t have the awareness to be angry about the reversal of their fortunes. She seems sad, mostly, a jealousy born from a feeling of worthlessness rather than feeling slighted. And Cosette doesn’t even recognize Eponine, so there’s no room at all for disdain on her part, unless she’s disdainful of Eponine et al due to their poverty, though that never seems to be the case. But Eponine cannot be happy while Cosette is and Cosette cannot be happy while Eponine is, because their goals occupy the same fulcrum (Marius) and they can’t both be on the same level at the same time.

Fanfiction has explored this a lot in modern AU but I wonder the kind of havoc that could have been wreaked had Cosette and Eponine met and become proper acquaintances. Their teenage personalities are two sides of the same coin. I’ve always been of the opinion that had they switched places as children Cosette would have ended up like Eponine and Eponine like Cosette. Because Eponine has the capacity for kindness within her, except that she doesn’t know how to use it selflessly; and Cosette has the same stubborn ruthlessness as Eponine, except that she is held back by convention and reduced to talking a lot in order to try and somehow glean information from Valjean or Marius.

“Now your work belongs to me. Play, my child.” This is the second (or third?) Myriel moment for Valjean. Cosette is a child, an innocent child, but her soul doesn’t need to be bought for god. As far as I can tell, for Hugo, children are always holy. Instead, he’s buying her work. But that makes sense. For Valjean, his soul needed to be bought for god because he had already lost it to sin and to evil and to doubt. Cosette still has hope; what she needs bought from her is suffering.

And here is where the parallel continues. Cosette up until now has been Valjean as we first met him: sullen, suffering, scared, dulled, close to becoming “an idiot or a demon” and now, like Valjean’s soul, her work has been bought so she can be free.

I think it is within the walls of the convent that their parallels will catch up to each other and they will become more equal.

I feel as though the cat in a dress vs the sword in a dress must be some sort of parallel to Eponine and Cosette’s personalities but I’m not quite sure how to pull the meaning out.

“A little girl without a doll is almost as unfortunate and just as impossible as a woman without children.” Ugh. Gross, Hugo. This whole chapter was so lovely and then this misogynist bullshit.

I can explain the “water on her brain” line! Mostly because it’s a medical condition I actually have! So, “water on the brain” is another term for hydrocephalus, which is a buildup of cerebrospinal fluid in the ventricles of the brain. It can be caused by being born prematurely (like mine was) or by infections/head trauma. Nowadays they can put a shunt in your head that pumps the fluid into the abdominal cavity (which is what I have), but obviously they didn’t have the technology back then. So what happens to the head if the fluid doesn’t drain, is the head will start to increase in size, and the fluid buildup will squish the brain against the sides of the skull, causing seizures and brain damage/intellectual disabilities and vision problems and other such things. I function perfectly fine except for mild dyscalculia and ADHD (which might have been genetic anyway) but back in the 19th century hydrocephalus probably would have resulted in either mild-to-severe disabilities or death.

Cosette doesn’t have hydrocephalus, but what she does have is severe malnutrition, which can make a person’s head look much too large for their body. So Mme Thenardier is likely using Cosette’s appearance due to neglect to fake that she has a neurological problem and explain why they have to “take care of” her.

Jesus fucking christ this next bit is so much. There’s so much going on. Mme Thenardier is talking to Valjean about Cosette’s mother, the drinkers are singing vulgar songs about the Virgin Mary and baby Jesus, and Cosette is under the table singing “My mother is dead.” to herself. Woof. It is, yet again, an instance of the memory of “Fantine” (in the symbolic, saintly form of the Virgin) being sullied both by the foul songs of the drinkers and the callous, flippant commentary of Mme Thenardier. And Cosette is there under the table, staring at the fire, suddenly playing the role of her own mother, rocking the sword-baby (herself) to try and comfort herself from the shock of this new knowledge that her mother is dead.

(Anyone else read As I Laying Dying, by the way? All I could think of when I read that line was “My mother is a fish.”)

We start to see Cosette’s bold personality come out in fits and starts. She’s brave enough to sneak out and grab the doll Eponine and Azelma have abandoned. But it’s also an example of how desperate she is for something pleasurable and good, considering she’s doing that at the risk of a beating.

For the second time, we see Cosette so absorbed in her moment of “I Want” that she doesn’t see or hear anything else. Again, this seems unusual considering her constant hypervigilance. But her success in getting the doll and her increased confidence due to Valjean’s presence probably have something to do with her lack of awareness.

Cosette is caught with the doll. Is this the parallel of Valjean being caught with Myriel’s silver? Mme Thenardier says “That beggar has dared to touch the children’s doll.” The gendarmes don’t say as much when they return Valjean to Myriel, but it’s pretty obvious they’re thinking something similar.

“We are forced to add that at that moment she stuck out her tongue.” COSETTE IS SO CUTE I LOVE HER SO MUCH SHE DESERVES THE WORLD. Also I just love the way Hugo writes children, it’s so real.

Why did Hugo choose Catherine for the name of the doll? Is it to do with St Catherine? She (the saint) became Christian at 14 and converted hundreds of people before being martyred at 18 after rebuking the Roman emperor for his cruelty and winning a debate with his best philosophers.

“This solitary man, so poorly dressed, who took five-franc pieces from his pocket so easily and lavished gigantic dolls on little brats in wooden clogs, was certainly a magnificent and formidable individual.” Valjean is now Myriel. Outsiders are fascinated by him because he dresses so shabbily and yet is so benevolent and charitable with his money. Again, the difference is that Myriel’s name is always known, and Valjean’s is never known.

I know I say this so often but the distance with which Hugo treats Valjean is absolutely fascinating to me. Valjean has this incredible power to just go inside himself and not move, but we never get that kind if internality unless it’s really really important (like with the Champmathieu affair). Otherwise, Hugo keeps a respectful distance, and even when we get Valjean’s emotions described to us, I feel like Hugo is always holding back a little, like he’s not letting himself see all the way into Valjean, or Valjean isn’t letting him in.

Valjean asks for a stable; I think this is the first time we see his whole thing about sacrifice of physical comfort. Things like this asking for the stable and sleeping in the shed behind the house at Rue Plumet and not having chairs and only eating black bread etc. This is the first example we see of him feeling unworthy of physical comforts to such a degree.

(It’s interesting to me that we don’t see this characteristic when he was mayor, or at least not to this extreme. Is it because it would be unbecoming of a mayor and therefore would blow his cover? Or did going back to prison hammer in that feeling of worthlessness and lesser-than and warp his perception of what he is compared to others?)

“What a sublime, sweet thing is hope in a child who has never known anything but its opposite!” We’ve said this already, but Cosette is full of hope and life and light and that is Important because it is exactly what Valjean did not have when he was in her position. But it means that she doesn’t have to work as hard in her ascent towards happiness and goodness.

And, lastly, I love that the placement of the gold Louis in Cosette’s shoe isn’t just a sweet Christmas gesture or a gesture towards Cosette: it’s also an echo of M Madeleine breaking into houses to place gold pieces on the table.

Wow. Long af post for a long af chapter. Congratulations if you read through all of my rambling thoughts.

[stusbunker]

Known: Two Halves, Three Hearts

A Supernatural Dark Fan-fiction

Featuring: MOC!Dean x Female OC, x Demon!Reader, Claire Novak, Sam Winchester, Castiel, Crowley

Summary: CC learns to navigate more of the Winchesters’ associates. Meanwhile, Dean crosses the line to end Cain’s reign of terror. He finds her vulnerable, will she let him sate himself in every way imaginable? Can he run from what he is becoming? Is she enough to keep the evil at bay? Crowley finds our Reader and offers a path to redemption, if she can trust what he’s selling.

Warnings: Post murder haze, torture, period sex, blood, blood play, stabbing, dub!con smut, subtle mention of past sexual assault, disassociation, humiliation, and loss of sense of self.

Series Masterlist

*^*^*^*

December 11, 2014

The Bunker

           It was nearly dawn when Chloe felt the air tighten against the Impala’s entry into the garage. Something was wrong; Sam was driving. Dean sat in the passenger seat and in the back, Castiel beside a blonde who had cried out a week’s worth of mascara and eyeliner. Dean was bleeding, but that wasn’t what was wrong. He stared ahead, lost and empty, covered in others’ blood. It was human, every last drop, CC could tell just by the smell. An ability she would have appreciated if it didn’t lead to the implications on Dean’s clothing.

           Other than the upset teenager, no one else seemed to have been touched by the fray. Sam rapped on the hood, giving CC his best ‘I can’t explain this away’ eyes. He was worried mute. CC finally moved toward the car, both Sam and she eventually earning swats as Dean came to, silently protesting their help.

           “How many?” CC whispered against his retreating form.

           “Look, they were loan sharks and they were going to use Claire-,” Sam started.

           “How many people did he kill?”

           “Four.” Castiel cut in, glimpsing back to the girl in the backseat.

           CC’s stomach pitched, a phantom whiff of manure and dust drifted past her nose and into her thoughts. She didn’t allow herself to focus on the reality of Dean’s crimes, instead she moved the conversation along. “What are you going to do with the kid?”

           “She won’t stay here. I was going to take her to a motel in town. Chloe, I’m sorry, CC, would you be willing to accompany me?”

           Sam huffed. “Is that really a good idea, Cas?”

           “I just thought that, maybe an older female might be able to get through to her.” Cas looked wrecked, his vessel wearing his worry like a neon sign. He felt more human to CC than he ever had.

           “I’m not babysitting.” CC stared between Sam and Cas and back again. Her annoyance and concern reciprocated in one form or another. She should be checking on Dean, not playing Big Brother Big Sister to Castiel’s ward. Dean didn’t want to see her; he had made that painfully clear. CC fiddled with her knife as the girl’s ghostly eyes challenged them from the backseat. “I’m not ready to leave the wards, not yet. But, if you guys need a minute, I can get some food in her? Keep her out of your hair for a—”

           “Thank you,” Sam mouthed to CC as he and Cas nearly ran out of the garage and the blast radius all she could do was reply with a single finger. CC walked around the hood of the Impala, hands tucked in her back pockets as she watched the girl glare and roll her eyes.

           “What do you want?”

           “I want to go back to bed, but since that’s not happening. Coffee?” CC gave Claire five seconds before walking away, nodding over her shoulder in the direction of the kitchen. Claire followed CC dejectedly, hunger trumped petulance apparently, if barely.

           “So, who are you anyway?”

           “You can call me CC.” She almost smiled over her shoulder, dropping down into the sunken kitchen.

           “Which one of them is your–?”

“My what?” CC pushed the automatic drip setting from delayed brew to ON and started rifling through the pantry for English muffins once Claire made up her mind to join her.

           “Dean, huh? Figures. Well, your man’s a murderer, if you didn’t know.”

           CC didn’t really look up at the girl while she started preparing their hasty meal, but it was evident that her bitterness was far from fading. CC slammed the toaster lever in place and leered down at Claire, who was sitting on the kitchen table with her feet on the seat of a chair. “Alright, Miss Teen Bitch. First off, you are in their home, so I’d watch who you call what. Secondly, yeah, I did know. Pretty much every hunter has the bad kind of blood on their hands, that includes me.”

           The creak of the muffins’ release broke the silence. There was more eye rolling and tongue tisking, but eventually Claire began to listen for the answer to her more pointed questions.

           “What are you even doing with him?”

           CC shrugged, “I could ask the same about you and the angel.”

           “Gross.” Claire recoiled. “Besides, they came after me! I just swiped his wallet for some spare cash. They should have just let me go! If they had—- Fuck! You know what? Screw you lady. You’re on their side. You’re not gonna listen to me.”

           “Hey, cool it, alright?” Claire threw her fists down at her sides and folded them over her stomach. CC could see she needed to keep prodding because Claire was so close to the next hurdle. “Let’s get things straight. This isn’t a black white, us vs. you scenario. They thought you were in danger and did what they thought was best for you; to keep you safe. Sucks not being able to make the call on your own life, don’t it?” CC waited for Claire to acknowledge the helplessness they shared.

“Yeah, well, I might be Dean’s whatever. But I know all too well about Winchester intentions. For the record, me and Castiel? Not friends.”

           “He’s wearing my dad’s face. Do you have any idea how fucked up that is?”

           CC dropped onto the bench below Claire, handing her a plate. “Just a little weirder than living in an underground bunker with the guys that sent your closest friend to Hell?”

           Claire nibbled on the toasted olive branch, tearing it to pieces before finally relaxing. She was scared and desperate, it came off in every gesture of her defensive attitude. CC started to wonder just what was going to happen with the kid now that she had been brought in.

           “I hate them, all of them. I hate them for what they did.”

           CC’s mouth twisted in sad empathy at the girl, knowing that the grief she wasn’t processing was much more palatable as rage. It was like looking into a fun house mirror of her past: overdone make up and culturally rebellious hair style. All just more things to help in the lie to herself about how empty she felt.

“What?! I do.”

“I know.” CC rolled back up to her feet, nodding toward the fridge. “Let’s see what else there is to eat. There’s one thing that’ll piss Dean off more than messing with his car and that’s eating the last of his pie.”

“Okay?” Claire huffed out an unamused agreement, a reluctant warmth shone from her eyes.

*^*^*^*

February 2015

Dean had gone cold turkey. He stopped drinking, stopping lurking outside CC’s room at night, and started eating egg white omelets, apparently. Fat lot of good it did. The Oz Case with Charlie gave him whiplash, seeing his friend spilt into parts as if she was just the sum of her emotions rubbed him the wrong way. Breaking her arm was something he was never going to be able to forgive himself for; his knuckles still scabbed over from decimating her porcelain face. Her dogged determination and forgiveness still got him in the throat. Ever present, CC had stood, unflinching as the boys and Charlie had their goodbyes.

Now as Sam casually mentioned Tina from the Hansel and Gretel run in, something akin to jealousy flashed in her steely eyes. Something he had no desire to press her on nor any hope that it could lead to getting her back. She had helped out with Claire, had researched the hell out of the Bunker’s stacks alongside them through it all, and she had all but admitted the demon was the one moaning his name, the one that used her body to make his every nerve sing. If that wasn’t enough to drive him to drink again, nothing was.

*^*^*^*

February 16, 2015

A festering cavern, Hell

           Blinding daylight burst from an unseen door to your left. Once your eyes adjusted a figure appeared, breaking through the shafts of light, like a key in a lock. His footfalls were leisurely, the clipping beat of his obscenely expensive shoes barely gaining ground. Crowley walked into your isolated prison like a birder on a Sunday stroll.

           “Oh good, you’re conscious.” His big eyes teetered on compassion as his words fell in a nice noncommittal little heap. You wanted to reply; the empty air loomed as your mouth tried to form words. You couldn’t remember how long it had been since you had used your voice. Your tongue thick and coarse in your throat as it strove to remember language. Crowley squinted, but waited as you grew frustrated with yourself. You sighed, nodding in exasperation before he could mock you for it. You weren’t certain he was real, but the thought of a visitor, even one seeking twisted entertainment, was better than another decade alone. Eventually you decided that you couldn’t have made him up; you had better imagination than that.

           “I wasn’t aware we still used places like these. These rubbish heaps were from the initial days of Hell. The time when the fallen Angels fought for control and some unseen judicial system weighed the disloyal and usurpers’ crimes. You got off lightly, by the old standards. It takes a lot of energy to maintain this kind of torment; it simply isn’t worth the output for a single demon here or there. Then again, we all must answer for our crimes; no matter how seemingly noble the reasoning. Rebels against an outdated hierarchy—”

           He continued to drone on, though your exhausted mind could hardly keep up and when it did; you found yourself unaffected by his rallying attempts. You were too downtrodden to feel any comradery with the man who held the keys to your cage. To all the cages. Hate was a delicious main course that followed the apathetic appetizer. You began to wade out to the swells of emotion. Things that hadn’t reached you in years carving through you until you were ready to swim in the rage as he spoke, eyes beetle black and bulging as he spat his points.

           Finally, you fissured as the sound erupted from your mouth, a frustrated wail that shut the King up well and good.

“What do you want?!” you demanded between staccato breaths. You glared down at him, his human form was nearly a head shorter than you, but the inches of debris locking your ankles in place nearly evened the field of vision. You hoped the words you used made sense; because he was taking his time answering.

           “I need someone to do a little digging on a certain individual. Someone who owes me and who won’t go gossiping to the demon next door.” Crowley tongue worked his cheek. “In short, I am offering you a one-way ticket back, what do you say?”

           “Who?” The confusion began to clear as the delirious hum of hope rang in your ears.

           “Can’t tell you here. Now–” Crowley looked over his shoulder and raised his fist in the air. “Let’s get you somewhere a little more accommodating, shall we?”

           Before you could even nod, he snapped his fingers, freeing you from the slop and stench.

*^*^*^

Tale End of Executioner’s Song

Dean has killed Cain

Dean comes up from the dark with rasping breaths. His tendons are locked into place and his wrist is screaming from strain, a frequency he has yet to process. He doesn’t remember telling his feet to move, but his legs have carried him this far: away from the evidence and back down to those waiting on him. All pretense shrivels as he hears Sammy’s voice close by, persistent but muddled. Then Crowley’s, asking for his arm, no, the blade. Right, it isn’t a part of him after all. He should really let go, he isn’t sure what part of him is making these decisions, but grateful it doesn’t seem to be as hard as it feels.

Dean turns the weapon handle out and passes it to Cas. His eyes have focused enough to see the disbelief on the demon’s face at the gesture. Dean isn’t here to suffer fools; however helpful they had become. He reveals his deceits, unblinking as Crowley disappears. Sam catches him then, before his legs finally catch up to the path that got them there and Dean wonders what God sees in man.

The fog of battle clung to his mind, the Mark dulled, but never silenced. His blood flowed hot and vibrant, pumping through his veins in and out of his heart, that very human organ thumping in his gnawing chest. Dean moved as if he was tailing himself, looking down on his movements from some unimaginable higher ground until he slid into the Impala and drove away. Everything was reflex, instinct, autopilot. The moment the driver’s side door creaked open, he smelled it. Blood, faint and intoxicating. That hot beat inside of him pounded deeper.

