#which I am inordinately happy about

[earanie]

.

[dashdotshows]

[start id: a black and white drawing cropped from p.29 of the Usborne Guide to Computer and Video Games (1982). The image shows a chessboard with lights and mechanical arm built in.

Image caption reads: "The robot arm on this chess-board makes all the computer's moves, and removes your pieces when the computer captures them. If the computer loses the game, it flings its arm about, flashes its lights and shrieks." end id.]

I assumed this emotionally dysregulated chess robot was just a 1980s fever dream, but apparently it exists, and glories in the name of "The Novag Robot Adversary":

Quoth the gorgeously Web 1.0 (but still updating in 2023?!) Chess Computer UK:

The Novag Robot Adversary is the most iconic of chess computers. There are several reasons. Firstly, for a product of 1982, its startling futuristic appearance. Secondly the robot arm which in terms of robotic character, comparative speed and range of movement is extraordinary for a consumer product. Thirdly the variety of functions - including autoplay, automatic setting up of the pieces for a new game, trace and review, best move, sound, lights, printer support, and not forgetting the tantrums produced by the ‘emotions’ button which involve waving of the arm, flashing lights and noisy sound. These functions all contribute towards a very impressive and entertaining machine, which was outstanding when it was first sold, and has not been bettered since.

That page also has videos of the machine in action, including this heart-rending footage of it losing its shit:

I am inordinately happy to learn about this.

[fayes-fics]

When The World Is Free: Chapter 4 - Le Rideau Tombe Avant La Fin

MASTERPOST PREV | NEXT

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, WW2 AU.

Warnings: none.

Word Count: 2.6k

Author’s Note: Multi-chapter fic based on a request by the lovely @amillcitygirl! Please see the masterpost for a synopsis of this story. This is reader and Eloise's farewell to Paris. Thanks to @colettebronte for beta reading. Enjoy!

Paris, September 1939

The next three days are a blur, fleeting but at once memorable, lived on borrowed time. 

Knowing the inevitable is happening - that you will need to leave Paris soon - you give notice at work; so sad to have only been there for a matter of weeks rather than the planned months. On a brighter note, however, you are able to spend the days with Benedict, showing him all you have learned about art in the city in the short time you have had. Many a happy hour is spent in galleries. Both of you tripping over your words to share what you know about the art and the artists in a breathless, excited fashion. Kindred spirits in your appreciation of the works. Sometimes lost in a reverie as you stand in front of a canvas as large as your entire living room, the scale and complexity literally dumbfounding. 

And, of course, a little of your heart is stolen with each moment together - the first person you have ever met who truly seems as enthused as you about the subject matter. That it's all wrapped up in that handsome face adds more complexity and confusion. You can't deny the skip in your pulse when he looks at you, weighted, a touch of reverence, so focused as you speak passionately on the subject you love. And you are certain your face is a picture of devotion as he waxes lyrical, too. You know you are getting swept up into the almost cliched romance of it all - the city of love, a handsome stranger, the no doubt impending invasion giving a sense of urgency and finality to every hour- it's a powder keg that feels dangerous as it is intoxicating. 

—

Early evening of the second day, as you wander back from the Louvre, you pass by the offices of the cruise company you came from America with. 

“Oh! I should speak to them about swapping my return ticket,” you comment, seeing the men standing outside in the smart red livery of the company, speaking in English to crowds of people inquiring about escaping France.

“See if you can move it to the day after tomorrow,” Benedict counsels. “That is the day we are due to set sail. We can all go to the coast together on the train.”

“That would be nice,” you admit, realising it will be lovely to have someone to wave farewell to, even if there is a little stab in your chest at the idea you may never see Benedict again. Or, of course, darling Eloise.

So, a couple of hours later, after an early dinner, you are back on this same street, your ticket in hand, waiting patiently to speak to one of the young men in uniform. 

“Mademoiselle?” he beckons you forward.

“Good evening. I have a ticket to New York for eleven months, hence, 12th August 1940. I am hoping I can swap to a sailing in a few days? Ideally, the day after tomorrow?”

The men exchange glances, and there seems to be a swirl of excitement as they crowd around you.

“A real ticket?” one of them pipes up, an excitement in their tone which strikes you as rather odd.

With a nod, you hand it over, and they all seem to confer, then grab a pad of tickets and transfer some details. 

“Not a problem at all, Mademoiselle. Here, this is for a sailing two days hence. Thank you for travelling with us!”

They seem inordinately pleased as you walk away clutching your new ticket, a mix of emotions swirling. The finality of your time in Paris suddenly so real, the date on the newly issued ticket, ink still drying, sinking in.

—

When you push open the door to your apartment, still with a tinge of melancholy, you are taken aback by the whirlwind you encounter.

“How did I amass this many mugs?” Eloise decries, standing amidst a complete bomb of possessions scattered all over the surfaces of your apartment.

“Well, you can't take them all home,’ Benedict points out wearily, “you have your case, and that trunk there, Eloise, and that is all.”

Eloise rolls her eyes. “Well aware of that brother…” holding a blue and red mug in each hand, assessing which she likes more.

“I suppose I'm lucky I've only been here a matter of weeks,” you pipe up as they both turn to look at you, Benedict shooting you a lopsided grin as Eloise barges forward and loops your arm in hers, dragging you across the room.

“Just the person I need!” she declares. “Help me! What mug screams, ‘I had a life in Paris once, and it was amazing’?” She gestures to the array of drinking vessels she has pulled out to the cupboard.

You ponder the question with a thoughtful pout. “Why not just leave them all for the next tenant? I'm sure Solene would appreciate the ability to rent out the apartment with kitchen supplies?” you try to be diplomatic.

“Yes, I know that,” Eloise sighs, “there were mugs when I got here. That, of course, got mysteriously broken after a few days, which is a blessing as they were all hideous…”

“You broke some perfectly good mugs?” Benedict frowns disapprovingly.

“Do you live here?” she shoots back pointedly, raising an eyebrow, “I am only seeking the counsel of those who live here… not a squatter,” she sniffs.

You share a look with Benedict -  yours contrite, his bemused - as if this is just another day with Eloise. Which, to be fair, it sort of is.

“If I had to choose one…” you point to the cherry red earthenware mug that looks French in a way you can’t quantify; it just does.

“You’re right as always,” Eloise grins, seizing it. “Much better help than that one,” she adds, sticking her tongue out at Benedict as she wraps the chosen item in yesterday's newspaper.

“Packing going well?” you breeze, your eye again meeting Benedict’s as he pulls a face that makes you giggle hard.

“You try cramming nine months of freedom into a teeny trunk,” Eloise grumbles, heading towards her bedroom.

“I am just taking my clothes…” you admit. You only have a few additional items you purchased since you arrived in Paris that should all fit if you pack smart enough.

“That’s yours, by the way…” Eloise gestures to Benedict’s painting on the wall before she disappears out of sight. “I have no room for it, and it seems strange to carry a picture of a house I'm headed to…” she calls out down the corridor.

“I would love it…” you inhale, looking at the artist imploringly as if somehow you need his permission.

“Y-you want it?” Hesitant, disbelieving almost. 

“If you will permit me,” you confess, clasping a hand over your heart.

“It is yours,” he replies, his face a mixture of pleasant surprise and humble acceptance.

You rush forward and take the painting off the wall, reverentially cradling it between your hands. 

“Thank you, Benedict,” you sigh, a little fizz in your stomach at the idea he wants you to have it. Like you will always have a piece of him with you once you are apart.

“I can paint you others...” he offers quickly, in a rush of exhaled breath. “Whatever you want…”

Something in the tumbling sincerity of his words has your heart beating fast.

“I can think of nothing more appealing than a wall full of your works…” you confess while trying not to think that room would be thousands of miles away.

He blushes adorably, casting his eyes down until suddenly, his head jerks up again. “Wait I…I have something I want to give you, actually,” He scurries across the room and gathers a sketchbook. “I'm sorry it's not framed, but here…”

He carefully tears out the page from his pad. And your heart stops.

It's you from two days ago. Sitting on a bench overlooking the Seine, the Eiffel Tower over your shoulder as you read a book. You wondered what he was doing sitting a few feet away that day as you took a lunch break. Now you know. It's a perfect pencil rendering of the scene, each sketched line a wondrous recreation of that sun-soaked afternoon.

“Benedict….” all other words fail. 

“I want you to have it,” he murmurs, “your time in Paris may have been unexpectedly brief, but you deserve a memento of the happiness you found here, however fleeting it had to be.”

Tears prickle in the corner of your eyes; you want to rush to him, to throw your arms around him, thank him profusely, but you are scared to. Scared that in the moment you would get carried away, press your lips to his…

“Thank you...” is all you can struggle out, inadequate and awkward.  

“De rein…” Again, that perfect accent has you practically swaying

But the spell is broken when Eloise reappears, complaining loudly about the size of her trunk, and part of you is grateful for it. Guilt floods your being as you think how bad of a person you must be to covet your best friend’s brother when you have a fiance back home. One you will, in fact, likely see in a matter of days now… tamping down that disquiet, you excuse yourself to your room, placing your ticket on the mantel and refusing to look at it as you pick up a book to read.

—

Solene’s hug is so tight you feel like she is crushing your ribs. Or perhaps it's that you feel a little too fragile today.

“I shall miss you, ma cherie,” she mumbles into your hair before pulling back and seizing your jaw. “You will come back when this is all over, oui?”

“Oui,” you agree, knowing it’s more of a wish than a promise.

Once again, she pulls you in for a tight hug before turning to Eloise and clinging to her just the same, lingering longer.

“Souviens-toi, ma sœur,” she reminds Eloise, having told you the previous night that her sister lives just outside the port city of Le Havre should you need a place to stay for any reason.

It's two days later, the day of your departure, and your eyes ping around the now-tidy apartment, only furniture left where once there was a jumble of life. It looks much less like home, making handing over your key a little less painful. One final wistful glance at the Eiffel Tower out of the window is all you can manage before picking up your case and walking out, scared to look back.

Benedict is loitering in the corridor outside and shoots you a sympathetic glance as you exit, eyes glassy.

“You will return,” he offers solemnly, even as you both know it's just a platitude, before turning his attention to the apartment door. “Hurry up, Eloise, we need to get to the train…” he calls.

You start to move towards the sweeping staircase, preferring a long amble down its winding loop than the lift, your case feeling much heavier than when you arrived mere weeks ago…

—

You watch the puffs of steam float past the window as the train picks up pace, pulling out of Gare Saint-Lazare. Perhaps aptly, it begins raining soon after, streaks of water lashing the glass as you rest your head back into the seat.

“I can't bear to look at it,” Eloise sighs, closing her eyes so as not to see Paris slipping away.

You reach over the table between you and grasp her hand, and her eyes open to give you a nod of thanks before closing again. 

“Why do you have to be American?” she whines. “I would do anything to have you come to England. We could get a little place together in London…” She winds her feet around yours like a vine, needing the connection in your last few hours together.

“If only…” you agree, a weight akin to a heavy boulder settling in your stomach at the idea you will soon be back on Long Island, a world that seems so…. staid to you now.

Benedict shoots you a sympathetic look across from his seat next to Eloise on the aisle but says nothing, going back to reading his book as it's your turn to sigh, the city now a blur outside the window as you speed towards the end of your time in France.

–

Half an hour later, Eloise is sleeping, her head lolling lightly on the glass with the gentle rocking motion of the train, now following the meander of the Seine just outside Poissy.

“She didn't sleep well last night,” Benedict observes, looking up from his book and following your line of sight. “I don't think she wanted her last night in Paris to ever end.”.

His words take you back to just hours ago, a rousing evening in your favourite local bistro filled with wine, camaraderie and song. Benedict didn't accompany you and Eloise, preferring to stay home and read, he said, but part of you wishes he was there to help commiserate and toast your final night chez Paris.

“You should have come out,” you opine with a slight pout, which makes him chuckle.

“It's not me who had to have the fitting farewell,” he points out with a sympathetic smile.

“Still, it would have been nice if you were there…” The idle thought is out of your lips before you can think about how that might sound, and you know you are blushing when his mouth opens a fraction in surprise, a dot of colour on his cheeks, too.

“I'm sure you still had a wonderful time,” he placates demurely.

You smile and nod, feeling a little twinge in your ankle from all the dancing you have done.

“Are you excited?” he asks, changing the subject.

You frown. “Why would I be excited to leave Paris?”

To be reunited with your fiance?” he answers slowly, a look of puzzlement on his face that it had not occurred to you.

“Oh…” you pause, your mind recalling Stanley’s smile, although somehow it seems faded now, like an out-of-focus photograph, as if you cannot wholly remember it now.  “I… I suppose…”

His face is a picture of concern again. “You do not sound certain…” he hedges.