He threw his duffel to the foot of his bed and shrugged out of his jacket. The Mark peered beneath the rolled cuff of his flannel, a garish pink against the dark fabric. Somehow, Dean found himself in the kitchen and despite the caffeine and the cheerleading from Sam, he felt hollowed out. Dean’s vision tunneled as he dodged out of further conversation to march down the hall. Finally, he could seek what had been calling to him.

CC froze over the washing machine as he loomed in the doorway. Her eyes closed as she felt him scent her, she didn’t turn an inch in his direction. Her bare legs, plump and smooth, beneath her tiny pajama shorts were just enough exposed skin to do some real damage. She fell back, heavy on to her heels. “How was it?”

“Final,” Dean said after stopping to consider an appropriate description for an assassination.

Chloe finally saw him, torn between shadow and shame. “I was scared you’d—"

“Yeah, well. I did.” Dean crossed his arms over his chest, shoulders hulking as he considered her concern.

“Is there something you wanted to ask me?” CC swallowed more air, the fear and electricity making her lightheaded. She moved to rest her hand on her knife handle, but it slid over the missing weapon. Her oversized sweatshirt sleeve covering her hand as it dangled in unfulfilled habit.

“How you doin’ Cease?”

“What?”

“How are you?” Dean said each word with a step forward, head bowing as he watched her straighten to face him.

“Uh, pretty crabby, but okay, I guess.”

Dean hummed, eyes squinting as she nervously looked to the door and back to space between their feet. “Anything I can help you out with?”

She blushed, a warmth twisting around her eyes and an awkward smile pulled at her cheeks as she centered her ponytail, giving her itching hands something to hold on to. “Dean?”

“Chloe?” Dean’s eyes darkened, the dangerous smirk pulling far enough back to let the overhead lights glint on his impossible teeth. He was gaunt and sallow; yet power continued to radiate from all over him.

“How are you looking at me like that,” she whispered in disbelief, pulling her top lower over her wide hips. “I am disgusting right now.”

“Yeah, well, compared to my butchered mug; you’re as tantalizing as ever, Cease. Besides, I could use a distraction or two, however dirty they might be.” Dean’s voice dropped another octave, an invisible fist clenched inside her. She groaned, letting her head fall in indecision. Dean closed the distance between them, big hands taking her shoulders firmly as he leaned down, earning a grin as she found his eyes suddenly playful beneath lush lashes.

“Seriously, I’m gross.”

“Not to me you’re not,” Dean purred, wide thumb stroking her strong cheek bone. “Let me make you less crabby.” CC’s head rolled to the side; her nose nuzzled into his comforting stubble.

At long last, she caved, her spiced skin slipping beneath his cracked lips as they danced over her collar bone. Dean’s entire body hummed with a need nearly as wide as the void inside him. They collided, grabbing and shoving until Dean started to wonder who was truly strongest. Then CC nipped below his ear and he tossed her on top of the washing machine she had set to HOT. She pinched her knees together, twisting side saddle on the hissing appliance, lips parting as Dean’s tongue took its time riling her up from the inside out.

Dean’s hands widened, tips and palms digging into her fleshy thighs, begging access until he demanded it. She groaned into his mouth before pulling back, her uncertainty crumbled beneath his singular focus. She tasted the iron from his split lip, a bit of coffee and something unimaginable. Even bad decisions need to be made to prove their consequence. Chloe grabbed Dean’s forearms and pushed him back, his gaze slow to move up from his target.

“Shower room?” she asked hopping back down on her bare feet.

Dean barely shook his head, nose buried in her hair. Her arms threaded around his waist as his thumb cocked up her face, his fingers threading into the loose strands at the nape of her neck.

“My room? It’s farthest from Sam’s?” Dean answered with clashing teeth and a fistful of Chloe’s ass.

There was a threatening rhythm to their efforts, hefty pauses ending only after the other started to teeter; to break. They had gotten to CC’s room, clothes shoved and forgotten along the way to the bed. Dean grasped the nape of her neck, his arm locked as he stared through her, eyes unfocused and mouth open against a horror she couldn’t see. She tried to pull him closer, to sit back and take him with her, but he was frozen. She slid her palm under his elbow and pushed up, her other arm braced across his chest to keep him back, in case his reaction was less than friendly.

His jaw worked over all the words that wouldn’t form, eyes dropping closed as he came back from the brink, grip softening as his forehead fell to her shoulder. CC couldn’t stop from shaking as the moment passed, Dean’s mouth finding her pulse point more than conversational again. All that hovered over them: fear, power, destiny and damnation, fueled them until they were desperate and starving, knowing that the other was just as empty. Just as wanton. Dean’s hands pulled her thighs apart and his teeth ran the edge of the faded cotton. The iron sang through his nose as it mixed with her arousal; a signature cocktail he couldn’t refuse.

CC swallowed as his fingers dragged down the last barrier between his mouth and her coated folds. No sound could reach her as she battled the disgust and desire, Dean’s tongue threaded through her lips, nipping and sucking them swollen. He moved in to circle her clit; the heat of her shame began to burn away as yearning eclipsed all custom and ceremony. CC’s head fell back, and when she closed her eyes knots of wood looked back.

Suddenly she was suspended from her every nerve, tucked away from feeling Dean shove three fingers inside her mess. In a bubble of warmth and muffled sound, CC drifted. It was calm and quiet there, a place without resistance or time. She began to wonder if this is what Death felt like, if the veil could manifest itself to tease her. To coax her immortality from her by sheer tranquility. There was something pulling at the back of her thoughts, something she was forgetting, something that demanded her opposition even, but CC couldn’t be bothered to think on that. Not quite yet.

Dean doesn’t realize he’s lost her, he just keeps finger fucking her until the thinning blood is snaking down his arm. His lips pull at her, thirst crazed and blind. The beat inside his head overtakes her pulse, heavy and languid, building. Her breath catches and he feels the gentle trickle, a silent compliment for his efforts. Her body pulls while he pushes, deeper, solid, unmoving as the shuttering of her walls loosen outward in waves.

Dean pulls his hand back and admires it in the light, rust rimmed nails and ruddied knuckles as the skin cools beneath the liquid as it dries and cracks. It’s not enough. His eyes search the desk and dresser, knowing it must be here, somewhere. He isn’t thinking, he is only moving. The battered leather sheath lays across her boots, handle smooth and solid as he grips it in his right hand. It’s smaller than he thought, but the spellworked blade dazzles as Dean pulls it from its case.

She hasn’t moved safe for her chest rising and eyes scrunched against the ceiling. Dean should know that isn’t a good sign, but either he doesn’t register it, or he doesn’t care. He moves to her side, where he can feel her curves against him, her lungs expand as he lets his weight fall against her. Her head lulls to the side and a soft whimper passes her lips as he slides home, blood thick and gritty along every inch of him. Dean almost cums at the sight of the gore he pulls out of CC’s channel. He pushes back in, shoving her knees obscenely against the comforter, letting every ripple of her thighs and ass urge him on.

CC feels the first slice between her breasts. Like a tuft of hair caught in a necklace she is pulled from her weightlessness and placed back in reality. The sweat stings her skin as it opens, her granddad’s knife dangles above her as Dean catches her eye. He thrusts into her with clenched teeth, eyes dark and muscles constricting as he shifts lower. Her legs lock around his waist as he stands, still buried inside her. She tries to sit, but his free hand pushes her back down, rough palm burning against the mangled flesh.

He grunts and gasps, and CC finally sees it, the terror in his eyes. He’s frozen once more. The knife is shaking in his hand, a not so invisible force extending over his forearm. CC needs to do something; Dean’s panicking as his body moves without him. She rolls her hips and threads her fingers around his wrist. Dean’s eyes go wide as she sinks the metal beneath her ribs. She shushes him, nodding and rocking into his body. Dean looks away and moves again, entering her doubly as the Mark takes her offering to free him. She tries to keep breathing, to stay conscious and keep watch on Dean.

Her hand slips up from his wrist and over the cursed brand in his white skin. She focuses on it, stomping on the tendrils of control with her mind; it remains immobile and unnerving. She feels the darkness pulling at her, trying to put her under, to stow her away. Dean’s face falls to her neck, he pulls the knife from her side, leaving jarring pain shooting through her as the wound registers. Dean cries out, clutching her head to his, arms tight and knife falling.

CC thrashes against him, breaking through with a fist through his near headlock; they roll back, clinging to each other like a life raft. His scruff prickles her throat and CC coughs, breaking the stalemate. They pull apart, limbs and groins untangling in guilt riddled silence. Dean clears his throat and sits up, hand hovering over her wounds. He’s mesmerized and apologetic, biting back any sorry when CC inhales against the pain. She waves him off and pops up onto her elbows. Her eyes take in the damage and she frowns in consideration before closing her eyes.

“Cease?” Dean whines a worry as her skin starts to glow.

“It’s okay. I’m gonna be fine, just, uh, just gimme a sec.” CC wills the walls of her organs to fuse, her muscles knit together, and the skin zips closed and clean before Dean’s eyes. She pants from effort and falls back to the bed, a gentle smile twisting on her face before she opens her eyes. Dean’s are like saucers, his slack jawed expression made worse by the patches of blood and slick crusted in his scruff. All CC can think is how his mix of scary and stoned is causing her heart to catch in her throat.

“Hey?” CC whispers, slipping her hand over his, despite the nausea that was creeping back up. “You good?”

Dean lets her question sit unanswered, floating in the space between his guilty hands and her enabling eyes. The world seemed to tilt before he falls into the damp darkness of unconsciousness.

^*^*^*^

Dean woke to the sound of his own screams, his fist jutting up into some unseen enemy. He swung against her as CC tried to pull him back, her hand cool on his left bicep. He smelled soap and felt damp pillows; he couldn’t remember showering. Finally, the room righted itself and he could piece together what little furniture she had accumulated since they’d been brought back to the Bunker. Since the demon inside her had helped Sam cure him. He spotted her empty boots and the images of her knife in his grip flashed in his mind’s eye; his stomach twisted against the memories he forced himself to swallow.

           CC let him work through it, she was sore and exhausted and couldn’t find the words that would bring him back from the brick wall he kept running himself into. His recoil from her every touch set up her haunches as it was, maybe she should have dragged him to his own bed after all. Having him here felt like they were hiding, but the only person she felt any guilt for was no longer in this phase of existence.

He whispered a desperate ‘fuck’ into the early morning quiet. Finding his undershirt; he ducked into the neck before turning to face CC. Whatever he was hoping to find in her face, it wasn’t there. Her tired eyes were set deep atop her full cheeks, her uncertainty and caution bordering on annoyance.

“What?” Her voice warbled.

“Forget it.” Dean closed his eyes as her hand snaked over the sheets to cage his in. “I’m sorry I woke you up, I’ma head back to my room, let you get some rest.”

“Dean? You don’t have to—” She didn’t even try to sell it.

“I know, but, I just keep going through the thing with Cain and, you need to recuperate now, so.” Dean shrugged, left a peck on her forehead and threw on the rest of his clothes before either said another word. Once he was free to the safety of the empty hallway Dean shivered, his bare feet and wet head oddly comforting in the confines of his body and bones.

CC watched him leave, quick and painlessly. There was so much lacking between them that it didn’t even register as a rejection; they were simply saying what they thought the other wanted to hear. They were quite the lop-sided pair: the cursed hunter and Heaven’s bastard’s mistake. Both broken, in very different directions.

*^*^*^*

Next Chapter: The Mark

[rustedethereal]

              something is always burning inside of  you;                                      it is not terrible to burn.

                                                         - paige ackerson-kiely

Bryce’s Girl ;

    It’s the sound of shouting that brings her to awaken with a start, sitting upright with eyes shooting open, something sticking to her cheek. Her hands shoot forward to catch herself upon the table, knuckles crashing sloppily into empty bottles that fall like a set of dominoes, threatening to roll onto the floor and smash. A hand reaches out to catch them, a black mark sitting upon the back of it, a familiar tattoo she’d never been able to figure out. Bryce sets the bottles right with an irritated sigh, glaring in her direction. “Go home,” he tells her as he peels the coaster from her face, “you’re getting in the way.”

    “I’m up,” Max protests with a yawn, batting the hand in her face away with a much smaller one of her own. Seventeen again without a care in the world, sat in her favourite place beside the only person that matters. Where else would she rather be than here? “Ain’ missin’ tonigh’. Rumours sayin’ it’s goin’ t’ be a figh’ to remember.” Bryce snorts, taking up his own drink, knocking back the last of the strong liquid with one big gulp. “Fine,” he says, getting onto his feet. “Move it.”      “It’s happenin’ already?”     “You slept through the rest.”     “Why didn’ you wake me up?” Max whines.     “I was enjoying the peace and quiet.”      “Asshat.”     “What was that?”     “I said dat’s fair, dat.”     “That’s what I thought.”

    Walking away from their table, Bryce begins to crack his knuckles against each of his palms and Max is soon quick to follow, mirroring the image quietly behind him, a look of pure glee upon her face. This was her favourite moment, the walk between table and ring. It’s where he changed from man to beast, something feral with a bite far worse than his bark. She couldn’t remember if he was fighting tonight, but the act alone never failed to leave her with goosebumps, a twitchy excitement running through her, twisting around in her stomach in the form of butterflies. She’d stand beside the ring as she always did, either to watch him fight and cheer the loudest to let everyone know he was the best, or to observe someone else, learning their tricks of the trade to report back.

    Either way, Max makes to slip off to her favourite spot, only this time Bryce turns and puts a hand on her shoulder with a quirk of his brow. “Where are you going?” he questions firmly.     “Where I usually go, idiot.”     “Not tonight.”     “Hm?”     “You’re in the ring with me, kid.” 

    His grasp on her shoulder tightens and Bryce all but drags her with him to the ring, ignoring her protests and the way her fingers clawed at his. “You’re jokin’, righ’?” Max laughs nervously, “I ain’ allowed t’ figh’, remember? You said it yo’self.” The fighter doesn’t answer, turning to face her if only to scoop her into his arms to lift her over the ring’s ropes. He drops her in and Max hits the floor with a thump, lacking the speed to catch herself in time. The crowd laughs and begins to boo. “Some fuckin’ joke,” she grumbles, moving to crawl out of the ring. A hand grabs her ankle and pulls her back in and with a glance over her shoulder, the bald headed Ref grins down at her.

    “Finally gettin’ what you wanted, eh Max?” he laughs, looking up to the crowd with a greedy grin. “Round one; Bryce Edwards VS Maxanne Price. Place your bets with the bookie, fight starts in two!”

    He lets go of her ankle and makes to the edge of the ring, encouraging the crowd to put their money where their mouths are. Bryce climbs into the ring as focused as ever, watching how his ‘opponent’ scrambled to her feet with hard eyes. “Dis ain’ funny, cher!” Max yells out to him, but Bryce looks away, slipping off the jacket that should of been thrown into her hands. She always held his things, not some random in the crowd. That was her job and there’s a wonder to just what the hell he’s playing at. Max turns to climb out of the ring once more, only the bouncers now block her way.

    That was the rule, wasn’t it?     Once you were in the ring, you weren’t allowed to get back out.

    “Fighters, get ready!” the Ref finally calls and Max watches Bryce raise his fists, the small smirk he so often gave her when she was outside the ropes perking upon his lips. The most she can do is stand there, baffled and frozen, wondering if he truly was about to do this. She’d always believed he’d never lay a hand on her. Would he really hurt her now?

    The Ref counts them in and the bell rings.     And Bryce doesn’t hesitate.

    His fist finds her cheek first and it very well knocks her off her feet. He sighs with disappointment, looking down at her as she splutters, spitting blood from the inside of her mouth. “Get up,” he tells her, “get on your feet, Max.” 

    “Merde,” Max coughs, already so dizzy from just one hit. “You ain’t fuckin’ aroun’, are you?” Palms push into the concrete speckled with red and slowly, Max gets to her feet. She knew how Bryce fought by now, or... at least, she thought she did. Bryce swings again and clips her square in the jaw and she stumbles backwards, the ropes of the ring catching her. The bouncers push her forward and Bryce drives his knee into her stomach, knocking the air right out of her. Max swears she’ll never breathe again. The Alpha grabs her by a fistful of black hair and tosses her into the middle of the ring. The crowd goes wild.

    And he would not hold back. Not for her.

    “B-Bryce, wait--” she calls out, but the man is too far gone. Every fist felt like stone, her bones unable to take the weight. She curls in on herself, refusing to stand up despite his demands. It’s a foolish thing, perhaps, to allow herself to get beaten into nothing. But it was Bryce. How could she oppose him like that? Maybe there was a reason for the beat down. Maybe she’d stepped out of line again, or perhaps his patience had finally worn out. “Pathetic,” he hisses, tucking his foot under her stomach to flip her onto her back. Max tastes blood in her mouth, feels it collect at the back of her throat. Bryce wipes the crimson on his knuckles over his jeans. He’s disgusted, disappointed.

    It hurts more than the broken bones.

    The bell rings again and the crowd cheers, the noise fading into the background. A man climbs into the ring and stands beside Bryce, dark hair and dark eyes looking over her with scrutiny. “That was sad, Max,” he tells her, “I expected more.” He looks to Bryce, watching how he folds his arms over his chest, the black mark upon the back of one hand pulsing. “I suppose this means you’re done with her, then?”

    Bryce looks down at the pitiful teenager and nods. “All yours,” he confirms. The dark haired man holds out his hand, a brown envelope laying in his palm. Bryce takes it, opens it with interest, a grin spreading on his face at the contents.     “Ten percent, as promised,” the man tells him with a smile.     “Nice doing business with you, Kaz.”     “The pleasure is all mine.” 

    Kaz.

    Max feels her blood run cold, her body begin to tremble. “Non, don’ you do this t’ me,” she pleads, a hand reaching out to the hunter with a cry. “Don’ let him take me again, please, please Bryce, don’ let him--” 

    But Bryce kicks her hand away and then, he does nothing. As he always did. He merely stands there, thumbing through the money in hand, far more interested in the notes than the way Kaz leans down to wrap cuffs around her wrists tight. He hooks a finger through the chain that joins them and gives it a good tug. “Bryce--” Max tries again, “Bryce, please don’ do this. Please don’.” 

    “I told you he gave you up,” Kaz says simply, “I told you he was never coming back for you. Ten percent, Max. That’s all it took. Ten percent and a beating. That’s all you’re worth.”      “Non, he’s righ’ there,” Max screams, her feet kicking against the concrete, frantic and desperate as the man began to drag her away, blue eyes still glued upon the hunter, waiting for him to just move. “He’ll do somethin’, he will. I know he will. He tol’ me. ‘I’ve got you’. Tha’s wha’ he said.”      “He didn’t leave, you know,” Kaz tells her, his tone so casual it’s cruel. “He sold you out. He willingly gave you to me before he left. He gave you up.”     “He won’ let me down again.”     “So what would you call this, then?”

    Bryce pockets the money and turns his back on the pair.     Max doesn’t stop screaming his name, even when Kaz dumps her into the trunk of his car, even when he slams the hood shut.

    She still has hope.

Milah’s Girl ;

    And it’s a hope that’s lost when eyes shoot open, her heart racing from sheer panic, the sound of an engine still humming in her ears. The light of day is too bright, blinding her after the darkness and Max leans back against soft pillows with a much needed breath, her throat sore and dry. She’ll blame the dream on a bad high, tell herself the drugs still cling to her system. Detox was a horrifying thing, after all. It wouldn’t surprise anyone.

    Except, that was a long time ago, wasn’t it? For now she lays in pillow fort beside a brunette far more beautiful than any girl she’d ever seen. Milah sleeps soundly beside her, candy wrappers littered all around her. She always did build the best places to sleep, and whether she liked it or not, Max always found her way in. She’d make a joke about it being hard to resist when The Dealer looked so cute when she was sleeping, or how Max was her bodyguard and she must be close at all times. 

    But they both knew it was because the thief couldn’t sleep alone any more.     The nightmares scared her too much.

    And despite the groggy protests, Max buries herself against the other woman, snuggling close with her face in the crook of her neck, pressing her chilly nose against the other’s skin. She giggles when the other tries to squirm away, chasing after her with a grin. “Get off,” Milah groans, “you’re cold.”      “Brrr. I know. Warm me up, ma cherie. I’m afrai’ I can’ feel my hands.”      “Ugh. Off. Now.”      “ Désolé, ma cherie. I’m so sleepy I can’ hear you. Did you say get closer?” Max ghosts cold fingers up the length of Milah’s arm, laughing when she flinches away and smacks the thief up side the head.     “I hate you,” Milah claims, shaking the woman off to curl up again.     “Oui, oui. I know,” Max grins.

    Crawling out of the mess of blankets to leave the woman be, Max tiredly stands tall and stretches, arms above her head with the satisfying feel of her spine cracking. She couldn’t remember how long they’d been tucked away like that, ignoring the day and the life that came with it, and she didn’t care for it either. As long as she was with Milah, everything was as it should be. 

    She crosses the room to the window, looking out into the streets below. It’s an odd sight, to see traffic and people going about their business. It almost feels unfamiliar, as though it’d been a long time since she’d seen such a mundane thing. “Hey cherie, looks like your guy is back,” Max snorts, watching the detective’s car pull up, “he’s got his partner wit’ him, too. Wan’ me to go greet them an’ buy you some time?” 

    A silence answers, and Max sighs.

    “Oi now, don’ ignore me, I know you ain’ asleep jus’ yet,” Max calls out, turning from the window to look back at the fort. 

    And it takes every ounce of strength she has left not to scream.

    Kaz leans over Milah’s body, wiping a crimson knife upon a towel. She lays there with her throat slit, her eyes wide and empty, staring in her direction, her mouth hanging open as she chokes, drowning in her own blood. “It’s a shame,” Kaz says with a shake of his head, “I kind of liked her.”

    Max leaves the window, scrambling across the room to her girl in a panic, pressing hands over the gash upon her neck. It’s a futile thing, the wound far too big for her efforts, waves upon waves of red crashing through her fingers. “Oh cherie, hol’ on,” Max whispers, tears spilling from her eyes, “jus’ hol’ on. Their comin’, they’ll help, you’ll be jus’ fine.”     “Who’s comin’, Max?” Kaz asks, crouching down beside her. The thief ignores him, too focused on Milah to care.     “Hang on Milah, jus’ hang on fo’ me a lil longer.” Milah wraps fingers around Max’s wrist, gagging on the red blocking the path to her lungs. “Jus’ a lil longer, cherie. Don’ you give up on me, now.” 

    A knock sounds at the door, knuckles rapping loudly against wood. “Chou, open up. It’s Detective--”      “Tseng!” Max screams, “Daniel-- Daniel quick!”     “Max?”     “Ezra, please, cher. Please-- She’s goin’ to die-- Do somethin’! Please--”

    A bang echoes throughout the room and the door shakes. One, two, three times more until the wood falls away from its hinges, the detectives standing in the door way. Ezra’s the first across the room, Daniel already requesting help as he enters close behind. “Max, move away from her,” he tells her gently, and Max simply shakes her head.      “Non, you help her.”     “Max--”     “Help. Her.”     “Max, she’s gone.”

    She knows, for the hand grasping her wrist no longer holds tight. She knows, for she’s met with nothing but silence, her girl no longer choking beside her. The skin beneath her hands still remains warm with fading life, blood still oozing over her fingers. Max stares at Ezra, her head shaking slowly. “Non, you help her. You bring her back. Fix it,” she demands, but Ezra simply puts a hand upon her arm.      “Max, what happened? Who did this?” he asks.      “I can’ tell you.” I can’ do this.     “Max--”     “Non, I can’-- He’ll-- I can’ do it.” But I have to. I need to. “Kaz. His name is Kaz.”     “Who--” 

    From the corner of her eye, a body drops into a heap. Daniel clutches his throat, crimson leaking onto the floor. She hears Ezra yell, but Max knows it’s already too late. He falls beside Milah, red spraying her clothes. Ezra presses a hand over his neck, the other clutching Max for help. “I always knew you were a street rat,” Kaz hums, coming up behind her, the bloody knife tucked under her chin. “But I didn’t think you were the kind that snitched.”     “I’d o’ come wit’ you,” Max whimpers.     “And you will,” he says, dragging the blade across her skin.

Nate’s Girl ;

    Max screams herself awake, her hands wrapped around her throat. She kicks the sheets off her body as she scrambles, pressing herself against the expensive headboard. Blurred vision frantically searches the room, searches the space beside her. It’s the mansion, and she’s alone, a vague memory of someone that should be laying beside her throbbing away in her head. “Nate?” Max calls out, kicking herself for the way her voice shook. ‘When you fall, I’ll catch you’. “Nate, I--” 

    The thief draws in a shaky breath, pressing the palms of her hands against her eyes. A nightmare, nothing more. She had those all the time. Kaz always haunted her dreams, didn’t he? Always plagued her, even after all this time. But this felt different, as though it were real and it’s enough to force her from the bed in a swift movement, grabbing the knives she carried with her from the bedside table. She holsters one, but keeps the other firm in hand, her knuckles turning white from the grip. 

    It’s too quiet, she thinks. Something’s wrong.

    With caution, Max leaves the bedroom, creeping into the hallway. Her footsteps made no sound and she tries with all her might to control her breathing, too. She was a thief, a good one. The shadows were her friend, the silence an ally. She shouldn’t feel so afraid, and yet, the skin of her arms raised with goosebumps, the hairs standing on end. It was wrong-- it was all wrong.

    She slips down the hall silently, checking every room she passed for the soldier. He’d been off since the day before, refusing to give her anything more than a ‘I’m fine’. She hadn’t pushed, sure she didn’t have the right to. She’d simply drank with him, then fallen asleep beside him holding his hand. She wasn’t used to waking up without him, reveling in how he always seemed to be there, overprotective and a tad overbearing about every little thing she did. Max hadn’t minded one bit. His attention was hers, and that’s what mattered.

    It takes her too long to notice, how every space was empty. The estate was huge, but there was always a chance to bump into somebody. There was always someone loitering around, looking for something to do, taking advantage of the luxury they’d been given despite how uneasy most of the group felt. For days now, Max had noticed it, unable to put a finger on what exactly was out of place, for every time she came too close, something distracted her. Something shiny and expensive, something she adored, something that appealed to her thieving heart and the fun she liked to have. It was enough to consistently throw her off the trail.

    “Nate, you aroun’, darlin’?” Max calls out again, her voice trembling. This wasn’t right. If she called, he’d come running. If she fell, he’d catch her. If she needed him, he’d be there. He was never too far from her, not any more. They never allowed themselves to be.

    And then, she hears it. The familiar sound of pain, the grunts and the groans and the yells of agony. She’d heard it on the battlefield, heard it in the cells between each word of comfort he’d tried to offer. The thief takes off running, her sprint silent, her other blade drawn as though they were nothing more than merely apart of her. 

    And if, back at the hotel, she’d been wrath running into a fight to protect him, she was now the ghost of fear, running into the unknown to save him.

    Max skids around the a corner and skids to a halt, a long corridor she couldn’t remember seeing laid out before her, a door at the very end cracked open. Nate groans again, and it’s enough to push herself forward as fast as she could go. A gunshot rings out, a light flashing behind the door and Max bursts in moments later so violently the door swings back, crashing into the wall with a bang.

    And Max begins to sob.

    For she knows this room and knows it well; white walls, concrete floor, a simple length of rope hanging from the ceiling in the center. An assortment of tools lay upon a table, crusted with dark, brown stains; dried blood and matter clinging onto them. The smell of bleach clings to the air. This was the backroom at Marcus’ club. Kaz’s brother had a thing for the dramatics.

    And hanging by his wrists, was Nate, broken and beaten just as she had once been when she’d been in his place. Except now, there’s a hole between his eyes, and he no longer fights.

    Dropping one knife to the ground, the metal clattering against concrete, Max throws the other at the rope, well aimed despite how tears cloud her eyes. Nate falls to his knees, to his side and Max walks slowly to him, her feet dragging along the floor. She drops down beside the soldier, pulling his body into her arms. She pulls her sleeve over her hand, wipes away the blood around his mouth, upon his cheek, between his eyes. The green of his irises were dull, cloudy and lost. A sign of the dead, she supposed. She’d seen it before. Max rests a hand upon his cheek, her thumb brushing over the bone. It moved beneath her touch, broken and shapeless. Kaz steps into view, his knuckles bloodied and bruised, Nate’s gun in his hand.

    “He was strong, I’ll give him that,” Kaz says thoughtfully, standing before her with a smile on his face. “But I guess, he wasn’t strong enough.”     “Don’ you talk abou’ him like you know him,” Max snarls, though the sound leaves her mouth in such a pitiful way that the only thing Kaz does is laugh.

    The monster crouches in front of her, looking down at Nate in her arms. Max curls herself protectively around him, shielding him from the cursed gaze Kaz often had. He raises the gun, sits the barrel comfortably between her own eyes.

    The metal feels warm against her skin.      “Je t’aime,” she whispers, pressing lips against Nates. “Always.”      She hears the click of the safety being switched off.     Next time, she tells Nate, I’ll get him next time. I promise.

    She hears Kaz laugh once more.

Kaz’s Girl ;

    A car alarm rings out somewhere and Max bolts upright, her head just missing the bathroom sink. The room is dim, the last rays of sunlight just managing to creep through the window, one last kiss before it said good night. The tap above the sink drips, drips, drips and Max rubs the bridge of her nose with a finger. It’s sore, every inhale through it a painful one, whether it be because her nose is bruised from a fight, or her lungs expanding beneath her ribs simply far too sore for it. 

    And as her mind begins to come back to her, Max pushes herself until she leans back against the tub, the cold porcelain a welcome feeling to what she could only presume was bruises upon her back too. It’s a familiar feeling, to be here like this. She didn’t need to look in the mirror to know. Kaz had gotten angry again, though the reason why was something she couldn’t recall. Perhaps she’d made a mistake again, or her attitude had gotten in the way. Either way, it was routine.

    He’d break her until she remembered who she worked for again.     He’d break her until she remembered who she belonged to.

    Except, this time, Max didn’t feel broken. In fact, she didn’t feel anything at all. A cold, numb feeling sat in her chest, a detachment from the world a heavy one. She’d dreamt again, perhaps of another escape. There are names on her tongue she can’t put faces to any more, a group that she could of sworn meant something. Another cruel thing she’d imagined to torment herself with, she supposed. 

    People that cared.

    It’s harder to remember as the minutes pass by, as dreams always faded in the end. It takes her longer to finally pull herself to her feet, clutching the sink for support. She’d been right; her face was a mess, her nose swollen and her eye black. Max lifts her shirt to check her ribs, and just as she’d thought, they were black and blue too. A tattoo sits upon her left, right next to her heart; two little feet in black ink. It’s a funny thing, for she can’t remember getting it or who it belonged to. Perhaps it was another drunk adventure? Max runs a tongue over her split lip and swears she tastes whiskey. Another mess, probably.

    And like a well practiced routine, Max tosses her bloody clothes to the ground, stepping into the shower to get clean. Everything hurt, from skin to muscle to bone, each movement more excruciating than the last. He’d done a number on her for real this time and for the life of her, she can’t remember if she fought back. She liked to tell herself that the next time he raised a hand, she’d fight. She’d turn his lessons back upon him, leave him to rot in a pile for a change. But when the time came, she was always too afraid, too scared to move for the fear of what he’d do if she lost. “Coward,” Max hisses to herself, arms wrapped around her body protectively, “you’re a damn coward.”

    Eventually, she leaves the safety of the water for the bedroom, slipping on an old, dirty band t-shirt and pants. She looks at herself in the bedroom mirror, the better light illuminating her features. She can’t help but wonder how she got here, how she’d let herself become a victim like this. In what world was this her fate? In what universe, did she allow herself to become so battered and bruised she could hardly recognize herself?

    And it’s strange to think, how she’d awoken upon the bathroom floor -- as she always did after escaping the monster -- to a feeling of foreign strength, a fire burning beneath her skin, as if somehow, she didn’t belong here, not any more. 

    The apartment door opens and Max hears him enter, his boots heavy upon the wooden floor. She waits for the fear to build, the nerves to force her hands to shake.

    It doesn’t come.

    “Max, you up?” Kaz yells from the front room and Max simply nods, walking out to greet him with dull eyes. He looks up at her and grins, holding up a plastic bag, the smell of chinese food filling the apartment. “Noodles or curry?”     “Does it matter?”     “Yeah? Pick one.”     “I ain’ hungry.”     “Yeah, you are. So pick one.” 

    He doesn’t shout, but his voice is firm, and if there’s supposed to be a threatening tone behind it, Max doesn’t hear it. Not any more. She simply stares at him dangling a bag in the air, waiting for her to take it. She doesn’t, and instead she leans against the bedroom door frame. “What’s wrong now?” Kaz sighs, dumping the bag down on the small dining table they’d built together in the summer some time. It was recycled wood they’d somehow shaped into something decent. It’d taken two days, but she’d never laughed so much before.

    “Wha’s wrong wit’ us?” Max asks him, looking up from the table and the memory to stare into those dark eyes forever filled with judgement. “Why do we keep doin’ this?”     “Doing what? Eating?”     “Kaz--”     “Max, just pick a damn dish already.”     “Sure, let me fin’ my teeth on the bathroom floor so I can eat firs’, oui?”     “Don’t start.”     “Or wha’, Kaz?”

    The man curls fingers into his palms at his sides, clenches his jaw tight. “Maybe I went too easy on you,” he says quietly, as if the statement was for himself more than it was for her.      “Easy? Merde, look at the state o’ me. You crushed me, again. An’ fo’ wha’?”

    “The fuck has gotten into you today?” Kaz snarls, closing the space between them so quickly that Max steps back in surprise. She waits, once more, for the fear. 

    Once more, it doesn’t come.

    Next time, I’ll get him next time, I promise, her own voice rings in her head. It’s defiant, strong and for the first time, it sounds like she means it. “Hey,” Kaz snaps, grasping her face with one hand, his fingers digging deep into her already bruised cheeks. “I said, what the fuck is going on with you?” Max stares deeper into his eyes, her brows furrowing. “Talk.”     “Looks like you’re losin’ your touch, mon ami,” Max says slowly within his grasp. 

    Kaz growls, letting go of her face to take hold of her shirt, dragging her out from within the bedroom to slam her against the wall. Her head rocks back, hits the plaster hard, and still, she doesn’t shake. Still, she doesn’t fear him. Instead, she grins. And Kaz doesn’t like that one bit.

    He draws a fist back, aims to swing it down upon her face. But somehow, Max is quicker than before, perhaps even more experienced. She escapes his grasp in an instant, hears the fist collide with the wall instead. Kaz yelps in surprise and the smile upon Max’s face only grows wider. 

    Next time, I’ll get him next time. I promise.     ‘If you fall, I’ll catch you.’

    Together, or not at all.

    Nate.

    “I’ve got somewhere I need t’ be,” Max tells Kaz, sauntering across the room to grab her bag and her keys. “This ain’ where I belon’ no more.” She didn’t know where he was, only that he existed. He had to. She remembered the warmth against her lips when he kissed her; so light and delicate and then again when she went back for more, his hands pulling her closer, hesitance to the wind. 

    She wants it back.

    “You’re out of your fucking mind. You’re not going anywhere,” Kaz yells, and Max hears him behind her, coming up fast. And it’s now, she realises, just how predictable he truly is. How predictable he always was. She’d watched him fight many a time, for Christ’s sake. How hadn’t she seen it before? 