“I am not, to be honest,” you sigh for what seems like the hundredth time today. “These few weeks have… shown me so much of the world,” you explain, “I have had so many novel experiences, met so many wonderful new people…” you can't help but let your gaze meet his as you say it. “It makes my life before seem… small? Parochial?” you are clutching for the right words as his hazy eyes track your every facial move.

“Like an old shoe that used to be comfortable but now suddenly feels too tight?” he offers a metaphor that is so apt you can't help but nod.

“Exactly!’ you agree, enthusiastically waving your hand. 

There is a quiet moment where your eyes meet again, a tingle over your skin, a pulse of energy so enlivening.

“Do you feel there is perhaps something out there better for you?” his ask feels loaded, a quiet murmur that carries so much hidden meaning but is nearly lost in the rhythmic sound of the train clattering over the tracks. So much so you could likely pretend you didn't hear, but you don't. 

“I just might…” you answer softly, even as you are unable to look away. Something about this man makes you daring, unwilling to do anything but be bold.

Long, elegant fingers reach out over the table and are about to brush the back of your hand when Eloise suddenly startles awake between you. His hand disappears rapidly, pulling back as if burned. All you can concentrate on is the ashy taste of regret at your best friend’s timing.

Benedict taglist: @foreverlonginguniverse @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @truly-dionysus @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @kmc1989 @desert-fern @starkeylover @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @amygdtjhddzvb @sya-skies @balladynaaa

[frodothefair]

Nisilë vs. protracted SSRI withdrawal, an update.

Welp, here's a health update. As some of you may know, in early 2023 I tried an anxiety medication that I've taken before, had a bad reaction that was initially not recognized as such, and then when I started to get off of it, I had a different bad reaction, which turned into so-called protracted withdrawal. (For those interested in the topic, there's a website known as Surviving Antidepressants, a support group for people in my situation). Apparently, now I have to go off this medication over the course of several years, and I hardly wanted to be on it in the first place.

Anyway, things are a lot better this year than they were last year. The bottom line is that with this condition, things do get better, it just takes an inordinately long time. This time a year ago, if I had a good day it was a miracle. A lot of the time, I felt like I was having a low-grade panic attack, or like I had food poisoning, or like I was hungover. Whether or not I got sleep on a given night was a game of Russian Roulette.

This summer, most days are good, but I still get symptoms every few weeks, or when I encounter certain triggers. One trigger was a simple cold. Another was particularly spicy food. So I've cut out anything that could stress the nervous system: alcohol, coffee, spices. I'm fanatic about wearing a mask in public and avoiding travel. I won't get on a plane unless there's an emergency, because idiots fly with COVID all the time. (I personally know two such people).

But while I could take or leave it with the coffee, the alcohol, and the spices (I'll probably be healthier for it, in the long run), I was absolutely gutted when I learned of another trigger.

I can't do even the lightest exercise for more than 20 minutes, particularly when it's hot. I tolerate it fine in the moment, but the next day I feel like I've been poisoned, I may struggle to sleep, and I get panicky even when there's nothing going on. You'd think exercise would be helpful, but no. It has an invigorating effect, but for me that invigoration becomes over-activation.

So now, where does that leave me? I can forget about travel, because how realistic is travel without at least some walking? I can't sit on a beach or go swimming, and I used to love beach vacations; Hawaii was everything two years ago. I used to be an active person: there was no physical activity I could not do: hiking, biking, skiing, tennis, lugging suitcases up five flights of stairs when there was no help available... I did not do any of those things particularly well, but I had the strength and the physical prowess.

What's worse is that I've been wanting to get back into exercise. I've never done it regularly before, but I'd grown efficient at my job and I hardly take my work home anymore, so I finally have the energy and the time. I'm also in a place where I'm ready to make changes. For instance, I've stopped biting the insides of my mouth, and I'm doing my continuing medical education credits after I get home from work, rather than procrastinating until they're due. I also count my calories again, though without exercise the weight loss is painfully slow.

Anyway... I was in a funk about the above for a while, but I'm happy to say that I'm over it. After all, the mantra on Surviving Antidepressants is "this, too, shall pass." Someday I'll be able to hike and go to the beach again, but for now, I'm ripping through my continuing education requirements, I'm editing old work and putting out new work, and I'm happy to be alive. I am right where I want to be, for the most part.

[astarionfixation]

Chapter 8: "Show me, and I’ll follow you"

Part of "Am I Fu**ing Insane !?!" A multi chapter adventure in Astarion’s mind

Rating: Mature for mentions of sex and blood

CW: mentions of parental abuse, childhood abuse, forced prostitution, implied rape

Word count count: 2.5k

Pairings: Astarion X OFC Tav

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54356776/chapters/139337191

I have a quite serious praise kink. Which also means compliments in the forms of tags and/or comments might very well spur me to write and post more

** Thoughts "" Dialogue - - Remarks ++ Quotes / Memories

The mornings after he feeds on her he has taken the habit to sneak out of bed as she’s about to wake up. Not for any nefarious reason other than finding sustenance to bring back to her, so she can replenish her strength as soon as she awakes.

*She lets me feed off of her in bed, seems only fair I extend the same courtesy*

This time his loot features a freshly baked cheese scone, still warm, and even a cup of coffee. Much like a small feline bringing food gifts to his human who clearly cannot be trusted to hunt and feed themselves properly.

His elegant movements devoid of any sound allow him to keep everything quiet enough so that hopefully they won’t be disturbed by anyone waking up at this ungodsly hour and with any luck, he will still have time to look forward to that morning, time he can just keep her all to himself.

His back pushes into the door of their chamber so he doesn’t immediately see, until he turns around and the cup of coffee almost falls through his long, delicate fingers.

She’s fully awake *disappointedly fully dressed* sitting against the headboard of their bed, her long luscious hair falling inordinately over her shoulders, the neck of her shirt falling down her arm leaving one of her shoulders temporarily naked. Though what makes him swallow in a panic has nothing to do with her tempting looks and everything to do with a shiny little tome, open, in her lap, as she is intently taking notes on it.

The same little shiny book he first thought held the secret to freedom, maybe a clever way to control rather than destroy the wriggling worms in their heads and that would have let him keep his renewed free will and sunbathing inclination, along with his own life. 

The same insignificant little book that, once purloined by his deftly fingers, revealed her eye had been set upon him in ways he could have never suspected from her demeanour.

The same precious little book that he perused over hours, that night that feels so long ago now, after leaving her, intoxicated, in her bed, despite her plea for him to stay, which in hindsight revealed to him for the first time the way she felt about him.

The same vexing little book that revealed something through the way she skipped around words. Something eerily akin to his own tragic loss of ownership over his very own body that must have happened to her as well. 

Despite the naive way she smiled, denying she had anything but a comfortable and happy life thus far to justify her longing for eternity.

Despite the smile never reaching her eyes.

She knew he had read it. At least that latter part, because in that one moment of anger, when for a brief instant he thought she would have denied him her body, her blood, he had to use something, anything to hurt her. And her trauma and abuse seemed the perfect place to hit because he knew how it would have felt if anyone reminded him of every time he had to bend his will and his body, sinuously, to every request of his master, and every desire of the simpletons he had to convince, one way or another, to walk happily towards their demise by following him back to Cazador’s Palace.

His mind is running faster through scenarios and considering the very real possibility of just sneaking away the way he came, disappearing until she goes to find him and hopefully, enough time will have passed by then that they can both ignore this uncomfortable moment. He’s about to swiftly move the heel of his foot through the door to slink away when her voice, still deep from her sleep, announces ineluctably that it’s too late for an escape

“Good morning Astarion”

She sounds… sweet? As always… 

*Is she not mad? Is she not going to bring up my theft? Is she going to pretend nothing ever happened?*

He might be lost examining possible outcomes for a moment too long because when he doesn’t reply she continues

“What? It’s nothing you haven’t seen before anyway”

*Ouch!*

He can try to ignore what she clearly refers to, he can try to focus on his concern for her health which is true anyway…

“I see you’re full of energy this morning darling, maybe I can persuade you to come with me, have a full plate then to break your fast? I’ve got you these meanwhile…”

He resigns himself and closes the door behind him, while circling around the bed and leaving the coffee and scone on the bedside table next to her. He keeps his eyes on the food until she pats the edge of the bed in a silent invitation for him to sit down next to her. And the darn little book is still open on her lap.

“Thank you”

He can feel her eyes on him following her sweet voice, even as he’s trying to avoid her gaze but when the tips of her tapered fingers reach for his cheek he can’t evade it any longer

“Astarion? Is everything alright?”

Her tone is starting to sound almost concerned and so… 

*Fine, there’s no need to make things sound worse than they are. If she isn’t mad yet there is nothing to worry about, nothing to fear… right?*

He’s never going to have as good a chance as this one to finally ask, to understand how her mind actually works

“You never wrote a single line about who I… what I really was… why?”

In truth what he wants to ask is why could she wax lyrical about him -as if she was almost in love!- in her book, while she’d never let anyone suspect -not even him as he holds her every night!- anything of the sorts. But that is as good a start as any to get there…

“Exactly because someone could have gotten hold of it”

*Touché*

But it doesn’t sound like the accusation it should be, and it leaves the door open for more of his prying

“Yet there's so much of your vulnerabilities there, perfectly mapped to strike best. Wasn’t that something to avoid putting down too if you ever thought someone could have…”

He can’t spell it out, of course he’d done it, he stole the book, but the shame catches in his throat. The fear still lingering, ready to have him spring the moment this vulnerable conversation becomes the rightful attack on him it should be.

“That was my hit to take, not yours. I wouldn't put you in jeopardy just because I understood. I can afford a hit myself, but not you.”

She was protecting him way before he ever thought he needed her to be on his side. Even whilst pouring out her mind she had put up enough premunitions just in case his own secrets needed safeguarding. 

“That was incredibly… kind of you, sweet thing… I hope I can… somehow return your kindness, some day…”

His gaze finally rises to meet hers and she is just softly smiling at him, her head giving a slight nod towards the food he went to find for her before she replies:

“You already do”

And then it’s like even without the tadpole powers she can read his mind because the reassurance is confirmed by her words as well and she continues:

“Is there anything else you'd like to ask me about it?”

This time his own hand reaches for hers, both resting on the open page she was writing on just before this surreal conversation started. 

*What if we could finally talk? Actually talk and learn, truly learn how similar our stories might just be?*

He had those glimpses from her diary to suggest so after all. A part of his mind is already screaming at him to turn it all around in a joke and get as far away as possible from that dangerous subject, but his concern, his need to understand and possibly finding slivers of himself in her is impossible to push away.

“What happened to you… before?”

She lets his words linger for a moment, and he’s left wondering if there was any other way, any clearer yet kind way to ask about something he knows will be painful if remotely akin to his own experience. Her voice comes out calmly as her hand holds his so that the other one can close the book and set it aside.

“You mean the men I had to sleep with?”

He can feel the grimace that’s taking hold of his own features, while she seems as calm and ethereal as always, no different from when she bid him good morning just moments before. But he knows, or he thinks he does? He must! It must be close to what he has gone through! And that is a way as good as any to begin tracing this sad parallel of theirs

“Would it help if I said I certainly had to sleep with more?”

She shakes her head, a sad smile taking hold of her delicate features

“I am sorry you had to go through that too… for me it was my mother. I don’t remember when it started… but every time she’d let one of them stay in my room… the farm got better equipment, I was getting small knick knacks and little gifts, so it was as good a way as any to think it was bearable.”

His other hand had come to reach out for hers, now both covering, cradling hers. Every fibre in his body wants to hug her, to hold her, to promise her nothing even remotely similar will ever happen to her again. To either of them. At the back of his mind a part of him is tearing and devouring innards and flesh of the horrible excuse for a parent that did this to her, distracted by the idea of how many minuscule pieces he could mince her into, until absolutely nothing resembling a living thing would remain of her so called mother. He knows he has to weight his words so everything gets pushed back while he only allows himself to share:

“I am so sorry my sweet”

He’s not used to hearing his voice being that strained, as if something is threatening to strangle his throat from the inside. When she speaks her next words he realises the corners of his eyes are getting weirdly moist

“Truly, don’t worry Astarion, it was a long time ago… and I ran away as soon as I could manage anyway. It’s in the past. I am as far from that as you are from your mortal life, trust me.”

*The irony of being two broken pieces accidentally fitting against each other.*

His silence and traitor expression must give away more than he meant to because she continues her explanation of her own volition

“That’s why I asked you… I told you we couldn’t kiss. I needed a boundary that was… mine. I know it sounds silly to you but because you didn’t push that… I know I am safe with you.”

Suddenly the pieces are beginning to form a meaningful picture in his head and her behaviour, her rules, her need for him she seemed to deny herself, they all make perfect sense, coming together in a mix of conflicting feelings and desires she never had a chance to explore safely.