    He throws a punch, and Max ducks. She spins on the heel of her foot.      Her elbow finds his stomach and she drives it in hard.     He doubles over, and she follows with a knee to the groin.     He falls then, and falls hard. The noise that escapes is perhaps the sweetest one she’d ever heard him make.

    “I’m tryin’ to remember, cher,” Max starts to say, skipping on her feet when Kaz lashes out. “I’m tryin’ to remember wha’ made me so afraid o’ you in the firs’ place.”

    Nightmares, he was always in her nightmares. A big, monstrous thing that could hurt her without trying. He would always find her, always. 

    And yet, he never did. She remembers the beautiful brunette from her dream, snuggled away in a blanket fort, fast asleep beside her. Milah. She’d been with her for so long and yet, Kaz had never showed his face. He could of, and maybe somewhere he’d made a choice not to. But there was always a chance, always an opportunity and yet-- He’d never taken it. He’d never come back. 

    Kaz grasps her ankle, attempting to drag her off her feet. Max hops once and brings her foot into the air, bringing it down upon his fingers. She hears them pop, hears them break, hears him wince in pain. “I’m thinkin’ it was ‘cause I was so young. You took advantage o’ tha’. I didn’ have anyone to hide behin’ any more. It’s funny, non? Bryce was gone an’ yet, he was always wit’ me. Taugh’ me not to go down wit’out a figh’, he did. An’ here I am.” 

    And Bryce? He’d come back, in a way. She’d found him again, walking casually by as if the world was still whole. Because it wasn’t, was it? This apartment didn’t exist any more. Not really. It was ruin and nothing more, or so she’d hoped. And there’s a wonder now if perhaps, this was another dream. Another adventure in her fear of Kaz. 

    For now she remembers the ring and the bruises Bryce had left behind, how her broken bones had crumbed as she’d been dragged across the ground. She remembered the blood upon her hands from Milah, the spray upon her clothes from Ezra. She remembered the mansion and all it’s glory, the long hallway with the white room at the end, Nate hanging by his wrists. 

    And she remembers more now, Bryce’s smile as they sat upon a hospital bed, cans of fruit in their hands, his thumb running circles upon her knee whilst she lay back and floated along with whiskey in her veins. Perhaps the first perfect moment they’d ever shared.

    She remembers Milah standing in the doorway of the the kennels, smug grin on her face at the shock Max had portrayed at the very idea of being rescued, never mind by the dealer herself. She remembers planting kisses on the woman’s cheek, remembers being trusted with protecting her, remembers how she relies on her for so much more than a job. 

    She remembers Sam and the way his cheeks flourished with colour any time she teased him, how awkward he was with anything but simple talk. She remembers Wes, his laughter and their childish game, the way he’d whistled to her song but fallen quiet the moment she’d began to sing. He’d listened to her -- nobody listened to her. She remembered Ezra and his steadfast ways, how he and Daniel had done so much for her without even realising, how they’d helped Mikey pull her out of the dark. Mikey. Sweet, sweet broken Mikey and his calloused hands, pulling out the glass beneath her skin bit by bit, teaching her once more what a soft touch felt like. She remembered Eli and his dumb jokes, so high he hadn’t noticed how many panic attacks he’d calmed her down from, how he’d made her laugh for the first time in years. She remembered Ellie, how her confidence inspired her own, how she made her feel like she could be whoever she wanted to be and it’d be just fine, that everything would be alright. She remembers Jae, she remembers Zoe, she remembers Violet and the others.

    And most of all, she remembers Nate, and how it’s he who holds her heart. That it’s he she’d fallen in love with. The dinner he still owed her, the bottles of whiskey they’d somehow never managed to finish for they found themselves in each other’s arms, exchanging kisses and small bouts of laughter. How it’s his arms she’d fall asleep in, how it’s within his arms the nightmares didn’t come. He made her feel safe. He made her feel loved. How he kept Kaz away without knowing he’d existed.

    She remembers her life without Kaz.     She remembers herself without Kaz.

    Powerful, strong, alive.

    The man upon the floor gets to his feet, Max far too lost in herself to notice. He slips an arm around her throat and holds it there, and Max hears his voice breathing over her ear. “You’re mine,” he snarls, “and you’ll never leave me again.” 

    “Non, cher,” Max says calmly. “I ain’ yours. Ain’ nobodys, neit’er.”

    She was her own, nothing more and nothing less.

    And with a rage building in her chest, Max feels the marks upon her back begin to burn as cold as ice, the prickling feeling spreading over her shoulders and down her arms. It spreads across her body, the icy blue light flickering to life, flames dancing upon her skin. She hears Kaz scream and recoil in horror, letting her go as blue wings fan out beneath her shoulder blades, curling around in her a cold inferno. 

    “What the fuck are you?” Kaz shouts, shielding his face with his hands.     “I don’ know, cher,” Max sighs, looking down at the fire on her arms. “Mais, Eli was righ’, weren’ he? This does give me an edge.” 

    As the wings spread and curl, icy flames catch the furniture around them. It catches alight, spreading like wild fire, leaving a frozen trail in its path. Kaz begins to panic, falling to his knees with fear behind her. Max merely turns and looks at him, a small smile on her face. “I should thank you,” she tells him, to which Kaz looks up with a terrified frown.     “For what?”     “Helpin’ me realise I don’ have to be afraid no more. I ain’ alone, mais... I’m doin’ jus’ fine, me.” Max looks around at the burning apartment, the chill leaving ghosts of her breath to linger in the air. “This is good, isn’ it?”

    The inferno riots through the apartment, freezing everything in its wake. It shatters like glass into stardust, the room falling apart around her. The flames catch Kaz’s leg, creeping up his torso in a blaze. And Max watches, waiting for the moment that he too becomes trapped in an icy prison and she hopes that perhaps, it’s a reflection of the places he’d left her. A cold, dark room, bloody and beaten upon the floor. And when he’s frozen solid and no longer moving, Max kneels down before him, as he had in that place with the white walls, a rope hanging in the center, reaching out a hand. 

    She flicks the ice and watches it crack, grins as it crumbles into pieces, taking Kaz with it.

    Max stands, waiting for the flames to claim her too.

    “Oui, this ain’ bad at all.”

Nobody’s Girl ;

    Upon the bedroom floor, Max awakens, shaking so violently with a cold she couldn’t understand. Her chest rose and fell in jagged breaths all too quickly, small clouds of air forming in front of her face before fading, as though she’d been out in cold weather for a while. Her head spins, reeling in a rush of memories she can’t piece together. Her back aches with a cold burn and for a moment, there’s a fear that she lost herself to the blue again.

    Sitting up and with the help of her feet pushing against the ground, Max forces herself to move until her back hits a wall. She brings her knees beneath her chin, fighting desperately to claim some warmth back. She wheezes, dizzy and delirious, unable to calm herself down. 

    Footsteps enter the room and Max looks up with tears rolling down her cheeks.

    “Did I get away?” she asks slowly. “Am I free?”

[bountyofbeads]

Nancy Pelosi’s Failure to Launch https://www.nytimes.com/2019/09/23/opinion/trump-whistle-blower-impeachment.html

Three excellent editorials on the latest Trump criminal activity and the need to impeach. We have more than enough evidence to impeach this president!! It's time to muster the political will and courage to do so for the sake of our Democracy and future generations!!

"It is time for the Democrats to stop worrying about the tactics of election and decide just what it is we stand for. What are our principles? Are we for good government, or are we just about winning? Concentrating only on the upcoming presidential election will give this back-door president another fifteen months of opportunity. The question is not whether we have "the votes": the question is what do we believe? We keep saying, "If you see something, say something." It seems that now is the time to "Do something." The whole world is watching!"

"I see a parallel between Mitch McConnell's refusal to let any bill onto the Senate floor unless he has the president's assurance that he will sign it, and Nancy Pelosi's refusal to institute impeachment proceedings against Trump unless she is assured of the support of at least some Republicans and the general public. Both have given up their power as leaders of their party and become enablers of the most dangerous president in our country's history."

Nancy Pelosi’s Failure to Launch

The House speaker’s hesitation on impeachment empowers a lawless president.

By Michelle Goldberg | Published Sept. 23, 2019 | New York Times | Posted September 23, 2019 7:45 PM ET |

Elizabeth Warren on Friday evening sent out a series of tweets that, in addition to calling out Donald Trump for his criminality, rebuked Congress for enabling him. “After the Mueller report, Congress had a duty to begin impeachment,” wrote Warren. “By failing to act, Congress is complicit in Trump’s latest attempt to solicit foreign interference to aid him in U.S. elections. Do your constitutional duty and impeach the president.”

Warren was not impolitic enough to refer directly to the speaker of the House, Nancy Pelosi, but the implicit criticism was clear. It was also well deserved. Pelosi’s calculated timidity on impeachment is emboldening Trump, demoralizing progressives, and failing the country.

The House speaker is a master legislator, and by all accounts incomparable at corralling votes. But right now, Democrats need a brawler willing to use every tool at her disposal to stop America’s descent into autocracy, and Pelosi has so far refused to rise to the occasion. As Representative Jared Huffman tweeted, “We are verging on tragic fecklessness.”

Part of Pelosi’s rationale for not impeaching after the release of the Mueller report was that such a move didn’t have majority support in the country or bipartisan support in Congress. Her allies worried that were Trump to be impeached in the House but not convicted in the Senate, he could emerge stronger than ever. Many Democrats in swing districts wanted to steer clear.

These were reasonable concerns, but inaction signaled to Trump that he would face no consequences for obstructing justice or for seeking a foreign power’s help in undermining a political opponent.

Now Trump has used the power of the presidency to do just that. We don’t yet know all the details in the whistle-blower report filed by a member of the intelligence community, which is now being kept, possibly illegally, from Congress. But there’s little question that the president tried to pressure the government of Ukraine to investigate Joe Biden and his son, Hunter Biden; both Trump and his ranting disgrace of a lawyer, Rudy Giuliani, have admitted as much on television.

The idea was to try to force Ukraine to provide grist for a thoroughly debunked right-wing conspiracy theory that as vice president, Biden targeted a Ukrainian prosecutor on his son’s behalf. While Trump was strong-arming the reformist Ukrainian president Volodymyr Zelensky, his administration had frozen $250 million in security aid that the country desperately needed to defend itself against Russia, which invaded in 2014. It doesn’t matter if there was an explicit quid pro quo; Zelensky knew what Trump wanted from him. Trump deployed American foreign policy to extort a vulnerable nation to help his re-election campaign.

Trump’s latest defilement of his oath of office has pushed some previously reluctant Democrats, like the House Intelligence chairman Adam Schiff, toward impeachment. Schiff reportedly coordinated his recent pro-impeachment comments with Pelosi, yet she remains resistant to moving in the same direction. One of Pelosi’s advisers told the CNBC reporter John Harwood that her impeachment calculus hasn’t changed, saying, “See any G.O.P. votes for it?” It was almost as if the adviser was trying to troll scared, desperate Democrats, rubbing their faces in the speaker’s baffling determination to give Trump’s party veto power over accountability.

The most Pelosi has done is to write that if the whistle-blower’s complaint is kept from Congress, the administration “will be entering a grave new chapter of lawlessness which will take us into a whole new stage of investigation.” Given the impunity Trump has enjoyed so far, this does not seem like a threat with teeth.

Ultimately, no one can know the political consequences of impeachment in advance. I find it hard to imagine how months of televised hearings into a widely hated president’s comprehensive corruption could help him, but I can’t see the future. Perhaps impeachment in the House without removal in the Senate would allow Trump to convince some voters he’s been exonerated, though so does the failure to impeach him at all.

Polls show that impeachment doesn’t have majority support, so there’s a political risk for Democrats in trying to lead public opinion rather than follow it. But surely there’s also a risk in appearing weak and irresolute. Already, frustration with Pelosi in the Democratic base is threatening to curdle into despair. “I see the grass-roots activists who helped build the wave last year really wondering what they built that wave for,” Ezra Levin, co-founder of the progressive group Indivisible, told me.

In the end, our system offers no mechanism besides impeachment to check a president who operates like a mob boss. It’s true that Democrats will remove Trump only by beating him in 2020, but he is already cheating in that election, just as he did in 2016, and paying no price for it.

A formal impeachment process would, if nothing else, give new weight to Democratic claims when they go to court to enforce subpoenas or pry loose documents the administration is trying to hide. It would show that Democrats are serious when they say that Trump’s behavior is intolerable, and potentially allow them to seize control of the day-to-day narrative of this rancid presidency. Trump does not want to be impeached — a Monday Politico headline says, “Trump’s team is trying to stop impeachment before it starts.” It’s hard to imagine why any Democratic leader would assist them.

Donald Trump vs. the United States of America

Just the facts, in 40 sentences.

By David Leonhardt | Published Sept. 22, 2019 | New York Times | Posted September 23, 2019 7:45 PM ET |

Sometimes it’s worth stepping back to look at the full picture.

He has pressured a foreign leader to interfere in the 2020 American presidential election.

He urged a foreign country to intervene in the 2016 presidential election.

He divulged classified information to foreign officials.

He publicly undermined American intelligence agents while standing next to a hostile foreign autocrat.

He hired a national security adviser who he knew had secretly worked as a foreign lobbyist.

He encourages foreign leaders to enrich him and his family by staying at his hotels.

He genuflects to murderous dictators.

He has alienated America’s closest allies.

He lied to the American people about his company’s business dealings in Russia.

He tells new lies virtually every week — about the economy, voter fraud, even the weather.

He spends hours on end watching television and days on end staying at resorts.

He often declines to read briefing books or perform other basic functions of a president’s job.

He has aides, as well as members of his own party in Congress, who mock him behind his back as unfit for office.

He has repeatedly denigrated a deceased United States senator who was a war hero.

He insulted a Gold Star family — the survivors of American troops killed in action.

He described a former first lady, not long after she died, as “nasty.”

He described white supremacists as “some very fine people.”

He told four women of color, all citizens and members of Congress, to “go back and help fix the totally broken and crime-infested places from which they came.”

He made a joke about Pocahontas during a ceremony honoring Native American World War II veterans.

He launched his political career by falsely claiming that the first black president was not really American.

He launched his presidential campaign by describing Mexicans as “rapists.”

He has described women, variously, as “a dog,” “a pig” and “horseface,” as well as “bleeding badly from a facelift” and having “blood coming out of her wherever.”

He has been accused of sexual assault or misconduct by multiple women.

He enthusiastically campaigned for a Senate candidate who was accused of molesting multiple teenage girls.

He waved around his arms, while giving a speech, to ridicule a physically disabled person.

He has encouraged his supporters to commit violence against his political opponents.

He has called for his opponents and critics to be investigated and jailed.

He uses a phrase popular with dictators — “the enemy of the people” — to describe journalists.

He attempts to undermine any independent source of information that he does not like, including judges, scientists, journalists, election officials, the F.B.I., the C.I.A., the Congressional Budget Office and the National Weather Service.

He has tried to harass the chairman of the Federal Reserve into lowering interest rates.

He said that a judge could not be objective because of his Mexican heritage.

He obstructed justice by trying to influence an investigation into his presidential campaign.

He violated federal law by directing his lawyer to pay $280,000 in hush money to cover up two apparent extramarital affairs.

He made his fortune partly through wide-scale financial fraud.

He has refused to release his tax returns.

He falsely accused his predecessor of wiretapping him.

He claimed that federal law-enforcement agents and prosecutors regularly fabricated evidence, thereby damaging the credibility of criminal investigations across the country.

He has ordered children to be physically separated from their parents.

He has suggested that America is no different from or better than Vladimir Putin’s Russia.

He has called America a “hellhole.”

He is the president of the United States, and he is a threat to virtually everything that the United States should stand for.

Trump and Election Interference, Whistle-Blower Edition

Many elements are murky, but something clearly stinks.

By Nicholas Kristof | Published Sept. 21, 2019 | New York Times | Posted September 23, 2019 7:45 PM ET |

There’s so much we don’t know about the whistle-blower complaint concerning President Trump. But here are four things we do know:

First, it seems that an experienced intelligence official was so deeply disturbed by Trump’s interactions with the president of Ukraine as to feel the need to blow the whistle.

Second, the inspector general for the intelligence community, Michael Atkinson, who was appointed by Trump and has long experience on national security issues, found the whistle-blower’s concern to be legitimate and urgent.

Third, the whistle-blower complaint came after Trump and his associates  hounded Ukraine’s president, Volodymyr Zelensky, to undertake a corruption investigation involving Joe Biden and his son, Hunter. The  Ukrainian summary of a July 25 phone call between Trump and Zelensky included this cryptic sentence: “Donald Trump is convinced that the new Ukrainian government will be able to quickly improve image of Ukraine, complete investigation of corruption cases, which inhibited the interaction between Ukraine and the USA.” The Wall Street Journal reports that in that phone call, Trump pressed Zelensky about eight times to work with Trump’s lawyer Rudy Giuliani to investigate the Bidens.

Eight times! Nevertheless, he persisted!

Fourth, Trump withheld $250 million in military assistance urgently needed by Ukraine to fend off Russian aggression, although Ukraine didn’t learn of this until August. He released the money after the whistle-blower complaint and after members of Congress intervened.

So for all the murkiness, let’s be clear: This stinks.

(Trump’s position is that his phone call with Zelensky was “pitch-perfect” and “It doesn’t matter what I discussed.”)

Thus it appears that after benefiting from Russian interference in the 2016 election, Trump then tried to coax Ukraine to interfere in the 2020 election. It’s particularly egregious that Trump seemed eager to trade $250 million in American taxpayer dollars for Ukrainian help in tarring a Democratic rival.

Giuliani has helpfully acknowledged  that he urged Ukraine’s government to investigate whether Biden’s diplomatic efforts were meant to help Hunter, who had been involved in a gas company in Ukraine. (There’s no evidence of this.) Giuliani also pushed Ukraine to reinvestigate old corruption charges that ensnared Trump’s former campaign chairman, Paul Manafort, and to conclude that this was a political attack on Trump.