“I am not that naive, I know what we do… what we share… it’s more… and believe me, I want more… still you never tried to break that one rule and… well… no one ever showed me such consideration before…”

His mind has gone blank

*What did she just confess to!? What is this???*

His mouth must have fallen open because he finds himself in need of swallowing, yet no words, no ideas as to how to reply to that revelation come through. His hands are still resting over hers and suddenly he realises her fingers are pressing harder against his own, interlacing them with his. Her gaze falls to their intertwined fingers, her voice is low and barely a whisper now

“They always just took from me”

*They always just wanted me to give more*

His eyes are transfixed on their hands, holding onto each other so intensely he's worried she will bruise. Her voice comes out more hesitant and trembling now

“I was never asked… I don’t think I know what I actually… want… like”

*I was always demanded to do… and I don’t think I know how to give up that control, that’s all I latched onto…*

Her heartbeat resonates like a drum in her chest and he can see the blood blossoming in her cheeks, her voice trembles and she stumbles upon words but her thoughts coming out of her lips persistently, as if she has kept so much behind that she needs to get out now

“The way you look at me at times makes me feel like I can walk a little bit taller, head a little bit higher. I was trained to accept them… taking from me… as the only compliment… but with you…”

He can see the effort it’s taking for her eyes to raise again to look into his, the warmth emanating from her rosy skin just another herald of her determination despite the toll this seems to be taking on her

“I see something going on behind your eyes, I know you wouldn't do anything I did not ask you to, and that is more than I've ever been tamed to accept…”

*I want to kill everyone who ever laid a finger on you… my poor, sweet, precious love*

Her words seem to catch in her throat, she keeps taking breaths and then releasing them without words until finally the silence he holds for her seems to be enough for her to fill

“I have never been given the chance to… explore… I don’t know how to… ask… how I want… what I want… but I do know I want… you.”

He thought rushes of emotions were exclusive to the moments he could sink his fangs into her but he was sorely unprepared for… this. 

*Did I actually hear her say that she wants me?!?*

All of a sudden all his centuries of expertise and understanding as a consummate lover come rushing to the front of his mind to show their silver lining.

Because he cannot relinquish control, even to his own pleasure, but maybe the saving grace of two centuries going through the motions is that he can do this for her? With her…

“You have me my sweet… If I could show you how… would you want me to?”

It feels so bittersweet to think of centuries servicing others being what built his professional knowledge of physical pleasure. That might be where his teeth clenching comes from for a second, but what about hers? 

*Is that… fear??? Why?*

 It lasts until the moment she nods

“Please Astarion…. show me, and I’ll follow you”

[girldragongizzard]

Chapter 8: Influencers

I want to talk to Rhoda, but I get Chapman.

Sie messages me from the street corner, and I wander over to the edge of my building to look down at hir, where she waves at me.

Then I retreat from the edge and message back, “Come up.”

I do want to talk to hir about a great number of things. Especially just after Ptarmigan’s divination.

So I wait.

Chapman comes up through the building, doing hir usual thing of Artistically hacking the alarms and locks and somehow avoiding notice. And after a little while, the access hatch opens and sie extract hirself from the floor below to stand before me.

It’s a much cooler day than yesterday, and Chapman’s wearing an outfit that looks like a cross between a witch and a clown, just without any significant makeup. Hir purse is a big, black leather crossbody affair with chrome studs and spikes all over it. A floppy wide brim black wool hat hardly conceals hir magenta pompadour. That gives hir sort of a Boy George look.

I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of how Chapman dresses. It makes me inordinately happy and puts me at ease every time I see hir latest outfit.

But I try to cling to some of my irritation and discomfort from the last day and a half, because I have things I want to remember to ask.

But I start with something light and fun that I also want to know about, “How many clothes have you?”

“Oh,” Chapman says with a little grin. “Less than you might think. But that is a question that I try to make my coworkers ask every day, even though I’ve already answered it. I’ve sort of turned my apartment into a walk-in closet, but I cycle through every item several times a year. I just try to make it so that I don’t wear the same outfit twice in that year. Every day is a different combination.”

“Amazing.”

“I’m proud of it! It took me a while to get it down to a routine.”

“Ptarmigan visited,” I report, changing the subject abruptly.

“Ah,” Chapman responds. “May I sit down?”

I smile in my way, and sie settles down cross legged, managing to get hir purple, black, and red skirt to billow out and lay spread out in a circle around hir.

“I wanted to talk to you about Ptarmigan,” Chapman says.

“Good,” I reply.

“I don’t personally know her very well,” Chapman starts off. “Obviously, there are lots of people I know even less about or not at all. But as far as Artists go, I haven’t spent much time around her. Maybe an incarnation or two, but that’s not long enough to really get a sense of someone. And mostly, I know rumors and gossip. Did she tell you her Art?”

“Nightmares,” I say.

“Yeah. I think if she and I were to combine our Arts in a collaborative project, as she’s suggesting, we could create one of the worst storms this world has ever seen. If we wanted to. And I’m not necessarily talking about a weather system, though it might manifest that way.”

“Scary.”

“Yes.”

“Is Säure Artist?” I ask, deliberately trying to keep hir a little off balance.

Chapman sighs and says, “I certainly hope not. With what I’ve seen in the last two weeks, I’m having a hard time convincing myself he’s not a dragon, and we can’t even confirm that. If he’s a dragon and an Artist, that could be a difficult combination to confront. It would also suggest that the clumsy flailing of Equisetum Wildlife in trying to rehome dragons is a much more complex ploy that it looks like.”

“Am I Artist?”

Chapman shakes hir head, “I don’t think so. I could scan you, if you consent, to try to confirm it. But if you are an Artist and you’re hiding your nature, even subconsciously, I wouldn’t be able to tell. Still, I’m not sure which of my siblings you’d be, if you were. Besides the person I’ve gotten to know over the past two weeks, I don’t recognize you at all. Not in that way.”

“Something new?”

Sie squints at me, “Did Ptarmigan suggest that?”

“Someone did.”

“Ah, hm,” Chapman looks down at hir hands, which are in hir lap, fidgeting lightly. “It wouldn’t be unprecedented. During each of the Earth’s mass extinction events, and after, weird shit similar to dragons suddenly emerging, happened. Almost all evidence of such things has failed to make it into the fossil records. At least, not in any way that a human would recognize. There are more than a few such novel beings hiding around the planet. Sleeping, mostly. Sometimes participating in the chaos that is life here. They learn from us Artists and try to keep their work big, broad, and easily dismissable. Which is what we do most of the time. We keep learning that drawing attention to ourselves is a bad idea.” Sie looks off to the North. “Or, at least, some of us do.”

Chapman waits patiently as I type out my next question, “Am I center of dracomorphosis?”

Sie laughs, “I like that word. I don’t know. But if Ptarmigan says you are, she’s probably right and probably not lying. But whether you caused it or are just the locus of the event is the real question, I think.”

I have to say, I’m liking Chapman’s answers today. They feel more honest, more complete. Of course, if sie is an immortal being of unfathomable age like sie says sie is, then sie’s had all the time in the world to perfect the art of misdirection and lying.

And to think, just a couple days ago, I thought sie was just 5 years or so younger than me and there wasn’t much of an age gap. Not that, well, we’d be more than friends or QPPs eventually. And I’m still a little bewildered by my habit of being attracted more to humans (and human-like people) than to other dragons. But it feels inadvisable to develop any sort of intimate relationship with something that is maybe as old as the Earth, if you’re not.

I find myself worried about the power imbalance there.

On the other claw, I am attracted to Chapman still. Maybe even more so. And that’s throwing me for a loop. So I need to be extra careful with myself.

And in my mouth, I’m still chewing on Rhoda’s proclamation and advice, which Chapman definitely heard loud and clear.

We must work toward a state of the world where beings like Chapman and Ptarmigan or letting mortals manage their own affairs.

A very important question occurs to me and I don’t know if Chapman can answer it, but it needs to be asked.

“Are dragons immortal?” I ask.

Chapman rolls back, grabbing hir ankles through hir skirt and looks around, then says, leaning forward again, “As a class of beings, yes. Effectively. You’re so diverse and so archetypal, you’ll continue to exist long after the last species of life on Earth goes extinct, I imagine. But as individuals? That seems like a potentially bad idea, if you reproduce. If you’re immortal and you lay eggs like the stories suggest, you’ll all have to figure out a way to leave the planet one by one as you get older, so as not to crowd everyone else out. So, I’d say, probably not. Unless the Earth has something really nasty in store for all of us.”

“Is dracomorphosis new?”

“Eh, that’s hard to say. We didn’t have a word for dragons until humans coined it. So we didn’t recognize you as such until then. But I wouldn’t be surprised if you all weren’t somehow part of things like the Cambrian explosion, where life suddenly evolved at a rapid pace to fill in empty niches and develop new ones. Like, maybe the first of you were born during those times, as spiritual influences of evolution. And maybe your ancestors did manifest physically, without us noticing it. Life is beautifully complex. It’s easy to miss stuff like that if you don’t know to look for it.”

One more super important question that will give me a sense of who and what I’m working with, I think. I take my time to spell it all out, “Does Fairport matter?”

I waffled on adding “to you” on the end of that, but decided that the broader, more open ended question would get a more telling and honest answer, and…

“Yes,” sie says. “It matters as much as any other city on the planet right now. There’s the whole butterfly effect, which I’m sure you’ve heard about too many times to count, of course. Anything we do here on the front of maintaining and expanding human rights for anybody and everybody, human or dragon, is going to help shape the rest of the world. It’s a battle that must be fought, even if it isn’t a decisive one. But also, you matter, and Rhoda matters, and so do the Kims, Jill, Cerce, and Nathan, and everyone else who comes and goes in this building. You’re alive, for however little that might be, and that’s inherently unfair to you. Life is a cruel, bitter experience unless you work to make it otherwise. And every life that gets to experience safety and joy is important.”

I feel like I want to argue with that last bit, somehow, but I’m not sure in what way. Is it because I want to find a reason to distrust Chapman, or because I just disagree that if only some life finds joy and safety that makes the world better.

For instance, the fact that I was born to experience severe physical dysphoria and be bewildered by it for fifty years before accidentally finding relief, and very few other people were and don’t get that pain and the memory of it, seems inherently unjust in itself. And the fact that I do get the magical relief that I have, and other people don’t, that’s wrong, too. That makes the world worse, in my estimation. 

But before I can figure out how to say that, Chapman continues.

“I think we can trust Ptarmigan to be completely on board with that, by the way. She might be the Artist of Nightmares, but based on the name and presentation she’s chosen for this incarnation, here and now, unless she’s playing a truly nasty game, we can probably follow her lead, to some extent.”

What? I ask, “What?”

“She’s absolutely got her own agenda, and she deals with really nasty shit as her Art, but, I think –”

My tablet buzzes, and we both look at it. It’s a Discord notification. A direct message from Tannis, my neighbor to the East, whom I used to call Loreena.

I feel the shift of Chapman doing a scan, and trust that sie isn’t scanning me. Ptarmigan seemed to think I could only sense when Arts were used on me, but I’m pretty sure I can sense their use in proximity to me as well.

In some stories, dragons can perform magic as well as any human wizard. Sometimes we’re the source of magic. But is Chapman’s Art magic?

“You’ll want to answer that,” sie says.

I huff and open Discord and then touch Tannis’ account icon, labeled with the username siren_of_the_woods.

She wrote, “Five dragons meet at the observation tower of the Fairport Arboretum: myself, Astraia, Joel, Wentin, and Brenna. We humbly request an audience with Your Highness here, at your earliest convenience. Thank you.”

At the immediate sight of the phrase “five dragons” I think it’s a trap. A terrifying proposition, in any case. And addressing me as “Your Highness” feels like sarcasm, and I don’t like it. I haven’t yet changed the name of the Discord server, but I’ve made a post in there about how I don’t really think of myself as queen. But Astraia is there, and though I’ve only seen her in person once, I want to think of her as an ally and friend, and…

“Go,” Chapman says. “You will go to this meeting either way, now or a little later, and you need to know what they are up to anyway. Going now is better.”

I look up at hir.

“I’ll message Ptarmigan and we’ll both back you up. We might take a while to get there in person, against your flight. But we don’t need to be to reach you with our Arts,” sie says. “But, I don’t think you’ll need our help there. They’re all members of your server, they’re friendly to you. Focus on that and you won’t feel obliged to fight them.”

I look down at the tablet and hit the thumbs up icon, then shift over to my AAC app and say, “How you know?”

“You felt me scan, right?” sie asks.

“Yes.”

“Near future possibilities. It told me enough to extrapolate that,” Chapman says. “Combined with how much I know about your current situation already, how you manage your instincts, and my experience as an Artist, I’d call it a very well educated guess.”

“Okay.”