In effect, Trump apparently tried to use American diplomatic might and the leverage of military assistance to get Ukraine to exonerate Manafort for 2016 and smear Biden for 2020.

The incoherence of the Trump-Giuliani position is underscored in this interview Thursday evening on CNN:

Chris Cuomo: Did you ask the Ukraine to investigate Joe Biden?

Rudy Giuliani: No. Actually, I didn’t …

Cuomo, 24 seconds later: So, you did ask Ukraine to look into Joe Biden?

Giuliani: Of course, I did.

Trump has been credibly accused of using the presidency to enrich himself (summits at Trump properties!), to protect himself from law enforcement (appeals to James Comey, offers of pardons!) and to punish perceived adversaries (Amazon, CNN, Andrew McCabe). Now he may have harnessed the power of the presidency to gain political advantage.

This is bombshell layered upon bombshell. On top of the initial accusation by the whistle-blower is the refusal of the acting director of national intelligence, Joseph Maguire, to obey federal law and relay the matter to Congress within one week.

The law is very clear, but it’s also true that Presidents Bill Clinton and Barack Obama both suggested that there might be situations involving classified information where a president should not follow the statute. These are very tricky questions of executive power versus congressional oversight.

Jeffrey Smith, who was the C.I.A.’s general counsel under Clinton, told me that despite the technical legal arguments, there should still be ways to allow oversight, especially if the core issue is a commitment that the president has made to a foreign power.

Smith cited a time when he was at the C.I.A. and a matter came up that did not technically require reporting to Congress but still raised troubling questions. After some soul-searching within the agency, it provided a briefing to the “gang of eight” congressional leaders, and Smith told me that the same would be appropriate today.

Look, this whistle-blower’s complaint will leak. The Trump administration’s recalcitrance will simply make it all the more newsworthy.

When historians review Trump’s term, I think they will see combat between an out-of-control president and various U.S. institutions, such as the courts, the Civil Service, law enforcement, the intelligence community, the House and the news media, which generally have done a credible job of standing up for laws and norms and against one-man rule. The only institution Trump has co-opted completely is the Republican Party in Congress.

Today’s struggle over the whistle-blower may be remembered as a central battle in that epic confrontation. The core question is whether our president can get away with weaponizing the federal government to punish political opponents, or whether legal constraints and congressional oversight can keep him in line.

This is a test of our political system, and the next few months will determine whether we pass.

[exostrangers]

hello, we seem to have similar tastes in shows and movies, so i was wondering if you have any recommendations of things to watch on netflix? i'm desperately looking for something to pass the time, thanks

hmm well i don’t know what you’ve currently seen or tried, but i’ll give you some of my faves that are currently up :) excluding the obvious I’m assuming? (orange is the new black, person of interest)

I’m putting this behind a cut because it got a little lengthy, haha…

SHOWS:

The Oaif you’re into weird… sci-fi-y… conspiracy… mystery… enchantment??

Stranger Thingsif, same, except in the form of the Goonies rather than… Flatliners.

SVUif you’re into crime dramas. because that’s like… my favorite binge show. & has been. for like. 10 years. more than even.

Lie To Meif you’re into crime drama thats not your TYPICAL take on crime dramas. I used to watch this one when I was in school because it’s the sort of psychology I was really into. solving crimes through facial ticks & psychology more than like… crime scenes & detective work.

Lutherif you’re not so much into crime dramas but could still go for one because man this is like… one of my top favorite shows ever. it is just. so good. but like. stop after season 3. because that’s such a good & organic & full circle ending.

The Killingif you’re into crime dramas that aren’t run of the mill week to week cases, & are more single crime well shot edge of your seat drama. also female lead. so like. positives.

Twin Peaksif you’re into fucked up shit & also a little bit crime dramas & small town weirdness. it’s a strange fucking trip but worth the watch at least once.

Portlandiaif you’re not into anything serious & want something easy, funny, & disjointed to watch to pass the time or just veg out to.

Documentary Nowif you’re into comedy & mockumentaries. it’s got some wins & some misses, but overall I enjoyed watching it.

Arrested Developmentif you’re into comedy. it’s the peak.

It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphiaif you’re into comedy. it’s up there.

Bob’s Burgersif you’re into comedy & rewatching something ten million times because it’s nice & comfortable & your safe place to fall asleep to.

Archeran adult cartoon I enjoy that isn’t a complete cringefest.

Shamelessif you’re into comedy & fucked up families.

Bojack Horsemanif you’re into comedy with a side of exestential realism. & some dread.

(the first four seasons of) Supernaturaljudge me all you want but like… this show was good for a fleeting four years before abruptly becoming a shit fest. if you’re into weekly monster/myth/cryptid hunts. the first for seasons were like little mini horror movies about every fascinating cryptid I’ve ever watched 1am youtube videos about.

Freaks & Geekslike one of the best shows ever. best high school show. GOOD SHOW. SO GOOD.

Black Mirrorif you’re into like… modern Twilight Zone horror. some episodes are a little heavy handed, but overall it’s an interesting watch.

Crazyheadif you’re into weird ass british E3 channel shit & Tracer. from Overwatch.

Jerichoif you’re into nuclear apocalypses & the struggle to survive in a world where society has fallen.

Planet Eartheveryone loves Planet Earth.

& then a few on MY to-watch-eventually list are

Santa Clarita Diet

Top of the Lake

Glitch

Penny Dreadful

Marcella

From Dusk Till Dawn

Residue

all of which I’ve heard good things about through various trusted friends.

MOVIES(now, as far as movies go I’m not CRAZY about netflix’s selection. I mostly use it for TV, but I know there are a handful of not awful ones on there. so.)

Short Term 12literally like one of the best movies on netflix right now. if you’re into indie movies about good things like a bunch of wayward young adults workin at a halfway home & the troubled youths they form relationships with. also Brie Larson & Rami Malek & Stephanie Beatriz & that guy from 10 Cloverfield Lane.

All Cheerleaders Dieif you’re into inconventional horror movies. some cheerleaders die. then are brought back from the dead. & sometimes they kill people.

The Jungle BookI’m just really excited they added this. it’s really good okay.

A Girl Walks Home Alone At Nightforeign. & long. but good if you’re into horror noir.

Heathersbecause like it’s the original Mean Girls.

Mean Girlsbecause it’s like the best high school movie of our time. hello.

Adventurelandbecause I’m a little biased & it was filmed in my city but like also Kristen Stewart?

We Need to Talk About Kevinthe movie has nothing on the book but it’s still a good watch if you’re into psychology, sociopaths, & society’s definitions of who should be responsible for people who enjoy hurting others.

It Followsbecause it’s one of the few horror movies that scares me. not because it’s like… SCARY… but because it plays on like… stress & anxiety & like… unrestful fear.

Faultsif you’re into weird indie movies. not the BEST, but I enjoyed it. also Mary Elizabeth Winstead.

Heavyweightsbecause I grew up with this movie & I recently made my friends watch it & it’s STILL GOOD.

Pulp Fictionbecause. y’know. classics.

Seeking a Friend for the End of the Worldbecause who doesn’t love dreary comedies that can make you laugh while they’re kinda sad.

Oh Brother Where Art Thou?

No Country for Old Menbecause the Coen brothers are masters.

Nightcrawlerbecause I like… love Jake Gyllenhaal but he is genuinely disturbing in this movie. & it like… makes you uncomfortable, but it’s really good?

Tucker & Dale vs Evilbecause it’s one of the best meta horror movies out there & it’s hilarious as shit.

Mementobecause everyone should watch it at least once.

Chefbecause I saw this in theaters with my family on a complete whim at like 11 o’clock at night & it wasn’t bad.

The Craftbecause TEENAGE WITCHES.

Pontypoolbecause it’s not the GREATEST but it’s a really interesting take on zombie movies & worth the watch at least once. my brothers think it’s the greatest. I think it’s okay.

& from my own to-watch-eventually list:(though none of these ones were really suggested by any friends they’re just my own little collection of things I have floating around my list to eventually give a chance)

I Don’t Feel At Home In This World Anymore

Dope

Hush

Imperial Dreams

Housebound

Antibirth

[tonguetiedmag]

Depression vs. Creativity

Hamlet and King Lear by William Shakespeare, An Unquiet Mind by Kay Redfield Jamison, Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad, Oedipus Tyrannus-Rex and Antigone by Sophocles, The Yellow Wallpaper by Charlotte Perkins Gilman – works of sadness, fear, anger, madness, and sickness. What some call the best works, not only of our age, but of all ages. Timeless works of fiction – given a gripping and terrible edge by the non-fiction hidden behind the message that they convey. It is a message of intimacy. Not an intimacy of the body, but an intimacy of the human soul – an open doorway through which we see the lowest edge of human morality, understanding, and emotion. What scares us most is not the blood, not the anguish, and not the survival. It is the connection. Why do we understand these things? What is it about the human heart that connects us, even in our darkest and most personal moments, to those around us?

Today, to share her thoughts on the idea of artistic sadness and the depression that, at times, seems inherent to genius is Liliana Erickson. Liliana is a second-year political-sciences student at the University of Toronto, expert poet, and a woman of unimaginable inner strength. Here is an excerpt of one of her latest poems, titled “The Bone Garden”:

[...] of the 5,416 kinds of mammal, humans are the only species to eat with their eyes - The woman on the southbound train all knobbed joints and drooping skin had no real teeth of her own but was famished all the same; How sharp the human heart, 70 years into hunger - Her dentured gaze sunk into the flesh of my exposed thigh / the conspicuous curve of my breast full-gorged herself on the fat of my belly and cracked my bones, sucking at the uncouth marrow / Girls didn’t taste like this in her time, she licked her fingers clean Old eyes leave deep grooves, we speak of the body and almost break the skin.

What is it that haunts the human heart? What is it that fills the corridors of the creative mind, desperate to be let out? When a poet sits down in a black mood and writes, is it a birth or a release? Does the creativity expedite the depression, or does the depression nurture the creativity? Too often, it seems that they are so tightly intertwined that to separate them would be to divide the self. Poetry has always been used as a creative outlet. Creativity and invention have always been closely linked with necessity. Why, then, do we feel that poetry is not a human necessity? Henry David Thoreau, author of Walden Pond, once said: “Most men lead lives of quiet desperation”. Poets, in my belief, are the people who cannot suffer quietly. There is nothing quiet about their desperation – it is unsightly, horrific, and at times seems unbearable, but beyond that – it is passion. It is existence. John Keating, lead character of the hit film Dead Poets Society, said: “We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race.”

It is not that depression breeds creativity or that creativity cultivates depression. Poets, and all creative people, are people that spend as much time inside of their own head as they do outside of it. When a person lives in darkness, it is darkness that they learn to survive in, to grow in, and to see in. It is also what they learn to recognize in other people. In this way, by spending time alone with their thoughts and their creative processes, artists learn to focus their emotional struggles into their art. People want to be seen – not on a physical level, but on a spiritual and cerebral one. Beyond being seen, people want to be understood. They want to be accepted. Just as poetry, art, and literature is an open doorway, it is also a speaking space. In true art, there are no podiums or pedestals – there is only openness, understanding, and acceptance.

Liliana writes more about her conflict with mental illness in regards to poetry with her poem “Longinus”:

[...] my work is patient, pious it endures, waiting for a little pill to pump my blood it knows that soon, I will flood the empty pages, erect Roman arches with a pen turn catacombes to August cathedrals fool to messiah, ink to wine, I myself will guide the lance to my side to prove my heart and all its blood are gold, a sanguine prophecy to be fulfilled as soon as I leave my bed.

Liliana is not the first creative person to suffer through depression – Vincent Van Gogh, Sylvia Plath, Edgar Allen Poe, Virginia Woolf, and F Scott Fitzgerald to name just a few of the most westernly famous – and she will certainly not be the last. As far back as the days of Sappho, Democratus, and Plato, poets have been regarded as mouthpieces of the gods. This, it is said, came with what the Greeks and Romans called “Furor Poeticus”, which translates roughly into English: The Madness of the Poet, or Poetic Insanity. Sylvia Plath wrote this into one of her poems, titled Mad Girl's Love Song, with the line:

The stars go waltzing in blue and red, And arbitrary darkness gallops in[.]

At the moment, depression and mental illness seems to be growing among teenagers and adults alike. It seems, at first glance, that we are approaching an unknown darkness. Is it a destination that we approach, or is it simply the continuation of a sadness as old as humanity itself? There is no answer for this except time. But we should not look at this time with fear. Creativity is the outlet, and art is the light that we shine on ahead of ourselves. Artwork reveals the future as much as it reveals the self – and above all, this is what must be remembered: art is a way of proving that we are never truly alone. Even inside of ourselves, even in the dark unknown, we are together. Through art we lend comfort, strength, and belief. Art is connection. So connect – create, share, and inspire. No matter how dark and how ugly a place you may find yourself, there will be a light.

Article by: Isaak Frank

[girl-q]

The Originals Season 5 Episode 11: Nobody died during a wedding this time. Hurray

What a day to be alive. The last two episodes of the Originals is coming up and Caroline will be in both.

Review

The gang is back together. We are morning my baby’s death for like two minutes then Declan drops the bombshell. He knows everything, he is on vervain and wants to lead the human faction. And that was the moment I started hating Declan. He just crossed the line and is in the same annoying human cesspool as Alaric and Matt. Congrats to the Q´s most hated club. Feel free to mingle with her second hate group, which consists of annoying female protagonists in the shows. This includes Bonnie, Sybil, any Heretic but Valerie, Vicky, Antoinette, Camille and so many more all-stars. Marcel locks Declan up for now.

On the other side Freelin are all in love and stuff and are deciding to put on their wedding today. Elijah is kinda being selfish and says no to walking his sis down the aisle. They set the whole spiel up and then for ten minutes the wedding is in danger, because Freya announces she doesn´t want to have a family, because the Mikaelsons are all a broken family and she is scared to do that to a child. She is upset for like a minute until Rebekah tells her, Hey girl maybe you can do it. Yeah so with no effort Freya changes her opinion and there is a whole heartfelt emotional scene between Freelin, who as the Originals most beloved lesbian couple will from no on until eternity always referred to as one unit. Freelin forever.

Elijah’s story line was my favourite in this episode, but before that one let’s quickly jump to the Klaus and Hope plot. Klaus asks my girl Davina to help him with Hope. Davina the old wise sensei collects some tears from Hop after the girl cried on a rose about……I want to say Bill the archivist. He had one line and no personality, but I feel a connection between the two of us man. The tears are all magiced up and we find out that Hope is dying from the Hollow. It’s the whole the dark magic is killing you from the inside thing. What can they do? I don’t know, but surely something.

Now to Elijah. Elijah is struggling with a memory of Hailey we´ve never seen before. It turns out like a lot of Mikaelsons she did visit him in France. Elijah truly was at his best in France. She hides her name (sort of) and talks with Elijah technically about him and they go to an art gallery and flirt and drink and it´s really sweet and charming. They share a romantic moment and then Hayley leaves. They talk about finding each other in another life again and it´s so ironic it hurts, because in another life they did. He know, who Hayley was, when he attacked her Hayley actually wrote him a letter. Elijah is about to leave town like that selfish dude Vincent, who couldn´t even stay a couple hours longer for his really good friend’s wedding. Man

In the most dramatic fashion Elijah reads the letter and decides to stay. He goes to the wedding and both Klaus and Elijah walk their sister down the aisle

Well the wedding happens. Girl doesn´t Keelin have some sort of werewolf friends? Anyway it´s quite pretty and nice. Nobody died like Jo. I mean one could still die like Stefan. Weddings are not really great in this universe. In an ironic ha-ha they are ancient vampire moment Kol mentions something about an Italian monk in some century. How funny. Bitch I´m quaking…….Ok let’s move on.

After the wedding they dance a little and the concerned family looks at Hope dancing and getting tipsy on champagne. Fuck it up Girl. She gives a speech, which caught my attention. She said that with these happy moments she hopes to be part of Forever and Always too, which is quite sad when you think about it. At some point Hope will be dead and her father not. He can look over his grandkids for all eternity, but his daughter will die and Freelin too. Vincent and all the others will vanish and in the end it will just always be the Mikaelson siblings (+Marcel).

Marcel and Rebekah talk insisting that they will never be over and with a change of heart Marcel frees Declan and offers to teach him how to rule.

That seems about it.

 Thoughts and theories

I have something to say about the brother hug scene. The symbolism is amazing in this scene. It not only shows the love between the brothers, but how time after time family love trumps romantic love on the show. The balcony is the same balcony Klaus and Camille kissed for the first time an obvious romantic moment, but Camille is as dead as my unexfoliated skin cells and not there anymore, but who is still there with Klaus on this balcony? It is his brother Elijah. The hug shoot parallels the Klaus and Camille kiss just also from the camera shot. Love and lust went and came for these brothers and this family for thousands of years and even when all their ex-lovers are only dust there will still be the two brothers on that balcony. I though the symbolism was truly incredible. Once in a blue moon I´ll recognize that in the show and I love it.

I have an actual theory. Call the boys and deliver the world the good news. I, master of everything and funniest person on the planet, predict Elijah’s afterlife. It will be in that bar in France, because that´s where he was the happiest. He will play piano for eternity right up there with Hayley. He will see her again after his life ended. It´s just logical knowing that their parting was so brutal and not romantic at all. It´s the typical make the audience feel good moment.

Next episode

So Hope is in critical condition. She goes through her first werewolf transformation since she triggered it with sweet old Bill an episode earlier. I guess it will worsen her condition, because they all talk about how it´s killing her and that she won´t survive the night. Spoiler: She definitely will. The suspense completely vanishes when the girl is already filming her spin off show.

Klaus and Elijah go to Mystic Falls to see Caroline, because she is an expert in tri-supernatural teenage girls with a curse inside? I don´t really know, but she has been an incredible guidance for Klaus this season and is always full of obnoxious/helpful opinions, so throw it all out there honey.