“I also wouldn’t doddle any longer talking to me. I’ll see my way out.”

One more question, not actually as out of the blue as it sounds, “Is Salish Raven Artist?”

Chapman sighs, “I don’t know. It’s been known to happen, but this world is gorgeously complex and we’re just a small part of it. Don’t go seeing us where we might not be. But do go. Please. Hurry.”

I turn my tablet off, put it in my purse, and leave.

I hear Chapman call after me, “Take care!”

I’m getting a little tired of things happening, you know?

On the way to the meeting of Southside dragons, I find myself thinking about how I should look up the cultural significance of ptarmigans. The bird. To see if there’s any meaning there that Ptarmigan herself is trying to draw upon, or that maybe she’s created. Chapman just said not to see Artists where they might not be, but I think Ptarmigan might be there.

I also wanted to ask why the two of them seem to fight or argue so easily, but I can imagine either of them replying, “Because we’re siblings.”

There’s never enough time to say everything.

And, I think I’ve said this before, but it always hits me that back when I could talk just like a human, I hardly ever said anything.

What are we going to do at this meeting? Talk? Probably.

But what about Joel? I know he really needs a huge keyboard, or something really creative, to let him talk in any kind of verbal capacity. Yes or no questions work for him just fine, but in a meeting like this? I’d imagine he’d feel left behind and left out all too easily.

Even when I’m given time to be reasonably articulate, that’s how I feel around anyone who talks with their larynx. Especially in a group.

How thought out is this meeting? It seems rushed and possibly desperate. Especially with how I was notified at the last minute.

Oh.

Maybe I’m being called there to solve a problem, such as communicating with Joel.

I hope not. I don’t feel prepared.

But, of course, Tannis didn’t say that’s what they all needed. They wanted “an audience.”

They’re going to tell me something, or ask me something, if it’s not an ambush.

And, for some reason, not on the Discord server.

And that’s about all the time I have to think about this, because I’m already descending to the park clearing where the observation tower is.

And I’m about to meet three of these dragons in person for the first time.

On the north face of the hill that constitutes the Fairport Arboretum, which is a hill covered in trees and trails, there is a paved lot with a log tower in it. It’s not quite at the top of the hill. That space is reserved for a radio array for the college radio station, and probably a couple other purposes.

As I glide in on the mid day thermals, I see them in a circle in the space in front of the tower. And there are some humans standing beside a few of the dragons. Caleb, Astraia’s boyfriend, is there.

There’s also a family huddled at the top of the tower, watching, children half hiding behind their parents.

So it’s not exactly a private meeting. It’s a very public spot, and park goers and students cutting across the arboretum can be expected to stumble upon it at any time.

But, I wonder if the family in the tower were there unexpectedly, or if they’re keeping an eye out for approaching dragons, because they do point at me, and then I see one of them typing into their phone.

Joel is one of the humanless dragons, and he yawps almost cheerfully and backs up well before I come near for my landing.

Astraia greets me with a series of poinks, and I think I can guess who the others are based on conversations in the Discord.

Brenna would be the one accompanied by a light skinned man in a straw hat, graying brown beard, and blond ponytail. Also partners, like Astraia and Caleb, only older and married with kids. Brenna looks like a really big wolf, like the Gmork from the Neverending Story, only with antlers, huge chicken feet, and her fur seems to be downy feathers. Her tail has spikes hidden in the fluff. Many scholars wouldn’t dare call her a dragon, but I know better.

These are all of the type of dragon that’s older than the word itself. The ones that got called dragons by the speakers of the word after their facts. I’m more of a classic renaissance dragon. Or one from modern fantasy. I feel almost fake here. Out of place.

And Tannis, I’m certain, is the one with the head of an eagle, the upper torso of a woman attached to where the neck would go on the body of a bear with bat wings, and a tail that looks like an octopus arm. She also has a human with her. A woman with dark skin and locs, dressed in neon pink and blue athletic gear.

Which leaves Wentin. A dragon with a “W” name that I didn’t give it. I know its pronouns because it had given them and its name on the server. Username eat_you, I’m pretty certain it’s the dragon I had nicknamed Theremin, because it can sound exactly like one. Spooky as shit if it’s the only thing making noise in the middle of the night.

Wentin is without a human and looks like a dire lion with a head that’s just a mix of all sorts of things. Its snout is as long, broad, and bulbous as that of a deinosuchus, but with lips and covered with that lion-like fur. Its eyes are forward facing and lidded, as expressive as any mammal’s, with enough cranium behind them to hold a sizeable brain. But its ears are a classic spiny finned dragon’s ears. And it has a dark brown mane of quills.

Wentin is big. Phenomenally big in comparison to the rest of us. And as I land it grins to show off its shark teeth, then opens its mouth to say, in a whiny, creaky voice, obviously using a syrinx way more expertly than I can, “Hello, Queen Meghan. Welcome to my territory. It is so good to see you in person.”

There’s no way that Wentin could fit in a building or a house. A garage, maybe, if there was no hoard in it. And I’ve no clue what it’s been eating.

I think that if none of the other dragons are fighting with each other right now, it’s because Wentin doesn’t want it. But maybe we’re all actually more reasonable than that, now that we’ve gotten used to ourselves.

I flap my wings a few more times as I stretch my legs on the ground, then settle down in the spot Joel made for me, opposite of Astraia, with Wentin directly to my left. I feel like I could fit neatly into Wentin’s mouth, but I know I’m not quite that small.

“Yes,” I say, and then make to pull out my tablet and put it on the ground in front of me. I press, “Hello.”

Tannis has hands and is holding her phone. I can see bullet scars on her upper torso, and bite scars all over her shoulders, all six of them. Far more healed than I’d expect for such a short time since her fight with Astraia. Like the rest of us, she doesn’t bother to wear clothes.

Astraia’s haunches are definitely doing better, but those huge claw marks, which definitely came from Tannis, don’t look like they’ll ever fade, let alone heal flush with her skin. They’re red, with a thin layer of scar tissued skin growing in them. Astraia seems completely unbothered by them otherwise. A shiny new tablet that’s twice as big as mine is on the ground in front of her, like the way I like to work. She’ll be typing with three of her eight snouts, of course.

Joel’s pretty much how I last left him.

Brenna, who is the second biggest dragon there, sits on her haunches and looks at her partner, Ian. Either she’s the one I named Caterwall, or she’s from outside the range of my morning song.

Ian addresses me to say, “I speak for Brenna. I am her voice here. I’d do the same for Joel if I could, but we don’t have that connection.”

Joel garumphs.

“Joel speaks for himself,” Wentin croaks gleefully.

I look at Joel and he glances at me and twitches his ear.

Yeah. OK.

I feel like my body has short circuited with so many dragons in one place, and with me sitting so close to the monster that is Wentin. All control has been left to the me that rides this crazy thing. I am shaky and unsettled, and yet also so, so calm.

I breathe in as I type, “I am here. Thank you all.” As much politeness as I can muster seems in order, but expedience still reigns. I am starting to really hate it. And now I’m finding myself intensely jealous of Wentin.

With my extra wide field of vision, it’s pretty easy for me to keep an eye on Joel while talking to the others, and so far, besides that ear twitch, he seems fairly relaxed. He’s bothered by his lack of voice, but isn’t showing it.

Astraia speaks, doing her hydra ballet for typing, four eyes on us, four on the screen, a snout to hold the tablet down, and three to speak, “Thank you for coming. We’ve encountered a problem you should know about.”

Tannis completes her thought, “There is at least one dragon who is allied with Säure.”

[sgiandubh]

Whereabouts

Instead of hijacking @wildfernflower's excellent reblog of this post (https://www.tumblr.com/bat-cat-reader/728749633773404160/cait-looks-hot-happy-and-content-both-her?source=share), I decided to write my own.

But first, I have to quote @wildfernflower, because she is damn right:

'There is a lot of time in his life, far away from his socials, filled with stuff we'll never know about. People read his post one day, learn what he's currently doing or where he currently is (or rather where he wants people to think he is), they're impatiently waiting for the next post that comes e.g. in 2 or 3 days, and have an illusion nothing happened in between. They put these posts one after another on a fictious Sam’s timeline they create in their minds. In reality, these 2-3 days in between is a significant time gap, yet it miraculously disappears.'

You might find me insolent, but: this whereabouts obsession is one of the original sins of this fandom. Where are they right now? And with whom? Alone? Together? When did he/she went online last time, in which time zone and to do exactly what?

Let's face it: we wouldn't do that with our best friends IRL, perhaps and I would not do that with SO or my child(ren) if I had that privilege, which I don't. I remember my mother calling me at 7AM on a Sunday with that question and I also remember my very insolent answer - she understood very quickly it was not a good idea and never tried it again. So while I can see why this online timelines game was cute at the start, I can't, for the life of me, understand why it still apparently is a big deal and why some keep on playing it on behalf of two strangers? Especially when they know, by now, everything he posts is either a) advertising of his own projects and b) latergrams and also that she was never an enthusiastic poster (oh, yes: the banter - that is, I am afraid, long over, now).

This is the surest way to feed a never ending obsessive cycle and this is way above and beyond fandom behavior. This is also why I think timelines always have an agenda, especially when they pretend to explain a context in all its complexity, to a very thirsty and easily bored audience.

Take for example what Miss Marple called The Zanzibar Saga. At least fifty pages of multimedia content, with an almost frame-by-frame découpage and the proper identification of about 20% of the people on that damn boat. All of this in order to cover events that probably unfolded in the space of eight to ten hours tops of a single day.

In which world is this normal and in which legal system is this not stalking? Why is this happening: to feed the Fandom Beast or to further discredit a B-list actor, allowing all sorts of innuendoes, among which the a) high-functioning alcoholic, b) cheap womanizer and c) closeted gay are all 'possible', depending on each faction's (not fraction, Geachte mevrouw: that's algebra) POV? How is that evidence of anything else than an inordinate, obsessive and somewhat worrisome interest for that person?

This is OL. Not The Truman Show:

PS: In case you wonder, I will always stand up if what I consider to be red lines are being crossed, no matter who the person (cast or blogger) is. Yesterday/early morning today (timezones) it happened again and while I admit my reaction was uncharacteristically strong, so was the troll's message.

Next time, it could be anyone of us. Think about it. And next time, I will stand up again in solidarity, no matter who you are or what your shipper/believer take on SC is. And no, I do not expect anyone to do the same for me. It's not how these things work.

[harboneger]

i just wanna say i really appreciate your marinersposting because every evening when most of my other mutuals are probably going to sleep you keep my dashboard active by posting baseball anguish. the mariners are my new favorite second-hand interest. i haven't watched a single baseball game since i was a child and ive never been to seattle but im obsessed with that fucking picture of the guy trying to slide to the base(?) and looking up at his teammate with crushing despair in his eyes. i understand why people like sports now. thank you beloved mutual

I am so inordinately pleased to fill your dash with this stuff, the mariners have managed to entirely consume my brain these last few months and I think bringing it to tumblr has been my best online choice in ages. I worry a little bit that my Hivemind mutuals will get annoyed at my baseball heel turn here, so this does make me feel a lot better. (I do still keep up with hivemind, I am just not as silly about it as I used to be) (And I still keep up w their videos, and watch most of your compliations, theyre so well done)

Despite being a born Washingtonian, I'm only a recent Mariners die-hard. I used to go to some Rainiers games growing up (the Mariners' AAA minor league affiliate) but I was too young and from too little of a sports-caring family for it to imprint on me. BUT NOW? fully into it. I went to some cheap college night games this last spring, then realized that I could listen to games on the radio and then it was over for me, every night they play I'm listening. Its been really wonderful, and insufferable to my current roommate, who hates baseball.

(And not to try and recruit, esp. now that our season is going to hell, but tonights game is free to watch on the MLB website, starts at 640 PST)

AND that lovely beautiful despairing fellow sliding into base is JOSH ROJAS, third baseman, incredible defensemen, and mariners average hitter (which is bad, but idc). His secret to beautiful luscious hair is water. Neither of the people he's looking up at are his teammates, the one in white and red is from the Anaheim Angels, and the one in grey is the ump, who is calling him out after a slide to base. I dont remember the exact context, but this is either a failed steal attempt, or a fielders choice that he got caught up in.

I post it every time we lose because I too feel betrayed by our manager for making the worst lineup/bullpen decisions imaginable. And because I love Josh Rojas, and he's hot enough to be on my blog 5 times a week

Thank YOU beloved mutual, happy to talk about baseball in the wee hours of any time of the day. You will see more of it lol

[anxious-witch]

Inertia 7

Summary: Newton's first law expresses the principle of inertia: the natural behavior of a body is to move in a straight line at constant speed. In the absence of outside influences, a body's motion preserves the status quo.

Jan choose a direction of his life the moment he walked out of his parents house and cut all contact with them. He didn't want anything to do with them, or God anymore. Even his soulmark he wished he could leave behind. But when Nace Jordan joins the band, with a mark matching his own, can Jan keep going the same way he did? Or will the force make him change a direction?

Pairings: Jan Peteh/Nace Jordan

Warnings: None, I think? Please do tell me if I'm wrong I'll edit ot immediately

Notes: AO3 link

urprise! Early update of the last chapter. Thank you everyone who made it this far, especially people who consistently commented throughout. I have several things to say before you jump right in.

1) I am aware JO didn't actually preform at the EMA, but since this is already and au and I really liked the concept of the scene, it is here. Just roll with it 2) There will (hopefully) be two fics following this one, one with the focus on Bojan and the other on Kris. I am not sure exactly when I'll be writing and post them though, since December is quite busy, but until then, at least this is finished.

Anyway, this part is pretty much all fluff and very cheesy at the end, but I figured we all deserved it after all the angst

I believe that witness is a magnitude of vulnerability. That when I say love what I mean is not a feeling nor promise of a feeling. I believe in attention. My love for you is a monolith of try.

The woman I love pays an inordinate amount of attention to large and small objects. She is not described by anything. Because I could not mean anything else,

she knows exactly what I mean.

Once upon a time a line saw itself clear to its end. I have seen the shape of happiness. (y=mx+b) I am holding it. It is your hand.

What Space Faith Can Occupy By TC Tolbert

Jan wondered if light green walls of the therapist's office were suppose to somehow elevate the space. Made it seem more colorful.

Personally, it only reminded him more if a hospital.

Still, just as in all previous sessions, he had to remind himself he wasn't there just for himself. Kris had been genuinely worried after his breakdown. Jure and Bojan didn't know about it, but they likely suspected something had transpired.

He would need to tell Bojan about him and Nace eventually. But that, at least, was a problem for future Jan.

There was also Nace to think about. In the past three weeks, there had been slow, almost painful progress made between them. Still, he was trying. That counted for something, right?

He turned his attention back to the matter at hand.

His therapist was a young woman, Jan would guess somewhere in her thirties. She hat jet black hair and looked perfectly put together. She reminded him of Kris in that regard.

Which made sense, considering he only got a spot so quickly due to Kris' connections. Jan really, really didn't want to think about how he managed that.

"So, Jan," Nina said, "do you want us to continue on where we stopped last time, or do you have something from this week you'd like to discuss?"

Her voice was unkind, or even cold, but Jan still had to force himself to talk sometimes. His trust issues weighted heavily on him in moment like these.

"Well, no. Except that Nace and I actually went to play basketball, but I mentioned we will last week anyway."

Nina patiently waited for him to continue. When he didn't, she spoke again.

"How was it?"

Jan sighed. It was awful. Jan felt genuinely bad for even going along with it, considering how much Nace hated any sport that you had to play with the ball. It ended when Nace didn't manage to catch the ball one time Jan threw it. It hit him in the face and made his nose bleed.

Jan supposed there was a metaphor there somewhere.

"It wasn't great. Nace is...really bad at basketball."

She quickly wrote something down and Jan tried his best not to feel judged.

"And how did you feel about it?"

"Shitty, I guess. I didn't make him play, but it kind of felt like I did."

Nina tapped her pen to the notes.

"From what I have here, it seems Nace usually initiates these activities and they seem to be activities you like. Am I correct?"

Jan shrugged.

"Yes."

"And what do you think about that?"

How many times could she ask him that? Wasn't she supposed to tell him what to think about that? Jan felt increasingly annoyed.

"Why do you keep asking that? If you want to say something, then say it."

She pursed her lips.

"I am not here to tell you how to feel, Jan. I am here to help you verbalize it."

That was the dumbest fucking answer he ever heard.

"I already said I feel bad about it. What more do you want me to say?"

"Have you thought about doing the same for him?"

Jan paused. He haven't. Or well-he had, but he wasn't really sure there was an activity Nace liked that they could do together.

"I don't know if we have anything in common. Other than music, I mean. I know he is trying, but maybe this wasn't a good idea, after all."

Nina nodded, his face neutral. Always so goddamn neutral.

"Have you talked to him about it?"

"What, and break his heart? He'd just try even harder. I don't-"

I don't know what to say to make him give up on me. Jan clenched his teeth.

"I think you should consider trying one of his activity. Surely, there is something he likes that you don't hate."

Jan took in a deep breath. He was fighting the urge to mess up his nails even more, but if he started bleeding during practice again, even Bojan will notice.

"I guess. But that doesn't solve the main issue, does it?"

Nina sighed.

"Alright. How about you think about it, and we talk about something else for the rest od the session?"

Jan agreed and they moved on, but the thought stayed with him. Was he simply not putting enough effort?

The question haunted him enough for him to drive to Nace's apartment few hours later. He only sent him a text asking if he was home, and once he got a confirmation, he sat in the car and drove here.

It was probably rude, but Jan figured that if Nace had an issue with him being rude, they wouldn't be here in the first place.

It wasn't until he rang the doorbell and heard the barking did he remember Nace had a dog. Ollie.

He knew that, of course. It was just that the two of them usually met outside of Nace's apartment and several times they came here, Ollie was being babysat by Nace's sister.

Well. Jan supposed it was bound to happen to or later. If Ollie hated him, did that mean he was immediately disqualified from soulmate status?

Nace opened the door, trying to keep Ollie from rushing into the hallway. Jan felt caught off guard, despite the fact that he was the one who rang the doorbell.

Nace was wearing a tank top. Had Jan ever seen him in one before?

"Please get in before he runs out, I don't feel like trying to catch him."

Jan quickly stepped into the apartment and Nace closed the door behind him. The Nace carefully let Ollie come closer.

Jan kneeled down, offering his hand for him to sniff at. He liked dogs well enough, but he was always at a bit of a loss on what to do with them.

Cats you had to build a bond with. Usually just being in their general vicinity was enough at the start. You let them come to you. Even if you offered them treats, you had to leave them at the same distance at first.

Dogs? Dogs were unpredictable. They could love you or hate you your smell. Or whatever it was that they could feel around you.

"Dogs can always tell if a person is good or bad", his brother used to say. Jan, who had dogs both love and hate him for no clear-cut reasons over the years, couldn't quite agree.

Dogs could feel something, certainly. But that something was only a first impression and they choose that intangible thing as a base to be loyal or not.

Cats, at least got to know you first before making any judgments.

Ollie sniffed his hand and cocked his head to the side, as if trying to gauge if he was alright or not.

"Hello," Jan said awkwardly.

Ollie came closer, nudging his snout against his hand and Jan carefully petted him on the head, waiting to see the reaction. When he started wagging his tail, Jan felt relieved.

Nace's dog hating him wasn't something he wished to deal with. There were plenty of other things that made him want to turn back and run away.

"He seems to like you," Nace said softly.

One bad call he share with his owner, Jan thought grimly as he stood up.

"That's good. I think we should talk."

Nace sighed.

"As much as I love how direct you are, that sounds very ominous."

Jan simply took his shoes off and shrugged off his jacket.

Ollie followed them as they went into the living room. Jan wondered if they were creating some sort of bad karma for the place, having all their fucked up conversations here.

Or perhaps he spent too much time around Bojan and his superstitiousness was starting to rub off of him.

"Do you want something to drink first or-"

"How about we just get this over with and then after you can offer me stuff if you want me to stay?"

Nace awkwardly sank into the couch, far enough that Jan would have to stretch to be able to touch him, despite his long arms. Was it for his own comfort, or for Jan's?

They were closer physically since they talked the last time. Sitting closer, hand brushing against each other, squeezing each other's shoulders on occasion. That sort of thing.

Now, though, there was no of that. As if Nace was already getting used to the distance. Which Jan supposed was fair, even if he felt a familiar burning at the soulmark.

Before Jan could say anything, though, Ollie jumped on the couch and attempted to nuzzled at his chest. Jan felt thrown off balance a bit as he petted him, which only prompted Ollie to settle in his lap.

"I don't think I am doing this whole thing right," Jan confessed, not taking his eyes off Ollie.

"Could you please be more specific?"

Jan scratched behind Ollies ear. Matej's dog liked that. Ollie made a content sound so Jan continued.

"You keep putting so much effort into liking things that I like and trying them out. And I-I mean I can do it too, but I don't know if it's even right. Like, shouldn't we already have matching interests? Is it even healthy if we both have to change?"

He took his hands off Ollie and clenched them in frustration. He hated how his tongue always felt like lead when he was supposed to talk about these things. He harshly pulled at his hair and tied it back with the tie around his wrist.

"This works like any other relationship would, Jan."

Jan scoffed.

"Does it? I don't remember any of my friends tailoring their interests to fit me."

Nace took in a deep breath. Jan learned he always did that when he was frustrated, like he was stopping himself from saying anything before he was ready.

"Really? Kris never tried listening to metal for you? He knows you favorite brand of tea on accident? You always keep ear plugs in your car if he gets overstimulated because, what? You did that before you were friends?"

Jan felt speechless.

"That's-

"Different? Yeah, of course it is, because this is Kris we are talking about."

Nace sounded resigned. Hurt, even. Jan slowly looked at him, but now it was Nace avoiding his gaze. He was staring at his hands, his expression troubled.

"I don't mean to say discard your and Kris' friendship. I think it's amazing you have him, but I'm jealous. Not because I think there is anything going on, but because you seem to allow others to get close to you while keep me at arms length. And I don't know what to do at this point to change your mind."

Jan's heart squeezed painfully. He never heard Nace so resigned. He was always the one to try and find a solution and not give up.

He gently set Ollie on the couch, despite his small, protesting whine. Then he stood up sat closer to Nace. Close enough that their shoulders touched. This time, he was the one to take Nace's hands in his.

"I'm sorry. You are right."

Nace's head slowly rose, like he barely dared to be hopeful and look at Jan straight on.

"I was, well I am scared. We said we'll be friends, but I don't think I can be your friend. From the moment we met, I kept you at arm length and for one single moment I didn't, we ended up hooking up. You terrify me, Nace."

Nace's breath stuttered. Jan leaned his forehead against Nace's and closed his eyes.

"I had all but convinced myself everything about soulmates was bullshit, that all that was stories and people kept confirming them because they were desperate for it to be true. But that was all it was, a placebo effect. And then you came along. Shattered everything I thought I knew."

For a moment, there was silence. Then Nace's hand touched his neck, just a bit below the soulmark. Jan took in a deep, shuddering breath.

"May I?"

"Yes."

The first time Nace touched the soulmark, Jan was too terrified to even appreciate the sensation. But he did now. The feeling was warm and safe. Jan expected his heart to race, but instead it calmed down, as if soothed by Nace's touch.

Something about a gesture made something deep inside him uncoil and words just started pouring out of him.

"When I was fifteen, I started secretly listening to metal. The first time I did, I felt so guilty, I ended up crying and not allowing myself to eat for a day, as a penance. For weeks, I had been worse off than if I had never listened to it. It took me months to gather the courage to try again."

Jan hoped Nace would understand he was saying. He wasn't sure he could say it outright. Nace hummed.

"You are afraid, but you also know that doesn't mean this is bad because you are afraid."

Jan nodded, but Nace didn't say anything immediately after. When he finally spoke, he didn't say what Jan expected him to.

"When I was twelve, I was bullied a lot because of my weight. I remember being terrified of going to school. The only place I felt safe in was the church, because nobody bullied me there. I felt safe. Even if the conditions and rules weren't perfect, it was still better."

Jan opened his eyes, almost indignantly.

"I am not a church."

Nace cracked a small smile.

"No. But you are a safe space, even if the conditions and rules you impose aren't perfect."

Jan's answer was to kiss him. Not roughly, like he did before, but softly and slowly. Giving Nace time to pull away.

He didn't, instead he kissed him back and pulled him closer. One of Jan's hands curled around Nace's nape and the other reached for his wrist. He knew exact moment he touched his soulmark, because Nace shivered.

The only way Jan could describe the feeling was that the bond between them sang. Like the world slightly tilted and found a perfect balance.

Like they were perfect together.

Jan had to pull back from the kiss, fighting a near overwhelming fear that washed over him. Nace didn't let him go far this time, instead pulling him in a hug.

"It's okay."

Nace's voice was soft, and he was warm and comfortable and it was almost unbearable.

"I know it's fucking okay," Jan said, his voice breaking.

He buried his head in Nace's chest and hope he didn't feel the tears soaking his shirt. Nace didn't say anything after that, he simply held him as he cried.

Until the tears dried out and the fear slightly pulled back. Still, some doubts remained.

"What if the rules and conditions can't be improved anymore? What if this is just...who I am?"

He pulled back a bit, to study Nace's face as he answered. Unexpectedly, Nace grinned.

"Well, if a church gets a new priest-"

Jan rolled his eyes at the awful joke.