Elijah comes to some heart wrenching realization about Hope and I guess it´s that she is dying?

The most obnoxious part about the synopsis is that god damn Alaric Saltzman will be A: in it and B: being in the way of whatever plan Klaus has. God damn Alaric. He, Matt and Declan are really the definition of obnoxious white boys with blondish hair, who can´t keep their noses out of everybody’s fucking business.

The thing I´m most excited about though is that we will meet a bunch of characters from the new Legacies spin off. That will include Caroline’s twins, who are apparently mean girls now.

So I googled the characters of Legacy and there are a bunch of names of minor characters, but lets only discuss the main cast, which is Hope, the twins, Alaric and two dudes named Landon and M.G.

Landon is in the new episode in fact. I don´t know about M.G, but here is who those two dudes are:

M.G: He is the black character. DiVeRsItY. Fuck yeah. Look this shit is so ridiculous. He is like the Bonnie of the show. That one black main cast kid and I´m disappointed. Beside from that he is described as popular, kick-ass and brilliant nerd. Look either the kid is going to be gay or a best friend type to Hope, who will date a twin later or whatever. Since he is a student I would guess him to be a witch since he’s black and that´s often the case. Of course a werewolf is also likely, but I don´t think he´s a vampire. But to think of it the witches are pretty covered with the twins so maybe I lean to werewolf.

Landon: Now he is going to be more main than M.G I think. He is not a student, but I think he will be. I think at some point in Legacy he will turn. Either he has a werewolf gene or will turn into a vampire. I guess the later. His description has more to offer and it says he is a thoughtful, compassionate, self-aware, romantic kid desperate to escape his broken home and his small southern town. He has a shady past and investigating it could lead him into the dangerous world of the supernatural. Hope finds him when he is getting bullied, so good luck Landon cause last time she helped someone who got bullied people died. Maybe his shady past has something to do with either being a supernatural hunter or werewolf, but I´m so bored of all the definitions. Can´t he be something new? Like a mermaid? Or anything from the sea? Why? Anyway he is a hot contestant for Hopes love triangle. The actor looks like every dark haired, strong chin, white dude and sorry hoe but Roman is hotter than you.

Roman is actually not listed in Legacy, but I think that will be just a matter of time until the last season finishes and then they´ll add more. They do that a lot on the internet to avoid spoiling too much. I think I want to see Roman again, because after all he is quite hot and I think diamond boy is growing on me a little, but don´t think that saves you hoe, because I change my opinion in a split second.

That´s almost all of my information about the next episode and Legacy characters, but before I´ll go I think the title says a lot about what maybe could happen.

The title is a “Tale of Two Wolves” and that story is actually quite a famous Native American legend. It´s about a grandfather telling his grandson a story about two wolves fighting. When his grandson asks which wolf won the fight he says whichever wolf he chose to feed. What that basically means is a metaphor about an inner conflict a person has. It could be good or evil for an example. Good and evil fight in your brain to “win” to influence you. Which side of yourself wins is determined by the actions you take and if their good or evil. For example if you´re doing malicious things the “Evil Wolf” wins in your brain. I hope that was somewhat understandable.

If we see it from a Good vs evil standpoint it could mean the Mikaelson family especially Klaus who constantly battles with that. The Wolfs of course references the werewolves in the show. That transition into one is what Hope goes through. Finally Hope is fighting a battle in her head right now, with the hollow spooking around and destroying her. I like the idea actually of that being what saves Hope. Choosing to oppose the Hollow, who obviously is an evil, corrupting spirit with her own good nature?

So yeah.

I´m out kids

The review for the Tale of Two Wolves will be out about two or one day before the finale because I got plans and I´m going to be gone

XOXO

Q

[fanofawesomethings]

Shadows of the Past

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Every morning like the one before it, Pebble the Baker pulled a tray of fresh-baked muffins out of her stone oven. The red-bricked oven had seen so many baked goods that the inside was black with the smoke; her wooden turner, that was as thick as her young arms, had its color faded from so many days of use; and her apron had so many loose threads from so many washes to remove every stain she got on the job. But her years of baking were presented in more than just her tools; Mewni itself couldn’t start the day without one of her perfect muffins or pieces of pie. And Pebble was proud of that fact, so proud she’d get up early to start baking. That day’s special confections were muffins with strawberries in the shape of stars and a cherry filling.

           “I jus’ know the Princess will love ‘em. Looks like they got guts in ‘em,” said Pebble to herself.

           The muffins were laid out in front of the store, in a tight formation like cramped soldiers. She inspected her confections for spots, defects, bruises, but as usual she was proud to know there weren’t any. However, the last muffin at the very end lacked the stars. A perfectionist by nature, Pebble ran back inside to retrieve them at once, finding spares over the counter. It was fortunate, or rather unfortunate, she was able to move from outside at that moment.

           The screams of the few townsfolk outside filled the town that was barely waking up. But their screams were mixed with Marco’s screams. People jumped out of the way of the rampaging Wyvern who weren’t in any way or form controlled by the two teenagers riding on top of it. Star thought pulling on its two horns would act like a steering wheel and Marco thought pinching its sides like a horse would garner a reaction; he was unlucky enough to lose his bearings and cling desperately to the dragon’s leg.

           Pebble returned outside long enough to see her stand of muffin collide with the bulky head of the Wyvern. Bits of wood and muffin exploded into the air and landed on her head as she stood, frozen in disbelief.

           “Good muffins, Pebs!” Star shouted as she drifted away with a mouth full of muffin and jelly.

           The rest of the stand finally landed, but the baker didn’t seem to mind it anymore. If Princess Star liked her muffins, she wasn’t going to complain about the stand. At least for the first few minutes.

           “STAR! STOP THIS CRAZY THING!” Marco screamed.

           “Sorry, Marco, it looks like we’re going where this girl’s good vibes are taking us!” Star responded, excited as ever.

           “WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?! YOU SAID YOU WERE IN CONTROL!” Marco felt himself fall an inch on the leg; the ground was closer to his foot and he did not like it.

           “Really? That is definitely not something I’d say,” said Star, proud of that fact. She spotted a boulder at the end of the town before the forest. “Get ready to jump, Marco!”

           “WHAT?!”

           Star did her best to keep her balance while standing on the moving Wyvern’s back. She grabbed the hood of Marco’s hoodie and braced herself. When it became evident that Star meant to jump, Marco grabbed her hand with both his arms. Star waited for her moment and then the two leaped off the Wyvern and landed safely on a stack of hay. The Wyvern kept going and used the boulder as a ramp to zoom higher into the air towards the forest.

           “There, that should keep ol’ Two Horn from hunter territory and away from the town,” said Star. “Now this is what I call a plan success.”

           Marco hugged the hay for being their soft landing like it was a precious treasure. He was trembling. The state of him actually took Star by surprise and she leaned over him.

           “You okay, Marco? I’m sorry for the jump, but we had to get off before it flew higher.”

           “It’s…okay…I’m…kay…” Marco stuttered. Slowly he let go of the hay and stood upright. Stopping himself from trembling was a bigger challenge. “I’m just…not used to…so much excit—ment…so early…in the morning.”

           “Yeah, I like my fourteen hours of sleep too, but Wyverns are less bucky early in the morning.”

           Star picked clumps of hair out of her ash gray hair. It was especially hard around her thorns because of how sensitive they are; with the softest touch that wasn’t at all strong enough to get them out, she swatted at the hay with the tips of her fingers. By the time Marco had gotten over his trembling, gotten out of the hay, and picked himself clean, Star has barely cleared her horns of one straw of hay. She had no idea what she was going to with her tail, whose bushy hair trapped more clumps than her horns.

           “Here let get that for you,” said Marco, reaching a helping hand.

           Star slapped it away and took a defensive stance, arms up like swords. Marco reached in again with the other hand and she slapped it again. She took a step back and even hissed a little like a cat.

           “No touchy my hornsy!” Star barked.

           “But your horns and your tail are full of hay.”

           “This is my life now. I’ve accepted the new me, now you do too!”

           Marco rubbed his hands which were surprisingly red for a minor slap, and he didn’t plan on attempting it again for that reason. “Well, what do you want to do now? Should we head back to the castle?”

           “Whaaaa? Marco, there is more to Mewni than the castle. We got so many places you haven’t even seen yet. Let’s go explore stuff! I’ll be your Mewni tour guide,” proclaimed Star, her tail wagging like a dog. Her enthusiasm pushed Marco to take a step back, cautious.

           “I dunno, Star. The last time you wanted to show me around I got my bones stretched out.” Marco shuttered when he remembered that day.

           “Nah, nah, this one will be way different. Come on, we gotta pick something from the castle first, then we’ll hit the streets!” Star pulled Marco by the hand towards the castle.

           The castle that towered over the clouds themselves was also the part of Mewni that changed the most in recent years. Its once brightly painted towers and walls were repainted and redecorated into a mucky brown and black palette that best suited the interests of the ones ruling Mewni for over three hundred years. As Star and Marco entered the courtyard they passed the statues of the past noblemen aligned on both sides of the path; their once posh marble were riddled with green moss and mud and left to ruin, while the statues of the most recent king and queen were always cleaned spotless. As they came to the final pair of statues before reaching the front gate, Star slapped the outstretched hand of the previous queen’s statue—for good luck—whose name was carved at her feet: Eclipsa the Unifier. The drawbridge was devoid of guards and patrol knights in the area, it seemed, but Star knew better.

           “Come out, Mordred, I know you’re there,” said Star.

           The wall above the doors slithered and landed in front of them. Camouflaged to become hidden on the wall, the Royal Bodyguard and Captain of the Palace Guards, Mordred the Naga waggled his entire body to turn his black body back to its original brown color. Marco bit his tongue to suppress his fear of the snake creature that scared him many times before.

           “Princessss?! You shouldn’t be out of the cassstle at sssuch an early hour! Come to think of it, you shouldn’t even be here at all,” hissed Mordred on the verge of having a breakdown for a situation he wasn’t aware of.

           “I’m here on official Princess of Mewni business. Me and my companion Marco—say hi, Marco—are going on an excavation to record all of Mewni’s creatures,” said Star, making her voice sound regal enough.

            “You mean an exsscursion, milady?” He asked, but Star didn’t know either way. “Well, asss long asss it’s for official busssinessss then it could be fine. Asss long asss you get back before sssunssset.”

           “Don’t worry, Mordred, we’ll definitely get back before sssun—I mean sunset.”

           The other guards still on the wall, Chameleons, rolled their eyes at the obvious lie Star told him their captain.

           The drawbridge was lowered and they scurried inside, but much to the dismay of Star who had the intention of getting the supplies from her room and quickly leaving without seeing either of her parents, the resulting noise alerted the queen. Sitting on a windowsill with her book in hand, Queen Meteora, mother to Star, fully saw her daughter and Marco enter the castle. She slammed her book shut and raced down the flight of stairs. The king, Toffee, was unfortunately passing by when he saw his wife holding the sides of her dress to give herself more speed.

           “Dear!” Meteora shouted.

           “Y-Yes, my dear?” Toffee asked, startled like a cornered animal.  

           Meteora grabbed the tie Toffee wore above his regal outfit. “Star is home.” It was all she needed to say to tell him the entire reason for her hurry.

           Together the queen and king raced to the grand hall, a room four times as large as any other room in the palace. Meteora was overcome with the urge to summon her monster strength; she pounced off the ground and bounced off the walls with incredible speed. Following his wife’s example, Toffee did the same, however his speed could never match his wife’s. Meteora bounced and Toffee bounced, and they landed perfectly positioned to deliver a stern lecture to the unsuspecting daughter. Star slowly opened the grand hall door, pulling Marco in, and then discovered her parents waiting for her on the other side.

           “Mo—! I mean, Mom, Dad, it’s nice to see you this morning,” said Star, smiling weakly.

           “Good morning to you too, dear. And you as well, Marco,” said Toffee.

           Marco waved at the lizard king whose golden-green eyes pierced through the young boy’s body like a knife. He was always afraid of him before he was afraid of Star’s mother.

           “Star, tell me something,” Queen Meteora began in a tone that grew sarcastic with the words that followed. “Have you done anything new with your hair? I must say this new look suits you.”

           The queen reached her hand over the frozen princess and plucked a straw of hay off her horns, sending a bolt of electricity down Star’s body that nearly brought her down to her knees.

           “Uh…yeah, all the girls on Earth are wearing their hair like this. They call it Eco-Fiendly. Right, Marco?” She turned back to Marco with a desperate look on her face that begged him to agree but he was stricken by Toffee’s gaze on him.

           “Star dear, at least make a better effort to lie,” said the king.

           “I saw you riding a Wyvern and wreaking havoc all over town. You even destroyed Pebble’s bread stand, Star,” said the queen.

           “Well that was an accident, but Mom we had to get that Wyvern out of that area. It was going to be hunted if we left it back there,” argued Star.

           Meteora raised her brow surprised. She looked to her husband, the leading expert in the creatures that inhabited Mewni.

           “Wyverns are always hunted for their pelts and horns. To the right buyer they can make any hunter richer than a nobleman,” explained Toffee.

           The queen sighed. “Be that as it may, I do not want a repeat of this incident again. No riding creatures in public, or in private, really do not ride a wild creature anywhere. Do I make myself clear, Star?”

           “Yep, I’m all about it. Right, Marco?”

           Toffee looked directly into Marco’s eyes. It was unknown if he was aware of Marco’s aversion to him, but Toffee turned to him as if he knew. Marco nodded disjointedly while the rest of his body wouldn’t budge. Star took Marco’s hand and once again dragged the weightless Earth boy away like a dog on a leash.

           “You know she’ll just end up doing it again.” The previous queen of Mewni, Eclipsa sat peacefully and going unnoticed until she spoke; she was hidden by one of the many enormous pillars along the grand hall.

           “Good morning, Mother,” said Meteora. Toffee bowed respectfully.

           Even while inside, Eclipsa carried a parasol that was the spitting image of what her wand once looked like. She twirled it over her head playfully which she often did to match her pleasant mood. The heels of her shoes echoed like drums throughout the grand hall. Her eyes glowed with a mysterious fog of dark purple, a great deal of contrast compared to her daughter’s bright yellow eyes.

           “Where is Father?” Meteora asked.

           “My sweetie got invited to a poker game by the Lucitors; he should be back later tonight. Or tomorrow morning if they get into another argument. You know demons,” giggled Eclipsa. “Toffee dear, he told me he invited you to go. Why didn’t you go with him?”

           “I was flattered by it. The Lucitors and I go way back, but they are too much for me to handle. Not to mention their kingdom to hotter than anything I can handle. I’d probably burn and regenerate twenty times before we’d start playing,” said Toffee.

           “I don’t know what to do with her, Mother. It feels like every time I lecture her she’ll just end up doing the very same thing that started the lecture in the first place,” said Meteora.

           Eclipsa twirled her parasol with carefree innocence. “Sweetie, lectures and notes can never be a substitute for experience.”

           “Meaning?”

           “Meaning—you have to let Star figured stuff out on her own!” Shouted a muffled voice.

           Eclipsa lifted her hat and out popped Glossaryck, the Court Magician of the Butterfly Kingdom and the spirit of the Butterfly Spell Book. Over his head wasn’t his usual turban but an empty pudding cup with a hole cut to show the purple gemstone on his forehead. He twirled a tiny spoon on his fingers and when he threw it away it returned to its normal size.

           “That has always been your issue, Meteora. You are too demanding and you don’t stop to smell the garbage every now and again,” he said. He floated to Eclipsa’s ear and pretended to whisper to her despite speaking at normal volume. “Micromanaging, some people are born with it.”

           “I am not demanding and I do not micromanage!” Meteora barked with an actual snarl like a rabid dog. “I merely want there to be less damage on Mewni and if it’s Star: something will always be broken.”

           “She is so adorable, and Star definitely takes after her grandmother,” laughed Eclipsa.

           Star didn’t take any chance to escape the room when she did. In fact when she heard her grandmother’s voice, she picked up the pace to leave faster, for she knew if any could distract her mother long enough it would be her favorite grandmother. Just before leaving the grand hall, Star made a mental note of needing to repay Eclipsa for yet another instance she came to her rescue.

           In one of the highest towers above all things was Star’s room. Boggy and dark with sprinkles of light, the room captured the essence of her family’s improved history with monsters. Scattered around the floor and on the walls were many crude weapons Star made herself which matched the feel of those used by Mewman monsters during the Years of Subjugation. They hung over and around the bits of damp swamp Star plucked from the forests that were reminiscent of those her father once swam in before he met her mother; and like her father, Star would often find herself more relaxed when in knee-deep swamp water. Star embraced her monster side more than the rest of her heritage, but she managed to keep the tradition of the royal family by way of books she barely read, paintings her mother forced her to put on the walls, and a mural, which Star did respect, of the previous Queens holding their wands along the entire ceiling of her room.

           Star didn’t spend much time in her room, grabbing the rolled up map by her balcony door and rushing out as fast as she came in.

           “Okay, Marco. Are you ready? For the best. Expursion. Ever!?” Star hopped in place.

           “I think you mean exploration. But, duh! Of course I am!” Marco matched her enthusiasm.

           “Good! Cause all these places are the best places to get the real Mewni experience.” Star unrolled the parchment paper to show a choppily compiled map of Mewni, drawn and colored in by crayons, with a little Star drawing at the very bottom next to the castle. “If we go to the Mudspouts first I’m thinking we might not get to see the Centaurs. But the Mudspouts are the best part. Tell you what, we’ll hit up the Mudspouts and then pass by the Spit Cave to get clean and then we hit up the Centaurs.”

           Marco eyed the map closely as though his eyes were microscopes. “This looks really disorganized.”

           Star rolled the map up and bonked his head. “Don’t stifle my art. Let’s get going!”

           Marco moved his hand away before Star was able to grab it, so he could run on his own.