"You've been hanging with Bojan too much."

Nace was still grinning.

"A priest can also recommend new way of worship-"

Jan groaned loudly and pushed Nace back, so he landed on his back, laughing openly. He had a beautiful, infectious laugh that Jan couldn't help but laugh along as well.

"Please don't use church metaphors anymore. They are awful."

Nace stretched his arms over his head, exposing his muscles and tattoos even more. Jan couldn't help, but let his gaze linger on them.

"Make me."

Jan was never the one to avoid temptation. And Nace had always been so tempting. Almost like a red apple in a garden without color. Jan leaned down and kissed him again.

Nace melted into the kiss and reached out to him again. His hands reached Jan's hair and Jan tense slightly, but Nace gently pulled at the tie, until his hair spilled from the ponytail.

Jan was distracted enough by the kiss to let him. He wanted Nace closer and-

They were interrupted by a loud, insistent whine. Jan pulled back enough to look in the direction it came from, finding Ollie looking at them with the saddest expression he could possibly muster.

Nace burst out laughing, his whole body shaking.

"I think he doesn't like me hogging his new favorite."

Jan chuckled, sitting back up. He held his hand out and petted Ollie gently, immediately receiving a lick on his hand.

"Maybe I could have some sort of tea, if the offer still stands," Jan said, not looking away from Ollie.

"It absolutely does. I have mint tea Kris mentioned you liked."

Traitor, Jan thought, giving away my secrets.

"Nace?"

"Yeah?"

"Which one is your favorite?"

Jan turned his head to look, catching a surprise that flitted across his face before it melted in a soft smile.

"Probably chamomile."

Of course. The calming thing one always drank when they felt unwell to soothe and comfort. It fit him.

"I'll remember that."

With that Nace went into the kitchen, and Ollie brough Jan a ball he could throw for him. Jan took in a deep breath, feeling as if he just climbed a mountain. Whatever happened after this, he had a feeling he could handle after.

As terrifying as it could get.

Jan was nervously tapping his fingers against the wheel, resisting the urge to bite his nails. It was not a smart thing to do while driving.

"Are you really not going to tell me where we are going?"

He chuckled a bit at Nace's pleading tone. This really was an unusual role reversal for both of them, wasn't it?

"I told you, it's a surprise."

Nace huffed and settled back in his seat. Jan sneaked a glance at him when he stopped at the red light. Nace had his arms crossed over his chest, his warm brown jacket tightly wrapped around his biceps.

"One would think I am taking you to get shot," Jan teased, turning his gaze back to the road as the light changed to green.

Nace laughed at that, at least, his shoulders relaxing.

"No, I just-I am not used to surprises. You barely gave me any hints on what to wear!"

Jan smirked.

"I said wear something comfortable that you don't mind getting dirty."

He could feel Nace's unimpressed stare on him.

"Very helpful."

Jan chuckled and took a left turn, parking to the side. Nace immediately started glancing around, trying to gauge where they were. Jan couldn't help but think it was kind of cute.

He unbuckled his belt and got out of the car, waiting for Nace to do the same. When he did, he led him to a nearby building.

Nace was frowning, trying to piece together what they were doing. Jan decided to take pity on him.

"It's a pottery class."

His head immediately snapped towards Jan, his eyes widening.

"You are taking me to a pottery class??"

Jan swallowed, growing nervous all of a sudden. Did he misjudge? Did Jure mix something up?

"Jure mentioned you wanted to try it since your sister did pottery. I thought..."

"No! I mean, yes, I love the idea!"

He sounded so eager, so terrified that Jan would change his mind and snatch the offer away from him. Jan felt bad. Was he truly treating him in a way that made him think he'd play him like this for a joke?

"Alright then. Let's go."

There were people inside already, and their teacher quickly introduced himself. He gave them instructions on hand-building techniques with clay, saying they need to get used to that before they can move to the pottery wheel.

The process was messy and Jan underestimate just how bad he was at shaping the clay. When Nace looked over and saw his wonky cup, he doubled over laughing.

Jan side-eyed him, before taking a bit of clay and smearing it over Nace's shirt. Nace gasped.

Then he grabbed a piece of clay and smeared it over Jan's cheek. Jan slapped his hair away, trying to rub it off.

"If this gets into my hair Nace, I swear-"

Nace laughed again and someone shushed them.

"Can you two please let the rest of us work?" A blond man left of them said.

He was short, with blind hair just below his ears. He was frowning at them intently, reminding Jan of an annoyed cat.

His tall, tattooed friend-or partner, how could Jan know, really-gently pulled him by the sleeve.

"Lovro, com'on. They are just having fun. Look at this."

The man, well maybe even a boy, with how soft his features looked, immediately turned to the other man. He looked at him like...oh.

Jan looked at Nace, who was clearly eyeing the situation, seeing if Jan could handle it or if he needed to get involved.

Jan was hit by the sudden realization of how much he had come to care for him. Despite all the back and forth and his own grievances, he was-

He stopped his thoughts before any bigger words came to mind. It was still too early to think that. But maybe it wouldn't be, eventually.

Jan never thought of himself as someone who could settle down and yet that spark of hope still lived, nestled deep in his chest.

Maybe.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" Nace asked, titling his head to the side.

Jan shook his head.

"Nothing. Let's try to shape these into something decent before we do that...wheel thing, yeah?"

Nace smiled, like a sudden light igniting in the dark.

"Yeah."

As Jan tried to save his clay cup, he suddenly felt bolder. He could ask, right? At worst, Nace will refuse, but when did Nace refuse him before? Jan cleared his throat.

"You could...come over after, if you'd like. You didn't meet Igor yet."

He didn't look up as he asked the question. It would be easier to take a no when he didn't have to worry about which expression he was making.

"You want me to come over?"

There was that tone again. Like Nace was shocked by this. Like Jan wasn't trying to do better for weeks now. He supposed he'd just have to keep trying.

"If you'd like to, yes. I did get some chamomile tea recently."

He sneaked a glance in Nace's direction. His eyes were soft and his mouth was lightly open, as if in wonder. Jan's heart started beating fasted.

"I would like that," Nace said quietly, looking directly at him.

Jan had to look away, but he couldn't help but smile slight. There was slight fear in his stomach still, but there was no ringing of the church bell, or an urge to reach for a necklace that wasn’t there.

He was still himself and he was still in control of it all. Simply taking steps in the right direction. It had been as if he was in inertia for very long time. After being stuck for so long, it was hard to get back into motion, but once he did, he knew it would get easier.

All he had to do was keep moving.

All Jan could hear was a drum of his own heart as they waited for the host to announce them. Thud. Thud. Thud.

It was finally time for them to preform at EMA. To try and get chosen to represent Slovenia at Eurovision. The importance, the fragility of the moment made all the colors more intense, almost as if they were in new, swirling patterns.

Jan took a look at his bandmates. Each of them in a different outfit that fit them perfectly. Bojan, in his loud combination of green shirt and pink pants, that he somehow managed to pull of regardless.

Kris, in a gold sleeves shirt and lighter pink pants that match. Of course-Kris always knew how much attention to draw to himself. Not too much and not too little.

Jure, with sky blue button up that perfectly fit his sunshine personality and darker purple pants for contrast.

All of them looked amazing, really. But it was Nace that Jan couldn't look away from.

Nace, who finally wore color. A purple suit with a silver shirt underneath. The suit had intricated details that made Jan want to run his fingers over the material and feel it's shapes.

When he arrived, he was always pale beige in their mix of chaos and color. Slowly but surely, that changed. And here they were now.

Jan shuffled closer to him, almost as if pulled by an invisible force. He could feel it, but he found it more comforting now, rather than scary.

"Ready?" He whispered, smiling at him.

"Ready," Nace answered, briefly brushing his hand against Jan's.

"And next up, we have Joker Out!"

They stepped on the stage as the people clapped and Jan could feel the adrenaline fully hitting him. He couldn't concentrate on whatever Bojan briefly said before he started singing.

All Jan could focus on was playing. His fingers slid over the strings just as perfectly as they did the very first time he nailed a song when he was sixteen.

Everything else faded away, like looking at the world through a sort of fog. Only music existed. Even Bojan's singing was slightly muted in that moment. Like Jan was alone with his guitar.

Then his gaze slid to Nace and he found him already looking in his direction. Nace, who still had the ability to be in Jan's bubble that one else could touch.

He didn't mind the company, though. Not anymore.

He sent him a little wink and watched as his cheeks turned slightly red. Then he turned back to the audience and took a deep breath. Then let the bubble snap and all the sound and sensations rush back to him.

Because there was never really a need for the bubble at all. Not when he was at the safe space.

There was no divinity here. None other than the music itself, that they shared with the audience.

When they played the last note, there was a thunderous applause and part of Jan already knew. He could feel it in their bones that they won.

The knowing of being at the right place, at the right time. With just the right people, too.

The rest od the night passed in a blur. Jan knew he talked to people, but later he'd be unable to recall what he said. He'd remember the high of the announcement that they won and all of his friends rushing into a group hug.

It wasn't until they all changed back to their everyday clothes and were waiting for Bojan in the cold, that the realization finally started to sink in.

"We won," he whispered into the night air.

"We did," Kris said, smiling.

Whatever makeup they put on him made him look more ethereal than usual. He looked more content than Jan had seen him for awhile.

"What is Bojan doing for so long?" Jure wondered, his eyes lingering on the doors they all cane through.

It was odd. As much as Bojan paid attention to his looks, he never took this long.

"I'll go check," Jan said, getting to his feet.

Jan felt slightly guilty, over how little he talked to Bojan outside of the practice in recent weeks. Being caught up in the whole soulmate dilemma, he didn't take the time to pay as much attention to his friends.

Well, that was another thing he could start fixing now.

He found Bojan in the changing room, completely dressed, but staring off through the window.

"Bojan? Is everything okay?"

Bojan flinched, as if woken up from a very deep sleep. He blinked at Jan, confused.

"Ah, yeah! Yeah, I was just a bit lost in thought. Did you guys wait for me for long?"

Jan stepped closer, putting his hand on Bojan's shoulder. Bojan leaned into the touch, breathing out slowly.

"Are you sure you are alright?"

"I-" Bojan bit his lip, his gaze jumping around the room almost frantically, never staying for long and completely avoiding Jan's face.

"I just...this is a lot. It feels enormous. And of course, of course I am happy we won. It just feels like we set a new course all of a sudden, if that makes sense. Like it feels like my life already changed."

Jan pulled him into a hug. Bojan took in a sharp breath and then relaxed, hugging him back. They just stayed like that for a moment.

"I know. It's terrifying but it's going to be okay. You have us, alright?"

Bojan's arms tightened around him for a bit.

"Yeah."

They were silent for a bit and Bojan already pulled away from the hug when Jan spoke again.

"I actually owe you an apology. With how I reacted when you brought up soulmates for all these years."

Bojan shrugged.

"It's fine. I figured it was a sensitive topic."

Jan shook his head.

"Yes but it's not an excuse. I am sorry, Bojan. You were allowed to be excited at prospect of meeting them without me putting you down for it."

He rubbed tips of his fingers against the nail of his thumb. Resisting the urge to mess it up more.

"I won't say I completely understand, even now with Nace. I still very much love being independent from him. But I am saying I understand more."

Bojan smiled, reminding Jan that if Nace was the light in darkness, Bojan was certain a sun, his rays bringing about a new day.

"Thank you for saying that. I am excited to meet her, one day. Whenever destiny decides we are ready."

Jan rolled his eyes, more for the dramatic effect than anything else. That was still extremely cheesy, but it was very on brand for Bojan.

"Sure, lover boy. Now, can we go before the rest of them freeze outside? It is December, y'know?"

Bojan laughed and grabbed his bag. He dramatically pointed to the door.

"To wherever destiny may lead us!"

Jan cracked a smile, unable to keep up the brooding persona.

"To whenever destiny may lead us," he repeated quietly.

Then he stepped over the threshold after Bojan and for the first time in many years he knew everything would be alright. As long as he had his family, soulmate included, by his side, everything would be alright.

No matter the challenges that awaited them.

[blindrapture]

july 8th.

so today's log is up. this one's The God Machine. the first Cipher of the story, although lore-wise it's number 5 of 7. this log isn't actually all that different from how it originally was, because I think its vibes were necessary. it's a wacky adventure, pretty purely. I did rewrite a lot of Jordan's thought processes, and all the dialogue, but the events are all as they originally were. ...well, maybe Cockroach Jesus didn't push Jordan off the fucking bridge, but that change made sense to me. plus it's funny. I'm happy with that whole scene.

this log, just. that vibe. it has that vibe. a free-wheeling adventure in a colorful landscape, with strange rules. two teenage kids getting through it by the seat of their pants. it's arguably the climax, the pinnacle, of Early Rapture. I didn't believe I was going to be able to match that vibe if I rewrote the log entirely. I think I handled it right.

as you saw, despite being on the Act Poster, the God Machine is really just a one-time thing, it's a boss battle. there will be more boss battles, with different bosses, but on the Act Poster the God Machine represents the whole idea of the boss fights. I think they're a central structural element of this. but for what it's worth, the bosses will get better and better. :) there is at least one that was completely rewritten, and turned into a more complex reference.

//////

it is here that I want to bring back a ramble I had written earlier, some weeks ago, which I posted but then deleted within an hour. it touched upon the "earliness" of Act 1, but it had much more to do with Act 2, which we hadn't reached yet. and it makes sense to me to bring it here instead, while we're still early in Act 2. because this ramble, in some ways, touched upon the Thesis of Act 2. and I want you to be aware of it and consider it as we move forward.

here it is.

//////

I really ought not to discredit the fact that Plenty Of People actually, like, completely love act 1. even the logs I'm most anxious about, such as "Tropes," have their fans. like, say, my girlfriend, who had not read Rapture and is following along the daily distribution. she, like me, had spent a lot of her adolescence reading an inordinate amount of Stephen King books, and so the kind of horror that act 1 goes for came across very well to her. it's chaos, it's vibes, it's bloodshed, it's taboo sides of human nature. I am grateful for that perspective and support.

in my out-of-story posts talking about rapture, I am trying to predict two different perspectives: 1) the fan who is Just Absolutely Into It, and 2) the cynic who wonders if the story will get good. maybe that's a little annoying of me to try and juggle. and that's a reason I don't make more ramble-posts than I currently do. but my bold assertion is that both perspectives will ultimately be satisfied with the story. I am courting both because Rapture is a broad tent. but the people who believe a story needs to "get good..." need to learn that they are only at the college level of Reading, they have not actually finished their quest to Learn To Read. the lowest level of Learning To Read says "a teenager's internet fic is AWESOME!" the middle level says "a teenager's internet fic needs work!" and the highest level says "a teenager's internet fic inherently contains the nuances of literature, by nature of the cumulative effect of the evolution of storytelling, and so it is AWESOME. 'quality' is just taste but mapped to a hierarchy; all stories are equally deep." rapture argues that Proof in its own slow way.

those who are on board with rapture act 1 tend to actually already understand that.

there is something to be said for how this can be interpreted as a generational thing. I am on the younger side of Millennials, but I was raised on the internet, raised by Media, raised by Corporate Franchises and encouraged (by fandom) to seek out non-corporate Individual Art. I always identified more with the children of the internet age, the children who are living guinea pigs for the idea that media can raise us when our parents won't. not that "Media Raised Me And I Resent It" like, say, Gen X. but "Media Raised Me, And What About It?" this is a mentality growing far more vocal thanks to generations of internet users, and all I ever see from The Cool Voice Of Pop Culture is condemnation of them, whether as a sign that "fandom is fucked," "gen z is cooked," or, the ultimate crime, "media is making people so much more Annoying." but I am with those kids. I understand what the fuck it means to be raised by media. I know that the genie won't go back in the bottle, and that condemnation is simply an admission of defeat, an assertion that those kids can be counted out. and that does nothing, as they were already counted out. do you really think that fandom offers a suitable sense of community? in theory it does. but have you seen the internet ever since the 2010s? to be raised by media is a symptom of isolation. but to be raised by media is itself a kind of isolation that shapes you into someone who knows how to speak as if in a community. it is not a substitute for a community; it is a relative of the community. to dismiss this, to refuse to engage with it, is in fact to leave yourself behind, to be unprepared for the nuances of the future.

What Is Media, Anthropologically? rapture is extremely interested in that question. because I am, and even at age 16 was, extremely interested in that question. and even Act 1 engages with the question. it is relatively safe for me to bring this up because rapture will not explicitly bring it up. but, by virtue of being authored by A Particular Human, rapture is about that.

Can Media Have Objective Quality? is a teenager's Internet Fic inherently not worth your time? or are you giving over to impatience because of the bias of discomfort, just like anyone would who thinks your favorites are boring? is sonic 06 even a bad video game? is ocarina of time even a good one? are these questions asinine manifestations of preference? or does every question translate a deeper network of meaning into the comfortable language of Engagement Of The Adequately Socialized?

thank you for your time.

[white-collar-cannibal]

hihihihihihi I read your fic 'i've been weeping silent like a wound' and omg i love it so much-

yk yk i thought ranch could be a cool ship but the only content i found for it was you know, absolutely gross yuck stuff, and i kinda gave up on anyone making anything good annnnnd then i looked it up hopefully one day and found yours and i was so happy omg-

anyway it's amazing, i absolutely adore the writing style (ik it was inspired by something else but it's still yours and it's really cool), the concept gives me absolute chills, from the first summary of it, "Wherein Ranboo does not fall in love, inasmuch as they forge a passport and sneak through the customs of love with a pipe bomb in their bag" i was hooked

LIKE THAT IS SUCH A COOL FUCKING CONCEPT, them fucking convincing Hetch theyre in love with him, like omg /pos pos pos

the scene where niki smashed their face in with a baseball bat- i'd PAY to know the context for that lmfao but actually yes badass girlie my beloved, she deserved to not be Nice <3

also some of it made me fucking laugh out loud like this bit, “I’m not stupid,” you said, which was a statement very much still up for debate, omg i wheezed, and also this bit,

“I know. I know he’s a freak. And he types too loud and he talks about Pulp Fiction too much. But I think it’ll work.”

“Why??? ” 

“There’s a good chance that I can get information either out of him, or from documents or things like that if I manage to get him to trust me enough to leave me alone. Things that could help us get out.”

“Oh.” Charlie leant back down, “Well, points for novelty."

I cracked up OUT LOUD irl and had people staring at me lmao-

which also reminds me, i've never been much into second person but the way you write it in this fic is so seamless and gorgeous and pulls me straight in, it's incredible-

ANYWAYYYYYYYS sorry for the long rant but keep it up i'm very excited for the next chapter!

— afternoon anon

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!!! tysm!!!!! i never thought so many people would actually like this fic i'm so so so glad. i think the focus a lot of fic writers have on platonicism and fix-it/comfort is fun but also means that no one is thinking about how fucked up some of these dynamics could get. get worse get weirder i beg. (and never apologize for a rant!!! this shit fuels me!!!)

(honestly i did not have context for that scene when i wrote it. it's some show. we know showfall delights in comedic violence and horror there was something going on idk.)

second person i feel like gets such a bad rap as a writing style (it has. a certain x reader oeuvre.) but it can be so good and so evocative and so funny and by god if i had to write these scenes with two characters he/him-ing it up i would. explode.

the short summary (which i am inordinately proud of) traces back to a line from harrow the ninth: "'Falling' was not the right term precisely. It was a long process. She more correctly climbed down into love, picked its locks, opened its gates, and breached its inner chamber" pp. 49 of the paperback. if you like what i'm doing especially with the usage of second person, i really cannot recommend harrow enough (though probably you should read gideon first. i mean you could skip it it would be funny but you shouldn't.)

i'm reworking certain parts of the fic but by god. will the second chapter come out. at some point. (guys did you know writing is hard...) thank you again for your nice comments !!!!!!!!!

[singsweetmelodies]

i won't be able to watch the race today but i'm already dreading the result, SO i decided to make this table of predictions to prepare myself for every eventuality*

*that i could think of

i'm only predicting the wins (+ more or less how they came about to be) otherwise i'm going to be here all morning and be late for my event. i might still be late for my event, but... here goes!

SINGAPORE GP 2023: POSSIBLE WIN SCENARIOS

feat. (completely unbiased of course) commentary by katie singsweetmelodies

carlos and george take each other out at the start. charles leclerc wins the singapore gp 2023! 🎆🥰❤️

if this one comes true, i will never shut up about it and will literally be dancing on the rooftops. DREAM SCENARIO BABY!!! (yeah, sorry georgie, i am SO willing to sacrifice you for a charles win.) we want that win #6... we want it SO MUCH 🥹

george russell passes sainz on the start and proceeds to win the singapore gp 2023! 🩵

if this one comes true, i will still be very happy (and not just because it means sainz DIDN'T win.) i love george. a second win for him would be very nice indeed <3

carlos sainz keeps it together and somehow wins the singapore gp 2023 😐

if he actually does this, i may - through gritted teeth - finally utter the words "fine, carlos sainz is a good driver." (i will however also mutter something under my breath about how 2023 is the year of ugly people, and charles is too beautiful and too good to have his name on the list with the likes of the fucking red bull duo anyway. good RIDDANCE that it's sainz who's the only non-RB winner in such a hideous year.)

we have a repeat of singapore 2017, with the top 4 all taking each other out & lewis hamilton proceeding to win the singapore gp 2023! 🎆💜

if this one comes true, my ferrari heart will be in bits BUT i will simultaneously be fucking ecstatic for lewis. i WILL yell "get in there lewis" an inordinate amount of times, and celebrate that 104 with everything in me.

lando somehow wins from p4 (🤔) and gets his first win in spectacular but chaotic style. lando norris wins the singapore gp 2023! 🧡

if this one comes true, i will be... baffled, first and foremost. but then also pretty happy. i have no idea how this one could reasonably come true, but it would be low-key iconic if it did, tbh.

the chaos at turn 1 is even more chaotic than in singapore 2017, which means that fernando alonso from (wherever he qualified, i forgot lmao oops) wins the singapore gp 2023! 🥶

if this happens, i... will celebrate that it's not a red bull? i'll celebrate it for exactly 14 seconds and then turn off the tv. i'm not an alonso fan. to me, he's barely a step up from another rbr win. yes, it IS a step up. but like, the step is 1cm high.

*dutch national anthem starts playing in the background* AND MAX VERSTAPPEN WINS THE SINGAPORE GP 2023! the eleventh fucking race in a row, hoo-fucking-ray.

if this one comes true, i will shake my fist at the fia and insist that it's all their fucking fault for not GIVING MAX A FUCKING GRID DROP, like, you know, the PRECEDENT SAYS THEY SHOULD HAVE. he should have gotten six places at least, in my opinion. nine would've been apt, too. but nooooooo. the great white hope is above all precedent and penalty, apparently. (anyway yeah if verstappen wins i will have no celebrations whatsoever. except maybe a tiny, petty internal one that at least it wasn't sainz. but yeah, nah. if verstappen wins, i won't be very surprised, but i will NOT be amused.)

in a move that shocks genuinely EVERYONE, sergio pérez wins the singapore gp 2023! 🇲🇽

i have no idea how this one could reasonably come to pass, tbh. maybe verstappen's engine dies??? and the ferraris and mercs.... either take each other out, or are WAY slower than yesterday. maybe the red bull was sandbagging???? very drastically??? nah. this one won't happen, let's just be real. but if it somehow does, my enthusiasm will be one fraction of a percentage higher than it would've been for a verstappen win. that is all.

liam lawson wins the singapore gp 2023! 😱👏

yeah no this isn't going to happen - i just wanted to say it. liam lawson, you are my HERO for knocking max verstappen out in q2. you will be p1 of my heart no matter who wins this weekend <333 (except if it's charles or lewis. or pierre, somehow. because, you know. priorities. xD)

RIGHT, well. now at least i feel like i'm mentally prepared to open my f1 app tomorrow evening and see pretty much any result. 👍. let's do this thing

[sabraeal]

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Let’s spread the self-love ❤️

As I said on my first fic rec post, I have written very many fics and I love almost all of them, so I can't pick FAVORITES so much as CATEGORIES, and this category is going to be "Fics Joanna Made Me Write Outside My Comfort Zone Because It's Good For Me Or Something"

Whenever I view the moon on the battlefield This was the FIRST fic I wrote outside of ANS fandom, and if that was not already out of my usual groove enough, it's also from the POV of one of the minor characters in Hakuouki, Shimada Kai. The concept was originally conceived while I was streaming a playthrough for the obiyuki discord-- Yamazaki (our best boy) and Shimada are both spies and spend quite a bit of time off screen, so we kept running into scenes and being like "how AWKWARD is it for those two to be watching this right now?" And so when it finally came time for me to throw my hat into the yamachi ring...Joanna asked for THIS to be the fic. You know. Instead of one where Yamazaki and Chizuru actually kiss or whatever. Sigh.