           Once away from the palace and the town, Mewni turned surprisingly quiet and picturesque,

           The forest was only a step out of the town, but that step took Marco into an entirely new world. Further down the sounds of the townsfolk, the lute players, the common animals, were all gone when Mewni transformed into the picture of serenity and nature. Its forests were peaceful meadows where from the largest creature to the smallest insect could find a home, with water that flowed silk and shined like diamonds. Though Star hadn’t planned it so soon, a roaming band of Unicorns galloped passed them nearby; as their crystal hooves touched the ground they released a flutter of sparkles that added to their already blinding beauty. The boy from Earth felt his head spin with so much to see; Marco could look far and wide and he knew he would never find a more fantasy forest if he tried.

           Miniature volcanoes grouped in clusters of eight or nine spouts, the Mudspouts were geysers that spewed gelatinous mud when erupted. On a busy day it would be a hangout spot for many of Mewni’s teenagers, both Mewman and monsters alike, where anyone could swim in the steamy mud for a relaxing treatment from magical mud. The only issue with the spot—something even Star agreed on as she held her hand over her nose—was the putrid smell of swamp gas mixed with fermented mud and mold that accompanied the replenishing mud. There wasn’t a flower or even a single blade of grass growing anywhere near the Mudspouts and as a result the area was a clearing in the forest.

           “Why do people like to hang out here?” Marco asked, pulling her hoodie forward and covering half his face with it.

           Star took a long breath through her mouth, but she could sadly taste the smell. “You just have to get used to it. The mud is supposed to make your face look all shiny and new. See?”

           She scooped a handful of warm mud and rubbed a bit of it on her forearm. The dark gray scales on her arm suddenly shined with the sun like crystal. Dabbing the rest on the ends of her ash gray hair showed the mud adding sheen to her long locks.

           “See. Maaaaagic,” said Star.

           “Whoa, that’s cool! Maybe I’ll take a bit of it for back home.” Marco pulled a plastic bag from his pocket that he was carrying for his own reasons and scooped a bit of the mud.

           “Gonna take it to your mom? Aww, what a good son.”

           “Nah, my mom doesn’t do this kind of beauty, says beauty comes naturally to her. This one for my dad, he always complains he’s getting crow’s feet.”

           It wasn’t what Star expected. The two teens laughed.

           Star unfurled the map, this time letting Marco see it while she decided where to go next. Even she couldn’t read her own handwriting on some parts; the drawings she made helped her as much as it did Marco.

           “Since we didn’t go into the Mudspouts, we can still get to one more place before hitting the Centaurs,” said Star.

           “You really want to see them? What do they do?” Marco asked.

           “Not much, but they do let people ride them if we ask nicely. It a really good way to practice hanging on.”

           “That…sounds ominous. What about the Fairy Fountain?”

           Suddenly Star fell solemn, the enthusiasm brightening her face dimmed and even the hearts on her cheeks shrunk. “Oh no no no no, you do not want Fairy Fountain. All they ever do is tell you your hair is ugly or how they don’t like your scales.”

           Star pulled the map away from Marco. She wasn’t especially reading it; she covered her face. Marco reached out to her but he stopped himself.

           He thought back to when he and Star first met, to her first day at school on Earth. Then, the school became divided between those who stared in wonder as if they were watching a zoo animal and those ran in fear; at the center of it all was the new girl. A girl with gray skin, gray hair, red horns, piercing golden eyes, and a burley lizard’s tail was too much for the humans who had never seen such a person, and for the longest time Star was by herself, shunned. Marco felt the same aura around her as he did before he introduced himself to her: loneliness, a deep sorrow that made the air heavy. He didn’t know what to say.

           A rumble did its best to interrupt the tension between them. Strong, sudden but fast, a quake knocked Marco and Star off their balance. At first there was nothing, no damage to the forest or any screams coming from the town. Marco picked himself up and was struck by a blinding glare. The sun that was not yet above their heads bounced off the tip of an enormous crystal peaking out from the trees nearby.

           “What is that?” Marco pointed out, but the crystal quickly vanished

Star rocketed to her feet, eyes swung open in shock. “I’ve seen those crystals before. Those are Rhombulus’ crystals!”

“Rom-what?”

“He was part of the old Magic Council before Grandma Eclipsa disbanded it. I know those crystals anywhere! This is crazy bad! We gotta go!”

           Deeper into the forest they ran, off the beaten path where the rocks grew out of the ground and the trees eclipsed the sun. A pale fog seemingly from out of nowhere took them away from the forest as though the area they entered was on a different world. Star was the first to hear a commotion over a hill in front of them; she quickly pulled Marco into the bushes. She vigilantly gestured Marco to keep quiet as they slithered out of cover to peak over the hill. They heard the collective shrug of a gathering of people.

           Star saw the ex-Council member standing to the side of a huge crowd of monsters. She had only ever seen Rhombulus once—during a pathetic attack on the castle by himself—and he was just as she remembered him to be: pathetic; he sat lonely on the side with his hood pulled all the way over his diamond head. A crater parted the crowd, mostly likely where the giant crystal was summoned. Those around him, coincidentally, or rather intentionally, were all reptilian in descent and many of them Star recognized as friends of her father. But speaking in front of all of them was a lizard Star had never seen in Mewni or the forest before.

           Iron armors on his chest and shoulders clanged like buckets when he walked, more like slithered with his thin legs. His features were just as another lizard, sharp and stretched with intimidating eyes, but he carried a jagged, saw tooth blade facing upwards on his back that added to his malevolence. A deadly scowl, directed at Rhombulus, tightened his narrow face. His claws clicked on his solid scales with his arms crossed.

           “As I was saying. Friends, we are sitting on a gold mine of opportunities! Do any of you realize the chance the swamps have given us!? Queen Eclipsa and Queen Meteora don’t have their wand anymore and the princess is off on some other dimension! Do you know what this means?” The lizard asked.

           A collective shrug ran through the crowd along with a murmur of confusion.

           “Uh…we get a throw a party of Joey’s Swamp again?” Asked one of them.

           “Joey’s Sw—? NO! Why can’t any of you—?!” The lizard growled until his dark green face turned visibly red, frightening the crowd. He took a deep breath just to hold himself back. “I meant it is the perfect opportunity to take back Mewni!”

           Silence overcome the audience when the lizard expected there to be cheering, he was disappointed.

           “Why would we do that, Azrael?” Asked another lizard.

           “BECAUSE!” He took a moment to calm himself. “Because Mewni once belonged to our kind, the monsters, before the Mewmans colonized it. They took our ancestral home and forced us to the swamps!”

           “But we like the swamps,” said someone.

           “NOT THE POINT! Our people had to endure centuries of slavery and abuse before things were reformed, but no amount of peace can ever make the centuries of hardships our ancestors had to endure. We must take back the world for them!”

           “But we like the way things are!”

           “Yeah, and we like the King and Queen!”

           “Toffee is our king too! He and Queen Meteora make thing super cool for everyone!”

           “NO!” Azrael roared. “Toffee has been blinded by those Mewmans’ way of life! He is shadow of the warrior he once was. And Meteora—that halfling—has too much of her mother in her. They are unfit to rule! It is out time, brothers and sisters! It is our time to take back our ancestral home!”

           He raised his fist in the air but the others didn’t join him.

           “You’re kind of crazy, man.”

           “Is the only reason you want to take back Mewni cause you want to be king?”

           “You’re a nut!”

           “We follow King Toffee and Queen Meteora!”

           “We won’t listen to some whacko!”

           The vein on the side of his head popped. Azrael reached behind him and pulled out the sword, but in response the other lizards drew their own weapons. It would have been twenty against one, but the lizard up front didn’t waver at the odds; in fact, a deadly smile crinkled his face like an old tin can. He held both hands on the sword’s handle and swung. Faster than any of them could block or dodge, the blade split into a thousand shard, each one of them as sharp as the formed blade; they flew into the crowd and struck everyone. As the shards collected together and reformed the single blade, twenty bodies collapsed, motionless.

           It took all of Star and Marco’s courage not to utter a noise in response to the horrific attack. Star started to cry for the lizards she knew.

           Rhombulus shivered like a cat on the sidelines, flinching when the remaining lizard turned to him. He didn’t put away the sword and the ex-Council member whimpered.

           “Stop being a coward, Rhombulus, I’m not going to hurt you!” Azrael barked. “You are with me, right?”

           Afraid still, Rhombulus turned to the serpents he had for hands but they pretended to be asleep. He shrugged to him.

           “I mean…yeah, course I’m think you, buddy…but the last time I attacked the castle…it was a disaster,” sighed Rhombulus.

           “Rhombulus, you attacked by yourself with the only armor being on your hands. This will be different,” said Azrael with a boom of enthusiasm on his groggy voice, but he could still sense his doubt. “Aren’t you tired of crashing as Hekapoo’s, or eating Lekmet’s cans? You have a chance to take back the kingdom. And get back on the Magic High Commissions.”

           This stirred Rhombulus and Azrael noticed it.

           “Oh yes, that is what you want? For you to be seen as the Great Crystallizer, Rhombulus, like you used to be. Taking back the kingdom would bring just that. There would be a new King, a new Council!”

           “B-But what about the old King and Queen?” He asked.

           “Leave that to me, my friend. All you have to do is wait for my signal and then crystallize the old Kings and Queens.”

           Rhombulus looked to his hands but they shook themselves to be excluded from the decision making. “Alright, I’ll do it!”

           Azrael swung the blade at a tree and threw it over his back. He held his arm over Rhombulus’ shoulder and the two walked like best friends, towards the castle. The tree the lizard attacked had its bark sliced and it took a while for it to topple over; the remaining stump was singed like a cauterized wound.

           Their gasps were held back for the sake of not being noticed, but when Azrael and Rhombulus were out of sight, Star and Marco sucked the air out of the forests with their exaggerated gasps. Star rushed to the bodies of one lizard she knew by name, Serpias, a female who once taught her how to prank her father and made her laugh any time she visited the castle. The wound on her stomach, like the ones shared by the others, was burning red with dried blood around it; the entry had been sealed almost immediately upon contact. There was nothing Star could do.

           “Come on, Star, we need to warn the castle,” said Marco softly, knowing just by her tears how much Serpias meant to Star.

           “We can’t just leave them here,” Star sniffled.

           “We’ll give them a funeral, but if we don’t hurry they’ll attack your mom and dad.”

It was bitter, but Star had to admit Marco was right. She laid Serpias’ head down, gently so it seemed like she was sleeping peacefully. Even if it was just in her mind as though it was fast, Star gave a goodbye to the lizard she knew.

“That guy is going to pay for this!” Star growled in a commanding, intimidating and affirmative stance Marco had never seen on the usually cheerful and lighthearted girl; it surprised. She took out her scissors. “Let’s go!”

Back inside the palace, Meteora returned to her reading on the page where she left off before Star appeared. The book was pleasant read about the history of the kingdom after Eclipsa took the throne and changed the once monster-hating society into a kingdom of acceptance; Meteora had read it many, many times before but it was always a book she could read without putting down until it was over, passing the time effectively. She reached the part detailing Eclipsa’s storm of the castle when a gust of wind knocked her out of her page and a voice like a shriek pulled her away from her tranquility.

“MOM!” Star screamed and Meteora was startled into falling over.

           Meteora landed on her hair and she took a moment to fix it. “Star! How many times have I told you not to sneak up—” She turned around and saw the distress on her daughter’s face, unexpectedly serious; it didn’t take more than that to tell the queen something had happened.

           Toffee was taking another stroll down the castle halls, admiring the town from a palace window. He enjoyed the scenery and the calm, at least for the moment.

           “Toffee!” He heard his wife calling him. No matter the situation, whether it was serious or one of her typical tantrums, Toffee knew he had to rush to meet it.

           The king burst into the grand hall. “Yes, dear!” It was there he found his daughter weeping into the arms of his wife who was consoling her.

           “Do you know a lizard named Azrael?” Meteora asked. The utterance of the name moved Toffee.

           Star and Marco explained everything that happened up to that point. His let out a somber sigh when they told him how many lizards, including the ones he knew, were slain. He mumbled the culprit’s name the entire time until Star stopped.

           “I didn’t think Azrael would be foolish enough to involve an ex-Council member in this. He’s even more of a disappointment than I remember,” said Toffee.

           “Dad, who is this guy?” Star asked.

           Toffee took a deep breath to explain it. “Before I met your mother, I was part of the General to a squad of lizards in the Mewni swamps, and Azrael was my right-hand man. We were dedicated to keeping out monster way of life and rejecting the new Mewni way of life. I thought like that too until your mother showed me what I was missing. When I left Azrael swore he would get me and the kingdom back.”

           “He’s going to use Rhombulus to imprison us. Maybe even my mother and father too,” said Meteora.

           “We’re not going to let him! He thinks because you don’t have your wand you won’t be a threat, but he doesn’t know I’m here. I have the wand, I could take this guy!” Star proclaimed.

           “Absolutely not! Star, you said so yourself, this lizard is dangerous. He has a Hornet Blade, something that can go faster than the fastest spell you’ve ever made. You wouldn’t stand a chance,” said Meteora.

           “Y-You’re wrong, Mom! I’ve been learning a whole lot while on Earth and I’ve done plenty of fighting when I was here. I can handle myself!”

           “Star. He took down twenty people in a second,” said Marco.

She turned to him in disbelief. “Marco, you don’t believe in me?”

Looking at her saddened face, he was overcome with guilt. He meant to say something, but the words didn’t come out fast enough.

“I can do this! Serpias was my friend, this is my home! I have the right to defend it!”

The tapping of a parasol against granite effectively derailed the tension brewing, especially when the perpetrator was in an odd place. Eclipsa drank a cup of tea alongside Glossaryck who had taken the old queen’s parasol for himself and was the one tapping it on Eclipsa’s behalf. When they finally noticed him he returned to it her; both of them floated down lightly like a feather.

“If you don’t mind, I have a solution that could benefit both your viewpoints,” Eclipsa started, sipping the last of her tea which was just lemon tea mixed with chocolate syrup—how she liked it. “Star, sweetie, this isn’t an insult to your magical skill but you are unfortunately still a novice and this Azrael is a master. Let your father handle him; he is, after all, his enemy.”

           “Grandma, you can’t just expect me to do nothing!” Star cried.

           “Oh, I didn’t say anything like that. Azrael may be left to your father, but Rhombulus will prove to be a nuisance if he gets in the way. That is why you’ll be handling him. You and this handsome, young man.”

           Marco blushed.

           “Mother, you can’t be serious! Even if Rhombulus is an idiot he is still dangerous. His crystals can never be broken once they swallow you. You remember, don’t you?” Meteora argued.

           Eclipsa rubbed the spot on her right thigh where the injury Rhombulus left her was. “Yes, I remember it well. But you learn more from experience, and I learned he is little more than a child at heart. I’m certain any granddaughter of mine can easily defeat him. Can you do that, sweetie?”

           Star pouted like a disgruntled child. Of course she wanted to fight, there was no denying that, but she expected more than just the lackey to a mastermind. She wasn’t happy about it, but she agreed, and when she did, Marco also agreed to fight.

           Cornered by the odds against her, the queen’s sharp teeth began to show. Frustration bubbled to the surface of Meteora’s face and it wouldn’t be long before it was unleashed completely. Though it was obvious her daughter was about to lash out at her, Eclipsa remained giving her small smile. Sensing the impending explosion, Toffee pushed Star and Marco towards the exit.

           “Star, dear, I need your help getting my old armor on,” said Toffee.

           “Uh…” was all Star could say before she was completely pushed out of the room.

           Meteora took in a deep breath, about to unleash the barrage of lectures at her mother, when Eclipsa pressed her finger to her mouth.

           “You’ll see,” the old queen said mischievously.

           The alarm was sounded of an intruder in the castle courtyard. There were special alarms to signify different types of intruders: the alarm that sounded—three bells ringing consecutively—was meant to alert the castle of an ex-Council member on the ground. Rhombulus clung to Azrael tightly as he heard the stomps of over a hundred castle guards, both monster and Mewman, fast approaching. Released from the guard’s quarters behind the castle, the platoon hurried with their weapons drawn, but just as they were about to the round the corner and meet the threat head on, Azrael holding the handle of his weapon, they suddenly stopped and the two intruders heard the screeching halt of the metal boots. Azrael didn’t lower his guard; in fact he was apprehensive about the lack of resistant to his presence.

           Mordred lowered the drawbridge. In chain mail armor that had rusted on a few parts on the front and largely in the back, Toffee stood poised with an aura of a dignified king. Azrael drew the sword as Toffee started walking to him.

           “Your majesty!” Mordred called from on top of the wall, extremely frantic.

           Toffee shot him a look that ordered him to stay still.

           “You have guards protecting you now. Weren’t you once the lizard who could bring an entire army to its knees?” Azrael grinned, mockingly.

           “Azrael,” he greeted. He looked to the other. “Rhombulus.”

           The ex-Council member puffed out his chest to appear not intimidated by Toffee’s gaze.

           “You were expecting me. Just the sort of man you used to be; I’m glad some semblance of the General is still in there.”

           “You attacked your own kind, Azrael. And all to get to me. How can you live with yourself when you’ve become a hypocrite to your very way of thinking?”

           “We do what we have to. They will be missed and when the Monster Empire is made anew, they’ll be given a heroes honor!”

           “I don’t think that’s what they would have wanted.”

           Azrael swung his blade, but Toffee didn’t think to move. The zooming shards flew around him and struck the ground in a barrage like rainfall; not a single one touched him. Disinterested, Toffee adjusted the piece of chain mail scratching at his neck.

           “A Hornet’s Nest Blade, or a Hornet Blade for a shorter name. You must’ve been plenty busy since I left,” said Toffee, as condescending as his precise voice could be.

           “I’ve been training, preparing myself for the day I finally take back the kingdom. But it turns out I didn’t really need all of it, once I found Rhombulus here, yet another person cheated by the Butterflies.”

           “Uh…hi,” waved Rhombulus.

           “What do you hope to gain from this? To have a kingdom that was never yours? To restore a barbarous way of life out if spite? To liberate the free?” Toffee inquired.

           “This freedom is a sham! A SHAM! They’ve taken away your roots, your culture for their own! You dress like them! Eat like them! Act like them! They are the enemy, they always have been! Why doesn’t anyone realize it!? No amount of ‘fair treatment’ will erase all the Butterflies did! What Solaria did!”

           Toffee sighed. “So that’s what this is about. The Monster Massacre.”

           “ENOUGH!” Azrael roared, striking a battle stance, intention burning his eyes, which Toffee did take seriously. “I’ll bring you, the queen, and this entire kingdom down!”

           Azrael raised the sword above his head. Star and Marco turned pale from their vantage point knowing what was coming. Toffee took off running in circles, side to side, in a nonsensical and random pattern. Azrael was confused but he swung the fearsome sword that lunged his body forward anyway, and nothing happened. The blade remained in a single piece and Toffee stopped for a moment. The courtyard was still with Azrael in shock.

           “What? WHAT?!” Azrael screamed.

           “When you know how it’s done it’s useless,” said Toffee.

           “GRAAAAAH!”

           Azrael flailed the sword in front of him like a mad animal. With every attack that failed land he unleashed the next with more strength and far more rage to the point his scales turned scarlet red and his eyes popped out of his skull. Toffee dodged the insane barrage of attacks with swift speed, unending in his dodges and he wasn’t reserved about expressing his superiority. He gave Azrael a toothy grin, bouncing his brows, which tore Azrael’s last shred of sensibility.  

Star and Marco watched with awe, their mouths hanging down. It was the first time both of them saw Toffee wearing anything but regal clothes and fighting an enemy, and while looking cool and collected. Meteora looked smugly at the two of them, proud of her husband.

Both fighters expressed their skills as warriors. Azrael’s strength was unrelenting and Toffee’s endurance matched it; not a bead of sweat fell on his brow as he dodged.

Awkwardness and a lack of knowing what he was supposed to do were apparent in the sidelined Rhombulus. Toffee dodged the next attack and punched Azrael across his face, his first attack on him. Clearly a spur of the moment, Rhombulus raised his arms and focused in on Toffee, who was too fast for him to focus on as well. An enormous crystal ended up being formed between Toffee and Azrael.

“Oops,” Rhombulus spoke.

“He’s mine! Get the queen!” Azrael ordered.

“SPRINKLE DART FIRE!”

A beam of bright, multicolored sprinkles surrounded by an aura of magic blasted the ground at Rhombulus’ feet. Star and Marco came out of hiding behind Eclipsa’s statue.

“Surprise!” Star burst out.

She showed them the staff. In her hands it was a scepter with a crystal skull inside a bright red, star-shaped tip and a black elongated shaft. The intruders froze. Holding it, having the two facing her, the hearts on her cheeks glowed and the staff coincided with it, glowing bright vermillion.

“Oh man! She has the thing! The thing! The thingy! The wand!” Rhombulus pointed.

“I see that, just take it from her!” Azrael ordered mid-swing.

“B-B-But she’s super scary!”

“Shut up, you have snakes for hands and a diamond for head!” Star snipped.

Rhombulus stopped his foot down. “You take that back! Okay you’re going down!”

The snakes on Rhombulus’ arms opened their mouths and spit forth a storm of miniature crystal shards that zoomed across the courtyard. Marco jumped in front of Star and slammed a knight’s shield Eclipsa gave them just before they left the castle. To the expectation of Eclipsa, who was watching with a cup of tea in her hand, the crystals bounced off the shield easily. Star poked her head out to the side, holding her staff out in front of her.

“FANGED BUNNY SNIPE!” She yelled.

A cotton white bolt flew faster that Rhombulus could dodge and striking him on the chest and throwing him back. Star and Marco raced towards him. Even if their master didn’t get up, Rhombulus’ snakes stirred and started firing again; once again Marco slammed the shield down and blocked the attack.

“Cupcake Rocket Pump!” Star aimed her staff to the ground, but the spell wasn’t meant for her.

A beam shot into the ground and for a moment there was stillness, until a shaking occurred. Rhombulus woke up from the previous attack to find himself trembling above a mini earthquake centered beneath his butt. The beam Star just fired launched Rhombulus up with a burning explosion that both sent him flying and singed his backside. Marco reeled back and threw the shield like a discus, striking the flying ex-Council member midair and then quickly returning back to his hand; the shield has magical properties to block any attack and always return to the holder’s hand. Rhombulus fell to the earth like a sack of potatoes; in his desperation he summoned a gigantic crystal to shoot from the earth and catch him before he fell any lower.

“Y-You think that’s gonna beat me!? No way!” Rhombulus shouted from atop the towering crystal; intimidation was not audible in his voice.

Star and Marco nodded to each other and proceeded to storm the tower. Rhombulus fought back with the wave of soaring crystals.

Meanwhile, Toffee dodged another one of Azrael’s attacks. It was as if their fight had never started as neither side had gained ground against the other, but at the same time neither one lost ground. The only attack delivered was Toffee punching Azrael, and from then on he focused more on taunting him than advancing the fight.

“You filthy coward! Stay still and fight like a general!” Azrael yelled.

“’A real warrior wouldn’t rely of magic’. Isn’t that what you told me?” Toffee mimicked.

Azrael stopped himself before throwing the next swing. In a fit of rage he threw the blade across the courtyard. His claw dug into his chest just to pull his cloak. Exposed, his chest was a collage of scars that stitched patches of different scales on him like a rag. He waited expecting Toffee to do the same. Clearly the act was only to feed Azrael’s ego, Toffee though to himself with a heavy sigh as a result, but he shed the chain mail anyway. Azrael wasted no time jumping on Toffee, pouncing with his claws held out. Toffee slammed his knee into his chest and proceeded to finally start the fight.

Star swung her staff to the feet and a cloud levitated her and Marco off the ground. Rhombulus stopped fruitlessly shooting crystals and instead summoned a bigger cluster above his head. Barely able to hold it against the weight, he tossed at them, but there wasn’t much strength in his throw; Star navigated the cloud to evade the slow attack.

“Thirty Second Pause!” Star whipped her wand.

When Star and Marco reached him level, Rhombulus raised his arms for another cluster to appear, but he could barely lift them passed his huge head. He made a rattling noise as if his imaginary teeth were chattering because of an extreme cold. Every inch of his body froze; the snakes were locked as well.

“We’re caught you, criminal!” Marco snapped.

The spell didn’t allow Rhombulus to even make an attempt to break free. “Oh nuts.”

“Why are you even attacking us? Is this because of Grandma Eclipsa fired you?” Star asked.

“Y-Yeah! Eclipsa got rid of us, now all the ex-Council members are living on unemployment wages and working part-time jobs. Except me, I can’t work with these arms,” said Rhombulus.

“So you want to get rid of the king and queen so you can get on the Council again,” deduced Marco, proud of himself for doing so because it added to his confidence in his intelligence.

Rhombulus didn’t answer, mumbling under his breath instead but the answer was obvious. Star raised her hand to his head.

“I’m bringing you into the brig, Rhoombelus,” said Star.

“Rhombulus!” He corrected.

“It doesn’t matter! You helped a murder, attacked our castle twice already. Does that sound like what a member of the Magic High Commission would do?”

“Wh-What do you know?”

“I know what I see, and I see some guy who wanted a title more than he wants to actually do his job. The Council’s job is supposed to help people, and all you want to do is keep your seat.”

Rhombulus’ head dropped, much to his surprise. Star cleared her throat to speak one last spell. He waited for her lips to part and then Rhombulus blew Star and Marco off the cloud with a quick attack. They were knocked to the ground by the force of a dozen crystal slamming into the stomachs; if not for the fast cloud catching them before they hit the ground they would have been injured greatly. Forming on the spot were the attack connected, crystal began to swallow the two of them.

“GAH! What is this?!” Marco cried.

           Star twisted the staff’s hand, shooting a small laser, but it didn’t scratch the crawling crystal like she hoped. Rhombulus jumped from the tower and quickly slapped the wand out of Star’s hand.

           “Sorry bout this, Princess, but I need a paycheck and the magical power again. Nothing personal,” he said.

           The gaping mouth of both serpent arms was over Star. The hissed apologetically, but the crystallizing blast continued to form over her, about to fire. Marco couldn’t move, nor could Star, the weight of the crystals on their chests pinned them to the ground.

           “STAR!” Marco screamed.

            Star shut her eyes. A jolt startled her and just about everyone else.

           The ground shattered like glass beneath Meteora’s feet. She jumped from the top of the wall surrounding the castle and landed from an eight-foot fall as if it was nothing. Toffee stopped and when Azrael saw the look of unsettlement in his opponent he too stopped; he saw for himself what caused the fear in Toffee. Meteora’s dress was torn, but not from the fall, rather she outgrew it.

Meteora abandoned the regal look as her husband did, except her transformation was more extreme. Her arms and legs were engorged with muscles, bearing dark purple markings. Bright green eyes, bigger than they once were, glaring with a burning passion, above fangs and beneath large horns.

“Don’t. Touch. My. Little. Butterfly,” the queen spoke.

She went to Rhombulus. Each step shook him to his core.

“Uh…stay back! O-O-Or I’ll crystal you!” He yelped.

Meteora didn’t stop. Before he knew it, she had bridged the gap between them and stood an inch away from Rhombulus. He was paralyzed by the deep yellow in her eyes, anger that boomed with anger and horrible intent, all directed at him. Meteora grabbed him by the collar and threw it him into the sky; he flew fast like he weighed nothing to her.

His opponent distracted, Toffee got a sucker punch in. Azrael shook it off and attacked, ignoring Meteora; but the queen had no intention of interfering with her husband’s battle. Azrael’s physical punches pulled his body in the direction he swung as though his arms were the same as the sword he discarded. Toffee grabbed each hand and countered with a swift punch, always into Azrael’s head. He spat a speck of green blood off his nose. The wound healed in a second.

“This is pointless, Azrael. You can’t beat me,” said Toffee.

“Impudent traitor! I will not stop until you and this place crumbles!” He growled.

Behind an unharmed Toffee stood an empowered Meteora, a freed Princess Star with her staff held at him and Marco with his shield. Azrael felt instantly cornered. His fangs grinded against each other while anger boiled inside him. He screamed loud and high into the air; Azrael turned around and grabbed the sword. The others braced themselves but he did not stop running after he had his sword.

“There are more than one Council members left! I will have this kingdom, TRAITOR!” The fleeing intruder dug into his pants pocket and threw a pellet into the ground that burst into a cloud of smoke, hiding him until he vanished.

Toffee waved to Mordred and the other knights up on the wall to follow him. They took off running immediately, even if Toffee internally knew they wouldn’t be able to catch Azrael.

“Mom! Look at you!” Star gushed with excitement.

“What? This? Oh it’s nothing really,” blushed Meteora.

“You threw that glass dude like he was nothing! That was amazing!” Marco praised with similar enthusiasm.

Toffee joined them. “That was a pretty close call, Star. You let your guard down.”

Star’s good mood was instantly dashed. She dropped her head in humiliation. Unexpectedly, Toffee ran his hand over her hair and caressed her cheeks lovingly.

“You learn more lessons with failure than you do with victory, and you always strive to do better. Remember that,” he said.

Star smiled. She threw her arms over her father. Feeling festive, Meteora joined the embraced. And Star grabbed Marco and pulled him so he could enjoy it as well, even if he felt importable being held by Toffee.

Up above the palace walls, Eclipsa finished her fourth cup of tea within the last few minutes. The floating teapot by her side continuously refilled her porcelain cup and she drank the contents within seconds. With the next cup she added four lumps of sugar and mixed with her finger instead of a spoon. Glossaryck drank straight from the teapot.

“You knew this would happen, didn’t you?” He asked.

Eclipsa burped the entire twenty cups of tea she had all at once. “Not really. Expected them to win, but I didn’t expect both of them intruders to leave.”

           Glossaryck burped as loudly as she did. “They’ll be back.”

           “Oh, I know they will. But my daughter and granddaughter will be ready. It’s in their blood.”

           Glossaryck scooped a bit of tea in his palm and held it out. Eclipsa tapped the edge of her cup against his hand as if to cheers. And then the two drank themselves full as they watched Star and the others head towards the forest, holding hands.

[shenarrative-blog]

Therapy ‘07

Do you want to hear a story?

okay.

Hard times seem to always rain down on me. Since I was a kid I have had to deal with stress. It is only now, many many years later I have learned I don’t deal with stress very well. Honestly, I don’t deal with it at all. I think because of that, I have developed intense anxiety and emotional instability. I have been in denial for a very long time. Even writing this right now is hard for me. To know that something is obviously wrong with you is a hard pill to swallow. I don’t know when it all started but if i had to take a guess I would say right around high school. I was a pretty “energetic” teen. Going wherever the wind took me. Becoming friends with any and everyone that wanted to be friends with me. Focusing on being “cool” or accepted by my peers. Wanting to be somebody but feeling like I was a nobody. I always thought I would be an actress because I can pretend very well. I can pretend like I am happy when I’m really not. I can laugh when I really want to cry. I can say yes when I really want to say no. I did this a lot in high school. To be honest, I haven’t stopped doing this until recently. I grew up not being able to say any and everything. You know,

“What happens in this house stays in this house”

“Don’t repeat everything I say” 

“Tell your teacher you live here even though you don’t”

“Don’t tell my business to nobody”

“This is what you say if anybody ask you about....”

I felt like I had to hide and lie a lot. I became good at it. It became easier for me to hide and lie. It became my norm. I also didn’t grow up around people I felt I could be completely honest with without any judgement. So hiding and lying about my true feelings would be better than hearing backlash for said feelings. I wasn’t perfect. I messed around in high school. I was dating boys I had no business dating, hanging out with the wrong crowd, always caught up in some over the top girl drama, skipping class (honestly I only did this once) but I would leave class and not come back until it was over, fighting, failing classes, and making quite a reputation for myself. I even hit a point where I was on the verge of not graduating high school. It took me really focusing my senior year to walk across that stage. So, needless to say, I was a walking talking problem.I was always so chaotic on the inside that it made me problematic on the outside. I could’t handle anything. I was always sooooo scared of what was going to happen to me that I would just put it off or bury it deep for as long I could before having to deal with it. This is where the hiding and lying came in handy. Naturally, I don’t like fighting or conflict. I get very anxious and uncomfortable. I’d rather just leave the situation. At the same time though, I can be a very angry person. I know how to cuss but I don’t know how to talk. This realization took me the longest to accept. I am consistently battling with these dual personalities: Timid vs. Angry. Aggression comes so easy to me. It is the easiest thing for me to express. Being mad and negative was a part of my personality. I made it apart of me to make myself feel stronger. I gave off attitude so no one would mess with me. I acted like I didn’t care so people wouldn’t take advantage of the fact that i did. I talked my shit even though I wasn’t 100% sure I could back it up. I blended in so I wouldn’t stand out. I felt different on the inside and looked normal on the outside. I had all the new and cool shoes and clothes. All the glitz and glam a teenage girl could ask for and I was happy in those moments but it fulfilled nothing inside. I always felt weak being such a gullible and sweet girl. Feeling like I must not have the common sense God gave me. I must be a simple , stupid, can’t get it right the first time kind of person. I got used and taken advantage of by “friends”, boys, and family. In my soul I felt strong. In my heart I was conflicted. In my head I was weak. In my ear I was weak. In my face I was weak.  With every mistake I made, I took a little off the top of my self-esteem. Mind you I did say I because it was ME convincing myself that I wasn’t worth it. There was a time in high school where I thought I didn’t want to pretend anymore. I just wanted to leave. I wanted to become a bird and fly away. I remember this because I wrote all of this in a letter to my best friend at the time. In my own weird way I guess, I told her I wanted to be free. I wanted to so desperately be set free from the chaos inside. From the life I was in. I didn’t want to just pretend to be happy; I actually wanted to experience it. My best friend didn’t take it that way. She thought I was telling her I didn’t want to live anymore. She read it and thought I wanted to kill myself. She got scared that I would and told our school’s counselor. Of course, they read the letter and thought the same thing. When they sat me down to talk about it I was numb with fear. I didn’t know why everyone thought I wanted to kill myself because at the time I really didn’t. But then it dawned on me. What if I did and just didn’t see the signs that I needed help? My best friend could see that I was clearly on the edge. To be honest, I  was but I didn’t know it. I didn’t know the feelings I was having weren’t normal; weren’t healthy. So, instead of saying 

“No, I don’t want to kill myself. I’m just really sad and looking for a way out.”

 I sat there and cried and shook like a leaf out of fear of what my mother was going to do to me. I was more worried about her finding out my true feelings that I was so pissed at myself for writing the letter in the first place. There goes a little more off the top of my self-esteem. To sum up the story, my school demanded I see a child therapist before I could attend school again.  I needed to see a therapist. At the age of 14 I was lost and speaking to someone I could trust probably would have been a great start to dealing with my problems. But I went once and never went back. The letter and my “suicidal moment” faded to black after some time went by and I let it. I like being the center of attention when it’s good attention but I just want to run and hide when it’s bad attention. The less I have to talk about it, the less I have to deal with it. So that situation and many more situations fell to the waste side. The only time they ever come back to surface is when I’m angry or already emotional. I just start blurting out hurt feelings and misplaced anger at people. To them I look like a crazy maniac who can’t keep herself together. Angry about one thing one moment and angry about something else the next. Screaming hurtful and disgusting things at people because that’s what I’m use to hearing. Wanting to hurt the other person as bad as I can before they get the chance to hurt me.    Now, that i’m self-aware i’m trying to repair the broken pieces. I’m trying to make an effort to believe in myself, love myself, and undue what has been done. Hard times seem to always rain down on me. Since I was a kid I have had to deal with stress. It is only now, many many years later I have learned I can do It. I can control my intense anxiety and unstable emotions. I will win this fight and many many more !

*FIN*