The Most Perverse Creature in the World Listen. I know there are people out there who LOVE xReader fics. I'm happy for you, truly. I am not one of them. But after answering the fandom fuck/marry/kill game (otherwise known as only one bed/slow burn/enemies to lovers) with small littler blurbs about the kind of story I would write for the older gentlemen in ANS (Shidan, Lata & Haruka), SOME PEOPLE got very invested in Haruka's little enemies-to-lovers blurb. Some people made puppy eyes. Some people made puppy eyes and then got very sick after, and I AM A GOOD FRIEND and wrote ONE CHAPTER and have never known a day of peace since. Six years later it's up to thirteen chapters, has a very complicated plot involving the politics of taxing oral sex, and I've learned how to effectively write in 2nd person.

don't speak boyshit I cannot properly explain how absolutely in our heads the Maria/Kamitani pairing is, but like. It's good okay?? Joanna did not so much force me to write this one so much as like...emphatically encourage its existence, to the point where I have a very complicated outline and she routinely reminds me I'll finish it when i'm like. 50. But this is certainly the gateway fic to the OTHER fics for this pairing she DOES want to twist my arm over, SO ON THE LIST IT GOES. I am one of TWO authors in this ship tag, and also one of TWO fics...and yet this is one of my most popular non-ANS fics 🤣

If the Mind Is Willing This is a fic Joanna will HAPPILY admit to being the main driver for, since, as she puts it, "there is no one else who could possibly ever write this fic." Taking TWO very niche concepts (LARP and a SURPRISE FOR LATER) and a very niche pairing (yamachi) would perhaps not have been MY first choice...but Joanna asked for the first chapter as a birthday gift a few years back and here I am, learning a whole new tabletop system and really giving my FBI agent something to talk about at the watercooler.

He Who Studies Evil Of all the niche fics Joanna has convinced me to put to paper (or at least, word document), this is probably takes the top spot. A prequel to my obiyuki Star Trek AU, this covers events about 10 years previous, with Haruka taking over DS9 and immediately being thrown into a political nightmare when he is informed that the Cardassians are in possession of a missing human child. This took...an INORDINATE amount of time to research and write-- I hadn't seen DS9 since I was in high school, and I watched through nearly half a season just to get the timeline right-- but I still REALLY love how it came out. Which is good, because it is definitely one of my least read fics 🤣

[theuniversitychallengereview]

Admitting I Was Wrong

Modern sports punditry, as with everything else in the modern news cycle, exists in a 24 cycle where there is a constant need for more content. Often, this is fine because there are enough sporting events to talk about (there is almost always a sporting event happening which someone who likes sporting events will be happy to talk about), but sometimes there is a brief lull which still needs to be filled.

So you have pundits and presenters filling dead days with hours of inane chatter, predicting and repredicting the same things over and over again in an industrial-sized chucking-shit-at-the-wall machine.

If you run that machine for long enough eventually some things are going to stick (that's the whole point of the industrial-sized chucking-shit-at-the-wall machine), but at the same time there is an inordinate amount of stuff which doesn't. However, no one seems to care, because the cycle moves on at such a pace that by the time you've noticed one mistake another one comes along to take its place, and by the time you notice that mistake...

Its why Gary Neville can say Liverpool will win the league one week then flip-flop to Man City the next week. Its why politicians seem to be able to get away with similar flip-flopping on almost every major issue (and of course they are allowed to change their mind, but you get what I mean). There is no accountability for anything that anyone says because the content factory comes along to bury it under another mound of tasty soundbites and out of context ten second clips.

But I am here to change this, and change starts at home.

A few weeks ago, I predicted that Open, Trinity, Manchester and Imperial would make the semi-finals. Open were eliminated last week, but my prediction was already in the mud when UCL qualified a week before that. So I am here to acknowledge my fallibility as a pundit and all round University Challenge dogsbody.

I got it wrong, and that's okay. But you needed to know.

Before we start, you can watch the episode at this link (I've actually done this so quickly that I've beaten Cosmic Pumpkin to the punch, but you should be able to find the video on that channel, if not at that exact link), and I'm going to double down on my prediction by saying Manchester will take this.

Here's your first starter for ten.

Christ Church's avocado mascot has given birth to a smaller version of itself (which is what generally happens when something gives birth, I suppose), and one of these (probably the small one) influences the Manchester skipper to buzz in incorrectly on the opening starter, allowing Wotton to win the first points of the match.

There is another early buzz from Senehedheera, but this time he is right (no luck for mini avo this time round). A hat-trick of bonuses tied the game, and Grady gave them the lead with King Kong. A second neg from the Manchester captain, with an amusing guess of boogie-woogie (just because its a fun word, not because it was a stupid guess), gave Christ Church the opportunity to level the game, but they couldn't take it, and Senehedheera moved to 2/4 on the following starter to extend the Northerners lead.

Another from Senehedheera wins Manchester a bonus set on surnames of philosophers which can be found within other words. Agonisingly, they come up with Coelacanth and guess Kant, but the answer is Lacanth. Then on the next one the answer is Kant but they miss it. Mercifully they get the third, with John Locke.

Some more brilliance from Wotton gets Chirst Church going again, and Dean takes the next question too to bring them within 5 points. They would have tied it, but went Ella Fitzgerald rather than Billie Holiday on a question about Strange Fruit.

No matter, the chief avocado wrangler is back, and he gives them the lead after both sides drop the music starter. They don't get any of the music bonuses though, and Grady quickly snatches the lead back with gravitational waves.

I'm losing track of how many starters Wotton has got so shall we just say its five? Actually, its six now (Brandenburg and Mecklenburg-Vorpommern, or Mecklenburg Pomdragon, as I frantically typed after hearing him say it once). He can't be stopped.

Lowe takes the second picture starter to put an end to his captain's dominance, not that his skipper will mind - their lead was up to 35 points.

To demonstrate just how fickle we pundits are, I had forgotten that at the start of this very post I predicted a strong Manchester win, but they'll need to pull their finger out if they harbour hopes of the semis. Kullmann and De Los Reyes White duly oblige, with back to back starters which give Manchester the lead.

Their little run has rattled Christ Church, and Dean apologises to her teammates after a premature buzz. A neg from Senehedheera follows hot on its tails, but no one picks it up, allowing him to take the replacement question with Lucien Freud.

Aggression on the buzzer continues with a neg from Wotton, but again no one from Manchester can capitalise and he makes up for it immediately, closing Christ Church to within 5 points.

There's only one question left. Whoever gets it wins.

Buzz, Manchester Grady!

Simone de Beauvoir.

If he's wrong we'll go to deadlock.

He's not wrong.

Manchester 145 - 130 Christ Church

As close a game as you can get, coming down to the last few words of the last starter. Christ Church's Dean says that she was buzzing at the same time as Grady, but he pipped her to the post. Fine margins.

And I guess I can claim some serious credit now, because I knew Manchester were going to win this, didn't I? My faith in them never wavered once, did it?

What a game, though. Well done to both teams, especially Wotton who very nearly dragged his team into the semis. I'll see you next time for the last quarter final (which I predict will be won by Trinity), but for now its goodnight.

[idiopathicsmile]

Hello!

I know you probably get countless messages like this, so I know that it’s unlikely that I will ever know if you do read it.

I really despise not telling people the (positive) impacts they’ve had on me, though - probably something for me to look into, but that’s not the point.

The point is that when I was in 7th grade (~13 years old), I went through some really horrible shit at school. I got outed, as bi and then trans, and that escalated into threats of hate crimes. I went to a small private school, and the kids who were tormenting me had rich parents who donated inordinate amounts of money. So nothing happened.

I had never read fanfiction before. I don’t really know how I stumbled onto AO3, to be honest - my older sibling had read Les Misérables recently, and I wanted to be able to connect to them through it without reading the brick.

I did not know any of the characters from World Ain’t Ready when I read it, but they were familiar to me. I saw myself in Jehan, but I wanted to be as brave as Grantaire. My older sibling, who has protected me my whole life, and was the only one who made sure I was safe, was clearly mirrored in Enjolras.

I’m sure I’d seen queerness in some media before I read WAR, but I don’t remember it. It didn’t hit as hard as this did. I read the whole thing in one night and I’m pretty sure it fundamentally changed me. School still sucked, sure, and I still have issues from it. But one of the ways I survived was because every time I thought I couldn’t get through it, I found myself thinking about Grantaire and Jehan and how they might be if they were in my shoes. WAR isn’t dark in the way that I was experiencing, I don’t think, but I could still understand them, and I felt understood by them.

Maybe if I hadn’t found WAR, I would have found something else - after all, there are more that I’ve found now. But it was World Ain’t Ready that I found and that introduced me to fanfiction, which has helped me through so much past that year.

Now, World Ain’t Ready is the first bookmark on my account. I’ve finished my first semester of college. I am here, and I don’t know if I’m happy, but I’m so much better than I was when I first read WAR. I’m not saying that it made me better, or absolutely was the one thing that saved me, but it did change me, and it did help me.

I still haven’t read Les Misérables. I’ve read bits - mostly surrounding Grantaire, or Enjolras and Grantaire - but not the whole thing. I’m rather happy with my current understanding of the characters and general plot via fanfics, wiki pages, and friends, though.

So, if you ever do see this, and if you ever do feel like responding, let me know if I should read it.

Thank you for everything - and I can’t wait to read what you write next 🤍

hello!

thank you so much for reaching out. i definitely read every message and comment i get, but sometimes i get too overwhelmed to reply. that said, it felt important to reply to this one.

i am so sorry that people treated you so horribly, and that you were in that whole awful situation. not just the bullying, but knowing that the adults in charge of keeping you safe had bent to the pressure of money and the status quo must have been really hard to grapple with at that age.

i am so glad you had a sibling in your corner, and if my fic—and fic in general—was able to help you at all. as you may know, getting any message that says "hey, this had a positive impact on me" even if it's just "this helped me pass a few pleasant moments" is one of the main reasons a lot of us write to begin with. (including me.)

thank you for this message, and please take care. please be patient with yourself if it takes a long time to heal from your trauma. you have a lot to process.

as for whether or not you should read les mis, i should probably tell you that i have only read parts of it too, and mostly the parts about fantine. much like your own patchwork intake of the story, my characterization is a mishmash of the musical and reading meta that other people wrote back in the day. i feel like my advice here would maybe be to get it from your library—here is a guide to the various translations; my understanding is that the denny version is not very good—and try it out for yourself before committing to buying a book that big.

thank you again for this kind note and i wish you a lovely 2023!

-jess

[potionpeddlerpatchy]

I happen upon your little shop once more. Bumbling about, I distractedly attempt to take in all I see. I've been particularly perturbed lately, my mind on a flight much like a hummingbird unable to find a suitable spot to land. If I hadn't been so flighty, I'd have guessed you could sense my distress as you approach and offer a palm reading. Your attention takes me by surprise, but I readily agree.

(Once again, I've been enamored with your wares! Such a fun anniversary event! I hope the rest of your rummage sale treats you well and wish you many happy years of peddling to come! Oh, also bnha, haikyuu, or demon slayer are all fine)

Hello sweet Traveler! I am so happy you could make it to my small shop and could spare a moment or two to say such sweet words. Truly it is people like you that make me want to stay and keep up my small business 💛

But I can tell you're a little distracted and overwhelmed, so I am more than happy to take you to the back so you can clear your head; it is quite easy for my artifacts and bobbles to attach themselves to those unclear of mind and make it worse

"I'm... I'm really sorry" You mumbled as you further pressed your palms into your eyes to try and rid them of the haze currently obscuring your vision.

You were currently being guided to another section of this cozy, yet overly cluttered shop, to try and relieve yourself of the overwhelming sensations that overcame you; the moment you stepped foot it was like a whirlwind of emotions flung out at you and you could barely hold yourself together.

You were just lucky that the owner of the said shop was intuitive enough to take notice, and action, and guide you to somewhere more secluded. You were a little taken aback by the small act of kindness, but nonetheless allowed it to take place.

"No need to apologize," She said, her tone gentle and reassuring as she continued to guide you, gently pressing down on your shoulders to allow you to sit down "I know how inordinate things can be here, so really I should apologize to you"

You sighed as you finally found some quiet, sinking further down into the plush cushion she sat you upon; shaking your head you dismissed her concerns or need to apologize as you pushed the hair out of your face.

"Nonetheless," She mused, moving to crouch down so she was level with you once again "I feel the need to repay you for causing distress, may I?"

She pointed to your hand, motioning you to open it for her; to which you did with little hesitation - not that you truly wanted a gift, but you felt it rude to say no given the circumstances. But to your surprise she placed nothing within your grasp; merely traced the lines of your palm with a soft smile.

"This will help you figure out what you desire from my shop" She told you, her touch light and feather-like "Well, at least help you find some answers when it comes to your love life at least~"

With that comment in mind, your face flushed as you began to stutter out a response - to say something that may salvage what little dignity or face you had left - only to be cut off before a single word can be formed

"Name of Moniwa, evidently he is a wielder, most likely can be found in the city over" She gently tucked your hand back into your lap before standing

"Suppose maybe a potion or charm is in order to help you find him?"

I hope your palm reading helped you figure out what you needed

I do hope you wish to keep what you found, for all 'sales' are final